At the Villa of Reduced Circumstances

by Alexander McCall Smith

  ‘But what do I do?’ asked Mr Gurewitsch.

  ‘There’s a bathroom over on the other side of the Court,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘It’s attached to the Senior Common Room. I think that you will have to use that one.’

  ‘You don’t have one upstairs?’ asked Matthew Gurewitsch hopefully.

  Von Igelfeld was silent for a moment. If he told this new visitor about the bathroom that he shared with Professor Waterfield, then that would mean that there would be three people sharing, rather than two. Two was bad enough, of course – look what had happened that morning – but if there were three people using the one bathroom, that would be even worse. It did not matter that Mr Matthew Gurewitsch appeared to be an extremely agreeable man, it was purely a question of practicality. The bathroom issue was a problem which the College should face, and it was not up to visitors like von Igelfeld to have to shoulder the responsibility of everyone’s bathroom needs. No, that would be to expect too much. He had no locus standi in bathroom matters in Cambridge and there was no moral obligation on his part to draw the attention of others to the existence of such bathroom facilities as there were.

  At the same time, it was clear to von Igelfeld that he could not tell a lie. The motto of the von Igelfeld family was Truth Always, and he could not ignore this. It was true that he had deviated from it in that unfortunate encounter with Dr Max Augustus Hubertoffel, the psychoanalyst, but he had dealt with the moral sequelae of that lapse in as honourable a way as he could. But the incident had reminded him of the need for strict truthfulness. So his words would have to be chosen carefully, and here they were, forming themselves with no particular effort on his part: ‘I do not have a bathroom in my rooms,’ he said.

  Although quite spontaneous, the words were well-chosen. It was indeed true that von Igelfeld did not have a bathroom in his rooms. There was a bathroom in the vicinity – on the landing to be precise – but this did not belong to von Igelfeld and therefore the precise terms of Matthew Gurewitsch’s question did not require it to be disclosed. He felt sorry for Matthew Gurewitsch, and for the many others like him in Cambridge who presumably had no bathroom, and this prompted him to invite the new visitor to join him for coffee in the Senior Common Room.

  ‘I could introduce you to some of the Fellows,’ he said expansively. ‘Dr C. A. D. Wood, Mr Wilkinson . . . ’ He tailed off. Perhaps it was not a good idea. Poor Matthew Gurewitsch, no doubt exhausted after his journey, would hardly wish to be plunged into the unfathomable intrigues of mathematicians. ‘Or we could talk just by ourselves,’ he added. ‘That might be better.’

  Matthew Gurewitsch was happy to do either, and after he had found a place for his suitcase on a rather rickety table near the window, he and von Igelfeld made their way across the Court towards the Senior Common Room. Their conversation as they walked was easy, and von Igelfeld felt delighted that he should have made the acquaintance of this interesting man before people like Dr Hall, Dr C. A. D. Wood and the Senior Tutor could buttonhole him and effectively put him off Cambridge forever. Here was a man who really knew about his subject, and von Igelfeld revelled in the snippets of information – inside information – which studded his conversation. Had von Igelfeld seen the La Scala production of Il Trovatore last season? No? Well, did he know that the conductor had caused an uproar by playing the tenor’s showstopper in the original key of C, rather than down half a step (anglice, tone) as is usually done so that tenors can more safely interpolate a climactic high note that Verdi never wrote? ‘Of course,’ Matthew Gurewitsch added, ‘the inauthentic high note was omitted, too. That’s what Italian musicologists call philology.’

  Von Igelfeld expressed surprise, and remarked that in future one would have to watch that roles of counter-tenors were not taken down for the convenience of basses. Or even the Queen of the Night could be transcribed for basso profondo, thus removing all those troublesome moments for sopranos. Would that not make it easier? Matthew Gurewitsch had laughed.

  ‘Everything is possible in opera these days,’ he said. ‘That is what I wish to talk about in my lecture. I want to look at what has happened to Trovatore recently. I want to issue a warning.’

  ‘That is very wise,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘People must be warned.’

  They entered the Senior Common Room, to find six or seven dons sitting in the various chairs which dotted the room. Dr C. A. D. Wood was present, and waved in a friendly fashion to von Igelfeld, and Dr Hall, who had decided against lunch in the refectory in favour of Stilton and biscuits in the Common Room, was sitting at a small table by himself, lost in quiet contentment.

  Von Igelfeld took Matthew Gurewitsch over to Dr C. A. D. Wood and introduced them. She, in turn, made introductions to a rather mild-looking man who was sitting beside her, but who had stood up when the guests came to join them.

  ‘This is Dr Plank,’ she said.

  Plank shook hands with von Igelfeld and then with Matthew Gurewitsch.

  ‘I should warn you that you will not find Dr Plank’s name in any College lists should you try to look for it,’ remarked Dr C. A. D. Wood. ‘And that is not because he is not a member of the College.’

  This Delphic remark caused von Igelfeld to turn and look at Dr Plank, who had now sat down and had folded his hands over his stomach in a relaxed way. If this man were in disgrace of some sort, and had been excluded from the lists, then it did not appear to distress him. This was very strange, and there was something in Dr C. A. D. Wood’s voice, an edge perhaps, which gave von Igelfeld the impression that she did not like Plank and was only sitting next to him on sufferance.

  For a few moments, nothing was said. Matthew Gurewitsch glanced at Plank and then at von Igelfeld. Then he looked at Dr C. A. D. Wood. Dr C. A. D. Wood looked at Matthew Gurewitsch, and then at von Igelfeld. She did not look at Plank. Plank looked down at his shoes, and then across the room at Dr Hall, who looked back at him for a moment and then transferred his gaze to his Stilton.

  Then Plank spoke. ‘The reason why there’s no Plank in the lists is not because there’s no Plank – there is – but because Plank is not spelled Plank. That is why.’

  Von Igelfeld looked puzzled. This was another English idiosyncrasy. How many ways were there of spelling Plank? Planc? Planque?

  Plank appeared to be enjoying the guests’ confusion. ‘You may be aware,’ he said, ‘that there are various English surnames which are spelled and pronounced in quite different ways. One of the best-known examples is Featherstonehaugh, which is pronounced Fanshawe. Then there is Cholmondeley, which is simply pronounced Chumley, and of course anybody called Beauchamp is usually Beecham.’

  Von Igelfeld nodded. ‘I have noticed that,’ he said. ‘There was a Professor Chumley at a conference once and he pointed out that the spelling of his name was rather different. That would not happen in Germany.’

  ‘No,’ said Plank. ‘I gather that German is spelled as you pronounce it. Curious, but there we are.’

  ‘So how do you spell Plank?’ asked Matthew Gurewitsch.

  ‘Haughland,’ said Plank.

  Von Igelfeld could not conceal his astonishment. ‘Haughland?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Haughland (voce, Plank). ‘It’s an old family from the eastern fens somewhere. Virtually in the water.’

  ‘But your humour remained dry,’ observed Matthew Gurewitsch.

  This remark brought silence, which was only broken when Dr C. A. D. Wood rose to her feet to leave.

  ‘I have to go, Plank,’ she said curtly. And then, more genially: ‘Good afternoon, Professor von Igelfeld. Good afternoon, Mr Gurewitsch. I look forward to seeing you at dinner.’

  That afternoon, von Igelfeld spent several very rewarding hours with the Hughes-Davitt Bequest before returning to his rooms to write a letter to Prinzel.

  ‘This is an extraordinary place,’ he wrote. ‘Nothing is as it seems. However, I am immensely pleased with the Library and with the Hughes-Davitt Bequest, which has some first-rate material, wasted in this country,
if you ask me; it would be far better looked after in Germany. However, at least I can put it into some sort of order and I shall eventually publish a paper on it. So my time here will be well-spent.

  ‘However, there is the issue of my colleagues. So far I have not met one, not one, who would survive in a proper German academic institution, apart from the other visitor at the moment, Mr Matthew Gurewitsch from New York. He is very well-informed and has a fund of information about operatic matters. I fear that he may not be properly appreciated here, but we shall see what sort of response he gets to his lecture at the beginning of next week. Poor man! The mathematicians and the like who live in the College are unlikely to understand what he has to say; for the most part their minds are taken up with mathematical disputes and with plotting against one another. This has made the Master a nervous wreck, and indeed he is close to tears most of the time.

  ‘How I long to be back in Germany, where everything is so solid and dependable. How I long to be back in the Institute common room, exchanging views with my colleagues. I am even missing Unterholzer, although I cannot quite bring myself to write to him yet. Perhaps next week. Please make sure, by the way, that he does not try to take my room while I am away. I know that he would like to do this, as he has done it in the past. I am counting on you to see that it does not happen.

  ‘In this pallid land, then, I remain, Your friend eternally, Moritz-Maria von Igelfeld.’

  He posted the letter in the College post-box, and then, it being a pleasant evening, he went for a stroll through the Fellows’ Garden and out along the river. The Fellows’ Garden was peaceful, in a way that only an English garden can be peaceful, and even the thought of de Courcey’s detached skull did not disturb the feeling of rus in urbe which the garden encouraged. He found the giant wisteria bush which the Master had mentioned, and he found, too, a magnificent fuchsia hedge which ran along the southern boundary of the garden. There were benches, too, carved stone benches on which weary Fellows might sit and enjoy the flowers and shrubs, and it was on one of these that von Igelfeld was seated when he heard footsteps on the gravel behind him. He turned round, jolted out of a pleasant reverie in which he was back in Italy, in Tuscany, with the smell of lavender and rosemary on the breeze. Dr C. A. D. Wood and Dr Hall were bearing down upon him along the small path that cut through the lavender beds.

  ‘Ah, there you are Professor von Igelfeld,’ said Dr C. A. D. Wood. ‘Hall and I were hoping to find you. Dr Porter said that he had seen you through his binoculars – he likes to watch the garden, you know. Nothing better to do, I suppose.’

  The two Fellows joined him on his bench. As they sat down, the bench tilted slightly in the direction of Dr Hall, and von Igelfeld had to move over quickly towards Dr C. A. D. Wood in order to stop the entire party being tipped over.

  ‘You have a beautiful garden,’ said von Igelfeld conversationally.

  ‘Yes,’ said Dr Hall. ‘And I find it best at this time of year – very early autumn, even if the colour is diminishing somewhat.’

  ‘It’s a good place to talk,’ said Dr C. A. D. Wood. ‘There’s no chance of the Master interrupting one’s conversation. He suffers from hay fever, and so this is the place where we go when we need to talk about anything important.’

  ‘I would not wish to prevent you,’ said von Igelfeld, beginning to rise to his feet.

  Dr C. A. D. Wood pulled him back on to the bench. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Please don’t go. We actually wanted to talk to you, didn’t we, Hall?’

  Dr Hall nodded. ‘That’s why we came out here. We wanted to have a quiet word with you.’

  Von Igelfeld said nothing. Was this the plotting which the Master had warned him about?

  ‘It’s about the Augusta lecture,’ said Dr C. A. D. Wood. ‘The opera lecture.’

  ‘I am looking forward to it immensely,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Mr Matthew Gurewitsch has some very interesting ideas. I suspect that he will be controversial.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Dr C. A. D. Wood quickly. ‘He was a good choice. That’s why I hope that he has the chance to deliver his lecture.’

  Von Igelfeld was confused. Why should there be any question about that? Mr Matthew Gurewitsch had arrived safely from New York and was all prepared to deliver the lecture, which he had already discussed with von Igelfeld. He could not see why any difficulties should arise.

  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 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 Fellows 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.