The Prince, however, heedless of his host’s observant eye, tossed off glass after glass of wine, and talked incessantly.  After dinner, when we all assembled in the drawing-room, he seated himself at the piano without being asked, and sang several songs.  Whether he were influenced by drink or strong excitement, his voice at any rate showed no sign of weakness or deterioration.  Never had I heard him sing so magnificently.  He seemed possessed not by an angel but by a demon of song.  It was impossible not to listen to him, and while listening, equally impossible not to admire him.  Even Zara, who was generally indifferent to his music, became, on this particular night, fascinated into a sort of dreamy attention.  He perceived this, and suddenly addressed himself to her in softened tones which bore no trace of their previous loudness.

“Madame, you honour me to-night by listening to my poor efforts.  It is seldom I am thus rewarded!”

Zara flushed deeply, and then grew very pale.

“Indeed, Prince,” she answered quietly, “you mistake me.  I always listen with pleasure to your singing—­to-night, perhaps, my mood is more fitted to music than is usual with me, and thus I may appear to you to be more attentive.  But your voice always delights me as it must delight everybody who hears it.”

“While you are in a musical mood then,” returned Prince Ivan, “let me sing you an English song—­one of the loveliest ever penned.  I have set it to music myself, as such words are not of the kind to suit ordinary composers or publishers; they are too much in earnest, too passionate, too full of real human love and sorrow.  The songs that suit modern drawing-rooms and concert-halls, as a rule, are those that are full of sham sentiment—­a real, strong, throbbing heart pulsing through a song is too terribly exciting for lackadaisical society.  Listen!” And, playing a dreamy, murmuring prelude like the sound of a brook flowing through a hollow cavern, he sang Swinburne’s “Leave-Taking,” surely one of the saddest and most beautiful poems in the English language.

He subdued his voice to suit the melancholy hopelessness of the lines, and rendered it with so much intensity of pathetic expression that it was difficult to keep tears from filling the eyes.  When he came to the last verse, the anguish of a wasted life seemed to declare itself in the complete despair of his low vibrating tones: 

   “Let us go hence and rest; she will not love. 
    She shall not hear us if we sing hereof,
    Nor see love’s ways, how sore they are and steep. 
    Come hence, let be, lie still; it is enough. 
    Love is a barren sea, bitter and deep;
    And though she saw all heaven in flower above,
          She would not love!”