The ship made its own quiet current of conversation and he said to me, above the noise of the water, ‘I believe you have come this way before.’ I looked at him and he repeated, in his gentle sombre Scots:
Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,
Along Morea’s hills the setting sun;
Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light!
‘This is flattery indeed,’ I said. ‘I don’t know why it is, but I feel as if the eleven long years of bitterness I have passed through since I was here were taken off my shoulders, and I was scudding along with old Bathurst in his frigate, and Hobhouse at my side.’
Cephalonia presents to the eyes a series of low green curves; Zante, a white face. As we drew nearer the colours and shapes resolved themselves into trees and cliffs, low stony dwellings, and a line of empty beaches. Eventually Browne said, ‘I remember to this day seeing a Copy of The Corsair, which my sister had bought and not read, on a side-table in the hall of my father’s house, where I had come for the new year, being then in school; picking it up and beginning to read, and sitting down again, I hardly remember where, it may have been on the stairs in the hall or at the dining-table, until I had finished, and taking the book up with me at night and reading it again.’
‘Well, well, as I say, this is a very fine vein of flattery; it is very becoming in you.’ But I was more affected than I cared to show, for reasons that remain to me mysterious (as I have suffered in my life praise and abuse in sufficient quantities to be indifferent to both), and turned away from him to stand alone at the taffrail, until Trelawny, moving between us, put an end to the conversation.
*
We anchored the next morning outside Argostoli, the chief harbour of Cephalonia. Here I had some expectation of hearing from Captain Blaquiere but rather to my surprise learned that he was on his way home. Colonel Napier was also absent from the island; and we were met at last by his secretary, Captain John Kennedy, who rowed out to welcome us. Kennedy is a fat pink (in the face; the rest of him is lean enough) amiable young man, who, it transpired, had made the acquaintance of Hamilton Browne more than a year ago, when he was forced to put in for port while cruising off Cape Matapan in heavy weather. Browne was stationed in Coron and they spent an evening together, drinking and gaming; Kennedy was relieved, he said, to be able to make good on a debt of some fifty piastres he had contracted to him then. Colonel Napier, the captain added, was expected daily in port. Kennedy had been entrusted to say, on his behalf, that they would do everything in their power to serve us that did not violate the terms of their neutrality. Their sympathies (he was perfectly aware, they were not so valuable as guns) were all on the Greek side of the question.
We slept on board the first night, as the wind was too strong for rowing, and we could not carry the stores ashore; and I began a letter to Captain Blaquiere: ‘Dear Sir, – Here I am – but where are you?’ I wrote also to Marco Botsaris, chief of the Suliotes, to determine the progress of his campaign.
Kennedy had confirmed for us what we already suspected, that the Greeks are in a state of political dissension amongst themselves. Prince Mavrocordatos is their chief diplomat and legislator, and speaks for the civilian mass in this revolutionary chaos (which has no power or authority, but a great deal of right on its side). He was proclaimed President of Greece at the national assembly two years before, but was subsequently demoted to Secretary of State. Kennedy informed us that he had just been dismissed, or had resigned (l’un vaut bien l’autre) and fled to Hydra. Which leaves Colocotroni, with I know not what or whose party, paramount in the Morea. This is bad, and even a little worse than I expected, as by all accounts the Prince is both reasonable and reasonably just (one by no means follows on the other) – and, apart from anything else, decently corruptible; whereas Colocotroni is reckoned neither corruptible nor persuadable. In short, everything is in a state of confusion: the Turks in force in Acarnania, and their fleet blockading the coast from Missolonghi to Charienza; while the Greek fleet from want of means or other causes remains in port in Hydra, Ipsara and Spezas. The Greeks themselves are divided, between statesmen, warriors and chieftains (who have been badly compromised by Turkish rule); and the British are not much better, fomenting against their own neutrality and forced to restrain with one hand what they offer with the other.
In the morning it struck me as both desirable and convenient to remain on board, to spare Colonel Napier any embarrassment; but I sent my horses ashore. In fact, for much of that second day a steady traffic passed between harbour and ship, including several boat-loads of Suliote warriors, who had heard that I was on board and wished to pay their respects. The sight of them gladdened my heart and brought back memories of Epirus, and the Veli Pasha, and – a great many other things. After all, no cause is lost, which has such defenders. They are a fine wild race, as passionate as the Scots and as brown as Mussulmen, which, however, they are not. Captain Scott greeted them with less enthusiasm when he saw them swarming up the side, a few dozen at a time and talking all at once. I said to him, we must tolerate what we cannot resist. It occurred to me also that I could do worse than accept the protection of such men. This they themselves proposed, and before the end of the day, I had acquired a retinue of some forty warriors, the fiercest in Greece.
I would probably have increased the number, but I found them not quite united amongst themselves in anything except raising their demands on me. Trelawny disapproved of them, as they had no great respect for Trelawny. He accused me of playing at soldiering, which, of course, as I said to him, is exactly what I believed we were doing. The next day I went ashore, with Aspe’s helmet under my arm, and summoning my men and taking a few of the horses, we rode as far as Guardini island; Trelawny and Hamilton Browne and the Suliote chiefs on horseback, and the rest of the men keeping pace on foot. They really are fine creatures, to be pitied and admired. I had heard of their defence against the Turks, which was much talked about at the time, but though defeat may be glorious in its way the destitution that follows on its heels is rarely salutary: homes burned and destroyed; food scarce; cunning and beggary, among women and children, supplying the place of honour and innocence.
Colonel Napier met us on our return, and I dismounted, leaving my horse, and walked with him as far as Government House, though we did not go in. It overlooks a square with a fountain plashing in its middle. Around the fountain several stalls are arranged, and behind the stalls there is a row of coffee-houses and tavernas. We sat down outside one of the former at a table with a view of the harbour (the Hercules being just visible above a stand of trees). Coffee was brought to us. Napier is a tall gentlemanly-looking man, only a little scarred by weathers and wars. He has read widely, and with discrimination; and is himself the author of an historical romance (which he mentioned blushingly but could not resist offering for my perusal). What is more to the point, he takes a reasonable view of the Greeks and never expected to find the Peloponnesus filled with Plutarch’s men. He knows that allowances must be made for emancipated slaves, though the Suliotes give him some trouble, as they are all in debt and inclined to be violent when they cannot be honest. He thinks I may come to regret involving myself with them.
Argostoli is a pleasant enough town, and pretty in the Venetian style; there is a certain amount of good society to be had, most of it English. ‘We all rather depend upon each other,’ he said.
I told him I only wanted to look about me; that I considered myself an agent of the London Greek Committee, and had no desire to give any offence to the Ionian Government. ‘I intend to make free,’ I said, ‘mostly with my own money.’ He promised, within the limits of his neutrality, to do what he could for us; and repeated Captain Kennedy’s assurance, that our cause had, if nothing else, his sympathy.
The next day we came ashore again, riding out in the opposite direction; Trelawny, who is fretful, stayed on board and wrote letters. When we passed through the main squar
e, seeing my men, the shopkeepers began to follow us (as the Suliotes owe everyone money), so that we soon acquired a train of some twenty or thirty hangers-on, together with boys, children, beggars, etc., all scrambling beside the steady warriors and trying to keep pace. They made a great noise, and discovering who it was at the front of this caravan (by the plume on my helmet), began to call out, with almost one voice, milord, milord, milord – and did not altogether desert us until we climbed at last into the hills over the bay, where the path narrows and the fall on one side becomes precipitous. I decided to ride back more quietly, with only Dr Bruno and Hamilton Browne. Since Browne wished to be introduced to Colonel Napier, we left our horses at one of the coffee-shops and made our way into Government House.
It is newer than the buildings to either side, and narrower, too, being rather squeezed between them. Tall windows overlook the square, with a view of the bay behind it, and Lixuri on the opposite side. The Colonel’s office is on the second floor; he sits between two of these windows at a great mahogany desk. There was a gentleman with him, but as he wished to be introduced to me, this made no difficulty – a Dr Henry Muir, the health officer, with whom Bruno had in any case a certain amount to discuss. When they were finished, after a few minutes, Dr Muir turned to me (he has a mild palsy in one of his hands, which expresses itself also in his voice) and said, ‘We are in the habit of making do with each other here. I hope this excuses my presumption.’ What he meant, in fact, was to introduce me to a young friend of his, another doctor, who had invited a few of the officers, and other like-minded Britishers, to his house for a discussion of Christian faith.
At which I could only smile (though I promised to go). There is really nothing for me to do until Blaquiere returns or the situation in the Morea resolves itself.
*
The young doctor is a Scot, also by the name of Kennedy, a rather forlorn young man who attempted to persuade us all (there were perhaps a dozen present) of miracles, the Apocalypse, and the honour of Pope Pius VII. At his house, which was very dirty (there was only one servant, who also cooked), I met another Scot – and another Colonel; they are all Scots and colonels – Duffie of the 8th King’s Regiment, who invited me to dine at his mess. And so I begin to get about in society.
I believe this dinner was a great success. Duffie raised a very gallant toast, to the health of our glorious cause, which I returned with a little speech, to the honour of the service, which Duffie was afterwards good enough to tell me did very well. And we got drunk. I have not got drunk at your English dinner-table in almost ten years – though it was a mess-table at that, and in Greece; and half of the officers were Scots – even so. Dr Kennedy was also there, and anxious to pursue a few of the lines of opposition I had put up on the earlier occasion. ‘I consider myself a student of your works,’ he said. ‘There is nothing in them to which I would make any serious objection – at least, where you are serious. Perhaps this surprises you. But the Pope himself has said, there can be no doubt without faith.’
‘I like his holiness very much,’ I answered. ‘Particularly since an order, which I understand he has lately given, that no more miracles shall be performed.’
‘Oh, you are mocking us again. It is too sad.’
This brought me up rather short, and I stared at him. He went on: ‘I wonder what there is that you would not sacrifice to this desire to shock. But I will not be shocked, indeed I will not. You will find me a better friend than that.’
‘I meant no disrespect. In fact, I am a great admirer of tangible religion and bred one of my daughters a Catholic, that she might have her hands full. She died in her convent a little over a year ago, though she was buried in the Anglican faith – at Harrow Church, in a pretty churchyard where I was sometimes happy while I was at school, and I was not often happy at school. She was buried among such good Christians that they refused to allow any inscription on her headstone, as they considered her a child of sin – she, who was but five years old when she died, and had scarcely left the convent in which I placed her.’
‘Forgive me,’ he said, bowing slightly. ‘Your lordship’s fame tempts us into believing that we have understood you.’
After this a sort of friendship sprang up between us, and I sometimes visited him, after one of our rides, and allowed him to exert himself in persuasion – for he is really a serious young man, to use his own word, and that quality is not often to be met with. And he exerted himself and I … kept back as much as possible my amusement. Though these discussions had an effect on me, which I did not much care for, as I left him always with the conviction that I liked him rather better than I liked myself.
*
Trelawny has been urging me into some course of action; he does not mind which, he says. Towards Missolonghi or Negropont, ‘wherever there are Turks to be shot at’. But I am still awaiting advice from the Peloponnesus, and a letter from the Committee, and have determined to remain for the interim in the Ionian islands, especially as it is difficult to land on the opposite coast without risking the confiscation of the Hercules and her contents – which Captain Scott naturally enough declines to do, unless I insure him to the full amount of his possible damage.
To pass the time we have made a little excursion over the mountains to Saint Euphemia, by worse roads than I ever saw in the course of some years of travel in rough places of many countries. Trelawny came, along with Pietro, Dr Bruno, Hamilton Browne, and Tita, besides a few other servants. We left at dawn, climbing into the mountains on several mules, who began to stink in the hot sun, which was, to be fair to them, very hot; and their passengers fared not much better. But the sea at Saint Euphemia was as blue as the sun was hot; and we embarked in an open boat for Ithaca, arriving at sunset on that rocky shore, where, as there was no one to greet us, I suggested spending the night in one of the caves which open their mouths to the sea along that coast. ‘You are thinking of your wonderful poem,’ Browne said to me. ‘But I believe it will not be comfortable, and here there is no Haidée to awaken us.’ He begins to grow a little tiresome; Trelawny was smiling, too.
Pietro, meanwhile, who had ventured further inland, came back to say he had found a house, and a host, who, being an Italian (from Trieste), understood somewhat of the obligations of that word. In fact, as he was an olive merchant, and a wealthy one, which was more to the point, he gave all of us an excellent welcome and to me at least a bed and a room of my own. Which I was grateful for, having bathed in the sea while waiting for Pietro to return. The sun had gone down, and though the waves were still warm, and the night air not much cooler, I had begun to shiver helplessly. But I slept soundly and woke early, in the white hot dawn, and woke the others, for I was eager to be going. (I felt this eagerness all day, and for much of the rest of the week; it was very little abated by anything we saw or said or did.)
We rode on to Vathy, which we reached about lunch-time; it is a pretty town with white walls, lying in the arm of a blue bay. The English Resident, a Captain Knox, who adds to his many virtues only the faults of a large family, received us warmly, and rearranged several of his children and offered besides the use of the prison, to which he had the key and which he assured us was very comfortable and nearly always empty. Browne and Pietro, both young men, slept there. In the morning, Knox and his wife, who is a large simpering sort of English woman, who blushed whenever I looked at her, conducted us to the fountain of Arethusa, which made me think of poor Shelley, and his Arethusa and her couch of snows. But there were no snows, and Lewis, who had been Trelawny’s servant and is now mine, declared (he is a negro), that it was as hot as the West Indies. But I had left our thermometer on board the Hercules, and so could not ascertain the precise degree.
Captain Knox had had the foresight to bring a picnic, which was spread out on a handsome cloth under the trees; with the grotto of Arethusa behind us, and before us, across the sea, the Gulf of Corinth, Lepanto, and the mountains of Epirus. ‘If you look under that cloth, milord, you will find a good English
cheddar,’ Knox said; and, to do him justice, I found myself unwrapping a rather sweaty piece of yellow cheese. ‘But as for the view,’ he went on, ‘I believe you will find nothing like it in England.’
He is a very amiable man; a good head shorter than his wife, whom he dotes on, and of a disposition generally to be pleased with what he has. But I could not help teasing him a little. The grotto behind us was little more than a cavern, and put me in mind of another. I said, ‘I was once in a cave in Derbyshire that a great deal resembled this one. It was known as the Devil’s Peak, and when I was still a schoolboy, we made up a large party and travelled some distance to see it.’
‘I have not been to Derbyshire,’ Captain Knox said. ‘I am sure it is very fine country.’
‘They make excellent cheese there,’ I said, but he takes everything so agreeably, it is impossible to mock him. After a minute, I added, ‘I was then in love with one of the party, who was engaged to another. And we lay side by side at the bottom of a narrow boat, and were pushed through the dark together.’
‘And what has become of her?’ It was Mrs Knox who asked.
‘She married, and subsequently unmarried herself. A few years later she began to write me letters. She wished to see me, but it could have done neither of us good, and I did not answer them.’
That night we dined at the Governor’s House, where I met several more Englishmen. It is very gratifying, I have been welcomed everywhere by my own countrymen as if I had not been forced into exile a decade ago.
We passed a pleasant few days at Vathy, touring the north of the island as well and visiting the ‘School of Homer’. The beauties of nature, at least, have been nothing diminished by the passage of centuries. The arts and traditions I leave to the antiquaries, and so well have those gentlemen contrived to settle such questions, that – as the existence of Troy is disputed – so that of Ithaca (of Homer’s Ithaca) is not yet admitted. But scholars will one day stand upon the ruins of Watier’s and doubt that London was.
Childish Loves Page 30
