The Woman of Andros and The Ides of March (3 page)

‘Chremes, Chremes, he’s only twenty-five. Let him play about a little longer. Why must they become husbands and fathers so soon? He’s good and he’s happy. So is your daughter. Let them be awhile.’

‘Grandchildren! – that’s what I want to see. There shouldn’t be a long step between the generations. It’s bad for customs and manners.’

‘You’ll make a greater mistake by hurrying than by delaying.’

‘Well,’ Chremes continued, ‘there’s another reason why I want the matter settled soon. And that is this: we don’t like the visits that Pamphilus is paying to the Andrian woman. Naturally, Simo, it’s hard for me to be severe about it, because my own son goes there too. But it’s natural that a father should be more exacting in regard to his son-in-law than in regard to his son.’

Simo looked more uncomfortable than ever and remained silent. Chremes went on:

‘I don’t think you like this resort to foreign women any more than I do. Our islands have always been famous for strict and good behavior. If the devil was in us as boys we could always follow some shepherdess up a dark road. But this Andrian has brought the whole air of Alexandria to town with her, perfumes and hot baths and late hours.’

Simo stroked his cheeks a moment and then replied in a low grunting voice: ‘Well, if it isn’t one thing, it’s another, I suppose. I don’t know anything about this Andrian. The women seem to talk of nothing else from morning to night, but one can’t believe what they say.’

Thus invited, Chremes launched into his exposition with considerable relish, examining Simo’s face from time to time to see if the details were arousing in him the interest they held for himself. ‘Her name is Chrysis, and I don’t know what she means by calling herself Andrian. The island of Andros was never famous for such airs and graces as she puts on. She’s flitted from Corinth and Alexandria, you may be sure. She should have stayed in her cities instead of burying herself in our town and reciting poetry to our young men. Yes, yes, she recites poetry to them like the famous ones. She has twelve or fifteen of them to dinner every seven or eight days, – the unmarried ones, of course. They lie about on couches and eat odd food and talk. Presently she rises and recites; she can recite whole tragedies without the book. She is very strict with the young men, apparently. She makes them pronounce all the Attic accents; they eat in the Athenian mode, drinking toasts and wearing garlands, and each in turn is elected King of the Banquet. And at the close, hot towels are passed around for them to wipe their hands on.’

Simo did not concede to Chremes the pleasure of his close interest; his eyes were lowered and his face wore the same bored expression that it brought to all island gossip. Chremes decided to be less expansive and added with easy indignation: ‘As for me, Alexandria is Alexandria and Brynos is Brynos. A few more imported notions and our island will be spoiled forever. It will become a mass of poor undigested imitations. All the girls will be wanting to read and write and declaim. What becomes of home life, Simo, if women can read and write? You and I married the finest girls of our time and we’ve been happy. We can at least provide one more generation of good sense and good manners on this island before the age arrives when all the women will have the airs of dancers and all the men go about waiting on them.’

Simo knew the answer to this, but he repressed it. Chremes, more than any man on the island, was ruled by his wife. In fact from her loom in the shadow, Chremes’s wife tried to rule the whole island, using her harassed husband as her legislative and punitive arm. Simo asked:

‘What happens after the banquet?’

‘Each boy pays for his plate, and pays right smartly too, and from time to time one or another is graciously permitted to stay until morning. That’s all I know.’

‘Is your son at all these dinners?’

‘He was quarreling or something, – or perhaps he drank too much, I don’t know. At all events, he was expelled for a time. Thrown right out into the street, he was, by the other guests. But he’s made his peace with her again.’

‘Do you talk to him about this . . . this Chrysis?’

‘Why, no. I pretend to know nothing about it.’

‘Is my son always there?’

‘They say he’s practically always there.’

There was a long pause. The boy who attended in the wine-shop went out into the moonlight and started putting up the shutters. Presently he returned and whispered to Simo that an old woman was waiting outside to speak to him and that she had been waiting there for some time. This was unusual on Brynos, but Simo took pride in never betraying any surprise. He nodded slightly and continued staring before him.

‘Are there any other women at the Andrian’s?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. Some say there are and some say there aren’t. But there’s a houseful of some sort. In fact it’s a kind of hospital for the old and the lame and the . . . all kind of old battered pensioners. The house is way up at the edge of the town . . .’

‘I know where it is.’

‘. . . and the people, whoever they are, never come into town. They never even go out on the road by day. Oh, you can be sure the townspeople talk of nothing else.’

Chremes rose and put on his cloak. He saw that Simo was as far as ever from committing himself. ‘Well, that’s how it stands,’ he said. ‘I hope that in another ten days you can give me a more definite answer. My wife is after me a good deal, Simo, and she says that I’m to tell you this, that unless Pamphilus stops those visits all idea of a marriage between himself and Philumena is impossible. And that any such marriage must be definitely settled pretty soon or you’ll have to start finding some other girl one-tenth as good.’

For the first time Simo bestirred himself and said slowly: ‘You and your wife will be throwing away a good thing too, Chremes. It’s precisely because Pamphilus is a great deal more than an ordinary island boy that I can’t speak to him as I could to another son. There are more sides to Pamphilus than you imagine.’

‘Yes, Simo, we know that he’s a fine young man. But we also know, if you will forgive me, that there’s a strain in Pamphilus of the . . . the undecided, the procrastinating. To do his best and to take his place, Pamphilus must be urged on by someone, like yourself, whom he admires. And he’s not as interested in this island and in what it stands for as he should be. Do you know the young priest of Aesculapius and Apollo? Well, there is something of the priest in Pamphilus. Such people aren’t interested in putting their foot forward. They haven’t yet come to see what life is about.’

Chremes went out and plodded home along the rocky road. Simo sat on a minute longer. What a bad ending to a bad day, he thought. The two men had grown up on the island together. For thirty years they had been its leading citizens. They knew one another too well. In their conversation they had let play the faint antagonism that always lay between them. This boasting about their children, – how vulgar, how unhellene. How unphilosophic. Yet that was true: there was something of the priest in Pamphilus.

Simo turned to the old woman who was hiding in the shadow by the door. ‘You wanted to speak to me?’ he asked roughly.

Between fright and suspense – for she had been waiting there for the greater part of two hours – Mysis was barely able to find her voice. ‘My mistress wishes to speak to you, sir, – Chrysis, the Andrian,’ and she pointed with both hands toward the waterfront.

Simo grunted. Looking up he saw the beautiful woman leaning against the parapet at the water’s edge fifteen paces away. Her head and body were wrapped in veils, and she waited calmly and impersonally in the moonlight as though two hours were but a moment in her serenity. Below her in the little protected harbour the boats knocked against one another in friendly fashion, but all else was still under the melancholy and peace of the moon. Simo approached her without deference and said: ‘Well?’

‘I am –’ she began.

‘I know who you are.’

She paused and began again. ‘I am in an extremity. I am driven to ask a service of you.’ Simo pushed his lips forward, raised his eyebrows, and lowered his eyes wearily. She continued in an even voice without anxiety or suppliance: ‘A friend of mine is very ill on the island of Andros from which I come. Twice I have sent this friend money by the hands of various sea-captains going between the islands. I know now that the captains are dishonest and that my money never reaches him. All that I ask is that you put your frank upon the package of money and it will reach him.’

Simo did not like to see women carrying themselves, as this Andrian did, with dignity and independence. His antagonism was increased; he asked abruptly: ‘Who is this friend?’

‘He was formerly a sea-captain,’ she replied, still without servility. ‘But now he is not only ill; he is insane. He is insane by reason of the hardships he endured in the war. I have put him in charge of some people, but they will only be kind to him as long as I send them money for it. Otherwise they will put him away on a small island nearby with the others. You know such islands . . . where basins of food are left for them every few days . . . and where –’

‘Well,’ said Simo harshly, ‘since your friend has lost the use of his reason and since he cannot realise the conditions under which he lives, it is best that you leave him upon the island with the others. Is that not so?’

Chrysis tightened her lips and looked far out over his head. ‘I have no answer for that,’ she replied. ‘It may be true for you, but it is not true for me. This man was once a very famous sea-captain. You may have known him. His name was Philocles. Now I think I am his only friend, unless you choose to help him also.’

Simo did not acknowledge having known him, but the tone in his next words was less vindictive. ‘When would you like this money to go?’

‘I . . . I have some money ready now, but I would prefer to send some in ten days.’

‘What is your name?’

‘My name is Chrysis, daughter of Arches of Andros.’

‘Chrysis, I will do this for you, and I will even add to the sum. In return you will do a favour for me. You will refuse my son entrance into your house.’

Chrysis moved slightly to one side and stretching her arm along the parapet looked down into the harbour. ‘Favours cease to be favours when there are conditions attached to them, Simo. Magnanimity does not bargain with its powers.’ These maxims were almost murmured; then she raised her head and said to him: ‘I cannot do that, unless I tell your son that it is because you have ordered it.’

Simo’s slightly cynical superiority over the rest of the world reposed on the fact that he had gone through life without ever having been surprised as unjust, untruthful, or ungenerous. Angry, but with himself, for having been caught at this disadvantage, he replied: ‘That is not necessary. It would be quite simple for your servant to tell him that you do not wish him to come into the house.’

‘I could not do that. There are several young men on the island to whom my door, for one reason or another, is closed. I cannot do that to Pamphilus without giving him a reason. If you understood the spirit of our group you would not wish me to do that; I think that there we are not lacking in respect for one another. I hardly know your son; I have scarcely exchanged twenty words with him; but I know that he is by far the first young man among my guests.’ Suddenly the image of Pamphilus rose up before her and she was filled with an excitement and joy in praising him, and for that very reason she subdued herself and added in a lower voice: ‘He is old enough to make decisions for himself. And if I do this, he must understand.’

Simo was aware that some strange wise praise of his son hovered between them and his heart almost stopped beating for pleasure, but from his lips there rushed the brutal phrase he had prepared a moment before: ‘Then you must send your money to Andros some other way.’

‘Very well,’ she said.

They stood looking at one another. Simo suddenly realised that he lived among people of thin natures and that he was lonely; he was out of practice in conversing with sovereign personalities whose every speech arose from resources of judgment and inner poise. With his wife, with Chremes, with the islanders one could talk with half one’s mind and still hold one’s authority, but here in a few moments this woman had caught him twice at a disadvantage. Chrysis saw this and came to his aid; she broke the silence that was leaving him obstinate, angry, and small.

‘It is perhaps his younger brother whose life can be arranged for him; your Pamphilus deserves to be better understood than that.’ And her tone implied: ‘You and he are of one measure and should stand on the same side.’

Simo preferred talking about his sons to any other activity in the world, but his emotions were very mixed as he assembled an answer to this remark:

‘Well, well . . . Andrian, I will frank your money for you. I have boats going to Andros every twelve days. One went off today.’

‘I thank you.’

‘Could I ask you . . . euh . . . not to mention this to Pamphilus?’

‘I shall not.’

‘Well . . . well, goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’

Simo trudged home in an unaccustomed elation. It made him happy to hear Pamphilus praised and ‘probably this woman was an exceptional judge of persons.’ He had made a fool of himself, but in good hands one does not mind. ‘Life . . . life . . .,’ he said to himself, hunting for a generalisation that would describe its diversity, its power of casting up from time to time on the waves of tedious circumstance such starlike persons. The generalisation did not arrive, but he walked on in a bright astonishment. How he would like to hear her read a play; he used to be interested in such things and when his journeys took him to an island that was large enough to have a theatre he never missed an opportunity to hear a good tragedy.

As he entered the courtyard of his farm he saw Pamphilus standing alone, looking at the moon.

‘Good evening, Pamphilus,’ he said.

‘Good evening, father.’

Simo went to bed, deeply moved with pride, but for form’s sake he repeated anxiously to himself: ‘I don’t know what I’ll do with him. I don’t know what I’ll do with him.’