It is, as I said, a fortified town, and the Turks are absurdly jealous of any stranger and possible spy. One cannot stir out without being closely watched, and they shoot at anything which incurs the slightest suspicion—a Frankish hat, for instance. In consequence it was impossible to do any sketching, however much I might wish to.
The weather looked thoroughly bad. It poured all day, with a north wind which forbade all thoughts of sailing.
To make the best use of our time, it was proposed that we should make an expedition to see Ida and the famous Labyrinth; but as Mr. North is no mountain climber he settled to wait in the ship for a fair wind to carry him to Candia, where whichever of us should arrive first was to await the other.
There was some delay in starting, because the rascally Turk from whom we first tried to job our horses came to a dispute with his agroates about the pay they were to get. Though he was to get ten piastres per horse, he would only give them five. As they could not agree, the negotiation fell through and it was rather late before we got others.
We were Douglas,[34] Foster, and myself, the consul's dragoman and two janissaries. Outside the ramparts, which are certainly strong, one comes on a fine plain dotted with white villas and thick with olives. One owner whose house we passed, Hagi Imin Effendi, makes as many as 60,000 barrels of oil per annum, which at 60 piastres a barrel represents a vast income. Having crossed the plain, one comes to Suda Bay, an excellent harbour, a mile and a half or two miles in length. The entrance is protected by an island with a famous fortress upon it which resisted the Turks for thirty-five years after the reduction of the rest of Crete. It has 260 pieces of cannon now. Soapmaking is one of the chief industries of Crete. Along Suda Bay were numbers of salt-pans for winning the salt wanted for the soapmaking. A Venetian road, once good, now in a ruinous condition, led us along a cliff flanked with watch-towers, and presently turned inland. Before us was a beautiful hilly country covered with olives, and in the distance Ida white with snow. On our right the Sphakiote Mountains, high and pointed, very like Maina to look at, and not unlike it in respect of its population, though it has not been quite so fortunate. The Sphakiotes maintained their independence till forty-three years ago, but then they were reduced by the Turks, and have been paying taxes ever since, and furnishing sailors for the Turkish shipping. These sailors act as hostages for the good behaviour of their relatives. All the same they are a bold people never without arms, and prompt in the use of them.
We slept that night at a wretched khan at Neokorio in company with our horses and their vagabond drivers, and fleas in infinite abundance. Thomas, Douglas's English servant, made an ill-timed joke here, which might have been awkward among such savage people. The Turks at suppertime pressed round him to see what was in our food-bag, and he, to be rid of them, told them it was full of pork. At this they expressed the greatest disgust, pressed upon us to know if it was true, and refused to eat anything that night. However, nothing more came of it. Fleas and the manifold varieties of stinks drove us to get through our night's rest as quickly as possible. We were up and away two hours before daybreak, scrambling along a rough road. When the sun rose the effect of it on the snow-covered Sphakiote Hills was magnificent. Our way was through a country rich in olives and full of beautiful scenes. Well situated at the entrance to a valley leading up from the sea, as a defence against piratical descents, was a fortress with a πὑργος [Greek: pyrgos] or watch-tower, built by the Venetians. It is of the fine workmanship they always used, with well-arranged quarters for troops, moat, &c., all very neat and well executed. There we went down on to the sands and continued along them for a length of time till we reached a small river and the ruins of a splendid Venetian bridge. Thence still along the seaside, but over rocks and past watch-towers standing within gunshot of each other, till we rose again on to a height from which we gained a grand view of Retimo. We crossed a bridge, a double arch of great depth, prodigiously effective, and there I stopped to make a sketch before descending into the town, while the luggage went on. But when we followed I was met by the dragoman before I had dismounted. He looked very pale, and telling me that my stopping by the road had been remarked and commented upon, entreated me not to say what I had been doing, but to give in fact a much more natural reason. I had already, at Canea, been warned of the danger of drawing the fortress; so, my love of truth notwithstanding, I was obliged for the dragoman's sake, he being responsible, to do as he asked.
We were received into the house of Achmet Aga, the karahayah. He was not at home himself at the time, but his nephews and relatives made us welcome. As soon as he came in we were ushered into an upper room into his presence. He was a remarkably handsome old man with a long white beard. He received us with a proud, not to say cold, hospitality; so much so that when we thanked him for his polite offer of his house, as he said it was ours, he looked the other way.
As we drank coffee we made our apologies for our dirty appearance, but he only said he feared we were not comfortable and begged us to rest ourselves. His manner was haughty not only to us but to the wretched flatterers who came to pay him homage; it was such that I was quite offended. His servants treated him with the most abject respect, and even his two nephews, men of thirty or thereabouts, sat at the side without the divan, not venturing to approach him. And yet, notwithstanding his manner, his treatment of us was hospitality and civility itself. He had a son of sixteen or seventeen years dressed in a Bosnian costume—one of the handsomest lads I ever saw, like the youths one imagines in reading the Arabian tales. He came by his father's order to sit by me and entertain me. I asked him if he had ever travelled, and whether he would come to Egypt with me and see the world. He replied very politely that to please me he would do so. The audience being over, we went out and strolled down to the port. It has lately been deepened by a Maltese engineer, but is very small, and might hold fifteen or twenty polaccas at the most. After seeing it we returned to get ready for the dinner to which our host had invited us. As usual in such houses one had to dress in the midst of a crowd of servants, negroes, dervishes, and hangers-on. We put on our best clothes and went up. In the corner of the sofa or raised divan was placed a large round tray on a small stool, and we sat round it cross-legged. Over our knees was stretched a long napkin from one to the other, and a small one was thrown over each man's shoulder. We ate with our fingers, pinching off bits of meat from the same plate in the middle. Our janissary was invited to eat with us. The dinner was dressed in the harem. The servant tapped at the door communicating with it from the passage, and the dishes were handed in. There were many of them, and they were sent away by our host without any apparent notice of any disposition on our part to detain them. We had a stew of fowls, another of mutton, some strange made-dishes, a soup, a number of cakes, and I particularly remember some made of flour and cheese which were excellent. We greased our fingers handsomely and washed them as soon as we had done. For us there was wine, but Achmet would not drink any himself: not from virtue, he said, but because it did not agree with him. The handsome son waited without the divan and took orders from his father. Before dinner was over an old Turk came in with a fiddle and played or told long stories the whole evening. I was obliged to him, for it supplied the place of conversation, which did not seem to flourish. In the evening numbers of Turks came in to see the 'Inglesi,' and would have pressed forward, but until our dinner was done they were kept outside the sofa. Afterwards we formed into a sort of conversazione—very few words and much gravity. Finally the beautiful youth, the host's son, made beds for us of two quilts and a pillow on the sofa, and there we slept. I wonder what a young squire in England would say if his father told him to make beds for his guests.
Next morning we were much pressed to stay both by our host and his son, but we had to resist, much as we had been pleased with our entertainment. So we distributed plentiful bakshish and rode away.