Report to Grego by Nikos Kazantzakis
I remember everything, absolutely everything that happened as I climbed the citadel that day in order to enter the Catholic school. I can still see the cat sitting on a doorstep in the rain; it was white with orange patches. Also a young barefooted girl holding a brazier of burning coals and running, her face bright red from the reflections.
“Here we are,” said my father. He raised his arm and knocked on the huge door.
This was the first and perhaps the most decisive leap in my intellectual life. A magic portal opened inside my mind and conducted me into an astonishing world. Until this time Crete and Greece had been the confined arena in which my struggling soul was jammed; now the world broadened, the divisions of humanity multiplied, and my adolescent breast creaked in an effort to contain them all. Before this moment I had divined but had never known with such positiveness that the world is extremely large and that suffering and toil are the companions and fellow warriors not only of the Cretan, but of every man. Above all, only now did I begin to have a presentiment of the great secret: that by means of poetry all this suffering and effort could be transformed into dream; no matter how much of the ephemeral existed, poetry could immortalize it by turning it into song. Only two or three primitive passions had governed me until this time: fear, the struggle to conquer fear, and the yearning for freedom. But now two new passions were kindled inside me: beauty and the thirst for learning. I wanted to read and learn, to see distant lands, to have personal experience of suffering and joy. The world was larger than Greece, the world’s suffering was larger than our suffering, and the yearning for freedom was not the exclusive prerogative of the Cretan, it was the eternal struggle of all mankind. Crete did not vanish from my mind, however. Instead, the entire world unfurled within me to become one gigantic Crete which was oppressed by all sorts of Turks but continually leaping to its feet and seeking liberty. In this way, converting the entire world into Crete, I was able in the early years of adolescence to feel the suffering and pain of all mankind.
This French school had students gathered from the whole of Greece. Since I was a Cretan and Crete was at that time fighting the Turks, I considered it my duty not to disgrace my homeland. I had a responsibility to be first in my class. This conviction, which I believe sprang not from individual pride but from a sense of national obligation, increased my powers, and in no time I surpassed my classmates—no, not I, but Crete. Thus the months slipped by in what was for me a previously unheard-of intoxication, a drunken desire to learn and make progress, to pursue the bluebird which (as I afterwards discovered) is called Spirit.
So audacious did my mind become, that one day I made the harum-scarum decision that next to every word in the French dictionary I would write the Greek equivalent. This labor took me months, requiring the aid of various other dictionaries, and when I finally finished and the entire French dictionary had been translated, I took it and proudly showed it to Père Laurent, the school’s director. He was a learned Catholic priest, reticent, with gray eyes, a bitter smile, and a broad beard half white, half blond. Taking the dictionary, he leafed through it, looked at me with admiration, and placed his hand on my head as though wishing to bless me.
“What you’ve done, my young Cretan,” he said, “shows that one day you will become an important man. You are fortunate in having found your road while so young. Scholarship—that is your road. God bless you.”
Filled with pride, I ran as well to the assistant director, Père Lelièvre, a well-fed, fun-loving monk with playful eyes, who used to laugh, tell jokes, and play with us. Each weekend he took us on an excursion to one of the school’s country orchards. There, freed from Père Laurent, we wrestled all together, laughed, ate fruit, rolled in the grass, and relieved ourselves of the week’s burdens.
I ran, therefore, to find Père Lelièvre and show him my achievement. I found him in the courtyard watering a row of lilies. Taking the dictionary, he turned its pages over very, very slowly and looked at them. The more he looked the more inflamed his features became. Suddenly he lifted the dictionary and hurled it in my face.
“Shame on you!” he screamed. “Are you a boy or a doddering old graybeard? What is this old man’s work you’ve wasted your time on? Instead of laughing, playing, and looking through the window at the girls who pass, you sit like a dotard and translate dictionaries! Away with you—out of my sight! Take it from me that if you follow this road, you’ll never amount to anything—never! You’ll become some miserable round-shouldered little teacher with spectacles. If you’re really a Cretan, burn this damnable dictionary and bring me the ashes. Then I’ll give you my blessing. Think it over and act. Away with you!”
I went away completely confused. Who was right, what was I to do? Which of the two roads was correct? This question tortured me for years, and when I finally discovered which road was the correct one, my hair had turned gray. Like Buridan’s ass, my soul vacillated indecisively between Père Laurent and Père Lelièvre. I looked at the dictionary with the Greek words written ever so diminutively in the margin in red ink, and as I remembered Père Lelièvre’s advice, my heart broke in two. No, I did not have the courage to burn it and bring him the ashes. Many years later, when I finally began to understand, I did throw it in the fire. But I did not collect the ashes, for Père Lelièvre had died long since.
Immediately after my father put me in school and saw me settled, he boarded a caique and departed secretly for Crete in order to fight. Once he sent me a succinct note on paper discolored by gunpowder:
I’m doing my duty, fighting the Turks. You fight too: stand your ground and don’t let those Catholics put ideas into your head. They’re dogs, just like the Turks. You’re from Crete, don’t forget. Your mind isn’t your own, it belongs to Crete. Sharpen it as much as you can, so that one day you can use it to help liberate Crete. Since you can’t help with arms, why not with your mind? It too is a musket. Do you understand what I’m asking of you? Say yes! That’s all for today, tomorrow, and always. Do not disgrace me!
I felt the whole of Crete upon my shoulders. If I failed to know my lessons perfectly, to understand a problem in arithmetic, to come out first in the examinations, Crete would be disgraced. I lacked boyhood’s insouciance, freshness, and levity. When I saw my classmates laugh and play, I admired them. I should have liked to laugh and play also, but Crete was warring and in danger. Most terrible of all was the fact that teachers and students no longer addressed me by name; they called me “the Cretan,” and this was an incessant and even more oppressive reminder of my obligation.
As to turning Catholic, I had no fears. Not because I comprehended which religion was the truest, but because of another factor which, though it seems insignificant, influenced my youthful soul more deeply than any theological doctrine. Every morning we had compulsory mass in the Catholic chapel, a tiny bare room in the center of the school building, frightfully hot in summer, frightfully cold in winter, with two colored statues of plaster, one depicting Christ and the other the Virgin. Abundant clusters of white lilies stood on the High Altar in tall glass vases. These were not attended to often enough. The lilies remained for days in the same water and became so slimy that when I entered the chapel each morning their smell nearly made me vomit. Once, I remember, I fainted. Thus little by little these rotted lilies and the Catholic Church joined in me indissolubly, and ever since, the thought of turning Catholic has made me nauseous.
Nevertheless, the moment arrived (even today I recall it with shame) when I was on the verge of betraying my faith. Why? What devil prodded me? How cunning, how patient this inner devil must be in order to lie in wait behind our virtues, himself assuming the features of virtue, and be certain that sooner or later, without fail, his hour will come!
And indeed, one day his hour did come. The cardinal who inspected Catholic schools in the Levant arrived one morning from Rome. He was wearing a black silk habit with scarlet lining, a broad-brimmed scarlet biretta, sheer scarlet stockings, and had on his finger a large ring set w
Père Laurent must have told him about me, because as he was leaving us, he signaled me to follow him. We went up to his room. He had me sit down on a stool at his feet.
“Would you like to come with me?” he inquired in a voice which seemed as sweet as honey.
“Where?” I asked in astonishment. “I’m a Cretan.”
The cardinal laughed. Opening a box, he took out a caramel and placed it in my mouth. His own mouth was small, round, and clean-shaven, with thick, bright red lips. Each time he moved his hand, the air smelled of lavender.
“I know, I know,” he said. “I know everything about you. You are Cretan, in other words a wild goat. But be patient and listen to me. We shall go to Rome, the Holy City. You will enter a large school to pursue your studies in order to become great and important. Who knows—perhaps one day you’ll wear this same cardinal’s biretta I now wear. And don’t forget that someone from your island, a Cretan, once became Pope—the leader of Christendom, greater than an emperor! Then you will be able to act, to liberate Crete. . . . Do you hear what I’m saying?”
“Yes, yes,” I murmured. I had raised my head and was listening avidly.
“This very moment, my child, your life is at stake. If you say yes, you are saved; if you say no, you are lost. What will you become if you remain here? What does your father do?”
“He’s a merchant.”
“Very well, you’ll become a merchant too, at the very most a lawyer or doctor. In other words, nothing. Greece is a province. Come out of the provinces, my child. I’ve been told a great deal about you; I’d hate to see you perish.”
My heart was thumping loudly. Once again two roads were opening before me. Which was I to choose? To whom could I run for help? Père Laurent would push me one way, Père Lelièvre the other. Which road was correct? And what if I asked my father?
Recalling my father, I was terror-stricken. He had just then returned from Crete, stained with gunpowder and seriously wounded in the arm. The muskets were silent now. After so many centuries and so much blood, freedom had placed her gory feet on Cretan soil. Soon Prince George of the Hellenes would arrive and offer the engagement ring, earnest of the time when Crete and Greece would be united forever.
My father had come to see me immediately upon his return from Crete. At first I did not recognize him. His skin was even blacker than before and a smile (the first I had seen) brightened his lips. “How goes it? Did they convert you?” he asked me with a laugh. I turned purple. He placed his huge palm on my head. “I’m only joking. I have confidence in you.”
As I recalled my father now in the cardinal’s presence, I must have grown livid, for the prelate placed his plump hand tenderly on my hair and asked, “What are you thinking about?”
“What my father would say,” I murmured.
“He doesn’t have to know; no one has to know. We’ll leave secretly, at night.”
“And what about my mother? She’ll start crying.”
“‘He who denies not his father and his mother cannot follow me.’ Those are Christ’s words.”
I remained silent. The face of Christ had fascinated me indescribably ever since my childhood. I had followed Him on the icons as He was born, reached His twelfth year, stood in a rowboat and raised His hand to make the sea grow calm; then as He was scourged and crucified, and as He called out upon the cross, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” After that, as one fine morning He rose from the tomb and ascended to heaven, clasping a white pennon in His hand. Seeing Him, I too was scourged, I too was crucified and resurrected. And when I read the Bible, the ancient tales came to life: man’s soul seemed a savage, slumbering beast bellowing in its sleep. Suddenly the heavens opened and Christ descended. He kissed this beast, whereupon it sighed sweetly, awakened, and became what it had always been: a superbly beautiful princess.
“All right,” I said to the cardinal, kissing his hand, “I shall forsake my father and mother.”
“This exact moment, my son, I saw the Holy Spirit descend over your head. You are saved.” Saying this, he held out the amethyst he was wearing so that I could kiss it.
We were to depart three days later. I wanted to see my parents and bid them an inner farewell without divulging the secret to them, but the cardinal refused.
“The true man,” he said, “is he who leaves his loved ones without saying goodbye.”
Desiring to be a true man, I hardened my heart and remained silent. Had I not read in the legends time after time that the ascetics did just this when they departed for the desert? They did not look back to see their mothers; they did not wave goodbye. I was going to do the same.
I was given various weighty books, all bound in gold. I read about eternal Rome and about the Holy Father, the Pope. I grew drunk as I looked at the illustrations: Saint Peter’s, the Vatican, the paintings, the statues.
Everything was going well. In my imagination I had already departed, crossed the sea, reached the Holy City, and finished my studies. I was wearing a broad scarlet biretta with a silk fringe, and as I looked at the middle finger of my right hand, I spied the mystic amethyst glimmering in the darkness. . . . At that point, however, destiny suddenly stirred, reached out its hand, and blocked my way. Someone whispered in my father’s ear, “The Catholics are taking your son!” It was at night. The fierce Cretan jumped out of bed and roused several boatmen and fishermen he knew. Lighting torches and taking along a can of gasoline, as well as crowbars and pickaxes, they ascended the road to the citadel. There they began to beat on the school door, howling that they would set the place on fire. The monks were panic-stricken. Père Laurent, wearing his nightcap, stuck his head out of the window and shouted and implored, half in French, half in Greek.
“My boy,” called my father, waving the lighted torch, “my boy, you papist dogs, or else it’s fire and the axe!”
They woke me up. I dressed as fast as I could, they lowered me from the window in a basket, and I fell into my father’s arms. He seized me by the nape of the neck and banged me against the ground three times. Then he turned to his companions. “Out with the torches. Let’s go!”
It was three days before my father spoke to me. He saw to it that I was bathed, dressed in clean clothes, and that my head was anointed with oil from the Virgin’s watch lamp. He had the priest come to sprinkle me with holy water and perform an exorcism to rid me of the Catholic filth. Then he turned to look at me.
“Judas!” he growled between his teeth, and he spat three times into the air.
But God was kind, and a few weeks later came the good news: Prince George of the Hellenes was on his way to Crete to take possession. My father jumped up, prostrated himself three times so that he touched the soil, crossed himself, and headed straight for the barber’s. He had never applied a razor to his cheek, but had let his beard flood down over his breast because he was in mourning, in mourning for Crete, which was enslaved. This was also why he never laughed, and why it angered him to see any Christian laugh. In his mind, laughter had degenerated into an unpatriotic act. But now, thank God, Crete was free. He headed straight for the barber’s, therefore, and when he returned home, his shaven, rejuvenated face beamed and the whole house was perfumed by the lavender which the barber had poured over his hair.
Then, turning to my mother, he pointed to me and smiled.
“Crete is free, the past forgotten. Let’s forgive even Judas!”
A few days later we embarked for Crete. What a triumphant journey that was, and how the sun on that autumn day penetrated to the very depths of our hearts!
12
LIBERTY
MY EYES, even now after so many years, still overflow with tears when I recall that day: the day Prince George of the Hellenes, in other words Liberty, set foot on Cretan soil. Mankind’s struggle is truly an uninterrupted sacrament. What is this terrestrial crust—so shoddy, unstable, and fissured—that men, those parasites all covered with mud and gore, should crawl upon it seeking their freedom? How moving it is to see Greeks in the vanguard—Greeks!—climbing the unending ascent and opening the way whether with the chlamys and lance, the evzone skirts and muskets of ’21, or with their Cretan vrakes!
I remember a certain Cretan captain, a shepherd who reeked of dung and billy goats. He had just returned from the wars, where he had fought like a lion. I happened to be in his sheepfold one afternoon when he received a citation, inscribed on parchment in large red and black letters, from the “Cretan Brotherhood” of Athens. It congratulated him on his acts of bravery and declared him a hero.