The Autobiography of a Journalist, Volume II | Page 3

heard
of. One day I was out shooting and was attacked by a dog whom I
saluted with a charge of small birdshot, on which the owner made
complaint to the pasha that I had peppered accidentally one of his
children. Ismael spread this report through the town, learning which I

made him an official visit demanding a rectification and examination of
the child, which was found without a scratch. The pasha, furious at the
humiliation of exposure, then threw the man into prison, and as he,
Adam-like, accused his wife of concocting the charge, he ordered her
also to prison for two weeks, without the slightest investigation, leaving
three small children helpless. I protested, and insisted on the release of
the man, who had only obeyed the wish of the pasha in making the
charge against me.
Having no occupation but archaeological research and photography, I
decided to make a series of expeditions into the mountain district, and
to begin with a visit to the famous strongholds of Sphakia. The pasha
protested, but as I had a right to go where I pleased, I paid no attention
to his protests, and he then went to the other extreme, and offered to
provide me with horses, which offer I unfortunately accepted. The
horse I rode and the groom the pasha sent with him were equally
vicious. The man, when we saddled up the first day out, put the saddle
on so loosely that as we mounted the first steep rocky slope the saddle
slipped over the horse's tail, carrying me with it, and the horse walked
over me, breaking a rib and bruising me severely, and then tried to kick
my brains out. I remounted and kept on, but that night the pain of the
broken rib was such, and the fever so high, that I was obliged to give
up the journey and go back to Canea. I found that the pasha had
anticipated a disaster, and heard of it with great satisfaction.
As soon as restored, I set out on a trip to the central district of Retimo,
then perfectly tranquil, the agitation in Sphakia, which preceded the
great insurrection, having already begun, and making my venturing
there imprudent. I was anxious to see something of the provincial
government of the island, as, in Canea, where the foreign consuls
resided, there was always the slight check of publicity on the
arbitrariness of the official, though what we saw did not indicate a very
effective one. I had a dragoman in Retimo, a well-to-do merchant, who
served for the honor and protection the post gave him, and his house
was mine pro tem., and over it, during my stay, floated the flag of the
consulate. We made an excursion across the island to the convent of
Preveli, situated in one of the most beautiful valleys in the island,

sheltered on the north, east, and west by hills, and lying, like a theatre,
open to the south, and looking off on the African sea. The entrance was
by a narrow gorge, and here we witnessed one of those natural
phenomena that still impress an ignorant people with the awe from
which, in more ancient times, religion received its most potent sanction.
The wind passing through some orifice in the cliff far above our heads,
even when we felt none below, produced a mysterious organ-like sound,
which the people regarded as due to some supernatural influence. As all
the modern sanctuaries in that part of the world are founded on the
ruins of ancient shrines, I have no doubt that our hospitable shelter of
that night was on the site of some temple to one of the great gods of
Crete.
That journey gave me a sight of one of the remarkable Cretan women,
whose reputation for beauty I had always regarded, judging from the
women in the cities, as a classical fable. I had been making a visit to
the mudir of the province through which we were passing, and, after
pipes and coffee, and the usual ceremonies, I mounted my horse, and,
at the head of my escort, rode out of the mudir's courtyard, when my
eye was caught by the flutter of the robes of a woman in a garden
across the road. Around the garden ran a high hedge of cactus, and as I
leaned forward in my saddle to look through one of the openings, a
girl's face presented itself to me at the other side of it, and we stared
each other in the eyes for several seconds before she--a Mussulman
girl--remembered that she must not be seen, when, wrapping her veil
around her head, she flew to the house. The vision was of such a
transcendent beauty as I had, and have since, never seen in