THE MASTER OF THE FOREST
On our return from the monastery we had the great joy of finding my
brother at home, back that very day from Europe. I was so delighted I
could hardly sit still. My happiness was dashed to the ground, when,
in the course of the next half hour, he remarked that he must leave
us in a few days to see the Bishop of Xanthy. I was speechless with
disappointment until my mother said:
“Oh! that is lucky. The little one needs a complete change to become
quite herself again. She can go with you.”
Thus it was quickly settled, and a few days later we set off. The first
part of the journey was like any other. We went to Constantinople and
took a train, which, after due deliberation, started, and in due time
again--or rather, not in due time--reached Koumourtzina. There began
what seemed to me our real journey, for we were now to travel entirely
on animal-back.
We started on mules, in the afternoon, and rode for three hours at a
smart trot. In front of us lay the forest of Koumourtzina. Geography
has always been a closed science to me, so I have no idea where this
is, except that it is somewhere in Turkish territory, and on the way to
Xanthy.
It was near nightfall. We took a short rest at a small village, ate a
hearty meal, exchanged the mules we had been riding for horses, and
started out to cross the forest. There was a silvery moonlight over all
the landscape, and the lantern which our guide carried, as he walked
in front of the horses, blinded us more than it helped us. We asked
to have the light put out, but the _kouroudji_, who was also the
owner of the horses we were riding, insisted on the lighted lantern as
part of the convention of the forest.
My saddle was made of camel-bags, filled with blankets and clothes, and
the motion of the horse was smooth and soporific. I became drowsy from
the long day’s ride, and now and then stretched myself in the saddle.
In the very heart of the forest my horse reared so unexpectedly that
had it not been for the vast pillowy saddle I should have been thrown
to the ground. My brother’s horse not only reared but whirled about
like a leaf in a storm. The _kouroudji_ seized the bridle of my
horse and patted and spoke to him, while my brother, who was a very
good horseman, managed to calm his own mount somewhat, and to keep him
headed in the direction we wished to go.
“What is it?” I asked the _kouroudji_. “Why are they behaving like
this?”
The Turk turned to my brother. “The effendi knows?”
“I’m afraid I do. They smell blood.”
“So they do, Bey Effendi. It is not the first time this accursed forest
has been the grave of men. _Allah kerim!_”
He took hold of the bridles of both horses, and spoke to them in
endearing terms. There is an understanding between Turks and horses as
touching as the friendship between them and dogs.
From a monotonous and tedious journey, our ride, of a sudden,
had become most exciting. Although the horses now followed the
_kouroudji_ obediently, they whinnied from time to time, and
shivered.
“Don’t be frightened,” said my brother to me, “and whatever happens
keep your head, and don’t scream. Screaming will do no good, and it may
lead to mishandling.”
“But can’t we go back, Mano?” I asked.
“We shall gain nothing by trying to. If a murder has been committed, we
may come upon the corpse. If it is something else, we are already in
the trap.”
Before I had time to ask him what he meant by this, a shot was fired
over our heads, and, simultaneously, a number of forms emerged from the
forest.
We were surrounded, and several dark lanterns flashed upon us.
“Halt! Hands up!”
“All right!” said my brother.
Five men glided close to us, and I saw three pistols pointing at
us. I could now see our captors distinctly. They had on the Greek
_foustanella_, white, accordion-pleated skirts, stiff-starched,
reaching to the knees. Below they wore gaiters ending in the
_tsarouchia_, or soft-pointed shoes. Their graceful little jackets
were worn like capes, with the empty sleeves flapping. The Greek fez
with its long black tassel completed their picturesque costume.
I do not know whether Greek brigands are really any better than
Bulgarian or Turkish ones, but the sight of their Hellenic costume
lessened my fears considerably. It sounds very silly, but my warm and
uncritical patriotism embraced all Greeks--even brigands. Impulsively I
cried out:
“_Yassas, pallikaria!_” (Health to you, men!)
The brigand next me, whose large brown hand was on the neck of my
horse, laughed.
“_Yassu, kera mou!_” (Health to thee, my lady!)
“What is it all about, _pallikaria_?” my brother asked.
“The master of the forest, hearing of your passing through, claims his
privilege of making you his guest awhile.” The man laughed at his own
pleasantry. “Will you dismount of your own accord, or shall we lend you
our assistance?”
“Considering that you are five, and we are only two, and a half--” My
brother had a philosophic way of accepting the inevitable.
“We are more than five,” remarked one of the men, pointing behind him
into the forest with his thumb.
“You are plenty, in any case,” returned my brother, dismounting. He
helped me from my horse. In French he said:
“There is a mistake. It is a long time since you and I possessed enough
to attract these gentlemen; but be polite and friendly to them.”
The brigands ordered the _kouroudji_--who also accepted the whole
occurrence with philosophic calm--to proceed to Xanthy and report that
his charges were captured by brigands, who would shortly communicate
with their relatives.
“Will he really travel for two days, just to carry that message?” my
brother asked with curiosity.
“Crossing this forest is his business. He knows that, if he does not do
as we say, this forest will become his grave.”
Paying the _kouroudji_, my brother bade him good-bye, and two of
the brigands conducted him off.
They had told us the truth when they said there were others in the
woods, for presently many more came up, and, with somewhat sardonic
humour, bade us welcome.
“We are sorry to have to blindfold you,” said one, and took a big red
pocket-handkerchief from his pocket, which he began to fold on the
bias, for my eyes.
“Please, _pallikari_, do you mind using _my_ handkerchief?” I
asked.
“If it will please you, _kera mou_.”
I handed him my handkerchief.
“_Ma!_ that’s too small.”
“Can’t you use two together?” I asked, giving him another.
He took them and tied the ends together, then slipped the bandage over
my eyes, while another held up the lantern for him to see by.
“_Empross!_” (Forward!) they said.
I felt a big rough hand take mine, and we started off into the thick
woods. We were mounting gradually, and the underbrush became thicker.
Presently I tripped and fell.
“_More_ Mitso!” my guide called to some one ahead. “Come back and
make a chair with me to carry the little girl. She is stumbling.”
The other returned; they joined their hands together, and I took my
seat on them, placing my arms around the men’s necks. I was neither
frightened for the present nor apprehensive for the future: I was
merely excited and enjoying the situation. My love of adventure was
being gratified to the full, and for once the knowledge that we were
poor was a satisfaction. As my brother had said, the days in which we
had money were so long left behind that even we ourselves had forgotten
them.
I felt sure that as soon as the brigands discovered their mistake
they would let us go, the customs of the brigands being as well
known as those of any other members of the community. Besides, had
not my brother said it was all a mistake--and at the time my brother
represented to me the knowledge of the world. I only hoped that the
brigands would not realize it before we reached their lair.
Up, and ever up we went, the men sure-footed in spite of the
underbrush. They halted at last, and set me down.
One of them whistled.
We waited a full minute, and he whistled again. Then one of them sang
in a rich baritone the first lines of the Greek national hymn--
“Oh, Freedom! thou comest out of the holy bones of the
Hellenes--oh, Freedom!”
From somewhere in the vicinity another voice took up the refrain, and
shortly afterwards there came a crash and a rattle of chains.
Some one took my hand again, and I felt that we passed through an
opening. Now we were descending; and gradually the coolness of the
night air changed to warmth, and the smell of food came to our nostrils.
We stopped, and our bandages were removed.
I blinked and rubbed my eyes. We were in a large low room, the floor
of which was partially covered with sheep-skins. A fire was burning,
inside a ring of stones, in the middle of the floor, which was the bare
earth, and a man was sitting by it, cross-legged, cooking.
“_Kali spera sas kai kalos orisete!_” (Good evening and welcome!)
he said to us. “The master will be in shortly. Pray be seated.”
We sat down on some sheep-skins, and I looked about me with interest.
The longer I looked the larger the room grew. Its shadowy ends seemed
to stretch off indefinitely. The ceiling was roughly vaulted, and
I judged that it must be a cave, of which there are many in the
mountains. Numerous weapons lay on the ground or hung on the walls, but
there was nothing terrifying about the place.
Very soon the leader came in. He was a man of about forty, dressed in
European clothes and unmistakably a dandy. He was tall and well-built,
and his black hair was parted in the middle, and carefully combed into
two large curly waves. His long black moustache was martially turned up
at the ends.
He bowed to us as if he were a diplomat, and we his distinguished
guests.
“Welcome to our mountainous abode. I am very glad to meet you.”
He shook hands with us warmly.
“We, too, are very glad to meet you,” said my brother; “but I cannot
understand why you are taking all this trouble. What we could afford to
give you would not keep you in cigarettes a week.”
“Are you quite sure, Mr Spiropoulo?”
“Good gracious, my dear sir,” Mano cried, “you don’t mean to say you
take _us_ for the Spiropouli?”
The chief smiled a most attractive smile it appeared to me; though my
brother afterwards described it as fatuous.
“I hope you did not find the ascent too difficult,” the leader inquired
solicitously.
“Two of the _pallikaria_ made a _skamnaki_ for me,” I put in.
“It was very nice of them.”
I have always spoken my mother tongue with considerable foreign accent,
not having learned it until after I spoke French, German and Turkish,
and this accent at once attracted the attention of our host. Gravely he
asked:
“Did you acquire this French accent, mademoiselle, in the short time
you have been studying the French language. Let me see, it is three
months now since you passed through the forest before. That was the
first time you left Anatolia, I believe--and one does not acquire a
French accent in Anatolia.”
From Mano’s face I knew that he was troubled, therefore I refrained
from being impertinent in answer to our host’s impertinence about my
accent. The latter went on lazily:
“We were sorry to miss you before. We fully intended offering you our
hospitality then--only you changed your plans so suddenly, and arrived
a week before you had intended to. I am glad we were fortunate enough
to secure you this time. One pines for social intercourse in the
mountains.”
The leader’s Greek was excellent. It was easy to see that he must have
been well born, or at least well educated. He stretched himself on a
sheep-skin near, and called to the cook:
“A whole one, boys!” Then, turning to us: “No one will be able to say
that we did not kill the fatted lamb for you.”
The cook, squatting by the fire, rose, walked over to an opening at one
side of the cave, and called:
“A whole one, Steryio!”
Returning to the middle of the room, he lifted up a trap-door, which
disclosed a large, bricked-up cavity, and began shovelling live coals
and brands into it from the fire.
Mano opened his cigarette case, and offered it to the chief.
The latter accepted it, and examined its contents critically.
“They are good, Mr Spiropoulo,” he said with condescension, “but I
believe you will find mine better.”
From his pocket he drew his own case, and passed it to my brother.
“Excellent!” exclaimed Mano. “I know the brand.”
“They were a present from his Holiness, the Bishop of Xanthy.”
“Do you still give the church five per cent. of your--your revenues?”
my brother inquired. “I heard his Holiness mention this devotion of
yours to the church.”
Our host laughed pleasantly. “So his Holiness said that, did he?”
Two men came into the room carrying a lamb made ready for roasting.
They held it while a third impaled it on a long iron bar. Then the bar
was laid across two iron projections, over the bed of embers, and a
handle was fitted to the end of the bar. One of the brigands squatted
down and began slowly turning the spit, and the others shovelled more
embers into the cavity underneath the lamb. We could feel the heat even
where we sat.
We all watched with interest the man rhythmically turning the lamb over
the fire. Gradually he began to hum a song in time to his turning.
It was one of the folk songs about the Armateloi and Kleftai, those
patriotic bandits who waged a guerrilla warfare against the Turks for
years before the Revolution broke out in 1821. It is a period dear
to the hearts of all Greeks; for it prepared and trained the men who,
during the terrible nine years of the Revolution, were to stand up
against and defeat the enormous armies of Turkey.
It is a period unique in the history of any nation, a period full of
grandeur of individual achievement, and it has been immortalized in
_Laïk_ poetry. I do not believe that there is a Greek to-day
who does not know at least some of these long poems, composed by the
Armateloi themselves, put to music by themselves, and transmitted to us
by word of mouth, from father to son.
As the brigand at the spit went on with his song, it was taken up like
an anthem by others, who began to swarm out of little cubby-holes
in the sides of the cave, which were hidden from view by hanging
sheep-skins. They squatted around the roasting lamb, or stretched
themselves on the ground, and snatched at the song, here, there,
anywhere; and the fumes of the meat mingled with the song, and the song
became part of the meat; and all blended with the vaulted room, and the
glorious white fustanella gleaming in the firelight.
One must be born under an alien yoke to understand what the love of
one’s fatherland is. Until the last year the Greeks may have gained
little in the estimation of the world, since a small portion of them
wrenched themselves free from the Turkish yoke. But those who condemn
them must remember that since the time of Alexander the Great, the
Greeks have passed from one conqueror to another--escaping annihilation
only by rendering their conquerors themselves Greeks in literature and
thought. At last they fell under the yoke of a race which neither could
learn their language nor cared for their civilization, and for four
hundred years they dwelled under this Asiatic dominion.
On this night, in the brigands’ cave, I understood the power Greece had
over her sons. These men were nothing but cut-throats. They would kill
or mutilate a man for money: yet as they sang the songs of those other,
more glorious brigands, who had striven for years in desperate fighting
against the conquerors of their race, they seemed to be touched by
something ennobling. Their faces shone with that light which comes from
the holiest of loves--patriotism.
They sang with fervour, and when they came to the parts relating
victories over the Turks, they clapped their hands and shouted, “_So!
so!_”
From one song they passed to another, while the lamb ever turned in
time to the music, and men brought chestnuts, potatoes, and onions, and
roasted them in the edge of the smaller fire--always singing.
Of a sudden one man broke into a gay little song of the monasteries:
“How they rubbed the pepper, those devilish monks!”
To the giddy words and the infectious tune, a dozen men sprang to their
feet. They held out their handkerchiefs to each other, and instantly
there was a garland of dancing brigands about the fire. It was our
national dance, the Syrto, and they went through it with gusto and
passion.
By the time that was over, the lamb was cooked. We were invited to sit
round in a circle; the meat was torn apart with the hands, and a piece
dealt to each person.
Each brigand crossed himself three times, and then fell to, ravenously.
I enjoyed my dinner as much as they. My poor brother pretended to. As I
learned afterwards, he was afraid that the brigands would kill us from
mere annoyance, when they discovered that we were not the rich pair
they believed they had in their possession.
The meal over, the brigands crossed themselves again devoutly, and
thanked God, and His Son Christ, for the protection they had hitherto
extended to them. Then they began to talk of their exploits. Far from
being conscience-stricken, or in any way ashamed of their profession,
they gloried in it; and being in constant warfare with the Turkish
soldiery, they felt a really patriotic pride in their manner of life.
They told of running a certain Turkish officer through the heart
without the slightest pity for the man, or shame of the deed. Was he
not a Turk, their arch enemy, and the enemy of their race? Their point
of view on the ethics of life was quite original to me, and as they
boasted of the things they had done, something barbaric in me responded
to their recitals. I loved them, and as for their leader, he was a real
hero to me.
Again they passed from themselves to the heroic period of the Armateloi
and Kleftai, when brigandage attained its apotheosis.
After the fall of Constantinople, the Greeks were powerless against
the Turks. The other powers of Europe, during two hundred years, were
too frightened to think of more than saving their own skins; and when,
later, they did interfere in behalf of the Christians under the Ottoman
yoke, they did so only as an excuse for their personal gain.
Thus the Greeks had to depend on themselves, and in time the flower of
Greek manhood took to the mountains. Then the wrongs done by the Turks,
to their weak and defenceless fellow-countrymen, were fiercely and
brutally punished by these brigands. It was these Armateloi and Kleftai
who put an end to the human tax which the Greeks had been forced to pay
the conqueror. If a little girl was taken by force from a Greek home,
the brigands would fall upon a Turkish village, and avenge the wrong
on the women and children of the Turks.
It was a very rough form of justice; but gradually the Turks began to
fear the brigands, and in this fear they became more considerate toward
the Greeks.
That period, with all its ferocity and unspeakable brutality, was
the period of modern Greek chivalry; for those men did not attack
for money. They levied on the people merely for enough to live; but
when they descended on them as avengers of their countrymen’s wrongs
they were merciless--and they did rob the Turkish garrisons. In the
Revolution of 1821, much of the powder used by the Greeks was Turkish
powder, and many a Turk died by a gun he once had carried.
My brigands knew every one of the ballads of that time. They snatched
them from each other’s mouths, and recited them with no little talent
and dramatic power. They passed on to the Revolution itself, and to the
poetry which followed afterward. It was then Mano and I joined in. At
that time I knew the poetry of the Revolution better than I have ever
known any other subject since. Mano and I recited to them the poems
of Zalakosta and of Soutzo, of Paparighopoulo, and of the other great
poets who were inspired by the exploits of the Greeks from 1821 to
1829.
The enthusiasm of the brigands became tremendous. These poems, unlike
those of the Armateloi and Kleftai, are written in pure Greek, not in
the _Laïk_ language, and naturally they belong to the educated
classes rather than to the people. My brother egged me on to recite, in
a way foreign to his nature.
“Tell them the ‘Chani of Gravia,’” he cried.
This poem is one of the finest of modern Greek poems. It relates a
fight which took place in an inn, during the Revolution, between a
handful of Greeks and a Turkish army. In the middle of the night,
during a lull in the fighting, the leader tells his men that death
is certain, and that the only thing left them is to cover death with
glory. It describes how, each seizing his arms, they burst forth upon
their sleeping foes, and by the miracle that sometimes attends on noble
courage cut their way through, and every man escaped.
In part, the poem may be apocryphal, but it is founded on fact, and
thrills us to the marrow of our bones. It substantiates our claim to be
descendants of the old, heroic Greeks. As I recited to them the “Chani
of Gravia,” the brigands fell under its spell; and some of the love
they felt for that glorious fight fell upon me too. I became a small
part of that poem into which I was initiating them.
After I had finished, one of them called hoarsely:
“Say it again!”
I repeated it again, from beginning to end.
When the last line was ended, some of the men were weeping.
“We shall yet drive out the Turks--by the help of God, we shall!”
They were still deeply moved by the poem when my brother spoke to them.
“_Pallikaria_, you have just heard the little girl reciting to
you what can only be learned in an educated home.” He turned to the
leader: “You cannot now believe that the child’s unfortunate accent is
an affectation, acquired in the last few months. _Pallikaria_, you
cannot for a moment think that my little sister is the Spiropoulo girl,
coming out of a parvenu home, with money the only tradition.”
Again he turned to the leader:
“I take it that you speak French. Speak to her and to me in it, and
satisfy yourself that we know it. Some of your men here are from
Albania, and undoubtedly they know Italian. She can talk with them in
that language. Will not all this prove to you that she has lived out of
Anatolia all her short life?”
“Who are you then?” cried the leader, but before we could answer he
ordered us to remain quiet. He disappeared behind a sheep-skin, and
returned with a paper and pencil, which he handed to my brother. “Write
here your name and that of the little girl. Write also from where you
come, and whither you are going.”
My brother wrote all he was asked to, and returned the paper to the
leader.
The latter read it, surprise and anger mingling on his face. He turned
to me:
“Your name?”
I gave it.
“Your brother’s?”
I gave that, too.
“Where have you come from?”
I told him.
“And where are you going?”
Again I told him.
He tore the paper into bits, in a fury.
“Anathema on your heads, you idiot _pallikaria_!” he cried. “You
have captured the wrong people, while the others are now escaping us.”
“I happen to have read in the paper,” put in Mano, “that Spiropoulo and
his sister are going by boat to Myrsina, and thence to their homes.”
There was consternation among the bandits.
“We have very little,” my brother continued. “Take what we have, and
let us go.”
“Oh, please! please!” I implored, “do not take my ring. It is the only
piece of jewellery left to me.”
“Here! here!” one of the men exclaimed; “we are not in the habit of
sheering lambs--it’s sheep’s wool we are after, eh, captain?”
The leader did not reply to him. He was regarding us, more in sorrow
than in anger.
“When I shook hands with you to-night,” he remarked, “I felt as if I
were shaking hands with thousands of golden pounds. And now----”
He wagged his head, like a good man upon whom Fate has played a scurvy
trick.
“We shall get Spiropoulo yet,” said one of the men hopefully. “He has
entirely too much money, and we have too little. Our motto is ‘Equal
Division.’”
“You’re right, _pallikari_,” another assented, and the two shook
hands.
By this time it was the small hours of the morning, and the party began
to break up.
Some of the men rose to their feet, put on their _kosocks_,
saluted the leader, and started off on their business. By the entrance
was a large icon of St George, their patron saint. Each brigand, before
going out, halted in front of the icon, made the sign of the cross, and
reverently kissed the hand of the saint.
“Come with me, my holy Saint,” each implored.
I almost giggled at the idea of St George going with them and assisting
in the capture of harmless men.
Then the lanterns in the cave were put out; but first two small oil
lamps were lighted, one to be placed in front of the icon of St
George, and the other in front of an icon of the Virgin Mary, which
stood in the depth of the cave; for no pious Greek will leave the icon
of a saint in darkness, and many poor persons will go without food in
order to buy the necessary “oil of _kandilla_” for their icons.
All of the remaining brigands, before lying down on their sheep-skins,
stood for a minute in front of the icon of the Virgin silently saying
their prayers; and then I heard them saying aloud, after kissing the
feet of Mary:
“Guard us and keep us healthy and strong, our dear little mother; and
now good night, little mistress of heaven.”
They crossed themselves with a piety befitting monks, and I had to
stuff my handkerchief into my mouth to keep from betraying myself.
Then slumber descended upon the cave. The fire had died down, and only
the dim rays of the two little oil lamps illumined the great room.
It was harder for us to go to sleep than it was for the brigands. In
the first place, the sheep-skins they had given us were alive with
fleas. Mano lay close to me, keeping his arm around me.
The events of the day had excited me tremendously, and my brain would
not rest. When we alone seemed to be awake, I whispered:
“What was that blood which frightened our horses? Had the brigands
already killed some one?”
“No, I believe it was only the blood of some animal. They often
sprinkle the road with it in order to terrorize the horses and assist
in capturing the travellers. But now you must go to sleep.”
I was young; I had ridden many long hours; and fleas or no fleas,
brigands or no brigands, I fell asleep.
The strong smell of coffee wakened me in the morning. My brother
already held a cup of it.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked.
“I must have--but look at my hands!” They were dotted with red bites.
The cave had lost something of its romantic appearance of the night.
There were only three brigands in the room, and they were busy
preparing food. One of them got a towel, or what served for one, put
a few drops of water on the end of it--water seemed to be very scarce
with them--and brought it to me to wash my face and hands. He was a
very kind young brigand. He brought me some food, and a cup of the
strongest coffee I ever tasted.
He watched me eat as if he had been my nurse, and when I was finished,
asked a trifle sheepishly:
“How did you learn so much poetry?”
“Out of books,” I replied.
“Then you can write, too?”
“Very well,” I asserted complacently.
He became visibly embarrassed. Finally he blurted out:
“Just write out for me the ‘Chani of Gravia.’ Write it twice--no, three
times, for I shall always want to read it two or three times.”
I not only wrote it twice for him, but taught him to spell it out--or
rather to memorize it; for his scholarship was very rudimentary, while
his memory was excellent. I spent most of the time in this occupation.
During the course of the day we were told, quite unsensationally, that
in the evening we might continue our journey.
At nightfall we parted from the brigands with cordial expressions of
friendship on both sides. They shook hands with us, and many of them
assured us they had enjoyed our stay very much, and were sorry to see
us go. Only the leader was sulky in his manner. “I thought you two were
worth thousands of pounds,” he repeated grudgingly.
“The ‘Chani of Gravia’ was worth all the trouble we took,” my pupil
hastened to say, as if he feared we might be hurt by the lack of
cordiality in his chief.
We were again blindfolded, and two of the men led us out of the cave
and back to the place where they had captured us.
How they had obtained horses, I cannot imagine, but we found horses
waiting for us.
I rode away with an exhilaration I could not calm.
“If I were a man,” I said emphatically to my brother, “I should become
a brigand. It is a beautiful life.”
For the leader, with his curling hair and his black moustache, I felt
an especial admiration, in spite of his stand-offishness. He was long
my ideal of a hero; and it was one of the bitterest disappointments of
my girlhood when, some years later, in a fight between his band and an
overwhelming number of Turkish soldiers, he alone of all his men put up
a pitiful fight, and died like a coward.
I wept when I read about it, not for him, but for my lost ideal--for
the trust and admiration I had placed on a man not worthy to be a
leader of Greek brigands.