Mani (42 page)

Plying my forefinger like a strigil to wipe the salty sweat off my face, I felt it rasp against three days' unmown stubble. Greeks loathe shaving themselves and peasants only really go in for it once a week, on Saturday, when the barber shops are suddenly crammed. I am only too prone, when wandering about like this, to let it rip as well, growing steadily more raffish and ragged in appearance, burnt black by the sun, as caked with salt as a smoke stack and reeking every night more asphyxiatingly of garlic,

 

 

till conscience suddenly goads me into an empty barber's shop on an off day—any of six, in fact. There is no doubt about it: unless you are used to it, this hispid state looks hideous. Perhaps this permanent pard-like stubble and the prevalence of moustaches among Greek peasants has something to do with foreigners' disappointment at the un-Praxitelean aspect of modern Greeks. There are, as a matter of fact, quite a lot knocking about with regular classical features, fair hair and blue eyes; even, rather surprisingly to me, suggestions of that melting of the forehead into the bridge of the nose which I suspect was as
much of a convention as the imaginary lateral roll of muscle or fat over the tips of the pelvis. These statues were composite sublimations and, superb as they are, as much an idealization as,
mutatis mutandis
, a fashion plate. The sculptures that can be set down as portraits are, as a rule, perfectly normal and contemporary in aspect; some, as in the case of Socrates, agreeably ugly. But the whole approach, the arbitrary singling out of one century from its provenance and sequel, the failure to regard history as a continuum, is wrong, and to this faulty attitude, on a wider scale, most Western misconceptions about Greece are due. What of the archaic smile—and scowl? The dark-rimmed, incendiary, omniscient blankness of Minoan eyes, Hellenistic softness and complacency, the almond-shaped eyes of Fayoum, the disembodied, staring aloofness of ikons, the dark, hunted, or menacing look of Christ Pantocrator at Daphni, the arrogant, waxen Phanariots of Liotard, the whiskered and fiery-eyed klephts of the broadsheets, the sailors and
mangas
of Tsarouchi? They are all there.

The ancient, like the modern Greeks, were always—as are the English and, with a few usually rather tedious exceptions, most other peoples—a composite race. The process was afoot long before the Periclean age, and it continued afterwards. No one knows exactly where the first Greeks arrived from; Sir John Myers, at the end of his several volumes of
Who Were the Greeks?
, is inconclusive, as, through lack of data, he is bound to be. It is pathetic and idiotic to attempt to stem this traffic in 450 B.C. and to damn the modern Greeks by comparison. It is about as sensible as a Greek in London expecting to be surrounded by ancient Britons or Elizabethans, or deploring a busload of our contemporaries because not one of the passengers is like a druid or a Saxon swineherd out of
Ivanhoe
, or Sir Philip Sidney. What are we? Saxon wall paintings, Bayeux tapestry figures, medieval illuminations and recumbent effigies on tombs, Holbeins, Hilliards, Van Dycks, Lelys, Gainsboroughs,
Leightons, Rossettis, Sargents, Laszlos?—Bacons or Annigonis? The answer, I suppose, is all of them. The most striking and revealing thing about Greek faces—especially Greek peasant faces—is the eyes. The whole of Greek history seems to be coiled up behind them. They are a mixture of experience, a rather sad wisdom, and innocence. They are at the same time melancholy and deep-gazing, alert and ready for thrusting from their sockets with anger or for kindling with amusement, collusion, or laughter; above all, they are filled with a wide, phenomenal, uncircumspect candour. Many of the ugliest faces are illuminated by them and they make beautiful ones inexpressibly moving. If the Greek landscape had eyes they would be exactly these and I have often toyed with the vision of such an eye, a solitary one several acres in extent, gazing cyclopically and compellingly from under a thick half-mile of curved black eyebrow from the barren side of a mountain or from the sky.

After a time I opened one of my own and saw that the shadows had begun to broaden on the eastern corrugations of the little island and fell to thinking of the innumerable islets scattered round the coasts of Greece: some bearing the ruins of a fort or a shrine, some scattered with un-shepherded flocks during the summer months, some with a fisherman's hut or two, others with a prison or a hermit or a lonely
skite
with a couple of shaggy monks half mad with isolation; some utterly deserted. Last of all I thought of Gavdopoula, a satellite islet of St. Paul's Gavdos of a few pages back, and began to laugh. Joan, half asleep a few yards away in the same beachcombing attitude, wondered what I was laughing at, so I told her a story I had heard from my Cretan guide during the war.

The tiny island was acquired long ago by a Sphakian family called Seiradanis. This region of Crete—Sphakia—was one of the few places, like the Mani, to remain independent of the Turks, thanks to the wild nature of the country and the bravery of the Sphakians. The Seiradanis family, before and since,
played a prominent rôle in this struggle, but, in the 1821 war, one of them turned traitor, and, like Ephialtes and Ganelon, sold the pass. The result was invasion and slaughter and the Turks rewarded their ally with the gift of this minute island, seven leagues south of Crete; it has remained in the family ever since and they sometimes pasture their flocks there. Shortly after the last war began, one branch of the family was seriously perturbed by the almost permanent drunkenness of their grandfather; so they marooned him on Gavdopoula near a spring with a plentiful stock of food, hoping to sober him up and change his ways. When they came with a little caique to pick him up, a reformed character they hoped, at the end of two months, they were astounded and horrified to find the old greybeard spreadeagled under a shady rock beaming happily and unregenerately, and still, exactly as they had left him, dead drunk. The first thing he had seen when they had sailed away (he told them between hiccups) had been a black dot on the horizon which floated toward him across the Libyan sea growing steadily larger. When it was close to the land it turned out to be an enormous barrel which soon came to rest on the shingle. It was half-full of Italian wine, probably from some ship recently sunk off Cyrenaica. In a moment he was rolling it up the beach. He managed to site it with the bung strategically placed over a basin-like hollow in a rock. Every half-hour or so he would fill the hollow and lap up the wine like a goat, as he said. “So—hic—you see, lads,” he concluded, waving a horny forefinger, “God and the All-hic-Holy Virgin were on my side.” It was incontrovertible. Back they sailed and the old man finished his life happily and unhindered in the tavernas of Sphakia....

We left this Argonautish bay with reluctance. It resembled most convincingly a brief anchorage on any of the great mythological voyages, where a shipload of heroes might have landed and sacrificed to Poseidon and banqueted and wrestled and run
races, perhaps buried a dead shipmate and marked the place with an oar stuck in the shore and sailed away. As Seferis says in his poem:
[1]
“The water left on their hands the memory of a great happiness.” This country, even after years of familiarity, often calls forth these sudden feelings of naïve and Marvellian gratitude: What wondrous life is this I lead?

Cypresses and poplars fluttered beside the climbing path above the oleanders of the torrent bed. All this random green seemed frivolous, reckless, and miraculous after the harsh regions to which our eyes had become attuned; but beyond it the stern Biblical rocks soared through the evening air. In the middle of them half a mile away a goatherd, with his flock scattered about him like cave-paintings, waved his crook in salutation. How large and distinct he looked! Almost as disturbing as the gigantic Eye of my imagination. This rocky world has the property of making all look momentous, for all is isolated, nothing congregates, everything becomes archetypal and, as it were, symbolic of its own essence, so that the landscape is very sparsely and, probably because of this, over-significantly furnished with archtrees, archthistles, archcactuses, archgoatherds and archgoats. The portrayal of this momentousness and solitude is one of the triumphs of Byzantine mosaic and ikon-painting. Animate and inanimate objects, on ikon and church wall and mountain-side, have the same spiritual effect, the same mystical and animistic aura of immanence. No wonder that Greeks of all centuries have populated these hills with a magical fauna and a
dramatis personae
and a pantheon.

This light, of which I have talked so much, has many odd foibles and conjuring tricks. One of these is the lens-like function of the air. All the vapours that roam the Italian atmosphere and muffle the outlines of things are absent here. A huge magnifying
glass burns up the veils of distance, making objects leagues away leap forward clearly as though they were within arm's length. The eye shoots forth a telescopic braille-reading finger to discern the exact detail and texture of a church, a wood or a chasm ten miles off. Things in the distance co-exist on equal terms with those hard by; they have a proprietary and complementary share in the patterns that immediately surround one. A distant cordillera completes a curve begun by the vein along the back of a plane-tree leaf, a far-off belfry has the same intensity as a goat's horn a few yards away, a peninsula leans forward to strike the stem of a dried-up thistle at right angles. Mountain ranges that should melt with the heat-haze and recession, lean forward and impend till one is at a loss to say whether a hill is a small nearby spur or a far-away Sinai. Perpendiculars only exist in walls and towers and tree trunks—unless the trees are olives, in which case they unite and revolve like dancers or contortionists—and the only horizontal is the horizon. The sea stands bolt upright and the sun's track across it is not a highway that retreats with the curve of the globe's surface, but, till sunset flattens it and lays it on its back again, a blazing pagoda. At this late afternoon hour, the hard-hearted mountains turn golden and lavender, the valleys become ground porphyry and powdered serpentine. Where the weathered limestone has fallen away in a landslide, the virgin rock glows bright orange as though infernal forges were at work within. The light also performs several simultaneous and contradictory acts; it chisels and sharpens everything so that the most fluid curve can be broken up at once, by a shift of focus, into an infinity of angles; it acts like an X-ray, giving mineral and tree and masonry an air of transparence; and it sprinkles the smoothest and most vitreous surface with a thin layer of pollen like the damask on a moth's wing. The stones and walls, as well as staying warm to the touch long after the light has left, are absorbent to the light; they glow as if lit from inside with a wick that burns down very
slowly as darkness deepens. The strangest phenomenon of all occurs with the shadows. What little there is at noon is grey and dead, and when the colours revive in the afternoon, they are a cool clear blue and archways are curving waterfalls. But in the late evening they outglare the solids that fling them, falling across white walls or grey stone courtyards or the dust of a pathway with an intensity like a magnesium flare, standing from the surfaces that register them in electric-blue and orange and sulphur-green shapes as separately as though they were in high relief or deep intaglio. The motionless trench dug by a tree-shadow or the shifting and instantaneous bird-shaped cavity that crosses a terrace looks far more real than the tree trunk or the swooping bird which they echo; both of these the light, by comparison, has immaterialized. It is probably because of all this that a strong mystical and sentimental significance pervades the actual surface of the earth, the rocks and the stones, of Greek mountains. The adjective
theobadiston
, “trodden by the feet of gods (or God)” in ancient Greek and in the Byzantine liturgy, comes to mind. In an old ballad which describes a quarrel between two great mountains, free Olympus is held to be good because it is
Klephtopatiméno
, “trodden by klephts,” as opposed to the
Tourkopatiméno
, the Turk-trampled, the shameful flank of wretched Ossa.

These characteristics have a strange effect on the Greek landscape. Nature becomes supernatural; the frontier between physical and metaphysical is confounded.

All the evening phenomena were at work as we climbed through the groves and the first houses of Phlomochori. The shadows cast by the rising moon, shining like a silver fish beyond the network of olive leaves, were crossing swords with those of the sun: so faintly that they might have been made of flimsy material which could be snipped off with scissors and rolled up. A number of hawk-like birds were hovering and wheeling in the air above the village. It was a cloud of gregarious
red-footed falcons, great ruin-haunters and birds of prey that thrive on such small quarry as the high-flying insects that abound in the evening. The high watershed soon blocked out the sun and the moon's shadows and her glimmering light were uncontested among the olive trees and the gathering towers. The warm dust underfoot was succeeded by cobbles and there was a sound of running water. Cigarette-ends glowed in doorways and under the trees and each orange constellation of cigarettes sent out a murmured chorus of greeting.

* * *

These summer nights are short. Going to bed before midnight is unthinkable and talk, wine, moonlight and the warm air are often in league to defer it one, two or three hours more. It seems only a moment after falling asleep out of doors that dawn touches one gently on the shoulder, and, completely refreshed, up one gets, or creeps into the shade or indoors for another luxurious couple of hours. The afternoon is the time for real sleep: into the abyss one goes to emerge when the colours begin to revive and the world to breathe again about five o'clock, ready once more for the rigours and pleasures of the late afternoon, the evening, and the night.