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.
CHAPTER XIX. NIOS; PAROS;
A MIDNIGHT MASS
We spent Easter Sunday at Paros. It proved to be a mild and not especially remarkable day in the local church, which was old and quaint and possessed of many highly interesting features within and without, of which we must speak later on, for some of its portions date back to the pagan days. Its floor was littered with the aromatic leaves which had been dropped and trampled under foot the night before by the worshipers at the midnight mass; for it appeared that the chief observance of the feast in the Greek church was on the night before Easter, rather than on the day itself. Indeed we ourselves had been so fortunate, on the previous evening, as to attend this quaint nocturnal ceremony at the neighboring island of Ios, or Nios, as it is variously called.