with truth that they speak a speech as old as Agamemnon and far more homogeneous in its descent than modern Italian as it comes from the Latin.
It cannot be disguised, however, that it is very desirable at least to know the Greek alphabet, even if one does not speak or read the language, since this little knowledge will often serve to give one a clue to the names of streets or railroad stations. Aside from that, the few words the habitual traveler always picks up will serve as well in Greece as anywhere. One should know, of course, the colloquial forms of asking “how much?” and for saying “It is too dear.” These are the primal necessities of European travel, always and everywhere. With these alone as equipment, one may go almost anywhere on earth. In addition to these rudimentary essentials, the ever-versatile Bædeker supplies, I believe, phrases of a simple kind, devised for every possible contingency, remote or otherwise, which might beset the traveler—omitting, curiously enough, the highly useful expression for hot water, which the traveler will speedily discover is “zestò nerò.” Among the conveniences, though not essential, might be included a smattering of knowledge of the Greek numerals to be used in bargaining with merchants and cab-drivers. But since the Greek merchant, for reasons which will later appear, is never without his pad and pencil, and since the written figures are the same as our own, the custom is to conduct bargains with Europeans generally by written symbols. The inevitable haggling over prices in the small shops requires little more than the sign manual, plus a determination to seem indifferent at all hazards. The Greek merchant, like every other, regards the voyager from foreign parts as legitimate prey, and long experience has led him to expect his price to be questioned. Hence nothing would surprise a small dealer more than to be taken at his initial figure, and the process of arriving at some middle ground remotely resembling reasonableness is often a complicated but perfectly good-humored affair.
The cab-drivers present rather more difficulty. They seldom speak French and they carry no writing pads. The result is a frequent misunderstanding as to both price and destination, while in the settlement of all differences at the close of the “course” both cabby and his fare are evidently at a mutual linguistic disadvantage. The trouble over the destination is twofold, as a rule. Part of the time the cabman is “green” and not well acquainted with the city; and part of the time he is wholly unable to recognize, in the name pronounced to him, any suggestion of a street he may know perfectly well when pronounced with the proper accent. The element of accent is highly important in speaking Greek; for unless the stress is properly laid, a word will often elude entirely the comprehension of the native, although every syllable be otherwise correctly sounded. The names of the Greek streets are all in the genitive case, which makes the matter still worse. It is of small avail to say “Hermes Street” to a driver. He must have the Greek for “Street of Hermes” in order to get the idea clearly in mind. It is not safe to generalize, but I incline to rate the Greeks as rather slower than Italians at grasping a foreigner’s meaning, despite their cleverness and quickness at acquiring other languages themselves. However, this is getting considerably ahead of our narrative and in danger of losing sight of the main point, which is that Greece is easy enough to visit and enjoy, even if one is ignorant of the language. For those who feel safer to know a trifle of it, there is ample time on the steamer voyage toward the Grecian goal to acquire all that ordinary necessities demand.
Let it be said, in passing from these general and preliminary remarks to a more detailed discussion of Hellenic travel, that the modern Greek has lost none of his ancient prototype’s reverence for the guest as a person having the highest claims upon him and none of the ancient regard for the sacred name of hospitality. Whatever may be said of the modern Greek character, it cannot be called in question as lacking in cordiality and kindness to the stranger. The most unselfish entertainer in the world is the Greek, who conceives the idea that he may be able to add to your happiness by his courtesy, and this is true in the country as well as in the city. The native met on the highway has always a salutation for you. If it is the season for harvesting grapes, you are welcome to taste and see that they are good. He will welcome you to his house and set before you the best it affords, the sweet “sumadha” or almond milk, the rich preserved quince, the glass of pungent “mastika,” or perhaps a bit of smoke-cured ham from the earthen jar which is kept for just such occasions as this. If he sets out to entertain, nothing is done by halves. The Greek bearing gifts need cause no fear to-day, unless it be a fear of superabundant hospitality such as admits of no repayment. He will drive a hard bargain with you in business, no doubt. Occasionally an unscrupulous native will commit a petty theft, as in any other country where only man is vile. But once appear to him in the guise of friendship and he will prove himself the most obliging creature in the world. He may not be as well aware of the general history of his remote ancestors as you are yourself, but what he does know about his vicinity he will relate to you with pride and explicitness. Curiously enough, the Greek in ordinary station is likely to think you wish to see modern rather than ancient things. He cannot understand why you go every evening to the Acropolis and muse on the steps of the Parthenon while you omit to visit the villas of Kephissià or Tatoïs. He would rather show you a tawdry pseudo-Byzantine church than a ruined temple. But the cordial spirit is there, and everybody who ever visited Greece has had occasion to know it and admire it.
There remains necessary a word as to the choice of routes to Greece. As in the case of Venice, one may enter by either the front or the back door, so to speak; and probably, as in the case of Venice, more actually elect to enter by the rear. The two gateways of Hellas are the Piræus at the eastern front, and Patras at the back. Either may be selected as the point for beginning a land journey in the kingdom, and each has certain advantages. In any event the visitor should enter by one portal and leave by the other, and the direction may safely be left to be decided by the convenience and aims of each particular visitor’s case. Taking Naples as the natural starting-point of American travelers, two routes lie open. One is the railroad to Brindisi, traversing the mountainous Italian interior to the Adriatic coast, where on stated days very comfortable steamers ply between Brindisi and Patras, touching at Corfù. The other route is from Naples to the Piræus by sea on either French or Italian steamers, the latter lines being slower and enabling stops in Sicily and in Crete. To those fortunately possessed of ample time and willing to see something of Magna Graecia as well as of Greece proper, the slower route is decidedly to be recommended.
For the purposes of this book let us choose to enter Greece by her imposing main portal of the Piræus, setting at naught several considerations which incline us to believe that, on the whole, the advantage lies rather with the contrary choice. Whatever else may be said in favor of either selection, it remains true that in any case one immediately encounters mythology and legend in the shape of the wily Ulysses, and is thus at once en rapport with Grecian things. The steamers from Naples must sail through the Strait of Messina, between Scylla and Charybdis, once the terror of those mariners who had the experiences of Homer’s wandering hero before their eyes; while not far below Charybdis and just off the Sicilian shore they still show the wondering traveler a number of small rocks, rising abruptly from the ocean, as the very stones that Polyphemus hurled in his blind rage after the fleeing Odysseus, but fortunately without doing him any harm. If, on the contrary, we sail from Brindisi to Patras, we must pass Corfù, which as all the world knows was the island on which Odysseus was cast from his ship and where, after he had refreshed himself with sleep, he was awakened by the laughter of Nausicaa and her maids as they played at ball after the washing was done. Whichever way we go, we soon find that we have run into a land older than those with which we have been familiar, whose legends greet us even at this distance over miles of tossing waves. Let those who are content to voyage with us through the pages that follow, be content to reserve Corfù for the homeward journey, and to assume that our prow is headed now toward Crete, through a tossing sea such as led the ancients to exclaim, “The Cretan sea is wide!” The shadowy mountains on the left are the lofty southern prongs of the Grecian peninsula. Ahead, and not yet visible above the horizon, is the sharp, razor-like edge of Crete, and the dawn should find us in harbor at Canea.
CHAPTER II. CRETE
