been some serious delay. Soames’s career must have met some disciplinary or possibly domestic obstacle.
‘It’s good to see you again, Soames, and the best of luck.’ The Bodger was already smoothly detaching himself from the situation. ‘Carry on please, Mr Tinkle. And may all your reactionary tigers be paper ones.’
Outside, The Bodger said, ‘Is he a good lecturer, young Tinkle?’
‘Perhaps not as good as he thinks he is,’ said Jimmy. ‘But the Prof. rates him very highly.’
‘What’s the matter with him, then?’
Jimmy mentally saluted The Bodger’s perspicacity. He had forgotten the way The Bodger always paid more attention than he appeared to be doing. ‘The Prof. says that he thinks he n-n-n-needs a w- wife ,’ Jimmy had rather a good imitation of the Prof., ‘r-rather b- badly . ‘
In the next lecture-room, Mr Seamus Rothesay was teaching mathematics, just as he had done at Dartmouth for over forty years, longer even than the Prof. His present class had not been to university. They had not won any scholarships to go to university in due course. They had not been selected by the College to go to university at the Navy’s expense. They were in that sense the last and lowest winnowings of the naval officer entry. These were the sort of ordinary, unexceptionable, loyal boys who used to join in short trousers at thirteen years of age and then in long trousers at eighteen, the sort of young men Dartmouth had always been used to, the sort which The Bodger said were not the salt of the earth, but rather the solid earthy part which the salt was supposed to savour. But Mr Rothesay had never taught anywhere else but at Dartmouth, and for him these were the familiar faces of pupils he had taught all his academic life.
Mr Rothesay had one passionate interest, which he broached to each new class early in every term, hoping one day to strike some answering fire. So far, he never had. Some men collected stamps, others vintage cars. Some played picquet or bridge, or the Stock Exchange. Seamus Rothesay indulged in mathematical computation. For many years, Mr Rothesay had patiently calculated the value of the mathematical quantity known as Pi, normally represented by the Greek letter of the alphabet π, to a thousand places of decimals.
‘Pi,’ Mr Rothesay was saying to his class, ‘as you will know from your school mathematics, is the figure by which the diameter of a circle can be multiplied to obtain the length of the circumference. The circumference of a circle, you will recall, is twice Pi times the radius. The area of a circle, you may also recall, is Pi times the radius squared. The surface area of a sphere is four Pi times the radius squared, the volume of a sphere is four-thirds Pi times the radius cubed. And so on. Now, what is Pi?’
Mr Rothesay’s sombre gaze ranged over his class, hoping for some kindred spark.
‘Twenty-two over seven, sir,’ said a voice from the back.
Mr Rothesay frowned. ‘That is one way of expressing it,’ he said, in a voice heavy with disapproval. ‘Some people also say it is three point one four one six.’
Either of these definitions, Mr Rothesay knew, was a monstrous, a grotesque over-simplification, like saying that the Mona Lisa was a portrait of a woman. Pi was something extraordinary, an attempt to express the inexpressible. It was poetic and yet it was the very opposite of poetry, being the indefinable defined in a single hard symbol. Pi was more remote than the furthest star, more inaccessible than King Solomon’s Mines, more beautiful than the Queen of Sheba. Pi spun out to infinity. To Mr Rothesay, all those decimal places spread gloriously across his page, each numeral placed in its strict progression shining like a meteor streaming to the wind, a banner emblazoned with seraphic arms and trophies.
‘You may like to know,’ Mr Rothesay said, rather shyly, ‘that I have worked out Pi to one thousand places of decimals. I used the following
‘It’s good to see you again, Soames, and the best of luck.’ The Bodger was already smoothly detaching himself from the situation. ‘Carry on please, Mr Tinkle. And may all your reactionary tigers be paper ones.’
Outside, The Bodger said, ‘Is he a good lecturer, young Tinkle?’
‘Perhaps not as good as he thinks he is,’ said Jimmy. ‘But the Prof. rates him very highly.’
‘What’s the matter with him, then?’
Jimmy mentally saluted The Bodger’s perspicacity. He had forgotten the way The Bodger always paid more attention than he appeared to be doing. ‘The Prof. says that he thinks he n-n-n-needs a w- wife ,’ Jimmy had rather a good imitation of the Prof., ‘r-rather b- badly . ‘
In the next lecture-room, Mr Seamus Rothesay was teaching mathematics, just as he had done at Dartmouth for over forty years, longer even than the Prof. His present class had not been to university. They had not won any scholarships to go to university in due course. They had not been selected by the College to go to university at the Navy’s expense. They were in that sense the last and lowest winnowings of the naval officer entry. These were the sort of ordinary, unexceptionable, loyal boys who used to join in short trousers at thirteen years of age and then in long trousers at eighteen, the sort of young men Dartmouth had always been used to, the sort which The Bodger said were not the salt of the earth, but rather the solid earthy part which the salt was supposed to savour. But Mr Rothesay had never taught anywhere else but at Dartmouth, and for him these were the familiar faces of pupils he had taught all his academic life.
Mr Rothesay had one passionate interest, which he broached to each new class early in every term, hoping one day to strike some answering fire. So far, he never had. Some men collected stamps, others vintage cars. Some played picquet or bridge, or the Stock Exchange. Seamus Rothesay indulged in mathematical computation. For many years, Mr Rothesay had patiently calculated the value of the mathematical quantity known as Pi, normally represented by the Greek letter of the alphabet π, to a thousand places of decimals.
‘Pi,’ Mr Rothesay was saying to his class, ‘as you will know from your school mathematics, is the figure by which the diameter of a circle can be multiplied to obtain the length of the circumference. The circumference of a circle, you will recall, is twice Pi times the radius. The area of a circle, you may also recall, is Pi times the radius squared. The surface area of a sphere is four Pi times the radius squared, the volume of a sphere is four-thirds Pi times the radius cubed. And so on. Now, what is Pi?’
Mr Rothesay’s sombre gaze ranged over his class, hoping for some kindred spark.
‘Twenty-two over seven, sir,’ said a voice from the back.
Mr Rothesay frowned. ‘That is one way of expressing it,’ he said, in a voice heavy with disapproval. ‘Some people also say it is three point one four one six.’
Either of these definitions, Mr Rothesay knew, was a monstrous, a grotesque over-simplification, like saying that the Mona Lisa was a portrait of a woman. Pi was something extraordinary, an attempt to express the inexpressible. It was poetic and yet it was the very opposite of poetry, being the indefinable defined in a single hard symbol. Pi was more remote than the furthest star, more inaccessible than King Solomon’s Mines, more beautiful than the Queen of Sheba. Pi spun out to infinity. To Mr Rothesay, all those decimal places spread gloriously across his page, each numeral placed in its strict progression shining like a meteor streaming to the wind, a banner emblazoned with seraphic arms and trophies.
‘You may like to know,’ Mr Rothesay said, rather shyly, ‘that I have worked out Pi to one thousand places of decimals. I used the following
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