“You don’t know Pericles. He is a confounded idiot. Nothing but learning will go down with him. Death before dishonour. Modern Athens represents dishonour to him, because it presumes to prefer other things to the very respectable ancients. If he came to Athens, like Jarovisky, he would expect Inarime to fix her eyes permanently on the Acropolis, with intervals for recognition of the Theseium and minor points of antiquity. I foresee her end. He’ll marry her to some wretched twopenny-halfpenny archæologist, who will barely be able to pay the rent of a flat in some shabby street, and the wages of a maid of all work.”
“We must avert her doom, Constantine. Have her up to town, and bring her some night to the theatre when the King is expected to attend. The young men will stare at her from the stalls, and I’ll have an elegant verse upon her in the ‘New Aristophanes.’”
This proposition brought them to the Boulé in Stadion Street. The Prime Minister’s carriage was outside, and along the railing a row of loafers reclined, discussing each member as he passed in, and the space inside the gates was strewn with soldiers and civilians of every grade. The sharp swarthy faces lit up with eager recognition when Dr. Selaka and Stavros entered the gate, and familiar and jocose greetings were flung casually at them from the crowd.
“Glad to see you have a new coat, Constantine,” one urchin roared after Selaka, and sent his admirers into fits of laughter.
With the dignity of demeanour it behoved a mayor-elect to assume, Selaka coldly ignored the jibes and jokes of the loafers, touched his hat to his acquaintances and ascended the steps of the Chamber with weighty prophecy of obstruction upon his brow. The interior of the Chamber was a sight for the gods. The floor behind the president was held by corner-boys, soldiers, peasants and beggars in common with the representatives of King George’s Parliament. Deputies in fustanella and embroidered jacket showed pictorially against the less imposing apparel of civilization, and addressed the president at their ease, frequently not condescending to stand, but lounged back in their seats, and merely arrested his attention with an authoritative hand. The proceedings could be watched upstairs from a gallery of boxes, and a very amusing and lively half-hour might thus be spent. The stage below was filled with grown-up children, who fought and wrangled, exchanged amenities and breathless personalities, and foolishly imagined they were ruling the country. It is impossible to conjecture what a parliament of women would be like, but we can safely predict that it could not well surpass the average parliament of men in the futile chatter, squabbling and display of ill-temper.
Dr. Selaka took his seat in a leisurely manner, under the minister’s eye, on the front seat, and listened, with a protruded underlip and the look of sagacity on the alert. Stavros sat back, extending his arms behind the backs of his neighbors, and wore an expression of ostentatious amusement befitting the editor of a satirical newspaper.
The unlucky minister hazarded a loose statement, which gave Dr. Selaka his opportunity. He was on his legs, with two spots of excited red staining his sallow cheeks under the eyes, and opened a vehement fire of epithet and expostulation. The minister retorted, and Stavros, seated where he was, just held out a cool protesting finger, and cried: “You lie.”
The English Cabinet Minister was sitting upstairs in the box set apart for the diplomatic corps, and on this statement being translated to him, he leant forward and focussed the lawyer with his impertinent eyeglass. This was a species of parliamentary frankness with which he was not familiar, used as he was to having his veracity challenged in a variety of forms. As a novelty it was worth observing—especially the attitude of the minister thus given “the lie direct.”
The president tapped the table and called for order, which was naturally the signal for boisterous disorder. The premier sat down amidst a torrent of words, and the Minister of Foreign Affairs rose to fight his battle as chief lieutenant. The storm raged to the pitch of universal howls, and when at last there was a momentary lull in the atmosphere, exasperated by the abuse of which he had been the free recipient, Stavros jumped up, and flashing threateningly upon the Minister of Foreign Affairs, roared out:—
“It well becomes you to abuse me. You live in a fine house now, and keep your carriage, but for all that, I can remember the time when you were glad to wear my old clothes.”