Mytilene—The Tomb of Achilles—Turkish Burying Ground—Lost
Reputation of the Scamander—Asiatic Sunsets—Visit to a Turkish
Bey—The Castles of the Dardanelles—Turkish Bath and its
consequences.
Lesbos to windward. A caique, crowded with people, is running across our
bow, all hands singing a wild chorus (perhaps the “Lesboum Carmen,”)
most merrily. The island is now called Mytilene, said to be the greenest
and most fertile of the Mediterranean. The Lesbian wine is still good,
but they have had no poetesses since Sappho. Cause and effect have
quarrelled, one would think.
Tenedos on the lee. The tomb of Achilles is distinguishable with the
glass on the coast of Asia. The column which Alexander “crowned and
anointed and danced around naked,” in honour of the hero’s ghost, stands
above it no longer. The Macedonian wept over Achilles, says the
school-book, and envied him the blind bard who had sung his deeds. He
would have dried his tears if he had known that his _pas seul_ would be
remembered as long.
Tenedos seems a pretty island as we near it. It was here that the Greeks
hid, to persuade the Trojans that they had abandoned the siege, while
the wooden horse was wheeled into Troy. The site of the city of Priam is
visible as we get nearer the coast of Asia. Mount Ida and the marshy
valley of the Scamander are appearing beyond Cape Sigæum, and we shall
anchor in an hour between Europe and Asia, in the mouth of the rapid
Dardanelles. The wind is not strong enough to stem the current that sets
down like a mill-race from the Sea of Marmora.
Went ashore on the Asian side for a ramble. We landed at the strong
Turkish castle that, with another on the European side, defends the
Strait, and passing under their bristling batteries, entered the small
Turkish town in the rear. Our appearance excited a great deal of
curiosity. The Turks, who were sitting cross-legged on the broad benches
extending like a tailor’s board, in front of the cafés, stopped smoking
as we passed, and the women, wrapping up their own faces more closely,
approached the ladies of our party, and lifted their veils to look at
them with the freedom of our friends at Eleusis. We came unaware upon
two squalid wretches of women in turning a corner, who pulled their
ragged shawls over their heads with looks of the greatest resentment at
having exposed their faces to us.
A few minutes’ walk brought us outside of the town. An extensive Turkish
grave-yard lay on the left. Between fig-trees and blackberry bushes it
was a green spot, and the low tombstones of the men, crowned each with a
turban carved in marble of the shape befitting the sleepers rank, peered
above the grass like a congregation sitting in a uniform head-dress at a
field-preaching. Had it not been for the female graves, which were
marked with a slab like ours, and here and there the tombstone of a
Greek, carved after the antique, in the shape of a beautiful shell, the
effect of an assemblage _sur l’herbe_ would have been ludicrously
perfect.
We walked on to the Scamander. A ricketty bridge gave us a passage, toll
free, to the other side, where we sat round the rim of a marble well,
and ate delicious grapes, stolen for us by a Turkish boy from a near
vineyard. Six or seven camels were feeding on the uninclosed plain,
picking a mouthful and then lifting their long, snaky necks into the air
to swallow; a stray horseman, with the head of his bridle decked with
red tassels and his knees up to his chin, scoured the bridle path to the
mountains; and three devilish looking buffaloes scratched their hides
and rolled up their fiendish green eyes under a bramble-hedge near the
river. _Voila!_ a scene in Asia.
The poets lie, or the Scamander is as treacherous as Macassar. Venus
bathed in its waters before contending for the prize of beauty adjudged
to her on this very Mount Ida that I see covered with brown grass in the
distance. Her hair became “flowing gold” in the lavation. My friends
compliment me upon no change after a similar experiment. My long locks
(run riot with a four months’ cruise) are as dingy and untractable as
ever, and, except in the increased brownness of a Mediterranean
complexion, the cracked glass in the state-room of my friend the
lieutenant gave me no encouragement of a change. It is soft water, and
runs over fine white sand; but the fountain of Callirhoe, at Athens (she
was the daughter of the Scamander, and like most daughters, is much more
attractive than her papa), is softer and clearer. Perhaps the loss of
the Scamander’s virtues is attributable to the cessation of the tribute
paid to the god in Helen’s time.
The twilights in this part of the world are unparalleled—but I have
described twilights and sunsets in Greece and Italy till I am ashamed to
write the words. Each one comes as if there never had been and never
were to be another, and the adventures of the day, however stirring, are
half forgotten in its glory, and seem in comparison, unworthy of
description; but one look at the terms that might describe it, written
on paper, uncharms even the remembrance. You must come to Asia and
_feel_ sunsets. You cannot get them by paying postage.
* * * * *
At anchor, waiting for a wind. Called to day on the Bey Effendi,
commander of the two castles, “Europe” and “Asia,” between which we lie.
A pokerish-looking dwarf, with ragged beard and high turban, and a tall
Turk, who I am sure never smiled since he was born, kicked off their
slippers at the threshold, and ushered us into a chamber on the second
story. It was a luxurious little room, lined completely with cushions,
the muslin-covered pillows of down leaving only a place for the door.
The divan was as broad as a bed, and, save the difficulty of rising from
it, it was perfect as a lounge. A ceiling of inlaid woods, embrowned
with smoke, windows of small panes fantastically set, and a place lower
than the floor for the attendant to stand and leave their slippers, were
all that was peculiar else.
* * * * *
The Bey entered in a few minutes, with a pipe-bearer, an interpreter,
and three or four attendants. He was a young man, about twenty, and
excessively handsome. A clear, olive complexion, a moustache of silky
black, a thin, aquiline nose, with almost transparent nostrils, cheeks
and chin rounded into a perfect oval, and mouth and eyes expressive of
the most resolute firmness, and at the same time, girlishly beautiful,
completed the picture of the finest-looking fellow I have seen within my
recollection. His person was very slight, and his feet and hands small,
and particularly well shaped. Like most of his countrymen of later
years, his dress was half European, and much less becoming, of course,
than the turban and trowser. Pantaloons, rather loose, a light
fawn-coloured short jacket, a red cap, with a blue tassel, and
stockings, without shoes, were enough to give him the appearance of a
dandy half through his toilet. He entered with an indolent step, bowed,
without smiling, and throwing one of his feet under him, sunk down upon
the divan, and beckoned for his pipe. The Turk in attendance kicked off
his slippers, and gave him the long tube with its amber mouth-piece,
setting the bowl into a basin in the centre of the room. The Bey put it
to his handsome lips, and drew till the smoke mounted to the ceiling,
and then handed it, with a graceful gesture, to the commodore.
The conversation went on through two interpretations. The Bey’s
interpreter spoke Greek and Turkish, and the ship’s pilot, who
accompanied us, spoke Greek and English, and the usual expressions of
good feeling, and offers of mutual service, were thus passed between the
puffs of the pipe with sufficient facility. The dwarf soon entered with
coffee. The small gilded cups had about the capacity of a goodwife’s
thimble, and were covered with gold tops to retain the aroma. The
fragrance of the rich berry filled the room. We acknowledged, at once,
the superiority of the Turkish manner of preparing it. It is excessively
strong, and drunk without milk.
I looked into every corner while the attendants were removing the cups,
but could see no trace of a _book_. Ten or twelve guns, with stocks
inlaid with pearl and silver, two or three pair of gold-handled pistols,
and a superb Turkish cimetar and belt, hung upon the walls, but there
was no other furniture. We rose, after a half hour’s visit, and were
bowed out by the handsome Effendi, coldly and politely. As we passed
under the walls of the castle, on the way to the boat, we saw six or
seven women, probably a part of his harem, peeping from the embrasures
of one of the bastions. Their heads were wrapped in white, one eye only
left visible. It was easy to imagine them Zuleikas after having seen
their master.
Went ashore at Castle Europe, with one or two of the officers, to take a
bath. An old Turk, sitting upon his hams, at the entrance, pointed to
the low door at his side, without looking at us, and we descended, by a
step or two, into a vaulted hall, with a large, circular ottoman in the
centre, and a very broad divan all around. Two tall young Mussulmans,
with only turbans and waistcloths to conceal their natural proportions,
assisted us to undress, and led us into a stone room, several degrees
warmer than the first. We walked about here for a few minutes, and as we
began to perspire, were taken into another, filled with hot vapour, and,
for the first moment or two, almost intolerable. It was shaped like a
dome, with twenty or thirty small windows at the top, several basins at
the sides into which hot water was pouring, and a raised stone platform
in the centre, upon which we were all requested, by gestures, to lie
upon our backs. The perspiration, by this time, was pouring from us like
rain. I lay down with the others, and a Turk, a dark-skinned,
fine-looking fellow, drew on a mitten of rough grass cloth, and laying
one hand upon my breast to hold me steady, commenced rubbing me without
water, violently. The skin peeled off under the friction, and I thought
he must have rubbed into the flesh repeatedly. Nothing but curiosity to
go through the regular operation of a Turkish bath prevented my crying
out “Enough!” He rubbed away, turning me from side to side, till the
rough glove passed smoothly all over my body and limbs, and then handing
me a pair of wooden slippers, suffered me to rise. I walked about for a
few minutes, looking with surprise at the rolls of skin he had taken
from me, and feeling almost transparent as the hot air blew upon me.
In a few minutes my Mussulman beckoned to me to follow him to a smaller
room, where he seated me on a stone beside a fount of hot water. He then
made some thick soap-suds in a basin, and, with a handful of fine flax,
soaped and rubbed me all over again, and a few dashes of the hot water,
from a wooden saucer, completed the bath.
The next room, which had seemed so warm on our entrance, was now quite
chilly. We remained here until we were dry, and then returned to the
hall in which our clothes were left, where beds were prepared on the
divans, and we were covered in warm cloths, and left to our repose. The
disposition to sleep was almost irresistible. We rose in a short time,
and went to the coffee-house opposite, when a cup of strong coffee, and
a hookah smoked through a highly ornamented glass bubbling with water,
refreshed us deliciously.
I have had ever since a feeling of suppleness and lightness, which is
like wings growing at my feet. It is certainly a very great luxury,
though, unquestionably, most enervating as a habit.
* * * * *
* * * * *