Porterhouse Blue

“One of the things that amazes me,” he said finally, “is to find that in a University that prides itself on scholarship and research, Porterhouse remains so resolutely a sporting college. I was glancing at the notices just now. No mention of scholarships or academic work. Just the old rugby lists…”

“And what did you get? A double first, was it?” the Dean enquired sweetly.

“A two two,” said Carrington.

“And look where it’s got you,” said the Dean. “It speaks for itself really. Let’s just say that we haven’t succumbed to the American infection yet.”

“The American infection?”

“Doctoratitis. The assumption that a man’s worth is to be measured by mere diligence. A man spends three years minutely documenting documents if you understand my meaning, anyway investigating issues that have escaped the notice of more discriminating scholars, and emerges from the ordeal with a doctorate which is supposed to be proof of his intelligence. Than which I can think of nothing more stupid. But there you are, that’s the modern fashion. It comes, I suppose, from a literal acceptance of the ridiculous dictum that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains. These fellows seem to think that if you can demonstrate an appetite for indigestible and trivial details for three years you must be a genius. In my opinion genius is by definition a capacity to jump the whole process of taking infinite pains, but then as I say, nobody listens to me. I mean there must be millions of people taking whatever these infinite pains are without a spark of intelligence let alone genius between them. And then again you have a silly fellow like Einstein who can’t even count… It depresses me, it really does, but it’s the fashion.”

The Dean waved his hands as if to exorcize the evil spirit of his time and Carrington ventured to intervene.

“But surely research does pay off…” he suggested.

“Pay?” said the Dean, “I daresay it does. It certainly earns some colleges a great deal of money. Again you have this absurd assumption that provided you purchase enough sows’ ears one of them is bound to turn into a silk purse. Utter nonsense, of course. It’s the quality that counts not the quantity but then I don’t expect you to sympathize with my old-fashioned point of view. When all’s said and done it’s quantity that’s made your reputation, isn’t it?”

“Quantity?”

“Megaviewers,” said the Dean. “It seems an appropriate if nasty expression.”

By the time Cornelius Carrington left the Dean’s rooms the erosion of his self-respect was almost complete and the comfortable acceptance of himself as the spokesman of a wholesome public concern quite gone. In the Dean’s eyes he was clearly a parvenu, a jack in the box, he had suggested with a smile, and Carrington had found himself sharing the Dean’s opinion. He walked out of Porterhouse envying the man his assurance and cursing himself for his inability to cope. What concrete and system-built housing was for him, he clearly was for the Dean, evidence of a facile and ugly commercialism. What had the Dean said? That he found the ephemeral distasteful, and there had been no doubt that of all ephemera he found television commentators the least to his liking. Carrington walked down Senate House Lane debating the source of the Dean’s assurance. The man’s lifetime spa

“A pint of bitter, please,” he told the barman with his usual sense of place. Gin and tonic in a King Street pub would have been unthinkable. He took his beer to a table by the window.

“Seem to have been a lot of changes since I was here last,” he said, having taken a large swig from his beer glass. He didn’t usually take large swigs. In fact he didn’t usually drink beer at all, but beer in large swigs was, he remembered, customary in King Street.

“Knocking the whole street down,” said the barman laconically.

“Must be bad for business,” Carrington suggested.

“’Tis and it isn’t,” the barman agreed.

Carrington gave up the attempt to make conversation and turned his attention to the more responsive decorations of the bar-room.

A short time later a man in a bowler hat entered the bar and ordered a Gui

“It’s Skullion, isn’t it?” he asked. Skullion looked up at him doubtfully. “What if it is?” he asked, adopting the impersonal pronoun as if to avoid an intrusion on his privacy.

“I thought I recognized you,” Carrington went on. “You probably wouldn’t remember me, Carrington. I was up at Porterhouse in the thirties.”

“Yes, I remember you. You had rooms over the Hall.”

“Let me get you another drink. Gui