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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Challenge, by Vita Sackville-West.
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 61925 ***</div>
<div class="mynote"><p class="center">Transcriber's Note:<br /><br />
A Table of Contents has been added.<br /><br />
Obvious typographic errors have been corrected.<br /></p></div>
<hr />
<p class="bold2">CHALLENGE</p>
<hr />
<div class="center"><img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="title page" /></div>
<hr />
<h1>CHALLENGE</h1>
<p class="bold space-above">BY</p>
<p class="bold2">V. SACKVILLE-WEST</p>
<div class="center space-above"><img src="images/logo.jpg" alt="logo" /></div>
<p class="bold">GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY<br />
<span class="smcap">Publishers</span> <span class="s3"> </span> <span class="smcap">New York</span></p>
<hr />
<p class="bold">PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN</p>
<hr />
<h2>DEDICATION</h2>
<p class="center">ACABA EMBEO SIN TIRO, MEN CHUAJAÑI;<br />
LIRENAS, BERJARAS TIRI OCHI BUSÑE,<br />CHANGERI, TA ARMENSALLE.</p>
<hr />
<h2><span>CONTENTS</span></h2>
<table summary="CONTENTS">
<tr>
<td></td>
<td><span class="smaller">PAGE</span></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="left">EPILOGUE</td>
<td><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="left">PART I—JULIAN</td>
<td><a href="#Page_5">5</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="left">I</td>
<td><a href="#Page_7">7</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="left">II</td>
<td><a href="#Page_28">28</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="left">III</td>
<td><a href="#Page_42">42</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="left">IV</td>
<td><a href="#Page_54">54</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="left">V</td>
<td><a href="#Page_75">75</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="left">PART II—EVE</td>
<td><a href="#Page_93">93</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="left">I</td>
<td><a href="#Page_95">95</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="left">II</td>
<td><a href="#Page_108">108</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="left">III</td>
<td><a href="#Page_128">128</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="left">IV</td>
<td><a href="#Page_147">147</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="left">V</td>
<td><a href="#Page_160">160</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="left">VI</td>
<td><a href="#Page_180">180</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="left">PART III—APHROS</td>
<td><a href="#Page_197">197</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="left">I</td>
<td><a href="#Page_199">199</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="left">II</td>
<td><a href="#Page_222">222</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="left">III</td>
<td><a href="#Page_235">235</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="left">IV</td>
<td><a href="#Page_240">240</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="left">V</td>
<td><a href="#Page_257">257</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="left">VI</td>
<td><a href="#Page_274">274</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="left">VII</td>
<td><a href="#Page_293">293</a></td>
</tr>
</table>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p>
<h2>EPILOGUE</h2>
<p>A man and a woman leaned idly over the balustrade
watching the steady stream of guests that mounted the
magnificent staircase. The marble of the balustrade was
cool beneath the woman's bare arms, for it was summer,
and the man, without interrupting his murmur of
comment and anecdote, glanced admiringly at her, and
thought that, in spite of her forty years, she, with
diamonds in her hair and the great ropes of pearls over
her shoulders, need not fear comparison with all the
beauty of London assembled at that ball. Her beauty
and dignity melted pleasantly, for him, into the wealth
of the house, the lights, the abundance of flowers, and
the distant orchestra. Again the idea that this woman,
for the asking, would decorate his own house with her
presence, and would ornament his own distinguished
name, played flatteringly through his mind. He reflected
with gratification that it lay within his power
to do her this honour. For, a vain man, he never
questioned but that the favour would lie entirely on his
side.</p>
<p>He pointed out to her the famous general on the
stairs, escorting his daughter; the new American beauty;
the young man recently succeeded to fabulous estates;
the Indian prince who had turned the heads of half the
women in London. Skilful, she paid him the compliment
of interest and amusement, letting it be understood
that he was himself of far greater interest to her
than the personages who served as pegs to his wit. As
he paused once, she revived the conversation:—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span></p>
<p>'There is a man I have never seen before; that tall,
dark man. And the handsome woman with him—she
must be his wife.'</p>
<p>'Why must she be his wife?' he asked, amused.</p>
<p>'Because I am sure she is the type of woman he
would marry, stately and correct; am I not right?'</p>
<p>'You are quite right; she is his wife. He has been
and still is a very successful man; an Under-Secretary
at thirty-five, and in the Cabinet before he was forty.
Many people think that he will be the next Viceroy.'</p>
<p>At that moment the man on the stairs looked up,
and his eyes met those of the woman leaning on the
balustrade above.</p>
<p>'What a wonderful face!' she exclaimed, startled, to
her companion. 'Wonderful—but he looks as though
he had learnt all the sorrow of the world.—He looks—what
shall I say?—so weary.'</p>
<p>'Then he has no business to,' he answered with a
smile. 'He has everything man can wish for: power,
wealth, and, as you can see, an admirable wife. As
usual, however, your perception is unerring: he's the
most cynical fellow I ever came across. He believes in
nothing—and is incidentally the only real philanthropist
I know. His name is perfectly familiar to you.
It is Davenant.'</p>
<p>'Oh,' she said, carried away by her interest, 'is that
Julian Davenant? Of course every one has heard of
him. Stay,' she added, searching in her memory,
'wasn't there some extraordinary story about him as
a young man? some crazy adventure he engaged in?
I don't remember exactly....'</p>
<p>The man at her side began to laugh.</p>
<p>'There was indeed,' he replied; 'do you remember
an absurd tiny republic named Herakleion, which has
since been absorbed by Greece?'</p>
<p>'Herakleion?' she murmured. 'Why, I have been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span>
there in a yacht, I believe; a little Greek port; but I
didn't know it had ever been an independent republic?'</p>
<p>'Dear me, yes,' he said, 'it was independent for about
a hundred years, and Julian Davenant as a young man
was concerned in some preposterous revolution in those
parts; all his money comes, you know, from his vine-growing
estates out there. I am a little vague myself as
to what actually happened. He was very young at the
time, not much more than a boy.'</p>
<p>'How romantic,' said the woman absently, as she
watched Julian Davenant shaking hands with his
hostess.</p>
<p>'Very romantic, but we all start by being romantic
until we have outgrown it, and any way, don't you
think we are going, you and I, rather too much out of
our way this evening to look for romance?' said the
man, leaning confidentially a little nearer.</p>
<p class="center">* * * * * *</p>
<p>But these two people have nothing to do with the
story.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span></p>
<h2>PART I—JULIAN</h2>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p>
<h2>I</h2>
<p>On Sunday, after the races were over, the diplomatic,
indigenous, and cosmopolitan society of Herakleion, by
virtue of a custom they never sought to dispute,
streamed through the turnstiles of the race-course to
regain their carriages and to drive for an hour in the
ilex avenue consecrated to that purpose outside the
suburbs of the town. Like the angels on Jacob's ladder,
the carriages went up one side and down the other, at
a slow walk, the procession invariably headed by the
barouche of the French Legation, containing M. Lafarge,
chief of the mission, his beard spread fan-like over his
frock-coat, but so disposed as to reveal the rosette in
his button-hole, peeping with a coy red eye at the passing
world; Madame Lafarge, sitting erect and bowing
stiffly from her unassailable position as dictator to social
Herakleion; and, on the <i>strapontin</i>, Julie Lafarge,
repressed, sallow-faced daughter of the emissaries of
France. Streaming after the barouche came mere
humanity, some in victorias, some in open cabs, all
going at a walk, and down the centre rode the young
men of the place, and down the centre Alexander
Christopoulos, who dared all and to whom all was
forgiven, drove his light buggy and American trotter at
a rattling pace and in a cloud of dust.</p>
<p>The diplomatic carriages were distinguished by the
presence of a chasseur on the box, though none so
gorgeous as the huge scarlet-coated chasseur of the
French Legation. It was commonly said that the
Danish Minister and his wife, who were poor, denied
themselves food in order to maintain their carriage for
the Sunday drive. The rich Greeks, on the other hand,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span>
from generation to generation, inherited the family
brake, which was habitually driven by the head of
the clan on the box, his wife beside him, and his sons
and unmarried daughters sitting two by two, on the
six remaining seats behind. There had been a rush
of scandal when Alexander Christopoulos had appeared
for the first time alone in his buggy, his seat in the
family brake conspicuously empty. There remained,
however, his four sisters, the Virgins of Herakleion,
whose ages ranged from thirty-five to forty, and
whose batteries were unfailingly directed against the
latest arrival. The fifth sister had married a banker
in Frankfort, and was not often mentioned. There were,
besides the brakes of the rich Greeks, the wagonettes of
the English Davenants, who always had English coachmen,
and frequently absented themselves from the
Sunday drive to remind Herakleion that, although
resident, they were neither diplomatic, indigenous, nor
cosmopolitan, but unalterably English. They were too
numerous and too influential to be disregarded, but
when the name of Davenant was mentioned in their
absence, a murmur was certain to make itself heard,
discreet, unvindictive, but none the less remorseless,
'Ah yes, the English Levantines.'</p>
<p>Sunshades were lowered in the ilex avenue, for the
shadows of the ancient trees fell cool and heavy across
the white dust. Through the ilexes, the sea glimmered
on a lower level, washing idly on the shore; vainly blue,
for Herakleion had no eyes for the sea. The sea was
always there, always blue, just as Mount Mylassa was
always there, behind the town, monotonous and
immovable. The sea was made for the transport of
merchandise and to provide man with fish. No one
had ever discovered a purpose in Mount Mylassa.</p>
<p>When the French barouche had reached the end of
the avenue, it turned gravely in a wide circle and took<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span>
its place at the head of the descending carriages. When
it had reached its starting-point, the entrance to the
avenue, it detached itself from the procession and
continued on its way towards the town. The procession
did not follow it. Another turn up and down the
avenue remained for the procession, and the laughter
became perceptibly brighter, the smiles of greeting more
cordial, with the removal of Madame Lafarge's influence.
It was known that the barouche would pass the race-course
at its former dignified walk, but that, once out
of sight, Madame Lafarge would say, '<i>Grigora</i>, Vassili!'
to the chasseur, that the horses would be urged into a
shambling trot and that the ladies in the carriage would
open their sunshades to keep off the glare of the sun
which beat down from heaven and reverberated from
the pavements and the white walls of the houses
as they drove through the streets of the deserted
town.</p>
<p>Deserted, for that part of the population which was
not within doors strolled in the ilex avenue, looking at
the carriages. A few lean dogs slept on door-steps
where the shadow of the portico fell sharply dividing the
step into a dark and a sunny half. The barouche rolled
along the wide quay, where here and there the parapet
was broken by a flight of steps descending to the water;
passed the casino, white, with palms and cacti growing
hideously in the forecourt; rolled across the square
<i>platia</i>, where a group of men stood lounging within the
cool and cavernous passage-way of the club.</p>
<p>Madame Lafarge stopped the barouche.</p>
<p>A young man detached himself from the group with
a slightly bored and supercilious expression. He was
tall beyond the ordinary run of Frenchmen; had dark
eyes under meeting eyebrows in an ivory face, and an
immensely high, flat, white brow, from which the black
wavy hair grew straight back, smoothed to the polish<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span>
of a black greyhound. 'Our Persian miniature,' the
fat American wife of the Danish Minister, called him,
establishing herself as the wit of Herakleion, where any
one with sufficient presumption could establish him or
herself in any chosen rôle. The young man had accepted
the title languidly, but had taken care that it should not
die forgotten.</p>
<p>Madame Lafarge said to him in a tone which conveyed
a command rather than proffered a favour, 'If
you like, we can drive you to the Legation.'</p>
<p>She spoke in a booming voice that burst surprisingly
out of the compression of a generously furnished bust.
The young man, accepting the offer, seated himself
beside Julie on the <i>strapontin</i> opposite his chief, who
sat silent and majestically bearded. The immense
chasseur stood stiffly by the side of the carriage, his eyes
gazing unblinkingly across the <i>platia</i>, and the tips of his
long drooping whiskers obscuring the braid of his
scarlet collar. Madame Lafarge addressed herself to
the group of men,—</p>
<p>'I did not see you at the races?'</p>
<p>Her graciousness did not conceal the rebuke. She
continued,—</p>
<p>'I shall hope to welcome you presently at the Legation.'</p>
<p>With a bow worthy of Theodora, whom she had once
been told that she resembled, she gave the order to
drive on. The loaded barouche, with the splendid red
figure on the box, rolled away across the dazzling square.
The French Legation stood back behind a grille in the
main street of the town, built of white stucco like the
majority of the houses. Inside, it was cool and dark,
the Venetian blinds were drawn, and the lighted candles
in the sconces on the walls reflected pleasantly, and with
a curious effect of freshening night, in the polished floors.
Gilt chairs were arranged in circles, and little tables<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span>
stood about, glitteringly laden with tall tumblers and
bottles of coloured sirops. Madame Lafarge surveyed
these things as she had surveyed them every Sunday
evening since Julie could remember. The young man
danced attendance in his languid way.</p>
<p>'The chandeliers may be lighted,' her Excellency said
to the chasseur, who had followed.</p>
<p>The three stood watching while the candles sprang
into little spears of light under the touch of the taper,
Madame Lafarge contrasting displeasedly the lemon
sallowness of her daughter's complexion with the warm
magnolia-like pallor of the secretary's face. The contrast
caused her to speak sharply,—</p>
<p>'Julie, you had better go now and take off your hat.'</p>
<p>When her submissive daughter had gone, she said,—</p>
<p>'Julie is looking ill. The summer does not suit her.
But what is to be done? I cannot leave Herakleion.'</p>
<p>'Obviously,' murmured the secretary, 'Herakleion
would fall all to pieces. Your Sunday evenings,' he
continued, 'the races ... your picnics....'</p>
<p>'Impossible,' she cried with determination. 'One
owes a duty to the country one represents, and I have
always said that, whereas politics are the affairs of men,
the woman's social obligation is no less urgent. It is
a great career, Armand, and to such a career one must
be prepared to sacrifice one's personal convenience.'</p>
<p>'And one's health ... the health of one's children,'
he added, looking down at his almond nails.</p>
<p>'If need be,' she replied with a sigh, and, fanning
herself, repeated, 'If need be.'</p>
<p>The rooms began to fill. A little middle-aged Greek,
his wrinkled saffron face curiously emphasised by the
beautiful whiteness of his hair and moustaches, took
his stand near Madame Lafarge, who in speaking to him
looked down on the top of his head over the broad
plateau of her bust.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span></p>
<p>'These cool rooms of yours,' he murmured, as he
kissed her hand. 'One cannot believe in the heat of
the sun outside.'</p>
<p>He made this remark every other Sunday.</p>
<p>Lafarge came up and took the little Greek banker
by the arm.</p>
<p>'I hear,' he said, 'that there is fresh trouble in the
Islands.'</p>
<p>'We can leave it to the Davenants,' said Christopoulos
with an unpleasant smile.</p>
<p>'But that is exactly what I have always urged you not
to do,' said the French Minister, drawing the little
Greek into a corner. 'You know the proverbial reputation
of the English: you do not see them coming, but
they insinuate themselves until one day you open your
eyes to the fact that they are there. You will be making
a very great mistake, my dear friend, if you allow the
Davenants to settle disputes in the Islands. Have you
forgotten that in the last generation a Davenant caused
himself to be elected President?'</p>
<p>'Considering that they are virtually kings, I do not
see that the nominal title of President can make a vast
difference.'</p>
<p>Lafarge sent his eyes round the room and through the
doorway into the room beyond; he saw the familiar,
daily faces, and returned to the charge.</p>
<p>'You are pleased to be sarcastic, I know. Nevertheless
allow me to offer you my advice. It is not a question
of Kingship or Presidency. It is a question of a complete
break on the part of the Islands. They are small, but
their strategic value is self-evident. Remember Italy
has her eye upon them.... The Davenants are
democrats, and have always preached liberty to the
islanders. The Davenant wealth supports them. Can
you calmly contemplate the existence of an independent
archipelago a few miles from your shore?'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span></p>
<p>A dull red crept under the banker's yellow skin, giving
him a suffused appearance.</p>
<p>'You are very emphatic.'</p>
<p>'The occasion surely warrants emphasis.'</p>
<p>The rooms were by now quite full. Little centres of
laughter had formed themselves, and were distinguishable.
Alexander Christopoulos had once boasted that
he could, merely by looking round a room and arguing
from the juxtaposition of conversationalists, give a
fairly accurate <i>résumé</i> of what every one was saying.
He also claimed to tell from the expression of the
Danish Excellency whether she was or was not arriving
primed with a new epigram. He was now at the side
of the Danish Excellency, fat, fair, and foolish, but good-natured,
and having a fund of veritable humanity which
was lacking in most of her colleagues. The careful
English of Alexander reached his father's ears through
the babel,—</p>
<p>'The Empress Eugénie set the fashion of wearing
<i>décolleté</i> in the shape the water in your bath makes
round your shoulders....'</p>
<p>Lafarge went on,—</p>
<p>'The Davenants are sly; they keep apart; they mix
with us, but they do not mingle. They are like oil upon
water. Where is William Davenant now, do you know?'</p>
<p>'He is just arriving,' said Christopoulos.</p>
<p>Lafarge saw him then, bowing over his hostess's
hand, polite, but with absent eyes that perpetually
strayed from the person he was talking to. Behind
him came a tall, loose-limbed boy, untidy, graceful; he
glanced at the various groups, and the women looked
at him with interest. A single leap might carry him at
any moment out of the room in which his presence seemed
so incongruous.</p>
<p>The tall mirrors on the walls sent back the reflection
of the many candles, and in them the same spectral<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span>
company came and went that moved and chattered in
the rooms.</p>
<p>'At least he is not on the Islands,' said Christopoulos.</p>
<p>'After all,' said Lafarge, with a sudden weariness,
'perhaps I am inclined to exaggerate the importance of
the Islands. It is difficult to keep a true sense of proportion.
Herakleion is a little place. One forgets that one
is not at the centre of the world.'</p>
<p>He could not have tracked his lassitude to its origin,
but as his eyes rested again on the free, generous limbs
of the Davenant boy, he felt a slight revolt against the
babble, the coloured sirops, and the artificially lighted
rooms from which the sun was so carefully excluded.
The yellow skin of little Christopoulos gave him the
appearance of a plant which has been deprived of light.
His snowy hair, too, soft and billowy, looked as though
it had been deliberately and consistently bleached.</p>
<p>He murmured a gentle protest to the Minister's
words,—</p>
<p>'Surely not, dear Excellency, surely you do not
exaggerate the importance of the Islands. We could
not, as you say, tolerate the existence of an independent
archipelago a few miles from our shores. Do not allow
my sarcasm to lead you into the belief that I underestimate
either their importance, or the value, the
compliment of your interest in the politics of our
country. The friendship of France....'</p>
<p>His voice died away into suave nothings. The French
Minister emerged with an effort from his mood of
temporary discontent, endeavouring to recapture the
habitual serenity of his life.</p>
<p>'And you will remember my hint about the
Davenants?'</p>
<p>Christopoulos looked again at William Davenant, who,
perfectly courteous but incorrigibly absent-minded, was
still listening to Madame Lafarge.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span></p>
<p>'It is a scandal,' she was saying, resuming her conversation
in the intervals of interruption occasioned by
newly-arriving guests, 'a scandal that the Museum
should remain without a catalogue....'</p>
<p>'I will remember,' said Christopoulos. 'I will tell
Alexander to distract that youth's attention; one
Davenant the less, you follow me, to give us any
trouble.'</p>
<p>'Pooh! a schoolboy,' interjected the Minister.</p>
<p>Christopoulos pursed his lips and moved his snowy
head portentously up and down.</p>
<p>'A schoolboy, but nevertheless he probably shares the
enthusiasms of his age. The Islands are sufficiently
romantic to appeal to his imagination. Remember, his
grandfather ruled there for a year.'</p>
<p>'His grandfather? <i>un farceur!</i>' said Lafarge.</p>
<p>Christopoulos assented, and the two men, smiling
tolerantly, continued to look across at the unconscious
boy though their minds were already occupied by other
things. Madame Lafarge, catching sight of them, was
annoyed by her husband's aloofness from the social
aspect of her weekly reception. It pleased her—in fact,
she exacted—that a certain political atmosphere should
pervade any gathering in her drawing-rooms, but at the
same time she resented a political interview which
deprived, at once, her guests of a host and herself of a
<i>cavalier servente</i>. She accordingly stared at Christopoulos
while continuing her conversation with William
Davenant, until the little Greek became aware of her
gaze, and crossed the room obediently to the unspoken
summons.</p>
<p>William Davenant moved away in relief; he knew
his duty to Madame Lafarge, but performed it wearily
and without pleasure. It was now over for a month, he
thought, deciding that he would not be expected to
attend the three succeeding Sundays. He paused beside<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span>
his son, who had been captured by two of the sisters
Christopoulos and who, with two Russian secretaries,
was being forced to join in a round game. The sisters
gave little shrieks and peals of laughter; it was their
idea of merriment. They sat one on each side of Julian
Davenant, on a small gilt sofa covered with imitation
tapestry. Near by, listening to the game with a gentle
and languorous smile upon his lips, stood the Persian
Minister, who understood very little French, his fine
Oriental figure buttoned into the traditional frock-coat,
and a black lamb's-wool fez upon his head. He was not
very popular in Herakleion; he did not know enough
French to amuse the women, so, as at present, he silently
haunted the circles of the younger generation, with
mingled humility and dignity.</p>
<p>William Davenant paused there for a moment, met
his son's eyes with a gleam of sympathy, then passed
on to pay his monthly duty to influence and fashion.
The Danish Excellency whispered behind her fan to
Alexander Christopoulos as he passed, and the young
man screwed in his eyeglass to examine the retreating
back of the Englishman. The red-coated chasseur came
round, gravely offering sandwiches on a tray.</p>
<p>'Uneatable,' said Alexander Christopoulos, taking one
and hiding it beneath his chair.</p>
<p>The courage of the young man! the insolence!</p>
<p>'Julie will see you,' giggled the Danish Excellency.</p>
<p>'And what if she does?' he retorted.</p>
<p>'You have no respect, no veneration,' she chided him.</p>
<p>'For <i>maman</i> Lafarge? <i>la bonne bourgeoise!</i>' he
exclaimed, but not very loudly.</p>
<p>'Alexander!' she said, but her tone said, 'I adore
you.'</p>
<p>'One must be something,' the young Christopoulos
had once told himself; 'I will be insolent and contemptuous;
I will impose myself upon Herakleion; my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span>
surroundings shall accept me with admiration and
without protest.'</p>
<p>He consequently went to Oxford, affected to speak
Greek with difficulty, interlarded his English with
American slang, instituted a polo club, and drove an
American trotter. He was entirely successful. Unlike
many a greater man, he had achieved his ambition. He
knew, moreover, that Madame Lafarge would give him
her daughter for the asking.</p>
<p>'Shall I make Julie sing?' he said suddenly to the
Danish Excellency, searching among the moving groups
for the victim of this classic joke of Herakleion.</p>
<p>'Alexander, you are too cruel,' she murmured.</p>
<p>He was flattered; he felt himself an irresistible
autocrat and breaker of hearts. He tolerated the
Danish Excellency, as he had often said in the club,
because she had no other thought than of him. She,
on the other hand, boasted in her fat, good-humoured
way to her intimates,—</p>
<p>'I may be a fool, but no woman is completely a fool
who has realised the depths of man's vanity.'</p>
<p>Julie Lafarge, who was always given to understand
that one day she would marry the insolent Alexander,
was too efficiently repressed to be jealous of the Danish
Excellency. Under the mischievous influence of her
friend, Eve Davenant, she would occasionally make an
attempt to attract the young man; a pitiable, grotesque
attempt, prompted by the desire to compel his homage,
to hear herself called beautiful—which she was not. So
far she did not delude herself that she had succeeded,
but she did delude herself that it gave him pleasure to
hear her sing. She stood now beside a little table,
dispensing sirops in tall tumblers, very sallow in her
white muslin, with a locket on a short gold chain hanging
between the bones of her neck. Her very thin brown
arms, which were covered with small black hairs,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span>
protruded ungracefully from the short sleeves of her
dress.</p>
<p>Alexander presented himself before her; she had
seen him coming in one of the mirrors on the walls.
Madame Lafarge cherished an affection for these mirrors,
because thanks to them her drawing-rooms always
appeared twice as crowded as they really were.</p>
<p>Alexander uttered his request in a tone at once
beseeching and compelling; she thought him irresistible.
Nevertheless, she protested: there were too many
people present, her singing would interrupt all conversation,
her mother would be annoyed. But those standing
near by seconded Alexander, and Madame Lafarge
herself bore down majestically upon her daughter, so
that all protest was at an end.</p>
<p>Julie stood beside the open piano with her hands
loosely folded in a rehearsed and approved attitude
while the room disposed itself to listen, and Alexander,
who was to accompany her, let his fingers roam negligently
over the keyboard. Chairs were turned to face
the piano, people drifted in from the farther drawing-room,
young men leaned in the doorways and against
the walls. Lafarge folded his arms across his chest,
freeing his imprisoned beard by an upward movement
of his chin, and smiled encouragingly and benignly at
his daughter. Speech dropped into whispers, whispers
into silence. Alexander struck a few preliminary chords.
Julie sang; she sang, quite execrably, romantic German
music, and out of the roomful of people only three,
herself, her father, and her mother, thought that she
sang well. Despite this fact she was loudly applauded,
congratulated, and pressed for more.</p>
<p>Julian Davenant, taking advantage of the diversion
to escape from the sisters Christopoulos, slipped away
to one of the window recesses where he could partly
conceal himself behind the stiff, brocaded curtain.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span>
Horizontal strings of sunlight barred the Venetian blind,
and by peeping between its joints he could see the tops
of the palms in the Legation forecourt, the iron grille
which gave on to the main street, and a victoria standing
near the grille, in the shade, the horse covered over with
a flimsy, dust-coloured sheet, and the driver asleep
inside the carriage, a fly-whisk drooping limply in his
hand. He could hear the shrill squeaking of the tram
as it came round the corner, and the clang of its bell.
He knew that the sea lay blue beyond the white town,
and that, out in the sea, lay the Islands, where the little
grapes were spread, drying into currants, in the sun.
He returned to the darkened, candle-lit room, where
Julie Lafarge was singing 'Im wunderschönen Monat
Mai.'</p>
<p>Looking across the room to the door which opened
on to the landing at the top of the stairs, he saw a little
stir of arrival, which was suppressed in order to avoid
any interruption to the music. He distinguished the
new-comer, a short, broad, middle-aged woman, out of
breath after mounting the stairs, curiously draped
in soft copper-coloured garments, with gold bangles
on her bare arms, and a wreath of gold leaves round
her dark head. He knew this woman, a singer. He
neither liked nor disliked her, but had always thought
of her as possessing a strangely classical quality, all
the stranger because of her squat, almost grotesque
ugliness; although not a dwarf, her great breadth gave
her the appearance of one; but at the same time she
was for him the embodiment of the wealth of the country,
a kind of Demeter of the Islands, though he thought of
Demeter as having corn-coloured hair, like the crops
over which she presided, and this woman had blue-black
hair, like the purple of the grapes that grew on
the Islands. He had often heard her sing, and hoped
now that she was arriving in her professional capacity,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span>
which seemed probable, both from her dress, and from
the unlikelihood that she, a singer and a woman of the
native people, would enter Madame Lafarge's house as
a guest, renowned though she was, and fêted, in the
capitals of Europe. He saw Lafarge tiptoe out to receive
her, saw Madame Lafarge follow, and noted the faintly
patronising manner of the Minister's wife in shaking
hands with the artist.</p>
<p>Applause broke out as Julie finished her song. The
Greek singer was brought forward into the room amid
a general movement and redistribution of groups.
Alexander Christopoulos relinquished his place at the
piano, and joined the Davenant boy by the window. He
appeared bored and languid.</p>
<p>'It is really painful ... as well listen to a macaw
singing,' he said. 'You are not musical, are you, Julian?
You can scarcely imagine what I endured. Have you
heard this woman, Kato?'</p>
<p>Julian said that he had.</p>
<p>'Quite uneducated,' Christopoulos said loftily. 'Any
woman in the fields sings as well. It was new to Paris,
and Paris raved. You and I, my dear Julian, have heard
the same thing a hundred times. Shall we escape?'</p>
<p>'I must wait for my father,' said Julian, who detested
his present companion; 'he and I are going to dine with
my uncle.'</p>
<p>'So am I,' Christopoulos answered, and, leaning over
to the English boy, he began to speak in a confidential
voice.</p>
<p>'You know, my dear Julian, in this society of ours
your father is not trusted. But, after all, what is this
society? <i>un tas de rastas.</i> Do you think I shall remain
here long? not I. <i>Je me fiche des Balcans.</i> And you?
Are you going to bury yourself on those Islands of
yours, growing grapes, ripening olives? What? That
satisfied the old generations. What have I to do<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span>
with a banking house in Herakleion, you with a few
vineyards near the coast? I shall marry, and spend
the rest of my life in Paris.'</p>
<p>'You're ambitious to-day,' Julian said mildly.</p>
<p>'Ambitious! shall I tell you why? Yesterday was
my twenty-fifth birthday. I've done with Herakleion....'</p>
<p>'Conquered it, you mean,' said Julian, 'squeezed it
dry.'</p>
<p>The other glanced at him suspiciously.</p>
<p>'Are you laughing at me? Confound your quiet
manner, Julian, I believe my family is right to mistrust
your family. Very well, then: conquered it. Believe
me, it isn't worth conquering. Don't waste your youth
on your vineyards, but come with me. Let the Islands
go. They are always in trouble, and the trouble is
getting more acute. They are untidy specks on the
map. Don't you hear the call of Paris and the world?'</p>
<p>Julian, looking at him, and seeing the laughable
intrigue, was mercifully saved from replying, for at that
moment Madame Kato began to sing. She sang without
accompaniment, songs of the people, in a curiously
guttural voice with an occasionally nasal note, songs
no different from those sung in the streets or, as Christopoulos
had said, in the fields, different only in that, to
this peasant music, half melancholy, half emotional, its
cadence born of physical labour, she brought the genius
of a great artist. As she stood there, singing, Julian
reflected that her song emphasised the something
classical, something massive, something monumental,
about her, which overshadowed what might have been
slightly grotesque in her appearance. She was, indeed,
a Demeter of the vineyards. She should have stood
singing in the sun, not beneath the pale mockery of the
candles.</p>
<p>'Entirely uneducated,' Christopoulos said again,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span>
shifting his shoulders as he leaned against the wall.
'That is why Paris liked her: as a contrast. She was
clever enough to know that. Contrasts are always
artistically effective.'</p>
<p>He went off, pleased, to repeat his facile epigram to
the Danish Excellency. Madame Lafarge was looking
round to see whether the audience had approved of the
innovation. The audience was waiting to hear the
expression of an opinion which it might safely follow.
Presently the word, 'Uneducated' was on every lip.
Julian remained at the window, chained there by his
natural reserve and shyness; he looked up at the lighted
chandeliers, and down at their reflection in the floors;
he saw the faces of people turned towards him, and the
back of their heads in the mirrors; he saw Armand, the
French secretary, with the face of a Persian prince,
offering red sirop to Madame Kato. He wished to go
and speak to her, but his feet would not carry him
forward. He felt himself apart from the talk and the
easy laughter.</p>
<p>Presently Mlle Lafarge, seeing him there alone, came
to him with her awkward and rather touching grace as
a hostess.</p>
<p>'You know, I suppose,' she said to him, 'that Madame
Kato is a friend of Eve's? Will you not come and speak
to her?'</p>
<p>Released, he came. The singer was drinking her red
sirop by the piano. The Persian Minister in the black
fez was standing near, smiling gently at her with his
usual mournful smile.</p>
<p>'You will not remember me, Julian Davenant,' the
boy said in a low, shy voice. He spoke in Greek involuntarily,
feeling that French would be an outrage in the
presence of this so splendidly Hellenic woman. Armand
had moved away, and they stood isolated, caressed by
the vague smile of the Persian Minister.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span></p>
<p>Kato set down her glass of red sirop on the top of
the piano. She leaned against the piano talking to the
English boy, her arms akimbo, as a peasant woman
might lean in the doorway of her house gossiping in the
cool of the evening, her little eyes keen and eager.
The muscles of her arms and of her magnificent neck
curved generously beneath her copper draperies, mocking
the flimsy substance, and crying out for the labour
of the vineyards. Her speech was tinged with the faint
accent of the Islands, soft and slurring. It was more
familiar to Julian Davenant than the harsher Greek of
the town, for it was the speech of the women who had
brought him up as a child, women of the Islands, his
nurses in his father's big house in the <i>platia</i> of Herakleion.
It murmured to him now in the rich voice of the
singer beneath the chandelier.</p>
<p>'Eve; I have not seen her yet. You must tell her
that I have returned and that she must come to my
concert on Wednesday. Tell her that I will sing one
song for her, but that all the other songs must be for
my audience. I have brought back a new repertoire
from Munich, which will please Herakleion better, I hope,
than the common music it despises.'</p>
<p>She laughed a little.</p>
<p>'It has taken me thirty years to discover that
mankind at large despises the art of its own country.
Only the exotic catches the ear of fashion. But Eve has
told me that you do not care for music?'</p>
<p>'I like your music,' he said.</p>
<p>'I will tell you why: because you are musically
uneducated.'</p>
<p>He looked at her; she was smiling. He wondered
whether she had overheard a whisper in the humming
room.</p>
<p>'I speak without sarcasm,' she added; 'I envy you
your early ignorance. In fact, I believe I have uttered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span>
a paradox, and that the words education and music are
incompatible. Music is the emotional art, and where
education steps in at the door emotion flies out at the
window. We should keep education for literature,
painting, architecture, and sculpture. Music is the
medium to which we turn when these more intellectual
mediums fail us.'</p>
<p>Julian listened with only half his brain. This peasant,
this artist, spoke to him with the superficial ease of
drawing-rooms; she employed words that matched ill
with her appearance and with the accent of her speech.
The native songs were right upon her lips, as the names
of architecture and sculpture were wrong. He was
offended in his sensitiveness. Demeter in analysis of
the arts!</p>
<p>She was watching him.</p>
<p>'Ah, my young friend,' she said, 'you do not understand.
I spoke to you as the cousin of Eve, who is a
child, but who always understands. She is purely
sentient, emotional.'</p>
<p>He protested,—</p>
<p>'I have always thought of Eve as exceptionally
sophisticated.'</p>
<p>Kato said,—</p>
<p>'You are right. We are both right. Eve is childlike
in many ways, but she is also wise beyond her years.
She will grow, believe me, into a woman of exceptional
attraction, and to such women existence is packed with
danger. It is one of Providence's rare pieces of justice
that they should be provided with a natural weapon of
self-defence. To a lion his claws,' she said, smiling, 'and
to the womanly woman the gift of penetration. Tell me,
are you fond of Eve?'</p>
<p>Julian was surprised. He replied, naïf again and like
a schoolboy,—</p>
<p>'She's my cousin. I haven't thought much about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span>
her. She's only a child. I haven't seen her yet either.
I arrived from England this morning.'</p>
<p>They were more than ever isolated from the rest of
the room. Madame Lafarge, talking to Don Rodrigo
Valdez, the Spanish Minister, who had a birdlike head
above his immensely high white collar, glanced now and
then resentfully at the singer, but otherwise the room
was indifferent. The sunlight between the cracks of the
Venetian blinds had grown fainter, and the many candles
were coming into their own. A few people had already
taken their leave. An excited group of men had gathered
round little Christopoulos, and the words 'local politics'
shrieked from every gesture.</p>
<p>'I shall not be expected to sing again,' said Kato with
a slight return to her ironical manner. 'Will you not
come with Eve to my concert on Wednesday? Or,
better, will you come to my house on Wednesday
evening after the concert? I shall be alone, and I should
like to talk to you.'</p>
<p>'To me?' broke from him, independently of his
will.</p>
<p>'Remember,' she said, 'I am from the Islands. That
is my country, and when my country is in trouble I am
not indifferent. You are very young, Mr Davenant,
and you are not very often in Herakleion, but your
future, when you have done with Oxford and with
England'—she made a large gesture—'lies in the
Islands. You will hear a great deal about them; a
little of this I should like you to hear from me. Will
you come?'</p>
<p>The patriot beneath the artist! He would come,
flattered, important; courted, at his nineteen years, by
a singer of European reputation. Popularity was to him
a new experience. He expanded beneath its warmth.</p>
<p>'I will come to the concert first with Eve.'</p>
<p>William Davenant, in search of his son, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span>
light-hearted in his relief at the end of the monthly duty,
was bowing to Madame Kato, whom he knew both as a
singer and as a figure of some importance in the troubled
politics of the tiny State. They had, in their lives, spent
many an hour in confabulation, when his absent-minded
manner left the man, and her acquired polish the
woman. He deferred to her as a controlling agent in
practical affairs, spoke of her to his brother with admiration.</p>
<p>'A remarkable woman, Robert, a true patriot; sexless,
I believe, so far as her patriotism lies. Malteios,
you say? well, I know; but, believe me, she uses him
merely as a means to her end. Not a sexless means?
Damn it, one picks up what weapons come to one's
hand. She hasn't a thought for him, only for her
wretched country. She is a force, I tell you, to be
reckoned with. Forget her sex! Surely that is easy,
with a woman who looks like a toad. You make the
mistake of ignoring the people when it is with the people
that you have to deal. Hear them speak about her:
she is an inspiration, a local Joan of Arc. She works
for them in Paris, in Berlin, and in London; she uses
her sex, for them and for them alone. All her life is
dedicated to them. She gives them her voice, and her
genius.'</p>
<p>Madame Kato did not know that he said these things
about her behind her back. Had she known, she would
have been surprised neither at the opinions he expressed
nor at the perception which enabled him to express
them, for she had seen in him a shrewd, deliberate
intellect that spoke little, listened gravely, and settled
soberly down at length upon a much tested and corroborated
opinion. Madame Lafarge, and the women
to whom he paid his courtly, rather pompous duty in
public, thought him dull and heavy, a true Englishman.
The men mistrusted him in company with his brother<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span>
Robert, silence, in the South, breeding mistrust as does
volubility in the North.</p>
<p>The rooms were emptier now, and the candles, burning
lower, showed long icicles of wax that overflowed on to
the glass of the chandeliers. The tall tumblers had been
set down, here and there, containing the dregs of the
coloured sirops. Madame Lafarge looked hot and weary,
drained of her early Sunday energy, and listening absently
to the parting compliments of Christopoulos. From
the other room, however, still came the laughter of the
Christopoulos sisters, who were winding up their round
game.</p>
<p>'Come, Julian,' said William Davenant, after he had
spoken and made his farewells to Madame Kato.</p>
<p>Together they went down the stairs and out into the
forecourt, where the hotter air of the day greeted them
after the coolness of the house, though the heat was no
longer that of the sun, but the closer, less glaring heat
of the atmosphere absorbed during the grilling hours of
the afternoon. The splendid chasseur handed them
their hats, and they left the Legation and walked slowly
down the crowded main street of the town.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span></p>
<h2>II</h2>
<p>The town house of the Davenants stood in the <i>platia</i>,
at right angles to the club. On the death of old Mr
Davenant—'President Davenant,' as he was nicknamed—the
town and the country properties had been
divided between the two inheriting brothers; Herakleion
said that the brothers had drawn lots for the country
house, but in point of fact the matter had been settled
by amicable arrangement. William Davenant, the elder
of the brothers, widowed, with an only son away for
three-quarters of the year at school in England, was
more conveniently installed in the town, within five
minutes reach of the central office, than Robert, who,
with a wife and a little girl, preferred the distance
of his country house and big garden. The two
establishments, as time went on, became practically
interchangeable.</p>
<p>The rue Royale—Herakleion was so cosmopolitan as
to give to its principal thoroughfare a French name—was
at this hour crowded with the population that, imprisoned
all day behind closed shutters, sought in the
evening what freshness it could find in the cobbled
streets between the stucco houses. The street life of
the town began between five and six, and the Davenants,
father and son, were jostled as they walked slowly along
the pavements, picking their way amongst the small
green tables set outside the numerous cafés. At these
tables sat the heterogenous elements that composed the
summer population of the place, men of every nationality:
old gamblers too disreputable for Monte Carlo; young
Levantines, natives, drinking absinthe; Turks in their
red fezzes; a few rakish South Americans. The trams<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span>
screamed discordantly in their iron grooves, and the
bells of the cinema tinkled unceasingly. Between the
tramlines and the kerb dawdled the hired victorias, few
empty at this time of day, but crowded with families of
Levantines, the men in straw hats, the women for the
most part in hot black, very stout, and constantly
fanning their heavily powdered faces. Now and then a
chasseur from some diplomatic house passed rapidly in
a flaming livery.</p>
<p>Mr Davenant talked to his son as they made their way
along.</p>
<p>'How terrible those parties are. I often wish I could
dissociate myself altogether from that life, and God
knows that I go merely to hear what people are saying.
They know it, and of course they will never forgive me.
Julian, in order to conciliate Herakleion, you will have
to marry a Greek.'</p>
<p>'Alexander Christopoulos attacked me to-day,' Julian
said. 'Wanted me to go to Paris with him and see the
world.'</p>
<p>He did not note in his own mind that he refrained
from saying that Madame Kato had also, so to speak,
attacked him on the dangerous subject of the Islands.</p>
<p>They turned now, having reached the end of the rue
Royale, into the <i>platia</i>, where the cavernous archway
of the club stained the white front of the houses with
a mouth of black. The houses of the <i>platia</i> were large,
the hereditary residences of the local Greek families.
The Christopoulos house stood next to the club,
and next to that was the house of the Premier, His
Excellency Platon Malteios, and next to that the
Italian Consulate, with the arms of Italy on a painted
hatchment over the door. The centre of the square was
empty, cobbled in an elaborate pattern which gave the
effect of a tessellated pavement; on the fourth side of
the square were no houses, for here lay the wide quay<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span>
which stretched right along above the sea from one
end of the town to the other.</p>
<p>The Davenant house faced the sea, and from the
balcony of his bedroom on the second floor Julian could
see the Islands, yellow with little white houses on them;
in the absolute stillness and limpidity of the air he could
count the windows on Aphros, the biggest island, and
the terraces on the slope of the hills. The first time he
had arrived from school in England he had run up to
his bedroom, out on to the balcony, to look across the
<i>platia</i> with its many gaudily striped sunblinds, at the
blue sea and the little yellow stains a few miles out from
the shore.</p>
<p>At the door of the Davenant house stood two horses
ready saddled in the charge of the door-keeper, fat
Aristotle, an islander, who wore the short bolero and
pleated fustanelle, like a kilt, of his country. The door-keepers
of the other houses had gathered round him,
but as Mr Davenant came up they separated respectfully
and melted away to their individual charges.</p>
<p>The way lay along the quays and down the now
abandoned ilex avenue. The horses' hoofs padded
softly in the thick dust. The road gleamed palely
beneath the thick shadows of the trees, and the water,
seen between the ancient trunks, was almost purple.
The sun was gone, and only the last bars of the sunset
lingered in the sky. At the tip of the pier of Herakleion
twinkled already the single light of phosphorescent
green that daily, at sunset, shone out, to reflect irregularly
in the water.</p>
<p>They passed out of the avenue into the open country,
the road still skirting the sea on their left, while on
their right lay the strip of flat country crowded in
between Mount Mylassa and the sea, carefully cultivated
by the labourers of the Davenants, where the grapes
hung on the festooned branches looped from pole to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span>
pole. William Davenant observed them critically,
thinking to himself, 'A good harvest.' Julian Davenant,
fresh from an English county, saw as with a new eye
their beauty and their luxuriance. He rode loosely in
the saddle, his long legs dangling, indisputably English,
though born in one of the big painted rooms overlooking
the <i>platia</i> of Herakleion, and reared in the country until
the age of ten. He had always heard the vintage discussed
since he could remember. He knew that his
family for three generations had been the wealthiest in
the little state, wealthier than the Greek banking-houses,
and he knew that no move of the local politics was
entirely free from the influence of his relations. His
grandfather, indeed, having been refused a concession he
wanted from the government, had roused his Islands to a
declaration of independence under his own presidency—a
state of affairs which, preposterous as it was, had
profoundly alarmed the motley band that made up the
Cabinet in Herakleion. What had been done once,
could be repeated.... Granted his concession, Julian's
grandfather had peaceably laid down the dignity of his
new office, but who could say that his sons might not
repeat the experiment?</p>
<p>These things had been always in the boy's scheme
of life. He had not pondered them very deeply. He
supposed that one day he would inherit his father's
share in the concern, and would become one of the
heads of the immense family which had spread like
water over various districts of the Mediterranean coasts.
Besides the Davenants of Herakleion, there were
Davenants at Smyrna, Davenants at Salonica, Davenants
at Constantinople. Colonies of Davenants. It was
said that the Levant numbered about sixty families of
Davenants. Julian was not acquainted with them all.
He did not even know in what degree of relationship
they stood to him.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span></p>
<p>Every time that he passed through London on his
way to school, or, now, to Oxford, he was expected to
visit his great-uncle, Sir Henry, who lived in an immense
house in Belgrave Square, and had a business room
downstairs where Julian was interviewed before luncheon.
In this room hung framed plans of the various Davenant
estates, and Julian, as he stood waiting for Sir Henry,
would study the plan of Herakleion, tracing with his
finger the line of the quays, the indent of the <i>platia</i>,
the green of the race-course, the square which indicated
the country house; in a corner of this plan were the
Islands, drawn each in separate detail. He became
absorbed, and did not notice the entrance of Sir Henry
till the old man's hand fell on his shoulder.</p>
<p>'Ha! Looking at the plan, are you? Familiar to
you, what? So it is familiar to me, my boy. Never
been there, you know. Yet I know it. I know my way
about. Know it as though I had seen it.'</p>
<p>He didn't really know it, Julian thought—he didn't
feel the sun hot on his hands, or see the dazzling, flapping
sunblinds, or the advertisements written up in Greek
characters in the streets.</p>
<p>Sir Henry went on with his sermon.</p>
<p>'You don't belong there, boy; don't you ever forget
that. You belong here. You're English. Bend the
riches of that country to your own purpose, that's
all right, but don't identify yourself with it. Impose
yourself. Make 'em adopt your methods. That's the
strength of English colonisation.'</p>
<p>The old man, who was gouty, and leaned his hands
on the top of a stick, clapped the back of one hand with
the palm of the other and blew out his lips, looking at
his great-nephew.</p>
<p>'Yes, yes, remember that. Impose yourself. On my
soul, you're a well-grown boy. What are you? nineteen?
Great overgrown colt. Get your hair cut.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span>
Foreign ways; don't approve of that. Big hands you've
got; broad shoulders. Loosely put together. Hope
you're not slack. Can you ride?'</p>
<p>'I ride all day out there,' said Julian softly, a little
bewildered.</p>
<p>'Well, well. Come to luncheon. Keep a head on
your shoulders. Your grandfather lost his once; very
foolish man. Wonder he didn't lose it altogether.
President indeed! stuff and nonsense. Not practical,
sir, not practical.' Sir Henry blew very hard. 'Let's
have no such rubbish from you, boy. What'll you
drink? Here, I'll give you the best: Herakleion, 1895.
Best year we ever had. Hope you appreciate good wine;
you're a wine-merchant, you know.'</p>
<p>He cackled loudly at his joke. Julian drank the wine
that had ripened on the slopes of Mount Mylassa, or
possibly on the Islands, and wished that the old man
had not so blatantly called him a wine-merchant. He
liked Sir Henry, although after leaving him he always
had the sensation of having been buffeted by spasmodic
gusts of wind.</p>
<p>He was thinking about Sir Henry now as he rode
along, and pitying the old man to whom those swags of
fruit meant only a dusty bottle, a red or a blue seal,
and a date stamped in gold numerals on a black label.
The light was extraordinarily tender, and the air seemed
almost tangible with the heavy, honeyed warmth that
hung over the road. Julian took off his gray felt hat
and hung it on the high peak of his saddle.</p>
<p>They passed through a little village, which was no
more than a score of tumbledown houses sown carelessly
on each side of the road; here, as in the rue Royale,
the peasants sat drinking at round tables outside the
café to the harsh music of a gramophone, with applause
and noisy laughter. Near by, half a dozen men were
playing at bowls. When they saw Mr Davenant, they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span>
came forward in a body and laid eager hands on the
neck of his horse. He reined up.</p>
<p>Julian heard the tumult of words: some one had
been arrested, it was Vassili's brother. Vassili, he knew,
was the big chasseur at the French Legation. He heard
his father soothing, promising he would look into the
matter; he would, if need be, see the Premier on the
morrow. A woman flung herself out of the café and
clasped Julian by the knee. They had taken her lover.
Would he, Julian, who was young, be merciful? Would
he urge his father's interference? He promised also
what was required of him, feeling a strange thrill of
emotion and excitement. Ten days ago he had been at
Oxford, and here, to-day, Kato had spoken to him as to
a grown man, and here in the dusk a sobbing woman was
clinging about his knee. This was a place in which
anything, fantastic or preposterous, might come to pass.</p>
<p>As they rode on, side by side, his father spoke, thinking
aloud. An absent-minded man, he gave his confidence
solely in this, so to speak, unintentional manner.
Long periods, extending sometimes over months, during
which his mind lay fallow, had as their upshot an outbreak
of this audible self-communion. Julian had
inherited the trait; his mind progressed, not regularly,
but by alternate stagnation and a forward bound.</p>
<p>'The mistake that we have made lies in the importation
of whole families of islanders to the mainland. The
Islands have always considered themselves as a thing
apart, as, indeed, historically, they always were. A
hundred years is not sufficient to make them an intrinsic
part of the State of Herakleion. I cannot wonder that
the authorities here dislike us. We have introduced a
discontented population from the Islands to spread
sedition among the hitherto contented population of the
mainland. If we were wise, we should ship the whole
lot back to the Islands they came from. Now, a man is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span>
arrested on the Islands by the authorities, and what
happens? He is the brother of Vassili, an islander living
in Herakleion. Vassili spreads the news, it flies up and
down the town, and out into the country. It has greeted
us out here already. In every café of the town at this
moment the islanders are gathered together, muttering;
some will get drunk, perhaps, and the municipal police
will intervene; from a drunken row the affair will become
political; some one will raise the cry of "Liberty!",
heads will be broken, and to-morrow a score of islanders
will be in jail. They will attribute their imprisonment
to the general hostility to their nationality, rather than
to the insignificant brawl. Vassili will come to me in
Herakleion to-morrow. Will I exercise my influence
with Malteios to get his brother released? I shall go,
perhaps, to Malteios, who will listen to me suavely,
evasively.... It has all happened a hundred times
before. I say, we ought to ship the whole lot back to
where they came from.'</p>
<p>'I suppose they are really treated with unfairness?'
Julian said, more speculation than interest in his tone.</p>
<p>'I suppose a great many people would think so. The
authorities are certainly severe, but they are constantly
provoked. And, you know, your uncle and I make it
up to the islanders in a number of private ways. Ninety
per cent. of the men on the Islands are employed by us,
and it pays us to keep them devoted to us by more
material bonds than mere sentiment; also it alleviates
their discontent, and so obviates much friction with
Herakleion.'</p>
<p>'But of course,' said Julian quickly, 'you don't allow
Malteios to suspect this?'</p>
<p>'My dear boy! what do you suppose? Malteios is
President of Herakleion. Of course, we don't mention
such things. But he knows it all very well, and winks
at it—perforce. Our understanding with Malteios is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span>
entirely satisfactory, entirely. He is on very wholesome
terms of friendly respect to us.'</p>
<p>Julian rarely pronounced himself; he did so now.</p>
<p>'If I were an islander—that is, one of a subject race—I
don't think I should be very well content to forgo
my liberty in exchange for underhand compensation
from an employer whose tactics it suited to conciliate
my natural dissatisfaction.'</p>
<p>'What a ridiculous phrase. And what ridiculous
sentiments you occasionally give vent to. No, no, the
present arrangement is as satisfactory as we can hope
to make it, always excepting that one flaw, that we ought
not to allow islanders in large numbers to live upon the
mainland.'</p>
<p>They turned in between the two white lodges of the
country house, and rode up the drive between the tall,
pungent, untidy trees of eucalyptus. The house, one-storied,
low, and covered with wistaria and bougainvillea,
glimmered white in the uncertain light. The
shutters were flung back and the open windows gaped,
oblong and black, at regular intervals on the upper floor.
On the ground level, a broad veranda stretched right
along the front of the house, and high French windows,
opening on to this, yellow with light, gave access to the
downstairs rooms.</p>
<p>'Holà!' Mr Davenant called in a loud voice.</p>
<p>'Malista, Kyrie,' a man's voice answered, and a
servant in the white fustanelle of the Islands, with
black puttees wound round his legs, and red shoes with
turned-up toes and enormous rosettes on the tip, came
running to hold the horses.</p>
<p>'They have taken Vassili's brother, Kyrie,' he said
as Mr Davenant gave him the reins.</p>
<p>Julian was already in the drawing-room, among the
chintz-covered sofas, loaded little tables, and ubiquitous
gilt chairs. Four fat columns, painted to represent<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span>
lapis-lazuli, divided the room into two halves, and from
their Corinthian capitals issued flames made of red
tinsel and painted gray smoke, which dispersed itself
realistically over the ceiling.</p>
<p>He stood in the window, absently looking out into
the garden across the veranda, where the dinner table
was laid for six. Pots of oleander and agapanthus stood
along the edge of the veranda, between the fat white
columns, with gaps between them through which one
might pass out into the garden, and beyond them in the
garden proper the fruit gleamed on the lemon-trees, and,
somewhere, the sea whispered in the dusk. The night
was calm and hot with the serenity of established summer
weather, the stars big and steady like sequins in the
summer sky. The spirit of such serenity does not brood
over England, where to-day's pretence of summer will
be broken by the fresh laughter of to-morrow's shower.
The rose must fall to pieces in the height of its beauty
beneath the fingers of sudden and capricious storm. But
here the lemons hung, swollen and heavily pendulous,
among the metallic green of their leaves, awaiting the
accomplished end of their existence, the deepening of
their gold, the fuller curve of their ripened luxuriance,
with the complacency of certainty; fruit, not for the
whim of the elements, but progressing throughout the
year steadfastly towards the hand and the basket of the
picker. Here and there the overburdened stem would
snap, and the oblong ball of greenish-gold would fall
with a soft and melancholy thud, like a sigh of regret,
upon the ground beneath the tree; would roll a little
way, and then be still. The little grove stretched in
ordered lines and spaces, from the veranda, where the
windows of the house threw rectangles of yellow light
on to the ground in the blackness, to the bottom of the
garden, where the sea washed indolently against the
rocks.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span></p>
<p>Presently he would see Eve, his eyes would meet her
mocking eyes, and they would smile at one another out
of the depths of their immemorial friendship. She was
familiar to him, so familiar that he could not remember
the time when, difficult, intractable, exasperating, subtle,
incomprehensible, she had not formed part of his life.
She was as familiar to him as the house in the <i>platia</i>,
with its big, empty drawing-room, the walls frescoed
with swinging monkeys, broken columns, and a romantic
land and seascape; as the talk about the vintage; as
the preposterous politics, always changing, yet always,
monotonously, nauseatingly, pettishly, the same. She
was not part of his life in England, the prosaic life; she
was part of his life on the Greek seaboard, unreal and
fantastic, where the most improbable happenings came
along with an air of ingenuousness, romance walking
in the garments of every day. After a week in Herakleion
he could not disentangle the real from the unreal.</p>
<p>It was the more baffling because those around him,
older and wiser than he, appeared to take the situation
for granted and to treat it with a seriousness that sometimes
led him, when, forgetful, he was off his guard, to
believe that the country was a real country and that
its statesmen, Platon Malteios, Gregori Stavridis, and
the rest, were real statesmen working soberly towards
a definite end. That its riots were revolutions; that
its factions were political parties; that its discordant,
abusive, wrangling Chamber was indeed a Senate. That
its four hundred stout soldiers, who periodically paraded
the <i>platia</i> under the command of a general in a uniform
designed by a theatrical costumier in Buda-Pesth, were
indeed an army. That the <i>platia</i> itself was a forum.
That the society was brilliant; that its liaisons had the
dignity of great passions. That his aunt, who talked
weightily and contradicted every one, including herself—the
only person who ever ventured to do such a thing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span>—was
indeed a political figure, an Egeria among the
men in whose hands lay the direction of affairs. In his
more forgetful moments, he was tempted to believe these
things, when he saw his father and his Uncle Robert,
both unbending, incisive, hard-headed business men,
believing them. As a rule, preserving his nice sense of
perspective, he saw them as a setting to Eve.</p>
<p>He was beginning to adjust himself again to the life
which faded with so extraordinary a rapidity as the
express or the steamer bore him away, three times a year,
to England. It faded always then like a photographic
proof when exposed to the light. The political jargon
was the first to go—he knew the sequence—'civil war,'
'independent archipelago,' 'overthrow of the Cabinet,'
'a threat to the Malteios party,' 'intrigues of the
Stavridists,' the well-known phrases that, through sheer
force of reiteration, he accepted without analysis; then,
after the political jargon, the familiar figures that he
saw almost daily, Sharp, his father's chief clerk; Aristotle,
the door-keeper, his tussore fustanelle hanging magisterially
from the rotundity of his portentous figure; Madame
Lafarge, erect, and upholstered like a sofa, driving in her
barouche; the young men at the club, languid and insolent
and licentious; then, after the familiar figures, the familiar
scenes; and lastly Eve herself, till he could no longer
recall the drowsy tones of her voice, or evoke her eyes,
that, though alive with malice and mockery, were yet
charged with a mystery to which he could give no name.
He was sad when these things began to fade. He clung
on to them, because they were dear, but they slipped
through his fingers like running water. Their evanescence
served only to convince him the more of their
unreality.</p>
<p>Then, England, immutable, sagacious, balanced;
Oxford, venerable and self-confident, turning the young
men of the nation as by machinery out of her mould.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span>
Law-abiding England, where men worked their way
upwards, attaining power and honour in the ripeness of
years. London, where the houses were of stone. Where
was Herakleion, stucco-built and tawdry, city of perpetually-clanging
bells, revolutions, and Prime Ministers
made and unmade in a day? Herakleion of the yellow
islands, washed by too blue a sea. Where?</p>
<p>Eve had never been to England, nor could he see any
place in England for her. She should continue to live
as she had always lived, among the vines and the
magnolias, attended by a fat old woman who, though
English, had spent so many years of her life in Herakleion
that her English speech was oddly tainted by the
southern lisp of the native Greek she had never been
able to master; old Nana, who had lost the familiarity
of one tongue without acquiring that of another; the
ideal duenna for Eve.</p>
<p>Then with a light step across the veranda a young
Greek priest came into the room by one of the French
windows, blinking and smiling in the light, dressed in
a long black soutane and black cap, his red hair rolled
up into a knob at the back of his head according to the
fashion of his church. He tripped sometimes over his
soutane as he walked, muscular and masculine inside
that feminine garment, and when he did this he would
gather it up impatiently with a hand on which grew
a pelt of wiry red hairs. Father Paul had instituted
himself as a kind of private chaplain to the Davenants.
Eve encouraged him because she thought him picturesque.
Mrs Robert Davenant found him invaluable as a lieutenant
in her campaign of control over the peasants and
villagers, over whom she exercised a despotic if benevolent
authority. He was therefore free to come and go as he
pleased.</p>
<p>The population, Julian thought, was flowing back into
his recovered world.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span></p>
<p>England and Oxford were put aside; not forgotten,
not indistinct, not faded like Herakleion was wont to
fade, but merely put aside, laid away like winter
garments in summer weather. He was once more in the
kingdom of stucco and adventure. Eve was coming
back to him, with her strange shadowy eyes and red
mouth, and her frivolity beneath which lay some force
which was not frivolous. There were women who were
primarily pretty; women who were primarily motherly;
women who, like Mrs Robert Davenant, were primarily
efficient, commanding, successful, metallic; women who,
like Kato, were consumed by a flame of purpose which
broke, hot and scorching, from their speech and burned
relentlessly in their eyes; women who were primarily
vain and trifling; he found he could crowd Eve into
no such category. He recalled her, spoilt, exquisite,
witty, mettlesome, elusive, tantalising; detached from
such practical considerations as punctuality, convenience,
reliability. A creature that, from the age of three,
had exacted homage and protection....</p>
<p>He heard her indolent voice behind him in the room,
and turned expectantly for their meeting.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span></p>
<h2>III</h2>
<p>It was, however, during his first visit to the singer's flat
that he felt himself again completely a citizen of Herakleion;
that he felt himself, in fact, closer than ever before
to the beating heart of intrigue and aspiration. Kato
received him alone, and her immediate comradely grasp
of his hand dispelled the shyness which had been induced
in him by the concert; her vigorous simplicity caused
him to forget the applause and enthusiasm he had that
afternoon seen lavished on her as a public figure; he
found in her an almost masculine friendliness and keenness
of intellect, which loosened his tongue, sharpened
his wits, set him on the path of discovery and self-expression.
Kato watched him with her little bright
eyes, nodding her approval with quick grunts; he paced
her room, talking.</p>
<p>'Does one come, ever, to a clear conception of one's
ultimate ambitions? Not one's personal ambitions, of
course; they don't count.' ('How young he is,' she
thought.) 'But to conceive clearly, I mean, exactly
what one sets out to create, and what to destroy. If
not, one must surely spend the whole of life working in
the dark? Laying in little bits of mosaic, without once
stepping back to examine the whole scheme of the
picture.... One instinctively opposes authority. One
struggles for freedom. Why? Why? What's at the
bottom of that instinct? Why are we, men, born the
instinctive enemies of order and civilisation, when order
and civilisation are the weapons and the shields we, men,
have ourselves instituted for our own protection? It's
illogical.</p>
<p>'Why do we, every one of us, refute the experience<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span>
of others, preferring to gain our own? Why do we
fight against government? why do I want to be independent
of my father? or the Islands independent of
Herakleion? or Herakleion independent of Greece?
What's this instinct of wanting to stand alone, to be
oneself, isolated, free, individual? Why does instinct
push us towards individualism, when the great wellbeing
of mankind probably lies in solidarity? when the
social system in its most elementary form starts with
men clubbing together for comfort and greater safety?
No sooner have we achieved our solidarity, our hierarchy,
our social system, our civilisation, than we want to get
away from it. A vicious circle; the wheel revolves, and
brings us back to the same point from which we started.'</p>
<p>'Yes,' said Kato, 'there is certainly an obscure
sympathy with the rebel, that lies somewhere dormant
in the soul of the most platitudinous advocate of law
and order.' She was amused by his generalisations, and
was clever enough not to force him back too abruptly
to the matter she had in mind. She thought him
ludicrously, though rather touchingly, young, both in
his ideas and his phraseology; but at the same time she
shrewdly discerned the force which was in him and which
she meant to use for her own ends. 'You,' she said to
him, 'will argue in favour of society, yet you will spend
your life, or at any rate your youth, in revolt against it.
Youth dies, you see, when one ceases to rebel. Besides,'
she added, scrutinising him, 'the time will very soon
come when you cease to argue and begin to act. Believe
me, one soon discards one's wider examinations, and
learns to content oneself with the practical business of
the moment. One's own bit of the mosaic, as you said.'</p>
<p>He felt wholesomely sobered, but not reproved; he
liked Kato's penetration, her vivid, intelligent sympathy,
and her point of view which was practical without being
cynical.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span></p>
<p>'I have come to one real conclusion,' he said, 'which
is, that pain alone is intrinsically evil, and that in the
lightening or abolition of pain one is safe in going
straight ahead; it is a bit of the mosaic worth doing.
So in the Islands....' he paused.</p>
<p>Kato repressed a smile; she was more and more
touched and entertained by his youthful, dogmatic
statements, which were delivered with a concentration
and an ardour that utterly disarmed derision. She
was flattered, too, by his unthinking confidence in
her; for she knew him by report as morose and
uncommunicative, with relapses into rough high spirits
and a schoolboy sense of farce. Eve had described him
as inaccessible....</p>
<p>'When you go, as you say, straight ahead,' he resumed,
frowning, his eyes absent.</p>
<p>Kato began to dwell, very skilfully, upon the topic
of the Islands....</p>
<p class="space-above">Certain events which Madame Kato had then predicted
to Julian followed with a suddenness, an unexpectedness,
that perplexed the mind of the inquirer
seeking, not only their origin, but their chronological
sequence. They came like a summer storm sweeping
briefly, boisterously across the land after the inadequate
warning of distant rumbles and the flash of innocuous
summer lightning. The thunder had rumbled so often,
it might be said that it had rumbled daily, and the
lightning had twitched so often in the sky, that men
remained surprised and resentful long after the rough
little tornado had passed away. They remained staring
at one another, scratching their heads under their straw
hats, or leaning against the parapet on the quays,
exploring the recesses of their teeth with the omnipresent
toothpick, and staring across the sea to those
Islands whence the storm had surely come, as though<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span>
by this intense, frowning contemplation they would
finally provide themselves with enlightenment. Groups
of men sat outside the cafés, their elbows on the tables,
advancing in tones of whispered vehemence their
individual positive theories and opinions, beating time
to their own rhetoric and driving home each cherished
point with the emphatic stab of a long cigar. In the
casino itself, with the broken windows gaping jaggedly
on to the forecourt, and the red curtains of the atrium
hanging in rags from those same windows, men stood
pointing in little knots. 'Here they stood still,' and
'From here he threw the bomb,' and those who had been
present on the day were listened to with a respect they
never in their lives had commanded before and never
would command again.</p>
<p>There was no sector of society in Herakleion that did
not discuss the matter with avidity; more, with gratitude.
Brigandage was brigandage, a picturesque but
rather <i>opéra bouffe</i> form of crime, but at the same time
an excitement was, indubitably, an excitement. The
Ministers, in their despatches to their home governments,
affected to treat the incident as the work of a
fortuitous band rather than as an organised expedition
with an underlying political significance, nevertheless
they fastened upon it as a pretext for their wit in Herakleion,
where no sardonic and departmental eye would
regard them with superior tolerance much as a grown-up
person regards the facile amusement of a child. At the
diplomatic dinner parties very little else was talked of.
At tea parties, women, drifting from house to house,
passed on as their own the witticisms they had most
recently heard, which became common property until
reclaimed from general circulation by the indignant
perpetrators. From the drawing-rooms of the French
Legation, down to village cafés where the gramophone
grated unheard and the bowls lay neglected on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span>
bowling alley, one topic reigned supreme. What nobody
knew, and what everybody wondered about, was the
attitude adopted by the Davenants in the privacy of
their country house. What spoken or unspoken understanding
existed between the inscrutable brothers?
What veiled references, or candid judgments, escaped
from William Davenant's lips as he lay back in his chair
after dinner, a glass of wine—wine of his own growing—between
his fingers? What indiscretions, that would
have fallen so delectably upon the inquisitive ears of
Herakleion, did he utter, secure in the confederacy of
his efficient and vigorous sister-in-law, of the more
negligible Robert, the untidy and taciturn Julian, the
indifferent Eve?</p>
<p>It was as universally taken for granted that the outrage
proceeded from the islanders as it was ferociously
regretted that the offenders could not, from lack of
evidence, be brought to justice. They had, at the
moment, no special grievance; only their perennial
grievances, of which everybody was tired of hearing.
The brother of Vassili, a quite unimportant labourer,
had been released; M. Lafarge had interested himself in
his servant's brother, and had made representations to
the Premier, which Malteios had met with his usual
urbane courtesy. An hour later the fellow had been
seen setting out in a rowing boat for Aphros. All,
therefore, was for the best. Yet within twenty-four
hours of this proof of leniency....</p>
<p>The élite were dining on the evening of these unexpected
occurrences at the French Legation to meet
two guests of honour, one a distinguished Albanian
statesman who could speak no language but his own,
and the other an Englishman of irregular appearances
and disappearances, an enthusiast on all matters connected
with the Near East. In the countries he visited
he was considered an expert who had the ear of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span>
English Cabinet and House of Commons, but by these
institutions he was considered merely a crank and a
nuisance. His conversation was after the style of the
more economical type of telegram, with all prepositions,
most pronouns, and a good many verbs left out; it
gained thereby in mystery what it lost in intelligibility,
and added greatly to his reputation. He and the
Albanian had stood apart in confabulation before dinner,
the Englishman arguing, expounding, striking his open
palm with the fingers of the other hand, shooting out
his limbs in spasmodic and ungraceful gestures, the
Albanian unable to put in a word, but appreciatively
nodding his head and red fez.</p>
<p>Madame Lafarge sat between them both at dinner,
listening to the Englishman as though she understood
what he was saying to her, which she did not, and
occasionally turning to the Albanian to whom she
smiled and nodded in a friendly and regretful way.
Whenever she did this he made her a profound bow and
drank her health in the sweet champagne. Here their
intercourse perforce ended.</p>
<p>Half-way through dinner a note was handed to
M. Lafarge. He gave an exclamation which silenced all
his end of the table, and the Englishman's voice was
alone left talking in the sudden hush.</p>
<p>'Turkey!' he was saying. 'Another matter! Ah,
ghost of Abdul Hamid!' and then, shaking his head
mournfully, 'world-treachery—world-conspiracy....'</p>
<p>'Ah, yes,' said Madame Lafarge, rapt, 'how true that
is, how right you are.'</p>
<p>She realised that no one else was speaking, and raised
her head interrogatively.</p>
<p>Lafarge said,—</p>
<p>'Something has occurred at the casino, but there is
no cause for alarm; nobody has been hurt. I am sending
a messenger for further details. This note explicitly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span>
says'—he consulted it again—'that no one is injured.
A mere question of robbery; an impudent and successful
attempt. A bomb has been thrown,'—('<i>Mais ils sont
donc tous apaches?</i>' cried Condesa Valdez. Lafarge
went on)—'but they say the damage is all in the atrium,
and is confined to broken windows, torn hangings, and
mirrors cracked from top to bottom. Glass lies plentifully
scattered about the floor. But I hope that before
very long we may be in possession of a little more news.'
He sent the smile of a host round the table, reassuring
in the face of anxiety.</p>
<p>A little pause, punctuated by a few broken ejaculations,
followed upon his announcement.</p>
<p>'How characteristic of Herakleion,' cried Alexander
Christopoulos, who had been anxiously searching for
something noteworthy and contemptuous to say, 'that
even with the help of a bomb we can achieve only a
disaster that tinkles.'</p>
<p>The Danish Excellency was heard to say tearfully,—</p>
<p>'A robbery! a bomb! and practically in broad daylight!
What a place, what a place!'</p>
<p>'Those Islands again, for certain!' Madame Delahaye
exclaimed, with entire absence of tact; her husband, the
French Military Attaché, frowned at her across the table;
and the diplomatists all looked down their noses.</p>
<p>Then the Englishman, seeing his opportunity, broke
out,—</p>
<p>'Very significant! all of a piece—anarchy—intrigue—no
strong hand—free peoples. Too many, too many.
Small nationalities. Chips! Cut-throats, all. So!'—he
drew his fingers with an expressive sibilant sound
across his own throat. 'Asking for trouble. Yugo-Slavs—bah!
Poles—pfui! Eastern empire, that's the thing.
Turks the only people'—the Albanian, fortunately
innocent of English, was smiling amiably as he stirred
his champagne—'great people. Armenians, wash-out.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span>
Quite right too. Herakleion, worst of all. Not even
a chip. Only the chip of a chip.'</p>
<p>'And the Islands,' said the Danish Excellency
brightly, 'want to be the chip of a chip of a chip.'</p>
<p>'Yes, yes,' said Madame Lafarge, who had been
getting a little anxious, trying to provoke a laugh, 'Fru
Thyregod has hit it as usual—<i>elle a trouvé le mot juste</i>,'
she added, thinking that if she turned the conversation
back into French it might check the Englishman's
truncated eloquence.</p>
<p>Out in the town, the quay was the centre of interest.
A large crowd had collected there, noisy in the immense
peace of the evening. Far, far out, a speck on the opal
sea, could still be distinguished the little boat in which
the three men, perpetrators of the outrage, had made
good their escape. Beyond the little boat, even less
distinct, the sea was dotted with tiny craft, the fleet
of fishing-boats from the Islands. The green light
gleamed at the end of the pier. On the quay, the
crowd gesticulated, shouted, and pointed, as the water
splashed under the ineffectual bullets from the carbines
of the police. The Chief of Police was there, giving
orders. The police motor-launch was to be got out
immediately. The crowd set up a cheer; they did not
know who the offenders were, but they would presently
have the satisfaction of seeing them brought back in
handcuffs.</p>
<p>It was at this point that the entire Lafarge dinner-party
debouched upon the quay, the women wrapped
in their light cloaks, tremulous and excited, the men
affecting an amused superiority. They were joined by
the Chief of Police, and by the Christopoulos, father
and son. It was generally known, though never openly
referred to, that the principal interest in the casino
was held by them, a fact which explained the saffron-faced
little banker's present agitation.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span></p>
<p>'The authorities must make better dispositions,' he
kept saying to Madame Lafarge. 'With this example
before them, half the blackguards of the country-side
will be making similar attempts. It is too absurdly
easy.'</p>
<p>He glared at the Chief of Police.</p>
<p>'Better dispositions,' he muttered, 'better dispositions.'</p>
<p>'This shooting is ridiculous,' Alexander said impatiently,
'the boat is at least three miles away. What
do they hope to kill? a fish? Confound the dusk.
How soon will the launch be ready?'</p>
<p>'It will be round to the steps at any moment now,'
said the Chief of Police, and he gave an order in an
irritable voice to his men, who had continued to let
off their carbines aimlessly and spasmodically.</p>
<p>In spite of his assurance, the launch did not appear.
The Englishman was heard discoursing at length to
Madame Lafarge, who, at regular intervals, fervently
agreed with what he had been saying, and the Danish
Excellency whispered and tittered with young Christopoulos.
Social distinctions were sharply marked: the
diplomatic party stood away from the casual crowd,
and the casual crowd stood away from the rabble. Over
all the dusk deepened, one or two stars came out, and
the little boat was no longer distinguishable from the
fishing fleet with its triangular sails.</p>
<p>Finally, throbbing, fussing, important, the motor-launch
came churning to a standstill at the foot of the
steps. The Chief of Police jumped in, Alexander followed
him, promising that he would come straight to the
French Legation on his return and tell them exactly
what had happened.</p>
<p>In the mirrored drawing-rooms, three hours later,
he made his recital. The gilt chairs were drawn round
in a circle, in the middle of which he stood, aware that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span>
the Danish Excellency was looking at him, enraptured,
with her prominent blue eyes.</p>
<p>'Of course, in spite of the start they had had, we knew
that they stood no chance against a motor-boat, no
chance whatsoever. They could not hope to reach
Aphros before we overtook them. We felt quite confident
that it was only a question of minutes. We agreed that
the men must have been mad to imagine that they
could make good their escape in that way. Sterghiou
and I sat in the stern, smoking and talking. What
distressed us a little was that we could no longer see
the boat we were after, but you know how quickly the
darkness comes, so we paid very little attention to that.</p>
<p>'Presently we came up with the fishing smacks from
Aphros, and they shouted to us to keep clear of their
tackle—impudence. We shut off our engines while we
made inquiries from them as to the rowing-boat. Rowing-boat?
they looked blank. They had seen no
rowing-boat—no boat of any sort, other than their own.
The word was passed, shouting, from boat to boat of
the fleet; no one had seen a rowing-boat. Of course they
were lying; how could they not be lying? but the
extraordinary fact remained'—he made an effective
pause—'there was no sign of a rowing-boat anywhere
on the sea.'</p>
<p>A movement of appreciative incredulity produced
itself among his audience.</p>
<p>'Not a sign!' Alexander repeated luxuriously. 'The
sea lay all round us without a ripple, and the fishing
smacks, although they were under full sail, barely
moved. It was so still that we could see their reflection
unbroken in the water. There might have been twenty
of them, dotted about—twenty crews of bland liars.
We were, I may as well admit it, nonplussed. What
can you do when you are surrounded by smiling and
petticoated liars, leaning against their masts, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span>
persisting in idiotic blankness to all your questions?
Denial, denial, was all their stronghold. They had seen
nothing. But they must be blind to have seen
nothing? They were very sorry, they had seen nothing
at all. Would the gentlemen look round for themselves,
they would soon be satisfied that nothing was in sight.</p>
<p>'As for the idea that the boat had reached Aphros
in the time at their disposal, it was absolutely out of
the question.</p>
<p>'I could see that Sterghiou was getting very angry;
I said nothing, but I think he was uncomfortable
beneath my silent criticism. He and his police could
regulate the traffic in the rue Royale, but they could
not cope with an emergency of this sort. From the
very first moment they had been at fault. And they
had taken at least twenty minutes to get out the motor-launch.
Sterghiou hated me, I feel sure, for having
accompanied him and seen his discomfiture.</p>
<p>'Anyway, he felt he must take some sort of action, so
he ordered his men to search all the fishing smacks in
turn. We went the round, a short throbbing of the
motors, and then silence as we drew alongside and the
men went on board. Of course, they found nothing.
I watched the faces of the islanders during this inspection;
they sat on the sides of their boats, busy with
their nets, and pretending not to notice the police that
moved about, turning everything over in their inefficient
way, but I guessed their covert grins, and I swear I
caught two of them winking at one another. If I had
told this to Sterghiou, I believe he would have arrested
them on the spot, he was by then in such a state of
exasperation, but you can't arrest a man on a wink,
especially a wink when darkness has very nearly come.</p>
<p>'And there the matter remains. We had found
nothing, and we were obliged to turn round and come
back again, leaving that infernally impudent fleet of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span>
smacks in possession of the battle-ground. Oh, yes,
there is no doubt that they got the best of it. Because,
naturally, we have them to thank.'</p>
<p>'Have you a theory, Alexander?' some one asked, as
they were intended to ask.</p>
<p>Alexander shrugged.</p>
<p>'It is so obvious. A knife through the bottom of
the boat would very quickly send her to the bottom,
and a shirt and a fustanelle will very quickly transform
a respectable bank-thief into an ordinary islander.
Who knows that the two ruffians I saw winking were not
the very men we were after? A sufficiently ingenious
scheme altogether—too ingenious for poor Sterghiou.'</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span></p>
<h2>IV</h2>
<p>These things came, made their stir, passed, and were
forgotten, leaving only a quickened ripple upon the
waters of Herakleion, of which Julian Davenant, undergraduate,
aged nineteen, bordering upon twenty, was
shortly made aware. He had arrived from England
with no other thought in his mind than of his riding,
hawking, and sailing, but found himself almost immediately
netted in a tangle of affairs of which, hitherto, he
had known only by the dim though persistent echoes
which reached him through the veils of his deliberate
indifference. He found now that his indifference was
to be disregarded. Men clustered round him, shouting,
and tearing with irascible hands at his unsubstantial
covering. He was no longer permitted to remain a boy.
The half-light of adolescence was peopled for him by
a procession of figures, fortunately distinct by virtue
of their life-long familiarity, figures that urged and
upbraided him, some indignant, some plaintive, some
reproachful, some vehement, some dissimulating and
sly; many vociferous, all insistent; a crowd of human
beings each playing his separate hand, each the expounder
of his own theory, rooted in his own conviction; a
succession of intrigues, men who took him by the arm,
and, leading him aside, discoursed to him, a strange
medley of names interlarding their discourse with concomitant
abuse or praise; men who flattered him; men
who sought merely his neutrality, speaking of his
years in tones of gentle disparagement. Men who,
above all, would not leave him alone. Who, by
their persecution, even those who urged his youth
as an argument in favour of his neutrality,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span>
demonstrated to him that he had, as a man, entered
the arena.</p>
<p>For his part, badgered and astonished, he took refuge
in a taciturnity which only tantalised his pursuers into
a more zealous aggression. His opinions were unknown
in the club where the men set upon him from the first
moment of his appearance. He would sit with his legs
thrown over the arm of a leather arm-chair, loose-limbed
and gray-flannelled, his mournful eyes staring out of
the nearest window, while Greek, diplomat, or foreigner
argued at him with gesture and emphasis. They
seemed to him, had they but known, surprisingly
unreal for all their clamour, pompous and yet insignificant.</p>
<p>His father was aware of the attacks delivered on his
son, but, saying nothing, allowed the natural and varied
system of education to take its course. He saw him
standing, grave and immovable, in the surging crowd
of philosophies and nationalities, discarding the charlatan
by some premature wisdom, and assimilating the rare
crumbs of true worldly experience. He himself was
ignorant of the thoughts passing in the boy's head. He
had forgotten the visionary tumult of nineteen, when
the storm of life flows first over the pleasant, easy meadows
of youth. Himself now a sober man, he had forgotten,
so completely that he had ceased to believe in, the
facile succession of convictions, the uprooting of beliefs,
the fanatical acceptance of newly proffered creeds. He
scarcely considered, or he might perhaps not so readily
have risked, the possible effect of the queer systems
of diverse ideals picked up, unconsciously, and put
together from the conversation of the mountebank
administrators of that tiny state, the melodramatic
champions of the oppressed poor, and the professional
cynicism of dago adventurers. If, sometimes, he wondered
what Julian made of the talk that had become a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span>
jargon, he dismissed his uneasiness with a re-affirmation
of confidence in his impenetrability.</p>
<p>'Broaden his mind,' he would say. 'It won't hurt
him. It doesn't go deep. Foam breaking upon a rock.'</p>
<p>So might Sir Henry have spoken, to whom the swags
of fruit were but the vintage of a particular year, put
into a labelled bottle.</p>
<p>Julian had gone more than once out of a boyish
curiosity to hear the wrangle of the parties in the
Chamber. Sitting up in the gallery, and leaning his
arms horizontally on the top of the brass railing, he had
looked down on the long tables covered with red baize,
whereon reposed, startlingly white, a square sheet of
paper before the seat of each deputy, and a pencil, carefully
sharpened, alongside. He had seen the deputies
assemble, correctly frock-coated, punctiliously shaking
hands with one another, although they had probably
spent the morning in one another's company at the
club—the club was the natural meeting-place of the
Greeks and the diplomats, while the foreigners, a doubtful
lot, congregated either in the gambling-rooms or in
the <i>jardin anglais</i> of the casino. He had watched them
taking their places with a good deal of coughing, throat-clearing,
and a certain amount of expectoration. He
had seen the Premier come in amid a general hushing of
voices, and take his seat in the magisterial arm-chair
in the centre of the room, behind an enormous ink-pot,
pulling up the knees of his trousers and smoothing his
beard away from his rosy lips with the tips of his fingers
as he did so. Julian's attention had strayed from the
formalities attendant upon the opening of the session,
and his eyes had wandered to the pictures hanging on
the walls: Aristidi Patros, the first Premier, after the
secession from Greece, b. 1760, d. 1831, Premier of the
Republic of Herakleion from 1826 to 1830; Pericli
Anghelis, general, 1774-1847; Constantine Stavridis,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span>
Premier from 1830 to 1835, and again from 1841 to 1846,
when he died assassinated. The portraits of the other
Premiers hung immediately below the gallery where
Julian could not see them. At the end of the room,
above the doors, hung a long and ambitious painting
executed in 1840 and impregnated with the romanticism
of that age, representing the Declaration of Independence
in the <i>platia</i> of Herakleion on the 16th September—kept
as an ever memorable and turbulent anniversary—1826.
The Premier, Patros, occupied the foreground, declaiming
from a scroll of parchment, and portrayed as a
frock-coated young man of godlike beauty; behind him
stood serried ranks of deputies, and in the left-hand
corner a group of peasants, like an operatic chorus,
tossed flowers from baskets on to the ground at his feet.
The heads of women clustered at the windows of the
familiar houses of the <i>platia</i>, beneath the fluttering flags
with the colours of the new Republic, orange and green.</p>
<p>Julian always thought that a portrait of his grandfather,
for twelve months President of the collective
archipelago of Hagios Zacharie, should have been included
among the notables.</p>
<p>He had tried to listen to the debates which followed
upon the formal preliminaries; to the wrangle of
opponents; to the clap-trap patriotism which so thinly
veiled the desire of personal advancement; to the
rodomontade of Panaïoannou, Commander-in-Chief of
the army of four hundred men, whose sky-blue uniform
and white breeches shone among all the black coats with
a resplendency that gratified his histrionic vanity; to
the bombastic eloquence which rolled out from the
luxuriance of the Premier's beard, with a startling and
deceptive dignity in the trappings of the ancient and
classic tongue. Malteios used such long, such high-sounding
words, and struck his fist upon the red baize
table with such emphatic energy, that it was hard not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span>
to believe in the authenticity of his persuasion. Julian
welcomed most the moments when, after a debate of an
hour or more, tempers grew heated, and dignity—that
is to say, the pretence of the sobriety of the gathering—was
cast aside in childish petulance.</p>
<p>'The fur flew,' said Julian, who had enjoyed himself.
'Christopoulos called Panaïoannou a fire-eater, and
Panaïoannou called Christopoulos a money-grubber.
"Where would you be without my money?" "Where
would you be without my army?" "Army! can the
valiant general inform the Chamber how many of his
troops collapsed from exhaustion on the <i>platia</i> last
Independence Day, and had to be removed to the
hospital?" And so on and so forth. They became so
personal that I expected the general at any moment to
ask Christopoulos how many unmarried daughters he
had at home.'</p>
<p>Malteios himself, president of the little republic, most
plausible and empiric of politicians, was not above the
discussion of current affairs with the heir of the Davenants
towards whom, it was suspected, the thoughts of the
islanders were already turning. The President was
among those who adopted the attitude of total discouragement.
The interference of a headstrong and no
doubt Quixotic schoolboy would be troublesome; might
become disastrous. Having dined informally with the
Davenant brothers at their country house, he crossed
the drawing-room after dinner, genial, a long cigar
protruding from his mouth, to the piano in the corner
where Eve and Julian were turning over some sheets of
music.</p>
<p>'May an old man,' he said with his deliberate but
nevertheless charming suavity, 'intrude for a moment
upon the young?'</p>
<p>He sat down, removing his cigar, and discoursed for
a little upon the advantages of youth. He led the talk<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span>
to Julian's Oxford career, and from there to his future
in Herakleion.</p>
<p>'A knotty little problem, as you will some day find—not,
I hope, for your own sake, until a very remote
some day. Perhaps not until I and my friend and
opponent Gregori Stavridis are figures of the past,' he
said, puffing smoke and smiling at Julian; 'then perhaps
you will take your place in Herakleion and bring your
influence to bear upon your very difficult and contrary
Islands. Oh, very difficult, I assure you,' he continued,
shaking his head. 'I am a conciliatory man myself, and
not unkindly, I think I may say; they would find
Gregori Stavridis a harder taskmaster than I. They are
the oldest cause of dispute, your Islands, between
Gregori Stavridis and myself. Now see,' he went on,
expanding, 'they lie like a belt of neutral territory, your
discontented, your so terribly and unreasonably discontented
Islands, between me and Stavridis. We may
agree upon other points; upon that point we continually
differ. He urges upon the Senate a policy of severity
with which I cannot concur. I wish to compromise, to
keep the peace, but he is, alas! perpetually aggressive.
He invades the neutral zone, as it were, from the west—periodical
forays—and I am obliged to invade it from
the east; up till now we have avoided clashing in the
centre.' Malteios, still smiling, sketched the imaginary
lines of his illustration on his knee with the unlighted
tip of his cigar. 'I would coax, and he would force, the
islanders to content and friendliness.'</p>
<p>Julian listened, knowing well that Malteios and Stavridis,
opponents from an incorrigible love of opposition
for opposition's sake, rather than from any genuine
diversity of conviction, had long since seized upon the
Islands as a convenient pretext. Neither leader had
any very definite conception of policy beyond the desire,
respectively, to remain in, or to get himself into, power.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span>
Between them the unfortunate Islands, pulled like a rat
between two terriers, were given ample cause for the
discontent of which Malteios complained. Malteios, it
was true, adopted the more clement attitude, but for
this clemency, it was commonly said, the influence of
Anastasia Kato was alone responsible.</p>
<p>Through the loud insistent voices of the men, Julian
was to remember in after years the low music of that
woman's voice, and to see, as in a vignette, the picture
of himself in Kato's flat among the cushions of her
divan, looking again in memory at the photographs and
ornaments on the shelf that ran all round the four walls
of the room, at the height of the top of a dado. These
ornaments appeared to him the apotheosis of cosmopolitanism.
There were small, square wooden
figures from Russia, a few inches high, and brightly
coloured; white and gray Danish china; little silver
images from Spain; miniature plants of quartz and jade;
Battersea snuff-boxes; photographs of an Austrian
archduke in a white uniform and a leopard-skin, of a
Mexican in a wide sombrero, mounted on a horse and
holding a lasso, of Mounet-Sully as the blinded Œdipus.
Every available inch of space in the singer's room was
crowded with these and similar trophies, and the shelf
had been added to take the overflow. Oriental embroideries,
heavily silvered, were tacked up on the walls, and
on them again were plates and brackets, the latter carrying
more ornaments; high up in one corner was an ikon,
and over the doors hung open-work linen curtains from
the bazaars of Constantinople. Among the many ornaments
the massive singer moved freely and spaciously,
creating havoc as she moved, so that Julian's dominating
impression remained one of setting erect again the
diminutive objects she had knocked over. She would
laugh good-humouredly at herself, and would give him
unequalled Turkish coffee in little handleless cups, like<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span>
egg-cups, off a tray of beaten brass set on a small
octagonal table inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and all the
while she would talk to him musically, earnestly, bending
forward, and her restless fingers would turn the bangles
round and round upon her arms.</p>
<p>He could not think Kato unreal, though many of the
phrases upon her lips were the same as he heard from
the men in the club; he could not think her unreal,
when her voice broke over the words 'misery' and
'oppression,' and when her eyes burned their conviction
into his. He began to believe in the call of the Islands,
as he listened to the soft, slurring speech of their people
in her voice, and discovered, listening to her words with
only half his mind, the richness of the grapes in the
loose coils of her dark hair, and the fulvous colouring
of the Islands in the copper draperies she always affected.
It seemed to Julian that, at whatever time of day he
saw her, whether morning, afternoon, or evening, she
was always wearing the same dress, but he supposed
vaguely that this could not actually be so. Like his
father, he maintained her as a woman of genuine
patriotic ardour, dissociating her from Herakleion
and its club and casino, and associating her with the
Islands where injustice and suffering, at least, were
true things. He lavished his enthusiasm upon her, and
his relations learned to refrain, in his presence, from
making the usual obvious comments on her appearance.
He looked upon her flat as a sanctuary and a shrine. He
fled one day in disgust and disillusionment when the
Premier appeared with his ingratiating smile in the
doorway. Julian had known, of course, of the liaison, but
was none the less distressed and nauseated when it
materialised beneath his eyes.</p>
<p>He fled to nurse his soul-sickness in the country,
lying on his back at full length under the olive-trees on
the lower slopes of Mount Mylassa, his hands beneath<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span>
his head, his horse moving near by and snuffing for
pasture on the bare terraces. The sea, to-day of the
profoundest indigo, sparkled in the sun below, and
between the sea and the foot of the mountain, plainly,
as in an embossed map, stretched the strip of flat
cultivated land where he could distinguish first the dark
ilex avenue, then the ribbon of road, then the village,
finally the walled plantation which was his uncle's
garden, and the roofs of the low house in the centre.
The bougainvillea climbing over the walls and roof of
his uncle's house made a warm stain of magenta.</p>
<p>Herakleion was hidden from sight, on the other hand,
by the curve of the hill, but the Islands were visible
opposite, and, caring only for them, he gazed as he had
done many times, but now their meaning and purport
crystallised in his mind as never before. There was something
symbolical in their detachment from the mainland—in
their clean remoteness, their isolation; all the
difference between the unfettered ideal and the tethered
reality. An island land that had slipped the leash of
continents, forsworn solidarity, cut adrift from security
and prudence! One could readily believe that they made
part of the divine, the universal discontent, that rare
element, dynamic, life-giving, that here and there was
to be met about the world, always fragmentary, yet
always full and illuminating, even as the fragments of
beauty.</p>
<p>This was a day which Julian remembered, marked,
as it were, with an asterisk in the calendar of his mind,
by two notes which he found awaiting him on his
return to the house in the <i>platia</i>. Aristotle handed them
to him as he dismounted at the door.</p>
<p>The first he opened was from Eve.</p>
<blockquote><p>'I am so angry with you, Julian. What have you done
to my Kato? I found her in tears. She says you were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span>
with her when the Premier came, and that you vanished
without a word.</p>
<p>'I know your <i>sauts de gazelle</i>; you are suddenly bored or
annoyed, and you run away. Very naïf, very charming,
very candid, very fawn-like—or is it, hideous suspicion,
a pose?'</p></blockquote>
<p>He was surprised and hurt by her taunt. One did
not wish to remain, so one went away; it seemed to
him very simple.</p>
<p>The second note was from Kato.</p>
<blockquote><p>'Julian, forgive me,' it ran; 'I did not know he was
coming. Forgive me. Send me a message to say when
I shall see you. I did not know he was coming. Forgive
me.'</p></blockquote>
<p>He read these notes standing in the drawing-room
with the palely-frescoed walls. He looked up from
reading them, and encountered the grinning faces of the
painted monkeys and the perspective of the romantic
landscape. The colours were faint, and the rough grain
of the plaster showed through in tiny lumps. Why
should Kato apologise to him for the unexpected arrival
of her lover? It was not his business. He sat down
and wrote her a perfectly polite reply to say that he had
nothing to forgive and had no intention of criticising
her actions. The sense of unreality was strong within
him.</p>
<p class="space-above">It seemed that he could not escape the general
determination to involve him, on one side or the other,
in the local affairs. Besides the men at the club, Sharp,
the head clerk at the office, spoke to him—'The people
look to you, Mr Julian; better keep clear of the Islands
if you don't want a crowd of women hanging round
kissing your hands--Vassili, the chasseur, murmured<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span>
to him in the hall when he went to dine at the French
Legation; Walters, the <i>Times</i> correspondent in Herakleion,
winked to him with a man to man expression that
flattered the boy.</p>
<p>'I know the Balkans inside out, mind you; nearly
lost my head to the Bulgars and my property to the
Serbs; I've been held to ransom by Albanian brigands,
and shot at in the streets of Athens on December the
second; I've had my rooms ransacked by the police,
and I could have been a rich man now if I'd accepted
half the bribes that I've had offered me. So you can
have my advice, if you care to hear it, and that is, hold
your tongue till you're sure you know your own mind.'</p>
<p>The women, following the lead, chattered to him.
He had never known such popularity. It was hard, at
times, to preserve his non-committal silence, yet he
knew, ignorant and irresolute, that therein lay his only
hope of safety. They must not perceive that they had
taken him unawares, that he was hopelessly at sea in
the mass of names, reminiscences, and prophecies that
they showered upon him. They must not suspect that
he really knew next to nothing about the situation....</p>
<p>He felt his way cautiously and learnt, and felt his
strength growing.</p>
<p>In despite of Sharp's warning, he went across to the
Islands, taking with him Father Paul. Eve exclaimed
that he took the priest solely from a sense of the suitability
of a retinue, and Julian, though he denied the
charge, did not do so very convincingly. He had
certainly never before felt the need of a retinue. He
had always spent at least a week of his holidays on
Aphros, taking his favourite hawk with him, and living
either in his father's house in the village, or staying
with the peasants. When he returned, he was always
uncommunicative as to how he had passed his time.</p>
<p>Because he felt the stirring of events in the air, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span>
because he knew from signs and hints dropped to him
that his coming was awaited with an excited expectancy,
he chose to provide himself with the dignity of an
attendant. He had, characteristically, breathed no
word of his suspicions, but moved coldly self-reliant in
the midst of his uncertainties. Father Paul only thought
him more than usually silent as he busied himself with
the sail of his little boat and put out to sea from the
pier of Herakleion. Aphros lay ahead, some seven or
eight miles—a couple of hours' sailing in a good breeze.</p>
<p>His white sails were observed some way off by the
villagers, who by chance were already assembled at the
weekly market in the village square. They deserted the
pens and stalls to cluster round the top of the steps
that descended, steep as an upright ladder, and cut in
the face of the rock, from the market place straight
down to the sea, where the white foam broke round the
foot of the cliff. Julian saw the coloured crowd from
his boat; he distinguished faces as he drew nearer, and
made out the flutter of handkerchiefs from the hands of
the women. The village hung sheerly over the sea, the
face of the white houses flat with the face of the brown
rocks, the difference of colour alone betraying where the
one began and the other ended, as though some giant
carpenter had planed away all inequalities of surface
from the eaves down to the washing water. The fleet
of fishing-boats, their bare, graceful masts swaying a
little from the perpendicular as the boats ranged gently
at their moorings with the sigh of the almost imperceptible
waves, lay like resting seagulls in the harbour.</p>
<p>'They are waiting to welcome you—feudal, too
feudal,' growled Father Paul, who, though himself the
creature and dependent of the Davenants, loudly upheld
his democratic views for the rest of mankind.</p>
<p>'And why?' muttered Julian. 'This has never
happened before. I have been away only four months.'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span></p>
<p>Three fishermen wearing the white kilted fustanelle
and tasselled shoes were already on the jetty with hands
outstretched to take his mooring-rope. Eager faces
looked down from above, and a hum went through the
little crowd as Julian sprang on to the jetty, the boat
rocking as his weight released it—a hum that died slowly,
like the note of an organ, fading harmoniously into a
complete silence. Paul knew suddenly that the moment
was significant. He saw Julian hesitate, faltering as it
were between sea and land, his dark head and broad
shoulders framed in an immensity of blue, the cynosure
of the crowd above, still silent and intent upon his
actions. He hesitated until his hesitation became
apparent to all. Paul saw that his hands were shut and
his face stern. The silence of the crowd was becoming
oppressive, when a woman's voice rang out like a bell
in the pellucid air,—</p>
<p>'Liberator!'</p>
<p>Clear, sudden, and resonant, the cry vibrated and
hung upon echo, so that the mind followed it, when it
was no more heard, round the island coast, where it
ran up into the rocky creeks, and entered upon the
breeze into the huts of goat-herds on the hill. Julian
slowly raised his head as at a challenge. He looked up
into the furnace of eyes bent upon him, lustrous eyes
in the glow of faces tanned to a golden brown, finding
in all the same query, the same expectancy, the same
breathless and suspended confidence. For a long
moment he gazed up, and they gazed down, challenge,
acceptance, homage, loyalty, devotion, and covenant
passing unspoken between them; then, his hesitation
a dead and discarded thing, he moved forward and set
his foot firmly upon the lowest step. The silence of the
crowd was broken by a single collective murmur.</p>
<p>The crowd—which consisted of perhaps not more than
fifty souls, men and women—parted at the top as his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span>
head and shoulders appeared on the level of the market-place.
Paul followed, tripping over his soutane on the
ladder-like stairs. He saw Julian's white shoes climbing,
climbing the flight, until the boy stood deliberately upon
the market-place. A few goats were penned up for sale
between wattled hurdles, bleating for lost dams or kids;
a clothes-stall displayed highly-coloured handkerchiefs,
boleros for the men, silk sashes, puttees, tasselled caps,
and kilted fustanelles; a fruit-stall, lined with bright
blue paper, was stacked from floor to ceiling with
oranges, figs, bunches of grapes, and scarlet tomatoes.
An old woman, under an enormous green umbrella, sat
hunched on the back of a tiny gray donkey.</p>
<p>Julian stood, grave and moody, surveying the people
from under lowered brows. They were waiting for him
to speak to them, but, as a contrast to the stifled
volubility seething in their own breasts, his stillness,
unexpected and surprising, impressed them more than
any flow of eloquence. He seemed to have forgotten
about them, though his eyes dwelt meditatively on
their ranks; he seemed remote, preoccupied; faintly
disdainful, though tolerant, of the allegiance they had
already, mutely, laid at his feet, and were prepared to
offer him in terms of emotional expression. He seemed
content to take this for granted. He regarded them for
a space, then turned to move in the direction of his
father's house.</p>
<p>The people pressed forward after him, a whispering
and rustling bodyguard, disconcerted but conquered
and adoring. Their numbers had been increased since
the news of his landing had run through the town.
Fishermen, and labourers from olive-grove and vineyard,
men whose lives were lived in the sun, their
magnificent bare throats and arms glowed like nectarines
in the white of the loose shirts they wore. Knotted
handkerchiefs were about their heads, and many of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span>
them wore broad hats of rough straw over the handkerchief.
Ancestrally more Italian than Greek, for the
original population of the archipelago of Hagios Zacharie
had, centuries before, been swamped by the settlements
of colonising Genoese, they resembled the peasants of
southern Italy.</p>
<p>The headman of the village walked with them,
Tsantilas Tsigaridis, sailor and fisherman since he could
remember, whose skin was drawn tightly over the fine
bony structure of his face, and whose crisp white hair
escaped in two bunches over his temples from under the
red handkerchief he wore; he was dressed, incongruously
enough, in a blue English jersey which Mrs
Davenant had given him, and a coffee-coloured fustanelle.
Behind the crowd, as though he were shepherding them,
Nico Zapantiotis, overseer of the Davenant vineyards,
walked with a long pole in his hand, a white sheepdog
at his heels, and a striped blue and white shirt fluttering
round his body, open at the throat, and revealing the
swelling depth of his hairy chest. Between these two
notables pressed the crowd, bronzed and coloured, eyes
eager and attentive and full of fire, a gleam of silver
ear-rings among the shiny black ringlets. Bare feet and
heelless shoes shuffled alike over the cobbles.</p>
<p>At the end of the narrow street, where the children
ran out as in the story of the Pied Piper to join in the
progress, the doorway of the Davenant house faced them.</p>
<p>It was raised on three steps between two columns.
The monastery had been a Genoese building, but the
Greek influence was unmistakable in the columns and
the architrave over the portico. Julian strode forward
as though unconscious of his following. Paul became
anxious. He hurried alongside.</p>
<p>'You must speak to these people,' he whispered.</p>
<p>Julian mounted the steps and turned in the dark
frame of the doorway. The people had come to a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span>
standstill, filling the narrow street. It was now they who
looked up to Julian, and he who looked down upon
them, considering them, still remote and preoccupied,
conscious that here and now the seed sown in the club-rooms
must bear its fruit, that life, grown impatient
of waiting for a summons he did not give, had come to
him of its own accord and ordered him to take the
choice of peace or war within its folded cloak. If he had
hoped to escape again to England with a decision still
untaken, that hope was to be deluded. He was being
forced and hustled out of his childhood into the responsibilities
of a man. He could not plead the nebulousness
of his mind; action called to him, loud and insistent.
In vain he told himself, with the frown deepening between
his brows, and the people who watched him torn with
anxiety before that frown—in vain he told himself that
the situation was fictitious, theatrical. He could not
convince himself of this truth with the fire of the people's
gaze directed upon him. He must speak to them; they
were silent, expectant, waiting. The words broke from
him impelled, as he thought, by his terror of his own
helplessness and lack of control, but to his audience
they came as a command, a threat, and an invitation.</p>
<p>'What is it you want of me?'</p>
<p>He stood on the highest of the three steps, alone, the
back of his head pressed against the door, and a hand
on each of the flanking columns. The black-robed
priest had taken his place below him, to one side, on
the ground level. Julian felt a sudden resentment
against these waiting people, that had driven him to
bay, the resentment of panic and isolation, but to them,
his attitude betraying nothing, he appeared infallible,
dominating, and inaccessible.</p>
<p>Tsantilas Tsigaridis came forward as spokesman,
a gold ring hanging in the lobe of one ear, and a heavy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span>
silver ring shining dully on the little finger of his brown,
knotted hand.</p>
<p>'Kyrie,' he said, 'Angheliki Zapantiotis has hailed
you. We are your own people. By the authorities we
are persecuted as though we were Bulgars, we, their
brothers in blood. Last week a score of police came in
boats from Herakleion and raided our houses in search
of weapons. Our women ran screaming to the vineyards.
Such weapons as the police could find were but
the pistols we carry for ornament on the feast-days of
church, and these they removed, for the sake, as we
know, not being blind, of the silver on the locks which
they will use to their own advantage. By such persecutions
we are harried. We may never know when a hand
will not descend on one of our number, on a charge of
sedition or conspiracy, and he be seen no more. We are not
organised for resistance. We are blind beasts, leaderless.'</p>
<p>A woman in the crowd began to sob, burying her
face in her scarlet apron. A man snarled his approval
of the spokesman's words, and spat violently into the
gutter.</p>
<p>'And you demand of me?' said Julian, again breaking
his silence. 'Championship? leadership? You cannot
say you are unjustly accused of sedition! What report
of Aphros could I carry to Herakleion?'</p>
<p>He saw the people meek, submissive, beneath his
young censure, and the knowledge of his power surged
through him like a current through water.</p>
<p>'Kyrie,' said the old sailor, reproved, but with the
same inflexible dignity, 'we know that we are at your
mercy. But we are your own people. We have been
the people of your people for four generations. The
authorities have torn even the painting of your grandfather
from the walls of our assembly room....'</p>
<p>'Small blame to them,' thought Julian; 'that shows
their good sense.'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span></p>
<p>Tsantilas pursued,—</p>
<p>' ... we are left neither public nor private liberty.
We are already half-ruined by the port-dues which are
directed against us islanders and us alone.' A crafty
look came into his eyes. 'Here, Kyrie, you should be
in sympathy.'</p>
<p>Julian's moment of panic had passed; he was now
conscious only of his complete control. He gave way
to the anger prompted by the mercenary trait of the
Levantine that marred the man's natural and splendid
dignity.</p>
<p>'What sympathy I may have,' he said loudly, 'is
born of compassion, and not of avaricious interest.'</p>
<p>He could not have told what instinct urged him to
rebuke these people to whose petition he was decided
to yield. He observed that with each fresh reproof
they cringed the more.</p>
<p>'Compassion, Kyrie, and proprietary benevolence,'
Tsantilas rejoined, recognising his mistake. 'We know
that in you we find a disinterested mediator. We pray
to God that we may be allowed to live at peace with
Herakleion. We pray that we may be allowed to place
our difficulties and our sorrows in your hands for a
peaceful settlement.'</p>
<p>Julian looked at him, majestic as an Arab and more
cunning than a Jew, and a slightly ironical smile wavered
on his lips.</p>
<p>'Old brigand,' he thought, 'the last thing he wants
is to live at peace with Herakleion; he's spoiling for a
stand-up fight. Men on horses, himself at their head,
charging the police down this street, and defending our
house like a beleaguered fort; rifles cracking from every
window, and the more police corpses the better. May
I be there to see it!'</p>
<p>His mind flew to Eve, whom he had last seen lying
in a hammock, drowsy, dressed in white, and breathing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span>
the scent of the gardenia she held between her fingers.
What part would she, the spoilt, the exquisite, play if
there were to be bloodshed on Aphros?</p>
<p>All this while he was silent, scowling at the multitude,
who waited breathless for his next words.</p>
<p>'Father will half kill me,' he thought.</p>
<p>At that moment Tsigaridis, overcome by his anxiety,
stretched out his hands towards him, surrendering his
dignity in a supreme appeal,—</p>
<p>'Kyrie? I have spoken.'</p>
<p>He dropped his hands to his sides, bowed his head,
and fell back a pace.</p>
<p>Julian pressed his shoulders strongly against the
door; it was solid enough. The sun, striking on his
bare hand, was hot. The faces and necks and arms of
the people below him were made of real flesh and blood.
The tension, the anxiety in their eyes was genuine. He
chased away the unreality.</p>
<p>'You have spoken,' he said, 'and I have
accepted.'</p>
<p>The woman named Angheliki Zapantiotis, who had
hailed him as liberator, cast herself forward on to the
step at his feet, as a stir and a movement, that audibly
expressed itself in the shifting of feet and the releasing
of contained breaths, ruffled through the crowd. He
lifted his hand to enjoin silence, and spoke with his
hand raised high above the figure of the woman crouching
on the step.</p>
<p>He told them that there could now be no
going back, that, although the time of waiting might
seem to them long and weary, they must have hopeful
trust in him. He exacted from them trust, fidelity, and
obedience. His voice rang sharply on the word, and
his glance circled imperiously, challenging defiance. It
encountered none. He told them that he would never
give his sanction to violence save as a last resort. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span>
became intoxicated with the unaccustomed wine of
oratory.</p>
<p>'An island is our refuge; we are the garrison of a
natural fortress, that we can hold against the assault
of our enemies from the sea. We will never seek them
out, we will be content to wait, restrained and patient,
until they move with weapons in their hands against us.
Let us swear that our only guilt of aggression shall be
to preserve our coasts inviolate.'</p>
<p>A deep and savage growl answered him as he paused.
He was flushed with the spirit of adventure, the prerogative
of youth. The force of youth moved so strongly
within him that every man present felt himself strangely
ready and equipped for the calls of the enterprise. A
mysterious alchemy had taken place. They, untutored,
unorganised, scarcely knowing what they wanted, much
less how to obtain it, had offered him the formless
material of their blind and chaotic rebellion, and he,
having blown upon it with the fire of his breath, was
welding it now to an obedient, tempered weapon in his
hands. He had taken control. He might disappear and
the curtains of silence close together behind his exit;
Paul, watching, knew that these people would henceforward
wait patiently, and with confidence, for his
return.</p>
<p>He dropped suddenly from his rhetoric into a lower
key.</p>
<p>'In the meantime I lay upon you a charge of discretion.
No one in Herakleion must get wind of this
meeting; Father Paul and I will be silent, the rest lies
with you. Until you hear of me again, I desire you to
go peaceably about your ordinary occupations.'</p>
<p>'Better put that in,' he thought to himself.</p>
<p>'I know nothing, nor do I wish to know,' he continued,
shrewdly examining their faces, 'of the part
you played in the robbery at the casino. I only know<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span>
that I will never countenance the repetition of any such
attempt; you will have to choose between me and your
brigandage.' He suddenly stamped his foot. 'Choose
now! which is it to be?'</p>
<p>'Kyrie, Kyrie,' said Tsigaridis, 'you are our only
hope.'</p>
<p>'Lift up your hands,' Julian said intolerantly.</p>
<p>His eyes searched among the bronzed arms that rose
at his command like a forest of lances; he enjoyed
forcing obedience upon the crowd and seeing their
humiliation.</p>
<p>'Very well,' he said then, and the hands sank, 'see
to it that you remember your promise. I have no more
to say. Wait, trust, and hope.'</p>
<p>He carried his hand to his forehead and threw it out
before him in a gesture of farewell and dismissal.</p>
<p>He suspected himself of having acted and spoken in
a theatrical manner, but he knew also that through the
chaos of his mind an unextinguishable light was dawning.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p>
<h2>V</h2>
<p>Julian in the candour of his inexperience unquestioningly
believed that the story would not reach Herakleion.
Before the week was out, however, he found himself
curiously eyed in the streets, and by the end of the week,
going to dinner at the French Legation, he was struck
by the hush that fell as his name was announced in the
mirrored drawing-rooms. Madame Lafarge said to him
severely,—</p>
<p>'Jeune homme, vous avez été très indiscret,' but a
smile lurked in her eyes beneath her severity.</p>
<p>An immense Serbian, almost a giant, named Grbits,
with a flat, Mongolian face, loomed ominously over him.</p>
<p>'Young man, you have my sympathy. You have
disquieted the Greeks. You may count at any time upon
my friendship.'</p>
<p>His fingers were enveloped and crushed in Grbits'
formidable handshake.</p>
<p>The older diplomatists greeted him with an assumption
of censure that was not seriously intended to veil
their tolerant amusement.</p>
<p>'Do you imagine that we have nothing to do,' Don
Rodrigo Valdez said to him, 'that you set out to enliven
the affairs of Herakleion?'</p>
<p>Fru Thyregod, the Danish Excellency, took him into
a corner and tapped him on the arm with her fan with
that half flirtatious, half friendly familiarity she adopted
towards all men.</p>
<p>'You are a dark horse, my dark boy,' she said meaningly,
and, as he pretended ignorance, raising his brows
and shaking his head, added, 'I'm much indebted to you
as a living proof of my perception. I always told them;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span>
I always said, "Carl, that boy is an adventurer," and
Carl said, "Nonsense, Mabel, your head is full of
romance," but I said, "Mark my words, Carl, that boy
will flare up; he's quiet now, but you'll have to reckon
with him."'</p>
<p>He realised the extent of the gratitude of social
Herakleion. He had provided a flavour which was
emphatically absent from the usual atmosphere of these
gatherings. Every Legation in turn, during both the
summer and the winter season, extended its hospitality
to its colleagues with complete resignation as to the lack
of all possibility of the unforeseen. The rules of diplomatic
precedence rigorously demanding a certain grouping,
the Danish Excellency, for example, might sit before
her mirror fluffing out her already fluffy fair hair with
the complacent if not particularly pleasurable certainty
that this evening, at the French Legation, she would
be escorted in to dinner by the Roumanian Minister,
and that on her other hand would sit the Italian
Counsellor, while to-morrow, at the Spanish Legation,
she would be escorted to dinner by the Italian Counsellor
and would have upon her other hand the Roumanian
Minister—unless, indeed, no other Minister's wife but
Madame Lafarge was present, in which case she would
be placed on the left hand of Don Rodrigo Valdez. She
would have preferred to sit beside Julian Davenant,
but he, of course, would be placed amongst the young
men—secretaries, young Greeks, and what not—at the
end of the table. These young men—'les petits jeunes
gens du bout de la table,' as Alexander Christopoulos,
including himself in their number, contemptuously
called them—always ate mournfully through their
dinner without speaking to one another. They did not
enjoy themselves, nor did their host or hostess enjoy
having them there, but it was customary to invite
them.... Fru Thyregod knew that she must not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span>
exhaust all her subjects of conversation with her two
neighbours this evening, but must keep a provision
against the morrow; therefore, true to her little science,
she refrained from mentioning Julian's adventure on
Aphros to the Roumanian, and discoursed on it behind
her fan to the Italian only. Other people seemed to be
doing the same. Julian heard whispers, and saw glances
directed towards him. Distinctly, Herakleion and its
hostesses would be grateful to him.</p>
<p>He felt slightly exhilarated. He noticed that no
Greeks were present, and thought that they had been
omitted on his account. He reflected, not without a
certain apprehensive pleasure, that if this roomful knew,
as it evidently did, the story would not be long in
reaching his father. Who had betrayed him? Not Paul,
he was sure, nor Kato, to whom he had confided the
story. (Tears had come into her eyes, she had clasped
her hands, and she had kissed him, to his surprise, on
his forehead.) He was glad on the whole that he had
been betrayed. He had come home in a fever of exaltation
and enthusiasm which had rendered concealment
both damping and irksome. Little incidents, of significance
to him alone, had punctuated his days by reminders
of his incredible, preposterous, and penetrating secret;
to-night, for instance, the chasseur in the hall, the big,
scarlet-coated chasseur, an islander, had covertly kissed
his hand....</p>
<p>His father took an unexpected view. Julian had
been prepared for anger, in fact he had the countering
phrases already in his mind as he mounted the stairs of
the house in the <i>platia</i> on returning from the French
Legation. His father was waiting, a candle in his hand,
on the landing.</p>
<p>'I heard you come in. I want to ask you, Julian,'
he said at once, 'whether the story I have heard in the
club to-night is true? That you went to Aphros, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span>
entered into heaven knows what absurd covenant with
the people?'</p>
<p>Julian flushed at the reprimanding tone.</p>
<p>'I knew that you would not approve,' he said. 'But
one must do something. Those miserable, bullied
people, denied the right to live....'</p>
<p>'Tut,' said his father impatiently. 'Have they really
taken you in? I thought you had more sense. I have
had a good deal of trouble in explaining to Malteios
that you are only a hot-headed boy, carried away by
the excitement of the moment. You see, I am trying to
make excuses for you, but I am annoyed, Julian, I am
annoyed. I thought I could trust you. Paul, too.
However, you bring your own punishment on your head,
for you will have to keep away from Herakleion in the
immediate future.'</p>
<p>'Keep away from Herakleion?' cried Julian.</p>
<p>'Malteios' hints were unmistakable,' his father said
dryly. 'I am glad to see you are dismayed. You had
better go to bed now, and I will speak to you to-morrow.'</p>
<p>Mr Davenant started to go upstairs, but turned again,
and came down the two or three steps, still holding his
candle in his hand.</p>
<p>'Come,' he said in a tone of remonstrance, 'if you
really take the thing seriously, look at it at least for
a moment with practical sense. What is the grievance
of the Islands? That they want to be independent from
Herakleion. If they must belong to anybody, they say,
let them belong to Italy rather than to Greece or to
Herakleion. And why? Because they speak an Italian
rather than a Greek patois! Because a lot of piratical
Genoese settled in them five hundred years ago! Well,
what do you propose to do, my dear Julian? Hand the
Islands over to Italy?'</p>
<p>'They want independence,' Julian muttered. 'They
aren't even allowed to speak their own language,' he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span>
continued, raising his voice. 'You know it is forbidden
in the schools. You know that the port-dues in Herakleion
ruin them—and are intended to ruin them. You
know they are oppressed in every petty as well as in
every important way. You know that if they were
independent they wouldn't trouble Herakleion.'</p>
<p>'Independent! independent!' said Mr Davenant,
irritable and uneasy. 'Still, you haven't told me
what you proposed to do. Did you mean to create a
revolution?'</p>
<p>Julian hesitated. He did not know. He said boldly,—</p>
<p>'If need be.'</p>
<p>Mr Davenant snorted.</p>
<p>'Upon my word,' he cried sarcastically, 'you have
caught the emotional tone of Aphros to perfection.
I suppose you saw yourself holding Panaïoannou at
bay? If these are your ideas, I shall certainly support
Malteios in keeping you away. I am on the best of
terms with Malteios, and I cannot afford to allow your
Quixotism to upset the balance. I can obtain almost
any concession from Malteios,' he added thoughtfully,
narrowing his eyes and rubbing his hand across his
chin.</p>
<p>Julian watched his father with distaste and antagonism.</p>
<p>'And that is all you consider?' he said then.</p>
<p>'What else is there to consider?' Mr Davenant replied.
'I am a practical man, and practical men don't run after
chimeras. I hope I'm not more cynical than most.
You know very well that at the bottom of my heart
I sympathise with the Islands. Come,' he said, with a
sudden assumption of frankness, seeing that he was
creating an undesirable rift between himself and his son,
'I will even admit to you, in confidence, that the
republic doesn't treat its Islands as well as it might.
You know, too, that I respect and admire Madame Kato;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span>
she comes from the Islands, and has every right to hold
the views of an islander. But there's no reason why
you should espouse those views, Julian. We are
foreigners here, representatives of a great family
business, and that business, when all's said and done,
must always remain our first consideration.'</p>
<p>'Yet people here say,' Julian argued, still hoping for
the best against the cold disillusionment creeping over
him, 'that no political move can be made without
allowing for your influence and Uncle Robert's. And
my grandfather, after all....'</p>
<p>'Ah, your grandfather!' said Mr Davenant, 'your
grandfather was an extremely sagacious man, the real
founder of the family tradition, though I wouldn't like
Malteios to hear me say so. He knew well enough that
in the Islands he held a lever which gave him, if he
chose to use it, absolute control over Herakleion. He
only used it once, when he wanted something they
refused to give him; they held out against him for a
year, but ultimately they came to heel. A very sagacious
man.... Don't run away with the idea that he was
inspired by anything other than a most practical grasp—though
I don't say it wasn't a bold one—a most
practical grasp of the situation. He gave the politicians
of Herakleion a lesson they haven't yet forgotten.</p>
<p>He paused, and, as Julian said nothing, added—</p>
<p>'We keep very quiet, your uncle Robert and I, but
Malteios, and Stavridis himself, know that in reality
we hold them on a rope. We give them a lot of play,
but at any moment we choose, we can haul them in.
A very satisfactory arrangement. Tacit agreements, to
my mind, are always the most satisfactory. And so you
see that I can't tolerate your absurd, uneducated
interference. Why, there's no end to the harm you
might do! Some day you will thank me.'</p>
<p>As Julian still said nothing, he looked at his son, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span>
was standing, staring at the floor, a deep frown on his
forehead, thunderous, unconvinced. Mr Davenant, being
habitually uncommunicative, felt aggrieved that his
explanatory condescension had not been received with
a more attentive deference. He also felt uneasy.
Julian's silences were always disquieting.</p>
<p>'You are very young still,' he said, in a more conciliatory
tone, 'and I ought perhaps to blame myself for
allowing you to go about so freely in this very unreal
and bewildering place. Perhaps I ought not to have
expected you to keep your head. Malteios is quite
right: Herakleion is no place for a young man. Don't
think me hard in sending you away. Some day you will
come back with, I hope, a better understanding.'</p>
<p>He rested his hand kindly for a moment on Julian's
shoulder, then turned away, and the light of his candle
died as he passed the bend of the stairs.</p>
<p class="space-above">On the following evening Julian, returning from the
country-house where he had spent the day, was told
that the Premier was with Mr Davenant and would be
glad to see him.</p>
<p>He had ridden out to the country, regardless of the
heat, turning instinctively to Eve in his strange and
rebellious frame of mind. For some reason which he
did not analyse, he identified her with Aphros—the
Aphros of romance and glamour to which he so obstinately
clung. To his surprise she listened unresponsive
and sulky.</p>
<p>'You are not interested, Eve?'</p>
<p>Then the reason of her unreasonableness broke out.</p>
<p>'You have kept this from me for a whole week, and
you confide in me now because you know the story is
public property. You expect me to be interested.
Grand merci!'</p>
<p>'But, Eve, I had pledged myself not to tell a soul.'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p>
<p>'Did you tell Kato?'</p>
<p>'Damn your intuition!' he said angrily.</p>
<p>She lashed at him then, making him feel guilty,
miserable, ridiculous, though as he sat scowling over
the sea—they were in their favourite place at the bottom
of the garden, where under the pergola of gourds it was
cool even at that time of the day—he appeared to her
more than usually unmoved and forbidding.</p>
<p>After a long pause,—</p>
<p>'Julian, I am sorry.—I don't often apologise.—I said
I was sorry.'</p>
<p>He looked coldly at her with his mournful eyes, that,
green in repose, turned black in anger.</p>
<p>'Your vanity makes me ill.'</p>
<p>'You told Kato.'</p>
<p>'Jealousy!'</p>
<p>She began to protest; then, with a sudden change of
front,—</p>
<p>'You know I am jealous. When I am jealous, I lie
awake all night. I lose all sense of proportion. It's no
joke, my jealousy; it's like an open wound. I put
up a stockade round it to protect it. You are not
considerate.'</p>
<p>'Can you never forget yourself? Do you care nothing
for the Islands? Are you so self-centred, so empty-headed?
Are all women, I wonder, as vain as you?'</p>
<p>They sat on the parapet, angry, inimical, with the
coloured gourds hanging heavily over their heads.</p>
<p>Far out to sea the Islands lay, so pure and fair and
delicate that Julian, beholding them, violently rejected
the idea that in this possession of such disarming loveliness
his grandfather had seen merely a lever for the
coercion of recalcitrant politicians. They lay there as
innocent and fragile as a lovely woman asleep, veiled by
the haze of sunshine as the sleeper's limbs by a garment
of lawn. Julian gazed till his eyes and his heart swam<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span>
in the tenderness of passionate and protective ownership.
He warmed towards his grandfather, the man whose
generous ideals had been so cynically libelled by the
succeeding generation. No man deserving the name
could be guilty of so repulsive an act of prostitution....</p>
<p>'They will see me here again,' he exclaimed, striking
his fist on the parapet.</p>
<p>To the startled question in Eve's eyes he vouchsafed
an explanation.</p>
<p>'Malteios is sending me away. But when his term of
office is over, I shall come back. It will be a good
opportunity. We will break with Herakleion over the
change of government. Kato will restrain Malteios so
long as he is in power, I can trust her; but I shall make
my break with Stavridis.'</p>
<p>In his plans for the future he had again forgotten Eve.</p>
<p>'You are going away?'</p>
<p>'For a year or perhaps longer,' he said gloomily.</p>
<p>Her natural instinct of defiant secrecy kept the flood
of protest back from her lips. Already in her surprisingly
definite philosophy of life, self-concealment held a
sacred and imperious position. Secrecy—and her
secrecy, because disguised under a superficial show of
expansiveness, was the more fundamental, the more
dangerous—secrecy she recognised as being both a
shield and a weapon. Therefore, already apprehending
that existence in a world of men was a fight, a struggle,
and a pursuit, she took refuge in her citadel. And,
being possessed of a picturesque imagination, she
had upon a certain solemn occasion carried a symbolic
key to the steps which led down to the sea from the end
of the pergola of gourds, and had flung it out as far as
she was able into the guardianship of the waters.</p>
<p>She remembered this now as she sat on the parapet
with Julian, and smiled to herself ironically. She looked
at him with the eye of an artist, and thought how his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span>
limbs, fallen into their natural grace of relaxed muscularity,
suggested the sculptural ease of stone far more
than the flat surfaces of canvas. Sculptural, she thought,
was undoubtedly the adjective which thrust itself upon
one. In one of her spasmodic outbursts of activity she
had modelled him, but, disdainful of her own talents,
had left the clay to perish. Then she remembered
acutely that she would not see him again.</p>
<p>'My mythological Julian....' she murmured, smiling.</p>
<p>A world of flattery lay in her tone.</p>
<p>'You odd little thing,' he said, 'why the adjective?'</p>
<p>She made an expressive gesture with her hands.</p>
<p>'Your indifference, your determination—you're so
intractable, so contemptuous, so hard—and sometimes
so inspired. You're so fatally well suited to the Islands.
Prince of Aphros?' she launched at him insinuatingly.</p>
<p>She was skilful; he flushed. She was giving him what
he had, half unconsciously, sought.</p>
<p>'Siren!' he said.</p>
<p>'Am I? Perhaps, after all, we are both equally well
suited to the Islands,' she said lightly.</p>
<p>And for some reason their conversation dropped.
Yet it sufficed to send him, stimulated, from her side,
full of self-confidence; he had forgotten that she was
barely seventeen, a child! and for him the smile of
pride in her eyes had been the smile of Aphros.</p>
<p>In the house, on his way through, he met Father Paul.</p>
<p>'Everything is known,' said the priest, wringing his
hand with his usual energy.</p>
<p>'What am I to do? Malteios wants me to leave
Herakleion. Shall I refuse? I am glad to have met
you,' said Julian, 'I was on my way to find you.'</p>
<p>'Go, if Malteios wants you to go,' the priest replied,
'the time is not ripe yet; but are you determined, in
your own mind, to throw in your lot with Hagios
Zacharie? Remember, I cautioned you when we were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span>
still on Aphros: you must be prepared for a complete
estrangement from your family. You will be running
with the hare, no longer hunting with the hounds. Have
you considered?'</p>
<p>'I am with the Islands.'</p>
<p>'Good,' said the priest, making a sign over him. 'Go,
all the same, if Malteios exacts it; you will be the more
of a man when you return. Malteios' party will surely
fall at the next elections. By then we shall be ready,
and I will see that you are summoned. God bless you.'</p>
<p>'Will you go out to Eve in the garden, father? She
is under the pergola. Go and talk to her.'</p>
<p>'She is unhappy?' asked the priest, with a sharp
look.</p>
<p>'A little, I think,' said Julian, 'will you go?'</p>
<p>'At once, at once,' said Paul, and he went quickly,
through the grove of lemon-trees, stumbling over his
soutane....</p>
<p>Julian returned to Herakleion, where he found his
father and Malteios in the big frescoed drawing-room,
standing in an embrasure of the windows. The Premier's
face as he turned was full of tolerant benignity.</p>
<p>'Ah, here is our young friend,' he began paternally.
'What are these stories I hear of you, young man?
I have been telling your father that when I was a schoolboy,
a <i>lycéen</i>—I, too, tried to meddle in politics. Take
my advice, and keep clear of these things till you are
older. There are many things for the young: dancing,
poetry, and love. Politics to the old and the middle-aged.
Of course, I know your little escapade was nothing
but a joke ... high spirits ... natural mischief....'</p>
<p>The interview was galling and humiliating to Julian;
he disliked the Premier's bantering friendliness, through
which he was not sufficiently experienced to discern
the hidden mistrust, apprehension, and hostility. His
father, compelled to a secret and resentful pride in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span>
son, was conscious of these things. But Julian, his eyes
fixed on the middle button of the Premier's frock-coat,
sullen and rebellious, tried to shut his ears to the prolonged
murmur of urbane derision. He wished to look
down upon, to ignore Malteios, the unreal man, and this
he could not do while he allowed those smooth and
skilful words to flow unresisted in their suave cruelty
over his soul. He shut his ears, and felt only the
hardening of his determination. He would go; he
would leave Herakleion, only to return with increase
of strength in the hour of fulfilment.</p>
<p>Dismissed, he set out for Kato's flat, hatless, in a mood
of thunder. His violence was not entirely genuine, but
he persuaded himself, for he had lately been with Eve,
and the plausible influence of Herakleion was upon him.
He strode down the street, aware that people turned to
gaze at him as he went. On the quay, the immense
Grbits rose suddenly up from the little green table where
he sat drinking vermouth outside a café.</p>
<p>'My young friend,' he said, 'they tell me you are
leaving Herakleion?</p>
<p>'They are wise,' he boomed. 'You would break their
toys if you remained. But <i>I</i> remain; shall I watch for
you? You will come back? I have hated the Greeks
well. Shall we play a game with them? ha! ha!'</p>
<p>His huge laugh reverberated down the quay as Julian
passed on, looking at the visiting card which the giant
had just handed to him:—</p>
<p class="center">SRGJÁN GRBITS.</p>
<p class="center"><i>Attaché à la Légation de S.M. le Roi des Serbes,<br />
Croates, et Slovènes.</i></p>
<p>'Grbits my spy!' he was thinking. 'Fantastic,
fantastic.'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span></p>
<p>Kato's flat was at the top of a four-storied house on
the quay. On the ground floor of the house was a cake-shop,
and, like every other house along the sea-front,
over every window hung a gay, striped sunblind that
billowed slightly like a flag in the breeze from the sea.
Inside the cake-shop a number of Levantines, dressed
in their hot black, were eating sweet things off the
marble counter. Julian could never get Eve past the
cake-shop when they went to Kato's together; she would
always wander in to eat <i>choux à la crème</i>, licking the
whipped cream off her fingers with a guilty air until he
lent her his handkerchief, her own being invariably lost.</p>
<p>Julian went into the house by a side-door, up the
steep narrow stairs, the walls painted in Pompeian
red with a slate-coloured dado; past the first floor,
where on two frosted glass doors ran the inscription:
KONINKLIJKE NEDERLANDSCHE STOOMBOOT-MAATSCHAPPIJ;
past the second floor, where a
brass plate said: Th. Mavrudis et fils, Cie. d'assurance;
past the third floor, where old Grigoriu, the money-lender,
was letting himself in by a latchkey; to the
fourth floor, where a woman in the native dress of the
Islands admitted him to Kato's flat.</p>
<p>The singer was seated on one of her low, carpet-covered
divans, her throat and arms, as usual, bare,
the latter covered with innumerable bangles; her knees
wide apart and a hand placed resolutely upon each knee;
before her stood Tsigaridis, the headman of Aphros, his
powerful body encased in the blue English jersey Mrs
Davenant had given him, and from the compression of
which his pleated skirt sprang out so ridiculously.
Beside Kato on the divan lay a basket of ripe figs which
he had brought her. Their two massive figures disproportionately
filled the already overcrowded little
room.</p>
<p>They regarded Julian gravely.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span></p>
<p>'I am going away,' he said, standing still before their
scrutiny, as a pupil before his preceptors.</p>
<p>Kato bowed her head. They knew. They had
discussed whether they should let him go, and had
decided that he might be absent from Herakleion until
the next elections.</p>
<p>'But you will return, Kyrie?'</p>
<p>Tsigaridis spoke respectfully, but with urgent authority,
much in the tone a regent might adopt towards a youthful
king.</p>
<p>'Of course I shall return,' Julian answered, and smiled
and added, 'You mustn't lose faith, Tsantilas.'</p>
<p>The fisherman bowed with that dignity he inherited
from unnamed but remotely ascending generations; he
took his leave of Kato and the boy, shutting the door
quietly behind him. Kato came up to Julian, who had
turned away and was staring out of the window. From
the height of this fourth story one looked down upon
the peopled quay below, and saw distinctly the houses
upon the distant Islands.</p>
<p>'You are sad,' she said.</p>
<p>She moved to the piano, which, like herself, was a
great deal too big for the room, and which alone of all
the pieces of furniture was not loaded with ornaments.
Julian had often wondered, looking at the large expanse
of lid, how Kato had so consistently resisted the temptation
to put things upon it. The most he had ever seen
there was a gilt basket of hydrangeas, tied with a blue
ribbon, from which hung the card of the Premier.</p>
<p>He knew that within twenty-four hours he would be
at sea, and that Herakleion as he would last have seen it—from
the deck of the steamer, white, with many
coloured sunblinds, and, behind it, Mount Mylassa, rising
so suddenly, so threateningly, seemingly determined
to crowd the man-built town off its narrow strip of
coast into the water—Herakleion, so pictured, would be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span>
but a memory; within a week, he knew, he would be in
England. He did not know when he would see Herakleion
again. Therefore he abandoned himself, on this
last evening, to Aphros, to the memory of Eve, and to
romance, not naming, not linking the three that took
possession of and coloured all the daylight of his youth,
but quiescent, sitting on the floor, his knees clasped, and
approaching again, this time in spirit, the island where
the foam broke round the foot of the rocks and the
fleet of little fishing-boats swayed like resting seagulls
in the harbour. He scarcely noticed that, all this while,
Kato was singing. She sang in a very low voice, as
though she were singing a lullaby, and, though the words
did not reach his consciousness, he knew that the walls
of the room had melted into the warm and scented
freedom of the terraces on Aphros when the vintage
was at its height, and when the air, in the evening, was
heavy with the smell of the grape. He felt Eve's fingers
lightly upon his brows. He saw again her shadowy gray
eyes, red mouth, and waving hair. He visualised the
sparkle that crept into her eyes—strange eyes they
were! deep-set, slanting slightly upwards, so ironical
sometimes, and sometimes so inexplicably sad—when
she was about to launch one of her more caustic and just
remarks. How illuminating her remarks could be!
they always threw a new light; but she never insisted
on their value; on the contrary, she passed carelessly
on to something else. But whatever she touched, she
lit.... One came to her with the expectation of being
stimulated, perhaps a little bewildered, and one was not
disappointed. He recalled her so vividly—yet recollection
of her could never be really vivid; the construction
of her personality was too subtle, too varied; as soon as
one had left her one wanted to go back to her, thinking
that this time, perhaps, one would succeed better in
seizing and imprisoning the secret of her elusiveness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span>
Julian caught himself smiling dreamily as he conjured
her up. He heard the murmur of her seductive voice,—</p>
<p>'I love you, Julian.'</p>
<p>He accepted the words, which he had heard often
from her lips, dreamily as part of his last, deliberate
evening, so losing himself in his dreams that he almost
failed to notice when the music died and the notes of
Kato's voice slid from the recitative of her peasant songs
into conversation with himself. She left the music-stool
and came towards him where he sat on the floor.</p>
<p>'Julian,' she said, looking down at him, 'your cousin
Eve, who is full of perception, says you are so primitive
that the very furniture is irksome to you and that you
dispense with it as far as you can. I know you prefer
the ground to a sofa.'</p>
<p>He became shy, as he instantly did when the topic
of his own personality was introduced. He felt dimly
that Eve, who remorselessly dragged him from the woods
into the glare of sunlight, alone had the privilege. At
the same time he recognised her methods of appropriating
a characteristic, insignificant in itself, and of building
it up, touching it with her own peculiar grace and humour
until it became a true and delicate attribute, growing
into life thanks to her christening of it; a method truly
feminine, exquisitely complimentary, carrying with it an
insinuation faintly exciting, and creating a link quite
separately personal, an understanding, almost an obligation
to prove oneself true to her conception....</p>
<p>'So you are leaving us?' said Kato, 'you are going to
live among other standards, other influences, "<i>dont je
ne connais point la puissance sur votre cœur</i>." How soon
will it be before you forget? And how soon before you
return? We want you here, Julian.'</p>
<p>'For the Islands?' he asked.</p>
<p>'For the Islands, and may I not say,' said Kato,
spreading her hands with a musical clinking of all her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span>
bangles, 'for ourselves also? How soon will it be before
you forget the Islands?' she forced herself to ask, and
then, relapsing, 'Which will fade first in your memory,
I wonder—the Islands? or Kato?'</p>
<p>'I can't separate you in my mind,' he said, faintly
ill at ease.</p>
<p>'It is true that we have talked of them by the hour,'
she answered, 'have we talked of them so much that
they and I are entirely identified? Do you pay me the
compliment of denying me the mean existence of an
ordinary woman?'</p>
<p>He thought that by answering in the affirmative he
would indeed be paying her the greatest compliment
that lay within his power, for he would be raising her to
the status of a man and a comrade. He said,—</p>
<p>'I never believed, before I met you, that a woman
could devote herself so whole-heartedly to her patriotism.
We have the Islands in common between us; and,
as you know, the Islands mean more than mere Islands
to me: a great many things to which I could never give
a name. And I am glad, yes, so glad, that our friendship
has been, in a way, so impersonal—as though I were your
disciple, and this flat my secret school, from which you
should one day discharge me, saying "Go!"'</p>
<p>Never had he appeared to her so hopelessly inaccessible
as now when he laid his admiration, his almost religious
idealisation of her at her feet.</p>
<p>He went on,—</p>
<p>'You have been so infinitely good to me; I have come
here so often, I have talked so much; I have often felt,
when I went away, that you, who were accustomed to
clever men, must naturally....'</p>
<p>'Why not say,' she interrupted, 'instead of "clever
men," "men of my own age? my own generation"?'</p>
<p>He looked at her doubtfully, checked. She was
standing over him, her hands on her hips, and he noticed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span>
the tight circles of fat round her bent wrists, and the
dimples in every joint of her stumpy hands.</p>
<p>'But why apologise?' she added, taking pity on his
embarrassment, with a smile both forgiving and rueful
for the ill she had brought upon herself. 'If you have
enjoyed our talks, be assured I have enjoyed them too.
For conversations to be as successful as ours have been,
the enjoyment cannot possibly be one-sided. I shall
miss them when you are gone. You go to England?'</p>
<p>After a moment she said,—</p>
<p>'Isn't it strange, when those we know so intimately
in one place travel away to another place in which we
have never seen them? What do I, Kato, know of the
houses you will live in in England, or of your English
friends? as some poet speaks, in a line I quoted to you
just now, of all the influences <i>dont je ne connais pas la
puissance sur votre cœur</i>! Perhaps you will even fall
in love. Perhaps you will tell this imaginary woman
with whom you are to fall in love, about our Islands?'</p>
<p>'No woman but you would understand,' he said.</p>
<p>'She would listen for your sake, and for your sake
she would pretend interest. Does Eve listen when you
talk about the Islands?'</p>
<p>'Eve doesn't care about such things. I sometimes
think she cares only about herself,' he replied with some
impatience.</p>
<p>'You ...' she began again, but, checking herself,
she said instead, with a grave irony that was lost upon
him, 'You have flattered me greatly to-day, Julian.
I hope you may always find in me a wise preceptor.
But I can only point the way. The accomplishment lies
with you. We will work together?' She added, smiling,
'In the realms of the impersonal? A philosophic friendship?
A Platonic alliance?'</p>
<p>When he left her, she was still, gallantly, smiling.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span></p>
<h2>PART II—EVE</h2>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span></p>
<h2>I</h2>
<p>After spending nearly two years in exile, Julian was
once more upon his way to Herakleion.</p>
<p>On deck, brooding upon a great coil of rope, his head
bare to the winds, absorbed and concentrated, he
disregarded all his surroundings in favour of the ever
equi-distant horizon. He seemed to be entranced by its
promise. He seemed, moreover, to form part of the
ship on which he travelled; part of it, crouching as he
did always at the prow, as a figurehead forms part;
part of the adventure, the winged gallantry, the eager
onward spirit indissoluble from the voyage of a ship in
the midst of waters from which no land is visible. The
loneliness—for there is no loneliness to equal the loneliness
of the sea—the strife of the wind, the generosity of
the expanse, the pure cleanliness of the nights and days,
met and matched his mood. At moments, feeling himself
unconquerable, he tasted the full, rare, glory of youth
and anticipation. He did not know which he preferred:
the days full of sunlight on the wide blue sea, or the
nights when the breeze was fresher against his face, and
the road more mysterious, under a young moon that lit
the ridges of the waves and travelled slowly past, overhead,
across the long black lines of cordage and rigging.
He knew only that he was happy as he had never been
happy in his life.</p>
<p>His fellow-passengers had watched him when he
joined the ship at Brindisi, and a murmur had run
amongst them, 'Julian Davenant—son of those rich
Davenants of Herakleion, you know—great wine-growers—they
own a whole archipelago'; some one had
disseminated the information even as Julian came up<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span>
the gangway, in faded old gray flannels, hatless, in a
rage with his porter, who appeared to be terrified out of
all proportion. Then, suddenly, he had lost all interest
in his luggage, tossed some money to the porter, and,
walking for'ard, had thrown himself down on the heap
of ropes and stared straight in front of him to sea,
straining his eyes forward to where Greece might lie.</p>
<p>From here he had scarcely stirred. The people who
watched him, benevolent and amused, thought him very
young. They saw that he relieved the intensity of his
vigil with absurd and childlike games that he played by
himself, hiding and springing out at the sailors, and
laughing immoderately when he had succeeded in
startling them—he fraternised with the sailors, though
with no one else—or when he saw somebody trip over a
ring in the deck. His humour, like his body, seemed to
be built on large and simple lines.... In the mornings
he ran round and round the decks in rubber-soled shoes.
Then again he flung himself down and continued with
unseeing eyes to stare at the curve of the horizon.</p>
<p>Not wholly by design, he had remained absent from
Herakleion for nearly two years. The standards and
systems of life on that remote and beautiful seaboard
had not faded for him, this time, with their usual
astonishing rapidity; he had rather laid them aside
carefully and deliberately, classified against the hour
when he should take them from their wrappings; he
postponed the consideration of the mission which had
presented itself to him, and crushed down the recollection
of what had been, perhaps, the most intoxicating
of all moments—more intoxicating even, because more
unexpected, than the insidious flattery of Eve—the
moment when Paul had said to him beneath the
fragmentary frescoes of the life of Saint Benedict, in a
surprised voice, forced into admission,—</p>
<p>'You have the quality of leadership. You have it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span>
You have the secret. The people will fawn to the hand
that chastens.'</p>
<p>Paul, his tutor and preceptor, from whom he had
first learnt, so imperceptibly that he scarcely recognised
the teaching as a lesson, of the Islands and their problems
both human and political, Paul had spoken these words
to him, renouncing the authority of the master, stepping
aside to admit the accession of the pupil. From the
position of a regent, he had abased himself to that of a
Prime Minister. Julian had accepted the acknowledgement
with a momentary dizziness. In later moments
of doubt, the words had flamed for him, bright with
reassurance. And then he had banished them with the
rest. That world of romance had been replaced by the
world of healthy and prosaic things. The letters he
periodically received from Eve irritated him because of
their reminder of an existence he preferred to regard,
for the moment, as in abeyance.</p>
<blockquote><p>'And so you are gone: <i>veni, vidi, vici</i>. You were well
started on your career of devastation! You hadn't done
badly, all things considered. Herakleion has heaved an
"Ouf!" of relief. You, unimpressionable? <i>Allons donc!</i>
You, apathetic? You, placid, unemotional, unawakened?
<i>Tu te payes ma tête!</i></p>
<p>'Ah, the limitless ambition I have for you!</p>
<p>'I want you to rule, conquer, shatter, demolish.</p>
<p>'Haul down the simpering gods, the pampered gods, and
put yourself in their place. It is in your power.</p>
<p>'Why not? You have <i>le feu sacré</i>. Stagnation is death,
death. Burn their temples with fire, and trample their
altars to dust.'</p></blockquote>
<p>This letter, scrawled in pencil on a sheet of torn
foolscap, followed him to England immediately after
his departure. Then a silence of six months. Then he
read, written on spacious yellow writing-paper, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span>
the monogram E.D. embossed in a triangle of mother-of-pearl,
vivid and extravagant as Eve herself—</p>
<blockquote><p>They are trying to catch me, Julian! I come quite
near, quite near, and they hold very quiet their hand with
the crumbs in it. I see the other hand stealing round to
close upon me—then there's a flutter—<i>un battement d'ailes—l'oiseau
s'est de nouveau dérobé!</i> They remain gazing
after me, with their mouths wide open. They look so
silly. And they haven't robbed me of one plume—not a
single plume.</p>
<p>'Julian! Why this mania for capture? this wanting to
take from me my most treasured possession—liberty?
When I want to give, I'll give freely—largesse with both
hands, showers of gold and flowers and precious stones—(don't
say I'm not conceited!) but I'll never give my liberty,
and I'll never allow it to be forced away from me. I should
feel a traitor. I couldn't walk through a forest and hear
the wind in the trees. I couldn't listen to music. (Ah,
Julian! This afternoon I steeped myself in music; Grieg,
elf-like, mischievous, imaginative, romantic, so Latin sometimes
in spite of his Northern blood. You would love Grieg,
Julian. In the fairyland of music, Grieg plays gnome to
Debussy's magician.... Then "Khovantchina," of all
music the most sublime, the most perverse, the most
<i>bariolé</i>, the most abandoned, and the most desolate.)
I could have no comradeship with a free and inspired
company. I should have betrayed their secrets, bartered
away their mysteries....'</p></blockquote>
<p>He had wondered then whether she were happy. He
had visualised her, turbulent, defiant; courting danger
and then childishly frightened when danger overtook
her; deliciously forthcoming, inventive, enthusiastic, but
always at heart withdrawn; she expressed herself truly
when she said that the bird fluttered away from the
hand that would have closed over it. He knew that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span>
she lived constantly, from choice, in a storm of trouble
and excitement. Yet he read between the lines of her
letters a certain dissatisfaction, a straining after something
as yet unattained. He knew that her heart was
not in what she described as 'my little round of complacent
amourettes.'</p>
<p>The phrase had awoken him with a smile of amusement
to the fact that she was no longer a child. He felt
some curiosity to see her again under the altered and
advanced conditions of her life, yet, lazy and diffident,
he shrank from the storm of adventure and responsibility
which he knew would at once assail him. The
indolence he felt sprang largely from the certainty that
he could, at any moment of his choice, stretch out
his hand to gather up again the threads that he had
relinquished. He had surveyed Herakleion, that other
world, from the distance and security of England. He
had the conviction that it awaited him, and this conviction
bore with it a strangely proprietary sense in which
Eve was included. He had listened with amusement and
tolerance to the accounts of her exploits, his sleepy eyes
bent upon his informant with a quiet patience, as a man
who listens to a familiar recital. He had dwelt very
often upon the possibility of his return to Herakleion,
but, without a full or even a partial knowledge of his
motives, postponed it. Yet all the while his life was a
service, a dedication.</p>
<p>Then the letters which he received began to mention
the forthcoming elections; a faint stir of excitement
pervaded his correspondence; Eve, detesting politics,
made no reference, but his father's rare notes betrayed
an impatient and irritable anxiety; the indications grew,
culminating in a darkly allusive letter which, although
anonymous, he took to be from Grbits, and finally in
a document which was a triumph of illiterate dignity,
signed by Kato, Tsigaridis, Zapantiotis, and a double<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span>
column of names that broke like a flight of exotic birds
into the mellow enclosure of the Cathedral garden where
it found him.</p>
<p>Conscious of his ripened and protracted strength, he
took ship for Greece.</p>
<p>He had sent no word to announce his coming. A
sardonic smile lifted one corner of his mouth as he foresaw
the satisfaction of taking Eve by surprise. A
standing joke between them (discovered and created, of
course, by her, the inventive) was the invariable unexpectedness
of his arrivals. He would find her altered,
grown. An unreasoning fury possessed him, a jealous
rage, not directed against any human being, but against
Time itself, that it should lay hands upon Eve, his Eve,
during his absence; taking, as it were, advantage while
his back was turned. And though he had often professed
to himself a lazy indifference to her devotion to him,
Julian, he found intolerable the thought that that
devotion might have been transferred elsewhere. He
rose and strode thunderously down the deck, and one
of his fellow-travellers, watching, whistled to himself
and thought,—</p>
<p>'That boy has an ugly temper.'</p>
<p class="space-above">Then the voyage became a dream to Julian; tiny
islands, quite rosy in the sunlight, stained the sea here
and there only a few miles distant, and along the green
sea the ship drew a white, lacy wake, broad and straight,
that ever closed behind her like an obliterated path,
leaving the way of retreat trackless and unavailable.
One day he realised that the long, mountainous line
which he had taken for a cloud-bank, was in point of
fact the coast. That evening, a sailor told him, they
were due to make Herakleion. He grew resentful of the
apathy of passengers and crew. The coast-line became
more and more distinct. Presently they were passing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span>
Aphros, and only eight miles lay between the ship and
the shore. The foam that gave it its name was breaking
upon the rocks of the island....</p>
<p>After that a gap occurred in his memory, and the
scene slipped suddenly to the big frescoed drawing-room
of his father's house in the <i>platia</i>, where the peace and
anticipation of his voyage were replaced by the gaiety
of voices, the blatancy of lights, and the strident energy
of three violins and a piano. He had walked up from
the pier after the innumerable delays of landing; it was
then eleven o'clock at night, and as he crossed the <i>platia</i>
and heard the music coming from the lighted and open
windows of his father's house, he paused in the shadows,
aware of the life that had gone on for over a year without
him.</p>
<p>'And why is that surprising? I'm an astounding
egotist,' he muttered.</p>
<p>He was still in his habitual gray flannels, but he would
not go to his room to change. He was standing in the
doorway of the drawing-room on the first floor, smiling
gently at finding himself still unnoticed, and looking for
Eve. She was sitting at the far end of the room between
two men, and behind her the painted monkeys grimaced
on the wall, swinging by hands and tails from the
branches of the unconvincing trees. He saw her as
seated in the midst of that ethereal and romantic landscape.</p>
<p>Skirting the walls, he made his way round to her, and
in the angle he paused, and observed her. She was
unconscious of his presence. Young Christopoulos bent
towards her, and she was smiling into his eyes....
In eighteen months she had perfected her art.</p>
<p>Julian drew nearer, critically, possessively, and
sarcastically observing her still, swift to grasp the
essential difference. She, who had been a child when
he had left her, was now a woman. The strangeness of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span>
her face had come to its own in the fullness of years,
and the provocative mystery of her person, that withheld
even more than it betrayed, now justified itself
likewise. There seemed to be a reason for the red lips
and ironical eyes that had been so incongruous, so almost
offensive, in the face of the child. An immense fan of
orange feathers drooped from her hand. Her hair waved
turbulently round her brows, and seemed to cast a
shadow over her eyes.</p>
<p>He stood suddenly before her.</p>
<p>For an instant she gazed up at him, her lips parted,
her breath arrested. He laughed easily, pleased to have
bettered her at her own game of melodrama. He saw
that she was really at a loss, clutching at her wits, at
her recollection of him, trying desperately to fling a
bridge across the gulf of those momentous months. She
floundered helplessly in the abrupt renewal of their
relations. Seeing this, he felt an arrogant exhilaration
at the discomfiture which he had produced. She had
awoken in him, without a word spoken, the tyrannical
spirit of conquest which she induced in all men.</p>
<p>Then she was saved by the intervention of the room;
first by Christopoulos shaking Julian's hand, then by
dancers crowding round with exclamations of welcome
and surprise. Mr Davenant himself was brought, and
Julian stood confused and smiling, but almost silent,
among the volubility of the guests. He was providing
a sensation for lives greedy of sensation. He heard
Madame Lafarge, smiling benevolently at him behind
her lorgnon, say to Don Rodrigo Valdez,—</p>
<p>'<i>C'est un original que ce garçon.</i>'</p>
<p>They were all there, futile and vociferous. The few
new-comers were left painfully out in the cold. They
were all there: the fat Danish Excellency, her yellow
hair fuzzing round her pink face; Condesa Valdez,
painted like a courtesan; Armand, languid, with his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span>
magnolia-like complexion; Madame Delahaye, enterprising
and equivocal; Julie Lafarge, thin and brown,
timidly smiling; Panaïoannou in his sky-blue uniform;
the four sisters Christopoulos, well to the front. These,
and all the others. He felt that, at whatever moment
during the last eighteen months he had timed his return,
he would have found them just the same, complete, none
missing, the same words upon their lips. He accepted
them now, since he had surrendered to Herakleion, but
as for their reality as human beings, with the possible
exceptions of Grbits the giant, crashing his way to
Julian through people like an elephant pushing through
a forest, and of the Persian Minister, hovering on the
outskirts of the group with the gentle smile still playing
round his mouth, they might as well have been cut out
of cardboard. Eve had gone; he could see her nowhere.
Alexander, presumably, had gone with her.</p>
<p>Captured at last by the Danish Excellency, Julian had
a stream of gossip poured into his ears. He had been
in exile for so long, he must be thirsty for news. A new
English Minister had arrived, but he was said to be
unsociable. He had been expected at the races on the
previous Sunday, but had failed to put in an appearance.
Armand had had an affair with Madame Delahaye. At
a dinner-party last week, Rafaele, the Councillor of the
Italian Legation, had not been given his proper place.
The Russian Minister, who was the doyen of the <i>corps
diplomatique</i>, had promised to look into the matter with
the Chef du Protocole. Once etiquette was allowed to
become lax.... The season had been very gay.
Comparatively few political troubles. She disliked
political troubles. She—confidentially—preferred personalities.
But then she was only a woman, and foolish.
She knew that she was foolish. But she had a good
heart. She was not clever, like his cousin Eve.</p>
<p>Eve? A note of hostility and reserve crept into her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span>
expansiveness. Eve was, of course, very charming,
though not beautiful. She could not be called beautiful;
her mouth was too large and too red. It was almost
improper to have so red a mouth; not quite <i>comme il
faut</i> in so young a girl. Still, she was undeniably
successful. Men liked to be amused, and Eve, when she
was not sulky, could be very amusing. Her imitations
were proverbial in Herakleion. Imitation was, however,
an unkindly form of entertainment. It was perhaps a
pity that Eve was so <i>moqueuse</i>. Nothing was sacred to
her, not even things which were really beautiful and
touching—patriotism, or moonlight, or art—even Greek
art. It was not that she, Mabel Thyregod, disapproved
of wit; she had even some small reputation for wit
herself; no; but she held that there were certain subjects
to which the application of wit was unsuitable. Love,
for instance. Love was the most beautiful, the most
sacred thing upon earth, yet Eve—a child, a chit—had
no veneration either for love in the abstract or for its
devotees in the flesh. She wasted the love that was
offered her. She could have no heart, no temperament.
She was perhaps fortunate. She, Mabel Thyregod, had
always suffered from having too warm a temperament.</p>
<p>A struggle ensued between them, Fru Thyregod trying
to force the personal note, and Julian opposing himself to
its intrusion. He liked her too much to respond to her
blatant advances. He wondered, with a brotherly
interest, whether Eve were less crude in her methods.</p>
<p>The thought of Eve sent him instantly in her pursuit,
leaving Fru Thyregod very much astonished and annoyed
in the ball-room. He found Eve with a man he did not
know sitting in her father's business-room. She was
lying back in a chair, listless and absent-minded, while
her companion argued with vehemence and exasperation.
She exclaimed,—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span></p>
<p>'Julian again! another surprise appearance! Have
you been wearing a cap of invisibility?'</p>
<p>Seeing that her companion remained silent in uncertainty,
she murmured an introduction,—</p>
<p>'Do you know my cousin Julian? Prince Ardalion
Miloradovitch.'</p>
<p>The Russian bowed with a bad grace, seeing that he
must yield his place to Julian. When he had gone,
unwillingly tactful and full of resentment, she twitted
her cousin,—</p>
<p>'Implacable as always, when you want your own way!
I notice you have neither outgrown your tyrannical
selfishness nor left it behind in England.'</p>
<p>'I have never seen that man before; who is he?'</p>
<p>'A Russian. Not unattractive. I am engaged to him,'
she replied negligently.</p>
<p>'You are going to marry him?'</p>
<p>She shrugged.</p>
<p>'Perhaps, ultimately. More probably not.'</p>
<p>'And what will he do if you throw him over?' Julian
asked with a certain curiosity.</p>
<p>'Oh, he has a fine <i>je-m'en-fichisme</i>; he'll shrug his
shoulders, kiss the tips of my fingers, and die gambling,'
she answered.</p>
<p>When Eve said that, Julian thought that he saw the
whole of Miloradovitch, whom he did not know, quite
clearly; she had lit him up.</p>
<p>They talked then of a great many things, extraneous
to themselves, but all the while they observed one
another narrowly. She found nothing actually new in
him, only an immense development along the old, careless,
impersonal lines. In appearance he was as untidy
as ever; large, slack-limbed, rough-headed. He, however,
found much that was new in her; new, that is, to
his more experienced observation, but which, hitherto,
in its latent form had slept undiscovered by his boyish<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span>
eyes. His roaming glance took in the deliberate poise
and provocative aloofness of her self-possession, the
warm roundness of her throat and arms, the little
<i>mouche</i> at the corner of her mouth, her little graceful
hands, and white skin that here and there, in the
shadows, gleamed faintly gold, as though a veneer of
amber had been brushed over the white; the pervading
sensuousness that glowed from her like the actual
warmth of a slumbering fire. He found himself banishing
the thought of Miloradovitch....</p>
<p>'Have you changed?' he said abruptly. 'Look at
me.'</p>
<p>She raised her eyes, with the assurance of one well-accustomed
to personal remarks; a slow smile crept
over her lips.</p>
<p>'Well, your verdict?'</p>
<p>'You are older, and your hair is brushed back.'</p>
<p>'Is that all?'</p>
<p>'Do you expect me to say that you are pretty?'</p>
<p>'Oh, no,' she said, snapping her fingers, 'I never
expect compliments from you, Julian. On the other
hand, let me pay you one. Your arrival, this evening,
has been a triumph. Most artistic. Let me congratulate
you. You know of old that I dislike being taken by
surprise.'</p>
<p>'That's why I do it.'</p>
<p>'I know,' she said, with sudden humility, the
marvellous organ of her voice sinking surprisingly
into the rich luxuriance of its most sombre contralto.</p>
<p>He noted with a fresh enjoyment the deep tones that
broke like a honeyed caress upon his unaccustomed ear.
His imagination bore him away upon a flight of images
that left him startled by their emphasis no less than
by their fantasy. A cloak of black velvet, he thought
to himself, as he continued to gaze unseeingly at her;
a dusky voice, a gipsy among voices! the purple ripeness<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span>
of a plum; the curve of a Southern cheek; the heart of
red wine. All things seductive and insinuating. It
matched her soft indolence, her exquisite subtlety, her
slow, ironical smile.</p>
<p>'Your delicious vanity,' he said unexpectedly, and,
putting out his hand he touched the hanging fold of
silver net which was bound by a silver ribbon round one
of her slender wrists.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span></p>
<h2>II</h2>
<p>Herakleion. The white town. The sun. The
precipitate coast, and Mount Mylassa soaring into the
sky. The distant slope of Greece. The low islands lying
out in the jewelled sea. The diplomatic round, the
calculations of gain, the continuous and plaintive music
of the Islands, the dream of rescue, the ardent championship
of the feebler cause, the strife against wealth and
authority. The whole fabric of youth.... These were
the things abruptly rediscovered and renewed.</p>
<p>The elections were to take place within four days of
Julian's arrival. Father Paul, no doubt, could add to
the store of information Kato had already given him.
But Father Paul was not to be found in the little tavern
he kept in the untidy village close to the gates of the
Davenants' country house. Julian reined up before it,
reading the familiar name, Xenodochion Olympos,
above the door, and calling out to the men who were
playing bowls along the little gravelled bowling alley
to know where he might find the priest. They could not
tell him, nor could the old islander Tsigaridis, who sat
near the door, smoking a cigar, and dribbling between
his fingers the beads of a bright green rosary.</p>
<p>'The <i>papá</i> is often absent from us,' added Tsigaridis,
and Julian caught the grave inflection of criticism in his
tone.</p>
<p>The somnolent heat of the September afternoon lay
over the squalid dusty village; in the whole length of its
street no life stirred; the dogs slept; the pale pink and
blue houses were closely shuttered, with an effect of
flatness and desertion. Against the pink front of the
tavern splashed the shadows of a great fig-tree, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span>
upon its threshold, but on one side the tree had been
cut back to prevent any shadows from falling across the
bowling-alley. Julian rode on, enervated by the too
intense heat and the glare, and, giving up his horse at
his uncle's stables, wandered in the shade under the
pergola of gourds at the bottom of the garden.</p>
<p>He saw Father Paul coming towards him across the
grass between the lemon-trees; the priest walked slowly,
his head bent, his hands clasped behind his back, a spare
black figure among the golden fruit. So lean, so lank
he appeared, his natural height accentuated by his
square black cap; so sallow his bony face in contrast to
his stringy red hair. Julian likened him to a long note
of exclamation. He advanced unaware of Julian's
presence, walking as though every shuffling step of his
flat, broad-toed shoes were an accompaniment to some
laborious and completed thought.</p>
<p>'Perhaps,' Julian reflected, watching him, 'by
the time he reaches me he'll have arrived at his
decision.'</p>
<p>He speculated amusedly as to the priest's difficulties:
an insurgent member of the flock? a necessary repair
to the church? Nothing, nothing outside Herakleion.
A tiny life! A priest, a man who had forsworn man's
birthright. The visible in exchange for the invisible
world. A life concentrated and intense; tight-handed,
a round little ball of a life. No range, no freedom.
Village life under a microscope; familiar faces and
familiar souls. Julian seemed to focus suddenly the rays
of the whole world into a spot of light which was the
village, and over which the priest's thin face was bent
poring with a close, a strained expression of absorption,
so that his benevolent purpose became almost a force of
evil, prying and inquisitive, and from which the souls
under his charge strove to writhe away in vain. To
break the image, he called out aloud,—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span></p>
<p>'You were very deeply immersed in your thoughts,
father?'</p>
<p>'Yes, yes,' Paul muttered. He took out his handkerchief
to pass it over his face, which Julian now saw
with surprise was touched into high lights by a thin
perspiration.</p>
<p>'Is anything wrong?' he asked.</p>
<p>'Nothing wrong. Your father is very generous,' the
priest added irrelevantly.</p>
<p>Julian, still under the spell, inquired as to his father's
generosity.</p>
<p>'He has promised me a new iconostase,' said Paul, but
he spoke from an immense distance, vagueness in his
eyes, and with a trained, obedient tongue. 'The old
iconostase is in a disgraceful state of dilapidation,' he
continued, with a new, uncanny energy; 'when we
cleaned out the panels we found them hung with bats
at the back, and not only bats, but, do you know, Julian,
the mice had nested there; the mice are a terrible
plague in the church. I am obliged to keep the consecrated
bread in a biscuit tin, and I do not like doing
that; I like to keep it covered over with a linen cloth;
but no, I cannot, all on account of the mice. I have set
traps, and I had got a cat, but since she caught her foot
in one of the traps she has gone away. I am having great
trouble, great trouble with the mice.'</p>
<p>'I know,' said Julian, 'I used to have mice in my
rooms at Oxford.'</p>
<p>'A plague!' cried Paul, still fiercely energetic, but
utterly remote. 'One would wonder, if one were
permitted to wonder, why He saw fit to create mice.
I never caught any in my traps; only the cat's foot.
And the boy who cleans the church ate the cheese. I
have been very unfortunate—very unfortunate with
the mice,' he added.</p>
<p>Would they never succeed in getting away from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span>
topic? The garden was populated with mice, quick
little gray objects darting across the path. And Paul,
who continued to talk vehemently, with strange, abrupt
gestures, was not really there at all.</p>
<p>'Nearly two years since you have been away,' he was
saying. 'I expect you have seen a great deal; forgotten
all about Paul? How do you find your father? Many
people have died in the village; that was to be expected.
I have been kept busy, funerals and christenings. I like
a full life. And then I have the constant preoccupation
of the church; the church, yes. I have been terribly
concerned about the iconostase. I have blamed myself
bitterly for my negligence. That, of course, was all due
to the mice. A man was drowned off these rocks last
week; a stranger. They say he had been losing in the
casino. I have been into Herakleion once or twice,
since you have been away. But it is too noisy. The
trams, and the glare.... It would not seem noisy to
you. You no doubt welcome the music of the world.
You are young, and life for you contains no problems.
But I am very happy; I should not like you to think I
was not perfectly happy. Your father and your uncle
are peculiarly considerate and generous men. Your
uncle has promised to pay for the installation of
the new iconostase and the removal of the old
one. I forgot to tell you that. Completely perished,
some of the panels.... And your aunt, a wonderful
woman.'</p>
<p>Julian listened in amazement. The priest talked like
a wound-up and crazy machine, and all the while Julian
was convinced that he did not know a word he was
saying. He had once been grave, earnest, scholarly,
even wise.... He kept taking off and putting on his
cap, to the wild disordering of his long hair.</p>
<p>'He's gone mad,' Julian thought in dismay.</p>
<p>Julian despaired of struggling out of the quicksands<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span>
that sucked at their feet. He thought desperately that
if the priest would come back, would recall his spirit
to take control of his wits, all might be well. The tongue
was babbling in an empty body while the spirit journeyed
in unknown fields, finding there what excruciating
torment? Who could tell! For the man was suffering,
that was clear; he had been suffering as he walked across
the grass, but he had suffered then in controlled silence,
spirit and mind close-locked and allied in the taut effort
of endurance; now, their alliance shattered by the sound
of a human voice, the spirit had fled, sweeping with it
the furies of agony, and leaving the mind bereaved,
chattering emptily, noisily, in the attempt at concealment.
He, Julian, was responsible for this revelation
of the existence of an unguessed secret. He must repair
the damage he had done.</p>
<p>'Father!' he said, interrupting, and he took the priest
strongly by the wrist.</p>
<p>Their eyes met.</p>
<p>'Father!' Julian said again. He held the wrist with
the tensest effort of his fingers, and the eyes with the
tensest effort of his will. He saw the accentuated cavities
of the priest's thin face, and the pinched lines of suffering
at the corners of the mouth. Paul had been strong,
energetic, masculine. Now his speech was random, and
he quavered as a palsied old man. Even his personal
cleanliness had, in a measure, deserted him; his soutane
was stained, his hair lank and greasy. He confronted
Julian with a scared and piteous cowardice, compelled,
yet seeking escape, then as he slowly steadied himself
under Julian's grip the succeeding emotions were reflected
in his eyes: first shame; then a horrified grasping after
his self-respect; finally, most touching of all, confidence
and gratitude; and Julian, seeing the cycle completed
and knowing that Paul was again master of himself,
released the wrist and asked, in the most casual voice<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span>
at his command, 'All right?' He had the sensation of
having saved some one from falling.</p>
<p>Paul nodded without speaking. Then he began to
ask Julian as to how he had employed the last eighteen
months, and they talked for some time without reference
to the unaccountable scene that had passed between
them. Paul talked with his wonted gentleness and
interest, the strangeness of his manner entirely vanished;
Julian could have believed it a hallucination, but for the
single trace left in the priest's disordered hair. Red
strands hung abjectly down his back. Julian found his
eyes drawn towards them in a horrible fascination, but,
because he knew the scene must be buried unless Paul
himself chose to revive it, he kept his glance turned away
with conscious deliberation.</p>
<p>He was relieved when the priest left him.</p>
<p>'Gone to do his hair'—the phrase came to his mind
as he saw the priest walk briskly away, tripping with
the old familiar stumble over his soutane, and saw the
long wisps faintly red on the black garment. 'Like
a woman—exactly!' he uttered in revolt, clenching his
hand at man's degradation. 'Like a woman, long hair,
long skirt; ready to listen to other people's troubles. Unnatural
existence; unnatural? it's unnatural to the point
of viciousness. No wonder the man's mind is unhinged.'</p>
<p>He was really troubled about his friend, the more so
that loyalty would keep him silent and allow him to ask
no questions. He thought, however, that if Eve volunteered
any remarks about Paul it would not be disloyal
to listen. The afternoon was hot and still; Eve would
be indoors. The traditions of his English life still clung
to him sufficiently to make him chafe vaguely against
the idleness of the days; he resented the concession to
the climate. A demoralising place. A place where
priests let their hair grow long, and went temporarily
mad....</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span></p>
<p>He walked in the patchy shade of the lemon-trees
towards the house in a distressed and irascible frame of
mind. He longed for action; his mind was never
content to dwell long unoccupied. He longed for the
strife the elections would bring. The house glared very
white, and all the green shutters were closed; behind
them, he knew, the windows would be closed too.
Another contradiction. In England, when one wanted
to keep a house cool, one opened the windows wide.</p>
<p>He crossed the veranda; the drawing-room was dim
and empty. How absurd to paint sham flames on the
ceiling in a climate where the last thing one wanted to
remember was fire. He called,—</p>
<p>'Eve!'</p>
<p>Silence answered him. A book lying on the floor by
the writing-table showed him that she had been in the
room; no one else in that house would read Albert
Samain. He picked it up and read disgustedly,—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">'... Des roses! des roses encore!<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Je les adore à la souffrance.<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Elles ont la sombre attirance<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Des choses qui donnent la mort.'<br /></span>
</div></div>
<p>'Nauseating!' he cried, flinging the book from him.</p>
<p>Certainly the book was Eve's. Certainly she had been
in the room, for no one else would or could have drawn
that mask of a faun on the blotting paper. He looked
at it carelessly, then with admiration; what malicious
humour she had put into those squinting eyes, that
slanting mouth! He turned the blotting paper idly—how
like Eve to draw on the blotting paper!—and came
on other drawings: a demon, a fantastic castle, a half-obliterated
sketch of himself. Once he found his name,
in elaborate architectural lettering, repeated all over
the page. Then he found a letter of which the three
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p>
<p>first words: 'Eternal, exasperating Eve!' and the last
sentence, ' ... votre réveil qui doit être charmant dans
le désordre fantaisiste de votre chambre,' made him shut
the blotter in a scurry of discretion.</p>
<p>Here were all the vivid traces of her passage, but
where was she? Loneliness and the lack of occupation
oppressed him. He lounged away from the writing-table,
out into the wide passage which ran all round the
central court. He paused there, his hands in his
pockets, and called again,—</p>
<p>'Eve!'</p>
<p>'Eve!' the echoing passage answered startlingly.</p>
<p>Presently another more tangible voice came to him as
he stood staring disconsolately through the windows
into the court.</p>
<p>'Were you calling Mith Eve, Mathter Julian? The'th
rethting. Thall I tell her?'</p>
<p>He was pleased to see Nana, fat, stayless, slipshod,
slovenly, benevolent. He kissed her, and told her she
was fatter than ever.</p>
<p>'Glad I've come back, Nannie?'</p>
<p>'Why, yeth, thurely, Mathter Julian.'</p>
<p>Nana's demonstrations were always restrained,
respectful. She habitually boasted that although life
in the easy South might have induced her to relax
her severity towards her figure, she had never allowed
it to impair her manners.</p>
<p>'Can I go up to Eve's room, Nannie?'</p>
<p>'I thuppoth tho, my dear.'</p>
<p>'Nannie, you know, you ought to be an old
negress.'</p>
<p>'Why, dear Lord! me black?'</p>
<p>'Yes; you'd be ever so much more suitable.'</p>
<p>He ran off to Eve's room upstairs, laughing, boyish
again after his boredom and irritability. He had been
in Eve's room many times before, but with his fingers<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span>
on the door handle he paused. Again that strange
vexation at her years had seized him.</p>
<p>He knocked.</p>
<p>Inside, the room was very dim; the furniture bulked
large in the shadows. Scent, dusk, luxury lapped round
him like warm water. He had an impression of soft,
scattered garments, deep mirrors, chosen books, and
many little bottles. Suddenly he was appalled by the
insolence of his own intrusion—an unbeliever bursting
into a shrine. He stood silent by the door. He heard
a drowsy voice singing in a murmur an absurd childish
rhyme,—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">'Il était noir comme un corbeau,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Ali, Ali, Ali, Alo,<br /></span>
<span class="i6">Macachebono,<br /></span>
<span class="i8">La Roustah, la Mougah, la Roustah, la Mougah,<br /></span>
<span class="i9">Allah!<br /></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">'Il était de bonne famille,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">Sa mère élevait des chameaux,<br /></span>
<span class="i4">Macachebono....'<br /></span>
</div></div>
<p>He discerned the bed, the filmy veils of the muslin
mosquito curtains, falling apart from a baldaquin. The
lazy voice, after a moment of silence, queried,—</p>
<p>'Nana?'</p>
<p>It was with an effort that he brought himself to utter,—</p>
<p>'No; Julian.'</p>
<p>With an upheaval of sheets he heard her sit upright
in bed, and her exclamation,—</p>
<p>'Who said you might come in here?'</p>
<p>At that he laughed, quite naturally.</p>
<p>'Why not? I was bored. May I come and talk to
you?'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span></p>
<p>He came round the corner of the screen and saw her
sitting up, her hair tumbled and dark, her face indistinct,
her shoulders emerging white from a foam of lace.</p>
<p>He sat down on the edge of her bed, the details of
the room emerging slowly from the darkness; and she
herself becoming more distinct as she watched him, her
shadowy eyes half sarcastic, half resentful.</p>
<p>'Sybarite!' he said.</p>
<p>She only smiled in answer, and put out one hand
towards him. It fell listlessly on to the sheets as
though she had no energy to hold it up.</p>
<p>'You child,' he said, 'you make me feel coarse and
vulgar beside you. Here am I, burning for battle, and
there you lie, wasting time, wasting youth, half-asleep,
luxurious, and quite unrepentant.'</p>
<p>'Surely even you must find it too hot for battle?'</p>
<p>'I don't find it too hot to wish that it weren't too hot.
You, on the other hand, abandon yourself contentedly;
you are pleased that it is too hot for you to do anything
but glide voluptuously into a siesta in the middle of
the day.'</p>
<p>'You haven't been here long, remember, Julian;
you're still brisk from England. Only wait; Herakleion
will overcome you.'</p>
<p>'Don't!' he cried out startlingly. 'Don't say it!
It's prophetic. I shall struggle against it; I shall be
the stronger.'</p>
<p>She only laughed murmurously into her pillows, but
he was really stirred; he stood up and walked about the
room, launching spasmodic phrases.</p>
<p>'You and Herakleion, you are all of a piece.—You
shan't drag me down.—Not if I am to live here.—I
know one loses one's sense of values here. I learnt
that when I last went away to England. I've come back
on my guard.—I'm determined to remain level-headed.—I
refuse to be impressed by fantastic happenings....</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span></p>
<p>'Why do you stop so abruptly?' Did her voice mock
him?</p>
<p>He had stopped, remembering Paul. Already he had
blundered against something he did not understand.
An impulse came to him to confide in Eve; Eve lying
there, quietly smiling with unexpressed but unmistakable
irony; Eve so certain that, sooner or later, Herakleion
would conquer him. He would confide in her. And
then, as he hesitated, he knew suddenly that Eve was
not trustworthy.</p>
<p>He began again walking about the room, betraying
by no word that a moment of revelation, important and
dramatic, had come and passed on the tick of a clock.
Yet he knew he had crossed a line over which he could
now never retrace his steps. He would never again
regard Eve in quite the same light. He absorbed the
alteration with remarkable rapidity into his conception
of her. He supposed that the knowledge of her untrustworthiness
had always lain dormant in him waiting
for the test which should some day call it out; that
was why he was so little impressed by what he had
mistaken for new knowledge.</p>
<p>'Julian, sit down; how restless you are. And you
look so enormous in this room, you frighten me.'</p>
<p>He sat down, closer to her than he had sat before,
and began playing with her fingers.</p>
<p>'How soft your hand is. It is quite boneless,' he said,
crushing it together; 'it's like a little pigeon. So you
think Herakleion will beat me? I dare say you are
right. Shall I tell you something? When I was on
my way here, from England, I determined that I
would allow myself to be beaten. I don't know why
I had that moment of revolt just now. Because I am
quite determined to let myself drift with the current,
whether it carry me towards adventures or towards
lotus-land.'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span></p>
<p>'Perhaps towards both.'</p>
<p>'Isn't that too much to hope?'</p>
<p>'Why? They are compatible. C'est le sort de la
jeunesse.'</p>
<p>'Prophesy adventures for me!'</p>
<p>'My dear Julian! I'm far too lazy.'</p>
<p>'Lotus-land, then?'</p>
<p>'This room isn't a bad substitute,' she proffered.</p>
<p>He wondered then at the exact extent of her meaning.
He was accustomed to the amazing emotional scenes
she had periodically created between them in childhood—scenes
which he never afterwards could rehearse to
himself; scenes whose fabric he never could dissect,
because it was more fantastic, more unreal, than
gossamer; scenes in which storm, anger, and heroics had
figured; scenes from which he had emerged worried,
shattered, usually with the ardent impress of her lips
on his, and brimming with self-reproach. A calm
existence was not for her; she would neither understand
nor tolerate it.</p>
<p>The door opened, and old Nana came shuffling in.</p>
<p>'Mith Eve, pleath, there'th a gentleman downstairth
to thee you. Here'th hith card.'</p>
<p>Julian took it.</p>
<p>'Eve, it's Malteios.'</p>
<p>That drowsy voice, indifferent and melodious,—</p>
<p>'Tell him to go away, Nana; tell him I am resting.'</p>
<p>'But, dearie, what'll your mother thay?'</p>
<p>'Tell him to go away, Nana.'</p>
<p>'He'th the Prime Minithter,' Nana began doubtfully.</p>
<p>'Eve!' Julian said in indignation.</p>
<p>'But, Mith Eve, you know he came latht week and
you forgot he wath coming and you wath out.'</p>
<p>'Is that so, Eve? Is he here by appointment with
you to-day?'</p>
<p>'No.'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span></p>
<p>'I shall go down to him and find out whether you are
speaking the truth.'</p>
<p>He went downstairs, ignoring Eve's voice that called
him back. The Premier was in the drawing-room,
examining the insignificant ornaments on the table.
Their last meeting had been a memorable one, in the
painted room overlooking the <i>platia</i>.</p>
<p>When their greetings were over, Julian said,—</p>
<p>'I believe you were asking for my cousin, sir?'</p>
<p>'That is so. She promised me,' said the Premier, a
sly look coming over his face, 'that she would give me
tea to-day. Shall I have the pleasure of seeing her?'</p>
<p>'What,' thought Julian, 'does this old scapegrace
politician, who must have his mind and his days full of
the coming elections, want with Eve? and want so
badly that he can perform the feat of coming out here
from Herakleion in the heat of the afternoon?'</p>
<p>Aloud he said, grimly because of the lie she had told
him,—</p>
<p>'She will be with you in a few moments, sir.'</p>
<p>In Eve's dark room, where Nana still stood fatly and
hopelessly expostulating, and Eve pretended to sleep,
he spoke roughly,—</p>
<p>'You lied to me as usual. He is here by appointment.
He is waiting. I told him you would not keep him
waiting long. You must get up.'</p>
<p>'I shall do nothing of the sort. What right have you
to dictate to me?'</p>
<p>'You're making Mathter Julian croth—and he tho
thweet-tempered alwayth,' said Nana's warning voice.</p>
<p>'Does she usually behave like this, Nana?'</p>
<p>'Oh, Mathter Julian, it'th dreadful—and me alwayth
thaving her from her mother, too. And loothing all
her thingth, too, all the time. I can't keep anything
in it'th plathe. Only three dayth ago the lotht a diamond
ring, but the never cared. The Thpanith gentleman<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span>
thent it to her, and the never thanked him, and then
lotht the ring. And the never notithed or cared. And
the getth dretheth and dretheth, and won't put them on
twith. And flowerth and chocolathes thent her—they
all thpoil her tho—and the biteth all the chocolathes in
two to thee what'th inthide, and throwth them away and
thayth the dothn't like them. That exathperating, the
ith.'</p>
<p>'Leave her to me, Nannie.'</p>
<p>'Mith Naughtineth,' said Nana, as she left the room.</p>
<p>They were alone.</p>
<p>'Eve, I am really angry. That old man!'</p>
<p>She turned luxuriously on to her back, her arms flung
wide, and lay looking at him.</p>
<p>'You are very anxious that I should go to him. You
are not very jealous of me, are you, Julian?'</p>
<p>'Why does he come?' he asked curiously. 'You never
told me....'</p>
<p>'There are a great many things I never tell you, my
dear.'</p>
<p>'It is not my business and I am not interested,' he
answered, 'but he has come a long way in the heat to
see you, and I dislike your callousness. I insist upon
your getting up.'</p>
<p>She smiled provokingly. He dropped on his knees
near her.</p>
<p>'Darling, to please me?'</p>
<p>She gave a laugh of sudden disdain.</p>
<p>'Fool! I might have obeyed you; now you have
thrown away your advantage.'</p>
<p>'Have I?' he said, and, slipping his arm beneath her,
he lifted her up bodily. 'Where shall I put you down?'
he asked, standing in the middle of the room and
holding her. 'At your dressing-table?'</p>
<p>'Why don't you steal me, Julian?' she murmured,
settling herself more comfortably in his grasp.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span></p>
<p>'Steal you? what on earth do you mean? explain!'
he said.</p>
<p>'Oh, I don't know; if you don't understand, it doesn't
matter,' she replied with some impatience, but beneath
her impatience he saw that she was shaken, and, flinging
one arm round his neck, she pulled herself up and kissed
him on the mouth. He struggled away, displeased,
brotherly, and feeling the indecency of that kiss in that
darkened room, given by one whose thinly-clad, supple
body he had been holding as he might hold a child's.</p>
<p>'You have a genius for making me angry, Eve.'</p>
<p>He stopped: she had relaxed suddenly, limp and
white in his arms; with a long sigh she let her head fall
back, her eyes closed. The warmth of her limbs reached
him through the diaphanous garment she wore. He
thought he had never before seen such abandonment of
expression and attitude; his displeasure deepened, and
an uncomplimentary word rose to his lips.</p>
<p>'I don't wonder....' flashed through his mind.</p>
<p>He was shocked, as a brother might be at the betrayal
of his sister's sexuality.</p>
<p>'Eve!' he said sharply.</p>
<p>She opened her eyes, met his, and came to herself.</p>
<p>'Put me down!' she cried, and as he set her on her
feet, she snatched at her Spanish shawl and wrapped it
round her. 'Oh!' she said, an altered being, shamed and
outraged, burying her face, 'go now, Julian—go, go, go.'</p>
<p>He went, shaking his head in perplexity: there were
too many things in Herakleion he failed to understand.
Paul, Eve, Malteios. This afternoon with Eve, which
should have been natural, had been difficult. Moments
of illumination were also moments of a profounder
obscurity. And why should Malteios return to-day,
when in the preceding week, according to Nana, he had
been so casually forgotten? Why so patient, so long-suffering,
with Eve? Was it possible that he should be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span>
attracted by Eve? It seemed to Julian, accustomed still
to regard her as a child, very improbable. Malteios!
The Premier! And the elections beginning within four
days—that he should spare the time! Rumour said
that the elections would go badly for him; that the
Stavridists would be returned. A bad look-out for the
Islands if they were. Rumour said that Stavridis was
neglecting no means, no means whatsoever, by which he
might strengthen his cause. He was more unscrupulous,
younger, more vigorous, than Malteios. The years of
dispossession had added to his determination and energy.
Malteios had seriously prejudiced his popularity by his
liaison with Kato, a woman, as the people of Herakleion
never forgot, of the Islands, and an avowed champion
of their cause. Was it possible that Eve was mixed up in
Malteios' political schemes? Julian laughed aloud at
the idea of Eve interesting herself in politics. But
perhaps Kato herself, for whom Eve entertained one of
her strongest and most enduring enthusiasms, had taken
advantage of their friendship to interest Eve in Malteios'
affairs? Anything was possible in that preposterous
state. Eve, he knew, would mischievously and ignorantly
espouse any form of intrigue. If Malteios came with
any other motive he was an old satyr—nothing more.</p>
<p>Julian's mind strayed again to the elections. The
return of the Stavridis party would mean certain
disturbances in the Islands. Disturbances would mean
an instant appeal for leadership. He would be reminded
of the day he had spent, the only day of his life, he
thought, on which he had truly lived, on Aphros.
Tsigaridis would come, grave, insistent, to hold him to
his undertakings, a figure of comedy in his absurdly
picturesque clothes, but also a figure full of dignity with
his unanswerable claim. He would bring forward a
species of moral blackmail, to which Julian, ripe for
adventure and sensitive to his obligations, would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span>
surely surrender. After that there would be no drawing
back....</p>
<p>'I have little hope of victory,' said Malteios, to whom
Julian, in search of information, had recourse; and
hinted with infinite suavity and euphemism, that the
question of election in Herakleion depended largely, if
not entirely, on the condition and judicious distribution
of the party funds. Stavridis, it appeared, had
controlled larger subscriptions, more trustworthy guarantees.
The Christopoulos, the largest bankers, were
unreliable. Alexander had political ambitions. An
under-secretaryship.... Christopoulos <i>père</i> had subscribed,
it was true, to the Malteios party, but while
his right hand produced the miserable sum from his
right pocket, who could tell with what generosity his
left hand ladled out the drachmæ into the gaping
Stavridis coffers? Safe in either eventuality. Malteios
knew his game.</p>
<p>The Premier enlarged blandly upon the situation,
regretful, but without indignation. As a man of the
world, he accepted its ways as Herakleion knew them.
Julian noted his gentle shrugs, his unfinished sentences
and innuendoes. It occurred to him that the Premier's
frankness and readiness to enlarge upon political
technique were not without motive. Buttoned into his
high frock-coat, which the climate of Herakleion was
unable to abolish, he walked softly up and down the
parquet floor between the lapis columns, his fingers
loosely interlaced behind his back, talking to Julian. In
another four days he might no longer be Premier, might
be merely a private individual, unostentatiously working
a dozen strands of intrigue. The boy was not to be
neglected as a tool. He tried him on what he conceived
to be his tenderest point.</p>
<p>'I have not been unfavourable to your islanders
during my administration,'—then, thinking the method<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span>
perhaps a trifle crude, he added, 'I have even exposed
myself to the attack of my opponents on that score;
they have made capital out of my clemency. Had I been
a less disinterested man, I should have had greater foresight.
I should have sacrificed my sense of justice to the
demands of my future.'</p>
<p>He gave a deprecatory and melancholy smile.</p>
<p>'Do I regret the course I chose? Not for an instant.
The responsibility of a statesman is not solely towards
himself or his adherents. He must set it sternly aside
in favour of the poor, ignorant destinies committed to
his care. I lay down my office with an unburdened
conscience.'</p>
<p>He stopped in his walk and stood before Julian, who,
with his hands thrust in his pockets, had listened to
the discourse from the depths of his habitual arm-chair.</p>
<p>'But you, young man, are not in my position. The
door I seek is marked Exit; the door you seek, Entrance.
I think I may, without presumption, as an old and
finished man, offer you a word of prophecy.' He
unlaced his fingers and pointed one of them at Julian.
'You may live to be the saviour of an oppressed people,
a not unworthy mission. Remember that my present
opponents, should they come to power, will not sympathise
with your efforts, as I myself—who knows?—might
have sympathised.'</p>
<p>Julian, acknowledging the warning, thought he
recognised the style of the Senate Chamber, but failed
to recognise the sentiments he had heard expressed by
the Premier on a former occasion, on this same subject
of his interference in the affairs of the Islands. He
ventured to suggest as much. The Premier's smile
broadened, his deprecatory manner deepened.</p>
<p>'Ah, you were younger then; hot-headed; I did not
know how far I could trust you. Your intentions,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span>
excellent; but your judgment perhaps a little precipitate?
Since then, you have seen the world; you are
a man. You have returned, no doubt, ready to pick up
the weapon you tentatively fingered as a boy. You will
no longer be blinded by sentiment, you will weigh your
actions nicely in the balance. And you will remember
the goodwill of Platon Malteios?'</p>
<p>He resumed his soft walk up and down the room.</p>
<p>'Within a few weeks you may find yourself in the
heart of strife. I see you as a young athlete on the
threshold, doubtless as generous as most young men,
as ambitious, as eager. Discard the divine foolishness
of allowing ideas, not facts, to govern your heart. We
live in Herakleion, not in Utopia. We have all shed,
little by little, our illusions....'</p>
<p>After a sigh, the depth of whose genuineness neither
he nor Julian could accurately diagnose, he continued,
brightening as he returned to the practical,—</p>
<p>'Stavridis—a harsher man than I. He and your
islanders would come to grips within a month. I should
scarcely deplore it. A question based on the struggle
of nationality—for, it cannot be denied, the Italian
blood of your islanders severs them irremediably from
the true Greek of Herakleion—such questions cry for
decisive settlement even at the cost of a little bloodletting.
Submission or liberty, once and for all. That
is preferable to the present irritable shilly-shally.'</p>
<p>'I know the alternative I should choose,' said Julian.</p>
<p>'Liberty?—the lure of the young,' said Malteios, not
unkindly. 'I said that I should scarcely deplore such
an attempt, for it would fail; Herakleion could never
tolerate for long the independence of the Islands. Yes,
it would surely fail. But from it good might emerge.
A friendlier settlement, a better understanding, a more
cheerful submission. Believe me,' he added, seeing the
cloud of obstinate disagreement upon Julian's face,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span>
'never break your heart over the failure. Your Islands
would have learnt the lesson of the inevitable; and the
great inevitable is perhaps the least intolerable of all
human sorrows. There is, after all, a certain kindliness
in the fate which lays the obligation of sheer necessity
upon our courage.'</p>
<p>For a moment his usual manner had left him; he
recalled it with a short laugh.</p>
<p>'Perhaps the thought that my long years of office
may be nearly at an end betrays me into this undue
melancholy,' he said flippantly; 'pay no attention,
young man. Indeed, whatever I may say, I know that
you will cling to your idea of revolt. Am I not right?'</p>
<p>Once more the keen, sly look was in his eyes, and
Julian knew that only the Malteios who desired the
rupture of the Islands with his own political adversary,
remained. He felt, in a way, comforted to be again
upon the familiar ground; his conception of the man
had been momentarily disarranged.</p>
<p>'Your Excellency is very shrewd,' he replied, politely
and evasively.</p>
<p>Malteios shrugged and smiled the smile that had such
real charm; and as he shrugged and smiled the discussion
away into the region of such things dismissed, his glance
travelled beyond Julian to the door, his mouth curved
into a more goatish smile amidst his beard, and his eyes
narrowed into two slits till his whole face resembled the
mask of the old faun that Eve had drawn on the blotting
paper.</p>
<p>'Mademoiselle!' he murmured, advancing towards
Eve, who, dressed in white, appeared between the lapis-lazuli
columns.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span></p>
<h2>III</h2>
<p>Madame Lafarge gave a picnic which preceded the
day of the elections, and to Julian Davenant it seemed
that he was entering a cool, dark cavern roofed over
with mysterious greenery after riding in the heat across
a glaring plain. The transition from the white Herakleion
to the deep valley, shut in by steep, terraced hills covered
with olives, ilexes, and myrtles—a valley profound,
haunted, silent, hallowed by pools of black-green shadow—consciousness
of the transition stole over him soothingly,
as his pony picked its way down the stony path
of the hill-side. He had refused to accompany the
others. Early in the morning he had ridden over the
hills, so early that he had watched the sunrise, and had
counted, from a summit, the houses on Aphros in the
glassy limpidity of the Grecian dawn. The morning had
been pure as the treble notes of a violin, the sea below
bright as a pavement of diamonds. The Islands lay,
clear and low, delicately yellow, rose, and lilac, in the
serene immensity of the dazzling waters. They seemed
to him to contain every element of enchantment;
cleanly of line as cameos, yet intangible as a mirage,
rising lovely and gracious as Aphrodite from the white
flashes of their foam, fairy islands of beauty and illusion
in a sea of radiant and eternal youth.</p>
<p>A stream ran through the valley, and near the banks
of the stream, in front of a clump of ilexes, gleamed the
marble columns of a tiny ruined temple. Julian turned
his pony loose to graze, throwing himself down at full
length beside the stream and idly pulling at the orchids
and magenta cyclamen which grew in profusion. Towards
midday his solitude was interrupted. A procession<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span>
of victorias accompanied by men on horseback began
to wind down the steep road into the valley; from
afar he watched them coming, conscious of distaste and
boredom, then remembering that Eve was of the party,
and smiling to himself a little in relief. She would come,
at first silent, unobtrusive, almost sulky; then little by
little the spell of their intimacy would steal over him,
and by a word or a glance they would be linked, the
whole system of their relationship developing itself
anew, a system elaborated by her, as he well knew;
built up of personal, whimsical jokes; stimulating,
inventive, she had to a supreme extent the gift of creating
such a web, subtly, by meaning more than she said and
saying less than she meant; giving infinite promise, but
ever postponing fulfilment.</p>
<p>'A flirt?' he wondered to himself, lazily watching the
string of carriages in one of which she was.</p>
<p>But she was more elemental, more dangerous, than a
mere flirt. On that account, and because of her wide
and penetrative intelligence, he could not relegate her
to the common category. Yet he thought he might
safely make the assertion that no man in Herakleion had
altogether escaped her attraction. He thought he might
apply this generalisation from M. Lafarge, or Malteios,
or Don Rodrigo Valdez, down to the chasseur who picked
up her handkerchief. (Her handkerchief! ah, yes!
she could always be traced, as in a paper-chase, by her
scattered possessions—a handkerchief, a glove, a
cigarette-case, a gardenia, a purse full of money, a
powder-puff—frivolities doubly delightful and doubly
irritating in a being so terrifyingly elemental, so unassailably
and sarcastically intelligent.) Eve, the child
he had known unaccountable, passionate, embarrassing,
who had written him the precocious letters on every
topic in a variety of tongues, imaginative exceedingly,
copiously illustrated, bursting occasionally into erratic<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span>
and illegible verse; Eve, with her desperate and excessive
passions; Eve, grown to womanhood, grown
into a firebrand! He had been entertained, but at
the same time slightly offended, to find her grown; his
conception of her was disarranged; he had felt almost a
sense of outrage in seeing her heavy hair piled upon her
head; he had looked curiously at the uncovered nape of
her neck, the hair brushed upwards and slightly curling,
where once it had hung thick and plaited; he had noted
with an irritable shame the softness of her throat in the
evening dress she had worn when first he had seen her.
He banished violently the recollection of her in that
brief moment when in his anger he had lifted her out of
her bed and had carried her across the room in his
arms. He banished it with a shudder and a
revulsion, as he might have banished a suggestion of
incest.</p>
<p>Springing to his feet, he went forward to meet the
carriages; the shadowed valley was flicked by the
bright uniforms of the chasseurs on the boxes and the
summer dresses of the women in the victorias; the
laughter of the Danish Excellency already reached his
ears above the hum of talk and the sliding hoofs of the
horses as they advanced cautiously down the hill,
straining back against their harness, and bringing with
them at every step a little shower of stones from the
rough surface of the road. The younger men, Greeks,
and secretaries of legations, rode by the side of the
carriages. The Danish Excellency was the first to alight,
fat and babbling in a pink muslin dress with innumerable
flounces; Julian turned aside to hide his smile. Madame
Lafarge descended with her customary weightiness,
beaming without benevolence but with a tyrannical
proprietorship over all her guests. She graciously
accorded her hand to Julian. The chasseurs were already
busy with wicker baskets.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span></p>
<p>'The return to Nature,' Alexander Christopoulos
whispered to Eve.</p>
<p>Julian observed that Eve looked bored and sulky;
she detested large assemblies, unless she could hold their
entire attention, preferring the more intimate scope of
the <i>tête-à-tête</i>. Amongst the largest gathering she usually
contrived to isolate herself and one other, with whom
she conversed in whispers. Presently, he knew, she
would be made to recite, or to tell anecdotes, involving
imitation, and this she would perform, at first languidly,
but warming with applause, and would end by dancing—he
knew her programme! He rarely spoke to her, or
she to him, in public. She would appear to ignore him,
devoting herself to Don Rodrigo, or to Alexander, or,
most probably, to the avowed admirer of some other
woman. He had frequently brought his direct and
masculine arguments to bear against this practice. She
listened without replying, as though she did not understand.</p>
<p>Fru Thyregod was more than usually sprightly.</p>
<p>'Now, Armand, you lazy fellow, bring me my camera;
this day has to be immortalised; I must have pictures
of all you beautiful young men for my friends in Denmark.
Fauns in a Grecian grave! Let me peep whether
any of you have cloven feet.'</p>
<p>Madame Lafarge put up her lorgnon, and said to the
Italian Minister in a not very low voice,—</p>
<p>'I am so fond of dear Fru Thyregod, but she is terribly
vulgar at times.'</p>
<p>There was a great deal of laughter over Fru Thyregod's
sally, and some of the young men pretended to hide their
feet beneath napkins.</p>
<p>'Eve and Julie, you must be the nymphs,' the Danish
Excellency went on.</p>
<p>Eve took no notice; Julie looked shy, and the sisters
Christopoulos angry at not being included.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span></p>
<p>'Now we must all help to unpack; that is half the fun
of the picnic,' said Madame Lafarge, in a business-like
tone.</p>
<p>Under the glare of her lorgnon Armand and Madame
Delahaye attacked one basket; they nudged and
whispered to one another, and their fingers became
entangled under the cover of the paper wrappings. Eve
strolled away, Valdez followed her. The Persian Minister
who had come unobtrusively, after the manner of a
humble dog, stood gently smiling in the background.
Julie Lafarge never took her adoring eyes off Eve.
The immense Grbits had drawn Julian on one side, and
was talking to him, shooting out his jaw and hitting
Julian on the chest for emphasis. Fru Thyregod, with
many whispers, collected a little group to whom she
pointed them out, and photographed them.</p>
<p>'Really,' said the Danish Minister peevishly, to Condesa
Valdez, 'my wife is the most foolish woman I know.'</p>
<p>During the picnic every one was very gay, with the
exception of Julian, who regretted having come, and of
Miloradovitch, of whom Eve was taking no notice at all.
Madame Lafarge was especially pleased with the success
of her expedition. She enjoyed the intimacy that
existed amongst all her guests, and said as much in an
aside to the Roumanian Minister.</p>
<p>'You know, <i>chère Excellence</i>, I have known most of
these dear friends so long; we have spent happy years
together in different capitals; that is the best of diplomacy:
<i>ce qu'il y a de beau dans la carrière c'est qu'on
se retrouve toujours</i>.'</p>
<p>'It is not unlike a large family, one may say,' replied
the Roumanian.</p>
<p>'How well you phrase it!' exclaimed Madame Lafarge.
'Listen, everybody: His Excellency has made a real
<i>mot d'esprit</i>, he says diplomacy is like a large family.'</p>
<p>Eve and Julian looked up, and their eyes met.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span></p>
<p>'You are not eating anything, Ardalion Semeonovitch,'
said Armand (he had once spent two months in Russia)
to Miloradovitch, holding out a plate of sandwiches.</p>
<p>'No, nor do I want anything,' said Miloradovitch
rudely, and he got up, and walked away by himself.</p>
<p>'Dear me! <i>ces Russes!</i> what manners!' said Madame
Lafarge, pretending to be amused; and everybody looked
facetiously at Eve.</p>
<p>'I remember once, when I was in Russia, at the time
that Stolypin was Prime Minister,' Don Rodrigo began,
'there was a serious scandal about one of the Empress's
ladies-in-waiting and a son of old Princess Golucheff—you
remember old Princess Golucheff, Excellency? she
was a Bariatinsky, a very handsome woman, and Serge
Radziwill killed himself on her account—he was a Pole,
one of the Kieff Radziwills, whose mother was commonly
supposed to be <i>au mieux</i> with Stolypin (though Stolypin
was not at all that kind of man; he was <i>très province</i>),
and most people thought that was the reason why Serge
occupied such a series of the highest Court appointments,
in spite of being a Pole—the Poles were particularly
unpopular just then; I even remember that Stanislas
Aveniev, in spite of having a Russian mother—she
was an Orloff, and her jewels were proverbial even in
Petersburg—they had all been given her by the Grand
Duke Boris—Stanislas Aveniev was obliged to resign
his commission in the Czar's guard. However, Casimir
Golucheff....' but everybody had forgotten the
beginning of his story and only Madame Lafarge was left
politely listening.</p>
<p>Julian overheard Eve reproducing, in an undertone
to Armand, the style and manner of Don Rodrigo's
conversation. He also became aware that, between her
sallies, Fru Thyregod was bent upon retaining his
attention for herself.</p>
<p>He was disgusted with all this paraphernalia of social<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span>
construction, and longed ardently for liberty on Aphros.
He wondered whether Eve were truly satisfied, or whether
she played the part merely with the humorous gusto of
an artist, caught up in his own game; he wondered to
what extent her mystery was due to her life's pretence?</p>
<p>Later, he found himself drifting apart with the Danish
Excellency; he drifted, that is, beside her, tall, slack
of limb, absent of mind, while she tripped with apparent
heedlessness, but with actual determination of purpose.
As she tripped she chattered. Fair and silly, she
demanded gallantry of men, and gallantry of a kind—perfunctory,
faintly pitying, apologetic—she was
accorded. She had enticed Julian away, with a certain
degree of skill, and was glad. Eve had scowled blackly,
in the one swift glance she had thrown them.</p>
<p>'Your cousin enchants Don Rodrigo, it is clear,' Fru
Thyregod said with malice as they strolled.</p>
<p>Julian turned to look back. He saw Eve sitting with
the Spanish Minister on the steps of the little temple. In
front of the temple, the ruins of the picnic stained the
valley with bright frivolity; bits of white paper fluttered,
tablecloths remained spread on the ground, and laughter
echoed from the groups that still lingered hilariously;
the light dresses of the women were gay, and their
parasols floated above them like coloured bubbles against
the darkness of the ilexes.</p>
<p>'What desecration of the Dryads' grove,' said Fru
Thyregod, 'let us put it out of sight,' and she gave a
little run forward, and then glanced over her shoulder
to see if Julian were following her.</p>
<p>He came, unsmiling and leisurely. As soon as they
were hidden from sight among the olives, she began to
talk to him about himself, walking slowly, looking up
at him now and then, and prodding meditatively with
the tip of her parasol at the stones upon the ground.
He was, she said, so free. He had his life before him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span>
And she talked about herself, of the shackles of her sex,
the practical difficulties of her life, her poverty, her
effort to hide beneath a gay exterior a heart that was
not gay.</p>
<p>'Carl,' she said, alluding to her husband, 'has indeed
charge of the affairs of Norway and Sweden also in
Herakleion, but Herakleion is so tiny, he is paid as
though he were a Consul.'</p>
<p>Julian listened, dissecting the true from the untrue;
although he knew her gaiety was no effort, but merely
the child of her innate foolishness, he also knew that
her poverty was a source of real difficulties to her, and
he felt towards her a warm, though a bored and slightly
contemptuous, friendliness. He listened to her babble,
thinking more of the stream by which they walked, and
of the little magenta cyclamen that grew in the shady,
marshy places on its banks.</p>
<p>Fru Thyregod was speaking of Eve, a topic round
which she perpetually hovered in an uncertainty of
fascination and resentment.</p>
<p>'Do you approve of her very intimate friendship with
that singer, Madame Kato?'</p>
<p>'I am very fond of Madame Kato myself, Fru
Thyregod.'</p>
<p>'Ah, you are a man. But for Eve ... a girl....
After all, what is Madame Kato but a common woman,
a woman of the people, and the mistress of Malteios into
the bargain?'</p>
<p>Fru Thyregod was unwontedly serious. Julian had
not yet realised to what extent Alexander Christopoulos
had transferred his attentions to Eve.</p>
<p>'You know I am an unconventional woman; every
one who knows me even a little can see that I am
unconventional. But when I see a child, a nice child,
like your cousin Eve, associated with a person like Kato,
I think to myself, "Mabel, that is unbecoming."'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span></p>
<p>She repeated,—</p>
<p>'And yet I have been told that I was too unconventional.
Yes, Carl has often reproached me, and my
friends too. They say, "Mabel, you are too soft-hearted,
and you are too unconventional." What do
you think?'</p>
<p>Julian ignored the personal. He said,—</p>
<p>'I should not describe Eve as a "nice child."'</p>
<p>'No? Well, perhaps not. She is too ... too....'
said Fru Thyregod, who, not having very many ideas
of her own, liked to induce other people into supplying
the missing adjective.</p>
<p>'She is too important,' Julian said gravely.</p>
<p>The adjective in this case was unexpected. The
Danish Excellency could only say,—</p>
<p>'I think I know what you mean.'</p>
<p>Julian, perfectly well aware that she did not, and
caring nothing whether she did or no, but carelessly
willing to illuminate himself further on the subject,
pursued,—</p>
<p>'Her frivolity is a mask. Her instincts alone are
deep; <i>how</i> deep, it frightens me to think. She is an
artist, although, she may never produce art. She lives
in a world of her own, with its own code of morals and
values. The Eve that we all know is a sham, the
product of her own pride and humour. She is laughing at
us all. The Eve we know is entertaining, cynical, selfish,
unscrupulous. The real Eve is ...' he paused, and
brought out his words with a satisfied finality, 'a rebel
and an idealist.'</p>
<p>Then, glancing at his bewildered companion, he
laughed and said,—</p>
<p>'Don't believe a word I say, Fru Thyregod: Eve is
nineteen, bent only upon enjoying her life to the
full.'</p>
<p>He knew, nevertheless, that he had swept together<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span>
the loose wash of his thought into a concrete channel;
and rejoiced.</p>
<p>Fru Thyregod passed to a safer topic. She liked
Julian, and understood only one form of excitement.</p>
<p>'You bring with you such a breath of freshness and
originality,' she said, sighing, 'into our stale little world.'</p>
<p>His newly-found good humour coaxed him into
responsiveness.</p>
<p>'No world can surely ever be stale to you, Fru
Thyregod; I always think of you as endowed with
perpetual youth and gaiety.'</p>
<p>'Ah, Julian, you have perfect manners, to pay so
charming a compliment to an old woman like me.'</p>
<p>She neither thought her world stale or little, nor
herself old, but pathos had often proved itself of value.</p>
<p>'Everybody knows, Fru Thyregod, that you are the
life and soul of Herakleion.'</p>
<p>They had wandered into a little wood, and sat down
on a fallen tree beside the stream. She began again
prodding at the ground with her parasol, keeping her
eyes cast down. She was glad to have captured Julian,
partly for her own sake, and partly because she knew
that Eve would be annoyed.</p>
<p>'How delightful to escape from all our noisy friends,'
she said; 'we shall create quite a scandal; but I am
too unconventional to trouble about that. I cannot
sympathise with those limited, conventional folk who
always consider appearances. I have always said, "One
should be natural. Life is too short for the conventions."
Although, I think one should refrain from giving pain.
When I was a girl, I was a terrible tomboy.'</p>
<p>He listened to her babble of coy platitudes, contrasting
her with Eve.</p>
<p>'I never lost my spirits,' she went on, in the meditative
tone she thought suitable to <i>tête-à-tête</i> conversations—it
provoked intimacy, and afforded agreeable relief<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span>
to her more social manner; a woman, to be charming,
must be several-sided; gay in public, but a little wistful
philosophy was interesting in private; it indicated
sympathy, and betrayed a thinking mind,—'I never
lost my spirits, although life has not always been very
easy for me; still, with good spirits and perhaps a little
courage one can continue to laugh, isn't that the way to
take life? and on the whole I have enjoyed mine, and
my little adventures too, my little harmless adventures;
Carl always laughs and says, "You will always have
adventures, Mabel, so I must make the best of it,"—he
says that, though he has been very jealous at times.
Poor Carl,' she said reminiscently, 'perhaps I have made
him suffer; who knows?'</p>
<p>Julian looked at her; he supposed that her existence
was made up of such experiments, and knew that the
arrival of every new young man in Herakleion was to
her a source of flurry and endless potentialities which,
alas, never fulfilled their promise, but which left her
undaunted and optimistic for the next affray.</p>
<p>'Why do I always talk about myself to you?' she said,
with her little laugh; 'you must blame yourself for
being too sympathetic.'</p>
<p>He scarcely knew how their conversation progressed;
he wondered idly whether Eve conducted hers upon the
same lines with Don Rodrigo Valdez, or whether she had
been claimed by Miloradovitch, to whom she said she
was engaged. Did she care for Miloradovitch? he was
immensely rich, the owner of jewels and oil-mines,
remarkably good-looking; dashing, and a gambler. At
diplomatic gatherings he wore a beautiful uniform.
Julian had seen Eve dancing with him; he had seen
the Russian closely following her out of a room, bending
forward to speak to her, and her ironical eyes
raised for an instant over the slow movement of her fan.
He had seen them disappear together, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span>
provocative poise of her white shoulders, and the richness
of the beautiful uniform, had remained imprinted
on his memory.</p>
<p>He awoke with dismay to the fact that Fru Thyregod
had taken off her hat.</p>
<p>She had a great quantity of soft, yellow hair into
which she ran her fingers, lifting its weight as though
oppressed. He supposed that the gesture was not so
irrelevant to their foregoing conversation, of which he
had not noticed a word, as it appeared to be. He was
startled to find himself saying in a tone of commiseration,—</p>
<p>'Yes, it must be very heavy.'</p>
<p>'I wish that I could cut it all off,' Fru Thyregod cried
petulantly. 'Why, to amuse you, only look....'
and to his horror she withdrew a number of pins and
allowed her hair to fall in a really beautiful cascade over
her shoulders. She smiled at him, parting the strands
before her eyes.</p>
<p>At that moment Eve and Miloradovitch came into
view, wandering side by side down the path.</p>
<p>Of the four, Miloradovitch alone was amused. Julian
was full of a shamefaced anger towards Fru Thyregod,
and between the two women an instant enmity sprang
into being like a living and visible thing. The Russian
drew near to Fru Thyregod with some laughing compliment;
she attached herself desperately to him as a refuge
from Julian. Julian and Eve remained face to face
with one another.</p>
<p>'Walk with me a little,' she said, making no attempt
to disguise her fury.</p>
<p>'My dear Eve,' he said, when they were out of earshot,
'I should scarcely recognise you when you put on that
expression.'</p>
<p>He spoke frigidly. She was indeed transformed, her
features coarsened and unpleasing, her soft delicacy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span>
vanished. He could not believe that he had ever thought
her rare, exquisite, charming.</p>
<p>'I don't blame you for preferring Fru Thyregod,' she
returned.</p>
<p>'I believe your vanity to be so great that you resent
any man speaking to any other woman but yourself,'
he said, half persuading himself that he was voicing a
genuine conviction.</p>
<p>'Very well, if you choose to believe that,' she replied.</p>
<p>They walked a little way in angry silence.</p>
<p>'I detest all women,' he added presently.</p>
<p>'Including me?'</p>
<p>'Beginning with you.'</p>
<p>He was reminded of their childhood with its endless
disputes, and made an attempt to restore their friendship.</p>
<p>'Come, Eve, why are we quarrelling? I do not make
you jealous scenes about Miloradovitch.'</p>
<p>'Far from it,' she said harshly.</p>
<p>'Why should he want to marry you?' he began, his
anger rising again. 'What qualities have you? Clever,
seductive, and entertaining! But, on the other hand,
selfish, jealous, unkind, pernicious, indolent, vain. A
bad bargain. If he knew you as well as I.... Jealousy!
It amounts to madness.'</p>
<p>'I am perhaps not jealous where Miloradovitch is
concerned,' she said.</p>
<p>'Then spare me the compliment of being jealous of
me. You wreck affection; you will wreck your life
through your jealousy and exorbitance.'</p>
<p>'No doubt,' she replied in a tone of so much sadness
that he became remorseful. He contrasted, moreover,
her violence, troublesome, inconvenient, as it often was,
with the standardised and distasteful little inanities of
Fru Thyregod and her like, and found Eve preferable.</p>
<p>'Darling, you never defend yourself; it is very disarming.'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span></p>
<p>But she would not accept the olive-branch he offered.</p>
<p>'Sentimentality becomes you very badly, Julian; keep
it for Fru Thyregod.'</p>
<p>'We have had enough of Fru Thyregod,' he said,
flushing.</p>
<p>'It suits you to say so; I do not forget so easily.
Really, Julian, sometimes I think you very commonplace.
From the moment you arrived until to-day, you
have never been out of Fru Thyregod's pocket. Like
Alexander, once. Like any stray young man.'</p>
<p>'Eve!' he said, in astonishment at the outrageous
accusation.</p>
<p>'My little Julian, have you washed the lap-dog to-day?
Carl always says, "Mabel, you are fonder of your dogs
than of your children—you are really dreadful," but I
don't think that's quite fair,' said Eve, in so exact an
imitation of Fru Thyregod's voice and manner that
Julian was forced to smile.</p>
<p>She went on,—</p>
<p>'I expect too much of you. My imagination makes of
you something which you are not. I so despise the
common herd that I persuade myself that you are above
it. I can persuade myself of anything,' she said
scathingly, wounding him in the recesses of his most
treasured vanity—her good opinion of him; 'I persuade
myself that you are a Titan amongst men, almost a god,
but in reality, if I could see you without prejudice, what
are you fit for? to be Fru Thyregod's lover!'</p>
<p>'You are mad,' he said, for there was no other reply.</p>
<p>'When I am jealous, I am mad,' she flung at him.</p>
<p>'But if you are jealous of me....' he said, appalled.
'Supposing you were ever in love, your jealousy would
know no bounds. It is a disease. It is the ruin of our
friendship.'</p>
<p>'Entirely.'</p>
<p>'You are inordinately perverse.'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span></p>
<p>'Inordinately.'</p>
<p>'Supposing I were to marry, I should not dare—what
an absurd thought—to introduce you to my wife.'</p>
<p>A truly terrible expression came into her eyes; they
narrowed to little slits, and turned slightly inwards; as
though herself aware of it, she bent to pick the little
cyclamen.</p>
<p>'Are you trying to tell me, Julian....'</p>
<p>'You told me you were engaged to Miloradovitch.'</p>
<p>She stood up, regardless, and he saw the tragic pallor
of her face. She tore the cyclamen to pieces beneath her
white fingers.</p>
<p>'It is true, then?' she said, her voice dead.</p>
<p>He began to laugh.</p>
<p>'You do indeed persuade yourself very easily.'</p>
<p>'Julian, you must tell me. You must. Is it true?'</p>
<p>'If it were?'</p>
<p>'I should have to kill you—or myself,' she replied with
the utmost gravity.</p>
<p>'You are mad,' he said again, in the resigned tone of
one who states a perfectly established fact.</p>
<p>'If I am mad, you are unutterably cruel,' she said,
twisting her fingers together; 'will you answer me, yes
or no? I believe it is true,' she rushed on, immolating
herself, 'you have fallen in love with some woman in
England, and she, naturally, with you. Who is she?
You have promised to marry her. You, whom I thought
so free and splendid, to load yourself with the inevitable
fetters!'</p>
<p>'I should lose caste in your eyes?' he asked, thinking
to himself that Eve was, when roused, scarcely a
civilised being. 'But if you marry Miloradovitch you
will be submitting to the same fetters you think so
degrading.'</p>
<p>'Miloradovitch,' she said impatiently, 'Miloradovitch
will no more ensnare me than have the score of people<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span>
I have been engaged to since I last saw you. You are
still evading your answer.'</p>
<p>'You will never marry?' he dwelt on his discovery.</p>
<p>'Nobody that I loved,' she replied without hesitation,
'but, Julian, Julian, you don't answer my question?'</p>
<p>'Would you marry me if I wanted you to?' he asked
carelessly.</p>
<p>'Not for the world, but why keep me in suspense?
only answer me, are you trying to tell me that you have
fallen in love? if so, admit it, please, at once, and let
me go; don't you see, I am leaving Fru Thyregod on
one side, I ask you in all humility now, Julian.'</p>
<p>'For perhaps the fiftieth time since you were thirteen,'
he said, smiling.</p>
<p>'Have you tormented me long enough?'</p>
<p>'Very well: I am in love with the Islands, and with
nothing and nobody else.'</p>
<p>'Then why had Fru Thyregod her hair down her back?
you're lying to me, and I despise you doubly for it,' she
reverted, humble no longer, but aggressive.</p>
<p>'Fru Thyregod again?' he said, bewildered.</p>
<p>'How little I trust you,' she broke out; 'I believe
that you deceive me at every turn. Kato, too; you
spend hours in Kato's flat. What do you do there?
You write letters to people of whom I have never heard.
You dined with the Thyregods twice last week. Kato
sends you notes by hand from Herakleion when you are
in the country. You use the Islands as dust to throw
in my eyes, but I am not blinded.'</p>
<p>'I have had enough of this!' he cried.</p>
<p>'You are like everybody else,' she insisted; 'you
enjoy mean entanglements, and you cherish the idea of
marriage. You want a home, like everybody else. A
faithful wife. Children. I loathe children,' she said
violently. 'You are very different from me. You are
tame. I have deluded myself into thinking we were alike.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span>
You are tame, respectable. A good citizen. You have
all the virtues. I will live to show you how different we
are. Ten years hence, you will say to your wife, "No,
my dear, I really cannot allow you to know that poor
Eve." And your wife, well trained, submissive, will
agree.'</p>
<p>He shrugged his shoulders, accustomed to such storms,
and knowing that she only sought to goad him into a
rage.</p>
<p>'In the meantime, go back to Fru Thyregod; why
trouble to lie to me? And to Kato, go back to Kato.
Write to the woman in England, too. I will go to
Miloradovitch, or to any of the others.'</p>
<p>He was betrayed into saying,—</p>
<p>'The accusation of mean entanglements comes badly
from your lips.'</p>
<p>In her heart she guessed pretty shrewdly at his real
relation towards women: a self-imposed austerity, with
violent relapses that had no lasting significance, save to
leave him with his contemptuous distaste augmented.
His mind was too full of other matters. For Kato alone
he had a profound esteem.</p>
<p>Eve answered his last remark,—</p>
<p>'I will prove to you the little weight of my entanglements,
by dismissing Miloradovitch to-day; you have
only to say the word.'</p>
<p>'You would do that—without remorse?'</p>
<p>'Miloradovitch is nothing to me.'</p>
<p>'You are something to him—perhaps everything.'</p>
<p>'Cela ne me regarde pas,' she replied. 'Would you
do as much for me? Fru Thyregod, for instance? or
Kato?'</p>
<p>Interested and curious, he said,—</p>
<p>'To please you, I should give up Kato?'</p>
<p>'You would not?'</p>
<p>'Most certainly I should not. Why suggest it? Kato<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span>
is your friend as much as mine. Are all women's friendships
so unstable?'</p>
<p>'Be careful, Julian: you are on the quicksands.'</p>
<p>'I have had enough of these topics,' he said, 'will
you leave them?'</p>
<p>'No; I choose my own topics; you shan't dictate
to me.'</p>
<p>'You would sacrifice Miloradovitch without a thought,
to please me—why should it please me?—but you would
not forgo the indulgence of your jealousy! I am not
grateful. Our senseless quarrels,' he said, 'over which
we squander so much anger and emotion.' But he did
not stop to question what lay behind their important
futility. He passed his hand wearily over his hair,
'I am deluded sometimes into believing in their reality
and sanity. You are too difficult. You ... you distort
and bewitch, until one expects to wake up from a
dream. Sometimes I think of you as a woman quite
apart from other women, but at other times I think you
live merely by and upon fictitious emotion and excitement.
Must your outlook be always so narrowly
personal? Kato, thank Heaven, is very different. I
shall take care to choose my friends amongst men, or
amongst women like Kato,' he continued, his exasperation
rising.</p>
<p>'Julian, don't be so angry: it isn't my fault that I
hate politics.'</p>
<p>He grew still angrier at her illogical short-cut to the
reproach which lay, indeed, unexpressed at the back
of his mind.</p>
<p>'I never mentioned politics. I know better. No man
in his senses would expect politics from any woman so
demoralisingly feminine as yourself. Besides, that isn't
your rôle. Your rôle is to be soft, idle; a toy; a siren;
the negation of enterprise. Work and woman—the terms
contradict one another. The woman who works, or who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span>
tolerates work, is only half a woman. The most you
can hope for,' he said with scorn, 'is to inspire—and
even that you do unconsciously, and very often quite
against your will. You sap our energy; you sap and
you destroy.'</p>
<p>She had not often heard him speak with so much
bitterness, but she did not know that his opinions in
this more crystallised form dated from that slight
moment in which he had divined her own untrustworthiness.</p>
<p>'You are very wise. I forget whether you are twenty-two
or twenty-three?'</p>
<p>'Oh, you may be sarcastic. I only know that I will
never have my life wrecked by women. To-morrow the
elections take place, and, after that, whatever their
result, I belong to the Islands.'</p>
<p>'I think I see you with a certain clearness,' she said
more gently, 'full of illusions, independence, and young
generosities—<i>nous passons tous par là</i>.'</p>
<p>'Talk English, Eve, and be less cynical; if I am
twenty-two, as you reminded me, you are nineteen.'</p>
<p>'If you could find a woman who was a help and not
a hindrance?' she suggested.</p>
<p>'Ah!' he said, 'the Blue Bird! I am not likely to
be taken in; I am too well on my guard.—Look!' he
added, 'Fru Thyregod and your Russian friend; I leave
you to them,' and before Eve could voice her indignation
he had disappeared into the surrounding woods.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span></p>
<h2>IV</h2>
<p>On the next day, the day of the elections, which was
also the anniversary of the Declaration of Independence,
Herakleion blossomed suddenly, and from the earliest
hour, into a striped and fluttering gaudiness. The
sun shone down upon a white town beflagged into an
astonishing gaiety. Everywhere was whiteness, whiteness,
and brilliantly coloured flags. White, green,
and orange, dazzling in the sun, vivid in the breeze.
And, keyed up to match the intensity of the colour,
the band blared brassily, unremittingly, throughout
the day from the centre of the <i>platia</i>.</p>
<p>A parrot-town, glaring and screeching; a monkey-town,
gibbering, excited, inconsequent. All the shops,
save the sweet-shops, were shut, and the inhabitants
flooded into the streets. Not only had they decked
their houses with flags, they had also decked themselves
with ribbons, their women with white dresses,
their children with bright bows, their carriages with
paper streamers, their horses with sunbonnets. Bands
of young men, straw-hatted, swept arm-in-arm down
the pavements, adding to the din with mouth organs,
mirlitons, and tin trumpets. The trams flaunted
posters in the colours of the contending parties.
Immense char-à-bancs, roofed over with brown holland
and drawn by teams of mules, their harness hung with
bells and red tassels, conveyed the voters to the polling-booths
amid the cheers and imprecations of the crowd.</p>
<p>Herakleion abandoned itself deliriously to political
carnival.</p>
<p>In the immense, darkened rooms of the houses on
the <i>platia</i>, the richer Greeks idled, concealing their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span>
anxiety. It was tacitly considered beneath their
dignity to show themselves in public during that day.
They could but await the fruition or the failure of
their activities during the preceding weeks. Heads of
households were for the most part morose, absorbed
in calculations and regrets. Old Christopoulos, looking
more bleached than usual, wished he had been more
generous. That secretaryship for Alexander.... In
the great sala of his house he paced restlessly up and
down, biting his finger nails, and playing on his fingers
the tune of the many thousand drachmæ he might
profitably have expended. The next election would
not take place for five years. At the next election he
would be a great deal more lavish.</p>
<p>He had made the same resolution at every election
during the past thirty years.</p>
<p>In the background, respectful of his silence, themselves
dwarfed and diminutive in the immense height
of the room, little knots of his relatives and friends
whispered together, stirring cups of tisane. Heads
were very close together, glances at old Christopoulos
very frequent. Visitors, isolated or in couples, strolled
in unannounced and informally, stayed for a little,
strolled away again. A perpetual movement of such
circulation rippled through the houses in the <i>platia</i>
throughout the day, rumour assiduous in its wake.
Fru Thyregod alone, with her fat, silly laugh, did her
best wherever she went to lighten the funereal oppression
of the atmosphere. The Greeks she visited were
not grateful. Unlike the populace in the streets, they
preferred taking their elections mournfully.</p>
<p>By midday the business of voting was over, and in
the houses of the <i>platia</i> the Greeks sat round their
luncheon-tables with the knowledge that the vital
question was now decided, though the answer remained
as yet unknown, and that in the polling-booths an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span>
army of clerks sat feverishly counting, while the
crowd outside, neglectful of its meal, swarmed noisily
in the hope of news. In the houses of the <i>platia</i>, on
this one day of the year, the Greeks kept open table.
Each vast dining-room, carefully darkened and indistinguishable
in its family likeness from its neighbour
in the house on either side, offered its hospitality under
the inevitable chandelier. In each, the host greeted
the new-comer with the same perfunctory smile. In
each, the busy servants came and went, carrying
dishes and jugs of orangeade—for Levantine hospitality,
already heavily strained, boggled at wine—among
the bulky and old-fashioned sideboards. All
joyousness was absent from these gatherings, and the
closed shutters served to exclude, not only the heat,
but also the strains of the indefatigable band playing
on the <i>platia</i>.</p>
<p>Out in the streets the popular excitement hourly
increased, for if the morning had been devoted to
politics, the afternoon and evening were to be devoted
to the annual feast and holiday of the Declaration of
Independence. The national colours, green and orange,
seemed trebled in the town. They hung from every
balcony and were reproduced in miniature in every
buttonhole. Only here and there an islander in his
fustanelle walked quickly with sulky and averted
eyes, rebelliously innocent of the brilliant cocarde,
and far out to sea the rainbow islands shimmered with
never a flag to stain the distant whiteness of the houses
upon Aphros.</p>
<p>The houses of the <i>platia</i> excelled all others in the
lavishness of their patriotic decorations. The balconies
of the club were draped in green and orange, with the
arms of Herakleion arranged in the centre in electric
lights for the evening illumination. The Italian
Consulate drooped its complimentary flag. The house<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span>
of Platon Malteios—Premier or ex-Premier? no one
knew—was almost too ostentatiously patriotic. The
cathedral, on the opposite side, had its steps carpeted
with red and the spaciousness of its porch festooned
with the colours. From the central window of the
Davenant house, opposite the sea, a single listless
banner hung in motionless folds.</p>
<p>It had, earlier in the day, occasioned a controversy.</p>
<p>Julian had stood in the centre of the frescoed drawing-room,
flushed and constrained.</p>
<p>'Father, that flag on our house insults the Islands.
It can be seen even from Aphros!'</p>
<p>'My dear boy, better that it should be seen from
Aphros than that we should offend Herakleion.'</p>
<p>'What will the islanders think?'</p>
<p>'They are accustomed to seeing it there every
year.'</p>
<p>'If I had been at home....'</p>
<p>'When this house is yours, Julian, you will no doubt
do as you please; so long as it is mine, I beg you not
to interfere.'</p>
<p>Mr Davenant had spoken in his curtest tones. He
had added,—</p>
<p>'I shall go to the cathedral this afternoon.'</p>
<p>The service in the cathedral annually celebrated
the independence of Herakleion. Julian slipped out
of the house, meaning to mix with the ill-regulated
crowd that began to collect on the <i>platia</i> to watch for
the arrival of the notables, but outside the door of
the club he was discovered by Alexander Christopoulos
who obliged him to follow him upstairs to the Christopoulos
drawing-room.</p>
<p>'My father is really too gloomy for me to confront
alone,' Alexander said, taking Julian's arm and urging
him along; 'also I have spent the morning in the club,
which exasperates him. He likes me to sit at home<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span>
while he stands looking at me and mournfully shaking
his head.'</p>
<p>They came into the sala together, where old Christopoulos
paced up and down in front of the shuttered
windows, and a score of other people sat whispering
over their cups of tisane. White dresses, dim mirrors,
and the dull gilt of furniture gleamed here and there
in the shadows of the vast room.</p>
<p>'Any news? any news?' the banker asked of the
two young men.</p>
<p>'You know quite well, father, that no results are to
be declared until seven o'clock this evening.'</p>
<p>Alexander opened a section of a Venetian blind,
and as a shaft of sunlight fell startlingly across the
floor a blare of music burst equally startlingly upon
the silence.</p>
<p>'The <i>platia</i> is crowded already,' said Alexander,
looking out.</p>
<p>The hum of the crowd became audible, mingled
with the music; explosions of laughter, and some
unexplained applause. The shrill cry of a seller of
iced water rang immediately beneath the window.
The band in the centre continued to shriek remorselessly
an antiquated air of the Paris boulevards.</p>
<p>'At what time is the procession due?' asked Fru
Thyregod over Julian's shoulder.</p>
<p>'At five o'clock; it should arrive at any moment,'
Julian said, making room for the Danish Excellency.</p>
<p>'I adore processions,' cried Fru Thyregod, clapping
her hands, and looking brightly from Julian to
Alexander.</p>
<p>Alexander whispered to Julie Lafarge, who had
come up,—</p>
<p>'I am sure Fru Thyregod has gone from house to
house and from Legation to Legation, and has had a
meal at each to-day.'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span></p>
<p>Somebody suggested,—</p>
<p>'Let us open the shutters and watch the procession
from the balconies.'</p>
<p>'Oh, what a good idea!' cried Fru Thyregod,
clapping her hands again and executing a pirouette.</p>
<p>Down in the <i>platia</i> an indefinite movement was
taking place; the band stopped playing for the first
time that day, and began shuffling with all its instruments
to one side. Voices were then heard raised in
tones of authority. A cleavage appeared in the crowd,
which grew in length and width as though a wedge
were being gradually driven into that reluctant confusion
of humanity.</p>
<p>'A path for the procession,' said old Christopoulos,
who, although not pleased at that frivolous flux of
his family and guests on to the balconies of his house,
had joined them, overcome by his natural curiosity.</p>
<p>The path cut in the crowd now ran obliquely across
the <i>platia</i> from the end of the rue Royale to the steps
of the cathedral opposite, and upon it the confetti
with which the whole <i>platia</i> was no doubt strewn became
visible. The police, with truncheons in their hands,
were pressing the people back to widen the route still
further. They wore their gala hats, three-cornered,
with upright plumes of green and orange nodding as
they walked.</p>
<p>'Look at Sterghiou,' said Alexander.</p>
<p>The Chief of Police rode vaingloriously down the
route looking from left to right, and saluting with his
free hand. The front of his uniform was crossed with
broad gold hinges, and plaits of yellow braid disappeared
mysteriously into various pockets. One
deduced whistles; pencils; perhaps a knife. Although
he did not wear feathers in his hat, one knew that only
the utmost self-restraint had preserved him from them.</p>
<p>Here the band started again with a march, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span>
Sterghiou's horse shied violently and nearly unseated
him.</p>
<p>'The troops!' said old Christopoulos with emotion.</p>
<p>Debouching from the rue Royale, the army came
marching four abreast. As it was composed of only
four hundred men, and as it never appeared on any
other day of the year, its general Panaïoannou always
mobilised it in its entirety on the national festival.
This entailed the temporary closing of the casino in
order to release the croupiers, who were nearly all in
the ranks, and led to a yearly dispute between the
General and the board of administration.</p>
<p>'There was once a croupier,' said Alexander, 'who
was admitted to the favour of a certain grand-duchess
until the day when, indiscreetly coming into the
dressing-room where the lady was arranging and improving
her appearance, he said, through sheer force
of habit, "Madame, les jeux sont faits?" and was
dismissed for ever by her reply, "Rien ne va plus."'</p>
<p>The general himself rode in the midst of his troops,
in his sky-blue uniform, to which the fantasy of his
Buda-Pesth costumier had added for the occasion
a slung Hussar jacket of white cloth. His gray moustache
was twisted fiercely upwards, and curved like
a scimitar across his face. He rode with his hand on
his hip, slowly scanning the windows and balconies
of the <i>platia</i>, which by now were crowded with people,
gravely saluting his friends as he passed. Around him
marched his bodyguard of six, a captain and five men;
the captain carried in one hand a sword, and in the
other—nobody knew why—a long frond of palm.</p>
<p>The entire army tramped by, hot, stout, beaming,
and friendly. At one moment some one threw down
a handful of coins from a window, and the ranks were
broken in a scramble for the coppers. Julian, who
was leaning apart in a corner of his balcony, heard a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span>
laugh like a growl behind him as the enormous hand
of Grbits descended on his shoulder.</p>
<p>'Remember the lesson, young man: if you are
called upon to deal with the soldiers of Herakleion, a
fistful of silver amongst them will scatter them.'</p>
<p>Julian thought apprehensively that they must be
overheard, but Grbits continued in supreme unconsciousness,—</p>
<p>'Look at their army, composed of shop-assistants
and croupiers. Look at their general—a general in
his spare moments, but in the serious business of his
life a banker and an intriguer like the rest of them.
I doubt whether he has ever seen anything more dead
in his life than a dead dog in a gutter. I could pick
him up and squash in his head like an egg.'</p>
<p>Grbits extended his arm and slowly unfolded the
fingers of his enormous hand. At the same time he
gave his great laugh that was like the laugh of a good-humoured
ogre.</p>
<p>'At your service, young man,' he said, displaying
the full breadth of his palm to Julian, 'whenever you
stand in need of it. The Stavridists will be returned
to-day; lose no time; show them your intentions.'</p>
<p>He impelled Julian forward to the edge of the balcony
and pointed across to the Davenant house.</p>
<p>'That flag, young man: see to it that it disappears
within the hour after the results of the elections are
announced.'</p>
<p>The army was forming itself into two phalanxes on
either side of the cathedral steps. Panaïoannou caracoled
up and down shouting his orders, which were
taken up and repeated by the busy officers on foot.
Meanwhile the notables in black coats were arriving
in a constant stream that flowed into the cathedral;
old Christopoulos had already left the house to attend
the religious ceremony; the foreign Ministers and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span>
Consuls attended out of compliment to Herakleion;
Madame Lafarge had rolled down the route in her
barouche with her bearded husband; Malteios had
crossed the <i>platia</i> from his own house, and Stavridis
came, accompanied by his wife and daughters. Still
the band played on, the crowd laughed, cheered, or
murmured in derision, and the strident cries of the
water-sellers rose from all parts of the <i>platia</i>.</p>
<p>Suddenly the band ceased to play, and in the hush
only the hum of the crowd continued audible.</p>
<p>The religious procession came walking very slowly
from the rue Royale, headed by a banner and by a
file of young girls, walking two by two, in white dresses,
with wreaths of roses on their heads. As they walked
they scattered sham roses out of baskets, the gesture
reminiscent of the big picture in the Senate-room.
It was customary for the Premier of the Republic to
walk alone, following these young girls, black and
grave in his frock-coat after their virginal white, but
on this occasion, as no one knew who the actual Premier
was, a blank space was left to represent the problematical
absentee. Following the space came the Premier's
habitual escort, a posse of police; it should have been
a platoon of soldiers, but Panaïoannou always refused
to consent to such a diminution of his army.</p>
<p>'They say,' Grbits remarked to Julian in this connection,
'that the general withdraws even the sentries
from the frontier to swell his ranks.'</p>
<p>'Herakleion is open to invasion,' said Julian, smiling.</p>
<p>Grbits replied sententiously, with the air of one
creating a new proverb,—</p>
<p>'Herakleion is open to invasion, but who wants to
invade Herakleion?'</p>
<p>The crowd watched the passage of the procession
with the utmost solemnity. Not a sound was now
heard but the monotonous step of feet. Religious<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span>
awe had hushed political hilarity. Archbishop and
bishops; archmandrites and <i>papás</i> of the country
districts, passed in a mingling of scarlet, purple and
black. All the pomp of Herakleion had been pressed
into service—all the clamorous, pretentious pomp,
shouting for recognition, beating on a hollow drum;
designed to impress the crowd; and perhaps, also,
to impress, beyond the crowd, the silent Islands that
possessed no army, no clergy, no worldly trappings, but
that suffered and struggled uselessly, pitiably, against
the tinsel tyrant in vain but indestructible rebellion.</p>
<p class="center">* * * * * *</p>
<p>As five o'clock drew near, the entire population
seemed to be collected in the <i>platia</i>. The white streak
that had marked the route of the procession had long
ago disappeared, and the square was now, seen from
above, only a dense and shifting mass of people. In
the Christopoulos drawing-room, where Julian still
lingered, talking to Grbits and listening to the alternate
foolishness, fanaticism, and ferocious good-humour of
the giant, the Greeks rallied in numbers with only one
topic on their lips. Old Christopoulos was frankly
biting his nails and glancing at the clock; Alexander
but thinly concealed his anxiety under a dribble of
his usual banter. The band had ceased playing, and
the subtle ear could detect an inflection in the very
murmur of the crowd.</p>
<p>'Let us go on to the balcony again,' Grbits said to
Julian; 'the results will be announced from the steps
of Malteios' house.'</p>
<p>They went out; some of the Greeks followed them,
and all pressed behind, near the window openings.</p>
<p>'It is a more than usually decisive day for Herakleion,'
said old Christopoulos, and Julian knew that the words
were spoken at, although not to, him.</p>
<p>He felt that the Greeks looked upon him as an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span>
intruder, wishing him away so that they might express
their opinions freely, but in a spirit of contrariness
he remained obstinately.</p>
<p>A shout went up suddenly from the crowd: a little
man dressed in black, with a top-hat, and a great
many white papers in his hand, had appeared in the
frame of Malteios' front-door. He stood on the steps,
coughed nervously, and dropped his papers.</p>
<p>'Inefficient little rat of a secretary!' cried Alexander
in a burst of fury.</p>
<p>'Listen!' said Grbits.</p>
<p>A long pause of silence from the whole <i>platia</i>, in
which one thin voice quavered, reaching only the front
row of the crowd.</p>
<p>'Stavridis has it,' Grbits said quietly, who had
been craning over the edge of the balcony. His eyes
twinkled maliciously, delightedly, at Julian across
the group of mortified Greeks. 'An immense majority,'
he invented, enjoying himself.</p>
<p>Julian was already gone. Slipping behind old
Christopoulos, whose saffron face had turned a dirty
plum colour, he made his way downstairs and out
into the street. A species of riot, in which the police,
having failed successfully to intervene, were enthusiastically
joining, had broken out in the <i>platia</i>. Some
shouted for Stavridis, some for Malteios; some railed
derisively against the Islands. People threw their
hats into the air, waved their arms, and kicked up
their legs. Some of them were vague as to the trend
of their own opinions, others extremely determined,
but all were agreed about making as much noise as
possible. Julian passed unchallenged to his father's
house.</p>
<p>Inside the door he found Aristotle talking with
three islanders. They laid hold of him, urgent though
respectful, searching his face with eager eyes.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span></p>
<p>'It means revolt at last; you will not desert us,
Kyrie?'</p>
<p>He replied,—</p>
<p>'Come with me, and you will see.'</p>
<p>They followed him up the stairs, pressing closely
after him. On the landing he met Eve and Kato,
coming out of the drawing-room. The singer was
flushed, two gold wheat-ears trembled in her hair, and
she had thrown open the front of her dress. Eve hung
on her arm.</p>
<p>'Julian!' Kato exclaimed, 'you have heard, Platon
has gone?'</p>
<p>In her excitement she inadvertently used Malteios'
Christian name.</p>
<p>'It means,' he replied, 'that Stavridis, now in power,
will lose no time in bringing against the Islands all
the iniquitous reforms we know he contemplates.
It means that the first step must be taken by us.'</p>
<p>His use of the pronoun ranged himself, Kato,
Aristotle, the three islanders, and the invisible Islands
into an instant confederacy. Kato responded to it,—</p>
<p>'Thank God for this.'</p>
<p>They waited in complete confidence for his next
words. He had shed his aloofness, and all his efficiency
of active leadership was to the fore.</p>
<p>'Where is my father?'</p>
<p>'He went to the Cathedral; he has not come home
yet, Kyrie.'</p>
<p>Julian passed into the drawing-room, followed by
Eve and Kato and the four men. Outside the open
window, fastened to the balcony, flashed the green
and orange flag of Herakleion. Julian took a knife
from his pocket, and, cutting the cord that held it,
withdrew flag and flag-staff into the room and flung
it on to the ground.</p>
<p>'Take it away,' he said to the islanders, 'or my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span>
father will order it to be replaced. And if he orders
another to be hung out in its place,' he added, looking
at them with severity, 'remember there is no other
flag in the house, and none to be bought in Herakleion.'</p>
<p>At that moment a servant from the country-house
came hurriedly into the room, drew Julian unceremoniously
aside, and broke into an agitated recital in a
low voice. Eve heard Julian saying,—</p>
<p>'Nicolas sends for me? But he should have given
a reason. I cannot come now, I cannot leave Herakleion.'</p>
<p>And the servant,—</p>
<p>'Kyrie, the major-domo impressed upon me that I
must on no account return without you. Something
has occurred, something serious. What it is I do not
know. The carriage is waiting at the back entrance;
we could not drive across the <i>platia</i> on account of the
crowds.'</p>
<p>'I shall have to go, I suppose,' Julian said to Eve
and Kato. 'I will go at once, and will return, if possible,
this evening. Nicolas would not send without an
excellent reason, though he need not have made this
mystery. Possibly a message from Aphros.... In
any case, I must go.'</p>
<p>'I will come with you,' Eve said unexpectedly.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span></p>
<h2>V</h2>
<p>In almost unbroken silence they drove out to the
country-house, in a hired victoria, to the quick, soft
trot of the two little lean horses, away from the heart of
the noisy town; past the race-course with its empty
stands; under the ilex-avenue in a tunnel of cool
darkness; along the road, redolent with magnolias
in the warmth of the evening; through the village,
between the two white lodges; and round the bend of
the drive between the bushes of eucalyptus. Eve had
spoken, but he had said abruptly,—</p>
<p>'Don't talk; I want to think,' and she, after a
little gasp of astonished indignation, had relapsed
languorous into her corner, her head propped on
her hand, and her profile alone visible to her cousin.
He saw, in the brief glance that he vouchsafed her,
that her red mouth looked more than usually sulky,
in fact not unlike the mouth of a child on the point
of tears, a very invitation to inquiry, but, more from
indifference than deliberate wisdom, he was not
disposed to take up the challenge. He too sat silent,
his thoughts flying over the day, weighing the
consequences of his own action, trying to forecast
the future. He was far away from Eve, and she knew
it. At times he enraged and exasperated her almost
beyond control. His indifference was an outrage on
her femininity. She knew him to be utterly beyond
her influence: taciturn when he chose, ill-tempered
when he chose, exuberant when he chose, rampageous,
wild; insulting to her at moments; domineering
whatever his mood, and regardless of her wishes; yet
at the same time unconscious of all these things. Alone<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span>
with her now, he had completely forgotten her presence
by his side.</p>
<p>Her voice broke upon his reflections,—</p>
<p>'Thinking of the Islands, Julian?' and her words
joining like a cogwheel smoothly on to the current of
his mind, he answered naturally,—</p>
<p>'Yes,'</p>
<p>'I thought as much. I have something to tell you.
You may not be interested. I am no longer engaged
to Miloradovitch.'</p>
<p>'Since when?'</p>
<p>'Since yesterday evening. Since you left me, and
ran away into the woods. I was angry, and vented
my anger on him.'</p>
<p>'Was that fair?'</p>
<p>'He has you to thank. It has happened before—with
others.'</p>
<p>Roused for a second from his absorption, he impatiently
shrugged his shoulders, and turned his back,
and looked out over the sea. Eve was again silent,
brooding and resentful in her corner. Presently he
turned towards her, and said angrily, reverting to the
Islands,—</p>
<p>'You are the vainest and most exorbitant woman
I know. You resent one's interest in anything but
yourself.'</p>
<p>As she did not answer, he added,—</p>
<p>'How sulky you look; it's very unbecoming.'</p>
<p>Was no sense of proportion or of responsibility
ever to weigh upon her beautiful shoulders? He was
irritated, yet he knew that his irritation was half-assumed,
and that in his heart he was no more annoyed
by her fantasy than by the fantasy of Herakleion.
They matched each other; their intangibility, their
instability, were enough to make a man shake his fists
to Heaven, yet he was beginning to believe that their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span>
colour and romance—for he never dissociated Eve
and Herakleion in his mind—were the dearest treasures
of his youth. He turned violently and amazingly
upon her.</p>
<p>'Eve, I sometimes hate you, damn you; but you
are the rainbow of my days.'</p>
<p>She smiled, and, enlightened, he perceived with
interest, curiosity, and amused resignation, the clearer
grouping of the affairs of his youthful years. Fantasy
to youth! Sobriety to middle-age! Carried away,
he said to her,—</p>
<p>'Eve! I want adventure, Eve!'</p>
<p>Her eyes lit up in instant response, but he could not
read her inward thought, that the major part of his
adventure should be, not Aphros, but herself. He
noted, however, her lighted eyes, and leaned over to
her.</p>
<p>'You are a born adventurer, Eve, also.'</p>
<p>She remained silent, but her eyes continued to dwell
on him, and to herself she was thinking, always sardonic
although the matter was of such perennial, such all-eclipsing
importance to her,—</p>
<p>'A la bonne heure, he realises my existence.'</p>
<p>'What a pity you are not a boy; we could have
seen the adventure of the Islands through together.'</p>
<p>('The Islands always!' she thought ruefully.)</p>
<p>'I should like to cross to Aphros to-night,' he murmured,
with absent eyes....</p>
<p>('Gone again,' she thought. 'I held him for a
moment.')</p>
<p class="space-above">When they reached the house no servants were
visible, but in reply to the bell a young servant appeared,
scared, white-faced, and, as rapidly disappearing,
was replaced by the old major-domo. He burst open
the door into the passage, a crowd of words pressing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span>
on each other's heels in his mouth; he had expected
Julian alone; when he saw Eve, who was idly turning
over the letters that awaited her, he clapped his hand
tightly over his lips, and stood, struggling with his
speech, balancing himself in his arrested impetus on
his toes.</p>
<p>'Well, Nicolas?' said Julian.</p>
<p>The major-domo exploded, removing his hand from
his mouth,—</p>
<p>'Kyrie! a word alone....' and as abruptly replaced
the constraining fingers.</p>
<p>Julian followed him through the swing door into
the servants' quarters, where the torrent broke loose.</p>
<p>'Kyrie, a disaster! I have sent men with a stretcher.
I remained in the house myself looking for your return.
Father Paul—yes, yes, it is he—drowned—yes,
drowned—at the bottom of the garden. Come, Kyrie,
for the love of God. Give directions. I am too old a
man. God be praised, you have come. Only hasten.
The men are there already with lanterns.'</p>
<p>He was clinging helplessly to Julian's wrist, and
kept moving his fingers up and down Julian's arm,
twitching fingers that sought reassurance from firmer
muscles, in a distracted way, while his eyes beseechingly
explored Julian's face.</p>
<p>Julian, shocked, jarred, incredulous, shook off the
feeble fingers in irritation. The thing was an outrage
on the excitement of the day. The transition to tragedy
was so violent that he wished, in revolt, to disbelieve
it.</p>
<p>'You must be mistaken, Nicolas!'</p>
<p>'Kyrie, I am not mistaken. The body is lying on
the shore. You can see it there. I have sent lanterns
and a stretcher. I beg of you to come.'</p>
<p>He spoke, tugging at Julian's sleeve, and as Julian
remained unaccountably immovable he sank to his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span>
knees, clasping his hands and raising imploring
eyes. His fustanelle spread its pleats in a circle on the
stone floor. His story had suddenly become vivid to
Julian with the words, 'The body is lying on the shore';
'drowned,' he had said before, but that had summoned
no picture. The body was lying on the shore. The
body! Paul, brisk, alive, familiar, now a body, merely.
The body! had a wave, washing forward, deposited
it gently, and retreated without its burden? or had
it floated, pale-faced under the stars, till some man,
looking by chance down at the sea from the terrace at
the foot of the garden, caught that pale, almost phosphorescent
gleam rocking on the swell of the water?</p>
<p>The old major-domo followed Julian's stride between
the lemon-trees, obsequious and conciliatory. The
windows of the house shone behind them, the house
of tragedy, where Eve remained as yet uninformed,
uninvaded by the solemnity, the reality, of the present.
Later, she would have to be told that a man's figure
had been wrenched from their intimate and daily
circle. The situation appeared grotesquely out of
keeping with the foregoing day, and with the wide
and gentle night.</p>
<p>From the paved walk under the pergola of gourds
rough steps led down to the sea. Julian, pausing,
perceived around the yellow squares of the lanterns
the indistinct figures of men, and heard their low,
disconnected talk breaking intermittently on the
continuous wash of the waves. The sea that he loved
filled him with a sudden revulsion for the indifference
of its unceasing movement after its murder of a man.
It should, in decency, have remained quiet, silent;
impenetrable, unrepentant, perhaps; inscrutable, but
at least silent; its murmur echoed almost as the murmur
of a triumph....</p>
<p>He descended the steps. As he came into view, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span>
men's fragmentary talk died away; their dim group
fell apart; he passed between them, and stood beside
the body of Paul.</p>
<p>Death. He had never seen it. As he saw it now,
he thought that he had never beheld anything so
incontestably real as its irrevocable stillness. Here
was finality; here was defeat beyond repair. In the
face of this judgment no revolt was possible. Only
acceptance was possible. The last word in life's argument
had been spoken by an adversary for long remote,
forgotten; an adversary who had remained ironically
dumb before the babble, knowing that in his own
time, with one word, he could produce the irrefutable
answer. There was something positively satisfying
in the faultlessness of the conclusion. He had not
thought that death would be like this. Not cruel,
not ugly, not beautiful, not terrifying—merely unanswerable.
He wondered now at the multitude of
sensations that had chased successively across his
mind or across his vision: the elections, Fru Thyregod,
the jealousy of Eve, his incredulity and resentment
at the news, his disinclination for action, his indignation
against the indifference of the sea; these
things were vain when here, at his feet, lay the
ultimate solution.</p>
<p>Paul lay on his back, his arms straight down his
sides, and his long, wiry body closely sheathed in the
wet soutane. The square toes of his boots stuck up,
close together, like the feet of a swathed mummy.
His upturned face gleamed white with a tinge of green
in the light of the lanterns, and appeared more luminous
than they. So neat, so orderly he lay; but his hair,
alone disordered, fell in wet red wisps across his neck
and along the ground behind his head.</p>
<p>At that moment from the direction of Herakleion
there came a long hiss and a rush of bright gold up<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span>
into the sky; there was a crackle of small explosions,
and fountains of gold showered against the night as
the first fireworks went up from the quays. Rockets
soared, bursting into coloured stars among the real
stars, and plumes of golden light spread themselves
dazzlingly above the sea. Faint sounds of cheering
were borne upon the breeze.</p>
<p>The men around the body of the priest waited,
ignorant and bewildered, relieved that some one had
come to take command. Their eyes were bent upon
Julian as he stood looking down; they thought he was
praying for the dead. Presently he became aware
of their expectation, and pronounced with a start,—</p>
<p>'Bind up his hair!'</p>
<p>Fingers hastened clumsily to deal with the stringy
red locks; the limp head was supported, and the hair
knotted somehow into a semblance of its accustomed
roll. The old major-domo quavered in a guilty voice,
as though taking the blame for carelessness,—</p>
<p>'The hat is lost, Kyrie.'</p>
<p>Julian let his eyes travel over the little group of
men, islanders all, with an expression of searching
inquiry.</p>
<p>'Which of you made this discovery?'</p>
<p>It appeared that one of them, going to the edge of
the sea in expectation of the fireworks, had noticed,
not the darkness of the body, but the pallor of the face,
in the water not far out from the rocks. He had waded
in and drawn the body ashore. Dead Paul lay there
deaf and indifferent to this account of his own finding.</p>
<p>'No one can explain....'</p>
<p>Ah, no! and he, who could have explained, was
beyond the reach of their curiosity. Julian looked
at the useless lips, unruffled even by a smile of sarcasm.
He had known Paul all his life, had learnt from him,
travelled with him, eaten with him, chaffed him lightly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span>
but never, save in that one moment when he had
gripped the priest by the wrist and had looked with
steadying intention into his eyes, had their intimate
personalities brushed in passing. Julian had no genius
for friendship.... He began to see that this death
had ended an existence which had run parallel with,
but utterly walled off from, his own.</p>
<p>In shame the words tore themselves from him,—</p>
<p>'Had he any trouble?'</p>
<p>The men slowly, gravely, mournfully shook their
heads. They could not tell. The priest had moved
amongst them, charitable, even saintly; yes, saintly,
and one did not expect confidences of a priest. A
priest was a man who received the confidences of other
men. Julian heard, and, possessed by a strong desire,
a necessity, for self-accusation, he said to them in a
tone of urgent and impersonal Justice, as one who
makes a declaration, expecting neither protest nor
acquiescence,—</p>
<p>'I should have inquired into his loneliness.'</p>
<p>They were slightly startled, but, in their ignorance,
not over-surprised, only wondering why he delayed
in giving the order to move the body on to the stretcher
and carry it up to the church. Farther up the coast,
the rockets continued to soar, throwing out bubbles
of green and red and orange, fantastically tawdry.
Julian remained staring at the unresponsive corpse,
repeating sorrowfully,—</p>
<p>'I should have inquired—yes, I should have inquired—into
his loneliness.'</p>
<p>He spoke with infinite regret, learning a lesson,
shedding a particle of his youth. He had taken for
granted that other men's lives were as promising, as
full of dissimulated eagerness, as his own. He had
walked for many hours up and down Paul's study,
lost in an audible monologue, expounding his theories,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span>
tossing his rough head, emphasising, enlarging, making
discoveries, intent on his egotism, hewing out his
convictions, while the priest sat by the table, leaning
his head on his hand, scarcely contributing a word,
always listening. During those hours, surely, his
private troubles had been forgotten? Or had they
been present, gnawing, beneath the mask of sympathy?
A priest was a man who received the confidences of
other men!</p>
<p>'Carry him up,' Julian said, 'carry him up to the
church.'</p>
<p>He walked away alone as the dark cortège set itself
in movement, his mind strangely accustomed to the
fact that Paul would no longer frequent their house
and that the long black figure would no longer stroll,
tall and lean, between the lemon-trees in the garden.
The fact was more simple and more easily acceptable
than he could have anticipated. It seemed already
quite an old-established fact. He remembered with
a shock of surprise, and a raising of his eyebrows, that
he yet had to communicate it to Eve. He knew it so
well himself that he thought every one else must know
it too. He was immeasurably more distressed by the
tardy realisation of his own egotism in regard to Paul,
than by the fact of Paul's death.</p>
<p>He walked very slowly, delaying the moment when
he must speak to Eve. He sickened at the prospect of
the numerous inevitable inquiries that would be made
to him by both his father and his uncle. He would
never hint to them that the priest had had a private
trouble. He rejoiced to remember his former loyalty,
and to know that Eve remained ignorant of that extraordinary,
unexplained conversation when Paul had
talked about the mice. Mice in the church! He,
Julian, must see to the decent covering of the body.
And of the face, especially of the face.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span></p>
<p>An immense golden wheel flared out of the darkness;
whirled, and died away above the sea.</p>
<p>In the dim church the men had set down the stretcher
before the iconostase. Julian felt his way cautiously
amongst the rush-bottomed chairs. The men were
standing about the stretcher, their fishing caps in
their hands, awed into a whispering mysticism which
Julian's voice harshly interrupted,—</p>
<p>'Go for a cloth, one of you—the largest cloth you
can find.'</p>
<p>He had spoken loudly in defiance of the melancholy
peace of the church, that received so complacently
within its ready precincts the visible remains from
which the spirit, troubled and uncompanioned in life,
had fled. He had always thought the church complacent,
irritatingly remote from pulsating human
existence, but never more so than now when it accepted
the dead body as by right, firstly within its walls, and
lastly within its ground, to decompose and rot, the
body of its priest, among the bodies of other once
vital and much-enduring men.</p>
<p>'Kyrie, we can find only two large cloths, one a
dust-sheet, and one a linen cloth to spread over the
altar. Which are we to use?'</p>
<p>'Which is the larger?'</p>
<p>'Kyrie, the dust-sheet, but the altar-cloth is of linen
edged with lace.'</p>
<p>'Use the dust-sheet; dust to dust,' said Julian
bitterly.</p>
<p>Shocked and uncomprehending, they obeyed. The
black figure now became a white expanse, under which
the limbs and features defined themselves as the folds
sank into place.</p>
<p>'He is completely covered over?'</p>
<p>'Completely, Kyrie.'</p>
<p>'The mice cannot run over his face?'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span></p>
<p>'Kyrie, no!'</p>
<p>'Then no more can be done until one of you ride
into Herakleion for the doctor.'</p>
<p>He left them, re-entering the garden by the side-gate
which Paul had himself constructed with his
capable, carpenter's hands. There was now no further
excuse for delay; he must exchange the darkness for
the unwelcome light, and must share out his private
knowledge to Eve. Those men, fisher-folk, simple
folk, had not counted as human spectators, but rather
as part of the brotherhood of night, nature, and the
stars.</p>
<p>He waited for Eve in the drawing-room, having
assured himself that she had been told nothing, and
there, presently, he saw her come in, her heavy hair
dressed high, a fan and a flower drooping from her hand,
and a fringed Spanish shawl hanging its straight silk
folds from her escaping shoulders. Before her indolence,
and her slumbrous delicacy, he hesitated. He wildly
thought that he would allow the news to wait. Tragedy,
reality, were at that moment so far removed from her....
She said in delight, coming up to him, and
forgetful that they were in the house in obedience to
a mysterious and urgent message,—</p>
<p>'Julian, have you seen the fireworks? Come out
into the garden. We'll watch.'</p>
<p>He put his arm through her bare arm,—</p>
<p>'Eve, I must tell you something.'</p>
<p>'Fru Thyregod?' she cried, and the difficulty of
his task became all but insurmountable.</p>
<p>'Something serious. Something about Father Paul.'</p>
<p>Her strange eyes gave him a glance of undefinable
suspicion.</p>
<p>'What about him?'</p>
<p>'He has been found, in the water, at the bottom of
the garden.'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span></p>
<p>'In the water?'</p>
<p>'In the sea. Drowned.'</p>
<p>He told her all the circumstances, doggedly, conscientiously,
under the mockery of the tinsel flames
that streamed out from the top of the columns, and of
the distant lights flashing through the windows, speaking
as a man who proclaims in a foreign country a great
truth bought by the harsh experience of his soul, to
an audience unconversant with his alien tongue. This
truth that he had won, in the presence of quiet stars,
quieter death, and simple men, was desecrated by its
recital to a vain woman in a room where the very
architecture was based on falsity. Still he persevered,
believing that his own intensity of feeling must end
in piercing its way to the foundations of her heart.
He laid bare even his harassing conviction of his
neglected responsibility,—</p>
<p>'I should have suspected ... I should have
suspected....'</p>
<p>He looked at Eve; she had broken down and was
sobbing, Paul's name mingled incoherently with her
sobs. He did not doubt that she was profoundly shocked,
but with a new-found cynicism he ascribed her tears to
shock rather than to sorrow. He himself would have
been incapable of shedding a single tear. He waited
quietly for her to recover herself.</p>
<p>'Oh, Julian! Poor Paul! How terrible to die like
that, alone, in the sea, at night....' For a moment
her eyes were expressive of real horror, and she clasped
Julian's hand, gazing at him while all the visions of her
imagination were alive in her eyes. She seemed to be on
the point of adding something further, but continued
to cry for a few moments, and then said, greatly
sobered, 'You appear to take for granted that he has
killed himself?'</p>
<p>He considered this. Up to the present no doubt<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span>
whatever had existed in his mind. The possibility of
an accident had not occurred to him. The very quality
of repose and peace that he had witnessed had offered
itself to him as the manifest evidence that the man
had sought the only solution for a life grown unendurable.
He had acknowledged the man's wisdom,
bowing before his recognition of the conclusive
infallibility of death as a means of escape. Cowardly?
so men often said, but circumstances were conceivable—circumstances
in the present case unknown, withheld,
and therefore not to be violated by so much as a
hazarded guess—circumstances were conceivable in
which no other course was to be contemplated. He
replied with gravity,—</p>
<p>'I do believe he put an end to his life.'</p>
<p>The secret reason would probably never be disclosed;
even if it came within sight, Julian must now turn his
eyes the other way. The secret which he might have,
nay, should have, wrenched from his friend's reserve
while he still lived, must remain sacred and unprofaned
now that he was dead. Not only must he guard it
from his own knowledge, but from the knowledge of
others. With this resolution he perceived that he had
already blundered.</p>
<p>'Eve, I have been wrong; this thing must be presented
as an accident. I have no grounds for believing that
he took his life. I must rely on you to support me.
In fairness on poor Paul.... He told me nothing.
A man has a right to his own reticence.'</p>
<p>He paused, startled at the truth of his discovery,
and cried out, taking his head between his hands,—</p>
<p>'Oh God! the appalling loneliness of us all!'</p>
<p>He shook his head despairingly for a long moment
with his hands pressed over his temples. Dropping his
hands with a gesture of discouragement and lassitude,
he regarded Eve.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span></p>
<p>'I've found things out to-night, I think I've aged
by five years. I know that Paul suffered enough to
put an end to himself. We can't tell what he suffered
from. I never intended to let you think he had suffered.
We must never let any one else suspect it. But imagine
the stages and degrees of suffering which led him to
that state of mind; imagine his hours, his days, and
specially his nights. I looked on him as a village
priest, limited to his village; I thought his long hair
funny; God forgive me, I slightly despised him. You,
Eve, you thought him ornamental, a picturesque
appendage to the house. And all that while, he was
moving slowly towards the determination that he
must kill himself.... Perhaps, probably, he took
his decision yesterday, when you and I were at the
picnic. When Fru Thyregod.... For months,
perhaps, or for years, he had been living with the
secret that was to kill him. He knew, but no one else
knew. He shared his knowledge with no one. I think
I shall never look at a man again without awe, and
reverence, and terror.'</p>
<p>He was trembling strongly, discovering his fellows,
discovering himself, his glowing eyes never left Eve's
face. He went on talking rapidly, as though eager to
translate all there was to translate into words before
the aroused energy deserted him.</p>
<p>'You vain, you delicate, unreal thing, do you understand
at all? Have you ever seen a dead man? You
don't know the meaning of pain. You inflict pain
for your amusement. You thing of leisure, you toy!
Your deepest emotion is your jealousy. You can be
jealous even where you cannot love. You make a
plaything of men's pain—you woman! You can change
your personality twenty times a day. You can't
understand a man's slow, coherent progression; he,
always the same person, scarred with the wounds of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span>
the past. To wound you would be like wounding a
wraith.'</p>
<p>Under the fury of his unexpected outburst, she
protested,—</p>
<p>'Julian, why attack me? I've done, I've said, nothing.'</p>
<p>'You listened uncomprehendingly to me, thinking if
you thought at all, that by to-morrow I should have
forgotten my mood of to-night. You are wrong. I've
gone a step forward to-day. I've learnt.... Learnt,
I mean, to respect men who suffer. Learnt the continuity
and the coherence of life. Days linked to days.
For you, an episode is an isolated episode.'</p>
<p>He softened.</p>
<p>'No wonder you look bewildered. If you want the
truth, I am angry with myself for my blindness towards
Paul. Poor little Eve! I only meant half I said.'</p>
<p>'You meant every word; one never speaks the truth
so fully as when one speaks it unintentionally.'</p>
<p>He smiled, but tolerantly and without malice.</p>
<p>'Eve betrays herself by the glibness of the axiom.
You know nothing of truth. But I've seen truth
to-night. All Paul's past life is mystery, shadow,
enigma to me, but at the same time there is a central
light—blinding, incandescent light—which is the fact
that he suffered. Suffered so much that, a priest, he
preferred the supreme sin to such suffering. Suffered
so much that, a man, he preferred death to such suffering!
All his natural desire for life was conquered.
That irresistible instinct, that primal law, that persists
even to the moment when darkness and unconsciousness
overwhelm us—the fight for life, the battle to retain our
birthright—all this was conquered. The instinct to
escape from life became stronger than the instinct to
preserve it! Isn't that profoundly illuminating?'</p>
<p>He paused.</p>
<p>'That fact sweeps, for me, like a great searchlight<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span>
over an abyss of pain. The pain the man must have
endured before he arrived at such a reversal of his
religion and of his most primitive instinct! His world
was, at the end, turned upside down. A terrifying
nightmare. He took the only course. You cannot
think how final death is—so final, so simple. So simple.
There is no more to be said. I had no idea....'</p>
<p>He spoke himself with the simplicity he was trying
to express. He said again, candidly, evenly, in a voice
from which all the emotion had passed,—</p>
<p>'So simple.'</p>
<p>They were silent for a long time. He had forgotten
her, and she was wondering whether she dared now
recall him to the personal. She had listened, gratified
when he attacked her, resentful when he forgot her,
bored with his detachment, but wise enough to conceal
both her resentment and her boredom. She had
worshipped him in his anger, and had admired his
good looks in the midst of his fire. She had been
infinitely more interested in him than in Paul. Shocked
for a moment by Paul's death, aware of the stirrings
of pity, she had quickly neglected both for the sake
of the living Julian.</p>
<p>She reviewed a procession of phrases with which
she might recall his attention.</p>
<p>'You despise me, Julian.'</p>
<p>'No, I only dissociate you. You represent a different
sphere. You belong to Herakleion. I love you—in
your place.'</p>
<p>'You are hurting me.'</p>
<p>He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her
towards the fight. She let him have his way, with
the disconcerting humility he had sometimes found
in her. She bore his inspection mutely, her hands
dropping loosely by her sides, fragile before his strength.
He found that his thoughts had swept back, away<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span>
from death, away from Paul, to her sweetness and her
worthlessness.</p>
<p>'Many people care for you—more fools they,' he
said. 'You and I, Eve, must be allies now. You say
I despise you. I shall do so less if I can enlist your
loyalty in Paul's cause. He has died as the result of
an accident. Are you to be trusted?'</p>
<p>He felt her soft shoulders move in the slightest shrug
under the pressure of his hands.</p>
<p>'Do you think,' she asked, 'that you will be believed?'</p>
<p>'I shall insist upon being believed. There is no
evidence—is there?—to prove me wrong.'</p>
<p>As she did not answer, he repeated his question,
then released her in suspicion.</p>
<p>'What do you know? tell me!'</p>
<p>After a very long pause, he said quietly,—</p>
<p>'I understand. There are many ways of conveying
information. I am very blind about some things.
Heavens! if I had suspected that truth, either you
would not have remained here, or Paul would not have
remained here. A priest! Unheard of.... A priest
to add to your collection. First Miloradovitch, now
Paul. Moths pinned upon a board. He loved you?
Oh,' he cried in a passion, 'I see it all: he struggled,
you persisted—till you secured him. A joke to you.
Not a joke now—surely not a joke, even to you—but
a triumph. Am I right? A triumph! A man, dead
for you. A priest. You allowed me to talk, knowing
all the while.'</p>
<p>'I am very sorry for Paul,' she said absently.</p>
<p>He laughed at the pitiably inadequate word.</p>
<p>'Have the courage to admit that you are flattered.
More flattered than grieved. Sorry for Paul—yes,
toss him that conventional tribute before turning to
the luxury of your gratified vanity. That such things can
be! Surely men and women live in different worlds?'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span></p>
<p>'But, Julian, what could I do?'</p>
<p>'He told you he loved you?'</p>
<p>She acquiesced, and he stood frowning at her, his
hands buried in his pockets and his head thrust forward,
picturing the scenes, which had probably been numerous,
between her and the priest, letting his imagination
play over the anguish of his friend and Eve's indifference.
That she had not wholly discouraged him, he
was sure. She would not so easily have let him go.
Julian was certain, as though he had observed their
interviews from a hidden corner, that she had amusedly
provoked him, watched him with half-closed, ironical
eyes, dropped him a judicious word in her honeyed
voice, driven him to despair by her disregard, raised
him to joy by her capricious friendliness. They had
had every opportunity for meeting. Eve was strangely
secretive. All had been carried on unsuspected. At
this point he spoke aloud, almost with admiration,—</p>
<p>'That you, who are so shallow, should be so deep!'</p>
<p>A glimpse of her life had been revealed to him, but
what secrets remained yet hidden? The veils were
lifting from his simplicity; he contemplated, as it
were, a new world—Eve's world, ephemerally and
clandestinely populated. He contemplated it in
fascination, acknowledging that here was an additional,
a separate art, insistent for recognition, dominating,
imperative, forcing itself impudently upon mankind,
exasperating to the straight-minded because it imposed
itself, would not be denied, was subtle, pretended
so unswervingly to dignity that dignity was accorded
it by a credulous humanity—the art which Eve
practised, so vain, so cruel, so unproductive, the
most fantastically prosperous of impostors!</p>
<p>She saw the marvel in his eyes, and smiled slightly.</p>
<p>'Well, Julian?'</p>
<p>'I am wondering,' he cried, 'wondering! trying to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span>
pierce to your mind, your peopled memory, your
present occupation, your science. What do you know?
what have you heard? What have you seen? You,
so young.... Who are not young. How many
secrets like the secret of Paul are buried away in your
heart? That you will never betray? Do you ever
look forward to the procession of your life? You, so
young. I think you have some extraordinary, instinctive,
inherited wisdom, some ready-made heritage,
bequeathed to you by generations, that compensates
for the deficiencies of your own experience. Because
you are so young. And so old, that I am afraid.'</p>
<p>'Poor Julian,' she murmured. A gulf of years lay
between them, and she spoke to him as a woman to a
boy. He was profoundly shaken, while she remained
quiet, gently sarcastic, pitying towards him, who, so
vastly stronger than she, became a bewildered child
upon her own ground. He had seen death, but she
had seen, toyed with, dissected the living heart. She
added, 'Don't try to understand. Forget me and be
yourself. You are annoying me.'</p>
<p>She had spoken the last words with such impatience,
that, torn from his speculations, he asked,—</p>
<p>'Annoying you? Why?'</p>
<p>After a short hesitation she gave him the truth,—</p>
<p>'I dislike seeing you at fault.'</p>
<p>He passed to a further bewilderment.</p>
<p>'I want you infallible.'</p>
<p>Rousing herself from the chair where she had been
indolently lying, she said in the deepest tones of her
contralto voice,—</p>
<p>'Julian, you think me worthless and vain; you
condemn me as that without the charity of any further
thought. You are right to think me heartless towards
those I don't love. You believe that I spend my life
in vanity. Julian, I only ask to be taken away from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span>
my life; I have beliefs, and I have creeds, both of my
own making, but I'm like a ship without a rudder.
I'm wasting my life in vanity. I'm capable of other
things. I'm capable of the deepest good, I know, as
well as of the most shallow evil. Nobody knows,
except perhaps Kato a little, how my real life is made
up of dreams and illusions that I cherish. People are
far more unreal to me than my own imaginings. One
of my beliefs is about you. You mustn't ever destroy
it. I believe you could do anything.'</p>
<p>'No, no,' he said, astonished.</p>
<p>But she insisted, lit by the flame of her conviction.</p>
<p>'Yes, anything. I have the profoundest contempt
for the herd—to which you don't belong. I have
believed in you since I was a child; believed in you,
I mean, as something Olympian of which I was
frightened. I have always known that you would
justify my faith.'</p>
<p>'But I am ordinary, normal!' he said, defending
himself. He mistrusted her profoundly; wondered
what attack she was engineering. Experience of her
had taught him to be sceptical.</p>
<p>'Ah, don't you see, Julian, when I am sincere?'
she said, her voice breaking. 'I am telling you now
one of the secrets of my heart, if you only knew it.
The gentle, the amiable, the pleasant—yes, they're my
toys. I'm cruel, I suppose. I'm always told so. I
don't care; they're worth nothing. It does their little
souls good to pass through the mill. But you, my
intractable Julian....'</p>
<p>'Kyrie,' said Nicolas, appearing, 'Tsantilas Tsigaridis,
from Aphros, asks urgently whether you will receive him?'</p>
<p>'Bring him in,' said Julian, conscious of relief, for
Eve's words had begun to trouble him.</p>
<p>Outside, the fireworks continued to flash like summer
lightning.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span></p>
<h2>VI</h2>
<p>Tsigaridis came forward into the room, his fishing
cap between his fingers, and his white hair standing
out in bunches of wiry curls round his face. Determination
was written in the set gravity of his features,
even in the respectful bow with which he came to a
halt before Julian. Interrupted in their conversation,
Eve had fallen, back, half lying, in her arm-chair, and
Julian, who had been pacing up and down, stood still
with folded arms, a frown cleaving a deep valley between
his brows. He spoke to Tsigaridis,—</p>
<p>'You asked for me, Tsantilas?'</p>
<p>'I am a messenger, Kyrie.'</p>
<p>He looked from the young man to the girl, his age
haughty towards their youth, his devotion submissive
towards the advantage of their birth. He said to
Julian, using almost the same words as he had used
once before,—</p>
<p>'The people of Aphros are the people of your people,'
and he bowed again.</p>
<p>Julian had recovered his self-possession; he no
longer felt dazed and bewildered as he had felt before
Eve. In speaking to Tsigaridis he was speaking of
things he understood. He knew very well the summons
Tsigaridis was bringing him, the rude and fine old
man, single-sighted as a prophet, direct and unswerving
in the cause he had at heart. He imagined, with
almost physical vividness, the hand of the fisherman
on his shoulder, impelling him forward.</p>
<p>'Kyrie,' Tsigaridis continued, 'to-day the flag of
Herakleion flew from the house of your honoured
father until you with your own hand threw it down.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span>
I was in Herakleion, where the news was brought to
me, and there is no doubt that by now it is known
also on Aphros. Your action can be interpreted only
in one way. I know that to-day'—he crossed himself
devoutly—'Father Paul, who was our friend and
yours, has met his death; I break in upon your sorrow;
I dared not wait; even death must not delay me.
Kyrie, I come to bring you back to Aphros.'</p>
<p>'I will go to-night,' said Julian without hesitation.
'My father and my uncle are in Herakleion, and I will
start from here before they can stop me. Have you
a boat?'</p>
<p>'I can procure one,' said Tsigaridis, very erect, and
looking at Julian with shining eyes.</p>
<p>'Then I will meet you at the private jetty in two
hours' time. We shall be unnoted in the darkness,
and the illuminations will be over by then.'</p>
<p>'Assuredly,' said the fisherman.</p>
<p>'We go in all secrecy,' Julian added. 'Tsantilas,
listen: can you distribute two orders for me by nightfall?
I understand that you have organised a system
of communications?'</p>
<p>The old man's face relaxed slowly from its stern
dignity; it softened into a mixture of slyness and
pride and tenderness—the tenderness of a father for
his favourite child. Almost a smile struggled with
his lips. A strange contortion troubled his brows.
Slowly and portentously, he winked.</p>
<p>'Then send word to Aphros,' said Julian, 'that no
boat be allowed to leave the Islands, and send word
round the mainland recalling every available islander.
Is it possible? I know that every islander in Herakleion
to-night is sitting with boon companions in buried
haunts, talking, talking, talking. Call them together,
Tsantilas.'</p>
<p>'It will be done, Kyrie.'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span></p>
<p>'And Madame Kato—she must be informed.'</p>
<p>'Kyrie, she sends you a message that she leaves
Herakleion by to-night's train for Athens. When her
work is done in Athens, she also will return to Aphros.'</p>
<p>Tsigaridis took a step forward and lifted Julian's
hands to his lips as was his wont. He bowed, and with
his patriarchal gravity left the room.</p>
<p>Julian in a storm of excitement flung himself upon
his knees beside Eve's chair.</p>
<p>'Eve!' he cried. 'Oh, the wild adventure! Do
you understand? It has come at last. Paul—I had
almost forgotten the Islands for him, and now I must
forget him for the Islands. Too much has happened
to-day. To-morrow all Herakleion will know that the
Islands have broken away, and that I and every islander
are upon Aphros. They will come at first with threats;
they will send representatives. I shall refuse to retract
our declaration. Then they will begin to carry out
their threats. Panaïoannou—think of it!—will organise
an attack with boats.' He became sunk in practical
thought, from which emerging he said more slowly
and carefully, 'They will not dare to bombard the
island because they know that Italy and Greece are
watching every move, and with a single man-of-war
could blow the whole town of Herakleion higher than
Mount Mylassa. Kato will watch over us from Athens....
They will dare to use no more than reasonable
violence. And they will never gain a footing.'</p>
<p>Eve was leaning forward; she put both hands on
his shoulders as he knelt.</p>
<p>'Go on talking to me,' she said, 'my darling.'</p>
<p>In a low, intense voice, with unseeing eyes, he
released all the flood of secret thought that he had,
in his life, expressed only to Paul and to Kato.</p>
<p>'I went once to Aphros, more than a year ago; you
remember. They asked me then, through Tsigaridis,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span>
whether I would champion them if they needed championship.
I said I would. Father was very angry.
He is incomprehensibly cynical about the Islands, so
cynical that I have been tempted to think him merely
mercenary, anxious to live at peace with Herakleion
for the sake of his profits. He is as cynical as Malteios,
or any stay-in-power politician here. He read me a
lecture and called the people a lot of rebellious good-for-nothings.
Eve, what do I care? One thing is
true, one thing is real: those people suffer. Everything
on earth is empty, except pain. Paul suffered, so much
that he preferred to die. But a whole people
doesn't die. I went away to England, and I put
Herakleion aside, but at the bottom of my
heart I never thought of anything else; I knew I was
bound to those people, and I lived, I swear to you,
with the sole idea that I should come back, and that
this adventure of rescue would happen some day
exactly as it is happening now. I thought of Kato
and of Tsigaridis as symbolical, almost mythological
beings; my tutelary deities; Kato vigorous, and
Tsigaridis stern. Eve, I would rather die than read
disappointment in that man's eyes. I never made
him many promises, but he must find me better than
my word.'</p>
<p>He got up and walked once or twice up and down
the room, beating his fist against his palm and saying,—</p>
<p>'Whatever good I do in my life, will be done in the
Islands.'</p>
<p>He came back and stood by Eve.</p>
<p>'Eve, yesterday morning when I rode over the hills
I saw the Islands lying out in the sea.... I thought
of father, cynical and indifferent, and of Stavridis,
a self-seeker. I wondered whether I should grow into
that. I thought that in illusion lay the only loveliness.'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span></p>
<p>'Ah, how I agree!' she said fervently.</p>
<p>He dropped on his knees again beside her, and she
put her fingers lightly on his hair.</p>
<p>'When Tsigaridis came, you were telling me that
you believed in me—Heaven knows why. For my
part, I only believe that one can accomplish when one
has faith in a cause, and is blind to one's own fate.
And I believe that the only cause worthy of such faith,
is the redemption of souls from pain. I set aside all
doubt. I will listen to no argument, and I will walk
straight towards the object I have chosen. If my
faith is an illusion, I will make that illusion into a
reality by the sheer force of my faith.'</p>
<p>He looked up at Eve, whose eyes were strangely
intent on him.</p>
<p>'You see,' he said, fingering the fringe of her Spanish
shawl, 'Herakleion is my battleground, and if I am
to tilt against windmills it must be in Herakleion. I
have staked out Herakleion for my own, as one stakes
out a claim in a gold-mining country. The Islands are
the whole adventure of youth for me.'</p>
<p>'And what am I?' she murmured to him.</p>
<p>He looked at her without appearing to see her; he
propped his elbow on her knee, leant his chin in his
palm, and went on talking about the Islands.</p>
<p>'I know that I am making the thing into a religion,
but then I could never live, simply drifting along.
Aimless.... I don't understand existence on those
terms. I am quite prepared to give everything for my
idea; father can disinherit me, and I know I am very
likely to be killed. I don't care. I may be mistaken;
I may be making a blunder, an error of judgment.
I don't care. Those people are mine. Those Islands
are my faith. I am blind.'</p>
<p>'And you enjoy the adventure,' she said.</p>
<p>'Of course, I enjoy the adventure. But there is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span>
more in it than that,' he said, shaking his head; 'there
is conviction, burnt into me. Fanatical. Whoever is
ready to pay the ultimate price for his belief, has a
right to that belief. Heaven preserve me,' he cried,
showing his fist, 'from growing like father, or Malteios,
or Stavridis. Eve, you understand.'</p>
<p>She murmured again,—</p>
<p>'And what am I? What part have I got in this world
of yours?'</p>
<p>Again he did not appear to hear her, but making an
effort to get up, he said,—</p>
<p>'I promised to meet Tsantilas, and I must go,' but
she pressed her hands on his shoulders and held him
down.</p>
<p>'Stay a little longer. I want to talk to you.'</p>
<p>Kneeling there, he saw at last that her mouth was
very resolute and her eyes full of a desperate decision.
She sat forward in her chair, so close to him that he
felt the warmth of her body, and saw that at the base
of her throat a little pulse was beating quickly.</p>
<p>'What is it, Eve?'</p>
<p>'This,' she said, 'that if I let you go I may never
see you again. How much time have you?'</p>
<p>He glanced at the heavy clock between the lapis
columns.</p>
<p>'An hour and a half.'</p>
<p>'Give me half an hour.'</p>
<p>'Do you want to stop me from going?'</p>
<p>'Could I stop you if I tried?'</p>
<p>'I should never listen to you.'</p>
<p>'Julian,' she said, 'I rarely boast, as you know, but
I am wondering now how many people in Herakleion
would abandon their dearest ideals for me? If you
think my boast is empty—remember Paul.'</p>
<p>He paused for a moment, genuinely surprised by
the point of view she presented to him.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span></p>
<p>'But I am different,' he said then, quite simply and
with an air of finality.</p>
<p>She laughed a low, delighted laugh.</p>
<p>'You have said it: you are different. Of course
you are different. So different, that you never notice
me. People cringe to me—oh, I may say this to you—but
you, Julian, either you are angry with me or
else you forget me.'</p>
<p>She looked at the clock, and for the first time a slight
loss of self-assurance came over her, surprising and
attractive in her, who seemed always to hold every
situation in such contemptuous control.</p>
<p>'Only half an hour,' she said, 'and I have to say
to you all that which I have been at such pains to
conceal—hoping all the while that you would force
the gates of my concealment, trample on my
hypocrisy!'</p>
<p>Her eyes lost their irony and became troubled;
she gazed at him with the distress of a child. He was
uneasily conscious of his own embarrassment; he felt
the shame of taking unawares the self-reliant in a
moment of weakness, the mingled delight and perplexity
of the hunter who comes suddenly upon the nymph,
bare and gleaming, at the edge of a pool. All instinct
of chivalry urged him to retreat until she should have
recovered her self-possession. He desired to help her,
tender and protective; and again, relentlessly, he
would have outraged her reticence, forced her to the
uttermost lengths of self-revelation, spared her no
abasement, enjoyed her humiliation. Simultaneously,
he wanted the triumph over her pride, the battle joined
with a worthy foe; and the luxury of comforting her
new and sudden pathos, as he alone, he knew, could
comfort it. She summoned in him, uncivilised and
wholly primitive, a passion of tyranny and a passion
of possessive protection.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span></p>
<p>He yielded to the former, and continued to look at
her in expectation, without speaking.</p>
<p>'Help me a little, Julian,' she murmured piteously,
keeping her eyes bent on her hands, which were lying
in her lap. 'Look back a little, and remember me.
I can remember you so well: coming and going and
disregarding me, or furiously angry with me; very
often unkind to me; tolerant of me sometimes; negligently,
insultingly, certain of me always!'</p>
<p>'We used to say that although we parted for months,
we always came together again.'</p>
<p>She raised her eyes, grateful to him, as he still knelt
on the floor in front of her, but he was not looking at
her; he was staring at nothing, straight in front of
him.</p>
<p>'Julian,' she said, and spoke of their childhood,
knowing that her best hope lay in keeping his thoughts
distant from the present evening.</p>
<p>Her distress, which had been genuine, had passed.
She had a vital game to play, and was playing it with
the full resources of her ability. She swept the chords
lightly, swift to strike again that chord which had
whispered in response. She bent a little closer to him.</p>
<p>'I have always had this belief in you, of which I
told you. You and I both have in us the making of
fanatics. We never have led, and never should lead,
the tame life of the herd.'</p>
<p>She touched him with that, and regained command
over his eyes, which this time she held unswervingly.
But, having forced him to look at her, she saw a frown
gathering on his brows; he sprang to his feet, and
made a gesture as if to push her from him.</p>
<p>'You are playing with me; if you saw me lying
dead on that rug you would turn from me as indifferently
as from Paul.'</p>
<p>At this moment of her greatest danger, as he stood<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span>
towering over her, she dropped her face into her hands,
and he looked down only upon the nape of her neck
and her waving hair. Before he could speak she looked
up again, her eyes very sorrowful under plaintive
brows.</p>
<p>'Do I deserve that you should say that to me?
I never pretended to be anything but indifferent to
those I didn't love. I should have been more hypocritical.
You despise me now, so I pay the penalty
of my own candour. I have not the pleasant graces
of a Fru Thyregod, Julian; not towards you, that is.
I wouldn't offer you the insult of an easy philandering.
I might make your life a burden; I might even kill
you. I know I have often been impossible towards
you in the past. I should probably be still more impossible
in the future. If I loved you less, I should,
no doubt, love you better. You see that I am candid.'</p>
<p>He was struck, and reflected: she spoke truly,
there was indeed a vein of candour which contradicted
and redeemed the petty deceits and untruthfulnesses
which so exasperated and offended him. But he would
not admit his hesitation.</p>
<p>'I have told you a hundred times that you are cruel
and vain and irredeemably worthless.'</p>
<p>She answered after a pause, in the deep and wonderful
voice which she knew so well how to use,—</p>
<p>'You are more cruel than I; you hurt me more than
I can say.'</p>
<p>He resisted his impulse to renounce his words, to
pretend that he had chosen them in deliberate malice.
As he said nothing, she added,—</p>
<p>'Besides, have I ever shown myself any of those
things to you? I haven't been cruel to you; I haven't
even been selfish; you have no right to find fault with
me.'</p>
<p>She had blundered; he flew into a rage.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span></p>
<p>'Your damned feminine reasoning! Your damned
personal point of view! I can see well enough the
fashion in which you treat other men. I don't judge
you only by your attitude towards myself.'</p>
<p>Off her guard, she was really incapable of grasping
his argument; she tried to insist, to justify herself,
but before his storm of anger she cowered away.</p>
<p>'Julian, how you frighten me.'</p>
<p>'You only pretend to be frightened.'</p>
<p>'You are brutal; you mangle every word I say,'
she said hopelessly.</p>
<p>He had reduced her to silence; he stood over her
threateningly, much as a tamer of wild beasts who
waits for the next spring of the panther. Desperate,
her spirit flamed up again, and she cried,—</p>
<p>'You treat me monstrously; I am a fool to waste
my time over you; I am accustomed to quite different
treatment.'</p>
<p>'You are spoilt; you are accustomed to flattery—flattery
which means less than nothing,' he sneered,
stamping upon her attempt at arrogance.</p>
<p>'Ah, Julian!' she said, suddenly and marvellously
melting, and leaning forward she stretched out both
hands towards him, so that he was obliged to take
them, and she drew him down to his knees once more
beside her, and smiled into his eyes, having taken
command and being resolved that no crisis of anger
should again arise to estrange them, 'I shall never have
flattery from you, shall I? my turbulent, impossible
Julian, whose most meagre compliment I have treasured
ever since I can remember! but it is over now, my
time of waiting for you'—she still held his hands, and
the smile with which she looked at him transfigured all
her face.</p>
<p>He was convinced; he trembled. He strove against
her faintly,—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span></p>
<p>'You choose your moment badly; you know that
I must leave for Aphros.'</p>
<p>'You cannot!' she cried in indignation.</p>
<p>As his eyes hardened, she checked herself; she
knew that for her own safety she must submit to his
will without a struggle. Spoilt, irrational as she was,
she had never before so dominated her caprice. Her
wits were all at work, quick slaves to her passion.</p>
<p>'Of course you must go,' she said.</p>
<p>She played with his fingers, her head bent low, and
he was startled by the softness of her touch.</p>
<p>'What idle hands,' he said, looking at them; 'you
were vain of them, as a child.'</p>
<p>But she did not wish him to dwell upon her vanity.</p>
<p>'Julian, have I not been consistent, all my life?
Are you taking me seriously? Do you know that I
am betraying all the truth? One hasn't often the luxury
of betraying all the truth. I could betray even greater
depths of truth, for your sake. Are you treating what
I tell you with the gravity it deserves? You must
not make a toy of my secret. I have no strength of
character, Julian. I suppose, in its stead, I have been
given strength of love. Do you want what I offer
you? Will you take the responsibility of refusing it?'</p>
<p>'Is that a threat?' he asked, impressed and moved.</p>
<p>She shrugged slightly and raised her eyebrows; he
thought he had never so appreciated the wonderful
mobility of her face.</p>
<p>'I am nothing without the person I love. You have
judged me yourself: worthless—what else?—cruel,
vain. All that is true. Hitherto I have tried only
to make the years pass by. Do you want me to return
to such an existence?'</p>
<p>His natural vigour rebelled against her frailty.</p>
<p>'You are too richly gifted, Eve, to abandon yourself
to such slackness of life.'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span></p>
<p>'I told you I had no strength of character,' she
said with bitterness, 'what are my gifts, such as they
are, to me? You are the thing I want.'</p>
<p>'You could turn your gifts to any account.'</p>
<p>'With you, yes.'</p>
<p>'No, independently of me or any other human being.
One stands alone in work. Work is impersonal.'</p>
<p>'Nothing is impersonal to me,' she replied morosely,
'that's my tragedy.'</p>
<p>She flung out her hands.</p>
<p>'Julian, I cherish such endless dreams! I loathe
my life of petty adventures; I undertake them only
in order to forget the ideal which until now has been
denied me. I have crushed down the vision of life
with you, but always it has remained at the back of
my mind, so wide, so open, a life so free and so full of
music and beauty, Julian! I would work—for you.
I would create—for you. I don't want to marry you,
Julian. I value my freedom above all things. Bondage
is not for you or me. But I'll come with you anywhere—to
Aphros if you like.'</p>
<p>'To Aphros?' he repeated.</p>
<p>'Why not?'</p>
<p>She put in, with extraordinary skill,—</p>
<p>'I belong to the Islands no less than you.'</p>
<p>Privately she thought,—</p>
<p>'If you knew how little I cared about the Islands!'</p>
<p>He stared at her, turning her words over in his mind.
He was as reckless as she, but conscientiously he
suggested,—</p>
<p>'There may be danger.'</p>
<p>'I am not really a coward, only in the unimportant
things. And you said yourself that they could never
invade the island,' she added with complete confidence
in his statement.</p>
<p>He dreamt aloud,—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span></p>
<p>'I have only just found her. This is Herakleion!
She might, who knows? be of use to Aphros.'</p>
<p>She wondered which consideration weighed most
heavily with him.</p>
<p>'You were like my sister,' he said suddenly.</p>
<p>She gave a rueful smile, but said nothing.</p>
<p>'No, no!' he cried, springing up. 'This can never
be; have you bewitched me? Let me go, Eve; you
have been playing a game with me.'</p>
<p>She shook her head very slowly and tears gathered
in her eyes.</p>
<p>'Then the game is my whole life, Julian; put me to
any test you choose to prove my sincerity.'</p>
<p>She convinced him against his will, and he resented
it.</p>
<p>'You have deceived me too often.'</p>
<p>'I have been obliged to deceive you, because I could
not tell you the truth.'</p>
<p>'Very plausible,' he muttered.</p>
<p>She waited, very well acquainted with the vehemence
of his moods and reactions. She was rewarded; he
said next, with laughter lurking in his eyes,—</p>
<p>'Ever since I can remember, I have quarrelled with
you several times a day.'</p>
<p>'But this evening we have no time to waste in
quarrelling,' she replied, relieved, and stretching out
her hands to him again. As he took them, she added in
a low voice, 'You attract me fatally, my refractory
Julian.'</p>
<p>'We will go to Aphros,' he said, 'as friends and
colleagues.'</p>
<p>'On any terms you choose to dictate,' she replied
with ironical gravity.</p>
<p>A flash of clear-sightedness pierced his attempt
at self-deception; he saw the danger into which they
were deliberately running, he and she, alone amidst<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span>
fantastic happenings, living in fairyland, both headstrong
and impatient creatures, unaccustomed to
forgo their whims, much less their passions....
He was obliged to recognise the character of the temple
which stood at the end of the path they were treading,
and of the deity to whom it was dedicated; he saw the
temple with the eyes of his imagination as vividly as
his mortal eyes would have seen it: white and lovely
amongst cypresses, shadowy within; they would
surely enter. Eve he certainly could not trust; could
he trust himself? His honesty answered no. She
observed the outward signs of what was passing in
his mind, he started, he glanced at her, a look of horror
and vigorous repudiation crossed his face, his eyes
dwelt on her, then she saw—for she was quick to read
him—by the slight toss of his head that he had banished
sagacity.</p>
<p>'Come on to the veranda,' she said, tugging at
his hand.</p>
<p>They stood on the veranda, watching the lights
in the distance; the sky dripped with gold; balls of
fire exploded into sheaves of golden feathers, into
golden fountains and golden rain; golden slashes like
the blades of scimitars cut across the curtain of night.
Eve cried out with delight. Fiery snakes rushed across
the sky, dying in a shower of sparks. At one moment
the whole of the coast-line was lit up by a violet light,
which most marvellously gleamed upon the sea.</p>
<p>'Fairyland!' cried Eve, clapping her hands.</p>
<p>She had forgotten Aphros. She had forgotten Paul.</p>
<p class="space-above">The fireworks were over. Tsigaridis pulled strongly
and without haste at his oars across a wide sea that
glittered now like black diamonds under the risen
moon. The water rose and fell beneath the little boat
as gently and as regularly as the breathing of a sleeper.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span>
In a milky sky, spangled with stars, the immense
moon hung flat and motionless, casting a broad path
of rough silver up the blackness of the waters, and
illuminating a long stretch of little broken clouds that lay
above the horizon like the vertebræ of some gigantic
crocodile. The light at the tip of the pier showed green,
for they saw it still from the side of the land, but as they
drew farther out to sea and came on a parallel line with
the light, they saw it briefly half green, half ruby; then,
as they passed it, looking back they saw only the ruby
glow. Tsigaridis rowed steadily, silently but for the
occasional drip of the water with the lifting of an oar,
driving his craft away from the lights of the mainland—the
stretch of Herakleion along the coast—towards
the beckoning lights in the heart of the sea.</p>
<p>For ahead of them clustered the little yellow lights
of the sheerly-rising village on Aphros; isolated lights,
three or four only, low down at the level of the harbour,
then, after a dark gap representing the face of the
cliff, the lights in the houses, irregular, tier above tier.
But it was not to these yellow lights that the glance
was drawn. High above them all, upon the highest
summit of the island, flared a blood-red beacon, a
fierce and solitary stain of scarlet, a flame like a flag,
like an emblem, full of hope as it leapt towards the
sky, full of rebellion as it tore its angry gash across
the night. In the moonlight the tiny islands of the
group lay darkly outlined in the sea, but the moonlight,
placid and benign, was for them without significance:
only the beacon, insolently red beneath the pallor of
the moon, burned for them with a message that promised
to all men strife, to others death, and to the survivors
liberty.</p>
<p>The form of Aphros was no more than a silhouette
under the moon, a silhouette that rose, humped and
shadowy, bearing upon its crest that flower of flame;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span>
dawn might break upon an island of the purest loveliness,
colour blown upon it as upon the feathers of a
bird, fragile as porcelain, flushed as an orchard in
blossom; to-night it lay mysterious, unrevealed, with
that single flame as a token of the purpose that burned
within its heart. Tenderness, loveliness, were absent
from the dark shape crowned by so living, so leaping
an expression of its soul. Here were resolution, anticipation,
hope, the perpetual hope of betterment, the undying
chimera, the sublime illusion, the lure of adventure
to the rebel and the idealist alike. The flame rang out
like a bugle call in the night, its glare in the darkness
becoming strident indeed as the note of a bugle in the
midst of silence.</p>
<p>A light breeze brushed the little boat as it drew
away from the coast, and Tsigaridis with a word of
satisfaction shipped his oars and rose, the fragile craft
rocking as he moved; Eve and Julian, watching from
the prow, saw a shadow creep along the mast and the
triangular shape of a sail tauten itself darkly against
the path of the moon. Tsigaridis sank back into an
indistinguishable block of intenser darkness in the
darkness at the bottom of the boat. A few murmured
words had passed,—</p>
<p>'I will take the tiller, Tsigaridis.'</p>
<p>'Malista, Kyrie,' and the silence had fallen again,
the boat sailing strongly before the breeze, the beacon
high ahead, and the moon brilliant in the sky.
Eve, not daring to speak, glanced at Julian's profile
as she sat beside him. He was scowling. Had she
but known, he was intensely conscious of her nearness,
assailed again with that now familiar ghost, the
ghost of her as he had once held her angrily in his
arms, soft, heavy, defenceless; and his fingers as they
closed over the tiller closed as delicately as upon the
remembered curves of her body; she had taken off her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span>
hat, and the scent of her hair reached him, warm, personal
she was close to him, soft, fragrant, silent indeed,
but mysteriously alive; the desire to touch her grew,
like the desire of thirst; life seemed to envelop him
with a strange completeness. Still a horror held him
back: was it Eve, the child to whom he had been
brotherly? or Eve, the woman? but in spite of his
revulsion—for it was not his habit to control his desires—he
changed the tiller to the other hand, and his free
arm fell round her shoulders; he felt her instant yielding,
her movement nearer towards him, her shortened
breath, the falling back of her head; he knew that
her eyes were shut; his fingers moulded themselves
lingeringly round her throat; she slipped still lower
within the circle of his arm, and his hand, almost
involuntarily, trembled over the softness of her breast.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span></p>
<h2>PART III—APHROS</h2>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span></p>
<h2>I</h2>
<p>In the large class-room of the school-house the dejected
group of Greek officials sat among the hideous yellow
desks and benches of the school-children of Aphros.
Passion and indignation had spent themselves fruitlessly
during the preceding evening and night. To do
the islanders justice, the Greeks had not been treated
with incivility. But all demands for an interview
with the highest authority were met not only with a
polite reply that the highest authority had not yet
arrived upon the island, but also a refusal to disclose
his name. The Greek officials, having been brought
from their respective lodgings to the central meeting-point
of the school, had been given the run of two
class-rooms, one for the men, of whom there were, in
all, twenty, and one for the women, of whom there
were only six. They were told that they might communicate,
but that armed guards would be placed in
both rooms. They found most comfort in gathering,
the six-and-twenty of them, in the larger class-room,
while the guards, in their kilted dresses, sat on chairs,
two at each entrance, with suspiciously modern and
efficient-looking rifles laid across their knees.</p>
<p>A large proportion of the officials were, naturally,
those connected with the school. They observed
morosely that all notices in the pure Greek of Herakleion
had already been removed, also the large lithographs
of Malteios and other former Presidents, so
that the walls of pitch pine—the school buildings
were modern, and of wood—were now ornamented
only with maps, anatomical diagrams, and some large
coloured plates published by some English manufacturing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span>
firm for advertisement; there were three children riding
a gray donkey, and another child trying on a sun-bonnet
before a mirror; but any indication of the
relationship of Aphros to Herakleion there was none.</p>
<p>'It is revolution,' the postmaster said gloomily.</p>
<p>The guards would not speak. Their natural loquacity
was in abeyance before the first fire of their revolutionary
ardour. From vine-cultivators they had become
soldiers, and the unfamiliarity of the trade filled them
with self-awe and importance. Outside, the village
was surprisingly quiet; there was no shouting, no
excitement; footsteps passed rapidly to and fro, but
they seemed to be the footsteps of men bent on ordered
business; the Greeks could not but be impressed and
disquieted by the sense of organisation.</p>
<p>'Shall we be allowed to go free?' they asked the
guards.</p>
<p>'You will know when he comes,' was all the guards
would reply.</p>
<p>'Who is he?'</p>
<p>'You will know presently.'</p>
<p>'Has he still not arrived?'</p>
<p>'He has arrived.'</p>
<p>'We heard nothing; he must have arrived during
the night.'</p>
<p>To this they received no answer, nor any to their
next remark,—</p>
<p>'Why so much mystery? It is, of course, the scatterbrained
young Englishman.'</p>
<p>The guards silently shrugged their shoulders, as
much as to say, that any one, even a prisoner, had a
right to his own opinion.</p>
<p>The school clock pointed to nine when the first
noise of agitation began in the street. It soon became
clear that a large concourse of people was assembling
in the neighbourhood of the school; a slight excitement<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span>
betrayed itself by some shouting and laughter, but a
voice cried 'Silence!' and silence was immediately
produced. Those within the school heard only the
whisperings and rustlings of a crowd. They were not
extravagantly surprised, knowing the islanders to be
an orderly, restrained, and frugal race, their emotions
trained into the sole channel of patriotism, which here
was making its supreme demand upon their self-devotion.
The Greeks threw wondering glances at
the rifles of the guards. Ostensibly school-teachers,
post and telegraph clerks, and custom-house officers,
they were, of course, in reality the spies of the government
of Herakleion, and as such should have had
knowledge of the presence of such weapons on the
island. They reflected that, undesirable as was a
prolonged imprisonment in the school-house, at the
mercy of a newly-liberated and probably rancorous
population, a return to Herakleion might prove a no
less undesirable fate at the present juncture.</p>
<p>Outside, some sharp words of command were followed
by the click of weapons on the cobblestones; the postmaster
looked at the chief customs-house clerk, raised
his eyebrows, jerked his head, and made a little noise:
'Tcha!' against his teeth, as much as to say, 'The
deceitful villains! under our noses!' but at the back
of his mind was, 'No further employment, no pension,
for any of us.' A burst of cheering followed in the
street. The voice cried 'Silence!' again, but this time
was disregarded. The cheering continued for some
minutes, the women's note joining in with the men's
deep voices, and isolated words were shouted, all with
the maximum of emotion. The Greeks tried to look
out of the windows, but were prevented by the guards.
Some one in the street began to speak, when the cheering
had died away, but through the closed windows it was
impossible to distinguish the words. A moment's hush<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span>
followed this speaking, and then another voice began,
reading impressively—it was obvious, from the unhesitating
and measured scansion, that he was reading.
Sections of his address, or proclamation, whichever it
was, were received with deep growls of satisfaction
from the crowd. At one moment he was wholly interrupted
by repeated shouts of 'Viva! viva! viva!'
and when he had made an end thunderous shouts of
approval shook the wooden building. The Greeks
were by now very pale; they could not tell whether
this proclamation did not contain some reference,
some decision, concerning themselves.</p>
<p>After the proclamation, another voice spoke, interrupted
at every moment by various cries of joy and
delight, especially from the women; the crowd seemed
alternately rocked with enthusiasm, confidence, fire,
and laughter. The laughter was not the laughter of
amusement so much as the grim laughter of resolution
and fraternity; an extraordinarily fraternal and
unanimous spirit seemed to prevail. Then silence
again, broken by voices in brief confabulation, and
then the shifting of the crowd which, to judge from
the noise, was pressing back against the school-buildings
in order to allow somebody a passage down the street.</p>
<p>The door opened, and Zapantiotis, appearing,
announced,—</p>
<p>'Prisoners, the President.'</p>
<p>The word created a sensation among the little herd
of hostages, who, for comfort and protection, had
instinctively crowded together. They believed themselves
miraculously rescued, at least from the spite
and vengeance of the islanders, and expected to see
either Malteios or Stavridis, frock-coated and top-hatted,
in the doorway. Instead, they saw Julian
Davenant, flushed, untidy, bareheaded, and accompanied
by two immense islanders carrying rifles.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span></p>
<p>He paused and surveyed the little speechless group,
and a faint smile ran over his lips at the sight of the
confused faces of his prisoners. They stared at him,
readjusting their ideas: in the first instance they
had certainly expected Julian, then for one flashing
moment they had expected the President of Herakleion,
then they were confronted with Julian. A question
left the lips of the postmaster,—</p>
<p>'President of what?'</p>
<p>Perhaps he was tempted madly to think that neither
Malteios, nor Stavridis, but Julian, had been on the
foregoing day elected President of Herakleion.</p>
<p>Zapantiotis answered gravely,—</p>
<p>'Of the Archipelago of San Zacharie.'</p>
<p>'Are we all crazy?' cried the postmaster.</p>
<p>'You see, gentlemen,' said Julian, speaking for the
first time, 'that the folly of my grandfather's day has
been revived.'</p>
<p>He came forward and seated himself at the schoolmaster's
desk, his bodyguard standing a little behind
him, one to each side.</p>
<p>'I have come here,' he said, 'to choose amongst you
one representative who can carry to Herakleion the
terms of the proclamation which has just been read
in the market-place outside. These terms must be
communicated to the present government. Zapantiotis,
hand the proclamation to these gentlemen.'</p>
<p>The outraged Greeks came closer together to read
the proclamation over each other's shoulder; it set
forth that the islands constituting the Archipelago of
San Zacharie, and including the important island of
Aphros, by the present proclamation, and after long
years of oppression, declared themselves a free and
independent republic under the presidency of Julian
Henry Davenant, pending the formation of a provisional
government; that if unmolested they were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span>
prepared to live in all peace and neighbourly good-fellowship
with the republic of Herakleion, but that
if molested in any way they were equally prepared
to defend their shores and their liberty to the last drop
of blood in the last man upon the Islands.</p>
<p>There was a certain nobleness in the resolute gravity
of the wording.</p>
<p>Julian wore a cryptic smile as he watched the Greeks
working their way through this document, which was
in the Italianate Greek of the Islands. Their fingers
pointed certain paragraphs out to one another, and
little repressed snorts came from them, snorts of scorn
and of indignation, and glances were flung at Julian
lounging indifferently in the schoolmaster's chair.
The doors had been closed to exclude the crowd, and
of the islanders, only Zapantiotis and the guards
remained in the room. Although it was early, the heat
was beginning to make itself felt, and the flies were
buzzing over the window-panes.</p>
<p>'If you have finished reading, gentlemen,' said
Julian presently, 'I shall be glad if you will decide
upon a representative, as I have much to attend to;
a boat is waiting to take him and these ladies to the
shore.'</p>
<p>Immense relief was manifested by the ladies.</p>
<p>'This thing,' said the head of the school, hitting the
proclamation with his closed fingers, 'is madness;
I beg you, young man—I know you quite well—to
withdraw before it is too late.'</p>
<p>'I can have no argument; I give you five minutes
to decide,' Julian replied, laying his watch on the
desk.</p>
<p>His followers had no longer cause to fret against
his indecision.</p>
<p>Seeing him determined, the Greeks excitedly conferred;
amongst them the idea of self-preservation,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span>
rather than of self-immolation, was obviously dominant.
Herakleion, for all the displeasure of the authorities,
was, when it came to the point, preferable to Aphros
in the hands of the islanders and their eccentric, if
not actually bloodthirsty, young leader. The postmaster
presented himself as senior member of the
group; the schoolmaster as the most erudite, therefore
the most fitted to represent his colleagues before the
Senate; the head clerk of the customs-house urged
his claim as having the longest term of official service.
The conference degenerated into a wrangle.</p>
<p>'I see, gentlemen, that I must take the decision out
of your hands,' Julian said at length, breaking in upon
them, and appointed the customs-house clerk.</p>
<p>But in the market-place, whither the Greek representative
and the women of the party were instantly
hurried, the silent throng of population waited in
packed and coloured ranks. The men stood apart,
arms folded, handkerchiefs bound about their heads
under their wide straw hats—they waited, patient,
confident, unassuming. None of them was armed
with rifles, although many carried a pistol or a long
knife slung at his belt; the customs-house clerk,
through all his confusion of mingled terror and relief,
noted the fact; if he delivered it at a propitious moment,
it might placate an irate Senate. No rifles, or, at most,
eight in the hands of the guards! Order would very
shortly be restored in Aphros.</p>
<p>Nevertheless, that sense of organisation, of discipline,
of which the Greeks had been conscious while listening
to the assembling of the crowd through the boards of
the school-house, was even more apparent here upon
the market-place. These islanders knew their business.
A small file of men detached itself as an escort for the
representative and the women. Julian came from the
school at the same moment with his two guards, grim<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span>
and attentive, behind him. A movement of respect
produced itself in the crowd. The customs-house clerk
and his companions were not allowed to linger, but
were marched away to the steps which led down to the
jetty. They carried away with them as their final
impression of Aphros the memory of the coloured
throng and of Julian, a few paces in advance, watching
their departure.</p>
<p class="space-above">The proclamation, the scene in the school-house,
remained as the prelude to the many pictures which
populated Julian's memory, interchangeably, of that
day. He saw himself, speaking rarely, but, as he knew,
to much purpose, seated at the head of a table in the
village assembly-room, and, down each side of the
table, the principal men of the Islands, Tsigaridis and
Zapantiotis on his either hand, grave counsellors;
he heard their speech, unreproducibly magnificent,
because a bodyguard of facts supported every phrase;
because, in the background, thronged the years of
endurance and the patient, steadfast hope. He heard
the terms of the new constitution, and the oath of
resolution to which every man subscribed. With a
swimming brain, and his eyes fixed upon the hastily-restored
portrait of his grandfather, he heard the
references to himself as head of the state—a state in
which the citizens numbered perhaps five thousand.
He heard his own voice, issuing orders whose wisdom
was never questioned: no boat to leave the Islands,
no boats to be admitted to the port, without his express
permission, a system of sentries to be instantly instituted
and maintained, day and night. As he delivered
these orders, men rose in their places, assuming the
responsibility, and left the room to execute them without
delay.</p>
<p>He saw himself later, still accompanied by Tsigaridis<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span>
and Zapantiotis, but having rid himself of his two
guards, in the interior of the island, on the slopes where
the little rough stone walls retained the terraces, and
where between the trunks of the olive-trees the sea
moved, blue and glittering, below. Here the island
was dry and stony; mule-paths, rising in wide, low
steps, wandered up the slopes and lost themselves
over the crest of the hill. A few goats moved restlessly
among cactus and bramble-bushes, cropping at the
prickly stuff, and now and then raising their heads to
bleat for the kids that, more light-hearted because not
under the obligation of searching for food amongst the
vegetation, leapt after one another, up and down, in a
happy chain on their little stiff certain legs from terrace
to terrace. An occasional cypress rose in a dark spire
against the sky. Across the sea, the town of Herakleion
lay, white, curved, and narrow, with its coloured
sunblinds no bigger than butterflies, along the strip
of coast that Mount Mylassa so grudgingly allowed it.</p>
<p>The stepped paths being impassable for carts,
Tsigaridis had collected ten mules with panniers, that
followed in a string. Julian rode ahead upon another
mule; Zapantiotis walked, his tall staff in his hand,
and his dog at his heels. Julian remembered idly
admiring the health which enabled this man of sixty-five
to climb a constantly-ascending path under a
burning sun without showing any signs of exhaustion.
As they went, the boy in charge of the mules droned
out a mournful native song which Julian recognised as
having heard upon the lips of Kato. The crickets
chirped unceasingly, and overhead the seagulls circled
uttering their peculiar cry.</p>
<p>They had climbed higher, finally leaving behind
them the olive-terraces and coming to a stretch of
vines, the autumn vine-leaves ranging through every
shade of yellow, red, and orange; here, away from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span>
shade of the olives, the sun burned down almost unbearably,
and the stones of the rough walls were too
hot for the naked hand to touch. Here it was that
the grapes were spread out, drying into currants—a
whole terrace heaped with grapes, over which a party
of young men, who sat playing at dice beneath a rough
shelter made out of reeds and matting, were mounting
guard.</p>
<p>Julian, knowing nothing of this business, and present
only out of interested curiosity, left the command to
Zapantiotis. A few stone-pines grew at the edge of
the terrace; he moved his mule into their shade while
he watched. They had reached the summit of the
island—no doubt, if he searched far enough, he would
come across the ruins of last night's beacon, but he
preferred to remember it as a living thing rather than
to stumble with his foot against ashes, gray and dead;
he shivered a little, in spite of the heat, at the thought
of that flame already extinguished—and from the
summit he could look down upon both slopes, seeing
the island actually as an island, with the sea below upon
every side, and he could see the other islands of the
group, speckled around, some of them too tiny to be
inhabited, but all deserted now, when in the common
cause every soul had been summoned by the beacon,
the preconcerted signal, to Aphros. He imagined the
little isolated boats travelling across the moonlit waters
during the night, as he himself had travelled; little
boats, each under its triangular sail, bearing the owner,
his women, his children, and such poor belongings as
he could carry, making for the port or the creeks of
Aphros, relying for shelter upon the fraternal hospitality
of the inhabitants. No doubt they, like himself,
had travelled with their eyes upon the beacon....</p>
<p>The young men, grinning broadly and displaying
a zest they would not have contributed towards the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span>
mere routine of their lives, had left their skeleton
shelter and had fallen to work upon the heaps of drying
grapes with their large, purple-stained, wooden shovels.
Zapantiotis leant upon his staff beside Julian's mule.</p>
<p>'See, Kyrie!' he had said. 'It was a crafty thought,
was it not? Ah, women! only a woman could have
thought of such a thing.'</p>
<p>'A woman?'</p>
<p>'Anastasia Kato,' the overseer had replied, reverent
towards the brain that had contrived thus craftily
for the cause, but familiar towards the great singer—of
whom distinguished European audiences spoke
with distant respect—as towards a woman of his own
people. He probably, Julian had reflected, did not
know of her as a singer at all.</p>
<p>Beneath the grapes rifles were concealed, preserved
from the fruit by careful sheets of coarse linen; rifles,
gleaming, modern rifles, laid out in rows; a hundred,
two hundred, three hundred; Julian had no means of
estimating.</p>
<p>He had dismounted and walked over to them; the
young men were still shovelling back the fruit, reckless
of its plenty, bringing more weapons and still more to
light. He had bent down to examine more closely.</p>
<p>'Italian,' he had said then, briefly, and had met
Tsigaridis' eye, had seen the slow, contented smile
which spread on the old man's face, and which he had
discreetly turned aside to conceal.</p>
<p>Then Julian, with a glimpse of all those months of
preparation, had ridden down from the hills, the string
of mules following his mule in single file, the shining
barrels bristling out of the panniers, and in the market-place
he had assisted, from the height of his saddle, at
the distribution of the arms. Two hundred and fifty,
and five hundred rounds of ammunition to each....
He thought of the nights of smuggling represented<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span>
there, of the catch of fish—the 'quick, shining harvest
of the sea'—beneath which lay the deadlier catch
that evaded the eyes of the customs-house clerks.
He remembered the robbery at the casino, and was
illuminated. Money had not been lacking.</p>
<p>These were not the only pictures he retained of that
day; the affairs to which he was expected to attend
seemed to be innumerable; he had sat for hours in the
village assembly-room, while the islanders came and
went, surprisingly capable, but at the same time utterly
reliant upon him. Throughout the day no sign came
from Herakleion. Julian grew weary, and could barely
restrain his thoughts from wandering to Eve. He would
have gone to her room before leaving the house in the
morning, but she had refused to see him. Consequently
the thought of her had haunted him all day. One of
the messages which reached him as he sat in the assembly-room
had been from her: Would he send a boat to
Herakleion for Nana?</p>
<p>He had smiled, and had complied, very much doubting
whether the boat would ever be allowed to return. The
message had brought him, as it were, a touch from her,
a breath of her personality which clung about the
room long after. She was near at hand, waiting for
him, so familiar, yet so unfamiliar, so undiscovered.
He felt that after a year with her much would still
remain to be discovered; that there was, in fact, no
end to her interest and her mystery. She was of no
ordinary calibre, she who could be, turn by turn, a
delicious or plaintive child, a woman of ripe seduction,
and—in fits and starts—a poet in whose turbulent and
undeveloped talent he divined startling possibilities!
When she wrote poetry she smothered herself in ink,
as he knew; so mingled in her were the fallible and the
infallible. He refused to analyse his present relation
to her; a sense, not of hypocrisy, but of decency, held<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span>
him back; he remembered all too vividly the day he
had carried her in his arms; his brotherliness had been
shocked, offended, but since then the remembrance
had persisted and had grown, and now he found himself,
with all that brotherliness of years still ingrained in
him, full of thoughts and on the brink of an adventure
far from brotherly. He tried not to think these thoughts.
He honestly considered them degrading, incestuous.
But his mood was ripe for adventure; the air was full
of adventure; the circumstances were unparalleled;
his excitement glowed—he left the assembly-room,
walked rapidly up the street, and entered the Davenant
house, shutting the door behind him.</p>
<p>The sounds of the street were shut out, and the
water plashed coolly in the open courtyard; two
pigeons walked prinking round the flat edge of the
marble basin, the male cooing and bowing absurdly,
throwing out his white chest, ruffling his tail, and
putting down his spindly feet with fussy precision.
When Julian appeared, they fluttered away to the
other side of the court to resume their convention of
love-making. Evening was falling, warm and suave,
and overhead in the still blue sky floated tiny rosy
clouds. In the cloisters round the court the frescoes
of the life of Saint Benedict looked palely at Julian,
they so faded, so washed-out, he so young and so full
of strength. Their pallor taught him that he had never
before felt so young, so reckless, or so vigorous.</p>
<p>He was astonished to find Eve with the son of
Zapantiotis, learning from him to play the flute in
the long, low room which once had been the refectory
and which ran the full length of the cloisters. Deeply
recessed windows, with heavy iron gratings, looked
down over the roofs of the village to the sea. In one
of these windows Eve leaned against the wall holding
the flute to her lips, and young Zapantiotis, eager,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span>
handsome, showed her how to place her fingers upon
the holes. She looked defiantly at Julian.</p>
<p>'Nico has rescued me,' she said; 'but for him I
should have been alone all day. I have taught him to
dance.' She pointed to a gramophone upon a table.</p>
<p>'Where did that come from?' Julian said, determined
not to show his anger before the islander.</p>
<p>'From the café,' she replied.</p>
<p>'Then Nico had better take it back; they will need
it.' Julian said, threats in his voice, 'and he had better
see whether his father cannot find him employment;
we have not too many men.'</p>
<p>'You left me the whole day,' she said when Nico had
gone; 'I am sorry I came with you, Julian; I would
rather go back to Herakleion; even Nana has not
come. I did not think you would desert me.'</p>
<p>He looked at her, his anger vanished, and she was
surprised when he answered her gently, even amusedly,—</p>
<p>'You are always delightfully unexpected and yet
characteristic of yourself: I come back, thinking I
shall find you alone, perhaps glad to see me, having
spent an unoccupied day, but no, I find you with the
best-looking scamp of the village, having learnt from
him to play the flute, taught him to dance, and
borrowed a gramophone from the local café!'</p>
<p>He put his hands heavily upon her shoulders with a
gesture she knew of old.</p>
<p>'I suppose I love you,' he said roughly, and then
seemed indisposed to talk of her any more, but told
her his plans and arrangements, to which she did not
listen.</p>
<p>They remained standing in the narrow window-recess,
leaning, opposite to one another, against the
thick stone walls of the old Genoese building. Through
the grating they could see the sea, and, in the distance,
Herakleion.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span></p>
<p>'It is sufficiently extraordinary,' he remarked,
gazing across the bay, 'that Herakleion has made no
sign. I can only suppose that they will try force as
soon as Panaïoannou can collect his army, which, as
it was fully mobilised no later than yesterday, ought
not to take very long.'</p>
<p>'Will there be fighting?' she asked, with a first show
of interest.</p>
<p>'I hope so,' he replied.</p>
<p>'I should like you to fight,' she said.</p>
<p>Swaying as he invariably did between his contradictory
opinions of her, he found himself inwardly
approving her standpoint, that man, in order to be
worthy of woman, must fight, or be prepared to fight,
and to enjoy the fighting. From one so self-indulgent,
so pleasure-loving, so reluctant to face any unpleasantness
of life, he might pardonably have expected the
less heroic attitude. If she resented his absence all
day on the business of preparations for strife, might
she not equally have resented the strife that called
him from her side? He respected her appreciation of
physical courage, and remodelled his estimate to her
advantage.</p>
<p>To his surprise, the boat he had sent for Nana returned
from Herakleion. It came, indeed, without Nana,
but bearing in her place a letter from his father:—</p>
<blockquote><p>'<span class="smcap">Dear Julian</span>,—By the courtesy of M. Stavridis—by
whose orders this house is closely guarded, and for which I
have to thank your folly—I am enabled to send you this
letter, conditional on M. Stavridis's personal censorship.
Your messenger has come with your astonishing request
that your cousin's nurse may be allowed to return with the
boat to Aphros. I should have returned with it myself in
the place of the nurse, but for M. Stavridis's very natural
objection to my rejoining you or leaving Herakleion.</p>
<p>'I am at present too outraged to make any comment upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span>
your behaviour. I try to convince myself that you must
be completely insane. M. Stavridis, however, will shortly
take drastic steps to restore you to sanity. I trust only
that no harm will befall you—for I remember still that you
are my son—in the process. In the meantime, I demand of
you most urgently, in my own name and that of your uncle
and aunt, that you will send back your cousin without delay
to Herakleion. M. Stavridis has had the great kindness to
give his consent to this. A little consideration will surely
prove to you that in taking her with you to Aphros you
have been guilty of a crowning piece of folly from every
point of view. I know you to be headstrong and unreflecting.
Try to redeem yourself in this one respect before it
is too late.</p>
<p>'I fear that I should merely be wasting my time by
attempting to dissuade you from the course you have
chosen with regard to the Islands. My poor misguided boy,
do you not realise that your effort is <i>bound</i> to end in
disaster, and will serve but to injure those you most desire
to help?</p>
<p>'I warn you, too, most gravely and solemnly, that your
obstinacy will entail <i>very serious consequences</i> for yourself.
I shall regret the steps I contemplate taking, but I have the
interest of our family to consider, and I have your uncle's
entire approval.</p>
<p>'I am very deeply indebted to M. Stavridis, who, while
unable to neglect his duty as the first citizen of Herakleion,
has given me every proof of his personal friendship and
confidence.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="smcap">W. Davenant.</span>'</p></blockquote>
<p>Julian showed this letter to Eve.</p>
<p>'What answer shall you send?'</p>
<p>'This,' he replied, tearing it into pieces.</p>
<p>'You are angry. Oh, Julian, I love you for being
reckless.'</p>
<p>'I see red. He threatens me with disinheriting me.
He takes good care to remain in Stavridis' good books
himself. Do you want to go back?'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span></p>
<p>'No, Julian.'</p>
<p>'Of course, father is quite right: I am insane, and
so are you. But, after all, you will run no danger, and
as far compromising you, that is absurd: we have
often been alone together before now. Besides,' he
added brutally, 'you said yourself you belonged to the
Islands no less than I; you can suffer for them a little
if necessary.'</p>
<p>'I make no complaint,' she said with an enigmatic
smile.</p>
<p>They dined together near the fountain in the courtyard,
and overhead the sky grew dark, and the servant
brought lighted candles for the table. Julian spoke
very little; he allowed himself the supreme luxury
of being spoilt by a woman who made it her business
to please him; observing her critically, appreciatively;
acknowledging her art; noting with admiration how
the instinct of the born courtesan filled in the gaps
in the experience of the child. He was, as yet, more
mystified by her than he cared to admit.</p>
<p>But he yielded himself to her charm. The intimacy
of this meal, their first alone together, enveloped him
more and more with the gradual sinking of night, and
his observant silence, which had originated with the
deliberate desire to test her skill and also to indulge
his own masculine enjoyment, insensibly altered into
a shield against the emotion which was gaining him.
The servant had left them. The water still plashed
into the marble basin. The candles on the table burned
steadily in the unruffled evening, and under their light
gleamed the wine—rough, native wine, red and golden—in
the long-necked, transparent bottles, and the
bowl of fruit: grapes, a cut melon, and bursting figs,
heaped with the lavishness of plenty. The table was
a pool of light, but around it the court and cloisters
were full of dim, mysterious shadows.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span></p>
<p>Opposite Julian, Eve leaned forward, propping her
bare elbows on the table, disdainfully picking at the
fruit, and talking. He looked at her smooth, beautiful
arms, and little white hands that he had always loved.
He knew that he preferred her company to any in the
world. Her humour, her audacity, the width of her range,
the picturesqueness of her phraseology, her endless
inventiveness, her subtle undercurrent of the personal,
though 'you' or 'I' might be entirely absent from her lips
all seemed to him wholly enchanting. She was a sybarite
of life, an artist; but the glow and recklessness of her
saved her from all taint of intellectual sterility. He knew
that his life had been enriched and coloured by her
presence in it; that it would, at any moment, have
become a poorer, a grayer, a less magical thing through
the loss of her. He shut his eyes for a second as he
realised that she could be, if he chose, his own possession,
she the elusive and unattainable; he might claim the
redemption of all her infinite promise; might discover
her in the rôle for which she was so obviously created;
might violate the sanctuary and tear the veils from
the wealth of treasure hitherto denied to all; might
exact for himself the first secrets of her unplundered
passion. He knew her already as the perfect companion,
he divined her as the perfect mistress; he
reeled and shrank before the unadmitted thought,
then looked across at her where she sat with an open
fig half-way to her lips, and knew fantastically that
they were alone upon an island of which he was all
but king.</p>
<p>'A deserted city,' she was saying, 'a city of Portuguese
settlers; pink marble palaces upon the edge of
the water; almost crowded into the water by the
encroaching jungle; monkeys peering through their
ruined windows; on the sand, great sleepy tortoises;
and, twining in and out of the broken doorways of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span>
palaces, orchids and hibiscus—that is Trincomali!
Would you like the tropics, I wonder, Julian? their
exuberance, their vulgarity?... One buys little
sacks full of precious stones; one puts in one's hand,
and lets the sapphires and the rubies and the emeralds
run through one's fingers.'</p>
<p>Their eyes met; and her slight, infrequent confusion
overcame her....</p>
<p>'You aren't listening,' she murmured.</p>
<p>'You were only fifteen when you went to Ceylon,'
he said, gazing at the blue smoke of his cigarette.
'You used to write to me from there. You had scarlet
writing-paper. You were a deplorably affected child.'</p>
<p>'Yes,' she said, 'the only natural thing about me
was my affectation.'</p>
<p>They laughed, closely, intimately.</p>
<p>'It began when you were three,' he said, 'and
insisted upon always wearing brown kid gloves; your
voice was even deeper then than it is now, and you
always called your father Robert.'</p>
<p>'You were five; you used to push me into the prickly
pear.'</p>
<p>'And you tried to kill me with a dagger; do you
remember?'</p>
<p>'Oh, yes,' she said quite gravely, 'there was a period
when I always carried a dagger.'</p>
<p>'When you came back from Ceylon you had a tiger's
claw.'</p>
<p>'With which I once cut my initials on your arm.'</p>
<p>'You were very theatrical.'</p>
<p>'You were very stoical.'</p>
<p>Again they laughed.</p>
<p>'When you went to Ceylon,' he said, 'one of the
ship's officers fell in love with you; you were very
much amused.'</p>
<p>'The only occasion, I think, Julian, when I ever<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span>
boasted to you of such a thing? You must forgive
me—il ne faut pas m'en vouloir—remember I was
only fifteen.'</p>
<p>'Such things amuse you still,' he said jealously.</p>
<p>'C'est possible,' she replied.</p>
<p>He insisted,—</p>
<p>'When did you really become aware of your own
heartlessness?'</p>
<p>She sparkled with laughter.</p>
<p>'I think it began life as a sense of humour,' she
said, 'and degenerated gradually into its present state
of spasmodic infamy.'</p>
<p>He had smiled, but she saw his face suddenly darken,
and he got up abruptly, and stood by the fountain,
turning his back on her.</p>
<p>'My God,' she thought to herself in terror, 'he has
remembered Paul.'</p>
<p>She rose also, and went close to him, slipping her
hand through his arm, endeavouring to use, perhaps
unconsciously, the powerful weapon of her physical
nearness. He did not shake away her hand, but he
remained unresponsive, lost in contemplation of the
water. She hesitated as to whether she should boldly
attack the subject—she knew her danger; he would
be difficult to acquire, easy to lose, no more tractable
than a young colt—then in the stillness of the night
she faintly heard the music of the gramophone playing
in the village café.</p>
<p>'Come into the drawing-room and listen to the music,
Julian,' she said, pulling at his arm.</p>
<p>He came morosely; they exchanged the court with
its pool of light for the darkness of the drawing-room;
she felt her way, holding his hand, towards a window
seat; sat down, and pulled him down beside her;
through the rusty iron grating they saw the sea, lit up
by the rising moon.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p>
<p>'We can just hear the music,' she whispered.</p>
<p>Her heart was beating hard and fast: they had
been as under a spell, so close were they to one another,
but now she was bitterly conscious of having lost him.
She knew that he had slipped from the fairyland of
Aphros back to the world of principles, of morals both
conventional and essential. In fairyland, whither she
had enticed him, all things were feasible, permissible,
even imperative. He had accompanied her, she thought,
very willingly, and they had strayed together down
enchanted paths, abstaining, it is true, from adventuring
into the perilous woods that surrounded them, but
hand in hand, nevertheless, their departure from the
path potential at any rate, if not imminent. They
had been alone; she had been so happy, so triumphant.
Now he had fled her, back to another world inhabited
by all the enemies she would have had him forget:
her cruelties, her vanities—her vanities! he could
never reconcile her vanities and her splendour; he
was incapable of seeing them both at the same time;
the one excluded the other, turn and turn about, in
his young eyes; her deceptions, her evasions of the
truth, the men she had misled, the man, above all,
that she had killed and whose death she had accepted
with comparative indifference. These things rose
in a bristling phalanx against her, and she faced them,
small, afraid, and at a loss. For she was bound to
admit their existence, and the very vivid, the very
crushing, reality of their existence, all-important to
her, in Julian's eyes; although she herself might be
too completely devoid of moral sense, in the ordinary
acceptance of the word, to admit any justification for
his indignation. She knew with sorrow that they would
remain for ever as a threat in the background, and that
she would be fortunate indeed if in that background
she could succeed in keeping them more or less<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span>
permanently. Her imagination sighed for a potion of
forgetfulness. Failing that, never for an instant must
she neglect her rôle of Calypso. She knew that on the
slightest impulse to anger on Julian's part—and his
impulses to anger were, alas, both violent and frequent—all
those enemies in their phalanx would instantly
rise and range themselves on his side against her.
Coaxed into abeyance, they would revive with fatal
ease.</p>
<p>She knew him well in his present mood of gloom.
She was afraid, and a desperate anxiety to regain him
possessed her. Argument, she divined, would be futile.
She whispered his name.</p>
<p>He turned on her a face of granite.</p>
<p>'Why have you changed?' she said helplessly. 'I
was so happy, and you are making me so miserable.'</p>
<p>'I have no pity for you,' he said, 'you are too pitiless
yourself to deserve any.'</p>
<p>'You break my heart when you speak to me like
that.'</p>
<p>'I should like to break it,' he replied, unmoved.</p>
<p>She did not answer, but presently he heard her
sobbing. Full of suspicion, he put out his hand and
felt the tears running between her fingers.</p>
<p>'I have made you cry,' he said.</p>
<p>'Not for the first time,' she answered.</p>
<p>She knew that he was disconcerted, shaken in his
harshness, and added,—</p>
<p>'I know what you think of me sometimes, Julian.
I have nothing to say in my own defence. Perhaps
there is only one good thing in me, but that you must
promise me never to attack.'</p>
<p>'What is it?'</p>
<p>'You sound very sceptical,' she answered wistfully.
'My love for you; let us leave it at that.'</p>
<p>'I wonder!' he said; and again, 'I wonder!...'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span></p>
<p>She moved a little closer to him, and leaned against
him, so that her hair brushed his cheek. Awkwardly
and absent-mindedly, he put his arms round her; he
could feel her heart beating through her thin muslin
shirt, and lifting her bare arm in his hand he weighed
it pensively; she lay against him, allowing him to do
as he pleased; physically he held her nearer, but morally
he was far away. Humiliating herself, she lay silent,
willing to sacrifice the pride of her body if therewith
she might purchase his return. But he, awaking with
a start from his brooding grievances, put her away
from him. If temptation was to overcome him, it
must rush him by assault; not thus, sordid and unlit....
He rose, saying,—</p>
<p>'It is very late; you must go to bed; good-night.'</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span></p>
<h2>II</h2>
<p>Panaïoannou attempted a landing before sunrise on
the following day.</p>
<p>A few stars were still visible, but the moon was
paling, low in the heavens, and along the eastern
horizon the sky was turning rosy and yellow above the
sea. Earth, air, and water were alike bathed in purity
and loveliness. Julian, hastily aroused, remembered
the Islands as he had seen them from the mainland
on the day of Madame Lafarge's picnic. In such
beauty they were lying now, dependent on his defence....
Excited beyond measure, he dressed rapidly,
and as he dressed he heard the loud clanging of the
school bell summoning the men to arms; he heard
the village waking, the clatter of banging doors, of
wooden soles upon the cobbles, and excited voices.
He rushed from his room into the passage, where he
met Eve.</p>
<p>She was very pale, and her hair was streaming round
her shoulders. She clung to him.</p>
<p>'Oh, Julian, what is it? why are they ringing the
bells? why are you dressed? where are you going?'</p>
<p>He explained, holding her, stroking her hair.</p>
<p>'Boats have been sighted, setting out from Herakleion;
I suppose they think they will take us by surprise.
You know, I have told off two men to look after you;
you are to go into the little hut which is prepared for
you in the very centre of the island. They will never
land, and you will be perfectly safe there. I will let
you know directly they are driven off. You must let
me go, darling.'</p>
<p>'Oh, but you? but you?' she cried desperately.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span></p>
<p>'They won't come near me,' he replied laughing.</p>
<p>'Julian, Julian,' she said, holding on to his coat as
he tried to loosen her fingers, 'Julian, I want you to
know: you're all my life, I give you myself, on whatever
terms you like, for ever if you like, for a week if
you like; you can do with me whatever you choose;
throw me away when you've done with me; you think
me worthless; I care only for you in the world.'</p>
<p>He was astonished at the starkness and violence of
the passion in her eyes and voice.</p>
<p>'But I am not going into any danger,' he said, trying
to soothe her.</p>
<p>'For God's sake, kiss me,' she said, distraught, and
seeing that he was impatient to go.</p>
<p>'I'll kiss you to-night,' he answered tempestuously,
with a ring of triumph as one who takes a decision.</p>
<p>'No, no: now.'</p>
<p>He kissed her hair, burying his face in its thickness.</p>
<p>'This attack is a comedy, not a tragedy,' he called
back to her as he ran down the stairs.</p>
<p class="space-above">The sentry who had first sighted the fleet of boats
was still standing upon his headland, leaning on his
rifle, and straining his eyes over the sea. Julian saw
him thus silhouetted against the morning sky. Day
was breaking as Julian came up the mule-path, a score
of islanders behind him, walking with the soft, characteristic
swishing of their white woollen skirts, and the
slight rattle of slung rifles. All paused at the headland,
which was above a little rocky creek; the green
and white water foamed gently below. Out to sea
the boats were distinctly visible, dotted about the
sea, carrying each a load of men; there might be twenty
or thirty, with ten or fifteen men in each.</p>
<p>'They must be out of their senses,' Tsigaridis growled;
'their only hope would have lain in a surprise attack<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span>
at night—which by the present moonlight would
indeed have proved equally idle—but at present they
but expose themselves to our butchery.'</p>
<p>'The men are all at their posts?' Julian asked.</p>
<p>'Malista, Kyrie, malista.' They remained for a little
watching the boats as the daylight grew. The colours
of the dawn were shifting, stretching, widening, and
the water, turning from iron-gray to violet, began
along the horizon to reflect the transparency of the
sky. The long, low, gray clouds caught upon their
edges an orange flush; a sudden bar of gold fell along
the line where sky and water met; a drift of tiny
clouds turned red like a flight of flamingoes; and the
blue began insensibly to spread, pale at first, then
deepening as the sun rose out of the melting clouds
and flooded over the full expanse of sea. To the left,
the coast of the mainland, with Mount Mylassa soaring,
and Herakleion at its base, broke the curve until it
turned at an angle to run northward. Smoke began
to rise in steady threads of blue from the houses of
Herakleion. The red light died away at the tip of the
pier. The gulls circled screaming, flashes of white and
gray, marbled birds; and beyond the thin line of foam
breaking against the island the water was green in the
shallows.</p>
<p>All round Aphros the islanders were lying in pickets
behind defences, the naturally rocky and shelving
coast affording them the command of every approach.
The port, which was the only really suitable landing-place,
was secure, dominated as it was by the village;
no boat could hope to live for five minutes under
concentrated rifle fire from the windows of the houses.
The other possible landing-places—the creeks and
little beaches—could be held with equal ease by half
a dozen men with rifles lying under shelter upon the
headlands or on the ledges of the rocks. Julian was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span>
full of confidence. The danger of shelling he discounted,
firstly because Herakleion possessed no man-of-war,
or, indeed, any craft more formidable than the
police motor-launch, and secondly because the authorities
in Herakleion knew well enough that Italy, for
reasons of her own, neither wholly idealistic nor
disinterested, would never tolerate the complete
destruction of Aphros. Moreover, it would be hopeless
to attempt to starve out an island whose population
lived almost entirely upon the fish caught round their
own shores, the vegetables and fruit grown upon their
own hillsides, the milk and cheeses from their own
rough-feeding goats, and the occasional but sufficient
meat from their own sheep and bullocks.</p>
<p>'Kyrie,' said Tsigaridis, 'should we not move into
shelter?'</p>
<p>Julian abandoned the headland regretfully. For his
own post he had chosen the Davenant house in the
village. He calculated that Panaïoannou, unaware of
the existence of a number of rifles on the island, would
make his first and principal attempt upon the port,
expecting there to encounter a hand to hand fight with
a crowd diversely armed with knives, stones, pitchforks,
and a few revolvers—a brief, bloody, desperate
resistance, whose term could be but a matter of time,
after which the village would fall into the hands of the
invaders and the rebellion would be at an end. At most,
Panaïoannou would argue, the fighting would be continued
up into the main street of the village, the
horizontal street that was its backbone, terminating
at one end by the market-place above the port, and at
the other by the Davenants' house; and ramifications
of fighting—a couple of soldiers here and there pursuing
a fleeing islander—up the sloping, narrow, stepped
streets running between the houses, at right angles
from the main street, up the hill. Julian sat with his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span>
rifle cocked across his knees in one of the window
recesses of his own house, and grinned as he anticipated
Panaïoannou's surprise. He did not want a massacre
of the fat, well-meaning soldiers of Herakleion—the
casino, he reflected, must be closed to-day, much to
the annoyance of the gambling dagos; however, they
would have excitement enough, of another kind, to
console them—he did not want a massacre of the
benevolent croupier-soldiers he had seen parading the
<i>platia</i> only two days before, but he wanted them taught
that Aphros was a hornets' nest out of which they had
better keep their fingers. He thought it extremely
probable that after a first repulse they would refuse to
renew the attack. They liked well enough defiling
across the <i>platia</i> on Independence Day, and recognising
their friends amongst the admiring crowd, but he
doubted whether they would appreciate being shot
down in open boats by an enemy they could not even
see.</p>
<p>In the distance, from the windows of his own house,
he heard firing, and from the advancing boats he could
see spurts of smoke. He discerned a commotion in
one boat; men got up and changed places, and the
boat turned round and began to row in the opposite
direction. Young Zapantiotis called to him from
another window,—</p>
<p>'You see them, Kyrie? Some one has been hit.'</p>
<p>Julian laughed exultantly. On a table near him
lay a crumpled handkerchief of Eve's, and a gardenia;
he put the flower into his buttonhole. Behind all his
practical plans and his excitement lay the memory of
his few words with her in the passage; under the stress
of her emotion she had revealed a depth and vehemence
of truth that he hitherto scarcely dared to imagine.
To-day would be given to him surely more than his
fair share for any mortal man: a fight, and the most<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span>
desirable of women! He rejoiced in his youth and his
leaping blood. Yet he continued sorry for the kindly
croupier-soldiers.</p>
<p>The boats came on, encouraged by the comparative
silence on the island. Julian was glad it was not the
fashion among the young men of Herakleion, his friends,
to belong to the army. He wondered what Grbits was
thinking of him. He was probably on the quay,
watching through a telescope. Or had the expedition
been kept a secret from the still sleeping Herakleion?
Surely! for he could distinguish no crowd upon the
distant quays across the bay.</p>
<p>A shot rang out close at hand, from some window of
the village, and in one of the foremost boats he saw a
man throw up his hands and fall over backwards.</p>
<p>He sickened slightly. This was inevitable, he knew,
but he had no lust for killing in this cold-blooded
fashion. Kneeling on the window-seat he took aim
between the bars of the grating, and fired a quantity
of shots all round the boat; they splashed harmlessly
into the water, but had the effect he desired; the boat
turned round in retreat.</p>
<p>Firing crackled now from all parts of the island.
The casualties in the boats increased. In rage and
panic the soldiers fired wildly back at the island,
especially at the village; bullets ping-ed through the
air and rattled on the roofs; occasionally there came a
crash of broken glass. Once Julian heard a cry, and,
craning his head to look down the street, he saw an
islander lying on his face on the ground between the
houses with his arms outstretched, blood running freely
from his shoulder and staining his white clothes.</p>
<p>'My people!' Julian cried in a passion, and shot
deliberately into a boat-load of men.</p>
<p>'God!' he said to himself a moment later, 'I've
killed him.'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span></p>
<p>He laid down his rifle with a gesture of horror, and
went out into the courtyard where the fountain still
played and the pigeons prinked and preened. He
opened the door into the street, went down the steps
and along the street to where the islander lay groaning,
lifted him carefully, and dragged him into the shelter
of the house. Zapantiotis met him in the court.</p>
<p>'Kyrie,' he said, scared and reproachful, 'you should
have sent me.'</p>
<p>Julian left him to look after the wounded man, and
returned to the window; the firing had slackened, for
the boats were now widely dispersed over the sea,
offering only isolated targets at a considerable distance.
Time had passed rapidly, and the sun had climbed high
overhead. He looked at the little dotted boats, bearing
their burden of astonishment, death, and pain. Was
it possible that the attack had finally drawn away?</p>
<p>At that thought, he regretted that the fighting had not
given an opportunity of a closer, a more personal struggle.</p>
<p>An hour passed. He went out into the village,
where life was beginning to flow once more into the
street and market-place; the villagers came out to
look at their broken windows, and their chipped houses;
they were all laughing and in high good-humour,
pointing proudly to the damage, and laughing like
children to see that in the school-house, which faced
the sea and in which the remaining Greek officials were
still imprisoned, nearly all the windows were broken.
Julian, shaking off the people, men and women, who
were trying to kiss his hands or his clothes, appeared
briefly in the class-room to reassure the occupants.
They were all huddled into a corner, behind a barricade
of desks and benches. The one guard who had been
left with them had spent his time inventing terrible
stories for their distress. The wooden wall opposite the
windows was pocked in two or three places by bullets.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span></p>
<p>As Julian came out again into the market-place he
saw old Tsigaridis riding down on his great white mule
from the direction of the hills, accompanied by two
runners on foot. He waited while the mule picked its
way carefully and delicately down the stepped path
that led from the other side of the market-place up
into the interior of the island.</p>
<p>'They are beaten off, Tsantilas.'</p>
<p>'No imprudences,' said the grave old man, and
recommended to the people, who came crowding round
his mule, to keep within the shelter of their houses.</p>
<p>'But, Tsantilas, we have the boats within our sight;
they cannot return without our knowledge in ample
time to seek shelter.'</p>
<p>'There is one boat for which we cannot account—the
motor-boat—it is swift and may yet take us by
surprise,' Tsigaridis replied pessimistically.</p>
<p>He dismounted from his mule, and walked up the
street with Julian by his side, while the people, crestfallen,
dispersed with lagging footsteps to their
respective doorways. The motor-launch, it would
appear, had been heard in the far distance, 'over there,'
said Tsigaridis, extending his left arm; the pickets
upon the eastern coasts of the island had distinctly
heard the echo of its engines—it was, fortunately,
old and noisy—but early in the morning the sound
had ceased, and since then had not once been renewed.
Tsigaridis inferred that the launch was lying somewhere
in concealment amongst the tiny islands, from where it
would emerge, unexpectedly and in an unexpected
place, to attack.</p>
<p>'It must carry at least fifty men,' he added.</p>
<p>Julian revelled in the news. A motor-launch with such
a crew would provide worthier game than little cockleshell
rowing-boats. Panaïoannou himself might be of the
party. Julian saw the general already as his prisoner.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span></p>
<p>He remembered Eve. So long as the launch lay in
hiding he could not allow her to return to the village.
It was even possible that they might have a small gun
on board. He wanted to see her, he ached with the
desire to see her, but, an instinctive Epicurean, he
welcomed the circumstances that forced him to defer
their meeting until nightfall....</p>
<p>He wrote her a note on a leaf of his pocket-book,
and despatched it to her by one of Tsigaridis' runners.</p>
<p>The hours of waiting fretted him, and to ease his
impatience he started on a tour of the island with
Tsigaridis. They rode on mules, nose to tail along the
winding paths, not climbing up into the interior, but
keeping to the lower track that ran above the sea,
upon the first flat ledge of the rock, all around the
island. In some places the path was so narrow and so
close to the edge that Julian could, by leaning sideways
in his saddle, look straight down the cliff into
the water swirling and foaming below. He was familiar
with almost every creek, so often had he bathed there as
a boy. Looking at the foam, he murmured to himself,—</p>
<p>'Aphros....'</p>
<p>There were no houses here among the rocks, and no
trees, save for an occasional group of pines, whose
little cones clustered among the silvery branches, quite
black against the sky. Here and there, above creeks
or the little sandy beaches where a landing for a small
boat would have been possible, the picket of islanders
had come out from their shelter behind the boulders,
and were sitting talking on the rocks, holding their
rifles upright between their knees, while a solitary
sentinel kept watch at the extremity of the point, his
kilted figure white as the circling seagulls or as the
foam. A sense of lull and of siesta lay over the afternoon.
At every picket Julian asked the same question,
and at every picket the same answer was returned,—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span></p>
<p>'We have heard no engines since earliest morning,
Kyrie.'</p>
<p>Round the curve of the island, the first tiny,
uninhabited islands came into view. Some of them
were mere rocks sticking up out of the sea; others, a
little larger, grew a few trees, and a boat could have
hidden, invisible from Aphros, on their farther side.
Julian looked longingly at the narrow stretches of
water which separated them. He even suggested
starting to look for the launch.</p>
<p>'It would be madness, Kyrie.'</p>
<p>Above a little bay, where the ground sloped down
less abruptly, and where the sand ran gently down
under the thin wavelets, they halted with the picket
of that particular spot. Their mules were led away
by a runner. Julian enjoyed sitting amongst these
men, hearing them talk, and watching them roll
cigarette after cigarette with the practised skill of their
knotty fingers. Through the sharp lines of their
professional talk, and the dignity of their pleasant
trades—for they were all fishermen, vintagers, or sheep
and goat-herds—he smiled to the hidden secret of Eve,
and fancied that the soft muslin of her garments brushed,
as at the passage of a ghost, against the rude woollen
garments of the men; that her hands, little and white
and idle, fluttered over their hardened hands; that he
alone could see her pass amongst their group, smile to
him, and vanish down the path. He was drowsy in the
drowsy afternoon; he felt that he had fought and had
earned his rest, and, moreover, was prepared to rise
from his sleep with new strength to fight again. Rest
between a battle and a battle. Strife, sleep, and love;
love, sleep, and strife; a worthy plan of life!</p>
<p>He slept.</p>
<p>When he woke the men still sat around him, talking
still of their perennial trades, and without opening<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span>
his eyes he lay listening to them, and thought that in
such a simple world the coming and going of generations
was indeed of slight moment, since in the talk of crops
and harvests, of the waxing and waning of moons, of
the treachery of the sea or the fidelity of the land, the
words of the ancestor might slip unchanged as an
inheritance to grandson and great-grandson. Of such
kindred were they with nature, that he in his half-wakefulness
barely distinguished the voices of the men
from the wash of waves on the shore. He opened his
eyes. The sun, which he had seen rising out of the sea in
the dawn, after sweeping in its great flaming arc across
the sky, had sunk again under the horizon. Heavy purple
clouds like outpoured wine stained the orange of the
west. The colour of the sea was like the flesh of a fig.</p>
<p>Unmistakably, the throb of an engine woke the
echoes between the islands.</p>
<p>All eyes met, all voices hushed; tense, they listened.
The sound grew; from a continuous purr it changed
into separate beats. By mutual consent, and acting
under no word of command, the men sought the cover
of their boulders, clambering over the rocks, carrying
their rifles with them, white, noiseless, and swift.
Julian found himself with three others in a species of
little cave the opening of which commanded the beach;
the cave was low, and they were obliged to crouch;
one man knelt down at the mouth with his rifle ready
to put to his shoulder. Julian could smell, in that
restricted place, the rough smell of their woollen clothes,
and the tang of the goat which clung about one man,
who must be a goat-herd.</p>
<p>Then before their crouching position could begin to
weary them, the beat of the engines became insistent,
imminent; and the launch shot round the curve, loaded
with standing men, and heading directly for the beach.
A volley of fire greeted them, but the soldiers were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span>
already overboard, waist-deep in water, plunging
towards the shore with their rifles held high over their
heads, while the crew of the launch violently reversed
the engines and drove themselves off the sand by means
of long poles, to save the launch from an irrevocable
grounding. The attack was well planned, and executed
by men who knew intimately the lie of the coast. With
loud shouts, they emerged dripping from the water
on to the beach.</p>
<p>They were at least forty strong; the island picket
numbered only a score, but they had the advantage
of concealment. A few of the soldiers dropped while
yet in the water; others fell forward on to their faces
with their legs in the water and their heads and shoulders
on dry land; many gained a footing but were shot
down a few yards from the edge of the sea; the survivors
flung themselves flat behind hummocks of rock
and fired in the direction of the defending fire. Everything
seemed to have taken place within the compass
of two or three minutes. Julian had himself picked
off three of the invaders; his blood was up, and he had
lost all the sickening sense of massacre he had felt
during the early part of the day.</p>
<p>He never knew how the hand to hand fight actually
began; he only knew that suddenly he was out of the
cave, in the open, without a rifle, but with his revolver
in his grasp, backed and surrounded by his own shouting
men, and confronted by the soldiers of Herakleion,
heavily impeded by their wet trousers, but fighting
sheerly for their lives, striving to get at him, losing
their heads and aiming wildly, throwing aside their
rifles and grappling at last bodily with their enemies,
struggling not to be driven back into the sea, cursing
the islanders, and calling to one another to rally,
stumbling over the dead and the wounded. Julian
scarcely recognised his own voice in the shout of,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span>
'Aphros!' He was full of the lust of fighting; he had
seen men roll over before the shot of his revolver, and
had driven them down before the weight of his fist.
He was fighting joyously, striking among the waves
of his enemies as a swimmer striking out against a
current. All his thought was to kill, and to rid his
island of these invaders; already the tide had turned,
and that subtle sense of defeat and victory that comes
upon the crest of battle was infusing respectively
despair and triumph. There was now no doubt in
the minds of either the attackers or the defenders in
whose favour the attack would end. There remained
but three alternatives: surrender, death, or the sea.</p>
<p>Already many were choosing the first, and those
that turned in the hope of regaining the launch were
shot down or captured before they reached the water.
The prisoners, disarmed, stood aside in a little sulky
group under the guard of one islander, watching,
resignedly, and with a certain indifference born of
their own secession from activity, the swaying clump
of men, shouting, swearing, and stumbling, and the
feeble efforts of the wounded to drag themselves out
of the way of the trampling feet. The sand of the
beach was in some places, where blood had been spilt,
stamped into a dark mud. A wounded soldier, lying
half in and half out of the water, cried out pitiably as
the salt water lapped over his wounds.</p>
<p>The decision was hastened by the crew of the launch,
who, seeing a bare dozen of their companions rapidly
overpowered by a superior number of islanders, and
having themselves no fancy to be picked off at leisure
from the shore, started their engines and made off
to sea. At that a cry of dismay went up; retreat, as
an alternative, was entirely withdrawn; death an
empty and unnecessary display of heroism; surrender
remained; they chose it thankfully.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span></p>
<h2>III</h2>
<p>Julian never knew, nor did he stop to inquire, why
Eve had returned to the village without his sanction.
He only knew that as he came up the street, escorted by
all the population, singing, pressing around him, taking
his hands, throwing flowers and even fruit in his path,
holding up their children for him to touch, he saw her
standing in the doorway of their house, the lighted
courtyard yellow behind her. She stood there on the
highest of the three steps, her hands held out towards
him. He knew, too, although no word was spoken, that
the village recognised them as lovers. He felt again
the triumphant completeness of life; a fulfilment,
beyond the possibility of that staid world that, somewhere,
moved upon its confused, mercenary, mistaken,
and restricted way. Here, the indignities of hypocrisy
were indeed remote. There, men shorn of candour
entangled the original impulse of their motives until
in a sea of perplexity they abandoned even to the
ultimate grace of self-honesty; here, in an island of
enchantment, he had fought for his dearest and
most constituent beliefs—O honourable privilege!
unhindered and rare avowal!—fought, not with secret
weapons, but with the manhood of his body; and here,
under the eyes of fellow-creatures, their presence no
more obtrusive than the presence of the sea or the
evening breeze, under their unquestioning eyes he
claimed the just reward, the consummation, the right
of youth, which in that pharisaical world would have
been denied him.</p>
<p>Eve herself was familiar with his mood. Whereas
he had noted, marvelled, and rejoiced at the simplicity<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span>
with which they came together, before that friendly
concourse of people, she had stretched out her hands
to him with an unthinking gesture of possession. She
had kept her counsel during the unpropitious years,
with a secrecy beyond the determination of a child;
but here, having gained him for her own; having
enticed him into the magical country where the
standards drew near to her own standards; where she, on
the one hand, no less than he upon the other, might fight
with the naked weapons of nature for her desires and
beliefs—here she walked at home and without surprise in
the perfect liberty; that liberty which he accepted with
gratitude, but she as a right out of which man elsewhere
was cheated. He had always been surprised, on the
rare occasions when a hint of her philosophy, a fragment
of her creed, had dropped from her lips unawares.
From these fragments he had been incapable of reconstructing
the whole. He had judged her harshly, too
young and too ignorant to query whether the falseness
of convention cannot drive those, temperamentally
direct and uncontrolled, into the self-defence of a
superlative falseness.... He had seen her vanity;
he had not seen what he was now, because himself in
sympathy, beginning to apprehend, her whole-heartedness
that was, in its way, so magnificent. Very, very
dimly he apprehended; his apprehension, indeed,
limited chiefly to the recognition of a certain correlation
in her to the vibrant demands alive in him: he asked
from her, weakness to fling his strength into relief;
submission to entice his tyranny; yet at the same time,
passion to match his passion, and mettle to exalt his
conquest in his own eyes; she must be nothing less
than the whole grace and rarity of life for his pleasure;
flattery, in short, at once subtle and blatant, supreme
and meticulous, was what he demanded, and what
she was, he knew, so instinctively ready to accord.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span></p>
<p>As she put her hand into his, he felt the current of
her pride as definitely as though he had seen a glance
of understanding pass between her and the women of
the village. He looked up at her, smiling. She had
contrived for herself a garment out of some strip of
dark red silk, which she had wound round her body
after the fashion of an Indian sari; in the opening of
that sombre colour her throat gleamed more than
usually white, and above her swathed slenderness her
lips were red in the pallor of her face, and her waving
hair held glints of burnish as the leaves of autumn.
She was not inadequate in her anticipation of his
unspoken demands: the exploitation of her sensuous
delicacy was all for him—for him!</p>
<p>He had expected, perhaps, that after her proud,
frank welcome before the people, she would turn to him
when they were alone; but he found her manner full
of a deliberate indifference. She abstained even from
any allusion to her day's anxiety. He was reminded
of all their meetings when, after months, she betrayed
no pleasure at his return, but rather avoided him, and
coldly disregarded his unthinking friendliness. Many
a time, as a boy, he had been hurt and puzzled by this
caprice, which, ever meeting him unprepared, was
ever renewed by her. To-night he was neither hurt
nor puzzled, but with a grim amusement accepted the
pattern she set; he could allow her the luxury of a
superficial control. With the harmony between them,
they could play the game of pretence. He delighted
in her unexpectedness. Her reticence stirred him,
in its disconcerting contrast with his recollection of
her as he had left her that morning. She moved from
the court into the drawing-room, and from the drawing-room
back into the court, and he followed her, impersonal
as she herself, battening down all outward
sign of his triumph, granting her the grace of that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span>
Epicurean and ironic chivalry. He knew their quietness
was ominous. They moved and spoke like people in
the near, unescapable neighbourhood of a wild beast,
whose attention they must on no account arouse, whose
presence they must not mention, while each intensely
aware of the peril, and each alive to the other's knowledge
of it. She spoke and laughed, and he, in response to her
laughter, smiled gravely; silence fell, and she broke it; she
thought that he took pleasure in testing her power of reviving
their protective talk; the effort increased in difficulty;
he seemed to her strangely and paralysingly sinister.</p>
<p>Harmony between them! if such harmony existed,
it was surely the harmony of hostility. They were
enemies that evening, not friends. If an understanding
existed, it was, on her part, the understanding that he
was mocking her; on his part, the understanding that
she, in her fear, must preserve the veneer of self-assurance,
and that some fundamental convention—if
the term was not too inherently contradictory—demanded
his co-operation. He granted it. On other
occasions his manner towards her might be rough,
violent, uncontrolled; this evening it was of an irreproachable
civility. For the first time in her life she
felt herself at a disadvantage. She invented pretext
after feverish pretext for prolonging their evening.
She knew that if she could once bring a forgetful laugh
to Julian's lips, she would fear him less; but he continued
to smile gravely at her sallies, and to watch her with
that same unbending intent. In the midst of her
phrase she would look up, meet his eyes bent upon
her, and forget her words in confusion. Once he rose,
and stretched his limbs luxuriously against the background
of the open roof and the stars; she thought he
would speak, but to her relief he sat down again in his
place, removed his eyes from her, and fell to the dissection,
grain by grain, of a bunch of grapes.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span></p>
<p>She continued to speak; she talked of Kato, even
of Alexander Christopoulos; she scarcely knew he was
not listening to her until he broke with her name into
the heart of her sentence, unaware that he interrupted.
He stood up, came round to her chair, and put his hand
upon her shoulder; she could not control her trembling.
He said briefly, but with all the repressed triumph
ringing in his voice, 'Eve, come'; and without a
word she obeyed, her eyes fastened to his, her breath
shortened, deceit fallen from her, nothing but naked
honesty remaining. She had lost even her fear of
him. In their stark desire for each other they were
equals. He put out his hand and extinguished the
candles; dimness fell over the court.</p>
<p>'Eve,' he said, still in that contained voice, 'you
know we are alone in this house.'</p>
<p>She acquiesced, 'I know,' not meaning to speak in
a whisper, but involuntarily letting the words glide
out with her breath.</p>
<p>As he paused, she felt his hand convulsive upon
her shoulder; her lids lay shut upon her eyes like
heavy petals. Presently he said wonderingly,—</p>
<p>'I have not kissed you.'</p>
<p>'No,' she replied, faint, yet marvellously strong.</p>
<p>He put his arm round her, and half carried her
towards the stairs.</p>
<p>'Let me go,' she whispered, for the sake of his
contradiction.</p>
<p>'No,' he answered, holding her more closely to him.</p>
<p>'Where are you taking me, Julian?'</p>
<p>He did not reply, but together they began to mount
the stairs, she failing and drooping against his arm,
her eyes still closed and her lips apart. They reached
her room, bare, full of shadows, whitewashed, with
the windows open upon the black moonlit sea.</p>
<p>'Eve!' he murmured exultantly. 'Aphros!...'</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span></p>
<h2>IV</h2>
<p>The lyric of their early days of love piped clear and
sweet upon the terraces of Aphros.</p>
<p>Their surroundings entered into a joyous conspiracy
with their youth. Between halcyon sky and sea the
island lay radiantly; as it were suspended, unattached,
coloured like a rainbow, and magic with the enchantment
of its isolation. The very foam which broke
around its rocks served to define, by its lacy fringe of
white, the compass of the magic circle. To them were
granted solitude and beauty beyond all dreams of
lovers. They dwelt in the certainty that no intruder
could disturb them—save those intruders to be beaten
off in frank fight—no visitor from the outside world
but those that came on wings, swooping down out of
the sky, poising for an instant upon the island, that
halting place in the heart of the sea, and flying again
with restless cries, sea-birds, the only disturbers of
their peace. From the shadow of the olives, or of the
stunted pines whose little cones hung like black velvet
balls in the transparent tracery of the branches against
the sky, they lay idly watching the gulls, and the tiny
white clouds by which the blue was almost always
flaked. The population of the island melted into a
harmony with nature like the trees, the rocks and
boulders, or the roving flocks of sheep and herds of
goats. Eve and Julian met with neither curiosity nor
surprise; only with acquiescence. Daily as they passed
down the village street, to wander up the mule-tracks
into the interior of Aphros, they were greeted by smiles
and devotion that were as unquestioning and comfortable
as the shade of the trees or the cool splash of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span>
water; and nightly as they remained alone together
in their house, dark, roofed over with stars, and silent
but for the ripple of the fountain, they could believe
that they had been tended by invisible hands in the
island over which they reigned in isolated sovereignty.</p>
<p>They abandoned themselves to the unbelievable
romance. He, indeed, had striven half-heartedly;
but she, with all the strength of her nature, had run
gratefully, nay, clamantly, forward, exacting the
reward of her patience, demanding her due. She
rejoiced in the casting aside of shackles which, although
she had resolutely ignored them in so far as was possible,
had always irked her by their latent presence. At last
she might gratify to the full her creed of living for and
by the beloved, in a world of beauty where the material
was denied admittance. In such a dream, such an
ecstasy of solitude, they gained marvellously in one
another's eyes. She revealed to Julian the full extent
of her difference and singularity. For all their nearness
in the human sense, he received sometimes with a joyful
terror the impression that he was living in the companionship
of a changeling, a being strayed by accident
from another plane. The small moralities and tendernesses
of mankind contained no meaning for her. They
were burnt away by the devastating flame of her own
ideals. He knew now, irrefutably, that she had lived
her life withdrawn from all but external contact with
her surroundings.</p>
<p>Her sensuality, which betrayed itself even in the
selection of the arts she loved, had marked her out for
human passion. He had observed her instinct to deck
herself for his pleasure; he had learnt the fastidious
refinement with which she surrounded her body. He
had marked her further instinct to turn the conduct
of their love into a fine art. She had taught him
the value of her reserve, her evasions, and of her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span>
sudden recklessness. He never discovered, and, no less
epicurean than she, never sought to discover, how far
her principles were innate, unconscious, or how far
deliberate. They both tacitly esteemed the veil of
some slight mystery to soften the harshness of their
self-revelation.</p>
<p>He dared not invoke the aid of unshrinking honesty
to apportion the values between their physical and
their mental affinity.</p>
<p>What was it, this bond of flesh? so material, yet
so imperative, so compelling, as to become almost a
spiritual, not a bodily, necessity? so transitory, yet
so recurrent? dying down like a flame, to revive again?
so unimportant, so grossly commonplace, yet creating
so close and tremulous an intimacy? this magic that
drew together their hands like fluttering butterflies
in the hours of sunlight, and linked them in the abandonment
of mastery and surrender in the hours of night?
that swept aside the careful training, individual and
hereditary, replacing pride by another pride? this
unique and mutual secret? this fallacious yet fundamental
and dominating bond? this force, hurling them
together with such cosmic power that within the circle
of frail human entity rushed furiously the tempest of
an inexorable law of nature?</p>
<p>They had no tenderness for one another. Such
tenderness as might have crept into the relationship
they collaborated in destroying, choosing to dwell in
the strong clean air of mountain-tops, shunning the
ease of the valleys. Violence was never very far out
of sight. They loved proudly, with a flame that purged
all from their love but the essential, the ideal passion.</p>
<p>'I live with a Mænad,' he said, putting out his hand
and bathing his fingers in her loosened hair.</p>
<p>From the rough shelter of reeds and matting where
they idled then among the terraced vineyards, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span>
festoons of the vines and the bright reds and yellows of
the splay leaves, brilliant against the sun, framed her
consonant grace. The beautiful shadows of lacing
vines dappled the ground, and the quick lizards darted
upon the rough terrace walls.</p>
<p>He said, pursuing his thought,—</p>
<p>'You have never the wish of other women—permanency?
a house with me? never the inkling
of such a wish?'</p>
<p>'Trammels!' she replied, 'I've always hated possessions.'</p>
<p>He considered her at great length, playing with her
hair, fitting his fingers into its waving thicknesses,
putting his cheek against the softness of her cheek,
and laughing.</p>
<p>'My changeling. My nymph,' he said.</p>
<p>She lay silent, her arms folded behind her head,
and her eyes on him as he continued to utter his disconnected
sentences.</p>
<p>'Where is the Eve of Herakleion? The mask you
wore! I dwelt only upon your insignificant vanity,
and in your pride you made no defence. Most secret
pride! Incredible chastity of mind! Inviolate of
soul, to all alike. Inviolate. Most rare restraint!
The expansive vulgarity of the crowd! My Eve....'</p>
<p>He began again,—</p>
<p>'So rarely, so stainlessly mine. Beyond mortal
hopes. You allowed all to misjudge you, myself
included. You smiled, not even wistfully, lest that
betray you, and said nothing. You held yourself
withdrawn. You perfected your superficial life. That
profound humour.... I could not think you shallow—not
all your pretence could disguise your mystery—but,
may I be forgiven, I have thought you shallow
in all but mischief. I prophesied for you'—he laughed—'a
great career as a destroyer of men. A great<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span>
courtesan. But instead I find you a great lover. <i>Une
grande amoureuse.</i>'</p>
<p>'If that is mischievous,' she said, 'my love for
you goes beyond mischief; it would stop short of no
crime.'</p>
<p>He put his face between his hands for a second.</p>
<p>'I believe you; I know it.'</p>
<p>'I understand love in no other way,' she said,
sitting up and shaking her hair out of her eyes; 'I am
single-hearted. It is selfish love: I would die for you,
gladly, without a thought, but I would sacrifice my
claim on you to no one and to nothing. It is all-exorbitant.
I make enormous demands. I must have
you exclusively for myself.'</p>
<p>He teased her,—</p>
<p>'You refuse to marry me.'</p>
<p>She was serious.</p>
<p>'Freedom, Julian! romance! The world before
us, to roam at will; fairs to dance at; strange people
to consort with, to see the smile in their eyes, and the
tolerant "Lovers!" forming on their lips. To tweak
the nose of Propriety, to snatch away the chair on which
she would sit down! Who in their senses would harness
the divine courser to a mail-cart?'</p>
<p>She seemed to him lit by an inner radiance, that
shone through her eyes and glowed richly in her smile.</p>
<p>'Vagabond!' he said. 'Is life to be one long carnival?'</p>
<p>'And one long honesty. I'll own you before the
world—and court its disapproval. I'll release you—no,
I'll leave you—when you tire of me. I wouldn't
clip love's golden wings. I wouldn't irk you with
promises, blackmail you into perjury, wring from you
an oath we both should know was made only to be
broken. We'll leave that to middle-age. Middle-age—I
have been told there is such a thing? Sometimes
it is fat, sometimes it is wan, surely it is always dreary!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span>
It may be wise and successful and contented. Sometimes,
I'm told, it even loves. We are young. Youth!'
she said, sinking her voice, 'the winged and the divine.'</p>
<p class="space-above">When he talked to her about the Islands, she did
not listen, although she dared not check him. He
talked, striving to interest her, to fire her enthusiasm.
He talked, with his eyes always upon the sea, since
some obscure instinct warned him not to keep them
bent upon her face; sometimes they were amongst the
vines, which in the glow of their September bronze
and amber resembled the wine flowing from their fruits,
and from here the sea shimmered, crudely and cruelly
blue between those flaming leaves, undulating into
smooth, nacreous folds; sometimes they were amongst
the rocks on the lower levels, on a windier day, when
white crests spurted from the waves, and the foam broke
with a lacy violence against the island at the edge of the
green shallows; and sometimes, after dusk, they climbed
to the olive terraces beneath the moon that rose through
the trees in a world strangely gray and silver, strangely
and contrastingly deprived of colour. He talked, lying
on the ground, with his hands pressed close against the
soil of Aphros. Its contact gave him the courage he
needed.... He talked doggedly; in the first week
with the fire of inspiration, after that with the perseverance
of loyalty. These monologues ended always in
the same way. He would bring his glance from the
sea to her face, would break off his phrase in the middle,
and, coming suddenly to her, would cover her hair,
her throat, her mouth, with kisses. Then she would
turn gladly and luxuriously towards him, curving in
his arms, and presently the grace of her murmured
speech would again bewitch him, until upon her lips
he forgot the plea of Aphros.</p>
<p>There were times when he struggled to escape her,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span>
his physical and mental activity rebelling against the
subjection in which she held him. He protested that
the affairs of the Islands claimed him; that Herakleion
had granted but a month for negotiations; precautions
must be taken, and the scheme of government amplified
and consolidated. Then the angry look came over her
face, and all the bitterness of her resentment broke
loose. Having captured him, much of her precocious
wisdom seemed to have abandoned her.</p>
<p>'I have waited for you ten years, yet you want to
leave me. Do I mean less to you than the Islands?
I wish the Islands were at the bottom of the sea instead
of on the top of it.'</p>
<p>'Be careful, Eve.'</p>
<p>'I resent everything which takes you from me,' she
said recklessly.</p>
<p>Another time she cried, murky with passion,—</p>
<p>'Always these councils with Tsigaridis and the rest!
always these secret messages passing between you and
Kato! Give me that letter.'</p>
<p>He refused, shredding Kato's letter and scattering
the pieces into the sea.</p>
<p>'What secrets have you with Kato, that you must
keep from me?'</p>
<p>'They would have no interest for you,' he replied,
remembering that she was untrustworthy—that
canker in his confidence.</p>
<p>The breeze fanned slightly up the creek where they
were lying on the sand under the shadow of a pine,
and out in the dazzling sea a porpoise leapt, turning
its slow black curve in the water. The heat simmered
over the rocks.</p>
<p>'We share our love,' he said morosely, 'but no other
aspect of life. The Islands are nothing to you. An
obstacle, not a link.' It was a truth that he rarely
confronted.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span></p>
<p>'You are wrong: a background, a setting for you,
which I appreciate.'</p>
<p>'You appreciate the picturesque. I know. You
are an artist in appreciation of the suitable stage-setting.
But as for the rest....' he made a gesture
full of sarcasm and renunciation.</p>
<p>'Give me up, Julian, and all my shortcomings. I
have always told you I had but one virtue. I am the
first to admit the insufficiency of its claim. Give
yourself wholly to your Islands. Let me go.' She
spoke sadly, as though conscious of her own irremediable
difference and perversity.</p>
<p>'Yet you yourself—what were your words?—said
you believed in me; you even wrote to me, I remember
still, "conquer, shatter, demolish!" But I must
always struggle against you, against your obstructions.
What is it you want? Liberty and irresponsibility,
to an insatiable degree!'</p>
<p>'Because I love you insatiably.'</p>
<p>'You are too unreasonable sometimes' ('Reason!'
she interrupted with scorn, 'what has reason got to do
with love?') 'you are unreasonable to grudge me every
moment I spend away from you. Won't you realise
that I am responsible for five thousand lives? You
must let me go now; only for an hour. I promise to
come back to you in an hour.'</p>
<p>'Are you tired of me already?'</p>
<p>'Eve....'</p>
<p>'When we were in Herakleion, you were always
saying you must go to Kato; now you are always
going to some council; am I never to have you to
myself?'</p>
<p>'I will go only for an hour. I <i>must</i> go, Eve, my
darling.'</p>
<p>'Stay with me, Julian. I'll kiss you. I'll tell you a
story.' She stretched out her hands. He shook his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span>
head, laughing, and ran off in the direction of the
village.</p>
<p>When he returned, she refused to speak to him.</p>
<p>But at other times they grew marvellously close,
passing hours and days in unbroken union, until the
very fact of their two separate personalities became an
exasperation. Then, silent as two souls tortured,
before a furnace, they struggled for the expression
that ever eludes; the complete, the satisfying expression
that shall lay bare one soul to another soul, but that,
ever failing, mockingly preserves the unwanted boon
of essential mystery.</p>
<p>That dumb frenzy outworn, they attained, nevertheless,
to a nearer comradeship, the days, perhaps,
of their greatest happiness, when with her reckless
fancy she charmed his mind; he thought of her then
as a vagrant nymph, straying from land to land, from
age to age, decking her spirit with any flower she met
growing by the way, chastely concerned with the quest
of beauty, strangely childlike always, pure as the
fiercest, tallest flame. He could not but bow to that
audacity, that elemental purity, of spirit. Untainted
by worldliness, greed, or malice.... The facts of
her life became clearer to him, startling in their consistency.
He could not associate her with possessions,
or a fixed abode, she who was free and elusive as a
swallow, to whom the slightest responsibility was an
intolerable and inadmissible yoke from beneath which,
without commotion but also without compunction,
she slipped. On no material point could she be touched—save
her own personal luxury, and that seemed to
grow with her, as innocent of effort as the colour on a
flower; she kindled only in response to music, poetry,
love, or laughter, but then with what a kindling!
she flamed, she glowed; she ranged over spacious and
fabulous realms; her feet never touched earth, they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span>
were sandal-shod and carried her in the clean path of
breezes, and towards the sun, exalted and ecstatic,
breathing as the common air the rarity of the upper
spaces. At such times she seemed a creature blown
from legend, deriving from no parentage; single,
individual, and lawless.</p>
<p class="space-above">He found that he had come gradually to regard her
with a superstitious reverence.</p>
<p>He evolved a theory, constructed around her, dim and
nebulous, yet persistent; perforce nebulous, since he
was dealing with a matter too fine, too subtle, too
unexplored, to lend itself to the gross imperfect imprisonment
of words. He never spoke of it, even to her, but
staring at her sometimes with a reeling head he felt
himself transported, by her medium, beyond the
matter-of-fact veils that shroud the limit of human
vision. He felt illuminated, on the verge of a new
truth; as though by stretching out his hand he might
touch something no hand of man had ever touched
before, something of unimaginable consistency, neither
matter nor the negation of matter; as though he might
brush the wings of truth, handle the very substance of
a thought....</p>
<p>He felt at these times like a man who passes through
a genuine psychical experience. Yes, it was as definite
as that; he had the glimpse of a possible revelation. He
returned from his vision—call it what he would, vision
would serve as well as any other word—he returned
with that sense of benefit by which alone such an
excursion—or was it incursion?—could be justified. He
brought back a benefit. He had beheld, as in a distant
prospect, a novel balance and proportion of certain
values. That alone would have left him enriched for
ever.</p>
<p>Practical as he could be, theories and explorations<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span>
were yet dear to him: he was an inquisitive adventurer
of the mind no less than an active adventurer of the
world. He sought eagerly for underlying truths. His
apparently inactive moods were more accurately his
fallow moods. His thought was as an ardent plough,
turning and shifting the loam of his mind. Yet he
would not allow his fancy to outrun his conviction; if
fancy at any moment seemed to lead, he checked it until
more lumbering conviction could catch up. They must
travel ever abreast, whip and reins alike in his control.</p>
<p>Youth—were the years of youth the intuitive years of
perception? Were the most radiant moments the
moments in which one stepped farthest from the ordered
acceptance of the world? Moments of danger, moments
of inspiration, moments of self-sacrifice, moments of
perceiving beauty, moments of love, all the drunken
moments! Eve moved, he knew, permanently upon
that plane. She led an exalted, high-keyed inner life.
The normal mood to her was the mood of a sensitive
person caught at the highest pitch of sensibility. Was
she unsuited to the world and to the necessities of the
world because she belonged, not here, but to another
sphere apprehended by man only in those rare, keen
moments that Julian called the drunken moments?
apprehended by poet or artist—the elect, the aristocracy,
the true path-finders among the race of man!—in
moments when sobriety left them and they passed
beyond?</p>
<p>Was she to blame for her cruelty, her selfishness, her
disregard for truth? was she, not evil, but only alien?
to be forgiven all for the sake of the rarer, more distant
flame? Was the standard of cardinal virtues set by the
world the true, the ultimate standard? Was it possible
that Eve made part of a limited brotherhood? was
indeed a citizen of some advanced state of such perfection
that this world's measures and ideals were left<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span>
behind and meaningless? meaningless because unnecessary
in such a realm of serenity?</p>
<p>Aphros, then—the liberty of Aphros—and Aphros
meant to him far more than merely Aphros—that was
surely a lovely and desirable thing, a worthy aim, a
high beacon? If Eve cared nothing for the liberty of
Aphros, was it because in <i>her</i> world (he was by now convinced
of its existence) there was no longer any necessity
to trouble over such aims, liberty being as natural and
unmeditated as the air in the nostrils?</p>
<p>(Not that this would ever turn him from his devotion;
at most he could look upon Aphros as a stage upon the
journey towards that higher aim—the stage to which
he and his like, who were nearly of the elect, yet not of
them, might aspire. And if the day should ever come
when disillusion drove him down; when, far from
becoming a citizen of Eve's far sphere, he should cease
to be a citizen even of Aphros and should become a
citizen merely of the world, no longer young, no longer
blinded by ideals, no longer nearly a poet, but merely a
grown, sober man—then he would still keep Aphros as
a bright memory of what might have been, of the best he
had grasped, the possibility which in the days of youth
had not seemed too extravagantly unattainable.)</p>
<p>But in order to keep his hold upon this world of Eve's,
which in his inner consciousness he already recognised
as the most valuable rift of insight ever vouchsafed to
him, it was necessary that he should revolutionise every
ancient gospel and reputable creed. The worth of Eve
was to him an article of faith. His intimacy with her
was a privilege infinitely beyond the ordinary privilege
of love. Whatever she might do, whatever crime she
might commit, whatever baseness she might perpetrate,
her ultimate worth, the core, the kernel, would remain
to him unsullied and inviolate. This he knew blindly,
seeing it as the mystic sees God; and knew it the more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span>
profoundly that he could have defended it with no
argument of reason.</p>
<p>What then? the poet, the creator, the woman, the
mystic, the man skirting the fringes of death—were they
kin with one another and free of some realm unknown,
towards which all, consciously or unconsciously, were
journeying? Where the extremes of passion (he did
not mean only the passion of love), of exaltation, of
danger, of courage and vision—where all these extremes
met—was it there, the great crossways where the moral
ended, and the divine began? Was it for Eve supremely,
and to a certain extent for all women and artists—the
visionaries, the lovely, the graceful, the irresponsible,
the useless!—was it reserved for them to show the
beginning of the road?</p>
<p>Youth! youth and illusion! to love Eve and Aphros!
when those two slipped from him he would return
sobered to the path designated by the sign-posts and
milestones of man, hoping no more than to keep as
a gleam within him the light glowing in the sky above
that unattainable but remembered city.</p>
<p class="space-above">He returned to earth; Eve was kneading and tormenting
a lump of putty, and singing to herself meanwhile;
he watched her delicate, able hands, took one of them,
and held it up between his eyes and the sun.</p>
<p>'Your fingers are transparent, they're like cornelian
against the light,' he said.</p>
<p>She left her hand within his grasp, and smiled down
at him.</p>
<p>'How you play with me, Julian,' she said idly.</p>
<p>'You're such a delicious toy.'</p>
<p>'Only a toy?'</p>
<p>He remembered the intricate, untranslatable thoughts
he had been thinking about her five minutes earlier, and
began to laugh to himself.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span></p>
<p>'A great deal more than a toy. Once I thought of you
only as a child, a helpless, irritating, adorable child,
always looking for trouble, and turning to me for help
when the trouble came.'</p>
<p>'And then?'</p>
<p>'Then you made me think of you as a woman,' he
replied gravely.</p>
<p>'You seemed to hesitate a good deal before deciding
to think of me as that.'</p>
<p>'Yes, I tried to judge our position by ordinary codes;
you must have thought me ridiculous.'</p>
<p>'I did, darling.' Her mouth twisted drolly as she
said it.</p>
<p>'I wonder now how I could have insulted you by
applying them to you,' he said with real wonderment;
everything seemed so clear and obvious to him now.</p>
<p>'Why, how do you think of me now?'</p>
<p>'Oh, God knows!' he replied. 'I've called you
changeling sometimes, haven't I?' He decided to
question her. 'Tell me, Eve, how do you explain your
difference? you outrage every accepted code, you see,
and yet one retains one's belief in you. Is one simply
deluded by your charm? or is there a deeper truth?
can you explain?' He had spoken in a bantering tone,
but he knew that he was trying an experiment of great
import to him.</p>
<p>'I don't think I'm different, Julian; I think I feel
things strongly, no more.'</p>
<p>'Or else you don't feel them at all.'</p>
<p>'What do you mean?'</p>
<p>'Well—Paul,' he said reluctantly.</p>
<p>'You have never got over that, have you?'</p>
<p>'Exactly!' he exclaimed. 'It seems to you extraordinary
that I should still remember Paul, or that his
death should have made any impression upon me. I
ought to hate you for your indifference. Sometimes I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span>
have come very near to hating you. But now—perhaps
my mind is getting broader—I blame you for nothing
because I believe you are simply not capable of understanding.
But evidently you can't explain yourself.
I love you!' he said, 'I love you!'</p>
<p>He knew that her own inability to explain herself—her
unself-consciousness—had done much to strengthen
his new theories. The flower does not know why or
how it blossoms....</p>
<p class="space-above">On the day that he told her, with many misgivings,
that Kato was coming to Aphros, she uttered no word
of anger, but wept despairingly, at first without speaking,
then with short, reiterated sentences that wrung his
heart for all their unreason,—</p>
<p>'We were alone. I was happy as never in my life.
I had you utterly. We were alone. Alone! Alone!'</p>
<p>'We will tell Kato the truth,' he soothed her; 'she
will leave us alone still.'</p>
<p>But it was not in her nature to cling to straws of
comfort. For her, the sunshine had been unutterably
radiant; and for her it was now proportionately
blackened out.</p>
<p>'We were alone,' she repeated, shaking her head
with unspeakable mournfulness, the tears running
between her fingers.</p>
<p>For the first time he spoke to her with a moved, a
tender compassion, full of reverence.</p>
<p>'Your joy ... your sorrow ... equally overwhelming
and tempestuous. How you feel—you tragic
child! Yesterday you laughed and made yourself a
crown of myrtle.'</p>
<p>She refused to accompany him when he went to meet
Kato, who, after a devious journey from Athens, was to
land at the rear of the island away from the curiosity
of Herakleion. She remained in the cool house, sunk<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span>
in idleness, her pen and pencil alike neglected. She
thought only of Julian, absorbingly, concentratedly.
Her past life appeared to her, when she thought of it
at all, merely as a period in which Julian had not loved
her, a period of waiting, of expectancy, of anguish
sometimes, of incredible reticence supported only by
the certainty which had been her faith and her
inspiration....</p>
<p>To her surprise, he returned, not only with Kato
but with Grbits.</p>
<p>Every word and gesture of the giant demonstrated
his enormous pleasure. His oddly Mongolian face
wore a perpetual grin of triumphant truancy. His
good-humour was not to be withstood. He wrung
Eve's hands, inarticulate with delight. Kato, her head
covered with a spangled veil—Julian had never seen her
in a hat—stood by, looking on, her hands on her hips,
as though Grbits were her exhibit. Her little eyes
sparkled with mischief.</p>
<p>'He is no longer an officer in the Serbian army,'
she said at last, 'only a free-lance, at Julian's disposal.
Is it not magnificent? He has sent in his resignation.
His career is ruined. The military representative of
Serbia in Herakleion!'</p>
<p>'A free-lance,' Grbits repeated, beaming down at
Julian. (It annoyed Eve that he should be so much
the taller of the two).</p>
<p>'We sent you no word, not to lessen your surprise,'
said Kato.</p>
<p>They stood, all four, in the courtyard by the fountain.</p>
<p>'I told you on the day of the elections that when
you needed me I should come,' Grbits continued, his
grin widening.</p>
<p>'Of course, you are a supreme fool, Grbits,' said
Kato to him.</p>
<p>'Yes,' he replied, 'thank Heaven for it.'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span></p>
<p>'In Athens the sympathy is all with the Islands,'
said Kato. She had taken off her veil, and they could
see that she wore the gold wheat-ears in her hair. Her
arms were, as usual, covered with bangles, nor had she
indeed made any concessions to the necessities of
travelling, save that on her feet, instead of her habitual
square-toed slippers, she wore long, hideous, heelless,
elastic-sided boots. Eve reflected that she had grown
fatter and more stumpy, but she was, as ever, eager,
kindly, enthusiastic, vital; they brought with them
a breath of confidence and efficiency, those disproportionately
assorted travelling companions; Julian
felt a slight shame that he had neglected the Islands
for Eve; and Eve stood by, listening to their respective
recitals, to Grbits' startling explosions of laughter,
and Kato's exuberant joy, tempered with wisdom.
They both talked at once, voluble and excited; the
wheat-ears trembled in Kato's hair, Grbits' white regular
teeth flashed in his broad face, and Julian, a little
bewildered, turned from one to the other with his
unsmiling gravity.</p>
<p>'I mistrust the forbearance of Herakleion,' Kato
said, a great weight of meditated action pressing on
behind her words; 'a month's forbearance! In Athens
innumerable rumours were current: of armed ships
purchased from the Turks, even of a gun mounted on
Mylassa—but that I do not believe. They have given
you, you say, a month in which to come to your senses.
But they are giving themselves also a month in which
to prepare their attack,' and she plied him with practical
questions that demonstrated her clear familiarity with
detail and tactic, while Grbits contributed nothing
but the cavernous laugh and ejaculations of his own
unquestioning optimism.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span></p>
<h2>V</h2>
<p>The second attack on Aphros was delivered within
a week of their arrival.</p>
<p>Eve and Kato, refusing the retreat in the heart
of the island, spent the morning together in the
Davenant house. In the distance the noise of the
fighting alternately increased and waned; now crackling
sharply, as it seemed, from all parts of the sea, now
dropping into a disquieting silence. At such times
Eve looked mutely at the singer. Kato gave her no
comfort, but, shaking her head and shrugging her
shoulders, expressed only her ignorance. She found
that she could speak to Julian sympathetically of Eve,
but not to Eve sympathetically of Julian. She had
made the attempt, but after the pang of its effort, had
renounced it. Their hostility smouldered dully under
the shelter of their former friendship. Now, alone in
the house, they might indeed have remained for the
most time apart in separate rooms, but the common
anxiety which linked them drew them together, so
that when Kato moved Eve followed her, unwillingly,
querulously; and expressions of affection were even
forced from them, of which they instantly repented,
and by some phrase of veiled cruelty sought to counteract.</p>
<p>No news reached them from outside. Every man
was at his post, and Julian had forbidden all movement
about the village. By his orders also the heavy
shutters had been closed over the windows of the
Davenant drawing-room, where Eve and Kato sat,
with the door open on to the courtyard for the sake of
light, talking spasmodically, and listening to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span>
sounds of the firing. At the first quick rattle Kato
had said, 'Machine-guns,' and Eve had replied, 'Yes;
the first time—when we were here alone—he told me
they had a machine-gun on the police-launch;' then
Kato said, after a pause of firing, 'This time they have
more than one.'</p>
<p>Eve raised tormented eyes.</p>
<p>'Anastasia, he said he would be in shelter.'</p>
<p>'Would he remain in shelter for long?' Kato replied
scornfully.</p>
<p>Eve said,—</p>
<p>'He has Grbits with him.'</p>
<p>Kato, crushing down the personal preoccupation,
dwelt ardently on the fate of her country. She must
abandon to Eve the thought of Julian, but of the
Islands at least she might think possessively, diverting
to their dear though inanimate claim all the need of
passion and protection humanly denied her. From a
woman of always intense patriotism, she had become
a fanatic. Starved in one direction, she had doubled
her energy in the other, realising, moreover, the power of
that bond between herself and Julian. She could have
said with thorough truthfulness that her principal
cause of resentment against Eve was Eve's indifference
towards the Islands—a loftier motive than the more
human jealousy. She had noticed Julian's reluctance
to mention the Islands in Eve's presence. Alone with
herself and Grbits, he had never ceased to pour forth
the flood of his scheme, both practical and utopian,
so that Kato could not be mistaken as to the direction
of his true preoccupations. She had seen the vigour he
brought to his governing. She had observed with a
delighted grin to Grbits that, despite his Socialistic
theories, Julian had in point of fact instituted a complete
and very thinly-veiled autocracy in Hagios
Zacharie. She had seen him in the village assembly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span>
when, in spite of his deferential appeals to the superior
experience of the older men, he steered blankly past
any piece of advice that ran contrary to the course
of his own ideas. She knew that, ahead of him, when
he should have freed himself finally of Herakleion
(and that he would free himself he did not for a moment
doubt), he kept always the dream of his tiny, ideal
state. She revered his faith, his energy, and his youth,
as the essence in him most worthy of reverence. And
she knew that Eve, if she loved these things in him,
loved them only in theory, but in practice regarded them
with impatient indifference. They stole him away,
came between him and her.... Kato knew well Eve's
own ideals. Courage she exacted. Talents she esteemed.
Genius, freedom, and beauty she passionately worshipped
as her gods upon earth. But she could tolerate
nothing material, nor any occupation that removed her
or the other from the blind absorption of love.</p>
<p>Kato sighed. Far otherwise would she have cared
for Julian! She caught sight of herself in a mirror,
thick, squat, black, with little sparkling eyes; she
glanced at Eve, glowing with warmth, sleek and graceful
as a little animal, idle and seductive. Outside a crash
of firing shook the solid house, and bullets rattled
upon the roofs of the village.</p>
<p>It was intolerable to sit unoccupied, working out
bitter speculations, while such activity raged around
the island. To know the present peril neither of Julian
nor of Aphros! To wait indefinitely, probably all
day, possibly all night!</p>
<p>'Anastasia, sing.'</p>
<p>Kato complied, as much for her own sake as for
Eve's. She sang some of her own native songs, then,
breaking off, she played, and Eve drew near to her,
lost and transfigured by the music; she clasped and
unclasped her hands, beautified by her ecstasy, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span>
Kato's harsh thoughts vanished; Eve was, after all, a
child, an all too loving and passionate child, and not,
as Kato sometimes thought her, a pernicious force of
idleness and waste. Wrong-headed, tragically bringing
sorrow upon herself in the train of her too intense
emotions.... Continuing to play, Kato observed her,
and felt the light eager fingers upon her arm.</p>
<p>'Ah, Kato, you make me forget. Like some drug
of forgetfulness that admits me to caves of treasure.
Underground caves heaped with jewels. Caves of the
winds; zephyrs that come and go. I'm carried away
into oblivion.'</p>
<p>'Tell me,' Kato said.</p>
<p>Obedient to the lead of the music, Eve wandered
into a story,—</p>
<p>'Riding on a winged horse, he swept from east to
west; he looked down upon the sea, crossed by the
wake of ships, splashed here and there with islands,
washing on narrow brown stretches of sand, or dashing
against the foot of cliffs—you hear the waves breaking?—and
he saw how the moon drew the tides, and how
ships came to rest for a little while in harbours, but
were homeless and restless and free; he passed over
the land, swooping low, and he saw the straight streets
of cities, and the gleam of fires, the neat fields and
guarded frontiers, the wider plains; he saw the gods
throned on Ida, wearing the clouds like mantles and
like crowns, divinely strong or divinely beautiful;
he saw things mean and magnificent; he saw the
triumphal procession of a conqueror, with prisoners
walking chained to the back of his chariot, and before
him white bulls with gilded horns driven to the
sacrifice, and children running with garlands of
flowers; he saw giants hammering red iron in northern
mountains; he saw all the wanderers of the earth; Io
the tormented, and all gipsies, vagabonds, and wastrels:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span>
all jongleurs, poets, and mountebanks; he saw these
wandering, but all the staid and solemn people lived
in the cities and counted the neat fields, saying, "This
shall be mine and this shall be yours." And sometimes,
as he passed above a forest, he heard a scurry of startled
feet among crisp leaves, and sometimes he heard,
which made him sad, the cry of stricken trees beneath
the axe.'</p>
<p>She broke off, as Kato ceased playing.</p>
<p>'They are still firing,' she said.</p>
<p>'Things mean and magnificent,' quoted Kato slowly.
'Why, then, withhold Julian from the Islands?'</p>
<p>She had spoken inadvertently. Consciousness of
the present had jerked her back from remembrance
of the past, when Eve had come almost daily to her
flat in Herakleion, bathing herself in the music,
wrapped up in beauty; when their friendship had
hovered on the boundaries of the emotional, in spite
of—or perhaps because of?—the thirty years that lay
between them.</p>
<p>'I heard the voice of my fantastic Eve, of whom I
once thought,' she added, fixing her eyes on Eve, 'as
the purest of beings, utterly removed from the sordid
and the ugly.'</p>
<p>Eve suddenly flung herself on her knees beside her.</p>
<p>'Ah, Kato,' she said, 'you throw me off my guard
when you play to me. I'm not always hard and calculating,
and your music melts me. It hurts me to be,
as I constantly am, on the defensive. I'm too suspicious
by nature to be very happy, Kato. There are always
shadows, and ... and tragedy. Please don't judge
me too harshly. Tell me what you mean by sordid
and ugly—what is there sordid or ugly in love?'</p>
<p>Kato dared much; she replied in a level voice,—</p>
<p>'Jealousy. Waste. Exorbitance. Suspicion. I am
sometimes afraid of your turning Julian into another<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span>
of those men who hoped to find their inspiration in a
woman, but found only a hindrance.'</p>
<p>She nodded sagely at Eve, and the gold wheat-ears
trembled in her hair.</p>
<p>Eve darkened at Julian's name; she got up and
stood by the door looking into the court. Kato went
on,—</p>
<p>'You are so much of a woman, Eve, that it becomes
a responsibility. It is a gift, like genius. And a great
gift without a great soul is a curse, because such a
gift is too strong to be disregarded. It's a force, a
danger. You think I am preaching to you'—Eve
would never know what the words were costing her—'but
I preach only because of my belief in Julian—and
in you,' she hastened to add, and caught Eve's hand;
'don't frown, you child. Look at me; I have no
illusions and no sensitiveness on the score of my own
appearance; look at me hard, and let me speak to you
as a sexless creature.'</p>
<p>Eve was touched in spite of her hostility. She was
also shocked and distressed. There was to her, so
young herself, so insolently vivid in her sex-pride,
something wrong and painful in Kato's renouncement
of her right. She had a sense of betrayal.</p>
<p>'Hush, Anastasia,' she whispered. They were both
extremely moved, and the constant volleys of firing
played upon their nerves and stripped reserve from
them.</p>
<p>'You don't realise,' said Kato, who had, upon impulse,
sacrificed her pride, and beaten down the feminine
weakness she branded as unworthy, 'how finely the
balance, in love, falters between good and ill. You,
Eve, are created for love; any one who saw you, even
without speaking to you, across a room, could tell you
that.' She smiled affectionately; she had, at that
moment, risen so far above all personal vanity that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span>
she could bring herself to smile affectionately at Eve.
'You said, just now, with truth I am sure, that shadows
and tragedy were never very far away from you; you're
too <i>rare</i> to be philosophical. I wish there were a word
to express the antithesis of a philosopher; if I could
call you by it, I should have said all that I could wish
to say about you, Eve. I'm so much afraid of sorrow
for you and Julian....'</p>
<p>'Yes, yes,' said Eve, forgetting to be resentful, 'I am
afraid, too; it overcomes me sometimes; it's a presentiment.'
She looked really haunted, and Kato was
filled with an immense pity for her.</p>
<p>'You mustn't be weak,' she said gently. 'Presentiment
is only a high-sounding word for a weak thought.'</p>
<p>'You are so strong and sane, Kato; it is easy for you
to be—strong and sane.'</p>
<p>They broke off, and listened in silence to an outburst
of firing and shouts that rose from the village.</p>
<p class="space-above">Grbits burst into the room early in the afternoon,
his flat sallow face tinged with colour, his clothes torn,
and his limbs swinging like the sails of a windmill. In
one enormous hand he still brandished a revolver.
He was triumphantly out of breath.</p>
<p>'Driven off!' he cried. 'They ran up a white flag.
Not one succeeded in landing. Not one.' He panted
between every phrase. 'Julian—here in a moment.
I ran. Negotiations now, we hope. Sea bobbing with
dead.'</p>
<p>'Our losses?' said Kato sharply.</p>
<p>'Few. All under cover,' Grbits replied. He sat
down, swinging his revolver loosely between his knees,
and ran his fingers through his oily black hair, so that
it separated into straight wisps across his forehead.
He was hugely pleased and good-humoured, and grinned
widely upon Eve and Kato. 'Good fighting—though<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span>
too much at a distance. Julian was grazed on the
temple—told me to tell you,' he added, with the tardy
haste of a child who has forgotten to deliver a message.
'We tied up his head, and it will be nothing of a scratch.—Driven
off! They have tried and failed. The defence
was excellent. They will scarcely try force again.
I am sorry I missed the first fight. I could have thrown
those little fat soldiers into the sea with one hand, two
at a time.'</p>
<p>Kato rushed up to Grbits and kissed him; they were
like children in their large, clumsy excitement.</p>
<p>Julian came in, his head bandaged; his unconcern
deserted him as he saw Kato hanging over the giant's
chair. He laughed out loud.</p>
<p>'A miscellaneous fleet!' he cried. 'Coastal steamers,
fort tugs, old chirkets from the Bosphorus—who was
the admiral, I wonder?'</p>
<p>'Panaïoannou,' cried Grbits, 'his uniform military
down one side, and naval down the other.'</p>
<p>'Their white flag!' said Julian.</p>
<p>'Sterghiou's handkerchief!' said Grbits.</p>
<p>'Coaling steamers, mounting machine-guns,' Julian
continued.</p>
<p>'Stavridis must have imagined that,' said Kato.</p>
<p>'Play us a triumphal march, Anastasia!' said Grbits.</p>
<p>Kato crashed some chords on the piano; they all
laughed and sang, but Eve, who had taken no part at
all, remained in the window-seat staring at the ground
and her lips trembling. She heard Julian's voice calling
her, but she obstinately shook her head. He was lost
to her between Kato and Grbits. She heard them
eagerly talking now, all three, of the negotiations likely
to follow. She heard the occasional shout with which
Grbits recalled some incident in the fighting, and
Julian's response. She felt that her ardent hatred of
the Islands rose in proportion to their ardent love.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span>
'He cares nothing for me,' she kept repeating to herself,
'he cares for me as a toy, a pastime, nothing more;
he forgets me for Kato and the Islands. The Islands
hold his true heart. I am the ornament to his life,
not life itself. And he is all my life. He forgets me....'
Pride alone conquered her tears.</p>
<p class="space-above">Later, under cover of a white flag, the ex-Premier
Malteios was landed at the port of Aphros, and was
conducted—since he insisted that his visit was unofficial—to
the Davenant house.</p>
<p>Peace and silence reigned. Grbits and Kato had
gone together to look at the wreckage, and Eve, having
watched their extraordinary progress down the street
until they turned into the market-place, was alone in
the drawing-room. Julian slept heavily, his arms flung
wide, on his bed upstairs. Zapantiotis, who had expected
to find him in the court or in the drawing-room, paused
perplexed. He spoke to Eve in a low voice.</p>
<p>'No,' she said, 'do not wake Mr Davenant,' and,
raising her voice, she added, 'His Excellency can
remain with me.'</p>
<p>She was alone in the room with Malteios, as she had
desired.</p>
<p>'But why remain thus, as it were, at bay?' he said
pleasantly, observing her attitude, shrunk against the
wall, her hand pressed to her heart. 'You and I were
friends once, mademoiselle. Madame?' he substituted.</p>
<p>'Mademoiselle,' she replied levelly.</p>
<p>'Ah? Other rumours, perhaps—no matter. Here
upon your island, no doubt, different codes obtain.
Far be it from me to suggest.... An agreeable room,'
he said, looking round, linking his fingers behind his
back, and humming a little tune; 'you have a piano,
I see; have you played much during your leisure?
But, of course, I was forgetting: Madame Kato is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span>
your companion here, is she not? and to her skill a
piano is a grateful ornament. Ah, I could envy you
your evenings, with Kato to make your music. Paris
cries for her; but no, she is upon a revolutionary island
in the heart of the Ægean! Paris cries the more. Her
portrait appears in every paper. Madame Kato, when
she emerges, will find her fame carried to its summit.
And you, Mademoiselle Eve, likewise something of a
heroine.'</p>
<p>'I am here in the place of my cousin,' Eve said,
looking across at the ex-Premier.</p>
<p>He raised his eyebrows, and, in a familiar gesture,
smoothed away his beard from his rosy lips with the
tips of his fingers.</p>
<p>'Is that indeed so? A surprising race, you English.
Very surprising. You assume or bequeath very lightly
the mantle of government, do you not? Am I to
understand that you have permanently replaced your
cousin in the—ah!—presidency of Hagios Zacharie?'</p>
<p>'My cousin is asleep; there is no reason why you
should not speak to me in his absence.'</p>
<p>'Asleep? but I must see him, mademoiselle.'</p>
<p>'If you will wait until he wakes.'</p>
<p>'Hours, possibly!'</p>
<p>'We will send to wake him in an hour's time. Can
I not entertain you until then?' she suggested, her
natural coquetry returning.</p>
<p>She left the wall against which she had been leaning,
and, coming across to Malteios, gave him her fingers
with a smile. The ex-Premier had always figured
picturesquely in her world.</p>
<p>'Mademoiselle,' he said, kissing the fingers she
gave him, 'you are as delightful as ever, I am
assured.'</p>
<p>They sat, Malteios impatient and ill at ease, unwilling
to forego his urbanity, yet tenacious of his purpose.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span>
In the midst of the compliments he perfunctorily
proffered, he broke out,—</p>
<p>'Children! <i>Ces gosses.... Mais il est fou, voyons,
votre cousin</i>. What is he thinking about? He has
created a ridiculous disturbance; well, let that pass;
we overlook it, but this persistence.... Where is it
all to end? Obstinacy feeds and grows fat upon
obstinacy; submission grows daily more impossible,
more remote. His pride is at stake. A threat, well
and good; let him make his threat; he might then
have arrived at some compromise. I, possibly, might
myself have acted as mediator between him and my
friend and rival, Gregori Stavridis. In fact, I am here
to-day in the hope that my effort will not come too
late. But after so much fighting! Tempers run high
no doubt in the Islands, and I can testify that they
run high in Herakleion. Anastasia—probably you
know this already—Madame Kato's flat is wrecked.
Yes, the mob. We are obliged to keep a cordon of
police always before your uncle's house. Neither he
nor your father and mother dare to show themselves
at the windows. It is a truly terrible state of affairs.'</p>
<p>He reverted to the deeper cause of his resentment,—</p>
<p>'I could have mediated, in the early days, so well
between your cousin and Gregori Stavridis. Pity,
pity, pity!' he said, shaking his head and smiling his
benign, regretful smile that to-day was tinged with a
barely concealed bitterness, 'a thousand pities,
mademoiselle.'</p>
<p>He began again, his mind on Herakleion,—</p>
<p>'I have seen your father and mother, also your
uncle. They are very angry and impotent. Because
the people threw stones at their windows and even,
I regret to say, fired shots into the house from the
<i>platia</i>, the windows are all boarded over and they live
by artificial light. I have seen them breakfasting by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span>
candles. Yes. Your, father, your mother, and your
uncle, breakfasting together in the drawing-room with
lighted candles on the table. I entered the house from
the back. Your father said to me apprehensively,
"I am told Madame Kato's flat was wrecked last night?"
and your mother said, "Outrageous! She is infatuated,
either with those Islands or with that boy. She will
not care. All her possessions, littering the quays!
An outrage." Your uncle said to me, "See the boy,
Malteios! Talk to him. We are hopeless." Indeed
they appeared hopeless, although not resigned, and
sat with their hands hanging by their sides instead of
eating their eggs; your mother, even, had lost her
determination.</p>
<p>'I tried to reassure them, but a rattle of stones on
the boarded windows interrupted me. Your uncle got
up and flung away his napkin. "One cannot breakfast
in peace," he said petulantly, as though that constituted
his most serious grievance. He went out of the
room, but the door had scarcely closed behind him
before it reopened and he came back. He was quite
altered, very irritable, and all his courteous gravity
gone from him. "See the inconvenience," he said to
me, jerking his hands, "all the servants have gone
with my son, all damned islanders." I found nothing
to say.'</p>
<p>'Kato may return to Herakleion with you?' Eve
suggested after a pause during which Malteios recollected
himself, and tried to indicate by shrugs and
rueful smiles that he considered the bewilderment of
the Davenants a deplorable but nevertheless entertaining
joke. At the name of Kato a change came over his face.</p>
<p>'A fanatic, that woman,' he replied; 'a martyr who
will rejoice in her martyrdom. She will never leave
Aphros while the cause remains.—A heroic woman,'
he said, with unexpected reverence.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span></p>
<p>He looked at Eve, his manner veering again to the
insinuating and the crafty; his worse and his better
natures were perpetually betraying themselves.</p>
<p>'Would she leave Aphros? no! Would your cousin
leave Aphros? no! They have between them the
bond of a common cause. I know your cousin. He is
young enough to be an idealist. I know Madame Kato.
She is old enough to applaud skilfully. Hou!' He
spread his hands. 'I have said enough.'</p>
<p>Eve revealed but little interest, though for the first
time during their interview her interest was passionately
aroused. Malteios watched her, new schemes germinating
in his brain; they played against one another,
their hands undeclared, a blind, tentative game. This
conversation, which had begun as it were accidentally,
fortuitously, turned to a grave significance along a
road whose end lay hidden far behind the hills of the
future. It led, perhaps, nowhere. It led, perhaps....</p>
<p>Eve said lightly,—</p>
<p>'I am outdistanced by Kato and my cousin; I don't
understand politics, or those impersonal friendships.'</p>
<p>'Mademoiselle,' Malteios replied, choosing his words
and infusing into them an air of confidence, 'I tell
you an open secret, but one to which I would never
refer save with a sympathetic listener like yourself,
when I tell you that for many years a friendship existed
between myself and Madame Kato, political indeed,
but not impersonal. Madame Kato,' he said, drawing
his chair a little nearer and lowering his voice, 'is not
of the impersonal type.'</p>
<p>Eve violently rebelled from his nearness; fastidious,
she loathed his goatish smile, his beard, his rosy lips,
but she continued to smile to him, a man who held,
perhaps, one of Julian's secrets. She was aware of
the necessity of obtaining that secret. Of the dishonour
towards Julian, sleeping away his hurts and his fatigue<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span>
in the room above, she was blindly unaware. Love to
her was a battle, not a fellowship. She must know!
Already her soul, eagerly receptive and bared to the
dreaded blow, had adopted the theory of betrayal.
In the chaos of her resentments and suspicions, she
remembered how Kato had spoken to her in the morning,
and without further reflection branded that conversation
as a blind. She even felt a passing admiration
for the other woman's superior cleverness. She, Eve,
had been completely taken in.... So she must
contend, not only against the Islands, but against Kato
also? Anguish and terror rushed over her. She scarcely
knew what she believed or did not believe, only that
her mind was one seething and surging tumult of
mistrust and all-devouring jealousy. She was on the
point of abandoning her temperamentally indirect
methods, of stretching out her hands to Malteios, and
crying to him for the agonising, the fiercely welcome
truth, when he said,—</p>
<p>'Impersonal? Do you, mademoiselle, know anything
of your sex? Ah, charming! disturbing, precious,
indispensable, even heroic, tant que vous voudrez, but
impersonal, no! Man, yes, sometimes. Woman,
never. Never.' He took her hand, patted it, kissed
the wrist, and murmured, 'Chère enfant, these are not
ideas for your pretty head.'</p>
<p>She knew from experience that his preoccupation
with such theories, if no more sinister motive, would
urge him towards a resumption of the subject, and
after a pause full of cogitation he continued,—</p>
<p>'Follow my advice, mademoiselle: never give your
heart to a man concerned in other affairs. You may
love, both of you, but you will strive in opposite
directions. Your cousin, for example.... And yet,'
he mused, 'you are a woman to charm the leisure of a
man of action. The toy of a conqueror.' He laughed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span>
'Fortunately, conquerors are rare.' But she knew he
hovered round the image of Julian. 'Believe me,
leave such men to such women as Kato; they are more
truly kin. You—I discover you—are too exorbitant;
love would play too absorbing a rôle. You would
tolerate no rival, neither a person nor a fact. Your
eyes smoulder; I am near the truth?'</p>
<p>'One could steal the man from his affairs,' she said
almost inaudibly.</p>
<p>'The only hope,' he replied.</p>
<p>A long silence fell, and his evil benevolence gained
on her; on her aroused sensitiveness his unspoken
suggestions fell one by one as definitely as the
formulated word. He watched her; she trembled,
half compelled by his gaze. At length, under the
necessity of breaking the silence, she said,—</p>
<p>'Kato is not such a woman; she would resent no
obstacle.'</p>
<p>'Wiser,' he added, 'she would identify herself with
it.'</p>
<p>He began to banter horribly,—</p>
<p>'Ah, child, Eve, child made for love, daily bless
your cousinship! Bless its contemptuous security.
Smile over the confabulations of Kato and your cousin.
Smile to think that he, she, and the Islands are bound
in an indissoluble triology. If there be jealousy to
suffer, rejoice in that it falls, not to your share, but to
mine, who am old and sufficiently philosophical. Age
and experience harden, you know. Else, I could not
see Anastasia Kato pass to another with so negligible
a pang. Yet the imagination makes its own trouble.
A jealous imagination.... Very vivid. Pictures of
Anastasia Kato in your cousin's arms—ah, crude,
crude, I know, but the crudity of the jealous imagination
is unequalled. Not a detail escapes. That is why
I say, bless your cousinship and its security.' He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span>
glanced up and met her tortured eyes. 'As I bless my
philosophy of the inevitable,' he finished softly,
caressing her hand which he had retained all the
while.</p>
<p>No effort at 'Impossible!' escaped her; almost from
the first she had blindly adopted his insinuations.
She even felt a perverse gratitude towards him, and a
certain fellowship. They were allies. Her mind was
now set solely upon one object. That self-destruction
might be involved did not occur to her, nor would she
have been deterred thereby. Like Samson, she had
her hands upon the columns....</p>
<p>'Madame Kato lives in this house?' asked Malteios,
as one who has been following a train of thought.</p>
<p>She shook her head, and he noticed that her eyes
were turned slightly inwards, as with the effort of an
immense concentration.</p>
<p>'You have power,' he said with admiration.</p>
<p>Bending towards her, he began to speak in a very
low, rapid voice; she sat listening to him, by no word
betraying her passionate attention, nodding only from
time to time, and keeping her hands very still, linked
in her lap. Only once she spoke, to ask a question,
'He would leave Herakleion?' and Malteios replied,
'Inevitably; the question of the Islands would be for
ever closed for him;' then she said, producing the words
from afar off, 'He would be free,' and Malteios, working
in the dark, following only one of the two processes of
her thought, reverted to Kato; his skill could have been
greater in playing upon the instrument, but even so it
sufficed, so taut was the stringing of the cords. When
he had finished speaking, she asked him another question,
'He could never trace the thing to me?' and he reassured
her with a laugh so natural and contemptuous
that she, in her ingenuity, was convinced. All the while
she had kept her eyes fastened on his face, on his rosy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span>
lips moving amongst his beard, that she might lose
no detail of his meaning or his instructions, and at one
moment he had thought, 'There is something terrible
in this child,' but immediately he had crushed the
qualm, thinking, 'By this recovery, if indeed it is to
be, I am a made man,' and thanking the fate that had
cast this unforeseen chance across his path. Finally
she heard his voice change from its earnest undertone
to its customary platitudinous flattery, and turning
round she saw that Julian had come into the room, his
eyes already bent with brooding scorn upon the emissary.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span></p>
<h2>VI</h2>
<p>She was silent that evening, so silent that Grbits,
the unobservant, commented to Kato; but after they
had dined, all four, by the fountain in the court, she
flung aside her preoccupation, laughed and sang,
forced Kato to the piano, and danced with reckless
inspiration to the accompaniment of Kato's songs.
Julian, leaning against a column, watched her bewildering
gaiety. She had galvanised Grbits into movement—he
who was usually bashful with women, especially
with Eve, reserving his enthusiasm for Julian—and
as she passed and re-passed before Julian in the grasp
of the giant she flung at him provocative glances
charged with a special meaning he could not interpret;
in the turn of her dance he caught her smile and the
flash of her eyes, and smiled in response, but his smile
was grave, for his mind ran now upon the crisis with
Herakleion, and, moreover, he suffered to see Eve so
held by Grbits, her turbulent head below the giant's
shoulder, and regretted that her gaiety should not be
reserved for him alone. Across the court, through the
open door of the drawing-room, he could see Kato at
the piano, full of delight, her broad little fat hands and
wrists racing above the keyboard, her short torso
swaying to the rhythm, her rich voice humming, and
the gold wheat ears shaking in her hair. She called to
him, and, drawing a chair close to the piano, he sat
beside her, but through the door he continued to stare
at Eve dancing in the court. Kato said as she played,
her perception sharpened by the tormented watch she
kept on him,—</p>
<p>'Eve celebrates your victory of yesterday,' to which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span>
he replied, deceived by the kindly sympathy in her
eyes,—</p>
<p>'Eve celebrates her own high spirits and the
enjoyment of a new partner; my doings are of the
last indifference to her.'</p>
<p>Kato played louder; she bent towards him,—</p>
<p>'You love her so much, Julian?'</p>
<p>He made an unexpected answer,—</p>
<p>'I believe in her.'</p>
<p>Kato, a shrewd woman, observed him, thinking,—'He
does not; he wants to convince himself.'</p>
<p>She said aloud, conscientiously wrenching out the
truth as she saw it,—</p>
<p>'She loves you; she is capable of love such as is
granted to few; that is the sublime in her.'</p>
<p>He seized upon this, hungrily, missing meanwhile
the sublime in the honesty of the singer,—</p>
<p>'Since I am given so much, I should not exact more.
The Islands.... She gives all to me. I ought not to
force the Islands upon her.'</p>
<p>'Grapes of thistles,' Kato said softly.</p>
<p>'You understand,' he murmured with gratitude.
'But why should she hamper me, Anastasia? Are all
women so irrational? What am I to believe?'</p>
<p>'We are not so irrational as we appear,' Kato said,
'because our wildest sophistry has always its roots in
the truth of instinct.'</p>
<p>Eve was near them, crying out,—</p>
<p>'A tarantella, Anastasia!'</p>
<p>Julian sprang up; he caught her by the wrist,—</p>
<p>'Gipsy!'</p>
<p>'Come with the gipsy?' she whispered.</p>
<p>Her scented hair blew near him, and her face was
upturned, with its soft, sweet mouth.</p>
<p>'Away from Aphros?' he said, losing his head.</p>
<p>'All over the world!'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span></p>
<p>He was suddenly swept away by the full force of
her wild, irresponsible seduction.</p>
<p>'Anywhere you choose, Eve.'</p>
<p>She triumphed, close to him, and wanton.</p>
<p>'You'd sacrifice Aphros to me?'</p>
<p>'Anything you asked for,' he said desperately.</p>
<p>She laughed, and danced away, stretching out her
hands towards him,—</p>
<p>'Join in the saraband, Julian?'</p>
<p class="space-above">She was alone in her room. Her emotion and excitement
were so intense that they drained her of physical
strength, leaving her faint and cold; her eyes closed
now and then as under the pressure of pain; she yawned,
and her breath came shortly between her lips; she
sat by the open window, rose to move about the
room, sat again, rose again, passed her hand constantly
over her forehead, or pressed it against the base of
her throat. The room was in darkness; there was no
moon, only the stars hung over the black gulf of the
sea. She could see the long, low lights of Herakleion,
and the bright red light of the pier. She could hear
distant shouting, and an occasional shot. In the room
behind her, her bed was disordered. She wore only
her Spanish shawl thrown over her long nightgown;
her hair hung in its thick plait. Sometimes she formed,
in a whisper, the single word, 'Julian!'</p>
<p>She thought of Julian. Julian's rough head and
angry eyes. Julian when he said, 'I shall break you,'
like a man speaking to a wild young supple tree. (Her
laugh of derision, and her rejoicing in her secret fear!)
Julian in his lazy ownership of her beauty. Julian
when he allowed her to coax him from his moroseness.
Julian when she was afraid of him and of the storm
she had herself aroused: Julian passionate....</p>
<p>Julian whom she blindly wanted for herself alone.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span></p>
<p>That desire had risen to its climax. The light of
no other consideration filtered through into her closely
shuttered heart. She had waited for Julian, schemed
for Julian, battled for Julian; this was the final battle.
She had not foreseen it. She had tolerated and even
welcomed the existence of the Islands until she began
to realise that they took part of Julian from her. Then
she hated them insanely, implacably; including Kato,
whom Julian had called their tutelary deity, in that
hatred. Had Julian possessed a dog, she would have
hated that too.</p>
<p>The ambitions she had vaguely cherished for him
had not survived the test of surrendering a portion of
her own inordinate claim.</p>
<p>She had joined battle with the Islands as with a
malignant personality. She was fighting them for the
possession of Julian as she might have fought a woman
she thought more beautiful, more unscrupulous, more
appealing than herself, but with very little doubt of
ultimate victory. Julian would be hers, at last; more
completely hers than he had been even in those ideal,
uninterrupted days before Grbits and Kato came, the
days when he forgot his obligations, almost his life's
dream for her. Love all-eclipsing.... She stood
at the window, oppressed and tense, but in the soft
silken swaying of her loose garments against her limbs
she still found a delicately luxurious comfort.</p>
<p>Julian had been called away, called by the violent
hammering on the house-door; it had then been after
midnight. Two hours had passed since then. No one
had come to her, but she had heard the tumult of many
voices in the streets, and by leaning far out of the
window she could see a great flare burning up from the
market-place. She had thought a house might be on
fire. She could not look back over her dispositions;
they had been completed in a dream, as though under<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span>
direct dictation. It did not occur to her to be concerned
as to their possible miscarriage; she was too ignorant of
such matters, too unpractical, to be troubled by any
such anxiety. She had carried out Malteios' instructions
with intense concentration; there her part had ended.
The fuse which she had fired was burning.... If
Julian would return, to put an end to her impatience!</p>
<p>(Down in the market-place the wooden school-buildings
flamed and crackled, redly lighting up the
night, and fountains of sparks flew upward against the
sky. The lurid market-place was thronged with sullen
groups of islanders, under the guard of the soldiers of
Herakleion. In the centre, on the cobbles, lay the body
of Tsigaridis, on his back, arms flung open, still, in the
enormous pool of blood that crept and stained the edges
of his spread white fustanelle. Many of the islanders
were not fully dressed, but had run out half-naked
from their houses, only to be captured and disarmed
by the troops; the weapons which had been taken
from them lay heaped near the body of Tsigaridis, the
light of the flames gleaming along the blades of knives
and the barrels of rifles, and on the bare bronzed chests
of men, and limbs streaked with trickles of bright red
blood. They stood proudly, contemptuous of their
wounds, arms folded, some with rough bandages about
their heads. Panaïoannou, leaning both hands on the
hilt of his sword, and grinning sardonically beneath
his fierce moustaches, surveyed the place from the
steps of the assembly-room).</p>
<p>Eve in her now silent room realised that all sounds
of tumult had died away. A shivering came over her,
and, impelled by a suddenly understood necessity, she
lit the candles on her dressing-table and, as the room
sprang into light, began flinging the clothes out of the
drawers into a heap in the middle of the floor. They
fluttered softly from her hands, falling together in all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span>
their diverse loveliness of colour and fragility of texture.
She paused to smile to them, friends and allies. She
remembered now, with the fidelity of a child over a
well-learnt lesson, the final words of Malteios, 'A boat
ready for you both to-night, secret and without delay,'
as earlier in the evening she had remembered his other
words, 'Midnight, at the creek at the back of the
islands ...'; she had acted upon her lesson mechanically,
and in its due sequence, conscientious, trustful.</p>
<p>She stood amongst her clothes, the long red sari
which she had worn on the evening of Julian's first
triumph drooping from her hand. They foamed about
her feet as she stood doubtfully above them, strangely
brilliant herself in her Spanish shawl. They lay in a
pool of rich delicacy upon the floor. They hung over
the backs of chairs, and across the tumbled bed. They
pleased her; she thought them pretty. Stooping, she
raised them one by one, and allowed them to drop
back on to the heap, aware that she must pack them
and must also dress herself. But she liked their butterfly
colours and gentle rustle, and, remembering that
Julian liked them too, smiled to them again. He found
her standing there amongst them when after a knock
at her door he came slowly into her room.</p>
<p>He remained by the door for a long while looking
at her in silence. She had made a sudden, happy
movement towards him, but inexplicably had stopped,
and with the sari still in her hand gazed back at him,
waiting for him to speak. He looked above all, mortally
tired. She discovered no anger in his face, not even
sorrow; only that mortal weariness. She was touched;
she to whom those gentler emotions were usually foreign.</p>
<p>'Julian?' she said, seized with doubt.</p>
<p>'It is all over,' he began, quite quietly, and he put
his hand against his forehead, which was still bandaged,
raising his arm with the same lassitude; 'they landed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span>
where young Zapantiotis was on guard, and he let them
through; they were almost at the village before they
were discovered. There was very little fighting. They
have allowed me to come here. They are waiting for
me downstairs. I am to leave.'</p>
<p>'Yes,' she said, and looked down at her heap of
clothes.</p>
<p>He did not speak again, and gradually she realised
the implication of his words.</p>
<p>'Zapantiotis....' she said.</p>
<p>'Yes,' he said, raising his eyes again to her face,
'yes, you see, Zapantiotis confessed it all to me when
he saw me. He was standing amongst a group of
prisoners, in the market-place, but when I came by
he broke away from the guards and screamed out to me
that he had betrayed us. Betrayed us. He said he
was tempted, bribed. He said he would cut his own
throat. But I told him not to do that.'</p>
<p>She began to tremble, wondering how much he knew.
He added, in the saddest voice she had ever heard,—</p>
<p>'Zapantiotis, an islander, could not be faithful.'</p>
<p>Then she was terrified; she did not know what was
coming next, what would be the outcome of this quietness.
She wanted to go towards him, but she could
only remain motionless, holding the sari up to her
breast as a means of protection.</p>
<p>'At least,' he said, 'old Zapantiotis is dead, and will
never know about his son. Where can one look for
fidelity? Tsigaridis is dead too, and Grbits. I am
ashamed of being alive.'</p>
<p>She noticed then that he was disarmed.</p>
<p>'Why do you stand over there, Julian?' she said
timidly.</p>
<p>'I wonder how much you promised Zapantiotis?' he
said in a speculative voice; and next, stating a fact,
'You were, of course, acting on Malteios' suggestion.'</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span></p>
<p>'You know?' she breathed. She was quite sure now
that he was going to kill her.</p>
<p>'Zapantiotis tried to tell me that too—in a strange
jumble of confessions. But they dragged him away
before he could say more than your bare name. That
was enough for me. So I know, Eve.'</p>
<p>'Is that all you were going to say?'</p>
<p>He raised his arms and let them fall.</p>
<p>'What is there to say?'</p>
<p>Knowing him very well, she saw that his quietness
was dropping from him; she was aware of it perhaps
before he was aware of it himself. His eyes were losing
their dead apathy, and were travelling round the room;
they rested on the heap of clothes, on her own drawing
of himself hanging on the wall, on the disordered bed.
They flamed suddenly, and he made a step towards her.</p>
<p>'Why? why? why?' he cried out with the utmost
anguish and vehemence, but stopped himself, and
stood with clenched fists. She shrank away. 'All
gone—in an hour!' he said, and striding towards her
he stood over her, shaken with a tempest of passion.
She shrank farther from him, retreating against the
wall, but first she stooped and gathered her clothes
around her again, pressing her back against the wall
and cowering with the clothes as a rampart round her
feet. But as yet full realisation was denied her; she
knew that he was angry, she thought indeed that he
might kill her, but to other thoughts of finality she was,
in all innocence, a stranger.</p>
<p>He spoke incoherently, saying, 'All gone! All gone!'
in accents of blind pain, and once he said, 'I thought
you loved me,' putting his hands to his head as though
walls were crumbling. He made no further reproach,
save to repeat, 'I thought the men were faithful, and
that you loved me,' and all the while he trembled with
the effort of his self-control, and his twitching hands<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span>
reached out towards her once or twice, but he forced
them back. She thought, 'How angry he is! but he
will forget, and I shall make up to him for what he has
lost.' So, between them, they remained almost silent,
breathing hard, and staring at one another.</p>
<p>'Come, put up your clothes quickly,' he said at last,
pointing; 'they want us off the island, and if we do
not go of our own accord they will tie our hands and
feet and carry us to the boat. Let us spare ourselves
that ludicrous scene. We can marry in Athens
to-morrow.'</p>
<p>'Marry?' she repeated.</p>
<p>'Naturally. What else did you suppose? That I
should leave you? now? Put up your clothes. Shall
I help you? Come!'</p>
<p>'But—marry, Julian?'</p>
<p>'Clearly: marry,' he replied in a harsh voice, and
added, 'Let us go. For God's sake, let us go now! I
feel stunned, I mustn't begin to think. Let us go.'
He urged her towards the door.</p>
<p>'But we had nothing to do with marriage,' she
whispered.</p>
<p>He cried, so loudly and so bitterly that she was
startled,—</p>
<p>'No, we had to do only with love—love and rebellion!
And both have failed me. Now, instead of love, we
must have marriage; and instead of rebellion, law.
I shall help on authority, instead of opposing it.' He
broke down and buried his face in his hands.</p>
<p>'You no longer love me,' she said slowly, and her
eyes narrowed and turned slightly inwards in the way
Malteios had noticed. 'Then the Islands....'</p>
<p>He pressed both hands against his temples and
screamed like one possessed, 'But they were all in all
in all! It isn't the thing, it's the soul behind the thing.
In robbing me of them you've robbed me of more than<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span>
them—you've robbed me of all the meaning that lay
behind them.' He retained just sufficient self-possession
to realise this. 'I knew you were hostile, how
could I fail to know it? but I persuaded myself that
you were part of Aphros, part of all my beliefs, even
something beyond all my beliefs. I loved you, so you
and they had to be reconciled. I reconciled you in
secret. I gave up mentioning the Islands to you because
it stabbed me to see your indifference. It destroyed the
illusion I was cherishing. So I built up fresh, separate
illusions about you. I have been living on illusions,
now I have nothing left but facts. I owe this to you,
to you, to you!'</p>
<p>'You no longer love me,' she said again. She could
think of nothing else. She had not listened to his bitter
and broken phrases. 'You no longer love me, Julian.'</p>
<p>'I was so determined that I would be deceived by
no woman, and like every one else I have fallen into
the trap. Because you were you, I ceased to be on my
guard. Oh, you never pretended to care for Aphros;
I grant you that honesty; but I wanted to delude myself
and so I was deluded. I told myself marvellous tales
of your rarity; I thought you were above even Aphros.
I am punished for my weakness in bringing you here.
Why hadn't I the strength to remain solitary? I
reproach myself; I had not the right to expose my
Islands to such a danger. But how could I have known?
how could I have known?'</p>
<p>'Clearly you no longer love me,' she said for the
third time.</p>
<p>'Zapantiotis sold his soul for money—was it money
you promised him?' he went on. 'So easily—just for
a little money! His soul, and all of us, for money.
Money, father's god; he's a wise man, father, to serve
the only remunerative god. Was it money you promised
Zapantiotis?' he shouted at her, seizing her by the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span>
arm, 'or was he, perhaps, like Paul, in love with you?
Did you perhaps promise him yourself? How am I to
know? There may still be depths in you—you
woman—that I know nothing about. Did you give
yourself to Zapantiotis? Or is he coming to-night for
his reward? Did you mean to ship me off to Athens,
you and your accomplices, while you waited here in
this room—<i>our</i> room—for your lover?'</p>
<p>'Julian!' she cried—he had forced her on to her
knees—'you are saying monstrous things.'</p>
<p>'You drive me to them,' he replied; 'when I think
that while the troops were landing you lay in my arms,
here, knowing all the while that you had betrayed me—I
could believe anything of you. Monstrous things!
Do you know what monstrous things I am thinking?
That you shall not belong to Zapantiotis, but to me.
Yes, to me. You destroy love, but desire revives,
without love; horrible, but sufficient. That's what
I am thinking. I dare say I could kiss you still, and
forget. Come!'</p>
<p>He was beside himself.</p>
<p>'Your accusations are so outrageous,' she said,
half-fainting, 'your suggestions are obscene, Julian;
I would rather you killed me at once.'</p>
<p>'Then answer me about Zapantiotis. How am I to
know?' he repeated, already slightly ashamed of his
outburst, 'I'm readjusting my ideas. Tell me the
truth; I scarcely care.'</p>
<p>'Believe what you choose,' she replied, although
he still held her, terrified, on the ground at his feet,
'I have more pride than you credit me with—too much
to answer you.'</p>
<p>'It was money,' he said after a pause, releasing her.
She stood up; reaction overcame her, and she wept.</p>
<p>'Julian, that you should believe that of me! You
cut me to the quick—and I gave myself to you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span>
with such pride and gladness' she added almost
inaudibly.</p>
<p>'Forgive me; I suppose you, also, have your own
moral code; I have speculated sufficiently about it,
Heaven knows, but that means very little to me now,'
he said, more quietly, and with even a spark of detached
interest and curiosity. But he did not pursue the
subject. 'What do you want done with your clothes?
We have wasted quite enough time.'</p>
<p>'You want me to come with you?'</p>
<p>'You sound incredulous; why?'</p>
<p>'I know you have ceased to love me. You spoke of
marrying me. Your love must have been a poor flimsy
thing, to topple over as it has toppled! Mine is more
tenacious, alas. It would not depend on outside
happenings.'</p>
<p>'How dare you accuse me?' he said,' You destroy and
take from me all that I care for' ('Yes,' she interpolated,
as much bitterness in her voice as in his own—but all
the time they were talking against one another—'you
cared for everything but me'), 'then you brand my love
for you as a poor flimsy thing. If you have killed it,
you have done so by taking away the one thing....'</p>
<p>'That you cared for more than for me,' she completed.</p>
<p>'With which I would have associated you. You
yourself made that association impossible. You hated
the things I loved. Now you've killed those things,
and my love for you with them. You've killed everything
I cherished and possessed.'</p>
<p>'Dead? Irretrievably?' she whispered.</p>
<p>'Dead.'</p>
<p>He saw her widened and swimming eyes, and added,
too much stunned for personal malice, yet angry because
of the pain he was suffering,—</p>
<p>'You shall never be jealous of me again. I think I've
loved all women, loving you—gone through the whole<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span>
of love, and now washed my hands of it; I've tested
and plumbed your vanity, your hideous egotism'—she
was crying like a child, unreservedly, her face
hidden against her arm—'your lack of breadth in everything
that was not love.'</p>
<p>As he spoke, she raised her face and he saw light
breaking on her—although it was not, and never would
be, precisely the light he desired. It was illumination
and horror; agonised horror, incredulous dismay. Her
eyes were streaming with tears, but they searched him
imploringly, despairingly, as in a new voice she said,—</p>
<p>'I've hurt you, Julian ... how I've hurt you! Hurt
you! I would have died for you. Can't I put it right?
oh, tell me! Will you kill me?' and she put her hand
up to her throat, offering it. 'Julian, I've hurt you
... my own, my Julian. What have I done? What
madness made me do it? Oh, what is there now for
me to do? only tell me; I do beseech you only to tell
me. Shall I go—to whom?—to Malteios? I understand
nothing; you must tell me. I wanted you so
greedily; you must believe that. Anything, anything
you want me to do.... It wasn't sufficient, to love
you, to want you; I gave you all I had, but it wasn't
sufficient. I loved you wrongly, I suppose; but I
loved you, I loved you!'</p>
<p>He had been angry, but now he was seized with a
strange pity; pity of her childish bewilderment: the
thing that she had perpetrated was a thing she could
not understand. She would never fully understand....
He looked at her as she stood crying, and remembered
her other aspects, in the flood-time of her joy, careless,
radiant, irresponsible; they had shared hours of
illimitable happiness.</p>
<p>'Eve! Eve!' he cried, and through the wrenching
despair of his cry he heard the funeral note, the tear of
cleavage like the downfall of a tree.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span></p>
<p>He took her in his arms and made her sit upon the
bed; she continued to weep, and he sat beside her,
stroking her hair. He used terms of endearment towards
her, such as he had never used in the whole course of
their passionate union, 'Eve, my little Eve'; and he
kept on repeating, 'my little Eve,' and pressing her
head against his shoulder.</p>
<p>They sat together like two children. Presently she
looked up, pushing back her hair with a gesture he
knew well.</p>
<p>'We both lose the thing we cared most for upon
earth, Julian: you lose the Islands, and I lose you.'</p>
<p>She stood up, and gazed out of the window towards
Herakleion. She stood there for some time without
speaking, and a fatal clearness spread over her mind,
leaving her quite strong, quite resolute, and coldly
armoured against every shaft of hope.</p>
<p>'You want me to marry you,' she said at length.</p>
<p>'You must marry me in Athens to-morrow, if possible,
and as soon as we are married we can go to England.'</p>
<p>'I utterly refuse,' she said, turning round towards
him.</p>
<p>He stared at her; she looked frail and tired, and with
one small white hand held together the edges of her
Spanish shawl. She was no longer crying.</p>
<p>'Do you suppose,' she went on, 'that not content
with having ruined the beginning of your life for you—I
realise it now, you see—I shall ruin the rest of it as
well? You may believe me or not, I speak the truth
like a dying person when I tell you I love you to the
point of sin; yes, it's a sin to love as I love you. It's
blind, it's criminal. It's my curse, the curse of Eve,
to love so well that one loves badly. I didn't see. I
wanted you too blindly. Even now I scarcely understand
how you can have ceased to love me.—No, don't
speak. I do understand it—in a way; and yet I don't<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span>
understand it. I don't understand that an idea can be
dearer to one than the person one loves.... I don't
understand responsibilities; when you've talked about
responsibilities I've sometimes felt that I was made of
other elements than you.... But you're a man,
and I'm a woman; that's the rift. Perhaps it's a
rift that can never be bridged. Never mind that.
Julian, you must find some more civilised woman than
myself; find a woman who will be a friend, not an
enemy. Love makes me into an enemy, you see. Find
somebody more tolerant, more unselfish. More maternal.
Yes, that's it,' she said, illuminated, 'more maternal;
I'm only a lover, not a mother. You told me once that
I was of the sort that sapped and destroyed. I'll admit
that, and let you go. You mustn't waste yourself on
me. But, oh, Julian,' she said, coming close to him,
'if I give you up—because in giving you up I utterly
break myself—grant me one justice: never doubt
that I loved you. Promise me, Julian. I shan't love
again. But don't doubt that I loved you; don't argue
to yourself, "She broke my illusions, therefore she never
loved me," let me make amends for what I did, by
sending you away now without me.'</p>
<p>'I was angry; I was lying; I wanted to hurt you
as you had hurt me,' he said desperately. 'How can I
tell what I have been saying to you? I've been dazed,
struck.... It's untrue that I no longer love you.
I love you, in spite, in spite.... Love can't die in an
hour.'</p>
<p>'Bless you,' she said, putting her hand for a moment
on his head, 'but you can't deceive me. Oh,' she
hurried on, 'you might deceive yourself; you might
persuade yourself that you still loved me and wanted
me to go with you; but I know better. I'm not for you.
I'm not for your happiness, or for any man's happiness.
You've said it yourself: I am different. I let you go<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span>
because you are strong and useful—oh, yes, useful! so
disinterested and strong, all that I am not—too good
for me to spoil. You have nothing in common with me.
Who has? I think I haven't any kindred. I love you!
I love you better than myself!'</p>
<p>He stood up; he stammered in his terror and
earnestness, but she only shook her head.</p>
<p>'No, Julian.'</p>
<p>'You're too strong,' he cried, 'you little weak thing;
stronger than I.'</p>
<p>She smiled; he was unaware of the very small reserve
of her strength.</p>
<p>'Stronger than you,' she repeated; 'yes.'</p>
<p>Again he implored her to go with him; he even
threatened her, but she continued to shake her head and
to say in a faint and tortured voice,—</p>
<p>'Go now, Julian; go, my darling; go now, Julian.'</p>
<p>'With you, or not at all.' He was at last seriously
afraid that she meant what she said,</p>
<p>'Without me.'</p>
<p>'Eve, we were so happy. Remember! Only come;
we shall be as happy again.'</p>
<p>'You mustn't tempt me; it's cruel,' she said,
shivering. 'I'm human.'</p>
<p>'But I love you!' he said. He seized her hands,
and tried to drag her towards the door.</p>
<p>'No,' she answered, putting him gently away from
her. 'Don't tempt me, Julian, don't; let me make
amends in my own way.'</p>
<p>Her gentleness and dignity were such that he now
felt reproved, and, dimly, that the wrong done was by
him towards her, not by her towards him.</p>
<p>'You are too strong—magnificent, and heartbreaking,'
he said in despair.</p>
<p>'As strong as a rock,' she replied, looking straight
at him and thinking that at any moment she must<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span>
fall. But still she forced her lips to a smile of
finality.</p>
<p>'Think better of it,' he was beginning, when they
heard a stir of commotion in the court below.</p>
<p>'They are coming for you!' she cried out in sudden
panic. 'Go; I can't face any one just now....'</p>
<p>He opened the door on to the landing.</p>
<p>'Kato!' he said, falling back. Eve heard the note
of fresh anguish in his voice.</p>
<p>Kato came in; even in that hour of horror they saw
that she had merely dragged a quilt round her shoulders,
and that her hair was down her back. In this guise her
appearance was indescribably grotesque.</p>
<p>'Defeated, defeated,' she said in lost tones to
Julian. She did not see that they had both involuntarily
recoiled before her; she was beyond such considerations.</p>
<p>'Anastasia,' he said, taking her by the arm and
shaking her slightly to recall her from her bemusement,
'here is something more urgent—thank God, you will
be my ally—Eve must leave Aphros with me; tell her
so, tell her so; she refuses.' He shook her more violently
with the emphasis of his words.</p>
<p>'If he wants you....' Kato said, looking at Eve,
who had retreated into the shadows and stood there,
half fainting, supporting herself against the back of
a chair. 'If he wants you....' she repeated, in a stupid
voice, but her mind was far away.</p>
<p>'You don't understand, Anastasia,' Eve answered;
'it was I that betrayed him.' Again she thought she
must fall.</p>
<p>'She is lying!' cried Julian.</p>
<p>'No,' said Eve. She and Kato stared at one another,
so preposterously different, yet with currents of truth
rushing between them.</p>
<p>'You!' Kato said at last, awaking.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span></p>
<p>'I am sending him away,' said Eve, speaking as
before to the other woman.</p>
<p>'You!' said Kato again. She turned wildly to Julian.
'Why didn't you trust yourself to me, Julian, my
beloved?' she cried; 'I wouldn't have treated you so,
Julian; why didn't you trust yourself to me?' She
pointed at Eve, silent and brilliant in her coloured
shawl; then, her glance falling upon her own person,
so sordid, so unkempt, she gave a dreadful cry and
looked around as though seeking for escape. The
other two both turned their heads away; to look at
Kato in that moment was more than they could
bear.</p>
<p>Presently they heard her speaking again; her self-abandonment
had been brief; she had mastered herself,
and was making it a point of honour to speak with
calmness.</p>
<p>'Julian, the officers have orders that you must leave
the island before dawn; if you do not go to them, they
will fetch you here. They are waiting below in the
courtyard now. Eve,'—her face altered,—'Eve is right:
if she has indeed done as she says, she cannot go with
you. She is right; she is more right, probably, than she
has ever been in her life before or ever will be again.
Come, now; I will go with you.'</p>
<p>'Stay with Eve, if I go,' he said.</p>
<p>'Impossible!' replied Kato, instantly hardening, and
casting upon Eve a look of hatred and scorn.</p>
<p>'How cruel you are, Anastasia!' said Julian, making
a movement of pity towards Eve.</p>
<p>'Take him away, Anastasia,' Eve murmured, shrinking
from him.</p>
<p>'See, she understands me better than you do, and
understands herself better too,' said Kato, in a tone of
cruel triumph; 'if you do not come, Julian, I shall send
up the officers.' As she spoke she went out of the room,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span>
her quilt trailing, and her heel-less slippers clacking on
the boards.</p>
<p>'Eve, for the last time....'</p>
<p>A cry was wrenched from her,—</p>
<p>'Go! if you pity me!'</p>
<p>'I shall come back.'</p>
<p>'Oh, no, no!' she replied, 'you'll never come back.
One doesn't live through such things twice.' She shook
her head like a tortured animal that seeks to escape from
pain. He gave an exclamation of despair, and, after
one wild gesture towards her, which she weakly repudiated,
he followed Kato. Eve heard their steps upon the
stairs, then crossing the courtyard, and the tramp of
soldiers; the house-door crashed massively. She stooped
very slowly and mechanically, and began to pick up the
gay and fragile tissue of her clothes.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span></p>
<h2>VII</h2>
<p>She laid them all in orderly fashion across the bed,
smoothing out the folds with a care that was strangely
opposed to her usual impatience. Then she stood for
some time drawing the thin silk of the sari through her
fingers and listening for sounds in the house; there were
none. The silence impressed her with the fact that she
was alone.</p>
<p>'Gone!' she thought, but she made no movement.</p>
<p>Her eyes narrowed and her mouth became contracted
with pain.</p>
<p>'Julian ...' she murmured, and, finding some
slippers, she thrust her bare feet into them with sudden
haste and threw the corner of her shawl over her
shoulder.</p>
<p>She moved now with feverish speed; any one seeing
her face would have exclaimed that she was not in
conscious possession of her will, but would have shrunk
before the force of her determination. She opened the
door upon the dark staircase and went rapidly down;
the courtyard was lit by a torch the soldiers had left
stuck and flaring in a bracket. She had some trouble
with the door, tearing her hands and breaking her nails
upon the great latch, but she felt nothing, dragged it
open, and found herself in the street. At the end of the
street she could see the glare from the burning buildings
of the market-place, and could hear the shout of military
orders.</p>
<p>She knew she must take the opposite road; Malteios
had told her that. 'Go by the mule-path over the hill;
it will lead you straight to the creek where the boat will
be waiting,' he had said. 'The boat for Julian and me,'<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span>
she kept muttering to herself as she speeded up the path
stumbling over the shallow steps and bruising her feet
upon the cobbles. It was very dark. Once or twice as
she put out her hand to save herself from falling she
encountered only a prickly bush of aloe or gorse, and
the pain stung her, causing a momentary relief.</p>
<p>'I mustn't hurry too much,' she said to herself,
'I mustn't arrive at the creek before they have pushed
off the boat. I mustn't call out....'</p>
<p>She tried to compare her pace with that of Julian,
Kato, and the officers, and ended by sitting down for a
few minutes at the highest point of the path, where it
had climbed over the shoulder of the island, and was
about to curve down upon the other side. From this
small height, under the magnificent vault studded with
stars, she could hear the sigh of the sea and feel the
slight breeze ruffling her hair. 'Without Julian, without
Julian—no, never,' she said to herself, and that one
thought revolved in her brain. 'I'm alone,' she thought,
'I've always been alone.... I'm an outcast, I don't
belong here....' She did not really know what she
meant by this, but she repeated it with a blind conviction,
and a terrible loneliness overcame her. 'Oh, stars!'
she said aloud, putting up her hands to them, and again
she did not know what she meant, either by the words
or the gesture. Then she realised that it was dark, and
standing up she thought, 'I'm frightened,' but there was
no reply to the appeal for Julian that followed immediately
upon the thought. She clasped her shawl round her,
and tried to stare through the night; then she thought
'People on the edge of death have no need to be frightened,'
but for all that she continued to look fearfully about her,
to listen for sounds, and to wish that Julian would come
to take care of her.</p>
<p>She went down the opposite side of the hill less rapidly
than she had come up. She knew she must not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span>
overtake Julian and his escort. She did not really know
why she had chosen to follow them, when any other part
of the coast would have been equally suitable for what
she had determined to do. But she kept thinking, as
though it brought some consolation, 'He passed along
this path five—ten—minutes ago; he is there somewhere,
not far in front of me.' And she remembered how
he had begged her to go with him. ' ... But I couldn't
have gone!' she cried, half in apology to the dazzling
happiness she had renounced, 'I was a curse to him—to
everything I touch. I could never have controlled my
jealousy, my exorbitance.... He asked me to go,
to be with him always,' she thought, sobbing and
hurrying on; and she sobbed his name, like a child,
'Julian! Julian! Julian!'</p>
<p>Presently the path ceased to lead downhill and
became flat, running along the top of the rocky cliff
about twenty feet above the sea. She moved more
cautiously, knowing that it would bring her to the little
creek where the boat was to be waiting; as she moved
she blundered constantly against boulders, for the path
was winding and in the starlight very difficult to follow.
She was still fighting with herself, 'No, I could not go
with him; I am not fit.... I don't belong here....'
that reiterated cry. 'But without him—no, no, no!
This is quite simple. Will he think me bad? I hope
not; I shall have done what I could....' Her complexity
had entirely deserted her, and she thought in
broad, childish lines. 'Poor Eve!' she thought suddenly,
viewing herself as a separate person, 'she was very
young' (in her eyes youth amounted to a moral virtue),
'Julian, Julian, be a little sorry for her,—I was cursed,
I was surely cursed,' she added, and at that moment
she found herself just above the creek.</p>
<p>The path descended to it in rough steps, and with a
beating heart she crept down, helping herself by her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span>
hands, until she stood upon the sand, hidden in the
shadow of a boulder. The shadows were very black and
hunched, like the shadows of great beasts. She listened,
the softness of her limbs pressed against the harshness
of the rocks. She heard faint voices, and, creeping forward,
still keeping in the shadows, she made out the
shape of a rowing-boat filled with men about twenty
yards from the shore.</p>
<p>'Kato has gone with him!' was her first idea, and at
that all her jealousy flamed again—the jealousy that,
at the bottom of her heart, she knew was groundless,
but could not keep in check. Anger revived her—'Am
I to waste myself on him?' she thought, but immediately
she remembered the blank that that one word 'Never!'
could conjure up, and her purpose became fixed again.
'Not life without him,' she thought firmly and unchangeably,
and moved forward until her feet were
covered by the thin waves lapping the sandy edge of
the creek. She had thrown off her shoes, standing
barefoot on the soft wet sand.</p>
<p>Here she paused to allow the boat to draw farther
away. She knew that she would cry out, however strong
her will, and she must guard against all chance of rescue.
She waited at the edge of the creek, shivering, and
drawing her silk garments about her, and forcing herself
to endure the cold horror of the water washing round
her ankles. How immense was the night, how immense
the sea!—The oars in the boat dipped regularly; by now
it was almost undistinguishable in the darkness.</p>
<p>'What must I do?' she thought wildly, knowing the
moment had come. 'I must run out as far as I can....'
She sent an unuttered cry of 'Julian!' after the boat,
and plunged forward; the coldness of the water stopped
her as it reached her waist, and the long silk folds became
entangled around her limbs, but she recovered herself
and fought her way forward. Instinctively she kept<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span>
her hands pressed against her mouth and nostrils, and
her staring eyes tried to fathom this cruelly deliberate
death. Then the shelving coast failed her beneath her
feet; she had lost the shallows and was taken by the
swell and rhythm of the deep. A thought flashed through
her brain, 'This is where the water ceases to be green and
becomes blue'; then in her terror she lost all self-control
and tried to scream; it was incredible that Julian, who
was so near at hand, should not hear and come to save
her; she felt herself tiny and helpless in that great surge
of water; even as she tried to scream she was carried
forward and under, in spite of her wild terrified battle
against the sea, beneath the profound serenity of the
night that witnessed and received her expiation.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span></p>
<p class="center">GLASGOW: W. COLLINS SONS AND CO. LTD.</p>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 61925 ***</div>
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