Οι Μάξγουελ της λαϊκής γειτονιάς στην Αθήνα των αρχών του 20ού αιώνα

Απόλαυσις στη Γειτονιά 

Διήγημα του Αλέξανδρου Παπαδιαμάντη

Πρώτη δημοσίευση:  εφημερίδα «Το Άστυ»

Χρόνος δημοσίευσης:  15 και 16 Αυγούστου 1900.

Είδος : διήγημα με δραματικό αλλά και σατιρικό χαρακτήρα .

Χώρος : λαϊκή γειτονιά της Αθήνας , στις αρχές του εικοστού αιώνα.

Θέμα: η αυτοκτονία από έρωτα ενός νεαρού άντρα.

Συγγραφική τεχνική :  περιγραφή του  γεγονότος 

χωρίς σχεδόν την παρέμβαση του αφηγητή-συγγραφέα,

αφού όλη η ιστορία εξελίσσεται μέσα  από 

τους κουτσομπολίστικους διαλόγους  των γυναικών της γειτονιάς.

Πηγή: 

ΑΛΕΞΑΝΔΡΟΣ ΠΑΠΑΔΙΑΜΑΝΤΗΣ
ΑΠΑΝΤΑ
ΤΟΜΟΣ ΤΡΙΤΟΣ
ΚΡΙΤΙΚΗ ΕΚΔΟΣΗ
Ν. Δ. ΤΡΙΑΝΤΑΦΥΛΛΟΠΟΥΛΟΣ
ΕΚΔΟΣΕΙΣ ΔΟΜΟΣ
ΑΘΗΝΑ 1984
Σελ. 253-260

―Ἐτελείωσε;… ἀλήθεια;
― Τώρα ξεψύχησε.
― Καὶ τὸν ἐμεταλάβανε;
― Θὰ τὸν θάψουν μὲ παπάδες;
―Ἔζησε ὣς δεκαπέντε ὧρες.
Ἀπὸ παράθυρον εἰς αὐλόπορταν, ἀπὸ ἐξώστην εἰς δῶμα, ἀπὸ χαμόγειον εἰς ἀνώγειον, ἐπετοῦσαν τὸ πρωὶ οἱ πτερόεντες αὐτοὶ διάλογοι μεταξὺ τῶν γειτονισσῶν. Καὶ μεγάλη περιέργεια ἐφέρετο ἐλαφρὰ εἰς τὸν ἀέρα.
―Ἡ ἄμοιρη ἡ μάννα! κλαίει καὶ δέρνεται.
―Ὁ πατέρας, ὁ ἔρμος, λείπει.
― Καὶ δὲν τοῦ ντελεγραφοῦνε νά ᾽ρθῃ;
― Εἶπαν πὼς τοῦ ντελεγραφήσανε.
― Ποῦ βρίσκεται;
― Στὴ Λειβαδιά, μοῦ ᾽παν, ἢ στὸ Λιδωρίκι.
― Στὰ Σάλωνα, ὄχι στὴ Λειβαδιά!
― Στὴ Σαντορίνη, ὄχι στὰ Σάλωνα!
―Ἡ δόλια ἡ μαννούλα τὰ τραβᾷ ὅλα.
― Καὶ δὲ λυπήθηκε τὰ νιᾶτά του;… Δεκαοχτὼ χρονῶν παιδί, ἀκοῦς ἐσύ!
― Καὶ τί μορφόπαιδο! τί σεμνὸ καὶ συλλογισμένο περπατοῦσε!
― Ἀκόμα δὲν ἵδρωνε τὸ μουστάκι του! Κ᾽ ἔκαμε τὴ ζωή του χαλάλι!
― Στὴν κοιλιὰ εἶχε χτυπηθῆ;
― Στὸ στομάχι, παραπάνω, στὸ στῆθος, κοντὰ στὸ βυζί.
― Στὸ ὑπογάστριο, ὄχι στὸ στῆθος!
― Μὲ μαχαίρι;
― Μὲ μαχαίρι!
― Δὲν ἤξευρε νὰ χτυπηθῇ, τὸ ἐλάχιστο, στὸ πόδι! εἶπε μία.
― Στὸ σπίτι μέσα μαχαιρώθηκε;
― Ἀπάνω, στὸ Ἀστεροσκοπεῖο.
― Στὸ Θησεῖο, καλέ, ὄχι στὸ Ἀστεροσκοπεῖο!
― Κ᾽ ἔζησε δεκαπέντε ὧρες;
― Μάλιστα· ἀπὸ ἐψὲς τὸ δειλινὸ ὣς τὰ σήμερα τὸ πρωί.
― Καὶ τί εἶχε λιμπιστῆ; Τὸ ἐπῆρε κατάκαρδα, ὣς τόσο.
― Κεῖνο τὸ κορίτσι τὸ μελαχροινό!
― Εἶδες μαύρη ποὺ ἦταν· μὰ νόστιμη, ἀλήθεια.
― Τί εἶναι; τί εἶναι; ἠρώτησε μία ἄνιφτη, ἀχτένιστη, ἡ ὁποία τώρα ἀκόμη ἐξῆλθεν ἀπὸ τὸ ὑπόγειον δωμάτιον ὅπου ἐκατοικοῦσε.
― Νά, ὁ Μιχαλάκης ποὺ σκοτώθηκε.
― Ποιὸς Μιχαλάκης;
― Κεῖνο τὸ παιδὶ τῆς κυρίας Βασιλειάδους, ποὺ περνοῦσ᾽ ἀπὸ ᾽δῶ.
― Ἄ; ὁ Μιχαλάκης, τῆς κυρίας Βασιλειάδους; καὶ γιατί σκοτώθηκε;
―Ἐσὺ μονάχα δὲν εἶσ᾽ ἀπὸ ᾽δῶ; Δὲν ἄκουσες τίποτα;
―Ὄχι· γιατί σκοτώθηκε;
― Θέλεις νὰ σοῦ πῶ τὸ γιατί; Νά, ἀπὸ ἔρωτα, τὸ καημένο.
― Καὶ ποιὰν ἀγαποῦσε;
― Θὰ τὸν θάψουν, λέει, μὲ παπάδες; Ἔδωκε ὁ Μητροπολίτης τὴν ἄδεια;
― Νά, ὁ παπα-Γρηγόρης τοῦ εἶπε: δὲ σὲ μεταλαβαίνω ἂν δὲν ξαγορευθῇς..
― Κ᾽ ἐκεῖνο τί εἶπε; Μπόρεσε καὶ μίλησε;
― Κ᾽ ἐκεῖνο τοῦ εἶπε: Κανένας δὲ φταίγει, παπά μου· ἐγὼ μονάχος μου τὸ ἔκανα. Ἐφταξούσιος δὲν ἤμουν; Ἐφταξούσιος βέβαια.
― Καὶ τό ᾽χε πάρει κατάκαρδα; Λένε πὼς τὴν ἀγαποῦσε ἀπὸ μικρή.
― Ἀπὸ δώδεκα χρονῶν τὴν ἀγαποῦσε. Δώδεκα χρονῶν ἐκεῖνος, ἕνδεκα αὐτή.
― Καὶ τὸ φώναζε, τὸ εἶχε μεγάλο μεράκι. Ἢ θὰ τὴν πάρω, μητέρα μου, ἢ θὰ σκοτωθῶ.
― Τὸ εἶπε καὶ τό ᾽κανε.
― Τί αἴστημα!
― Μὰ ἐκείνη δὲν τὸν ἀγαποῦσε; ἔλαβε καιρὸν νὰ ἐρωτήσῃ ἡ ἄνιφτη, ἡ τελευταία ἐξελθοῦσα ἀπὸ τὸ ἰσόγειον, πρὸς τὴν αὐλόπορταν, ὅπου ἵσταντο δύο ἢ τρεῖς γυναῖκες, ἐνῷ ἄλλαι τρεῖς ἢ τέσσαρες ἀνταπεκρίνοντο πρὸς ταύτας ὑψηλὰ ἀπὸ μπαλκόνια ἢ παράθυρα, ὡς χελιδόνες εἰς τὰς φωλεάς των, ὑπὸ τὰ γεῖσα τῶν στεγῶν.
― Τί μορφόπαιδο! κρῖμα!
― Τώρα, ἔχει φύγει ἀπ᾽ τὴ γειτονιὰ ἡ μικρὴ ἐκείνη;
― Νανία τὴν ἔλεγαν, θαρρῶ, ἢ πῶς τὴν ἔλεγαν; Ἀνιψιὰ τῆς κυρία-Παναγιώτους, ποὺ τὴν ἔχει πάρει ψυχοπαίδα, ἐπειδὴς εἶναι ἄκληρη.
― Ἄ! τῆς κυρία-Παναγιώτους;
― Μαύρη, χλωμή, μὲ μεγάλα μάτια, νόστιμη, συμπαθητικιά· μάτια ποὺ ἔσφαζαν.
― Νά ποὺ ἔσφαξαν ἕνανε.
―Ἔχει φύγει ἀπὸ ᾽δῶ ἀπ᾽ τὸ μαχαλὰ μὲ τὴ μητέρα της· εἶναι πέντ᾽ ἕξι μῆνες.
― Μὲ ποιὰ μητέρα της; μὲ τὴ θειά της, τὴν ψυχομάννα της.
― Καὶ ποῦ κοντὰ κάθισαν τώρα;
― Ποιὸς ξέρει; Στὴ Νεάπολη, ψηλὰ ἐπάνω.
― Στὸ Κολωνάκι, ὄχι στὴ Νεάπολη!
― Κ᾽ ἐκείνη δὲν τὸν ἀγάπαε; ἠρώτησε πάλιν ἡ ἀκτένιστη.
―Ἐκείνη ἐκοίταζε πολλούς· εἶχε ἀργολάβους*. Ἔκανε ἀργολαβίες* μὲ τὸ μεροκάματο.
― Δὲν θὰ εἶναι παραπάν᾽ ἀπὸ δεκάξι χρονῶν κορίτσι.
―Ὣς δεκαεφτὰ θὰ εἶναι.
― Δεκαεφτά, δεκαοχτώ, τόσο…
― Θὰ πάῃ τάχα νὰ κλάψῃ στὴν κάσα του; Θὰ πάῃ στὸν τάφο του νὰ κλάψῃ;
― Καὶ πότε θὰ τὸν θάψουν;
― Θὰ τὸν ξενυχτίσουν τάχα; ἢ σήμερα τὸ δειλινὸ θὰ τὸν πᾶν;
― Μὰ ἐτελείωσε γιὰ καλά; Εἶπαν πὼς ψυχομαχοῦσε.
― Ξεψύχησε, καλέ, τὸν ἀλλάζουν· θέλετε νὰ τὸν ζωντανέψετε πίσω;
― Ἄχ! ἡ μάννα ἡ ἄμοιρη!

*
* *

Ἀριστερά, εἰς τὴν πρώτην καμπὴν τῆς ὁδοῦ, εἰς στενὸν δρομίσκον, ὑπῆρχε μικρὰ κομψὴ οἰκία, ἀνήκουσα εἰς τὴν οἰκογένειαν τοῦ νέου τοῦ αὐτοκτονήσαντος.
Ἡ οἰκογένεια κατῴκει εἰς τὸ ἰσόγειον.
Ὁ θάλαμος, ὅπου εἶχαν ἐξαπλωμένον τὸν νεκρόν, εἶχε δύο παράθυρα ἡμιανοικτὰ πρὸς τὸν δρόμον.
Ἔξω, ἐπὶ τοῦ πεζοδρομίου, γύρω εἰς τὸ παράθυρον, ἐσχηματίζετο πυκνὸν ἡμικύκλιον ἀπὸ γυναῖκας, παιδία τοῦ δρόμου, γείτονας καὶ διαβάτας. Ὁ νεκρὸς ἡπλωμένος ἐπὶ τῆς κλίνης εἰς τὸ μέσον, δύο λαμπάδες ἔκαιον, ἡ μήτηρ ἐξηκολούθει νὰ κλαίῃ σπαρακτικῶς. Ὀκτὼ ἢ δέκα πρόσωπα, οἰκεῖοι ἢ συγγενεῖς, ἵσταντο ὄρθιοι περὶ τὴν κλίνην. Τέσσαρες ἢ πέντε γυναῖκες ἐκάθηντο ὁλόγυρα.
Πᾶς διαβάτης ἵστατο ἔξω διὰ νὰ ἴδῃ. Αἱ γυναῖκες τῆς γειτονιᾶς, μὴ χορταίνουσαι νὰ βλέπουν, ἐσπόγγιζον διαρκῶς τὰ τόσον εὔκολα δάκρυα. Ἠκούοντο ψιθυρισμοί:
―Ὤχ! κρῖμα στὸ νέο!
― Δὲ λυπήθηκε τὰ νιᾶτά του!
― Πῶς ἄλλαξε τὸ πρόσωπό του!
― Σὰν νὰ κοιμᾶται εἶναι!
― Νά, τώρα θὰ μᾶς μιλήσῃ!
― Νὰ μίλαε τῆς μητέρας του, νὰ τὴν παρηγορήσῃ!
― Δὲν τὸν ἔπαιρνε ξώψυχα!
― Δὲν ἤξερε νὰ μὴ χτυπήσῃ δυνατά!
― Δὲν τὸ ἔκανε καλύτερα μὲ ρεβόλβερο, μποροῦσε νὰ μὴν τὸν ἔπαιρνε καλὰ ἡ σφαῖρα.
― Δὲν ἔπαιρνε τίποτις ἀπ᾽ τὸ φαρμακεῖο νὰ πιῇ, νὰ τοῦ δώσουνε ἀντιφάρμακο! εἶπε μία.
― Δὲν κατάπινε τίποτε σπίρτα, νὰ τοῦ δίνανε γιατρικὸ νὰ τὰ ξέρναε! εἶπεν ἄλλη.
―Ὤχ! κρῖμας!
― Ἄχ! ἡ δόλια ἡ μαννούλα!

*
* *

Ἐπάνω εἰς μίαν ταράτσαν ἵσταντο τὸ πρωὶ τῆς ἄλλης ἡμέρας τρεῖς νεαραὶ γυναῖκες, τέσσαρα ἢ πέντε κοράσια, ἡλικίας μεταξὺ πέντε καὶ δέκα ἐτῶν καὶ μία γεροντοτέρα. Ἡ ταράτσα ἔβλεπεν εἴς τινα γειτονικὴν αὐλήν, ἀντίκρυζε δὲ πλαγιώτερον ὀλίγον πρὸς τὴν δυτικὴν θύραν, τὴν νοτιοδυτικὴν γωνίαν καὶ τὸ μικρὸν κωδωνοστάσιον τοῦ ἐνοριακοῦ ναοῦ τῆς συνοικίας.
― Νά, τὸν φέρνουνε!
― Εἶναι κόσμος κάμποσος!
― Νά τὸ καπάκι· νά τὰ φανάρια· νά κι ὁ Σταυρός!
― Νά κ᾽ οἱ παπάδες!
― Ποῦ εἶναι ἡ κάσα;
―Ὤ, λουλούδια καὶ κακό· νά τος, νά τος!
― Ποῦ ᾽ναί τος, μαμά; ποῦ ᾽ναί τος;
Καὶ ἡ μικρὰ κορασὶς ἀνερριχᾶτο προσκολλωμένη εἰς τὸν θριγκόν, κύπτουσα ἀπλήστως, μὲ κίνδυνον νὰ πέσῃ.
― Δὲ φαίνεται καλά· εἶναι κόσμος μπροστά… ὤχ! δὲν μποροῦν νὰ σταθοῦν παράμερα!
― Σταθῆτε, καλέ, στὴν ἄκρη!…
― Νά, τὸν πᾶνε μὲς στὴν ἐκκλησιά!…
― Καλὰ-καλὰ δὲν τὸν εἴδαμε.
―Ἐγὼ δὲν εἶδα, μαμά!…
― Θὰ τὸν ἰδοῦμε τώρα ποὺ θὰ τὸν βγάλουν ἔξω! θὰ πάρουν τὸν κάτω δρόμο.
― Στὸ κάτω νεκροταφεῖο δὲ θὰ τὸν πᾶν;
― Μπορεῖ νὰ τὸν πᾶν καὶ στὸ ἀπάνω· μὰ ἀλλάζουν πάντα τὸ δρόμο…
― Κόσμος ποὺ μπαίνει μὲς στὴν ἐκκλησιά!
― Νά ὁ ἀδερφός του, μὲ δύο φίλους ποὺ τὸν κρατοῦν μπράτσο.
― Ποῦ ᾽ναι, μαμά, ποῦ ᾽ναι;
― Νά, τώρα πάει μέσα…
― Πᾶνε μέσα ὅλοι· καὶ δὲν εἴδαμε τὴ μάννα του.
― Ποῦ νὰ ἰδῇς, τόσος κόσμος!
― Ἄχ! ἡ δόλια του ἡ μαννούλα!… πῶς δὲ λυπήθηκε τὰ νιᾶτά του!…
―Ὁ πατέρας λείπει, λένε, δὲν εἶν᾽ ἐδῶ.
―Ἡ ἔρμ᾽ ἡ μάννα τὰ τραβᾷ ὅλα!
Ἠκούσθη κλάψιμον παιδίου ἀνερχόμενον ἀπὸ τὸν θάλαμον διὰ τῆς θύρας πρὸς τὴν ταράτσαν.
―Ὁ γυιός σου κλαίει, Σταματούλα!
― Τί νὰ τὸ κάμω; ζαλίζεται νὰ τὸ σκύβω στὴν ταράτσα· δὲ θὰ ἰδῶ τίποτε· ἂς κλάψῃ!
Ἐφάνη κίνησίς τις ἀνθρώπων περὶ τὰς δύο θύρας τοῦ ναοῦ, τὴν δυτικὴν καὶ τὴν πλαγίαν· ἄνθρωποι εἰσήρχοντο δρομαίως ἢ ἐξήρχοντο.
― Τί εἶναι, καλέ; τ᾽ εἶναι;
― Κάτι τρέχει· τί νὰ εἶναι;
― Μὴν ἦρθε ὁ πατέρας τοῦ σκοτωμένου καὶ τρέχουν ἔτσι;
― Μὰ τοῦ ντελεγραφήσανε τάχα; Καὶ πρόφταινε νά ᾽ρθῃ;
― Μὴν ἐλιγοθύμησε ἡ μάννα του;
― Γιατί τρέχει ἔτσι ὁ κόσμος;
― Μὴν ἔπεσε κανένα παιδὶ ἀπ᾽ τὸ γυναικίτη; σὰ φωνὲς ἀκούω, κλάηματα.
― Ἀπ᾽ τὸ γυναικίτη;
―Ἡ κουμπάρα ἡ Θοδώρα, ποὺ πῆγε τώρα στὴν ἐκκλησιά· δὲ βαστοῦσε· ἤθελε νὰ ἰδῇ· ἔγκυος μὲ τὸ παιδὶ στὴν ἀγκαλιά.
― Μὴν τῆς ἔπεσε τὸ παιδὶ ἀπ᾽ τὰ χέρια, καθὼς θὰ ἔσκυβε ἀπ᾽ τὸ γυναικίτη;
― Τί λές, καλέ; Πῶς σοῦ φάνηκε αὐτό;
― Δὲν ξέρω κ᾽ ἐγὼ τί νὰ πῶ. Ἄλλες καμπόσες πηγαίνουν καὶ καβαλικεύουν στὰ στασίδια, ἀπ᾽ ὀπίσω ἀπ᾽ τὸν ψάλτη γιὰ νὰ ἰδοῦνε… Μὰ ἡ κουμπάρα θ᾽ ἀνέβηκε στὸ γυναικίτη.
― Ἀκόμα τρέχουν!… Ἡ μάννα τοῦ νεκροῦ θὰ λιγοθύμησε… Αὐτὸ θὰ εἶναι!
― Ἀκοῦστε νὰ σᾶς πῶ!… μὴν ἦρθε ᾽κείνη ἡ ἀραπίτσα ἡ Νανία, ποὺ ἀγαποῦσε ὁ σκοτωμένος;… Εἶπαν πὼς γι᾽ αὐτὴν σκοτώθηκε.
― Καὶ μὴν ἔπεσε ἀπάνω στὸ νεκρό, ἀβάσταχτα, τραβώντας τὰ μαλλιά της!…
― Ποιὸς ξέρει!… Νά ᾽ξερα, θὰ πήγαινα στὴν ἐκκλησιά!…
― Ἀπὸ ποῦ νὰ μάθῃ κανείς!
― Νά, ὁ μπαρμπα-Λιμπέρης!… Ἔ, μπαρμπα-Λιμπέρη! μπαρμπα-Λιμπέρη!
Ἡ μικρὰ κορασὶς εἶδε μεταξὺ τοῦ πλήθους ἔξω τοῦ ναοῦ ἕνα συγγενῆ τῆς μητρός της ἱστάμενον καὶ ἤρχισε νὰ φωνάζῃ ἀκράτητα:
― Μπαρμπα-Λιμπέρη! μπαρμπα-Λιμπέρη! Ἔ, μπαρμπα-Λιμπέρη!
Ἀλλ᾽ ἐκεῖ ὅπου ἵστατο ὁ καλούμενος φυσικὰ ὑπῆρχον πλειότεροι θόρυβοι καὶ ἡ φωνὴ τῆς παιδίσκης δὲν θὰ ἔφθανε ν᾽ ἀκουσθῇ.
― Μπαρμπα-Λιμπέρη! Λιμπέρη! ἔ, Λιμπέρη! δὲν ἀκοῦς;… Θεῖε Λιβέριε! Λιμπέρη! Ἔ, μπαρμπα-Λιμπέρη!
Τὸν ἔκραζε διὰ νὰ ἔλθῃ, νὰ τὰς εἰπῇ τί εἶχε συμβῆ ἐντὸς τοῦ ναοῦ καὶ πόθεν ἡ κίνησις ἐκείνη, τὴν ὁποίαν τοὺς ἐφάνη ὅτι παρετήρησαν. Ἀλλὰ πιθανὸν νὰ μὴ εἶχε συμβῆ τίποτε καὶ βέβαιον ὅτι ὁ μπαρμπα-Λιμπέρης δὲν θὰ ἤξευρε τίποτε νὰ τὰς εἴπῃ καὶ ἂν ἀκόμη ἤκουε τὰς φωνὰς τῆς μικρᾶς ἀνεψιᾶς του.
― Μὰ γιατί δὲν ἀκούει, καλέ; κουφὸς εἶναι;
― Νά, τώρα τὸν ἀνησπάζονται, εἶπεν ἡ γραῖα· ἡσυχάσατε· τώρα θὰ βγοῦν· ἄρχισαν κι ἀνησπάζονται.
― Πῶς τὸ ξέρεις;
― Βγαίνουν ἕνας-ἕνας ἀπ᾽ τὴν ἐκκλησιά· ἀνησπάζονται καὶ βγαίνουν… Τώρα θὰ τὸν βγάλουν.
― Θὰ τὸν βγάλουν, γιαγιά, γλήγορα;
― Τώρα, σὲ λιγάκι.
Ἠκούσθησαν καὶ πάλιν οἱ κλαυθμοὶ τοῦ παιδίου, ὑποκάτωθεν ἀκριβῶς τῆς ταράτσας.
― Σταματούλα, δὲν ἀκοῦς; τὸ παιδὶ ἔσκασε νὰ κλαίῃ!
― Ἂς κλάψῃ· ζαλίζεται νὰ τὸν σκύβω στὴν ταράτσα, καὶ δὲ θὰ ἰδῶ τίποτε.
― Νά, τώρα θὰ βγοῦν ἔξω.
― Μὰ γιατί ἄργησαν ;
― Ἀργοῦν πολύ.
― Ἄχ! πότε θὰ βγοῦν;
― Θὰ τὸν ἰδοῦμε, μαμά; θὰ τὸν ἰδῶ κ᾽ ἐγώ;
― Τώρα θὰ βγοῦν.
― Μὰ πῶς ἀργοῦν ἀκόμα;
― Νά τώρα πῆραν στὰ χέρια τὸ Σταυρό, τὰ φανάρια.
― Νά, βγαίνουν.
― Νά οἱ παπάδες!
― Νά, τώρα θὰ βγῇ τὸ λείψανο!
― Ποῦ ᾽ναί το, μαμά; ποῦ ᾽ναί το;
― Νά!
―Ὤχ! μαῦρος, μαῦρος, ποὺ ἔγινε! ἀπ᾽ τὴ μαχαιριὰ τάχα; χύθηκε τὸ αἷμα· πῶς μαύρισε!
―Ἐγὼ δὲ βλέπω, μαμά!… μαμά!
― Νά, ἐκεῖ· βαστάξου καλά, μὴ σκύβῃς.
― Ἄχ! καημένα νιᾶτα! κρῖμας! κρῖμας!
―Ἡ ἄχαρη ἡ μαννούλα του!
― Νά την! κείνη ἡ ντελικάτη, ἡ μαυροφόρα· μπαίνει μὲς στὸ ἁμάξι, μαζὶ μὲ ἄλλες δύο…
― Ποῦ εἶναί την, μαμά;..
― Τώρα μπῆκε μὲς στὴν καρότσα· πᾶνε!
― Ἄχ! μαύρη μαννούλα!
― Κρῖμα στὰ νιᾶτά του!
― Θεὸς σχωρέσ᾽ τονε!
― Θεὸς σχωρέσ᾽ τον!

*
* *

Καὶ τὸ βάσανον τοῦ ἀτυχοῦς νεκροῦ ἔμελλεν ὁσονούπω νὰ τελειώσῃ.
Ἀπῆλθε μὲ τὴν ἐλπίδα νὰ εὕρῃ εἰς ἄλλον κόσμον ὀλιγωτέραν περιέργειαν.
(1900)

Αλέξανδρος Παπαδιαμάντης (Σκιάθος 4 Μαρτίου 1851 – Σκιάθος 3 Ιανουαρίου 1911)

Αυτοβιογραφικόν σημείωμα :
«Ἐγεννήθην ἐν Σκιάθῳ, τῇ 4 Μαρτίου 1851.
Ἐβγήκα ἀπὸ τὸ Ἑλληνικὸν Σχολεῖον εἰς τὰ 1863, ἀλλὰ μόνον τῷ 1867 ἐστάλην εἰς τὸ Γυμνάσιον Χαλκίδος, ὅπου ἤκουσα τὴν Α’ καὶ Β’ τάξιν.
Τὴν Γ’ ἐμαθήτευσα εἰς Πειραιᾶ, εἴτα διέκοψα τὰς σπουδάς μου καὶ ἔμεινα εἰς τὴν πατρίδα. Κατὰ Ἰούλιον τοῦ 1872 ὑπήγα εἰς τὸ Ἅγιον Ὅρος χάριν προσκυνήσεως, ὅπου ἔμεινα ὀλίγους μῆνας. Τῷ 1873 ἤλθα εἰς Ἀθήνας καί ἐφοίτησα εἰς τὴν Δ’ τοῦ Βαρβακείου.
Τῷ 1874 ἐνεγράφην εἰς τὴν Φιλοσοφικὴν Σχολήν, ὅπου ἤκουα κατ’ ἐκλογὴν ὀλίγα μαθήματα φιλολογικά, κατ’ ἰδίαν δὲ ἠσχολούμην εἰς τὰ ξένας γλώσσας.
Μικρὸς ἐζωγράφιζα Ἁγίους, εἴτα ἔγραφα στίχους, καί ἐδοκίμαζα να συντάξω κωμῳδίας. Τῷ 1868 ἐπεχείρησα νὰ γράψω μυθιστόρημα.
Τῷ 1879 ἐδημοσιεύθη «ἡ Μετανάστις» ἔργον μου εἰς τὸ περιοδικὸν «Σωτήρα».
Τῷ 1882 ἐδημοσιεύθη «Οἱ ἔμποροι τῶν Ἐθνῶν» εἰς τὸ «Μὴ χάνεσαι».
Ἀργότερα ἔγραψα περὶ τὰ ἑκατὸν διηγήματα, δημοσιευθέντα εἰς διάφορα περιοδικὰ καί ἐφημερίδας.»

Leisure in a Low Class Neighborhood

Short story By Alexandros Papadiamantis

Redered by Vassilis C. Militsis

The story first appeared in the journal To Asty on August 15 to 16, 1900.

The genre has both a dramatic and satirical note.

The incident takes place at a common neighborhood in Athens early in the twentieth century.

The story is about a young man who took his life because of thwarted love.

The technique the author employs is his relating his story without taking part in it as a narrator since the whole incident evolves through the dialogues of the nosey gossips of the neighborhood.

Source:

ALEXANDROS PAPADIAMANTIS

COMPLETE WORKS

VOLUME III

RESTORED EDITION

N.D. TRIANTAFYLLOPOULOS

DOMOS PUBLISHERS

ATHENS 1984

Pp. 253 – 260

• So he succumbed… really?
• He’s just given up his ghost.
• Has he been given Holy Communion?
• Is he going to be buried by priests?
• He’d held onto his life for around fifteen hours.

From windows to courtyards, from balconies to terraces, from the ground floors to upper flats these ‘winged’ exchanges ‘were desultorily flying’ among the gossipy womenfolk of the neighborhood on that morning. And exceptional curiosity hovered lightly in the air.

• Woe to his wretched mother! She must be crying and wailing.
• And his ill-fated father is away.
• How come don’t they cable him to come?
• They say they have.
• Where is he?
• They’ve told me perhaps he’s in Livadia or Lidoriki.
• In Salona, not in Livadia!
• In Santorini, not in Salona!
• And the hapless mother is going through it all.
• And he didn’t even spare his own youth!
• And only a lad of eighteen, just fancy!
• And a beauty of a kid! He’d walk shy and pensive!
• He’d just grown a down of a moustache! And he’d just wasted his life!
• He’s hurt himself in the belly?
• A little way up, in the stomach, near his nipple.
• The wound was lower in the belly, not in the stomach.
• With a knife?
• Yeah, with a knife!
• He could at least have stabbed his leg instead? One of them remarked.
• Did he stab himself at home?
• No, on the hill of the Observatory.
• At Theseion, dear, not the Observatory!
• And he’d held to life for fifteen hours, hadn’t he?
• In fact, from yesterday afternoon till this morning.
• Why could he have liked in her? He’d taken it to heart, though.
• That brunette!
• Have you seen how swarthy she is? Though attractive admittedly.
• What’s the matter? What’s going on? Asked a woman, still unwashed and unkempt, who had just come up from her basement flat.
• It’s about Michalakis, who killed himself.
• Which Michalakis?
• Mrs. Vassileiadou’s kid, who used to saunter along here.
• Ah! Mrs. Vassileiadou’s Michalakis? And why did he take his life?
• You only seem not be around. Haven’t you heard anything?
• No; what did he kill himself for?
• Shall I tell you what for? For love, the poor creature; that’s what for.
• Who was he in love with, then?
• Do they say he’ll be buried by priests? Has the bishop given the permit?
• Well, father Gregory told him: “I won’t let you receive Holy Communion unless you’re shriven…”
• And what did the kid say? Was he able to talk?
• That kid told him: “None is to blame, father; I’ve done it myself. Aren’t I my own master?”

• His own master, indeed.
• And did he take it to heart? They say he’d been in love with her since she was still a child.
• He’d been in love with her since he was twelve. And she was eleven.
• And he used to blow it around; he was very keen on it: “Either she’ll be mine or I’ll kill myself, mother.”
• Νo sooner said than done.
• What a flame!
• But didn’t she rise to his feelings? The unwashed dame, recently come out from her basement flat, took the chance to ask a couple of female busybodies standing at the yard gate, while three or four others responded from balconies and windows high up, like swallows chirping in their nests under the eaves.
• What a handsome youngster! Such a pity!
• And what about that little hussy? Has she left the neighborhood?
• Nania is her name, I reckon, if I ain’t mistaken. She’s Mrs. Panagiotou’s niece. She’s adopted as her aunt is childless.
• Ah! Mrs. Panagiotou?
• Dark and pale, nice and comely with large, slaughtering eyes.
• Indeed, they’ve already slaughtered one.
• Her mother and she left the neighborhood five or six months ago.
• Her mother? You mean her aunt, who’s adopted her.
• And whereabouts have they settled now?
• Who knows? Over at Neapolis backstreets.
• At Kolonaki, not Neapolis.
• And didn’t she love him? Assumed the unkempt one.
• She used to give the glad eye to many; so she had a lot of suitors; she was being courted day in, day out.
• She can’t be older that sixteen.
• She must be round seventeen.
• I reckon she’s seventeen to eighteen, just about…
• Is she gonna go and weep over his coffin? Will she go and lament at his grave?

• And when will he be buried?
• Will they mourn him all night or will they bury him this afternoon?
• But has he really passed away? Rumor has it he’s still been at his last gasp.
• He’s given up his ghost, dear; they are changing his clothes. Do you intend to bring him back to life?
• Oh! The ill-fated mother!

*
* *

Taking the left turn of the street into a narrow alley there was a small, comely house belonging to the suicide’s family. The family lived in the ground floor. The room, where they had laid the youngster’s body, had two windows, half-open, with a view of the street.

Outside, on the sidewalk there gathered a throng of women, street urchins, various neighbors and passers-by. The corpse lay on a bed in the middle of the room; two candles were burning, while his mother went on wailing in a heartrending way. Half a score of people, friends and relatives, stood around the bed. Four to five women were also present all around him.

Curious passers-by paused for a while to look. The women of the neighborhood, gloating over, went on wiping their too easy tears. At the same time whispers could be heard among the crowd.

• Oh! Such a pity, and he so young!
• He didn’t spare his youth!
• Look how changed his face is!
• As if he’s sleeping!
• You think he’ll talk to us!
• If only he spoke to his mother to comfort her!
• Could he have hurt himself only lightly!
• Could he help it not to stab himself so hard!
• He’d better have used a revolver; the bullet could have not found the target!
• Why not take some poison from the drugstore? They could have given him an antidote, said one of the busybodies.
• He might as well have swallowed strong spirits so they could give him some remedy to make him throw it up! Added another one.
• Oh! Such a pity!
• Ah! Woe to his poor mother!

*
* *

On the following morning three young women and an much older one with four to five girls between five and ten years of age stood upon the roof of a house. The roof faced the neighboring courtyard, and a little way off to the side one could see the west gate of the parish church as well as the southwest corner of its small belfry.

• There, they’re bringing him!
• There’s quite a bit of people!
• There, you can see the coffin lid; there are the lighted fans; there’s the Crucifix, too!
• Look at the priests!
• Where’s the coffin?
• Oh, just look at all those flowers; there he is, there he is!
• Where’s he, momma? Where is he? And the little girl clambered up the parapet and stuck over the eaves risking a headlong fall.
• I can’t see him clearly; the crowd is blocking my view… Oh! Why can’t they stand a little to the side?
• Eh, you! Move over to the side!...
• There, they’re taking him into the church!
• We didn’t get to see him.
• I didn’t see him either, momma!
• We’ll see him in a while when they get him out! They’re taking the lower street.
• Aren’t they taking him down to the cemetery?
• They might bury him to the one on the upper side; they’re always changing streets…
• What a crowd is going into the church!
• There’s his brother, too, with two friends supporting him by the arm.
• Where is he, momma? Where is he?
• There; he’s going into the church…
• Everybody’s going in; we haven’t seen his mother yet, though.

• How can you? So many people!
• Ah! His wretched mother! … Why didn’t he spare his youth?
• They say his father is away.
• The poor mother is going through this all!

The cry of a child was suddenly heard from the room downstairs.

• That’s your son weeping, Stamatoula!
• I can’t help it; he gets dizzy when I let him look down from the roof; he won’t let me see anything; let him cry!

Then there was a movement of people around the both the west and the side church gates. People were going in and out excitedly.

• What’s the matter? What’s wrong?
• Something’s the matter; but what is it?
• Has the suicide’s father come at last? Is that why all this commotion?
• I wonder if they’ve cabled him and he couldn’t make it.
• Perhaps the mother’s swooned.
• Why are they all running like this?
• God forbid if a kid has fallen from the women loft!
• Theodora, my best woman, has just gone into the church; she was all curious and wanted to see, though she’s pregnant and with her other kid in her arms.
• Do you think by any chance she’s dropped the kid as she bent over the loft?
• What are you talking about, dearie? How did such a thing cross your mind?
• I don’t know what to say. Some women go and ride over the pews behind the choir to see… but my best woman must have gone up to the loft.
• They’re still running! The suicide’s mother must have swooned… That’s it!
• Listen to what have just crossed my mind: do you think that swarthy girl, Nania, who the poor man loved, has come? They say he’s taken his life for her.
• And she might have fallen herself on the coffin pulling at her hair!
• Who knows? If I knew, I’d go to church, too!
• How can one find out?
• There! Uncle Liberis! Eh, Uncle Liberis! Uncle Liberis!

The little girl spied among the crowd a relative of her mother’s standing outside the church and she began hollering at him incontinently:

• Uncle Liberis! Uncle Liberis! Eh, Uncle Liberis!

But where he was standing there was much more noise than the little girl’s voice, which was not loud enough to hear.

• Uncle Liberis! Uncle Liberis! Eh, Uncle Liberis! Can’t you hear? Uncle Liberis! Eh, Uncle Liberis!

She was calling him to go over and tell them what had happened within the church and about all that commotion they had noticed. Perhaps nothing might have happened and it was certain that Uncle Liberis could tell them nothing even if he had heard his little niece’s questions.

• But whyever can’t he hear? Is he deaf?
• There, they’re bidding the last farewell,

said the old crone;

• Be quiet; now they’re coming out and have begun paying the deceased their last dues.
• How do you know?
• They’re coming out of the church in single file; they’re paying their last tributes and coming out… soon they’re taking him out, too.
• Are they going to bring him out soon, grandma?
• Now shortly.

The child in the rooms right under the roof started weeping again.

• Stamatoula, can’t you hear? The tot is bawling!
• Let him cry; he gets dizzy when I let him look down from the roof; he won’t let me see anything.
• There now, they’re coming out.
• But why do they take so long?
• They’re too long?
• Ah! Whenever will they come out?
• Will we see him, momma? Will I see him, too?
• They’re coming out shortly.
• But still they’re taking too long!
• There, they’ve got hold of the Crucifix and the lighted fans.

• There now, they’re coming out at last.
• There are the priests, too!
• Shortly the dead man will be out!
• Where is he, momma? Where is he?
• There he is!
• Oh, he’s turned so black! I wonder if the stab made it so; his blood gushed out. Look how black he’s become!
• Momma, momma! I can’t see!
• There; get a firm grip of the wall and don’t bend over.
• Ah! Pity, pity! The wasted youth!
• Woe to the ill-starred mother!
• There she is, too! Dressed all in black and so brittle! She’s getting on the coach with two other women…
• Where is she, momma?
• She’s just got on the coach; they’re driving off!
• Ah! Woe to the wretched mother!
• Pity on his wasted youth!
• God rest him!
• God rest him!

*
* *

And the misery of the hapless parted one was about to end soon. He left this world in the hope of finding another one where there would be less morbid curiosity.

(1900)

Alexandros Papadiamantis (Born in Skiathos 4th March 1851 – Died in Skiathos 3rd January 1911)

Autobiographical Note:

“I was born in Skiath on the 3^rd of March in 1851. I graduated from the Lower Secondary School in 1863, but only in 1867 did I enroll in Gymnasium at Chalkis, where I attended the first and second grades.

I finished the third grade in Piraeus. Afterwards I dropped school and stayed on my home island. In July of 1872 I went on a pilgrimage to Mount Athos, where I stayed for a few months. In 1873 I went to Athens where I attended the fourth grade at the Varvakeios School.

In 1874 I matriculated in the Philosophy Faculty, where electively I attended a few literature courses, but in particular I engaged myself in learning foreign languages.

As a child I dabbled in painting icons of Saints, then I wrote poetry and I tried comical plays. In 1868 I attempted to write a novel.

In 1879 my work The Emigrante was published in the magazine ‘Sotiras’.

In 1882 my novel The Merchants of Nations was published in the magazine ‘Do Not Perish- Mê Chanesai’.

Later on, I turned out about a hundred short stories, published in various magazines and newspapers.”

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