F.A. WILSON, HULL ’75
Excitement, too, is always especially visible in the pencil scrawls that invariably decorate the masonry towards the tops of towers. How vividly can one picture the spectacle of Florence and Sydney Pike on their honeymoon in 1908, giggling and screeching to one another in the pitchy darkness of the winding stairs; bumping from wall to wall; squealing, panting, sobbing; Florence treading on Sydney’s fingers, Sydney pinching Florence’s calves; then suddenly both confronted by the view – eighty miles to a mountainous horizon.
‘Ah, you should see Dartmoor, where Auntie went last year–’
‘Give us your pencil, Flossie, there’s a good girl.’
FLORENCE & SYDNEY PIKE
1908
Nevertheless it is bad taste; we make no attempt to deny it; and it was, we think, a little cruel of the Greek Government in 1924 to hold a state function at Sunium in commemoration of Byron’s having left the furrows of his clasp knife upon the venerable temple. For a man who saw fit to have such a motto as he had inherited – ‘Crede Byron’ – emblazoned on his travelling bed, it can have been but a little thing. All the same, it was unnecessary to emphasise it.
Nobody whom we had consulted in Athens had been able to recall the whereabouts of the name, and we had almost given up hope of finding it, when, while creeping along a narrow ledge by hugging each successive pillar, I suddenly noticed the five neat little italics within a few inches of my nose. In a fever of excitement we searched for the name of the best known of Byron’s modern biographers who, rumour tells, has thought fit to add to the lustre of the poet’s name by placing his own in close proximity to it. Our search proved in vain. Instead, immediately below the BYRON, appeared in meticulously careful print the youthful indiscretion of a man who is at present the principal of a famous Oxford College. As he can have but a few more years to live, we have decided to refrain from publishing his name.
Forsaking these uncouth relics, we descended by a long slope to a secluded bay, David and Michael to bathe, while I basked on a rock, nursing my cold. The others undressed on a sheltered spit of sand, and were swimming about, pink streaks in the limpid blue water of the tiny inlet; when suddenly from round behind a rocky promontory, in the same unexpected manner in which these things slide on to the stage at Covent Garden, glided the very quintessence of ancient Greece as visualised by modern painters – a boat, of almost mythical grace, tapering to a high curving prow and propelled by six long slender oars, the rowers of which were seated in two lines, three on one side and three on the other. It might have been the home-coming of Ulysses.
But the lovely barque had no sooner come to a standstill, than pandemonium was let loose upon the bathers’ idyll. A swarm of barefooted fishermen, of all ages, with skins like crocodiles, grew from the rocks to meet their disembarking fellows. And the whole crowd of about twenty or thirty, divided into two groups, each of which seized on a hitherto invisible wire hawser, which they proceeded to haul in from the depths of the sea. They performed the most elaborate evolutions; one group was perched high up on the cliff, swaying as though to an inaudible hornpipe, while the other tugged and heaved below upon the sand. Then both lunged down twenty yards to the right and the wires swept me off my rock and threatened to lift David and Michael bodily out of the sea. Ten minutes’ comparative regularity were followed by a re-formation to the left but down at the water’s edge, so that the bathers were now irrevocably separated from their clothes. At length, far out upon the skyline, a row of floats could be seen hurrying in from Asia Minor. The efforts of the fishermen redoubled, and leaving David and Michael in peace, they formed up in two parallel lines upon the shore near me, and pulled for forty minutes. Gradually the floats, small, red barrels, drew near in two long diverging lines joining in a curve, like a magnet with its ends inwards. Here was a net a quarter of a mile in length, that must have swept a hundred acres of the sea. Slowly the barrels were hauled up. I craned eagerly forward; the men heaved; the net emerged in dense masses; not a winkle was to be seen. At last, with one superhuman wrench, the day’s catch slithered over the side into the bottom of the boat. There were perhaps four bushel baskets of sprats, and one small grey octopus, which a man cleaned and laid upon the beach. As the tide immediately washed it away, we rescued it, but he exhibited no gratitude. This, then, was the living of twenty fishermen. David and Michael being now dressed, we clambered up the hill and into the car.
On the way home I felt that suicide would be a welcome relief from the irritation of my cold. But some rezina, the vin ordinaire of this country, which, being preserved with resin, tastes like the smell of a chemist’s shop, succeeded in clearing my head. Its medicinal properties are not merely imaginary, and most English residents drink it for their health. We reached the Grande Bretagne in time for dinner, to find Simon very fresh, having just arisen. I took my bed that evening and stayed there the following day reading the Reminiscences of Lady Dorothy Nevill, which I had purchased in a bookshop round the corner. One sentence, written with all admiration in relation to the late Lord Ellenborough, has remained in my mind as supremely typical of the Victorian female mentality:
‘He used to say to me: “War and Women, these are in reality the only fit interests for a man!”’
It is a curious reflection on the late Victorian era – a reflection forcibly corroborated by the popular songs of the day – that the sole interests, if not occupations, of most of our grandparents, were immorality and slaughter.
CHAPTER IX
THERE IS ALWAYS a certain hour of the day in southern countries, when the sun being at its zenith, any margin of shade that is usually to be found, either on one side of the street or the other, disappears. The pedestrian drags himself through a glaring furnace, eyes half closed, clothes clinging, vitality at its lowest. It was during such a moment, one Wednesday morning, that two figures, a gentleman called Mr Coningsby, and myself, might have been seen traversing the lower end of Constitution Square, in the direction of the Rue Kolokotronis. After knocking at a front door approached by two steps, we were ushered up a narrow, twisted staircase into a lofty, double-windowed apartment, the walls of which were crowded with pictures, some of them seascapes, others portraits of prominent statesmen. On the floor stood a number of bookcases, tables and a desk; while in the middle of the room, resting on an easel as though in process of completion, was a large painting of fishermen beaching their boat against a stormy sunset. Perched on suitable ledges, hanging from nails, and piled in the mouths of electro-plate reproductions of ancient Greek vases, were to be seen sponges of every shade, texture, shape and size.
As we entered the doorway, there sprung toward us a broad, upright man of middle age, whose most noticeable features were a bristling, black moustache, heavy eyebrows, and a large head that was mostly bald. With a lightning movement, indicative of hidden vigour, he caught one of Coningsby’s hands in both of his, and wrung it without ceasing, as the words of welcome came pouring from his mouth in harsh and stilted French. This man, in whose rooms we now stood, was Dr Skevos Zervos, the exiled leader of the Dodecanesians, spongefisher, artist, OBE, representative of his native islands at Versailles, and Greek parliamentary deputy.
I was presented to him. He waved us to chairs. Coffee, fruit syrup, liqueurs and sticky, green, preserved oranges were brought in on trays and placed before us.
‘But scanty hospitality!’ cried the doctor. ‘We islanders are a frugal, hard-living people. But such as it is, I beg you accept. My house is yours – everything I have!’ And flinging out his arms he began to rummage among his papers, while Coningsby and I ate and drank.
‘Leave nothing,’ whispered Coningsby with superfluous caution.
Our conversation with Dr Zervos, which was conducted in French, lasted two hours. It resulted, a few months later, in an article entitled, ‘The Dodecanese under the Italians’, which appeared in the New Statesman, and was also transcribed on to the front page of the Empros, an Athenian daily newspaper, under
the heading:
Η ΔΩΔΕΚΑΝΗΣΟΣ ΥΠΟ ΤΟΥΣ ΙΤΑΛΟΥΣ
This I felt to be the summit of literary fame – translation into the language of Homer. Meanwhile, additional information has come to hand. But before entering upon a detailed account of the present condition of the Dodecanese and the outstanding importance of these thirteen islands off the south west corner of Asia Minor in Mediterranean politics – facts of which the world at present appears to be entirely ignorant – it may not be irrelevant to attempt some short analysis of the most living political organism of our generation. The structure of Fascismo, its spirit and its trend, is the salient factor in the shifting policies of south eastern Europe.
As a work of internal reorganisation in a country unsuited by temperament to parliamentary government, the Fascist rule has proved an incontrovertible success. ‘Our newspapers are suppressed, our famous men are murdered, our streets run blood – and then you tell us that our trains are more punctual’ – such perhaps is the argument of Italian liberalism. But there is the other side. In matters of social welfare, education and industrial prosperity, Italy since 1922 has advanced as far as any country in the world. A population of 38,815,000 has since 1922 been increased by three millions. During the last quarter of 1925 more ships were constructed in Italian yards than in those of any country in the world with the exception of our own. And even though dance-halls are forbidden in Trieste and kissing in the streets of Florence, it must be generally admitted that Mussolini, the hounded socialist of former days, for whose re-entry into Switzerland to attend the Conference of Lausanne the Federal Government of that country was obliged to pass a special law – Mussolini, by his internal administration, has fully justified the rule of himself and the enthusiasm of his supporters.
Externally, the foreign policy of Fascismo is dictated by the exigencies of the domestic. Here lies its weakness. The bands of young men on which the whole political edifice rests, can only maintain their enthusiasm, their team spirit, their hold on the country, by the joint exercise of violence. The appetite is much the same as that which ordains compulsory football in English public schools. Unfortunately for Mussolini, internal opposition, either through terror or astute cunning, has dissolved. The Corfu incident, and subsequent pugnacious utterances, have so far kept his personality green in the eyes of his adherents. But the moment will arrive when the dictator must choose from two alternatives – his own downfall or the materialisation of his ‘Napoleonic Year’. If, as has been said, he is already approaching the latter ‘like an elephant on tiptoe’, he has at least succeeded in creating such a clamour with the near fore-foot in the Tyrol, that Europe is now deafened to the direction of the other remaining three. It is not generally recognised that the Italian occupation and administration of the Dodecanese today present not only a complete negation of the accepted precepts of civilised government, but a definite menace to the peace of the Near East.
There is nothing new about Italian imperialism. Its innate vulgarity is as apparent in the Roman arches of triumph which still adorn the countries of the Mediterranean basin, as in the marble pillar-box which marks the Brenner frontier today. In the case of the Dodecanese its first manifestations were felt in the year 38 BC when Cassius, seizing Rhodes, ‘inhumanly butchered the native ruling class, savagely plundering the city and carrying off more than three thousand statues… Such of the inhabitants as survived, together with the remnant population of the other islands, dragged on a miserable and oppressed existence under the Roman heel.’
The subsequent history of the islands has not been an enviable one. After a period of comparative independence as a province of the Byzantine Empire, they eventually fell a prey to the land-hunger of the ubiquitous Norman Crusader, and were consigned, in 1310, to the rule of the Knights of St John of Jerusalem, who, during the two centuries of their dominion, ‘left behind them no single mark of civilising activity’. In 1532, after half a century of almost incessant fighting, they were forced to admit the suzerainty of the Turk; and Rhodes, once the cultural centre of the civilised world, the cradle of painting and sculpture and the sciences, of medicine and navigation – Rhodes, the most splendid of cities, where, according to Homer, Zeus had poured a ram of gold, where once had dwelt half a million citizens, was left stripped of her treasures, with a population of no more than 35,000 souls. For 380 years the infidel remained in occupation. At length, during the Tripoli war of 1912 (between Turkey and Italy) the Italian Admiral d’Aste Stella sailed across the Aegean and, with the aid of the inhabitants themselves, restored the Dodecanese once more to Christian governance.
The new political status, however, proved of a different quality to that which had been expected. ‘At the end of the war (the Tripoli war) your islands shall receive an autonomous regime. I tell you this in my capacity as a soldier and a Christian, and I pray that you will regard my words as the words of the gospel.’ So spake the Italian General Ameglio in a proclamation to the Rhodians in 1912. Unfortunately the Tripoli war was succeeded by the Balkan war; and the Italians had not completed their preparations for the evacuation of the islands, when the outbreak of hostilities in 1914 rendered their retention strategically unavoidable. However, in 1920, by the 122nd article of the Treaty of Sevres, signed and ratified by Italy, it was agreed that the words of the gospel should at length materialise, the twelve smaller islands being ceded to their mother country Greece; while in the event of the British renunciation of Cyprus, the fate of Rhodes was to be determined by plebiscite in 1935. This treaty, though never revoked, was superseded by that of Lausanne. But Lord Curzon, alive to the complications of the question, linked its final settlement with that of Jubaland. The diplomatic subtleties of this arrangement were rudely upset by the Labour Government of 1924, who, finding that an unprofitable African province was costing the treasury some £40,000 a year in maintenance, made a present of it to Italy without more ado. Meanwhile Greek Nationalism had been discredited by the disaster of Smyrna. The British, who had sent the Greeks to Asia Minor, primarily to prevent the Italians going there instead, made no attempt to preserve the Balance of Power in the Near East that they had created. And Italy, no longer hampered by the British and Greek occupations of Jubaland and Asia Minor respectively, has remained in the Dodecanese to this day, with a free hand to pursue her policy of Mediterranean imperialism.
Despite the usually questionable qualities of Turkish liberalism, it cannot be denied that until 1912, the islanders enjoyed a certain measure of independence. The following extract is taken from an edict issued by Mahommed II in 1835, on the occasion of the restoration of the ancient rights of Calymnos, Ikaria, Patmos and, Leros, forfeited during the Greek war of Independence. ‘At the same time’ – that is to say simultaneously with the payment of the annual tribute – ‘their affairs shall be conducted and completed according to their own wishes, by men whom they themselves shall elect every year.’ Such autonomy presents a strong contrast to the process of Italianisation at present in progress.
Practically all interinsular communication has been prohibited, the essential sense of interinsular unity being thus dissolved. Schools have been closed; while the masters of those that remain are compelled by law to go to Rhodes and learn Italian. Similarly, at the harbour towns, all street-signs and café notices must display, and all boatmen speak the alien language – for the benefit of tourists. This device has lately bamboozled several correspondents of the English press, and other usually accurate writers, who have been taken on personally conducted tours by the Italian officials of the Dodecanese. The alternative to Italian citizenship is exile; and this indeed is usually the fate of any educated Greek. The refugees arrive in Athens weekly. The Greek flag is taboo, and the inhabitants are painting their houses blue and white instead. To any Italian marrying a Dodecanesian who brings a dowry of land on which he can settle and appear indigenous, the Italian Government offers a reward of 5,000 lire – with one eye perhaps on the promised plebiscite. Religious processions, sancti
oned for centuries by the infidel, are forbidden by the spiritual subjects of the Pope.
Materially the prosperity of the islands is rapidly on the decline. In 1912 they possessed 143,080 inhabitants; in 1917, 100,148. The figure has now sunk to less than 80,000. One example will suffice. The inhabitants of Calymnos have always been completely dependent for their living on the industry of sponge-fishing. This the Italians have deliberately prohibited in favour of their sponge-beds off the coast of North Africa. In 1912 the population of the island was 20,855; in 1917, 14,445. It is now barely 10,000.
While bearing in mind that Italy’s entry into the war in 1915 was made conditionally on her retention of the islands, it may also be remembered that our new ally did all in his power to prevent the mobilisation of the Dodecanesians on behalf of the Entente. The following quotation from the Nation of January 25th, 1919, will illustrate the treatment accorded a people who were as anxious as the allies themselves to combat the joint forces of Ottoman and the Hun. ‘The islanders are driven from their homes and there are already 60,000 refugees at the Piraeus. The remnant is threatened with starvation, and hundreds have already died of hunger. Yet these men fought bravely in the War, volunteering for service and going out in boats with land bombs to chase the German submarines. Why are they to be Italianised against every principle of Mr Wilson’s peace?’
Meanwhile the Armistice was followed by spontaneous plebiscites in Rhodes and elsewhere, demanding reunion with Greece. The crowds were fired on by the carabinieri, and two women and a priest were killed. Late in 1925 some schoolboys of Calymnos were beaten by the Italian soldiery for writing ‘Long live Greece’ on the walls of their town. There was a time when the powers protested at such happenings, when the beating of Polish children by the Prussians, or the massacre of St Petersburg in 1905, roused the Anglo-Saxon peoples to fury.
Europe in the Looking Glass Page 19
