Has the don come to steal ideas? To perform some kind of sabotage? Is the don letting Wittgenstein know he is being watched? Is the don an infiltrator? A spy? Is he preparing a Wittgenstein dossier for the authorities?
The don takes notes as Wittgenstein speaks. Meticulous notes. And when the lecture finishes, the don stands to leave. Wittgenstein, catching his eye, gives a little bow. The don bows back.
Afterwards, we walk along the Backs.
The Cambridge trap is closing around him, Wittgenstein says. Good! Let it close! The noose of Cambridge is being tightened round his neck. Good! Let them kick away the stool!
The dons are coming for him, he says. Of course they are! They can sense what he is. They know he comes to judge Cambridge. And they know their own time is passing. The time of the don is no more.
• • •
Once, the dons were part of something, Wittgenstein says. Part of the genius of Cambridge, like the ivy on the bridges, like the boathouses along the river. Once, the dons carried the whole history of England on their shoulders, in their processions and their ceremonies — soaring patriotism, a sense of moral purpose, eccentricity, unworldliness, diffidence: resting on the shoulders of the dons.
All of England was once a lawn, Wittgenstein says. The whole of the country, with its uplands and lowlands, with its suburbs and towns, was once the quintessence of lawn.
The English lawn ran right into the Houses of Parliament. It ran right into Buckingham Palace, into Whitehall and the Law Courts. And into the media empires and the great publishing companies.
The English lawn rolled up to middle-class houses, just as it rolled up to aristocratic mansions. And even if it was halted by working-class concrete, it ran nonetheless through the heads of the working classes, just as it ran through the heads of the middle classes and the upper classes — a timeless idea of England.
England has always imagined itself in terms of rural idyll, Wittgenstein says. Of the fields’ patchwork, all openness and breadth. Of the village green, with its war memorial. Of the parish cemetery, covered with elms. Of pretty little wildernesses, marked off from working land. Of ornamental lawns, close-clipped victories over age. Of informal lawns, with deer parks and temples. Of panoramic lawns, divided only by ha-has. Of landscaped lawns, framing the great country houses …
It was for the green peace of meadow and hedgerow that English soldiers defended their country from foreign invaders, Wittgenstein says. And it was for the rural idyll they went forth to conquer the world. Wasn’t it a simulacrum of the English lawn that they watered in the hill stations of India? Didn’t they try to roll out the English lawn in the white mountains of Kenya?
And it was in the name of the English lawn that the enemy within was kept down, Wittgenstein says. The Peasants’ Revolt was crushed for seeking equality on the English lawn. The Diggers were transported for declaring that the English lawn was part of the commons. And the new industrialists sent their sons to become good little gentlemen in the public schools of the English lawn.
But never was the English lawn so lush as in the great universities of England!, Wittgenstein says. Old expanses of lawn, strewn with meadowsweet and buttercups in high summer. Crocuses blooming in spring. Students picnicking, all white-flannelled elegance.
And the old dons, of the great universities of England—the English lawn ran through their hearts, Wittgenstein says. The old dons lived out their lives on the English lawn. They sipped warm beer and watched cricket on the English lawn. They munched crustless sandwiches at garden parties on the English lawn. And one day, they were laid to rest in the English lawn.
The dons drew all their strength from the English lawn, Wittgenstein says. They were always sure of things on the English lawn. You could never best a don on the English lawn. You would only break your lance tilting at a don on the English lawn.
Of course, the English lawn was ultimately provincial, Wittgenstein says. The philosophy of the English lawn was concerned exclusively with English lawn issues, which is to say with nothing of any real importance. Nothing really mattered in English-lawn philosophy, he says. Nothing was really at stake in English-lawn thought. The don was a lawn-head! No more than a lawn-head!
But perhaps there was something to the world of the dons, Wittgenstein says. Perhaps there was something to be said for donnish amateurism, for donnish pottering-about. Perhaps there was a value to pass-the-port philosophy. To home-counties philosophy! Perhaps there was a freedom to the English don — no German stuffiness, no French pretension …
The old world! The old dons! The old lawn — spreading into the distance! The old dream of a Jerusalem to be built on England’s green and pleasant land!
The English lawn is receding, Wittgenstein says. And with it, the world of the old dons of Cambridge.
New housing estates, where once was open countryside … A new science park where once were allotments and orchards … New apartment blocks near the station, their balconies in shade … And towering barbarisms: Varsity Hotel, looming over Park Parade; Botanic House, destroying the Botanic Gardens; Riverside Place, desecrating the River Cam …
They’re developing the English lawn, Wittgenstein says. They’re building glassy towers on the English lawn. They’re laying out suburbs and exurbs on the English lawn. They’re developing new business parks on the English lawn. They’re constructing Megalopolis on the English lawn.
And they’re developing the English head, Wittgenstein says. They’re building glass-and-steel towers in the English head. They’re building suburbs and exurbs in the English head …
The new don is nothing but a suburb-head, Wittgenstein says. The new don — bidding for funds, exploring synergies with industry, looking for corporate sponsorship, launching spin-off companies. The new don, courting venture capitalists, seeking business partners, looking to export the Cambridge brand. The new don — with a head full of concrete. A finance-head. A capitalist-head.
Do we believe the dons teach at Cambridge? No, they train at Cambridge! Do we believe the dons think at Cambridge? No, they bid at Cambridge! They network. They grub about for money. They ride the waves of global finance.
The new don has sold his soul! Wittgenstein says. The new don has sold his university! The new don has monetised Cambridge! The new don has made Cambridge into an advert.
It was the new dons who made Oxford unbearable for his brother, Wittgenstein says. The new-style philosophers!
English philosophy has become business philosophy, grant-chasing philosophy, his brother told him. The Oxford philosophy department dreams only of being Big Philosophy, his brother said. Of founding Philosophy Parks, of donning philosophical lab coats …