CHAPTER XIII--SYRA, THE MARBLE ISLAND.--LIFE AT AN ATHENIAN HOTEL.

_In sight of Syra--Active Trade in one Fish--A town all built of Marble--The “Doubter” expresses his sentiments--Gustave’s Adventure--Walking on One’s Ear--“A little more beer, boy!”--The Pirates’ Retreat--Extraordinary politeness in a café--A lesson for American Barkeepers--In the Stamboul’s Cabin--“Blowing great guns”--A tale of a Tub--Honey and Marble--Standing in the city of Demosthenes--The battle of the rival hotels--Profanity in an unknown tongue--Outgeneraling Inn-keepers--Tricks on Travelers--Useful knowledge for Foreign Travel._

A LITTLE before sunset we were drenched by a shower, and through the rifts of the heavy clouds, I caught sight of the Island of Syra, the most important of the insular possessions of Greece.

We entered the port and dropped anchor, a hundred yards from the _Stamboul_, an old paddle steamer which was to convey us to the Piraeus.

Though we had bought tickets through to the latter port we found that we must make the transfer at our own expense, it being the rule of the company that all landings, embarkations, and transfers are at passenger’s expense.

We waited till the rain ceased and then bargained with a boatman to take us to the other ship; the transfer was an unpleasant one as the boat danced uneasily on the water and a fresh shower gave us a very fair drenching while we were en route. The “Doubter” got the worst of it, and was so thoroughly soaked and {188}frightened that he determined to stay and keep ship, while the rest of us went on shore to spend the evening in town.

What befell us there will be told subsequently.

Syra is not a large island, its greatest length being little over fourteen miles and its width in the broadest part about six. Homer mentions and describes it as the country of Eumæus, the faithful servant of Ulysses, and the character of the island corresponds to-day with the account given by the “blind old man of Scio’s rocky isle.”

The city which bears the name of the island is the most important commercial point in all Greece. Its population is said to be not far from thirty thousand; they are emphatically a commercial people, and when not employed in legitimate trade with outsiders, they speculate with each other. While loitering on the quay I saw a man sell a fish to another, the latter sold it to a third and the trade went on till the fish had changed hands four or five times. Whether the price was increased by each transaction I am unable to say, but am inclined to think it was not likely to be reduced.

Later in the day I saw a smaller fish--it may have been the old one worn down by manipulation--passing about with a good deal i of activity. If he could have taken a commission each time he, changed hands he could have amassed a handsome fortune and set up for a “_big fish_” before the end of the season.

As I had come from Constantinople where the streets are in a condition of wretchedness, as regards pavement and dirt, the streets of Syra seemed to me wonderfully clean. There are immense quarries of marble just back of the town, and marble is one of the articles of export. Marble is cheaper in Syra than n granite or brick. The houses are built of marble, the streets paved with it, and the quay and the wall that bound it are made of marble. You see marble everywhere, and after a time you begin to wish they would throw in some other stone by way of variety.

The streets are paved with broad blocks and in many places these blocks are so smooth that one is in danger of slipping unless he treads carefully. The gutters are in the middle of the streets instead of at the sides, and every few yards there is a grated hole where the water runs into the sewers. {189}I could not see the necessity of having these holes so numerous until I learned by actual experience how the rain fell. It came down suddenly, as if the clerk of the weather had called all hands and put them to work upsetting a row of buckets right over Syra.

It didn’t rain, it poured and more than poured; the heaviest shower I ever saw in New York was the mildest premonitory sprinkle, compared to the rain at Syra. The sewer-holes had all they could attend to, and it was then that you perceived the wisdom of putting the gutters in the middle of the streets, and also the wisdom of having no cellar doors on a level with the sidewalk. Under the present arrangement there might be, (and quite likely such is the case,) a foot or so of water in the street, without doing damage to anybody, except to the unlucky pedestrian.

There is a public square in Syra paved with marble and set out with rows of trees and beggars. The latter are less stationary than the trees, and not half as pretty; I did not see any fruit growing upon either.

Viewed from the water, Syra has the appearance of half an amphitheatre, as the steepness of the hill causes the houses to rise in irregular terraces; there is a depression in the hill-side, so that the general effect reminds you of the tier of boxes in an opera house when you look at them from the stage.

This is the new town of modern Syra.

To reach ancient Syra, you have a great deal of climbing to do, as it is a long way up the hill-side, directly above the new town.

I was satisfied to do it by proxy, as I had a “game foot” that complained when I exercised it vigorously. The judge and I sat in a _café_, while the rest of our party climbed the hill and came back all red and weary and thirsty. Their calls for beer were like the howls of a lion in the wilderness.

The “Doubter” declared that he had his doubts about the island being fourteen miles long, but he was ready to swear that it was not less than ten miles high.

This is what Gustave said about old Syra, and I must rely on him, as I know nothing about it myself:

“You cross a deep ravine, and then you come to a stairway all {190}of marble, and so hot under the sunshine, that it would melt the lid off a copper tea-kettle in the time you could hold a red hot nail in your ear without feeling it.”

Then we went through a lot of zig-zag streets, and then more of them, and then some more stairs and zig-zags. The stones were slippery and dangerous, especially in coming down, and two or three times I felt myself walking on a part of my body which is not ordinarily employed for pedestrian purposes.

Well, we got to the top of the hill at last, and were at the church of St. George. I was tired and foot-sore, but I think I was amply paid for the fatigue and trouble. The view was magnificent, and included the whole panorama of the Cyclades. (_Garçon, encore de la bier, s’il vous plait_) The guide pointed out Tinos and Mykonos, Nicaria, and Samos, and also Great and Little Delos. Off in the distance were Naxos, Paros, and Anti-paros, and they tried to point out Siphnos and Milos through a hollow in the mountain to the south of us. Down in front of us there was a beautiful view--I wouldn’t have missed it for a great deal, and I wouldn’t go up there again for twice as much as I would have missed it for. (_Garçon, encore de la bier. Comme jai soif!_ )

We had landed at the quay in front of the custom house on the evening of our arrival, and as the rain fell by little fits and starts, we didn’t wander around very much, but made our way to the best _café_ in the place.

It overlooked the public square, and had rows of seats on the sidewalk, which was protected by a roof impervious to water. While we sat there, a member of our party discovered an acquaintance among the coffee-drinkers at another table, and speedily there was a fusilade of congratulations in the accent and language of Northern Germany. Then we were introduced all around, and all around, too, we had fresh glasses of beer.

Our new acquaintance was a German, whose business had located him at Syra, and the indications were that he was well satisfied with it. At all events, he stood treat with a liberality worthy of a Californian, and made us feel that we owned the entire island and all its contents. The quay of Syra is an animated place, as it contains many shops and stalls, where you can buy anything from a fish up to a marine engine. {191}The Greek boatmen are a picturesque race, with a costume that seems to be a compromise between the Occident and the Orient. Their uniform is multiform, and you are puzzled to know which is which.

Most of the boatmen and sailors wear trowsers with considerable bagginess, and a sort of loose jacket over the shoulders. On their heads they wear red caps like the Turkish fez, but with the top falling to one side, where it is kept down by a long tassel.

In character they are not over-trustworthy, and they have the reputation of being ready to turn to piracy whenever it will pay better than honest work. In times past their reputation was worse than at present, and they were at one period the terror of Oriental waters. Steam cruisers put an end to their piracy, as it has to that of many enterprising mariners elsewhere.

In our first evening in Syra we saw a couple of fights, but they possessed no interest, as the disputants were separated before they had time to disembowel each other. Two of the descendants of Homer and Ulysses were drunk in the _café_; under ordinary circumstances they would have been allowed to stay there, but the proprietor felt himself honored by our visit, and determined to eject his friends and regular patrons. He informed them that they had been sent for, and as the night was dark he would allow one of the waiters to escort them. They fell into the trap, and were quietly taken out, and the waiter returned after walking a couple of blocks and leaving them in a low drinking shop where they wished to slake their thirst. The whole business was managed very adroitly, and showed how much better it is for a head bar-keeper to tell a lie than to indulge in brute violence, in which he might break some of his furniture.

On this evening we did nothing in the sight-seeing line beyond the visit to the _café_ and the public square, the journey to Old Syra being made on our return from Greece. We returned about nine o’clock to the quay, and were taken on board the Stamboul, which had her steam up for departure. Half-a-dozen other steamers were in port, and there were thirty or more sailing ships, so that the harbor presented a reasonably lively appearance. The terraces of lights in the town and extending to and {192}through Old Syra had a curious effect, and made the city resemble an illuminated mountain. The light-houses, which mark the entrance of the harbor, were each sending out a clear flame, the rain had ceased, and the stars were beaming clear and distinct in the sky.

Although in the harbor, the steamer was pitching and rolling about, and we had experienced a very lively tossing on our way from shore to ship. A regular _vent du diable_ was blowing outside, and things indicated that we should have all we wanted when we got into it and were plowing our way towards the Piraeus.

Half a dozen passengers were sitting at the cabin table and contemplating a bottle of Scotch whisky, which they discussed in a polyglot of languages. Two who were drunk imagined themselves sober, and two who were sober, imagined themselves drunk, so that there was a very mixed condition of things. Smoking was forbidden in the cabin, but as there was only one lady passenger, and she had retired, and moreover belonged to our party, and had a smoking husband, we lighted cigars and made ourselves comfortable before going to bed.

Just as I entered my bunk I heard the anchor chain coming in, and soon we were out on the open waters. We went along nicely for a while, till we had passed the shelter of the Island of Syros and then we caught it. Our course lay between the islands of Thermia and Zea, in the direction of Cape Sunium, which forms the extremity of the Peninsula of Attica.

All night long we tossed, and the timbers of the ship creaked so that you couldn’t hear yourself snore. Sometimes we didn’t make two miles an hour, and I could hear the other passengers, in momentary intervals of creaking, groaning and falling to pieces in the agonies of _mal-de-mer_. In the morning the captain said it was one of the roughest nights he had ever known in those waters. “Had I not felt,” said he, “the greatest confidence in my ship, and known that she was perfectly staunch and strong, I should have turned back after passing the Island of Syra, and learning the strength of the wind.”

And yet the Stamboul was an old tub, with a quarter of a century on her head, and barnacles on her bottom.. {193}Let no one despise an old tub hereafter. I would give more now for the one in which Dionysius--no it was Diogenes--used to live, than for the best modern article of the same sort from the hands of the most skillful cooper that breathes, as I could sell it for more money.

When I went on deck in the morning Mount Olympus was in sight, and we could see the classic shores of Greece (expression claimed as original and secured by two patents). They were not over-cheerful in appearance, but the leaden sky, and the cold wind that was then blowing, had doubtless much to do with their aspect. Mount Olympus was less lofty than I expected to find it, and greatly disappointed me, but I felt better afterwards, when I learned that the real mountain chain which bears that name, is on the Morean peninsula and between Thessaly and Macedonia. The mountain which was pointed out to me was a small affair opposite to Mount Keratia; between the two is a small village called Olympus, and inhabited by a few Greeks, and a great many fleas.

Next we saw a long mountain with a wooded summit, and were told it was Mount Hymettus of history. This was something like a mountain and it stretched away in a ridge toward the north, where Pentelicus lay in the dim distance. In a little while we saw a sharp conical hill that marked the position of Athens, and for a short time we had the Acropolis in sight. The shore of Greece, as we skirted it, had a rough and rather barren appearance, and seemed to be indented with many small bays. Not a ship, not a fishing boat even, was in sight, and our steamer appeared to have everything to herself. Certainly our first view of Greece was not calculated to inspire us with enthusiasm.

We rounded a promontory and entered the Piraeus, the port of Athens. It is a nice little pocket edition of a harbor well sheltered and with good anchorage. Ships of war might find a refuge there, but unfortunately it could not hold many of them. The town is quite modern, and also quite interesting; nobody stops there any longer than he is obliged to, and when travellers are delayed there by the detention of a steamer, there is generally a great deal of growling.

A swarm of boats came out to the ship, and as soon as the {194}quarantine officers had examined the health bill, and admitted us to _pratique_, there was a rush of boatmen, dragomen, guides, hotel runners, and the like, so that the deck was speedily covered. On an average there must have been six and a half of these gentry to each passenger.

We passed the Custom House with the usual formalities, (a bribe of two francs,) and turned our attention to the hotel runners, and standing on the soil where Homer sang and Demosthenes pronounced his orations, we drove the closest bargain which we had yet made.

Four runners from as many hotels were after us, and we put ourselves up at auction to the lowest bidder, just as they used to sell out the paupers in that respectable town in New England where I was born and bred, and instructed in the mysteries of orthography and penny-tossing. They began at fifteen francs per day for each person, including wine, candles, and service.

The _Hotel d’Angleterre_ would take us for fourteen.

The _Hotel des Etrangers_ would go one better; we should be taken in at thirteen francs.

The other two hotels dropped out of the competition and went to the rear, and so we had it out between the pair that I have named. The runners appeared to be personal enemies, and covered each other with epithets that were delightful to hear, as we didn’t know what they meant. It is a great pleasure to hear one blackguard abuse another, in a language of which you are entirely ignorant. You run no risk of being shocked by the coarseness of the phrases, and can quite resign yourself to a contemplation of the gestures and emphasis with which the terse little speeches are delivered. If I could find the man who offered a reward for the invention of a new pleasure, I would name the above amusement and humbly ask for the money.

We whiled away a half hour in this way very pleasantly and profitably; all the Greek profanity that those runners vented on each other didn’t cost us a cent; in fact we made money by it, as we lowered the prices of the hotels at Athens to a satisfactory figure. For ten francs per day each person, we were to have rooms only one flight up, and each room should have a balcony. We were to be roomed, fed, wined, candled, washed, combed, and attended, for that paltry amount, and we were to have all the candies we wanted. Moreover they were to make no charges for lunches when we went on excursions; this is a point on which hotels in the Orient generally lay it on thick in the way of extras. We had brought them down to their lowest terms, and almost felt ashamed of ourselves after we had done it.

We started for Athens with the question still undecided in the hope that we might get a better offer before arriving there. On the way up we developed a new dodge.

“I’ve an idea,” I said to my German friends; “suppose we divide the party.”

“You go to the _Angleterre_, and we Americans will go to the _Etrangers_. The hotels are close together, so that we can talk across from the windows, and we will then play the houses against each other.”

“Very good,” replied Charley, “just the thing. Evidently the competition between them is exceedingly bitter, and they are ready to cut each other’s throats.”

So it was agreed that we were to divide. We did not leave the carriages until the proprietors had ratified the agreements made by their runners, and we did not allow the baggage taken out till we had seen and accepted the rooms.

At the _Hotel des Etrangers_ they were sorry, very sorry, but they had only one room with a balcony, and that was on the the second floor.

“Very well, then,” I said, “we will see what our friends can do at the other hotel,” and I turned to go to the carriage where I had left the Judge to look after the “Doubter,” and the other baggage.

“Stop, gentlemen,” said the proprietor; “I give you nice back rooms on first floor.”

“That will never do,” I replied, as I placed my hand on the carriage door.

“I just thinks,” said the proprietor, “I have single one balcony room on first floor mit two beds.”

“Never! we want three rooms with balconies on first floor,” and I opened the carriage door.

“You sell have two rooms mit three beds.”

“Never! that will not do,” and I entered the carriage and told the driver to drive on. {196} “Oh, gentlemens, I just thinks; stop--one gentleman go away zis night and you have ze three rooms as you want. Dat is all right.”

We entered and took possession, and the landlord was all politeness.

Our German friends had almost identically the same performance at the _Hotel d’ Angleterre_, and with the same result.

The rivalry of these two hotels was of a bitterness rarely seen in cities; it resembled the hostility of two country boys when both are sweet on the same girl. No servant of one establishment was allowed to enter the other, and when we sent messages requiring answers, the bearer was obliged to wait outside the front door, while the porter of _that_ house took the missive up stairs and brought the response. The rival proprietors were not on speaking terms, and the guides and runners were constantly at war.

During the whole of our stay we played upon their jealousies to the best of our abilities. When we wanted to hire carriages for drives around the city or in its vicinity we put the business in competition and reduced the rates nearly one-half. We thus obtained carriages for twelve francs where twenty was the regular price, and for fifteen francs where they ordinarily demanded twenty-five. No matter what we wanted, we always said, “We will see what our friends at the other house can do.” That always brought them to terms.

It is not often that a traveller profits by the quarrels of innkeepers. These gentry are much more likely to resemble in their discords, the operations of the two sides of a pair of shears,--they cut not themselves but what’s between them.

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