Oxford eccentrics: a stroll in the park

For centuries Oxford academics have been known for their eccentricity. Some are clearly more eccentric than others and each is eccentric in their own way. This story, from half a century

ago, combines eccentricity and absent-mindedness, with a bit of nonchalance added.

My wife, Marianne, and Dr Agnes Cornfield, Fellow of Granville College, were in the habit of taking a walk in South Hinksey Park every Thursday morning.  In the park there was a playground,

a swimming pool, open in the summer, and a waterlily pond worthy of Monet. The name Dr Agnes Cornfield and that of her college I have invented. She lives now in the States. I did not want to

use her real name, or that of her daughter, because half a century later she might be embarrassed about what happened — although at the time she told all her friends about it and was

perhaps even a little proud of her sangfroid.

Dr Cornfield was an academic deeply interested in gods. She had published her first paper while still an undergraduate. It appeared in the prestigious journal of a Danish university,

normally restricted to Norse gods. However, they made an exception in this case and had published her article theorising about the status of certain Greek gods. She had argued that it was a

mistake to regard Hephaistos as a second-rate god, responsible only for the plumbing at Olympus, a mere handy-man, or handy-god. No, he was the genuine god of war, with Ares (Mars) being no

more than his orderly. I no longer recall whether the argument was accepted or not, but it certainly generated both heat and light.

Agnes’s husband was a scientist who agreed to work at home on Thursdays and look after little Susannah. This particular Thursday, where the story starts, was different. The husband had to

give a lecture somewhere in the Fens. The two ladies decided not to abandon the walk but to take little Susannah to the Park with them.

The first stop was the playground, entirely deserted because the weather was miserable. As Susannah was an only child and was growing up in a household of scholars, exercise was not high on

her list of priorities. She chose the swing because she had one at home and regarded it as a safe bet. But not for long. She (presumably) told herself: “What’s the point of using the swing

here in a park when I have a proper swing at home?” She turned to her mother: “Mummy, can we go home?” “Yes, sure,” said the mother. “In a minute or two.” Relying on the fact that Susannah

had only the vaguest notion of the passing of time, they kept on walking. The little girl was a few paces behind them, sometimes skipping and sometimes dragging her heels.

Meanwhile, the conversation between Marianne and Agnes turned to the Wagnerian gods. They could both discuss these gods ad nauseam: Marianne was a Wagner fan, able to watch the Ring cycle

for hours and hours, whereas I invariably fell asleep. When they at last had run out of Wagnerian and Norse gods, Agnes realised that she had never asked Marianne about Hungarian gods. It

seemed to be the right moment. But this was far from Marianne’s sphere of interest and all she could offer was a god called Hadur, the god of war.

“Is that all?” asked Agnes, disappointed. She had a theory, according to which the civilisation of a country was proportional to the actual number of gods. The larger the number, the better

the administration of the country. She regarded it as a kind of celestial civil service, torn by the usual rivalries. In her opinion, having a single god not only led to excesses in their

particular department but showed a certain lack of imagination.

Marianne told her that Hadur, although entirely unsupported by any other gods (either because they did not exist or because she was ignorant of their names and areas of competence) must have

been a whirlwind of efficiency. For half a century Hungarian (Magyar) warriors had struck terror into the hearts of the settled Germanic people, west of the Carpathian basin, occupied by

the Hungarian nomads at the end of the 9th century AD.

The Hungarians were in fact so effective at burning villages and slaughter in general that they gave rise to a classic prayer: De Sagittis Hungarorum Libera nos Domine (“Lord, save us from

the arrows of the Hungarians”). Marianne continued: “This went on until 955 AD, when the Hungarians were defeated at the Battle of Lechfeld by King Otto I, Duke of Bavaria and Swabia. After

that time Hungarians became increasingly interested in converting to Christianity and decided to reduce pillage and plunder to more conventional European levels.”

Throughout this investigation, Dr Cornfield was nodding and smiling, intrigued by the history and mythology. She began to thank Marianne for adding another god to her inventory when she was

rudely interrupted by a young man, presumably an undergraduate, wearing a completely soaked pair of trousers with a girl in his arms dripping with water. “Madam,” she addressed Dr Cornfield,

“Is this your child? I found her in the pond.” She thanked the young man for his efforts and turned to Marianne: “I think we need to go home. See you next week.”

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