The Cypriote well-sinker is wonderfully clever in discovering springs, and I have already described the method of multiplying the water-power of one source by securing and concentrating the neighbouring sources. This work only requires money, and the inhabitants, without further assistance than loans secured by a water-rate upon the district, will rapidly develop the natural supply. There should be a special commission appointed, in each of the six districts of Cyprus, to investigate and report officially upon this subject. In forming the commission, care should be taken that the native element should predominate, and that no enthusiastic English engineer, blooming with new schemes, should thrust into shadow the Cyprian intelligence upon the working of their own systems. If I were an English engineer employed in any work, I should probably have the natural failing of enforcing my own opinions; but from many years' experience I have come to the conclusion that the inhabitants of a country are generally better qualified than strangers for giving practical opinions upon their own locations. There is plenty of intelligence in Cyprus; the people are not savages, but their fault is poverty, the natural inheritance of Turkish rule; and we, the English, have the power to make them rich, and to restore the ancient importance of the island. In England, at the time that I am writing, money is not worth 2 per cent. owing to the general depression of trade; the money-market has been in this plethoric or dropsical state for the last three years, and there appears to be no hope upon the commercial horizon of a favourable change. In Cyprus the resources are great, but the capital is wanting, and the strange anomaly is presented that the exchange of the British for the Turkish flag has not increased public confidence. Something must be done to change the present stupor; if Cypriotes were Candians (Cretans) their voices would be forcibly heard, and the Turkish rule beneath the British uniform would be quickly overthrown. The Cypriote, down-trodden for centuries, is like sodden tinder that will not awaken to the spark: he is what is called "easily governed;" which means an abject race, in which all noble aspirations have been stamped out by years of unremitting oppression and injustice; still, like the Cyprian ox, he ploughs the ground. It is the earth alone that yields the world's wealth: if we have no other thoughts but avarice, let us treat the Cypriote as we should his animal, and make him a wealth-producer. England has acquired the reputation of the civiliser of the world; it is in this character that we were expected to effect a magic change in the position of Cyprus; instead of which we have hitherto presented a miserable result of half-measures, where irresolution has reduced the brilliant picture of our widely-trumpeted political surprise to a dull "arrangement in whitey-brown" . . . which is the pervading tint of the Cyprian surface in the absence of artificial irrigation.
CHAPTER XV.
LIFE AT THE MONASTERY OF TROODITISSA.
The life at our quiet camp at Trooditissa was a complete calm: there could not be a more secluded spot, as no human habitation was near, except the invisible village of Phyni two miles deep beneath, at the mountain's base. The good old monk Neophitos knitted, and taught his boys always in the same daily spot: the swallows built their nests under the eaves of the monastery roof and beneath the arch which covered in the spring, and sat in domestic flocks upon the over-hanging boughs within a few feet of our breakfast-table, when their young could fly. Nightingales sang before sunset, and birds of many varieties occupied the great walnut-tree above our camp, and made the early morning cheerful with a chorus of different songs. There was no change from day to day, except in the progress of the gardens; the plums grew large: the mulberries ripened in the last week of July, and the shepherd's pretty children and the monastery boys were covered with red stains, as though from a battlefield, as they descended from the attractive boughs. It was a very peaceful existence, and I shall often look back with pleasure to our hermitage by the walls of the old monastery, which afforded a moral haven from all the storms and troubles that embitter life. On Sundays we sent a messenger for the post to the military camp at Troodos, about five and a half miles distant, and the arrival of letters and newspapers restored us for a couple of days to the outer world: after which we relapsed once more into the local quiescent state of complete rest. It must not be supposed that we were idle; there were always occupations which by degrees I hope improved the place, and to a certain degree the people. Occasionally I asked the old monks to sit and smoke their cigarettes in our "rachkooba," when they sipped their hot coffee, and explained difficult theological questions to my intense edification; of course I always listened, but never argued. My particular friend old Neophitos treated me to long stories which he imagined must be new and interesting, especially the history of Joseph and his brethren, which he several times recounted from beginning to end with tears of sympathy in his eyes at Joseph's love for the youngest brother Benjamin. The Garden of Eden, the Deluge, including the account of Noah's Ark, and several equally modern and entertaining stories, I always listened to with commendable attention. Yet even in this solitude, where the chapel-bell on Saturday night, and at daybreak upon Sunday mornings, was in harmony with the external peaceful surroundings, and it appeared as though discord could never enter the walls of Trooditissa, the old monks had their cares and difficulties.
The principal cause of trouble was "servants!" I was quite surprised, as I thought we were nearer heaven in this spot than in any earthly locality I had ever visited; but even here the question of "servants" was an irritation to the nerves of the patient monks. My own servants were excellent, and never quarrelled or complained; they appeared to have been mesmerised by the placid character of their position, and to have become angelic; especially in not fatiguing themselves through over-exertion. With the monks the case was different. In this quiet retreat, where man reigned alone, as Adam in the Garden of Eden; where the cares and anxieties of married life were unknown within the sacred walls of celibacy, a single representative of the other sex existed in the ubiquitous shape of a "maid of all work;" and as Eve caused the first trouble in the world, so the monastery "maid" disturbed the otherwise peaceful existence of Neophitos.
This maid's name was "Christina," and she received the munificent sum of one hundred piastres per annum as wages, which in English money would be fifteen shillings and sixpence every year. The world is full of ingratitude, and strange to say, Christina was dissatisfied, which naturally wounded the feelings of the good monks, as in addition to this large sum of money she received her food and clothes; the latter consisting of full trousers, and a confusion of light material, which, having no shape whatever, I could not describe. Christina, though young, was not pretty, and she was always either crying or scolding, which would of course spoil any beauty; while at the same time she was either washing all the clothes belonging to the whole establishment of monks (a very disagreeable business), or hanging them out to dry near the spring; or she was sweeping the monastery; or arranging the very dirty rooms of the establishment; or baking all the bread that was required; or cooking the dinner; or repairing all the old clothes which the monks wore when they were only fit for a paper-mill. As there was no special accommodation in the shape of a laundry, Christina had to collect sticks, and make a huge fire beneath a copper cauldron in the open air, into which she plunged all the different vestments of the monks and priests, and stewed them before washing. This was a Cyprian "maid of all work," whose gross ingratitude troubled the minds of her "pastors and masters;" and one day a peculiar mental disturbance pervaded the whole priestly establishment and caused a monasterial commotion, as, after a violent fit of temper attended by crying, Christina had declared solemnly that she "would stand it no longer," and "she wished TO BETTER HERSELF!"
Whenever there was a difficulty the monks came to me; why, I cannot imagine. If the shepherd's goats invaded their gardens and destroyed the onions and the beet-root crops, they applied to me. Of course I advised them to "fence their gardens," and they went away satisfied, but did not carry out the suggestion so in due time their crops were devoured. They now told me that THEY ALWAYS HAD DIFFICULTY WITH WOMEN! This new theory startled me almost as much as the novelty of the old monks' stories. They explained that YOUNG WOMEN WOULDN'T WORK, AND OLD WOMEN COULDN'T WORK. It had not occurred to them that a middle-aged woman might have combined all that they desired. Knowing their strict moral principles, I had suggested an "old woman" as the successor of Christina; as I explained to them that, to be in harmony with the establishment, a woman of a "certain age" as general servant would not detract from the religious character of the place. However I might argue, the old monk hesitated; but while the monk wavered, Christina's "monkey was up," and, taking her child in her arms, she started off without giving a "month's notice," and fairly left the monastery, with monks, priests, deacons, servants and the dogs all aghast and barking. There was nobody to wash the linen, to bake the bread, to sweep the rooms, to cook the dinner, to mend the clothes! Christina was gone, and the gentle sex was no longer represented in the monastery of Trooditissa.
I was sorry for Christina, but I was glad the child was gone; although I pitied the poor abandoned and neglected little creature with all my heart. As a rule, "maids of all work" should not be mothers, but if they are, they should endeavour to care for the unfortunate child. This wretched little thing was about two years old—a girl; its eyes were nearly closed with inflammation caused by dirt and neglect; it was naked, with the exception of a filthy rag that hung in tatters scarcely below its hips; and as its ill-tempered and over-worked mother alternately raved, or cried, the child, which even at this age depended mainly upon her nursing for its food, joined in a perpetual yell, which at length terminated in a faint and wearied moan, until it laid itself down upon the bare, hard stones, and fell asleep. It was a sad picture of neglect and misery; the shepherd's pretty children shunned it, and in its abandoned solitude the little creature had to amuse itself. The face looked like that of an old careworn person who had lost all pleasure in the world, and the child wandered about alone and uncared for; its only plaything was my good-tempered dog Wise, who allowed himself to be pulled about and teased in the most patient manner. I cured the child's eyes after some days' attention, and my wife had it washed, and made it decent clothes. This little unusual care, with a few kind words in a strange language only interpreted by a smile, attracted the poor thing to the tent, where it would sit for hours, until it at length found solace in the child's great refuge, sleep. It would always follow Lady Baker to and fro along the only level walk we had, from the tent to the running spring, and would sit down by her side directly she arrived at our favourite seat—a large flat rock looking down upon a precipitous descent to the ravine some 500 feet below, and commanding a view of the low country and the distant sea. It was an obstinate and perverse little creature, and it insisted upon climbing upon rocks and standing upon the extreme edge overhanging a precipice. If it had been the loved and only offspring of fond parents, heiress to a large estate, it would of course have tumbled over, in the absence of nurses and a throng of careful attendants, but never having been cared for since its birth, it possessed an instinctive knowledge of self-preservation, and declined to relieve its mother of an extra anxiety. It was an agreeable change to lose the sound of a child's constant wailing, and I suggested to the monks that its presence was hardly in accordance with the severe aspect of the establishment. There was some mystery connected with it of which I am still ignorant, as I never ask questions; but it is at the least ill-judged and thoughtless on the part of "maids of all work" to engage themselves to any situation where the kissing of a rock, or a holy effigy, may lead to complications. It was of no use to moralise; Christina was gone, together with the child; there was absolute quiet in the monastery; neither the scolding of the mother, nor the crying of an infant, was heard. The monks looked more austere than ever, and remained in unwashed linen, until they at length succeeded in engaging a charming substitute in a middle-aged maid of all work of seventy-five!
About the 20th July the swallows disappeared, and I have no idea to what portion of the world they would migrate at this season. In the low country the heat is excessive, and even at the altitude of Trooditissa the average, since the 1st of the month, had been at 7 A.M. 70.7 degrees—3 P.M. 77.3 degrees.
The birds that had sung so cheerfully upon our arrival had become silent. There was a general absence of the feathered tribe, but occasionally a considerable number of hoopoes and jays had appeared for a few days, and had again departed, as though changing their migrations, and resting for a time upon the cool mountains.