It happened, on a Wednesday in May that Madame Lewandowska was ill.
So ill that when Betty Harris, with her demure music-roll in her hand,
tapped at the door of Madame Lewandowska’s studio, she found no one
within.
On ordinary days this would not have mattered, for the governess, Miss
Stone, would have been with her, and they would have gone shopping or
sightseeing until the hour was up and James returned. But to-day Miss
Stone, too, was ill, James had departed with the carriage, and Betty
Harris found herself standing, music-roll in hand, at the door of Madame
Lewandowska’s studio--alone in the heart of Chicago for the first time
in the twelve years of her life.
It had been a very carefully guarded life, with nurses and servants
and instructors. No little princess was ever more sternly and
conscientiously reared than little Betty Harris, of Chicago. For her
tiny sake, herds of cattle were slaughtered every day; and all over
the land hoofs and hides and by-products and soap-factories lifted
themselves to heaven for Betty Harris. If anything were to happen to
her, the business of a dozen States would quiver to the core.
She tapped the marble floor softly with her foot and pondered. She might
sit here in the hall and wait for James--a whole hour. There was a bench
by the wall. She looked at it doubtfully.... It was not seemly that a
princess should sit waiting for a servant--not even in marble halls.
She glanced about her again. There was probably a telephone
somewhere--perhaps on the ground floor. She could telephone home and
they would send another carriage. Yes, that would be best. She rang the
elevator bell and descended in stately silence. When she stepped out of
the great door of the building she saw, straight before her, the sign
she sought--“Pay Station.”
But then something happened to Betty Harris. The spirit of the spring
day caught her and lifted her out of herself. Men were hurrying by with
light step. Little children laughed as they ran. Betty skipped a few
steps and laughed softly with them.... She would walk home. It was not
far. She had often walked as far in the country, and she knew the way
quite well.... And when she looked up again, she stood in front of the
glowing fruit-stall, and Achilles Alexandrakis was regarding her with
deep, sad eyes.
Achilles had been dreaming down the street when the little figure came
in sight. His heart all day had been full of sadness--for the spring in
the air. And all day Athens had haunted his steps--the Athens of dreams.
Once when he had retired into the dark, cool shop, he brushed his sleeve
across his eyes, and then he had stood looking down in surprise at
something that glistened on its worn surface.
Betty Harris looked at him and smiled. She had been so carefully brought
up that she had not learned that some people were her inferiors and must
not be smiled at. She gave him the straight, sweet smile that those who
had cared for her all her life loved so well. Then she gave a little
nod. “I’m walking home,” she said.
Achilles leaned forward a little, almost holding his breath lest she
float from him. It was the very spirit of Athens--democratic, cultured,
naive. He gave her the salute of his country. She smiled again. Then her
eye fell on the tray of pomegranates near the edge of the stall--round
and pink. She reached out a hand. “I have never seen these,” she said,
slowly. “What are they?”
“Pomegranates--Yes--you like some? I give you.”
He disappeared into the shop and Betty followed him, looking about with
clear, interested eyes. It was like no place she had ever seen--this
cool, dark room, with its tiers on tiers of fruit, and the fragrant,
spicy smell, and the man with the sad, kind face. Her quick eye
paused--arrested by the word printed on a box on the shelf to the
right.... Ah, that was it! She knew now quite well. He was a Greek man.
She knew the letters; She had studied Greek for six months; but she did
not know this word. She was still spelling it out when Achilles returned
with the small box of pomegranates in his hand.
She looked up slowly. “I can’t quite make it out,” she said.
“That?” Achilles’s face was alight. “That is Greek.”
She nodded. “I know. I study it; but what is it--the word?”
“The word!--Ah, yes, it is--How you say? You shall see.”
He reached out a hand to the box. But the child stopped him. A quick
thought had come to her. “You have been in Athens, haven’t you? I want
to ask you something, please.”
The hand dropped from the box. The man turned about, waiting. If heaven
were to open to him now--!
“I’ve always wanted to see a Greek man,” said the child, slowly, “a real
Greek man. I’ve wanted to ask him something he would know about.
Have you ever seen the Parthenon?” She put the question with quaint
seriousness.
A light came into the eyes of Achilles Alexandrakis. It flooded the
room.
“You ask me--the Parthenon?” he said, solemnly. “You wish me--tell
that?” It was wistful--almost a cry of longing.
Betty Harris nodded practically. “I’ve always wanted to know about
it--the Parthenon. They tell you how long it is, and how wide, and what
it is made of, and who began it, and who finished it, and who
destroyed it, but they never, never”--she raised her small hand
impressively--“they _never_ tell you how it looks!”
Achilles brought a chair and placed it near the open door. “Will
it--kindly--you sit?” he said, gravely.
She seated herself, folding her hands above the music-roll, and lifting
her eyes to the dark face looking down at her. “Thank you.”
Achilles leaned back against the counter, thinking a little. He sighed
gently. “I tell you many things,” he said at last.
“About the Parthenon, please,” said Betty Harris.
“You like Athens?” He said it like a child.
“I should like it--if they would tell me real things. I don’t seem to
make them understand. But when they say how beautiful it is--I feel it
here.” She laid her small hand to her side.
The smile of Achilles held the glory in its depths. “I tell you,” he
said.
The clear face reflected the smile. A breath of waiting held the lips.
“Yes.”
Achilles leaned again upon his counter. His face was rapt, and he spread
his finger-tips a little, as if something within them stirred to be
free.
“It stands so high and lifts itself”--Achilles raised his dark
hands--“ruined there--so great--and far beneath, the city lies, drawing
near and near, and yet it cannot reach... And all around is light--and
light--and light. Here it is a cellar”--his hands closed in with
crushing touch--“but there--!” He flung the words from him like a chant
of music, and a sky stretched about them from side to side, blue as
sapphire and shedding radiant light upon the city in its midst--a city
of fluted column and curving cornice and temple and arch and tomb. The
words rolled on, fierce and eager. It was a song of triumph, with war
and sorrow and mystery running beneath the sound of joy. And the child,
listening with grave, clear eyes, smiled a little, holding her breath.
“I see it--I see it!” She half whispered the words.
Achilles barely looked at her. “You see--ah, yes--you see. But I--I have
not words!” It was almost a cry.... “The air, so clear--like wine--and
the pillars straight and high and big--but light--light--reaching....”
His soul was among them, soaring high. Then it returned to earth and he
remembered the child.
“And there is an olive-tree,” he said, kindly, “and a well where
Poseidon--”
“I’ve heard about the well and the olive-tree,” said the child; “I don’t
care so much about them. But all the rest--” She drew a quick breath.
“It is very beautiful. I knew it would be. I knew it would be!”
There was silence in the room.
“Thank you for telling me,” said Betty Harris. “Now I must go.” She
slipped from the chair with a little sigh. She stood looking about the
dim shop. “Now I must go,” she repeated, wistfully.
Achilles moved a step toward the shelf. “Yes--but wait--I will show
you.” He reached up to the box and took it down lightly. “I show you.”
He was removing the cover.
The child leaned forward with shining eyes.
A smile came into the dark, grave face looking into the box. “Ah, he has
blossomed--for you.” He held it out to her.
She took it in shy fingers, bending to it. “It is beautiful,” she said,
softly. “Yes--beautiful!”
The dark wings, with shadings of gold and tender blue, lifted themselves
a little, waiting.
The child looked up. “May I touch it?” she asked.
“Yes--But why not?”
The dark head was bent close to hers, watching the wonderful wings.
Slowly Betty Harris put out a finger and stroked the wings.
They fluttered a little--opened wide and rose--in their first flutter of
light.
“Oh!” It was a cry of delight from the child.
The great creature had settled on the bunch of bananas and hung swaying.
The gold and blue wings opened and closed slowly.
Achilles drew near and put out a finger.
The butterfly was on it.
He held it toward her, smiling gently, and she reached up, her very
breath on tiptoe. A little smile curved her lips, quick and wondering,
as the transfer was made, thread by thread, till the gorgeous thing
rested on her own palm.
She looked up. “What shall I do with it?” It was a shining whisper.
Achilles’s eyes sought the door.
They moved toward it slowly, light as breath.
In the open doorway they paused. Above the tall buildings the grey rim
of sky lifted itself. The child looked up to it. Her eyes returned to
Achilles.
He nodded gravely.
She raised her hand with a little “p-f-f”--it was half a quick laugh and
half a sigh.
The wings fluttered free, and rose and faltered, and rose again--high
and higher, between the dark walls--up to the sky, into the grey--and
through.
The eyes that had followed it came back to earth. They looked at each
other and smiled gravely--two children who had seen a happy thing.
The child stood still with half-lifted hand.... A carriage drove quickly
into the street. The little hand was lifted higher. It was a regal
gesture--the return of the princess to earth.
James touched his hat--a look of dismay and relief battling in his face
as he turned the horses sharply to the right. They paused in front of
the stall, their hoofs beating dainty time to the coursing of their
blood.
Achilles eyed them lovingly. The spirit of Athens dwelt in their arching
necks.
He opened the door for the child with the quiet face and shining eyes.
Gravely he salaamed as she entered the carriage.
Through the open window she held out a tiny hand. “I hope you will come
and see me,” she said.
“Yes, I come,” said Achilles, simply. “I like to come.”
James dropped a waiting eye.
“Home, James.”
The horses sprang away. Achilles Alexandrakis, bareheaded in the spring
sunshine, watched the carriage till it was out of sight. Then he turned
once more to the stall and rearranged the fruit. The swift fingers
laughed a little as they worked, and the eyes of Achilles were filled
with light.