THE PAST OF A POET.
We all have histories. The meanest hind
Who turns the steaming furrow can unfold
Some story in his uneventful life,
Which stirs the wonderment of him who hears,
To thoughts bewildered, how so small a stage
Can thus contain so great a tragedy.
The Eunice left Southampton on an unpleasantly wet day, and standing on
the deck, under a dull gray sky, the three adventurers felt quite
dispirited as they watched the receding shores of England veil
themselves in chilly mists. Going down the Channel they had moderately
fair weather, but no sunlight, and Caliphronas, who was a wretchedly bad
sailor, in spite of his Levantine cruisings, retreated to his cabin in a
very miserable frame of mind. Both Crispin and Maurice, however, were in
good health and spirits, mostly remaining on deck to watch the gray sea
heaving dully under the gray sky. In the Bay of Biscay bad weather
prevailed as a matter of course, and the yacht tossed about a good deal
in the choppy waters. Not until they passed the Straits did they have
fine weather, for the first burst of sunlight showed them the giant rock
of Gibraltar frowning on the left as they steamed rapidly into the blue
waters of the Mediterranean.
Had Maurice so desired, Crispin was quite willing to put in for a day,
but the young man was anxious to proceed to Melnos, and the yacht soon
left the picturesque sentinel of the Mediterranean behind. The weather
now became warm and bright, bringing Caliphronas out of his cabin again,
like a brilliant butterfly, to bask in the sunshine. The arid island of
Malta came in sight, and they saw its precipitous shores rising sternly
from the tideless waters. For a few hours they cast anchor in the Grand
Harbor, and went on shore to explore Valetta, with its steep streets,
quaint houses, and mongrel population. An afternoon spent in leisurely
strolling along the Strada Reale, and looking at the bizarre mixture of
Turks, Jews, Arabs, Italians, and red-coated English soldiers, proved an
agreeable change after their nine days’ run from Southampton, and they
re-embarked in much better spirits than when they left England. Now they
were in tropical heat, with a cloudless sky above, and the brave little
yacht steamed merrily across the glittering waters, leaving a trail of
white foam behind her. Nearer and nearer they drew to the enchanted
shores of Greece, and to glowing days succeeded warm nights lighted by
mellow constellations and delicately silver moons.
It was when they were in Adria, the ancient name of the sea between
Sicily and Greece, that Crispin told Maurice the story of his life.
Dinner was long since over, and the three gentlemen lounged on deck
smoking the pipes of peace—that is, Crispin and Maurice smoked and
lounged, for Caliphronas did neither the one thing nor the other, but
paced restlessly about the deck, looking up into the darkly blue sky,
and singing snatches of Greek songs.
“Do you see Taygetus, Mr. Maurice?” he said, pointing to the lofty
snow-crowned range of mountains in the distance. “This is your first
glimpse of Greece, is it not? Yes, of course it is. I am sorry you do
not find our shores bathed in sunlight to greet you; still yonder snowy
mountain, this calm sea, that serene sky, is beautiful, is it not?”
“Very beautiful.”
Whereat Caliphronas, leaning over the taffrail and looking dreamily at
the shores of his native land, broke out into song.
“I would I were hunting on rocky Taygetus,
Which kisses the starry sky with snows of chastity,
Then might I meet the lost nymph
Who beloved by a god was set as a star on high,
But fell from thence, and was lost in the snowy wilderness.”
“Taygeta!” said Crispin, who knew the song well. “Yes; she was one of
the Pleiades, certainly; but I don’t think she was the lost Pleiad, nor
do I think she had anything to do with yonder mountain. If you hunted
there, Caliphronas, you would meet Bacchus and his crew, but no nymph.”
“I sing the song as ’twas sung to me,” said the Count blithely,
balancing himself on one foot. “This is a land of fancy, not of fact; so
why bring in your hard truths to destroy the glory of tradition? No;
Taygeta haunts those hills, and if I wandered upward to the snows I
would meet her.”
“If you saw a nymph you would go mad,” remarked Maurice, alluding to the
old Greek superstition.
“I am mad now, Mr. Maurice,—mad with the scent of wind and wave and
shore. Can you not smell the perfumes blowing from the land?”
“No; I’m sure I cannot, nor you either.”
“You are no believer. See, from the moonlit waters arise the Nereides to
welcome us to the seas of Poseidon. Arethusa, Asia, and Leucothoe are
all waving their white arms, and singing songs of the wondrous caves
beneath the waves.”
“Ridiculous!” retorted Maurice stolidly.
“You are no idealist,” said Caliphronas petulantly. “Dull Englishman as
you are, the land of romance spreads her wonders in vain for you.
Creespeen, you are a poet; behold the daughters of the sea!”
Crispin smiled absently, and tossed his cigarette into the waters which
rushed past, glittering in the moonlight with the grayish glint of
steel.
“You forget that this is no galley of Ulysses, my friend. A modern
steamer, with a noisy screw beating the waters, is enough to scare away
all the nymphs in the vicinity.”
“And this is a poet!” cried the Greek indignantly, addressing the stars;
“this dull-eyed being who can see no wonders in the seas! Oh, shade of
Homer, conjure up for him the island nymph, Calypso, and her lovely
train; conjure”—
“I think Homer will have to conjure up himself first,” said Crispin
flippantly.
“Which he certainly will not do on the ocean,” added Maurice lazily;
“your mighty poet was a land-lubber.”
Caliphronas looked indignantly at them both, then went off in a rage.
“I will go and have a talk to the sailors.”
“Don’t addle their English brains with your classical rubbish,” shouted
Crispin satirically; “if you do, they may wreck us.”
“Wreck you!” said the Greek to himself, with a start. “There is many a
true word spoken in jest, my friend; perhaps you will be wrecked before
we reach Melnos.”
When Caliphronas had gone. Maurice relighted his pipe, which had gone
out; and, freed from the chattering of the Count, enjoyed the quiet
beauty of the night, while Crispin hummed softly a ballad which Eunice
used to sing,—
“Oh, winds and waves, oh, stars and sea,
I would I were as blithe and free.”
Above, the sky was almost of a purple color in the sultry night, and the
stars, brilliant and large, burned like lamps in the still air. A serene
moon, half veiled in fleecy clouds, arose above the chill snows of
Taygetus, and a long glittering bridge of light extended from the land
to the yacht. The steady beat of the screw, which impelled the vessel
through the silent waters, sounded in their ears, blending with the rich
voice of Caliphronas, who had climbed up the mast, and was clinging to
the weather rigging like a spectral figure in the shadowy glimmer of
moon and star.
“The earth breathes fragrant breaths to-night,
And the perfume blows from the land.
Oh, I can see the waters kissing her shores,
Even as I would kiss thee, my belovèd,
With thy breath more fragrant than these languid scents,
Floating from the distant isles of rose-filled gardens.”
“I wish I knew Greek,” said Maurice, as the Count paused for a moment;
“those snatches of song sound so beautiful.”
“They are beautiful,” replied Crispin idly; “I have often thought of
translating some of them into English. Listen!”
“I see Dione rising from the waters,
A Venus of the moonlight night.
Why wavest thou thy arms as ivory gleaming?
Why do I see thine eyes flash as the evening star?
Thy voice is as the murmur of breathing waves
In twilight on a sandy beach.
Callest thou me to thy home below?
Ah, I will come, and beneath the placid waters
Coldly white will I lie on thy cold white breast.
But thro’ the door of death must I pass to gain such blisses.”
“’Tis like the lyrics of Callicles in Arnold’s poem,” said Crispin,
taking off his cap; “stray fragments of song scattered by the winds.”
“Or like the songs in ‘Pippa Passes,’” suggested Maurice speculatively;
“but I am afraid the singing of Caliphronas will not do so much good as
Pippa’s.”
A long sigh floated past them on the still waters, like the melancholy
cry of a bird, and died away sadly in the distance.
“Calypso sighing for Ulysses,” observed Crispin, without altering his
position; “though I dare say it is only the wind moaning through the
ropes.”
“Let us think it is the voice calling, Pan is dead!”
“We are classical to-night. Caliphronas has inoculated us with his
antique dreams. Well, when one is in fairyland, one must dream
romances.”
“Suppose you tell me your romance,” said Maurice abruptly.
“Of my past life? Yes; I will do so; but you must promise to keep it
secret.”
“I promise.”
“I am afraid you will think but little of it when you know all; but I
promised to tell you, so I will now fulfil my promise. In the first
place, you know my name is Crispin.”
“Yes; and have often wondered at its terseness. Have you no surname?”
“No legal surname.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am a natural son.”
“Illegitimate!” said Maurice, startled.
“Yes. Now you see the reason for my returning to Melnos.”
“You wish to find out who you really are.”
“I do; from Justinian.”
“But who is this mysterious Justinian?”
“And this equally mysterious Caliphronas, and Alcibiades, and Crispin.
You are in a world of mystery here, and will see many things on Melnos
which will excite your wonderment. But come, I will lift a portion of
the veil, and place you in possession of facts which may be of use to
you in the future.”
“I am all attention.”
Crispin settled himself more comfortably, and, fixing his earnest eyes
upon Maurice, began his story without further remark.
“My first memories are of the Island of Melnos, where I was _not_ born.
No; I was taken there with my mother when I was an infant; but the land
of my birth I do not know. English I am, certainly; but for all I know,
ocean may have witnessed my coming into the world. As I grew up, I
thought Justinian was my father, for my mother always led me to believe
such was the case, and certainly he was very kind to me. This Justinian,
of whom you have often heard me speak, is not a Greek, but an
Englishman; but of his real name I am ignorant, nor do I know the reason
that he lives in this island exile. Now you can see the reason I speak
English so well, for from my earliest years I was brought up with the
sound of it in my ears; so also was Caliphronas.”
“Is he related to Justinian?”
“No; nor was he born in Ithaca; nor is he a count; nor is his name
Caliphronas. Count Constantine Caliphronas, better known in these waters
as Andros, comes from the island of the name; and Justinian, struck by
his beauty as a child, adopted him as a son, and brought him up with me.
The English tongue we were both taught from our cradles; so you now know
the reason we both speak it so well. In those early days I always
thought Justinian was my father, and Caliphronas was my brother; but as
I grew up I was undeceived on these points. My mother died when I was
still a child, and I was therefore left to the sole guardianship of this
pseudo-Englishman. As I told you, he rules over a kind of patriarchal
community in this little-known island; and the life seems to suit him,
for he is a kind of freebooter in his way, fierce and lawless, though
years have now tamed his spirit to a considerable extent. Caliphronas,
or rather Andros, and myself were brought up in a wild sort of
fashion,—always in the open air, on the waters, fishing, riding,
sailing, fighting”—
“Fighting!” cried Maurice in surprise.
“Yes. Oh, there are strange things in these Greek waters, I assure you!
On an adjacent island lived a kind of semi-pirate called Alcibiades, who
was, and is, a thorough blackguard. He used to cruise about in a small
craft in order to levy blackmail on the inhabitants of the other
islands, and in these cruises Andros and myself very often joined. There
was no killing, you understand; but sometimes the peasants objected to
be robbed, so there was often a fight, ending in broken heads.”
“But the law?”
“Oh, there is precious little law in these parts. Brigandism is not yet
extinct, whatever you English may think. Besides, Alcibiades was a
moderate sort of pirate, and was cunning enough not to go too far. He
would rob a poor man of his last drachma, but he would not cut his
throat. I don’t think Justinian blamed him for this piratical existence;
indeed, I think he rather envied his wild life, and, had he been young
enough, would certainly have joined him in partnership. As it was, he
allowed Andros and myself to form part of the band of Alcibiades, which
we, wild, uncultured scamps as we were, regarded as a great privilege.”
“And how long did this buccaneering go on?”
“As far as I am concerned, for some years; but as regards Caliphronas, I
dare say he is at it yet.”
“What! is he a thief?”
“Oh, no; a thief is a vulgar thing. Caliphronas is a picturesque
freebooter, and simply plunders on a large scale. I’ve no doubt his
visit to England was paid for out of his ill-gotten gains.”
“And is this Alcibiades still living?”
“Oh yes; you will see him, I have no doubt, for he is a great friend of
Justinian’s.”
“But who is this Justinian?”
Crispin paused for a moment and seemed to consider, then replied with
great deliberation,—
“I can hardly tell you. He is an Englishman, so you must be content with
knowing only that. Later on I may tell you something about him, but not
now.”
“Well, and how did you escape from this piratical existence?”
“Oh, Caliphronas was the main cause of my leaving Melnos. After my
mother died, I made several discoveries—one, that Andros was not my
brother, as I had hitherto supposed; and another, that Justinian was not
my father. Being a comparative child, I did not pay much attention to
these facts; but when I was about eighteen years of age, I began to ask
Justinian questions as to who I really was, but he refused to tell me.”
“Were you always called Crispin?”
“Yes, always. Justinian, in spite of his fierce, wild nature, has a vein
of romance in him, and, as he arrived at Melnos with myself and my
mother on St. Crispin’s day, called me after that saint. My mother fell
in with his humor, and from the time I landed at Melnos I was called
nothing else but Crispin.”
“Or Creespeen, as the Count calls you.”
“Yes; Caliphronas is a good English speaker, but he makes mistakes in
proper names. You observe he never risks saying Roylands, but always
addresses you as Mr. Maurice—Maurice is of course a Greek name.”
“And how was Caliphronas responsible for your leaving Melnos?”
“Oh, it was a kind of Esau and Jacob business. I was Esau, and Andros
Jacob, the favored one. Justinian thought me rather a milksop, because I
did not care about our piratical excursions with Alcibiades, in which
Caliphronas, born scamp as he was, delighted. At all events,
Caliphronas, in order to curry favor with Justinian, and secure his own
well-being, did his best to estrange us still further, and very soon my
adopted father broke out into open hatred of me. One day, when I refused
to join in one of Alcibiades’ little trips in search of plunder, he
taunted me with being a man of peace, like my father; and, when I
demanded who my father was, refused to tell me anything more than that I
was illegitimate. From words we came to blows, for both of us were very
hot-tempered, and the end of it was that Justinian ordered me to leave
the island, much to the delight of Caliphronas, who wanted to secure it
to himself.”
“And you left Melnos?”
“Yes; I could not help myself, as Justinian had plenty of scoundrels to
do his bidding; and, had he given the word, I have no doubt Alcibiades
would have put a stone round my neck, and dropped me into the sea.”
“But, my dear Crispin, all this lawlessness nowadays!”
Crispin shrugged his shoulders with a smile.
“My dear fellow, you gentlemen of England, who live at home in ease, do
not know what lawlessness still exists in the East. To be sure, I speak
of over ten years ago, and things are better now; still, I think a good
many things go on in the vicinity of Melnos which Justice would scarcely
approve of; but, as long as nothing very bad happens, why, she winks at
small crimes. If I had been dropped into the sea, who would have been a
bit the wiser? no one except the islanders, and they would not have
troubled themselves over such a trifle, especially as I was not popular
among them. Caliphronas, Justinian, and Alcibiades are all their
divinities, not a poor poet like me, who shrinks from their scampish
ways.”
“So you left Melnos in the end?”
“Yes; like the boy in the fairy tale, I went out into the wide, wide
world to seek my fortune. I managed to work my passage to Athens, and
arrived there without even the traditional penny. Fortunately, I knew
modern Greek and English thoroughly well, so was fortunate enough to
obtain a situation as a corresponding clerk in a firm of merchants who
traded with England, but I did not remain there long.”
“Where did you make all your money?”
“Ah, that is what I am now going to tell you. Fortune evidently wished
to make reparation for having brought me into the world with a stigma on
my name, so threw me into the way of a rich Englishman, whom I met at
the house of my employer. He heard my story, and was much impressed with
it; and then discovered that I had the talent to string verses together,
and also a faculty for music. Being passionately fond of such things he
made up his mind that he had discovered a genius; and, being without a
relative in the world, he adopted me as his son and made me his heir.”
“You seem to have passed your life in being adopted,” said Maurice, who
was deeply interested in this romantic history.
“Only twice. First Justinian, then my English father. I need not tell
you his name, as I did not take it, preferring to be called Crispin
until such time as I discovered my real parent. Well, my benefactor, who
was very learned, began to educate me, and also placed me at school. I
suppose I made good use of my time, as I soon became sufficiently
accomplished to win his approval. We travelled all over the Continent—a
great deal in the East—until I was about twenty-seven years of age, when
he died at Damascus, and left me heir to all his property, amounting to
about twelve thousand a year.”
“Fortunate man!”
“Yes; I thought I was too fortunate, and had some compunction in taking
so large an income, fearing lest I might be robbing some relative of my
benefactor more entitled to it. When I buried my adopted father at
Damascus, I came to England and saw his lawyers, who were quite
satisfied with my identity, owing to the papers which I produced. The
will, of course, was in their possession, as my benefactor had returned
to England when I was at school, and made his will in my favor. The
lawyers told me that there were no relatives alive, and that I was
justly entitled to spend the money, so that is how I became rich. The
rest of my life you know.”
“You published a volume of poems, became the mystery of London, saw
Eunice, fell in love with her, and came down to the Grange—yes, I know
all that; but have you made no effort to discover who you are?”
“Yes. I went to Melnos three years ago and saw Justinian, but he refused
to help me in any way; so I returned to England in despair. Now,
however, I am going back with certain knowledge of Justinian’s past
life, which I will make use of to force him to tell me what I wish to
know.”
“You don’t believe his story about your illegitimacy?”
“No. If I can get the truth out of him I believe I will find I have a
right to a legal surname, and I am anxious to establish this fact in
order to marry Eunice. As it is, I cannot marry her without inflicting
on her the disgrace I feel myself; besides, her mother would not consent
to the marriage, nor would you.”
“My dear fellow, I am not so narrow-minded as all that.”
“Still, I know your English prejudices. You say that out of kindness,
but if your cousin marries, you would prefer her husband to have a
spotless name.”
“Certainly.”
“Then I am going to make Justinian give me one. I know, if he tells the
truth, I will discover I have been born in wedlock. Of his own free will
he refuses to tell me; now, however, owing to my knowledge of his past,
I can force his confidence.”
“And what about Helena?”
“She is Justinian’s daughter. There is no stain on her birth; so if you
love her, as I am sure you will, you can marry her without fear.”
“Her father seems rather a terrible old person.”
“He is a scamp, I am afraid. Still, he is a man of good family.”
“How do you know?”
“I have made certain discoveries while in England, and now know more
about Justinian than he thinks.”
“Is Helena as charming as she looks?” asked Maurice anxiously.
“Yes,” replied Crispin emphatically. “She is a pure, good woman, and
will make you an excellent wife; but you have a rival.”
“Alcibiades?”
“No; Caliphronas.”
“I thought as much,” said Maurice, with a start, remembering the Greek’s
jealousy concerning the portrait. “But if he loves Helena, why did he
show me her picture, which has been my sole reason for this journey?”
“Wheels within wheels!” replied Crispin significantly.
“More mystery?”
“Yes; there are still some things for you to learn, but I cannot tell
you of them now, as I have made a promise.”
“To whom?”
“Caliphronas.”
“Caliphronas!” cried that gentleman, who had approached them quietly;
“and what are you saying about Caliphronas?”
“A good many things,” said Crispin rapidly, in Greek. “I have been
telling him who I am.”
The Greek flushed with rage, and then he laughed.
“That is your business, but I trust you did not break faith?”
“About Justinian, no; about Helena, no; but I have told him all your
early life.”
Caliphronas made a dart at Crispin with uplifted hand, but Maurice
sprang up and caught him in his arms, where he writhed like an eel.
“Traitor!” he hissed in Greek; “traitor!”