THREE MONTHS ABROAD.
A JOURNEY
TO
CRETE, CONSTANTINOPLE, NAPLES,
AND FLORENCE.
THREE MONTHS ABROAD.
BY
ANNA VIVANTI.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION.
1865.
Dedication.
TO MY HUSBAND.
To Thee, whose hand has kindly led me forth
Far o’er the land, across the deep blue sea,
Whose care and love watch’d o’er me every where,
I dedicate this little History.
May it recall to thee the motley crowd
Of strange and kindly people we have seen,
The golden days of the enchanted Isle,
How wondrous bright and happy they have been.
The smiling Bosphorus and grand Stamboul,
The glorious bay of beauteous Napoli,
The festive days at Florence,--and accept
This as a sign of gratitude from me.
LOWER NORWOOD,
_Dec. 1st, 1865._
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
FROM LONDON TO CRETE 1
CHAPTER II.
CRETE, OR THE ENCHANTED ISLAND 40
CHAPTER III.
CONSTANTINOPLE 90
CHAPTER IV.
FROM CONSTANTINOPLE TO FLORENCE 126
CHAPTER V.
THE DANTE FESTIVAL AT FLORENCE 157
THREE MONTHS ABROAD.
CHAPTER I.
FROM LONDON TO CRETE.
“O Wandern, Wandern, meine Lust! O Wandern.”
_W. Müller._
It was on the morning of the 18th of March, 1865, that, “equipped from
top to toe,” I kissed all my little ones, shook hands with the kind
friends who were to take care of them, and started with my husband on
our grand wedding tour. Yes, this was to be our wedding tour; for the
one we made directly after our wedding, more than ten years ago, did not
deserve that name; and since then we had never travelled without, what
is most properly called encumbrances, not meaning trunks or bandboxes,
but babies of different sizes and ages. Our first wedding trip! Shall I
confess that it did not extend farther than Broadstairs! How times
change! Our wishes were more limited then; I am sure we thought we had
gone quite as far as people could wish to go, for we went by water, and
the weather being rather windy, we were both very nearly sea-sick when
we arrived. But no more of these old bye-gone times, I have other things
to tell. When we drove off, and I looked once more back, my baby clapped
her little fat hands together, and called out, “Lumps of delight, lumps
of delight.” A turban! a sword! a drum! screamed the boys, and off we
drove on our way to Crete. Yes, to Crete! where nobody has ever been
that I know of, since Theseus.
But before we got there, we arrived at London Bridge. There we met dear
Mme. M----, whom we had promised to see safely to Cologne. She is the
mother of one of the greatest scholars of our time, and the widow of one
who would certainly have been one of the greatest German poets, had he
not died at the age of thirty-three.
On the evening of the 18th we arrived safely and well at Brussels, and
had a few hours time before the train started for Cologne. So we set out
for a short stroll through the town by gaslight. It looked just as I had
thought it would look, gay and lively. “A little Paris,” as it is so
often called. The “Galleries” reminded me of the Palais Royal, and the
people that leisurely walked about seemed as well dressed, and as much
“on pleasure bent,” as those of the Boulevards. The shops where
“knicknacks” are sold look as elegant as those of Paris, and in others
there is the same delightful display of fruit and flowers, delicacies,
and confectionary.
I could, of course, not walk through the streets and market-place of
Brussels without thinking of Egmont and Hoorn, and of the splendid scene
in Goethe’s Egmont, where Klärchen calls upon the people to save her
lover. I also remembered the poor sisters, Charlotte and Emily Brontë.
My husband thought of Napoleon and Wellington, and Becky Sharp, and
laughed again at the thought of Jos Sedley’s flight from Brussels.
With an appetite stimulated by the walk, the keen March air, and the
very inviting exhibition of dainties in several shop-windows, we dined,
and then left for Cologne, where we arrived at five in the morning, and
parted from Mme. M----, our dear friend, for such she had become to us,
we feeling rather anxious how she would get on without us; she full of
gratitude for the little we had been able to do for her, blessing us
many times, and wishing us a safe return to our children; to which I
said “Amen,” with all my heart.
As we had a few hours to spare before the train started for Coblentz, we
went out to look at the Cathedral, which I had not seen for several
years. I was pleased to see that the giant work has advanced much in
that comparatively short time; they told me it would be quite finished
in about six years, but that I humbly doubt.
It was a wretchedly cold morning; a sharp easterly wind blowing, which
after a night passed in a railway carriage, seemed to freeze me. It
chilled my love for the beautiful. I was not very deeply impressed; not
even by the interior of the Cathedral, although I know it is wondrous
grand and beautiful.
What a comfortable hotel, “The Giant,” at Coblentz is! And how we
enjoyed our dinner at the table d’hôte, sitting down to it like
civilized people after a thorough toilette. As March is not the time for
English tourists on the Rhine, we had, instead of whispered English
conversation, the loud talk of the Prussian officers, who had the table
almost to themselves. They were most of them fine looking men, and had
such a number of stars and crosses, and medals, that after seeing them I
wondered that there should be still some poor little Danes left alive. I
thought that these young giants must have killed them all, being all so
distinguished for valour, which many of them were too young to have
proved even against the rebels in Baden in 1848.
After dinner we drove to Stolzenfels, and enjoyed the view, which all
who have seen it will remember with pleasure. I had looked from
Stolzenfels upon Lahneck and Upper and Lower Lahnstein, when the hills
that rise behind were covered with the glory of September foliage; but
even without that gay dress, the scene is lovely still. We drove back to
the hotel in spirits that were in harmony with the bright scene around
us and the merry people that animated it. The influence of the fine
continental air and the bright sunshine upon the spirits of those who
have breathed the thick air of London for a whole year, with the
exception perhaps of a few months at Brighton, is wonderfully
exhilarating. All who have experienced it must wish for the Continent
again and again, and will prefer to spend the autumn abroad, although
the English lakes, Wales and Scotland, offer perhaps as much scenic
beauty as Germany or France.
On the morning of the 20th we left Coblentz, and went by rail to
Mayence, passing the most beautiful spots of the Rhine, enjoying it
much, and forming the resolution to buy one of the ruined castles,
restore it and live for ever on the Rhine, with a boat to row on the
river and a guitar to accompany the German ballads we would sing on a
summer evening. At Mayence we left the Rhine, and turned eastward
across the Hessian plains towards Bavaria. The cold wind we had now to
face made us shut all the windows, and I must confess in spite of my
belonging to the Ladies’ Sanitary Association, and having read Florence
Nightingale’s book and Combe’s too, we shut also the ventilators, and
unstrapped all our shawls and wrappers. I looked wistfully at the snow
that had appeared on the ground soon after we left Mayence, and which
grew thicker and thicker, glittering in the sunshine, like a cold beauty
that smiles but does not melt. The sky was perfectly cloudless, the sun
brilliant and warm, the wind cutting and sharp; the shades deep and
cold; after sunset the window panes became covered with frost, but not
like in England, where it springs up in a very short time, and
afterwards disappears as quickly, and which is of a poor tame pattern,
always resembling artichoke leaves. Here the cold worked slowly,
deliberately and elaborately, like a careful artist: each pane became a
picture, showing a variety of beautiful and fanciful shapes and forms,
flowers, miniature forests, multitudes of stars, brilliants and
crystals. Gradually, it shut us completely out from the world, and after
we had passed Nuremberg and Erlangen, we heard and saw no more of it,
till we arrived at Passau, the Austrian frontier, where people have to
undergo the ordeal of the douane.
We arrived there at 2 o’clock in the morning and had to extricate
ourselves from shawls and wrappers in order to be present at the
examination of our luggage. On re-entering the carriage, the guard told
us that there were sixteen degrees of frost,[A] after which information,
I felt that I had a right to shiver and to complain. The guard himself
wrapped up in an immense fur, wearing top-boots lined with fur, and a
fur cap drawn over his ears, looked provokingly cheerful and
comfortable, and told me when he heard my grumbling at the cold, that in
spite of that it was much better there than in England where, that he
knew for certain, the sun, even in the month of June, was never visible
before 9 o’clock in the morning, for till then there was always fog and
mist. He had been in London, but did not like it at all. The coffee was
horrible, although he suspected with much acuteness, that it was partly
the fault of the milk. The tea was worse still, for they gave no rum
with it, and tea without rum was little better than hot water, and he
concluded, “how can you expect an Austrian to live in a place where six
cigars cost a shilling or more? What are six cigars a day for a man that
likes them?” There were but two things in London that had pleased him,
the Crystal Palace and Mme. Tussaud’s Exhibition. The wax figures of
that celebrated artist had made a deep impression upon him. We found in
Vienna the weather as cold and ungenial as on our journey; but feeling
that it would have been a shame not to see something of the town, we
walked and drove about, and were glad when we had performed that
troublesome duty.
[A] 16° Reaumur equal to 36° of Fahrenheit.
Schönbrunnen alone, which awakens so many recollections, aroused also
some degree of interest in me. The pretty pictures painted by the
Emperor Francis I., especially those he painted on the fans of his wife
Maria Theresa, the embroidery of that great woman, the drawings of her
unhappy and beautiful daughter, Maria Antoinette, the family portraits
of the Hapsburghs, down to the present Empress and her sisters, the room
in which the Duc de Reichstadt died, his portrait as a fair and
beautiful boy; all that interested me much. The gardens and park
surrounding this pretty summer residence were still covered with snow,
and the air was so cold that I was glad to get back again to the hotel,
where, looking in Continental fashion from the window into the street,
I spent some pleasant hours. The passers by although less elegant in
appearance than in Paris, look more picturesque and appear in a much
greater variety of costume. All the ladies wear large fur capes and
large muffs. Many have also their little hats and bonnets trimmed with
fur, and the young girls tripping along briskly, look decidedly pretty.
I liked also the costume of the Hungarian men. They wear top-boots,
short braided coats lined and trimmed with fur, and high fur caps. Many
of the peasants of the different provinces of Austria have also a very
picturesque appearance.
If the days, on account of the weather, were not the most enjoyable, the
evenings were all the more so. We spent them in the theatre. Now the
Burg Theatre of Vienna is old, ugly, and dark; but perfectly
comfortable, and the acting first-rate; and to see first-rate acting is
a great enjoyment. All the Viennese seem to think so too, for the
Theatre was filled in every part; and one evening the Imperial box was
adorned by the presence of the beautiful Empress of Austria. Everybody
who has visited the Exhibition of 1862, and who has not been there? must
recollect the charming portrait of the Empress. She is quite as
beautiful, indeed even more so, for the portrait showed only the face,
not her elegant commanding figure, and graceful movements. There were
beside her in the box, the father of the Emperor, the Archduchess
Sophia, and Count Trani, brother of the ex-King of Naples.
The journey from Vienna to Trieste must in summer be very beautiful, but
when we took it, although it was already the 23rd of March, there were
10 degrees of cold,[B] enough to chill anybody that is neither a Russian
nor Polar Bear. My husband was much interested, and declared the
railroad across the Alps one of the finest works of modern engineering.
The railway winds zig-zag up the mountain like the road over the
Splugen, or the Mont Cenis. But the wind was cutting and cold; the snow
that fell incessantly penetrated even through the closed windows. We had
left Vienna in the morning; about six o’clock at night we arrived at
Semmering, which is the highest point. Here the snow lay mountain deep.
I had never seen it in such masses. What a feeling of solitude and
desolation, deep, far-extending snow gives one. It covers the earth like
a shroud. The sea in winter with a leaden sky, is a lively cheerful
thing, compared to such a snowy desert. I saw in the waning light, a man
at some distance, plodding apparently with difficulty through it. How
lost and desolate he seemed. I was quite glad when I discovered about
two miles farther on a house, from the chimney of which a thin column of
smoke arose, and which I thought was probably the end of his journey;
where at all events he would find shelter. Beyond Semmering, the road
for many miles leads along the top of deep precipices, to look down
which while travelling in a train gives one anything but a feeling of
security. Wherever the road is not protected from the North wind by the
mountains, there are strong high oaken palings to shelter it, for the
Bora, a north-easterly gale, blows here often with such violence, that
unless protected by the mountain or these palings, the whole train might
be easily overthrown and hurled down some precipice. Near Adelsberg,
where we arrived about midnight, the train came suddenly to a
standstill; the snow being so deep on the line, that the engine could
not move on. Like a good horse, it seemed to try its utmost to pull us
through, but all its efforts resulted in some very uncomfortable
shakings it gave us while endeavouring to push through the snow.
[B] 22½ F
After about an hour’s delay they had cleared the line sufficiently for
the train to move on, and in the morning we arrived at Trieste. It is a
pretty modern town, in a charming situation. The villas which are
scattered over the hills, that rise behind the town, look very pretty
and pleasant. “Mira Mare,” the property of Prince Maximilian of Austria,
Emperor of Mexico, is a beautiful marine residence. The streets of
Trieste are paved as those of Florence, Naples, and Messina, with large
stones, like our London footpaths, they present an animated appearance,
for one sees many different costumes. I remember, especially that of the
Mexican soldiers, of which there were many in Trieste, and who, in their
long white woollen cloaks, and broad-brimmed straw hats, are wild and
picturesque-looking fellows.
All the day there blew a strong north-easterly wind, which the
Triestines however, called a Boretta, meaning a little Bora; but I must
confess that in spite of that, I looked rather suspiciously at the many
little white-headed waves of the Adriatic, which looked just the kind to
give one an incipient sea-sickness; considering that we were to embark
the next afternoon for a five days’ sea voyage, and that possibly the
Boretta might become a Bora. This time however, I was luckier than I had
hoped. The sun rose the next day in a cloudless sky, and when I looked
out of my window, the flags on the masts of the ships, lying in the
harbour, waved gently, instead of violently turning and twisting about
as they had done the day before; and the sea was smooth and smiling as
“The Bride of the Doges” at Venice, which I had seen, and remembered
with delight.
In high spirits therefore, we went on board the Lloyd steamer “Neptune,”
which was to take us to Sira. I had but one bad foreboding. We had been
told, that as it was so early in the year, we might chance to have the
boat almost entirely to ourselves. As I am of a sociable disposition, I
did not relish the idea of being locked up in a large ship without
travelling companions.
How agreeably surprised was I therefore, to find the deck absolutely
crowded when we arrived, and not by chance travellers, but by forty
excursionists to the Holy Land, who wished to spend the Easter week at
Jerusalem. I at once anticipated an interesting and singular company,
very different from every-day tourists, and I was not mistaken. I became
more or less acquainted with many of them, and they made the five days
of our voyage together pass very pleasantly. The great majority of them
were Germans from all parts of the Fatherland; but there were also a few
Hungarians and Poles, four Americans, and one old Italian amongst them.
They all belonged to the “lords of creation,” with the exception of two
who were of the gentle sex, that wears crinoline. This mixed company I
divided, however, into two classes only; the devout and the profane,
viz. those that went, or said they went, to the Holy Land from devotion,
and those that avowed they were going there from different motives.
Of those belonging to the first class, the old Polish General, Count
T----, in consideration of his high position and great age, deserves to
be mentioned first. He was an old man of 77, with an enormous appetite,
who said that he had not tasted water he could remember when, and
believed he would be ill if he ventured to drink any. He had spent his
life on horseback, and looked as hale and strong as a young man. His
head was of a very peculiar shape. A phrenologist would have said that
in it the propensities preponderated largely over the sentiments. His
white hair and long white moustache could not make him look venerable. I
was glad when he told me that he was going to Jerusalem for devotion,
for I felt sure he had plenty of cause for repentance, he looked such a
sensual old sinner.
In his manners he was pleasant and gallant, and his conversation was not
uninteresting. He had travelled much, been every where; and seemed
especially to remember all the places famous for beautiful women. There
were two Catholic priests among the passengers. One a Curé from Galicia,
a young man, with a thin bent figure, a sickly voice, and spare fair
hair; looking altogether more an object of pity than of interest; the
other a young, yet venerable looking Dominican friar, with a beautiful
face and fine oriental beard. I was sorry that I understood neither
Polish nor Latin, the only languages he spoke; for I think he had many
interesting things to tell. His convent in Warsaw had been lately
abolished by the Russian Government, and the poor friars who were
suspected of having Polish sympathies were now wandering beggars, so the
Curé told me. This one was, however, a very comfortable and venerable
looking beggar, and seemed to be well provided with more than friars are
supposed to require, viz. warm stockings and strong shoes and a large
wide-a-wake hat. An old Italian sailor, owner of some barges, which were
now managed by his sons, was going to the Holy Land, from a beautiful
sentiment of pure devotion and gratitude. He had been prosperous in his
trade and fortunate in his family. All his sons were doing well, all
his daughters happily married. He had lost his wife many years ago, but
time and religion had soothed that sorrow. He was going to Jerusalem now
to offer there thanks to the Divine Being for the joys of a long and
honourable existence, to pray for the soul of his departed wife, and for
the salvation of all his children. He showed me a letter from his
youngest daughter, in whose house the old man lived, and who had sent
him this letter to Trieste. It was badly spelt, but most touching. She
called upon the Holy Virgin and all the saints to take her dear father
under their kind and powerful protection and bring him safely back to
his home, which seemed desolate without him. The old sailor was of great
use to me, he knew, as he called it, ‘every stone of the coast,’ and was
always willing and often able to tell me what I wanted to know about the
places we passed. When we arrived at Corfù, he went on shore, but not
from any curiosity, the place was well known to him, but in order to
perform his devotions at the silver shrine of St. Spiridion, the patron
saint of the island. At Sira, where there seemed to be no particular
saint, he did not leave the boat; it is a new town, and in our times
saints seem to have become scarce. But if the old sailor seemed to be
intent upon nothing but praying to all the saints on the road, a little
German master miller had apparently undertaken this pilgrimage in order
only to buy photographs of all sizes and descriptions at every place we
stopped at. Not knowing any other language but Viennese-German, he must
have had sometimes great difficulty in accomplishing his object in
places where people understood only Greek and Italian. But where there
is a will there is a way. He seemed to find by instinct the places where
photographs were to be got, and succeeded in buying some very nice ones
in Corfù, where I, not being equally persevering, had failed in
procuring any. When we arrived in Sira, the funny little man, as soon as
he reached the land by means of a boat that had taken several of his
companions ashore, left them who were satisfied with seeing in reality
what he wanted on cardboard. While they were going up the hill, on which
the Roman Catholic church stands, and from whence there is a fine view
over the town, the harbour, and the sea, he remained in the town in
search of photographs. This time, however, he was destined to be
disappointed; for, although he found a place where they sold
photographs, and where they showed him many, he found they were views of
every place and country in the world, especially of Paris and Vienna;
but not of so common a place as Sira, which every one there had always
before his eyes. In looking over all the photographs in search of those
he wished, the time must have passed more rapidly than he was aware of,
for he was not at the “embarcader” when his travelling companions
arrived there, in order to return to the boat. The wind that was fresh
when they landed had much increased, and the boatmen told them they had
better get on board the steamer as soon as possible, and after waiting a
little while, they did as they were advised, and left the poor little
miller behind. When he arrived at the place of embarcation, the Greeks
somehow made him understand that the others had left Sira, and that he
must take a boat for himself. By this time the wind had become very
strong, and when we perceived the boat that carried the little miller,
the waves were constantly breaking over it, wetting him to the skin, and
what was worst of all, spoiling his new beaver hat, which he had put on
to go to Sira in, for what reason is best known to himself. When the two
boatmen at last boarded the vessel, the rapacious Greeks asked so
exorbitant a price for their trouble that the little German, although in
great fear and longing to get on board, would not pay it, when they
pushed off from the steamer again, one thrusting his hand in the
terrified traveller’s pocket with the intention of paying himself. At
that moment one of the officers of the steamer observed the danger he
was in, and came to his rescue by telling the Greeks in an imperious
voice to put the poor man immediately on board.
The four young Americans that belonged to the party went to the Holy
Land for the same purpose as they had visited England, France and
Germany, viz. to see what the place was like. They were four modest and
courteous young gentlemen; and if their Christian names had not been
Lucius and Homer, and such like, and if they had not called the Russians
“Rooshions” and America “Merico,” I should not have “guessed” where they
came from. Homer was evidently smitten with Mdlle. S----, one of the
lady travellers; and always on the watch for an opportunity of offering
her his opera glass or fetch a chair for her. The worldliest of the
worldly was Mr. St----, a painter from Düsseldorf, a young man with a
satirical face and roguish disposition. He was as good a sailor as the
Captain, and enjoyed his meals as if he worked with a spade instead of a
brush and pencil. He tried to flirt with the ladies, and drew most
charming sketches of land and people. The portraits of General T----
and the little Jew doctor of the ship, were wonderfully true and
humorous. He was always either drawing or talking, and delighted in
teasing the poor curé, who generally answered in a gentle and becoming
manner.
Between the devotees and the worldlings, belonging to both and yet to
neither, uniting in himself all their good qualities and apparently free
from their faults, stood Mr. H----, a clergyman from Cologne. A man of
most venerable looks, highly cultivated mind, and a warm pious heart.
With him I spent some of the pleasantest hours of our journey to Smyrna.
He told me that for thirty years a journey to the Holy Land had been his
wish by day, and his dream by night. When at last it was to be realised,
his wife from mistaken kindness had much opposed it; had used entreaties
and tears to prevent what she considered a dangerous journey; but the
wish had been all too strong, she had been obliged to let him go. His
face had a bright look of happiness, softened by what seemed a stronger
and deeper feeling still--gratitude. And that bright look did not
vanish, even when between Corfu and Sira, the sea became very rough, and
prostrated most of the company, that had been so lively till then. When
I asked him how he was, he answered with a smile, “To be or not to be,
that is the question”! When, as we neared Sira, the sea became calmer,
and that troublesome question was satisfactorily settled, I enjoyed his
conversation again. When he spoke, the land and islands we passed,
became peopled with gods and heroes. He did not, like M. R----, from
Paris, who came on board our boat at Sira, chill my heart by telling me
that there never was a Homer; that at the time when the songs of the
Iliad and Odyssey originated, hundreds could sing in that style, as in
the 17th century almost everybody in France could write a good letter,
while in the 18th, nobody could.
Mr. H---- was no sceptic, and when I declared myself in favour of Chio,
as the birth-place of the great bard, he said it was not impossible that
I was right.
But I shall never get to Smyrna, if I describe all my travelling
companions on the way, so I must come to an end, not however before I
have said a few words of the two ladies. Mme. de H----, a Hungarian
lady, sister of the Archbishop of Carthage, and formerly a governess to
some of the grand-children of Louis Philippe, was a strong minded woman.
She had been a widow these twenty years, but not having been very happy
in her first union, had never yielded again to a proposal of marriage,
although many had been made to her since. She said she was very much
shocked and grieved, that so many of her companions should go to the
Holy Land from curiosity, or seeking amusement; but I must confess that
for a pilgrim to the Holy Land, she was rather gaily dressed. The cap
she used to wear in the morning, when she appeared “en negligée,”
especially surprised me, being trimmed with (what my boys would have
called) stunning bright green ribbon.
She had travelled much, and seen a good deal of the world and its life.
She spoke indifferent French with a loud voice, and had generally two
veils over her face to protect her complexion, trying to remedy
defective sight by looking at one through an eye-glass.
Fräulein S---- was a pretty girl of eighteen, who went to Jerusalem
“because Papa took her there,” and he went there, as he had gone to many
other places, for the simple love of change and travelling. She was, as
I said, pretty, wore a neat becoming travelling dress, and was of course
the centre of attraction to all the young men of the party. But being
engaged to be married (this she told me in private), and apparently of
a naturally modest and retiring disposition, the young men found it
difficult to approach her. She stayed a great deal in the ladies’
saloon, writing long letters, which I suppose went to Prague, where she
was shortly going to live.
After a pleasant voyage of about forty-eight hours, we arrived at the
island of Corfu, which is separated from the mainland by a small sheet
of water only, resembling a lake rather than the sea; for when one nears
the town of Corfu, the water seems entirely enclosed by land, and the
view is then most charming. On the left, the rocky coast of Albania
looks wild and picturesque; while the island to your right, covered by a
luxuriant vegetation, has altogether a smiling and cheerful aspect.
But how strange and new everything appeared to me when we arrived at
Corfu, the country, the town, the people. Fifty hours before I had been
among mountains of snow, in an almost Siberian cold. Here, under a
golden sun, palm trees were growing, and roses and geraniums were in
full bloom. When we had gone on shore, we went through dirty, narrow
little streets, up to the Spianata, a beautiful promenade, where the
palace stands in which the English Lord High Commissioner formerly
resided. I was sorry to think that this beautiful land enjoys no longer
the blessing of English protection, under which it would surely have
prospered. It has not much chance of doing so now.
Mr. H----, from Cologne, reminded me that Corfu was old Scheria, where
King Alkinous lived, whose beautiful, innocent daughter, Nausikaa, the
“lily-armed maiden” had saved the life of the noble sufferer Ulysses.
Before we had gone on shore, about a hundred Montenegrian labourers,
going to Constantinople, came on board our vessel; their arrival, in
about ten boats, was the strangest thing I had ever witnessed; the
noise, the violent gesticulations, the scramble in getting on board, was
indescribable, and quite frightened and perplexed me, who had not yet
become accustomed to such manners. Some, finding that they could not
approach the steps that led up to the deck, climbed like cats up the
side of the vessel; and their luggage, consisting of dirty bundles, was
hurled after them by their companions below. They wore the Greek
costume, which is becoming and picturesque, loose blue pantaloons
instead of trousers; a white, or coloured shirt, and a red fez for a
head covering. Feet and legs were bare, and over their shoulders hung a
shaggy cloak, with a three-cornered capuch to it. Their features were
generally good; the straight line of the Greek profile well defined in
many. They had lively eyes, and a profusion of dark curly hair.
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.