ΤΟ ΣΚΥΛΑΚΙ ΤΗΣ 

Συγκινητικό διήγημα κυνοφιλίας 

 με φόντο το πολιορκημένο από τους Τούρκους  Μεσολόγγι

τον καιρό της επιθανάτιας αγωνίας του

«− Ἡ Τριανταφυλλιὰ ήταν μεγάλη αρχοντοπούλα· όμορφη, πλούσια και ζηλεμένη και ευγενική. Το Μεσολόγγι δεν ήχε να δείξει άλλην σαν κι' αὐτήν, καὶ ὁ ἴδιος ὁ Μυλόρδος, ὅταν τὴν εἶδε, ποῦ εἶχε γυρίσει τόσον κόσμο κι' ἀπάντησε τόσαις ἐμμορφιαῖς, εἶπε, πῶς τέτοιαις τριανταφυλλιαῖς δὲν ἀνθίζουνε σὲ ἄλλα μέρη ἀπὸ τὰ 'δικά μας.
«Ἔξω ἀπὸ τὴς χάραις τοῦ προσώπου καὶ τῆς καρδιᾶς της, εἶχε καὶ καλά, σἂν μοναχοκόρη, ποῦ λίγαις τὰ ἔχουνε. Ἡ κασέλα της ἦταν γεμάτη ἀπὸ μετάξι καὶ χρυσαφικό. Σἂν τὴν ἄνοιγε, θαρροῦσες πῶς βλέπεις μὲ τὰ μάτια σου, ἐκεῖνα ποῦ λὲν τὰ παραμύθια. Τί στόφαις, τί ἀσημικό, τί διαμαντόπετραις, τί μαργαριτάρια ἦταν ἐκεῖνα! Σοῦ ἐθάμπωναν τὰ μάτια.
«Μὰ τί νὰ τὰ κάμῃς ὅλα τοῦ κόσμου τὰ καλά, σἂν σοῦ λείπῃ τὸ καλήτερο; Τί νὰ τὰ κάμῃς τὰ ρόδα τοῦ προσώπου καὶ τὰ κιχλιμπαρένια κομπολόγια, ὅταν σοῦ λείπῃ ἐκεῖνο, ποῦ σἂν τὸ ἰδῇ ὁ ἄνθρωπος κάτω πρέπει νὰ σκύφτῃ καὶ νὰ τὸ σηκόνῃ καὶ νὰ τὸ φιλῇ;
«Τῆς ἔλειπε τὸ ψωμὶ τῆς Τριανταφυλλιᾶς. Μαῦρο χέρι τῆς ἅρπαζε καὶ τῆς στριφογύριζε μέσα 'ς τὰ στήθια της τὰ σωθικά. Τὰ χείλια της εἶχαν ζαρώσει, ἡ ὄψι της εἶχε γίνει λεμόνι ἀπὸ τριαντάφυλλο. Ἀντὶ νὰ περιπατῇ 'περήφανα σἂν πέρδικα, ἐτραβοῦσε τὰ πόδια της γιὰ νὰ 'πάῃ ἀπὸ τὴ μία ἄκρη 'ς τὴν ἄλλη. Ἡ Τριανταφυλλιὰ ἐπεινοῦσε.
«Ἐπεινοῦσε κι' αὐτή, ὅπως ἐπεινοῦσαν καὶ ὅλοι οἱ ἄλλοι. Οἱ ἄπιστοι εἶχαν ζωσμένο τὸ Μεσολόγγι, κι' ἀπὸ ἡμέραις μήτε φλοῦδα δεντροῦ δὲν ἔμεινε νὰ φάγουν τόσοι χριστιανοί. Ὁ Θεός ἠξεύρει μὲ τί πετσιὰ ἐζητοῦσαν νὰ στυλώσουν τὴν κοιλιά τους. Ὁ Θεὸς ποῦ ἀκούει ὅλων τῶν ἀνθρώπων τοὺς ἀναστεναγμούς, ἐκεῖνος μόνον ἤξευρε τί πόνος ἔβραζε 'ς τὰ στήθια τῆς μάνας γιὰ τὸ πεινασμένο της παιδί, 'ς τὰ στήθια τοῦ παιδιοῦ γιὰ τὴν πεινασμένη του τὴν μάνα.
«Ἡ Τριανταφυλλιὰ μήτε μιὰ φορὰ δὲν παραπονέθηκε. Τὸ ἔρριχνε στὸ γέλιο γιὰ νὰ διώξῃ τὴς ἔννοιαις ἀπὸ τῆς μάνας της τὴν καρδιά. Μὰ ἤτανε τόσο παράξενο, τόσο κρύο τὸ γέλιο της, ποῦ σὲ κάθε στιγμὴ μιὰ ἀνατριχίλια ἀνεβοκατέβαινε 'ς τὸ κορμὶ τῆς μάνας της. Καὶ ἐγελοῦσε κι' αὐτή, καὶ ἐγεμίζανε δάκρυα τὰ μάτια της. Καὶ ἔπεφτε ἡ μία στὴν ἀγκαλιὰ τῆς ἄλλης, γιὰ νὰ σβύσουν μ' ἕνα φιλὶ τὸ ψεύτικο γέλιο των καὶ τὰ ἀληθινά των δάκρυα.
«Εἶχε κι' ἄλλον ἕνα καϋμὸ ἡ Τριανταφυλλιά. Μικρὸ καϋμὸ ἀλήθεια, μὰ εἶνε μικρὴ καὶ ἡ βελόνα ποῦ ἀγκυλόνει καὶ πονεῖ. Εἶχε ἕνα σκυλάκι ἔμμορφο ὁλάσπρο χαριτωμένο, ποῦ τὴν ἀγαποῦσε καὶ δὲν ἠμποροῦσε νὰ κάμῃ χωρὶς αὐτήν. Ὁ καϋμένος ὁ Λολὸς γιὰ 'δέ τον πῶς εἶνε μαζεμένος 'ςτὴ γωνιὰ καὶ δὲν μπορεῖ νὰ σύρῃ τὰ πόδια του, νἄρθη κοντά της, νὰ τῆς γλύψῃ τὸ χέρι καὶ νὰ τῆς κουνήσῃ τὴν οὐρά. Μὰ ὅταν πεινᾷ ἡ κυρά, ὅταν πεινοῦν οἱ ἄνθρωποι, τί νὰ φάγουν τὰ ἔρημα τὰ σκυλιά;
«Ἄχ νὰ εἶχε ἕνα κομμάτι ψωμὶ ἡ Τριανταφυλλιὰ νὰ τὤδιδε τῆς μάνας της. Κι' ἂν ἐπερίσσευε λιγάκι, μὲ πόση χαρὰ θὰ τὸ μοιραζότανε μὲ τὸν καϋμένο τὸ Λολό; − Ἀλήθεια ποῦ εἶνε ὁ Λολός; Τὸν γυρεύει ἀπὸ δωμάτιο σὲ δωμάτιο, ἀπὸ γωνιὰ σὲ γωνιά. Πάει ὁ Λολός, ἐχάθηκε. Θὰ τῆς τὸν πῆραν… θὰ ψόφησε καὶ τῆς τὸν πέταξαν… ἤ, μὰ αὐτὸ δὲν τὸ πιστεύει, ἢ… ἐπῆρε τῶν ματιῶν του κ' ἔφυγε νὰ πάῃ ἀλλοῦ, νὰ βρῇ ψωμί, νὰ φάῃ ὁ φτωχός.
«Ἦρθε ὁ πατέρας τῆς Τριανταφυλλιᾶς χαρούμενος ἀπ' ἔξω. Καλό τοῦ ἔτυχε μεγάλο. Ἔδωκε πολλά, ἀλήθεια, μὲ χρυσάφι τὸ ἐπλήρωσε, ἀλλὰ τὸ 'πῆρε αὐτὸς καὶ ὄχι ἄλλος, τὸ ἀρνάκι τὸ μικρό, ποῦ ἔτυχε νὰ βρῇ στὴν ἀγορά… Καὶ τὤδωκε γρήγορα νὰ τὸ ψήσουν. Χαρὰ μεγάλη εἰς τὸ σπίτι ἐβασίλευε. Ἡ μάνα ἐγλυκογέλα εἰς τὴν κόρη της κι' ἐκείνη ἐγλυκογέλα κι ἄστραφταν τὰ μάτια της ἀπὸ χαρά, ὅπου θὰ ἰδῇ νὰ τρώγουν ὁ πατέρας καὶ ἡ μάνα της.
«Ἑψήθηκε τ' ἀρνάκι. Ὅποιος τρώγει δύο καὶ τρεῖς φοραῖς τὴν ἡμέρα καὶ ποτέ του δὲν ἐπείνασε, μήτε νὰ 'πῇ μπορεῖ, μήτε νὰ καταλάβῃ τὴν χαρὰ τῆς Τριανταφυλλιᾶς, τοῦ πατέρα καὶ τῆς μάνας της. Ἡ κόρη συχνὰ συχνὰ σηκόνει τὰ μάτια στὸν οὐρανὸ καὶ κάνει προσευχή. Οἱ ἄλλοι… κρυφοβλέπονται σὰν κἄτι μυστικὸ νὰ ἔχουνε…
«Κι' ἄξαφνα κοκκινίζουν ὅταν ἡ Τριανταφυλλιά, μὲ τὴ γλυκειά της τὴ φωνὴ καὶ μ' ἕνα δάκρυ εἰς τὰ μάτια της, λέγει λυπητερὰ λυπητερά:
− Νὰ εἶχα τὸν καϋμένο τὸ Λολὸ νὰ τοὔδιδα τὰ κοκκαλάκια…»

Ι. Δαμβέργης, Επεισόδια της Ζωής: Διηγήματα, Αθήνα, Σακελλαρίου, 1904, σ. σ., 70−73

 

*Ιωάννης Δαμβέργης - Βικιπαίδεια

 
Her Dog
 A short tale by Ioannis Dambergis (title of the original: Το σκυλάκι της)
Adapted by: Vassilis C. Militsis
The story takes place at the time of the second siege of Missolonghi by the Turks (1823–1824). The siege deprived the people of the town of food and many died of starvation.

Rose was a highborn young lady, beautiful, rich, enviable and civil. The town of Missolonghi could not boast of another maiden like this, and when he saw her, the Milord1 himself, who was such a globetrotter and admired so many beauties, said that such roses do not thrive anywhere else but in our parts.
Besides her beaming countenance and her heart of gold, as an only daughter, she was also gifted with boons owned only by few damsels. Her trousseau trunk was filled with silk and gold. Upon opening it, you could see with your own eyes what only you find in fairy tales: Valuable fabrics, silverware, diamond stones, and pearls. You could only be dazzled by all that!
But what use are all the goods of the world when you lack the best thing? What good are the roses of your face and the amber necklaces, when you do not have that commodity which, when you accidently drop it, you eagerly bend down to retrieve and kiss?2
Rose had no bread to eat. An ominous hand grabbed and twisted her viscera. Her lips had shriveled; her complexion from rosy had turned to pale lemon. Instead of strutting like a peacock, she staggered and shuffled her feet. Rose was starving.
She was slowly starving like everybody else. The infidels had besieged Missolonghi and for days the Christian townspeople had nothing to eat, not even a tree bark. God only knew the different kinds of hide and leather they sought to fill their empty stomachs with. God, who hears the sighs of all humanity, only knew the suffering nestled in a mother’s bosom for her famished child, and the child’s suffering heart for her starving mother.
Rose had not once complained. She was mirthful in order to drive out the concerns from her mother’s heart. But her laughter was so cold that it always gave her mother the shivers all over her body. The mother also laughed with her daughter and tears welled up in her eyes. And then they embraced one another to wipe out with a kiss the fake mirth and the real tears.
Rose was also in another kind of distress. It was a small worry, but also small is the thorn that pricks and hurts. She had a small dog, all-white and graceful, which loved her and was entirely dependent on her. Poor, Lolo, look at him, all shrunk in the corner, not being able to drag his paws and come near her to lick her hand and wag his tail. But when his Mistress hungers, when people are famished, what can poor dogs eat?
Ah, if only could Rose have a hunk of bread to give it to her mother. And if some crumbs were left over, oh, how happy she would be to share them with Lolo! – But really, where is Lolo? She is looking for him all over the house. Lolo has disappeared. He might have been kidnapped … or died and been taken away … or, but she found it hard to believe, the poor beast might have run away to find food elsewhere.
Then one day Rose’s father came from the market. He had come into something very good. It is true, he paid dearly, with gold in fact, but it was he who had it, not someone else. He said he bought a little lamb that he happened to find in the market. He brought it home and gave it to be cooked. Happiness reigned supreme in the house. The mother smiled sweetly at the daughter and the latter reciprocated the smile. Rose’s eyes sparkled with joy in expectation of watching her father and mother eat.
The lamb was roasted. Those who can eat twice or thrice a day and have never hungered cannot realize Rose’s and her parents’ exhilaration. From time to time the daughter lifts her eyes upwards in prayer. The others exchange a furtive look as if they had something to conceal.
Suddenly, they blush when Rose in her sweet voice and tears in her eyes says plaintively:

I wish my poor Lolo were here so I could give him these little, tender bones.

1 George Gordon Byron
2 A common Greek habit to show respect for bread, then their staple food.

I.Dambergis, Episodes from Life: Short Stories,
Athens, Sakellariou, 1904, pp. 70 - 73

The Author: I. Dambergis, a writer and poet, was born in Herakleion, Crete, in 1862 and moved to Smyrna (now Izmir) when still a child. He attended the Evangelical School of Smyrna and then studied Law in Athens, where he made his permanent residence. He worked for several journals and newspapers. He was a staunch supporter for the Cretan Independence. He died in Athens in 1938.