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Title: Turkish Harems & Circassian Homes
Author: Annie Jane Harvey
Release Date: April 18, 2015 [EBook #48737]
Language: English
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TURKISH HAREMS
&
CIRCASSIAN HOMES
BY
MRS. HARVEY.
OF ICKWELL BURY.
LONDON
HURST & BLACKETT.
GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET
1871.
TO THE
LADY ELIZABETH RUSSELL,
THIS LITTLE VOLUME
IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.
PREFACE.
It is hoped by the Authoress that this little record of a past
summer may recall some pleasant recollections to those who have
already visited the sunny lands she attempts to describe; and that
her accounts, though they inadequately express the beauty and charm
of these distant countries, may interest those who prefer travelling
for half-an-hour when seated in their arm-chairs.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
THE CITY OF THE SUN 1
CHAPTER II.
THE HOUR OF PRAYER 21
CHAPTER III.
SECTS 40
CHAPTER IV.
THE HAREM 54
CHAPTER V.
THE HAPPY VALLEY 82
CHAPTER VI.
AN EASTERN BANQUET 99
CHAPTER VII.
EUPATORIA 111
CHAPTER VIII.
SEVASTOPOL 125
CHAPTER IX.
TRACES OF WAR 138
CHAPTER X.
VALLEY OF TCHERNAIA 157
CHAPTER XI.
A RUSSIAN INTERIOR 172
CHAPTER XII.
CIRCASSIA 200
CHAPTER XIII.
SOUKOUM 214
CHAPTER XIV.
CIRCASSIAN MEN AND WOMEN 239
CHAPTER XV.
A LAST RIDE 259
CHAPTER XVI.
SINOPE 271
CHAPTER XVII.
STORM-CLOUDS 289
TURKISH HAREMS
AND
CIRCASSIAN HOMES.
CHAPTER I.
THE CITY OF THE SUN.
It was on a sunny summer morning that an English schooner yacht,
that had been tossing about all night on the stormy waves of the
Sea of Marmora, rounded the point opposite Scutari, and, gracefully
spreading her wings like a white bird, came rapidly on under the
influence of the fresh morning breeze, and cast anchor at the entrance
of the Golden Horn.
The rattle of the chain had scarcely ceased when up came all the
poor sea-sick folk from below, for yachting people can be sea-sick
sometimes, whatever may be the popular belief to the contrary.
Never, perhaps, was a greater Babel of tongues heard on board any
little vessel. The owner of the yacht, his wife and sister, were
English; but there was an Italian governess, a French maid, a German
bonne, a Neapolitan captain, a Maltese mate, two children speaking
indifferently well most of these languages, and a crew comprising
every nation bordering the Mediterranean.
(This little explanation has been given in excuse for the desultory
nature of the few pages that are offered, with much diffidence,
to a kind public, as they consist principally of extracts from the
journals and letters of the various dwellers on board the Claymore.)
Besides these many tongues that were pouring forth expressions of joy
and admiration with a vehemence of gesticulation and an energy of
tone unknown in northern lands, two canaries, gifted with the most
vigorous lungs and the most indefatigable throats, lifted up their
shrill voices to add to the general clamour.
All this uproar, however, was but to express the delight every one
felt at the unequalled beauty of the scene before them.
"Veder Napoli, e poi morir!" is a well-known saying. Put Constantinople
instead of Naples, and the flattering words are equally applicable.
Constantinople has been so often written about that it is useless
to describe its lovely aspect in detail. Every one knows that there
are minarets and towers rising up, in fairy-like grace, from amid
gardens and cypress groves; but "he who would see it aright" should
have his first view in all the bright unreality of a sunny summer
morning. Soon after dawn, in the tender duskiness of the early hours,
when the light steals down shyly from the veiled east, and before
the business and noise of a great city begin, Constantinople is like
the sleeping beauty in the wood. A great hush is over everything,
broken only when the sun comes up in a blaze of light, flooding sea,
earth, and city with a "glory" of life and colour.
Then from each minaret is heard the voice of the muezzins, as they
summon the faithful to prayers. The fairy-like caïques skim in every
direction across the waters; and the beautifully-named but dirty and
somewhat ugly Golden Horn is all astir with moving vessels.
Nearly opposite the yacht was a very handsome building of white Greek
marble, with an immense frontage to the sea. This is the Sultan's
palace of Dolmé-Batché. The wing on the right, where the windows are
closely barred and jealously latticed, contains the apartments of
the ladies of the Imperial harem.
Behind the palace, stretching up the hill and crowning its summit,
are seen the white, handsome houses that form the fashionable suburb
of Pera. Here ambassadors and bankers have large, comfortable hotels;
here, too, are the European shops, and the promenade for the Christian
world. But the part to see--the part that interests--is, of course, the
old Turkish quarter, Stamboul; for in Stamboul are Turks in turbans,
and in Stamboul are real Turkish houses.
More tumble-down places it would be difficult to find. A man had
need to be a fatalist to live in a house of which all the four walls
lean at different angles. A fire, instead of a misfortune, must be a
real blessing, were it only to bring some air into the dirty, narrow,
ill-savoured streets.
The dirt, the narrowness, and the wretchedly bad pavement, combined
with another trouble, the multitude of dogs lying about, make walking,
pain and grief to the newly-arrived foreigner.
Besides these disagreeables, there is the danger of being crushed
flat against a wall by human beasts of burden called "hamals" or
porters. It is really frightful to see men so laden.
As they come staggering along, bent double beneath their loads, at
every few steps they utter a loud cry, to warn passers-by to get out
of their way. It is, however, by no means an easy matter to avoid
them. The streets are so narrow and tortuous that, after jumping
hastily aside to escape one monstrous package coming up the road, the
unhappy stranger is nearly knocked over by another huge load coming
down. Dogs' tails, too, are always lying where dogs' tails should not
be; and in the agitation and anxiety caused by incessantly darting
from side to side of the street to avoid the groaning "hamals," it
is exceedingly difficult to avoid treading occasionally on one of
these inconvenient tails, and then the whole quarter resounds with
hideous howlings.
The bazaars have been so well and so fully described that it is
needless to say much about them. Our first sensation on seeing them
was, perhaps, that of a little disappointment; but after a time we
better appreciated the picturesque beauty and richness of colouring
that the long dark lanes of little shops presented.
As a rule, few pretty things, excepting shoes and slippers, are exposed
on the stalls. Rugs, carpets, shawls, and jewels are generally kept
behind the shops in cupboards and warehouses.
Turquoises were very abundant and low in price, but all we saw were
of inferior quality, and the large stones had some flaw. Pretty
melon-shaped caskets are made in silver to hold cakes, and
the silver rose-water bottles are charming both in design and
workmanship. Foreigners are speedily attracted to the drug bazaar
by the odd mixture of pungent, pleasant, and disagreeable odours
that proceed from it. Here the scene is like a living picture of
the "Arabian Nights' Tales." Like Amine in the story of "The Three
Calenders," many a veiled figure attended by her black slave may
be seen making her purchases of drugs and spices of the venerable
old doctors, who, with spectacles on nose, and huge musty folios at
their side, look the very personification of wisdom, equally able to
administer medicines and to draw the horoscopes of their patients.
The arms bazaar is also attractive, not only for the magnificence and
value of its contents, but from the picturesque beauty of the quaint,
dark, lofty old building in which the richly-decorated weapons are
displayed.
At first, the immense amount of bargaining that is required before
any purchase can be effected is very amusing; but after some weeks it
becomes tiresome, even to people who have had many years' experience
in Italy.
If anything of importance has to be bought, many hours, sometimes many
days, elapse between the opening of the business and its conclusion.
The friends of both parties cordially assist in the affair with the
utmost force of their lungs, and an amount of falsehood is told
by Christians as well as Turks that ought to lie heavily on the
consciences of all; but "do in Turkey as the Turks do," is a maxim
which all appear to accept, and so no one dreams of speaking the
truth in a Constantinople bazaar.
When the struggle is at its height, coffee is brought, which materially
recruits the strength of all concerned, and should the affair be
very important, a friendly pipe is smoked; then everyone sets to
work again, vowing, protesting, denying. The seller asserts by all
that is holy that he will lose money, but that such is the love he
feels for the stranger and the Frank, that he will sell the article
to him for such and such a price (probably four times as much as the
sum he means to take), and at length, after an exhausting afternoon,
the foreigner retires triumphant, bearing away with him the coveted
shawls or carpets, and not having paid perhaps more than double the
money they are worth.
As we remained on the Bosphorus for a considerable part of the summer,
we were enabled not only to see at our ease the many objects of
interest to be found in Constantinople and the lovely country that
surrounds it, but also to gratify the great wish we had of becoming
somewhat acquainted with Turkish life, and of learning something of
the realities of Turkish homes.
Every year it is more difficult for passing travellers to gain
admittance to the harems. Of course the members of the principal
families object to be made a show of, and equally of course the
wives of the diplomatists residing in Constantinople are unwilling to
intrude too frequently upon the privacy of these ladies. A Turkish
visit also entails a somewhat serious loss of time, as it generally
lasts from mid-day to sunset.
When royal and other very great ladies arrive at Constantinople,
certain grand fêtes are given to them in different official houses,
but these magnificent breakfasts and dinners do not give Europeans a
better knowledge of Turkish homes than a dinner or ball at Buckingham
Palace or the Tuileries would give a Turk respecting the nature of
domestic life in England or France.
The wives of several diplomats had given us letters of introduction
to many of their friends at Constantinople, and so kindly were these
responded to by the Turkish ladies that we found ourselves received
at once with the greatest cordiality, and before we left the shores
of the Bosphorus had made friendships that we heartily trust we may
be fortunate enough to renew at some future day.
After a stay of several months, our conviction was that it would be
difficult to find people more kind-hearted, more simple-mannered,
or more sweet-tempered than the Turkish women.
The servants, or slaves, are treated with a kindness and consideration
that many Christian households would do well to imitate. They seem
quite part of the family, and in fact a woman slave does belong to
it should she have a child, as she then is entitled to her freedom,
and her master is bound to accord her certain privileges which give
her a position higher than that of a servant, though she does not
attain the dignity of being a wife.
The greatest punishment we have heard of, and which is only inflicted
on viragos whose tongues set the whole harem in a flame, is to sell (or
what is still worse) to give them away to a family of inferior rank.
This is considered a frightful indignity, and one which, when seriously
threatened, usually suffices to still the veriest shrew.
Of course a jealous and perhaps neglected wife may occasionally make a
pretty young odalisk's life somewhat uncomfortable, but harsh usage and
cruelty are almost unknown; and in general the wife (for now there is
seldom more than one) is quite satisfied if her authority is upheld,
and if she remain the supreme head of the household. If content on
these matters, she rarely troubles herself about the amusements of
her husband.
A Turkish woman also rapidly becomes old, and after a few years of
youth finds her principal happiness in the care of her children,
in eating, in the gossip at the bath, and in the weekly drive to the
Valley of the Sweet Waters.
A Turkish wife, whatever her rank, is always at home at sunset to
receive her husband, and to present him with his pipe and slippers
when, his daily work over, he comes to enjoy the repose of his harem.
In most households also the wife superintends her husband's dinner,
and has the entire control over all domestic affairs.
The greatest charm of the Turkish ladies consists in the perfect
simplicity of their manners, and in the total absence of all pretence.
When we knew them better, the childlike frankness with which they
talked was both amusing and pleasant; but many of them nevertheless
were shrewd and intelligent, and had they received anything like
adequate education, would have been able to compete with some of the
most talented of their European sisters.
As mothers, their tenderness is unequalled, but their fault here is
over-indulgence of the children, who, until ten or twelve years of age,
are permitted to do everything they like.
Many of the ladies whose acquaintance we made showed a remarkably
quick ear, and great facility in learning various songs and pieces
of music that we gave them. Their voices were sweet and melodious,
and it was surprising with what rapidity they caught the Italian and
Neapolitan airs that they heard us sing.
The great bar to any real progress being made towards their due
education, and the enlargement of their minds, is the seclusion in
which they live.
Men and women are evidently not intended to live socially apart, for
each deteriorates by the separation. Men who live only with other men
become rough, selfish, and coarse; whilst women, when entirely limited
to the conversation of their own sex, grow indolent, narrow-minded,
and scandal-loving. Like flint and steel, the brilliant spark only
comes forth when the necessary amount of friction has been applied.
Whatever degree of intimacy may be attained, it is rare that foreigners
obtain a knowledge of more than the surface of Turkish life and
manners. Strangers, therefore, should speak with much caution
and reserve; but still, even a casual observer must perceive that
polygamy and the singular laws regarding succession are productive
of innumerable evils amongst the Turks.
The men, it is said, have but little, if any, love for their
offspring. Not only do they dislike the expense of bringing up
children, but fathers dread having sons who in time may become their
most dangerous enemies.
In quiet families who live apart from public life the boys have a
better chance of being spared. In families of very high rank but
few are to be seen, whilst in the households of the relatives of the
Sultan they are still more rare.
Infanticide, therefore, prevails extensively; it is hinted at without
scruple; in fact, the Turks, both men and women, do not hesitate
to express their surprise that Europeans encumber themselves with
large families.
In the Imperial House, the throne descends in succession to each son of
a deceased Sultan before any grandson can inherit. This regulation was
made in order that the monarch should be the nearest living relative
of the Prophet.
In olden times, therefore, the first act of a Sultan on ascending the
throne was to get rid of all his brothers by imprisonment or death,
not only for the purpose of securing the crown for his own children,
but to prevent the risk that might accrue to himself by there being
a grown-up successor ready to usurp his place.
Personal merit used to be a matter of comparative indifference to
the Turks, provided the Sultan were a member of the great imperial
family. Occasionally therefore monarchs, who had reason to believe
themselves much hated by their subjects, have not hesitated to
sacrifice their own offspring to their fears.
The late Sultan, Abd-ul-Medjid, was thought a wonder of liberality
because he permitted his brother, the present Sultan, to live. But
Abd-ul-Medjid's heart had been softened by a sorrow he had had in early
life. Shortly before he came to the throne he had a favourite odalisk,
to whom he was much attached. In those days none of the royal princes
were permitted to become fathers, and the poor girl fell a sacrifice
to the State policy which forbade her becoming the mother of a living
child. Within a week of her death Sultan Mahmoud died, and his son
ascended the throne. Had the odalisk lived and had a son, she would
have enjoyed the rank of first "Kadun" to the reigning monarch.
The Sultan's rank is so elevated--his position is so far above that of
every other mortal--that there is no woman on earth sufficiently his
equal to enable him to marry her. He has, therefore, no legal wife,
but his ladies are called "Kaduns," or companions, and the mother
of his eldest son is always chief kadun, a position that gives her
many advantages. These ladies are not called sultanas, for only the
princesses of the blood-royal enjoy that title, but the mother of
the reigning sovereign is named Sultan-Validé.
Occasionally, when there is a subject whom the Sultan wishes especially
to honour, the favoured pasha has one of the monarch's daughters
or sisters given to him in marriage; but this great distinction
is sometimes the cause of much sorrow, and uproots much domestic
happiness, as all other wives must be sent away, and the children of
such marriages equally banished, before the royal bride will condescend
to enter the pasha's harem. Even after marriage, the royal lady
will sometimes insist upon retaining all the privileges of her rank,
and in that case the husband becomes the veriest slave imaginable,
never daring to enter the harem unless summoned by the princess,
and when there often obliged to remain standing while receiving the
orders of his imperial and imperious wife. F---- Pasha, though his
ambition was gratified by becoming the brother-in-law of the Sultan,
paid somewhat dearly, if reports be true, for the honour of this royal
alliance, as the princess was said to be a lady of uncertain temper,
or rather of a very certain temper, as Charles Dickens described it. At
any rate F---- Pasha's heart clung to the forsaken wife and children
of his humbler and perhaps happier days; and sometimes in the dusk
of the evening a small, undecorated caïque, containing a man closely
muffled up, might be seen darting swiftly across the Bosphorus from
the palace of the lordly pasha to the remote quarter of Scutari,
where, in a humble house in a back street, were hid away the poor
deserted wife and her little children.
All, therefore, is not gold that glitters in the lives of the members
of the imperial family, and the State policy that ordains there
shall not be too many heirs near the throne often wrings the heart
and embitters the existence of many of the tender-hearted princesses.
Although the men probably accept the necessities of this policy
with comparative indifference, the mothers do not so easily resign
themselves to the loss of their infants, and many a sad story gets
whispered about of the grievous struggles some of the poor creatures
have made to preserve their little ones from the impending doom.
The death of one royal lady that took place while we were at
Constantinople, was hastened by the grief she had gone through by
thus losing her only boy.
When her marriage took place, she had obtained the promise that all her
children were to be spared. In due time a boy was born, and the father
received an intimation that the child had better "cease to be." The
Sultana, however, claimed the fulfilment of the promise that had been
made her, and watched and guarded the little fellow most rigorously.
The Sultan's word being inviolable, it was not possible to break it
openly, but the mother was aware of the jealousy that was created by
the privilege accorded to her, and knew that the child's life was in
constant peril. It is said that attempts were made both to poison and
to drown him, but these cruel designs were frustrated by the vigilance
of his mother, who never suffered the child to be absent from her.
When the boy was between two and three years old, two more of the
Sultan's daughters married, and many magnificent fêtes were given on
the occasion. The elder sister was of course present, accompanied
as usual by her little son; but one day in the crowd the child
disappeared, and has never since been heard of.
Although the poor mother had another child, a girl, she never held
up her head again after the disappearance of her boy, and actually
pined away and died from grief at his loss.
This is not a solitary instance of the sorrows of royal Turkish ladies.
As we became more intimate with the inhabitants of the harem,
and were able to understand and express ourselves a little better,
our friends made themselves very merry at the expense of some of our
Frank customs. Few of our habits appeared to them more ludicrous than
that of the men so incessantly raising their hats.
When quarrelling, it is a common mode of abuse to say, "May your
fatigued and hated soul, when it arrives in purgatory, find no more
rest than a Giaour's hat enjoys on earth!"
The Turkish language is rich and euphonious, and is capable of so
much variety of expression that it is remarkably well adapted to
poetry. The verses we occasionally heard recited had a rhythm that
was exceedingly agreeable to the ear.
Though improvements do not march on in Turkey with giant strides,
still progress is being made surely, though slowly; and many of
the Turks, besides being well educated in other respects, now speak
Italian, English, and French with much fluency. Some of the ladies,
also, are beginning to learn these languages, although most of them,
excepting those very few who have been abroad, are too shy to venture
to speak in a foreign tongue.
The Sultan's mother--the Sultan-Validé--was a very superior woman,
and did much good service towards promoting education. Amongst other
of her excellent deeds, she founded a college for the instruction of
young candidates for public offices.
There are now in Constantinople medical, naval, and agricultural
schools, all well attended, and fairly well looked after.
For the women, private tuition is of course their only means of
learning, and not only is the supply of governesses very limited,
but their abilities are in general of a very mediocre description.
Unless in very superior families, a little--a very little Arabic, to
enable them to read, though not to understand, the Koran, working,
knitting, and perhaps a slight acquaintance with French and music,
is deemed amply sufficient knowledge for daughters to acquire.
CHAPTER II.
THE HOUR OF PRAYER.
There is much that is both grand and poetical in many of the practices
of the Mohammedan religion; and few things strike the stranger more
than the frequent calls to prayer that resound at certain hours of
the day from every minaret of the city.
The formula used is simple, but heart-stirring: "Allah akbar! Allah
akbar! Great God! Great God! There is no God but God! I declare that
Mohammed is the apostle of God! O great Redeemer! O Ruler of the
universe! Great God! Great God! There is no God but God."
This is chanted by the muezzin in a loud but musical voice as he
walks slowly around the minaret, thus summoning from every portion
of the globe the faithful to join him in holy prayer.
At sunrise, at mid-day, at three o'clock, and again at nine, the sacred
cry re-echoes above the city, and every true believer as it reaches
his ear prostrates himself with his face towards Mecca, exclaiming:
"There is no power, no might, but in God Almighty."
All who can, perform their devotions in the mosques, although
earnest prayer is quite as efficacious when made in a house or by
the road-side.
One Friday, having provided ourselves with the necessary firman,
we repaired to Santa Sophia, and arrived there a few minutes before
the hour of mid-day prayer. Franks are now admitted into the mosque,
but have to put on slippers over their boots, that they may not defile
the exquisite cleanliness of the floor. As the service was about to
begin, we went up to one of the galleries, and from thence had a good
general view of the interior.
Nothing could be more simple. There was as little decoration as would
be found in a low-church Protestant chapel. A few ostrich eggs and some
large candelabra hung from the roof, but all the Christian paintings
and ornaments have been destroyed or defaced. The figures and the six
wings of the famous cherubim can still be seen faintly traced on the
dome, but the faces of the angels have been covered with golden plates,
as the Turks interpret very literally the commandment against idolatry.
Although there was but little to see in the mosque itself apart from
its historical associations, the vast assemblage of worshippers that
nearly filled its spacious area was most interesting to behold.
Stamboul (in which quarter is Santa Sophia) is now principally
inhabited by old-fashioned Turks, and by large colonies of
Circassians. Many of the worshippers, therefore, wore the flowing robe
and stately turban now nearly banished from the more fashionable parts
of the town. The Circassians also were habited in their picturesque
national costume, and it would be impossible to see anywhere men more
dignified or noble in appearance than these poor exiles.
The service is impressive from its grand simplicity. As the hour
of noon is proclaimed, the Imaun places himself before a small
niche called the Mihrab, that points towards Mecca, and in a loud
voice proclaims, "Allah akbar! Allah akbar!" The congregation arise,
respond with the same words, and the cry seems, like a mighty wave,
to roll backward and forward through the vast space.
Every man then turns his eyes humbly to the ground as the Imaun
recites the Fatiha or Lord's Prayer:
"In the name of the most merciful God; praise be to God the Lord of all
creatures, the most merciful, the Lord of the Day of Judgment. Thee
do we worship, and of Thee do we beg help, direct us in the right
way. Direct us in the way of those to whom Thou hast been gracious;
not of those against whom thou art incensed, nor of those who go
astray. Ameen, ameen!"
The congregation then prostrate themselves repeatedly in acknowledgment
of the Almighty's power and might. A chapter of the Koran is read,
followed by more prostrations, with another prayer in which the
worshippers join. Then the Imaun calls out in a loud voice that each
man is to make his private prayer, and the solemn silence and perfect
quiet that ensues is most impressive.
Prayers were now over, and those who wished retired. The remainder
approached nearer a small pulpit into which another Imaun mounted,
who, seated cross-legged on a cushion, commenced an exposition of
some portion of the Koran.
No women had hitherto been present during the service, but a few now
entered and seated themselves behind the men.
When we walked round the mosque to examine it in detail, we were
shown the mark said to have been made by the hand of Sultan Mahmoud
when he placed it upon one of the great columns in token that he
took possession of the stronghold of the Christian faith. As the
spot indicated, however, is at least fifteen feet from the ground,
we permitted ourselves to doubt the accuracy of the statement.
After leaving Santa Sophia we passed through the largest square in
Constantinople, called Ak' Meidan, or the "place of meat." Here it
was that the Janissaries were put to death by the orders of Sultan
Mahmoud. This wholesale massacre, fearful as it was, and cruel as
it seemed, nevertheless delivered Turkey from one of its greatest
scourges, for such was the rapacity, the cruelty, and the overbearing
insolence of these famous troops, that no man's life or property was
safe for an hour, and the whole country groaned under a tyranny more
oppressive than any it had ever known.
After Santa Sophia, the finest mosque in Constantinople is that of
Sultan Ahmed. It is a large and handsome building; its six tall,
graceful minarets giving much beauty to the exterior, whilst the
interior is chiefly remarkable for the eleven gigantic columns that
support the roof. The mosque possesses some very fine Korans all richly
bound in velvet, some of them even encrusted with pearls and precious
stones. There is also a magnificent collection of jewelled cups that
have been presented by various sultans and by many rich pashas.
When we issued forth from the cool freshness of the shady mosque, the
burning glare of the sun seemed doubly oppressive. We were thankful
even to climb into the little telega that was awaiting us; fleas and
tight squeezing seeming slight evils compared with the scorching heat
and blinding vividness of the sun's rays.
When we halted at the beautiful fountain of Ahmed the Third, never
did water and marble look more delicious and refreshing.
This celebrated fountain is one of the most beautiful little
buildings in Constantinople. It is an octagon made of white marble, the
projecting roof extending far beyond the walls. Where gilt lattice-work
has not been let into the sides they are covered with inscriptions
in gold letters, extolling the virtues of the treasure it contains;
for the waters of the Fountain of Ahmed are said to excel in freshness
and purity even those of the Holy Well of the Prophet at Mecca, and
have been in many poems compared to the Sacred Fount whose eternal
spring has its rise in Paradise itself.
On a little marble slab outside the building are arranged rows of
brass cups full of the fresh water so precious to the hot and weary
passenger in Constantinople.
As we lingered in the grateful shade, thankful to escape, even
for a few minutes, from the scorching heat, two poor hamals came
staggering down the street, bent nearly double beneath their terrible
loads. With almost a groan of relief they came beneath the shelter
of the projecting roof, and, dropping their packs, seated themselves
on the fresh, cool marble pavement. It was now three o'clock, and,
pouring a few cups of water over their hands and feet, they prostrated
themselves towards Mecca, and remained an instant in silent prayer.
These poor fellows, notwithstanding their galling toil, are a merry,
contented race of people. From dawn to sunset they work like beasts
of burden, and are satisfied with food that would kill an English
workman in a week. Our two neighbours each pulled a very small bit of
black bread from his pocket, got a slice of melon from an adjacent
fruit stall, and this slender fare, washed down by a few cups of
water, made their dinner for the day. The repast, slight as it was,
was eaten with a cheerfulness and satisfaction that might have been
envied by many a gourmand.
At sunset, however, they feel themselves amply repaid for the fatigues
of the day if they can but gain enough to indulge in an infinite
number of cups of the strongest coffee, which, with the soothing pipe,
gives them strength to sustain their prodigious toil.
One ought to visit the East to appreciate, to its full extent, the
blessing of an abundance of fresh and pure water. No wonder that the
Prophet says that he who bestows the treasure of a fountain on his
fellow-men shall be sustained by the supporting hand of the Angel
of Mercy as he traverses the perilous bridge made of a single hair,
by which alone the gates of Paradise can be reached.
Fresh springs of water, also, are doubly dear to the hearts of the
faithful, as by the direct miracle of sending water in the wilderness
was the life of Ishmael saved when Sarai succeeded in having the
child and his mother Hagar banished from the tents of Abraham.
Wandering far into the recesses of the desert, the small bottle of
water with which she had been provided speedily became empty, and the
sorrowing and forsaken woman found herself in the terrible wilderness
alone, and far from the aid of man. She placed her hapless infant
beneath some shrubs, and, retiring to a distance that she might not
see the little creature die, the unhappy mother lifted up her voice
and wept.
But when was the Almighty deaf to the cry of the afflicted and
oppressed? He hears when men's ears and hearts are closed; and, swift
as thought, the Angel of Compassion, that watches day and night at
the foot of God's throne, sped from his heavenly post and touched
the barren earth. The faint flutter of the angel's wings roused the
poor mother from her grief: she turned and beheld, gushing brightly
from the rock, the stream whose crystal waters brought salvation to
herself and to her child.
Although it is the custom to inveigh energetically against the folly
of seeing too many sights at once, yet old travellers know full well
that no town is really enjoyable until all the wonders of it have
been visited.
Then, and not till then, is there rest for mind and body, as, all
necessary sights seen, the traveller can seek again the especial
objects of his fancy, and in peace and ease make more intimate
acquaintance with the scenes of nature, or of art, that have the most
charm for him.
Most people, probably, will acknowledge that the former have a
considerable supremacy over the latter in Constantinople. There are
no picture-galleries, and, excepting some of the mosques, a few
palaces, and the Seraglio, there are few buildings to interest a
lover of architecture.
The Seraglio, however, is well worth a visit, for, though neither
grand, nor beautiful, it is interesting in many ways; and the position
it occupies on rising ground at the entrance of the Golden Horn
(thus commanding the Bosphorus both east and west) makes the views
from its gardens quite unequalled in beauty.
The summer was unusually hot, so that it was often quite an effort to
tear ourselves away from the cool rooms and delightful garden of the
Embassy at Therapia, where we were staying, and undertake a regular
afternoon of sight-seeing, especially also as it was necessary to
go to Stamboul, or Pera, in one of the hot little steamers that ply
incessantly up and down the Bosphorus.
One intensely hot day, however, we set off for the Seraglio, and
the thermometer being at any number of degrees, and the deck of the
steamer so crowded that there was barely standing room, we arrived
at the gate of the Palace in a very exhausted state. When we entered
the first court therefore, and found ourselves under the shade of
a gigantic plane-tree, a faint breeze every now and then rustling
amongst the leaves, the change was so pleasant that we thought we
would give up sight seeing, and stay there till night.
Not only was the cool shade very grateful to our feelings, but the
pretty scene before us was very pleasant to the eyes. Beneath the
tree was a small fountain, its stream trickling into a shallow marble
basin, and on its brink were seated groups of gaily-dressed women,
chattering merrily as they ate melon and sweetmeats.
Having never been in Spain, we are ignorant of the witching grace
bestowed upon the fair or unfair Spaniard by the magic folds of the
mantilla; but not having had that good fortune, we all agreed that
no head-dress is so becoming to the female face as the Turkish veil,
worn as it is arranged at Constantinople.
Great art and much consideration are bestowed upon the arrangement
of the folds; and in this respect a lady of Constantinople is as
much superior to her Eastern compeers as a "lionne" in Paris would
be above her provincial rivals.
So coquettishly is the transparent muslin folded over the nose and
mouth, so tenderly does it veil the forehead, that the delicate cloud
seems but to heighten and increase each charm. Far, very far is it
from hiding the features from the profaning gaze of man, as was so
savagely ordained by Mohammed.
Nose, mouth, and forehead being thus softly shadowed, the great
luminous eyes shine out with doubled brilliancy and effect.
It is some consolation to Frank ladies to know that, excepting that
never-to-be-sufficiently praised veil, Turkish out-door costume is
absolutely hideous.
A large loose cloak called a "feredje" is thrown over the in-door
dress, and this is so long that it has to be gathered up in front when
the wearer walks, thus giving her the appearance of a moving bag or
bundle. The huge, unshapely yellow boots also give a very ungainly
appearance. Some of the fashionable ladies, however, are discarding
these ugly over-alls, and are adopting French boots without heels.
Near the wall were drawn up "arabas" waiting for the ladies, and very
magnificent "turn-outs" they were.
An araba is a native carriage that is much used by women, as it easily
contains eight or ten persons. In shape it is something between a
char-à-banc and a waggon, but is without springs. It is generally
very gaily decorated and painted, and is comfortably cushioned
inside. The top is covered with a thick red, green, or blue cloth
that is fringed with gold. The white oxen that draw the carriages
are generally beautiful creatures, and are also brilliantly adorned
with red trappings and tassels, and have sometimes their foreheads
painted bright pink or blue.
After a time our exhausted bodies became somewhat refreshed, and
our crushed minds began to revive, and to face more courageously
the duties of the day; so at last, summoning a strong resolution,
we rushed across the hot court and over another burning "place,"
where the gravel felt as if it had been baked in an oven, and found
ourselves in the Imperial armoury.
It was formerly an old chapel, and the remains of a great white marble
cross at one end seemed to rebuke the desecration it is suffering.
There are some magnificent scimitars, made of the finest Damascus
steel, and some of the hilts and scabbards are of gold, thickly
encrusted with precious stones, but beyond these valuable decorations
the collection of arms did not appear to be of much value. There are
some hundreds of old matchlocks of an obsolete form, and probably of
doubtful utility.
Amongst the curiosities are shown the Bells of Santa Sophia when it
was a Christian church, the ancient keys of Constantinople, and the
gorgeous scimitar of Sultan Mahmoud.
The Palace is but an assemblage of small buildings joined together
by passages, and added to, from time to time, by successive sovereigns.
We passed through many large rooms or saloons, very handsome as to
size, and richly ornamented with painting and gilding; but we thought
them too low for their length, a defect that is increased by the
heavy decorations of the ceilings.
There was but little furniture--only a few hard chairs besides the
usual divan, and sometimes a console table with a French clock upon it.
Some of the smaller rooms were painted in arabesques, and had portières
of blue or red satin over the doors.
From the position of the Palace, however, the views from the great
recesses, full of windows, were quite enchanting.
A long low passage, hung with indifferent French and English
prints, representing naval battles, storms at sea, &c., led to the
bath-rooms--a pretty little set of apartments, with domed ceilings,
beautifully fretted and painted.
The Sultan, however, has long ceased to reside here, and only comes
on certain stated occasions, such as after the feast of the Bairam.
The grand procession from the mosque on that day is a magnificent
pageant.
A crowd of court pages, resplendent with gold embroidery and brilliant
dresses, precede the monarch, who, mounted on a matchless snow-white
Arabian steed, rides slowly on, surrounded by all the great dignitaries
of the Empire. The Pashas, habited in their state uniforms, are a
mass of gold and precious stones, their saddles and the trappings of
their horses being equally gorgeous.
Amidst all the magnificence of this group the Sultan alone is dressed
with simplicity. He wears a dark frock coat with but little embroidery
about it; but on the front of his fez and on the hilt of his sword
blaze the enormous diamonds that are the pride of the Imperial
treasury, while the housings of his Arab are almost hidden by the
pearls and precious stones by which they are adorned.
On arriving at the Seraglio the Sultan proceeds to the throne-room,
and there receives all his great officers of state. Ambassadors and
foreign ministers are received at other times.
The Sultan goes in state to the mosque every Friday, and when he
is then passing through the streets his people may approach him to
present petitions.
The "temennah," as the ordinary mode of salutation is termed, is a
very graceful gesticulation. The hand is bent towards the ground, as
if to take up the hem of the superior's garment, and then pressed on
the heart, forehead, and lips, to signify both humility and affection.
To call the pleasure-grounds that surround the Seraglio gardens, is a
misnomer according to the European idea of what a garden should be, for
there is scarcely a flower to be seen. They are a series of beautiful
wildernesses, where the nightingales sing from the tangled thickets,
and where each turn in the pathway, each opening amongst the trees,
discloses some enchanting view, either of the bright blue Bosphorus,
or of the misty grey of the distant mountains, or gives a peep of
the city itself, whose innumerable domes and minarets rise dazzlingly
white above the dark masses of cypress, their gilded crescents flashing
brightly in the brilliant sunshine.
The soft rustling of the breeze amongst the trees, the sweet scent
of the cypresses and flowering shrubs, all invited to a halt, and we
seated ourselves on a piece of old wall, and idly watched the caïques
as they glided across the Bosphorus.
Near us was a low gateway projecting over the sea, and in olden times
its portals never opened, save when the sack was borne forth, that
contained sometimes the living body of those odalisks whose conduct
had not been sans reproche. In later years it is believed that
these unhappy women were taken to a fortress called Roumel-Hissei,
or Castles in Europe, and there strangled. Their bodies, sewn up in
a sack, were then thrown into the middle of the stream, where the
strength of the current would rapidly carry them out to sea. At any
rate, whatever their punishment, the extent of it is never known
beyond the walls of the Imperial Harem.
The flocks of little birds that are seen skimming so rapidly and so
restlessly over the waves of the Bosphorus, are supposed by the Turks
to be the souls of these unfortunates, who, for their great sin, are
for ever condemned to seek in vain the lover who had led them astray.
CHAPTER III.
SECTS.
Although in olden times the Moslems were both cruel and fanatical in
forcing their religion upon conquered nations, the Turks of to-day
are exceedingly tolerant, and unlike the Mohammedans of Syria and Asia
Minor, who abhor every denomination of Christians, permit Protestant,
Roman Catholic, and Greek chapels to be erected without opposition
in the neighbourhood of Constantinople.
Indeed, at this present time, the Sheyees, as the followers of Ali
are called, are hated by the orthodox party, or Sünnees, far more
intensely than any sects of Christians are.
However, notwithstanding the religious warfare that rages between the
heads of these two great parties, almost every description of worship
is tolerated by the Government, and there are as many Dissenters
therefore in Constantinople as could be found in London. One of the
most popular sects, especially amongst the lower classes, is that
of the Dancing Dervishes, and it is a curious though a somewhat
humiliating spectacle, to see by what extraordinary means men seek
to do homage to their Creator.
The Dervishes assemble every Tuesday and Friday, the ceremonial being
the same on both days. On arriving at the Tekké, or place of worship,
we were taken to a large room on the upper storey. A gallery ran round
three sides of this apartment, portions of it being partitioned off
for the use of the Sultan and of Turkish ladies.
A large circular space is railed off in the centre of the room and
reserved for the Dervishes. A few women and children, some Turkish
officers and soldiers, were also seated in the gallery near us. No
other foreigners were present besides ourselves.
About twenty Dervishes speedily arrived, and their Mollah or Sheik,
a venerable old man, with a long white beard, seated himself before
the niche that indicated the direction of Mecca. The Dervishes stood
before him in a semicircle, without shoes, their arms crossed upon
their breasts, and their eyes humbly cast upon the ground. They were
all without exception pallid and haggard, and apparently belonged
to quite the lower classes. One was a mere boy of about thirteen or
fourteen, another was blind, a third was a negro.
After a few sentences, recited from the Koran, the Dervishes, headed
by their mollah, began to march slowly round and round the enclosure,
adapting their steps to the music (if it could be so called) of a
tom-tom and a sort of flute, that from time to time uttered a low
melancholy wail.
After having made four or five rounds, the mollah returned to his
seat, and the Dervishes, throwing off their cloaks, appeared in white
jackets and long yellow petticoats.
The mollah began to pray aloud, and, as if inspired by the prayer
to which they listened with upturned faces, the Dervishes began to
turn round; slowly at first, but then as the heavenly visions became
more and more vivid, they extended their arms above their heads,
they closed their eyes, and their countenances showed that they were
in a trance of ecstatic joy.
The mollah ceased to pray, but round and round went the whirling
figures, faster and faster. It was a wonderful sight, so many men
moving with such rapidity, all apparently unconscious, yet never did
one touch the other.
The only sound heard was the occasional flutter of a petticoat,
and the unearthly noise of the music from the gallery, for as the
movements became more rapid, so did the tom-tom increase in vehemence,
and the wailings of the flute became more and more dismally dreadful.
The effect was singular upon us spectators in the gallery. After a
time many of our neighbours seemed to become, as it were, infected
with the extraordinary scene below, their eyes became fixed, and they
began rocking themselves to and fro in rhythm with the movements of
the Dervishes.
We were also becoming quite giddy from assisting at such a fatiguing
religion, when, happily for us, the mollah bowed his head; in an
instant each man stopped short, and bowed as quietly as if nothing
had happened.
A few prayers and some sentences from the Koran were again recited,
and the Dervishes, who were in a state of heat and exhaustion quite
distressing to see, resumed their cloaks. They then knelt while more
prayers were said. Each man then kissed the hand of the sheik and
those of his brother Dervishes. A blessing was pronounced, to which
the Dervishes responded by a cry, or rather howl, of Allah-il-Allah,
and the ceremony was over. Having seen it, we no longer wondered at the
pallid worn-out appearance of the worshippers, for the exhaustion both
of mind and body must be very great. The object of the whirling is to
distract the mind from earthly things, so as to enable the worshipper
to concentrate himself upon the inexpressible joys of Paradise.
The exhibition, however, on the whole was painful. It is always
sad to see Our Heavenly Father worshipped in a degrading manner by
His children.
The Dancing Dervishes are said to be popular. They mostly lead
blameless, inoffensive lives, and are very charitable.
Although the ceremonies of the Howling Dervishes have been much
modified, and though many of the revolting cruelties they inflicted
upon themselves have been suppressed by law, still the hideous
howls and frantic actions to which they yield, as the inspiration
possesses them, make their mode of worship a scene at which no woman
can properly assist.
Passing one day in a caïque by a Tekké where the service of Howling
Dervishes was going on, we were arrested by the most tremendous and
savage yell that imagination can picture. So hideous and prolonged
was the howl, that it seemed as if it must have come from a menagerie
of wild beasts rather than from the throats of human beings.
These miserable fanatics begin their worship by placing their arms
on each other's shoulders, they then draw back a step, and advancing
suddenly, each man with a tremendous and savage yell howls forth,
"Allah-Allah-Allah-hoo!" which must be repeated a thousand times
uninterruptedly. Their countenances become livid, the foam flies from
their lips, many of them fall on the floor in strong convulsions,
from which they only rise to inflict cruel and horrid tortures upon
their own wretched bodies.
The stream that runs through the Bosphorus from the Black Sea to the
Sea of Marmora is so strong that it is almost impossible for a vessel
to stem the current unless aided by steam. We thankfully, therefore,
accepted the kind offer of the captain of the English man-of-war to
take us in tow up to Beyuk'dere, a village near the entrance of the
Black Sea.
The yacht was made fast apparently to the frigate, and off we set,
but such was the force of the stream that, at an awkward corner near
Bebek, the immense hawser, that looked as if nothing could break it,
snapped in two like a bit of thread, and the yacht spun round with
the velocity of an opera-dancer. Happily the danger had been foreseen
and guarded against, but we were swept so close in against the shore
that the jib-boom knocked down a piece of garden railing, and nearly
spitted a most respectable old Turk, who was sitting calmly smoking
on his terrace. Some time and much patience were required before the
yacht could be again attached to the frigate, but at last two hawsers
made her fast, and we proceeded on our way up the Bosphorus.
This beautiful stream is very unique in its characteristics, for
while the waters have the depth, brilliancy, and life of the sea,
its shores are cultivated and wooded like the banks of a river. The
gentle sloping hills are covered with dwelling-houses and kiosks, while
the terraces and gardens of stately palaces line the shore. The Turks
have much taste, and are also great lovers of flowers. The gardens,
therefore, are well laid out, and generally well kept. The climate also
is favourable, though the winters are cold, snow sometimes lying on
the ground for many days. The beautiful American trumpet-creeper grows
in perfection, and may be seen hanging over almost every garden wall,
its large bunches of orange-coloured flowers being in lovely contrast
with the brilliant green foliage. Orange trees and myrtles do well,
although they do not attain the same size and luxuriance as in Sicily
and Greece.
Turkish houses are exceedingly picturesque in appearance. They are
seldom more than two storeys high, have many irregular projections,
and the overhanging roofs extend considerably beyond the walls. They
are usually built of wood, and are painted white, stone colour,
or pale yellow.
Both inside and out they look exquisitely clean; indeed, inside
not a speck of dust is to be seen, the floors are covered with
beautiful matting, and the walls are usually painted a delicate
cream colour. But, alas! a Turkish house is but a whited sepulchre,
for beneath this pure surface vermin prevail to such an extent that
at night they come out by hundreds. It is a horrible plague, but by
constantly painting and the free use of turpentine, most foreigners
succeed in time in ridding their houses of these torments.
We once made a painful experience of the deceptiveness of
appearances. During the summer, our evil angel induced us, and the
Countess S--, the wife of one of the diplomats, to accept an invitation
from a very rich Armenian merchant to assist at the marriage of his
daughter. The fêtes were as usual to extend over three days, and we
were to be his guests for that period.
The house was magnificent in size, and gorgeously decorated with gold,
and velvet, and satin. The dinner, or supper, also was as grand as
French and Turkish culinary art could make it. Our entertainers were
kind and agreeable people, so we looked forward to a very pleasant
visit.
We three Frank ladies had assigned to us as a sleeping apartment an
immense saloon, superbly gilt and painted, but having little furniture
besides a crimson satin divan, trimmed with gold fringe, that ran
round three sides of the room. Adjoining was a small bath-room,
and our maids had a room at some distance in another wing of the house.
On retiring to our apartment at night, we found three
comfortable-looking beds had been prepared for us in the usual Eastern
fashion--that is, laid on the floor.
Each bed had two thick soft mattresses, covered with pale green
satin; the pillows were of the same rich material, and covered with
cambric; the sheets were also of cambric, beautifully fine and white,
and trimmed with broad lace. The coverlets were of green satin,
embroidered, and fringed with gold.
Altogether our couches looked very inviting, especially after a long
afternoon of civilities, and talk, besides the great dinner, and the
long wedding ceremony, which did not take place till midnight.
The lights were put out, and we had just sunk into the pleasant
half-conscious dreaminess of a first sleep, when we were thoroughly
awakened by a sudden pattering and rush of little feet behind the
walls, around, above, and below us, while sundry sharp squeaks
announced the neighbourhood of rats.
However, travellers do not allow their night's rest to be disturbed
for trifles; so, covering up our heads, in order to shut out the
disagreeable noise, we resolved not to hear, and tried to go to sleep.
But it would not do; an unendurably loud squeal close to Madame S.'s
head made her jump up hastily, thinking the rats must be in the room.
We lighted the candles, and then--our feelings can better be imagined
than described, when we beheld an invading army of horrors worse than
rats, descending the walls, marching over the floor, and creeping
out of every little crack and hollow in the woodwork.
In blank dismay we looked at each other. What was to be done? The
divans and ottomans had already been taken possession of by the
enemy. There was not a cane chair or a table in the room, or we would
have mounted upon them.
Help was impossible; there were no bells, we did not feel justified
in disturbing the household, and we were ignorant of the whereabouts
of our maids' room.
We were in despair, when a sudden bright inspiration flashed into the
mind of one of us. The bath, the clean white marble, seemed to offer
a safe refuge. In an instant we were there, and wrapping ourselves
up as well as we could, there we remained till morning. Luckily for
us it was a warm summer's night, or we should have caught our deaths
of cold, for we were so eager to escape from our hateful enemies that
we should have accepted any risk.
There we sat in forlorn discomfort--melancholy warning of the usual
end of a party of pleasure. Luckily a sense of the ludicrousness of
our position made us merry, for as each caught sight of the other's
dismayed white face, we could not help bursting into fits of laughter,
especially when we thought what our friends would have said could
they have seen us.
When day came the foe retired; but as speedily as ordinary civility
would permit, we took our leave, obliged to pretend important business
in Constantinople, and resisting all the kind pressing of our host
and his family, for nothing would have induced us to pass another
night in such a chamber of horrors.
Our poor maids had slept, but showed lamentable traces of the presence
of the foe, who evince decided partiality for fresh and newly-arrived
foreigners.
An Armenian wedding has many forms that are akin to those of both
the Turkish and Christian services. The ceremony is performed
at midnight. The bride is so muffled up in shawls, and veils, and
flowing garments, that face and figure are alike invisible. The fair
damsel is not seen, but the mass of superb silk, lace, and flashing
jewels placed in the middle of the room, indicate her presence. The
bridegroom is asked, as he stands opposite to her, "Will you take
this girl to be your wife, even if she be lame, deaf, deformed, or
blind?" to which, with admirable courage and resignation, he replies,
"I will take her." The officiating priest then joins their hands,
a silk cord is tied round the head of each, and, after many prayers
and much singing, they are pronounced man and wife.
CHAPTER IV.
THE HAREM.
The first visit to a Harem is a very exhausting business, for everyone
feels shy, and everyone is stupid, and the stupidity and shyness last
many hours.
We were fortunate, however, in paying our first ceremonious visit
to the Harem of R---- Pasha, whose wife enjoys, and deservedly,
the reputation of being as kind in manner as she is in heart. Madame
P. was so good as to go with us as interpreter. We were afterwards
accompanied by a nice old Armenian woman, well known amongst the
Turkish ladies, as she attends many of them in their confinements,
and is always summoned to assist at weddings and other festivals,
besides being often trusted as the confidential agent for making the
first overtures in arranging marriages.
Turkish babies have a hard time of it during the first month of their
existence. Soon after their birth they are rubbed down with salt,
and tightly swaddled in the Italian fashion. The pressure of these
bandages is often so great that the circulation becomes impeded,
and incisions and scarifications are then made on the hands, feet,
and spine, to let out what Turkish doctors and nurses call "the bad
blood." The unhappy little creature is only occasionally released
from its bonds, and never thoroughly washed until the sacred month
of thirty days has expired, when it is taken with its mother to the
bath. No wonder that the sickly and ailing sink under such treatment,
and that the mortality amongst infants should be frightful.
Scarcely had our caïque touched the terrace that extends before R----
Pasha's handsome palace, when a small door, that was hardly noticed in
the long line of blank wall, opened as if by magic. We passed through,
and found ourselves in a small shady court surrounded by arcades,
up the columns of which climbing plants were trained. In the centre
was a fountain, with orange trees and masses of flowers arranged
around its basin. A broad flight of steps at the end of the court
led to the principal apartments.
We were received at the foot of the stairs by two black slaves and
several young girls dressed in white, who escorted us to a large saloon
on the upper floor. The ceiling of this room was quite magnificent,
so richly was it painted and gilt. There was the usual divan, and
the floor was covered with delicate matting, but there was no other
furniture of any sort.
The walls were exceedingly pretty, being painted cream colour,
and bordered with Turkish sentences, laid on in mat or dead gold,
a mode of decoration both novel and graceful. We learnt afterwards
that many of the phrases were extracts from the Koran; others set
forth the name and titles of the hanoum's father, who had been a
minister of much influence and importance.
The windows were closely latticed, but notwithstanding the jealous
bars, the views over the Bosphorus and the opposite shore of Asia
were enchanting.
Here we were met by H---- Bey, the Pasha's eldest son, a good-looking
boy, about eleven or twelve years of age, also dressed in white,
but wearing some magnificent jewels in his fez, and by him conducted
to another and smaller apartment, somewhat more furnished than the
first, as it had a console table, with the usual clock, a piano,
and some stiff hard chairs ranged against the walls.
As we entered the room, the folding-doors opposite were thrown open,
and the hanoum (lady of the house), accompanied by her daughter,
and attended by a train of women, advanced to meet us.
We had heard that this lady had once been a famous beauty. She was
still of an age "à prétention," that is to say, about thirty-three or
five, so we had pictured to ourselves something handsome, graceful,
and dignified. We were stricken, therefore, almost dumb with surprise
when we saw a woman, apparently nearer sixty than thirty, very short,
and enormously fat, roll rather than walk into the room. Her awkward
movements were probably as much caused by the extraordinary shape
of her gown, as by her unusual size. Her dress, which is called an
"enterree," and was but a slight and slender garment, was made of
thin pink silk. It was open to the waist, very scanty in the skirt,
and ended in three long tails, each about a yard wide, and which,
passing on each side and between her feet, must have made walking
quite a matter of difficulty.
This singular robe was fastened round the waist by a white scarf,
and certainly did not embellish, nor even conceal the too great
exuberance of figure.
To show that she received us as equals and friends, the hanoum wore
no stockings, only slippers. When the mistress of the house enters
in stockings it is a sign that she considers her visitors to be of
inferior rank.
We thought the hanoum's head-dress as unbecoming as her gown. Her
hair was combed down straight on each side of her face, and then cut
off short; and she had a coloured gauze handkerchief tied round her
head. The eyebrows were painted with antimony, about the width of
a finger, from the nose to the roots of the hair, and the eyes were
blackened all round the lids. Had the face, however, not been such an
enormous size, it would have been handsome, for the eyes were large,
black, and well shaped, and the complexion was fair and good; but
the nose was too large, and the mouth was spoiled from there being
no front teeth. However, she seemed a most good-tempered, kind, merry
creature, and she nodded her head and smiled upon us, while uttering
a thousand welcoming compliments, as if she were really glad to see
her stranger guests.
The daughter was a nice-looking girl, about fourteen or fifteen, with
a face that was more bright and intelligent than actually pretty. Her
figure was slight and graceful, but nevertheless showed indications
that in a few years she, like her mother, might become prematurely
fat and faded.
The eyes were marvellously beautiful--so large and lustrous, that
they seemed like lamps when the long black lashes were raised; but
her mouth was quite spoiled by bad teeth, a singular defect in one so
young. But Turkish women almost always lose their teeth early. They
seldom use tooth-brushes, and are inordinately fond of sweetmeats,
which they eat from morning till night.
The young lady also wore the "enterree," or tailed dress, which seemed
to be a mark of distinction, for all the attendants wore short coats
and full white trousers.
Mother and daughter were both dressed with studied simplicity, as
Turkish ladies receive at home "en negligé." It is only when they
pay visits that they array themselves sumptuously.
On the present occasion the slaves and women were gorgeously
apparelled, and most magnificent was their attire--velvet, satin,
cloth of gold, and precious stones quite dazzled the eye. It was in
very earnest a scene from the "Arabian Nights."
When we had been duly placed on the divan, a young slave brought in
a tray, on which were a bowl containing a compote of white grapes,
another full of gold spoons, several glasses of iced water, &c.
Etiquette requires that a spoonful of the sweetmeat should be eaten,
and the spoon then placed in the left-hand bowl. Some iced water is
drunk, and then the tips of the fingers only should be delicately
wiped with an embroidered napkin presented for the purpose.
A calm and graceful performance of this ceremony marks the "grande
dame" amongst Turkish ladies, and many a foreigner has come to grief
from being unacquainted with these little details.
In the story of Ivanhoe, Cedric the Saxon is described as having been
despised by the Norman courtiers, because he wiped his hands with
the napkin, instead of drying them in courtly fashion by waving them
in the air; so likewise does a lady lose caste for ever in a Turkish
Harem should she rub her hands with the napkin instead of daintily
passing it over the tips of her fingers.
Now came more slaves bringing coffee. One carried a silver brazier,
on which were smoking several small coffee-pots; another had the
cups--lovely little things, made of exquisitely transparent china,
and mounted on gold filigree stands; a third carried a round black
velvet cloth, embroidered all over in silver. This is used to cover
the cups as they are carried away empty.
Narghilés were now brought, and for some minutes we all solemnly puffed
away in silence. For myself, personally, this was an anxious moment,
for I very much doubted whether my powers as a smoker would enable me
to undertake a narghilé, very few whiffs being often enough to make
a neophyte faint. I looked at my sister; she was calmly smoking with
the serenity and gravity of a Turk. The hanoum's eyes were fixed on
vacancy. She had evidently arrived at her fifth heaven at least. The
pretty daughter was looking at me, but I did not dare look at her;
so, as there was no escape, I boldly drew in a whiff. Things around
looked rather indistinct; however, I mustered up my courage and drew
in another. It was not as disagreeable as the first, but the indistinct
things seemed to get even fainter, and were, besides, becoming a little
black, so I took the hint, and, finding nature had not intended me
for a smoker, quietly let my pipe go out. Narghilés are now seldom
used in harems except for occasions of ceremony. On all subsequent
visits cigarettes were brought, which were much more easily managed.
When the pipes were finished we began to talk, and mutually
inquired the names and ages of our respective children. The hanoum
has three--the eldest son, H---- Bey, the daughter named Nadèje,
and a little fellow about five years old, who came running in very
grandly dressed, and with a great aigrette of diamonds in his little
fez--evidently mamma's pet.
H---- Bey wanted very much to talk. But, alas! our Turkish words were
sadly few, and conversation through an interpreter soon languishes
and becomes irksome. We asked him his age, but he did not know. No
Turk ever troubles himself or herself about so trivial a matter. They
are satisfied to exist, and think it quite immaterial how many years
they may have been in the world.
Amongst the attendants were two very old women, so dried up and
so withered that they scarcely looked like women. One of them, who
was blind, had been nurse to the hanoum. It was quite charming to
see the kindness and tenderness with which these poor old creatures
were treated. The blind nurse was carefully placed in a comfortable
corner near the windows. H---- Bey constantly went to her, and
from time to time, affectionately putting his arm round her neck,
seemed to be describing the visitors to her. These old women were
the only persons who were allowed to sit in the hanoum's presence;
all the others remained standing in a respectful attitude, their
arms crossed, and generally so motionless that they might have been
statues but for the restless movement of their eyes.
Remembering the piano, we asked Nadèje if she liked music, and after
some persuasion she played some wild Turkish airs with considerable
facility and expression.
We were then invited to see the house, which was large and very
handsome. Strangers are always at first, however, somewhat bewildered
by finding there are no bedrooms; but, in fact, every room is a
bedroom, according to necessity or the season.
Hospitality is almost a religious duty amongst the Turks, and every
room is surrounded by cupboards, in which are stowed away vast numbers
of mattresses and pillows ready for any chance guest who may arrive.
The mattresses are thick and comfortable, and are generally covered
with some pale-coloured satin or silk. The beds are made upon the
floor, and, besides the mattresses and pillows, have cambric or fine
linen sheets and a silk coverlet.
Excepting the bathing apartments attached to the house, no appliances
for washing were to be seen anywhere; and these ladies seemed
surprised that we considered daily ablution necessary. They assured
us that the bath twice a week was quite as much as was good for the
health. Daily washing they consider a work of supererogation, so they
satisfy themselves with pouring a little rose-water from time to time
over their hands and faces.
Upon our expressing a wish to know how the "yashmak," or veil, was
arranged, Nadèje immediately had one put on, to show how it ought to be
folded and pinned; and as by this time we had become great friends,
it was good-naturedly proposed that we should try the effects of
yashmak and "feredje," and the most beautiful dresses were brought,
in which we were to be arrayed.
Further acquaintance with the yashmak increases our admiration for
it. The filmy delicacy of the muslin makes it like a vapour, and the
exquisite softness of its texture causes it to fall into the most
graceful folds.
Some of the feredjes, or cloaks, were magnificent garments. One was
made of the richest purple satin, with a broad border of embroidered
flowers; another of brocade, so thick that it stood alone; another
of blue satin worked with seed pearls.
The jackets, "enterrees," &c. &c., were brought in piled upon trays
and in numbers that seemed countless. A Parisian's wardrobe would
be as nothing compared with the multitude and magnificence of the
toilettes spread before us.
The jewels were then exhibited. Turkish jewellers generally mount
their stones too heavily, and the cutting is far inferior to that of
Amsterdam; but the hanoum had some very fine diamonds, really well
set. One aigrette for the hair was exceedingly beautiful. The diamonds
were mounted as a bunch of guelder-roses, each rose trembling on
its stem. We also much admired a circlet of lilies and butterflies,
the antennæ of the butterflies ending in a brilliant of the finest
water. There was also a charming ornament for the waist, an immense
clasp, made of branches of roses in diamonds, surrounded with wreaths
of leaves in pearls and emeralds, a large pear-shaped pearl hanging
from each point.
Having inspected the house we paid a visit to the garden, now as
full of roses as an eastern garden should be. Terraces made shady
by trellises of vines and fig-trees hung over the Bosphorus, and to
every pretty view the falling waters of streams and fountains added
their pleasant music to aid the soothing influence of the scene. At
the end of one terrace was a large conservatory full of beautiful
climbing plants; but we were afraid of admiring too much, for H----
Bey had accompanied us, and, after the manner of eastern tales,
whenever we praised anything insisted upon giving it to us.
We were now preparing to take leave, but our friend's hospitality
was not yet exhausted; and the hanoum, taking my sister and myself
each by the hand, led us into the smaller saloon, where a collation
had been prepared.
On a low circular table, or stool, a large tray had been placed,
on which were a number of dishes containing melons, grapes,
peaches, vegetable marrows, thin slices of cheese, and a variety of
sweetmeats. Piles of bread cut into slices were also arranged round
the tray. There were forks, but the bread supplied the place of spoons.
When we were all seated, rice, pillau, and little birds roasted in
vine leaves were brought in, à la Française. The kabobs and maccaroni
had too much garlic in them for our taste, but a very light sort of
pastry called "paklava" was excellent, and the rice was perfection. The
cooking we thought very good, and a great contrast to an experiment
we had made a few days previously, in order to see what ordinary
Turkish cookery was like.
One day during our many expeditions for sight-seeing in Constantinople,
we were seized by the pangs of hunger several hours before we had
arranged to return to Therapia, so espying a very nice clean-looking
cook-shop, where a number of cooks, neatly dressed in white, were
chopping and frying little scraps of meat, we proceeded there and
ordered a dish of kabobs à la Turque. The kabobs in themselves might
have been good, and also the fried bread that accompanied them, but a
sauce of fat and garlic had been poured over both that made the dish
not only uneatable, but unendurable. The good-natured cook seemed
surprised at our bad taste, but yielded to European prejudices,
and at last brought some plain rice and tomatoes, with which we
made an excellent luncheon. The favourite Turkish sweetmeat, called
"Rahat-la-Koum," or Lumps of Delight, is excellent when quite fresh,
and makes much better eau sucrée than plain sugar, as there is a
slight flavour of orange-peel and roses given to the water.
To return, however, to our little breakfast at R---- Pasha's; between
each course of meat every one took what pleased her from the dishes
on the table--fruits, sweetmeats, or cheese, though the latter was
the favourite, as it is supposed not only to increase the appetite,
but to improve the taste.
Both before and after eating, gold basins and ewers were brought round,
and as we held our hands over the former perfumed water was poured
upon them. The napkins were so beautifully embroidered in gold thread
and coloured silks that it seemed quite a pity to use them for drying
the hands. The repast over, coffee and cigarettes again appeared, and
then, with many friendly invitations and kindly expressions, we parted.
The hanoum offers us her bath-room, her caïques, and her carriages,
and proposes also to teach us Turkish.
In this harem, as is now generally the case in the best Turkish
families, there is but one wife.
Our friend, the hanoum, had been a well-portioned bride. She brought
her husband, besides the house we had seen, another at Beyuk'dere,
considerable property in land, and a large sum of money. Where a
daughter is so richly dowered, the father usually stipulates that no
other wife shall be taken.
Wives also, in Constantinople, as elsewhere, are expensive luxuries,
for each lady must have a separate establishment, besides retinue
and carriages.
Marriage in Turkey is not a religious ceremony; it is merely a
civil covenant that can be annulled for very trivial reasons by
either party. Public opinion, however, pronounces such separations
disgraceful, and they are seldom resorted to unless for grave reasons.
A man can put away his wife by pronouncing before a third person that
his marriage is "void," but must in that case resign all the property
that his wife has ever possessed. A woman can only obtain a divorce
by going before a cadi, and declaring that she yields all her dower
and property, and claims her freedom. Should there be children, the
mother, if she so elects, can retain the girls with her until they are
seven years old; after that age they return to their father's house,
unless an especial arrangement has been made to the contrary.
A Turkish bath, when taken in a private house, is but a repetition of
the ceremony that may be gone through in any of the principal bathing
establishments in London and Paris; but public Turkish baths are quite
national institutions, and often afford so many amusing and interesting
scenes of real life that no foreigner should omit to visit them.
Wednesday is the day usually set apart for the Turkish women; Greek
women have Saturday; the other days are allotted to the men.
The first time we went to the bath, we were quite oppressed with the
extent of the preparations that our friends seemed to think absolutely
necessary. Ladies are always attended by their own servants, and
besides providing themselves with the necessary linen and toilet
appendages, bring all the materials for the subsequent repast, with
coffee and pipes.
Besides several dressing-gowns, there was quite a mountain of towels,
so large that they might almost be called sheets; some of them long
and narrow for wrapping round the head and drying the hair. There were
wonderful-looking yellow gloves, of various degrees of coarseness,
for rubbing. As we looked at them we quite shuddered at the thought
of what we should have to endure. Then there were tall wooden clogs,
to enable us to walk across the heated floors; and bowls of metal
for pouring boiling water upon us. Besides these and many other
implements apparently for torture, there were brushes and combs,
various sorts of soap for washing, for rubbing, and for perfuming;
bottles of scented waters, rugs, mattresses, looking-glasses; and, in
addition to the basket containing cups, plates, and dishes, with all
the paraphernalia for luncheon, there was a large box full of perfumes.
Perfumes in the East are not only countless in number, but of a
strength almost overpowering to Western nerves. Literally, not only
every flower, but every fruit, is pressed into the service of the
perfumer.
First in rank and potency is the far-famed attar-gûl, of which one pure
drop suffices to scent for years the stuff on which it is poured. The
fine aromatic perfume of the orange and cinnamon flowers is well known,
and the more delicate fragrance of the violet is preserved with all its
fresh charm. Still, a box of Turkish perfumes is almost overpowering
from its excess of sweetness; and, with the exception of the violets,
we preferred the bottles unopened.
When, in addition to the articles already enumerated, we add that an
extensive wardrobe was taken by each lady, that there were baskets
of fruit, cases of confectionery, a complete coffee equipage, and all
necessary appliances for smoking, it will easily be imagined that the
"impedimenta," as the Romans so aptly called travelling luggage, was by
no means small. To our uninitiated eyes it appeared truly formidable,
but our friends seemed to think it all "en règle;" so we held our
tongues and profited by the kind arrangements so affectionately made
for us.
On arriving at the bath we passed through a narrow passage and came to
a large vaulted room, with a double balcony round two sides of it. The
lower balcony, which was about two or three feet from the ground,
was divided by curtains into compartments. These compartments were
occupied by ladies either preparing for or reposing after the fatigues
of the bath. In the latter case the curtains were drawn back, and the
inmate could be seen reclining in indolent enjoyment upon her satin
mattress. Occasionally she would raise the cup of coffee or sherbet
to her lips, or, with closed eyes, would languidly smoke the scented
cigarette as her maid combed her hair, or tinged the delicate tips
of her fingers with the beautifying henna.
Some of the recesses disclosed less gratifying spectacles. Here an
ancient dame, whom the bath had restored to her natural state of
white hair and wrinkles, was having the renovating process performed
of having her scanty locks dyed red, and the hollows and furrows that
time had made filled up by white paint and rouge.
The passion of Turkish women for cosmetics is almost unaccountable,
for the complexions of most of them are exceedingly good. Their skins
are generally of a creamy white, with a delicate shade of colour; but
nothing will satisfy them but the most startling contrast of white
and pink, and it is pitiable to see quite young girls so disfigure
themselves.
It required a little effort of courage, when fully arrayed in the long
white bathing-gown and mounted on the tall pattens, to issue forth from
our recess; but we pushed aside the curtains and appeared, feeling
very much, as we essayed to walk on the slippery marble floor, as an
unhappy cat must do who, with walnut shells on her feet, is forced
to perform a promenade on the ice. Two ancient bath-women speedily
came to our assistance. They had been slowly boiling so many years
that they were shrivelled and parched out of the semblance even of
"wo-manity," if such a word may be permitted. Strange to say they had
but few wrinkles, but their skin seemed tightly drawn over their faces,
as over the bones of a skull, and hung loosely in great folds under
their chins and around their throats. They told us afterwards that
they had been attendants to the bath for upwards of thirty years, and
had grown so much accustomed to the heated and sulphureous atmosphere
in which they pass the greater portion of their days, that a purer
and fresher air is quite painful to them. By their aid, with much
trepidation, we stumbled across the hall, and in a few seconds found
ourselves in a sort of pandemonium next door. In an instant I felt as
a shrimp, if he feels at all, must feel in hot water--I was boiled. I
looked at my companion; her face was a gorgeous scarlet. In our best
Turkish, and with faint and imploring accents, we gasped out, "Take
us away!" All in vain. For those who enter here there is no retreat--
"Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch'entrate."
We had come to be boiled and rubbed, and boiled and rubbed we must be.
We speedily found ourselves seated close to a small stream of what,
at first, seemed like boiling water, of which large bowlfuls were
rapidly thrown over us. When we had a little recovered from this shock,
and our eyes became more accustomed to the clouds of sulphureous
vapours that were rolling around, we began to look with interest on
the singular scene in which we found ourselves.
There were upwards of a hundred women in the bath, the bathers seated
in groups of two or three by each little stream of hot water. Each
woman was attended by one or two slaves, who were assiduously rubbing
their mistress with perfumed soap, or pouring the steaming bowls of
boiling water over her.
Numbers of children, without an atom of clothing upon them, were
running about shouting, laughing, and throwing water upon each
other. Many babies also were having a bath against their will, and
the shrieks of these unfortunates were quite deafening. Most of the
women were talking and laughing, and the great height of the hall
caused a reverberation that made the noise most bewildering. The dense
atmosphere and rolling clouds of steam made it also impossible to
ascertain the size of the bath, which however must have been very
large, from the number of persons it contained. From it opened
numerous small rooms still hotter than the first, although the
shock on entering was not nearly as great as that experienced when
arriving at the great hall. Here the soaping and rubbing processes
were performed with such vigour that we felt as if nothing was left
of us, and right glad were we when we found ourselves once more in
the comfortable dressing-room, with just enough strength left to
throw ourselves on the luxurious mattresses and appreciate, to its
full extent, the kindness that had supplied us with coffee, fruit,
luncheon, &c. How many hours passed in pleasant idleness, it is
impossible to say. One takes no note of time after a Turkish bath;
and also, when a little refreshed and revived, we were exceedingly
amused and interested by the scenes and conversations around us.
It seemed that those who wished to have a private dressing-room,
such as that we had, paid a little more than the ordinary price,
the majority of the ladies availing themselves of the large general
dressing-rooms on the balcony above.
Towards the afternoon the bathing was almost over, and the club, as
it were, began. The whole of the immense space below us was occupied
by groups of ladies, who, reclining on their mattresses, chattered to
each other, smoked, drank coffee, and ate fruit, as their maids dried,
combed, and dyed their hair, for there were but few who did not use a
little henna. The children, who were now clothed, ran about as before,
but happily most of the suffering babies had gone to sleep.
Two middle-aged ladies near us were evidently, and with much diplomacy,
negotiating the preliminaries of a marriage. Contrary to the usual
state of the case in Europe, the "riches" of the lady and the "beauty"
of the gentleman were amply dilated upon.
A little further on two handsome young women, probably the inmates
of the same harem, had evidently had a violent quarrel, only subdued
by the soothing influence of the bath. Beyond them a fair Georgian,
the prettiest woman in the room, reclined negligently against a heap
of cushions; her slaves were deluging her with perfumes, while a
hideous old crone was earnestly whispering some tale into her ear,
probably one of love, as the girl coloured and looked pleased, as
she occasionally glanced suspiciously around, as if to assure herself
that no one was listening to the communication.
In one corner a group of matronly-looking women were describing
the merits and charms of their respective babies, while shouts of
merry laughter, proceeding from another, showed where a number of
young girls had collected together. The whole scene was singularly
picturesque and interesting, and gave us a very favourable impression
of the native refinement of Turkish women.
Nothing could be more decorous than the appearance and manners of every
woman there present, but in one respect we were disappointed. There was
a remarkable want of beauty. With the exception of the pretty Georgian,
there was scarcely a good-looking woman in the room. The handsomest
were, beyond all question, some coal-black Nubian slaves. One of
them had the most beautiful figure we had ever seen. Tall, lithe,
and supple, her small head exquisitely poised on a throat round and
shapely as that of a statue, she moved about with the undulating
grace of some wild animal. Coal-black though she was, her features
had none of the unseemly coarseness and grotesqueness of the negro;
on the contrary, the nose was delicately cut, while her mouth, though
full, had the waving lines of beauty, only seen in the Egyptian sphinx.
Although a Turkish bath is certainly a most inviting luxury, and has
temporarily a flattering effect upon the skin, making it for some
hours, even days afterwards, exquisitely white, smooth, and soft,
still, owing to the great heat, and the quantity of sulphur with
which the air is charged, an undue indulgence in bathing has in the
end a deteriorating effect upon female beauty. The muscles become
relaxed, and the skin, although it remains soft and delicate, loses
its elasticity; the hair also rapidly falls off, and what is left
becomes thin and weak. The too devoted votaries of the bath, therefore,
speedily become enervated both in mind and body, and whilst still young
in years fade into a premature old age. The indolence also which it
creates does much to increase the tendency to undue corpulence, so
destructive to the fair proportions of Eastern women. Most of them,
after middle life, either become shrivelled and dried up, or else
have both features and form swelled to very uncomely dimensions.
CHAPTER V.
THE HAPPY VALLEY.
Amongst the many lovely valleys that surround Constantinople, the
two most perfectly charming are the Valley of the Sultan and that
called by the Franks the Sweet Waters of Asia. Both are carpeted by
the freshest and greenest sward; both are shaded by magnificent trees;
and numerous little streams, descending from the neighbouring heights,
not only charm by the pleasant music of their waters, but enable
pleasure-seekers to boil their coffee al fresco.
These delicious spots, so green and fresh, nestled, as it were,
amidst comparatively barren hills, seem to invite all the happy ones
of earth to come and repose under the tender shade of their great
trees. The air, though soft, is so fresh and invigorating, that the
fact of existence seems a joy. Nature rejoices on all sides--the
brilliant sky above, the bright rays glancing through the trees,
the merry little wavelets that show their white heads upon the
intense blue of the Bosphorus, the birds singing blithely from every
coppice and tangled brake--all nature smiles in sunshine, hope, and
joy. Little troubles and unworthy anxieties fade and fall away, and
life seems for a few short hours to be the delight that Our Heavenly
Father probably once meant it to be.
There are few things more charming in the Turkish character than the
honest, hearty love for the beauties of nature that prevails in all
classes. From the Sultan to the meanest and poorest of his subjects,
whenever a holiday occurs, all hasten to enjoy the luxury of fresh air
and the soft green sward, there to while away the few hours (perhaps
in both cases) hardly wrung from many days of weary and exhausting
toil. In the winter the men of course frequent the coffee-shops,
there to enjoy their pipes and the long histories of the professional
story-tellers, but in the summer every valley is thronged with people,
all evidently enjoying themselves with a completeness and an absence
of Western ennui that is most refreshing to behold.
Many a delightful hour did we pass in these valleys. The merry
melodious voices of the women, the ringing laughter of the children,
made a music very pleasant to the ear; and the eye was charmed with
the brilliant beauty of the colouring, and the picturesque grace of
the groups that surrounded one on every side.
On a Friday, or other holiday, many hundreds of people congregate
at the Sweet Waters both of Europe and Asia. The women, arrayed in
gorgeous dresses, recline on carpets beneath the trees, little spirals
of smoke ascend from the numerous pipes, the narghilé bubbles in its
rose-water, the tiny cups of coffee send forth a delicious fragrance,
the perfume of fresh oranges and lemons fills the air. The still
more exquisite sweetness of orange blossoms is wafted towards us,
as a gipsy flower-girl passes through the groups, carrying many a
mysterious bouquet, of which the flowers tell a perhaps too sweet
and too dangerous love-tale to the fair receiver.
Then a bon-bon seller comes, laden with his box of pretty sweets. Many
are really good, especially the sweetmeat called Rahat-la-Koum, when
quite fresh, and another, made only of cream and sugar flavoured with
orange-flower water.
Every now and then the wild notes of some Turkish music may be heard
from the neighbouring hills--the band of a passing Turkish regiment;
or perhaps the monotonous but musical chant of some Greek sailors falls
on the ear, as they struggle to force their boat up the tremendous
stream of the Bosphorus.
Seen from a little distance, and shaded by the flattering folds of
the "yashmak," Oriental women almost always look pretty; but when,
as they often do, the fair dames let the veil fall a little, and the
features become distinctly visible, the illusion is lost at once.
The eyes are magnificent, almond-shaped, tender and melting, but, with
very few exceptions, the nose and mouth are so large and ill-formed,
that the face ceases to be beautiful; the superb eyes not compensating
for the want of finish in the other features.
As a class, the Armenians were the best-looking, but the women's
head-dress was remarkably becoming. They wear a thin coloured
handkerchief, with a broad fringe of gauze flowers, tied coquettishly
on one side of the head, long plaits of hair being arranged round it
like a coronet.
As in Western countries, the middle and lower classes seemed to
enjoy themselves the most. They sat on the grass, and talked to their
friends. They could eat their fruit and drink their coffee al fresco,
while some of the Sultan's odalisks, and other great ladies, shut up
in their arabas and carriages, performed a slow and dreary promenade
up and down the middle of the valley.
Very weary did some of these poor things look, but the guard of
black slaves on each side the carriage forbade any hope of an hour's
liberty. Happily, excepting in the Sultan's harem, it is now becoming
the fashion for the ladies to descend from their carriages and to
pass the afternoon beneath the trees.
Many other Eastern fashions are also becoming modified. The huge yellow
boots are disappearing, French ones taking their place; parasols and
fans are also used, and all the fashionable ladies now wear gloves.
Besides the charming valleys already mentioned, the shores of the
Bosphorus abound in pretty villages, where the great Turkish families,
the foreign ministers, and principal European merchants have palaces,
and where they generally pass the summer.
The most important of these villages are Therapia and Beyuk'dere. The
English and French ambassadors have each a palace at the former,
and as we had the good fortune to pay a long and most happy visit to
our kind friends at the English Embassy, we came to love Therapia as
a very dear and happy home.
There is no place in the world, perhaps, where the air has so
exhilarating an effect as on the shores of the Bosphorus. The soft,
sweet breeze from the hill side seems to temper the fresh, salt wind
that is borne in from the Black Sea; and how great was the delight
when we sometimes turned to the sea-shore, after a long ride in the
forest of Belgrade!
Can anything be more beautiful on a sunny evening than to watch the
sea steal quietly up the glittering beach?--to see wave after wave
gracefully bend its snow-capped head, and then, falling over, leave
a line of shining water all along the shore? And riding down upon
the cool, wet sand, how grateful to the tired horses is the tender
lapping of the soft, soothing water, as the little waves curl round
their heated feet! Ah! why will happy hours pass so soon away?--why
does a pang ever mingle with the thought of a joy that is past?
Beyuk'dere is so pretty, so graceful, and so unreal-looking, especially
as we saw it for the first time, on a bright moonlight night, that
it seemed like a dream or a scene in a play. And yet the houses are
very real, and some of them very handsome; for example, the Russian
Embassy, where a clever and charming host, excellent dinners, and
most agreeable evenings were very delightful realities.
Still, most of the smaller houses look as if they were cut out
of cardboard. They have also an unusual number of windows, which,
when lighted up at night (and the shutters are seldom closed, on
account of the heat), give many of the streets the appearance of
the side-scenes at the opera. So strong is the illusion, that it is
difficult to cease expecting that the beautiful heroine in muslin
apron, with little pockets, will presently look out of the latticed
window, or that the irascible father, in brown coat and large buttons,
will issue forth from that most fragile and operatic-looking door.
When we had been a few weeks at Constantinople, and had visited
some half-dozen harems, we began to think we knew something about
Turkish life, and it was not until we had been there some months, and
become acquainted with the families of most of the principal pashas,
ministers, &c., that we discovered how little we really knew about it.
But although we might change our opinions respecting many domestic
customs and manners, time and more intimate knowledge of their
character only increased our liking and admiration for the Turks,
both men and women.
Benevolence and kindness are the principal characteristics of both
sexes. During the whole period of our stay in Turkey we never saw
even a child ill-treat a hapless animal.
Travellers, especially women, are seldom sufficiently conversant with
the laws of a country to be able to expatiate with much accuracy on
such matters. Turkish laws are said to be bad; perhaps they are so,
but certainly there are few cities in Europe where the streets can be
so safely traversed, both by night and day, as those of Constantinople.
Turkish manners, also, are peculiarly agreeable. Turks are not ashamed
to show that they wish to please--that they wish to be courteous;
happily they have not yet adopted that brusquerie of manner that is
becoming so prevalent in the West.
The fault is perhaps an overabundance of ceremony and etiquette. Even
in their own houses, in the seclusion of home, the master of a
family is treated with a respectful deference which would astonish
many Christian sons, who unhappily often now only look upon their
father as the purse-holder, out of whom they must wring as much money
as possible.
In the Selamluk [1] no person seats himself without the permission of
the master of the house; in the harem the same etiquette is observed,
the hanoum, or first wife, reigning there supreme.
We had often heard that Eastern women enjoyed in reality far more
liberty than their Western sisters, and in some respects this is
certainly true; but in point of fact the liberty they possess in being
able to go in and out unquestioned, to receive and pay visits where
they choose, does not at all compensate for the slavery of the mind
which they have to endure, from being cut off from the education and
mental improvement they would gain by association with the other sex.
Mental imprisonment is worse even than bodily imprisonment, and by
depriving a woman of legitimate ambition, by taking from her the wish
for mental culture, she is reduced to the condition of a child--a
very charming one, probably, when young, but a painful position for
her when, youth having departed, the power of fascination decays with
the loss of beauty; and though in some instances it is well known
that the natural talent of the woman has had the power of retaining
her husband's heart, still it too often happens that, after very few
years of love and admiration, he turns to one still younger and fairer
to charm his hours of leisure.
Not only did we constantly see Madame R---- and her charming daughter
Nadèje, and the wives and relatives of the ministers, &c., whose
acquaintance we made, but we had the honour of being invited to pay
visits to most of the members of the imperial family; and the more we
saw of the Turkish ladies the more we liked the kindly, gentle-hearted
women who received us with such friendly hospitality.
In the royal palaces there was of course more splendour, more gold,
more diamonds, more slaves--especially the hideous black spectres, who
are often so revoltingly frightful that they look like nightmares. But
in all essentials a description of a visit to one harem serves to
describe the receptions at all.
During our visits to their wives the pashas often requested permission
to enter the harem, and we were delighted to make the acquaintance
of F---- Pasha, a statesman distinguished throughout Europe by his
enlightened views, his generous nature, and by the improvements his
wise legislation has effected for his country. Successive visits,
both to his lovely palace on the Bosphorus and to us on board the
yacht, turned this acquaintance into a friendship which we valued as
it indeed deserved.
It was sometimes amusing to see the astonishment of the women when
they found we did not object to converse with the pasha. They could
hardly understand that we would allow him to enter the harem during
our stay there.
In deference to their feelings we, however, always drew down our
veils before the master of the house entered, a proceeding which we
were aware materially increased their respect for us, and for our
sentiments of reserve and propriety.
More intimate acquaintance with our Turkish friends enabled us
to see how often they were annoyed and disturbed, probably quite
unintentionally, by the proceedings of their European guests.
Madame F---- is a charming person, clever and intelligent to an unusual
degree. She is said to possess great and legitimate influence with
her husband. She invited us one day to a large party, consisting of
most of the "lionnes" of the Constantinopolitan world.
Some of these ladies were very pretty, and perhaps rather fast. Many
of them had adopted several French fashions, wearing zouaves and
Paris-cut bodies instead of their own pretty jackets and chemises,
a change we thought much for the worse. The great mixture of colours,
also, which looks so well in the Turkish full dress of ceremony,
seemed much out of place in a semi-French costume.
Our Paris bonnets produced quite a furore. So much were they admired
that we lent them to be tried on by the whole assembly. Each fair Turk
thought she looked lovely in the ludicrous little fabric of lace and
flowers, though we would not be so untruthful as to say they were half
as becoming as their own fez, with the grand aigrettes of diamonds,
which they place so coquettishly on the side of their pretty heads.
These ladies were wonderfully "well up" in all the gossip of
Constantinople. They were perfectly cognisant of all the little details
of every embassy and legation, knowing every member of them by sight.
They have a game which is played for sugarplums. Various diplomats
or well-known persons are imitated by some peculiarity they have,
such as a mode of walking, talking, bowing, &c. The spectators have to
guess who is meant, every failure being paid for by a certain number
of bon-bons.
Of course the descriptions are unflattering; the more they are so
the greater being the laughter excited. Many of the described would
have been astonished could they have seen how cleverly they were
caricatured. There was a luckless secretary of one of the smaller
legations who seemed a favourite victim, as he certainly had many
"odd" ways.
Amongst the many distinguished men whose acquaintance we made was
C---- Pasha, a man who in talent may perhaps rival, but who in
moral qualities is far below, F---- Pasha. In fact, C---- Pasha,
from the stormy impetuosity of his character, and from an unfortunate
tendency he has of occasionally taking the law into his own hands,
rather resembles the old Turk as he was, than the modern Turk as he is.
C---- Pasha is a handsome man, about fifty years of age, with
a very intellectual, acute face. A singularly square chin, and a
closely-compressed mouth, give an expression of fierce determination,
almost amounting to cruelty, to the countenance when in repose. As
soon as he speaks, however, the whole face lights up with a kind
of merry good-humour, which is inexpressibly winning; and though,
if all tales may be believed, he is somewhat of a Bluebeard, and has
committed crimes which, in other countries, would have brought him
to the scaffold, it is impossible not to be pleased, almost in spite
of oneself, by a manner unusually frank and earnest.
There is a story (let us hope it is only a story, and not a truth)
that he put to death, with his own hand, one of his odalisks, and a
young secretary to whom he had seemed much attached. It is said that
the pasha, walking one day in his garden, saw a rose thrown from
a window in the harem. The flower was picked up by the secretary,
who put it to his lips, and kissed it passionately as he looked up
at the lattice. Burning with indignation and jealousy, the pasha
hastily repaired to the harem, and saw a young slave looking out of
the window from which the rose had been thrown. Drawing his knife,
he crept softly behind the unfortunate girl, and in an instant had
plunged it into her throat. The death-cry of the unhappy victim
startled the household, and the secretary, finding the intrigue had
been discovered, at first fled to the hills, but subsequently took
refuge with one of the foreign ministers. He remained in the latter's
household for a considerable time--so long, indeed, that he flattered
himself the affair had been forgotten.
At the expiration of some months, C---- Pasha sent or wrote to the
young man, requesting him to return, and assuring him that, as he
had thus with his own hand punished the guilty woman, his anger had
been appeased.
The secretary, therefore, resumed his post, and for some weeks all
apparently went well. One day, however, the pasha, attended by his
secretary, was again walking in the garden. On arriving at the spot
where the rose had fallen, the pasha requested the young man to gather
a flower that was growing near. Unsuspicious of danger, the secretary
obeyed, and as he bent down for the purpose, was stabbed to the heart
by his revengeful master.
This deliberate murder--for such, in fact, it was--made a considerable
stir for a time; but the high rank and great influence of the offender
prevailed against justice, and the affair was ultimately hushed up,
the pasha, it is believed, having only to pay a considerable sum of
money to the family of the murdered man.
It must not be supposed that there are many, if indeed any, modern
Turks like our agreeable but unprincipled friend; but it is said
that occasionally an erring odalisk disappears, and as it is nobody's
business to inquire about her, no troublesome questions are asked.
CHAPTER VI.
AN EASTERN BANQUET.
Shortly before our departure from Constantinople, we were so fortunate
as to assist at a very grand Turkish breakfast. It was given by A----
Pasha in honour of the brother of the Viceroy, and to it were invited
the principal members of the foreign embassies and legations, the
Turkish ministers, Lord S----, and our humble selves.
The banquet was to take place in a lovely kiosk belonging to A----
Pasha, at Anokoi, a village on the Bosphorus, between Therapia
and Pera.
As the English ambassador's state caïque passed the different military
stations on its way down the Bosphorus, the drums beat, and the guard
turned out to do honour to the great man; a proceeding far more
agreeable to us spectators than to the attaché, who, having been
"told off" for the purpose, was placed in a prominent part of the
boat, that he might perpetually take off his hat in answer to the
incessant salutes.
On arriving at Anokoi, we found the landing-place beautifully arranged
with awnings, carpets, and flags. Gaily-decorated arabas also were
in waiting to convey the guests to the top of the hill on which the
kiosk stands.
The road was steep and dusty, and the day was hot, so that we were
not sorry to arrive at our destination; but had the way been twice
as steep, and even if we had had to ascend it on foot, it would have
been worth the climb to see the magnificent view. The kiosk was built
on the edge of a rocky but wooded bank hanging over the Bosphorus,
and being thus on nearly the highest point near Constantinople, an
exquisite panorama of sea and land was stretched before us, bounded
only on one side by the lovely blue outline of Olympus, on the other
by the expanse of misty grey that marked the Black Sea.
Our host, A---- Pasha, a specimen of the accomplished modern Turkish
gentleman, met us at the entrance of the garden. Besides being very
good-looking and agreeable, he speaks French admirably well, having
been minister and ambassador at several foreign courts. This was, in
fact, a farewell entertainment, as he was soon leaving Constantinople
for the post to which he had just been nominated.
The banqueting-room was a large and lofty hall, beautifully painted
in the Munich fashion, and handsomely furnished with satin hangings
and curtains, abundantly supplied with Parisian couches, chairs,
and lounges.
The table was adorned with a profusion of gold and silver plate,
interspersed with groups of flowers very artistically arranged.
The déjeûner was excellent, but immensely long, for after the cinnamon,
vegetable, white, and other soups, came an apparently endless
procession of meats, boiled, baked, roasted, and stewed. There were
whole animals and minced ones, also chickens and other poultry, stewed
with pistachios and olives, fish rolled into balls and cooked with
raisins, little birds wrapped in leaves, rice in many ways, pillau,
caviare, fish known and unknown, innumerable vegetables and cheeses,
and upwards of twenty sorts of sweets. The cookery was very good,
though some of the dishes were overabundantly spiced for a Western
palate.
The pastry was admirable, and the conserves quite the perfection
of culinary art, for not only were the fruit and flowers excellent
to eat, but they were beautiful to look at, the orange-flowers,
rose-buds, and violets retaining their shape and colour as well as
their flavour. The Armenians, who are the principal confectioners,
jealously guard their most celebrated recipes, that descend in many
families as precious heirlooms from father to son.
I was so fortunate as to be seated next a diplomat who thoroughly
understands and appreciates both Turkish and French cookery in all
their minutest branches. He was kind enough to superintend my dinner,
and an admirable selection he made, though at the same time it must be
confessed that he seasoned the "plats" by such brilliant conversation
that the contents of the plate before me were often unnoticed.
To eat of such an army of dishes was impossible; some of the unlearned
attempted it, not knowing, luckless creatures, what was before them,
but broke down early in the day, and were "nowhere" when the fruit
came. This was really a loss, for a murmur of admiration passed
round the table, even the most trained and hardened old gourmands not
being able to refrain from praise when the immense piles of fruit,
in the perfection of their delicate beauty, were brought in--grapes,
pines, peaches, apricots, figs, pomegranates, Japanese medlars, dates,
almonds, nectarines, melons, citrons, oranges, sweet lemons--it is
impossible to recollect even the names, but each fruit was so beautiful
that an artist would have said it was a picture. However, its fair
loveliness did not preserve it from being eaten, for Constantinople
is a climate which makes fruit a necessary of life; without it one
would really have fever.
There were two bands, one instrumental and one vocal, that performed
alternately during breakfast. The voices in the latter were not bad,
though rather nasal, but the pieces they sang were pitched too high,
and in consequence sounded monotonous and strained. The instrumental
music was infinitely better. There were some Wallachian gipsy airs
which were perfectly charming. Wild and mournful, like most national
music, they were full of character, and every now and then a tender
melody broke forth that was inexpressibly touching.
A---- Pasha was so kind as to send us the next day the music of
those we most admired, but without the wild, savage clang of Eastern
instruments they lose much of their effect.
When the breakfast was at length over, we all adjourned to the garden,
where sofas and chairs had been placed in the shade, round a small
fountain.
Coffee and pipes were brought, and very merry and amusing was the talk.
Certainly the Ottomans are moving onwards with the times. A hundred
years ago who would have supposed that a grave Turk would have been
entertaining, not only Christians, but Christian women, and also
devoting himself to them with an attention and kindness worthy of
the most "preux chevalier" in Christendom?
Rich and luxurious as had been the entertainment, the arrival of the
pipes formed the culminating point of magnificence.
Many of them were so encrusted with jewels that it was difficult to
form any estimate as to their value. The pieces of amber of which
they were made were almost priceless, both for their size and the
delicacy of their tint. Yellow amber should be of the palest primrose
hue, but there is another shade that is now much prized, namely,
the black amber. This is exceedingly rare, and of course, therefore,
exceedingly costly.
The pasha was kind enough to give us a piece when he paid his last
farewell visit the day before we left the Bosphorus. Most of our
kind friends came on board the yacht that day to wish us good-bye and
God speed, for at dawn the next day we were to sail for the Crimea,
and to judge by the stories that have been poured into our ears for
some weeks past, the perils of the Black Sea for a sailing vessel
must not only be very numerous, but very extraordinary.
Unluckily the only "detaining" result has been that our maid has taken
fright, and resolutely refuses to leave Constantinople. She says that,
though devotedly attached to us, she does not think it right to put
herself to death for anybody, especially as she has an old mother
dependent upon her. She proposes, however, to return to us should we
come back alive, which with tears in her eyes she declares is "most
improbable." Such being the cheerful view taken of our expedition,
we find it impossible on such short notice to replace her. The few
maids to be found here have an idea that we are doomed to death, and
no amount of wages can tempt them to share our fate. One day we were
buoyed up by the hope that there was a female heart stout enough to
share our perils, but when a colossal German, about five feet ten high,
and broad in proportion, appeared before us, our courage failed, and
we felt she would be an incubus not to be endured. Besides, it would
be a question of the nicest calculation whether, provided even if she
could get down the companion, she could by possibility squeeze into
her cabin. The idea, too, of getting her on deck, should there be any
sea, made the brain lose itself in a maze of distressing conjectures.
As for ourselves, we began to grow proud of our courage in braving
such unknown dangers, and felt rather like Christian in "Pilgrim's
Progress," as he prepares to plunge into the flood, and penetrate
the dark mist that veils the other side.
But in truth the opening into the Black Sea is often a very "uncanny"
looking place, for at every change of weather a dense white fog hangs
over it.
All the bad winds are said to come from the Black Sea, all the rain,
all the squalls, so that at any rate, deserved or undeserved, it has
got a very bad name, and we know that a bad name, whether given to
a dog, a man, or a sea, loses nothing by time or telling.
The sea was calm, and the wind was favourable; but our first day's
sail on the Black Sea was marked, and our hearts were troubled by a
domestic calamity.
About ten days before we left the Bosphorus a bottle had been let down
into the water to cool, and when it was drawn up again a curious little
fish was found entangled in the string. It was about five inches long,
and had the head of a horse, with the body and tail like those of
the old fabulous dragon. We found it was called the Hippocampus, or
Sea Horse; and though not uncommon on the coasts of Japan and China,
it is rarely seen in these seas, and still more rarely taken alive.
The Russian Ambassador, Prince L----, who happened to be on board when
the capture was made, is a great naturalist, and by his advice we put
our prize into a glass bowl, with a small supply of its favourite
seaweed. For many days the little creature did very well, and we
used to watch with much interest its active, graceful movements. One
morning, to our great astonishment, we found our friend surrounded
by an immense family, about fifty little ones having made their
appearance during the night. The mother seemed none the worse for
such a prodigious event; and her children, who were about a quarter
of an inch long, and perfect sea-horses in miniature, darted about
with as much activity and liveliness as their parent.
We were so unfortunate as to possess an excellent steward,--Domenico
by name, Neapolitan by birth,--who, with the most earnest endeavours
to do right, and with the most anxious activity in so doing, always
contrived to understand everything à travers, and who, therefore,
by his misplaced zeal and energy, often drove us to the verge of
distraction by his well-intentioned but unlucky efforts. We had,
of course, given him strict orders never to touch our little pets.
The yacht lay-to just opposite a small village at the entrance of
the Black Sea, and here Domenico went on shore to get some of the
necessaries always required at the last moment. Seeing some of the
seaweed which we needed for our little fish, and which it was not
always easy to get, he wisely brought back some with him, but in his
unwise zeal was rashly putting it into the bowl when, being suddenly
called, he turned hastily, and stumbled, upsetting the glass and its
precious contents. The mother was put back alive, but alas! all the
fragile little ones were dead. Great was our grief and vexation, and
we had not even the consolation of scolding the wretched Domenico. He
was so distressingly contrite and unhappy at the fatal results of his
disobedience, that he left us nothing to add to the storm of reproaches
that he showered upon himself. The mother sea-horse lived for about
a fortnight after this sad misfortune; whether she mourned at having
thus lost, at one fell swoop, all her large little family, or whether
she herself had sustained some injury, we could never discover; but she
dwindled and dwindled, and was found one day dead; so all we could do
was to preserve her little remains in spirits of wine. We had given
a great many of the young ones to Prince L----, who wished to take
them to St. Petersburg with him, but they did not survive many days,
and their little dried bodies alone reached their destination.
A favourable breeze soon carried us within sight of the coast of
the Crimea. The air was balmy, the sea was bright, though it had no
longer the intense blueness that is so characteristic of the Bosphorus
and the Mediterranean; the atmosphere, also, had a certain mistiness
about it more akin to northern regions. We were not very far from the
land, and could see that the country was flat and barren. In the far
distance we could trace the faint outlines of a range of hills.
CHAPTER VII.
EUPATORIA.
We coasted on, the shore becoming lower and lower, until at length
nothing was to be seen but an arid, sandy plain stretching away for
miles. Not a tree or house broke its dull uniformity.
In the midst of this gloomy desert is Eupatoria. It would be difficult
to find a more wretched-looking little place. The town consists of
a tumble-down mosque, a couple of Christian churches, a caravanserai
for strangers, and a few low miserable houses. There is also a small
wooden landing-place, and a few huts, like sentry-boxes, scattered
along the shore.
These huts, however, make the fortune, such as it is, of
Eupatoria. They are the famous mud baths well known in the Crimea,
and during the summer are resorted to, from all parts of Southern
Russia, by persons afflicted with skin diseases.
There is one sad malady for which these baths are peculiarly
efficacious. This complaint consists in the skin becoming so thin
that at times the slightest exertion may cause hæmorrhage to take
place from any or all parts of the body; a wasting consumption being
thus produced that usually ends fatally.
The baths at Eupatoria have effected some wonderful cures, and their
reputation is of course increasing.
The patient lies for some hours every day in the soft, healing muddy
water, which, by degrees, makes a sort of artificial coating by leaving
the sediment upon the body. The skin is thus protected until it can
regain its proper health and thickness. We afterwards met a Russian
in Sevastopol who had been quite cured by this singular remedy.
Immediately in front of the landing-place is the caravanserai, a long,
low building, with galleries. It contains a number of small, empty
rooms, of which any traveller may take possession for a night. We
watched the arrival of a large party, who came in wearily with
their tired horses and camels, having come across the Great Steppe,
or wilderness, that for a hundred miles or more lies to the north
of Eupatoria.
Side by side with the mosque, the walls almost joining, is the
principal Greek church, and round it are the best houses, which we,
on landing, thought very wretched; but having been brought to a proper
degree of depression by a walk through the town, we found them quite
comfortable as we returned.
It would be difficult to find a place more squalid and filthy than this
miserable little town. Eyes and nose are equally offended; and after
the delicate cleanliness so apparent in the Turks and their houses,
Eupatoria and its inhabitants appeared the more revolting.
Men, women, and houses looked as if water had been a luxury unknown
to them from the earliest days. Oil, oil everywhere--on the walls, in
the clothes, in the air, even on the ground. One would have expected to
see it running in the gutters, could anything run here, but everything
liquid seems to stagnate, and turn into sticky mud. Nothing was clean
except the kittens, and they may fairly claim to be counted amongst
the population of the town, so numerous were they.
The bazaars were better supplied than might have been supposed from
the poverty-stricken appearance of the place.
The bread was fairly good, and fruit very abundant. The melons,
especially, were excellent, and exceedingly cheap. We bought some of
the finest in the market for little more than two copecks (about a
penny) apiece.
The day following our arrival we went on shore about six o'clock,
in order to have a long drive into the Steppe. Whilst waiting for
our conveyance we went into the Greek church, and found it crowded
with people, it being the Feast of the Assumption.
The full dress of the Greek priests is very magnificent. One of those
now officiating had a robe of silver tissue, with a large cape of
crimson velvet, half covered with gold embroidery. The custom, also,
of wearing the hair long adds much to the picturesque appearance of
the Greek "papas."
The youngest of the three priests had a singularly beautiful face,
in shape and colouring like one of Leonardo da Vinci's pictures of Our
Saviour. The hair, wavy and silky as that of a woman, and of a reddish,
or rather golden-brown shade, hung in rich masses over his shoulders,
nearly down to his waist.
The congregation was composed principally of men of the lower classes,
dressed in the ordinary costume of Russian peasants. This consists of
a sheepskin coat, a cap of the same material, very full cloth trousers,
and great leather boots.
Although well clad, and with no appearance of poverty about them, yet
there was in the attitude and bearing of these men an expression of
deep humility, almost amounting to slavishness, that was painful to
see. Very remarkable, also, was the utter joylessness of the faces
around. There was no lack of intelligence, but these poor people
looked as if the very power of being happy or cheerful had died away
within their hearts.
Occasionally during the service they prostrated themselves in the
Turkish fashion, by touching the ground with their foreheads; but for
the greater part of the time they were crossing themselves diligently.
No man could have crossed himself less than two or three hundred
times during the hour we remained in the church.
Before the service had quite concluded, a sound, as if a lot of old
saucepans had been dragged to the door, accompanied by the stamping of
horses and the shouts of men, announced that our carriage had arrived,
and on going out we found a wonderful-looking conveyance awaiting
us. A long box, something like an unpainted hearse, had been fastened
by bits of rope and bands of iron to a set of wheels which looked as
if they had originally belonged to a gun-carriage; and it was evident
that springs were a luxury not to be expected. There were no seats,
but some straw, covered by a couple of sheepskins, had been put in
for us to sit upon.
We climbed up, and arranged ourselves as well as we could, but with
some dismal forebodings on the subject of fleas, which, unhappily,
were fully realised.
We tumbled and bumped over a sort of track, passing through a wretched
street of decayed warehouses, and almost equally ruinous huts, and
then by a row of windmills, so small that they looked like children's
toys, till we came to the open country, or steppe.
It would be difficult to imagine anything more desolate than the arid
plain that stretches beyond Eupatoria, on the north side, as far as
eye can reach.
It is half marsh, half sand, and for many months during the winter
lies partially under water.
Here and there may be seen a patch of reedy grass, like an oasis
in the desert. On one of these two Bactrian camels were feeding,
and their uncouth forms and awkward movements were very appropriate
adjuncts to the gloomy dreariness of the scene.
Bactrian camels differ from those of Egypt and Syria in having
two humps instead of one; and being in general better bred, and
consequently swifter than the animals in the latter countries, are
of course more valuable.
A drive of a few miles satisfied our curiosity respecting the
steppe. We might have journeyed on for days and have still seen the
flat, desolate plain stretching far, far away with the same gloomy
monotony of dreariness. So, finding that the cramp was seizing us,
and that our bones were decidedly aching from the bumps and blows
we got in consequence of the primitive construction of our vehicle,
we turned back towards the sea.
Along the shore were still lying the remains of some of the French
vessels wrecked here during the storm of the 14th of November, 1854,
and a mast or two, sticking up from a sand-bank at no great distance,
showed where some other unfortunate ships had more recently found
a grave.
We had heard that there was a Jewish synagogue here well worth seeing,
and also interesting, as being the favourite burial-place of many
Rabbis of the Russian Jews. So, leaving the carriage at the entrance
of the town, we dived into a perfect labyrinth of little, dark streets,
even more unsavoury than those whose acquaintance we had already made.
Our guide halted under an ancient archway, and ringing a bell, in a few
minutes the trap of a little grating was slipped aside, and a tremulous
old voice asked who were the visitors, and what they wanted. The
answer being satisfactory, bolts were withdrawn and chains let down,
a small door opened, and we found ourselves in a deliciously clean,
shady court, made dark and cool by trellises covered with vines, from
which great bunches of rich purple grapes were hanging in tempting
profusion. In the corners stood pots of the sweet clove-pink, and
the sun's rays, softened by the shadowing vine-leaves, fell upon the
marble pavement, beneath whose slabs lay the body of many a Rabbi well
known in Jewish history. Some of those, who were now resting in their
last sleep in this quiet spot, had died the death of martyrs in Poland
and elsewhere, and, in secrecy and with much difficulty, their poor
remains had been brought here to lie in peace amidst their brethren.
The synagogue was a room about forty feet square. The walls were
ornamented with Hebrew sentences from the Old Testament, and in
numerous little niches around lay the Bibles and Talmuds of the
congregation. Before a screen at the upper end was a small table,
covered with a cloth that was a mass of gold, embroidery, and seed
pearls. On either side were desks, on which lay the Books of the Law,
and above the screen stood the golden candlesticks with their seven
mystical branches. Ostrich eggs and crimson horse-tails were suspended
from the roof, as in a Turkish mosque, and the floor was covered with
an unusual number of magnificent Persian rugs, laid one over the other.
As we passed through some other small courts and gardens, we saw
several women peeping at us from behind the doors. At length two or
three gained courage enough to show themselves, and very pretty they
looked in their picturesque costume. They had white chemises, with
large loose sleeves, bound with red round the throat and arms, and a
broad border of the same colour on their short black petticoats. They
wore on their heads a little fez with a bright purple tassel, and each
fair Jewess had four or five thick plaits of hair hanging down almost
to her feet. We were lost in admiration at the length and beauty
of these tresses, but, alas! discovered that they were heirlooms,
not growing on the heads, but sewn on to the fezzes of the wearers,
and with care they may sometimes serve two, or even three generations.
Jews, as a class, are sometimes said to be oppressed and ill-treated
in Russia, but certainly in Eupatoria they were the only people we
saw who were clean and thoroughly well dressed, and whose houses
appeared comfortable and comparatively free from oil.
The wind favoured us, and we had an excellent run from Eupatoria to
Old Fort, where the English troops landed on the 14th of September,
1854. As we were rowing on shore the breeze shifted, and we suddenly
found ourselves enveloped in a dense shower of locusts. The flight was
so enormous that it quite darkened the air, and explained the meaning
of a singular cloud we had been watching for some hours, thinking,
as it came up, that it must bode either thunder or heavy rain.
It was sufficiently disagreeable to have these revolting animals
falling upon one every second, but this annoyance was as nothing
compared with the horror of the smell that assailed us when we came
to the shore. Myriads of dead and dying locusts were lying in masses
upon the ground. The day was intensely hot, and the sun, streaming upon
the mass of decaying insects, seemed to draw a cloud of pestilential
vapour from the ground, while every now and then a puff of sickening
miasma came from a little piece of water close by, rightly called
the Foetid Lake, from some peculiarity of the mud on its banks.
My curiosity was not strong enough to enable me to endure the horrors
of a walk over the dead and dying animals, so I fled to the boat,
and, under the protection of a thick cloak and huge umbrella, waited
there until the others had seen enough.
For hours the yacht was passing through the swarm, or detachments of
it. Such numbers of the disgusting insects fell on the deck that two
men were constantly employed in sweeping them into the sea. Every
window, every crevice, was kept carefully closed, for fear that one
of them should get below. There is something inexpressibly revolting
about these horrid animals. They fly, they crawl, and they cling,
and, after having come in contact with them, we could well understand
what a frightful infliction the plague of them in Egypt must have
been. Wherever they pass they leave barrenness and pestilence. We
hoped the flight we had met might be driven out to sea. It was a very
large one, for long after we had passed through it, we could see the
dark cloud extending along the horizon like hills.
Beyond Old Fort the country began to improve. The sandy plain gradually
changed into gentle undulations, then rose to picturesque hills,
and at last, in the distance, a range of fine mountains came in
sight. Here and there a few small farmsteads, surrounded by patches
of cultivated ground, showed that the soil was more genial than that
around Eupatoria and Old Fort.
In the glow of a lovely sunset, the sea gently breaking in little
waves upon the beach, the lark singing above the corn-fields, in all
the quiet and repose of a summer evening, we came upon the scene of
the most awful strife and carnage the world has seen in modern times.
As we lay in towards the shore, on our right was the steep bank up
which the brave Zouaves forced their way; the pretty grass-field
beyond, where a flock of sheep were so peacefully feeding, was
the deadly slope where so many of the noble and gallant 23rd Welsh
Fusiliers died a soldier's death. That fearful day is now a story of
long ago--but what English heart can look upon the field of Alma and
remain unmoved?
The chalk cliffs near the sea are about thirty feet high, and are
curiously intersected by strata of red gravel. As the sun slowly
sank, these cliffs caught his last rays, and were dyed so deep a
crimson that we could almost fancy the battle had but been to-day,
and that the long dark stains were indeed the blood so nobly shed by
our gallant soldiers.
We hove-to opposite the mouth of the little river, and sent a boat on
shore to see if we could land, but a Cossack, who had been suspiciously
watching the movements of the yacht all day (and a long hot ride he
must have had), rode rapidly down to the beach, and, pointing his
lance in very warlike fashion at the men, clearly demonstrated that
no landing must be attempted. The boatswain, who spoke Russ, tried
to remonstrate, but an order had lately been sent from Odessa, that
no person should be allowed to land on the coast without a permit,
so, with our destination before us, we had to set sail and depart.
CHAPTER VIII.
SEVASTOPOL.
The next morning, soon after six a.m., we were awakened by the roar
of cannon, and running on deck to ascertain the cause, found that the
yacht was dashing along under a fresh breeze, and rapidly approaching
the entrance to Sevastopol.
Wreaths of smoke were curling round Fort Constantine. We could hear
the hissing of the shot as it fell into the sea, and such warlike
sights and sounds almost made one fancy we had come in time for the
siege; but drawing near, the ruins that lay around, the masts, and
the bits of wreck sticking up in all parts of the harbour (making the
navigation both difficult and dangerous), showed we had but arrived
to see the effects of war.
Even after the lapse of so many years, the scene of desolation was
extraordinary. The forts are not even in ruins. So completely have
they been destroyed, that only masses of broken stones show the sites
where they once stood. On the heights are rows of handsome houses,
or palace-like barracks, still roofless, the walls shattered, and
grass growing thickly between the stones.
The Russians seem to have had as yet no heart or inclination to
attempt seriously the work of restoration. A few houses have been made
habitable, some rebuilt, but whole quarters have been left as they were
at the termination of the siege. In some streets, where apparently a
perfect storm of shot and shell must have descended, the walls of the
houses left are so shattered that it seems almost unsafe to walk about
amongst them--they look as if a gust of wind must bring them down.
The principal church of St. Nicholas has been restored, and houses
have been built for the governor, admiral, and principal officials;
but of the beautiful public buildings and magnificent palaces of which
Sevastopol was once so proud nothing now is left but the scorched,
battered, and defaced skeletons. Some of these poor remains still
retain traces of their former grandeur. Here and there a bit of
tarnished gilding, pieces of what was once rich sculpture, traces of
painting, the remains of stone or marble staircases, still cling to
the crumbling walls. Never again, in all probability, will this once
beautiful city regain the prosperity and position she enjoyed before
the fatal war that brought about her destruction.
Sevastopol was the pet child of several successive Emperors, and
unheard-of were the sums expended, not only on the naval and military
defences of a place for many years deemed impregnable, but also for
the decoration and improvements of her streets and public buildings.
To insure the houses being well and handsomely built, and to assist
also many of the naval and military officials, whose pay is generally
so small that they can barely subsist upon it, the Russian government
had for many years adopted the following system:--
The land, both in the town and immediately around it, was Crown
property. Supposing an officer wished to build a house, he sent a
plan of it to the Minister of the Interior, and an estimate made by
the government architect. Should the plan be approved, and if the
house would cost, say, 20,000 roubles, the government would advance
at once 10,000 roubles, and in two years time 10,000 more. This money
was lent without interest for five years, but had then to be repaid
by instalments.
Should the whole sum of 20,000 roubles not have been repaid within
ten years, the house then became the property of the Crown. This
regulation, however, was seldom carried into effect, and the borrower
was generally permitted to pay interest for the money until he could
pay off the principal. As the houses were large and let in apartments,
as in Paris, the rents obtained were in most cases far greater than
necessary to repay the interest of the money expended.
In the old, merry days Sevastopol was a very gay place. Being the
principal port of the Black Sea, the Plymouth in fact of the Empire of
the Czar, it was the great rendezvous of the fleet, and a large number
of naval officers and their families were always resident. The immense
garrison also made an important addition to the society, and many
of the South Russian families passed their winter in Sevastopol, the
climate being much more temperate than at either Odessa or Simpheropol.
Sevastopol, therefore, was considered, after St. Petersburg and Moscow,
the gayest and most brilliant town in Russia. Its nearness also to
the imperial villa at Yalta made the official appointments eagerly
sought after.
But these gay balls, dinners, concerts, &c., are now only things of the
past. The inhabitants can be counted by tens instead of by thousands,
and but for the families of those whose duty obliges them to remain,
the town would speedily cease to be. Dull as Sevastopol generally is,
it was duller than usual during our stay, for several of the principal
officials had been summoned to Odessa to attend two of the imperial
princes. Those who remained, however, seemed as if they could not be
kind enough, or friendly enough, to travellers from a country who a
few years back had been so terrible an enemy.
There has ever been such kind feeling and such friendship between
Russia and England that it must always be painful to an Englishman
to think circumstances should have forced us into a cruel war with
an old and steady friend.
The day after our arrival we got three droskies to take us to the
Redan and the neighbouring heights. Crimean droskies are like very
low gigs, and hold two persons besides the driver, who sits upon a
small box or perch high above the body of the carriage. One of the
horses is in shafts, with a wooden arch hung with bells over his head,
the other is in traces on the left side. When well driven this horse
canters while the other trots, and however rough and uneven the road,
the pace is generally tremendous.
The drivers were strange wild creatures, with long unkempt beards, and
hair that flew out behind them like a cloud as we raced along. They
wore coarse frieze coats, with long full skirts coming down to their
heels, and loose trousers tucked into great Wellington boots, so
redolent of musk and train oil that every time their owner kicked
the plank beneath his feet, in his energy to overcome some unusual
difficulty, an odour was wafted to us that was far from resembling
those that come from Araby the Blest.
Our progress was both noisy and exciting. On coming to a bad place
the drivers stood up, stamped with excitement, shouting to their
team, and addressing them in a stream of terms both of endearment and
abuse. The horses tossed their heads as they struggled and plunged,
the bells jangling furiously, and we could only hold tight as the
light carriage bounded over hole or mound.
Carriage-hire is dear, each drosky costing about one rouble and a
half an hour; a rouble is nearly 3s. 4d. in English money.
The dust during the summer in and about Sevastopol is quite remarkable,
and can be only equalled by the mud in winter. The soil is principally
of a description of chalk that rapidly pulverises during dry weather,
and equally rapidly dissolves during wet. The result is that in summer
the town and country seem wrapped in clouds of fine penetrating dust,
and during winter the mud is ancle-deep.
Within ten minutes of our start we were as white as millers, and
half-choked besides, as, perfectly regardless of our wishes and
requests, the drivers occasionally amused themselves by racing, or else
insisted upon keeping close to the wheels of the preceding carriage.
After passing through street after street of ruins, we found ourselves
in a narrow ravine immediately beneath the Redan, and at about a
quarter of a mile from the town came to the first or most advanced
English trench. Of course years have gradually levelled the soil, and
now it is like a small dry ditch, but even had the mound raised been
three times the height it now is, it seemed amazing that so slight
an amount of earth could have been sufficient to protect the soldiers
from the rain of shot so unceasingly poured from the town. Even with
gabions on the top, the men could not have stood upright in the trench.
About fifty yards up the valley was a mound of earth with two "dents"
in it. This had been an English battery of two guns, and the dents
marked the places where the cannon had stood. Higher up was another
trench, then another battery, and so on, until, the defile making a
turn, the town was no longer commanded.
Now and then we passed a small enclosure surrounded by rough walls, or
came to a heap of earth with a few stones piled upon its summit. These
are the resting-places of many of our soldiers. There are no names,
in a few more years even these slight traces will be obliterated, and
the earth, once so deeply dyed with their blood, will give no token
of the brave hearts she has taken to her bosom. These humble graves,
the only record of so many unknown but gallant men, all of whom had
died fighting for their country, appeal even more powerfully to the
feelings than the long line of grand monuments on Cathcart's Hill,
though many great and distinguished names are recorded there.
Many can understand and share Lord Nelson's feelings when he exclaimed,
"A peerage, or Westminster Abbey;" but how hard to die for one's
country, knowing that that country will not even remember the name
of its poor servant!
After winding up the valley for another mile and a half, we left the
road, and ascending a little down or grass field found ourselves within
half a mile of the Redan. Strange to say, though we had mounted to
a considerable height, but very little of the town was visible from
the spot where we were.
Seen from the sea, Sevastopol appears to stand in an amphitheatre
of hills, that apparently command it on every side; but, in fact,
there are only two heights that really do so--namely, those of the
Malakoff and the Redan. The view was extensive, and we could see,
for a considerable distance inland, over an undulating but now barren
country. The ground around had been so torn and rent by the iron storm
of shot and shell, that it looked as if it had been badly ploughed by
awkward giants, but time has now covered the ugly wounds with a soft
vesture of grass and thyme. Nature has done all the reparation that
has been made. We could see no traces of cultivation in any direction,
neither were any cattle or sheep to be seen feeding on the miles of
short, sweet down grass that would have been so suitable for them;
but where war lays her destroying hand, the labours and improvements
of centuries are destroyed in as many hours.
A sandy track led to the Redan, the ground at every step giving more
and more evidence of the deadly struggle that had taken place. In every
direction huge ragged holes and fissures showed where mines had been
sprung, and monstrous rents in the ground, close to the fort, marked
where some battery had poured a stream of fiery shot, that had torn
its way through earth, and stone, and iron with appalling strength.
Bullets and pieces of shot and shell are still to be found in
abundance, and women and children are constantly employed in turning
over the earth in search of these relics, and also of the small brass
crosses, one of which is always worn by every Russian soldier.
Standing on the edge of the ditch, the desperate nature of the attack
could be better appreciated. The ditch was about fifteen feet deep,
with a tremendous chevaux-de-frise at the bottom, and the guns of
the fort were so numerous that the embrasures were not more than a
few feet apart. It is difficult to imagine a more appalling position
than to have to lead troops on to such certain death. Our guide,
who had belonged to the Land Transport Corps, saw the attack made.
The most advanced English trench was about a hundred and fifty feet
from the Redan, and it was from here the final rush was made. On came
the officers closely followed by the devoted regiments, and through
the deadly hail of shot and grape that was pouring from the Russian
guns, the attacking columns rushed up the fatal slope. But few of
these gallant men entered the breach, the terrific fire mowed them
down by hundreds, and in a few seconds the ground was covered with
the dead and dying. "Never," said our informant, "could he forget
the hideous yells, shouts, and shrieks that filled the air."
The first man who raised the English standard on the Russian bastion
was Captain Robert Preston, but he had scarcely waved it in the
air when he fell, pierced by twenty wounds. Our guide saw him fall,
on a heap of dead Russians, with the gabions on fire by his side.
Inside the fort the number of mines that had been sprung had so
riddled the ground that much caution was required to avoid falling
into the great holes.
The sun had now set, twilight in these countries is very short,
for darkness soon comes on, and just when the grey duskiness of
evening gave additional gloom to the dreary scene of desolation and
ruin around, quietly stealing from behind the broken wall of the
nearest graveyard came creeping a lean, savage jackal. So noiseless
and so stealthy were his movements, that at times his dark grey
form could scarcely be distinguished from the dark grey stones by
which he stole so cautiously. Breathlessly we watched the savage
creature as he prowled along. The wind blowing strongly towards us,
for a few minutes we were undetected, but very soon a slight rustle
made by one of the party betrayed our neighbourhood, and in a second,
with a vicious snarl and snap, the animal was bounding off, with long
loping strides, towards the open country. In wild countries troops of
jackals always form part of the camp-followers of a great army. As the
vulture and the crow scent carrion, so does the instinct of the jackal
tell him where human bodies are interred, and unless the surrounding
walls are high and strong, many a burial-place has been desecrated
by these savage and cowardly animals.
CHAPTER IX.
TRACES OF WAR.
We started one fine, sunny morning, at eight o'clock, for a long
expedition to Cathcart's Hill and St. George's Monastery. We left
the town by the valley beneath the Redan, but instead of taking the
turn to the left that leads to the fort, followed the course of the
defile until we arrived at some table land, where are the remains of
the English Picket House. Close by is the burial-ground of the Light
Division. It is surrounded by low but well-built walls. Neglect,
however, and the rapid growth of weeds have made many of the
inscriptions, and even some of the graves, invisible. In the centre
stands a pyramid, bearing inscriptions both in English and Russ to the
officers and men belonging to the Light Division. One monument had the
following words, deeply cut in the stone: "Sacred to the memory of the
officers, non-commissioned officers, and men of the 77th Regiment, who
lost their lives in the service of their country during the campaign in
the Crimea. This monument is erected by the officers of the Regiment,
as a humble tribute of respect to the fortitude and bravery of their
fallen comrades."
Pushing aside the grass and rank weeds, we found the names of many
friends, and with the aid of parasols and sticks, cleared some
graves from the tangled growth of years, and planted upon them
tufts of sweet-scented thyme and a little blue flower very like
the forget-me-not. From some we gathered a few coarse wild-flowers,
and even blades of grass, to bear home to mothers whose hearts are
still aching for the brave young dead who have but a soldier's grave
so far from home and from those who loved them. Many we had known
well, in the brightest hours of their youth and happiness, were
sleeping here in bloody graves. No words can adequately express the
depression of spirits which must come after passing hours in going
from burial-ground to burial-ground, only to see where those, once
so loved in life, so honoured in their death, now lie--uncared for,
unthought of--in cemeteries that, instead of being evidences of a
nation's gratitude and reverence, are now untended and forgotten,
a tangled mass of weeds, and but fit homes for the jackal and the fox.
Leaving the Woronzoff road on the right, we came to a knoll, or patch
of rising ground, from whence an excellent view of the town can be
had. It was here that the non-fighting visitors usually took up their
position, for not only could a good general view of the camps and
town be obtained, but, with glasses, it was easy to see the people
walking in the streets.
The road passes by a small village, where, standing in the midst of
some neat enclosures, with a well-filled farmyard at its rear, is a
low one-storied house. This unpretending little building was once
the head-quarters of the English staff, and here poor Lord Raglan
breathed his last.
Notwithstanding the severe losses and sufferings that were caused
to its owners by their home and property being seized by the enemy,
Monsieur and Madame B---- receive with kindness and hospitality any
English who may wander here. We are, however, at present the only
foreigners who have visited Sevastopol this year.
In a small sitting-room a marble slab has been let into the wall, over
the place where the bed stood on which Lord Raglan died. In the wood
of the folding doors are cut the names of Field-Marshal Lord Raglan,
General Simpson, and Sir William Codrington. The temporary grave in
which the body of the noble old soldier was placed previous to its
removal to England, has also been well cared for. Willows hang over
the spot, and it is surrounded by a border of rose-bushes and flowers.
A tale of the troubles caused by war is always sad to hear, and the
family, at whose hospitable board we were seated, had been absolutely
ruined by their losses, and were now attempting to begin the world
afresh; but though Monsieur B---- is an energetic farmer and works, his
wife says, early and late, he has hitherto reaped but little reward for
his toil. Life, commerce, energy, have alike deserted Sevastopol, and
there is but little or no market either there or in the neighbourhood.
Poor little Madame B----, with tears in her pretty eyes, deplored
in fervent language the loss of her comfortable home. Her husband
was with his regiment on the north side, when the rapid approach
of the allies obliged her and her children to fly for safety to
Simpheropol. She left a house, well, almost luxuriously furnished,
and returned at the end of the war to find but bare walls--not even
a chair had been left. The farm and garden gone--gone also the woods
and valuable vineyards, the very roots of which had been torn up and
burnt. Our graceful little hostess, however, with a tender regard
for the feelings of her stranger guests, hastened to add that the
ruin of the place was not owing to the English army, whose generals
had kindly striven to save and to spare as much as possible, but to
those human locusts, the Tartar camp-followers.
From Cathcart's Hill we drove to Kerani, a desolate little village
lying amongst the hills near Balaclava. There were about half-a-dozen
half-ruined wooden hovels, and a couple of better-class houses,
although these were also built of wood. To one of these we were most
kindly welcomed by Colonel S----.
The long sloping roofs, weighted by large stones, and the peculiarly
small windows, only seen in stormy countries, showed how severe the
winters must sometimes be here, and we were told that, though cold
is seldom of long continuance, and though snow rarely remains for
many days upon the ground, yet the gales of wind during the winter
months are of extraordinary violence, the long narrow gullies with
which the hills are intersected acting as funnels, down which the
raging tempest hurries with increasing fury and strength. In general,
however, the gales, though severe, are short, and in the memory of
man no such terrible winters had been known as those experienced by
our troops during the two years they were in the Crimea. Never before
had such intense cold been known; never before had the storms been
so prolonged and incessant. Direct manifestations, it was believed
by the lower order of Russians, that Providence itself was against
the unrighteous invasion of the land.
We had a pleasant luncheon at Colonel S----'s, and the live stock
of the yacht was increased by the kind gift (rather to Mr. Harvey's
horror) of a pair of quite lovely geese. We had not believed the
usually despised goose could be so beautiful a bird. These geese
were as white as snow, had backs and wings covered with long curling
feathers like ostrich plumes, and had bright pink bills and feet;
but for their unfortunate voices they might have set up for swans. Our
dear birds, however, did not approve of being summarily torn from the
paternal pond and packed in a basket, so they hissed and cackled all
the rest of the day in a thoroughly goose-like and provoking manner.
From Kerani we went to St. George's Monastery--a long low building,
standing apparently in a flat, ugly country; but on passing through an
archway, and descending a few steps, an enchanting view was before us.
The convent is built upon the extreme edge of a steep wooded cliff
overhanging a little bay. Paths had been cut through the wood, and
wound down between trees and rocks to the verge of the sea, where tiny
waves were coming quietly in upon a shining beach, trickling back
amongst the many-coloured shells and stones with a pleasant murmur,
most refreshing on such a burningly hot day. But the sun was now
glowing with almost blinding heat upon this the western side, so we
retired into the interior of the building until the intolerable glare
should have somewhat subsided.
There are now only five brethren of the order living at
St. George. Since the war the number has greatly diminished, and
some are required for another house at Simpheropol. We were invited
to have some tea, an offer we thankfully accepted, and while it
was getting ready were asked to pay a visit to the cells. They were
fairly comfortable, indeed better than may be found in many religious
houses in Italy and France, that have not so strict a rule as the
Greek convents.
Each brother was provided with a table, a stool, some boards on
tressels for a bed, a mattress (certainly very thin), and a blanket;
but what can monks wish for more? In the Greek Church, the severity of
monastic life consists principally in the length and rigid observance
of the frequent fasts, and in the small amount of sleep that is
permitted. There is scarcely a religious house in which meat is ever
eaten, and twice a week, during the long fast of Easter, only one
meal a day is allowed, consisting of beans boiled with oil.
As there are no inns in this part of the world, excepting in towns,
monasteries answer the purpose, and though payment is not permitted,
each traveller, ere he departs, is expected to drop an offering into
the poor-box.
While waiting for the tea, some water was brought from the famous
spring of St. George. It is celebrated for miles around, and well
deserves its fame. Fresh, sparkling, and cold as if iced, it was
really nectar. Well for us it was so, for we needed some little
compensation for the disappointment that awaited us with respect to
the much-wished-for, long-promised tea. The eagerly-expected beverage,
when it did at last arrive, was brought in tumblers, without either
milk or sugar, and being a very strong decoction of something bitter,
between sloes and haystalks, it was so like a horrid medicine called
"black draught," that nothing but the strongest exertion of good
manners could enable one to swallow even a few drops.
At six o'clock we went into chapel for the Ave Maria. The chapel is
a neat little building, detached from the monastery, and has some
altar-pieces remarkably well painted. The pictures of the saints
were covered with plaques of gold and silver in alto-relievo, and
had glories of precious stones around their heads.
The congregation was very limited, for it consisted of only three
brethren, the sacristan, and one old woman, but the service was
got over with wonderful speed, though with no apparent disrespect of
manner. Vespers over, we were shown the chapel. Behind the altar-screen
was an exceedingly good picture of The Crucifixion, but as it was
in a part of the building that women are not allowed to profane by
their unholy presence, my sister and I had to remain on the other side
of the altar, the monks most good-naturedly drawing aside curtains,
and trying to give us as good a view as possible.
The evening had by this time become cool and pleasant, so we strolled
down the cliffs to look at the ancient chapel, the hanging gardens,
and the renowned spring. Excepting its antiquity, the former possesses
no interest; it is a very small stone building, supposed to have been
erected by the Genoese when they occupied this country, but both in
form and decoration it is remarkably simple.
The stream poured forth from the rock with delicious freshness,
dashing, in a series of tiny cascades, from terrace to terrace, ever
sprinkling with a shower of brilliant drops the mosses and tender
ferns that grew on its banks, until, on reaching the good monks'
gardens, it flowed decorously through appointed channels. Then,
its duties over, it gave one glad bound, as a miniature waterfall,
over the rocks into the sea, and was lost in the embrace of its mighty
mother. The terrace-gardens are beautifully kept, for the monks labour
in them unceasingly. The good fathers are the principal doctors of the
district, and grow, therefore, not only vegetables for their own use,
but most of the plants and herbs required for medicinal purposes.
It was late before we returned to Sevastopol, but the drive back in
the cool night air was very refreshing. As we descended the heights
into the town, we could see the bright lights of our many-coloured
little Turkish lanterns shining a cheerful welcome to us from the
yacht. It is worth while to feel very tired, in order to experience
the inexpressible feeling of comfort that comes over one when, on
getting on board, we find the tea-table invitingly prepared on deck,
the samovar bubbling merrily under the teapot, the little kitten ready
for a game of play, and everything speaking of the snugness and rest
of home.
The country immediately around Sevastopol looks rather pretty, and
is pleasant enough in fine weather. The air on the heights is fresh
and invigorating, and the clearness of the atmosphere gives a charm
to the distant views both over sea and land. A very few hours' rain,
however, makes the place quite detestable, for it is impossible to move
out, either in the town or beyond it, without having to wade through
a perfect slough of sticky white mud. The misery and illness that
must have prevailed in the camps, after days of continued down-pour,
can be easily imagined.
Our first visit to Marshal Pelissier's head-quarters was made on one
of these melancholy days. A Scotch mist, that had been driven in from
the sea, gradually changed into a steady, soaking rain, but we were
too far from home to turn back, and being fortunately well cloaked
and shod, in forlorn procession we waded through puddles and mud from
graveyard to graveyard. To the credit of the French nation, they are
far better tended than ours. Still the scene was gloomy enough to suit
the gloomy day. The huts, formerly inhabited by the troops, have fallen
into ruins, and the wood is rotting on the ground. Here and there are
huge mounds of broken bottles and other refuse, and near them again are
great pits, where infected clothing, &c., were burnt during the time
the cholera was raging. The French head-quarters seem to have been
very well placed, for though on a commanding height, they must have
been in a great measure protected from the cruel north wind that blew
with such bitter severity into the English tents on Cathcart's Hill.
Even black clouds and depressing rain could not make us insensible
to the beauty of the valley of Tchernaia. It lies deep amongst rocks,
with a fine range of chalk hills in the distance. The long white lines
on their rugged sides looked like snow whenever a straggling ray of
light fell upon them through the dark and heavy mass of clouds. Quite
at the upper end of the valley, where it turns to the right towards
Balaclava, are two low hills, covered with the ruins of Sir Colin
Campbell's camp. The long flat piece of ground beneath these will be
ever memorable as the scene of the famous charge of cavalry. The little
plain forms a sort of amphitheatre, as it is partly surrounded at
one end by a series of hillocks or rising ground. On these commanding
positions were posted the Russian guns. Even an inexperienced eye could
see at a glance that the devoted regiments must have been rushing
to certain death. It seems marvellous that men can be so trained
to passive obedience, that, without a murmur, they hurry to their
doom. Every officer, at any rate, was probably aware that the heroic
effort could but be a useless sacrifice of human life. What must have
been the agony of those who were forced to look on at such frightful
and unnecessary carnage, powerless to prevent, and powerless to aid?
Balaclava is a quaint little place, completely shut in by hills and
rocks. The entrance to the harbour from the sea is very difficult
to find even when quite close to it, so curiously does the channel
twist and turn about. It must have been once a better-class village
than any we had yet seen, for the church, though in a dilapidated
state, is large, and the houses, though partly in ruins, are of good
size. Some have been repaired, and most are inhabited, but everything
speaks of ruin and discouragement. The landing-place is rotting in the
water, the warehouses made by the English are rotting on the shore,
and the dirty, dreary-looking people seem as if they were decaying
away in their poverty and hopelessness.
Drinking is unhappily the prevailing vice in the Crimea. We rarely
went on shore without seeing several tipsy men. Towards evening one
generally meets wives and daughters dutifully wheeling their husbands
and fathers home in barrows. Yesterday we met a procession of five
being thus brought back in triumph from some prolonged carouse. To
the credit of the fair sex, it is but just to say we have not seen
one woman so degradingly overcome.
The Russian women we have hitherto seen, though they cannot be called
pretty, have generally very pleasant faces. Their voices are sweet
and low, and the gentleness of their manner is very prepossessing. It
is impossible, however, not to feel that so much timidity probably
originates in the harsh treatment they experience in their homes, for
the men, though humble and cringing when addressing their superiors,
are coarse and boorish to their inferiors. These observations, of
course, only refer to the lower classes. Amongst the higher ranks,
Russians of both sexes are quite remarkable for their charm of manner
and peculiar talents for society. The extraordinary kindness we
received from every family whose acquaintance we made during our stay
in the Crimea, quite endeared these kind people to us, and personal
experience enables us to say that Russian friendship does not limit
itself to charming manners alone.
During our stay in Sevastopol, we became well acquainted with several
of the ladies who had remained in the town during the siege. With the
exception of one, all were wives or daughters of officers in command,
and who, with noble devotion, had refused to leave their relations in
the hour of danger. With unwearied zeal they laboured in the hospitals,
for, notwithstanding every effort, the amount of attendance was
lamentably deficient, and it was only possible to provide for the more
pressing need of the sufferers. All unite in saying that the courage
and fortitude of these ladies were beyond praise. Many of them were
quite young girls, but, regardless of personal danger, they not only
visited the hospitals, but wherever illness or suffering required
their presence these true Sisters of Mercy were to be found. Death
was ever before them, for who could tell where or when would come
the fatal shot? Day and night shells were exploding in the devoted
town. No spot was safe. When sleeping in their homes, or praying in
their churches, the fiery shot might come crashing through the walls,
dealing death and destruction around. The narrow escapes related to us
might fill a volume. One lady had barely left the side of a wounded
man, when a shot came through the roof, instantly terminating the
sufferings of the patient, and injuring another in a neighbouring
bed. One charming young girl, Mademoiselle Androvna R----, daughter
of a general commanding a division, had been in Sevastopol from the
beginning of the siege until the end. She was an only daughter,
but her father and two brothers were soldiers, and she remained
with them to be, as they said, "their guardian angel." Although
so many years have now elapsed, Androvna was strongly moved as she
spoke of the anguish of that terrible time. Parting almost daily,
in ignorance as to whether they should ever meet again, when again
they met the little family felt as if it were impossible they could
all be much longer spared. Sometimes a brother would have to proceed
to an advanced post, and then it might be days before they would know
whether he was amongst the living or the dead.
One day, as Androvna was on her way to the hospital, she met the
sad procession of the wounded as they were carried in, and found
her youngest brother amongst the number; but the young man, though
he bears the marks of a fearful sword-cut across the face, and has
lost an arm, still lives, to love and cherish his devoted sister, who
nursed him through his sufferings with the tenderest care. Who could
think of personal danger when in such agony of anxiety for loved ones,
who were hourly exposed to far greater peril? So great was the strain
upon the nerves, that Androvna says she believed she should have gone
mad but for the supporting duty she felt it to attend the sick and
wounded in the hospitals. By the bedside of these poor sufferers self
was for a time forgotten, and when she could occasionally creep away
to some neighbouring church, and on her knees before her patron saint
lay down her burden of sorrow and anxiety, then peace and courage
returned to her heavily-laden heart.
She had, however, personally some narrow escapes. One day, for
instance, she was sitting in her room, with a pet dog lying at her
feet, when a shot came crashing through part of the house. The little
animal at her side was crushed to death by a falling piece of wood,
but the young girl happily escaped with a few slight bruises.
CHAPTER X.
VALLEY OF TCHERNAIA.
Not being at all satisfied with only having seen the fair valley of
Tchernaia in the gloom of rain and wind, we resolved to try whether
the glow of a fine summer day would not heighten its charms. One
warm sunny morning, therefore, we put a basket of provisions and a
Russian dictionary in the yacht's cutter, and set off to breakfast
under the trees in a pleasant grass field beyond Inkerman. The wind
was contrary, so we had to row across the harbour, and for about
a mile up the river Tcherné; it then became favourable, and strong
enough to enable us to stem the little current, so, setting a sail,
we glided up the stream most pleasantly and rapidly.
Grèbe, divers, and other water-fowl were continually darting in and
out of the masses of reeds that grew along the banks, and at a sudden
turn of the river a great eagle, probably disturbed at his morning
meal, rose slowly in the air, and sailed away majestically towards
the mountains.
It was very early; the morning breeze was deliciously cool and fresh,
and as we lazily reclined on our comfortable seats, listening to the
soft sound of the water as it rippled against the bows of the boat,
or to the merry voices of the children as they chattered to their
favourite Domenico, it seemed as if life could offer nothing pleasanter
than to be thus gliding away in the summer sunshine towards unknown
scenes and beauties. Whatever might have been the worthy Domenico's
faults with respect to his masters, he was admired and adored by
every child who came near him.
He had an art, quite peculiar to himself, for turning everything he
saw into something not intended by nature. Leaves, flowers, sticks,
stalks, became astonishing musical instruments after passing through
his cunning hands, and he would weave rushes, leaves, and flowers into
garlands, baskets, and a variety of pretty things, with a rapidity
and skill that was quite marvellous, and of course to the intense
delight of the little folk around him. His pipes and whistles, also,
blew better and with greater shrillness than any pipes and whistles
that ever were known. Should occasion require he could be an admirable
cook; he could sing buffo songs with a talent worthy of San Carlino
itself; he could make clothes; he could improvise clever verses; but
unfortunately his inspirations would come to him at unlucky moments,
and while he was meditating a stanza more sublime than usual a pile
of plates or dishes would fall from his hands, and his soaring spirit
would be brought back to earth by an energetic remonstrance on his
carelessness.
Happily he had not been in a poetic vein when he packed the breakfast
basket. The only thing omitted was some fruit, a want that was
soon supplied, for we passed a small house where the trellises were
absolutely laden with grapes, and we bought a large basket of them
for something under half a rouble.
We continued our course up the river, passing between water-meadows
that had quite a park-like appearance from some fine old trees that
had happily escaped destruction. The many ranges of hills also that
could be seen as the valley opened were very beautiful, for though
hardly lofty enough to deserve the name of mountains, the line of the
more distant was rugged and bold, and in the clear atmosphere tier
upon tier could be seen, till the last faded away in the blue distance.
While we went to look at the ruined village of Inkerman the sail
was taken in, and as, owing to the large beds of rushes, the stream
was rapidly narrowing, we took to the oars again, until we arrived
opposite a small church and a few little houses that had been hewn
out of the cliff itself.
The Tcherné divides here into several channels, all too shallow for
the boat, so we landed, and establishing ourselves under some large
trees, found a pleasant shelter from the sun, whose rays had now
become both fierce and overpowering. We spread our breakfast on the
grass, close to a delicious little ford, where the water, quite put
out of temper by the impeding stones, dashed and tossed itself about
in sparkles of brilliant rage. At length, throwing itself down in a
fierce little set of passionate cascades, it recovered its calmness,
and quietly subsided into the gentle stream beneath. Can anything be
more beautiful than such a stream? and what delight greater than to
rest thus under the shadow of great trees, watching the sunshine as
it plays on bank, and tree, and meadow, and to know also one is far
away from the working, weary troubles and pleasures of the world?
Seated on the warm, dry turf, we passed a couple of hours very
luxuriously, and somewhat idly. In fact, some of the party indulged
in a little slumber, a weakness quite to be forgiven, for the day and
place seemed alike made for repose. Not a breath stirred the air,
the leaves hung motionless on the trees, the bees hummed drowsily
among the flowers. The very birds were silent, the reed-sparrow alone
sending forth her monotonous piping note from some neighbouring bushes,
and the tinkling sound of the falling water made the most soothing
music imaginable. However, after a time we crossed the stream by
means of the little ford, and ascended the cliff to the church
and village; but church and houses were alike deserted. The door
of the former was locked and the houses were empty. Not a soul was
to be seen anywhere. We hunted about some time in hopes of finding
the key--for we had been told the chapel was well worth seeing,
and contained some curious old pictures--but in vain. The door was
so old and shaky that a vigorous blow would have broken it open,
but not thinking so felonious a mode of entrance suitable to the
character of the edifice, we walked back towards Inkerman by a path
that gave us beautiful views of the valley and mountains.
The village of Inkerman no longer exists; a few blackened walls alone
mark its site.
The battle was fought on the rising ground immediately above the
valley, and the earth still retains many memorials of the bloody
strife. Half buried in the soil, close to a low wall, we found part
of a broken sword; and any number of flattened bullets, buttons,
and portions of soldiers' decorations could be easily had by digging
up the earth with parasol handles or sticks. On the highest point
has been placed a simple stone monument to the memory of all the
combatants who fell in that terrible struggle. English, French,
and Russians there share alike in the honour of that fatal day;
and truly a soldier's glory seems but a very little thing.
A short walk along the rising ground brought us to all that is now
left of the Malakoff. There are two ditches round it, but neither of
them is as deep as that which surrounds the Redan. The fort itself,
however, is very much larger, and in the centre are the ruins of a low,
flat tower. It was originally bomb-proof, but the French blew it up
when they obtained possession, and now barely half of the building
remains standing.
The Malakoff so completely overlooks and commands the town that even
the non-combatant can perceive how useless must have been any attempt
to hold Sevastopol when once this, the key as it were to the position,
was in possession of the allies. Those who held the Malakoff and the
Redan had virtually Sevastopol, for shot and shell from these forts
could be poured like hail into the devoted town. These two great
outposts lost by the Russians, all further struggle on their part
must have been hopeless.
Count K---- tells us that in fact Prince Menschikoff had resolved to
evacuate the town, and retire to the north side, when the Quarries and
the Mamelon had fallen into the hands of the allies; and he would have
done so before the attack on the Malakoff was made, but for positive
orders from St. Petersburg to hold the town as long as possible.
As far as we could judge, the general opinion amongst the Russian
officers was that the chief error Russia committed was in allowing the
allies to land undisturbed. Probably subsequent events confirmed their
views, but all seemed to think, had the French and English met with
a vigorous resistance when they disembarked, Sevastopol would never
have been invested. Unhappily for them, the higher authorities at
St. Petersburg were so firmly convinced that Sevastopol and her forts
were impregnable, that it was hoped, could the allies be led on to make
an attack upon the outworks, that not only would they be repulsed,
but that the annihilation of the whole invading army would be the
necessary consequence. Those generals who knew the place, and who had
some doubts as to the "impossibility" of taking it from the land side,
were not listened to. Any attack from the sea must have been in vain.
Notwithstanding the kindness of our friends--notwithstanding the
fineness of the weather (for we had but few rainy days during the many
weeks we passed at Sevastopol), we longed to leave the place. Words
cannot adequately express the profound gloom and depression that
weigh down the spirits after any lengthened residence in the town
of death. At first, the great interest of seeing a place become
so famous in history, the excitement of visiting spot after spot
renowned for deeds of chivalrous daring unequalled in modern times,
support the mind; but, after a time, the one story told by every house,
by every field, by every grave--of untimely death, of man's love of
destruction, and of man's lust for blood--oppresses the heart with
a weight of sadness that becomes almost unendurable.
Our favourite walk on many a bright summer's evening was to stroll up
to the Redan, and there we would seat ourselves on a little grassy
mound, the last resting-place probably of a dead man, and gaze on
the destroyed city below.
The larks would be singing gaily over our heads, the crickets chirping
around; but if we pushed away the grass, or disturbed the earth ever
so little, how many records would meet the eye of the deadly strife
that had raged on the very spot where we were now so quietly seated,
while the extraordinary, almost awful silence of the great city made
one indeed feel that it was now but a city of tombs.
A little below us, on the right, stand the once lordly Alexandra
barracks--a building at one time unequalled of its kind in grandeur and
extent. Now the bare walls alone remain; the sky can be seen through
the long lines of windows. In lieu of roof, a few blackened rafters
project here and there, like monstrous gibbets, and the masses of
débris around show how thoroughly the work of destruction has been
carried out.
It is beyond measure depressing to walk through miles of ruined
streets; and, if so painful to the stranger, how heartbreaking must
it be to Russians, to see beautiful buildings, once the pride of the
country, hopelessly defaced and destroyed.
The water-gate by which we land when coming from the yacht must once
have been a great ornament to the beautiful town, for it is still
lovely even in its ruin. It resembles the colonnade of an ancient Greek
temple, and is approached by a broad flight of shallow steps. These,
however, as well as the fine mosaic pavement, have been broken and
defaced, the roof has been battered in by shells, the statues have
been overthrown and broken, and scarcely a column remains uninjured.
Near this gate is the opera-house, or rather what is left of it. It was
formerly a large building with a long Greek façade; but the walls are
now shattered, and blackened by fire, and the columns and decorations
lie broken on the ground.
The hospital is almost the only place that has not suffered severely
from the effects of the fiery hail that was so incessantly pouring
into the town. A flag showed where the unhappy wounded were lying,
and as far as possible the building was spared by the besiegers;
still its scorched and blackened sides and some yawning holes tell
that it did not altogether escape.
Near it is a small chapel, now almost a ruin, a sad memento of the
sufferings of some of our poor fellows. Towards the latter end of the
siege, space, air, attendants, and surgical aid were all lamentably
inefficient to supply even the pressing needs of the masses of wounded
who were brought in.
During the last few days also the confusion that reigned in the town
almost overcame discipline. No sooner was the evacuation decided
upon than orders were given that, not only were the Russian wounded
to be conveyed immediately to the north side, but that all valuables
that could not be removed at the same time were to be burnt during
the last night, not only to prevent them from falling into the hands
of the enemy, but that the smoke should conceal the movements of the
Russians; for this reason also many portions of the town were set on
fire. It may easily be imagined, therefore, that there was but little
time or attention given to the unhappy wounded of the enemy who were
to be left behind; so, when the allies entered the deserted city,
terrible were some of the scenes that met their eyes. In this very
chapel a harrowing sight was beheld, for many of our poor countrymen
were lying here unheeded and untended, yet alive, with the dead in
heaps around them.
The harbour of Sevastopol is supposed to be unequalled for size,
depth of water, and security. It very much resembles Plymouth in the
number of arms that branch off from the main channel. The entrance
is so broad and easy of access that vessels can run in for shelter
with almost any wind, and when inside the forts the various channels
are so completely landlocked that ships can lie in perfect safety
whatever sea may rage outside.
The navigation within is, however, now somewhat difficult, as the
Russians sank nearly all the vessels then in port when the English
fleet appeared before Sevastopol, and though most of the wrecks have
been raised, still enough remain to require skilful pilotage to avoid
the hidden dangers.
The only cheerful place in all Sevastopol (out-of-door cheerfulness,
that is--not the many friendly houses that were always open to us)
was a small promenade, consisting of the ghost of once beautiful
pleasure-gardens, where the band played on fine evenings.
Here the few people left in Sevastopol would assemble at sunset to
listen to the excellent music and enjoy the cool evening air. As night
came on the scene would be very pretty. Darkness hid the ruins around,
so that the stars seemed only to shine on glistening white monuments;
the lights from the vessels in the harbour quivered like lines of
silver as they were reflected in the gently rippling water; and when
at last the whole glory of heaven was unfolded, the dark-blue arch
above seemed one dazzling array of brilliant stars.
Those who have not seen them can form no idea of the glorious beauty
of the nights in these southern countries. The stars do not twinkle,
they blaze with bright silver light, and the eye in vain endeavours
to penetrate the glittering maze of which the heavens seem formed.
We find that this summer is considered at Sevastopol rather hotter than
the average, but we have seldom found the heat very oppressive. The
sun is powerful during the day, and often beats fiercely upon the dry,
parched soil. It is well therefore, if possible, to avoid exposing
oneself to the great heat of midday; but at sunset the fresh sea-breeze
always sets in, and the nights are cool and invigorating.
Amongst the many advantages yachtsmen enjoy over travellers by land is
the inestimable one of being nearly always sure of a breeze at night,
and none but those who have travelled much in warm climates can tell
how great that blessing is. Fatigue and heat during the day can well be
borne when one is sure of a quiet and refreshing sleep. Another comfort
also is comparative freedom from mosquitoes and flies. How often when
we have been doomed to spend the night in some wretched inn or house,
half-stifled by the heat and bad smells, tormented beyond endurance
by swarms of mosquitoes, sand-flies, fleas, or perhaps worse, have we
sighed for the little cabins with their comfortable elastic mattresses,
the fresh clean sheets, and the cool night wind that would have been
fanning us as we rocked in our dear Claymore!
Having once found ourselves in Malta during the hot months of July
and August, and having felt great compassion for the unfortunate
English soldiers as they marched up and down, under a blazing sun,
in all the misery and magnificence of the tight regulation scarlet
coat, with their throats braced up by a stiff collar, we much admired
the simple and comfortable uniform worn during summer by the Russian
troops. The men have a complete suit of grey cotton, with peaked caps
of the same material. The officers wear white jean, with a band of
scarlet round their caps, and sometimes a sash of the same colour.
CHAPTER XI.
A RUSSIAN INTERIOR.
Leaving Sevastopol one afternoon, a favourable breeze carried us
rapidly back to the Alma, and being now provided with the necessary
permit, we could land without danger of being impaled by our enemy,
the Cossack. We had also brought a letter of introduction to Count
B----, a neighbouring proprietor, and, having sent it to the village,
we landed, and strolled along the beach, looking at the heights the
Zouaves had climbed.
Count B---- speedily arrived, kindly answering the letter in person,
and bringing his carriage with him; so in a few minutes we found
ourselves seated behind two spirited little Tartar horses, and away we
went across the plain, perfectly regardless of the absence of road. We
passed several large stack-yards, full of substantial ricks of hay and
corn, where wild-looking Tartars were thrashing out the grain--a simple
process, accomplished by fastening heavy blocks of wood to Tartar
ponies, who were driven at full gallop round and round the enclosure.
The women wore their long hair in innumerable plaits, hanging below
their fez caps, and showed their Mohammedan tendencies by partly
veiling their faces as we passed. Feminine curiosity made them peep
at us from sheltered corners, though they seldom ventured to show
themselves completely.
We turned into one of these farmyards, and found ourselves in front
of a little one-storied house, standing near a mass of blackened
ruins. Here we were most kindly received by Madame B---- and a
large family party, consisting of an aunt, Mademoiselle M----,
a sister-in-law, two young ladies, several children, and three
gentlemen. Most of the party talked French, and we were welcomed with
charming kindness.
Soon after our arrival tea was proposed, which, thanks to the
universal samovar, is almost always good in Russia. This time the
pleasant meal seemed doubly excellent, for, besides grapes and water
melons, there was a great bowl of cream, a luxury we had not seen
for a long time. Milk, as well as butter, is almost unattainable in
Sevastopol. The evening, though pleasant, was very warm, so we were
delighted to see that, instead of being prepared in the little house,
the hospitable tea-table was spread in the farmyard, and there we sat,
surrounded by cows, chickens, turkeys, and dogs, in quite a patriarchal
fashion, and enjoying ourselves greatly, for the charming family with
whom we were had the rare art of viewing everything en rose, and while
bearing their reverses with dignified simplicity, yet took whatever
little pleasure came in their way with hearty and unaffected delight.
Milking was going on, and noticing the beauty of the cows, of which
there were about twenty, we asked our hostess how much milk they gave
a day. She did not know, nor did any one, she said, keep an account,
for there is a superstition in the Crimea that should the milk be
measured the cows immediately become dry.
We were kindly pressed to remain the night, but we wished to return to
the children, who had been left on board the yacht. Besides, the house
seemed so very small, compared with the party already assembled, that
we could scarcely believe in the "possibility" of our being taken in,
whatever good-will there might be. We looked around, thinking there
must be some other house besides the very little one before us, but
no, nothing was to be seen but some Tartar huts, a few cow-hovels,
and the blackened ruins. So, with many thanks, we adhered to our
original intention, and then the greater part of the party proposed
to accompany us to the sea-shore.
A large, powerful horse--a fine creature, but of a fiery and impetuous
nature--was with some difficulty harnessed to a lofty gig, or "heavenly
chariot," into which I was invited to mount. I did so, though, it must
be confessed, with some inward trepidation. In another moment our
hostess was by my side, and the fiery steed stood on his hind legs,
as if he meant to "pose" for ever as a statue for a "horse rampant."
The young ladies, without any preparation, jumped on two Tartar ponies;
the rest of the party got into the other carriage. Our energetic animal
condescended to come down on his forelegs, and, with a bound that
almost took away my breath, off we set--"over brook, over byre"--going
across country in the dark in the most astonishing fashion. To the
very last moment that fiery steed acted well up to his character;
snorting, plunging, and exerting himself most unnecessarily when any
obstruction came in his way. However, the fair charioteer, twisting
the reins twice round her hands, seemed fully equal to her task,
and so away we went, with glorious indifference to holes, mounds,
or other little impediments.
The young ladies rode admirably. It could have been no easy matter,
and needed no little courage, to sit so steadily, galloping at
such a headlong pace, on a dark night, over rough ground full of
holes. However, we all arrived quite safely at the sea-shore, and
found our kind friends had brought us a supply of vegetables, fruit,
butter, and cream that made us rich for many days.
When we rejoined our hospitable entertainers the following morning the
mystery of the sleeping accommodation was explained. The little house
only possessed two rooms divided by a passage. All the men slept in
one room, the ladies had the other; the governess being the best off,
as she had a shelf to herself in the passage. These kind people had
really intended to share their house with us, and proposed to give
us one room and the passage, taking the little governess into their
already crowded room, and sending the luckless men to find shelter
where they could.
The "Heavenly Chariot" was again made ready, the mighty steed being
more frisky than ever, as he felt the cheerful influence of the
fresh morning air, and after breakfast we all, some in carriages,
some on horseback, went to visit the field of the battle of the Alma.
Standing immediately beneath the Heights they appear exceedingly
steep, and difficult to climb, especially one would think when exposed
to a galling fire, but this very steepness proved the salvation of
the Zouaves.
Once arrived at the foot of the cliffs, they were within the range
of the Russian guns, and these active fellows, who climb like cats,
were speedily at the top, and engaged in a hand-to-hand combat with
their foe.
Our host, who had been on Prince Menschikoff's staff, said that the
Russians committed two fatal mistakes early in the day.
In his opinion the Russian guns should have opened fire when the
allies were crossing the river, and when their line consequently was
somewhat broken and disorganised. Unhappily, there was difference of
opinion and dissension amongst the Russian generals, and therefore,
marvellous to relate, no very precise orders were issued on the
important morning, so the favourable moment was lost.
Deeming, also, their position impregnable, the Russians were probably
paralysed by the suddenness and vigour of the attack.
Another almost equally fatal error was committed later in the
day. Several Russian regiments, instead of waiting to receive the
enemy on the commanding position they occupied on the Heights, rashly
descended to a sort of second terrace, a few feet below the summit of
the cliff; a most disastrous move on their part, for when the Zouaves
and light infantry swarmed up the rocks the miserable Russians were
bayoneted and cut down without a chance of retreat.
In fact most accounts tend to show that want of organization, and the
want of supreme military power on the spot, contributed quite as much
as the vigour of the attack to the loss of the battle of the Alma,
and the subsequent fall of Sevastopol.
The Russians do full justice to the dauntless courage and brilliant
military talents of their foes, but the destruction of Sevastopol
lies heavy on their hearts, for the higher classes think her fall was
as much brought about by faults at home as by the intrepid valour of
the besiegers.
In the early part of the war, intrigues, it is said, were rife at the
Russian Court, and the plans of the Crimean generals were constantly
interfered with and made of no effect by contradictory orders from
St. Petersburg. It was believed by the Emperor that the garrison
in Sevastopol was so immense that in itself it formed a large and
efficient army. It was believed that stores and all other requisites
were there in such abundance that the town was capable of sustaining
unassisted a protracted siege of even years, whereas so great had
been the venality practised that many regiments, supposed to be fully
manned, barely existed but in name.
So far from being able to support a long siege, the vast store-houses
were more than half empty, and with respect even to ammunition and
arms the supply was lamentably inadequate. It is said also that some
of the cannon and shells were made of wood.
When all the present generation has passed away, and when the history
of the Crimean war will only be classed among the histories of the
past, many who read the story will feel a deep compassion for the
mighty Emperor whose heart broke when he at length knew the fatal
truth. His cherished town--his impregnable fortress--the pride of
Russia--the key-stone, as it were, to all his ambitious projects,
must fall into the hands of the enemy for want of troops, food,
ammunition--for want of the very things with which he supposed it
had been so well supplied. Supplies were sent, troops were sent, but
in what condition could they arrive after having traversed a country
the width of Europe, in the depth of winter, without railways, and
nearly without towns?
The Russians are essentially a brave and noble people; it is impossible
to live amongst them and not admire and like them. They love their
sovereign with a personal devotion almost beyond bounds, and they can
and have fought for their country to the death, but they know their
system of government is very faulty.
Late events especially have led them to see how the present system
tends to much oppression and venality, and that though the Emperor
really labours earnestly and unweariedly for the welfare of his
subjects, yet it is impossible any one man can sufficiently superintend
and legislate for so vast an empire.
On the gentle slope of a pretty grass hill, where a flock of sheep
were peacefully grazing, is the simple stone erected to the memory of
the noble 23rd Welsh Fusileers, and a few feet from it are a number
of long, narrow trenches, the edges roughly marked by stones, the
graves of their gallant enemies.
Many hundred Russians lie here, but neither cross nor monument records
their names. In a few more years the stones will be all dispersed,
and nothing will then mark the spot where so frightful an amount of
human life was sacrificed.
We again descended the valley to visit the tomb of Captain Horace
Cust. It is owing to the kind care of our hostess that it is still in
existence. When the family returned to Burlinck after the war, Madame
B---- found the stone thrown down, defaced, and half buried in the
earth, but she had it repaired and by a curious accident Captain Cust's
brother arrived in Sevastopol and came to see the little monument only
the day after it had been replaced. But for Madame B----'s kindness
few of the graves would have been respected, for the Tartars are very
destructive, and carry off everything that they think has any value.
Count B---- has been a great sufferer from the war. His property
near the Alma was worth about twenty thousand roubles a year. Now
it barely yields enough to supply the family with more than simple
necessaries. Formerly they spent the winter in the old Russian capital,
Moscow, now they go for a few months to Simpheropol, and live here
as simple farmers during the rest of the year, and a farm-life in
the Crimea does not imply the comforts that are to be found on most
English homesteads.
Though our host has lost so much--for besides his house several
farms were burnt, the cattle seized, and the vineyards and woods
destroyed--there are very many others who have been still more
unfortunate. For instance, his aunt, Mlle. M----, before the war began
was the owner of a fine property with a large house in the valley
of Tchernaia, but long ere the siege was over she found herself
absolutely ruined.
It seems wonderful that the landing of large bodies of foreign troops
should have caused so little alarm amongst the inhabitants of the
Crimea, but far from fearing danger for themselves, the prevailing
feeling was apparently astonishment that any army should be so rash
as thus to court its own destruction. Sevastopol was believed to be
so safe that it is said some adventurous female spirits wished to
proceed there, to witness in person the discomfiture and defeat of
the allied forces.
When the allies landed, Mlle. M----, being in bad health, was unwilling
to leave home. Sevastopol was so near that there seemed but little or
no danger that a retreat into the town could be cut off. The Heights
of the Alma also were supposed to present a formidable if not an
insurmountable obstacle to the advance of the enemy, so Mlle. M----
and her household remained at Tchernaia.
"One evening," said Mlle. M----, "we were sitting round the card-table
playing loto, but I was a little uneasy that a messenger I had sent
to one of my nephews in Sevastopol had not yet returned. A sudden
noise was heard in the hall; and my niece was hurrying to the door
of the saloon, when it was hastily thrown open by the messenger,
accompanied by several of the servants, who with scared faces and
in breathless accents announced that a party of foreign cavalry had
been seen to enter a wood only a few versts from the house, and that
if we meant to escape there was not a moment to lose.
"In the hurry and alarm of such a departure it was not possible to
take away with us more than mere necessaries, and though most of
the valuables, such as silver and pictures, had happily been sent to
Simpheropol many weeks previously, still," said poor Mlle. M----, with
a deep sigh, "I left my dear home full of every comfort and luxury. I
dare not lament," said the kind old lady, as a few tears ran slowly
down her cheeks, "over my poor furniture and little treasures when
I remember the dreadful sorrows that came to us afterwards, but it
gives a bitter pang to an old woman like myself, on returning to a
once dear and happy home, to find only a heap of blackened ruins,"
She did not mention what we knew, namely, that all the remains of her
little fortune had gone to help the sick and wounded, for when she
retreated into Sevastopol she joined the devoted band of the Sisters
of Mercy, and eventually became one of the lady-superintendents of
hospitals. In spite of feeble health, in spite of the constant danger
to which she was exposed, this good woman remained steadily at her
post until the troops withdrew to the north side.
We did not like to ask many questions, for, like all who shared in
those terrible duties, the scenes they then saw seem to have been
too dreadful to bear being dwelt on, and the kind creature could
not relate without tears some of the sad incidents that had come
under her notice. Some of her patients were poor little fellows,
whose manhood all deserted them under the pain of their wounds,
and these she held in her motherly arms till their cries ceased,
and death mercifully took them from their sufferings.
Like Androvna R----, Mlle. M---- said that all sense of personal danger
became so soon merged in higher anxieties, that even the narrow escapes
of many of the nurses ceased to excite much interest. The trial was
to hear cries for the help that could not be given--to see terrible
sufferings without the possibility of affording relief. In spite of
heroic courage, nature would occasionally give way at the sight of
wounds and mutilations of unusual horror, but still the devoted band
of women never slackened their efforts, and laboured unweariedly at
their divine and holy task.
The Russian soldier seems to be as patient in the hospital as he is
obedient and brave on the battle-field. The poor fellows, unless very
young, bore their sufferings with great fortitude, and Mlle. M----
said it was most touching to see their unselfishness and consideration
for others. From her account there was an excellent staff of surgeons,
though scarcely numerous enough for the requirements of such vast
numbers of wounded. There appears also to have been a good supply
of medicine, but there was a considerable deficiency of linen and
bandages. The main cause of the great suffering arose from the very
limited amount of accommodation.
The hospitals were frightfully crowded, and consequently the air
became so impure that the wounds could not heal, and gangrene and
disease carried off as many Russians as the guns of the enemy.
Mlle. M---- was the unconscious heroine of a little story that went
the round of most English and French journals. It was reported that
Prince Menschikoff's carriage had fallen into the hands of the allies,
and many were the jokes that were made respecting a certain pretty
pink satin bonnet, and other articles appertaining to a lady's toilet,
that had been found packed therein. Unfortunately for the lovers of
romance, both carriage and bonnet belonged to our friend Mlle. M----,
who, though both charming and good-looking for her age, is no longer a
young woman, being between sixty and seventy. The carriage in question
had been packed to go to Simpheropol, but when the hurried flight
became necessary it was found too heavy for such a rapid journey,
and it had to be abandoned to its fate.
Mlle. M---- wishes to sell her estate at Tchernaia, but landed
property in the neighbourhood of Sevastopol has so deteriorated in
value that she has not yet succeeded in finding a purchaser, and
it may be some years before she will be able to do so. It is almost
equally impossible to let it. One farm is now in cultivation, and a
few grass fields are let for grazing sheep, but the greater portion
of the land has been left untilled and useless.
It was at first expected that the Government would have paid five
per cent. on all property destroyed, but the expenses of the war
have been so infinitely greater than was originally supposed, that
the unfortunate proprietors say now they shall think themselves well
off if they succeed in obtaining one per cent. of indemnification. It
will be many years before the country will be able to recover the
effects of so violent a blow.
We left the Alma, with a storm muttering in the distance, and every
probability of wind, but soon after passing Sevastopol the breeze
dropped and it fell dead calm. Not a puff filled the sails, which
flapped idly against the masts; but somehow or other we drifted on, and
the coast scenery was so fine that we did not regret the slow progress.
Magnificent cliffs, valleys wooded nearly to the water's edge,
and pretty villages made quite a panorama of beautiful views, whose
general aspect reminded us much of the Undercliff of the Isle of Wight,
only on a far grander scale.
Aloupka, Prince Woronzoff's place, is most lovely. The house is
built of grey granite, and seemed to us exceedingly picturesque,
though architects and connoisseurs would probably shake their heads
dismally over it, as a specimen of bad taste.
The architecture, it must be admitted, is certainly "very mixed,"
being partly Gothic, partly Moorish, and altogether modern; but the
numerous pinnacles and towers, and the long façade of buildings rising
above the magnificent woods, have a remarkably good effect. A series
of broad terraces descend from the house half way down to the sea;
beautiful gardens, full of rare shrubs and flowers, lie on each side
of the house, and the woods and park stretch away for miles along
the cliffs.
General Malthoff has a very fine place, more in-land; and a few miles
beyond Yalta is Orianda, the Empress's villa.
Yalta itself is a tiny village, lying close to the sea, and surrounded
by, almost buried in, a magnificent amphitheatre of mountains. The
village contains about fifty houses, all nestling round a little wooded
hill, on the top of which stands the church, its bright green cupolas
and gilded pinnacles looking resplendent in the brilliant sunshine.
The villas, however, are the glory of Yalta. On every slope, peeping
through openings in the dark green woods, are the pretty white
houses. Almost all are half covered with creepers, and standing in
gardens now gay with flowers, have an air of comfort and Heimlichkeit,
or homeishness (if such a word can be permitted), to which we have
long been strangers.
The lovely woods--the green grass--the fresh mountain air make Yalta
quite a little paradise. We had the additional pleasure, also, of
finding friends here--Prince and Princess B----, who came on board
immediately, and whose affectionate welcome, and cheery talk of old
times and old friends, made this distant place feel quite like home.
We had also another visitor, an American, who, seeing the English flag,
came on board to borrow some money. He was one of the unfavourable
specimens of Yankeyism who do so much discredit to their country,
and whose principle is to ask for a gate when they want a bit of
wood. The modest request was for £25, which Mr. Harvey declined to
lend, but I suppose his heart being touched by seeing a foreigner
so far from home, and in distress, he gave him enough to take him
to Sevastopol, with a note to an American there, who would help him
if necessary. Our friend then said, however, that he heard we were
going on to Circassia, and as it was very difficult to get there,
he thought he might as well take "a spell" with us, as he could fix
himself down in the yacht very well. As he spoke, the sensible little
craft made a sudden roll and a lurch, that caused such an internal
convulsion in our would-be companion that he threw himself into the
boat and departed, happily for us to return no more.
The next day we went with the B----s and a large party to Orianda. Our
conveyance was an immense char-à-banc, that could hold quite a dozen
people. There were scarcely any springs to speak of, but luckily the
roads were excellent.
The drive from Yalta to Orianda is one of the most beautiful I have
ever seen. Sometimes the road wound up and down hills, and then we
could look over the steep banks of woods or vines upon the intensely
blue sea below. Sometimes it passed between great overhanging rocks
that almost met overhead; then, again, it would cross sunny bits of
rough common, or wind down narrow deep lanes where the damp coolness
was delicious, and where the high banks seemed hung with ferns,
and woodbines, and other plants that love the warm moist shade.
We passed a charming house of Count Potocki's. The broad verandah was
quite festooned with passion flowers, roses, and the bright lilac
blossom of the Clematis Jackmanni. The gardens and grounds were as
well kept as any English home could be. The neat hedges, gravel walks,
and smooth lawns made us think we must be in England again.
We left the carriage at the lodge gates and walked down the beautiful
road to Orianda, sometimes passing under trellises of vines, where
the purple grapes were hanging in delicious profusion, then going
through woods and avenues of fine trees.
The rays of the setting sun were now streaming through every opening,
making the old Scotch firs look all aflame in the glorious light.
The villa is a large, white Grecian building, not handsome enough for
a palace nor pretty enough for a country house. There are some fine
rooms, rather grand and very gloomy. The pleasantest sitting-room was
a hall, painted and decorated like a Pompeian court, with a fountain
in the centre, surrounded by flowers and ferns.
The gardens and terraces make the delight of the place. Vines, myrtles,
and magnolia-trees are trained over arches, and under their fragrant
shade, the air cooled by innumerable fountains, how pleasantly must
the summer days pass! What an enchanting change from hot, dusty
St. Petersburg!
The present Empress has not yet paid this pretty place a visit, but
the Grand-Duchess Constantine came for several months one summer. Her
Imperial Highness seems to have made herself universally popular;
her parties enlivened the whole neighbourhood, and she is spoken of
by all classes with the heartiest affection.
Within an hour after sunset the wind became bitterly cold, and
every cloak and shawl was called into requisition during the drive
home. This sudden change of temperature is the only drawback to
Yalta, and invalids who come here for health must carefully avoid
exposing themselves to the night-air. The dew also falls very heavily;
therefore here, as in Italy, the hour after sunset is a dangerous
period. Later in the night, for those who are strong, the fresh wind
is very invigorating.
Yalta is so favourite a spot that people come even from Petersburg to
spend the summer here. It gives one some idea of the enormous extent
of Russia to know that it is a fortnight's journey, travelling night
and day, to get from Yalta to St. Petersburg.
Thanks to our kind friends, the B----s, we have seen all the prettiest
villas in the neighbourhood. Count Narisckine has a very lovely
estate. There are also some beautiful places now unhappily shut up
and uninhabited, the owners having been ruined by the war. Land and
houses can now be bought very cheap, but unfortunately Yalta is too
far from England to make it available as a summer residence.
Prince Woronzoff has a very fine property at Aloupka, and a nearer
approach made it even more beautiful than we had thought it from the
yacht. The house stands in a magnificent position on a narrow ridge
of table-land between the cliffs and the sea. Great dark woods stretch
around it for miles, and the rock scenery is quite superb. Our Russian
friends did not, however, share our enthusiasm, and thought the more
cultivated, smiling scenery round Yalta infinitely more beautiful.
On arriving at Aloupka we drove through a fine gateway into a
courtyard, on one side of which was the house, on the other were
the offices and stables. Immediately within the portico was seen the
hospitable "Salve," set in large letters in the mosaic pavement. A
glass door opened into the hall, a moderate-sized room, panelled with
oak and hung round with family portraits. Amongst them was a picture
of the late Lady Pembroke. Princess Woronzoff's boudoir and a few
other small rooms were on one side of the entrance; on the other was
the great dining-hall, a large and lofty room with three recesses: two
of these were occupied by fireplaces, the other had a small fountain,
an agreeable addition to a dining-room on a hot day.
Another glass door led to a very pretty room--half saloon, half
conservatory. Climbing plants were trained up the columns and over
the frames of the looking-glasses. Masses of flowers were arranged in
groups upon the marble floor, while thick Persian carpets and every
sort of comfortable lounge and easy chair made the apartment the very
perfection of a summer sitting-room.
Russians have quite a talent for decorating their rooms with flowers
and shrubs, and should nothing better be forthcoming, branches of
trees make a background for the little cluster of plants that are
placed in every corner. Dwarf palms or tree-ferns have a charming
effect when crowning a group of flowering shrubs.
On the storey below were the salons and library. The latter was a
large and comfortable room, well filled with books, the tables being
covered with the newest French and English publications.
Prince and Princess Woronzoff were away, so we soon finished our
inspection of the house. Though thoroughly comfortable, it is much
smaller in reality than its appearance from the sea would lead one
to expect. Seen from a distance the long, imposing façade makes it
look quite like a palace.
The grounds, however, gained in beauty from a nearer view. Great
flights of steps lead to broad terraces, on which are the most
delicious gardens and lawns that imagination can picture. Every
flower to be found in England and Italy grows here in perfection,
revelling in an admirable climate and in an admirable soil.
In front of the house was a stone colonnade, up every pillar of which
were trained climbing plants of unusual beauty. One in particular was
especially lovely, a species of Mandevillia superba. There must have
been many hundreds of the snowy white fragrant flowers, shining like
stars from the mass of glossy dark foliage.
In the centre of the colonnade was a portico as high as the house
itself, having a roof fretted and gilt after the fashion of the Moorish
courts in the Alhambra. Light balconies, supported by clusters of
columns, projected on either side, and comfortable sofas were arranged
amongst the little wood of orange and citron trees below.
It was a day and a scene when life alone seemed a delicious
blessing. The soft breeze barely whispered amongst the leaves, a few
doves were tenderly cooing in the garden below, the very fountains
seemed unwilling to disturb the magic quiet, and their waters fell
soothingly into the marble basins, as if they were also hushing nature
to rest. Every now and then the sweet south wind sighed gently over
the wide expanse of sea, and then came upon the ear the trickle,
trickle of the little waves, as they rippled back amongst the pebbles
of the beach, and as the wind softly touched the trees overhead,
down came a fragrant rain of the snowy leaves of the orange-flowers,
making the ground white with the lovely blossoms.
Talking of old times and old scenes, hours passed like minutes in
this enchanting and enchanted spot, and we had forgotten how long we
had been enjoying a feeling of divine repose that one longed might
last for ever, when the sun sank below the horizon. For a few minutes
there was a great blaze and glory of light, and then a grey damp gloom
stole over the landscape that warned us to be gone. Perhaps, even then,
we should have lingered longer than was warranted by strict prudence,
but we were all engaged to have supper with the T----s, and knew the
sportsmen, who had gone out quail shooting, would have returned with
clamorous appetites. The rattling wheels of our char-à-banc were no
sooner heard in the village than out flew all the hungry party to
know what had detained us; but the roasted quails were so good, and
so were the little newly-baked sponge-cakes, that every one rejoiced
in being hungry, and a merry evening finished our pleasant day.
CHAPTER XII.
CIRCASSIA.
Having seen all that was to be seen in the immediate neighbourhood
of Yalta, it was unanimously agreed that the yacht should be put
in requisition, and that an expedition should be made to Oursouf,
a place on the coast, lately bought by Prince B----.
The day was fine, and the sea apparently smooth, but there was a
little ground-swell that made us somewhat anxious about the happiness
of our non-seafaring friends. Prince B---- was an old sailor, but his
wife such a bad one that she never ventured on board a vessel under
way. We were also very doubtful as to the sailing powers of Prince
T---- and his sister. Count and Countess N---- had sailed with us
before, and we knew they were proof, but we much feared the S----s
and G----s were doomed to suffer. However, with admirable courage,
all came on board at the time appointed, and we set sail.
While the wind lasted all went well, but unhappily about mid-day
the breeze dropped, and then, one after another, the poor ladies
fell victims to the levelling malady of sea-sickness, and the cabins
presented sad spectacles of suffering pleasure-seekers.
Most fortunately Prince T---- was not ill. Had he been so, we dared
not picture to ourselves what would have been his mental as well as
his physical sufferings, for he had come on board in a new and superb
Tartar costume! We were speechless with amazement as the resplendent
vision appeared on deck. Even our captain and Charlie could scarcely
maintain a dignified silence, but Prince B---- could not contain
his feelings. "Pourquoi le diable, T----, êtes-vous venu en costume
de bal?" burst involuntarily from his lips. Happily our guest was
ridicule-proof, for his toilette was the pride and happiness of his
life, and he frequently astonished the quiet inhabitants of Yalta by
appearing in four fresh suits a day. Only yesterday he had paid us
a visit in a complete costume of plaid. Coat, waistcoat, trousers,
linen, cap, even the pocket handkerchief, displayed the same somewhat
remarkable checked pattern. The unwonted and gorgeous toilette that
appeared to-day was, however, very little adapted for a nautical
expedition. Crimson satin trousers, a similar jacket, magnificently
embroidered in gold, and large loose sleeves made of fine cambric,
however beautiful in themselves, certainly seemed out of place on
the Black Sea, especially as the day was neither hot nor sunny. Our
poor friend's bare arms soon looked pinched and blue with cold, but
we dared not suggest either cloak or shawl for fear of injuring the
well-starched beauty of the transparent sleeves.
However, at last the sun came out from behind the clouds, the air
became warm, so did the poor arms, the breeze revived, the suffering
ladies got better and appeared on deck, and in due time we arrived
at Oursouf. It was a beautiful spot, quite close to the sea, and as
wild as it was beautiful.
On the slope of a neighbouring hill is Massandra, another property
belonging to the Woronzoff family. On another hill, called Anaka,
is a model nursery-garden, established by Count Woronzoff when he
was Governor of South Russia, and still kept up by Government. Every
description of tree, shrub, and flower that can be grown in the climate
is to be found in this nursery. Any one wishing to make vineyards,
plantations, or gardens can buy the plants, with the advantage of
learning the sort of tree, shrub, &c., which may be best adapted to
the soil for which they are required.
All this part of what may be called the Undercliff of the Crimea
seems peculiarly adapted for the culture of the vine. Sheltered by a
range of mountains, as well as by almost perpendicular cliffs, from
the keen north wind, the long slopes of rich soil seem to invite the
formation of vineyards. The grapes that are now produced are excellent,
and many sorts of wine have already been made.
Several of the Rhine wines have been so closely imitated--some even
say excelled--that sanguine persons predict that in time the Crimean
wines will rank higher than the Rhenish. Be that as it may, it seems
a pity that the Russian growers should be content in many instances
to give German names to their produce, instead of creating their own
class of wines.
A sort of liqueur, something like Constantia, is highly prized by
connoisseurs, but at present this is only produced in the private
vineyards of the Bariatinsky and Woronzoff families, and at Orianda,
and cannot be purchased.
Prince Woronzoff, who appears to have been a wise and enlightened
governor, had a favourite scheme for bringing large districts into
cultivation as vineyards. Unhappily, the war took place ere he could
put his project in execution, and the country is now so impoverished
and thrown back that it will be years before it can recover from
the shock.
Oursouf is a little Tartar town, built on the slope of a steep hill,
and close to an enormous rock, on the top of which are some ruins,
said to have been once a castle.
A few miles inland rises the grand mountain of the Acondagh, so called
from its outline being supposed to resemble a crouching bear. "Acon"
means bear; "dagh" signifies mountain. Clouds were flitting over the
summits of the range, so the likeness, if it existed, was invisible
to our eyes.
Prince B---- has bought a small property a few versts from the village,
and having lived much abroad, he intends building a perfect Italian
villa, so as to introduce a mode of architecture which he believes
will be remarkably well adapted both to the country and climate. At
present the foundations only have been dug, but should our good fortune
bring us here again in a few years, we hope to find our kind friend
established in his retired home.
To those who do not object to pitch their tents away from the haunts
of companionable man, this little estate offers every charm that can
well be desired. The scenery is as beautiful as it is magnificent.
A lovely little wooded glen runs up from the sea, far away into
the mountains, that gradually become steeper and steeper, until the
stately Tchatar-Dagh appears in the distance, its rugged sides partly
covered with forest, and its lofty peaks crowned with eternal snow.
A rapid stream winds its way through the valley, sometimes dashing
down in rapid cascades, then lingering in dark and shady pools, whose
banks seem the chosen home of every sort of beautiful fern. The Osmunda
regalis grows to a size almost unknown in England, and tufts of many
kinds of the delicate maiden-hair nestle between the stones wherever
the spray of the waterfalls can reach their feathery branches. In
the spring the lilies of the valley must carpet the ground. In some
sheltered spots we found several varieties of large white lilies,
and the autumnal cyclamen revels in the rich sandy soil.
Wild vines had climbed up many of the trees. The purple bunches looked
very beautiful amongst the foliage, but the wild vine is dangerous
in its close affection, and almost always destroys the poor tree that
it honours with its notice.
On returning to the beach, we found the boat surrounded by a crowd
of Tartars, who were looking at the sailors with mingled admiration
and awe.
The wind was fair for the little home-voyage, but though the sea was
not really rough, still there was sufficient movement to make some of
our poor friends very miserable, and it was a relief to all parties
when they were once more safely landed at Yalta. Those who were not ill
remained on board for supper, whist, and music; and to our surprise,
amongst these good sailors was the wearer of the Tartar costume.
It blew fresh all night, and a bank of heavy, dark clouds to windward
warned us that better shelter must be sought than can be found at
Yalta. Unfortunately there is no roadstead here, and the anchorage
is by no means secure.
Our captain has been very restless and uneasy for the last two days,
and can find no charms in a place where half-a-dozen anchors, as he
says, would not hold the yacht should it come on to blow. So to-night
we are to say good-bye to all our kind friends, to the green fields
and to the pretty villas at Yalta.
Pleasant, cheerful little place, in all probability we shall never
see you again, but amongst all the sunny memories our rovings have
given us, few will be more sunny, more smiling than the remembrance
of our days with you.
We spent the last day on shore with our friends happily, though
somewhat sadly, and when we parted in the evening bore away with us
not only the remembrance of many affectionate words, but a little
souvenir from each of the kind hearts who had given such a sincere
welcome to their English friends.
We left Yalta on the night of the 13th of September, with a fresh,
favourable breeze. About seven o'clock on the morning of the 16th,
the worthy Domenico came knocking at all the cabin doors. "La terra,
Eccellenza; si vede alfine la terra." The good news brought us speedily
on deck.
A lovely day and a smooth sea welcomed us to Circassia. How often we
had talked about this enchanting, but far distant country--how often
we had longed to see it, never imagining that such a wild dream could
ever be realised; and now, before us, bright in the light of a fresh,
dewy morning, lay our land of promise--the true "land of the citron
and myrtle."
There are some things so beautiful that one shrinks from describing
them. Words cannot paint the loveliness that is seen by the eye. To say
that we saw before us a country that possessed, with the tender charm
of English woodland scenery, the rich glow of the Italian landscape,
and the grand majesty of Alpine ranges, gives but a feeble idea
of the delicious beauty of the land we were gazing on. The light,
the colouring, the exquisite effect of the soft mists as they slowly
arose from the valleys, can be better imagined than described, but
as we looked, we thought, Here is a land where Nature has in truth
perfected her handiwork!
The yacht was moving gently on, there was barely a ripple on the water,
and, seemingly, we were within a stone's throw of the shore. A little
sandy beach ran along the edge of the sea, then rose banks all mossy
and ferny, with undulating grass-fields and conical hills, with great
clumps of oak and beech trees scattered about. Then came a region
of dark fir-woods, mingled with the tender green of the weeping
birches. Farther away still were steep hills and rugged mountains,
their sides all covered with vast forests, stretching away far as
the eye could reach, whilst above their dark shaggy masses rose the
majestic peaks of a distant range, glistening white in their dazzling
covering of eternal snow. Cattle and sheep were wandering over the
rich pastures, but peaceful as the country appeared, peace is, in
reality, the blessing most unknown to it. War is constantly raging,
and the smiling plain and pretty thickets before us have been the
scene of many a fierce struggle.
We longed to land. The boat was being lowered for the purpose, when
luckily for us, as we afterwards discovered, a breeze sprang up,
and we continued our course towards Soukoum-Kalé. Had we gone on
shore, in all probability we should have been taken prisoners by the
hostile Circassians (who hold this part of the country), carried up
into the mountains, and compelled to pay a considerable sum before
our involuntary sojourn amongst them had ended.
A species of guerilla warfare is incessantly going on between the
inhabitants in these remote parts and the Russians. The former
consider all Europeans as enemies, and though the Russians are
nominally masters of the country, the Circassians still possess
amongst the mountains some strongholds that are almost impregnable.
Whenever they have a chance, they make captures, on account of the
ransoms they usually obtain. Should the prisoner be of any importance,
he generally prefers paying a moderate sum, rather than endure months
of miserable imprisonment. As to the common soldiers, they are usually
shot, their value being but small.
Had we been made prisoners, it would, of course, have been possible to
appeal both to the English and Russian Governments; but the journeys
to and from Constantinople and St. Petersburg are very long, and as
it would require some weeks to procure the necessary money, we should
have had to lead a wretched existence amongst the mountains, making
more experiences about wild Circassian life than would probably have
pleased us.
There is an English consul at Soukoum, established since the Crimean
war, but it is almost an honorary appointment, as Soukoum has no trade;
and though Mr. D---- has deservedly the greatest influence amongst
the Russians, he is powerless as regards the insurgent Circassians,
and even had the Russian general sent troops to our assistance,
what can soldiers do against wandering bands, who have no homes,
nothing to lose, and whose simple wants are supplied by the natural
products of the country?
Near the sea-shore is a very curious old church, called Pitsunda,
standing quite alone miles away from any fort, or even traces of
village. Tradition says it was built during the reign of Constantine,
but nothing certain is known as to its origin. It was, however,
repaired towards the latter end of the thirteenth century, and just
before the last war with Turkey commenced, the Russians had made
preparations for restoring it completely. Fine stone and marble
had been brought from a considerable distance for the purpose,
and we could see some partially-worked blocks still lying around. A
magnificent cross in white marble, that had retained many traces of
the rich sculpture of the fifteenth century, fell a victim to the
fanaticism of the Turks. They shattered it into a thousand pieces,
besides defacing the interior of the building as much as possible.
Even the Circassians (who are supposed to have no religion) had always
respected this church, and it is really grievous that so fine a relic
of antiquity should be falling into ruins.
As the day drew to its close the little breeze dropped, and the sea
rested so calmly in its deep tranquillity, that not a ripple disturbed
its mirror-like surface. The very forests appeared to be slumbering in
the sun. A pile of light fleecy clouds that had been slowly flitting
about all day changed to a soft crimson, and floated on a sky that
shaded from intense blue to the most brilliant rose-colour. Then a
shower of gold seemed to fall, and the clouds changed into a long
veil of pink vapour, that hung lightly, like a scarf, over the snowy
peaks of the distant mountains.
As we watched this lovely shade, the sun sank below the horizon,
a blaze of golden light shot up, the sea became deep purple, the
snow-mountains gradually lost their rosy glow, and an unearthly
pallor--beautiful, yet awfully like death--stole gently over the long
line of peaks, growing paler and paler, until at length darkness hid
the shore from our sight.
CHAPTER XIII.
SOUKOUM.
The next morning it was discovered, to the vexation of all on board,
that we had overshot our mark. A headland had been mistaken, and the
yacht was some miles beyond Soukoum-Kalé. We had to work our way back
again therefore, and it was mid-day before the anchor was dropped in
the roadstead opposite the little town.
Navigation off this coast is very difficult. There are but few charts,
and even these few are not correct. Indeed it is hinted that there
is no desire that the difficulties should be diminished.
The country around Soukoum is quite as beautiful as any we have yet
seen; but the town itself, though its low, white houses scattered along
the shore and up the sides of the wooded hills are picturesque enough,
seems a small, insignificant place, little more than a Russian fort.
A Russian transport and three small ships of war were anchored near
us, the decks and yards thronged with people anxious to see such an
unusual, such a wonderful sight as an English yacht. The Claymore has
the honour of being the first vessel to fly the Royal Yacht Squadron
flag at Soukoum-Kalé.
On shore the same excitement prevailed. The beach was crowded with
people, who watched our movements with the greatest interest and
curiosity, evidently brought to a culminating point when they saw
ladies and children on board. The English consul, Mr. D----, soon
arrived, kindly anxious to give every assistance. By-and-by the
governor and admiral, attended by their aides-de-camp, also came on
board; and after a time we went on shore with them.
The beach where we landed was crowded with Russians and Circassians,
many of the latter the wildest-looking creatures imaginable. They were
mostly however fine, tall men, with remarkably erect and graceful
figures, intelligent faces, and large, dark, fiery eyes. Their
dignified bearing was in marked contrast to the depressed appearance
and careworn countenances of the majority of the Russians.
In poverty and in rags a Circassian retains his independent,
self-relying manner, and looks (what he generally is) a bold
mountaineer, who, notwithstanding his nominal submission to a foreign
power, preserves his liberty, and, with gun and sword, can defend his
own against the world. This same gun and sword, it is asserted, are
not unfrequently turned to other and less legitimate uses, for their
owner does not scruple to avail himself of any favourable opportunity
of enriching his purse by their aid.
The Circassian dress is very picturesque. Large, loose trousers are
tucked into high boots, with a dark coat made full in the skirts,
whilst across the chest is a row of long, narrow pouches, in which the
ammunition is carried. The high cap is made of coarse cloth, the lower
part covered with sheepskin. The horsemen from the mountains wear,
instead of this cap, a long pointed hood, called a "papack," made of
canvas and shaped like a monk's cowl, with two long ends that hang
over the shoulders. Each man carries a carbine, rolled in sheepskin,
slung at his back, and has pistols (often handsomely mounted in silver)
stuck into his girdle.
Circassians, as a rule, have singularly small hands and feet, and the
beauty of the latter is much enhanced by the boots they wear. These
boots are made without soles, and are of scarlet or crimson leather
so well prepared, and so fine in texture, that they at once take the
shape of the foot, and fit like gloves.
The houses in Soukoum are low, being seldom more than one storey
high; but they are very pretty, being generally surrounded by broad
verandahs that are covered with creepers, and having gardens full of
flowering trees and shrubs.
About the middle of the town, or village, is a large rough square,
the exercising-ground of the troops; and beyond this again, bordered
by a double row of trees, is a sort of road called by the dignified
name of the Boulevard. All the best houses are here, including those
of the governor and admiral. There may have been eight or ten more
of nearly equal size. The others were very small, containing but two,
or perhaps three rooms.
The road was exceedingly pretty, with its fine trees; and a raised
pathway under their shade made a very pleasant walk. It led to a
rough common, where several large flocks of geese were disporting
themselves in the little clear pools of water.
For some reason or other,--why we never clearly understood,--Russians
have an idea that the goose is the pet bird of all English homesteads,
and that a flock of geese has a romantic charm to the English eye
far beyond that which any other bird can possess. These geese were,
therefore, pointed out to us by our companions as likely to awake
many tender reminiscences of home. But it is a sad and, perhaps also,
a humiliating confession to make, that instead of contemplating
these excellent birds with feelings of tenderness, as suggestive
of home nooks and corners in dear Old England, we gazed upon them
with sentiments of the lowest and most earthly domestic interest. A
tolerably long course of skinny chickens and preserved meats had so
deteriorated our higher tastes and sensibilities, and had so sharpened
our appetites, that the first thought was that now we would have roast
goose for dinner, and that the excellent Domenico could replenish
the empty poultry-coops.
But in truth the scene was very pretty, and wonderfully like
England. The heathy common, with its patches of gorse and tufts of
"bracken," the white cottages peeping out amidst the trees, the groups
of birch and alder bushes that skirted the little pools, the clumps of
rugged old Scotch firs, made us feel for a moment that we must have
been seated on Prince Hussein's magic carpet, and in the twinkling
of an eye had been transported to a sunny glade in the Hampshire New
Forest. But ere the thought found words, a herd of buffaloes crossing
the path, and then a group of wild figures armed to the teeth, their
dark eyes glittering fiercely from beneath their white hoods as they
dashed rapidly by, speedily dispelled the illusion, and showed how
far we were from the peaceful highways and byways of home.
In a beautiful nook on the slope of a hill is a charming little house,
a perfect bower of roses. This is the English consulate, and as far
as the desires of the eye can be gratified, man could not wish for
anything more lovely; but Mr. D----, as well as most people here,
has been suffering acutely from fever.
The very beauty we admire, namely, the wondrous luxuriance of the
vegetation, is one of the great evils of the country, or rather becomes
so, from the carelessness and indolence of man. Were the land properly
cultivated, Abasia (as this part of Circassia is called) would be
a paradise. The soil is so fertile, and the climate so temperate,
that nearly every description of grain, fruit, and vegetable might
be grown with very little trouble.
It seems almost incredible that in a country so rich and productive
that a few hours' industry would insure an abundant harvest, every
fruit and vegetable, including even potatoes, should be imported
from Trebisonde.
Unhappily the Circassians are too proud and too indolent to work,
and until better guarantees can be given for the preservation of life
and property, colonists cannot of course be expected to settle.
At present the Russian soldiers are the only agricultural labourers,
and as their military duties are severe, the result is that only
sufficient ground is cultivated to supply the horses with hay and
forage.
Military service in the Caucasus has been for many years unpopular
amongst the Russian regiments. The duty is arduous, and the great
distance from the capital causes it to be looked upon, especially by
the officers, as a banishment little inferior to that of being sent
to serve in Siberia. Indeed, some of those we knew were of opinion
the northern was the less objectionable station of the two, for the
constant attacks of fever, from which it seems almost impossible to
escape, cause, not only exhaustion of body, but a mental depression
that is very trying to the sufferers.
This accounted for the haggard and cadaverous appearance of so
large a proportion of the soldiery. We hear also that the ratio of
mortality is very large. Fever prevails all the summer, and is more
or less dangerous according to the quantity of rain that falls, but
during the months of July and August it usually rages with frightful
severity. During a rainy season the mortality is quite terrible.
Last year out of five thousand soldiers three thousand were suffering
from fever, while there was not one case amongst the seamen on board
the Russian men-of-war lying at anchor opposite the town.
Vessels, during the summer months, remain as far away in the roadstead
as possible, the air from the town being so fraught with disease.
During the course of our walk we ascended a little detached hill
called the Upper Fort, and felt immediately the relief of being
able to breathe the fresh invigorating mountain breeze, after the
relaxing warmth and dampness of the air in the town below. Happily
the hospitals are here, for it is the only really healthy spot in
Soukoum. Were the sick obliged to remain in the valley, the deaths
would probably be doubled.
Close to the fort is a small house where Omar Pasha lived with some
of his wives when the Turkish army occupied Abasia. It is quite
a tiny place, only containing four rooms, but notwithstanding the
confined space, the poor women, it is said, were never allowed to
go out. Tradition, however, does not say whether their beauty was so
dazzling that it was not safe to risk their being seen by the profane
eyes of unbelieving Giaours.
The views on all sides were most lovely, but the very beauty had an
air of desolate grandeur that produced a feeling of depression. A
perfect network of steep narrow valleys extended beyond the region of
wooded hills immediately before us. Great banks of forest clothed their
steep sides, stretching far away, dark and silent, until their gloomy
outlines were lost in the shadowy recesses of the mountains. Here
and there the silver line of a distant water-fall caught the rays of
the setting sun, and glittered for a few minutes amidst the sombre
masses of the woods; but, though so near the town, no sound broke the
stillness--no song of birds, no voice of man, no cheerful token of the
neighbourhood of cattle or home life disturbed the silence of evening.
We had followed a sort of track that skirted the nearest valley. Wild
flowers grew around in such beauty and profusion that it was impossible
not to gather handfuls as we passed. Honeysuckle and eglantine
hung in garlands from every bush; wild hops and vines festooned the
trees. In every rocky hollow were tufts of the pretty caper-plant,
with its lovely blossoms of mauve and white, while the ground seemed
covered with bright geraniums, many-tinted asters, late cyclamen,
and the dwarf myrtle. And then the wondrous beauty of the mossy wood
we entered next, where the sunbeams quivered over a perfect carpet
of lovely grasses, lichens, and graceful ferns. Charming though it
was, we dared not prolong our stroll, for the sun was sinking low,
and not only is the evening air supposed to be laden with fever,
but our companions assured us that it would be scarcely prudent to
be beyond the fort when night had come. We quickened our steps, but
notwithstanding all our haste, it was nearly dusk before we arrived
at the town.
It was startling to see, from time to time, a wild horseman gallop
by, looking all the more wild and eerie from the dim uncertain
light. Mounted on little wiry horses, they rode at headlong speed
towards the gloomy passes in the mountains, and long after they were
out of sight we could hear their swords clattering against their
large stirrups as they dashed rapidly over the rough ground.
It is difficult to find adequate words in which to express our sense
of the great kindness of all our friends in Soukoum. Not only have
horses and an escort of Cossacks been placed at our disposal during
the whole of our stay, but every little wish has been anticipated. As
to our poultry coops, they have been filled to overflowing with the
best poultry the place can produce, and the milk of the only available
cow in the town has been devoted to our use. The wish of seeing the
various ferns and wild flowers of the country speedily brought baskets
of the most lovely specimens on board the yacht. Music and sketches
were also among the generous gifts. In short, so great has been the
kindness, that words fail with which to describe it.
Should, however, these few pages be ever seen by any of the kind and
accomplished friends who made Circassia even a more enchanting land
to us than we had pictured it in our dreams, they will see that they
are remembered with feelings of the truest gratitude and admiration
by their English guests.
Few people are more accomplished than the Russians; and in this
remote corner of the world we have had musical evenings that would
have obtained approval from the most fastidious connoisseur.
Beethoven and Chopin probably little thought their delicious melodies
would beguile many a weary hour in countries beyond the Black Sea.
The Governor arranged, soon after our arrival, to take us a long ride
towards the mountains, and on landing at the appointed hour we found
General B---- awaiting us with quite a troop of men and horses drawn
up on the beach.
Besides the horses provided for us, others had been prepared
for Domenico and Mr. D----'s servant, who, under the guidance and
protection of four soldiers, were to go on a foraging expedition to a
neighbouring village. Domenico, as we have said, has many excellent
qualities, but courage is not perhaps his most brilliant virtue. At
the last moment his small amount of valour failed him. He entreated
with such a rueful countenance to be allowed to go with our stronger
party--with earnest gesticulations and in a torrent of Neapolitan
he drew so moving a picture of what our feelings would be if he were
brought back dead instead of the chickens--that our hearts were moved,
and it was settled that he and the other servant should accompany
us, and take the chance of what good luck might send in the shape of
geese and turkeys.
The escort consisted of six Cossacks and a corporal. All were well
armed with muskets, pistols, &c., but the horses they rode were so
thin, and seemed so out of condition, that we wondered at first how
the poor things could stand.
We had not long started, however, before we perceived that they went
wonderfully well, and actually looked better at the end of the ride
than they did at the beginning.
The horses provided for us were beautiful little Persian Arabs,
lively yet gentle, perfectly free from vice, and having a light
springy action most delightful to their riders. General B---- had
bought them in Persia, and had paid a large price for them even there.
The guide, a young Circassian, grandly arrayed in a brilliant yellow
coat and scarlet boots, and fully armed with matchlock, pistols,
and sabre, rode at the head of the troop.
Circassian saddles look exceedingly clumsy and uncomfortable. They are
very peaked and very high, but the Circassians are first-rate horsemen;
they use short stirrups, have the regular English hunting-seat,
holding on by the knees, and rise in their trot in a very unmilitary
but thoroughly jockey-like fashion.
We had our own saddles, and they evidently excited much wonder amongst
the little crowd that had collected. We were watched with absorbed
interest, as the various preparations of tightening girths, &c.,
were made, but when at last Mr. Harvey mounted my sister and myself
in the English fashion, the feelings of the spectators found vent in
a little cry of astonishment.
We were deeply impressed with the warlike fashion of our departure. The
guide and two Cossacks rode in front, then came General B----,
some Russian officers, and ourselves, followed by the rest of the
soldiers, and a formidable jingling and clattering there was as the
little troop swept through the town.
We crossed the common, and entered a very pretty wood of beech and
oak trees. Occasional openings showed the sea on one side, and on
the other low, steep, wooded hills, with huge boulders of granite
rearing their grey sides above the trees.
Some of the masses of rock were so smooth and round that they looked
like gigantic marbles, as if the Titans had been disporting themselves
amidst the lofty summits of El-Barouz, and had rolled some of their
playthings into the valleys beneath.
From time to time we passed long narrow glens that gave vistas of
apparently endless chains of hill and mountain; the nearest looking
dark purple in the strong light, others beyond growing gradually
paler and less distinct, until they became at last blended with the
blue distance, a faint glimmer of snow alone indicating the most
distant peaks.
As the day wore on a soft breeze arose, that just rustled the leaves
and made the air fresh and cool, doubly refreshing after the great
heat of the morning. The earth gave forth the sweet scent that so
often comes after heavy dew. The grassy way was good; our horses were
excellent. It was delightful to be once more on horseback--a pleasure
we had not had for months; so, giving the rein to our willing steeds,
on we went at a pace that evidently astonished the Cossacks, and
delighted kind General B---- and our Circassian. As for the latter
he was fairly enchanted; he waved his arms above his head, rose in
his stirrups, and bending over his horse's neck, dashed forward at
full speed.
This rapid pace, however, could not be kept up after leaving the
grassy plain, for we then entered the hill country, where forest and
thick underwood made the way more difficult, and where treacherous
bogs had to be skirted and sometimes traversed.
These bogs during the winter and spring are almost impassable. During
the summer months they can be crossed in certain directions. In
consequence of the late drought, they are just now unusually firm,
but nevertheless we had to jump over several little watercourses and
dangerously green places.
Sometimes, too, the ground shook under the horses' feet as if it meant
to swallow us up, but our sagacious animals made their way with the
utmost precaution, and evidently thoroughly understood their business.
Very dreary-looking places were these bogs, as they lay brown and
gloomy under the shadow of the forest, their treacherous surface only
broken here and there by bushes of stunted birch-trees. We could
well understand how goblin-like must seem the myriad lights of the
will-o'-the-wisps, as they dance in unearthly fashion over such dark
and dangerous morasses.
Again we plunged into the thick forest, and another hour's riding
brought us to the entrance of a narrow defile, the gateway, as it were,
to the mountain regions.
The way became rough and difficult, being merely the bed of a mountain
torrent, and the number of loose and slippery stones made it very
troublesome for the horses to find secure footing. The scenery grew
wild and stern; great masses of rock hung over the pass, in many
places almost meeting overhead.
Little streams came rushing down from the heights, tumbling headlong
over the precipice, when they arrived at the steep walls of rocks
that hemmed us in on every side.
The defile, or rather ravine, for it was evidently but a passage the
stream had worn for itself in the course of countless ages of time,
was so deep and narrow that it made one quite giddy to look up.
Vertigo ordinarily affects the head when looking down; we had never
known the sensation before when looking up at a great height; but the
rapid passage of the clouds across the narrow, crooked opening above,
when looked at for a few minutes, made everything seem to whirl round.
Wherever a few broken stones had allowed a little earth to collect,
masses of rhododendrons and groups of birch had taken root. Their
graceful forms and bright green leaves made cheerful spots of life
and beauty amidst the rugged severity of the gloomy scene.
As we advanced further into the pass, not a sound was heard but the
rush of the mountain torrents, and the harsh cry of an eagle as he
wheeled slowly over our heads.
We all became silent. It was almost disagreeable to hear the champing
of the horses, and the occasional rattle of the accoutrements, as we
moved slowly but steadily on, our companions keeping a wary look-out
on all sides, though it was believed that the country was at present
unusually quiet.
Still a very few more miles must be our limit. It would not be prudent
to advance much farther into the wild region before us.
It must be admitted that on first starting we had thought our warlike
escort was more for honour than for real use, but even before we had
entered this savage defile it was evident how well it was for us that
we were surrounded by so many brave protectors. "Prevention is better
than cure," and a strong party often prevents an attack being made.
Once amidst the gloomy defiles and dark recesses of these wild
mountains defenceless travellers would have no chance against a
predatory band; they would be as sheep walking into a lion's den.
From time to time we had met parties of mountaineers, some on
horseback, some on foot, but all completely and heavily armed.
Although in actual distance so few versts from the town, the
mountains surround it so closely--the country is so desolate, and also
intersected even in the lowlands by ravines and morasses--that, had we
been alone, resistance to these armed bands would have been hopeless.
Before assistance could have arrived we should, in all probability,
have been conveyed away to some distant fortress, there to remain
until the required ransom had been paid.
The astonishment of the Circassians to see women riding in the European
fashion was most amusing. Native women, when they travel, ride like
men. It was evidently a deep mystery to them how we continued to keep
on. They generally pulled up and watched us as long as we remained
in sight, expecting, probably hoping, we should ere long fall off.
One man was so absorbed in wonder that he lost his seat. His horse
made a sudden jump, and the rider fell so heavily, and with such a
crash, that we thought he must be killed. However, in a few seconds,
to our great relief, he jumped up, looking very crest-fallen (for
such an accident is accounted exceedingly disgraceful), and climbed
into his saddle amidst the jeers and laughter of his companions.
It may easily be supposed how delightful and interesting we found
the ride. But pleasures must come to an end; days are short in these
parts; evening was coming on, and it would be risking too much to
let darkness find us on such dangerous ground.
Unwillingly, therefore, we had to content ourselves with
longing glances at the wild ravines that branched upwards in all
directions. The solitude, the gloom, the inexpressible grandeur of
the dark frowning rocks, the very danger, gave an additional charm,
and, like true women, we longed the more to penetrate into the
forbidden land.
Fortunately we were all too much accustomed to mountain travelling
to feel nervous when traversing narrow and lofty ledges, for it was
decided that it would be more prudent to avoid the pass by which we
had entered, and so regain the town by a different route. Our guide,
therefore, led us up the face of a precipice by a pathway that looked
only fit for goats, but the clever little horses made their way with
a steadiness and skill beyond praise, and of which all the cavalcade
could not boast, for at one or two uncommonly skeary places poor
Domenico lost heart and dismounted, preferring to trust to his own
powers of climbing, a very unwise proceeding on his part, for a horse
will often make his way safely where a man's nerve may completely
fail him.
We found it better not to look down too much. When we were occasionally
able to do so, the savage wildness of the scene was inexpressibly
grand, especially at one point where, on turning sharply round the
shoulder of an almost perpendicular rock, we found ourselves hanging as
it were over a chasm black as night itself, and where, at an immense
depth beneath, we could hear the roar and chafing of waters, though
the torrent itself was invisible in the darkness of the depth below.
Slowly and carefully we made our way down the steep side of the ravine,
until we arrived at the bed of the stream that was to serve as road to
take us back into the hill country. At this season the brown, turbid
current, though it roared angrily over the many rocks and stones
that impeded its course, was not deep, and, after the slipping and
climbing we had had for the last hour, it was quite pleasant only to
have to wade through water, notwithstanding the occasional splashings
that it entailed.
This gorge was quite as narrow as that by which we had entered, and on
emerging from its darkness and gloom into the brightness and verdure
of the hills, we felt as Dante must have done when he returned to
earth from his visit to the Inferno.
The stream partook of the character of the scene, and soon after
entering the grassy plains and verdant woods became a pretty rippling
river, though the masses of stones on each side its bed showed that
its violence could be again excited by the winter rains.
A few versts from the town, on a steep grass bank, shaded by a
picturesque group of beech, was a very pretty wooden house (the
only habitation we had seen all day), something like a large Swiss
chalet. The mother and family of the late Prince Dimitri Sherwasidzi,
who died a few months ago, live here. The ladies, dressed in deep
mourning, were sitting in the broad verandah. They wore black woollen
robes, and had veils of the same sombre material wrapped round their
heads. The dress was most funereal. The tall, slender women, with
their gloomy drapery, that hung around them in heavy but graceful
folds, looked like figures from a Greek frieze. Mourning here is
very rigid. For three months after the death of the head of a family,
the ladies see no visitors excepting near relatives. Every week the
Princess Sherwasidzi, attended by her women, visits the grave of her
son. For several hours they weep and mourn, casting ashes upon their
heads with lamentable cries and screams.
Standing a little apart from the family dwelling is another
similar but smaller house, entirely devoted to the entertainment of
guests. Hospitality is much esteemed and largely practised by the
upper class of Circassians. No greater praise can be awarded than to
say that a man "keeps forty tables."
The ride back in the cool evening was very pleasant, but devoid of
incident, with the exception of seeing our poor Domenico sent flying
over his horse's head. After having so well surmounted all the little
difficulties of the day, his horse stumbled over a sand hillock,
and this inglorious somersault was the result. Happily no harm was
done beyond a torn coat, but the Cossacks were immensely delighted at
his discomfiture. Even the grim old corporal gave his grey moustache
a pull to hide the unwonted smile in which he indulged.
CHAPTER XIV.
CIRCASSIAN MEN AND WOMEN.
Our life here is full of quaint contrasts--a curious mixture of
wildness and civilisation. The days are passed in wild rides amidst
the hills and mountains, the dash of danger that attends them adding
zest to the interest of seeing scenery, magnificent in the sublimity
of its savage grandeur, and exquisitely lovely in the tender beauty
of its sequestered valleys and fern-clad forests.
At eight o'clock the scene changes, and we find ourselves in the
midst of a most kind and agreeable little society, where music and
dancing and merry talk make the hours pass much too quickly. The
little world of Soukoum is of course very limited, but it comprises
so many charming and clever people that one cannot help regretting
that some of them should, like the flowers in the desert, be destined
to bloom so far away from the more frequented haunts of men.
General B----, the Governor, is unmarried, but the Admiral's young
wife, Madame G----, aided by her pretty sister, Mlle. Olga J----,
contrives to make her rough Circassian house as attractive as if it
were in Paris or St. Petersburg.
Mr. D---- is an excellent musician, and Count S----'s mazurkas and
valses are so brilliant that a dancing spirit invariably comes upon
all who hear them. Then there is a doctor, the merriest of men, who
plays heartrending melodies upon the flute. Unluckily, however, in
the midst of the plaintive death-strains of Edgardo and Desdemona,
we catch sight of the brightest pair of little black Tartar eyes,
twinkling with such a droll expression over the music, that instead
of crying we all begin to laugh, which, it must be admitted, spoils
the effect the musician intended to produce.
Last, though not least amongst our kind and charming friends, is the
Princess Constantine S----, a young Russian from Moscow, who has
lately married the brother of the reigning Prince of Abasia. Very
young, very pretty, and accustomed to the luxuries and gaieties of
a capital, she has accepted the difficulties of her life here with
a good sense and with a sweetness of temper that have already done
wonders in her Circassian household.
The Prince was, unfortunately for us, with his brother at Shamshesherai
during our stay at Soukoum, but the friendly, even affectionate
hospitality we received from Princess Constantine and her family,
while it gave increased charm to our visit, added much to the pain
we felt when the time came for saying the cruel word, "farewell."
How often we have thought since of the merry hours we spent together
in that barn-like house. Though pretty outside, from the climbing
plants and fine trees by which it was shaded, it would be difficult
to find anything more comfortless than the interior. Great bare rooms,
without ceilings, and where the rats sometimes run across the rafters,
a general untidiness, and often also a want of cleanliness, make
Circassian houses, though the owners may be very wealthy, anything
but inviting to a foreigner. Princess Constantine and her mother had
effected many improvements, especially with regard to cleanliness and
order, but still the aspect of her home was cheerless in the extreme.
The salon was a large, whitewashed room, containing a table, a couple
of sofas, and a few chairs that seemed to add to the dreariness of
the long wall against which they were arranged; but there was a good
piano, though unhappily it had occasionally to serve as sideboard
and as a stand for several books.
The Princess's bedroom was somewhat more furnished, though scarcely
more comfortable. The wooden planks of which the walls were made let
in the wind through every joint, so that immense Persian rugs were
stretched round the bed to keep off the intrusive breezes.
The dressing-table was like an oasis in the desert, so gay was it with
lace and muslin; its grand gold toilette-service and looking-glass, set
with rubies, seeming quite out of place in so comfortless an apartment.
The walls were hung with the Prince's magnificent arms and
accoutrements. Some of the high-peaked Abasian saddles were very
gorgeous, being covered with crimson velvet embroidered with gold. The
arms would have excited the envy of many a Parisian "elegant," so fine
was the temper of the sword-blades and daggers, and so beautiful were
the jewelled hilts and scabbards.
The poor Princess gave a half-melancholy, half-ludicrous account of her
first arrival from Moscow, and of her despair at the poverty-stricken,
desolate appearance of her new home.
She has by degrees succeeded in introducing a little more order
and comfort in the household, and hopes some day to have furniture;
but in the present unsettled state of affairs, it is thought more
prudent to avoid anything like display or expense.
She tells us that her brother-in-law, Prince Michael, who, besides
being very rich, has also a salary from Russia as Governor of Abasia,
keeps up a considerable amount of state at Shamshesherai.
The ladies of the family, though nominally Christians, retain
nevertheless many of their Mohammedan customs. They never appear in
public unveiled, and though allowed to see their male relatives,
they lead a very secluded life, apart from the men, passing their
time in smoking, making sweetmeats, and arranging their dresses. They
receive little or no education, and speak neither Russ nor any other
European language.
Our friend tells us that although very great beauties are sometimes
seen, yet in her opinion Circassian women are not generally
good-looking, and that the Abasians are decidedly plain. Certainly
at present we have not seen one native woman with any claims to beauty.
The national dress, also, does not heighten their charms. They usually
wear loose Turkish trousers, made of white cotton, and a peculiarly
frightful upper garment of some dark cloth, made precisely like the
coats worn by High Church clergymen--tight and straight, and buttoned
from the throat to the feet. A striped shawl is sometimes twisted
round them like an apron. A blue gauze veil is thrown over the head,
and their hair, which is generally long and thick, is worn in two
heavy plaits that hang down behind.
The beauties who obtain such great reputation in Constantinople and
the West almost invariably come from Georgia and the valleys near
El-Barouz. In those districts the women have magnificent eyes and
fair complexions.
It must be admitted, also, that we have arrived too late in the season
to see the good-looking girls. In short, they have all been sold.
Early in the year certain traders arrive from time to time, and it
is rumoured that Circassian parents do not object to dispose of their
daughters for a consideration. It is said also that the fair damsels
themselves, far from making difficulties, are delighted to escape from
the tedium of home-life, and to take their chance of being purchased
by a rich pasha.
Although Prince Constantine's house was so badly furnished, so devoid
of ordinary comforts, still there was a sort of Eastern grandeur in the
multitude of servants and retainers who were attached to the household.
Land here is almost valueless, for Nature is so bountiful that her
wild fruits, and a little Indian corn, with the addition of poultry
that seem to feed and take care of themselves, amply suffice for the
support of the inhabitants.
A great man's wealth is, therefore, estimated by the number of serfs
he possesses, rather than by the extent of his territory.
The serfs are bound to supply their lord with a certain quantity of
wood, poultry, and service, the latter duty being generally compounded
for by one of the family becoming a permanent servant or workman in
the household of their prince. The lord, on his side, bestows land
and protection on his retainers.
Serfdom is not so galling here as it was in Russia, for the owner
has no power, or at any rate it is not the custom, to sell his serfs;
he may remove them from one part of his property to another, but even
such a measure would be considered tyrannical.
In fact, serfdom in Circassia very much resembles clanship as it
was in old times in Scotland. Each man is proud of his connection
with his chief, and the chief considers himself bound to protect and
avenge the wrongs of his followers.
Like the old Scottish chieftains, also, the Circassian princes,
though possessing numerous bodies of retainers, and often vast tracts
of country, are but scantily supplied with coin, and have but little
means at their disposal for the due education of their sons, or for
enabling them to obtain the cultivation of mind, as well as manners,
that can be gained by seeing other countries.
From time to time the Emperor summons some of the young men to
St. Petersburg. They there receive a certain amount of training and
education, but like most half-civilised people, the young princes
are, with few exceptions, so devoted to the wild life they have
been accustomed to lead amidst their native mountains, that going to
St. Petersburg is by no means popular.
Perhaps, also, it is considered but as another name for banishment;
for occasionally, when the reigning family is supposed to be too
influential, pretexts have easily been found for retaining the young
heirs at the Russian Court.
The Prince of M---- and his mother have thus been for years in Russia,
in spite of all their efforts to obtain permission to return to
their own country. They remain in a sort of honourable captivity,
receiving a large pension, while their estates at home are managed
by the Russian Government.
The Princess, we were told, is a woman of remarkable talent and of
very enlightened views. By her judicious measures she had effected
considerable improvement amongst her people, but, unhappily for her,
she was some years ago suspected, or accused, of corresponding with
Schamyl, and was therefore at once removed from temptation. Her
palace and gardens were at one time renowned for their beauty, but
during the occupation of the country by the Turks, the palace was
plundered and the gardens were destroyed, though Omar Pasha did his
best to save them.
The invading army was on the whole harmless compared with the lawless
bands of camp-followers, who, hovering on the flanks and rear of the
Turkish troops, ravaged the unfortunate country, burning and destroying
as they passed, when they found no more booty was to be obtained.
A few days after our arrival, we were painfully reminded of the
insecurity of the country, by the intelligence that the body of a
soldier had been found in the pretty valley we had crossed on our
ride towards the mountains.
A party had been sent out to cut firewood; the unfortunate man
strayed away from his comrades, and was missing when the detachment
returned. His body was discovered this morning, shot through the
head with a Circassian bullet. Though nominally in possession of the
Russians, Circassia is still in a very disturbed state. The mountain
fastnesses are held by the Circassians, and until roads are made,
morasses drained, and the plains and valleys that lie between the
mountains and the sea are inhabited and cultivated, predatory bands can
traverse the country at their will, making it unsafe for any foreigner
to venture beyond the protection of the Russian forts and pickets.
Even strangers can see that Circassia, like a lovely wild animal,
must be tamed rather than beaten, and that roads and harbours will
avail far more towards her complete subjection than the intimidating
presence of a vast standing army.
Though the Abasians have now for some years been Russian subjects,
their sympathies are with their highland brethren, and it is well
known that they aid and abet the guerilla war that so incessantly
harasses the district. The Russian officers declare that this species
of hidden warfare is most trying to the troops. It brings neither
honour nor profit, and the hatred that is felt by the Circassians is
heartily returned by their conquerors.
In Georgia this ill-feeling does not exist. The people have shown
themselves much more amenable to foreign rule. The Georgians are more
indolent and less warlike than their neighbours in Circassia, and
also have a great tie with Russia in being members of the same church.
The religion of the Circassians is shrouded in much mystery. Apparently
they acknowledge no Supreme Being, they have no saints, nor do they
observe any sacred days. Sometimes they sacrifice a chicken, though
to whom, or for what, nobody knows. Some profess, however, a species
of Mohammedanism, though they are absolutely disowned by all good
Moslems, who consider such co-religionists a disgrace, and call them
heretics and pagans of the worst description. They are amongst the
few people in the world who make use of no sort of ceremony, even on
occasion of a marriage. A certain price having been covenanted for,
the father takes his daughter to her new home, and there leaves her,
having received the gun, or horse, for which she is considered the
fair equivalent. A mountain woman is valuable, as she is an excellent
beast of burden, and a very hard-working slave.
From all we hear of the mountaineers, they seem to be a haughty,
reserved people, proud of their poverty, of their unspotted lineage,
and of their dauntless courage. Loving their wild country with
passionate devotion, no reverses dishearten them. War is both their
duty and their happiness, and at the cry of such a leader as Schamyl,
they flock eagerly around his standard, prepared to suffer or to die
in defence of their beloved prince, and of the wild liberty that is
far dearer to them than life.
Few characters of modern days are invested with such romantic
interest--nay, even at one time, with such mysterious interest--as
that of Schamyl. Born in prosaic modern times, his life presents all
the attributes of the hero of the middle ages. Endowed with personal
beauty and strength rare even amongst the hardy tribe of which he
was the chief, Nature had bestowed upon him another gift, yet more
precious. She had given him the rare tact, the wondrous charm that
wins personal love, and that enables men, and sometimes women, to rule
mankind with absolute power. It is that love which makes men rush to
death with heroic rapture, eager to shed their blood at the bidding
of their beloved leader. The very faults also in Schamyl's character
endeared him to his followers, or rather he adroitly contrived that
they should be the means of binding his people still more closely
to him.
Naturally of a morbid and melancholy disposition, he was at times
subject to gusts of stormy passion that awed and subdued all those
who witnessed the terrific bursts of rage which transformed the
stern, calm man into a wrathful demon. Woe to him who aroused the
dread spirit! The strongest men quailed before the furious glance,
the mighty arm of their terrible chief. It is reasonable to suppose
that these outbursts were but the effects of insanity, for during
one attack of ferocious rage the unhappy man slew his young wife and
infant child, to both of whom he had been tenderly attached. It is
said that though in after-years many other wives filled his harem,
never again did any woman gain that place in his heart which had been
occupied by the young girl whom he had done to death with his own hand.
Not only did the great strength and wild fury of Schamyl awe his
people into subjection, he skilfully led them to believe that on
him the mantle of the Prophet had descended, and that in spirit he
was constantly conveyed to the presence of the Almighty, there to
receive the commands of the Divine Will. The wild ravings, therefore,
that fell from his lips were treasured by his followers as direct
communications from heaven.
Schamyl no doubt possessed sufficient control over himself to have some
method in his madness, and contrived that his sentences should convey
threats, encouragement, and orders calculated to strengthen his power
amongst wild and independent people. It is difficult to ascertain,
from the many conflicting statements, whether he was a Mohammedan or
not; probably he found a certain amount of religious fervour of great
utility in augmenting his influence amongst the more distant tribes,
and he succeeded in making them believe in him as in a leader directly
inspired by Heaven.
However visionary may have been Schamyl's claims to be a great prophet,
there is no doubt that his talents as a soldier and as a politician
were of a very high order.
The dark hour passed, who so thoughtful for his people--who so tender
to his soldiers as this wild mountaineer? It is related of him that he
often tended the wounded and sick with his own hand. He lived amidst
his troops, sharing their privations and their danger, and was ever
foremost in the fight. He rushed to the attack with a confidence
that inspired his followers with unlimited faith, and for years it
was believed that whenever Schamyl led in person victory was certain.
Besides this dauntless courage, all the Russian generals agree that he
was a great and skilful strategist. Possessing a thorough knowledge
of his native mountains, his positions were chosen with consummate
judgment, and rarely did he make an attack unless fairly certain of
the result. For years did he baffle the strong force and the renowned
generals that Russia sent against him.
From his stronghold of Dargi-Vedenna, in Daghistan, he issued his
mandates, which were carried out with unquestioning obedience by the
devoted tribes.
At length time, unceasing attacks, and the tremendous power of money
and strength began to tell. What could a few poor, brave, diminishing
highland tribes do against the mighty Empire of All the Russias? The
extent of Schamyl's dominions dwindled to the barren, bleak mountain
sides in the heart of the Caucasus; but here his stronghold seemed
impregnable, and but for treachery, perhaps, he might still be reigning
in his wild mountain fortress. In an evil hour for him, he admitted
to his friendship a foreigner, who basely betrayed the trust reposed
in him, and, after months of starvation and suffering, the noble old
warrior and the remains of his band were delivered over to captivity.
To the credit of the Russian Government, their prisoners were treated
with the utmost kindness and consideration, and Schamyl has found a
friend in the Czar, and a home at the Russian Court.
For the benefit of the country itself, it is greatly to be desired that
Russia should speedily obtain possession of the whole of Circassia,
and its adjacent provinces, but all the romantic sympathies of one's
nature are stirred by the history of the few poor, brave men who fought
to the death to preserve their liberty in their wild mountain homes.
Though the tribes who more immediately owned Schamyl's supremacy have
been mainly destroyed, there are still many others who are as thorns
in the sides of the Government.
The very fact of so distinguished a commander as General B----
being appointed to Soukoum is ominous of more than usual danger and
difficulty. His presence denotes that there are grave apprehensions
entertained that another desperate effort may be made by some of the
most disaffected. It is earnestly to be hoped that the threatening
storm may be averted in time. Such outbursts are most disastrous,
and until they can be effectually checked no permanent improvement
can be made in this lovely country.
Not only is General B---- a brave and distinguished soldier, he is
a kind, generous-hearted man, and having passed the greater part
of his life in the Caucasus, knows both the country and its many
dialects thoroughly.
He has held several military commands, and has also been employed
diplomatically both in Turkey and Persia, for he has the rare talent
of speaking six Eastern languages, besides French, German, and Russ.
General B---- is by birth a Livonian, but has not seen his native
country for nearly thirty years. He is now quite acclimated, and
settled here, and not only have the wild beauties of his adopted home
become very dear to him, but he also loves the stormy, adventurous
life he leads. General B---- speaks in the highest terms of Prince
Bariatinsky, who, he considers, has done more for Russia and for
Russian interests in the last few years than any of the other
commanders-in-chief have succeeded in doing for upwards of fifty.
Besides being an excellent soldier, the Prince is also a forbearing
and judicious governor. The conciliatory measures he has adopted with
the inhabitants of the conquered places have done much (especially in
Georgia) towards establishing a friendly feeling between them and the
Russian Government, and should this good understanding gain ground,
and the distracted people once really know the blessings of peace,
Russia may hope to see the country that has so long been merely a
battle-field, costing treasures of blood and money, converted into
a very mine of wealth, yielding abundance of corn and cattle from
her rich valleys, and a mighty harvest of minerals from the vast
storehouse of her mountains.
CHAPTER XV.
A LAST RIDE.
We endeavoured to return in a small way the kind hospitality of our
friends by having a little déjeûner on board. Breakfast was prepared
on deck, we arranged quantities of roses and ferns round the masts,
and the yacht was dressed out gaily with all her flags. As the Governor
came on board, the Russian ensign was hoisted at the fore, and when
our friends left us, the Claymore's four little cannon fired a salute,
with much military, or rather naval, precision.
The modest roar of our diminutive weapons had scarcely subsided when
the huge guns of the Russian frigate bellowed forth the answering
salute, then flash after flash came in rapid succession from the
other vessels, until the air was filled with the warlike sounds. Long
after the report was over, the distant thunder was heard muttering
fainter and fainter as it rolled from cavern to cavern amongst the
hills and valleys, as if it had awakened all the sleeping echoes of
the mountains.
The more we see of this country, the more we are enraptured with
its great and varied beauties. But beautiful as we find it now,
every one tells us we can hardly form an idea of its loveliness when
arrayed in its garment of spring flowers. Then the earth is carpeted
with violets, narcissus, bluebells, cyclamen, and the many-coloured
iris, while the sides of the hills glow with the red, pink, and lilac
blossoms of rhododendrons and azaleas.
Wherever we walk and ride, we see the wild vine growing luxuriantly
amongst the trees (its long branches often covered with fruit),
making delicate green arches and canopies in the darker shade of the
woods. The grapes are small, and not so sweet as when cultivated,
but the slightly acid flavour is very agreeable in a hot climate. It
is sad to see the bunches decaying on the vines, for the people never
take the trouble of gathering them to dry for winter consumption.
Day by day the feeling of pain grows stronger to see that, while
Nature has been so generous, so profuse in her valuable gifts, man
will not even take the trouble to avail himself of the luxuries she
offers with so lavish a hand.
Undeterred by the sad fate of the poor soldier, and confident in
the valour of the gallant Cossacks and of the Russian officers who
accompanied us, we made as many rides as possible in the neighbourhood
of the town, but it was in vain to look with longing eyes towards the
mountains. They were pronounced unsafe, and we dared not venture near
them. Still the hilly low ground was so wondrously lovely that we could
have ridden for months instead of days, and have found fresh beauties
to charm us. The last ride we can never forget, perhaps because it
had the sad charm of being the last--because we knew that each long
lingering glance would never be renewed, that our eyes would never
again rest upon the marvellous beauties of form and colouring that
were lying in such abundant loveliness around us.
Soon after leaving the town we skirted a long narrow valley that
gradually inclined towards the hills. We were riding through masses of
fern, that began here and there to show a few bright autumnal tints. On
the grassy slopes above and below were groups of magnificent trees,
their long shadows almost stretching across the valley. Far away to
the left the giant mountains reared their lofty heads, great dark
lines marking the many ravines that scored their rugged sides.
So still was the air, so absolute was the hush of evening, that not a
bush rustled, not a leaf moved in the great calm. We could only hear
the tinkle of a little brook as it ran merrily amongst the brushwood
beneath, and as we occasionally stopped to listen, there came the
faint murmur of many a distant streamlet, as it threaded its way
through the far away valleys and passes of the mountains.
The sun, that had been very oppressive before we entered the valley,
now only glowed upon the tops of the hills, making the trees and
rocks on one side quiver in the flood of light, while all was cool
and fresh around us.
We pursued our way through fern and underwood, up hill and down,
sometimes crossing the little stream that rippled with a thousand
pleasant voices over shining stones and gravel, then again entering a
thick wood, where the trees grew so closely together that the sunbeams
in vain attempted to pierce the interlaced boughs above, and where we
had to bend low over our horses' necks to avoid the masses of climbing
plants that hung like ropes from the branches of the trees, until we
arrived at an open space or plateau on the summit of a steep hill,
and here we had a view as beautiful as it was extensive.
In this lovely region the atmosphere is so transparent that space seems
almost annihilated. The eye travels far into the deep blue distance,
tracing peak after peak in the wondrous clearness, until at length
sky and mountain are blended into one line of quivering light, and
the sight, fatigued with the magnitude and remoteness of objects on
the vast horizon, seeks rest by gazing on the tender green of the
fair valleys spread so invitingly around.
Far, far away, glittering with dazzling whiteness, was the range of
mighty snow-mountains, some of the nearer peaks frowning majestically
above the sombre masses of the great pine forests that stretch for
more than a hundred miles into the interior of the country. The
chain of the Caucasus is considerably more lofty than that of the
Alps. The highest point of El-Barouz is rather more than 2,000 feet
higher than Mont Blanc; but from the climate being so much warmer,
there is apparently less eternal snow here than in Switzerland.
The valleys very much resemble those of the Tyrol, near Botzen. The
same rich pastures, the same fertilizing streams, sunny slopes, and
wooded hills are found here, but, unlike happy Tyrol, in the sister
vales of Circassia not a house is to be found, and, unless a warlike
band should pass, not a human being may be met with for hours.
During this day's ride the only man we saw was a goatherd, who,
fully armed with sword and gun, was tending his flock of Circassian
goats. These pretty creatures, smaller than those of Greece and Syria,
are covered with long delicate hair, with which the Abasian women make
many fine stuffs. The man was sitting under a tree up which a vine
had climbed, and the ripe grapes were hanging in great clusters, high
on the upper branches. Seeing that we looked both thirsty and tired,
with the courtesy of a true gentleman and mountaineer, he threw down
gun and sword, climbed the tree with the activity of a squirrel,
and in a few minutes descended, laden with bunches of the lovely
purple fruit, which he offered us with a grace of manner both simple
and dignified. We had come into his native woods, and with the easy
bearing of a stately host he offered his guests the best refreshment
in his power. He then showed us his matchlock, of which he seemed
not a little proud. It was made of beautifully-polished walnut wood,
had scarcely any stock, and was so small that it looked like a pretty
child's toy.
Like most mountaineers, the Circassians are excellent marksmen. They
fire very quickly, so much so that they scarcely appear to take aim. On
horseback they are equally at home, and load and fire with the greatest
rapidity when at full gallop. War with them makes the delight as well
as the occupation of their lives. They despise and avoid every sort
of domestic and agricultural employment, and consider even hunting,
unless in pursuit of some dangerous animal, beneath manly dignity.
To make the boys hardy and independent, as soon as they are old enough
to sit on horseback they are sent to some friend's house, in order to
be completely removed from the enervating influence of home. Here they
remain several years, only occasionally visiting their parents. During
this period they are taught warlike exercises, and are encouraged to
encounter every description of danger and fatigue. Often are these
hardy lads sent into the mountains during the severest winter weather
to pass their days in the saddle, their only shelter at night a cave
or an overhanging rock, their only food the roots of grasses and herbs.
No wonder that the Russians find it hard to subdue men who not only
from their earliest youth have been thus inured to hardship, hunger,
and thirst, but are also entrenched amidst the wildest of mountain
fastnesses--fastnesses that can only be reached by many days' journey
through forests and over morasses, where vegetation grows with such
rank luxuriance that few would encounter willingly the dangerous
miasma that reigns there nearly all the year.
Besides weaving woollen stuffs for clothing, the women of Abasia and
Georgia make very pretty striped shawls and rugs from the long hair
of the Circassian goat. They also excel in dyes, the colours mostly
used, red and dark blue, being exceedingly fine in shade. The red
is clear and brilliant, and the blue is quite free from the black
dingy hue of the cloth worn by the Fellah women in Egypt, but is
like a dark shade of the bright "Impératrice" blue. They also make
the crimson boots or slippers that are worn alike by both sexes. The
manufacture is very simple: the skins are scraped, tanned, and then
dyed. The boots are cut out in a single piece and sewn up in front,
the seam being lined with a narrow strip of leather. They are then
thoroughly soaked in a mixture of resinous gum and water, which makes
them nearly waterproof, and the owner should wear them thus wet for
a few hours. The process is not very agreeable, but has its reward,
inasmuch as the boots then take the exact shape of the feet, and fit
with the pliability and comfort of a glove.
The women have besides a very ingenious way of carving beads. A
long piece of wood, dyed red or black, is pierced lengthways by a
heated wire. It is shaped either into an octagon, or is smoothed
round. Then, with a knife and heated needles, it is cut and engraved
into various patterns. Considerable taste is often shown in the
designs, many of them being remarkably intricate and pretty. When
the wand is sufficiently decorated, the beads are sliced off the size
required. Beyond these primitive ornaments, we could not hear of any
other articles de luxe being manufactured in Abasia.
In Georgia there are native jewellers, who make both gold and silver
ornaments, and we saw some bracelets and necklaces made of gold that
seemed very pure. The designs were also good, but the workmanship
was coarse and ill-finished, and far inferior to the jewellery both
of Persia and India.
But now the day had come when we must leave this fairy-like Eastern
land--this earthly Paradise, where war, suffering, and trouble have
taken such deep root. Perhaps, were it happy, peaceful, and prosperous,
one would care for it less, for prosperity and riches have little
need of sympathy, and can always ensure plenty of friends, whereas a
poor people and a distracted country are thankful to accept all the
friendship that may be bestowed upon them.
It may appear like exaggeration to say what real pain also it was to
part from such newly-made friends, but we must have had very cold
hearts not to have been touched by the great, unmerited kindness
we had received. So now we must say good-bye to the joyous rides,
to the merry evenings, that kindly intercourse has made so pleasant,
and can only look forward, in exchange, to many a rough day and night
on the stormy waves of the Black Sea.
As usual in this world, past pleasures must be paid for by some pain,
and our visit here has been both so charming and so interesting,
that we have been beguiled into making a stay somewhat longer than
warranted by strict prudence.
Autumn brings many a storm to this easily-excited sea, and we shall be
fortunate if we get back to the Bosphorus, or Sevastopol, without a
"streak," as it is called, of bad weather. At present, however, all
looks fair and sunny, the wind is favourable, to-night therefore we
leave. Our friends accompanied us to the shore, and the last cordial
hand-shake was given.
When we arrived on board the yacht we found that kind thoughts
for us had already preceded us there. Flowers, grapes, music,
drawings--everything they thought could add to our comfort or
pleasure--had been sent on board by these kind people.
The anchor was up, the sails were set, the yacht was only lying-to
until we embarked. The sea was as smooth as glass, the light of the
rising moon covered the mountains with a tender veil, as we glided
slowly away from Soukoum. Not a sound broke the silence of the night
but the gentle wash of the water against the bows of the vessel. A soft
breeze just filled the sails, and with really sad hearts we watched
landmark after landmark disappear, until, on rounding the headland of
the bay, the last light of the little town was shut out, and we said
farewell, probably for ever, to the loveliest spot we have ever seen.
CHAPTER XVI.
SINOPE.
After leaving Soukoum we had three days of fine weather, though the
winds had been somewhat capricious and baffling. Still we had done
well, having had a run of 102 miles during the first twenty-four hours,
and of 86 during the next; but on the 24th of September the wind began
to moan ominously, and a thick fog was drawing up to windward like
a curtain. The sea began to heave up and down with a sort of heavy,
sullen motion, as if gathering its strength before a battle of the
elements began.
Under these circumstances, and having a wish also to see Sinope,
we resolved to go there, rather than brave the threatening gale. The
helm was therefore put up, and about seven p.m. we made out one high
and two low islands, which, on nearer approach, resolved themselves
into a very narrow isthmus, that, stretching far away into the sea,
terminated in a steep rocky promontory.
On the neck of the isthmus stands Sinope, commanding a beautiful
view of the long range of mountains and wooded hills that line the
coast. The town itself is a quaint place, tightly squeezed into some
old castellated walls, with a fierce little pepper-box of a fort
at each corner. Outside the town, a long straggling Greek suburb
runs up the hill for a considerable distance, its low red and brown
houses looking very picturesque amongst the groups of cypress and
fig-trees. The roadstead, though open and exposed to the east, has the
reputation of being perfectly secure, and we find ourselves in quite
a little crowd of Greek, Turkish, Austrian, and Russian vessels. It
seems, therefore, that others besides ourselves have had forebodings
of bad weather, and have taken refuge in this, the only safe anchorage
on the southern side of the Black Sea. It is singular, however, that
the anchorage should be so safe, for it is difficult to believe that
a heavy sea would not set into the bay, should the wind come from
any quarter between north-east and south. It is said, however, that a
vessel has never been known to be driven from her anchor; so the only
solution is that these winds never blow here with violence. Certainly
during our stay, though a tremendous sea was running about a mile or
two out, but little swell ever came up to the anchorage.
On the morning after our arrival, an intimation came from the Pasha
(one of the Sultan's numerous brothers-in-law), that he wished to
pay us a visit. Soon after twelve his Highness arrived, attended
by a very numerous suite, and accompanied by a Greek gentleman,
the Austrian consul.
We were somewhat dismayed at the sight of such a goodly company, as
our little cabins could not possibly accommodate so large a party of
guests, and a Turk of high rank does not like to remain on deck. All
were anxious to come below; it was therefore somewhat difficult to
prevent undue crowding, for the Pasha was so interested in all he saw,
that he insisted upon visiting every part of the vessel. He appeared
an exceedingly intelligent man, and had a vivacity of manner somewhat
unusual in a Turk.
When the cakes and sweetmeats appeared they were accompanied by
champagne and liqueurs, both of which beverages were highly approved
of. Happily by the laws of the Koran they are not considered wine,
and the champagne was drunk in tumblers without any hesitation.
As the Governor descended into his state barge, manned by ten rowers
in grand but rather dirty crimson jackets and fezzes, the yacht gave
him the proper salute of fifteen guns, a compliment that was promptly
returned by a Turkish man-of-war, to the intense joy of all the little
boys in the town, who came flocking out of numberless narrow streets
and alleys in an astonishing variety of dress, or rather undress.
Later in the day we proceeded to make a little tour round the town.
Sinope is divided into two parts, one inhabited by Turks, the other
by Greeks.
The streets in the Greek quarter do not deserve the name. They are
little better than rough water-courses, and are so narrow that the
overhanging eaves of the houses almost touch each other. But what
a wealth of picturesque beauty do these old houses present to the
eye of an artist! Built entirely of wood, they are either painted
a deep chocolate colour, or are left to brown and blacken with age,
whilst so much shadow is lightened both by the great masses of moss
or lichen that cling to the roof, and by the bright green of the
vines that half cover the walls.
The mode of building is peculiar. The frame is joined together, and
the roof is put on and finished. The walls are then made by means
of layers of shingles (long narrow pieces of wood), fastened to the
upright posts. These planks are of uneven length, and project over each
other in a confused irregularity, which though charming in a sketch,
leaves so many yawning crevices that each house must be a veritable
temple of the winds.
The majority of the houses were much larger than might have been
expected in so small and poor a town; but sometimes as many as ten
or twelve families will live together, not in separate flats or
apartments, but as one household.
It would seem as if in days of yore their ancestors must have been
bitten by tarantulas, for dancing is a perfect mania with the Greeks
here of all ages and classes. "Young men and maidens," old men and
women, dance every evening, with an animation and an unwearied delight
that neither poverty nor age seems able to diminish. Their principal
aim, therefore, in building, is to have a large "salle de danse" for
winter use, and as soon as this portion of the house is completed,
the various families squeeze themselves into a few little rooms,
contentedly enduring gaping walls and half-finished floors, so long
as they have space for the beloved Romaika.
Though the houses are so crowded, they are nevertheless beautifully
clean. A constant scrubbing seems going on, a process, strange to say,
that is also extended to the inhabitants.
The women are really lovely, their features having the delicately
cut outline that is so beautiful in the ancient Greek statues. Many
have exquisitely fair complexions, and we fell in love immediately
with their hair, for it had that dusky, half golden, half red tint
only seen in the tresses of the gorgeous beauties of Titian and
Georgione. It was a painful disenchantment to find that it owed its
beauty not to nature, but to henna--in fact it was dyed. So enamoured
are the Sinope women of this colour, that even the babies in arms have
their scanty little locks tinged with the ruddy hue. Still, putting
aside the disappointment of their hair, the women were worthy of all
the admiration we bestowed upon them. Not only have they delicate
features and complexions, but their eyes also are unusually beautiful;
large, lustrous and dark, without being black, they have a tender,
deprecating look that reminds one of the inexpressibly touching
expression seen in the eyes of the unhappy Beatrice Cenci.
It is a well-known saying that pretty women generally dress well;
either they adorn the dress, or the dress adorns them. The Sinope
beauties are no exception to the rule, and the gay costume adds
another attraction to the charms of the wearer.
On a fête-day a Sinope belle puts a many-coloured handkerchief over
her head, which she ties as tightly as possible under the chin, in
order to make her cheeks look round and smooth. In this, perhaps,
she is a little mistaken, as ladies of other lands are who tighten
their waists by way of improving their figures.
Another handkerchief is twisted round the head, beneath which the
hair falls in two or three long thick plaits, while a few little
curls are coquettishly allowed to stray over the forehead.
Her cloth jacket, of some bright colour, generally scarlet, blue,
or green, is half covered with a rich embroidery of black or gold
braid, and is left open in front, to show a full white chemise that
is drawn up closely round the throat. A short petticoat of fringed
silk, or a striped shawl of many colours is worn over large Turkish
trousers, the toilet being completed by a crimson scarf fastened as
a sash round the waist. Altogether it would be difficult to find a
more brilliant or becoming costume.
The fair damsel also wears all her worldly wealth on her head and neck,
and hanging from her ears, in the shape of long strings of gold or
silver coins.
Unlike their Turkish neighbours, therefore, the Sinope Greeks have the
inestimable advantage of being able to ascertain by the same glance
whether the fortune equals the fair face of the young beauties amongst
whom they have to select their wives.
For the first time for some years we saw again, not only middle-aged
women, but women of a middle age, that were both well preserved and
good-looking. In most countries the men have their proper allowance
of the complete seven ages, but out of England, and in Eastern
countries especially, it is rare to find women of the poorer classes
who have more than three--namely, childhood, girlhood, and decrepit
old age. From the second to the third is only a step, and a young
girl has scarcely passed the bloom of early youth ere she changes in
a marvellously short time into a wrinkled, toothless, shrivelled old
woman. It was really refreshing to look at the good-looking women
of uncertain age at Sinope; they had such a bright, matronly, and,
if the simile may be used, such a sunshiny air about them.
The people seemed wonderfully good-natured, and bestowed upon us many
nods and pleasant looks, as if they were really glad to see strangers
in their little town.
Leaving the Greek quarter, we came to a broad, open space, with a few
groups of cypress scattered about--the Turkish burial-ground, chosen
with much taste, as is usually the case with Turkish cemeteries. Placed
on the narrowest part of the isthmus that unites the promontory to
the mainland, it commands lovely views over both bays.
We crossed a shaky draw-bridge, and, passing under an old mouldering
gateway, found ourselves in the Turkish town--in the real region
of true believers--not modern Turks, such as are now mostly seen
in Constantinople, in Frank dresses and polished boots, but amongst
grave, old-fashioned Moslems, arrayed in the flowing robes and large
decorous turbans of days gone by.
The women, not nominally veiled in transparent and becoming clouds
of muslin, but closely wrapped in sheets of such uncompromising
calico that not even the tip of a nose could be seen, glided about
like spectres, occasionally stopping under the shadow of a wall, to
peep curiously at the unwonted spectacle of Christian women passing
through their streets.
Finding ourselves in such an assemblage of "The Faithful," I became
suddenly conscience-stricken on account of my cambric morning gown,
which was really very pretty, but unhappily of a delicate green!! We
could not but see the angry glances cast on the objectionable shade,
so, although the evening was very oppressive, I hastened to hide myself
as much as possible under the folds of a large shawl, doing my best,
therefore, to prevent the scandal of the sacred colour being seen on
an unbelieving "Giaour."
Dried fish and tobacco seemed the staple commodities of the place,
and in spite of the exceeding cleanliness both of houses and people,
they cause an ancient and fish-like odour to linger in the streets.
Leaving the town by a gate opposite to that by which we had entered,
we found ourselves on the sea-shore. The big waves came tumbling in
on the beach in great angry masses, and as they poured back again
with a sullen roar, the old walls of the town seemed to quiver to
their foundations, as if many more high tides and stormy seas would
speedily lay them low. But old and tottering as they appear, they
have for nearly three centuries resisted the efforts of their enemy,
and the waves, by their own violence, have helped to make a little
sand-bank that now seems to protect the ancient walls from their
too near approach. The air was heavy and oppressive, giving that
sensation of nervous foreboding that so often precedes physical or
mental trouble. A long line of lurid clouds showed where the sun had
gone down with angry redness, and some very dark streaks on the grey
waters at the horizon seemed to say that to-morrow's rising would be
as stormy as to-night's farewell.
The Austrian consul tells us that for some years the storm of the
year has always taken place during the last week in September, the
26th being an especially fatal day. That luckless period is now over,
so we venture to hope that the muttering tempest may but be moving
on its way to other seas.
Though the short twilight was scarcely over as we again crossed the
Greek quarter, not a soul was to be seen--not a light glimmered at
a window; every street was silent and deserted. After the customary
dance the people of Sinope, like the birds, go to bed with the sun,
and a feeling came over us as if we were guilty of some degree of
fastness, almost of dissipation, in not also being at home and in bed,
like other respectable people, though it was little past eight o'clock.
A few hours later the storm burst forth in good earnest, and raged
all night with great fury. Towards morning the wind somewhat suddenly
went down, but a tremendous sea was running beyond the roadstead.
Three large steamers put in soon after dawn. One of them close by
us presents a really pitiable spectacle. There are between four and
five hundred Persians on board, and the deck is a scene of dirt and
wretchedness such as would be difficult to find equalled. The Persians
will never separate from their luggage; they sit on their goods all
day and sleep on them all night. During the heavy sea yesterday the
waves washed completely over the vessel, drenching these miserable
creatures as well as their goods. From the deck being so encumbered the
water could not escape, and these wretched people were lying for hours
as in a bath, and in a frightful state of prostration and suffering,
the combined effects of terror and sea-sickness. Some of them are now
trying to dry their rags in the occasional gleams of sunshine, and
the ship is covered with sheep-skins, bits of old shawls, carpets, and
the complicated articles of clothing only known to Eastern toilettes.
As we wished to see the country, the Governor kindly lent us horses,
and, accompanied by the Austrian consul, we set out in the afternoon
for a ride. To do us still more honour, the Pasha had also sent two of
his body-guard to attend us. More villainous-looking individuals it
would have been difficult to find anywhere. Our conviction was that
they must have been, even if, as we hoped, they no longer were, part
of a robber-band. In that case they would prove far more efficient
protectors than any regular soldiers could be, as in all probability
they kept up friendly intercourse with their old companions.
Edmond About, in that witty and entertaining work, "La Grèce
Contemporaine," gives one of his most amusing and clever descriptions,
when he represents the brigands and soldiers as being on such friendly
terms with each other that they take turns in claiming the victory in
the occasional little encounters that from time to time take place,
in order to keep up appearances, amicably dividing the spoil when
the affair is over.
After paying a visit to the consul's wife, a pretty little Venetian,
with two bright-eyed children, we mounted our horses, and passing
through the Greek suburb, descended the hill and turned towards
the mainland.
Soon after leaving the town, the country becomes barren, though the
soil itself seems rich, and would probably be exceedingly fertile
if well cultivated. Here and there were a few patches of corn, but
tobacco is the principal crop. Great bunches of the fragrant leaves
were hanging up to dry, suspended from poles in the middle of the
fields. The tobacco grown near the coast is considered remarkably
good, so we resolved to make some purchases for the benefit of smoking
friends at home, and bought a quantity of the very best the district
could produce for five piastres an oke. As there are eight piastres in
a shilling, and as an oke contains about two and a half English pounds,
it is hardly necessary to say how cheap this was. The same tobacco
costs in Constantinople from 70 to 100 piastres an oke. Under these
circumstances it seems wonderful that a regular trade should not be
established, but such is the inertness of the inhabitants that there
is no direct communication either with the capital or with Odessa,
only an occasional trader from time to time putting in here. There
are no roads from the town into the interior; only sufficient tobacco,
therefore, is grown to supply the neighbouring villages.
The country is undulating, and, cantering up a little slope, we found
ourselves on the summit of the cliffs that project into the western
bay. On three sides was the sea, on the fourth the magnificent chain of
mountains that run from the coast far into the interior of Asia Minor.
The day was wild and stormy; the sea broke with a deep, hollow roar
amongst the caverns of the rocks. Every now and then fierce gusts of
wind drove the clouds madly across the sky, but over the mountains
there lay a broad band of sunshine, lighting up the little upland
pastures, and making the patches of bright green still more vivid in
contrast with the dark shadow of the forests at their feet.
Riding along the cliffs we obtained an excellent view of the singular
position of Sinope. Built on a narrow strip of land, scarcely a quarter
of a mile broad, it commands the two bays, and overlooks for many miles
the undulating plain that stretches from the coast to the foot of the
mountains. In old times, when the town was fortified, it must have
been impregnable, both from sea and land; now the old castellated
walls are little more than ruins. One portion, the remains of an
ancient tower, said to have been part of the Palace of Mithridates,
is remarkably picturesque. The leafy branches of briers and hops now
trail across its old brickwork, and the tendrils of the wild caper
have clasped in tight embrace many a column and mass of sculptured
marble that lies lowly on the ground.
Ever since we have been here, notwithstanding the kind assistance
of both Pasha and consul, we have had the greatest difficulty in
procuring meat, bread, or milk. We were surprised therefore to see
outside the town patches of grass that would have afforded excellent
pasturage both for sheep and cattle. But it seems, in respect of cow
government, Sinope is a republic, every cow doing as seemeth good to
herself. She goes out in the morning when she likes, if in the evening
it is borne on her mind that she would like to be milked, she comes
home, but should her maternal feelings be weak, or should she wish to
call upon her friends at a distance, she does not return for a day
or two. Under these circumstances the supply of milk is precarious,
and as to the bread, it is of the most primitive description. A coarse,
dark-brown, nearly black meal is made into a paste by mixing it with a
little water. It is then rolled into thin sheets about the size of a
small round tea-table, and baked. When quite fresh this bread is not
unpalatable, though fearfully indigestible, but the great drawback is
that it is apt to get mouldy on the smallest provocation, and after
it has been made a few days requires scraping and rebaking before it
is possible to eat it.
Then, as to the butchers' meat, that is also a vain dream. There is a
tradition that once there was a butcher's shop in the town, but this
was in a time so long ago that even the oldest inhabitant does not
remember it. However, we are told that perhaps some day we may get a
wild boar, so we cheer ourselves with this hope, and try to think the
unvarying chickens are not so very thin nor so very tough, after all.
CHAPTER XVII.
STORM-CLOUDS.
After blowing another hurricane all night there is this morning a
decided improvement in the weather. The wind has gone down nearly as
suddenly as it rose, though the sea is still running very high.
Some of the old wooden houses towards the outskirts of the town,
where they were more exposed to the violence of the storm, have
suffered considerable damage, and two have literally been blown
down. Happily, the inhabitants were able to escape in time, and no
lives have been lost.
As I was anxious to make some sketches before being prevented by
our own departure, or by some of the prettiest houses tumbling into
ruins, we went early on shore on a drawing expedition; but amongst
so many picturesque spots, it was quite an embarras de richesses
to know where to begin. At last I set to work upon a narrow street
with dark-brown houses, whose overhanging eaves almost touched their
opposite neighbours.
How I longed to have the skill of a really good artist, especially
to draw one low projecting window which the leafy branches of a vine
had formed into a little arch. A stray sunbeam was gleaming brightly
on two fair young faces as they peeped shyly at the strangers through
the framework of the tender green leaves. It was difficult to decide
which shone brightest in the dark street, the bright eyes or the
bright sunshine.
With this charming exception the place had seemed deserted when the
sketch began, but after a few strokes had been made sundry little
groups appeared at the doors, and emboldened by our pretending to
take no notice, they gradually approached. Some of the older women
ventured at last to look over my shoulder to see what I was about,
and, when house after house appeared on the paper, their delight
could no longer be controlled, and they eagerly called the owners to
see the wonderful production.
Having accomplished the houses as well as I could, I wanted some
figures to complete the little picture, and tried to sketch in as
rapidly as possible a group of pretty girls who stood near. But this
was going too far, and was too great a tax on their courage. They fled
instantly; for so great is their dread of the evil eye that they,
no doubt, felt persuaded that, were they to allow their likeness to
be taken by a stranger, it would entail certain misery upon them. In
southern countries one must carefully avoid noticing young people
too much, and must especially beware of praising little children. A
mother would think it most cruel kindness, as it would be directly
casting the jettatura upon her child.
In many parts of Calabria (the stronghold of this superstition)
it does not do for a friend, if a foreigner, to say a word even in
favour of that generally-praised member of the family, the baby. Like
the women of a Turkish harem, the children of a Christian household
are too sacred to be mentioned.
Although they ran away, I was glad to find my Sinope friends were not
irrevocably offended, for they turned up again when I began the next
sketch. They gathered close round, evidently much interested in me
and my doings, but though there was so much interest, there was not
the least rudeness. It is to be feared that a strange artist, in a
foreign costume, would not meet with such good-natured forbearance
in an English village.
I was examined critically, however, and I could understand enough
of what they were saying to know they were remarking upon my nose,
eyes, mouth, hair, dress, &c. They were evidently much puzzled as
to the use of the little hood belonging to my cloak, lifting it up,
and making numerous interrogative signs; at last they arrived, I am
certain, at the conclusion that it served to carry bread or babies in.
When the drawing was finished, a nice, fresh-looking old woman,
a greater person probably than all the rest, as she wore some very
large coins round her neck, came out of the crowd, seized my hand,
kissed it several times, and then, tucking it tightly under her arm
and pointing to the public baths close by, tried to pull me towards
them. Whether she wished me to sketch them, or whether, in the excess
of her good-will, she wished to present me to the rest of "the world
of Sinope" (for in these parts the bath is the women's club, where
they meet to drink coffee and sherbet, and talk over each other's
affairs), must for ever remain a mystery, for though we both talked,
we neither understood. She bowed persuasively, I bowed negatively,
and clung tightly to my companion, for I was really afraid, from the
excess of kind friendship, of being carried off against my will. At
length, finding I was not to be moved either morally or physically,
she again repeatedly kissed my hand, and with many smiles and friendly
looks we parted.
We then strolled on as far as the Turkish burial-ground, enjoying the
bright sunshine and the fresh air, for though so rough and stormy
at sea, on shore it was very pleasant. Beyond the cemetery is an
open common that extends to the edge of the cliffs that line the bay
opposite to that where the yacht is lying.
Out at sea everything looked wild and desolate. Great leaden-coloured
waves were beating in angry foam against the rocks; not a sail was to
be seen; a few gulls were slowly flapping across the dreary waste of
water, their hoarse cries sounding as if they too were uttering harsh
warnings of coming disasters and death. But what a curious contrast
as we turned from so eerie a scene and looked towards the town! On
this side the sun was shining brightly, the birds were singing in
the bushes close by, whilst several groups of Turkish women, seated
under the cypress trees near the cemetery, made the scene gay with
their many-coloured ferighies.
Turning inland, the day was so warm that we were glad to sit down on an
old wall under the shade of a leafy fig-tree, though, when facing the
sea, the keen, sharp wind had made us draw our cloaks closely round
us. Such is essentially the climate of Sinope, summer and winter at
the same time. No wonder, therefore, that the scourge of the place
is consumption. The consul tells us that spring and autumn are nearly
nominal seasons. The hot days of summer send the snow away, and when
they again begin to decline rain and winter come together. The sun
rules the temperature completely; when he shines the days are hot,
even in mid-winter, and again in summer, should he withdraw his rays,
and leave the sky gloomy and cloud-covered, there is a sudden chill
in the air that is far more injurious to health than the actual cold
of winter.
It was not until the 2nd of October that the weather cleared
sufficiently to enable us to leave Sinope. Then, however, all promised
well for a prosperous voyage. With a clear, blue sky, calm sea,
and a fairly favourable breeze we set sail for the Bosphorus. For
twenty-four hours the yacht dashed gaily along; and we were all merry
with the anticipation of being speedily with our friends at Therapia,
when a sudden change came over the sunny prospect. A little cloud,
no bigger than a man's hand, was seen to windward. Though the sky
was still blue, the sea calm, and the sun shining brightly, the
glass went down with alarming rapidity. Suddenly the wind began to
moan with a wild melancholy wail, a great darkness rapidly spread
over sea and sky, except along the horizon; there a pallid streak of
light showed where the storm was stalking on, lashing the sea into a
perfect whirl of foam as it tore its way over the water. On came the
squall with wondrous quickness. There was nothing to be done but to
make the best of our way back to Sinope Bay, as it was evident that
ugly weather was again threatening.
In less than an hour from the time when the little cloud had been first
perceived the yacht was running before a heavy sea with scarcely a
bit of canvas on her, but before night we rounded the promontory off
Sinope, and were at once in smooth water.
Instead of returning, however, to our old anchorage, we put in to
Ghirgeh, a little town on the other side of the bay, where, it was
said, excellent shooting and good provisions were to be had. Unluckily,
landing is a work of difficulty should there be any sea, or even
swell, for there is a reef of rocks close to the shore that can only
be crossed in tolerably smooth water.
The storm was not of long duration, though it was fierce while it
lasted. It raged all night with much violence, but the following
morning all things again looked propitious.
The breeze, though it blew rather fresh, was fair for the Bosphorus;
we were getting impatient at so much delay. We might have remained
days at Ghirgeh without being able to land, for with the wind from
this quarter the surf beat heavily on the reef, and the boat that had
been sent on shore in search of provisions had returned half full of
water, with the men drenched to the skin.
Game and meat were also found to be "myths," and as the people on
shore declared the gale was now well over, once again we set sail
for Constantinople.
"Those who go down to the sea in ships, these men see the works of
The Lord, and His wonders in the great deep."
We thank Him who stills the raging sea, that in His mercy He has
guarded us through so fearful a tempest.
We had left Ghirgeh on Tuesday. Late on Wednesday afternoon once more
the warning glass fell rapidly, and the breeze that had been fresh
and steady suddenly dropped. Towards evening we were almost becalmed,
little puffs of hot air only occasionally fanning us as the yacht
rose slowly on the heaving sea. But about one o'clock that night,
the gale came upon us with all its force, preceded by an icy wind
that seemed to freeze the ropes into bits of iron.
No sooner was the roar of the mighty tempest heard across the waters
than the sea, lashed into madness by the tremendous force of the wind,
turned into a seething cauldron. In an instant the great waves rose up
foaming, and tossed and dashed against the poor little vessel as if
resolved on its destruction. As the storm raged across her the dear
Claymore heeled over, and quivered as if she had received a blow,
but righting herself immediately, she gallantly faced her foe and
prepared for another shock. Speedily it came--and again another,
and another. More and more furious became the wind, and though the
foresail had been reefed, and we had only the storm-jib, it was
necessary to furl them both and take in the jib-boom; but in vain
the men pulled and strained, the ropes were frozen. Servants, cooks,
every man on board was summoned, Mr. Harvey, Captain Martini, and
Charlie cheering on the men, as they too sprang forward to the ropes;
but crash after crash came the great waves, as they raged against
the yacht with a fury that it seemed almost impossible anything of
wood and iron could long withstand.
At length Charlie and another man, with their knives between their
teeth, crawled on to the bowsprit, though every plunge buried them
deep in the waves, and succeeded in severing the ropes that held
the sail. Relieved from the too great pressure, the little vessel
rose more easily, and we heard a voice say cheerfully, "We shall
do now." It was of course impossible to be on deck, but my sister,
Mademoiselle G., and I remained crouched on the staircase listening
in intense anxiety to the turmoil. When the sail was at last taken
in I went down to the children, fearing they would be frightened,
but the little creatures had gone to sleep before the gale began,
and neither storm nor wind awakened them. It was difficult to stay
by them. Exaggerating probably the danger we were in, their lovely,
quiet sleep quite unnerved one; so, as it was better to do rather than
to think, we busied ourselves as much as possible in making hot tea for
those on deck, though even this little task was a work of difficulty,
so violently were we thrown from side to side. Occasionally during the
night one of us crept up the companion and ventured a hurried look-out.
People have written much about the majestic beauty of a storm. To
me it was simply horrible. In the distracting rush and confusion,
it seemed as if the elements, seized with hideous rage, were tearing
and rending each other like infuriated animals. I looked on with the
shuddering horror one would feel if standing between wild beasts who
were preparing to spring at each other's throats. When holding fast
by the sides of the companion I ventured a hurried glance upwards. My
heart seemed for a moment to stand still, as I saw a huge black mass,
rather than a wave of water, towering high above us. So monstrous,
so steep did it seem, that until one felt the vessel rising, it seemed
impossible that anything framed by man could surmount so precipitous
a wall. Piles of foam rose still higher in the air, which was filled
with a pale, ghastly light when the moon showed herself occasionally
between the great heavy banks of clouds, as if afraid to look fully
forth on such a weird scene of chaos and confusion. But worse even
than the sight was the overpowering noise--the uproar. Instead of
diminishing as day began to dawn the rush and the roar deepened,
until the senses seemed carried away by the mighty clamour, and the
brain seemed to whirl, as if it also was the sport of the tremendous
wind. Everything was crashing, first on one side, then on the other.
In the midst of this wild turmoil a deep unearthly sound rang through
the vessel--the slow, heavy toll of a bell that seemed to come from
beneath the sea. For a moment our crew, all Italians, but as brave a
set of men as ever trod a deck, seemed paralyzed. Again the warning
sound pealed forth; several fell on their knees on receiving as they
believed so direct an intimation of our fate.
Mr. Harvey and the captain rushed below, for it was absolutely
necessary to ascertain the cause. Happily in their anxious search the
ominous sound was again heard as they passed through the galley. Two
very large copper pans had got loose, and when the vessel rolled
heavily one way, they struck against each other, and the blow produced
the solemn clang that had appeared so terrific. Fortunately, therefore,
the dark omen became a cause of merriment to our superstitious but
light-hearted sailors.
Many a ghost-story, probably, has quite as prosaic an origin.
Before the gale began the evening had been oppressively warm; my window
on deck had, therefore, been opened. In the hurry and confusion that
ensued when the squall came on, it had been closed, but not securely
fastened, and I was suddenly and most disagreeably reminded of the
omission. Quite worn out with fatigue and anxiety, I had gone to my
cabin to lie down for half an hour, when the yacht made an unusually
heavy plunge, and the window burst open, just as a cataract of spray
and water poured over the deck. Down came a torrent into my cabin,
destroying in a minute all the freshness and coquetry of the pretty
lace curtains and pink ribbons, and giving me and all my belongings a
thorough bath. A more unpleasant sensation can scarcely be imagined,
though a few months' yachting gives one a miserable equanimity about
spoiling clothes. Sometimes when a very favourite garment is found
covered with a verdant coating of green mould, a few indignant remarks
are made upon sea-damp; but, generally speaking, any little spirit
on the subject, any little vanity is early crushed, and one remains
calm in mind and shabby in person to the end of the voyage.
Towards mid-day on Thursday the gale broke a little, that is to say,
there were longer intervals between the squalls, but it was an anxious
time, for we were off Cape Karempi, and the most dangerous part of
the Black Sea navigation lies between this point and Cape Aia on the
northern coast. Nearly half the wrecks take place near this cape. The
currents are numerous and very strong, and for more than a hundred
miles not a harbour nor place of refuge is to be found. Alas! for the
luckless vessel which may be driven too near these cruel rocks! Little
hope for her in a northerly gale, should this iron-bound coast,
with its miles of foaming breakers, come in sight.
Many were the anxious inquiries we made as to our position with
reference to this dreaded cape. Happily, we had every reason to
believe that we were well out to sea, and the vessel now lay-to,
without shipping a drop of water.
Although worn out with fatigue, it was impossible to sleep all Thursday
night, so tremendous was the rolling. We were quite black and blue
from the bruises we had in consequence of being so tossed from side
to side in our cots.
On Friday morning both sea and wind became more moderate, and for
many hours we slept the sound sleep of the tired. In the afternoon
we bethought ourselves of our unfortunate menagerie, and went to see
how the poor creatures had fared during the storm.
The unlucky geese had been the greatest sufferers. Little they thought
when they left the peaceful farmyard at Karani of what was in store
for them. The water had been so constantly over the fore part of the
vessel, and the cold had been so great, that the men had good-naturedly
taken the poor things to the forecastle.
One luckless goose, however, either from fright or from having
imprudently committed a slight excess in drinking half a bottle of
turpentine, had been seized with fits, and remained in an alarming
state for many hours. We were much grieved, thinking her last moment
had come, for she was lying on her back, feebly kicking in a deplorable
fashion, when, with a supreme effort, she dragged herself into the
coal-hole, and convulsively began to swallow some bits of coal.
We left in sadness, thinking this could only be the last expiring
struggle; but an hour later we received a bulletin to say the patient
was not only alive, but better, and in the evening she was pronounced
convalescent, her remedy having proved most effectual.
However, between the fits and the coals, our friend presents a
lamentable spectacle: the fits have caused her wings to twist inside
out, and the coals have given her such a sooty tinge, that not a
trace remains of her once beautiful snowy plumage.
We hear that many a candle has been vowed by the men to their favourite
shrines. They have behaved admirably; but few of them had ever been
in the Black Sea, and none had seen a storm there before.
Even the imperturbable Charlie says he has never known an "uglier"
gale. The crew's admiration of the behaviour of the Claymore is
quite unbounded; they cannot praise her enough. She has certainly
weathered the storm gallantly, and has come gloriously out of the
combat, without having sustained any injury to speak of--only a rope
or two gone and a block broken.
On Saturday morning we were safely anchored off the Water Gate in
Sevastopol harbour, and remained there a few days to recruit our
somewhat exhausted strength.
Each day brought sad accounts of the numerous wrecks that had taken
place in this storm, the most severe that has been known for years.
Amongst other catastrophes, it gave us a great shock to hear of
the total loss of the Persian emigrant steamer that we had seen at
Sinope. She went down very suddenly early on Thursday morning. A
mate and three seamen clung to a spar, were picked up, and brought
to Kamiesch. Every other soul on board perished. The men say the
vessel was leaky and overladen. It was frightful to think that all
those poor creatures we had seen only a few days ago had met with so
terrible an end.
The papers are full of the disasters that have taken place.
Before entering the Bosphorus we met the English man-of-war kindly sent
by our friends at Constantinople in search of us, for our lengthened
absence and the tremendous gale had alarmed them for our safety.
The next day we were at Therapia, perfectly happy, not only in the
rest of so charming a haven, but in being once more with most dear
and valued friends.
THE END.
BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
NOTE
[1] Apartments belonging to the men.
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