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Michael
Mitsakis (1863-1916)
The
Auspice (title
of the original Οιωνός)
(Adapted
by Vassilios C. Militsis)
Today
the patient woke up unexpectedly feeling a little better.
It
is the first day after an entire month during which the young woman,
bedridden, has wrestled with death. For a whole month a fever has
consumed her flesh and eroded her body. Wan, half-breathing and
utterly exhausted she has barely been able to master the power of
speech. Her scant blood has flowed blue in her veins and her nerves
could be visible like furrows under the pallor of the skin on her
wasted arms. Her unkempt and tousled hair was spread out on the
pillows and an incessant, painful sigh made her chest heave.
Shivering, despite the heat of the room and the thickness of the bed
covers, she was tightly swathed in them, leaving only uncovered her
blond head, the freshness and the vigor of which has been gnawed away
by the mysterious disease. And during the whole period the doctor,
thoughtful and sullen, has come and gone barely deigning to utter
some words, not being able himself to comprehend the latent cause of
the bane, not knowing how to fight the clandestine foe and not
responding to the anxious inquiries of her relatives.
Day
by day it was evident that life was escaping from her lips and hope
was deserting her soul.
That
is why today has been a happy day for her family. The patient’s
countenance appears more revived ever since she took to her fatal
bed. Her hand is not burning with fever as before. She can breathe
freely and her voice is clear. It is the first time she has asked for
food, whereupon she has been given a cup of milk which she drank
greedily.
And
her mother – her dear mother who has continuously been at her
pillow for thirty days, feeling for her, sleepless and watchful upon
her agony, not budging from her poor daughter’s sick-bed, nursing
her and satisfying all her needs, kissing, caressing and soaking her
with her tears – who has likewise already lost another child, she
looks at her intently with her fiery eyes, and feels her soul open to
new hopes awaiting with a beating heart the doctor’s opinion on
this unexpected change, and leans out of the window to see him
coming…
It
is a cloudless attic morning, very cheerful. The sun is gradually
rising from Mount Hymettus, slow, bright and gloriously triumphant.
The slight haziness that surrounds the sleeping city is beginning to
dissipate – like a nocturnal bedcover that the waking city sets
aside. In the light of the incipient day the houses are depicted
white and cheerful, upright in a long array on both sides of the
streets. Windows and doors open, and the long silence of the dark
hours is driven away by the shine of dawn. The house-maids make their
appearance on the balconies, still drowsy, holding the brooms, their
sleeves tucked up on their arms. The very early patrons have come to
their wonted coffee-house, where they have pulled up their seats and
are reading the morning papers. The greengrocer empties successive
buckets of water from the threshold of his shop onto the sidewalk. At
the shoemaker’s the apprentices cut up the leather and prepare the
work of the day. The gables of the houses are gilded by the rising
sun. One sunbeam is refracted into thousands of sparkles on the
filthy water of the gutter beside the road. A flood of glamor and
life replaces the grave shadows of the night.
From
the bustling street there comes a vague noise, a tumult as if coming
out of myriad mouths, a miscellaneous ululation. It is the people
going to their daily affairs. School children pass by, their books
under their arms, hopping sportively. An old housewife hobbles at the
corner followed by her maid who is holding a hamper: they are both
off to the market. A waggon loaded with masonry rolls on its course
with much plodding and rumbling and staggers, like a drunk, on its
rickety wheels. And as morning wears off, a most annoying throng of
peddlers, giving liveliness to the remote suburbs comes and goes
successively crying out its merchandise in a cacophonous concert that
covers the whole gamut of notes and tones. There has already gone by
the milkman, a tall and surly Lidorikian, advertising his goods in a
horrible bellowing voice. A recalcitrant fold of goats accompanies
him, of which the owner picks out one and milks it at each door in
the presence of those hankering after fresh milk, while the beast is
bleating causing its small collar bells to jingle. Two or three more
hucksters have passed by selling needles, pins, thimbles and yarn.
There is also the husky voice of the baker and the mellifluous tones
of the old woman selling herbs and seaweed. Then appear on the scene
fishmongers, various hawkers, vegetable and fruit sellers and many
others, who bend their neck under the burden of their provisions or
have their wares laden on the back of a mangy donkey.
Dominating,
however, has been a strange cry heard from a distance:
That
was the voice of the familiar raffle huckster who frequents the
remote alleys and the out of the way neighborhoods. He is that
curious specimen of vagrants practicing an equally curious
profession, i.e. he proffers on sale the fortune of the purchaser –
out of which he also seeks his own. He carries on one shoulder a kind
of an easel and on the other a cage, where there is imprisoned a
fluttering bird. He walks down the street slowly advertising that,
thanks to the miraculous bird, he knows the mysteries of Destiny and
discloses them to those who are in earnest to know what is in store
for them. He is an errant Pythia, who for a few pennies foretells
financial success or fame or wedding wreaths or engagement rings or
high offices or a long and happy life. And consequently, damsels
hurry up to the windows all aglow to find out whether candles will
soon be lit on their nuptials, old grannies desiring to learn the
expectancy of their lives, young love-struck swains or jeering kids
swarm around him. And the obliging haruspex puts down his easel,
opens the cage and shows the client various mottled folded pieces of
paper strewn on a metal plate in the cage; the bird pecks at one and
the prophet picks the ticket and gives it to the one concerned. In
this way he proceeds triumphantly and at every stop, people crowd
around him, street urchins press and yell after him, heads peer out
of the balconies, blinds are drawn up and impatient figures look
forward to his arrival. And he comes slowly, almost proudly, as if
among applauding crowds, whose destinies he dominates. His voice
grows more shrill, clearer and livelier. The more he is approaching,
the louder his voice is being heard under the patient’s window.
Her
mother is still there expecting the doctor.
And
the raffle huckster looks up to the open window.
Her
miserable fortune!
She
would like to know her
daughter’s
fortune, if she only knew! Her own fortune depends on her daughter’s.
Can anyone tell her? Who knows! Laughing inwardly at her
superstitious desire that overwhelms her, she cannot resist the
temptation to find out what this vagrant’s bird will prophesy. The
doctor is coming at any moment and he
can tell her what to believe or not, what to hope for or not. Until
then let her ask this funny street oracle, merely out of curiosity.
Therefore,
he summons the vagrant and asks for a raffle on behalf of her
daughter.
The
vagabond sets his easel on the ground, puts the cage on it and takes
the bird out. The tame feathered creature struts on its two legs
outside the metal plate, contemplates as if seeking one of the
colored papers strewn before it and accidently pecks at a yellow
raffle, which the man throws up to his client.
She
grabs it in the air and unfolds it with tremulous hands.
A
typical divination, a silly and incoherent prophecy is written on the
paper in a barbarous and queer style of script:
“My
lady, now you are in a bad situation and you do not fare well. You
will still have much, even more, to suffer; but with God’s help,
you will overcome all your adversities and will progress. You will
marry a rich man and have many and good children, who will all have a
long life. You will live to be eighty and you will see grand and
great-grandchildren”.
The
mother goes on reading slowly and aloud. At first she smiles; but
gradually she is overwhelmed by a vague feeling of glee and at the
same time her hand grows more tremulous and her heart beats faster.
Out of this impromptu disclosure, out of this inanimate and badly
printed piece of paper there arises a mysterious voice of a real
soothsayer and the mother believes that she holds between her fingers
her daughter’s fortune. And while in the stillness of the room
these misspelled and badly expressed, but auspicious, utterances are
heard, the room seems to be filled with a light that mellows the
mother’s countenance and causes the daughter’s pale lips to
smile.
First
published on 26/4/1887
in Estia
magazine.
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