Читать книгу: «Our Little Grecian Cousin», страница 5

"It is no wonder people like him," said Zoe. "I am so glad I saw him. He has such a nice, kind face, and the queen is lovely."

"She gives much to the poor and is greatly beloved," said Uncle Andreas.

"It should make her very happy to be surrounded by so many who love her," said Zoe softly.

"Angel of a child!" said her uncle. "You shall never be unhappy again if I can help it."

"Oh, I am very happy," she exclaimed. "I was not unhappy at Marco's home, not very," she added truthfully. "Only I wanted my mother, and sometimes I wanted to be where we had been together. I think there are always things we miss, no matter where we are. Now I shall be happy in my own dear Argolis, but I shall still long for my mother and father, and I shall miss the babycoula."

"You will have your cousin Petro to play with," said her uncle. "He is about your age, and will love you like a sister and tease you like a brother. Come, I know that you and Marco are thirsty. Let us stop here and take a cup of coffee."

"That will be nice," said Zoe who had never seen a coffee-house. They got out of the cab in front of a little shop with little tables at which sat a number of people. They sat down to one of the tables and Zoe watched with delight the making of the coffee. Grecian coffee is made in a peculiar way. The coffee-machine has a round brass cylinder which pulverizes the beans till they are fine as powder. A teaspoonful of powder is used to each cup, and the powder is put in a brass dipper with an equal quantity of sugar. To this is added boiling water and the mixture is put over the fire until it boils. Then it is beaten to a froth and boiled again, beaten again, and boiled and beaten a third time, when it is a thick and delicious syrup. It is said to contain all the good part of the coffee, and taken in this manner not to be injurious at all. In Greece it is taken in great quantities, and this may account for the fact that one almost never sees a drunken man in Greece. Zoe sipped her coffee with delight and ate the loukoumi and the handful of pistachio nuts served with it. Then as they sat so quietly, there came to Zoe the greatest excitement of her life. Suddenly there was a great commotion in the cafe; men jumped from their seats, the waiters ran to the door, in the street children shouted and waved their caps, as a cab drove up and from it emerged a young man. He was of medium height, dark-haired, dark-eyed, with a strong, keen face and an air of great simplicity, seeming rather abashed at the shouts which rang through the air,

"Zito, Loues! Spiridione Loues!"

"Zoe, good fortune goes with you!" cried her uncle. "It is Loues, the winner of the Marathon," and he lifted her high in air to see the hero. All Grecians rejoiced to see him, for he had won the Marathon race, when all the other prizes of the Olympian Games had been won by Americans.

"Since the first Olympian Games," said Marco, as the noise quieted down and Loues was allowed to take his coffee in peace, "there has never been such an excitement as there was over Loues."

"Why do we have the Games?" asked Zoe, who could not understand why there was so much fuss over a young peasant whom she thought not nearly so handsome as Marco.

"It comes from the days of ancient Greece," said Marco. "I will tell you of it while we wait for your uncle, who must speak with a friend over there on business.

"In the very old days when men worshipped the gods, there was at Olympia a temple of Zeus, and here men gathered every year to do him honour. The Greeks loved all manner of sports. They wrestled, ran, jumped, and threw the discus better than any people in the world. Their bodies were strong and beautiful, as we know from the wonderful statues which have been kept in the museums. They loved beauty so much that they did everything to keep their bodies beautiful, fasting, exercising and loving all fine, manly sports. So every four years they had the Olympic Games; and men came from all over Greece to try to win the prizes, for to have the laurel wreath of victory at Olympia placed upon his brow, was the highest honour a man could wish. Envoys were sent out early in the year of the games to invite strangers to witness them, and people came hither from many lands. The victors were crowned and carried in procession with shouts and hand-clapping, honoured by all.

"The games were stopped in the time of the Emperor Theodosius, because he thought them too pagan, and he wished Grecians to put aside pagan things and become Christians. They were begun again in 1896, and now the King takes great interest in them, and so does Prince Constantine.

"Loues won the Marathon race, which is the most exciting of any of the sports. Many, many years ago the Persians were at war with Greece. They had so many soldiers that the Grecians felt certain that their enemy would conquer, but they determined to fight to the death. It was in the fifth century before Christ; Darius, the Persian king, led one hundred thousand men against Miltiades and the Athenians, who numbered only ten thousand men, and they fought a terrible battle on the plains of Marathon. At home the wives and mothers, the old men and children waited, feared and trembled.

"'Is there no news from Marathon?' they asked each other. 'Is all lost?' But no answer came. At last they saw a speck of dust in the distance and they held their breath. Was it defeat, dishonour, captivity, which came flying to them from Marathon? None knew. The speck came nearer and nearer, no speck but the figure of a man, running as never man ran before. Breathlessly they waited, no one daring even to speak, as he dashed to the city gates. White with dust he staggered within the wall with one wild cry of 'Victory!' as he fell fainting upon the ground. How men honoured him, the fleet runner who had brought the news from Marathon, where Darius' men lay in mighty heaps of slain, and Greece was free.

"So they made in honour of this victory the Marathon race at the games, and Loues was the proud winner, the prouder because all the other contests, even our Grecian disc-throwing, were won by men from America."

"I am so glad I have seen him," said Zoe. "And thank you for telling me all about it."

Then they started again on their drive and found that the sun was setting. As they drove to the inn where they were to spend the night, he was clothing with a rosy glow Hymettus and Penteligos, the two mountains on either side of Athens. Then the glow faded and a deep purple spread over the sky, deepening into violet. Zoe thought she had never seen anything so beautiful, and she sank to sleep that night, tired but happy, murmuring to herself, "It is my home, this lovely Greece of ours. How glad I am that I am a Grecian."

The two days spent in Athens were full to the brim with delight for Zoe. Her uncle seemed to have money enough to spend freely, and he bought her a new frock, a new hat, and – wonder of delight! red shoes stitched in gold. These came from Shoe Street, where all manner of shoes hung in pairs outside the small doorways of the shops. Her uncle had some business to attend to, and she and Marco wandered about seeing the ruins of the ancient temples, with their wonderful marbles and carvings, which have made the Parthenon of Athens famous all over the world.

The most wonderful things Zoe saw were the peasant dances, and these she stumbled upon quite by accident. Uncle Andreas had gone out to a village north of Athens to attend to some business and had taken Zoe with him. On their way home they saw a crowd at a small village through which they passed.

"I wonder what is happening here?" said Zoe, and her uncle asked the driver of their carriage.

"It is the time of the peasant dances," he said. "If you have never seen them you should stop, for they are very beautiful." So they stopped the carriage and watched the dancing, which was held on a smooth bit of green sward outside the town. Men and maidens danced, hand-in-hand, in long lines, with a slow, dignified grace of motion, the men in fustanellas, or some of them in plain European clothes, but the women's clothes were the most beautiful things Zoe had ever seen. Especially lovely were three girls who danced particularly well and were beautifully dressed. Round and round they circled, in a slow, stately movement, to the music of a drum, clarionet and flute. The costumes of the girls were loaded with embroidery, all the work of their own fingers. Their dresses were white, but the embroidery, which reached to nearly a foot above the hems of the skirts, was of coloured woolen, green, blue and gold in the richest of designs. Over the skirts they wore aprons, also embroidered, and sleeveless jackets of white, with red borders embroidered with gold thread. There were caps on their heads, covered with veils which floated back and gave a bride-like appearance to the dancers. Bangles of gold and silver coins hung as necklaces around their throats, and the driver explained that these coins were the girls' dowries and showed how much they were worth to the man who married them.

"I should think anyone would be glad to marry them without any dowry," said Zoe. "They are so beautiful."

"Yes," said her uncle laughing. "But even beauty has to be fed and clothed, and a fair woman is fairer with a good marriage portion."

At last came the day for their departure and they were up and away on the ship, sailing over the blue water.

"Tomorrow we shall be in Argolis, and you will see your new home, Zoe," said her uncle, and she answered, "My old home, too, Uncle. Thank you for bringing me back to it."

They reached the harbour as the moon was rising in the sky, a slender, silver bow such as Diana wielded in the forests of Ephesus. A soft, hazy twilight breathed of fays and nereids, and Zoe imagined that she heard them laughing in the crested waves. She was tired and very sleepy, and her uncle said,

"We shall soon be there, child, and your aunt will be waiting for us with a good supper."

She smiled a little, but her footsteps lagged as they walked up the steep village street. Marco bent down to look at her face, then he stooped and lifted her in his strong arms.

"She is tired out. I will carry her," he said, and Zoe heard nothing more, for her head fell on his shoulder and she fell asleep, until a kind voice said,

"Oh, Andreas, is that you?" Then two warm arms were around her and a soft voice said close to her ear, "Is this my little girl?" She looked up to see a lovely woman's face above hers; then she cuddled down in the tender arms of Aunt Angeliké happier than she had been since her mother died.

CHAPTER VIII
BY THE SEA

A month in Argolis found Zoe rosy, happy and quite unlike the sad-faced little maid who had tended the babycoula in far-away Thessaly. Uncle Andreas soon went to sea again, taking Marco with him; but Aunt Angeliké was kindness itself and Zoe's cousin, a merry boy of ten, proved such a delightful playfellow that the two soon became fast friends.

Their home was on a pleasant village street, where a huge plane tree hundreds of years old shaded the little balcony which extended from the second story out over the street. Near-by was the village fountain, a meeting place for old and young, for all the water used for cooking had to be carried from the fountain in water-jars.

Aunt Angeliké was young and full of laughter. She was much younger than her husband, and seemed to Zoe almost like her cousin Maria. She entered into everything the children did, and added to their enjoyment by her pleasure in their happiness. She made play even of work, and Zoe enjoyed nothing more than the family washing-day. This occurred only once a month, but that was far oftener than many of their neighbours washed their household linen.

Aunt Angeliké went to the mountain stream which gurgled down to the sea over rocks and pebbles, clear and limpid, reflecting the blue sky and white clouds.

They washed beneath a huge plane tree, the largest one Zoe had ever seen, and about whose trunk she and Petro together with arms extended could not reach. The linen had been brought up the hill on the back of a little donkey which the children often rode. First Aunt Angeliké soaked the clothes in lye water, then boiled them and laid each piece upon the stones to be beaten with a paddle.

"Now, Zoe and Petro, it is your time to help," she said laughing. "Beat them until they are clean and white. Your uncle's fustanellas, Child, take great pains with them. Of all things they must be clean."

"I shall make them perfect," said Zoe, "and Marco's also." And she beat and paddled the skirts until they were as white as the snow on Mount Olympus.

"There, that will do. Now spread them out to dry," said Aunt Angeliké, and Zoe and Petro laid the clothes about on the grass and bushes, the fustanellas alone covering yards and yards of the green.

"Let us rest," said Petro, throwing himself down beneath the tree. "I am tired."

"You are a lazy one," said his mother, seating herself beside him. "Next you will want to eat."

"That I do," cried Petro, sitting up hastily and forgetting his fatigue. "What have you, little mother?"

"Now you are a greedy," said his mother, laughing at him.

"But tell me," he said coaxingly, laying a hand on her arm.

"Nay, Zoe is quiet and polite, she shall be helped first," said the mother, and she drew a basket of luncheon from its hiding-place within the hollow trunk of a tree. There was bread, cheese, olives and fresh mousmoula, the most delicious of Grecian fruits, yellow as gold, with four huge seeds within and a juice cool and refreshing. They ate with health and laughter for sauce, and then Zoe begged for a story. "Just one, my aunt, before we take a siesta."

"I shall tell you of the good Saint Philip," said the aunt, who was very pious and thought that children should always be told holy tales to make them think of good things.

"St. Philip was always very sorry for the poor. He was himself very good, and though he had once had many drachmas he had given away so much that he had hardly a lepta left. He had even given away his food, and kept for himself only a cow, living upon the milk to keep himself from starving. One night he slept and dreamed a strange dream. He thought that he went to heaven and that our Lord did not smile upon him. Instead he turned away his face. But the great St. Petro said, 'Our Lord, this is Felipo, lover of the poor. Wilt thou greet him?' 'He loved the poor, but himself he loved more,' said our Lord with sadness, and St. Philip awoke with a start. At that moment there came a loud 'moo!' from without his hut, and he jumped to his feet and said,

"'It is the cow! I have no need for a cow when God's poor starve! I will kill her and let the starving eat!' So with grief in his heart, for he loved the animal dearly, he slaughtered her and divided the meat among his poor. That night he went to bed hungry, for he had no milk for his supper, but his heart was full of joy, for he felt the satisfaction of those who 'give to the poor and lend to the Lord.'

"He slept without dreaming and was awakened in the morning by a familiar sound. It was the 'moo moo' of his cow without his door, and he said to himself, 'Of a truth I dream, my poor cow is dead!' but again he heard the call, 'Moo moo!' and he looked out of the window. There stood his friend and favourite, at the door of her little shed, awaiting her morning meal. He could not believe his eyes, but the cow was hungry and did not at all like being left to stand at the door until her master made up his mind that she was not a ghost. She stamped the ground with her foot and mooed again, this time very loud. 'It is indeed she,' cried the saint. 'Now is the good God good indeed! I have fed his poor and he has rewarded me by restoring life to my favourite. Always hereafter shall I believe in his mercy.'"

"Oh, what a nice story!" cried Zoe, but Petro said,

"If God could do anything, why didn't He keep the cow from being killed. It must have hurt her!"

"You are a heathen!" said his mother. "You talk like an unbelieving Turk! Since God can do anything He doubtless kept the knife from hurting her when she was killed. It is not well to talk so of the stories of the saints."

"I like stories of battles better," said Petro, still dissatisfied, but his mother said,

"I tell no more stories to boys who do not like holy things, and now it is siesta time." So they slept beneath the great tree, and all was still, save the splash of the waterfall and the hum of the bees, in the hearts of the scarlet poppies. When they awoke it was late in the afternoon and many of the clothes were already dry.

"Let us go down to the beach and fish!" said Petro.

"But you will fall in!" said his mother.

"Oh, no, Mother," said Petro. "But if I do it will not hurt."

"Wait a little and I will go with you, that at least I may be there to pull you out," said Aunt Angeliké, laughing. She had not great faith in her boy's promises, for she had lived with him for ten years and knew that he was always in head-first when there was any danger. Petro was a gay little fellow – happy and full of laughter, and he and Zoe played together always pleasantly. So they ran about under the trees while Aunt Angeliké sorted her linen into piles ready to pack upon the donkey's back for their return.

"We shall catch a fish and roast him for supper, then go back by moonlight," she said, always ready to give the children pleasure, and both thought the plan delightful.

"You can't catch me," shouted Petro as he darted away from Zoe, and she chased him about until both fell panting upon the grass.

"See that boat," said Zoe. "How pretty it looks! Its sails look like great wings spread over the sea. Look! It is coming here!"

"No," said Petro. "I think it will anchor and send in a boat. Yes, there come two men. They have a fishing-net set here and are coming to see what they have caught. See!"

Two sailors sprang from their boat on the beach and started to haul in a seine. Zoe gave one look at them and was off like an arrow from a bow, crying, "Marco! It is Marco!" Petro following not less quickly, calling,

"Father! We are here! Mother and I are here!" The two men turned in astonishment to see the two flying figures, and gay Uncle Andreas cried,

"Beware, Marco! The Turks are upon us!" As the two little folk hurled themselves into the arms awaiting them.

"Oh, Marco, my own dear Marco! I am so glad to see you! It is so long since you went away!" cried Zoe, while Petro said,

"Were you coming home tonight? What did you bring me?"

"We were coming home tonight to surprise you, but it seems we are the ones to be surprised," said his father. "How came you here?"

"Mother brought the washing and we have been here since morning," said Petro. "We hoped to catch a fish for our supper and walk home by moonlight."

"We shall do better than that," said his father, as his mother came hastily down the hill to greet them. "How would it please you to eat one of my fish, when we have cooked it, and then sail home with us in the boat?"

"Oh!" squealed Zoe.

"That will be fine!" cried Petro, but Aunt Angeliké said,

"The fish and the supper, yes – but what will we do with my white clothes and the donkey?"

"We shall send the donkey home on his four feet and the clothes on his back, both in charge of one of my sailors," laughed kind Uncle Andreas, and so it was settled.

They had a merry supper on the beach, and the fresh lithrini²² made a delicious meal, roasted over a fire laid on the stones. Other good things were brought from the ship until Zoe declared she had never seen such a feast.

"Does she not look well, Marco?" said Aunt Angeliké, and Marco replied,

"Like a different child. Naughty Zoe, you did not like Thessaly!"

"But I like you," said Zoe sweetly, and Uncle Andreas said teasingly,

"Thessaly! Who could like Thessaly! It has been ruled by the Turks! Our Argolis has never known the heel of the Unspeakable!"

"Then it was not worth their wanting," said Marco in return. "And Thessaly has cast them out!"

"Do not quarrel," said Aunt Angeliké. "It is all our own land and the sea is always ours."

So they started homeward over the dancing waves, blue as heaven and as peaceful, and Zoe's little heart was filled to the brim with happiness.