Prinzel had laughed. ‘The reason why other people have attractive research assistants, Moritz-Maria, is because they don’t recruit them on academic ability. In fact, academic ability is probably the last criterion for selection.’
Von Igelfeld had found himself at a loss to understand.
‘But if they have no academic ability,’ he had objected, ‘why recruit them as research assistants?’
Again Prinzel had laughed.
‘Because research assistants often have talents which go beyond pure research,’ he had said. ‘That is widely known. They provide . . . inspiration for the professors who employ them. Inspiration is very important.’
Von Igelfeld was not convinced. ‘I still cannot see the justification,’ he had said. But Prinzel had merely shaken his head and changed the subject. Now here, clearly, was one of those attractive young research assistants who provided inspiration. Prinzel was evidently right.
Beatrice gestured towards the door from which she had emerged.
‘They’re in the salon,’ she said. ‘We should join them.’
She led von Igelfeld through a corridor and into a large room at the rear of the building. One of the walls was entirely covered with bookshelves; the others were hung with paintings of the sort von Igelfeld had already encountered in the hall. At the far end, standing before the gaping mouth of a high marble fireplace, stood the Duke, glass in hand; in a chair to his left sat a grey-bearded man dressed in the long black cassock of an Orthodox priest.
‘My dear Professor von Igelfeld,’ said the Duke, putting down his glass and advancing towards his guest. ‘You are most welcome to this house.’
Von Igelfeld bowed slightly to the Duke and then turned towards the priest, who had risen to his feet and had extended a ring-encrusted hand. For a moment von Igelfeld was uncertain whether he was expected to kiss one of the rings, but the gesture very quickly made itself apparent as a handshake.
‘And this,’ said the Duke genially. ‘This is my old friend, Angelos Evangelis, Patriarch of Alexandria and All Africa Down as Far as Somalia.’
Von Igelfeld shook hands with the Patriarch, who smiled and inclined his head slightly.
‘We are a very small party tonight,’ the Duke went on. ‘But, in a way, that is always preferable.’
‘Very much better,’ agreed von Igelfeld. ‘I cannot abide large parties.’
‘Then you should not come to this house too often,’ said Beatrice. ‘Johannesburg gives large parties every other night, more or less.’
Von Igelfeld felt a flush of embarrassment. He had been unwise to condemn large parties; it was obvious that somebody like the Duke of Johannesburg would entertain on a splendid scale.
‘Of course, I like large parties too,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s just that I can’t abide them when I’m in the mood for a small party. It all depends, you see.’
‘Of course,’ said the Duke. ‘I know in my bones when I get up whether it’s going to be a large party day or a small party day.’
As this conversation was unfolding, Beatrice had busied herself in obtaining a drink for von Igelfeld and in filling up the glasses of the Patriarch and the Duke. There was then a brief silence, during which the Patriarch stared at von Igelfeld and the Duke adjusted the blue cravat which he had donned for the evening.
In an attempt to stimulate conversation, von Igelfeld turned to the Patriarch and asked him where he lived.
The Patriarch looked at von Igelfeld with mournful eyes.
‘I live in many places,’ he said. ‘I live here. I live there. It is given to me to move a great deal. At present I am in Rome, but last year I was in Beirut. Where shall I be next year? That is uncertain. Perhaps you can tell me.’
‘Well,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I’m not sure . . .’ He tailed off.
‘I must explain that the Patriarch is currently afflicted with schisms,’ interjected the Duke. ‘He has been so afflicted for some years.’
Von Igelfeld was about to express his sympathy, but Beatrice now intervened.
‘The Patriarch is a very brave man,’ she said. ‘If I had schisms I would not know where to turn. Is there a cure?’
The Duke took a sip of his wine. He was smiling.
‘Dear Beatrice,’ he said. ‘Your question is so utterly pertinent, but, alas, one thousand years of Coptic history cannot be so easily resolved. I suggest, therefore, that we go to table. Signora Tagliatti has prepared some wild boar for us and my uncorked wines will rapidly lose their impact if we keep them waiting much longer. Shall we go through?’
In the Duke’s dining room, von Igelfeld sat flanked by Beatrice and the Patriarch, with the Duke, a beaming host, at the head of the table. The Duke spoke of his researches – an investigation of the concept of empathy in Hume and compassion in Schopenhauer.
‘Much the same thing, don’t you think?’ he asked von Igelfeld.
Von Igelfeld was not sure. He remembered reading that Hume believed that our minds vibrated in sympathy, and that this ability – to vibrate in unison with one another – was the origin of the ethical impulse. And Schopenhauer’s moral theory was about feeling, was it not; so perhaps they were one and the same phenomenon. But he could hardly pronounce on the matter with any authority, having not read Schopenhauer since boyhood, and he looked to Beatrice for support.
‘Schopenhauer!’ she murmured dreamily.
‘You must know a lot about him,’ encouraged von Igelfeld.
‘Hardly,’ she said.
Von Igelfeld was silent for a moment. Was it her role, then, merely to inspire? He looked at the Patriarch, who stared back at him with melancholy, rheumy eyes.
‘I have known many who have lacked compassion,’ the Patriarch said suddenly. ‘The pretender to the Bishopric of Khartoum, for example. And the Syrian Ordinary at Constantinople.’
‘Especially him,’ agreed the Duke.
Von Igelfeld was surprised at the bitterness with which the Patriarch spoke – a bitterness which seemed to find a ready echo in the Duke’s response.
‘Your schisms,’ von Igelfeld began. ‘They are clearly very deep. But what are they actually about?’
‘A variety of important matters,’ said the Duke. ‘For example, there is a serious dispute as to whether a saint’s halo goes out when he dies or whether it remains lit up.’
‘It does not go out,’ said the Patriarch, in the tone of one pronouncing on the self-evident.
‘Then there’s the question of miracles,’ went on the Duke. ‘There is a major schism on the issue of miracles. Are they possible? Does God choose to show himself through the miraculous? That sort of schism.’
‘But of course miracles exist,’ said Beatrice. ‘Miracles occur every day. We all know that. You yourself said that it was a miracle when you and I . . .’
The Duke cut her off, rather sharply, von Igelfeld thought.
‘Be that as it may,’ he said. ‘But it is not really the personal miracles that are at issue. It’s the miracles of ecclesiastical significance that are the real substance of the debate. The Miracle of the Holy House, for example. Did angels carry the Virgin Mary’s house all the way to Italy from the Holy Land, as is claimed?’
‘Of course they did,’ said the Patriarch. ‘No sensible person doubts that.’
Von Igelfeld looked down at his plate. Had five fish appeared on it at that moment, it seemed that nobody would have been in the slightest bit surprised. But, for his part, he had always found the story of the Holy House rather too far-fetched to believe. How would the house have withstood the flight, even in the care of angels? It seemed to him highly improbable.
Over breakfast the next morning, von Igelfeld reflected on the experiences of the evening. He had enjoyed himself at the Duke’s dinner party, but had come away moderately perplexed. Who was Beatrice, and why did she know so little about Schopenhauer? Who was the Patriarch, and who was behind the schisms which seemed to cause him such distress? If he were the Patriarch, then could he not uni
laterally put an end to schism simply by expelling schismatics? That is what von Igelfeld himself would have done. Unterholzer, after all, was a sort of schismatic, and von Igelfeld had found no difficulty in dealing with him decisively. Presumably patriarchs had at their disposal a variety of ecclesiastical remedies that put fear into the heart of any dissident. Inverted candles – snuffed out; that was the ritual which von Igelfeld associated with such matters and that would surely silence all but the most headstrong of rebels. And then there was the mystery of the Duke himself. Von Igelfeld did not purport to know anything about the non-German aristocracy – which he considered to be a pale imitation of its German equivalent – and he had never been aware of a Dukedom of Johannesburg. But the British were peculiar – it was well known – and they used extraordinary titles. Was there not a Scottish nobleman simply called The MacGregor, as if he were a whisky? And the Irish were not much better, when one came to think about it. There was a man who went under the title of The McGillicuddy of the Reeks, and somebody actually called the Green Knight. The Green Knight was now defunct, he had heard, which was not at all surprising. What were these people thinking of when they assumed these ridiculous names? At least in Germany people used simple territorial designations which let you know exactly where you stood.
The Duke appeared to be a man of substance. The house was in every respect suitable for aristocratic inhabitation, with its rich furnishings and its air of solid age. But there had been one very peculiar experience which had made von Igelfeld wonder whether all was how it seemed. As he was leaving, he had passed too close to one of the paintings in the hall and had tilted it slightly. He had stopped to straighten the heavy gilt frame, and as he had done so his finger had inadvertently come into contact with the canvas. It was a painting of a sixteenth-century papal coronation, presumably by an artist of the time, and von Igelfeld had touched the lower corner, which showed a crowd amassed outside the gates of the Vatican. This was unexceptional, but what was quite astonishing was the fact that the paint had not quite dried! He had been too surprised to investigate further and anyway the Duke of Johannesburg had appeared at this point and it would have been rude to be seen testing the dryness of one’s host’s oil paintings. Indeed it would be tantamount to a suggestion of nouvelle arrivisme.
The German party breakfasted together on the terrace. Ophelia Prinzel had quite recovered from her headache and was looking forward to a day of wandering about Siena. Prinzel himself had acquired an appetite overnight and tucked into three large almond rolls with apparent gusto, washing them down with at least four cups of steaming milky coffee.
‘Wonderful!’ Prinzel exclaimed at the end of breakfast. ‘Now to the Cathedral before the hordes arrive. Then a browse in the antique shops followed by lunch and a long siesta. What a marvellous day lies ahead of us!’
They walked together to the Cathedral, which had just opened its doors for the day. A taciturn attendant admitted them to the Cathedral Library, where the great illuminated manuscripts lay in their glass cases, displaying their medieval delights to the eyes of moderns, most of whom were now as virtually incapable of using a pen as was the profanum vulgus of those distant years. Von Igelfeld concentrated on the finer points of medieval Latin grammar as displayed in the text, while Prinzel and Ophelia discussed the use of colour in the elaborately ornamented capitals or on the bestiary upon which the monks based their parables.
‘Look,’ said Ophelia, pointing at a page of intricately illuminated text. ‘A hedgehog. Moritz-Maria, come and look at this hedgehog.’
Von Igelfeld crossed the room. His family crest contained a hedgehog, as one might expect, and he always felt a tug of affection towards hedgehogs in all their manifestations. It was a noble creature, he thought, every bit as impressive as more conventional heraldic creatures, such as the eagle. Germany, it was true, used the eagle as its symbol, but von Igelfeld had often thought that a hedgehog would be more suitable. It was not impossible to imagine the Prussian flag with a hedgehog rampant rather than its severe eagle.
‘Dear little hedgehog,’ said Ophelia, pointing at the tiny creature monastically caught in a scurry across the bottom of a page of the Psalms. ‘Look how timid he is. Minding nobody’s business but his own. Compare him with that boastful unicorn.’
‘The hedgehog is not timid,’ said von Igelfeld sharply. ‘In iconography, I must point out, he represents sagacity.’
‘No,’ said Prinzel. ‘That’s the owl.’
‘Not only the owl, Herr Prinzel,’ snapped von Igelfeld. ‘The hedgehog has always been admired for its wisdom. You will be familiar, I assume, with what Pliny the Elder thought about hedgehogs? Or what the Physiologus says of their virtues?’
‘This hedgehog doesn’t look very wise,’ said Ophelia. ‘Perhaps the monk used as his model a hedgehog which happened not to be very bright. Aristotle made the same mistake about moles when he said that all moles were blind. It’s just that the mole he examined was blind.’
Prinzel now joined in. ‘And then there’s St Basil,’ he said. ‘Did he not say that hedgehogs were unclean?’
Von Igelfeld glared at his friends. He had not come to this holy and learned place to be insulted, and he thought it best to withdraw to the other side of the room and leave the Prinzels to engage in whatever misguided discussion of symbolism they wished. He had found an interesting example of the ablative absolute in the transcription of a psalm and he wished to ponder it further.
It was while he was studying this text that the doors suddenly opened and the attendant wearily admitted a large group of Japanese visitors. There was a collective intake of breath as they saw the painted ceiling. Several dozen cameras were immediately produced and flashes of light followed hard upon one another. Then the leader of the group gave a cry when he noticed von Igelfeld and called out some command in Japanese. This was the signal for a large group, cameras at the ready, to advance upon von Igelfeld.
‘Tall sir,’ said the leader as he approached. ‘Be so kind as to stand with me in this photograph.’
Without waiting for an answer, the leader positioned himself next to von Igelfeld and looked up at him in admiration.
‘You would be a living monument in Japan,’ he said politely. ‘Japanese people like very tall people and very tall trees.’
Von Igelfeld stood tight-lipped as the photographs were taken. Really, the whole morning was proving to be quite insupportable. Firstly there had been the tactlessness of the Prinzels, and now there was this Japanese imposition. It was all too much, and as soon as the Japanese had departed he announced to the Prinzels that he had decided to leave and that he would meet them at lunch. It transpired that they, too, were beginning to find the library oppressive and would welcome some fresh air. So the German party left and soon found itself seated in a pleasant pavement café, with the soft morning sun warm upon their brows and the flags waving in a balmy breeze. There was no more talk of hedgehogs and von Igelfeld decided that he would over-look the earlier, ill-advised remarks of his friends. One did not come to Italy to argue; one came to Italy to allow the soul to bask in the sheer beauty of art and its ennobling possibilities.
Von Igelfeld enjoyed his siesta that day. It had been an exhausting morning in one way or another, and when they returned to the hotel after lunch he felt disinclined to do anything but sleep. He woke up shortly after four and read for three hours or so before venturing out for a short walk. He was due to meet the Prinzels for dinner at eight, in a restaurant which had been recommended to them by the hotel manager, and he decided to spend the hour until then wandering about the back alleys of the town. This was a time when people were quite lively, preparing for their evening meal, gossiping with one another, performing the final chores of the day.
He was walking up a narrow street – too narrow for cars, but wide enough for the occasional hurtling moped – when he felt a tug at his sleeve. He turned round sharply and saw the Patriarch standing behind him. ‘Professor von Igelfeld,’ said the priest.
‘I hoped that it was you.’
Von Igelfeld greeted him courteously. Was he enjoying the evening? he asked. And how was the Duke? Had he seen him?
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said the Patriarch quickly. ‘Wonderful evening. The Duke is in good spirits. I saw him this morning.’
Von Igelfeld waited for something more to be said, but the Patriarch merely looked over his shoulder furtively. Then he turned round and tugged at von Igelfeld’s sleeve again.
‘Could we please talk for a moment?’ he asked. ‘There is a little courtyard here on the right. It is always deserted.’
Intrigued, von Igelfeld followed as the Patriarch led him into the dusty, disused courtyard. The Patriarch still seemed anxious and only when they had crossed to the farther side of the courtyard did he begin to talk.
‘Professor von Igelfeld,’ he began. ‘I should like to ask a favour of you. I need your help. Indeed, the whole Church needs your help.’
For a moment, von Igelfeld was at a loss as to what to say. ‘But I don’t see how I can help the Church . . .’
The Patriarch brushed aside the objection. ‘You can help in a way which is small, but which is also big. Small and big.’
The Patriarch had something tucked under his cassock, which he now took out and held before him. Von Igelfeld saw a small, candy-striped box, with a domed-top, the corners of which were lined with brass fittings.
‘This reliquary,’ said the Patriarch, ‘contains relics of the very greatest significance for the Church. Inside this box there rest the bones of St Nicholas of Myra. They are the object of the most particular reverence in the Coptic Church.’
Von Igelfeld looked at the box in astonishment. He knew that St Nicholas, the bishop of Myra in Turkey in the fourth century, was the original model for none other than the Saint Nicholas, or Santa Claus, of popular legend. These, then, were the bones of Father Christmas.