A DINNER OF HERBS
The house of Papa-Maleko Nicolaides consisted of three rooms, two
downstairs and one above. Curtis was given a seat upon an antique
couch with a wooden frame, upon whose high back was carved the date,
1855. Papa-Maleko's father-in-law had received it in that year as part
of his wife's dowry, and had given it in turn to his own daughter. It
was a highly prized possession.
A trunk studded with brass-headed nails, several low wooden stools and
a bureau completed the furniture of the apartment.
The priest brought a stool for Curtis' foot, and lifted the wounded
member tenderly thereon. The windows and doors were darkened by the
wondering population. Two or three leading citizens pushed through
into the room and commenced talking in chorus. All gesticulated
wildly. Lindbohm knelt down and began to remove the stocking.
"I know something of medicine," he said. "Do I hurt you?"
"Go on," replied Curtis; "that's a mere detail."
Lindbohm poked the puffy sole here and there until his patient gave a
jump, as when the dentist finds a nerve.
"There it is," cried Curtis. "There's something in it."
Further examination discovered the head of a black sliver, which, after
several attempts with a penknife blade and his thumbnail, the
Lieutenant succeeded in extracting. The curiosity of the throng, that
now packed the room almost to suffocation, found expression in a storm
of volubility. The sliver was passed from hand to hand. Curtis
thought he detected again and again the syllables, "many, many." He
forgot they were speaking Greek.
"Do they say there are others?" he asked.
"No," replied Michali; "they say '_kaiemene_,' which means poor fellow!"
"O, tell 'em it's nothing. Just a sliver in my foot. I'll be all
right in an hour."
"On the contrary, I regret to say that you a sore foot may have during
two or three weeks. It is a spine of the _achinoos_."
"O, the sea hedgehog. Is it poisonous?"
"Not exactly poisonous, but it will make much irritation. You should
have spoken of him immediately, then it would not have been so bad.
Did it not hurt very bad?"
"Why, it hurt some, of course, but I thought I had scratched my foot on
a stone. I wasn't going to delay the game for a little scratch."
"Well, by Jupiter!" cried Lindbohm, "you Americans have plenty of
gravel."
"Plenty of what?"
"Plenty of gravel. Isn't that what you say? I heard the expression
once."
"Perhaps you mean sand?"
"Maybe it is. At any rate, you've got it."
At this moment a tremendous hubbub arose. The demarch lunged through
the crowd, and, throwing his constituents to right and left, made way
for the entry of an old woman, who stabbed the ground at every step
with a long, quivering staff. She was bent like the new moon, and her
wrinkled skin was the color of a mild cigar. In her left hand she
held, a wisp of dried herbs. The cries of relief and joy which her
presence evoked reminded Curtis of the arrival of a tardy fire engine.
"Who's this?" he asked.
"She is the wise woman," replied Michali. "She will put something on
the foot that will cure him very quick."
Her orders, delivered in a shrill voice, resulted in the immediate
production of warm water, a towel and a basin. The old woman made the
sign of the cross over the foot. She then washed it, applied the
leaves and bound them on with rags.
"That does feel nice," said Curtis. "How much ought I to offer her?"
"Money?" asked Michali.
"Yes, of course."
"Nothing, nothing. She would be--what you call him? She would suffer
in her feelings. You are the guest of the village. Bid me to thank
her for you."
"Sure. Tell her she's a regular old brick. Tell her my own mother
couldn't have done it better."
"Ah, that, yes. I do not know what is that brick, but the mother will
make her very glad."
Michali evidently knew what to say, for she patted Curtis' head
affectionately, and tears ran down her cheeks.
"She says she had three boys, all big, strong fellows like you, and the
Turks have kill them all," explained Michali.
"Yes," replied Curtis. "I understood the most of that myself. She
speaks very plain."
The demarch now made a brief speech, which resulted in clearing the
house. As the Ambellakians retired, a merry voice shouted:
"_Perastika, Kyrie Pelarge!_" (May you recover soon, Mr. Stork) and all
took up the refrain, shouting the syllables over and over, amid great
laughter. To Michali's unbounded delight, Curtis cried "_Eucharisto!_"
(Thanks.)
"That was splendid," said Michali, when all had left except himself,
Lindbohm, the demarch and Papa-Maleko. "How did you understand what
they have said?"
"I studied modern Greek in college and used to practice on the Greeks
in Boston. But I understand hardly anything. I'm disgusted with
myself. I said "_Eucharisto_" because it was the only word I could
think of."
"O, you are too modest. You answered exactly right. They said, 'May
you get well soon, Mr. Stork,' and you answered, Thank you, thank you."
Curtis took from his pocket a book, badly damaged by the bath which it
had received when he had jumped for his life from the ill-fated "Holy
Mary," but still serviceable.
"This is a new method, just out," he explained, holding it up to view.
"O, I shall be talking in a day or two--I lose confidence when there
are so many people together. They all jabber at once, and I can't
understand a word."
The demarch and the priest examined with great reverence the copy of
Rangave's excellent method.
Their ideas of books were chiefly associated with the Holy Scriptures
and the "Lives of the Saints." The mayor crossed himself devoutly, but
the priest refrained. He had heard that there were profane books.
Evening was now at hand, and a girl came in, bringing two lighted
candles in tall brass candlesticks. She was the maiden whom the
shipwrecked strangers had first seen, standing on the edge of the
precipice, with the water jug on her shoulder. Her height was rather
greater than that of the ordinary woman, her figure was both slender
and athletic. There was something antique and statuesque in her
attitude now, as she advanced, holding the two tall candlesticks.
Papa-Maleko introduced her as his daughter and Michali explained. She
smiled sweetly and replied with charming graciousness of manner that
the strangers were welcome. There was no simpering nor coyness. She
bore herself with the modest courage of innate nobility and innocence.
The false standards of so-called civilization were unknown to her. She
was a daughter of the democracy of the mountains. In her theory of the
world all women were virtuous, and all men, except Turks, were
gentlemen and heroes. When Curtis heard her speak Greek, he redoubled
his resolve to perfect himself in the language without delay. He even
framed a sentence with which to address her, but a certain shyness, the
fear of exciting laughter in those beautiful eyes through some mistake
in accent or grammar, deterred him.
Lindbohm, as soon as he comprehended that he was being presented to the
mistress of the house, brought his heels together, and, bowing low,
lifted her hand to his lips. It was a knightly and courtier-like act,
that clothed him in dignity despite the shrunken and salt incrusted
Prince Albert and the grotesque remnants of shoes. Panayota flushed
like a peony and looked inquiringly at Michali.
"It is the custom among the gentlemen in his country," replied the
young patriot, who had read of similar scenes in foreign romances. "He
salutes you as though you were a queen."
"It is a beautiful custom," said the demarch. "But is not the American
also a gentleman?" for Curtis, rising with difficulty on one leg, had
shaken Panayota cordially by the hand.
"O, the Americans are great democrats," replied Michali. "This is a
royal salute, you know, and they know nothing about such things."
The beautiful young girl brought in a tablecloth and spread it on the
floor. The demarch stepped to the door, and, calling a young boy from
the street, said something to him in a low tone.
A noisy but good-natured discussion immediately arose between the mayor
on the one hand and Papa-Maleko and his daughter on the other. The
priest, darting from the door, called the boy back; the mayor, seizing
Lindbohm's cane, threatened the boy with it, and pushed the priest back
into the house.
Panayota protested laughingly, calling upon the Virgin and crossing
herself.
"What's the row, anyway?" asked Curtis, to his great disgust not being
able to catch enough words from the rapidly-spoken sentences to be
quite sure of their meaning. Panayota's enunciation was more clear cut
and distinct than that of the others, and from what she said, he
concluded that the mayor was ordering food from his café, a proceeding
which the priest and his daughter good-naturedly resented, as a
reflection on their own hospitality.
"Seems like a quarrel between Church and State," observed Curtis.
Michali explained the remark, easily understood in Greek, and the
mayor, shouting great thunder claps of laughter, patted Curtis on the
back and cried, "Bravo! bravo!"
Panayota placed on the cloth a huge loaf of brown bread, a plate of
black olives and a jug of water. The Sphakiotes do not take kindly to
wine. But the feast was not yet complete; a young man entered, bearing
a large bowl of brown earthenware, filled with something that emitted a
cloud of fragrant steam; and a plate containing a large chunk of white
_halva_. These he deposited upon the tablecloth, and Panayota, with a
graceful wave of the hand and a dazzling smile that flashed from her
white teeth and beamed in her great brown eyes, cried "_Oreeste_." The
demarch sat down on the floor, crossing his legs under him. The priest
laid his hand upon Lindbohm's shoulder, and pointed to the feast. The
Swede sat down as awkwardly and as many jointedly as a camel. The
floor seemed far away to him, and when he had finally reached it, do
what he could with his legs, his knees persisted in rising on a level
with his ears. Curtis slid his lame foot along until he was sitting on
the floor with his back against the sofa. The Cretans made the sign of
the cross, which corresponds with our blessing, and Panayota, who was
standing meekly by as serving maid, distributed four forks among the
five diners. There not being enough to go around, the demarch
unsheathed a long knife whose silver-mounted handle ended broadly, with
two flaring ears, not unlike the butt of an Arab's gun. Cutting the
bread with this, he impaled a bounteous portion and offered it to
Curtis, who took it from the point, saying "_Eucharisto, polu,
Demarche_." (Many thanks, Mr. Mayor.)
"Bravo, bravo!" cried Michali, "you're getting on. At this rate you
will speak Greek by to-morrow better than I do!"
"This is truly wonderful," observed the priest, and asked Curtis,
slowly and distinctly, "How many years have you been in Greece?"
"He says--" began Michali.
"Hold on, old man, I understand him," interrupted Curtis, and he
replied, slowly but correctly, in Greek:
"I have been here only two weeks."
"This is a miracle," roared the demarch. "We shall make a Cretan of
you; but let us begin eating," and, spearing a piece of bread with his
knife, he dipped it into the soup.
"You must do as I do," said Michali, dipping his own chunk and eating
it from his fork. "This is lenten soup--black-eyed beans cooked with
oil. Over this was the contest between Church and State. The mayor's
cook makes famous lenten soup and Kyr' Nikolaki wished to send for
some, but Papa-Maleko desired the dinner himself to furnish."
"_Kalo?_" asked the mayor, holding a huge chunk of dripping bread
suspended in midair over the bowl.
"He asks you is it good?" explained Michali to Lindbohm.
"_Kalo? kalo?_" repeated Kyr' Nikolaki.
"_Kalo_," replied Lindbohm.
A medium of general communication was now established. Papa-Maleko and
Kyr' Nikolaki with nearly every bite smiled upon Curtis and Lindbohm
and asked "_Kalo?_" and they both replied, "_Kalo, kalo_."
After dinner the demarch departed, taking Michali with him, and
Panayota, made up the bed on the floor for Curtis and Lindbohm. She
brought in a mattress from outdoors, which somewhat mystified Curtis
until he remembered that the stone stairway to the upper regions was
built on the outside of the house. She laid a sheet on the mattress
and over that a quilt with a sheet sewed to it in such a manner that
the end was doubled over and bore the initials, beautifully
embroidered, of Panayota Nicolaides.