Part 31 (2/2)
”And my cousin has surprised me with some delightful music which I have long wanted.”
”Not worth mentioning, Rosamunda,” Wenkendorf says, deprecatingly.
”My wife's birthday has really turned out a Wagner festival,” the major declares. ”Since ten o'clock this morning these two artists have been playing nothing but Wagner, for their own pleasure and the conversion of their hearers. Zdena ran away, but I stood my ground, and I have become quite accustomed to the noise.”
”That is a good sign,” Wenkendorf a.s.sures him.
”You ought to hear Wagner's compositions very often. What do you say, Roderich, to our playing for Harry some of the loveliest bits of 'Parzifal'? We are just in the mood.”
”Do not let me interrupt you; pray go on; it will give me the greatest pleasure,” Harry murmurs, glancing towards the door. Why does she not come?
Meanwhile, the two amateurs have begun with untiring energy.
”Kundry's Ride!” Frau Rosamunda calls out to her nephew, while her hands dash over the keys. Harry does not hear her. He has seated himself beside the major, and absently takes a cigarette from the case which his uncle offers him.
”I came to bid you good-bye,” he says, in an uncertain voice.
”Indeed!” says the major, looking at him scrutinizingly. ”Is your leave at an end?”
”No, but----” Harry hesitates and pulls at his moustache.
”H'm!” A sly smile quivers upon the major's broad face. ”Have you quarrelled with your betrothed?”
”No, but----”
The door opens, and Zdena enters, slender and pale, dressed in a simply-fas.h.i.+oned linen gown. She has lost her fresh colour, and her face is much thinner, but her beauty, far from being injured thereby, is heightened by an added charm,--a sad, touching charm, that threatens to rob Harry of the remnant of reason he can still call his.
”How are you, Zdena?” he says, going to meet her, while the warmest sympathy trembles in his voice. ”You look pale. Are you well?”
”The heat oppresses me,” she says, with a slight forced smile, withdrawing the hand which he would fain have retained longer in his clasp than was fitting under the circ.u.mstances.
”The Balsam motif,” Frau Rosamunda calls from the piano.
After a while Zdena begins:
”How are they all at Komaritz? Heda sent her congratulations to-day with some lovely flowers, but said nothing with regard to the welfare of the family.”
”I wonder that Heda did not remind you of the birthday, Harry!” remarks the major.
”Oh, she rejoices over every forgetfulness in those around her,” Harry observes, with some malice: ”she likes to stand alone in her extreme virtue.”
”Motif of the Redeemer's Sufferings,” Frau Rosamunda calls out. Zdena leans forward, and seems absorbed in Wagner. Harry cannot take his eyes off her.
”What a change!” he muses. ”Can she--could she be suffering on my account?”
There is an agreeable flutter of his entire nervous system: it mingles with the sense of unhappiness which he drags about with him.
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