Between Piraeus and Naples: And other stories - including 5 short stories for children

By George Vizyenos

This is a collection of seven short stories for adults and five short stories for children by George Vizyenos, a largely forgotten 19th-century intellectual often credited as being the progenitor of the Greek short story as well as the writer who established literary realism in Greek fiction.
In all his stories, Vizyenos introduces an element of mystery, they are tales of the unexpected and at the end of each one, both the narrator and the reader find they are in possession of some knowledge which causes them to review their first impressions. All of the stories are partly autobiographical and combine many of Vizeynos, own experiences both as a child and as an adult and they also draw on his studies of psychology and the effect of traumatic experiences and events. His protagonists, who in many cases are trying to shed the burden of a trauma in their lives by narrating their story often find that this only multiplies the ambiguities in their lives that this catharsis is trying to expel.
Between 1830-1870 narrative fiction was dominated by romantic historical fiction and it was not until 1880 that literary realism came to the fore and the writing of short stories were more popular than novels. Vizyenos is probably the best known of these writers of the new genre. He was also the first to write about Turks (the archenemies of the Greeks) in a new light and is probably the only writer of Greek fiction to portray Turks with any sort of compassion. His uniqueness of style of storytelling, drawing on his own experiences combined with those of psychology make his stories totally absorbing and as mysteries they stand well to be read today.
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My Mother’s Sin
A young man learns of a terrible secret of his mother’s past, which has influenced the life of the whole family for years, resulting in conflict within the family. Her confession makes a great impression on him and he is also able to understand her feelings towards himself and he finally resolves to have her sin absolved by the Patriarch of Constantinople (Istanbul).
Between Piraeus and Naples
Set on a ship traveling from Piraeus and Naples, the narrator meets a young girl whom he knew a few years earlier, when she was a child, in Constantinople. The girl’s father makes a very generous invitation to the young man, but this turns out to be not all it seemed at first. The descriptions of the storm at sea and the arrival of the ship at Naples at dusk are breathtaking.
Who was my Brother’s Killer?
This tells of the narrator’s search for the killer of his brother, which took place three years before the story begins. It is worthy to be read as a modern detective story, and the answer to the question which is the title of the story, is discovered as the killer confesses to another crime. The story explores the compassion between Greek and Turk (the archenemy of the Greeks) which was unusual at the time of writing.
The Consequences of the Old Story
Set in Germany, the two main characters are Greeks living abroad, where the narrator is studying psychology in Göttingen. This is a dark story, both in its setting, vividly described during wet days in the Haag mountains and in the subjects of insanity and delusion and German mythology also plays a part in the storytelling. It is a wide-ranging story covering psychology, friendship, homesickness, madness, and love.
The Only Journey of his Life
A story of the narrator’s grandfather and the influence and confusion he instilled on his young grandson, who was sent to Constantinople at an early age as a tailor’s apprentice, an impressionable young lad, unable to distinguish between his grandfather’s narrations and real life. As well as vivid descriptions of the harem and the village in Thrace, it is a story filled with fairy tales from Europe and well known Greek mythology.
May Day
The narrator spends a strange and eventful evening in Thrace on the eve of May Day. A delightful romp and the most light-hearted of Vizyenos’ stories, though there is an

• Language: English
• Publisher: Armida Publications
• Release date: Apr 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9789925573141

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Vizyenos

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Copyright © 2020 by Jenny and Andreas Lazarou

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Summary:

This is a collection of seven short stories for adults and five short stories for children by George Vizyenos, a largely forgotten 19th-century intellectual often credited as being the progenitor of the Greek short story as well as the writer who established literary realism in Greek fiction.

In all his stories, Vizyenos introduces an element of mystery, they are tales of the unexpected and at the end of each one, both the narrator and the reader find they are in possession of some knowledge which causes them to review their first impressions. All of the stories are partly autobiographical and combine many of Vizeynos, own experiences both as a child and as an adult and they also draw on his studies of psychology and the effect of traumatic experiences and events. His protagonists, who in many cases are trying to shed the burden of a trauma in their lives by narrating their story often find that this only multiplies the ambiguities in their lives that this catharsis is trying to expel.

Between 1830-1870 narrative fiction was dominated by romantic historical fiction and it was not until 1880 that literary realism came to the fore and the writing of short stories were more popular than novels. Vizyenos is probably the best known of these writers of the new genre. He was also the first to write about Turks (the archenemies of the Greeks) in a new light and is probably the only writer of Greek fiction to portray Turks with any sort of compassion. His uniqueness of style of storytelling, drawing on his own experiences combined with those of psychology make his stories totally absorbing and as mysteries they stand well to be read today.

[ 1. FICTION / Short Stories (single author), 2. FICTION / Folklore,

3. FICTION / Small Town & Rural, 4. FICTION / Biographical,

5. FICTION / Literary, 6. TRAVEL / Europe / Greece ]

Cover

The port of Piraeus by Konstantinos Volanakis

This artwork is in public domain in its country of origin and other countries and areas where the copyright term is the author’s life plus 70 years or less. Source: WikiArt.org

1st paperback edition: January 2020

ISBN-13 (paperback): 978-9925-573-13-4

ISBN-13 (epub): 978-9925-573-14-1

7 Short stories

My mother’s sin

We didn’t have any other sister, only Annió.

She was the darling of our small family, and we all loved her; but the one who loved her most of all was our mother. At the table our mother always seated Annió next to her and from whatever food we had she always gave her the best; and while our mother dressed us in the clothes of our late father, she usually bought new ones for her.

Furthermore, our mother didn’t force Annió to go to school, she went to school if she wanted to; if she didn’t she stayed at home. This was something that we ourselves were not allowed to do under any circumstances.

Naturally such exceptions should create jealousy among children, especially little ones, as my two brothers and I were at the time when these events took place. But we knew that the innermost love of our mother was impartial and equal to all her children. We were certain that her actions were simply external displays of extra care and compassion towards the only daughter in the house. And not only did we tolerate her kind treatment towards Annió without complaining, but we also contributed to it as much as we could. Because Annió, apart from being our only sister, had, unfortunately, always been weak and sickly from birth. Even the last born, who was born after the death of our father and who had the most right to receive our mother’s caresses, gave up his rights to our sister very happily, as she was neither assertive nor arrogant. On the contrary, Annió was very sweet to us and she loved us all with great affection and, strangely, her tenderness towards us, instead of diminishing over the course of her illness, increased.

I remember Annió’s large dark eyes and her dark, arched eyebrows, which seemed to become even darker as her face grew paler. Her face was by nature pensive and melancholy, and only became cheerful when she saw us all gathered around her.

Usually Annió kept any fruit that the neighbours had brought her under her pillow, as a restorative, and she shared them with us when we returned from school. But she always did it secretly because our mother would get cross and wouldn’t allow us to devour whatever her sick daughter wished to taste.

However, Annió’s sickness continually worsened and so our mother’s caring increased.

Since our father’s death, our mother hadn’t left the house because she had become widowed very young and she was ashamed to make use of her freedom, which, even in Turkey, was acceptable for every mother of many children. But from the day Annió fell seriously ill and was confined to bed, our mother put shame to one side.

Once when a man had a similar illness, my mother had rushed to ask him how he had been cured. And if she heard that somewhere an old lady had herbs with amazing medicinal powers, she hurried to buy some; if she met a peculiarly dressed stranger who looked knowledgeable, our mother didn’t hesitate to seek his advice, as the people knowledable in magic, according to the common people, know everything. Mysterious beings full of supernatural powers are sometimes hidden under the guise of a poor traveller.

The fat barber in the neighbourhood used to visit us, self-invited and by right. He was the only official doctor in our area. When I saw him, I had to run to the grocer because he would not go near any patient before he had swallowed at least fifty drams of raki.

I am an old man, my dear, he used to say to my impatient mother. I am an old man and if I don’t drink a bit, my eyes cannot see well.

And it appeared that he didn’t lie. Because the more he drank, the more he was able to see the fattest chicken in our yard, which he would catch when he was leaving.

My mother, although she stopped using his medicines, still paid him regularly and didn’t complain. On the one hand this was so as not to displease him, on the other hand this was because she often used to say that he maintained, by way of consoling her, that the course of the disease, following his diagnosis, was good and was going exactly according to science.

The latter was unfortunately very true. Annió’s condition deteriorated slowly and was barely noticeable. And this prolonged continuation of the sickness drove my mother out of her mind.

Every unknown disease, if it is to be considered natural by the people, must either yield to fundamental medical knowledge or, after a short while, bring about death. As soon as an illness became prolonged, it was attributed to supernatural causes like an evil spirit. For example, the patient must have sat in a bad place; she passed a river at night when the invisible Nereids, the sea nymphs, were performing their rituals; she stepped over a black cat that must have been truly the devil in disguise.

My mother was religious rather than superstitious, and from the beginning she detested such diagnoses and refused to apply the suggested charms, frightened in case she sinned. Besides, the priest had already read exorcisms against every type of evil over the sick girl.

But soon our mother changed her opinion.

Annió’s condition worsened, and the maternal love overcame the fear of sin. Religion should be reconciled with superstition.

Next to the cross on Annió’s chest she hung a charm bearing mysterious Arabic words. The sprinkling of holy water was followed by magic charms, and after the priest’s prayer books came the witches’ spells.

But all of them were in vain.

Annió deteriorated and our mother was becoming completely unrecognisable. You would have thought that she had forgotten that she had other children as well.

Who fed us? Who washed us? Who mended our clothes? She didn’t want to know about these things at all.

An old woman from the nearby village of Sofides, who for many years used to live in our house, looked after us as much as she could, and as long as her Methuselah-like age allowed.

Sometimes we didn’t see our mother for days.

Sometimes she would go and tie a strip from Annió’s dress in a place where a miracle had been reported to have happened, with the hope that the evil would be bound far away from the sufferer. Sometimes she went to nearby churches where they were celebrating a saint’s day, and she would carry a tall candle of yellow wax which she had made with her own hands and which was exactly the same height as her sick child. But all these things were of no benefit, the illness of our poor sister was incurable.

When all these methods had been exhausted and after all the medicines had been tried, then as in similar circumstances we arrived at the last resort.

My mother lifted her wasted girl in her arms and brought her to the church. My eldest brother and I carried the mattresses and followed her, and then on the damp and cold marbles, in front of the icon of the Holy Mary, we put them down and we laid down to sleep the sweetest object of our cares, our one and only sister.

Everyone kept saying that Annió was possessed by an evil spirit. Our mother did not doubt this any more and even the sufferer, Annió, started to believe it.

So Annió had to stay for forty days and nights in the church in front of the Sanctuary, before the icon of the Mother of our Saviour, believing that only their mercy and compassion could save her from the evil affliction that was nestled within her and which was so brutally grinding away the tender tree of her life.

Forty days and forty nights! Because they believed that for this period of time Annió could withstand the terrible persistence of the demons in the invisible war between the demons and the Divine Grace.

After this period of time the evil is defeated and retreats weakened. Also there are a number of folk stories in which the sufferers feel in their bodies the terrible shaking of the final battle and they see their enemy leaving in a strange form, especially at the moment when the Sacraments are passing by or when Let us stand with fear is proclaimed by the priest.

The sufferers are lucky if they have enough strength to withstand the struggle. The weak are often crushed by the process of the miraculous healing that takes place in them. But they do not regret this because if they lose their lives at least they will gain the most precious prize; they will save their souls.

Also, such a scenario created great worries for our mother who, as soon as we placed Annió in the church, anxiously started to ask her how she felt.

The holiness of the place, the sight of the icons, the scent of the incense, it seems all acted favourably on her melancholy spirit, because immediately after the first moments she became lively and started to joke with us.

Which one of the two do you want to play with? our mother asked her tenderly. Christákis or Yoryís?

Annió glanced sideways at her mother, but expressively, and as if reprimanding her for her indifference towards us, Annió answered her slowly and prudently:

Which one of the two do I want? I don’t want one without the other. I want all of my brothers as many as I have.

My mother withdrew inside herself and remained silent.

After a while she brought our youngest brother to the church but only for that first day. In the evening she sent the other two brothers away and she kept only me with her.

I still remember how that first night in the church fired my childhood imagination.

The dim light of the lamps in front of the icons, just enough to light them and the marble steps in front of them, made the darkness around us even more suspicious and more frightening than if we were all completely in the dark.

When the little flame of a lamp flickered it seemed to me as if the Saint in the opposite icon had come to life and moved, trying to detach himself from his wooden board and get down to the ground with his wide red clothes, a halo around his head and with staring eyes on his pale and impassive face.

Whenever the cold wind whistled through the tall windows, noisily shaking their small panes around the church, I thought that the dead were climbing up the walls and were trying to get in. And trembling with fright, I now and then saw a skeleton in front of me, who was stretching its fleshless hands to warm them over a brazier which was burning in front of us.

And yet I didn’t even dare show the smallest amount of anxiety. Because I loved my sister and I greatly preferred to always be near her and near my mother, who, without further ado, would send me back home as soon as she suspected that I was afraid.

So during the following nights, I suffered those terrors with compulsory stoicism, and I carried out my duties willingly, trying to become more and more likeable as much as I could. When it was a weekday, I lit a fire, brought water and swept the church. On holy days and on Sundays at Matins, I led my sister by the hand to stand under the Gospel which was being read by the priest at the Beautiful Gate. During the service I would lay down the woollen blanket on which Annió laid face down for the Sacraments to be passed over her. After the service had ended, I brought her pillow and placed it in front of the left door of the Sanctuary in order for her to kneel on it while the priest placed his stole over her head and made the sign of the cross over her face with the Holy Lance, whispering: Through your crucifixion, Oh Christ, the tyranny is destroyed, the strength of the enemy is crushed…

My poor sister watched me do all these things with her pale and melancholy face, and she moved slowly with hesitant steps, attracting the compassion of the congregation and causing them to pray for her recovery; a recovery which, unfortunately, was slow in coming.

On the contrary, the dampness and the unusual chill and, yes, the horrors of passing the nights in the church, were not slow in acting harmfully upon Annió whose condition now started to realise our worst fears.

My mother knew this and began, even in the church, to show a sad indifference to everything except Annió. She wouldn’t speak to anybody any more, only to Annió and the saints when she was praying.

One day I approached her unnoticed while crying as she was kneeling in front of the icon of the Saviour.

Take away from me whoever you want, she said, but please leave me the girl. I see that this is going to happen. You have remembered my sin and decided to take my child in order to punish me. Thank you, Lord.

After a few moments of heavy silence, during which her tears could be heard dripping onto the marble floor, she sighed from the depth of her heart, hesitating a little and afterwards she added:

I brought two children of mine to your feet… let me have the girl!

When I heard these words, a cold shock ran through my body and my ears began to buzz. I couldn’t hear any more. At that moment I saw that my mother, wracked by terrible agony, fell motionless onto the floor. Instead of running to help her, I took the opportunity to flee the church, running like mad and screaming as if Death itself was about to capture me.

My teeth were chattering from fear and I ran, and still I kept running. And without realising it I suddenly found myself far away from the church. I then stopped in order to catch my breath, and slowly I found the courage to turn round to look behind me. No one was chasing me.

So I started to recover myself little by little, and I started to think…

I called to mind all my love and affection for my mother. I tried to think if I had ever done anything wrong to her, perhaps unjustly, but I couldn’t. On the contrary, I realised that since this sister of ours had been born, not only was I not loved, when to be loved was all I wished for, but I was more and more ignored. Then I remembered my father and I understood why he used to call me his wronged little one, and I was so saddened that I started to cry. Oh, I cried, my mother doesn’t love me and doesn’t want me! I will never, never go to the church any more! And I followed the road back to our house feeling very sad and very desperate.

My mother wasn’t long in following me together with my sick sister. Because the priest, who had been shaken by my cries, went into the church and when he saw my sick sister, he advised my mother to take her away from the church.

God is great my daughter, he said, and His grace reaches throughout the whole world. If it is for your child to get well, God will heal her even in your house.

My mother was very unhappy to hear these words, because they were typical of the language which priests usually used to dismiss those who were about to die, so that they would not die in the church and thereby desecrate the holiness of the place.

So when I saw my mother again she was even more upset! But she behaved, mainly towards me, with more sweetness and kindness. She took me in her arms, caressed me, and kissed me tenderly and repeatedly. You would think that she was trying to appease me.

However that night I was neither able to eat nor sleep. I was laying on the mattress with my eyes closed but I carefully directed my ears to every movement made by my mother, who, as always, stayed awake near my sister’s pillow.

Perhaps it was around midnight when my mother began to pace up and down in the room. I thought she was making the bed in order to sleep but I was mistaken, because soon she sat down and started to wail in a low voice.

It was the lament for our father. Before Annió had become ill my mother used to chant it very often, but since Annió had become ill, it was the first time I heard it.

This lament was composed upon my father’s death at my mother’s request by a sunburnt, ragged gypsy, who was known in our area for his ability to compose songs.

It seems to me that I still see the gypsy’s black and dirty hair, his small fiery eyes, his open shirt and his hairy chest.

The gypsy sat inside our yard, surrounded by copper vessels that he had collected in order to tin them. And with his head leaning on his shoulder he accompanied his mournful dirge with the plaintive sounds of his three-stringed lyre.

My mother, standing upright in front of him, holding Annió in her arms would listen carefully while shedding tears.

I was holding on tightly to my mother’s dress and hiding my face in its folds because it seemed to me, the sweeter the sounds, the more fearful the expression of this wild singer.

When my mother learnt by heart her mournful lesson, she untied the end of her headscarf and gave the gypsy two Turkish coins – at that time we still had plenty of them. Afterwards she offered him bread and wine, and whatever snack she had in the house. While the gypsy was eating downstairs, my mother was upstairs repeating the dirge to herself in order to engrave it in her memory. And it seems that she found it very beautiful because when the gypsy was going away she ran after him and gave him a pair of my father’s baggy trousers.

God forgive your husband’s soul, young lady! the gypsy minstrel replied astounded, and he loaded his copper vessels and went out of our yard.

So, it was this dirge that my mother was chanting that night.

I was listening and letting my tears flow gently but I didn’t dare move. Suddenly I smelt beautiful incense!

Oh, I said, our poor Annió has died! And I jumped out of my bed.

I then found myself in front of a strange scene.

My sick sister was breathing heavily, as always. Near her was placed a man’s suit in the order in which it is worn. On the right stood a stool covered with a black cloth on which there was a vessel full of water, and on either side there were two tall lighted candles. My mother was kneeling and burning incense in front of these objects and, at the same time was looking at the surface of the water.

It seems I became paler from my fear, because when she saw me she hurried to calm me:

Don’t be afraid, my child, she said to me in a mysterious way. They are your father’s clothes. Come and beg him as well to come to cure our Annió.

And she asked me to kneel near her.

Come father – take me – in order for Annió to become well! I cried out interrupted by my sobbing.

And I gave my mother a plaintive glance in order to show her that I knew she had asked for me to die instead of my sister. I stupidly didn’t believe that in this way I had increased her despair tenfold! And I believe she forgave me. At that time I was very young and unable to understand her heart.

After a few moments of deep silence, she passed the incense over the objects again and once more focused all of her attention on the water, which was in the wide vessel on the stool.

Suddenly a small moth, flying in a circular motion over the vessel touched the water with its wings and disturbed the surface slightly.

My mother bent over piously and made the sign of the cross, just as she had done in front of the Sacraments in the church.

Make the sign of the cross my child! she whispered, deeply moved and not daring to raise her eyes.

I obeyed automatically.

When that small moth disappeared to the far end of the room, my mother breathed with relief, got up cheerful and happy, and The soul of your father passed by! she said, still watching the flight of the moth with tenderness and adoration. Then she drank from the water, and she also gave me some to drink.

Then it came to my mind that sometimes she made us drink from this vessel as soon as we woke. And I remembered that whenever my mother did this, everything that day was lively and very happy, as if she had enjoyed a great but secret happiness.

After my mother gave me the water to drink, she approached Annió’s bed with the vessel in her hands.

Annió was not asleep, but neither was she fully awake. Her eyelids were half closed; her eyes, as much as were visible, emitted a strange glow through the middle of their thick and dark eyelashes.

My mother lifted Annió’s thin body with care, while with one hand she supported her back, with the other she offered the vessel to Annió’s dry lips.

Come on, my darling she said, drink a little of this water for your health.

My sister didn’t open her eyes, but it seems that she had heard my mother’s voice and had understood the words. A sweet and sympathetic smile spread across Annió’s lips. Then she took a few sips from the water that was indeed intended to cure her. But as soon as she drunk it and opened her eyes and tried to breathe, a light sigh left Annió’s lips and she fell heavily against my mother’s forearm.

Our poor Annió! She has been released from her torments!

Many people had criticised my mother that while women unrelated to her were wailing loudly over the passing of my father, she alone was weeping a lot, but in silence. Perhaps the unhappy woman was doing it out of fear of being misunderstood, perhaps of violating the boundaries of decency appropriate for young women. Because, as I said, our mother was widowed very young.

When Annió died, she was not very much older. But now she didn’t think at all what the people would say for her heartbreaking lamentations.

The whole neighbourhood came to comfort her. But her grief was great, it was inconsolable… She will lose her mind, whispered those who saw her crying and lamenting among the tombs of our sister and our father. She will leave the children abandoned to the four winds, said those meeting us in the street, abandoned and neglected!

And it needed time, advice and reproach from the church in order for my mother to pull herself together, and to remember her living children and resume her domestic duties.

It was then that she noticed how the long sickness of our sister had affected us.

Our finances had been depleted, spent on doctors and medicines. Many bed covers and rugs that my mother had made with her own hands, she had sold for paltry amounts, or she had given them as payments to the fortune tellers and witches. Other things had been stolen from us by them and their kind, who had taken advantage of the lack of supervision which had prevailed in our house. In addition, our food supplies were exhausted and we didn’t know how we would survive.

However, this, instead of intimidating our mother, on the contrary caused her to have twice the energy she had had before Annió had become sick.

She moderated, or generally speaking, she concealed her bereavement, overcame the timidity of her age and of her sex, and taking the mattock in her own hands started to work for others, as if she had never known a comfortable and independent way of life.

For a long time she fed us by the sweat of her brow. The wages were small and our needs great, but she didn’t allow any one of us to relieve her suffering by working as well.

Plans for our future were made and checked every evening around the hearth. My older brother had to learn my father’s trade in order to take his place as the head of the family. I intended, or at least I wanted, to leave home to work and so on. But before this we ought to finish our education, to finish primary school. Because our mother used to say that an uneducated person is like an un-carved log.

Our economic difficulties came to a head, when a drought occurred in the country and the cost of foodstuff rose. But mother, instead of despairing about our situation, increased our numbers with another, unrelated, little girl, who, after lengthy efforts, she had managed to adopt.

This event changed our monotonous and austere family life and introduced anew a sufficient amount of liveliness.

The adoption was soon celebrated. My mother wore her best clothes for the first time since Annió had died and she led us to the church, clean and combed, as if we were going to take the Holy Communion. When the service was over, we all stood in front of the icon of Christ and there, in the middle of the people that were present and in front of the little girl’s natural parents, my mother received her adopted daughter from the hands of the priest, having first promised in the hearing of everybody that she would love and bring up the little girl as if she was her own flesh and blood.

Her entry to our house was somewhat impressive and in a way triumphant. The village elder and my mother and the girl led the way and we followed. Our relatives and the relatives of our new sister followed as far as the gate to our yard. Outside this gate, the village elder lifted the little girl high in his arms and showed her for a few moments to the people present. Then he asked in a loud voice:

Which of you is a relative, family or parent of this child more than Despinió Michaliéssa, and her relatives?

The father of the little girl was pale and he stared sadly ahead of him. His wife was crying and leaning on his shoulder. My mother was shaking from fear in case she would hear a voice call out I and so thwart her happiness. But nobody answered. Then the parents of the little girl kissed her for the last time and left with their relatives, while our relatives, along with the elder, went indoors where they enjoyed our hospitality.

From that moment on our mother started to lavish our adopted sister with such good care, more than we had been able to obtain at her age, and in much happier times. While I, after some time, was wandering nostalgically abroad, and while my other brothers were suffering hardship and sleeping in the workshops of their masters, the adopted girl was reigning in our house as if it belonged solely to her.

The small wages of my brothers which they gave to our mother were not enough to support her. But, instead of spending it on her own comfort, she put it towards a dowry for her adopted daughter and continued working for her upkeep. I was absent, far away, very far away, and for a long time I was ignorant of what was going on in our home. Before I managed to return, the adopted little girl had been raised, grown up, got engaged and married, as if she truly were a member of our family.

Her wedding, which seems to have been hurried on purpose, was a real joy to my brothers. My unfortunate brothers breathed a sigh of relief since they were free from their added burden. And they were right because that girl, apart from the fact that she had never felt any sisterly love towards them, in the end had also proved ungrateful towards the woman who had brought her up with such affection and in a way that few real daughters have known.

So my brothers had every reason to be pleased and to believe that our mother had been taught enough by that lesson. But they had a big surprise, when, a few days after the wedding, they saw her entering our house tenderly holding in her arms a second little girl, this time in swaddling clothes!

The poor thing, said my mother, leaning affectionately towards the little child’s face. It wasn’t enough that she had lost her father before she was born, but her mother died as well and left her destitute!

And in a way happy from this unlucky coincidence, she was showing off her prize triumphantly in front of my brothers who were speechless with surprise.

The sons’ respect was very deep and our mother’s authority was very great, but my poor brothers were so disheartened that they didn’t hesitate to justifiably point out