Prevod

We have lately made a little journey, and already we long for a greater one. Where to? To Sparta! To Mycenae! To Delphi! There are a hundred places whose very names set the heart beating with the desire to travel. One goes on horseback, up mountain paths, through scrub and bushes; a single traveller makes his way like an entire caravan. He himself rides ahead with his muleteer; a packhorse carries his trunk, tent, and provisions, and a couple of soldiers follow for his protection. No inn with a well-made bed awaits him after the weary day’s journey; often his tent is his only roof in the vast, wild countryside, and there the muleteer cooks a pilaf for supper. A thousand mosquitoes buzz about the little tent; it is a wretched night, and tomorrow the road leads across swollen rivers. Keep a firm seat on your horse, lest you be swept away.

What reward is there for these hardships? The greatest! The richest! Nature reveals herself here in all her grandeur; every spot has its history, and eye and mind alike delight in it. The poet may sing of it, the painter render it in glowing pictures, but the fragrance of reality, which enters the beholder’s mind and remains there for ever, is beyond their power to reproduce.

The lonely shepherd high in the mountains might, by simply telling of some event in his life, open your eyes better than any travel writer, if you wish to glimpse the land of the Hellenes in a few brief strokes.

Then let him speak! Let the shepherd yonder on the mountain tell us of a custom, a beautiful and distinctive custom: the bond of friendship. “Our house was daubed with clay, but its doorposts were fluted marble columns, found where the house was built. The roof reached almost to the ground; it was now blackish-brown and ugly, but when it was laid it had been flowering oleander and fresh laurel branches, brought from beyond the mountains. Our house stood in a narrow place, with sheer walls of rock rising about it, bare and black; clouds often hung upon their summits like white, living figures. Never did I hear a songbird there; never did the men dance there to the sound of bagpipes. But the place had been sacred from ancient times; its very name recalls that, for it is called Delphi! The dark, solemn mountains were all covered with snow. The highest, which shone longest in the red evening sun, was Parnassus; the brook near our house flowed down from it, and had once been sacred too. Now the donkey muddied it with his feet, yet the current ran swiftly and soon grew clear again. How well I remember every spot, and its sacred, profound solitude! The fire was lit in the middle of the hut, and when the hot ashes lay deep and glowing, our bread was baked in them. When snow lay all about our hut, almost hiding it, my mother seemed happiest; then she would hold my head between her hands, kiss my forehead, and sing the songs she never sang at other times, for the Turks, our masters, did not like them. And she sang: ‘On the summit of Olympus, in the low fir woods, sat an old stag, his eyes heavy with tears; red, yes, green and pale-blue tears he wept, and a roebuck came by: “What ails you, that you weep so, weep red, green, yes, pale-blue tears?” “The Turk has come into our town; he has savage hounds for his hunting, a mighty pack.” “I shall chase them over the islands,” said the young roebuck, “I shall chase them over the islands, into the deep sea.” But before evening fell the roebuck was slain, and before night came the stag was hunted down and dead.’ And when my mother sang like this, her eyes grew wet, and a tear clung to her long lashes; but she hid it, and turned our black loaves in the ashes. Then I clenched my fist and said, ‘We shall kill the Turk!’ But she repeated the words of the song: ‘I shall chase them over the islands, into the deep sea. But before evening fell the roebuck was slain, and before night came the stag was hunted down and dead.’ For several nights and days we had been alone in our hut; then my father came. I knew he would bring me shells from the Gulf of Lepanto, or perhaps even a knife, sharp and gleaming. This time he brought us a child, a little naked girl, whom he held beneath his sheepskin coat. She was wrapped in a skin, and when it was unfastened and she lay in my mother’s lap, all she possessed was three silver coins tied in her black hair. And Father told us of the Turks who had killed the child’s parents; he told us so much that I dreamed of it all night long. My father himself was wounded; Mother bound up his arm, and the wound was deep. His thick sheepskin coat was frozen stiff with blood. The little girl was to be my sister. She was so lovely, so bright and radiant; my mother’s eyes were no gentler than hers. Anastasia, as she was called, was to be my sister, for her father had been joined to my father, joined according to an ancient custom that we still observe. In their youth they had sworn brotherhood, choosing the most beautiful and virtuous girl in all the district to consecrate their bond of friendship. How often I heard of that beautiful, strange custom!

“Now the little one was my sister; she sat on my lap, and I brought her flowers and feathers from the mountain birds. Together we drank the waters of Parnassus; we slept with our heads together beneath the hut’s laurel roof, while for many a winter yet my mother sang of the red, the green, and the pale-blue tears. But I did not yet understand that it was my own people whose thousand sorrows were reflected in those tears.

“One day three Frankish men arrived, dressed differently from us. Their beds and tents were carried on horses, and more than twenty Turks armed with sabres and guns accompanied them, for they were friends of the pasha and had a letter from him. They had come only to see our mountains, to climb Parnassus through snow and clouds, and to gaze at the strange, black, precipitous cliffs around our hut. There was no room for them inside it, nor did they like the smoke that drifted beneath the roof and out through the low doorway. They pitched their tents in the narrow space beside our hut, roasted lambs and birds, and poured out sweet, strong wines, though the Turks dared not drink any.

“When they left, I went part of the way with them, and my little sister Anastasia, sewn into a goatskin, hung upon my back. One of the Frankish gentlemen stood me against a rock and drew her and me, as lifelike as we stood there; we looked like a single creature. I had never thought of it before, but Anastasia and I were indeed like one: she was always lying on my lap or hanging on my back, and when I dreamed, she was in my dreams.

“Two nights later other men came to our hut, armed with knives and guns. They were Albanians, brave fellows, as my mother said. They stayed only a short while. My sister Anastasia sat on one man’s lap; when he had gone, there were two silver coins in her hair instead of three. They put tobacco into strips of paper and smoked it, and the eldest spoke of the road they were to take, uncertain which to choose. ‘If I spit upwards,’ he said, ‘it falls in my face; if I spit downwards, it falls in my beard.’ But a road had to be chosen. They left, and my father went with them. A little later we heard a shot, then another. Soldiers came into our hut and took my mother, me, and Anastasia. The robbers had sheltered with us, they said, and my father had gone with them, so we must come away. I saw the robbers’ bodies; I saw my father’s body, and I cried until I fell asleep. When I awoke, we were in prison, but the room was no more wretched than the one in our own hut, and I was given onions and resin-flavoured wine, which they poured from a tarred wineskin. We had fared no better at home.

“How long we were prisoners I do not know, but many nights and days passed. When we came out, it was our holy Easter feast, and I carried Anastasia on my back, for my mother was ill. She could walk only slowly, and it was a long way before we came down towards the sea, to the Gulf of Lepanto. We entered a church that shone with pictures on golden backgrounds. They were angels, oh, so beautiful! Yet I thought our little Anastasia was just as beautiful. In the middle of the floor stood a coffin filled with roses; it was the Lord Christ who lay there in the likeness of lovely flowers, my mother said, and the priest proclaimed: ‘Christ is risen!’ Everyone kissed one another; everyone held a lighted candle. I was given one myself, and little Anastasia another. The bagpipes sounded, the men danced hand in hand out of the church, and outside the women were roasting the Easter lambs. We were invited to join them. I sat by the fire, and a boy older than I put his arms round my neck, kissed me, and said, ‘Christ is risen!’ That was how we two first met, Aphtanides and I.

“My mother could make fishing nets, and here by the gulf that earned good money, so we stayed a long time by the sea—the beautiful sea, which tasted like tears and in its colours recalled the weeping of the stag, for now it was red, now green, and then blue again.

“Aphtanides knew how to steer a boat, and I sat with my little Anastasia in the boat, which moved over the water as a cloud moves through the air. When the sun sank, the mountains grew a deeper blue; one range peered over another, and farthest away stood Parnassus with its snow. In the evening sun its summit shone like glowing iron; the light seemed to come from within, for it shone long in the blue, glistening air, long after the sun had set. The white seabirds beat their wings against the mirror of the water; otherwise it was as still here as at Delphi among the black mountains. I lay on my back in the boat, with Anastasia sitting on my chest, and the stars above shone even more brightly than the lamps in our church. They were the same stars, and stood in just the same places above me as when I sat outside our hut at Delphi. At last I fancied I was still there—then came a splash in the water, and the boat rocked violently. I cried out, for Anastasia had fallen into the water, but Aphtanides was just as quick, and soon he lifted her up to me. We took off her clothes, wrung out the water, and dressed her again; Aphtanides did the same with his own clothes, and we stayed out until everything was dry again. No one knew of our fright over our little foster-sister, whose life Aphtanides now had a share in.

“Summer came! The sun burned so fiercely that the leaves on the trees withered. I thought of our cool mountains and the fresh water there. My mother longed for them too, and one evening we set out to return. How quiet and still it was! We walked through the tall thyme, which was fragrant still, though the sun had dried its leaves. We met no shepherd and passed no hut; all was silent and lonely, and only a shooting star told us there was life up in the heavens. I do not know whether the clear blue air shone of itself or whether it was the rays of the stars; we could plainly see the outlines of all the mountains. My mother made a fire and roasted the onions she had brought, while my little sister and I slept in the thyme, with no fear of the dreadful Smidraki, whose throat pours forth flames, much less of the wolf and the jackal. Our mother was sitting beside us, and I thought that was enough.

“We reached our old home, but the hut was a heap of rubble; a new one had to be built. A couple of women helped my mother, and in a few days the walls were up and a new roof of oleander had been laid over them. My mother wove many bottle-cases from hide and bark, and I tended the priests’ little flock. Anastasia and the little tortoises were my playmates.

“One day our dear Aphtanides came to visit us. He had longed so much to see us, he said, and he stayed two whole days. A month later he came again and told us that he was sailing on a ship to Patras and Corfu; first he had to say goodbye to us. He brought a large fish for my mother. He had so much to tell, not only about the fishermen down by the Gulf of Lepanto, but about kings and heroes who had once ruled Greece as the Turks did now.

“I have seen a rosebush put forth a bud, and that bud become an open flower over days and weeks; it had blossomed before I began to think how large, how beautiful, how rosy it was. So it was with Anastasia. She was a lovely, full-grown girl, and I a sturdy lad. The wolfskins on my mother’s bed and Anastasia’s I had myself stripped from the beasts that fell to my gun. Years had passed.

“Then one evening Aphtanides came, slender as a reed, strong and brown. He kissed us all, and had much to tell of the great sea, the fortifications of Malta, and the strange tombs of Egypt. It sounded marvellous, like one of the priests’ legends; I looked up to him with a kind of reverence.

“‘How much you know!’ I said. ‘What stories you can tell!’ ‘Yet once you told me the most beautiful story of all!’ he said. ‘You told me something I have never forgotten: the beautiful old custom of the bond of friendship! That is a custom I have a great mind to follow. Brother, let us too go to church, as your father and Anastasia’s did. The most beautiful and innocent girl is Anastasia, our sister; she shall join us together! Surely no people have a more beautiful custom than we Greeks!’

“Anastasia blushed like a fresh rose petal, and my mother kissed Aphtanides. An hour’s walk from our hut, where there was soil upon the mountains and a few trees gave shade, stood the little church; a silver lamp hung before the altar.

“I wore my best clothes; the white fustanella fell in rich folds over my hips, my red jacket fitted close and tight, and there was silver in the tassel of my fez. In my belt were a knife and pistols. Aphtanides wore his blue clothes, such as Greek sailors wear; a silver medallion of the Mother of God hung upon his breast, and his sash was costly, such as only rich gentlemen could wear. Anyone could see that we were going to a solemn ceremony. We entered the little, solitary church, where the evening sun shone through the doorway upon the burning lamp and the many-coloured pictures on their golden backgrounds. We knelt on the altar steps, and Anastasia stood before us. A long white robe hung light and loose about her lovely limbs; her white neck and breast were covered with old and new coins linked together to form a great collar. Her black hair was gathered on her head in a single coil, held by a little cap of silver and gold coins found in the ancient temples. No Greek girl had finer adornments. Her face shone, and her eyes were like two stars.

“All three of us silently said our prayers, and she asked us, ‘Will you be friends in life and death?’ We answered, ‘Yes.’ ‘Will each of you, whatever may happen, remember: my brother is a part of me! My secret is his, my happiness is his! Sacrifice, endurance, all that I hold within me for my own soul, I hold for him!’ And we repeated our ‘Yes!’ She joined our hands, kissed us on the forehead, and again we prayed in silence. Then the priest came through the altar door and blessed all three of us, while the other most holy fathers sang behind the altar screen. The eternal bond of friendship was sealed. When we rose, I saw my mother at the church door, weeping deep and heartfelt tears.

“How merry it was in our little hut and beside the springs of Delphi! The evening before Aphtanides was to leave, he and I sat thoughtfully on the rocky slope, his arm about my waist and mine about his neck. We spoke of Greece’s suffering, of men who could be trusted; every thought in our souls lay open to us both. Then I took his hand:

“‘There is one thing more you must know! Something that until this moment only God and I have known! My whole soul is love! It is a love stronger than my love for my mother and for you—!’

“‘And whom do you love?’ asked Aphtanides, and his face and neck turned red. ‘I love Anastasia!’ I said—and his hand trembled in mine, and he grew white as a corpse. I saw it; I understood! And I think my hand trembled too. I leaned towards him, kissed his forehead, and whispered, ‘I have never told her! Perhaps she does not love me! Brother, remember, I have seen her every day; she has grown up beside me, grown into my soul!’ ‘And yours she shall be!’ he said. ‘Yours! I cannot lie to you, nor will I! I love her too! But tomorrow I shall leave. We shall meet again in a year, and by then you will be married, will you not? I have some money; it is yours! You must take it, you shall take it!’ Silently we walked across the mountain; it was late in the evening when we reached my mother’s hut.

“Anastasia held the lamp towards us as we entered; my mother was not there. Anastasia looked at Aphtanides with a strange sadness. ‘Tomorrow you are leaving us!’ she said. ‘How it grieves me!’

“‘Grieves you,’ he said, and I thought there was pain in his words as great as my own. I could not speak, but he took her hand and said, ‘Our brother here loves you. Do you love him? His very silence is his love!’ And Anastasia trembled and burst into tears. Then I saw only her, thought only of her; I put my arm about her waist and said, ‘Yes, I love you!’ Then she pressed her lips to mine, her hands resting about my neck. But the lamp had fallen to the floor, and all was dark around us, as in dear, poor Aphtanides’ heart.

“Before daybreak he rose, kissed us all goodbye, and departed. He had given my mother all his money for us. Anastasia was my bride, and a few days later my wife!”