فصل 18

XVIII

I crossed the threshold of the chapel and plunged into the shadowy interior, which was cool and fragrant.

The building was deserted. The bronze chandeliers shed a faint light. A finely worked iconostasis filled the far end of the chapel. It represented a golden vine-arbour laden with grapes. The walls were covered from top to bottom with half-obliterated frescoes: terrifying pictures of skeleton-like ascetics, the Fathers of the Church, Christ’s prolonged Passion, huge fierce-looking angels with their hair tied in broad blue and pink ribbons which had faded with the damp.

High up in the vault was the Virgin, with arms imploringly outstretched. A heavy silver lamp stood before her and the soft light flickered round her, caressing her long, contorted face. I shall never forget her dolorous eyes, her puckered, rounded mouth and strong wilful chin. Here, I thought, is the completely happy and satisfied Mother, even in the most agonising pain, because she feels that from her mortal loins has issued something that will not die.

When I recrossed the threshold the sun was sinking. I sat down under the orange tree in a state of happiness. The dome of the chapel was turning pink as though it were dawn. The monks had gone to their cells and were resting. They would not sleep at all; they had to muster all their strength. Christ would begin to climb Golgotha that night, and they had to go with him. Two black sows with pink teats were lying fast asleep beneath a carob tree. Pigeons were strutting on the roofs and cooing.

How long, I thought, shall I live to enjoy the sweetness of the earth, the air, the silence and the scent of the orange tree in blossom? An icon of Saint Bacchus, which I had looked at in the chapel, had made my heart overflow with happiness. The things that move me most deeply—unity, firmness of purpose and constancy of desire—were once again revealed to me. Blessed be that charming little icon of a Christian youth with curly hair falling over his forehead like bunches of grapes. Dionysus, the handsome god of wine and ecstasy, and Saint Bacchus fused in my mind and took on the same appearance. Under the vine-leaves and the monk’s habit there quivered with life the same body, burnt by the sun—Greece.

Zorba returned and hurriedly gave the news:

“The abbot did come. We had a little talk; he needs a lot of coaxing; he says he’s not going to give the forest away for a song; he’s asking a lot more than we said, the old rogue, but I haven’t finished with him yet.” “Why does he need coaxing? I thought we were agreed?”

“Don’t you meddle in this, for heaven’s sake, boss,” Zorba pleaded. “You’d only spoil things. There you are, after all this, talking about the old agreement; that’s buried long ago. Don’t frown; it’s buried, I tell you. We’ll have that forest at half-price!” “What mischief are you up to now, Zorba?”

“Never you mind. That’s my business. I’m going to oil the works and make them turn, do you get it?” “But why? I don’t get it at all.”

“Because I spent more than I should have done at Candia, that’s why! Because Lola swallowed quite a heap of my—that is to say, your money. You don’t think I’ve forgotten, do you? There is such a thing as self-respect. No blots on my copy-book! I’ve spent so much, so I pay so much. I’ve reckoned it up: Lola cost me seven thousand drachmas. I’ll knock them off the price of the forest. It’s the Abbot, the monastery and the Holy Virgin who’ll pay for Lola. That’s my scheme. How d’you like it?” “Not at all. Why should the Holy Virgin be responsible for your excesses?” “She is responsible and more than responsible! Look, she had her son: God. God made me, Zorba, and he gave me some instruments—you know what I mean. And these damned instruments, no matter where I meet the female of the species, make me lose my head and open my purse. See? Therefore, Her Holiness is responsible and more than responsible. Let her pay.” “I don’t like it, Zorba.”

“That’s another question altogether. Let’s save the seven little banknotes first; we’ll discuss it later! ‘Make love to me first, darling, I’ll be your aunt again afterwards…’ You know how the song goes…” The fat hospitaller appeared: “Come inside,” he said, in a suave ecclesiastical tone; “dinner is served.” We went down to the refectory, a large hall with benches and long narrow tables. The smell of sour, rancid oil filled the air. At the far end was an old fresco of the Last Supper. The eleven faithful disciples crowded round Christ like a flock of sheep, and on the other side, standing quite alone, was the red-haired Judas, the black sheep. He had a bulging forehead and aquiline nose. And Christ could not take his eyes off him.

The hospitaller sat down, placing me on his right and Zorba on his left.

“We are fasting,” he said, “so I hope you will excuse us—no oil or wine, even for visitors. But you are welcome!” We made the sign of the cross; then we served ourselves in silence to olives, spring onions, fresh beans and halva. We all three munched slowly, like rabbits.

“Such is life here below,” said the hospitaller. “A crucifixion and a fast. But patience, brothers, patience, the Resurrection and the Lamb are coming, and the Kingdom of Heaven.” I coughed. Zorba trod on my foot as though to say: “Shut up!”

“I’ve seen Father Zaharia…” said Zorba, to change the subject.

The hospitaller started:

“What did that madman say to you?” he asked anxiously. “He has all seven demons in him, don’t listen to a word he says. His soul is impure and he sees impurity all around him.” The bell for the monks rang lugubriously. The hospitaller crossed himself and stood up.

“I shall have to go,” he said. “Christ’s Passion is beginning; we must carry the cross with him. You can rest tonight, you must be tired after your journey. But at matins tomorrow…” “Those swine!” Zorba muttered between his teeth as soon as the monk had gone. “Swine! Liars! Mules!” “What’s wrong, Zorba? Has Zaharia told you something?”

“Never mind, boss, to hell with it! If they don’t want to sign, I’ll show them what I’m made of!” We went to the cell which had been assigned to us. In the corner was an icon representing the Virgin pressing her cheek against her son’s, her big eyes full of tears.

Zorba shook his big head.

“Do you know why she’s crying, boss?”

“No.”

“Because she can see what’s going on. If I was a painter of icons, I’d draw the Virgin without eyes, ears or nose. Because I’d be sorry for her.” We stretched out on the hard beds. The wooden beams smelled of cypress; through the open window was wafted the gentle breath of spring, laden with the perfume of flowers. Occasionally the mournful tunes surged from the courtyard like gusts of wind. A nightingale began to sing close to the window, then another a short distance away, and still another. The night was overflowing with love.

I could not sleep. The nightingale’s song mingled with the lamentations of Christ, and I tried to climb Golgotha myself through the flowering orange trees, guiding myself by the huge spots of blood. In the blue spring night I could see the cold sweat glistening all over Christ’s pale faltering body. I could see his hands outstretched and trembling, as though he were a beggar imploring the bystanders to listen. The poor people of Galilee hurried after him, crying: “Hosannah! Hosannah!” They had palm-leaves in their hands and spread their mantles before his feet. He looked at the ones he loved, though none could divine the depths of his despair. He alone knew he was going to his death. Beneath the stars, weeping and silent, he consoled his poor human heart that was full of fear: “Like unto a grain of wheat, my heart, you, too, must fall into the ground and die. Be not afraid. If you do not, how can you bring forth fruit? How can you nourish men who die of hunger?” But, within him, his man’s heart was fainting and trembling, and did not want to die… The wood round the monastery was full of the song of nightingales. Their song rose amidst the damp foliage and spoke entirely of love and passion. And with it trembled, swelled and wept the poor heart of mankind.

Gradually, imperceptibly, together with Christ’s Passion and the nightingale’s song, I entered the realm of sleep, just as the soul must enter Paradise.

I had been sleeping less than hour when I awoke with a start, terror-stricken.

“Zorba!” I cried. “Did you hear? A revolver shot!”

But Zorba was sitting on his bed smoking a cigarette.

“Don’t be alarmed, boss,” he said, still trying to control his anger, “let them settle their own accounts, the swine!” Cries came from the corridor; we could hear heavy slippers dragging along, doors opening and closing, and a moaning in the distance as though someone were wounded.

I leaped from my bed and opened the door. A wizened old man appeared before me and spread out his arms, barring my passage. He was wearing a white pointed bonnet and a white shirt down to his knees.

“Who are you?”

“The bishop…” he replied, his voice trembling.

I almost burst out laughing. A bishop? Where were his ornaments, the gold chasuble, mitre and cross, the many-coloured false stones… It was the first time I had seen a bishop in his night-attire.

“What was that revolver shot, Your Lordship?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know…” he stammered, pushing me gently back into the room.

Zorba burst out laughing from his bed.

“Are you scared, little Father?” he said. “Come in, then, old fellow, and stay with us. We are no monks, so you needn’t worry.” “Zorba,” I said in an undertone, “show more respect, can’t you? It’s the bishop.” “H’m! in a shirt nobody’s a bishop! Come in, old chap!”

He stood up, took the bishop by the arm and led him into the cell, closing the door behind him. He took a bottle of rum out of his haversack and filled a small glass.

“Drink, my friend,” he said. “That’ll buck you up.”

The little old man drained the glass and soon came round. He sat down on my bed and leaned against the wall.

“Very Reverend Father,” I said, “what was that revolver shot?”

“I don’t know, my son… I had worked till midnight and gone to bed, when next door in Father Demetrios’s cell I heard…” “Ah! ah!” said Zorba with a laugh. “You were right, then, Zaharia! Those dirty swine!” The bishop bowed his head.

“It must have been a thief of some sort,” he murmured.

In the corridor the uproar had ceased and the monastery sank into silence once more. The bishop looked at me with his kind, frightened eyes, as if in supplication.

“Are you sleepy, my son?” he asked.

I felt clearly that he did not want to leave and go back to be alone in his cell. He was afraid.

“No,” I answered, “I’m not at all sleepy; stay here a while.”

We began to talk. Zorba was leaning on his pillow and rolling a cigarette.

“You appear to be a cultured young man,” the bishop said to me. “Here I can’t find anyone to talk to. I have three theories that help to make my life agreeable; I would like to tell you about them, my child.” He didn’t wait for my reply but began straight away:

“My first theory is this: the shape of flowers influences their colour; their colour influences their properties. Thus it is that each flower has a different effect on a man’s body, and therefore on his soul. That is why we must be extremely careful in passing through a field when the flowers are in bloom.” He stopped as though waiting for my opinion. I could see the little old man wandering through a field, searching the ground, with secret excitement, for the shapes and colours of the flowers. The poor old man must tremble with mystic awe; in the spring the fields must be peopled for him with many-coloured devils and angels.

“This is my second theory: every idea that has a real influence has also a real existence. It is really there, it does not float invisibly in the atmosphere—it has a real body—eyes, a mouth, feet, a stomach. It is male or female and therefore runs after men or women, as the case may be. That is why the Gospel says: “The Word became flesh…”

He looked anxiously at me again.

“My third theory,” he went on hurriedly, as he could not bear my silence, “is this: there is some Eternity even in our ephemeral lives, only it is very difficult for us to discover it alone. Our daily cares lead us astray. A few people only, the flower of humanity, manage to live an eternity even in their transitory lives on this earth. Since all the others would therefore be lost, God had mercy on them and sent them religion—thus the crowd is able to live in eternity, too.” He had finished and was visibly relieved for having spoken. He raised his small eyes, which had no lashes, and smiled at me. It was as though he were saying: ‘There, I am giving you all I have, take it!’ I was very moved at the sight of this little old man thus offering me outright, when he hardly knew me, the fruits of a lifetime’s work.

He had tears in his eyes.

“What do you think of my theories?” he asked, taking my hand between his own and looking into my eyes. I felt that he depended on my reply to tell him whether his life had been of any use or not.

I knew that, over and above the truth, there exists another duty which is much more important and much more human.

“Those theories may save many souls,” I answered.

The bishop’s face lit up. That was the justification of his entire life.

“Thank you, my son,” he whispered, squeezing my hand affectionately.

Zorba leaped from his corner.

“I’ve got a fourth theory!” he cried.

I looked anxiously at him. The bishop turned to him.

“Speak, my son, and may your theory be blessed! What is it?”

“That two and two make four!” said Zorba gravely.

The bishop looked at him, flabbergasted.

“And a fifth theory, old man,” Zorba went on. “That two and two don’t make four. Go on, my friend, take a chance! Make your choice!” “I don’t understand,” stammered the old man, casting a questioning glance at me.

“Neither do I!” said Zorba, bursting into laughter.

I turned to the poor old man, who was abashed, and changed the subject.

“What are your special studies here in the monastery, Reverend Father?” I asked.

“I am making copies of the ancient manuscripts of the monastery, my son, and recently I have been collecting all the sacred epithets used by the Church in connection with the Virgin Mother.” He sighed.

“I am old,” he said, “and I can’t do anything else. I find relief in listing all the verbal adornments of the Virgin, and thus I forget the miseries of this world.” He leaned his elbow on the pillow, closed his eyes and began murmuring as though in delirium: “Imperishable Rose, Fruitful Earth, Vine, Fountain, Source of Miracles, Ladder to Heaven, Bridge, Rescuing Frigate for the Shipwrecked, Haven of Rest, Key to Paradise, Dawn, Eternal Light, Lightning, Pillar of Fire, Invincible General, Immovable Tower, Impregnable Fortress, Consolation, Joy, Staff for the Blind, Mother for the Orphan, Table, Food, Peace, Serenity, Perfume, Banquet, Milk and Honey…” “The old boy’s delirious…” said Zorba in an undertone. “I’ll cover him over so that he doesn’t catch cold.” He stood up, threw a blanket over the bishop and put his pillow straight.

“There are seventy-seven kinds of madness, so I’ve heard,” he said. “This one must be the seventy-eighth.” Day was dawning. We could hear the ringing of the semantron, I leaned my head out of the window. In the first rays of dawn I saw a gaunt monk, a long black hood over his head, walk slowly round the courtyard striking with a small hammer on a long piece of wood which had marvellously musical properties. The sound of the semantron echoed through the morning air, full of sweetness, harmony and appeal. The nightingales had stopped singing and other birds were beginning to chirp in the trees.

I listened, charmed with the sweet evocative notes of the semantron. I thought how, even in decay, an elevated rhythm in life preserves all its outward form, is impressive and full of nobility. The spirit departs, but it leaves its vast dwelling which it has slowly evolved and which is as intricate as a sea-shell.

The wonderful cathedrals you see in noisy, godless cities are just such empty shells, I thought. Prehistoric monsters of which only a skeleton, worn by sun and rain, is left.

There was a knock at the door of our cell. The unctuous voice of the hospitaller came to our ears.

“Come, rise now, brothers, it’s time for matins.”

Zorba leaped up:

“What was the revolver shot in the night?” he shouted, beside himself.

He waited a moment. Silence. The monk must have heard him through the door, because we could hear his noisy breathing. Zorba stamped with rage.

“What was that revolver shot?” he asked again, in a fury.

We heard steps going rapidly away. With one bound Zorba was at the door. He opened it: “Filthy scoundrels! Blackguards!” he shouted, spitting in the direction of the retreating monk. “Priests, nuns, monks, church-wardens, sacristans, the whole lot of you, that’s all you’re worth!” And he spat again.

“Let’s go!” I said, “There’s a smell of blood in the air.”

“If it were only blood!” grunted Zorba. “You go to matins, boss, if you want to. I’ll have a look round to see what I can find out.” “Let’s go!” I said again, nauseated. “And will you be good enough not to go poking your nose where it’s none of your business?” “That’s just where I always want to poke it!” said Zorba.

He thought for a moment then smiled cunningly:

“The devil is doing us a favour,” he said. “I think he’s bringing things to a head. Do you realise what that might cost the monastery, boss, a revolver shot like that? A cool seven thousand!” He went down into the courtyard. The scent of blossom, morning sweetness, heavenly felicity. Zaharia was waiting for us. He ran up and seized Zorba’s arm.

“Brother Canavaro,” he whispered with a trembling voice, “Come, we must go!” “What was that revolver shot? They killed somebody, didn’t they? Come on, talk or I’ll wring your neck!” The monk’s chin quivered. He looked round him. The courtyard was deserted, the cells closed; through the open chapel door came waves of music.

“Follow me, both of you,” he muttered. “Sodom and Gomorrah!”

We slipped along the side of the wall, gained the other side of the courtyard and went out of the garden. A hundred yards or so from the monastery was a cemetery. We went inside.

We stepped over the graves, Zaharia pushed the little door of the chapel and we entered behind him. In the centre, on a rush mat, lay a body covered over with a monk’s habit. There was a candle burning at both head and foot of the corpse.

I stooped to look at the body.

“The young monk!” I murmured with a shudder. “Father Demetrios’s fair-haired young novice!” On the door of the sanctuary, with widespread wings and unsheathed sword, and wearing red sandals, glittered the figure of the archangel Michael.

“Archangel Michael!” cried the monk, “send fire and brimstone and burn them all! Archangel Michael, do something. Leave your icon! Raise your sword and smite them! Did you not hear that revolver shot?” “Who killed him? Who was it? Demetrios? Speak, old goatbeard!”

The monk slipped out of Zorba’s grasp and threw himself flat on the floor before the archangel. He remained motionless for a few moments, face upraised, eyes starting from his head, mouth wide open, watching the icon intently.

Suddenly he jumped for joy.

“I will burn them!” he declared in a resolute voice. “The archangel moved, I saw him, he made a sign to me!” He went close to the icon and glued his thick lips to the archangel’s sword.

“God be praised!” he said. “I am relieved!” Zorba seized the monk again.

“Come here, Zaharia,” he said. “Now, you’ll do what I tell you.”

Then he turned to me.

“Give me the money, boss, I’ll sign the papers myself. They’re all wolves in there, and you’re a lamb, they’ll eat you. Leave it to me. Don’t you worry, I’ve got the fat hogs where I want them. We’ll leave here at midday with the forest in our pockets. Come on, Zaharia.” They slipped away furtively towards the monastery. I went for a stroll under the pinetrees.

The sun was high already and the dew was sparkling on the leaves. A blackbird in front of me flew on to the branch of a wild pear tree, flicked his tail, opened his beak, looked at me and whistled two or three mocking notes.

Through the pines I could see the courtyard and the monks coming out in a long file, their heads bowed and black cowls hanging over their shoulders. The service was over, they were on their way to the refectory.

“What a pity,” I thought, “that such austerity and nobility should be without a soul.” I was tired, I had not slept well, and I stretched out on the grass. The wild violets, broom, rosemary and sage made the air redolent. Insects buzzed continually as in their hunger they plunged into the flowers like pirates and sucked the honey. In the distance the mountains sparkled, transparent, serene, like a moving haze in the burning light of the sun.

I closed my eyes, soothed. A quiet, mysterious pleasure took possession of me—as if all that green miracle around me were paradise itself, as if all the freshness, airiness and sober rapture which I was feeling were God. God changes his appearance every second. Blessed is the man who can recognise him in all his disguises. At one moment he is a glass of fresh water, the next your son bouncing on your knees or an enchanting woman, or perhaps merely a morning walk.

Little by little, everything around me, without changing shape, became a dream. I was happy. Earth and paradise were one. A flower in the fields with a large drop of honey in its centre: that was how life appeared to me. And my soul, a wild bee plundering.

I was brutally awakened from this state of beatitude. I heard steps behind me and whispers. At the same instant a happy voice cried: “Boss, we’re off!”

Zorba stood in front of me and his small eyes shone with a diabolical gleam.

“Off?” I said with relief. “Is it all settled?”

“Everything!” said Zorba, tapping the upper part of his jacket. “Here’s the forest. I hope it brings us luck! And here are the seven thousand Lola cost us!” He took a roll of banknotes from his inside pocket.

“Take ‘em!” he said. “I pay my debts; I’m not ashamed to look you in the face any more. The stockings, and handbags, and perfume and Dame Bouboulina’s parasol are all included in that. Even the parrot’s nuts! And the halva I brought you, as well!” “Keep it yourself, Zorba; it’s a present from me,” I said. “Go and burn a candle to the Virgin you’ve sinned against.” Zorba turned round. Father Zaharia was coming towards us in his filthy gown, which was turning green, and his down-at-heel shoes. He was leading our two mules.

Zorba showed him the roll of notes. “We’ll split, Father Joseph,” he said. “You can buy two hundred pounds of salt cod and stuff yourself with it till you burst your belly. Till you spew it up and deliver yourself from cod for ever and ever! Come on, hold out your paw!” The monk took the dirty notes and hid them.

“I shall buy some paraffin!” he said.

Zorba lowered his voice and whispered in the old monk’s ear.

“In the dark when they’re all asleep, the bearded old goats; and there must be a good wind,” he recommended. “Sprinkle the walls on all sides. You only need soak some rags or cotton waste, anything, then put a light to it. Got the idea?” The monk was trembling.

“Don’t tremble like that! The archangel ordered you to do it, didn’t he? Put your trust in paraffin and the grace of God! Good luck to you!” We mounted, and I took a last look at the monastery.

“Have you learnt anything, Zorba?” I asked.

“About the revolver shot? Don’t worry your head about that, boss; old Zaharia’s right: Sodom and Gomorrah! Demetrios killed the nice little monk. There you have it.” “Demetrios? Why?”

“Don’t try to ferret it out, boss, it’s all filth and foulness.”

He turned towards the monastery. The monks were filing out of the refectory, heads bent, hands clasped, on their way to lock themselves in their cells.

“Give me your curses, holy Fathers!” he cried.