The J. R. R. Tolkien Companion and Guide: Volume 3: Reader’s Guide PART 2. Christina Scull. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: Christina Scull
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Tolkien generally interviewed all prospective B.Litt. and D.Phil. students wishing to write a thesis on a language or medieval literature subject, and as a member of the Applications Committee he took part in allocating supervisors, approving subjects of theses, and appointing examiners of the completed theses. Each thesis was considered by two examiners, first as a written text and then in a viva (viva voce). Tolkien examined over thirty theses during his time at Oxford. Roger Lancelyn Green wrote that he first met Tolkien

      when he and David Nichol Smith were putting me through the oral examination for my B.Litt. Degree, my thesis being on Andrew Lang and the Fairy Tale. The thesis was ‘referred back’ to me – which Nichol Smith, who had been my supervisor, kindly explained was no reflection on its merits, in fact rather the reverse as it was obviously nearly good enough to be the basis of a published book but could be improved; and that I must spend another term over it – with Tolkien as my supervisor.

      Accordingly, once a week for that term I made my way to 20 Northmoor Road [*Oxford] for a delightful hour with Tolkien. ‘It was my fault that your thesis was referred back – you must blame me!’ were his first words. ‘But I wanted to know more about the Fairies!’ In consequence of which, besides a good deal of revision, I wrote an additional chapter on the Fairies – of which I treasure the original draft written all over by Tolkien with comments and suggestions. [‘Recollections’, Amon Hen 44 (May 1980), pp. 6–7]

      Early in 1946, when John Lawlor returned to Oxford after war service to work on an edition of Julian of Norwich as a B.Litt. thesis, Tolkien was appointed his supervisor. Lawlor wrote that his ‘first and abiding impression’ of Tolkien ‘was one of immediate kindness. Tutored by [C.S.] Lewis I had expected to be tested with a few falls, so to speak. But the gentle creature who sucked his pipe and gazed meditatively along its stem seemed interested only in what he could do to help’ (C.S. Lewis: Memories and Reflections (1998), pp. 30–1). Robert Burchfield began, but did not complete, a D.Phil. on the Ormulum under Tolkien:

      I saw Tollers (as he was known) at weekly intervals in the academic years 1951–2 and 1952–3, sometimes in Merton College, sometimes at his home in Holywell. He puffed at his pipe while I told him of my work. He made many acute observations. I followed them all up. He beamed when I made some discoveries. Now and then he mentioned the hobbits, but he didn’t press them on me, spotting that my interest lay in the scraped-out o’s and double consonants of the Ormulum rather than in dwarves … Orcs, and Mr Bilbo Baggins. [‘My Hero: Robert Burchfield on J.R.R. Tolkien’, p. 50]

      In a long letter to a Mr Burns on 15 November 1952 Tolkien remarked that he had been able to write at a greater length because of ‘unexpected freedom and exhilaration. I was “cut” by two researchers this morning who normally occupy between them over two hours of every Saturday morning: freedom’ (private collection).

      Since Tolkien was a professor employed by the University and not by a college, he did not have to undertake the tutorial work that imposed a heavy burden on members of colleges. He did, however, teach classes, including those established during the Second World War for Navy and Air Force cadets, Anthony Curtis, a Royal Air Force cadet, contrasted Tolkien and C.S. Lewis:

      At the end of an hour with Lewis I always felt a complete ignoramus; no doubt an accurate impression but also a rather painful one; and if you did venture to challenge one of his theories the ground was cut away from beneath your feet with lightning speed. It was a fool’s mate in three moves with Lewis smiling at you from the other side of the board in unmalicious glee at his victory. By contrast Tolkien was the soul of affability. He did all the talking, but he made you feel you were his intellectual equal. Yet his views beneath the deep paternal charm were passionately held. At the first of these classes he handed round some sample passages of medieval English he had typed out. One of them was an English translation of the first verses of the Gospel According to John. ‘You see,’ he said triumphantly, ‘English was a language that could move easily in abstract concepts when French was still a vulgar Norman patois.’ [‘Remembering Tolkien and Lewis’, British Book News, June 1977, p. 429]

      Eric Stanley, later Rawlinson and Bosworth Professor of Anglo-Saxon, described his experience as an undergraduate in 1948–51, of attending Tolkien’s weekly seminars for four or five terms;

      We were less than a dozen …. Our papers, read out to the seminar, were not supposed to go on for longer than 15 or at most 20 minutes on the subject Tolkien had chosen. His patience was not infinite. [A] German graduate student went on and on, exemplifying ad nauseam some point of grammar, syntax I think. After about half an hour, it may have been more … Tolkien stopped him, saying something like, ‘Thank you very much. Now what conclusion have you arrived at?’ …

      Tolkien was usually very patient, very encouraging, very polite, very friendly, except when some fundamental philological mistake had, in his eyes, ruined some student’s paper …. Tolkien treated philology not as an end in itself but as the handmaid of literature. Literature is what he knew, Old English and Middle English, Old Icelandic, the medieval literatures in the Celtic languages, and of course he knew Greek and Latin ….

      Tolkien did not usually need to prepare his seminars. To provide evidence for views that he expressed, he pulled down books from his well-stocked shelves in Merton …. [‘C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien as I Knew Them (Never Well)’, Journal of Inklings Studies 4, no. 1 (April 2014), pp. 137–8]

      Another major demand on Tolkien’s time was examining, mainly the Final Honour School papers, but also Pass Moderations, and in the Second World War examinations set for cadets. He was an examiner in the Final Examinations in 1927–9, 1932–3, 1940–2, and 1952–3, and several times was chairman of the examiners. The papers were usually set by the examiners in the spring, then from about mid-June to the end of July examining involved ‘a 7-day week, and a 12-hour day’ (letter to *Rayner Unwin, 22 June 1952, Letters, p. 162).

      In addition to lecturing, teaching, supervising, and examining Tolkien carried a heavy administrative burden. By virtue of his successive professorships he was always a member of the English Faculty Board which met twice a term. At almost every other meeting he was appointed to a subcommittee to consider some matter, such as changes to the syllabus or set books, candidates for a lecturership, and the need for more staff. The subcommittee was usually required to report at the next meeting of the Board, and no doubt meetings of the subcommittee were required in the interim. Tolkien was elected chairman of the Board at the beginning of Michaelmas Term 1939, and in the difficulties imposed by the war was re-elected several times, serving until Michaelmas Term 1946. On the unexpected death of the chairman (R.F.W. Fletcher) in October 1950, Tolkien served a further two years, from 1950 to 1952. The chairman of the Board was always also a member of the English Faculty Library Committee, and ex officio of any English Faculty Board subcommittees. During the academic years 1929–32 and 1938–47 Tolkien also served on the General Board, which met about every two weeks in term time, but from Michaelmas Term 1946 every week.

      To these duties were added many other calls on Tolkien’s time: organizing lecture lists, writing references for colleagues and former students, taking part in elections to various chairs and readerships, answering questions sent to him by his colleagues, and thanking those who sent him offprints of articles they had written, inter alia.

      In letters to his sons Tolkien commented generally about Oxford University, teaching, and students. On 1 November 1963 he wrote to Michael:

      I remember clearly enough when I was your age (in 1935). I had returned 10 years before (still dewy-eyed with boyish illusions) to Oxford, and now disliked undergraduates and all their ways, and had begun really to know dons. Years before I had rejected as disgusting cynicism by an old vulgarian the words of warning given me by old Joseph Wright. ‘What do you take Oxford for, lad?’ ‘A university, a place of learning.’ ‘Nay, lad, it’s a factory! And what’s it making? I’ll tell you. It’s making fees. Get that in your head, and you’ll begin to understand what goes on.’

      Alas! by 1935 I now knew that it was perfectly true. At any rate as a key to dons’ behaviour. Quite true, but not the whole truth …. I was stonewalled and hindered in my efforts (as a schedule