“And the soul—at least the English soul—does not understand them,” observed Maurice, with a yawn, for he was growing somewhat tired of this musical discussion.
“If the song is in Italian, French, or German, I can certainly understand it,” said the lady, with dignity; “but Greek I can hardly be expected to know.”
“I do not think you would care much for the words if you did understand modern Greek,” remarked Crispin with a smile. “The sonorous tongue of Hellas invests the most commonplace poems with a dignity and a charm which they would lose if translated. Come, Count, and sing that love-song you used to be so fond of in Athens.”
“Athens!” repeated the Count, with a significant smile, as he rose to comply with this request.
“Yes, Athens!” repeated Crispin, with emphasis. “I was accustomed to play your accompaniment. How does it go?”
He began playing a simple melody, which, wild though it was, sounded quite poverty-stricken after the wealth of harmonies which had so distinguished the music of Dvoräk. Caliphronas watched the player’s fingers for a little time, and then began to sing in an uncommonly fine tenor voice, though of course somewhat rough for want of training. What he lacked in delicacy, however, he made up in force and fire; and the wonderful language he sang in also assisted him greatly, though, as regards the song itself, neither melody nor words were particularly striking.
Daphne, this summer night is full of singing;
I hear my comrades sigh at the windows of those they worship;
The windows are open, but thy lattice is closed.
“Love!” calls the lover to his beloved.