Эдвард Бенсон
The Vintage: A Romance of the Greek War of Independence

Then by degrees this feeling had grown less general, but more personal. It was doubly delightful to be able to talk confidentially and naturally, as one child talks to another, to some one of her own age. She liked talking to Zuleika, but she preferred talking to Mitsos; it was a pleasure to make him laugh and show the milkiness of his white teeth, and she could always make him laugh. Zuleika had hideous teeth; one was all black and discolored, and for whole days together she would sit, a sloppy, dishevelled object, by the fire, saying it ached. She felt quite sure that Mitsos' teeth never ached, and for herself she did not know what aching meant. Again, when Abdul Achmet laughed, his cheeks wrinkled up till his eyes were nearly closed, and two queerest little dimples were dug one on each side of his mouth. What would happen, she had thought once, if she made him laugh and then held his eyes open so that they could not shut? She would have liked to try.

Then Mitsos – she felt it in her bones – evidently liked her very much, in quite a different way from which any one had liked her before. Zuleika liked her in a tepid, intermittent manner; but when her tooth ached she ignored her altogether, and had once slapped her in the face for a too obtrusive sympathy. And when Abdul came and took her chin between his fingers and turned up her face to his, and told her that she was getting very pretty, she turned cold all over. It reminded her of the way he had pointed at one of the turkeys in the yard and said it was becoming beautifully fat. Again, it had been quite unaccountably delightful to sit close to Mitsos and shelter under him from the wind, to be close to him and know him near. Finally, when they parted that night, and she had brushed back the curls from his forehead and kissed him, her feeling had been more unaccountable still. She had done it unthinkingly, but the moment it was done a whole mill-race of thoughts went bubbling unbidden through her head. She wanted to do it again, she wanted him to take her in his arms and press her close to him – she would not mind if it hurt. She hated Zuleika. She understood in a moment why, if Mitsos knew the least part of what she felt, he should have been angry when she told him what Zuleika said, and the next words had come out of her mouth outstripping, so it seemed, her thought. Then she had felt suddenly shy and frightened; she longed to stop where she was, for surely Mitsos understood what was so intimate to her. And so, being a woman, she instantly ran away, and never looked behind.

To-night she had sat by the wall for half an hour before he came, and the thought that perhaps he would not come had brought into her eyes silent, childish tears. He must come; she could not do without him. For herself she would have sat on the wall every night for months to go out with him; surely he could not be tired in a week or two of coming and not finding her there. But with the rising of the moon she had seen a sail far away that got nearer, and at last the boat grated gently against the wall.

"Is it you, Mitsos?" she whispered, and for answer the rope was flung up to her, and her young, black-eyed lover sprang to her side. She descended the ladder silently and stood in the stern; while he joined her, and with a vigorous push they were floating again alone in the centre of the vast, dim immensity. He set the sail and came and stood in front of her.

"Suleima," he whispered, "last time you kissed me. Will you let me kiss you?"

"Yes, Mitsos," she said, with a great, shy, bold joy in her heart, and put her face up, and he would have kissed her lightly on the forehead as she had kissed him. But suddenly that was impossible; they were no longer children, but lovers, and the next moment his arms were flung round her neck, her mouth pressed close to his, and each kiss left them hungrier for the next.

The wind was straight behind them, and they sat where they had sat before, and talked in low voices as if in fear of the jealousy of the stars and the night. Mitsos had got his fishing-spear and bag of resin on board, and after a while, at Suleima's suggestion, they went straight before the wind to the bay, where Mitsos said he could catch fish if she cared to see him. Half an hour's sail brought them across, and, grounding the boat by a bush of blackthorn that grew thick on the top of the rocks on the edge of the tideless sea, he took Suleima in his arms and waded through the shallow water to the head of the bay where he would fish, to save her the tramp through the undergrowth, which was thick and soaked with the night dews. She was but a feather's weight in his strong arms, her head lay on his shoulder, and she threw one arm round his neck for greater security. He made her a nest under a clump of rushes that grew on the edge of the dry sand, and then went back for his fishing things. To carry Suleima to land, he had only the shallowest water at the edge of the sea to walk through, and he had just turned up the bottom of his trousers; but where he was going to fish it would be deeper, and, as usual, he slipped them off, buckling his shirt, which reached to his knees, round his waist. He then lit his flare, and, stepping off into the deeper water, which was half-thigh deep, he went slowly along, peering cautiously at the bright circle of light cast by the resin.

Fish were plentiful, and Suleima, from her nest near, clapped her hands and laughed delightedly when Mitsos speared one larger than usual, and held it up flapping and wriggling to show her. She got so excited in his proceedings that she left her seat, and walked along the edge of the sand parallel with him, observing with the keenest interest what he did. Then, when she got tired of watching, Mitsos declared he was tired of fishing, and waded to shore with a creel full of fish.

Suleima had brought with her some Turkish tobacco, which she had taken from the house, and gave it to Mitsos to smoke. The other women of the harem all smoked, she said; for herself she had tried it once, but thought it horrid to the taste. But Mitsos might smoke it – yes, she would even light his pipe for him; and with a little pout of disgust she lit it at the flare and handed it to him, and he smoked it while they looked the fish over.

It was a night for the great lovers of romance to be abroad in; the air was of a wonderful briskness, making the pulse go quick, yet gentle and soft; the moon had set behind the hills to the west, and they sat close together beneath the wonderful twilight of stars, in a little sheltered nook beneath a great clump of tall, singing rushes. On the ground, in front, lay the resin flare, already burning low; but as Mitsos would fish no more that night he did not replenish it. Lower and lower it burned, but now and then it would shoot up with a sudden leap of flame, revealing each to the other, and Suleima would smile at Mitsos; but before she could see his mouth smile in answer, the flame would die down again into a flickering spot on the glowing, bubbling ash. But in the darkness she knew he smiled back at her; a whispered word would pass from one to the other, and the last flicker of flame showed a lover to the sight of each. Then drawing closer in the darkness, as if by some law which was moving each equally, their lips met again in the kiss that seemed to have never ceased between them. And the wind sang gently in the rushes, while before them spread the broad waters of the bay, just curdled over by the breeze; above, the austere stars burned down on them; behind, rose the empty-wooded hills, where once the soft armies of Dionysus revelled in love and wine, rising into the peaks above Tripoli.

The wind dropped for a moment, the rushes were silent, and in the lull Mitsos heard a mule bell behind them no great way off. He sat up and peered across the vine-grown strip of plain which lay between them and the mountain, but the skeins of night mist hung opaque and pearly gray above it.

In a few minutes, however, the sound got sensibly nearer, and the two rose and moved a score of yards farther down the beach, for a footpath round the head of the bay to Nauplia led across the top of it. Then across the sound of the bell they could hear the pattering footsteps of the mule, and in a few minutes more it and its rider emerged from the path which lay through the vineyards onto the open ground at the head of the beach. Just then the rider checked his beast, dismounted, and tied some grass round the tongue of the bell in order to muffle it, and struck a light with a flint and steel which he caught in tinder, and blew it gently till it sufficed to light his short chibouk. His face was towards them, and in the glow of the kindled tobacco it stood out vividly from the dark. It was Nicholas.

He mounted again and rode on, but Mitsos sat still, breathing hard and vacantly, and seeing only Nicholas's face standing out like a ghost in the darkness. Suleima touched him gently on the arm.

"Who was it?" she said. "He did not see us."

"It was my uncle," said Mitsos, in a dry voice. "No, he did not see us."

Then his self-control gave way, and he flung himself back on the ground.

"I am afraid," he said – "I do not know what is going to happen. He has come for me. I know it."

"For you?" asked Suleima. "What do you mean?"

"I shall have to go," said Mitsos. "Holy Virgin, but I cannot. I know nothing about what he wants me to do. I only know that I may – that I shall have to go away; that I shall have to leave you and perhaps never see you again. Oh," he cried, "I cannot, I cannot!"

Suleima was frightened.

"Mitsos, do not talk like that," she said, half sobbing; "do not be so unkind."

Mitsos recovered himself and felt ashamed.

"Oh, dearest of all and littlest," he said, soothingly, "I am a stupid brute to frighten you. Everything will be all right – I will come back – it is sure that I will come back. Only I promised him to do what he told me, and help him in something – it does not matter what – and I expect he has come to tell me he wants my help."

"Will not you tell me what it is?" asked Suleima, willing to be comforted.

"No, I promised I would keep it secret. But this I may tell you. You know they say – never repeat this – that the Greeks are going to rise against the Turks and turn them out. There may be fighting and bloodshed. But you hate the Turks as much as I do, darling, so you will be as glad as I if this comes true. Perhaps it might even happen that Abdul's house may be attacked, but you are quite safe if you will only do one thing. If ever it is attacked do not be afraid, but call out in Greek that you are a Greek and no Turk. And, oh, Suleima, pray to the Virgin and the Blessed Child that that day may come soon, for it will be thus and then that we shall be able to go together always."

"Is it about that you are going away?" said Suleima, with a sudden intuition.

Mitsos longed to tell her, but his promise to Nicholas kept him dumb. Then, as he had to answer, he lied boldly and unreservedly.

"It has nothing whatever to do with it," he said. "But oh, Suleima, forgive me for so frightening you – I did not mean what I said. And will you come to the wall again as often as you can? I may have to go away – indeed, I am afraid that is sure, but I do not know for how long. The first night I am back I shall come again to the wall, the dear white wall where we first met."

Suleima felt quite comforted. She was sure that nothing could go really wrong as long as Mitsos drew breath, and she bent down his head and kissed him.

"Yes, Mitsos, I will come to the wall whenever I can, hoping only that you may be there, because, you know, I care for you more than all the rest of the world. And now carry me back to the boat, strong-armed one. It is time I went back."

Mitsos stooped and lifted her up. As his hands were full, he hung the creel round his neck, and Suleima carried the extinguished flare. His heart was a dead weight within him, for he felt certain why Nicholas had come; but he was apparently his old cheery self, and Suleima forgot about the rather disquieting moments just after Nicholas had passed. What he should do he could not form the least idea; at present it seemed to him impossible that he should go away and leave her. He felt willing to throw to the winds all he had promised Nicholas. Nicholas had told him that he should be one of the foremost of his country's avengers. He shrugged his shoulders, for just now the desire for vengeance on Turks was less than the memory of a dream. Were there not plenty of others to avenge Greece? Why should he give up all that was dearest to him, this dear burden that was his, and go out on an undesired adventure?

But as long as Suleima was with him he stifled all these thoughts, while the boat skimmed seawards on the outward tack. They put about opposite the island and ran straight for the wall. The wind had freshened, and to Mitsos the boat seemed to be going terribly fast, for he grudged each moment. But he had quite lulled Suleima's disquietude, if not his own, and she lay with her head on his shoulder, half asleep, looking up now and then into his wide-open eyes, and pressing her arm more closely round his neck. He had to rouse her when he must get up to take in the sail, and she smiled at him sleepily like a child just wakened.

Then he fixed the ladder, and she climbed up, clung to him for a moment without words, for there was no need of speech between them, and went quickly and silently across the garden.

It was after two when Mitsos landed opposite his house, and he saw with some surprise that there were lights still burning. He opened the door, and, bending his head to pass under the low jamb, entered. Constantine and Nicholas were sitting there, Constantine silent, Nicholas talking eagerly, and Mitsos observed that he held his pipe unlit in his hand. His uncle sprang up when he came in.

"Ah, he is here! Mitsos, the time has come. You must go at once."

Mitsos looked at him a moment steadily and silently – their eyes were on a level – and then he turned aside and put down the fishing-creel in the corner. His decision, though the result of years, was the deed of only a moment.

Then he faced Nicholas again.

"I am ready," he said; "tell me what I have to do."

Part II
THE EVE OF THE GATHERING

CHAPTER I
MITSOS MEETS HIS COUSINS

Since August Nicholas had been travelling about the Peloponnesus, being received everywhere with a sober, secret welcome as one of the accredited leaders of the revolution. The Turks, through whose Kismet the truth of the ever-increasing rumors had begun to break, had long held him in indolent suspicion, but had taken no steps to counteract the report of his death, for they hoped – if Turks can be said to hope – somewhat ingeniously, but wholly mistakenly, that such news would prove to be a cooling draught to this ill-defined fever of revolution. The Greeks, however, as Germanos had said, knew "that Nicholas was not the sort of man who died," and Turkish ingenuity went strangely wide of its aim. In fact, it enabled Nicholas to move about more freely, and to take a liberal advantage of the fact that he was supposed to be beyond the reach of war and rumor of war. Indeed, in October, finding himself back at Corinth, where he had business with one of his fellow-workers, he had filled an idle afternoon with carving a little wooden cross on which he painted his name, and below, with a two-handled meaning, the text, "The trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised." He was to leave Corinth that night, and after the dark had fallen he and his host went to the Greek cemetery and planted this eloquent little monument over a newly made grave. When it was discovered it caused a certain amount of intelligent amusement among the Greeks; but the Turks seemed to miss the point of the joke. Not even they would have dared to disturb a Greek cemetery, for the dead had in their eyes a sacredness which the living altogether lacked; and it remained there for a year, when subsequent events saw it planted over the most honored grave in Greece.

December and the first half of January Nicholas had spent in the country of his kin, south of Sparta, and it was from there he had fled in haste to Nauplia, for his presence in Maina, which was notably patriotic, had become too insistent to be disregarded, and the Turkish governor of Tripoli, Mehemet Salik, had demanded of the Greek bey of that district, Petros Mavromichales, usually known as Petrobey, that he should be given up on the old charge of brigandage. Petrobey, like Germanos, was of high rank, and the Turks seemed to have had no suspicion that he himself was a leader of the revolution; but, as a matter of fact, he and Nicholas, who was staying with him at the time, read the letter together and consulted what should be done.

Nicholas was disposed to shrug at it altogether, or merely to send back an answer that he was officially declared to be dead and buried – witness the grave and its monument; but Petrobey thought otherwise. His own usefulness to the cause was immensely increased by the fact that he at present stood outside suspicion, and he advised Nicholas to retire where they were not likely to look for him, while he himself would prosecute a vigorous and indubitably unsuccessful search elsewhere, as an evidence of his own unimpeachable fidelity. Had not Nicholas got a brother-in-law – his own cousin – at Nauplia? Nauplia was an excellent hiding-place, for it was under the very nose of the Turkish governor, and people always looked everywhere else first. But it would be necessary to have some extremely trustworthy person who could communicate between them; and Nicholas had spoken to him of his nephew. This nephew lived at Nauplia, did he not? How very convenient! Nicholas should go to Nauplia and send his nephew back to Maina, where he could be very useful.

With this, Petrobey wrote an exceedingly polite letter to Mehemet Salik, saying that his house was Mehemet's house, and that he himself was honored by the commands of the deputy of the Shadow of God. Nicholas, it was true, as he had learned by inquiry, had been seen lately in Maina, or so gossip would have it; but as they had been told that he was dead not long ago at Corinth, there might be some confusion on this point. However, the bearers of the letter to the deputy of the Serene Presence would be his witnesses that he had sent out twenty men to scour the country-side, and no doubt the hound of hell, if still alive, would be found. He should in this case be sent with spitting to Tripoli.

Petrobey was the head of the numerous and powerful clan of the Mavromichales, the thews and sinews of the revolution. He himself, though a Greek, was governor of the district of Maina, and had been appointed to this post by the Sultan, for the attempt to put the government of Maina, or rather of the Mavromichales, into the hands of a Turkish official, had not proved a success, the last three Turkish governors not having been permitted by the clan to hold office for more than a month. His brothers and cousins were mayors and land-owners of the villages for miles around, and, like Nicholas's family, with whom they were connected twenty times in marriage, it was their pride that they had kept their blood clean and not mated with devils, and the wrong done to Nicholas's wife they took for a wrong done to themselves, demanding, so they swore, "a red and hot apology." So when, in the presence of the five soldiers who had brought Mehemet's letter, Petrobey sent for his brother-in-law Demetri, and told him that that bastard cousin of the clan, Nicholas Vidalis, was being sought for by the deputy of the Shadow of God who cast his serene effulgence over Tripoli, Demetri was suitably astounded, and the Turkish soldiers were much impressed. They had the further satisfaction an hour later of seeing twenty mounted men set off southwards in search of Nicholas, following well-authenticated information; and later in the afternoon they themselves took horse on their return journey to Tripoli, having drunk a little more than was good for them at Petrobey's expense, the bearers of that reply the sentiments and wording of which were an edification.

Nicholas and he supped together, and it was arranged that Nicholas should start that night from Panitza, so as to reach Gythium before morning.

"I regret," said Petrobey, "my dear cousin, that I cannot speed you on your way myself, and can send none of our clan with you; but perhaps it would be outstepping the bounds of prudence if I went myself, and, as you know, the Mavromichales of this immediate district have gone to look for you southwards. They will no doubt be back from their quest before midnight; but I should advise your setting out before then."

Nicholas laughed.

"I shall do very well, my cousin," he said. "I shall reach Nauplia in two days or three, and send Mitsos back at once. He is absolutely and entirely trustworthy. I think I told you of the test."

"You did. He should be very useful to us; for it is time, I think, that the mills were set grinding, and a boy like that can go freely to and fro without suspicion. Your health, dear cousin; I will break my custom and drink wine with you. I drink to you and to vengeance."

The men clinked glasses, emptied them, and filled them again.

"I do not easily forget," said Nicholas, "and the Turk shall not easily forget me. The corn will grow high this summer, for the fields will be rich. Your health, dear cousin, and the memory of one whom we forget not!"

They sat in silence for a space, for Petrobey knew that Nicholas spoke of his wife, and having finished their meal they drank their coffee, and Nicholas's horse was brought round. The two men walked to the end of the village together, the lad leading the horse behind, and there they stopped a moment.

"I may not see you again," said Nicholas, "till the feast is ready. And on that day, my cousin, you and I will fall to with good appetite. I wish you a good appetite for that feast." And after the manner of relations and friends they kissed each other, and Nicholas mounted and rode off.

Eight days after his departure Mitsos arrived, having passed without impediment through Tripoli and Sparta. Following Nicholas's directions, he had kept his ears very wide open at Tripoli in his lodging at a Greek inn, and he had heard things which he thought might be of interest. First and foremost the letter which Petrobey had written to the deputy of the Shadow of God had been received, and was supposed to have given satisfaction, for Mitsos had fallen in with one of the Turkish soldiers who had taken it, who reported that the matter was to be left entirely in Petrobey's hands, which seemed a mark of confidence in his fidelity. Also, the meeting of primates and bishops at Tripoli, which usually took place at the beginning of April, was summoned for the beginning of March. Lastly, Mehemet Salik was fortifying with feverish haste the walls of the city.

Mitsos had spent the second night at Sparta; the third at Marathonisi, a town on the coast; and the noon of the fourth day saw him climbing the steep hill into Panitza. His horse was tired with the four days' journey, and a couple of miles below the village he got off and walked behind it, cracking his whip every now and then, partly to encourage it, and partly because he could crack a whip louder than mortal man. Petrobey, who was outside the big café at the entrance to the village, saw the tired horse and the extremely vigorous-looking young giant walking by its side as they passed, and, after a few moments' inspection, said to a young man who was sitting with him:

"That is he, no doubt. Nicholas seems to have chosen well."

The two got up and followed the boy till he, seeing them, stopped and asked for Petros Mavromichales's house.

"And what do you want with Petrobey?" asked that gentleman.

Mitsos surveyed him with easy indifference, raising his eyebrows slightly at the question.

"See, friend," he said, "I have my business, and you, for all I know, have yours. If you will tell me where is his house, good; if not, I will ask some one else."

Petrobey laughed.

"You are Mitsos, no doubt," he said. "Welcome, cousin, for Nicholas's sake and your own."

"I really am very sorry," said the boy; "but how should I know? I have come from Nauplia. Uncle Nicholas arrived safely."

"That is good, and you have arrived safely, which is also good. This is my son Yanni, Mitsos, and your cousin. Yanni, take your cousin's horse and then join us."

Mitsos hesitated a moment before giving the bridle to Yanni.

"Thank you very much," he said; "but I can put the horse up myself if you will show me where. My father told me always to put it up myself. They laughed at me at the inn at Tripoli for doing so."

"Indeed," said Petrobey, glancing at the boy's shoulders; "I would never laugh at you, Mitsos. What did you do?"

"I knocked one of them down," said Mitsos, genially, "and thus there was no more laughter."

"The horse will be all right here," said Petrobey, smiling. "Give Yanni the bridle, lad."

Mitsos obeyed, and they went into the house, where dinner was being got ready. Dinner was a daily crisis in the house of Petrobey, and, leaving the two boys in the veranda, he went round to the kitchen for fear that the cook, who, he said, was a man to whom God had not granted a palate, should be too harsh on the sucking-pig which they were to eat.

"Can you conceive," he said, on his return, spreading out his hands with a gesture of eloquent despair, "the fool stuffed the last one I ate with garlic! Sucking-pig stuffed with garlic! A man without a palate, little Mitsos!"

Yanni burst out laughing at this, and Petrobey turned to him with good humor shining in his great rosy face, which he tried most unsuccessfully to school into severity.

"Yanni, too," he went on, "that lumpy son of mine, does not know quail from woodcock, and lights his pipe before he has finished his wine. Come, boys, dinner first; we will talk afterwards. Bring the mastic, son of a locust," he bawled into the kitchen.

During dinner Petrobey hardly spoke, because speech spoils food. He ate sparingly and slowly, dwelling on each mouthful as on a mathematical problem. His face grew anxious as the time for sucking-pig approached, and his deep-gray eyes bore an expression of profound thought as he laid down his knife and fork, after putting the first piece of crackling into his mouth. Then his face cleared again, and he drank a little water briskly, for, except rarely, he did not touch wine.

"Hardly crisp enough," he said, curling his long gray mustache up from his lips. "Hardly crisp enough, but creditable. What say you, Mitsos?"

The latter exhibited a phenomenal appetite after his journey from Marathonisi, and Yanni looked on in admiration, which eventually expressed itself Homerically:

"You are a good man," he said, "because you eat well."

After dinner they sat out in the sun under the shelter of the southern veranda, and here Mitsos learned what he had to do.

"Your uncle Nicholas," said Petrobey, "has told me that I can trust you completely; and I have many things to tell you, any of which, if you chose to give information to the Turk, would see me, and many others besides, strung to the gallows."

Yanni, who was lying on a straw mat near Mitsos, refilled his pipe and grinned.

"Me among them, Mitsos," he said, glancing up at his big cousin. "You will please to remember that."

But Mitsos did not answer, and only looked gravely at Petrobey.

"We shall no longer be cursed by these devils," continued he, "for the Turks will vanish out of our land like snow in summer. What you and Yanni have to do is to go through a certain district, calling at certain villages, and speaking to certain men. This first journey, on which you will set out to-morrow, will take you a fortnight or so – ah, but the victuals will be poor, little ones, but perhaps you don't mind that – and then you will come back here. And remember, Mitsos, that you will be doing what none of us could do; for two boys, dressed as peasants dress, driving a couple of seedy mules laden with oranges, can pass where Nicholas and I could not. On this first journey Yanni will go with you, for he knows the country, but after that there will probably be other work for him to do, and also for you – plenty. You will go to the houses of these men and ask this question, 'Are you grinding corn?' and they will answer, 'Corn for the hungry, or corn for the Turk?' And you will say, 'Black corn for the Turk. If you have not begun grinding, begin, and grind quickly.'"

Mitsos was listening breathlessly.

"What does it all mean?" he asked.

Petrobey smiled, and unslinging his powder-flask from his belt, shook out a little into his hand, and tossed it into the air.

"Pouf!" he said; "black corn for the Turk."

Mitsos' eyes flashed.

"I understand," he said; "black corn, and good for Turks."

"For the first journey that will be all," went on Petrobey. "Yanni will be with you, and it will be simple enough. After that you may have to go here, there, anywhere. You will certainly have to go to Nauplia, where you will find Nicholas; and Yanni will, I am afraid, have to go to Tripoli for a little while."

"The black devil take Tripoli," muttered Yanni.

"And why does Yanni go to Tripoli?" asked Mitsos.

"Perhaps he will not, but if he goes it will be as a hostage for my good conduct. But there is no need to be so round-eyed, Mitsos; we are not going to have him murdered. I shall not behave badly till he is safe again. Dear me, yes, I wish I could go instead. Mehemet Salik has a cook of a thousand. But – who knows? – idle words may reach the Turks at Tripoli, and if so I shall send Yanni as a hostage. But about this journey you must be as quick and quiet as you can. Never answer any questions about Nicholas or me or yourselves – you cannot be too careful. Never sleep in a village when you have given a message. Sleep mostly by day out in the woods and travel at night, though you must be careful to arrive at the village where you give these messages by day in the manner of ordinary peasants. Finally, be ready to run, if running is possible; if not, to fight. Which would you prefer?"