The 2 12 Pillars of Wisdom (33 page)

Sensing his confusion, Dr C. A. D. Wood continued. ‘The problem is that there are those who are keen to stop the lecture from taking place. There are those who are implacably opposed to opera on ideological grounds. They want the lecture to be more socially relevant. They want to use the money so kindly left by Count Augusta to be used for the advancement of knowledge in a quite different sphere – agricultural economics, for example. They seem to object in some way to the fact that the money was made from a helicopter factory near Bologna.’

She paused, watching von Igelfeld for his reaction.

‘But that’s outrageous,’ burst out von Igelfeld. ‘What possible difference does it make that Count Augusta had a helicopter factory? That is quite irrelevant, I would have thought.’

Dr Hall nodded vigorously. ‘Somebody has to make helicopters,’ he pointed out.

‘Exactly,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘But quite apart from that, their objection disturbs the settled intention of Count Augusta, who surely had the right to decide what his money should be used for. That is a point of principle.’

‘Principle,’ echoed Dr Hall, tapping the edge of the stone bench with a slightly fleshy finger.

‘It would also be discourteous, to say the least,’ continued von Igelfeld, ‘for the invitation to Mr Matthew Gurewitsch to be withdrawn at this late stage, or indeed at any stage, once it had been issued.’

‘Our thoughts precisely,’ said Dr Hall unctuously, smoothing his hair as he did so. ‘It’s quite unacceptable behaviour, in our view.’

‘But who can be behind it?’ asked von Igelfeld. ‘Who could possibly dream up something so base?’

‘Plank,’ said Dr C. A. D. Wood in a quiet voice.

‘Haughland (Plank),’ said Dr Hall. ‘Haughland is Chairman of the Fellows’ Committee. It’s a very influential position, and if the Fellows’ Committee decides to cancel Mr Matthew Gurewitsch’s lecture, then there’s nothing anybody can do about it.’

‘But surely the Committee would never agree to that,’ protested von Igelfeld. ‘There must be other members who would vote against such a suggestion.’

Dr Hall nodded his agreement. ‘Yes, there are other members, but they are weak. The Master, for instance, is on the Committee, but he always votes with Plank because Plank is in a position to blackmail him over something or other which happened years ago. So he would never stand up to him. Then there’s Dr Porter, who lives in a world of his own imagination and who simply can’t be predicted, either way. And Dr McGrew, who owes Plank money, and so on. So you see that even if the majority of the Fellows are against Plank, he happens to control that Committee.’

Von Igelfeld’s face darkened as this perfidious story was unravelled. Such events would never have happened in Germany, but now nothing in England would surprise him. He was appalled at the prospect of Matthew Gurewitsch’s invitation being withdrawn, and he blushed for the shamelessness of his new colleagues. Although he was only a visiting professor, he felt that he would be tarnished to be associated with an institution that could behave in such a way. And yet what could he do?

‘Something can be done, of course,’ said Dr C. A. D. Wood. ‘We could call an extraordinary meeting of the Fellowship and elect a new committee, replacing Haughland with somebody else. Perhaps myself even. I would be prepared, if pressed. For the sake of the College, of course.’

‘But we would need every vote we could get,’ interjected Hall. ‘It would be that close. And I must say that, if similarly pressed, I would be prepared to take over responsibility for the College cellars. Nobody could argue that the Senior Tutor has done a decent job, even though he spends half his time in Bordeaux.’

‘But we don’t want to press you,’ said Dr C. A. D. Wood. ‘We just thought that we would mention the whole thing to you so that you would not be too disappointed if Mr Matthew Gurewitsch’s lecture were to be cancelled. You obviously got on well with him. We saw you deep in conversation. We knew you’d be appalled to hear what Plank was up to.’

‘I am,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I am completely appalled. I can assure you that I shall vote in the way you suggest.’

‘That’s very good,’ said Dr C. A. D. Wood, rising briskly from the bench. Dr Hall rose too, thus avoiding imbalance.

‘The meeting will be tomorrow,’ said Dr Hall. ‘By our calculation, your vote clinches the matter. If you had said no, then it would have been an exact tie. That would have required the Master to exercise a casting vote, and that would have gone to Plank, because of the blackmail factor.’

‘I am very glad you confided in me,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘It seems that I shall be able to help avert a dreadful situation.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Dr C. A. D. Wood. ‘And here’s another thing. Once we have the new Committee in place, we could put you in the Senior Tutor’s quarters for the rest of your stay. He can move to his old rooms, near the kitchen. I wouldn’t need the Senior Tutor’s rooms myself, as I have perfectly good rooms of my own. But that would mean that you would be very comfortable up there, with your own bathroom.’

Von Igelfeld smiled with pleasure. ‘And then perhaps Mr Matthew Gurewitsch could have my current rooms and consequently more immediate access to that shared bathroom.’

‘That would be perfectly feasible,’ said Dr Hall. ‘All of this will become possible once we get rid of Plank.’

That evening there was a College Feast, it being the anniversary of the beheading of the Founder. Von Igelfeld found this information unsettling, as he had spent much of his time in the Fellows’ Garden, prior to the arrival of Drs C. A. D. Wood and Hall, reflecting on the melancholy fate of William de Courcey and on the question of his head’s current location. He had reached no conclusions on the matter, other than that mankind’s moral progress was slow, and intermittent. People still lost their heads, here and there in the world, but not, thank God, in Western Europe any longer. That was no solution to the troubles of the rest of the world, which were enough, when one contemplated them, to make one weep, just as the Master wept. Perhaps the College was a microcosm of the world at large, and when the Master burst into tears of despair he was weeping for the whole world. That was possible, but the analogy would require a great deal of further thought and for the moment there was the smell of the lavender and the delicate branches of the wisteria.

Von Igelfeld was pleased to discover that at the Feast he was placed just two seats away from Mr Matthew Gurewitsch, and was able to join in the conversation that the opera writer was having with Mr Max Wilkinson, who had been seated between them. Mr Wilkinson, although a mere mathematician, proved to have a lively interest in opera and a knowledge that matched this interest. He quizzed Matthew Gurewitsch on the forthcoming production of the Ring Cycle, in miniature, at Glyndebourne, and Mr Gurewitsch expressed grave concern about miniaturisation of Wagner, a concern which von Igelfeld strongly endorsed.

‘You have to be careful,’ said Matthew Gurewitsch. ‘You reduce the Rhine to a birdbath, and is there room, realistically speaking, for the Rhine Maidens, if that happens?’

‘Exactly,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘And Valhalla too. What becomes of Valhalla?’

‘It could become a sort of dentist’s waiting room,’ said Matthew Gurewitsch. ‘No, you may laugh, but I have seen that happen. I saw a production once which made Valhalla just that. I shall spare the producer’s blushes by not telling you who he was. But can you imagine it?’

‘Why would the gods choose to live in a dentist’s waiting room?’ asked von Igelfeld.

There was a sudden silence at the table. This question had been asked during a lull in the conversation in other quarters, and it echoed loudly through the Great Hall. Even the undergraduates heard it, and paused, forks and spoons halfway to their mouths. Then, with no satisfactory answer forthcoming from the general company, the general hubbub of conversation resumed. Von Igelfeld noticed, however, that Dr C. A. D. Wood had shot a glance at Dr Hall, who had made a sign of some sort to her.

‘They wouldn’t,’ said Matthew Gurewitsch, looking up at the intricate, hammer-beam ceiling. ‘It’s the desire for novel effect. But there should be limits.’ He paused, before adding: ‘There are other objections to miniaturisation. The size of some singers, for example.’

‘They cannot be made any smaller,’ observed Mr Wilkinson.

‘No,’ said Matthew Gurewitsch. ‘And there are always problems with size in opera. Mimi, for example, is rarely small and delicate. She is often sung by a lady who is very large and who, quite frankly,
simply doesn’t look consumptive
. But at least we can suspend disbelief in such cases – within the conventions. But we should not create new challenges to our disbelief.’

‘Absolutely not,’ said von Igelfeld.

The conversation continued in this pleasant vein. Matthew Gurewitsch alluded to the interferences with
Trovatore
, which he intended to expose in his lecture.

‘Satires of
Trovatore
merely scratch the surface,’ he said, ‘leaving its mythic core untouched.’

‘I would agree,’ said von Igelfeld.

Matthew Gurewitsch smiled. ‘Thank you.
Il Trovatore
is to opera nothing less than what
Oedipus Rex
is to spoken drama: the revelation of the soul of tragedy in its purest form. In both, ancient secrets unravel, devastating the innocent along with the guilty. But then, who is innocent?’

Von Igelfeld looked down the table towards Plank, who was sitting next to a woman who had been at dinner the previous evening, but to whom von Igelfeld had not been introduced. She was engaged in conversation with Plank, and had laid a hand briefly on his forearm, only to remove it almost immediately. Plank was smiling, and for a moment von Igelfeld was filled with a form of pure moral horror. How could he sit there, in full dissemblance, at the same table as the proposed victim of his plot? No Florentine painter could have captured the essence of Judas’s table manners more clearly than flesh and blood that evening portrayed them in the form of Dr Plank, or so von Igelfeld reflected.

Matthew Gurewitsch, unaware of the peril which faced him, continued. ‘In the tragic no-man’s land between reason and unreason, the great crime is to have been born, would you not agree?’

‘Yes,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I would.’

‘At that, a man may go to the grave never having known who he is,’ continued Matthew Gurewitsch. ‘Which is almost – almost, but not quite – what happened to Oedipus.’

There was more to be said on this subject, and it was said that evening. There were toasts as well, one to the Master – proposed by the Senior Tutor, who modestly praised the wine, his choice, before glasses were raised – and one to the Memory of the Founder. The Master then rose to give a short address.

‘Dear guests of the College,’ he began, ‘dear Fellows, dear undergraduate members of this Foundation: William de Courcey was cruelly beheaded by those who could not understand that it is quite permissible for rational men to differ on important points of belief or doctrine. The world in which he lived had yet to develop those qualities of tolerance of difference of opinion which we take for granted, but which we must remind ourselves is of rather recent creation and is by no means assured of universal support. There are amongst us still those who would deny to others the right to hold a different understanding of the fundamental issues of our time. Thus, if we look about us, we see dogma still in conflict with rival dogma; we see people of one culture or belief still at odds with their human neighbours who are of a different culture or belief; and we see many who are prepared to act upon this difference to the extent of denying the humanity of those with whom they differ. They are prepared to kill them, and innocent others in the process, in order to strike at those whom they perceive to be their enemies, even if these so-called enemies are, like them, simple human beings, with families that love them, and with hopes and fears about their own individual futures.

‘How might William de Courcey, by some thought experiment visiting the world today, recognise those self-same conflicts and sorrows which marred his own world and made it such a dangerous and, ultimately for him, such a fatal place? He would, I suspect, say that much has remained the same; that even if we have put some of the agents of division and intolerance to flight, there is still much evidence of their work among us.

‘Here in this place of learning, let us remind ourselves of the possibility of combating, in whatever small way we can, those divisions that come between man and man, between woman and woman, so that we may recognise in each other that vulnerable humanity that informs our lives, and makes life so precious; so that each may find happiness in his or her life, and in the lives of others. For what else is there for us to hope for? What else, I ask you, what else?’

The Master sat down, and there was a complete silence. Nobody spoke, nor coughed nor murmured, nor otherwise disturbed the quiet which had fallen upon the room. At the end of the Hall, the portrait of William de Courcey was illuminated by the light of the many candles which had been placed upon the tables. His expression, fixed in oils, was a calm one, and his gaze went out, out beyond the High Table, and into that darkness that was both real, and metaphorical.

After a few minutes of silence, the Master rose to his feet, to lead the procession out of the Hall. Von Igelfeld noticed that there had been tears in his eyes, but that he had now wiped them away. They processed, still in silence, although now there was the sound of the scraping of chair legs on stone as the undergraduates rose to their feet to mark the departure of the High Table party. They too had been moved by the Master’s words, and there were hearts there that had changed, and would never be the same again. In the Senior Common Room, the Fellows moved to their accustomed seats, around the flickering of the great log fire which de Courcey’s will had stipulated should always be provided ‘to warm the hearts of the Fellows and the poor scholars of the Foundation’. The poor scholars were excluded, of course, but the other part of the imprecation had been honoured.