“We do not ask for money, we do not ask for armies or for ships, but one word, one promise of support from Sir Maitland would clear all the Turks from the Morea in a week. Already our people are gathering, they are sharpening old yataghans, loading old muskets, waiting for the word. Your own Lordos Vyronos is with them in the north, and now you are come here, to my Mani, where no Turk dares set foot while I live. Can we not make the rest of Morea, the rest of Roumelia the graveyard of the Turk as much as the Mani? One word, that is all we ask, one word.”
Wickham coughed and shuffled. “I fear you do not quite understand my position here, Monsieur Mavromichalis,” he replied. “General Wickham stayed on Kythera, with his soldiers. I am here merely as plain George Wickham, an English traveller. I do not even have the honour of leading this party. That distinction belongs to Mr Bennet here.”
Our host knotted his brows, and almost scowled. Then his face cleared again, and he sighed.
“Ah, I see. You English with your concern for appearances. Very well, General Ouickham, Monsieur Ouickham, Sir Ouickham, I understand you are not here, and I must address my pleas to Monsieur Bennet. I assume that such an address would best take place out of your presence, so I will say no more on that subject tonight. But I hope that in the days to come you will know me better.”
We did not stay long after that, and our plea of fatigue from the journey could hardly be resisted. As we left the room, I overheard Petrobey saying to his companions,
“Prépei na páte, fíloi mou. Échete douleiá na kánete. Peíte ston ieréa na kinísei to droungo tou pio kontá stin Kalamáta. An deíte ton Tourkophagon na tou zitísete na kánei to ídio. Tha energísoume sýntoma, ypóschomai.”
I may revert automatically to my Classical training when attempting to speak Greek, but I had not neglected the opportunity afforded me by six months residence in Corfu to improve my understanding of the Demotic language, and in fact I was working on a dictionary of the tongue, to keep my hand in, as it were, for scholarly pursuits. I have been blessed with a retentive memory, and with the aid of my lexicon was able to puzzle out a translation before retiring.
“You must go, my friends: you have work to do. Tell the Priest to move his band nearer Kalamata. If you see the Turk-eater, ask him to do the same. We shall act soon, I promise.”
“What have we walked into?” was my last thought before sleep claimed me.
Chapter Twenty-three : A Climate of Revolution
In the days that followed we did get to know Petrobey better, but I doubt whether any of us ever understood that quixotic mixture of jovial gangleader and mediaeval despot.
He held court every day, quite in the manner of an oriental tyrant, making judgements on the spot when people brought their grievances to him. The way some claimants bewailed his pronouncements led me to wonder at their temerity in bringing their complaints forward in the first place, but I could not help noticing that lamentation was generally replaced by smiles on leaving the courtroom.
The entertainments he offered us were quite those of a mediaeval despot, too. We hunted wild boar; we went hawking in the hills, riding the sure-footed local ponies while trained falcons swooped on wildfowl and rabbits; we witnessed displays of trick riding from his companions, and sharpshooting by local experts, these last, I think, put on especially for Wickham’s benefit. It was all, I fear, more suited to a younger man than I now found myself to be, and I called upon Morland more than once for his professional services.
Morland himself was deep in consultation with Petrobey’s vakil, for he preferred still to be known by the old Turkish title.
“It is laughable, really,” he told me, “the mumbo-jumbo they still rely upon hereabouts. And yet, every now and again, one comes upon something in their treatments that may be worth investigating. It is fascinating.”
Golightly, too, found the local priest a source of professional interest. This was the worthy who had written Petrobey’s letter to Wickham, and unlike many Greek country priests he was a learned man, within his lights, having studied at Mount Athos before returning to his native Mani. They got along perfectly well together in Koine, and, where that failed, in Latin.
“He has been perfectly unreserved,” said Golightly, “ever since I made it clear to him that the English, like the Greeks, are not in communion with Rome, and do not recognize the authority of the Pope. I think he believes the Anglican Church to be a sort of Orthodox sect, and he has nothing but praise for England, in my hearing at least. We have not discussed the filioque, of course, but he has provided me with many an insight into Hesychianism.”
I had worried that the ladies might grow bored in the absence of anything but masculine pursuits, but Mrs Bennet relieved my anxiety on that count.
“Oh, but Mr Bennet, you should hear the tales that Madame Mavromichalis tells, old Madame Michalis, that is. She was a Venetian countess, you know, the Doge’s daughter, no less, sent here to be out of the way of her wicked stepmother before she married our Mr Mavromichalis’ father.”
“Am I to take it that this lady speaks English?”
“Oh, no, not a word. But she chatters away in Italian nineteen to the dozen, and Mrs Morland very kindly interprets.”
At this stage I had still not met the lady, for the Greeks, or at least those with any pretensions to gentility, have much in common with the Turks in the way their womenfolk are kept in seclusion. Village girls may walk the streets freely, but ladies of quality are rarely seen outside their own quarters.
All this time not one word more had been said by our host on the subject he had raised on our first night. Every day, however, saw more men calling on him, each one larger and more heavily armed than the last, and each one closeted with him in private for some time.
Meanwhile, tales of more and more Turkish atrocities came to our ears, for Greek servants are no less prone to gossip than the English variety, and all ours had been chosen, it would seem, for the possession of some ability to communicate with their charges, if not in English, then in some other western, or, as the Greeks say, European tongue.
These tales all sounded equally unlikely to me. If even half were to be relied upon, there could not be a Christian left in the whole country apart from the Mani. There is, however, no limit, I believe, to what a Greek will think a Turk capable of.
Such was the state of things in which I eventually decided that the constant talk of Turkish atrocities and Greek revolution would never be anything more than talk, and that we should soon be able to return to Cythera where Wickham could finish his mission and we could all go safely and expeditiously home in Captain Price’s frigate.
How wrong I was I did not appreciate, until the Feast of the Ten Thousand Martyrs.
Chapter Twenty-four : The Feast of the Ten Thousand Martyrs
It had somehow become understood that we should stay with Petrobey and celebrate the Feast of the Ten Thousand Martyrs with him in his ancestral home at Lemeni. Thereafter we should return to Cythera, Wickham would deal with his unfinished business there, for good or ill, and we should all then go our separate ways, the Wickhams back to Corfu, and the rest of us on the long journey to England, home, and, if not quite beauty, at least convenience.
As the day of the festival drew nearer, Petrobey’s efforts to seek out opportunities for a private tête-à-tête with me grew more and more apparent. Even in public he began increasingly to turn the conversation to the subject of English support for a revolt against the Turks. My companions had nothing to say on this subject. Wickham had already made his position clear, and the ladies could justifiably refuse to hear anything of it. Golightly and Morland had their callings to plead in their aid, but I had no such defence.
I had nothing to say on the subject myself, of course, but Petrobey took every denial as evidence of artifice, as a mere bargaining point. Wickham’s designation of myself as the leader of our party, together with the title Margaret bestowed upon me in Naples and continued using ever since, had convinced him tha
t I was connected with the British Government, and that my interest in Grecian antiquities was no more than a pretence to enable me to travel the country and gauge the prevailing mood of the people. He was also convinced, or, perhaps, determined might be a better word, that a word from me would bring British troops to his aid.
“Are the English not friends to freedom?” he would accost me. “Is your Lord Byron not assisting my countrymen in the north? Did he not write a great poem encouraging us to be free? Did he not ‘dream that Greece might still be free?’ Did he not say ‘of the three hundred, grant but three to make a new Thermopylae?’ Are we not, here in the Mani, the true sons of the ancient Spartans, whose city lies in the plain below us? Would not a Greek nation, strong, united and free, be forever grateful to a friend who had helped win that freedom?”
At other times he would grow religious, and move his bishop rather than his knight in his attempts to win the game of chess he saw us as playing.
“Is it right, do you think, Milor Bennet, that heathens, idolaters, defilers of all that is good and holy should rule over Christians? Is it right that they should treat us as cattle, no, not even cattle, as vermin to be put down when we are of no further use to them? We pray to the same god, the same saints, the same Redeemer of the World that you do in England. Surely you cannot think it right that they should pollute our churches, pull down their altars, deface our holy icons and steal our children to be forcibly circumcised and turned into instruments of their tyranny? One word, one word is all I ask from you. My people cannot abide their treatment much more, but they fear the consequences if they rise against their oppressors alone. Last time we had the Russians to help us, but they betrayed us in the end. Who knows what we might do with England on our side?”
One word was something which I rarely got the opportunity to utter during these exhortations, which was just as well, as I really had nothing to say. My sympathies were with our host, as would be those of any decent Englishman brought up to revere those who like ‘the tyrant of the Chersonese
were freedom's best and bravest friends.’ But I had even less influence in such a matter than Wickham, and should not know how to use it if I had.
No matter how many times I repeated this message to him, however, he always took it as further proof of Machiavellian cunning, and set himself to puzzling what I was really after. I do believe that if he had been dealing with a Turk, or a fellow Greek, he would have been rattling a large bag of piastres during our talks, but with an Englishman he was at a loss how to proceed.
He must have been nearing despair by the time we took horse for Lemeni, on the eve of the festival
I had wondered how there could be such an occasion in the middle of Lent, which is taken much more seriously in those parts than it is at home, more seriously even than by the Catholics among us.
"We have always done so," was all "Petrobey could say when I asked him. "Or, at least the Lemeniots have always done so. My family came from the north not so very long ago and they were doing it then. You will see tomorrow, it is a very ancient ceremony."
"And who are these ten thousand martyrs?"
"They are martyrs, and there are ten thousand of them. We commemorate their sacrifice for the true faith, to show that we, too, keep the faith."
"But who are they? Are they the same as the ten thousand virgins?"
"No doubt, although you would have to ask a priest to be sure. Did they suffer for the faith? Did they fall prey to the terrible Turk?"
"I think not, for they came from England with Saint Ursula, and were all slain by a heathen King somewhere on the continent. I forget precisely where."
"So our ten thousand martyrs were English, not Romioi? You see, this is one more thing our nations share. You, too, have suffered at the hands of the Turk. Surely, God has meant us to be united!"
"I am almost sure that there were no Turks involved, and I cannot swear that our ten thousand virgins and your ten thousand martyrs are one and the same. Still less can I speak for God's intentions."
"Oh, you are very courteous and very cautious, Mr Bennet, very much the English gentleman. But tomorrow we shall see, shall we not? We have a surprise prepared for you all, tomorrow."
Further discourse was prevented by the announcement that the horses were now ready, and we must all make our last minute preparations. These were of some consequence for those of us who would not be returning to Tsimava and required careful attention. My own small valise had been ready packed since the morning, but Mrs Bennet had somehow acquired twice as much baggage as she had arrived with. I remarked as much, and was met with a -
"Hoity toity, it is not so very much, just a few things I picked up. Every other lady in the party has just as much, you will see."
She was right, too. I was not surprised to see Kitty's and Lydia's mules every bit as heavily laden, but somehow I had expected better of Margaret Morland.
The ride down to the coast was much shorter and less precipitous than our journey to Tsimava had been, and I could not help wondering why we could not have come this way and saved half a day's hard riding.
"I expect the flat bottomed ferry could not come this far," said Wickham, "and the horses could not be induced to enter a boat which would make the journey. We had many a like problem in New South Wales."
"Could they not have been hoisted upon the frigate?"
"I dare say they could, but I presume Captain Price did not choose to soil his deck, or else to risk his vessel in an unknown harbour."
"I suppose we cannot blame him for that, but I am sure I aged ten years on that ride to Tsimava."
The little fishing port of Lemeni, when we got there, afforded a much more comfortable prospect than the dour mountain fortress of Tsimava. It clung to the shores of a south-facing bay, and the sunlight bathing it was a welcome change from the hill country fogs we had deserted. It felt like coming into spring from near-winter.
The Mavromichalis residence almost deserved the sobriquet of 'palace' which the inhabitants bestowed upon it. I believe it must date at least in part from the short period when all that stretch of coast had been occupied by the Venetians, although our host claimed it had stood there since the days of Heraclius, and the last major alterations had been under the Palaeologue Despots. A gentleman must be allowed to know the history of his own house, but it is so different, and stands out so much from the cottages (I fear I almost said hovels) which surround it that I cannot help suspecting a different hand in its construction.
Lemeni was a quiet, seaside village when we arrived, typical of so many we had seen on the coast of Corfu, although rather superior to Ithaca. It was still quiet when we retired, but by the morning all had changed.
Last night’s empty streets were now thronged with crowds who had flocked in from the nearby villages, all in their festival clothes, so that it was hardly possible to tell who were more colourful, the women or the men.
Petrobey led us out onto the square in front of the church, or, rather, he led out the male members of his household, in which number Wickham, Morland, Golightly and myself were comprehended, incongruous as we might look in our western dress.
“Where are the ladies?” I asked, for they had disappeared shortly after breakfast, with much whispering and giggling and deliberate mystery.
“Ladies come later,” was the response. “Gentlemen first.”
It was not until we were in the middle of the square, surrounded by, seemingly, thousands of watchers, that I was appalled to discover that we were expected to lead the dancing.
“But we do not know the steps of your Greek dances,” I objected, even more feebly than it sounds.
“Very easy,” retorted Petrobey. “You learn quick.”
And with that the music started, the usual mixture of strange-looking – and even stranger sounding – instruments, with singers moaning and whining through their noses as accompaniment, and we were swept off, hand in hand, with Petrobey at the head, clutching a white handkerchief in his right
hand and me in his left.
The dance, which I later learned is called the kalamatiano, was rather vigorous, but not that hard to learn, thank the Ten Thousand Martyrs. The beat was irregular but clear and insistent, seeming to go one two three – one two –one two, the dancers going round widdershins in a circle for the first five beats and then backwards for the last two. Merely to keep in time and remember to change direction was considered to be quite enough for the Angloi, but virtuoso performances were by no means discouraged, and there was no shortage of high kicks, leaps and pirouettes.
The audience joined in with the song after the first few bars. I later transcribed the words as follows –
Μήλο μου κόκκινο, ρόιδο βαμμένο
Γιατί με μάρανες το πικραμένο;
Παένω κ’ έρχομαι μα δεν σε βρίσκω
Βρίσκω την πόρτα σου μανταλομένη
Τα παραθυρούδια σου φεγγοβολούνε
Ρωτάω την πόρτα σου, που πάει η κυρά σου;
Κυρά μ’ δεν είναι‘δώ, πάησε στην βρύση
Πάησε να βρει νερό και να γεμίσει
Milo mou kokkino, roido vammeno
Yiati me maranes to pikromeno?
Paino k’erchomeh ma then se vrisko
Vrisko tin porta sou mantalomeni.
Ta parathyrouthia sou phengovoloune
Rotao tin porta sou, pou paei i kyra sou?
Kyra m’ then ineh ‘tho, paise stin vrysi
Paise na brei nero keh na yemisi.
My red apple, my scarlet pomegranate,
why have you made me wilted and bitter?
I come and go, but cannot find you
I try your door, and it's always locked.
Your windows are always lighted
Our Neighbours' Sport Beyond the Seas Page 16