Part 14 (1/2)
The Countess is a vehement opponent of the prophet of Bayreuth, in the first place because in her youth she was a pupil of Cicimara's and consequently cannot endure the 'screaming called singing' introduced by Wagner; secondly, because Wagner's operas always give her headache; and thirdly, because she has noticed that his operas are sure to exercise an immoral influence upon those who hear them.
Wenkendorf, on the contrary, considers Wagner a great moral reformer, the first genius of the century in Germany,--Bismarck, of course, excepted. As he talks he holds in his hand the thick volume of Wagner's collected librettos, with his forefinger on the t.i.tle-page of 'Parzifal,' impatiently awaiting the moment when he can begin to read aloud.
Hitherto, since the Countess and Wenkendorf are both well-bred people, their lively dispute has been conducted in rather a humorous fas.h.i.+on, but finally Wenkendorf suggests a most reprehensible and, in the eyes of the Countess, unpardonable idea.
”Whatever may be thought of Wagner's work, it cannot be denied,” he says, with an oratorical flourish of his hand, ”that he is at the head of the greatest musical revolution ever known; that he has, so to speak, delivered music from conventional Catholicism, overladen as it is with all sorts of silly old-world superst.i.tion. He is, if I may so express myself, the Luther of music.”
At the word 'Luther,' uttered in raised tones, the bigoted Countess nearly faints away. In her eyes, Luther is an apostate monk who married a nun, a monster whom she detests.
”Oh, if you so compare him, Wagner is indeed condemned!” she exclaims, flus.h.i.+ng with indignation, and trembling through all her ma.s.s of flesh.
At this moment Zdena and her cousin enter. Countess Zriny feels it her duty to embrace the girl patronizingly. Hedwig says something to her about her new gown.
”Did you get it in Paris?” she asks. ”I saw one like it in Vienna last summer,--but it is very pretty. You carry yourself much better than you used to, Zdena,--really a great improvement!--a great improvement!”
At last all are seated. Baron Wenkendorf clears his throat, and opens the portly volume.
”Now we can begin,” Frau Rosamunda observes.
The Baron begins. He reads himself into a great degree of enthusiasm, and is just p.r.o.nouncing the words,--
”Then after pain's drear night Comes morning's glorious light; Before me gleams Brightly the sacred wave, The blessed daylight beams, From night of pain to save Gawain----”
when Frau Rosamunda, who has been rummaging in her work-basket, rises.
”What is the matter, Rosamunda?” the Baron asks, impatiently. He is the only one who addresses her by her beautiful baptismal name unmutilated.
”Excuse me, my dear Roderich, but I cannot find my thimble. Zdena, be so kind as to go and get me my thimble.”
While Zdena has gone to look for it, Frau von Leskjewitsch turns to her cousin, who is rather irritated by this interruption, and exclaims, ”Very interesting!--oh, extremely interesting! Do you not think so?”
turning for confirmation of her opinion to the other listeners. But the other listeners do not respond. Countess Zriny, who, with her hands as usual encased in Swedish gloves, is knitting with thick, wooden needles something brown for the poor, only drops her double chin majestically upon her breast, and Harry--usually quite unsurpa.s.sable in the well-bred art of being bored with elegance and decorum--is tugging angrily at his moustache.
Zdena shortly returns with the missing thimble. The reading begins afresh, and goes quite smoothly for a time; Wenkendorf is satisfied with his audience.
”Oh, wonderful and sacred one!” he is reading, with profound emotion.
Everyone is listening eagerly. Hark! A scratching noise, growing louder each minute, and finally ending in a pounding at the summer-house door, arouses the little company from its rapt attention. A smile lights up Frau Rosamunda's serene features:
”It is Morl. Let him in, Harry.” Morl, the hostess's black poodle, is admitted, goes round the circle, laying his paw confidingly upon the knee of each member of it in turn, is petted and caressed by his mistress, and finally, after he has vainly tried to oust the Countess Zriny from the corner of the sofa which he considers his own special property, establishes himself, with a low growl, in the other corner of that piece of furniture.
Wenkendorf, meanwhile, drums the march from 'Tannhuser' softly on the cover of his thick book and frowns disapprovingly. Harry observes his annoyance with satisfaction, watching him the while attentively, and reflecting on the excellent match in view of which Zdena has forgotten her fleeting attachment for the playmate of her childhood.
”A contemptible creature!” he says to himself: ”any man is good enough to afford her amus.e.m.e.nt. Who would have thought it? Fool that I was!
I'm well out of it,--yes, really well out of it.”
And whilst he thus seriously attempts to persuade himself that, under the circ.u.mstances, nothing could be more advantageous for him than this severance of all ties with his beautiful, fickle cousin, his heart burns like fire in his breast. He has never before felt anything like this torture. His glance wanders across to where Zdena sits sewing, with bent head and feverish intentness, upon a piece of English embroidery.