Лоренс Даррелл - Prospero's Cell

Zarian sits down upon the earth ledge outside a cottage to mop his silver head. Through the open door one can see one of those strange interiors: a huge carved bed which takes up nearly the whole room, with the ikons of the saints at its head, and on the nail above it the green marriage wreath. 'The Corfiots expend all their decorative talent upon their beds,' says Zarian cynically; 'shall I tell you why? It is not because the bed is the place where they get most pleasure out of life — but because it is the only article in the house which by law is not seizable for debt.'

The dance has changed now to a slower and more stately tempo. The circle begins to wheel. The circle of chance. The wheel of fate. The boy in white is still dancing before the Gastouri girl. She is smiling in a silly tranced way, like a hypnotized bird, as she clutches the handkerchief.

'Making love, marrying, having children and dying,'says Zarian again, addressing nobody but himself. 'Is there no escape from the circle at all?'

Nicholas is upon us with drinks now as the twilight sets in. A priest is examining my sandals with admiration. A rather goodlooking villager is making over-friendly remarks to N. who is replying in her bad Greek as best she can.

Theodore, to everyone's surprise, has taken off his coat, and clad in braces and black boots has entered the circle to dance. A cheer goes up. His blond beard flashes in the waning sunlight. Hand on hip he does a few hesitating measures, and then suddenly transfixed by the rhythm begins to dance very well. The women are enchanted by this blond bearded man. 'An Englishman,' they cry. 'No. No,' Yells Father Nicholas hoarsely from under the trees. 'A Greek by God. A Greek from Thessaly.' Subdued applause. Head cocked to the music Theodore dances, looking more than ever like an Ionian faun. 'But he is like an Englishman,' cry the women. The voices of men under the trees chorus back: 'No. He is a Greek in spite of the beard.' Father Nicholas gives the Abbot of Myrtiotissa a stately dig in the ribs. 'Go on and dance, good father,' he says, 'you have a beard too. Dance.' The Abbot giggles coyly. He is rather afraid of the fierce old man. 'Dance,' yells Nicholas with more abandon. 'All you priests ought to dance.' And he gives him a resounding smack upon the back and spills his wine. A policeman absently fires his pistol in the air for the sheer fun of it. A donkey breaks loose and ambles through the crowd with two small shrieking children in the panniers on its back. One of the monks mounts it and drives it back to the tree with shrill cries. A fresh round of wine appears from nowhere and gruff healths ring out, mingled with belches.

Theodore reappears mildly and says that it is time to start. We have a long walk to make yet before we reach the town. 'Doctor, that was well done,' cries Father Nicholas in ringing tones. Theodore smartly sidesteps to avoid the approbation of Father Nicholas's palm which at this stage in the feast falls heavily on friend and enemy alike. 'With dancing like that you should win many beautiful women.' Saying good-bye, we take the road and climb slowly to the next hillock, from which the dance seems remote and mystical — like a coloured heart beating there under the trees. At this range the violins and guitars are inaudible. Only the little bump of the drum still sounds on in our ears.

Turning towards the east we walk silently down the scented road in the deep dust. 'I do not think, Doctor,' says Zarian, 'that the circular dances have anything to do with the stars. I am sure this kind of dancing originated out of some purely practical impulse or occupation. Now I suggest that the circular dances are really symbolic representations of the threshing floor, that they are grain dances. Again, in the dance known as the Trata you can see that it is based upon the fishermen pulling at a net.'

Theodore is not disposed to quarrel about this interpretation. We walk down the long winding road into the valley in silence. At a corner we come upon a pedlar asleep in the ditch with his hat over his face. Beside him lies a pack full of trinkets; blue beads against the evil eye, amulets, and tracts about the works of the Saint. He snores wonderfully in the deep grass, with one arm thrown in abandon over his face and the other stretched out to its full length. 'Ah, sweet content,' says Zarian. 'We always miss you. We think too much. What are the odds on all this speculation we indulge in if for once we cannot go to a dance, drink a glass of wine, and fall asleep in the ditch like a Greek god on holiday?'

'Or wake in the morning with lice in our hair and a hangover,' says Theodore severely.

'It will be wonderful to have a bath,' says N.

'And dinner. And then to walk across to the open-air cinema where we shall see The Sign of the Cross — this ancient film about the life of Christ, which has caused such a stir in the island. The ecclesiastical authorities are trying to have it banned.'

'It is not so much the film,' says Theodore, 'as the fact that the Corfu daily newspaper carried on its news-page the headline: CHRIST TO APPEAR IN CORFU. The general public grew quite alarmed by the idea.'

The moon is rising.

8.8.38

Bocklin has walked over the hills from Metsovo, and arrived in the island. In our Paris days he was a seedy blond youth, so that we hardly recognize the tough-looking specimen of the new Germany who stands on our doorstep. He has with him a number of his own photographs and drawings which are full of life and sensibility. We spend the week-end together at the Count's country house, where he gets a chance to unload his treasury of demotic songs and fables. He speaks Greek perfectly. Zarian and Theodore are captivated by his manners and his gaiety, and the way he sings to the guitar.

In the morning while the Count and I are looking for swallows' nests under the eaves we enter his room and see a bundle of accurate architectural drawings of the main harbour and fortress.

9.8.38

Riding south from Paleocastrizza in a fair wind we come to Ermones beach just before dawn; and swimming ashore in the grey half light we build in gleaming sand the figure of a gigantic recumbent Aphrodite. N. and Veronica model the face while Dorothy and I shape the vast thighs. We give her a crown of pebbles for pearls and a belt made from withes of sapling, like snakes. She lies staring at the lightening sky, her mouth open in an agonizing shriek, being born. While the sea creeps up and gnaws her long rigid fingers.

By first sunlight we are away again, wondering what the wideeyed fisher-boys will make of this great relief in sand. Aphrodite rising from the foam.

15.8.38

Theodore says that in the mountains, where shepherds must pasture their flocks half the year round in the fastnesses far from any village, it is customary to have a ewe instead of a wife. Far from betraying any unusual sensitivity to a practice so well known, each shepherd has his own favourite ewe, which he tricks out with bells and tassels according to his fancy. This ewe is known as the favourite one. The Greek word is [Greek].

He records a conversation with one of the shepherds in Epirus which carries the authentic Holborn Empire note of cynicism. 'What point is there', asked Theodore in his academic manner, 'in having this ridiculous practice?' (He was referring to the trinkets which adorned one of the chosen ewes.)

The shepherd thought for a moment and then replied, as one who offers an opinion verified by long personal experience: 'From every point of view they are superior to our wives. But above all they do not talk.'

20.9.38

Riding southward in the spluttering bus from Kouloura to Ypso at the end of a bright September you can feel the altered accent in things — for the vintage is beginning. Everywhere the turtle — doves are calling in the arbours and orchards; and washed by the brilliant sunlight the whole coast glitters and expands under the swinging blows of the waves. The bay is alive with sails glowing in their many colours, and the atmosphere is so clear that one can see, miles away, the distinct figures of friends holding sails and tillers; my brother's boat Dugong lies just off Agni, heading for the house. I can see his characteristic pose, legs stretched out, head on one side and eyes closed against the smoke of his cigarette. He has stowed his guns in their leather cases under the half-decking where the faithful Spiro sits scanning the horizon for something to shoot at. Dugong slaps and yaws as she meets the small race of water thrown back, yellow and curdled, from the Butrinto Estuary. He will be sorry to miss us on his way up to the northern lake Antiniotissa ('Enemy of youth') where he is after quail and woodcock.