“So does their music in some cases; there is nothing like consistency. Still, some of the advanced school of music’s efforts are delightful. This dance of Dvoräk’s, for instance.”
Bringing down his hands on the keys with a crash, he played one of those weird gypsy dances of the Bohemian musician, which thrill the listener with their wild capriciousness, and conjure up pictures of a mode of life quite alien to our prosaic respectability. That strange chord resounds loudly through the room, and at once we see the wild horses flying across the illimitable gray plain, the fierce voices of their gypsy riders pealing up to the sombre sky of midnight. That rapid medley of sounds, and lo! the fires burn redly under the trees, while round them bound tawny women with flashing eyes, tossing their arms and clashing their tambourines to the wild rhythm of the music. Death on the cards, love in the stars, and the muttered prophecies of crouching hags, terrified at the omen of flying bat, of shrieking night-bird. Another whirl of glittering notes scatter themselves through the air, crash, crash, crash, chord upon chord sounds fiercely, with intervals of sparkling chromatic runs like the falling of broken spray, and then one final chord, bringing the red of the dawn, the chill winds of morning, and the uprising of the cheerful sun.
“Wonderful!” cried Mrs. Dengelton, who knew nothing about music, but admired Dvoräk because he was the fashion, and not intelligible to the ordinary mind.
“So fantastic,” added Eunice, whose accomplishments did not soar above the mild singing of a mild drawing-room ballad, such as “Daddy’s Dancing,” or “Oh, if to thee my heart is Welcome!”
“Well, for my part,” said the Count, shrugging his shoulders, “I think your new music is horrible.”
“Ah, it does not appeal to your Hellenic spirit,” replied Crispin carelessly. “Mephistopheles felt out of place at the classical Walpurgis Night, so you, my dear Caliphronas, feel equally at sea among this diablerie of a Northern composer, so suggestive of the festival on the Bröcken.”
“I don’t know what you are taking about,” said the Count uneasily, having a vague idea he was being laughed at.
“Of course you don’t,” replied Crispin coolly. “You have never read ‘Faust,’ either the first or the second part.”
Caliphronas knew that Crispin did not like him, and, thinking he wanted to ridicule him in the presence of the ladies, would have made some angry answer, but that Eunice, quite unaware of this storm in a teacup, asked him to sing a Greek song.
“Yes, do, dear Count!” said Mrs. Dengelton gushingly. “I do so love foreign songs! They go to the soul.”