“After hours; not when his students are around or they would prevent him from being enthusiastic. They’re all green to science and all Doubting Thomases—wouldn’t believe their grandmothers had wrinkles if they couldn’t measure them with a micrometer. But in his inmost heart, Ozy is an enthusiast. So go some night after dinner. He’s always there till eleven, at least.”

“I’ll go as soon as possible. You said there were two things you wanted me to do?”

“Ah, well, yes I did. You don’t have to do the second if you’d rather not.”

What a fool I am! I knew it must be something connected with our work. Perhaps something more about the manuscript he had spoken of at the beginning of term. But the crazed notion would rush into my mind that perhaps he wanted me to live with him, or go away for a weekend, or get married, or something it was least likely to be. But it was even unlikelier than any of those.

“I’d be infinitely obliged if you could arrange to introduce me to your Mother.”

The New Aubrey III

1

Ellerman’s funeral was a sad affair, which is not as silly as it sounds, because I have known funerals of well-loved or brave people which were buoyant. But this was a funeral without personal quality or grace. Funeral “homes” are places that exist for convenience; to excuse families from straining small houses with a ceremony they cannot contain, and to excuse churches from burying people who had no inclination towards churches and did nothing whatever to sustain them. People are said to be drifting away from religion, but few of them drift so far that when they die there is not a call for some kind of religious ceremony. Is it because mankind is naturally religious, or simply because mankind is naturally cautious? For whatever reason, we don’t like to part with a friend without some sort of show, and too often it is a poor show.

A parson of one of the sects which an advertising man would call a Smooth Blend read scriptural passages and prayers, and suggested that Ellerman had been a good fellow. Amen to that.

He had been a man who liked a touch of style, and he had been hospitable. This affair would have dismayed him; he would have wanted things done better. But how do you do better when nobody believes anything very firmly, and when the Canadian ineptitude for every kind of ceremony reduces the obsequies to mediocrity?

What would I have done if I had been in charge? I would have had Ellerman’s war medals, which were numerous and honourable, on display, and I would have draped his doctor’s red gown and his hood over the coffin. These, as reminders of what he had been, of where his strengths had lain. But—Naked came I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return thither—so at the grave I would have stripped away these evidences of a life, and on the bare coffin I would have thrown earth, instead of the rose-leaves modern funeral directors think symbolic of the words Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; there is something honest about hearing the clods rattling on the coffin lid. Ellerman had taught English Literature, and he was an expert on Browning; might not somebody have read some passages from A Grammarian’s Funeral? But such thoughts are idle; you are asking for theatricalism, Darcourt; grief must be meagre, and mean, and cheap—not in money, of course, but in expression and invention. Death, be not proud; neither the grinning skull nor the panoply of ceremonial, nor the heart-catching splendour of faith is welcome at a modern, middle-class city funeral; grief must be huddled away, as the Lowest Common Denominator of permissible emotion.

I wish I could have seen him near the last, to tell him that his notion of The New Aubrey had taken root in me, and thus, whatever his beliefs may have been, something of him should live, however humbly.

He drew a pretty good house; my professional eye put it at seventy-five, give or take a body, or so. No sign of McVarish, though he and Ellerman had been cronies. Urky ignores death, so far as possible. Professor Ozias Froats was there, to my surprise. I knew he had been brought up a Mennonite, but I would have supposed that a life given to science had leached all belief out of him in things unseen, of heights and depths immeasurable. I took my chance, as we stood outside the funeral home, to speak to him.

“I hope all this nonsense in the papers isn’t bothering you,” said I.

“I wish I could say it wasn’t; they’re so unfair in what they say. Can’t be expected to understand, of course.”

“It can’t do any permanent harm, surely.”

“It could, if I had to ease up to satisfy this guy Brown. His political advantage could cost me seven years of work that would have to be repeated if I had to reduce what I’m doing for a while.”

I hadn’t expected him to be so down in the mouth. Years ago I had known him when he was a great football star; he had been temperamental then, and seemingly he still was so.

“I’m sure it does as much good as harm,” said I; ‘thousands of people must have been made aware of what you’re doing, and are interested. I’m interested myself. I don’t suppose you’d let me visit you some day?”

To my astonishment he blossomed, and said: “Any time. But come at night when I’m alone, or nearly alone. Then I’d be glad to show you my stuff and explain. It’s good of you to say you’re interested.”

So it was quite easy. I could have a look at Ozy for The New Aubrey.

2

It wouldn’t be fair to Ozias Froats or to me to suggest that I was bagging him like a butterfly collector. That wasn’t the light in which I saw The New Aubrey. Of course poor Ellerman, who loved everything that was quaint in English Literature, had relished John Aubrey’s delightful style, and the mixture of shrewdness and naivety with which Aubrey recorded his ragbag of information about the great ones of his time. But I wasn’t interested in anything like that; undergraduates love to write such stuff for their literary magazines—“The Diary of Our Own Mr. Pepys”, and such arch concoctions. What I valued in Aubrey was the energy of his curiosity, his determination to find out whatever he could about people who interested him: that was the quality in him I would try to recapture.

It was not simple nosiness. It was a proper university project. Energy and curiosity are the lifeblood of universities; the desire to find out, to uncover, to dig deeper, to puzzle out obscurities, is the spirit of the university, and it is a channelling of that unresting curiosity that holds mankind together. As for energy, only those who have never tried it for a week or two can suppose that the pursuit of knowledge does not demand a strength and determination, a resolve not to be beaten, that is a special kind of energy, and those who lack it or have it only in small store will never be scholars or teachers, because real teaching demands energy as well. To instruct calls for energy, and to remain almost silent, but watchful and helpful, while students instruct themselves, calls for even greater energy. To see someone fall (which will teach him not to fall again) when a word from you would keep him on his feet but ignorant of an important danger, is one of the tasks of the teacher that calls for special energy, because holding in is more demanding than crying out.

It was curiosity and energy I brought to The New Aubrey, as a tribute to my University, of which it might not become aware until I was dead. I have done my share of scholarship—two pretty good books on New Testament Apocrypha, studies of some of the later gospels and apocalypses that didn’t make it into the accepted canon of Holy Writ—and I was no longer under compulsion to justify myself in that way. So I was ready to give time and energy—and of course curiosity, of which I have an extraordinary endowment—to The New Aubrey. I was making a plan. I must have order in the work. The Old Aubrey is charming because it wholly lacks order, but The New Aubrey must not copy that.