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But thanks to the great kindness and civility of the Pasha, who had the day before sent a messenger there, we found a shelter prepared for us, and although a most singular kind of a lodging, I did not wish it different. The house in which we were going to spend the night was the only one that had preserved a second story, standing also on the highest spot of the village, it rose like a tower above the others. Stone steps led on the outside of the house up to a little stone landing, and from thence into a kind of loft. Two mattresses, and a few pillows, covered with clean white linen, had been laid on the ground, they represented the beds, the chairs, the sofas, the tables, and every thing else. There was however, hanging in a large old fire-place, a little brass lamp, of an antique shape, intended to light our apartment, if the moon should refuse to do so; which seemed likely, as the sky continued to look threatening, and the wind was high. But if there was not much to be seen in the room, the look out was splendid. Through the little open door we could see the hills and mountains, on which light and shade constantly changed with the passing clouds. Through the solitary little window which had a shutter, but no panes of glass, never having been able to boast of such unnecessary finery, we overlooked a deep valley stretching northward as far as the sea, which we saw at a distance. Our host, although a Turk, showed us every possible attention; if only in consequence of the Pasha’s orders, or because he did not absolutely hate all Christians, I cannot tell, for I could not talk to him. We dined at twelve o’clock Turkish time,⁵ which, as we were in the middle of April, is about half-past six o’clock, and our room being rather dark, we had a carpet spread on the little stone landing outside the door, and took our meal there. I call the landing little, for it was only four feet square, without any kind of railing round it, and there we sat perched up high; high, for the hill on which the house stands slopes rapidly down in front of it. But a glorious dining room it was. At our feet, a valley full of cornfields and olive woods, beyond it, noble mountains rising into the clouds; yea, here and there lifting their venerable snow-covered heads, glowing in the evening light, above them; and in the distance to our left the rolling sea. We sat there a long time after our simple meal was over, and watched the effect of shades and moonshine on the landscape, and the stars that shone forth as the clouds swept away. It was very still all around us. I heard no sound but that of some hidden brook flowing over stones and pebbles; but now and then the wind sighed past us, and made the olive trees murmur.

All at once I heard a sound that seemed strange and yet familiar. It was the song of the cuckoo of Crete. It resembles the call of our cuckoo, in so far as it also consists of two notes; but they are not the same notes, and he rests longer on the last than our cuckoo does. He sang a long time, I heard him still in my sleep. Of other birds of any kind I heard or saw little on my excursions through Crete. A few large black creatures, which I took for ravens, a flock of what seemed a kind of pigeon, swallows, and sparrows, who there as here made as much noise as they could; but I heard no sound that resembled the song of the lark, the thrush, the blackbird, or the nightingale. Altogether the island seemed to me poor as regards animal life. Horses and mules are very beautiful in form, but extremely small; so are the cows and oxen, which are not larger than a fine donkey is with us. The sheep and goats are also quite diminutive creatures. The little lambs are lovely, but when they get a few months old, they look very lean and miserable. After a night which had not been very refreshing, for I was not quite accustomed yet to that kind of night accommodation, we set out early in the morning for our second day’s expedition.

Our way led us through the valley I had looked down into from our castle tower at Xopoli, towards the sea-shore. When we had reached it, my guide jumped up on the horse behind Sali, and the party put itself into a canter, which with little intervals lasted two hours; we only fell into a walk when sometimes the shore became very shingly, or when the sand was very soft and wet, which the mules particularly disliked. They seemed never to mind how steep, or stony, a road was, but on damp and muddy places they looked with great suspicion, and could only be coaxed or driven across. After two hours sharp riding we came to a little river that flows into the sea. Mustapha led us to a point where we could cross, and then under the broken arch of a ruined bridge we halted and breakfasted with a hearty appetite. What however somewhat disturbed our enjoyment of the meal was, that Sali told us, now would begin the bad roads. After what we had gone through, to be told that the bad roads were but coming, was rather hard. However, as like to Küsnach “there led no other road” to Rettimo, we set out for it, when we had rested ourselves. And the reality was far worse than my gloomiest anticipations had pictured. As I had never thought of trying a ride on the top of Milan Cathedral, I could have formed no idea of the road from Petres (our halting place) to Rettimo. Like the top of that famous building, we were in a forest of stone. The sea, the rain, the air, had worked almost as elaborately as the mason and sculptor. And through this forest of stone and rock, up steep mountains and down again, sometimes high above the sea, then again so near to it that the spray wetted the feet of our mules, we had to pick our way for two hours. To make matters worse still, a heavy shower came on, and in order to protect ourselves a little against it, we had to turn our backs to it, and halt till it passed over. Happily the high wind prevented the shower from continuing, so after a little while we were able to proceed on our journey. My husband, who had put on his waterproof, and tied a handkerchief round his ears, over his battered wide-a-wake, to prevent its being blown away, looked anything but dignified, which however, under the circumstances, was of small consequence.

Our guides, on the contrary, pulling the capuch of their cloaks over their heads, looked if anything more picturesque and imposing. The worst part of the road lasted about two hours. That seems a short time; not worth mentioning, but any one who for instance has crossed the Channel in very rough weather, and been wretchedly sick all the time, will know that two hours may seem very long. However, our mules carried us safely along, and by and bye the road, although still very bad, was on comparatively level ground, which made it much less trying. For the last mile or so the road was good, and thus we reached Rettimo. It lies on a promontory, which ends in a cliff, on which a fortress is built that looks strong and foreboding. There are no gardens here like in Canea, the shrubs and trees here and there are stunted, and grow in a horizontal direction, as trees and shrubs will do near a sea-shore which is exposed to high winds. One solitary palm-tree is an exception; it stands in some little garden in the town, and rises high above the houses, waving its graceful leaves. “What is this town here for, in this stony wilderness, on a rocky coast, with but a small harbour, which can be entered in fair weather only?” I asked our host, M. G—. He told me that behind these mountains are fruitful valleys full of olive-trees, the fruit of which the peasants bring to Rettimo, where it is made into oil and soap. We visited one of the many soap manufactories in Rettimo; the soap was very nice and pure, and I heartily wished that it had been more extensively used in the island, instead of being exported to Constantinople, Trieste, &c.

M. G—, the English Vice Consul, in whose house we lived, and who received us with great kindness, is an Ionian Greek. He spoke Italian, and one of his sons had also a slight knowledge of that language, which enabled him generally to make out what we said, though he seemed to have great difficulty in replying. My husband, however, persisted in saying that M. Pietro’s want of fluency in speech, arose from another cause than from a want of knowledge of the language. He said he was sure I had made a conquest, and I am inclined not altogether to disbelieve that assertion, for he certainly seemed uncommonly fond of being in the same room with us, and whenever he was there he stared at me with a mixed expression of kindness and wonder in his face, which was so ridiculous that it cost me a supreme effort to suppress a smile whenever I looked at him. When he heard that I was fond of flowers he brought me some twice or thrice a day. Where he got them from I cannot tell, for they are not so plentiful at Rettimo as they are at beautiful Canea.

M. G—’s wife, daughter, and daughters-in-law understood nothing but Greek. I could, therefore, only speak with them by signs, and as one can convey but very simple ideas by that mode of communication, we did not tell one another much. They were dressed in a way that was a mixture of primitive simplicity and gorgeous finery. With a plain cotton dress, and a handkerchief tied round the head, they would yet wear splendid diamond ear-rings, pearl necklace, bracelets, etc. There was the same incongruity observable in their houses, which were wanting in many of what seem to us the very first and indispensable comforts of life, while the beds had gold embroidered counterpanes. With the children I got on better than with these ladies. I won at once the heart of a little boy to whom I showed my air-cushion, and who never tired of filling it and then letting the air escape again. He would abandon this delightful occupation only in order to look through my opera-glass; but, of course, using it the wrong way, so as to make things that were near appear far off and small, which he seemed to think much more interesting than bringing distant objects near.

But it was not only my air-cushion and opera-glass which excited the curiosity and wonder of the little and big children at Rettimo. Every thing I had and wore seemed to astonish them—my kid gloves, my straw hat and feather, the cut of my dress, my diary. They saw me once or twice write down some little note into it, and seemed to watch the operation with a kind of awe. I, for my part, was surprised at the absence of many common things. I have already mentioned that I could not buy any blotting paper; they told me that for a pair of kid gloves one would have to send to Smyrna, which is a forty-eight hours’ sea-voyage, four times the journey between London and Paris, and I found it even difficult to get a few hair-pins. The wary Greek shopkeeper of whom I inquired for the latter article, as he could not serve me with it, offered me instead, to my great amusement, a whole chest of Holloway’s pills and ointment at a greatly reduced price. The enterprising quack had actually sent a chest of his valuable medicines to Rettimo, but the natives evincing no inclination to take them, the Greek hoped he might get rid of his stock by selling it to me, thinking, as he told me, that all English people took these pills as regularly as their dinners or suppers. Why had not Mr. Holloway read in the “Museum of Antiquities” that extract from a history of Candia, published in 1550, where they say:—“The primitive name by which this country was known was Aëria, which was given to it on account of the temperature and salubrity of the air, and from the fertility and abundance which reigned in the island. It is, indeed, most temperate, insomuch that the inhabitants have much less need of medicine than in other countries, and consequently live to a great age—occasionally to one hundred and twenty or one hundred and thirty, and the author confirms having seen one who, by his baptismal records, proved himself to be one hundred and thirty-four, and was then in the possession of all his faculties.” What will become of the pills in so provokingly healthy a country? Probably they will be eaten by the ants which abound there in summer; with what effect upon their digestion, I cannot conjecture. I am sorry to say that the weather, which had not been very favourable on our journey to Rettimo, became, after our arrival there, very rough and stormy indeed. The people there said they never remembered such a Tramontane (north-wind) except in December or January. The gale blew for twenty-four hours, the sea had become exceedingly rough, and now and then we had a pelting rain. Under these circumstances we found Rettimo anything but a pleasant sejour, and the worst was that as long as this weather lasted the Lloyd steamer, which was to take us back to Canea, could not be expected to arrive. When on the next day the wind had abated a little, and the weather was altogether finer, we went out for a stroll to the sands. The sea was still very rough, and we looked disconsolate towards the horizon, feeling very much like two poor shipwrecked creatures on a desert coast, and evincing a strong inclination to quarrel with every thing and every body. All at once I cried delighted, like Enoch Arden, “A sail, a sail,” it was however no sail, but what was a thousand times more welcome still, the funnel of a steamer. We saw however, at once, that it was not the Lloyd, but the Greek steamer, as it came from the opposite direction from which the former was expected; still we conjectured that if one could come the other would also arrive ere long. We hurried to the port to see her come in, and to get our letters, which we knew were on board. The fine vessel rode gallantly on the waves, and seemed to rock but little. It approached the entrance of the harbour: now it will stop, I thought, and in half an hour I shall have my letters, when coolly and proudly she passed on, finding the sea too rough to venture the disembarcation of either letters, merchandize, or passengers. My dear longed-for letters went to Candia, and although it is but forty miles from Rettimo, they could not return before the lapse of a whole week, when the steamer would bring them back. Ah! one must be patient and in no hurry in Crete. The forty poor passengers for Rettimo, who as I afterwards heard had been on board the Greek steamboat, must have found that out. They too were left at Candia, and had to wait there a week till the steamer returning from Sira brought them to their destination.

Our impatience drove us again to the shore after dinner, to look out for the Austrian steamer, but we spied for it in vain. The weather, however, became clearer and pleasanter as the day declined, and shortly before sunset all the clouds that had hung over the island vanished, and then appeared, as if by magic, the mountain giant Ida shining in the evening light.

We had intended to make an excursion from Rettimo to Mount Ida, and visit the “Cradle of the Gods,”

 
“Rea la scelse già per cuna fida
Del suo figliolo * * * * * ”—Dante.
 

and try to discover the sources of the infernal streams,

 
“Lor corso in questa valle si diroccia;
Fanno Acheronte, Stige e Flegetonta;”
 

but this plan could not be carried out on account of the weather. I felt a pang of regret that I had not been able to reach it, “it seemed so near, and yet so far.”

But the sun set, the rosy light on the snowy mountain top disappeared, and we had to return to our quarters with the disagreeable impression that we might have to sleep another night at Rettimo. I longed to be in Canea again, which was much the pleasanter place.

We sat up later than usual, and had only just gone to bed when our host knocked at our door and told us that the steamer was in sight. We dressed quickly, and then our host and his son, of whom I have spoken before, conducted us to the Marina. The boy carried in one hand a bouquet of roses he had given me in the morning, in the other a little lantern, for the streets of Rettimo are not lighted up, and after dusk, every one is obliged under pain of imprisonment, to carry a lantern about with him.

When we arrived at the harbour I saw the lights of the steamer at what seemed to me a great distance out at sea.

A row in a small boat at night, and in a rough sea, is not at all a thing I am particularly fond of, for I am not of a romantic turn of mind; I dislike adventures, and have, above all, a great objection to being drowned.

However, in Rettimo I could not remain, so I must try to reach the steamer. When in the boat, I clung tightly to my husband, who promised to take care of me. How much were we surprised when the young man with the lantern and the flowers boldly entered the boat after us, for I had been told by his brother-in-law that M. Pietro was afraid of the water, having once had a very bad passage to Smyrna. But in answer to our remonstrances he said, as well as he could in his broken Italian, that he would see us safely on board.

When we were out of the harbour, and the little boat went up and down the high waves, he called out every time a new wave came, “Non paura, non paura!” if to encourage me or himself I cannot tell. But he did me a service by coming; it amused me so much that I forgot my fear while laughing at my husband’s good-humoured jokes at the poor fellow. When he had given me my roses, and we had shaken hands and thanked him, he left with his lantern. We watched the little light as it danced up and down on the waves till it reached terra firma, and knew then that the kind soul had no more need to call out “Non paura!”

We arrived safely at Canea; and two days after Marietta packed my trunks while I went to pay a farewell visit to Leilà, at a country-house in Kaleppa, where the Pasha had removed his family during my absence from Canea. I drove there in the Pasha’s carriage, the only vehicle of any kind on the island, and which resembled somewhat the Lord Mayor’s coach.

On Monday, the 17th of April, we left Canea and paid a flying visit to Candia, the ancient capital of the island. We walked through the town, which is a desolate place—ten times too large for its inhabitants. Grass grows in all the streets, and the very dogs seem more lean and hungry here than elsewhere. The fine massive old Venetian walls that surround the harbour and town have been cracked by earthquakes, and they seem unable to resist the general decay. There are many palm-trees in Candia whose graceful forms rise up amidst the ruin and desolation which surround them; and beyond the town, as in Canea, one sees a chain of snow-covered mountains.

It was noon when we weighed anchor, and the steamer left. I remained on deck as long as I could see the island; the sea in the blaze of the mid-day sun was of a brilliant blue, the sky showed all shades of it from a deep azure over head, to a pale milky-white on the horizon. And thus, encircled by sea and sky, lay like a giant emerald the enchanted island to which a kind fairy had led me to dream away a few weeks that had passed like so many hours. Farther and farther it receded. Now, I can no longer distinguish the snow-covered mountain-tops from the clouds above them; all becomes misty and indistinct. I shut my eyes for a little while, for I have strained them in looking so fixedly. I open them again—it is gone like a dream. I see it no more! the enchanted island has vanished.

CHAPTER III.
CONSTANTINOPLE. ⁶

 
“Along with the barbarous Turk
Where woman has never a soul to save.”
 

Thomas Hood.

Goethe says in his journey to Italy: “Thus it was written on my leaf in the Book of Fate, that on the twenty-eighth of September, 1786, towards five o’clock in the evening, I should see Venice for the first time.” So important and momentous—so much like an event—appeared also to me my entry into Constantinople on the twenty-first of April, 1865.

It was about seven o’clock in the morning when we saw the seven towers that mark the beginning of the town. I had been already some time on deck, pacing it with a feeling akin to the emotion with which I used to sit when a child in some theatre, before the rising of the curtain, expecting to see a Christmas Pantomime. And, as in that happy age, the red and blue fire, and the lovely fairies in pink tarlatan with silver gauze wings, far surpass our greatest expectations, so, although I had formed no mean idea of what I was going to see, did the sight of Constantinople far surpass all I had ever imagined. After we had passed the Seraglio Point and neared the harbour, the city appeared to encircle the sea and close around us. It was not so much the beauty, as the grandeur that surprised me. Genoa “la superba” and even glorious Naples appear but small in comparison to the wide extended sea and the mountains that tower above them; but Constantinople appears great in proportion to the surrounding scenery—a gigantic town. Immediately after we had passed the “Seven Towers” the mist that had till then obscured the horizon disappeared, and now the grand picture lay before us in a clear transparent light. It was a most exciting, happy moment. Round our boat crowds of porpoises were gambolling in the water in the “maddest, merriest” manner; over our head we saw innumerable flights of birds of passage coming from the south, and bringing the spring to Constantinople. At the very moment our boat entered the harbour all the Turkish men-of-war lying there, having all their flags hoisted, began to fire a splendid cannonade. The people around me said they were firing because it was Friday, which is the Turkish Sunday, and the Sultan was just going to the Mosque. That may have been the case; but at that moment I felt as elated as any Sultan can feel, and it seemed to me those guns were firing only to express the joy and wonder of my heart at what is certainly one of the most wonderful sights in the world. I shall not attempt to describe it; that has been done by far abler pens than mine, and even they have failed in conveying to their readers any adequate idea of it. In fact, I believe it is a hopeless undertaking. As no description can give to an Esquimaux an idea of the warmth and brightness of the sun when its rays make the waves of the Bosphorus and the Gulf of Naples appear a sea of gold; or a South American, who had heard nothing but the shriek of parrots and cockatoos, could never imagine what the song of the nightingale or lark is like; so one must have seen Constantinople and Scutari, the Golden Horn and the Bosphorus to know what they are like, as they resemble nothing else on earth.

Everybody knows that Constantinople seen from the sea, is the grandest and most beautiful town in the world; it is also a well known fact that as soon as one puts one’s foot on shore, the picture changes entirely. But I must confess that after Smyrna, and the towns of Crete, I did not find it so wretchedly mean and dirty as I had expected, although the houses of Pera (the European quarter) are insignificant, and the wooden palaces of Stamboul not at all imposing. I never had much time to look at them, for the people that move through the streets, and that seem a series of strange, interesting, and beautiful pictures attracted all my attention. I advise all painters who are at a loss for subjects to go to Constantinople; one stroll along the great street of Pera, or through the bazaars of Stamboul, will supply him with subjects for years, so picturesque and beautiful is the life that moves around him. The first figure you see is the Kaïktchi or boatman, who in his kaik, the most elegantly shaped, and most neatly ornamental boat in the world, takes you ashore. With his bronzed face, his athletic chest and shoulders, in his thin silk shirt, that leaves his muscular arms and chest uncovered, his whole dress consisting besides this shirt of a red fez, and a pair of white pantaloons, he presents a most striking appearance; but you have hardly time to look at this new and interesting figure, when another one attracts your attention, it is the Hammal, or porter of Constantinople, who carries your luggage, which consists perhaps of two large trunks, a hat box, a dressing bag, wrappers, umbrellas, etc., all at once on his back. This human beast of burden is dressed in a light brown flannel suit, trimmed with black braid. He is often an elderly man, with a mild venerable face, and bent almost double under the weight on his back, looks the personification of the words “In the sweat of thy brow thou shalt eat thy bread.” But there are gayer pictures in the streets of Pera. You step aside to let a carriage pass, that is all gilt and glass, and that comes rattling up the streets. A child would mistake the coachman for a prince, so splendid does he look in his gold embroidered coat. The pavement, even in Pera, is not good enough to allow a carriage to drive quickly, so you have full leisure to look at its inmates. The crimson curtains are half let down, and through them a magic light falls on the picture within. Generally the carriage is occupied by three or four Turkish ladies. They are always young, and all look beautiful; old ladies it seems have no carriages to ride in. The mothers of Beys and Pashas stop at home, dressed in old calico gowns which they exchange for some rich attire on extraordinary occasions only. These young Turkish beauties wear gossamer veils so thin and transparent, as to hide no beauty of form or colour, while they just soften any little defect of either. Under this thin veil, face and neck show off to great advantage, and the jewellery they wear, and the gay colours of their satin cloaks, seen in the soft crimson light of the carriage, produce a very charming effect, unsurpassed even by our beauties, when they drive crowned with flowers, to the Princess of Wales’ Drawing-room. I think it is in these carriages that Turkish ladies look best, even better than in the Harem, where however, when they are well dressed, gracefully reclining on the divan, they often look very beautiful. Only those who are above the middle size, and they are few, look well standing. None walk gracefully, not even those that have exchanged the sock and clumsy slippers, usually worn, for French chaussure. This however is considered no fault in a Turkish lady, who would be almost ashamed to walk well, as it would prove that she had often used such vulgar exertion. Having a whole host of female slaves at her command, a Turkish lady moves about but little when in the Harem, which she never leaves except in a carriage. The women of the middle and lower classes however walk as badly as the ladies, which appears to be occasioned in a great measure by their mode of sitting. They shuffle along with their toes turned in, wearing large yellow boots, over which they often have slippers of the same colour. You seldom see a really pretty face among them. I believe beauty has a market value in Constantinople, and the women know that very well, and wont marry a poor man if their face can buy them a rich one. We must however not judge them too harshly on that account. Marriage from love is out of the question in a country where it would be scandal for a man to say that a lady is beautiful. He must never have seen her face, nor have exchanged a word with her before she is his wife. He values nothing but beauty in his wife, she looks for a rich Harem, jewels, carriages, and a handsome compensation in case he sends her away. The women of the middle classes, who have of course no carriages, ride sometimes on horseback. They sit like men, and are accompanied by some black or white man servant, who runs behind the horse, and carries his mistress’s slippers and parasol. These Amazons do not look particularly pretty or graceful, but the men on horseback are splendid. A Bey or Pasha, on a fine Arab horse, especially if he is an old man, and still wears the national dress, is a sight worth seeing. Horse and rider look as if moulded in one form, so firm and gracefully sits the rider in his saddle. Many of the horses are splendid, and seem gentle as well as lively, but now and then I saw a vicious one among the horses of the cavalry, that kicked with both front and hind legs, and frightened me in the narrow crowded streets of Stamboul. Yet I never saw any accident in consequence. The Turkish soldiers have a bold martial look, but in their dress they want entirely the neatness which European discipline requires of the soldier. The body guard of the Sultan looks magnificent. They are perhaps not such fine men as our horse-guards, but their dress is far more picturesque and imposing. But I forget that I intended to take you up the great street of Pera, to our hotel. Well, all I have hitherto described you may have seen before you have taken many steps in that crowded thoroughfare. Who is the next person that passes you? A Circassian with his high fur cap, and his row of cartridges across his chest, leading a pretty child of ten or eleven years, with soft brown melancholy eyes. He is taking her to the slave dealer, unless he attract in the street the attention of some rich Turk, or Turkish lady, who will perhaps there and then buy the child and take her away.

The little Turkish children appeared to me anything but what are vulgarly called “little Turks.” There are numbers of them in the streets, on the steamboats, and in the Harems, but I seldom saw a child in a real fit of naughtiness or passion. In their miniature dressing gowns of cotton, wool or silk, as the case may be, but always of most gorgeous colours and pattern, they looked funny little objects. The little girls in the Harems were sometimes pretty.

But what are those strange, wild figures, surrounded by a crowd of people coming slowly up the street? They are leading bears along to some more retired spot than the high street of Pera, where the bears and their masters dance together; a strange performance which the men accompany with a monotonous kind of song and beating of a tambourine. They look as uncouth and wild as the shaggy animals they lead along, but not more so than the shepherds you meet a little further on walking before their flocks of sheep and lambs. These wear a waistcoat and trowsers of undressed sheepskin, and a sheepskin hangs down their back as a cloak. Their long black hair falls over their shoulders and partly hides their faces. They carry long sticks in their hands, that look almost like the stems of young trees, and are of all the strange and wild figures you see perhaps the strangest and wildest.