Honorary Graduates
Orations and responses
Professor Simon Schama, CBE
Oration given on 21 July 2006
Chancellor, the Senate has resolved that the degree of Doctor
of the University be conferred upon SIMON SCHAMA
Nobody in his right mind would deny that our University is in Essex, but
it will always be necessary to demonstrate, if we can, that it is indeed the
University of Essex. So it is more than a happy coincidence that today’s two
honorary graduands are sons of the shire. Not that either Sir John Tusa,
this morning’s hero, or Professor Simon Schama were born here, any more than
most of us in this theatre; but both were marked by formative years passed
in Essex, on the north shore of the Thames estuary; and that fact, given
their own great public distinction, is reason enough for incorporating them
into our fellowship. I will go further: we need more them more than they
need us, and I know that I speak for everyone here when I say that we
welcome them warmly and gratefully.
It so happens that both of them came from immigrant stock: Sir John,
indeed, was born in Czechoslovakia, as it then was. Simon Schama was born in
London; but his paternal grandparents were Jews from Tzmir (or Smyran) in
what is now Turkey; his maternal grandparents come from Lithuania. Both
Tusas and Schamas made themselves at home in Essex, and I like to think that
in recruiting so many overseas students the University is acting in one of
the county’s best traditions. It seems to have been in Essex that Simon
Schama first fell in love with history: he was fascinated by Rudyard
Kipling’s Puck of Pook’s Hill, even though that's about Sussex, which
stimulated his imagination so that in his mind’s eye the mouth of the Thames
was once more crowded with all the sea-traffic which once upon a time
ploughed its waters: Roman galleys and longships of the North, galliots,
caravels and tea-clippers. I am bound to add, however, that his published
recollections of Southend and Leigh-on-Sea are not free of irony. “The
pier,” he says, “was strung with coloured lights and loud with the blare of
band music, crackingly amplified over the black water. The promenades were
littered with limp, vinegar-saturated chips and you could, literally, get
your teeth stuck into cylinders of Day-Glo pink rock candy, the letters
bleeding as you gnawed optimistically through the stick.” His evocation of
the foreshore at Leigh is even more pungent:
“Beyond the sheds, grimy sand, littered with discarded mussel shells and
hard strings of black-blistered seaweed, stretched down to the grey water.
When the tide went out, exposing an expanse of rusty mud, I would walk for
what seemed like miles from the shore, testing the depths of the ooze,
paddling my feet among the scuttling crabs and winkles, and staring
intensely at the exact point where, I imagined, the river met the sea.”
All this comes from Landscape and Memory, one of Professor Schama’s most
remarkable books. I have not quoted it just to demonstrate that the
historian was bred in Essex. The passage exemplifies several of his great
virtues as a writer: not only is his past vivid in his memory, but through
his poetic use of language and the precise details that he gives, he makes
it vivid also to his readers. In a book about landscape it is important to
be able to call up the human and natural scene, as he does here. More than
that: literary skill, literary power, combined with inexhaustible energy and
almost boundless ambition: these are the notes of Schama the historical
writer; these are the traits which have shaped all his works, and
characterise the professional achievement for which we honour him today.
But he is not only an historical author; he is a journalist, an art
critic, a teacher. Thirty-five years ago or thereabouts, when he was very
young, a good judge already found him to be one of the two best lecturers in
the History Faculty of the University of Cambridge. His brilliance in that
respect has also been experienced by many, perhaps most, of those present
here. We all watched his extraordinary three-part television series on the
history of Britain a few years ago, and are impatient for his return to the
small screen this autumn, in a new series to be called The Power of Art
which, I gather, is to be about how great works of painting and sculpture
can be precipitated by moments of personal and historical crisis. I am sure
that the programmes will be memorable. Nevertheless – I hope I am not just
expressing elderly prejudices – in my opinion his best work is to be found
in his many books. Not everybody will find time to read all of them (he is
almost terrifyingly productive) but everybody with the slightest taste for
history will enjoy some of them, and together they constitute what can only
be described by the French word, un oeuvre. It is a glory of our age, which
this afternoon it is my duty to demonstrate.
As I have already hinted, he is immensely various. He has written on the
Netherlands during the French revolution; on Jewish history; on Dutch art in
its golden age. He has written a chronicle of the French revolution, and
plunged into environmental history; he has essayed American history; and of
course he produced a three volume history of Britain to match his television
programmes. All these works are marked by his keen intelligence, his
eloquence, his sure judgement of human beings, and his almost incredible
power of reading, digesting and exploiting sources and authorities. But
there are other historians of whom much the same might be said (some of them
work at the University of Essex). Where Simon Schama stands almost alone is
in the sort of history that, with all his gifts, he chooses to write: a
history defined not by its topics but by the historian’s approach.
He has plausibly been compared to the great Macaulay, who famously wrote,
when planning his History of England, that, “I shall not be satisfied unless
I produce something which shall for a few days supersede the last
fashionable novel on the tables of young ladies.” Even more plausibly, he
might be compared to Macaulay’s contemporary, Jules Michelet, who through
his work gave the French not only their understanding of their nation’s
past, but much of their sense of identity. But the most useful comparison on
the present occasion, I think, is with that national treasure, Sir David
Attenborough (on whom, as it happens, we conferred an honorary degree about
twenty years ago). I mean by this, not that they are both stars of
television, but that they are the same sort of star. Watching or reading
them (Sir David too is an author) we are charmed, entertained and
instructed; there is never a trace of condescension, and we never feel that
our teacher is talking above our heads. This is immensely good for our
self-respect: it shows that we are cleverer than we thought; or at least,
that if such men take trouble over our education, it is worth our while to
take trouble too. So far as history is concerned, I really cannot overstate
the importance of this service. Ever since the study and writing of the
subject became an affair, first and foremost, of the universities, there has
been a tendency for historians to talk only to each other, to write only for
each other in often dreary learned journals, and to forget their duty to
society at large (this tendency has been much stimulated by the appalling
Research Assessment Exercise inflicted on us by government, which might have
been designed to make the writing of great, or even good history
impossible). Simon Schama is one of those who have led the resistance to
this professional solipsism, this professorial careerism, by reviving
narrative history – history as a tale told to the people – and doing it
better than anyone else. His colleagues cannot find fault with his
scholarship; writers cannot deny the power of his art; and readers who let
themselves be carried away by his stories benefit enormously, whether as
private souls or as citizens. And the result has been the extraordinary
surge of interest in history which we see all around us. I dare not go so
far as to say that Simon Schama is uniquely responsible for this revival,
but I know that he has made an enormous contribution to it, and that is
reason enough to offer him our degree.
That is all I really need to say. But I cannot end without urging you all
to read Simon Schama’s latest book, Rough Crossings. It illustrates all the
points that I have made about this remarkable historian. It is an epic tale,
of the exodus of the African-American slaves who fled the American
revolution and its slave-holding revolutionaries, at the risk of their
lives, to seek liberty and pursue happiness under the promised protection of
the British Crown. It tells how they fared in the quest for their promised
land, first in Nova Scotia and then in Sierra Leone, and of their Moses,
John Clarkson, an Englishman, who spent the last thirty years of his life in
Essex, on the Thames estuary, at Purfleet. It performs what I, after a
lifetime in the profession, have come to think is the historian’s greatest
task: it forces its readers to reconsider their ideas of justice and
educates their conscience. It is deeply moving as well as instructive. At
the risk of sounding like a publisher’s tout, I will end by pointing out
that it is available in all good bookshops and, I have no doubt, through the
internet.
Chancellor, I present to you Professor SIMON SCHAMA
Orator: Professor Hugh Brogan