Happiness
It was almost nightfall. The whole day: rain, torrents of rain. Drenched to the bone, I arrived in a
little Calabrian village. I had to find a hearth where I could dry out, a corner where I could sleep.
The streets were deserted, the doors bolted. The dogs were the only ones to scent the stranger’s
breath; they began to bark from within the courtyards. The peasants in this region are wild and
[5] misanthropic, suspicious of strangers. I hesitated at every door, extended my hand, but did not
dare to knock.
O for my late grandfather in Crete!, who took his lantern each evening and made the rounds of
the village to see if any stranger had come. He would take him home, feed him, give him a bed for
the night, and then in the morning see him off with a cup of wine and a slice of bread. Here in the
[10] Calabrian villages there were no such grandfathers.
Suddenly I saw an open door at the edge of the village. Inclining my head, I looked in: a murky
corridor with a lighted fire at the far end and an old lady bent over it. She seemed to be cooking.
I crossed the threshold and entered. I reached the fire and sat down on a stool which I found in
front of the hearth. The old lady was squatting on another stool, stirring the meal with a wooden
[15] spoon. I felt that she eyed me rapidly, without turning. But she said nothing. Taking off my jacket,
I began to dry it. I sensed happiness rising in me like warmth, from my feet to my shins, my thighs,
my breast. Hungrily, avidly, I breathed in the delicious smell of the steam rising from the pot.
Once more I realized to what an extent earthly happiness is made to the measure of man. It is not
a rare bird which we must pursue at one moment in heaven, at the next in our minds. Happiness
[20] is a domestic bird in our own courtyards.
As soon as we finished, she prepared a bed for me on a bench to the right of the table. I lay down,
and she lay down on the other bench opposite me. Outside the rain was falling by the bucketful.
For a considerable time I heard the water cackle on the roof, mixed with the old lady’s calm, quiet
breathing. She must have been tired, for she fell asleep the moment she inclined her head. Little
[25] by little, with the rain and the old lady’s respiration, I too slipped into sleep. When I awoke, I saw
daylight peering through the cracks in the door.
The old lady had already risen and placed a saucepan on the fire to prepare the morning milk.
I looked at her now in the sparse daylight. Shriveled and hump, she could fit into the palm of
your hand. Her legs were so swollen that she had to stop at every step and catch her breath.
[30] But her eyes, only her large, pitch-black eyes, gleamed with youthful, unaging brilliance. How
beautiful she must have been in her youth, I thought to myself, cursing man’s fate, his inevitable
deterioration. Sitting down opposite each other again, we drank the milk. Then I rose and slung
my carpetbag over my shoulder. I took out my wallet, but the old lady colored deeply.
“No, no,” she murmured, extending her hand.
[35] As I looked at her in astonishment, the whole of her wrinkled face suddenly gleamed.
“Goodbye, and God bless you,” she said. “May the Lord repay you for the good you’ve done me.
Since my husband died I’ve never slept so well.”
NIKOS KAZANTZAKIS* http://grammar.about.com
According to some authors, a memoir is how one remembers one’s own life; an autobiography is history, requiring research, dates and facts.
In relation to the author’s life, the text Happiness can be characterized as a memoir especially because of the presence of:
