THE BASSÆ TEMPLE
[Illustration]
We found the village of Andhritsæna fascinating in the extreme, from
within as well as from without. It was obviously afflicted with a degree
of poverty, and suffers, like most Peloponnesian towns, from a steady
drain on its population by the emigration to America. Naturally it was
squalid, as Megalopolis had been, but in a way that did not mar the
natural beauty of its situation, and, if anything, increased its
internal picturesqueness. This we had abundant opportunity to observe
during our initial ramble through the place, starting from the gigantic
plane tree which forms a sort of nucleus of the entire village, and
which shelters with its spreading branches the chief centre of local
activity,—the region immediately adjacent to the town pump. It was not
exactly a pump, however. The term is merely conventional, and one must
understand by it a stone fountain, fed by a spring, the water gushing
out by means of two spouts, whither an almost continuous stream of
townsfolk came with the inevitable tin oil-cans to obtain water for
domestic uses.
The main, and practically the only, street of the town led westward from
the plane, winding along through the village in an amiable and casual
way. It was lined close on either side by the houses, which were
generally two stories in height, and provided with latticed balconies
above to make up for the necessary lack of piazzas below. Close to the
great central tree these balconies seemed almost like the arboreal
habitation made dear to the childish heart by the immortal Swiss Family
Robinson; and in these elevated stations the families of Andhritsæna
were disporting themselves after the burden and heat of the day,
gossiping affably to and fro across the street, or in some cases
reading.
[Illustration: ANDHRITSÆNA]
We found it as impossible to disperse our body guard of boys and girls
as had been the case the evening before at Megalopolis. Foreign visitors
in Andhritsæna are few enough to be objects of universal but not
unkindly curiosity to young and old; and the young, being unfettered by
the insistent demands of coffee-drinking, promptly insisted on attending
our pilgrimage _en masse_. It was cool, for the sun was low and the
mountain air had begun to take on the chill of evening. We clambered up
to a lofty knoll over the town and looked down over its slanting tiles
to the wooded valley beneath, the evening smoke of the chimneys rising
straight up in thin, curling wisps, while from the neighboring hills
came the faint clatter of the herd bells and occasionally the soft note
of some boy’s piping. Far away to the north we could see the snowy dome
of Erymanthus, rising out of a tumbling mass of blue mountains, while
between lay the opening and level plain of the Alpheios, widening from
its narrows to form the broad meadows of Elis on the western coasts of
the Peloponnesus. Here and there the house of some local magnate, more
prosperous than the rest, boasted a small yard and garden, adorned with
the sombre straightness of cypresses. Behind the town rose the rocky
heights of the neighboring hills, long gorges running deep among them.
Whichever way the eye turned, there was charm. The body guard of
infantry retired to a respectful distance and stood watching us, finger
bashfully to mouth in silent wonderment. Mothers with babies came out of
near-by hovels to inspect us, and enjoyed us as much as we enjoyed the
prospect that opened before.
From the aspect of the houses of the town we had adjudged it prudent to
allow Spyros and Stathi a decent interval for the preparation of our
abode before descending to the main street again and seeking out the
house. Apparently the exact location of it was known by the entire
population by this time, for, as we descended, willing natives pointed
the way by gesticulations, indicating a narrow and not entirely
prepossessing alley leading down from the central thoroughfare by some
rather slimy steps, to a sort of second street, and thence to another
alley, if anything less prepossessing than the first, where a formidable
wooden gateway gave entrance to a court. Here the merry villagers bade
adieu and retired to their coffee again. Once within, the prospect
brightened. It was, of course, the fore-court of a peasant’s house, for
hotels are entirely lacking in Andhritsæna. It was paved with stone
flagging, and above the courtyard rose a substantial veranda on which
stood the host—a bearded man, gorgeous in native dress, the voluminous
skirt of which was immaculate in its yards and yards of fustanella. From
tasseled fez to pomponed shoes he was a fine type of peasant,
contrasting with his wife, who wore unnoticeable clothes of European
kind. She was a pleasant-faced little body, and evidently neat, which
was more than all. And she ushered us into the house to the rooms where
Spyros and the cook were busily engaged in making up the beds,
discreetly powdering the mattresses, and setting things generally to
rights. The embroidered bed linen which had given us such delight by its
contrast with the surroundings at Megalopolis at once caught the eye of
the peasant woman, and she promptly borrowed a pillow-case to learn the
stitch with which it was adorned. As for the rooms, they were scrubbed
to a whiteness.
Just outside, overlooking the narrow by-way through which we had
entered, was the inevitable balcony, whence the view off to the northern
mountains was uninterrupted; and while supper was preparing we wrapped
ourselves in sweaters and shawls and stood in mute admiration of the
prospect—the deep valley below, the half-guessed plain beyond, and the
rugged line of peaks silhouetted against the golden afterglow of the
sunset. From this view our attention was distracted only by the sudden
clamor of a church bell close at hand, which a priest was insistently
ringing for vespers. The bell was hung, as so often happens, in a tree
beside the church; and to prevent the unauthorized sounding of it by the
neighborhood urchins the wise priest had caused the bell-rope to be
shortened so that the end of it hung far up among the branches, and was
only to be reached for the purposes of the church by a long iron poker,
which the holy man had produced from somewhere within his sanctuary and
which he was wielding vigorously to attract the attention of the devout.
It may have been a sort of Greek angelus, designed to mark the hour of
general sunset prayer; for nobody appeared in response to its summons,
and after clanging away for what seemed to him a sufficient interval the
priest unshipped the poker and retired with it to the inner recesses of
the church, to be seen no more. The nipping and eager evening air
likewise drove us to shelter, and the heat of the lamp and candles was
welcome as lessening, though ever so slightly, the cold which the night
had brought. It was further temporarily forgotten in the discussion of
the smiling Stathi’s soups and chickens and flagons of Solon.
[Illustration: AN ARBOREAL CAMPANILE. ANDHRITSÆNA]
The professor and I stumbled out in the darkness of the yard after the
evening meal in search of a coffee-house, for the better enjoyment of
our postprandial cigarettes, but we got no farther than the outer court
before deciding to return for a lantern. Andhritsæna turned out to be
not only chilly, but intensely dark o' nights. Its serpentine by-ways
were devoid of a single ray of light, and even the main street, when we
had found it, was relieved from utter gloom only by the lamps which
glimmered few and faint in wayside shops that had not yet felt the force
of the early-closing movement. The few wayfarers that we met as we
groped our way along by the ineffectual fire of a square lantern,
wherein a diminutive candle furnished the illuminant, likewise carried
similar lights, and looked terrible enough hooded in their capotes.
Diogenes-like, we sought an honest man,—and speedily discovered him in
the proprietor of a tiny “kaffeneion,” who welcomed us to his tables and
set before us cups of thick coffee, fervently disclaiming the while his
intention to accept remuneration therefor. Indeed this generosity bade
fair to be its own reward, for it apparently became known in a
surprisingly short time that the foreign visitors were taking
refreshment in that particular inn, with the result that patronage
became brisk. The patrons, however, apparently cared less for their
coffee than for the chance to study the newcomers in their midst at
close range, and after we had basked for a sufficient time in the
affable curiosity of the assembled multitude we stumbled off again
through the night to our abode, the lantern casting gigantic and awful
shadows on the wayside walls the while.
Now the chief reason for our visiting this quaint and out-of-the-way
hamlet was its contiguity to the mountain on the flat top of which
stands the ancient Bassæ temple. The correct designation, I believe, is
really the “temple at Bassæ,” but to-day it stands isolated and alone,
with no considerable habitation nearer than Andhritsæna, whatever was
the case when it was erected. The evidence tended to show that Bassæ
might be reached with about the same ease on foot as on horseback, or at
least in about the same time; but as we were entirely without experience
in riding, it was voted best that we begin our training by securing
steeds for this minor side trip, in order to have some slight
preparation for the twelve hours in the saddle promised us for the day
following—a portentous promise that had cast a sort of indefinite shadow
of apprehension over our inmost souls since leaving Nauplia. It was a
wise choice, too, because it revealed to us among other things the
difficulty of Greek mountain trails and the almost absolute
sure-footedness of the mountain horse.
We were in the saddle promptly at nine, and in Indian file we set out
through the village street, filled with the tremors natural to those who
find themselves for the first time in their lives seated on horseback.
But these tremors were as nothing to what beset us almost immediately on
leaving the town and striking into the narrow ravine that led up into
the hills behind it. It developed that while the prevailing tendency of
the road was upward, this did not by any means preclude several
incidental dips, remarkable alike for their appalling steepness and
terrifying rockiness, for which their comparative brevity only partially
atoned. The sensation of looking down from the back of even a small
horse into a gully as steep as a sharp pitch roof, down which the trail
is nothing but the path of a dried-up torrent filled with boulders,
loose stones, smooth ledges, sand, and gravel, is anything but
reassuring. It was with silent misgivings and occasional squeals of
alarm that our party encountered the first of these descents. We had not
yet learned to trust our mounts, and we did not know that the
well-trained mountain horse is a good deal more likely to stumble on a
level road than on one of those perilous downward pitches. From the
lofty perches on top of the clumsy Greek saddles piled high with rugs,
it seemed a terrifying distance to the ground; and the thought of a
header into the rocky depth along the side of which the path skirted or
down into which it plunged was not lightly to be shaken off. It was much
better going up grade, although even here we found ourselves smitten
with pity for the little beasts that scrambled with so much agility up
cruel steeps of rock, bearing such appreciable burdens of well-nourished
Americans on their backs. Spyros did his best to reassure us. He was
riding ahead and throwing what were intended as comforting remarks over
his shoulder to Mrs. Professor, who rode next in line. And as he was not
aware of the exact make-up of the party’s mounts, he finally volunteered
the opinion that horses were a good deal safer than mules for such a
trip, because mules stumbled so. Whereupon Mrs. Professor, who was
riding on a particularly wayward and mountainous mule, emitted a shriek
of alarm and descended with amazing alacrity to the ground, vowing that
walking to Bassæ was amply good enough for her. Nevertheless the mule,
although he did stumble a little now and then, managed to stay with us
all the way to Olympia, and no mishap occurred.
The saddles lend themselves to riding either astride or sidesaddle, and
the ordinary man we met seemed to prefer the latter mode. The saddle
frame is something the shape of a sawhorse, and after it is set on the
back of the beast it is piled high with blankets, rugs, and the like,
making a lofty but fairly comfortable seat. For the ladies the guides
had devised little wooden swings suspended by rope to serve as stirrups
for the repose of their soles. The arrangement was announced to be
comfortable enough, although it was necessary for the riders to hold on
fore and aft to the saddle with both hands, while a muleteer went ahead
and led the beasts. In some of the steeper places the maintenance of a
seat under these conditions required no little skill. As for the men,
there were no special muleteers. We were supposed to know how to ride,
and in a short time we had discovered how to guide the horses with the
single rein provided, either by pulling it, or by pressing it across the
horse’s neck. To stop the modern Greek horse you whistle. That is to
say, you whistle if you can muster a whistle at all, which is sometimes
difficult when a panic seizes you and your mouth becomes dry and
intractable. In the main our progress was so moderate that no more skill
was needed to ride or guide the steeds than would be required on a
handcar. Only on rare occasions, when some of the beasts got off the
track or fell behind, was any real acquaintance with Greek horsemanship
required. This happened to all of us in turn before we got home again,
and in each case the muleteers came to our aid in due season after we
had completely lost all recollection of the proper procedure for
stopping and were seeking to accomplish it by loud “whoas” instead of
the soothing sibilant which is the modern Greek equivalent for that
useful, and indeed necessary, word.
We found it highly desirable now and then to alight and walk, for to the
unaccustomed rider the strain of sitting in a cramped position on a
horse for hours at a time is wearying and benumbing to the lower limbs.
On the ride up to Bassæ, those who did no walking at all found it
decidedly difficult to walk when they arrived. The one deterrent was the
labor involved in dismounting and the prospective difficulty of getting
aboard again. In this operation the muleteers assisted our clumsiness
not a little, and we discovered that the way to attract their attention
to a desire to alight was to say “ka-tò,” in a commanding tone—the same
being equivalent to “down.”
So much for our experiences as we wound along the sides of rocky ravines
and gorges in the heart of the hills behind Andhritsæna. When we had
grown accustomed to the manipulation of the horses and had learned that
the beasts really would not fall down and dash us into the depths below,
we began to enjoy the scenery. It was rugged, for the most part,
although at the bottoms of the valleys there was frequently meadow land
spangled with innumerable wildflowers and shrubbery, watered by an
occasional brook. It was a lovely morning, still cool and yet cloudless.
The birds twittered among the stunted trees. We passed from narrow vale
to narrow vale, and at last, when no outlet was to be seen, we ceased to
descend and began a steady climb out of the shady undergrowth along the
side of a rocky mountain, where there was no wood at all save for
scattered groves of pollard oaks—curious old trees, low and gnarled,
covered with odd bunches, and bearing an occasional wreath of mistletoe.
At the ends of their branches the trees put forth handfuls of small
twigs, which we were told the inhabitants are accustomed to lop off for
fagots. It is evident that the trees do not get half a chance to live
and thrive. But they manage in some way to prolong their existence, and
they give to the region at Bassæ and to the temple there a certain weird
charm.
[Illustration: THRESHING FLOOR AT BASSÆ]
Off to the west as we climbed there appeared a shining streak of silver
which the guides saw and pointed to, shouting “Thalassa! Thalassa!” (the
sea). And, indeed, it was the first glimpse of the ocean west of Greece.
Shortly beyond we attained the summit and began a gentle descent along a
sort of tableland through a sparse grove of the stunted oaks, among
which here and there appeared round flat floors of stone used for
threshing. Many of these could be seen on the adjacent hills and in the
valleys, and the number visible at one time proved to be something like
a score. All at once, as we wound slowly down through the avenue of
oaks, the temple itself burst unexpectedly into view, gray like the
surrounding rocks, from which, indeed, it was built. To approach a
shrine like this from above is not common in Greece, and this sudden
apparition of the temple, which is admirably preserved, seems to have
struck every visitor who has described it as exceedingly beautiful,
particularly as one sees it framed in a foreground of these odd trees.
We were high enough above the structure to look down into it, for it is
of course devoid of any roof; and unlike most of the other temples, it
was always so, for it was of the “hypæthral” type, and intended to be
open to the sky. Nor was this the only unusual feature of the temple at
Bassæ. It was peculiar among the older shrines in that it ran north and
south instead of east and west, which was the regular custom among the
roofed structures of the Greeks. Of course this difference in
orientation has given rise to a great deal of discussion and speculation
among those whose opinions are of weight in such matters. Probably the
casual visitor in Greece is well aware of the custom of so fixing the
axes of temples as to bring the eastern door directly in line with the
rising sun on certain appropriate days, for the better illumination of
the interior on those festivals. Although such expedients as the use of
translucent marble roofs were resorted to, the lighting of the interior
of roofed temples was always a matter of some little difficulty, and
this arrangement of the doorways was necessary to bring out the image of
the god in sufficiently strong light. From this system of orientation it
has occasionally been possible to identify certain temples as dedicated
to particular deities, by noting the days on which the rising sun would
have come exactly opposite the axis of the shrine. No such consideration
would apply with the same force to a hypæthral temple, whatever else
might have figured in the general determination of the orientation. But
even at Bassæ, where the length of the temple so obviously runs north
and south, it is still true that one opening in it was eastward, and it
is supposed that in the end of the temple space was an older shrine to
Apollo, which, like other temples, faced the rising sun. This older
precinct was not interfered with in erecting the greater building, and
it is still plainly to be seen where the original sacred precinct was.
The members of the single encircling row of columns are still intact,
although in some cases slightly thrown out of alignment; and they still
bear almost the entire entablature. The cella wall within is also
practically intact, and inside it are still standing large sections of
the unusual engaged half-columns which encircled the cella, standing
against its sides. The great frieze in bas-relief, which once ran around
the top, facing inward, is now in the British Museum, where it is justly
regarded as one of the chief treasures of the Greek collection. It
hardly needs the comment that such arrangement of the frieze was highly
unusual, inside the building, instead of on the outer side of the cella,
as was the case in the Parthenon. Ictinus, the architect of the
Parthenon, also built the temple at Bassæ, which was dedicated by the
Phigalians to “Apollo the Helper,” in gratification for relief from a
plague. That fact has given rise to the conjecture that it was perhaps
built at the same time that the plague ravaged Athens, during the early
part of the Peloponnesian War. However that may be, it is evidently true
that it belongs to the same golden age that gave us the Parthenon and
the Propylæa at Athens. Unlike them, it does not glow with the varied
hues of the weathered Pentelic marble, but is a soft gray, due to the
native stone of which it was constructed. And this gray color,
contrasting with the sombreness of the surrounding grove, gives much the
same satisfactory effect as is to be seen at Ægina, where the temple is
seen, like this, in a framework of trees.
Needless to say, the outlook from this lofty site—something like four
thousand feet above the sea—is grand. The ocean is visible to the south
as well as to the west. The rolling mountains to the east form an
imposing pageant, culminating in the lofty Taÿgetos range. Looming like
a black mound in the centre of the middle distance to the southward is
the imposing and isolated acropolis of Ithome, the stronghold of the
ancient Messenians. As usual, the builders of the temple at Bassæ
selected a most advantageous site for their shrine. It was while we were
enjoying the view after lunch that a solitary German appeared from the
direction of Ithome, having passed through the modern Phigalia. He had a
boy for a guide, but aside from that he was roaming through this
deserted section of Greece alone. He knew nothing of the language. He
had no dragoman to make the rough places smooth. He had spent several
sorry nights in peasants’ huts, where vermin most did congregate. But he
was enjoying it all with the enthusiasm of the true Philhellene, and on
the whole was making his way about surprisingly well. We sat and chatted
for a long time in the shade of the temple, comparing it with the lonely
grandeur of the temple at Segesta, in Sicily. And as the sun was sinking
we took the homeward way again, but content to walk this time rather
than harrow our souls by riding down the excessively steep declivity
that led from the mountain to the valleys below.
[Illustration: TEMPLE AT BASSÆ, FROM ABOVE]
[Illustration: TEMPLE AT BASSÆ, FROM BELOW]
At dinner that night in Andhritsæna an old man appeared with wares to
sell—curiously wrought and barbaric blankets, saddlebags, and the like,
apparently fresh and new, but really, he claimed, the dowry of his wife
who had long been dead. He had no further use for the goods, but he did
think he might find uses for the drachmæ they would bring. Needless to
say, our saddlebags were the heavier the next day when our pack-mules
were loaded for the journey over the hills to Olympia.
One other thing deserves a word of comment before we leave Andhritsæna,
and that is the cemetery. We had seen many funeral processions at
Athens, carrying the uncoffined dead through the streets, but we had
never paid much attention to the burial places, because they are still
mainly to be found outside the city gates, and not in the line commonly
taken by visitors. At Andhritsæna we came upon one, however, and for the
first time noticed the curious little wooden boxes placed at the heads
of the graves, resembling more than anything else the bird-houses that
humane people put on trees at home. Inside of the boxes we found oil
stains and occasionally the remains of broken lamps, placed there, we
were told, as a "mnemeion"—doubtless meaning a memorial, which word is a
direct descendant. The lamps appear to be kept lighted for a time after
the death of the person thus honored, but none were lighted when we saw
the cemetery of Andhritsæna, and practically all had fallen into
neglect, as if the dead had been so long away that grief at their
departure had been forgotten. A little chapel stood hard by, and on its
wall a metal plate and a heavy iron spike did duty for a bell.
Then the cold night settled down upon Andhritsæna, and we retired to the
warmth of our narrow beds, ready for the summons which should call us
forth to begin our fatiguing ride to the famous site of old Olympia.
------------------------------------------------------------------------