PEASANT DANCERS AT MENIDI
One comely damsel, whose friends clamored us to photograph her, scampered nimbly into her courtyard, only to be dragged forth bodily by a proud young swain, who announced himself her betrothed and who insisted that she pose for the picture, willy-nilly,—which she did, joining amiably in the general hilarity, and exacting a promise of a print when the picture should be finished. The ice once broken, the entire peasant population became seized with a desire to be photographed, and it was only the beginning of the great dance that dissolved the clamoring throng.
The dance was held on a broad level space, just east of the town, about which a crowd had already gathered. We were escorted thither and duly presented to the demarch, or mayor, who bestowed upon us the freedom of the city and the hospitality of his own home if we required it. He was a handsome man, dressed in a black cut-away coat and other garments of a decidedly civilized nature, which seemed curiously incongruous in those surroundings, as indeed did his own face, which was pronouncedly Hibernian and won for him the sobriquet of "O'Sullivan" on the spot. His stay with us was brief, for the dance was to begin, and nothing would do but the mayor should lead the first two rounds. This he did with much grace, though we were told that he did not relish the task, and only did it because if he balked the votes at the next election would go to some other aspirant. The dance was simple enough, being a mere solemn circling around of a long procession of those gorgeous maidens, numbering perhaps a hundred or more, hand in hand and keeping time to the music of a quaint band composed of drum, clarionet, and a sort of penny whistle. The demarch danced best of all, and after two stately rounds of the green inclosure left the circle and watched the show at his leisure, his face beaming with the sweet consciousness of political security and duty faithfully performed.
How long the dance went on we never knew. The evening was to be marked by a display of fireworks, the frames for which were already in evidence and betokened a magnificence in keeping with the costumes of the celebrants. For ourselves, satiated with the display, we returned to our carriage laden with flowers, pistachio nuts, and strings of beads bestowed by the abundant local hospitality, and bowled home across the plain in time to be rewarded with a fine sunset glow on the Parthenon as a fitting close for a most unusual and enjoyable day.
CHAPTER VIII. DELPHI
The pilgrimage to Delphi, which used to be fraught with considerable hardship and inconvenience, is happily so no longer. It is still true that the Greek steamers plying between the Piræus and Itea, the port nearest the ancient oracular shrine, leave much to be desired and are by no means to be depended upon to keep to their schedules; but aside from this minor difficulty there is nothing to hinder the ordinary visitor from making the journey, which is far and away the best of all ordinary short rambles in Greece, not only because of the great celebrity of the site itself, but because of the imposing scenic attractions Delphi has to show. The old-time drawback, the lack of decent accommodation at Delphi itself, or to be more exact, at the modern village of Kastri, has been removed by the presence of two inns, of rather limited capacity, it is true, but still affording very tolerable lodging. Indeed, hearsay reported the newer of these tiny hostelries to be one of the best in Greece outside of Athens, while the other quaint resort, owned and operated by the amiable Vasili Paraskevas, one of the “local characters” of the place, has long been esteemed by Hellenic visitors. Vasili, in appearance almost as formidable as the ancient Polyphemus, but in all else as gentle as the sucking dove, has felt the force of competition, and his advertisements easily rival those of the Hotel Cecil. As a matter of fact, the establishment is delightfully primitive, seemingly hanging precariously to the very edge of the deep ravine that lies just under lofty Delphi, boasting several small rooms and even the promise of a bath-tub, although Vasili was forced to admit that his advertisement in that respect was purely prospective and indicative of intention rather than actuality.
The truly adventurous may still approach Delphi over the ancient road by land from the eastward, doubtless the same highway that was taken by old King Laios when he was slain on his way to the oracle, all unwitting of the kinship, by his own son Œdipus,—possibly because of a dispute as to which should yield the road. For the old road was a narrow one, with deep ruts, suitable for a single chariot, but productive of frequent broils when two such haughty spirits met on the way. To come to Delphi over this road and to depart by sea is doubtless the ideal plan. That we elected not to take the land voyage was due to the early spring season, with its snows on the shoulder of Parnassus, around which the path winds. For those less hindered by the season, it is said that the journey overland from Livadià to Delphi, passing through the tiny hamlet of Arákhova and possibly spending a night in the open air on Parnassus, is well worth the trouble, and justifies the expense of a courier and horses, both of which are necessary.
The way which we chose, besides being infinitely easier, is far from being devoid of its interesting features. We set sail in the early afternoon from the Piræus, passing over a glassy sea by Psyttalea, and the famous waters in front of Salamis, to Corinth, where the canal proved sufficiently wide to let our little craft steam through to the gulf beyond. It was in the gathering dusk that we entered this unusual channel, but still it was light enough to see the entire length of the canal, along the deep sides of which electric lamps glimmered few and faint as a rather ineffectual illuminant of the tow-path on either hand. The walls towered above, something like two hundred feet in spots, and never very low, making this four-mile ribbon of water between the narrow seas a gloomy cavern indeed. It was wide enough for only one craft of the size of our own, therein resembling the land highway to Delphi; but fortunately, owing to the system of semaphore signals, no Œdipus disputed the road with us, and we shot swiftly through the channel, between its towering walls of rock, under the spidery railroad bridge that spans it near the Corinth end, and out into the gulf beyond. It is rather a nice job of steering, this passage of the canal. Everybody was ordered off the bow, three men stood nervously at the wheel, and the jack staff was kept centred on the bright line that distantly marked the opening between the precipitous sides of the cleft, a line of light that gradually widened, revealing another sea and a different land as we drew near and looked out of our straight and narrow path of water into the Corinthian Gulf beyond. The magnificence of the prospect would be hard indeed to exaggerate. On either side of the narrow gulf rose billowy mountains, the northern line of summits dominated by the snowy dome of Parnassus, the southern by Cyllene, likewise covered with white. They were ghostly in the darkness, which the moon relieved only a little, shining fitfully from an overcast sky. The Corinthian Gulf is fine enough from the railway which skirts it all the way to Patras, but it is finer far from the sea, whence one sees both sides at once in all the glory of their steep gray mountains. Happily the night was calm, and the gulf, which can be as bad as the English Channel at its worst, was smooth for once as we swung away from the little harbor of modern Corinth and laid our course for the capes off Itea, something like forty miles away. And thus we went to rest, the steamer plowing steadily on through the night with Parnassus towering on the starboard quarter.