[Illustration]
No island that we visited in our Ægean cruise was more interesting than
Thera proved to be, when we had steamed across the intervening ocean
from Rhodes and into the immense basin that serves Thera—or modern
Santorin—for a harbor. No more remarkable harbor could well be
conceived.
If Vesuvius could be imagined to sink into Naples bay until there were
left protruding only about a thousand feet of the present altitude; if
the ocean should be admitted to the interior of the volcano by two great
channels or fissures in the sides—one at the point where the ubiquitous
Mr. Cook has—or did have—his funicular railway, and the other in the
general locality represented by the ill-starred Bosco Trecase; and if
the present awesome crater, into which so many thousand visitors have
peered, should thus be filled throughout its extent by the cooling
waters, so as to form a great and placid bay within the mountain,—then
we should have an almost exact reproduction of what happened at Thera
something like four thousand years ago. Furthermore, if we may add to
our Vesuvian hypothesis the supposition that there be built along the
eastern lip of the crater a long white town, stretching for perhaps a
mile along the sharp spine of the summit, we should have an equally
exact reproduction of what exists at Thera to-day.
Thera lies at the end of the chain of submerged peaks that reveal the
continuation of the Attic peninsula under the waters of the Ægean. The
same rocky range of mountains that disappears into the sea at Sunium
rises again and again as it stretches off to the southeast to form the
islands of Cythnos, Seriphos, Siphnos, and their fellows, and the series
closes, apparently, in the volcanic island of Santorin, under which name
the moderns know the island which the ancients called successively
Kallista (most beautiful) and Thera. Considering her beauty as an island
and her comparative nearness to the mainland of Greece or to Crete,
Thera is surprisingly little known. Historically Thera had small
celebrity compared with her neighbors; but in every other way it seemed
to us that she surpassed them all. Legend appears to have left the
island comparatively unhonored, and poetry has permitted her to remain
unsung. No Byron has filled high his bowl with Theran wine. No burning
poetess lived or sang in her single tortuous street. No god of Olympus
claimed the isle for his birthright. But for beauty of every kind, from
the pastoral to the sublimely awful, Thera has no fellow in the Ægean;
and for extraordinary natural history and characteristics, it is
doubtful if it has a fellow in the world. For it is a sunken volcano,
with a bottomless harbor, where once was the centre of fiery activity,—a
harbor, rimmed about with miles of encircling precipices, on the top of
one of which lies the town of Thera, a thousand feet straight up above
the sea, and reachable only by a steep and winding mule track which
connects it with the diminutive landing stage below.
[Illustration: Santorin]
There appears to be a wide divergence of opinion as to the exact date
when the original mountain was blown to pieces and sunk in the ocean,
but it may be roughly stated to have occurred in the vicinity of the
sixteenth century before Christ, although some authorities incline to
believe the eruption to have come to pass at a still earlier period. As
to the inhabitants before the time of that extraordinary upheaval,
little is known save what may be gleaned from a multitude of pottery
vases left behind by those early settlers, and bearing ornamentation of
a rude sort that stamps them as belonging to the remote pre-Mycenæan
age, the age that preceded the greatness of Agamemnon’s city and the
sack of Troy. It seems entirely probable that the early Therans were
from Ph[oe]nicia, and tradition says that they came over under the
leadership of no less a personage than Cadmus himself. What we know for
a certainty, however, is that at some prehistoric time the original
volcano underwent a most remarkable change and subsided, with a blaze of
glory that can hardly be imagined, into the waters of the Ægean, until
only the upper rim and three central cones are now to be seen above the
water’s edge. Through two enormous crevices torn in the northern and
southern slopes the irresistible ocean poured into the vast central
cavity, cooling to a large extent the fiery ardor of the mountain and
leaving it as we found it, a circle of frowning cliffs, nearly a
thousand feet in height and something like eighteen miles in periphery,
inclosing a placid and practically bottomless harbor in what was once
the volcano’s heart, the surface of the bay pierced by only three
diminutive islands, once the cones of the volcano, and not entirely
inert even to-day. In fact one of these central islands appeared as
recently as 1866 during an eruption that showed the fires of Santorin
not yet to be extinguished by any means—a fact that is further testified
to by the heat of certain portions of the inclosed waters of the basin.
[Illustration: LANDING-PLACE AT THERA]
Into this curious harbor our little chartered ship glided in the early
light of an April morning, which dimly revealed the walls of forbidding
stone towering high above in cliffs of that black, scarred appearance
peculiar to volcanic formation, marred by the ravages of the ancient
fires, yet none the less relieved from utter sullenness here and there
by strata of rich red stone or by patches of grayish white tufa.
Nevertheless it was all sombre and forbidding, especially in the early
twilight; for the sun had not yet risen above the horizon, much less
penetrated into the cavernous depths of Thera’s harbor. High above,
however, perched on what looked like a most precarious position along
the summit of the cliff, ran the white line of the city, already
catching the morning light on its domes and towers, but seeming rather a
Lilliputian village than a habitation of men; while far away to the
north, on another portion of the crater wall, a smaller city seemed
rather a lining of frost or snow gathered on the crater’s lip.
A few shallops made shift to anchor close to the foot of the precipice,
where a narrow submarine shelf projects sufficiently to give a
precarious holding ground for small craft; and near them were grouped a
few white buildings showing duskily in the morning half-light and
serving to indicate the landing stage. In the main, however, there is
little anchorage in the entire bay, which is practically bottomless. No
cable could fathom the depth of the basin a few rods off shore, and
fortunately none is needed, since the shelter is perfect. The steamer
held her own for hours by a mere occasional lazy turning of her screw.
To the southward lay the broad channel through which our ship had
entered, and to the north lay the narrow passage through which at
nightfall we proposed to depart for Athens. Everywhere else was the
encircling wall of strangely variegated rock, buttressed here and there
by enormous crags of black lava, which sometimes seemed to strengthen it
and sometimes threatened to fall crashing to the waters directly below.
Indeed landslides are by no means uncommon in Thera, and several persons
have been killed even at the landing place by masses of stone falling
from above.
As the light increased at the base of the cliff, it became possible to
see the donkey track leading in a score or more of steep windings up the
face of the rock from the landing to the city high above, arched here
and there over old landslips or ravines, while near by were to be seen
curious cave-dwellings, where caverns in the tufa had been walled up,
provided with doors and windows, and inhabited.
There was some little delay in landing, even after our small boats had
set us ashore on the narrow quay, slippery with seaweed and covered with
barnacles. We were herded in a rather impatient group behind a row of
shore boats drawn up on the landing stage, and detained there until
“pratique” had been obtained, which entitled us to proceed through the
devious byways of the tiny village close by to the beginning of the
ascent. The wharf was covered with barrels, heaps of wood, carboys
covered with wicker, and all the paraphernalia to be expected of the
port of a wine-exporting, water-importing community; for Thera has to
send abroad for water, aside from what she is able to collect from the
rains, and also relies largely on her neighbors for wood. There are
almost no native trees and no springs at all; and one French writer
apparently has been greatly disturbed by this embarrassing difficulty,
saying, “One finds there neither wood nor water, so that it is necessary
to go abroad for each—and yet to build ships one must have wood, and to
go for water ships are necessary!”
On emerging from the cluster of small buildings at the base of the cliff
and entering upon the steep path which leads to the city above, we at
once encountered the trains of asses that furnish the only means of
communication between the village of Thera above and the ships
below—asses patiently bearing broad deck-loads of fagots, or of boards,
or of various containers useful for transporting liquids. It was easily
possible to hire beasts to ride up the winding highway to Thera, but as
the grade was not prohibitive and as the time required for a pedestrian
to ascend was predicted to be from twenty minutes to half an hour, these
were voted unnecessary, especially as it was still shady on the bay side
of the cliff and would continue so for hours. So we set out, not too
briskly, up the path. It proved to be utterly impracticable for anything
on wheels, being not only steep but frequently provided with the broad
steps so often to be seen in Greek and Italian hill towns, while it was
paved throughout with blocks of basalt which continual traffic had
rendered slippery in the extreme. The slipperiness, indeed, renders the
ascent to Thera if anything easier than the coming down, for on the
latter journey one must exercise constant care in placing the feet and
proceed at a pace that is anything but brisk, despite the downward
grade.
[Illustration: THERA]
The only care in going up was to avoid the little trains of donkeys with
their projecting loads and their mischievous desire to crowd pedestrians
to the parapet side of the road, a propensity which we speedily learned
to avoid by giving the beasts as wide a berth as the constricted path
would allow, choosing always the side next the cliff itself; for the
sheer drop from the parapet soon became too appalling to contemplate as
the way wound higher and higher, turn after turn, above the hamlet at
the landing. The view speedily gained in magnificence, showing the bay
in its full extent, with the two entrance channels far away and the
detached portion of the opposite crater wall, now called Therasia, as if
it were, as it appears to be, an entirely separate island of a small
local archipelago, instead of one homogeneous but sunken mountain.
Directly below lay the landing stage with its cluster of white
warehouses, the scattered cave-dwellings, and the tiny ships moored
close to the quay—small enough at close range, but from this height like
the vessels in a toy-shop. So precipitous is the crater wall that one
could almost fling a pebble over the parapet and strike the settlement
at the foot of the path. The varying colors of the rock, when brought
out by the growing sunlight, added a sombre liveliness to the view, the
red tones of the cliff preponderating over the forbidding black of the
lava, while here and there a long gash revealed the ravages of a
considerable landslip.
It was, indeed, a half-hour’s hard climb to Thera. But when the town did
begin, it stole upon us ere we were aware, isolated and venturesome
dwellings of the semi-cave type dropping down the face of the cliff to
meet the highway winding painfully up, these in turn giving place to
more pretentious dwellings with flat or domed roofs, all shining with
immaculate whitewash and gleaming in the morning sun, in sharp contrast
with the dark rocks on which they had their foundation. The scriptural
architect who built his house upon the sand might well have regarded
that selection as stable and secure compared with some of these Theran
dwellings; for although they are founded upon a rock and are in some
cases half sunk in it, there seems to be little guarantee that the rock
itself may not some day split off and land them down among the ships.
When the winding path finally attained the summit, it was found to
debouch into a narrow public square, flanked by the inevitable museum of
antiquities and a rather garish church; the latter painfully new, and,
like all Greek houses of worship, making small pretense of outward and
visible signs of inward and spiritual grace. It may be sacred to St.
Irene, and very likely is, for the island takes its modern name from
that saint and boasts innumerable shrines to her memory. We take credit
to ourselves that, although Thera called loudly with manifold charms, we
first sought the sanctuary; but to our shame we did not remain there
long. A venerable priest, perspiring under a multitude of gorgeous
vestments, was officiating in the presence of a very meagre
congregation, composed of extremely young boys and a scant choir.
Fortunately for our peace of mind, this particular church’s one
foundation was on the side of the square away from the precipice, giving
a sense of security not otherwise to be gained. But the mountain, even
on its gentler side, is far from being gradual, and is only less steep
than toward the inner basin. The “blessed mutter of the mass” in Greek
is so unintelligible to foreign ears that it soon drove us forth into
the air outside and then to the little museum next door, where were
displayed the rather overwhelming antiquities of the place,—mainly vases
that had been made and used long before the eruption which destroyed the
island’s original form so many thousand years before. Many of these were
graceful in form, and some are in quite perfect preservation despite
their fragility and the enormous lapse of time, revealing still the rude
efforts of the early artist’s brush in geometric patterns, lines,
angles, and occasionally even primitive attempts to represent animal
shapes. Doubtless these relics are no more ancient than those to be seen
by the curious in the palace of Minos in Crete, and are paralleled in
antiquity by pottery remnants in other pre-Mycenæan sites; but for some
reason the lapse of ages since they were made and used comes home to one
with more reality in Thera than elsewhere, I suppose because of the
impressive story of the eruption at such a hazy distance before the dawn
of recorded history. So overpowering did these silent witnesses of a
bygone day prove, that we disposed of them with a celerity that would
have shocked an archæologist, and betook ourselves straightway to the
modern town without, which ran temptingly along the ridge of the summit
northward, presenting, like Taormina, a single narrow street lined with
the whitest of shops and dwellings, with here and there narrow byways of
steps leading up or down, as the case might be, to outlying clusters of
buildings. This main thoroughfare, hardly wider than a city sidewalk,
follows the uneven line of the mountain top, winding about and dodging
up and down, sometimes by inclined planes and sometimes by flights of
steps, such as are common enough in side streets of Italian or Greek
hill towns.
From the higher points the city presented a sea of undulating white, the
roofs divided almost evenly between the flat, parapeted style, designed
to catch the falling rain, which is doubly precious in the island, and
the dome, or half-barrel style, which bears witness to the local
scarcity of timber, making necessary this self-supporting arch of
cement. Thus over and over again is the lack of wood and water brought
to mind. At a turn in the main street there disclosed itself a
fascinating vista of white walls, inclosing neat courtyards,
pebble-paved in black and white after the island manner, and framing in
the distance a many-arched campanile in clear relief against the
brilliant sky, the glare of the whiteness mitigated by the strong
oblique shadows and the bronze green of the bells.
[Illustration: A THERAN STREET]
Two things prevented our tarrying in Thera indefinitely. One was the
urgent need of returning to our steamer and pursuing our cruise through
the Ægean; the other was the lack of suitable lodging. However, it is
likely that the latter would have proved anything but an insuperable
obstacle if tested by an irresistible force of intrepid determination,
for lodging we could have found, despite the fact that Thera boasts no
hotel. Wandering along the street and stopping now and then to inspect
the curious wayside shops, or to gaze in wonder through gaps in the
walls of dwellings at the incredible gulf yawning beyond and beneath, we
came suddenly upon a coffee-house which completed our capture. The
proprietor, as it developed, spoke Italian enough to give us common
ground, ushered us out upon a balcony that looked toward the water, and
produced a huge flagon of the wine of the country. Ah, the wine of the
country! It was yellow. It was not sickish sweet, like the Samian that
Byron praised so. It was warming to the midriff and made one charitable
as one sipped. Overhead flapped a dingy awning in the lazy western
breeze. Below wound the donkey path, with its trains of asses silently
ascending and descending through the shimmering heat of the April
morning. Far, far beneath, and indeed almost directly at our feet, lay
the toy-ships and the steamer, close by the little hamlet of the landing
stage, where tiny people, like ants, scurried busily, but at this
distance made no sound. Across the sea of rising and falling roofs came
the tinkle of an insistent church bell, calling the congregation of some
church of St. Irene. Bliss like this is cheap at three drachmas, with a
trifling addition of Greek coppers for good-will! It was on this narrow
balcony overlooking the bay that we fell in love with Thera. Before we
had been merely prepossessed.
The Greek word for hotel sounds suspiciously like “Senator Sheehan” in
the mouth of the native, as we had long ago learned; so we instituted
inquiry as to that feature of the town, in the hope some day of
returning thither for a more extended stay, with opportunity to explore
the surrounding country. A distant and not unpromising edifice was
pointed out, a coffee-house like our own, but provided with a large room
where rather dubious beds were sometimes spread for the weary, according
to our entertainer; and it may be that his shrug was the mere product of
professional jealousy. Inexorable fate, however, decreed that we should
not investigate, but content ourselves with rambling through the town
from end to end, enjoying its quaint architecture, its white walls
relieved only by touches of buff or the lightest of light blues, its
incomparable situation on this rocky saddle, and its views, either into
the chasm of the harbor or outward across the troubled expanse of the
Ægean to other neighboring islands.
At the north end of the city, where the houses ceased and gave place to
the open ridge of the mountain, there stood an old mill, into the
cavernous depths of which we were bidden enter by an aged crone. It
revealed some very primitive machinery, the gearing being hewn out of
huge slices of round logs in which rude cogs were cut. Just outside
stood a sooty oven, for the miller not only ground the neighborhood
corn, but converted it into bread. Beyond the mill there was nothing in
the way of habitation, although on a distant bend of the crater there
was visible a white patch of basalt that bore the appearance of a
populous city with towers and battlements. Still farther to the north,
at the cape next the channel out to sea, lies an inconsiderable town,
similarly situated on the ridge, while along the bay to the south are
occasional settlements and windmills. But Thera town is the only
congested centre of population.
In attempting to analyze the impression that Thera made on us, we have
come to the conclusion that its chief charm, aside from its curious
position, is its color; and that the difficulty of describing it is due
in large part to the inability to paint in words the amazing contrasts
of rock, city, and sky, not to mention the sea. One may depict, although
feebly, the architectural charm, with the aid of his camera, or, if duly
gifted, may chant the praise of Theran wine. With the aid of geological
statistics one may tell just how the mountain would appear if we could
draw off the ocean and expose its lower depths, leaving a circle of
mountain inclosing a three-thousand foot cup, and jagged central cones.
One might, by a superhuman effort, do justice to the importunity of the
begging children of the town. But to give a true account of Thera
demands the aid of the artist with his pigments, while best of all is a
personal visit, involving little time and trouble to one visiting
Greece—little trouble, that is to say, in comparison with the charms
that Thera has to show. And it is safe to say that every such visitor
will pick his way gingerly down over the slippery paving stones to the
landing below with a poignant sense of regret at leaving this beauty
spot of the Ægean, and sail out of the northern passage with a sigh,
looking back at the lights of Thera, on the rocky height above the bay,
mingling their blinking points with the steady stars of the warm
Mediterranean night.
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