Book: Stories by Foreign Authors: Polish

V >> Various >> Stories by Foreign Authors: Polish




"Why haven't you ever spoken to me about it?" continued Mr. Plateas.

"Because I did not wish to bore you," replied Mr. Liakos. Then, touched
by his friend's reproachful look, he made haste to add, "But now I will
tell you everything, since you desire it."

Still he was silent, as if he hardly knew how to begin. The professor
shivered again, and seeing that the sun had gone down behind the
mountains, said:

"Hadn't we better talk about this on the way home, or at my house? It's
time to go in."

The two men rose, and started toward the city.

What desponding lover has not yearned to pour out his heart to some
friend? Even reverence for the purity of his feeling will not restrain
him. He tries to guard the mystery of his love as in a holy sanctuary;
he would not expose it to unrevering eyes; he hesitates, he delays,--
but sooner or later his heart will overflow, and he must have a
confidant.

The judge had already chosen his confidant, and so was in no hurry to
take advantage of the opportunity that now offered; he was still silent,
and began to regret his thoughtless promise to tell his friend
everything. While he had an esteem and even a warm affection for Mr.
Plateas, he could not regard the professor as a fitting recipient for a
love-confidence, or quite able to appreciate the delicacy of his
feeling; and, besides, it seemed to him almost treason to reveal again
the secret he had already confided to another.

Mr. Plateas noticed his friend's hesitancy, but ascribed it to
agitation. After a pause he saw that the confession was not coming of
itself, and tried to draw it out by asking questions. Although frank,
the answers he received were brief; still, he was able to gather that
the judge had been in love ever since coming to Syra,--three years
before,--and had then vowed either to marry Mr. Mitrophanis's younger
daughter, or never to marry at all. It was only within the last few
months, however, that Mr. Liakos had met the young girl for the first
time, at a friend's house, and had discovered that his love was
returned.

"Where did this happen?"

"At my cousin's."

"Does she know the two girls?"

"Oh, yes; she was a friend of their mother's."

"Ah! Now I understand," cried the professor. "Your cousin received your
sighs. She has been your confidante! That's why you never said anything
to me."

The judge smiled, but his poor friend felt a little jealous of this
cousin.

"Why didn't you propose for her hand just as soon as you knew she liked
you?" the professor continued.

"I did, a week ago; I requested my cousin to call on Mr. Mitrophanis,
but--"

"But what? Where could he find a better son-in-law? He didn't refuse
you, surely?"

"No, he did not refuse, but he made a condition that can be fulfilled--
Heaven knows when! In the meanwhile he does not wish us to meet. I had
not seen her for ten days, even at a distance, and you can understand
with what emotion just now I--"

"What is this condition?" asked the professor.

"To wait until the elder sister is married. He won't allow the younger
to marry, or even to be betrothed, before the elder."

"Ah, my friend, that's a pity! I fear you'll have to wait a long, long
time. It won't be so easy to marry off the sister. Still, all things are
possible,--you mustn't despair."

The judge was silent, evidently a prey to melancholy. After a little he
said:

"And yet that sister is a perfect treasure, in spite of her lack of
beauty. There isn't a sweeter soul on earth; she has entreated her
father to change his decision; she assures him that she has no wish to
marry, and that her only desire is to remain with him to care for his
old age, and to help rear her sister's children. But the old man is
inflexible; when once he takes a stand, that's the end of it!"

The judge's tongue was untied, and he was as eloquent in praise of the
elder sister as he had been reserved in telling of his love. Perhaps
this eased his mind, for to speak of her seemed almost like speaking of
his sweetheart; to commend the one was to exalt the other.

"She is an angel of goodness," he continued, "and loves her sister with
all a mother's tenderness; indeed, she has filled a mother's place ever
since the two girls were left orphans. She has the whole care of the
house, and manages it admirably; my cousin never tires of telling me
that she has nowhere seen such good order, or a house so well kept. But
you must not imagine that she neglects other things for the sake of her
housekeeping. Few of our women are so well read or so widely informed.
In that respect, at least, Mr. Mitrophanis is worthy of all praise; his
daughters have been carefully educated. It is hardly his fault if the
two are not equally fair to look upon; in beauty of character they are
equal. The elder also is a treasure, and happy the man that wins her."

At first the professor listened in some astonishment to his friend's
sudden enthusiasm; then, little by little, his surprise changed to
uneasiness. He began to suspect that--But he was not the man to conceal
anything that came into his mind, and stopping abruptly in the middle of
the road, he interrupted the judge's eulogy.

"But why do you tell me all this?" he asked. "Why do you sing her
praises to me? What do you mean--are you trying to inveigle me into
marrying her?"

Mr. Liakos was astounded. The idea had never occurred to him; he had
never thought of the professor as a marrying man. And yet, why not? In
what was he lacking? Wasn't his friend the very man to become the
brother-in-law he so ardently desired? All this passed vaguely through
his mind while he stood staring at Mr. Plateas, unable to find an answer
to this unexpected question. The professor continued with energy:

"Listen, Liakos. I owe you my life; it belongs to you. But if you ask me
to get married as a proof of my gratitude, I'd far rather go this moment
back to the sea, where you saved me from death, and drown myself before
your very eyes!"

The sudden heat of the professor's speech showed that he was hurt, but
whether at what the judge had just been saying about the elder sister,
or at the secrecy he had shown in the matter and his studied reserve in
speaking of the younger sister, was doubtful. Probably the good man
himself did not know; what he did know was that he felt hurt. This was
clear enough from what he said and the way he said it.

Mr. Liakos was offended.

"Mr. Plateas," he replied dryly, "I have often told you--and I repeat it
now for the last time, I hope--I have not, and I do not wish to have,
any claim upon your gratitude. As for your marrying, I assure you that I
never dreamed of presenting you as a suitor, or of seeking a wife for
you. I had not the least thought of it when I spoke to you of my
affairs, and I now regret having troubled you with them."

The two friends walked on in silence side by side, but were impatient to
part as soon as they could decorously. When they had nearly reached the
place where their homeward paths would separate, the professor repeated
his invitation.

"Won't you come and taste my muscat?"

"No, thank you; it is late, and I have an engagement."

"With your cousin, perhaps?"

"Perhaps!" and the judge tried to smile.

"I hope you're not vexed with me," said his friend, in a conciliatory
tone.

"Why should I be?"

"Perhaps what I said was uncalled for,--particularly as you never meant
to interfere with my liberty." The good man began to laugh, and then
added: "But it's much better to have such things cleared up."

"Certainly, quite so."

The judge shook the fat hand that was cordially offered him, and hurried
on, while his companion went slowly home.




III.


The professor's house was on the hillside in the quarter where the
Orphan Asylum now stands. At that time there were very few dwellings in
the neighborhood, which was rather far from the centre of the town, and
the outlook was wide and varied. It was not the view, however, that had
attracted the professor, but the cheapness of the land. He had built the
house himself, and its walls were the fruit of many years of toil. Small
and modest as it was, it was his own; he was in debt to no man, and had
no rent to pay. This sweet feeling of independence quite made up for the
tiring climb that the corpulent little owner had to take twice a day up
the steep "River," as the street was called. The road bore this name (as
everybody knows who has visited Syra), because it had been the bed of a
stream that used to carry the winter rains from the mountain to the sea.
In fact, the water runs down the street to this day, and in the wet
season it becomes a raging torrent. Although the rocks and stones that
once lined its sides have given place to houses, with their doors raised
high above the flood, the origin of the street and the reason for its
name are obvious enough even now.

Fortunately, rains are rare in Syra, but when they do fall, the "River"
is often impassable; at such times the professor could reach his house
only by zigzags through the side streets, and there were days when all
communication was cut off, and he had to stay shut up at home.

The greatest pleasure that the house had brought him was that it had
enabled him to give his old mother the happiness of passing her last
days in comfort under her own roof, after the long privations and trials
through which she had reared her son and had seen him overcome the
difficulties of his professorial career. She had died peacefully in this
house, and although a year had passed, her room remained as she had left
it. The professor really needed it for his library, which grew from day
to day, but he preferred to leave the room unused, as sacred to his
mother's memory.

The only heritage that she left him was her old servant, the taciturn
Florou, whose senile caprices he endured patiently, bearing with her
uncertain service and poor cooking. Florou's rule, however, rose no
higher than the ground-floor. Her master found peace and quiet in his
own room upstairs. Here he worked; at his table before the window he
prepared his lessons, and read his favorite authors. Here, with pen in
hand and his books spread out before him, he liked to look dreamily over
the roofs of the other houses at the sea and the hazy outline of the
neighboring islands, or to lean back with closed eyelids and look--at
nothing, for he was asleep.

The professor was very fond of his house. Since he had owned it, he went
out but little except to attend to his classes or take his regular walk,
and it was always with a new pleasure that he looked upon his walls and
opened his door again.

This evening he came home with even greater contentment than usual, as
to a haven of refuge from the fancied dangers that lurked in his
friend's eulogy of the plain sister.

"That would be the finishing stroke!" he said aloud, as he carefully
folded his coat, put on an old dressing-gown, and tied a silk
handkerchief around his head in the shape of a cap, as was his custom
every evening.

"That would be the finishing stroke indeed! To bring a wife here to turn
everything upside down; to take me out when I want to stay in, or keep
me in when I want to go out; to talk to me when I want quiet; to open
the window when I am chilly, because she is too warm; or to close it
when I am warm, because she is too cold!" and with that he shut the
window.

"Marriage may be all very well for the young; but when a man has reached
years of discretion, such folly is not to be thought of. I have escaped
the fetters so far, and I am not going to throw away my liberty at this
late day!

[Greek text] Craftily they contrived against my freedom,"

He remembered the woman who had been chosen for him in his youth, as he
had seen her the year before while on a visit to his native island,--
with her gray hair and premature wrinkles,--surrounded by a troop of
children, playing, quarrelling, and crying.

"Thank Heaven," he said aloud, "I haven't that load to carry! I wish the
man joy that fills my place!"

Florou interrupted him by opening the door. She looked about the room in
astonishment, but seeing that her master was only talking to himself,
she shook her head and said curtly:

"Supper!"

"Very well, I'm coming;" and he went down to the parlor, which was next
to the kitchen and served as dining-room also. The professor sat down
with a good appetite, and when his hunger was appeased, he began to
think over the incidents of his walk. At first his mind dwelt upon the
advantages of bachelorhood; then he thought of Mr. Liakos, and felt a
sincere pity for his friend.

"Poor fellow!" he said to himself. "He has been hit by Cupid's arrow,
and is no longer his own master. He thinks he's on the right road to
happiness; I hope he may find it, and never discover his mistake! Well,
we never get just what we want in this world, and a man's happiness
depends after all on his own way of feeling and thinking."

Mr. Plateas fancied this was philosophy, but, in fact, it was only a
blind attempt to get rid of disagreeable thoughts. He could not forget
the judge's evident dejection and vain effort to hide it. What if Mr.
Liakos did want him to marry the plain sister! Perhaps his friend had
felt a delicacy about speaking to him on the subject, and had denied
ever having thought of such a thing only when stung by his ungrateful
words.

Who had a better right to claim such a sacrifice? Did he not owe his
very life to the judge? And how had he repaid this debt? He had tried to
escape it! He had ignored his friend's delicacy, and basely threatened
to drown himself rather than lift a hand to secure his preserver's
happiness. The more he thought of it, the blacker seemed his
ingratitude. He had actually insulted the man who had saved his life!
The blood rushed to his cheeks; his remorse grew keener and keener, and
his philosophy was of little comfort. Having eaten his last bunch of
raisins, be pushed away his plate angrily, threw his napkin on the
table, and went up to his room in a very discontented frame of mind.

"I've behaved abominably," he said to himself. "Why should I have
offended him? There was no need of saying what I did. Reflection always
comes too late with me!"

And striking his head with his hand, he paced up and down his room in
the growing darkness until Florou came in and put his lamp on the table.

She came and went without a word.

The professor stopped a moment, and his eyes rested on the light. The
light reminded him of his duty and invited him to work; he must prepare
his lesson for the morrow. For the first time in his life he found that
he could not fix his mind upon his books. He hesitated, and then began
to walk up and down again, thinking of Mr. Liakos, of his pupils, of the
merchant's two daughters, and of the gymnasiarch, [Footnote:
Superintendent of a gymnasium or secondary school.] all at the same
time. Finally, in this jumble of ideas, professional instinct got the
upper hand. He sat down at the table, put the three heavy volumes of
Gazis's Dictionary, the Syntax of Asopios, and his other handbooks of
study in their usual order, then set out his ink and paper, and found in
his "Iliad" the page marked for the next day. He began his work by
noting the etymology of each word, the syntax of every phrase, and the
peculiarities of each hexameter. His class had reached the sixth book of
the "Iliad."

Soon, however, he forgot syntax, etymology, and metre; he forgot his
pupils and the dry analysis he was making for their benefit, and he read
through the passage before him without stopping. It was the parting of
Hector and Andromache. He discovered new beauty and meaning in the
story; the exquisite picture of conjugal and paternal love, the
happiness of mutual affection, the grief of parting, had never made such
an impression upon him before. Never before had he read or recited the
"Iliad" in this way, for as he read, Mr. Liakos gradually took Hector's
place. He kept thinking of his friend; it was his friend who felt the
bitterness of separation, and that too without ever having tasted, like
Hector, the joys of conjugal happiness!

Mr. Plateas shut his book and started up again. A thousand conflicting
thoughts filled his mind as he paced from his table to his bed, and from
his bed back to his table.

"Pshaw!" he cried. "Why shouldn't I believe that Liakos never had any
thought of marrying me off? I was a fool to imagine such a thing! Do I
look like a marrying man?"

He stopped before his glass, which was lighted by the lamp only at one
side, and saw one half of his face reflected with the silk handkerchief
wound around his head, while the other half was in shadow, and the two
ends of the knot stuck up over his forehead.

"Truly," he laughed, "between us we should have a beautiful Astyanax!"

He sat down again, calmer; but once more there began to throng before
his eyes scenes and images that had nothing to do with the next day's
lesson. He saw that he could not work in earnest, and decided to go to
bed, thinking that rest would quiet his nerves, and that he could get up
early in the morning and prepare his task with a fresher mind. So he
went to bed and put out his lamp. But sleep would not come; he tossed
about restlessly, and in the silence and darkness the very tension of
his nerves made him more and more remorseful.

The long hours of the night passed slowly. At last, toward morning, he
fell asleep; but his waking thoughts were distorted into a frightful
nightmare, and he started up in terror. He had dreamt that his bed was
the sea, while his pillow was a shark, and his head was in the jaws of
the monster. Then the shark began to wear the face and shape of the
merchant's elder daughter, and a voice--the voice of Liakos--sounded in
his ear, repeating over and over:

"Ding, Dong! Ungrateful wretch! Ding, Dong! Ungrateful wretch!"

He sat up in bed, and as he wiped his dripping forehead with the silk
handkerchief, which had come untied in the agony of his dream, he made
an heroic resolution.

"I will marry her!" he cried. "I owe so much to my preserver. I must do
my duty and ease my conscience."

He covered himself up again, with a lighter heart; his mind was now
tranquil, and free from all suspicion, hesitation, or remorse.

The morning sunlight flooded his room and woke him a full hour later
than usual. It was the first time this had ever happened to the punctual
professor, and Florou was positively dazed. With heavy head and aching
eyes, he dressed hastily, swallowed his cup of black coffee, and sat
down to the unfinished task of the night before. But his thoughts still
wandered.

Nevertheless, he was at the gymnasium in time, and began the daily
lesson. But what a lesson! At first the scholars wondered what had
become of their teacher's wonted severity; they soon perceived that this
remarkable forbearance was not due to any merit on their part, but to
complete heedlessness on his. Wonder of wonders! Mr. Plateas was
inattentive! Emboldened by this discovery, they took malicious delight
in heaping blunder upon blunder, and played dire havoc with that sixth
book of the "Iliad," never sparing etymology, syntax, nor prosody. The
good man sat through it all undisturbed until the regular closing hour
had struck. His pupils went out, commenting not on Homer, but on the
unheard-of lenity of their master, while as he walked away he resumed
the burden of his thoughts,--how to set about putting his resolve into
execution.

The affair was not so simple as it had seemed to him in the night. His
decision to marry the elder daughter of Mr. Mitrophanis was not enough;
there were certain steps to take, but what were they? Should he apply to
his friend? After what had passed between them the day before, he hardly
liked to go to the judge and say--what? "I am ready for the sacrifice!"
Certainly he couldn't do that. Should he ask the aid of Mr. Liakos's
cousin? There were objections to this course, too; to be sure, he knew
the lady, and her husband as well; he was in the habit of bowing to them
on the street, but he had never had any conversation with the cousin,
and felt that he had neither the right nor the courage to ask her to
serve as intermediary.

He thought it all over without reaching any conclusion, and was crossing
the square on his way home,--for it was nearly time for his noon-day
dinner,--when suddenly he saw Mr. Mitrophanis coming toward him. This
meeting put an end to all his doubts, and with a flash of inspiration he
decided to speak directly to the young lady's father. What could be
simpler? Having no time to weigh the matter carefully, he was only too
glad to find this happy way out of his perplexity. He bowed, and stopped
before the old gentleman.

"Mr. Mitrophanis, I am delighted to meet you, for I have a few words to
say."

"Mr. Plateas, I believe?" said the other, politely returning the bow.

"The same."

"And what can I do for you, Mr. Plateas?"

The professor began to feel a little embarrassed; but it was too late to
turn back, so he took courage and went on:

"To come to the point at once, Mr. Mitrophanis, I desire to become your
son-in-law!"

This abrupt proposal was a surprise to the old gentleman, and hardly an
agreeable one. The offer itself was not so astonishing, for the beauty
of his younger daughter had often obliged the father to refuse proposals
of this kind; but he had never been addressed quite so brusquely before.
Moreover, of all the suitors who had thus far presented themselves, Mr.
Plateas seemed the least eligible in point of age and other respects.
But it was not this so much that the old gentleman had in mind, as he
said to himself, "What, he too!"

"I am greatly honored by your proposal," he said to Mr. Plateas; "but my
little girl is too young, and I have not thought of marriage for her
yet."

"What little girl? My suit is not for the younger sister; I ask you for
the hand of Miss--" He meant to call her by her name, but found he did
not know it. "I ask you for the hand of--your elder daughter."

Mr. Mitrophanis could not conceal his astonishment at these words; such
a thing had never happened before. He said nothing, but looked sharply
at Mr. Plateas, who felt his patience giving way.

"I must admit, Mr. Plateas," said the old gentleman at last, "that your
proposition is wholly unexpected, and comes in rather an unusual form.
Don't you think that our traditional custom in such cases is very
sensible, and that these questions are managed better by
intermediaries?"

The professor was not prepared for this. He had even imagined that the
young lady's father would fall on his neck in the open street, with
delight at having at last found the wished-for son-in-law.

"I--I thought," he stammered, "that you knew me well enough, and that
the simplest way was to speak to you myself."

"Certainly, without doubt. But if you would send one of your friends to
speak to me, and--give me time for reflection, you would oblige me
greatly."

"With pleasure! I'll send Mr. Liakos."

At this name the old man frowned.

"Ah!" said he, "Mr. Liakos is in your confidence."

Poor Mr. Plateas saw that he had made a mistake in bringing up his
friend's name in the affair. He was about to say something,--he didn't
know exactly what,--when Mr. Mitrophanis forestalled him, and ended his
embarrassment.

"It is well. I will await Mr. Liakos." Then the old gentleman bowed and
walked on.

Never in his life had the professor been in such a state of mental
distress as that to which he had been a prey ever since the evening
before. His sufferings at the time he came so near drowning were not to
be compared with his present anguish. Then the danger had come suddenly,
and he had realized it to the full only when it was over. Now, the
uncertainty of the future added to his misery. At the very moment when
he thought he had reached port, he found himself completely at sea
again. He stood there in the middle of the square, his arms hanging
helplessly, and stared at the back of the retreating merchant.

"Well, I must see Liakos." he said to himself. "But where shall I find
him at this time of day?"

Just then the clock on the Church of the Transfiguration struck twelve.
Mr. Plateas remembered, first that his dinner was waiting for him at
home, and next that his friend was in the habit of dining at a certain
restaurant behind the square; and wending his way there, he met the
judge at the door.

"Oh, my dear friend!" he exclaimed. "My dear friend!"

"What's the matter? What has happened to you?" asked Mr. Liakos,
anxiously.

"What has happened to me? Something I never dreamed of! I've just asked
Mr. Mitrophanis for the hand of his elder daughter, and instead of---"

"You asked him for his daughter's hand?"

"Yes. Is there anything so very astonishing in that?"

"Why, didn't you tell me yesterday that---"

"Well, what if I did? During the night I thought it over, and became
convinced that I ought to get married, and that I never shall find a
better wife."

"Listen, Plateas," said Mr. Liakos, obviously much moved. "I understand
your sudden conversion, because I understand you; but I can't let you
make such a sacrifice."

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.