gregorio’s dreams, when he did sleep, were none of the pleasantest, and when he woke up, from time to time, he heard his wife weeping. in wondering what he should say to comfort her he fell asleep again, and sleeping was worse than lying awake. for in his dreams he saw xantippe and his child starving and crying for food, and he was unable to help them in any way. he lived over again the long day he had spent tramping the streets of alexandria searching for work. he saw the few tourists still left in the town fat and happy; he saw the porters of the hotels who had smiled on him pityingly and yet contemptuously; and he woke, after each representation of the crude comedy, hot and yet cold with perspiration, to feel the bed on which he lay shaking under the sobs of his wife.
when at last day dawned gregorio raised himself with an oath, and swore to find food for his family and work for himself. the terrible debt he owed to amos he swore should not trouble him, laughing at his wife’s remonstrances. with the bright daylight had come a new courage, and, hungry as he was, he felt able not only to satisfy their hunger, but so skilfully to arrange matters that they would never feel hungry again. yet is was a terrible ordeal, that half-hour when the family should have sat down to a table laden with food. the poor wife cried, and he had to comfort her tears with promises, unsubstantial nutriment indeed, and they could not satisfy the child, who failed dismally to understand them. through the green blinds came the noise of life and health and merriment; curses too, sometimes, but only the curses of the well fed, and therefore meaningless. already the sun fell hot and indomitable on the room, and the atmosphere at their touch became stifling. gregorio, swallowing his tears, tore out into the street, shouting up the narrow stairway hysterical words of hope.
how long and shadowless the street seemed! every house had its green blinds closely shut; the wind that stirred the dust of the pavements was hot and biting. gregorio clinched his hands and strode rapidly onward. what mattered it to him that behind those green blinds women and men slumbered in comparative comfort? he had a work to do, and by sunset must carry good tidings to his little world. for a time his heart was brave as the dry wind scorched the tear upon his cheek. “surely,” he thought, weaving his thoughts into a fine marching rhythm, “the great god will help me now, will help me now.”
at midday, after he had tried, with that strange greek pertinacity that understands no refusals, all the hotels and tourist agencies he had called at the day before, he became weary and disconsolate. the march had become a dirge; no longer it suggested happiness to be, but failure. an englishman threw him a piastre, and he turned into a cafe. calling for a glass of wine, he flung himself down on the wooden bench and tried to think. but really logical thinking was impossible. for in spite of the sorrow at his heart, the same bright dreams of wealth and happiness came back to mock him. the piastre he played with became gold, and he felt the cafe contained no luxuries that he might not command to be brought before him. but as the effects of the red wine of lebanon evaporated he began to take a soberer though still cheerful view of his position. it was only when the waiter carried off his piastre that he suddenly woke to fact and knew himself once more a man with a wife and child starving in alexandria, an alien city for all its wealthy colony of greeks. a wave of pity swept over him; not so much for the woman was he sorry, though he loved her too, but for the baby whose future he had planned. he scowled savagely at the inmates of the cafe, who only smiled quietly, for they were used to poor greeks who had drunk away their last coin, and pushed past them into the street.
there it was hotter than ever, and he met scarcely any one. every one who could be was at home, or in the cool cafes; only gregorio was abroad. he determined to make for the quay. he knew that many ships put into the alexandrian waters, and there was often employment found for those not too proud to work at lading and unloading. quickly, and burning as the kempsin, he hurried through the rue des soeurs, not daring to look up at the house wherein he dwelt. the muffled sounds of voices and guitars from the far-away interiors seemed to mock his footsteps as he passed the wine-shops; and all the other houses were silent and asleep. at last he arrived on the quay, and the black lines of the p. and o. stood out firmly before him against the pitiless blue of sea and sky. he wandered over the hot stone causeway, but found no one. the revenue officers were away, and not a labourer, not a sailor, was visible. beyond the breakwater little tufts of silvery foam flashed on the rollers, and a solitary steamer steered steadily for the horizon. he could see the greek flag at her stern, and his eyes filled with tears. ah, how little his friends in athens thought of the man who had come to find fame and fortune in the far-off east! he sat down on the parapet and watched the vessel until she became a tiny speck on the horizon, and then he recommenced his search for work. his heart was braver for a moment because of its pangs; he swore he would show these countrymen of his who dwelt at home, and who in three days would see the very ship he had been gazing at arrive in grecian waters, that he was worthy of his country and his kinsfolk.
but resolutions were useless, tenacity of purpose was useless. for two long hours he wandered by the harbour, but met no one.
at last the sun fell behind the western waves, and the windows of the khedive’s palace glowed like a hundred flaming eyes; the flags fell from the masts of the vessels; on the city side was a sudden silence, save for the melancholy voices of the muezzins; then the day died; the bright stars, suddenly piercing the heavens, mocked him with their brilliance and told him that his useless search for bread was over.
gregorio went back slowly to his home. already the rue des soeurs was crowded. the long street rang with music and laughter, and instead of blinds covering the windows merry women leaned upon the sills and laughed at the crowds below.
gregorio, when he reached his house, would have liked to go straight to bed. but it was not to be, for as he entered the tiny room he heard his wife trying to persuade the hungry infant into sleep, and his footsteps disturbed her tears. he had to calm them as best he could, and as he soothed her he noticed the child had a crust in his hand which he gnawed half contentedly. at the same moment the dim blue figure of an arab passed by the opposite wall, and had almost gained the door ere gregorio found words.
“who are you?”
“it is ahmed,” his wife answered, gently, placing her trembling hand upon his shoulder; “he too has children.”
gregorio scowled and muttered, “an arab,” and in that murmur none of the loathing was hidden that the pseudo-west bears for the east.
“the child is starving,” said ahmed. “i have saved the child; maybe some day i shall save the father.” and ahmed slipped away before gregorio could answer him.
for a while neither he nor his wife spoke; they stood silent in the moonlight. at last gregorio asked huskily, “have you had food?”
“not to-day,” was the answer; and the sweet voice was almost discordant in its pathos as it continued, “nor drink, and but for ahmed the boy had died.”
gregorio could not answer; there was a lump in his throat that blocked words, opening the gate for sobs. but he choked down his emotion with an effort and busied himself about the room. xantippe sat watching him anxiously, smoothly with nervous fingers the covering of her son’s bed.
as the night advanced the heat increased, and all that disturbed the silence of the room was the echo of the streets. gregorio walked to the window and looked out. below him he saw the jostling crowd of men and women. these people, he thought, were happy, and two miserables only dwelt in the city—his wife and himself. and whenever he asked himself what was the cause of his misery, the answer was ever the same—poverty. he glanced at his son, tossing uneasily in his bed; he looked at his wife, pale and haggard in the moonlight; he remembered his own sufferings all day long in the hot cruel streets, and he spoke unsteadily:
“xantippe?”
“yes.”
“i have thought over things.”
“and i too.”
“we are starving,—you are starving, and i am starving,—and all day long i tramp these cursed streets, but gain nothing. so it will go on, day in, day out. not only we ourselves, but our son too must die. we must save him.”
“yes,” said xantippe, quietly, repeating her husband’s words as she kissed the forehead of her child, “we must save him.”
“there is only one way.”
“only one way,” repeated xantippe, dreamily. there was a pause, and then, as though the words had grown to have a meaning to her that she could not fathom, she queried, “what way, gregorio?”
“that,” he said, roughly, as he caught her by the wrist, and, dragging her to the window, pointed to the women in the street beneath.
xantippe hid her face on her husband’s breast and cried softly, while she murmured, “no, no; i will never consent.”
“then the child will die,” answered the greek, curtly, flinging her from him.
and the poor woman cast herself upon the bed beside her boy, and when her tears ceased for a moment stammered, “when?”
“to-morrow,” was the answer, cruel and peremptory. and as gregorio closed the lattice, shutting out the noise of song and laughter, the room echoed with the mighty sobbing of a woman who was betrayed, and who repeated hysterically, while kissing the face of her child, “to-morrow, to-morrow there will be food for you.”
and gregorio slept peacefully, for the danger of starvation was over; he would yet live to see his son become rich.
and the woman?
he kissed her before he slept, and women always cry.
