The 2 12 Pillars of Wisdom

by Alexander McCall Smith

  ‘So you’re pleased?’ asked von Igelfeld lamely.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Unterholzer, beaming even more. ‘He kept trying to make me something I was not. I don’t like to be an assertive, gregarious person. That’s not my nature.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Well, I must say that I’m glad that I have been able to help you.’

  Unterholzer had sunk back in his chair and the smile had disappeared. ‘But I have something for which to apologise,’ he muttered. ‘I wrote a very spiteful piece about Portuguese Irregular Verbs. I did it because of my sausage dog, but now I really regret it. Did you see it?’

  ‘No,’ said von Igelfeld. Truth Always. ‘Well, perhaps I glanced at it. But it was nothing.’

  ‘I shall do all that lies in my power to correct it,’ said Unterholzer. ‘I can assure you of that.’

  ‘You are very kind, Herr Unterholzer,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Let us now put all this behind us and get on with the important work of the moment.’

  And that is exactly what happened. The life of the Institute returned to normal. In the next issue of the Zeitschrift there appeared a prominent piece by Unterholzer, entitled Further Thoughts on von Igelfeld’s Portuguese Irregular Verbs. It amounted to a complete recantation of the earlier piece, which was described as having been intended only to engender debate, written by one who had cast himself, unwillingly, in the role of Avocatus Diaboli.

  It was a thoroughly satisfactory outcome. Only the Librarian had appeared to regret how things had turned out.

  ‘Poor Herr Unterholzer seems to have lost his new drive,’ he commented to von Igelfeld. ‘I wonder why?’

  ‘No idea,’ began von Igelfeld, but then corrected himself. Truth Always. ‘At least I think I know, but these matters are confidential and I’m very sorry but I simply cannot tell you.’

  vier

  The Bones of Father Christmas

  Italy beckoned, and this was a call which Professor Moritz-Maria von Igelfeld always found very difficult to resist. He felt at home in Italy, especially in Siena, where he had once spent several idyllic months in the Istituto di Filologia Comparata. That was at the very time at which he was putting the finishing touches to his great work, and indeed many of the streets of that noble town were inextricably linked in his mind with insights he experienced during that creative period of his life. It had been walking along the Banco di Sopra, for example, that he had realised why it was that in Brazilian Portuguese there was a persistent desire to replace the imperative tense with the present indicative. Was it not linked with the tendency to confuse tu and voce, since the singular of the indicative had the same form as the imperative singular at least for the second person? It was: there could be no other explanation. And had he not rushed back to the Istituto, oblivious to the bemused stares of passers-by? Had he not stumbled briefly on the stairs as he mentally composed the paragraph which would encapsulate this insight, a stumble which had caused the prying concierge to whisper to his friend in the newsagent next door, ‘That German professor, the tall one, came back from lunch yesterday drunk! Yes, I saw it with my own eyes. Fell downstairs, at least two flights, head over heels.’

  And then there was the idea which had come to him one morning while he took a walk past the Monte di Paschi bank and had seen the bill-poster slapping a notice on the wall. The poster had been one of those announcements that the Italians like to put on walls; the death of a local baker’s mother. E morta! the poster had proclaimed in heavy, Bodoni type, and below that, simply, Mama! Von Igelfeld had stopped and read the still gluey text. How remarkable that private pain could be so publicly shared, which meant, of course, its dilution. For we are all members of one another, are we not, and the baker’s loss was the loss, in a tiny way, of all those fellow citizens who might know him only slightly, but who would have read his cry of sorrow. And like Proust’s tiny madeleine cakes dipped into tea, the sight of one of these posters could evoke in von Igelfeld’s mind the moment when, after passing on from that melan-choly sign, he had suddenly realised how the system of regular vocalic alternations had developed in the verb poder.

  But Siena was more for him than those heady days of composition; he cherished, too, a great affection for the Sienese hills. He liked to go to the hills in spring, when the air was laden with the scent of wild flowers. His good friend, Professor Roberto Guerini, was always pleased to entertain him on his small wine estate outside Montalcino, where von Igelfeld had become well known to the proprietors of surrounding estates and was much in demand at dinner parties in the region. One of these dinner parties was still talked about in Italy. That was the occasion when the current proprietor of the neighbouring estate, the Conte Vittorio Fantozzi, known locally as il Grasso (the fat one), had conducted a lengthy dinner-table conversation with von Igelfeld in which both participants spoke old Tuscan dialects now almost completely lost to all but a small band of linguistic enthusiasts. In recognition of his guest’s skill, the count had bottled a wine which he named after the distinguished visitor. The label showed a picture of a hedgehog in a field, an allusion to the literal translation of von Igelfeld’s name (hedgehog-field, in English, campo del porcospino in Italian). Thereafter, von Igelfeld was referred to in Sienese society as ‘our dear friend from Germany, il Professore Porcospino’.

  It would have been good to get back to Tuscany – perhaps even to Montalcino itself – but when the call arrived, it was of a rather different nature.

  ‘Florianus and I are going to Rome,’ said Ophelia Prinzel when she encountered von Igelfeld in the small park near his house. ‘Would you care to accompany us?’

  Von Igelfeld remembered with pleasure the trip to Venice which he had made with the Prinzels a few years earlier. It was true that the holiday had been cut short, when Prinzel discovered that he had been rendered slightly radioactive as a result of contact with polluted canal water, but that had soon been dealt with and was not allowed to place too much of a pall over the trip. Von Igelfeld might have been more pleased had the offer been to go to Venice again, or even to Naples or Palermo, but Rome in the agreeable company of his two old friends was still an attractive prospect, and he accepted readily.

  ‘As it happens,’ he said, ‘I have some work I’ve been meaning to do in Rome. I shall be able to spend the days in the Vatican Library and then devote the evenings to leisurely pursuits.’

  ‘So wise,’ said Ophelia. ‘A break is what you need. You push yourself too hard, Moritz-Maria. I’m quite happy to leave the Puccini project for weeks at a stretch.’

  Von Igelfeld was not surprised to hear this, and was tempted to say: That’s why you’ll never finish it, but did not. He had grave doubts whether Puccini’s correspondence would ever be published, at least in the lifetime of any of them, but loyalty to his friend forbade any comment.

  They set off at the end of April, winding their way down to the plains of Lombardy. They had decided to break the journey, spending a few days in Siena before making the final assault on Rome. From their hotel, perched on the top of the city walls, they had a fine view of the surrounding countryside and its warm, red buildings. Von Igelfeld sat on the terrace and gazed out over the terracottatiled rooftops down below him, reflecting on how everything in Italy seemed to be so utterly in harmony with its surroundings. Even the modern works of man, buildings which in any other country would be an imposition on the landscape, here in Italy seemed to have a grace and fluidity that moulded them into the natural flow and form of the countryside. And the people too – they occupied their surroundings as if they were meant to be there; unlike Germany, where everybody seemed to be . . . well, they seemed to be so cross for some reason or another.

  If life were different – if instead of being the author of Portuguese Irregular Verbs, with all that this entailed, he were a man of independent means, able to spend his time as he wished, then he could live in Italy, in some renovated Tuscan farmhouse. He would rise late, attend to his vines, and then take a leisurely dri
ve into the nearby village to buy his newspaper and collect his mail. Perhaps he would even get married and his wife keep him company and play Schubert on the piano for him in the evening. That would be heaven indeed, but there was no point in dreaming; he was the author of Portuguese Irregular Verbs, he had no house in Italy, and such domestic comfort as he enjoyed was at second hand, crumbs from the table of the Prinzels. If only Unterholzer had not stolen – yes, stolen – from him the charming dentist, Dr Lisbetta von Brautheim who should, if there were any justice, have married von Igelfeld himself. And now he had even overheard Unterholzer talking about buying a small house in Italy! What use would that be to him, thought von Igelfeld bitterly. How could Unterholzer even begin to understand the subtle pleasures of the Italian landscape? How could Unterholzer begin to savour the scent of thyme in dusty summer air, with that great big nose of his? More of a lump than a nose, really, if one came to think about it. If Unterholzer were ever to contemplate a scene of hills and cypresses, all he would be able to see would be his own nose, and perhaps a blur beyond it. Italy, with all its visual treats, would be utterly wasted on Unterholzer, who would do far better to stay in Germany, where people like that were somehow less conspicuous.

  But what could one expect? thought von Igelfeld. What could one really expect? There was nothing that could be done about Unterholzer. He should have been something else altogether. Perhaps the Burgermeister of a small town somewhere in Bavaria. Instead of which he had poked his large, unsuitable nose into philology, where it had no business to be. Really, it was most vexing.

  He sighed. It was not easy maintaining one’s position as the author of Portuguese Irregular Verbs. Not only was there Unterholzer (and all that tiresome business with his dog), but von Igelfeld also had to cope with the distinct unhelpfulness of the Librarian and with the unmitigated philistinism of his publishers. Then there was the awkward attitude of the university authorities, who recently had shown the temerity to ask him to deliver a series of lectures to undergraduate students. This had almost been the last straw for von Igelfeld, who had been obliged to remind them of just who he was. That had caused them to climb down, and the Rector had even sent a personal letter of apology, but von Igelfeld felt that the damage was done. If German professors could be asked to lecture, as if they were mere instructors, then the future of German scholarship looked perilous. He had heard that one of his colleagues had even been asked whether he proposed to write another book, when he had already written one some ten years previously! And the alarming thing was that people were taking this lying down and not protesting at the outrageous breach of academic freedom which it unquestionably was. What would Immanuel Kant have made of it? What would have happened if the University of Koenigsberg had asked Kant whether he proposed to write another Kritik der reinen Vernunft? Kant would have treated such a question with the contempt it deserved.

  It was the old problem of the poets and the legislators. The poets were not legislators, and the legislators were not poets. The wrong people were at the top, in positions where the people at the bottom might do very much better. Look at the sort of people who became Chancellor of Germany! Who were they? Von Igelfeld paused to address his own question. Who were they indeed? He had very little idea, but they were certainly very dull people, who were, on balance, best ignored. Sooner or later they went away, he found.

  ‘Oh dear!’ said von Igelfeld, out loud. ‘Il nostro mondo! Che tedio!’

  ‘My goodness,’ said a rich, rather plummy voice behind him. ‘What a sentiment!’

  Von Igelfeld turned sharply. Somebody had addressed him from behind.

  ‘My dear sir,’ said the man standing behind him. ‘I did not mean to make you start! It’s just that I, too, was admiring this view and reflecting on the state of the world, but was reaching an optimistic conclusion when you expressed yourself.’

  Von Igelfeld rose to his feet and bowed slightly to the stranger.

  ‘I am von Igelfeld,’ he said.

  The stranger smiled. ‘And I’m the Duke of Johannesburg,’ he said warmly, reaching out to shake hands.

  Von Igelfeld looked at the Duke. He was a tall man, seemingly in his mid-forties, almost as tall as von Igelfeld himself, but more heavily-built. He had a fine, aquiline nose, rather reddened, von Igelfeld noted, a large moustache, and a crop of dark hair, neatly brushed back in the manner of a ‘thirties dancing instructor. He was wearing a lightweight linen suit, but in place of a tie there was a red bandana tied loosely about his neck.

  They engaged in light talk about the view from the terrace. The Duke was not staying at the hotel, he explained. He had a house of his own several streets away, but unfortunately it had no terrace. So he sometimes came down to the hotel in the evenings to take an aperitif and look out over the hills.

  ‘So that’s why I’m here,’ he said simply.

  They discussed Siena. The Duke explained that he had been spending several months a year there for some time, pursuing his researches. Then, when von Igelfeld mentioned Professor Guerini, they discovered a mutual acquaintance. The Duke, it transpired, had also known Guerini for years and had visited his estate several times. This information broke the ice further, and by the time that the Duke had finished his martini von Igelfeld had been invited back to join the Duke for dinner.

  ‘Not a large party,’ said the Duke. ‘Just one or two people who are passing through and, of course, my research assistant.’

  Von Igelfeld was delighted to accept. He was pleased to hear about the research assistant, too, as this confirmed that the Duke himself was a serious scholar. All in all, it seemed a most agreeable prospect and, after the Duke had gone, he rushed off to inform the Prinzels that he would not be joining them for dinner in the hotel that night. As it happened, this suited his companions well. Ophelia Prinzel had a slight headache and was proposing to have an early night and the heat had destroyed Prinzel’s appetite. It was agreed that they would meet for breakfast and then spend the earlier part of the morning in the Cathedral Library, admiring the illuminated manuscripts before hordes of schoolchildren and parties of chattering Japanese tourists began to flock in. Von Igelfeld found Japanese tourists particularly trying. They were often fascinated by tall Germans, and he found it most disconcerting to be photographed by them. It was sobering to contemplate how many photograph albums in Tokyo or Kyoto contained his image, frozen in time, quite out of context, pored over and pointed out to interested relatives of the travellers. Why should they want to photograph him? Had they not seen a German professor before? It was another vexing thought, and so he put it out of his mind in favour of the contemplation of dinner at the Duke’s house and the warm prospect of edifying conversation and a good table. The Duke’s nose was a good portent. Its colour at the end suggested that a considerable quantity of fine Chianti had suffused upwards, by some process of osmosis. This implied the existence of a good cellar, and a generous hand. Let the Prinzels call room service and gnaw at some inedible little morsel; finer things were in store for him.

  The Duke’s house was in a narrow street off the Piazza del Risorgimento. An inconspicuous door led off the street into a courtyard dominated by a small fountain. Stunted fig trees grew in terracotta pots against the walls and a large black cat sat on a stone bench, grooming its fur. The cat looked up and stared at von Igelfeld for a moment or two before returning to its task.

  The main door of the house, on the other side of the courtyard, was ajar and von Igelfeld found no bell to ring. He entered somewhat cautiously, finding himself in a large, well-lit entrance hall. The floor, of black and white marble, was clearly an architectural reference to the famous striped cathedral tower which dominated the skyline a few winding streets away. On the walls, framed on either side by gilt sconces, were paintings of Tuscan scenes, one of a cypress-crossed hillside, another of a young man in the Renaissance style, a notary perhaps, seated at his desk before an open window. The window framed a hillside on which deer grazed and improbable birds strutted.


  A door opened at the other end of the hall and a young woman – of nineteen at the most, little more than a girl – emerged into the hall. It was a moment or two before she saw von Igelfeld, and when she did, she gave a start.

  She raised a hand to her mouth as if to stifle a gasp. Then she spoke, in foreign-accented but correct Italian. ‘You gave me a fright. I was not expecting to find anybody in here.’

  Von Igelfeld made a self-deprecating gesture.

  ‘There was no bell,’ he said apologetically. ‘I should have rung had I found a bell. I do not like to walk into the houses of other people without giving them notice.’

  The girl laughed. ‘Johannesburg doesn’t mind,’ she said. ‘All sorts of people walk in here. He’s always happy to see them.’

  ‘I am glad,’ said von Igelfeld. Then, after a short pause, he introduced himself and explained that he had been invited for dinner.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘So you are the German professor he met earlier today when he slipped out for his martini. He told me about you. He said you were very . . .’

  She broke off suddenly, the hand going to the mouth. Von Igelfeld frowned. Very what? he wondered.

  ‘Anyway,’ said the girl, quickly recovering her composure. ‘You must be wondering who I am. I am Beatrice. I’m the Duke’s research assistant.’

  Von Igelfeld had been wondering who she was and he was pleased that the research assistant was so refreshingly attractive. His research assistants had been uniformly plain and he had always envied colleagues who seemed to have assistants who were glamorous and vivacious. Indeed, he had once raised the matter with Prinzel, drawing attention to the strikingly beautiful young Russian recently recruited by Professor Vochsenkuhn. She had turned every head at the last Romance Philology Congress and had been utterly charming in spite of her linguistic limitations. She spoke only Russian, which von Igelfeld thought must have restricted her ability to conduct research in Romance philology, particularly since Professor Vochsenkuhn himself was not known to speak any Russian.