Free The Vienna Melody by Ernst Lothar, Elizabeth Reynolds Hapgood Page B

armchair facing him.
    It was not until later that she became aware that the gold-and-white room had an extraordinarily high ceiling and gigantic windows, or that she saw the antlers, the stuffed animals, the arms on the walls and in glass cases, the mass of papers and manuscripts strewn over the desk, and a table in the background.
    â€œYou do look a bit tired,” she said. She loved him so much she could hardly speak. “I hope you’re not sick.”
    He leaned back, crossed his arms, and looked at her. In addition to his shooting jacket he wore the green necktie that she had given him.
    â€œThe last news I had of you I read in the
Fremdenblatt
,”
 
he said. “You became engaged?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAre you happy?”
    She nodded.
    â€œForgive my wretched memory: I’ve forgotten who your fiancé is.”
    â€œFranz Alt. Of the piano firm.”
    â€œRight. Hasn’t he a brother who’s a lawyer?”
    â€œYes, that’s his brother.”
    â€œAnd he’s young and handsome? Of course!” he answered his own question.
    The original of the Adam portrait of the Empress Elizabeth on horseback, of which Franz had a copy, hung opposite Hentiette. With her eyes on his mother’s perfectly lovely features, which danced up and down and then blurred, she said, “Neither young nor handsome.”
    â€œBut in love?”
    â€œHe likes me.”
    â€œAnd you?” He hunted for something among his papers, could not find it, and threw them all into a basket on his right.
    She could not say any more, so was silent.
    Jumping up, he began to stride around the room without coming near her chair. On the contrary, he paced up and down in a diagonal between a stuffed bear which bore the inscription “Munkács. September 17, 1883,” and a collection of tropical birds.
    â€œHow much time have you?” His excitement was so obvious that did not dare remind him of the five minutes for which he had asked.
    â€œA little while longer,” she replied. He had grown much thinner. He looked younger, fascinating.
    He checked his nervous pacing and stood by one of the two windows facing on the Francis Court. On the opposite wall was an old sundial, on which the shadow fell at twenty minutes past three.
    â€œI’ve something to ask of you,” he said with his face turned away from her. “It’s a lot. A frightful lot!”
    She did not move, for she knew what was coming. “This is no love,” he would tell her again. “This isn’t anything. If you really love me you must prove it to me!”
    Looking across to the sundial and to the bronze monument of Emperor Francis, whom the Viennese nicknamed “Good Emperor Franz”, he spoke quickly, in snatches, and very softly: “The point is that I—But you’re not angry with me? We spoke of it once. Do you remember? That I foresaw the day when I should have enough. You said then that you didn’t care either. Don’t say anything. For God’s sake, listen to me! The point is—I shall try to explain it to you. If it’s cowardice, all right. Cowardice, terrible egotism, irresponsibility—what you will. But I am afraid. Not of doing it—in our family only my mother is perhaps a better shot. But you can never tell how it will turn out. Ferdie Pállfy will be a cripple all his life. I don’t want that. Besides, I know it’s idiotic, but can’t help thinking all the time—what happens afterwards? The churchmen say there’s nothing but purgatory for suicides. Idiotic! There’s nothing afterwards. Absolutely nothing! Nevertheless, it might happen that at the decisive moment I might be taken in by this Church fraud. Recently I haven’t been sure of myself. ‘It’s nerves,’ says Dr. Widerhofer. My hand might be unsteady—that’s what I fear. And—if one—I mean—-if the two of us—I