The Greek Passion by Nikos Kazantzakis

Author:Nikos Kazantzakis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon and Schuster

The Rising Path

THE widow’s blood revived the fury of the Agha. He saw red; he was still holding the knife. His arm was running with blood to the elbow. He called Hussein:

“Go down to the cell, take Manolios and lead him to the plane tree. Sound the trumpet, let the giaours come and watch him. Bring Youssoufaki out under the plane tree, so that he may see, too. Murderer or not, hang the wretch. Bring me the whip, I’ll go down alone; I’ll smash their bones. That’ll relieve me! Possibly I’ll hang them this morning, all five of them, one after the other. Guilty or not! I’ll hang them all, all! Why should they live, when my Youssoufaki is stretched out there? Run!”

His eyes again filled with tears. Turning, he placed the bloody knife among the roses on the body of Youssoufaki.

“Take it, my Youssoufaki,” he said.

He kneeled down, leaned against the little iron bedstead, and began to smoke. He shut his eyes. Through his mind passed fields, mountains, villages. He was on the road again, making again the journey from Lycovrissi to Smyrna. Now in a carriage, now on muleback, now in that devil’s machine brought in by the people of the West, curse them! One morning, miracle! Palaces, mosques, bazaars, thousands of people, music, gardens, the sea! Then all vanished. There remained only a café by the waterside. Its doors were open. It was hot. The sun was setting. Seated in a circle on mats, carefully washed aghas with their clean clothes, their narghiles, their black-dyed mustaches. In the center, throned on a high stool, what does the Agha of Lycovrissi discover as he comes in? Youssoufaki singing: “Dounia tabir, rouya tabir, aman, aman!” The café, too, vanished, with the aghas, the mats and the narghiles. Of all Smyrna there remained only him and his Youssoufaki. The one entreating on his knees, the other simpering and fluttering, munching mastic the while.

Hussein entered, bringing the whip; he placed it on his master’s knees. The Agha lowered his head and gazed out under heavy lids without a frown. Where should he go? Why leave the place where he is, by the shore of the sea, with his Youssoufaki? He shut his eyes and went back to Smyrna.

Outside, the guard’s trumpet rang out martially. The sun was already low, but the heat persisted. Not a leaf stirred. Motionless, defenceless, bunched in the sun, the village scorched.

One by one the doors opened. Hearing the trumpet, the villagers assembled around the plane tree. Some, the dour ones, were silent. Others, overexcited, came and went, arguing. Did Manolios kill him or did he not? Is he or isn’t he a criminal?

“Never trust sleeping water!” said one of them, shaking his head. “I was always suspicious of Manolios. First with the widow, now with Youssoufaki. Ugh! disgusting! the Devil take him!”

The old beadle arrived, his tongue hanging out. He was the bearer of terrible news, and this rejoiced his heart:

“Was just passing the Agha’s door,

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