It's always politics and politics--I'm sick of
politics!"
"S-so am I," said the Gadfly, yawning lazily;
"and therefore we'll talk about something else--
unless you will sing."
"Well, give me the guitar, then. What shall I sing?"
"The ballad of the lost horse; it suits your voice
so well."
She began to sing the old Hungarian ballad of
the man who loses first his horse, then his home,
and then his sweetheart, and consoles himself with
the reflection that "more was lost at Mohacz
field." The song was one of the Gadfly's especial
favourites; its fierce and tragic melody and the
bitter stoicism of the refrain appealed to him as
no softer music ever did.
Zita was in excellent voice; the notes came
from her lips strong and clear, full of the vehement
desire of life. She would have sung Italian or
Slavonic music badly, and German still worse; but
she sang the Magyar folk-songs splendidly.
The Gadfly listened with wide-open eyes and
parted lips; he had never heard her sing like this
before.
Pages:
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336