“What would you like, sir?”
“Oh, it’s not what I should like. What would you like to read? Something that really appeals to you.”
Edwin felt that the dean was watching him, like a cat stalking a bird, as his fingers approached the bookshelf. It was a curious responsibility, for it would be an awful shame if he chose something that the old man didn’t approve of. Sophocles. . . . Why not Sophocles?
He picked out the Antigone, and chose the great chorus:—
Ἔρως ἀνίκατε μάχαν,
Ἔρως, ὁς ἐν κτήμασι πίπτεις, . . .
“Let’s have it in Greek first.”
Edwin read it in the level voice which the Head of St. Luke’s had always used for the recitation of Greek poetry. When he had finished the first strophe he looked up and saw that the Dean’s weak eyes, beneath their tortoiseshell spectacles, were brimming with tears.
“That will do,” he said, “unless you’d prefer to go on . . .”
Edwin read the antistrophe.
“Yes . . . I don’t think you need translate it,” said the Dean. He paused for a moment, then, replacing the volume, went on. “In this university I am known as the Professor of Dead Languages. Dead languages. What?”