Captain Macedoine's Daughter Part 15

"'You needn't have said that,' I said, unsteadily, 'and you needn't tell him anything of the sort. Tell him just whatever you please and I will back you up and make it the truth.'

"'What makes you say I needn't have said it?' she asked, looking full at me. 'You asked, didn't you?'

"'Well, it hurt me for one thing,' I told her, 'and for another, being bitter won't help matters. Do you suppose I haven't a pretty good idea of your situation here? And if I hadn't had any intention of helping you, why should I have come? I promised you I would always be your friend, because I had never met any one so forlorn. And I will keep that promise to the limit. And now,' I added, 'suppose I told you what happened last night.'

"She sat perfectly still, watching me while I recounted my singular adventure with M. Kinaitsky. It was only when I mentioned what he had said of her being quite free to dispose of herself that she gave a quick, sarcastic shrug.

"'I know,' she said. 'So he told me when he got married. But this is a funny place, I can tell you. You think I can walk out of this house and do what I like, get a job, rent a house? I can't. He knows well enough I'm stuck here unless I go to the _Omphale_ or the _Ottoman House_, or one of those horrible places. And then,' she added, 'it wouldn't be long before I'd be sitting in the _Odeon_ half the night and wishing I was dead.'

"'You know,' I said, severely, 'that if you had the slightest intention of doing anything of the sort you wouldn't breathe a word of it to me of all people.'

"For a moment she held out, smirking a little.

"'You fancy yourself,' she said, quoting a by-gone London phrase.

"'To that extent,' I insisted. 'What do you suppose I came up here for?

Why did I wander all over Saloniki last night trying to find you? To hear you say things like that? What do you suppose I am made of?

Listen!'

"I don't suppose men often tell a woman the things I told her then, but it was imperative that I should clear away the difficulties between us.

I had to convince her that I was not to be humbugged by her fatal inherited proclivity for a grandiose emotional role, a proclivity for playing up to some mysterious imaginary being which she labelled herself and strove to erect in the mind of her protagonist. It wouldn't do.

There was something numbing in the spectacle of her attempt to present herself as already a painted shadow in the purlieus of a Levantine city.

In the long blue dressing gown, against a lemon-tinted stone wall, the morning sun irradiating the exquisite, exotic face, she had an adult air, so to speak, an air of lovely maturity and grave virtue. I would say she looked much more like a saint than a sinner, if I could reach any satisfactory conclusions as to the nature of a saint. I talked, as they say, straight, and the culmination of my invective was a blunt statement about her intelligence.

"'You aren't clever enough to be as bad as you try to make out,' I said, and she looked down at her hands.

"'All the same,' she remarked almost to herself, 'you are taking an awful risk in talking to me like this. How do you know I shouldn't go--go to pot altogether, later on? I'm thinking of you, you know,' she added.

"'There you go again!' I exclaimed. She put up her hand as a token of surrender, and there came into her voice that unforgettably alluring timbre which, as I told you before, evoked mysterious memories and invested her with an extraordinary quality which one might almost describe as spiritual iridescence, a glamour of sybillant charm and delicious abandon."

"And there, you know," said Mr. Spenlove in a low tone, "the story ought to finish. That's where, when I recall the whole history of Captain Macedoine's daughter, I should like it to finish--on a final note of a supreme memory of that day. I would have had it forever wrapped in the gracious radiance of romance. Which, I suppose, is more than is granted to any of us. So, though it would not do for me to break the silence in which one buries the fragrant bodies of dead moments, there is something more to tell. Of M. Nikitos, for example, and the reproaches, courteously worded, of M. Kinaitsky....

"We went for what in England we would call a picnic. Pollyni came back about ten, in a fresh carriage whose driver had celebrated a day's contract by coloured ribbons on the horses' head-stalls and a dark red rose thrust over one of his own ears, in bizarre contrast to the almost incredible dilapidation of his clothes. An old woman, whose features were shrivelled to the colour and consistency of a peeled walnut, placed between our feet a basket out of which stuck the necks of wine bottles. I didn't ask where we were going, for I didn't care. I remember, however, demanding an explanation of the heavy explosions which had begun somewhere in the neighbourhood, and their telling me it was a blasting party in a quarry just behind the houses and outside the city wall. And I recall another incident, when we reached the barrier at the Great Tower, where a squad of fezzed and moustached guards debated among themselves the wisdom of permitting us to pa.s.s out. Very serious, not to say uneasy, they seemed, the heavy explosions causing them to look over their shoulders apprehensively even while they held their bayonets, long, sharp, unpleasant affairs, across the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of the horses. But finally they let us go, and after a half hour or so of the boulevards we came to a road leading across the plain to a town a few miles away. That is a memory, too--the wide plain of pale saffron earth, the dancing blue sea, the turquoise sky piled here and there with immense snowy billowings of autumn clouds, the girdle of grim and inaccessible peaks, and the compact little town of white houses buried in a circular plaque of foliage in the middle distance. And then at the roadside, squatting on their haunches with their rifles between their knees, very dusty and enigmatic, lines of soldiers on the march. I remember it as one remembers an unusual dream, a vague blur behind the sharper memories that intervene.

"And out of the mists of impressions came the fact that we were going to this toy town in the middle distance to visit Pollyni's uncle, a gentleman who had been to America also, and having dug trenches for drains and conduits in New York City for a year or two, had returned and bought the princ.i.p.al cafe in the village. There was a moment when the place lost the qualities of a water-colour painting and began to a.s.sume the aspects of reality, when the h.o.m.ogeneous colouring of the land became broken up into tobacco fields and vineyards and vegetable patches, with an occasional pony walking round a mediaeval contraption which brought minute buckets of water up from a well and trickled them into a wooden sluice. And these in turn gave place to a sketchy and winding earthen road which twisted among shabby houses with forlorn sheds in which tobacco leaves hung drying on poles, and fowls pecked in a disillusioned fashion while they meditated upon the formidable problem of existence. And then we pa.s.sed houses standing aloof and forbidding, shut up, apparently uninhabited, houses which had quite simply tumbled down for lack of support, houses with the front door upstairs, and houses without any doors at all as far as one could see. We pa.s.sed them and our driver cracked his whip with great energy, the horses stumbled against big stones or into rain gullies, an occasional human stared woodenly at us; and suddenly we came round an intricate curve of the street and we were in the little square of the village, a square canopied by an immense tree and overhanging eaves. In the centre stood a worn old well-curb where bare-legged girls fished up dripping petroleum cans and staggered across to open doors, most of the water running unregarded through a hole in the bottom. If you could call it a square, when it had six or seven irregular sides, with the streets running into it in a furtively tangential fashion and the corners of it cool and dark even at noon-tide under that patriarchal tree which had been planted by a patriarch, no doubt, while he was digging the well. This was the end of our journey, where we got out, and the carriage rumbled away into the green gloom beyond to some convenient stable, while we were welcomed by a gentleman with a soft voice and very loud western clothing like that affected by race-track folk, who stood in front of an extremely vacant looking cafe. He had a watch-chain with ma.s.sive gold links and an enormous obsolete gold coin depending from his coat lapel. His boots were shiny and globular of toe, and I gathered, as the day wore on, that he represented Occidental Prosperity in that simple community and was charitably excused from such glaring solecisms on that ground. They found no fault with him for having an adventurous spirit which had carried him to the Country of the Mad beyond the sea, for he had shown his ultimate wisdom by coming back to live in a civilized part of the world. In fact, by the way they drifted in during the afternoon and sat at adjacent tables while he held forth bilingually upon his experiences in a Hoboken sewer, it was evident that in addition to being a stout burgess of the township, he was a species of Sinbad to them, with preposterous but intriguing stories of subterranean cities where vast and brilliant chariots roared through interminable pa.s.sages; of heaven-scaling towers where myriads fought for silks and jewels, for gold and silver, for purple and fine linen; of streets above which insane railway trains hurtled and shrieked and groaned as they carried the demented inhabitants on endless journeys to nowhere in particular for no ascertainable reasons. For mind you, they displayed no desire whatever to emulate the daring feats of those who had gone to America.

They sat there for a time, smoking _narghilehs_ or cigarettes, looking thoughtfully at the floor between their outlandish shoes, and then drifted away to attend, it is to be presumed, to various affairs. I doubt whether my confirmation of these improbabilities was of much avail in convincing them that he was not simply exercising the ancient rights of the teller of tales, and striving to terrify them with stories of genii in bottles and carpets that flew through the air. And he certainly had no intention of going back. He had 'enough mon' now,' he remarked, 'and who but a lunatic would ever venture into such a pandemonium save for the purpose of getting 'mon'.' The bare idea of living permanently in that country and exposing one's soul to the destructive action of their peculiar political ideas had never entered his head. They had called him 'a crazy mutt' because, forsooth, he had quit when his belt was sufficiently loaded with 'mon'. Now why should they do that? Why should he go on living in h.e.l.l when he had the price of paradise strapped about his middle? It was a baffling problem. Yet they did it.

Even now, as he spoke, out there across the world, millions of people on an island the size of Ipsilon or even smaller than Naxos, were rushing to and fro like maniacs. For of course he was under the impression that Manhattan, with the adjacent coast beyond the river, was all there was of America. For all he knew the subway ran to San Francisco and New Orleans was a mile or two below Staten Island. Listening to him, it was perfectly easy to visualize the growth of ancient tales of foreign parts. When I think of him nowadays, and observe the noise and chaffering of political people who are vociferously claiming for such as he what they call self-determination or what in those illiterate days was known as autonomy, I am constrained to a great amazement. We shall see some strange signs and portents later, if I am not in error.

"For if there is one thing more than another which one gets from this old land, it is the conviction that it will not cease to be old because a few zealots march round it blowing the trumpets of a new and incomprehensible thing called Liberty. It is an amiable but disastrous illusion on the part of the western nations that they have created a monopoly in freedom and truth and the right conduct of life. As I have adumbrated to you more than once, I am not so sure of all this. The hoa.r.s.e, guttural voice of Grunbaum, whom the high priests of Liberty set against a wall the other day and shot dead, comes back to me across the years. 'An illusion, founded on a misconception.' Well, I wouldn't call that an entirely true definition of democracy as we in the west understand it. But if you took this late resident of Hoboken, now safely restored to his traditional environment, I should certainly say that your wonderful democracy was of no more use to him than some fabulously expensive and delicate scientific instrument, or the Bodleian Library at Oxford, or the Elgin marbles would be. The trouble is, you see, that so many of us in the world, inarticulate for the most part, don't want your progress, your tremendous journeys through the air, your new religions, or your improved breakfast foods. And we could endure even such a war as is going on now, if we only had peace in our hearts. For peace is not a merely negative thing, the absence of strife. It is something in itself, something you could definitely discern in the atmosphere of that forgotten village of the plain, under that patriarchal tree, audible in the clucking of the fowls under one's feet, and in the gurgle of the water the girls hauled up from the dank darkness of the old well. I recall one moment, after our meal in the late afternoon, as we sat on the little balcony above the cafe, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee and mastic. A drowsy stillness had come over the place, as though it had been secretly enchanted. Over the way an old gentleman reposed in a chair outside his shop, asleep, a yellow cat in his arms. On the curb of the well a young girl sat swinging one leg as she peered down thoughtfully into the water. A pigeon cooed in the cot under the eaves near by. There was a low murmur of conversation from a neighbouring room where Pollyni was talking to her aunt, a large shy person, preoccupied with household cares. And gradually I seemed to lose my grip of reality altogether and pa.s.sed into a kind of pa.s.sionless ecstasy of existence, where everything which puzzles us in ordinary life presented a perfectly simple and amiable solution. One of the commonplaces of enchantment, I suppose. I became aware of Artemisia saying dreamily: 'That was a loud one. I shouldn't have thought we could hear them over here.' And I nodded, remembering a distant and heavy detonation. It was slowly dawning on my mind as I sat and smoked and murmured, that it was really quite impossible for the quarry-charges to be heard so far. 'But what could it be?' she asked, rousing. 'A gun perhaps. Sometimes ships come from the Bosphorus and fired shots in the Gulf. A long way off, of course. Perhaps a ship had come.' I told her what her father had said the night before, that a war might come soon. She nodded and was silent a moment before saying: 'I've heard that. Mrs. Sarafov said it might and she was sorry because n.o.body was ever any better off. They fight because the taxes are so heavy, and after the war the taxes are worse than ever, to pay for the war. She told me how the soldiers came home to Sofia after winning a war with the next country--I forget which--and there was a grand triumphal march through the streets, and then the soldiers discovered there was nothing for them to eat and they broke loose.

Everybody locked themselves up in their houses while the shooting went on in the streets.'

"'I believe,' I said, 'your father stands to make a lot of money out of this trouble when it comes.'

"She turned quickly toward me but without taking her arms from the ledge of the balcony, pressing her adorable chin against her arm.

"'I know this,' she said steadily, 'to-day has made it impossible to go back to my father. I don't mean for the reason that I mentioned this morning. Another reason.' And she sighed.

"'What is that reason?' I asked gently.

"'I'm a very unfortunate girl,' she muttered in a hoa.r.s.e whisper, still looking steadily at me over her arm. 'I want to tell you so many things, and I can't, I can't.'

"'But tell me the reason,' I persisted.

"'Oh you must know ... I must get clear of the past--and the present. I must not tell you the things I know. Let me alone ... and perhaps in England I shall forget.'

"And after that, of course, nothing could befall us save a silence, in which we endeavoured to adjust ourselves to the new emotion. For, mind you, I believe sometimes it would have worked out. She was a woman, and I believe that she would have conquered her destiny if she had gotten her chance.... No matter--a bald statement of belief gets us nowhere. So I shall remember her looking at me in her enchanting fashion over her arm, a light in her eyes like a light in the darkness at sea, flashing, and flashing and going out....

"And it was after this silence had endured for a while that our attention was drawn from our own thoughts by a strange commotion. A number of the villagers suddenly appeared from round the corner of the street where we had come, preceding a carriage which moved slowly, being hampered by the people who pressed close to it all round. As if by magic the people of the houses opening upon the little square appeared at the doors and joined the crowd. And then, as the carriage arrived beneath us, it halted, and the horses looked round toward the well, and we saw on the seat of the carriage a man in some military uniform, a captain I imagine, lying diagonally across the vehicle, a handkerchief soaked in blood about his throat, a gash near one eye, and evidently a wound of some sort in the arm, for his hand, which pressed against the cushion, seemed to have adhered to it with the blood running down the sleeve.

The man's dark features had grown livid and his head lolled back with closed eyes and sagging mouth. And then Pollyni came in quickly to fetch us down, and we went.

"Our host, who stood by the carriage bareheaded and looking about him first toward one speaker and then another, gathering the scattered details of the story, had already sent a man away with a message, and he turned and came into the cafe, scratching his head and looking extremely serious. He said the officer was the son of his landlord, who lived on an estate at the far end of the town on the Seres Road. There had been a riot in the Israelite Quarter, the revolutionists had attacked a squad of soldiers going up to the garrison to change guard, and the military in clearing the streets had suffered some losses. The wounded man had been dragged from his horse and nearly killed before his men could rescue him. It was terrible for the old people. He had sent a messenger to prepare them. They would send for a doctor. Everything in Saloniki was in a bad way. Just as the carriage was well out of the city they heard a terrific explosion near the port, where the railway station was.

Troops were already leaving for Monastir. And in reply to the question as to what we had better do, he eyed us reflectively and said perhaps we'd better beat it back as quick as we could. He'd send for our carriage at once, if we liked. It was obvious that while he figured on handling the situation with credit and possibly profit, he had no desire to be hampered by our presence. And it was certainly my own idea, too, to get back. That 'explosion near the port' worried me a good deal. If the _Manola_ were affected it would be necessary for me to be on hand.

"'This settles it,' I said in a low tone as we waited for the carriage.

'You must come with me. On the _Manola_ you will be safe.' In those days, of course, even the shabby old Red Ensign was an inviolable sanctuary. She nodded without speaking. Indeed she did not speak for some time after we had quitted the tortuous streets of the village and were entering upon the open plain, merely regarding me in an earnest abstracted fashion, so that I was moved to ask the reason. For she had the air of one pondering upon a course of action already decided, trying to see where it would lead.

"'I was thinking,' she said, 'that it is funny you should be here, after all this time, and free to do--what you are doing. Most men, you know....' and she stopped.

"'Most men what?' I demanded.

"'Oh, there's generally someone they like at home, even if they aren't married. You aren't, are you?'

"It wasn't a rude or a cruel question as she put it to me. It was, on the other hand, shockingly pathetic, and humble. It registered the frightful defencelessness of her position at last. It went to my heart.

It moved me so profoundly that I could think of nothing adequate to reply, and she stared into my eyes in the gathering evening twilight, her own eyes extremely bright and feverish, like distant storm signals.

"'Why torture yourself like this?' I asked at length. 'I happen to be that very common person, a man without ties.'

"'I'm not sure that that would be a recommendation to most girls,' she reflected, audibly, 'because they think people without ties aren't likely to contract any. But that isn't what I meant. When I was on the _Manola_, coming out to Ipsilon, I got it fixed in my head you were a widower. You know,' she went on, 'you never did talk about yourself, always about me; and I wondered and wondered and finally decided that you'd had a loss and didn't want to talk about it. And that made me sorry for you. And then you remember, up on the cliff you made me promise to let you help me, and you seemed so _experienced_ ... well, when I was at that school you know, and we used to talk in the dormitory about the sort of men we wanted to marry, I used to say--'a widower, because.' And once a big lump of a girl who was always pa.s.sing exams said: 'you mean because he has lived with a woman before,' and I said, 'a man didn't have to be married for that.' It got to the mistresses' ears and I was nearly expelled.'

"She stopped, and I said 'Go on!'

"'Oh, I'll go on,' she said with a laugh, looking up at Pollyni, who was sitting beside the driver and explaining something involving a great deal of gesture. 'I can't say I was ever happy at school, but at any rate I must have done pretty well, because I was always sorry to go away.'

"'And where did you go?' I enquired.

"'Sometimes my father had a house at the seaside, sometimes in the country. He would have a yacht, with a party of people who were all paying guests, of course. Or he would take a moor and have people down.

And again he would have a place in London.'

"'But do you mean to say your father fetched you home to spend your holidays among strangers?' I asked. 'I don't quite understand your father's att.i.tude toward you.'

"'I wish I knew myself,' she muttered, looking at her foot. 'You know,'

she went on, 'we have always kept up a sort of arrangement in which he can't live without me and I am a pa.s.sionately devoted daughter. I wouldn't tell any one else this,' she interpolated hurriedly in a whisper, 'but the fact is, I am not a pa.s.sionately devoted daughter. I used to think I was. All the girls at school used to rave about their parents, so I raved about mine. Girls are fools,' she remarked, abruptly.

"'In what way--raving?' I asked.

"'Well,' she said, 'they go on and on, meaning no harm, I suppose. You know we used to tell each other we had the most wonderful sweethearts.

One girl had a boy in New Zealand. Another was secretly engaged to a man who was in China. All very far away! So I wasn't to be done, and I bragged about a lover in Siberia. When they wanted to know about him I made up a long story. I said he was a Russian and I had met him in London and he'd gone back to Russia and got arrested and sent to Siberia. It was as true as their yarns, I dare say. And it's a fact I used to imagine myself in love with a tall fair man with a yellow beard.