One afternoon in the gathering dusk when it grew too dark to work and I was exploring the empty upper galleries, to my astonishment I nearly fell over a sick man. Startled and peering down I saw it was a soldier curled up on his blanket bed. A comrade was hastening to him bringing a pannikin full of water, his footsteps echoing down the long gallery behind me. I beat a hurried retreat, noticing as I did so the kit and beds of a whole company, neatly rolled up for the day, lying in the shadow of the low marble railing. But this was in May; since then there are fewer Royalist troops tucked away in the heart of Salonica.
The furthermost great church—my favourite among all those the minarets showed me—was the round fortresslike St. George, built in the third century. It stands near the Arch of Galerius—the Roman arch of triumph now resounding to the clang of the British army motor-lorries. From its massive strength and air of grave simplicity, it might be one of the towers guarding the eastern wall of the town. No columns interrupt the view within, and on the majestic dome, whose sweep leaves everything clear, is the greatest monument in mosaic handed down from antiquity. It represents a succession of saints, none later than the time of the Emperor Constantine, who gaze pityingly down from the bronze and gold Portals of the Heavenly City. The tall figures are just stiffening from the grace and truth of the classic masters into the cramped outlines of the monkish artists, who feared to study the human form lest their models turned to wicked, tempting demons, all claws and teeth and tail, under their very eyes. The Turks were even more prejudiced on the subject, and defaced figures wherever met, no matter how many robes they wore. But the charm of the whole is quite unspoilt; it lies in the background.
The designer’s naïf joy in a fresh architectural expression shines from this Byzantine Paradise of Revelations. It radiates from these walls whose foundations were Jasper, Sardonyx, and Emerald—Chalcedony from the Macedonian peninsula our troops now hold—and all the other stones whose names are songs, from these arches springing one above another, these shell-ribbed cupolas and alcoves, these vistas of limitless arcades, where storks stand sentinel and peacocks spread their jewelled tails, coloured like cornflowers in grass.
On the low vaulting of the surrounding chapels, hollowed out in the twenty foot thick fortress wall, humble local birds find a place. Ducks and quails, cranes and smaller wild fowl from the Vardar marshes cover the diapered gold ground. Under the Osmanli rule these chapels were reserved for the different companies of the Sultan’s Regiment of Guards, hence the church’s Moslem name—Orta Sultan Osman Djami.
Last to be discovered at Salonica are the few Byzantine churches so small and insignificant they were never claimed by the Turks. No minarets point these out. But they are well worth finding for their splendid carved and painted screens.
Backwards and forwards the churches’ fate has swung. Bullet holes pit their soaring spires, witness to the most recent changes. Feast days and Holy days abound in this town of many faiths. Perhaps the prettiest among them is the Feast of Bairam, when the minarets that remain in the hands of the Moslems twinkle with rows of little lights. Then from my window I could see just how many mosques were left; each one marked by a tall fairy candle, burning steadily on the blue darkness of the hill.
‘Signora, wake, make haste, your Excellency’s boat leaves to-day at noon!’
My reverie over the old town came to an abrupt stop. If this were true, it was useless trying to decide where among all my favourite haunts I would sketch for the last time.
Eudocia, the good-natured Greek-Italian maid, making a noisy entry with my coffee, brought the surprising, unwelcome news.