The Colossus of Maroussi by Henry Miller

  Only a few days remain. The day before Christmas I am sitting in the sun on the terrace of the King George Hotel, waiting for Durrell and Nancy to appear with the car. The weather is dubious; heavy rains may set in. We were to have left at ten in the morning; it is now two o’clock. Finally they arrive in Max’s flimsy little English car which looks like an overgrown bug. The car is not working right, the brakes particularly. Durrell is laughing, as usual. Laughing and swearing at the same time. He is going to run the car into the ground. He hopes I will miss the boat. Will we wait a moment until he buys a newspaper and a sandwich? He follows the war news closely. I haven’t read a newspaper since I left Paris; I don’t intend to read one until I get to New York, where I know I will get an eyeful.

  The first thing I realize, as we speed along, is that it is no longer Autumn. The car is an open car with a shed over it. In the sun it is pleasant, but once it gets dark it will be uncomfortable. Riding along the side of the mountain overlooking the sea Durrell suddenly asks me what I think of when the name Corinth is mentioned. I answer immediately: “Memphis.” “I think of something fat, reddish and sensuous,” he says. We are going to put up in Corinth for the night and then move on to Sparta. At the canal we stop a moment. First touch of red; something distinctly Egyptian about the Corinth canal. We enter the new city of Corinth in the late afternoon. It is anything but attractive. Broad avenues, low box-like houses, empty parks—new in the worst sense of the word. We choose a hotel with central heating, take time out for a cup of tea, and start off for old Corinth to get a glimpse of the ruins before dark. Old Corinth is several miles away, built on a piece of rising ground overlooking a waste land. In the light of a wintry afternoon the site takes on a prehistoric aspect. Above the ruins rises the Acrocorinth, a sort of Aztec mesa on which, one might easily believe, the bloodiest sacrificial rites were performed.

  Once amidst the ruins the whole impression changes. The great plinth of the Acrocorinth now looms up soft and ingratiating, a giant megalith which has grown a coat of wool. Every minute that passes sheds a new luster, a new tenderness, upon the scene. Durrell was right: there is something rich, sensuous and rosy about Corinth. It is death in full bloom, death in the midst of voluptuous, seething corruption. The pillars of the Roman temple are fat; they are almost Oriental in their proportions, heavy, squat, rooted to the earth, like the legs of an elephant stricken with amnesia. Everywhere this lush, overgrown, over-ripe quality manifests itself, heightened by a rose-colored light flush from the setting sun. We wander down to the spring, set deep in the earth like a hidden temple, a mysterious place suggesting affinities with India and Arabia. Above us is the thick wall which surrounds the old site. A marvelous atmospheric duet is taking place in the sky; the sun, which has become a ball of fire, is now joined by the moon, and in the flood of swiftly shifting harmonics created by the conjunction of these two luminaries the ruins of Corinth glow and vibrate with supernatural beauty. Only one effect is withheld—a sudden rain of starlight.

  The way back leads through another world, for in addition to the darkness there is a mist rising from the sea. A string of tiny, twinkling lights marks the coastline across the gulf where the mountains roll up peacefully and somnolently. Corinth, new Corinth, is engulfed in a cold sweat which penetrates to the bone.

  Looking for a restaurant a little later we decide to take a brisk walk through the town first. There is nothing to do but follow one of the broad avenues leading nowhere. It is Christmas Eve, but there is nothing here to indicate that anyone is aware of it. Approaching a lonely house lit up by a smoky kerosene lamp we are suddenly arrested by the queer strains of a flute. We hasten our steps and stand in the middle of the wide street to take in the performance. The door of the house is open, revealing a room filled with men listening to an uncouth figure playing the flute. The man seems to be exalted by his own music, a music such as I have never heard before and probably never will again. It seems like sheer improvisation and, unless his lungs give out, there promises to be no end to it. It is the music of the hills, the wild notes of the solitary man armed with nothing but his instrument. It is the original music for which no notes have been written and for which none is necessary. It is fierce, sad, obsessive, yearning and defiant. It is not for men’s ears but for God’s. It is a duet in which the other instrument is silent. In the midst of the performance a man approaches us on a bicycle, dismounts and doffing his hat inquires respectfully if we are strangers, if we had arrived perhaps just to-day. He is a telegraph messenger and he has a message in his hand for an American woman, he says. Durrell laughs and asks to see the message. It is a Christmas greeting to the Countess von Reventlow (Barbara Hutton). We read it—it is in English—and pass it back to him. He goes off, peering like a scout into the darkness, ready no doubt to intercept the next tall woman with golden hair whom he sees dressed like a man. The incident reminded me of my own days in the telegraph service, of a winter’s night when I came upon a messenger walking the streets of New York in a daze with a fistful of undelivered messages. Noticing the blank stare in his eyes I led him back to the office he had come from, where I learned that he had been missing for two days and nights. He was blue with cold and chattering like a monkey. When I opened his coat to see if he had any messages in his inside pockets I discovered that under the coarse suit he was naked. In one of his pockets I found a program of musical compositions which he had evidently printed himself since almost the entire list of pieces indicated him as being the composer. The incident came to a close in the observation ward at Bellevue where he was pronounced insane.

  In the restaurant, which was spacious and draughty, we had a delicious greasy meal of the sort which usually turns the Anglo-Saxon’s stomach. When the plates are ice cold I admit, of course, that some of the charm of the Greek cuisine is nullified, but the English, being the worst cooks in the world, ought to be the last to complain. With the aid of a few bottles of wine we made the best of a rather cheerless Christmas Eve gathering. The high spot of the festivity—the other diners had left—was the elaborate formulation of quixotic messages on postcards to various celebrities throughout the world. We returned to the hotel, which was now as warm as toast, and went promptly to bed.

  In the morning we set out for Mycenae which the Durrells had not yet visited. The air was crisp, the road free and clear, and we were all in good spirits. The Peloponnesus affects everyone in much the same way, I imagine. The best way that I can express it is to say that it is like a soft, quick stab to the heart. Durrell, who was raised near the Tibetan frontier in India, was tremendously excited and confessed that at times he had the impression of being back in India, in the hill country. As we neared Mycenae he was even more impressed. Always voluble and articulate, I observed with pleasure that he was silenced.

  This time, being equipped with a flashlight, we decided to descend the slippery staircase to the well. Durrell went first, Nancy next, and I followed gingerly behind. About halfway down we halted instinctively and debated whether to go any farther. I experienced the same feeling of terror as I had the first time with Katsimbalis, more, if anything, since we had descended deeper into the bowels of the earth. I had two distinct fears—one, that the slender buttress at the head of the stairs would give way and leave us to smother to death in utter darkness, and two, that a misstep would send me slithering down into the pit amidst a spawn of snakes, lizards and bats. I was tremendously relieved when Durrell, after much persuasion, consented to abandon the descent. I was thankful that I was first now instead of last. When we reached the surface I was in a cold sweat and mentally still going through the motion of kicking off the demons who were trying to drag me back into the horror-laden mire. Thinking back on it now, after a lapse of months, I honestly believe that I would rather be shot than forced to descend that staircase alone. In fact, I think I would die of heart failure before ever reaching the bottom.

  We had now to go through Argos, which I had only seen from the distance before, and over the mou
ntains to Tripolis. To rise from the lush Argive plain to the first tier of mountain ranges is a dramatic experience of another order. The road is fairly narrow, the curves sharp and perilous, the drop precipitous. Buses travel over this road, driven it would seem by maniacs, for the Greek, as I have said before, is by nature reckless and foolhardy. The clouds were gathering for a storm and we had only begun to cross the broken spine that lay ahead. The question in our minds was—would the brakes hold out? We asked ourselves that while straddling an overhanging ledge on a hairpin turn, waiting jitteringly for a bus to pass without grazing our fenders. Finally, rolling around the edge of a huge soup tureen which Durrell assured me was Arcady, it began to pour and as it increased an icy wind, chill as the hand of death, smote us full force. Meanwhile, juggling the loose wheel with the dexterity of a mountebank, Durrell expatiated on the merits of Daphnis and Chloë. The rain was coming in from the sides and back, the engine began to snort and chug, the windshield wipers stopped functioning, my hands were frozen and the water was dripping off my hat and down my back. I was scarcely in a mood to hear about Daphnis and Chloë I was thinking, on the contrary, how comfortable it would be standing on that slippery staircase at Mycenae.

  Once over the top of the range we could see the broad plateau on which Tripolis rests. Suddenly the rain ceased and a rainbow appeared, the most heartening, frivolous, gamboling rainbow I have ever seen, to be followed shortly by a second one, both of which seemed within our grasp and yet always tantalizingly out of reach. We chased them at breakneck speed down the long winding ravines that lead to the level of the plateau.

  We had lunch at a marvelous hotel, drank some more wine, shook ourselves like dogs and started off again in the direction of Sparta. It started to rain again, a torrential downpour which, with brief interruptions, was to continue for three days steadily. If I had to do the trip again I would ask for nothing better than another such downpour. The whole countryside was magically transformed by the tawny flood which created lakes and rivers of spectacular beauty. The land became more and more Asiatic in appearance, enhancing the sense of voyage and heightening our already keen expectations. As we came within view of the valley of the Eurotas the rain ceased and the soft wind from the south brought a warmth and fragrance which was distinctly pleasurable. To the right of the long Spartan plain extended the snow-capped range of the Taygetos which runs unbroken right to the tip of the peninsula. The fragrance of the oranges grew more and more powerful as we approached Sparta. It was about four in the afternoon when we entered the city. The principal hotel, which covered almost a square block, was full up. We had to walk about for an hour or so before we could find rooms. Durrell thought it a wretched place; I found it quite the contrary. It is true, there is nothing very ancient about the appearance of Sparta; it is probably no better than Corinth, and yet, probably because it is a meridional town, it seemed more cheerful, more animated and more alluring to me than Corinth. It has a vulgar, pushing, somewhat aggressive air, as though it had been influenced by the return of Americanized Greeks. We were of course immediately spotted as English and greeted in English at every turn, a practice which the English abhor but which an American like myself is not over-sensitive about. As a matter of fact I rather enjoy these casual greetings, being avidly curious always about the explorations of my fellow men, and particularly the Greeks who have a genius for penetrating to the most remote and outlandish places. What Durrell could not comprehend, never having been to America, is that the uncouth language and manners of these too friendly Greeks are thoroughly familiar, natural and acceptable to the American, having been acquired solely through contact with the native American. The Greek is not naturally thus; he is, according to my experience, soft-spoken, gentle and considerate. I saw in these Spartans the traces of the very things which I deplore in my own countrymen; I felt like congratulating them, individually and collectively, upon their good sense in returning to their native land.

  Having some time to kill before dinner we took a spin out to Mystras, the Byzantine village whose ruins are the chief attraction for visitors to Sparta. The boulder-studded bed of the Eurotas had not yet become the swirling cataract which it would be on the morrow. It was now a rather swift, icy stream darting like a black snake through its shallow, gleaming bed. For some reason or other we did not enter the ruins, but sat in the car looking out over the broad plain. On the way back we passed a friend of Durrell’s—without stopping. The greeting impressed me as most nonchalant and casual. “What’s the matter,” I inquired, “are you on the outs with him?” Durrell seemed surprised by my remark. No, he wasn’t on the outs with the fellow—what made me think so? “Well, isn’t it a bit unusual to run into an old friend in an odd corner of the world like this?” I asked. I don’t remember the exact words he used in answer to this but substantially they were these: “What would we do with an Englishman here? They’re bad enough at home. Do you want to spoil our holiday?” His words set me to meditating. In Paris, I recalled, I had never been keen to meet an American. But that was because I considered Paris my home and at home, however mistaken the idea may be, one feels that he has a right to be rude, intolerant and unsociable. But away from home, especially in an utterly strange place, I have always felt good about running into a com-patriot, even though he might prove to be an incurable bore. In fact, once out of familiar bounds, boredom and enmity and prejudice usually cease with me. If I were to encounter my worst enemy, in Samarkand, let us say, I am certain I would go up to him and hold out my hand. I would even put up with a little insult and injury in order to win his good graces. I don’t know why, except perhaps that just being alive and breathing in some different part of the world makes enmity and intolerance seem the absurd things which they are. I remember a meeting with a Jew who detested me in America, because he considered me an anti-Semite. We had encountered one another in a railway station in Poland after a lapse of several years. The moment he laid eyes on me his hatred vanished. I not only felt glad to see him again but eager to make amends for having, whether rightly or wrongly, wittingly or unwittingly, inspired his hostility. Had I met him in New York, where we had formerly known each other, it is highly improbable that our reactions would have been the same. The reflection, I admit, is a sad commentary on human limitations. It gives rise to even worse reflections, such as for example, the stupidity which permits rival factions to go on fighting one another even when confronted with a common enemy.

  Back in town, seated in a suffocating café of railway station proportions, we were again greeted by a friend, a Greek this time, an official of some sort whom Durrell had known in Patras. He was soon gotten rid of in polite, friendly fashion. No injury was intended, I am certain, for Durrell is if anything un-English in this respect, yet somehow I felt as if we were building a wall of ice around ourselves. If it had been London or New York I would have felt annoyed by the noisy gaiety of the crowd, but being in Sparta I was intensely interested in this Christmas atmosphere. Had I been alone I would undoubtedly have introduced myself to some congenial-looking group and participated in the merriment, however idiotic it may have been. But the English don’t do that; the English look on and suffer because of their inability to let go. My remarks unfortunately give a wholly false picture of Durrell who is normally the most easy-going, amiable, jovial, forthright and outright fellow imaginable. But Christmas is a morbid day for sensitive Anglo-Saxons and driving a dilapidated car over dangerous roads in the rain doesn’t help to put one back on velvet. Myself I have never known what it is to pass a merry Christmas. For the first time in my life I was ready for it—in Sparta. But it was not to be. There was only one thing to do—eat and go to bed. And pray that the rain would let up by morning.

  Durrell, whom I could see now was caving in with fatigue, refused to look about for a restaurant. We walked out of the café and down into a smoky cellar which was cold and damp. A radio was going full blast with triple amplifiers, megaphones, cowbells and dinner horns. To add to Durrell’s discomfitu
re the program was from a German broadcasting station which was bombarding us with melancholy Christmas carols, lying reports of German victories, moth-eaten Viennese waltzes, broken-down Wagnerian arias, snatches of demented yodeling, blessings for Herr Hitler and his wretched gang of murderers, et cetera. To cap it all the food was abominable. But the lights were splendiferous! In fact, the illumination was so brilliant that the food began to look hallucinatingly enticing. To me at least it was really beginning to look like Christmas—that is to say, sour, moth-eaten, bilious, crapulous, worm-eaten, mildewed, imbecilic, pusillanimous and completely gaga. If a drunken Greek had come running in with a cleaver and begun chopping off our hands I would have said “Bravo! Merry Christmas to you, my gay little man!” But the only drunken Greek I saw was a little fellow at the next table who suddenly turned very white and without a word of warning puked up a heaping dishful of bright vomit and then quietly lowered his heavy head into it with a dull splash. Again I could scarcely blame Durrell for being disgusted. By this time his nerves were on edge. Instead of leaving immediately we remained to carry on a foolish discussion about the relative merits of various peoples. Crossing the square with its quaint arcades a little later, in a fine drizzle, Sparta seemed even more appealing to me than at first blush. It seemed very like Sparta, is what I thought—which is a meaningless phrase and yet exactly what I mean. Sparta, when I had thought about it previously, had always appeared in my mind as a very blue and white hamlet tucked away like some forgotten outpost in the midst of a fertile plain. If you think about it at all, Sparta must give rise to an image exactly the contrary of Athens. In fact, the whole Peloponnesus seems inevitably to awaken a suggestion of notness. Against the brilliant, diamond-pointed Attica one posits an obstinate sloth which resists not for any good reason but for the perverted pleasure of resisting. Rightly or wrongly, Sparta stands out in the mind’s eye as an image of cantankerous, bovine righteousness, a foul behemoth of virtue, adding nothing to the world despite its advanced eugenic ideals. This image now comes to rest in the mud, sleepy as a turtle, contented as a cow, useless as a sewing machine in a desert. You can like Sparta now because, after centuries of obsolescence, it is no longer a menace to the world. It is now exactly the quaint, rather ugly, rather shabbily attractive hamlet which you imagined it to be. Being neither disillusioned nor undeceived you can accept it for what it is, glad that it is neither more nor less than it seems. Our own Faulkner could settle down and write a huge book about its negative aspects, its un-thisness and its not-thatness. In the rain, in the morbid gaiety of a Byzantine hangover, I saw the one positive fact about it, that it is, that it is Sparta, and being Sparta therefore Greek, which is sufficient in itself to redeem all the antithetical anomalies of the Peloponnesus. Inwardly, I confess, I felt perversely gay about Sparta for it had at last revealed to me the Englishman in Durrell, the least interesting thing about him, to be sure, but an element not to be overlooked. At the same time I was aware that never in my life had I felt so thoroughly American, which is a curious fact and perhaps not devoid of significance. All of which, anyhow, presented itself to the consciousness as a long-forgotten Q.E.D. out of the Euclidian history of the world.