in mind. In the first place, as you are all aware, Porterhouse’s reputation has declined sadly since … I believe the rot set in in 1933. I have been told there was a poor intake of Fellows in that year. Correct me if I’m wrong.’
It was the turn of the Senior Tutor to stiffen in his seat. 1933 had been the year of his election.
‘Academically our decline seems to have set in then. The quality of our undergraduates has always seemed to me to be quite deplorable. I intend to change all that. From now on, from this year of Grace, we shall accept candidates who possess academic qualifications alone.’ He paused to allow the information to sink in. When the Bursar ceased twitching in his chair, he continued. ‘That is my first point. The second is to announce that the College will become a co-educational institution from the beginning of the forthcoming academic year. Yes, gentlemen, from the beginning of next year there will be women living in Porterhouse.’ A gasp, almost a belch of shock, broke from the Fellows. The Dean buried his face in his hands and the Senior Tutor put both his hands on the edge of the table to steady himself. Only the Chaplain spoke.
‘I heard that,’ he bellowed, his face radiant as if withdivine revelation. ‘I heard it. Splendid news. Not before time either.’ He relapsed into silence. The Master beamed. ‘I accept your approval, Chaplain,’ he said, ‘with thanks. It is good to know that I have support from such an unexpected quarter. Thirdly …’
‘I protest,’ shouted the Senior Tutor, half rising to his feet. Sir Godber cut him short.
‘Later,’ he snapped and the Senior Tutor dropped back into his seat. ‘Thirdly, the practice of dining in Hall will be abandoned. A self-service canteen run by an outside catering firm will be established in the Hall. There will be no High Table. All forms of academic segregation will disappear. Yes Dean …?’
But the Dean was speechless. His face livid and congested he had started to protest only to slump in his chair. The Senior Tutor hurried to his side while the Chaplain, always alert to the possibilities provided by a stricken audience, bellowed words of comfort into the insensible Dean’s ear. Only the Master remained unmoved.
‘Not, I trust, another Porterhouse Blue,’ he said audibly to the Bursar, and looked at his watch, with calculated unconcern. To the Dean Sir Godber’s manifest lack of interest in his demise came as a stimulant. His face grew pale and his breathing less sibilant. He opened his eyes and stared with loathing down the table at the Master.
‘As I was saying,’ continued Sir Godber, picking up the threads of his speech, ‘the measures I have proposedwill transform Porterhouse at a stroke.’ He paused and smiled at the appositeness of the phrase. The Fellows stared at this fresh evidence of gaucherie. Even the Chaplain, imbued with the spirit of goodwill and deaf to the world’s wickedness, was appalled by the Master’s sang-froid.
‘Porterhouse will regain its rightful place in the forefront of colleges,’ the Master went on in a manner now recognizably political. ‘No longer will we stumble on hamstrung by the obsolescence of outmoded tradition and class prejudice, by the limitations of the past and the cynicism of the present, but inspired by confidence in the future we shall prove ourselves worthy of the great trust that has been bequeathed us.’ He sat down, inspired by his own brief eloquence. It was clear that nobody else present shared his enthusiasm for the future. When at last someone spoke it was the Bursar.
‘There do appear to be one or two problems involved in this … er … transformation,’ he pointed out. ‘Not insuperable, I daresay, but nevertheless worth mentioning before we all become too enthusiastic.’
The Master surfaced from his reverie. ‘Such as?’ he said shortly.
The Bursar pursed his lips. ‘Quite apart from the foreseeable difficulties of getting this
It was the turn of the Senior Tutor to stiffen in his seat. 1933 had been the year of his election.
‘Academically our decline seems to have set in then. The quality of our undergraduates has always seemed to me to be quite deplorable. I intend to change all that. From now on, from this year of Grace, we shall accept candidates who possess academic qualifications alone.’ He paused to allow the information to sink in. When the Bursar ceased twitching in his chair, he continued. ‘That is my first point. The second is to announce that the College will become a co-educational institution from the beginning of the forthcoming academic year. Yes, gentlemen, from the beginning of next year there will be women living in Porterhouse.’ A gasp, almost a belch of shock, broke from the Fellows. The Dean buried his face in his hands and the Senior Tutor put both his hands on the edge of the table to steady himself. Only the Chaplain spoke.
‘I heard that,’ he bellowed, his face radiant as if withdivine revelation. ‘I heard it. Splendid news. Not before time either.’ He relapsed into silence. The Master beamed. ‘I accept your approval, Chaplain,’ he said, ‘with thanks. It is good to know that I have support from such an unexpected quarter. Thirdly …’
‘I protest,’ shouted the Senior Tutor, half rising to his feet. Sir Godber cut him short.
‘Later,’ he snapped and the Senior Tutor dropped back into his seat. ‘Thirdly, the practice of dining in Hall will be abandoned. A self-service canteen run by an outside catering firm will be established in the Hall. There will be no High Table. All forms of academic segregation will disappear. Yes Dean …?’
But the Dean was speechless. His face livid and congested he had started to protest only to slump in his chair. The Senior Tutor hurried to his side while the Chaplain, always alert to the possibilities provided by a stricken audience, bellowed words of comfort into the insensible Dean’s ear. Only the Master remained unmoved.
‘Not, I trust, another Porterhouse Blue,’ he said audibly to the Bursar, and looked at his watch, with calculated unconcern. To the Dean Sir Godber’s manifest lack of interest in his demise came as a stimulant. His face grew pale and his breathing less sibilant. He opened his eyes and stared with loathing down the table at the Master.
‘As I was saying,’ continued Sir Godber, picking up the threads of his speech, ‘the measures I have proposedwill transform Porterhouse at a stroke.’ He paused and smiled at the appositeness of the phrase. The Fellows stared at this fresh evidence of gaucherie. Even the Chaplain, imbued with the spirit of goodwill and deaf to the world’s wickedness, was appalled by the Master’s sang-froid.
‘Porterhouse will regain its rightful place in the forefront of colleges,’ the Master went on in a manner now recognizably political. ‘No longer will we stumble on hamstrung by the obsolescence of outmoded tradition and class prejudice, by the limitations of the past and the cynicism of the present, but inspired by confidence in the future we shall prove ourselves worthy of the great trust that has been bequeathed us.’ He sat down, inspired by his own brief eloquence. It was clear that nobody else present shared his enthusiasm for the future. When at last someone spoke it was the Bursar.
‘There do appear to be one or two problems involved in this … er … transformation,’ he pointed out. ‘Not insuperable, I daresay, but nevertheless worth mentioning before we all become too enthusiastic.’
The Master surfaced from his reverie. ‘Such as?’ he said shortly.
The Bursar pursed his lips. ‘Quite apart from the foreseeable difficulties of getting this
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