Stained Glass by William F. Buckley Page A

much, Countess. It doesn’t really matter. I’m sure Count Wintergrin had good reasons, whatever they were.”
    â€œOh, indeed, Mr. Oakes. Axel always had good reasons. It’s just that other people don’t always know what those good reasons are . I’m sure that’s true of you, Mr. Oakes. I am sure you have good reasons for being here.”
    Axel Wintergrin strode into the room, leaned over to give his mother a light kiss on the forehead, then extended his hand to the visitor. He was dressed in his favorite rust-colored tweed, and though the jacket was unbuttoned, the trimness of his body was evident. He took a biscuit absent-mindedly from the tray on the table and sat down, extending his long, thin hand to take the cup and saucer the butler handed him.
    â€œIt is very good to meet you, Mr. Oakes. Good evening, Mother.”
    â€œGood evening, darling.”
    â€œYou are most welcome, Mr. Oakes”—he spoke in English. As fluent as Blackford’s, though the accent was British. Not surprisingly, there was a trace there of the distinctive Greyburn slur—“as I hope I have made clear. In due course we’d have attended to the church ourselves. But it would have been a long time. Perhaps ten or fifteen years from now. Even the Russians, who can conscript their laborers and their artists, are talking in terms of twenty-five years to rebuild all their palaces in Leningrad. It is irrelevant that the liquidation of the state as promised by Karl Marx will be delayed even longer. The gesture of your government, in any case, is greatly appreciated. You are familiar with my father’s book?”
    â€œYes, I am. An admirable work. I trust one day it will be translated into English.”
    â€œYou anticipate me, Mr. Oakes. It is my intention to subsidize a translation in a memorial edition dedicated to the American people when the rebuilding is done.”
    â€œDear Axel”—the countess rose, upon which the two men followed suit—“forgive me. You have matters to discuss with Mr. Oakes. I have matters to discuss with my cook. So nice of you to come, Mr. Oakes.” She extended her hand, but drew it back with that abruptness of the European who suddenly recalls that it will not be kissed, because the gentleman is American and doesn’t … know; so don’t embarrass him, and she smiled wholesomely through her lightly tinted lips, turned her tweedy presence to the door, and muttered something to the butler, who followed her out.
    â€œWe will stay here, since my mother has left us alone.” Blackford had his first direct experience of the surefooted authoritativeness of Axel Wintergrin. (He hadn’t said—important difference—“Shall we stay here, now that my mother is gone?”) Black nodded, and Wintergrin began to talk.
    â€œYou know, Mr. Oakes—from my father’s history book—that the building of St. Anselm’s church coincided with the settlement of the village. When the church was consecrated, just after 1250, the first Baron of Wintergrin was charged by the bishop to maintain the church in its pristine mini-magnificence. Probably that is the single charge all my ancestors have taken seriously.” He smiled. “Though that’s not entirely fair. On the whole they have been a good lot, and the one who was executed for adultery simply lived at the wrong time: the German Catholics were especially anxious, at that period, to distinguish their own position on marital fidelity from that of the British king.” Blackford smiled. Fancy. Royal adultery!
    â€œI have, as you certainly know, undertaken the organization of a national political party to compete in the elections in November. This will require me to spend a great deal of time away from St. Anselm’s. But I make every effort to get back here on Sundays and Mondays. I shall always be at your disposal to review your work and that of your