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When, after a few hours stroll through the town, and on the Spianata, we returned to the boat, I found that we had also an addition to our saloon passengers. They were all Greeks. One of them was M. Brilas, who had just been called to Athens to fill the office of Foreign Minister there. His only child, a fine, intelligent looking boy, accompanied him. A fortnight after, at the festivities in commemoration of the Greek Revolution, the boy had a sunstroke, and died. I grieved for the poor father when I heard of it. Mr. Conemenos, with his wife, also embarked at Corfu. He is a Greek, in the diplomatic service of the Ottoman Empire. Between myself and his young wife, an amiable and accomplished lady, an almost friendly relation soon sprang up. I was sorry to part from her at Sira, and promised to go and see her when I got to Constantinople, to which place she was now going on a visit to her parents. And there came another young Greek on board, whom I remember only because he was very beautiful, and looked exactly as Homer describes some of the “curly-headed Achaians.” He sat at meal-times next to General T–, and nearly opposite me. The contrast they formed was most striking. It being Lent, the pale-faced young Greek ate nothing but a little bread, and a few olives, while the old soldier, with his florid complexion, swallowed at breakfast alone, four eggs, a quantity of garlick sausage, and uncooked ham, besides fish and fowl, potatoes and rice.

The weather, which had been so fine on our way to Corfu, did not continue so favourable. The Sirocco blew fresh against us, and gradually the sea became very rough. The vessel rocked so much, that I did not care to remain long on deck, but retired early to my little cabin. I am a good sailor, and therefore did not suffer, but I slept little that night, being disturbed by the movements of the ship, which near Cape Matapan became lively in the extreme. How disappointing it is in such a night to wake after a short doze, thinking it must be near morning, and to find that it is just eleven o’clock, then dozing again, waking up with a start, and discovering by the dim light of the cabin lamp that it is not yet one. And how glad one feels when the morning dawns through the thick little pane of glass, and the scrubbing of the deck is heard overhead. Now it is day; the terrors of the night are passed, fear vanishes like an uneasy dream. And how refreshing is the morning breeze on the still wet deck, when the foaming sea begins to look blue and clear again, and the sun breaks forth through the clouds. The Montenegrians on the foredeck, also seemed to enjoy the bright morning after the rough night they had spent there. They made an early breakfast of brown bread, curd-cheese, and garlick; and looked very happy in their picturesque rags. A lad who sat on a kind of mat, his legs crossed, smoking a long Turkish pipe, looked the image of contemplative contentment. After another rough night we arrived the next morning in Sira, from whence we intended to proceed to Crete. Unfortunately there was no boat leaving for that island for four days, and thus the question arose what to do with those days. Remaining in Sira was out of the question, for although, in a commercial point of view, I am told that it is the most important Greek town; all that anybody can care to see of Sira is seen from the harbour. Perhaps I should mention that from the top of the hill on which the Roman Catholic Church stands, there is a fine view over the town; the harbour, which is full of all kinds of vessels, and looks very animated, and the blue Ionian Sea.

But then the way up that little hill is very steep, and the sunbeams strike down upon the streets paved with slippery stones, which makes the going up fatiguing, and the coming down difficult. Carriages cannot be used at all. The houses of Sira are all painted white, or of some very light colour, and look neat and clean, but the country around wants entirely the charm of vegetation. There are about a dozen trees planted round a little square in the town, which form the only promenade of its inhabitants. I saw no other tree or shrub anywhere on the hills around, so that the inhabitants know only by the higher or lower degree of temperature whether it is summer or winter; nothing else tells them of the pleasant changes of the “circling year.” And what is worse still, Sira has no fresh water. This indispensable necessary of life, this great element of our existence, which I always thought belonged to every man like the air he breathes, as his birth-right, is brought to Sira from a distance and sold like wine by the quart, and of different qualities; that fit for drinking being the dearest.

The town has no historical recollections, no antiquities, no art treasures, ancient or modern; nothing but ships and warehouses, and stones, and a burning sun. We could not stop four days in such a place; that was evident. But where to go?

We committed a grievous error in the way in which we solved that question. Athens, with its glorious remains of antiquity was, so to say, at our door, being but ten hours’ journey from Sira. But unfortunately there was at the same time a boat leaving for Smyrna, which would return in time for us to catch the boat for Crete; and so, partly from a childish impatience to see an eastern town, as if I had not been going to Crete and Constantinople afterwards; partly because I liked to spend another day with the excursionists, we went on board the “Germania;” had forty-eight hours of rough sea (twenty-four each way) two days at Smyrna, with what enjoyment I shall tell by and by, and lost the opportunity of seeing Athens, to which I could afterwards only pay a flying visit of a few hours on my way from Constantinople to Messina.

The only point of interest on our journey to Smyrna was Chio, where we arrived at daybreak, and which, illumined by the rising sun, was a glorious sight. The high mountains of the island look bold and stern, but they slope down to gentle hills covered with rich vegetation, and there, partly buried in woods of oranges and olives, lies the town. Ah! beautiful, unhappy Chio, so cruelly oppressed by the Turks, who fear the bold and daring spirit of its inhabitants, which has manifested itself so often in rebellion, and for which they have suffered so terribly.

From the consequences of the massacre in 1822, when many thousands were killed, sold as slaves, or fled the country, it has not yet entirely recovered. But seen from the steamboat, in the glory of the morning sun, it looked all smiling, and happy, and beautiful. As the men are renowned for their bold daring spirit, (an Ionian proverb says “A prudent Chiote is as rare as a green horse;”) so the women of Chio are famous for their beauty and sprightly grace. Surely I thought Chio must be the birthplace of the great bard, whose glorious works still delight the world, and are imperishable, like the “everlasting hills” that rise up there through the silver clouds into the blue sky. Here he saw men of such bold and adventurous spirit as those he describes so well, and women of such god-like beauty, that he could describe the immortals as if he had dwelt among them; and a mortal woman of such transcendent grace and charm as Helena. “May the cruel Turk be soon driven away from thy smiling shores,” I prayed, when our boat left the harbour of Chio on our way to Smyrna.

From Sira to Smyrna we had some new travelling companions, among whom I must mention M. R– and his wife, from Paris, on a journey to the interior of Syria, where M. R– was going to complete the material for the continuation of his work, the beginning of which, published a few years ago, created so much sensation and controversy. Mme. de H– the sister of the Archbishop, looked at him with no friendly eyes, and confided to me, that she feared with such a man some misfortune would happen to the vessel; and she cast suspicious looks at the sky, which at that moment was overcast and threatening. I thought of this again, when two months later I was told at Naples the following little story. It is well known that no people in the world are so fond of saints as the Neapolitans. They adore an endless number of them, and have “tutti i Santi” always on their lips. When M. R–’s famous book was first published, the Roman clergy (as other clergy have done on another occasion) drew the attention of the whole laity to it by preaching violent sermons against it. In Naples, as at some other places, they also read masses and held processions for the purpose of mitigating, by such pious practices, the evil that book might create. A Neapolitan peasant woman, who had not understood much of the sermon, besides the words procession and the name of R–, thought he must be some saint whose name she had forgotten, there were so many; how could she remember them all? So she put on her “vestito di festa” and lighted her candle, and when asked for what purpose, innocently said that it was in honour of St. R–! I wonder which would have amused the sceptical and learned professor most, if I had told him of the superstitious fears with which he had inspired Mme. de H–, or of his canonization by the Neapolitan peasant woman.

At Chio some Turks came on board; the first Mussulmans I had seen. One of them was a venerable looking old man, and as soon as he came on board he spread out a piece of carpet, took off his slippers and knelt down, his face turned towards Mecca, his hands lifted up in prayer. Another one, a young man, had a monkey and three bears with him. The monkey was large, the bears short, shaggy things. They danced several times to his music, which consisted of a monotonous noise, meant probably to be a song, accompanied by the beating of a tambourin. The beasts danced with their usual grace.

We arrived “saufs et sains” at Smyrna, and the last few hours the journey was pleasant, for we had entered the Gulf and felt no more the movement of the sea. The colour of the water had changed from a deep blue to a bright green, and the vessel kept close to the southern shore of the coast, which was very lovely, being covered to the very tops of the mountains with rich vegetation of soft delicate colouring. Two mountains, called the “Two Brothers,” had a sterner look, having bare rocky crowns; but the “Three Sisters,” which are a little further on, were of a soft and gentle aspect.

The nearer we came to Smyrna the more animated became the Gulf with craft of different kinds. The small Greek sailing vessels having spread their white sails before the fresh blowing “Levante,” the Eastwind, glided swiftly over the water, looking like some gigantic sea-fowl raising the waves with outspread wings. And then, at the foot of green mountains, in an emerald plain, among cypresses and olives, I beheld Smyrna, “The Amiable,” “The Crown of Ionia,” “The Pearl of the East.” We landed; a giant boatman took most of our luggage on his back, and conducted us to the hotel. I had difficulty in following the large strides of the tall fellow, who walked apparently with perfect ease, barefooted, over wretched pavement, with a heavy load on his back, whilst I picked my way painfully over heaps of rubbish, sharp pointed stones, open gutters, and holes in the pavement. I looked around me and saw, to my utter astonishment, that what had appeared a paradise, was a dirty, wretched place, worse than I should imagine Whitechapel to be. I was quite horrified when we entered the hotel to think that we were going to stay in such a wretched place. And the room we were shown into was not much better than the appearance of the house had led us to expect. Whitewashed walls, not over clean, a very dirty piece of carpet, which I pushed with my foot at once into a corner of the room, and hard beds, a ricketty wash-hand stand, a sofa, and one chair, was all the furniture. As this was however, the best hotel in Smyrna, and no other room to be had, we were obliged to consider this charming apartment our home for two days.

When we were ready to go out I asked the Dragoman, as interpreters or guides are called here, to take us to some pretty street, when he answered, with a polite bow, “Madam, the pretty streets of Smyrna are like this,” and what was this one like? A narrow, wretched lane, paved in such a way as to make walking a penance. In the middle of the street an open gutter, full of mud and abomination, heaps of rubbish, and refuse, over which I had to climb, deep holes which I must try to avoid. The smaller streets seemed to serve not only as thoroughfares but as workshops and stables. In one that was but ten steps from our hotel a cooper and his men were at work all day, and close by, I noticed at all times, a cow tied to a post, so I thought she had no other stabling. I wanted to see the beautiful Greek women, of whom I had read in Eothen; but it being neither Sunday nor fête-day they did not show themselves; of the few I saw none answered to the description of the author of that clever book. But there were few women of any kind visible.

In Corfu and Sira I had been struck with the almost entire absence of women among the people in the streets; in Smyrna I observed the same thing, although in a less degree, owing, no doubt, to the residence of a large number of Europeans. (The Greeks are not called Europeans in Smyrna.) The private houses of the upper classes, especially of the rich Armenians, looked very well indeed. The doors of most of the houses being open, one can look into them. They appeared neat and clean, in their gardens there were cypresses and orange trees, and the sweet smell of flowers. But we Western women, although we love our home, do not like to be locked up in it, be it ever so fair a house or garden. We want to go about for pleasure and for health, but to do that would be an impossibility in Smyrna.

Alas! I thought if this is “the Pearl of the East,” I have no wish to see the beads. It is very old fashioned, I know, to find fault with any thing out of old England, and it is not “bon ton” to long after the English flesh-pots, but I must be honest, and therefore confess, that although I was very willing to be satisfied with the food, I sadly longed after English cleanliness and order.

One thing I remember however, with pleasure, that is the school for girls of the German deaconesses. It seems the abode of peace and piety, but without the restraint and superstition of a convent. Sister Mima is an able and excellent Directress, and the institution a blessing to the whole East. I went also and looked at the new railway station, which seemed an anomaly in a country where riding on horses and camels seems the most natural means of locomotion.

I also enjoyed my meals at Smyrna, not that they were particularly well cooked, but because we partook of them in company with Mr. R– and his wife. She is pleasing and amiable; he does not seem either. But his conversation is decidedly interesting. All he says secures attention. He expresses his thoughts with great precision. He speaks almost as well as he writes, and that is saying a great deal. I was however, very glad when the time came for our boat to leave for Sira; although the weather was unfavourable and foretold a bad passage. The night was pitch dark with alternate showers and hail storms; the Captain told us that near Chio he was but thirty yards from another vessel before they saw one another. In Sira, the French steamer of the Messageries Impériales and several other smaller craft were driven ashore, but without serious damage. If the wind had not abated there might have been danger. There were on board with us more than two hundred poor Greeks, most of them beggars, that went on a pilgrimage to Tino near Sira, for a great fête of the Madonna there.

The Greeks are so anxious to go and adore the miraculous Madonna there, that even the Turkish Government took notice of it, and probably in order to propitiate the good will of the Greek subjects in Crete, placed a frigate at the disposal of the municipality of Canea, which had thus the means of giving a free passage to the many poor of the island who wished to go to Tino.

Those from Smyrna that were in our boat were all wretched and dirty-looking people. Many of them were very ill, and had undertaken this journey, hoping that the Madonna of Tino would do for them what doctors had not done. The cold pelting rain of the stormy night did at least for one poor creature what she thought of asking the Madonna to perform—it ended all her sufferings.

She was a woman of about thirty years of age and paralyzed. The doctor on board the “Germania,” when he found how ill she was, had tried to bleed her; but circulation had already ceased, and she died about an hour before we reached Sira. This caused some delay in our landing. The Captain had to go on shore and inform the sanitary officers that a death had occurred on board. After some time, they took the dead body ashore in order to have it inspected. I saw the poor creature lying in the boat in which they had placed her, propped up with pillows and carefully covered, but her white face was visible, and the breeze played with her dark tresses.

About an hour after a boat approached and the cry of “pratica,” meaning here “intercourse,” was heard from it; and we were now at liberty to leave the “Germania” and go on shore. There was the usual noise and bustle and confusion, and quarrelling and fighting. We waited till it had subsided, and then we went at once on board the little boat called “Shield,” which was to leave the same afternoon for Crete. It looked just like a common steamboat, only very small, but it was an enchanted vessel, which a kind fairy had sent to take me to fairy-land. There was nobody on board besides ourselves, the captain, and the crew, and some people on the foredeck. I had not been long on board, when I felt very sleepy. I thought it was because I had not slept the night before, but I know better now. That sleep came over me that I might not see the way into fairy-land, which people should only enter when the fairies send for them. When I awoke, after a long, deep sleep, it was morning, and I was in the enchanted island.

CHAPTER II.
CRETE, OR THE ENCHANTED ISLAND

 
“Hier ruhn im Kranze
Von Blüth’ und Frucht, als Zwilling
Herbst und Frühling,
Doch Idas Scheitel strahlt im Silberglanze.”
 

E. Geibel.

Is it not a dream, a delusion? Am I really in Crete? Shall I not awake suddenly and find myself at home, and hear the voices of my children? Those flower wildernesses, which people call here “gardens,” those noble snow-covered mountains, they belong to fairy-land; and the strange crowd of people, and the curious little half clad black children that play on the sea-shore yonder, are they real beings of flesh and blood, or phantoms that haunt the enchanted island?

Thus I felt when first I came to Crete. My life here seemed so strange, so new, that it was like a dream. But when I awoke to it morning after morning, then that brilliant sky, and the flowers that grew beneath it, the deep blue sea, down upon which I had sometimes looked through the latticed windows of the Pasha’s harem, the pretty little Circassian slaves, and the ugly black ones, in gay fantastic dress, that stood at the open doors, the strange sounds of the Turkish band playing on the old walls of the city, and the melancholy Greek songs of Leilà, the Pasha’s daughter—all became a reality that neither dazzled nor confused me any longer. But they were happy days, those days in Crete; and when I think of them, it is as if I felt again the fresh breeze of the sea, and the balmy one that blows from the south; and wafts to us the smell of orange-groves in blossom, and of all the roses that bloom in the gardens of Crete, and I see the land and the sea smiling under the bright sun of the East.

There was no hotel of any kind on the island; we had therefore, accepted the invitation of an Italian gentleman residing there, who, when apprized of our intention to visit Crete, had asked us most pressingly to stay at his house in Canea, the principal town.

He expected our arrival on the 3rd of April, and came on board our steamboat as soon as it had anchored in the harbour of Canea.

There was no difficulty in identifying us, we were the only first-class passengers on board. After exchanging some kind words with Signor A—, and seeing to our luggage, we stept into the little boat which had brought him on board, and crossed the harbour. How strange and new a world it seemed in which I was; the town, the people, the sky, the sea, the very air I breathed.

What is that large white palace on the left side of the harbour? I asked. “The Pasha’s Seraglio,”³ Sig. A— answered: “and do you see that part of it which faces the sea, and where all the windows are covered by thick lattice work, that is the Harem.” Not far from the Seraglio I noticed a row of large vaults. Sig. A— told me that they had been built by the Venetians, who used to keep their gallies in them. The fortress at the right hand of the harbour was also built by them. So were the fine strong city walls, on which I afterwards noticed in several places the sign of the Lion of St. Mark. We landed and wound our way through a crowd of strange looking people. They were Turks and Greeks in their national dresses, and Africans with not much dress of any kind. The streets were decently clean, and would have looked almost cheerful if there had not been a great number of large dogs, with a wild, hungry, wolf-like look, who were lying everywhere on the pavement. Most of the houses round the harbour were coffee houses, the doors of which were wide open. In these open places, and outside the doors too, a great number of Turks and Greeks were sitting and smoking long chiboucs and hookahs; I noticed but very few people that wore the European dress. A walk of about five minutes brought us to the house of Sig. A—, a modest dwelling, although it was perhaps the best furnished private house in Canea. But if the floors were bare, they were faultlessly clean, and the plain bed and window curtains, were of a dazzling whiteness.

Round the windows of my bedroom grew some pretty creepers, and the sky that peeped through this green frame into my room was of a brilliancy such as I had never seen before, and the air that streamed through the open window was so soft and fresh at the same time, that but to breathe was an enjoyment. Sig. A— was, as I said before, an Italian by birth. Chance had brought him, when a young naval officer, from St. Remo, near Genoa, to Crete, and fate had ordained that he should fall in love with the daughter of the Italian consul there, who made him forget his home, which he never saw again, for he gave up his profession and settled at Crete. He had been a widower now, poor man, for several years, his wife having died young, leaving him four little children and a wretched portrait of herself, which some roving dauber had made, which he however held in high estimation, and could never look at without emotion. Towards us he was the most amiable of hosts, and showed his pleasure in entertaining us in a kind and hearty manner. We found it difficult to remember under how many obligations we were to him, for he almost succeeded in persuading us that it was he who was beholden to us. His children were kind, good-natured and timid, and never more pleased than when they could be of some little service to me. The Genoese housekeeper, a tall, masculine-looking, middle-aged woman, who had a moustache many a young ensign would have coveted, did also what she could to make me comfortable, and appeared to feel over-rewarded for all her trouble by my listening now and then to her complaints against Canea and its wooden houses, the slovenly Greek servants, and the wicked Turks, the lean butcher’s meat, and the coarse flour; it was an endless catalogue of complaints, interrupted only by her praises of her Genoa, which, through the distance of time and space, appeared to her even more beautiful than it is. There all the people live in marble palaces, which have nothing of wood but the window frames and doors; the ladies wear only silk and velvet, and the large beautiful churches are covered with rich paintings. But if her praises were somewhat exaggerated, I must own that her complaints were not wholly groundless. The beef I found decidedly uneatable, as they kill only cows which are too old to give milk, and oxen too old for work. The mutton was of the very poorest quality, lamb and chicken only just eatable, but very inferior to what we are accustomed to. The people seem to eat a great deal of salted sardines, caviare, olives, and such like things. I did not care for them, and lived principally upon eggs, salad, and oranges, the latter of a size and flavour unknown in England. With Nicolo and Marico, the Greek servant boy and maid, I could however find no fault. It is true they wore no stockings, and I suppose Marietta, the housekeeper, did not accuse them without reason of having but a very slight feeling of the obligation of telling the truth, but then they were so nice looking, their dress was so picturesque, their manners so gentle and winning, that I could not help liking them.

We were a fortnight under the roof of kind Sig. A—, with the exception of the few days we spent on an excursion to Rettimo, and a pleasant, never to be forgotten time it was. I generally spent my mornings alone most quietly and happily at the little table, near my open bedroom window, reading or writing, and sometimes forgetting both, and looking dreamily into the blue sky, or at the fragrant flowers in the glass before me. For there were never wanting some flowers from garden and field to sweeten my room. The kind people with whom I lived finding that I was fond of flowers, supplied me abundantly with bouquets of such marvellous beauty, that to look at them and to breathe their fragrant odours gave me a lively pleasure, even now the recollection produces a gentle emotion, like the remembrance of some happy childhood’s Christmas, or some moonlight walk in spring time, when the heart has just learned what love is. The wild flowers I gathered myself, and that I did so much astonished my host and his family. They thought it decidedly eccentric to gather wild flowers, put them into water, and look at them with pleasure, as if they had been garden roses or orange blossoms.

In the afternoon we always went out, either for an excursion on mules or for a long walk. I was very fond of a stroll round the old fortifications of the city, from which I could see the cheerful animated looking town, with its elegant minarets, and the blue sea beyond it—the fruitful plain bordered by the glorious chain of the Sphakistiki, meaning “white mountains,” whose snowy crowns shone in the light of the declining day, and formed a picture more beautiful than anything I had ever seen or dreamt of. Here the Turkish band used to play in the evening. They sometimes performed European music, but their national marches and the hymn to the Sultan they played with more spirit and gusto, and the strange wild sounds seemed also to me more in harmony with the scene around.

The crowd of little black urchins that always congregated near the band also preferred the latter music. They stared sulkily, or with indifference at the performers when they played some of Bellini’s or Meyerbeer’s compositions, but as soon as they began some oriental tune the sulky look changed into a broad grin, which showed their white teeth; and their legs, arms and heads began to move about in a lively and droll manner.

They contrasted singularly with the grave and dignified look of the Turks that were sitting or standing about, smoking cigarettes, or playing mechanically with a string of large beads in their hands. The Greeks that were present walked about engaged in conversation, which they accompanied with expressive movements of the face and lively gesticulations. The Turkish soldiers also assembled near, being called together by a flourish of trumpets. Before they dispersed they bowed several times low down, touched breast and forehead as if in salute, and shrieked out some barbarous word which means “Long life to the Sultan.” Far apart, on a green slope, sat the Turkish women, with their children and black slaves. These women, wrapped in satin cloaks, their heads and faces covered by their white veils, the gaily dressed little children with their bright happy faces and dark sparkling eyes, the black female slaves in cotton dresses of the Turkish cut, and most gorgeous colours and patterns, produced altogether a charming picture. When we had listened for a while to the music we usually took a walk into the country. Our road led sometimes through lanes formed by high cactus and aloe hedges, or across corn fields where the corn (it was the beginning of April) was already beginning to ripen; over green meadows full of brilliant and beautiful flowers, or through cool orange and sombre olive groves, till we reached one of the many and beautiful gardens for which the island has been renowned in all ages.⁴ Out of the snow-white foam lying on the breast of the azure waves which kiss the shores of Cyprus, rose Aphrodite the goddess of love and beauty, but Flora must have been born in Crete, or why should the flowers that bloom in its gardens have more brilliant hues and exhale sweeter odours than all the other flowers of our beautiful earth. Yet thus it is. I shall never forget the evening when I first entered through a humble gate in a whitewashed wall, the garden of Sakhir Bey. Then for the first time I knew why Eden was a garden, no splendid palace, but a garden with the sweet smell of flowers, with the shade of noble trees, and the sound of murmuring waters. Oh! thought I, that I might be allowed to dream my life away here, that that gate would shut out for ever the noisy bustling world.