At this remark, the Master turned sharply to Dr C. A. D. Wood and glared at her. ‘I cannot imagine that Professor von Igelfeld is interested in such matters,’ he hissed at her. ‘For heaven’s sake! He only arrived today, poor man!’
‘I am most interested,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘You see, there are disagreements amongst philologists. Different views are taken. It seems that this is the case in all disciplines, even something as hard and fast as mathematics.’
‘Hard and fast!’ burst out Dr C. A. D. Wood. ‘My dear Professor von Igelfeld, if you believe that matters are hard and fast in the world of mathematics, then you are sorely deluded.’
‘I think Byzantine politics were harder and faster than mathematics,’ sighed the Master. ‘Or so it seems to me.’
‘You know very little about it, Maestro,’ said Dr C. A. D. Wood to the Master. ‘You stick to whatever it is you do, old bean. Moral philosophy?’
Von Igelfeld felt uncomfortable. What had started as an innocent conversation – small talk really – had suddenly become charged with passion. It was difficult to make out what was going on – that problem with English obscurity again – and it was not clear to him why Dr C. A. D. Wood had addressed the Master as old bean. No doubt he would find out more about that, when Dr C. A. D. Wood had the opportunity to talk to him in private. In the meantime, he would have to concentrate on talking to the Master, who appeared to be becoming increasingly distressed. Dr C. A. D. Wood, he noticed, had drifted off to talk to Mr Wilkinson, who was looking steadfastly at his shoes while she addressed him.
‘I am very comfortable in my rooms,’ he said to the Master. ‘I am very happy with that view of the Court. I shall be able to observe the comings and goings in the College, just by sitting at my window.’
‘Oh,’ said the Master. ‘You will see everything then. The whole thing laid bare. Anaesthetised like a patient on the table, as Eliot so pithily said of the morning, or was it the evening, fussy pedant that he was. How awful. How frankly awful.’
‘But why should it be awful?’ asked von Igelfeld. ‘What is awful about the life of the College?’
He realised immediately that he should not have asked the question, as the Master had seized his sleeve and was muttering, almost into his ear. ‘They’re the end, the utter end. All of them, or virtually all of them. That Dr C. A. D. Wood, for example, don’t trust her for a moment. That’s my only warning to you. Just don’t trust her. And be very careful when they try to involve you in their scheming. Just be very careful.’
‘I cannot imagine why they should wish to involve me in their scheming,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I am merely a visitor.’
The Master gave a short chuckle. ‘Visitors have a vote in this College,’ he said. ‘It’s been in the statutes since 1465. Visiting Professors have a vote in the College Council. They’ll want you to vote with them in whatever it is they’re planning. And they’re always planning something.’
‘Who are they?’ asked von Igelfeld. Was it the same they whom the Master had accused of persecuting him? Or was there more than one group of theys?
‘You’ll find out,’ said the Master. ‘Just you wait.’
Von Igelfeld looked into his sherry glass. There were those who said that the world of German academia was one of constant bickering. This, of course, was plainly not true, but if they could get a glimpse, just a glimpse, of Cambridge they would have something to talk about. And this was even before anybody had sat down for dinner. What would it be like once dinner was served or, and this was an even more alarming thing, over Stilton and coffee afterwards? And all the time he would have to be careful to navigate his way through these shoals of allusion and concealed meaning. Of course he would be able to do it – there could be no doubt about that – but it was not exactly what he had been looking forward to after a long and trying day. Oh to be back in Germany, with Prinzel and Frau Prinzel, sitting in their back garden drinking coffee and talking about the safe and utterly predictable affairs of the Institute. What a comfortable existence that had been, and to think that it would be four months, a full four months, before he could return to Regensburg and the proper, German way of doing things.
Shortly before they were due to go through for dinner, the Senior Common Room suddenly filled up with people, all wearing, as were von Igelfeld and the other Fellows, black academic gowns. At a signal from the Master, the entire company then processed through a narrow, panelled corridor and into the Great Hall which lay beyond. There, standing at their tables in the body of the Hall, were the undergraduates, all similarly gowned and respectfully waiting for the Master and Fellows to take their seats at the High Table.
The Hall was a magnificent room, dominated at the far end by an immense portrait of a man in black velvet pantaloons and with a bird of prey of some sort, a falcon perhaps, perched on his arm. Behind him, an idealised landscape was framed by coats of arms.
‘Our founder,’ explained the Master to von Igelfeld. ‘William de Courcey. A splendid man who gave half of his fortune for the foundation of the College. He was later beheaded. So sad. I suspect that he was very charming company, when he still had his head. But then life in those days was so uncertain. One moment you were in favour and then the next you were de trop. His head, apparently, is buried in the Fellows’ Garden. I have no idea where, but there is a particularly luxuriant wisteria bush which is said to be very old and I suspect that it might be under that. Possibly best not to know for certain.’
‘You might erect a small plaque if you found the spot,’ suggested von Igelfeld, as they took their seats at the High Table.
‘Good heavens no!’ said the Master, apparently shocked at the notion. ‘Can you imagine how the Fellows would fight over the wording? Can’t you just picture it? It’s the last thing we’d do.’
Von Igelfeld was silent. It was impossible to discuss anything with the Master, he had decided; any attempt he made at conversation merely led to further diatribes against the Fellowship and, eventually, to tears. He would have to restrict himself to completely innocuous matters in any exchanges with the Master: the weather, perhaps; the English loved to talk about the weather, he had heard.
The Master, as was proper, sat at the head of the table, while von Igelfeld, as senior guest, occupied the place which had been reserved for such guests since the days of Charles II – the fourth seat down on the right, counting from the second seat after the Master’s. On his left, again by immemorial custom, sat the Senior Tutor, and on his right, a small, bright-eyed man with an unruly mop of dark hair, Professor Prentice. On the other side of the table, directly opposite von Igelfeld, was Dr C. A. D. Wood, who was smiling broadly and who seemed to have quite got over their earlier conversation. She was flanked by Mr Wilkinson and by a person whom von Igelfeld realised he had seen before. But where? Had he met him in the Court, or had he seen him in the Library on his visit early that afternoon? He puzzled over this for a moment, and then the person in question moved his head slightly and von Igelfeld gained a better view of his features. It was the Porter.
Von Igelfeld drew in his breath. Was the Porter entitled to have dinner at High Table? Such a thing would never have happened in Germany. Herr Bomberg, who acted as concierge and general factotum at the Institute, always knocked three times before he came into the coffee room with a message and would never have dreamed of so much as sitting down, even if he were to be invited to do so. And yet here was the College Porter, breaking his bread roll on to his plate and engaging in earnest conversation with Dr C. A. D. Wood.
Von Igelfeld turned discreetly to the Senior Tutor. ‘That person on Dr C. A. D. Wood’s right,’ he said. ‘I have seen him somewhere before, I believe. Could you refresh my memory and tell me who he is?’