The Woman of Andros and The Ides of March Read Online Free

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