The Colossus of Maroussi by Henry Miller Read Free Book Online Page B

to his cabin and, taking a little book from the rack, burying himself in the mysterious night of a nameless Ohio town. The night always made me a little envious of him, envious of his peace and solitude at sea. I envied him the islands he was always stopping off at and the lonely walks through silent villages whose names mean nothing to us. To be a pilot was the first ambition I had ever voiced. I liked the idea of being alone in the little house above the deck, steering the ship over its perilous course. To be aware of the weather, to be in it, battling with it, meant everything to me. In Antoniou’s countenance there were always traces of the weather. And in Sherwood Anderson’s writing there are always traces of the weather. I like men who have the weather in their blood….
    We separated in the early hours of the morning. I went back to the hotel, opened the window and stood for a while on the balcony looking down on the square which was now deserted. I had made two more stalwart Greek friends and I was happy about it. I began to think of all the friends I had made in the short time that I was there. I thought of Spiro, the taxi-driver, and of Kare-menaios, the gendarme. There was also Max, the refugee, living like a duke at the King George Hotel; he seemed to have nothing on his mind but how to make his friends happy with the drachmas which he couldn’t take out of the country. There was also the proprietor of my hotel who, unlike any French hotelkeeper I have ever met, used to say to me at intervals—“Do you need any money?” If I told him I was taking a little trip he would say: “Be sure to wire me if you need any money.” Spiro was the same way. When we said good-bye at the dock the night of the general panic, his last words were—“Mr. Henry, if you come back to Corfu I want you to stay with me. I don’t want any money, Mr. Henry—I want you to come and live with us as long as you like.” Everywhere I went in Greece it was the same tune. Even at the prefecture, while waiting to have my papers put in order, the gendarme would send out for a coffee and cigarettes to put me at ease. I liked the way they begged too. They weren’t shamefaced about it. They would hold you up openly and ask for money or cigarettes as if they were entitled to it. It’s a good sign when people beg that way: it means that they know how to give. The French, for example, know neither how to give nor how to ask for favors—either way they feel uneasy. They make a virtue of not molesting you. It’s the wall again. A Greek has no walls around him: he gives and takes without stint.
    The English in Greece—a sorry lot, by the way—seem to have a poor opinion of the Greek character. The English are torpid, unimaginative, lacking in resiliency. They seem to think that the Greeks should be eternally grateful to them because they have a powerful fleet. The Englishman in Greece is a farce and an eye-sore: he isn’t worth the dirt between a poor Greek’s toes. For centuries the Greeks have had the cruelest enemy a people could have—the Turks. After centuries of enslavement they threw off the yoke and, had the big Powers not interfered, they would probably have driven the Turks into the ground and annihilated them. To-day the two peoples, after an exchange of populations which is nothing if not extraordinary, are friends. They respect one another. And yet the English, who would have disappeared from the face of the earth had they been subjected to the same treatment, pretend to look down on the Greeks.
    Everywhere you go in Greece the atmosphere is pregnant with heroic deeds. I am speaking of modern Greece, not ancient Greece. And the women, when you look into the history of this little country, were just as heroic as the men. In fact, I have even a greater respect for the Greek woman than for the Greek man. The Greek woman and the Greek Orthodox priest— they sustained the fighting spirit. For stubbornness, courage, recklessness,