Hugh Trevorroper

The medievalist Vivian Galbraith (1889–1976) was due to retire as Oxford’s Regius Professor of Modern History in 1957. A former Fellow of Balliol, Galbraith had held the post—the most senior post in the History Faculty—for ten years. He had opposed Trevor-Roper’s candidacy for the vacant chair in modern history in 1951. In July 1956, Trevor-Roper opened his campaign to succeed Galbraith. He conferred with Blake and sounded possible rivals, including Steven Runciman and Professor C. R. Boxer of King’s College London. The latter disclaimed any interest. ‘You are the obvious choice for the Chair,’ he replied. Runciman, on the other hand, responded that he would not refuse the Regius Chair if it were offered. Trevor-Roper did not confer with his most obvious rival, A. J. P. Taylor.² He called on his former tutor J. C. Masterman, now Provost of Worcester, who greeted him with the words ‘I’m not such an old fool as you think’, pointing to a file marked ‘Regius Chair of History’ which he had ready. In discussion Masterman and Trevor-Roper dismissed the claims of Richard Southern,¹ whom Galbraith regarded as his proper and natural successor. Trevor-Roper mentioned Runciman’s name; Masterman, who stroked his nose sagely at this suggestion, declared that he would write to his former pupil, David Stephens, now the patronage secretary responsible for advising the Prime Minister on such appointments. ‘My suspicion is that J.C. may want to run me,’ Trevor-Roper confided to his wife Xandra. ‘I am making a tremendous effort to be discreet,’ he told one of his pupils.

In mid-December Masterman summoned Trevor-Roper for another talk. He was due to go to London to see ‘them’ on the subject of the Regius Chair, and asked Trevor-Roper for a letter giving his views on the subject. He then made one of his ‘carefully calculated indiscretions’ and produced a letter from his former Worcester colleague, Asa Briggs, whom he had consulted on the matter. Briggs, who had recently taken a Chair of History at Leeds, wrote that there was only one obvious name: Trevor-Roper. Both Southern and K. B. McFarlane of Magdalen were too narrow, and Taylor too irresponsible. Briggs’s support was especially encouraging, because he was neither a personal friend nor a natural ally. This interview convinced Trevor-Roper that Masterman planned to put his name forward.

Perhaps the letter Trevor-Roper wrote at Masterman’s request can be interpreted as a disguised manifesto.

To Sir John Masterman, 13 December 1956

Of course I will gladly give you my views about the Regius Chair, though you may find that, by opening this little vent, you have liberated a larger blast of warmer air than you had expected.

I believe that we need a summary break with the present Oxford tradition, a tradition which has now continued itself, vi inertiae,1 for thirty years. During those thirty years, in which the aims and methods of historical study have been profitably re-examined abroad, and important works published and new horizons envisaged, Oxford (as it seems to me) has become a backwater left ever further behind by the intellectual tide. Can anyone point to any serious historical book, or school of thought, or set of ideas, as being typical or worthy of Oxford in those years? Our professors who, on the whole (except in this case of the Regius Chair), tend to elect each other, seem to think it positively indecent to risk error by writing anything: for may not some plodding pedant one day discover some new document which will overturn their rash conclusions? How much safer to edit, with factual and bibliographical footnotes, some hitherto deservedly unnoticed monastic laundry-book! Given this philosophy in the Chairs of the Elect, it is hardly surprising if historical writing, historical thought, has dwindled to a standstill in Oxford just when it has been rising, and raising most interest, in the rest of the world.

Does this seem too radical a statement? Consider the facts. Of our seven historical professors today, only one (the Chichele Professor) has written so much as one original book on a historical subject.² His books are not very galvanising, and they are of course in the tradition of the period: but at least (like those of Powicke³) they represent that tradition when it was alive. They exist. Of the other six professors, two (the Professors of Military History 1 and International Relations²) have not, so far as I can discover, written so much as one article between them. The Professor of Modern History has usefully edited some documents but never ventured an opinion.³ The retiring Regius Professor, in his full career, has edited a text and published two short treatises on the prohibitive danger of seeking to interpret any such text. The Professor of Economic History has written three articles, all more or less on the same subject of aristocratic marriage settlements in the time of Queen Anne;⁴ and I believe that, had we but world enough and time, we could find, in obscure parish journals, one or two learned trivia by the Professor of Ecclesiastical History.⁵ Of course I know that there are articles which, though short, can be of disproportionate significance and can by themselves justify a career, like Notestein’s Raleigh Lecture⁶ or Maitland’s Rede Lecture;⁷ but I do not think that anyone would put the few articles of our Professors in that class. It mortifies me to think that this is Oxford’s contribution to historical study today, and that Namier—who on any account must surely be admitted to be England’s greatest living historian—has been kept out of every Oxford chair in turn, in order not to upset these quiet lives.1

It can be argued that a Professor reveals his quality not merely in his own writing but in the work of his pupils, in the ‘school’ he creates, so that a Professor who writes nothing at all may nevertheless be important by his influence. I agree. But where is the ‘school’ of any present Oxford professor? There is no such thing. Historical research here is not really organised at all. No Professor has a research seminar. Students wishing to do historical research are not directed to problems: they are told to find some neglected pool and paddle in it. They are farmed out to supervisors on the principles of Buggins’ turn. So real problems are left untouched and human labour and intelligence are wasted on that miscellany of trivial theses which makes the Report of the Committee for Advanced Studies such a shameful document.

Now I know that unambitious archivists are very useful creatures, and what would we do without them in their proper place? But I suggest that their proper place is a Record Office, not a University. In a university I feel that we ought to have professors who aim a little higher and are not afraid to interpret evidence and even, by publishing their interpretations, to run the gauntlet of public criticism and risk being proved wrong. After all, history is a science, and the sciences advance by hypothesis and criticism, not by accumulation and piety; through the laboratory, not the museum; by public controversy, not secret relic-worship. And I should also like to see someone in a position to influence study in Oxford who is aware of the important historical work being done abroad, and who is capable of inspiring some purposive research, such as Namier inspired at Manchester and Neale and Tawney 1 in London, such as Hamilton does at Chicago² and Braudel in Paris. Stockholm and Florence, thanks to Hecksċher and Sapori,³ have thriving historical schools: why not Oxford? This is admittedly aiming high,—higher than can be achieved by merely one appointment,—but it would be something to make a start. I would like to see a start made by the introduction, at the top, of someone who is right outside the dismal Oxford tradition of the last thirty years. Why should we not import someone from outside, from Cambridge, London, Aberystwyth, anywhere, to re-fertilise this sterile school?

Naturally I have thought a good deal about names, and have thought of some names which, by causing an epidemic of apoplexy in several comfortable chairs, would precipitate several other useful vacancies. But I will not bother you with doubtful candidates. My considered nominee is a Cambridge man: Steven Runciman.⁴ I do not suppose that he could do all that I have required of the ideal Professor: that would be to expect too much of him or of any man; but at least the process of reform could begin with him. He would be a Professor of the right kind: a distinguished historian who has written original, scholarly and highly readable books, and who would lend distinction to the chair instead of merely owing any distinction he had to it.