oldest date "in the world." Americans are accused of cherishing an
inordinate love for the superlative--the longest river, the highest
mountain, the deepest mine in the world, the largest diamond in the
world; there must always be that tag "in the world" to interest us. When
ancient objects are in question we are said to rush from one to the
next, applying our sole test; and we drop at any time a tomb or a
temple, no matter how beautiful, if there comes a rumor that another has
been discovered a little farther on which is thought to be a trifle more
venerable. Thus they chaff us--pilgrims from a land where Nature herself
works in superlatives, and where there is no antiquity at all. In Italy
our mania, exercising itself upon smaller objects than temples, brings
us nearer the comprehension (or non-comprehension) of the contemptuous
natives. "What hideous" (she called it hee-dee us) "things you _do_
buy!" I heard an Italian lady exclaim with conviction some years ago, as
she happened to meet three of her American acquaintances returning from
a hunt through the antiquity-shops of Naples, loaded with a battered
lamp, a square of moth-eaten tapestry with an indecipherable
inscription, and a nondescript broken animal in bronze, without head,
tail, or legs, who might have been intended for a dragon, or possibly
for a cow. After a while we pass this stage of antiquity-shops. But we
never pass the Etruscans, or, rather, I should speak for myself, and say
that I never passed them; I was perpetually haunted by them. There was
one road in particular, a lonely track which led from Bellosguardo (at
Florence) up a steep hill, and I was forever climbing this stony ascent
because, forsooth, it was set down on an Italian map as "the old
Etruscan way between Fiesole and Volterra," two strongholds of this
mysterious people. I was sure that there were tombs with strangely
painted walls close at hand, and when there was no one in sight I made
furtive archaeological pokes with my parasol. In Italy an Etruscan tomb
seems the oldest thing "in the world." And at Corfu the unearthed Greek
cemetery became doubly interesting when I learned that among the relics
discovered there was a lioness couchant, concerning which the highest
authorities have said, "After the lions of the gates of Mycenae, there is
no Greek sculpture older than this." (The lioness is now in the
vestibule of the palace in the esplanade.) This was exciting, for Mycenae
is a name to conjure with still, in spite of the refusal of the learned
to accept, in all their extent, Dr. Schliemann's splendidly romantic
theories and dreams. But when one goes on to Egypt, to have searched at
all for that enticing "oldest" in Greece appears to have been a mistake.
For what is B.C. 1000, which the German authorities say is an
approximate date for the Mycenae relics--what is that compared with King
Menes of the Nile, with his B.C. 4400 according to Brugsch-Bey, and B.C.
5000 according to Mariette? And there are rumors of civilized times far
older. But if we can bring ourselves to cease our chase after age and
turn to beauty, then it is not in the sands of Egypt that we must dig.
For beauty we must come to the clear light country of the gods.
But leaving history, some of us suffer greatly nowadays from mental
dislocations of another sort. The Mycenae lions and the grim lioness of
Corfu are ascribed with a calmness which seems brutal to "pre-Homeric
times." Surely there were no pre-Homeric times except chaos. Surely
those were the first days of the world when all the men were
sure-footed, and all the women white-armed; when the sea was hollow (it
has remained that to this day), and when the heavenly powers interested
themselves in human affairs upon the slightest occasion. Leave us our
faith in them. It can be preserved, if you like, in the purely poetical
compartment of the mind. For there are all sorts of compartments: I have
met a learned geologist who turned pale when a mirror was broken by
accident in his house; I know a disciple of Darwin who always deprecates
instantly any reference to his good health, lest in some mysterious way
it should attract ill-luck. It seems to me, therefore, that the dear
belief that Homer's heroes began the world may coexist even with the
bicycle. (Not that I myself have much knowledge of this excellent
vehicle. But, its tandem wheels, swift and business-like, personify the
spirit of the age.)
[Illustration: THE ISLET CALLED "THE SHIP OF ULYSSES"]
At Corfu one is over one's head in the Odyssey. "The island is not what
it has been," said the English lady of the Indian Mail. It is not,
indeed! She referred to the days of the Lords High. But the rest of us
refer to Nausicaa; for Corfu is the Scheria of the Odyssey, the home of
King Alcinous. Not far beyond the tomb of Menekrates, at the point
called Canone, we have a view of a deep bay. On the opposite shore of
this bay enters the stream upon whose bank Ulysses first met the
delightful little maiden--"the beautiful stream of the river, where were
the pools unfailing, and clear and abundant water." And also (but this
is a work of supererogation, like feminine testimony in a court of
justice) we have a view of the Phaeacian ship which was turned into stone
by Neptune: "Neptune s'en approcha, et, le frappant du plat de la main,
le changea en un rocher qu'il enracina dans le sol," as my copy of the
Odyssey, which happens rather absurdly to be a French one, translates
the passage. The ship, therefore, is now an island; its deck is a
chapel; its masts are trees. Of late the belief that Corfu is the
Scheria of the Odyssey has been attacked. Appended to the musical
translation of the episode of Nausicaa, which was published in 1890,
there is the following note: "It will be seen that the writer declines
to accept the identification of Corcyra, the modern Corfu, with Scheria.
In this skepticism he is emboldened by the protecting shield of the Ajax
among English-speaking Hellenists. See Jebb's Homer." It is not possible
to contest a point with Ajax. But any one who has seen the gardens and
groves of this lovely isle, who has watched the crystalline water dash
against the rocks at Palaeokastrizza, who has strolled down the hill-side
at Pelleka, or floated in a skiff off the coast at Ipso--any such person
will say that Corfu is at least an ideal home for the charming girl who
played ball and washed the clothes on the shore, king's daughter though
she was. To quote the translation:
"Father dear, would you make ready for me a wagon, a high one,
Strong in the wheels, that I may carry our beautiful garments
... to be washed in the river?"
One wishes that this primitive princess could have had another name.
Nausicaa; no matter how one pronounces the syllables, they are not
melodious. Why could she not have been Aglaia, Daphne, or Artemidora?
Standing at Canone and looking across at her shore, one is vexed anew
that she should have given her heart, or even her fancy, to Ulysses--a
man who was always eating. Instead of Ulysses, we should say Odysseus,
no doubt. That may pass. But the sentimental, inaccurate persons who
read Homer in English (or French) will not so easily consent to
Alkinoos. No; Alcinous (which reminds them vaguely of halcyon) will
remain in their minds as the name of the king who lived "far removed
from the trafficking nations," among his blossoming gardens in the
billowy sea; and to this faith will they cling. The clinging evidently
exists at Corfu. One of the most comical sights there is a modern
"detached villa," of course English, which might have come from
Cheltenham; it is planted close to the glaring road, and over its dusty
gate is inscribed imperturbably, "Alcinous Lodge."
[Illustration: VILLAGE OF PELLEKA]
One wonders whether the princesses of to-day (who no longer dry clothes
upon the shore) amuse their leisure hours with Homer's recitals
concerning their predecessors? One of them, at any rate, has chosen
Corfu as a place of sojourn; the Empress of Austria, after paying many
visits to the island, has now built for herself a country residence, or
villino, at a distance from the town, not far from Nausicaa's stream.
The house is surrounded by gardens, and from the terrace there is a
magnificent view in all directions; here she enjoys the solitude which
she is said to love, and the Corfiotes see only the coming and going
of her yacht. I don't know why there should be something so delightful,
to one mind at least, in the selection of this distant Greek island as
the resting-place of a queen, who takes the long journey down the
Adriatic year after year to reach her retreat. The preference is perhaps
due simply to fondness for a sea-voyage, and to the fact that a yacht
lying at Trieste lies practically at Vienna's door. Lovers of Corfu,
however, will not be turned aside by any of these reasons; they will
continue to believe that the choice is made for beauty's sake; they will
extol this perfect appreciation; they will praise this modern Nausicaa;
they will purchase her portrait in photographed copies. When they have
one of these representations, they can note with satisfaction the
accordance between its outlines and a taste in islands which is surely
the best in the world.
[Illustration: KING GEORGE OF GREECE]
The casino of the Empress is not the only royal residence at Corfu.
About a mile from the town is the country-house called "Mon Repos," the
property of the King of Greece. King George and Queen Olga, with their
children, have frequently spent summers here. The mansion is ordinary as
regards its architecture--it was built by one of the Lords High. The
situation is altogether admirable, with a view of the harbor and town.
But the especial loveliness of Mon Repos is to be found in its gardens;
their foliage is tropical, with superb magnolias, palms, bananas, aloes,
and orange and lemon trees. There are flowers of all kinds, with roses
clambering everywhere, and blossoming vines. The royal family who rule,
or rather preside over, the kingdom of the Hellenes are much respected
and beloved at Corfu. The King, who was Prince William of Denmark--the
brother of the Czarina of Russia and of the Princess of Wales--took the
name of George when he ascended the throne in 1863. He was elected by
the National Assembly. Now that he has been reigning nearly thirty
years, and has a grandson as well as a son to succeed him, it is amusing
to turn back to the original candidates and the votes; for it was an
election (within certain limits) by the people, and all sorts of tastes
were represented. Prince Alfred of England, the Duke of Edinburgh, was
at the head of the list; but as it had been stipulated that no member of
the reigning families of England, France, or Russia should have the
crown, his name was struck off. There were votes for Prince Jerome
Napoleon. There were votes for the Prince Imperial. There were even
votes for "A Republic." But Greece, as she stands, is as near a republic
as a country with a sovereign can be. Suffrage is universal; there is no
aristocracy; there are no hereditary titles, no entailed estates; the
liberty of the press is untrammelled; education is free. Everywhere the
people are ardently patriotic; they are actively, and one may say almost
dangerously, interested in everything that pertains to the political
condition of their country. This interest is quickened by their acute
intellects. I have never seen faces more sharply intelligent than those
of the Greek men of to-day. I speak of men who have had some advantages
in the way of education. But as all are intensely eager to obtain these
advantages, and as schools are now numerous, education to a certain
extent is widely diffused. The men are, as a general rule, handsome. But
they are not in the least after the model of the Greek god, as he exists
in art and fiction. This model has an ideal height and strength, massive
shoulders, a statuesque head with closely curling hair, and an unruffled
repose. The actual Greek possesses a meagre frame, thin face, with high
cheek-bones, a dry, dark complexion, straight hair, small eyes, and as
for repose, he has never heard of it; he is overwhelmingly,
never-endingly restless. With this enumeration my statement that he
is handsome may not appear to accord. Nevertheless, he is a good-looking
fellow; his spare form is often tall, the quickly turning eyes are
wonderfully brilliant, the dark face is lighted by the gleam of white
teeth, the gait is very graceful, the step light. The Albanian costume,
which was adopted after the revolution as the national dress for the
whole country, is amazing. We have all seen it in paintings and
photographs, where it is merely picturesque. But when you meet it in the
streets every day, when you see the wearer of it engaged in cooking his
dinner, in cleaning fish, in driving a cart, in carrying a hod, or
hanging out clothes on a line, then it becomes perfectly fantastic. The
climax of my own impressions about it was reached, I think, a little
later, at Athens, when I beheld the guards walking their beats before
the King's palace, and before the simple house of the Crown Prince
opposite; they are soldiers of the regular army, and they held their
muskets with military precision as they marched to and fro, attired in
ordinary overcoats (it happened to be a rainy day) over the puffed-out
white skirts of a ballet-dancer. Robert Louis Stevenson, in one of his
recent letters from the South Seas, writes that "the mind of the female
missionary" (British) "tends to be constantly busied about dress; she
can be taught with extreme difficulty to think any costume decent but
that to which she grew accustomed on Clapham Common, and, to gratify
this prejudice, the native is put to useless expense." And here it
occurs to me that it is high time to explore this Clapham Common. We go
as worshippers to Shakespeare's Avon; we go to the land of Scott and
Burns; we know the "stripling Thames at Bablockhithe," where "the punt's
rope chops round"; but to Clapham Common we make, I think, no
pilgrimages, although it has as clearly marked a place in English
literature as the Land of Beulah or the Slough of Despond. I fancy that
Americans are not so closely tied to a fixed standard in dress as are
the missionaries who excite Mr. Stevenson's wrath. A half of our
population seeks its ideal in Paris, but as a whole we are easy-going.
We accept the Chinese attire in our streets without demur; the lack of
attire of the Sioux does not disconcert us; when abroad we admire
impartially the Egyptian gown and the Cossack uniform, and we adorn
ourselves liberally with the fez. But the Greek costume makes us pause;
it seems a bravado in whimsicality. One can describe it in detail: one
can say that it consists of a cap with a long tassel, a full white
shirt, an embroidered jacket with open sleeves, a tight girdle, the
white kilt or fustanella, long leggings with bright-colored garters,
and, usually, shoes with turned-up toes. The enumeration, however, does
not do away with the one general impression of men striding about in
short white ballet petticoats.
[Illustration: QUEEN OLGA OF GREECE]
In spite of their skirts, the Greeks have as martial an air as possible;
an old Greek who is vain, and they are all vain, is even a
fierce-looking figure. All the men have small waists, and are proud of
them; their belts are drawn as tightly as those of young girls in other
countries. From this girdle, or from the embroidered pouch below it,
comes a gleam which means probably a pistol, though sometimes it is only
the long, narrow inkhorn of brass or silver. Besides the Albanian, there
are other costumes. One, which is frequently seen, is partly Turkish,
with baggy trousers. The Greek men are vain, and with cause; if the
women are vain, it must be without it; we did not see a single handsome
face among them. It was not merely that we failed to find the beautiful
low forehead, full temple, straight nose, and small head of classic
days; we could not discover any marked type, good or bad; the
features were those that pass unnoticed everywhere. I speak, of
course, generally, and from a superficial observation, for I saw only
the people one meets in the streets, in the churches, in the fields,
olive groves, and vineyards, on the steamers, and at the house doors.
But after noting this population for two weeks and more, the result
remained the same--the men who came under our notice were handsome, and
the women were not. The dress of the women varies greatly. The Albanian
costume, which ranks with the fustanellas or petticoats of the men, is
as flat, narrow, and elongated as the latter are short and protruding.
It consists of a sheath-like skirt of a woollen material, and over this
a long, narrow white coat, which sometimes has black sleeves; the head
is wrapped in loose folds of white. This was the attire worn by the
girls who were at work in the fields. On Christmas Day I met a number of
Corfiote women walking about the esplanade arrayed in light-colored
dresses, with large aprons of white lace or white muslin, and upon their
heads white veils with bunches of artificial flowers; in addition, they
wore so many necklaces, pins, clasps, buckles, rings, lockets,
bracelets, pendants, and other adornments of silver and silver-gilt that
they clanked as they walked. This was a gala costume of some sort. We
did not see it again.
The island of Corfu is about forty miles long. Its breadth in the widest
part is twenty miles. The English, who have a genius for road-making
which is almost equal to that of the Romans, have left excellent
highways behind them; it is easy, therefore, to cross the island from
end to end. In arranging such an expedition, that exhaustive dialogue
about buying a carriage, which (to one's bewilderment) occupies by far
the most important place in all the Manuals of Conversation for the
Traveller, might at last be of some service.
"Have you a carriage?" it begins (in six languages).
"Yes; I have berlins, vis-a-vis, gigs, calashes, and cabriolets." (What
vehicles are these?)
"Are the axle-trees, the nave, the spokes, the tires, the felloes, and
the splinter-bars in good condition?" it goes on in its painstaking
polyglot. Possibly one might be called upon to purchase splinter-bars in
a remote island of the Ionian Sea.
Seated, then, in a berlin, or perhaps in a calash, one goes out at least
to visit the olive groves, if not to cross the island. These groves are
not the ranks of severely pruned, almost maimed, trees which greet the
traveller in parts of southern Europe--groves without shade, without
luxuriance; viewed from a distance, their gray-green foliage forms a
characteristic part of the landscape, but at close quarters they have
but one expression--namely, how many coins are to be squeezed out of
each poor tree, whose every bud appears to have been counted. At Corfu
one strolls through miles of wood whose foliage is magnificent; it is
possible to lounge in the shade, for there is shade, and to draw a free
breath. No doubt the Corfiotes keep guard over their leafy domain; but
the occasional visitor, at least, is not harassed by warnings to
trespassers set up everywhere, by children following him with suspicious
eyes, by patrols, dogs, stone walls, and sometimes by stones of another
kind which do not stay in the walls, but come flying through the air to
teach him to keep his distance. It is difficult, probably, for people
from the New World to look upon a forest as something sacred, guarded,
private; we have taken our pleasure "in the woods" all our lives
whenever we have felt so inclined; we do not intend to do any harm
there, but we do wish to be free. In the olive groves of Corfu the wish
can be gratified. Their aisles are wonderful in every respect: in the
size of the trees (some of them are sixty feet high), in the
picturesque shapes of the gnarled trunks, in the extent of the long
vistas where the light has the color which some of us know at home--that
silvery green under the great live-oaks at the South, when their
branches are veiled in the long moss.
[Illustration: "MON REPOS," SUMMER RESIDENCE OF THE KING OF GREECE]
[Illustration: IN THE GROUNDS OF THE NEW VILLA OF THE EMPRESS OF GREECE]