INFIDEL SMYRNA
SMYRNA, or Giaour Izmir, “Infidel Smyrna,” as the Mussulmans call it, is
the main point of commercial contact betwixt Europe and Asia. You are
there surrounded by the people, and the confused customs of many and
various nations; you see the fussy European adopting the East, and
calming his restlessness with the long Turkish “pipe of tranquillity”;
you see Jews offering services, and receiving blows; {50} on one side you
have a fellow whose dress and beard would give you a good idea of the
true Oriental, if it were not for the _gobe-mouche _expression of
countenance with which he is swallowing an article in the _National_; and
there, just by, is a genuine Osmanlee, smoking away with all the majesty
of a sultan, but before you have time to admire sufficiently his tranquil
dignity, and his soft Asiatic repose, the poor old fellow is ruthlessly
“run down” by an English midshipman, who had set sail on a Smyrna hack.
Such are the incongruities of the “infidel city” at ordinary times; but
when I was there, our friend Carrigaholt {51} had imported himself and
his oddities as an accession to the other and inferior wonders of Smyrna.
I was sitting alone in my room one day at Constantinople, when I heard
Methley approaching my door with shouts of laughter and welcome, and
presently I recognised that peculiar cry by which our friend Carrigaholt
expresses his emotions; he soon explained to us the final causes by which
the fates had worked out their wonderful purpose of bringing him to
Constantinople. He was always, you know, very fond of sailing, but he
had got into such sad scrapes (including, I think, a lawsuit) on account
of his last yacht, that he took it into his head to have a cruise in a
merchant vessel, so he went to Liverpool, and looked through the craft
lying ready to sail, till he found a smart schooner that perfectly suited
his taste. The destination of the vessel was the last thing he thought
of; and when he was told that she was bound for Constantinople, he merely
assented to that as a part of the arrangement to which he had no
objection. As soon as the vessel had sailed, the hapless passenger
discovered that his skipper carried on board an enormous wife, with an
inquiring mind and an irresistible tendency to impart her opinions. She
looked upon her guest as upon a piece of waste intellect that ought to be
carefully tilled. She tilled him accordingly. If the dons at Oxford
could have seen poor Carrigaholt thus absolutely “attending lectures” in
the Bay of Biscay, they would surely have thought him sufficiently
punished for all the wrongs he did them whilst he was preparing himself
under their care for the other and more boisterous University. The
voyage did not last more than six or eight weeks, and the philosophy
inflicted on Carrigaholt was not entirely fatal to him; certainly he was
somewhat emaciated, and, for aught I know, he may have subscribed
somewhat too largely to the “Feminine-right-of-reason Society”; but it
did not appear that his health had been seriously affected. There was a
scheme on foot, it would seem, for taking the passenger back to England
in the same schooner—a scheme, in fact, for keeping him perpetually
afloat, and perpetually saturated with arguments; but when Carrigaholt
found himself ashore, and remembered that the skipperina (who had
imprudently remained on board) was not there to enforce her suggestions,
he was open to the hints of his servant (a very sharp fellow), who
arranged a plan for escaping, and finally brought off his master to
Giuseppini’s hotel.
Our friend afterwards went by sea to Smyrna, and there he now was in his
glory. He had a good, or at all events a gentleman-like, judgment in
matters of taste, and as his great object was to surround himself with
all that his fancy could dictate, he lived in a state of perpetual
negotiation. He was for ever on the point of purchasing, not only the
material productions of the place, but all sorts of such fine ware as
“intelligence,” “fidelity,” and so on. He was most curious, however, as
the purchaser of the “affections.” Sometimes he would imagine that he
had a marital aptitude, and his fancy would sketch a graceful picture, in
which he appeared reclining on a divan, with a beautiful Greek woman
fondly couched at his feet, and soothing him with the witchery of her
guitar. Having satisfied himself with the ideal picture thus created, he
would pass into action; the guitar he would buy instantly, and would give
such intimations of his wish to be wedded to a Greek as could not fail to
produce great excitement in the families of the beautiful Smyrniotes.
Then again (and just in time perhaps to save him from the yoke) his dream
would pass away, and another would come in its stead; he would suddenly
feel the yearnings of a father’s love, and willing by force of gold to
transcend all natural preliminaries, he would issue instructions for the
purchase of some dutiful child that could be warranted to love him as a
parent. Then at another time he would be convinced that the attachment
of menials might satisfy the longings of his affectionate heart, and
thereupon he would give orders to his slave-merchant for something in the
way of eternal fidelity. You may well imagine that this anxiety of
Carrigaholt to purchase not only the scenery, but the many _dramatis
personæ_ belonging to his dreams, with all their goodness and graces
complete, necessarily gave an immense stimulus to the trade and intrigue
of Smyrna, and created a demand for human virtues which the moral
resources of the place were totally inadequate to supply. Every day
after breakfast this lover of the good and the beautiful held a levee,
which was often exceedingly amusing. In his ante-room there would be not
only the sellers of pipes and slippers and shawls, and suchlike Oriental
merchandise; not only embroiderers and cunning workmen patiently striving
to realise his visions of Albanian dresses; not only the servants
offering for places, and the slave-dealer tendering his sable ware; but
there would be the Greek master, waiting to teach his pupil the grammar
of the soft Ionian tongue, in which he was to delight the wife of his
imagination; and the music-master, who was to teach him some sweet
replies to the anticipated sounds of the fancied guitar; and then, above
all, and proudly eminent with undisputed preference of _entrée_, and
fraught with the mysterious tidings on which the realisation of the whole
dream might depend, was the mysterious match-maker, {54} enticing and
postponing the suitor, yet ever keeping alive in his soul the love of
that pictured virtue, whose beauty (unseen by eyes) was half revealed to
the imagination.
You would have thought that this practical dreaming must have soon
brought Carrigaholt to a bad end, but he was in much less danger than you
would suppose; for besides that the new visions of happiness almost
always came in time to counteract the fatal completion of the preceding
scheme, his high breeding and his delicately sensitive taste almost
always came to his aid at times when he was left without any other
protection; and the efficacy of these qualities in keeping a man out of
harm’s way is really immense. In all baseness and imposture there is a
coarse, vulgar spirit, which, however artfully concealed for a time, must
sooner or later show itself in some little circumstance sufficiently
plain to occasion an instant jar upon the minds of those whose taste is
lively and true. To such men a shock of this kind, disclosing the
_ugliness_ of a cheat, is more effectively convincing than any mere
proofs could be.
Thus guarded from isle to isle, and through Greece, and through Albania,
this practical Plato with a purse in his hand, carried on his mad chase
after the good and the beautiful, and yet returned in safety to his home.
But now, poor fellow! the lowly grave, that is the end of men’s romantic
hopes, has closed over all his rich fancies, and all his high
aspirations; he is utterly married! No more hope, no more change for
him—no more relays—he must go on Vetturini-wise to the appointed end of
his journey!
Smyrna, I think, may be called the chief town and capital of the Grecian
race, against which you will be cautioned so carefully as soon as you
touch the Levant. You will say that I ought not to confound as one
people the Greeks living under a constitutional Government with the
unfortunate Rayahs who “groan under the Turkish yoke,” but I can’t see
that political events have hitherto produced any strongly marked
difference of character. If I could venture to rely (which I feel that I
cannot at all do) upon my own observation, I should tell you that there
was more heartiness and strength in the Greeks of the Ottoman Empire than
in those of the new kingdom. The truth is, that there is a greater field
for commercial enterprise, and even for Greek ambition, under the Ottoman
sceptre, than is to be found in the dominions of Otho. Indeed the
people, by their frequent migrations from the limits of the
constitutional kingdom to the territories of the Porte, seem to show
that, on the whole, they prefer “groaning under the Turkish yoke” to the
honour of “being the only true source of legitimate power” in their own
land.
For myself, I love the race; in spite of all their vices, and even in
spite of all their meannesses, I remember the blood that is in them, and
still love the Greeks. The Osmanlees are, of course, by nature, by
religion, and by politics, the strong foes of the Hellenic people; and as
the Greeks, poor fellows! happen to be a little deficient in some of the
virtues which facilitate the transaction of commercial business (such as
veracity, fidelity, etc.), it naturally follows that they are highly
unpopular with the European merchants. Now these are the persons through
whom, either directly or indirectly, is derived the greater part of the
information which you gather in the Levant, and therefore you must make
up your mind to hear an almost universal and unbroken testimony against
the character of the people whose ancestors invented virtue. And strange
to say, the Greeks themselves do not attempt to disturb this general
unanimity of opinion by any dissent on their part. Question a Greek on
the subject, and he will tell you at once that the people are
_traditori_, and will then, perhaps, endeavour to shake off his fair
share of the imputation by asserting that his father had been dragoman to
some foreign embassy, and that he (the son), therefore, by the law of
nations, had ceased to be Greek.
“E dunque no siete traditore?”
“Possibile, signor, ma almeno Io no sono Greco.”
Not even the diplomatic representatives of the Hellenic kingdom are free
from the habit of depreciating their brethren. I recollect that at one
of the ports in Syria a Greek vessel was rather unfairly kept in
quarantine by order of the Board of Health, which consisted entirely of
Europeans. A consular agent from the kingdom of Greece had lately
hoisted his flag in the town, and the captain of the vessel drew up a
remonstrance, which he requested his consul to present to the Board.
“Now, _is_ this reasonable?” said the consul; “is it reasonable that I
should place myself in collision with all the principal European
gentlemen of the place for the sake of you, a Greek?” The skipper was
greatly vexed at the failure of his application, but he scarcely even
questioned the justice of the ground which his consul had taken. Well,
it happened some time afterwards that I found myself at the same port,
having gone thither with the view of embarking for the port of Syra. I
was anxious, of course, to elude as carefully as possible the quarantine
detentions which threatened me on my arrival, and hearing that the Greek
consul had a brother who was a man in authority at Syra, I got myself
presented to the former, and took the liberty of asking him to give me
such a letter of introduction to his relative at Syra as might possibly
have the effect of shortening the term of my quarantine. He acceded to
this request with the utmost kindness and courtesy; but when he replied
to my thanks by saying that “in serving an Englishman he was doing no
more than his strict duty commanded,” not even my gratitude could prevent
me from calling to mind his treatment of the poor captain who had the
misfortune of not being an alien in blood to his consul and appointed
protector.
I think that the change which has taken place in the character of the
Greeks has been occasioned, in great measure, by the doctrines and
practice of their religion. The Greek Church has animated the Muscovite
peasant, and inspired him with hopes and ideas which, however humble, are
still better than none at all; but the faith, and the forms, and the
strange ecclesiastical literature which act so advantageously upon the
mere clay of the Russian serf, seem to hang like lead upon the ethereal
spirit of the Greek. Never in any part of the world have I seen
religious performances so painful to witness as those of the Greeks. The
horror, however, with which one shudders at their worship is
attributable, in some measure, to the mere effect of costume. In all the
Ottoman dominions, and very frequently too in the kingdom of Otho, the
Greeks wear turbans or other head-dresses, and shave their heads, leaving
only a rat’s-tail at the crown of the head; they of course keep
themselves covered within doors as well as abroad, and they never remove
their headgear merely on account of being in a church; but when the Greek
stops to worship at his proper shrine, then, and then only, he always
uncovers; and as you see him thus with shaven skull and savage tail
depending from his crown, kissing a thing of wood and glass, and cringing
with base prostrations and apparent terror before a miserable picture,
you see superstition in a shape which, outwardly at least, is sadly
abject and repulsive.
The fasts, too, of the Greek Church produce an ill effect upon the
character of the people, for they are not a mere farce, but are carried
to such an extent as to bring about a real mortification of the flesh;
the febrile irritation of the frame operating in conjunction with the
depression of the spirits occasioned by abstinence, will so far answer
the objects of the rite, as to engender some religious excitement, but
this is of a morbid and gloomy character, and it seems to be certain,
that along with the increase of sanctity, there comes a fiercer desire
for the perpetration of dark crimes. The number of murders committed
during Lent is greater, I am told, than at any other time of the year. A
man under the influence of a bean dietary (for this is the principal food
of the Greeks during their fasts) will be in an apt humour for enriching
the shrine of his saint, and passing a knife through his next-door
neighbour. The moneys deposited upon the shrines are appropriated by
priests; the priests are married men, and have families to provide for;
they “take the good with the bad,” and continue to recommend fasts.
Then, too, the Greek Church enjoins her followers to keep holy such a
vast number of saints’ days as practically to shorten the lives of the
people very materially. I believe that one-third out of the number of
days in the year are “kept holy,” or rather, _kept stupid_, in honour of
the saints; no great portion of the time thus set apart is spent in
religious exercises, and the people don’t betake themselves to any such
animating pastimes as might serve to strengthen the frame, or invigorate
the mind, or exalt the taste. On the contrary, the saints’ days of the
Greeks in Smyrna are passed in the same manner as the Sabbaths of
well-behaved Protestant housemaids in London—that is to say, in a steady
and serious contemplation of street scenery. The men perform this duty
_at the doors_ of their houses, the women _at the windows_, which the
custom of Greek towns has so decidedly appropriated to them as the proper
station of their sex, that a man would be looked upon as utterly
effeminate if he ventured to choose that situation for the keeping of the
saints’ days. I was present one day at a treaty for the hire of some
apartments at Smyrna, which was carried on between Carrigaholt and the
Greek woman to whom the rooms belonged. Carrigaholt objected that the
windows commanded no view of the street. Immediately the brow of the
majestic matron clouded, and with all the scorn of a Spartan mother she
coolly asked Carrigaholt, and said, “Art thou a tender damsel that thou
wouldst sit and gaze from windows?” The man whom she addressed, however,
had not gone to Greece with any intention of placing himself under the
laws of Lycurgus, and was not to be diverted from his views by a Spartan
rebuke, so he took care to find himself windows after his own heart, and
there, I believe, for many a month, he kept the saints’ days, and all the
days intervening, after the fashion of Grecian women.
Oh! let me be charitable to all who write, and to all who lecture, and to
all who preach, since even I, a layman not forced to write at all, can
hardly avoid chiming in with some tuneful cant! I have had the heart to
talk about the pernicious effects of the Greek holidays, to which I owe
some of my most beautiful visions! I will let the words stand, as a
humbling proof that I am subject to that immutable law which compels a
man with a pen in his hand to be uttering every now and then some
sentiment not his own. It seems as though the power of expressing
regrets and desires by written symbols were coupled with a condition that
the writer should from time to time express the regrets and desires of
other people; as though, like a French peasant under the old régime, one
were bound to perform a certain amount of work _upon the public
highways_. I rebel as stoutly as I can against this horrible _corvée_.
I try not to deceive you—I try to set down the thoughts which are fresh
within me, and not to pretend any wishes, or griefs, which I do not
really feel; but no sooner do I cease from watchfulness in this regard,
than my right hand is, as it were, seized by some false angel, and even
now, you see, I have been forced to put down such words and sentences as
I ought to have written if really and truly I had wished to disturb the
saints’ days of the beautiful Smyrniotes!
Which, Heaven forbid! for as you move through the narrow streets of the
city at these times of festival, the transom-shaped windows suspended
over your head on either side are filled with the beautiful descendants
of the old Ionian race; all (even yonder empress that sits throned at the
window of that humblest mud cottage) are attired with seeming
magnificence; their classic heads are crowned with scarlet, and loaded
with jewels or coins of gold, the whole wealth of the wearer; {61} their
features are touched with a savage pencil, which hardens the outline of
eyes and eyebrows, and lends an unnatural fire to the stern, grave looks
with which they pierce your brain. Endure their fiery eyes as best you
may, and ride on slowly and reverently, for facing you from the side of
the transom, that looks longwise through the street, you see the one
glorious shape transcendent in its beauty; you see the massive braid of
hair as it catches a touch of light on its jetty surface, and the broad,
calm, angry brow; the large black eyes, deep set, and self-relying like
the eyes of a conqueror, with their rich shadows of thought lying darkly
around them; you see the thin fiery nostril, and the bold line of the
chin and throat disclosing all the fierceness, and all the pride,
passion, and power that can live along with the rare womanly beauty of
those sweetly turned lips. But then there is a terrible stillness in
this breathing image; it seems like the stillness of a savage that sits
intent and brooding, day by day, upon some one fearful scheme of
vengeance, but yet more like it seems to the stillness of an Immortal,
whose will must be known, and obeyed without sign or speech. Bow
down!—Bow down and adore the young Persephonie, transcendent Queen of
Shades!