ABSTRACT
From the time, at the house of Paul Hyacinth in Paris, when the author first heard Penelope sing, the lightening-flash impressions which had seared my brain then had not been armed. Often he heard her sing again; often he heard peasants singing in remote parts of Greece which were still uninfluenced by recent Athenian fashions, and before American phonographs, radio and jazz had been generally introduced in the little cafes of Greek villages. So another impression different only in its increasing expectedness, came to support the first, and to lighten the darkness which had closed in after Penelope had first opened her lips.
