Read Online The Finer Points of Sausage Dogs by Alexander McCall Smith - Free Book Online
Authors: Alexander McCall Smith
Tags: Fiction
Ads: Link
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
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
Similar Books
