A Journey to Crete, Costantinople, Naples and Florence: Three Months Abroad

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

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

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

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

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

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

This garden was very different from our gardens at home, nor was it the most beautiful of Crete, but it was the first I saw there, and it made the deepest and most lasting impression upon me.

Art has done little, Nature prodigiously much. The flowers grow so luxuriantly, that man’s hand cannot keep them in bounds. They grow high, intertwine, and intermingle; they stretch their long branches full of rich blossoms across the paths; they touch your shoulder and catch your veil, but they are wonderfully sweet and lovely. The scent of the orange blossoms and roses is so strong, that it has a physical effect upon your nerves, and gives you a feeling of unspeakable enjoyment and bliss. The son of Sakhir Bey, the happy proprietor of this little Paradise, received us most kindly. He was the first Turk I ever spoke to. At the beginning of our conversation, carried on in French, I felt a little embarrassed, for I remembered that he belonged to a nation that treats women as slaves, and seems to despise them as such. He however soon made me forget it, by his perfect politeness and courtesy. He told one of his gardeners to bring us fruits of different kinds, some of which I had not seen or tasted before, and when I left I carried away with me a bouquet as large as my hand would hold, and so sweet, that for days after when it stood in my room, I felt as if I were again in Sakhir Bey’s garden. I visited many other gardens, I saw the beautiful “Pine-tree Garden” of Hamet Bey, “the garden of the Red Country” belonging to Memet Bey, and the splendid one of Pasha Mustapha, but none that pleased me more than the first.

Far, far from here, they still bloom in the sun, and in the soft clear moonlight, those gardens of Crete! That my foot ever trod their flower-strewed paths, that my hand plucked their glorious roses, seems now a dream. The stately Bey alone walks them now, and at times when the gates are firmly closed, some veiled woman with slow measured steps, and dark burning eyes, followed by some black slave, whose ugly features appear the more repugnant in that world of beauty.

The day after we arrived at Canea my husband paid, as is customary in the East, a visit to Ismael Pasha, who is Governor-General of Crete. The history of this remarkable man is singular and romantic. He was born at Chio, of Greek parents, made a slave by the Turks when a boy of eleven years of age, and sold to a Turkish doctor in Constantinople, who taught him what little he himself knew of his profession, and employed him as an assistant. When Ismael had grown to be a young man, he showed so much talent and ability, that his master most justly thought his young assistant might, if he received an European education, become a competitor of the French, German, and Italian doctors in Constantinople, who were more frequently consulted, and better paid by the wealthy Turks, than the practitioners of their own nation. He therefore sent the young man to Paris, where he studied for five years. When he returned to Constantinople, he far surpassed his master’s most sanguine expectations; and his great ability and success were soon generally acknowledged, and he rose in a short time to the dignity of physician to the late Sultan; and afterwards, when it was seen that his talents in other directions were equally remarkable, he became the Governor of Provinces. In Crete, where he has been for several years, he is respected and loved by all well disposed people. He encourages agriculture, makes roads, punishes crime, and judges justly. Under his mild and firm rule, the Greek inhabitants have almost become reconciled to the hated dominion of the Turks; and have petitioned the Sublime Porte to prolong his Pashalik. A few days after his visit, my husband received an invitation to dine in the Seraglio. The note of invitation ran as follows: “Le Gouverneur Général de Crête prie Monsieur V. de lui faire l’honneur de venir diner chez lui, demain Jeudi, vers le coucher du soleil.

“Sérail, Mercredi.”

I thought it quite a poetical and Oriental mode of fixing a dinner hour “vers le coucher du soleil;” as however the Turks count their hours differently and in a way that is most puzzling to a European, this was perhaps the best way to prevent a mistake, for the sun sets at the same hour over the faithful and over the infidels. The latter flattering appellation is bestowed upon all who are not Mussulmans. The evening Mr. V. dined with the Pasha was not a gay one for me. Being tired after a long day’s ride on a mule, I sat down at my open window looking at the moon. She shines much brighter there than in England, but it seems she exercises the same influence there as here; I became quite melancholy and sentimental; I longed for my children, and asked the moon to kiss them for me in their little cribs in England.

The next morning I paid my first visit to the Pasha’s Harem. My husband conducted me to the entrance of the Seraglio, that leads into the Harem, the part of the palace occupied by the women, when an old grey-bearded Turk opened the door from the outside with a large key, and locked it again as soon as he had let me in. I must confess I did not quite like the fashion in which that stern old man with daggers and pistols in his belt, had closed the outer world behind me, and I cast “a longing, lingering look behind” at the strongly barred door.

I slowly crossed the yard towards another door I saw before me; and at which the old man had pointed before he locked me in. It opened at my approach, and I was met and saluted by several women in the Turkish costume; the first I saw without veils, who led me up a wide staircase to a landing that resembled a large saloon. At the top of the stairs I was received by the Pasha, who led me into a spacious apartment with divans all around, but no other furniture. He left me there alone, but returned almost immediately, accompanied by two ladies, the one a young and pretty timid looking girl, in a rich Turkish dress; the other a middle-aged lady, in plain European clothes, with a pale face, and two large piercing black eyes, and who, after the Pasha had named his daughter, was introduced to me as Mdlle. Elizabeth.

The windows of the Harem are hermetically closed, allowing no air and but little light to enter, this is admitted through the doors principally, which lead into spacious halls or terraces, overlooking the court-yard, or little inner gardens, and are seldom closed. At the open door of the apartment in which I was, appeared a crowd of slaves, most of them so young as to be mere children. Some were richly, all gaily dressed. The prettiest of them was a little Circassian, of about twelve years of age, the favourite of her mistress, who was dressed in pink silk, and had a wreath of artificial flowers in her hair. But I have not spoken of the mistress yet. Although her father is a Greek by birth, the daughter was of the Turkish type. She is short, and would be considered too stout with us, but has only the “en bon point” indispensable to a Turkish beauty. Her round face wore an expression of kindness and good humour, and was remarkable for a pair of fine large intelligent black eyes. Her dress was entirely composed of green silk, trimmed with crimson velvet. On her head she wore a little round black hat, evidently an European importation, for it was very much like those worn in England; it had a fine white feather fastened to it with a diamond ornament; and a brooch with the miniature of her father, in a setting of diamonds a Queen might have coveted, sparkled on her breast. This splendid ornament had formerly contained the portrait of the late Sultan, who had given it to the Pasha.

When Ismael Pasha had introduced me to the ladies, he left us alone, and the first awkward moments over, my visit became a very interesting one. Mdlle. Elizabeth addressed me in English, which she had acquired at the American Missionary School at Athens, and like most Greeks, possessing a great talent for acquiring languages, she spoke it well and fluently. When however I heard that Mdlle. Leilà could understand and speak a little French, I preferred speaking to her without the aid of an interpreter, and gradually she overcame her bashfulness, and entered into conversation with me. I had often been told, and it is unfortunately to a great extent but too true, that Turkish women, even the wives and daughters of Pashas, can neither read nor write. How much was I therefore surprised and pleased, when I found that Leilà knew not only her own language thoroughly, but Greek and French as well. The Pasha, a most enlightened man, has given to his daughter an education, which under the difficulties with which he had to contend, is truly wonderful. She had studied Turkish when still a child, with the present Caimacam, or under Pasha, of the town of Candia, a man of great learning; and Mdlle. Elizabeth, of whom I shall speak more by and bye, had taught her Greek and French. She possessed several books, among which I remarked a Bible in Turkish, and “Paul et Virginie.” Mdlle. Elizabeth asked me if I wished to hear Leilà sing and play, as she was very musical, and had had good instructions at Constantinople. Of course I said that I should be delighted to hear her, and we then went into a room where I found a good piano from Vienna, which was not much out of tune. Leilà sat down and played with a clear fine touch, a very good arrangement of “God save the Queen.” This was a pretty compliment. She had played but a few minutes when her father came in. He told her to play a Turkish march, which she performed with perfect execution. She played also a Mazurka by Schulhoff, and one or two other pieces. At last her father desired her to sing some Greek songs. Words and music were both perfectly unintelligible to me, but sounded very melancholy; and that feeling so took possession of me, that I found it difficult to prevent its being observed. There sang the poor little bird who, though the bars of her cage were gilded, and her master gentle and kind, was a prisoner for life. She will of course, before long, change her master, and be married to a man, who let us hope will love her, but who will never bestow upon her more than a trifling part of his presence.

But at least she may hope to be his only wife, as Mdlle. Elizabeth told me that the Pasha will not give his precious little daughter but to a man who will marry only one woman. The Pasha himself has had but one wife, by whom he had three children; the eldest is the wife of Kadri Bey, then comes Leilà Hanum, and Foad Bey, a fine boy of fourteen years of age, the father’s hope and pride, who is receiving an excellent education.

When Leilà had finished, I warmly expressed my delight and surprise to the father, who also seemed much delighted. I daresay he had never listened with more pleasure to Leilà’s music than when he saw it approved and admired by another.

Of how much pleasure and happiness this abominable system of seclusion deprives these people. We all know, that however much the fortunate husband of a beautiful clever and virtuous wife may love and admire her, his love and admiration are again and again stimulated by seeing her inspire similar sentiments in others. He cannot become indifferent to her charms, while he witnesses the impression they make upon others. But suppose this paragon to be locked up, and her husband never to see her except in a tête a tête. She may be faultlessly beautiful and exquisitely dressed, he is accustomed to it, and it strikes him no more. The wonderful intelligence of his firstborn, the droll sayings of his little one, which every father delights in showing off before his astonished friends, all these and numberless other joys, he must forego. The life with his family loses all charm, it becomes—but no, I will not describe what it becomes, for that is disgusting. The desire of the Turk to separate his wife from the rest of the world, goes so far, that he even dislikes to hear her mentioned. Mr. A— our host, told me, that he once inquired of a husband after the health of his wife, who was reported to be very ill, when the Turk, who usually was a polite and amiable man, at once looked dark and suspicious, while he answered with a scowl, “What is my wife to you? Do you know her, that you ask after her?” Leilà seemed much pleased with my visit, offering me three times refreshments, consisting of sweets, coffee, and sorbets, which Turkish ladies do when they wish to honour their visitors, and having them served at long intervals, which shows the desire on their part to prolong the visitor’s stay. She asked me to come often, to bring my work or book, and stay as long as it pleased me. I visited her several times, because I liked the lofty airy rooms, and to sit on the broad divan under the window, and peep through the lattice-work down upon the boundless sea, that eternal image of fetterless freedom, and see the slaves glide past, or sip the coffee they offered me. But though I had some book in my hand, I did not read much, but like a regular Turk dreamt a few hours away, thinking of the fate of the poor girls around me, and thanking God that I was born a free woman in a Christian country. There were in this Harem none of the horrid male slaves that disgusted me so much in some Harems I afterwards visited; Ismael Pasha, a wise and high-minded man, does not suffer them in his household.

And now I must not forget to say a few words more about Mdlle. Elizabeth Konta Xaki, whose acquaintance I made at my first visit to Leilà, for our intercourse did not end there. I saw her several times afterwards, and she contributed much to make my stay in Crete interesting and instructive, being always ready to give any information I wanted regarding the country and its inhabitants, and being better fitted for it than anybody else.

Mdlle. Elizabeth of Crete, for that is the name by which she is generally known, is a very remarkable woman. She was born in Crete, but received her education in Athens, and lives in an Eastern Island with the manners and habits of the West. She walks and travels about alone, protected only by the respect all have for her. Her learning and extensive knowledge would excite attention in any place in Europe; it is therefore but natural that in an island, where few women can read or write, she is the wonder and astonishment of all the inhabitants, and occupies quite a distinguished and influential position. The rebellious Greek mountaineers, the terror of the Turkish Government, respect her, and have more than once consulted her, and listened to her advice, for they know that she is a warm patriot, while the Pasha seldom fails to ask her opinion on the measures of reform he wishes to introduce, as he knows how well she can judge of their importance and utility, and that she is not hostile to the Government of the Sultan. She has written more than once to the Grand Vizier in Constantinople, and her communications have always received the attention they deserve. She has a straightforward, fearless mode in stating her opinions, which contrasts singularly with the servile manner of her compatriots. She lives alone with her aged mother, and a female servant, in a little house, in a narrow street, but her room, overlooking a little garden, is large and pleasant. Over her writing table hangs a pleasing portrait of our Queen, which was given to her by an English friend. Some interesting antiquities in marble and terra-cotta, found in Crete, are the only ornaments of the room.