Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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furnished the wood from which Jason built the Argo, and it was in these very glades that the Centaurs used to live. I was trying to think of all these things, but I found it quite difficult to hold on to my saddle, and to duck my head when my mule plunged abruptly though what seemed an impenetrable thicket. But they are extraordinarily sure-footed creatures, and I think mine must have had some Centaur blood in him, so intelligently did he scale the precipitous cliff. Near the top we came to a cool beechy wood with a stream flowing through it. The air was delicious — like a June day in Eng- land. From here we had a glorious view across the Aegean Sea to Salonika in the distance and the craggy peaks of Mt. Athos. Here there is the famous Greek monastery, where nothing feminine, not even a hen! is ever allowed to set foot. When we arrived the following day at this holy spot, we knew of course we would not be allowed to land, but we hoped to have a swim round our boat while the men of our party went ashore to visit the monks. However we were soon informed that not only were women forbidden to land, but that no female form was allowed to sully the waters within a radius of three miles of the Holy Mountain! So we stayed on deck, gazing up at the cliffs, tower- ing in some places six thousand feet high, on the very brink of which were perched the cells of the monks. On the return of the men we heard a great deal about this Holy Republic of Mt. Athos, as it is called. It is situated on a peninsula about thirty miles long, and is separated from the mainland by the canal cut by Xerxes in 480 B.C. Its [22]

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maiden, and is the remains of the loveliest thing in Greek architecture. They say no one is in Athens more than a quarter of an hour before he hurries up to see it and we were no exception. On our way we stopped at the open-air stone theatre of Dionysus, cut out of the side of the hill. It is splendidly preserved, and plays can still be acted there. Soon we had climbed to the top, passing on our left the Erechtheum, a temple built in the Ionic style with slender delicately ornamented columns and an exquisite porch where every pillar is carved in the shape of a maiden. Facing it is the Parthenon built in simple Doric style with seventeen pillars on either side and eight at either end. Although it is over two thousand years old, it gives the impression of something living and lovely. It has the supple straightness that makes all other straight things look stiff. It is straight like a living thing, like a tree or the stem of a flower. And yet there is not a single straight line in the building. Look along the steps, and you will see a slight convex curve along what you had taken to be a straight line, while the columns have an almost imperceptible curve inward, and it has been calculated that if prolonged a mile into the air they would meet in a point. This temple, the home of a goddess, was treated as though it were sculpture, and with sure instinct every line, every pillar was adjusted, with the result that no two pillars are alike. These exquisite proportions are one cause of its beauty; another is its colour. Built of the purest Pentelic marble it is the colour of flesh — a rosy-gold mellowed by twenty- four centuries of exposure to Greek sunlight. And no words can give an adequate idea of what this light is like. It has a certain luminous quality which for revealing and intensifying beauty is unlike anything else in the world. I stayed up there on the Acropolis all the afternoon, watching the light deepen from golden to amethyst, and then to violet and seeing the Porch of the Maidens spring- ing into new loveliness in the changing light. Then the sun dipped over the bay of Salamis; a Greek guard blew a trumpet as a sign that all should depart. I took one last look around me, knowing that from this point I could see everything that was significant in Greek life. Here I was on the rock-like citadel with the city at my feet, and beyond, the plain, ringed round by mountains, open only to the sea. Across the bay lay Salamis where the Persians had been trapped twenty-four centuries ago and close by, the stirring sea always a challenge to the Greeks. I felt I was in the very heart of Greece, beside the loveliest thing she had produced, and surrounded by all the natural features which conditioned her history and existence. Thermopylae, high in the mountains, was the next place we visited. But the cele- brated Pass, once held by Leonidas and his three hundred Spartans, is no longer a pass but a plain. The river has brought down so much deposit that what was once a narrow- passage between the high cliffs and the river is now a wide plain. However the famous hot springs which give the place its name are still there, and we could not resist dipping our hands and feet in water where once the Spartans may have refreshed themselves for battle. Then we sailed northward to Thessaly, and coming to a picturesque village called Tsagarada, we got mules, and attended by our muleteers — mine was called Dmitri — we went swiftly enough up the shaggy side of Mount Pelion. I was thrilled at the thought of going up this mountain. It was here that Achilles had been brought up; it had [21]

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position made it impregnable for centuries, and in stormy times valuables of all kind were placed there for safety. The result is that precious manuscripts, Byzantine mosaics and other works of art have made it a veritable treasure house. We saw a couple of the monks, tall, bearded men in black robes with thick dark hair flowing over their shoulders from underneath high black headdresses. It appears there are about five thousand of them and they have their own laws and courts of justice under the presi- dency of their Abbot. Recently however, Metaxas, the Dictator of Greece, has decreed that no monks are exempt from military service. This decree has seriously affected their outlook, and one cannot tell what the outcome may be. It is strange how modern dictators by their drastic action can suddenly dynamite institutions which have stood like rocks for centuries ! The next few days we spent cruising among the islands in the Northern Aegean. We visited Thasos, a lovely spot off the Thracian coast, Lesbos, where burning Sappho lived and sung , and Chios, the reputed birthplace of Homer. But it was Samothrace, a wild mountainous island swept by the winds from the Dardanelles that interested me most. From here a youth called Dardanus had set out and founded Troy; from its highest peak, Poseidon, according to Homer, watched the conflict between Greeks and Trojans, and in recent years what is now one of France ' s loveliest treasures the Victory was found on its shore. It is difficult of access. There is no harbour, no landing place, no roads, no vehicle of any kind on this island, and ships are chary of putting in here. Some shepherds and a couple of muleteers came down and stared at us as we scrambled ashore. Curiously enough it was the only place where the inhabitants seemed to understand the classical Greek Which our party could muster up. Four of us set off on mules to explore the island and I coaxed my beast up a crag and looked eagerly towards the East, hoping to have Poseidon ' s luck and to catch a glimpse of Troy. But alas ! I saw nothing but a maze of heat. However, we found Khora, the little settlement to the north of the island where the entire population turned out to greet us and insisted on giving us not only water — deliciously cool, bubbling water — but also wine and Turkish coffee served in tiny delicate white cups. They entertained us royally and we were gettting on splendidly with the language when suddenly a man appeared and addressed us in fluent American ! It appeared that he had been in Hollywood for four years, and after trying his luck in New York, he had returned to his native Samothrace, married and settled down. Many of the islanders accompanied us half-way across the island, and I have since had a letter in Greek from one of the little girls, enclosing her photograph. Crete was our next stopping place. But that is a whole story in itself, and now I have only time to tell you about our last day in Greece. We spent it in Delphi, and I am not sure that it was not the best day of all. We landed at the port of Itea, drove rapidly across the Sacred Plain, and almost immediately passed through a beautiful grove of olive-trees — very rich, very old. Soon we were swinging up a zig-zag road catching at every turn new and breath-taking views of the gulf of Corinth. Higher and higher we went with sharper and even more excit- ing turns until at last we were well over two thousand feet up on the shoulder of Mt. [23]