Again, another version[1036] ends, not with the arrival of Areté in time to close her dying mother’s eyes, but with the revoking of the curse upon Constantine in gratitude for the fulfilment of his oath:
‘νὰ σὲ λυώσῃ τὸ χῶμα σου καὶ νὰ σὲ φάγ’ ἡ πλάκα σ’.’
ὅσο νὰ σώσ’ τὸ λόγο της χοῦφτα χῶμα γενότον.
‘May the earth where thou liest loose thee and thy tomb consume thee.’ Scarce had she finished her speech and he became but a handful of earth.
Clearly then the curse, which in this story is conceived as binding Constantine’s body and driving him forth from the grave and which must be revoked before his body can be loosed by natural decay, is one of that class which we have been considering; but the story confers the further advantage of letting us see such a curse in operation. Constantine is presented as a revenant, but not of the modern type; for what turn must the story have taken if he had been a normal vrykolakas? His first act would have been to devour his nearest of kin—his mother, who was tearing up his grave-stones and cursing him: and his next, if he had troubled to go as far as Babylon, to make a like end of Areté. And what do we actually find? Constantine acts not only as a reasonable man in seeking to allay his sister’s suspicions, but also as a good man in keeping his oath. He is driven forth from the grave on a quest which (in most versions of the story) earns him no thanks from those whom he benefits; he does his weary mission and (in most versions) goes back again to the cold grave from which the curse had raised him. Our sympathy is engaged by Constantine no less than by his mother. He too is a sufferer, first stricken down in his youth by pestilence, and then cursed because his oath remained unfulfilled. He claims our pity, and in this differs fundamentally from the ordinary vrykolakas which could only excite our horror.
Furthermore it is noteworthy that in the many versions of this poem, just as in the popular curses which I have quoted, the word vrykolakas is nowhere found[1037].
Hence I am inclined to believe that the original poem, from which have come so many modern versions, differing widely in many respects, but agreeing completely in the exclusion both of the Slavonic word vrykolakas and of all the suggestions of horror which surround it, was composed in a period anterior to the intrusion of Slavonic ideas; and that the modern versions therefore, which prove their fidelity to the spirit of the original precisely by having refused admittance to anything Slavonic, furnish that which we are seeking, the purely and genuinely Greek element in the now composite superstition. That Greek element then is the conception of the revenant as a sufferer deserving even of pity, the very antithesis in character of the Slavonic vampire, an aggressor exciting only loathing and horror.
In the composite modern Greek superstition, as described in the last chapter, the Slavonic element is clearly predominant. But the conclusion to which my analysis of the superstition has now led, explains what would otherwise have been almost inexplicable, the existence of a few stories in which the revenant, though called vrykolakas, is none the less represented as harmless or even amiable.
One such case is mentioned in Father Richard’s narrative[1038]—the case of a shoemaker in Santorini, who having turned vrykolakas continued to frequent his house, mend his children’s shoes, draw water at the reservoir, and cut wood for the use of his family; and though it is added that the people became frightened and exhumed and burned him, this was only a measure of precaution dictated by their experience of other vrykolakes; no charge was brought against this particular revenant. It might also be supposed that the vrykolakes of Amorgos, mentioned next in the same narrative, who were seen in open day five or six together in a field feeding apparently on green beans, were of the less noxious kind; but they may of course have been carnivorous also.
Another story, recently published[1039], records how a native of Maina, also a shoemaker by trade, having turned vrykolakas issued from his grave every night except Saturday, resumed his work, and continued to live with his wife, whose pregnancy forced her to reveal the truth to her neighbours. When once this was known, many accusations, it is true, were brought against the vrykolakas; but the story at least recognises some domestic and human traits in his character.