The English gentlemen may soon only be accessible in a copy of Dickens. The foggy streets of London, home to Sherlock Holmes or Father Brown (look him up), are now clear and home to modern, sophisticated and utterly boring Brits.
Yet, the loss has not taken place yet.
Last week, as a matter of tradition, I attended my last Allen Chapman lecture at MSUM. The topic cannot be written of here, for my account will pale in comparison to the original, but the man … that is another matter.
I first met Chapman as a freshman. Fascinated as I was in Eurospring, as well as being rather sick of Moorhead, the opportunity to spend eight weeks roaming Europe with an Oxford intellectual seemed to be the perfect solution.
What stopped me, and really shouldn’t have, was that in addition to eight weeks across the ocean, I would also have to spend double my usual tuition costs.
Our second meeting didn’t see me any richer, but perhaps a bit better behaved.
He always sports a classic parlor jacket with a vest and a pocket watch. I, on our first meeting, was wearing my pajamas. But one year later, I had reconverted to Catholicism and developed the habit of dressing myself in the morning.
Chapman himself is an Anglican, and we discussed a book called “Aping Mankind,” which he had reviewed for the Church Times in London.
The wonder about Chapman is the way time is irrelevant to him. He speaks of ideas and events with a wild glow in his eye. Those who have heard him speak know how majestic his English accent can be.
Some years ago he had an operation to remove part of his palate. As a result his accent is a little harder to understand, but it is so very enjoyable to try.
As we talked about his book, the very nice lady who runs Eurospring kept glancing nervously at the clock, since Chapman was on a schedule. He didn’t notice.
From his basic argument against scientism, to an anecdote about meeting Richard Dawkins, to the fun of being a historian, the man talked about everything the way a child speaks of their favorite toy.
His lecture last Wednesday went overtime, but it didn’t over stay its welcome. He sang, joked, acted out Hamlet and blew his nose in a rumpled old handkerchief. With his long whitened hair and glow behind his eyes, it wasn’t hard at all to imagine him growing up in a tiny house, going to bed by candlelight.
Historians tend to project themselves onto the subject. If a historian is ancient and boring, then history will seem ancient and boring.
Chapman is a crafty prankster; he’s always pulling you this way and that way.
First it is just criminology, but soon we are discussing cracked old ladies and ringing bells, a murder in a barn and the stuffy old scientist who can’t figure it out.
History is full of unexpected characters, and Chapman is most of them.
One of my deepest regrets, looking back on my time as an undergrad, is that I didn’t go on Eurospring. I wouldn’t even need to go to Europe really. To spend eight weeks just listening to Chapman explore his playground of ideas would be worth four times a semester’s cost.
While eight weeks may seem like an eternity (another topic he explored in a whimsical way during his lecture), especially with some professors, Chapman could easily fill that time for the students. For him, it wouldn’t matter.
Time isn’t of the essence when you’re thinking. It always flies when you’re having fun.
BY JOHN GOERKE
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