are treacherous, Arnon. I should much sooner trust a horse.'
'That is quite true, sire. I shall let her ride one of the horses.' She had spoken half-playfully, but added, in a suddenly serious tone, 'Don't forget, Zendi, that my little daughter is every inch an Arabian! You were taught to ride almost as soon as you were able to walk—and so was I.'
This incident, trivial enough in itself, was reported to the Councillors, who received it—and its implications—with smiles and nods of approval. The child was unfortunately afflicted with alien blood, but it was clear that she was predominantly Arabian and deserved recognition as one of their own people. By the time the story was well circulated, losing nothing in its travels, little Fara was an accomplished rider, skilful and unafraid. And the rumour wasn't far from the truth.
But if Arabia had an imaginary picture of this growing child as a reckless rowdy, leaping half-broken racehorses over high hedges and deep wadis with the firm hands and pliant knees of an experienced cavalryman, there was another side of Fara's life which nobody saw but her own family—and King Zendi. Thanks to Ione, Fara was receiving a liberal education.
To all appearances, the beloved and indispensable Ione had fully adjusted herself to her Arabian environment, but it was a sorrow to her never to hear or speak a word of her native Greek. When little Fara was learning to talk, Ione amused herself by teaching her Greek words for familiar objects. When she handed the baby her porridge plate, she would say, 'Pinakos.' And Fara, ever eager to please Ione, would lisp, 'Pinakos'; and because Ione seemed so delighted, she proudly repeated the word, over and over. The little porridge plate was always 'pinakos' after that, and the little cup was always 'poterion' and the napkin was 'soudarion.' Arnon too enjoyed the game. 'Teach her to say "I love you," Ione.'
Taking the child on her lap, Ione said softly, 'Fara, I love you. Philo seh. Philo seh. I love you.'
'Philo seh,' repeated Fara dutifully, happily.
'Say that to your mother, Fara.'
Arnon reached out her arms and little Fara cuddled close to her.
'I love you,' whispered Arnon.
'Philo seh,' said Fara.
As the days went by, the intrusion of Greek words into their conversation was no longer a novelty that made them laugh merrily. Common nouns needed action. Words multiplied into sentences. Table-talk was conducted in Greek. After supper, on winter evenings, Ione taught Fara to write it. Happy to see her child profitably entertained, Arnon joined in these exercises, though she never acquired the effortless fluency with which Fara handled the strange language. By the time she was nine the little girl spoke Greek by preference.
One day, King Zendi called to inquire about their welfare and overheard Fara in the adjoining room talking to Ione. He broke off what he was saying—and listened—and then grinned incredulously.
'How long has this been going on?' he inquired.
'Ever since she was a tiny tot,' said Arnon. 'It's Ione's doing. I suppose there's no harm in it?'
'Harm? Of course not! I wish I knew some Greek myself.'
'But—you do; don't you, Zendi?'
'A mere smattering—picked up on my journey to Corinth. I often have errands in Petra. It would be much to my advantage if I could speak their language.'
Arnon laughed a little as she said, 'Perhaps Fara could help you.' To her surprise, Zendi did not see anything funny about this. He frowned thoughtfully.
'It just occurs to me,' he said, 'that we have, in our cabinet of curiosities, a scroll that the people of Petra presented to your father at his coronation. I shall bring it over. Maybe Fara might like to see it.'
The next afternoon he brought the scroll. Ione was invited in to look at it. She gasped with happy surprise. What a treasure! Unconsciously ignoring the King, she breathlessly explained the subject of the scroll to Fara in a long sentence utterly incomprehensible to their
'That is quite true, sire. I shall let her ride one of the horses.' She had spoken half-playfully, but added, in a suddenly serious tone, 'Don't forget, Zendi, that my little daughter is every inch an Arabian! You were taught to ride almost as soon as you were able to walk—and so was I.'
This incident, trivial enough in itself, was reported to the Councillors, who received it—and its implications—with smiles and nods of approval. The child was unfortunately afflicted with alien blood, but it was clear that she was predominantly Arabian and deserved recognition as one of their own people. By the time the story was well circulated, losing nothing in its travels, little Fara was an accomplished rider, skilful and unafraid. And the rumour wasn't far from the truth.
But if Arabia had an imaginary picture of this growing child as a reckless rowdy, leaping half-broken racehorses over high hedges and deep wadis with the firm hands and pliant knees of an experienced cavalryman, there was another side of Fara's life which nobody saw but her own family—and King Zendi. Thanks to Ione, Fara was receiving a liberal education.
To all appearances, the beloved and indispensable Ione had fully adjusted herself to her Arabian environment, but it was a sorrow to her never to hear or speak a word of her native Greek. When little Fara was learning to talk, Ione amused herself by teaching her Greek words for familiar objects. When she handed the baby her porridge plate, she would say, 'Pinakos.' And Fara, ever eager to please Ione, would lisp, 'Pinakos'; and because Ione seemed so delighted, she proudly repeated the word, over and over. The little porridge plate was always 'pinakos' after that, and the little cup was always 'poterion' and the napkin was 'soudarion.' Arnon too enjoyed the game. 'Teach her to say "I love you," Ione.'
Taking the child on her lap, Ione said softly, 'Fara, I love you. Philo seh. Philo seh. I love you.'
'Philo seh,' repeated Fara dutifully, happily.
'Say that to your mother, Fara.'
Arnon reached out her arms and little Fara cuddled close to her.
'I love you,' whispered Arnon.
'Philo seh,' said Fara.
As the days went by, the intrusion of Greek words into their conversation was no longer a novelty that made them laugh merrily. Common nouns needed action. Words multiplied into sentences. Table-talk was conducted in Greek. After supper, on winter evenings, Ione taught Fara to write it. Happy to see her child profitably entertained, Arnon joined in these exercises, though she never acquired the effortless fluency with which Fara handled the strange language. By the time she was nine the little girl spoke Greek by preference.
One day, King Zendi called to inquire about their welfare and overheard Fara in the adjoining room talking to Ione. He broke off what he was saying—and listened—and then grinned incredulously.
'How long has this been going on?' he inquired.
'Ever since she was a tiny tot,' said Arnon. 'It's Ione's doing. I suppose there's no harm in it?'
'Harm? Of course not! I wish I knew some Greek myself.'
'But—you do; don't you, Zendi?'
'A mere smattering—picked up on my journey to Corinth. I often have errands in Petra. It would be much to my advantage if I could speak their language.'
Arnon laughed a little as she said, 'Perhaps Fara could help you.' To her surprise, Zendi did not see anything funny about this. He frowned thoughtfully.
'It just occurs to me,' he said, 'that we have, in our cabinet of curiosities, a scroll that the people of Petra presented to your father at his coronation. I shall bring it over. Maybe Fara might like to see it.'
The next afternoon he brought the scroll. Ione was invited in to look at it. She gasped with happy surprise. What a treasure! Unconsciously ignoring the King, she breathlessly explained the subject of the scroll to Fara in a long sentence utterly incomprehensible to their
Similar Books
