by Karel Čapek
“There’s something to that,” observed the shaggy-bearded man. “Tinkers are odd; people say they even eat raw meat.”
“They’re a bunch of thieves,” affirmed the mayor. “They steal chickens and everything else.”
The pewterer was choking with righteous anger. “There, you see? Everyone says it’s Attila, when it’s really the tinkers . . . It’s those damned tinkers who are behind it, behind all of it! They cast spells on our animals . . . they brought this dysentery on us . . . Oh, it’s the tinkers, all right! You ought to string them up wherever they show their faces! Why, don’t you know . . . don’t you know about the cauldrons of Hell? And haven’t you heard that those Huns bang on kettles when they’re on the march? A child could see the connection! It’s the tinkers who brought the war on us . . . they’re to blame for everything . . . And you,” he screamed, foam on his lips, pointing at the foreign youth, “you’re a tinker, too, you’re a spy for the tinkers! That’s why you came . . . and you’re trying to trick us, you want to betray us to the tinkers . . . ”
“Hang him!” shrieked the small, irritable man.
“Wait, neighbors,” the mayor thundered over the tumult. “This needs further investigation . . . Silence!”
“What are you waiting for?” someone yelled.
Even the women began to press forward.
That night a fiery glow flooded the sky to the northwest. From time to time a light rain fell. Five people from the ravine died of dysentery and coughing.
After extended torture, the youth was hanged.
June 26, 1932
Iconoclasm
A certain Prokopios, well known as a learned connoisseur and enthusiastic collector of Byzantine art, had come to see Nikeforos, Superior of the Monastery of St. Simeon. Prokopios was noticably agitated as, while waiting, he paced back and forth around the cloister. Fine columns they have here, he mused distractedly, obviously fifth century. Nikeforos is the only man who can help us. He has influence at court and was once a painter himself. And the old man wasn’t a bad painter, either. I remember he used to create embroidery designs for the Empress and paint icons for her — That’s why they made him abbot when his hands became so twisted with gout he could no longer hold a brush. And they say his word still carries great weight at court. Christ Jesus, that’s a beautiful capital! Yes, Nikeforos will help us. It’s fortunate that we thought of him!
“Welcome, Prokopios,” came a soft voice from behind him.
Prokopios turned quickly. A small, elderly man, wrinkled and affable, stood before him, his hands inside his sleeves. “A fine capital, is it not?” he said. “Ancient work from Naxos, sir.”
Prokopios kissed the abbot’s sleeve. “I have come to you, Father,” he began nervously, but the abbot interrupted him. “Come sit in the warmth of the sunshine, dear son. It’s good for my gout. What a day, dear God, what light! Now then, what brings you to me?” he asked when they were seated on a stone bench in the center of the monastery garden, surrounded by the hum of bees and the scent of sage, thyme, and mint.
“Father,” Prokopios promptly blurted out, “I have come to you as the one man who can avert a grievous and irreparable cultural disaster. I know that in you, Father, I shall meet with understanding. You are an artist, Father. What a painter you once were, until the time you were called to bear upon your shoulders the noble burden of your spiritual office! God forgive me, but I sometimes regret that you no longer bend over the wooden panels which your magic once turned into some of the most beautiful of Byzantine icons.”
Instead of replying, Father Nikeforos turned back the long sleeves of his robe and held out to the sun his pitiful, knotted hands, twisted with gout like the claws of a parrot. “Oh, no,” he said simply. “What are you saying, dear son!”
“But it’s true, Nikeforos,” said Prokopios. (Holy Mother of God, what dreadful hands!) “These days your icons are valued beyond measure. Only a short time ago a Jew asked two thousand drachmas for one of your paintings, and when he didn’t get his price he said that he would wait, that in ten years it would bring three times as much.”
Father Nikeforos coughed modestly and flushed with immense pleasure. “Surely you must be mistaken,” he murmured. “Please, why would anyone talk about my trifling pictures? There’s no need, dear son; you have so many popular masters, men such as Argyropulos, Malvasias, Papadianos, Megalokastros and any number of others. For instance that man, I can’t think of his name, who does those mosaics — ”
“Do you mean Papanastasias?” asked Prokopios.
“Yes, yes,” grumped Nikeforos. “They say his work is highly appraised. Well, I don’t know, but I would consider mosaics more stonemasonry than real art. They say that man of yours — now, what was his name — ?”
“Papanastasias?”
“Yes, Papanastasias. They say he’s a Cretan. In my day, people took a different view of the Cretan school. Faulty, they said, unsound. The lines are too hard, and those colors! So you say this Cretan is highly appraised? Hm, extraordinary.”
“I said nothing of the sort,” objected Prokopios. “But have you seen his latest mosaics?”
Father Nikeforos shook his head decisively. “No, no, dear son. Why would I want to look at them? Lines stiff as wires, and that garish gold! Did you notice that in his latest mosaic the Archangel Gabriel is standing at such a slant he looks like he’s falling over? Why, your Cretan can’t even draw a figure so it stands up properly!”
“It may be,” Prokopios offered hesitantly, “that he did it intentionally, for reasons of composition — ”
“Rubbish!” the abbot sputtered, and his face swelled with anger. “For reasons of composition! So one can draw badly for reasons of composition, is that it? And the Emperor himself goes and looks at it and says, ‘interesting, very interesting’!” Father Nikeforos regained control of his temper. “Drawing, sir, first and foremost, drawing: the whole of art is in drawing.”
“The words of a master,” Prokopios responded at once in a flattering tone. “I have your Ascension in my collection, and I can tell you, Father, I’d never give it up, even for a Nikaon.”
“Nikaon was a good painter,” Nikeforos said firmly. “The classical school, sir. Dear Lord, those beautiful proportions! But my Ascension is a weak effort, Prokopios. Those motionless figures and the Christ with wings like a stork — Christ, sir, must float in the air without wings! That is art!” Father Nikeforos, overcome with emotion, wiped his nose on his sleeve. “It can’t be helped; in those days I still didn’t know how to draw. There was no depth, no movement — ”
Prokopios stared in astonishment at the abbot’s twisted hands. “Father, do you still paint?”
Father Nikeforos shook his head. “No. Oh, no. I try something now and then, but merely for my own pleasure.”
“Figures?” Prokopios burst out.
“Figures. My son, nothing is more beautiful than the human form. Standing figures which look as if they were about to step forward. And a background behind them into which you’d vow they could step back. It is difficult, dear son. What does he know about that, your — what’s his name? — your stonemason from Crete, with his distorted mannikins!”
“I would like to see your new paintings, Nikeforos,” said Prokopios.
Father Nikeforos waved his hand. “Why? You have your Papanastasias! A magnificent artist, you say. He and his ‘reasons of composition’! Well, if his mosaic mannikins are some sort of art, then I don’t know what art is. You, of course, are a connoisseur, Prokopios; you may be right that Papanastasias is a genius.”
“I didn’t say that,” Prokopios protested. “Nikeforos, I didn’t come here to argue with you about art but to save it before it is too late.”
“From Papanastasias?” Nikeforos asked eagerly.
“No, from the Emperor. Surely you know about it. His Majesty the Emperor Constantine Copronymos, under pressure from certain ecclesiastical circles, intends to forbid the painting of icons. Supposedly it�
�s idolatry or something. Such nonsense, Nikeforos!”
The abbot veiled his eyes beneath their withered lids. “I heard about it, Prokopios,” he muttered. “But it isn’t certain yet. No, it has not yet been decided.”
“That’s exactly why I’ve come to you, Father,” Prokopios said urgently. “Everyone knows it’s a purely political issue for the Emperor. He doesn’t give a damn about idolatry; what he wants is peace. And when mobs led by filthy fanatics run through the streets bawling ‘Down with idols,’ our illustrious monarch naturally thinks the easiest thing to do is to accommodate those hairy bastards. Do you know they’ve smeared the frescoes in the Chapel of Most Sacred Love?”
“I heard about it,” the abbot sighed, his eyes still closed. “What a sin, dear Mother of God! Such exquisite frescoes, from the hand of Stefanides himself! Do you recall the figure of Saint Sofia, to the left of Christ giving his blessing? Prokopios, that was the most beautiful standing figure I have ever seen. Stefanides, sir, was a master, say what you will!”
Prokopios, leaning closer to the abbot, spoke with great intensity. “Nikeforos, it is written in the Laws of Moses: Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth. Nikeforos, are they right, those who preach that it is forbidden by God to create paintings and sculpture?”
Father Nikeforos shook his head without opening his eyes. “Prokopios,” he sighed after a time, “art is as holy as the divine service, for . . . it glorifies the works of God . . . and teaches us to love them.” He made the sign of the cross in the air with his pitiful hand. “Was not the Creator Himself an artist? Did He not mold the form of man from the clay of the earth? Did He not endow all things with line and color? And what an artist, Prokopios! Never, never can we learn enough from Him — Besides, that law applied only to those barbarous times when people could not yet draw properly.”
Prokopios breathed a deep sigh of relief. “I knew you would say something like that, Father,” he said respectfully. “As a priest — and as an artist. Nikeforos, surely you will not allow works of art to be destroyed!”
The abbot opened his eyes. “I? What can I do, Prokopios? This is an evil age; the civilized world is reverting to barbarism, people are coming from Crete and God knows where else — It is terrible, dear son; but how can we avert it?”
“Nikeforos, if you would speak with the Emperor — ”
“No, no,” said Father Nikeforos. “I cannot speak about this with the Emperor. He has no feeling at all for art, Prokopios. I heard that recently he praised the mosaics done by your — what did you say his name was?”
“Papanastasias, Father.”
“Yes. The one who does those lopsided mannikins. The Emperor has no conception of what art is. And in my opinion Malvasias is an equally bad artist. The Ravenna school, needless to say. And do you know, they commissioned him to do the mosaics in the court chapel in spite of it! No, there’s nothing one can do at court, Prokopios. I certainly cannot go there and beg them to allow a man like Argyropolos or that other one, that Cretan — Papanastasias, is it? — to further defile walls!”
“That’s not the issue, Father,” Prokopios said patiently. “But consider this: if the iconoclasts prevail, all art will be destroyed. Even your icons will be burned, Nikeforos!”
The abbot waved his hand. “They were all weak, Propokios,” he murmured. “I didn’t know how to draw then. The drawing of figures, sir, is not something one learns overnight.”
With a trembling finger Prokopios pointed to an antique statue of the young Bacchus, half hidden by a briar rose in blossom. “That statue will be smashed as well,” he said.
“What a sin, what a sin,” Nikeforos whispered, narrowing his eyes in pain. “We called that statue Saint John the Baptist, but it is a real and perfect Bacchus. I sit here and gaze at it for hours on end. It is like a prayer, Prokopios.”
“So you see, Nikeforos. And is that divine perfection to be destroyed for all time? Is some verminous, bawling fanatic to shatter it to bits with a hammer?”
The abbot sat in silence, his hands folded.
“You can save art itself, Nikeforos,” Prokopios implored fervently. “Your holy life and your wisdom have won you immense respect in the Church; the court esteems you highly; you will be appointed a member of the Great Synod that is to decide whether all statues and paintings are but instruments of idolatry. Father, the fate of all art is in your hands!”
“You overestimate my influence, Prokopios,” the abbot sighed. “The fanatics are strong, and they have the mob behind them — ” Nikeforos fell silent. “You say that they would destroy all paintings and statues?”
“Yes.”
“And would they destroy mosaics, too?”
“Yes. They would tear them from the ceilings and scatter the pieces on trash heaps.”
“You don’t say,” Nikeforos remarked, his interest piqued. “So they would also tear down the one with that lopsided Archangel Gabriel, the one done by your man — um — ”
“Probably.”
“Good,” snickered the abbot. “It’s appallingly bad art, sir. I’ve never seen such impossible figures. And to say it’s for reasons of composition! Let me tell you, Prokopios, bad drawing is a sin, it’s blasphemy, it’s an offense against the Lord. And people are expected to kneel down before it? No, no! In truth, sir, real idolatry is bowing to bad art. I’m not surprised that the people have risen against it in anger. They are quite right. The Cretan school is heresy; and this man Papanastasias is a worse heretic than any Arian. So you’re saying,” he concluded cheerfully, “that they’ll tear down those garish little mud tiles? You bring me good news, dear son. I’m glad that you came.” Nikeforos rose to his feet with difficulty, signaling that the audience was at an end. “Beautiful weather we’re having, isn’t it?”
Prokopios stood up, visibly crushed. “But Nikeforos,” he pleaded, his words tumbling out in a rush, “paintings will be destroyed, too! Listen, all works of art will be burned or smashed to pieces!”
“There, there,” the abbot said soothingly. “It’s a pity, a great pity. But if the world is to be saved from bad art, we mustn’t look too harshly on the occasional blunder. Just so long as people don’t have to kneel down before lopsided mannikins such as the ones done by your — now what was — ”
“Papanastasias.”
“Yes, that’s the man. That Cretan school is an abomination, Prokopios. I’m glad you drew my attention to the Synod. I’ll be there, Prokopios, I’ll be there, even if they have to carry me. I’d reproach myself to my dying day if I weren’t in on it — Providing they tear down that Archangel Gabriel,” Nikeforos laughed, the wrinkles spreading across the whole of his face. “God be with you, my son,” he said, raising his contorted hand in benediction.
“God be with you, Nikeforos,” Prokopios sighed despairingly.
Abbot Nikoforos walked away, shaking his head thoughtfully. “That crude Cretan school,” he muttered. “Bad drawing. High time somebody put a stop to it … Dear God, it’s heresy … that Papanastasias … and Papadianos, too … Those aren’t figures, they’re idols, accursed idols,” Nikeforos exclaimed, his voice rising and his martyred hands flailing the air. “Idols … idols … idols … ”
April 12, 1936
Brother Francis
On the road to Forli (where it branches off to Lugo) a mendicant friar stopped at a blacksmith’s. The friar was smallish in stature, a bit stooped, and he displayed several yellow teeth in a broad smile. “God bless you, brother smith,” he said cheerily, “I have not yet broken my fast today.”
The smith straightened up, wiped away the sweat on his brow, and muttered to himself about folks who wander the roads. “Come in,” he grunted, “there’ll be a piece of cheese inside.”
The smith’s wife was heavy with child. She was a pious woman and wanted to kiss the friar’s hand, but he promptly pulled both his hands
away and babbled sunnily: “But, dear mother, what if I were to kiss your hand? They call me Brother Francis the Beggar. God’s blessing on you.”
“Amen,” the young woman sighed, and she went to fetch bread, cheese, and wine.
The smith was a man of few words. He stared at the ground and wondered what to say next. Finally he said, “So, where do you come from, Dominie?”
“Why, from Assisi,” said the friar. “A far walk and a fine one, dear brother. You wouldn’t believe the bounty of brooks, vineyards, and footpaths in this world. It’s not enough for a man to simply pass by them, but he should, brother, he should. The work of God’s hand is everywhere, and as you walk along, it’s as if you were praying.”
“I went as far as Bologna once,” the blacksmith said, thinking back, “but that was a long time ago. You know, Dominie, a smith can’t carry his forge around with him.”
The friar nodded his head. “Forging iron,” he said, “why, that’s like serving God. Fire is fair to behold and holy. Brother fire, my young friend, is one of God’s living creatures. When iron softens and begins to bend — that’s beauty for you, brother smith, oh yes, oh yes! And when you look into a fire — it’s like a revelation.” The friar clasped his hands around his knees like a boy and began to tell stories about fire. Shepherds’ campfires, the small, smoky fires in vineyards, blazing kindling, glowing candles, and the burning bush. In the meantime the smith’s wife spread the table with a white linen cloth and set out bread, cheese, and wine; the smith kept blinking his eyes absent-mindedly, as if he were staring into a fire.