A Kiss for the Enemy by David Fraser Page B

sardonic and affectionate. ‘Howsuperb looking he is!’ thought Marcia. ‘Like Frido, but every feature stronger, more definite. Harder.’ Werner had said little at table. He had held a long conversation with his father before they had gone to supper, murmuring apart while Frido and Lise chatted to the Marvells. At supper Kaspar had spoken knowledgeably about the state of agriculture in Europe, and the problems of forestry. Now and then the conversation had taken a turn leading, it seemed, to a dead end unless some essentially political issue were at least to receive acknowledgement. At such moments Kaspar pursed his lips and opened another line of talk.
    Anthony was determined to extract from his host some comment, however neutral, on the European scene. The older man could not be drawn. Werner at times shot at Anthony a look with a sly smile behind the eyes. ‘I know what you’re after,’ he seemed to be saying, ‘but you won’t get this old one to say much.’
    Lise spoke little, now that conversation was general, but sat with a slight smile on her gentle rather submissive face. The atmosphere at Arzfeld was essentially, almost brutally, masculine. The long widowerhood of Kaspar contributed to this, but it went deeper, had persisted far longer. This was a house for the forester, the huntsman, the warrior, a place of horns and saddles and armed men.
    Kaspar drew on his cigar.
    â€˜Herr Marvell, there is a famous English poet, Andrew Marvell. You are of the same family?’
    The question was not uncommon.
    â€˜I believe we may come from the same origins, yes. My father says there is a connection. But we are not descended from him.’
    Kaspar had prepared himself.
    â€˜
And now the Irish are ashamed
    To see themselves in one year tamed
–’
    He stopped suddenly, appalled. Was it not, perhaps, dangerous, delicate, insufferable manners, to speak of the Irish to this young Englishman? Was Ireland not still a rebellious province? He simply could not remember how matters stood, but felt that his choice of quotation had been boorish, inept. To his relief, however, Anthony completed the verse –
    â€˜
So much one man can do
    That does both act and know.
’
    He stuttered slightly, as always when quoting.
    Kaspar smiled at him gratefully. ‘Ode to the Lord Protector,’ he said. ‘To your Cromwell, eh?’
    Werner von Arzfeld spoke English well, though less practised than his brother, ‘Ach! What was that again? So much –’
    â€˜
So much one man can do
    That does both act and know
!’
    â€˜It is good that,’ said Werner, ‘and true, I think. Those that act, that perform deeds are often without wisdom. And those that know and are wise, too often think and talk and do nothing. Is that not so?’
    Marcia had been sitting on a sofa exchanging in a soft voice desultory, smiling remarks with Lise. Lise had acknowledged them with answering smiles, but briefly and with an anxious eye for her father and brothers. It did not seem entirely appropriate to conduct a feminine
tête-à-tête
in the presence of so much masculine, worldly understanding from which, surely, one should learn. Marcia had, at the same time, been particularly conscious of Werner. She thought it about time that her voice, too, should be heard by the men and she now responded to Werner’s general question.
    â€˜Perhaps people that know do nothing
because
they’re wise. What’s so clever about action?’
    Frido looked disconcerted. Werner smiled.
    â€˜You are a soldier,’ said Marcia directly to Werner. ‘I suppose you’re brought up, trained to think that doing is the important thing. Not meditating!’
    â€˜I was also brought up to think that action, unless directed by a well-trained, objective mind is likely to be disastrous!’
    â€˜We’re some way from Cromwell,’ said Anthony. He felt liberated from