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 injunction had been honoured.
Von Igelfeld found himself seated next to Dr C. A. D. Wood, who had Dr Hall at her other side. Plank was placed between Matthew Gurewitsch and the Senior Tutor.
Sipping at his coffee, von Igelfeld glanced at Dr C. A. D. Wood. She had no coffee cup in her hand, and was staring down at the floor, as if trying to read some message in the carpet. After a moment or two, she turned to Dr Hall, who had been staring miserably at the ceiling.
‘I cannot proceed,’ said Dr C. A. D. Wood suddenly, turning to von Igelfeld as she spoke. ‘After those words of the Master’s, I cannot continue with our plan. I am grievously sorry, Professor von Igelfeld. I misled you this afternoon. What I said about Plank was not true. There was no plan to cancel Mr Gurewitsch’s lecture. He would never have done that. He is a good man, and I have been seduced, yes seduced, by my personal ambition, into misrepresenting his intentions. I can only ask your forgiveness.’
Von Igelfeld listened intently to this confession. He, too, had been greatly affected by the Master’s address, but it had never occurred to him that Dr C. A. D. Wood and Dr Hall would have been the centre of such a perfidious plot.
Dr Hall now spoke, turning to von Igelfeld and fixing him with a mournful stare. ‘What she says is correct,’ he said. ‘We have behaved very badly. Along with others, who I hope are feeling just as bad as we are. I am only sorry that it has taken a Road to Damascus to reveal to us just how wicked we have been.’
Von Igelfeld reached forward and placed his coffee cup on the table before him. ‘And I have behaved badly too,’ he said. ‘I too have been obliged to consider my own actions.’
‘Oh?’ said Dr C. A. D. Wood. ‘What did you do? Was it something to do with Plank?’
‘No,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘But it was to do with Mr Gurewitsch.’ He paused, plucking up his courage. ‘I told him that there was no bathroom on our stair. I told him that he would have to cross the Court. And that was all because I didn’t want another person sharing the bathroom with Professor Waterfield and myself. I did not actually lie, but I as good as lied.’
Dr Hall shook his head. ‘That’s the problem with these old buildings,’ he said. ‘There just aren’t enough bathrooms.’
‘Well, that may be so,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘But it doesn’t excuse my action. I shall have to tell him immediately after coffee.’
‘And we shall tell the others that there will be no emergency meeting called tomorrow,’ said Dr C. A. D. Wood. ‘And I shall say something decent to Plank.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Dr Hall. ‘I propose to go straight over to him, right now, and tell him that I think that he’s doing a very good job as Chairman of the Council.’
‘That will please him,’ said Dr C. A. D. Wood. ‘Nobody’s ever said anything like that to him before. Poor Haughland (voce, Plank).’
At the end of coffee, as the Fellows broke up for the evening, von Igelfeld made his way over to join Matthew Gurewitsch, who was examining one of the College portraits, a picture of a former Master, who had been beheaded under Cromwell.
‘Mr Gurewitsch,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I owe you an apology. I omitted to tell you that there was a bathroom at the top of the stairs and that you could use it.’
It was not an easy confession for von Igelfeld to make, but at least it was quick in the making.
‘Oh that,’ said Matthew Gurewitsch. ‘Yes, don’t worry. I found it. I’ve been using it all along. Do you use it as well?’ he paused. ‘In fact, I must confess I’ve been feeling rather guilty about it. I wondered if I should be telling others about it.’
Von Igelfeld laughed. ‘That makes it easier for me,’ he said.
They walked across the Court together. The atmosphere in the College seemed lighter now, as if a cloud of some sort had been dispelled.