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Alexandros
Moraitidis
LIFT
UP YOUR GATES… (1891)
– An Easter Story (Title of the original: ΑΡΑΤΕ ΠΥΛΑΣ…)
Translated
and adapted by Vassilis C. Militsis
Never
shall I forget it! The remembrance itself fascinates me even now.
That was a wonderful Easter! I believe that I have never experienced
such a mirthful, melodious and fragrant Easter. People and objects
all were joyful, laughing like little innocent children, all nature
emanated a sweet scent on that small island, and everything was
dressed in a bright light. Most kids had put on their new shoes –
the shoemaker’s pride – creaking and squeaking on the church
floor slabs. A truly marvelous Easter! It seems to me that since then
never have I heard such melodic chant. The early cool spring of that
unforgettable year might have also contributed to my cheerfulness.
The nightingales had approached so near the burgh that some of them
had fearlessly entered the dense small garden of the little church
and sang in unison with the sweet sounding melody of Christ
is Risen.
There are moments that I have the illusion of the scent of burning
frankincense still on my nostrils. That incense was said to have
originated from Mt. Athos St. Anna’s Hermitage, which is known for
the virtuous life of its anchorites. Moreover, the countless roses of
the church little grove might have also played their part to that
intoxicating perfume. And there were an abundance of them that year!
I recollect barba-Costa, nicknamed the Dutch, picking some and
handing them out to the neighborhood’s kids every day so that they
may not be very loud playing in the church yard and interrupting thus
papa-Ikonomos’ vesper services. The bright decoration of the brides
at that Easter has been indelibly depicted in my memory in such vivid
colors and golden brilliancy that it still remains limned in my
fantasy with the radiance of an artistic hagiography. During that
year many weddings had taken place, and most importantly, it was such
a good year with the shipping business as not so often before, so a
considerable amount of money had been accumulated on the island; and
where there is that blasted money, there is also glee and refulgence.
Oh, what an unforgettable Easter!
Old
papa-Ikonomos was in full agreement with me, too.
And
his eyes sparkled with joy like clear glass in front of a light
source. Was it however perhaps my careless enchanting a childhood
that had then painted that remarkable and enduring image of that
Great Easter?
***
The
day was already breaking sweetly. The dawn clad in a rosy hue was
trying to pierce the black veil of the night, still spreading upon my
small hamlet and the still waters of its picturesque port in the
silent nocturnal serenity. No melodic surf was being heard on the
beach. The stars were playfully twinkling on the milky-blue
firmament, as if they were stirred from their deep slumber by the
first rays of Eos.
A pair of sweet-voiced nightingales was passionately singing their
reveille in the little grove, whence an intoxicant whiff of diverse
perfumes was hovering in the air. From inside the church the Hymn of
Resurrection was being chanted in such a passionate and charming way
that the corps of arrayed sailors standing outside on the church
square forgot their festive custom to fire their firearms for the
Resurrected Christ, because they had been enthralled by the sweet
music of the psalm. Within the church and on either side of the
central isle the village authorities had taken up their pews each
holding his candle in simple and solemn order. Behind them, on the
left and on the right stood all the islanders – sailors and
peasants alike. Then there were the children beaming with joy, each
holding a crimson Easter egg. After a while a stream of light poured
out into the square and dispersed into the crooked alleys leaving
gradually a string of luminescence behind. The Resurrection Service
had ended and the devout islanders, their burning candles in hand,
were heading home to bring the joyful light of Resurrection to their
hearths. Vivid and joyful exchanges were being heard like
crisscrossing fowls of the meadows:
And
the customary sweet response:
Accompanied
at the same time by thunderous reports from the sailors’ firearms,
the rumbling echoes of which bounced through the calm beach off the
Cimmerian mountains of the long island of Euboea. Then all this
Resurrection light, all this glee was dispersed in the small houses
of the hamlet; each house had been transformed into a holy church
that celebrates chanting the Easter Hymn in unison with the crack of
the breaking Easter eggs and the unutterable gaiety of the children,
who for the first time kept vigil for this sweetest enjoyment, this
bright joy, as this is symbolized by the sleek, scarlet shell of the
Easter egg.
***
However,
in a humble house no Easter candle was illuminating its darkness. Nor
could Christ
is Risen
be heard in it; though some passers-by seeing that that the house was
enveloped in darkness stopped and eavesdropped trying to listen to
some vague melody as if it were coming from an indistinct chant; then
they wended their way asking each other:
How
is perhaps barba-Kosta doing? We were really so sorry for poor
Dutch! He’s such a good sexton! He always keeps the little ‘uns
in order!
What
a knock he got, remarked another. He was lucky he didn’t get
killed!
In
that lowly edifice, situated in the Wells
district,
resembling rather a humble cabin that a proper abode, without light
and no apparent trace of life, barba-Kosta was lying on a single mat,
his jowls in bandages and having a severe toothache. Beside this
complaint, he was otherwise sound; and many times had he attempted to
go out and attend the Mass of the Resurrection, but every time he
shrank back. He was ashamed to be seen in such a predicament with his
jaws bandaged. And many a time in his miserable isolation had he
tried to chant Christ
is Risen,
but he did not manage to utter the words clearly. He had the
impression that he could hear from afar the joyful chanting and
taking the light that seeped in through the door chinks for the one
of the Resurrection, suppressing his pain, he vainly tried to sing
the psalm; whereupon at last, he frantically threw the door open and
saw the holy light on an Easter candle. Old Ikonomos, the priest,
before going home after he had dismissed the Mass, he remembered
barba-Kosta and called on to bring him the Easter light. Come
forth to receive the Light
the priest cried out in joy entering the house. The patient could not
find words to express his joy and gratitude that the holy priest,
Ikonomos, had condescended to drop by. Therefore, he crossed himself
bowing deeply.
Christ
is Risen,
cried out the priest lifting up his candle to barba-Kosta’s eyes,
whose swathed face beamed gleefully.
Leally
ith lithen! barba-Kosta
lisped.
How
are you?
Fine.
God be thanked!
Are
you in pain?
God
be thanked! He repeated, God be thanked!
The
old priest undid the bandages and observed that all the upper and
lower front teeth were missing from both barba-Kosta’s jaws.
Repressing his grief, he said:
You’re
fine. Only from now on you’ll be without your front teeth.
God
be thanked! God be thanked!
But
don’t worry; you’ll always be in the church and in my heart.
Thall
I thay again “Who
ith thith King of Gloly?” He lisped with a deep sigh.
Taking
this for a complaint of barba-Kosta’s accident, old Ikonomos did
not comment. Lighting his wind lantern, he told him he would send
some broth and turned to leave.
Yo
Levelence! Shouted barba-Kosta.
Is
there anything you want? The priest asked loudly, the way one does
in addressing a patient or a deaf person.
Fatha,
my candle!
Whereupon,
the patient extended his hand holding a small Easter candle he had
kept by his pillow. He asked the priest to light it, which the latter
gladly did.
Immediately
the little house grew brighter with the double light. Baraba-Kosta
was indeed so happy that he sprang up in a lively way, and with his
jaws bound, he began chanting Christ
is risen, clapping
softly one jaw against the other, and instead of clear and melodic
words, he uttered some feeble sounds like the slight bellowing of a
deaf-mute person; nevertheless, some sparse words could be made out
that could be pronounced even by a toothless person.
It
is, though, but now it’s done, responded the priest sorrowfully.
However, my child, as I’ve said before, you don’t have to worry.
You shall always find a place, both in church and in my heart.
***
Barba-Kostas,
a 68 year-old, never been married in the past nor is he going to be
in the future, was admitted to the small town church fifteen years
ago as a caretaker according to the clerical terminology or a sexton
according to the popular vernacular. He was adequately educated. He
was of middle stature. At first he applied himself to seafaring after
the vogue of the residents in the coastal burgh. Through his industry
and hard work he managed to become the owner of a small boat found in
the remains of a ship-wrecked Dutch sailing ship while salvaging its
ruins. He found the boat in the coves of the coast, along with a
Dutch cap and a pipe. Against a meager sum of his income, he bought
the damaged boat, which he called a “launch”. As he was jack of
all trades and could manage with some carpentry, he repaired the boat
himself bribing with the pipe the forest ranger, who let him cut down
clandestinely two pines. He kept the cap, which he always wore, thus
coming by the nickname “the Dutch”. However he had no luck at all
as a skipper. He was more lucky when he possessed nothing at all. He
must have been shipwrecked with his launch five times: once while he
was transporting stacks of wheat sheaves in June from one bight to
the other, at other times on the coast of Euboea while he was faring
the beekeepers of the island to Lokris.
It’s
in summer you’re always running aground, poor Dutch, the villagers
would quip.
Search
me! Retorted the shipwrecked sailor, who after the foundering would
proudly climb up the market street as though taking pride in the
fact that after a shipwreck he always managed to be rescued.
Finally,
one winter night as he was delivering a cargo of wood from Kechrea
and falling into a tempest, by a hair’s breadth he was able to save
himself along with his Dutch cap. He was washed out by the seas upon
the cliffs of Little
Aselinos,
a precipitous and unprotected shore, where his launch was shattered
into smithereens. The nails and tacks naturally plummeted to the
bottom of the sea; but the planks and the woodwork were dispersed on
the sea turning into flotsam.
And
on that occasion the guileless wrecker did not go up the market
street flaunting as before. He had pulled his cap over his ears and
walked on hardly watching his way and often tripping on the stones
and cobbles of the street. He was deeply ashamed; therefore, he shook
the dust off his feet and said farewell to the sea forever. He had
since dedicated himself to the service of the Church earning thus the
affection of the vicars, the church wardens and the parishioners. He
was particularly adored by the little’uns, because the Dutch had
the ability to hand out to them the Kollyva
in good order. He was also deeply respected by the congregation
because he could make absolute peace and quiet reign during the mass.
Thus barba-Kosta could be seen wearing his Dutch cap amidst a crowd
of children as a veteran skipper putting everything in order. Was he
not perhaps a veteran seaman? Was he in vain become an old salt? What
difference did it make whether he had sea fared the wild oceans or
the sleeping coastline of Maliakos Gulf? A shipwreck is always a
shipwreck whether it transpires in the Black Sea of in the Gulf of
Volos. One can drown at sea and in port alike, or even in a puddle of
water.
Barba-Kosta
especially performed an important service of the Church, becoming
therefore very popular among all in the villagers. On Passion
Saturday, as the Christ’s bier – the Epitaph
– was being brought back to church, barba-Kosta could perfectly
dissemble Hades.
It
is an ancient custom on the island, after the Epitaph
is carried in solemn litany around the parish and upon its return to
church, that the church gates should be shut against its entrance.
This scene symbolizes our Savior’s Descent to Hades according to
the Church tradition. The chief vicar approaches the gates and knocks
crying out in command: “Lift
up your gates, O ye princes, and be ye lifted up, O eternal gates:
and the King of Glory shall enter in”.(Psalm
23:9)
The
one dissembling the master of Hades stands behind the locked gates
and asks insolently: Who
is this King of Glory?
The
peremptory command of the vicar and the insolent question of the
arch-daemon are exchanged three times. Upon the last time the priest
crying out in a dominant voice: the
Lord of hosts, He is the king of glory,
pushes the gates open and enters the church with the bier in all
splendor and majesty. And barba-Kosta was indeed very good at this.
He so successfully dissembled the recalcitrant angel of Hades – who
refused to admit the superiority of the Lord – that the
congregation was overcome with terror on hearing his insolent
question: Who
is this King of Glory?
He
stressed the words in an eerie and terrifying way; he shook his head,
his eyes grew fierce and his hair bristled; his whole body trembled
and identified himself with the master of Hades, that satanic
universal puissance, who presages his demise. This was testified by
those who had remained inside the church in order to admire his
extraordinary dissembling.
***
On
that particular Passion Saturday, early at dawn, barba-Kosta was
standing guard, proud of the dreadful entity he was about to
dissemble. Standing with solemn authority behind the gates inside the
almost empty but brightly lit church he was expecting the return of
the Epitaph.
He was no more a humble sexton. He stood without his cap on the
marble threshold as though he said: “I am the one; I admit in no
one, not even the King”.
And
lo! From afar sweet melodies were being heard, tender weeping and
laments: Give
me this forlorn stranger! That who darkened the Sun…
It is the litany chant, that tender and melodious funeral hymn, which
stimulates and moves even inanimate objects: Give
me this forlorn stranger!
Joseph of Arimathea pleads before Pilate for the body of Jesus. He
begs him to obtain the dead and reviled Jesus to bury Him. The
mellifluous voices of the cantors following the litany resounded in
the air and the whole congregation sang unanimously.
(Oh,
my small fatherland, how great you are in your religion!) The sweet,
musical chant was approaching. Behind the houses the nebulous glimmer
of the burning candles seemed to soar upwards to the firmament. The
fragrance of frankincense that was burning in each house as the
Epitaph
passed by wafted in the air like an indescribable nocturnal perfume.
Give
me this forlorn stranger!... one
should see the litany of Epitaph
at the dawn twilight – that magical hour between less day and more
night, sometimes with a starry sky and other times with a crescent
moon – when the scene is impregnate with utter mysticism, with the
sweet nightingale song and the early bird twitters; with the light
fragrant breeze and the heavy scent of incense; and the seashore
reflecting the golden shine of the Easter candles.
Lo,
again! The devout litany was already before the church. The holy
cherub banners and fans and the dark-colored wooden Holy Cross were
at the head of the procession. Then followed the priests clad in
their golden Byzantine vestments – an artistic marvel of weaving
with diverse patterns, unlike the rude Russian canonicals, which are
plain and stiff, making the wearer resemble a snow-covered mountain.
Then came the Holy Bier of the Epitaph.
What
a splendid piece of delicate art! A real work of art: a four-legged
rectangular wooden table, on which the embroidered image of dead
Jesus is laid, sprinkled with rose, violet and rosemary petals. Over
it like a comely cupola of a small chapel supported on four slender
columns stands its baldaquin, another marvel of woodcraft, made of
walnut wood and artistically carved. At the top it bears a gilt
wooden crown with a cross surrounded with a series of small candles
and at the four ends of the baldaquin there are four graceful
lanterns, which give off their light through tinted glass. Another
hand-made crown of gold paper and artificial flowers is pended from
the inside top of the canopy like a chandelier and reflects in
shimmering brightness the candle-light. The abundance of flowers
conceals the deep crimson hue and polish of the baldaquin, which is
devoutly carried by four sailors and surrounded with more, ready to
snatch its candles afterwards, holy talismans to protect them from
sea storms. As the pallbearers were slowly walking, the baldaquin
swayed lightly with all its accessories – its multicolored crown,
the inside pending crown of fake flowers and other diverse ornaments.
This rocking movement produced a kaleidoscopic spectacle of golden
shines, a pleasure on the eye and a balm in the heart. The light
morning breeze played with the candle flames and produced a halo
around the baldaquin, a mellow luminescence. Behind the procession
there followed an undulating bright stream of devout candle bearers.
Many
a time shedding tears of unprecedented joy I stood still at a street
corner, like the miser who was afraid of his treasure being stolen,
furtively to watch this tender procession of the Epitaph
passing by and at the same time I breathed in in gasps as if I were
in a flower garden desiring to absorb all that shimmer and all that
insatiate spell.
***
Barba-Kosta
had already closed the church gates. The litany was now in front of
the church on the small square. Also, the Epitaph
had been lifted too high for those who were impudent enough to snatch
its candles inopportunely. Behind the baldaquin, forming two lines
with an aisle in between stood the men and the women in their
separate queue holding their candles. The chant ceased.
Then
old priest Ikonomos in a slow but loud enough voice – so many years
the spirited barba-Kosta’s acting had also made the priests lively
– commanded:
Lift
up your gates, O ye princes, and be ye lifted up, O eternal gates:
and the King of Glory shall enter in!
Whereupon
a loud brash voice, as though blown from a sea conch, was heard:
It
was so loud a voice that the people never remembered hearing such.
Some indeed whispered timidly: “This year the Dutch is really in
high spirits”.
Then
some sailors, surprised by this impudent provocation, and believing
that there was going to be real struggle in order to force the
entrance, they were getting ready to use their sturdy rods made of
olive tree wood. The priest again inspired by the comportment of the
simple sexton, he repeated his command for the third time
thunderously, as if he wished to break down the last resistance of
the Angel of Hades; simultaneously with the crowd’s approval he
exercised unusual force with his hand and feet to force the gates
wide open with a fearful bang never heard before. Immediately the
burning chandeliers were seen shedding their bright light. Chanting
“The only begotten Son…,” the priest was about to enter the
church when suddenly moans and groans of utter pain as if caused by
an unexpected accident were heard.
Absorbed
in his favorite histrionics after the third repetition of the
question, barba-Kosta forgot to open the heavy folding gates, which
being forced hit him on the jaws, as he was acting near the keyhole,
and threw him upon the floor slabs like an oak felled by a tempest.
And that was fortunate, for he could have been hurt more grievously.
Barba-Kosta was tough indeed, wrecked five times. The Holy Mass went
on and finished in order. Also, the snatching of the Epitaph
candles
by the sailors was carried out in orderly disorder. However,
barba-Kosta’s unanticipated incident saddened exceedingly the
islanders. Being administered the first cares both in the church and
at his small abode, and thereafter receiving medical attention on the
part of the church wardens, enduring nevertheless unbearable pain,
barba-Kosta, toothless from then on, was lying down on his mat on
Resurrection Feast. On his fall, he had lost all his front teeth, as
it was previously narrated. The poor creature was in pain and grief
not so much for the loss of his teeth as for the fact that he could
no longer act the scene of Hades; for his toothless mouth would
render comical his previously forceful and dramatic questions.
I
was shipwlecked this time, too! The kind barba-Kosta, the Dutch,
went on toothlessly complaining of his bad luck.
From
now on he remained merely a humble caretaker of the church bearing
the marks of his double adversity, along with his Dutch cap and his
toothless jaws. However, he no longer lived in his cabin but in a
comfortable, nice cell, built exclusively for him in the small garden
at the expense of the church wardens, where he spent his old age
loved by all.
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