After a Tuesday morning lecture, Ian Asquith, now a university student of about eighteen months, took his notebook to the professor he considered most approachable and, in full supplicating-student mode, explained that he, Ian, had no idea what to do with the thing. Ian said he’d tried to read the opening pages, but his Greek and German weren’t up to the task. And even if his languages had been sufficient, he’d still appreciate a superior opinion on what exactly Ziegler found in Smyrna. The professor asked to borrow the notebook for one night, and the next day they met again in his L-shaped office.

Perhaps advancement was as simple as Father made it seem: find shared ground, offer gifts, pronounce your humility. The notebook was working as intended.

The next day in the office Ian squirmed about, imagining the bookshelves were about to topple over him. The professor said Ziegler hadn’t found what he was looking for in Turkey. The Smyrna writings were not by Bion, nor one of his imitators, and they could be dated to the early fourteenth century. What Ziegler had found, the professor explained, were a number of rather worthless trimeter dialogues concerning Polydeuces and Kastor, which somehow started the rumour it was a complete play—scholars craved examples of the Greek New Comedy in the nineteenth century.

The professor now asked what Ian thought to do with his life, since the young man had the privilege of many options. Initially, Ian took this remark to mean that he was bright enough to enter any number of professions, instead of recognising the observation for what it was: a reference to Ian Asquith’s family wealth. Ian responded that he’d like to be a scholar, that the advancement of classical studies would be the joy and glory of his life. It was all he wanted: to be a good scholar.

The professor had a way of leaning far back in his chair, which made it clear he was at ease and that others ought to be so too. He told Ian he didn’t think such a career path were possible. Unfortunately, Ian, about halfway through his degree, would almost certainly never in his lifetime possess the skills required to make an impression on the study of classical literature. The professor—who before going up to Edinburgh had held the Regius Professorship of Greek at Cambridge—said he liked Ian, and these matter-of-fact discussions with students were the least pleasant part of academic work.

Worst of all, said the professor (suspended on the chair’s back legs like a duke), Ian’s understanding of literature might be described as asinine. Ian was much too concerned with finding personal guidance in the work under examination and expressing some sense of having imbibed a worthwhile moral lesson. This was absolutely not what one should look for in poetry, said the professor, without saying what he himself sought, without explaining the function of literature.