ΕΝΑΣ ΠΡΩΤΟΤΥΠΟΣ ΑΛΧΗΜΙΣΤΗΣ - AΝ INNOVATIVE ALCHEMIST

 

ΕΝΑΣ ΑΛΧΗΜΙΣΤΗΣ Παύλος Νιρβάνας Ἕνας φτωχὸς διάβολος ἐνεφανίσθη μίαν ἡμέραν εἰς κἄποιο γραφεῖον κομίζων ὅλα τὰ ρίγη τοῦ χειμῶνος. Ἕνα κουρελιασμένο πουκάμισο ἐξετέλει ἐπὶ τῆς θλιβερᾶς του ὑπάρξεως καθήκοντα γελέκου, σακκακιοῦ καὶ παλτοῦ ταὐτοχρόνως. − Δὲ ζητάω ἐλεημοσύνη, κύριοι. Κανένα παληὸ παλτὸ ἂν ἔχετε νὰ μὲ οἰκονομήσετε − εἶπε πρὸς τοὺς ἀνθρώπους τοῦ γραφείου − θὰ κάνετε μεγάλο μυστήριο. Βγῆκα ἀπ' τὸ νοσοκομεῖο, δὲν μπορῶ νὰ ἐργασθῶ καὶ θὰ ξαναπουντιάσω ἀπ' τὸ κρῦο. Οἱ ἄνθρωποι τοῦ γραφείου, στοὺς ὁποίους εἶχαν μεταδοθῇ τὰ ρίγη τοῦ φτωχοῦ διαβόλου, ἐκυττάχθηκαν, μὲ συγκίνησιν, ἀναζητοῦντες μίαν λύσιν τοῦ τραγικοῦ προβλήματος. Ἐπὶ τέλους, κἄποιος ἀπ' αὐτοὺς πρόεβη εἰς τὴν φιλάνθρωπον χειρονομίαν. − Πέρασε τὸ μεσημέρι ἀπὸ τὸ σπίτι − εἶπε στὸν τουρτουρίζοντα ἀλήτην, δίνοντάς του τὴν ὁδὸν καὶ τὸν ἀριθμὸν − νὰ σοῦ δώσω ἐγὼ ἕνα παλτό. Δὲν τώχω γιὰ πέταμα ἀκόμα, ἀλλὰ σὲ λυπᾶμαι, κακομοίρη. Ὁ φτωχὸς διάβολος ὑπεδέχθη τὴν χειρονομίαν μὲ εὐχὰς καὶ εὐλογίας καὶ οἱ συνάδελφοι τοῦ δωρητοῦ δὲν εὕρισκαν λέξεις νὰ τοῦ ἐκφράσουν τὴν ἐπιδοκιμασίαν των. − Αὐτὸ εἶνε ψυχικό! Ἔσωσες ἕναν ἄνθρωπον… Ἂς ἀκούσωμεν τώρα τὴν συνέχειαν ἀπὸ τὸν εὐγενῆ φιλάνθρωπον. − Λοιπόν, κύριοι, προχθὲς μ' ἐκεῖνο τὸ τρομερὸ κρῦο, εἶδα αὐτὸν τὸν κατεργάρη, στὸν ὁποῖον εἶχα χαρίσει ἕνα παλτό, ποὺ θὰ μποροῦσε νὰ μὲ ὑπηρετήσῃ ἀξιόλογα μερικοὺς μῆνας ἀκόμα, τὸν εἶδα νὰ βγαίνῃ ἀπὸ μιὰ ταβέρνα… − Τὶ σημαίνει; τοῦ εἴπαμε. Ἐπειδὴ τοῦ χάρισες ἕνα παλτό, εἶχες τὴν ἀξίωσιν νὰ παραιτηθῇ κάθε ἄλλης παρηγορίας εἰς τὸν κόσμον αὐτόν; − Δὲν εἶχα τὴν ἀξίωσιν αὐτήν… μᾶς ἐξήγησεν. Ἀλλὰ τὸν εἶδα νὰ βγαίνῃ ἀπὸ τὴν ταβέρνα, χωρὶς παλτό. Περὶ αὐτοῦ πρόκειται. − Καὶ τί ἔγινε τὸ παλτό; − Μετεμορφώθη εἰς κρασί. Ἁπλούστατα ὁ φοβερὸς αὐτὸς ἀλχημιστὴς εἶχε τὴν τέχνην νὰ μετουσιώνῃ τὰ παλτὰ εἰς κρασί. Διότι, ὅπως ἔμαθα ἀργότερα, τρεῖς ἄλλοι φιλάνθρωποι τὸν εἶχαν ἐφοδιάσῃ τὴς ἡμέρες ἐκείνες μὲ παλτά. Καὶ ποιὸς ξέρει πόσοι ἄλλοι ἀκόμα. − Καὶ μετουσιώθησαν ὅλα εἰς κρασί; − Ὅλα! Μὲ τὴν συνεργασίαν, ἐννοεῖται, τῶν παλιατζήδων. Φυσικά, ὅταν τὸν εἶδα νὰ τουρτουρίζῃ πάλι, δὲν μπόρεσα νὰ κρατηθῶ. Τὸν ἐκάλεσα καὶ τοῦ ἔδωκα νὰ καταλάβῃ ὅτι εἶνε ἕνας παλῃάνθρωπος, ἀνάξιος νὰ τὸν λυπηθῇ κανείς.  «Τί τὤκανες τὸ παλτό;» τὸν ἠρώτησα μὲ μόλις συγκρατουμένην ἀγανάκτησιν.  Καὶ τὶ νομίζετε πῶς μοῦ ἀπήντησε;  −«Τὸ φοράω…».  «Δὲ ντρέπεσαι νὰ λὲς ἀκόμα, πῶς τὸ φορᾶς;» τοῦ λέω. Καὶ τὶ μοῦ λέει; −  «Τὸ φοράω ἀπὸ μέσα. Ἄλλοι, βλέπετε, φοροῦν τὸ παλτό τους ἀπόξω καὶ ἄλλοι ἀπὸ μέσα. Ὁ σκοπὸς εἶνε νὰ ζεσταθῇ κανείς…». Πῶς σᾶς φαίνεται ἡ ἀπάντησίς του; − Πολὺ λογικὴ καὶ πολὺ εἰλικρινὴς …, τοῦ εἴπαμε. Ἔτσι ἢ ἀλλιῶς τὸ παλτό σου ἐξεπλήρωσε τὸν προορισμόν του. Θὰ ἦτο ἀσυγχώρητος ὁ φτωχὸς αὐτὸς διάβολος, ἂν ἀντὶ νὰ μετουσιώνῃ τὰ παλτὰ τῶν φιλανθρώπων εἰς οἶνον τὰ μετουσίωνεν εἰς ὕδωρ.

AN ALCHEMIST   By Pavlos Nirvanas*   Rendered by Vassilis C. Militsis                      One day, a poor devil appeared in an office bringing with him all the chills of winter. A tattered shirt on his sad being performed the functions of a vest, jacket and overcoat at the same time. “I’m not begging for charity, gentlemen,” he addressed to the people in the office; “I you can spare me an old coat, you will perform a sacrament. I’ve just got out of hospital; I can’t work like this, or I’ll catch my death.”     The people in the office, who had felt the poor devil’s chills into their bones, looked at one another, stirred by the man’s predicament, and were trying to find a solution to his tragic problem. Finally, one of them proceeded to a charitable act. “Drop in at my house at noon,” he said to the shivering tramp and gave him his address; “I’ll give you an overcoat. I can still use it, but I’m sorry for you, poor man!” The poor devil received the act with gratitude, bestowing upon the donor wishes and blessings, while the latter’s colleagues could not find the right words to express their approval. “That’s a charitable deed! You’ve saved a fellow human being.” However, let us listen to what that kind philanthropist said some days later: “Well, gentlemen, the day before yesterday, in the bitter cold, I saw the rogue, to whom I’d given away a coat that could have been of worthwhile use for some more months, come out of a tavern…” “So what?” his colleagues remarked: “Because you gave him an overcoat, do you expect of him to give up every little pleasure in this world?” “I make no pretensions to such a thing,” he explained. “But I saw him come out of the tavern without an overcoat. That’s what I mean.” “And what happened to the overcoat?” “It was transformed into wine. This terrific alchemist merely possessed the art of transmuting overcoats into wine; for, as I later found out, three more philanthropists, and who knows how many more, had supplied him with overcoats those days.” “And did he change them all into wine?” “All! Second-hand dealers having given a hand, naturally. When I saw him shivering again, I couldn’t help addressing him. I made him understand that he was a scoundrel, unworthy of pity. ‘What have you done with the overcoat?’ I asked him barely trying to curb my indignation. And what do you think he answered? ‘I’m wearing it…’ ‘Aren’t you ashamed to be lying so blatantly?’ I said. And what did he reply? ‘I’m wearing inside. Some people wear their coats outside and others inside; it’s how one intends to warm himself…’ What do you think of his answer?” “It highly stands to reason and is very candid…” they said; “in any case, your coat has fulfilled its purpose. This poor devil would be unforgivable if, instead of transmuting the philanthropists’ coats into wine, he transformed them into water.”   *Pavlos Nirvanas is the pen name of poet, short story writer and essayist Petros K. Apostolidis. His father, Konstantinos A. Koumiotis was a trader from Skopelos, while his mother, Marietta I. Ralli, came from Chios. The author was born in Mariupol, Ukraine in 1866 and died in Athens in 1937. He graduated from the Athens University (1883–1890). In 1928 he became a member of the Athens Academy of Arts and Sciences.

Η ΚΑΚΙΑ ΜΗΤΡΙΑ - THE WICKED STEPMOTHER

 

Η ΜΗΤΡΙΑ   Ανδρέας Καρκαβίτσας Είναι κάπου είκοσι χρόνια κλειστά. Είκοσι χρόνια στο μνήμα το άραχνο ο Βασίλης· άλλα τόσα στο μνήμα των ζωντανών, στη φυλακή εγώ. Τώρα με τρώγ’ η ψείρα κι η κακομοιριά μα θυμούνται ακόμη στο χω­ριό τα καλά του Θανάση Βρυσώτη και δείχνουν τα σπίτια του στους ξένους. Αχ, τι χρόνια και κείνα! τι ζωή βασανισμένη στους τέσσερους τοίχους της φυλακής, στους χίλιους μέσα και χωρίς συντροφιά!... Μα τι λέω χωρίς συντροφιά; Είχα το καποτάκι του παιδιού μου, που κάθε ώρα ψήλωνε βουνό μπροστά μου κι έδειχνε το Βασίλη με τα βόλια στο ριζάφτι. Τι λέω χωρίς συντροφιά; Είχα στα στήθη μου κάποιο πράμα που σφύριζε βουβά κι αδιάκοπα σαν άγρυπνη κουρούνα: φονιά! φονιά!... Και σαν σφάλιζα τα έρμα μου τα μάτια κι έγερνα το κεφάλι να πάρω λίγον ύπνο, έβλεπα τη Ζωίτσα με τα νυφιάτικα και τα λυτά μαλλιά της, χλωμή καθώς ήταν την ώρα που την απιθώσαμε στο μνήμα, να μου φωνάζει δυνατά: - Σκυλί! τι έκαμες το παιδί μας; Πού είν’ ο αρρεβώνας που σ’ άφηκα;... Καταραμένος να είσαι!... Και γω τιναζόμουν απάνω σαν το λάφι και γονα­τιστός της γύρευα συχώρεση. Όχι! δεν ήθελα να είμαι καταραμένος!... Λένε πως το χειρότερο κακό να κάμει, ο άνθρωπος, άμα μετανιώσει, άμα με τα δάκρυά του γεμίσει ένα δισκοπότηρο, ο Θεός τον συχωράει. Εγώ χιλιάδες, ναι, χιλιάδες δισκοπότηρα γέμισα από τότε! Και όμως, και όμως τι; Τ’ αγλύκαντο νερό δε θέλει να ξεπλύνει τα μαύρα γράμματα! Α, ναι, το πιστεύω· δίχως το θέλημα Θεού μήτε πουλί στο βρόχι. Ποιος ξέρει τι αμαρτίες είχα και με παιδεύουνε τώρα; Ποιος θυμά­ται, αν τότε, μέσα στα καλά μου, συλλογιζόμουνα κανένα: Ο πατέρας μου ήταν παπάς. Εμένα με είχε ανα­γνώστη κι έλεγα τον Απόστολο κάθε Κυριακή στην εκκλησιά του χωριού μας. Εκείνος, όταν ήταν παιδί, έκανε τα δικά του. Για τούτο εμένα που μ’ έβλεπαν από μικρό, ήσυχο και ταπεινό, έλεγαν οι χωριανοί: από ρόδο βγαίνει αγκάθι κι απ’ αγκάθι βγαίνει ρόδο. Ο πατέρας μου βιάστηκε να με παντρέψει. - Μπορεί να κλείσω καμιά μέρα τα μάτια και να μην ιδώ τις χαρές του γιου μου· έλεγε. Έξω απ’ αυτό ήθελε να με παντρέψει για να με κάμει παπά και να με αφήσει στο πόδι του σαν πεθάνει. Έτσι ούτε το σπίτι έχανε τ’ όνομά του, ούτε μας έπαιρνε άλλος στο χωριό τα πρωτάτα. Εγώ, σαν μου το είπε, δε δυσκολεύτηκα, γιατί μου έδινε γυναίκα της καρδιάς μου. Μα από την πρώτη μέρα, την ημέρα του γάμου, φάνηκε πως δεν ήταν με θέλημα Θεού. Το θυμούμαι τώρα κάποτε και σηκώνονται τα μαλλιά μου. Τρεις φορές τα στέφανα έπεσαν από της νύφης το κε­φάλι στο χώμα! Κακό σημάδι! Η άμοιρ’ η Ζωίτσα γύρισε και με κοίταξε με βλέμμα παραπονιάρικο, σαν να ήθελε από τη στιγμή του ταιριαμού μας, να μου θυμίσει την ώρα του παντοτινού χωρισμού. Κι έπειτα όταν έμπαινε σπίτι - ακούς, αδερφέ! - μέσα στη βιασύνη, ούτ’ ένα κομμάτι σίδερο δε βρέθηκε να βά­λουν στα πόδια της. Όλοι ένιωσαν πως το αντρόγυνο δεν ήταν στερεωμένο. Και να που έγινε αλήθεια! Απάνω στο χρόνο η Ζωίτσα πέθανε από τη γέννα... Κακομοίρα γυναίκα· η τύχη η δική μου σε συνεπήρε!... Ο κόσμος άρχισε αμέσως τα δικά του: - Κλαίω εκείνη που πέθανε νια και παρανιά· αμ’ τι; το Θανάση! Εκείνος ήταν τυχερός που έζησε το παιδί και θα κρατήσει την προίκα! έλεγαν. Μα δεν είν’ έτσι. Κλαίγε τον όποιου πεθάν’ η γυ­ναίκα και τ’ αφήσει και μικρό παιδί. Τι να κάμω; Πώς να τ’ αναθρέψω εκείνο το παιδί; Ήθελε βυζί· ήθελε συγύρισμα. Στο τέλος άκουσα τα λόγια των δικών μου και παντρεύτηκα πάλι. Μα κάλλιο να ’τρωγε το κεφάλι της η συμπεθέρα, που τα ’φτιασε να μπάσω την Ακριβή στο σπίτι μου. Φωτιά έπεσε αμέσως και μας έκαψε. Ακούς, αδερφέ, ν’ αλυχτήσει τη μάνα μου, όταν μπήκε νύφη! Τ’ άκου­σαν οι συμπεθέροι που το είπε: Χαμ, χαμ, πεθερά! - να μπω γω νοικοκυρά! Κι η δόλια μάννα μου πού το ήξερε να πάει να κρυφτεί; Νύφη, σου λέει, μπάζω δεν μπάζω οχιά! Και μήπως το βράδυ; Το βράδυ, η σκύλα, έκατσε κι έφαε. Ο κόσμος βούιζε; - Η νύφη του παπά έφαε, θαν τη φάει την παπαδιά. Κι αλήθεια· σε τρεις μήνες πέθανε η μάνα μου. Σε λίγο πάει απόκοντα κι ο πατέρας μου! Τώρα δεν απόμεινε άλλο ν’ αγαπάω στον κόσμο παρά ο Βασίλης, το παιδί της Ζωίτσας. Πόσα πέρασα όσο να τ’ αναθρέψω και κείνο!... Η Ακριβή από την ώρα που μπήκε στα σπίτι άρχισε δικό της λογα­ριασμό. Το παιδί τής καθότανε παλούκι στο μάτι· όλο με τα φου! και με το φου! το πήγαινε. Και μήπως μπορούσα να της μιλήσω; Μ’ έβανε μπροστά και πού να τα βγάλω με τη γλώσσα της! Δεν έκανα άλλο παρά να θυμούμαι τη συχωρεμένη τη Ζωίτσα και να κλαίω. Τι γλυκομίλητη! Τι ταπεινούλα γυναίκα!... Κι όσο θυμούμαι που έσπασα το πιάτο στο κεφάλι της μια μέρα. Ποιος ξέρει; Μπορεί από κείνο να πήγε παράκαιρα στο μνήμα, η δόλια! Μα τι κακή ψυχή και κείνη η Ακριβή! Φαινότανε από το πρόσωπο. Τα μαλλιά της ήταν χοντρά, άγρια και κόκκινα· τα μάτια της γαλάζια και τ’ ασπράδι τους κίτρινο, λες και είχε χρυσή· η μύτη της γυριστή ως τα χείλη και τα χείλη της φουσκωτά και μπλάβα σαν μελιτζάνα... Άμα θύμωνε, λύκος έμοιαζε. Ωχ, π’ ανάθεμά την! Μ’ έκαμε κι έγινα με όλο τον κόσμο οχτρός. Κάθε ήμερα σήκωνε τη γειτονιά στο ποδάρι. Κατάντησε το σπίτι μου να βγάλει το χειρότερο όνομα. Ο Θεός να φυλάει από τέτοια γυναίκα! Ωστόσο ο Βασίλης, άξενε κι ομόρφαινε. - Ε, να του ζήσει εκείνο το παιδί, έλεγαν οι χωριανοί. Σ’ ένα δυο χρόνια θαν το ’χει δεξί του χέρι. Και πώς έμοιαζε της μάνας του! σαν δυο σταλα­ματιές νερό. Άμα με κοίταζε με κείνα τα μεγάλα και μαύρα μαύρα μάτια του, μου φαινόταν πως είχα τη Ζωίτσα μπροστά μου. Έκαμα κι άλλα παιδιά με την Ακριβή, μα να ειπώ την αμαρτία μου, ούτε ήθελα να τα βλέπω. Σιχάθηκα τη μάννα, σιχάθηκα και τα παιδιά. Για κείνο κι η Ακριβή θύμωνε. - Κουρούνη! δεν τηράς και τ’ άλλα σου παιδιά! Δεν ξέρω τι βρίσκεις σ’ αυτό το τιποτένιο! έβριζε. Έτσι διάβαιναν τα χρόνια. Ο Βασίλης έφτασε δεκαπέντε χρονών· παιδί παλικάρι! Σου πάταγε δουλειά για τρία μεροκάματα. Μα η Ακριβή δεν έπαυε τις γρίνιες της. - Να σου ειπώ, Ακριβή, της λέω μια μέρα που έλειπε το παιδί. Τι έχεις και τρώγεσαι με το Βασίλη; Τώρα το παιδί μεγάλωσε· καταλαβαίνει την προσβολή. Έπειτα οι σπιούνοι δε λείπουν από τον τόπο. Μπορεί να το κάμουν να θυμώσει και να μας πετάξει όξ’ από το σπίτι! - Όξ’ από το σπίτι!... - Ναι· το σπίτι είναι της μάνας του. Τα χωρά­φια, τ’ αμπέλια, όλα της μάνας του είναι. Από σένα δεν πήρα τίποτα. - Δεν πήρες τίποτα, μα πήρες γυναίκα που δε σου ’πρεπε, μ’ έκοψε κείνη θυμωμένη. Ορίστε! μίλα της τώρα. - Όλα καλά τα λόγια που λες, γυναίκα· μ’ αν θυμώσει ο Βασίλης, μας πετάει όξω και περπατούμε γδυτοί, εμείς και τα παιδιά μας. Ωχ! σαν της είπα έτσι. Άναψ’ ο γιαλός και κάηκαν τα ψάρια. - Να πάρει το σπίτι! Να περπατήσουν γδυτά και πεινασμένα τα παιδιά μου! Τα φαρμακώνω! φώναξε η σκύλα. Εγώ τρόμαξα, καθώς την είδα έτσι. Κρύος ίδρω­τας μ’ έπιασε σαν άκουσα να ειπεί: τα φαρμακώνω! Μα τα λόγια μου έκαμαν τη δουλειά τους. Από τότε κλειδωνιά έβαλε στο στόμα της. - Βασίλη μου από δω - Βασίλη μου από κει, το πήγαινε. Έπαψε τις φωνές, έπαψε τις γρίνιες και άρχισε να καλοπιάνει και μένα... Πήγε η καρδιά στη θέση της. Α! δεν είναι άλλο καλύ­τερο από την ομόνοια μέσα στο σπίτι. - Δόξα να ’χει ο Θεός! έλεγα που ’φαγα γλυκό ψωμί. Και λησμόναγα τα παλιά μου τα βάσανα. Αχ! πού να ήξερα πως τα λόγια της ήταν γεμάτα φαρμάκι. Σε λίγο, σαν κατάλαβε πως μ’ έφερε στα νερά της, άρχισε να μου καλαναρχά τα λόγια που της είπα εγώ πρωτύτερα: - Θα μας πάρει το βιός μας· θα μείνουμε γδυτοί και πεινασμένοι εμείς και τα παιδιά μας! Μωρέ ας βγαίνει ο ήλιος κι ας βγαίνει στα βουνά! Ας ζει το παιδί μου κι ας κάμει ό,τι θέλει· έλεγα μέσα μου. Μα εκείνη τη δουλειά της· μέρα νύχτα τριβέλι με πήγαινε. - Να· εγώ το σκοτώνω, σα δεν έχεις καρδιά εσύ! Σα δεν πονείς τ’ άλλα σου παιδιά! Δεν είχα καρδιά! δεν πονούσα τα παιδιά μου! Αμ για κείνα τα παιδιά είναι που κάνει τόσα και τόσα ο άμοιρος ο γονιός. Κλέφτης γίνεται, άδικος, ψεύτης, φονιάς και πάντα για τα παιδιά του. Τι το θέλεις· μ’ έφαγε κείνη η γλώσσα! Όσο μπόρεσα βάσταξα· δεν μπόρεσα πια! Ήταν θυμούμαι στα καλαμπόκια. Αποβραδίς ήρθαν δυο τρεις γειτόνοι και λέγαμε παραμύθια για να περάσ’ η ώρα. Είχαμε και λίγο κρασί και κουτσοπί­ναμε. Έβλεπα την Ακριβή που με συχνοκερνούσε με γέλια και χαρές· μα πού να ξέρω το φίδι που με δάγκωνε στην καρδιά! Σαν έφυγαν οι γειτόνοι πήγαμε και μεις να πλαγιάσουμε στην καλύβα. Ο Βα­σίλης, δεκάξι χρονών παλικάρι, κοιμότανε στ’ αλώνι, στο σωρό κοντά. Η Ακριβή άρχισε πάλι τη δουλειά της. Μου πιπίλισε το μυαλό με τα λόγια της. Εγώ ήμουνα σκοτισμένος από το κρασί. Δεν ήμουν πια ο Θανάσης Βρυσιώτης, ο προκομμένος του χωριού παρά ένα ζωντόβολο. Η Ακριβή το κατάλαβε και βάσταξε το σκοπό της. Και μέσα στο χάραμα, χωρίς να ξέρω τι κάνω, μ’ έβαλε στον τράφο, με γονάτισε, μου ’δωκε το ντουφέκι στο χέρι, κι έριξα! Αχ! ανάθεμα που ακούει γυναίκας λόγια!... Πάει το παιδί μου, χάθηκε! Θυμούμαι στο αχνό φως του φεγγαριού, ένα μαύρο πράμα να κατρακυλά και να δέρνεται στ’ αλώνι! Και μέσα στο αλύχτημα των σκυλιών, άκουσα ένα ωχ! Εκείνο το ωχ! με πάγωσε. Όταν σε λίγο έτρεξαν οι χωριανοί, με ήβραν εκεί καρφωμένον, με το ντουφέκι ακόμη στο χέρι να τους κοιτάζω άλαλος. Έξι μήνες έχω που βγήκ’ από τη φυλακή· μα δε μου βαστά η καρδιά να πατήσω στο χωριό. Αλήθεια μια φορά πήγα νύχτα να ιδώ και να φιλήσω το μνηματάκι του γιου μου· μα πού!...Τα κυπαρίσσια έγειραν να με δείρουν με τις κορφές τους και άκουσα να μου φωνάζουν: - Πίσω φονιά! πίσω!... Λάκισα· και γυρίζω τώρα χωρίς ελπίδα, χωρίς παντοχή, μακριά από το σπίτι μου, δίχως φίλους και δικούς. Αλίμονό του που ακούει γυναίκας λόγια! Μα έγνοια σου και κείνη έμαθα την κατάντια της. Κακήν κακώς ξεψύχησε!...  Read also by the same: ΓΕΓΟΝΟΤΑ ΑΠΟ ΤΗΝ ΕΛΛΗΝΙΚΗ ΕΠΑΝΑΣΤΑΣΗ ΠΑΣΧΑ ΣΤΑ ΠΕΛΑΓΑ - EASTER ON THE HIGH SEAS SEA TALES - A.KARKAVITSAS MORE WORDS OF THE PROW - KARKAVITSAS ΑΠΟ 'ΤΑ ΛΟΓΙΑ ΤΗΣ ΠΛΩΡΗΣ' - THE YOUSSOURI Η ΔΙΚΑΙΟΣΥΝΗ ΤΗΣ ΘΑΛΑΣΣΑΣ - THE JUSTICE OF THE SEA... Η ΔΙΚΑΙΟΣΥΝΗ ΤΗΣ ΘΑΛΑΣΣΑΣ - THE JUSTICE OF THE SEA... ΚΑΒΟΜΑΛΙΑΣ - KAVOMALIAS

THE STEPMOTHER Andreas Karkavitsas Rendered by Vassilis C. Militsis It is almost twenty long years. For twenty years Vassilis has been in his gloomy grave; and I was as many in my living grave, in prison. Now I am a desolate fleabag; but they still remember Thanassis Vryssiotis’ wealth in the village and show his houses to outlanders. Ah, those years! What tormented life within the four walls of jail, among the thousands, forsaken!... But what am I saying? Forsaken? My company was my son’s little jacket, which little by little towered like a mountain before my eyes and showed Vassilis, with his bullet riddled temple. Why am I saying I was deserted? There was something in my bosom that hissed in constant muteness like a wakeful crow: “Murderer! Killer!”… And when I closed my tortured eyes to snatch some sleep, I would see Zoitsa, in her bridal robe, with her hair down and pale as she was at the time we had laid her into her grave, yelling at me: “Cur! What have you done to our son? Where’s my legacy to you? My curse on you?” And then I would wake with a jolt like a startled deer and I would ask for forgiveness on my knees. No! I would not be cursed! It is said even if you have done the most evil thing, God will forgive you as long as you fill a Chalice with your tears. Since then, I have filled, indeed, thousands of Chalices! And yet, what of it? Bitter tears won’t wash what is written in black! Ah, yes, I believe it; without God’s will, no bird can escape from its snare. Who knows what sins I have had which plague me now? Who remembers if I had cared for anyone in my happy days?   My father was a priest. I assisted him in our village church with the Sunday service reading Paul’s epistles. As a child, my father was rather naughty; thus, when they saw me being quiet and meek as a child, the villagers would comment with the native aphorism: Every rose has its thorn and every thorn has its rose. My father had been in a hurry to find me a wife. “Should I die soon, I won’t see my son happily married,” he used to say. In addition, he was earnest to marry me first because he wanted me to become a priest in his stead. In this way, our family would not forfeit his standing and none else in the village would get the primacy. When he suggested I marry, I was not against it, for he would let me have the woman of my heart. But from the first day of the wedding things appeared to contradict God’s will. I remember it now and I begin to bristle. The crowns from the bride’s hair fell three times on the church floor during the wedding ceremony! That was a bad omen! Poor Zoitsa turned and regarded me with a plaintive look as though she wanted to anticipate, at the hour of our marital bond, the hour of our lasting separation. And when she entered our home none thought of placing a piece of iron for her to step over it. Everyone felt that husband and wife would not have a life based on solid ground. And that’s how it came true! Within the year Zoitsa died at childbirth… ill-fated woman; my own ill-fortune swept her to her doom! Then people began to gloat over our misfortune: “I pity the one who died so young; what do you think? Shall I care for Thanassis? He must consider himself lucky that his son has survived and he can keep the dowry!” they said. However, that was not so at all. Woe to him whose wife died and left him with a baby. What could I have done? How could I have brought up that child? He needed breast feeding; he needed to be taken care of. Finally, my own people convinced me to marry again. But may my mother in-law, who had arranged to make me get Akrivi into my house, be accursed. Fire fell on our heads and consumed us. As soon as the new bride set her foot into the house, she was insolent to my mother: “Hey, hey, mother-in-law!” she said; “From now on I shall be the lady of the house!” My wretched mother was so stunned by her behavior that she wished to disappear from the world. She thought she had received a viper, not a daughter-in-law, into the house. And in the evening, the bitch sat at the table and dined all by herself. The whole village was echoing: “The priest’s wife ate by herself; she’ll eat the priest’s wife alive!” And in sooth; my mother died in the next three months and was shortly followed by my father.” And then, none was left for me to love in the world save Vassilis, Zoitsa’s son. I had gone through a lot of worries to bring him up! No sooner had Akrivi entered the house than she started to mind her own business. The child was a ‘beam’ in her eye. She was always nagging; and how could I talk back to her? How could I hold out against her biting tongue? So, I resigned and could not help remembering the late Zoitsa and cry. How sweet- spoken and meek woman she was! And then I remorsefully remember when, during a row one day, I had broken a plate on her head. Who knows? Perhaps that unfortunate incident had sent miserable Zoitsa too soon into her grave! In contrast with Zoitsa, Akrivi was an evil demon! Her hair was coarse, wild and red; the white of her blue eyes had a yellow tint as if she had jaundice. Her nose was curved reaching down to her lips, which were puffy and purple, like the color of an egg-plant. When she grew angry she was like a she-wolf. Damnation on her! She was the cause of my becoming everyone’s enemy. Every day she raised hell waking up the entire neighborhood. Because of her I acquired the worst reputation in the village. May God keep you far away from such a woman! On the other hand, Vassilis was growing up to a handsome youth. “Well, may that child have a long life,” the villagers would say. He was going to be my right-hand man in two years. And how much he had taken after his mother! Whenever he looked at me with those large, dark eyes, I believed I was having Zoitsa before me. I had more children with Akrivi, and yet I’ve got to confess the naked truth, I didn’t even feel like seeing them. I detested the mother; I detested the children, too. And that made Akrivi blow her top. “You scoundrel! You don’t care for your other children! I wonder what you find in this brat of yours!” she went on cursing. The years passed by uneventfully. Vassilis became a fifteen year-old stalwart lad! He was able to carry out a day’s work for three people. And yet Akrivi was constantly nagging. “Let me have a word with you, Akrivi,” I said to her one day; “why are you biting your head off about Vassilis? The kid is already a grown-up and he takes offence. Then the place is full of ‘do-gooders’. They may turn him against us and he can drive us out of the house!” “Out of the house!...” “Certainly; the house is his late mother’s dowry; so are the fields and the vineyards – all belong to her mother. I got no dowry from you.” “You may have got nothing from me, but you married a woman you aren’t worthy of.” She cut me off angrily. Well, what could you tell her, then? “Well, woman, whatever you say; but should Vassilis get angry, he’ll drive us out and then we’ll all – the kids included – be walking naked in the street.” Oh, oh, when she heard it! She knew the blue funk when she saw it. “Can Vassilis really get the house? Will possibly my children walk naked and hungry? I’d rather poison them!” the bitch raged. I was frightened when I saw her like that. I was in a cold sweat when I heard her say: “I’d rather poison them!” But my threats had the right impact on her. From then on she shut up. She started buttering up Vassilis, instead: She was beating around the bush with “my Vassilis” here and “my Vassilis” there. She stopped nagging and she even began to fawn over me. At last I found my peace. Oh, you can’t imagine a better thing than unity in the family. “Thank God,” I would say “for tasting sweet bread,” and I forgot about my previous tormented life. Ah! How could I have known that venom came from so sweet words? Shortly, when she thought she had drawn me to her side, she began to dwell on my previous threats: “He’ll rob us of our property; we and our kids will be left desolate and hungry!” “Well,” I would tell myself, “as long as the sun rises, should it even rise in the west, may my son have a long life and always have his way.” But she just kept on pounding into my head day and night. “You’re a heartless brute! Unless you have feelings for your other children, you turn me into a murderess!” What an idea! As though I was heartless! Well, a poor parent sacrifices himself indiscriminately for all his children. He always turns into a thief, a liar, a killer or an unjust person for his children. Anyway, the rough edge of her tongue bore me down! I had endured as much as I could; then I couldn’t take it anymore!” It was in the corn husking period. A couple of neighbors had come overnight and we were spinning yarns to pass the time. We had some wine, too, and we were tippling. I was watching Akrivi, who was in a happy mood, going around and treating the guests. But I had no idea of the serpent in my bosom biting into my heart! When our neighbors left, we got into the cabin to sleep. Vassilis, a sixteen year-old brave lad, was sleeping out on a heap of hay in the threshing floor. Again, Akrivi went back to her nagging. She drilled into my brain with her bitching. The wine had also clouded my head. I was no longer Thanassis Vryssiotis, the prosperous householder in the village; at that moment I was but a simpleton. Akrivi saw the state I was in and carried out her plan. At dawn, as if I was her puppet, she made me kneel in the ditch, put the rifle in my hand and I shot! Woe to him that listens to a woman’s words! My son is gone, killed. I still remember seeing, in the wan moonlight, a black thing topple down and writhe on the threshing floor! And amidst the ululation of the dogs I heard a moan. Oh, that moan froze me. When the villagers came shortly, they found me stuck in place, rifle still in hand, and looking at them dumbfounded. It is six months since I’ve been out of prison, but I don’t have the heart to set foot in my village. In fact, once I went there at night only to visit and kiss my poor son’s grave. But not again. The cypresses lowered their tops to lash out at me and I heard them calling out: “Stay back, filicide! Back, slayer!” I bolted off; ever since I’ve been wandering around, hopeless and derelict, away from home, and from kith and kin. Woe to him, who listens to a woman’s words. But luckily I heard of her downfall. She died a horrible death!

ΚΑΛΕΣ ΓΙΟΡΤΕΣ ΚΑΙ ΕΥΤΥΧΙΣΜΕΝΟ ΤΟ 2022 - MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY 2022

 

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                                                    A. PAPADIAMANTIS - A TRAGIC CHRISTMAS STORY

ΔΙΥΛΙΖΟΝΤΑΣ ΤΟΝ ΚΩΝΩΠΑ - STRAINING AT A GNAT

 

Η ΕΠΙΣΚΕΨΙΣ ΤΟΥ ΑΓΙΟΥ ΔΕΣΠΟΤΗ Αλέξανδρος Παπαδιαμάντης     «Μὴ οἱ ποιμένες βόσκουσιν ἑαυτούς; οὐχὶ τὰ πρόβατα βόσκουσιν οἱ ποιμένες;» (Ἰεζεκιήλ) Ἀφοῦ τὸ βαποράκι ἐστάθη ὣς μισὴν ὥραν εἰς τὸν μικρὸν ὅρμον, κατέναντι τῆς ἀγορᾶς, ἥτις ἐφαίνετο σχεδὸν γεμάτη ἀπὸ κόσμον, ἔστρεψε τὴν πρῷραν πρὸς ἀνατολὰς καὶ ἀπέπλευσε. Συγχρόνως οἱ καμπάνες τῶν δύο ἐκκλησιῶν, αἵτινες διέπρεπον μὲ τοὺς ὑψηλοὺς πύργους καὶ τοὺς θόλους των, ἡ μία εἰς τὸ ὕψος τῆς παραθαλασσίας ὁδοῦ καὶ τῆς πλατείας, ἡ ἄλλη εἰς τὸ κέντρον τῆς ἐπάνω συνοικίας, ἐκινήθησαν γοργῶς, ἐκχέουσαι μεγάλην καὶ παρατεταμένην κωδωνοκρουσίαν. Διατί αὐτό; Οἱ παπάδες ἤξευραν, ὅτι ὁ Δεσπότης ὁ νεοχειροτόνητος τῆς ἐπαρχίας ἦτο μέσα στὸ βαπόρι, ἀλλ’ ὁ πρῶτος μεταξὺ αὐτῶν, ὁ ἐπισκοπικὸς ἐπίτροπος, εἶχε πληροφορηθῆ ὅτι ἡ Σεβασμιότης του δὲν ἐπροτίθετο πρὸς τὸ παρὸν νὰ ἐξέλθῃ εἰς τὴν πολίχνην, ἀλλὰ θὰ μετέβαινε πρῶτον, χάριν τῆς ἰδίας εὐκολίας του, εἰς τὴν ἄλλην νῆσον, τὴν ἀνατολικήν, τὴν ἀπωτέραν εἰς τὸν δρόμον του, καὶ εἶτα θὰ ἐπέστρεφε νὰ ἐπισκεφθῇ καὶ τὸ ἐδῶ ποίμνιόν του. Οὐχ ἧττον ἐπῆραν μίαν βάρκαν καὶ ἀνῆλθον ὅλοι ὁμοῦ, οἱ ἑπτὰ παπάδες, εἰς τὸ βαπόρι, διὰ νὰ χαιρετίσουν ἁπλῶς τὸν ἐπίσκοπον εἰς τὴν διέλευσίν του. Μόλις ἡ μαύρη τῶν ρασοφόρων πλειὰς ἀνῆλθεν εἰς τὸ πρυμναῖον «κάσαρο» τοῦ ἀτμοπλοίου, ὅπου ἵστατο ἀγναντεύων τὴν μικρὰν πόλιν ὁ περιοδεύων ἱεράρχης, καὶ ὁ διάκος, ἀποτεινόμενος πρὸς τὸν πρῶτον βαίνοντα ἐκ τῶν ἱερέων, τὸν ὁποῖον ἐκατάλαβεν ὡς ἐπίτροπον τοῦ Δεσπότη, ἂν καὶ πρώτην φορὰν τὸν ἔβλεπε, τοῦ λέγει μὲ τόνον δεσποτικόν: ― Γιατί δὲν ἐσημάνατε τὶς καμπάνες; Ὁ παπα-Γιαννάκης, 83 ἐτῶν ἄνθρωπος, ἂν καὶ κωφὸς ἦτο, ἐκατάλαβε τί ἔλεγεν ὁ διάκος. Ἐπειδὴ ὁ Δεσπότης δὲν ἐπρόκειτο νὰ ἐξέλθῃ, δὲν εἶχαν προβλέψει, ἢ τὸ ἐνόμισαν περιττόν, νὰ κρούσουν τὶς καμπάνες. Τώρα ὅμως, εἰς τὸ κέλευσμα τοῦ διάκου, ἐστράφη πρὸς τὴν λέμβον, ἐφώναξεν ἕνα νέον κρατοῦντα τὰς κώπας, καὶ τοῦ λέγει: ― Σταμάτη! τρέχα, γρήγορα, ἔξω! Τὶς καμπάνες! Βαρᾶτε τὶς καμπάνες! Ὁ Σταμάτης, ἔφηβος ὣς 16 ἐτῶν, κυρίως βαρκάρης δὲν ἦτο, ἀλλ’ ὀρφανὸς μάγκας, τρέχων παιδιόθεν κατόπιν εἰς τὰ ράσα τῶν παπάδων. Ὅπως ὑπάρχουν ἐκκλησιαστικὰ δαιμόνια, οὕτω ὑπάρχουν καὶ ἀγυιόπαιδα ἐκκλησιαστικά. Πάραυτα ἐσιάρισεν, ἐκωπηλάτησε, καὶ μετὰ ἓν λεπτὸν ἔφθασεν εἰς τὴν προκυμαίαν. Θὰ ἠμποροῦσε νὰ φωνάξῃ ἀπὸ τὴν βάρκαν πρὸς τοὺς ἔξω, διὰ νὰ τρέξουν νὰ σημάνουν τὶς καμπάνες, ἀλλὰ δὲν τὸ ἔκαμεν. Ἐπήδησεν ἔξω, κ’ ἔτρεξε διὰ ν’ ἀπολαύσῃ αὐτὸς πρῶτος τὴν ὑπερτάτην ἡδονὴν τῆς κωδωνοκρουσίας. Καθὼς ἔτρεχεν, ἔκραξε τὸν ἄλλον ἀδελφόν του, τὸν Φώτην, καὶ τὸν ἔστειλεν εἰς τὴν ἐπάνω ἐνορίαν, πρὸς τὸν αὐτὸν σκοπόν. Εἶτα ἀνῆλθεν ὑψηλὰ εἰς τὸ καμπαναριό, ἐκόλλησεν ὡς τελώνιον εἰς τὴν μεγάλην καμπάναν, ἥρπασε τὸ γλωσσίδι της, μὲ τὴν ἄλλην χεῖρα τὴν λαβὴν τοῦ ἐπικράνου τῆς ἄλλης, κ’ ἔρριψε τὸ σχοινίον τῆς τρίτης εἰς ἓν ἄλλο παιδίον παρὰ τὴν βάσιν τοῦ κωδωνοστασίου, τὸ ὁποῖον εἶχε κλειδώσει πεισμόνως ἔξω ἀπὸ τὸ πορτέλο τοῦ καμπαναριοῦ. Μετὰ μίαν στιγμὴν μανιώδης κωδωνοκρουσία ἤρχισε καὶ ἄλλοι ἐναέριοι ἦχοι ἀπήντησαν ἀπὸ τὴν ἄλλην ἐκκλησίαν. Καὶ ὑπὸ τοὺς ἤχους αὐτοὺς τὸ ἀτμόπλοιον ἀπέπλεε, καὶ οἱ παπάδες ἐπέστρεψαν εἰς τὴν ξηράν. ⁂ Μετὰ δύο ἑβδομάδας, ὅταν ἐπέστρεψεν ἀπὸ τὴν γείτονα νῆσον, ὁ Σεβασμιώτατος, ἐν μεγάλῃ κλαγγῇ κωδώνων, ὡς πρώτην φορὰν ἐρχόμενος, ἐπῆγε κατ’ εὐθεῖαν εἰς τὸν ναόν. Ἐκεῖ, εἰς τὸ τέλος τῆς δοξολογίας –καὶ αὐτὸ ὑπῆρξε μετὰ τὴν περὶ κωδωνοκρουσίας διαταγήν, τὴν διὰ τοῦ διάκου δοθεῖσαν, ἡ πρώτη χαρακτηριστικὴ πρᾶξις τῆς ποιμαντικῆς του– ἐπετίμησεν ἕνα τῶν ἱερέων, διότι ὡς ἐπαρχιώτης καὶ ἀσυνήθιστος ἀπὸ ἀρχιερατικὰς ἱεροπραξίας, εἶπε τὸ σύνηθες «Δι’ εὐχῶν τῶν Ἁγίων Πατέρων ἡμῶν», καὶ δὲν εἶπε: «Δι’ εὐχῶν τοῦ ἁγίου Δεσπότου ἡμῶν». Ὁ δυστυχὴς ἱερεὺς πῶς νὰ τὸ ξεύρῃ, ἀφοῦ πουθενὰ δὲν τὸ εἶχεν εὕρει γραμμένον. Τὴν Κυριακήν, ὅταν ἐλειτούργησεν ὁ Ἐπίσκοπος, εἰς τὸ τέλος τῆς λειτουργίας, ἔδωκε νέον δεῖγμα τῆς ποιμαντικῆς του. Εἰς τὸ «Πάντοτε, νῦν καὶ ἀεί», τὸν γεροντότερον, τὸν πλέον πεπειραμένον ἀλλὰ καὶ ἐγγράμματον ἱερέα, τὸν ἔπιασεν ἀποτόμως ἀπὸ τὸν βραχίονα, βαστάζοντα τὸ Ἅγιον Ποτήριον, καὶ τὸν ἐβίασε νὰ σταθῇ ἐπὶ ἓν λεπτὸν εἰς τὰ βημόθυρα, διὰ νὰ εἴπῃ τὸ «Πάντοτε» – ὡς νὰ ἐπρόκειτο, κατόπιν τοῦ «Μετὰ φόβου Θεοῦ», νὰ γίνῃ καὶ δευτέρα Μετάληψις. Καὶ ὅμως τὸ Εὐχολόγιον γράφει μόνον ὅτι «βλέπει ὁ ἱερεὺς πρὸς τὸν λαὸν» καὶ ὄχι, ἵσταται εἰς τὴν Ἁγίαν Πύλην. Ὅ,τι δὲ περιττὸν γίνεται, μαρτυρεῖ μόνον τάσιν πρὸς τὸ πομπῶδες καὶ θεατρικὸν – ὅπως συνηθίζουν μάλιστα οἱ Ρῶσοι. ⁂ Μέγα εὐτύχημα ὑπῆρξε διὰ τὸν ἄλλον γέροντα, τὸν ἐπίτροπόν του, εἰς τὴν οἰκίαν τοῦ ὁποίου κατέλυσεν ὁ ἱεράρχης, τὸ ὅτι ἦτο πολὺ κωφός. Ὁ δεσπότης ἠδύνατο νὰ τὸν ἐπιτιμᾷ καὶ νὰ τὸν ὀνειδίζῃ μάλιστα, χωρὶς αὐτὸς ν’ ἀντιλαμβάνεται μηδὲ νὰ πικραίνεται τίποτε. Ὅταν δὲν ἦτο παρὼν ὁ διάκος διὰ νὰ τοῦ ἐξηγήσῃ, αὐτὸς δὲν ἠδύνατο νὰ ἐννοῇ τίποτε ἀπὸ τοὺς θυμοὺς καὶ τὰς ἐξάψεις τοῦ Σεβασμιωτάτου. Τέλος κατώρθωσε νὰ δώσῃ λογαριασμὸν ὁ γέρων ἐπίτροπος, εἰς μετρητά, δι’ ὅλας τὰς ἀδείας γάμου καὶ τὰ λοιπὰ «δικαιώματα» τῆς Ἐπισκοπῆς. Ἀλλὰ διὰ τὰ γαλόπουλα, τοὺς ἀστακοὺς καὶ τ’ αὐγοτάραχα, κανεὶς δὲν τοῦ ἐζήτησε λογαριασμὸν πόσα εἶχεν ἐξοδεύσει. Εἶναι ἀληθές, ὅτι ὁ Δεσπότης ἦτο ἐγκρατέστατος. Ἔπασχεν ἀπὸ στομαχικὰ καὶ καρδιακὰ συμπτώματα – ἴσως ἀπὸ ψαμμίασιν ἢ καὶ διαβήτην. Ἀλλ’ ὁ διάκος εἶχε τὰ νιᾶτά του, τὴν ξανθὴν γενειάδα καὶ τὴν κόμην του. Θὰ ἦτο ὑπερβολὴ βεβαίως ἂν ἐλέγαμεν, ὅτι ὡμοίαζε μὲ τὸν Ἀρχιποιητὴν ἐκεῖνον τῆς Παπικῆς αὐλῆς, τοῦ Λέοντος τοῦ Ιʹ, ὅστις εἶχε παραπονεθῆ ποτε, ὅτι ἔκαμνε στίχους διὰ χιλίους ποιητάς, καὶ εἰς τὸν ὁποῖον ὁ περιώνυμος Ποντίφιξ ἔδωκε τὴν ἀπάντησιν: Et pro mille aliis archipoëta bibit. Ὅπως καὶ ἂν ἔχῃ, εἶναι βέβαιον, ὅτι ἠγάπα πολὺ τὸ ἐντόπιον μοσχᾶτον, εἰς δαμιτζάνες προσφερόμενον. Τέλος ὁ Σεβασμιώτατος, ἀφοῦ ἔδωκε τὸ τελευταῖον καὶ κυριώτερον μάθημα ποιμαντορικῆς εἰς τοὺς ἱερεῖς του –τοὺς ἐνουθέτησε νὰ εἶναι καθάριοι, νὰ μὴ καπνίζουν ναργιλὲ δημοσίᾳ καὶ νὰ μὴ κρατοῦν ποτὲ ράβδον– ἐν ἤχῳ κωδώνων καὶ πάλιν, προεπέμφθη, ἐπεβιβάσθη στὸ βαποράκι, κ’ ἐπῆγε νὰ ποιμάνῃ καὶ ἄλλα πρόβατα. See also: CUSTOMS AND TRADITIONS IN THE 19TH CENTURY - ΤΑ ΕΜ...

THE VISIT OF HIS EMINENCE, THE BISHOP Alexandros Papadiamantis Rendered by Vassilis C. Militsis   Woe be to the shepherds of Israel that do feed themselves! Should not the shepherds feed the flocks? (Izekiel 34,2)   Having tarried for half an hour in the small harborage opposite the market, which was seemingly almost full of people, the small steamer turned her bow eastwards and sailed off. At the same time, the bells of the twin churches – one dominating the elevation of the seashore road square, while the other the middle of the upper quarter, renowned for their tall domes and bell towers – rang out a loud and protracted peal.   Why was all this ado? The priests knew that the new-ordained bishop of the region was on the boat, but the archpriest, the episcopal churchwarden, had been informed that His Eminence, did not intend to disembark onto the town for the present, but he thought it convenient to go to another island due east, the furthermost of his voyage, and on his way back he would board off and visit his flock of that island. Nevertheless, the seven priests boarded a boat and all together climbed onto the steamer to pay their respects to the bishop merely for his passage.   As soon as the sable pleiad of the men of the cloth ascended onto the steamer’s poop deck, where the itinerant prelate stood staring at the small town, while his deacon, addressing the first of the boarding priest, whom he perceived as the episcopal churchwarden – though he was seeing him for the first time – asked him in a peremptory manner: “Why didn’t you sound the bells?” Father Yannakis, 83, despite his hearing handicap, understood what the deacon had said. Since the bishop had not intended to disembark or they thought it unnecessary, they did not see to the sounding of the bells. At the deacon’s commanding call, however, the priest turned to the boat and hollered to a young man, who was at the oars: “Stamatis, row quickly to town. The bells! Tell them to sound the bells!” Stamatis, a 16 year-old adolescent, was not a boatman by profession; he was an orphan urchin, who since his childhood ran behind the priests. As there are church demons so there are church gamins. No sooner had he heard the order than he rowed the boat swiftly and he reached the pier in a minute. He could as well have shouted from the boat to those on land to hurry and ring the bells but he had not. He sprang out of the boat and he was the first to run in order to enjoy the supreme pleasure of bell ringing. As he was running, he called his brother, Fotis, to hurry over to the upper parish to that end. Then he climbed up to the bell tower, attached himself like an elf to the great bell, grabbed its clapper in one hand and the other’s outer hammer, while at the same time he threw down to the base of the tower the rope of the third bell, where a boy was also waiting to pull at it. He had obstinately locked him out of the small door. Shortly a pandemonium of clanging was heard followed by the airborne peals from the other church. And the steamer sailed off in accompaniment of these sounds, while the clergymen returned ashore.  ⁂ Two weeks later, on his return from his schedule and stepping ashore, His Eminence headed straight to the church amidst thunderous bell ringing. In the church, during the mass and specifically at the end of Te Deum – and that was after the deacon’s order for the bell ringing, which was His first characteristic pastoral deed – reprimanded one of the provincial priests, who not being well versed in hierarchical services ended the mass with the wonted Through the prayers of our holy Fathers… instead of Through the prayers of our holy Bishop… How could the poor priest have known it, since he had not seen it written anywhere? On the Sunday episcopal service, His Eminence gave still another example of his pastoral competence: He grabbed by the arm the oldest, the most experienced and educated priest, who was holding the Chalice, and forced him to stand for a long minute at the Holy Gate and say Blessed is our God always, now and forever and unto ages of ages as though he were to summon the faithful to receive the Eucharist. But the Service Book prescribes that the priest look only at the congregation when he says that short eulogy without standing at the Holy Gate. Whatever is done for the sake of completeness leads to pomposity and grandstand – which are practiced by the Russians.  ⁂ However, his churchwarden, in whose house the bishop was hosted, was lucky as he was deaf. The bishop could easily reproach and, indeed, taunt him without the old man perceiving it and therefore feeling mortified. When the deacon was not present to act as an interpreter, the old man could not understand the annoyance and exasperation of his Eminence. In the end, the old warden managed to give an account in cash for all marriage fees and the other ‘rights’ of the Bishopric. But for the turkeys, the lobsters and the bottarga that decorated the dinner table none asked him to account for. It was true the Bishop was most abstemious. He suffered from stomach and heart complaints – perhaps from kidney stones or even diabetes. But the young blond-haired and bearded deacon was of robust health. It would be an exaggeration to say that the deacon resembled that Chief Poet at Leo’s X Holy See, who had been proud of his skill at versification for a thousand poets; the famous pontiff had replied to him aptly: Et pro mille aliis archipoëta bibit. [And the chief poet drinks for a thousand more].* Be as it may, one was certain: the deacon relished the local muscatel, poured out of demijohns. Finally, His Eminence gave his last and most important pastoral guidance to his priests; he admonished them to be pure, to abstain from smoking hookah in public and from carrying a staff. Then again, amidst hear-splitting bell ringing, he boarded the small steamer and was on his way to tend other sheep of his flock.   *Literary Anecdotes