Every German city worth its corporation has an opera house. Some years ago, in a German city which shall be nameless, I went to hear Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor, based on Sir Walter Scott’s sombre novel, The Bride of Lammermoor. As any fan of Scott can tell you, Lammermoor wasn’t supposed to be in the romantic Highlands but in the Scottish Borders. Around 1700, the period of the novel, the menfolk in the borders wore breeches of a subdued check known as shepherd’s drab, later transformed into present day shepherd’s plaid..

It was something of a shock, then, when at the opera the curtain went up to reveal the men of Ashton Castle clad in tartan kilts. And not just any old tartan. It was the bright red Royal Stuart. The kilt, it is reckoned, was originally a length of woollen homespun gathered in the hand as it was wrapped around the waist. To keep it up, a Highlander wore a leather belt. The loom’s width presumably determined the length of the kilt. The belt provided control over it.

It seemed as if the opera’s designer had bought a job lot of kilts, for these indeed were all the same length. So some of Lord Ashton’s henchmen were wearing knee-length skirts, some wore them at mid-calf, and some were practically ankle length on the really short lads. And some of them even had matching tammies. I couldn’t stifle a giggle. My solemn German neighbours in the dress circle gave me a glance of disapproval. “Frivolous foreigner,” they muttered to each other. But the frivolous foreigner was quite unaccustomed to seeing the philabeg at such peculiar levels.

Edgar, the hero, came on. His kilt was Gordon tartan; this was to show he didn’t belong to Ashton’s clan. Being the hero, Edgar is, of course, a tenor. Or, in this case, more correctly described as a fiver. He looked to be about sixty-four inches tall. On him his kilt drooped like the garment of an elderly aunt, but of course in opera, appearances don’t matter – it’s the voice that counts. The voices were all in fact pretty good, particularly that of the singer playing Lord Ashton. Alas, he was a tall, well-built baritone on whom the kilt looked almost like a mini-skirt.

At one point, Lucia had to cast herself at his feet and embrace his legs beseechingly. This would have brought her face to face with a pair of carroty knees so she very sensibly collapsed away from him. Looking with determination at the audience, she sang, “O dio, mi persuadano” while his lordship stared down in vexation at the top of her head.

The plot of the opera was extracted from Scott’s novel by Felice Romani and is extremely complicated. Henry Ashton wants his sister to marry rich Arthur Bucklow so as to repair the family fortunes. Lucia loves Edgar, but Edgar has to leave for France. One of Ashton’s henchmen forges a letter to fool Lucia into believing Edgar is married to someone else. So she marries Arthur but murders her bridegroom on the wedding night. This gives Donizetti the chance to write the famous “Mad Scene” in which Lucia imagines she really married Edgar. She then collapses and dies. All good stuff.

Edgar returns, learns of Lucia’s death, and has to have a quarrel with Lord Ashton because he wants to be killed in a duel.. It was somewhat like Laurel and Hardy as these two squared up to each other with swords. They took a few well-rehearsed lunges. Edgar whirled away in self-defence then recalled that whirling caused the kilt to flare out. In a commendable gesture of modesty he lowered his sword to hold his skirt down. Lord Ashton, taken aback at the abrupt disappearance of his opponent’s weapon, had to perform a sort of paso doble to prevent himself lunging straight past Edgar since he found no sword to clash with. Edgar, according to the plan of this production., had to wound Ashford and in despair at not getting himself killed, decide to do it for himself. With his skean dhu. The skean dhu is a short dagger worn ornamentally in the top of the knee high sock of the Highlander.

Alas, Edgar’s sock-top was hidden by his too-long kilt. Sustaining his top D of despair as long as he could, the poor man groped about under the edge of the heavy pleats. One could see his longing glance darting at the sword he had cast away on wounding Ashton. – if he could only have got at it, he could have fallen on it like an ancient Roman. But it was behind the feet of the chorus, who were singing appropriate remarks of dismay at the fury of the dueller’s encounter. At length, in genuine despair, Edgar gave up the search for the dagger and manfully stabbed himself in his chest with his clenched fist. Sobs and tolling of church bells. Curtain -- his dead body lying prone surrounded by a group of male chorus in extremely cheerful red kilts.

I had a pain in my side from keeping a grip on my good manners. Trying to seem normal, I began the trek downstairs to the foyer. On the step ahead was an earnest young couple whose conversation I could overhear. “The singing was excellent,” said the girl, “but what pleased me most was that it was all so authentic.” (So glaubwurdig)  

It was no use. I had to laugh.