that you do not like him very much. He knows this so well that he spent most of an hour on the phone with me yesterday, talking of you, and of your half brother. Very serious talk. So I cannot tell you not to take him seriously, as I might tell some other young thing. A gentle warning, you know the kind of thing? No, to you I say something else again. He may seem to be invulnerable and very strong. Sometimes he is very strong indeed, but he is not invulnerable." She gave Marianne a meaningful look which confused her enormously, then giggled, unexpectedly, an almost shocking sound coming from that dignified person. "So, even if we are sympathetic to your side of whatever problem brews, we have done nothing Professor Zahmani could complain of. If he is not civil enough to converse across the table and find out what his luncheon partner does—well, what occurs thereafter must be his fault, no?"
Marianne, being human, found the thought of Harvey's dis-comfiture very pleasant indeed.
After lunch, Makr Avehl suggested that they all go riding.
Harvey had not brought riding clothes. He demurred, explaining that he would be happy spending a few quiet hours in the library. The others left him there with Ellat while they went into the afternoon sun and the freshness of spring. Madame Andami cast aside her quiet, listening pose and rode like a centaur, laughing when Marianne complimented her on her seat. "I have ridden donkeys, mules, camels, even elephants.
You have not a bad seat yourself, young woman."
"I haven't really ridden in years. Before my mother died we lived in the country, and I had my own horse. I still miss him."
"Ah, horses are a very great love to many girls of that age.
I have been told it is something very Freudian."
"I don't think so," laughed Marianne. "I think it is at that age that boys begin to grow so much bigger and stronger, and we girls feel left out. On the back of a horse, one ignores the fact that one is female."
"You dislike being female?"
"Not really. It just makes... complications."
In midafternoon they were met at the end of a curving lane by Aghrehond, splendid in a plaid waistcoat, who offered them champagne and fruit from the tailgate of a station wagon before they returned by a more direct route, Makr Avehl riding at Marianne's side.
"I did not wish to appear to monopolize your attentions earlier," he said. "But now, we have only a little way back to the house, and I can have you all to myself while the others go on ahead in such impatience. You got on very well with Madame Andami."
"I like her. She was telling me about her work in Iran, before everything there went up in smoke. The places have such wonderful names. Persepolis. Ecbatana. Susa. I read about them in school, of course, though it's not an area of the world I have done any reading on recently."
"They have about them something of the fictional, isn't that so? They were real, nonetheless. To us it does not seem that long ago, possibly because our children hear stories told around the fire of things which happened fifteen centuries back. Such stories carry an immediacy one does not get from books...."
"Which is why some countries carry such old grudges,"
offered Marianne. "What children learn at their grandmas' knees, they act upon as though it happened yesterday."
He nodded gravely, even sadly. "Perhaps that is true. Those who have an oral tradition full of old wrongs and old revenge do seem to fight the same battles forever. If the Irish were not forever singing of their ancient wrongs—or writing poetry about i t . . . well, we see the result in every morning's news-papers,"
"Is that the kind of thing between Alphenlicht and Lubovosk? Or would you rather not talk about it?"
"Stories told at my grandma's knee? Oh, yes, Marianne.
For my grandma remembered it happening. The country was always like the two halves of an hourglass, connected with a narrow waist, a high mountain pass which was difficult in the best of
Marianne, being human, found the thought of Harvey's dis-comfiture very pleasant indeed.
After lunch, Makr Avehl suggested that they all go riding.
Harvey had not brought riding clothes. He demurred, explaining that he would be happy spending a few quiet hours in the library. The others left him there with Ellat while they went into the afternoon sun and the freshness of spring. Madame Andami cast aside her quiet, listening pose and rode like a centaur, laughing when Marianne complimented her on her seat. "I have ridden donkeys, mules, camels, even elephants.
You have not a bad seat yourself, young woman."
"I haven't really ridden in years. Before my mother died we lived in the country, and I had my own horse. I still miss him."
"Ah, horses are a very great love to many girls of that age.
I have been told it is something very Freudian."
"I don't think so," laughed Marianne. "I think it is at that age that boys begin to grow so much bigger and stronger, and we girls feel left out. On the back of a horse, one ignores the fact that one is female."
"You dislike being female?"
"Not really. It just makes... complications."
In midafternoon they were met at the end of a curving lane by Aghrehond, splendid in a plaid waistcoat, who offered them champagne and fruit from the tailgate of a station wagon before they returned by a more direct route, Makr Avehl riding at Marianne's side.
"I did not wish to appear to monopolize your attentions earlier," he said. "But now, we have only a little way back to the house, and I can have you all to myself while the others go on ahead in such impatience. You got on very well with Madame Andami."
"I like her. She was telling me about her work in Iran, before everything there went up in smoke. The places have such wonderful names. Persepolis. Ecbatana. Susa. I read about them in school, of course, though it's not an area of the world I have done any reading on recently."
"They have about them something of the fictional, isn't that so? They were real, nonetheless. To us it does not seem that long ago, possibly because our children hear stories told around the fire of things which happened fifteen centuries back. Such stories carry an immediacy one does not get from books...."
"Which is why some countries carry such old grudges,"
offered Marianne. "What children learn at their grandmas' knees, they act upon as though it happened yesterday."
He nodded gravely, even sadly. "Perhaps that is true. Those who have an oral tradition full of old wrongs and old revenge do seem to fight the same battles forever. If the Irish were not forever singing of their ancient wrongs—or writing poetry about i t . . . well, we see the result in every morning's news-papers,"
"Is that the kind of thing between Alphenlicht and Lubovosk? Or would you rather not talk about it?"
"Stories told at my grandma's knee? Oh, yes, Marianne.
For my grandma remembered it happening. The country was always like the two halves of an hourglass, connected with a narrow waist, a high mountain pass which was difficult in the best of
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