Read Ebook: Turkish Harems & Circassian Homes by Hope Andr E

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e breeze dropped and it fell dead calm. Not a puff filled the sails, which flapped idly against the masts; but somehow or other we drifted on, and the coast scenery was so fine that we did not regret the slow progress.

Magnificent cliffs, valleys wooded nearly to the water's edge, and pretty villages made quite a panorama of beautiful views, whose general aspect reminded us much of the Undercliff of the Isle of Wight, only on a far grander scale.

Aloupka, Prince Woronzoff's place, is most lovely. The house is built of grey granite, and seemed to us exceedingly picturesque, though architects and connoisseurs would probably shake their heads dismally over it, as a specimen of bad taste.

The architecture, it must be admitted, is certainly "very mixed," being partly Gothic, partly Moorish, and altogether modern; but the numerous pinnacles and towers, and the long fa?ade of buildings rising above the magnificent woods, have a remarkably good effect. A series of broad terraces descend from the house half way down to the sea; beautiful gardens, full of rare shrubs and flowers, lie on each side of the house, and the woods and park stretch away for miles along the cliffs.

General Malthoff has a very fine place, more in-land; and a few miles beyond Yalta is Orianda, the Empress's villa.

Yalta itself is a tiny village, lying close to the sea, and surrounded by, almost buried in, a magnificent amphitheatre of mountains. The village contains about fifty houses, all nestling round a little wooded hill, on the top of which stands the church, its bright green cupolas and gilded pinnacles looking resplendent in the brilliant sunshine.

The villas, however, are the glory of Yalta. On every slope, peeping through openings in the dark green woods, are the pretty white houses. Almost all are half covered with creepers, and standing in gardens now gay with flowers, have an air of comfort and Heimlichkeit, or homeishness , to which we have long been strangers.

We had also another visitor, an American, who, seeing the English flag, came on board to borrow some money. He was one of the unfavourable specimens of Yankeyism who do so much discredit to their country, and whose principle is to ask for a gate when they want a bit of wood. The modest request was for ?25, which Mr. Harvey declined to lend, but I suppose his heart being touched by seeing a foreigner so far from home, and in distress, he gave him enough to take him to Sevastopol, with a note to an American there, who would help him if necessary. Our friend then said, however, that he heard we were going on to Circassia, and as it was very difficult to get there, he thought he might as well take "a spell" with us, as he could fix himself down in the yacht very well. As he spoke, the sensible little craft made a sudden roll and a lurch, that caused such an internal convulsion in our would-be companion that he threw himself into the boat and departed, happily for us to return no more.

The drive from Yalta to Orianda is one of the most beautiful I have ever seen. Sometimes the road wound up and down hills, and then we could look over the steep banks of woods or vines upon the intensely blue sea below. Sometimes it passed between great overhanging rocks that almost met overhead; then, again, it would cross sunny bits of rough common, or wind down narrow deep lanes where the damp coolness was delicious, and where the high banks seemed hung with ferns, and woodbines, and other plants that love the warm moist shade.

We passed a charming house of Count Potocki's. The broad verandah was quite festooned with passion flowers, roses, and the bright lilac blossom of the Clematis Jackmanni. The gardens and grounds were as well kept as any English home could be. The neat hedges, gravel walks, and smooth lawns made us think we must be in England again.

We left the carriage at the lodge gates and walked down the beautiful road to Orianda, sometimes passing under trellises of vines, where the purple grapes were hanging in delicious profusion, then going through woods and avenues of fine trees.

The rays of the setting sun were now streaming through every opening, making the old Scotch firs look all aflame in the glorious light.

The villa is a large, white Grecian building, not handsome enough for a palace nor pretty enough for a country house. There are some fine rooms, rather grand and very gloomy. The pleasantest sitting-room was a hall, painted and decorated like a Pompeian court, with a fountain in the centre, surrounded by flowers and ferns.

The gardens and terraces make the delight of the place. Vines, myrtles, and magnolia-trees are trained over arches, and under their fragrant shade, the air cooled by innumerable fountains, how pleasantly must the summer days pass! What an enchanting change from hot, dusty St. Petersburg!

The present Empress has not yet paid this pretty place a visit, but the Grand-Duchess Constantine came for several months one summer. Her Imperial Highness seems to have made herself universally popular; her parties enlivened the whole neighbourhood, and she is spoken of by all classes with the heartiest affection.

Within an hour after sunset the wind became bitterly cold, and every cloak and shawl was called into requisition during the drive home. This sudden change of temperature is the only drawback to Yalta, and invalids who come here for health must carefully avoid exposing themselves to the night-air. The dew also falls very heavily; therefore here, as in Italy, the hour after sunset is a dangerous period. Later in the night, for those who are strong, the fresh wind is very invigorating.

Yalta is so favourite a spot that people come even from Petersburg to spend the summer here. It gives one some idea of the enormous extent of Russia to know that it is a fortnight's journey, travelling night and day, to get from Yalta to St. Petersburg.

Prince Woronzoff has a very fine property at Aloupka, and a nearer approach made it even more beautiful than we had thought it from the yacht. The house stands in a magnificent position on a narrow ridge of table-land between the cliffs and the sea. Great dark woods stretch around it for miles, and the rock scenery is quite superb. Our Russian friends did not, however, share our enthusiasm, and thought the more cultivated, smiling scenery round Yalta infinitely more beautiful.

On arriving at Aloupka we drove through a fine gateway into a courtyard, on one side of which was the house, on the other were the offices and stables. Immediately within the portico was seen the hospitable "Salve," set in large letters in the mosaic pavement. A glass door opened into the hall, a moderate-sized room, panelled with oak and hung round with family portraits. Amongst them was a picture of the late Lady Pembroke. Princess Woronzoff's boudoir and a few other small rooms were on one side of the entrance; on the other was the great dining-hall, a large and lofty room with three recesses: two of these were occupied by fireplaces, the other had a small fountain, an agreeable addition to a dining-room on a hot day.

Another glass door led to a very pretty room--half saloon, half conservatory. Climbing plants were trained up the columns and over the frames of the looking-glasses. Masses of flowers were arranged in groups upon the marble floor, while thick Persian carpets and every sort of comfortable lounge and easy chair made the apartment the very perfection of a summer sitting-room.

Russians have quite a talent for decorating their rooms with flowers and shrubs, and should nothing better be forthcoming, branches of trees make a background for the little cluster of plants that are placed in every corner. Dwarf palms or tree-ferns have a charming effect when crowning a group of flowering shrubs.

On the storey below were the salons and library. The latter was a large and comfortable room, well filled with books, the tables being covered with the newest French and English publications.

Prince and Princess Woronzoff were away, so we soon finished our inspection of the house. Though thoroughly comfortable, it is much smaller in reality than its appearance from the sea would lead one to expect. Seen from a distance the long, imposing fa?ade makes it look quite like a palace.

The grounds, however, gained in beauty from a nearer view. Great flights of steps lead to broad terraces, on which are the most delicious gardens and lawns that imagination can picture. Every flower to be found in England and Italy grows here in perfection, revelling in an admirable climate and in an admirable soil.

In front of the house was a stone colonnade, up every pillar of which were trained climbing plants of unusual beauty. One in particular was especially lovely, a species of Mandevillia superba. There must have been many hundreds of the snowy white fragrant flowers, shining like stars from the mass of glossy dark foliage.

In the centre of the colonnade was a portico as high as the house itself, having a roof fretted and gilt after the fashion of the Moorish courts in the Alhambra. Light balconies, supported by clusters of columns, projected on either side, and comfortable sofas were arranged amongst the little wood of orange and citron trees below.

It was a day and a scene when life alone seemed a delicious blessing. The soft breeze barely whispered amongst the leaves, a few doves were tenderly cooing in the garden below, the very fountains seemed unwilling to disturb the magic quiet, and their waters fell soothingly into the marble basins, as if they were also hushing nature to rest. Every now and then the sweet south wind sighed gently over the wide expanse of sea, and then came upon the ear the trickle, trickle of the little waves, as they rippled back amongst the pebbles of the beach, and as the wind softly touched the trees overhead, down came a fragrant rain of the snowy leaves of the orange-flowers, making the ground white with the lovely blossoms.

CIRCASSIA.

While the wind lasted all went well, but unhappily about mid-day the breeze dropped, and then, one after another, the poor ladies fell victims to the levelling malady of sea-sickness, and the cabins presented sad spectacles of suffering pleasure-seekers.

However, at last the sun came out from behind the clouds, the air became warm, so did the poor arms, the breeze revived, the suffering ladies got better and appeared on deck, and in due time we arrived at Oursouf. It was a beautiful spot, quite close to the sea, and as wild as it was beautiful.

On the slope of a neighbouring hill is Massandra, another property belonging to the Woronzoff family. On another hill, called Anaka, is a model nursery-garden, established by Count Woronzoff when he was Governor of South Russia, and still kept up by Government. Every description of tree, shrub, and flower that can be grown in the climate is to be found in this nursery. Any one wishing to make vineyards, plantations, or gardens can buy the plants, with the advantage of learning the sort of tree, shrub, &c., which may be best adapted to the soil for which they are required.

All this part of what may be called the Undercliff of the Crimea seems peculiarly adapted for the culture of the vine. Sheltered by a range of mountains, as well as by almost perpendicular cliffs, from the keen north wind, the long slopes of rich soil seem to invite the formation of vineyards. The grapes that are now produced are excellent, and many sorts of wine have already been made.

Several of the Rhine wines have been so closely imitated--some even say excelled--that sanguine persons predict that in time the Crimean wines will rank higher than the Rhenish. Be that as it may, it seems a pity that the Russian growers should be content in many instances to give German names to their produce, instead of creating their own class of wines.

A sort of liqueur, something like Constantia, is highly prized by connoisseurs, but at present this is only produced in the private vineyards of the Bariatinsky and Woronzoff families, and at Orianda, and cannot be purchased.

Prince Woronzoff, who appears to have been a wise and enlightened governor, had a favourite scheme for bringing large districts into cultivation as vineyards. Unhappily, the war took place ere he could put his project in execution, and the country is now so impoverished and thrown back that it will be years before it can recover from the shock.

Oursouf is a little Tartar town, built on the slope of a steep hill, and close to an enormous rock, on the top of which are some ruins, said to have been once a castle.

A few miles inland rises the grand mountain of the Acondagh, so called from its outline being supposed to resemble a crouching bear. "Acon" means bear; "dagh" signifies mountain. Clouds were flitting over the summits of the range, so the likeness, if it existed, was invisible to our eyes.

To those who do not object to pitch their tents away from the haunts of companionable man, this little estate offers every charm that can well be desired. The scenery is as beautiful as it is magnificent.

A lovely little wooded glen runs up from the sea, far away into the mountains, that gradually become steeper and steeper, until the stately Tchatar-Dagh appears in the distance, its rugged sides partly covered with forest, and its lofty peaks crowned with eternal snow.

A rapid stream winds its way through the valley, sometimes dashing down in rapid cascades, then lingering in dark and shady pools, whose banks seem the chosen home of every sort of beautiful fern. The Osmunda regalis grows to a size almost unknown in England, and tufts of many kinds of the delicate maiden-hair nestle between the stones wherever the spray of the waterfalls can reach their feathery branches. In the spring the lilies of the valley must carpet the ground. In some sheltered spots we found several varieties of large white lilies, and the autumnal cyclamen revels in the rich sandy soil.

Wild vines had climbed up many of the trees. The purple bunches looked very beautiful amongst the foliage, but the wild vine is dangerous in its close affection, and almost always destroys the poor tree that it honours with its notice.

On returning to the beach, we found the boat surrounded by a crowd of Tartars, who were looking at the sailors with mingled admiration and awe.

The wind was fair for the little home-voyage, but though the sea was not really rough, still there was sufficient movement to make some of our poor friends very miserable, and it was a relief to all parties when they were once more safely landed at Yalta. Those who were not ill remained on board for supper, whist, and music; and to our surprise, amongst these good sailors was the wearer of the Tartar costume.

It blew fresh all night, and a bank of heavy, dark clouds to windward warned us that better shelter must be sought than can be found at Yalta. Unfortunately there is no roadstead here, and the anchorage is by no means secure.

Our captain has been very restless and uneasy for the last two days, and can find no charms in a place where half-a-dozen anchors, as he says, would not hold the yacht should it come on to blow. So to-night we are to say good-bye to all our kind friends, to the green fields and to the pretty villas at Yalta.

Pleasant, cheerful little place, in all probability we shall never see you again, but amongst all the sunny memories our rovings have given us, few will be more sunny, more smiling than the remembrance of our days with you.

We spent the last day on shore with our friends happily, though somewhat sadly, and when we parted in the evening bore away with us not only the remembrance of many affectionate words, but a little souvenir from each of the kind hearts who had given such a sincere welcome to their English friends.

We left Yalta on the night of the 13th of September, with a fresh, favourable breeze. About seven o'clock on the morning of the 16th, the worthy Domenico came knocking at all the cabin doors. "La terra, Eccellenza; si vede alfine la terra." The good news brought us speedily on deck.

A lovely day and a smooth sea welcomed us to Circassia. How often we had talked about this enchanting, but far distant country--how often we had longed to see it, never imagining that such a wild dream could ever be realised; and now, before us, bright in the light of a fresh, dewy morning, lay our land of promise--the true "land of the citron and myrtle."

There are some things so beautiful that one shrinks from describing them. Words cannot paint the loveliness that is seen by the eye. To say that we saw before us a country that possessed, with the tender charm of English woodland scenery, the rich glow of the Italian landscape, and the grand majesty of Alpine ranges, gives but a feeble idea of the delicious beauty of the land we were gazing on. The light, the colouring, the exquisite effect of the soft mists as they slowly arose from the valleys, can be better imagined than described, but as we looked, we thought, Here is a land where Nature has in truth perfected her handiwork!

The yacht was moving gently on, there was barely a ripple on the water, and, seemingly, we were within a stone's throw of the shore. A little sandy beach ran along the edge of the sea, then rose banks all mossy and ferny, with undulating grass-fields and conical hills, with great clumps of oak and beech trees scattered about. Then came a region of dark fir-woods, mingled with the tender green of the weeping birches. Farther away still were steep hills and rugged mountains, their sides all covered with vast forests, stretching away far as the eye could reach, whilst above their dark shaggy masses rose the majestic peaks of a distant range, glistening white in their dazzling covering of eternal snow. Cattle and sheep were wandering over the rich pastures, but peaceful as the country appeared, peace is, in reality, the blessing most unknown to it. War is constantly raging, and the smiling plain and pretty thickets before us have been the scene of many a fierce struggle.

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