Victories arriving in the hurry of their glorious errands. Something so
they tumbled in upon us when Sherman conquered the Carolinas, and
Sheridan the valley of the Shenandoah, when Lee surrendered, and the
glad president went to Richmond. One of these Victories is untying her
sandal, in token of her permanent abiding. Yet all of them have trooped
away long since, scared by the hideous havoc of barbarians. And the
bas-reliefs, their marble shadows, have all been battered and mutilated
into the saddest mockery of their original tradition. The statue of
Wingless Victory that stood in the little temple, has long been absent
and unaccounted for. But the only Victory that the Parthenon now can
seize or desire is this very Wingless Victory, the triumph of a power
that retreats not--the power of Truth.
I give heed to all that is told me in a dreamy and desolate manner. It
is true, no doubt--this was, and this, and this; but what I see is none
the less emptiness--the broken eggshell of a civilization which Time has
hatched and devoured. And this incapacity to reconstruct the past goes
with me through most of my days in Athens. The city is so modern, and
its circle so small! The trumpeters who shriek around the Theseum in the
morning, the _cafe_ keeper who taxes you for a chair beneath the shadow
of the Olympian columns, the _custode_ who hangs about to see that you
do not break the broken marbles further, or carry off their piteous
fragments, all of these are significant of modern Greece; but the ruins
have nothing to do with it.
Poor as these relics are in comparison with what one would wish them to
be, they are still priceless. This Greek marble is the noblest in
descent; it needs no eulogy. These forms have given the model for a
hundred familiar and commonplace works, which caught a little gleam of
their glory, squaring to shapeliness some town-house of the west, or
southern bank or church. So well do we know them in the prose of modern
design, that we are startled at seeing them transfigured in the poetry
of their own conception. Poor old age! poor columns!
And poor Greece, plundered by Roman, Christian, and Mussulman. Hers were
the lovely statues that grace the halls of the Vatican--at least the
loveliest of them. And Rome shows to this day two colossal groups, of
which one bears the inscription, "_Opus Praxitelae_," the other that of
"_Opus Phidiae_." And Naples has a Greek treasure or two, one thinks,
besides her wealth of sculptural gems, of which the best are of Greek
workmanship. And in England those bas-reliefs which are the treasure of
art students and the wonder of the world, were pulled from the pediment
of the Parthenon, like the pearly teeth from a fair mouth, the mournful
gaps remaining open in the sight of the unforgiving world. "Thou art old
and decrepit," said England. "I am still in strength and in vigor. All
else has gone, as well thy dower as thy earnings. Thou hast but these
left. I want them; so give them me."
Royal Munich also had his share. The relict of Lola Montes did to the
temple at Egina what Lord Elgin did to the Parthenon, inflicting worse
damage upon its architecture. At the time, the unsettled state of the
country, and the desire to preserve things so costly and beautiful, may
be accepted as excuses for such acts. But when Greece shall have a
museum fit to preserve the marbles now huddled in the Theseum, or left
exposed on the highways, then she may demand back the Elgin and Bavarian
marbles. She will then deserve to receive them again. Nor could she,
methinks, do better than devote to this noble purpose some of the
superfluous extent of Otho's monstrous palace, whose emptiness afflicts
the visitor with sad waste of room and of good material. Making all
allowance for the removal of the Penates of its late occupants, it is
still obvious that these two luxurious wrens occupied but a small
portion of this eagle's nest. A fine gallery could as easily be spared
from its endless apartments as are the public galleries from the
Vatican.
Nor should this new kingling and his Russian bride be encouraged to
people such an extent of masonry with smart aid-de-camps, lying
diplomats, and plundering stewards and _dames d'honneur_. For pity's
sake, let the poor kingdom have a modest representative, who shall
follow the spirit of modern reform, and administer the people's revenues
with clean hands. A sculpture gallery, therefore, in the palace by all
means, open to the public, as are the galleries of Italian palaces. And
these marbles in the Theseum and elsewhere--fie upon them! Not only are
they so crowded that one cannot see them, but so dirty that one cannot
discern their features. "Are they marble?" one asks, for a thick coating
of the sand and dust in which they were embodied for ages still envelops
them, and can only be removed by careful artistic intervention.
A little money, please, king and Parliament, for these unhappy ones. The
gift would repay itself in the end, for a respectable collection of
authentic Greek remains on the very soil in which they were found would
bring here many of the wide-ranging students of art and antiquity. A
little money, please, for good investment is good economy. Moreover,
despite the velvet flatteries and smiling treasons of diplomacy, the
present government of Greece is, as every government should be, on good
behavior before the people. Wonderfully clever, enterprising, and
liberal have the French people made the author of the Life of Julius
Caesar. Wonderfully reformative did the radicals of twenty years since
make the pope. And the Greek nation, taken in the large, may prove to
have some common sense to impart to its symbolical head, of whom we can
only hope that the something rotten in the state of Denmark may not have
been taken from it to corrupt the state of Greece.
EXPEDITIONS--NAUPLIA.
A few days of midsummer passed in Athens make welcome any summons that
calls one out of it. Majestic as the past is, one likes to have its grim
skeleton a little cushioned over by the aesthetic of the present, and, at
the present season, this is not to be had, even in its poorest and
cheapest forms. The heat, moreover, though tempered by healthful
breezes, is yet of a kind and degree to tell heavily upon a northern
constitution. To take exercise of any kind, between ten A. M. and six P.
M., is uncomfortable and far from safe. How delightful, therefore, to
pack one's little budget, and start upon a cruise!
For the government, we must confess, is very hospitable to us. Our chief
veteran goes about to distribute clothing to the Cretan refugees, who,
in advanced stages of nakedness, congregate in Egina, Syra, Argos, and
other places, as well as in Athens. And he asks the government, and the
government lends its steamer, the Parados, for the philanthropic voyage.
So we drive down to the Pireo and embark, and are on our way. A pleasant
little Athenian lady accompanies us, together with her father, a Cretan
by birth, and a man who has been much in the service of the government.
Our travelling library for this occasion is reduced to a copy of
Machiavelli's Principe, a volume of Muir's Greece, and a Greek
phrase-book on Ollendorff's principle. We have also some worsted work;
but one of us, the writer of these notes, has added to these another
occupation, another interest.
Take note that the beds of the hotel at Athens are defended by
mosquito-nets, which show, here and there, the marks of age. Take note
that we close these nettings the first night a little carelessly,
remembering Cuba, and expecting nothing worse. Take note that we neither
wear gloves at night, nor bandage our arms and wrists, and then take
note of what follows.
A fiery stinging of needle points in every accessible part of your body.
Each new bite is like a new star of torment in the milky way of your
corporeal repose. These creatures warn not, like the honest American
mosquito, rattlesnake, or bore, of their intended descent upon you. In
comparison with their silent impudence, the familiar humming of our
Yankee torments becomes an apologetic murmur, significant of, "We are
very sorry indeed, but we cannot well do otherwise." This is the
language of the dun--the Greek insect has the quiet of the thief.
So much for the action; now for the result. You awake uncomfortably,
and, provoked here and there, begin to retort upon your skin a little.
Never was more salient illustration of the doctrine of the forgiveness
of injuries. Let by-gones be by-gones; suffer the bites to rest. Ah! the
warning comes too late. The fatal process has begun. At every touch you
get worse, but cannot stop. You now realize what a good gift your
Anglo-Saxon skin was, and so clean, and so comfortable! and it cost you
so little! But just because it was so good, these foreign vermin
insisted on sharing it with you. And you exemplify in little the fate of
Italy and of Greece, which have been feasted on for ages, and cursed by
the absolute mosquito for not continuing in perpetuity to yield their
life-blood without remonstrance. This for the moral aspect of the case.
The material aspect is that of intolerable pain and itching,
accompanying a distinct suppuration of every spot punctured by the
insect. For some days and nights the principal occupation of the writer
of these notes was to tear the unhappy hands and arms that aid in their
production. A remedy is casually mentioned--vinegar. Bandages dipped in
this fluid, and closely wrapped around the suffering members, give
instant relief, but have to be frequently renewed, the fever of the skin
rapidly drying them. The sufferings of Job were now understood, and his
eminent but impossible virtue appreciated. Even he, however, had
recourse to a potsherd. Never were my human sympathies so called out
towards the afflicted Scotch nation! Well, let this subject rest.
Recovery is now an established fact. From the height of experience we
can look down upon future sufferers and say, "This, too, shall pass
away."
But now, to return to the deck of the Parados. Scenery, worsted work,
the Principe, and a little conversation caused the time to pass very
agreeably. We took also the Ollendorff book, and made a short trial of
its lumbering machinery. And we had _dejeuner_ on board, and dinner. And
Georgi, the cameriere, had the features of Edwin Booth--the strong eyes,
the less forcible mouth, something even of the general expression. At
about 7.30 P. M., we made the harbor of Nauplia, otherwise called
Napoli de Romania. The harbor being shallow, the steamer anchored at
some distance from the land, whither its boats conveyed us. On the quay
stood a crowd of people, waiting to see us. They had discerned the
steamer afar, and had flocked together from mere curiosity. Something in
the landing made me think of that portion of the quay at Naples which
lies before the Hotel de Russie. Much of the present town was built by
the Turks. The streets are narrow and irregular, and many of the houses
have balconies. One of these streets is nearly blocked by a crowd. We
inquire, and learn that the head of a brigand has just been brought in.
For the brigands, long tolerated in some regions by usage and indolence,
have now set foot in a region in which they will not be endured. The
Peloponnesus will not have them, and the peasants, who elsewhere aid the
brigands, here aid the _gens d'armes_. Upon the head of their leader,
Kitzos, a large price has been set. But the head which causes the
commotion of this evening is not that of Kitzos. Getting through the
crowd at length, we come upon a pretty square, surrounded by houses, and
planted with pepper-trees.
Here is the house of the prefect, at whose door we knock, imploring
shelter. Our Cretan friend, M. Antoniades, is well known to the prefect;
hence the daring of this summons. The prefecture receives us. The
prefect--a vivacious little man, with blue eyes and light hair--capers
about in great excitement. He has to do with the war against the
brigands, and joy at the bringing in of the head before mentioned nearly
causes him to lose his own. His large _salon_ is thronged with
visitors, who come partly to talk over these matters, partly to see the
strangers. We, the ladies, meanwhile take refuge on a roomy balcony,
where we have chairs, and where _gliko_ and cold water are offered to
us. I make my usual piteous request for vinegar, and renew my bandages,
while the others enjoy cool air and starlight. The prefect goes off to
supper at nine, having first signified to us that his wife is occupied
with a baby two days old, and cannot wait upon us; that his house is at
our disposal, and that he will send out among his neighbors and obtain
all that we may require. One of his visitors--M. Zampacopolus, a major
of cavalry--promises to wait upon us at five in the morning, to conduct
us up the steep ascent of the fortress Palamides. By ten o'clock the
mattresses are brought. They are spread in a row on the floor, and we
weary women, four in number, lie down and sleep as only weary people
can.
The summons that arouses us at five the next morning does not awaken
enthusiasm. We struggle up, however, and get each a minimum of the
limited basin and towel privilege. Descending, we find Major
Zampacopolus in full uniform, and are admonished by him for being so
late. He came for us at four o'clock; but the chief veteran would not
suffer us to be disturbed. The sun had already risen, and the ascent
looked most formidable. Invoking the courage of our ancestors, we
unfolded the umbrellas and began. We had six hundred steps to climb, and
steep ones at that. The labor caused such perspiration that at any turn
commanding the breeze we were forced to shield ourselves, the sudden
evaporation being attended with great danger. The ascent is everywhere
guarded by loopholes for musketry, and could not be carried by any party
of human assailants. There is, however, another route of access to the
fortress, which may be pursued on horseback. It was by this latter path
that the Greeks ascended during the war of independence. They took the
fortress from the Turks, but were admitted within the gates by
treachery. After weary efforts and pauses, we reach the plane of the
main structure, which consists of a number of independent bastions in
strong positions, commanding each other and the pass. It was built by
the Venetians, and vouches for their skill and thoroughness in military
architecture. The officers receive us, and accommodate us in an airy
bedroom, whose draughts of air we avoid, being _en nage_ with
perspiration. We cool by degrees, and enjoy the balcony. A pot of basil
is offered us for fragrance, at which we smell with little pleasure. We
are then told the legend of the discovery of the true cross beneath a
growth of this plant, which circumstance consecrates it among Eastern
traditions forever. In the mean time a functionary enters, and furtively
carries away a small box. Not very long afterwards its contents are
returned in the shape of a cup of delicious coffee for each of us, with
a piece of the ration bread of the garrison. "This bread," said the
major, "is made with the hands, as we know, for it is made by the
soldiers; but the bread you commonly eat in Greece is made with the
feet." Here was indeed a heightening of present enjoyment by a somewhat
unwelcome disparagement of unavoidable past and future experiences. We
now proceeded to visit the bastions in detail. Each of them has its own
name. One is called Miltiades. The most formidable one is called Satan.
The view from the highest parapet is very grand. We go about, wondering
at the grim walls and the manifold openings for musketry. They show us
an enormous cistern for rain water. The place contains several of these,
and is thus capable of standing a very long siege. We pass an enclosure
in which are detained "the military prisoners," whoever they may be. As
a _bonne bouche_ we are promised a sight of the criminals condemned to
death. These are kept in the strongest recess of the fortress. They lead
us to it, and bid us look down into a court below, in which we perceive
twenty-five or more unfortunates refreshing themselves in the open air.
At the door and grated window of the prison behind them appear the faces
of others. Stationed on a narrow bridge above stand the military guard,
whose muskets command the court. These men have all been convicted of
crimes of violence against the person. Sentence has been passed upon
them, and its execution follows the convenience and pleasure of the
officers of the law. At short intervals a little group of them is led
out to endure the last penalty. "Do not pity them, madam," said the
major; "they have all done deeds worthy of death." But how not to pity
them, when they and we are made of the same fragile human stuff, that
corrupts so easily to crime, and is always redeemable, if society would
only afford the costly process of redemption. A sad listlessness hung
over the melancholy group. Some of them were busied in preparing
breakfast--coffee, probably. Most of them sat or stood quite idly, with
the terrible guns bristling above them. They looked up in our women's
faces as if they sought there something, some compassionate glance that
might recall mother or sweetheart--if such people have them. One old
brigand lifted his voice, and petitioned the officers that his single
daily hour of fresh air might be extended to two hours, pleading the
pain he suffered in his eyes. This was granted. Our guides directed our
attention to a man of elastic figure and marked face--tall, athletic,
and blond. All that they could tell us was, that there seemed to be
something remarkable about this man, as, indeed, his appearance
indicated. In his face, more than in those of the others, we observed
the blank that Hope leaves when her light is extinguished. All days, all
things, were alike to him now; the dark, close prison behind, before him
only the day when one in command shall say, "This is thy last!" If the
priest shall then have any hidden comfort to bestow upon him! Shade of
Jesus, we will hope so!
These men, however, go to death with bold defiance, singing and
laughing. A rude sympathy and admiration from the multitude gives them
the last thrill of pleasure. As I looked at them, I was struck by a
feeling of their helplessness. What is there in the world so helpless
as a disarmed criminal? No inner armor has he to beat back the rude
visiting of society; no secure soul-citadel, where scorn and anger
cannot reach him. He has thrown away the jewel of his manhood; human law
crushes its empty case. But the final Possessor and Creditor is unseen.
In our wanderings we catch glimpses of a pretty little garden, disposed
in terraces, and planted with flowers, vegetables, and vines. This
garden recalls to memory a gentle-hearted commandant who planted it,
loving flowers, and therefore not hating men. It is a little gone to
decay since he left it, but its presence here is a welcome and useful
boon. After visiting its beds and borders, we take leave of the
hospitable officers, and by rapid and easy descent return to the
prefecture, where the breakfast-table is set, and where a large tea-pot
and heaped dish of rice attest the hospitable efforts of our host.
I have only forgotten to say that on one of the ramparts of the fortress
they showed us two old Venetian cannon, both of which served in the last
revolution; and further, that, in returning, passing through the old
gate of the town, we saw sculptured in stone the winged lion of St.
Mark, the valorous device of Venice.
ARGOS.
We found the prefect at the very maximum of excitement. Another telegram
concerning the brigands, and yet another. Kitzos is closely beleaguered
by peasants and gens-d'armes; he cannot get away. Another head will be
brought in, and the country will be free of its scourge. With much
jumping up and declaiming, our entertainer shared the morning meal with
us. We feed the discontented servant, whose views of life appeared to be
dismal, kissed the sweet-eyed children of the family, and, as a party,
leaped into two carriages, leaving the prefect intent upon welcoming
with grim hospitality the prospective heads of bandits, which did not
hinder him from shaking hands with us, cordially inviting us to return
to the shelter of his roof. But shelter was not for us under any roof,
save the ambulating cover of the carriage. We were now _en route_ for
Argos. Our drivers were clothed alike, in well-worn bags of blue
homespun, peaked babouches without stockings, and handkerchiefs bound
about the head. The thermometer was ranging in the upper regions. Dust
and overwhelming heat assail us. Stopping to water the well-flogged
horses, we take refuge for a few minutes in a shady garden, planted with
flowers, vines, and merciful trees with flat, not pointed, foliage. We
sit around a tiny fountain, at whose small spouts the smaller bees
refresh themselves on the wing. This sojourn is brief; our next halt is
on the burning, dusty high-road, where the chief veteran says, "Tiryns,"
and leads a very forlorn hope across thorny fields and stony ditches to
a Cyclopean ruin--a side and angle of old wall, built after the manner
so denominated, and so solidly that it outlasts at least three thousand
years. We stand and consider this grim old remnant as long and as
attentively as the fear of sun-stroke will permit. The veteran,
however, leads us farther in pursuit of a cave in which, during the war
of Greek independence, he was wont to seek shelter from sun and rain.
This cave is probably one of the galleries of the ancient fortress; for
that the ruin was a fortress, they say who know. It is perhaps twenty
yards in length, and three in its greatest height; for it has a pointed
roof, laboriously formed by the fitting and approximation of the two
sides, no arch being then invented. The stones that form this roof are
very large, rather broken than hewn, and are laid together with great
care. Some of them are of very hard material. From these most venerable
relics we creep back, under the deadly fire of the sun, to the carriage.
The remainder of our drive leads across the plain of Argos, the "courser
feeding," as Homer denominates it. We come in sight of its lofty
Acropolis long before we reach the town, through whose narrow streets we
drive, and after a brief pause at the prefecture, find rest and shelter
in a private house.