‘And what comes down,’ he continued, ‘often does so rather faster than it goes up!’
This brought more laughter from the students, with one or two, he noticed, nudging one another. He inclined his head, acknowledging the appreciation of his humour, and then handed over to the cook, who wanted to say something about arrangements for picnic lunches, which could be ordered each morning from the kitchen.
After this, a glass of mulled wine was offered to students and staff alike, and von Igelfeld went round the room meeting the students. Although he selected them himself from the application forms presented to him by the trust administration, he tried to be as even-handed as possible, not favouring his own field, philology, above the claims of other humanities. So there were several classicists, a literary psychologist, historians and even a couple of artists. And there were men and women, with a slight bias this year in favour of men, although the opposite had been the case the previous year. Most were in their early twenties, which was compatible with the trust philosophy of helping those still engaged in full-time education and needing help at this tender stage of their academic careers; a few, though, were mature students in their thirties.
While circulating, von Igelfeld noticed that the students seemed to be mixing very well with one another. This did not surprise him, as reading groups usually spawned firm friendships that lasted beyond the week in the mountains, but that evening the atmosphere seemed to be particularly warm. In one corner of the room, a small group of students appeared to be getting on especially well, with shrieks of laughter and jovial patting of backs. He smiled at this: oh, to be twenty again! Oh, to be part again of a band of carefree brothers!
He turned to two young men who were standing near a window, looking out at the soaring mountain peaks beyond the glass. They introduced themselves politely: both, as it happened, were called Hans, and both were students of medieval French literature, although they had not met one another before.
‘I have just come to Regensburg,’ said Hans. ‘I was in Berlin before.’
‘And so now here we are: both interested in the same thing!’ said the other Hans.
‘That is the great delight of a reading party,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘One finds people who share one’s interests. And then, as the week progresses, one gets to know them better. It is very satisfactory.’
‘We are certainly hoping to get to know one another better,’ said Hans, smiling as he spoke. ‘Would you not agree, Hans?’
Von Igelfeld left them to their discussion of medieval French literature – or what he assumed was a discussion of medieval French literature – and joined a group of four students – two men and two women – who had just finished talking to Herr Huber. He noticed that two of these seemed to be holding hands, although they disengaged as he came up to them. This was rather moving, he thought; that two young people, not much more than a boy and a girl, should already be encouraging one another in this way, allaying the intellectual uncertainty that must inevitably come from finding oneself in a reading group with so many other enquiring young minds. He smiled benignly at the couple, and they smiled back at him. It is very touching, he thought. Very touching.
Herr Huber appeared at his side. ‘I must tell you, Herr von Igelfeld,’ he began, ‘that your words of welcome to the students were brilliant – quite brilliant!’
Von Igelfeld acknowledged the compliment with an inclination of his head. ‘You are very kind, Herr Huber.’
‘Yes, you were so reassuring. And now, look at these splendid young people – look at them. They are already friends. See that boy over there talking to that girl in the green jersey. See how they have become good friends, and are already talking so earnestly about the reading that lies ahead.’
Von Igelfeld took a sip of his mulled wine. ‘It is very encouraging,’ he said. ‘And it certainly cheers one to think that Germany is still producing these fine young people, with their strong intellectual curiosity and their thirst for knowledge. How fortunate we are, Herr Huber, to be part of that process.’
‘Even if mine is a very small part,’ said the Librarian.
Von Igelfeld turned to face his colleague. Poor Herr Huber, he thought, with his strange view of the world. ‘But you must not be so modest,’ he said, placing his hand briefly on his colleague’s forearm. ‘They also serve who merely stand and wait. You must remember that, Herr Huber!’
Herr Huber looked at von Igelfeld with eyes moist with gratitude. ‘It is very kind of you to say that, Herr von Igelfeld. Sometimes I feel that … well, sometimes I feel that I have nothing to contribute. I am surrounded by such distinguished scholars – by you, by Professor Unterholzer …’
Von Igelfeld could not help a small frown crossing his brow at the mention of Unterholzer.
‘… who is hardly your equal, of course,’ the Librarian continued, ‘but who none the less tills, as you all do, an important furrow of scholarship.’
Von Igelfeld felt that he could afford to be generous. ‘Yes, indeed he does. And even minor scholars have their place, as you have just pointed out. Yes, you are quite right, Herr Huber. But do remember: librarians are at the heart of the scholarly enterprise. Do not be too modest. You must join in our discussions in this reading party as a full and equal member.’
‘Oh, I must not do that,’ said Herr Huber. ‘I shall be in attendance, of course, at all of them, and I shall most certainly assist in any way I can.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘But now, if you wouldn’t mind excusing me, Herr von Igelfeld, I must go to my room and place a telephone call.’
‘To your aunt?’ asked von Igelfeld.
‘To my aunt,’ Herr Huber confirmed. ‘You see, they are thinking of changing some of the rooms around at her nursing home. One of the ladies on the second floor fell out of a window and they want to put her on the ground floor now. That will mean that somebody will have to give up a room on that floor and move to the second floor.’
Von Igelfeld’s eyes glassed over. ‘To replace the defenestrated lady?’ he asked distantly.
‘Yes. But you know it’s an interesting thing. You mentioned defenestration. I wonder whether that word should be used to describe the act of falling out of the window by accident, or whether it should be restricted to those situations where somebody is thrown out of the window, as in the Defenestration of Prague. What do you think, Herr von Igelfeld? Have you given the matter much thought?’
Von Igelfeld looked across the room. Herr Huber was curiously tiring, even in these small doses. Did it matter how one was defenestrated? Surely from the point of view of the defenestrated person the significant feature of the experience was that one fell out of a window, not how one came to do so. He closed his eyes for a moment and saw, briefly but vividly, an image of Herr Huber standing beneath a window and looking up as a figure tumbled out above him. That, he thought, was an important aspect of defenestration that we should not forget: that it could be as dangerous to those below as it was to those above. But even if that were the case, one would not, he thought, use the word defenestration to describe what happened to the person on the ground below. If such a person were to be injured, then that experience could not be said to be a defenestration: it was a consequence of a defenestration. The distinction was important.
The welcome party over, they all had dinner together in the communal dining room. Von Igelfeld did not linger to chat afterwards, as the journey and the attenuated air of the mountainside had combined to make him feel sleepier than usual. He said goodnight to the students and nodded courteously in the direction of Herr Huber, who was engaged in animated conversation with a fair-haired woman, one of the older students, who von Igelfeld believed was interested in Irish drama. Herr Huber waved back in a friendly manner and returned to his conversation. Von Igelfeld smiled to himself; what on earth could that young woman be discussing with the Librarian? Should he go to her rescue and allow her to detach herself from Herr Huber and his monologue? He decided against this; the woman looked as if she was i
n her thirties somewhere and would clearly be capable of looking after herself. She would no doubt find some excuse to escape Herr Huber when she felt that she could bear his conversation no longer.
As director of the programme, von Igelfeld was entitled to – and had claimed – the best room in the lodge. Although some of the students were doubled up, von Igelfeld and the Librarian did not have to share. It would have been impossible to occupy the same room as Herr Huber, von Igelfeld felt; a recipe for a nightmare – every night. The Librarian would no doubt talk in his sleep – about much the same thing that he talked about when awake, and that would be insupportable.
His own room was in the front of the building, and afforded an unobstructed view of Alpine pasture and mountains. As he prepared for bed, he looked towards the mountains; the moon was full and he could make out the white of the snow-topped peaks. He shivered. He was not a creature of raw nature; he was one for the warmth and security of villages, towns, cities. It astonished him to think that even as he looked out at those peaks there were climbers bivouacked up there, huddled in their flimsy tents, clinging to the tiny ledges where if one rolled over in the wrong direction one might plunge, sleeping bag and all, down into some bottomless abyss.
He went to bed, reading for ten minutes or so before drowsiness overcame him and he turned out the light. At some point in the night he dreamed that he was in a towering building, so high that the roof was shrouded in a blanket of snow. He was in a room, looking out of a window, and there was somebody behind him. He opened the window, the better to see outside, but he could make out little because of low cloud that had descended to envelop the building. He turned round; somebody was addressing him. Unterholzer.
‘Defenestration,’ said Unterholzer menacingly. ‘Defenestration.’
Von Igelfeld cried out, but there was nobody to hear him except Unterholzer, who was now advancing upon him, forcing him to move towards the open window. And then, with a sudden movement from Unterholzer, von Igelfeld was defenestrated.
He awoke, sweating with anxiety. He looked at his watch: it was shortly after three, a bad hour to awaken. He reached for his glass of water, and found that it was empty.
Rising from bed, he made his way out into the corridor and began to walk towards the bathroom. He heard a noise, and turned round sharply. Somebody had come out of one door, lingered for no more than a moment or two in the corridor, and then slipped back into another door. Von Igelfeld wondered what was happening. Perhaps the students were continuing their conversation from the common room; students liked to stay awake, von Igelfeld remembered. In his own day in Heidelberg they sometimes chatted away until two or three in the morning, and would think nothing of staying up until five at weekends.
He filled his glass with water and returned to his room. As he closed the door behind him, he heard a door opening in the corridor, and then the sound of whispering. He put down the glass and returned to the door. Bending down, he looked through the keyhole. There was a movement, blurred and indistinct in the half-light of the corridor, and then nothing. He turned away. Young people! Perhaps they were playing some sort of party game; he had read recently of a game called sardines that young people played, in which one person went off to hide and others then crept about the house, finding the hiding place and attempting to join the person crouching there. It was such a ridiculous game, and yet it was, apparently, very popular. Perhaps he should ask them at breakfast tomorrow. ‘And who was playing sardines last night?’ he might say, with the air of Hercule Poirot in full investigation; that would show the students that he was on top of what was going on.
The first discussion period followed breakfast the next morning. The theme of the discussion was a very general one, so designed as to ensure that everybody had a chance to contribute views. The topic – ‘Should language be allowed to evolve naturally or should it be regulated by a national academy, such as the Académie Française?’ – caused a great stir. Most of the students agreed that language should be left to evolve naturally, although one or two purists took strong exception to this. The Académie Française, they said, deserved everybody’s thanks for standing up against the relentless tide of Anglo-Saxon linguistic pollution that was infecting so many languages. Von Igelfeld agreed, but said nothing: this debate was for the students, and one could hardly expect students to reach the right conclusion about anything. In illustrating their point, one or two of the students in favour of linguistic freedom used words that he did not quite understand, but he did not reveal this: such words were inevitably vulgar and would be forgotten after a year or two, like that American word okay, which he had always felt would never last once the novelty wore off. Or vachement in French: what a ridiculous neologism that was: one would certainly not hear that in the halls of the Académie Française!
At the end of the discussion coffee was served. Von Igelfeld announced that he and the trust administrator would be available afterwards to resolve any administrative issues or deal with any queries about the programme.
‘My door is always open,’ he announced, and then quipped, ‘Except, that is, when it is clearly closed.’
This brought smiles of appreciation from the students, and von Igelfeld basked in their approbation. Perhaps students were not such a nuisance after all; perhaps the Institute should consider having a few more – not too many, of course; an extra three or four a year might be about right. He would take that up with Prinzel, he thought, on his return, and then, if the two of them agreed, they could present the decision as a fait accompli, or even a fait vachement accompli, to Unterholzer. He smiled at the linguistic joke, and wished that he could share it with somebody who would understand. He glanced about him – Herr Huber? No, he was deeply engrossed in conversation with that same young woman he had been talking to the previous evening. Poor young woman, von Igelfeld said to himself. Perhaps I should have a private word with Herr Huber and tell him that he shouldn’t burden her too much with his conversation.
He sat down with the administrator and waited to deal with the first of the students who had indicated that they had an admininstrative issue. This was one of the young men called Hans whom von Igelfeld had spoken to briefly before dinner the night before.
‘I take it that everything is going well,’ said von Igelfeld as the young man sat down in front of him.
‘Oh, yes, Herr Professor. It certainly is.’
Von Igelfeld nodded. ‘Is there anything we can do for you?’
The young man looked down at the floor. ‘I was wondering whether it might be possible to change rooms,’ he said. ‘I’m sharing with Georg over there and I’m afraid that he snores. It’s very difficult to sleep if somebody is snoring.’
‘Of course it is,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Certainly you can change.’
The adminstrator glanced at von Igelfeld. ‘Accommodation’s very tight,’ he said. ‘I don’t think we have anything available.’
Hans looked at von Igelfeld. ‘But I have had an idea, professor,’ he said. ‘I could share with the other Hans. He says that he would be very happy to share with me, to save me from Georg’s snoring.’
The administrator looked at his list. ‘But he has a single room. There is only one bed in that room.’
‘We don’t mind,’ said Hans hurriedly. ‘Hans is not very large and there will be room.’
The administrator frowned. ‘I’m not sure that …’
‘Fine,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘That is very kind of him. You are lucky to have such a generous friend. And at least you will get plenty of sleep now – unless other Hans snores!’
Hans beamed with pleasure. ‘No, he doesn’t. I can tell you …’
‘Good,’ said von Igelfeld.
The next student was a young woman. She, too, wanted to change rooms, and had heard that there might be a chance of getting the bed previously occupied by Hans.
‘But that room is already occupied by Georg,’ said the administrator.
‘That’s fine,’ said the youn
g woman. ‘I’ve spoken to him and he says that he doesn’t mind.’
The administrator looked at von Igelfeld. ‘This is very irregular, Professor von Igelfeld,’ he whispered. ‘We do not put male and female students in the same room. We have never done that. Otherwise …’
Von Igelfeld ignored the administrator and turned to the student. ‘You are a friend of this young man, are you?’
The student smiled at him. ‘We are friends. We read to each other, you see, and it would be nice to be able to do that here.’
‘Of course it would,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘It is very useful to have somebody to read to one when one’s eyes are tired.’
The administrator tried to interrupt. ‘I’m not sure that policy allows …’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I shall authorise this.’
There were several other requests made that morning, all concerned with moving rooms. The administrator became quite sulky. ‘Once this starts,’ he complained to von Igelfeld, ‘it will never end. With the greatest respect, Professor von Igelfeld, in previous years I have handled all the accommodation issues myself, without troubling you. Now that you are taking an interest in them, I’m afraid that it is all going to become excessively complicated.’
‘I do not see that,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘These young people need to be comfortable so that they can apply their minds to the discussions. It is important that they get sound sleep.’
The administrator stared at him incredulously. He hesitated for a while before replying, as if weighing his words carefully. ‘I’m not sure if you appreciate what is happening here, Professor von Igelfeld. The reason why the students are interfering with my perfectly good accommodation arrangements is that they are up to—’
He did not finish. ‘Excuse me, Herr Wolters,’ said von Igelfeld icily. ‘I am perfectly aware of what’s what. But thank you very much for your concern, which is, as always, much appreciated.’
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