‘I trust that all is going well, Herr Unterholzer,’ remarked von Igelfeld one morning, in an attempt to break the ice.
‘In part,’ replied Unterholzer. ‘Some matters are progressing well, but there are others which are not so satisfactory.’
There was silence for a few moments, as Unterholzer awaited von Igelfeld’s response to the challenge. But none came.
‘What I mean,’ went on Unterholzer, ‘is that it takes a toll to be looking after a handicapped dog. There are so many things to worry about. Such a dog might become stuck in the mud, for example, if one’s dog happens to have wheels, that is. Only yesterday I had to oil him. One does not usually have to oil a dog, I think.’
Von Igelfeld bit his lip. It really was too much, this stream of unspoken accusations.
‘Indeed,’ he said, in a steely tone. ‘Supervising a dog is very demanding. One would not want one’s dog, while unsupervised, or negligently supervised perhaps, to run out into the traffic, would one, Herr Unterholzer?’
Unterholzer said nothing, but turned away and busied himself with some task. Von Igelfeld, for his part, was pleased with the way he had managed to turn the encounter to his advantage. Unterholzer would think twice now before he raised the question of the sausage dog again.
There was no further word from Unterholzer for two weeks. They passed one another in the corridor, and uttered courteous greetings, but no pleasantries were exchanged. Von Igelfeld was content to leave matters as they stood; if Unterholzer wished to smoulder, let him do so. He would only make himself look ridiculous in the eyes of a world which, if it were ever to discover the true background to the affair, would certainly side with von Igelfeld.
When Unterholzer eventually struck, it was with a suddenness that took von Igelfeld entirely by surprise. The Zeitschrift, which had previously been edited by von Igelfeld, but which was now edited from Frankfurt, arrived on the first day of every third month. Von Igelfeld had a personal subscription and enjoyed nothing more than taking his copy home on the day of its arrival and settling down to read it in his study over a glass of Madeira wine. It was, in many respects, the highlight of his existence: to savour the unadulterated pleasure of at least four articles on Romance philology, together with at least ten pages of book reviews, and several pages of Notes and Queries. Usually he finished his first reading of the journal that evening, and would return to it over the following days, after he had mulled over the contents.
On this occasion, he sat down with the Madeira and the review, and fixed his eye upon the Contents page. There was an article by Professor Dr Dr Mannhein on particles. (A treat! thought von Igelfeld.) There was a review essay on an important new etymological dictionary of Spanish, and . . . He faltered, the glass of Madeira toppling dangerously to one side.
It was there in black and white, the letters imprinted on the page with all the awful finality of names inscribed on some enduring monument to an atrocity: Irregular Verbs: Flaws in the von Igelfeld Hypothesis . Von Igelfeld gasped, and gasped again when he saw what followed: by Professor Dr Dr Detlev Amadeus Unterholzer (Regensburg).
With fumbling hands he turned to the first page of the article and began to read.
‘Since the publication of the controversial Portuguese Irregular Verbs by Professor Dr Moritz-Maria von Igelfeld, scholars of Romance philology have been questioning some of the basic assumptions as to the behaviour of the indicative in its irregular manifestations. The growing band of those who are unconvinced by the tentative hypothesis advanced by von Igelfeld have begun to suggest that third-person mutations happened later than von Igelfeld naïvely assumes . . . ’
It was almost too much for von Igelfeld to bear. With his heart hammering within him, he struggled to the end of the article, reeling at the subtle digs which virtually every sentence seemed to contain. Not only was he, according to Unterholzer, ‘naïve’ (page 34), but he was also ‘misguided’ (page 36), ‘misinformed’ (page 37) and ‘potentially meretricious’ (page 39).
He finished the article and laid the Zeitschrift down on the table beside his chair, next to the untouched glass of Madeira. He had never before – not once – been attacked in print. The reviews of Portuguese Irregular Verbs had been unanimously favourable; at conferences, colleagues had tripped over one another in the race to compliment him on his papers; and Zimmermann himself had never – not on one single occasion – uttered anything but praise of his work. And now here was Unterholzer – Unterholzer! – daring to question his theories, clothing himself, it would seem, in the support of a so-called ‘growing band’ of those unconvinced of his hypothesis. Who was in this ‘growing band’ on whose behalf Unterholzer purported to speak? Was Prinzel involved? Von Igelfeld had spoken to him only three weeks ago and there had been no indication of doubts as to the hypothesis. No, it was more likely that Unterholzer spoke for nobody but himself and had merely invented the support of others, in the same way as those who are unsure of themselves may use the first person plural when they express a view.
For the rest of the evening, von Igelfeld considered his response. One possibility was to confront Unterholzer and to ask him to explain himself. Another was to appear so wounded by the remarks that he would induce in Unterholzer a feeling of guilt for his appalling betrayal. And finally, he could just ignore the article altogether and pretend that he had not noticed the attack. The first and the second options were fraught with risks. He was unwilling to engage with Unterholzer in a point-for-point refutation of the criticisms he had made – to do that would be to lend to them a gravity that they patently did not deserve. And if he appeared wounded, then Unterholzer would have the satisfaction of knowing that the ridiculous barbs had struck home, which was presumably what he wanted. This left him the option of dignified silence, which he knew he was capable of managing. He had often shown a dignified silence in the past when faced with Unterholzer and his doings, and so all that he would have to do would be to be rather more dignified and silent than usual.
Over the next few days, whenever von Igelfeld saw Unterholzer in the Institute, he merely nodded gravely in his direction and passed on. Unterholzer tried to speak to him on one occasion, but von Igelfeld pretended to be deep in thought and not to notice him. He thought, but could not be certain, that Unterholzer looked worried, and this gave him considerable pleasure. He could continue to keep his distance – for years if necessary – until Unterholzer knocked on his door with an unconditional apology. And even then, it might take some time before an apology could be accepted, so grave was the offence which Unterholzer had committed.
Yet as the days passed, von Igelfeld found himself increasingly puzzled by Unterholzer’s apparent ability to endure the Coventry to which he had been consigned. Unterholzer was seen laughing and joking with some of the junior assistants and was, in von Igelfeld’s hearing, described by the Librarian as being ‘in remarkably good spirits’. It seemed to von Igelfeld that his colleague had acquired an extraordinary new confidence. Not only had he shown the temerity to criticise Portuguese Irregular Verbs in the columns of the Zeitschrift, but he seemed to have overcome his previous hesitance and inadequacy in his everyday dealings with his colleagues. This was disturbing; if Unterholzer were to start throwing his weight around, then the Institute would become a distinctly less attractive place. Nobody wanted Unterholzer’s opinions on anything, and it was highly undesirable that he should see fit to give them.
Von Igelfeld decided to take the matter up with the Librarian, who had always enjoyed a close relationship with Unterholzer.
‘Professor Unterholzer seems in very good form these days,’ he remarked. ‘He’s rather more confident than before, would you not say?’
‘Dear Professor Unterholzer!’ said the Librarian. ‘He’s certainly more forthcoming than he used to be. But then that’s psychoanalysis for you!’
Von Igelfeld narrowed his eyes. ‘Psychoanalysis?’ he said. ‘Do you mean that Professor Unterholzer is undergoing analysis?’
‘Yes,’ said the Librarian. ‘In fact, I can take some of the credit for it. I recommended it to him and arranged for him to meet Dr Hubertoffel. He’s a very good analyst – one of the best, I believe.’
Von Igelfeld made a noncommittal sound and brought the discussion to an end. Stalking off to his office, he began to ponder the implications of what he had been told. Confidence! Psychoanalysis! Dr Huberto fel! It was all profoundly unsettling. He was used to the order of things as they were, and the thought of a liberated Unterholzer, free of the manifold inadequacies which up to now had made his company just bearable, was extremely disturbing. He would have to find out more about this Dr Hubertoffel and see whether there was any way of restraining the baneful influence which he seemed to be having on Unterholzer’s life. If this involved a visit to Dr Hubertoffel himself, then von Igelfeld was prepared to do even that. He had always harboured the gravest mistrust of both Freudians and Freemasons, whom he regarded as being inextricably linked, but the task ahead of him had now acquired an urgency which could not be ignored: the reputation of the Institute, and that of Portuguese Irregular Verbs itself, could depend on bringing Unterholzer to heel before even more damaging attacks could be made. To this end, he was even prepared to wander into the Freudian cage itself and deal with whatever lion figures may be found within.
Dr Max Augustus Hubertoffel of the Huberto fel Klinik für Neurosen und Psychopathologie looked every inch a man who was suited to his calling. He was a slight, dapper man, with slickly parted hair, a Viennese bow-tie, and carefully polished black patent-leather shoes. His consulting rooms, discreetly tucked away in a quiet street in Regensburg’s professional quarter, were reached by a winding stair that culminated in a dark green door. On to this door had been screwed Dr Hubertoffel’s brass plate, into which von Igelfeld, recovering his breath from the stairs, now peered and saw his own face staring back.
Once admitted to the analyst’s sanctum, von Igelfeld found the doctor looking at him politely over his desk. Von Igelfeld was asked a few questions and his answers were noted down by Dr Hubertoffel in a large black notebook. Then the latter gestured to a green baize-covered couch and invited von Igelfeld to lie down.
The author of Portuguese Irregular Verbs settled himself on the couch. It was comfortable, but not so comfortable as to be soporific.
‘You may close your eyes, if you wish,’ said Dr Hubertoffel. ‘Some analysands prefer to do that, although there is always the danger of sleep if you do.’
Von Igelfeld found himself wondering if Unterholzer closed his eyes during analysis, or whether he gazed up at Dr Hubertoffel’s ceiling and plotted. Indeed, it was quite possible that the idea of attacking Portuguese Irregular Verbs had been conceived on this very couch – oh hateful, hateful thought!
‘You will have heard of free association,’ said Dr Hubertoffel. ‘I find it a useful tool in the discovery of what is troubling a patient. Then, on the basis of this knowledge, I know what I should look out for during the process of analysis. The mind, you see, is full of dark furniture.’
Von Igelfeld gave a start. Dark furniture? Was his own mind full of such a thing? Perhaps it was unwise to undertake analysis, even for the purpose of equipping himself to deal with Unterholzer. If the furniture of the mind was dark, then perhaps it would be best to leave it where it was – in the shadows.
‘So,’ said Dr Hubertoffel. ‘The sea.’
‘The sea?’ asked von Igelfeld.
‘Yes. I say the sea and you tell me what comes into your mind.’
‘The sea,’ said von Igelfeld.
‘No,’ said Dr Hubertoffel, patiently. ‘I said the sea. You tell me what you envisaged.’
‘I thought of the sea,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘That’s why I replied the sea when you said the sea.’
Dr Hubertoffel tapped his pencil on the edge of his notebook. ‘You must think of something else,’ he said. ‘Don’t be too literal. I’ll try again. Father.’
‘Whiskers,’ said von Igelfeld.
‘Good,’ said Dr Hubertoffel. ‘That’s a very good reply. Your father had whiskers, I take it.’
‘No,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘But other boys’ fathers had them.’
‘Oedipus,’ went on Dr Hubertoffel.
‘Mother. No, uncle.’
The psychoanalyst nodded. ‘Excellent. Now: Scissors.’
‘The Suck-a-Thumb Man,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘You’ll remember him from The Struwelpeter. He’s the man who came to cut off the thumbs of the children who sucked them. I was very frightened of him.’
‘And still are, perhaps?’ ventured Dr Hubertoffel. ‘The shades of the nursery are apt to linger. But let us move on. Id.’
‘Darkness. Inner me.’
‘Excellent. Sausage.’
‘Dog.’
‘Dog?’
‘Sausage.’
‘Sausage dog.’
‘When I was a boy,’ said von Igelfeld, a little later, ‘we used to live in Austria, where my grandfather had an estate near Graz. I lived there from the age of six until I was fifteen. Then I was sent to a military academy in Germany. I was very sad to leave Austria and I remember leaning out of the window to catch a last glimpse of my parents and my Uncle Oedipus as they stood on the platform waving to the train. I saw my father raise his hand and then lower it to place it on my mother’s shoulder as if to comfort her.’
‘Or possibly to reassert ownership,’ interjected Dr Hubertoffel.
‘My mother turned away and walked back towards our car and I put my head back in the carriage. I was only fifteen, you see, and I had never been away from home. Now I was on my way to the military academy and had no idea of what to expect. I had read Young Törless, of course, and I feared that this was what I was in for. So I sat in my seat and stared dumbly out of the window.
‘When I arrived at the school, I was shown to my place in the dormitory. There were forty other boys, all living in the same long room, all engaged in various initiation rituals, whipping one another with wet towels or exchanging blood-brotherhood vows. Several were cutting into one another’s hands with blades, in order to mingle blood.
‘I was at a loss. There seemed something strange about the dormitory. There were forty boys, but only twenty beds. We had to share, you see.
‘I turned to the boy with whom I had been detailed to share. He was sitting at the end of the bed, gazing glumly at his boots.
‘I asked him if he had a nurse at home, and he said that he had just left her. She was a girl called Hysteria, who came from a Bavarian farm, but who was a very good nurse. They had only one bed in the nursery, and he had shared with her. Now he had to share with me, and he was desolate.’
Dr Hubertoffel was listening avidly. ‘This is extremely interesting material,’ he said, scribbling furiously. ‘I am fascinated by this. It is all very pathological.’
Von Igelfeld closed his eyes. It was easier to make up stories with one’s eyes closed, he found.
‘I survived that first night, although the sobbing of my bed companion largely prevented me from getting any sleep. Then, the next morning, after we had all been forced to take a cold shower, which we shared, our lessons began. The school was very interested in the Franco-Prussian War and devoted many lessons to it. Apart from that, we were taught very little.’
‘And were the masters cruel?’ asked Dr Hubertoffel.
‘Immensely cruel,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘They used to take great pleasure in devising fresh tortures for the boys, and some of the boys simply could not stand it. Those were the ones who ran away. Sometimes they were returned, and punished all the more. Sometimes they got away and we never heard of them again. I longed to be one of them. But I did not have the courage to leave and, besides, one of the larger boys had cut the soles off my boots to affix to his. I could not have got very far with boots without soles. But there was another reason, too. I was protecting a boy who was being ruthlessly bullied. I had rescued him from his tormentors, but now he relied on me to look after
him. If I deserted him, it would be like throwing him to the wolves.’
‘Tell me about this boy,’ said Dr Hubertoffel.
‘He was called Unterholzer,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Detlev Amadeus Unterholzer. At least, I think that was his name.’
Von Igelfeld could see that what he had just said had had a marked effect on Dr Hubertoffel.