"That was the will of the All-High!" answered the monk, crossing himself three times.

"Good for the All-High!" muttered Zorba, climbing back into the saddle. "On we gö!"

Soon a plateau appeared on which we could see the outline of the Holy Virgin's monastery surrounded by rocks and pine trees. Serene, smiling, cut off from the rest of the world in the hollow of this high green gorge, uniting in deep harmony the nobility of the peak and the gentleness of the plain, this monastery appeared to me a marvellously chosen retreat for human meditation.

"Here," I thought, "a gentle, sober spirit could cultivate a religious exaltation that would match the stature of men. Neither a precipitous, superhuman peak, nor a lazy, voluptuous plain, but what is needed, and no more, for the soul to be elevated without losing its human tenderness. A site like this will fashion neither heroes nor swine. It will fashion men."

Here a graceful ancient Greek temple or a gay Mohammedan mosque would be in keeping. God must come down here in simple human form, walk barefoot across the spring grass, and converse quietly with men.

"What a marvel! What solitude! What felicity!" I murmured.

We dismounted, went through the central door, climbed to the visiting room, where we were offered the traditional tray of raki, jam and coffee. The guest master, or hospitaller, came to see us, and in a moment we were surrounded by monks who began to talk. Cunning eyes, insatiable lips, beards, moustaches, and the odor of so many he-goats.

"Haven't you brought a newspaper?" one monk asked anxiously.

"A newspaper?" I said in astonishment. "What would you do with a newspaper here?"

"A newspaper, brother, would tell us what is happening in the world below!" cried two or three indignant voices.

Leaning on the rails of the balcony, they croaked like a lot of ravens. They were talking excitedly of England, Russia, Venizelos, the king. The world had banished them, but they had not banished the world. Their eyes were full of the great cities, shops, women, newspapers…

A big, fat hairy monk stood up and sniffed.

"I have something to show you," he said to me. "You can tell me what you think of it. I'll go and fetch it."

He went off, his short hairy hands clasped together over his stomach, his cloth slippers dragging along the floor. He disappeared through the door.

The monks all grinned nastily.

"Father Demetrios is going to fetch his clay nun again," said the hospitaller. "The devil buried it in the ground especially for him and one day Demetrios found it when he was digging in the garden. He took it to his cell and has lost his sleep ever since. He's nearly lost his senses, too."

Zorba stood up. He was suffocating.

"We came to see the Abbot and to sign some papers," he said.

"The holy abbot isn't here," said the hospitaller. "He went to the village this morning. Have patience."

Father Demetrios reappeared, his two clasped hands outstretched as though he were carrying the holy chalice.

"There!" he said, opening his hands cautiously.

I went up to him. A tiny Tanagra figurine, half-naked and coy, smiled up at me from the monk's fat fingers. She was holding her head with the one hand that still remained to her.

"For her to show her head like that," said Demetrios, "means that she has a precious stone inside it, maybe a diamond or a pearl. What do you think?"

"I think," came one monk's acid comment, "that she's got a headache."

But big Demetrios, his lips hanging down like a goat's, watched me and waited impatiently.

"I think I ought to break her and see," he said. "I can't get any sleep at night for it… If there were a diamond inside…"

I looked at the graceful young girl wíth her tiny, firm breasts, exiled here in the smell of incense and among crucified gods that lay their curse on the flesh, on laughter and kisses.

Ah! if only I could save her!

Zorba took the terra-cotta figurine, felt the thin womanly body, and his fingers stayed, trembling on the firm, pointed breasts.

"But can't you see, my good monk," he said, "that this is the devil? It's the devil himself, and no mistake. Don't you worry, I know him well enough, accursed as he is. Look at her breasts here, Father Demetrios-cool, round and firm. That's just what the devil's breast is like, and I know plenty about that!"

A young monk appeared in the doorway. The sun shone on his golden hair and round, downy face.

The venomous-tongued monk who had spoken before winked to the hospitaller. They both smiled cunningly.

"Father Demetrios," they said. "Here is your novice, Gavrili."

The monk seized his tiny clay woman immediately and went rolling like a barrel towards the door. The handsome novice walked silently in front of him with a swinging step. They disappeared down the long, dilapidated corridor.

I signed to Zorba and we went out into the courtyard. It was agreeably hot outside. In the middle of the courtyard an orange tree ín blossom scented the air. Close by, water ran murmuring from an ancíent ram's head in marble. I put my head underneath and felt refreshed.

"What in God's name are these people?" Zorba asked with some dísgust. "They're neither men nor women; they're mules. Pooh! let them go hang!"

He too plunged his head beneath the fresh water and began to laugh.

"Pooh! let them go hang!" he said again. "They've all got a devil of some sort in them. One wants a woman, another salt cod, another money, another newspapers… bunch of noodles! Why don't they come down into the world, stuff themselves full of all that and purge their brains?"

He lit a cigarette and sat on the bench beneath the blossoming orange tree.

"When I have a longing for something myself," he said, "do you know what I do? I cram myself chockful of it, and so I get rid of it and don't think about it any longer. Or, if I do, it makes me retch. Once when I was a kid-this'll show you-I was mad on cherries. I had no money, so I couldn't buy many at a time, and when I'd eaten all I could buy I still wanted more. Day and night I thought of nothing but cherries. I foamed at the mouth; it was torture! But one day I got mad, or ashamed, I don't know which. Anyway, I just felt cherries were doing what they liked with me and it was ludicrous. So what did I do? I got up one night, searched my father's pockets and found a silver mejidie and pinched it. I was up early the next morning, went to a market gardener and bought a basket o' cherries. I settled down in a ditch and began eating. I stuffed and stuffed till I was all swollen out. My stomach began to ache and I was sick. Yes, boss, I was thoroughly sick, and from that day to this I've never wanted a cherry. I couldn't bear the sight of them. I was saved. I could say to any cherry: I don't need you any more. And I did the same thing later with wine and tobacco. I still drink and smoke, but at any second, if I want to, whoop! I can cut it out. I'm not ruled by passion. It's the same with my country. I thought too much about it, so I stuffed myself up to the neck with it, spewed it up, and it's never troubled me since."

"What about women?" I asked.

"Their turn will come, damn them! It'll come! When I'm about seventy!"

He thought for a moment, and it seemed too imminent.

"Eighty," he said, correcting himself. "That makes you laugh, boss, I can see, but you needn't. That's how men free themselves! Listen to me; there's no other way except by stuffing themselves till they burst. Not by turning ascetic. How do you expect to get the better of a devil, boss, if you don't turn into a devil-and-a-half yourself?"

Demetrios came panting into the courtyard, followed by the fair young monk.

"Anybody'd think he was an angel in a temper," muttered Zorba, admiring his shyness and youthful grace.