But the awakening came.
On a certain day, when the boat brought water and a supply of
provisions, Skavinski came down an hour later from the tower, and saw
that besides the usual cargo there was an additional package. On the
outside of this package were postage stamps of the United States, and
the address: "Skavinski, Esq.," written on coarse canvas.
The old man, with aroused curiosity, cut the canvas, and saw books; he
took one in his hand, looked at it, and put it back; thereupon his
hands began to tremble greatly. He covered his eyes as if he did not
believe them; it seemed to him as if he were dreaming. The book was
Polish,--what did that mean? Who could have sent the book? Clearly, it
did not occur to him at the first moment that in the beginning of his
light-house career he had read in the Herald, borrowed from the consul,
of the formation of a Polish society in New York, and had sent at once
to that society half his month's salary, for which he had, moreover, no
use on the tower. The society had sent him the books with thanks. The
books came in the natural way; but at the first moment the old man
could not seize those thoughts. Polish books in Aspinwall, on his
tower, amid his solitude,--that was for him something uncommon, a
certain breath from past times, a kind of miracle. Now it seemed to
him, as to those sailors in the night, that something was calling him
by name with a voice greatly beloved and nearly forgotten. He sat for a
while with closed eyes, and was almost certain that, when he opened
them, the dream would be gone.
The package, cut open, lay before him, shone upon clearly by the
afternoon sun, and on it was an open book. When the old man stretched
his hand toward it again, he heard in the stillness the beating of his
own heart. He looked; it was poetry. On the outside stood printed in
great letters the title, underneath the name of the author. The name
was not strange to Skavinski; he saw that it belonged to the great
poet, [Footnote: Mickiewicz (pronounced Mitskyevich), the greatest poet
of Poland.] whose productions he had read in 1830 in Paris. Afterward,
when campaigning in Algiers and Spain, he had heard from his countrymen
of the growing fame of the great seer; but he was so accustomed to the
musket at that time that he took no book in hand. In 1849 he went to
America, and in the adventurous life which he led he hardly ever met a
Pole, and never a Polish book. With the greater eagerness, therefore,
and with a livelier beating of the heart, did he turn to the
title-page. It seemed to him then that on his lonely rock some
solemnity is about to take place. Indeed it was a moment of great calm
and silence. The clocks of Aspinwall were striking five in the
afternoon. Not a cloud darkened the clear sky; only a few sea-mews were
sailing through the air. The ocean was as if cradled to sleep. The
waves on the shore stammered quietly, spreading softly on the sand. In
the distance the white houses of Aspinwall, and the wonderful groups of
palm, were smiling. In truth, there was something there solemn, calm,
and full of dignity. Suddenly, in the midst of that calm of Nature, was
heard the trembling voice of the old man, who read aloud as if to
understand himself better:
"Thou art like health, O my birth-land Litva!
[Footnote: Lithuania.]
How much we should prize thee he only can know who has lost thee.
Thy beauty in perfect adornment this day
I see and describe, because I am yearning for thee."
His voice failed Skavinski. The letters began to dance before his eyes;
something broke in his breast, and went like a wave from his heart
higher and higher, choking his voice and pressing his throat. A moment
more he controlled himself, and read further:
"O Holy Lady, who guardest bright Chenstohova,
Who shinest in Ostrobrama and preservest
The castle town Novgrodek with its trusty people,
As Thou didst give me back to health in childhood,
When by my weeping mother placed beneath Thy care
I raised my lifeless eyelids upward,
And straightway walked unto Thy holy threshold,
To thank God for the life restored me,--
So by a wonder now restore us to the bosom of our birthplace."
The swollen wave broke through the restraint of his will. The old man
sobbed, and threw himself on the ground; his milk-white hair was
mingled with the sand of the sea. Forty years had passed since he had
seen his country, and God knows how many since he heard his native
speech; and now that speech had come to him itself,--it had sailed to
him over the ocean, and found him in solitude on another
hemisphere,--it so loved, so dear, so beautiful! In the sobbing which
shook him there was no pain,--only a suddenly aroused immense love, in
the presence of which other things are as nothing. With that great
weeping he had simply implored forgiveness of that beloved one, set
aside because he had grown so old, had become so accustomed to his
solitary rock, and had so forgotten it that in him even longing had
begun to disappear. But now it returned as if by a miracle; therefore
the heart leaped in him.
Moments vanished one after another; he lay there continually. The mews
flew over the light-house, crying as if alarmed for their old friend.
The hour in which he fed them with the remnants of his food had come;
therefore, some of them flew down from the light-house to him; then
more and more came, and began to pick and to shake their wings over his
head. The sound of the wings roused him. He had wept his fill, and had
now a certain calm and brightness; but his eyes were as if inspired. He
gave unwittingly all his provisions to the birds, which rushed at him
with an uproar, and he himself took the book again. The sun had gone
already behind the gardens and the forest of Panama, and was going
slowly beyond the isthmus to the other ocean; but the Atlantic was full
of light yet; in the open air there was still perfect vision;
therefore, he read further:
"Now bear my longing soul to those forest slopes, to those green
meadows."
At last the dusk obliterates the letters on the white paper,--the dusk
short as a twinkle. The old man rested his head on the rock, and closed
his eyes. Then "She who defends bright Chenstohova" took his soul, and
transported it to "those fields colored by various grain." On the sky
were burning yet those long stripes, red and golden, and on those
brightnesses he was flying to beloved regions. The pine-woods were
sounding in his ears; the streams of his native place were murmuring.
He saw everything as it was; everything asked him, "Dost remember?" He
remembers! he sees broad fields; between the fields, woods and
villages. It is night now. At this hour his lantern usually illuminates
the darkness of the sea; but now he is in his native village. His old
head has dropped on his breast, and he is dreaming. Pictures are
passing before his eyes quickly, and a little disorderly. He does not
see the house in which he was born, for war had destroyed it; he does
not see his father and mother, for they died when he was a child; but
still the village is as if he had left it yesterday,--the line of
cottages with lights in the windows, the mound, the mill, the two ponds
opposite each other, and thundering all night with a chorus of frogs.
Once he had been on guard in that village all night; now that past
stood before him at once in a series of views. He is an Ulan again, and
he stands there on guard; at a distance is the public-house; he looks
with swimming eyes. There is thundering and singing and shouting amid
the silence of the night with voices of fiddles and bass-viols "U-ha!
U-ha!" Then the Ulans knock out fire with their horseshoes, and it is
wearisome for him there on his horse. The hours drag on slowly; at last
the lights are quenched; now as far as the eye reaches there is mist,
and mist impenetrable; now the fog rises, evidently from the fields,
and embraces the whole world with a whitish cloud. You would say, a
complete ocean. But that is fields; soon the land-rail will be heard in
the darkness, and the bitterns will call from the reeds. The night is
calm and cool,--in truth, a Polish night! In the distance the pine-wood
is sounding without wind, like the roll of the sea. Soon dawn will
whiten the East. In fact, the cocks are beginning to crow behind the
hedges. One answers to another from cottage to cottage; the storks are
screaming somewhere on high. The Ulan feels well and bright. Some one
had spoken of a battle to-morrow. Hei! that will go on, like all the
others, with shouting, with fluttering of flaglets. The young blood is
playing like a trumpet, though the night cools it. But it is dawning.
Already night is growing pale; out of the shadows come forests, the
thicket, a row of cottages, the mill, the poplars. The well is
squeaking like a metal banner on a tower. What a beloved land,
beautiful in the rosy gleams of the morning! Oh, the one land, the one
land!
Quiet! the watchful picket hears that some one is approaching. Of
course, they are coming to relieve the guard.
Suddenly some voice is heard above Skavinski,--
"Here, old man! Get up! What's the matter?"
The old man opens his eyes, and looks with wonder at the person
standing before him. The remnants of the dream-visions struggle in his
head with reality. At last the visions pale and vanish. Before him
stands Johnson, the harbor guide.
"What's this?" asked Johnson; "are you sick?"
"No."
"You didn't light the lantern. You must leave your place. A vessel from
St. Geromo was wrecked on the bar. It is lucky that no one was drowned,
or you would go to trial. Get into the boat with me; you'll hear the
rest at the Consulate."
The old man grew pale; in fact he had not lighted the lantern that
night.
A few days later, Skavinski was seen on the deck of a steamer, which
was going from Aspinwall to New York. The poor man had lost his place.
There opened before him new roads of wandering; the wind had torn that
leaf away again to whirl it over lands and seas, to sport with it till
satisfied. The old man had failed greatly during those few days, and
was bent over; only his eyes were gleaming. On his new road of life he
held at his breast his book, which from time to time he pressed with
his hand as if in fear that that too might go from him.
THE PLAIN SISTER
BY
DEMETRIOS BIKELAS
From "Tales from the AEgean." Translated by L.E. Opdycke. Published by
A.C. McClurg & Co.
Copyright, 1894, by A.C. McClurg & Co.
I.
Mr. Plateas, professor of Greek in the Gymnasium of Syra, was returning
from his regular afternoon walk.
He used to take this walk along the Vaporia, but since they had begun
to build a carriage road to Chroussa--at the other end of the
island--he bent his steps in that direction, instead of pacing four
times up and down the only promenade in Syra. He followed the
road-building with great interest, and went farther and farther from
week to week. His learned colleagues said he would finally get to
Chroussa,--when the road was finished; but at this time--that is, in
1850--the Conservative party in the town regarded the expense as
useless and too heavy for the resources of the commune, and so the work
had been stopped for some months.
The road was completed as far as the stony valley of Mana, and here the
professor's daily walk ended. To look at him nobody would have
suspected that he had to care for his health; but his growing stoutness
gave him no little anxiety, and led him to take this exercise. Perhaps
his short stature made him look stouter than he really was; yet it
could not be denied that his neck emerged with difficulty from the
folds of his neck-cloth, or that his close-shaven, brick-red cheeks
stood out rather too conspicuously on each side of his thick moustache.
The professor had passed his fortieth year. True, he still preserved
his elasticity, and his short legs carried their burden easily; but it
was noticed that when he had a companion on his walks, he always
contrived to have his interlocutor do the talking going up hill, and
took his own turn coming down or on the level ground.
If he had thus far failed to lessen his rotundity, he had at least
stopped its growth,--a fact of which he made sure once a month by
weighing himself on the scales of the Custom House, where a friend of
his held the post of weigher. His physician had also recommended
sea-bathing. Most of his friends--both doctors and laymen--protested
against this advice; but the professor was immovable when once he had
made up his mind or bestowed his confidence; he stood firm against the
remonstrance and banter of those who regarded sea-bathing as a tonic,
and consequently fattening. He continued his baths for two seasons, and
would have kept on for the rest of his life, if a dreadful accident had
not given him such a fear of the sea, that he would have risked
doubling his circumference rather than expose himself again to the
danger from which he had been saved only through the strength and
courage of Mr. Liakos, a judge of the civil court. But for him, Mr.
Plateas would have been drowned, and this history unwritten.
It happened in this wise.
The professor was not an expert swimmer, but he could keep above water,
and was particularly fond of floating. One summer day as he lay on the
surface of the tepid sea quite unconcernedly, the sense of comfort led
to a slight somnolence. All at once he felt the water heaving under him
as if suddenly parted by some heavy body, and then seething against his
person. In an instant he thought of a shark, and turned quickly to swim
away from the monster; but whether from hurry, fright, or his own
weight, he lost his balance and sank heavily. While all this happened
quick as a flash, the moments seemed like centuries to him, and his
imagination, excited by the sudden rush of blood to the head, worked so
swiftly, that, as the professor said afterwards, if he should try to
set down everything that came into his mind then, it would make a
good-sized book. Scenes of his childhood, incidents of his youth, the
faces of his favorite pupils since the beginning of his career as a
teacher, the death of his mother, the breakfast he had eaten that
morning,--all passed before him in quick succession, and mingled
together without becoming confused; while as a musical accompaniment,
there kept sounding in his ears the verse of Valaoritis in "The Bell":
"Ding-dong! The bell!"
The night before poor Mr. Plateas had been reading "The Bell" of the
poet of Leucadia,--that pathetic picture of the enamored young sailor,
who, on returning to his village, throws himself into the sea to reach
more speedily the shore, where he hears the tolling knell and sees the
funeral procession of his beloved, and as he buffets the waves is
devoured by the monster of the deep. The poetical description of this
catastrophe had so affected him that he afterwards attributed his
misadventure to the influence of the poet's verses. If he had not read
"The Bell" that night, he would not have mistaken for a shark the
urchin that swam under him, for it was not the first time that
mischievous boys had amused themselves by plunging under the
professor's broad shoulders; but he had never been frightened before,
while to-day this poetic recollection nearly cost him his life.
Fortunately Mr. Liakos was taking his bath near by, and when he saw the
professor disappear in that extraordinary fashion, and the circles
widening on the surface, he at once understood what had happened.
Swimming rapidly to the spot, he dived down, managed to grasp the
drowning man, dragged him to the surface, and brought him ashore
unconscious. Thanks to these prompt measures, Mr. Plateas came to
himself,--with great difficulty, it is true, but he finally did come to
himself; and there on the shore of the sea he made a double vow: never
again to go into the water, and never to forget that he owed his life
to Mr. Liakos.
This vow he kept faithfully. Indeed, so far as his preserver was
concerned, it was kept with such exaggeration, that while the judge did
not repent saving the professor's life, he often found himself
regretting that some one else had not been at hand to earn all this
embarrassing gratitude. Everywhere Mr. Plateas boasted of the merits of
his preserver; the whole island resounded with his praise; each time
they met,--and they met several times a day,--he rushed toward the
judge enthusiastically and lost no chance to proclaim that henceforth
his only desire was to prove his words by his deeds. "My life belongs
to you," he would say; "I have consecrated it to you."
In vain the judge protested, and urged that the matter was not so
serious,--that any one else would have done the same in his place. Mr.
Plateas would not be convinced, and persisted in declaring his
gratitude. While it often rather bored him, the judge was touched by
this devotion, and came to accept the professor as a part of his daily
life; in this way the two men gradually became fast friends, although
they were unlike in almost everything.
So Mr. Plateas was returning from his constitutional. It was one of
those beautiful February days, true forerunners of spring, when the sun
kisses the first leaves of the early almonds, the blue sea sparkles,
and the cloudless sky of Greece smiles. But it was nearly sunset, and
the prudent professor hardly dared expose himself to the cool evening
air, for at this season winter reasserts itself as soon as the sun goes
down. He had almost reached the dockyard, which then marked the
outskirts of Syra, and was still walking along the shore, when he saw
his well-beloved Liakos in the distance coming from the town. A smile
of satisfaction lighted his round face; he threw up both hands, in one
of which was a stout cane, and raising his voice so as to be heard by
his friend from afar, declaimed this line from the "Iliad":
[Greek text] Who mayest thou be, of mortal men most brave?
The professor had a habit of quoting Homer on all occasions, and was
reputed to know the whole "Iliad" and "Odyssey" by heart. He modestly
disavowed this tribute to his learning, but without giving up the
quotations that seemed to justify it. It is true ill-natured people
said his verses were not always quite applicable; but the Hellenists of
Syra did not confirm this slander, possibly because they were not
competent to judge. Still, everybody used to smile when he raised his
voice in the midst of a trivial conversation to roll forth majestically
some sonorous hexameter from Homer.
When the two friends were near enough, Mr. Plateas stopped and
effusively shook hands with his preserver.
"My dear friend, why didn't you tell me you were going to walk to-day?
We could have come out together,--it's time to go in now. Why did you
start so late?"
"Yes, I am late; I expected to meet you farther on." And Mr. Liakos
added with a show of indifference, "Are there many people out to-day?"
"Very few. You know our Syrans; they're content to saunter up and down
their crowded square; it is only people of taste who enjoy themselves--
[Greek Text] ... on the shore of the resounding sea."
"And who were these men of taste to-day?" asked the judge, with a smile.
"If I had spoken of MEN of taste, I should have had to confine myself
to the dual number!" Mr. Plateas began to laugh at his own joke. His
friend smiled too, but wishing a more exact answer, continued:
"At least we two have imitators; how many did you meet and who were
they?"
"Always the same; Mr. A., Mr. B.--" And the professor began to count
off on his fingers the peripatetic philosophers, as he used to call the
frequenters of this promenade, that he had met,--all of them old, or at
least of ripe age, except one romantic youth who thought himself a poet.
"And no ladies?" asked the judge.
"Oh, yes, Mrs. X. with her flock of children, and the merchant,--what
is his name,--Mr. Mitrophanis, with his two daughters."
The judge had learned all he wanted to know without letting his friend
perceive the drift of his questions. This was not very difficult, for
the professor was by no means a modern Lynceus, and did not see any
great distance beyond his nose. No doubt this resulted from the innate
simplicity and integrity of his character; having never been able to
conceal or feign anything himself, he was easily led to believe
whatever he was told. The readiness with which he became the victim of
his friends each first of April was notorious. He was always on the
watch from the night before; but his precautions were in vain. He was a
man of first impressions. Sometimes, but not often, he fathomed the
questions afterward, and discovered that he had not acted or spoken as
he would have liked. As a rule, however, these after-thoughts came too
late to be of any use, and he had to console himself with the
reflection that what's done is done.
"What do you say, will you stroll on with me?" asked the judge.
"What, at this hour, my dear friend!"
"Only to the turn of the road."
"You had better come home with me, and I'll treat you to some perfumed
wine that I received yesterday from Siphnos. I can recommend it."
"Well, since you are so kind, I shall be very glad to taste your native
wine; but first let us sit here awhile and breathe the fresh sea-air."
And he pointed to a modest cafe, "On the Sands," which a bold
speculator had improvized only a few weeks before, by making a small
inclosure of planks and setting up a few tables.
The professor turned toward the cafe, then looked at the setting sun,
took out his watch, glanced at the hour, and heaved a gentle sigh.
"You do whatever you please with me," he said, as he followed Mr.
Liakos.
II.
The two friends bent their steps toward the empty cafe, to the great
delight of the proprietor, who ran forward zealously to offer his
services. The judge contrived to place the seats so that he could see
the road that led to Mana. The professor sat down opposite, facing the
town, with his back to the country; but he seemed rather nervous about
the evening air, for he shivered every now and then, and took care to
button up his overcoat to the very neck.
They began by talking about their daily affairs; Mr. Liakos suggested
the topics, while the professor held forth to his heart's content, and
fairly revelled in Homeric quotation. He noticed, however, that his
companion, instead of heeding what he said, kept looking toward the
highway, and leaning forward to see still further around the bend in
the road. Following his friend's gaze, Mr. Plateas also turned now and
then; he even turned squarely around and peered through his glasses to
find out what the judge was looking at; but seeing nothing he sat down
again erect upon his stool, and went on with the conversation.
At last Mr. Liakos espied what he was looking for. His eyes shone; the
expression of his whole face changed, and he made no further pretence
of listening to his friend's story about a recent controversy between
two learned professors in the University of Athens. Seeing the judge's
eyes fixed upon some object behind, Mr. Plateas stopped short, leaned
his fat hand on the table to aid the gyration that he was about to make
upon his stool, and was preparing for another effort to discover what
could thus fascinate Mr. Liakos, when the judge, divining his
companion's purpose, suddenly laid his hand on the professor's, and
pressing it firmly, said in a low voice, but with a tone of authority:
"Don't turn around!"
Mr. Plateas sat motionless, with mouth open and eyes fastened on those
of his friend, who was still staring at the road. The judge's look
showed that the object of his interest was coming nearer, but the
professor did not dare to stir or utter a word.
"Talk," whispered Mr. Liakos. "Continue the conversation."
"But, my dear friend, what shall I say? You've driven every idea out of
my head."
"Recite something."
"What shall I recite?"
"Anything you like,--something out of the 'Iliad.'"
"But I can't think of a single line!"
"Say the Creed, then,--anything you please, only don't sit there dumb."
The poor professor began to stammer out mechanically the first words of
the Creed; but either from a sense of impiety or from mere confusion of
mind, he passed abruptly to the first book of the "Iliad." His memory
played him false. How his pupils would have suffered if they had thus
maltreated the immortal bard!
He was still reciting when the judge released his hand and got up to
make an elaborate bow. Mr. Plateas looked in the same direction, and
saw the back of an elderly gentleman between two attractive young
girls. He had no difficulty in recognizing the trio, even from the rear.
Mr. Liakos sat down again, blushing furiously while the professor in
utter stupefaction made the sign of the cross.
"Kyrie Eleison!" said he. "Then all this ado was for Mr. Mitrophanis
and his daughters?"
"I beg your pardon," replied the judge, in a voice that betrayed his
agitation. "I did not want them to think that we were talking about
them."
"Bless my soul! You don't mean to say you're in love?"
"Ah, yes. I love her with all my heart!" Mr. Liakos turned once more,
and his eyes followed one of the two girls.
The professor had listened with some uneasiness. While touched by the
judge's emotion, he was at the same time perhaps a little jealous of
its cause; he was surprised that his friend had never spoken of this
love, and vexed with himself that he had not divined it. But all these
ideas were so hazy that he could hardly have expressed them.
After a few moments' silence, and while the judge's passionate avowal
still lingered in his ears, he asked naively, and without stopping to
think:
"Which one?"
Mr. Liakos looked at the professor in astonishment, and although he did
not speak, the expression of his face said plainly, "Can you ask?"
Mr. Plateas clapped his hand to his forehead.
"Where were my wits!" he cried. "Excuse me, my dear friend; but seeing
only their backs, as I did a moment ago, I couldn't tell one from the
other; and I had forgotten that the elder sister's face would scarcely
inspire love. But the younger--SHE is charming!"
The judge listened without reply.
"Do you know," the professor went on, at last unburdening his mind, "I
don't understand how you could be in love, and not tell me about it;
how you could hide your feelings from your friend! If it had been I,
you wouldn't have been spared a single sigh!" And his chest gave forth
an "Ah" which he tried to render amorous. This sigh, or perhaps the
mere idea of the professor in love, brought a smile to the judge's
clouded face.
"Why haven't you ever spoken to me about it?" continued Mr. Plateas.
"Because I did not wish to bore you," replied Mr. Liakos. Then, touched
by his friend's reproachful look, he made haste to add, "But now I will
tell you everything, since you desire it."
Still he was silent, as if he hardly knew how to begin. The professor
shivered again, and seeing that the sun had gone down behind the
mountains, said:
"Hadn't we better talk about this on the way home, or at my house? It's
time to go in."
The two men rose, and started toward the city.
What desponding lover has not yearned to pour out his heart to some
friend? Even reverence for the purity of his feeling will not restrain
him. He tries to guard the mystery of his love as in a holy sanctuary;
he would not expose it to unrevering eyes; he hesitates, he
delays,--but sooner or later his heart will overflow, and he must have
a confidant.
The judge had already chosen his confidant, and so was in no hurry to
take advantage of the opportunity that now offered; he was still
silent, and began to regret his thoughtless promise to tell his friend
everything. While he had an esteem and even a warm affection for Mr.
Plateas, he could not regard the professor as a fitting recipient for a
love-confidence, or quite able to appreciate the delicacy of his
feeling; and, besides, it seemed to him almost treason to reveal again
the secret he had already confided to another.
Mr. Plateas noticed his friend's hesitancy, but ascribed it to
agitation. After a pause he saw that the confession was not coming of
itself, and tried to draw it out by asking questions. Although frank,
the answers he received were brief; still, he was able to gather that
the judge had been in love ever since coming to Syra,--three years
before,--and had then vowed either to marry Mr. Mitrophanis's younger
daughter, or never to marry at all. It was only within the last few
months, however, that Mr. Liakos had met the young girl for the first
time, at a friend's house, and had discovered that his love was
returned.
"Where did this happen?"
"At my cousin's."
"Does she know the two girls?"
"Oh, yes; she was a friend of their mother's."
"Ah! Now I understand," cried the professor. "Your cousin received your
sighs. She has been your confidante! That's why you never said anything
to me."
The judge smiled, but his poor friend felt a little jealous of this
cousin.
"Why didn't you propose for her hand just as soon as you knew she liked
you?" the professor continued.
"I did, a week ago; I requested my cousin to call on Mr. Mitrophanis,
but--"
"But what? Where could he find a better son-in-law? He didn't refuse
you, surely?"
"No, he did not refuse, but he made a condition that can be
fulfilled--Heaven knows when! In the meanwhile he does not wish us to
meet. I had not seen her for ten days, even at a distance, and you can
understand with what emotion just now I--"
"What is this condition?" asked the professor.
"To wait until the elder sister is married. He won't allow the younger
to marry, or even to be betrothed, before the elder."
"Ah, my friend, that's a pity! I fear you'll have to wait a long, long
time. It won't be so easy to marry off the sister. Still, all things
are possible,--you mustn't despair."
The judge was silent, evidently a prey to melancholy. After a little he
said:
"And yet that sister is a perfect treasure, in spite of her lack of
beauty. There isn't a sweeter soul on earth; she has entreated her
father to change his decision; she assures him that she has no wish to
marry, and that her only desire is to remain with him to care for his
old age, and to help rear her sister's children. But the old man is
inflexible; when once he takes a stand, that's the end of it!"
The judge's tongue was untied, and he was as eloquent in praise of the
elder sister as he had been reserved in telling of his love. Perhaps
this eased his mind, for to speak of her seemed almost like speaking of
his sweetheart; to commend the one was to exalt the other.
"She is an angel of goodness," he continued, "and loves her sister with
all a mother's tenderness; indeed, she has filled a mother's place ever
since the two girls were left orphans. She has the whole care of the
house, and manages it admirably; my cousin never tires of telling me
that she has nowhere seen such good order, or a house so well kept. But
you must not imagine that she neglects other things for the sake of her
housekeeping. Few of our women are so well read or so widely informed.
In that respect, at least, Mr. Mitrophanis is worthy of all praise; his
daughters have been carefully educated. It is hardly his fault if the
two are not equally fair to look upon; in beauty of character they are
equal. The elder also is a treasure, and happy the man that wins her."
At first the professor listened in some astonishment to his friend's
sudden enthusiasm; then, little by little, his surprise changed to
uneasiness. He began to suspect that--But he was not the man to conceal
anything that came into his mind, and stopping abruptly in the middle
of the road, he interrupted the judge's eulogy.
"But why do you tell me all this?" he asked. "Why do you sing her
praises to me? What do you mean--are you trying to inveigle me into
marrying her?"
Mr. Liakos was astounded. The idea had never occurred to him; he had
never thought of the professor as a marrying man. And yet, why not? In
what was he lacking? Wasn't his friend the very man to become the
brother-in-law he so ardently desired? All this passed vaguely through
his mind while he stood staring at Mr. Plateas, unable to find an
answer to this unexpected question. The professor continued with energy:
"Listen, Liakos. I owe you my life; it belongs to you. But if you ask
me to get married as a proof of my gratitude, I'd far rather go this
moment back to the sea, where you saved me from death, and drown myself
before your very eyes!"
The sudden heat of the professor's speech showed that he was hurt, but
whether at what the judge had just been saying about the elder sister,
or at the secrecy he had shown in the matter and his studied reserve in
speaking of the younger sister, was doubtful. Probably the good man
himself did not know; what he did know was that he felt hurt. This was
clear enough from what he said and the way he said it.
Mr. Liakos was offended.
"Mr. Plateas," he replied dryly, "I have often told you--and I repeat
it now for the last time, I hope--I have not, and I do not wish to
have, any claim upon your gratitude. As for your marrying, I assure you
that I never dreamed of presenting you as a suitor, or of seeking a
wife for you. I had not the least thought of it when I spoke to you of
my affairs, and I now regret having troubled you with them."
The two friends walked on in silence side by side, but were impatient
to part as soon as they could decorously. When they had nearly reached
the place where their homeward paths would separate, the professor
repeated his invitation.
"Won't you come and taste my muscat?"
"No, thank you; it is late, and I have an engagement."
"With your cousin, perhaps?"
"Perhaps!" and the judge tried to smile.
"I hope you're not vexed with me," said his friend, in a conciliatory
tone.
"Why should I be?"
"Perhaps what I said was uncalled for,--particularly as you never meant
to interfere with my liberty." The good man began to laugh, and then
added: "But it's much better to have such things cleared up."
"Certainly, quite so."
The judge shook the fat hand that was cordially offered him, and
hurried on, while his companion went slowly home.
III.
The professor's house was on the hillside in the quarter where the
Orphan Asylum now stands. At that time there were very few dwellings in
the neighborhood, which was rather far from the centre of the town, and
the outlook was wide and varied. It was not the view, however, that had
attracted the professor, but the cheapness of the land. He had built
the house himself, and its walls were the fruit of many years of toil.
Small and modest as it was, it was his own; he was in debt to no man,
and had no rent to pay. This sweet feeling of independence quite made
up for the tiring climb that the corpulent little owner had to take
twice a day up the steep "River," as the street was called. The road
bore this name (as everybody knows who has visited Syra), because it
had been the bed of a stream that used to carry the winter rains from
the mountain to the sea. In fact, the water runs down the street to
this day, and in the wet season it becomes a raging torrent. Although
the rocks and stones that once lined its sides have given place to
houses, with their doors raised high above the flood, the origin of the
street and the reason for its name are obvious enough even now.
Fortunately, rains are rare in Syra, but when they do fall, the "River"
is often impassable; at such times the professor could reach his house
only by zigzags through the side streets, and there were days when all
communication was cut off, and he had to stay shut up at home.
The greatest pleasure that the house had brought him was that it had
enabled him to give his old mother the happiness of passing her last
days in comfort under her own roof, after the long privations and
trials through which she had reared her son and had seen him overcome
the difficulties of his professorial career. She had died peacefully in
this house, and although a year had passed, her room remained as she
had left it. The professor really needed it for his library, which grew
from day to day, but he preferred to leave the room unused, as sacred
to his mother's memory.
The only heritage that she left him was her old servant, the taciturn
Florou, whose senile caprices he endured patiently, bearing with her
uncertain service and poor cooking. Florou's rule, however, rose no
higher than the ground-floor. Her master found peace and quiet in his
own room upstairs. Here he worked; at his table before the window he
prepared his lessons, and read his favorite authors. Here, with pen in
hand and his books spread out before him, he liked to look dreamily
over the roofs of the other houses at the sea and the hazy outline of
the neighboring islands, or to lean back with closed eyelids and
look--at nothing, for he was asleep.
The professor was very fond of his house. Since he had owned it, he
went out but little except to attend to his classes or take his regular
walk, and it was always with a new pleasure that he looked upon his
walls and opened his door again.
This evening he came home with even greater contentment than usual, as
to a haven of refuge from the fancied dangers that lurked in his
friend's eulogy of the plain sister.
"That would be the finishing stroke!" he said aloud, as he carefully
folded his coat, put on an old dressing-gown, and tied a silk
handkerchief around his head in the shape of a cap, as was his custom
every evening.
"That would be the finishing stroke indeed! To bring a wife here to
turn everything upside down; to take me out when I want to stay in, or
keep me in when I want to go out; to talk to me when I want quiet; to
open the window when I am chilly, because she is too warm; or to close
it when I am warm, because she is too cold!" and with that he shut the
window.
"Marriage may be all very well for the young; but when a man has
reached years of discretion, such folly is not to be thought of. I have
escaped the fetters so far, and I am not going to throw away my liberty
at this late day!
[Greek text] Craftily they contrived against my freedom,"
He remembered the woman who had been chosen for him in his youth, as he
had seen her the year before while on a visit to his native
island,--with her gray hair and premature wrinkles,--surrounded by a
troop of children, playing, quarrelling, and crying.
"Thank Heaven," he said aloud, "I haven't that load to carry! I wish
the man joy that fills my place!"
Florou interrupted him by opening the door. She looked about the room
in astonishment, but seeing that her master was only talking to
himself, she shook her head and said curtly:
"Supper!"
"Very well, I'm coming;" and he went down to the parlor, which was next
to the kitchen and served as dining-room also. The professor sat down
with a good appetite, and when his hunger was appeased, he began to
think over the incidents of his walk. At first his mind dwelt upon the
advantages of bachelorhood; then he thought of Mr. Liakos, and felt a
sincere pity for his friend.
"Poor fellow!" he said to himself. "He has been hit by Cupid's arrow,
and is no longer his own master. He thinks he's on the right road to
happiness; I hope he may find it, and never discover his mistake! Well,
we never get just what we want in this world, and a man's happiness
depends after all on his own way of feeling and thinking."
Mr. Plateas fancied this was philosophy, but, in fact, it was only a
blind attempt to get rid of disagreeable thoughts. He could not forget
the judge's evident dejection and vain effort to hide it. What if Mr.
Liakos did want him to marry the plain sister! Perhaps his friend had
felt a delicacy about speaking to him on the subject, and had denied
ever having thought of such a thing only when stung by his ungrateful
words.
Who had a better right to claim such a sacrifice? Did he not owe his
very life to the judge? And how had he repaid this debt? He had tried
to escape it! He had ignored his friend's delicacy, and basely
threatened to drown himself rather than lift a hand to secure his
preserver's happiness. The more he thought of it, the blacker seemed
his ingratitude. He had actually insulted the man who had saved his
life! The blood rushed to his cheeks; his remorse grew keener and
keener, and his philosophy was of little comfort. Having eaten his last
bunch of raisins, he pushed away his plate angrily, threw his napkin on
the table, and went up to his room in a very discontented frame of mind.
"I've behaved abominably," he said to himself. "Why should I have
offended him? There was no need of saying what I did. Reflection always
comes too late with me!"
And striking his head with his hand, he paced up and down his room in
the growing darkness until Florou came in and put his lamp on the table.
She came and went without a word.
The professor stopped a moment, and his eyes rested on the light. The
light reminded him of his duty and invited him to work; he must prepare
his lesson for the morrow. For the first time in his life he found that
he could not fix his mind upon his books. He hesitated, and then began
to walk up and down again, thinking of Mr. Liakos, of his pupils, of
the merchant's two daughters, and of the gymnasiarch, [Footnote:
Superintendent of a gymnasium or secondary school.] all at the same
time. Finally, in this jumble of ideas, professional instinct got the
upper hand. He sat down at the table, put the three heavy volumes of
Gazis's Dictionary, the Syntax of Asopios, and his other handbooks of
study in their usual order, then set out his ink and paper, and found
in his "Iliad" the page marked for the next day. He began his work by
noting the etymology of each word, the syntax of every phrase, and the
peculiarities of each hexameter. His class had reached the sixth book
of the "Iliad."
Soon, however, he forgot syntax, etymology, and metre; he forgot his
pupils and the dry analysis he was making for their benefit, and he
read through the passage before him without stopping. It was the
parting of Hector and Andromache. He discovered new beauty and meaning
in the story; the exquisite picture of conjugal and paternal love, the
happiness of mutual affection, the grief of parting, had never made
such an impression upon him before. Never before had he read or recited
the "Iliad" in this way, for as he read, Mr. Liakos gradually took
Hector's place. He kept thinking of his friend; it was his friend who
felt the bitterness of separation, and that too without ever having
tasted, like Hector, the joys of conjugal happiness!
Mr. Plateas shut his book and started up again. A thousand conflicting
thoughts filled his mind as he paced from his table to his bed, and
from his bed back to his table.
"Pshaw!" he cried. "Why shouldn't I believe that Liakos never had any
thought of marrying me off? I was a fool to imagine such a thing! Do I
look like a marrying man?"
He stopped before his glass, which was lighted by the lamp only at one
side, and saw one half of his face reflected with the silk handkerchief
wound around his head, while the other half was in shadow, and the two
ends of the knot stuck up over his forehead.
"Truly," he laughed, "between us we should have a beautiful Astyanax!"
He sat down again, calmer; but once more there began to throng before
his eyes scenes and images that had nothing to do with the next day's
lesson. He saw that he could not work in earnest, and decided to go to
bed, thinking that rest would quiet his nerves, and that he could get
up early in the morning and prepare his task with a fresher mind. So he
went to bed and put out his lamp. But sleep would not come; he tossed
about restlessly, and in the silence and darkness the very tension of
his nerves made him more and more remorseful.
The long hours of the night passed slowly. At last, toward morning, he
fell asleep; but his waking thoughts were distorted into a frightful
nightmare, and he started up in terror. He had dreamt that his bed was
the sea, while his pillow was a shark, and his head was in the jaws of
the monster. Then the shark began to wear the face and shape of the
merchant's elder daughter, and a voice--the voice of Liakos--sounded in
his ear, repeating over and over:
"Ding, Dong! Ungrateful wretch! Ding, Dong! Ungrateful wretch!"
He sat up in bed, and as he wiped his dripping forehead with the silk
handkerchief, which had come untied in the agony of his dream, he made
an heroic resolution.
"I will marry her!" he cried. "I owe so much to my preserver. I must do
my duty and ease my conscience."
He covered himself up again, with a lighter heart; his mind was now
tranquil, and free from all suspicion, hesitation, or remorse.
The morning sunlight flooded his room and woke him a full hour later
than usual. It was the first time this had ever happened to the
punctual professor, and Florou was positively dazed. With heavy head
and aching eyes, he dressed hastily, swallowed his cup of black coffee,
and sat down to the unfinished task of the night before. But his
thoughts still wandered.
Nevertheless, he was at the gymnasium in time, and began the daily
lesson. But what a lesson! At first the scholars wondered what had
become of their teacher's wonted severity; they soon perceived that
this remarkable forbearance was not due to any merit on their part, but
to complete heedlessness on his. Wonder of wonders! Mr. Plateas was
inattentive! Emboldened by this discovery, they took malicious delight
in heaping blunder upon blunder, and played dire havoc with that sixth
book of the "Iliad," never sparing etymology, syntax, nor prosody. The
good man sat through it all undisturbed until the regular closing hour
had struck. His pupils went out, commenting not on Homer, but on the
unheard-of lenity of their master, while as he walked away he resumed
the burden of his thoughts,--how to set about putting his resolve into
execution.
The affair was not so simple as it had seemed to him in the night. His
decision to marry the elder daughter of Mr. Mitrophanis was not enough;
there were certain steps to take, but what were they? Should he apply
to his friend? After what had passed between them the day before, he
hardly liked to go to the judge and say--what? "I am ready for the
sacrifice!" Certainly he couldn't do that. Should he ask the aid of Mr.
Liakos's cousin? There were objections to this course, too; to be sure,
he knew the lady, and her husband as well; he was in the habit of
bowing to them on the street, but he had never had any conversation
with the cousin, and felt that he had neither the right nor the courage
to ask her to serve as intermediary.
He thought it all over without reaching any conclusion, and was
crossing the square on his way home,--for it was nearly time for his
noon-day dinner,--when suddenly he saw Mr. Mitrophanis coming toward
him. This meeting put an end to all his doubts, and with a flash of
inspiration he decided to speak directly to the young lady's father.
What could be simpler? Having no time to weigh the matter carefully, he
was only too glad to find this happy way out of his perplexity. He
bowed, and stopped before the old gentleman.
"Mr. Mitrophanis, I am delighted to meet you, for I have a few words to
say."
"Mr. Plateas, I believe?" said the other, politely returning the bow.
"The same."
"And what can I do for you, Mr. Plateas?"
The professor began to feel a little embarrassed; but it was too late
to turn back, so he took courage and went on:
"To come to the point at once, Mr. Mitrophanis, I desire to become your
son-in-law!"
This abrupt proposal was a surprise to the old gentleman, and hardly an
agreeable one. The offer itself was not so astonishing, for the beauty
of his younger daughter had often obliged the father to refuse
proposals of this kind; but he had never been addressed quite so
brusquely before. Moreover, of all the suitors who had thus far
presented themselves, Mr. Plateas seemed the least eligible in point of
age and other respects. But it was not this so much that the old
gentleman had in mind, as he said to himself, "What, he too!"
"I am greatly honored by your proposal," he said to Mr. Plateas; "but
my little girl is too young, and I have not thought of marriage for her
yet."
"What little girl? My suit is not for the younger sister; I ask you for
the hand of Miss--" He meant to call her by her name, but found he did
not know it. "I ask you for the hand of--your elder daughter."
Mr. Mitrophanis could not conceal his astonishment at these words; such
a thing had never happened before. He said nothing, but looked sharply
at Mr. Plateas, who felt his patience giving way.
"I must admit, Mr. Plateas," said the old gentleman at last, "that your
proposition is wholly unexpected, and comes in rather an unusual form.
Don't you think that our traditional custom in such cases is very
sensible, and that these questions are managed better by
intermediaries?"
The professor was not prepared for this. He had even imagined that the
young lady's father would fall on his neck in the open street, with
delight at having at last found the wished-for son-in-law.
"I--I thought," he stammered, "that you knew me well enough, and that
the simplest way was to speak to you myself."
"Certainly, without doubt. But if you would send one of your friends to
speak to me, and--give me time for reflection, you would oblige me
greatly."
"With pleasure! I'll send Mr. Liakos."
At this name the old man frowned.
"Ah!" said he, "Mr. Liakos is in your confidence."
Poor Mr. Plateas saw that he had made a mistake in bringing up his
friend's name in the affair. He was about to say something,--he didn't
know exactly what,--when Mr. Mitrophanis forestalled him, and ended his
embarrassment.
"It is well. I will await Mr. Liakos." Then the old gentleman bowed and
walked on.
Never in his life had the professor been in such a state of mental
distress as that to which he had been a prey ever since the evening
before. His sufferings at the time he came so near drowning were not to
be compared with his present anguish. Then the danger had come
suddenly, and he had realized it to the full only when it was over.
Now, the uncertainty of the future added to his misery. At the very
moment when he thought he had reached port, he found himself completely
at sea again. He stood there in the middle of the square, his arms
hanging helplessly, and stared at the back of the retreating merchant.
"Well, I must see Liakos." he said to himself. "But where shall I find
him at this time of day?"
Just then the clock on the Church of the Transfiguration struck twelve.
Mr. Plateas remembered, first that his dinner was waiting for him at
home, and next that his friend was in the habit of dining at a certain
restaurant behind the square; and wending his way there, he met the
judge at the door.
"Oh, my dear friend!" he exclaimed. "My dear friend!"
"What's the matter? What has happened to you?" asked Mr. Liakos,
anxiously.
"What has happened to me? Something I never dreamed of! I've just asked
Mr. Mitrophanis for the hand of his elder daughter, and instead of---"
"You asked him for his daughter's hand?"
"Yes. Is there anything so very astonishing in that?"
"Why, didn't you tell me yesterday that---"
"Well, what if I did? During the night I thought it over, and became
convinced that I ought to get married, and that I never shall find a
better wife."
"Listen, Plateas," said Mr. Liakos, obviously much moved. "I understand
your sudden conversion, because I understand you; but I can't let you
make such a sacrifice."
"What sacrifice? Who said anything about sacrifice? I have made up my
mind to get married, because I want to get married; and I WILL get
married, and if her father refuses his consent I'll run away with her!"
And he gave a lively account of his meeting with Mr. Mitrophanis.
The judge smiled as he listened, for he, too, had been thinking of this
match ever since the night before, and the more he thought of it the
more eminently fit and proper it seemed. After rigid self-examination,
he persuaded himself that he was quite disinterested in the matter, and
that his sweetheart's sister and his friend could never be happy apart.
As for the father's consent, he had little fear on that score. He
rather dreaded, it is true, the mission that was thrust upon him,
especially when he thought of the manner in which the old man had
received his name; but he felt that he could not refuse this service to
his friend, and finally promised to see Mr. Mitrophanis that very day,
and to come in the evening to report the happy result of his interview.
IV.
When the professor had gone, the judge began to think with misgiving of
the difficulties that beset his mission. He had so much at stake in its
success that his mediation might not be accepted as impartial, or his
praise of the suitor as quite unbiased. His friend's cause ought to
have been entrusted to some one less deeply interested in the event. If
the professor had not been in such haste to name him as an
intermediary, they could have consulted his cousin, and even placed the
matter in her hands; his own appearance on the scene would only give
Mr. Mitrophanis fresh offence.
But why not ask her advice in confidence? She was a woman of sense and
experience, and could probably find some way out of their quandary. Mr.
Liakos was on the point of going to his cousin, but he reflected that
it would be a grave indiscretion to impart the secret to a third person
without his friend's consent, and he felt too that it would be very
weak in him not to perform loyally the duty that he had undertaken.
Forward, then! Courage!
So Mr. Liakos started for the office of his sweetheart's father,
although not without inward trepidation.
It so happened that Mr. Mitrophanis was just receiving a consignment of
coffee from the Custom House; carts were coming up one after another,
porters were carrying the sacks into the warehouse, and the judge had
difficulty in making his way to the door.
It was a huge square building, with a room on the street partitioned
off at one corner. This room was the office, and had a grated window;
but the light from it and from the street door was too dim for Mr.
Liakos to see what was going on inside the warehouse. As he stood there
on the threshold, he saw that his arrival was ill-timed; for there was
a dispute in progress. Although he did not understand, or even try to
understand what it was all about, he heard hot words bandied back and
forth, and above them he could distinguish the merchant's voice, loud
and masterful.
The judge stopped in surprise. He had heard of the old gentleman's
temper, but had not imagined that anger could raise to such a pitch a
voice usually so calm and dignified. He was alarmed and was trying to
slip away unseen, when Mr. Mitrophanis interrupted the discussion and
called out to him from the depths of the warehouse:
"What do you wish, Mr. Liakos?"
"I came to say a few words; but I see you're engaged, and will come
again some other time."
"Pass into my office, and I will be with you in a moment."
The judge stumbled over some coffee bags, and, making his way into the
office, sat down by the merchant's table in the only chair that was
vacant. The air was heavy with the odor of colonial merchandise. The
dispute began anew inside the warehouse, and the words, "weight,"
"bags," "Custom House," were repeated over and over again. Mr. Liakos
sat listening to the noise, and tried to picture to himself the quiet
old gentleman who had been out walking with his two daughters the night
before. At last the commotion quieted down, and Mr. Mitrophanis came in
with a frown on his face.
"I have happened on an unlucky time for my call," thought the judge.
"I suppose you come from Mr. Plateas," began the old man, with a touch
of irony in his tone.
"Yes; the fact is he has communicated to me the conversation he had
with you this morning."
"I must say, Mr. Liakos, that your anxiety to find a husband for my
elder daughter seems to me rather marked."
"I assure you, sir, that my friend's proposal was wholly voluntary, and
was in no wise prompted by me."
The old gentleman smiled incredulously.
"My only regret is," continued the judge, "that I allowed Mr. Plateas
to discover my secret yesterday. I protest I never had the least
thought of urging him to this step; he has taken it of his own accord,
and you do me wrong in supposing that I have acted from self-interest."
"I believe it, since you say so, and will not stop to inquire how it
happens that he should ask me for the hand of my daughter, whom he does
not know, the very day after receiving your confidence.
"But however that may be," he went on, without letting Mr. Liakos
speak, "I cannot give you an immediate reply; I must have time to
consider the question. Pray do not trouble yourself to call; I will
make my decision known to you." The last words were spoken dryly.
The judge went away much disconcerted. It was not a refusal that he had
received, nor yet was it a consent; his most serious disquiet was
caused by the old man's tone and manner. Although they might have
arisen partly from the dispute in the warehouse, it was only too clear
that his deep interest in the success of his mission had been as
detrimental in awakening the merchant's suspicions as in checking his
own eloquence.
How many things he could have said to Mr. Mitrophanis if he had only
dared! He felt that his mediation had simply made matters worse, and
might prove fatal. A more skilful diplomatist than he would be needed
to conduct the affair to a happy ending; why had he not acted on his
first impulse and consulted his cousin? Why not go to her even now?
Surely his friend could not be offended, especially if the result was
successful; the poor judge was in trouble, and longed for encouragement
and support; but while he reasoned with himself, his feet were carrying
him to his cousin's house, and by the time he reached her door, all his
doubt had vanished.
Mr. Liakos found his kinswoman at work converting a jacket of her elder
son, which had become too small for its owner, into a garment still too
ample for the younger brother. The boys were at school, while their
three sisters--who came between them in age--were studying their
lessons under their mother's eye, and at the same time learning
domestic economy from her example.
Being a woman of tact, she saw at once from the judge's manner that he
wished to speak with her alone, and sent the girls out to play.
"Well, what is it?" she asked as soon as they had left the room.
"What's the news?"
"Why should you think there is any news?"
"Ah, indeed! As if I didn't know you! I could see at a glance that you
had something on your mind."
In truth, her feminine insight was seldom at fault in reading Mr.
Liakos, for she had seen him grow up from a child, and knew him
thoroughly. On his side, the judge flattered himself that he knew her
quite as well, but then he ought to have foreseen that her help would
not be easily enlisted in an affair that she had not been allowed to
manage from the beginning. She enjoyed busying herself with marriages
in general and with those of her friends in particular; but she felt
that she was peculiarly qualified to assume the chief part in planning
and carrying out arrangements of this kind, and unless her claims were
recognized, she rarely gave her approval, and even did not hesitate to
oppose occasionally. But for his discomfiture at the result of his
visit to the old merchant, Mr. Liakos would doubtless have devised some
way of conciliating his cousin; it had not occurred to him to take that
precaution, and he soon perceived the blunder he had made.
When he announced abruptly that he had found a husband for his
sweetheart's sister, his cousin, instead of showing pleasure, or at
least some curiosity, quietly continued her sewing with affected
indifference, saying merely, "Ah!" This "Ah" was half-way between a
question and an exclamation; the judge could not tell whether it
expressed irony or simple astonishment; but it was enough to chill him.
"Everything is against me!" he thought.
"And who is your candidate?" she asked after a pause, but without
stopping her work.
"Mr. Plateas."
His cousin dropped her needle, and looked at Mr. Liakos with eyes full
of mocking surprise.
"Mr. Plateas!" she cried, and began to laugh heartily. The judge had
never seen her so merry.
"I don't see what you find to laugh at," he said, with dignity.
"You must forgive me," she replied, trying to stifle her merriment.
"Pray forgive me if I have hurt you through your friend, but I can't
imagine Mr. Plateas in love." And she began to laugh again; then seeing
the judge's expression, she asked, "What put this marriage into your
head?"
"No," he began, without answering her question, "please to tell me what
you find so reprehensible in him."
"Reprehensible!" she repeated, imitating her cousin's tone. "I don't
find him reprehensible, simply ridiculous."
"I admit that his person is not awe-inspiring."
"Awe-inspiring! What long words you use! You'll be giving me one of
your friend's quotations from Homer next."
"Listen," he said, changing his manner. "At first I looked at it just
as you do; but the more I thought it over, the more clearly I saw that
I was wrong. Mr. Plateas has all the qualities that go to make a good
husband. He will be ridiculous as a lover, I must admit. He will look
absurd on his wedding day, with the wreath of flowers on his head
[Footnote: The Greek bride and bridegroom both wear a wreath of
flowers.]---"
At this his cousin broke into a fresh peal of laughter, in which the
judge was forced to join in spite of himself. Their sudden gayety
having subsided, the conversation became more serious. Mr. Liakos
related all the details of the affair, and as his story went on he was
delighted to see his cousin's prejudices gradually disappear, although
she still made objections when they came to dissect the suitor's
character.
"He is a hypochondriac!" she said.
"He takes care of his health," replied the judge, "simply because he
has nothing else to occupy him. When once he is married, he'll care for
his wife, just as he cared for his mother while she lived and his
hypochondria, as you call it, will vanish fast enough."
"He's pedantic."
"That is hardly a grave fault in a professor."
Now that the question had narrowed down to his friend's moral
qualities, Mr. Liakos began to feel certain of victory so far as his
cousin was concerned. His only remaining doubt was as to the young
lady's consent.
"Her consent!" cried his cousin. "She'll accept Mr. Plateas gladly.
Since she can't persuade her father to let her remain single, she will
take the first husband that offers, rather than stand in the way of her
sister's happiness. She has the soul of an angel," the cousin went on,
with enthusiasm. "She doesn't know her own worth; she sees that she is
not pretty, and in her humility she even exaggerates her plainness; but
her sweet unselfishness is no reason why she should be sacrificed."
"Do you think, then, that it would be a sacrifice to marry Mr. Plateas?"
"How can we tell?"
His cousin's reserve was more propitious than her merriment of a few
minutes ago, and Mr. Liakos felt encouraged.
"If she were your sister, or even your daughter, would you not give her
to him?"
This question struck deeper than he knew, for one of her daughters was
not well-favored, and the girl's future was beginning to give the
maternal heart much uneasiness. The mother laughed no longer; her eyes
filled, and she made no reply. Without searching into the cause of his
cousin's emotion, the judge was only too glad to take her silence for
consent.
"Very well," he went on. "Now you must help me to arrange this
marriage."
In order to humor her innocent vanity, he pictured the obstacles that
she would find in the character of Mr. Mitrophanis, and urged his own
inability to overcome them; he frankly declared that his mediation had
compromised his friend's suit, and that the affair was far more
difficult than if it had been in her hands from the beginning; he
insisted that she alone could retrieve the mistakes committed, and
bring about a happy ending.
His cousin's objections gradually grew weaker and at last, after three
hours of argument, the judge succeeded so well that she left her work
(to the temporary disadvantage of her younger son), and put on her
bonnet. The two went out together, she to call on Mr. Mitrophanis, and
he to find the professor.
V.
Poor Mr. Plateas was waiting for his friend impatiently.
On reaching home he had found his dinner growing cold, and Florou
worrying over her master's unusual tardiness; it was full twenty
minutes after noon! Although the professor was hungry and ate with
relish, his mind was ill at ease. He yearned to talk to some one, but
there was no one to talk to. He would have been glad to tell his story
even to Florou, but she cared neither to talk nor to listen;
conversation was not her strong point.
Besides, her master rather shrank from telling her that he had made up
his mind to get married, and that her reign was over. Since his
mother's death, Florou had had absolute control over the household; why
make her unhappy before it was necessary? On the other hand, he could
contain himself no longer; if he had not spoken, there is no telling
what would have happened.
Not daring to face the question boldly, he beat about the bush, and
tried to pass adroitly from the subject of dinner to that of marriage.
"Florou," he said, "your meat is overdone."
The old woman made no reply, but looked up at the sun as if to suggest
that the fault lay not with her, but with her master's tardiness.
He paid no attention to her mute reproach.
"In fact," he went on, "the dinner isn't fit to eat to-day."
"You've eaten it, though."
Florou was in the habit of resorting to this argument as unanswerable.
Usually her master laughed and said that he had eaten his dinner
because he was hungry, and not because it was good. To-day, however,
her phrase irritated him, less on account of the words themselves, than
from an inward consciousness that this day of all others he had no
right to complain of her culinary art.
In his vexation he forgot how he had planned to lead up to the subject
of his marriage, and had to finish his dinner in silence; but while
Florou was carrying the dishes away, he thought of a new pretext for
coming back to the absorbing topic. He noticed for the first time a
hole in the tablecloth that had been there a long time.
"See there!" said he, putting his finger through it. "My house needs a
mistress,--there's no other remedy for such a state of things. I must
have a wife!"
Florou shrugged her shoulders as though she thought her master had lost
his wits.
"Do you understand me? I must get married."
The old woman smiled.
"What are you laughing at? I have quite made up my mind to marry."
Florou stared.
"I'm going to get married, I tell you!"
"And who'll have you?"
"Who will have me!" he cried, fairly choking with rage.
Almost beside himself at the old woman's effrontery, he wanted to crush
her with angry eloquence; but her stolidity baffled him, and he went up
to his room without a word. When he was alone, his anger soon cooled;
but he found himself repeating those cruel words, and as he said them
over, he began to fear that Florou was not so far wrong.
He recalled his friend's first disavowal of any thought of him as a
suitor, and the father's strange hesitation. And then, why didn't
Liakos come; what was keeping him so long? If his mission was
successful, he would have brought the news at once. The question was
very simple, the answer "yes" or "no"; it surely must be "no," and the
judge was keeping back the evil tidings.
How silly he had been to expose himself to a rebuff on the impulse of
the moment--what perfect folly! What business had he to get into such a
scrape? But no, he had only done his duty; he had proved to his
preserver the sincerity of his friendship and the depth of his
gratitude. But why didn't Liakos come? Why didn't he hurry back and end
this suspense?
The unhappy man looked at his watch again and again, and was astonished
each time at the slowness of the hands; they seemed hardly to move at
all. He sat down, then jumped up again and looked out of the
window,--no Liakos! He tried to read, but could not keep his thoughts
from straying, and shut the book petulantly. He was in a perfect fever.
Meanwhile the time came for his daily constitutional, and Mr. Plateas
was on thorns. He could not stay indoors waiting for his friend any
longer; but in order to be near at hand, he resolved to take his old
walk and go no farther than the Vaporia. So he called Florou and told
her that he would not be gone long, but that if Mr. Liakos should come,
she must send him to the Vaporia. He explained with great care the
route he would take in going and in coming back, so that Florou might
tell his friend exactly. All this was quite unnecessary, for the road
to the Vaporia was so direct that the two friends could hardly help
meeting unless they went out of their way to avoid each other; but he
insisted upon his topographical directions, and repeated them so often
that Florou at last lost her patience, and exclaimed:
"Very well, very well!"
It was most unusual for the old woman to say the same word twice.
Not a living soul was to be seen on the Vaporia, and Mr. Plateas was
able to follow the course of his thoughts undisturbed. To tell the
truth, his ideas rather lacked sequence, and were much the same thing
over and over; but they were so engrossing that he had not quoted a
line of Homer all day. If this worry had lasted much longer, it would
have effected what all his exercise and sea-bathing had failed to
accomplish; the poor man would certainly have been reduced to a shadow.
And still Liakos did not come! For a moment the professor thought of
going to look for his friend; bat where should he go? The judge had
promised to come, and Florou had been told to get supper for both;
Liakos MUST come.
But why didn't he come now? Mr. Plateas paced up and down the Vaporia
twenty times at least, and although he kept looking toward his house,
there was no sign of the judge. At last! At last he saw his friend
coming in the distance.
"Well, is it 'yes' or 'no'?" he cried, as soon as he was near enough to
be heard.
"Do let me get my breath first."
From the expression of the poor man's face Mr. Liakos feared that "no"
would be more welcome than "yes."
"Can he have repented?" thought the judge; then, taking Mr. Plateas
affectionately by the arm, he turned back to prolong the walk, and
tried to soothe his friend's amour propre.
"Don't be troubled; she's not a silly girl, but has good sense and good
judgment. She will treat your offer as an honor, and will be happy to
have a man like you for a husband."
"Never mind about that," said the professor, in a calmer tone. "Tell me
how the matter really stands. What have you been doing all this time?"
In relating his story, Mr. Liakos did not tell his friend everything.
He passed over the stiffness of Mr. Mitrophanis as well as his cousin's
unseemly mirth, and urged so skillfully the need of her good offices as
to disarm all objection; he had left the affair in his cousin's charge,
and secured her promise to send him word of the result at the
professor's house. This was the substance of the conversation; but Mr.
Plateas asked so many questions and the judge had to repeat each detail
so often, that the sun was setting when the two friends went back to do
justice to Florou's supper.
They had scarcely finished when there was a knock at the door, and
Florou came in with a note for Mr. Liakos.
Mr. Plateas rose, napkin in hand, and leaned over his friend's chair,
eagerly following the words as the judge read aloud:
"MY DEAR COUSIN,--Bring your friend to my house this evening; the young
lady will be there. Come early. YOUR COUSIN."
"What did I tell you!" cried Mr. Liakos, joyfully. "Come, you must get
ready."
Mr. Plateas looked very serious; the idea of meeting the young girl
made him nervous. What should he say to her? How should he behave?
Besides, he was not yet sure of being accepted! Why hadn't the message
been a plain "yes" or "no"? The judge had difficulty in persuading Mr.
Plateas that the invitation was in itself an assurance of success, and
that his cousin and he would do their best to lessen the embarrassment
of the meeting. Taking upon himself the duties of valet, Mr. Liakos
superintended the poor man's toilet, and having made him look as fine
as possible, marched him off.
He would have given almost anything to be well out of the scrape, but
it was too late to retreat now.
As they went along, the judge tried in vain to impart some of his own
high spirits to his faint-hearted friend. He was brimming over with
gladness at the thought of his marriage, which now seemed assured.
After so long a separation he was about to see his betrothed, for he
felt sore that she would come with her sister. Mr. Plateas had no such
reasons for rejoicing. He walked on in silence, paying little heed to
his friend's gay sallies; he was trying to think what he should say to
the young lady, but nothing came to him.
"By the way," he broke in suddenly, "what is her name?"
"Whose?"
"I mean my future wife. Yesterday I had to let her father see that I
didn't even know her name. I mustn't make that mistake to-night!"
At this Mr. Liakos broke into a merry laugh; he was in such high
good-humor that he found fun in everything. His companion did not
laugh, but repeated:
"What is her name?"
The judge was about to reply when he heard some one coming toward them
call out in the darkness:
"Liakos, is that you?"
It was his cousin's husband, who brought word that he was not to be
present at the interview. The tactful cousin had felt that it would be
better to leave the young lady alone with her suitor; then, too, the
younger sister would not come, and the presence of Mr. Liakos was quite
unnecessary; her instructions were that he should spend the evening
with her husband at the club.
Mr. Plateas felt his knees give way under him. What--go in and face the
two ladies all alone! No, decidedly he hadn't the courage for that. But
his supporters, one on either side, urged and encouraged the unhappy
man until they reached the threshold, when the door opened and they
pushed him in, regardless of his protests, then closed it again, and
went off to the club.
When Mr. Liakos learned that his sweetheart was not coming, he
submitted to his banishment with stoicism; but it seemed to him that
the evening at the club would never come to an end. About ten o'clock a
servant came to say that Mr. Plateas was waiting for him; he rushed
downstairs and found his friend in the street. By the light of a street
lamp the judge saw at once from the expression of the suitor's face
that the visit had been a complete success. The professor looked like
another man.
"Well?" asked Mr. Liakos, eagerly.
"I tell you, she isn't plain at all!" exclaimed Mr. Plateas. "When she
speaks her voice is like music, and she has a charming expression! As
for her little hand,--it's simply exquisite!"
"You kissed it, I suppose?" said the judge.
"Of course I did!"
"What did you say, and what did she say to you?"
"As though I could tell you everything! The idea!" Then lowering his
voice, he added: "Do you know what she said to me? She told me she was
glad and grateful that I had asked her to marry me through friendship
for you, because such a good friend must make a good husband. I begged
her not to say that, else I could not help thinking that she accepted
me only out of love for her sister.
"'And why not?' she said gently. 'What sweeter source could the
happiness of our future have?'"
Mr. Liakos was touched.
"But really," his friend went on, "I can't begin to tell you everything
now. One thing is certain,--I've found a perfect treasure!"
"Did I not tell you so?"
"Yes, but you haven't told me her name, and I didn't dare ask her. What
is it?"
The judge bent over and whispered the name that his friend longed to
hear.
"There, you know it now."
"Yes, at last!" and the two friends parted,--the one went home with a
new joy in his heart, saying over the name he had just learned, while
the other softly repeated the name so long dear to him.
A few weeks later, the first Sunday after Easter there was a high
festival in the old merchant's house to celebrate the marriage of his
two daughters. Of the bridegrooms, Mr. Liakos was not the merrier, for
now that his dearest hopes were realized, his soul was filled with a
quiet happiness that left no room for words. Mr. Plateas, on the other
hand, was overflowing with delight, and his spirits seemed contagious,
for all the wedding guests laughed with him. Even His Eminence the
Archbishop of Tenos and Syra, who had blessed the double marriage, was
jovial with the rest, and showed his learning by wishing the happy
couples joy in a line from Homer:
[Greek Text] "Thine own wish may the Gods give thee in every place."
To which Mr. Plateas replied majestically:
[Greek Text] "The best omen is to battle for one's native land!"
After the wedding, the judge obtained three months' leave, and took his
bride for a visit to his old home among his kinsfolk.
How eagerly their return was awaited, and how delighted the sisters
were to be together again! The old father trembled with joy.
When the two brothers-in-law were alone, each saw his own happiness
reflected in the other's face.
"Well, did I exaggerate when I sang your wife's praises?" asked Mr.
Liakos.
"She's a treasure, my dear friend!" cried Mr. Plateas,--"a perfect
treasure! In a few months," he went on, "I shall have a new favor to
ask of you. I want you to stand as godfather to your nephew."
"What! You too!"
"And you?"
THE MASSACRE OF THE INNOCENTS
BY
MAURICE MAETERLINCK
From "The Massacre of the Innocents and other Tales by Belgian
Writers." Translated by Edith Wingate Rinder. Published by Stone &
Kimball.
Copyright, 1895, by Stone & Kimball.
Towards the hour of supper on Friday, the twenty-sixth day of the month
of December, a little shepherd lad came into Nazareth, crying bitterly.
Some peasants, who were drinking ale in the Blue Lion, opened the
shutters to look into the village orchard, and saw the child running
over the snow. They recognized him as the son of Korneliz, and called
from the window: "What is the matter? It's time you were abed!"
But, sobbing still and shaking with terror, the boy cried that the
Spaniards had come, that they had set fire to the farm, had hanged his
mother among the nut trees and bound his nine little sisters to the
trunk of a big tree. At this the peasants rushed out of the inn.
Surrounding the child, they stunned him with their questionings and
outcries. Between his sobs, he added that the soldiers were on
horseback and wore armor, that they had taken away the cattle of his
uncle, Petrus Krayer, and would soon be in the forest with the sheep
and cows. All now ran to the Golden Swan where, as they knew, Korneliz
and his brother-in-law were also drinking their mug of ale. The moment
the innkeeper heard these terrifying tidings, he hurried into the
village, crying that the Spaniards were at hand.
What a stir, what an uproar there was then in Nazareth! Women opened
windows, and peasants hurriedly left their houses carrying lights which
were put out when they reached the orchard, where, because of the snow
and the full moon, one could see as well as at midday.
Later, they gathered round Korneliz and Krayer, in the open space which
faced the inns. Several of them had brought pitchforks and rakes, and
consulted together, terror-stricken, under the trees.
But, as they did not know what to do, one of them ran to fetch the
cure, who owned Korneliz's farm. He came out of the house with the
sacristan carrying the keys of the church. All followed him into the
churchyard, whither his cry came to them from the top of the tower,
that he beheld nothing either in the fields, or by the forest, but that
around the farm he saw ominous red clouds, for all that the sky was of
a deep blue and agleam with stars over the rest of the plain.
After taking counsel for a long time in the churchyard, they decided to
hide in the wood through which the Spaniards must pass, and, if these
were not too numerous, to attack them and recover Petrus Krayer's
cattle and the plunder which had been taken from the farm.
Having armed themselves with pitchforks and spades, while the women
remained outside the church with the cure, they sought a suitable
ambuscade. Approaching a mill on a rising ground adjacent to the verge
of the forest, they saw the light of the burning farm flaming against
the stars. There they waited under enormous oaks, before a frozen mere.
A shepherd, known as Red Dwarf, climbed the hill to warn the miller,
who had stopped his mill when he saw the flames on the horizon. He bade
the peasant enter, and both men went to a window to stare out into the
night.
Before them the moon shone over the burning farmstead, and in its light
they saw a long procession winding athwart the snow. Having carefully
scrutinized it, the Dwarf descended where his comrades waited under the
trees, and now, they too gradually distinguished four men on horseback
behind a flock which moved grazing on the plain.
While the peasants in their blue breeches and red cloaks continued to
search about the margins of the mere and under the snowlit trees, the
sacristan pointed out to them a box-hedge, behind which they hid.
The Spaniards, driving before them the sheep and the cattle, advanced
upon the ice. When the sheep reached the hedge they began to nibble at
the green stuff, and now Korneliz broke from the shadows of the bushes,
followed by the others with their pitchforks. Then in the midst of the
huddled-up sheep and of the cows who stared affrighted, the savage
strife was fought out beneath the moon, and ended in a massacre.
When they had slain not only the Spaniards, but also their horses,
Korneliz rushed thence across the meadow in the direction of the
flames, while the others plundered and stripped the dead. Thereafter
all returned to the village with their flocks. The women, who were
observing the dark forest from behind the churchyard walls, saw them
coming through the trees and ran with the cure to meet them, and all
returned dancing joyously amid the laughter of the children and the
barking of the dogs.
But, while they made merry, under the pear trees of the orchard, where
the Red Dwarf had hung lanterns in honor of the kermesse, they
anxiously demanded of the cure what was to be done.
The outcome of this was the harnessing of a horse to a cart in order to
fetch the bodies of the woman and the nine little girls to the village.
The sisters and other relations of the dead woman got into the cart
along with the cure, who, being old and very fat, could not walk so far.
In silence they entered the forest, and emerged upon the moonlit plain.
There, in the white light, they descried the dead men, rigid and naked,
among the slain horses. Then they moved onward toward the farm, which
still burned in the midst of the plain.
When they came to the orchard of the flaming house, they stopped at the
gate of the garden, dumb before the overwhelming misfortune of the
peasant. For there, his wife hung, quite naked, on the branches of an
enormous nut tree, among which he himself was now mounting on a ladder,
and beneath which, on the frozen grass, lay his nine little daughters.
Korneliz had already, climbed along the vast boughs, when suddenly, by
the light of the snow, he saw the crowd who horror-struck watched his
every movement. With tears in his eyes, he made a sign to them to help
him, whereat the innkeepers of the Blue Lion and the Golden Sun, the
cure, with a lantern, and many others, climbed up in the moonshine amid
the snow-laden branches, to unfasten the dead. The women of the village
received the corpse in their arms at the foot of the tree; even as our
Lord Jesus Christ was received by the women at the foot of the Cross.
On the morrow they buried her, and for the week thereafter nothing
unusual happened in Nazareth.
But the following Sunday, hungry wolves ran through the village after
high mass, and it snowed until midday. Then, suddenly, the sun shone
brilliantly, and the peasants went to dine as was their wont, and
dressed for the benediction.
There was no one to be seen on the Place, for it froze bitterly. Only
the dogs and chickens roamed about under the trees, or the sheep
nibbled at a three-cornered bit of grass, while the cure's servant
swept away the snow from his garden.
At that moment a troop of armed men crossed the stone bridge at the end
of the village, and halted in the orchard. Peasants hurried from their
houses, but, recognizing the new-comers as Spaniards, they retreated
terrified, and went to the windows to see what would happen.
About thirty soldiers, in full armor, surrounded an old man with a
white beard. Behind them, on pillions, rode red and yellow lancers who
jumped down and ran over the snow to shake off their stiffness, while
several of the soldiers in armor dismounted likewise and fastened their
horses to the trees.
Then they moved in the direction of the Golden Sun, and knocked at the
door. It was opened reluctantly; the soldiers went in, warmed
themselves near the fire, and called for ale.
Presently they came out of the inn, carrying pots, jugs, and rye-bread
for their companions, who surrounded the man with the white beard,
where he waited behind the hedge of lances.
As the street remained deserted the commander sent some horsemen to the
back of the houses, to guard the village on the country side. He then
ordered the lancers to bring him all the children of two years old and
under, to be massacred, as is written in the Gospel of St. Matthew.
The soldiers first went to the little inn of the Green Cabbage, and to
the barber's cottage which stood side by side midway in the street.
One of them opened a sty and a litter of pigs wandered into the
village. The innkeeper and the barber came out, and humbly asked the
men what they wanted; but they did not understand Flemish, and went
into the houses to look for the children.
The innkeeper had one child, who, in its little shift, was screaming on
the table where they had just dined. A soldier took it in his arms, and
carried it away under the apple trees, while the father and mother
followed, crying.
Thereafter the lancers opened other stable doors,--those of the cooper,
the blacksmith, the cobbler,--and calves, cows, asses, pigs, goats, and
sheep roamed about the square. When they broke the carpenter's windows,
several of the oldest and richest inhabitants of the village assembled
in the street, and went to meet the Spaniards. Respectfully they took
off their caps and hats to the leader in the velvet mantle, and asked
him what he was going to do. He did not, understand their language; so
some one ran to fetch the cure.
The priest was putting on a gold chasuble in the vestry, in readiness
for the benediction. The peasant cried: "The Spaniards are in the
orchard!" Horrified, the cure ran to the door of the church, and the
choir-boys followed, carrying wax-tapers and censer.
As he stood there, he saw the animals from the pens and stables
wandering on the snow and on the grass; the horsemen in the village,
the soldiers before the doors, horses tied to trees all along the
street; men and women entreating the man who held the child in its
little shift.
The cure hastened into the churchyard, and the peasants turned
anxiously towards him as he came through the pear trees, like the
Divine Presence itself robed in white and gold. They crowded about him
where he confronted the man with the white beard.
He spoke in Flemish and in Latin, but the commander merely shrugged his
shoulders to show that he did not understand.
The villagers asked their priest in a low voice: "What does he say?
What is he going to do?" Others, when they saw the cure in the orchard,
came cautiously from their cottages, women hurried up and whispered in
groups, while the soldiers, till that moment besieging an inn, ran back
at sight of the crowd in the square.
Then the man who held the innkeeper's child by the leg cut off its head
with his sword.
The people saw the head fall, and thereafter the body lie bleeding upon
the grass. The mother picked it up, and carried it away, but forgot the
head. She ran towards her home, but stumbling against a tree fell prone
on the snow, where she lay in a swoon, while the father struggled
between two soldiers.
Some young peasants cast stones and blocks of wood at the Spaniards,
but the horsemen all lowered their lances; the women fled and the cure
with his parishioners began to shriek with horror, amid the bleating of
the sheep, the cackling of the geese, and the barking of the dogs.
But as the soldiers moved away again into the street, the crowd stood
silent to see what would happen.
A troop entered the shop kept by the sacristan's sisters, but came out
quietly, without harming the seven women, who knelt on the threshold
praying.
From these they went to the inn of St. Nicholas, which belonged to the
Hunchback. Here, too, so as to appease them, the door was opened at
once; but, when the soldiers reappeared amid a great uproar, they
carried three children in their arms. The marauders were surrounded by
the Hunchback, his wife, and daughters, all, with clasped hands,
imploring for mercy.
When the soldiers came to their white-bearded leader, they placed the
children at the foot of an elm, where the little ones remained seated
on the snow in their Sunday clothes. But one of them, in a yellow
frock, got up and toddled unsteadily towards the sheep. A soldier
followed, with bare sword; and the child died with his face in the
grass, while the others were killed around the tree.
The peasants and the innkeeper's daughters all fled screaming, and shut
themselves up in their houses. The cure, who was left alone in the
orchard, threw himself on his knees, first before one horseman, then
another, and with crossed arms, supplicated the Spaniards piteously,
while the fathers and mothers seated on the snow beyond wept bitterly
for the dead children whom they held upon their knees.
As the lancers passed along the street, they noticed a big blue
farmstead. When they had tried, in vain, to force open the oaken door
studded with nails, they clambered atop of some tubs, which were frozen
over near the threshold, and by this means gained the house through the
upper windows.
There had been a kermesse in this farm. At sound of the broken
window-panes, the families who had assembled there to eat gaufres,
custards, and hams, crowded together behind the table on which still
stood some empty jugs and dishes. The soldiers entered the kitchen, and
after savage struggle in which many were wounded, they seized all the
little boys and girls; then, with these, and the servant who had bitten
a lancer's thumb, they left the house and fastened the door behind them
in such a way that the parents could not get out.
The villagers who had no children slowly left their houses, and
followed the soldiers at a distance. They saw them throw down their
victims on the grass before the old man, and callously kill them with
lance and sword. During this, men and women leaned out of all the
windows of the blue house, and out of the barn, blaspheming and
flinging their hands to heaven, when they saw the red, pink, and white
frocks of their motionless little ones on the grass between the trees.
The soldiers next hanged the farm servant at the sign of the Half Moon
on the other side of the street, and there was a long silence in the
village.
The massacre now became general. Mothers fled from their houses, and
attempted to escape through the flower and vegetable gardens, and so
into the country beyond, but the horsemen pursued them and drove them
back into the street. Peasants with caps in their clasped hands knelt
before the men who dragged away their children, while amid the
confusion the dogs barked joyously. The cure, with hands upraised to
heaven, rushed up and down in front of the houses and under the trees,
praying desperately; here and there, soldiers, trembling with cold,
blew on their fingers as they moved about the road, or waited with
hands in their breeches pockets, and swords under their arms, before
the windows of the houses which were being scaled.
Everywhere, as in small bands of twos and threes, they moved along the
streets, where these scenes were being enacted, and entered the houses,
they beheld the piteous grief of the peasants. The wife of a
market-gardener, who occupied a red brick cottage near the church,
pursued with a wooden stool the two men who carried off her children in
a wheelbarrow. When she saw them die, a horrible sickness came upon
her, and they thrust her down on the stool under a tree by the roadside.
Other soldiers swarmed up the lime trees in front of a farmstead with
its blank walls tinted mauve, and entered the house by removing the
tiles. When they came back on to the roof, the father and mother, with
outstretched arms, tried to follow them through the opening, but the
soldiers repeatedly pushed them back, and had at last to strike them on
the head with their swords, before they could disengage themselves and
regain the street.
One family shut up in the cellar of a large cottage lamented near the
grating, through which the father wildly brandished a pitchfork.
Outside on a heap of manure, a bald old man sobbed all alone; in the
square, a woman in a yellow dress had swooned, and her weeping husband
now supported her under the arms, against a pear tree; another woman in
red fondled her little girl, bereft of her hands, and lifted now one
tiny arm, now the other, to see if the child would not move. Yet
another woman fled towards the country; but the soldiers pursued her
among the hayricks, which stood out in black relief against the fields
of snow.
Beneath the inn of the Four Sons of Aymon a surging tumult reigned. The
inhabitants had formed a barricade, and the soldiers went round and
round the house without being able to enter. Then they were attempting
to climb up to the signboard by the creepers, when they noticed a
ladder behind the garden door. This they raised against the wall, and
went up it in file. But the innkeeper and all his family hurled tables,
stools, plates, and cradles down upon them from the windows; the ladder
was overturned, and the soldiers fell.