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From The King of the Mountains, by Edmond About, Translated from the French; with a Critical Introduction by Andrew Lang; a Frontispiece and Numerous Other Portraits with Descriptive Notes by Octave Uzanne; The French Classical Romances Complete in Twenty Crown Octavo Volumes, Editor-in-Chief Edmund Gosse, LL.D; New York : P. F. Collier & Son; 1902; pp. 44-75.
MY youthful studies have developed in me at least one passion that has absorbed all others — curiosity. Until the day I set out for Athens my greatest glory in life was to learn; and my greatest sorrow to be obliged to acknowledge myself an ignoramus. I loved science as a man does his mistress, and hitherto nothing had disputed her place in my heart. On the other hand, I had but little sensibility, and sentiment rarely troubled me.
I went about the world with a magnifying glass, as though the said world were a colossal museum. The pleasures and sufferings of others seemed to me worthy of study, but unworthy either of envy or pity.
I could no more feel jealous of a happy married couple than of a pair of palm-trees growing side by side; and I had just as much compassion for a broken heart as for a geranium shrivelled by the 45 frost. One is not easily shocked if one ever has vivisected a rat, and I frankly own that I should have thoroughly enjoyed a combat of gladiators. The love of Photini for John Harris would have excited pity in any one else but a naturalist. To use Henri IV’s expression, the poor creature “loved at random,” and it was pretty evident that her love never would be requited. She was too timid to express it; John, too careless to divine its existence. Even if he had suspected the true state of her heart, how could so ugly a creature excite the slightest emotion in so handsome a man? Photini passed all the four Sundays of April with us. She gazed adoringly at Harris from morning to night with languishing, longing eyes, but never found courage to open her lips in his presence. Harris whistled quietly, Dimitrius growled like a whipped puppy, and I smiled at these queer manifestations of a malady from which my constitution had hitherto preserved me.
About this time my father wrote to say that business was going to the dogs, that travellers were rare and provisions dear; also that our opposite neighbours had emigrated, and that if I had found a Russian Princess, I would better marry her there and then.
I answered that I had had no success, met 46 with no possible conquest, except indeed the daughter of a poor Grecian colonel, who was madly in love, but not with me, and that I might perhaps with a little tact become her confident, but never her husband. But, I added that I was fortunate enough to be in good health, and my herbal full of fine specimens. That hitherto I had only been able to make excursions in the outskirts of Athens, but that soon I hoped to be able to go further afield. Security was returning, the brigands had been beaten by the carabineers, and all the papers announced the disruption of Hadji Stavros’s band. In a month, at latest, I should be able to set out for Germany, and solicit a place that would keep the whole family in clover.
On Sunday, April 28, we read in the Century of Athens, of the absolute defeat of the King of the Mountains. The official reports said that twenty of his men had been disabled, his camp burned, his band dispersed, and himself driven into the marshes round Marathon. This news, however good it might be for foreigners, appeared less welcome to the Greeks, and especially to our hosts. Lieutenant of his regiment though he might be, Christodulos was singularly lacking in enthusiasm on this score, and as for Colonel Jani’s daughter, she had some difficulty in restraining 47 her tears when she heard of the brigands’ misfortune. Harris, who had brought us the paper, did not conceal his joy. As for me, since this news evidently cleared the coast for me to roam where I pleased, I was naturally enough enchanted at the defeat of Stavros and his friends. On the morning of the 30th I was awakened by Dimitrius at four. I set out with my tin-case and my walking-stick for a good long ramble. Good luck had just befallen that youth. He was soon to enter the service of an English family newly arrived in Athens and then staying at the Hôtel des Étrangers.
I sauntered down Hermes Street as far as the crossway popularly known in the foreign colony as “la belle Grèce.” In crossing Cannon Square I did not neglect to salute the small artillery of the kingdom, which reposes quietly under a shed, awaiting the taking of Constantinople, and in four strides I arrived at the Pâtissia walk. The melia shrubs that bordered it on both sides were just beginning to open their sweet-scented flowers. The sky was of a vivid blue, softening into a paler shade towards Hymettos and Pentelicos. Before me, in the distance, rose, like a crenelated wall, the summit of Parnassus, which was the object of my journey. I descended by a cross 48 road to the house of Countess Jantha Théotoki, now occupied by the French Legation; skirted the gardens of Prince Michael Sutzo, and entered the olive woods beyond.
The thrushes and blackbirds sang joyously in the boughs over my head, and the silvery leaves of the olives glistened in the morning light. On leaving the woods I crossed great fields of green barley, in which Athenian horses, as short and broad-chested as those on the frieze of the Parthenon, were recouping themselves for the dry hay and heating food of the past winter. Flocks of doves rose at my approach, and the tufted larks darted straight up to heaven like so many sky-rockets. From time to time a lazy tortoise, dragging his house on his shoulders, crossed the road. I put the creature carefully on his back, and left him to get out of that, to him, rather awkward posture as best he could. After walking for two hours I at length reached the desert. All trace of culture now disappeared. Nothing was to be seen but tufts of thin grass, bulbs of the Star of Bethlehem, or long dried stalks of the asphodel. The sun rose higher, and I could now distinguish the fir-trees on the flanks of Mount Parnassus. The path that I had taken might not be the right one, but I directed my steps towards the scattered 49 houses on the mountain-side that probably formed part of the village of Castia.
With one bound I crossed the Eleusinain Cephisus, to the consternation of the small flat tortoises that disported themselves in the water like frogs. Some steps further on, the path disappeared in a wide deep ravine ravaged by the rains of two or three thousand winters. I supposed, and rightly, that the ravine was near the road, since I had remarked in my previous excursions that the Greeks did not take the trouble to trace a road, if a water-course had been good enough to engineer the matter for them. In this country, where man leaves Nature much to herself, torrents are high-roads, streams districts, and ditches parish boundaries. Stones do the business of civil engineers, and rain becomes a road-surveyor, which, on its own responsibility, keeps small and big paths in order. I dived into the ravine and continued my route between two steep banks, which hid from my sight the plain, the mountain, and the object of my excursion. But the path had so many windings that it became difficult to know in which direction I was going, and whether I was not turning my back on Parnassus. It would have been wiser to have climbed the banks and found out where I really was. But they were 50 steep; I was tired, hungry, and very comfortable in the shade. So I sat down on a marble boulder, took some bread and a cold shoulder of lamb out of my knapsack, also a flask of that glorious wine of which I have already spoken.
“Well,’ said I to myself, “I’m on the roadside. Some one will pass, and I’ll ask him to put me on the right path!”
And some one did pass. Just as I was putting my knife back into my pocket, meaning to lie down in the shade and enjoy the delightful restfulness that follows the breakfast of travellers and anacondas, I fancied that I heard the sound of horses’ hoofs. I put my ear to the ground, and perceived that two or three horsemen were coming behind me. I strapped my box on my back and prepared to follow them, in case they were going towards Parnassus. Five minutes later, two ladies mounted on hired horses came in sight. They were dressed like travelling Englishwomen all the world over. Behind them was a man on foot, whom I easily recognized to be none other than Dimitrius.
You who have knocked about the world must know how indifferent to his personal appearance a traveller becomes when alone or in the company of men, but that if he meets with ladies, even if more elderly than Noah’s dove, he quickly changes 51 front, and becomes anxious as to the cut of his garments. Before I was able to see the faces the two Amazons concealed behind their blue gauze veils, I passed my person in review and was tolerably satisfied. I was wearing the clothes you see, which are still presentable even after two years’ wear and tear. I have only changed my headgear. Even so good and useful a cap as this could not have protected me from the rays of the sun. So I wore a large grey felt with wide brims, but alas! covered with dust.
I doffed it politely to the ladies, who took very little notice of me, so I proceeded to shake hands with Dimitrius, and in a moment he told me all I wanted to learn.
“Am I on the right road to Parnassus?”
“Yes; we are going there.”
“I might go with you.”
“Why not?”
“Who are these ladies?”
“The Englishwomen in whose employ I am. Milord has remained at the hotel.”
“What sort of people are they?”
“Oh, not much to speak of. London bankers. The old lady is Mrs. Simons, of the firm of Barclay and Co. The Milord is her brother, and the girl her daughter.”
52“Pretty?”
“That depends on taste; I prefer Photini.”
“Shall you go as far as Fort Pileos?”
“Yes; they have engaged me for a week, at ten francs a day, everything included. I arrange the excursions, and chose this one because I knew I should meet you. But what’s the matter with them now?”
The old lady, seeing that I had taken possession of her servant, in her vexation put her horse to a trot in a place where never horse had trotted before. The other animal, not to be outdone, adopted the same pace, and if we had talked a little longer we should have been left behind. Dimitrius ran on to rejoin the ladies, and I heard Mrs. Simons say to him in English :
“Don’t go away like that. I’m English, and mean to be properly served. I don’t pay you to gossip with your friends. Who is this Greek you were talking to?”
“He’s a German, madam.”
“Ah! What does he do?”
“He looks for herbs.”
“So he is an apothecary?
“No, madam, a learned Professor.”
“Ah! does he speak English?”
“Very well indeed, madam.”
53“Ah!”
The three “Ahs!” of the old lady were pronounced in such different keys, that if I had been a musician I should have liked to have written them down. Their various modulations showed the progress I had made in Mrs. Simons’s esteem. Nevertheless she did not address me, and I followed the small troop at a certain distance. Dimitrius did not venture to speak to me again, and walked on in front like a prisoner of war. All he dared do was to give me a look from time to time, which seemed to say, “What affected jades these Englishwomen are!”
Miss Simons did not turn her head, and I could not make out whether she was more or less ugly than Photini. What I could see, however, was that she was tall and had a splendid figure. Her shoulders were wide, the waist round and supple. The little that I saw of her neck would have reminded me of the swans of the Zoological Garden even if I had not been a naturalist.
Her mother turned to speak to her, and I pressed forward to hear her voice. Didn’t I tell you that I’m fearfully curious? I just arrived in time to catch the following sentences.
“Mary-Ann!”
“Mother!”
54“I’m hungry.”
“Are you?”
“Yes!”
“And I’m very warm.”
“Are you?”
“Yes!”
You think perhaps that this particularly British dialogue made me smile? Not in the least, my dear sir, I was already under the charm. Mary-Ann’s voice, I don’t know how or why, went straight to my heart, troubling me, yet at the same time filling me with delight. In my whole life I never had heard anything so youthful, fresh, and pure as that voice. I am perfectly certain that the sound of a shower of gold falling on my father’s roof would have sounded less harmoniously. “What a misfortune,” thought I, “that the ugliest birds should have the sweetest notes!” And I dared not look at her, yet would have given the world to see her face!
Dimitrius intended that the travellers should breakfast at the inn of Calyvia, a barrack made of boards badly put together, but where in all seasons one was sure of getting a skin of good wine, a bottle of “rhaki,” or aniseed, and a number of venerable hens, which, in virtue of the system of metempsychosis, death obligingly changed into 55 young chickens. Unhappily, the place was empty, and the door locked.
On learning this, Mrs. Simons flew into a fury with Dimitrius, and as she turned round I saw a hatchet-shaped face with two rows of enormous teeth. “I’m English,” cried she, “and intend to eat when I’m hungry.”
“Madam,” said Dimitrius ruefully, “you will breakfast in half-an-hour at Castia.”
I, who had breakfasted, made melancholy reflections on Mrs. Simons’s ugliness, and whispered to myself he old aphorism, “Like mother, like daughter” : “Qualis mater, talis filia.”
Between the inn and the village the road was detestable. It consisted of a path between perpendicular rock and a precipice that would have made a chamois giddy. Before going further on this diabolical road, where the horses had but just room to place their feet, Mrs. Simons asked if there was not another one. “I’m English,” said she, “and was not made to roll down precipices.”
Dimitrius praised the road, and declared that there were others in the country a hundred times worse.
“At least,” said the old lady, “hold the bridle of my horse. But no! what will become of my daughter? Yet I don’t want to break my neck. 56 Can’t you hold the two bridles? The road is vile! — good enough for Greeks possibly, but certainly not for Englishwomen! Don’t’ you think so, sir?” added she, turning in my direction.
Here was my introduction! Regular or not, it had taken place. I made my entry under the potent auspices of the magician, Danger, and bowing with all the elegance of which I was capable, I said in English:
“Madam, the road is not quite so bad as it looks. Your horses, I know, are sure-footed, because I have ridden them. And if you will permit it, you have two guides : Dimitrius for you, and myself for your daughter.”
Instantly, without waiting for an answer, I boldly advanced, caught the bridle of Mary-Ann’s horse, and, as she turned towards me, her blue veil blew back, and I saw the most adorable face that ever turned the head of a German naturalist.
A charming Chinese poet, the celebrated A-Scholl, says that every man has in his heart a string of eggs, each containing the germ of a love. The look of a woman suffices to open them. I know too much not to be aware that this hypothesis has no solid foundation, and that it is in formal contradiction with anatomical fact. Nevertheless 57 I must say that Miss Simons’s first look filled my heart with emotion. I experienced a sensation new yet not painful. It seemed to me that something had given way in my breast. At the same moment the blood rushed violently through my veins, and the arteries of my temples throbbed so furiously that I could count their pulsations.
What eyes she had, my dear sir! I trust for the sake of your peace that you never shall meet with their like. They were not large enough to encroach upon the rest of the face; they were neither black nor blue, but of a peculiar shade rarely seen in a lifetime. It was a glowing, velvety brown found in Siberian granite and certain garden flowers. I can show you a scabious, and a variety of the rose-mallow that recall without doing justice to the marvellous colour of those eyes. If you ever have seen a forge at midnight you must have remarked the strange light that radiates from a red-hot plate of steel : that was the sort of light that shone from her eyes. As for their charm, no words can convey it. Mary-Ann’s eyes were intelligent, innocent, dove-like; they had a bright vivacity, a freshness due to youth and health, and at times a touch of most seductive languor. All the knowledge of the woman, and the simplicity of the child, might be 58 read in them as in an open book, but if you ventured to study that book, it was sure before long to turn your head and dazzle your eyes — blind you! it was so bright and sunny. I declare to you, her gaze burned through and through me. As true as I am called Hermann, her smile would have ripened peaches on a south wall.
When I think that Dimitrius deliberately declared that my Mary-Ann was quite plain as compared to that hideous Photini, I feel, even now, so indignant with him that, believe me, I could choke him! Truly, love is a disease that blinds its victims! Therefore I, who, of course, never have lost either my heart or my reason, and look at everything with an unbiased eye, am certainly in a position to assure you that the world never has seen a woman to equal in loveliness Mary-Ann Simons. Would that I could paint her portrait for you even as she remains impressed upon the tablets of my memory! You could then be able to behold her long eyelashes, her gracefully-arched eyebrows, her little mouth, her teeth white as pearls, and above all her lovely, rosy, shell-tinted ears. By nature I am analytical and observant, so of course I have studied her beauty in all details. What struck me most about her was the transparency of her delicate skin. It was exactly like the velvety 59 bloom on the finest of peaches. I don’t know whether you admire pale women or not, but of course if you do I will not venture to gainsay your taste if by chance you worship that sickly sort of so-called elegance that has been in fashion for some time past. As for me, I appreciate nothing so much as that joy of life, health. If ever I embrace the medical profession, I shall prove an invaluable family doctor, for, most certainly, I never shall fall in love with a patient. A pretty face full of health and strength gives me almost as much pleasure as the sight of a well-grown plant whose flowers bear no trace of the ravage of moth or caterpillar.
The first time I beheld Mary-Ann I was violently tempted to take her by the hand and say to her : “I am really grateful to you, my dear creature, for looking so well!”
I forgot to tell you that her features were irregular, and her profile not in the least classical. Pheidias would perhaps have refused to model her, but your Pradier would have gone down on his knees to beg of her to sit for him. I assure you, even at the risk of dispelling your illusions, that she had a dimple on the left cheek and none on the other, which of course is not symmetrical. Also, that her nose was neither straight nor aquiline, 60 but slightly tip-tilted after the French fashion — retroussé. She was indeed most beautiful, as beautiful in her way as any Greek statue. After all, even Plato admits that there is no fixed type of beauty, and the Venus of Milo, who, two thousand years ago, was declared the most beautiful woman in the Archipelago, would, I fear, not be considered even pretty on the Boulevards or in a Parisian drawing-room. No dressmaker of the Place Vendôme, or milliner in the Rue de la Paix, could make her even passable. I am no sculptor; but if I were, and received an order to create an allegorical statue of the Nineteenth Century, I should certainly choose Mary-Ann with her dimples and her retroussé nose for my model of models.
I walked in silence by her side to the village of Castia. I cannot remember for the life of me what she said, I was so lost in admiration of her beauty. Her voice sounded so sweetly, that I listened to it without hearing what she said, just as at the Opera the music often prevents me from understanding the words. And yet each incident of this our first meeting is indelibly stamped upon my mind and heart. I have only to close my eyes, and fancy that I am again on the same spot, walking by the side of this charming girl. The 61 April sun shone gladsomely. Above and below us the scent from the resinous trees embalmed the air. The pines, the wild thyme and myrtle, sent up a pungent incense at Mary-Ann’s feet. The nostrils of her saucy little nose seemed to expand, to inhale it, as her eyes — her lovely brown eyes — wandered joyously from one object to another.
On beholding her so pretty, so gay, so happy, I involuntarily thought of some wood-nymph just escaped from her tree. I imagine even now that I can see the very horse she rode. It was called Psare, and was a white horse hired from Zimmermann’s riding-school. Her riding-habit was black, and fitted her supple figure like a glove. Mrs. Simons, on the other hand, wore a bottle-green costume of most extravagant cut, and moreover she sported a tall black silk hat, of that hideous chimney-pot shape, worn by men of fashion in London and Paris. Her lovely daughter’s hat was of that singularly romantic shape that we see so often in the portraits of the heroines of the Fronde — a wide-brimmed, soft grey felt, with a long sweeping feather.
We found the village of Castia as completely deserted as the inn at Calyvia. Dimitrius was absolutely dumfounded. We dismounted near 62 the fountain before the church. I proceeded to knock at every door; but in vain. There was nobody at home anywhere! The priest was out, and so was the local magistrate. The authorities had evidently taken themselves off as well as the inhabitants. All the houses in the place were built alike, and consisted of four walls, a roof, and two openings, one serving as a door, the other as a window. Poor Dimitrius took the trouble of breaking open two or three doors and as many shutters to assure himself that the people had not gone to sleep. All this only served to free a half-starved cat forgotten by his master, and who bolted off like an arrow towards the woods. At this point Mrs. Simons’s patience took flight also. “I’m English,” cried she in an acidulated tone to Dimitrius, “and it’s not safe to play monkey-tricks with me. I’ll complain to the Legation. What! I hired you for an excursion in the hills, and you take me across precipices! I order you to bring provisions, and you make me run the risk of dying of starvation. We were to breakfast at the inn, and lo! it is deserted! I patiently follow you to this wretched village only to find all the inhabitants gone! There must be something wrong. I’ve travelled in Switzerland. Switzerland is a mountainous country, yet there I never wanted 63 for anything. I always breakfasted when I chose, and even had trout for breakfast if I wished for it — do you hear?”
Mary-Ann vainly endeavoured to reason with and calm her mother. Dimitrius explained that as the village people were almost all charcoal-burners, their work often took them to the mountains. At any rate, no time had been lost : it was not more than eight o’clock and in ten minutes’ walk they would find both an inhabited house and a breakfast.
“What house?” demanded Mrs. Simons.
“The convent farm. The monks of Pentelicos have large domains above Castia. They cultivate bees there. The good old man who is in charge of the farm has always wine, bread, honey, and fowls! He’ll give us a breakfast.”
“He will be out, like the rest.”
“Even if he is, he never goes far. Swarming time is near, and he cannot leave his hives for long.”
“Go and see about it. Heaven only knows I’ve travelled far enough this morning, and declare I will not ride my horse again until I’ve had a meal.”
“Madam,” said the patient guide, “you will have no need to do so. We can stall our beasts 64 by the fountain, as we shall reach the convent more quickly on foot.”
Mary-Ann persuaded her mother. She herself longed to see the old man and his winged swarms. Dimitrius tied up the horses near the fountain, and placed on each bridle a heavy stone. The ladies lifted their habits, and our little troop entered on a path that was evidently a great favourite with the Castia goats, it was so exceedingly narrow and ill kept. All the green lizards warming themselves in the sun retired discreetly at our approach, not, however, without the accompaniment of a series of piercing screams from Mrs. Simons, who could not endure the sight of creeping reptiles. After screaming for a quarter of an hour, she appeared somewhat soothed by that unpleasing exercise, and especially by the sight of an open door and a human face. At last we stood in the presence of the “old man.” The house was small and built of red brick, with five cupolas, and looked for all the world like a village mosque, but seen from a distance it appeared quite imposing. The fashion of the East is to be clean without and dirty within. Near this building, upon the ground, protected by a hillock covered with thyme, stood about a hundred straw hives arranged in a straight line. They reminded me of a Lilliputian encampment. 65 The king of this winged empire was a stout, good-natured youth of five-and-twenty. Whatever may be his age, a Greek monk is always called “an old man.” He was dressed like a peasant, but his cap, instead of being red, was black. By this Dimitrius recognised him to be the monk we were in search of. The little man on perceiving us raised his arms to heaven, and seemed absolutely petrified with amazement.
“What a singular creature!” exclaimed Mrs. Simons. “What’s the matter with him? One would think that he had never seen an Englishwoman before in his life.”
Dimitrius kissed the monk’s hand, and said with a curious mixture of respect and familiarity : “Give me your blessing, Father, and then kill two of your fattest fowls; you will be well paid for them.”
“What on earth have you come here for?”
“Why, to get some breakfast.”
“But, you idiot, did you not see that the inn down below was shut up?”
“Rather! And not a sign of life could we find!”
“And that the village was deserted?”
“If there had been any one in it, I wouldn’t have climbed up here!”
66“You are then in league with them?”
“With them? What do you mean?”
“Why, with the brigands!”
“There are brigands on Parnassus? Since when?”
“Since the day before yesterday.”
“Where are they?”
“Everywhere.”
On this the guide without more ado ran towards us, exclaiming excitedly : “We have not a minute to lose, the brigands are in the neighbourhood. Let us run to our horses. Courage, ladies! To horse! to horse!”
“Ah! this is too much,” cried Mrs. Simons : “to horse indeed, and without breakfast!”
“Madam, your breakfast might cost you too dear. For God’s sake, be quick!”
“Why, ‘’tis a conspiracy, neither more nor less; you’ve sworn to starve me! — and now you are in league with the brigands! As if there were any : I don’t believe in them. All the papers say that there are none; besides, I am English, and if any one dared to touch a hair of my head ——”
Mary-Ann was less reassured. She leaned on my arm and asked me if I thought we were in danger of death.
“Of death? — no : of being robbed? — yes!”
67“What do I care,” cried Mrs. Simons; “let them take all I have on me, but give me my breakfast.”
I learned only later that the poor woman was suffering from what the vulgar call rabid hunger, and the scientists “boulimia,” in which state she would have given her fortune for a dish of lentils.
Dimitrius and Mary-Ann took hold of her each by a hand and dragged her to the path by which we had ascended. The little monk, gesticulating wildly, followed, and I was violently inclined to push her from behind, when suddenly a sharp and imperative whistle stopped us short.
“Hist! hist!”
I raised my eyes. Bushes of arbutus and mastic grew close on both sides of the path. From every branch projected three or four gun-barrels. A voice cried out in Greek, “Sit down on the ground.” I was all the more disposed to obey this command, seeing that I felt my legs giving way under me. The barrels of the guns were pointed directly at us. It seemed to me that they lengthened visibly, and that the muzzles would finish by meeting above our heads. I was not afraid, but it was the first time I had observed the excessive length of the Greek gun. The entire arsenal with one accord came out on the path, 68 making a formidable array of pole-like guns and ferocious-looking brigands.
The only difference that exists, I find, between devils and brigands is, that the devils are less black than they are painted, and the brigands even more dirty than they are supposed to be. The eight rascals that formed a circle round us were so disgustingly filthy I should have preferred handing them my money with a pair of tongs. It was only with difficulty that one could ascertain whether their caps had originally been red or not; but no amount of possible scouring could have revealed the true colour of their clothes. All the rocks of the kingdom had stained their cotton shirts, while their jackets bore traces of every variety of soil on which they had reclined. Their hands, their faces, and moustaches were all of the same reddish-grey as the ground on which they stood. The chief of the little band that had captured us was not in any way distinguishable from his fellows, except that perhaps his face, hands, and clothes were, if anything, a shade or so the dirtier. As he bent down his tall loathsome figure over me to examine me more closely, I felt my brow grazed by his stiff moustaches. He seemed to me not unlike a tiger smelling his prey before tearing it to pieces. When he had gratified 69 his curiosity he ordered Dimitrius to empty his pockets.
The guide made no objection, and at once threw down a knife, a tobacco-pouch, and three Mexican piastres — altogether about sixteen francs, French money.
“Is that all?” asked the brigand.
“Yes, brother,” replied the trembling Dimitrius.
“You are the servant?”
“Yes, brother.”
“Take back a piastre, you mustn’t return to Athens penniless.” So much unexpected generosity encouraged Dimitrius to bargain.
“You might leave me two,” said he. “I’ve two horses hired from the riding-school, down below in the valley, and I shall have to pay for them.”
“You can explain to Zimmermann that we have honoured you by relieving you of your superfluous cash.”
“But what if he wants me to pay him?”
“Tell him he ought to consider himself very lucky to get his horses back at all.”
“But he knows you don’t need horses. Of what use would they be to you up here in the mountain?”
70“Hold your tongue. Who’s that tall lanky-looking fellow near you?”
I answered for myself : “A poor but honest German gentleman, whose property can never enrich you.”
“You speak very good Greek, and since you understand me so well, empty your pockets.”
Immediately I placed twenty francs, my tobacco, my pipe, and my handkerchief on the ground at his feet.
“What’s that?” asked my Grand Inquisitor.
“A handkerchief.”
“What the devil do you do with it?”
“Blow my nose on it to be sure.”
“If that is so, why did you tell me you were poor? Only Milords use pocket-handkerchiefs. Take that box off your back and open it.”
I obeyed. My knapsack contained some plants, a book, a knife, a small bottle of arsenic, a half-empty gourd, and the relics of my breakfast, at which Mrs. Simons threw a hungry glare. Before my property changed masters I made bold to offer these fragments of a frugal meal to her, which she then and there devoured. To my astonishment this display of voracity actually scandalized the thieves, who began to mutter among themselves. I overheard the word “Schismatic!” 71 while the brigands meanwhile made a good half-dozen signs of the Cross, and looked most dreadfully shocked.
“If you have a pocket-handkerchief about you, surely you must have a watch,” said the brigand to me somewhat sharply; “put it down with the rest.”
With a deep sigh I yielded up my silver watch, an heirloom, weighing not less than four ounces. The wretches now passed it from hand to hand, and evidently greatly admired it. I began to hope that since admiration is said to have a softening effect it might induce them to return me something, so I ventured to beg them to restore my tin-box. On this the chief roughly told me to hold my tongue.
“At least,” said I, “let me have a couple of piastres to help me to get back to town.”
With a sardonic laugh the ruffian replied : “You never will need piastres again.”
At this I felt awfully uncomfortable, as well you may imagine. Now came the turn of Mrs. Simons. Before putting her hand into her pocket she apostrophized the brigands with much majesty in her mother-tongue. English, you know, is one of those languages you can talk with your mouth full. In a threatening tone she said, while still 72 munching my ham-sandwiches : “Reflect well upon what you are about. I am English, and English citizens are inviolable all the world over. What you take from me won’t benefit you much, I can assure you, and will cost you dear in the end. England will avenge me, and you’ll all be hanged as sure as you were born. Now, if you want my money, take it, but it will burn your fingers, for it is English — English, I say : do you hear?” — English.”
“What does she say?” asked the spokesman of the brigands, smiling grimly.
Dimitrius answered : “She says she’s English.”
“So much the better, the English are all rich. Tell her to empty her pockets at once.”
The poor lady obeyed, and threw down with no little speed a purse that contained about twelve sovereigns. As her watch was not in sight, and they did not attempt to search us, she was able to keep it. Our conquerors’ clemency also left her in possession of her pocket-handkerchief.
Mary-Ann handed over her watch, to which was attached a bunch of amulets against the evil eye, and then with a dainty air of protestation she yielded up a certain small morocco bag that she usually wore slung across her shoulders. The 73 brigand chief pounced upon it and opened it as eagerly and systematically as would have done a custom-house officer on duty. He drew from it a little English dressing-case, a bottle of smelling-salts, some peppermint-drops, and something like four pounds in English money.
“Now,” said Mary-Ann impatiently, “you can let us go : we have nothing more for you.”
The brigand with a threatening gesture signified that all was not finished. The chief of the band knelt down before the little heap of our goods, and chuckling, summoned to him the “good old man.” He next counted the money over gloatingly, and gave the monk forty-five francs.
“You see,” said Mrs. Simons, pushing my elbow, “the monk and Dimitrius betrayed us, and now they do not scruple to share the spoil.”
“No, madam!” I interrupted. “Dimitrius has only got back a small portion of what was stolen from him. That is done everywhere. At Hamburg, when a traveller has lost his last coin at the roulette-table, the director of the establishment gives him the wherewithal to return home.”
“But the monk?”
“He only received a tenth of the booty, according to custom. Don’t be angry with him, but 74 rather be grateful, for after all he wished to help us, although his convent was interested in our capture.”
The discussion was interrupted by the adieux of the guide. He had been set free, and was about to depart.
“Wait for me,” cried I; “we’ll return together.”
He turned back, stood still, and shook his head woefully, and solemnly said : “You will be prisoners for some days, and will only see Athens again when your ransom has been paid. I’m going to inform the Milord of what has happened. Have these ladies any messages for his lordship?”
“Tell him,” said Mrs. Simons, “to go to the Embassy, then to the Piræus to see the Admiral. Let him lodge a complaint with the Foreign Office, and write to Lord Palmerston and to the Times. We must be taken away from here by force of arms, or by official authority, but I won’t have a penny spent to purchase our liberty!”
“As for me,” said I calmly, “pray tell my friends in what hands you have left me. If a few hundred drachmas are necessary to liberate a poor devil of a naturalist, they are sure to find them. These gentlemen of the high-road can hardly set a high price on my head. While you’re here, be 75 so good as to ask them the lowest amount they will demand for my ransom.”
“Quite useless, my dear Mr. Hermann; it is not they who will fix the price.”
“Then who will?”
“Their chief, Hadji Stavros, the King of the Mountains!”
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