to
frederick no?l byron
{3}
the blossom of the lilac-tree gave a pulp-like sound as it thwacked against her window, and curiously named stephanie miniati smiled to herself as she turned in her bed and, placing a hand on her rounded breast, closed her eyes in order that she might see orosdi. for not only did orosdi dwell in her heart, but his big, black eyes burned in her brain and lit it, and his sinewy hands were ever about her throat in love-cruelty. she closed her eyes and, in imagination, summoned him to her chamber. he came: not hurriedly, as an anxious lover moves, but with long, lazy strides, his baby-face all smiles, his selfish, rounded chin thrust a little forward. he stood by her side and then, in imagination, she made him bend down suddenly and kiss her shoulder....
she sighed in a luxury of love, and “orosdi! or-os-di!” she murmured. and she thought for the thousandth time: “i am the most beautiful girl in ajvatli, and orosdi is the most handsome lad of all who walk on the plain of langaza.”
but as yet she was only half awake, and in her semi-consciousness had forgotten her other lover who now lay in the church cemetery on the high land above ajvatli.
the noise of the sheep and the goats herding down the uneven street brought her to full consciousness, and, sitting up in bed, the smile slowly faded from her face, a scowl, almost a snarl, taking its place. for she had remembered that to-day was the anniversary of the death of her other lover and that, though orosdi had made the thought of her dead sweetheart sometimes hateful, yet fear of her neighbours would, she{4} knew, compel her to weep and pray at his grave and fondle the bones that had once been covered with stubborn flesh. she sat and scowled; then, suddenly, having taken up a mirror that lay on a chair by her side, she smiled entrancingly at her reflection. she pulled back her lips and looked at her white teeth; she bared her breasts and, holding the mirror below them, looked at and admired the twin curves reflected therein; then, making slits of her eyes, she looked from the corners of her eyelids—looked roguishly, invitation in her glance.
“oh, you dear creature!” she exclaimed; “how good of you to be so beautiful!”
all morning she was at work in the fields whilst her wifeless father sat drinking cognac in the village. she herself loved wine, but when with orosdi drank only mavrodaphne, the “black holly” that makes lovers more ardent and leaves no sting behind. the plain, covered with vineyards and mustard and poppies, blazed hotly. banked roadways, infrequently used, were covered with multitudinous flowers, flowers that were warm to the touch and almost sickly with the sun’s day-long kiss. stephanie, stooping over her work, wiped away with the back of her hand the drops of perspiration that stood gleaming on her forehead. the heat did not trouble her: she loved it, for her strength was that of an animal. the sun, the flowers, and the call of cuckoos made heaven for her, and she praised her heaven to the utmost height of sublimity whenever she looked at langaza, white amo{5}ng green poplars, where her lover lived.
“how white it is!” she said to herself; and then something in her brain whispered: “how white they will be. how white they will be to-night, in so few hours!”
she caught her breath and bit her under-lip. her cheeks paled. “what do i mean? what do i mean?” she asked herself, hurriedly. but only too well did she know what she meant. her brain was thinking of her dead lover’s bones, which to-night would lie in her hands—bones that, washed in wine a year ago, had been placed back in his shallow grave at ajvatli, and which were as white as the cambric that comes from england. her religion, her loyalty, her dead love—everything that demanded her acquiescence in the customs of her race—meant nothing to her: but the opinion of her neighbours meant everything. people in small villages can be very cruel. “oh, yes,” said stephanie, pitying herself, “they would be cruel. father most of all.”
with a resolute gesture she turned from langaza, and bent over her work. how wonderfully decisive and final is the thrust with which the diabolically selfish can rid themselves of uncomfortable thoughts! with an: “oh! i’ll go through with it!” she put the little grave aside, forgetting the dead youth’s dear kisses that, how brief a time ago, used to run from her brow to her eyes, from her eyes to her mouth, and from her mouth to her breasts where the{6}y used to cling and turn her girlhood to maidenhood.
at midday she stopped her work and, seated on a high bank, ate bread and olives and drank a little of the wine of samos. i think i can show her to you. the bank is covered with high grass and tall flowers—such flowers as you will see in england any real june. so, of course, she is half hidden in a little swimming mist of colour of blue and yellow and green. her skirt is pulled above her knees and you can see the thick woollen stockings that do not mar the beauty of her long ankles. her dark face is sallow and red, her hair black; her bosom—you can see it, for her blouse is opened two buttons at the neck—whiter than the paper on which this little history is printed. she wears no hat, and her blouse is a dusky red, the colour of her cheeks. her eyes are pits of darkness in each of which a flame burns brightly, almost fervently. an animal, of course. but a beautiful animal, with a beauty that not one woman in a thousand greek women possesses. but is she greek? she says so. but is she? some lusty bulgar, perchance, raped her grandmother, or a turk, insinuating and cruel, crept to the bed of some maternal ancestor. these things happen there in macedonia, as elsewhere.
you will not like the way she eats, for her lips are not closed and her right cheek bulges. and her hands, face, neck, and breasts are wet with perspiration. a woman to be loved and feared, i think: more feared than loved....{7}
but she has finished her little meal....
she lay on her back, the sun smiting her, the sun of greece that two thousand years ago smote men to greatness, that burned men and melted them and recast them as poets, orators, sculptors, writers of dramas. she turned over on her side and murmured something, pressing her lips to the ground, and smiling....
* * *
orosdi was drinking at langaza. he was sleek and lazy, but his brain was bright, and he was now busy purchasing two mules from his father. for orosdi had a farm of his own, and prospered as all physically lazy men may prosper if their brains are deep and cunning and if they retain the accumulated traditions of their ancestors.
“ninety-five drachm?,” said orosdi, placing his plump hand on the thin, vein-corded hand of his father.
the older man smiled.
“you are the son of my father,” he said, enigmatically. then he added, reminiscently: “he always began with half the price he was willing to pay. we will talk of this to-morrow.”
“no, no. it is pleasant here. let us finish the business now.”
he turned aside and called to the keeper of the inn outside which they were sitting. a dirty creature limped from the dark interior to the doorway.
“you hav{8}e my bottle of whisky there, is it not so? well, open it. and bring two clean glasses.”
his father started a little.
“’tis an old trick,” observed he. “you would make me drunk and then buy from me? i would rather give you the mules than that you should do that.”
“father, i brought the whisky for you because ... because, well, you know why.” he looked affectionately at his parent.
the old man, gazing at his handsome son, felt his eyes becoming moist. an impulse overswept him.
“you were always a good son to me,” he said. “let me give you the mules.”
“father!”
“well, after all, i’m at the end of my life, and you.... you know, orosdi ... but do you know?”
“father, father!”
but the dirty innkeeper interrupted the conversation by putting the whisky bottle and two glasses on the table.
“come, let us drink,” said orosdi, feeling a little uncomfortable and pouring out the liquor.
they drank the spirit neat, and almost immediately the old man’s worn face became flushed and active.
“well, they are yours,” he said; “i will bring them to you to-morrow.”
his son rose and kissed him on the cheek.
“what can i give you in return?” he asked.
his father sat silent for a minute, twisti{9}ng his fingers under the edge of the table and looking on the ground. he darted a shy glance at the young man.
“i would like only one thing,” said he.
“it is yours.”
“i would like you to come.... but perhaps you have already arranged.... if you were to come and sit with me to-night, i should be very happy.”
orosdi’s jaw sank and his face clouded.
“to-morrow, father,” said he, “of course i will come. but to-night i go to ajvatli.”
the old man poured out more whisky and drank it greedily. he sighed, and began again to twist his fingers under the edge of the table.
“not to-night, then,” he murmured, with resignation.
“but why especially to-night?” urged orosdi.
“have you forgotten? it is my birthday.”
“blast!... yes, father, of course i will come. i will come three hours—two hours—after sunset. i thought of your birthday yesterday: you were a good deal in my thoughts.... but to-day! but you know me, father. i am like that. i have always been so. but you do know, father, don’t you, that no one comes before you in my love?”
“you see, my son, i am old. to-day i am seventy-three. and it seems to me that the nearer i get to the grave the more lonely i become. sometimes i wish that we lived together ... that if we lived together....”{10}
“oh, but, father—it was you who urged me to strike out for myself ... to do what i could without hindrance—that is how you put it, father: you called yourself a hindrance.”
“did i?” questioned the old man, dully. “i forget. you may be right.”
“come and live with me, father,” said orosdi, impulsively. “you can sell your bit of land....”
“no,” interrupted the old man, proudly, “no, orosdi. this is just a minute’s weakness: every one has these moments. you must go your way; i, mine.”
he poured out more whisky and drank it.
“and now, orosdi,” said he, looking at the half-empty bottle, “i think i will go home.”
“and i will accompany you to your door. you must take the whisky with you.”
orosdi recorked the bottle and put it in his father’s hands.
they rose and walked together through the village until they reached its outskirts, where, coming upon a detached, terraced house where the old man lived, they parted. the old man closed the door behind him. the room into which he stepped straight from the street was large, but badly lit; it smelt stuffily of leeks. lurching across the tiled floor, he reached a little stool on which he sat, his hands clasped in front of him, his head bent low. his lips moved, and he trembled with the ague of age.
presently, feeling intolerably tired, he rose and shambled to a rug lying in a corner. casting himself upon this, he was soon asleep; dreams came trooping to him, dreams of hatred of stephanie miniati who was taking his dear son fr{11}om him. how he loved orosdi of the lazy smile, orosdi whose shoulders were so strong, orosdi who could be as tender as a woman, and as faithless.
* * *
the sun had already set when orosdi went forth from langaza to see his love at ajvatli, and he pulled his body together sensually as he trod the long, white road. frogs splashed and croaked in the ditches, nightingales sang, a big moon stared. but he cared for none of these things. the world to him was one woman: a woman whose kisses were fierce, and whose clasp would not let him go.
his mood was a little bitter and cruel. stephanie had played with him too long. she would not marry him and she would not let him.... what was the use of a love like that? it was not that she was virtuous: she was simply afraid? after all, why shouldn’t she marry him? her old lover had been dead these years, and there was no reason for her ridiculous clinging to his memory. it was true, she had been the cause of his death, for he had given his life to langaza lake in attempting to save her from drowning. but that was an accident: a happy accident.... he smiled grimly.
but to-night he would bring the business of his passionate courting to a head. the thing was wearing him out. his robust body was failing him. to {12}clasp and kiss ... to clasp and kiss and never really love! that was play for children.
he quickened his pace and passed through the outskirts of ajvatli. the crooked village was full of black shadows, and even to him who was familiar with them, the twisting, inconsequent streets were like a maze; nevertheless, orosdi could without difficulty have found his way blindfolded to stephanie’s house. his nearest way there lay past the central inn, outside which many men were sitting, drinking. for a moment the young farmer hesitated; then, calling for a bottle of mavrodaphne, he flung himself down in a chair and peered around him to see if he could discern the face of stephanie’s father by the light of the one lamp that hung outside the inn. several acquaintances greeted him: he replied to them curtly, almost insolently. miniati was away, they told him. he had set out for seres in the afternoon, and would not return for nearly a week.
he grunted his satisfaction, uncorked his bottle, poured out a glass of wine, and slowly drank the sweet intoxicant. almost at once he felt its stimulating effect; it fired him and his passion, and, with a gesture of impatience, he rose and made his way to stephanie’s house. having arrived there, he knocked, but there was no reply. he tapped with a stick on the high window, but no one came.
“blast!” he whispered between his teeth.{13}
“and don’t you know where she is?” asked a voice behind him.
he turned to see a wrinkled old woman who was bent almost at right angles over a stick that supported her.
“no,” he answered, impatiently, “where is she?”
“where should she be to-night if not with my grandson?”
he remembered. the old woman was the grandmother of stephanie’s dead mercury, and the girl herself would be in the cemetery with the boy’s bones. he kicked at a stone angrily, and, turning on his heel, walked past the church to the graveyard above. at the open iron gate he paused and looked about him. not a soul was to be seen. going down on his hands and knees, he crept behind the diminutive gravestones until he came to within a few yards of the grave he sought, where he lay prone, scarcely breathing, his eyes hard and glittering, his upper jaw closed anxiously over his lower lip. he could see his girl. she knelt at a very shallow open grave; touching her knees was a heap of disordered bones; a white skull, small and boyish, reflected the moonlight.
but stephanie was not looking at what remained of her mercury; she was gazing into space with unseeing eyes, her arms by her side, her body held loosely, dejection in every line of her figure. once or twice she stirred uneasily as though half aware of orosdi’s presence.
he, cunning and alert, watched for his opportunity. a mood {14}of disgust might presently come to her. or she might melt in tenderness at thought of him....
there was a wind in the trees, and in the air the scent of lilac. orosdi heard the wind and smelt the lilac. the earth gave forth the warmth of the day’s sun; it excited him, and his teeth bit more deeply into his lower lip. his stephanie looked cool and apart in her white robe....
* * *
less than a dozen yards away, peering over the wall was an old man whose lips moved angrily. but he was patient in his anger, for he was afraid of his son. he felt himself to be futile, and it was deep misery to stand here and watch orosdi worshipping that handsome and destructive greek girl: still, he must remain. he had a morbid craving for self-inflicted pain, and the whisky he had drunk earlier in the day twisted things out of focus. he would do nothing; he would only watch. he would learn the worst.
after a very long time, he saw orosdi crouch like a cat and glide like a snake. he saw him glide behind stephanie, rise to his feet and approach her till he stood above her, holding out his arms.
and then a violent thing happened. orosdi, having stood irresolute a moment, suddenly stepped to his lover’s side, kicked away the bones that lay at her knees, threw his arms around the girl’s body, lifted her from the ground,{15} and carried her away to the shadow of the little stone building in which, hidden in rows of sacks, lie the bones of ajvatli’s dead. there was no sound save a small hysterical laugh of joy from the girl. the old man heard them sighing in the shadow, and, like a knife, the thought of his own honeymoon stabbed his soul. he muttered rapidly to himself, and frowned. then, pulling himself laboriously over the wall, he walked rapidly to the graveside, gathered the scattered bones together, and replaced them in the shallow grave. he did this quickly but tidily, feeling his decency shocked, and feeling, as he had never felt before, that his son was a stranger to him. he filled up the grave with earth, and smoothed the surface with the palms of his hands. and then, with a frightened prayer, he rose to his feet, made his way to the wall and clambered over. on the far side he stopped to listen a moment. but no sound reached him; the lovers were quiet in their bliss.
it was nearly midnight when they rose, and all the guardian semi-wild dogs of ajvatli seemed to be barking together. orosdi was full of quiet happiness: stephanie had given herself to him and had promised herself in marriage. he placed his arm around her and began to lead her towards the iron gate of the cemetery. but, very gently, she put him away, saying:{16}
“leave me alone. i will see you to-morrow.”
“no!” he insisted. “you are mine now. what does it matter who sees us?”
“but you forget,” she protested. and as he did not appear to know what he had forgotten, she added: “you forget what we are leaving behind. i must put him away again.”
she walked towards the grave, he by her side. simultaneously, on emerging from behind a tree, they discovered that the bones had disappeared, that the grave had been refilled, and that the earth above it was smooth and tidy. they stopped, and her hand sought his. he put his arms about her protectingly, though his fear equalled her own.
“he has gone back!” she muttered, awe-struck. and she stood gazing on the grave as though hypnotized.
“come away,” he said, trembling; “your mercury may return.”
without another word they turned and, panic-stricken, rushed from the cemetery. at her house-door they stopped.
“what does it mean?” he asked.
“it means he no longer loves me. you kicked him. you kicked my mercury who was always so good to me.”
she looked at him wild-eyed, accusingly.
without a farewell embrace she opened the door and entered the house, leaving him alone.
the {17}old man was lying on his rug when his son entered. he had finished the bottle of whisky and he knew not what his mood was.
“two hours ago it was my birthday,” he said, aggressively, “my birthday, and you did not come, though you promised.”
he protruded his under-lip and, seizing an empty glass that stood near him where he lay on the floor, he cast it on the tiles where it was smashed to fragments.
orosdi, weary and a little afraid of what the night had brought him, sat down and sighed.
“do not be angry with me, father,” he said, gravely.
“you have done three evil things this night,” said the old man.
“one is not always virtuous.... but i will see you in the morning. i must sleep. you also, father. you are overwrought.”
“no. i’m drunk. men see truth when they are drunk. they see things they dare not look at in their sober times. your mother, who was a scholar, used to say there is truth in wine. damnable truth. never mind, orosdi, my son. we cannot help ourselves.”
but orosdi had slipped from the house, and the old man was talking to an empty room. he continued maundering for a long time until, overcome by sleep, he fell heavily on the floor and closed his eyes.
