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Authors: Margaret Drabble
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career, full of references to Bombay University, which meant less than nothing to me, and then went on to say that he hoped to go to Jesus Christ's College at Cambridge, because that famous poet Wordsworth had been there. Oddly enough, I happened to know that Wordsworth had been at John's. I wished I had
not known, for the awareness rattled me. Then I said what English literature had he studied, and he said that famous poet Harrison, or so I thought, until I realized that he must have said Henryson. I hastily made it quite clear that I knew nothing about Henryson at all, and that he had better find someone who knew more about the period than I did. Whereat he said plaintively that he had tried everyone else, and I thought yes, I bet you have. Even so, I managed for almost the first time in my life to say No, but he kept ringing me up, and in the end I thought I must give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, he had heard of Henryson, which was clever in itself, and if he knew anything about Henryson, then he would know more about him than me. And, who knows, all that rigmarole about Bombay University might have been true, and many a gold tooth shines above a heart of gold, and so on: so I took him on. It was a mistake. It was a useless task: we ploughed through the entrance syllabus and I actually organized him sufficiently to make him write off to Bursars for entrance papers, but he had no more hope of getting in than a child of ten. I could not decide whether it would be good for him to fail his exams and come to terms with reality, or whether it would have been better for him to have lived on forever convinced that he could have made it if only he could have found a tutor. Not that that could have been my decision anyway: the choice was not mine. But I did my best and I felt he was my responsibility.
The Greek was a very different case. He was a young lad called Spiro who also wanted to get into Oxford or Cambridge: he was only eighteen which, for a start, put his chances higher than the Indian's. He clearly came from an affluent family which he seemed to have mislaid somewhere on the Continent; one parent was usually in Rome and the other in Spain, though they shifted from time to time. I started on him about three weeks after I started on the Indian, and was expecting like despair, but he quickly
convinced me that he had at least a superficial brightness and intelligence. His English was excellent, which helped. It was months, however, before I realized the truth about him. It is alarming to see how strong one's prejudices are and how convinced one is (or I am) that no foreigner can ever have quite the same standard of intelligence as products of the English educational system. I do not mean that I think foreigners are stupid; merely that I always doubt if they can do it on quite the same ground. But after a few weeks I realized that Spiro could. He was quite outstandingly gifted, so gifted that he could even beat the examination system and eighteen years of unhelpful inheritance. He had always told me what a fantastic prodigy he was, but the more he had said it the more I distrusted him, until with a little practice and very little guidance, he started to turn out weekly essays of the most excellent, orthodox practical criticism, which would have been a credit to any first-year scholar anywhere. I was amazed, delighted, and a little crestfallen to find how narrowly my judgment operated. I tried not to let him see how much my opinion of his chances had improved, but I knew he could tell. He was a shockingly self-confident, conceited boy, but he was only eighteen, and he had a right to be.
The Methodist minister was a quiet, diffident and charming man whose one anxiety was lest he should embarrass me by obtruding his religious opinions. He felt it his duty to do such set authors as Milton and T. S. Eliot, but his passion was for Wordsworth, whom he admired for all the reasons which I found most suspect. He would
not known, for the awareness rattled me. Then I said what English literature had he studied, and he said that famous poet Harrison, or so I thought, until I realized that he must have said Henryson. I hastily made it quite clear that I knew nothing about Henryson at all, and that he had better find someone who knew more about the period than I did. Whereat he said plaintively that he had tried everyone else, and I thought yes, I bet you have. Even so, I managed for almost the first time in my life to say No, but he kept ringing me up, and in the end I thought I must give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, he had heard of Henryson, which was clever in itself, and if he knew anything about Henryson, then he would know more about him than me. And, who knows, all that rigmarole about Bombay University might have been true, and many a gold tooth shines above a heart of gold, and so on: so I took him on. It was a mistake. It was a useless task: we ploughed through the entrance syllabus and I actually organized him sufficiently to make him write off to Bursars for entrance papers, but he had no more hope of getting in than a child of ten. I could not decide whether it would be good for him to fail his exams and come to terms with reality, or whether it would have been better for him to have lived on forever convinced that he could have made it if only he could have found a tutor. Not that that could have been my decision anyway: the choice was not mine. But I did my best and I felt he was my responsibility.
The Greek was a very different case. He was a young lad called Spiro who also wanted to get into Oxford or Cambridge: he was only eighteen which, for a start, put his chances higher than the Indian's. He clearly came from an affluent family which he seemed to have mislaid somewhere on the Continent; one parent was usually in Rome and the other in Spain, though they shifted from time to time. I started on him about three weeks after I started on the Indian, and was expecting like despair, but he quickly
convinced me that he had at least a superficial brightness and intelligence. His English was excellent, which helped. It was months, however, before I realized the truth about him. It is alarming to see how strong one's prejudices are and how convinced one is (or I am) that no foreigner can ever have quite the same standard of intelligence as products of the English educational system. I do not mean that I think foreigners are stupid; merely that I always doubt if they can do it on quite the same ground. But after a few weeks I realized that Spiro could. He was quite outstandingly gifted, so gifted that he could even beat the examination system and eighteen years of unhelpful inheritance. He had always told me what a fantastic prodigy he was, but the more he had said it the more I distrusted him, until with a little practice and very little guidance, he started to turn out weekly essays of the most excellent, orthodox practical criticism, which would have been a credit to any first-year scholar anywhere. I was amazed, delighted, and a little crestfallen to find how narrowly my judgment operated. I tried not to let him see how much my opinion of his chances had improved, but I knew he could tell. He was a shockingly self-confident, conceited boy, but he was only eighteen, and he had a right to be.
The Methodist minister was a quiet, diffident and charming man whose one anxiety was lest he should embarrass me by obtruding his religious opinions. He felt it his duty to do such set authors as Milton and T. S. Eliot, but his passion was for Wordsworth, whom he admired for all the reasons which I found most suspect. He would
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