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  To the lovers of Paleocastrizza this passage will make a certain appeal; but perhaps this emphasis on Greek character will seem a little wearisome to those whose only interest in Greece begins and ends among the broken columns of prehistory. After all, one might say, what contact could exist between the refined and isolated life of ancient Greece, and the haphazard life of the modern Greek living in the shadow of Europe, under the inferiority-complex of the top hat? One incident will provide an answer.

  Anastasius knows that I am collecting peasant stories; the lunch hour of the workman is the time for smoking, lounging and storytelling, and from time to time when his work brings him into contact with the masons and plasterers of Vigla up the hill, he occasionally comes home with a story about St. Corcyra, or the tale of a haunted well.

  Last week we were aware, during the evening, of an unusual disturbance in the family next door. Instead of retiring early to bed, the little oil lamp was burning until after midnight. We heard voices—the voice of Sky in particular—talking and laughing. There was a note of excitement; and the drone of Helen’s voice reading aloud. It was unusual for them to stay up late and waste lamp oil, and it was particularly unusual for the children to be awake late.

  Next morning Anastasius, still unshaven, appeared at the breakfast table and said with some enthusiasm that he wished my Greek were good enough for him to relate me an “extraordinary” story, but it was rather complicated in its details. It was about a man called Odysseus who was washed up on an island. As he spoke I noticed that he was holding a small book crumpled in his hand. He handed it to me. It was a first-form primer as used by the village school; it was an account of the Odyssey written in very simple demotic Greek for schools. Little Sky, he explained, had gone to school for the first time the day before, and had returned home at night with this book. In helping her read the first chapter he had suddenly found himself reading the story of Ulysses for the first time. To be sure, he had heard of Homer, but even now there seemed to be little connection in his mind between this delightful tale which had kept the whole family up until after midnight, and the revered name. “It is such a pity” he kept repeating, “that you will not understand it. It is one of the best things I have ever heard—this fable

  When I told him as well as I could that I had already heard the story he was extremely doubtful.

  “But the books,” he said, “are printed in Athens.”

  “Yes, but the story is very old. In schools in England the children are made to read it.”

  “About Odysseus?”

  “Himself.”

  “And Penelope?”

  “All the same people.”

  He looked so doubtful and unconvinced that I took him into the drawing room and found the big English translation of the Odyssey with the ancient Greek medallions on the cover. He spelt out the name of Homer and shook his head uneasily.

  “I don’t understand,” he said uneasily. “Then is the story true?”

  “Quite true,” I said. “When Odysseus reached here from Fano—”

  “What is that?” he said eagerly. “What is that?”

  “Don’t you know that it was here that Nausicaa lived, that the palace of the King was in Corcyra?”

  “Before God?”

  “Before God. You know Paleocastrizza?” Yes.

  “You know the first of the three bays, before the hotel?”

  “Yes.”

  “There they met. Odysseus arrived there from Fano where at that time Calypso lived.”

  His concern and pleasure were delightful to watch. He stood uncertainly in the doorway holding the primer in his hand, not knowing what to say. “I do not understand,” he said once more. “It is very strange.”

  Later I saw him walk down the cobbled path to where old Father Nicholas sat on a chair, his blue trousered legs set apart manfully. His stick lay across his right knee. On his left knee he was balancing a plate of bread and onions. I saw Anastasius showing him the little book and repeating what I had told him. Two days later he asked me on the next trip round the island to take him and Sky, because he wanted to see the place where Odysseus had been washed up.

  9.25.37

  Kassopi, among the other candidates, has a style entirely its own. In spring, meadows back it, starred with the foam of wild flowers. The village finds its axis in a giant tree whose shadow falls equally upon the tavern and the church. A good harbor, Kassopi is the port of call for the carbide fishers, and under the ancient fortress the waves shatter themselves upon ledges of clean granite and arcs of dazzling pebbles. Empty beaches to the north and south stun you by their silence and emptiness, and the egg-like perfection of the pebbles. Here and there, in patches of sand, you may see the weird ideograms left by the feet of herring gulls, the only visitors. Visitors from Rome came here in the past for summers of indolence and solitude. Tiberius, it is said, had a summer villa here, now swallowed by the sea; and here the mad flabby Nero (who had translated himself from a weak human being into a symbol of kingship and all its evils) sang and danced horribly at the ancient altar to Zeus. Tibullus, Cato and the tedious Cicero passed down this channel on the way to Dyrrachium.

  Kassopi must be seen on a festival day, when the great circle of colored women tread hypnotically in a circle under the branches of the plane-tree, and mingled with the sharp whimpering of the bagpipes and fiddles, the flat stabs of the drum, you can hear the excited shouts of the crowd, and the mad giggling of the donkeys. A row of gay caiques drawn up at the beach; the tavern overflowing with all manner of visitors; sellers of cakes and ribbons and trifles; the priests sitting gravely in the shadow of the porch drinking a glass of wine. The magpie mountain women, glad to relax after their eternity of olive gathering. The moustached Albanians with their bandoliers; the blue Dalmatian policemen with their musical comedy frown; and a great pure wind beating the waves of the bay into chaff.

  The ramparts of the fortress are deserted. Here, it is said, the inhabitants of the town can hear the chink of armour and the footfalls of ghostly Roman sentries changing guard; and it was in the little harbor below that we discovered the remains (for so we thought them to be) of Tiberius’s summer villa, or else of the forgotten temple of Zeus. One summer evening we tied up in the harbor and, it then being tea time, went over the side for a swim, while Niko brought out the food. We had just received a pair of diver’s goggles, which transform the underwater world into a miracle of clarity. Idly playing, in about two fathoms, I saw a Greek newspaper lying on the lucent floor of the bay, moved slowly by the current, and decided to see whether I could make out the headlines in the green gloom below. Three feet from the floor I struck an icy vein of water which pushed me back with some force. It was so cold that involuntarily I opened my mouth and drew in a mouthful. It was fresh water. At the same moment the current moved the thick green fronds of seaweed aside and I saw the irregular coping of a well-top, and the faint white marks which seemed to me to look like an overgrown garden path. This was so exciting, and the stonework so obviously manmade, that N. and L. and myself spent half an hour trying to clear the seaweed which obstructed the view, or to move one of the stones. But such an attempt would need tackle, good divers, and a calm day to be successful. Yet the sweet spring plays there, in the middle of the harbor; in the sunken garden of Tiberius’s summer villa. No one seemed to have noticed it; neither the priest, nor the policeman nor the barber. Nor did they show any interest. Kassopi was too busy with her great dance to bother with trifles.

  9.28.37

  I must not forget to mention that Kassopi does not boast a petrified rock in the shape of a boat; Mouse Island suggests to the lovers of Paleopolis that it was here that the weary rowers on their return from Ithaca were swallowed up in the stony wrath of Poseidon. While off Paleocastrizza there is another and more perfect rock which resembles the fantastic boat much more closely. Zarian never fails to take his friends up the steep road to Lakones to gaze out across the dazzle of waters towards this motionless boat. I
t is sufficient corroboration for him.

  9.29.37

  Across the rich screen of this landscape many names, ancient and modern, offer themselves to the mind like the translation of flesh into ghostly appearances which still delude the living by their resemblance to them.

  Corcyra’s history is a checkerboard; little of it is interesting because of its variety of detail, and the stubborn sameness of the general pattern. Spawned by Corinth, she was sensible enough to assert herself as a maritime force during the Persian War of 475. Herodotus’s scornful account of her treachery has earned him the withering vituperation of Zarian in more than one Armenian article. Xenophon, writing of the Spartan invasion under Mnesippus, records a paradise of fertility and cultivation; a paradise so rich in loot that it unmanned the invaders and glutted them with booty in food and oxen, fruit, sculpture and slant-eyed Corcyrean girls.

  In this noble harbor Augustus gathered together his fleet for a battle which gave him a world.

  Guiscard conquered her, one of the twelve sons of Tancred, and in aspect as terrible and bold as any Teutonic God. Gibbon’s podgy prose commends for “patient vigor of health and commanding dignity of form” while we are informed that the Apulian poet praised him for excelling the cunning of Ulysses and the eloquence of Cicero. Invested Duke of Calabria, he crossed to Sicily in an open boat, and won the island by incredible endurance in hardship. The saga of his life and adventures still awaits a chronicler apt enough for so great a theme.

  Richard the Lion paused here on his way back from the farcical adventure of Cyprus.

  Michael the Despot reigned and fell.

  Caught for an instant assembled in the great harbor, Villehardouin spent some magical words on the shabby hirelings of the fourth Crusade: “The wind was favorable, and the sky pure and serene, and a profound calm reigned over the waters. Three hundred vessels of all sizes with their colors afloat from their sterns, covered a vast space. The helmets and cuirasses of the 30,000 warriors reflected back the rays of the sun. And now over the waters came the hymns of priests, invoking heavenly blessings, and the tones of the soldiers, lightening the leisure of the voyage with martial songs, the winding of horns and the neighing of horses all mingled with the splashing of oars.” Impenitent glory of that Whitsun Eve, with the great fleet motionless on the shining mirror of the bay. “I bear you witness,” he cries, “that never was so gallant a sight seen.”

  And then the sleek Genoese Vetrano, fattened with politics and cruelty, described impartially as pirate or admiral. He is Zarian’s favorite character. Never, says Zarian, were the Venetians more at fault than when they did him to death.

  Corcyra, like her St. Spiridion, was once a dowry for a beautiful woman, destined for a tragic fate. Helen, daughter of Michael II, died in prison far from the island.

  The waves of the invading East reached as far as the island; burst into these green valleys and groves. Corcyra stands as a boundary stone in the history of Turkish conquest for it did not reach farther east. Here it broke and fell, and the key to the Adriatic was held firm by the Venetians.

  Under Venice she prospered—at least in forests; for the Venetians gave ten gold pieces for every grove of a hundred olive trees planted, until when they left, it is said, the islanders possessed nearly two million trees.

  Lithgow published an account of Corfu in 1632. It is as follows:

  Corfu is an island no less beautiful than invincible: it lieth in the Sea Ionean, the inhabitants are Greeks, and the Governors Venetians; this Iie was much honored by Homer for the pleasant gardens of Alcino which were in his time. This Alcino was that Corcyrean poet who so benignly received Ulysses after his shipwracke, and of whom Ovid said:

  “Quid bifera Alconoi referam pomaria? Vos que Qui nunquam vacuiprodistis in aethere rami.”

  “Why blaze I forth Alconoe’s fertile soil And trees, from whence, all times they fruit recoyle?”

  This Isle was given to the Venetians by the Corsicans [sic], Anno 1382, because they were exposed to all injuries in the world: It lieth like to a half moon, or half a circle east and north.

  The City Corfu, from which the Ile hath its name, is situate at the foot of a Mountain whereupon are builded two strong fortresses, and invironed with a rock. The one is called Fortezza Nova and the other Fortezza Vecchia. They are well governed and circumspecdy kept, lest by the instigation of the one Captain the other should commit any treasonable effect. And for the same purpose the Governors of both castles, at their election before the senators of Venice are sworn; neither privately nor openly to have mutual conference; nor to write to one another for the space of two years, which is the time of their Government.

  The Castels are inaccesable and unconquerable, if that the keepers be loyal, and provided with natural and martial furniture. They are vulgarly called The Forts of Christendom, by the Greeks; but more justly, The Strength of Venice; for if these forts were taken by the Turks, or by the Spaniard who would gladly have them, the trade of the Venetian merchants would be of none account; yea, the very means to overthrow Venice itself.

  Despite the slight inaccuracies Lithgow’s sketch of the island is as charming and as fresh as a watercolor. The Corsicans are, of course, mythological—unless the word is a misprint for “Corcyreans”; and at no time could the hillock upon which the old fort stands be called a mountain. But in its general particulars the account captures much of the charm of the place.

  Earlier than Lithgow by about a decade Fynes Morison dedicated a small place in his Itinerary to a description of the island which deserves quotation. The year was 1596.

  On Sunday the 5th of May we did see the Mountain Fanon (and as I remember an Iland), three miles distant from the Iland Corfu, and upon the Greek shore beyond the Iland, we did see the most high mountains called Chimerae, inhabited by the Albanesi, who neither subject to the Turks nor Venetians, nor any other, do upon occasion rob all; and the Venetians, and the Kings of France, and especially of Spain, use to hire them in their wars.

  The Iland Corfu inhabited by Greeks is very fertile, yielding plenty of fruits, corn, wine, currants, and this haven is fortified with two Forts cut out off a Rock, namely, the old and the new Fort (which is more than a mile in circuit), both being very strong and held inexpugnable, so as the island is worthily reputed one of the Chief Keys of Christendom.

  10.2.37

  The literati of “The Partridge” have spent a great deal of time upon the etymological derivation of the word “Corfu.” The current explanation that the Byzantine use of the word was related in some way to (meaning twin-peaked) is not entirely acceptable to Zarian though Theodore’s more exacting scholarship appears to accept the idea. Any modern Greek dictionary will list which means “a gulf”; while research into the word Corcyra will give you the following: (a tail, a handle); (a fish); and (a weaver’s comb, a leg bone, a fiddle bow).

  Each of us has his preference in this burning matter. Nimiec, who is an unqualified cynic in all things concerning the Greek language and character, chooses the latter as being most likely because least logical. N. thinks that the gulf is the simplest and most prosaic derivation. I prefer the figurative and visual derivation from a tail, because the island does taper away into a handle at the southern end—as anyone can see by glancing at the map. Zarian clings to the simple and fishy derivation, declaring that the island has at all times been famous for its abundance of fish. “You will notice how carefully the wells are blessed by the priests against the summer drought; have you ever seen them blessing the sea?”

  Theodore prefers to remain beyond the range of all this inexact and unfruitful scholarship. He merely shakes his head and sips his yellow wine.

  10.4.37

  According to Diodorus, the Sicilian, Kerkura, the daughter of Oceanus and Tethys was carried into the island by Neptune. Here she bore the loved Phaex who ruled over it calling it Korkura.

  Bochart derives the two names Scheria and Kerkyra from the Phoenecian words “scara” meaning “commerce�
�� and “carcara” meaning “abundance.”

  The island’s fertility made it the favorite abode of green Ceres; it was here she concealed the scythe with which the first Titians were taught the art of husbandry. Hence the antique name Drepani, a reaping hook.

  It was also called Macria after the fair Macris who took refuge here from the wrath of Juno.

  10.5.37

  As late as the third century BCE a cave was shown to the superstitious where the marriage of Jason and Medea was said to have taken place; as well as an altar to Apollo.

  In the Naupactican Verses quoted by Pausanias they were said to have returned here, and it is recorded that their son Mermeras was killed while hunting on the opposite coast.

  Short-sighted Procopius in the sixth century CE was shown the petrified bark of Ulysses but his incredulity transformed it into a fabric of stones dedicated to Jupiter Cassius by a wandering merchant.

  10.6.37

  Diodorus says that the island was originally colonized from some very remote part of the world; and indeed during the Trojan wars Corcyra was looked upon as a mysterious, semi-mythical island—a beautiful boundary-stone at the very edges of the known world. Enter Calypso’s cave on the island north of Corcyra, and you will hear nothing but the faint bumping of the tides against the headland and the thin, shrill appeals of the gulls.

  There are no Cyclopean remains in Corcyra; consequently you are free from the oppressive blood guilt of Tiryns—its blocks of hewn stone drenched with blood: of Mycaenae with its burial grounds choked with bodies, and the obsessive numbering drone of bees in the dark tomb of Agamemnon. You are still in a Latin world.