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 He was appalled at the prospect of Matthew Gurewitsch’s invitation being withdrawn, and he blushed for the shamelessness of his new colleagues.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.
Von Igelfeld was pleased to discover that at the Feast he was placed just two seats away from Mr Matthew Gurewitsch, and was able to join in the conversation that the opera writer was having with Mr Max Wilkinson, who had been seated between them. Mr Wilkinson, although a mere mathematician, proved to have a lively interest in opera and a knowledge that matched this interest. He quizzed Matthew Gurewitsch on the forthcoming production of the
‘You have to be careful,’ said Matthew Gurewitsch. ‘You reduce the Rhine to a birdbath, and is there room, realistically speaking, for the Rhine Maidens, if that happens?’
‘Exactly,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘And Valhalla too. What becomes of Valhalla?’
‘It could become a sort of dentist’s waiting room,’ said Matthew Gurewitsch. ‘No, you may laugh, but I have seen that happen. I saw a production once which made Valhalla just that. I shall spare the producer’s blushes by not telling you who he was. But can you imagine it?’
‘Why would the gods choose to live in a dentist’s waiting room?’ asked von Igelfeld.
There was a sudden silence at the table. This question had been asked during a lull in the conversation in other quarters, and it echoed loudly through the Great Hall. Even the undergraduates heard it, and paused, forks and spoons halfway to their mouths. Then, with no satisfactory answer forthcoming from the general company, the noisy hubbub of conversation resumed. Von Igelfeld noticed, however, that Dr C. A. D. Wood had shot a glance at Dr Hall, who had made a sign of some sort to her.
‘They wouldn’t,’ said Matthew Gurewitsch, looking up at the intricate hammer-beam ceiling. ‘It’s the desire for novel effect. But there should be limits.’ He paused, before adding: ‘There are other objections to miniaturisation. The size of some singers, for example.’
‘They cannot be made any smaller,’ observed Mr Wilkinson.
‘No,’ said Matthew Gurewitsch. ‘And there are always problems with size in opera. Mimi, for example, is rarely small and delicate. She is often sung by a lady who is very large and who, quite frankly,
‘Absolutely not,’ said von Igelfeld.
The conversation continued in this pleasant vein. Matthew Gurewitsch alluded to the interferences with
