On the 3d of July, about six o'clock in the morning, I was watering my
flowers. A young man entered the garden. He was blonde, beardless; he
wore a German cap and sported gold spectacles. A long, loose woolen
coat, or paletot, drooped in a melancholy way around his form, like a
sail around a mast in a calm. He wore no gloves; his tan leather shoes
had such large soles, that the foot was surrounded by a narrow flange.
In the breast-pocket of his paletot, a huge porcelain pipe bulged
half-way out. I did not stop to ask myself whether this young man was a
student in the German Universities; I put down my watering-pot, and
saluted him with: "Guten Morgen!"
"Monsieur," he said to me in French, but with a deplorable accent, "my
name is Hermann Schultz; I have come to pass some months in Greece, and
I have carried your book with me everywhere."
This praise penetrated my heart with sweet joy; the stranger's voice
seemed more melodious than Mozart's music, and I directed toward his
gold glasses a swift look of gratitude. You would scarcely believe, dear
reader, how much we love those who have taken the trouble to decipher
our jargon. As for me, if I have ever sighed to be rich, it is in order
to assure an income to all those who have read my works.
I took him by the hand, this excellent young man. I seated him beside me
on the garden-bench. He told me that he was a botanist, that he had a
commission from the "Jardin des Plantes" in Hamburg. In order to
complete his herbarium he was studying the country, the animals, and the
people. His naive descriptions, his terse but just decisions, recalled
to me, a little, the simple old Herodotus. He expressed himself
awkwardly, but with a candor which inspired confidence; he emphasized
his words with the tone of a man entirely convinced. He questioned me,
if not of every one in Athens, at least of all the principal personages
in my book. In the course of the conversation, he made some statements
on general subjects, which seemed to me far more reasonable than any
which I had advanced. At the end of an hour we had become good friends.
I do not know which of us first spoke of brigandage. People who travel
in Italy talk of paintings; those who visit England talk of
manufactures; each country has its specialty.
"My dear sir," I asked of my guest, "have you met any brigands? Is it
true, as is reported, that there are still bandits in Greece?"
"It is only too true," he gravely replied. "I was for fifteen days in
the hands of the terrible Hadgi-Stavros, nicknamed The King of the
Mountains. I speak then from experience. If you have leisure, and a long
story will not weary you, I am ready to give you the details of my
adventure. You may make of it what you please; a romance, a novel, or
perhaps an additional chapter in the little book in which you have
written so many curious facts."
"You are very good," I replied, "and I am at your disposal. Let us go to
my study. It is cooler there than in the garden and yet we can enjoy the
odor of the sweet-peas and mignonette."
He followed me, humming to himself in Greek, a popular song:
"A robber with black eyes descends to the plains;
His gun is heard at each step;
He says to the vultures: 'Do not leave me,
I will serve to you the Pasha of Athens.'"
He seated himself on a divan, with his legs crossed under him like the
Arabian story-tellers, took off his loose paletot, lighted his pipe and
began his tale. I seated myself at my desk and took stenographic notes
as he dictated.
I have always been without much distrust, especially with those who have
complimented me. Sometimes the amiable stranger told me such surprising
things that I asked myself many times if he was not mocking me. But his
manner was so simple, his blue eyes so limpid, that my suspicions faded
away on the instant.
He talked steadily, until half after noon. He stopped two or three times
only long enough to relight his pipe.
He smoked with regular puffs like the smoke stack of a steam-engine.
Each time I raised my eyes, I beheld him, calm, smiling, in the midst of
a thick cloud of smoke, like Jupiter in the 5th act of Amphitryon.
We were interrupted by a servant with the announcement that breakfast
was served. Hermann seated himself opposite me, and my trifling
suspicions vanished before his appetite. I said to myself that a good
digestion rarely accompanies a bad conscience. The young German was too
good an eater to be an untruthful narrator, and his voracity restored my
faith in his veracity. Struck with this idea, I confessed, while
offering him some strawberries, that I had, for an instant, doubted him.
He replied with an angelic smile.
I passed the entire day with my new friend, and I found that the time
did not drag. At five o'clock, he knocked the ashes from his pipe, put
on his outer coat, and shaking my hand, said: "Adieu." I replied: "Au
revoir."
"No," he said, shaking his head; "I leave to-night at seven o'clock, and
I dare not hope ever to see you again."
"Leave your address. I have not yet renounced the pleasure of traveling,
and I may, sometime, pass through Hamburg."
"Unfortunately, I do not know where I shall pitch my tent. Germany is
large; I may not remain a citizen of Hamburg."
"But if I publish your story, at least I ought to send you a copy."
"Do not take that trouble. As soon as the book is published, it will
appear in Leipzig and I will read it. Adieu!"
After his departure, I re-read attentively what I had written. I found
some remarkable details, but nothing which contradicts what I had seen
and heard during my stay in Greece.
At the moment of finishing the manuscript, a scruple restrained me: What
if some errors had crept into Hermann's statements? In my quality of
editor was I not responsible? To publish the story of "The King of the
Mountains," was it not to expose myself to editorial comments and
criticisms?
In my perplexity, I thought of making a copy of the original. I sent the
first to M. Pseftis. I begged him to point out, candidly, all the
errors, and I promised to print his reply at the end of the volume.
I re-read the copy which I had retained. I changed no word in it. If I
made myself the corrector of the young German's statements, I would
become his collaborator. So I discreetly withdrew. It is Hermann who
speaks to you.