Hotel theology
OUTSIDE the Grandhotel Pupp in Karlovy Vary, in the Czech Republic, I had a glimpse of heaven. Not the vista down the spa colonnade, as close to my own sense of Elysium as that might be; nor was it the ambrosial vanilla éclair to which my greedy eyes were drawn, plump and perfect though it was, on the Pupp-branded chinaware. No, the vision glorious was provided by a scattering of names written, not in the Book of Life, but on brass plaques affixed to the forecourt of the hotel.
Each plaque carries the name of a noted guest, although there appears to be no rhyme or reason in how they are arranged: John Cleese rubs shoulders with the Emperor Joseph II, Keira Knightley with Franz Kafka. I don’t make any soteriological judgement on these specific names, but, rather, observe that — as at the Grandhotel Pupp — I expect the Kingdom of God will involve lots of rubbing of unlikely shoulders.
Tee for two
IT ISN’T only to seek unlikely wisdom from a pavement that I come to the region formerly known as the Sudetenland. In fact, I was in Karlovy Vary because I go every year.
Originally, it was to keep my declining spoken Czech in some sort of order, but now — sensing the melancholy, withdrawing roar of those rolled Rs — it’s mostly because I have grown to love it. Sometimes, I potter along to the next spa town, Mariánské Lázne, much favoured by Edward VII when he was Prince of Wales and it was Marienbad. He used to play golf there with the RC abbot of the Tepla monastery near by, who was apparently a dab hand on the fairway.
To my mind, such practical ecumenism is much better than theoretical guff about being “Defender of Faiths”. As speculation swirls around the current holder of Bertie’s former title and his attitude — or lack thereof — to the faith, I would happily organise a Bohemian golfing weekend to hammer things out.
Adamantine faith
I HAVE not yet ever been at Karlovy Vary on a Sunday, although it has a magnificent Church of England building, dedicated in honour of St Luke — which was a nod to the resort’s reputation for healing. It is presently a waxwork museum (sometimes, these things do just write themselves).
If I find myself there next year, I fear that it will have to be matins held in the Malá Dvorana of the Pupp rather than the sacrament overseen by the melancholy figure of Adam Ant, who now stands where the Edwardians who found themselves in that far-off land once made polite, post-communion chitchat.
Frail mortal bodies
WHILE the faith of Northern Bohemia is now, alas, waxen old like a garment, I did receive a request to provide seemly worship according to the rites of our Established Church when I was in Spain recently — specifically, in Carmona, a pretty little town near Seville.
Philip II would have been furious, which seemed as good a reason to do it as any. It wasn’t as if there wasn’t plenty of religion on offer (this was Spain, after all), but the lamentable modern Roman custom of transferring every feast to a Sunday meant that some of the party were reluctant to have a double dose of Corpus Christi, having observed it on the Thursday, and found it strong meat even then.
So, the First Sunday after Trinity it was, the weakness of our mortal nature made even clearer than usual by the scorching Andalusian sun.
Fools for God
AS IT happened, Seville followed me back to the diocese of Oxford. No, Charlbury has not replaced morris dancing with Flamenco; nor have the proctors and clergy of our ancient university replaced their mortar boards with birettas. (Or at least, most of them haven’t.) No, instead, it was a real treat: The Marriage of Figaro at Garsington Opera — which, in a way that would, no doubt, have pleased Mozart, is no longer at Garsington, but at Stokenchurch, near High Wycombe.
I know both opera and the diary column are supposed to be a chance for escapism from the controversies and rigours of the rest of the world, but I couldn’t help but think of the recent Church Times correspondence over the laicisation of the Reverend Green in Cluedo as I watched the action unfold chez Almaviva.
One of the Figaro story’s most gloriously unattractive characters is Don Basilio. In Mozart’s Marriage, he is an airy, gossipy, and unscrupulous tenor, whereas in Rossini’s The Barber of Seville, he is a heavy, threatening, and unscrupulous bass-baritone. In both, however, it is very clear that he is supposed to be in Holy Orders.
His job is ostensibly to teach music, but late-18th-century Spain was a place where the clergy turned their hands to all things, and many productions keep the original intention and have Basilio appear in his clericals. Not so in Garsington, where Paul Nilon, the lyric tenor, gave a fabulous performance, but in distinctly laicised costume — a shame, as it perhaps robs the character of some of his gleeful malevolence. Then again, it may merely be a reflection of our own days: the clergy can be just as troublesome in jacket and tie, or open neck and chinos, as in a collar.
The laicisation also cuts some of the humour from Basilio’s main aria — although that (as in this production) is almost always cut anyway, owing to the excessive length of the final act. In it, Basilio sings a summary of the thinking of the Holy Fool: how “wearing the skin of a donkey” can sometimes enable one to do and say the otherwise impossible. Unlikely wisdom indeed.
The Revd Fergus Butler-Gallie is Vicar of Charlbury with Shorthampton, in the diocese of Oxford.