REINEKE’S ARRIVAL AT XINARA.
It was a bright December afternoon when Reineke was left by the
_Iris_ upon the little pier at Tenos. Aristides, the “young man
of confidence,” who had safely deposited Inarime at her aunt’s at
Mousoulou, was sent by Selaka to meet him. Gustav inquiringly scanned
his conductor’s face. He disliked its inquisitiveness and keenness,
and was repelled by the familiarity with which the fellow held out
his hand. But he took the hand, and coldly expressed his satisfaction
with his new acquaintance, who explained to him volubly that it would
be advisable to rest a little in the town before ascending to Xinara.
Aristides then proceeded to guide the stranger to a little _café_,
and Reineke’s visible weakness made even a rest in such a locality
grateful. He sat quietly waiting for some coffee, and looked around.
Being an Eastern, he felt less shuddering repugnance to the place than
an Englishman or Frenchman would have felt. Besides, there was an
acute pleasure to be derived from watching the light flash upon the
blue waters, and gleam upon the lifted oars until they looked like
shining spears. He inferred that Aristides was the son of his host,
and conjectured that he would not be likely to draw very largely upon
such resources for intellectual enjoyment. And then, personally, he
disliked the Greeks, as we know. He was not restless or particularly
active, so that he could comfortably get through a couple of hours in
this indolent contemplation. But it was with a sense of relief that he
saw Aristides approach with a mule upon which he was invited to mount,
and slowly they made the difficult ascent. To a strong man such a ride
would be discomposing in the extreme; to a man still in the clutch of
an intermittent fever it was positive torture. It seemed to Reineke
that the attitude of the beast was a constant perpendicular, now
with its head for apex and now with its tail and this sort of motion
continued a good hour and a half. The musical flow of the torrent beds
and the echo of distant waterfalls were heard mingling with varied
bird-notes. But how to take æsthetic pleasure in these sounds when one
is momentarily expecting to be hurled into eternity, or, at least,
in peril of leaving various limbs about the precipices and ravines;
now frantically clutching forward and then almost prone backwards to
preserve one’s balance!
Little by little, however, his senses began to recover, and he was able
to take occasional glimpses of the strange landscape through which he
was being hurled. The gathering twilight was dimming the pure air, but
had not yet struck out the colours that lay upon the land. The meadows
were full of wild flowers, and he noted how beautiful some of the weeds
were. The bloom of the fields and the gray mist of the olives, and the
purple haze that lay upon the fig branches, tracing their intricate
pattern across the silent hills and making their own pathway for the
shadows, charmed him. The sparkle and murmur of water, the departing
smile of sunshine from the darkening heavens, the early stir of
shepherd life, an air so fine that every scent from valley and hillside
was discernible from the mingled whole, filled him with a sense of
exquisite content. And when he saw the beautiful valley of Kolymvithra
unfolded like a panorama under the village of Xinara, and the great
purple Castro lost in evening shade, he felt that his perilous ride had
not been in vain.
As they rode up the little village street, Demetrius and his satellites
were standing outside the blacksmith’s den. The presence of a stranger
naturally diverted their thoughts from the rascalities of the Prime
Minister at Athens, which they had been discussing.
“That, I suppose, is an Englishman,” said the handsome Demetrius,
removing his cigarette, and staring hard at Reineke with an air of
ill-concealed discontent, as he addressed himself inclusively to
Michael, the contemplative carpenter, and Johannis, the blacksmith.
“He is too dark for an Englishman; it is most likely he’s an Italian,”
suggested the carpenter, in a tone of apologetic protest.
“You fool! do you think that every Englishman is yellow-haired and
white and red?” retorted Demetrius, snappishly. “But you are not going
to deny, I hope, that the man has the conceited air of an Englishman?
No other people carry themselves as if the world belonged to them, and
those that are not English do not count. And what is all this pride
for, pray? Ten of their heroes would not make one of ours.”
“Very true, Demetrius,” concurred Michael, conciliatorily. “If England
had produced one Miltiades, we might all go hang ourselves, for no
other nation would be allowed to exist. Now here are we good-natured
Greeks, who count our heroes by the hundred, and know ourselves to be
the point upon which the world, both occidental and oriental, turns,
quietly smoking our cigarettes, and willing to allow others a part
of the pathway. Whereas an Englishman, when he goes abroad, walks
down other people’s streets as if he thought himself merciful in only
knocking the owners into the shade instead of crushing them.”
“Well, I can’t say I am for England either,” said Johannis, diving his
hands into the pockets of his blue cotton pantaloons. “I always thought
she was too fond of helping herself to parts of the globe which she had
no right to, and of battering others into submission. But it cannot be
denied that she is very rich and sufficiently attentive to the affairs
of Greece. London, I hear on first-class authority, is a wonderful
place. You know Marengo, the captain of the _Iris_, stayed there a
week; but he never once ventured out of the hotel alone, so frightened
was he by the noise and the people. He solemnly swears he saw fifty
trains steaming in and out of the station at the same time. It sounds
incredible, but Marengo is positive. He counted thirty, but his head
grew dizzy, though he saw he had only got through half the number. When
driving he had to keep his eyes and ears closed, expecting every minute
to be killed by the thousand cabs that whizzed round him as quick as
lightning. He could not understand how the people managed to cross the
streets, some of them a mile in width!”
“You may believe half of what Marengo says, Johannis,” cried
Demetrius, “he is an unconscionable liar. However, I have certainly
been assured that London is a largest kind of town, perhaps a little
more extensive than Athens, but then I never believe all I hear. I like
to judge things for myself. Not that I have seen Athens either; but
I believe it to be the finest city in the world. Why, was not Athens
founded long before London or Paris were heard of? Do not people come
every day from America to see it, and guardians have to be placed
about the Acropolis to prevent strangers robbing its stones or relics?
I would be glad if you could name a Greek who would go to London or
America for a relic!”
Demetrius looked as if he had sufficiently clinched the matter. If
travellers come to Greece for a purpose which certainly does not
inspire the Greeks to go to foreign parts, it clearly proves the
advantage on the side of Greece.
“True enough, Demetrius,” assented Michael, “and do we not know that
Mr. Gladstone, the Prime Minister of England, is more anxious for
our safety than that of his own people? And he would gladly exchange
London for Athens to-morrow if he could, and mind you, he has seen both
places. If we go to war this year, depend upon it, Mr. Gladstone will
send us men enough to smash the Turks.”
“We will accept England’s aid when we need it,” said the village
Lothario, condescendingly, with a dramatic gesture, as he threw away
the end of his cigarette. “But we know very well that three hundred
Greeks are more than a match for ten thousand Turks, as they were for
the Persians in the olden days.”
Demetrius, you will perceive, was learned, and that was why he was
president of the clubs.
“Where are you going shooting to-morrow?” asked Johannis, who knew
nothing about the Persians, and resented their introduction with the
unreasonable jealousy and bigotry of ignorance.
“I am going to shoot round Koumara,” said Demetrius, testily.
“It’s poor shooting you’ll get there,” remarked Johannis. “I am going
to Mousoulou. I shot a lot of wild pigeons there last Sunday and bagged
larks and sparrows by the dozen.”
In the meantime, through a running fire of continual comment, and
under the gaze of every pair of eyes the village possessed, Reineke,
conducted by the cheerful and voluble Aristides, was led down the
torrent and round by the windmill upon the brow of the hill, to the
little postern gate which led into Selaka’s vineyard. He was so
exhausted that in dismounting he had to lean heavily upon Aristides,
and slowly walked up the sloping path to the gate. It was opened by
Annunziata, who flashed him a delightful smile of welcome, and at
that moment Selaka himself hastened forward, and shook him cordially
by the hand. But Reineke was too weak and fatigued to do more than
smile faintly, and murmur some unintelligible phrase, upon which he
was helped into the house, and there collapsed at once upon the sofa.
Here we will leave him in the sleep of complete exhaustion, feeling
shattered and bruised and as if a week’s sleep would be insufficient to
recuperate him.