BACCHANALIA.
Clash of cymbals, beat of drum,
O’er the mountain peaks we come,
Far from parchèd Hindostan
To these laughing realms of Pan.
Nymphs and satyrs reel about,
Frenzied in the frenzied rout,
Crowned with ivy, fir, and vine,
Leading on the god of wine.
Far and near, and near and far,
Flock ye to his conquering car;
Lo! he comes in merry mood,
O’er the hills and thro’ the wood,
While the startled Dryads see
From their trees our revelry;
As we shout so loud and free,
Io Bacche! Evohë!
“We celebrate the _fête_ of St. Dionysius to-day,” said Justinian, as
they stood, in the early morning, on the platform of the Acropolis,
awaiting the arrival of the Bacchanalian band from below.
“St. Dionysius!” repeated Maurice, with emphasis. “I thought the
gentleman of that name was an Olympian!”
“He was,” interposed Crispin before Justinian could speak; “but have you
forgotten Heine’s account of how the heathen divinities were transformed
into mediæval saints. St. Dionysius is our old friend Bacchus in a new
guise; Athena has given place to the Virgin Mary—the Panagia, as they
call her in Attica;—Zeus is still the Supreme Being, with awful locks
and thunderbolt, while Apollo the Far-Darter masquerades in classical
adolescence as St. Sebastian.”
“And Venus, Mr. Professor?” asked Helena, with a gay smile.
“Venus,” answered Crispin, with a profound bow, “still lives in the
Ægean Seas as Helena of Melnos.”
“What a charming compliment!” cried the girl, who, in her plain white
chiton, purple-edged peplum, and silver-banded hair, looked indeed like
Aphrodite incarnate. “What about Andros here?”
“Hermes!”
Caliphronas, poising himself lightly on the verge of the staircase,
certainly was the herald of Olympus, the divinized athlete, the more so,
as, instead of his voluminous fustanella, he wore a simple tunic of fine
white wool, which displayed his fine figure to the greatest advantage.
His curls, yellow as those of Achilles, a true Achaian color, were bare,
as he never wore a head covering unless forced to do so, and thus,
stripped of all artificial aids to beauty, he looked the incarnation of
Hellenism, the genius of Greece, ever fair and blooming in eternal
adolescence. Even Justinian was struck with the manly grace and perfect
vitality of the young man, yet, after an admiring glance at this
physical perfection, turned to Maurice, and quoted a line of Homer,—
“‘Faultlessly fair bodies are not always the temples of a godlike
soul.’”
“It is curious you should say that, sir,” observed Maurice; “for my old
tutor, Mr. Carriston, said the same thing about the same man.”
“Carriston!” echoed Justinian hoarsely.
“The Rev. Stephen Carriston, Rector of Roylands,” replied Maurice,
amazed at this emotion; “did you know him?”
“Know him?” said the Demarch, with a forced smile; “no. I have been
absent from England these many years. Rector of Roylands!” he muttered
in an undertone; “strange, strange!”
“What is strange?” asked Roylands curiously.
“Nothing, nothing!” answered Justinian, turning away with a frown. “I
was thinking of something which you would not understand. But here come
our Bacchanalians, Maurice. Now you will see a glimpse of ancient
Hellas.”
Maurice pondered over the strange emotion of Justinian, which he found
himself quite unable to explain, and, coming to the conclusion that the
Demarch must have met some one of the same name under unpleasant
circumstances, he dismissed the subject from his mind as trivial, and
concentrated his attention on the rapidly approaching procession.
Justinian had closely followed the old lines of the Dionysian
ceremonies, saving that he expurgated all the coarser elements of
drinking and debauchery, and during the whole three days’ festival,
modelled on the ancient feasts of Hellas, Maurice did not espy one
offensive thing, which could bring a blush to the cheek of modesty.
Indeed, Helena and all the women of the island were present, so their
mingling in the ceremonies would alone have prevented any coarseness,
even without the stern interdiction of the Demarch; for the Greeks have
a great sense of delicacy, being especially careful not to offend the
delicacy of women in any way whatsoever. This modern Bacchanalia, then,
represented the antique solemnity, as it was in the earlier Attic days,
before later worshippers defiled the rites of the god with their vile
orgies.
It was a perfect day, but, as there had been a slight rainfall in the
morning, in the east loomed a sombre cloud, which, however, foreboded
nothing, as across its darkness, like a many-hued scarf, was flung a
splendid rainbow. Helena caught sight of this first, and clapped her
hands merrily.
“Oh, father, see how red is the rainbow!—that is a good sign for the
vintage.”
“How so?” asked Roylands, somewhat puzzled at this Iris prophecy.
“It is an old Greek superstition,” answered Justinian, smiling at his
daughter’s glee; “if red prevails in the rainbow, there will be plenty
of grapes; if yellow, a fine harvest; and when green it will be a year
for olives. This one is reddish, as you see, so our Bacchanalia will
turn out successfully.”
In front of the procession marched the musicians, men playing on pipes,
flutes, drums, and goat-skin sabounas, a kind of bagpipe, while beside
them danced young ivy-crowned girls, clashing cymbals together. All the
men were dressed in their dancing costumes, similar to that of
Caliphronas, save that all the colors of the rainbow were represented,
though the women, still in their loose white chitons, neutralized to
some extent the vivid tints of the male dresses. Behind the musicians
came lads garlanded with wreaths of intermingled violets and ivy,
bearing thyrsi. Afterwards a number of maidens, with vine-leaf-decorated
amphoras of wine, baskets of figs, and bunches of grapes. A goat, with a
child on its back, was led by two elderly women waving pine branches.
Then came the elders of the village, in white robes, with tall linen
mitres, followed by a joyous band of young men, profusely bedecked with
flowers, who capered round a sedate ass, on which rode the wit of the
village, representing Silenus. An empty chariot, drawn by goats as a
substitute for panthers, then appeared, and in this was to be installed
the Count, who undertook the _rôle_ of Bacchus. The procession finally
closed with the ten sailors walking two abreast, their stiff march
contrasting strangely with the acrobatic dancing and careless grace of
their fellow revellers.
Arriving at the foot of the steps, the chief elder made a speech in
sonorous Greek, in which he invited Justinian and his friends to come
down to the village festival, and bring good fortune to the vintage.
Justinian graciously accepted the invitation, and, in company with his
guests, placed himself in the rear of the procession; while Caliphronas,
who had been crowned with vine leaves, arrayed in a leopard skin, and
bearing a pine-cone tipped sceptre, sprang into his chariot with a
laughing glance, as the revellers saluted him—“Evohë Bacche!”
Back to the head of the grand staircase returned the procession, with
its wild music and merry dancers, while the god, lightly brandishing his
sceptre, looked benignly on his motley crew. Some had fawn skins, all
were crowned, and before the procession ran children strewing the road
with flowers, while the company sang songs in praise of St. Dionysius,
whom Caliphronas was supposed to represent, rather than the genuine son
of Semele. Silenus, by his drunken gestures, and difficulty in keeping
his seat, evoked roars of laughter, and was quite the hero of the hour.
“I never did see sich tomfoolery,” growled Gurt, who was enjoying
himself hugely; “this Baccus is all tommy rot. Like a Lor’ Mayor’s show
it is.”
“Oh, it’s a great spree,” said Dick cheerfully, who was Gurt’s companion
in the march. “Ain’t these girls like the ballet at the Alhambra?”
“Never was there,” growled Gurt, who, when not absent from England,
generally remained in the neighborhood of the docks; “but I’m blessed if
I ever did hear sich music, with their Hi ho Baccus! Who’s Baccus?”
“The god of wine.”
“I wish he was the god of rum,” said the old toper; “for this ’ere sour
stuff as th’ give us is ’nough to give us all cold in our insides. Lor’,
wot music! Let’s give ’em a shanty.”
“The skippers might not like it,” objected Dick anxiously.
“Oh, they don’t mind. I ain’t going to let these coves have it all their
own way.” Whereupon Gurt, in a raucous voice, struck up, “Rule,
Britannia,” much to the amusement of Justinian. His messmates joined in
the chorus, and though the wild orgiastic music still continued, it was
almost drowned in the lusty chorus of “Britons never shall be slaves,”
roared out by ten pairs of lusty lungs.
The chariot of the god had perforce to be left at the head of the
staircase, and Caliphronas, descending, led the way down to the valley,
followed by all his barbaric crew. Shrill sounded the pipes, loud
clashed the cymbals, and the bright sunshine shone on as merry a company
of wine-worshippers as ever it did in the Athens of Æschylus.
The vineyards of Melnos were planted on the sides of the mountain, where
they rose terrace by terrace nearly up to the dark pine woods, which
divided the vegetation from the snow with a broad green band. A
wine-press was placed in nearly every one of these vineyards, but the
place where the ceremonies were to take place lay near to the theatre,
and was a particularly large enclosure, filled with long straggling
vines, in the centre of which a huge whitewashed tank, piled with purple
grapes, stood ready to be tramped out to the lower tank into which the
juice flowed.
Justinian and his guests were conducted to a kind of raised daïs, on
which were placed seats tastefully wreathed with flowers, the most
elaborate of all being reserved for Caliphronas, who, as the presiding
deity of the feast, ranked for the day higher than the lord of the
island. The scene was singularly picturesque: far above, piercing the
blue sky, arose the snowy peaks, lower down the pine forests, then
fields of yellow corn, divided by belts of gray olive trees and
grape-laden vineyards, while the near slopes near the scene of the
festival were covered with red-berried mastic bushes, delicate white
cyclamens, rose-blossomed oleanders, pomegranate trees, and beds of
strongly-scented thyme, filling the still warm air with aromatic odors.
Amid all this beauty were the Bacchanalians with their many-colored
garbs, the whiteness of the women’s dresses predominating, and the whole
laughing throng swaying, leaping, whirling, bounding, gyrating to the
wild music, shrill and plaintive as the wind, of their rude instruments.
In such a vineyard might Dionysius appear to some modern Æschylus, and
command him to kindle anew, with the breath of genius, the fire of the
ancient goat-song, with its solemn splendors, gigantic scenes, and
majestic figures of god, goddess, and hero.
As a rule, the vintage of the insular Greeks begins early in August, but
this year, for some unexplained reason, the grapes had ripened slowly,
hence the Melnosians feared a bad year of the vine, and were much
delighted to find that it was one of the most prolific ever known, a
fact which was further confirmed in their eyes by the prophetic red of
the rainbow.
Papa Athanasius, the priest of the island, arrayed in the gorgeous
sacerdotal vestments of his Church, now came forward, surrounded by a
number of acolytes, bearing censers and sacred ichons, in order to
pronounce a blessing on the first-fruits of the vine year. The ceremony
did not last long, and at its conclusion the Papa retired, while, amid
cries of rejoicing and noisy music, a dozen men with bare feet sprang
into the vat and began to tread the grapes. Their white tunics and naked
feet were soon stained red with the juice of the vine, which shortly
afterwards began to gush freely into the lower vat, amid the songs of
the onlookers. Soon afterwards cups of last year’s wine were passed
round to all present, and, though the Greeks as a rule are a very
temperate people, yet the thin, sour liquor speedily rendered them
slightly intoxicated, and the singing became more vociferous than ever.
“I hope they will give us some national dances,” said Maurice to Helena,
who sat beside him—who looked lovely as the Queen of Love herself.
“Indeed they will!” she answered vivaciously: “you will see the syrtos,
which has a good deal of the Pyrrhic dance in its steps; the moloritis,
in which Zoe, Andros, Crispin, and myself will take part. Then there is
the dancing on the slippery wine-skin, which is very amusing. See, this
is the syrtos!”
A party of young men in their tight-fitting white dancing-costumes now
came forward, saluted Caliphronas as the master of the revels, and,
placing their arms round one another’s necks, began to sway slowly
backward and forward, with a kind of mazourka step, to the inspiriting
music of tabor and pipe. These evolutions increased in rapidity, and
were interspersed with wild acrobatic boundings by single dancers, until
Maurice became quite giddy watching their whirlings.
Afterwards the women, linked together with handkerchiefs, in order to
make the line more flexible, danced gracefully to a slow melody, with
frequent genuflexions of the body and bendings of the head.
“Greek dances are rather monotonous, I am afraid,” said Roylands, who
found this incessant swaying a trifle wearisome. “Why don’t the men and
women dance with one another?”
“They do sometimes, as in the moloritis,” replied Helena, rising from
her seat. “We will dance it now, and I think you will like it better
than the syrtos.”
It was a graceful dance, and the music was more melodious. First, the
four people danced together, then separately, and finally Crispin and
Caliphronas indulged in wild saltatory leapings, while Helena and Zoe
stood still, swaying from side to side, like nautch dancers.
“I think a waltz would be jollier than that,” said Maurice, when she
returned to her seat.
“A waltz! what is that?” asked Helena innocently.
“I will show you some time during the day—that is, if we can get any one
to play us the music.”
“Oh, Andronico, that old man with the violin, can pick up anything by
ear. But see, we are now going to have some singing!”
A handsome young fellow stepped forward, escorted by a number of women,
who joined in the chorus of the song, which was in praise of Dionysius
and the vineyards. Maurice, owing to the skilful tuition of Helena, now
knew enough Greek to understand the words, which, irregularly
translated, were as follows:—
SOLO.
Oh, my love, we went to the vineyards,
And there beheld bunches of purple wine fruit,
Full of the milk of earth our mother.
WOMEN.
Wine, like thee, is my heart-gladdener.
SOLO.
Thro’ the vine leaves peeped St. Dionysius,
Who laughed when he heard the sound of our kisses:
“These are not mad with wine,”
So cried St. Dionysius;
“Not with wine are they mad, but with love and kisses.”
WOMEN.
Wine, like thee, is my heart-gladdener.
There were about twenty verses of this delectable song, interlarded at
times with the rude music of the sabouna. Maurice grew tired of this
dreariness, and went off, in company with Helena, to where the feasting
was going on. Tables were spread out in the open air with cheeses,
bread, honey, goats’ flesh, piles of grapes, and other rustic dainties,
to which the hungry revellers were doing full justice. Some of them were
dancing the Smyriote, others singing interminable songs; but Roylands by
this time had quite enough of Greek dance and song, so asked Helena to
show him the hot springs, which were near at hand.
They were at the base of a little cliff, volcanic in character, with
curiously-twisted streaks of red, green, and black lava, which presented
a bizarre appearance. The water, owing to the presence of oxide of iron,
was of a yellow tint and boiling hot, while occasional puffs of steam
rising skyward veiled the variegated tints of the rock behind, so that
it looked strangely weird and horrible.
“I wonder you are not afraid to live here, Helena!” said the Englishman,
going down on his knees to examine these Ægean geysers. “I don’t believe
this crater is an extinct one.”
“It has been quiet enough for over a thousand years,” replied the girl
carelessly, “so I don’t see why it should break out now.”
“If it did, the loss of life would be terrible.”
“Oh, don’t, Maurice! The idea is too frightful. Why, not one of us would
escape alive, and then good-by to father’s idea of a new Athens.”
“Your new Athens has other things to fear besides volcanoes.”
“What do you mean?”
“That if Caliphronas is appointed your father’s heir, it were better for
this crater to become full of seething lava once more, than the hot-bed
of scoundrels such as that scamp will surely make it.”
“I don’t think you need be afraid of that,” replied Helena, with great
scorn; “Andros is not likely to rule Melnos.”
“You don’t like him?”
“I hate him!”
“And why? He is very handsome.”
“Do you think I am a woman likely to be taken with mere good looks in a
man?” she answered, with an angry light in her eyes. “I thought you knew
me better than that, Maurice.”
“Forgive me, Helena; but indeed I am glad you do not like Caliphronas.”
Helena knew the reason of this pointed remark, and, looking down with a
blush, was about to reply, when the man they were talking about came
quickly along the narrow path, with a savage scowl on his handsome face.
“Helena, your father is asking for you,” he said abruptly.
“Oh, I will go at once,” replied the girl lightly, in order to conceal
her confusion; and rapidly left the spot, where Caliphronas still
remained looking angrily at Maurice.
The Englishman saw that the Count was in a terrible rage, and ready to
overwhelm him with invective, but, nevertheless, was not sorry to come
to a complete understanding with this treacherous scamp, who had no
regard for truth, honor, or daring. Caliphronas was a thorough bully by
nature; and, having succeeded in browbeating his own countrymen by
arrogance, thought he would try the same plan with Maurice, quite
unaware that the seemingly easy-going young man was made of sterner
stuff than yielding Hellenes, and would hold his own against all odds
with true British doggedness.
“Well, Bacchus,” said Maurice, trying to pass the matter off lightly at
first, “why have you deserted your revellers?”
“To punish a scoundrel,” burst out the furious Greek, stamping his foot.
Maurice looked around serenely; and then, sitting down on a block of
black lava, streaked with sulphur, began to roll a cigarette, which
innocent proceeding irritated Caliphronas beyond all powers of
self-control.
“Do you hear me?” he cried, mad with rage. “I came here to punish a
scoundrel!”
In a quarrel the victory is generally to him who keeps his temper, as
Maurice knew very well; so, in this case, the more enraged grew the
Greek, the calmer became the Englishman.
“So I see,” he replied phlegmatically; “but, as I see no scoundrel here
but yourself, I hardly understand you.”
“Understand this, Mr. Maurice—you are the scoundrel!”
“Really!” said Roylands, lighting his cigarette with provoking coolness;
“and your reason for applying such a name to me?”
“You make love to the lady who is to be my wife.”
“I was not aware your offer of marriage had been accepted.”
“I have her father’s consent.”
“True; but you have not the lady’s consent.”
“Bah! what of that? Women and dogs are born to obey.”
“My dear Count Constantine Caliphronas,” said Maurice deliberately, “you
have called me a scoundrel, for which epithet, coming from a despicable
wretch like yourself, I care nothing. But if you dare to speak
disrespectfully of Miss Helena, I will certainly throw you into that
boiling spring over there.”
The Greek was young, strong, and athletic, and could doubtless have held
his own against the Englishman to a considerable extent,—although he
would have been beaten in the end, owing to his ignorance of boxing, an
art in which Maurice excelled,—but so craven was his soul that he did
not dare to resent this calmly insulting speech, but merely stood his
ground, quivering with fury.
“_Và!_” he hissed through his clinched teeth, and shaking five fingers
at Maurice, which is about the strongest imprecation a Greek can use. “I
will be even with you, pig, English as you are!”
“I see you want pitching into that stream,” replied Maurice, rising.
“You dare to apply such another epithet to me, and, as sure as I stand
here, in you go.”
Caliphronas trembled with mingled fear and rage, for he had seen the man
before him box with Boatswain Dick, and knew he had but small chance
against such pugilistic science. He was as careful of his beauty as a
lady, and dreaded lest some sledge-hammer blow should mar his perfect
features, therefore he deemed it wise to restrain his temper, and
laughed derisively.
“Bah! to-day for you, to-morrow for me,” he said jeeringly. “You cannot
hold yourself against the future ruler of Melnos. I will have the island
and Helena! You will have nothing.”
“Don’t be too sure of that, Caliphronas! I don’t want Melnos, but I
certainly do want Helena, and shall certainly refuse to give her up
without a struggle.”
“Try!” sneered the Greek, snapping his fingers under Royland’s nose;
“try!”
Hitherto Maurice had kept his temper well under control; but this last
insult was too much, so, lifting up the light frame of the Greek in his
athletic grasp, in spite of his struggles, he calmly sent him splash
into the nearest pool, which was fortunately but tepid in character,
otherwise the Count might have run a chance of being parboiled.
“Next time you dare to use your vile tongue on me, I will sling you down
the grand staircase,” said Maurice quietly; then, without waiting to
hear the bad language of his enemy, calmly strolled away towards the
scene of the festival, smoking with great enjoyment.
Caliphronas, considerably cowed, crawled out of the pool, looking like a
drowned rat; and few would have recognized in this despicable object the
daring, handsome Hermes of the morning. Had he possessed a knife, he
would certainly have pursued Maurice, and done his best to kill him;
but, being without a weapon, he had a wholesome dread of the
Englishman’s fists, so, swallowing his rage for the time being, went off
in search of dry garments.
As Maurice approached the vineyard, he heard shouts of laughter, and
found it was owing to the latest amusement, that of dancing on the
slippery surface of a skin of wine,—a pastime as old as the days of the
Dionysia itself. Many skilful dancers fell off; and it was long before
any one succeeded in carrying off the prize, which was the skin of wine
itself; but ultimately it fell to the lot of the handsome young Palikar
who had sung the song about St. Dionysius.
Helena looked apprehensively at him when he appeared, as she was afraid
there had been a quarrel between her two suitors; but Maurice calmed her
fears by a smile, and together they watched a sailor’s hornpipe danced
by Dick to the music supplied by old Andronico, who had picked up the
air from Gurt’s whistling.
Justinian was in ecstasies over the dance, and made Dick sing some
sea-songs, which, with the rude but tuneful chorus of his messmates,
made the old man’s eyes flash with patriotic fire.
“I’m only Greek on the surface, you see,” he said to Crispin, with a
somewhat sad smile; “but my heart is English still.”
“Hearts of oak!” replied Crispin gayly. “After all, there is no place
like England; for you see Melnos, with all its tropical loveliness, is
still unsatisfying when memories of white-cliffed Albion awaken in your
heart.”
“Bravo, Crispin!” cried Maurice, who had heard this speech; “you are a
true patriot, and must confirm your views by singing ‘Home, sweet
Home.’”
Crispin, nothing loath, did so; and the Greeks, attracted by the
beautiful air, crowded round to listen. The darkness was falling fast,
for the long day was nearly at an end, and through the still night
sounded the liquid notes of a cock nightingale calling to his mate; but
higher than the voice of the bird arose that tender old melody, which
brings tears to the eyes of those absent from their own fireside.
Justinian, leaning his white head on his hand, listened intently; and
when the song was ended, Maurice could have sworn in the dim light that
a sudden tear flashed like a jewel down his withered cheek. It was
extraordinary to see this man of iron, astute, keen ruler as he was, so
touched by the simple little song, which he had heard perchance at his
mother’s knee; and from that moment Maurice always believed in
Justinian, whom he was certain must have a good heart, when so affected
by that pleading air.
Torches were now brought, the wild music burst out anew, and the
revellers prepared to escort their Demarch back to the Acropolis.
Caliphronas, apparently as merry as ever, made his appearance in new
clothes, and resumed his sceptre and vineleaf crown. Along the street
danced the procession, with clash of cymbal and throb of drum; torches
flaring in the windless air on the excited faces of their bearers; and
it was like a confused dream, with the flash of white robes, the tossing
red lights, the barbaric pomp, and the swaying, restless, dancing crowd.
At the foot of the grand staircase Maurice burst out laughing.
“What is the matter?” asked Crispin, who walked near him.
“I am thinking of Caliphronas, whom I flung into one of the hot
springs.”
“The deuce you did! It’s a pity he was not drowned.”
“He is not born to be drowned,” retorted Roylands sardonically; “he is
born to be hanged.”
At the Acropolis the Bacchanalians left them; and they saw the long
procession stream like a serpent of light along the road, down the
staircase, with glimmer of white robes and distant sounds of mirth. A
last flash of innumerable torches, a last burst of frenzied mirth, then
darkness and quiet—the Dionysia was ended.