CHAPTER XIII. REINEKE’S ARRIVAL AT XINARA.
It was a bright December afternoon when Reineke was left by the Iris upon the little pier at Tenos. Aristides, the “young man of confidence,” who had safely deposited Inarime at her aunt’s at Mousoulou, was sent by Selaka to meet him. Gustav inquiringly scanned his conductor’s face. He disliked its inquisitiveness and keenness, and was repelled by the familiarity with which the fellow held out his hand. But he took the hand, and coldly expressed his satisfaction with his new acquaintance, who explained to him volubly that it would be advisable to rest a little in the town before ascending to Xinara. Aristides then proceeded to guide the stranger to a little café, and Reineke’s visible weakness made even a rest in such a locality grateful. He sat quietly waiting for some coffee, and looked around. Being an Eastern, he felt less shuddering repugnance to the place than an Englishman or Frenchman would have felt. Besides, there was an acute pleasure to be derived from watching the light flash upon the blue waters, and gleam upon the lifted oars until they looked like shining spears. He inferred that Aristides was the son of his host, and conjectured that he would not be likely to draw very largely upon such resources for intellectual enjoyment. And then, personally, he disliked the Greeks, as we know. He was not restless or particularly active, so that he could comfortably get through a couple of hours in this indolent contemplation. But it was with a sense of relief that he saw Aristides approach with a mule upon which he was invited to mount, and slowly they made the difficult ascent. To a strong man such a ride would be discomposing in the extreme; to a man still in the clutch of an intermittent fever it was positive torture. It seemed to Reineke that the attitude of the beast was a constant perpendicular, now with its head for apex and now with its tail and this sort of motion continued a good hour and a half. The musical flow of the torrent beds and the echo of distant waterfalls were heard mingling with varied bird-notes. But how to take æsthetic pleasure in these sounds when one is momentarily expecting to be hurled into eternity, or, at least, in peril of leaving various limbs about the precipices and ravines; now frantically clutching forward and then almost prone backwards to preserve one’s balance!
Little by little, however, his senses began to recover, and he was able to take occasional glimpses of the strange landscape through which he was being hurled. The gathering twilight was dimming the pure air, but had not yet struck out the colours that lay upon the land. The meadows were full of wild flowers, and he noted how beautiful some of the weeds were. The bloom of the fields and the gray mist of the olives, and the purple haze that lay upon the fig branches, tracing their intricate pattern across the silent hills and making their own pathway for the shadows, charmed him. The sparkle and murmur of water, the departing smile of sunshine from the darkening heavens, the early stir of shepherd life, an air so fine that every scent from valley and hillside was discernible from the mingled whole, filled him with a sense of exquisite content. And when he saw the beautiful valley of Kolymvithra unfolded like a panorama under the village of Xinara, and the great purple Castro lost in evening shade, he felt that his perilous ride had not been in vain.
As they rode up the little village street, Demetrius and his satellites were standing outside the blacksmith’s den. The presence of a stranger naturally diverted their thoughts from the rascalities of the Prime Minister at Athens, which they had been discussing.
“That, I suppose, is an Englishman,” said the handsome Demetrius, removing his cigarette, and staring hard at Reineke with an air of ill-concealed discontent, as he addressed himself inclusively to Michael, the contemplative carpenter, and Johannis, the blacksmith.
“He is too dark for an Englishman; it is most likely he’s an Italian,” suggested the carpenter, in a tone of apologetic protest.
“You fool! do you think that every Englishman is yellow-haired and white and red?” retorted Demetrius, snappishly. “But you are not going to deny, I hope, that the man has the conceited air of an Englishman? No other people carry themselves as if the world belonged to them, and those that are not English do not count. And what is all this pride for, pray? Ten of their heroes would not make one of ours.”
“Very true, Demetrius,” concurred Michael, conciliatorily. “If England had produced one Miltiades, we might all go hang ourselves, for no other nation would be allowed to exist. Now here are we good-natured Greeks, who count our heroes by the hundred, and know ourselves to be the point upon which the world, both occidental and oriental, turns, quietly smoking our cigarettes, and willing to allow others a part of the pathway. Whereas an Englishman, when he goes abroad, walks down other people’s streets as if he thought himself merciful in only knocking the owners into the shade instead of crushing them.”
“Well, I can’t say I am for England either,” said Johannis, diving his hands into the pockets of his blue cotton pantaloons. “I always thought she was too fond of helping herself to parts of the globe which she had no right to, and of battering others into submission. But it cannot be denied that she is very rich and sufficiently attentive to the affairs of Greece. London, I hear on first-class authority, is a wonderful place. You know Marengo, the captain of the Iris, stayed there a week; but he never once ventured out of the hotel alone, so frightened was he by the noise and the people. He solemnly swears he saw fifty trains steaming in and out of the station at the same time. It sounds incredible, but Marengo is positive. He counted thirty, but his head grew dizzy, though he saw he had only got through half the number. When driving he had to keep his eyes and ears closed, expecting every minute to be killed by the thousand cabs that whizzed round him as quick as lightning. He could not understand how the people managed to cross the streets, some of them a mile in width!”
“You may believe half of what Marengo says, Johannis,” cried Demetrius, “he is an unconscionable liar. However, I have certainly been assured that London is a largest kind of town, perhaps a little more extensive than Athens, but then I never believe all I hear. I like to judge things for myself. Not that I have seen Athens either; but I believe it to be the finest city in the world. Why, was not Athens founded long before London or Paris were heard of? Do not people come every day from America to see it, and guardians have to be placed about the Acropolis to prevent strangers robbing its stones or relics? I would be glad if you could name a Greek who would go to London or America for a relic!”