Hagen, playing his last card, suggested Pnin could teach a French language course: like many Russians, our friend had had a French governess as a child, and after the Revolution he lived in Paris for more than fifteen years.

"You mean," asked Blorenge sternly, "he can speak French?"
Hagen, who was well aware of Blorenge's special requirements, hesitated.
"Out with it, Herman! Yes or no?"
"I am sure he could adapt himself."
"He does speak it, eh?"
"Well, yes."
"In that case," said Blorenge, "we can't use him in First-Year French. It would be unfair to our Mr. Smith, who gives the elementary course this term and, naturally, is required to be only one lesson ahead of his students. Now it so happens that Mr. Hashimoto needs an assistant for his overflowing group in Intermediate French. Does your man read French as well as speak it?"
"I repeat, he can adapt himself," hedged Hagen.

"I know what adaptation means," said Blorenge, frowning. "In 1950, when Hash was away, I engaged that Swiss skiing instructor and he smuggled in mimeo copies of some old French anthology. It took us almost a year to bring the class back to its initial level. Now, if what's-his-name does not read French----"
"I'm afraid he does," said Hagen with a sigh.
"Then we can't use him at all. As you know, we believe only in speech records and other mechanical devices. No books are allowed."

Vladimir Nabokov, Pnin, Chapter Six, 3 [LOA 1996 p.399-400]