Mentone, Cairo, and Corfu

by Constance Fenimore Woolson

A Greek dressed in the full national costume accompanied us all the way to Missolonghi so closely that he was closer than a brother; save when we were locked in our small sleeping-cabins below (the one extra possession which a first-class ticket bestows), we were literally elbow to elbow with him. And his elbows were a weapon, like the closed umbrella held under the arm in a crowded street—that pleasant habit of persons who are not Greeks. The Greek elbow was clothed in a handsome sleeve covered with gold embroidery, for our friend was a dandy of dandies. His petticoats and his shirt were of fine linen, snowy in its whiteness; his small waist was encircled by a magnificent Syrian scarf; his cream-colored leggings were spotless; and his conspicuous garters new and brilliantly scarlet. He was an athletic young man of thirty, his good looks marred only by his over-eager eyes and his restlessness. It was his back which he presented to us, for his attention was given entirely to a party of his own friends, men and women. He talked to them; he read aloud to them from a small newspaper (they all had newspapers, and read them often); he stood up and argued; he grew excited and harangued; then he sat down, his inflated skirts puffing out over his chair, and went on with his argument, if argument it was, until, worn out by the hours of his eloquence, some of his companions fell asleep where they sat. His meals were astonishingly small. As everything went on under our eyes, we saw what they all ate, and it was unmistakable testimony to the Greek frugality. Our companion had brought with him from Corfu, by way of provisions for several days, a loaf of bread about as large as three muffins in one, a vial containing capers, a grapeleaf folded into a cornucopia and filled with olives, and a pint bottle of the light wine of the country. The only addition which he made to this store was a salted fish about four inches long, which he purchased daily from the steward. There was always a discussion before he went in search of this morsel, which represented, I suppose, the roast meat of his dinner, and when he returned after a long absence, bearing it triumphantly on the palm of his hand, it was passed from one to the next, turned over, inspected, and measured by each member of the group, amid the most animated, eager discussion. When comment was at last exhausted, the superb orator seated himself (always with his chair against our knees), and placed before him, on a newspaper spread over the bench, his precious fishlette divided into small slices, with a few capers and olives arranged in as many wee heaps as there were portions of fish, so that all should come out even. Then, with the diminutive loaf of bread by his side and the bottle of wine at his feet, he began his repast, using the point of his pocketknife as a fork, eating slowly and meditatively, and intently watched by all his friends, who sat in silence, following with their eyes each mouthful on its way from the newspaper to his lips. They had previously made their own repasts in the same meagre fashion, but perhaps they derived some small additional nourishment from watching the mastication of their friend. When his fish had disappeared, accompanied by one slender little slice of bread, our neighbor lifted the wine-bottle, and gave himself a swallow of wine; then, after a pause of a minute or two, another. This was all. The bottle was recorked, and with the remaining provisions put carefully away. All foreign residents in Greece, whether they like the people or dislike them, agree in pronouncing them extraordinarily abstemious. Drunkenness hardly exists among them.

At one of the islands a prisoner was brought on board by two policemen. He was a slender youth—an apprentice to a mason, probably, for his poor clothes were stained with mortar and lime. He held himself stiffly erect, making a determined effort to present a brave countenance to the world. He was led to a place in the centre of the deck, and then one of his guardians departed, leaving the second in charge. The steamer lay in the harbor for an hour or more, and four times skiffs put out from the shore, each bringing two or three young men—or, rather, boys—who came up the ladder furtively. Reaching the deck, they edged their way along, first to the right, then to the left, until they perceived their comrade. Even then they did not approach him directly; they assumed an air of indifference, and walked about a little among the other passengers. But after a while, one by one, they came to him, and, taking bread from under their jackets, they put it hastily and silently into his pockets, the policeman watching them, but not interfering. Then, moving off quickly, they disappeared down the ladder in the same stealthy way, and returned to the shore. Through all their manœuvres the prisoner did not once look at them; he kept his eyes fixed upon a distant point in the bay, as though there was something out there which he was obliged to watch without an instant's cessation. All his pockets meanwhile, and the space under his jacket, grew so full that he was swathed in bread. Finally came the whistle, and the steamer started. Then, as the island began to recede, the set young face quivered, and the arm in its ragged sleeve went up to cover the eyes—a touching gesture, because it is the child's when in trouble, the instinctive movement of the grief-stricken little boy.

Ten miles south of Corfu one meets the second of the Ionian Islands, Paxo, with the tiny, severe Anti-Paxo lying off its southern point, like a summary period set to any romantic legend which the larger isle may wish to tell. As it happens, the legend is a striking one, and we all know it without going to Paxo. But it is impossible to pass the actual scene without relating it once more, and, for the telling, no modern words can possibly approach those of the old annotator. "Here at the coast of Paxo, about the time that our Lord suffered His most bitter Passion, certain persons sailing from Italy at night heard a voice calling aloud: 'Thamus?' 'Thamus?' Who, giving ear to the cry (for he was the pilot of the ship), was bidden when he came near to Portus Pelodes" (the Bay of Butrinto) "to tell that the great god Pan was dead. Which he, doubting to do, yet when he came to Portus Pelodes there was such a calm of wind that the ship stood still in the sea, unmoored, and he was forced to cry aloud that Pan was dead. Whereupon there were such piteous outcries and dreadful shrieking as hath not been the like. By the which Pan, of some is understood the great Sathanas, whose kingdom was at that time by Christ conquered; for at that moment all oracles surceased, and enchanted spirits, that were wont to delude the people, henceforth held their peace."

Those of us who read Milton's Ode on Christmas Eve will recall his allusion to this Paxo legend:

"The lonely mountains o'er,

And the enchanted shore,

A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;

From haunted spring and dale,

Edged with poplar pale,

The parting Genius is with sighing sent."