This essay was published in the Athenian literary periodical Estia in August 1892, during the first season of the French-led “Great Excavation” of ancient Delphi. Karkavitsas had visited the village of Kastri shortly before it was demolished, its inhabitants “relocated” to make way for the excavations.
I sat outside the café and rested until the village doctor, an acquaintance of mine, arrived. At that point I had been traveling for weeks on end, by foot and on horseback, among the wild mountains of Doris and Parnassus, from villages to pastures, mountaintops to valleys, seeking I know not what, but always something I had yet to find. I certainly had no interest in antiquity. Who once dwelt in those places, how they spoke, what wars they had waged, and what their ancient societies had been like were of no concern to me. For me, the rugged and hardy modern-day inhabitants sufficed—their proud songs, their traditions and customs, those names that often sent the wings of my imagination to great deeds of days gone by. And yet, when I reached the water-encircled village of Chryso, I realized that it would be asinine of me not to continue on to Delphi, whose red cliffs I could see above me and which I had heard was no more than a mere hour away. I soon found the muleteer and at dawn, while the air was cool, I set out for Delphi.
To tell the truth, though, I set out not for Delphi but for Kastri. I knew that I would not find ancient Delphi, with its famed oracle, gymnasia, temples, statues, lesches, theaters, and treasuries there any longer.[1] I knew that my eyes would not look upon the beautiful paintings by Polygnotus, the golden statue of Praxiteles’s beloved,[2] the illustrious works of Pheidias, the lavish dedications made by so many peoples and cities, and the shields and spoils taken from so many enemies. I knew very well that I would not encounter envoys dispatched from all corners of the earth to receive prophecies, or gray-bearded holy men, or female attendants, or travelers who would point out the temple’s noteworthy features to me, or Amphictyons deliberating the affairs of their fatherland in council.[3] I knew that I would not hear the priestess Pythia, with her long white chiton and gold wreathe atop her head, uttering oracles like a madwoman from the tripod; nor would I read the golden and precious maxims of the ancient sages on the forecourt of the temple.[4] And I even had in mind, as I do now, the melancholic reply that the oracle gave to Oribasius, when the archeophile Julian wanted to restore it:
No longer has Phoebus a dwelling place here, nor mantic laurel
Nor speaking spring. The speaking water has been silenced![5]
That is why I felt neither surprise nor anger nor regret when I first looked out at the village before me. If I had been looking for it as Delphi, I would of course have wanted it to be brilliantly adorned, made wholly of marble, bright white and brand new; to dazzle the eyes with its riches and enchant the mind with the chattering of the crowds and sounds of hymns. But seeing as I was looking for Kastri, a small place, that is to say, a village of our own time, a spot sheltered and tranquil with its little trees and streams, small houses, and living beings—human and animal alike—it gave me great pleasure to see it nestled there on the southern slope of burly Parnassus. Below were dense olive groves and the river, and the Cirphian mount;[6] to the left, the mountains of Livadeia, with Arachova just in front; to the right, a clear horizon all the way down, with the tilled plain and the mountains and sea of Galaxidi on the other side; overhead, the awe-inspiring red cliffs, which every so often threaten to come tumbling down . . .
The sole café was on the village’s widest street—two cubits,[7] which in many places became even narrower thanks to a house corner or fence spikes or a tree trunk or ruins. It was a small shack with a wood-planked floor that creaked and shifted with the lightest step. One small window opened onto the mountain’s slopes, another onto the wall opposite; the door opened toward the river and the west, and was low like the one that the wise King Bertoldo had fashioned to compel those who entered to bow down to him.[8] During the daytime, light passed through the door and windows as well as the open roof eaves and illuminated the entire humble interior of the café—the half-plastered walls; the completely blackened corner where they made the coffee; the wood counter with its bottles of raki, rum, and rue;[9] the shelf on the opposite wall, thick with dust that had lain there for years, with a few playing cards and pieces of chalk; and the smoke-stained ceiling overhead. But at night—an hour or two after sundown, that is—some sort of lamp that, thanks to the passing of years and years and the fumbling hands of the owner, had lost its original shape would cast its dim beams over the sleepless patrons and the busybody proprietor . . .
I do not now remember whether it was a holiday that day, but I do remember that the café was filled with villagers and dogs. Some here, some there, sitting atop the benches that lined the walls, in front of wobbly, woodworm-eaten, greasy tables playing cards with undue noise and passion, or else eating watermelon with a penknife in hand while their dogs licked their tsarouchia and feet.[10]
But I do not think that it was a holiday, because I remember that outside the café the hardy women of the place kept passing by, their long, heavy vests hanging open, aprons and long chemises hitched up ever so slightly, carrying bales of hay on their shoulders alongside the animals. The more correct interpretation is that there, as in nearly all of Roumeli,[11] the true power of man prevails, which is to shout and act as a genuine master, to issue orders often and beatings more often still. And while the woman struggles out in the forest, or at the spring, or in the field, he sits there at the café and plays cards or else eats watermelon with his penknife in hand while the dogs lick his tsarouchia and feet . . .
As soon as I had sat down on a bit of wood and sent the muleteer to look for the doctor, two or three good villagers emerged from the café, and once they had looked me over a bit, in order, of course, to size me up, they came over and greeted me kindly. After a while, the local military authority, a one-eyed rural policeman, also came by, as did the village schoolmaster with his prehistoric garb and tower-shaped fez and the most enormous snot-rag dangling from under his left arm, and the psaltes,[12] and the judge, and the priest with his short woolen cassock and unkempt beard. In short, with no effort whatsoever on my part, I now had before me the military and political and religious authorities of the place; in other words, everything that was necessary for a person who was heading for wherever I was headed. And they were all eager to talk about everything; to quarrel among themselves; to dispute and come to blows if necessary to defend their words.
There is a saying that “the wolf rejoices in the windstorm.”[13] I, who knew that the truth always comes to light in this way, just as the wheat is separated from the chaff only by means of a sieve, rejoiced at their jabbering and, insofar as I could, used my own words to pour oil on the fire. And little by little these good people, perhaps without knowing what they were doing, gave me the information I needed. Namely, that the village has roughly a thousand inhabitants, that it belongs to the township of Krisa,[14] and that its capital is Chryso. The little church that I had encountered right in front of the village to the west, the one with a walled-off churchyard, is used as a cemetery; it is called Prophet Elias and every year they hold a festival there on the twenty-second of August. They use the other, larger church, which was visible on the heights to the northwest, as the parish church of Saint Nicholas, and they also have an old chapel from Byzantine times down on the river, which is where they hold their celebrations on the fifteenth of August.[15] Above, at the top of the village, is a spring they call Kerna. And they call it Kerna because every bride married in the village takes her in-laws there for games the next day and treats them and the wedding guests to wine and water.[16] Below the village is a well, and there gorgeous lamias sit with hair like waves,[17] and at mid-day the villagers watch the lamias as they bathe and then come out to the edge of the well and comb their hair with golden combs and sing sweet songs that put the trees and streams and birds of the air to sleep. Outside the village, below a road that leads to Chryso, are two savage-looking cliffs, and they call them the Kings. On one of these, the one to the right, sit fairies, and when a strong wind blows their songs can be heard in Galaxidi. And at the base of the other cliff is a deep hole, where a deathless Moor has sat for years and ages now, terrorizing people by night and at mid-day.[18] On the other side, on the road that leads to Arachova, are more cliffs, and Phleboukos, and just beyond it the Papadia, or “Priest’s Wife,” ravine, which is so easy to fall into that the lucky wife of the priest won immortality there.[19] Above the village, again toward the west, is the red line of cliffs known as “Rhodini,” while the large cave above the Papadia is called “Vageni.” And when I asked why they call it Vageni, and the schoolmaster, who was knowledgeable and had something to say about everything, began murmuring something, the priest shouted in anger:
“Shut up, shut up, I say! Why don’t you just go leap into the Papadia?”
To tell you the truth, I was at a loss as to why the priest would be so eager to send the schoolmaster to his wife. But then I realized that he was telling him to jump into the ravine.
Eventually the doctor arrived, a fine young man from those parts. In addition to medicine, he had also undertaken to learn about local antiquity. As we made our way to the cave of the Pythia, he never ceased speaking to me of the ancient Greek authors who had written about Delphi and of the foreigners who had passed through more recently, and their investigations, and the present-day names with which they had identified the ancient locales. Thus he was telling me that the Kerna Spring was the ancient Telphousa, which derived its name from a much-desired nymph of Parnassus. And that the area of the cemetery was where the Amphictyonic Council used to meet. And that the church of Saint Nicholas was just above the Temple of Apollo, and that the nearby spring was Cassotis,[20] whose waters in antiquity had flowed to the temple’s adyton,[21] and which the women would drink from before starting to prophesy. And that above it had been the lesche with the famous paintings by Polygnotus.[22] He also told me that the well with the lamias is today known as “Svarni,” and that it is none other than the ancient Sybaris, and that the cave is where Eurybates killed the man-eating monster.[23] And that Phleboukos is none other than the Phaedriades cliffs, from which they used to cast people as punishment for sacrilege and blasphemy. He also told me that he had himself, on several occasions, heard various magnificent sounds at the Kings, but that this happens when a north wind blows and enters through the many holes in the hollow rock, which used to be a monument to Memnon.[24] And that the superstition about the deathless Moor came about because of an actual Moor who, at the time of the Revolution, was baptized and stayed on in the village. One day, he was caught out on the road in a terrible downpour of the sort that is common in Roumeli, and so as to escape the rain and snow and wind, he crept into the hole between the Kings. But when the storm let up and he emerged, a passerby caught sight of him and was frightened and spread word in the village that a Moor with his iron club was living at the Kings.[25] And he also told me that Rhodini is the name for the ancient Nafplia cliffs, and that Vageni is none other than the cave in which the Pythia used to utter her oracles.
With this information from my knowledgeable guide, we soon arrived at the mouth of the cave. It is just a few steps from the eastern edge of the village, and is high, very high indeed. The entrance yawns open, red and terrifying on all sides, like the mouth of some wild beast. Ahead, on the road that leads to Arachova, a plentiful crystal clear stream flowed down from shady forests, and there were women washing their linens there.
Women’s clothing in Kastri is like it is in Livadeia, but somewhat humbler. They wear a long white vest and underneath it a chemise that falls to the knee. Their knees are bare, and below them they wear embroidered gaiters that go down to the ankle. On their feet they wear tsarouchia and on their heads colored kerchiefs, or else white headscarves. Around their middle they wear a small leather belt, and beneath it a sash that is ten fingers wide, has a clasp, and rests loosely over the long vest like a hoop.
Men’s clothing is even simpler. They have tsarouchia, woolen gaiters that they also wear cut to the ankle, waistcoats, and a shirt, which also functions as a fustanella,[26] and a little cap for the head. Breeches are rare among both sexes.
We, however, were not the appropriate people to undertake a detailed investigation into such matters, and so we headed for the cave. To the right at the foot of the cliff were a little enclosure and a small door with a cross on it, and below flowed a plentiful stream. This was a chamber carved into the cliff, surely a temple or chamber for priests in antiquity, which Christianity had converted into a chapel of Saint John, and the running water that poured into the Papadia down below is called “Saint John’s stream.”[27] My guide said that this was Castalia, the fine gift of Cephisus.[28]
The cave’s opening is to the west. It is a large opening, awe inspiring and triangular, with a low base and high apex; it curves over slightly, as if it were trying to see its own feet, and is a slit in the rock, such that it looks like a strip of the blue ether. But as you venture farther in, you see the two sides with their red faces; their bulges of rock and slack udders, teats pointed downward like actual udders being milked at that moment; their craters and cobweb-covered holes, the small ones like wasp nests and the big ones like wide-open eyes; with their crevices and claws and grooves and colorful sinews—as if jaws crisscrossed with jaws so as to tear anything that fell between them to pieces. And at the base were stones large and small, and gravel, and barren rocks that pour forth as if the cave were vomiting up the contemptible things, which weigh down her stomach . . . When, with exertion and sweat, we climbed to the cave and arrived in its sunless depths, I cannot deny that something different came over me. Neither at church nor in a church sanctuary[29]—not even were I to find myself before the Holy Canopy[30]—would I ever experience such a feeling. The rock’s wild colors, the shadowy depths of the cave, the humidity that penetrated to my bones, the former holiness and tremendous mystery of the place, weighed on my soul, and I felt that at any moment I would lose who I was . . .
But what a change of times; what a difference! The first goat that ever approached the cave also took in its mantic vapors and ran mad and fell from the cliffs, the poor thing! Nowadays, however, nanny and billy goats sit there peacefully in the shade and chomp at their grass without fearing the frightful vapors and the holy adyton of the Far-Shooting God![31]
We made the descent from the cave with our heads brimming with antiquity. That entire place, which now has nothing except what nature bestows upon it—that is, the streams and plants and wild colors of the cliffs, conjured all of its former splendors before me. The Crotonian, Cleisthenes, Lykormas, and the other huge-bodied, fearsome, indomitable boxers were all standing there, a childish grin on their lips because of a laurel crown, which the Amphictyons were placing upon their heads.[32] Elsewhere stood Homer and Hesiod, sorrowful and silent because they had lost the prize—not for lack of skill, but because the one happened to be blind and the other did not know how to play the kithara and sing at the same time. From there, Neoptolemus emerged—large and fearsome, with dire plans in mind for the oracle and even for the god himself.[33] Here came the envoys with their rich offerings, while over there Deceit and Chicanery were laying up treasures in the temple. The nymphs danced here, the Muses sang there, and over yonder the Graces were bathing and Phemenoe was prophesying.[34] That entire place was alive again in my fiery imagination, with all of its ancient beauties, its gods and demigods and heroes and kings and teeming masses; and it gleamed and resounded with all manner of voices.
That is why, when we reentered the village, I felt as if I were in the cemetery. Fortunately, I had my companion with me, and he invited me to go to his house. And as we made the descent down the road, he told me other tales of modern mythology: how Kastri, too, has a phantom, because in Roumeli there is no such thing as a village without one. The phantom is a large ox that is very long and gray, with giant horns and a fat, very fat, head, and a fathoms-long tale. Sometimes, in the middle of the night a sad, loud voice can be heard. Everyone knows that it belongs to the phantom. And they also know that this sad voice foretells the death of a villager.
The phantoms often fight with each other, but rarely is one defeated by another. For, woe to the village whose phantom has been defeated! Once, the phantom of Kastri fought the phantom of Chryso. In the end, Chryso’s phantom was defeated, and that was when the plague came and destroyed the village.
And thus we arrived at his house. The doctor’s villa was in the lower part of the village, and above it houses ascended the slope, one atop the other like giant staircases. In between the houses you could see the greenery of various trees, fruit bearing and large, each with its own manner of beauty and pride. And among the fairness of the trees, all the way down to the river, the nightingale calls of thousands of birds resounded; and in the windows of the houses, from the living quarters and terraces out to the springs and slopes, the ripe faces and cypress-like bodies and sweet lovelinesses of the fine village girls would now and then appear.
A truly beautiful and blessed image of village life! And yet, one cannot be sorry that the archeologist’s pickaxe will soon obliterate it. Who knows what other, diviner image will appear there again someday!