A Sunday at Poros

I HAD received an invitation to spend a September Sunday at Poros, a little island in the Ægean Sea, lying to the southeast, and about five hours distant by steamer from the port of Piræus. It is one of a group made famous in the Greek revolution of 1821 by the bravery of its Albanian settlers, in defense of a country which they had never adopted for their own till this moment of danger came. Some two centuries ago, Albanian fugitives, who had fled from their northern home on account of the oppression of their Turkish rulers, alighted like wild sea-birds on the rocky cliffs of Hydra, Speza, and Poros. Here they built their nests high and secure, above the reach of invasion, feeling themselves safe as long as they could keep control of the surrounding waters. Joined from time to time by small companies of their countrymen, they gradually increased in numbers, and formed themselves into a more stable community, with laws and habits of its own. For a moderate sum and the additional contribution of one hundred and fifty sailors annually to the Ottoman fleet, they purchased from the Turks the right of self-government. Fearless mariners and shrewd traders, the men were constantly engaged in expeditions which were not without a wild corsair element. Piratical or not, these excursions were often remunerative, and led them not only through the length and breadth of the Mediterranean, but also to the Atlantic shores of Spain and France, Thence, in exchange for their supplies of Russian wheat, etc., they brought back gold ; and from the Levant, diamonds and precious stuffs. The gold they concealed in deep wells built for the purpose within their houses, and they decked their fair wives and daughters in the silks and jewels. At the time of the revolution, these Albanian settlements had developed into a colony of rich and imperious merchants, who lived in their island homes with a rude, barbaric luxury. They held themselves aloof from the Greeks of the main-land, and regarded them as strangers and almost as enemies, to be treated with suspicion and reserve. Although the revolution of 1821 was directed against their old oppressors, the Turks, these islanders were slow to break their habit of distrust and identify themselves with the cause of the Greeks. They were, indeed, too comfortable, and felt themselves too secure in their eyries, half palace, half fortress, to engage rashly in a struggle of such uncertain issue. When they understood, however, that it was to be a war of extermination, meaning death not only to the Greeks themselves, but also to every occupant of Greek soil, the instinct of self-preservation, as well as hatred of the Turk, urged them to take part in the national cause. Once embarked, they threw themselves into it with a wild enthusiasm and a dauntless daring, due partly to their nature, and partly to their training as freebooters of the sea. They brought to it moreover, the hoarded wealth of many years. Albanian captains, Albanian ships, and Albanian gold became the strength of the Greek and the dread of the Turk. The successful close of the revolution found them as firmly allied with the Greek nationality as they had previously been alien to it, and there are now no names more honored and beloved in Athens, no families more influential in its polite circles, than those of the Albanian leaders in the war of 1821, the Tombazis, the Miaulis, the Condouriottis.

My good fortune had brought me into friendly relation with a young lady who was the direct descendant of one of these heroes. Often she had talked to me with enthusiasm of her home on the Ægean Sea, “ my country,” as she called it; applying the word in a narrower sense, even, than its reference to her native island, for these sea-girt settlers held not only their goods and their gold, but even their dead, locked within the narrow precincts of their own land. The path to my friend’s door lay literally between the to mbs of her ancestors, and this custom still holds good on some of these old estates.

It happened, then, that one fair September day, in compliance with her oftrepeated “ You must see my country before you go back to your own home,” I joined her on board one of the steamers which run between Nauplia and Piræus several times a week, stopping always at these islands on their way. Leaving Piræus at seven o’clock in the morning, we reached our destination, the island of Poros, at two o’clock. Greece is so often regarded as a link between half - barbarous Turkey and Western Europe, rather than as sharing European civilization, that to the general reader it may be a matter of surprise that two ladies could safely make a trip of this kind without the protection of a gentleman, or even the attendance of a servant. And yet my companion, about twenty-two years of age, had responsibilities and an independence of position rare for her sex and age even in America. Her mother was a widow, and their large estate, with its extensive lemon and olive plantations, was superintended exclusively by her daughter. This young girl directed the sales of fruit, and conducted the foreign business correspondence with Turkey, France, and England in the three languages. She chose her own overseer, and, though living in Athens, made visits almost every month to the estate, which was reached either by a rough horseback journey from Poros, or by boat from Hydra, over a sea liable to be blown into fury by a hurricane at a moment’s notice. By her friends she was called the Squire, and many older and more experienced persons came to her for advice on many topics. On her own domain she was treated as the guardian of the people. She was godmother to almost every child born on the place, and was expected to take an interest and feel a certain responsibility in the future career of the children thus commended to her care. With all this, she was studying foreign languages, going to balls, and taking her place in the world, like any other young lady of fashion. It is true she was an exception in her own country, but so she would be in any other. I was sorry that, being called back to Athens by circumstances sooner than we expected, I did not after all see my friend’s property. Perhaps we owed in part to her position the consideration and courtesy with which we were treated, but I believe that any ladies might have made the same excursion unmolested.

The journey, short as it was, recalled centuries of interest. Gliding out between the two guardian light-houses of the port, we crossed the bay of Salamis, its beautiful views enriched by every association of history and art, to the island of Ægina. Our short pause there gave us a cursory glimpse of its ancient temple, sketched against the sky, and its modern town. Having landed some of our passengers here, we kept on our course once more for Poros.

This island lies very near the mainland, curving sharply toward it at either end, so that the coast and the island shore together form a protected harbor, almost closed at the west and south by its two portal-like entrances. Steamers usually come in at the one, and pass out at the other. From within, this inclosed sheet of water seems like a mountain lake, one shore of which (the island shore) is barren and rocky, while the other is green with fragrant orange and lemon groves. The town of Poros stands midway between the two entrances of the harbor. The first impression, as it lay basking in the sun, on the day of our arrival, was that of a white, glittering mass of houses and church towers rising steeply, terrace above terrace, from the water’s edge to the high, rocky peaks, which were picturesquely crowned with windmills. So precipitous is the ascent that the upper houses can be reached only by flights of stone steps, or by narrow, steep alleys winding irregularly between the buildings. The one street runs immediately along the shore, and is paved with large, rough stones. Here are the shops and the market.

A throng of idlers were lounging on the quay, and watching the arrival of the steamer, around which a number of small boats promptly assembled, to take off passengers and freight. Selecting one of the many loquacious, eager, loose - trousered, fez-capped boatmen who crowded about us, we were soon comfortably established on the gay rugs which covered the seats of his caïque. He directed our course to a large square house, standing a little out of the town, and having, as is common for all the better class of houses there, a pier of its own. At this pier we landed, and, crossing the intervening road, entered the grounds by a gate-way which opened on a covered stone stair-case, leading up the side of the house to a terrace at the back. Here was the door-way, where we were met by a bright-eyed, smiling maid-servant, who showed us across the hall into the drawing-room. To my surprise, this was furnished with great elegance, in old-fashioned style. The whole arrangement was far more luxurious and comfortable than one would expect to find in any correspondingly out-of-the-way place in America. I had seen no such drawing-room in Athens, where modern decorative art is unknown, and the houses are either bare and comfortless, or furnished after the more ordinary French or English manner. This elegance was perhaps due, in part, to the foreign associations of our host. He had been ambassador at St. Petersburg, and a great favorite of the late Czar, which accounted for the numerous photographs of the royal family of Russia adorning the walls of the drawing-room. The English books in the book-cases were, no doubt, a reminiscence of boyish days, when he had been sent to school in England. But the old jewel-mounted swords and pistols hanging on the wall were heir-looms, the mementos of wars and warlike exploits, in which this family had bravely borne their part. As we stepped from the room to the balcony in front of the house, a vision of beauty met our gaze. We looked across the harbor to the shore of the main-land, where rose the mountains of Damalà, greenly, bluely, pinkly, grayly, varying like an opal, as the sun lighted or the clouds darkened them. At their base, green lemon groves stretched for miles. On the island shore, near enough for picturesqueness, far enough to hide any shabbiness of detail, Poros, with its red-tiled roofs and brilliant white walls, was drawn in vivid contrast against the intense blue of the sunny Greek sky. It was breathlessly still. No one was moving ; there was that absolute suspension of activity which in warm climates marks the hottest hours of the day. Streets are deserted, and even the most poorly paid servant claims the right to repose. A few drowsy, dreamy-looking sails were seen in the bay, and nothing broke the quiet but the ripple of the tiny waves on the beach in front of the house.

Nearer at hand, and hardly a stone’s throw from where we stood, were the arsenal buildings. Poros has always been the chief naval station of Greece ; the dry dock and the repair shops for the men of war are here. Its perfectly protected harbor, the only one in this region, is the refuge of all sailors from the sudden caprices of the Ægean Sea, and in war time the bay of Poros has been successively filled, according to the fortunes of war, with Russian, Greek, or Turkish vessels. The governor of the naval arsenal has one of the best paid posts in Greece.

We were called from our enjoyment of the view by the maid, who had come to offer us “ glukò ” and water. Glukò, translated, simply means sweet, and the name is eminently true of Greek preserves, made as they are from sugar boiled with various fruits, — citron, lemon, orange, rose-leaves, and the gum-like mastic of Chios. An endless variety of glukò is accounted indispensable in any well-kept Greek household. All young Greek girls are taught to make that, if nothing else, for every Greek husband takes a pride in offering to his guests a glukò and a cup of Turkish coffee as an accompaniment to the constant cigarette. This custom is of Turkish origin, and is passing into disuse in the polite circles of Athens. Its disappearance is to be regretted, for in a warm climate this frequent slight refreshment, always followed by a glass of cool water, is both agreeable and diverting. Usually brought on the arrival of a visitor, it serves as a kind of background for conversation. No one is expected to take more than a spoonful, helping himself from the common dish with a spoon which is served to him with his glass of water, and afterward replaced according to etiquette in the glass, showing that both have been used.

The lady of the house, who bad been absent, now appeared, a tall, graceful woman of some fifty years, dressed in the island costume. The most striking peculiarity of this costume is the headdress, worn until lately by rich and poor alike, and differing only in delicacy and costliness of material, according to the wealth of the wearer. A handkerchief, be it of lace, embroidered muslin, or silk, or of some coarser material, is thrown over the head and drawn closely around the face, leaving only a border of hair uncovered; the ends are crossed under the chin and tied behind, the hair hanging in long braids beneath it. It is by no means invariably becoming, and gives a certain uniform roundness to the faces thus framed, as it were, in a circle. When the face is young and smooth, the effect is pretty enough, but the white, or in case of mourning the black folds against an old and worn cheek give it an almost ghastly look. Until quite recently, the kerchief has made an important part of the trousseau of any Albanian girl from these islands. Twelve dozen would not have been accounted an unusual number for a wealthy maiden to possess, and to these were added the inherited ones. They were made up of all materials, from the favorite gold-colored satin, embroidered with gold thread or bright silks, to the lighter embroidered muslin for warmer weather. Probably, for the better class, no kerchiefs of this kind have been made in the last twentyfive years. They are worn now only by a few older ladies and by the poorer women, whose kerchiefs are made usually of cotton cloth, which they dye black themselves if they are in mourning. The costume is not otherwise remarkable, the silken skirt being long and flowing, and the waist worn rather open, showing often a beautiful bust. The ladies have small feet and hands, and when in full dress their fingers are covered with jewels. The poorer women and servants wear full, short skirts of dark material, and loose jackets; and their coming is generally heralded by a loud scuffing noise from their large sandals, which flop up and down as they walk.

Madame B—— was most kind and cordial in her reception, again offered us glukò, and pressed us to pass a week with her, which was the more hospitable since our arrival was unexpected. It is true my companion was her niece, and had the claim of kinship. To the first compliments succeeded the question, almost an invariable one if the new guest be a lady and married, “ Have you a son ? ” If the reply is in the affirmative, there follow many congratulations ; if not, then, with a sigh, “ The poor burned creature ! ”

After a short time my friend and I prepared to pass the cool close of the day in the lemon groves, across the water, on the main-land. Summoning the same old boatman who had brought us from the steamer, and was still waiting at the pier, in hope of further employment, we crossed the smooth, shining bay to the opposite shore, where, half hidden among the trees, were some low buildings. As we drew near, we saw fishing-rods and lines projecting from the windows, and found that the gentlemen were fishing from the parlor, which opened most conveniently for the purpose upon the water. As soon as we were recognized there was a rush of the whole party to welcome us, and I was introduced to all the family, sons and daughters in law, children and grandchildren. Immediately followed the first act of hospitality, the glukò and water; but as the house was small, we adjourned to the garden, and took our refreshment there. This garden made part of one of the most beautiful lemon and orange groves of the region; not as large as some others, but admirably managed and most carefully tended. It was planted by the grandfather of the present owner, a noted naval commander in the war of Greek independence. After peace was made, and while Greece was slowly reviving from the general devastation resulting from the revolution, grants of land were made by the Greek government to those who had contributed most largely, by personal bravery, ships and money, to its success. This estate was one of those so bestowed in acknowledgment of honorable services. It lies in Argolis, near the foot of the lofty mountains of Damalà, not far from the site of the ancient city of Troezen, and is a most enchanting place. Leaving the house, we followed a garden path some quarter of a mile or more in length, bordered by tall black cypresses on either side, and dividing the orange-trees on one hand from the lemon-trees on the other. This brought us to a large bower, covered with smilax, the out-of-door sitting-room of the family when the drawing-room overflowed with guests, as now. Here must be thick shade even in the hottest hours of the southern day. Presently cups of Turkish coffee were served, together with a sweetmeat called Lounóvmia, also Turkish, the best being from Constantinople and Syra. It is a paste made of rice, flour, sugar, and mastic, flavored with some essence, according to taste. Sometimes pistachio nuts are added.

As I sipped my coffee, I could watch from my seat in the bower the quaint and pretty method of irrigation constantly going on in the grounds. A horse was patiently treading his round about a large deep well, alternately lowering and raising, as he did so, a number of buckets. By a simple machinery, the full buckets were made to empty their contents into wooden troughs, these again distributing the water in smaller streams, the direction of which was determined by furrows winding through different sections of the garden. The direction may be varied at will by opening some sluices and closing others, so that to-day the lemons, to-morrow the oranges or the olives, may be watered. Even special trees are singled out for watering by thus guiding a furrow toward their roots, just as children turn mimic streams on to their play gardens. This process of irrigation is indeed as primitive as it is thorough and economical. Some of the lemon-trees were immense, — as large as the largest apple-trees with us. There are four seasons of gathering during the year, and the quantity of fruit yielded by a single fine tree is amazing. Some of the single trees on this estate gave several hundreds of lemons annually ; from one tree fifteen hundred lemons were gathered in especially productive years. No fruit should be left on the boughs in the season of flowering, for it weakens the tree to bear the two together. In the spring, the delicious fragrance of the blossoms is almost overpowering. Indeed, this kind of farming, in which every stage has a peculiar charm, seems truly ideal. The drawbacks are the occasional hard winters and the diseases of the leaf, by which a whole region is sometimes impoverished. Any neglect of the irrigation, or its interruption by drought, is fatal.

Beside the orange and lemon plantations, a part of this estate was devoted to olive groves. At this season the olives were green. They are commonly allowed to turn black, and then gathered to make oil. The purest and best oil is, however, made from the green fruit, but it requires such a quantity that the process is a costly one, and people make only a little for their own consumption, the oil for the market being prepared from the black, over-ripe fruit. The oil-mill on this estate was a clumsy wooden machine, but they are introducing iron ones worked by steam, which give a larger proportion of oil for the same quantity of fruit. They are more expensive, but the owners assured me that they paid for themselves in one or two years. These iron machines are the same as those used in Italy and France, and a company has been formed for their manufacture at Piræus.

The sun was so low by the time we had seen all the lemon and orange groves that we did not hesitate to venture up the mountain-side. Some of us were mounted on horses, others on donkeys, the saddles being of wood and the bridles and stirrups of rope. We wandered leisurely along narrow paths, leading through a thick wood of plane-trees, to a height from which we had the most wonderful view of the sea and the mountains of the Morea glowing in the light of the setting sun. I notice that the Greeks care for no view that does not include at least a glimpse of the sea. The moon was rising when the sun went down, and it was bright moonlight when we dismounted on the shore and entered our boat again, promising to repeat our visit to the garden the next day. Moonlight in Greece is especially beautiful, from the clearness and purity of the air.

As we moved past the little town of Poros on our return, it seemed transformed into a pile of stately buildings, like a creation of Aladdin’s lamp. Lights clustered in the market-place and glimmered on the hillside, and their reflection in the quiet water made the scene doubly enchanting.

At eight o’clock we had reached the house, where a cordial welcome from our kind hosts and an excellent supper awaited us. We were served at table by a pretty Bulgarian boy, about nine years of age. Like many other children, be had been separated from his parents by some sad chance during the Turko-Russian war, and after changing hands several times, found himself at last on board a small Greek vessel bound for Poros. Here he landed. He had forgotten his name and his native tongue, and knew no language but that of signs. Madame B—— had taken him into her family, where lie was fast becoming a useful member of society, answering with pride to bis new name of Spiro.

The next morning (Sunday) we were up betimes, for we intended to spend the day with our friends on the opposite shore; and in that country whoever would avoid headache must make all excursions either before or after the noonday heat. We found them all in the arbor, where we rested for a while, talking and laughing, and watching the only industrious being in sight, namely, the horse on his daily round, turning the cooling stream into new channels toward the more thirsty trees. Later we adjourned, at the invitation of the younger brother, a law student, to his study, so curiously situated that it is worth description. The garden was separated from the mountains by a road, into which the garden-gate opened. A winding stair led up to a room built over this gateway, which was once used as a kind of watch-tower. Here, remote from disturbance, but overlooking bis whole world, this young man studied the knotty questions of his profession, and prepared himself to become a member of that grave body, the Areopagus, which still sits in judgment in Athens. He seemed very happy among his books, and said no one could disturb his meditations when his door was barricaded, unless they overthrew his tower. To the older brothers fell the care of the plantations. Their library consisted chiefly of French and Italian works on the care and cultivation of the fruit. They were anxious to introduce all new improvements on their estate. In these regions, however, the small incomes of most land-owners prevent them from advancing in proportion to their really liberal and even radical ideas. Our conversation this morning upon the agricultural interests of the country led to much discussion as to the general condition of the kingdom. My hosts spoke with enthusiasm of the probable annexation of Thessaly to Greece (this was in 1879, when the question was still pending), of the opportunities it would open to young men, of the future railroads, and the advantage of bringing Athens within two days’ journey of Continental Europe. They lamented the burdens of the farmers, who were paying tithes as they had done under Turkish rule, and the oppression under which the shepherds suffered. Both of these grievances have received careful attention in the last two years from the Greek government, and a much better state of things is already established. The Greeks are great talkers and disputes, and their conversation almost always turns to politics, as they sit together, alternately sipping coffee and drinking water, arguing the while about the different factions and their supporters. One notices how critical they are, no less ready now to pick flaws in their neighbors than they were in the best days of the republic.

Our talk was interrupted by the eleven-o’clock breakfast, served in the house ; after which we all retired to the wide, divan-like couches, so universal in the houses here, to take a siesta before starting for our afternoon excursion to a neighboring monastery. A visit to the nearest monastery is always a favorite expedition in the country. The suggestion usually comes from the mother, or some of the older people. This is perhaps because the mother is usually the most religious member of the family. Most Greek women are, however, religious, and the older ones keep their fasts and feasts scrupulously. Aside from religious sentiment, a visit to the monastery usually means an excursion to one of the prettiest spots in the region. Built for a defense, as well as for a devout solitude, their sites were selected with the greatest care, often on a cliff overhanging the sea, or on the edge of some steep precipice ; the more inaccessible the better, since these monasteries in past times were often the refuge of women and children, while husbands were fighting for the deserted fireside. This monastery, as we approached it in our row-boat, seemed a great fortresslike pile. Time-stained and overgrown with ivy, it stood on a rocky promontory, some hundred feet above the sea, against a background of trees. We landed, tied our boat, and mounted the cliff by a winding, shady path through the woods. The latter part of the way was a stiff climb. Heated and out of breath, we were glad to rest at the spring near the summit, and refresh ourselves with a draught of the purest water I have ever tasted. Indeed, this spring is considered holy, and a handsome stone fountain has been erected over it. A few steps now brought us to a deep ravine, spanned by a bridge, at the other end of which was the gateway of the monastery. It seemed as if nature had thus prepared for man an escape from his enemies, in a country whose every inch of ground has been contested with bloody strife. In the days when Turks were hunting Christians like hounds, these places of retreat had need to be well chosen. An old and decrepid monk had been toiling up the pathway in advance of us, and now at the gateway we overtook him, hot and panting as he was under the weight of a pile of fagots carried on his back. He gave a weary, faint nod, and motioned us to enter. We went around the buildings to the front of the monastery, where were other monks, seated on benches, so placed as to command a most beautiful view. They seemed a poor and degenerate fraternity, not more than a dozen in all, and their garments looked rusty and worn. They were kind and cordial in their greeting, and urged us to sit down. They had just finished their evening litany and were watching the sunset, each one twirling in his hand his kompologion, a string of beads, not a rosary, but simply a plaything to employ the restless fingers. This is a very universal habit, and monks, especially if unemployed, are always twisting and playing with their kompologion. An insane monk, the liveliest member of the community, and, as it seemed, a sort of pet with the others, now became our guide to the chapel (repaired within the last ten years), to the tombs of patriots buried within the court-yard, and to the interior of the monastery, where only a few rooms were habitable. The establishment was very poor, having an income barely sufficient for the support of the present monks, and likely to be suppressed for want of means after their death, Indeed, the great work of Greek monasteries is done, and a noble work it was. During four hundred years of Turkish tyranny, they have helped to preserve the Greek language and the Greek spirit in an oppressed people, and have offered a refuge to Greek mothers and children when their houses were invaded by deadly foes.

As we said good-night and descended the darkening pathway, the rare beauty of the hour and the scene sealed our lips, and we walked silently down to our landing-place. So ended my Sunday in Poros.

Eunice W. Felton.