Читать книгу Girls in Bookland - Hildegarde Hawthorne - Страница 4

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“Open your eyes,” cried that clear, laughing voice.

And Rose and Ruth obeyed, opening them very wide indeed. Opening their mouths too, just as one always does when so full of surprise that one cannot hold a bit more.

“I’ll bring you home in good time,” went on the fairy, just as though nothing in the least extraordinary had happened. “Just amuse yourselves as you like. Sappho will be along presently and I’m sure you’ll get on nicely together. And now I’ve other affairs to see to, so I’ll say good-bye for the present.”

“Good-bye,” returned the two girls, though when the fairy stopped talking it was hard to believe she was there to say anything to, because we are none of us used to answering a voice with nothing around it.

And still they stared, and the wonder in them grew bigger and bigger.

For instead of the living room at the ranch, with the fire snapping in the huge chimney, the familiar dimness of coming twilight, and the storm flapping at the windows like a great wild bird with wet wings, they saw a green slope where large trees stood about looking magnificent in summer leafage while birds chattered and piped in the branches. Far below them on a peninsula round which the bluest sea imaginable flung its broad arm lay a city of clustering, flat-roofed houses gathered about a splendid temple that appeared to be built entirely of snow-white pillars, row on row. A white road led through gardens and vineyards to this city, and out upon the shining waters boats of odd shapes with sails of scarlet, brown, buff or gaily striped canvas dipped at anchor or slipped lightly before the gentle breeze. The warm air was full of the perfume of flowers, and from somewhere not far off came the sweet sound of a flute, played softly and dreamily.

“Jiminy Cripsey!” sighed Rose, forgetting that she’d promised not to.

Ruth bent down to pick a brilliant flower at her feet.

“It’s—it’s real, Rose,” she whispered. “Smell it. That fairy is a good one, isn’t she?”

“She’s the best I ever saw,” agreed Rose, who didn’t remember that she hadn’t seen her, nor any other either. “This is a transformation!” Then she gave a sudden little shriek. “Why, Ruth, look at yourself—and me too!”

Dumbly Ruth turned her eyes on her sister and herself, or at least on her clothes. Instead of the blue serge dresses with sailor collars and silk ties, the stockings and slippers they had on when the fairy first spoke to them, Rose now wore a one-piece garment of very soft stuff of a pale, lovely yellow with a border of dull blue. This garment was caught on the right shoulder and passed under her left arm, leaving it bare. A girdle of blue was clasped about her waist, and on her bare feet were sandals with blue thongs binding them and crossed around her ankles. Her hair was knotted in the nape of her neck, and a blue fillet circled her head. Ruth wore exactly the same dress, except that it was white with a border, girdle and fillet of crimson.

Both girls began to laugh.

Each of them found they had a narrow bracelet of curious looking metal on one of their arms, and they fingered these joyfully.

“Isn’t this a dandy adventure, Ruth? How funny you look! But these are pretty dresses, just the same, aren’t they? How light and cool they are!” And tossing her arms into the air, Rose danced upon the grass.

“O—Eh!” called a laughing voice.

Rose and Ruth whirled round, and there, a little above them on the slope, stood a slender, long-legged girl of their own age, dressed as they were, though her gown was striped faint rose and blue, like the sky at sunrise.

In her hands she held a pair of long pipes that joined at the mouth-piece, and she stood, poised and erect, laughing, her eyes shining dark and vivid under the rippling waves of her golden hair, bound with silver bands.

Smiling back at her, the sisters stood close together, feeling a little shy but full of admiration.

“I was afraid you were going to be late,” said the stranger girl, coming swiftly toward them. “I’ve been waiting here a long while, blowing on my pipes, hoping that perhaps I could win some dryad out to play with me. But now you are here it doesn’t matter. Did you come very far?”

“We came so fast I don’t know... is this place near Wyoming?” answered Rose, doubtfully.

“Wyoming? You must be barbarians! I never heard any one speak of that country, not even the sailors who have been to the end of the earth.”

“Who are you?” asked Ruth, who wasn’t quite sure just what a barbarian was, and so didn’t care to commit herself by either admitting or denying that she or her sister might be such a creature.

“I am Sappho.”

“Oh, yes, the fairy said you would come to play with us. How lovely! And do you live there in the town by the sea? For that is the sea, isn’t it? We never saw it, but our mother came from England when she was a little girl, and she has told us about it.”

“Surely it is the sea. Sometimes I long to go away on it, far beyond those cloudy mountains there in Asia; but in your land is there no sea? How strange a place! How can one live away from the sea—not I at least, I should die of loneliness.”

SAPPHO PASSED HER WITHOUT A GLANCE

“We are lonely sometimes,” said Rose, “but not for the sea. We want other girls, for where we live there are only boys, and they live a long way off, on the next ranch. What is the name of your town?”

“That city is called Mitylene, and this is the island of Lesbos, the loveliest of all the Grecian islands.”

“Ruth, do you hear, this is Greece! Where Hector and Achilles lived, and Jason, and Ulysses... Oh, Sappho, how wonderful! Shall we see them?”

Sappho laughed. “Why, they died long ago,” she answered. “They belonged to ancient times. To-day there are no heroes like them; yet the men of Greece are strong and brave still—there are none in the world like unto them. But come, the games will soon begin, and we must be there. Are you to run in the torch race?”

“What’s that?”

“That’s the race the girls run. I shall be in—I mean to win it, and to hear the people cheer me, and to wear a crown of flowers....”

And laughing again, the girl set the double pipes to her lips and blew a sweet refrain that had a merry lilt to it, so merry that Rose and Ruth and Sappho too all began dancing in time to it, while their light, soft garments floated about them like wreaths of parti-coloured mist.

Then without more ado they set off down the long slope toward the road that should lead them to Mitylene, chattering as they went, and asking each other a hundred questions in as many seconds.

For never had Rose and Ruth imagined such scenes as they saw about them. As they left the trees they came out on a smooth meadow, where a shepherd lad clad in a goatskin all spotted brown and white sat on a rock, a short, stout crook in his hands, and sang cheerily to himself and the white flock that grazed nearby. His shock of dark hair surrounded his head in a tangle of curls, his eyes shown brightly at the girls, his legs and arms were as brown as they were bare.

“Greetings,” he cried.

“Greeting,” replied Sappho. “Are you coming to see the games?”

“Can I leave my sheep for the wolves to get?”

“They would not run faster than you should a wolf come,” Sappho called back over her shoulder.

The boy returned to his singing, scorning to reply, but she laughed.

“Now he will sulk when I next meet him,” she said to Rose. “Boys are amusing. I love to tease them, they who pretend to laugh at us girls because we are not so strong as they—some day I will show them what Sappho can do.”

Passing through a vineyard the girls reached the road, down which a procession was winding its slow way. At the head were men dressed in long flowing robes, white or dull blue or soft brown. They carried branches in their hands. Then came six pipers, dressed much like the girls, in what Sappho called a chito. All wore sandals, and most had a band of colour or of silver or gold round their heads. Behind the pipers, who were playing a slow marching air, came a snow-white heifer, with flowery garlands wreathed about her horns and over her smooth flanks. Boys in scarlet tunics led her by long ropes decorated with flowers. Behind these again came many lovely young women, wearing the chito and also the cloak-like outer robe that fell in many soft folds, one end being flung over the shoulder. These garments were bewilderingly varied in colour, some striped, some embroidered, some in strange patterns, but all were harmonious and beautiful. The people moved gaily and freely, and occasionally broke out into a chant.

“Where are they taking that white cow?” asked Ruth, gazing rapturously at the picture they made, with the golden sunlight falling on them, the garlands swinging, the flowers and costumes each brighter than the other.

“To the sacrifice,” replied Sappho.

“Do you mean they are going to kill her?”

“Do they not kill cows in your country?”

“Y-yes—but not all covered up with flowers—not a pet cow like that!”

“The cow given to the gods must be the best and prettiest and gentlest of all, or they would be angry.”

Rose, remembering the Greek stories she had read, suddenly realised that Sappho probably believed in all those wonderfully named personages she usually skipped, and feeling her ignorance, did not pursue the subject further.

A two-wheeled cart drawn by small oxen came up slowly as the girls stood watching the procession turn into the forest. An old man wrapped in a dark cloak walked beside it, leaning on a staff. As he neared them Sappho called out:

“Polemo!”

The old man glanced up, and his wrinkled face broke into a smile. Calling to his oxen, he hurried toward the girls, hobbling along fast enough with the help of his stout stick.

“Greeting, Sappho,” he said, “and to your friends greeting. What do you so far from the town, you who are to run to-day? Your mother early this morning bade me keep watch for you, saying you had gone to the hills at daybreak. Will you climb into the ‘chariot’?” and he chuckled, designating the heavy cart with its four-spoked wheels, with a sweep of his staff.

“May we, Polemo? That will be great fun. These friends of mine have never been to our Lesbos before—it is but right they should enter Mitylene in state.”

“Climb in, all of you. You’ll keep your feet out of the dust, even though you won’t reach home much sooner for all these four beasts will do for you. But climb in, climb in,” and the old fellow laughed as the three youngsters clambered joyously aboard his lumbering vehicle, Ruth and Rose hugely amused and delighted to be travelling in a manner so unusual.

“What is this race you are to run, Sappho?” asked Rose, as they stood swaying in the cart, grasping one side firmly, and watching the oxen plant their heavy feet in the white dust, while they grunted protestingly in reply to the urgings of Polemo.

“This is the maiden’s day, and we younger ones are to run the torch race. All the city will be out to see us. I am afraid of only one among the girls, my cousin Chloë. She is a few months my elder, and a very Artemis for running. But you will bring me fortune.”

“I’m sure I hope so. How did you know we were coming to-day?”

Sappho hesitated.

“I—I don’t know exactly. I only know I was to go to the hill and fetch you. But your names I know not.”

The girls quickly told her. At that moment a chariot flew by them, drawn by three horses and driven by a tall young man in fluttering robes.

“Oh, look, Rose,” cried Ruth, her eyes shining. “Isn’t it just like the circus, only better.”

“He threw the discobolus farther than any last year,” said Sappho. “Is he not beautiful!” And she waved her hand at the disappearing driver.

They were close to the town now, and many people were travelling along the road in the same direction. There was much laughter and gaiety, young boys racing each other with shouts, groups of men conversing as they walked, riders with cloaks of rich colours. Asses loaded with huge packs trotted onward, urged by men in short, skirted garments that barely reached half down their bare thighs. Some wore no foot covering, some had sandals with long thongs that crossed back and forth over their legs up to the knees. A few carried a cloak of skins or of bright cotton cloth. Many women and girls were in the constantly increasing throng, and these wore long flowing robes for the most part, sometimes hanging straight from the shoulders, sometimes girdled above the waist. It was a rainbow-hued crowd. Rose and Ruth had never seen so much colour, not even among the Indians of the Reservation.

Soon they were in the narrow street into which the road they had been travelling merged. One- and two-storied houses presented their blank walls to this street, with only an occasional window and the square or arched entrances to break the line. As they came to a corner Sappho jumped down, beckoning the two American girls to follow.

“Many thanks to you, Polemo,” she cried.

“Come,” and she sped along the street, closely pursued by Rose and Ruth, who had no mind to lose her. Reaching a doorway, she turned to await the two.

“This is my father’s house,” she said. “You will be welcome. Come in and we will have some bread and fruit before we go to the games.”

The three entered a square room bare of furnishing, and passing through, found themselves in a courtyard where flowers grew and the sun shone. Several rooms opened on this court, round which ran a sort of gallery, supported on pillars.

A woman dressed in robes like those they had seen worn by the women outdoors came to meet them across the court. She moved slowly, with great dignity, smiling as she approached.

“Who are these, Sappho?” she asked. “Are they come to the games?”

“I was sent to get them this morning,” replied Sappho. “I know not how, Mother. Something spoke to me, and I went. They come from far.”

“You are welcome,” said the lady, taking the two girls by the hand and leading them into a room beyond the court. Here, on a low table, a great loaf of bread, a jar of golden honey, an earthen pitcher of milk and a bowl half full of luscious figs stood waiting.

“Sit and eat,” she said. “But for you, Sappho, be sparing, if you are to run.”

“I will take no more than one piece of bread and a swallow of milk,” said the girl. “But you two must be hungry, having come so far.” She filled two cups with the milk, and her mother cut a large piece of bread for the visitors, who were too shy as yet to say anything more than a murmured thank you. But with the taste of the good food their tongues were soon loosened, and all three chattered together and to the quiet, smiling woman, who kept filling their cups and offering more bread and honey.

And then it was time to go to the games. In came a tall, bearded, grave-looking man who turned out to be Sappho’s father. He seemed to take Rose and Ruth for granted, and bade them all come with him.

Out in the street every one was pressing in one direction. Another man joined their group whom Sappho spoke to as Uncle, and then the two men walked ahead, leaving the girls and the woman to follow. They passed a beautiful building in a large square, evidently the market place.

“Is not that a fine temple?” asked Sappho. “It was finished only last year, and the town feasted for days to celebrate. Are not the pillars beautiful, and that row of statues?”

Rose and her sister could only stare in appreciation. Never had they dreamed of any building so exquisite, with its rosy-tinted marble, its graceful pillars, one behind another, row on row.

“It looks like that old book of mamma’s with the pictures of the World’s Fair,” said Ruth, breathlessly.

And now the crowd began filing into the large stadium, and settling down into the seats that rose tier on tier under the open blue sky. Their own party found places where a good view was to be had, inside a railed off portion where the relatives and friends of the competitors only were allowed to sit. Once seated, the girls looked about them at the gay, inspiring scene.

Colour everywhere. Gay banners and streamers, bright cloths flung over the railings, laughter, talk, movement. Down in the arena people moved too, sprinkling the dust with a little water, removing scraps of torn decorations, smoothing slight inequalities. Friends hailed each other from various parts of the big place, groups clustered, chatting.

“I must go now,” said Sappho, and her eyes snapped with excitement, looking dark as deep water at night. “We are the first. Soon now my name will be on the lips of all these people, they will be shouting for me, will be throwing flowers upon me....” She stopped, clasping her hands over her young bosom, and throwing her head back to gaze into the sky. “Sometimes I feel that the world itself will call my name aloud, not now alone, but on and on till time is old.”

The sudden colour flooded her face, and she smiled a flashing glance at her friends, who were looking at her with an excitement almost equalling her own.

“Wish me good fortune,” she begged.

“We do, we do. You will win, I know it....”

She gave them each a quick embrace, bent before her mother, and followed her father toward a little doorway beyond the tier of seats. Before entering this, she turned and waved to the girls, who were still standing watching her.

“Isn’t she simply a Jim-Dandy?” the irrepressible Rose wanted to know.

“Sit down now,” said the gentle voice of Sappho’s mother, as she settled herself on her own broad bench, over which a scarlet cloth was laid. “In a moment you will see all the girls who are to run come out through that little door almost opposite—see, there they come.”

And as she spoke a bevy of young things, all of them in a short white one-piece slip that left the arms and legs bare, came pouring out into the arena. Each of them carried a torch in her hand, whose flame bent and fluttered in the breeze.

Straining their eyes to look, the girls distinguished Sappho among the others. She had bound her hair with a broad scarlet ribbon and stood very light and proud, looking fit and ready even at this distance.

Men in brilliant cloaks were moving among the girls, assigning them their places. Presently they drew back, leaving a line of eager young figures, tense and tremulous with excitement. Suddenly, at a signal the girls did not see, they were off.

What a race it was, under that blue and throbbing sky, with the vari-coloured throng waving streamers of blue and gold and crimson, and shouting encouragements. Slender and vivid as the blown-back flames of their torches, the white young runners, dashing this way and that to save their torches from attack, or to attack in their turn. The fire fluttered at the ends of the sticks with a life of its own. Now one girl and then another would forge ahead for a yard or two, but some other racer would reach her, and beat at the flame, lowered by the speed of her movement.

Before long, several torches were extinguished. The shout of the populace was one long roar by this time, and Rose and Ruth did their share in making a noise. Ruth, not given to demonstrations, was hopping up and down like a mechanical toy, waving both arms over her head, and calling out, “Oh, Sappho, Sappho, Sappho, HURRY!” While Rose stood hugging herself, yelling madly, “Go it, go it, you’ve GOT to win!”

A half dozen of the twenty or more runners were left by this time. The others, dropping their dead torches, walked slowly back to the starting point. A tall dark girl and Sappho ran together near the middle of the bunch, three girls leading them by a few paces. Very soon, however, Sappho, with a sudden burst of speed, passed these three and ran freely out into the lead. Rose and Ruth gave one cry of frantic joy. But at the instant the dark girl, springing forward, reached Sappho’s side, and made a vicious strike at her torch. She missed it, but with a quick movement swung the flame of her own torch under Sappho’s upraised arm, so that the red fire licked upward toward the wrist.

With a scream Sappho dropped her torch. Only a few of the concourse had seen the trick, and from these came a shout of protest. Without a sound the dark girl sprang wildly onward. But Sappho stooped, lifted her torch and waved it. It still flamed. Then, with a sort of fury, she began running.

Like blown thistledown she sped after her opponent. Her feet scarcely touched the ground, her slight garment clung to her, showing the lithe slimness of her girlish form. On, on she went. Never had girl run so fast, so finely, in all the history of the race. The great crowd rose to her, and a mighty tumult broke out. She caught up with the dark girl, who faltered slightly, hearing that shout in which cries of rage mingled, calling her own name, Chloë, with shouts of shame, shame. Sappho passed her without a glance, and the next instant sank into the arms of her father, waiting beyond the finish line.

Then indeed the crowd went wild. Her father led her out by the hand before the officials, seated splendidly in a group at the head of the arena. Panting, trembling, her face pale, she stood, lifting her eyes to those bent toward her, while the vast circle poured out a mighty roar of “Sappho, Sappho, hail to young Sappho!” Flowers rained down on her, and then, amid a sudden silence, one of the judges stepped down and laid a wreath on her tossed hair.

When she came back to her young friends the colour had returned to her cheeks. Her mother laid her hands on her head:

“Sappho, my daughter, I no longer regret that I did not bear a son,” she whispered. “And your arm, poor child?”

“Nothing,” answered Sappho, lifting it to show the scarlet scar of the heat. “What is pain that it should matter, if only one triumphs!”

Ruth and Rose clasped her hands in theirs, and gasped out their joy and excitement as best they might.

“You are the wonderfullest, the loveliest...” they asserted.

Sappho smiled:

“No, I’m not,” she said. “But I’m the happiest...”

“Come, my dears,” said a brisk, decided voice, while slender hands caught Rose’s right and Ruth’s left. “Time to be getting home...”

The arena grew dim, the shouting died, Sappho wavered and vanished. The two girls shut their eyes instinctively. Once more came that sudden sense of falling....

“Why, look, there are the torches,” cried Ruth, clutching at her sister.

But it was the flickering flame of the fire in the living room, for there were Rose and Ruth, sitting on the big settee among the pillows, while the log fell apart with a crash and an up-burst of flame.

“Why, we’re home again,” said Rose, slowly. “And the fairy, is she here?”

But if she were she did not answer, and since she couldn’t be seen, there was nothing to be done but to suppose she had gone.