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 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND
 
 YOU CAN ONLY SEE THE SLEEPER'S KNEES '
 
 TALES OF A 
 GREEK ISLAND 
 
 BY 
 
 JULIA D. DRAGOUMIS 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 We came to an isle of flowers 
 
 That lay in a trance of sleep, 
 
 In a world forgotten of ours, 
 Far out on a sapphire deep. 
 
 RENNELL RODO 
 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 
 1912
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 Published April zgrs
 
 STACK 
 ANNEX 
 
 ffi 
 
 6007 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 THE Author has been told that these few 
 tales of a Greek Island may possibly prove of 
 interest to English readers, and it is with this 
 hope that she has written them. She craves 
 the indulgence of the public for one writing 
 in a foreign language. 
 
 JULIA D. DRAGOUMIS. 
 
 ATHENS.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 I. On the Hills 1 
 
 II. Under the Mulberries 50 
 
 III. In the Cave 100 
 
 IV. North and South 125 
 V. The Stepmother 183 
 
 VI. The Only Son of his Mother 226 
 
 VII. Vasili 278 
 
 VIII. BarbaStathi 814 
 
 IX. The End oj the Fairy Tale 339
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 " You can only see the Sleeper's knees " (p. 3) 
 
 Frontispiece 
 
 Watering her pots of sweet basil 50 
 
 " You can search ; aye, you can search " 124 
 
 The inner court of the Monastery 240 
 
 She had seen the mountains all her life 342 
 
 From photographs supplied by the author
 
 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 I 
 
 ON THE HILLS 
 
 The sapphire mountains fret the gold. 
 These more than mountains here 
 
 The dream-hills of the songs of old 
 Cut luminous and clear. 
 
 RENNELL ROOD. 
 
 "So the King," wound up Maroussa, "took 
 the Princess by the hand, the beautiful golden- 
 haired Princess, whose dress was as the sky with 
 all its stars, and gave her to the shepherd boy 
 for his wife, and they lived well, and we still 
 better." 
 
 Metro lifted himself slowly from the flat rock 
 on which he had been lying, and came over to 
 the shade of the olive tree. 
 
 "That was a good tale," he said; "where did 
 you hear it? " 
 
 "Kyra Photini told it at the last olive-picking; 
 she knows many tales." 
 
 The girl leaned her head against the trunk of 
 the tree and wiped her face unconcernedly with
 
 2 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 a fold of her yellow cotton frock. It was a hot 
 day even for Poros, and scarcely three hours 
 past noon. Generally they were not on the hills 
 at this time, but it was a great Saint's day, 
 there was no school, and they had left the vil- 
 lage quite early. They meant to go farther still, 
 up to one of the sheep-folds at the top of the hill, 
 where Maroussa had a message to give one of 
 the shepherds from her grandmother, but they 
 had stopped halfway, just above Boudouri's 
 stone monument, on this little plateau. 
 
 It was on one of the lower slopes of the hills, 
 covered with lentisk bushes, and many of Mar- 
 oussa's tales had been told under the shade of its 
 solitary olive tree. The shining expanse of the 
 whole Bay of Poros lay below them, with the 
 white village up the hill on their left, and the 
 entrance to the port on their right. Far away 
 towards Vithi a white haze hid the foot of the 
 mountains, and the summit of the Sleeper might 
 have been mistaken for a mass of cloud. Metro 
 stood up, crossed his hands behind his head, and 
 looked at it. 
 
 He was a tall boy, with a long, thin face 
 tanned to a yellowish brown by the sun and the 
 sea wind of all hours and seasons; his hair, orig- 
 inally a darkish brown, had been bleached to al- 
 most the exact color of his skin; the eyes were
 
 ON THE HILLS 3 
 
 small, and the rest of the features nondescript; 
 something only about his chin, and the cut of 
 his lips, gave the impression that he always 
 eventually did the thing he wanted to. 
 
 "You can only see the Sleeper's knees," he 
 said; "her head is all hidden in the clouds. I 
 like her best after sunset, when the face looks 
 cut out of stone and the sky behind her is yel- 
 low." 
 
 "When I was little," remarked Maroussa, 
 "I used to wonder why they called this moun- 
 tain 'the Sleeper/ I never could see the face at 
 all, and then you made me see it one evening 
 down there at the 'Little Pines'; do you re- 
 member? " 
 
 "I remember." 
 
 "We were standing," she continued, "on the 
 old anchor to see better, and you showed me 
 the head thrown quite back, the brow, the 
 nose, and the lips, then the rest of the body 
 lying flat, and the knees drawn up sharply just 
 over Vithi." 
 
 Then, after a pause: 
 
 "I am rested now; come up to the stani, 
 and don't leave your stick behind you, Metro; 
 we shall want it, perhaps, for the dogs up 
 there." 
 
 Metro, who generally forgot his few belong-
 
 4 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 ings wherever they happened to be lying, picked 
 up the long carved crook which Lambro the 
 shepherd had once given him in gratitude for 
 the seeking and finding of a lost kid, and followed 
 her up the hill through the thick scrub of lentisk 
 and thyme, and higher still through the young 
 pines and the oleanders. 
 
 The stani with its flock of sheep and goats 
 was duly reached, and the message delivered. 
 As they started again on their downward way, 
 the shepherd's wife called out after them to fear 
 nothing, as all the three savage sheep-dogs were 
 chained up and only let loose after dark. 
 
 "I hope their chains are strong," said Ma- 
 roussa; "the other day that big yellow dog of 
 Yanni's broke his chain and bit the little white 
 dog." 
 
 "Which one?" 
 
 "The white dog with the pointed ears, that 
 belongs to the little lady at the red house. 
 I saw her carrying it, and its leg was all bleed- 
 ing, and then her father came and beat the big 
 dog." 
 
 "He ought to have beaten Yanni," said Metro, 
 very decidedly; "he mends his broken chains 
 with a bit of rotten rope, and then when the 
 dog bites people he wears a stupid look and says, 
 'Is it my fault? the beast broke loose!'"
 
 ON THE HILLS 5 
 
 The descent was stiff, and halfway down the 
 hill Maroussa stopped and leaned for a moment 
 against a big locust tree. Below the wall that 
 surrounded the pines at the back of the red house, 
 and still lower below old Themistocli's lemon 
 orchards, stretched the bay, purple close to the 
 land, but blue-gray in the distance, and con- 
 stantly changing under the shadows of the swift- 
 running clouds. Somewhere on the hills goat 
 bells were tinkling, and close by in the pines the 
 tettix chirped loudly and persistently. 
 
 The girl with the sunshine on her yellow frock, 
 and with a yellow cotton kerchief of her grand- 
 mother's covering her black hair, made a speck of 
 dazzlingly bright color standing against the vivid 
 green leaves of the locust tree. 
 
 "Stay," said Metro; "you look you look 
 what do you look like? Yes, I know, like one 
 of the big sunflowers with its green leaves and 
 black heart. When I am big, and become a 
 schoolmaster, and have money, you shall have 
 a pink frock, and a pink kerchief, and then you 
 will look like an oleander." 
 
 "That will be foolishness," said Maroussa 
 sagely; "you can get something more necessary 
 with your money when you have any. Kyria 
 Evanthia says good girls must not think of or- 
 namenting themselves. She said it to Lenio's
 
 6 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 Panouria because she came to school once with 
 an apron embroidered in blue and red." 
 
 Poros rejoiced in a rabidly utilitarian school- 
 mistress. 
 
 "Nay," said Metro, "that may be well for 
 ugly girls like Panouria, but not when they are 
 pretty like you." 
 
 This remark was received as it was uttered, 
 as a simple, indisputable fact, but Maroussa was 
 not convinced. 
 
 "Kyria Evanthia," she persisted, "says it 
 does not matter at all whether we are pretty or 
 not, and she says if the ugly girls keep modest, 
 and are not free-spoken, and learn to become 
 good housewives, everybody will love them 
 better." 
 
 "That is all lies," said Metro, with quiet island 
 directness; "do you think if you looked like 
 Lenio's Panouria, with a face the color of a Good 
 Friday candle, and a nose that was begun and 
 never finished, that any one would care the same 
 for you as they do now? I, the first, would 
 not." 
 
 Maroussa looked bewildered: this was very 
 subversive of all her school-teaching. 
 
 "But if I were very useful and kind, being 
 ugly?" 
 
 "Then people would love you much more
 
 ON THE HILLS 7 
 
 than another ugly girl who might be cross and 
 have a bad heart; that, any fool understands. 
 But never as well as they do now that you are 
 good to look at that, never; put it out of your 
 head once for all. It is always so, and always 
 will be. Why did the stranger lady with the 
 white hair, the one who came from England 
 with the young man, her son, and who stayed 
 at Kyr Charalambo's hotel, you remember? 
 why did she at once choose Yannoula's An- 
 driko to guide them up the hills and to carry 
 their baskets and things? Why? I was stand- 
 ing by him when they passed. Is he stronger 
 than I? Does he know the hills better? he, 
 who is always playing in the village and never 
 comes near them? Can he run faster? No! 
 only he has a head like the marble statues that 
 the ancients made, and people like to look at 
 him. Now, come," he continued, as though the 
 question had been finally settled beyond any 
 further controversy, "let us go, that we may 
 be down at Barba Nicola's before the dark 
 falls." 
 
 When they got to the primitive little wine- 
 shop close to the shore, where they had left 
 their basket for greater convenience in climb- 
 ing, they found Barba Nicola himself, fat, dirty, 
 and comfortable, sitting on his doorstep; he
 
 8 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 smiled at Maroussa and pointed over his shoul- 
 der with his thumb to where the basket hung on 
 a nail out of harm's way, under a string of onions 
 and over a supposed portrait of Athanasius 
 Diakos printed in gorgeous colors. 
 
 Barba Nicola never wasted energy in speech 
 if he could possibly avoid it. Kyra Sophoula, 
 Maroussa's grandmother, used to say of him 
 that, if he had ever in his youth contemplated 
 taking a wife, he would have contented himself 
 by smiling at the girl and pointing to the mar- 
 riage wreath. 
 
 A beautiful pure white cat, engaged in licking 
 her kitten, shared the doorstep with him. This 
 cat was an institution at Barba Nicola's, a 
 sailor having brought her from foreign parts 
 a good many years ago, and having left her to 
 the old man as part payment of an unpaid score. 
 One of the young officers from the Naval School 
 close by had once amused himself by painting 
 a rough portrait of her which hung over the 
 door of the hut in lieu of signpost, and had made 
 it known as the wineshop of the "White Cat" 
 ever since. 
 
 Metro unhooked the basket and the two went 
 lower down the shore nearer the sea. 
 
 The fishers of the trata were still there, and 
 the children stood for a moment watching the
 
 9 
 
 sunburnt, bare-limbed men and boys all pulling 
 together at the ropes of the long net. The first 
 of the line were halfway up the shore, and the 
 last nearly waist-high in the water. The setting 
 sun made glistening patches on the wet brown 
 limbs, as the men planted their legs well apart 
 and bent their bodies back to get a better grip 
 of the ropes. 
 
 No amount of familiarity with the sight could 
 ever drag the children away from a trata be- 
 fore the big net squirming with little fishes was 
 brought on shore; so they stayed now till the 
 division of the sardines from the rest had taken 
 place, and the men had commenced lighting a 
 fire to cook their supper. Then only did the 
 two bethink themselves of their own. 
 
 Outside the gate that led to the red house they 
 sat, under the old fig tree, and pulled out of the 
 basket a good quarter of the large-sized brown- 
 ish Poros loaf, and a bunch of redfraoula grapes, 
 Metro adding to the feast out of the folds of 
 a blue checked handkerchief, slung round his 
 waist, two big tomatoes and an onion. 
 
 It was very hot still, and to listen to the cool 
 soft lapping of the waves on the shore seemed to 
 bring a little relief. 
 
 Presently two dogs from the red house, a tiny 
 white one with upright pointed ears, and a big
 
 10 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 black poodle, came running down through the 
 mimosas and aloes, pushed open the gate, and 
 came sniffing around them. Maroussa made 
 friendly overtures with pieces of her bread. The 
 little one just smelt at it and ran off disdainfully, 
 much to her disappointment. "Wilt thou not 
 eat, then, thou little beast?" she called after 
 him. But the poodle comforted her by accept- 
 ing the offering, and standing patiently beside 
 her, while she stroked his black curls and won- 
 dered at his shaven hind quarters. 
 
 The short Greek twilight had already set in 
 before they turned their backs on the red house 
 and started along the shore homeward. It was 
 quite dark when they crossed the empty market- 
 place, passed under the dark arch, climbed up 
 the rocky street, and reached the narrow paved 
 courtyard of the little house where Maroussa's 
 grandmother, Kyra Sophoula, had lived for 
 over fifty years. 
 
 Maroussa was her only grandchild, the orphan 
 daughter of her last surviving son, who had 
 been drowned at sea. 
 
 Kyra Sophoula had been left a widow very 
 young, with three small boys. Her husband 
 having worked in the Navy, she had a small 
 pension after his death, but very small, indeed; 
 nothing like enough to live on, even with the
 
 ON THE HILLS 11 
 
 Utmost frugality and the best of management. 
 And she was a good manager, no doubt about 
 that; strong, capable, hardworking, making the 
 most of everything, and proud with it all, never 
 carrying her troubles to the fountain to discuss 
 them with the other women; as the neighbors 
 said, she was of the kind who eat dry bread and 
 call it a carnival feast. Fortunately she had a, 
 little lemon orchard on the mainland which had 
 been her own dowry, and this was a considerable 
 help when the trees bore well. Also she collected 
 herbs and simples, and was accounted very wise 
 in their use. 
 
 Her two elder boys had both died in early 
 childhood; the third, a sailor, had grown into 
 a tall, handsome, black-haired youth, and in 
 due time had married well, but his wife died at 
 Maroussa's birth, and he went back to the sea, 
 leaving the infant to his mother. And when six 
 months later the news came that he had gone 
 down with his ship off Genoa,the poor old woman 
 in the midst of her grief was still thankful that 
 she had his child left to live and work for, and 
 had not been left all alone in the world, like old 
 Barba Stathi, the donkey-man. 
 
 Maroussa had been scarcely five when Metro, 
 a pale little lad of about seven, with frightened 
 eyes, first came to sleep in the little outhouse
 
 12 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 off the kitchen and to share the more than simple 
 food of the household. 
 
 There was really no excuse for Kyra Sophoula 
 taking him in. No shadow of the most distant 
 relationship could be adduced even in this land 
 where a second or third cousinship constitutes 
 a strong claim to help and protection. She had 
 known his people well, that was all. His mater- 
 nal grandfather, belonging to one of the old 
 families of heroic Hydra, had settled in Poros 
 after the Revolution; since then, hard times and 
 many daughters to marry had brought the fam- 
 ily fortunes to a low ebb. 
 
 Kyra Sophoula remembered the early en- 
 gagement and happy marriage of Metro's par- 
 ents; she had helped his young mother, poor 
 Anthi, when she had lost her husband, while 
 still almost a child, had been her prop and stay 
 during her miserable widowhood, had nursed 
 her through her last illness, and afterwards 
 could not endure to see her little child, Metro, in 
 the power of his father's elder brother, a drunken 
 brute of a man who worked in old Louka's boats 
 when he was sober enough, and who had taken 
 charge of the boy after Anthi's death. 
 
 Poros is a small place; the men meet daily at 
 the coffee-house and the women at the fountain; 
 so that Kyra Sophoula could not choose but
 
 ON THE HILLS 13 
 
 hear tales of this man's neglect of the child when 
 he was sober, and ill-treatment of him when mad- 
 dened by too many glasses of masticha or the 
 still more potent ouzo. She bore it for a few 
 months, moved by the instinctive respect of all 
 Greeks of her class for the claims of relationship. 
 "The man is a brute, and a sot," she would 
 say, "but after all he is the child's uncle, and 
 blood cannot be turned into water." 
 
 But when she found the little fellow in the 
 cold rain of a winter's evening, sobbing with 
 hunger, and begging for a piece of bread from 
 Sotiro, the coffee-house keeper, who was not 
 a tender-hearted man, and discovered that he 
 had been kicked out of the house by his uncle 
 in a fit of drunken rage, she could resist no 
 longer. 
 
 Anthi's child a beggar! Anthi's child shiver- 
 ing and wet, exposed to Sotiro's rebuffs! The 
 blood rushed to her old brown face at the sight. 
 .' "Come home with me, my little bird," she 
 said; "I will take you. Never mind the bad man 
 come, you shall take care of Maroussa, and 
 play with her, and when you have sat by the 
 manghali to get warm, I have dry figs for both 
 of you. If your uncle wants you back, let him 
 come for you! It is with me he will have to 
 speak."
 
 14 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 But he never came, being only too glad to be 
 rid of the child. Less than a year later he got a 
 knife stuck into him, in a drunken brawl at the 
 fairatVithi. No one made much fuss. Was there 
 ever a fair without a knife-thrust or two before 
 the end? His had gone a little too deep, that 
 was all! Kyra Sophoula was undisguisedly re- 
 lieved to be able to say of him, "God rest his 
 soul." Nevertheless, Metro wore a decent black 
 cotton pinafore at school for nearly two years 
 after the event. " It was only proper," said Kyra 
 Sophoula. Moreover, it showed the dirt less. 
 
 So Metro stayed with the old woman and the 
 child as though absolutely belonging to them. 
 He took to his books like a bee to honey, and 
 helped to earn a few lepta out of school hours, 
 being handy and less lazy than most of the Pori- 
 ote lads, by reason of the Hydra blood in his 
 veins. 
 
 Of course they worked hard and fared poorly. 
 Flour was often dear, and there was very little 
 to eat with the bread, except a few olives, and 
 an onion, or a tomato in summer. Sometimes 
 in autumn when Kyra Sophoula took Maroussa 
 with her to work at the olive-picking on the 
 mainland, the masters of the oil-press would 
 give her a little good oil to take home with her, 
 and then she would spread some for the chil-
 
 ON THE HILLS 15 
 
 dren on their bread, or cook herbs with it for 
 supper. 
 
 However, both Metro and Maroussa seemed 
 to thrive, and the brave little woman managed 
 to keep them well, even during that year when 
 she was too crippled by rheumatism to knead 
 their own dough, and they had to depend on 
 bought bread, which as every one knows is much 
 dearer and not half so nourishing. At the foun- 
 tain a Poriote housewife's reputation for thrift- 
 iness and good management is very seriously 
 impaired by the contemptuous sentence, "She 
 buys her bread." However, in Kyra Soph- 
 oula's case extenuating circumstances were ad- 
 mitted. That was a bad year certainly, and 
 one not to be easily forgotten, but Kyr Apostoli, 
 the baker, was not a hard man, and gave credit 
 till the season came for the lemons to ripen, so 
 that there had always been something, if not 
 enough, to eat, and a drop of oil for the hang- 
 ing lamp before the sacred icons of the Virgin 
 and St. Nicholas. Besides, as Kyra Sophoula 
 would say, "Where's the merit of managing 
 when all goes as you wish? 'T is the storm shows 
 the good captain." 
 
 Life had been easier in a way, the last year or 
 two, since the children had been growing up. 
 Metro got more odd jobs, and Maroussa stayed
 
 16 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 at home from school in the afternoon and did 
 most of the housework, so that her grandmother 
 had more time to go after herbs and simples. 
 
 With her basket on her left arm, and a little 
 blunt wooden-handled knife in her hand, day 
 after day the wiry little figure trod the lower 
 slopes of the hills, or penetrated into the deep- 
 est ravines, stooping and rising, and stooping 
 again, and gradually filling her basket with 
 anise, sage leaves, caper buds, dandelion roots, 
 and various other edible plants. But besides 
 these, which any one could be trusted to re- 
 cognize and pick, she knew the special grow- 
 ing and hiding places of many simples that most 
 would pass by unnoticed, the root of the wild 
 onion, the young leaves of the dragon plant 
 growing by the roots of the locust tree or be- 
 tween the arbutus branches, and the black- 
 stemmed fern in the damp places, which makes 
 such a good drink for women in childbed. 
 
 Many of these herbs, after having been dried, 
 some in the sun and some in the shade, accord- 
 ing to their nature, hung in garlands round the 
 walls of the little kitchen below the strings of 
 onions and pomegranates hanging there for 
 winter use. 
 
 Kyra Sophoula had just finished spreading 
 her day's harvest to dry, and was looking out
 
 ON THE HILLS 17 
 
 for the children. She stood, spindle in hand, 
 outside the covered terrace, at the top of the 
 ladder-like wooden stairs which led up to it. 
 
 "Welcome," she said first, as she never 
 omitted doing, after any absence, whether long 
 or short; and then looking directly at Metro, 
 who had stopped below to tighten his belt: "I 
 spoke to Louka this evening: he was sitting out- 
 side Sotiro's as I passed." 
 
 The boy looked up quickly. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "If you give all your time to the boats, he 
 says you shall have eighty lepta a day and 
 your bread. Later on, when you are more of a 
 man, and strong, it will be more." 
 ; Maroussa was already on the terrace, folding 
 up the yellow kerchief she had taken off. 
 
 "He is strong now," she said; "he can throw 
 Dino, who is bigger." 
 
 Metro climbed up the stairs slowly and stood 
 beside the old woman. 
 
 "We spoke of half the day," he said. 
 
 "I told Louka that," she answered, "but he 
 would not have it at all; how can he know, he 
 says, at what hour the work presses; sometimes 
 he might want you in the forenoon, sometimes 
 late. And he and Sotiro and Kyra Marina, who 
 was standing by, for there are never two but
 
 18 
 
 she makes a third, all asked what was the use 
 of keeping the half -day free for the school, a big 
 boy like you, and if you had not had learning 
 enough already? and more than enough. I 
 told them you want to learn more, to become 
 a schoolmaster some day, but Sotiro, he said a 
 schoolmaster's is a mighty poor trade, with little 
 money in it, and Louka said also that if you 
 worked well in the boats and were a good lad, 
 who knows but that some day you might have 
 a share in the profits. And he makes money 
 now, does Louka, no doubt about that, Metro. 
 He has five large boats that meet the steamers, 
 and three little ones, and eleven men work for 
 him." 
 
 She waited for an answer, but none came. 
 Metro passed into the room and took out his 
 school-books from the lower shelf of a corner 
 cupboard painted bright green. Kyra Sophoula 
 waited till he had piled them on the top of the 
 old chest, and drawn up his stool, and then asked 
 tentatively: 
 
 "What do you say, then, my lad?" 
 
 Metro had already opened a book, and with 
 his finger on the page looked up. 
 
 "We can talk of the matter later if you will 
 I have much to study to-night." 
 
 The old woman nodded and returned to her
 
 ON THE HILLS 19 
 
 spinning. Maroussa got out her knitting and 
 there was silence for a time. 
 
 It was a quaint old room with whitewashed 
 walls and a curious dark wooden ceiling carved 
 in lozenges. It had been built in the days when 
 people lived belowstairs in the cold days, and 
 only came up here for coolness in the summer, 
 so that six windows, with their deep window 
 sills of old flowered tiles, were pierced in the 
 thick walls. In fact, Kyra Sophoula had been 
 obliged to board up one entirely to make room 
 for her long sofa with its embroidered linen 
 cover, the place of honor for a visitor of any 
 importance. There was little furniture besides 
 this sofa, the two quaint green corner cupboards, 
 the old highly polished wooden dower chest, a 
 high square table, its legs joined by cross-bars, 
 and a few straw chairs and stools. The door 
 leading to the little kitchen was ajar, and close 
 by it the light of the small oil lamp which hung 
 before the holy icons of the Virgin and St. 
 Nicholas showed in the dimness beyond little 
 specks of reddish gold, being the high lights of 
 Kyra Sophoula's cherished copper pans and 
 oven trays. 
 
 Suddenly Metro looked impatiently through 
 two of his paper-covered books, referred to some 
 notes scribbled on bits of rough gray packing-
 
 20 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 1 
 
 paper, bit his pencil, and came to a frowning 
 standstill. He had been obliged to miss school 
 for a day, to help Kyra Sophoula in the digging 
 of the ditches round the lemon trees in her little 
 orchard, and he had come to a passage in his 
 Xenophon which he had not heard the master 
 explain: he seized the general meaning well 
 enough, but there were two tenses which puzzled 
 him, and at least three words he had never met 
 before. A dictionary was a luxury far beyond 
 his means, and he depended entirely on the mas- 
 ter's explanation and his own good memory. 
 
 Maroussa suggested that their neighbor Yan- 
 noula's boy, Andriko, having been to school on 
 the day Metro had been absent, might be of 
 some help. 
 
 "He never listens to the master," said Metro; 
 "he will not know it." 
 
 Now it happened that Kyra Sophoula's pride 
 had often suffered in Andriko's lovely childhood 
 at hearing him compared by the neighbors to 
 Metro, to the latter's distinct disadvantage. 
 Had Metro been her son or grandson, island 
 courtesy would have prevented her hearing 
 any unflattering remarks; but, as it was, "poor 
 Anthi's ugly boy" was often spoken of before 
 her in the same breath as Yannoula's "little 
 angel." Consequently, now that Metro was
 
 ON THE HELLS 21 
 
 recognized as the best and Andriko as one of the 
 worst of Kyr Vangheli's scholars, she cherished 
 the most profound disdain for Andriko's in- 
 tellectual acquirements. 
 
 "Not know it!" she echoed; "is there ever 
 anything Andriko does not know! Now Metro 
 here can do a few things well, and he knows it; 
 also, he knows what he cannot do. Anastasi, 
 Louka's boy, is clever on sea, and dull on land, 
 and he does not deny it. Tasso Vrondelli, poor 
 little lame one, can do nothing at all, and 
 he knows it. But Andriko! he knows every- 
 thing that can be known. Why, he'd show his 
 grandfather how to prune his own vines, he 
 would!" 
 
 Metro puzzled over his lesson a little longer, 
 and then in disgust gave up trying to understand 
 that part alone. 
 
 "If only the master were here," he sighed. 
 "Ah, those lucky boys at the red house! the 
 master goes every day to teach them, every day 
 for them alone, even in the holidays!" 
 
 "Well, they don't think themselves so lucky," 
 put in Maroussa. "/ know, for Dino, Yoryi the 
 blind one's son, told me. He was there at the 
 little landing-stage of the red house. Some cases 
 had come from the steamer in one of Louka's 
 boats, and he was minding it while his father
 
 22 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 and Panayi carried the cases up the stone stairs, 
 and the boys of the house were swimming all 
 round the boat and asking Dino to row out and 
 let them hold on behind, when the master's 
 boat came in sight; and the big boy called out to 
 the other one, * Come quickly in and dress, there 's 
 the master.' And he, the second one, said, 'The 
 old stupid ! he 's always coming. Can't he be ill 
 some day?" 
 
 "Pa! pa! pa!" exclaimed Kyra Sophoula, 
 who was listening to their talk; "that is a great 
 sin to wish any one to fall ill. Don't their 
 parents teach them better words?" 
 
 Maroussa laughed. 
 
 "Oh, but, Yiayia, he did not mean badly, only 
 just to get away from his lesson. They are good 
 boys, and they gave Dino a jacket that was 
 quite new, and it had a knife in the pocket, and 
 they said he could keep it for his own, when 
 Yoryi made him take it back, and the little 
 ladies gave him sweet bread with currants in it, 
 and oh, a lot of other things." 
 
 "He that has much pepper puts it on cab- 
 bages also," said Kyra Sophoula sagely. 
 
 Metro was standing on the little whitewashed 
 terrace early next morning, tying up his books 
 for school; that is to say, his pile of books was 
 before him on the ledge, and a piece of string in
 
 ON THE HILLS 23 
 
 his hand, but he was not looking at either; he 
 was looking at the hills. 
 
 Beyond the red and brown roofs and the shin- 
 ing line of the sea, they lay with their ridges 
 softened and their hollows transparently blue 
 in the morning haze. From quite a tiny child 
 Metro had loved to watch them rising in gentle 
 undulations to the sky, with the red earth show- 
 ing in patches amidst the soft gray blur of 
 olives at their base. 
 
 Kyra Sophoula was watering her pots of sweet 
 basil before the great heat began. 
 
 Metro looked at her, and then he started ty- 
 ing up his books; twice he let them fall from the 
 string and twice he picked them up. When his 
 parcel was quite firm, he took two or three steps 
 towards the stairs, retraced them, and looked 
 once more at the sturdy little bent figure with 
 her pinned-up skirts and big painted jug full of 
 water: at last, standing a little behind her, he 
 said, "Concerning what Louka wants of me, 
 for the boats, Kyra Sophoula, I cannot do it." 
 
 Though to all intents and purposes as much 
 her grandchild as Maroussa, he had never 
 called her "Yiayia." 
 
 The old woman turned round. There was 
 trouble in his eyes. 
 
 "Very well," she answered simply, "we will
 
 24 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 tell him so. Do you think I would have you 
 wear out your heart at work for which you are 
 not made? If you cannot, you cannot, and it is 
 ended. But since we are talking, let us talk well. 
 For this place with Louka in the boats, I could 
 have got it for you, as you see; even if you had 
 wanted to work on the big estate over on the 
 mainland, I could have spoken to the master 
 who knew your father. But to become a school- 
 master, as you wish! that is another priest's 
 gospel. There is more needed, you must be 
 older first, and then you must learn even more 
 than you know now, is it not true?" 
 
 " It is true," said Metro; " I must learn more, 
 very much more. I must follow the classes of 
 the Gymnasium, and also of the University, if 
 I can." 
 
 "But that is not here?" 
 
 "No, it is not here." 
 
 "You must go away, then? perhaps even 
 to Athens?" 
 
 "Yes, to Athens." 
 
 "Kyr Sotiro and Louka they are old men 
 and have seen something of the world said 
 if you would not work in the boats as your 
 father and your uncles did, and went away to 
 read more books, people would call you a coward 
 and a weakling."
 
 ON THE HILLS 25 
 
 "That is foolish talk. You are wise, Kyra So- 
 phoula, but wisdom does not always come with 
 many years." 
 
 "No, it does not," sighed the old woman, 
 "more's the pity. If Sotiro or Louka speak 
 again, I shall tell them it is foolishness. Are we 
 of their house that we should be frightened of 
 them? If you wish it, you shall go, my child. 
 But in Athens, now tell me. It is a great 
 town, they say. How will you live? We are 
 poor people, but you have always had a roof 
 over your head, and there has been sufficient 
 bread." 
 
 "The schoolmaster, Kyr Vangheli, has told 
 me what I must do. When he came young to 
 Athens from Missolonghi he did the same. There 
 are many people who take in poor boys, give 
 them food and a bed, and let them go to school 
 in the day. After school and in the evenings the 
 boys do what work they can for them. I shall 
 find a house where I may serve in this way. I 
 am strong, you know it, and I can work at any- 
 thing; perhaps even there may be small chil- 
 dren that I can help with their preparation, and 
 in the day I will learn I will learn everything 
 that they can teach me; and you know I shall 
 be working under real professors professors 
 of the University!"
 
 26 TALES OP A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "But you will not forget us, my lad, will you? 
 nor that my house is your house always?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "It will be hard and strange with no man in 
 the house, for are you not nigh a man now? 
 But we shall manage, the girl and I." 
 
 "It shall be no loss that I go. When I am a 
 man grown, and have learnt much, then I shall 
 return for always and bring you many gifts, and 
 marry Maroussa." 
 
 "Nay, I want no gifts. I am old; you will 
 marry Maroussa, yes, and bring the gifts to 
 her." 
 
 "You know it?" 
 
 "Do you think I am blind, then? Praise be 
 to God, I see well. Times are changed: townfolk 
 have come to the island and brought their cus- 
 toms with them; had it been in my days, you 
 would have been already betrothed. Why, 
 when your mother was promised to your father, 
 they were but so high. Did you not know it?" 
 
 "Were they so small then?" 
 
 Metro had heard the story many a time, but 
 he knew the old woman would be sadly disap- 
 pointed at not telling it once more. 
 
 "Eh, I remember it, as though it were yester- 
 day," she began; "it was Palm Sunday, we were 
 returning from the church with the palms in our
 
 ON THE HILLS 27 
 
 hands, and as we passed your grandfather's, 
 Kyr Demetri's, house, we saw they had opened 
 the door wide, and also the shutters of the sola, 
 which as you understand did not happen every 
 day. Kyr Demetri saw us and called us in. 
 'Come in, friends,' he said; 'come all of you to 
 our joy.' We went into the sala, and I saw that 
 the silken sheets had been spread on the sofa, 
 and that the trays with the sweets, and the 
 syrup, and the masticha were all ready to hand 
 round, with the silver spoons, in their cups. Also 
 there were many relations assembled. Your 
 mother's mother, Chryssi, God rest her soul ! 
 was there too. I had never seen her yet, as it 
 was not long she had arrived from Hydra. A 
 fine woman she was, with big blue eyes, a skin 
 that you would say the sun had never seen, and 
 hair like the silk that grows on Indian corn, so 
 that folks used to say she was * Chryssi ' in name 
 and chryssi to look at. Eh, but she was like a 
 picture that day, with all her best clothes on, in 
 honor of the great day it was. And the Hydra 
 costume was much finer than ours. Her heavy 
 silken skirt hung in pleats around her, the short 
 red velvet jacket with its long sleeves was em- 
 broidered in gold, and the bouletsi on her head 
 was of such fine transparent silk that, though it 
 was very long and draped over her shoulders, you
 
 28 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 could have passed it through a ring. She was 
 wild with joy, crying and laughing together, and 
 she could not sit still in the place of honor on 
 the sofa where Kyr Demetri had placed her, but 
 without giving a thought to her silken gown, 
 down she goes on her knees before Tasso, your 
 father, to see him better, he was such a little 
 one, and she put both her arms round him and 
 kissed him; and she says, * Tasso, I shall make 
 you my son-in-law, and when you grow a big 
 man, you shall marry my Anthi, say, will you?' 
 And he, the little one, only so high, he opened 
 wide his big black eyes and he looked at her 
 well; then with his little soft hand he stroked 
 her cheek, and he said as wisely as a grown man, 
 *When she is a maid, if she be beautiful like 
 you, then I will marry her, yes.' Just fancy the 
 sense of the little lad, and he not seven years old. 
 He said it just in the words I tell you; as though 
 it were yesterday I remember them: 'If she be 
 beautiful like you, then I will marry her, yes." ] 
 - Kyra Sophoula paused a moment, and then 
 with an effort brought herself back to the pre- 
 sent. 
 
 "And when will you go, my Metro?" 
 "I should like to go soon. The Gymnasium 
 classes begin in September; but it cannot be yet; 
 I must wait."
 
 ON THE HILLS 29 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "There must be a little money for food, and 
 a bed, till I can find a house to serve in, and 
 though one does not pay for the classes, there 
 is a little sum to give when the name is inscribed. 
 I have eleven drachmas saved from last year 
 when I helped at the oil-press, but it is not 
 enough. I must wait till I can get more. Per- 
 haps they may let me help again at the oil-press, 
 but it is a bad olive year: they will not need 
 many workers." 
 
 "How much more money will you require?" 
 
 "Much more, twenty-five drachmas, perhaps 
 thirty." 
 
 "And it would be better for your work there 
 to go soon?" 
 
 "Much better, yes. If I am not there from 
 the commencement of the classes, the other 
 pupils will know more. But I must wait." 
 
 Kyra Sophoula did not go herb picking that 
 morning. As soon as Metro had left, she locked 
 the door leading to the terrace, hiding the key 
 under the big myrtle bush where the children 
 would find it should they return before her, 
 and went out. Down the narrow rocky street, 
 between the morning rubbish heaps and the 
 mingled odors, she threaded her way, passed 
 under the dark stone arch where the little
 
 SO TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 hunchback shoemaker was busy at work out- 
 side his shop, and came out on the quay with 
 the shimmering, dazzling sea before her and all 
 Poros behind. 
 
 Poros! little island of pink and cream and 
 whitewashed houses rising all in a cluster up to 
 the old ruined mill on the top of the hill; with 
 a brand-new Church of St. Nicholas, the sailors' 
 own saint, a marketplace by the water's edge, 
 a little square with the broken shaft of an ancient 
 column left standing in its midst. Little island 
 of red earth and green pines, girt round with the 
 bluest of blue seas. Poros not to be seen from 
 the open sea, but hiding its beauties modestly 
 till the ship has turned the corner by the light- 
 house, and has entered the most beautiful bay 
 of this land of many bays. 
 
 It was one sheet of quivering, dancing, sun- 
 flecked water on this particular morning, white- 
 and red-sailed fishing-boats dotting its surface, 
 and the great mass of an English man-of-war 
 anchored far out near the entrance of the port. 
 The blue of the sea and sky and the clear sharp- 
 ness of outline were of the kind which untraveled 
 Northerners find hard to believe in when seen 
 in pictures. 
 
 Kyra Sophoula, however, had no eyes just 
 now for the beauty of land or sea; she kept them
 
 ON THE HILLS 31 
 
 fixed on the ground, and pondered long and deeply 
 as she walked slowly along the quay, only stop- 
 ping long enough to ask a question of some of 
 the men lounging about, or cleaning out their 
 gayly painted boats. It was answered in the 
 negative, or by a click of the tongue and a little 
 backward toss of the head which also signifies 
 "no." 
 
 "Well met, Kyra Sophoula, and where may 
 you be going to this morning, if one may 
 ask?" 
 
 The speaker was a big old man with keen blue 
 eyes, a sunburnt skin, and long bushy white 
 mustaches standing out on each side of his face. 
 In his flowing dark blue breeches swinging their 
 ample folds between his legs, his crossed-over 
 vest, light blue woolen stockings carefully drawn 
 up over shapely calves, yellow shoes and large 
 upright island fez of dark red cloth, he was a 
 splendid type of the old Greek master-mariner, 
 the intrepid yet careful sailor, the stock from 
 which sprang most of the island heroes of 1821. 
 
 Kyra Sophoula gave a little gasp of pleased 
 surprise. 
 
 "Many years will you live, Capetan Leftheri; 
 you were in my thoughts this very moment, 
 and now I see you before me. Indeed, I came 
 this way to hear something about you, but they
 
 32 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 told me just now that you had not yet returned 
 from Salonica." 
 
 The old man pointed over his shoulder to his 
 two-masted little schooner anchored in the nar- 
 row sea passage between the quay and Galata 
 on the mainland. Her line of bright blue paint 
 was scarcely bluer than the water, and her sails 
 were opened out to dry in the sun. 
 
 "Perhaps they thought so, because I got into 
 port late last night and have seen very few as 
 
 yet." 
 
 "What weather did you have?" 
 
 "Not so bad near the island, but outside on 
 the open sea the wind blew fit to destroy the 
 world. Round Cavo d' Oro I thought we were 
 lost for certain, but my Evangelistra is a good 
 ship, and thanks to St. Nicholas she brought us 
 safe back." 
 
 "And shall we keep you with us some days, 
 Capetan Leftheri? You are ever as the bird on 
 the wing." 
 
 "I am off again to-morrow early, but not far 
 this time, only to Piraeus with a few lemons." 
 
 "Are you taking none to Constantinople this 
 season?" 
 
 "Later on in September I have a big cargo to 
 take there; now I am taking these few cases to 
 Piraeus and bringing back some sacks of rice
 
 ON THE HILLS 33 
 
 and coffee for Michali, the grocer, just to fill up 
 these days of waiting." 
 
 "Capetan Leftheri, since for my good luck 
 you are going to Piraeus and returning soon, I 
 have a favor to ask of you." 
 
 " Whatever you may ask, Kyra Sophoula, you, 
 my old friend's wife, it is done already, or so 
 you may reckon it." 
 
 "Your kindness is great. Will you, then, if 
 you have an empty hour, come back with me to 
 my house, and we can talk on the way; also 
 there is something there I would show you." 
 
 When Maroussa returned home at noon, the 
 old captain was taking leave of her grandmother 
 at the door of the little courtyard, and she heard 
 the last words exchanged between them. 
 
 "Be easy, Kyra Sophoula; I will send the 
 man myself for them, before sunset." 
 
 "I thank you again, Capetan Leftheri; a good 
 voyage to you, and may your years be many." 
 
 The girl, though a Poriote, was, strange to 
 say, not curious, so that she did not puzzle very 
 long over what Capetan Leftheri had promised 
 to send for, and never even thought of men- 
 tioning the incident to Metro. 
 
 The days went by as usual and nothing further 
 was said of the Athens project. Future plans 
 are rarely much talked over in advance by the
 
 34 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 islanders, being generally far too vague and 
 hard of achievement. 
 
 Kyra Sophoula went out less with her herb 
 basket, and might have been oftener seen sitting 
 on the little terrace, stitching away at various 
 oft-patched garments of Metro's. Three new 
 blue shirts had also been cut out, and new socks 
 were being rapidly knitted. 
 
 Now and then the old woman would shake her 
 head dolefully over their probable future fate 
 away from her supervision. For Metro, to her 
 frequent despair, absolutely ignored the meaning 
 of personal property: everything he possessed, 
 and God knows it was little enough, clothes, 
 the few lepta he ever had, the freshly baked 
 koulouria the baker would give him in return 
 for errands run, his slate pencils and marbles, 
 nay, even his red eggs at Easter, that treasured 
 possession of poor Greek boys, were any 
 one's who chose to ask for them. But the one 
 thing she had never been able to forget had been 
 her utter uncomprehending dismay, when some 
 years ago Metro had accounted for the disap- 
 pearance of a bright red handkerchief which she 
 had bought for him at the fair at Vithi, by saying 
 he had given it to Andriko because when he had 
 tied it round his head he had looked "so beau- 
 tiful."
 
 ON THE HILLS 35 
 
 "He looked 'so beautiful,'" she had repeated; 
 " ' so beautiful ! ' Holy Virgin, listen to the child ! 
 You mean to say you gave him your handker- 
 chief for a gift because when he put it on, he 
 was good to look at?" 
 
 The little fellow nodded. 
 
 "Good Lord! that I should have brought up 
 such a fool! Well, well, God grant you wisdom, 
 my boy, and to me patience." 
 
 But for many days afterwards she had gone 
 about her work muttering, "He was so beauti- 
 ful; just because he was beautiful! Has such a 
 thing ever been heard of?" And till the first 
 impression wore off, she had entertained anxious 
 doubts as to whether the lad's brain might not 
 be in some way affected. 
 
 Yannoula, the widow, the said Andriko's 
 mother, would come over now and again in the 
 afternoon to help Kyra Sophoula with her sew- 
 ing, having found out there was a stress of work, 
 and being a good neighbor always; a woman of 
 few words, gentle and low-spoken, with her 
 widow's black kerchief worn madonna-wise as 
 they wear them in Poros, throwing a dark 
 shadow over the upper part of the face. 
 
 The two women sitting together would talk 
 of their boys. 
 
 "If I could but keep Andriko to his books,"
 
 36 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 sighed Yannoula; for like most unlettered Greek 
 women she had the utmost reverence for learn- 
 ing, which represented to her the open road to 
 all future ambition. 
 
 "My boy/* and Kyra Sophoula strove to keep 
 inordinate pride out of her voice, "has learnt 
 all Kyr Vangheli can teach him, and if he wishes 
 to learn still more and become a schoolmaster 
 in his turn, he must needs go to Athens to learn 
 it. Hard? Yes, of course it will be hard, and I 
 must make some sacrifice, but go he must, since 
 he consumes his heart in longing for it." 
 
 In the mean while there had been a change 
 of ministry in Athens, and Kyr Vangheli had 
 hurried there in fear and trembling lest some 
 favored candidate of the new Minister of Public 
 Instruction might be appointed to Poros in his 
 place, and he be banished to some little, out- 
 of-the-way school in Thessaly, the Poros school- 
 mastership, by reason of its four hours' distance 
 from the capital, being a much coveted post. 
 Consequently there was no school for a week, 
 and the children were free to do as they liked. 
 
 The long sunny hours of the morning Metro 
 would spend almost entirely in the sea, sometimes 
 floating lazily about, sometimes diving off the 
 little wooden pier, and sometimes swimming 
 with the long clean stroke of the island boys
 
 ON THE HILLS 37 
 
 right across to the little islet near the Naval 
 School, where the old disused powder magazine 
 stood. There he would lie down to rest on the 
 short thyme, so absolutely motionless that the 
 little rabbits with which it was peopled would 
 come quite close and even nibble at his naked, 
 sun-browned limbs quite fearlessly, till a sudden 
 violent kick would send them scurrying off 
 terrified to the farther end of the islet. 
 
 After noon, as soon as Maroussa had finished 
 her work in the house, they would start off for 
 the hills with the calm disregard of the blazing 
 August sun bred of long familiarity. On the 
 hottest days they would throw themselves down 
 in the shade on the soft carpet of pine needles, 
 while Maroussa drew on her seemingly inex- 
 haustible store of fairy tales or old-world legends. 
 Metro heard all about the pasha with his three 
 pairs of slippers; the king's daughter, whose won- 
 derful robes were contained in one small nut; 
 the fearful dragon who haunted the fountain so 
 as to devour the maidens who came to wash 
 their linen, but who was forced to disgorge them 
 safe and unhurt at the touch of the magic talis- 
 man; he heard about the lovely, dark-haired 
 maiden with eyes like stars, who was being car- 
 ried off by Charon slung across his saddle, with 
 all the dead folk in his train, and the lover who
 
 38 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 followed over mountains and through torrents 
 to entreat Charon to take him in her stead, 
 this curious modern version of Alcestis. All this 
 Metro heard and much more, and always the 
 stories ended with the same quaint ending, 
 "And they lived well, and we still better.'* 
 
 On cooler days they would take the steep red 
 hill path winding through the pines, with the 
 sea lazily lapping against the gray rocks on their 
 right, and follow it till they reached the mon- 
 astery in its nest of trees. There, in the dark cool- 
 ness of the little chapel with its old Byzantine 
 templon, Maroussa would stand and cross her- 
 self piously before the great icon of the Virgin 
 and Child which the Italian painter had painted 
 many years ago. Right up to the ruins of Posei- 
 don's Temple on the top of the hill they went 
 one day, and another, across to Damala on the 
 mainland where stands the Tower of Theseus, 
 and the large stone, or rather rock, under which 
 were hidden the sandals and sword of his father, 
 the king, and which he was not to wear till he 
 could lift the stone unaided. Metro was rather 
 incredulous. 
 
 "If he were as strong as Heracles himself, he 
 could not lift it." 
 
 Maroussa pondered a moment. 
 
 *'I don't think Heracles is strong at all," she
 
 ON THE HILLS 39 
 
 said at last; "he was carrying two laden bas- 
 kets up the steep street the other day, and Yia- 
 yia told me to lift one for him." 
 
 Metro was indignant. 
 
 "What do they teach you, then, at your stu- 
 pid girls' schools? Did you think I meant old 
 Heracles the deaf one? I meant Heracles that 
 we learn about, and the twelve wonderful deeds 
 he did. He lived in the ancient days of the land; 
 there are no men like that now. Sit here and 
 I will tell you of him." 
 
 So Metro told the tale this time, and Maroussa 
 listened. 
 
 It was that same evening, after the bean soup 
 had been eaten, that Kyra Sophoula quietly and 
 yet with a tremulous little smile produced from 
 the knotted corner of her handkerchief two 
 folded bank notes of twenty -five drachmas each, 
 and held them out to Metro. 
 
 "You said you must have twenty-five or 
 thirty drachmas more; now with fifty you will 
 be able to take your time and look about the 
 place carefully before choosing a house in which 
 to serve." 
 
 Metro turned pale. 
 
 "I don't understand " he began. 
 
 "What need to understand? The money is 
 there, and has neither been stolen nor borrowed.
 
 40 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 If I choose to sell something well, is it not 
 my own affair?" 
 
 But Maroussa had guessed. 
 
 "Oh, Yiayia," she cried, "the copper pans, 
 and the oven trays! I thought they were only 
 gone to be returned. Oh, Yiayia!" 
 
 For genuine Constantinople copper pans that 
 light up a whole room by their burnished bright- 
 ness are a rare and valuable possession in Poros, 
 and their owner is accounted rich in worldly 
 goods. Besides which, as they are rarely bought 
 now, but are generally heirlooms, they consti- 
 tute an undeniable proof that the family pos- 
 sessing them have been well-to-do householders 
 for some generations past. AH this Maroussa 
 knew well, also her grandmother's pride in the 
 deep golden-red pans and shining shallow trays, 
 which latter were only put into the oven on the 
 last days of Holy Week with the Easter tsourelda. 
 In the worst days of the little household they 
 had always been kept bright and spotless, and 
 had been sent to the tinman to be relined on 
 the very slightest suspicion of a crack in their 
 tin lining, for that might mean poisoning. Few 
 sacrifices could have been greater for an island 
 housekeeper, but Kyra Sophoula would regret 
 nothing. 
 
 "Never mind, my children; the money was
 
 ON THE HILLS 41 
 
 more necessary than the pans; and how often 
 did we cook in them? For our requirements the 
 earthen pot will do just as well. Take the money, 
 my boy, take it. I give it with my heart 
 and you know it." 
 
 Kissing was not much a habit in Poros, but 
 Metro could not help it; he was too glad, the joy 
 was too sudden, and bending from his superior 
 height of a tall fifteen, he kissed the old brown 
 cheek. 
 
 This was Sunday, and it was decided that he 
 should leave on the Wednesday morning. It 
 was not possible to be ready to start by the next 
 day's steamer, which passed the island very 
 early, and no one of course would dream of 
 commencing any important enterprise, from 
 a long voyage to the cutting-out of a new 
 gown, on a Tuesday; so Wednesday it should 
 be. 
 
 The Monday was principally taken up with 
 farewell visits to neighbors, and the oft-repeated 
 recommendation of Kyra Sophoula to Metro re- 
 garding the care of his few belongings, and the 
 seeking-out in Athens of a distant cousin of her 
 husband's, who was known to have married a 
 house-painter, and to live somewhere at the 
 foot of the Acropolis. 
 
 But on the Tuesday, late in the afternoon,
 
 42 v TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 Metro could stay under roof no longer. " Come," 
 he said to Maroussa, "let us go up there." 
 
 Till they had left the marketplace and the 
 houses along the sea far behind them, they were 
 frequently stopped by various friends and neigh- 
 bors to whom the departure for Athens of the 
 lad they had known all his life, and whom they 
 had fully expected to see working in Louka's 
 boats later on, as his father had done before 
 him, was an important event. Even when they 
 were crossing the Narrow Beach, Niko Man- 
 delli, the sailor, who was standing just inside the 
 iron gates of the Naval School, stopped them, 
 having heard of Metro's plans and wishing to 
 know if there were truth in the report. 
 
 "Well, good luck to you," he said as they were 
 leaving him; "learning is a fine thing, and if I had 
 more of it, I should have had my red stripe by 
 now." 
 
 Past Barba Nicola's they went, where the white 
 cat was drowsing on the doorstep, past the old 
 fig tree, past the gate of the red house, up over 
 the hill behind it, where only its red chimneys 
 were visible above the tree-tops, past the little 
 plateau with its solitary olive tree, and through 
 the young pine woods beyond with their softly 
 moving shadows and steep paths, down to the 
 Beach of the Little Pines, with its glorious wide
 
 ON THE HILLS 43 
 
 curve, where the great old anchor that had been 
 there ever since Barba Stathi was young, lay 
 embedded in the sand and seaweeds. It was 
 just before sunset, and the whole expanse of 
 wooded shore was bathed in a brilliant haze 
 that made the more distant trees seem unreal, 
 as though seen through a shimmering golden 
 veil. The pines grew everywhere, from the 
 tiniest shoot of tender green, just emerging 
 from some thorn bush that had protected its 
 early growth, to the older trees close to the wa- 
 ter's edge, with their gaping yellow wounds 
 from which the resin was slowly dripping. The 
 lentisk bushes made spots of darker shade among 
 the luminous green of the young pines, and the 
 flat surface of a rock, towards the east, glowed 
 and gave out light as though absolutely carved 
 out of solid gold. 
 
 A flock of mountain goats were crossing the 
 length of the shore from one hill to another, 
 browsing as they went. The liquid tinkle of 
 their bells mingled with the soft lapping of the 
 waves and the persistent chirp of the tettix. 
 
 Metro stood still for a moment with his back 
 against one of the pine trunks, drinking in all 
 the perfect glory of light and color and sound; 
 then, as he suddenly realized how soon he would 
 be far from it all, he let himself drop full length
 
 44 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 under the tree, and, with a little choking gasp, 
 hid his face in the pine needles. 
 
 Maroussa was puzzled. 
 
 She sat down beside him in silence for a little 
 while, and pondered. From the very first she 
 had known how ardently he had hoped and 
 planned to leave Poros; how Athens, its learn- 
 ing, its University, and all its glories had been 
 his constant dream; and now that the dream 
 was on the very eve of fulfillment, he talked no 
 more of it, but was sobbing his heart out under 
 the tree. Her life had been a simple one, and this 
 complexity of sentiment bewildered her. 
 
 "Why do you cry?" she asked at last; "do 
 you not want now to go to Athens?" 
 
 Metro sat up and pushed the hair out of his 
 eyes; it never occurred to him to hide or deny 
 his tears, as a Northern boy might have done, 
 and they trickled down his cheeks as he spoke. 
 
 "How should I not cry? Even though I have 
 wished so long to go away and get more learn- 
 ing, as you know. Still, I have been once to 
 Piraeus in the steamer, and I know what streets 
 look like, and now to live in them always, and 
 to leave all this and the hills ! " 
 
 He turned his face towards them in their 
 evening rose tints, and stretched his arms out. 
 eyes were swollen and red with crying, his
 
 ON THE HILLS 45 
 
 cheeks paler than usual, and his dull brown hair 
 ruffled and full of pine needles. 
 
 Poor Metro! he had inherited no trace of 
 classic feature from his remote ancestry, but 
 very certainly they had bequeathed to him their 
 great and undying love of beauty; beauty of 
 line, beauty of form, and beauty of color. 
 
 The steamer was later than usual the next 
 morning. Starting from Nauplia it touched at 
 Poros on its way to Piraeus. This was supposed 
 to be about eight in the morning according to 
 the official time, but as it invariably appeared 
 an hour or two later, the intending passen- 
 gers generally had a tedious wait round the old 
 column outside Sotiro's coffee-house, and this 
 because a legend existed of the steamer having 
 arrived at Poros at least twice at the proper 
 hour, and even once before it. 
 
 Only Maroussa had come down with Metro 
 to wait for the steamer. Kyra Sophoula had 
 work at home, she said, and could not spare the 
 time; she had stood on the top of the stairs, 
 smiling at Metro, as bundle in hand he had 
 paused halfway down the rocky street, and 
 turned back to wave his hand, but, as Yannoula, 
 who was watching the departure from their ter- 
 race, told Andriko later on, "her eyes were not 
 smiling."
 
 46 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 Down on the quay, Metro felt himself for the 
 first time a looker-on instead of forming part 
 of its lazy, sunny Greek life, which had been 
 going on, with probably very little change, for 
 centuries before he had been born, and would 
 continue, precisely in the same way, after he 
 had left it. 
 
 Women going to and fro with then* red 
 earthen pitchers for water to the fountain, 
 children spuming tops or splashing in the water, 
 young girls going to the weaving-school, men 
 lounging aimlessly about, cleaning their boats 
 or mending their nets, and some few moneyed 
 favorites of fortune seated at the little tables 
 outside Sotiro's, sipping their coffee or puffing 
 at a narghile while discussing the latest news. 
 Above them all was the great rock like a man's 
 face, that rises over this end of the island. 
 
 Metro lifted up his eyes to the hills, rising in 
 all their morning splendor of color on the other 
 side of the bay. Was there one of their pine- 
 clad slopes or hollows that he did not know, or 
 a single one of their steep red paths that he had 
 not trod? Had he not watched every one of 
 their innumerable changes with almost rever- 
 ent awe, from the moment when the softened 
 peaks and blue-bathed hollows were reflected 
 line for line, and shade for shade, in the perfect
 
 ON THE HILLS 47 
 
 calm of the sea at early dawn, to the moment, 
 long after sunset, when they stood out in gray- 
 black masses against a pale yellow sky? 
 
 Who could ever tell what they were to him? 
 How could words ever describe the absolutely 
 complete, almost sensuous satisfaction he felt 
 in their lovely curves, or in the purity of their 
 outline. And what could equal the delight of 
 that perfect day, long ago, when, returning to 
 them after a short absence, he had once more 
 climbed up through the pines, and felt their 
 waving branches on his face, had crushed the 
 thyme under foot and the myrtle leaves in his 
 hands to bring out their scent, had raced the 
 bewildered mountain goats in the very exuber- 
 ance of his joy, and. at last had flung himself 
 down with outstretched arms, and kissed the 
 very earth out of the sheer overflow of delight 
 of his little pagan, beauty-loving heart. 
 
 And now he was leaving them, and of his own 
 free will ! Every turn of the steamer's screw by 
 and by would carry him farther and farther from 
 them. Metro looked away; then* outline had 
 become blurred and misty. 
 
 Maroussa, in her old yellow frock, stood quietly 
 beside him, her fingers playing nervously with 
 a loose end of his bundle. After a few seconds he 
 turned to her and spoke a few words, giving a
 
 48 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 message for his schoolmaster, whom he was 
 sorry to have missed seeing; but she did not 
 answer. 
 
 It was she who always talked when they were 
 together, but just now it seemed to her as though 
 she were standing a great way off, and as 
 though her voice must needs be of greater vol- 
 ume to reach him. Also the words escaped her 
 and lost their ordinary meaning. The Metro 
 she had known all her life seemed suddenly 
 strange, and the familiar features looked as they 
 might look to one gazing at them for the first 
 time. The fear of the unknown was upon her. 
 
 By a curious intuition she vaguely felt in ad- 
 vance all the mystery of distance; it was as 
 though she already found herself before that in- 
 surmountable wall built of all the thousand un- 
 told and half-forgotten details of the daily life 
 apart, of the strange places and strange voices, 
 which throws its shadow over every meeting 
 after a long absence. Dimly she felt this, and 
 not understanding the paralyzing silence born 
 of it, she unconsciously longed for Metro to go, 
 that the tension might end. 
 
 But when the steamer was signaled at last, 
 and one of Louka's men called to them to take 
 their places in the boat that was being untied 
 from its iron ring on the quay wall, Maroussa
 
 ON THE HILLS 49 
 
 shivered and instinctively felt for Metro's hand 
 as she sat down beside him on the narrow bench. 
 There was little time for leave-taking. The 
 steamer was already late, the captain had busi- 
 ness of his own in Piraeus and was cross at the 
 delay, more especially as all the Poros pas- 
 sengers consisted of two old women, a sailor 
 from the Naval School, and Metro. The latter 
 climbed up the side, and stationed himself on 
 the lower deck, from where he could call out a 
 last addio to Maroussa. 
 
 She stood up in the swaying boat, waving her 
 handkerchief, with a tense smile on her face. 
 One thought remained uppermost and clear, 
 the others were crushed down for the moment, 
 to spare Metro pain, and to keep him brave 
 before all those strangers. The smile was fixed 
 on her lips and remained there even when the 
 figures on deck faded into an indistinct blur. 
 But when the steamer turned round the point 
 by the lighthouse, and the last coil of smoke 
 vanished into the white clouds, Maroussa threw 
 herself down on the net at the bottom of the 
 boat and refused to be comforted.
 
 II 
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 
 
 Where ancient olives silver the rich plain. 
 Ringed in their fence of aloes, . . . 
 
 RENNELL RODD. 
 
 A GREAT pine grew among the mulberry trees 
 near the wooden gate. The little house with its 
 green shutters stood well back in the courtyard 
 away from the street and the shore. The sun, 
 filtering through the vine leaves over the porch, 
 made bright patches on the ground just out- 
 side the open door, where old Stamo sat slowly 
 drinking his morning coffee before the heat of 
 the day began. It was good coffee, too, not a 
 concoction of dried figs and ground corn, for 
 Stamo was a man of property, as property goes 
 in the islands, having worked hard all his life, 
 and having inherited a little land from his father 
 as well. He was a big old man, with blue eyes 
 under bushy white eyebrows, and a pale skin. 
 His hair was still plentiful, and for his age his 
 back was wonderfully straight. He wore the 
 cross-over vest and baggy dark blue cotton 
 breeches of the older islanders. His eyes fol-
 
 WATERING HER POTS OF SWEET BASIL
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 51 
 
 lowed his wife as she moved about the court- 
 yard, watering her pots of sweet basil and carna- 
 tions, before the sun rose too high. She was thin 
 and brown-skinned, but had evidently been a 
 handsome woman in her youth, having the broad 
 low brow, straight nose, and finely chiseled nos- 
 trils of the classic type, which is met with so much 
 of tener in the islands than on the mainland. 
 
 "Moska," he began slowly as she passed close 
 to him, "Moska, do you know that I never 
 closed an eye all night?" 
 
 She paused, balancing her water jar on the 
 broken shaft of an old marble column, that 
 served as a stand for a multitude of small flower- 
 pots. 
 
 "And why? Are you not well, perhaps?" 
 Stamo snorted contemptuously. "Yes, you 
 had better ask why. If you want to know why, 
 you had better ask your daughter why she spent 
 the whole night crying and twisting about, and 
 sobbing on the other side of the wall, instead of 
 saying her prayers and going off to sleep like a 
 sensible maid." 
 
 "And no wonder, after the way you shouted 
 at her last evening. Viola has always had a will 
 of her own, you know it, and yesterday you 
 never even let the poor child tell you what she 
 wanted."
 
 52 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "In my time a young girl never lifted her 
 eyes from the ground when her father spoke to 
 her; now they not only look up, but they must 
 speak as well ! I have no need to hear what she 
 wants. I know it quite well, and she can go on 
 wanting. She will do just what I say, remember 
 that. But you can tell her at the same time that 
 I will have no crying at nights, or going about 
 with red eyes and closed lips in the daytime.'* 
 
 "Stamo, you want the loaf whole and the 
 dog satisfied, and you cannot have it." 
 
 "That is idle talk. Now, hark you, wife, 
 you must make the girl listen to reason; you 
 women are better at talking." 
 
 Moska poured all the water out of her jar 
 upon a large hibiscus Japonica, blossoming into 
 brilliant scarlet in the old battered petroleum 
 tin into which it had been transplanted. Then 
 she brought her jar to refill it, at the large red 
 earthen one which stood against the wall of the 
 house. 
 
 "You are a strange man, Stamo; all her life 
 long you have spoiled the child, letting her have 
 her way in all things, afraid lest the wind blow 
 too hard, or the rain drop on her, and now you 
 would marry her to a man she cannot bear." 
 
 "And where, pray, will she find better? Will 
 you tell me? Young, handsome, strong, a good
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 53 
 
 son, 'and a good worker: yes, one of the best 
 in the island. His father may not have much 
 to leave him when he closes his eyes. It is not 
 the old man's fault if he fell on evil days. I do 
 not think of the money: what I know is that, 
 as God has not given us a son, I would rather 
 Mantho worked in my vineyard, and among 
 my olive trees after me, than any man I know. 
 A good lad, too, counts his words like a girl, and 
 sweet-spoken and gentle." 
 
 "But since she does not like him," persisted 
 his wife. 
 
 "Bah! Leave me in peace with your foolish 
 talk." 
 
 Stamo pushed aside his coffee-cup and began 
 pacing up and down the courtyard, his large 
 hands crossed behind his back, playing nervously 
 with his short string of smooth brown beads. 
 
 "I have no patience with all this new rubbish. 
 Who asked my mother, or yours, or yourself 
 either, if they liked forsooth the husbands that 
 were chosen for them? Who asked their opinion? 
 And did they fare badly? I ask you, did they 
 fare badly? And I tell you plainly, once for all, 
 my daughter is not going to set up her own silly 
 brain against mine either, while I live. What 
 are we reduced to when we must waste our time 
 listening to what a maid will and will not! Fine
 
 54 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 doings, indeed! That will be the feet rising to 
 strike the head, as my father used to say." 
 
 Just then a girl came to the house door and 
 stood looking out into the courtyard. The 
 morning breeze made her blue cotton gown 
 flutter a little, and stirred the little black curls 
 at the back of her neck. She stood very quietly, 
 her arms hanging and her hands empty. Her 
 face showed traces of recent tears, and she 
 would never be as handsome as her mother 
 must have been, but she had the real velvety 
 Greek eyes, and the rich coloring of a pome- 
 granate flower. 
 
 Her father stopped short in his pacing and 
 looked at her. 
 
 "Well," he said roughly, after a pause, "well, 
 are you speechless to-day?" 
 
 " Good-morning, my father." 
 
 A sort of inarticulate grunt was all the answer 
 to her greeting, and the pacing was resumed. , 
 
 "Come here," he said at last. 
 
 The girl advanced and stood before him. 
 
 "Has the night put a little sense into your 
 brain?" Then, without waiting for an answer, 
 he continued, "Your mother here says I do not 
 let you say what you want. It strikes me I have 
 let you say it too often. But let that be. Just 
 tell us now, who is this man you saw at your
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 55 
 
 aunt's house, and imagined you could choose 
 for a husband? Perhaps your mother will be- 
 lieve then what folly it was sending you to Pi- 
 raeus, and filling your narrow head with town 
 notions. Come, speak, since I permit it. Who 
 is he?" 
 
 "He is no town man, but an islander, a sailor 
 in the Navy." 
 
 "That is to say?" 
 
 "Niko Mandelli, the son of Andoni who died, 
 and of Kyra Panayota." 
 
 "A fine bridegroom, truly! who tried all 
 trades and succeeded in none." 
 
 "He is a sailor, I told you, my father." 
 
 "Because he cannot get away from the Navy, 
 and because he has to work there whether he 
 will or no. I know him. A man who was left 
 with three sisters when his father died, and who 
 could never earn enough to feed them, much 
 less put aside a dowry for them; with the result 
 that two of them, over thirty, are unmarried 
 to this day, and if the youngest married, and 
 his mother has a piece of bread to eat and a 
 mattress to lie on, it is no thanks to him, but 
 to his uncle, her brother Anastasi. The old 
 woman takes in other folks' washing, and this 
 fine son of hers, instead of helping in any way, 
 comes and takes what he can from her when-
 
 56 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 ever he is free. A fine bridegroom! His father 
 over again!" 
 
 "His father is dead." 
 
 "Does that make him any better?" 
 
 The old man kicked aside the stool which was 
 before him and began once more pacing up and 
 down. Then, after a pause, 
 
 "Even were he other than he is, do you think 
 I mean to give you to a sailor, a man who is 
 now here, and now there, and who would never 
 be in his house to look after you, when I have 
 closed my eyes? Put that out of your head." 
 
 "Niko said he would soon be promoted and 
 earn more, and then, through the deputy who 
 knew his father, he could manage to be ordered 
 here to the Naval School, and stay with us al- 
 ways." 
 
 "He is very good! And if you please, will you 
 do me the favor to tell me how you know all 
 this? Decent maidens do not look up when a 
 strange young man speaks, and you must have 
 been listening to him and answering him." 
 
 "No, I did not. He said it to my uncle, and 
 my uncle told me." 
 
 "I always knew your uncle had about as 
 much brain as a cock, but I never thought even 
 he would talk of marriage to a maid before her 
 parents knew of it."
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 57 
 
 "My uncle knows many things and reads 
 many newspapers, and he says now in our time 
 women must choose for themselves." 
 
 The old man laughed aloud. 
 
 " Truly a fine jest ! And the next thing will be 
 perhaps that, after a maid has found her bride- 
 groom all alone, she will come and tell her par- 
 ents that the matter is settled. But I am a fool 
 to waste my words. Put all this nonsense out 
 of your head at once. Even if I would give you 
 to Niko Mandelli, which I never will, I could 
 not. I have spoken long ago to Mantho's father, 
 to old Photi, and he is willing." 
 
 "That does not matter, Stamo," put in his 
 wife. "They have not been engaged by the 
 priest, nor exchanged rings; you could change 
 your mind if you liked." 
 
 "Stamo, the son of Theophani the miller, 
 does not change his mind," shouted the old man 
 angrily; "moreover, all the village knows it. 
 Are we so many that what is known to two 
 houses can be hidden from all the rest? You 
 must gather yourself together a little, my girl. 
 It is ended now, the running up the hillsides 
 for thyme or cyclamen or koumara, or sitting 
 idle under the olive trees. You are a grown 
 maiden now, and must stay at home and help 
 your mother to prepare your dower-clothes."
 
 58 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "But Mantho is slow-witted: he never opens 
 his lips, and I do not like him," said Viola, her 
 eyes filling again. 
 
 "He is a good lad, and a good son, and he can 
 work if he cannot talk. That is enough words. 
 You will take the man I choose for you, like or 
 no like, yes, and sing a little song into the 
 bargain." 
 
 This last assertion exasperated the girl be- 
 yond endurance. She lifted her eyes and looked 
 her father full in the face. 
 
 "I will marry no man if it be not my will also; 
 even before the priest I will say 'No'!" 
 
 "Silence," shouted her father, striding up to 
 her from the farther end of the yard. "How dare 
 you lift your voice up before me?" 
 
 He raised his hand as though to strike her, 
 but his wife, who had been watching, seized 
 hold of his arm. He wrenched it free, and catch- 
 ing hold of Viola by the shoulder twisted her 
 round. 
 
 "Listen to me. What I say I mean. You will 
 marry Mantho if you marry at all. For the sake 
 of my name, and what they will say in the island, 
 I will not marry you to any man by force. But 
 if you do marry, it shall be the man I have 
 chosen. Otherwise you die a maid. I have said. 
 It is finished."
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 59 
 
 He let go of the girl so suddenly that she 
 swayed and caught hold of the vine trunk to 
 save herself from falling. Then, with a scowl on 
 his face, he crossed over to where the great 
 pine grew among the mulberry trees, pulled 
 open the wooden gate, and went out. 
 
 Viola turned round and went indoors, her mo- 
 ther following with the empty jar in her hand. 
 
 In the house both shutters and panes were 
 wide open, admitting the fragrance of the lemon 
 blossom and the strong fresh brine from the 
 sea; also other varied village odors less easily 
 definable. An old four-post bed with quaintly 
 twisted columns, probably a relic of Venetian 
 days in the island, stood in one corner, and the 
 girl seated herself on this, letting her feet swing 
 backwards and forwards. 
 
 "My father may say, and he may shout, never- 
 theless I will marry whom I will and no other. 
 If he be Stamo, son of Theophani, I am Viola, 
 the daughter of Stamo, and my will is as strong 
 as his. Mother, say, have I not always done as I 
 would?" 
 
 "Aye, you have, more shame to me, perhaps, 
 for letting you. When you were quite a little 
 one, the neighbors at the fountain would say, 
 when you cried for aught, *You must do it, 
 Moska, it is Viola's will,' and laugh at me." x -
 
 60 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 Viola jumped off the high bed and put her 
 arms round her mother. 
 
 "No one must laugh at you, you are a good 
 manoula; but wait a while and you will see: now 
 as always Viola will get her will." 
 
 Moska sighed, foreseeing trouble. 
 
 "But you must not anger your father, my 
 child." 
 
 "No," said Viola, "I will not. It makes much 
 noise and it serves no purpose." 
 
 Viola remembered Mantho from the time she 
 was a tiny maid of four or five years old. Her 
 father would often in those days hoist her on his 
 shoulder and carry her with him when he went 
 to work on the mainland, in his olive grove and 
 lemon orchard. Old Photi's land adjoined theirs, 
 and his son Mantho, a tall, awkward, silent lad, 
 was always by his side. 
 
 There was no mother, and the father and 
 son were always together. Mantho had only 
 been to school for two winters. He was not a 
 very bright scholar, and, as old Photi said, 
 book-learning would not teach him to prune 
 the vines, guide the plow, or dig the trenches 
 round the trees any better. Learning was all 
 very well, perhaps, for Anthi's Metro the orphan, 
 who liked his books, and who meant to become 
 a schoolmaster some day; besides, he, poor lad,
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 61 
 
 had no land to inherit. But Mantho had better 
 stay with his father, and learn to know every 
 tree and every vine on the land that would be 
 his some day. He would leave off work at sun- 
 set a little before his father, and, returning to 
 the tiny three-roomed hut, would light the fire, 
 tidy up the place, and cook their bean soup or 
 their boiled herbs, as handily as any woman, 
 singing the while to himself all the island songs 
 he had ever heard. Song came to him far more 
 naturally than speech, and his voice had that 
 peculiar vibration in it which brings at the 
 same time pure delight and also sweet pain to 
 the hearer. 
 
 Sometimes in the day he would leave his work, 
 and cross the boundary line to where Viola had 
 been bidden to sit under one of the trees, and 
 provided with little fallen green lemons as play- 
 things. He would take her a ready-cracked 
 almond, or a ripe fig just pulled from the tree, 
 as an offering. But as the lad was very shy and 
 never attempted to amuse her, but just stood still, 
 twisting his hands awkwardly about and gazing 
 at the rosy child with her black curly head, she 
 did not care for his visits, and was always pleased 
 when his father called him back to his work. It 
 was four years ago that an old standing debt, 
 whose interest had slowly accumulated, had
 
 62 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 driven Photi to selling all the vineyard and most 
 of the olive trees. It was a bitter wrench for the 
 old man, but, as he told his neighbors, he was 
 getting on in years, and he could not die easy 
 if he thought his boy's life was to be harassed by 
 the burden of debt as his had been. Better 
 that he should have but a strip of land, and 
 that free. 
 
 Till that day when the pair of stout oxen that 
 pulled the plow, and the old mule that turned 
 the pump-well, had to be sold, there had always 
 been work enough for both of them on the land; 
 but when this happened, Mantho, a tall youth 
 not long home from his naval service, had to 
 seek for other work. The few olive and lemon 
 trees that remained round the little house 
 scarcely provided work enough for the old man. 
 It was then that Stamo, who knew Mantho's 
 value as a worker, had taken him on to his land, 
 paying him by the day. When he did not need 
 him, Mantho easily found work in some other 
 orchards, or in the winter would take a turn at 
 the oil presses; but this was rarely. So the change 
 had affected Viola very little, who saw Mantho 
 just as often, and found him just as silent and 
 awkward and uninteresting. 
 
 In the mean while her father had been per- 
 suaded into letting her spend a winter in Piraeus,
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 63 
 
 with an aunt married to a prosperous baker 
 there, and it was during this absence that she 
 met Niko the sailor, who never lacked for fluent 
 words to tell her of her beauty, which is always 
 pleasant hearing at nineteen, who kept her 
 uncle and aunt and cousins constantly enter- 
 tained by his tales of ship life, and his descrip- 
 tions of the three foreign ports he had been to, 
 during his time on the man-of-war, Malta, 
 Genoa, and Portsmouth. On Sunday afternoons 
 he had walked by her side on the quay at Pi- 
 raeus while her aunt complacently watched the 
 shipping on the other, and often had he whis- 
 pered how far superior island girls were in every- 
 thing to the Pirseotes, and even Athenians, and 
 that his dream was to marry a Poriote and settle 
 down on the island, near her people and his old 
 mother. From this, to being told by her easy- 
 going uncle which was the special Poriote girl 
 Niko dreamt of, night and day, and to consent- 
 ing to wait till her parents' approval could be 
 gained, was not a long step for Viola. But though 
 she had promised secrecy, once back in Poros 
 she had not been able to resist hurrying matters 
 by confiding these plans to her mother, and per- 
 suading her to speak to her father. Hence all 
 the trouble which had arisen. 
 
 For some days, however, after the storm of the
 
 64 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 explanation, there was a period of calm. Few 
 words were exchanged between Viola and her 
 father, and when sometimes after dark a few 
 bars of a love-song were heard outside the house, 
 old Stamo would smile complacently, as though 
 consenting to the courtship of an accepted 
 lover. 
 
 Nevertheless a whisper ran round the village 
 that the marriage of Photi'sMantho and Stamo's 
 Viola was not such an accomplished fact as it 
 had been considered. Whence the rumor sprang 
 no one knew, nor from which side the reluctance 
 arose, but it was generally attributed to Viola. 
 
 As Kyra Marina, who always knew every- 
 thing before it happened, said one morning at 
 the fountain: "What can you expect but change 
 and caprice, from a maid who has been spoiled 
 from the moment she could walk alone, and 
 who wastes her time picking flowers instead of 
 herbs?" 
 
 Later on, that same evening, Viola came down 
 herself to the fountain bringing the pitchers to 
 be filled, and Youla, Kyra Marina's granddaugh- 
 ter, who was standing at her open door and saw 
 her pass, ran out to join her, hoping to satisfy 
 her curiosity as to the truth of the whispered 
 rupture. 
 
 At the fountain all the women were dispers-
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 65 
 
 ing ; only Maroussa, a friend of theirs, re- 
 mained, and her grandmother, a small, brown- 
 skinned old woman. 
 
 The four sat together on the stone ledge of the 
 fountain, while the pitchers filled slowly one by 
 one. It was after sunset, and the distant trees 
 across the bay looked almost black, while the 
 sharp-cut features of the Sleeper were of a grayer 
 black against the pale yellow sky. 
 
 Maroussa had much to tell: they had lately 
 had letters from Metro, Anthi's Metro, who had 
 gone to Athens to become a schoolmaster, and 
 he was learning so fast that perhaps in two or 
 at the most three years he would be able to get 
 his diploma. He was even learning French. 
 There was a kind old French master who was 
 fond of him and taught him for nothing. Metro 
 had sent a picture of the Acropolis, where he 
 went as often as he could, and he wrote, added 
 Maroussa, that from there on a clear day he 
 could distinguish the hills of Poros. 
 
 Viola listened abstractedly, and Youla asked 
 her teasingly whether her thoughts were with 
 Mantho and his songs, and on Viola's energetic 
 denial, exclaimed, 
 
 "It is true, then, as every one says, that the 
 marriage will not be?" 
 
 "Every one is no one," put in Kyra Sophoula.
 
 66 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "For myself, I have neither said nor heard this 
 thing." 
 
 "Why, Kyra Sophoula," said the girl, open- 
 ing her black eyes wide, "how can that be? My 
 grandmother has said it now for many days." 
 
 "Do you think the whole lake knows it when 
 one frog croaks, my daughter? " 
 
 Youla, nothing abashed, plied Viola with fresh 
 questions. Was the marriage really not to be, 
 and why? Did her father perhaps not think 
 Mantho rich enough? 
 
 "Rich or poor, Mantho is naught to me/* 
 said Viola, rising and bending over her pitcher 
 to see if it were nearly full. 
 
 "That is a pity," said Kyra Sophoula; "for 
 you may seek much farther, and fare much 
 worse. A good lad and a good worker is Mantho." 
 
 "Are all the good lads and good workers lost 
 from Poros, then?" asked Viola irritably; "and 
 those who may have a thought in their brains 
 besides their work, and a speaking tongue in 
 their mouths as well?" 
 
 "Mantho has plenty of thoughts in his brain, 
 my girl, though they may be too tightly packed 
 to slip out freely. I know this well, for Metro 
 always said so when they thought the lad slow- 
 witted at school. And good ! a piece of gold ! 
 Too good; there is no service he will refuse any
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 67 
 
 one if he can manage to do it; no matter the 
 trouble or the cost." 
 
 Viola looked thoughtful for a moment. 
 
 "No service, did you say, Kyra Sophoula?" 
 
 "Never a one! A heart of gold, I tell you." 
 
 "Maybe," said Viola, laughing. "But at the 
 same time as insipid as an August cucumber. 
 He has been nowhere, seen naught of the world. 
 Where should he get all the wonderful thoughts 
 that you speak of? All his life long he has been 
 stuck as close to his old father as nail to flesh, 
 and has worked early and late." 
 
 Kyra Sophoula poised her jar carefully on her 
 shoulder, and then looked at the girl. 
 
 "Have you ever picked cyclamen on the hills 
 in autumn?" 
 
 She asked this, knowing Viola had spent a 
 childhood of leisure, free from the hard work re- 
 quired of most Poriote children. 
 
 "Surely," answered the girl, opening her 
 eyes widely. 
 
 "And where do you find the reddest flowers, 
 with the strongest and longest stems?" 
 
 "But you know where, Kyra Sophoula," said 
 Viola, wondering at the simple question, for the 
 old woman was a great herb picker, and re- 
 nowned for her knowledge of all growing things 
 and of their hiding-places.
 
 68 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "Yes, I know, but I want to see if you can 
 tell me." 
 
 "Why, in the thorn-bushes, of course, and 
 under the pines." 
 
 "Exactly: in the shade, and where they have 
 the hardest work to pierce through to the light. 
 Just what I was saying." 
 
 "But we were talking of Mantho," said 
 Viola, bewildered. 
 
 "Yes, and now we talk of cyclamen, but it is 
 all the same thing, my child, all the same thing." 
 
 And Kyra Sophoula trudged away up the 
 rocky street with the jar on her shoulder, fol- 
 lowed by Maroussa with the two smaller ones 
 in her arms. 
 
 It was full moon that night, and old Stamo 
 had been sitting after supper with his wife under 
 the great pine that grew among the mulberry 
 trees. When they came indoors there was no 
 light in the house, for the moonlight was stream- 
 ing through the open shutters, and Moska was 
 too good a housewife to waste good oil where it 
 was not needed. Viola was leaning against the 
 window, her eyes fixed on the shimmering re- 
 flection of the moon on the sea, but her arched 
 eyebrows were drawn into a straight line, and 
 her lips tightly closed.
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 69 
 
 Suddenly, while her father's hand was on the 
 door of the sleeping-room beyond, and her 
 mother had just taken out the sprigs of myrtle 
 that closed the mouth of the large water jar in 
 order to fill a smaller one for the night, a man's 
 voice arose out of the shadow of the neighboring 
 houses. Not a very powerful voice, perhaps, 
 though a Frenchman who came to the island some 
 years later, and who had heard all the wonder- 
 ful singers of his day, told Mantho that had he 
 only studied he might have been a great tenor, 
 and have sung not only in Athens, but in Italy, 
 where the public is so hard to please; in Paris, 
 where good singing is understood; and in Lon- 
 don, where great sums are paid to listen to it. 
 But it was too late then. It was a voice, young, 
 warm, and resonant, what the older Italians 
 meant when they talked of "il bel canto." A 
 voice, and above all a way of bringing forth, 
 which produced the impression that not only 
 had the singer himself composed the song he was 
 singing, but that it faithfully expressed his feel- 
 ing, or passion, of the moment. A voice that em- 
 bodied all the joy and all the sadness of life, 
 but stripped it of all sordidness or brutality. 
 A voice that made every nerve vibrate, even of 
 the least music-loving; that was at one and the 
 same time a spiritual joy and a physical caress.
 
 70 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 Viola took a step back into the room as though 
 to leave the window, when it first arose, but after 
 the first notes she stood quite still and went no 
 farther. 
 
 The old people came closer and peered out, 
 but no figure was visible in the moonlight, 
 though every object and every shadow was as 
 sharply defined as at noon. The singer kept 
 carefully out of sight. Two or three of the smaller 
 houses on the right jutted out into the road, and 
 it was easy to be hidden from view behind them. 
 
 The song was a simple island love-song which 
 they all knew well and had heard often; but it 
 had a plaintive sound that seemed new to them. 
 
 - y6 ly - pi - me - na [va- ria pous'a-ga - 
 
 ^ 
 
 i 
 
 po] 
 
 [va - ria pou sa - ga - po !] 
 
 Translation: A little bird at dawn was crying sorrowfully . . . 
 (How deeply do I love thee).
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 71 
 
 The long sweet notes rose and fell, ending al- 
 most in a sigh. When it was over, Stamo looked 
 at his daughter. 
 
 "Well, my lass," he said, "I do not think 
 there are many maidens who can say they are 
 so sweetly courted." 
 
 "He sings well," said Viola, "but it is no 
 courtship that a lad should sing a song on a sum- 
 mer night when the moon is high." 
 
 "Patience," laughed her father; "the rest 
 will come." 
 
 "I have told you," said Viola, "that I have 
 no wish for the rest, but I should like to know 
 very much whether you, my father, and old 
 Photi have not decided things between you 
 that the lad himself has never thought of. You 
 have spoken to his father, you said, but has his 
 father ever spoken to him? Do you know that 
 he has any thought of marriage? Songs mean 
 nothing." 
 
 Stamo laughed, being in a good temper. 
 
 "Do not fret yourself. Mantho will always 
 listen to his father, and Photi was joyful when 
 we spoke of the matter." 
 
 " Only it is not Photi who is to marry me. Per- 
 haps his son likes me no better than I like 
 him." 
 
 " I should like to know where a poor lad like
 
 72 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 him will find better than Stamo's daughter? 
 This is idle talk. Good-night to you." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders and passed into 
 the inner room, leaving his wife to follow at 
 her will. 
 
 The next morning he announced that he must 
 go over to Piraeus for two days to see about a 
 new plow, and left quite early, saying he would 
 take his coffee at Sotiro's while waiting for the 
 steamer, by the old column. 
 
 In the afternoon, as there were no lemons left 
 in the house, Viola told her mother she would 
 cross over to the orchard, and bring some back 
 with her. 
 
 "Take a bundle of clothes with you also," 
 said Moska; "we wash on Monday, and it will 
 be that less to carry." 
 
 For through the lemon trees ran a little stream 
 coming down from the hills, and as it never 
 dried up even in summer, the women always 
 took their linen there to wash. So Viola tied a 
 white kerchief over her hair, snatched up the 
 bundle, and before opening the wooden gate 
 stopped a moment where the great pine grew 
 among the mulberry trees, to pick some of the 
 purple berries into a leaf, for refreshment on the 
 way. Then, closing the gate behind her, she 
 ran down the road that stretched between the
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 73 
 
 sea on the one side and the little old houses on 
 the other, exchanging a greeting as she went with 
 old Barba Stathi, who was coming down from 
 the hills with his donkey laden with brushwood 
 for the ovens. 
 
 A little further on, one of Louka's boats was 
 just starting for the mainland; so, bestowing 
 the last of her mulberries on Nasso, one of the 
 ragged lads always hanging about the quay, 
 Viola jumped into it, finding herself with six 
 other passengers, to say nothing of a mule. 
 
 Once on the other side she paid her five lepta, 
 and crossed the shady beach and the olive- 
 planted slope that led to a narrow lane beyond. 
 Viola walked more slowly along this lane, as 
 though she were beginning to feel the weight of 
 her bundle. On both sides were garden walls 
 overshadowed by lemon and other fruit trees, 
 and here and there little white houses with their 
 covered terraces, and rows of orange-colored 
 pumpkins spread out to dry on the terrace ledges. 
 Towards the end of the lane she lifted the latch 
 of a high wooden gate and passed into the or- 
 chard. A narrow path between two rows of 
 tall cypresses led to the fruit trees. Oleanders 
 and jasmine grew in tangled masses of pink and 
 white and yellow against the dark straight 
 trunks. The lemon trees were giving well this
 
 74 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 year, and clusters of light yellow hung thick 
 under the shining leaves. Here and there were 
 dotted a few smaller mandarin trees, and at the 
 farthest end was the silver gray of the olives. 
 Beyond a hedge of aloes was another strip of 
 land planted with a few trees, and at the one 
 corner a very small white house. 
 
 Viola deposited her bundle in a little outhouse 
 where the fodder was kept, and then, going to 
 one of the heaviest laden lemon trees, she stood 
 looking up at the fruit. Under the shade of a 
 giant walnut tree a mule was turning round and 
 round at the pump-well, and Viola could hear 
 the monotonous creaking of the primitive wooden 
 wheel. 
 
 A young man was opening channels in the soft 
 earth for the water to flow into the ditches dug 
 round the roots of the trees. He turned at the 
 sound of Viola's footsteps, started, and, throw- 
 ing down his mattock, came up to where she 
 stood. 
 
 He was of middle height, brown-eyed, with 
 a slight dark mustache that left the lips free. 
 His features were not in any way remarkable, 
 but well finished. In motion he was rather 
 graceful, but when in repose he had awkward, 
 restless movements of his hands, and now and 
 then a little nervous shake of the head.
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 75 
 
 "Welcome," he said; and then after a moment, 
 as she did not speak, "your father has not been 
 here to-day; he is well?" 
 
 "Yes, quite well, but he has gone for two 
 days to Piraeus." 
 
 "For the plow, perhaps?" 
 
 "Yes, so he said." 
 
 There was a pause. Mantho clasped and un- 
 clasped his hands, and balanced himself first 
 on one foot, and then on the other, looking all 
 the time at Viola. 
 
 "Is there anything you wish?" he asked at 
 last. 
 
 "My mother has no lemons; I came to get 
 some." 
 
 "Shall I pick you a few?" 
 
 "Yes, if you will." 
 
 He pulled seven or eight of the yellowest fruit 
 off the laden branches and looked at her in- 
 quiringly. 
 
 "Add a few more, that I may not have to 
 be coming again to-morrow." 
 
 When he had made a little pile on the ground 
 of fifteen or so, she said, "Thank you, that is 
 enough." 
 
 "How will you carry them?" 
 
 She looked about her vaguely. 
 
 "True, I forgot to bring my tagari."
 
 76 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "Wait, I will bring one." 
 
 He ran to the back of the orchard, struggled 
 through a gap in the hedge, and, crossing the 
 strip of land to the little house, returned almost 
 at once with a brightly striped tagari in his hand. 
 Into this he put the lemons, covering them 
 with a few of their leaves. 
 
 "There is still room; shall I lay a few figs at 
 the top?" 
 
 "It is not worth while," said the girl; "we 
 have still a few left from this morning, and we 
 are only two souls in the house, now that my 
 father is away." 
 
 She took the tagari from his hand, and he 
 waited. 
 
 Then, as she made no movement to go, "It 
 is heavy for you, perhaps?" he asked. 
 
 "Bah, it is nothing; I could carry ten times 
 as much." 
 
 She took a few steps towards the entrance, 
 then turned suddenly, and, with decision in her 
 voice, said, "Mantho, my father told me that 
 he has spoken to yours, that they are agreed be- 
 tween them that they that we 
 
 "Yes," said the man, with a little quiver of 
 his eyelids, "I know." 
 
 Viola hesitated a moment and then continued, 
 "I must speak to you of this." Then, as he
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 77 
 
 looked up at her suddenly, she went on hurriedly, 
 "Yes, I know you will say, perhaps, it is not 
 seemly that I should come here, and speak to 
 you on this matter alone; I do not know 
 perhaps you are right, but I must do it; there 
 is no one else. My father has been very angry 
 with me, and I have suffered much for many 
 days now." 
 
 "You must not suffer. What angered your fa- 
 ther? I thought he was always good to you. He 
 loves you well." 
 
 "He loves me well while I am ready to say, 
 'Yes, Lord!' to his every will; but if I be not 
 ready, then he swears things must happen as he 
 orders, and if I suffer it matters not, for a maid's 
 will is of no account." 
 
 "What does he order?" 
 
 "That I marry you." 
 
 The man turned pale under his sunburn. 
 "And you?" 
 
 "I do not wish it; no." 
 
 There was a moment's silence, broken only by 
 the slow, continuous creaking of the wooden 
 wheel and the buzz of the insects in the trees. 
 Then Viola resumed, "You must not think evil 
 in your mind. It is not that you are poor, 
 or that I do not know you are good but, I 
 cannot be married to you."
 
 78 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 Mantho pressed one hand tightly against the 
 other and cleared his throat once or twice. 
 
 "If you do not wish it, it must not be," he 
 said slowly. "You must tell your father you 
 cannot do it." 
 
 "Do you think I have not told him? But he 
 will not listen. For two days we talked, and at 
 the end he was terribly angry. And now I am 
 afraid of him. You cannot tell how afraid I 
 am! He took me by the shoulder, so hard I 
 nearly fell." 
 
 The man's face darkened; he took a step 
 forward. "These things must not be. No one 
 must make you afraid. Your father must under- 
 stand that you cannot do as he wills that 
 you would suffer. Cannot your mother speak 
 to him?" 
 
 "She has spoken; he will not listen to her any 
 more than to me. It is finished, he says; all the 
 island knows it, and he will not change. And if 
 he forces me, what can I, a poor maid, do? Can 
 I shame you and myself and say 'No' before 
 the priest? I told him I would do even that, 
 but I think I would rather die." 
 
 "Hush! it shall not be, I tell you. I will 
 speak to him myself; I will tell him that you 
 cannot " 
 
 "For God's name, no! He would kill me if he
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 79 
 
 knew I had come here and spoken to you myself 
 on the matter." 
 
 "But then " 
 
 "Nay, listen. There is but one way. You are 
 good, Mantho; you have always had a good 
 heart; you will not refuse to help me, and some 
 day the Holy Virgin will send you a bride a 
 thousand times better than I am." 
 
 "But you will not let me speak to him." 
 
 "Not as you meant to, no. But you must 
 speak to him, Mantho, and I will bless you al- 
 ways you must tell him " 
 
 "What must I tell him?" 
 
 "That you will not marry me.'* 
 
 There was a violent start of all his body, and 
 then his face hardened. 
 
 "That is impossible. I do not tell such lies. 
 Moreover, it would be an insult. My father has 
 given his word." 
 
 "Mantho, I beg of you. You can say your 
 father had not asked you. That you are a man 
 grown, and have your own will. That you do 
 not wish to marry yet." 
 
 "Your father would be terribly angered, and 
 justly." 
 
 "At first, yes, but it would pass with time, 
 and you could see him less often, perhaps. While 
 I oh, Mantho, will you not help me?"
 
 80 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "Not in this way; I cannot." 
 
 "I see; your words are idle words. You say 
 at first you would not have me suffer, and when 
 I ask your help, you fear my father's anger too 
 much. You would rather it fell upon me!" 
 
 " That you must not say." 
 
 "Why not, since it is true? Well, I go now. 
 It is late. I was foolish to think you would help 
 me men have always great words but 
 they are only words." 
 
 "Stay; you wish me to tell your father that 
 I refuse to marry you? " 
 
 "Since you will not do it, why do you ask 
 again?" 
 
 For a few moments the man stood quite still, 
 his hands tightly clenched, his brows knit. The 
 creaking of the wooden wheel went on mono- 
 tonously and unceasingly. He had worked ac- 
 companied by this sound nearly all his life long, 
 and had never noticed it any more than the 
 chirp of the tettix; now it seemed to him that 
 the noise was maddening. 
 
 Suddenly he looked her full in the eyes. 
 "Will you tell me one thing? Is it that you do 
 not wish to be married, or you have been away 
 from the island you may have seen others, 
 with more learning, with better ways than ours. 
 Is it, perhaps, that there is some one for whom
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 81 
 
 your heart has spoken, and to whom your father 
 will not give you?" 
 
 Viola looked at him in astonishment; she had 
 never yet heard so long a speech from Mantho. 
 
 "My father will not give me now," she 
 answered; "but perhaps, who knows, later on, 
 when Niko comes here " 
 
 "Ah! And he loves you, this man?" 
 
 "It seems so to me." 
 
 "Then why does he not come at once, like 
 an honest lad, and ask you from your father? " 
 
 "No, no, not yet; I do not wish him to come 
 yet. I do not wish it to seem that it is I who refuse 
 to marry you. My father is terrible when he is 
 angry with me, or when things do not come as 
 he likes. Only to think of him makes me afraid." 
 
 "Be not afraid then. I will say what you 
 wish." 
 
 "Oh, Mantho, I thank you. I always knew 
 you were good, but " 
 
 "Hush, I am not good; only you must not 
 suffer or be afraid. These things must not be. 
 Now, go. It is late; and your mother will won- 
 der." 
 
 "Good-night, Mantho." 
 
 "Good-night. Sleep well and be not afraid." 
 
 Viola was right in describing her father as
 
 82 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 terrible when things did not happen as he liked. 
 To the suggestion that she had thrown out the 
 night of the serenade that, though old Photi 
 was so pleased about this marriage, his son might 
 not be as willing he had never even given a 
 second thought. So that now the young man's 
 quiet announcement that he had not yet thought 
 of marriage, that he thanked Kyr Stamo for pre- 
 ferring him, but that, without intending any dis- 
 respect to his daughter, he meant to go on living 
 alone, with his father, came upon the old man 
 like a bolt from the blue. The scene with Mantho 
 was terrible. Two hired men, who were working 
 in the vineyard the day it happened, witnessed 
 it from a distance, and even heard part of the 
 old man's furious invectives. By a stroke of 
 good luck Kyra Marina was the first in the vil- 
 lage to hear of it, and away she hobbled, her 
 wicked old head shaking as she went to report 
 to Krinio, to Chryssoula, to Stellio's Panouria, 
 to Kyra Thanassaina, to Panayota, and to all 
 the others at the fountain. She enjoyed that 
 morning: there was so much to tell, and every 
 one so anxious to hear it. How Kyr Stamo had 
 called Mantho dishonorable and a scoundrel; 
 how he had even struck at him with a stick, 
 though Mantho had at least had the decency to 
 content himself with only parrying the blows;
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 83 
 
 how he had ended by ordering him off his land 
 there and then, throwing his money on the 
 ground for him to pick up; and had vowed, 
 not only that never again should he do a stroke 
 of work for him, but that he, Kyr Stamo, would 
 take good care he should never get another 
 day's work on the whole island. 
 
 "And what did Mantho say?" asked Krinio 
 when she could get a word in. 
 
 "Oh, he spoke so low, Vangheli could not 
 hear anything.'* 
 
 "And what will he do now?" 
 
 "He will have to leave the island, for sure; 
 Kyr Stamo never threatens what he cannot do, 
 and the others who have orchards and vineyards 
 and take hired men will listen to him. And as 
 for staying on with his father, there is scarce 
 work enough for the old man on that tiny strip, 
 weak as he is, let alone for two, and they could 
 never make enough to live on. No, no; Mantho 
 will have to go." 
 
 "Poor old Photi will be left alone then," said 
 Lenio. 
 
 "Eh, well, whose fault is it? He is the father; 
 he should have made his son listen to reason. He 
 will have to lose him now." 
 
 Kyra Marina's prophecies and conclusions 
 were by no means always to be depended upon,
 
 84 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 but In this case she proved correct. Stamo never 
 for a moment dreamed that this unheard-of re- 
 fusal of Mantho's to fulfill the engagement en- 
 tered into by his father could in any way be con- 
 nected with what he considered Viola's foolish 
 talk of some days ago. On the contrary, he was 
 convinced that, notwithstanding all she said 
 then, she must be feeling the insult offered to her 
 by Mantho very deeply, and attributed all her 
 entreaties in his favor to the weak mercy of an 
 exceptionally tender heart. He fulfilled his 
 threats to the letter, and Mantho gained no- 
 thing but excuses or evasive answers wherever he 
 applied for work. The result was that the poor 
 lad saw absolute starvation before him, and con- 
 sequently his father, who would certainly insist 
 on sharing with him the little that was to be got 
 out of their strip of land, unless he decided 
 to leave the island and seek for work elsewhere. 
 
 It must be confessed that he had never fore- 
 seen this extreme result of his sacrifice, and that 
 it was with a heavy heart and bitter thoughts 
 that he decided to tell his father that he must 
 leave him. 
 
 The old man had been sorely vexed at first 
 when Mantho had declared he would not marry 
 Viola, and had no plausible reason to give for 
 the change; neither was it in human nature that
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 85 
 
 in their circumstances he should not bemoan 
 for his son and himself, and for the children 
 yet unborn, the loss of this alliance. So that 
 there had been hard words and bitter reproaches 
 added to poor Mantho's trouble when he sat 
 at night beside the open window of their little 
 hut, looking out at the starlight and answering 
 never a word. But Photi was a gentle-hearted 
 old man, and had given mother love as well as 
 father love to Mantho, from the time when he 
 had been left alone with the two-year-old child, 
 so that the boy's pale face and loss of appetite 
 soon smote his conscience. Perchance, he told 
 himself, the lad might be fretting over some 
 worthless woman, and would not insult their 
 honest name by offering to marry her. Such 
 things had been. Did he not remember in his 
 own youth the black eyes and laughing lips of 
 an Armenian singing girl in Nauplia, who had 
 nearly led him astray ? Who was he, to add to 
 the pain, if his son was fighting a hard fight? 
 So he laid his hand tenderly on his shoulder one 
 evening, and Mantho looked up in his face, 
 and there was peace between them. 
 
 It was three days later, while the old man was 
 loosening the earth round the roots of his olive 
 trees, that Mantho told him very gently that 
 there was no work for him anywhere on the
 
 86 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 island, and that he thought of going to Kalamata 
 in the Peloponnesus, where he had been told 
 that there was much work to be had, on account 
 of the many strong men and lads who had emi- 
 grated from there to America. 
 
 His father said very little. " You know best, 
 my son; even if I would, I could not keep you." 
 But he stuck his spade deeply into the earth and 
 bent his head on his shaking hands. 
 
 It had to be, he saw it; it was written by Fate 
 that his boy should leave him, but the pain was 
 very sharp. They had all lived and married and 
 died in this little house, his grandfather, his 
 father, and his brothers, and it was a grief 
 not to be put into words that his only son should 
 be forced away to look for work in other parts. 
 That Greece was a small country, and that the 
 lad could not at worst be more than two days' 
 journey away, meant nothing to the old peasant. 
 To him Poros was his country, just as to his 
 ancestors in the old days each man's city re- 
 presented the whole of the fatherland. 
 
 If at least Mantho had been a sailor, there 
 would be his returns to expect and to rejoice 
 over, but he had never learned anything ex- 
 cept to till the earth, and his father knew that 
 wherever his work was found, there would his 
 home be.
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 87 
 
 He left for Nauplia three days later, all his 
 possessions in a small bundle slung across his 
 shoulder. His father came down to the quay with 
 him, and after the steamer left, returned home 
 alone. 
 
 Kyra Sophoula, who was going to the fountain 
 with her pitcher, saw him sitting in one of 
 Louka's boats, his head bent low on his breast, 
 and his hands clasped between his knees. That 
 same afternoon, to his great astonishment, the 
 old man, who never saw any of the villagers 
 from one week-end to the other, saw her thread- 
 ing her way between the few vines that were 
 left, behind his little house. She was anxious, 
 she told him, to have a few olives, before they 
 were all picked, from a particular tree of his 
 which was known to bear the largest of any in 
 those parts. A neighbor of hers going to Athens 
 next week on business was willing to carry a little 
 jar of them to Metro studying there, Metro the 
 orphan who had lived with her so long. She knew 
 the poor boy could get nothing there in the 
 town but nasty stale olives, sold ready prepared 
 at the grocer's, and she wished to have Photi's 
 olives in good time to crack them carefully, and 
 steep them in brine for the right number of days. 
 And while Barba Photi was picking the finest for 
 her, she took the opportunity of going into the
 
 88 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 little house and giving it a general tidying, also 
 putting on to. boil a goodly pile of succory leaves 
 for his supper, which she had picked on the way 
 up, and which she assured him she did not care 
 to be laden with on the way back. 
 
 She stayed a little longer, leading him on to 
 talk of his boy, telling him of the amount of 
 work she had heard say was to be found at 
 Kalamata, and the high wages that were to be 
 earned by good workers. 
 
 After that day she would often look in, on her 
 way to her own little lemon orchard, and gen- 
 erally find a way of doing some little service for 
 the old man. He was very gentle, and grateful, 
 and never complained, but it was a lonely life, 
 and the nights were very long. 
 
 Viola knew that Mantho had left, but that 
 was all. The only one from whom she might 
 have heard news of him was his father, and she 
 never went across to the mainland now. Stamo, 
 content with the vengeance he had taken for the 
 insult offered him, never mentioned Mantho's 
 name, and if he regretted the clever, willing 
 worker, who had always been so prompt to fore- 
 stall any disaster to the trees or vines, so ready 
 to obey or to suggest, as the case might be, he 
 never said so. 
 
 Viola spent more time indoors than formerly,
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 89 
 
 only going to the fountain for water, or now and 
 then with Maroussa and Youla as far as the 
 narrow beach outside the Naval School to see 
 the sailors being exercised. She tried to under- 
 stand the sharp orders given, the marching and 
 counter-marching, and often told her compan- 
 ions how much finer Niko would look when he 
 got his stripe than most of the under-officers who 
 put the untrained recruits through their paces. 
 She even persuaded Youla, one day when they 
 were alone together, to stop with her on pre- 
 tense of asking for a glass of water at the door 
 of the little tumbledown house where Niko's old 
 mother and two sisters lived. 
 
 They found an unkempt, frowzy-looking old 
 woman, busy with her daughter at the wash- 
 tub in the yard. She stopped just long enough, 
 in the midst of a noisy altercation with the 
 younger woman, to fill a small gourd, telling 
 them they might drink out of that. They left 
 after only putting it to their lips, but they could 
 hear the old woman shrieking and wrangling 
 violently, long after they had left the house be- 
 hind them. 
 
 Viola often wondered why, though nearly a 
 year had passed since her return from Piraeus, no- 
 thing further had ever been heard of Niko; but 
 the wonder remained in a way impersonal, and
 
 90 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 the silence carried no sting with it. Sitting idle 
 under the great pine that grew among the mul- 
 berry trees, she would strive to keep her thoughts 
 fixed on the young sailor as she remembered 
 him, with his ready laugh, his trim figure, and 
 the curious narrowing and softening of his eyes 
 when he spoke to her. But all these memories, 
 which at first had been so vividly present that 
 she had only to close her eyes to see his face 
 again, were getting faint and elusive. The image 
 was dim, and sometimes after many days it was 
 with a start that she remembered Niko again. 
 This made her angry every time it happened. 
 She did not consciously accuse herself of fickle- 
 ness. Self-analysis is not the rule in Poros, but 
 it made her vaguely dissatisfied, irritable, and 
 liable to bursts of ill-temper, which even her 
 quiet, easy-going mother found it hard to endure. 
 The poor sorely tried creature was convinced 
 that her girl was pining for the absent, careless 
 sailor lover she had talked about so much, and 
 she was even mustering up the necessary cour- 
 age for another appeal to her husband in their 
 behalf. So that her bewilderment was as great 
 as her relief, at the fashion in which Viola re- 
 ceived some news that Maroussa told them one 
 evening when she came to borrow an egg for 
 her grandmother. It was after dark, and none
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 91 
 
 could be bought at that hour, it being firmly be- 
 lieved in Poros that hens will not lay again if 
 their eggs are sold after sunset. There had been 
 a letter from Metro in Athens, Maroussa said, 
 and among other things he mentioned having 
 seen Niko Mandelli, the sailor from Poros, walk- 
 ing out last Sunday afternoon with his young 
 bride, the daughter of a rich iron-founder in 
 Piraeus, whose dowry, it was said, was over fif- 
 teen thousand drachmas. Maroussa added that 
 his mother, to whom Niko had written the news, 
 begging her to keep his marriage a secret for the 
 present, was nevertheless boasting all over the 
 village of her son's great good-fortune. Viola 
 listened in silence, till, catching sight of her 
 mother's anxious, almost agonized look fixed on 
 her, she suddenly burst into an irresistible fit 
 of laughter and threw her arms round her. 
 
 "My poor old manoula! Do you think I am 
 going to weep or to faint or to die? See, there 
 is not the least little tear. We shall find plenty 
 better than Niko Mandelli, and never shall I 
 give him another thought, as sure as my name 
 is Viola." 
 
 And when Moska, stroking her hand, asked 
 tremulously, "Are you perhaps showing courage, 
 my daughter, that I should not be uneasy? 
 Surely, you must have had a shock. Will you
 
 92 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 not lie down on the big bed, while I get you a 
 little orange-flower water? " she refused laugh- 
 ingly, adding, "I am well, quite well, manoula; 
 you shall be tortured no more, and hear no 
 more angry words." 
 
 She kept her promise, and was gentle, and 
 smiled often, though sometimes she still sat 
 buried in thought under the great pine that 
 grew among the mulberry trees. 
 
 Life went on very quietly and steadily in 
 Poros. The olives ripened, turned to rich purple- 
 black in their season, and duly came to the press, 
 and prosperity increased or decreased accord- 
 ing as it was a good or bad oil year. The grapes 
 ripened and were gathered, the lemons turned 
 from fragrant white blossom to green fruit, and 
 then to gold, and in the long sunny afternoons 
 the women sat by the sea, wrapping them in fine 
 paper, and packing them in small cases, while 
 the boats, which were to carry them to Con- 
 stantinople or Roumania or Odessa, rocked 
 gently at anchor on the rippling waves beyond 
 the small wooden piers. 
 
 About two years after Mantho's departure, 
 towards Easter, old Ghika, the miller, sent an 
 ambassadress, as the habit is in Poros, to ask 
 for Viola in marriage for his son Panayi. The
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 93 
 
 girl prepared again for battle with her father, 
 as the proposed bridegroom, though an under- 
 sized, sickly-looking youth, was reckoned not 
 only to be doing well as a joiner in Piraeus, but 
 to have expectations in the future, Ghika, his 
 father, being well known as a miser, and likely 
 to have much put by. Strange to say, there 
 was no battle, nor even a skirmish. Stamo con- 
 tented himself by quietly stating one evening 
 to his wife and daughter that he had told Kyra 
 Krinio, the ambassadress in question, that he 
 was much honored, but, having one daughter 
 only, he could not consent to her living away 
 from the island. Stranger still, for in Poros 
 women are not often listened to, and rarely if 
 ever consulted, he turned to Viola, asking, 
 "Did I not say well?" 
 
 "Very well, my father," she answered, deeply 
 relieved at this easy solution of the difficulty 
 she had dreaded. 
 
 Then old Photi fell ill; nothing very serious 
 at first, just a little marsh fever that he neglected, 
 but one day he was found faint and shivering 
 at the foot of an olive tree, having lain there 
 some hours with no strength to drag himself 
 as far as the little house. Moska, returning from 
 the fountain, told Viola that Kyr Vangheli, the 
 schoolmaster, had sent a letter to Mantho to
 
 94 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 tell him he must come to his father if only for 
 a few days. Then a few days later some one 
 said that Photi was much better, and that when 
 Mantho arrived he had found his father up and 
 about; but this was again contradicted, and 
 others said that the old man had been in time 
 to send word to his son not to trouble, so that he 
 was not coming at all. 
 
 The truth was that Mantho had arrived quite 
 early one morning, and, finding his father better 
 but not up, had remained for two days shut up 
 in their little house with him, so that it was 
 only on the third day that he came across to 
 the island. Viola was the first to see him. She 
 had been sitting under the great pine that 
 grew among the mulberry trees, and her mother, 
 who had just gone out, had left the wooden gate 
 open, so that Viola sat watching the sea and the 
 few passers-by. It was some time after sunset, 
 and the bats were circling above in the darkening 
 sky. Pappa Thanassi, the priest, passed, walking 
 slowly, and gave her good-even as he went by; 
 an old woman bent double under her load of 
 brushwood, and Nasso, whooping and screech- 
 ing as he raced past, chased by two boys as 
 ragged as himself. Then some one whose steps 
 seemed to hesitate as they came closer. 
 
 Viola looked up suddenly and saw Mantho
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 95 
 
 looking at her. It seemed to her for a moment 
 as though she had been expecting him all day. 
 She rose and advanced towards him. 
 
 "Welcome, Mantho. I did not know for 
 certain that you had returned. Come in." He 
 followed her, and as she stopped to close the 
 gate, she added, "How is your father? How 
 did you find him?" 
 
 "I thank you, he is better. He had neglected 
 himself, but I gave him quinine and kept him 
 warm, and to-morrow or the day after he will 
 be up, and out in the sun." 
 
 "That is well. And have you found good 
 work there, where you stay?" 
 
 "There is plenty of work for all at Kalamata." 
 
 "And is it a fine country?" 
 
 "It is not an ugly place, and the people are 
 good, but it is not the island." 
 
 Viola looked down, and was silent for a mo- 
 ment; then, "And how came you in the neigh- 
 borhood this evening?" 
 
 "I came," said Mantho quietly, "that I 
 might see you. Also I heard your father was at 
 Sotiro's, and as I leave Poros again in two days, 
 I came near the house, with the hope that per- 
 haps I might speak a word with you, and learn 
 whether you are content, and whether any one 
 makes you suffer."
 
 96 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "Did you come for that alone?" asked Viola, 
 looking away at the sea. 
 
 "For that alone, yes. For what else should 
 I come?'* 
 
 "I thought perhaps that as you heard I was 
 still free, and that few had asked for me, you 
 might have come to try whether I were more 
 willing now than two years ago. Moreover, 
 I am still Stamo's daughter, and the oil years 
 have been good." 
 
 She looked up curiously as she spoke, to see 
 how he would take her words. It was so dark 
 she could scarcely distinguish his face, but she 
 could hear him breathing heavily. 
 
 When he spoke, his voice sounded far-off and 
 toneless. 
 
 "You know well that you have lied, that no 
 such thought could come to me. Listen. I go, 
 and shall not return, but you must hear first 
 what I have to say. As I stand here and as God 
 hears me, never have I given a thought to your 
 father's riches. If I had wished, I could have 
 said naught and he would have given you to 
 me; but because you did not wish to marry me, 
 I lied to your father, and took back my father's 
 given word. They said bad things of me, but 
 I let them say. Then I went away from the island, 
 because, since you were afraid, it could not be
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 97 
 
 otherwise. I left the old man all alone, and 
 he has but me. I worked for my bread, a stranger 
 in strange parts. I could not know if any day 
 that dawned I might not hear that you were 
 wed. God knows what I suffered, but I swear 
 before Him now that you shall become a stran- 
 ger to me. Never again shall you say what you 
 have said to-day. They were unjust words. I 
 go, that I may not say worse." 
 
 He turned away and strove to open the gate, 
 but his fingers were limp and trembling, and he 
 could not do it. 
 
 All at once Viola rose and stood before him. 
 
 "Yes, they were unjust words, they were evil 
 words, but you must forget them. You must 
 not go. I do not know why I said them. I was 
 mad, I think. You said yourself that they were 
 lies. Mantho, you must not go, you must never 
 go. I will not let you go." And as he still strove 
 with the latch and gave her never a word or a 
 look, "Listen," she said; "I told you two years 
 ago that I did not wish to marry you, did I not? " 
 
 "Let me go," he muttered harshly; "all that 
 is over." 
 
 "It is over, yes; you say well, it is over. I did 
 not know then what I wished. I thought of the 
 other man; but when you went away and at 
 night there was silence round the house, and
 
 98 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 I heard your songs no more, then I struck my 
 head in despair and knew I was a fool. When 
 they told me he was married I was glad, and 
 to-day when I saw you there was joy in my heart. 
 So, indeed, I cannot think why I said the evil 
 words that angered you. Mantho, Mantho!" 
 for he had opened the gate, "you must not go, 
 oh, you must not go!" 
 
 "Why should I stay? To-morrow you will 
 send me away again; you will say once more 
 that it is your will. It is better I should go. 
 You have tortured me too long." 
 
 She turned away and sank down on the little 
 bench, hiding her face hi her hands, and sway- 
 ing to and fro. 
 
 "Oh, Christ!" she cried, "Christ and Holy 
 Virgin, have I not suffered also, and now he will 
 not believe me. Oh, my God! if he leaves me I 
 shall be always alone and there will be no one 
 to love me, no one, no one." Her words ended 
 in sobs. 
 
 It was quite dark now. Mantho closed the 
 gate softly and came near her. "There will al- 
 ways be one," he said, and then he stooped over 
 her and touched her wet cheek tenderly. 
 
 "Let me tell you," he whispered; "he is poor, 
 the one who loves you, but he is not old, and 
 his arms are strong to work for you and to hold
 
 UNDER THE MULBERRIES 99 
 
 you. He is not very learned in letters, and he 
 does not know very much of the outside world. 
 He cannot tell his secret pain as other lovers do, 
 but he can sing it like a bird in the woods. He 
 has not learned to bow and make fine speeches 
 as the Franks do, but he can love well in the old- 
 fashioned Greek way." 
 
 Then he put his arms round her, and they 
 stood together under the great pine that grew 
 among the mulberry trees.
 
 Ill 
 
 IN THE CAVE 
 
 Why are the mountains dark and the hills all woe-begone? 
 Is it the wind at war there, or the rain that blots the sun? 
 
 Folk-Song. 
 
 THE fountain stood quite close to the sea. 
 Behind it rose the houses nearly up to the old 
 mill on the top of the hill. Two marble dolphins 
 twisted their tails round a trident on the one 
 side of it; on the other was an inscription, half- 
 effaced by the waves which splashed against it, 
 in the winter, when the ponente blew. Round the 
 fountain, on the broad stone ledge, the red 
 earthen pitchers were waiting their turn to be 
 filled, while the women stood below, chattering 
 and gesticulating. 
 
 It was chilly already, though only mid-Octo- 
 ber, and their thin cotton skirts flapped in the 
 wind. Some of the older ones had little black 
 shawls thrown over their heads and shoulders. 
 It had rained two or three times in the last week, 
 and was preparing to rain again; Barba Stathi, 
 who had just passed with his donkey, going up
 
 IN THE CAVE 101 
 
 to the hills for thyme, had looked at the clouds 
 over the Sleeper and told them so. 
 
 There was always plenty to talk about at the 
 fountain, but this morning the women seemed 
 occupied with some specially engrossing subject. 
 The heads were close together, and the piercing 
 Poriote voices rose high and shrill, Kyra Ma- 
 rina's above all the others, notwithstanding her 
 seventy years. 
 
 "Patience, patience!" she repeated as they 
 crowded round her. "Patience! let me tell you 
 let me breathe but you are choking me, 
 my poor ones. Yes, yes, they are here: with 
 my own eyes I saw them, four of them, sitting 
 just inside Sotiro's coffee-house. Sotiro was 
 trying to block the doorway with his fat body, 
 but I saw the gleam of their swords between his 
 legs. Eh, eh, I am old, but my eyes are good 
 yet. I see most things that are to be seen." 
 
 "And many that are not," put in Kyra So- 
 phoula quietly, as she placed her pitcher under 
 the running water to be filled. 
 
 "You, Kyra Sophoula," cried the old woman 
 furiously, "measure your words better, will you? 
 What I saw is there to be seen by all, and if any 
 one says the contrary, I'll make him eat his 
 tongue before I have done with him. Besides, 
 who are you, pray, to set up for disbelieving me?
 
 102 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 If you do not know me yet, you had better find 
 out. I am a housekeeping woman, I am; ask 
 whom you will. What do you take me for? Am 
 I a worker for strange folks? Have / ever 
 scrubbed floors for a drachma a day and my 
 food? Has any one ever seen me gadding about 
 from door to door with rotten old herbs to 
 sell?" 
 
 These biting allusions referred to various nar- 
 row straits to which Kyra Sophoula's necessities 
 had sometimes reduced her. 
 
 Kyra Marina would have continued long in 
 the same strain, but she was interrupted by a 
 wheezing cough, and when she recovered her 
 breath the others had no mind to let her waste 
 it in an altercation such as they might hear 
 every day and twice a day, if they were so 
 minded, but brought her back to the point of 
 interest. 
 
 "Don't you mind her, Kyra Marina; every 
 one knows you here," put in Krinio soothingly; 
 "tell us what you heard. Is it for him the 
 soldiers are here, think you? or for Yanni, per- 
 haps, who stole old Ghika's sacks of flour? He 
 said he would get him sent to prison for it." 
 
 "Yanni, indeed!" snorted Kyra Marina con- 
 temptuously. "Would four soldiers be coming 
 after Yanni? Does an eagle catch flies? No, no,
 
 IN THE CAVE 103 
 
 they are after Stamati sure enough, and if he 
 be not on the island, well, he is not very far 
 away from it." 
 
 "Why all this fuss about him, I wonder," 
 asked Moska, the baker's wife, settling her 
 pitcher on her shoulder; "it is neither the first 
 nor the last time there has been a knife thrust 
 or a row between the prisoners at JSgina." 
 
 "As you say, neighbor, neither the first nor 
 the last, but then, you see, it was not another 
 prisoner Stamati stuck his knife into this time; 
 that would have been soon forgotten; it was the 
 chief warder, and he never lived to say a word 
 after it, either, poor man ! " 
 
 There were voices raised and there was a gen- 
 eral uplifting of arms, some old women adding, 
 "God rest his soul." 
 
 "And how could he get out of the prison, once 
 he had done the evil?" asked Krinio, "and how 
 came he here?" 
 
 "They say down on the quay," and Kyra 
 Marina lowered her voice, "that he was brought 
 over by night in Capetan Leftheri's boat he 
 that was cousin to Stamati's father, you know. 
 As for getting out, well, a prison has windows, 
 though they may be high up, and a file and a 
 rope can be bought, if they are a bit dear. Besides, 
 it was night, so I have heard, and the poor warder
 
 104 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 was fast asleep when the knife was stuck into 
 him." 
 
 "Then you have heard a lie!" cried Kyra 
 Sophoula. ** Stamati got into prison for stabbing 
 a man who insulted him, and he was always wild 
 enough, as all know, but he comes of good blood 
 and he would never kill a sleeping man!" 
 
 "I know what I know," said Kyra Marina 
 shrilly; "and good blood or bad blood, he will 
 do well to keep safe hidden now the soldiers are 
 here, for it will go ill with him if they catch him." 
 
 Her granddaughter Youla, who stood close 
 to her, turned rather pale. She was a handsome, 
 black-haired girl, and sweet words had been 
 exchanged between her and Stamati some time 
 before his trouble, though they had ended in 
 nothing. 
 
 "What will they do to him if they catch him, 
 Yiayia?" 
 
 "They will shorten him, my lass, they will 
 shorten him by a head, certain sure; aye, by 
 a head they will shorten him." She repeated it 
 again and again, shaking her wicked old head 
 and cackling with delight over her grim joke. 
 
 As they were speaking, a young woman came 
 down one of the rocky streets that led from the 
 village above, to the fountain, with her empty 
 pitcher in her hands. She had a sallow skin, dull
 
 IN THE CAVE 105 
 
 brown hair parted under a white kerchief, and 
 walked with a limp. 
 
 Moska saw her first; she gave a nudge to 
 Krinio's elbow, Krinio whispered to Panayota, 
 Panayota to Kyra Marina, and all faces were 
 turned towards her. Somehow no one had ex- 
 pected her at the fountain that morning. 
 
 She limped down slowly, and putting her 
 pitcher in a line with the others, sat down on the 
 ledge to wait her turn. Around her was dead 
 silence. Some few shouldered their pitchers and 
 walked away, but the greater part stood still, 
 looking at her curiously. 
 
 Suddenly the unusual silence reached her 
 senses. She started up and faced them. 
 
 "Why do you look at me? and what has si- 
 lenced your tongues? Are you struck dumb, all 
 of you? You were talking fast enough as I came 
 down the street. Of what were you talking?'* 
 
 Kyra Sophoula laid a hand on her arm. 
 
 "Nothing, Chryssi, my girl, nothing; it was 
 only that " 
 
 But Kyra Marina interrupted her viciously. 
 
 "If you must know, we were talking of your 
 precious lover Stamati, whom the soldiers have 
 come after. Eh, but he will look fine going to 
 Athens in the steamer with the irons on his legs ! " 
 
 "If he has fled from prison," said Chryssi sul-
 
 106 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 lenly, "they will take him back to it. What need 
 of Athens?" 
 
 "He goes to be judged again," put in Moska; 
 "it seems he has killed another man." 
 
 A dull red flush covered the girl's sallow cheeks. 
 
 "Another!" she shouted angrily. "Who says 
 another? Who dares say that the man he stabbed 
 three years ago was killed? that he has not 
 been enjoying his life all these years, drinking and 
 guzzling all day long, stretched at his ease on 
 three chairs, the great fat pig, while my lad was 
 pining in prison? And if he has killed a man now? 
 the great affair! It must have been some one 
 who insulted his honor and deserved his fate." 
 
 "Ah, but this time," said Kyra Marina tri- 
 umphantly, "he has done for himself. I thank 
 the Holy Virgin that Youla here was afraid of 
 your curses when he turned from your yellow 
 face to her pink one, and let him go. I thought 
 her a white-livered fool at the time, but now 
 I see it was God enlightened her, God Himself 
 who enlightened her. If Vangheli be a bit 
 shorter and weaker than your Stamati, at any 
 rate no one will ever see him dragged away from 
 her in irons; and if his head be not as handsome, 
 at least he will never get it chopped off for stab- 
 bing a defenseless Christian in his sleep." 
 
 The girl caught up her empty pitcher and
 
 IN THE CAVE 107 
 
 flew wildly at the old woman, and had it not 
 been for Moska and Kyra Sophoula, who seized 
 hold of her promptly, one on each side, it might 
 have gone badly with Kyra Marina. 
 
 Chryssi struggled violently for freedom, and 
 the words tumbled over one another so that her 
 utterance was thick and indistinct. 
 
 "You ugly fool!" she cried out furiously, 
 "you wicked old liar! May your legs shrivel 
 and wither up! May your lying tongue choke 
 you! My Stamati kill a sleeping man! He, to 
 touch any one who did not stand up against 
 him with another knife in his hand ! A bad year 
 to you for such evil words! a bad year to you! 
 Say it again if you dare! You filthy old hag, 
 say it again!" 
 
 But Kyra Marina had no desire to repeat her 
 words; she had said what she meant to say; be- 
 sides which, the girl looked like one possessed of 
 a demon and capable of any violence; so the old 
 woman hobbled off in a hurry, followed by 
 Youla, who kept casting frightened glances be- 
 hind her. 
 
 The others dispersed in silence, and Kyra 
 Sophoula, who stayed behind, placed Chryssi's 
 pitcher under the fountain and stood beside it 
 waiting. The girl, her fury spent, sank down 
 again on the step, her head in her hands. -
 
 108 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 The water ran into the pitcher in an ascending 
 scale of liquid sound, filled it, gurgled and over- 
 flowed. 
 
 "The jar is full, my child, the water trickles 
 over." 
 
 "Let it be; I want no water.'* 
 
 "Nay, come what may to us, we shall want 
 bread and water till we close our eyes. Come, 
 take up your jar and walk with me to my house. 
 Maroussa has something she would show you." 
 
 "I thank you; but I will go to no house where 
 that evil thing is believed of my Stamati. Kyra 
 Sophoula, you are a good woman; it is not true, 
 say it is not true?" 
 
 "It is not like the lad as I knew him, but one 
 can never tell. They meet so many bad men in 
 those prisons, and it is three years he has been 
 there. But listen, Chryssi," and she lowered her 
 voice, " true or not, still the soldiers are here, 
 that is true enough; but they are from Athens, 
 they do not know the country, and it may be 
 some time before they find him. Would you 
 not wish, perhaps, to send him word, or let 
 him know " 
 
 The girl started up, all the blood left her face, 
 and she clutched hold of the old woman's arm. 
 
 "Then you know! you can tell me! Is it 
 near? Good God, is it near? "
 
 IN THE CAVE 109 
 
 " 'S-s-h! s-h! Not so loud, not so loud! Come 
 to the house with me. [Barba Stathi said a word 
 in my ear when I brought him out a crust for his 
 beast. He knows the hills well." 
 
 The wind had risen, and as they trudged up 
 the street, the lame girl hardly keeping up with 
 the wiry old woman, the heavy clouds were 
 lowering and a few drops fell. 
 
 Chryssi stayed some time in Kyra Sophoula's 
 little house with the covered terrace, and about 
 an hour after she had entered it, Maroussa, 
 Kyra Sophoula's pretty, black-haired grand- 
 daughter, might have been seen hurrying back 
 to the house with one of the boys from Capetan 
 Leftheri's boat. It was after the big clock in 
 the tower of the Naval School had struck two 
 that Chryssi, holding a small bottle of yellow 
 wine in her hand, came down the wooden stairs 
 that led from the terrace to the narrow court- 
 yard full of the small orange chrysanthemums, 
 "Saint Dimitri's flowers," that were in full bloom 
 just then. 
 
 She never gave them a glance, though being 
 a Poriote woman she was fond of flowers, but 
 brushed past them, limped down the street, 
 passed under the dark arch, and climbed up some 
 steps cut in the rock, with a painful upheaval of 
 one side of her body at the mounting of each
 
 110 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 step, till she reached the door of her own. little 
 blue-washed house. She stopped a moment 
 before entering, raised her head, and passed her 
 hand over her eyes. The heavy black clouds ef- 
 faced the Sleeper entirely from the horizon, and 
 as she stood there watching, the sea turned 
 leaden and looked almost solid. A pale metallic 
 light was over all the bay; after a few seconds of 
 stillness, of waiting, a cold rush of air raised 
 whirlwinds of leaves and dust before it, and 
 then the whole heavens seemed to open in one 
 sheet of water. 
 
 She pushed open the door, and closing it 
 after her turned the big key in the lock with both 
 her hands, for she was not very strong. There 
 was a bare, comfortless kitchen flagged with 
 rough gray stones. The girl closed the wooden 
 shutters of the two windows, fastening the win- 
 dow panes inside them. The rain pattered 
 against the shutters, and the light in the room 
 was dim. Quickly she took off her white ker- 
 chief and covered her head and shoulders with a 
 little black shawl; over her cotton skirt she put 
 on a heavier one of rough gray homespun wool, 
 and slipped her feet into a pair of yellow leather 
 shoes that had once been her father's. She stole 
 across the room and knelt down before her 
 mother's dower chest. It was not a highly
 
 IN THE CAVE 111 
 
 polished one such as most of the Poriote women 
 possessed, but a rough wooden one painted a 
 bright blue; they had always been poor. From 
 under a pile of coarse towels neatly marked in 
 red she drew out a checked handkerchief tightly 
 knotted up. Its contents crackled as she thrust 
 it into the bosom of her gown. 
 
 Taking up the bottle of wine which she had 
 left on the table, she put it with a good half of 
 a big brownish loaf into a deep hanging pocket 
 which she tied carefully round her waist. Then 
 she limped to the door and listened: nothing 
 but the steady downpour of the rain no pass- 
 ing steps. She turned the key gently and looked 
 out. 
 
 "The waterfalls of heaven have opened," 
 she muttered; "so much the better, so much 
 the better; what Christian will venture up the 
 hills on such a day?" 
 
 She stepped resolutely over the threshold. 
 The rain poured down with tropical violence. It 
 came in blinding sheets, poured countless 
 streams tinged with the red earth of the hills 
 into the bay, changing its color to a muddy 
 brown and turning all the island into a mist 
 of watery gray. 
 
 Chryssi held her shawl on tightly over her 
 bent head with both hands, and ran down, as
 
 112 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 fast as her lameness would let her, to the water's 
 edge. 
 
 A little boat was stationed under the low sea- 
 wall, and a lad was standing up in it, clinging to 
 the rough stones of the wall with his hands, as 
 there were no iron rings in that part of it. Close 
 by was a confused shape of mingled man and 
 beast, scarcely discernible in the driving rain. 
 
 "Barba Stathi, is it you?" 
 
 "It is I. Come; the lad waits and the waves 
 lift the boat; it is hard to hold." 
 
 "You have seen no one pass?" 
 
 "Not a soul." 
 
 "Where are they now, think you?" 
 
 The old man stroked the donkey's wet ears 
 as he answered in a low voice, 
 
 "At the tavern still. Nasso here heard them 
 say they must be moving, but Sotiro was just 
 bringing out another oke of retsinato, and it will 
 not be just yet that they will start." 
 
 "Oh, my God! an oke is soon drunk, and they 
 are four." 
 
 " They have to find the road, remember; and 
 where there are four men there are four minds. 
 Do not fear, you will be there long before them." 
 
 "You said the little path above the third ra- 
 vine, right over the old chapel?" 
 - "Yes; the koumara are red on the bushes all
 
 IN THE CAVE 113 
 
 about the path, and almost close up the en- 
 trance to the cave; you will find it easily." 
 
 "I thank you again, and may God rest your 
 dead, Barba Stathi, for this that you have done 
 for me." 
 
 "It is nothing. Go; and may the Holy Virgin 
 be with you." 
 
 The girl wrapped the shawl more tightly 
 round her, stepped down into the boat, and the 
 boy rowed rapidly away towards the mainland. 
 
 Far up above the village of Galata, beyond 
 the olive grove that rises behind it, the mountain 
 is scored by long-forgotten torrents into a series 
 of deep ravines. The district is almost entirely 
 uninhabited, and though there are no great 
 heights to climb, there are some narrow passes 
 and steep descents. The vegetation is richer and 
 more varied than on the island, and myrtle, 
 oleander, and arbutus close up the narrow goat 
 tracks. Clinging plants encircle the trunks of 
 the tallest trees and hang in festoons from one 
 to the other. Here and there halfway up the 
 gorges there are shallow caves, often only to be 
 reached by steep passes, so hidden in the tangled 
 vegetation that very few know of them. In the 
 old days these were the hiding-places of the 
 klephts, but now they only serve in the colder 
 months to shelter some belated shepherd search-
 
 1H TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND! 
 
 ing for a lost kid, or now and again some fugi- 
 tive from justice, or a stray deserter. 
 
 Two hours after Chryssi had stepped out of 
 the boat in the pouring rain at Galata, where no 
 one had been out of doors or even on a terrace 
 or at a window, to inquire curiously about her 
 errand, she was climbing down a steep goat 
 track leading to one of these small caves. The 
 storm was over, though the air was still very 
 chilly. The leaves glistened and the trunks of 
 the trees were darker. Far below, a thin line 
 of smoke from the chimney of the highest in- 
 habited hut above the village was the only sign 
 of living humanity. 
 
 The girl moved very cautiously, holding aside 
 the red-berried branches of the arbutus which 
 blocked her way. She bent almost double as 
 she advanced, so that the shrubs should hide 
 her, and kept constantly throwing back glances 
 along the way she had come. Her limp was pain- 
 fully evident, for the way had been long and the 
 paths stony. Suddenly the track turned abruptly 
 to the left and faced a low dark opening in the 
 rock, half hidden by dwarf oak trees and tall 
 white oleanders. Chryssi dragged herself up the 
 remaining rocks, and, pushing aside the arbutus 
 branches, bent her head and entered the cave. 
 
 Inside, it was dim and chilly. A man was ly-
 
 IN THE CAVE 115 
 
 ing on a heap of dry pine branches. A man 
 about thirty, worn and haggard-looking. He 
 had a fine head, broad-browed and straight- 
 featured, but three years of prison life had re- 
 placed the sunburn by a sickly pallor, and had 
 bent the eyebrows into a continual scowl. His 
 left arm, in a sort of extemporized sling, was 
 fastened to his waist; his right hand, bound in 
 blood-stained rags, lay stretched out before 
 him. The rags were soiled and had been tied on 
 some time, but there were fresh blood-stains 
 among the old ones. 
 
 He was not asleep, and started up wildly as 
 the girl darkened the light by standing before 
 the opening. 
 
 "You! 5 * he cried, "you! how did you come? 
 Are you alone? Is all safe?" Then he leaned 
 against the rock with a suppressed groan, for he 
 had helped himself up by his wounded hand. 
 
 "I am alone; have no fear." She came nearer 
 half timidly. "Your hand is hurt?" 
 
 "Yes; both of them, curse them." 
 
 "How did it happen?" 
 
 "This one was scalded with boiling water 
 when I helped to move the big washing caldrons, 
 there at JSgina; the other I caught between two 
 stones of a wall." 
 
 "When you got away?"
 
 116 .TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Do they pain much?" 
 
 "That would not matter, but the fingers are 
 all smashed up. I cannot move them." 
 
 He stepped past her and looked cautiously 
 out, up and down the ravine, and above on the 
 heights; then he came into the cave again, let 
 himself fall on the pine branches, and looked up 
 at her curiously. 
 
 "How did you find me? " 
 
 "They said you were in the hills about here, 
 and some one who saw you told me." 
 
 "Who? I have seen no one." 
 
 "But he saw you." 
 
 "Barba Stathi, was it?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Ah, he must have come close to the opening 
 then yesterday when I slept, for just as I woke 
 I heard a donkey braying in the distance, and 
 when I looked out there was no one in sight; but 
 I thought it could only be Barba Stathi's beast 
 up here in the hills. It does not matter much; 
 the old man will never open his mouth to say a 
 word to a stranger." 
 
 "No; there is no fear." 
 
 Chryssi leaned against the damp wall of the 
 cave to rest her leg, and untied the pocket from 
 round her waist.
 
 IN THE CAVE 117 
 
 "I have brought you food." 
 
 "Bring it here; bring it here quickly then. I 
 made Yannako from the stani up above give me 
 a bowl of goat's milk yesterday, and I have had 
 nought since." 
 
 The girl set the bread before him on the 
 branches, and pulled out the stopper of the 
 bottle. 
 
 "Well," he asked irritably after a moment's 
 pause, "why do you stand still and look at me? 
 Cannot you see that I have no use of my hands? 
 Do you expect me to browse like a goat? You 
 were ever a slow-witted maid!" 
 
 She did not answer, but, kneeling beside him, 
 broke the bread and began to feed him with the 
 pieces. She did it awkwardly, sometimes offer- 
 ing him a second before he had finished the first, 
 and sometimes gazing abstractedly before her 
 while he waited. Two or three times he looked 
 towards the bottle and she lifted it for him to 
 drink. This also she did too high or too low, and 
 the wine trickled down his chin. At last he wiped 
 his mouth on his sleeve and pushed away the 
 rest of the bread with his elbow. 
 
 "Help me up, if you can," he said. 
 
 She put her hands under his arms and helped 
 him to stand upright. His clothes were old and 
 torn, with stains of moist reddish earth about
 
 118 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 them. In his belt was a pistol, and his burnt arm 
 was strapped to his body just above it. 
 
 The girl looked at him in silence for a few 
 moments, and then, as though suddenly recog- 
 nizing the danger of inaction, she started and 
 said hurriedly, 
 
 "Stamati, you must not stay here. The sol- 
 diers are down in the village; four of them. They 
 were seen at Sotiro's. When I left, they were 
 drinking still, but they had talked of starting." 
 
 "Did you see them yourself, or did they tell 
 you so?" he asked in a voice in which there was 
 more curiosity than alarm. 
 
 "I did not see them, but I know they are 
 there; many saw them. That old hag Kyra Ma- 
 rina told me of it first. She was glad, of course, 
 because of Youla. She said, too, before all the 
 others at the fountain, and may evil find her ! 
 she said that this man who is dead, this prison- 
 keeper, that you killed him at night while he 
 slept! you! you! They did not let me tear 
 her to pieces for her lies, but I will do it yet, as 
 sure as they call me Chryssi." 
 
 "You need not." 
 
 "Stamati," she cried, "it is not true?" 
 
 "It is true," he answered sullenly. 
 
 "No, no; not that; it is not possible." 
 
 "It is true," he repeated doggedly; "and why
 
 IN THE CAVE 119 
 
 not? The brute insulted the honor of my father 
 before all the lads. I had to kill him. I could not 
 do it the moment the evil words left his lying 
 mouth, for the others would have fallen on me, 
 the cowards, to curry favor, though they all 
 hated him. Do you think, perhaps, a prison is 
 like the village, or the hills, where you can strike 
 when you will? At night when he slept I stuck 
 the knife between his shoulder blades and ran for 
 it. Capetan Leftheri had stood treat to the sen- 
 tinels, and they were dead drunk." 
 
 "You killed him?" 
 
 "He had insulted my father; I struck deep 
 enough to have killed twenty men." 
 
 "And he never heard you? he slept?" 
 
 "Aye, he slept well, I tell you; slept, and never 
 woke again." 
 
 The girl closed her teeth tightly and there was 
 silence for a minute; then: "It is all the more 
 need that you should go." 
 
 "Where can I go?" 
 
 "Do I know? over the hills, perhaps, to 
 Metochi. I can tell Capetan Leftheri, when I go 
 back, to go there with his boat and meet you. 
 And when you reach Katochi you can go to 
 Yoryi the blacksmith, Yoryi Kostopoulos, he 
 is my mother's cousin; a good man; he will not 
 turn you away or betray you. Also, I have
 
 120 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 brought a little money." And she felt in the 
 bosom of her gown for the knotted handkerchief. 
 
 Instead of answering, the man went to the 
 opening of the cave and looked out. 
 
 "Hush! " he said. "I thought I heard a noise 
 in the ravine below"; then, after a moment's 
 suspense: "No, it was nothing." 
 
 Chryssi touched his arm. "You will go?" she 
 said. 
 
 He turned on her angrily. "You are mad! 
 Will you tell me with your great wisdom and 
 with your wonderful plans how I may get so far 
 to-night, or to-morrow either, with my hands as 
 you see them? If I stumble and fall on the way I 
 shall stay there like a log till they find me." 
 
 "And if they find you?" 
 
 "They will keep me; that you may be sure of; 
 and send me to Athens in the steamer." 
 
 "And after?" 
 
 He laughed harshly. "After, it would be 
 Nauplia, and the guillotine." 
 
 She raised both her hands suddenly and put 
 them round his neck as though to protect it. 
 
 "Stamati," she whispered hurriedly, "listen 
 to me; there is little time left, and I am afraid. 
 You must leave this cave now, at once; some one 
 may know of it. You say Yannako saw you, and 
 I am not sure of him; he would sell his mother
 
 IN THE CAVE 121 
 
 for money. You must hide somewhere close by, 
 and I will stay here and deceive them if they 
 come. I will cry and say I could not find you, and 
 they will look elsewhere. Then as soon as the 
 dark falls you must move on towards Metochi. 
 As for your hands well, God be a help!" 
 
 "How can you stay here?" he asked. "You 
 can never deceive them. Besides, they are four 
 men, and they have been drinking all day; if 
 they should maltreat you?" 
 
 "Well, and if they should what then? You 
 will have time to get away." 
 
 He looked at her curiously. 
 
 "You are a brave lass," he said, "and we have 
 had some good days together. Do you remember 
 the big walnut tree by the spring? " 
 
 A light came into her eyes. 
 
 "Could I forget? I go there sometimes now, 
 and ask the stones and the trees if they remem- 
 ber those days." 
 
 "It was not written by Fate that they should 
 last," he said; "but you were a good girl always, 
 and a kind one." 
 
 "And yet" her voice trembled "there 
 was a time when you would have left me for 
 Youla." 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "A man is a man; you were a good girl, as I
 
 122 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 said, but she was a handsome one, and moreover 
 her legs were straight." 
 
 The girl caught her lower lip between her 
 teeth, and her arms fell from about his neck. 
 
 "You must go," she said again; "you must go 
 now at once." 
 
 "It will be no use," he answered, "even if I 
 could walk straight in the night with no hands to 
 help, how can I lift food to my lips, how can I 
 drink? How can I strike out against a sheep dog 
 if he fly at my throat? No; let me be." 
 
 "But they will kill you if they take you," she 
 wailed. 
 
 "They will not kill me." 
 
 "But if you stay here they will take you, if not 
 to-day, then to-morrow," she persisted; "and if 
 they take you, they will surely kill you. Did you 
 not say so yourself?" 
 
 He looked down slowly at his belt. 
 
 "Need they take me alive?" 
 
 "Ah!" with a smothered cry, "Christ, and 
 Holy Virgin ! not that ! not that ! My Stamati, 
 for the name of God, not that! Wait, we must 
 think of something; let me think," passing her 
 hand over her eyes; "there must be something 
 else. Let me go back to Poros now, at once. I 
 will bring Barba Stathi, he knows the hills well; 
 he must guide you to Metochi. We can pay him
 
 IN THE CAVE 123 
 
 if need be; I have still some things of my mother's 
 left I can sell. With him and the beast you can 
 go far and afterwards " 
 
 He was not listening to what she said, but to 
 something farther away. She saw it, and stopped 
 with dilated eyes. 
 
 He left her, and, going quite outside the cave, 
 crouched down behind a big rock and craned his 
 neck to see better down the ravine. 
 
 She waited, shivering. After a moment he 
 came back, his teeth tightly clenched. 
 
 "Now, listen," he said; "we must say things 
 quickly. They are below in the ravine. In five 
 minutes they will be here. There is one thing I 
 ask of you will you do it?" 
 
 She clung to him in silence. 
 
 "If they would take me and shoot me here at 
 once, it would be well; but if they take me it 
 means Nauplia, the open square, the public 
 shame; and Niko Davelli's son cannot die in that 
 way. My grandfather, you know it, was one of 
 the few who came down from Suli with Botzaris; 
 my father was a brave man. These things can- 
 not be. If I could use my hands, it would be over 
 now! But see, I cannot even lift the pistol, how 
 could I draw the trigger? But you! You are a 
 brave girl, Chryssi, and if you have ever loved 
 me, you will do it."
 
 124 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "I! Oh, my God! what are you asking of me! 
 I? I cannot, I cannot!'* 
 
 "Chryssi, my Chryssi, my Chryssoula, you 
 will not let them bind me and slaughter me like 
 an ox at the butcher's? Chryssi! I hear them 
 Oh, Chryssi, do not fail me now. I have no 
 one but you to do this thing for me. Take the 
 pistol from my belt, take it! For your father's 
 soul, for the name of God, if you have ever 
 loved me, Chryssi, take it ! " 
 
 And as she drew it from his belt he put his lips 
 to hers. 
 
 The three soldiers with their sergeant, and 
 Yannako the shepherd beside them, were not 
 ten paces from the opening of the cave, when 
 there was a sharp report and a fall. 
 
 They started forward and came face to face 
 with a woman who ran out, and then stood quite 
 still and looked at them with wide-open eyes. 
 
 It was no heroic figure they saw. Just the 
 girl with her sallow face and clumsy figure, her 
 black shawl trailing behind her, and the smoking 
 pistol in her hand. 
 
 "You can search," she muttered indistinctly, 
 "aye, you can search; you will only find a corpse 
 for your pains." 
 
 And as the men rushed past her she fell in a 
 tumbled heap among the lentisk bushes.
 
 YOU CAN SEARCH; AYE, YOU CAN SEARCH
 
 IV 
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 
 
 . . . Under the burning slopes, 
 Where summer through the oleanders blow 
 Rose-red among the shadows, and the air 
 Is lightly scented with the myrtle bloom. 
 
 RENNELL ROOD. 
 
 KATHARINE SHERMAN, the American girl who 
 loved Poros so well that this was the third time 
 in two years that she was staying in the island, 
 had crossed over this morning to one of the old 
 gardens on the mainland, where the trees grow 
 so low down on the seashore that the overhang- 
 ing branches often dip in the water. 
 
 One of the strong north winds that sometimes 
 blow in July and August was covering the sea 
 with frothy whitecapped waves, and Katharine 
 had been drenched two or three times with the 
 salt spray while crossing over from the island in 
 the sailing-boat. It had been delicious, though, 
 with the boat heeling over, the sail spread to the 
 fresh wind, one of old Louka's boatmen with his 
 hand on the small ropes ready to let the sail slip 
 down at any unexpected gust, and Dino, the son 
 of Yoryi the blind one, sitting at the helm.
 
 126 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 Katharine had arrived only the day before, 
 and had found her old room in the little pink- 
 washed hotel on the quay duly kept for her. 
 Dino was the first old acquaintance she had met. 
 He told her shyly that he was earning independ- 
 ent wages now, ever since the last Feast of the 
 Virgin, and could provide his own boots. Kath- 
 arine glanced inquiringly at his bare brown feet, 
 but was promptly told that the boots were nat- 
 urally only for Sunday and holiday wear. When, 
 after a good deal of tacking, the boat touched at 
 the little wooden pier of the garden, Katharine 
 jumped out, paid the men, and told them not to 
 wait. She would walk back, she said, through 
 Galata, and cross where the port narrowed. 
 
 She ran up to the end of the long avenue of 
 cypress trees, so tall that only a narrow strip 
 of deep summer-blue sky showed above them, 
 and halfway back again, before she stopped to 
 rest, leaning against one of the rugged straight 
 trunks. 
 
 Good God, how beautiful it was! How glad 
 she felt that she had refused to follow her sister 
 to Switzerland, but had braved the heat of a 
 summer in Greece to see her beloved Southern 
 land in all its splendor. It was even more beau- 
 tiful than she remembered it. 
 
 Below the cypress trees the taller, straggling
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 127 
 
 branches of the oleanders formed an archway, 
 and she stood under a perfect glory of rose-red 
 and white blossoms. Many of these climbed 
 right up into the trees, and stood out in vivid 
 rose-pink against the dense black foliage. Be- 
 hind her was a long vine-clad pergola heavily 
 laden with bunches of still unripe grapes; before 
 her, away down the avenue, the wide wooden 
 gate, between its tall stone posts, leading out on 
 to the shore. One of the sides was thrown back, 
 and through the opening the deep sapphire of the 
 sea gleamed in the sun blaze, while showers of 
 dazzling white spray covered the little pier. 
 
 Katharine had thought she knew Poros in all 
 its phases and was familiar with all its lovely 
 changes, but this summer wind was new to her. 
 Slowly she came down the avenue, drinking in 
 the beauty and the light, and listening to the con- 
 tinuous chirping of the tettix on all sides of her. 
 
 In the open space down by the gate, the wind 
 was tossing the tops of the giant eucalyptus trees 
 to and fro, turning their feathery bunches of nar- 
 row leaves into blurs of whitish green. Long 
 strips of bark hung in loose ends, laying bare the 
 smooth gray-blue trunks. 
 
 They were picking lemons in the garden. The 
 gatherers, women and children, carried their 
 laden panniers on their shoulders into the spa-
 
 128 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND" 
 
 cious white-washed barn, where the packers 
 awaited them. 
 
 Katharine stood in the open doorway looking 
 in. It was cool and pleasant inside. On the 
 broad sill of the low window the water was cool- 
 ing for the workers, in rows of earthen jars. The 
 lemons lay in yellow heaps on the floor, and the 
 women and girls were twisting them, with in- 
 credible rapidity, into fine tissue paper wrap- 
 pers, and laying them in rows in the small cases, 
 bound for Odessa or Roumania. 
 
 Many of the workers looked up smiling. The 
 foreign lady with her light step, her pretty 
 clothes, and her shining dark hair was a familiar 
 figure to most of them, and in a vague way they 
 were pleased to see her in Poros once more. 
 
 The master of the garden, a thin man bearing 
 an old historic name, came forward with words 
 of greeting, and the offer of a seat, but Katharine 
 would not stay. She could not rest long in one 
 place. She longed to see and enjoy everything at 
 the same time. And when she stood a few mo- 
 ments later in the lemon orchard where beyond 
 the wall the sea line showed purple, Homer's 
 "wine-colored" sea, when the scent of the 
 lemon blossom and the myrtle, and the shivering 
 of the eucalyptus leaves were about her, all the 
 old island sights and scents and sounds, she
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 129 
 
 felt as though she might open her arms wide, and 
 clasp them to her heart. 
 
 Suddenly, in the distance, among the many 
 workers who came and went, filling their pan- 
 niers, Katharine recognized a familiar figure. 
 The woman came slowly through the orchard, 
 out of the shade of the many trees, into the 
 clearer opening. She wore a white kerchief which 
 shaded her face, and whose ends were tied round 
 her throat. The long sleeveless coat hung round 
 her in straight folds. A large pannier full of 
 lemons was on her shoulder. With her left arm 
 she steadied the pannier while her right hung 
 loosely by her side. On the trees behind her the 
 fruit hung in yellow clusters, and the waving 
 leaves made patches of shadow and light on her 
 kerchief. She walked slowly, being heavily laden, 
 and sometimes lifted her face to meet the breeze. 
 She was a large woman and all her movements 
 were simple, free, almost classic. 
 , "Myrto, it is you?" exclaimed Katharine. 
 
 The woman's face lighted up as she brought 
 down her pannier and rested it on the ground 
 beside her. Her lips parted hi a smile of glad 
 welcome. 
 
 k "You have come to Poros again ! That is well. 
 Our hearts have pained for a sight of you." 
 
 "It is very sweet of you to say so, Myrto."
 
 130 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 Katharine's Greek was distinctly original, and 
 her genders and tenses wonderfully mixed, but 
 she talked fluently enough, and always succeeded 
 in making herself understood. 
 
 "Yes," she continued, "of course I have come 
 again. Did I not say I would? Do you think 
 anything would keep me away from Poros, once 
 I was in Greece?" 
 
 "And the lady, your sister?" 
 
 "The lady, my sister, was with me in Athens, 
 but she found it became too hot. She hates the 
 blue sky when it is always without clouds. Just 
 fancy that, Myrto! So she took her husband 
 and the dear little girl, and they all went off to 
 Switzerland, where it will rain as much as they 
 like. You do not know where Switzerland is, do 
 you, Myrto?" 
 
 "Switzerland," repeated the woman slowly, 
 "is it in Europe, where the lemons are sent?" 
 
 "Yes, it is in Europe, but then so are we here." 
 
 "No," corrected Myrto, "the garden here is 
 on the Peloponnesus, opposite Poros." 
 
 "Still it is part of Europe." 
 
 Myrto looked puzzled. 
 
 "I do not know," she said at last. "You are 
 learned, and know many things; but so we say 
 here, this is the Peloponnesus, and Poros is oppo- 
 site, and the lemons go in the ships to Europe."
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 131 
 
 An old woman came shuffling up to them, with 
 bent back and outstretched hand. Katharine 
 greeted her kindly. 
 
 "How are you, Kyra Marina? How is the bad 
 knee? quite well again now? And do you 
 always make such fine preserves of the little 
 green lemons as you used to do? You must make 
 some more for me to take back to my little niece. 
 She does love them so!" 
 
 "At your service always," answered the old 
 dame. "But we must wait for the next crop: 
 these are too large now." 
 
 Katharine nodded smilingly, and turned again 
 to the younger woman. 
 
 "And Leftheri, Myrto? Is he well? Does he 
 catch much fish in the new boat?" 
 
 The woman did not reply. She half turned 
 aside, fingering the lemons in the high pannier. 
 Something in her attitude surprised Katharine. 
 This was not a shy young girl, but a woman 
 who had been already married some months, the 
 last time she had seen her. 
 
 "How is your husband?" she repeated curi- 
 ously. 
 
 Myrto kept her face almost entirely turned 
 away, but Katharine could see the shiver that 
 ran through her whole body. She did not notice 
 the pursed-up lips of the old woman behind her.
 
 132 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "What is it?" she asked boldly, ascertaining 
 by a rapid glance that Myrto's kerchief was 
 white. "Where is Leftheri?" 
 
 "Gone," muttered the woman at last without 
 turning round. 
 
 Katharine sprang towards her. 
 
 "Gone! what do you mean? Where? How?" 
 
 "I cannot tell you here," answered Myrto in 
 a colorless voice. "If you come some day to 
 my house as you used to do, I will tell you, per- 
 haps." 
 
 "Gone!" repeated Katharine in amazement, 
 "gone for long, do you mean? But where?" 
 
 "No," broke in Kyra Marina, "gone for al- 
 ways; gone where the men go who do not care 
 for their lives, who are driven away by evil ways 
 and bad words; gone to the sponge fishing." 
 
 "To the sponge fishing!" echoed Katharine in 
 dismay; "with the sponge divers? Leftheri?" 
 For she had lived enough in the islands to know 
 a little of what such going meant. 
 
 Kyra Marina blinked her small wicked eyes 
 set in a brown network of wrinkles. 
 
 "Tell the lady about it," she commanded au-. 
 thoritatively. "Wherefore will you be dragging 
 her to your house? Is it a place for her, and you 
 a deserted woman? Do you think perhaps that 
 people care to come to you now?"
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 133 
 
 "No," said Myrto meekly, "I know; few 
 come." Then turning to Katharine, "I brought 
 no shame to my man, God be my witness, 
 but he would flare up easily, and we often had 
 hard words. Anger rises quickly in me too. I 
 had no mother to teach me patience. I always 
 wished him to work harder, and do more than 
 the others. I told him every day that he was 
 lazy, too often, perhaps. Then one day that 
 dawned badly I said it had been better I had 
 married Panayi, the miller's son, he who had 
 asked for me. I said I should have fared better. 
 I did not mean it really, it was just the evil mo- 
 ment that made me speak the words. But he be- 
 lieved them. You do not know these things, but 
 it is a madness that comes over you." 
 
 "Yes," said Katharine gently, "yes; I know." 
 
 "And just then," continued Myrto, "there 
 were those sponge captains here, the dogs, drink- 
 ing at Sotiro's, tempting the lads, offering much 
 money and that night he went off with them 
 That is all." Then in a hard voice, "Now 
 you need not come to my house." 
 
 "No, no, of course she need not," piped the 
 old crone, shaking her head. 
 
 Katharine turned on her fiercely. 
 
 "Please not to answer for me, Kyra Marina." 
 Then to Myrto she said very simply, "Of course
 
 134 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 I shall come to see you, Myrto, perhaps to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 Others were gathering round them by this 
 time, so Katharine wished them good-day and 
 made her way through the trees and up the long 
 avenue to where an old gate, built under an 
 archway thickly lined with swallows' nests, led 
 out of the garden. 
 
 She entered a narrow lane between high stone 
 walls green with overhanging plants. The rough 
 path was shaded by the walnut and mulberry 
 trees of the gardens on each side. At first she 
 walked along with bent head and troubled face. 
 Myrto's story had saddened her, and besides this, 
 other thoughts had been awakened, which she 
 had been resolutely lulling to sleep for many days 
 now. 
 
 "It is a madness that comes over you it is a 
 madness " she repeated over and over again. 
 
 But by the time she emerged from the narrow 
 walled-in path on to the seashore at Galata, she 
 had shaken off her preoccupation, and was walk- 
 ing rapidly, with her shoulders well set back, her 
 face lifted to the breeze, and her lips slightly 
 apart. 
 
 Galata had grown since she had seen it last. 
 Little straw- thatched sheds open on all sides, 
 where coffee and masticha were served, had been
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 135 
 
 erected close to the sea, and many new houses 
 had been built on the slopes among the olive 
 trees. 
 
 Katharine loved it all, every step of the way, 
 every sight and sound. 
 
 The boat in which she crossed over to Poros, 
 painted in vivid blue and green stripes, with its 
 sail of many patches, charmed her. The short 
 crossing of scarcely two minutes was breezy and 
 sunny, and the island, as she drew nearer and 
 nearer to its amphitheatre of old sun-baked 
 houses overshadowed by the brown man-faced 
 rock, gave her the impression of a monster living 
 cinematograph. She jumped out of the boat, 
 searching eagerly for known faces. The crew of 
 urchins that always haunted the quay were the 
 first old acquaintances she met. It was holiday 
 time, and they were nearly all there, Nasso, 
 Yoryi, Mitso, Stavro, Kosta, Niko, Aristidi, 
 Andrea, Savva, all in various degrees of tattered 
 undress, all smiling and crowding round the 
 quickly recognized "foreign lady," the well- 
 remembered distributer of koulouria and lepta 
 in the past. 
 
 It was good to see it all again just as she had 
 dreamt of it so often, the brilliant flame-red, 
 grass-green, and sky-blue little boats rocking on 
 the waves outside the sea wall; the fruit sheds,
 
 136 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 with their panniers of ripe tomatoes, mounds of 
 yellow melons, and purple aubergines, with the 
 enormous over-ripe yellowish cucumbers that 
 only Poriote digestions can tackle with impunity; 
 the groups of old men sitting cross-legged under 
 the scanty shade of the acacia trees, mending 
 their fishing-nets; the old fountain standing close 
 to the sea, with its marble dolphins twisting their 
 tails round a trident on the one side, and the 
 waves splashing on the other; Pappa Thanassi, 
 the priest, who passed bowing gravely, laying 
 his hand on his breast as he did so; the familiar 
 greeting of Kyr Apostoli, the baker; Barba 
 Stathi's old donkey, Kitso, waiting patiently 
 outside the oven till his load of thyme should be 
 lightened. 
 
 At last she stood on the steps of the little 
 hotel and gazed seaward before making up her 
 mind to enter. The waters of the bay heaved 
 and sparkled in the dazzling light, far away to 
 the great mass of the Sleeper, whose highest 
 peaks, seen dimly through the heat haze, might 
 have been taken for clouds. The steamer from 
 Piraeus was just turning the corner by the light- 
 house, and numbers of little boats started out 
 to meet her. 
 
 Katharine ran quickly up to the balcony of 
 her room, and with her opera glasses carefully
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 137 
 
 scanned every passenger who disembarked. 
 When the last one had been rowed out to the 
 quay, and the steamer had weighed her anchor 
 and was on her way to Nauplia, Katharine laid 
 down her glasses with a sigh, and began a long 
 letter to her sister at Grindelwald. 
 
 Myrto, with the red earthen pitcher full of 
 water on her shoulder, climbed up the rocky 
 street in the fast-fading light, pushed open the 
 door of her little low house, and, closing it be- 
 hind her, went into the dim close room. 
 
 It was a small room, and her loom, with the 
 blue-and-white threads stretched tightly across 
 it, took up nearly all the space between the soli- 
 tary window and the open fireplace, an old- 
 fashioned one, this, with an overhanging white- 
 washed mantel, and a deep flounce of faded cotton 
 stuff nailed underneath it. Over the loom a 
 plate rack ornamented with bright green paper 
 cut into fantastic shapes held five white plates 
 and two cups. Besides the rack there was also a 
 little painted cupboard let into the wall high up 
 beyond the fireplace, for the safe keeping of the 
 better crockery. On a shelf on the other side 
 stood half a melon, two tomatoes, and a big 
 hunch of brown bread. Two hens and a cock 
 were walking unconcernedly over the loom,
 
 138 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 picking up stray crumbs which had fallen on 
 it. 
 
 Myrto set down her pitcher from her shoulder 
 with an effort, filled the smaller drinking one and 
 set it to cool outside on the ledge of the small 
 courtyard at the back. Cool water is a serious 
 question in Poros. The nights were long and hot; 
 Myrto, who did not sleep much, was often 
 thirsty. Treading heavily she came back into 
 the room, and carefully stopped up the mouth of 
 the larger pitcher with a green lemon which she 
 had brought with her from the garden. 
 
 Suddenly she let herself drop on a low stool, 
 leaning her head against the wooden post of the 
 loom. She felt faint and sick. Her back ached as 
 if it would break, and her knees trembled as she 
 tried to stretch her legs to give them more ease. 
 She had been down to the fountain quite late, 
 hoping to meet no one. But Kyra Marina had 
 been there. The other women had taken her 
 turn, she said; there was no respect left for old 
 age. Myrto had tried to keep silence, but she 
 had been soon overwhelmed by a torrent of 
 words. 
 
 "Yes," the old woman wound up, "Leftheri 
 may have been lazy enough, and easily roused to 
 anger, but you must have broiled the fish on his 
 very lips, my girl, to make him go off so, and to
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 139 
 
 such work. Do you know that the poor divers 
 are the slaves of the sponge captains? That they 
 keep them down in the sea till they burst, if they 
 do not bring up many sponges the first time, and 
 throw them into a dark hold to rot when their 
 legs are seized and they can work no more? Are 
 they few, the strong men who have returned 
 crippled for life? Like enough, if ever you see 
 your man again, he will be dragging his legs after 
 him, and then you may have him lying there on a 
 mattress, a useless log, all the rest of his days. 
 And that will be bad work to remember, my 
 girl. To have driven a man away from his coun- 
 try, and his house, by your evil tongue ! Eh, but 
 there are few have a good word for you now.'* 
 
 "I know," sobbed Myrto. 
 
 Poros gossip would have it that Kyra Ma- 
 rina's own daughter and son-in-law had been 
 driven to seek work out of the island, to escape 
 her railing tongue. It is true this was long ago, 
 and with age her memory may have been failing 
 her. 
 
 "I am sorry," she continued, "that you are 
 with child. It is bad enough to be born. a wid- 
 ow's child, but worse still to have a deserted wife 
 for mother." 
 
 She would probably have gone on for some 
 time in this encouraging strain had not her vie-
 
 140 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 tim at last seized her pitcher, only three quarters 
 full, and started homewards, leaving the old wo- 
 man muttering behind her. 
 
 But now as she sat there, weary and sick in 
 mind and body, every cruel word came back to 
 her with renewed force. Her poor man a slave to 
 those brutes! Left to rot in the dark hold of a 
 rolling ship or sent off with both legs paralyzed, 
 he who was so proud of his strength and agility; 
 he, the best dancer in the Syrto dance at the 
 Vithi fair! 
 
 Myrto clasped her hands together as she half 
 sat, half crouched there in the gloom, and broken 
 words of prayer escaped her. 
 
 "My little Virgin, have mercy upon me! Pity 
 me, my little Virgin ! Stretch out your hand and 
 save my poor man. I have been bad, yes, but 
 save him and bring him back hale and sound for 
 the sake of the child that lies heavy within me." 
 
 She lifted her head and clasped her hands over 
 her burning eyes. 
 
 Would the Holy Virgin listen to her? What 
 had she done to be heard? Little by little the 
 vague notion of some necessary sacrifice took 
 form in her tired brain. She could scarcely drag 
 her limbs to the fountain this evening after her 
 hard day's work in the garden, and on the mor- 
 row she had meant to sit at her loom all day for a
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 141 
 
 rest. But she decided that instead of this she 
 would go on foot to the Monastery, and repeat 
 her petition to the Virgin up there in the chapel, 
 lighting a candle before the icon which the Ital- 
 ian painter had painted. 
 
 But even then what? Was there any hope? 
 Would her prayers, her candle, her pilgrimage 
 help her man ever so little? They let them rot in 
 the hold, Kyra Marina had said. Rot! That 
 meant what? Ah, yes, she knew! 
 
 Had not the sailors of the little transport ship, 
 which had been sent out by the Government to 
 overlook the sponge diving, told their women 
 and their women repeated it at the fountain? 
 Had she not heard the gruesome tale of the poor 
 young man from Smyrna, rescued by the officers 
 of the transport ship from the clutches of one of 
 those sponge captains, only to die of advanced 
 gangrene three days later? Had not the sailors 
 spoken of the festering wounds caused by long 
 neglect; by days and nights spent untended on a 
 loathsome mattress in a filthy, noisome hold? 
 Had not these wounds been described in all their 
 sickening details by those who had seen them 
 with their own eyes aye, and not only seen 
 them! 
 
 Myrto dropped her head on her breast and 
 swayed backwards and forwards with clenched
 
 142 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 teeth, as the picture arose before her. A lull 
 came, and she heard steps approaching; then a 
 tapping at the closed door. She knew at once 
 that it must be Katharine. No one else in Poros 
 had that light, springy step. The old people 
 shuffled, the young ones, being generally laden, 
 or tired, trod heavily, and the little children pat- 
 tered. Besides, no one but the "foreign lady" 
 would have dreamt of knocking at the door. 
 
 She opened it at once and Katharine entered ; 
 a trim figure in white linen, holding a bunch of 
 pink oleanders in one hand, and a tall shepherd's 
 stick in the other. 
 
 "I have been up to the Temple of Poseidon," 
 she announced, "right up to the top with Barba 
 Stathi; though I never once got on to Kitso's 
 back. It was hot, but I did it, and now I am 
 tired and thirsty. So I thought I would rest for 
 a little here, and have a talk with you at the 
 same time." 
 
 "Welcome," said Myrto simply. "Will you 
 sit here?" spreading a clean cloth on the second 
 stool. "Or will you come into the sala? there 
 is a sofa there." 
 
 "Oh, here; certainly." Then catching sight of 
 the woman's face, of the eyes that had no light in 
 them, of the waxen color which made the strong, 
 arched eyebrows look too black, "You poor
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 143 
 
 thing!" she exclaimed, "what have they been 
 doing to you? Sit right here beside me, and tell 
 me all about it." 
 
 But Myrto would not hear of it. 1 
 
 Katharine had said she was thirsty. She must 
 drink first; drink out of one of the glasses kept 
 in the little wall-cupboard, a thin glass with a 
 gold rim, and a gold fox engraved on one side. 
 Myrto wiped it very carefully and filled it from 
 the drinking-pitcher outside, explaining to Kath- 
 arine as she came and went that she need have 
 no scruples about drinking of the water, for she 
 herself never drank from the mouth of the 
 pitcher, as some of the villagers did, but always 
 used a cup or a tin dipper. 
 
 Then she placed the filled glass on a little 
 round tray, and beside it a small pot of small 
 lemons preserved, which Kyra Sophoula, a kind 
 neighbor, she said, had given her, and one of the 
 six silver spoons which had formed part of her 
 dowry. This tray she presented to Katharine, 
 standing before her while Katharine served her- 
 self. Only when the duties of hospitality were over 
 could Katharine persuade her to sit down again. 
 
 "What were you doing when I came in? You 
 must not let me stop your work," she said. 
 
 "I was doing nothing. I often sit idle now, 
 with my hands crossed."
 
 144 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "Ah, but that is bad!" exclaimed Katharine, 
 with swift Anglo-Saxon energy; "there is no- 
 thing like work to make you forget troubles." 
 
 Myrto shook her head. "There is always work 
 enough," she said in a tired voice, "if one would 
 not starve. Besides, as you see, there is the 
 child that will come soon, and I am often heavy 
 and tired." 
 
 Katharine knew Poros ways and talk. "May 
 it be safely born, and live long to be a joy to you," 
 she said in a grave, compassionate voice. 
 
 "Tell me at least," she added after Myrto had 
 thanked her, "what you were thinking of, since 
 you were not doing anything." 
 
 "I was thinking that to-morrow I shall go to 
 the Monastery." 
 
 "To the Monastery? You?" 
 
 " Yes, on foot; to light a candle before the icon 
 of the Holy Virgin. Ah, yes, I know what you 
 would say you are foreign; you speak our lan- 
 guage, but you do not know our faith, and you 
 will say that it will do no good; that I cannot 
 walk so far. But I can, and I will, and it must do 
 good." 
 
 "Why should it not do good?" said Katharine 
 quietly. "And if it makes you any happier, of 
 course you must go. Only you must rest when 
 you get there."
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 145 
 
 "Yes, I will rest." 
 
 "How long ago is it that Leftheri went?" 
 
 "Very soon it will be eight months." 
 
 "Then," asked Katharine hesitatingly, "had 
 you I mean, did he know?" 
 
 "No," said Myrto, "he did not know any- 
 thing." 
 
 "Poor Myrto! If he had known he would 
 never have left you." 
 
 "I do not know perhaps not. He wished for 
 a child. But perhaps also he bore all he could. 
 What can a man do when a woman is always 
 angry, and has evil words ready when he returns 
 from his work? Ah, Kyra Marina was right, you 
 should not come to my house ! I am a bad wo- 
 man ! Not in deeds no that I swear on my 
 marriage wreath but in words Ah, God, 
 did I not tell him it were better I had married 
 another man. I, his wife! There are some words 
 no man can forgive; words that the longest life is 
 too short to forget in." 
 
 Katharine started a little, and leaning forward 
 looked into Myrto's face. 
 
 "Do you think so, Myrto? Are there any un- 
 forgivable words? Then more than ever should 
 I come to your house and sit with you, and listen 
 to you for I too have spoken such." 
 
 "You! to whom? You are not married?"
 
 146 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "No but there is some one I am I 
 was engaged to. You understand?" 
 
 "I understand you were betrothed. Your 
 parents had exchanged your rings, though the 
 priest had not yet exchanged your wreaths." 
 
 "Well, not quite," said Katharine, "but it 
 comes to the same thing." 
 
 "Was he foreign also? was it in your own 
 country?" 
 
 "He is not Greek, but not of my own coun- 
 try, either; he is an Englishman. Never mind, I 
 cannot explain. Anyway, a foreigner here like 
 myself. And it was not in my own country we 
 met, but in Athens. We stayed many months 
 there, and traveled together with some other 
 people. And when we found out, Myrto, that we 
 loved each other very much, we were betrothed 
 as you call it, though there was no ceremony, we 
 just knew it ourselves." 
 
 Myrto looked puzzled. "But the lady, your 
 sister? " 
 
 "Oh, my sister knew, of course; her husband 
 also. And and we were to have been mar- 
 ried now, this Easter." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 " Why, then, did not the marriage take place? " 
 asked Myrto; "was not your dowry ready?" 
 
 "Oh, quite ready; yes." .
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 147 
 
 "Then why?" 
 
 "Well, you see, we loved each other very, very 
 much, but still we often disagreed, and like you, 
 I too get angry easily; I have always been free, 
 and sometimes I hated the thought of feeling 
 bound, of being asked where I went and what I 
 did." 
 
 "But since he was your betrothed?" said 
 Myrto gravely. 
 
 "I know; but it was only at times I hated it. 
 Sometimes I liked it. Then you know I am 
 well, rather rich. My father left me what you 
 would call here a big dowry and he Jim 
 has very little money, and one day when he had 
 vexed me about something I as you say, it 
 is a madness that comes over you I told him 
 that he did not care for me so much as I had 
 thought, and that perhaps if I were not so rich 
 he would not wish to marry me. Yes, I told him 
 that, beast that I was ! " 
 
 And, like Myrto a little while ago, Katharine 
 covered her face with her hands and rocked 
 backwards and forwards. 
 
 "But Ah, please do not say such words 
 you! a beast! But perhaps what you told him 
 was true." 
 
 "How dare you, Myrto? What do you 
 mean?"
 
 148 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "I ask your forgiveness I only mean that, 
 though he must have been glad that you were 
 beautiful and good, of course he must have been 
 very glad also that you were rich; such a 'good 
 bride/" 
 
 "Ah, you do not understand. How should 
 you? But I must say it all I must, I must! " 
 
 She rose suddenly, laid her arms down on the 
 narrow chimney-shelf, and buried her face on 
 them. "He was a man, you see, who was very 
 proud; who did not care anything at all for the 
 riches, and if another man had said this to him 
 he would have knocked him down. But I was a 
 woman, so he he just went away and left me. 
 And at first I thought I did not care much 
 but now ' 
 
 "Ah, yes; I know; I understand. At first one 
 is angry and glad, not a good gladness, but 
 afterwards you do not wish to see the sun shine 
 by day, and at night you cannot sleep." Then 
 after a pause, "He went far away?" 
 
 "Not very far, but he was away a long time." 
 
 "He has returned?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then if you suffered still, why did you not 
 ask his forgiveness?" 
 
 " You did not, Myrto." 
 
 "I? It is different. We are poor people, I
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 149 
 
 cannot write, and if I could, do I know where he 
 is, if I could ever find him? But you, a lady, it is 
 another thing. You are learned, and can write 
 and say much. Why did you not send him a 
 letter?" 
 
 "I did, Myrto. But he never answered." 
 
 "Then you must send another. Perhaps it 
 was not given to him, or perhaps even his anger 
 is slow to pass. You must write once more." 
 
 Katharine lifted her head from her arms and 
 looked at Myrto. 
 
 "I think I will," she said slowly. 
 
 Though the afternoon was well advanced, the 
 heat was still great when Myrto the next day 
 toiled up behind the white-walled cemetery on 
 her way to the Monastery. The first part of the 
 road is arid, and treeless, without a particle of 
 shade. Myrto had laden herself with a small 
 earthen pitcher to fetch back water from the 
 Monastery spring, which is famed, even beyond 
 Poros, for its sweetness and purity. 
 
 The flocks of brown and black goats browsing 
 on the slopes, to her left, were scarcely distin- 
 guishable among the huge gray rocks. Only the 
 tinkle of their bells revealed their presence. 
 Myrto dragged her feet wearily and changed her 
 pitcher from one arm to another. She rested it
 
 150 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 for a few moments on the top of the low wall 
 which is built on the right of the road, where the 
 cliffs are steepest, and then, with a spurt of 
 courage, walked on, crossed the stone bridge, 
 and almost ran down to the wide stretch of beach 
 where the big fig trees grow. There, under their 
 shade, she rested a while. 
 
 The old woman who was guarding the ripe figs 
 spoke to her: 
 
 "Where may you be for?" 
 
 "For the Monastery: to light a candle." 
 
 The old woman glanced at her. "That is far. 
 You should go to St. Eleftherios. That is the 
 church for those who are as you are." 
 
 " No," said Myrto simply, "it is not for that I 
 am going. My man is away I want to 
 light a candle for his safe return." She rose as 
 she spoke. 
 
 "May it be for your help," cried the woman 
 after her. "There is shade the rest of the way." 
 
 Myrto passed the walled-in lemon gardens, 
 the tiny white chapel among the rocks close to 
 the sea, and then the pines began. She was rested 
 now, and a little breeze cooled her face as she 
 walked. 
 
 Nature as a rule appeals little to those who 
 live in the heart of her loveliest spots, but in a 
 vague way Myrto felt the beauty of the road
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 151 
 
 and the hour. The warm Sienna-red of the steep 
 path wound up through the luminous green of 
 the young pines. Very far below, on the right, 
 the sea lapped lazily against the wooded crags, 
 and the mountains of the mainland opposite 
 stood out in one uniform tint of deep blue, 
 against the paler blue of the sky. Nothing broke 
 the silence but the low note of the crickets along 
 the wayside, and the far distant striking of the 
 water by a many-oared trata, making for one of 
 the little inlets below. 
 
 Long before she reached the Monastery, she 
 could see it in the distance, a long, low, white 
 building, built round a square, after the fashion 
 of the old Moorish palaces, half buried in the 
 masses of surrounding trees. 
 
 The path wound in and out, now rising, now 
 falling. It rose to the top of the cliff, where the 
 bright red earth crumbled between the gray 
 rocks on the left, the open sea spread out in all 
 its glorious expanse at the foot of the sheer fall of 
 wooded crags on the right, and the Monastery 
 gleamed white before her. Then again the path 
 would dip suddenly, closing her in among the 
 great pines, with nothing but their waving 
 branches over her head, and their soft needles 
 beneath her feet. Further on multitudes of 
 young pines grew right down the hill to the
 
 152 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 water's edge. Seen from the height, they stood 
 out in bright golden green against the dazzling 
 blue of the sea. On canvas the colors would have 
 seemed too crude, too shadowless, too glaring, 
 but enveloped in that warm, quivering sunlight, 
 they were a perfect harmony. Three or four 
 times the winding of the path made Myrto 
 entirely lose sight of the Monastery, before she 
 reached the spring under the giant plane tree, 
 overhanging the ravine. 
 
 There were some rough wooden benches under 
 the shade of the tree. Letting her empty pitcher 
 slip to the ground, she sank down inertly on one 
 of these. Her aching back leaning against the 
 trunk of the tree, her arms hanging down on 
 either side of her body, her legs stretched out 
 limply before her, her head drooping on her 
 breast, and her eyes closed, she remained there, 
 not asleep, but with all thought and sensation 
 wiped out, save the one of rest after toil. 
 
 It was much later, almost dusk, when the 
 thought began to shape itself in her tired brain 
 that she was at the Monastery, and her task 
 not yet accomplished. She dragged herself 
 wearily off the bench. A separate pulse seemed 
 throbbing in each limb, and as she stooped over 
 the spring to fill her pitcher, she felt a numb 
 pain in her back which made her think she could
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 153 
 
 not stand upright again. However, it passed in a 
 moment, and she rose and placed her full pitcher 
 in the shade with a sprig of myrtle to stop up the 
 mouth. 
 
 Then she slowly skirted the ravine, painfully 
 climbing up the broad low steps cut into the 
 rock, leading up to the natural terrace on which 
 stands the Monastery of the "Life-giving 
 Spring." 
 
 Through the covered gateway she went into 
 the inner court, planted with orange trees. Rows 
 of arches support the white cells above. Two 
 or three monks standing on the wooden gallery 
 which gives access to the cells looked down curi- 
 ously at her as she passed under the trellis with 
 its overhanging bunches of grapes, and stopped 
 to lean for a moment against the tall palm out- 
 side the chapel door. One of them called out 
 to her that they were just going to close the 
 chapel for the night, but she passed straight in, 
 seeming not to have heard him. 
 
 The double-headed Byzantine eagle on the 
 centre flag of the floor, the magnificently carved 
 templon before her, were nothing to Myrto, nor 
 the graves of bygone heroes of the War of 
 Independence, whose epitaphs she could not 
 read. 
 
 She took two candles off the brass tray at the
 
 154 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 entrance, laying down her copper coins in ex- 
 change. She lighted the first before the icon of 
 the venerable, white-bearded St. Nicholas, who 
 helps all those at sea; the second and larger one 
 she stuck carefully, after lighting it, on a small 
 iron spike in the circle of little candles placed 
 round the tall wax candle in its monumental 
 candlestick, before the Virgin's icon. 
 
 This was quite a modern picture, the work 
 of an Italian painter, whose daughter had died 
 about fifty years ago in the guest house of the 
 Monastery. It had been painted in gratitude for 
 the care and attention she had received at the 
 hands of the monks, the Virgin's face, it is said, 
 being that of the lost daughter. Certainly it 
 is a sweet, gentle face, not like the dark, stern- 
 looking Madonnas of most of the Byzantine 
 icons. 
 
 Myrto stood with bent head before it, crossing 
 herself devoutly. She felt strangely weak and 
 dizzy, and words seemed to have lost their 
 meaning. No form of prayer, no connected 
 words even, rose to her lips. 
 
 "My little Virgin my little Virgin, oh, 
 my little Virgin!" she repeated over and over 
 again. Then she bent forward and kissed the 
 painted hand, the smooth, white, long-fingered 
 hand, that made her think of Katharine's.
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 155 
 
 An old man, gray-bearded, in a rough frieze 
 coat, came up to her out of the gloom. 
 
 "Are you staying long?" he asked; "it will 
 soon be dark." 
 
 "Nay, I shall go now. I only came up to light 
 a candle. This is it. Please leave it there, till it 
 burns itself out. It is for my man. He is away 
 at sea." 
 
 "Be easy," he answered; "no one ever touches 
 the candles." 
 
 They passed out of the chapel on to the ter- 
 race. Over the wooded hill and the sea below the 
 light was fading fast. 
 
 "You came alone?" 
 
 "Yes; who should come with me?" 
 
 "You are from Poros?" 
 
 "Yes, from Poros." 
 
 "The way is long for you." 
 
 "I shall hold out," she said. "Good-night to 
 
 you." 
 
 "Good-night," he answered. "God be with 
 you." 
 
 Myrto never clearly remembered afterwards 
 the details of that walk home in the fast-falling 
 darkness. 
 
 At first, forgetting her pitcher at the spring, 
 she plunged straight down into the ravine, into a 
 tangle of lentisk and osier bushes. But as she had
 
 156 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 an impression afterwards of pieces of broken, red 
 earthenware on the ground, and of water about 
 her feet, she must at some time have returned for 
 the pitcher. She had vague memories of trees 
 looming unnaturally tall before her, of rocks 
 which seemed to rise under her feet, of a road 
 that seemed as endless as a dream road, of dark- 
 ness and heat, and pain, and deadly fear. At last 
 she had laid herself down, she thought to die, on 
 the broad ledge of the well, where the flocks are 
 watered outside the village. Here there must 
 have been a period of complete unconsciousness. 
 She awoke to find Barba Stathi's kind old face 
 bending over her. She remembered being lifted 
 on to Kitso's back, and then awaking again 
 on her own mattress. Then she sent the old 
 man to fetch her neighbor, Kyra Sophoula, to 
 her. 
 
 1 The small, brown-faced old woman came at 
 once. She grunted angrily, though, when she 
 heard of the expedition. 
 
 ; "One dram of good sense while you had your 
 man with you, my daughter, would have 
 availed you more than walking barefooted from 
 here to the Annunciation in Tenos, if you could 
 do it." Then, with a sort of rough pity for the 
 hidden face and writhing body: "I do not say the 
 Holy Virgin and St. Nicholas will not listen to
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 157 
 
 you, but I am old and have seen much. The 
 saints will not help a fool too often." 
 
 Myrto had sent for the old woman in all confi- 
 dence, for Kyra Sophoula was that best of all 
 things in man or woman, in gentle or simple: she 
 was absolutely and entirely dependable. One 
 knew that she would never fail in any emergency, 
 great or small, from a cut finger to sudden death. 
 
 She was sharp-tongued. No doubt about 
 that : many knew it to their cost, more especially 
 as she had the mysterious gift of proving sud- 
 denly well aware of secret weaknesses which 
 the owners fondly imagined safely hidden. She 
 would call any one a fool with the greatest 
 equanimity, if she thought the epithet deserved, 
 but she would help that same fool afterwards, or 
 even before, if the matter pressed. 
 
 In the present case the necessity was urgent, 
 and Kyra Sophoula talked no more, but did all 
 that could be done to help nature; for in Poros a 
 doctor is called only if the case is very desperate. 
 Happily Myrto's strong constitution and simple 
 life helped her in her trial, even perhaps this last 
 mad expedition had been of some use, for though 
 she suffered much, the big clock of the Naval 
 School had not struck midnight before her little 
 son was born to her. 
 
 There was no circle of sympathizing neigh-
 
 158 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 bors to admire him, no proud father to receive 
 him, no gun-shots were let off for joy at his birth; 
 but Kyra Sophoula duly rubbed the tiny limbs 
 with sugar, that sweetness might follow him all 
 his life, and did not neglect to fasten a piece of 
 cotton wool inside the little cap, that he might 
 live to be white-haired. Then she laid him down 
 beside his mother and watched them while they 
 slept. 
 
 About five days later, when the passengers 
 from the Piraeus steamer stepped out of Louka's 
 rowing-boats, upon the quay, there was a 
 stranger among them, who stood looking curi- 
 ously about him. Not only a stranger, but cer- 
 tainly a foreigner as well. He was a square- 
 shouldered young man of middle height, with a 
 fair, sunburnt skin, dressed in a suit of gray flan- 
 nels, of unmistakable English cut, and closely 
 followed by a plump little fox-terrier whose 
 black patches on each side of his head were sepa- 
 rated by a broad white parting. 
 
 His master shaded his eyes with his hand and 
 looked out across the bay. He had traveled 
 much in Greece, but had never before been to 
 Poros. 
 
 What he saw was a blazing sun in a deep blue 
 sky, a stretch of glittering water, the wooded
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 159 
 
 hills, golden green with pines, on his right, and 
 
 gray green with olives, on his left; and far away, 
 
 masking the entrance by which the steamer had 
 
 just come into the bay, the blue mass of the 
 
 Sleeper. 
 
 , "Pretty decent, Pat, is n't it?" 
 
 Pat looked up, cocked his ears, then, running 
 across the quay, began vigorously sniffing at a 
 row of empty jars set out for sale. 
 
 "Thirsty, eh? Well, wait a minute, old fellow." 
 
 He beckoned to a man who was setting out 
 little tables under the awning round the old col- 
 umn for the midday meal. 
 
 "Oriste," came the quick reply; "at your 
 service." 
 
 As the newcomer was a stranger of whom it 
 was considered wise to take immediate posses- 
 sion, before the people at the rival inn could even 
 discover his arrival, in a moment the master of 
 the hotel himself was beside him, listening with 
 admirable gravity to his halting Greek. 
 
 A room? Certainly! one of the best, with a 
 balcony to it. Clean? Oh, that did not need a 
 question. He had been to Athens and knew what 
 gentlemen and ladies required. Water for the 
 little dog? "Oriste," at once. Yanni! Kosta! 
 quickly a pan of water for the gentleman's little 
 dog!
 
 160 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 And as Pat proceeded to slake his thirst, the 
 hotel-keeper eyed him approvingly. 
 
 A fine little dog, truly; there was one like him 
 at the red house on the hill, but thinner. What 
 did the gentleman say his name was? stoop- 
 ing over him as he asked. "Paat? oh, yes, Paat, 
 Paat, good dog!" 
 
 Pat, who was admirably brought up, made a 
 polite little movement with his tail and went on 
 drinking. 
 
 But the gentleman was asking another ques- 
 tion; Kyr Panayoti straightened himself up to 
 answer. 
 
 A young lady? A stranger? Was she at his 
 hotel? But certainly, certainly. She could not 
 possibly have gone to the other little inn. Hon- 
 est people: oh, yes, he did not wish to say the 
 contrary, but not a fit place for a lady! What? 
 was she in the hotel just then? Well, he sup- 
 posed so. At this hour! Where else would she be 
 in the sun blaze? 
 
 At this moment the man at his elbow ex- 
 plained volubly. 
 
 "You will pardon me," Kyr Panayoti con- 
 tinued, "I see I was mistaken. The servant says 
 she left early this morning; an old man and his 
 beast went also; and they took a basket. She 
 said, it seems, that she would return late. I did
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 161 
 
 not see the direction no. Kosta, did you not 
 notice which road the lady took with Barba 
 Stathi, you stupid one? No, unfortunately 
 the servant also does not know. It is a pity, 
 but" 
 
 Jim Larcher interrupted the flow of words. 
 "Very well. I will wait here. Can I have some- 
 thing to eat?" 
 
 "But certainly, Oriste, at once, the pilaf will 
 be ready now in two minutes and the red mullets 
 are of this morning's fishing." 
 
 The young man crossed over to the shade and 
 sat down. 
 
 Pat started on a little voyage of investiga- 
 tion on his own account; sniffed round the 
 fishing-nets and the fruit sheds, refused with dis- 
 dain the invitation to fight of a little yellow 
 dog, begged shamelessly from an old man who 
 was eating bread with white touloumi cheese; 
 chased two pigeons for a little way; jumped, 
 with remarkable agility, considering his bulk, 
 over a pannier placed in his way by one of 
 the boat boys; and at last returned to his mas- 
 ter. After lolling out a pink tongue and panting 
 violently for a few seconds, he sat up and 
 begged. 
 
 "What's the matter, old man? Feel the heat, 
 eh, and want me to stop it? Well, I've already
 
 162 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 explained that that is n't so easy as you think. 
 Sure to feel the heat, you know, with all that 
 superfluous flesh of yours ! " 
 
 For Pat was undoubtedly very stout. Disre- 
 spectful people had even been known to compare 
 him to a little prize pig. Jim Larcher, of the Bri- 
 tish Legation at Athens, his master and adorer, 
 was quite weary of hearing rude remarks such as 
 "Beastly fat, that dog of yours," or even polite 
 ones such as, "But don't you think the dear fel- 
 low is just a little too stout? " and explaining time 
 after time that it was the animal's build and not 
 the consequence of overfeeding. So that he had 
 ended by invariably answering, "Oh, I like him 
 that way: feed him up on purpose, don't you 
 know," which effectually put a stop to further 
 remarks on the subject. 
 
 While waiting to be served, Jim pulled a letter 
 out of his pocket, and began reading it. Though 
 not a very lengthy one, it had occupied most of 
 his time during the three hours' journey from 
 Piraeus; but he read every word of the four pages 
 twice over again, and returned a third time to 
 the postscript. 
 
 "Please, Jim dear," he read, "don't think, for 
 a single instant, that I shall be too proud to ask 
 for your forgiveness if you come to me, or that I 
 have written all this to avoid the awkwardness of
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 163 
 
 speaking it. Why, I shall just love to do it 
 after dreaming of it so often." 
 
 A curious little thrill ran through him as he 
 read these words, for perhaps the twentieth 
 time; a little rush of blood which set his heart 
 beating faster, and made his extremities tingle; 
 something which made him think vaguely of a 
 flash of very jagged lightning through a dark 
 sky, though he could certainly not have explained 
 the reason of this impression. 
 
 The man came up with the dishes, and Jim 
 thrust the letter back into his pocket. 
 
 After his coffee, he went up to his room and 
 attempted a siesta, after the fashion of the coun- 
 try. But it was maddening to lie open-eyed on 
 his bed, listening to Pat's contented snores. So 
 he awoke the dog ruthlessly, and set off for a 
 walk to kill the remaining hours of waiting. 
 
 "Come along, Pat, you lazy brute; it will be 
 better outside anyway." 
 
 Pat, having been most comfortably settled, 
 felt doubtful, but he followed dutifully out on to 
 the now deserted quay. 
 
 Katharine had spent most of the preceding 
 day in Myrto's little house, comforting and en- 
 couraging her, cooking beef tea for her on her 
 own little spirit-lamp, tending the baby, trying
 
 164 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 hard to persuade Kyra Sophoula to dress it 
 American fashion and release its little arms from 
 the swaddling clothes, promising that she and 
 none other should be its godmother. 
 
 "What shall we name him, Myrto?" 
 
 "Whatever your nobility pleases," had an- 
 swered Myrto. 
 
 But "her nobility'* knew better. 
 
 *' What was the name of Leftheri's father ? " 
 she inquired. 
 
 "Petro." 
 
 "Then Petro it shall be, and if it be allowed I 
 will give him also the name of my own father, 
 Paul." 
 
 "Why," cried Myrto, delighted, "he will have 
 the same nameday for both names, on the 
 twenty-ninth of June." 
 
 "That will be splendid. Peter Paul! It was 
 the name of a great painter, too, but I suppose 
 you do not care about that." 
 
 It so fell out that on the morning Jim arrived 
 Katharine felt the need of open air, after having 
 been cooped up one whole day and the greater 
 part of another in a tiny house, and had started 
 early, accompanied by Barba Stathi and his 
 donkey, for Poseidon's Temple; descending, be- 
 fore the heat became too great, over the hills 
 into the Monastery woods. There she stayed
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 165 
 
 during the greater part of the afternoon, reading, 
 talking to old Barba Stathi, exploring the chapel, 
 even attempting to sketch the beautiful inner 
 court with its trellis of grapes and its tall palm 
 tree in the centre. 
 
 About five o'clock they started for Poros by 
 the Monastery road. But when they arrived at 
 the big beach where the fig trees grow, it oc- 
 curred to Katharine that it would be far too early 
 when she returned to the village to shut herself 
 up in the hotel, so she explained to Barba Stathi 
 that she would stay here by the sea and return 
 alone, later on. She paid him generously, and 
 dismissed him with a smile, and Kitso with a 
 friendly pat, on their homeward way. 
 
 There is a tiny crescent-shaped beach after the 
 big one, closed in by white-veined gray rocks 
 over which the little waves tumble and foam. 
 Katharine sat down there and watched the sea 
 washing in between the jutting rocks in a perfect 
 semicircle, leaving white fringes of froth as it 
 retreated. She was particularly fascinated by a 
 smooth brown stone just in front of her, which 
 was entirely submerged at every second wave. 
 The mass of water swept so smoothly over it, 
 and each time it emerged so wet and shining, 
 Katharine thought she would like to be that 
 stone and feel the cool waves closing over her,
 
 166 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 if only she could be sure of not choking. Then 
 she smiled at the childishness of the thought. 
 Beyond the point of the rocks far away to the 
 left, she could just distinguish a little white 
 house, a walled-in garden with tall cypresses 
 towering above the lemon trees, and then the 
 headland with the sunset glow on its pines. At 
 the extreme point two solitary trees stood out 
 darkly against the pale pink of the sky. The red 
 line of the Monastery road wound up through 
 the pines, and below them the rocks dipped 
 boldly into the purple sea. Then straight out 
 from the rocks swept the line of the horizon, that 
 perfect pure blue line that surpasses any curve 
 in beauty. The violet hills of the mainland op- 
 posite closed it in on the other side. 
 
 The whole scene was almost too perfect, its 
 coloring too vivid. In a painting Katharine was 
 positive she would have criticised it as too con- 
 ventionally beautiful in all its details. But in 
 nature the eye had nothing left to wish for. 
 Katharine thought of her sister at Grindelwald. 
 Not for all the snow mountains and foaming 
 cataracts in the world would she have changed 
 with her, though she knew Hester was con- 
 vinced of the contrary, and must be contempt- 
 uously pitying her for staying behind to be 
 broiled in Greece without any necessity. She
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 167 
 
 wondered what part of the brain or tempera- 
 ment it is that invests all lines and coloring of the 
 South with such an intense charm for some peo- 
 ple, a charm which they cannot always put into 
 words, when lovers of the North complain so bit- 
 terly of the heat, the dust, and the monotony of 
 constant sunshine. This made her think of the 
 book she had with her, and open it. The author 
 was not only a lover of the South like herself, but 
 he put her love into words for her, for which she 
 was profoundly grateful. The book was Rodd's 
 "Violet Crown," without which she rarely went 
 anywhere in Greece. Not the verses of a great 
 poet, she knew that; but of one who had writ- 
 ten most tenderly of the land she loved, and who 
 had defined its charm more perfectly than any 
 modern author. 
 
 She opened the volume at hazard, looking up 
 at the end of each verse. 
 
 A hillside scored with hollow veins 
 Through age-long wash of autumn rains, 
 As purple as with vintage stains. 
 
 Surely those were the hills opposite her on the 
 mainland ! And then 
 
 A shore with deep indented bays, 
 And o'er the gleaming waterways 
 A glimpse of islands in the haze.
 
 168 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 Yes, there were two of them: San Giorgio and 
 the lion-shaped Modi in the distance. 
 
 When she came to the last verse, she smiled 
 to hear the goat bells tinkle on the slopes behind 
 her, they fitted in so perfectly. 
 
 A shepherd's crook, a coat of fleece, ) 
 
 A grazing flock; the sense of peace, 
 
 The long, sweet silence, this is Greece! 
 
 As she put the book down, its leaves fell open 
 of their own accord at one of the last pages, and 
 she read once more the verses she almost knew 
 by heart. 
 
 There is a spirit haunts the place 
 All other lands must lack, 
 A speaking voice, a living grace, 
 That beckons fancy back. 
 Dear isles and sea-indented shore, 
 Till songs be no more sung, 
 The souls of singers gone before 
 Shall keep your lovers young. 
 
 She had not read for many minutes, but when 
 she looked up again the glow was already fading. 
 The purple of the sea turned to green as she 
 watched, the violet of the hills to a dull blue, and 
 over the rose of the sky a gray veil seemed to be 
 slowly drawn. The little house in the distance 
 stood out whiter against the hill, and the pines 
 darker. A small brown fishing-boat shot out be- 
 hind the rocks on the right. The two men in it
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 169 
 
 sang as they rowed : a monotonous chant which 
 died away as they disappeared round the rocks 
 to the left. The plash of their oars came fainter 
 and fainter for a few moments and then ceased. 
 
 Katharine stood upright, shook her skirt free 
 of the pebbles she had collected in her lap, picked 
 up her basket and book, and turned to go. 
 From the road behind the shore came a series 
 of short, sharp barks. Surely, she thought, that 
 was not a sheep dog. 
 
 The next moment a wildly excited little white 
 ball came tumbling down the slope, and was fol- 
 lowed a moment later by a man in gray, walk- 
 ing rapidly towards her. As soon as she caught 
 sight of the outline of his figure against the sky, 
 she stopped suddenly. For a moment a darkness 
 came before her eyes, and her knees trembled. 
 The little dog jumped wildly about her, but she 
 did not heed him. 
 
 The man came nearer. As he came he raised 
 his hat and just spoke her name in a low voice: 
 "Katharine!" 
 
 When she heard his voice, she started forward 
 and her lips parted. But no sound came from 
 them. They only trembled a little. 
 
 "Katharine!" he said again, hoarsely, putting 
 out his hands. 
 
 She came two steps nearer and, stretching out
 
 170 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 both her own, she laid them in his, and stood 
 before him, her head bent so low that her face 
 was hidden. 
 
 The man's face flushed. 
 
 "No," he said, almost roughly, "no, don't do 
 that. Look at me. For God's sake, look at me, 
 Katharine." 
 
 She raised her head, and their eyes met. 
 
 "I have come, you see, as soon as you sent for 
 me, though if you remember I swore I 
 would never see you again. Tell me now, if you 
 can, what made you say what you did to me at 
 that awful time? It was a brutal thing to say to 
 a man, Katharine." 
 
 "Jim," and she disengaged one hand to wipe 
 her eyes clear of the tears which had gathered in 
 them, "it would be far harder for me to beg your 
 forgiveness for the vile words I said, if I had 
 wronged you in my thoughts for any length of 
 time. But I never really believed them, Jim. I 
 was angry, dear, blindly, furiously angry, and I 
 just picked out the words I knew would hurt 
 most terribly, as, had I been younger, I might 
 have picked up a stone to throw at you." 
 
 "I wish it had been a stone. It would have 
 hurt much less." 
 
 "Yes; I know that. Jim, you can never under- 
 stand, however you may try, those moments of
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 171 
 
 mad anger, of cruel anger. You are so different, 
 so good, they never come to you. When they get 
 hold of me, I want to hurt, and to hurt badly. 
 Afterwards, when you had left me, I tried to 
 make myself believe what I had said, as a sort of 
 justification. Jim, I know you will be loving and 
 dear to me always, I know you will want me 
 to forgive myself, to forget but you, you, can 
 you ever quite forgive? Can you ever forget that 
 I wanted to hurt you? Can you ever wipe out 
 entirely? Ah, Jim, Jim," and her voice broke, 
 "Jim, we shall always remember. There is no 
 forgiveness that can ever make cruel words 
 unsaid." The tears rolled fast down her face. 
 
 Jim lifted her hands to his lips and kissed 
 them very tenderly: "No, dear, I am afraid 
 there is n't." 
 
 For a moment her face was convulsed. Then 
 she lifted her head up and tried to smile bravely 
 through her tears. 
 
 "Yes, Jim, I know. But we will try not to let 
 them spoil our happiness, won't we?" 
 
 He pressed both her hands close to him and 
 looked into her face. "Dear," he said, "my own 
 dear one, I know perfectly well that I seem a 
 brute, and worse, not to say at once that no for- 
 giveness is needed; that everything you do or say 
 is forgiven in advance; that it is all forgottei}
 
 172 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 long ago. But it would not be true. I've suffered 
 horribly, dear, and you would not believe me if I 
 said I had not. Only this you must believe. I 
 love you so, that, if you were to hurt me ten 
 times worse, I should come back to you again 
 whenever you sent for me. Katharine, I can't 
 forget the pain all at once, dear, but I know you 
 will take it away and now, I only love you 
 I love you." His voice trembled as he spoke. 
 
 "If I live," she said solemnly, "I will take all 
 the pain away. Oh, Jim, Jim, I don't deserve 
 you should be so good to me." And then she put 
 her arms round his neck and kissed him. 
 
 But there was some one else to be reckoned 
 with. Pat had been vainly trying to attract their 
 attention for some time past. A seashore, a 
 tempting amount of stones to be thrown and 
 fetched, and two human beings who acted as 
 though he did not exist, struck him as a most un- 
 natural and disagreeable state of affairs. But 
 when Katharine came so close to Jim, and when 
 she threw her arms round him, Pat gave three or 
 four sharp barks of astonishment, and, when her 
 dress brushed carelessly over him, a distinct growl 
 of displeasure. He was not at all certain whether 
 or not to defend his master he did not remem- 
 ber to have seen such liberties taken with him 
 before.
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 173 
 
 Katharine was the first to notice his state of 
 mind, and she turned on him, crying and laugh- 
 ing at the same time. 
 
 "Yes, I shall, Pat, and you may just make up 
 your mind to it right off. It will save you getting 
 so mad pretty often." 
 
 And then a still more unheard-of liberty was 
 taken, for he suddenly found his plump little 
 person squeezed tight in Katharine's arms, and 
 the white parting on the top of his head kissed 
 repeatedly. Somehow he did not object as much 
 as he would have fancied. Then she threw a 
 stone for him to fetch as far away as she could. 
 
 "Jim, how did you find me?" 
 
 "Just luck, dear; I went for a walk to kill the 
 time till the hour those people thought you 'd 
 be likely to be back, and I hit on this road." 
 
 "You had my letter, then?" 
 
 " On Wednesday. Sir Kenneth, thank Heaven, 
 had just returned from Aix, and though I was 
 not due to leave Athens before the end of 
 August, as Harrington was to have taken his 
 leave first, I got him to change with me." 
 
 "And the first letter I wrote you, Jim?" 
 
 "I never had it. It may have been when I was 
 away shooting at Corfou. A good many of my 
 letters were lost then. You never thought I could 
 have received it and made no sign, did you?*'
 
 174 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "It seemed hard to believe, but I knew I had 
 deserved even that." 
 
 Jim's answer made Pat drop the big stone he 
 was carrying and bark continuously. His master 
 turned on him fiercely. "Stop that, you little 
 brute." Then, at the sight of his penitence and 
 gathered-in tail, he relented: "Oh, all right, old 
 fellow, you did n't understand. You'll learn in 
 time." But Pat's feelings had been badly hurt, 
 and were only to be soothed by chocolate out of 
 Katharine's basket. 
 
 "Look here, dear," said Jim, presently; "you 
 know my Aunt Charlotte stayed all last spring 
 in Athens at the Angleterre, don't you?" 
 
 "Yes, I met her one day last March when I 
 was out shopping alone, and she stopped and 
 spoke so nicely to me. It was so lovely of her to 
 do it, when she might have passed*me by with 
 the chilliest of bows. I could have hugged her 
 for it." 
 
 "She's really fond of you. So you won't be 
 vexed, will you, that last night I told her 
 about your letter and how things were all right 
 with us again? You don't mind, do you?" 
 
 Katharine gave a little start, but she answered 
 at once: 
 
 "Why, no, I don't mind. Did she seem 
 pleased, Jim?"
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 175 
 
 "Pleased! Why, she was so glad, she just sat 
 down and regularly cried for joy. She's an 
 awfully good sort, is Aunt Charlotte, and she 
 promised, any time I wired to her, that she 'd 
 come out here and stay with us for as long as we 
 liked. How does that idea strike you? Better 
 than returning to town just now, is n't it?" 
 
 "Let's go right away now and cable, shall 
 we?" 
 
 Then as they got to the road again Katha- 
 rine stopped a moment and laid her hand on 
 his arm. 
 
 "Ah, Jim, just look! You have never been 
 here before, I know. Look at that red road 
 through the pines we shall go there to-mor- 
 row. Look at that curve of the bay and the 
 reflection of those pink clouds. Did you ever 
 see anything so perfect? Jim, speak isn't it 
 glorious? " 
 
 "Pretty decent," acquiesced Jim, after a hasty 
 glance round; and then, "Don't ask me to 
 look at anything else but you for a few days 
 yet; I've been too famished. And photos are no 
 good after you've had them some time. They 
 get to look like themselves and not like the real 
 person at all." 
 
 "I know," agreed Katharine, laughing hap- 
 pily.
 
 176 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 They walked slowly back towards the village. 
 Pat trotted in front with a stone in his mouth, 
 so big that Katharine was afraid it would dislo- 
 cate his jaws. He had triumphantly dug it out 
 of a large thyme bush into which it had been 
 thrown, and nothing would induce him to let it 
 drop. They laughed at his determined air and 
 widely distended jaws, but this offended him so 
 deeply that he trotted on still faster and left 
 them severely alone. 
 
 They did not talk much. At the place where 
 the cliff is steep and the wall low, Jim passed 
 Katharine's hand through his arm and kept it 
 there. When they came in sight of the Naval 
 School, the lights were already lighted, and by the 
 time they reached the Narrow Beach, night was 
 upon them, the soft summer night of Poros, 
 starlighted and pine-scented. 
 
 It was nearly a month later, in the early dawn. 
 The sky in the east was very faintly tinted with 
 pink. Katharine and Jim were walking rapidly 
 along the quay towards the village, talking as 
 they went. 
 
 They seemed almost the first astir; the only 
 people they met were two old women going to 
 church for the early service, it being the fort- 
 night before the Feast of the Virgin, and Barba
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 177 
 
 Stathi, who was starting for the hills with Kitso, 
 and who smiled and wished them good-day as he 
 passed. 
 
 Pat of course trotted before them, jubilant at 
 this early walk. 
 
 "Jim, are you quite, quite sure? A disap- 
 pointment would be too terrible after we once 
 tell her." 
 
 "Perfectly sure. Our boatman knows the man 
 quite well. In fact he explained something about 
 being a sort of a connection of his, koumbaro he 
 called it. And he spoke to him late last night after 
 the boat arrived. Our man, Yanni, wanted to 
 persuade him to go straight on to his house and 
 his wife. But the other fellow would n't. Sort of 
 hung back, don't you know? Did n't seem sure 
 of his reception, as far as I understood." 
 
 "Oh, poor fellow! But, Jim, it seems strange. 
 These sponge-diving boats nearly always return 
 about Easter." 
 
 "This is not the boat he left in. I told you be- 
 fore, dear, but you were too excited to listen. He 
 had a quarrel with his captain, it seems, left him 
 at Tripoli, and shipped back here in an ordinary 
 trading-boat. Does n't seem in a great hurry to 
 leave it either, now he is here." 
 
 "Oh, Jim, suppose he should have left in it 
 again this morning?"
 
 178 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "No fear. The boat belongs here, Yanni 
 said." 
 
 "Did he tell him of the child?" 
 
 "Did n't inquire, to tell you the truth. I 
 should suppose he'd be pretty likely to." 
 
 "Jim, it 's too perfectly lovely. I 've been feel- 
 ing kind of selfish all these weeks when I thought 
 of my happiness and her misery. And now to 
 think I 'm to be the one to run in and tell her ' 
 
 " Gently, little girl, gently. The poor creature 
 can't be over-strong yet, and " 
 
 "Joy never harmed a woman yet, Jim, and 
 never will; but I'll be gentle, never fear. It's 
 over there, that little low house beyond the 
 bright blue one with the green shutters. Let's 
 hurry, dear. Is n't it lovely out at this hour? We 
 shall have time to go right up to the Little Spring 
 and be back at the hotel before your Aunt Char- 
 lotte has even thought of coffee. Just up these 
 little steps are n't they steep? No, Pat, Pat! 
 don't go sniffing at all the rubbish heaps. Here 
 we are, dear." 
 
 There was a pinkish reflection on the white 
 walls of Myrto's little house, and every leaf of 
 the old mulberry tree in the courtyard was 
 clearly outlined on the pale morning sky. 
 
 "You stay outside, Jim. She may be asleep 
 yet, poor thing."
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 179 
 
 Jim, nothing loath, waited with Pat beside 
 him, while Katharine, after tapping gently, 
 pushed open the door and went in. He heard 
 voices at once. Evidently Myrto was awake. 
 He could not catch the rapid Greek, but once he 
 fancied he heard a sort of gasp. Then silence. 
 Then Katharine's voice again, low and pleading, 
 then slightly raised. At last the shutters of the 
 low window were thrown open and he heard him- 
 self called. Katharine was standing at the open 
 window, framed in the vine that grew around it, 
 with the little child in her arms. 
 
 "Jim, come and help me; I can't persuade her 
 that she must go to him. She thinks he will not 
 want her." 
 
 Myrto staggered past Katharine and stood in 
 the doorway, her hands tightly pressed against 
 her breast. She looked very white, and her eyes 
 were fixed. 
 
 "And if he should send me away from him?" 
 she said, in a choking voice. 
 
 Jim saw that Katharine was on the verge of 
 tears, and he summoned his best Greek to 
 come to the rescue. 
 
 "No," he said, "never will he send you away. 
 He wishes to see you very much, so much that he 
 fears to come to you." 
 
 "He fears! he fears!" she repeated; "oh,
 
 180 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 my man, my man!" Suddenly she sank down 
 beside the door-post and began sobbing vio- 
 lently, hiding her face in her arms. 
 
 In an instant Katharine was bending over her, 
 trying to make her cease, thrusting the child into 
 her arms. 
 
 "Take it, Myrto. Take it and go. Take the 
 wee little creature to his father who has never 
 seen him. The boat stands out there near the 
 Rock of the Cross. All the men left it last 
 night. Only Leftheri remained on board. Go, I 
 tell you, go ! " 
 
 At last they persuaded her. She rose, tied her 
 kerchief over her head, and wrapped a shawl 
 round the child. As she closed the door and 
 turned towards the sea, Katharine, who knew 
 many of the island phrases, said: "May his 
 return be joyful to you." 
 
 Myrto stopped and turned her face towards 
 them with the tears still streaming down her 
 cheeks. "Whether he return with me or not, 
 God lengthen your years, you who have been 
 so good to me, and may your eyes never see 
 parting." 
 
 They smiled their thanks and stood together 
 looking after her, as she went down the steep 
 street with the soft burden in her arms. She 
 walked past the deserted square, past the mar-
 
 NORTH AND SOUTH 181 
 
 ketplace, where a few early sellers were setting 
 out their wares, and straight along between the 
 smaller houses of the village and the line of 
 moored boats towards the Rock of the Cross. 
 
 Three or four people looked after her curi- 
 ously, but she did not see them. A girl, whom she 
 pushed unconsciously out of her way, called out 
 angrily after her, but she paid no heed to the 
 cries. The child whimpered, and she hushed it 
 mechanically without looking at it. Once she 
 stumbled over a net and the old man who 
 helped her up said: "Surely the net is big 
 enough before your eyes. And carrying a child, 
 too! Are you blind, my good woman?" But she 
 did not answer him. 
 
 The boat, a large one painted blue, with its 
 sails spread open to dry, was moored close to the 
 sea wall. A broad plank led from the shore to the 
 low deck. Myrto knew it at once for a Poros 
 boat which often carried lemons to Constanti- 
 nople. A little yellow dog came to the edge of the 
 boat and barked at her persistently. He seemed 
 the only live thing on board. Without pausing, 
 only holding the child a little closer to her, she 
 placed her foot on the inclined plank and stepped 
 firmly up on to the little deck. There she stag- 
 gered and caught at a rope to steady herself. 
 Her limbs were heavy and numb, and her head
 
 182 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 felt as though she walked in a dream. At last it 
 seemed to her that she heard a movement below, 
 like the drawing of a wooden stool across the 
 floor. She advanced noiselessly to the dark 
 opening leading to the small cabin and looked 
 down. A man was there alone, seated before a 
 table, his head buried in his arms. 
 
 Suddenly Myrto seemed to awaken, and with 
 an inarticulate cry, just as she was, with the 
 child in her arms, she half climbed, half flung 
 herself down the stairs towards him. 
 
 It was long after sunrise when the man and the 
 woman, with their child in his arms, climbed up 
 the steep cabin stairs and stepped out together 
 into the light.
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 
 
 A babe asleep with flower-soft face that gleamed 
 To sun and seaward as it laughed and dreamed. 
 
 SWINBUBNB. 
 
 UNDER the olives, on an old knitted shawl 
 that had once been red, little Yannaki lay 
 asleep. He looked hot and flushed. Andriana, 
 bending over him, pushed her hand under the 
 black curls at the back of his neck, to see whe- 
 ther he were at all feverish again. No, the skin 
 was quite moist. The child, however, had been 
 restless all night and fretful all morning. 
 
 His elder sister, Marika, aged ten, never knew 
 how to keep him quiet and amused, and their 
 father had sworn at both the children for their 
 noise, and at his wife for not keeping them in 
 order; though he would have done more than 
 swear if she had occupied herself with them 
 instead of preparing his food. 
 
 Andriana had not attempted to excuse the 
 child's peevishness to her husband. She had 
 long ago learned the uselessness of words. But
 
 184 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND" 
 
 when he had left the house, and Marika had 
 started for school, instead of sitting down to her 
 loom and letting Yannaki play about the court- 
 yard as usual, she had tied a white kerchief over 
 her head, thrown the old shawl over her shoul- 
 der, and lifting the boy in her arms set out with 
 a rapid step towards the Narrow Beach. 
 
 He, an easy weight for his four years, clung 
 round her neck, pleased and chattering. As soon 
 as he caught sight of the sea he clamored to be 
 put down. There on the shore he would will- 
 ingly have spent all the afternoon, running to 
 meet the little waves and throwing pebbles into 
 the water, but Andriana took his hand and led 
 him resolutely on. Though already November, 
 the sun was still hot so early in the afternoon, 
 and she wanted to get to the trees. 
 
 Past the rocks she led him, past the little 
 white-walled cemetery with its tall cypress trees, 
 up to the broad Monastery Road that follows 
 the coast, winding up amongst the pines; then 
 over the bridge, turning to the left off the white 
 highway on to the thyme-covered slopes; past 
 the lemon orchards where the big dogs barked at 
 them through the aloe hedge, the small hand 
 holding more tightly to the larger one till they 
 were out of hearing; then over a low wall right 
 into a field where the olive trees grew gray and
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 185 
 
 twisted out of a carpet of purple and rose 
 anemones. 
 
 The child dropped upon his knees in their 
 midst, plucking them with both hands as fast 
 as he could and gurgling with delight. Andriana 
 seated herself on the ground, leaning her tired 
 back against the trunk of an olive tree, and 
 reveled in the boy's enjoyment. He would fill 
 his arms with the purple flowers and fling them 
 all away again for what seemed to him larger or 
 brighter ones a little farther on. Then there 
 were little cries of joy at the rare surprises of 
 the rose-violet double anemones, which he car- 
 ried to her in triumph. 
 
 Soon, however, he wearied. The stones lay 
 thickly over the red earth, and the heavier ones 
 had to be pushed out of their places with a 
 great effort for his small arms when he wanted 
 to get the longer stemmed flowers which curled 
 under them. Yannaki gradually crept close up 
 to Andriana's knees, and there he soon went off 
 to sleep, his little earth-stained fists, still full of 
 purple flowers, tucked under his chin. Andriana 
 slipped the old red shawl under him and brought 
 one end over his legs. After all, it was Novem- 
 ber, though a warm day, and the first rains had 
 fallen nearly a month ago. 
 
 Few Poriote women would have thought of
 
 186 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 bringing the child out here. They would have 
 laid him down on a bed in a hot dark room, and 
 then wondered that he did not sleep, or if he 
 did, that he should awake peevish and tired; 
 but Andriana had been nurse hi Athens to child- 
 ren of good families, and she remembered how 
 often, after a bad night, her little charges had 
 fallen asleep in their pretty white carriages, in 
 the cool green shade of the royal gardens. 
 
 Here, too, under the olives there could be no 
 angry shouts to awaken the boy trembling and 
 crying, no blows to follow the tears. Andriana 
 winced and her eyes hardened, softening again 
 as they fell on the child beside her. He was not 
 her own; but as she told herself every day, it 
 was just the same as if he were. Nothing could 
 have made him any dearer to her. 
 
 Very little had been known in the island about 
 Andoni, the widower; and the Poriotes, who 
 have never cared for strangers, looked askance 
 at him and his two children, though he had 
 taken up his abode in Poros for over a year 
 before Andriana married him. He had come 
 there with Yannaki still in swaddling clothes, 
 and only Marika, a thin, red -eyed child of six, 
 as nurse and general helper. Of his first wife he 
 never spoke. She was dead, he had answered
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 187 
 
 shortly, when questioned; had died when the 
 boy was born. It was not even precisely known 
 whence he had come. Piraeus, some said, while 
 others talked of Patras, adding a confused story 
 of some ill-doings there which had necessitated 
 a precipitate departure. But there was nothing 
 definite. He was a joiner by trade, and a clever 
 workman when he chose to work, which was not 
 often. 
 
 Why Andriana had married him and cheer- 
 fully accepted the burden of his household and 
 the two small children, no one in the island had 
 quite understood. Even the women round the 
 fountain in the evenings had not given a defi- 
 nite opinion. It was true she had been over thirty 
 at the time, and her age, they agreed, may have 
 had something to do with her decision. Still, she 
 was not entirely dowerless, and might, they 
 thought, have found a husband among the 
 islanders, instead of this stranger. She pos- 
 sessed a few olive trees and a small vineyard, 
 which had been the pride of her father's heart. 
 He, an honest sea-captain, had died many years 
 ago, while Andriana was still quite young. Her 
 mother she could not remember. An elder sister 
 of her father's had taken Andriana to live with 
 her after his death, as a matter of course. This 
 old aunt of hers lived with a widowed daughter-
 
 188 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 in-law and her five little children. There were 
 consequently many mouths to fill besides An- 
 driana's, but these women did not hesitate for 
 a moment about taking the orphan in, nor even 
 think better of themselves for the act. It was an 
 evil stroke of Fate, that was all. Blood counts 
 for something in Greece, and no child, though 
 entirely destitute, will ever be left to public 
 charity if there be even a second cousin to claim 
 kinship with it, who may have a loaf of bread, 
 a handful of olives, and a mattress to share. 
 When Andriana grew old enough to work, how- 
 ever, as she had a mind to see the world, no 
 one opposed her leaving Poros to take service 
 in Athens. There, being strong, capable, and 
 hard-working, she had prospered, and had even 
 been as far as Constantinople for some time. 
 After twelve years she had been taken with the 
 longing, so well known to all Poriotes, to revisit 
 the island. There was no one she particularly 
 wished to see, but still they were her own people 
 and it was her own country, and the sound of 
 a Poriote voice in the Zappion Gardens one 
 day made her suddenly feel very homesick. So 
 she returned with a fair amount of savings, and 
 was civilly, if not effusively received. She had 
 not changed much in these years of absence, 
 having always been a tall thin woman with a
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 189 
 
 quiet voice, and never having had much fresh- 
 ness of youth or coloring to lose. 
 
 Andoni, the widower, had rented a little house 
 near her aunt's, and day after day, as she sat on 
 the little wooden balcony with her work, she 
 saw him passing underneath. A fine man she 
 thought him. He had a pale face and a soft 
 brown beard, and being young still, he could 
 hardly help looking rather a pathetic figure, 
 with an infant held awkwardly in unaccustomed 
 arms and an older child walking beside him. 
 Andriana, who had lived long with gentlefolk, 
 noticed his scrupulous cleanliness, the town cut 
 of his coat, his silky, well-brushed beard and 
 his white hands, and contrasted them with the 
 rough clothes and unshaven cheeks of most of 
 the Poriote men. 
 
 One day, while he was absent, she persuaded 
 the girl Marika to run out to play, leaving the 
 babe to her. She looked long at the little child, 
 held it close, put her face against the downy 
 black head, watched the tiny hand close over 
 her rough work-worn finger, and let it creep 
 surely into her heart, to stay there always. 
 
 So when the eldest of her cousins came to her, 
 half laughing, with the news that this widower, 
 this stranger from no one knew where, had sent 
 messengers to him, as the only male represent-
 
 190 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 ative of her family, with proposals of marriage 
 for her, she astounded them all by accepting. 
 After all, they were not sorry she was to go to 
 a home of her own; therefore few difficulties 
 were made, and still fewer inquiries as to the 
 man's antecedents. One old woman only, Kyra 
 Sophoula, who had known Andriana's father 
 well, told her aunt that Andoni was to be seen 
 over-often at Sotiro's tavern, and that she had 
 many a time taken in the children after dark 
 till the father should return; aye, and had even 
 kept them all night when he was not in a fit state 
 for the little girl to see him. But her warning 
 was unheeded. "What would you!" said Kyra 
 Phrosyni, the old aunt; " when a man is alone, 
 can he be a saint or a hermit?" There would 
 be no reason for all such little excesses when he 
 had a wife at home to look after him. Andriana 
 herself only smiled, stitched away at her wed- 
 ding-clothes, and kept little Yannaki almost 
 entirely with her. 
 
 She married Andoni, and before the "kour- 
 ambiedes" that had been baked for the marriage 
 feast had all been eaten, she knew she had made 
 a mistake. He was an incorrigible sluggard to 
 begin with, having been all his life content to 
 earn barely sufficient to keep a loaf on the shelf, 
 a mattress on the floor, and decent clothing on
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 191 
 
 his own back. The personal cleanliness and 
 fastidiousness which had attracted Andriana 
 were, strange to say, almost his only good quali- 
 ties. They did not, however, extend to his child- 
 ren, for the poor little things were in tatters 
 until their stepmother began to make and mend 
 for them. He worked on an average three days 
 out of the seven. The rest of the time he spent 
 partly in bed, combing his beard or reading the 
 newspaper, and the afternoons at Sotiro's tav- 
 ern, slowly imbibing more ouzo than he could 
 well carry, or occupied with other keen politi- 
 cians of his own sort in setting the government 
 right on all points. 
 
 Andriana worked for him and for his children 
 from early dawn till long after the neighbors 
 had put out their lights. No one ever saw him 
 or them with holes in their clothes, nor had they 
 often, except on washing-days, to sit down to 
 uncooked food. At worst, Andoni had always a 
 piece of white touloumi cheese set out on a vine 
 leaf to eat with his bread, even if she and the 
 little ones had to eat theirs dry. 
 
 He never attempted to disguise from his wife 
 that his sole object in marrying her had been 
 to procure some one who would not require 
 payment to look after the children. He prob- 
 ably calculated that the income from her small
 
 192 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 vineyard would also be likely to prove useful 
 when work was slack, or he was more than usu- 
 ally disinclined for it. Grapes, however, even 
 in Greece will not ripen year after year if left 
 entirely to nature. When the mildew came, he 
 swore at his bad luck and did nothing. In vain 
 poor Andriana told him that at the Agricultural 
 Station he could get a certain powder which if 
 regularly sprinkled on the leaves would save the 
 crop. Stamo, the richest landowner of the island, 
 had saved all his vines by using it two seasons 
 ago. Andoni declared he had no mind to try 
 new-fangled plans. He would cross over to the 
 mainland day after day, stroll aimlessly around, 
 stand looking down at the sickly leaves riddled 
 with the tiny mildew holes, scowl at them, and 
 come home to swear at his wife and terrify both 
 children nearly into fits; but beyond this he did 
 simply nothing. The little vineyard gave no 
 fruit that year, and in a fit of disgust he sold it 
 for what it would fetch. 
 
 Andriana said nothing. Would words have 
 brought back the vines her father had loved and 
 tended? Besides, she had got used to his lazi- 
 ness and incompetence. Somehow she thought 
 and felt differently from most of the island 
 women. The money-earner was not every- 
 thing for her. She would have condoned the
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 193 
 
 indolence if only he had left her a few of her 
 first illusions; if only she might have heard a 
 kind word from him now and then ! 
 
 But even when the world went smoothly for 
 him, his habitual speech was of the curtest and 
 roughest, and when he was in a bad temper, it 
 was appalling in its brutality and filth. Andri- 
 ana was a woman of the people; she had from 
 her childhood upwards mixed with the lower 
 classes, whose speech is not delicate; but she 
 had never even dreamed of the possible existence 
 of some of the curses this man used freely. She 
 would shudder at first as though their very 
 violence might call down evil on the house, and 
 would clasp little Yannaki closer to her. Later 
 on she became used to them. Marika was a 
 silent, stolid child, seemingly cowed into a half- 
 idiotic condition, but whom experience had 
 taught when to keep out of her father's way. She 
 soon learned that food and help came from her 
 stepmother, and went to her for them; otherwise 
 she seemed to take little interest in anything. 
 
 But the joy and comfort of Andriana's life 
 was the boy. The neighbors noticed with won- 
 der that she was never seen without the little 
 one. When she worked at her loom he lay on a 
 folded red shawl, a relic of Athenian days, at 
 her feet. She took a small pitcher to the foun-
 
 194 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 tain, so that full or empty it could easily be 
 carried on one arm, leaving the other free for 
 Yannaki. 
 
 She had to trudge there and home again 
 oftener, in consequence, and her back was very 
 tired at night; but what of that? When the 
 boy began to walk he was always clinging to her 
 skirts, and if she ever had to leave him his cries 
 for his "little mother" were heard all over the 
 neighborhood. 
 
 "Manitsa, Manitsa, take 'Annaki, take 'An- 
 naki with you, Manitsa." 
 
 She had even taken him to church with her 
 once or twice, but the attempt had not been a 
 success. Once, in fact, in answer to a whisper of 
 Andriana's he had scandalized the worshipers 
 by exclaiming at the top of a shrill little voice, 
 "Why does the priest talk in church, then, 
 Manitsa? " So that Pappa Thanassi had begged 
 her not to renew the experiment; with the result 
 that she stayed away herself. 
 
 He was a pretty, winning child, with a little 
 round face and soft black curls; but never very 
 strong, taking colds and fevers easily and some- 
 times going into convulsions of terror at his 
 father's violence. So Andriana was glad the 
 child should have this quiet sleep out there under 
 the olives.
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 195 
 
 An hour later she was returning along the 
 Monastery Road, the boy held in her arms, wide 
 awake now and chattering. He had been run- 
 ning along, chasing stray kids and gathering 
 sprigs of thyme for "Manitsa's oven," he said; 
 but where the low stone wall had crumbled 
 away over the cliffs she had picked him up, 
 fearful of a false step. 
 
 . It was about an hour before sunset, and long 
 shimmering bands of transparent green came 
 slowly stealing over the opaque blue of the bay. 
 The gulls wheeled and circled over the surface 
 of the water with harsh cries and sudden flashes 
 of white wings. A peasant woman in her rough 
 frieze coat, her back bent under a load of thyme, 
 passed her, and wished her good-evening. She 
 was a stranger to Andriana. 
 
 "Are you from these parts? " the latter asked. 
 
 "No; from Damala; but I brought my child 
 in to Poros two days ago to show her to the doc- 
 tor, and we return to-morrow. To-night I am 
 bringing some thyme down from the hills for 
 my cousin where we stay and who keeps the 
 girl while I am away." 
 
 "Was it fevers?" inquired Andriana, inter- 
 ested. 
 
 "Yes, for months now. She is as yellow as a 
 Good-Friday candle, poor little maid."
 
 196 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND' 
 
 "This little one has had fevers also." Andri- 
 ana covered Yannaki's legs in the shawl as she 
 spoke. "But I give him quinine and he is 
 better." 
 
 * "May the Holy Virgin keep him so." And 
 the woman smiled at the little face that gazed 
 at her open-eyed. "He is like you," she added, 
 wishing to please. 
 
 And Andriana, proud and happy at the mis- 
 take, did not set her right. 
 
 "Ah, but you are well off here in the island," 
 continued the stranger; "what life do you think 
 it is for us poor mothers at the village over 
 there? To think no doctor can be found to come 
 like a good Christian and do his work with us, 
 but we must take our poor children in our arms, 
 burning with fever, three hours' walk through 
 the sun-blaze, for the doctor to see them just 
 once. As for quinine, what they sell down at 
 Damala is half flour, and they make us pay as 
 though every grain were of gold." 
 
 "Have you other children?" 
 
 "One big boy, and a little one who just 
 walks." 
 
 "May they live for you," said Andriana. 
 
 "Thank you. I had another boy, the first, 
 but he quarreled with his father one day and 
 in an evil hour went off with the sponge divers.
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 197 
 
 Six months after, he returned with his legs para- 
 lyzed and useless: you know how it is; and little 
 by little all his body was taken the same way, 
 till only the head and one hand remained free. 
 In a year he died. Just twenty he was, and a 
 fine lad. But I was glad when he died yes, 
 glad. Is it a life to lead? If only my Yoryi does 
 not go the same way ! His father beats him too 
 much, and he has threatened more than once 
 to run away. And those sponge captains, the 
 dogs, are always prowling about to tempt the 
 likely lads with their money and their fine 
 promises." 
 
 "They are bad men," Andriana agreed, "with 
 no heart for the poor boys whom they cripple 
 and the mothers who have to see such things. 
 Is your man a hard one, then?" 
 
 "Eh," sighed the woman, "can you expect a 
 woman's patience from a man? And mine is not 
 a bad one when things go well. I know what 
 troubles the poor souls have. What are they to 
 do, where can they turn for help when times 
 are bad? Have we poor people any ready 
 money to live on? And who can fight against 
 God? When the south wind spoils the olives, 
 or when for our sins cold comes in April and 
 burns up the grapes at their bloom, then our 
 men get wild and curse us and beat the children
 
 198 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 for nothing. Eh, well, poverty begets hard 
 words. Who does not know that?" 
 
 Andriana sighed, but said nothing. Then, 
 after a pause, "I must get home, it is late. 
 Good-night, Kyra, and keep up your courage; 
 your daughter will soon be quite well." 
 
 "May it go from your lips to God's ear," 
 answered the woman gratefully; "good-night 
 to you." 
 
 Andoni had been at home some time when 
 Andriana arrived with the child. Work, it 
 seems, was slack that day, and finding the house 
 empty he had had time and opportunity to 
 work himself into a more than usually bad tem- 
 per. He said nothing, however, while Andriana 
 busied herself about the room and prepared the 
 supper; only sat out on the little balcony, 
 smoothing his beard with his limp white hand. 
 But after he had finished eating, just as she was 
 carrying the child into the inner room for the 
 night, he burst into a storm of violent abuse. 
 Where had she been gadding about? Honest 
 women kept indoors, and so should she, or he 
 would flay the skin off her if she showed her ugly 
 face across the threshold again. 
 
 Andriana looked at him for a moment; at the 
 scowling brow, and the mouthing lips that were
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 199 
 
 too red in a face that was too pale, and then 
 passed into the other room without a word. He 
 followed her, kicking in the door furiously. 
 
 Marika crouched behind the low bed, and 
 Yannaki began to whimper in Andriana's arms. 
 She bent over him. 
 
 "Hush, my little bird, no one shall hurt you." 
 
 "Stop talking to the child and answer when 
 I speak," cried her husband savagely. "Where 
 did you go?" 
 
 "Out with the little one." 
 
 "But where out?" 
 
 "To the olive grove off the Monastery Road." 
 
 "Likely story, you went so far. I tell you I 
 will not have my child taken out as an excuse or 
 a shield. You went on some filthy business of 
 your own, and the child comes in convenient." 
 
 "That is a lie." 
 
 "Silence!" Andoni shouted. 
 
 "I will not be silent when I have something 
 to say, and you know it. The child is often ill, 
 the fever returns every week now. He requires 
 more fresh air and quiet than he can get in the 
 house, and he shall have it." 
 
 "You make your reckoning without the land- 
 lord. The child will be all right if you leave him 
 alone. Fresh air! rubbish! Those are town 
 notions. When he is older he shall come out
 
 200 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 with me. You will stay in and look after your 
 house a little better, do you hear?" 
 
 She looked at him a moment before she an- 
 swered. "I hear, but when it is necessary I shall 
 take him out all the same." 
 
 In two strides he was up to her and was shak- 
 ing her violently, furious at this unexpected 
 opposition. The terrified child in her arms 
 screamed loudly, and was roughly flung upon 
 the bed by his father. 
 
 "Ah, you will take him out all the same, will 
 you, you filthy slut?" And as he spoke he 
 struck her repeatedly on the head with his 
 closed fist. 
 
 Andriana had been forced on to her knees, 
 and her black hair, escaping from the kerchief, 
 fell over her face. 
 
 "Yes, I will," she repeated wildly; "half the 
 times you will not know it, and when you do, 
 you can only beat me when I get back. The 
 child will have been out all the same." 
 
 He let go his hold of her suddenly, so that she 
 fell back across an old chest and lay there look- 
 ing up at him defiantly. 
 
 "So that is what you will do, is it? Only, you 
 see," and his voice became dangerously mild, 
 "I am afraid so much outing with the child 
 and the care of the house all together may be too
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 201 
 
 tiring for you, so that if I hear you have been 
 out again it will be better I should send the boy 
 to Patras. I have a sister there who will take 
 him in and bring him up. It is a very healthy 
 town, you know, Patras; there are no fevers 
 there. So if you prefer this? Why not? It will be 
 less noise in the house, too, and one less to feed." 
 
 Andriana rose to her feet, shivering. "You 
 cannot you cannot." 
 
 "And why cannot I, pray? Is not the child 
 mine to do as I will with? As for the neighbors, I 
 have but to say the child was a new toy at first, 
 but now that you have wearied of him. You are 
 only a stepmother after all; they will find it 
 quite natural. Well," as she remained gazing 
 at him with wide-open eyes, "well," and he 
 thrust his pale face close to hers, "cannot I do 
 as I like? Cannot I send him anywhere I 
 choose? Is there anything on earth to prevent 
 me?" 
 
 A wave of terror passed over her face. Her 
 fingers worked at her apron. "No," she said very 
 slowly, "no." 
 
 He laughed, a loud, cackling, discordant, 
 triumphant laugh. "Then see that you do as I 
 tell you, or he shall go before you can say 
 'Amen.'" 
 
 In grim silence he took off his clothes, shook
 
 202 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 them, folded them carefully, and lay down on 
 the bed beside the boy, throwing one arm osten- 
 tatiously round him as though to emphasize his 
 proprietorship. 
 
 There is no privacy for the poor, even for tears. 
 Andriana laid herself down on the floor mattress 
 beside Marika, and stuffed the coarse sheet be- 
 tween her teeth to break the violence of her 
 sobs. 
 
 In the middle of the night the little girl touched 
 her shoulder. "He is snoring," she said; "you 
 can cry now, Mana, if you like." It was dark; 
 Andriana could not see the child's face, but she 
 took fast hold of her hand. "Sleep, sleep; you 
 are a good girl." 
 
 Towards dawn, she fell asleep herself. 
 
 The next day she went about the house in a 
 dazed, listless fashion. Her head ached from 
 the blows she had received, but she would not 
 have minded that, if only all interest had not 
 seemed gone out of her work. What need now, 
 or ever, to hurry to get it done early, since the 
 time so gained could be of no good to the child. 
 
 She thought of all she must give up, and her 
 heart turned sick. No more long sunny after- 
 noons under the pines, knitting stockings while 
 the boy rolled over and over in the soft pine 
 needles beside her, no more strolls along the
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 20S 
 
 shore beyond the Naval School down to Barba 
 Nicola's little coffee-house, where Yannaki 
 always stopped to stroke the white cat or her 
 new little kittens. No more errands to carry 
 fresh eggs to the red house on the hill, where the 
 little ladies would make much of Yannaki, carry 
 him about, feed him with cakes, making An- 
 driana promise never to cut off his curls till he 
 was quite a big boy. No more rides for Yannaki 
 on old Barba Stathi's donkey when they met 
 master and beast returning laden from the hills. 
 Even in the cold rainy days of late autumn no 
 more runs across to Kyra Sophoula's little 
 house, with Yannaki so well wrapped up that 
 only his black curls and round black eyes 
 showed above the old red shawl. No more feasts 
 of koulouria and dry figs that Kyra Sophoula 
 always kept for him. No more wonderful boats 
 carved out of vegetable marrows by Metro, the 
 one who afterwards became a schoolmaster. 
 No more long quiet hours of play for the child 
 on the covered terrace while the two women 
 talked or sewed. 
 
 All this was over and past. Any disagreeable 
 consequences to herself, Andriana would have 
 quietly put aside; but Andoni had been clever 
 enough to use the one threat which most effect- 
 ually prevented her from stirring out of the
 
 204 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 house with the child, except as far as the foun- 
 tain for water. Even when oil or flour was 
 needed, she would send Marika for it after 
 school hours. 
 
 Andoni took to returning to the house at un- 
 expected moments, between an odd job and a 
 long rest at Sotiro's, or even between two rests, 
 to make sure that his orders were obeyed. But 
 he never found her absent with the child. He 
 had frightened her too badly. 
 
 The days went by, and the weeks. Andriana 
 worked harder than ever, and talked less. 
 The house they lived in was situated in one of 
 the narrowest of the little steep streets of the 
 island, far from the sea. Its courtyard was sur- 
 rounded by bare walls, and under the windows 
 the refuse heaps of the neighbors rotted quietly 
 in the sun. The child, deprived of the pine 
 breezes and the sea air, wasted and got visibly 
 thinner week by week. Andriana broke through 
 her usual silence to call his father's attention to 
 his condition fiercely once or twice, but he only 
 laughed or turned on her with a curse, according 
 to the humor of the moment. Paternity had 
 been simply an accident of nature with him, 
 and in this country where the tie of blood is so 
 powerful even to the third and fourth degree,
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 205 
 
 he only seemed relieved when the child grew 
 less and less noisy. 
 
 One evening Andriana appeared alone at the 
 fountain. 
 
 "And the little one?" asked Kyra Sophoula; 
 "how fares he?" 
 
 "Ah, Kyra Sophoula! all day and yesterday 
 too he had fever, even in the early morning. 
 Quinine seems to do him no good any more. 
 There is also a sore on his little leg that runs. 
 I have tried pounded rice with honey, and even 
 a plaster of cow dung, but it will not heal." 
 
 "Have you shown it to the doctor?" 
 
 "His father will not let me bring the doctor. 
 On my knees I have begged him, and he will not. 
 I cannot understand it; I cannot. Is not the 
 child his own blood after all? Does not his heart 
 ache for him? Help me, Kyra Sophoula, you 
 are a wise woman and you know men well. Tell 
 me what I can do to rouse his interest." 
 
 "How can you rouse what never existed, my 
 poor one? It is as though you went to an empty 
 bed and strove to awaken the sleeper who was 
 not there." 
 
 Nevertheless the next morning, when the 
 child awoke hot and heavy-eyed, and pushed 
 away his food with fretful cries, Andriana made 
 another attempt.
 
 206 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "Andoni," she said, as her husband was 
 combing out his beard before leaving the house, 
 " I must fetch the doctor for the boy to-day; it is 
 necessary." 
 
 "Go to the devil with your doctors," shouted 
 Andoni furiously; "how many times must I 
 repeat a thing before your thick head will take 
 it in ! When I say no, it is finished. You would 
 have a strange man in the house to talk sweet 
 words with; that is what you want." 
 
 "That is evil talk," said Andriana quietly; 
 "let me speak. You would not have the doctor 
 for Marika last summer, and the girl was very 
 long getting well; now I wish him to come for 
 the little one. He has fever every day, and I 
 showed you yesterday the wound in his leg, how 
 it runs." 
 
 He turned on her with a curse. "I am the 
 master here, and, once for all, no doctor shall 
 put his foot in my house. If you bring one here 
 with his new-fangled notions, and his medicines 
 that cost good money, I will smash his face for 
 him, and you may know it. The child ails 
 nothing. Some one has cast the evil eye on him, 
 and the small sore has become a large one. Get 
 some old woman to make an ointment for it, or a 
 cataplasm of healing leaves. Women are all 
 fools, and a torture sent to us for our sins, but
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 207 
 
 for a small matter like this, an old woman's 
 medicine is all that is needed. When you go to 
 the fountain, bring Kyra Marina back with you 
 to see the child. She knows many cures." 
 
 "I shall not go to the fountain to-day, and if 
 I did twenty times over, I would not bring that 
 old shrew near the child. She is a wicked 
 woman." 
 
 "Wicked, is she?" Andoni tipped up the 
 earthen pitcher leisurely, and took a long drink 
 of water, wiping the drops carefully off his 
 beard afterwards. "Wicked, eh? You are such 
 a saint, of course you cannot condescend to her. 
 Well, I go. If you will not hear reason, look 
 after the child yourself. And should he get 
 worse, the sin will be yours, not mine. But a 
 doctor in my house to play the master to 
 say, 'This you must do, and this you may not 
 do,' never" 
 
 Andriana bit her lower lip. "I have a few 
 lepta left from my spinning; you will have no 
 medicine to pay for." 
 
 "That is enough words. I have said no, and 
 I mean no. It is finished." 
 
 Then, as she kept silence, he asked furi- 
 ously, swinging the door in his hand, "Do you 
 hear?" 
 
 "I hear."
 
 208 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "Then mind you remember." And he banged 
 the door loudly behind him. 
 
 The child, startled out of a fitful sleep, cried 
 pitifully from the inner room. Andriana was 
 beside him in a moment, patting and soothing 
 him. 
 
 "Sleep, my golden one. Sleep, my little bird. 
 To-morrow you will get up well and go out to 
 play. Sleep, my little heart." 
 
 Then she tore up one of the few remaining 
 linen handkerchiefs, which had been given to 
 her as a New Year's gift in Athens, to make a 
 fresh bandage for the sore leg. 
 
 "Nevertheless," she whispered as she drew 
 the old red shawl over the child, "the doctor 
 shall see him." 
 
 But that evening and the next day, and the 
 next after that, he seemed better, and she waited. 
 The third night, however, the child could not 
 rest. Andoni twisted and turned on his bed, 
 cursing his wife, and threatening to get up and 
 throw the pitcher of water over both of them if 
 she could not succeed in stopping the child's 
 cries. At last she lifted the boy up, wrapped 
 him in the old shawl, and carried him into the 
 dark outer room, where she walked up and 
 down, holding him close to her and trying to 
 soothe him. Once she threw the wrap aside, for
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 209 
 
 the sore leg was so hot that she felt the heat on 
 her bare arms through the thickness of the wool. 
 But soon came the little fretful wail: 
 
 "Oh, Manitsa, the shawl; I want my red 
 shawl, Manitsa." 
 
 And she picked it up again. Indeed, it seemed 
 to be only the leg that burned, for the boy shiv- 
 ered continually. 
 
 Once he said, "When Babba wakes up, will 
 he take my red shawl away?" 
 
 And she answered under her breath, "No, 
 my little bird, he shall not." 
 
 He held one of the folds close to him in a thin 
 hot little hand and closed his eyes, reassured; 
 but more than once when the grasp relaxed he 
 would fancy he had lost it and cry out in fear, 
 "My shawl, Manitsa; my red shawl." 
 
 "It is here, my little golden heart, my soul, 
 it is here. See, I fold it round warmly so. 
 Now, sleep, sleep that you may awake well to- 
 morrow. Sleep, my little bird. Lie still and 
 sleep." 
 
 He slept at last, a heavy sleep, but when the 
 morning came and he awoke he did not know 
 Andriana, and his moans were such that Andoni 
 made haste to leave the house to be out of 
 hearing. 
 
 Andriana left the child for a few moments to
 
 210 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 the care of Marika and ran half distracted to her 
 old Aunt Phrosyni's house at the end of the 
 street. It had rained in the night and the fresh 
 sweet odor of damp earth was in the air, but 
 Andriana only knew that the stones were wet 
 and slippery and that she could not run as fast 
 as she wished up the steep incline. The house, 
 blue-washed and green-shuttered, stood at the 
 top of the slope near the church, and a fat old 
 woman at the window was watering pink carna- 
 tions planted in a battered old petroleum tin. 
 Andriana caught her hand, and the water from 
 the pitcher spattered all over her. 
 
 "Aunt," she cried, without stopping to wipe 
 her face, "save me! The child, Yannaki, awoke 
 worse just now, all his little body is one fire, and 
 he talks wild words. Come with me quickly, 
 now, and bring some money with you, aunt, for 
 all I had is taken, and may you live to enjoy 
 your own children. Bring some, and then you 
 can stay with the child while I run for the doc- 
 tor and for medicines; my man can do what he 
 likes to me afterwards." 
 
 The old woman came out into the street at 
 once. 
 
 "I will come, my daughter, yes; but what 
 else can I do for you? If a few lepta remain they 
 must be kept to pay the men for the digging of
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 11 
 
 the vine, or else what will happen to us when the 
 vintage comes?" 
 
 Andriana had already turned to retrace her 
 steps, muttering, "Then the doctor must come 
 for the good of his soul." 
 
 Her aunt followed as fast as her bulk would 
 allow, talking as she went. "What help will the 
 doctor be, my poor one? Do you think they 
 know so much, these doctors? And this one 
 here such a boy, his mustache has scarce dark- 
 ened his lip. My daughter-in-law would bring 
 him last winter for the girl Anneza, who was 
 thin and coughed all night. We told him the 
 evil eye had been cast on the child as we all 
 knew, for ever since the strange lady who came 
 in the steamer from Piraeus admired her lovely 
 color, she had never seen a good day. But he, 
 the doctor, laughed out loud, the young fool, 
 and told her mother it was more likely the maid 
 had taken cold the day she brought down the 
 branches from the hills when the north wind 
 blew so hard. The eve of St. John's it was, I 
 remember, as the wood was wanted to bake the 
 kourambiedes for Yanni's name-day. As though 
 the doctor, with all his learning, could know 
 more about the girl than her own mother. 
 Bah! what can the doctor do for you?" 
 
 Two hours later, when the young doctor stood
 
 212 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 in the crowded room, bending over the moaning 
 little figure and looking at the purple swollen 
 limb, he repeated the same words. 
 
 "What can I do for you, my poor woman? 
 Three, even two days ago, perhaps I might have 
 done something, but now " Then to Kyra 
 Sophoula and the old aunt he added, "It will be 
 over soon; the child has death in his throat 
 already. Keep the room empty if you can, and 
 give him air. He will die easier so." 
 
 But none of the neighbors would move. To 
 Kyra Sophoula's entreaties they returned indig- 
 nant answers. Had they the heart to leave poor 
 Andriana alone in her trouble? Or did Kyra 
 Sophoula imagine she was the only one who 
 knew about sickness? After all, were doctors 
 gods, to be never wrong? This neighbor knew 
 of a remedy which had worked miracles, and 
 the other of an ointment that had saved her 
 own brother when he had been in a far worse 
 state than the child. So they stayed and filled 
 the small white plastered room, and blocked up 
 the narrow windows, and whispered, and went 
 in and out, fetching this or that, and pounded 
 strange-smelling substances and concocted va- 
 rious plasters and ointments, and as a last 
 resource burned incense before the icon of the 
 Holy Virgin.
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 213 
 
 Andriana let them try everything, but towards 
 sunset they lost hope. 
 
 Andoni, when he appeared, grumbled at a 
 pack of women filling his house, declared the 
 child was no worse than it had been all these 
 days, and when night came swore at his wife 
 for not carrying his mattress away from the 
 inner room down to the lower floor, where he 
 kept his lathe and some old tools, and where 
 the ceaseless moan of the sick child could not 
 reach him. 
 
 However, towards dawn he was able to sleep 
 undisturbed. The moaning had ceased. 
 
 The next day, after Kyra Sophoula and Kyra 
 Phrosyni had done all that was needful, the 
 neighbors returned in even greater numbers 
 than before. No one ever willingly missed a 
 funeral in Poros. 
 
 The windows of the room were darkened by 
 squares of thin black cloth pinned across them, 
 and a loose piece of the same material covered 
 the only existing sofa. The little white coffin 
 rested open on two straw chairs. Three yellow 
 candles, in tall iron candlesticks brought from 
 the church, stood, two at the head and one at 
 the foot, the flame alternately flaring and flick- 
 ering and throwing dark shadows over the little
 
 214 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 white face with the sunken eyes. A slender 
 wreath of lemon blossom was twisted in the 
 black curls, and the tiny hands were crossed and 
 tied together with a white ribbon. Sprigs of 
 sweet basil and a few carnations were strewn all 
 over the coffin; also sugared almonds such as 
 are used for weddings, in token that the boy 
 was now a little bridegroom of the church. 
 
 Andoni, not daring in common decency to 
 absent himself, stood awkwardly at one side of 
 the coffin, unconsciously smoothing and strok- 
 ing his beard. 
 
 As for Andriana, her first stunned stupor had 
 after many hours given way to the violent grief 
 of the poor, which is scarcely ever silent or 
 speechless, and yet is none the less sincere for 
 the outpouring of words that would never come 
 at a calmer moment. She knelt at the other side 
 of the coffin, her arms stretched over it, and her 
 face sometimes hidden between them and some- 
 times thrown back. It was entirely disfigured 
 by long weeping and almost unrecognizable. 
 The features were swollen and the lips lead- 
 colored and trembling. The long moaning sobs 
 seemed to be wrenched from the depths of her 
 chest, and the flood of words rushed forth, now in 
 loud screams, and now in confused mutterings. 
 
 "Oh, my child! my little, little child! Was it
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 215 
 
 for this I took you into my heart and loved you? 
 Oh, my God! my God! why did this evil find 
 me? My child, my child, if I could only die 
 also ! Oh, my life, my little heart, my soul's com- 
 fort! I want to lie with you to keep you warm 
 there where they will put you. There is no life 
 for me now. I have done with the world.'* 
 
 Here the uncontrollable sobs threatened to 
 choke her, and the woman who sat nearest rose 
 and brought her a glass of water. But Andriana 
 pushed it aside and burst forth again, swaying 
 backwards and forwards, one hand clasping her 
 throat. 
 
 "He suffered so yesterday, my little bird. All 
 day he suffered and did not know me. One 
 whole day have I lost one whole day. Oh, 
 that day ! I must have that day. Ah, God owes 
 me that day one day more just one and 
 I will let him go* If God is just, He must give me 
 that day. He must " in a voice rising hyste- 
 rically higher and higher, "He must He 
 must! or else" with a wild scream "or else 
 He is not a God, He is a devil yes, a devil!" 
 
 A low murmur of shocked horror arose, and 
 Pappa Thanassi, the priest, came forward in 
 grave remonstrance. 
 
 "Hush, you are a good Christian; do not 
 blaspheme."
 
 216 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 But she did not look at him, nor answer, 
 only threw her arms once more across the little 
 coffin, making it tremble under her weight. And 
 again the long moans rose and fell, the moans 
 that carry irreparable agonizing loss in their 
 sound, which no other pain of mind or body 
 ever brings forth. And between them the cease- 
 less refrain, "My child! Oh, my little, little 
 child!" 
 
 There was a stir amongst those standing 
 nearest the door, and Kyra Sophoula stooped to 
 whisper to Andriana that the little ladies from 
 the red house on the hill had come with their 
 governess to see her and the child; the little 
 ladies who had been so fond of the boy. The 
 words reached her brain and she rose to greet 
 them, with the innate courtesy of the Greek 
 peasant. 
 
 When they spoke to her in hushed tones, 
 awed at the signs of the unfamiliar grief on the 
 familiar face, her sobs broke forth again, but 
 not so wildly. 
 
 "Yes, you loved him, my little Yannaki, my 
 little boy. And all his pretty curls see do 
 you remember you told me when I brought him 
 to your house to be sure not to cut them off, he 
 looked so pretty with them? and I did not. 
 But now" her voice broke "now the earth
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 217 
 
 will be scattered over them! Oh, how can I 
 leave him alone in the dark; such a little one 
 as he is! Where shall I find him when my heart 
 cries for him?" 
 
 Here her old aunt came bustling up. It was 
 bad for the little ladies, she said, to see such 
 sights and to hear such grief; it was not fit for 
 their years. So she hurried them out after they 
 had placed the few roses they had brought over 
 the little crossed hands. 
 
 When the moment came for the tiny coffin 
 to be taken away, one mercy was granted to 
 Andriana. She lost consciousness. So while the 
 crowd of mourners filed out after Pappa Tha- 
 nassi in his robes, a few of the older women 
 stayed behind with her, dabbing her face and 
 hands with vinegar while she went from one 
 long faint into another. 
 
 It was more than a month after the little 
 funeral procession had gone along the Narrow 
 Beach to the white-walled cemetery by the sea, 
 that Kyra Phrosyni came one day towards dusk 
 to visit Andriana. 
 
 It was chilly, and she found her crouching 
 over the manghali, having just ended a long 
 day's washing. Marika was playing outside 
 with other children. Andoni was out, as usual.
 
 218 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 The only difference the boy's death seemed to 
 have made to him was that he kept away from 
 the house, if possible, more than before. He 
 could not stand Andriana's face, he said. Be- 
 sides, who ever heard of such a fuss made and 
 the child not even her own. 
 
 Kyra Phrosyni, seated on a low stool in front 
 of the manghali, eyed her niece critically, while 
 the latter cowered down, holding her hands over 
 the lighted coals. Her cotton skirt was wet in 
 patches where she had leaned against the 
 wooden washing-trough, her fingers were wrin- 
 kled from the long hours in the hot water, and 
 her hair escaping from the black kerchief fell 
 about her face. 
 
 "You have been washing from the morn- 
 ing?" 
 
 "From dawn, yes; there were many clothes." 
 
 "I am too old and too fat to do much washing 
 now; Calliope and Anneza do it all. But when I 
 did, these long days at the washing-trough used 
 tokill me. Does not your waist feel broken in two? " 
 
 "Broken or not, the work must be done." 
 
 "And the girl? Does she not help?" 
 
 "She is too small." 
 
 "Or too lazy, perhaps, being her father's 
 child? Eh, but she is like him, as like as one 
 rook to another."
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 219 
 
 "Her face is like him; that is not her fault. 
 She is a good child, and a quiet one." 
 
 "And where may Andoni be?" 
 
 "Do I know?" with an uplifting of the 
 bowed shoulders. 
 
 "He never tells you?" 
 
 "Neither do I ask him, neither does he tell 
 me." 
 
 "You should try to find out." 
 
 "And wherefore should I?" 
 
 "Because it is not good for a man to feel too 
 free; not to be a little afraid of his wife's tongue. 
 I am not for loud words Holy Virgin, no! 
 * Better a cabbage in peace than sugar with 
 strife,' as the saying is, but if you swallow every- 
 thing and never open your lips he will go to the 
 bad entirely." 
 
 "Let him go." 
 
 "These are not wise words, my daughter, and 
 the hour will come when you will repent them. 
 Your man needs looking after. Pericli, the fruit 
 seller you know Pericli, Calliope's cousin?" 
 
 "I know him." 
 
 "Well, he told me yesterday, and he counts 
 his words, does Pericli, that he saw Andoni not 
 two days ago, standing, after dusk, inside the 
 door arch down near the marketplace, with 
 Olympia, that tall girl of Barba Manoli's, the
 
 220 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 one with the yellow hair, and he was holding 
 her hand, Pericli said, and talking sweet words 
 to her! And Pericli heard that it was not the 
 first time either." 
 
 "I am sorry for her." 
 
 Kyra Phrosyni got up in offended dignity. 
 This was not the way she had expected her news 
 to be received. 
 
 "Come to your senses, my daughter," she 
 said at last; "what will it profit you to go your 
 own way in silence and let your man spend all 
 his money out of his house, and on strange 
 women. Now that he earns more, you should 
 try to control him a little and make him put 
 some aside." 
 
 "Who says he earns more?" 
 
 "Why, every one, of course. Have you just 
 awaked, my poor one? It is days now that he 
 has paid all his old wine score at Sotiro's, and 
 treats every one who sits with him. Why, on 
 Sunday he had a whole lot of men drinking to 
 his health. They told me he gave Sotiro ten 
 drachmas to pay for three okes of retsinato 
 when he got up to go, and told him to keep the 
 change; it was too much trouble, he said, to 
 wait for it." 
 
 Andriana's eyes changed. "I know nothing 
 of all this, aunt. There has been no money in
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 221 
 
 the house, and we owe for oil and flour since last 
 month." 
 
 "These are strange doings then, very strange, 
 and if I were you I would make haste to find out 
 what they mean." 
 
 "Yes," said Andriana slowly, "I will." 
 
 It was three days later in the early dawn after 
 a stormy night. The rain had ceased, but a damp 
 chilly ah* came through the chinks of the shut- 
 ters. The room in the dim light had a bare, 
 empty look; its few pieces of furniture had been 
 pushed back against the wall. The boards had 
 been freshly scrubbed, and on a shelf near the 
 table was an untouched loaf and a small cov- 
 ered pan. An old painted wooden chest near 
 the door had been pulled out of its place and the 
 lid thrown back. 
 
 Andoni sat on the edge of a high stool fully 
 dressed, but pale and disheveled, his elbows on 
 his knees, his face in his hands, and his fingers 
 clutching nervously at his beard. He stared at 
 Andriana with bloodshot, furious eyes. She 
 stood opposite to him, with her back to the wall, 
 dressed in a dark woolen dress, a black kerchief 
 tied over her hair, holding in clenched hands the 
 old shawl which had once been red. 
 
 "Suppose," said her husband, speaking sud-
 
 222 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 denly, "that I were just to kill you where you 
 stand, to strangle you with my two hands and 
 have done once for all with your 'I will' and 
 *I will not/ Have you thought of that in all 
 your plans?" 
 
 "No," said Andriana quietly; "you would be 
 found out, and that would be worse than the 
 other thing." 
 
 "There is no other," he blustered. 
 
 "There is. I have searched and I have found. 
 I know now why you were obliged to leave 
 Patras secretly in the night. And if only that 
 were all ! But I know also where the money came 
 from that you have been spending lately; now, 
 these last weeks. I know all. And what I know, 
 others can learn even the prefect of the police 
 if Hike." 
 
 His face grew almost gray. 
 
 "A bad year to you!" he screamed savagely; 
 "and who will listen to your tales, do you think? " 
 
 Then as she stood silent, he swallowed once 
 or twice and lowered his voice. "Come now, 
 you are not a stupid woman, come to your 
 senses. What will it profit you to go away but 
 to be badly spoken of? Come, leave all this folly 
 and stay quietly in your own house." 
 
 She shook her head. "I have stayed four 
 years," she said; "I have risen early, and gone
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 223 
 
 late to rest; nor have I wasted your money. 
 I have worn cotton in winter and I have fed 
 scantily. I have worked, as I never did for 
 strangers worked as a mule at the well." 
 
 "And now?" he sneered. 
 
 "Now, I cannot do it any more. I have borne 
 much, for you, and from you. Poverty, that 
 you might have prevented, hard words, neglect, 
 curses, even blows. But shame! no, that I will 
 not bear. Put it out of your mind that I ever 
 will. If my father lived he would take me from 
 you. So I will not sleep another night in your 
 house." 
 
 "You will not?" shouted Andoni in a frenzy 
 of rage. 
 
 "/ will not. I have borne everything. A bad 
 heart I knew you had; now that I find you are 
 not even an honest man, that you can steal from 
 a widow and an orphan, that is all over. I am 
 glad, yes, glad that the little one is gone, that 
 he should not grow up to know his father." 
 
 There was a pause. The man looked at her 
 open-mouthed, his arms hanging down limply 
 beside him. 
 
 Then in a quieter voice she continued: "I 
 have left the house clean and in order, and food 
 cooked for to-day. There is nothing owing but 
 the flour for the last baking and three okes of
 
 224 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 oil. You will find some one to look after you. 
 For me, I shall go as far away as I can 
 perhaps to Constantinople, or to Alexandria. 
 I shall tell no lies, but I am strong; I can always 
 find work enough to keep myself and the girl." 
 
 Andoni started forward. "The girl!" he 
 gasped, "the girl! you are mad; is she yours?" 
 
 "No, she is not mine, but I must take her. 
 Her mother will thank me if she knows. You 
 will not care. What would you do with her? 
 She is too small to work for you, and would be 
 only a trouble." 
 
 "Where is the girl?" he asked suddenly; 
 "where have you hidden her?" 
 
 "Nowhere; she slept at Kyra Sophoula's last 
 night. I told her to wait for me there." 
 
 " You told her!" He strode up and seized her 
 shoulder. "Are you the master?" he asked 
 savagely, but his teeth chattered as he spoke. 
 
 She wrenched herself free with a sudden 
 movement. "Let me be," she said; "let me be, 
 now and always, and no harm shall come to you, 
 from me at least. But try to keep me or the girl 
 by force, and I go straight to the prefect. I 
 swear it on the soul of the little one." 
 
 He pushed his open palm towards her with 
 the fingers wide apart, than which there is no 
 greater sign of contempt.
 
 THE STEPMOTHER 225 
 
 "Nah!" he said; "nah! take the girl and go to 
 the devil, if you like. I shall be well rid of you. 
 After all, if ever I want the girl I can send for 
 her." 
 
 "You need not; she will not come." 
 
 Before he could gather together his bewil- 
 dered wits to answer her, she crossed over to 
 the door and drew the bolt. She paused a mo- 
 ment and looked back into the dark room. Then, 
 with the old shawl that had once been red hang- 
 ing over her arm, she passed out, closing the 
 door behind her. 
 
 Andoni never saw her again.
 
 VI 
 
 THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 
 
 When desire was a longing, and absence a thorn, and rejoicing a 
 word without reason. 
 
 SWINBURNE. 
 
 "DEAD ! Kyr Apostoli dead ! " 
 
 Barba Manoli opened his eyes wide and pushed 
 out his lips. "When? What are you telling, 
 neighbor?" 
 
 "It is the truth. Life to you, Barba Manoli." 
 
 "When did he die? Where did you hear it?" 
 
 "Those who came in the steamer this morning 
 from Hydra told us. He died there last Friday 
 evening. The priest was just finishing the 'Salu- 
 tations' when they called him." 
 
 "It must have been a stroke," said Barba 
 Manoli, gathering his brows together. "Kyr 
 Apostoli was a strong man and a healthy one, 
 when I knew him, but they tell me he had grown 
 over-fat of late. It must have been a stroke, 
 surely; he was never ill a day that I can re- 
 member." 
 
 The men were standing in the little market- 
 place, under the shade of an old eucalyptus tree
 
 THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 227 
 
 with a deep stone trough built round it. Close 
 by them two horses and some kids were tied to 
 the weather-stained marble pillar, which is over 
 the fountain. Tumble-down dark shops and 
 sheds formed the three sides of the square, and 
 the sea was on the fourth. 
 
 Mastro Petro, the hunchback shoemaker, sat 
 down on an upturned pannier and stroked his 
 thin legs contemplatively. 
 
 "Never ill!" he repeated; "never ill! that is 
 well but his years ! Do you not count them? " 
 
 "Why," said Barba Manoli, "his brother 
 Yoryi, who died, was younger than I am. Was 
 Apostoli much older than Yoryi?" 
 
 "He might have been his father," answered 
 the little shoemaker. "When he took Yoryi's 
 boy Andriko away from here, to live with him 
 in Hydra, he must have been close on seventy, 
 and that is nigh seven years ago." 
 
 "True, there is Andriko, his nephew. A man 
 he must be by now. Well, he will have a good 
 bit of money from his uncle. He had his own, 
 had Kyr Apostoli; he had his own." 
 
 "They say he left Andriko nothing, Barba 
 Manoli." 
 
 "Who says it? Impossible! He always said 
 everything was to be the boy's. Why, whatever 
 the mother may have done, Kyr Apostoli would
 
 228 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 never have got Andriko away from her if he had 
 not promised to let him be as his son and inherit 
 all he had. Bah! do not tell me such things." 
 
 Barba Manoli's face grew purple with excite- 
 ment, his white mustache worked nervously up 
 and down, and his baggy blue breeches shook in 
 all their many folds as he stamped his foot to 
 emphasize his words. 
 
 "Nevertheless it is as I tell you," persisted 
 the hunchback. "He leaves the boy nothing; 
 all the money and the house go to some one else. 
 A woman, I think they said it was. If you do 
 not believe me, ask Kyra Sophoula, who knows 
 all about it. Capetan Leftheri was telling her 
 everything this morning." 
 
 Then in a second he added: "Speak of the 
 song and you see the bird! There is Kyra 
 Sophoula herself. Wait, I will call her. Kyra 
 Sophoula!" raising a shrill, cracked voice, 
 "Kyra Sophoula! come here for a minute." And 
 he beckoned to a thin little old woman, who, 
 emerging from a dark arch at the back of the 
 marketplace, was crossing the farther end, her 
 red earthen pitcher under her arm. Then, as 
 she approached, "Tell Barba Manoli, here, 
 what you heard about Kyr Apostoli, Yannoula's 
 brother-in-law. Is it not true that he leaves 
 nothing to Andriko after all his promises? "
 
 THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 229 
 
 "Not one lepton," answered the old woman, 
 setting down her pitcher on the edge of the stone 
 trough and crossing her arms; "not one." 
 "But how is this thing possible?'* 
 "They did not get on well together, the old 
 man and the boy, for some time now," related 
 Kyra Sophoula. "Why? God only knows: for 
 Andriko could flatter and use sweet words enough 
 when it suited him. At least he could when I 
 knew him. Perhaps he got tired of waiting, for 
 they say the old man kept him very tight. Per- 
 haps the old man repented of his promises, once 
 he had got what he wanted. Anyhow, Capetan 
 Leftheri tells me that when Kyr Apostoli was 
 near his end they brought the holy icon from the 
 Monastery of St. Nicholas, that has cured so 
 many, and when they laid it on his breast, he 
 opened his eyes wide and made the sign of the 
 cross, and cried out, 'Bring my daughter-in- 
 law here/ And of course she came running. It 
 is that Panayota, you know, that creature he 
 had never forgiven his son for marrying. Even 
 when his son was dying, he had never gone near 
 them; and now he told her to fetch the notary, 
 that he would leave everything to her. She lost 
 no time, you may be sure. The old man could 
 still put his name to the paper when the notary 
 came, but he died an hour afterwards. She says
 
 230 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 now, this Panayota, that it was the holy icon's 
 mercy and grace that made Kyr Apostoli re- 
 cover his good senses at the last. Though it 
 does not enter my old head how even a mi- 
 raculous icon can bring back what was never 
 there!" 
 
 "So he leaves nothing at all to Andriko?" 
 said Barba Manoli. " Ta ta ta, who would 
 ever have said it? " 
 
 "He should not have done such a thing," 
 pronounced Mastro Petro decidedly; "Andriko 
 was of his own blood." 
 
 Kyra Sophoula set her pitcher carefully under 
 the running water before speaking. 
 
 "Yes," she said at last, "he was of his own 
 blood, and perhaps he was wrong by the law. 
 But I, for one, am glad. Serve Andriko right. 
 Does a boy leave his poor mother who has borne 
 him and suckled him and toiled for him, because 
 foolish people speak evil words of her, and go 
 off with the first stranger who wants to take 
 him?" 
 
 "A stranger!" exclaimed the hunchback. 
 "What are you saying, Kyra Sophoula? A 
 stranger? When it was his own uncle, his 
 father's brother! Besides, how could the boy 
 foresee what happens to-day? He expected 
 without fail to have money later on; and that is
 
 THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 231 
 
 a good thing always. Also many people said 
 those were not clean doings of Yannoula's at 
 that time. A woman is a secret thing. Who 
 knows the truth?" 
 
 "/ know it," cried Kyra Sophoula angrily; 
 "and you, Mastro Petro, measure your words 
 better if you ever want to put a patch on a shoe 
 of mine again." 
 
 "What will Andriko do now, I wonder," in- 
 quired Barba Manoli hastily. He was a quiet 
 man and loved peace. 
 
 "Do I know?" said Kyra Sophoula shortly, 
 taking up her pitcher, out of whose narrow neck 
 the water was overflowing. 
 
 "Perhaps," said Mastro Petro, in an apolo- 
 getic tone of voice, "he may come back here to 
 his mother now." 
 
 "If he thinks she has anything to give him, 
 perhaps he may," snapped the old woman. 
 
 "Why will you think evil?" asked Barba 
 Manoli. "A man's head is not as a child's. 
 Things past are past. It does not seem unlikely 
 to me that he should think of returning to live 
 with his mother now, and of working for her." 
 
 "The head may change," said Kyra Sophoula, 
 shouldering her pitcher, "the heart never. I 
 have known Andriko from a child, and never 
 have I seen him think of aught but what might
 
 232 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 fill his belly or tickle his fancy. He will not 
 begin now. Good-day to you.'* 
 
 She walked off as she spoke, and left the men 
 looking after her. 
 
 This lad Andriko, of whom they had spoken, 
 and his mother Yannoula, had been familiar 
 figures on the island some years before. 
 
 The woman had been left a widow early. 
 When this happened she had paid all due ob- 
 servance to Poros etiquette, sending for the 
 professional mourners to wail over the deceased 
 and chant his virtues, not stirring from her house 
 for the prescribed number of days, and covering 
 all her furniture in thin black drapery. Still, as 
 her husband had been distinctly a ne'er-do- 
 well and not even a lovable one of the kind, she 
 had been undeniably better off after his death. 
 His elder brother Apostoli, who lived in Hydra, 
 and was known to be well off, had come to 
 Poros for the funeral. He was a stern, forbid- 
 ding-looking man, of whom Yannoula was afraid, 
 so that after his return to Hydra there was 
 no further communication between them. The 
 poor write few letters. Also, Kyr Apostoli had a 
 son of his own, and Yannoula did not expect help 
 of any kind from him. She was a quiet, hard- 
 working, self-contained woman, with a low voice
 
 THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 233 
 
 for a Poriote. Only this one child, Andriko, had 
 been born to her, and all the strength of her 
 nature was centred in him. 
 
 Certainly he was a lovely boy. He had gone 
 back for his type to the ancient days of the 
 land, and had the broad low brow, the straight 
 nose, the short upper lip, the rounded chin, and 
 the closely curling hair of the Olympian Hermes. 
 Countless foreign and barbarian invasions have 
 blurred the purity of line of the old race. The 
 blood has been mixed and intermixed till the 
 classic type has become all too rare, especially 
 in the towns. Yet at times, and oftenest in the 
 islands, it is still possible to meet in the flesh the 
 prototypes of Praxiteles and Myron and Poly- 
 cletus. 
 
 Peasants as a rule are not lovers of beauty, 
 but the most stolid of them would turn to look 
 twice at Andriko. When he was a little fellow, 
 the women, when they saw him, would spit on 
 the ground to ward off the evil eye from him; 
 Pappa Thanassi, the priest, always chose him 
 to hold the tall candle at weddings or at christen- 
 ings, and even once a boy of his own age had 
 given him a new bright red handkerchief for 
 his own, because, when he had tied it round his 
 head, he had been "so good to look at." 
 
 He was a fine lad too, broad, strong, and
 
 234 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 straight as a young cypress. He ran about 
 bareheaded and barelegged in the sun and the 
 wind, and in summertime was oftener to be 
 found in the sea than on land. He throve pass- 
 ing well on his fare of bread and olives, with a 
 little white cheese or a sardine sometimes thrown 
 in when he happened to run an errand for Kyr 
 Michali, the grocer. 
 
 Yannoula toiled early and late at any work 
 she found to do. Nothing came amiss to her, 
 field work, lemon-packing, olive-gathering, 
 picking raisins for drying: each and all in their 
 seasons, and her hand-loom for all spare days 
 when work was scarce. When she had earned 
 enough to buy a strip of land over on the main- 
 land with a few lemon and olive trees on it, she 
 looked proudly at her boy as at a future landed 
 proprietor. Being the only son of a widow she 
 knew also that he would be exempt from service 
 in the Navy. He never lacked anything she 
 could possibly get for him: Christ-bread at 
 Christmas and New Year, and red eggs at 
 Easter always, whether her earnings had been 
 large or small. 
 
 They lived, the mother and son, in a little 
 pink-washed house next to Kyra Sophoula's, 
 down by the dark arch, beyond the market- 
 place. A vine grew over the rickety wooden
 
 THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 235 
 
 balcony, pots of sweet basil flourished on the 
 stone ledges of the terrace, and an ancient fig 
 tree growing in the courtyard darkened the 
 windows when it was in full leaf. 
 
 It was on the terrace, watering her pots of 
 sweet basil, that the English strangers found her 
 one morning. The old lady and her son who 
 were staying at the little hotel near the Column, 
 and who had often employed Andriko as guide 
 in their excursions, had come to look at the place 
 where he lived. Mrs. Lee had been curious to 
 see whether the boy inherited his beauty from 
 his mother. But she was disappointed. Few 
 would have glanced a second time at the woman 
 who came forward to greet them, and to ask 
 them in with the innate courtesy of the Greek 
 peasant. Her hair was plainly parted under her 
 widow's kerchief, and deep-set eyes looked 
 quietly out of the thin, sunburned face. 
 
 Conversation between them presented serious 
 difficulties. Mrs. Lee tried to tell Yannoula 
 that she also was a widow, and had this one son 
 only. But there the likeness between them cer- 
 tainly ceased. The Englishwoman was tall with 
 white hair, her black dress was relieved by 
 touches of white lace and the gleam of a long 
 golden chain, which hung to her waist. Her son, 
 Randal, was a naval officer on sick-leave. They
 
 236 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 had wintered in Athens, and when after a long 
 drought the dust of the city had proved unendur- 
 able, they had come away to the sea and the 
 hills for a few days. But the charm of Poros was 
 upon them; the days had become weeks, the 
 weeks were growing into months, and they were 
 still on the island. They had become familiar 
 figures there, the white-haired mother and the 
 young man, clean-shaven and sunburned, always 
 so gay and bright, laughing at everything, as the 
 women noted with wonder, they whose boys are 
 grave long before manhood. 
 
 Mrs. Lee did not often care to come into the 
 village itself, finding it more picturesque and 
 pleasant in all ways when seen at a distance. 
 Still, even while climbing over the sun-baked 
 rocks, or stumbling over stones and rubbish 
 heaps in the narrow streets to find Yannoula's 
 house, she had constantly stopped to draw Ran- 
 dal's attention to wonderful bits of Southern 
 coloring. Sometimes it would be only the cor- 
 ner of a red-tiled roof jutting out against the 
 incredible blue of the sky, or a white pigeon 
 preening its feathers on a terrace against a back- 
 ground of green vines or of flaming hybiscus 
 blossoms. Farther on there were rows of orange- 
 colored pumpkins drying on stone ledges; and 
 at the end of every steep incline, across every
 
 THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 237 
 
 tumble-down balcony, between the last houses 
 of every steep street, the same radiant blue sea 
 and paler blue hills beyond. 
 
 Yannoula had listened in respectful silence 
 and not a little wonder when her native island 
 was ecstatically praised, but when with halting 
 words but eloquent looks and gestures Mrs. Lee 
 had begun to talk of Andriko, of his looks, 
 his strength, his quickness, his daring, then she 
 understood well, and her smiling eyes agreed to 
 all, though her code of manners compelled her 
 to answer: 
 
 "But what are you saying, lady? You are 
 very good, but the lad is as all the lads are." 
 
 Mrs. Lee had been a keen lover of beauty all 
 her life long. The day after her arrival in Poros 
 she had singled out Andriko from among a 
 group of boys always standing about the quay, 
 and for very love of his perfect Greek type had 
 forthwith instituted him their guide and carrier 
 in all their excursions by land and by sea. They 
 were out every day, and nearly all day long. 
 Randal's sick-leave was all but over; he was 
 quite strong again now, and after a long separa- 
 tion in the past, and with another looming near 
 in the future, the mother and son were trying to 
 crowd into the remaining time as many open-air 
 days and lovely memories as they could.
 
 238 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 Andriko, nothing loath, had been with them 
 everywhere, leading the way, swinging a pro- 
 vision basket on his arm, or carrying a pitcher 
 for fresh water on his shoulder. As he bounded 
 up the rocky paths before them, and they 
 watched the freedom of his movements, and the 
 play of his wonderfully modeled limbs, with their 
 constant indication of the pure physical joy of 
 existence, he seemed to them the very reincarn- 
 ation of prehistoric, mythological Greece. "The 
 god Pan in early youth," Mrs. Lee christened 
 him; and when the provision basket left in his 
 charge would be found unduly lightened of part 
 of its contents, or the ready excuses rolled rap- 
 idly off his lips to account for some delay or 
 neglected order, she would smile indulgently. 
 
 Randal, man-like, was not so easily appeased. 
 "The young cub wants a good licking," he 
 would say now and then. 
 
 "No, no, Randal," his mother would answer; 
 "don't be so terribly British and nineteenth- 
 century-minded! You really must not expect 
 ordinary everyday morality and humdrum hon- 
 esty from the god Pan: it would be a terrible 
 anachronism ! " 
 
 There were few parts of Poros and the main- 
 land that they left unexplored. Together they 
 climbed the hills and looked down over the sea
 
 and over valleys where the young pines grew; 
 over groves of gray-green olives, over rich red 
 earth crumbling between gray rocks covered 
 with ilex and lentisk, over walled-in gardens of 
 lemons and mandarins, over ruined chapels 
 with their solitary lamp kept ever burning, over 
 ravines and dry torrent beds overgrown with 
 myrtle and pink oleanders; and above all was 
 the divine blue of the Grecian sky. 
 
 Sometimes to reach the greater heights old 
 Barba Stathi was told to bring his donkey, and 
 on the donkey's back Mrs. Lee would mount 
 to the summit of the higher hills of the main- 
 land, from where on the other side Hydra and 
 Spetzai gleamed white in the distance. And in 
 the cool of the afternoon they would descend 
 by a shorter and steeper cut, sure-footed little 
 Kitso firmly planting his hard hoofs on the 
 slippery carpet of pine needles, and stepping 
 triumphantly over the most jagged of rocks. 
 
 They went to the Devil's Bridge, returning 
 laden with maidenhair ferns; by Damala and 
 the old ruined tower of Theseus. Once, to please 
 Yannoula, they went with her to her strip of 
 land and admired the well-cared-for trees, 
 the old gray olives, Athena's own eternal trees, 
 and the lemon trees just then in full bloom. 
 
 "Oh, Randal, look! look!" cried Mrs. Lee.
 
 240 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 coming to a standstill before the masses of fra- 
 grant blossom; "look at them! smell them! 
 Look at that pure rich white against the dark 
 shiny leaves." 
 
 Yannoula stood by smiling, well content that 
 the lady should be pleased, yet wondering a 
 little that the everyday sight of a lemon tree in 
 blossom should cause such evident delight. 
 
 "They are easily pleased, those strangers," 
 she said in the evening to Kyra Sophoula; "do 
 their lemon trees not blossom, then, in their own 
 country?" 
 
 For the Temple of Poseidon, up by the little 
 spring and past the Chapel of St. Stathi, Mrs. 
 Lee would choose the clearest days, when from 
 the Temple they could distinguish across the 
 sea, which lay below them, Athens and the 
 Acropolis in the far distance. 
 
 But where they returned oftenest was to the 
 Monastery. There they spent long days, climb- 
 ing up the broad shallow steps that lead up to it 
 through the trees, wandering about in the vine- 
 planted inner court, with its solitary tall palm 
 waving its branches high above the red roof. 
 They would stand before the old tombs along 
 the outer wall of the Chapel, reading with 
 great facility the epitaph to the poor Italian 
 girl, Arcia Ceccoli, so young to die, "Meno di
 
 THE INNER COURT OF THE MONASTERY
 
 THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 241 
 
 venti anni," whose artist father, "genitore in- 
 consolabile," has immortalized her face in his 
 picture of the Virgin Mother inside the Chapel, 
 which, as the Greek inscription runs, he painted 
 for the Monastery " because of gratitude." 
 They deciphered the Greek letters on the tombs 
 of some of the Hydriote heroes of 1821 under 
 the arcade of the entrance to the Chapel: of 
 Manuel Tombazis, with its epitaph in verse and 
 its enthusiastic close, 
 
 Glorious son of a glorious land! 
 
 But perhaps because of the race sympathy 
 that moves us all, the mother and son would 
 linger longest before the flat marble tomb let 
 into the stone floor, just at the threshold of the 
 Chapel, where in clear English letters it is set 
 forth that "under this marble lie the mortal 
 remains" of one Brudnell J. Bruce, an ensign 
 in his Majesty's Foot Guards, who, having come 
 to Greece with his Majesty's ambassador, 
 "unhappily" died of fever in Poros in 1828. 
 
 They half smiled over the quaint wording, 
 and would discuss whether the "unhappily" 
 referred to the bare fact of the death, or to the 
 lonely death in a far country. Randal would try 
 to recall what was the precise uniform which 
 an ensign in the Foot Guards of his Majesty
 
 242 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 King George IV would have worn, and his 
 mother would wonder who had mourned for the 
 poor lad, and how it had happened that he had 
 come to Poros in those far-off days: whether on 
 duty or for pleasure; whether perhaps he might 
 have taken part in the Battle of Navarino, 
 fought a few months before his death. Randal 
 objected that he had been in the Foot Guards, 
 not a naval officer. 
 
 "Well, but, Randal, he might have happened 
 to be on one of the English ships at the time, 
 on the Asia or the Albion, and then he would 
 have been sure to have fought, you know." 
 And she would fall to wondering whether the 
 young ensign had left any descendants, and 
 whether they knew of his grave in this far-off 
 Grecian island. 
 
 Inside the Chapel she delighted in the old 
 Byzantine and Russian icons, wondering at the 
 dark ascetic faces of the saints, with the heavy 
 halos of dull silver nailed round their heads. 
 There was a curious icon of the three hierarchs, 
 St. Gregorius, St. Basil, and St. John Chrysos- 
 torn, standing upright in a row. Of the three 
 she had a slight preference for St. Basil, but they 
 were all terribly wooden. The Angel Gabriel 
 painted on the side door of the Templon was 
 also a quaint conception, an anaemic youth
 
 with flowing brown locks, one eye higher than 
 the other, and clad in white garments whose 
 texture, to judge by their massive folds, might 
 have been of plaster. 
 
 Returning from the Monastery they would 
 time their start so as to get the best moment of 
 the sunset just beyond the bridge, when the 
 houses of Poros came into sight, and the narrow 
 beach divided two golden seas by one dark strip 
 of land. 
 
 The summer was nearly over, and Randal's 
 time was getting very short, but Mrs. Lee was 
 loath to leave before the vintage. So they spent 
 long hours in the vineyards, with the fragrance 
 of sun-ripened grapes around them, among the 
 great panniers of heaped-up purple and yellow 
 bunches. 
 
 At last, most reluctantly, they were forced to 
 fix the day of their departure. On the previous 
 afternoon the heat of the sun had been over- 
 powering, and Mrs. Lee, seized rather suddenly 
 with a violent headache, had returned very 
 early to the little hotel. 
 
 About two in the morning Yannoula was 
 aroused by a loud and repeated knocking at the 
 outer door of her courtyard. Midnight alarms 
 were so rare in Poros that it was some time before 
 her dazed senses awoke to the fact that the
 
 244 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 sound was a real one. When she at last opened 
 her window on the narrow street and looked out 
 into the bright moonlight, she saw, to her utter 
 astonishment, Randal Lee standing below and 
 trying to shake open the wooden gate. He gave 
 a gasp of relief when he saw her, and called to 
 her to come to come at once. His explana- 
 tion was not very clear, for his impatience made 
 him lose the few Greek words he knew; but his 
 gestures, his frequent repetition of the word 
 "mother," at last made Yannoula understand 
 that something was wrong, and that her pres- 
 ence was needed. 
 
 She hastily threw on a few clothes, gave one 
 glance at the sleeping boy whom nothing had 
 disturbed, and, hurried by Randal's repeated 
 calls, left the house with him, without even tying 
 her kerchief round her head. As they ran down 
 the moonlit streets, across the deserted market- 
 place, and out on the quay, Randal, for all his 
 anxiety, could not help noticing how much 
 younger she looked with her hair uncovered 
 and hanging in two loose plaits as it had been 
 done for the night. His mother was ill, he re- 
 peated, very ill; her head, tapping his own to 
 be sure he was using the right word, was very 
 hot, and there was no woman in the hotel. When 
 they arrived, the doctor was already there.
 
 THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 245 
 
 It was a slight sunstroke, he announced, 
 nothing to be seriously alarmed about, the 
 lady must keep quiet for a day or two, and have 
 cold compresses applied regularly. Strangers, 
 he added, were always careless about exposure 
 to the sun; they forgot that it was not the sun 
 of their own climate. 
 
 Yannoula stayed all that night, changing the 
 compresses and trying to keep wet linen rags cool 
 by wrapping them round the water jars. Kyr 
 Charalambo, the hotel keeper, and the men- 
 servants, stared at her uncovered head, and in 
 the morning the former offered to bring his 
 mother to look after the lady. She was very 
 clever in sickness, he assured Randal, and wise 
 in medicines. But the young man shook his 
 head. No, they knew Yannoula; if she could 
 stay, his mother would prefer it. So she stayed 
 all the next day, sending one of the boys from 
 the quay to her house to bring Andriko and her 
 black kerchief. 
 
 On the second day Mrs. Lee was much better; 
 on the third she was entirely recovered and able 
 to travel. They left by the steamer for Piraeus 
 with many expressions of gratitude and delight, 
 and many promises of returning again the next 
 summer. 
 
 They never returned, however, nor did Yan-
 
 246 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 noula ever see them again, and familiar figures 
 though they had become in Poros, it is probable 
 they would soon have been forgotten, had it not 
 been for a circumstance which kept their mem- 
 ory fresh for many a year, and which made the 
 poor woman often curse the day on which they 
 had ever set foot on the island. 
 
 The trouble began with the generous pay that 
 Andriko, or rather his mother for him, had re- 
 ceived from the strangers, and the various pre- 
 sents which had been added as well. Among 
 these was a wonderful English clasp knife which 
 Randal had given to the boy, and a black winter 
 dress for which Mrs. Lee had written to Athens 
 for Yannoula, of such soft woolen texture as 
 Poros had never seen before. 
 
 Andriko naturally boasted of all he had earned, 
 and Yannoula herself, poor creature, made no 
 secret of her good luck, and answered all ques- 
 tions concerning the strangers' generosity quite 
 frankly. Jealousy was aroused. Comments 
 became at first spiteful, and then openly hostile. 
 What pay was this for doing almost nothing? 
 If carrying a basket or a shawl up a hillside 
 brought in so much, then all their boys had 
 better stop rowing, or fishing, or digging, and 
 run after all the townfolk who came to Poros 
 every summer.
 
 THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 247 
 
 Yannoula, people remembered, had been a 
 good deal with these strangers. She had taken 
 them to her garden over on the mainland, and 
 they had been seen at her house, too, more than 
 once. Who could tell, after all, how she had 
 wormed things out of them? A widow woman 
 should not make so free. If it had only been the 
 old lady, well and good. But there was the son 
 as well And Yannoula was a young woman 
 yet. He! he! who could tell? 
 
 Women are secret things ! Generally it is im- 
 possible to trace the birth of a rumor: how the 
 whispered hint of yesterday becomes to-day's 
 open scandal. But hi this case there was no 
 difficulty. 
 
 Suddenly, one day, virtuous matrons and 
 maids shuddered, young men tittered, and old 
 people shook their heads, over an absolutely 
 vouched-for story of Yannoula's having been 
 seen in the middle of the night, half -dressed, her 
 hair flying behind her like a madwoman's, tear- 
 ing down the streets alone with the young 
 officer, the stranger. All doubters were silenced 
 at once. An eye-witness was prepared to swear 
 on the cross, if need be, to what she had seen. 
 
 Old Kyra Marina had been sitting up all night 
 with her granddaughter, whose baby had been 
 born in the evening, and hearing a noise of run-
 
 248 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 ning feet, and strange talk in the street below, 
 she had looked through the window and had 
 seen this thing with her own eyes. Oh, they 
 were good eyes yet, for all her age; and the 
 moonlight had been as bright as day. No, no, 
 these were not "clean doings" of Yannoula's. 
 
 In vain her neighbor, Kyra Sophoula, brought 
 forward the strange lady's sudden illness, and 
 related all the incidents from the first hurried 
 knocking at Yannoula's door. She was met by 
 open ridicule. 
 
 Sudden illness! Bah! a terrible illness, 
 truly, when the lady had been able to leave the 
 next day. The third day, was it? Well, it was all 
 one. Besides, was Yannoula a doctor, that she 
 should have been fetched at that time of night ? 
 The hotel people had all seen her, had they? 
 Well, what of that? She may have been there, 
 but who could tell when she had received her 
 midnight visitor, or for how long she had enter- 
 tained him before they began their mad race 
 together down the streets? No, no; those 
 stories were good for little children to believe ! 
 
 The gossip did not lessen as the days went by. 
 Nay, it even spread further. Kyra Marina had 
 not been silent, and her tale lost nothing in the 
 frequent retelling. It was a long time since she 
 had been able to command the undivided atten-
 
 THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 249 
 
 tion of so many listeners. The sole witness! 
 Would it have been in human nature to keep 
 silent? 
 
 Many pitied Andriko. A few men defended 
 Yannoula : a fine woman yet, they said, and left 
 a widow so early. 
 
 There were other young widows besides her, 
 answered the first, severely, but they kept their 
 eyes lowered under their black kerchiefs as an 
 honest widow should. Such a good name as 
 Kyr Yoryi's had always been, too! Eh, eh, it 
 was a pity that the lad was not a little older. 
 He would soon have settled such goings-on, and 
 would never have allowed his father's name to 
 be shamed in this way. And voices grew shriller, 
 while red pitchers waited their turn to be filled 
 at the fountain. 
 
 The evil talk grew and spread, from the 
 fountain to the marketplace and from the 
 marketplace to the quay. 
 
 Kyra Sophoula, coming out of Kyr Michali's 
 shop one morning, where she had been for some 
 dried beans, came upon three men relating the 
 story, with the addition of various vile epithets, 
 to some sponge divers from Hydra, with the 
 injunction that they should repeat it to Kyr 
 Apostoli when they got back to their own island, 
 so that he might not remain ignorant of his
 
 250 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 sister-in-law's fine doings, and that he might 
 "take his measures" as head of the family. The 
 old woman turned on them furiously, asking 
 them why they were not ashamed to tell such 
 evil lies of their own countrywoman. 
 
 Poros, lounging round Sotiro's coffee-house, 
 smiled and said : 
 
 "Do not listen to them, Kyra Sophoula. 
 What do they know? You do not eat straw; no 
 one can deceive you; that is very certain." 
 
 And then, when she had gone, it laughed out 
 loud, and added : 
 
 "She is a good advocate, she is. Who knows 
 what her pay may be?" 
 
 Her pay was poor Yannoula's weeping grati- 
 tude as she sat crouching on the floor of her 
 little house, wearied out with many tears, her 
 head on the old woman's knees. For Yannoula 
 was not strong-minded. She was utterly incap- 
 able of going about as usual, of braving public 
 opinion, of living down the scandal. Her good 
 name was gone, she moaned; it was an evil day 
 on which she had been born. Better, she cried, 
 rocking herself backwards and forwards, that a 
 vampire had sucked her blood than that she 
 should have lived to see this hour. 
 
 Then with the first rains came the terrible 
 news that the sponge divers had faithfully
 
 THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 251 
 
 delivered their message; that her brother-in- 
 law, the stern old man, furious beyond words, 
 was preparing to come to Poros to take her boy 
 away from her, declaring that never while he 
 was alive should his brother's son be brought up 
 by a shameless woman who had willfully black- 
 ened their good name. 
 
 Half mad with fear, trembling at every pass- 
 ing step, she waited for Kyra Sophoula, who 
 had run to consult the schoolmaster on the sub- 
 ject. When the old woman returned she assured 
 Yannoula that she might be easy, that there 
 was no fear at all; Kyr Vangheli had said 
 such a thing was quite impossible, that the law 
 would never allow a child to be taken from its 
 mother by force. 
 
 But when Kyr Apostoli arrived from Hydra 
 and summoned his nephew to come away with 
 him, no force was required. Andriko's mind 
 had been slowly poisoned long before his uncle's 
 arrival. Stray words had been let drop before 
 him. Disparaging remarks, at first timid and 
 then bolder, had been made. The older boys at 
 school had repeated to him what they had heard 
 from their elders. Yes, beyond doubt, his 
 mother had been too often with these strangers, 
 she had spoken too freely to them, for a decent, 
 self-respecting widow, who should keep her black
 
 252 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 kerchief well over her eyes, and look down as 
 she walked. The women even said But the 
 story generally stopped at what they said, for 
 even the most hardened shrank from telling 
 the boy all the foul rumors that had been twisted 
 to fit into that unfortunately overseen night 
 errand of his mother's. However, their reticence 
 did not avail her much. Definite accusations 
 that could be grappled with might possibly have 
 aroused some disbelief, some latent instinct in 
 the boy to defend her, but the vague affirmation, 
 "She has made your father's good name a 
 laughing-stock for all the island," stung his 
 vanity, and excited his anger as an unpardon- 
 able offense against the dignity of his budding 
 manhood. 
 
 His uncle's promises of adoption, of future 
 inheritance, were scarcely required as an induce- 
 ment to go with him, although he remembered 
 and counted on them in later years. His own 
 sullen resentment against his mother, added to 
 the change and novelty of the step, were all- 
 sufficient. He was past the age when he might 
 have missed Yannoula's care and tenderness. 
 In fact, he had been getting impatient of them 
 for some time past, as he had of any restrictions 
 on his liberty. Work of any sort he loathed, 
 and he foresaw that in a life spent with his
 
 THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 253 
 
 mother there would be no lack of it. His uncle, 
 for all his sternness, looked what he was, a dis- 
 tinctly prosperous man. So when he said to the 
 boy, "Come with me to Hydra; I will make you 
 my son; and as for that woman who has black- 
 ened our good name, neither you nor I will look 
 on her again," Andriko went willingly, with no 
 thought, save an angry one, for the mother he 
 was abandoning. 
 
 Even the neighbors who had been the most 
 relentless softened towards the miserable woman 
 when at last her mind grasped the terrible truth 
 that her boy had left her of his own free will, 
 that he had not been dragged away struggling, 
 that he had not even left a message or a single 
 word for her. They gathered around her with 
 help and advice and pity. 
 
 For many hours after the first shock she had 
 lain in a sort of heavy torpor. But when speech 
 and the power of movement returned to her she 
 refused to have any one but Kyra Sophoula be- 
 side her, even for the first night. And above all 
 would she neither then nor ever allow a word of 
 blame against Andriko. 
 
 "Who knows what that bad man made him 
 believe?" she said. "After all, he is but a child. 
 Perhaps as soon as he feels alone he will get 
 away, and return to me; if not, when he is a
 
 254 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 little older he will be sure to understand." 
 Neither would she listen to the schoolmaster, 
 who came the next day to tell her that the law 
 would certainly be in her favor, and who 
 offered to help her to appeal to it. "We have 
 been decent people all our lives, Kyr Vangheli," 
 she answered, "and never had aught to do with 
 the law. Do you think I will ask it now to drag 
 my boy back to me, like a deserter with tied 
 hands whom the soldiers push along by his 
 elbow? No! when he comes, he shall come free." 
 
 For two days after this she remained silent 
 and listless, letting Kyra Sophoula fetch water 
 for her, sit near her, lie beside her through the 
 long weary night, never speaking except when 
 spoken to, and never breaking bread or putting 
 water to her lips except when it was placed in 
 her very hand. Then on the third day she rose 
 early, swept the little house, made some black 
 coffee, and when the old woman returned from 
 the fountain, she put her hands on the bent 
 shoulders and looked down into the kind old 
 wrinkled face. 
 
 "Kyra Sophoula, you must go back now to 
 your own house. It is time, and Maroussa is 
 there alone. For all you have done, may God 
 repay you a hundredfold. As for me, have no 
 anxiety, I shall be well. Yes, yes; I shall eat and
 
 THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 255 
 
 I shall drink. Since it was written in my book of 
 Fate that I should lose these years out of my 
 life, it is needful that I should be strong, so that 
 when my boy comes back to me, I may have 
 more years to live with him." 
 
 In the days that followed, that was the re- 
 frain which recurred at the end of almost every 
 sentence she spoke : "when my boy comes back 
 to me." In time she heard from stray sources 
 of Andriko's safe arrival in Hydra, of his having 
 been introduced there as Kyr Apostoli's adopted 
 son. Once, after many months, she heard that 
 he was ill. It was nothing, they said, just a lit- 
 tle fever, but she ran half distraught to Kyra 
 Sophoula. 
 
 The old woman tried to comfort her. "He 
 is a strong lad; do not eat your heart out, my 
 poor one; God is great." 
 
 "Yes," sobbed Yannoula, "yes, a strong lad, 
 but now what may be happening there, God only 
 knows." 
 
 When they told her he was well again, she 
 went up to the Monastery and lighted a candle 
 before the icon of the Virgin, who had listened 
 to her prayers and cured her boy. 
 
 Among her treasured possessions was a hand- 
 kerchief with which Mrs. Lee had once bound 
 up a cut on Andriko's hand. She loved the feel
 
 256 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 of the fine cambric, sun-bleached and thyme- 
 scented, as only island-washed linen can be, 
 and would sit for hours holding it against her 
 face. 
 
 One comfort she had, rather rare in Poros, 
 a picture of Andriko, a small amateur photo- 
 graph taken by a young lady, who, as Yannoula 
 told Kyra Sophoula, had once long ago stayed 
 for a little while with the people of the red house 
 on the hill. 
 
 "And how did she make the picture?" asked 
 Kyra Sophoula, who had often heard the story 
 before, but who was wise, and knew when to 
 talk and when to listen. 
 
 "She used to go about," Yannoula answered, 
 "with a small black leather box, taking pictures 
 of all sorts of things, just with a little click so; 
 you could not see the picture then at once, but 
 after some days only, and then you could always 
 recognize the people and the places quite well. 
 She took a picture of the old house that Yoryi 
 the blind one lives in, the one that has the big 
 vine over the door, and the wooden steps out- 
 side. Half the shutters are missing, and nearly 
 all the tiles from the roof, but she took that, and 
 never looked at the Mayor's fine new house with 
 the green shutters and the stone balcony. She 
 took pictures of many people too; some of the
 
 THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 257 
 
 old ones, Barba Stathi with his beast; old 
 Anneza with her spindle. But most of all she 
 took pictures of children: little Mitso, Dino, 
 Tasso Kondelli the lame one, Kyra Katerina's 
 Antigone, the one with the fair hair; and 
 she would not let Kyra Katerina put the child's 
 best clothes on either, but just took her as she 
 was, in her pinafore, with bare feet. And one day 
 she took my Andriko. He was about nine then, 
 and she looked at him for a long time, as all 
 strangers did always, and spoke about him with 
 the ladies of the red house, who were with her, 
 and then she told him to stand still, just where 
 he was, beside an old boat, and she took the 
 picture. I was close by, for I had just come with 
 my pitcher from the fountain, and she asked if 
 he were mine. When I answered yes, that he 
 was mine, she said, 4 'A beautiful boy, truly; may 
 he live to you.' Then she said she would make 
 two pictures of him, one to keep, and the other 
 she would give to me. She brought it to me her- 
 self two days later, in this little frame as you see 
 it. God make her years many ! See how like it is! 
 look at my boy, just as he stood there with his 
 little hand on the side of the boat and all his 
 curls showing against the sky! My little boy! 
 Often do I go to sleep with this picture held fast 
 to my breast, that I may perhaps dream of him,
 
 258 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 but nearly always do I dream of other things, 
 not of him. Only last night, if you believe me, I 
 dreamed of those Athenians who came by that 
 new steamer on Sunday, and who took their 
 food in baskets up to the Monastery. Of that 
 fat woman who laughed so loud, and of the girl 
 with the red hair. What did I need," she burst 
 out with a sort of quiet rage, "to dream all night 
 of strangers whom I shall never see again in all 
 my life?" 
 
 Kyra Sophoula spoke gently to her and soothed 
 her, and the little photograph in its worn leather 
 frame was hung up again in its place over the 
 solitary bed. 
 
 The weeks, the months, flew by. New Year 
 came and went. The almonds blossomed first, 
 then the peach and the cherry trees made the 
 gardens white with their blossoms. Then came 
 the great heat with the figs and the grapes and 
 the Virgin's Feast. Then it was autumn again, 
 and the hills were covered with heather and 
 cyclamen, and lastly the anemones sprang up 
 and carpeted the land with violet and crimson 
 and purple. 
 
 One evening in late November, Kyra Sophoula 
 went next door to see whether Yannoula could 
 lend her a little oil. She found her sitting on a
 
 THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 259 
 
 low stool in the fast darkening room, her head 
 bent forward, her face hidden in her hands. 
 
 "What is it, my poor one?" she asked, touch- 
 ing her shoulder; "is your heart heavy to- 
 night?" 
 
 Yannoula lifted her face and looked at her, 
 with trembling lips. "It is a year to-day." 
 
 The old woman started. "A year? It is not 
 possible. How do you know it?" 
 
 "He left," said Yannoula in a toneless voice, 
 "two days before his name-day. I had bought 
 the sugar for the kourambiedes. To-day is 
 Friday; on Sunday it will be the Feast of St. 
 Andrea." 
 
 "You are right," assented Kyra Sophoula, 
 after a moment's pause; "it is a year." 
 
 "Kyra Sophoula, he cannot be away much 
 longer now, can he?" 
 
 "No, my daughter, not much longer." 
 
 "He will return before another year, Kyra 
 Sophoula?" 
 
 "Surely he will return." 
 
 But the next year on the same day, and the 
 next, and for three more long years after that, 
 the same questions were asked and answered. 
 
 "He cannot be away much longer now, can 
 he?" 
 
 "Not much longer, my daughter."
 
 260 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "He will return before another year?" 
 
 "Surely he will return.** 
 
 In the mean while Yannoula went about her 
 work very quietly, growing a little thinner, a 
 little paler, but not altering very much, listen- 
 ing gratefully to the smallest details that any 
 one could give her about her boy, what he did, 
 what he said, what he wore; constantly wonder- 
 ing, when alone with Kyra Sophoula, what had 
 made him go, what made him stay, whether he 
 often thought of her, of his "manitsa," as he 
 used to call her when he first began to talk; 
 trying to imagine who could have poisoned his 
 mind against her, and how he could have decided 
 to leave her; but all this with never a trace of 
 bitterness, only the great love that feels no need 
 of forgiving, and the weary longing that ended 
 always with the same question: "He will return 
 before another year?" And though the years 
 rolled on and did not bring him, still the old 
 answer comforted her, "Surely he will return." 
 
 When people heard of the old man's death in 
 Hydra and of his having disinherited Andriko 
 after all his fine promises, the news, strange to 
 say, was received on the whole with expressions 
 of satisfaction. Whether this was due to the sort 
 of rough justice which sooner or later governs 
 public opinion, or whether her former judges
 
 THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 261 
 
 had been unconsciously touched by the mo- 
 ther's patient waiting, the fact remains that there 
 were few who in one form or another did not 
 repeat Kyra Sophoula's verdict of "Serve him 
 right." 
 
 As for Yannoula herself, her first feeling was 
 one of fierce indignation that the dead man 
 should have dared so to deceive her boy; her 
 next a wild joy that now at last misfortune 
 might bring him back to her. There was no one 
 to keep him away now. Surely, surely he would 
 come at once. 
 
 Kyra Sophoula said little, but thought much. 
 The feverish joy in Yannoula's eyes almost 
 frightened her. 
 
 "You must have patience, my poor one. 
 Doubtless he has much to do before he can 
 leave; remember he is almost a man now." 
 
 "Almost a man," echoed Yannoula, "almost 
 a man!" Then, stretching out her arms to the 
 little faded photograph, "Oh, my boy, who has 
 become a man, come to me quickly! Come!" 
 
 But the days passed and he did not come. 
 
 It was Holy Week, and on the Thursday, not- 
 withstanding all Kyra Sophoula's persuasion, 
 Yannoula resolutely refused to go to church for 
 the evening service. She could not stand for so 
 many hours, she said, her knees trembled. So
 
 262 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 Kyra Sophoula heard all the twelve Gospels 
 without her, and saw the tall Cross brought out 
 and fixed in the middle of the nave. 
 
 On Good Friday, however, she made Yan- 
 noula promise to meet her at church in good time 
 for the Epitaphios service, which in the islands 
 does not begin until very late in the evening. 
 
 Kyra Sophoula had left the house early, hav- 
 ing a bundle of herbs to leave at the house of a 
 sick woman who lived up near the ruined mill. 
 So that when she got down to the church and 
 could not discover Yannoula anywhere among 
 the crowd of women, she was very disappointed 
 and even slightly anxious. However, she lighted 
 her little yellow taper from the one held by the 
 woman next to her, and, carefully wrapping the 
 unlighted end in her handkerchief for fear of 
 grease spots on her black skirt, settled down to 
 wait, in the hope that Yannoula might come in 
 later on. 
 
 The service with its sad chanting wound out 
 its slow length. In Athens, where the congrega- 
 tion is fashionable and pressed for time, the 
 priests often think well to skip some of the verses; 
 but in the islands, never. Every single line of the 
 three long funeral chants, with their different 
 intonings, is well known and is expected in its 
 turn.
 
 THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 263 
 
 Towards the end of the last chant, when the 
 wail of the Virgin Mother by the tomb filled the 
 church, 
 
 O light of my eyes! sweetest of sons! 
 
 Kyra Sophoula bent her head and felt almost 
 glad that Yannoula had not come. 
 
 The procession was formed; the Epitaphios 
 was reverently lifted, and the bearers passed 
 slowly between the serried ranks of low-bending 
 men and women, who afterwards closed in be- 
 hind to form the rear of the procession. 
 
 Tightly wedged in the dense mass of people, 
 Kyra Sophoula was borne slowly onward, 
 through the clouds of incense and the suffocat- 
 ing smoke of multitudes of little yellow tapers, 
 towards the central door. She had purposely 
 held back as much as possible, and succeeded 
 in slipping aside the moment the crowd issued 
 from the church in the wake of the procession. 
 She turned to the right and walked slowly up a 
 steep side street, letting her little black shawl 
 slip off her head, for it was a warm night. She 
 could hear the tramp of many feet from the road 
 below, the deep chant of the priests and the 
 shrill "Kyrie Eleison" of the young boys' 
 voices. Once through a break in the houses she 
 saw the long flickering line of lights. The night
 
 264 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 was so still that her own taper remained lighted 
 in her hand. 
 
 It was the first time for many years that she 
 had not followed the Good Friday procession 
 all round the village, along the sea, and back 
 again into the church, and stayed there until 
 the last Gospel, which so few stay to hear, had 
 been read. It was a sacrifice, how great, only 
 those may say who know how dull and colorless 
 the hard-working lives of old peasant women 
 can be; lives in which the church ceremonies 
 and the general religious excitement of Holy 
 Week are often the only bright spot of the 
 year. 
 
 But Yannoula's absence troubled the old 
 woman, and she toiled on to the little house 
 down by the dark arch. The door was open, and 
 she passed straight into the small kitchen. It 
 was empty, and there was no answer to her 
 knock at the inner door, so she pushed it open 
 and entered. 
 
 Yannoula was not on the bed. The red cotton 
 coverlet lay straight and uncreased over it. The 
 room was dimly lit by the tiny oil lamp hanging 
 before the sacred icon of the Virgin and Child, 
 and in that trembling circle of light Kyra 
 Sophoula could just distinguish a black crouch- 
 ing figure on the floor before the icon.
 
 THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 265 
 
 She took a step forward with outstretched 
 hands, but Yannoula's voice, low and broken, 
 reached her, and she stopped short, a toneless 
 voice that had exhausted its tears: 
 
 "Ah, Holy Virgin! my little Virgin, have 
 mercy upon me! Give me my boy. Let him 
 come to me; let me put my arms round him just 
 once, and then I can let him go again if he wishes 
 it. Bring him to me, my little Virgin, and you 
 shall have a white candle as thick as my arm to 
 burn before your icon. On foot I will bring it to 
 you, up to the Monastery. Oh, most Holy 
 Virgin, have pity on me! You who saw your Son 
 on the cross long years ago this very day. But 
 He thought of your pain in the midst of his own; 
 He spoke to you from there!" 
 
 Suddenly she snatched Andriko's little faded 
 photograph from the bosom of her dress and 
 held it out before the icon. There in the dim 
 light, with her pale face under the loosened 
 black kerchief, the reddened eyelids, the sad 
 lines of the mouth, she was a far better type of 
 the Sorrowing Mother than the cheap Russian 
 icon before which she knelt. 
 
 "See, Holy Virgin, here is my lad; when 
 the Feast of St. Andrea comes again, it will be 
 seven years that I have only held him so to my 
 breast! Oh, a great evil has found me! a great
 
 266 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 evil!" And then once more the weary cry: 
 "Have mercy, my little Virgin have mercy!" 
 
 Kyra Sophoula crossed the room to where 
 the icon hung, and stooping lifted up in her 
 weak old arms the poor creature kneeling there. 
 
 "My poor unfortunate," she said, settling 
 the kerchief on the disordered hair, "you have 
 prayed enough for to-night; you must rest 
 now." 
 
 Yannoula was not startled at finding Kyra 
 Sophoula near her. Open doors are the rule, 
 and privacy of any sort is very much the excep- 
 tion, in Poros. She sank wearily upon the stool, 
 which the old woman dragged forward, and 
 closed her eyes. Later on, she consented to lie 
 down on her bed, but did not as usual try to 
 persuade Kyra Sophoula to leave her. On the 
 contrary, she clung to her and talked much and 
 feverishly, reverting constantly to Andriko's 
 early childhood, to the time when he used to 
 toddle about after her, and get into a passion, 
 stamping his little feet if his "manitsa" left 
 him even for a few moments. Towards dawn 
 she fell into a troubled sleep. 
 
 Late in the afternoon of the next day Kyra 
 Sophoula set out in quest of Kyr Vangheli the 
 schoolmaster, who had promised to write a 
 letter for her to Metro in Athens. She was also
 
 THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 267 
 
 carrying six red eggs for Easter to little Tasso 1 
 Kondelli, whose mother, being in mourning, had 
 dyed none that year. 
 
 The weather had changed since the night 
 before, and was damp and chilly. Heavy gray 
 clouds lay low on the hills, and the rain was not 
 far off. The old woman shivered and drew the 
 black shawl more closely round her shoulders. 
 
 Suddenly she saw the schoolmaster himself in 
 the distance coming towards her. He was hurry- 
 ing along awkwardly with bent head, his hands 
 clasped behind his shabby coat. When he caught 
 sight of her he broke into a sort of shambling 
 trot. He had been looking for her, he said. There 
 was something she must know without loss of 
 time. 
 
 When she had heard his news her brown 
 old face turned a dull gray, for he told her 
 that Andriko had returned to Poros that same 
 morning without warning or announcement of 
 any sort; that from what he had gathered from 
 those who had seen and spoken to the boy, or 
 rather to the young man now, nothing was 
 further from his intentions than to seek out his 
 mother or to have any communication with her; 
 that sore and furious at his disinheritance he 
 had agreed to join a party of emigrants leaving 
 for San Francisco, having been persuaded that
 
 268 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 in America the maximum of wages was obtain- 
 able for the minimum of labor. He would have 
 left direct from Hydra but that a fellow emigrant 
 who had advanced him the passage money, and 
 with whom he was to leave, had wished to spend 
 Easter with a brother who lived in Poros. They 
 were to start for Piraeus on the Monday morning. 
 
 "If only," concluded Kyr Vangheli, "if only 
 it might be that the poor woman should not 
 hear of it." 
 
 "Is she deaf?" asked Kyra Sophoula fiercely; 
 "or do you think the Poriotes have no tongues? " 
 
 "I know, I know," stammered the school- 
 master; "I know it is very difficult, but then 
 what? It will kill her to hear this thing." 
 
 "And," added the old woman, "if at least it 
 killed her on the spot but it will not." 
 
 There was silence for a few seconds, then : 
 
 "Some one must find Andriko," she continued 
 "find him and speak to him. He will not want 
 to listen, but one must make him." 
 
 "Will ymi?" asked Kyr Vangheli. 
 
 "7? He would send me to the devil straight 
 off. I have told him too many truths in my 
 time." 
 
 Kyr Vangheli frowned thoughtfully. "Shall 
 I get the priest to see him?" 
 
 "Pappa Thanassi? Ah, bah! That would be
 
 THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 269 
 
 worse still; Andriko would run at the very sight 
 of his black robe. No, Kyr Vangheli, it is you 
 who must find him, and speak to him." 
 
 "I? Will it do any good?" 
 
 "Perhaps not, but at least you may make him 
 listen. There is no one else." 
 
 "What shall I tell him about his mother? 
 You knew him better than I did." 
 
 "Tell him," said the old woman grimly, "that 
 if he goes away without seeing her, she will die 
 of her grief, and that if she dies thus, her spirit 
 will surely haunt him afterwards. He was ever 
 a coward, perhaps that may frighten him." 
 
 Then, as she saw the schoolmaster hesitating, 
 she added : 
 
 "Let us find him first, and the moment will 
 bring the right words. He will be at Sotiro's, 
 most likely, or if not they will have seen him 
 there." 
 
 "Come with me," said Kyr Vangheli, with 
 sudden resolution; "perhaps if we find him in 
 the presence of others he may be ashamed to 
 refuse." 
 
 Kyra Sophoula shook her head doubtfully. 
 
 "Perhaps so, master, perhaps so." 
 
 They walked on towards the quay. The rain 
 had begun now and was falling softly, but 
 neither of them noticed it. Through the mist
 
 270 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 the joy bells were ringing for the coming Resur- 
 rection Service, and the first gunshots were 
 heard in the distance. 
 
 As they neared Sotiro's coffee-house they 
 saw a crowd collected outside, a crowd which 
 pushed and whispered and whose attention 
 seemed centred on something in its midst. Then 
 some one ran towards them; a woman with wide- 
 open eyes and trembling lips. "Kyr Vangheli," 
 she cried, "come, come quickly. Andriko, Yan- 
 noula's Andriko, who came to-day, has been 
 shot!" 
 
 The schoolmaster turned very white. "Shot! 
 How? By whom?" 
 
 "By mistake, some one who was firing for 
 Easter; they do not know who it was. He is not 
 dead yet, but the doctor says he is not for long." 
 
 Kyra Sophoula ran forward, parting those in 
 her way with both hands. "Christ and Holy 
 Virgin! What is this?" 
 
 Three men were holding the tall limp figure, 
 the arms trailed on each side, the head with its 
 wonderful lines drooped on the left shoulder. 
 They laid him down gently on the ground not 
 far from the sea. Barba Manoli held him up in 
 his arms, and all pressed forward. The rain was 
 falling fast. 
 
 "Courage, lad, it will be nothing." His eyes
 
 THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 271 
 
 were closed, and one or two women even crossed 
 themselves, saying, "He is gone; it is fin- 
 ished." But Kyra Sophoula, who had got close 
 at last, knew Andriko was alive when she saw 
 his face, though it was gray and smeared with 
 wet earth; but she had seen many wounded men 
 in her time, and she knew he would not be alive 
 long. 
 
 She turned wildly to the doctor, a short dark 
 man, who had placed his fingers on Andriko's 
 pulse: 
 
 " Can you not keep him alive for half an hour 
 yet? So young as he is, so strong as he must 
 be?" 
 
 The ball had lodged in the bowels, the doctor 
 said. There was internal hemorrhage. He might 
 last ten minutes, yet, perhaps; not longer. 
 
 Kyra Sophoula whispered a word in the ear 
 of one of the men who had carried Andriko. 
 He nodded and started at a rapid run towards 
 the marketplace. Just then, suddenly, Andriko 
 opened his eyes and looked up at Barba Ma- 
 noli, who was supporting him; but the lids fell 
 again. 
 
 " Courage, lad," repeated the old man, rais- 
 ing him with an effort a little higher in his arms. 
 
 Andriko's eyes opened and closed once o^ 
 twice, and he tried to lift his hand.
 
 272 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "Run for the priest," cried a voice; and an- 
 other added, "Fetch his mother quickly." 
 
 Then Andriko spoke; the voice was faint but 
 audible. 
 
 "Let me die in peace," he said; "let Pappa 
 Thanassi keep his chanting for when you bury 
 me." 
 
 "But your mother, Andriko, your mother? 
 You must have your mother's blessing, my son," 
 put in Barba Manoli. 
 
 "I tell you to let me alone. Let my mother 
 keep her blessing and her tears for those who 
 want them! I will not have her near me. She 
 blackened our good name." 
 
 "Andriko!" 
 
 The name was cried out loudly by Kyra 
 Sophoula, so that all turned to look at her. 
 "Andriko, will you die with such evil words on 
 your lips? Do you not know it is a sin? Let all 
 these lies be. Remember the years when you 
 could not do for an hour without your manitsa; 
 leave a good word for her." 
 
 Suddenly the wounded man, with a violent 
 upheaval, threw his whole body forward and 
 turned fast glazing eyes to the old woman. 
 
 "I leave her my curse!" he cried; "I was a 
 young fool at that time I was a fool " 
 
 Then his head fell forward, and the whole
 
 body suddenly bent at the middle. The doctor, 
 who was still holding the pulse, motioned to 
 the old man to lay him down. No one spoke. 
 A woman stooped and mechanically wiped 
 away the rain which was falling fast on the up- 
 turned face and trickling down into the short 
 curls. 
 
 Then some one on the edge of the crowd called 
 out, "She is coming!" and all heads were 
 turned to the figure which was running towards 
 them, looking gray and blurred through the 
 driving rain. 
 
 "Holy Virgin, have mercy upon her!" cried 
 Kyra Sophoula, putting out her hands as though 
 to ward her off. 
 
 But Yannoula came straight on with open 
 arms. 
 
 "Andriko!" she said softly, "Andriko, have 
 you come back?" 
 
 Kyr Vangheli came quickly forward and stood 
 between her and her son. 
 
 "Let me pass," she said, "let me pass; they 
 have told me all; I know there is but little 
 time left." 
 
 Then, as the schoolmaster still stood there, 
 she shivered once, and asked very quietly, "Is 
 he dead, my boy? Let me pass, please." 
 
 Kyr Vangheli stepped aside then, and Yan-
 
 274 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 noula fell on her knees and gathered up her child 
 into her arms. 
 
 It was a long time before Yannoula looked up, 
 and then it seemed as if she saw none of all the 
 pitying faces around her. There was a far-away 
 look in her eyes almost a look of peace. 
 
 She held her boy again and rocked him to and 
 fro a sleeping child once more, as in days long 
 past, when she used to lay him down so gently, 
 to let the little dark head touch the pillow, and 
 to unclasp the little clinging arms; but they 
 are little no longer, and they trail limply on the 
 wet ground. 
 
 "Andriko, my little child! my little child!*' 
 
 "Kyra Yannoula!" 
 
 It was the schoolmaster speaking, but she 
 took no heed. 
 
 "Kyra Yannoula!" his voice was firm, almost 
 commanding. "Listen to me for a moment; I 
 must speak to you." 
 
 Obediently she lifted her eyes to his. 
 
 ;< You have heard that your son arrived from 
 Hydra to-day?" he asked. 
 
 She bent her head silently. 
 
 "You have heard that his uncle, after all that 
 he had promised, took back his word, and died 
 leaving Andriko without anything in the world,
 
 without even having taught him a trade to live 
 by?" 
 
 Yannoula bent lower till her lips rested on the 
 dead boy's forehead: "I have heard." 
 
 "But," resumed the schoolmaster, "what 
 you have not heard " 
 
 Kyra Sophoula seized hold of his hand, but 
 he dragged it away and continued in a clear, 
 firm voice : 
 
 "What you have not heard is that when this 
 thing happened, Andriko's first thought was to 
 return here, and that he said to those he knew 
 in Hydra, 'I shall go back to my poor mother; 
 she will never turn me away from her.* He had 
 understood, at last, that all the evil things he 
 had been told about you when he was but a 
 child, without judgment, were lies." 
 
 In the deep silence which followed his words, 
 Yannoula gave one little gasp, and a strange 
 light came into her eyes. 
 
 Kyr Vangheli took a step forward and laid 
 his hand on her shoulder as she knelt there 
 before him. 
 
 "You have lost your son, Kyra Yannoula, but 
 the great comfort remains that he was returning 
 to you. When you grieve for him, you must 
 always remember that he was returning to you 
 perfectly sure of your love and forgiveness; and
 
 276 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 that however he was misled formerly, he recog- 
 nized his folly at the end. The last words he 
 spoke here before he died were, *I was a fool, 
 a fool!'" 
 
 He looked around him. 
 
 "You, all who heard him is it not so?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, surely those were his last 
 words," came in broken confirmation from all 
 sides. 
 
 "My boy my boy!" 
 
 His head was on her arm again, and her lips 
 pressed to his face. After so many years of 
 weary waiting and heart-sickness, her boy had 
 come back to her. 
 
 "Not a fool," she murmured, "never a 
 fool just my only little child whom they de- 
 ceived, but who was coming back to me." 
 Then, raising her eyes, "God give you long 
 years, you who stood around him and kept his 
 last words for me." 
 
 Later on, when the tears had come at last, 
 and Kyra Sophoula had taken her home, Kyr 
 Vangheli spoke once more to the bystanders. 
 
 "Remember, all of you," he said, "remember, 
 as you would remember the last command of 
 your dying father, never let one word of the 
 truth escape you, never, not even to the priest. 
 / will bear the sin."
 
 THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER 277 
 
 Poros is about as fond of gossip as any 
 other island of its size, and the Poriotes are not 
 famed for their silence, but they kept this secret 
 well.
 
 VII 
 
 VASILI 
 
 The heart still answers to the thrill 
 That marks the hero mood. 
 
 RENNELL ROOD. 
 
 THE coals in the copper manghali were red 
 and glowing, yet the room felt chilly. It was 
 after dusk, on a rainy day in October. The 
 rain, one of the first of the season, had poured 
 down since dawn with tropical violence. Out- 
 side the house, which faced the sea, the water 
 ran in swift rivulets tinged with red earth from 
 the hills, and sent muddy brown streaks far 
 out into the bay. The Sleeper, and all the lower 
 hills, had been invisible all day, enveloped in 
 clouds. 
 
 A man sat crouching by the fire asleep, his 
 chin on his breast, his arms hanging limply at 
 each side, the firelight touching his matted hair 
 with red. He was a long thin man with bent 
 back and a skin the color of straw. From time 
 to time he moaned a little in his sleep, and in- 
 stinctively huddled up his shoulders to prevent 
 a rough old coat from slipping off.
 
 VASILI 279 
 
 The dim light showed a bare floor, white- 
 washed walls, a few straw chairs and tall wooden 
 stools. In one corner stood a divan, over which 
 was thrown a white linen cover, and on the deep 
 windowsill beside it stood a large pot of sweet 
 basil. On the wall hung a little narrow cup- 
 board with glass doors, surmounted by a cross. 
 Three sacred icons, one of the Virgin and Child, 
 one of the Crucifixion, and one of St. Nicholas, 
 were placed inside, and before it swung a tiny 
 hanging-lamp, swaying gently to and fro in the 
 draft from the casement behind it. The floating 
 wick burned dimly behind the colored glass, 
 throwing little patches of red light on the floor 
 below. 
 
 From the half -open door came the murmur of 
 voices, and the clatter of dishes. Gently, very 
 gently, the door was pushed open, and a woman 
 came in. She held a covered plate and trod 
 softly. She was rather stout, with a young face, 
 though there were a few white hairs among the 
 black, under the folded kerchief. The man 
 stirred and muttered as she bent over him, then 
 opened his eyes and looked at her. He had a 
 hatchet-shaped face, a short fair beard, thick 
 matted hair, and light blue eyes. He stretched 
 his arms and tried to stand up, but staggered 
 and would have fallen had it not been for her
 
 280 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 strong arm, that settled him on his low chair 
 again. 
 
 She laughed a little, but the laugh sounded 
 forced. 
 
 "You walk like a year-old child, Vasili. Sit 
 still for a while. You have slept, and are not 
 well awake yet." 
 
 "What!" said the man in a slow voice; "did I 
 sleep?" 
 
 "Aye, for near an hour; and no wonder, after 
 not closing your eyes all last night. For me, I 
 slept, and I woke, I slept and I woke again, and 
 all the time you were turning and twisting on 
 the mattress like a fish. And yesterday night, 
 and the night before that, it was the same thing. 
 What has come to you, my man?" 
 
 As she spoke she laid the covered plate on a 
 stool and brought it close to him. Then without 
 waiting for an answer, she returned to the door 
 and whispered something. A little girl of five or 
 six brought her a thick tumbler half full of yel- 
 low wine, tightly clasped in both small hands. 
 This the woman brought back and set down be- 
 side the plate. She steadied the stool, and then 
 with the iron pincers stirred up the ashes of the 
 manghali, talking all the time. 
 
 "Kyra Sophoula is in there; you were asleep, 
 you never heard her come. She brought me the
 
 VASILI 281 
 
 herbs to boil down. I must let them simmer for 
 four hours, she says; the longer the better; then 
 that water must get quite cold, and before you 
 drink it I am to mix with it a little boiled cinna- 
 mon and a little aniseed, and heat it up again. 
 There is nothing like it, she says, to keep back 
 the vomiting. It cured my Cousin Pericli after 
 he had tried all sorts of doctors' medicines. I 
 shall set the herbs on to-night, so that to- 
 morrow the drink may be ready in case you re- 
 quire it. To-day you have been well, though; 
 no vomiting at all; that is one good thing at 
 least. And now you must eat, Vasili; you must 
 eat to keep the strength in you, to make good 
 blood." 
 
 The man clicked his tongue, which with a 
 little backward toss of the head means No. 
 
 "Ah, but you must. See, I have got you some 
 lamb, and cooked it nice and brown, just as you 
 like it. And the retsinato wine is not from the 
 grocer's; it is from Kyr Stamo's. I sent Aristidi 
 just now to ask his wife Moska for a little. You 
 know he is a particular man about his wine, is 
 Kyr Stamo, and always makes his own retsinato, 
 with not a morsel of chalk in it." 
 
 Then, as the man sat there silently gazing in 
 a dazed way at the meat before him, she sud- 
 denly exclaimed :
 
 282 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "Well, now, what has happened to my head! 
 I am forgetting just what will give you a relish 
 for the food." 
 
 She ran back to the other room and returned 
 in triumph, holding a saucer with two sardines 
 on it. She placed the saucer beside the plate of 
 meat, adding as she did so: 
 
 "He who has a bad memory must needs have 
 good legs." 
 
 Then she stood beside him, expectant. 
 
 But Vasili shook his head at all she set before 
 him. 
 
 "Ah, do try, my man, do try," she cried 
 piteously; "see, take a little wine first to settle 
 your stomach." 
 
 He took the glass from her hand and sipped a 
 little. Then he cut off a tiny morsel of meat 
 and put it to his mouth. 
 
 "Yes, yes, that is right, go on. Eat it all. It 
 is good meat of the best. It will put strength 
 into you." 
 
 But he pushed the plate away. 
 
 "Even if I were to eat twice what you keep 
 forme " He gave a hopeless gesture. 
 
 "But how are you to get your strength back 
 if you will not try to eat? You must eat, Vasili, 
 you must." 
 
 Before he could answer, the door which led
 
 VASILI 283 
 
 to the other room was pushed open and an old 
 woman walked in, a wiry little figure with 
 keen brown eyes set in a mass of wrinkles. 
 
 "Of course you must, neighbor," she said, 
 catching the last words. "Can the machine 
 work without oil, think you? Such good things 
 as Calliope has prepared for you, too! Come, 
 now, like a sensible man. It is only a resolve 
 to take." 
 
 "Tell him so, tell him so, Kyra Sophoula," 
 chimed in the younger woman. "No sleep and 
 no food, is that a life? At least on the days he is 
 not sick, he should try to eat. The others 
 well, what can the poor man do? If he but put 
 a piece of dry bread between his lips, up comes 
 everything. Ah, Kyra Sophoula, and what 
 vomiting! Black! black as coffee grounds! 
 And then the pains! like knives inside of him, 
 he tells me, they are. How is the poor man to 
 work? How can he stoop over his bench or his 
 lathe? Not a log has he sawed, not a plank has 
 he planed, for more than six months now." 
 
 "Not a single one!" muttered the man; "but 
 sitting here from dawn to sunset with folded 
 hands; it is that which eats into me so." 
 
 Kyra Sophoula nodded her head. 
 
 "I know, I know," she said; "you were ever 
 one for work, Vasili; not lazy like most of the
 
 284 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 men here, who want even their rusks moistened 
 for them before they will bite them. But come, 
 now, try another bit of meat. The first bite 
 opens the road for the rest." 
 
 But he shook his head and pushed the plate 
 farther away, while poor Calliope, who had been 
 ironing till past midnight the previous day, to 
 earn the money for the small piece of lamb, 
 stood looking at it pitifully. 
 
 Just then there was a slight commotion in the 
 outer room, a sound of talking, a man's voice 
 among the children's. A boy of about eleven, 
 with a thin face and bright eyes, ran in through 
 the open door and closed it behind him. 
 
 "Mana, Kyr Vangheli the master has come. 
 He is in there; he wants father." 
 
 "Let him come in at once," exclaimed Calli- 
 ope; "you should have called me; have you left 
 him there alone with the little ones?" 
 
 She hurried to the door and threw it wide open. 
 A tall, awkward-looking man with a dark 
 mustache stood on the other side. He had some 
 books in his hand. 
 
 "Please pass in, Kyr Vangheli," she said, 
 flattening herself against the wall to make room; 
 "pass in, Vasili is here." 
 
 The schoolmaster came in, and Vasili rose 
 painfully to meet him.
 
 VASILI 285 
 
 After greetings had been exchanged, the mas- 
 ter took the seat of honor anxiously indicated 
 by Calliope: the exact middle of the linen- 
 covered divan. As soon as he was seated, she 
 disappeared, only to reappear five minutes later, 
 with a tray on which stood a small glass jar of 
 tiny green lemons preserved in syrup, two silver 
 spoons, two glasses of water, and a small cup of 
 black coffee. This tray she presented to Kyr 
 Vangheli, standing before him while he served 
 himself, not forgetting to say, "Health to you," 
 when he put down his empty glass. He took his 
 cup of coffee last, and settled himself against 
 the hard sofa pillow, crossing his long legs. 
 
 "Well, then, Vasili, as I was asking you, be- 
 fore your wife came in, what have you decided? 
 Will you let the boy continue for one year more? 
 He learns easily, and remembers what he has 
 learned. Also his head is not full of straw." 
 
 He took a last sip of coffee, and, stretching 
 out his arm, placed the empty cup on the stool, 
 beside the plate of food. 
 
 Vasili stirred uneasily. 
 
 "I have wished to let him stay," he muttered, 
 keeping his eyes fixed on the floor, and rubbing 
 with the end of his foot some of the ashes fallen 
 from the manghali. 
 
 The schoolmaster leaned forward, his elbows
 
 286 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 on his knees, his hands loosely clasped before 
 him. 
 
 "Let him finish the third Greek class at least." 
 
 Vasili opened his mouth as though about to 
 speak, and closed it again. 
 
 "A little more learning will make him all the 
 more useful to you later on," added the master. 
 
 Then Calliope broke in. 
 
 "Kyr Vangheli, you must forgive me for put- 
 ting my word in, when my man is there to answer 
 you; but it will not be possible, what you speak 
 of. I am glad Aristidi pleases you, and, God 
 knows that we would work like beasts of bur- 
 den, that we would make the impossible possi- 
 ble, to let him have more learning but we 
 must be two to work. And Vasili, as you see, 
 must gain strength first. Since the day, just 
 before the Annunciation Feast it was, when I 
 went into his workshop to tell him the soup was 
 ready, and found him stretched across his lathe 
 in a faint, he has not been able to lift a hammer! 
 The orders come, and we have to send them 
 away. I do all I can. I go out to work for 
 strangers now. I wash and iron and bake and 
 scour floors to earn money, but can I always be 
 at home to mind him, and out of the house 
 working at the same time? The little girls are 
 too small to help: they only add to the work.
 
 VASILI 287 
 
 Aristidi must do something now. He got a 
 woman's wage, one drachma and twenty lepta 
 a day, in the summer, at the drying of the rais- 
 ins, and he can do the same now that the olive- 
 picking will soon be beginning. It is not much, 
 but it is always something, and we require it, 
 you see. He must work now. Later on, we shall 
 see." 
 
 Kyr Vangheli looked inquiringly at Vasili. 
 
 "Later on," he said slowly; "later on yes, 
 Calliope is right, the lad must do something for 
 us, now that I am of no use." 
 
 "Nay, it will pass, your illness," put in Kyra 
 Sophoula soothingly. 
 
 "Yes," assented Vasili; "but time also 
 passes." Then, addressing the schoolmaster: 
 "Tell me, please, if I should be well again, and 
 able to work, say after the Christ Feast, or New 
 Year, can the boy return then to school? Will 
 you receive him?" 
 
 "Surely." 
 
 "Will not the other scholars have got too far 
 beyond him?" 
 
 "The other scholars! bah!" And Kyr 
 Vangheli laughed derisively; "what it has taken 
 me three months to drive into their heads, I 
 engage to teach Aristidi in three nights if he 
 stays with me after school. Since your Metro,"
 
 288 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 and he nodded at Kyra Sophoula, "I have not 
 had such another scholar.'* 
 
 "You are very good," said Vasili; and his lips 
 trembled as he spoke. 
 
 The schoolmaster eyed him keenly. 
 
 "What is it, after all, that ails you? Are you 
 no better than last month? Have you seen the 
 doctor, or are you trying to cure yourself with 
 old women's medicines?" 
 
 Calliope pressed forward eagerly, but her 
 husband answered before she could speak. 
 
 "Five times I have seen the doctor." 
 
 "And what did he tell you?" 
 
 "Nothing clear." 
 
 "Did he give you no medicines?" 
 
 "Aye, many, and he changed them every 
 time, before I had finished the bottles." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "They did nothing for me: I will take no 
 more." 
 
 Kyr Vangheli shook his head. 
 
 "If an older doctor, a cleverer one, could 
 come," he said musingly. 
 
 Suddenly Vasili lifted his eyes, and looked 
 him full in the face. 
 
 "No one will come here," he said; "but if you, 
 who know many things, think the doctors of the 
 town would cure me sooner, then I can go there."
 
 VASILI 289 
 
 "To the town! to Athens?" gasped Calli- 
 ope. 
 
 "Yes. I have thought of it now many nights 
 that I have not slept. This is no life that I lead ! 
 Why should I not go to Athens? it is only four 
 hours in the steamer. There is a little money 
 left, and it need not cost much. Yanni, my cousin 
 there, who is a builder, will give me a mattress 
 for two nights." 
 
 "Do you know Athens?" asked Kyr Vangheli 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 "I have been there once with my father, 
 God rest him ! seventeen years ago. It is a 
 fine place with wide streets and big marble 
 palaces, and many people. There at least one 
 can find clever men who will tell me what to do, 
 and I shall do it and be well once more. It is 
 simple." 
 
 So simple that his poor wife gazed at him in 
 awe, as though he had talked of starting for 
 America on the moment. Kyra Sophoula patted 
 her shoulder encouragingly. 
 
 "Do not trouble yourself: it is nothing. There 
 is Metro also in Athens; and when your man 
 decides to go, we must have a letter written to 
 the lad. He will find out which doctor is the best, 
 and then meet Kyr Vasili at Piraeus and help 
 him in all."
 
 290 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "That is a good thought, Kyra Sophoula," 
 assented the schoolmaster. " We must certainly 
 write to Metro. By this time he is sure to know 
 the town well." 
 
 But Calliope was not reconciled. 
 
 "It is so far," she said, "and cold just now 
 on the sea; you do not know, you who talk, how 
 weak he is." Then, turning apologetically to 
 the master: "Forgive me, Kyr Vangheli, but 
 you do not see him often: you cannot know as 
 I do. Is it not so? Some days he is better, but 
 others he can scarcely walk and his legs tremble 
 like an old man's. If I do not hold him, he falls. 
 Here in Poros, well, there are friends and 
 neighbors, he could be helped upon the steamer: 
 but when he arrives there, with the noise and 
 the bustle and the fighting of the boatmen 
 what would he do? Some one would push him 
 into the sea before you could say 'Amen'!" 
 
 "Wife, wife," protested Vasili, "what are 
 you saying? I shall wait on the steamer till the 
 many have gone by, and then I can walk quite 
 well. You are thinking of when I fell uncon- 
 scious; I am better now." 
 
 But she laid her hand on his shoulder. "I 
 know what I am saying." 
 
 Kyr Vangheli rose slowly from the divan, and 
 came forward, lank and awkward.
 
 VASILI 291 
 
 "Kyra Calliope," he said, "I will write to 
 Metro and tell him to inquire, from those who 
 know, about the cleverest doctor. For the jour- 
 ney, do not torment yourself. I have some 
 business in Athens which must be seen to; I have 
 put it off too long already and must go now, 
 before school begins again. So, if Vasili likes, 
 we can go together next week and return together 
 when our business is over. What do you say, 
 Vasili? Shall we be travelers, you and I?" 
 
 "I thank you, Kyr Vangheli," answered the 
 sick man, after an almost imperceptible pause; 
 "yes, I will go with you." 
 
 Now Vasili had always been a man of slow 
 thought, and slow but sure decision. The Po- 
 riotes said, "Vasili measures his cloth five 
 times over, for once that he cuts it, but when 
 he cuts, he cuts straight." So Calliope knew 
 there was no moving him from a decision once 
 taken, and made few further objections. But 
 when Kyr Vangheli had left them, and she stood 
 at the open house door with Kyra Sophoula, 
 looking after him as he disappeared in the dis- 
 tance, with bent head and long awkward strides, 
 the tears were running down her face. 
 
 "Do not spoil your heart's content," said the 
 old woman; "Kyr Vangheli is a good man, he 
 will take care of your man on the way."
 
 292 TALES OF A (GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "He is a good man, yes, I know it; but, oh, 
 my poor Vasili, what will he do without me? 
 And who knows if next week he may not be 
 worse?" 
 
 "But since he told you himself that he is bet- 
 ter now?" hazarded Kyra Sophoula. 
 
 "Does a man spend good money to go all the 
 way to Athens to see a doctor, when he feels 
 better?" 
 
 "Nonsense!" answered the old woman 
 sharply; "do not put evil in your mind." 
 
 Calliope tightened her lips and spoke no more. 
 A few moments later she went back to Vasili to 
 persuade him to come to bed, but he would not 
 move. She looked around helplessly. 
 
 "Father," said the boy Aristidi, coming to 
 her rescue, "why will you not lie down? You 
 can sleep to-night; there is nothing to trouble 
 you. Two great things are decided: first, you 
 will go to Athens to get well, and next, I am to 
 work at the olive-picking, and bring home money 
 every week. Come," and he laid his hand on his 
 father's arm. 
 
 "Let me be," murmured the man; "go you 
 to bed; I shall follow soon." 
 
 When they left him he tried to think of many 
 things which were buzzing in his brain, but the 
 thoughts would not form themselves; they re-
 
 VASILI 293 
 
 mained vague and hazy. He felt curiously cold. 
 A dizziness came over him, and for a few mo- 
 ments he could not remember where he was. 
 A dull pain shot through him once or twice, but 
 there was a strange fatigue that numbed even 
 the physical agony. Everything seemed far 
 away, and when he leaned his head on his 
 hand for a moment he could almost imagine that 
 they did not touch, that there was a great 
 space between the two. He looked at his foot 
 stretched before him and wondered at its weight; 
 and it was some time after he thought of moving 
 it that he succeeded in doing so. 
 
 The great clock of the Naval School struck 
 the hours, the sentinels on duty exchanged their 
 cry, and the night lengthened. Still he sat there 
 by the cold manghali, his head sunk on his 
 breast, his clasped hands hanging between his 
 knees, and never moved till long past midnight. 
 
 It was about a fortnight later, and four days 
 since Vasili with Kyr Vangheli had left in the 
 steamer for Athens. The first rains were over, 
 and it was a perfect autumn morning, one of 
 those which come often in Poros, blue, breezy, 
 sunny, and cool. Calliope, with the two little 
 girls Athena and Elenitsa, was returning from 
 St. Stathi, a tiny chapel up the rocky path
 
 294 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 beyond the Little Spring. She had wished to 
 light a candle for her husband's cure and safe 
 return, and it was too far to walk to the Monas- 
 tery. Besides, she had worked hard these last 
 days, and her feet were tired. The Holy Virgin 
 would understand, she thought. 
 
 A little before reaching the spring, on her 
 way back, she sat down to rest under an old 
 pine, from whose gaping wounds the resin had 
 been slowly dripping all night into the hollowed- 
 out cavity of the stone placed ready to receive 
 it. Below her was a dry torrent bed filled with 
 oleanders, and on its farther side the steep gray 
 rocks towered almost perpendicularly, their 
 summits crowned with young pines, golden 
 green in the rays of the morning sun. Below the 
 belt of trees, here and there, a single hardy pine 
 sprang from the very heart of the rock itself. 
 Heavy white clouds were blown rapidly across 
 the deep blue of the sky, broke, dissolved, sepa- 
 rated into myriads of little ones, and formed 
 again into snowy masses. 
 
 The children ran about while their mother sat 
 there resting. They picked the red berries off 
 the laden lentisk bushes, biting them for the 
 sake of their pungent pistachio-like taste; they 
 played ball with the dry round bulbs of the dog 
 onion; they rolled over on the soft brown carpet
 
 VASILI 295 
 
 of the pine needles, in the dark spots under the 
 trees, where the sunlight fell in tiny flecks 
 through the swaying branches, and where the 
 first pink cyclamen buds were just showing 
 through. 
 
 There were no trees but pines on this road of 
 the Little Spring, pines of all shapes and sizes, 
 from the old trees with their rugged, deeply 
 scored bark, showing the red wood underneath, 
 their masses of dark green spikes making round 
 velvety masses in the distance, the younger 
 ones with their smooth gray trunks, their slim 
 branches bending under the weight of their 
 cones, to the little round pale-green baby pines. 
 The wind from the sea rushed with a roaring 
 sound through the branches, and the warm res- 
 inous odor was everywhere. 
 
 Calliope got up to continue her way home, 
 calling the children to her as she went. They 
 walked down the narrow path past the Little 
 Spring, and along the ravine till Poros with its 
 white houses appeared before them in the fork 
 of the hills. Calliope walked along silently, 
 holding a child by each hand, for the ravine 
 was deep just there, and the fall abrupt. Her 
 man had been gone four whole days, and she 
 had received no news from him. This in itself 
 was not disquieting, for letters are rare occur-
 
 296 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 rences in Poros; but she was anxious to hear 
 what the great doctors in Athens had said. She 
 wondered whether, being so clever, they would 
 be likely to cure instantaneously; whether Vasili 
 would return looking already strong and well. 
 
 At the bridge suddenly she heard her name 
 called. 
 
 "Kyra Calliope! Kyra Calliope!" 
 
 A girl about seventeen, a pretty girl with pink 
 cheeks and black hair, came running to meet 
 her. It was Maroussa, Kyra Sophoula's grand- 
 daughter, holding a little boy by the hand; a 
 pale child carefully dressed in a white sailor 
 suit. 
 
 "Many years may you live, Kyra Calliope! 
 I was just thinking of you and wishing to see 
 you. I went to your house, but none of the 
 neighbors knew where you had gone.'* 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "My grandmother had a letter from Metro 
 in Athens; it was left for us at the grocer's, and 
 they only gave it to her this morning." 
 
 "And he says?" 
 
 "That he saw your Vasili, who was well 
 that is to say, the journey had not tired him too 
 much." 
 
 "What did the doctor say to him?" 
 
 "Metro did not know that yet; he only writes
 
 VASIL1 297 
 
 that he had been told of a very good doctor, 
 and found out where he lived, andVasili was to 
 go to his house yesterday morning at ten." 
 
 "Yesterday! Then perhaps it is to-day he 
 will return. Once he has seen the doctor, why 
 should he stay any longer? Let us walk quickly; 
 the steamer returns early to-day. You, Athena 
 and Elenitsa, take the little boy between you, 
 and walk on in front." Then, turning to Ma- 
 roussa, "It is the little boy, the son of the lady? " 
 
 "Yes; a good little child, but so sickly. He 
 has fever constantly, and no medicines will stop 
 it; the quinine that little one has taken! And 
 only from me will he take it. That is why 
 the lady begged me to stay so long. The doctor 
 says the child must go away to another place, 
 where there are no fevers. His father is an offi- 
 cer, you know, and the lady says they will be 
 ordering him to Larissa soon, and then, just 
 think, Kyra Calliope, she wants me to go with 
 them." 
 
 "You! to Larissa?" 
 
 "Yes; the child is only good and pleased with 
 me; but I do not think my grandmother will let 
 me go." 
 
 "It is far, for a maiden," said Kyra Calliope. 
 Then, without slackening her pace: "Why is the 
 child dressed so like the sailors at the Naval
 
 298 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 School? Is he perhaps to become a sailor also 
 when he is grown up?" 
 
 Maroussa laughed. "I do not know. But 
 they mean nothing, the clothes; they always 
 dress little boys so in the town. The lady told 
 me." 
 
 But Calliope scarcely listened; she walked on 
 faster and faster, till the children could not keep 
 up the same pace, and lagged behind. 
 
 "Kyra Calliope," said the girl at last, looking 
 at her, "leave the little ones to me. I will bring 
 them back to your house." 
 
 Calliope hesitated. "Can you?" she asked. 
 
 "Surely. It will amuse the child to have them 
 with him." Then, dropping on her knees be- 
 side the little boy: "Costaki, my golden one, 
 you will walk with the good little maids, will 
 you not?" 
 
 Costaki turned his pale little face from one to 
 the other of the sturdy maidens. 
 
 "Yes," he said very slowly, "I want them." 
 
 Calliope nodded and strode on, calling out 
 over her shoulder: "You, Athena, be a good girl 
 and take care of Elenitsa." 
 
 Once alone she nearly ran. In a few seconds 
 she had crossed the Narrow Beach, passed the 
 Naval School, and reached the first houses of 
 the village. There was scarcely any one about.
 
 VASILI 299 
 
 The men were at work, the women busy in- 
 doors, and the children at school. A sailor 
 passed her, swinging a bundle as he walked. 
 Two hens scuttled along, frightened at her rapid 
 approach. A puppy ran barking after some 
 pigeons in the oft-deceived yet constantly re- 
 curring hope that he might catch them at last, 
 and an old man was hanging up a net to dry 
 in the sun. 
 
 Calliope looked out towards the sea. There 
 were no small boats about. The steamer was 
 therefore either not yet in sight or had arrived 
 some time ago. When at last she could see her 
 own house, it seemed to her that five or six peo- 
 ple were standing outside the door, but her sight 
 was not very good, and she could not distin- 
 guish the faces. There was a stir among them, 
 and one man detached himself from the group 
 and advanced towards her. 
 
 "Kyr Vangheli! You! Then the steamer has 
 come?" 
 
 "Some time ago, yes, it came early." 
 
 "AndVasili?" 
 
 "Yes yes, come in, Kyra Calliope, come 
 in. Kyra Sophoula is here, and the neighbors. 
 Come into the house." 
 
 His voice was husky and the words were in- 
 distinct. Some women hurried forward. One,
 
 300 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 stumbling over a large stone, fell suddenly in a 
 sitting posture. 
 
 Calliope laughed out loud a nervous laugh. 
 
 Kyra Sophoula caught hold of her hand. 
 "Ah, do not laugh, my poor one! for God's 
 name, do not laugh!'* 
 
 Calliope turned round sharply. "Why should 
 I not laugh? Why?" 
 
 She looked from one to the other, and her 
 eyes changed as a man's might when he feels 
 the first prick of the knife at his breast. 
 
 " Vasili?" she asked, "Vasili?" 
 
 There was silence. 
 
 She turned fiercely to the schoolmaster. 
 
 "Where is my man? You took him with you. 
 Where is he? Is he ill? Is he worse?" 
 
 For a moment Kyr Vangheli did not answer. 
 He stood before her, his lips tightly closed, his 
 breath coming in short quick gusts through his 
 nostrils. 
 
 At last he stammered: "He no not ill 
 but it is bad news ! very bad ! It was an evil hour 
 that I took him with me." 
 
 Calliope gave one piercing shriek, and then 
 in a husky whisper, her hands at her mouth: 
 "Is he dead, my man?" 
 
 Kyr Vangheli bent his head. 
 
 "Where? In here? In the steamer?",
 
 VASILI 801 
 
 "No." 
 -"In Athens?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Speak, man, speak! If you are a Christian, 
 speak!" 
 
 "Kyra Calliope, you must have courage. 
 Poor Vasili God rest him ! is drowned ! " 
 
 She stared at him with wide-open, shining 
 eyes. "Drowned! drowned! Where?" 
 
 "At Phalerum, near Athens." 
 
 "Oh, my God! drowned! drowned!" she 
 repeated in a dazed voice. Then suddenly: "Are 
 you lying to me? Drowned? But how? when? 
 How is it possible? Did he fall from a boat? 
 But he can swim like a fish; you know it." 
 
 No one spoke, but two of the women made 
 the sign of the cross. 
 
 "Tell me," she cried; "tell me, then; for the 
 name of God, tell me." 
 
 Kyr Vangheli opened his lips twice, but no 
 words came through them. At last, in a low 
 voice: "God be merciful to you, Kyra Calliope," 
 he said, " if a man will not swim, if he ties a stone 
 round his middle, how can he not drown?" 
 
 Calliope sprang forward. She thrust her hand 
 roughly under the master's chin and forced his 
 eyes to meet hers. 
 "Do you mean ?"
 
 302 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "Yes," he answered; "I I saw the cord " 
 
 Then she fell back in a heap into the arms of 
 the women behind her, and they bore her into 
 the house. 
 
 When she regained consciousness she pushed 
 them impatiently aside, and sat up on the divan 
 where they had placed her, her hair falling over 
 her eyes, the water they had poured over her 
 streaming down her face. 
 
 "Where is he?" she cried; "what have they 
 done with him? Where have they put my 
 man?" 
 
 Kyr Vangheli, who had been standing at the 
 open door, came close to her. He tried to tread 
 softly, but the old boards creaked under his 
 feet. 
 
 "Capetan Leftheri was at Piraeus with his 
 boat. I begged him and he said he would 
 bring Vasili. I came on to tell you. You see, 
 in the steamer they would not that is 
 they-" 
 
 "When will the boat arrive?" 
 
 "The wind is favorable; if they started when 
 they meant to, perhaps in half an hour from 
 now." 
 
 "Sit here," she commanded; "sit here close 
 to me, I cannot hear you well, there is a sing- 
 ing in my ears, and tell me all you know;
 
 VASILI 303 
 
 all; everything. Some 'one told me, I think, 
 I forget who, that he went to the doctor? " 
 
 "Yes," said Kyr Vangheli, seating himself on 
 the divan where she was pointing. "Yes, he 
 went at ten yesterday morning. It was to a 
 good doctor he went, one of the best, but a hard 
 man, if only I had gone with him, but, 
 you see, I had to be at the Ministry just then, 
 about the new classbooks. When later on Va- 
 sili did not come to the coffee-house where I had 
 told him to meet me, and I did not find him 
 at Yanni's, his cousin's, I went to the doctor's 
 house, and asked for him. He had left there 
 long ago in the morning, they told me. Then I 
 saw the doctor himself " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "He was a young man in a hurry to go out. 
 He told me all all he had told Vasili him- 
 self." 
 
 "What all? Speak then." 
 
 "Kyra Calliope, you could not have kept him 
 here long, even without this. The doctor said 
 he had found him very ill most dangerously 
 ill. There was a tumor, a very bad kind. I can- 
 not explain now but the doctor had told him 
 he must have an operation at once; must have 
 the tumor taken away." 
 
 " Well even then he was not one to be
 
 304 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 afraid, my man! Would this operation have 
 made him quite well?" 
 
 "No, it was a tumor that grows again." 
 
 "Ah! and then?" 
 
 "The doctor said he might take it out again 
 a second time, but a third, no. Then he told me 
 Vasili had paid him, and gone away. I asked 
 him if he were a Christian, to let a man go out 
 alone with such words in his ears. But he looked 
 at me as though I were mad; and I left him and 
 ran out of the house to look for Vasili. Not that 
 I put evil in my mind, but I wanted to find him, 
 to speak a good word to the poor man, to tell 
 him there were other doctors besides this one, 
 to see what could be done. The servant at the 
 door remembered when I asked him. He had 
 seen Vasili cross the road, he said, to a little 
 paper shop opposite. I went to the shop, and 
 they told me yes, a countryman had been there 
 towards noon and had bought a sheet of paper 
 and an envelope. He had borrowed a pen, and 
 had sat there for some time thinking, and then 
 had written, holding the paper on his knees. 
 They had not noticed how he looked. But a boy 
 told me that he had asked him when the steam 
 trams left for Phalerum. So from there I ran to 
 the station in front of the Academy. The man 
 who sells the tickets knew nothing. He was busy
 
 VASILI 305 
 
 counting. 'A countryman? thin? pale? 
 Do I know? There are twenty such. Leave me 
 in peace, brother.' But at last, after I had asked 
 many, a little shoeblack remembered him: that 
 his face was the color of a lemon and that he 
 stooped. He had seen him take a ticket and 
 leave by the one o'clock tram." 
 
 Calliope shivered. "All alone! my poor 
 man!" 
 
 "It was dark by that time," went on the 
 schoolmaster, "and the steam tram was just 
 leaving nearly empty. I got in; there was no 
 one in the compartment but a young man. I 
 suppose I looked strange, for he spoke to me and 
 I told him the things as they had happened. 
 It appeared he was a doctor also, but a young 
 one, who was studying, and he understood all, 
 and nodded his head quickly many times while 
 I spoke, saying, 'Yes, yes; I know; I see.' He 
 had a good heart, too, for at once he told me he 
 would come with me to look for Vasili. He had 
 no business to do at Phalerum, he said; he was 
 just going down to take the air. Well, when we 
 got there, by the sea at old Phalerum, we asked 
 right and left at the tram station, at the coffee- 
 houses, at the little inns on the cliffs. No one 
 had seen him, no one. We did not leave one 
 place untried. But it was no good. At last when
 
 306 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 we went down on the shore, there at once we 
 saw his clothes in a heap beside a big stone ' 
 
 "His clothes? 5 * began Calliope, with stiff 
 lips, "only his clothes? But you said " 
 
 "Hush! wait. After we found these, we went 
 round the rocks looking everywhere. The dark- 
 ness had fallen and the stones were so wet we 
 slipped often. But we rose again and ran on, 
 and called his name, but no one answered. The 
 doctor said perhaps he had gone for a swim and 
 had been tired afterwards and had fallen asleep 
 somewhere, and that this was great foolishness, 
 for he would take cold. We called louder as we 
 went, but still there was no answer. It was 
 I who first saw a whitish heap half in the water, 
 behind a large rock. We both stopped short, 
 and he, the doctor, ran on, and I saw him bend- 
 ing over the heap and lifting it very softly. 
 Poor Vasili had been dead some hours, he said. 
 He had tied a stone or something heavy round 
 his middle with a thin cord, but it had broken, 
 and the body had floated out there. I saw the 
 cord hanging round him, broken and knotted. 
 The letter for you we found afterwards near his 
 clothes. There was a big stone over it, so that 
 the wind should not blow it away. Here it 
 is." 
 
 He put a letter in her shaking hands, and she
 
 VASILI 307 
 
 sat there gazing at it without attempting to 
 open it. 
 
 Kyra Sophoula bent over her. "See what he 
 tells you, my poor one!" 
 
 Calliope looked at the crumpled, earth- 
 stained envelope, the straggling address written 
 in blotted violet ink, then at the grave, pitying 
 face above her, and suddenly thrust the letter 
 into the schoolmaster's hand. 
 
 "Read it, you," she said. 
 
 He opened it carefully. It was not a very 
 long letter; two pages and a half of thin ruled 
 paper. He turned it over. 
 
 "Read," she repeated hoarsely, "read." 
 
 And he read : 
 
 MY WIFE: This is to tell you that I am 
 going to drown myself because I have thought 
 that it will be better for us all that I should do 
 so. The doctor here in the town told me this: 
 that I have a great torment in my vitals; a bad 
 evil that grows and grows again. He told me 
 that it could be cut out. I asked him what it 
 would cost, and he said nothing, if we could not 
 pay. But that when the wound was healed and I 
 came home, I must be very careful and live well: 
 not work, not tire myself, and eat good food al- 
 ways, food that gives strength. But the worst
 
 308 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 is he did not think I should ever get well. After 
 six months, one year, two years even, he 
 could not tell, the evil would grow again, and 
 again have to be cut out, till the time would 
 come when it would reach too far and could not 
 be cut out any more. So I have thought, if all 
 this happens as he says, and Metro told me 
 he was a very great doctor, that it will eat 
 up all the little money we have left, and that 
 you and the boy will have to kill yourselves with 
 work, and for what? to feed one who will 
 die, after all, in two or three years' time. I have 
 thought that Aristidi would forget all his learn- 
 ing and grow up an ignorant man like myself. 
 That perhaps even after I died, so much money 
 would have been spent on good food and medi- 
 cines and journeys back and forth to the town 
 that you would remain with debts to pay, and 
 might never be able to lay aside a little dowry 
 for our girls. So you see if I live it will ruin us, 
 while if you have none of these useless expenses, 
 and are free to think and work, there will be 
 enough for you all. You can send the boy to 
 school for some time yet, and when he is grown 
 up he will be a lettered man, and able to work 
 for you and his sisters better than I could. Also 
 he will be a widow's son, and will not be forced 
 to serve in the Navy. All these things I have
 
 VASILI 309 
 
 thought of, and I do not think I am commit- 
 ting a sin; and if I am it is mine. Remember 
 that we owe your Cousin Chryssoula fourteen 
 okes of oil from last April. Kyr Apostoli the 
 baker owes me thirty-one drachmas for some 
 planks which I sold him. He is an honest man; 
 he will pay you. Give my blessing to our son, 
 and tell him to take care of you and his sisters. 
 And tell Athena and Elenitsa to be good maid- 
 ens, and to obey you and their brother; and you, 
 wife, forgive me. 
 
 Your husband, 
 
 VASILI. 
 
 When Kyr Vangheli came to the end of the 
 letter, his hands were trembling and the tears 
 were running down his cheeks. He wiped them 
 away quietly and unashamed, and held out the 
 letter to Calliope. 
 
 She seized it and burst into wild sobs, hold- 
 ing it tightly to her breast and rocking back- 
 wards and forwards. 
 
 "My poor man! my poor man! I would have 
 worked all my life as a slave to keep you with us. 
 My man! my man!" 
 
 In a few moments she rose, her eyes still 
 streaming, and crossed the room to the little 
 hanging shrine. She opened the glass door and,
 
 310 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 slightly lifting the icon of the Crucifixion, placed 
 the letter underneath the heavy wooden frame. 
 
 "His children will find it there," she said. 
 
 Kyra Sophoula made the sign of the cross. 
 "He was a good man; God rest him." 
 
 "But," objected Moska timidly, "will not 
 many say it was a sin, and that we must wait 
 for God's time to die?" 
 
 "He was a good man," repeated Kyr Van- 
 gheli gravely, "and a very brave man. Let no 
 one speak ill of him." 
 
 The door was pushed open suddenly and 
 a young man, bareheaded, and breathing as 
 though he had been running fast, came in and 
 whispered something to Kyr Vangheli. The lat- 
 ter wheeled round and questioned him in an 
 undertone. The man nodded his head two or 
 three times affirmatively. 
 
 "Yes yes; he is there. He sent me." 
 
 "What is it?" cried Calliope. "Have they 
 is it the boat?" 
 
 "Yes," Kyr Vangheli answered; "the boat 
 has come, and Panayi here says " 
 
 "I must go to him," interrupted Calliope 
 wildly, starting towards the door; "I must see 
 him." 
 
 Kyr Vangheli held her back. "You shall go; 
 yes; but listen first. I saw Pappa Thanassi as
 
 VASILI 311 
 
 soon as I arrived, about the funeral, and he 
 he says he is sorry but he " 
 
 "You mean he will not bury my man?" 
 
 "He is afraid of the bishop. He dare not, he 
 says." 
 
 "He dare not? He, Pappa Thanassi! he, who 
 knew Vasili since he was a boy; he, who mar- 
 ried us; he, who christened our children! He 
 dare not?" She broke into wild weeping, her 
 arms across her face. 
 
 "My man! oh, my man! my good man! Will 
 they thrust him into the ground like a dog, 
 without cross or candle? without a priest to 
 read a prayer? Oh, my God, help me! Oh, my 
 God! my God!" 
 
 Kyr Vangheli put his hand on her shoulder. 
 "Hush, Kyra Calliope, hush. God will help you. 
 He has helped you. Do not cry so; listen to me. 
 In the steamer coming from Piraeus, now, this 
 morning, there was a young priest; at least not 
 quite a priest, he is only a deacon yet. I feared 
 something of this kind from Pappa Thanassi, 
 and I asked this deacon about it. * Perhaps 
 your priest will refuse,' he said; *I do not know; 
 some do. It is the rule of the church, of course. 
 But to me it seems if there be any sin, all the 
 more need of forgiveness, and of the priest to 
 pray for it. If you can get no one else, I will
 
 312 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 come with you and read a prayer, and let what 
 will happen/' 1 
 
 Calliope had ceased sobbing. She bent for- 
 ward eagerly drinking in his words. "And he 
 is?" 
 
 "Yes, he is'down there by the sea, waiting for 
 the boat. Shall we go now? " 
 
 She had not cursed the priest who refused, 
 but she blessed the deacon now. 
 
 "God give him many years," she whispered, 
 "and blessed be the mother who bore him." 
 
 Then she followed Kyr Vangheli out of the 
 house, and the other women came after them. 
 They advanced rapidly for a few steps, but sud- 
 denly Calliope stopped short. The glare of the 
 noonday sea was in her eyes, but she knew that 
 the dark figures against the white houses in 
 the distance were the men of Capetan Leftheri's 
 boat, bringing Vasili home. 
 
 Late in the evening of that same day, after 
 they had returned from the little white-walled 
 cemetery, Calliope, who had sat for some time 
 with the few mourners, to whom Kyra Sophoula 
 was serving the coffee, came out of her door in 
 the dusk with the deacon, who had risen to take 
 leave. Kyr Vangheli had followed her, and 
 little Elenitsa was clinging to her skirts.
 
 VASILI 313 
 
 The deacon stood before her and she held his 
 hand in both of hers. He was a tall youth, 
 beardless for the present, with ruddy lights in 
 the long curling hair that fell over his black 
 robes. 
 
 "My son," she said, with trembling lips, "I 
 can never repay you; nor can I be sure that no 
 trouble will come to you because of us. I do not 
 know what your bishop may say if he hears 
 what you have done. For me I have not even 
 asked your name, so I cannot repeat it, if I 
 would. But the good you have done to a poor 
 widow and to these orphans, may you find it 
 from God. May He repay what I cannot." 
 
 As Kyr Vangheli found that same young 
 deacon many years later, a tall, smiling, full- 
 bearded priest in Piraeus, rector of a flourishing 
 church, husband of a pretty, sweet-tempered 
 "pappadia," and father of two promising young 
 scholars of the Gymnasium, it is to be hoped 
 that he considered the debt duly paid.
 
 VIII 
 
 BARBA STATHI 
 
 Worn with waiting for the day to die. 
 
 RENNELL ROOD. 
 
 THEY were coming home to Poros for Easter. 
 When the steamer turned the corner by the 
 lighthouse, most of them were standing in a 
 group at the prow, straining their eyes to see 
 what boats had left the quay and to recognize 
 the rowers in them. There was Panayi, old 
 Ghika's son, who worked at the iron foundry at 
 Piraeus; and Saranto, the joiner, who had gone 
 there to buy wood for the new house the Mayor 
 was having built; and Niko, the sailor from the 
 man-of-war, whose old mother lived in Poros; 
 and Lambros, the Mayor's son, who had been 
 on a visit to his uncle, the rich grocer at Piraeus; 
 and the other Lambros, the Roumeliote, with 
 his dog Mourgo, whom he never left behind 
 with the flocks when he was obliged to be absent 
 for more than a day. 
 
 Right in front, in his eagerness to see the first 
 of the island,, was Metro, Anthi's Metro,
 
 BARBA STATHI 315 
 
 the one who was studying in Athens to become 
 a schoolmaster. He had been studying hard, as 
 money was scarce, and he was in a hurry to be 
 able to earn something, so that for more than 
 eighteen months he had not been home; and 
 eighteen months is a long time to be away from 
 Poros when you love it. Not that a birthplace 
 need always be loved by those born and bred in 
 it, but Poros is a place apart. Strangers coming 
 for the first time, and who have traveled through 
 many lands, say they have rarely seen anything 
 more beautiful than this perfect bay: the wide 
 curve of the mainland with its trees down to 
 the water's edge on the right, the island with its 
 thyme-covered hills on the left, and the white 
 village on the bare rocks in the centre; and 
 opposite the village the majestic mountain of 
 the Sleeper, with its pure sweeping outlines, so 
 rarely seen out of Greece. When Metro learned 
 sufficient French to enjoy reading it, he felt 
 persuaded that Bourget had been thinking of 
 Poros when he wrote, "II y a des paysages si 
 beaux qu'on voudrait les serrer sur son coeur." 
 And when he was told that Bourget had traveled 
 all through the islands, he was absolutely con- 
 vinced of it. 
 
 Just now Metro was very happy: not only 
 was he coming home, but he was enjoying that
 
 316 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 refinement of pleasure which consists in showing 
 another, for the first time, what we admire in- 
 tensely and have described innumerable times. 
 The other in this case was a young fellow stu- 
 dent from the University, Kosta Artides by 
 name. He came from Volo and was, like Metro, 
 a stranger in the capital. They had discovered 
 a great similarity in their tastes and principles, 
 and considerable divergence in their opinions 
 and points of view, which taken together gen- 
 erally form the basis of a lasting friendship. 
 
 As the steamer came farther into the port, 
 Metro was standing with his arm round Kosta's 
 shoulder, pointing eagerly to all the points of 
 interest as they became clearer. 
 
 "There you can see the Colonna now, close 
 by old Sotiro's coffee-house, and there along the 
 quay the hotel where the strangers stay in sum- 
 mer; bah! they have painted it pink since I was 
 here last; what a strange fancy! That big white 
 building at the end of all the little houses? Oh, 
 that's the Naval School, where the sailors come 
 to be taught before they are drafted on to the 
 men-of-war. There 's the Narrow Beach, that 
 strip of land behind the school; they say Poros 
 was divided into two islands in the time of the 
 ancients, and that this strip formed itself later 
 on. The white, wall by the cypresses over there
 
 BARBA STATHI 317 
 
 is the cemetery, and beyond, that reddish line 
 among the pines on the hill, is the road to the 
 Monastery. You cannot think, Kosta, what a 
 lovely walk it is; and if you turn to the left, there 
 where the hill dips, it goes right up to Poseidon's 
 Temple, you know, the old ruins we read about 
 in history, where Demosthenes poisoned him- 
 self. There's Boudouri's monument, and there's 
 the red house on the hill, and down there in the 
 hollow the Beach of the Little Pines. Oh, Kosta, 
 Kosta, it's good to be back again!" 
 
 But because few things are perfect there was 
 a disappointment in store for Metro when he 
 stepped on shore out of old Louka's little boat. 
 Maroussa, his little friend, was not in Poros; in 
 fact she was very far away; as far as Larissa, 
 where she had been, ever since the first week in 
 Lent, with the wife of an officer and her little 
 sick boy, who was so fond of Maroussa that he 
 would only take his medicine from her, and when 
 his mother had been obliged to join her husband 
 in Larissa, nothing would do but she must take 
 Maroussa with her. Originally the girl had only 
 agreed to serve her during her stay in the island, 
 but as the lady paid well, and was also a good 
 woman and would look after her carefully, they 
 had let her go. All this, Kyra Sophoula, Ma- 
 roussa's old grandmother, told Metro, when she
 
 318 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 came tottering down from her little house up 
 the rocky street to meet him, blessing all the 
 saints of the calendar as she came. 
 
 Metro had known Kyra Sophoula all his life. 
 In the days when he was left a forlorn little 
 orphan, she had been, though already old, a 
 strong, hearty woman, and had proved a stanch 
 protector and the kindest of friends to him; so 
 that now he felt almost as much her grandchild 
 as Maroussa was, and all Poros generally thought 
 of him as in some way belonging to her. Indeed, 
 she represented all the family he had on the 
 island, except for some very distant cousins over 
 in Damala, who scarcely counted as such. He 
 had duly written from Athens, three days ago, 
 to tell her he was coming, but Kyra Sophoula 
 had not received his letter. When the steamer 
 came into the port she had just returned from 
 one of the numerous services of Holy Week, and 
 had been occupied in carefully folding up her 
 little black fringed shawl, and neatly laying 
 it in that chest of drawers with the inlaid ini- 
 tials, without which no self-respecting Poriote 
 bride could ever think of setting up housekeep- 
 ing. 
 
 The troop of little barefooted lads always 
 hanging about the quay, who had raced up the 
 rocks to tell her that Metro, Anthi's Metro,
 
 BARBA STATHI 319 
 
 was in old Louka's boat, found her just closing 
 the drawer. 
 
 At first she had been wildly incredulous. 
 " Metro! Anthi's Metro! But it can't be. Eh, 
 lads, don't be deceiving me on such holy days 
 as these." 
 
 "No, no, Kyra Sophoula," cried Masso, 
 always the chief of the band, "it's quite true; 
 may we never break a red egg this Easter if it 
 is n't." 
 
 And finally convinced by this most important 
 oath, she hurried down to the shore and fell on 
 her boy's neck. 
 
 After Maroussa's absence had been accounted 
 for, and town life and too much poring over 
 books blamed for his pale cheeks, she had time 
 to notice his companion. A friend from Athens? 
 come to visit their island? Ah, that was well, 
 and his name? 
 
 "Kosta." 
 
 "Welcome, Kyr Kosta; since you are a friend 
 of our Metro's you must be a good lad, too, I 
 have no doubt; if you stay here in our island, 
 over these fasting-days, you must come and 
 take your soup with Metro and me up in my 
 little house; 't is a poor place, but at your serv- 
 ice, Kyr Kosta, at your service." 
 
 They walked slowly along by the sea. On
 
 320 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 their right were the old houses built among the 
 rocks, and to their left a line of gayly painted 
 boats tied to the iron rings of the quay and still 
 tossing up and down in the swell left by the 
 steamer. The sunlight on the waves was daz- 
 zlingly bright, and Metro, listening intently to 
 all the island news, instinctively shaded his eyes 
 as he went. Nearly every second passer-by 
 stopped him to exchange greetings, and the old 
 woman was very proud to be accosted by all 
 with the usual "May his return be joyful to you, 
 Kyra Sophoula," as though it were in very truth 
 a child of her own come back to her. 
 
 And she had so much to tell him. How Myrto 
 was happy again, her husband returned in the 
 ship, all the past quarrels forgotten, and the 
 child a fine boy, and peace in the house again; 
 how Yoryi the blind one rowed in Mastro 
 Demetri's boats now, and Dino his boy was 
 quite a man and working well and helping 
 him: how Yannoula, poor thing, was well and 
 more content thanks to Kyr Vangheli; she 
 would be surely pleased to see Metro, as much 
 as anything could ever please her, now her boy 
 Andriko was dead. And old Ghika, up at the 
 mill; had not his son Panayi traveled with 
 Metro? She knew he had been expecting him 
 for Easter; he earned good wages at the iron
 
 BARBA STATHI 321 
 
 foundry at Piraeus, she had been told, but his 
 father was the same old miser as ever. 
 
 "Would you believe it, Kyr Kosta? " she went 
 on, turning with instinctive courtesy to include 
 the stranger in the conversation, "would 
 you believe it? Not even for Easter will he buy 
 his daughter, his only one, a new dress ! If ever 
 she marries, poor thing, 't is from her brother 
 Panayi she must hope for her dowry, for it's 
 mighty little she'll get from her father. Eh, he 
 was ever the same; always the one to give an- 
 other the inside of the olive and the outside of 
 the walnut." 
 
 They were stopped by the joyful exclamation 
 of a young woman with a white kerchief tied 
 over her black hair, who was returning from 
 the oven and bearing in her baking-tin four 
 large Easter tsourekia, each with its bright red 
 egg set in the middle. The delicious smell of 
 the hot cakes seemed to surround them, and 
 Metro, even before he returned her greeting, 
 had time to notice how infinitely more satisfy- 
 ing it seemed than the smell of the tsourekia 
 escaping from the cellar windows of the town 
 pastry cooks, when last Easter he had paced the 
 Athens streets, homesick and alone. 
 
 Milya had been a friend of Maroussa's and 
 had been married since he had last seen her; he
 
 322 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 duly inquired after her husband and father, and 
 then bethought himself of her old grandmother, 
 for it is bad manners in Poros not to ask after 
 every relative separately. 
 
 "And Kyra Photini? Is she well?" 
 
 The woman's laughing face turned sober. 
 "Did you not know? We lost her, poor soul, 
 just before the vintage." 
 
 "No, I never heard," said Metro; "I am 
 sorry; life to you, Milya. I am sure, though, 
 that she was happy and well cared for to the 
 last. We all know what a good granddaughter 
 she had; and I heard how you stayed with her 
 all day long, two years ago, on the Feast of the 
 Virgin, when Alcibiades wanted to take you to 
 the fair at Vidi." 
 
 Milya smiled with satisfaction. "Eh ! one does 
 what one can. " 
 
 And after Metro had passed on, she returned 
 home feeling well pleased with herself and the 
 world in general ; and when telling Alcibiades of 
 his arrival she added, "Town life has not spoiled 
 him; he is always a sweet-spoken lad with a good 
 word on his lips for all." 
 
 Early in the afternoon Kosta was wandering 
 about on the quay alone. Metro had given up 
 this first day to the old woman, and she had 
 taken him with her to her little garden on the
 
 BARBA STATHI 823 
 
 mainland, where they spent the long sunny 
 afternoon sitting under the lemon boughs and 
 the walnut leaves. Kosta had never been to the 
 islands before, and he felt lonely, though the 
 small square before the Colonna and the sur- 
 rounding coffee-houses were full of people. The 
 few shop doors and booths were festively decked 
 with branches of myrtle and small flags in honor 
 of Easter. Housewives, with bright-colored ta- 
 garia on their arms, were busily shopping, and 
 the seafarers and captains, who had returned to 
 the island for the "bright feast," as most call it, 
 were gathered together in groups, talking over 
 business. One said the lemon cargoes had paid 
 well this year, whereas last spring he had only 
 just managed not to lose on them; another that 
 sailing to Constantinople, just outside Chios, he 
 and his lads had thought it was all over with 
 them; never had he seen such another storm in 
 the whole twenty years he had been sailing in 
 the same ship, but St. Nicholas glory be to 
 him ! had stretched out his hand and the sea 
 had calmed down by the morning. 
 
 Close by this last group, a tall old man was 
 leaning against the wall of the bakehouse oven, 
 holding a donkey by a rope. A red cotton ker- 
 chief was roughly knotted round his gray head; 
 his linen kilt was not the full white foustanella
 
 324 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 of the Royal Guards in Athens, which Kosta was 
 accustomed to see, but the shorter and more 
 clinging one of the peasants, which in its folds 
 and way of falling seems the lineal descendant 
 of the tunic of the ancients. 
 
 Through the tiny oven window could be seen 
 the Easter loaves smoking hot, sprinkled with 
 sesame, and each one with a red egg in the 
 midst of its golden-brown coil. The old man 
 stood looking at them with a half -unconscious, 
 vague look in his eyes. 
 
 There was no one in Poros who did not know 
 Barba Stathi and his "beast." For more than 
 fifty years he had traveled all over the Mediter- 
 ranean and the Adriatic in his own small ship. 
 Now the old seaman was ending his days as a 
 donkey-driver. He had not a soul left belong- 
 ing to him. Still, Kitso was a good beast, and 
 not a donkey in all Poros could boast of his 
 speed and gentleness. 
 
 Kosta looked curiously at this old man, stand- 
 ing apart from all the rest; he noted the bent 
 gray head, the tall spare figure, and the brown 
 knotted old hands straying now and then with a 
 furtive caress over the donkey's rough back. 
 At last he went up to him. 
 
 "Barba," he said, "have you any work; are 
 you engaged?"
 
 BARBA STATHI 325 
 
 "No, young master, I am at your service." 
 
 "Shall we go for a little turn? I am a stranger 
 here and would like to see the island." 
 
 "Let us go; climb upon the beast's back and 
 I will keep near you, as Kitso likes rubbing his 
 shins against the trees and rocks. We will go 
 up there to the summit, and I will show you the 
 Temple of Poseidon, where the old god used to 
 sit and look at the sea all around him." 
 
 "Who told you so, Barba?" 
 
 "That is an old story; no one knows who told 
 it first." 
 
 They followed the quay for some time and then 
 crossed the Narrow Beach, passing by the en- 
 trance to the Naval School. The tall iron gates 
 were wide open, and beyond the little garden 
 planted with aloes and climbing geraniums 
 Kosta could discern the wide inclosure with its 
 line of tall cypresses at the farther end, standing 
 like sentinels before the long white building. 
 A few sailors lounging about the gates looked 
 after them with languid curiosity as they passed. 
 
 At the end of the beach they came down to 
 the water's edge, and then, mounting a little, 
 skirted the low white wall of the cemetery by a 
 path so narrow and crumbling that only a Pori- 
 ote donkey, who had often been over every step 
 of it in the dark, could have reached the broader
 
 326 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 hillside road without tumbling his rider over on 
 the rocks below. 
 
 It was very sunny and quiet here on the Mon- 
 astery Road: the village sounds were left far 
 behind, and nothing broke the silence but the 
 lapping of the little waves to their right and 
 the distant tinkling of sheep bells on the hills. 
 
 They crossed the stone bridge and then 
 turned inland to mount the slope that led to the 
 Temple. Kosta felt the scent of the crushed 
 thyme under Kitso's hoofs as they left the 
 road. 
 
 "The sun is hot for spring, Barba," he said, 
 turning to the old man behind him; "am I not 
 heavy for the beast?" 
 
 "Do not trouble yourself," answered the old 
 man, "we shall soon come to the shade." 
 
 And with voice and hand he urged the donkey 
 on till they reached the wooded part of the hill. 
 There the footpath wound up through the bud- 
 ding oleanders, the arbutus shrubs, and the 
 young pines. Once or twice there was a hole in 
 the path, and Kitso stumbled. 
 
 "Keep up, you clumsy beast," the old man 
 cried to him. "If you don't step better you'll 
 get a taste of the stick to-night, as sure as they 
 call me Stathi. Will you be letting the master 
 fall off?"
 
 BARBA STATHI 327 
 
 Then, turning to the young man, "Give me 
 your name." 
 
 "Kosta." 
 
 The old man's face contracted, and his lips 
 closed tightly together for a moment. 
 
 "May your years be many, Kyr Kosta." 
 
 "Thank you," replied the youth courteously, 
 "and yours also." 
 
 "Mine! Oh, no! May God lengthen your 
 years and shorten my days. My Kosta was a 
 fine big lad like you, and a good boy, and a 
 brave one; but it was not written in the book of 
 Fate that he should live to close my eyes." 
 
 And then, fearing he had been obtruding his 
 grief, he asked hastily, "You are from Athens, 
 my young master?" 
 
 "No, from Volo." 
 
 "Ah, that is near the sea; a fine place. Niko 
 Mandelli, who is a sailor on the Psara, told me 
 of it." 
 
 The path had been getting steeper for some 
 time, and Kosta dismounted. Kitso, lightened 
 of his load, trotted steadily on in front, and the 
 two men followed in silence. The lentisk bushes 
 with their fresh green shoots and the tall ole- 
 anders grew so thickly in parts that they could 
 not walk abreast. Now and then Kosta, lagging 
 behind, would ask his guide whether they were
 
 328 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 nearing the Temple. The sun was hot, the in- 
 cline steep, and he was more of a student than 
 a walker. And Barba Stathi, following the habit 
 of his kind, would always reply, "Just behind 
 the little mount there," this being the invariable 
 answer of the Greek peasant to questions of dis- 
 tance; he never thinks to mention the various 
 other little mounts behind the first one, still to 
 be ascended before the goal is reached. Why 
 should he "spoil your heart's content"? 
 
 However, the sun was still high when they 
 reached the last plateau. Kosta had expected 
 more ruins, and might almost have passed the 
 site of the ancient building without noticing it, 
 had not his companion drawn his attention to 
 the traces of its foundations. There were no 
 large broken columns lying about, and the frag- 
 ment of a shaft they chose for a seat might easily 
 have been mistaken for a rock a little whiter 
 than the surrounding ones. 
 
 Very far below them on the other side of the 
 island, in the many small indented bays, the 
 sea rippled under the afternoon sun. Close to 
 the shore it was of that deep rich purple that 
 makes such a glorious harmony of color with the 
 red of the earth and the tender green of the pines. 
 Farther out, where the purple took a lighter 
 hue, not a sail broke the monotony of the wide
 
 BARBA STATHI 329 
 
 expanse of water; to the north rose JSgina and 
 two smaller islands, a clear luminous blue, 
 
 Like broken sapphires on a milky sea; 
 
 and farther still, the white gleam on the horizon 
 that was Athens, and the faint outline of its 
 rock. 
 
 Kosta sat still, brushing a small sprig of thyme 
 between his fingers; then, without looking up, 
 
 "Is it long, Barba Stathi, since you lost 
 him?" 
 
 "Eight years, Kyr Kosta, eight years next 
 harvest. My old woman went, God rest her! a 
 year after the lad, and here am I, a useless log, 
 alive still! Seventy years old as you see me, 
 working all day on the hills, breaking wood and 
 uprooting thyme for the ovens, and yet when I 
 lie down in my corner at night, sleep keeps away 
 from me. At times I wonder whether some one 
 who wished me evil may have laid a curse upon 
 me, that I cannot find rest. You who have learn- 
 ing may understand better, but to me it seems 
 very strange that old Charon cuts down so many 
 young lives in their bloom and forgets the old 
 man who is weary of waiting for him. If I could 
 sleep at least! My boy might come to me in my 
 dreams! But he never does." 
 
 "Perhaps you overtire yourself, and cannot
 
 330 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 sleep," said Kosta gently; "you are old to work 
 so hard." 
 
 Then, from his scanty store of holiday money, 
 he produced four drachmas and laid them on the 
 marble between them. 
 
 "Will this help you, Barba, to work less for a 
 few days at least?" 
 
 The old man took them up simply, folded 
 them, and placed them in his belt. 
 
 "God give you riches and youth to enjoy 
 them, but for me, drachmas or lepta, it is the 
 same. Who works much thinks less; and it is 
 never bread I lack." 
 
 "Was your son long ill?" Kosta asked. 
 
 "111! not for a day! Ah, you cannot tell, who 
 never saw him, what he was : as young and fresh 
 and straight as a branch of myrtle. He went, 
 quite a lad yet, to work in Capetan Vasili's 
 boat from Missolonghi, and every autumn when 
 he came back to the island, you should have 
 seen all the things he brought for his mother 
 and for me. He was always a good worker, and 
 all he earned he would bring home. You'd say 
 that like other grown lads he 'd turn in now and 
 then to the tavern for a drink of masticha or a 
 game of skambili, but he never did, Kyr Kosta, 
 never, though the other lads would laugh at 
 him. But he never minded; he had the laugh
 
 BARBA STATHI 331 
 
 on his side when some of them would spend all 
 they had and end by having to go for months 
 with the sponge divers." 
 
 Kosta had heard enough of island ways to 
 know how this was dreaded, especially by the 
 old people. 
 
 "But he never came to that?" 
 
 "Nay, not he! Four years he worked on the 
 ship, and then Capetan Vasili, who knew his 
 worth, got it into his head to marry him to his 
 daughter. So he says to him one day, 'Kosta, 
 you are an honest lad and a good seaman; I have 
 thought to give you my girl Anneza for wife, 
 and to make you captain on my ship, so that 
 you will be working for yourself. I am not 
 young any more, and what I have gathered 
 together is sufficient for my old woman and for 
 me/ My boy, who had never yet worked but for 
 wage, was taken by surprise when he heard this. 
 'If so be that you wish it, my captain,' he said, 
 *why not?' 
 
 "And so, Kyr Kosta, just at the pruning o 
 the vines, I get a letter from my boy. I took it 
 over to Kyr Apostoli down there, you know 
 him, perhaps, the one who keeps the oven, 
 that he might read it to me. 'Father,' said the 
 letter, 'Capetan Vasili, who treats me like a 
 child of his own, wants to make me his son-in-
 
 332 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 law, and master of his ship. His daughter 
 Anneza is a good girl, and I like her, but I told 
 him I must first have your permission and my 
 mother's. So write to me, my father, and ask 
 my mother also what I must decide.' 
 
 "What could I write? Were all the good girls 
 lost from Poros, that he must go and marry this 
 Anneza that we had never seen? All night long 
 with my old woman we thought over what we 
 should write. And in the morning I had the 
 letter written, thanks be to Kyr Apostoli, may 
 he keep well, and in it I asked my boy why, if 
 once he had thought to marry, he should not 
 come home to the island to find a maiden to his 
 taste and to ours, instead of taking a strange 
 wife, and setting up a house in another country, 
 since our little house here and all we had was his. 
 Many days passed and a second letter came from 
 him, saying that after all he had decided to 
 marry this girl and begged us to send him our 
 blessing. But how could we send it? Is a bless- 
 ing a thing to be sent shut up in a letter? Had 
 he been here we could have given it to him, yes; 
 but to send it! So once more we wrote to him 
 that a blessing does not reach so far away, and 
 he must needs come home to receive it." 
 
 "And did he come then?" asked the young 
 man.
 
 BARBA STATHI 833 
 
 Kitso the donkey had strayed up to them, and 
 Barba Stathi stroked his long gray ears reflect- 
 ively as he answered. 
 
 "He was afraid, you see. They tell me the 
 maiden was a handsome one, and he was afraid 
 we might stand in his way; so three weeks later 
 we got another letter that he had married An- 
 neza! So I wrote that he had done well, that his 
 mother and I sent him our blessing, and that 
 we wished health and long life to them and to 
 their sons, and to their sons' sons, when we 
 should have closed our eyes. Once he had mar- 
 ried her, what could I say else? Why spoil his 
 heart's content? Had we even any other child- 
 ren? He was our only one. 'Anastasia,' I said 
 to my old woman in the evening when I found 
 her crying secretly, 'don't cry so; it was writ- 
 ten, you see, in our book of Fate that our one 
 child should marry away in strange parts. Well, 
 well; God give him life." 1 
 
 The sun was low on the horizon, and far below 
 them the soft plash of the sea against the rocks 
 mingled with the first breath of the night breeze 
 in the pines. Barba Stathi looked towards 
 ^Egina and Athens, whose colors had sobered in 
 the afterglow. Then he brought Kitso forward, 
 settling his samari more comfortably on his 
 back as he said, "Let us go: there is a long road
 
 334 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 before us, and we must be near the village when 
 the darkness falls." 
 
 They started in silence and were well on their 
 way down before he spoke again suddenly, as 
 though there had been no pause. 
 
 "Did I not tell you, Kyr Kosta, that a bless- 
 ing does not reach so far? I remember it was 
 on a wild night near Christmas; the rain was 
 running in rivers outside, the wind blowing fit 
 to lift the tiles off the roof, and whistling 
 through the cracks in the walls, when my old 
 woman and I got up at midnight and lighted 
 the lamp before the icon of St. Nicholas, the 
 very one I had brought off my old ship, and 
 prayed to him to help all those on the sea on such 
 a terrible night. Anastasia kept going from St. 
 Nicholas to the icon of the Holy Virgin, im- 
 ploring them to keep her boy safe for her. And 
 so the dawn found us, a cold rainy dawn, with 
 the wind still howling round the house like one 
 possessed of a demon. I had no courage left to 
 comfort her, poor unfortunate creature, for I 
 knew that our Kosta had left five days ago with 
 his ship for Genoa; Capetan Thanassi, just back 
 from Marseilles, had told me of it. But I had 
 kept the tidings to myself. Why should I tell 
 his mother? She would learn it soon enough." 
 
 Kitso stumbled on a loose stone, but his mas-
 
 BARBA STATHI 335 
 
 ter forgot to scold him as he walked alongside, 
 his gray head bent down on his breast. 
 
 "All that night, that Christmas Eve, while 
 we had been praying for him, my lad I 
 learned it from the others later on had been 
 at the wheel battling with that wild wind and 
 sea; and in the early morn just as dawn broke 
 the wave took him. The mate and the others 
 rushed on deck, but it was too late; they only 
 heard him cry out once, * Father, mother, 
 your blessing ! ' ' 
 
 It was getting dark and a little chilly, and the 
 young man shivered and drew his cloak round 
 him. An owl hooted in a pine tree close by, 
 and a dog barked in some distant sheepfold. 
 
 When they were nearing the village the old 
 man spoke once more. 
 
 "We had sent him our blessing, had we not, 
 when he asked for it? But, you see, it was too 
 far too far! it could do no good." 
 
 On the Tuesday after Easter, Kosta and 
 Metro were going back again to town and work 
 by the same steamer that had brought them to 
 Poros. Kosta had been away for three days to 
 some of the other islands farther on, and had 
 picked up Metro on his way back. 
 
 "Metro," he asked suddenly, "was it true
 
 336 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 what the boatman said who brought you to the 
 steamer about the donkey-driver who took 
 me up to the Temple the day we first came, 
 BarbaStathi?" 
 
 "Yes, it is true: they found him lying dead 
 on his mattress on Easter dawn, just as they 
 were returning from the first Resurrection Serv- 
 ice. But you need not be sorry; it was a good 
 thing." 
 
 "I know it was," said Kosta slowly; "but 
 what of the poor old beast? He was fond of it." 
 
 "That is arranged," said Metro. "Louka 
 has a little garden; he will keep it there." 
 
 And then they spoke of other things. 
 
 In the mean while Kyra Sophoula had come 
 down to the quay to fill her pitcher at the foun- 
 tain and to see Metro off. Yannoula, her friend, 
 a quiet woman with sad eyes, and two or three 
 other neighbors were with her. Close by, old 
 Sotiro, the coffee-house keeper, was sunning his 
 ample person on his doorstep and exchanging 
 the day's news with Ghika of the mill, who had 
 accompanied his son Panayi to the steamer. 
 
 Yes, Barba Stathi had left his years to them; 
 they had buried him yesterday. Well, well, 
 God rest him, he had had a hard life. But had 
 Ghika heard that he had left a bit of paper with 
 Kyr Apostoli, to say that Metro Anthi's
 
 BARBA STATHI 337 
 
 Metro, the one who had just left them was 
 to have Kitso the donkey to do what he would 
 with? And just think of it, Metro had actually 
 got old Louka to let the beast stay in his little 
 garden, just doing nothing all day, and was pay- 
 ing him for his keep ! 
 
 "Metro always had a soft heart," chimed in 
 Milya. 
 
 "Soft heart," grunted Sotiro; "that often 
 goes with a soft head, my girl. Could he not 
 have sold it to Nasso, who wants a donkey to 
 carry stones for the Mayor's building? There 
 was work in the old beast yet. Ah, well, Metro 
 will never make a practical man. Book-learning 
 is n't everything." 
 
 Which saying, he retired majestically into the 
 interior of his coffee-house. 
 
 "Well, it won't choke you or your children," 
 called out Kyra Sophoula derisively after him. 
 Then, turning to Yannoula and the younger 
 women, "He used to take the stick to his 
 daughter Chrysafo, when she was a tiny maid, 
 and her mother, who was a sensible woman, 
 God rest her, would have had her taught let- 
 ters; and now Chrysafo's husband has to take 
 the stick to her to keep her from gadding about 
 and gaping at the windows. I got no book- 
 learning in my time, girls were not much
 
 338 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 thought of then, but I took good care to 
 send Maroussa to school and get her head well 
 filled to keep the rubbish out; but Sotiro 
 would n't have his children, he said, know more 
 than he did. If he ever goes blind he will want 
 God to put the sun out." 
 
 The steamer had passed the lighthouse point 
 by now, and nothing but a long trail of smoke 
 could be seen. The pitchers were full. Yan- 
 noula lifted both, Kyra Sophoula's as well as 
 her own, and the two women toiled up the rocky 
 street together.
 
 IX 
 
 THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE 
 
 So day went down behind the ocean rim, 
 While westward the sweet star of silence grew 
 Through yellow hazes melting into blue; 
 The shadows deepened till the isles were dim. 
 
 REX NELL ROOD. 
 
 .. 
 
 'AND so," began Maroussa, "you must know 
 that once upon a time there lived a pasha, who 
 had three pairs of slippers, a red pair, a yel- 
 low pair, and a green pair. The red pair he wore 
 on three days of the week, the yellow pair the 
 other three, but the green pair he only wore on 
 Fridays and high holidays." 
 
 It was many years since Metro had heard this 
 particular tale. He smiled quietly in recogni- 
 tion of an old friend, crossed his long legs, and 
 settled himself back to listen. 
 
 They were sitting round the table after the 
 midday meal on Easter Sunday, Kyra Sophoula, 
 Maroussa, Metro, and a stranger, a little old 
 man with a round face and a bristling gray 
 mustache. This was no less than the French 
 master about whom Metro had written and
 
 340 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 spoken so often; the one who, for many years, 
 had been so kind to him, and had taught him 
 French for pure love of his quick comprehension 
 and facility in learning. He had come for the 
 first time to Poros for the holidays with Metro, 
 and Kyra Sophoula had asked him to take his 
 Easter dinner with them. She had done so in 
 fear and trembling lest the resources of her lit- 
 tle house should prove insufficient, but the old 
 Frenchman had been so simply and genuinely 
 pleased with everything, so interested in all 
 their island customs, that she had soon felt 
 quite at her ease with him, and had boldly 
 tapped her red egg against his, hospitably de- 
 lighted that his had remained unbroken the 
 longer of the two. 
 
 Now, after dinner, he had begged for one of 
 the old tales, of which, Metro had told him, 
 Maroussa knew so many, and she had com- 
 menced the one of the pasha with the three 
 pairs of slippers. 
 
 Maroussa also had only just returned to Poros 
 in time for Easter. She had been away in Larissa 
 for over a year, with a little boy who was sickly, 
 and who had taken such a fancy to her that he 
 would only take his medicine from her hand. So 
 when the mother, an officer's wife, had followed 
 her husband and his regiment to Larissa, Kyra
 
 THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE 341 
 
 Sophoula in common humanity had been forced 
 to allow her granddaughter to go with them. 
 But the child was stronger now, and Maroussa 
 had been dispatched back to Poros, in the care 
 of a friendly old captain from Volo. She had 
 grown taller and slimmer while away, and had 
 discarded the island kerchief, wearing her wavy 
 black hair coiled town fashion on the top of her 
 head, which made her look still taller. 
 
 Metro, too, had changed considerably; his 
 skin was less sunburned, and his hair seemed 
 darker beside it. He was less awkward, too, 
 than he had been, though he would never be 
 anything but a plain man. The person, however, 
 who would have dared to say as much to Kyra 
 Sophoula would have scarcely met with a pleas- 
 ant reception. She had been happy in the belief 
 that all eyes had been fixed on her in envy when 
 she had walked back from the midnight Resur- 
 rection service between her two tall "children," 
 the tiny flames of all their three Easter tapers 
 keeping bravely alight in the perfect stillness 
 of the spring night; and when she had sat down 
 with them to break her long Lenten fast with 
 the first red egg, and tsourekia of her own bak- 
 ing, it had been like old days in the little house. 
 The poor old woman had lived there alone for so 
 many months! From her covered terrace she
 
 342 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 could see across to the mountains of the main- 
 land. She had seen them all her life, and they 
 did not mean much to her, but when they were 
 rose-violet at sunset, or full of deep blue shad- 
 ows at dawn, she would lift her eyes to them and 
 think of Metro. "The lad would like them 
 now," she would mutter. Love had given her 
 understanding. 
 
 It was more than six years since Metro had 
 left the island. He had learned all that could 
 be taught in the Poros school, and had then 
 gone to Athens to learn more, to become a 
 schoolmaster some day in his turn. That had 
 been his ambition at the time, and Kyra 
 Sophoula had been inordinately proud of it. 
 Had not her cherished copper pans and oven 
 trays been sold to defray his first expenses? He 
 had returned three times since then to the 
 island, but for very short visits, for even during 
 the holidays he worked hard. What the exact 
 nature of this work was, Kyra Sophoula had 
 of late not clearly understood. At first he had 
 helped little boys with their preparation. That 
 was simple; she knew what that meant quite 
 well. She remembered Kyr Vangheli, the 
 schoolmaster, going daily in the summertime 
 to the red house on the hill, to prepare the boys 
 who lived there for their winter classes; and once
 
 SHE HAD SEEN THE MOUNTAINS ALL HER LIFE
 
 THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE 343 
 
 he had given preparation lessons, out of school 
 hours, to the Mayor's little son. So this early 
 work of Metro's was quite as it should be; a 
 good apprenticeship for his future trade of 
 teaching. But for the last two years she had not 
 understood at all. Metro wrote of work done 
 for friends, of notes taken, of museums, of lec- 
 tures, even of little trips taken, oftenest to 
 Delphi, but at times to other places out of 
 Athens; of being allowed to help in excavations, 
 to superintend workmen. It was all most be- 
 wildering to the poor old woman, especially 
 Metro's answer some months ago to her timidly- 
 ventured question as to whether he was soon 
 likely to be able to teach regularly. 
 
 "I!" he had cried; "I! teach! Why, I am only 
 just beginning to learn!" 
 
 "Only just beginning to learn!" After six 
 years ! Her clever boy ! who even when he first 
 left the island had already learned, the school- 
 master had himself confessed it, all he could 
 teach him. 
 
 Kyra Sophoula gave up attempting to under- 
 stand. And now that he was again in Poros for 
 Easter there seemed no new light on the situa- 
 tion. He was the same kind, thoughtful boy as 
 ever, but no word had been spoken of future 
 plans. He had brought the old woman a whole
 
 344 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 length of soft black woolen material for a dress. 
 This she received with duly spoken gratitude, 
 but inward distrust. Kyra Sophoula had always 
 worn honest island stuff, woven on primitive 
 hand looms, and did not hold with town goods 
 bought at a shop. She expected, as she told her 
 neighbor Yannoula privately, that the fine- 
 looking dress would not last from figtime to 
 grapetime. 
 
 M. Arnoux had traveled with Metro from 
 Athens, and was staying at Kyr Panayoti's 
 hotel on the quay. Kyra Sophoula watched him 
 now, as he listened intently to Maroussa's tale, 
 his knees drawn up on the rung of the chair, 
 and now and then an uplifting of the gray mus- 
 tache which multiplied the wrinkles of his worn 
 old face. 
 
 "So the green slippers were found at last," 
 concluded Maroussa; "and on the wedding- 
 morn they were brought forward in a crystal 
 box laid on a golden cushion, and the slave, 
 Khalil, placed them on the pasha's feet. So he 
 married Taira and they all lived well, and we 
 still better." 
 
 "That is well to know," said M. Arnoux, 
 smiling, when her voice had ceased; "else might 
 we be dissatisfied with our lot, we who have no 
 green slippers. That tale," he added, "is en-
 
 THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE 345 
 
 tirely in the style of the Thousand and One 
 Nights; surely, it must have been forgotten 
 from the collection?" 
 
 His voice was interrogatory, and Maroussa 
 thought an answer was expected of her. 
 
 "Do I know? Kyra Photini told me the tale. 
 She knew many fine ones, but she is dead now." 
 
 "For the greater peace of her household," 
 murmured Kyra Sophoula. 
 
 "Why, Yiayia!" said Maroussa, teasingly, 
 "what words are these, and on such a day! 
 When I was a little one, I remember you always 
 picking olives side by side with Kyra Photini; 
 and she always talked of her friendship for 
 you." 
 
 "One can pick olives, my daughter," an- 
 swered Kyra Sophoula, "but not one's com- 
 pany; and as for Kyra Photini's friendship 
 bah ! it was ever like the branch of a fig tree that 
 looks so big and strong, and if you lean on it or 
 trust your weight to it tak ! it breaks like 
 glass. While the pine branch ah, there is a 
 friend! It looks a slim little thing as big as 
 nothing, and you may hang on it, and drag 
 yourself up by it from one rock to another, and 
 it will never break or fail you, never!" 
 
 This was not poetical metaphor on Kyra 
 Sophoula's part, but frequent and actual experi-
 
 346 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 ence. From many an awkward fall had she been 
 saved by a timely pine branch. 
 
 After the end of the tale, they talked of many 
 things. Only Maroussa was silent. She leaned 
 back in her chair with crossed arms and closed 
 lips, and her eyes seemed fixed on the bare wall 
 before her. 
 
 Kyra Sophoula had island news in plenty to 
 relate, but it was Metro who led her on, and 
 asked about this one or the other one. While 
 the old woman was speaking he looked curi- 
 ously once or twice at the girl, but she never 
 moved. 
 
 M. Arnoux listened smilingly. The Poros 
 expressions baffled him now and then, and Metro 
 had to translate a word or a sentence for him 
 into purer Greek, but on the whole he followed 
 well. 
 
 Kyra Sophoula told them of the grand chris- 
 tening feast which had followed the baptism 
 of the little son of Mantho and Viola, where 
 all the children present had not only both 
 hands filled with sugared almonds, but their 
 pockets as well, and where so many gunshots 
 had been let off for joy that you might have 
 thought it was Easter. A fine boy, truly, and 
 Kyr Stamo, his grandfather, quite childish over 
 him. A pity the other grandfather, old Photi,
 
 THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE 347 
 
 had not lived to see him. She spoke of poor 
 Calliope the widow, and her three little ones, 
 Aristidi, the boy, worked well, and would soon 
 be a help to her; and of Andoni, the joiner from 
 Patras, who had broken open Sotiro's money- 
 box in the night, and had been taken to Nauplia 
 in the boat, his arms tied back with ropes. It 
 was well Andriana had left him when she did, 
 and had taken his girl with her. No, in answer 
 to Metro, she did not know where Andriana 
 was; no one had ever heard of her. 
 y "And Capetan Leftheri, what of him?" 
 
 "He is getting old," said Kyra Sophoula; 
 "but he goes, and he comes, and he goes again. 
 He always says he will leave his boat to his 
 nephew, and stay on the island for good, but he 
 never does. He cannot rest; I think he must 
 have eaten of the lotus flower." 
 
 Then M. Arnoux began to ask Metro about 
 places on the island and on the mainland, of 
 which he had heard, and they planned excursions 
 together. Little by little the talk wandered 
 beyond the old woman's comprehension; they 
 talked of monuments, of temples, of tombs, of 
 excavations, of measurements, of metopes, of 
 Doric rhythm, of Ionic rhythm; but she listened 
 eagerly, delighted to think her boy should be 
 talking so freely of such abstruse matters.
 
 348 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 M. Arnoux turned to her pleasantly. "We 
 have been to many beautiful places with Metro, 
 but he never found any to compare with his 
 island.'* 
 
 "It is much the same as all the other islands, 
 I have been told," answered the old woman; 
 "but the lad was always foolish about it." 
 
 "Nay, it is one of the most beautiful in all 
 Greece," protested M. Arnoux in his careful, 
 correct Greek; "and I anticipate great pleasure 
 in visiting all parts of it. Indeed, there are some 
 spots I feel sure I shall recognize, for Metro has 
 described them to me at times as though they 
 were actually before him." 
 
 "But they were," said Metro; "is it not 
 strange how you can see so well what is not there ? 
 A thousand times, in a crowded street in town, 
 I have seen the hills and the sea and the pines. 
 Just to close your eyes so and it is all 
 clear before you. Why, now, here in this room, 
 I can see so plainly all that one sees from the 
 hill behind the red house. The line of the shore 
 that goes in and out, the lemon orchards, the 
 water mill in the Admiral's garden; farther on, 
 the white line of the cemetery wall with the 
 cypresses rising above it, then the Narrow 
 Beach stretching across to the Naval School, 
 just the strip of yellow earth with the four dark
 
 THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE 349 
 
 trees on it. And somehow I always see the Nar- 
 row Beach as it is in the afternoons, with the 
 sea light blue on this side and dark blue on the 
 other, where the red rocks below the Monastery 
 Road dip into it; and right in front Barba 
 Nicola's little wineshop with the white cat on the 
 doorstep; and beyond it the pink cottage with 
 the wide-spreading pine right over the sea, and 
 the white boat that was always drawn up under 
 the shade. There was always an old boat there, 
 and nets hanging out to dry. Don't you remem- 
 ber, Maroussa?" he asked suddenly. 
 
 But Maroussa looked up with a start. She 
 had been still gazing at the blank wall before 
 her, and thinking her own thoughts. 
 
 The next morning Metro was starting early, 
 bound for the little hotel on the quay. Just as 
 he had put his foot on the first step of the 
 rickety wooden staircase which led from the 
 covered terrace to the courtyard, Kyra Sophoula 
 came up behind him and laid her hand on his 
 arm. Her short skirts were pinned up about her 
 waist, and she held a dripping watering-can in 
 her hand. 
 
 "You are going?" 
 
 "Yes, I shall call for the master; we are going 
 up to the Temple this morning."
 
 350 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 *r> "I would say a word to you while Maroussa 
 still sleeps. Can I?" 
 
 "Surely," and Metro returned to the terrace; 
 "there is no hurry.'* 
 
 "Metro, it is three days now the girl has been 
 here, and something ails her. What, I do not 
 know, but she is not as she used to be. Either 
 she sits as one dumb, and looks at nothing, or 
 else she talks much, asks many questions, and 
 never listens to the answers. The first day 
 many of the neighbors came to see her; there 
 was much noise; she talked with all, she showed 
 her fine presents from the town, she laughed 
 with the one and with the other, but you know 
 the saying, 'There is white laughing, but there 
 is black laughing also.' And when others talk, 
 then she sits with crossed hands and looks right 
 through the house wall at nothing." 
 
 "Yes," said Metro, "I have seen her." 
 
 "What is it, then, that ails the girl?" resumed 
 the old woman, puckering up her wrinkles; 
 "well paid she was, and many presents did she 
 get; now she is back again in her own land, and 
 we have spent Easter together. What can it 
 be?" 
 
 "Do I know?" said Metro; "a woman is a 
 secret thing." 
 
 "A woman! Why, 't is true she is a woman
 
 THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE 351 
 
 grown now! Think you, Metro, she may per- 
 haps be wondering whether it be not time for 
 what we spoke of so often when you were small 
 children together for your marriage?" 
 
 Metro looked up sharply. 
 
 "I know not. Has she said aught to you on 
 the matter, Kyra Sophoula?" 
 
 "Not now, no, not now; but last year before 
 she went, once, when she was helping me to 
 carry home some bundles of herbs, she said, 
 *When Metro is a schoolmaster, perhaps they 
 will send him here to help Kyr Vangheli; and 
 then we shall be married and it will be well.'" 
 
 "When did she say this, at what time of the 
 year?" 
 
 The old woman reflected for a moment. "The 
 dog onions were sprouting," she answered, "and 
 the cyclamens were yet without leaves." Then, 
 after a pause, she ventured timidly, "Will it be 
 soon now, my lad, that you will be made a 
 schoolmaster?" 
 
 "No," answered Metro, coloring, "I think 
 not." 
 
 A shade passed over the old woman's face. 
 "But at least, tell me this, you have not 
 changed your mind about the girl? There is no 
 one else, is there, whom you would wish to 
 marry?"
 
 352 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 Metro looked away over the sea. It was very 
 early yet, and a mist lay low over the water, 
 shrouding all the opposite mainland with a 
 thick white veil. The headland with its houses 
 had not yet put on its vivid Southern coloring of 
 sun-white and green and brown and blue, but 
 seemed faintly indicated in two shades of gray. 
 A solitary boat, dark gray on silver, was advanc- 
 ing in the foreground, leaving a wide fan-shaped 
 track in its wake. There was something dream- 
 like and mystic about the whole, which a Boeck- 
 lin might have painted. 
 
 It struck Metro as unfamiliar and chilly, and 
 as he turned his face again towards Kyra 
 Sophoula, he shivered slightly. 
 - "No," he said slowly; "no, there is no one 
 else." 
 
 "Ah!" Kyra Sophoula sighed joyfully. 
 "Shall I speak to her, then?" 
 
 "No," said Metro hurriedly; "no, no, there 
 is time yet." 
 
 "But if the girl is eating her heart out?" 
 
 "There may be another reason." 
 
 "What other can there be?" 
 
 Metro put his arm round the bent old shoul- 
 ders. "Kyra Sophoula, do not trouble yourself; 
 I know Maroussa well, I have always known her; 
 whatever be the reason I will find it out."
 
 THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE 353 
 
 "You!" 
 
 "Yes, I. Do not worry, and do not hurry 
 matters. I will find out the reason, and then all 
 shall be well." 
 
 Later on, when M. Arnoux and Metro were 
 crossing the Narrow Beach, the mist had lifted 
 entirely, and the day even promised to become 
 a warm one. The two were bound for Poseidon's 
 Temple and perhaps the Monastery on their 
 way back; on the morrow they had planned to 
 go across to Damala and the Devil's Bridge, 
 and they even talked of taking the steamer to 
 Hydra towards the end of the week. 
 
 M. Arnoux stopped for a moment to tighten 
 the strap of his knapsack; when he had got it to 
 his liking he found Metro standing quite still 
 and looking out beyond the little cove they were 
 rounding. 
 
 "At what are you looking, my friend?" he 
 asked; "what is it?" 
 
 "Nothing," said Metro dreamily; "noth- 
 ing." 
 
 "Then 'nothing' must be very beautiful." 
 
 Metro smiled. "But indeed it is almost 
 nothing can one say what makes the eyes 
 glad? It is such a trifle to put into words. Just 
 a little white boat rocking over its green shadow,
 
 354 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 with the sound of the ripples around it, and the 
 breeze lifting your hair from your brow as you 
 look just that, and yet no words to say how 
 beautiful it looks, and sounds, and feels. Ah, I 
 cannot explain it at all. It is a mystery; you 
 will laugh ah!" as the old Frenchman's eyes 
 lighted up; "ah! do you understand ?" 
 P "Do I understand? that beauty of light and 
 form and sound and color should be food and 
 drink to you? to you, a Greek! Ah, good 
 God! do I understand?" 
 
 They did not go to the Monastery that day, 
 and it was nearly dark when they left the heights. 
 Metro had imagined he knew the Temple of 
 Poseidon well, that he could have described 
 every fallen stone and every broken fragment 
 of marble, but this day spent there with M. 
 Arnoux made him realize his former ignorance. 
 The deep technical knowledge, the glowing 
 words of the enthusiastic old archaeologist, who 
 had never been there before, reconstituted 
 before the lad's eyes the old temple in its pris- 
 tine beauty, raised it up white and shining in 
 the blue Greek air as it had been in the days of 
 the glory of the land. They spoke of the great 
 orator who found death in its sanctuary. What 
 had formerly been but a bare historical fact to 
 Metro was transformed for him into a living
 
 THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE 355 
 
 tragedy. He seemed to see Demosthenes too, 
 gray and bent for his sixty-three years, erst- 
 while the idol of the Athenians, now betrayed 
 and deserted, relentlessly pursued from Athens 
 to Mgina, and from JSgina to the ancient Cal- 
 avria which was the modern Poros. He fancied 
 him toiling up through the pines and the myrtle 
 bushes, and taking refuge in the Temple. He 
 seemed to feel the agony of mind with which 
 the hunted man descried far away, on the same 
 shining sea which lay gleaming below them now, 
 the triremes which carried his pursuers, and the 
 despair with which he learned that their chief 
 was not the noble Antipater, who might have 
 been expected to respect the inviolability of the 
 Temple's sanctuary, but the low-born Archises, 
 the despised actor, who had been contemptible 
 even as a tragedian. Then must the old orator 
 have blessed the forethought which had pro- 
 vided him with the deadly poison which was to 
 save him from falling into the hands of so base 
 an enemy. 
 
 "And you know, Metro," wound up M. 
 Arnoux, "death was not for the ancients what 
 it would be to us; their earliest teaching, their 
 traditions, and the whole spirit of their age made 
 it such a matter of supreme importance to them 
 to die nobly that the nobility, the beauty of the
 
 356 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 moment was all they thought of; the actual fact 
 of the death itself faded into insignificance." 
 
 "How well you know all these things," said 
 Metro admiringly; "not only what the ancients 
 said and did, but even what they thought and 
 felt." 
 
 "My boy, I have spent nearly all my life 
 among their temples, their palaces, their statues, 
 and their tombs, and sometimes I think part of 
 their soul has passed into me." 
 
 Metro drew a long breath. "Some day, if I 
 can, I will be like you." 
 
 "Like me!" Arnoux smiled; "like me!" 
 
 He was a poor, undersized, thin little man who 
 helped the younger students, and was generally 
 sent on expeditions too insignificant to take up 
 the time of any one else. He had been a student 
 himself in the French Archaeological School 
 many years ago, and had stayed on through 
 lack of means and lack of friends, giving a few 
 French lessons to support himself. Yet some- 
 how even the directors, of whom he had seen a 
 succession, had come to depend on him to an 
 extent they did not themselves realize. "Ar- 
 noux will know," was the universal answer to 
 any search after a doubtful date or forgotten 
 incident. When had such an excavation taken 
 place, and was it at Delphi or at Delos that this
 
 THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE 357 
 
 particular coin or vase had been found? "Oh, 
 Arnoux will know." And Arnoux did know 
 nearly always. 
 
 "Like me!" he repeated; "ah, no, my boy, I 
 am nothing now. Once there was an opening, a 
 step, and I might have mounted, but " 
 
 "A step?" interrupted Metro, puzzled by the 
 metaphor. 
 
 "Yes, a numismatic museum which was to be 
 opened in Sicily; I was offered the direction. It 
 might have led to higher things, but I did not 
 care to leave Greece then; I thought I was too 
 ignorant, that it was too soon ah, well, I have 
 understood it since; it was a great chance 
 lost." 
 
 "It will return, perhaps," hazarded Metro. 
 
 "Fortune, my friend, rarely forgives a slight- 
 ing of her first offers." 
 
 He paused and looked out over the bay. The 
 sea had lost its smoothness and was glittering 
 in a multitude of tiny ridges. 
 
 "Come," he said; "enough of such long past 
 matters. Shall we abandon the Temple for the 
 trees? The sun makes itself felt, and this moun- 
 tain air revives the appetite. What good things 
 are in the basket?" 
 
 Metro followed him passively, and a warm 
 aromatic breeze blew gently across their faces
 
 358 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 as they reached the shadow of the wide-spread- 
 ing pine. 
 
 The next day was spent entirely on the main- 
 land, between the Tower of Theseus and the 
 Devil's Bridge. They were crossing the plain 
 of Damala on their return when Metro suddenly 
 stopped short and laid his hand on the old 
 man's arm. 
 
 "Look, master!" he said. 
 
 It was before sunset, and a sharp bend of the 
 path had brought them in sight of the whole 
 island rising out of a golden sea. The white 
 houses, dyed pink by the last rays of the sun, 
 rose tier above tier up to the old mill on the 
 summit of the hill. Among the mass of olives on 
 the plain the blossoming peach trees made flecks 
 of rosy froth. To their left the Mountain of the 
 Sleeper lay, more deeply asleep than ever at 
 this hour, little sunset clouds floating over the 
 updrawn knees, the head thrown back, its 
 gigantic, clear-cut features standing out with 
 startling distinctness against the yellow sky. 
 Not a tree marred its perfect outline nor the 
 deep violet of its chasms. 
 
 M. Arnoux looked back at Metro. "I have 
 rarely seen anything so beautiful, my boy." 
 
 "Did I say too much?' V
 
 THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE 359 
 
 "How could you say enough? Have words 
 colors and lines?" 
 
 They walked on in silence for a few minutes, 
 and then M. Arnoux said suddenly, "And now 
 what of the future, my friend? If we are to 
 make an archaeologist of you some day, it is 
 none too soon to begin. Shall I say a word about 
 you when we return? Will you come with Tar- 
 nier and me to Delos next month? It is always 
 good for you while waiting for better." 
 
 Metro looked down. "I fear it is impossible." 
 
 "Impossible! Bah! And why, if you please? 
 You love the work, and your head, as you 
 Greeks say, is not filled with straw. Besides, 
 you said yesterday that you wished to follow 
 in my footsteps, unworthy though they be." 
 
 "I wish oh! how do I not wish? But I am 
 not alone; the old woman is wondering when I 
 shall at last be a schoolmaster and have a place. 
 She does not say much, but I know it is in her 
 mind. She longs for the time when I might be 
 appointed to teach in the Government schools 
 here. Once," and he smiled faintly, "I too 
 thought there could be nothing better. In six 
 months more, if I worked hard, it might be. 
 And also there is the girl. Kyra Sophoula 
 thinks she is pining. And we might soon be able 
 to marry now if I had fixed pay."
 
 360 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 The old man gathered his brows together 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 "But you are young yet, my boy. Will you 
 chain yourself to one place so early in life? Yes, 
 yes, I repeat it, chain yourself. Your island is 
 beautiful, but it is an island, and a tiny one. The 
 young girl is charming also, but " 
 
 "She is a good girl," said Metro soberly; 
 "and we have always said this should be." 
 
 "A good girl, a good girl; who said the con- 
 trary?" grumbled the old man; "but very soon 
 that same goodness, seasoned with naught but 
 the gossip from the fountain, would send you 
 mad. 7 know you. Can you look me in the 
 face and tell me honestly that you do not care 
 to see more of the world, to see, to learn, to 
 digest, to grow? Can you, Metro? Can you?" 
 
 Metro raised his eyes and looked at the huge 
 mass of the Sleeper. At other times it was as 
 though it guarded the entrance to the port; 
 now it seemed to him to be blocking the exit. 
 
 "It is best not to talk of these things," he 
 answered slowly. 
 
 It was a cool, breezy morning when they 
 started for Hydra in the steamer four days later. 
 Clouds looking like snow mountains were piled 
 across a vividly blue sky. To their right as they
 
 THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE 361 
 
 steamed up the narrow passage which has given 
 its name to the island, the olive-planted slopes 
 melted away into the higher hills; on the Poros 
 side the houses rose from the sea to the great 
 brown rock which juts out above the headland. 
 Houses of all colors, white, blue, pink, cream, 
 yellow; houses with flat roofs, houses with stone 
 terraces, houses with vine-covered balconies, 
 houses with rickety wooden staircases leading 
 from story to story outside the walls, houses of 
 all shapes and sizes and conditions, from a brand- 
 new two-storied green-shuttered villa to tumble- 
 down huts and sheds. There were narrow flights 
 of stone steps leading down to the quay between 
 high walls, and women with pitchers on their 
 shoulders climbing up and down. 
 
 So close to the land did the steamer pass that 
 some of the younger girls recognized Metro as 
 he stood on the deck, and smiled at him. 
 
 "Look," he said to his companion; "do they 
 not look like some of the ancient figures on the 
 vases in the Museum? And see, when they lift 
 an arm up to poise the pitcher, what a fine curve 
 it makes against the sky." 
 
 "Ah!" said M. Arnoux, "some one has ex- 
 pressed that better. Wait a moment ah, yes," 
 and he recited slowly :
 
 362 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 ' Voici bien, 6 Jacob, le geste dont tes filles 
 Savent, en avancant d'un pas jamais trop prompt, 
 Soutenir noblement 1'amphore sur leur front. 
 Ellea vont, avec un sourire taciturne, 
 Et leur forme s'ajoute a la forme de 1'urne, 
 Et tout leur corps n'est plus qu'un vase svelte, auquel 
 Le bras leve dessine une anse sur le ciel! 
 
 Do you understand, Metro?" 
 
 "Yes, it is beautiful. Who said it?" 
 
 "A great poet." 
 
 "When did he live?" 
 
 "He lives still, thank God." 
 
 Farther on there were groups of bright- 
 colored boats moored to the sea wall, and great 
 heavy caiques with green shadows running down 
 in long wavy lines under their bows. There 
 were old men, too, mending nets which were 
 stretched across the quay on forked sticks, 
 children running about everywhere, and here 
 and there the white spot of a foustanella. 
 Towards the end of the village stands a soli- 
 tary tall palm sharply outlined against the sky, 
 with its hanging clusters of orange-colored 
 dates, dwarfing the surrounding houses by its 
 great height. Then the Rock of the Cross came 
 in sight, with the tiny white chapel under its 
 shadow; then out they steamed to the open sea, 
 the little island fortress of Bourtzi before them, 
 and away to the east the wonderful Modi, that
 
 THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE 
 
 perfect lion-shaped rock with its grandly hewn 
 head, outstretched paws, and raised flanks. 
 
 They spent all that afternoon in Hydra, 
 climbing up and down its steep rocky steps, 
 visiting the old historic houses with their carved 
 ceilings and marble fountains, standing in the 
 cloister-like terraces and looking down between 
 the narrow stone pillars over this quaint, heroic, 
 barren little island with no spot of verdure any- 
 where about it. They strolled about the quay 
 wondering at the Dutch-like cleanliness around 
 them. They lingered in the old church near the 
 sea, and were shown the massive Louis XVI 
 chandelier, which tradition avers was saved from 
 the sack of Versailles and brought over by an 
 adventurous sea captain. They looked up at the 
 historic bell, the identical one which used to 
 summon the brave islanders to war councils 
 and warn them of the approach of the Turkish 
 ships. 
 
 It was not till early the next morning, which 
 was Sunday, that they returned to Poros. 
 
 "Where shall we go this afternoon?" asked 
 M. Arnoux of Metro as they disembarked on 
 the quay; "shall it be to the Seven Mills?" 
 
 "We will go there to-morrow, if you like," 
 answered Metro; "to-day perhaps you may 
 have some writing, or if you care to go anywhere
 
 364 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 else I will tell Mantho to show you the way. 
 For me, I must go out with Maroussa." 
 
 "Ah!" smiled M. Arnoux, with a lifting of the 
 eyebrows; "it is an appointment?" 
 
 "No, but I promised Kyra Sophoula I would 
 find out why the girl is troubling herself, and 
 I shall do it to-day." 
 
 Poor Maroussa's reason was not hard to dis- 
 cover. The reason, the sole and only reason, 
 was a certain handsome dark-eyed young joiner 
 in Larissa, who had often worked about the 
 house there, and who had won her heart with 
 a speed and simplicity which could only be 
 accounted for by the fact, as he told Maroussa 
 twenty times over, that it was "written so" in 
 their book of Fate. Her lady had approved of 
 the young man, had told Maroussa she could 
 not do better, and had even offered to write 
 and explain matters to her grandmother. But 
 she, poor child, had refused with tears, and had 
 returned home with a heavy heart. She loved 
 Yoryi, but it did not seem to her that this could 
 alter the fact that she would have to marry 
 Metro as soon as he was appointed a regular 
 schoolmaster. Had it not always been planned 
 so from the time they were small children? 
 Yoryi was quite a stranger to Poros; he was even
 
 THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE 365 
 
 a stranger in Larissa, having gone there from 
 Constantinople. The first thing her grandmother 
 would ask would be, Who knew his people and his 
 family? Besides, who had ever heard of a decent 
 maid choosing her own husband? And Metro? 
 how could she ever tell him? No, no, it was 
 impossible. She supposed she would feel better 
 when she was once married : Metro was so good ; 
 no one knew better than she how good and kind; 
 but sometimes she would burst into tears while 
 trying to fix her mind on his kindness. 
 
 She was drying her eyes furtively by the win- 
 dow this Sunday afternoon when he called her. 
 "Come," he said; "let us go up there." 
 They passed under the dark arch, crossed the 
 marketplace, walked along the sea, and the 
 Narrow Beach, turning to the left till they 
 reached Barba Nicola's wineshop, where two 
 new little white kittens were tumbling over the 
 old white cat on the doorstep. Then they turned 
 upward along the white wall round the red 
 house, following it till they came to the little 
 postern gate at the top of the hill ; on past the 
 white wall along the hillside, through the thyme 
 and the lentisk bushes, leaving the first bay 
 shining below them on their left, and standing 
 at last beside the solitary olive tree and the flat 
 rock over Boudouri's monument. The sea all
 
 366 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 around them was one quivering sheet of gold, 
 and little pink clouds rested on the knees of the 
 great Sleeper. 
 
 They sat in their old place under the tree, and 
 Metro at once commenced talking to Maroussa 
 in a low tone and with half-averted face. He 
 spoke of their childhood together, of the good 
 old woman who had loved them both so well, and 
 had made so many sacrifices for him, sacrifices 
 which Maroussa, had she been other than she 
 was, might have resented. He hoped to repay 
 both of them, he said, by caring for them and 
 protecting them for as long as he lived. He con- 
 fessed he had not worked as hard as he might 
 have done lately for his schoolmaster's diploma. 
 He had been thinking too much of other mat- 
 ters, never mind what, but that was over 
 now, and in six months, if things went well, he 
 might be in a position to be appointed, and 
 then why, then, if Maroussa wished there 
 was no reason why they should not be married. 
 Kyra Sophoula, he ended hurriedly, would be 
 glad to see the day; so very glad, poor old 
 woman. 
 
 Maroussa, utterly incapable as she was of 
 putting into words or even into definite thought 
 the rapid changes of feeling through which she 
 was passing, was yet most keenly sensitive to
 
 THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE 367 
 
 the difference between Yoryi's ardent if rough 
 wooing, and these quiet, almost impersonal 
 promises of kindness and protection. A sudden 
 indescribable dreariness seemed to envelop her, 
 a long weary vista of colorless years to stretch 
 out before her, and a gray veil seemed drawn 
 over the glowing beauty of land and sea. She 
 opened her lips twice, but no sound escaped 
 them. At last she rose and commenced picking 
 at the bark of the tree beside her; then she spoke 
 in a toneless voice. 
 
 "I will not spoil your heart's desire, Metro. 
 Whenever you and my grandmother wish it, it 
 shall be. I I shall be content." 
 
 Metro sprang forward. "Maroussa! look at 
 me. Will you be quite content? entirely con- 
 tent?" 
 
 She tried to answer, but in vain. A vision of 
 laughing dark eyes rose before her, and she flung 
 herself face downward in a wild passion of 
 weeping. 
 
 In a moment Metro was beside her; she was 
 soothed, encouraged, questioned all in a breath, 
 and in a moment more her whole story was 
 poured out to him in hurried, broken, discon- 
 nected words, but vibrating with passion and 
 irresistibly convincing. Her lady Metro need 
 only ask her lady, to learn, to be assured what
 
 368 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 sort of a man Yoryi was, how highly they 
 thought of him, how clever he was, what a 
 worker ! 
 
 "Is he a good honest lad, Maroussa? what 
 we should call a good lad here on the island?" 
 
 She caught her breath with a little sobbing 
 laugh. "He is a good lad, Metro." 
 
 "Then it shall be. Rest content." 
 
 Returning home they discussed plans for a 
 long time: what Metro should write and do; 
 whether now that poor Vasili was dead there was 
 not an opening on the island for a good joiner, 
 since Yoryi had told Maroussa that there was 
 little work for newcomers in Larissa. 
 
 "And yet, Metro, you do not know what a 
 clever workman he is; better than most. In time 
 he could work in Athens, I am sure." 
 
 "Ah, but your grandmother," said Metro; 
 "she could never live away from here." 
 
 Maroussa looked embarrassed. "I did not 
 mean now, of course." 
 
 "Ah! I see; you meant later on after- 
 wards." 
 
 "Well," said Maroussa, half apologetically, 
 "it is natural; we are the young ones." 
 
 "Of course, of course," he said hurriedly; "it 
 is natural." 
 
 Suddenly she stopped short. They were near
 
 THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE 
 
 the house. "Oh! Metro, Yiayia, how can 
 I tell her?" 
 
 "Say nothing, nothing at all. We must wait 
 some days and think. It will seem strange and 
 perhaps hard to the old woman. Say nothing, 
 Maroussa. I will make her understand when the 
 time comes." 
 
 But the time came sooner than he intended. 
 Events were precipitated by a letter which came 
 the next day for M. Arnoux, and which he read 
 to Metro in an unsteady voice as they stood 
 together on the steps of the tiny post-office. It 
 was the unexpected which had happened. It 
 was Fortune who, contrary to all precedent, had 
 forgiven his first slighting of her gifts, and was 
 offering him a second chance. And by a strange 
 coincidence it was once more the curatorship 
 of a private museum which was offered to him. 
 But this time it was in Paris! And not merely 
 a numismatic museum, but a most important 
 collection of antiquities gathered together by 
 one of the richest of French amateurs, who after 
 long years of travel wished to settle at last in 
 France, so that his countrymen might also enjoy 
 the fruit of his lifetime of toil and research. 
 M. Arnoux had been warmly recommended to 
 him, and he now offered him the chief direction
 
 370 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 of his museum, allowing him perfect freedom 
 to select his own assistant, there being too much 
 work for one man, however clever and inde- 
 fatigable. 
 
 "And of course," concluded the old man, as 
 with trembling hands he folded up the letter, 
 "of course, there is but one assistant I wish for. 
 Will you come with me to Paris, my friend?" 
 
 Metro's wildest castles in the air were too 
 suddenly transformed into solid structures, and 
 he was still staggering under the shock. 
 
 "Monsieur Arnoux Master I I do not 
 know. There is so much to think of, to see. 
 Perhaps if you would give me a little time? 
 some hours?" 
 
 "But certainly, my boy, certainly. Only if 
 possible I should like to send an answer to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 "This evening I will tell you." 
 
 It was long past sunset when they stood to- 
 gether again on the shore a little beyond Barba 
 Nicola's wineshop. Among the soft curves of the 
 pines to the west a slim young cypress pointed 
 upward. The deep blue of the sky was fading 
 to a dusky yellow where it met the outlines of 
 the hills. The plants in the stone vases on the 
 terrace of the red house were losing their color
 
 THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE 371 
 
 and blending into one mass with the trees be- 
 yond. There was a gleam of white on the sur- 
 face of the sea which the lights of an ironclad in 
 the harbor streaked with wavering golden re- 
 flections. 
 
 M. Arnoux looked grave, almost troubled. 
 
 "And so, decidedly, it is yes?" 
 
 "It is yes." 
 
 "See, how strange!" said the old man medi- 
 tatively; "it is I, now, who hesitate and wonder 
 if the responsibility I take on myself be not too 
 great?" 
 
 "There is no responsibility; I decide freely." 
 
 "You must weigh the cost well." 
 
 "I have weighed it." 
 
 "How can you weigh it, being in ignorance?" 
 asked M. Arnoux in an impatient tone of voice. 
 "What can you know of the outside world? If 
 Athens confused you, Paris will overpower you; 
 if you felt timid and forlorn in your own country 
 where all around you spoke your own language, 
 you will feel terrified and lost in ours, five days' 
 journey away from the sound of a familiar voice. 
 Instead of hills, pines, and sea, instead even of 
 the white houses of Athens with the Acropolis 
 at one end and the olive grove at the other, you 
 will feel crushed by interminable lines of tall 
 gray houses, with very often a dark rainy sky
 
 372 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 above them. Instead of going from place to 
 place over blue water in your graceful bratseres 
 and caiques, you will ride in crowded trams over 
 muddy streets, or in stuffy trains through under- 
 ground tunnels." 
 
 "And yet," said Metro with a slight smile, 
 "you have so often spoken to me of the beauty 
 of Paris." 
 
 "Oh! I have spoken I have spoken cer- 
 tainly I have spoken, but " 
 
 "But you see I remember all you have said, 
 Master." 
 
 "You will be lonely," persisted the old man. 
 
 "I shall be lonely, yes, but there will be work 
 to do. I shall learn " 
 
 "Oh! you will learn, no doubt of that, but 
 whether you will be happy in the learning is 
 another question." 
 
 "That will not matter since, I shall learn." 
 
 "Things will not seem so easy as they do here, 
 nor life so simple." 
 
 "It does not seem very simple now." 
 
 "There will be no neighbors there, remember; 
 only people who live next door." 
 
 "But" 
 
 "Ah! you think that is all one, my friend; it is 
 very much two, as you will find out. You will 
 not be 'Metro' any longer, not how do they
 
 THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE 373 
 
 call you here? 'Anthi's Metro.' You will be 
 merely an unknown young man, a cipher, a 
 nothing." 
 
 "But I do not expect to be something," said 
 the poor lad patiently; "how should it be pos- 
 sible that I could be as well known as you, in 
 your own country?" 
 
 "As I! Oh, the poor lad ! He will never under- 
 stand. I! in Paris! Why, in all probability I 
 shall live on some fifth floor, and it will only be 
 at the approach of New Year that my concierge 
 will remember I happen to be called 'M. Ar- 
 noux'; for the rest of the year I shall be 'le 
 petit vieux du cinquieme.' " 
 
 "And may not I live close by on some other 
 fifth, or perhaps sixth floor, and come and talk 
 to the 'petit vieux' sometimes after work?" 
 
 The old man looked at him steadily for a 
 moment, and then the gray mustache twitched 
 and a little tender smile came into his eyes. 
 
 "Yes, my boy, you shall, you shall. I am a 
 cross old brute, but God knows how I wish to 
 have you with me. But, there! what will you? 
 for a moment I was afraid. Yet have I not 
 always said it would be a shame to bury you 
 here? You shall come, you shall see 5 you shall 
 learn, and in less than no time we shall make a 
 splendid archaeologist of you."
 
 374 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 "An archaeologist! Ah, no, not yet! that 
 means one who knows about the ancients and 
 their great deeds, and their wonderful art. It 
 will not be true of me for a long time yet. Say 
 rather one who loves archaeology." 
 
 "Very well: a new word shall be coined for 
 your modesty. Archaeo phile, shall we say? 
 Being new, it will be the better remembered. 
 You see, my friend, strange as it may seem, you 
 must learn first how modern educated people 
 live before they will let you teach them how the 
 ancients thought and worked and acted. You 
 might learn in Athens certainly, but they will 
 scarcely give you the opportunity." 
 
 "I do not understand," said Metro; "you 
 mean ' 
 
 "I mean that humanity is the same every- 
 where, and that if your labor and your teaching 
 are ever to be taken into consideration, you 
 must make people entirely forget that you are 
 just Metro from Poros, and return from abroad 
 as Monsieur Demetrius what was your 
 father's name?" 
 
 "Tasso." 
 
 "Tasso? Tasso what?" 
 
 "Oh! Philippides." 
 
 "As Monsieur Demetrius Philippides, then." 
 
 Metro smiled gravely. "If it be necessary I
 
 THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE 375 
 
 will return as Monsieur Demetrius Philippides." 
 Then, after a moment's pause he added: "Also 
 shall not I earn more in Paris than I could do 
 here for a long time yet?" 
 
 M. Arnoux looked at him curiously. 
 
 "Yes," he answered; "certainly you will earn 
 more. The pay is good for a beginner." 
 
 "You see," explained the lad simply, "the 
 old woman cannot work much longer, and the 
 man whom I told you Maroussa will marry has 
 not much money yet." 
 
 M. Arnoux let his hand fall on Metro's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Ah ! yes, my friend; as you say, la bonne mere 
 must not work much longer." Then, in a little 
 he asked, "Have you told her?" 
 
 "No," answered Metro in a low voice; "not 
 yet. I told Maroussa to wait; that I would 
 speak to her grandmother and make her under- 
 stand. I meant to wait a few days. But now it 
 must be for to-morrow." 
 
 Kyra Sophoula was sitting alone the next 
 evening on her little covered terrace. Her 
 spindle was in her hand, but she was not spin- 
 ning. The echo of the sunset gun was just dying 
 away in the hills and the flag had been lowered 
 on the tower of the Naval School. From the
 
 376 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 man-of-war in the bay the strains of the Na- 
 tional Hymn rose on the quiet air; then after 
 a pause came the evening psalm, "O Lord, 
 our Lord, how excellent is thy name in all 
 the earth ! " Then silence, broken only now and 
 then by the soft dip of the oars of some belated 
 trata. 
 
 Metro had been sitting with her since early 
 in the afternoon. They had talked long together, 
 but he had gone now. Maroussa had been spend- 
 ing the day with Viola, Mantho's wife, to help 
 her with some sewing for the little one, and 
 Kyra Sophoula had sent Metro to fetch the girl 
 home. She had sent him off with a smile, and 
 she would be ready to welcome them back with 
 brave words when they returned in a little while; 
 but now that she was alone she sat very quiet 
 and motionless, for Kyra Sophoula had under- 
 stood at last, and her heart was heavy with the 
 weight of her new knowledge. "Better," she 
 muttered, shaking her head, "better I had never 
 known; better there had been nothing to know." 
 Better, indeed; for what could this new know- 
 ledge mean to her? It meant that none of her 
 daydreams would come to pass; it meant not 
 only that her boy Metro and her own grand- 
 child, the only one of her blood left to her, were 
 not to come together, not to spend their lives
 
 THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE 377 
 
 under the same roof, not to stand both together 
 by her side to close her eyes when her time came, 
 but also that they were content, nay, wishful to 
 remain apart. It meant, this new knowledge, a 
 stranger in the house in the near future, a new 
 face to look at, a new voice to listen to. The 
 youth was doubtless a good one but strange, 
 strange and she was old. It meant ah! it 
 meant Metro going away again; and farther this 
 time than Athens, much farther, to strange 
 lands and among strange people. Kyra Sophoula 
 let her spindle drop with a rattle on the wooden 
 floor, and the gray old head fell forward on her 
 breast. She was old, very old, and she wished 
 she had never understood. 
 
 Once more, as in years gone by, Metro came 
 down to the quay to wait for the steamer to 
 Piraeus. Once more Maroussa was there to see 
 him off; not as then a poor disconsolate little 
 maid in a yellow cotton frock, but a tall hand- 
 some girl hanging on his arm, happy, smiling, 
 grateful, and sisterly. Once more Kyra Sophoula 
 had made pretext of urgent work at home, 
 adding that the return to the house was too 
 steep for her. But Metro had spoken to Yan- 
 noula, and she had promised him that the old 
 woman should not be left alone.
 
 378 TALES OF A GREEK ISLAND 
 
 Once more Metro, as he stood on the quay, 
 lifted up his eyes to the hills. Blue and beautiful 
 they surrounded him, their base half veiled in 
 quivering golden air, the summits outlined 
 against the noonday sky with that absolute 
 purity and delicacy of sweeping line and curve 
 which is perhaps one of the supreme beauties of 
 the land. And Metro gazed and gazed as though 
 to imprint their shape indelibly on his memory. 
 It was with an effort he looked away from them 
 when the moment came to step into the little 
 boat which was to take them out to the steamer. 
 Maroussa and some of the neighbors followed 
 him and M. Arnoux on board, and there was 
 much talking and much exchange of good wishes 
 before the return to the shore. The little boats 
 rowed back slowly, with much waving of hand- 
 kerchiefs and many laughing messages carried 
 back on the breeze. 
 
 Metro was standing at the prow as they 
 steamed out towards the entrance of the port. 
 His hands were tightly clasping the rail and he 
 did not speak, but it seemed to the old man who 
 was watching him as though for the space of one 
 second all his soul rose in his eyes as he fixed 
 them on the rapidly receding island. 
 
 Then the steamer turned round the point by 
 the lighthouse, and he could see it no longer.
 
 THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE 379 
 
 M. Arnoux laid his hand on Metro's shoulder. 
 
 "You do not regret, my friend?" 
 
 "No, oh no; I do not regret." 
 
 "And the young girl? You are easy about 
 her? He is a good man, the one she would 
 marry?" 
 
 "I do not know him, and of course I shall in- 
 quire much about him; but I know Maroussa, 
 and I feel sure he will be a good man." 
 
 "And the bonne mere will live with them?" 
 
 "Of course; where else?" 
 
 "So they will live well all together?" 
 
 "They will live well." 
 
 Then their eyes met, and M. Arnoux smiled. 
 "How does Maroussa finish her fairy tales, 
 Metro?" 
 
 And Metro answered gravely, "And we still 
 better." 
 
 THE END
 
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