Then another monk appeared; and I knew, with an icy shock, that this was Leverrier.

He was tall, very close-cut hair, with a thin-checked brown face, and glasses with “standard” National Health frames; unmistakably English. He made a little gesture, asking if it was I who had asked for him.

“I’m Nicholas Urfe. From Phraxos.”

He managed to look amazed, shy, and annoyed, all at the same time. After a long moment’s hesitation, he held out his hand. It seemed dry and cold; mine was stickily hot from the walk. He was nearly four inches taller than myself, and as many years older, and he spoke with a trace of the incisiveness that young dons sometimes affect.

“You’ve come all this way?”

“It was easy to stop off at Rome.”

“I thought I’d made it clear that—”

“Yes you did, but…”

We both smiled bleakly at the broken-ended sentences. He looked me in the eyes, affirming decision.

“I’m afraid your visit must still be considered in vain.”

“I honestly had no idea that you were…” I waved vaguely at his habit. “I thought you signed your letters…”

“Yours in Christ?” He smiled thinly. “I am afraid that even here we are susceptible to the forces of antipretention.”

He looked down, and we stood awkwardly. He came, as if impatient with our awkwardness, to a kinder decision; some mollification.

“Well. Now you are here—let me show you round.”

I wanted to say that I hadn’t come as a tourist, but he was already leading the way through to an inner courtyard. I was shown the traditional ravens and crows, the Holy Bramble, which put forth roses when Saint Benedict rolled on it—as always on such occasions the holiness of self-mortification paled in my too literal mind beside the vision of a naked man pounding over the hard earth and taking a long jump into a blackberry bush… ow! yarouch!… and I found the Peruginos easier to feel reverence for.

I discovered absolutely nothing about the summer of 1951, though I discovered a little more about Leverrier. He was at Sacro Speco for only a few weeks, having just finished his novitiate at some monastery in Switzerland. He had been to Cambridge and read history, he spoke fluent Italian, he was “rather unjustifiably believed to be” an authority on the pre-Reformation monastic orders in England, which was why he was at Sacro Speco—to consult sources in the famous library; and he had not been back to Greece since he left it. He remained very much an English intellectual, rather self-conscious, aware that he must look as if he were playing at being a monk, dressing up, and even a little, complicatedly, vain about it.

Finally he took me down some steps and out into the open air below the monastery. I perfunctorily admired the vegetable and vineyard terraces. He led the way to a wooden seat under a fig tree a little farther on. We sat. He did not look at me.

“This is very unsatisfactory for you. But I warned you.”

“It’s a relief to meet a fellow victim. Even if he is mute.”

He stared out across a box-bordered parterre into the blue heat of the sunbaked ravine. I could hear water rushing down in the depths.

“A fellow. Not a victim.”

“I simply wanted to compare notes.”

He paused, then said, “The essence of… his… system is surely that you learn not to 'compare notes.” He made the phrase sound repellent; cheap. His wanting me to go was all but spoken. I stole a look at him.

“Would you be here now if…”

“A lift on the road one has already long been traveling explains when. Not why.”

“Our experiences must have varied very widely.”

“Why should they be similar? Are you a Catholic?” I shook my head. “A Christian even?” I shook my head again. He shrugged. He had dark shadows under his eyes, as if he was tired.

“But I do believe in… charity?”

“My dear man, you don’t want charity from me. You want confessions I am not prepared to make. In my view I am being charitable in not making them. In my position you would understand.” He added, “And at my remove you will understand.”

His voice was set cold; there was a silence.

He said, “I’m sorry. You force me to be more brusque than I wish.”

“I’d better go.”

He seized his chance, and stood up.

“I intend nothing personal.”

“Of course.”

“Let me see you to the gate.”

We walked back; into the whitewashed door carved through the rock, up past doors that were like prison cells, and out into the hall with the death murals.

He said, “I meant to ask you about the school. There was a boy called Aphendakis, very promising. I coached him.”

We lingered a little in the loggia, beside the Peruginos, exchanging sentences about the school. I could see that he was not really interested, was merely making an effort to be pleasant; to humiliate his pride. But even in that he was self-conscious.

We shook hands.

He said, “This is a great European shrine. And we are told that our visitors—whatever their beliefs—should leave it feeling… I think the words are ’refreshed and consoled.” He paused as if I might want to object, to sneer, but I said nothing. “I must ask you once again to believe that I am silent for your sake as well as mine.”

“I’ll try to believe it.”

He gave a formal sort of bow, more Italian than English; and I went down the rock staircase to the path through the ilexes.

I had to wait till evening in Subiaco for a bus back. It ran through long green valleys, under hilltop villages, past aspens already yellowing into autumn. The sky turned through the softest blues to a vesperal amber-pink. Old peasants sat at their doorways; some of them had Greek faces, inscrutable, noble, at peace. I felt, perhaps because I had drunk almost a whole bottle of Verdicchio while I waited, that I belonged, and would forever belong, to an older world than Leverrier’s. I didn’t like him, or his religion. And this not liking him, this halfdrunken love of the ancient, unchangeable Greco-Latin world seemed to merge. I was a pagan, at best a stoic, at worst a voluptuary, and would remain forever so.

Waiting for the train, I got more drunk. A man at the station bar managed to make me understand that an indigo-blue hilltop under the lemon-green sky to the west was where the poet Horace had had his farm. I drank to the Sabine hill; better one Horace than ten thousand Saint Benedicts; better one poem than ten thousand sermons. Much later I realized that perhaps Leverrier, in this case, would have agreed; because he too had chosen exile; because there are times when silence is a poem.

69

If Rome, a city of the vulgar living, had been depressing after Greece, London, a city of the drab dead, was fifty times worse. I had forgotten the innumerability of the place, its ugliness, its termite density after the sparsities of the Aegean. It was like mud after diamonds, dank undergrowth after sunlit marble; and as the airline bus crawled on its way through that endless suburb that lies between Northolt and Kensington I wondered why anyone should, or could, ever return of his own free will to such a landscape, such a society, such a climate. Flatulent white clouds drifted listlessly in a gray-blue sky; and I could hear people saying “Lovely day, isn’t it?” But all those tired greens, grays, browns… they seemed to compress the movements of the Londoners we passed into a ubiquitous uniformity. It was something I had become too familiar with to notice in the Greeks—how each face there springs unique and sharp from its background. No Greek is like any other Greek; and every English face seemed, that day, like every other English face.

I got into a hotel near the air terminal about four o'clock and tried to decide what to do. Within ten minutes I picked up the phone and dialed Ann Taylor’s number. There was no answer. Half an hour later I tried again, and again there was no answer. I forced myself to read a magazine for an hour; then I failed a third time to get an answer. I found a taxi and drove round to Russell Square. I was intensely excited; the idea that Alison would be waiting for me. Some clue. Something would happen. Without knowing why I went into a pub, had a Scotch, and waited another quarter of an hour.