Saints and Rohhers ^S

faki. Every Sunday, after Mass, you shall parade in the square with a new saddle, you too, the archon of asses. Everyone will draw back with respect, and they'll salute you as if you were a

man.

Yannakos burst out laughing and, as though waking up, shook a head swollen like a pumpkin. He looked at the old woman, knitting without ceasing and still engulfed in her beatitude. He saw father Ladas waiting, vdth eyes fixed upon him.

"Half and half," he said; "agreed, father Ladas?"

Old Ladas put out his big paw:

"Give me your hand, Yannakos. Agreed. Half and half. It's the normal thing. In the evening you'll bring me your harvest of jewels and I'll give yoli the corn, oil and wine according to what you've arranged with them, and when we've scraped up all there is to be scraped we'll do our accounts. All you have to do is to mark in your book what's given you and what's taken from you, so that you'll know, and won't go thinking I'd stoop so low as to do you. And to let you see I trust you, here! I'm giving you three Turkish pounds in gold on account."

He pulled out of his pocket a bag firmly attached by a stout string, plunged his hand into it and slowly took out the three pounds, which he counted, one by one, trembling. Yannakos seized them greedily, his dazzled eyes filled with gold.

"I'll prepare the receipt," said old Ladas, "and you can sign it when you come back. That all right like that? D'you trust me now? What I've said to you isn't just words, it's gold. Go, let's not lose time, with the peace of God!"

He pushed Yannakos and opened the door.

"The good God keep you company! Go and try out the ground!" he cried after him, hastily shutting the door for fear his accomplice should repent.

"Penelope," he said, laying a finger on his lips, "mum's the word! Did you see the way I handled the thing? Did you see how cunning I was? My brain's like a razor, I tell you! Did you see, Penelope, how I caught him with the hook of gold? For three lost, a thousand gained. Come, now, do something for me: get the coffee ready. Quick, my dear!"

But she remained motionless on her stool. She knitted, went on knitting, watching, without seeing, the needles as they crossed, parted, crossed again, while the sock she was making for old Ladas

grew longer. And what she saw in the sock was not the old man's lanky leg, but the bone itself, long, dry, half gnawed by worms.

Meanwhile the ass was pursuing his path, and behind him Yannakos all in a dream. He could feel, in his left side, a sad weight lying on his heart; but on his right another weight, a very agreeable one, in his waistcoat pocket. He staggered as though drunk; sometimes he bounded from stone to stone, sometimes he stopped all of a sudden and began to reflect. The little donkey turned, looked at him in astonishment and stopped dead and waited for him.

"If only I see no one and no one sees me," Yannakos muttered. "Get on, Youssoufaki, hurry up, why've you stopped? Turn this way. We've changed route: a thunderclap, my dear!"

The ass shook his head, perplexed; he could not understand. Where were they going to, this way? What had come over his master? What fanciful creatures men are—they never know what they want!

"If only I see no one, not even Manolios. I've other fish to fry now. He can go to blazes with Katerina, for all I care! Come, Youssoufaki, get a move on!"

But as he rounded the last houses of the village, after which there was nothing but fields, he found himself face to face with Manolios and two other lads, carrying Captain Fortounas. They were walking with short steps, their heads lowered, and before them went Hussein with his yataghan and red fez.

Yannakos made his ass draw in to let them pass. He went close and saw the unlucky captain unconscious, with his split head tied up in a white napkin stained with blood. . . .

"Well, what's happened to our captain? Tell me, Manolios."

"He tumbled down the stairs at the Agha's, poor fellow," Manolios answered, "and he's smashed his skull. If you see my Aunt Mandalenia, tell her to come and change his bandage. She knows how, she was a midwife before she became a coffiner."

"Poor fellow," muttered Yannakos, "he must have been very drunk."

Hussein turned and guffawed:

"Don't you worry, dirty Greek; he's bust his head, it'll mend again Greeks are tough, especially the hairless ones."

"Manolios," said Yannakos, "I must have a word with you."

"So must I with you," repHed ManoHos. "But let's first put the captain to bed. Follow us and wait for me in front of the door; I'll come."

They moved on slowly, for at every jerk the captain groaned. Reaching the house, they took the captain in. Yannakos tied up his donkey in the shade of an olive tree and waited.

"It's true, fate she was full as a cow, that night. What'll she give birth to, now? Heaven protect us!"

He took his tobacco-pouch, rolled a cigarette, leaned against the olive tree trunk and began smoking to pass the time. He was sorry he had spoken to Manolios; it was a waste of time and, he thought, speed was necessary for the important business he had undertaken. He felt in his pocket, fingered the coins and smiled.

God be praised, he thought, I wasn't dreaming. How often in my sleep I've seen myself with gold pieces in my hands. And in the morning I felt for them, like a fool, under my pillow. But this time, God be praised, they're there!

He fingered the coins again, and his mind was set at rest.

Manolios appeared on the doorstep. He wiped his forehead, saw Yannakos under the olive, and approached.

"Our friend's heavy, that he is; we're tired."

"I'm in a hurry," said Yannakos, "I've two things to say to you, and then I'm off. I've a lot to do today. . . . Listen, Manolios, to begin with, don't set foot at your master's all today. He knows about the baskets. He went up in the air, and took his stick and went off to thrash his son. So look out and wait till the storm's passed."

"If that's how it is, I must go and take my share. It's my fault,

too.

"It's mine, too, but I'm not going. You'll tell me that's shameful, but I don't mind. . . . Don't go, wait, there's something else. Katerina, the widow, is setting her nets and she'd like to get you wound up in them. She sees you in her dreams, she told me; yesterday evening in the square she was making eyes at you, but you, of course, didn't even notice! Be on your guard, Manolios, a she-devil, that's what Katerina is; she'd even lead bishops astray. Think a bit about next Easter and when you'll act Christ. Don't get soiled."

Manolios bent his head, blushing. The night before, he, too, had seen the widow in a dream, he couldn't remember how, but when he woke he had rings round his eyes.

"Christ will come to my aid," he muttered.

"He can't do everything, the poor thing, by Himself, Manolios; you too must stir yourself! Well, I'm in a hurry. Your turn; I think you had something to tell me."

Manolios hesitated. He did not know how to put it so as not to hurt his friend.

"You must forgive me for what I'm going to say," he began at last, "but the four of us now have the same aim, a great and sacred one. From now on we're one. If one of us is taking a false step, the others must hold him back. If one is lost, we're all lost. That's why I'm bold enough . . ."

"Speak out, Manolios, don't beat about the bush," said Yannakos, beginning to untie his donkey. "I'm in a hurry, I tell you."

"Today you're going back to work," Manolios went on, softly, taking Yannakos by the arm. "You're starting out on your rounds again. Don't forget, I beg you in the name of Christ, don't forget the advice the priest gave us yesterday. . . ."

"What advice did the priest give me?" cried Yannakos, in a voice suddenly rough.

"Yannakos, please, don't take it in bad part. Not to give short weight, for instance; not to . . ."

Yannakos felt his temper going. He loosed his ass sharply and twisted the rein nervously round his arm:

"All right, all right . . . He thinks it's easy, his holiness does . . . What would the priest say if I had advised him to tighten his belt, not to stuff his stomach so full, and to give what's over to the poor? And then not to make a mixture of paste, flour and spices and dish it out to you as a remedy for all diseases, the charlatan! And didn't he, only last year, leave old Mantoudis unburied for three days, till he was stinking, and all because he insisted on the heirs paying him in advance? And another time, didn't he put up to auction the vineyard of poor Yeronimos the cobbler because he owed him something? And this very year—yes, not long before Holy Week—didn't he give out his prices: so much for a baptism, so much for a burial, without which, he said, I'll perform no baptism, no marriage, no burial? And he has the face, the fat paunch, to give me advice, me who haven't a penny. . . ."

"Don't swear at him like that," Manolios interrupted; "everyone will have to give account for his soul; you attend to yours, Yannakos! This year we must be pure and without spot; you will be the Apostle Peter, don't forget. What does one do before Communion? One fasts, one eats no meat or oil, one doesn't swear, one doesn't lose one's temper. For us, now, it's like that, Yannakos." But Yannakos was warmed up. He felt Manolios was right, and this irritated him all the more. Leaving the priest, he turned on his companion and burst out shrilly:

"Well, and you too, Manolios, don't forget it's not an apostle you'll be acting, it's Christ Himself. Well then, ought you to touch a woman? No! And yet you're nearly to marry! Yes or no? Why do you make that noise? Is it yes, or is it no? Then let's all go to the devil, that's what I say. Holiness is no small affair . . ." Manolios hung his head and said nothing.

"Yes or no?" Yannakos resumed, more and more roused; "when you see Lenio your mouth waters. And the Devil brings her to you in your sleep as you'd like her to be, stark naked. I, too, was a sucker like you, and I know all about the tricks of Satan . . . He brings her to you while you're asleep, you commit the sin and in the morning you get up with rings round your eyes . . . When you come before us to act Christ Crucified, you'll be newly married. They'll put you on the cross, but a lot that will mean to you! You'll know that it's all a game, that it's Another who was crucified, and at the moment when you cry out on the cross: 'Eli, Eli, lama subachthani!' you'll say to yourself that soon you'll be home, after the crucifying, and that there'll be Lenio waiting for you with hot water to wash in, clean linen to change into, and the two of you, after the crucifying, will go to bed. So keep quiet, Manolios, and don't come giving me lessons! It won't do, no! it won't do!"

Manolios listened, hanging his head, overcome.

He's right . . . he's right, he told himself. I'm an impostor, yes; an impostor!

"Why don't you say anything? Isn't it true, what I say?" shouted Yannakos, enchanted at seeing Manolios tremble.

"But yesterday, Yannakos, you still . . ." Manolios began.

Yannakos did not let him go on:

"Yesterday, Manolios," he said, giving his donkey a pull preparatory to going, "yesterday, Manolios, things were different. It was a holiday, don't you see? We had food inside us, the donkey

•JO The Greek Passion

was in the stable, interest was asleep. Today, look, the donkey's loaded, our bellies are empty, Easter's over, trade's starting again . . . and trade, young man, means: if you want to eat something, take it; if you want to have something, steal it. Otherwise, instead of becoming a tradesman, I'd have done better to go to Mount Athos and become a monk. See?"

He was silent a moment, now somewhat relieved. Pulling at his donkey, he looked at Manolios, satisfied at having said what was on his mind.

"Good luck, Manolios, and think over what I've said, and God aid you."

But down inside him anger was still rumbling. He turned toward his friend once more:

"A tradesman's duty is to rob people, Manolios. A saint's duty is not to rob them. There! Mustn't get mixed up. Good luck for your wedding, Manolios! The road for us, Youssoufaki!"

Manolios remained alone. The sun was already high. Men, oxen, dogs and asses were harnessed to their daily tasks. Old Ladas had put on his glasses and was drafting unhurriedly, attentively, all smiles, the receipt for the three Turkish pounds. At the moment when the priest, beside himself with fury, was setting forth in search of old Patriarcheas, someone came to ask him to bring the Sacrament to a dying man, and he changed direction. As for Captain Fortounas, he was groaning on his bed, cursing mother Mandalenia, who was changing his bandage and tying up his broken head.

Lenio was sitting before her frame and humming as she wove the final sheets for her dowry. Her heart was dancing. It rose to her throat, went down to her stomach, and jumped from one breast to the other. . . .

Up above, in the master's room, Lenio heard the noise of a dispute—father was shouting, the son answering back, and they came and went as if they were fighting, and the ceiling trembled. But Lenio, leaning over her frame, did not worry about their quarrel. She did not even worry at hearing the yells of her master. She was casting loose from the bonds of his authority; the chain was on the point of breaking and she of departing with her Manolios to live on the mountain among the sheep. She had had enough of old Patriarcheas, even though he did love her as his own daugh-

ter and had found her a husband and given a generous dowry. He disgusted her, and she did not want to see him any more. At this moment the dispute upstairs redoubled. The old man's clamor rang out more distinctly, and Lenio lent an ear.

"As long as I'm alive," he was shouting, "I'll be the one who gives orders here, not you! It's the end of the world!"

He choked, stuttered; his words got mixed up, and Lenio could not catch any more. But a moment later she clearly heard this phrase:

"No! I don't want you to have more to do with Manolios than you can help. Don't forget he's a servant and you're an archon. Keep your station!"

The dirty old man! murmured Lenio, the old swine! He doesn't even respect his white hairs, but brings here that bitch of a Katerina and slobbers over her! And then he won't have Manolios, in case he should spoil his precious ..." Ugh! I want to get away, and not see any more of him, not hear any more of him, the old horror!

She suddenly stood up, unable to stay in the room any longer, and went out into the yard to take the air.

The old beast! she was still muttering, if only he'd have a stroke!

She went to the middle of the yard, drew some water from the well, plunged her face into it and felt cooler. She was small, well-fleshed, with full lips, alert and smiling eyes, and an aquiline nose just like the old archon's. She was very dark and seductive, and of an evening she would stand on the threshold and, when a man passed by, poke out her neck curiously and examine him with mingled desire and compassion, like a cat which, drawing in its paws and about to spring but suddenly seized with pity for its prey, lets this one go and watches greedily for another. . . . This implacable and motionless hunt took place on the threshold every evening. After a while, giving up the struggle, Lenio would go in again, exhausted, as night fell.

Just as her bucket came up and she was about to plunge her burning face into it, the yard door opened and in came Manolios. "Welcome, Manolios!" the girl burst out, with a first impulsive movement toward him, which she suddenly checked, contenting herself with a glance burning with desire. Then, with an

eye rapid as lightning, she inspected his arms, his neck, his chest, his thighs and his knees. As though she had to wrestle with him she sized up his robustness and his staying power.

Manolios said no word; he crossed the yard with great strides, leaned his stick in a corner and made to climb the stone stairs leading to the master's room. From the road he had heard shouting; he was impatient to share the archon's wrath with Michelis,

Manolios looked tired and worried. As soon as he saw Lenio he was struck all of a heap: she was just the person he did not want to see at this moment. He hurried to get across the yard and reach the staircase. But Lenio did not see things in this light.

"Oh," she cried, "didn't you notice me, my lord?"

"Good morning, Lenio," said Manolios faintly; "excuse me, I'm in a hurry. I've got to see the master."

"Let him alone, what do you want with that dirty old thing?" said Lenio under her breath. "He's just having a row with his son and heir, so leave them to scratch each other's eyes out! Here, come and see . . ."

She took his hand to lead him into the house. She sniffed him, turned around him, brushed against him and suddenly drew back blushing.

"When are we going to get married, Manolios? The old man's impatient."

"When God wills!" said Manolios, trying to break away.

"I bow before His greatness," said Lenio, suddenly grave, "I bow before His greatness, but tell Him to be quick. It'll soon be May and people don't marry in May. Must we wait till June? Or July? It's time wasted."

"Time gained, Lenio. Don't be impatient. We don't have to hurry because we're getting old. And I've got business to finish first. After that, if God wills . . ."

"What business?" said Lenio, surprised. "What business? Have you other business, besides a shepherd's?"

"Yes, I have. . . ." said Manolios, edging gradually toward the stone staircase.

"What business? Who with? Why won't you tell me? I shall soon be your wife, I ought to know."

"I'm going to see the master first, then I'll tell you. ... I must speak with him first, Lenio. . . . Let me go."

"Manolios, look me in the face, don't lower your eyes. What's

the matter with you? In a single day and you've changed. What have they done to you?"

She looked at him, worried, then annoyed and breathing quickly: "Someone's cast the evil eye on you!" she cried. "We must find your Aunt Mandalenia. She'll burn Good Friday branches and recite the magic formula to charm away the evil eye, Manolios . . . Come here, I've something to tell you, my treasure . . ." Manolios felt the girl's breath on his neck. A bitter smell rose from his sweating body. Now and then her full, firm bosom brushed against his hand. His blood coursed through his well-nigh bursting veins.

"I'll go and find mother Mandalenia, I can't bear to see you all scowling like that. Don't go!" said Lenio firmly. She went in, slipped on her best dress, bound up her hair in a kerchief, and filled a basket with some red eggs, a little coffee, some sugar and a bottle of wine to pay old Mandalenia for her trouble. Returning, she saw that Manolios had already climbed the staircase and was hesitating in front of the master's door.

"Don't go, don't go!" she shouted to him. "I'm coming!" The dispute had died down. Michelis must have left the room. All Manolios could hear, through the door, was the heavy steps of the old man, who strode up and down muttering.

He pushed the door and entered. As soon as the old man saw him he rushed at him.

"It's your fault," he roared, raising his hand to strike, "it's you who've turned my son's head, it's you who've egged him on to give away my substance, my heart's blood, you vagabond!"

The veins of his temples, neck and hands were black. He had opened his shirt, and his old man's chest was swelling and collapsing, ready to burst. He tumbled onto a sofa in the corner, took his head in both hands, coughed, and his throat rattled.

Leaning against the wall, Manolios watched the speechless old archon remorsefully. What a wild beast the heart of man is! he thought. What a wild beast! Even you, my Christ, could not tame it.

Suddenly the old man got up, he had regained his strength. He seized Manolios by the collar.

"It's your fault," he shouted again, spattering Manolios's cheeks and neck with saliva. "It's your fault! I brought you down from the mountain to marry my Lenio, whom I love like my own daugh-

ter; I kept you here all through the holiday; I forgot you were my servant and on Easter Sunday I had you sit at my table! And now, look at the thanks I get, traitor! You've turned my son's head, you've gone into my cellar while I was asleep, and you've robbed me! Robber! Robber! And as if that weren't enough, here's Michelis resisting me for the first time. 'I'm a man, now/ says he, 'I shall do whatever comes into my head!' Do you hear that? The insolence! He'll do whatever comes into his head, says he. And when I shouted at him: 'Have you no fear of your father?' he dared to answer me—the effrontery!—'I fear God, and nobody else!' No, d'you hear that? Nobody else! It's all your tricks, Manolios. Why didn't you break a leg, the day you came down from the mountain to celebrate Easter with me? . . . Why don't you say anything? Why do you keep looking at me with those round eves? Say something, I'm bursting!"

"Master," said Manolios calmly, "I've come to ask permission to go back to the mountain."

The old man opened his eyes to their full width; his lips quivered and he stuttered:

"What's that you say? Go back to the mountain? Say it again if you've the face!"

"I came, master, to ask your permission to go back to the

mountain."

"And the wedding?" cried the old man, his neck swelling afresh; "when'll we have that, you fool? In May? May's when the donkeys marry. So it will be in April. That's why I had you come. I'm the one who gives orders!"

"Give me a little more time, master . . ."

"What for? What do you want? What's happening to you?"

"Well, I'm not ready yet, master."

"Not ready yet? What's the meaning of that?"

"I don't know myself, master. . . . Look here, how'm I to say it? I feel I'm not ready yet. My soul . . ."

"What soul? I think you've gone crazy. Just listen to him! His soul, he says! Have you a soul?"

"How'm I to tell you, master? There's a voice inside me. . . ."

"Shut up!"

Manolios put out his arm to open the door. The old man seized it.

"Where are you going? Stay here!"

He Started striding up and down the length and breadth of the room again, banged the table with his fist, hurt himself and bit his lips.

"You'll kill me today, between the two of you. It's the end of all things! My son isn't afraid of me, he says, he's only afraid of God. . . . And this—this dirty servant talks to me of his soul. . . ."

He turned furiously on the shepherd:

"Get out, go to the devil! Get out, out of my sight! If the wedding doesn't take place this month, I'll have no more of you in my service; you get out of my house! I'll find another husband, a better one, for my Lenio. Off you go, make yourself scarce!"

Manolios opened the door, tumbled down the stairs two at a time, gave a glance at the yard. Lenio was not yet back. He scooped up his stick and took the road to the mountain, running.

Near Saint Basil's Well, outside the village, he stopped to breathe. It was an old and famous well, surrounded by tall bamboos, with a rim of polished marble deeply cut into by the ropes which for centuries had raised and lowered the buckets. In the evening the young girls came there to draw the cool water: it was said to be miraculous, able to cure many illnesses—the stomach, the liver, the kidneys. Every year, on Twelfth Night, the priest came to bless it. Saint Basil of Cesarea, loaded with toys for the little children of the whole earth, passes by this well, they say, and drinks its water before doing his round, on New Year's Eve. That is why it is called Saint Basil's Well, and also why the water is miraculous.

The sun, hanging at the highest point of the heaven, fell plumb upon the earth, a still cataract. In the fields, ears of yellowing green raised their delicate heads and drank the nourishing sun. The olive trees dripped light from every leaf. In the distance, the Sarakina was smoky within a fire-colored, diaphanous veil. The black holes of its caves could be made out and, right at the top, the Chapel of Saint Elijah, molten in the dazzling light.

Manolios seized the rope, drew water, plunged his face into the bucket and drank. Opening his shirt, he wiped the sweat from his chest. His gaze came to rest on the Sarakina, and priest Fotis, ascetic, fierce, all fire and flame like the sun itself, rose up in his mind. Manolios gazed at it without thinking of anything, without

y6 The Greek Passion

asking himself anything, molten himself, like the Chapel of Saint Elijah, in the burning light.

For a long moment he remained like that, in ecstasy; all of a sudden he felt his hands, his feet, his heart pierced by fearful pains, as though he were crucified upon the light. Months later, at a fatal hour, this moment of ecstasy in front of the rim of the well came back to his mind, and he suddenly realized that this moment had been the greatest joy of his life. No, not a joy: something deeper, more cruel, passing all human joy and pain.

When he rose to climb the Mount of the Virgin and return to his sheepcote, the sun was setting.

"I must have gone to sleep," he muttered, "evening's fallen. . . ."

He stretched, tightened his belt and picked up his stick. He was impatient to rejoin the friendly companions of his solitude—sheep, rams, dogs. Also his shepherd lad, that young, wild, sun-baked boy, the curly-haired youth Nikolio.

He was just going to start when all of a sudden he heard the reeds rustle. Behind him a fresh, seductive, imploring voice said:

"Eh, Manolios, are you so frightened that you're leaving us? Wait, I want a word with you."

He turned. Katerina the widow emerged from the rushes with her jug on her shoulder. His eyes ran quickly over the dazzling throat, the bare, well-molded arms and those red and smiling lips.

"What do you want wdth me?" he asked, casting down his eyes.

"Why do you run after me, Manolios?" said the widow, in a voice now full of passion and pain. She leaned her jug on the rim of the well and sighed. "Every night I see you in my dreams; you won't let me sleep. Why, at dawn today I dreamed you were holding the moon and cutting it into slices like an apple, and giving me the pieces to eat. What's between you and me, Manolios? Why do you run after me? My seeing you in my sleep means that you're thinking of me."

Manolios kept his eyes lowered. He could feel the widow's breath flow round him, burning. His temples were throbbing hard. He said nothing.

"You're blushing, you're blushing, Manolios," said the widow, and her voice was warm, slightly husky; "I was right, you do think of me, Manolios. And I, too, think of you. . . . And when I've got you there, in my thoughts, I'm ashamed, as if I were

naked in front of you. As if I were naked, and you were my brother and you saw me,"

"I do think of you," rephed Manohos without yet raising his eves. "I do think of you and I'm sorry for you. All through Holy Week you were in my mind. Forgive me!"

The widow sat dowTi on the rim of the well. She suddenly felt a sweet but unconquerable lassitude; her legs could no longer carry her. She, too, was silent, now. Leaning over the well she saw, at the bottom, her face in the green and black water. Her whole life passed in a flash through her head: an orphan girl, daughter of the priest of a faraway market town, she had met her husband at the festival of the Virgin of the Myrtles. He had been much older than she, going gray already; but he had had some property. She was poor. He had taken her to wife, or rather bought her. After the wedding he had brought her to Lycovrissi. He had wanted children but never been able to have any. Then he had died. The young lads of the village were then unable to sleep. They roamed at midnight before her door, under her windows, in her yard, and sang her serenades and sighed like calves. Inside her house, she, too, sighed. This martyrdom went on for a year, two years. One night, a Saturday, she could bear it no longer. That day she washed her hair and scented it with oil of laurel. She looked at her body and was sorry for it. She opened her door and a young lad, the first who happened to be there, entered. In the morning twilight, before the village awoke, he went away. The widow knew then a great comfort. She also felt that life has hardly any length and that it is a great sin to let it be lost. The following evenings, at midnight, she again opened her door.

She stood up; her face disappeared from the green and black water.

"Why are you sorry for me, Manolios?" she asked.

"I don't know, Katerina; don't ask. But it's true, I'm sorry for you, as if you were my sister."

"Are you ashamed for me?"

"I don't know, don't ask me that. I'm sorry for you."

"What do you want of me?"

"Nothing! I want nothing!" cried Manolios, frightened, moving to escape.

y8 The Greek Passion

"Don't go, don't go, Manolios!" she said, in a voice full of witchery.

Without turning, Manolios stopped. They were silent once more. After a moment the widow spoke again:

"You look to me like an archangel, Manolios, an archangel who wants to take my soul."

"Let me go," said Manolios. "I've nothing to take from you. I want to go!"

"You are in a hurry," said the widow, offended, and her voice once more sounded mocking. "You're impatient to get to the mountain, drink milk, eat meat and set yourself up again. You're going to be married, Manolios, you're going to be married, and Lenio stands no nonsense!"

"I'm not going to marry!" cried Manolios. What he had just said frightened him. It was the first time he had thought of such a thing. "I'm never going to marry; I want to die!"

Having said it, he felt relieved. Turning, he looked the widow in the face this time, as though he no longer feared her. As though he found himself freed from a great weight.

"Good-bye," he said, calmly, "I'm going!"

The widow followed him with her eyes as he departed, and her heart contracted.

"Don't think of me, Manolios," she cried despairingly. "Don't trouble my sleep any more. I've taken the bad road, leave me alone!"

I'm sorry for you, my sister, I'm sorry for you, and I don't want you to be damned, Manolios thought, but without turning and without replying. He was already on the path to the mountain.

yhc Figkt with the ^^m

THE SUN ROSE and struck the peak of Sarakina, touching with pink the Chapel of Saint Ehjah. On the slopes, partridges began to cackle. The whole mountain grew light and there appeared, scattered among the abrupt rocks, a few stunted carob trees, wild pears with their prickly trunks, and wind-torn holm oaks.

Men must have lived there in the past—you can still make out a crumbled wall, some fragments of pottery, some fruit trees which, when their tamer departed, turned wild once more. The paths are obliterated under a raving of grass and rubble; the houses have returned to their original elements; the domesticated trees have grown thorns; the wolves, foxes, and hares, which had fled before Man, have come back in triumph. Earth, trees, and beasts breathed again, recovering their liberty; no longer now would they know the menace of the ephemeral two-legged monster, which had appeared for a moment, altered the law of eternal things, then disappeared.

And lo and behold, that perpetually agitated animal was back again. The wild beasts hid behind the high rocks to watch him. The sun had hardly risen when men, women, and children emerged from the caves, found the water where it dripped from the rocks, leaned over it, arranged stones and lit fires. They stood on tiptoe and looked out into the distance: below in the plain spread the prosperous village of Lycovrissi; all around, a sea of hills with their olives, figs, and vines; farther off, the peaceful Mount of the Virgin, golden green, with its rich flocks of sheep and goats. Still farther beyond, rose-pink and blue mountains stood out against the sky.

Priest Fotis made the sign of the cross:

"My children," he said, "here is the dawn. We have a great deal of work to do today. Come here, around me, and let us call on God together, that He may hear our voice."

The old men and the old women dragged themselves to form a circle around priest Fotis where he stood on his rock; the women ran up with their children; behind them, heavily, came the men, with downcast heads full of cares. A ragged barefoot lot they were, with cheeks scored by fatigue and hunger, defenceless in the middle of these inhospitable stones and these sparse trees without fruit. One might have expected supplications and tears, begging hands raised toward Heaven; on the contrary, from these breasts there arose, joyous and full, the triumphal hymn of the Byzantine church—the whole mountain rang with it:

Save Thy feofle, O Lord, hless Thine inheritors, Grant us victories over the harhariansl . . .

Swinging his arms rhythmically, the priest conducted the singing; his own voice dominated and led, deep and martial.

The bowed heads were raised, the women unhooked their bodices and gave suck to their babies, while others crouched down, threw branches on the fires and placed pots upon them.

"My children," cried priest Fotis, "it is here, on this sheer mountain, that with God's aid we shall take root. For three months we have been on our way; the women and the children are exhausted, the men have grown ashamed of begging. Man is like a tree: he needs earth. This is where we shall put forth roots! I saw in a dream last night Saint George, our patron, exactly as he is painted on our banner—a young man with fair hair, beautiful as the spring, riding on a white horse, and behind him on its back the beautiful princess whom Saint George had saved from the horrible monsters of the fountain; she was holding out toward him a ewer of gold and pouring out for him to drink. . . . Who is this beautiful princess, my children? It is the soul of Greece, our soul! Saint George has taken us up on his horse and has brought us here, onto this deserted mountain where we are. Last night I saw him in my dream; he stretched out his arm and placed in my hand the seed of a village—a little, little village in my palm, with its church, its school, its houses, its gardens—and he said to me: 'Plant it!' "

From the crowd rose a murmur, a rustle like that of the wind in the reeds. And when priest Fotis opened his hand, several

women saw in it a little, little village, like an egg placed to hatch in the sun.

"It is here," priest Fotis pursued, embracing the mountain with a gesture of his open arms, "among these stones and caves, this rare water, and under these thin wild trees, that we shall plant the seed which Saint George the Knight has entrusted to me. Courage, my children, arise and follow me. This day is a great day, we are planting our new village! Arise, father Panagos, hoist your sack of bones on your back again, and march!"

The centenarian raised his dried-up head, and his little steely eyes kindled:

"My children," he said, "three times I've seen villages planted and uprooted. The first time it was the plague that ravaged them, the second time an earthquake and the third time, this time, the Turk. But three times also I've seen the seed of man put forth, now in the same place, now farther on. A priest gave his blessing, the masons began to build, everyone threw himself on the earth and dug, the men took wives and, within the year, what joy it was, my lad! Ears of corn were poking from the earth, smoke was rising from the houses, new-born children were wailing—the village was a-growing! Courage, my children, it will put forth again!"

"Bravo, father Panagos!" cried the men, smiling; "you granddad, have got the better of Charon himself! You're the dragon who conquered death, aren't you?"

"That's me, for sure!" replied the old one; "that's me, the dragon!"

Priest Fotis, having meanwhile put on his stole and fashioned a sprinkler of, savory and thyme, now filled a gourd with water and called and grouped around him five or six urchins whom he had taught to sing psalms and chant the responses.

The whole throng stood up and ranged itself behind its leader, the men on the right, the women on the left. Above them the sun, the indefatigable, obstinate athlete, was climbing the sky to perform yet again his ever-renewed exploit.

"In the name of Christ, my sons!" cried priest Fotis, "in the name of Christ and of our country! Our village has been razed to the ground, our village is building again. The root of our race is immortal! What am I to say, my brethren? I rejoice, being a man, when some happy thing comes to me, but I rejoice still more when the difficult hour comes! Then I say to myself: 'It's now, priest

Sz The Greek Passion

Fotis, that you will show whether you're a real man or a rabbit.* "

Men and women burst out laughing. At this solemn moment these virile words, full of good humor, made their hearts less heavy. A hard fighter from far-back times arose in each breast, looked at the stones, the sterile trees, the hungry mouths, and rolled up his sleeves.

"Follow me, all of you, my children; I'm going to mark out the boundaries of the village!" cried the priest, plunging his sprinkler into the water he had blessed. "In the name of Christ! In the name of Greece!"

The colossus raised the banner of Saint George; the men took their tools, spades, picks, shovels; the old men lifted the icons in their arms; and the old grandfather took the lead with the sack of bones on his back. Two or three dogs which had accompanied them followed also, barking joyfully. There was a great noise. At this moment a trumpet sounded at the foot of the mountain, but nobody heard it.

The priest dipped the sprinkler in the holy water and with a wide gesture sprinkled the stones, the bushes, the carob trees, as though tracing in the air the boundaries of the village. It was the first time he had founded a village, and he improvised the prayers out of an overflowing heart.

"Lord, Lord, I trace with holy water the boundaries of our village! May the Turk never come inside it, may the plague never enter it, may no earthquake overthrow it! We shall make for it four fortified gates: place at them four angels to guard them, O Lord!"

He paused, sprinkled a huge stone with the sign of the cross and, turning toward his companions:

"Here, toward the east," he said, "we will build one of the gates of the village, Christ's Gate!"

He raised his arms to heaven:

"This is Thy gate, O Lord! Here is where Thou wilt enter when Thou deignest to hear our voice and to descend on earth at the hour of danger. For we are men, Thou knowest, we have a soul, we have a voice, we shall cry to Thee! If it happens that we say too much, be not angry; we are men, tormented creatures, we have many cares, there are moments when the heart cannot bear any more, it bursts, utters an insolent word and is relieved. Life is a heavy burden. Lord; and if Thou wert not there, we should

take one another by the hand, men and women, and go and throw ourselves over the precipice to have done with it. But Thou hast being, Thou, joy, consolation, protector of the oppressed, our God! Here is Thy gate, enter!"

They moved to the south. Again the boundaries were marked in the air. The priest intoned a psalm, and all around his deep voice the slender voices of the children twittered like swallows.

The priest paused before a hollow of rock filled with limpid water:

"Here," he said, "we will build the Gate of the Virgin, protectress of the human race! Make a mark!"

He stretched out his arms:

"Virgin Mother," he cried, "Rose that cannot wither, blossoming Hawthorn enlacing the wild Oak, our God! We are good people persecuted, hear our voice! Thou art seated here on earth, close by us; Thy lap is a soft nest in which human beings hide. Thou art Mother, Thou knowest the meaning of sighs, hunger and death. Thou art a woman. Thou knowest the meaning of patience and love. Our Lady, look down on our village, give its women patience and love, that they may endure in this strife of every day and may without complaining bear with their fathers, brothers and husbands, their children and the torments of the house! Give to the men the strength to work and never despair, that dying they may leave behind them a yard filled with children and grandchildren! Give, Our Lady, a peaceful and Christian end to the old men and women! Here is Thy gate, Our Lady of the Gate; enter!"

At this moment a loaded ass appeared at the back of the procession, but nobody noticed it. It stopped suddenly, astonished, and turned its great velvet eyes to its companion to ask him what to do. Out of breath, soaked with sweat, cursing the sun and stones, Yannakos appeared in turn behind the donkey.

He stopped, amazed like his Youssoufaki. He had heard the chanting and the words of the priest; he looked around, bewildered. "Here is the gate," he says . . . Where do you see a gate? What village is this they're going to build? What with? Out of air? In the air? Hang it all, they're starving and yet they talk of building villages? They can't even stand up on their legs and they sing you warrior psalms: "Grant us victory over the barbarians . . .' Mercy of God, they're mad!

He tied up his ass to a stunted oak and took his place, silently

$4 The Greek Passion

and unseen, in the procession. With wide eyes and ears cocked, he had not yet decided whether he ought to laugh or cry. He followed the others and watched the priest lunging with the sprinkler and tracing the boundaries with an astounding assurance, as though he already saw in the air the streets of the future, the houses, the church, the dwelling of the notables.

The old man paused for the third time, at the side opposite Christ's gate, looking westward, and climbed onto a great rock which had been split by a wild pear tree now covered with blossom.

"Here we will build," he said, "the gate of Saint George the Laborer! He who, like us men, bends and tills the land; who leads the goats and sheep to pasture, guides the oxen, prunes and grafts the trees. For Saint George is not only a noble warrior but also a great laborer. We put our trust in your grace, patron of our village! Make our goats and our lambs to prosper, let them give us milk for our children; let them give us meat for our body and help it to carry our soul; let them give us wool, that the snows may not overcome us! Bless, Saint George, all the creatures that love and serve Man—the oxen, the asses, the dogs, the chickens, the rabbits. . . . Bend over the land and bless that, too. We shall throw the seed into your bosom, and you will make the rain fall when it is needed, that the seed may grow. . . . Land, men, saints, all together, one army, with God at our head shovidng us the way! Saint George, here is your village, and here is your gate. We have designed it high, that you may enter on horseback. Enter!"

Yannakos listened with his mouth wide open. He rubbed his eyes and looked around him. Nothing but rocks and brambles, broom and thyme . . . Two crows on a carob tree took fright and flew away, flapping their wings and croaking lugubriously.

What are these creatures? he asked himself with dread, men? wild animals? or saints? He looked at the men with their drooping mustaches, the women with their heavy tresses and broad hips. They're stark, staring mad. Lord help me!

To the north, opposite the Gate of the Virgin, the priest paused once more, in front of a ruined wall invaded by grass. He brandished his sprinkler, blessed the stones three times and turned toward his companions:

"Here," he said in a voice that trembled, "here, my brethren, we will build the gate of our last Byzantine king, Constantine Palaeologos! It is here, my friends, that one day, surely, the

messenger soaked with sweat will enter to announce to us: 'Brothers, once more Constantinople is ours!' "

Those present were overcome; wild cries arose; they turned to the north in ecstasy, gazing afar toward the holy city, Constantinople: they could already see the messenger coming, carried by the wind.

"Father Panagos," the priest called out, "approach, lay down your sack, at the gate of King Palaeologos!"

Then, addressing the men who had tools:

"Dig!"

They did so, with great strokes of the spade, opening a wide grave, deep enough for a man to stand in. The grandfather went down into it. One by one he took from the sack skulls, shinbones and ribs, and piled them in the trench reverently, in silence. Priest Fotis sprinkled the bones with what was left of the holy water, then threw his sprinkler into the trench and cried:

"Fathers, patience a little longer; do not crumble into dust: behold, the messenger is coming!"

Yannakos wiped his eyes. There was a tightening in his throat.

"Come out now, father Panagos," the priest ordered; "come out; we're going to fill the trench." Two young men ran up to hoist him out.

"Leave me, lads," the old man implored them, "I'm all right here. Why do you want me to eat bread I have no right to? I can't work any more, I can't have children, I'm good for nothing, leave me!

"Father Panagos," said the priest severely, "your hour has not yet come; don't be in a hurry."

"Father," replied the grandfather, beseechingly, "leave me here, Tm where I should be. I've heard say that if a human being is not sealed up in the foundations of a village, that village soon crumbles! Where could I find a better death? Bury me!"

"That cannot be," the priest protested. "God gave you life, and only God can take it away. We haven't the right, father Panagos. . . . Pull him out, my sons!"

The two young men bent down and stretched out their hands to pull him up. But the old man had already lain down upon the bones and was crying:

"Leave me, lads; leave me, I'm where I should be!"

Yannakos could no longer hold himself in. He leaned over the

trench and saw the old man. He had turned over on his back and was lying still, with his face to the light. He was smiling happily.

"I'm all right here . . . I'm all right here," he kept murmuring, with his arms crossed on his chest.

Yannakos's tight throat loosened, and a sob was heard.

The priest turned, saw Yannakos and recognized him.

"Make room, my sons," he cried, "here's Yannakos, a good man from Lycovrissi; he's come to see us and give us courage in our misfortune. Greet him, my brethren! He's one of our four benefactors with the baskets."

"Welcome, Yannakos!" he said, shaking him by the hand with emotion. "For the love of you and your friends, God will not consume Lycovrissi with His flames."

Yannakos could control himself no longer: he burst into sobs.

"Why are you weeping, brother?" said the priest, clasping him in his arms.

"I've sinned, Father, I've sinned!"

"Come with me!"

He took him by the arm and they went apart a little.

"Why are you weeping? What is wrong? Tell me what's hurting you, my son. You are one of the founders of our village," he said, showing with outstretched arms the future village.

Yannakos's legs failed him and he sank down upon a stone; the priest, standing over him, gazed at him, worried.

"Is there something you want?" he asked; "is there something you've done? Don't weep!"

"I've sinned. Father! I want to confess it all!"

And he began to tell him—his words tumbling over each other, his breath short—why he had climbed up the Sarakina, and of the agreement he had made with father Ladas and of the three gold pieces he had accepted on account.

The priest listened attentively without a word. Yannakos looked at him in dread.

"What are you thinking. Father?" he said at last, in a quavering voice.

"I'm thinking that Man is a beast, a savage beast. . . . Don't weep; I'm thinking also that God is great."

"Worse than a beast," Yannakos muttered, and spat as though he suddenly felt sick; "a slimy worm, that's what a man is, a dirty

I

The Fight vHth the Ram 87

worthless worm, foul. . . . Don't touch me, Father: don't I disgust you?"

The priest said nothing; he withdrew his hand, lowered his eyes and sighed.

Yannakos leaped up from the stone on which he had sunk down, dug his fingers into his waistcoat pocket and brought out the three gold pieces.

"Father, I've a favor to ask you: take these three gold pieces and buy some sheep for the village, for the children, they need milk. And if you can, lay your hand on my head and forgive me." The priest did not move.

"If you don't take them, my soul will never rest again." And, after a moment:

"You said Man was a savage beast: tame him, Father. One good word is enough. For me, at this moment, redemption hangs on your lips."

The priest threw himself into Yannakos's arms and in his turn wept.

"Is it for me," cried Yannakos, "is it for me you are weeping?" "For you and for myself and for the whole world, my son," murmured priest Fotis, wiping away his tears.

He kissed Yannakos on the eyes and stroked his gray, woolly hair.

"Be forgiven, Yannakos! Peter also denied Christ, three times, and three times was saved by tears. Tears are a great font of baptism, my son. ... I take this gold of sin which you are giving me; your crime will be changed into milk for our starving children. My blessing on you, Yannakos!"

Yannakos threw himself on his knees before the priest and tried to kiss his feet; but the priest hastily stooped and raised him.

"No, no, they can see us," he said; "they're coming!" "Father, Father," cried fear-stricken voices. "What's happening, my sons?" said priest Fotis, alarmed. "Old Panagos has given up the ghost, Father; we tried to pull him out of the grave—he was dead." Priest Fotis crossed himself.

"May God forgive him," he said. "He died happy, and there he is, he has entered into the foundations of our village. God grant

US also, my sons, an end like his; I'll come and give him the blessing." Then, addressing Yannakos:

"Come, my son, fear nothing; Christ is with you!"

Yannakos bowed, kissed the priest's hand and went off to find his donkey.

Joy had given him v^dngs, he jumped from stone to stone like a young lad of twenty. He could feel his back thrilling as though wings had sprung there.

Devil take old Ladas, he muttered, devil take his gold; I feel as light as a bird.

He stroked his donkey, who was waiting patiently in the shade of the oak, and untied him, humming a tune.

"Off we go, Youssoufaki," he said, "our business has gone well, God be praised!"

Turning, he saw the wild rocks, the gloomy caves and the lean men grouped round the grandfather's grave beneath the future Gate of King Palaeologos, listening to the burial service and making the sign of the cross.

God give body to your village! he murmured; I—I've put three gold pounds into its foundations.

He began to go dov^m, singing.

You said the truth: Man is a wild beast, he told himself. Yes, he does what he chooses. If he chooses to take a road, he takes it. The gate of Hell and the gate of Paradise are close together, and he goes in at whichever he chooses. . . . The Devil can only go into Hell, and the angel only into Paradise, but Man into whichever he chooses!

He laughed. Then he intoned an old song which he had forgotten since God knows how long; and now here it was on his lips once more:

I am son of the lightning, and grandson of the thunder: I make the lightning flash at my will, The thunder rumhle, and the snow fall.

At the foot of the mountain he stopped:

I'm hungry, I'm going to have something to eat. Youssoufaki's hungry, too. I'll go and get him some fresh grass, so he mayn't be jealous at seeing me eat. We'll have a bite together, side by side, like brothers.

He went a few steps, gathered some thistles, jumped over a

The Fight vnth the Ram Sg

hedge and cut a few cabbage leaves, bunched the lot together and brought it to his companion.

"There, eat, my Youssoufaki. I'm going to do the same. Enjoy your dinner!"

He opened his bag, pulled out bread, olives and an onion and began munching slowly and placidly, like a rabbit.

It's mighty good, this bread is! he murmured. It's as if I were eating bread for the first time. But it isn't bread, it's crust; goes straight into the bones and gives them strength.

He took out of the bag his vdne botde, on which he had carved a two-headed eagle. He tilted it above his mouth and a joyous gurgle could be heard.

You'd think it was the first time I'd drunk wdne, he thought. The way it goes down, the rogue, straight to the heart and makes it rejoice. God had a famous idea when He made vines and grapes, and blessed was the man who thought of treading the grapes to get wine out of them. Here's one more drop!

He put the gourd to his mouth again and shut his eyes.

"Enjoy yourself, Yannakos!" said a fresh voice.

Yannakos opened his eyes and saw Katerina before him, carrying a heavy bundle on her back; behind her came her ewe, with a red ribbon round her neck.

"Hey, Katerina," he cried, "what are you after, out here? Where are you taking that ewe of yours? Are you selling her?"^

"Yes," said the widow wath a smile.

"Come, sit dowm a moment and have a bite and a drink. Priest Fotis was just wanting to buy a ewe, to give the little ones milk. . . . It's God who's sent you!"

The widow sat dovsoi on the ground. With her black kerchief she wiped the sweat from her face and neck. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure.

"How hot it is," she said. "Summer's come, Yannakos."

"Eat something," said Yannakos, cutting her a slice of bread, and handing her the olives. "Like an onion?"

"No, I never eat onions," answered the widow, taking the bread and olives.

"To keep your mouth from smelling bad, hussy?" laughed Yannakos.

"Yes," she said, and her voice had suddenly changed. "You see, neighbor, we ought always to smell of scented soap and lavender."^

po The Greek Passion

She pushed away the bread and oHves.

"I'm not hungry," she said. "I'm sorry."

Yannakos was ashamed, and swallowed.

"It's me should be sorry, Katerina," he muttered, "I'm an ass."

The widow picked a piece of grass and sucked it without saying anything.

They remained silent a moment; Yannakos no longer felt like eating; he shut up the bag.

"What have you got in your bundle, Katerina?" he asked, by way of ending a silence which weighed on him.

"Some odds and ends of clothes for the children."

"You're going to give them to them?"

"Yes."

"And the ewe?"

"The ewe as well, for the milk."

Yannakos lowered his head, abashed. As if to excuse herself, the widow added, after a moment:

"You see, neighbor, I've had no children, and it's as if all the children in the world were mine."

Yannakos felt a tightening of his throat.

"Katerina," he said in a strangled voice, "I'd like to throw myself on the ground and kiss your feet."

"Patriarcheas, the old lecher, made me come and see him the day before yesterday, and told me the Council of Elders had decided I should be Mary Magdalen, next year. I've heard tell of what Mary Magdalen was. That's what I've come to—the village Mary Magdalen! When he told me that, I was ashamed; but now, Yannakos, I'm not ashamed any longer. If I met Christ, and if I had a bottle of lavender water, I'd empty it out to wash His feet and then I'd wipe them with my hair ... I think that's what I'd do, and I'd stay by the side of the Virgin Mary without feeling ashamed. And she wouldn't be ashamed, either, seeing me beside her. Do you understand a bit what I've just been telling you, Yannakos?"

"I understand, Katerina, I understand," Yannakos answered, vdth tears in his eyes. "Since this morning I've begun to understand, Katerina."

He added:

"I'm a much greater sinner than you, Katerina. That's why I understand. Before, I was a bit of a robber, a bit of a liar, not

much, just trifles. This morning I was a criminal. But now . . ."

He fell silent. His heart had wings. He took his gourd:

"To your health, Katerina," he said. "I hurt you just now; forgive me. An ass can only do what asses do."

Having drunk, he carefully wiped the neck of his gourd.

"You have a drink too, Katerina, so I can be sure you've forgiven me."

"Your health," said the widow, putting her head back. Wiping her mouth, she stood up.

"I'm off," she said; "the ewe's getting impatient, she's bleating, as if she were unhappy. I haven't milked her, poor thing. I want them to have it up there."

"Won't you miss her, Katerina? I know how you love her."

"If you gave them your donkey, would you miss him?"

Yannakos shuddered:

"Don't say that, neighbor, it tears my heart."

"It tears mine too, Yannakos. Good-bye. Good luck!"

She hesitated for a second:

"Will you be seeing Manolios?" she ventured at last.

"I'll be doing a round of the villages. On my way back I expect I'll turn aside and go to see him. . . . Want me to tell him anything?"

The widow had put the bundle on her back again and was pulling hard at the reluctant ewe.

"No," she answered, "nothing."

And she began to go up.

In the meantime Manolios had reached the mountain. The dogs scented him a long way off and ran up, wagging their tails, followed by Nikolio, the sunburned shepherd boy with the pointed ears, who bounded from rock to rock like a kid as he came to meet him. He had grown up in the mountains with the goats and sheep. He was a very dark, wild creature, who seldom spoke, but bleated with the sheep and rams. His curly hair, sticky with resin and muck, twisted and gave him two small pointed horns. He was now fifteen, and looked at the sheep with a ram's scowl.

When they reached the sheepfold, Nikolio set bread, cheese and roasted meat on the bench.

"Eat," he said.

"I'm not hungry, old Nikolio. You eat."

"Why aren't you hungry?" 1 m not.

"They been doing things to you, down there?"

"Yes."

"Why did you go?"

Manohos did not answer. He lay down on his bed of straw and shut his eyes. It was true: why had he gone? Till then, he had gone down to the village on Sunday mornings; he had heard Mass, taken the holy bread and come back quickly to his mountain. Down there in the plain he stifled. When he looked at the women he became wild; when he passed in front of the cafe where the men were drinking and playing cards, the smell of tobacco and narghiles seized him by the throat, and so he passed as quickly as he could to get back to the pure air. And now . . .

He remembered Lenio, her mischievous eyes, her smile, her bewitching voice and, above all, her breasts stretching her pink bodice to bursting. He sat up on the straw. He was too hot: he pulled off his shirt; it was soaked with sweat.

I must be patient, he told himself, and keep pure, and not touch a woman. I shall have to give account. This body isn't mine any longer now; it belongs to Christ.

The image of Christ rose up in his mind, as he had seen it when he arrived at the Monastery, on the iconostasis in the chapel: a long blue tunic, bare feet which touched the ground so lightly that the blades of grass were not even bent. Thin, transparent, weightless like a mist. From His hands, from His feet and from His uncovered chest there flowed a thin thread of rose-pink blood ... A young woman with golden hair floating on her shoulders was darting forward to touch Him; but He, austerely, raised His hand to stop her. From His mouth issued a garland of words, unrolling; Manolios read them but could not catch their meaning. He had asked his Superior: "What is Christ saying there. Father?" And he had answered: "Woman, touch me not!" "Who is the woman, Father?" "Mary Magdalen."

"Woman, touch me not!" Manolios closed his eyes. Suddenly he saw the widow Katerina shaking her head and throwing aside her black kerchief; her fair hair came undone and reached to her knees, covering her nakedness. Then a gust of wind stirred her hair, and two breasts appeared, round and firm.

"Help!" cried Manolios, bolt upright on his bed.

The shepherd boy was eating and could not quench his hunger. He turned impassively, with his mouth full:

"Been dreaming, master? Was someone after you? I, too, have people after me in my dreams. There! Dreams are lies; don't be a fool, go to sleep!"

"Light the fire, Nikolio, I'm cold ..."

"But it's stifling hot!" protested the shepherd boy, unable to tear himself away from the bread and meat.

"I'm cold. . . ." repeated Manolios, and his teeth were chattering.

The little shepherd boy got up, without stopping munching; grumbling, he went and took wood from a comer, laid it with twigs on the hearth and set light to it. Approaching Manolios, he looked at him attentively and shook his head.

"They've cast the evil eye on you, master," he said and went back to eating greedily.

Manolios dragged himself to a comer of the hut, wrapped himself in a rug and huddled himself together. He watched the fire consuming the wood: Lenio, Mary Magdalen, Christ came by, dancing in the flames, drawing together, apart, together again. . . . The flame danced a little and Christ came to life; emerged from the ash; grew smaller, bent double, arose, then disappeared in the smoke.

Exhausted, Manolios let his head fall on his knees; sleep took hold of him.

A heavy, sticky sleep; all through the night, Manolios fought to get free of it. He was caught in the midst of clinging seaweed and water serpents, and at dawn a cascade of fair tresses came leaping and crumbling, and wrapped him round. "Help!" he cried, stifling. Still asleep, unable to tear himself out of slumber, he was now floating on his back at the mercy of a river, and groaning.

Two or three times Manolios's piercing cries woke the young shepherd.

"He's still dreaming they're after him, poor fellow," he muttered, and turned over and went to sleep again.

At dawn, Manolios opened his eyes and saw through the hole of a window a milky sky; he crossed himself. "God be praised," he said, half-aloud; "the night's over, and I'm saved!"

His joints were aching, his red eyes were burning, and he was shivering. The fire had gone out. He was thirsty. He longed for

g4 The Greek Vas^on

some hot milk; but Nikolio had already gone off to pasture the sheep, and he did not feel like getting up. He gazed around, as if he saw the tools of his trade for the first time: pots, milk pails, wooden spoons hanging on the wall, fashioned and carved by his hands with delicate craft. Even as a small boy, whenever he had come on a piece of wood he had taken his knife and tried his hand at engraving on it C)^resses and birds; later he had begun to engrave women; then it had been men on horseback; finally, after he had gone to the Monastery, saints and men on crosses.

"You, my son," a monk who passed by the sheepfold had said to him one day, "you ought never to have become a shepherd. You should have become a monk. We'd have given you wood, and you'd have made us icons."

The sun came through the window. Manolios went and sat in its rays to unstiffen himself. As he got warm again, he again saw his dreams of that night—the river of golden hair; and he shuddered.

"Lord Jesus," he murmured, "don't let me yield to temptation!"

Somewhat calmed, he rose, lit a fire, took some milk from a bucket, warmed it and drank it. It gave him back some strength. He went out and sat on the stone bench in the enclosure. The sun was an arm's length high in the sky; the world was awakening; the whole mountain was glittering. In the distance he heard Nikolio leading the sheep.

I'm all right now, he thought. It's in the night that temptation comes; the sun has appeared, God be praised!

Looking around, he saw by the doorstep a log cut from a box-tree trunk. His heart gave a bound of joy. He bent down, picked it up, put it on his knees and stroked it. It was stout and round like a head. Its grain showed sinuous and ramified, like the veins on a head.

Manolios felt an itch tickling his fingertips. He stood up suddenly, went into the hut and fetched a small saw, a chisel and a file. With a hasty sign of the cross, he kissed the wood and began working at it.

The sun was reaching the zenith, and still Manolios was at work, bent over the piece of wood, which he held clasped against his chest. He had completely forgotten his exhaustion; the open air had swept the earth clean like the sky; all temptation had fled to the four winds.

Rapt by the wood he was carving, Manohos turned his eyes in upon himself. His whole soul became an eye, contemplating, at the bottom of his heart, a calm face, all kindness, silence and sorrow, Manolios strove to reproduce faithfully, just as he saw them, the hollow cheeks, the suffering eyes, the broad brow beaded with big drops of blood . . . and a wound between the eyebrows, not to be found in the icons, seen by Manolios alone.

The sweat was dripping from his temples; he had cut his fingers with the chisel, and blood stained the wood red. But Manolios did not stop. He was in haste to copy the holy face and fix it in the wood, before it should vanish.

While he was feverishly carving, two women appeared on the path, a young one followed by an old one whose face was ringed with a kerchief. When the young one saw Manolios, she turned and laid her finger on her lips; both approached stealthily, curious to see what Manolios could be doing. At one moment, the old woman stumbled and sent a stone rolling; but Manolios was so absorbed that he heard nothing.

The young woman, unable to hold back, hastened her steps and touched Manolios on the shoulder.

"Hello, Manolios!" she cried.

He jumped; the holy form vanished within him; overcome, he leaned against the wall, with his head thrown back.

"What's the matter, Manolios? Why do you look at me haggardly, as if you'd seen a ghost? It's me, Lenio, your betrothed; and here's your aunt, mother Mandalenia. She's come to exorcise you."

"You've been hurt by some demon or other, that's certain, my child," said the old woman, approaching breathless.

Manolios looked at her with dread.

"What do you want?" he asked at last, turning the piece of wood face downward.

The old woman was about to answer, but Lenio pushed her aside.

"Leave us, mother Mandalenia," she said; "go and gather the herbs you need, and leave us alone; I want a word with him."

The old woman went off grumbling to look for her plants. Lenio slid onto the stone bench, close against her betrothed.

"Manolios," she said softly, taking him by the hand, "turn

$6 The Greek Passion

and look at me. Don't you like me any more? Don't you love me any more?"

"I love you," answered Manolios quietly.

"When are we going to get married?"

Manolios said nothing. How far his marriage was from his thoughts at this moment, Almighty God!

"Why don't you say anything? The master's told me everything."

"I'd rather you hadn't come," said Manolios, standing up.

"Perhaps I should have asked your leave first?" cried Lenio, her cheeks on fire. "You're not my husband yet; I'm free."

She got up and stood in front of him. Stretching out her arms she ordered him:

"Don't go!"

Manolios leaned against the wall and waited. Lenio watched him. In her breast hate and love were contending.

"My mother was only a servant," she said at last in a strangled voice; "my mother was only a servant, but my father's a noble: I'm not going to force myself on anyone. I've my dowry, I've my youth, I shall find another better than you."

Manolios pressed the carved wood against his chest so hard that he hurt himself.

"As you will, Lenio," he said, calmly, but his heart beat as if it would burst. Hardly had he uttered these hard words than he regretted them; his courage weakened.

"Lenio," he began again, lowering his eyes, 'leave me alone here for a few days to decide. If vou love me, do that for me."

"You love someone else, eh? Which? Out with it and I'll go."

"No, no, Lenio, I swear I don't!"

"Very well; when you've decided, let me know. I'll wait . . . But you'd better know—perhaps I'll love you all my life, perhaps I'll hate you all mv life, it depends on one word from you; on a yes or a no; choose!"

And, turning toward the old woman:

"Hey, mother Mandalenia, we're going!"

They set off; Lenio walked in front, furious; not once did she look back. Her father's proud blood was boiling in her.

Manolios sank down on the bench. He looked at the log he held in his hand; he had not the slightest desire to carve. The flame

had gone out, the holy form which had been in him had disappeared.

He went back into the hut, wrapped the piece of wood in a rag, slowly, as one covers up an ember with ashes so that it may not go out. He could not bear now to remain alone, he was stifling. He grabbed up his crook and went to join Nikolio and the sheep.

The sun was pouring vertically down upon the mountain. Not a breath. The shadows were gathered fearfully at the feet of the trees. The birds, crouching voiceless in their nests, waited for the panic to pass.

Nikolio suddenly felt his strength brim over. He looked round in search of someone or something to expend this overflow of vigor upon. Nothing. Nobody. Neither a man to fight, nor a woman to hurl on her back in the grass. The sheep, stunned by the heat, lay in the shade under the holm oaks; it would have been shameful to set on them. But here came their chief, the great ram Dassos, with his long spiral horns, thick greasy fleece, and at his neck the leader's big bell. With a dull eye he glanced over his drowsed sheep lying in the shade, gave a bleat of contentment, then made off, heavily, for his walk, with measured steps and all the arrogance of a monarch: a reek of male haunted the air. Nikolio threw himself upon him, as though he had suddenly lost his head, and struck him furiously with his stick on the horns, back and belly.

Haughtily the impassive male turned. His adversary appeared to him a puppy—no horns, no thick fleece, only a couple of feet to walk with; a slight butt would have been enough to knock him sprawling. So he pursued his saunter among the sheep.

Nikolio followed him, seized him by the horns and leaped onto his back. Then Dassos became annoyed; shaking his head, he threw the shepherd boy.

"Swine! I'll show you!" shouted Nikolio, picking himself up, bleeding at the elbows.

He hunched his neck between his shoulders, lowered his head and took a run to butt. Dassos also took a run. The shock stunned Nikolio. He spun round and the mountain, too, began spinning. But he managed to keep his balance, picked up his stick, rushed at the animal in a rage and hit it as if he would break its horns.

Just at this moment Manolios came up. He put two fingers into

p8 The Greek Passion

his mouth and whistled. Nikoho turned and saw him, but he was too far gone, he could not stop, and he hurled himself once more upon the ram. Manolios picked up a stone and threw it at him.

"Hey, Nikolio," he shouted, "having a fight with the ram? Come here!"

Grumbling, swearing and sweating, Nikolio came. The two of them leaned their backs against a rock; the young shepherd, fuming with anger, gave out a smell of ram. From time to time he whistled and threw a stone, trying to hide his fury. But deep down in him rage was boiling: Dassos had won, had humiliated him.

The eyes of Manolios were lost in the void. He was trying hard to recover his spirits and to find once more in his heart the holy form he had been carving in the wood. The enchantment of this morning! Forgotten his torments; the world wiped away; they had remained alone between heaven and earth—he and a bit of wood! Then suddenly a woman's voice, two full lips . . .

"Hey, Nikolio, take your pipe out of your belt and play us something . . . I'm not well, my lad. My soul's all vague. Play a bit, that'll make me better!"

The little shepherd laughed.

"I'm just the same, Manolios," he said. "My soul's all vague, too. There are moments when I feel I'm going to burst. I play my pipe, but it doesn't make me better at all. That's why I fought the ram."

"What can make your soul all vague? you've not yet any hair on your chin."

"Devil take me if I know. Here, when I'm all alone, Manolios —well, I feel sad!" the boy answered, kindling.

He took out his pipe and placed his bronzed fingers on the holes.

"Got a tune in your head, Nikolio?"

"Me? Never. I play as it comes."

He began to play.

The slopes became covered with goats and sheep, and rang with bells: the mountain was going out to pasture. The countrvside was in motion, streams leaped from stone to stone, warbling. Little by little, streams, sheep bells and mountain fell silent; no, they were not silent, they stirred with fresh, joyous, provocative laughter. ... A melodious sea stretched there, a shore scattered with shells; there were smiling women bathing. . . . Arms and legs apart, they threw themselves into the water, teased the waves

which bowled them over, uttered httle cries; and the whole shore was tickled and laughed with them.

Crouched in on himself and panting, Manolios listened. The women's laughter echoed madly all along the seashore, it welled up, calmed down, then came back again mingled with the waves. In the end, all was silent, and Katerina rose from the sea, naked. "Stop, that's enough!" cried Manolios, jumping up. Nikolio turned his head to look at him, but went on playing, for he, too, was carried away by the music. He held the pipe pressed hard against his lips.

"Stop, I tell you!" repeated Manolios.

"You've broken my thread, just at its best," said Nikolio, put out, resting the pipe on his knees. Tears stood in Manolios's eyes.

"What's the matter, Manoliosr" Are you crying'?" exclaimed the little shepherd, taken aback. "Come, don't be sad, it was only a pipe; all that isn't real, it's only wind!"

Manolios wanted to walk a few steps, but his knees failed him. "I don't feel well," he muttered, "I don't feel well." "Did vou hear the water?" the little shepherd asked, smiling. "What water?"

"I was thinking of water as I played—a lot of water, because I was thirsty. . . ." he said, and with a bound was under the holm oak where he had hung up his gourd. Manolios had given it to him and had carved a goat on it.

"I'll go and lie down," thought Manolios, "I'm shivering . . ." "Keep an eye on the sheep," he called to Nikolio, "I'm going back to make the cheese."

"I've got the fire ready," Nikolio answered, wiping his lips and his chest where the water had dripped. "Boil the milk, I'm coming."

He watched him go, staggering over the stones, and felt sorry for him.

"If you don't feel well," he shouted again, "leave the cheese; I'll make it, you lie down!" "Why did you say that?"

"Because your feet are all mixed up, master, and you look yellow."

"Poor lad!" he muttered sympathetically, as he watched Manolios disappear, tottering, behind the holm oaks. "I saw Lenio

loo The Greek Passion

coming in the distance—curse her! She'll suck your marrows dry, old one!"

He picked up a stone and threw it a long way, angrily.

"Damned females!" he shouted at the top of his voice.

He saw Dassos advancing before him, provocatively. He seized him by the horns, bent the long head away from him and hurled himself on top of him.

When he reached the enclosure, Manolios revived the fire to make the cheese, but he had not the strength. He sat down on the bench in the sun, to get warm again. He was shivering. The sun was dipping toward the horizon. A few minutes later, he heard bells approaching and the cries and whistling of Nikolio as he edged the animals toward the enclosure, throwing stones at them.

Manolios's thoughts flew off and slipped down to the village, slid past the houses, the cafe and the square, took the steep path, entered the priest's house, saw the notables distributing the parts —who shall act Peter, who Judas, who Christ . . . He again saw priest Foris and the Christians uprooted from their houses, the painful duel with the other priest, the woman who had cried out and given up the ghost. The hard, mocking words of Yannakos rang in him afresh: "You're going to be Christ, and at the same time you're getting ready to marry and soil yourself . . . fraud!" He climbed up to the room and saw the archon and, down in the yard, Lenio clinging to him, with her breasts leaning against his chest as she asked, in cajoling, pressing tones: "Manolios, when are we getting married? when'? when?" And then . . . then, when he had left for the mountain and had stopped for a moment to get his breath by the well ...

His heart melted.

I'm sorry for her, he murmured, sorry for her; she's taken the evil road, she'll be lost. . . .

She rose up in his memory—black kerchief, white neck, teeth scraped by the walnut leaves . . . He heard once more her despairing appeal:

"Don't go, don't go, Manolios!"—as if she expected her salvation of him alone.

In a flash her dream came back to him, and its meaning seemed to him clear. Yes, yes, she was right, the poor woman; he alone

The Fight with the Ram loi

could save her. God Himself had warned her of it in her sleep. In his hands Manolios held the moon, cut it into slices and gave it her to eat, like an apple. Suddenly he understood the dream's hidden meaning, and trembled: the moon is the pure light, the word of God w^ich lights up the night. It is the will of God, the command of God, that Manolios should share it with her. It is he who should save Mary Magdalen, the sinner.

I must see her, he muttered; yes, I must, and quickly. Every minute that passes may make her sink farther into sin ... I must, I must. ... It is my duty.

He could see the narrow lane where she lodged, the arched doorw^ay with its green paint and its iron ring. He could see the stone doorstep shining clean. He had never crossed that doorstep, but he remembered how, one Sunday, the door had been open and he had cast a furtive glance inside—he had caught a glimpse of a small yard paved with big, freshly washed cobbles, some pots of flowers—and sweet basil—on the low wall which went round it, and two fat groups of red carnations near a well.

Manolios's thought slipped down the mountain path, reached the village, went along the narrow lane, crossed the threshold, entered. . . .

Must see her, must see her ... he kept repeating; it's my duty.

He felt a strange joy. Now that he understood that it was nec-essarv for him to see her, that it was not himself but God that was ordering it, he was relieved. He knew now why he was obsessed night and day by the desire to go and see her. While he had believed that it was Satan who was impelling him, he had been ashamed and had resisted; but now . . .

He jumped up. He was not cold any more, and his knees no longer shook. He lit the fire, put the pot on it and boiled the milk.

What ways God takes, he said to himself, to enlighten a man's soul! Think—this time His will turned into a dream and descended upon the widow's pillow. . . .

Nikolio was arriving, the air was all bleats, the sheep were reentering the fold. The sun was setting, tranquil and sated; day done, he was going home to his mother for dinner.

"Hullo, Nikolio!" Manolios shouted from the door in a serene voice; "go and milk the ewes and then lay the meal; I'm hungry!"

He had not eaten all day; nothing had managed to get by his contracted throat. Now that it was loosening, his appetite was coming back.

Nikolio looked at him and burst into a laugh.

"So you've come back to life, master! Good news?"

"I'm hungry; get going. I'll lend you a hand."

They brought the copper buckets, knelt down side by side and began to milk the ewes one after the other. The ewes kept quiet, glad to be relieved of their good burden. The skilled fingers seemed to them like beloved lips sucking.

Having done, they washed. Nikolio laid the meal outside on the bench. They crossed themselves, then, famished, fell upon the bread, meat and white cheese. Nikolio still kept thinking with annoyance of the strong ram and of Lenio. The two were indis-solubly bound together in his resentment: the flock's leader and the plump young woman. They were now one, and sometimes he saw Lenio on top, astride, sometimes underneath, smiling . . .

"Curse her . . . curse her . . ." he grumbled. He picked up a stone and threw it into the air.

"Well, Nikolio, what are you mumbling about?" Manolios asked with a smile. "Who are you throvdng stones at?"

"The Devil's roaming round me," replied the little shepherd, also smiling, "and I'm throwing stones at him."

"Have you seen him, Nikolio?"

"Yes, I've seen him, just fancy."

"What's he like?"

'That's his secret," the shepherd boy jerked out, plunging his red face into a bucket of water.

When he had finished his meal, Manolios crossed himself and

rose

«

Nikolio," he said, "I'm going down to the village this evening. Good luck!"

"The village again?" cried Nikolio angrily. "What'll you do down there now? I believe you too, master, have got the Devil roaming round you."

"It's not the Devil, my good Nikolio, heaven preserve us, it's God."

He pulled out a small mirror from his pocket, wetted his hair and combed it. Then he put on his best clothes, his Sunday ones.

He slipped his little mirror, his comb and a handkerchief into

his belt. Why? What need had he of them? Did he know? He simply took them and, for no reason, hid them away in his belt.

"The Devil, I tell you," the lad repeated, angrily, as he watched Manolios.

"God, God," repeated Manolios, and left, crossing himself once more.

"He's surely gone to look for Lenio. The devil take the two of them!" muttered Nikolio, and spat with disgust.

yhc QDcmon and the ^ask of Qhrist

NIGHT WAS FALLING. Amorous oi famished, the night birds were . uttering their cries. In the sky the first stars, the biggest, were kindhng.

Must wait till it's darker still: mustn't be seen in the village, Manolios said to himself, as he went slowly down the twisting path. As he walked he rehearsed in his head what he would say in order that the word of God might reach the widow's heart. I'll knock, he reckoned; she'll come and open. She'll be surprised to see me, we shall go in and she'll bolt the door. . . . He had already seen the courtyard with its carnations, sweet basil and well head— he was not afraid of that. . . . But inside? Manolios took fright. He paused to draw breath. There, inside, there'll be the bed ... he told himself, and shivered.

All became mixed up in his mind. He no longer knew what he ought to say, or even why he was going down from the mountain at such an hour, in the middle of the night, to knock at her door. She would see him blush and lose countenance, and she would laugh. So, Manolios, she'd say to him, there you are, and you don't even know, yourself, why you've come? Can it be, you, too, have had a dream? Has the fiend come looking for you in a dream, Manolios? or perhaps the Virgin Mary? or even both—that too happens, Manolios. And so you've come, and you'll start by talking to me of God and Paradise, then afterward, gradually, without either you or me noticing it, Manolios, we'll find ourselves clasped tight together in bed. You're a man, aren't you? I'm a woman. That's the way God has made us. Is it our fault if, when we're close to each other, we get giddy and lose our heads and open our arms and legs and become one. . . .

Manolios felt the blood rising to his head. These shameless words rang in his brain, with complete clearness he heard the widow uttering them as she smiled and drew close to him. Already he was breathing her breath with its scent of mastic and cloves. From her open bodice rose the warm smell of her body, with its reek of sweat and nutmeg.

Suddenly he was tired, his knees gave way and he sank down on a stone.

Who was it, spoke inside me? he asked himself in terror. Who laughed? Whose was that knee which touched me and made my knees double up? He had really heard those words and the widow's laughter, and his nostrils were still soaked v^th her smell.

"O God, help me," he cried, raising his eyes to Heaven.

But this evening. Heaven seemed to him very high, a very long way from man, silent, indifferent, neither a friend nor an enemy. Terror took hold of him. The stars were watching him; Mano-lios's heart froze. Sometimes on winter nights he had seen, around the fold, between the snow-laden branches, the still, yellow, jealous eyes of wolves; this evening the stars appeared to him like wolves' eyes.

The memory of the widow began again to flow in his blood, like honey. In the presence of the chill and hostility of the world, it was a great consolation. She did not speak or laugh now. She lay on her big bed cheerfully and cooed like a grateful turtledove.

Manolios stopped his ears; his head was buzzing; the veins of his neck swelled. He could feel flaming blood mounting to his head. His temples were throbbing violently, his eyelids grew heavy, there was a prickling all over his face, as though thousands of ants were biting his cheeks, his chin, his forehead, and were devouring his flesh.

A cold sweat flowed over his whole body; he passed his hand over his face and stood up.

"O God," he tried to cry out, but could not. Again he passed his hand over his cheeks, his lips, his chin: they felt swollen. His lips were so distended that he could not open his mouth.

What is the matter with me? Why am I swollen? he asked himself, desperately feeling his face all over, down to the neck. His whole face was like a drum, but he felt no pain. Only his eyes were burning, and tears began to flow.

Must see, see, I want to know! he gasped. He pulled out the

mirror from his belt, stooped, lit a sprig and looked at himself. In the dancing glow he caught sight of his face, and gave a cry: it was all bloated, his eyes were no more than two tiny balls, his nose was lost between his ballooning cheeks, his mouth was a mere hole.

This was no human face, but a mask of bestial flesh, repulsive. No, it was no longer his face; a foreign face had fixed itself over his own.

A sudden thought crossed his mind: My God, could it be leprosy? He collapsed on the ground.

Seizing the little mirror again, he at once turned his head away in horror. That, a man? No, a demon. He got up. I can't go now . . . How could she look at me? How could I talk to her? I'm horrible. I'll go home!

He turned back and climbed the path at a run, as though he were pursued.

When he reached the fold he stopped and entered it furtively, trembling at the thought that Nikolio, if he woke up, would strike a light and see him. Tomorrow morning, wdth God's help, perhaps I'll be all right. This thought calmed him a little.

He sat down on the straw mattress, crossed himself and implored God to pity him. O God, kill me if Thou wilt, he prayed, but do not humiliate me before men . . . Why has Thou stuck this meat over my face? Take it away, my God, hurl it far from me. Tomorrow morning make my face be clean and human, as before!

Having placed his trust in God, he felt some consolation. He shut his eyes and dreamed that a woman in black—it must be the Holy Virgin—was leaning over him and slowly, softly stroking his face. Immediately it felt cooler, lighter, and Manolios, stretching out his arms, took the miraculous hand to kiss it. But a fresh, mocking laugh burst out, the black veil fell away, and Manolios woke with a cry. It was not the Virgin, it was the widow . . •

In the opposite corner Nikolio heard the cry and awoke: he sat up and saw his master, with his face turned to the wall. He began laughing, peevishly.

"Why, you're back, are you, Manolios? Done your business already?"

But Manolios, turned to the wall, kept on feeling his face: he was desperate. The swelling had not gone down at all, and wounds

must have opened in it, for his finger tips were now moist with a thick and sticky Hquid.

I'm done for . . . done for . . . he thought. It must be leprosy!

Day was breaking. Nikoho got up quickly to take the sheep out to pasture. The little shepherd was just going out of the door when he turned. The first rays were coming through the window, and the hut was all illumined.

"Manolios," he said, "see you this evening."

Completely forgetting the state he was in, Manolios turned to answer. Nikolio saw him and leaped out into the yard.

"Holy Virgin!" he cried, coming back.

Manolios's face was flowdng with muck; it was all over furrows of pus. He tried to speak, to calm the little shepherd, but he could not get a syllable out. He merely waved his hand to reassure him.

Nikolio leaned his cheek against the door jamb, with his body still outside, ready to escape. Unable to take his staring eyes off that face, he gradually grew bolder and recovered his spirits.

"In Heaven's name, it is you, isn't it, Manoliosr'" he said; "cross yourself, so as I can be sure!"

Manolios made the sign of the cross. Nikolio plucked up courage again and recrossed the threshold, but still did not go near.

"What's happened to you, poor lad?" he asked him, compassionately. "The Devil must have set upon you and left you with that mask, God protect us! The Devil, I tell you, that's sure! The same thing happened to my grandfather."

Manolios shook his head and turned to the wall so as not to frighten his young companion. He sighed to him to go.

"See you this evening," said Nikolio again, timidly, rushing out as though he had someone on his heels.

Left alone, Manolios sighed and got up. He felt strong and had no pain anywhere. He was not shivering any more and, strangely enough, was filled with an inexplicable joy . . . He picked up his little looking glass again, and went over to the window and looked at himself: the swollen skin had cracked, a yellowish, thick matter was oozing out and coagulating in his mustache and beard. His whole face was blood red, like meat.

He crossed himself:

If that comes from Satan, he said, inwardly, exorcise me, Jesus.

And if it comes from God, welcome to it. He, I know, cannot wish me evil. My misfortune must have a hidden meaning. I will be patient until He lays His hand upon my face.

As soon as he had given this meaning to his adversity he felt at peace. He lit a fire, put the pot on it, poured in the milk they had drawn the evening before. Feeling hungry, he filled a spoon with it: he could not manage to open his mouth. So he took a straw, dipped it in the milk and began sucking this up and drinking it greedily.

Then he went out and sat on the stone bench.

The sun had waked the birds and filled their little throats with tunes. Having climbed over the peak of the mountain, he spread over its slopes and the plain, opened the doors in the village, and went in. He found the widow still in bed after a sleepless night; she was pale; he slid furtively in among her hair. He found Mariori in her yard, busy watering her flowers, and hung himself around her neck. He went to look for all the women of the village in the same way, and caressed them like a master.

He sat dowm finally on the stone bench in front of the fold; Manolios stretched out his hands to him in welcome.

Where does this joy I feel come from? he wondered; what is this relief? I don't understand.

With his handkerchief he wiped his bloated face, which was oozing in the sun.

I don't understand, I don't understand, he kept repeating, spreading out his handkerchief again and again in the sun to dry it.

One day at the monastery his Superior had spoken to him of an ascetic whose skin had gone into crevasses from which there had come worms. When a worm fell to the ground, he bent down, carefully picked it up and put it back into the wound. "Eat," he said to it, "eat the flesh, my brother, that my soul may be lightened." For years Manolios had not thought of that little worm; what a consolation it was today and what a lesson in endurance and hope!

He rose, went back into the hut, picked up in his arms the rag with the piece of wood wrapped in it, got the file and chisel, came out again and sat down in the sun. He had all of a sudden felt the holy image arising within him and filling his heart. He could make it out clearly, contemplate all its features. His gaze bent upon it, he began again, with emotion, passionately, to fix it in the wood.

The Demon and the Mask of Christ log

The hours passed swiftly; the sun for a moment held the zenith, then began litde by little to descend . . . Chips littered the soil, lightening the wood. Serene, suffering, full of resignation and kindness, the face of Christ could be seen appearing. For a long time Manolios tried to render Christ's quivering mouth, but he could not: sometimes the mouth smiled, sometimes furrows dug themselves about it and it was weeping, sometimes again the lips contracted as though in an effort not to cry out with pain.

Toward evening, Nikolio brought in his flock; he found Manolios still sitting on the bench, holding on his knees the entire face of Christ carved in the boxwood. It remained for him to scoop out the inside of the head, so that he might place it over his face. This would be the mask he would wear on the day of the Passion.

Nikolio stopped, gave a rapid glance at his master and at once turned away. He could not recognize him. The pus furrowing his cheeks had now coagulated on his face and beard, forming a crust. It was as if there was sitting on the bench a demon with the face of Christ on its knees.

"You needn't come and help, I'll milk them myself," he exclaimed, fearfully.

Manolios turned away and shut his eyes. He was exhausted but relieved. He pressed the carved wood between his palms and felt happy at having managed to render faithfully the face which had arisen in his heart. It would not vanish now, a trembling form in the air; he had confirmed his soul in the wood. Slowly Manolios balanced the holy face between his hands and admired the Lord's mouth. Full face, it smiled; turned to the right in profile, it was weeping; turned a little to the left, it tightened, resigned and proud . . . His eyes shut, Manolios now slowly and tenderly caressed the face of Christ with his finger tips, as Mary would have caressed the divine Child.

With infinite care he wrapped and enfolded the carved wood in the rag, like a new-bom babe in swaddling clothes, and took it in his arms.

Nikolio, meanwhile, had finished milking. He returned to the hut without glancing toward Manolios and began to prepare the dinner. "Poor old lad," he thought with secret pleasure, "a newly-married man with a mug like that? Why, if Lenio sees him, she'll be scared and take to her heels!"

He came out onto the doorstep.

no The Greek Passion

"Coming to have dinner, Manolios? Can you open your mouth to eat?"

Manohos got up. He was hungry; he had forgotten to eat at noon. He filled a large bowl with milk, took the straw, knelt down and drank his milk, sniffing it. He filled the bowl a second time.

When it got dark, they did not light the oil lamp. In the blackness Nikolio could no longer see the swollen face, and fear left him. He was in an excellent temper, without very well knowing why; as soon as he had done eating, he sat down near the fireplace and poked the fire with his staff.

"I was telling you how my grandfather," he began, happily, "became a monk, after he'd killed, robbed and done a lot of dirty work. Haven't you, too, heard say that when the Devil grows old he turns hermit? Well, my grandfather—God forgive him!—had gone apart near Saint Penteleimon Monastery, where you, too, were monk, for the space of a moon . . . But, lo and behold, there was a village over by the convent, and in the village, women . . . For that matter there's no lack of them anywhere, the bitches!" he added, spitting into the ash.

"Are you listening?" he asked, turning to try and make out Manolios's face by the glow from the flame. Manolios nodded his head, as much as to say: "I'm listening."

"Well, look: one day, as I was saying, the Devil gets up on his back. 'I got to have a woman,' says he, 'got to have a woman; I'm going to the village and there I'll find one. I've had enough! Married, unmarried, old, young, lame, hunchbacked—I don't care, so long as it's a woman!' So one evening when the monks are asleep, there goes our lad jumping over the monastery wall and making off, hell for leather. He meant to do his business, see? and be back in less than it takes to count two, so nobody'd know a thing. He ran and he ran, with his skirt hitched up, bleating like a ram in the summertime when he catches sight of the ewes . . . But the good God had seen him. He took pity on him, and just at the moment he was coming into the village, lo and behold. He sends him a foul disease, the leprosy—you've heard tell of that. His body was covered with boils as big as hazelnuts—what was I saying?—walnuts, or rotten apricots . . . And then they burst and the stuff trickled down, and didn't it stink? Poor old chap, he did get a fright, God forgive him! Where am I to go now?' he says to himself, 'would any woman touch me? Better go back . . .' "

Manolios was listening hard. He stretched out his hand and tapped Nikoho on the knee, with a gesture which meant: "Go on!"

"Old wives' tales!" said Nikolio with a laugh. "It was my poor mother used to tell them to me, may she prosper! Even she laughed at them. You can imagine our scamp—monks indeed! He goes back to the monastery, does the wall all over again and hides in his cell . . . Next morning, the monks found him with his face like a water skin."

Manolios again urged on the little shepherd by signs.

"How it all ended, you mean? How should I know? I was a child, I didn't pay any attention . . . It's a long time now since he packed off, poor old fellow; no more trouble with women for him!" he said, and burst out laughing. Then he began brooding again.

"I'm sleepy," he said, "I'll go and lie down in the yard. I'm dying of heat."

He was not in the least hot, but was afraid to remain in the hut with Manolios. He got up.

"I've straightened your bed. Go to sleep, you'll be better to-

morrow."

He took his rug, spread it in the yard, put a stone on it as a pillow and shut his eyes. He remembered Lenio and his senses kindled; but he was tired: he turned over and went to sleep.

Manolios threw another bundle of firewood on the fire: he was afraid to remain alone in the dark. He watched the flames dance, and whistled. With his ear cocked toward the open door, he listened to the voices of the night: owls were moaning, minute animals were burrowing in the earth, the mice above his head were scampering over the roof beams with sharp squeaks. And within him, insistent, the small voice, only heard at night when complete silence reigned and he was alone.

He got up, went out on the doorstep and looked at the stars. The Milky Way was flowing peacefully; Jupiter was blazing; the spangled sky was glittering insensitive and afar. All at once the words of the shepherd boy came back to Manolios's mind, and his heart began beating hard.

"Lord Jesus," he thought, "is this a miracle? Is it not Thou, Who has stretched forth Thy hand at the moment when, like the old monk, I was rushing to throw myself over the precipice?"

He put his hand up to his face, this time without repulsion and

without fear. He felt his swollen cheeks and his chapped flesh with gratitude.

Who knows? Who knowsr* he thought, caressing his sickness; perhaps it is to you that I owe salvation. . . .

Soothed, he went in again. A goodly heat was coming from the fireplace. He felt a wish to go to sleep. Sometimes, when his soul was struggling in the dark, a dream showed him the way.

Perhaps, he thought, God in His mercy will come to me again in a dream tonight to enlighten me.

He closed his eyes and plunged at once into sleep.

The fire went out, the night passed. The cocks were beginning to crow when, benumbed by the cold of morning, Manolios opened his eyes. He did not remember having had any dream. But his heart was at peace. He crossed himself, his lips moved, and this hurt him as though a wound were reopening; but he managed to say distincdy: "Glory to God!"

He rose and went to sit outside on his bench.

The sun appeared flush with the horizon, red-faced, round, ]o vial. He was coming back to his rich domains; everything was as he had left it yesterday evening: the fat plain, the green Mount of the Virgin, the escarpments of the Sarakina, the round and brilliant mirror of Lake Voidomata and the especially beloved village, Lycovrissi, with its narrow lanes busy with those ants called men. With the warmth Manolios's face began to ooze again.

"Glory to God," Manolios murmured once more, wiping his cleft face with his handkerchief.

Up there on the mountain Manolios was striving, sometimes with the wood to give it form, sometimes with God or the demon, sometimes again with Lenio and the widow. At the same time, on the Sarakina, priest Fotis was putting things in order. He outlined a task for everyone: there were those who would dig and sow what little earth remained between the stones, those who would build, those who would go hunting to bring back hares, wild rabbits and partridges to feed them all. In addition to the widow's ewe, he bought three more with Yannakos's three gold pieces; the children were now provided with milk. He planned also to take the old icon of Saint George and make a round of the villages and monasteries, asking for help. "We are Greeks," he repeated, "Christians, an immortal race: we shall not vanish!"

Down below, in Lycovrissi, Captain Fortounas was still groaning on his bed: his split head was taking time to heal. The Agha, seized with pity, sent his guard constantly with fresh ointment, and with messages telling him to hurry up and get well enough for a good carousal. Old Patriarcheas was not at all well either. He coughed, breathed with difficulty, and kept shivering. After which he would sit up in bed, stuff like a pig, be sick, and start guzzling again. He kept sending to Katerina to ask her to come and massage him. But the widow snapped her fingers at him and sent word in reply that she herself was ill, she, too, needed massage.

Priest Grigoris had serious worries of his own, concerning his only daughter, Mariori. Day by day he saw her melting like a candle; he was impatient to throw her into the arms of Michelis, that she might give him a grandson as soon as possible. It had become his life's most ardent wish. Old priest Grigoris saw in it the one way of conquering Death.

Panayotaros, the Plaster-eater, was also the victim of a dark depression. For three nights now the widow had not opened her door to him; she would have none of him any more; she must certainly be casting her eyes elsewhere. At every moment she would run off to the church—this saintly Mary Magdalen—and light candles. Panayotaros had taken to drink by way of forgetting. Every evening he went home completely drunk, beat his wife and his two daughters and then lay down full length in the vard, which at once rang with his snores. The village urchins fell upon him when they saw him drunk, treading on his heels and goading him with: "Judas! Judas!" He would rush at them to catch them, but stagger, stumble and fall flat.

Every morning old Ladas lectured his wife as she sat in front of him, knitting socks. She never answered, did not even hear what he said.

"He's taking his time, Penelope; that Yannakos is taking his time, the rotten plank! And the receipt for the three pounds still isn't signed. He hasn't yet showed up with a single lot of earrings. What do you think, Penelope? Is there a woman, however poor, who hasn't at least one jewel? No, no, there isn't! God in His mercy wouldn't allow it. You'll see; Yannakos will turn up with the jewels: don't worry, my dear."

Old Ladas's ears kept ringing; he had the impression, every

moment, that there had been a knock at the door; he kept thinking he heard an ass braying. He ran barefoot to open and scanned the road from end to end: not a sign of Yannakos!

Yannakos was finishing his round of the villages, trading combs, reels of cotton, pocket looking glasses and lives of saints against com, wool and chickens. He went on with his business, but now he had quite different things on his mind. So much so that he actually gave true weight and honest measure. "When is a man saved?" a Moslem saint was once asked. "When," the saint answered, "at the moment of buying and selling, his spirit is in the garden." Yannakos's spirit was in the garden at the moment when he was buying and selling.

From time to time he thought of father Ladas and imagined his cries and lamentations on his return. He remembered also his sister, the shrew who tortured poor Kostandis. Or Manolios, who must have gone back up his mountain, and was probably having great trouble in reconciling Christ and Lenio—the hare and the hounds. But all this onlv passed through his head: Yannakos's thoughts were centered on priest Fotis, on the arid and inhospitable mountain, on those souls clinging to the stones, from which even Charon could no longer detach them.

In the cafe of the last village he found his friend the proprietor, Chirogiorgis, also known as Kounelos. He had welcomed Yannakos with delight, helped him unload, led his ass to the stable, and hurried back to entertain his friend and gossip with him. Meanwhile the whole of the little village had collected around Yannakos, that traveled merchant, who went from village to village and brought fresh news. To every question he knew the answer. "Question him, friends, question him," cried the innkeeper, "for tomorrow morning he's off again; and don't forget to order coffee."

Gathered thick about him, they had already begun eagerly asking him what was happening in the world—the great powers, the Bolsheviks, the war, earthquakes . . . They lowered their voices and shuddered. "Yannakos, do you know anything about the Greek troops that came and then vanished again like a flash of lightning? What's happening over there in Greek territory, where our Evzones came from? What massacres, what burnings and what disasters? We here—Lycovrissi and the villages round about—are out of the way, we seldom hear anything. The sound of their lamentation has not pierced through to us, but you,

Yannakos, you get about, you do pick up something; tell us, we do want to know, we're bursting with curiosity."

Yannakos, too, shrank. He could not help thinking of priest Fotis and his village, which the Turks had burned down in revenge, scattering its inhabitants to the four winds . . . From Smyrna as far as Afiuru-hara-Nisar and beyond, whole rows of Greek villages were smoking ruins, the Greeks were a hunted people, Greece was in danger . . .

But Yannakos was sorry for them, and did not want to disturb them.

"Have no fear, friends," he answered; "think of the thousands of years Greece has lived already! She is deathless. Some villages must be burned to the ground, so they say, some men will be killed, but the Evzones will return, they'll build the villages up again, they'll bring fresh children into the world, to people Anatolia once more. Let's have a drink; it's on me."

"Blessings on you, Yannakos," shouted an old man, who was sitting in a comer with his chin resting on his stick, listening open mouthed and taking in the traveled merchant's every word. "Blessings on you, Yannakos! It'd be a sad thing if you stopped visiting our village; you're always welcome because you come with news from the great world."

The hubbub had already subsided, when Ali Agha Soulat-zades came into the cafe. He was the village Elder and carried, slung from his belt, a ring with the keys of all the houses he had rented out. Kounelos's cafe was his. He had heard about the well-known traveler, put on his red slippers, grabbed up his longest chibouk, and now made his appearance, to talk with the famous merchant. A grave worry was tormenting him. Perhaps that damned Greek could clear the matter up for him.

Yannakos rose, laid his hand on his heart, lips and forehead, to give him the full formal greeting. He was his best customer: he had a large harem, and his wives, daughters and grandchildren loved spices, rouge, scent and sweets. So he rose, greeted him and ordered coffee for him.

"I've a great worry on my mind, my dear merchant." 'Tell me what it is, Agha, and anything I can do . . ." "What exactly is what they call Switzerland, little GreekP" Yannakos scratched his head. He too had heard of it, but only very vaguely.

ti6 The Greek Passion

"Why do you ask?" he said, to gain time for reflection.

"Because my son Chouseinis has gone off to Switzerland to study there and become a doctor. I'd like to send him a jar of rice and spinach, and another of charcoal to light his narghile with, but I don't know where Switzerland is, or how to send them."

While the Agha was speaking, there came a twilight in Yanna-kos, and he remembered.

"Switzerland is a country at the end of the world, which makes milk and watches."

"Does it also make doctors?" asked the Agha uneasily.

"Yes, doctors too, the best in the world. When Charon catches sight of them—how am I to put it, Agha, without shocking the whole cafe?—yes, then he pisses in his pants."

"Good, little Greek, you've your heart in the right place. But the two jars?"

"Yes, I'll tell you. Switzerland doesn't let charcoal into the country, but you can give me the rice and spinach, I know a way. . . ."

Yannakos had already made his plan. He would take the rice and spinach to the Sarakina, to give the starving people something to eat for Chouseinis's sake.

"I'll go at once and fetch it," said the old man, and got up. He stopped at the cafe door and hesitated, then turned again to Yannakos.

"And what does it cost to send it to Switzerland?"

"Leave that to me," said Yannakos, and raised his hand. "To do Ali Agha a service."

"It won't do to hang on to it and eat it," the innkeeper burst out, as soon as the Agha had gone.

"God forbid," protested Yannakos. "An honest deal, friend."

Then he turned to the peasants:

"Excuse me, friends," he said, "I'm tired after the journey and I'd like to have a sleep. You can ask me more questions tomorrow and give me your orders and letters. Call your wives and daughters too, when you hear the trumpet, so they can come and make their purchases. Good night."

He leaned against the wall, stretched out his legs and went to sleep.

It might be noon. Having done his business in the villages, Yannakos was approaching Lycovrissi. The ass was trotting gaily; he was already sniffing again his warm stable, his well-stocked rack, his trough full of clear water. His heart was beating like a human heart; already he was lifting his tail, to bray the better.

But his master seized it and pulled it down.

"Don't be in too much of a hurry, Youssoufaki; turn off toward the mountain. We're going to see Manolios first."

Yannakos had treated him roughly the other day, given him hard words, behaved badly to him; and he was sorry. He desired ardently to beg his pardon.

I was right, he thought, but still . . . He's such a sensitive lad, Manolios, the sort you can wound with a feather. Ass that I am, I went at him with a cudgel!

In turn priest Grigoris, old Ladas, Michelis and the widow crossed his mind; he did the round of the whole village but came back to Manolios.

I've not behaved well, not well at all . . . he muttered again. I forgot that the four of us are in this together, all this year. You might say, associates: not for making money, but for making Paradise!

He laughed at his own joke, then became pensive.

Devil take it, he thought, goods and goodness aren't exactly the same, then? No fear. In that case God and the Devil would be the same. God forgive me!

He heard behind him the bray of an ass and turned. It was Christofis, who had ridden up here from the village on his ass. He was old, tough and full of humor. He had been married three times, had brought many children into the world, he couldn't remember how many; some had died, others disappeared, and now he was free and went about laughing and cracking his jokes.

Yannakos stopped and waited for him.

"Good day, old Christofis," he said; "like to do me a favor? Want to do a good deed?"

"Say what it is, and we'll see. I'm tired of doing good deeds, Yannakos."

"Stop a moment on the Sarakina—your way takes you close by —and give this jar to priest Fotis. And if he asks you who gave it to you, tell him: 'A sinner,' that's all."

"What's in it, Yannakos? It's heavy," said old Christofis, and got down off his ass.

"Rice and spinach," he said, and told him the whole story.

Old Christofis burst out laughing.

"Bless you, Yannalcos!" he said. "If only God had your talents! Then there'd be no more hungry children and no more hopeless widows in the world. I'll be getting along at once."

"Not so fast, not so fast. I've been away for several days. Is there anything fresh in the village? Is old Ladas still alive?"

"The skinflint avoids death. Much too expensive, see? He gets nothing out of the funeral. But that damned Captain Fortounas is in a bad way."

"Raki will be cheaper," said Yannakos, and laughed.

"Ah, but the barbers will go bankrupt," answered old Christofis.

"Hm. And sleek priest Grigoris?"

"Devil take him, he's alive and doing fine. He's found a new cure for sterile women, they say: long like a sausage, and he sells it by the ell. Take an ell of it, and the worst skinny cow will calve."

Both burst out laughing.

"May you live to be a hundred, old Christofis. If you die, laughter will die out, too. Fare you well, then; I'm going to buy a hundred ells of that sausage and fill the village with young men and maidens."

"Fare you well, Yannakos, And good luck to your business!"

They parted. Shortly afterward old Christofis's voice could be heard, like the clang of a bell:

"The swindler! God came across that sausage a thousand years ago and lent it to Adam!"

So he spoke, and the slope echoed with his laughter.

Standing up, Manolios saw Yannakos climbing toward him and pulling his ass by the bridle. Gathering his courage: "Manolios," he said: "now begins your martyrdom. Stick it out!"

For a moment he thought of going into the hut and sitting down in the darkest comer, for he was ashamed to show himself in the light of day. Again, that morning, he had examined his face in the mirror. "Only a demon," he muttered, "only a demon could be so ugly!" The mouth alone was becoming less swollen: he could at last talk.

I

The Demon and the Mask of Christ up

Yannakos clambered up the slope, humming a tune; he was looking forward to seeing Manolios and making his peace with him. It was a load to be tipped out; he would be relieved.

Manolios waited for him standing, with his heart fluttering, in the golden light of the ending afternoon. He remembered the lips of the Christ, pressed tight so as not to show His pain; he pressed his own together as tight as he could. I shall get used to it, he told himself; it's difficult at the start, but gradually . . . Christ! Come to my aid!

Yannakos's tune became more and more distinct. Suddenly— joyous, triumphant—the trumpet rang out: Yannakos had paused on a rock and was blowing into his instrument to announce his arrival to his friend.

He's going to come in sight, thought Manolios; he's going to see me. Stick it out, my heart!

"Hey, Manolios, Manolios," cried a joyous voice, "where are you?

"Here I am," replied Manolios as firmly as he could, and stepped forward.

Yannakos raised his head, opened his arms; but hardly had he seen him than he stopped, confounded, open-mouthed. Unable to believe his eyes, he rubbed them, drew nearer, looked hard and gave a cry:

"Manolios, Manolios, what has happened to you?"

He made as though to embrace him, but was afraid and recoiled, shuddering.

"Yannakos," said Manolios, "if you can't bear it, go back."

He went toward the fold so that Yannakos might no longer see his face.

Yannakos tied his donkey to a bush of holm oak and followed him. Manolios heard his friend approaching.

"Yannakos," he repeated; "if you can't bear it, go back."

"I can, I can ..." Yannakos answered; "I can. Don't go."

Manolios crossed the threshold, went into the hut, shut the shutter and doubled up in a dark corner. I did stick it, he thought; God be praised! Yannakos came in and squatted on the doorstep. He took off his cap and wiped his forehead. There was a long silence.

"What has happened to you, Manolios?" said Yannakos at last, with his eyes fixed on the ground.

"Nothing," replied Manolios.

"How do you mean, nothingr"" cried Yannakos. "A demon's come and setded on your face, Manolios. A demon: it's not you!" "Yes, it is me," replied Manolios calmly. "In my life I've never been so true."

He was silent a moment.

"In my life! In my life!" he repeated, wiping with his handkerchief his oozing face.

"A demon, I tell you, has settled on you!" cried Yannakos again, struggling against his terror. "When I look at you, I'm frightened of you. Get up and get on the donkey and let's go down to the village."

"Why to the village? I'm all right here." "You'll go and see priest Grigoris and he'll say a Mass to exorcise the demon."

"No, no; I've one service to ask you, Yannakos. Not a word to anyone."

"I'll only tell the priest, Manolios. If you're ashamed to go down to the village, he'll come up and read his Mass here."

"No, no!" cried Manolios, jumping up in irritation. "I've got to have this sickness on my face, Yannakos; got to have it."

"I don't understand that," cried Yannakos, jumping up in his turn. "Why got to?"

"For my salvation, Yannakos. Otherwise I can't be saved. Don't look at me like that, I can't explain." "Is it a secret?"

"One that only God knows," replied Manolios, sitting down again in his corner, rather more calmly. "Only God and me. We are agreed."

"And suppose it's the Devil?" Yannakos ventured. "It is the devil, Yannakos, you guessed right; it's the Devil who set upon me, God be praised; without that, I was lost . . ." "I don't understand, I don't understand!" repeated Yannakos desperately.

"I didn't, at first. I didn't understand, Yannakos. Later I understood. I was desperate; now I'm calm. And not only calm, but I raise my hand and glorify God."

"You're a saint," murmured Yannakos, suddenly seized with respect.

"Fm a sinner, a great sinner," protested Manolios; "but God is full of mercy."

They fell silent. In the distance the bells of the flock could be heard; the dogs were barking. The sun was sinking in the west, the hut was invaded by great blue shadows. The ass, vexed at not seeing his master, began braying plaintively.

"Can you eat?" asked Yannakos.

"Only milk, through a straw."

"Have you any pain, anywhere?"

"No, nowhere . . . Heaven protect you; go, Yannakos; that's enough; but give me your word you'll say nothing to anyone. It's necessary—understand?—for me to stay here and fight alone."

"Against the demon?"

"Against the demon."

"And if he wins?"

"He won't win; have no fear. God is with me."

"You're a saint," Yannakos murmured again; "you don't need anyone. Good health! I shall come back and see you, I'd best tell you.

"Can you bear it, Yannakos?"

"I can, I can . . . See you soon!"

For a moment he had an odd impulse to clutch Manolios's hand and kiss it, but he controlled himself. He went out, untied his donkey, whose tail wagged with pleasure, and without a glance back started on his way down, pensively.

"What a mystery the world is," he muttered as he scrambled down the slope, "what a great mystery. You can't tell the good God from the Devil. There's many times, God forgive me, they look just the same!"

Next day, before dawn, Manolios kicked awake Nikolio, who was sleeping in the fold, lying blissfully on his back.

"Nikolio, get up! I want you to do something for me!"

The young shepherd's fine-featured head was raised, still dazed. The eyelids opened and the white of his eyes gleamed, timid, in the twdlight.

"What you want?" he growled, yawning.

"Get up, get up! I'll tell you when you're awake. . . . Hop to it!"

The boy got up, grumbling. As he stretched he laid bare a

bronze belly. His arms, thighs and calves were covered with black, shining hair. He smelled of thyme and goat.

"Make your sign of the cross," said Manolios. "Even if you don't ever do that, you must do it today."

"Never mind that, master," said Nikolio, still stretching, and making his joints crack; "what good does it do?"

On the mountain where he had grown up among the rams, he had never had the slightest wish to make the sign of the cross. Any more than to go to church. What need had he, Nikolio, of all that? What he wanted was to be well, to marry when the moment came, have children, have some sheep of his own and grow old solidly and leafily like a holm oak. Signs of the cross and Holy Virgins were for the people down below.

Manolios sat on the doorstep waiting for Nikolio to wash and wake up completely. In the dark he had taken a terrible decision. He had not closed an eye all night; God and the demon had been fighting in him. At dawn, God having won, Manolios had got up and gone to kick his shepherd boy awake.

"Here I am," said Nikolio, smoothing his hair into place with both hands. "I'm awake. Now tell me what you want me to do."

"Nikolio," said Manolios in a low voice, "listen carefully; if you're afraid, don't look at me, look into the distance; but listen carefully to what I'm going to say."

"I'm listening," said Nikolio, turning to one side.

"You'll go down to the village, you'll go to the big master's house. It's day, the door will be open, you'll go in. You'll cross the courtyard and turn right, on the ground floor, where the loom is. There you'll find my betrothed, Lenio."

"Lenio?" said Nikolio, turning sharply, his eye lighting up.

"You'll find Lenio and you'll say to her . . . listen to my words carefully, Nikolio, carve them in your head: 'Manolios sends you his greetings and asks you to be so good as to come up to the mountain. He has something to say to you.' That's all. You'll say that, and you'll leave at once. Understand?"

"I understand, it's easy. I'm going."

He was moving already, impatient to go down to the village.

"Wait, you wild goat!" said Manolios, seizing him by the arm. "If she asks you how I am, say I'm well. Above all don't reveal that I'm ill, or it'll be the worse for you!"

"Don't worry, master, don't worry. I'll say: 'He's all right,' and I'll take to my heels." "Run along!' Nikolio darted off and disappeared.

Lenio was up already; she had made a tisane laced with rum and was mounting the staircase to take it to her master, old Patriarcheas. Blooming and with her hair fluffed out, she climbed the stone steps, warbling like a titmouse.

The old archon, seated on a soft mattress, was looking out of the window at the roofs of the village below him. His mind reviewed all the villagers, knocked at their doors, went in, said a kind word of condescension and pushed on. He walked up the mountain, passed quickly over the sheep, came to Manolios and lost his temper. "Ever hear the like? that dirty lackey, holding out against me! His soul, he says ... his soul's not ready. Well, my poor fellow, if you don't marry Lenio by the end of April, out you go, I'll pack you off back to the monastery like a eunuch. You trample on the bread I've given you, you little swine! It's you who've turned my son's head, it's you, you beggar, who take pity on the poor—they're men too, you say, they're our brothers! All that's very fine when it's said in church, when the priest pronounces it on Sunday from the pulpit. But you blessed sucker, you must be completely cracked to put it in practice!"

The door opened and in came Lenio with the tisane. The thoughts of old Patriarcheas immediately left his son and his shepherd to settle on the sprightly seductive girl, bringing him his sage tea with such a swing of the hips. He narrowed his eyelids and watched her approach, admiring the impertinent breasts, the slim waist, the firm joints. What am I to do with you, you blessed bitch, he thought, since I believe you are my daughter? Your mother, too, was frisky like you, when she was young, God keep her soul! and one night . . . The archon stroked his mustache and sighed.

"How are you feeling today, master?" said Lenio cajolingly. "What makes you sigh?"

"Isn't there cause for sighing, my good Lenio? My fine fellow of a son and Manolios have skinned me between them. They tell me

you went to the mountain the day before yesterday to look for him; what did the noodle tell you?"

"What do you suppose he told me, master?" said Lenio, sighing in her turn and sitting down on the edge of the bed at the old man's feet. "It's as if he'd been bewitched. He said things I couldn't make head or tail of; he couldn't find the words. Instead of looking at me like a man, he kept his eyes cast down or else raised them to Heaven and rolled them. What am I to say, master? Perhaps if you took him to priest Grigoris to have the exorcism read over him? Don't laugh: Manolios isn't at all himself, master!"

The old bogy watched Lenio fidgeting and blushing. He heaved a deep sigh.

"You love him, eh?" he asked, and began noisily drinking his tea.

"What do you expect, master? You gave him to me, he's my man. If you'd given me another, he'd have been my man. For me, you know, one man's like another."

"The old ones as well, Lenio?" asked her master, winking.

"No, indeed!" the girl answered flatly, bridling; "only the young ones."

"Up to what age?" the old man insinuated.

"As long as they can have children," Lenio answered without hesitation. She seemed to have already thought out these problems and passed a final judgment on them.

"Good, you've a brain as sharp as a razor, Lenio. Remember what I'm telling you: you know what you want; you'll go far."

The girl laughed and rose. She took the empty cup and went back to the door; but the old man stopped her.

"What's the date today? April the—?" he asked.

Lenio counted on her fingers: Sunday, Monday, Tuesday . . .

"The twenty-seventh, master."

"Good. Must wait three more days for his Excellency Manolios to deign to give us his answer. If he's fool enough to refuse such a king's morsel, don't worry, Lenio, I'll find you a better husband, a real one who won't have souls and such-like nonsense —and who'll fill your yard with children. There, run along. I propose to get up today and go to church, then take a walk around the village . . . Bring me clean clothes."

The old horror, Lenio muttered as she went down the stairs,

chuckling as if she were being tickled, he devoured me with his eyes ... By my faith, if he weren't my father, I'd have egged the old man on to marry me; never mind if he couldn't produce children. What's it matter, there's others can. But the Devil's turned everything upside down. But, never mind! Manolios isn't so bad as that!

At this moment Nikolio appeared on the doorstep; he was hot, his body was steaming, and a smell of thyme spread through the yard. He was like a he-goat on its hind legs, or perhaps a young archangel in a rage.

When she saw him, Lenio stopped, seized with fear.

"Who's that?" she muttered; "how good he smells! What do you want?" she cried. "Is it you, Nikolio?"

"Me, Nikolio," the shepherd boy echoed in a voice just breaking.

"I can't believe it, you're a real man now! Growing a mustache already! What's brought you here?"

"Manolios sent me, this morning early, to tell you something, so here I am!"

"Manolios?" said Lenio, approaching Nikolio with her heart throbbing. "Don't shout, you're not up on the mountain. Speak more softly here. What did he tell you to tell me?"

"Well, he said like this: Greetings from Manolios; be so good as to come up to the mountain; he's something to say to you."

"Is that all? Well, you can tell him I'll come. Wait, don't go. And how is he?"

"He's all right, quite all right!" cried Nikolio, taking to his heels and leaving a bitter fragrance behind him.

At this moment Michelis came out into the yard. In rich Sunday clothes and carefully shaved and combed, he was making ready to go and listen to the Gospel in church and see Mariori. Standing in the middle of the yard, he shone like an angel. Lenio remained motionless a moment, all admiration. "That's what my father must have been like in his youth," she thought, "a Saint George!"

"Good morning, Lenio," said Michelis, putting on the kal'pak he had in his hand. "I'm going to church."

"May it do you good," replied Lenio, mockingly. "Go straight there, master, don't take a wrong turning."

"You'll take a wrong turning, that's sure. You'll go straight to Manolios, I'm thinking," said Michelis, who had caught sight of

the messenger just as he was making himself scarce. "You needn't grumble."

"I'm not grumbling—who said I was?" the girl retorted, stung to the quick. "We're human too, we servants, eh! The good God keeps us from needing to grumble. And if Manolios put your clothes on, master, he, too, would make a handsome archon."

"You're right, Lenio," Michelis answered as he crossed the threshold. "Yes, you're right; the clothes are the only thing that separates us."

The bell began ringing for Mass.

"Well, I'm off, Lenio. Bring us back good news from the mountain."

The church was balmy with wax and incense. On the icono-stasis the icons gleamed softly; the walls, from flagged floor to cupola, were illuminated with saints and with angels' wings of many colors. Going into this ancient Byzantine church was like losing oneself in a Paradise full of fantastic birds and of flowers the height of a man, with angels like gigantic bees flying from flower to flower to take their booty. At the high point of the vault, fierce and menacing, the Almighty sat throned over the heads of mankind.

Below, on the stones, the faithful—men in front, women at the back—hummed: they too were bees. They came and bowed down before the icons, sniffed at them, then stood rapt in ecstasy, listening to the chanting. Beyond the bench with its dishes and candles, the stalls of the notables. No one expected old Patriarcheas to come. As for Captain Fortounas, poor fellow, just now he was tacking in his bed, and groaning. The only ones present today were the schoolmaster, with his spectacles and white collar, and by his side father Ladas, bitter-lipped. Last evening Yannakos had brought him bad news: those people in rags, who had been wandering in the highways and byways for three months, had sold, so he said, the last of their jewels; they had nothing left but bare fingers. What was the use of fingers, father Ladas? No more than of ears without earrings. He cursed fate. I've no luck, he grumbled, as he stood there, beyond the bench. The destroyed village ought to have been near Lycovrissi, so that I could get there in time . . . What use is it to me that it was burned? Devil take it!

The faithful kept coming in, placing a coin in the dish, taking

a candle, crossing themselves and moving toward the iconostasis. Old Ladas's spirit was far away. Lucky he signed the receipt for the three pounds, the idiot. If it had been I . . .

But he had no time to follow up his train of thought. A heavy bulk came in and sat down close to him, making the stall creak. He turned peevishly, and saw old Patriarcheas, with pale and flabby cheeks, eyes dead and lips yellow and dry. That greasy fat pig will never die, he thought. Turning round properly, he greeted him.

"Wishing you better health, archon," he whispered faintly, then plunged again into his cares.

When Michelis entered, he lit up the church. He was late, having stopped to see Mariori, who was waiting for him. She was alone in the house, except for the deaf and devoted old nurse.

"You've been a long time," said Mariori, posted behind the door.

She, too, was dressed in her best. A necklace of gold pieces, left her by her mother, gleamed on her neck; she had made up her cheeks slightly with the rouge brought back the day before by Yannakos. But her eyes were subdued as if she had been crying, and a dark blue ring went around them. She held a handkerchief, and put it to her mouth from time to time.

"Why did you send for me?" began Michelis, worried; "why are you upset, Mariori?"

"Father's in a hurry," replied Mariori, lowering her eyes. "He's in a hurry; he wants us to get married."

"Didn't we settle on Christmas, Mariori? It's not yet a year since my mother died; it wouldn't be suitable."

"He's in a hurry," the girl repeated in an undertone. "He makes a scene every day; he gets up in the middle of the night and strides up and down and can't sleep."

"Why? What's the matter that he's in such a hurry?"

"I don't know, Michelis, I don't know." Mariori murmured, with a tremor in her voice.

She knew quite well why the old man was so impatient, but did not dare confess it. Deep down in her undermined body she perceived that her father was right, that they must be quick.

"My father didn't love my mother," said Michelis. "She was older than he, she had aged, she scolded him . . . He was sick of it, and so he wasn't sorry when she died. All the same, he

daren't quite go against custom, and it's not yet a year. And he is archon of the village, must set an example. You understand, Mariori?"

"I understand, I understand. But fathers getting impatient, I tell you, and he blames me. I can't bear it any more!"

She felt her cough rising, held it back and put her handkerchief to her mouth. Her little hand trembled in Michelis's moist palm.

Michelis looked at her suddenly in alarm. She had grown terribly thin. Under her downy skin the bones were sharp. Her face forecast a death mask.

"Mariori . . ." he murmured, pressing her hand and holding her to his breast, "Mariori. . . ."

It was as if she were going away from him and he could not hold her back, as if she were now only a handful of earth and were bidding him farewell.

"My Michelis," said the young girl, trying not to cry, "my Michelis, you must go now. Go to church. I'll come myself in a moment. We're late. Go. May God lay His hand upon us!"

She took his hand and held it against her breast, for some time.

"May God lay His hand upon us!" she murmured once more, then went in hastily and threw herself, almost fainting, into the arms of her nurse.

Michelis opened the door softly and walked with great strides to the church, with a tightening of the heart and throat.

He remained standing near his father's stall. The old man turned and admired him. That's what I was like, he thought, that's what I was like once. You jade, life! gone like a fairy tale!

Meanwhile Lenio had done her hair. She had sprinkled orange water on it and within her bodice, arranged on her head the yellow kerchief with the red fringe which her master had given her at Easter, and then gone out through the lanes of the village to the path leading up to the Mount of the Virgin.

Mass was over, the villagers had scattered over the square in their Sunday clothes, with their Sunday souls: they were walking up and down. Some of them, in the Caf6 Kostandis, were drinking and laughing.

The Agha was smoking his narghile on his balcony. On his right he had Hussein with his trumpet, on his left Youssoufaki, who

poured out his drink and munched his mastic. Narrowing his rheumy eyes, the old Agha watched the villagers in the square below, as the shepherd looks down on his flock, with condescension and solicitude. He knew that he was a man and the others were sheep. The Agha allowed them to feed in peace that they might provide him with wool, milk and meat.

Lenio clambered up the mountain with a light heart. She suspected what Manolios wanted. This week they would have the wedding: all that waiting over and done with, real life was about to begin—in the daytime the work of house and kitchen, at night the embrace and, at the end of nine months—hush-a-bye baby ... I shan't be a servant any longer, I shall be a wife and mother . . .

She liked Manolios: a peaceable lad, hard-working, handsome, with his fair beard, blue eyes and tender expression—a real Christ. Her heart had wings, went up the mountain quicker than she could, reached the sheepfold, fluttered all round it, perched on Manolios's shoulder like a plump, tame partridge with red claws, and lovingly pecked at his nape and throat.

At this moment he must be sitting on the jutting stone at the end of the path and waiting for me. I expect his heart's flown off, like mine, she thought.

And it was true—Manolios had sat down on the jutting stone, incessantly wiping his swollen face, whose sores had reopened and were running.

I'm sorry for her, poor thing, I'm sorry for her, he said to himself, but it's got to be done. I've got to redeem myself from all temptation; my soul's got to be purified, my body's got to be purified, I've got to become worthy . . .

He cocked his ear, heard her quick, light step and smelled a scent of orange blossom in the air, her scent; his nostrils twitched.

She's coming, she's coming, he thought. Here she is, here she is!

The yellow kerchief came in sight. Lenio paused for an instant and shaded her eyes. On the jutting stone she saw her betrothed waiting for her, with bent head; she came on more slowly.

Here she is! repeated Manolios. He raised his head, stood up, and remained still.

Lenio pretended not to see him, so that he might bound forward, as his custom was, and seize her by the waist to help her,

SO he said, to climb up . . . But today Manolios stayed and did not move at all.

"Manolios!" she cried, unable to contain herself any longer.

Manolios did not answer. He stood on his rock, silent, without stirring.

Lenio began to run, drew near, raised her head, saw him and gave a cry:

"Holy Virgin!" She collapsed.

Manolios came down and picked her up. She covered her eyes with her left arm, and with her right warded him off.

"Go away! Go away!" she cried, stridently, "go away!"

"Look at me once more, Lenio," said Manolios softly; "look at me: then you'll loathe me forever and be rid of me . . ."

"No, no!" cried the poor girl, "go away!"

Manolios drew back and went and sat down again on the rock. Both of them remained for quite a while without speaking. Lenio was the first to break the silence.

"What is it?" she cried. "In heaven's name, tell me, what is it?"

"Leprosy . . ." answered Manolios tranquilly.

Lenio shuddered and turned her head toward the village.

"I'm going," she said. "Is that why you sent for me?"

"Yes, that's why," answered Manolios, still calm. "Can you marry me now? You can't. Do you want leprous children? You don't. Leave me."

Again they remained without a word. And suddenly the young girl was shaken with violent sobbing.

"Fare thee well, Lenio," said Manolios, turning his back on her to return to the sheepfold; "good-bye!"

Lenio did not reply. She wiped her eyes with her fine yellow kerchief and looked about her, numbed, not knowing where to go. Manolios had disappeared, the earth was a desert, turning without aim.

The sun was at midcourse: nothing could be heard but the bells of the sheep coming in to lie in the holm oak shade. For a moment a flute sang in the solitude, but almost at once fell silent on a plaintive tone.

"Leprosy . . . leprosy . . ." Lenio kept repeating with horror. In the overwhelming heat of noon she was shivering.

How long she stayed there, doubled up among the stones, she

could not have told ... It seemed centuries, but it must have been only a few moments; for when she rose to go, the sun was still motionless at the summit of the sky.

The flute played again, plaintive, joyous, insidious, like another soul unable to bear the solitude.

Fascinated, not knowing what she was doing, Lenio walked toward the calling flute. It was as if she heard her name, was being asked for it. She went tottering, breathing in gasps. After a few steps she listened. The flute was nearer, more caressing, more beseeching: it was calling her, drawing her . . . She could not resist any more.

All at once, under a majestic holm oak which had grown in a hollow of the mountain, she saw sheep Iving, leaning their throats on the ground to get a litde coolness. Only two were still standing, as if inclined to chase and butt one another. Near them, standing, the shepherd boy, half naked, was gamboling and dancing with them, with a long flute pressed between his lips. From time to time he took the flute from his mouth and gave wild cries, clapped his hands, made bleating noises and then started playing again, louder, ever louder.

Spellbound, Lenio advanced hesitantly. The shepherd boy had his back turned to her: he could not see her. Lenio could now make out the whole scene: a ram with a heavy black fleece and twisted horns was pursuing a white ewe, trying to mount her, and she to escape. The ram reared up in fury, seized her again with his front feet and fell forward onto her wath a feeble moan, as though beseeching her. The young shepherd followed the love fight: he leaped, danced and, with tender cries, joined the ram in beseeching.

"Go it, Dassos! climb on her, Dassos!" he yelled, and started again to play the flute.

Lenio, with no breath left, had come up right behind the little shepherd. Like the ewes, her tongue was hanging out and she was panting. Her breasts were hurting.

Exhausted, as though she, too, could no longer master her desire, the ewe suddenly stopped still. Dassos was on her with a bound and covered her completely. His tongue was hanging out; he began to lick her neck and bite. All his wool was bathed in sweat; the air was stifling, filled with the smell of male.

Nikolio threw down his flute, tore off his remaining clothes and began, stark naked and covered with sweat, to dance and sway like the ram.

The veins on Lenio's throat stood out, and her eyes darkened. All of a sudden, in his dance, Nikolio turned; he saw her, darted on her, and threw her to the ground up against the ram and the ewe.

(Death of the Qa^tain

POOR Captain Fortounas isn't at all well, Agha. The bones of his skull won't stick together again. The things we've done to them! The ointments, the pomades—and even priest Grigoris come in person to read prayers. A gipsy, too, has been and dealt the cards. They've lit a candle up at Saint Penteleimon the Healer's. He's been given a cat's parts to eat—it's said they have nine lives. And all for nothing! Neither God nor Devil wants our dead captain to get well."

The word "dead" had somehow escaped mother Mandalenia. She bit her tongue.

"May the fiend's ear be deaf," she muttered, and her tongue set off again merrily. 'Today he sent for Michelis, the archon's son, so he could dictate to him his will, says he. And now, Agha, I'm on my way to fetch priest Grigoris to give him the Holy Sacrament. He's weighed anchor, our captain has, he's getting ready to sail. A moment ago he called me and said: 'Aunt Mandalenia, do me the kindness of going to the Agha and saying to him: all greetings from Captain Fortounas-Greenhom: he's setting sail'—says he— 'and he's off; good-bye!' So I've come, Agha. Mother Mandalenia, that's me."

Sleepy, with puffy eyes, sagging cheeks and bare feet, uncombed, unwashed, the Agha was sitting on his sofa drinking coffee to wake himself up. He listened to mother Mandalenia as one listens to rain. When she had stopped, the Agha lazily opened his mouth:

"And his brainr"" he asked in the midst of a yawn.

"It's working all right, Agha. A regular clock."