He looked at her, as though he were angry with her, and yet scarcely
seeming to know her, and spoke in a hard, bitter tone: "And it is
_years_ since I have heard one!" He seemed to cry out upon her for the
conditions of his life.
She had no key for these words, could not imagine a meaning for them,
and, chilled and repelled, wondered if she had heard him rightly.
The funeral march from the Eroica began, and her father's face
softened. The swelling volume of tone rose like a flood-tide. The
great hall, the thousands of human hearts, all beat solemnly in the
grave and hopeless pulsations of the measured chords. The air
was thick with sorrow, with quiet despair. No outcries here, no
screams--the modern soul advancing somberly with a pale composure to
the grave of its love, aware that during all the centuries since the
dead Siegfried was lifted high on the shoulders of his warriors not a
word of explanation, of consolation has been found; that the modern,
barren self-control means only what the barbarian yells out in his
open abandonment to sorrow--and yet such beauty, such beauty in that
singing thread of melody--"_durch Leiden, Freude!_"
Not even the shadow of death had ever fallen across Sylvia's life, or
that of her father, to explain the premonitory emotion which now drew
them together like two frightened children. Sylvia felt the inexorable
music beating in her own veins, and when she took her father's hand
it seemed to her that its strong pulses throbbed to the same rhythm;
beauty, and despair .
Pages:
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195