Lawrence Durrell - The Dark Labyrinth

Baird skirted the main building, struck by a sudden idea. The sea-wall ended in a small white balcony and a pergola of grapevine. Here lay the Abbot fast asleep in an old deck-chair, his noble beard lying upon his chest, his brown wrinkled hands with their short nails lying folded in his lap. His stovepipe hat stood beside him on the ground, and his feet were stretched out, one on either side of it, clad in heavy hob-nailed boots. Baird came up quietly and sat down upon the white seawall, facing him, looking eagerly at that venerable and innocent old face. Here he sat, waiting for the Abbot to wake, and feeling himself sinking insensibly into a doze, little by little; sinking through the floors of thought and action to that level in which one becomes suddenly one with the passive, accepting sea and air. It was as if all the contradictions and questions which had been filling his mind had suddenly been spilled into this broad and gracious quietness. He felt his eyes closing and his head falling upon his breast.

Once or twice the Abbot stirred in his sleep and seemed to be on the point of waking, but each time he settled himself deeper into the honey-gold quietness of the afternoon, into his own contented slumber. At last, when Baird was almost asleep himself, the old man spoke, without opening his eyes. “Well, my dear Baird,” he said; and now he looked up. “We all knew you would come back. It was simply a question of when.”

He rose groaning from his chair and they embraced tenderly. Then he sat down again and closed his eyes for a moment, before taking a packet of cheap cigarettes from the folds of his stained gown and lighting up. He yawned prodigiously and said: “I was aware that someone was sitting silently before me. I thought perhaps I was being covered by a revolver. You see? We haven’t shaken off our old habits yet. I just had a peep through my lashes to see what was what. Have you noticed that it is quite impossible for one to murder a sleeping man?”

“I knew you’d seen me,” said Baird.

“And so, my dear fellow,” said the Abbot, his face wrinkled shrewdly into a smile, “you have come back at last to revisit the scene of so many adventures.” He got up and put his arms round Baird, giving him a great bear-hug. Then he brushed the ash out of his beard and stretched again, yawning. “I cannot think of anything better,” he said.

“And what’s going on in the great world?” he asked, with that typical Greek passion for news from abroad.

“It is all exactly as you prophesied.”

“The nations are quarrelling?”

“Yes.”

“I knew it. About possessions?”

“Pipe-lines, spheres of influence, trade.…”

“Did you expect anything different?”

Baird saw once more the shrewd hawk-like cut of the Abbot’s features, the curly rings of his beard around his wry mouth, and remembered those endless conversations with which they whiled away their inaction and solitude on the White Mountains. “I did,” he admitted at last. “I thought everything would be different once the basic revolution in property had been accomplished. I was wrong.”

“False premises, false conclusions,” said the Abbot John, and passed his hand slowly through his great beard, brushing away the cigarette ash which had a habit of clinging to it. “But console yourself. You are not the only person who is wrong. Wait until I introduce you to Brother Mark. Brother Mark is one of us — probably the most diligent. He believes that it is we who are building the new world — the new heaven and earth; here in this monastery. He believes that the invisible propaganda of our lives here is somewhere registered to our credit — to the credit of all humanity. Now surely that is just as bad as any business man? It proves that Brother Mark has not learned his own business yet. Virtue, and the practice of it, is its own end.”

“That is why”, said Baird, “you spend the intervals in business? You must be a rich man by now, both spiritually and financially.”

The Abbot looked slightly discountenanced. He coughed and examined the sky for a moment. “It is true”, he said in a faraway voice, glancing at Baird out of the corner of his eye, “that I am engaged in rather a profitable business at the moment.”

“It’s causing alarm in London.”

“What?” said the Abbot. “Do they speak of it in London? Is it so widely known?”

Baird could see that in his mind’s eye he was seeing a picture of London — a town slightly bigger than Megara — in which the citizens spent the day sitting on chairs outside their front doors and gossiping; an occasional shepherd passed with his goat, and sold the milk direct from the udder to the customer, milking it into any receptacle that was handy and receiving his payment at once; occasionally a lord in a top-hat passed in a car. “So they speak of me in London?” repeated the Abbot, registering something mid-way between pride and alarm. “What do they say?”

“That guns are necessary for revolutions.”

The Abbot giggled and hid his face in his sleeve. “Are you hungry?” he said, and, without waiting for an answer, clapped his hands twice and shouted: “Calypso.”

A small girl came round the corner of the house with quick lithe steps. “Bring whatever we have to eat. Your godfather is here,” said the old man. She embraced Baird rather selfconsciously and brought them food; some bread, black olives, onions and wine.

“Will you stay long?” asked the Abbot John, obviously working out in his mind the estimated time of arrival for a shipment of smuggled goods.

“I am at Cefalû,” he said, “staying with Axelos. Perhaps I shall stay some time. I am so glad to be back.” It was on the tip of his tongue to say something of Böcklin, to mention his visit to the mountain hideout, but the Abbot had embarked on a new line of thought. “All the world”, he said, “is coming to Cefalû. It seems there is something wonderful about the statues and things we found in the caves. Now here is something I don’t understand.” He paused.

“What?” said Baird.

“Old Axelos,” said the Abbot, “is he right in the head? He wishes me to pretend that I helped him carve some of the things in there. What do you make of that? He has given me a hundred pounds to swear it, and not to tell anyone that we discovered the statues together.” He stamped his foot. “There,” he said. “I’ve done it again. It was supposed to be a secret. First I accept his money and then I tell someone about it.” He struck his forehead twice with the knuckles of a huge gnarled fist. “The cursed garrulity of us monks — it is sinful. May the Creator punish us all.” He made Baird promise that he would not repeat the story. The Abbot relaxed and said: “But, after all, why should I not tell you everything — you are one of my oldest friends? Why should I not tell you also that that peasant woman Katina — he is married to her? I married them myself. Then why does he keep her as a servant in the house and never give her her dues as a wife? No, there’s something wrong with him.”

They walked together up and down the still courtyard. Baird admired the new lamp in the chapel, the pots of basil, and the vegetable patch. The three other monks who shared the old man’s monastic solitude were asleep. “I am very happy,” said the old man. “So very happy. I have never spent my time to better advantage. I see no one. I think of nothing. I pray a little and sleep a lot. As for the guns you mentioned, I will tell you about it so that you can reassure the citizens of London. There is no thought of revolution here. It is business only. I buy them cheap from the Jews in Palestine and sell them at a profit to the Jews of Tripoli. We are happily placed for communications here and recently some of the bravest seamen have come back to their villages. It is not a great profit, but it is a profit — and, of course, it is always a pleasure to make a profit from the Jews. Are you satisfied?”