Gobi or Shamo; a story of three songs

Chapter I

The highlands of Candia are melting away to the South ; the wind is astern and we can hardly feel it. Come, if you have an hour of leisure, and can forget for once your business and your bills, sail with me up over the crisp waves of the Aegean, and help to thread our way among those low grey islets to the North, from one or two of which we can just catch, reflected mistily, a gleam of the declining sun. It is not for any populous port that we are bound ; not the Piraeus nor Syra, nor that other town on the coast of Asia, which, so a recent examinee tells me, derives its name from the verb " smyrno," " to smell." We must resist those temptations, and take a more circuitous course, till we put to shore at the little old-world island of Arganthus. There is no one to see us, should we choose to land at the grass-grown jetty which the inhabitants call " the pier," and the more imaginative of them " the harbour."

But a crowd will collect at once, as soon as the strange boat is seen, and, as seclusion is a more or less important matter with us, we had better try another landing. Suppose we go to that small broken cove lying hidden under the heights of the Holy Nicholas, and climb up those loose and crumbling rocks where old Lacrates of Psara, some sixty years ago, little lean bow-legged man with six companions, climbed up, sword in teeth, and slew the Turkish sentinels, and summoned the startled islanders suddenly to deliver themselves. And so they did, till they had massacred every Turk in the garrison, and hung the two commanders, one each side, on the great cross that still towers in the Church square. Here we are at the summit ; and can throw a glance inside the little Byzantine church, still alive with the memories of the Revolution, where a few devout Greeks are praying silently ; then pass on and turn to the left, till we come to a larger, finer building of a different style, which proves, if you decipher the inscription over the doorway, to be the library of the same Holy Nicholas.

Were the porter a man of rigid conscience, he would forbid our en trance, on the ground that Mr. Mavrones must not be disturbed : were he even a good man of business, he might develop a scruple or two against admitting us, which would not be quieted for less than an equal number of drachmas. As it is, however, the good Anastasios is smoking cigarettes with a friend in the square hard by, and we can enter the library un noticed. We find a long room with a vaulted roof, broadly arched windows, and a ceiling painted with blue and red, and gilt with a richness that must indeed have dazzled the eyes of students in the fifteenth cen tury. Now the colours are dim and faded ; and the whole room has an exquisite air of frailness and yet of majesty, something quiet and gentle pervading that which was once ugly in its self-assertion.

In the corner of the apartment is a young man poring over a large MS. with every appearance of industry and absorption. Yet, if you go close enough, you will see that it is not the contents of the MS. that he is studying, but only the back, and that seemingly not a back of any particular interest ; there are no jewels nor fine illuminations, and the parchment itself is very discoloured, — yellow, stained with smudges of dingy grey. There is not much to be made out of a thing like that: and it really seems inexcusable in that studious-looking young man, who has not noticed our entrance, to spend his time dream ing over the covers of his MS. instead of reading what is inside. The Library was once attached to a monastery, but now the monks have ceased to exist, — massacred by the Turks, the Arganthians say, — and St. Nicholas, like a prudent speculator, has turned his property into an hotel.

This new walk of life seems more adapted to the genius of the Holy Man, than his old pursuits were. It was never a very good monastery : but the Hotel, for a house of its kind, is beyond praise. It is a fair reward for anything the saint may have suffered of old, to be able now to sit with a proprietor's pride in a garden like this ; and whenever the celestial harp grows heavy in his hands, to fly quietly back to earth and enjoy the view from his own veranda, looking down over the lawns, bright with oleander and mag nolia, that slope to that rippling mirthful sea. Ap parently the saint is away just now : the only occu pants of the veranda are that dark young lady with the white muslin gown and red shawl, and, standing close by her, the tall strongly-built man, whose back is turned towards us.

" O yes," he was saying — and that word, by the way, was an indication to those who knew Lord Strath bourne, that he was interested in the conversation. Final S was the first of his letters to give way ; if he got excited, R followed suit and changed into either W or Gh ; when he really lost his temper he I* was unintelligible to the most accomplished phono logist. For instance, on the celebrated occasion when he accused an Irish member of calling him a "slimy slanderer," he so lost himself in the liquids and sibil lants of those two words, that the patriot's only defence was : " Verily, sor, I have it not in me, to projuice such noises with mee lips ! " It is little use trying to represent his pronunciation in writing. " 0 yes, it's all very well to make patriotism the chief of all the virtues, but surely you can't admire a man like Lacrates ?

" " Most surely I can. What do you object to in Lacrates ? Would you have had him provide the Turks with boats and passports for Constanti nople?" " No, but he could have prevented the massacres." " Why, he saw that the war was a war of extermina tion and nothing less. If he had left those Turks alive, we should have been living under the Turks to day." " But hanging those people on the cross — it was the act of a savage." " Not at all. It was a convenient place. Besides it was partly a religious war." He calmed himself with a praiseworthy effort, and replied in his ordinary manner : " But can you imagine your ideal patriot — can you imagine your 'grandfather, for instance, hanging his enemies on a cross? " " It was not a faultless act ; no great acts are. But it was much better than you or I or any ordinary people would be capable of.

Of course it shews the fierceness of Lacrates' nature, but it shows he was wonderfully brave and devoted all the same." " But just think of the man's character before. Hachette's guide says he was a regular thief, and. . . ." " Not at all : it says he was ' un brigand des plus piltoresques.' When the war broke out he stopped his piracy. He was like Karai'skakes and many others : the need of entire devotion to Greece struck them like a revelation, and changed their lives altogether." She was speaking excitedly by this time. The Englishman was dismayed. Enthusiasm always cowed him ; and besides, he was afraid of annoying her by persistent whiggery. She paused for a few moments, and then continued : " The fact is, you don't understand what patriotism means ; no one can, unless there is a chance of his being called any day to sacrifice everything for his country, unless there is a great enemy constantly threatening " I can understand it when I see it in you, Miss Botzares, and I feel " My name is Clearista, Lord Strathbourne, when you are speaking about patriotism."

The noble lord's consonants gave way with a rush : " When I fee you, K'earithta, I do underthtand what pat'iotithm may be at itth highetht. I feel it'th beyond me, above my capabilitive .... But you know . ." " There, you have apologised. Go and keep your engagement with the professor. You are half-anhour late." " By Dthovc, so I am : I mutht wush ! " said Lord Strathbourne, looking at his watch. " Good-bye," and so saying he departed hastily, with a certain dissatisfaction and uneasiness of manner, Lord Strathbourne was, as you may have guessed from his conversation, an English Liberal, a fine looking, red-whiskered man, rather over thirty, who had come to Greece with a confused belief that the nation did not get its proper share of political atten tion, and that he might as well make himself an au thority on the state of the country, and encourage patriotism too — to a judicious extent.

To encourage patriotism is often a dangerous practice : but Clearista was a peculiarly agreeable patriot to encourage. She impressed the English man's imagination deeply and alarmed him not a little. She had such vehement and passionate views about the Turkish question — he felt sure they were really unsound at the bottom, but the worst of it was that they generally seemed logical. And then she was so startlingly talented. She conversed with ease, it appeared to him, on any topic in the world, and that in a foreign tongue. For she spoke English with an accent that sounded only like a more graceful pro nunciation, and her mistakes, which were rare, were chiefly due to a too extensive knowledge of the language. Recondite proverbs garnished her conver sation, except when she was really Imoved or in terested : and the first intimation Lord Strathbourne had had of her foreign origin, was when she asked him at breakfast : " Please tell the varlet I will not have a full cup, but about a noggin."

So the Englishman departed, thinking of Clearista's virtues and his dinner with the professor, and then came thoughts of Clearista's grandfather and the liberties of Greece : and finally, as his hasty walk heated him, rose an overmastering desire to the fashion and buy two dozen turn-down collars : — a desperate project, which his calmer self condemned. She sat on the veranda still in the great cane chair, looking down towards the sea, in front of which a figure was walking to and fro somewhat restlessly on the sloping lawn. If you looked longer at this rest less walker, you would recognise the young man we saw in the library. Absent-minded now as he was then, he had taken no part in the tete-a-tete in the veranda, and did not observe, now, that the English man was gone, and Clearista sitting alone and watching him.

Yet he might well have observed. Her graceful pose in the great chair was alone enough to attract an artist's eye. She was one of those people who are always graceful, not because they con sciously avoid strained attitudes, but by reason of the rhythmical in their limbs, graceful like a deer or a tiger. And beyond this, she was decidedly beautiful, in a strange foreign style of beauty. A complexion uniformly parchment-coloured, yet of ex quisite delicacy, contrasted with a sort of halo of dark hair : a straight fine nose scarcely rising above the face ; rather high cheek bones, and narrow eyes of a sparkling and burning darkness — that is a rough catalogue of her features, and about as expressive as catalogues generally are. Such was Clearista Botzares ; but her beauty was only a tenth of her charm.

Every well-informed person in Arganthos, and in Athens too, for that matter, knew of her learning and her patriotism ; had heard of her journey to the North of Greece, to nurse the wounded insurgents on the Macedonian frontier ; and had read that eloquent pamphlet about the same insurrection which appeared in Athens with the sig nature "Clearista." For it was part of her system to discard her second name and bear only one, like the great Greeks of old — a small piece of pedantry, which her friends liked her all the better for. Cer tainly few people would have cared to disown such a surname as hers, and she herself would not like the story forgotten, how her grandfather earned that sur name by saving the life of the redoubtable Suliot, Nothi Botzares. It is a wonderful tale and varies in every mouth — except indeed in that of the old man himself.

He is hard to draw out upon the subject, but, when he does open his lips, and his grand daughter is not by to check him, he takes a certain pleasure in revealing the seamy side of his great deed. It was all more or less of a mistake, he would give you to understand : he had no idea that he was in a post of danger, or he would never have gone there : and as for his killing the two Turks — why he was so startled that he let off his gun without looking, and somehow managed to shoot somebody : and then he picked up Botzares' body and ran home as fast as he could : — only some one knocked against him on the way and fell over a precipice in consequence. And after all, he would tell you, he never cared much about the Greeks. He would never have joined the Revolution at all, only he had been sent by his father to sell a cargo of hides in the Levant, and was caught and made a soldier of, on his way home.

And home he went as soon as the fighting was done, and would have liked to stay there till now if it had not been for Clearista. But Clearista was not thinking of her grand father's youth : she was getting tired of sitting still with nobody to talk to. " Mr. Mavrones," she called. The figure walking by the sea stopped and turned towards her. (1 Do you know you have been turning your back on me for the last quarter of an hour, and left me with no one to speak to ? " " I was thinking about my MSS.," said Mavrones with a smile. As he walks leisurely towards the veranda, we catch the outline of his short curly hair, and slight figure ; and now that he is close by we can make out his face clearly enough to know him again. The sort of man one likes at first sight : his features have an exceptional regularity which marks him for a Greek, no less than the ease and friendliness of his manner.

There is a look of frankness in his eyes, and at the same time that curious expression of physical suffering which is said often to go with strong hope and patience. " I was thinking about my MSS. ; and besides, I thought St. Nicholas was entertaining you." " It was not St. Nicholas, as you call him, but Lord Strathbourne. We had a discussion about Lacrates — I think I rather shocked him." " You stuck up for Lacrates through thick and thin I suppose ? " " Yes, wouldn't you ? " " More or less ; I fancy when a man is capable of any great act of devotion — when he once gets inspired with real patriotism — it is only a question of time for his vices to die out." " At any rate one can excuse them." " That is not what I mean. I mean that a really noble enthusiasm strangles out small faults and pieces of selfishness.

If you contrast .... but I am quite ashamed. Fancy my lecturing you about patriotism. I ought to sit at your feet." A shade passed over Clearista's face. " Ah, don't speak of me as a patriot . . . but at any rate come in out of the night air — as you say in England, ' Baith midge and mutton maun house against a gale.' " She had been speaking in Greek : but now she turned to English, under the temptation of the pro verb — such a rare proverb as it was, known perhaps to her and the German compiler of her " Ausfiihrlicfie Sprichwortsammlung" alone in all the world, outside the very selectest circles of English society ! " I am neither a midge nor a mutton," said Mavrones as he came into the veranda : " I'm shut up inthe library all day, and like the night air." " How devoted you are to those MSS.

What is the charm about them ? " " A charm you can't describe to one who hasn't felt it. You should come and collate with me some day." " But what comes of it all, what result is there? " " Well, scholarship, like virtue and most other good things, is its own reward. But there is the chance of great discoveries as well." " I can understand that once there was a great deal to discover, before the big libraries had been properly examined, but now. . . . ? " " Even now perhaps one may sometimes discover a treasure." " Perhaps ; but did you ever know any one who discovered a treasure ? Have you ever done so yourself? " A vivid flush came over the young man's face. " Possibly," he said, " I scarcely know ; but there is some hope. . . ." " Why, then, you have discovered something ! How exciting !

Do tell me what it is." " I can't say yet. It may be nothing. The evidence is small, and the deduction I want to make enormous. It would startle even you," he added with a smile. " You're piquing my curiosity. Should I under stand if you explained to me ? " " Understand ! Of course you would, but I hardly think. . . ." " How do you do to-morrow, my sister ? " cried a loud cheery voice with a strong Levantine accent, proceeding from the brilliant figure which rushed in at that moment under the archway. Clearista turned quickly. " Ah, my brother ! I am glad you have come," she cried, rising from her chair ; " Mr. Mavrones, let me introduce Mozep Kiarsk, an old playmate of mine, — so old, that we call each other brother and sister." " I am very pleased to meet Mr. Kiarsk," said Mav rones. Kiarsk bowed with a puzzled expression, and the brilliance seemed to have departed for the moment even from his eyes and rings.

No need to detail the conversation that ensued. The poor man was not a clown ; he was only a Levantine commercial travel ler, and his English, what there was of it, was confined to what maybe called the " extreme colloquial "order. Pie soon shone again : and, though Mavrones was a little dull, found no difficulty in making conversation for three. He was, like all his class, fat in face and body : garrulous, self-satisfied, and in a way handsome. The usual red tarbouche never left his head, not even at meal times. He had had but one serious grief in his life, and one great joy. The former arose from a duel between two friends of his, in which he should have acted as second : but when he appeared on the field clad in an embroidered waistcoat and light check coat, with a flower in the button-hole, the two prin cipals were so disgusted at the levity and want of taste displayed by this costume, that they refused to fight, and Mozep's reputation as a man of the world was practically blasted.

The compensating joy was a small Arab horse with an enormous tail, a present from one of the above-mentioned duellists after his reconciliation to Kiarsk. It was a grey horse ; but for distinction's sake, Mozep had the tail dyed flame colour. He had learnt this device in Syria, and was justly proud of it. There was probably some occult reason for choosing that particular colour rather than a com mon blue or green : for Mozep was superstitious to an amazing degree. The beliefs of his native village would have been more than enough for a faith of ordinary capacity ; but for him they were miserably inadequate. So he went on his travels, in the spirit of ancient Greece or Rome, assimilating all the local superstitions he could find, till the mass of minute rules and omens which regulated his conduct grew too unwieldly for any mind, except that of an Oriental Christian, to carry.

The most noteworthy of his other characteristics was omniscience, a gift the Cherubim have usually denied to mortal man, with the exception of a few commercial travellers. He had no awkwardness or reserve. His anecdotes ran quickly through Asia Minor, Syria and Egypt, and deepened in interest as they approached the less known regions of Western Europe. He had got as far as Portugal when a break occurred. He was describing an adventure of his in Lisbon ; how a horse had bolted with him in a trap, down the long street with the acacias by the water's edge : what a vicious what a strong, what an ingenious horse it was ; and what remarkable presence of mind on his part had averted what appeared inevitable death. " I saw, my dear friend, that three minutes more would bring us over the edge of the wharf: there was not a moment to lose.

I ordered my companion — there was a lady with me— to sit still and pray to St. George :— I drew my revolver, crossed myself, and sired calmly at the horse's neck. Ah, my dear friend ! He gave a des perate plunge, staggered on some thirty paces, and fell dead. We had stopped within a yard of the brink — Ah, what say you, my Mavrones ? " Mavrones started. " I beg your pardon — yes cer tainly. I think I must go and send a telegram to England." " Telegraph my adventure to the Times! — is it possible ! " thought Mozep Kiarsk in a wave of exultation. " Ah, your discovery," said Clearista. " It seems very absorbing." " Yes," answered Mavrones, " it is. I have a clue here which I ought to follow. It will make it neces sary for me to leave Arganthus for the East as soon as I can. I am telegraphing to a friend in England to join me."

The Times still ran in Kiarsk's head : perhaps this was only a feint on Mavrones' part : in any case, he might be induced to telegraph to the Times also with a little persuasion. " Capital, my Mavrones," he said, with the affectionate vagueness usual in Levantine lips. " I will show you the way." " Do," said Mavrones, and they started together. They had not quite crossed the lawn towards the old monastic gateway, when Clearista suddenly rose from her chair, and, after a moment's hesitation, called after them : " Mozep, come back a moment. I want you to get me some stamps." Mozep trotted back to the veranda, and waited silently for instructions. " Well, my sister ? " he enquired, after a pause ; but Clearista looked a little embarrassed, and merely said : " 0, after all, it doesn't really matter.

I only wanted " Mozep smiled. " You wanted me to see what was in the telegram ? Certainly, my sister. You may trust me, but I would have looked in any case." Fraternal naivete had gone too far. " Why should / want you to see Mr. Mavrones' telegram ? " she asked pointedly. " I have told you I don't want any thing ; why do you keep him waiting ? " So saying, she settled herself disdainfully into her big cane chair, and left Mozep to shrug his shoulders and wonder what had suddenly made Clearista so scrupulous, as he ran back to join his companion. He determined to read the telegram for his own edifica tion, at any rate. Some half hour after the}' had left the precincts of St. Nicholas, an old man of about eighty years came in through the same gateway, and walked rather wearily towards the hotel.

He was a tall though thick-set man ; his brain seemed to have wasted more than his body. "Grandfather," cried Clearista, "have you seen Mozep ? He arrived this afternoon." " Has he come ? " said the old man, brightening. " That is good news. Well done, my Mozep ! Where is he ? Does he look well ? " * " He has gone to the post with Mr. Mavrones. I should say he looks remarkably well — Grandfather ! " she added, after a pause. "Well, Clearista?" " Mozep called me his sister, and I had to explain his speech away." The old man seemed hurt, but apparently did not know how to answer. He took a chair, and sat still for a minute, before he said : "It is disowning your own blood, Clearista. It is disowning your own blood." " Well, what could I do ? You know I am very fond of Mozep — very fond indeed ; but I simply can not say he is my brother.

If he had only changed his name and his looks " " Well, of course, I don't wish to interfere, but I never could see why you shouldn't confess your nationality like anyone else ; I don't like it." " Well, you know my motives. If you disapproved, you should have said so at first. It is too late now." " But you never disowned him at Athens." " Everyone knew I was not a Greek there. But for the last six years " The old man was not equal to a protracted battle. " I don't mind it myself," he said feebly. " I am quite willing to stay here and pretend to be a Greek or an Englishman, or anything you like. But I am sorry for Mozep. Couldn't you say he was a Greek too?" "Grandfather ! Who would believe me ? Just think of his accent and his appearance, and his manners, and the way he rides, and how he boasts of his eyesight, and — Oh, everything !

Besides, it's done now, and can't be helped." "Well, my daughter, you know best, of course, but we mustn't hurt Mozep's feelings." " I wouldn't hurt his feelings for the world. But I really cannot go and say to these Englishmen, 'Allow me to introduce my brother — a wild Tartar, turned bagman. Yes, I am a Tartar too— so is my grand father. Of course, we said we were Greeks, and were very patriotic. No doubt, but you mustn't lay too much stress on statements like that. They come naturally to us — in fact we have not spoken the truth for some months.' " Again she was exciting herself by her own words. She had cowed her grandfather at the first outburst, but continued for the sake of hurting her own feelings. Now she stopped abruptly. " I am worrying you, grandfather. You must go in and lie down.

I'll send Mozep to talk it over with you, but you really may trust me in an affair like this." " You know Mozep is very sensitive," remonstrated old Botzares feebly, but at this moment the subject of the dispute appeared with Mavrones at the gate. The young man ran with delight to his grandfather, and kissed him effusively^ on both cheeks. Mavrones came leisurely towards the veranda. " Well, you have sent your telegram ? " said Clearista. " If you can telegraph your secret, you might tell it to your friends," she added with a smile ; " though, of course, I have no wish to hear it if you don't approve." " I didn't telegraph my secret ; I only asked my friend to call here with his yacht .... and I really don't sec why you should call it a secret." " I call it a secret because you don't tell me what it is.

" Well, there is really very little to tell, and I am almost ashamed to speak to you of the hopes I am giving way to." " Pray don't be so modest," remarked Clearista parenthetically. " You would think my project a wild goose chase. Besides I should not like it to get abroad, before I know whether there is any prospect of success." Clearista was annoyed beforehand, and this implicit mistrust stung her. " Ah !" she said, "you are al raid I should make it a subject of conversation for St. Nicholas and the Table d'hote ! I will say no more about it." Mavrones was struck with penitence for his foolish speech. He had no intention to say he distrusted her: he did not think, on reflection, that he did dis trust her. He had merely felt a reluctance to reveal a cherished hope which the practical world would certainly condemn as quixotic.

However, there was no help now : as Clearista might have said, on the authority of her German proverb book : " It is wankie work to piece a broken brick." To-morrow, no doubt, he would have an opportunity of soothing her feelings : he would even tell her the whole " secret " at a pinch. She had passed straight up the veranda to Mozep, who was still talking to his grandfather. Interrupting them brusquely, she asked : " Well, what was in the telegram ? " Mozep had his own reasons for thinking meanly of that despatch ; but he was pleased to see that his sister's morbid scruples had given way, even though it was only anger that had conquered them. " Ah, mother of God, my sister, it was an odd telegram certainly — most odd. It ran like this : " and he wrote the words down on the back of an envelope.