Three other students lodged with Frau Krantzenhauf during von Igelfeld’s days in Heidelberg. Two of these were regarded by von Igelfeld as being of no interest, and only barely to be tolerated. Dorflinger was a tall, bony youth from a farm near Munich, while Giesbach, his ponderous friend, was as rotund as Dorflinger was thin. They both studied engineering, knew next to no Latin, and spent every evening in a beer hall. Von Igelfeld exchanged a few words with them and then retreated into silence. There was nothing more to say to people like that – nothing.
Far more congenial in von Igelfeld’s view was a young student of philology from Freiburg, Florianus Prinzel. Prinzel was tall, had dark wavy hair, and invariably fixed those to whom he spoke with a direct, honest look. Von Igelfeld, whose notions of friendship were those of nineteenth-century romanticism, in which young men aspired to noble friendships, thought that here, at last, was one whose qualities he could respect. He, von Igelfeld, the aesthete-scholar, could befriend the athlete-hero, Prinzel. He could see it already; Prinzel streaking past his hopelessly outclassed competitors, leaping over hurdles, his brow high in the wind; Prinzel’s manly chest breasting the finishing tape; Prinzel receiving the fencing trophy and handing it over to von Igelfeld to hold while he removed his gauntlets. It was to be the sort of friendship which had been commonplace fifty years before, in military academies and such places, but which had been irretrievably ruined by the reductionist insights of Vienna.
Unfortunately, von Igelfeld’s vision of the relationship was fatally flawed. Although Prinzel was tall and strong, and perhaps should have been an athlete, he had not the slightest interest in athletic matters. Prinzel was, in fact, every bit as intellectual and bookish as was von Igelfeld, and not at all capable of being a hero on, or indeed off, the field. He could not run very fast; he had no interest in rowing; and he regarded ball games as absurd.
Undeterred, von Igelfeld decided that even if Prinzel were to prove slow to realise his natural prowess, he could be made to appreciate just how fundamentally he had mistaken his destiny. Von Igelfeld began to tell others of Prinzel’s sporting instincts and abilities.
‘My friend, Prinzel,’ he would say, ‘is very good at games. I’m not really so accomplished at that sort of thing myself, but you should see him. A consummate athlete!’
Others believed this, and soon Prinzel had a reputation of being a great sportsman. And if anybody thought it strange that they should never have seen Prinzel on the field, then they reasoned that this must be because he did not deign to do much with the very inferior competition which he found in Heidelberg.
‘Is it true that Prinzel represented Germany somewhere at something or other?’ von Igelfeld was asked from time to time.
‘Yes, it’s quite true,’ he answered, not deliberately seeking to tell a lie, but replying in this way because he had persuaded himself that Prinzel must indeed be the holder of records of which he was silent. Or, if he were not the holder, then the records could certainly be his for the asking if only he would bother to win them.
It may all have remained at the level of fantasy, harmless enough, even if somewhat irritating for Prinzel, had it not been for von Igelfeld’s sudden conviction that Prinzel could be a fine swordsman, were he to try the sport. Unprotected fencing amongst students was then strongly discouraged, even if there had been a time when it had flourished greatly in Heidelberg. In spite of this twentieth-century squeamishness, a small group of students obstinately adhered to the view that the possession of a small duelling scar on the cheek made an important statement about one’s values, and was also of incidental value in later advancement in one’s career. It was widely suspected that a man with a scar would always give a job to another man with a scar, even if there was a stronger, unscarred candidate. Of course, this mock duelling was carried out in a spirit of fun, and nobody was meant to be seriously hurt, but the flashing of swords and the graceful thrusts and parries of those unencumbered by clumsy protective jackets was much appreciated by the more reactionary students. These students were unexcited by the heady messages from Paris that made German universities in the nineteen-sixties and -seventies such hotbeds of radicalism and ferment.
The students who believed in fencing were naturally attracted to von Igelfeld. Not only was it his name that appealed to them, being redolent of an earlier era and lost territories, it was the knowledge of the estate in Austria and the close connection which von Igelfeld enjoyed with noble Bavarian families. For these reasons, von Igelfeld had been invited to take a glass of wine with the fencing faction.
The members of this group immediately realised that von Igelfeld, for all his background, was an unredeemed intellectual and therefore quite unsuited to any further involvement with their own, rather dark, social activities. At the same time, his background deserved respect and so they listened attentively to him as he spoke to them about his interest in the arid wastes of medieval Latin verse.
‘And this Prinzel character,’ one of them said. ‘We see you about with him a great deal. Tell us something about him.’
‘Prinzel’s an amazing athlete,’ von Igelfeld said. ‘He’s one of those people who’s just naturally good at sports.’
This remark was met with silence. Several glances were exchanged.
‘Is he a swordsman?’ asked a rather heavily scarred young man, casually.
‘He’s a fine swordsman,’ said von Igelfeld enthusiastically. ‘In fact, I’m sure he’d be honoured to meet any of you gentlemen. At any time!’
Further glances were exchanged, unnoticed by von Igelfeld, who, draining his third glass of wine, was becoming slightly drunk.
‘I’m most interested to hear that,’ said the bearer of the scars. ‘Could you tell him that I shall meet him next Friday evening at a place to be notified? Just for a bit of fun.’
‘Of course,’ said von Igelfeld, expansively. ‘In fact, I can accept on his behalf, right now. We’ll be there!’
Glasses were raised in a toast, and the conversation then moved on to the arrival in Heidelberg of two girls from Berlin whose interests were much to the taste of the group and whose company was being sought that Friday night, after the duel.
Prinzel was dismayed.
‘You had no right to do that!’ he protested, his voice raised in uncharacteristic anger. ‘You had no right at all!’
Von Igelfeld gazed at his friend. So complete was his admiration for Prinzel, so utter his belief in the nobility of Prinzel’s character, that he could not entertain the thought that the other might object to what was being proposed for him. It was as if he did not hear him.
‘But it’s all arranged,’ went on von Igelfeld. ‘And I shall be your second.’ He added: ‘That’s the person who stands by, you know. He carries the towel.’
‘For the blood?’ snapped Prinzel. ‘To mop up the blood?’
Von Igelfeld laughed dismissively. ‘There’s no need for blood,’ he said. ‘Blood hardly comes into it. You’re not going to kill one another – this is merely a bit of sport!’
Prinzel waved his hands about in exasperation. ‘I simply can’t understand you,’ he shouted. ‘You seem to have a completely false notion of my character. I’m a scholar, do you understand? I am not an athlete. I am not a hero. I have absolutely no interest in fencing, none at all! I’ve never done it.’
Von Igelfeld appeared momentarily nonplussed.
‘Never?’ he said.
‘Never!’ cried Prinzel. ‘Let me repeat myself. I am a scholar!’
Von Igelfeld now seemed to recover his composure.
‘Scholars sometimes engage in martial pursuits,’ he asserted. ‘There are many precedents for this. And swordmanship is a traditional matter of honour at universities. We all know that. Why set your face against our heritage?’
Prinzel shook his head. For a few moments he was silent, as if at a loss for words. Then he spoke, in a voice which was weak with defeat.
‘Who are these types?’ he asked. ‘How did you meet them?�
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Noting his friend’s tone of acceptance, von Igelfeld laid a hand on his shoulder, already the reassuring second.
‘They are a group of very agreeable characters,’ he said. ‘They have some sort of Korps, in which they drink wine and talk about various matters. They asked to meet me because they thought I was old-fashioned.’
Von Igelfeld laughed at the absurdity of the notion. They would see next Friday just what sort of friends he had! Old-fashioned indeed!
Prinzel sighed.
‘I suppose I have no alternative,’ he said. ‘You seem to have committed me.’
Von Igelfeld patted his friend’s shoulder again.
‘Don’t you worry,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a very exciting evening. You’ll see.’ The place chosen for the match was a field which lay behind an inn on the outskirts of the city. The field was ringed by trees, which gave it a privacy which had been much appreciated by those who over the years had used it for clandestine purposes of one sort or another. When von Igelfeld and Prinzel arrived, they thought at first that there was nobody there, and for a brief joyous moment Prinzel imagined that the whole idea had been a joke played on von Igelfeld. This made him smile with relief, a reaction which von Igelfeld interpreted as one of confidence.
‘Of course you’re going to win,’ he said excitedly. ‘And afterwards we shall all have a grand celebration at the inn.’
Then, from out of the shadows, there stepped four members of the Korps. They looked perfectly sinister, clad in capes of some sort, with long suitcases in which the swords were concealed.
‘Look, there they are!’ shouted von Igelfeld excitedly. ‘Hallo there, everybody! Here we are!’
Prinzel froze. Had von Igelfeld had the eyes to see, he would have been presented with a picture of a man facing a firing squad. Prinzel’s face was white, his eyes wide with horror, his brow glistening with beads of sweat.
The scarred student stepped forward and shook von Igelfeld’s hand. Then he crossed to Prinzel, bowed and introduced himself.
‘This is a fine evening for sport,’ he said. Gesturing to the weapons, he invited Prinzel to make his choice.
‘We shall have six rounds of three minutes each,’ said one of the Korps. ‘When a gentleman draws blood, the contest shall stop.’
Von Igelfeld nodded eagerly.
‘That’s correct,’ he said. ‘That’s how we do it.’
Prinzel glanced at his friend.
‘How do you know?’ he hissed angrily. ‘If you know so much about this, why don’t you fight instead of me?’
‘I fight?’ said von Igelfeld, astonished. ‘That’s quite out of the question. I would lose, I’m afraid.’
Prinzel muttered something which von Igelfeld did not hear. It was too late now, anyway, as his opponent had now taken his position and everybody else was looking expectantly at Prinzel.
There was a flash of swords. Prinzel thrust forward and parried his opponent’s strike. Then his own sword shot forward and steel met steel with a sharp metallic sound. Von Igelfeld gave a start.
Then it was stand-off again. Prinzel watched warily as his opponent began to move around him, sword raised almost to the lips, as if in salute. Then, so rapidly and daintily, as if to be invisible, the other’s sword cut through the air with a whistling sound and, with almost surgical grace, sliced off the very tip of Prinzel’s nose.
Prinzel stood quite still. Then, with a low moan, he dropped his sword and went down onto his hands and knees, as if searching for his severed flesh. For a few moments von Igelfeld was paralysed, unable to believe what he had seen. But then, remembering his duties as second, he shot forward, picked up the tip of the nose, a tiny, crumpled thing, and pressed it against his friend’s face, as if to stick it back on.
Slowly Prinzel rose to his feet. There was not much blood – at least there was not as much as one might have expected – and he was able to maintain an aloof dignity.
‘Take me to the hospital,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth. ‘And keep your hand where it is.’
Prinzel’s opponent watched impassively.
‘Well fought!’ he said. ‘You almost had me at the beginning.’ Then, almost as an afterthought: ‘Don’t worry about that nick. It always seems so much worse than it really is. Imagine what a distinguished scar you will have! Bang in the middle of your face – can’t be missed!’
The landlord of the inn called an ambulance, complaining all the while about the inconvenience to which students put him.
‘They’re always up to no good,’ he grumbled, peering at Prinzel. ‘I see you’ve been fencing. Would you believe it? This is the Federal Republic of Germany, you know, not Weimar. And we’re meant to be in the second half of the twentieth century.’
Von Igelfeld looked at him scornfully.
‘You don’t even know what this is all about,’ he said. ‘It’s a student matter; nothing to do with you. Nothing at all.’
It was Prinzel’s misfortune to be attended at the hospital by a doctor who was drunk. Von Igelfeld thought that he could smell the fumes of whisky emanating from behind the surgical mask, but said nothing, reckoning it might be ether, or it might indeed be whisky, but used for medicinal purposes. Prinzel by now had closed his eyes, and was determined to hear, see and smell nothing. He felt von Igelfeld release the pressure on his face, and he felt the doctor’s fumbling fingers. He felt a cold swab on his exposed arm, and then the prick of an injection. And after that, there was only numbness.
The drunken doctor examined the severed tip and realised that all that was required were several wellplaced stitches. These he inserted rapidly. Then he stood back, admired his handiwork, and asked a nurse to apply a dressing. It had been a simple procedure, and there was no doubt but that the nose would heal up well within a few weeks. There would be a scar, of course, but that’s what these young men wanted after all.
‘You’ve made a very good recovery,’ von Igelfeld said to Prinzel a fortnight later. ‘You can hardly see the scar.’
Prinzel gazed at himself in the mirror. It was all very well for von Igelfeld to congratulate him on his recovery, but there was still something wrong. His nose looked different, somehow, although he could not decide exactly why this should be so.
Von Igelfeld had also studied Prinzel’s nose and had come to a dreadful conclusion. The drunken doctor had sewn the tip on upside down. Of course he could not tell Prinzel that, as such knowledge could be devastating – to anyone.
‘I shall remain silent,’ thought von Igelfeld. ‘In time he’ll become accustomed to it, and that’ll be the end of the matter.’
For Prinzel there was one consolation. Von Igelfeld no longer talked about his sporting prowess, and whenever references were made by others to such matters as fencing, or even noses, von Igelfeld immediately changed the subject.
drei
Early Irish Pornography
In the final years of his doctoral studies it had been von Igelfeld’s dream to be invited to serve as assistant to one of the world’s greatest authorities on Early Irish. This language, so complicated and arcane that there was considerable doubt as to whether anyone ever actually spoke it, had attracted the attention of German philologists from the late-nineteenth century onwards. The great Professor Siegfried Ehrenwalt of Berlin, founder of the Review of Celtic Philology, had devoted his life to the reconstruction of the syntactical rules of the language, and he had been followed by a long line of philologists, the latest of whom was Professor Dr Dr Dr Dieter Vogelsang. It was with Vogelsang that von Igelfeld wished to work, and when the call at last came, he was overjoyed.
‘I couldn’t have hoped for a better start to my career,’ he confided in Prinzel. ‘Vogelsang knows more about past anterior verbs in Early Irish than anybody else in the world.’
‘More than anyone in Ireland?’ asked Prinzel dubiously. ‘Surely they have their own institutes in Dublin?’
Von Igelfeld shook his head. ‘Nobody in Ireland knows anything about
Early Irish. This is a well-established fact.’
Prinzel was not convinced, but did not allow his doubt to diminish his friend’s delight in his first post. He himself was still waiting. He had written to several institutes in Germany and Switzerland, but had received few encouraging replies. He could continue to study, of course, and complete another doctorate after the one on which he was currently engaged, but there would come a point at which without an assistantship he would seriously have to reconsider his academic career.
The post as assistant to Professor Dr Vogelsang involved a move to Munich. Von Igelfeld acquired lodgings in the house of Frau Elvira Hugendubel, the widow of the retired lawyer and dachshund breeder, Aloys Hugendubel. Dr Hugendubel had been the author of Einführung in die Grundlagen des Bayerischen Bienenrechtes, and Frau Hugendubel felt, as a result, that she was a part of the greater intellectual life. The presence of an academic lodger provided reassurance of this, as well as providing the widow with something to do.
Von Igelfeld settled happily into his new life. Each morning he would walk the three miles to Vogelsang’s institute, arriving at exactly nine-fifteen and leaving in the evening at six o’clock. The hours in between were spent checking Vogelsang’s references, searching out articles in the dustier corners of the library, and preparing tables of adjectives. It was the lowest form of work in the academic hierarchy, made all the more difficult by the tendency of Professor Vogelsang to publish papers based almost entirely on von Igelfeld’s work, but under the Vogelsang name and with no mention made of von Igelfeld’s contribution. In one case – which eventually prompted von Igelfeld to protest (in the gentlest, most indirect terms) – Vogelsang took a paper which von Igelfeld asked him to read and immediately published it under his own name. So brazen was this conduct that von Igelfeld felt moved to draw his superior’s attention to the fact that he had been hoping to submit the paper to a learned journal himself.
The 2 12 Pillars of Wisdom Page 2
