CHAPTER XXI. A CHORUS OF ATHENIAN MAIDENS.
When Constantine lighted his niece’s candle and handed it to her, he touched Pericles on the arm and nodded.
“I want you to smoke a cigarette with me before going to bed. I have something to say to you.”
Pericles suffered himself to be led into the sitting-room, and proceeded to roll up a cigarette while his brother lighted the lamp.
“We are agreed upon the advisability of at once marrying Inarime, I suppose?” he began.
“At once!” Pericles exclaimed, in alarm.
“Why not?”
“Think of her recent wound. She behaved so well. I cannot in conscience so soon do wrong to the memory of her lover.”
“Sentiment! The world only exists by ignoring it. What have the fancies of girls to do with suitable family arrangements? I declare you are as great a fool as the child herself. A young woman permits herself the blamable freedom of looking complacently upon a young man who has not been officially chosen for her. She must perforce think herself a martyr and her guardians executioners, when it becomes necessary for them to reprimand her and order her to withdraw her prematurely fixed affections. Good gracious! It is preposterous. We might as well be in England or in some equally wild place, where girls are unprotected and forward.”
“Whom have you in view?” Pericles quietly asked, bringing the orator back to the point.
“Oïdas.”
“The Mayor! Why, he is a widower and nearly as old as myself.”
“What does it matter? He is rich and influential. Inarime will have a handsome house,—you know that colonnaded building near the Palace? Well, when a man has such a house as that to offer a woman, she need not trouble to examine the wrinkles on his forehead or the crowsfeet under his eyes, or whether his hair be grey or black or red. All things are relative, Pericles, even youth and beauty. It depends on the purse.”
“But have you any proof that Kyrios Oïdas is disposed to think of my daughter?”
“The best possible. He told me so to-night.”
Pericles started, and stared doubtingly at his brother.
“You do not credit me, I see, but it is true, I assure you. He admires her, wants a wife, asked if she had a dowry, and notified his willingness to demand her in marriage.”
“He is a rich man, undoubtedly,” Pericles slowly admitted, remembering just then that Reineke had not started by considerations of the dowry. “In his country women are bought,” he said to himself, “in ours their husbands are purchased. It is merely an opinion on which side the barter is more honourable.”
“You consent then to my calling to-morrow on Oïdas with an official communication and recognition?”
“It is too soon,” Pericles pleaded.
“It is never too soon to marry your child well.”
“Perhaps you are right. I would have chosen a younger man. However, do not precipitate matters. I must know more of this Oïdas. He is a politician, and you know my feelings towards that class of men. It is just possible he may be less disreputable and illiterate than the general run. He cannot be an honourable man upon your own admission, for he stooped to buy the influence of that reptile, Stavros.”
“True, but all politicians do so. The greater they are, the more unscrupulous. It is part of their métier, as callousness to pain is of the surgeon’s. You have studied history and I have not; then this fact you must have learnt.”
“Sometimes the loose political mind may prove itself more keenly apprehensive of correct deductions than that of the studiously trained thinker,” Pericles rejoined, with a subtle smile. “Doubtless it is I who am in error.”
“This is idle wandering. I’ll grant you anything in argument, only grant me in turn the consideration of Oïdas’ proposals and his formal reception.”
Pericles thought awhile, then rose and stretched his arms.
“There will be nothing incorrect in receiving him. I cannot settle straight off to marry Inarime to him, but I agree with you that his proposals are worth considering. He is not the man I should have selected, and that is why I hesitate to compromise our honour. But he can come. I will not coerce my child. It is for her to say whether he will stay.”
This concession was more than Constantine had dared to hope for, and his spirits rose to the point of exuberance next morning when an invitation came from Madame Jarovisky’s for Inarime to attend an afternoon party for young people given in honour of her daughter’s birthday.
There were about twenty young ladies and mature little girls, with a sprinkling of boys and youths from the military and naval schools, at Madame Jarovisky’s when Inarime entered the rooms, escorted by her father. The chaperons retired to the salon downstairs, to refresh themselves with tea and return to their homes, or stay and watch the youngsters disport and play. By and by Miltiades came, that prince of masters of ceremonies, especially invited to conduct the cotillon, and show the small rabble how to dance the mazurka. Could a hero object to shine and lead, even in minute and giggling society? Heavens above us! What would be the result of an entertainment in Athens without Miltiades? Confusion, scare, and disgrace,—worse, the privation of its most picturesque adornment, and its crown of military glory.
The young ladies of Athens were there in every stage, little women dressed like dolls, flirting and pouting with grave little old men of ten and twelve; girls in tutelage, breaking from their governess to dance a riotous quadrille with the future defenders of their country upon land and water; and lastly, the self-conscious and important “demoiselles à marier,” who play Chopin’s Second Nocturne to the desolation of those who understand Chopin, chatter ceaselessly in indifferent French, draw flowers and keep albums for the collection of all the heart-broken verses in European tongues. Into this lively and flippant circle Inarime was at once whirled with voluble cordiality and cries of frantic enthusiasm.
Mademoiselle Eméraude Veritassi was the presiding archangel, in the artistic setting of the expensive Antoinette. The angels were Miss Mary Perpignani, Sappho Jarovisky, Andromache Karapolos, Proserpine Agiropoulos, and the young ladies of the American legation. Eméraude was the key to the general mood,—she was captain of a pliable and sensitive band of very amiable young marauders. She welcomed Inarime avidly, with the frankest smile and a swift approval of her toilet. The others clustered round her and somewhat bewildered her with this sudden introduction to noisy unmeditative girlhood. Of the mind and ways of girls she was savagely ignorant, we know, and all these laughing faces and softly brilliant glances, turned upon her, shook her with surprise and terror. Could it be that she was one of them and so aloof, so absolutely unlike and out of sympathy with them? Joy and vigour were abounding in them, the susceptible and intoxicating blood of youth and its untamable pulses, gave fire to their eyes and chased reflection from their minds. When they danced together, or with boys of their own age, their steps sprang over the polished floor with the urgent impetuosity of their years. When they stood near her, and panted and laughed between their gasping speech, she felt as the Peri might, gazing upon happiness afar.
She envied these absurd and frivolous maidens, envied them their untroubled youth,—beside which her own looked sad and grey-toned,—their free hearts and meaningless laughter, their twinkling feet and innocent sentimentality.
“You do not dance,” said Eméraude, pausing beside her after a wild waltz, with fluttering bosom, like a pursued bird.
“I have never danced. I have never met girls before,” Inarime answered, with a sharp note of regret in her voice.
Imagine the consternation and the wonder on the faces around her. Eméraude was naturally spokeswoman for the party. She expressed an opinion that the conversation should be carried on in Greek instead of French.
“Then we shall have to speak our best Greek,” cried Sappho, having heard of Inarime’s learning. “Mademoiselle Selaka speaks the language of Plutarch.”
“Oh, no,” exclaimed Inarime, with a deprecating smile. “I have the current Athenian at your service. Except with my father, I am accustomed to speak the rough brogue of our island.”
“There is just the faintest perceptible tinge of the Archipelago in your accent,” affirmed Eméraude, authoritatively. “This is your first visit to Athens?”
“My first.”
“Oh, are you not happy to be here?” carolled Andromache. “Athens—ah! it is so lovely. I could not leave it.”
“Tell us of your life in Tenos,” said Eméraude, taking up the dominant melody of the concerto, and at once the chorus of followers pressed their captain’s demand with an inarticulate cry of accentuated agreement.
“It is very simple. I read and walk with my father, and when not thus occupied, I help Annunziata in housework or I write letters for the villagers.”
“Annunziata! That is a pretty name. Italian?”
“She is Greek, of remotely Italian origin.”
“And why do you write letters for the villagers?” asked Sappho. “Can they not write themselves?”
“None of the women in the villages of Lutra, Xinara, or Mousoulou can write but myself.”
“How marvellous!” exclaimed Miss Perpignani, and the girls wore a look of interjection.
“Are there goats?”
Inarime stared a little at such an obviously foolish question. Her steady luminous gaze struck chill upon the volatile young circle, and for an instant checked their chatter. Then some one broke the uneasy silence.
“How about your dresses? You must leave Tenos when you want new clothes. This pretty frock is surely Athenian.”
“Yes, that is because I am here, and my uncle wishes me to be dressed like everybody else, but hitherto I have had my dresses made at Tenos. They are well made too.”
“Not possible! Like ours, in the modern fashion?”
Inarime lightly scanned the costumes round her.
“I do not think Tenos could produce anything like these,” she said, simply, “but then we would not know what to do with them over there.”
“Do you live far from the town?”
“Yes, a good way. It takes nearly three hours by mule.”
“I suppose you have no carriages in Tenos?”
“There are no roads to begin with, and in consequence no vehicles of any sort. It is a very rough, wild place.”
“And now you have come to Athens to be married,” concluded Eméraude. “Do you look forward to marriage?”
A dusky colour shot up into Inarime’s face like a hidden flame. She fixed her eyes slowly on Mademoiselle Veritassi.
“If it is my father’s wish that I should marry, it will be my duty to obey him, but I trust he will not ask it of me.”
Another look of wondering consternation flashed over the circle. Not wish to marry! have a house of her own and take precedence of unmarried girls! be somebody in social life, give parties and travel!
“I thought all girls liked the notion of getting married,” remarked Miss Mary Perpignani. “It is so dull to be unmarried, not to be able to go out alone, or to go to Antoinette’s and order what you like. Just think how delightful it must be to be free, like a young man, and do all sorts of lovely naughty things, dance twice if you like with the handsomest officer without any one to tell you it is not convenable, and read all the dreadful French novels. We poor girls are so harassed with that horrid word convenable. To see little boys at the age of ten allowed to stand on their heads and we, aching for liberty, not allowed to budge at thirty if we are not married!”
“Oh, shocking to think of, as the English say,” cried Sappho, clapping her hands to her ears to shut out the spoken description. “We are martyrs, we unhappy girls.”
“Your faces belie your misery,” said Inarime, gravely.
“Que voulez-vous, Mademoiselle?” Eméraude retorted, gaily, “nous autres, nous sommes á peu près Françaises. Il faut être bien mis et savoir rire malgré tout. Avent de me tuer, je mettrai ma plus jolie robe.”
“Oh, ma chère, ma chère,” the shocked angels chorussed. Then turning to Inarime, one of them soothed her perplexity.
“Don’t pay any heed to the exaggerations of Eméraude. She likes to frighten people. She talks that way, but she means nothing. Comme tu sais blaguer, Eméraude.”
“Mais, point du tout. Je suis sérieuse. Qu’est ce que serait la vie si l’on ne savait pas se moquer de ses chagrins, au lieu de s’en attrister?” protested Eméraude.
“I applaud your sentiment. Cheerfulness I should imagine to be the lesson of life and our highest aspiration,” said Inarime.
“It is not mine, assuredly,” cried Sappho. “My dream is excitement—oh, but the excitement that consumes and fills up every hour, waking and sleeping. I should adore being married to a man I hated, rich, powerful and commanding, of whom I was desperately afraid, and to be in love with a poor, divinely beautiful young officer. To think of the thrilling terrors and consuming bliss of meetings at parties, at theatres, in picture galleries, horribly shadowed by a jealous husband, only time to whisper a hurried greeting and look into each other’s eyes——”
Be assured this rash prospective sinner was in mind as innocent of a sinister meaning as in limpid gaze. Mademoiselle Veritassi measured her scornfully.
“You have probably been taking your first plunge into Feuillet in secret, and are talking of what you do not in the least understand. You would find your young officer a complete idiot, and his divinely beautiful face would soon enough pall on you. Love, romantic or otherwise, will not be my domain. I aspire to marry a man of moderate intelligence, pliable, of the world and of the best tone, with the doors of a foreign embassy open to him, whom I shall mould and lead, and whose fortune I shall make. My dream is more legitimate, though from the purely masculine point of view, hardly less incorrect than Sappho’s.”
“And yours?” Andromache asked shyly of Inarime.
“Mine? I have none. I have not felt the need for excitement or novelty. My quiet, uneventful life has hitherto amply satisfied me—until lately, until quite lately,” she added, with a slight break in her voice.
Mademoiselle Veritassi scrutinised her through narrowed lids, and smiled imperceptibly.
“You speak German, I am told, fluently. I presume you had a governess.”
“No, my father was my tutor. He taught me everything that I know.”
“Your father! and no governess! And embroidery, music, drawing and the rest?” Mademoiselle Veritassi gasped.
“I know nothing of such graceful accomplishments. With books I am acquainted, and though I have never measured my speed with any other girl’s, my father tells me I am a swift runner. But girls so brilliantly finished as you will laugh to hear me speak of running.”
“No, no. It is charming. A modern Atlanta. You are truly a divine creature. As for us, our futile accomplishments are mere gossamer wings to skim to social heights for which we are destined. There they drop from us, and their instability is their only charm. Yours are of solider weight, with the merit of corresponding permanence.”
“It is kind of you to reassure me thus, but I know my value. I am only a bookish peasant.”
“Eméraude is right,” Miss Perpignani cooed, caressingly. “You are a divine creature—beautiful as a picture.”
Inarime glanced pitifully at the youthful leader whose voice to these girls was as the voice of fame. Her own intellect was rare, and her knowledge profound, and yet she was humiliated and acutely conscious of her inferiority to this dainty damsel, who fluttered and flirted her fragile fan with inimitable grace, and wore her girlhood with an air of sovereignty that came of twenty years’ sway at home and abroad. We may divine that it was the extreme fastidiousness of the heiress and only child that allowed her to reach twenty unclaimed.
“You have but to wish it to outstrip us all on our own ground. But, I beseech you, spare us. Think what rivalry with you would mean for us. The sun above the stars. Be content with your beauty and your books, and do not ask to descend to the mere social arena. For me, I ask nothing better than to be your friend.”
The little ones had come to the end of their hour of rhythmic movement, and Miltiades, beaming in the splendour of black and gold, was officiously telling off the couples for the cotillon. He approached the girls, and asked if Mademoiselle Selaka would dance. Inarime shook her head.
“Do, do, dear Inarime—may I?” pleaded Mademoiselle Veritassi. “It will give us all such pleasure to watch you.”
“Yes, yes,” chorused the followers.
“But I cannot dance, alas!” Inarime murmured.
“Your voice is like velvet, and yet clear though so softly murmurous. Do not fear. It is quite simple. Pray be persuaded. Captain Karapolos will guide you.”
Inarime suffered herself to be led across the room to the spot where the couples were noisily forming themselves. Just then she saw Rudolph Ehrenstein enter with the Baroness von Hohenfels on his arm, who surveyed the young people through her face-à-main with a complacent smile. The smile intensified when Inarime came under its rays, while Rudolph and Andromache were looking far too eloquently at each other. Inarime understood the mute avowal of momently wedded orbs, and a thrill of remembered delight and anguish swept over her like a blast.
O bliss too fleeting, and O pain too sweet!