 Ports of Calls! Far at the world's end, strange fascinating lions back in us, bid us revel in their exotic splendors. Come with us as we head for Ports of Calls! With her denilated shoreline bathed by a sea as blue as the lapis lazuli of the ancients, with her storied mountains wrenched by ardent Mediterranean sunshine, with the mellow marble of her temples crowning the heights like preciously wrought ivory in the diadem of some goddess, Helus awaits us. We are about to visit a legendary land, so old that the time when gods and men walk together seems but yesterday year to her. A land whose antique beauty was so rare, whose ancient glory was so bright, that for 2,000 years men have not ceased to draw from her their purest inspiration. Before us, cleansed with those islands whose loveliness has been sung by immortal poets, lies the cradle of modern civilization, the source of modern science, the still unrivaled mistress of all the arts, Greece. Caressing breezes from the Aegean Sea, smiling under the sky of unbelievable Asia, bid us welcome and unfold us in the soft mantle of an antique dream. We land at the Piraeus. Six miles inland lies Athens, the capital, whose founding is attributed to the hero Theseus. In those dim ancient days, when history was still enshrouded in the fantastic mists of legends. Twelve centuries before the Christian era, a travel-stained youth presents himself at the rustic court of Aegeus, ruler of Attica. Your bearing pleases me, young man. May you join us at the banquet. I thank you most sincerely, King Aegeus. I do not like this newcomer, Maria. Why, my dear? He is very handsome. I must trust him. Aegeus receives him too cordially. Maria, could you not be more eager to entertain our guests? Oh, hi. A thousand gardens. Will you tell us of your adventures, sir? I'm called Theseus, and I come from Toys. Toys in, did you say? Yes. Do you know that country? I spent some time there, but it was many years ago. On my way hither, I encountered proliferies, the club wielders. Yes, a ferocious giant. You fought? And with the help of the gods, I slew him. And I continued to Delphi. The shrine of Apollo, as I had now reached manhood, I complied with the custom and cut off my hair to dedicate it to the god. You interest me strangely, Theseus. Look, Maria, do you not think he resembles me? Oh, yes. Yes, but pray excuse me. Very well. Continue, please, Theseus. After I left the oracle, I came here. Right here. I must act. Nothing can alter my resolve to marry at Theseus and to secure his throne for my son. This Theseus may change everything. I have a permission. But what can you do? Destroy him. Here. The next you serve them is sure you have put this poison in the wine you give Theseus. If you fail, I shall kill you. Yes. Yes. Yes, I'm here. I'm coming. You should hear this story. My father left Troisen before I was born, and I never saw him. But as a boy I thought of him often when I played in a meadow near our village. In the meadow was a very large stone. It was said to have fallen there when the Titans waged their war with Zeus. Something always drew me to that stone. Some strange power made me try to lift it. Year after year I tried. I did not know why. One day I strained every muscle and lifted it and rolled it over. Beneath it I found a sword. A sword. I carried it to my mother. You are not drinking Theseus. Please, Medea, be still. Still another cup for Theseus, Maria. But what's Medea? Be still, your mother Theseus. What is her name? Her name, Tringegius, is Aethra. Aethra. Is it possible? It is a place beneath the stone by my father. Yes, yes. But I should carry it with me and journey into Attica where I would find it. It ain't Theseus. Medea, you are strangely white. You are trembling. Have you the sword with you, Theseus? Yes. Here. Theseus, drink, stop. This is my sword. The very sword I placed under the rock when I took leave of Aethra whom I loved so long ago. Medea, what was in the cup I knocked from Theseus' hand? Wine, nothing more. You lie. Maria, here. Was that wine poisoned? Yes. Medea, you have attempted to poison my son the further your own scheming. And though you merit death, I shall not kill you. You are banished from Attica forever. Return to Corinth when you came and take this vile slave with you. I have great plans for you, Theseus. May I be worthier than father? But the people distrust me. To them I'm a foreigner. They resent your affection for me. I know. But you will be king nonetheless. A day will come when they will be proud to acclaim you as their leader. The heralds have assembled the people in the marketplace, Majesty. They await you. Very well. Come, Theseus. You seem sad, father. What is this assent? They'll walk with me. I shall tell you as we go along. The we of Attica were once at war with Minos, king of Crete, and a great pestilence swept over Attica. The fields bore no fruits. The rivers disappeared into the earth. People were perishing on all sides. We consulted the oracle. The Pythian priestess told us to make peace with Minos if we wished to lift the curse. So peace was made. But the terms were most cruel for us. What were the terms? Every nine years, we're obliged to send Minos seven of our strongest youths and seven of our fairest maidens. And I... I must order their going. It is my most painful duty. But are they sent into slavery? Worse than that, Theseus. They go to their death. To their death? Yes. For in Crete lives the Minotaur, a most horrible monster, half man, half bull. He is unspeakably savage. And Minos has confined him in a labyrinth, a baffling confusion of paths between high walls, paths which twist and turn in old directions so intricately that whosoever enters the maze soon loses all sense of direction. Desperately and filled with panic, the victim runs on and on, seeking the exit he never finds. And in the heart of this horrible place wanders the Minotaur, waiting to fall upon the fear-crazed wretch and devouring. It is to the labyrinth and its loathsome demon that the flower of our youth is condemned. Today, I must choose them. That is the cause of my sadness. Is there no way to stop this butchery? Well, as no, not so long as the Minotaur lives, the monster has the strength of five men who could slay him even if it were possible to carry on into the labyrinth. Now I must perform my unhappy duty. My beloved people, you know the painful motive for this meeting? Each of our young people will pass before me and draw a pebble from this somber urn. Those who draw the white pebbles are exempt. Those who draw the black pebbles must take leave of parents and of Attica and prepare to sail for treats. Father, only six years need be chosen. What do you mean? Because I will be the seventh. Yes, Father. Hear me, old people. Hear me, I beg of you. Hear me. Many of you have looked upon me with suspicion because I came to you from a distant place. Now shall I prove that I am truly of Attica. I shall go with your young people to the Minotaur with the help of the gods I'll slay him and free you from this fightful tribute forever. She's ready, Heraclus. Yes, Majesty? Are you not coming down to the shore? No, I have already taken leave of my beloved son, Vesius. My heart is too heavy to bear the sight of the ship sailing. But, Heraclus... Yes, Heraclus? You are the steersman. You know that it is the custom for the ship on its mournful journey to wear a black sail. Yes. This time, I want you to take with you a white sail. Vesius, by some miracle, lives. Do your hoisted for your homecoming. Thus shall I know a little sooner. I shall do your bidding, Heraclus. I shall be watching from the highest cliff by the sea. Watching for the sail. You will remember. Yes, Majesty. Then farewell. Farewell, Vesius, my son. Farewell. All too swiftly, the ship crosses the blue water bearing Vesius and his companions toward their destiny. Crete is reached. In King Minos' court yard, the youths and maidens of Attica prepare for their terrible ordeal. From an upper window, here I'd Ariadne, the tyrant's lovely daughter, watches them sadly. The Attican youths and maidens are straight-limbed and beautiful, Adia. Yes, Princess Ariadne. You think they all must perish? You have pleaded with your father, Ariadne. He will not yield. No. Not even one life. Not even that of Vesius, the king's son. Oh, stop, Adia. I cannot bear. Come away from the window, Ariadne. You can do no more. Oh, you do love him then so much. Vesius, I have loved him since first I saw him step off the ship. Oh, Adia. He is so young, so strong, so noble. See him now. He alone is laughing and smiling, encouraging the others. Come away, Ariadne. Do not torture yourself further. No, Adia. I cannot let Vesius perish, even though my father killed me. Bring him to me quickly. Let no one see you. Yes, Mistress. Vesius, do not think me overboard. I can only think that you're beautiful, Princess. We have only a moment. Do you realize that the Minotaur awaits you? To be sure. And you're not afraid. Afraid? Why? I shall conquer him. How? With the help of the gods. Oh, may they be with you. But you cannot fight without weapons. Here, take this short sword. Conceal it under your tunic. And without some clue, you can never find your way out of the labyrinth. Therefore, take this ball of silk and thread. As you enter, unravel it behind you. Then you can find the entrance once more. Why do you thus betray your father for me, Ariadne? Because I... Go. Go now quickly. And may you come back victorious. Will you be waiting for me, Ariadne? Yes. Thus supplied with sword and silk and thread, Vesius enters the labyrinth. An endless time passes, as Ariadne anxiously waits at the entrance. At last she hears... Victory! Ariadne. Ariadne. Oh, fly, Vesius. Get to your ship. My father will be furious. Make haste. And leave you never. Come with me. Oh, Vesius. Farewell, Minus. Farewell, Cree. To fully the coast of Attica be loving. Look, Ariadne. There on that cliff my father will be waiting. Now he will have not only a son, but a daughter. How he will love you. I am so happy. Who has the best eyes among us? You, Ictus. Yes, Vesius. Look sharp, Ictus, at the coast. Is there not someone standing there high on the cliff? Oh, yes. Yes, I can say someone. A man? Vesius. The sail. I forgot the sail. What do you mean? King H.E.S. told me to change the black sail for the white one. If you came back. It was a signal. Fool! Ictus, watch. Watch. You others quickly change the sail before it's too late. My God. It is too late. Look, he leaps from the cliff. He turns over and over in the air. Father. My father. Vesius. My little loving. Let me cover your face with mine, man. I shall live with you. Vested King H.E.S., thinking his son's slain, throw himself into the waters of that sea, which has ever since been called Aegean, in memory of his grief. Vesius gathered the Attican tribes together and at the base of the Acropolis, in a valley surrounded by six other hills and backed by lofty mountains, built the city of Athens. The centuries passed. From the welter of tiny kingdoms into which ancient Greece was divided, there gradually emerged two dominating city-states, Athens and her long-time rival, Sparta. Every detail of the Spartan's life was shaped to render him warlike, hardy, indifferent to physical suffering, and completely imbued with a fierce patriotism. The Spartan ideal has ever since been synonymous with iron discipline and blind devotion to country. The Spartan mother's words have ever since been legendary. My son, return from the battle either bearing your shield in victory or born upon it, dead. Sparta produced many heroes. None of them is more renowned than Leonidas, who, with his 300 companions, withstood the innumerable hosts of the invading Persians until, to the last man, they perished at the pass of Thermopylae. The Athenian ideal was less austere. When, in the fifth century before Christ, Pericles assumed the direction of Athenian affairs, the stage was set for the inception of that unrivaled period of Athenian glory, known as the Golden Age of Pericles. With the beautiful and brilliant aspasia seated beside him, Pericles consults with the celebrated sculptor Phidias. Phidias, you're the most gifted sculptor in Athens. Therefore, I've called upon you to undertake a great work. May the gods give me the strength to carry it out, Pericles. Since the days when Thesias founded our city, the old wise Athena has smiled upon it from her shrine in the Acropolis. Now, thanks to her favour, Athens is rich and powerful. Hence, I wish to build for the goddess the temple of flawless beauty. Athena shall be the architect, and you will be the artist. You will have as many slaves as you desire. Every stone will be a prayer to Athena and a tribute to your beauty, Astasia. And for the heart of a temple, you will carve a statue from the finest Parian marble. Then it may astage you to differ. The statue will not be of marble. Then of what? Marble for the walls and the columns, yes. But for the goddess, something finer. Richer, nobler still. Ivory and gold. What divine splendour. Yes. Ivory for the face, the body. Gold for the helmet, shield and draperies. I shall make a statue seven times taller than a tall man. The flesh will glow like flesh that embraces the soul of a god. All will be wrought most marvelously. It will be worthy of Athena, of Pericles and of Phidias. Then go Phidias. You shall have your ivory and your gold. For this, the gods will make us all immortal. And Phidias began his task of making the Acropolis an earthly Olympus, a city of the gods. At length, all was completed. The splendid Parthenon, rich with carving and painting, but rich above all in its flawless proportions, proudly received the goddess. The whole presented a spectacle of beauty such as men have never since beheld in this world. But Phidias had enemies. Gentlemen, your accusation is the most serious one. Serious enough, in fact, to warn at my meeting you here before the very statue of the divine Athena. I have sent for Phidias. He will... Ah, here he is. I answered your summons at once, Pericles. What is going forward? These gentlemen will explain. You, Milenus, speak. There is not much to say. Only this. When you started to make this statue, Phidias, 40 talents of gold were weighed out to you from the state's treasure. So it was? Well... You have betrayed your trust. What? It is common gossip that all of those 40 talents did not go into the making of this statue. You dog! No violence, Phidias. Do you hear these wretched Pericles? That I should dream of stealing. And from the goddess. That is our contention. Phidias outrageous. Well then, prove that you did not. I suppose you would not hesitate to destroy the statue and make down the gold for ways. So, you want... Slave, call my workmen in here at once. You, such a balance, rig it up. Ladders, place the ladders here. And here, hammers, chisels. Get up there, you and you. The balance is ready, master. What is he doing? What does he think he can prove? Come and send them down. Weigh them. Weigh them. One half-talent. Well, the gold was not cast. It's all in small plates. Of course, you idiot. Neither you nor anyone else could see where they joined. I'm an artist. Not a butcher. Three talents. Lower the plates down faster. You think I'm as stupid as you are? Eight talents. This device was to battle the enemy. The treasure was safe on my statue. Twelve talents. Or if the Athenians were defeated in battle, the gold could be easily carried to safety. Nineteen talents. I did well to find a disaster for Athens. What if such men as you people are... Thirty talents. Here at a mercy of the first band of ragged wanderers. Thirty-six talents. Who feel compelled to violate her? Flyers, cowards. Forty talents, master. Forty talents. Forty talents. You hear that, you dogs. Forty talents. The count is correct. What have you to say, Milenus? And... Silence! Shut out. Do not desecrate this temple longer. And may Athena's vengeance insult you! As you say, Phidius. We go. But you shall hear more of us later. I was sure of your innocence, Phidius. You have more than justified my confidence. Please, Barricades. I am weary. Come, you must not feel depressed. We will still do many great things together. No. What do you mean? I mean... that my work here is finished. My men will replace the plates. I have designed the frieze for the cellar. Others can execute it without me. I take leave of you, Barricades. And leave of Athens. My poor beloved Athens. Never did I think your fair sky could be thus darkened. Farewell, Barricades. I must go. Phidius! Come back! But decay awaits every earthly power. Grease fell before the crushing might of Rome. Philosophy degenerated. Greek art fell from the exalted plain where Phidius, and by Xitalis, had placed it. The ancient precept, know thyself, was abandoned. And the Greek spirit lost its virility. Greece, under the long domination of 30, which began in the 15th century, seemed destined to dream away the rest of her existence in a supine lethargy. But in 1821, George Gordon, Lord Byron, carried on the quest of world opinion for the liberation of Greece, sailed for Hellas to lead its revolution. Although the Romantic poet died for his adopted country, he did not die in vain. In 1830, the Turkish yoke is broken. The independence of Greece is recognized at the Conference of London. And when we visit Greece today, we look with admiration on both the ancient battlefield of Marathon, and upon the completely restored stadium of the Olympic Games, on the site of the Oracle of Delphi, and upon the huge new marble-faced dam, which brings Attica electric energy. And for the first time since Hadrian the German aqueducts were destroyed, ample water. For Greece lives again. Now we embark once more, steam out of the Piraeus, past the island of Solomis, and escorted by busy tugs, enter the Corinth Canal, unique in the world, 70 feet wide, four miles long, straight as an arrow and cut through solid rock. We slip through the vine-borded gulf of Corinth, into the blue waters of the Ionian Sea. From one of the tree-crowned islands, rapidly dropping astern, seems to come in farewell a wild woodland strain, perhaps from the pipes of goat-bearded proven-hooged pan. Far behind us glimmers an ethereal snow-clad peak. It symbolizes the eternal purity of the Grecian gift of beauty to mankind. It is the unsullied peak of Mount Olympus, home of the ancient gods. Farewell, Greece. To visit you is to make a sacred pilgrimage to the shrine of the world's civilization. May the gods ever smile upon you, Alice. We invite you to join us again next week in this time as we journey to another of the world's fascinating ports of call.