“And who’s that behind the Bedel fellows?”
“The one wearing the black gown with gold trimmings is the Chancellor of the university, accompanied by his page. The Chancellor is the Right Honourable Harold Macmillan, who was Prime Minister of Great Britain in the late ’50’s and early ’60’s.”
“Oh yes, I remember the guy. Tried to get the British into Europe but De Gaulle wouldn’t have it.”
“Well, I suppose that’s one way of remembering him. Now, he’s followed by the Vice-Chancellor, Mr. Habakkuk, who is also the Principal of Jesus College.”
“You’re losing me, Professor.”
“Well, the Chancellor is always a distinguished Englishman who was educated at Oxford; but the Vice-Chancellor is a leading member of the university itself and is usually chosen from the heads of one of the colleges.”
“Got it, I think.”
“Now, after him, we have the University Registrar, Mr. Caston, who is a fellow of Merton College. He is the senior administrator of the university, or you might look on him as the university’s top civil servant. He’s directly responsible to the Vice-Chancellor and Hebdomadal Council, who are the sort of cabinet for the university. Behind them we have the Senior Proctor, Mr. Campbell of Worcester College, and the Junior Proctor, the Reverend Doctor Bennett of New College.”
“What’s a Proctor?”
“For over 700 years the Proctors have been responsible for decency and discipline in the university.”
“What? Those two old men take care of 9,000 rowdy youths?”
“Well, they are helped by the bulldogs,” said Stephen.
“Ah, that’s better, I suppose. A couple of bites from an old English bulldog would keep anyone in order.”
“No, no,” protested Stephen, trying desperately not to laugh. “The name bulldog is given to the men who help the Proctors keep order. Now, finally in the procession you can observe that tiny crocodile of color: it consists of heads of colleges who are Doctors of the university, Doctors of the university who are not heads of colleges and the heads of colleges who are not Doctors of the university, in that order.”
“Listen, Rod, all doctors mean to me is pain and money.”
“They are not that sort of doctor,” replied Stephen.
“Forget it. I love everything but don’t expect me to understand what it’s all about.”
Stephen watched Harvey’s face carefully. He was drinking the scene in and had already become quieter.
“The long line will now proceed into the Sheldonian Theater and all the people in the procession will take their places in the hemicycle.”
“Excuse me, sir, what type of cycle is that?”
“The hemicycle is a round bank of seats inside the theater, distinguished only by being the most uncomfortable in Europe. But don’t you worry. Thanks to your well-known interest in education at Harvard I’ve managed to arrange special seats for us and there will just be time for us to secure them ahead of the procession.”
“Well, lead the way, Rod. Do they really know what goes on at Harvard here?”
“Why yes, Mr. Metcalfe. You have a reputation in university circles as a generous man interested in financing the pursuit of academic excellence.”
“Well, what do you know.”
Very little, thought Stephen.
He guided Harvey to his reserved seat in the balcony, not wanting his guest to be able to see the individual men and women too clearly. The truth of the matter was that the senior members of the university in the hemicycle were so covered from head to toe in gowns and caps and bow ties and bands, that even their mothers would not have recognized them. The organist played his final chord and the guests settled.
“The organist,” said Stephen, “is from my own college. He’s the Choragus, the leader of the chorus, and Deputy Professor of Music.”
Harvey could not take his eyes off the hemicycle and the scarlet-clad figures. He had never seen a sight like it in his life. The music stopped and the Chancellor rose to address the assembled company in vernacular Latin.
“Causa hujus convocations est ut…”
“What the hell’s he saying?”