His Majesty Baby and Some Common PeopleMaclaren, Ian
General
His Majesty Baby and Some Common People
Maclaren, Ian
Fiction; Short stories
earth, the Republic of Letters, where money does not count, nor rank,
nor influence, nor intrigue, but where every man stands equal and the
best man wins.
Another four years and John has obtained his degree, a double first, and
he writes to the cottage on the side of the hill that the two old people
must come up to see him crowned. For six weeks before the day his mother
has just one consuming anxiety, and that is what she should wear on
the occasion, and it is only after fifteen long deliberations with her
gossips in the Glen that the great affair is settled, while the father's
mind is wholly taken up on Sundays with the effort to look as if he were
not the father of a graduate.
When the shepherd and his wife enter the gates of the University,
they are not to be thought of as two illiterate peasants who cannot
distinguish between a University and a dry-goods store. Although they
had never themselves expected to see so high a place, and had only
cherished it as a secret hope that perhaps one of their boys might
attain so far, they have learned by the tradition of their nation, and
by the speech of Domsie in the kirk-yard on Sabbath, to enter into
the greatness of a university. It is to them the home of the highest
knowledge, and a sacred place to which reverend people might well go
up as a pious Moslem to Mecca or a Jew to Jerusalem. As they cross the
quadrangle, the shepherd touches his wife, and points to an elderly
gentleman in the distance. They follow him with respectful attention as
he shambles along, half a dozen books under his arm, his shabby cloak
held by a single button, a hat as old as Jamie Soutar's resting on the
back of his head.
“Keep's a', Jeems,” whispers Janet respectfully “Div ye really think
that he's a professor?”
“We canna be sure, woman; he micht juist be a scholar, but I am judgin'
that he's a professor--he hes a' the appearance.”
And the two old people stand still in the bit till he disappears, and
then they go on their way much lifted. Outside religion there is no word
in Scots speech so sacred as “professor.” It means a semi-heavenly
body charged with Latin and Greek philosophy and mathematics. It was
something to see such a man, and to be in his company was living in an
atmosphere where you might catch the infection of his learning. When a
glensman, to whom Domsie had spoken of professors with bated breath for
more than a generation, learned that in southern parts the title was
assumed by hairdressers and ventriloquists, and that they were not sent
to gaol for profanity, then Drumtochty discovered another argument for
its favourite doctrine of original sin.
As the two go down the half-lit passage to the hall of graduation, they
are met by a majestic figure--a young man in evening dress, and over
it the gown of an M.A., with its white silk hood, and on his head the
Master's cap.
“Are you coming, may I ask,” said he, with quite a nice English accent,
to the graduation ceremony, “and can I be of any service?”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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