Babel : Or the Necessity of Violence: an Arcane History of the Oxford Translators' Revolution (9780063021440)

The truth was, it felt exciting to contribute to the Grammaticas. But he still had much to learn. The second half of their tutorial was spent on readings in Classical Chinese, which Robin had dabbled in at Professor Lovell’s home but had never tackled in a systematic manner. Classical Chinese was to vernacular Mandarin what Latin was to English; one could guess at the gist of a phrase, but the rules of grammar were unintuitive and impossible to grasp without rigorous reading practice. Punctuation was a guessing game. Nouns could be verbs when they felt like it. Often, characters had different and contradictory meanings, either of which produced valid possible interpretations – the character 篤, for instance, could mean both ‘to restrict’ and ‘large, substantial’.

That afternoon they tackled the Shijing – the Book of Songs – which was written in a discursive context so far removed from contemporary China that even readers of the Han period would have considered it written in a foreign language.

‘I propose we break here,’ Professor Chakravarti said after twenty minutes of debating the character 不, which in most contexts meant a negative ‘no, not’, but in the given context seemed instead like a word of praise, which didn’t track with anything they knew about the word. ‘I suspect we’ll have to leave this as an open question.’

‘But I don’t understand,’ Robin said, frustrated. ‘How can we just not know? Could we ask someone about all this? Couldn’t we go on a research trip to Peking?’

‘We could,’ said Professor Chakravarti. ‘But it makes things a bit hard when the Qing Emperor has decreed it punishable by death to teach a foreigner Chinese, you see.’ He patted Robin’s shoulder. ‘We make do with what we have. You’re the next best thing.’

‘Isn’t there anyone else here who speaks Chinese?’ Robin asked. ‘Am I the only student?’

A strange look came over Professor Chakravarti’s face then. Robin was not supposed to know about Griffin, he realized. Probably Professor Lovell had sworn the rest of the faculty to secrecy; probably, according to the official record, Griffin did not exist.

Still, he couldn’t help but press. ‘I heard there was another student, a few years before me. Also from the coast.’

‘Oh – yes, I suppose there was.’ Professor Chakravarti’s fingers drummed anxiously against the desk. ‘A nice boy, though not quite as diligent as you are. Griffin Harley.’

‘Was? What happened to him?’

‘Well – it’s a sad story, really. He passed away. Just before his fourth year.’ Professor Chakravarti scratched his temple. ‘He fell ill on an overseas research trip and didn’t make it home. It happens all the time.’

‘It does?’

‘Yes, there’s always a certain . . . risk, entailed in the profession. There’s so much travel, you know. You expect attrition.’

‘But I still don’t understand,’ said Robin. ‘Surely there’s any number of Chinese students who would love to study in England.’

Professor Chakravarti’s fingers quickened against the wood. ‘Well, yes. But first there’s the matter of national loyalties. It’s no good recruiting scholars who might run home to the Qing government at any moment, you know. Second, Richard is of the opinion that . . . well. One requires a certain upbringing.’

‘Like mine?’

‘Like yours. Otherwise, Richard thinks . . .’ Professor Chakravarti was using this construction quite a lot, Robin noticed, ‘that the Chinese tend towards certain natural inclinations. Which is to say, he doesn’t think Chinese students would acclimatize well here.’

Lowly, uncivilized stock. ‘I see.’

‘But that doesn’t mean you,’ Professor Chakravarti said quickly. ‘You’re raised properly, and all that. Wonderfully diligent, I don’t expect that will be a problem.’

‘Yes.’ Robin swallowed. His throat felt very tight. ‘I’ve been very lucky.’

On the second Saturday after his arrival to Oxford, Robin made his way north for dinner with his guardian.

Professor Lovell’s Oxford residence was only a shade more humble than his Hampstead estate. It was a bit smaller, and enjoyed a mere front and back garden instead of an expansive green, but it was still more than someone on a professor’s salary should have been able to afford. Trees bearing plump red cherries lined the hedges by the front door, though cherries could hardly still be in season at the turn of autumn. Robin suspected that if he bent down to check the grass by their roots, he would find silver bars in the soil.

‘Dear boy!’ He’d scarce rung the bell when Mrs Piper was upon him, brushing leaves from his jacket and turning him in circles to examine his reedy frame. ‘My heavens, you’re so thin already—’

‘The food’s horrible,’ he said. A great big smile spread over his face; he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her. ‘Just like you said. Dinner yesterday was salt herrings—’

She gasped. ‘No.’

‘—cold beef—’

‘No!’

‘—and stale bread.’