At the Villa of Reduced Circumstances by Alexander McCall Smith

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
Ring
cycle, in miniature, at Glyndebourne, and Mr Gurewitsch expressed grave concern about miniaturisation of Wagner, a concern which von Igelfeld strongly endorsed.
    ‘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,
simply doesn’t look consumptive.
But at least we can suspend disbelief in such cases – within the conventions. But we should not create new challenges to our disbelief.’
    ‘Absolutely not,’ said von Igelfeld.
    The conversation continued in this pleasant vein. Matthew Gurewitsch alluded to the interferences with
Trovatore
, which he intended to expose in his lecture.
    ‘Satires of
Trovatore
merely scratch the surface,’ he said, ‘leaving its mythic core untouched.’
    ‘I would agree,’ said von Igelfeld.
    Matthew Gurewitsch smiled. ‘Thank you.
Il Trovatore
is to opera nothing less than what
Oedipus Rex
is to spoken drama: the revelation of the soul of tragedy in its purest form. In both, ancient secrets unravel, devastating the innocent along with the guilty. But then, who is innocent?’
    Von Igelfeld looked down the table towards Plank, who was sitting next to a