Zorba the Greek

  The bell for the monks rang lugubriously. The hospitaller crossed himself and stood up.

  "I shall have to go," he said. "Christ's Passion is beginning; we must carry the cross with him. You can rest tonight, you must be tired after your journey. But at matins tomorrow…"

  "Those swine!" Zorba muttered between his teeth as soon as the monk had gone. "Swine! Liars! Mules!"

  "What's wrong, Zorba? Has Zaharia told you something?"

  "Never mind, boss, to hell with it! If they don't want to sign, I'll show them what I'm made of!"

  We went to the cell which had been assigned to us. In the corner was an icon representing the Virgin pressing her cheek against her son's, her big eyes full of tears.

  Zorba shook his big head.

  "Do you know why she's crying, boss?"

  "No."

  "Because she can see what's going on. If I was a painter of icons, I'd draw the Virgin without eyes, ears or nose. Because I'd be sorry for her."

  We stretched out on the hard beds. The wooden beams smelled of cypress; through the open window was wafted the gentle breath of spring, laden with the perfume of flowers. Occasionally the mournful tunes surged from the courtyard like gusts of wind. A nightingale began to sing close to the window, then another a short distance away, and still another. The night was overflowing with love.

  I could not sleep. The nightingale's song mingled with the lamentations of Christ, and I tried to climb Golgotha myself through the flowering orange trees, guiding myself by the huge spots of blood. In the blue spring night I could see the cold sweat glistening all over Christ's pale, faltering body. I could see his hands outstretched and trembling, as though he were a beggar imploring the bystanders to listen. The poor people of Galilee hurried after him, crying: "Hosannah! Hosannah!" They had palm leaves in their hands and spread their mantles before his feet. He looked at the ones he loved, though none could divine the depths of his despair. He alone knew he was going to his death. Beneath the stars, weeping and silent, he consoled his poor human heart that was full of fear:

  "Like unto a grain of wheat, my heart, you, too, must fall into the ground and die. Be not afraid. If you do not, how can you bring forth fruit? How can you nourish men who die of hunger?"

  But, within him, his man's heart was fainting and trembling, and did not want to die…

  The wood round the monastery was full of the song of nightingales. Their song rose amidst the damp foliage and spoke entirely of love and passion. And with it trembled, swelled and wept the poor heart of mankind.

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

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

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

  But Zorba was sitting on his bed smoking a cigarette.

  "Don't be alarmed, boss," he said, still trying to control his anger, "let them settle their own accounts, the swine!"

  Cries came from the corridor; we could hear heavy slippers dragging along, doors opening and closing, and a moaning in the distance as though someone were wounded.

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

  "Who are you?"

  "The bishop ..." he replied, his voice trembling.

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

  "What was that revolver shot, Your Lordship?"

  "I don't know, I don't know ..." he stammered, pushing me gently back into the room.

  Zorba burst out laughing from his bed.

  "Are you scared, little Father?" he said. "Come in, then, old fellow, and stay with us. We are no monks, so you needn't worry."

  "Zorba," I said in an undertone, "show more respect, can't you? It's the bishop."

  "H'm! in a shirt nobody's a bishop! Come in, old chap!"

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

  "Drink, my friend," he said. "That'll buck you up."

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

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

  "I don't know, my son… I had worked till midnight and gone to bed, when next door in Father Demetrios's cell I heard…"

  "Ah! ah!" said Zorba with a laugh. "You were right, then, Zaharia! Those dirty swine!"

  The bishop bowed his head.

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

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

  "Are you sleepy, my son?" he asked.

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

  "No," I answered, "I'm not at all sleepy; stay here a while."

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

  "You appear to be a cultured young man," the bishop said to me. "Here I can't find anyone to talk to. I have three theories that help to make my life agreeable; I would like to tell you about them, my child."

  He didn't wait for my reply but began straight away:

  "My first theory is this: the shape of flowers influences their color; their color influences their properties. Thus it is that each flower has a different effect on a man's body, and therefore on his soul. That is why we must be extremely careful in passing through a field when the flowers are in bloom."

  He stopped as though waiting for my opinion. I could see the little old man wandering through a field, searching the ground, with secret excitement, for the shapes and colors of the flowers. The poor old man must tremble with mystic awe; in the spring the fields must be peopled for him with many-colored devils and angels.

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

  He looked anxiously at me again.

  "My third theory," he went on hurriedly, as he could not bear my silence, "is this: there is some Eternity even in our ephemeral lives, only it is very difficult for us to discover it alone. Our daily cares lead us astray. A few people only, the flower of humanity, manage to live an eternity even in their transitory lives on this earth. Since all the others would therefore be lost, God had mercy on them and sent them religion—thus the crowd is able to live in eternity, too."

  He had finished and was visibly relieved for having spoken. He raised his small eyes, which had no lashes, and smiled at me. It was as though he were saying: "There, I am giving you all I have, take it!" I was very moved at the sight of this little old man thus offering me outright, when he hardly knew me, the fruits of a lifetime's work.

  He had tears in his eyes.

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

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

  "Those theories may save many souls," I answered.

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

  "Thank you, my son," he whispered, squeezing my hand affectionately.

  Zorba leaped from his corner.
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  "I've got a fourth theory!" he cried.

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

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

  "That two and two make four!" said Zorba gravely.

  The bishop looked at him, flabbergasted.

  "And a fifth theory, old man," Zorba went on. "That two and two don't make four. Go on, my friend, take a chance! Make your choice!"

  "I don't understand," stammered the old man, casting a questioning glance at me.

  "Neither do I!" said Zorba, bursting into laughter.

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

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

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

  He sighed.

  "I am old," he said, "and I can't do anythíng else. I find relief in listing all the verbal adornments of the Virgin, and thus I forget the miseries of this world."

  He leaned his elbow on the pillow, closed his eyes and began murmuring as though in delirium:

  "Imperishable Rose, Fruitful Earth, Vine, Fountain, Source of Miracles, Ladder to Heaven, Bridge, Rescuing Frigate for the Shipwrecked, Haven of Rest, Key to Paradise, Dawn, Eternal Light, Lightning, Pillar of Fire, Invincible General, Immovable Tower, Impregnable Fortress, Consolation, Joy, Staff for the Blind, Mother for the Orphan, Table, Food, Peace, Serenity, Perfume, Banquet, Milk and Honey ..."

  "The old boy's delirious ..." said Zorba in an undertone. "I'll cover him over so that he doesn't catch cold."

  He stood up, threw a blanket over the bishop and put his pillow straight.

  "There are seventy-seven kinds of madness, so I've heard," he said. "This one must be the seventy-eighth."

  Day was dawning. We could hear the ringing of the semantron. I leaned my head out of the window. In the first rays of dawn I saw a gaunt monk, a long black hood over his head, walk slowly round the courtyard striking with a small hammer on a long piece of wood which had marvellously musical properties. The sound of the semantron echoed through the morning air, full of sweetness, harmony and appeal. The nightingales had stopped singing and other birds were beginning to chirp in the trees.

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

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

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

  "Come, rise now, brothers, it's time for matins."

  Zorba leaped up:

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

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

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

  We heard steps going rapidly away. With one bound Zorba was at the door. He opened it:

  "Filthy scoundrels! Blackguards!" he shouted, spitting in the direction of the retreating monk. "Priests, nuns, monks, church-wardens, sacristans, the whole lot of you, that's all you're worth!" And he spat again.

  "Let's go!" I said. "There's a smell of blood in the air."

  "If it were only blood!" grunted Zorba. "You go to matins, boss, if you want to. I'll have a look round to see what I can find out."

  "Let's go!" I said again, nauseated. "And will you be good enough not to go poking your nose where it's none of your business?"

  "That's just where I always want to poke it!" said Zorba.

  He thought for a moment, then smiled cunningly:

  "The devil is doing us a favor," he said. "I think he's bringing things to a head. Do you realize what that might cost the monastery, boss, a revolver shot like that? A cool seven thousand!"

  He went down into the courtyard. The scent of blossom, morning sweetness, heavenly felicity. Zaharia was waiting for us. He ran up and seized Zorba's arm.

  "Brother Canavaro," he whispered with a trembling voice. "Come, we must go!"

  "What was that revolver shot? They killed somebody, didn't they? Come on, talk or I'll wring your neck!"

  The monk's chin quivered. He looked round him. The courtyard was deserted, the cells closed; through the open chapel door came waves of music.

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

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

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

  I stooped to look at the body.

  "The young monk!" I murmured with a shudder. "Father Demetrios's fair-haired young novice!"

  On the door of the sanctuary, with widespread wings and unsheathed sword, and wearing red sandals, glittered the figure of the archangel Michael.

  "Archangel Michael!" cried the monk, "send fire and brimstone and burn them all! Archangel Michael, do something. Leave your icon! Raise your sword and smite them! Did you not hear that revolver shot?"

  "Who killed him? Who was it? Demetrios? Speak, old goat beard!"

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

  Suddenly he jumped for joy.

  "I will burn them!" he declared in a resolute voice. "The archangel moved, I saw him, he made a sign to me!"

  He went close to the icon and glued his thick lips to the archangel's sword.

  "God be praised!" he said. "I am relieved!"

  Zorba seized the monk again.

  "Come here, Zaharia," he said. "Now, you'll do what I tell you."

  Then he turned to me.

  "Give me the money, boss, I'll sign the papers myself. They're all wolves in there, and you're a lamb, they'll eat you. Leave it to me. Don't you worry, I've got the fat hogs where I want them. We'll leave here at midday with the forest in our pockets. Come on, Zaharia."

  They slipped away furtively towards the monastery. I went for a stroll under the pine trees.

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

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

  "What a pity," I thought, "that such austerity and nobility should be without a soul."

  I was tired, I had not slept well, and I stretched out on the grass. The wild violets, broom, rosemary and sage made the air redolent. Insects buzzed continually as in their hunger they plunged into the flowers like pirates and sucked the honey. In the distance the mountains sparkled, transparent, serene, like a moving haze in the burning light of the sun.

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

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

  I was brutally awakened from this state of beatitude. I heard steps behind me and whispers. At the same instant a happy voice cried:

  "Boss, we're off!"

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

  "Off?" I said with relief. "Is it all settled?"

  "Everything!" said Zorba, tapping the upper part of his jacket. "Here's the forest. I hope it brings us luck! And here are the seven thousand Lola cost us!"

  He took a roll of banknotes from his inside pocket.

  "Take 'em!" he said. "I pay my debts; I'm not ashamed to look you in the face any more. The stockings, and handbags, and perfume and Dame Bouboulina's parasol are all included in that. Even the parrot's nuts! And the halva I brought you, as well!"

  "Keep it yourself, Zorba; it's a present from me," I said. "Go and burn a candle to the Virgin you've sinned against."

  Zorba turned round. Father Zaharia was coming towards us in his filthy gown, which was turning green, and his down-at-heel shoes. He was leading our two mules.

  Zorba showed him the roll of notes.

  "We'll split, Father Joseph," he said. "You can buy two hundred pounds of salt cod and stuff yourself with it tíll you burst your belly. Till you spew it up and deliver yourself from cod for ever and ever! Come on, hold out your paw!"

  The monk took the dirty notes and hid them.

  "I shall buy some paraffin!" he said.

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

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

  The monk was trembling.