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A WAYFA&ER IN
YUGOSLAVIA

by

LOVETT FIELDING EDWARDS

With 16 plates
and endpaper maps

NEW YORK
ROBERT M. McBRIDE & COMPANY

1939

CONTENTS

I. THE GATEWAY TO YUGOSLAVIA: SUSAK . . I
Prelude in Sarajevo: SuSak, the Frontier Gate: Trsat:

The Last Countess: the Church of the Frankopans:
Introduction to the Karst: Futine: A pan- Slav beano:
Old Allies.

II. THE ISLAND OF THE FRANKOPANS: KRK . . 15

Tunny ladders: The Gates of Senj: Ivo of Senj: The
Frankopans again: BaSka: Fruits of the sea: The Place
of the Dead: The Croat sacred script: Dom Vinko:
<Boce>.

III. LOVE AND LOBSTERS: RAB 30

Hermits and nudists: Rab, the place of the living: Wine
and lobsters: Storm-bound: Interlude with Poldi.

IV. THE FJORD OF THE GIANTS: ZRMANJA . . 39

Along the Velebit: Gendarmes and Dolphins: The
Military Frontiers: Slavonic Gods; Forgotten seas:
Obrovac: 'The Matchmaker 9 : Karin and Benkovac:
Yugoslav penny bloods.

V. CRUISERS AND CATHEDRALS: SlBENIK 53

Stage entrance: The Cathedral of Sibenik: A talkative
priest: The Falls of the Krka: Paean to elderly English-
women: Visovac, an island monastery: Skradin;
malaria and goats.

vi. VANISHED GLORIES: BIOGRAD AND VRANA . . 64

An idealistic hotelkeeper: The Wedding of the Sea:
Croat Sea-power: Vrana of the Templars: Ottoman
Hans: Zlarin: Coral fishing and emigration.

VII. REBELLIOUS SPLIT 74

Diocletian, his trout: A historical labyrinth: Rebellious
Split: Deliverance from Pharaoh: The people of the
mountains: Salona: A Roman menu: Bulid and Shaw:
The winds of Kits.

via. CITY OF PIRATES: OMI V 86

Medieval racketeers: The Gorge of the Cctina: The
Republic of Poljice: Corpus Christi on Brae: Povlje:
A very bad donkey: Selca t a village of stonemasons:
Toma Rosandit, a great artist.

Vlii A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

IX. THE ISLAND OF WINE: VIS ..... 96

The wines of ] r is: KomiZa: The Sense of smt-ll: Ifaechus
and Freud: Miracles, true and false: Vis: I'chi Lufat:
The Cathedral of Korfula: The-MoreZka Dance: The
Nerctva estuary: Elusive pelicans.

X. DXJBROVNIK ........ IO8

A Pearl of Great Price: The Feast of St. Wahn: The
last aristocrat: Literary glories: Three things unfaithful:
Dubrtrvnik River: St. Paul at Mttila: Mnn&wse.$:
Cartat: Ivan McStravic, another great artist.

XL THE BOKA KOTORSKA ...... 124

The Guild of St. Trifun: Seafaring tradition: Entrance
to the ftoka: The hie of the Dead: An unhnntiintttire
guide: Kotnr: llerccgnovi; The monastery of Sarinti:
A peasant from the city: Kutira: Sfilocer: Famine on
board: The Montenegrin Railway.

xn, CORSAIR CITY: ULCINJ ...... 133

Two thousand years of piracy: Pirate tales: The \egrws
of Ulcinj: Loquacious barbers: The Languages of OW;
Amorous complications: The Salt of the KU* th: tthartic*
ter of the Albanians: Fortress of Ghnsts.

XIIL LAND OF THE BLACK MOUNTAIN .... 144

Old and AVc Bar: tius travel in Yutyishtria; The
Whirlpool Market: The Lake of Skadar: llhturv /
Montenegro: KjegoSt J^wf, Prince, and rrthite:
Character of the Montenegrins: Cetinje: The A'w;*m'*<
Gorge: The Lwcen Road.

XIV. FROM EAST TO WEST: SARAJEVO IN TRANSITION. 156

Farezi'clt to the Sty: The Karst again: ftusnittn //ttr/;Vif
andMtislcMSjPotitelj: Mostar; lyater-buttlt*: Mttstafffs
shop: HtiS-Cartija; a lesson in tiring: Surtijwtt in
transition: The 'swdatinke* : Turkish dam ing ; A
historian.

XV, THE FOREST COUNTRY ...... 174

The Timber Industry: r&oko: Tr&xmik: fYw* Rv
Jajce: A tiognmil catacomb: Ottoman nth* in dt
ation: The JPliva lake: Through the forests: tfrn
Prijcdor.

XVI. TRAPPISTS AND TURKS: BANJA LUKA . |88

liwija Luke, City of the rfoiers: A Moslem suwntt -r
resort: Fish-breeding: The Bmnitm ficuyittnt: The
melancholy carp; A Peasant Spti: Maria Stern, <i
Trappist monastery; Modern GentMn Art,

CONTENTS IX

XVII. ZAGREB 194

Matija Gubec, tradition and fact: Great modern church
art: The McStrovic crucifix: The Yugoslav theatre;
Krleza and Nusic: Aristocratic tradition: Virtues and
vices of Zagreb: On the Slijeme: A peasant festival:
St. Florijan does his stuff.

XVIII. SLOVENIA 203

The Slovene language: Slovene history: The Counts of
Celje: Maribor: Gothic and baroque Ptuj : The Orpheus
Stone: Libations to Liber and Liber a: Crna Breg:
Mountains and moonlight: Slovene reminiscences:
Triglav: An international train: Slovenjgradec.

XIX. YUGOSLAV SYNTHESIS I BELGRADE . . . . 2l8

Zetnun, its storks: Danube barge-dogs: History of
Zemun: History of Belgrade: Virtues and vices of
Belgrade: A City of Gourmets: Mt. Avala: Foreign
Affairs: Oplenac, the Royal Mausoleum: Life and
Death of Karageorge: Mosaics: The Death of King
Alexander.

XX. THE HOME OF CAUSES WON: SOUTH SERBIA . 241

Marko Kratjevic* Hero of the Serbs: The Yugoslav
National Ballads: Sava, saint and statesman: Prizren:
Bathing by bus: The Medieval Monasteries: History of
the Serb 'Patriarchate: Lost in Pec: A Moslem Host:
Markov Monastir: Good-bye to Yugoslavia,

BIBLIOGRAPHY 262

INDEX 265

ILLUSTRATIONS

FROM THE LAKE OF SKADAR .... Frontispiece

facing page
RAB* 32

PEASANTS FROM THE LIRA 42

LIKA PEASANTS AT OBROVAC 48

Photo: Author

MENDING NETS, ISLAND OF SILBA* 70

KOMI&A IOO

Photo: Author

GATEWAY OF THE PALACE OF THE RECTORS, DUBROVNIK . 112

BUDVA 121

YUGOSLAV ROYAL SUMMER PALACE, AT MILO&SR, NEAR

BUDVA 132

A MONTENEGRIN 148

SARAJEVO l6o

Photo: Foto Tausch, Sarajevo

A SELLER OF *BOZA,' A TEMPERANCE DRINK* . . . 180
ZAGREB: FROM THE STROSMAJER ALLEY . . . .196
SLOVENE COSTUME

SOUTH SERBIAN COSTUME

STREET IN OHRID 250

FROM TETOVO IN SOUTH SERBIA. WATCHING A WEDDING

PROCESSION* 256

* Photo: Putfdk

MAPS

YUGOSLAVIA Front endpapers

THE COAST OF DALMATIA .... Back endpapers

NOTE

ON THE PRONUNCIATION OF YUGOSLAV NAMES

IN this book I have made no attempt to anglicize
Yugoslav proper names, with the exception of Belgrade
(Serbo-Croat: Beograd) and Yugoslavia (Serbo-Croat:
Jugoslavia), which would seem absurd to an English
reader in their proper form.

Otherwise I have used the Latin Croatian spelling
throughout. Slovene has the same phonetics and the
same alphabet, Serb the same phonetics but the Cyrillic
alphabet.

Serb and Croat are practically the same, with slight
dialect differences, with which it is unnecessary to worry
the average reader. Slovene is different, but with similar
orthography, so that no one need anticipate any difficulties.
All the South Slav dialects are mutually comprehensible,
including Bulgarian, though in the case of Slovene a certain
amount of oral practice is advisable. Speaking Serbo-
Croat reasonably well, I can travel easily and make myself
everywhere understood from Mt. Triglav to the Black
Sea. Most educated persons in Croatia and Slovenia
speak German and French, in Dalmatia, German,
Italian, and often English, in Serbia and South Serbia,
French. In all large towns there is a group of English-
speaking persons, usually with a club.

Serbo-Croat is strictly phonetic. One sound is almost
designated by one character; in the Cyrillic alphabet
always. The foreigner cannot go far wrong if he uses
'continental' vowels and English consonants, with the
following exceptions:

c is always ts, as in cats. Example: Car Tsar, "ica" is
common geographical ending, e.g. Planica Planitsa, or
Crikvenica Tsnkvenitsa .

XIV A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

is ch in church. Example: Caak -Chachak.

6 is similar, but softer, as t in the Cockney pronunciation
of tube. Most Serb and many Croat and Slovene family
names end in L
For practical purposes and 6 may be regarded as the same.

dj is English j in judge, the English j in fact.

dS is practically the same, but harder. It is usually found in
words of Turkish origin, e.g. dfcamija = mosque.

/ is always soft, the English y. Example: Jugoslavia
Yugoslavi(y)a. After n or /, it merely softens those
consonants, without being separately pronounced, as
n in news. Examples: Ulcinj and Bitolj. In the Cyrillic
nj and Ij are single letters.

r is sometimes a vowel, strongly rolled. Hence such words
as trg square, or vrh summit. Crna Gora Ts(e)ma
Gora Montenegro .

is sh, as in shake. Example: Suak Sushak.

& is zh y as % in azure. E.g. 2upa Zhupa; cf. French j in
jamais.

A WAYFARER IN
YUGOSLAVIA

I

THE GATEWAY TO YUGOSLAVIA: SUAK

I AM beginning this book on a Wednesday, because
the old Moslem astrologer told me to. I had been to
see him before, and was drawn to consult him again;
perhaps because of my love for learned men of all creeds
which the stars had told him was in my character. He
was sitting cross-legged in his little booth in the Sarajevo
market, with a pile of dog-eared Arabic books beside
him. His face, beneath his turban of gold lace, was good-
humoured and lined. Mustafa and I greeted him:

'Merhaba!'

and squatted opposite him on the wooden plank that
served him for bed and counter. He stared at my Western
dress, and put two pairs of scratched crystal spectacles
on his watery old eyes before he recognized me. Then
he sent his apprentice out for coffee.

We started chatting, Mustafa asked him how old
he was.

*I am seventy-six/

'And how many children have you?'

'Nine. The youngest is eighteen months/

Decidedly the stars love their votaries !

It was five years since I had last consulted the stars.
Would I care to consult them again? He smiled good-
humouredly:

'I can tell you what is written there, but dear Allah
alone knows if they speak the truth.'

Mustafa, too, smiled: 'At least we can see.'

The old man searched among his books for his guide
to the stars, and then asked me my name and those of
my father and mother. The strange English sounds
worried him, and he kept repeating them to get them

2 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

right. He noted them down in Arabic characters, and
from them calculated the mystic number that was to tell
me my fate. Then he murmured an Arabic prayer and
turned to his book, with his huge tomato-coloured nose
almost touching the page.

'Speak Serbian/ said Mustafa. The gospodin under-
stands.'

He began murmuring in a broad Bosnian dialect,
which I could scarcely follow, and had to keep turning to
Mustafa for explanation. He spoke much about the
influences of the stars and about illnesses and family
affairs, the principal subjects on which his clients usually
consulted him. Some of his guesses were startlingly near
the truth, and others I hope may become so. Then he
said that I was a great traveller, and Mustafa gently
interposed that I was even now on a long journey through
all Yugoslavia. Finally he ended:

'And, my son, whenever you wish to ask a favour of
any man, approach him on the right, and whenever
you wish to succeed in any venture, commence it on a
Wednesday/ and closed his book.

Therefore I have commenced this book on a Wed-
nesday.

Sugak is the gateway to Yugoslavia, but few people
linger in the gate. But it is worth while, and I determined
to remain a day or two before going south.

It is not in itself an interesting town, being compara-
tively modern. Until the Great War it was a suburb of
Rijeka (Fiume), which the condottiere exploits of
D'Annunzio forced the Yugoslavs to hand over to the
Italians, despite the terms of the peace treaty. Fifty years
ago it was a few woodstores and one house, and the
suburb of Brajdica was a marsh given over entirely to
frogs. But there are some interesting places close at hand.

Trsat, for example. In the days when SuSak was a

NOTE

ON THE PRONUNCIATION OF YUGOSLAV NAMES

IN this book I have made no attempt to anglicize
Yugoslav proper names, with the exception of Belgrade
(Serbo-Croat: Beograd) and Yugoslavia (Serbo-Croat:
Jugoslavia), which would seem absurd to an English
reader in their proper form.

Otherwise I have used the Latin Croatian spelling
throughout. Slovene has the same phonetics and the
same alphabet, Serb the same phonetics but the Cyrillic
alphabet.

Serb and Croat are practically the same, with slight
dialect differences, with which it is unnecessary to worry
the average reader. Slovene is different, but with similar
orthography, so that no one need anticipate any difficulties.
All the South Slav dialects are mutually comprehensible,
including Bulgarian, though in the case of Slovene a certain
amount of oral practice is advisable. Speaking Serbo-
Croat reasonably well, I can travel easily and make myself
everywhere understood from Mt. Triglav to the Black
Sea. Most educated persons in Croatia and Slovenia
speak German and French, in Dalmatia, German,
Italian, and often English, in Serbia and South Serbia,
French. In all large towns there is a group of English-
speaking persons, usually with a club.

Serbo-Croat is strictly phonetic. One sound is almost
designated by one character; in the Cyrillic alphabet
always. The foreigner cannot go far wrong if he uses
'continental' vowels and English consonants, with the
following exceptions:

c is always ts> as in cats. Example: Car Tsar, "ica" is
common geographical ending, e.g. Planica Planitsa, or
Crikvenica Tsnkvenitsa.

4 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

is still fiercely debated by professors. But the real power
of the Croatian people was held by a few noble families,
of which the most important were the Subid-Zrinjskis
and the Frankopans. One still finds traces of their rule
all along the coast as far south as Trogir. Trsat became
one of the most important Frankopan strongholds.

But it was in May 1291 that the miracle occurred that
made Trsat famous. Visitors may interpret it according
to their degree of faith or credibility. It was then that
the angels brought from Nazareth to Trsat the house of
the Virgin, performing this feat of house-moving in a
single night and placing the holy house on the site of
the present Frankopan church. But apparently the people
of Trsat were considered unworthy of so great a trust,
for in February 1294 the angelic messengers again
removed the holy building, this time to Recanati in
Italy, where it is still famous as the shrine of Loretto,
But Trsat has always remained a place of pious pilgrimage.

The castle remained the property of the Frankopans
until that unlucky family was at last extinguished by the
execution of the last of the line for high treason at
Wiener-Neustadt in 1671. Thence it passed through
many hands and was much neglected until at last in
1826 it became the property of the Austrian Count
Nugent, of an Anglo-French family distantly connected
with the Frankopans. The last of that family, the old
Countess Nugent, still lives in its battered ruins, and
there I determined to visit her.

It was a sufferingly hot day. But even many years of
Yugoslavia have not accustomed me to the siesta habit.
I toiled slowly up the stairway and asked the way to the
old castle, which I found in a small side street, marked
with the cosmopolitan notice :

Entree u grad.

SuSak was occupied by the Italians between 1918 and
1923, and the castle suffered more in that short time than

THE GATEWAY TO YUGOSLAVIA: SUAK 5

in the many centuries that preceded it. Several bombs
were dropped on it, and the ancient towers are badly
damaged and few of the roofs intact. Those who know it
from pre-war postcards will get a rude shock when they
see it. Of the magnificent collection of paintings by
da Vinci, Titian, Correggio, and many others, only a few
portraits remain, miserably housed.

The glory is departed. But its shadow remains, more
fascinating perhaps than the substance.

The last of the Nugents is a magnificent ruin, like her
castle. She is very old, very poor and almost blind, but
she still retains the manner of a grande dame. At first
I spoke to her in Croatian, but as she answered in French,
went on in that language. Sitting there on a bench just
inside the gate, she looked rather like an old tortoise
basking in the sun, but her language and manner were
those of the vanished Imperial Court. More than once
she has flatly refused entrance to tourists who have not
shown her respect.

To me she showed signal honour, rising to show me
the strange heraldic beast in bronze that is the arms of
the Nugents. It is really a fantastic conception of that
most fantastic of all arts. With the head of a cock, it
combines the wings of a bat, the tail of a snake, and the
breast of some powerful and unidentified beast, possibly
a lion. This strange animal typifies the virtues of the
family: alertness, speed, cunning, and power. Alas, they
are no more, but on the pedestal beneath the motto of
the clan may still be read. It is in Croat: 'Odlucio sam',
I have determined.

Then she hobbled back to her seat and directed her
one remaining retainer to show me the castle.

It is alive with history. But how many of the fantastic
tales told me by the old custodian were true, it was hard
to determine. For the Frankopans were a ferocious
brood. Here is the niche where the beautiful young wife
of Nikola Frankopan was walled up alive, and in the

6 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

oubliettes were found the skeletons of 656 men. Once,
too, there was a secret passage to Rijeka, but it is now
blocked up. It crosses the frontier, and would be too
great a temptation for smugglers.

I dislike funerals, but have a weakness for graveyards.
That of the Trsat castle is in the form of a tiny semicircle
around the old chapel, and on the wall-niches may be
seen the names of many famous Nugents and their
relations, the Sforzas and Pallavicinis. One niche has
been left for the old countess herself, who is now eighty-
six. May she eventually rest more peacefully than her
relations, for one of their graves had been pillaged the
week before my visit by a party of Greek sailors looking
for ghastly souvenirs. Ghouls! They would have satis-
fied their beastly tastes better by stealing some of the
medieval instruments of torture, of which there is a good
collection in the chapel itself. One tablet in particular
moved me deeply. It is on the grave of a young English-
woman who died during a visit to the countess. Amongst
those famous and titled names, it reads quite simply:
Jane Shaw.

But it is not merely to gloom about mortality that it
is worth while to visit Trsat. From the so-called Roman
tower one can look far out over the Quarnero, with its
astonishing patchwork of colour on sea and land. The
winds of the Quarnero are fickle and capricious, coming
and going without apparent reason, and under their
gentle pressure the sea towards evening turns to the
most extravagant colours : cobalt, ultramarine, deep
reddish purple, green, and the wonderful deep Adria blue.

Not that the Quarnero is always so mild. In winter
the winds are terrible, and the offerings of sailors who
have escaped their fury almost fill the Church of Our
Lady of Trsat, which was built by the Frankopans on
the site of the vanished House of the Virgin, stolen
so the people of Trsat put it by the angels and trans-
ported to Italy.

THE GATEWAY TO YUGOSLAVIA: SUAK 7

I walked in there after leaving the castle and looked
around. On a slab in the main aisle is an inscription
stating that beneath lies the head of that most famous
knight of Klis, Petar Kruzic, the Uskok leader. But there
was no one there to tell me of its historical associations,
so I looked mostly at the many pictures of sailing ships
battling with the waves, and read the pious vows of those
who had survived.

Most of them were local vessels which had escaped from
the dreaded Quarnero, but now and again they came from
farther afield. One particularly spirited drawing had the
inscription, in Croat:

The ship Sssent Laszlo of the Royal Hungarian Lloyd, which
lost her rudder on June 8, 1893, in the St. George's Channel.
In memory of her fortunate arrival at Holyhead. Donated
by the officers., Captain Felice Franscics.

Needless to say, the vast majority of the former Austro-
Hungarian naval and merchant sailors were Croats.

Amongst these offerings appears, somewhat incongru-
ously, a double-page newspaper illustration of the sinking
of the Titanic in 1912.

In the evening there is not very much to do or see at
SuSak. One can walk up and down the Corso and admire
the local beauties, sit in one of the caf6s, or go to the
little 'Zemun' restaurant on the island by the frontier
bridge, which serves Serbian specialities, and where you
may reach out your hand and touch Italy. Most of the
local people have frontier passes and go into Rijeka or
to Abbazia (Opatija). There I went too, to spend the
evening, and regretted it.

For there is a bad side to the development of tourism.
To imagine the beautiful Dalmatian coast turned into a
greater Abbazia would be a nightmare. The place is a
welter of hotels, restaurants and 'bars' ; bars, I mean, in
the continental sense, which means poor cabaret shows,
expensive drinks and animierdamen. There is scarcely

8 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

a place where the sea is not cut off by some notice of
private possession. It is like one of Mr. Wells's pleasure-
cities of the future, which I hope we shall never see.
But it seems to please the Magyars, who are the principal
guests. Personally, I went back into Yugoslavia with
relief.

The next day was still hot, but I could not leave Susak
yet. I was waiting for some letters. Therefore I deter-
mined to make a short trip into the Gorski Kotar. There,
on the mountains and in the forest, it would at least be
cool, and I could be back by the evening.

But to get there one has to travel through a wide band
of barren karst. Every one who has been to Dalmatia
knows the karst. It is characteristic and inescapable.
But its desolate wildness adds a greater charm by contrast
to the little fertile poljes and the old cities by the seashore.

It is a vast stretch of limestone rock, reaching from
Istria down to Albania and beyond. The stone is bare
and porous, so that it can hold little earth and less water.
It is almost impossible to scratch a living out of it, for
the forests that once held the soil precariously in place
have long ago been felled by Turks or Venetians, and
what they left the goats have destroyed. It is fantastically
honeycombed by huge caves and ghylls, where the
Dalmatian rivers appear and disappear at will. Several,
like the Ombla or the Bosna, spring full grown out of the
rocky hillside, while their upper courses wind darksomely
among the mountain caverns, impossible to trace. The
soil, such as it is, is collected into tiny pockets among the
stones, vrtaci, too shallow for the plough, and may yield
a few ears of maize only after long and painful toil with
the hoe. The few towns or villages of the inland karst
are situated on the poljes, which are for the most part
river valleys where there is soil and water, and these
make up for the barrenness of the land by an extraordinary
fertility. Sometimes these rivers are seasonal, flooding
the poljes in spring till they become vast lakes, and

THE GATEWAY TO YUGOSLAVIA: SUAK 9

disappearing in summer into gyhlls or ponors, to continue
their course mysteriously underground until the melting
snows force them once more to the surface. This accounts
for the diverse tales of travellers. Some speak of immense
lakes, where others, a few months later, will find not a
drop of water, but only broad acres of corn or stunted
Bosnian maize or the mathematically exact lines of the
tobacco plants, each field with its little tablet to certify
that the Government tobacco monopoly has numbered
the plants and given permission to the growers. How the
inhabitants of the more distant villages contrive to scrape
a living is a mystery. But they are among the most vigorous
and hardy of the Yugoslavs and make some of the finest
troops in the world. Mostly they have large families, and,
in the days when America was a free country, they used
to emigrate in large numbers. Now, they are one of the
chief sources of energy in the Yugoslav state.

I shall have much to say of the karst later, in Bosnia,
in Montenegro, and in the Hercegovina, where it is
even wilder and more fantastic.

But the sparse rocky soil is especially good for wine
and for olives and figs, which are among the staple
products of Dalmatia, and the people are beginning to
make use of the few bushes which grow naturally in the
interstices of the stones: wild asparagus, pomegranates,
and all manner of medicinal herbs such as capers, salvia,
rosemary, and pyrethrum.

The karst around SuSak is not so rich even in these
few poor products. In the winter the dreaded bora wind
sweeps down with terrific force, uprooting the bushes,
and biting through the most efficient overcoat. At Skrljevo,
where the train halted, the station building was but-
tressed about by tremendous windbreaks of stone. All
along the more exposed portions of the track one may
find these windbreaks, looking like the walls of forgotten
fortresses, for, in the winter, the force of the wind is
enough to derail a train.

10 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

Yet there are compensations in the karst, even for the
tourist. After travelling for an hour or so through a
fantastic lunar landscape where the fields look like for-
gotten graveyards, it is one of the most breath-taking
sights in the world to come suddenly in sight of the
brilliant blue of the Adriatic far below, with its fringe of
steely olive groves, dark cypresses, and terraced vineyards.
And it has a strange beauty of its own, which one admits
grudgingly, but in the end grows to love. It is a beauty
of the Arabian nights, where each stony outcrop may
turn in the evening light to the City of Brass, and where
one would not be surprised to see the sun suddenly
darkened by the wings of Sindbad's roc.

We waited at Skrljevo for the connection from Rijeka.
The air was hot and filled with the humming of insects,
and the swallow-tailed butterflies made patches of colour
on the bare stone. A family of cats, playing on the rails
and under the train, kept us in a fever of anxiety, but they
evidently knew the time-table better than we, for before
the Rijeka connection arrived they were all in safety,
with the mother cat purring satisfaction.

There are strange survivals in these valleys of the
karst. Peoples and customs, long extinct elsewhere,
continue to survive in their barren solitudes. Here, near
Susak, in the Graveyard Valley (Grobnicko Polje), there
are still villages that differ entirely from their Slav neigh-
bours in costumes, features, and manner of life. Possibly
they are descendants of that vanished empire of the
Avars, whose very name has disappeared from Europe.
Or possibly they are descendants of the Tatars, who
were defeated here in 1241, and whose unclean blood,
according to popular tradition, has rendered the valley
for ever barren. Certainly they have still a Mongolian
appearance and a bellicose temperament, and have
managed to survive the terrible carnage of 1522 when
Jakov Dur of Pazin and Ivan Abfalter of Rijeka defeated
the Turks on the same spot.

THE GATEWAY TO YUGOSLAVIA: SUAK II

But I did not want to stop anywhere in the bare karst-
land on so hot a day, so stayed and chatted in the restau-
rant car until we had lost sight of the Adriatic and climbed
into the forest country of the Gorski Kotar. It was all
the same to me where I got out, so waited until I saw a
pleasant little station high up in the mountains, with the
silvery sparkle of a trout-stream in the valley below. It
was Fuzine.

The history of Fuzine may be told in two lines. It was
a hunting lodge of the Subid-Zrinjski family, and was
well known for its swords and pikes in the days when
iron was still smelted by charcoal. Its name is a Slav
corruption of the Italian word for a foundry.

I did not regret my excursion to Fuzine. For one
thing, every one there was smiling, which gave the place
an air of welcome. A single sour face is often enough to
put one off a place so thoroughly that no amount of
natural beauty can make up.

I found the chairman of the local tourist committee
hard at work painting the rooms of the one pension and
mending tables and chairs for the coming season. For
Fuzine wishes to become a tourist resort, and it has all
the natural qualities for one. But foreign visitors, accord-
ing to him, were for the future. The village was proud
of its electric light plant, but wanted a waterworks before
advertising its attractions to the world. Foreign visitors
had been few he looked up his records and said I was
the third Englishman to come here since the war but,
though welcome, he was afraid that the primitive condi-
tions would frighten them. I tried to reassure him. Those
who come to Fuzine will come to fish or to rest, and there
is ample opportunity for both. The village is clean and
the food good ; those who require luxury may go else-
where.

There is an air of hopeful striving about Fuzine.
People are working for the future and talking about the
future, unhampered by the shadows of the past. And the

12 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

one real necessity of the village, a good road, is now
being provided.

I walked up to the Preradovid summit through th
forest to get a general idea of the countryside. The^
cool, soft smell of the pines at mid-day was like a tonic"
after the burning karst. Below in the valley meandered
the crystal ribbon of the Licanka, which has first-class
mountain trout and the most extraordinarily succulent
crayfish. There is a little lake, too, and a bathing place.

Over a low divide is the wide Licko Polje, where the-
people are the descendants of the fierce Uskoks, half
pirates and half patriots, who defended Klis so gallantly
against the Turks, and later made wind-swept Senj a/
place of fear to the Venetian ships so that their namj^
became a proverb: 'Beware the hands of SenjP But the
Austrian emperor destroyed Senj and transported the
Uskoks inland, to act as grammars or frontier troop&-\
against the Turks. There they soon became the finest
soldiers of the old monarchy, and their villages may be
found all along the Croatian military frontiers* Fuzine
is not far from the former frontier.

It was very pleasant up there in the forest, and it was "
almost dark before I found my way down. I was just
able to distinguish the one memorial to the one famous",
citizen of Fuzine, Franjo Racki, the historian of the
Bogumils. When I got back to the railway station, it was
already dark. I had still about two hours to wait for my
train, and the cold air had given me an appetite.

The station was dark and deserted. After wandering
about and bumping my shins on piles of timber and
goods trucks, I set out to find something to eat. A single
light was showing in the window of a tiny kafana, whence
came sounds of music and singing. I stumbled through
a darkened garden and tapped on the pane. The music
stopped. A face looked out, smiling as all the faces in
Fuzine had smiled. 'Come in!*

I entered. The tiny room seemed entirely filled by the

THE GATEWAY TO YUGOSLAVIA: SUAK 13

six men inside. The landlord put down his guitar and
looked at me doubtfully.

'Have you got anything to eat?'

'We haven't got anything suitable for a gospodin.
Only some ham. But there's plenty to drink.'

'He's always trying to sell some one that ham,' remarked
one of the company.

Still, it wasn't bad, fresh and home-cured, and in any
case hunger is always an excellent sauce. I ordered some
wine and determined to wait there for my train.

At first the company seemed ill at ease, till the landlord
asked if I minded the singing. On the other hand I liked
it, and took my wine over to their table. Introductions
were made. It was a real pan-Slav gathering: two were
peasants of the neighbourhood, Croats, one a Czech
commercial traveller, one a Serb, one a Slovene railway
employee, and the sixth one of those nondescript Russians
that one finds everywhere in the Balkans. What was I?
English. Whereon the Serb jumped up and kissed me
vigorously on both cheeks, shouting out: 'An old ally!'

They were all very merry. It was evidently a great
occasion, for they were drinking beer, which is expensive
and not a peasant drink. Personally I dislike the sweet
Yugoslav beer, and stuck to wine. The songs began again,
every one joining in whether they knew the words or
not. The Serb began:

Oj, Morava, moje selo ravno. . . .

until the Czech began a mournful ballad about some
Bohemian worthy and the Russian followed with a
Siberian convict song :

Kak iz ostrovo, iz proklyatovo . . .

Finally the Slovene commenced the most stirring of
all marches: 'Regiment po cesti gre . . .' until all were
shouting the chorus till I thought the rafters would fall.

14 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

The Russian, excited to bursting-point by song and
beer, leapt up excitedly.

'Look at those men!' he shouted. 'They are the finest
soldiers in the world. They can leave the rifle for the
plough, or the plough for the rifle, and beat the finest
armies in the world/

'Shut up, you/ said one of the peasants. 'You never
handled a plough in your life/

'Or a rifle either/ added the Serb.

The Russian subsided and the songs recommenced.
When at last I stumbled out into the darkness, they were
trying to sing Tipperary, which they firmly believed to
be the British national anthem. I caught the fast train
as it was moving out.

My last day at SuSak I went up once more to the votive
church, hoping to find the local priest, to get some more
detailed information from him, or at least some story of
the old days. I found him all right, but my efforts were
cut short by his hospitality. Over a bottle of rakija (plum-
brandy) we discussed democracy, Fascism, Communism,
and religion in England. Again I nearly lost my luncheon
and my boat.

II

THE ISLAND OF THE FRANKOPANS: KRK

THAT afternoon the storm, which had so long been
threatening, broke. We steamed down the Adriatic
in a mist of driving rain and cloud, unusual for May,
and unpleasant. The summits of the Velebit were scarcely
visible in a swirl of vapour, and the tunny-fishing ladders
looked like warning fingers, pointing upwards to dark
and threatening skies.

That day there were no watchers. The sea was rough,
and the chances of fishing bad. But on a clear day, or
even more on a clear starlit night, the fishermen sit there
unmoving, watching the surface of the waters. Usually
they are at the entrances to narrow coves, where the tunny
come in to feed. From his high perch, twenty or thirty
feet above the water, the watcher can see far down into
the depths and pick out, by day, the dark forms of the
shoal, or by night the light shining on their scales. They
are organized in small bands, each taking his two-hours'
watch on the ladder. When the shoal is well within the
bay, they close the entrance with nets and gradually
round up the mass of giant fish. For the tunny grows
to a very large size, and its steak-like flesh, preserved in
oil, is a great delicacy. A good catch may prove the
fortune of a group of fishermen, and there are great
rejoicings when it is brought to port in one of the tiny
fishing villages.

These tunny-ladders are typical of the Quarnero and
the Croatian coast, but I have never seen them much
south of Rab, or in Greece, despite the many references
to the tunny in classical literature.

There are two routes to Baska, where I had determined
to stop. But the more usual and far the more interesting

l6 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

is down the narrow channel between the Velebit and the
high, rocky shores of the island of Krk. The ship passes
by Bakar, to stop at Kraljevica, Crikvenica, Novi Vinodol,
Selce, and Senj, all of them important places in the
history of Croatia, and all connected with the rule of the
Zrinjski and Frankopan families, who so long held the
lordship in these waters.

At Kraljevica the whole town is in the shadow of the
Zrinjski castle, while at Novi of Vinodol the companion
castle of the Frankopans is scarcely less impressive. It
was here that was signed the famous Statute of Vinodol
in 1266, a most remarkable document for its time, which
for many years served as the charter of liberty for the
semi-independent district of the Wine Valley, which
stretched up into Istria.

Crikvenica, on the other hand, though tracing its
origin to a Greek colony, has an air of modernity, given
it by two great modern hotels. Indeed, it is one of the
most fashionable resorts on the whole coast. But it was
still too early for bathing, so, despite a most pressing
invitation, I did not stop.

Senj, however, is far the most interesting of these little
places. It is famous both for its stormy weather and its
stormy history. There is nearly always a slight swell in
the open roadstead, even on the calmest days, while
directly opposite, between the islands of Krk and Prvic,
is the notorious Gates of Senj, the Senjska Vrata. Many
of the spirited drawings in the Trsat church commemor-
ated successful navigations of these troublous waters.

Once it was a walled and independent city, the home
of the Uskoks, desperate refugees from the Neretva
valley, who refused to surrender to the Turks, and made
a last stand for freedom in rocky Senj. And very success-
fully they managed it. For many years Senj was an
independent state, even having its own emissaries in
the Western courts of Europe, especially Spain. The fame
of its greatest leader, Ivo of Senj, was not restricted to

THE ISLAND OF THE FRANKOPANSt KRK 17

his city. He fought at Lepanto in 1571, in Cyprus, in
Egypt, and in the Morea, and at the great battle of the
Kupa in Bosnia in 1593 is said to have performed the
almost incredible feat of routing fifty thousand Turks
with only eight hundred of his ferocious Uskoks !

His exploits have doubtless been exaggerated by the
popular poets, the odds growing greater with each
generation. But undoubtedly he was a mighty warrior,
and the story of his death is one of the most beautiful
of the Yugoslav heroic ballads.

A dream has dreamt the mother of Ivo.

Darkness she saw fall upon Senj,

The clear heavens burst asunder,

The shimmering moon fell down to earth,

On the church of St. Rose in the midst of Senj.

And the stars were swept across the sky,
And the dawn rose up all red with blood,
And the cuckoo bird she heard a-calling,
In the midst of Senj, on Senj's white church.

When from her dream the dame awakened,
Her staff she took in her right hand,
And went forthwith to St. Rose's church;
And there she told the Archpriest Nedeljko,
Told him all that she had dreamed.

And when the old man had heard her out,
'Twas thus he did expound the dream:

Hear me, O hear me, aged mother!
'Twas an evil dream, and worse shall befall.
That darkness fell on the town of Senj,
Is that desolate it shall remain.
That the clear heavens burst asunder
And the shimmering moon fell down to earth,
It is that Ivo is to die.
C

l8 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

That the stars were swept across the sky,
It is that many a widow shall be.
That the dawn rose up all red with blood,
It is that thou shalt be left to weep :
That the cuckoo bird by St. Rose sang,
It is that the Turks shall plunder it,
And me in my old age they shall slay.

(From tram. Prof. Seton-Watson.)

Later, Senj was under Austrian military government,
which destroyed the trade of the city and depraved its
inhabitants. The Abbe Fortis, writing in 1787, says of
Senj: 'The military government of Lika always opposes
the commercial views of Segna, and even distresses it
in many respects.' Yet he still finds traces of the old
nobility of spirit. 'It is now but thinly peopled, the
number of inhabitants not amounting to seven thousand ;
yet, notwithstanding this, and all other disadvantages,
the people have a politeness of manner that is not to
be met with in any other place of the Austrian coast,
not even among the Venetian subjects of those parts.'
Later neglect further reduced the city to about four
thousand, which it numbered at the liberation in 1918,
and now that the new railway line runs straight through
the Lika to Split, it is not likely to recover its prosperity.

The huge machicolated castle watching over the
harbour is the famous Nehaj (Fear-not).

Old Fortis is a good guide, with a sarcastic turn of
phrase that is very readable. He saw Dalmatia at its very
worst, and does not hesitate to lay about him, manfully,
whether at Venetian neglect, Austrian militarism, or
local sloth. Although himself a priest, he does not spare
his own order, when, as so often at that time, it was idle
and vicious. Although an Italian, he has a good under-
standing of, and sympathy with, the Croats and 'Mor-
lacchi' as he calls them. He is a first-class observer in
all forms of natural history, a practical man who would
to-day be called an economist and a fine antiquarian m

THE ISLAND OF THE FRANKOPANS I KRK ig

But he does not suffer fools gladly. Tor those who are
ignorant, or know little of this science (natural history),
are commonly the most severe and illiberal in their
accusations.' Alas, that it is only too true of himself when
he deals with Slav etymologies, where he makes some of
the most startling howlers !

From Senj, we passed through the formidable Senjska
Vrata to Krk. The island is full of violent contrasts, a
regular Dalmatia in miniature. On the side facing the
Velebit, it is rough and craggy, with a fringe of forest,
rare in Dalmatia. On the western side, it is terraced
karst, sloping down to beautiful bathing beaches in
sheltered bays. It has, too, a distinct character of its own,
different from that of the other islands. Perhaps this is
due to its history ; for four hundred years it was the
principal seat of the Frankopans, who were probably
local Slav nobles in origin. The derivation from the
ancient Roman patrician family of Frangipani, one of
the last of the senatorial families, the gens Anicius, was
probably due to a typical piece of medieval flattery on
the part of Pope Martin V, whom Nikola Frankopan
visited in Rome in 1426. The wily pope wished to have
the support of such powerful princes, and led them to
believe that they were of ancient Roman origin. The
adoption of the Frangipani arms, two golden lions
breaking bread, frangens panem, a memory of the great
flood in Rome in 717, only dates from the fifteenth
century. Before that time the princes of Krk used the
coat of arms of the island, gold stars on a white ground.
The first Venetian governor of the island, and incidentally
its first historian, Antonio Vinciguerra (1480), says that
they were of Slav origin, and, although he was no friend
of the Frankopans, there is no reason to suppose that
he deliberately lied. Fortis repeats some of his bad
opinions. Perhaps the name is from Franko Ban, which
is a Slav title borrowed from the Avars.

Like most powerful medieval nobles, they were a

20 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

turbulent brood. The island of Krk and all the cities
of the nearby mainland are full of their fortresses, their
churches, and their monastery bequests. But, despite
Vinciguerra, it seems that they, or at any rate the compara-
tive freedom that they represented, were beloved of the
people of Krk. The present national costume, which is
now slowly dying out, a melancholy affair of heavy
black cloth, is said to have been adopted in memory of
the last of the Princes of Krk, who was cheated out of
his inheritance by the Venetians.

I had heard the story often before, but was lucky
enough while in Baska to get the words of a folk-song
which the peasants still sing, and which commemorates,
accurately enough, the Venetian treachery. I give it in
free translation, only regretting that I cannot reproduce
the characteristic dialect peculiar to the island.

When the pale Venetians
With armament of galleys
Set sail to Omisalj,
Came ashore a party
To invite Prince Ivan
To a great rejoicing.

When all were together
Drinking the red wine,
They bore away our Ivan
To the Cresko More.

Then the Prince, our Ivan,
Bitterly regarded
How the faithless Venetian
Had bitterly deceived him :

*O my lovely towers,
Lovely and spacious,
How beautifully I built you !
And now I dare not
Come once more to you.

THE ISLAND OF THE FRANKOPANS: KRK 21

'To whom shall I leave you?
To the skimming swallows
That on summer evenings
Fly above thy towers.
To me a sad memorial
And to the world, accusing
The treachery of Venice.'

Under the Frankopans the people of Krk were free
peasant farmers, and under Venetian rule they were not
serfs. One notices, even today, amongst them a freer
and more independent manner than amongst the people
of neighbouring Rab, who were more or less serfs until
the liberation of 1918.

When we arrived at Baska the rain had stopped and
the sea, after the welter of the Senjska Vrata, seemed
calm and peaceful. Half the population were on the quay
waiting for the boat. Indeed, that is one of the regular
pleasures of any small Dalmatian town, and the visitors
soon join the townsfolk. After all, there is a certain
pleasure in watching a ship come in, and who knows what
future friend or acquaintance may be among the new-
comers ?

I hate being hurried into any hotel before I can have
a look round, so evaded the efficient porters with names
on their caps, and asked an old fisherman to take my
luggage into the village. But I was taken by the air of a
somewhat older man who asked me pleasantly if I wanted
a room. He turned out to be an official of the local
municipality who kept a small hotel where, he told me,
most of the commercial travellers put up on their rounds.
In England that would be no recommendation. But
throughout Central and Eastern Europe you cannot do
better than follow the gentlemen of the road. They know
by experience where the rooms are clean and cheap, the
food good and abundant, and, in particular, where is
the best wine. I have used this rule through most of the
Balkans and have never known it to fail.

22 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

This time it succeeded admirably. The Pension
Grandic was a pleasant place, where the good-humoured
host and hostess made one feel at home at once. Further-
more, the cook, as I afterwards discovered in conversation,
had been trained in the smartest restaurant in Belgrade,
the Dva Ribara, and came to Baska every year, partly
for business and partly on vacation. He knew all about
the many and excellent Adriatic fish, and which were
best fried, grilled, or steamed.

The traveller who does not eat fish on the Adriatic
coast is like the man who orders ham and eggs in a Chinese
restaurant. I have watched fat Germans struggling in
the heat with indifferent wiener-schnitzels and wondered
why they ever left the fatherland. For there is a rich
aquarium from which to select. In the northern waters
there are scampi, or Adriatic prawns, and excellent
oysters for those who like them. A really skilful cook will
usually manage to get from the local fishermen more
exotic crustaceans, mussels, prstici or 'little fingers',
datule, and other fruits of the sea. Then there are always
first-class lobsters and salt-water crayfish, as well as that
fearsome-looking Adriatic crab, which is bright pink with
long spidery legs like a child's drawing.

As regards the real fishes, their name is legion. Nearly
all of them are best grilled in oil. But here I must sound
a note of warning for the eager gourmet. The Dalmatian
oil is first-class, but it is unrefined, and the smell of the
pressed olives still clings about it. Like Greek rezzinato,
when you get a taste for it, you prefer it to its more refined
relations. But if you haven't, then ask for your fish to be
cooked in refined 'French' oil.

The Dalmatians are not master cooks. They have none
of the subtleties. But they can choose and grill a fish to
perfection. The tunny, for instance, is heavy and meatlike,
best eaten cold and preserved in oil, with rakija, of which
more later, as an accompaniment. The zubatac, well-
named the toothy, is firm fleshed and considered a great

THE ISLAND OF THE FRANKOPANS: KRK 23

delicacy, though I myself prefer the cipol, which the
Dalmatians unfairly neglect. The orad, with a head too
big for its body, is also best grilled, while the molo is
perhaps the only Adriatic fish that is better cooked or
steamed. Avoid the morena; it is a mouthful of bones.
But the little gaily-coloured barbone are very delicate
eating. A good cook will not grill these too much, or
they may become dry. Less delicate, but excellent for
a quick light meal, are grilled fresh sardines. We are so
used to seeing the sardine come, cooked and headless,
out of a tin that I have known English visitors deny that
they are the same fish. They are. And they are also
excellent salted, as an hors d'ceuvres.

This question of eating and drinking is very important,
and I shall return to it again later on, not only for Dalmatia,
but for other districts of Yugoslavia as well, for each
region has its own delicacies and its own cuisine. For one
thing, there is a good deal of truth in the saying: tell me
what you eat and I will tell you what you are. Another
and more practical reason is that a disordered tummy is
a most uncomfortable travelling companion. And it is
even more irritating when it is not necessary. But begin-
ners in Dalmatia must be careful about the oil.

The cook and I rapidly made friends. Every artist
likes to be appreciated, and his handling of grilled
scampi was a work of art. I won his heart by a success-
ful experiment in using some of the local herbs as
flavourings.

Next morning the bora had blown itself out and had
taken with it the clouds and the rain. Baska looked fresh
and new- washed in the clear sunlight of an early summer
day. There were not many visitors. For one thing, it
was still too early, and for another two of the principal
hotels are Czech-owned, and Hitler's malevolent inten-
tions were keeping the Czechs in their own country. For
myself, I enjoyed BaSka the more, but I sympathized
with the islanders who look to tourists for the jam, if

24 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA -

not the bread and butter, of their lives. So I wandered
about Baska almost alone.

It is a charming little place, less neat and tidy than
other Dalmatian towns, and with few traces of its long
history. The earliest inscription I found was 1525, on
a house of the extraordinarily prolific Desantic family.
Finally I decided to walk up to the church of Sokola and
the village on the hill above Baska, whence there must
be a magnificent view over the town and the sea.

With the customary pig-headedness of the explorer,
however, I omitted to ask the way, and soon found
myself stumbling uphill through a wilderness of slaty,
sharp-edged stones and wild honeysuckles. The walls of
the village and the tower of the church never seemed to
come any nearer. I felt like Parsifal mounting painfully
to Montsalvat. Certainly I had been a pure fool to
attempt this route, and I would have given the Holy
Grail itself for a jugful of cold wine.

When I got eventually to the wall of the churchyard
and stumbled over it, I realized exactly how big a fool
I had been. It was the cemetery church of Baska, shuttered
and closed save on funeral occasions, while what I had
taken to be a village was merely a few larger tombs and
the remains of ancient Corinth, deserted some time in
the dark ages of the barbarian invasions.

It was a city of the dead. But at least it was cool and
pleasant and wind-swept. I could not help thinking that
later, when the summer heats begin, the dead would fare
better than the living. I was also somewhat annoyed when
I saw a perfectly good path leading up from the village.

Nevertheless, here I was. Even if there was no jugful
of cold wine, the air was almost as good, and the view
was really magnificent. So I wandered around, looking
at the inscriptions, the only living creature save a few
lizards in that place of mystery and imagination. All the
names were Slav, mostly already familiar to me from the
little shops and villas of the town. Not more than a couple

THE ISLAND OF THE FRANKOPANS: KRK 25

of dozen family names in all were repeated generation
after generation. At the edge of the cemetery, where the
carefully gathered earth was hemmed in by a solid stone
wall, was the inscription:

Here lie the bones of those who passed away long ago and
now wait in darkness till judgement day awake them.

There is something magnificent in that epitaph.

But the jug of wine was still a temptation, so I walked
down the excellent path to the town and got it from Mrs.
Grandic. I told her of my visit to the church, and she
remarked :

'Yes, we give our dead the best place on the island.'

When I want to find out about a Dalmatian town, I
ask for the local archaeologist, even as in a village inland
the best person to talk to is the doctor. There nearly
always is at least one person, in even the smallest places,
who takes an intellectual interest in the past, and, generally
speaking, they are far from being dry-as-dust book-
worms. They are usually, on the other hand, energetic
and enterprising, as their hobby takes them far afield
among the villages and to long-deserted sites on sea or
mountainside. Even those who might become bookworms
by temperament have usually to ransack the libraries of
monasteries so distant that they have escaped pirate
raids or more civilized pillage, in order to find the books
they want.

This time I approached my subject by asking if there
was any one in the town who could read the old glago-
lithic books, and was at once sent to the parish priest,
Dom Vinko Premuda.

Dom Vinko was an enthusiast. I could see that he was
rather intrigued at discovering an Englishman who knew
anything about glagolithic, and he dug out for me manu-
scripts that he had found in out-of-the-way monastic
libraries where they had long remained unregarded.

For the glagolithic is the step-sister of the Roman

26 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

Church. The first Slavonic apostles, Cyril and Methodius,
lived before the Great Schism, and were in touch with
Rome as well as with Constantinople. The Slavonic
alphabet which Cyril invented and used for their church
books was not, as many believe, the Cyrillic. That was
devised later at Ohrid by their disciples, Kliment and
Naum, and named after their master. He used the
glagolithic characters. But the new Cyrillic was so much
more practical and readable that glagolithic was scarcely
known to the eastern Slavs, who after the schism looked
to Constantinople. On the other hand, the Croats who
looked to Rome never used the Cyrillic and the glago-
lithic lettering became more or less synonymous with
the Croat Church.

For a time it flourished under the protection of the
Croat kings, but the Holy See always disapproved of
services in the language of the people, and later smelt
heresy in the strange crabbed characters. Despite the
efforts of the Croat bishops, led by Gregory of Nin, the
glagolithic service was condemned by Rome, and for
almost a thousand years continued to exist on sufferance
in the Dalmatian islands and along the Croatian coast.
The glagolithic priests were seldom highly-educated
men, and naturally became venal and superstitious. But
none the less a small number of glagolithic books continued
to be printed, and mass continued to be said in the old
Slav tongue. There was a glagolithic printing press, for
example, in Senj in the sixteenth century, but Fortis
says it was destroyed by the Venetians, 'nor did I meet
with any person who knew there had ever been one'.
There were also educational institutions of a sort in
Sibenik, Cokovac, and elsewhere.

But the eighteenth century was a time of decline,
Fortis says of the island of Rab : 'In past times the spiritual
interest of these people was directed by Illyrian
Glagolite priests, who, to say the truth, are generally
very ignorant and ill qualified for their office. The

THE ISLAND OF THE FRANKOPANS: KRK 27

Glagolithic tongue, which is the ancient sacred Illyric,
is but little understood. ... I found a priest at Verbenico
(Vrbnik on Krk) who understands, much better than his
brethren in these parts, the ancient Slavonic sacred or
Glagolithic language; he showed me a manuscript wrote
in that character, but it had little merit. Nowadays the
Glagolithic books must lie as a simple object of curiosity
in the libraries, there being hardly anybody who can
read them distinctly, even in the places where the service
is performed in that language; and if there happens to
be one who can read the character, there is absolutely
none who understand the meaning.'

Today the Holy See has at last recognized the glago-
lithic rite, the Croat clergy are again learned and well
educated, and there has been a certain revival. The
position has changed much since Fords' day. Dom
Vinko and many others are really learned men, of exem-
plary life, and even the great Croat bishop and Yugoslav
patriot, Strosmajer, toyed with the idea of making the
glagolithic service a bridge between the Western and
Eastern Churches, and thus uniting the Yugoslav peoples
in a religious as well as a racial sense. The Croat service
might easily do this, but I cannot believe that there is
much future for the glagolithic script. It is incredibly
difficult and still quite incomprehensible to all but a few.
Besides, there would have to be a corresponding revision
of the Church Slavonic of the Serbs.

I felt a further bond with Dom Vinko because of his
cats, two ebony beauties that purred comfortably in the
sun on a pile of books and manuscripts. He gently brushed
one off a copy of the Kopitar edition of the Gospel of
Rheims, on which the kings of France used to be crowned.
It is little wonder that the French prelates of the Middle
Ages considered it magic and mysterious, for half of it
is in glagolithic and half in old Church Slavonic.

One of the oldest glagolithic inscriptions in the country
used to be in the church of St. Lucia in the village of

28 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

Jurindvor, about two kilometres from Baska. But it was
stolen during the war and taken, eventually, to Italy.
At present there is a miserable concrete copy, scarcely
legible. It commemorates a grant of the Croatian King
Zvonimir, about 1120.

More care should be taken of these ancient Croat
antiquities. Even now the situation is far from good, for
their preservation is in the hands of a band of misguided
enthusiasts called the Brothers of the Croatian Dragon,
who uproot them and take them to Zagreb to put them
in museums where no one will ever look at them. Better
to leave the originals where they are, where they have
a meaning, and give copies to the museums.

The peasants were evidently of the same opinion, for,
on my disgusted return from Jurindvor, one of them
offered to show me a fine Roman mosaic which they had
discovered. But so afraid are they that this too will be
taken from them, that they have carefully covered it over
again with earth and only scratched up a corner to let
me see a glimpse of its bright colours. Therefore I will
not go into the vexed question of where the various
Roman cities of the island stood, for fear of betraying
their discovery.

My last evening, at supper, I saw one of the peasants
who had been at the mosaic eyeing me with hesitation.
I signed to him to sit down with me. He asked me, then,
if I was only interested in old things. By no means.
Would I join them, then, in a game of boce that evening?
It was a game peculiar to the island, and they were very
proud of it. He was especially impressed by the fact that
the former King Edward had seen and played it, and at
once ordered a set of balls to be made for him.

As a matter of fact, the game is not peculiar to Krk,
as I played it later all the way down the coast as far as
the Boka Kotorska. But it may well have originated here.
It is ^played with wooden balls on a flat course like a
bowling alley, and is very simple, merely consisting of

THE ISLAND OF THE FRANKOPANS: KRK 2Q

who can get nearest to a given ball and at the same time
remove his adversaries'. But it can lead to great excitement,
and requires a good deal of skill. Between the boce,
the wine, and the presence of a foreign competitor, the
company became wildly excited. Again the session lasted
until late, and it was only with the greatest difficulty
that I managed to rise at 5.30 to catch the boat for Rab.
This is getting into a habit !

Ill

LOVE AND LOBSTERS: RAB

appearance of the island is exceedingly pleasant,
A nor do I know another in Dalmatia that, in this
respect, can be compared to it. J So wrote Fortis of Rab
in 1787. I am willing to agree with him in 1938.

In summer in Dalmatia the early mornings are fresh
and cool. It is a pleasure rather than a hardship to get
up early. If one is early enough to catch the sunrise, one
is amply rewarded. So we were a merry company on
board. One of my commercial companions at the Grandic
was also going to Rab, and I took advantage of his local
knowledge. He was of a merry and amorous disposition,
and was very pleased at the chance of a few days in Rab,
for the little capital is noted for its gaiety.

The first sight of Rab is delightful. After the rocky
wildness of the coast, its grey-green forests of stone
pines seem to welcome one. The ship stops for a moment
at Lopar, the only other tourist centre of the island,
where are a few small hotels and pensions and little else.
Lopar has two claims to notice, both of them somewhat
unusual. Firstly, it is one of the few places in Dalmatia
with a nudist colony, and all the passengers who knew
of the fact were on the look-out. But there was nothing
to be seen from the ship, and, if there had been, I am
afraid that even my amorous commercial traveller would
have been disappointed. For nudist colonies usually
look very different from the intriguing pictures of bronzed
young men and incredibly beautiful girls that one some-
times sees in the newspapers. Usually their exponents
are not among the most beautiful of their sex. As one
somewhat homely maiden remarked: 'I like nudism,
because that is the only time no one looks at my face/

30

LOVE AND LOBSTERS: RAB 31

It was also the birthplace of the hermit Marinus
who founded the tiny republic of San Marino in Italy,
which is still independent, though known to few save
stamp collectors. It distinguished itself recently by
arresting the Turkish ambassador to Italy, since, through
an oversight of the peace treaties, it was still in a state
of war with Turkey!

After a succession of beautiful wooded bays, we came
in sight of Rab itself, which is one of the most beautiful
cities of Dalmatia. It is a tiny walled stronghold of the
Middle Ages, with typical palaces and churches, but has
been given a special faery quality of its own by its four
graceful campaniles, with massive spiky agaves along
the sea-wall and green forests behind. It is so romantic
in appearance that it has almost an air of unreality.

We threaded into the still harbour through a series of
breakwaters, which seem unnecessarily elaborate in high
summer, but are needed in winter to break the force of
the bora. The quay was gay and crowded with towns-
people and visitors. Every one seemed in holiday mood,
and, indeed, the whole atmosphere of Rab is one of
gaiety. The squadrons of tiny white-sailed pleasure boats
along the quay, like a flock of gulls with outspread
wings, added to the charm of the first impression and
the long line of hotels do not spoil the medieval character
of the city, but are lined up along the quay like willing
and discreet servants of the old aristocrat behind them.

I do not like mondaine resorts. But Rab is an exception.
For one thing, two minutes on foot or by boat takes one
immediately out of the mondaine atmosphere, whither
one may return again at night for as much wine, women,
and song as one desires. The long quay is gay and crowded
till late into the night with the most startling beach-
pyjamas and the most elaborate holiday fashions. There
is always a sound of music, and almost everywhere there
is dancing. But round the corner of the princes' palace,
or on the little square near the cathedral, and one is

32 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

back again in the quiet austerity of the Middle Ages.
The contrast is striking and exhilarating, like an omelette
surprise*

I expected to enjoy Rab and was not disappointed. It
knows exactly how far to go. For example, the prices
are not much higher than in the smaller Dalmatian
resorts, and they remain fixed, instead of being graduated
according to one's appearance and probable nationality.
The people are friendly without being obsequious. One
can go freely to the sea or to the forests without being
stopped at every moment by those innumerable notices
of 'Private' which had so annoyed me at Abbazia. And
although there are beautiful and friendly girls everywhere,
there is little or none of that stuffy, hot-house atmosphere
of commercialized sex. Rab is out to enjoy itself, and
succeeds very well.

Incidentally, the news broadcast in 1937 by press
and radio that Rab was almost destroyed by a terrible
fire was quite untrue. The fire was serious and, for a
time, seemed dangerous. But in the end the only damage
done was that the old palace of the princes was gutted.
As it was more or less empty anyway, this was of no
particular importance. The fine old walls are still stand-
ing, and the only evident damage is to a Renaissance
balcony which collapsed, but which can fairly easily
be repaired.

I found a good and comfortable hotel, and arranged
to see my traveller at the Casino the same evening.
The price of seventy dinars about six shillings for full
board was not high, considering the excellent service
given. Certainly the man with full pockets can spend
all he has got, and more, at Rab, but the average traveller
can fare almost as well on very little. Then I wandered
into the town.

It is quite small. In half an hour or so, one can see all
the principal sights. But almost any of the churches and
monasteries, of which there are an incredible number

RAB

LOVE AND LOBSTERS: RAB 33

for so small a place, have treasures of art and history
that repay a much longer study. But few people give
them that attention, for the atmosphere of Rab is one of
holiday and not of history, though the history is always
there, like an impalpable essence. No modern city would
seem quite so gay without the contrast.

Almost every house bears either a coat-of-arms or the
sign of some religious order. In the Middle Ages, the
place must have been priest-ridden and, on referring to
my old companion Fortis, I found that he had also
remarked on this fact with his usual pungency. 'The
number of people on the island does not much exceed
three thousand souls, distributed in a few parishes, which
might be officiated by a small number of priests. Yet,
through a monstrous inconsistency that falls very heavy
upon the poor inhabitants, they have to maintain no less
than three convents of friars and as many of nuns, besides
the considerable number of near sixty priests, who have
a very scanty provision.'

Incidentally also, Rab was the only place where I did
not find an intelligent archaeologist. The parish priest
confessed that he knew little of the history of his parish,
but he showed me the head of St. Christopher, the patron
of the island. An early bishop of Rab was rash enough to
doubt the authenticity of this relic, and refused to allow
it to be carried in procession, which so enraged the
people of the town that they threatened to throw him
into the sea from the square in front of the cathedral.
The fall is considerable. So the head was carried in
procession and the bishop obtained a transfer to Italy.
The still more miraculous heads of Shadrach, Meshach,
and Abednego, mentioned by Fortis, are no longer to
be seen.

As befits a place of women and song, the wine of Rab
is excellent. Real wine lovers will find it best in the villages,
but in the town itself it is still good. I found my friend
in the Casino with the local chemist, a cynical old man who

34 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

had administered to a good many generations of human
weaknesses. I think all the tongues of Europe were to
be heard in the Casino; German, this season, the most
prevalent. But it added flavour to the dancing, which was
gay but decorous. Only about three in the morning,
I noticed a German girl who was more drunk than any
woman I have ever seen in a public place. As Boccaccio
puts it discreetly, she was much more full of wine than
modesty. But by that time the dancing had ceased, and
the orchestra were drinking prosek at our table and
playing Yugoslav Russian, and Hungarian folk-songs to
the old chemist, and no one worried much about Miss
Bacchus and her cavaliers.

It is customary to regard Rab as a Venetian city, and
certainly some of the finest buildings date from the
Venetian occupation. But the general aspect of the town
was already formed before their time. An old picture of
the city in the monastery of St. Antun, with the Virgin
and Christ with some saint, probably St. Antun, looking
down at it benevolently from cotton-wool clouds of
glory, shows it very much as it is today. The long quay
with its row of hotels is new, and a fourth campanile has
been added since that time, but the other changes are
insignificant. Rab was an Illyrian stronghold, the centre
of the Ardeian tribe, later a Roman city, then in turn
Gothic, Byzantine, Croat, and Croato-Hungarian. The
head of St. Christopher, according to legend, alone
saved it from a Norman conquest in 1075. It had its own
bishopric from 530 to 1823, and its own statutes and
semi-autonomous constitution from the tenth century
till after the Venetian conquest. The cathedral church
was commenced in the twelfth century, and its campanile
is first mentioned in 1212. The Lion of St. Mark, here as
in many other places in Dalmatia, merely reaped where
others had sown.

One of the great charms of Rab is that one can go
almost everywhere by sailing boat, and many of the

LOVE AND LOBSTERS: RAB 35

pleasant bays have discreet little restaurants, where one
can get good fish and better wine. Perhaps the best
Dalmatian prosek comes from Rab. It is a sweet, heavy
wine, very heady, and really only suitable for dessert,
but the visitors to Rab often drink it as a table wine with
disastrous results, as its strength is concealed by its
sweetness.

I took many such excursions. Indeed, when I was in
Rab, I behaved as a good tourist should. I felt lazy about
historical investigations, and therefore must refer you
to others, preferably Jackson, for the full history of the
heretic archbishop of Rab, de Dominis, who meditated
upon the laws of optics and gravitation while at mass,
and in many ways foretold the discoveries of Newton,
who' questioned the power and integrity of the Roman
Church and fled to King James, who gave him an English
living, where he wrote a book against Rome; but who at
last recanted and was received again into the bosom of
Mother Church, only to have his uneasy body exhumed
after death and publicly burnt on the Campo Santo.
The family still exists in Yugoslavia and in America. I
know one of them, and he is just such another uneasy
spirit, whom one is in doubt whether to dub genius
or charlatan. I gazed indifferently upon the probable
Titian in the church of Sv. Andrija and the famous
Vivarini polyptich in the cathedral, now alas only in
copy. The original was bought by a rich American in
1876 and taken to Boston. The ancient shields, the
wonderful carved portals of the Bakota and Marcid-
Galzigna palaces, the graceful campaniles, and the grey
old bastions faded and blurred into an impression of
white sails, sunlight, and smiling faces.

Mostly sunlight, that is; for one excursion of mine
ended in tragi-comedy. May is early for Rab, and the
weather had not yet set fair. Therefore I was to blame
when I invited a pretty young German acquaintance
I have said that Rab is a friendly place to go with me

36 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

to Barbat, famous for its wine and lobsters, but a good
two-hours' sail from the city.

We set out on a shining afternoon, with a slight sea
running outside the breakwaters and enough wind to
send us merrily along the barren rocky shores of Dolin,
where, in contrast with the greenness of Rab, there
seemed no sign of life.

Barbat itself is a little fishing village, with a tiny harbour
for fishing vessels, and picturesque festoons of drying
nets. Nearby are ruins, probably of a Greek settlement
and the church of the monastery of St. Damian of the
fifteenth century, though the site may be older, as Damian
was a Byzantine rather than a Western favourite. Other-
wise there is nothing of any great age, and the present
reputation of Barbat rests upon those same wines and
lobsters. Pretty Poldi was more interested in these than
in monasteries, so we found a table in the courtyard of
the inn and then looked at the lobsters, which were pulled
out of the sea in wicker fish-traps for our inspection.

The inn was charming, with wild fuchsia growing
everywhere. Probably the seeds came from some patrician
garden, for I have not seen it elsewhere. Then we settled
down to discussing wine with our host. He had his own
vineyards and made his own wine. But, unlike many
peasant proprietors, he knew very well how to make it,
and we finally decided on a bottle of heavy black proSek,
which he insisted on calling Malaga. It was far too heavy
a wine for supper, especially with lobsters, but my
companion liked it, and my stomach can stand almost
anything under compulsion.

There was another group of tourists at the inn t fat
and smiling Saxons, who ate continually till one wondered
where they stowed it all. In another mood I would have
cursed them to high heaven as barbarians, but the wine
made us tolerant, and we only laughed at their horror
when we left half of our lobster uneaten. Madame Saxon
almost wept at such waste, and only a lingering sense of

LOVE AND LOBSTERS: RAB 37

shame prevented her from packing the bits into a
handkerchief and taking it with her when she left. We
merely ordered more wine.

It was the second bottle that undid us or perhaps
it was the third ! The wind, which had seemed so pleasant
during the afternoon, had by now risen to a gale, whipping
the sea into a fury of white waves. It grew decidedly
cold, and we took shelter inside the inn, whither came
Sava, our boatman, with a broad grin on his face and
the ominous query:

'I hope you brought overcoats? There will be a fortu-
nata tonight/

We hadn't, of course. Who ever thinks of an overcoat
on Rab ? I looked out to look at the weather and found
it raining vigorously. Poldi was drowsing in a corner;
I leant over and stroked her, half expecting her to purr,
but she only smiled sleepily. Then I made up my mind
and sent for Sava. I, for one, was not going back in that
wind and rain, and it took very little to convince Poldi
also of the foolishness of such a course, though for a time
she fought me with the weapons of propriety.

But in the end I cut all arguments short by sending
Sava out to look for rooms, armed with an enormous
umbrella that might have sheltered a regiment, and was,
in fact, intended to shelter an entire table.

A little later he came back, stumbling through the dark
and rain. He had found rooms in a fisherman's cottage,
and we all huddled together under the tremendous
umbrella and splashed our way through the darkness.
But the rooms themselves were clean, with well-scrubbed
wooden floors, and peasant beds and coverlets that spoke
of ceaseless toil and loving care. Save for the fact that
every time we opened a door or window the lamps would
blow out, we were very comfortable. And about midnight
the chiming of the crickets and the hoarse gabble of the
frogs told us that the storm was nearly over. A little
later and we could hear cries and the creaking of ropes

38 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

and dories, and knew that the Barbat fishing fleet was
putting out for a delayed night's toil.

In the freshness of the early morning, with a brisk
breeze and under a warm sun, we returned to Rab,
tired but happy.

IV
THE FJORD OF THE GIANTS: ZRMANJA

NEXT day I left Rab. I was sorry to go, and my
sentimental duties kept me long at the rail. But
there is only one boat a week to Obrovac, and Obrovac
I had determined to see.

This trip is one of the most magnificent in all Dalmatia.
But few tourists know it, and even the average Yugoslav
shakes his head and murmurs something vague about
there being a lake and a canyon. Few have ever been
there.

So the company on the boat was small, and, for the
most part, strictly businesslike. Besides myself, there
was rny amorous commercial traveller, who wailed openly
for the delights of Rab, some peasants going to out-of-the-
way villages, and a squad of gendarmes. Oh yes; and
the lobster-eating Saxons. More honour to them !

The boat headed back towards the mainland across
the Mountain Channel. The first stop was Jablanac,
described by Fortis as a 'miserable hamlet', but now a
pleasant little seaside resort, making a gay patch of
colour against the massive grey stone of the Velebit.
Its harbour is also in a fine rocky fjord, and is a favourite
excursion from Rab, but compared with the Obrovac
canyon it is a second-rate affair.

It is from the districts around Jablanac that the Bun-
jevci come; or at least that is the most probable of the
many suggestions for their origin, and eighteenth-century
writers take it for granted. These Bunjevci now form a
curious little racial and religious pocket far up in the
northern plain, around Subotica on the Hungarian
frontier. There we shall meet them again, but a digression
on their history would take us too far from Dalmatia.

39

40 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

For the next hour or so the journey was not particularly
interesting. Maybe this is one of the reasons why it is
not popular with tourists. The ship slowly steams down
the long channel, with the stony slopes of Velebit on the
one side and the low, rather featureless, shores of Pag
on the other. Sometimes the monotony was varied by a
short halt at one or other of the villages which seem to
perch precariously on the very narrow shelf between the
Velebit and the sea. It looks as if a push would send
them all sliding into the water, and one wonders how
people live in that treeless, vineless, and waterless soli-
tude. At one time it must have been still worse, for it
was only last year that the magnificent road which runs
all along the coast from Susak to Ulcinj was completed,
which on its way passes through these villages and gives
them a hope of communication with the outer world.
The boats call regularly, but infrequently.

Generally speaking, it is best to see Dalmatia by boat,
when one can visit the islands and peer into the fjords.
But here it is far better by car. The view from the road
over the sea is magnificent; that from the sea over the
mountains impressive but monotonous.

A trio of dolphins followed us down the canal, rising
and dipping gracefully and rhythmically, and easily
outstripping the boat when they had a mind to do so.
At first, every one watched them, but they soon became
too familiar. The commercial traveller wanted the police
sergeant to shoot one, heaven only knows why. But the
sergeant merely remarked:

'What for? Perhaps they, too, want to live/

They certainly looked as if they did as they danced gay
acrobatics in the water.

It was at one of the smallest and most desolate of these
halting places, Lukovo, that we decanted our gendarmes.
It consisted of three houses and a church, set in barren
karst. We saw the poor devils toiling up the treeless
hillside, in full equipment, under a broiling sun, bound

THE FJORD OF THE GIANTS: ZRMANJA 41

for some unruly township in the Lika. For the people of
the Lika have always been unruly, and still are. Their
stony wilderness makes them hard, and their whole
history has been one of fighting.

A good many of them are descendants of the Uskoks,
and their government under Austria was not calculated
to make them soft. The Austrian commandant used to
live at Karlobag, our next stop, in wild and barren sur-
roundings, but none the less a pleasant little place to
rest and bathe for a few days. In fact, another oasis in
the Velebit. Fortis gives it a bad character: 'It became one
of the strong places of the Uscocchi, and was in 1616
burnt, and demolished from the foundations, by the
Venetians, who did not care to keep possession of that
horrid country to which nature has denied even water
to drink/ He goes on to describe the city as rebuilt under
the Austrians, and the comparatively thriving trade that
it might have had with the hinterland had it not been
for the ferocious military government. For one of the
main Velebit passes is here.

'The country of Lika was once in much better circum-
stances than it is at present (1787) ; the passage from the
Ottoman to the Austrian yoke, brought along with it a
change of constitution which reduced the inhabitants to
the most miserable condition. They have lost, without
any exception, the right of property or land; that is
distributed among the soldiers, and on the death of a
soldier his respective portion returns to the sovereign.
If he happens to leave a family, a mother, a widow,
children, all these wretched victims are obliged to leave
their habitation and to beg their bread elsewhere. The
shepherds, ... are equally wretched ... for the most
part their cattle are taken, and paid for in the military
way, that is to say, for the half of what they are worth.
The cane is made use of on those wretches for the most
trifling causes, and as they know it, they often fly into
the Turkish territory, where they are less cruelly treated.

42 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

At Carlobago I have seen such instances of inhumanity
as are too shocking to be related.'

No wonder their descendants are tough! And yet
there are still sentimentalists, especially among the
English, who regret the passing of the old Empire!
Certainly the system of the military frontiers did not
exist into the past age; but the relation of German and
Slav went on in much the same manner till the Slavs
were strong enough to put a stop to it themselves.

Bela IV of Hungary is supposed to have taken refuge
in Karlobag, when flying before the Tatars in 1241.
Myself, I doubt it. If so, he must have slept in as many
beds as Queen Elizabeth, for the same honour is claimed
by some half-dozen other cities up and down the coast.
Most probably it belongs to Klis, whence he afterwards
retired to Trogir, which was then under the rule of the
Subii family.

On the island of Pag, to port, there was little to be
seen, for the city of Pag is on a salt lagoon with a narrow
entrance towards the main channel. I believe it is an
interesting little place. It is certainly ancient, and still
possesses some fine fourteenth-century architecture, but
our boat did not stop, and the outer shores of the island
are uninviting. In the Middle Ages the lagoon had some
reputation as a salt-pan.

The main hill of this island is named after St. Vid, and,
indeed, in the purely Slavonic districts, by which I mean
those where the Venetian clergy had little or no influence,
you will come upon a strange collection of local saints.
Some of them are the descendants of Slavonic gods,
whom the wily missionaries converted, willy-nilly, into
respectable Christians. One of these is Vid, whose name
keeps appearing in the most unlikely places, not only in
Catholic Yugoslavia but also in the Orthodox districts.
Some of the older folk-songs even keep his name in the
purely pagan form of Svetovid, and an enthusiastic painter
of Belgrade even tried unsuccessfully to revive his

PEASANTS FROM THE LIKA

THE FJORD OF THE GIANTS: ZRMANJA 43

pagan cult. His saint's day, Vidovdan, is very famous in
Yugoslav history, for it was then that the Turks destroyed
the last powerful coalition of Serb and Bosnian princes
under Lazar on the field of Kosovo in 1389. Although
independent states continued to exist for another seventy
years or more after Kosovo, they were no longer powerful
and history and legend alike regard Kosovo as the down-
fall of the Balkan Slavs. It was also the date of the promul-
gation of the recent Yugoslav constitution, which is not
over popular among the Croats.

The attributes of another Slavonic god, Perun, were
taken over, lock, stock, and barrel, by St. Elias the
Thunderer. Only Lei, the God of Love, appears to have
no official Christian successor.

The journey then becomes more interesting, the halts
more frequent, and the scenery more impressive. We
stopped at Razanac, which, from the sea, seems little
more than a collection of cottages around a medieval
castle. The quay, as usual, was crowded, and a mass of
small boys shouted to us to throw dinars into the water,
eager to show their skill in swimming and diving.

The people here looked very poor, although the district
is less barren than that through which we had passed.
I asked the captain the reason. It was simple. Here
kmetstvo, a form of serfdom, is still in force, for much of
the land still belongs to the citizens of Zara, which is an
Italian enclave, and the agrarian reform has been delayed
because of international complications. The matter is
now, I believe, being settled, but it will take some time
for the district to get on its feet, for the first reaction of
peasants to freedom from feudal restrictions is a feeling
of helplessness in face of a world suddenly become far
more complicated than any they have known. As a rule,
it is only the second generation that makes progress.

Incidentally, this region appears at first to be over-
policed. That again is the fault of Zara, for a good deal
of smuggling goes on across the frontier.

NOTE

ON THE PRONUNCIATION OF YUGOSLAV NAMES

IN this book I have made no attempt to anglicize
Yugoslav proper names, with the exception of Belgrade
(Serbo-Croat: Beograd) and Yugoslavia (Serbo-Croat:
Jugoslavia), which would seem absurd to an English
reader in their proper form.

Otherwise I have used the Latin Croatian spelling
throughout. Slovene has the same phonetics and the
same alphabet, Serb the same phonetics but the Cyrillic
alphabet.

Serb and Croat are practically the same, with slight
dialect differences, with which it is unnecessary to worry
the average reader. Slovene is different, but with similar
orthography, so that no one need anticipate any difficulties.
All the South Slav dialects are mutually comprehensible,
including Bulgarian, though in the case of Slovene a certain
amount of oral practice is advisable. Speaking Serbo-
Croat reasonably well, I can travel easily and make myself
everywhere understood from Mt. Triglav to the Black
Sea. Most educated persons in Croatia and Slovenia
speak German and French, in Dalmatia, German,
Italian, and often English, in Serbia and South Serbia,
French. In all large towns there is a group of English-
speaking persons, usually with a club.

Serbo-Croat is strictly phonetic. One sound is almost
designated by one character; in the Cyrillic alphabet
always. The foreigner cannot go far wrong if he uses
'continental' vowels and English consonants, with the
following exceptions:

c is always ts t as in cats. Example: Car Tsar, "ica" is
common geographical ending, e.g. Planica Planitsa, or
Crikvenica Tsnkvenitaa.

THE FJORD OF THE GIANTS: ZRMANJA 45

fantastically twisted olives and mathematical vines, while
on the farther side the ancient fortress and city of Novi-
grad itself shows that the ages passed and man was at
last created. Another equally narrow and winding channel
leads into the Sea of Karin.

The former King Edward came here in his yacht, the
Nahlin, and his visit has ever since been a passport of
friendship for all Englishmen who penetrate so far.

After leaving Novigrad, we did not continue to the
Sea of Karin. In any case, it is too shallow for large ships.
Instead, we steamed across the Novigradsko More to a
narrow cleft in the mountains, as dark and forbidding
as that down which the luckless Persephone was haled.
It was even more astounding that the gorges of the
Danube, because wilder and more forbidding. I wonder
if Dante was ever in Dalmatia? Some of the landscape
has a decidedly infernal flavour.

Here the river Zrmanja enters the Novigradsko More.
For almost an hour the ship moves slowly on between
enormous walls of rock, so high that if one stands under
the awning one cannot see the sky, but must crane
outwards to look up. I wish I were a geologist. Those
rock walls must have a story to tell. But what it is, I do
not know. There is no road, no house, no sign of life;
only a ruined watch-tower where, the captain said, the
Turks used to put political prisoners, and a lonely fisher-
men's shrine to St. Nikola. They would scarcely need
a guard.

At first the only variation in the landscape was an
occasional giant landfall of loose scree, another unread
chapter in the geological story. Now and again the turns
are so abrupt that an unskilful captain may have to back
and fill like a motor on a hair-pin bend. Then for a
moment one would catch a glimpse of the summits of
the Velebit, some of them still white with snow. The
whole scene had a Himalayan grandeur.

Later, it was a little more human than the Novigrad

46 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

canal. There were gulls on the surface of the water and
in the distance, on top of the rock walls, an occasional
goat. Once, rounding a bend, we came upon some fisher-
men who rapidly drew their boat in to a fall of scree to
escape our wash. If they stove it in there, it might be
days before they were discovered. The sound of our
engine echoed and re-echoed about the rock walls like
distant giants cheering.

As we neared Obrovac itself, the river became a little
less formidable. Once, high up on the rock wall, we
caught a glimpse of the new motor-road, and at the foot
of the cliffs dense clusters of weeds and bullrushes
began to appear, that bowed mockingly to us in perfect
drill order as our wash passed through them. But still
there were no trees. Only when we were quite near the
town itself did we see a few funereal cypresses guarding
the cemetery, to which all corpses must be taken by boat.
It must be a solemn sight to see the boats filled with
mourners and chanting priests making their slow way
down this devil's canal.

This cemetery is a rare example of religious tolerance ;
or perhaps it is only so by necessity. For the people of
this district, the Ravni Kotari, are Orthodox, whereas
the coast people are Catholic. Obrovac itself is mixed.
A narrow pass divided the cemetery; to one side lie the
Orthodox in the shadow of the Greek cross, which has
a smaller cross-piece at the top to mark the superscription
over the head of Jesus; to the other lie the Catholics,
under the plain cross that we all know well.

Obrovac itself is a striking place at first sight. The
canyon does not end, but simply widens out enough to
allow a few fields to exist by the water's edge and three
roads to converge on the little hill in the centre of the
ravine, upon which the city is built. Needless to say,
that hill is crowned by a fortress; this time Turkish.
From it there is a magnificent view up and down the
canyon of the Zrmanja.

THE FJORD OF THE GIANTS I ZRMANJA 47

It is also a pleasant place. The landing-stage is planted
with old trees; a grateful sight to eyes wearied of stone.
The girls, too, are exceptionally pretty, and most people
here wear the national dress, which is rarely to be seen
now on the coast. We had plenty of time to observe both,
for our captain insisted on turning round before drawing
in to the stage, and the performance took a considerable
time, bow and stern alternatively and literally touching
the banks.

It was market day when we arrived. The streets were
full of peasants in the picturesque national costume of
the Lika, with its highly embroidered waistcoat and
cocky little tasselled cap. They are a tough lot, these
Licani, but they have plenty of sense of humour, and a
good many jokes were passing to and fro among the
chafferers. I spotted an uncommonly pretty girl and
wanted to photograph her, but insisted on finding a good-
looking young man in national costume to stand with
her. The old women selling vegetables joined in with
a will, calling up all the old crocks they could find, one
after another. Finally, I saw a handsome young peasant
and got him to stand with her, after which the jokes
flowed faster than ever, as he did not know the girl. For
the rest of my short stay in Obrovac the market called
me the 'marriage-broker'.

Still more amusement was caused when five athletic
young piglets broke loose and half the market joined in
the chase. My quarry fled into the church, where I
cornered it, and the old women did not know whether
to laugh or to be horrified at possible sacrilege. Finally
they laughed and went on laughing for an hour or more.

Nearly all these peasants are Orthodox, who take their
religion lightly. They are far less bigoted than the
Catholics. But they identify their religion with their
race, so one may not go too far. Nevertheless, some of
their best tales are at the expense of the 'popes', as the
Orthodox priests are called.

48 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

One typical peasant yarn describes a party of thieves
rifling a church. One of them climbs on to the altar to
pull down a gold-inlaid ikon. The others gaze on him,
horror-struck :

'Take your shoes off! Don't you know that's sacri-
lege?'

There was more trouble later about pigs. The captain
of our ship had bought one in the market. But when the
ship was due to sail, the pig was missing. He swore it
had been stolen, but I already knew those athletic porkers.
Probably it had escaped and run off by itself. He com-
plained to the station sergeant, who began to investigate.
At the suggestion of theft, the situation grew awkward,
and some of the peasants drew knives. The peace was
saved by the piglet himself, who appeared unexpectedly
in the police station!

Obrovac ^ras once an important trading centre. But it
has lost much recently through poor communications
and the fact that Zara, its chief market, is Italian. But it
will probably recover, now that the new motor-road has
been built. However, it has poor accommodation. The
Saxons, who were returning to Rab, slept on the boat,
but I decided to follow the commercial traveller overland
and see something of the little known district of the
Ravni Kotari. So we toiled up darksome stairs to the
poky rooms of the local inn. But at least they were clean,
and we slept well.

Before our bus left next morning, my companion had
some business to settle. I accompanied him to his first
call. Never have I seen such a shop; it was the true
prototype of a 'general store'. Glancing around I could
see mouse-traps, candles, cloth, cheese-graters, lard,
beans, thread, fishing-nets, and endless nameless things
hanging from the ceiling.

The motor-bus to Benkovac had broken down. But
that was a blessing in disguise for the mail had to go, and
there were two places available in the private car that had

LIKA PEASANTS AT OBROVAC

THE FJORD OF THE GIANTS: ZRMANJA 49

to take it. We started* out from Obrovac therefore in
luxury, along the road built by Napoleon's marshals in
1809. The French only held Dalmatia for a very short
while, but they did more to assist the province than the
Austrians in a hundred years. Even old Franz Joseph
admitted the fact, for, on a visit to Split, he remarked:
'A pity that the French were such a short time here.'

We climbed out of the gorge to a high plateau and then
again down a steep hillside, to where the Sea of Karin
glittered like a jewel at the end of the sterile wilderness
of stone. The back of the car was piled high with loaves
of bread, which we handed out to solitary housewives
at the gates of lonely farms. Sometimes in winter, when
the snow is thick, these people do not see bread for a
week or ten days. So stony is the land that even the vines
are supported by large pieces of stone in place of sticks.

Karin was truly beautiful. A tiny stream and a fertile
patch of trees and vines made it appear an oasis in the
stony desert. The still and landlocked sea was the most
gorgeous blue. But it was so poor that there was not even
a kafana. Perhaps, though, we saw it at its best, for it
was a great feast-day, Spasovdan, and all the girls were
in their most splendid national dresses, with all their
dowries upon them in the form of gold pieces. I often
stopped the car for a chat and a photo, till the chauffeur
grew angry and told me I was delaying the mails.

Benkovac, on the other hand, was not beautiful. I had
intended to spend the night there and go on with my
friend to Zemunik and Nin. But he had work to do and
I hadn't. The long dusty main street of Benkovac had
neither character nor charm. It was merely hot, dirty,
and unpleasant. I went to look at the old Turkish fortress,
but that, too, has little character, and I could not spend
all day watching the antics of the lizards. Then I tried to
get into the church of St. Ante. It was shut, but I routed
out a talkative old woman who was supposed to be the
caretaker. She was friendly, but not helpful.

50 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

'It is only open once a year, and the priest has the key.
See how he keeps it! It's like a pig-stye. It's a scandal!'

She was right; it was.

Then I routed out another priest, an Orthodox pope
with an uncommonly pretty wife. Both were hospitable,
but one cannot drink rakija all day in such heat. Besides,
I wanted to find out something of the history of Benkovac
for it was a frontier fortress and has history but no
one either knew or cared.

It is one of the dullest places I have ever seen in
Yugoslavia. How the officers of the garrison stationed
here can keep sane is more than I can tell. There does
not even seem to be a sufficient supply of pretty girls, and
six months or so of nothing but drink and cards would
send any civilized man crazy. Four hours were enough
for me. To the dismay of my commercial friend, I found
a bus that was to leave for Knin in ten minutes, and
hailed a porter to carry my luggage. He was the one
distinguishing feature of Benkovac. He had the largest
feet I have ever seen.

Once in the bus, a good deal of my ill-humour vanished.
The countryside around Benkovac is far more interesting
than the town itself. The valley was comparatively
fertile, the little stone houses had each its round stone
threshing-floor, since they had now something to thresh,
and the hedgerows were gay with wild roses. Away to
the left was the castle of Perusid, which was once Subid,
and afterwards belonged to a family I cannot trace, with
the title of Counts of Possedaria. It is very well preserved,
and lies on a wind-swept plateau, like a castle of chivalrous
romance.

Our bus conductor was a small boy, whose duty it was
to collect the fares and to collect and deliver the mail
at each post-office. In the intervals he sat hunched up
in the front of the bus, reading the Yugoslav equivalent
of a 'penny-blood'. I think it was called The Pirate of
Dubrovnik, Obviously he was living vicariously in stirring

THE FJORD OF THE GIANTS: ZRMANJA 51

times. Unfortunately, however, for him a large bee
entered the open windscreen and, after trying vainly
to fly through a glass pane, fell neatly down the back of
his neck. He must have thought the Dubrovnik pirate
had attacked him in person, for he gave a terrific jump
and nearly overturned the bus by blundering against the
chauffeur in his efforts to tear his shirt off.

This valley presents a different face to every visitor.
At this time, in early summer, it was green and welcom-
ing, though the grim background of stone was always
waiting. In late summer it is burnt brown; in winter it
is wilderness.

But I had had enough of stone for the present, and
decided to go on to Knin, where I could get a train to
the sea again at Sibenik.

We stopped for half an hour at Kistanje, which was
not so very different from Benkovac, but somehow pro-
duced a much more pleasant impression. The houses
seemed neater, the people pleasanter. Later, I met
several men from Kistanje and liked them all; I have
still to meet a pleasant Benkovcanin.

From Kistanje the road leads once more through
karst country, with enormous piles of stone in the middle
of the fields, looking at a distance like kaffir huts. But at
or near the village of Raducid, at a place called the Crooked
Stones, rise out of this sea of rock two large and very
beautiful Roman arches. They seem to stand quite
separate, and there seem to be no other traces of antiquity
around. Fortis saw and drew them; there were three in
his time, and he mentions that a little before then there
were five. He thinks they were the ruins of Burnum, the
earlier Liburna of Strabo. But I cannot think the Romans
would have built a city here, when a few kilometres
away there is the living water of the Krka. To my mind,
the Crooked Stones are the remains of some memorial.

Knin is also a very ancient town, possibly the Arduba of
the Illyrian wars. It, too, is built on a hill encircled by a

52 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

bend of the Krka, and crowned, as usual, by a fortress,
a larger one than usual, and in good preservation, which
now houses a fine collection of medieval arms and
armour. But I did not stay. Already I wanted to see the
sea again, and took the first train to Sibenik.

CRUISERS AND CATHEDRALS: SIBENIK

THE situation of Sibenik is one of the most beautiful
in Dalmatia. But it is best approached from the sea.
From Zara southwards there is a maze of islands. I do
not know how many; such an investigation would be as
useless and futile as Psyche's task. About fifteen of them
are of any size or importance. The others are countless.

The city itself lies on an arm of the sea that is really
the estuary of the river Krka. The narrow entrance is
guarded by the beautiful old Venetian fortress of St.
Nikola, built in 1546 after the plans of the famous
Leonardo Sammichele. It, too, is an island. But Sam-
michele was not only an excellent military engineer, but
also something of an artist, and it is interesting to compare
its beautiful lines with the stark utility of fortresses like
Knin or Klis. There are a good many modern coast-
defences, too, for Sibenik is an important naval base.
One does not see them, for modern fortifications are
retiring by nature, but one knows they are there by the
many notices forbidding boats to linger or tie up in the
channel. Once through these outer sentinels and Sibenik
itself lies before you, on the far side of the bay, built on
a hillside crowned not by one, but by three tremendous
fortresses.

One gets a very good idea of the city from the sea,
whence one can discern its many good and bad points.
For I am not going to praise Sibenik unreservedly. To
the right is the modern and efficient naval station of
Madalina, usually with three or four destroyers or mine-
layers at anchor; right upper entrance, to use stage
terms, is the busy commercial port, for Sibenik is one
of the most important export centres of Bosnia and the

53

54 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

Lika, having good railway communication. Usually the
quays are piled high with Bosnian timber, bauxite, and
raw aluminium. Centre, lies the main square of the
modern city with the passenger port. On the backcloth
are the three fortresses, stepped on hills one above the
other, rather like a stage scene. Left upper entrance is
the medieval city with the famous cathedral, floodlit
by night. Left lower entrance is the continuation of the
river Krka, leading to Skradin.

This time, however, I came to Sibenik by rail, which
is not the best way. But this occasion also tallied with
previous experience. I found the modern city detestable and
the medieval city charming. As for the cathedral, I agree
with Jackson that it is one of the most beautiful in the world.

I recommend every one to spend at least a day in
Sibenik to see the cathedral. But I cannot recommend
the hotels. I was in one of the best, and felt myself a
stranger all the time. The people of Sibenik have not the
knack of making a visitor feel at home. The hotel had a
'take it or leave it* style reminiscent of Manchester, and
my impression was not improved when, on sitting in
the salon the first evening, I was disturbed by four men
dragging the large and blood-stained carcase of a pig
through to the kitchen. There is nothing quite so dead
as a dead pig, and they were followed up by an elderly
and slatternly woman with a dirty cloth wiping up
bloodstains. She missed some of them. A young German
girl who was coming down the main staircase at the time
nearly fainted. For myself, I was rather amused, but
none the less went out of the hotel to join the corso.

I note that the Royal Automobile Club recommends
Sibenik as the best stop for the night, before making
Split the next day. I venture to correct that. Biograd-na-
Moru is a far pleasanter night's rest, and the motorist
may remain long enough in Sibenik next day to see the
cathedral.

That is really wonderful. I went there several times.

CRUISERS AND 'CATHEDRALS! IBENIK 55

Indeed, as the plage was not open, I spent nearly all my
spare time there, skilfully avoiding the aged cicerone
who was eager to tell me all the things I already knew.
Once I tried him with a question or two, to which I did
not know the answer, but his information was so wide
of the mark that I rapidly dismissed him. Later, I found
a canon of the cathedral, who was both intelligent and
interesting, and really knew a great deal of the building
of which he was so evidently fond.

There is a project under consideration to tear down
part of the bishop's palace, which is a building of no
great value, so that the cathedral may be better seen
from the sea. That will be good, for although the dome
rises high above the roofs, it is only possible to see the
magnificent proportions from the cathedral square. They
are so perfect that they make the building appear much
larger than in fact it is.

For more than a hundred years the cathedral was at
once the pride and the bane of the people of Sibenik.
They poured out their treasures to complete it, but
grumbled all the time that it would bankrupt them,
which it nearly did. The foundation was laid in 1431,
and the exterior was considered finished in 1536.

It is in various styles, according to the tastes of the
architects who succeeded one another through the
century of construction. But they are so perfectly
harmonized that only the architect is aware of this ; the
cathedral is most definitely a unit and not a patchwork.
The first architect, Francesco de Giacomo, did little
save make mistakes, and was removed after ten years'
work. The second, Giorgio Orsini of Zara, who was
known, like all Slav artists of the time, as Schiavone,
built in decorated Venetian Gothic; whereas the second
great architect of the building, Niccolo the Florentine,
while certainly influenced by Schiavone's plans, completed
it in the Tuscan Renaissance style. Most of their assistants
were local craftsmen.

56 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

I am not an historian of art, so will not describe
all the treasures of the cathedral. Those who wish a
detailed description will find it in Jackson's Dalmatia,
Istria, and the Quarnero, which is still the best account
of the art and architecture of Dalmatia. Let each discover
new treasures for himself. There are plenty of them. I
will therefore mention only the one or two things that
especially fascinated me.

One of them, naturally, was the Lion Gate, which
represents the entry into paradise, and is flanked by two
lions who watch the gateway with amiable smiles. No
sinner would give up hope in face of such guardians.
Above them, in niches, are delightfully prudent statues
of Adam and Eve, driven from Paradise. They are some-
what primitive, and probably were taken from an earlier
cathedral. Above them, again, are Saints Peter and Paul,
masterpieces of fifteenth century carving by Giorgio
Orsini himself. On each side of the door are richly-
decorated columns, some with conventional designs of
leaves and flowers, others, more ambitious, where birds
and beasts chase one another in eternal pursuit. Yet
others have tiny medallions with heads of famous men.
Some of these were badly damaged, and a nineteenth
century restorer added those of Victor Emmanuel, Gari-
baldi and Mazzini! The whole has the life and the
intricacy of an Indian temple, but with a grace, a harmony,
and a symmetry that could only be Latin in origin. It
was finished about 1433.

Another thing was the superb frieze of seventy-one
heads that encircles the outer wall of the apse. It is a
carven history of Dalmatia in stone. Every head is
different, and every head has character. There you will
find girls' heads of classical beauty, fierce Slavs with
long moustaches and high cheek-bones like the Licani
of the present day, shaven Turkish warriors, Byzantines,
Italians, Tatars, nobles, lawyers, priests, and laymen.
One knight has had his nose amputated, a common

CRUISERS AND CATHEDRALS: SlBENIK 57

punishment of medieval times. Another, an Italian
condottiere probably, is astonishingly like Mussolini.
Others you will still see to-day, walking in the market-
place. All are little masterpieces of wit and of beauty.
From the three dark corners, ferocious lions glare.

In the interior of the cathedral many of the details
have the humour of the Gothic. One column, in a darkened
corner, is decorated with two cherubs' heads. The one
turned towards the interior of the church is singing
praises with happy, fat-cheeked face; the other, turned
towards the shadowy wall, has the staring eyes, the
quivering lips, and the tear-stained face of a child afraid
of the dark.

And of course the roof, which is of stone barrel-
vaulting. Indeed the whole cathedral, including the roof
and dome, is of stone, a really most astonishing feat of
technique, considering the size of the building and the
period at which it was built. The main portal also is
magnificent, though the . two sculpture niches are still
empty. After spending millions of ducats on their
cathedral, the people of Sibenik had not enough money
left to pay for the statues.

On one of the occasions when I visited the cathedral,
I found the learned canon explaining its wonders to a
party of schoolboys from Backa Palanka in the Danube
Province. I felt sorry both for him and for them. He was
obviously in love with his cathedral, and hurt by any
lack of interest; they, on the other hand, were not of an
age to enjoy its sincere and contemplative beauty, and
only wanted a chance to bathe before having to return
to their torrid plain.

He was a temperamental and cynical guide, with a
healthy contempt for modern times. He carefully pointed
out that the millions subscribed by the Sibencani had
really been spent on the cathedral, and not, as now,
frittered away in commissions and sub-commissions.
Myself, I doubt his words. For Orsini, at least, made

58 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

enough money out of the building to buy or build a
magnificent house in the city. Over the carven doorway
is the bear of the famous Roman Orsinis, to which, it
seems, Giorgio had no right whatsoever.

But he was not content with the cathedral, but took
his party around all the antiquities of the town, flying
up and down narrow stairwayed alleys, with round eyes
and flying black coat-tails that made him look like an
enormous bat. There are many antiquities in Sibenik.
At last, like King Henry, I prayed that Heaven might
rid me of that turbulent priest.

Every one who visits Sibenik makes an excursion to the
falls of the Krka. Thither I too decided to go, but also
decided to combine it with an excursion to the island
cloister of Visovac and the town of Skradin, the descend-
ant of ancient Scardona, which was the chief city of
Liburnia and, after Salona, of the whole coastline.

It was rather an expensive and complicated journey, as
I had to hire a motor-launch to reach the island of
Visovac. The tourist agency got it for me, however, and
then told me that an English lady also wished to visit
Visovac. Would I mind if she shared the expenses and
the facilities? I never mind meeting new people, so said
I would call for her next morning.

When I got to her hotel next morning a vigorous old
lady appeared. It would be ungallant of me to guess how
old. Let us say that I was surprised to see her travelling
alone so far from home. But she had a gallant spirit, and
made little of the wearisomeness of the journey which
I am afraid I exaggerated a bit. Let me say at once,
however, that she proved a very charming travelling
companion.

The people of the continent like to laugh at these
vigorous old Englishwomen. But they make a great
mistake. There is often more brains and character in their

CRUISERS AND CATHEDRALS: SlBENIK 59

little fingers than in all the fluffy feather-pates of Vienna
and Budapest. Often they have spent their golden years
in the wild places of the world; one whom I met later
had passed eighteen years on the Canadian prairies, and
another, ten years in organizing a Turkish university.
May I add another tribute to their hardly-earned laurels.

The river was low, and therefore the Krka falls not at
their best. But none the less they were still fine. The
river spreads out first into a wide lake, dotted with
countless islands, looking from above like the pieces of
a green jigsaw puzzle scattered haphazard on a brilliant
blue cloth. The stony mountains around heighten the
colour and the contrast. Then they gather themselves
together and the river forms a single stream, to leap
irresistibly downwards in terraced silver cascades, three
hundred feet wide. The total fall is about a hundred
and thirty feet, the air is filled with spray and groaning
thunder echoes from the hills. Just below the falls the
river again widens into the smooth and placid Gulf of
Skradin.

We lingered for some time, watching the rush of
water. Fruit trees, watered by the spray, clung to little
cornices in the rocks. The figs especially were bearing
well, but it will be a bold man who gathers them. But time
was pressing, and we went back to find our motor-boat,
with ears still deafened by the falls.

After a few asthmatic coughs, the little outboard motor
began to chug contentedly, and we slowly plugged our
way up against the current. The river here is more like
a suggestion of lakes, opening one out of another and
quite silent, save for a few water-birds and the chugging
of our engine. After the falls, there is not a house in sight.

In the third reach we saw the island convent of Visovac.
The building is modern but dignified, with its church
tower matching in height the tall fringe of poplars along
the banks. It seemed a perfect spot for rest and meditation,
though in fact the monks lead a busy enough life.

60 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

We were welcomed graciously, with true monastic
hospitality. The permanent staff of the monastery is
small ; four brothers, thirteen novices, and some servants.
But there are usually a number of guests, priests resting
after the troubles of their cures. The monks are Francis-
cans, and all, by reason of their work in the villages,
have to be Yugoslavs. There is not a great deal to see in
the church and convent. The settlement dates from 1445,
when it was occupied by Paulician hermits, but they
were soon replaced after the Turkish invasion by Bosnian
Franciscans. The monastery was built in 1576, but was
destroyed by the Turks and the monks forced to flee in
1648. But in 1675 they again returned. The present
buildings date mostly from 1725, but have been several
times repaired. There are a few good books in the library.

Incidentally, the popular derivation of the name
Visovac from visiti, to hang, because the Turks are said
to have hanged the monks on their own trees, is a pious
invention. The name is older than the Turkish conquest.
Besides, it would be very difficult to hang a number of
men on a poplar or a cypress, and there are no other trees.

Over coffee in the refectory I began an argument
about the precise nature of the first owners, the Paulicians.
But before we could reach any conclusions we were
interrupted by a party of gendarmes who were looking
for a murderer from a nearby village. The monk knew the
man and shook his head sadly. After a cursory look
around, the gendarmes went back to their boat and
across the river.

On our return, I said that I wanted to see Skradin if
it were not too much for my companion. Not a bit! She
was still spry and energetic. It was only the chauffeur
who needed warming up.

In Fortis' list of the literary worthies of Sibenik there
are two who wrote of the beauties of the Gulf of Skradin ;
one, Giovanni Nardino, in Latin elegiacs, and the other,
Petar Disnid, a long poem in Croat on the natural history

CRUISERS AND CATHEDRALS: SlBENIK 6l

of the district. Disnid is enthusiastic about the eels of
the gulf, but, in addition to eels, 'a more wonderful
creature was seen here, for a marine unsociable man was
caught'. It was probably a seal, but I would like to know
more, just in case.

Alas for Skradin! Its history has passed it by. As for
ancient Scardona, even its exact site is uncertain.
Economic and political reasons have reduced it to a mere
five hundred or so souls. Under the Nelepidi of Knin,
under the Subidi, even under the Venetians, it was still
important, the principal market for the cattle of the
mainland and the wine of the coast. It was also famous
for its silkworms. But it was always of a turbulent nature,
and in 1809 rebelled against Napoleon's marshal, Mar-
mont, who wanted to raze it to the ground till not a stone
remained. Skradin was only saved from destruction by
paying the colossal fine of a hundred thousand ducats.
It is a measure of the town's prosperity that it could do
so much.

Under Austrian rule, the city languished. The harbour
silted up, and large vessels could no longer call; the low
water-meadows of the Krka flooded and became marsh-
.land. The trade went all to Sibenik, and the grim spectre
of malaria appeared. For the last sixty or seventy years
Skradin has had a bad reputation.

At the present time it is recovering a little. The local
mayor was one of the most practical and intelligent men
I have talked with; I found him by chance in the shady,
tree-lined square before the kafana.

Seeing that he was a sensible man, I was able to ask
him more or less indiscreet questions. He told me that
the two creeds in Skradin, for the people are mixed
Catholic and Orthodox, got on very well together, and
rather despised the polemics of the priests.

'Even the Subid,' he said, 'celebrated their Slava
and Mladen Subid married the daughter of Tsar
DuSan.'

62 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

This rather cryptic utterance has a meaning. For the
Subidi were the most powerful of the Croat, and therefore
Catholic, nobles, whereas the Slava is a purely Serb, and
therefore Orthodox, feast, and Dusan was the greatest
of the Serb rulers.

He gave me, unconsciously, a new angle on Dalmatian
history, that of the small town that is not interested in
dukes and dynasties, but in roads and reservoirs. He
spoke highly of the Turks, who once ruled Skradin; the
Catholic church is built over a demolished mosque.
Their justice, until the last age, was efficient, swift, and
at least as honest as their neighbours'. Also they kept the
roads in good repair, built bans for travellers, and pro-
vided springs and fountains. He also spoke highly of
the French, despite Marmont's ferocious punishment of
Skradin. They began reforms which have had to wait
until the present time to be completed. For they left
too soon. Among them were the provision of drink-
ing water cisterns for every village, a system of agrarian
reform, the abolition of useless religious orders, the
protection of the forests, and a tax on goats, the last
ravagers of Dalmatia. They were drastic, but necessary.
For the present Government also he had a good word.
His bitter condemnation was for the Austrians who
neglected Dalmatia and, for that reason, brought or
increased the malaria.

I asked him how the matter stood now. The people
around me had not the look of a malarial district. It was
good. The scourge has almost been stamped out. He
described the methods; firstly, the use of petrol, which
was not successful because too expensive, and the worst
breeding-places were in the deserted quarries on the
hillsides, where the peasants had to water their flocks.
So a certain kind of fish was introduced which lives on
mosquito larvae. He was enthusiastic about those fish.
They had practically cleaned up the district, and the
peasants could once again water their stock in safety*

CRUISERS AND CATHEDRALS: SlBENIK 63

There was no more malaria in Skradin. Only a few older
people still suffered from recurrent fevers.

'Look at the children!' he said.

The moment was well chosen. A number of happy and
healthy children were playing with a big dog in the shady
square. As we turned to look, one of them fell, and the
dog rapidly and skilfully removed her bathing drawers.

'No,' I said, 'not much malaria there/

VI

VANISHED GLORIES: BIOGRAD AND
VRANA

I LIKE Biograd-na-Moru. So I retraced my steps in
order to revisit it. Also, I wanted to see Vrana.

Every boy with any imagination has at one time or
another studied the atlas and decided: 'I want to go
just there.' It is a habit that persists into later life. The
atlas always remains the best picture-book in the world.

After a good many turns of fate, I have found myself
in the Balkans, and even now I like to look at maps of
the Balkans and decide that I must go and see just this
or that place. But I have one advantage over the dreaming
boy. Sometimes I can make my dreams come true. Some-
times, indeed, I have wished they had remained dreams,
but that is by the way. Anyhow, one of the places I had
determined to visit was Vrana.

I was to be the guest of the proprietor of the Illyria
Hotel, a Russo- Armenian idealist who dreams of turning
Biograd-na-Moru into another Abbazia. He talks in
terms of luxurious hotels, restaurants staked on piles
over the smooth waters of the Pasman canal, luxurious
villas, and tennis-courts. But I like to listen every
enthusiast is in his own way a genius, and there is little
danger of his ever succeeding. But what he has already
done is considerable. From the boat the Hotel Illyria
seems almost as large as Biograd itself. It is not in the
least in tune with the landscape, but on the other hand
it is so different that it gives one a not unpleasant sense
of shock. But, despite its great pretensions, it is comfort-
able and welcoming. I enjoyed my stay there.

Mr. Karaganian has certainly picked a good spot.
Biograd has all the natural advantages. It lies on a flat

VANISHED GLORIES: BIOGRAD AND VRANA 65

plain, fertile and well- watered and not too stony!
with the snow-capped summits of the Velebit ranged like
sentinels behind it. It has pleasant forests and good
bathing; and the Pasman canal is perfect for sailing.
But it needs better communications before it 'can become
world famous. The fast steamer service passes it by,
and the telephone, I know by experience, is shocking.
Perhaps the new motor-road will help its development.

Biograd was, at one time, the most famous city of
Croat littoral. But today it has the least to show for it.
The present city is in reality a pleasant little Dalmatian
village, with scarcely an old house in it. But in the days
of light sailing ships the Pasman canal, between Biograd
and the island of Pasman, was the only practicable winter
channel down the coast. It was the only one with any
good harbours. Whoever held it, held the eastern
Adriatic. Therefore, it was the scene of continual sea-
fighting. For two hundred and fifty years, from 600 to
850, Byzantine Zara and Croat Nin contended for it,
and the whole stretch of coast from Nin down to Suko-
sane was known as the Graveyard. Then, for a hundred
and sixty years, the fleet of the Croat kings was the most
powerful in the Adriatic, and exacted tribute from all
who passed through. This period of glory began with the
great sea victory of Prince Mioslav in 839, and ended
with the defeat of Svetoslav in a battle against the
combined sea forces of Venice, Krk, Rab, and Zara,
in A.D. looo. Svetoslav's brother, Suronja, had to give
territory and hostages.

It was in memory of this victory, which gave Venice
the naval command of the Adriatic, that the famous
ceremony of the Bucentoro was commenced. The Doge
went down to the sea in his gilded barge and threw a ring
into the waves, saying: *I wed thee, O sea, in sign of our
full and eternal mastery over thee.' It was carried out
regularly until 1737.

A few years later, under Kreimir IV in 1059, the

66 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

Croat capital was moved from land-locked Nin to open
Biograd. There he built palaces and a famous monastery.
It was the centre of a bishopric, and the residence of the
papal legate. It also became the coronation city of the
Croat kings.

Croats and Venetians were then fighting for mastery
of the Dalmatian coastal cities, which changed their
allegiance with bewildering rapidity. But the Venetian
Doge was in 1123 in Palestine, and the Croats took almost
all of them. On his return, the Doge besieged Biograd
with a strong army: 'Let this infernal spot which menaces
Venice be razed to its foundations.'

He literally carried out his threat. Biograd was first
burnt and then systematically destroyed. Zara, which
had remained faithful to Venice, was given the island of
Pasman. The bishop fled to Skradin, and the citizens to
Sibenik and Dolac. For two hundred years the site
remained waste.

It was destroyed on Good Friday 1126, and on Good
Friday the people of Biograd still say a special mass and
believe that a Black Knight comes out of the waves, as
he is supposed to have done that terrible day to save the
last Croat queen who reigned in Biograd.

But Zara later rebelled and suffered much the same
fate as Biograd, and it was on this site that the refugees
founded New Zara. But two years later they returned to
their own city, and Biograd was known as Old Zara,
which name it still retains in Italian.

Today the archaeologist must use the eye of faith. My
pleasantly bibulous friend, the local professor, showed
me scraps of walls that may or may not have been part of
the city ramparts or the great cathedral church. I took
his word for it. The destruction of Biograd was pretty
thorough. But he had unearthed at least one genuine and
interesting inscription, in glagolithic; a grant of Prince
Mioslav, dated 845. Incidentally he had a theory about
the Celts having greatly influenced the Serbo-Croat

VANISHED GLORIES: BIOGRAD AND VRANA 67

language. It may be: but he rode his hobby-horse too
hard, and it led him into absurdities. Still, it was strange
to find an earnest student of the Irish language in
Biograd-na-Moru.

Being the Croat capital, Biograd was also a great centre
of the glagolithic service, which is still in use there. On
this subject my archaeologist friend was far more secure
than on his Celtic roots. So we went together by boat
across the Pasman channel to the monastery of Cokovac,
near the village of Tkon, which had been a glagolithic
monastery until it was closed by Napoleon in 1808. It
is empty now, a little away from the village on a low hill
overlooking the sea. Those old monks certainly had an
eye for a beautiful situation.

All the inscriptions are in glagolithic, even those
mentioning Latin churchmen. Most of the more learned
glagolithic priests of the district came either from
Cokovac or from the college at Sibenik. It seems probable
that this was the famous monastery founded by Kresimir
in 1059.

High up on the main wall near the entrance is a tiny
plaque with two stone heads, probably a relic of the famous
cathedral church of Biograd. My companion said they
represented Kresimir and his wife. He asked me to take
a photo of it, and I nearly broke my neck climbing
upon a rickety stone-pine in order to get near enough to
do so.

It is curious, incidentally, what little impression these
Croat kings have made on die minds of their countrymen.
The peasants will tell you tales or sing you songs of
Diocletian, of Ivo of Senj, of the Subici, or of the Serbian
kings and heroes, such as Lazar or Kraljevid Marko.
But of Tomislav or Ejreimir, of Svetoslav or Suronja,
they know absolutely nothing. They are meat only for
the professors.

Next day I found a car and went to Vrana. What had
attracted me on the map was the great lake of Vrana, and

68 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

what had attracted my imagination was its connection
with the Templars.

The lake is low and marshy, and the Vranjsko polje
exceedingly green and fertile. Much of the land around
it has been reclaimed, and it is no longer malarious, as
it was in Fortis' day. His description of it had not been
encouraging.

The actual ruins of Vrana are still impressive. Con-
sidering that it was a fortress, and not a city, they cover
an immense area. But the going is very heavy, thick with
thorns and brambles. It seems largely used now as a
pasture for donkeys and goats, the only animals that can
get some sustenance from its rank tangle.

One of the towers is still fairly intact, and one can get
from its summit, if one is active, a general idea of the
ground plan and see easily enough where Croat or
Turkish masonry ends and Venetian begins. Of the great
hall of audience there is little left. We stumbled in and
out of the ruined walls, watched curiously by the
chauffeur, who quite evidently thought us mad to take
such exercise in the heat.

Fortis evidently suffered in the same way. He writes:
'Some have thought that Blandona was anciently seated
there; but no vestige of Roman antiquity is to be seen
about these walls, and ruined, uninhabited towers. I
searched with great diligence, among the stones, for
inscriptions, but in vain; and was happy at last to get
from among them, without any accident.'

Save for a doubtful association with the Liburnian city
of Arauzona, Vrana is first mentioned in 1076 as a crown-
land of the Croat kings, who gave it in that year to Pope
Gregory VII for the use of the papal legate at the
Croat Court. But after the union of the Croat and
Hungarian crowns, the legate no longer resided at
Biograd, and it was given by King Bela III in 1 138 to the
Templars.

Under that order, Vrana became very important, for

VANISHED GLORIES: BIOGRAD AND VRANA 69

the Prior controlled all the property of the order for
Croatia and Hungary, and ruled like an independent
prince. And after the order was suppressed in 1312, the
same pomp was held by the Prior of the Order of St.
John, which succeeded them. 'His power increased to
such a degree that it sometimes preponderated even in
the affairs of the kingdom.' The Prior even attempted
the role of kingmaker, and tried to unite Bosnia and
Croatia under King Tvrtko I of Bosnia. He captured
Elizabeth of Hungary and her daughter Mary and kept
them prisoners at Novigrad. Later he caused Elizabeth
to be drowned. Only the death of Tvrtko made his
schemes go awry.

His plot, had it been successful, might have changed
the history of the South Slavs.

Vrana then came into the hands of Vladislav of Naples,
also a pretender to the Croato-Hungarian throne, but,
seeing he could do nothing, he sold it to the Venetians
for 100,000 ducats and went home. It remained in
Venetian hands for 129 years.

In 1538 it was taken by the Turks, and another glorious
period in its history began. Under the Sanjak bey,
Alibeg Atlagid, it became known as the 'garden of the
Lika sanjak'. Later the famous family of Ferhatpai<f
became hereditary begs of Vrana. And it was here that
the Turkish admiral, Jusuf Mackovi<5, was born, who
defeated the Venetians at sea and was drowned at
Constantinople by a grateful master. But its most famous
ruler was Halil Beg, Pasha of the Lika, whose extortions
and raids caused the Candian war. In 1647 it was again
taken by the Venetians, who captured Halil Beg. His
armour still hangs as a trophy in Bologna.

With their usual ferocity, the Venetians destroyed all
the Croat cities of the district and reduced the garden
of the Lika to an unhealthy marsh, an unprofitable fief
of the Borelli family, who still bear the title Princes of
Vrana. It was not reclaimed until 1897.

yo A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

A dignitary of the Zagreb Church still uses the title
Prior of Vrana.

It was getting late, but we decided before going to the
lake to visit the village and the han erected by the luckless
Mackovi<5. It is still in fairly good condition. Fortis
mentions it, and pays an overdue tribute to the Turks:
'The foundations of Hans, or Caravanserais, do great
honour to the Turkish nation, and they are very numerous
throughout the Empire.'

The interior is still in use, but is more of a farmyard
than a han, and we picked our way through byres and
stalls to the incessant clamour of angry dogs. The sleeping
quarters and the open hearths for the caravan-cooks are
still in good preservation. After the famous Leaden Inn,
Kursumli Han, at Skoplje, the Han at Vrana is the best
example of a Moslem caravanserai in Yugoslavia.

We returned along the shore of the lake, which is now
salt, although until 1640 writers mention it as fresh. I
was not disappointed in it. It had just the desolate
melancholy beauty that I imagined it would have when
I placed my finger on the map. There is something almost
ill-omened about it, the sort of malevolent haunting
beauty of a Poe tale. On a medieval map one would not
be surprised to find it marked: 'Here bee monsters!'

The next day, on a perfect morning, I left Biograd.

Our way led through a maze of islands. The captain,
who was discussing naval strategy, pointed out the channels
to me. I remarked that the Yugoslavs do not need an
offensive naval force. They can lie hid behind their
islands and harry their enemies with light cruisers,
submarines, and hydroplanes. They do not need dread-
noughts.

'No,' said the captain, pointing to the scattered
archipelago of rocks and islets. 'There are our battleships.'

I was not anxious to spend another night at Sibenik.
Perhaps I might meet that pig again. So I took counsel
with the captain.

MENDING NETS, ISLAND OF SILBA

VANISHED GLORIES: BIOGRAD AND VRANA 71

'Why don't you get off at Zlarin, then?'

I did, and am eternally grateful to that captain. It was
one of the most delightful days of all my trip. It is a
quiet little town on a quiet little island, famous for its
coral fisheries. The people are friendly, the wine and
the inns are good. I got a room in one and went down to
the twilit courtyard to have a glass and some supper.
There were about half-a-dozen men at one of the tables,
and I asked if I might bring my wine over. When they
heard I was from England, three of them began to speak
English with me. For every man in Zlarin is, or has
been, a sailor, and most have served in English orAmerican
waters. Almost as many men are overseas as are on the
island itself.

The company was the best in the world; working men,
who are masters of their craft, who have seen the world
and are intelligent enough to talk about it. Most of them
were islanders. There was the innkeeper, himself an old
sailor, an old peasant who had been captain of a fishing
vessel on the Alaska coast, two pilots, a ship captain,
and a sergeant from the coast defence. He was not an
islander, but a Serb from Belgrade, a leather-worker by
trade, who wanted to go to Paris to perfect his craft as
soon as his military service was finished.

The conversation ranged from sea to sea and from
country to country. It scarcely touched on the two
subjects of the conversationally imbecile; politics and
women. A good deal of it was about fishing, in all the
seven seas.

The moon rose, full and shining, flooding the court-
yard with light. The wine was good, and a friendly cat
settled upon my knee. No evening could have passed
more pleasantly.

Next morning I went to look at Zlarin, and my good
impression of the night before remained. I examined
the Co-operative of the coral fishers, where every official
is himself a fisherman, and where they work the coral

72 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

into beautiful forms with tools that might have been
used by Tubal Cain. I inspected the special nets, shaped
like cardinals' hats, by which the coral is taken, and was
interested in the system of book-keeping whereby my
simple purchases were credited to the fisherman who
had taken the coral and the workman who had fashioned
it. And I was pleased to hear that the Co-operative is
doing well.

All the women of Zlarin wear national costume, a rare
thing among the islands. And a very beautiful one it is,
with black bolero over a white blouse, piped with red
lanyards, a black skirt, and a brightly coloured kerchief.
I tried to get a photo, but all the prettiest girls ran away
when they saw the camera. I mentioned this to the
innkeeper.

'Nearly all their husbands or fiances are in America
or at sea. They are afraid that if the photo is published,
one of them will see it and get jealous. Besides, those are
not their best dresses. You should have seen them when
the film company was here!' for last year a German
company shot a film in Zlarin called the Coral Princess.

Indeed, the women of Zlarin are extraordinary. They
are proud, they are beautiful, and they are chaste. Their
husbands are sometimes away for five or six years on
end, but adultery is almost unheard of. And strong too !

In August 1936 they held a women's regatta here,
between the women of the neighbouring islands, Zlarin,
Sepurina, 2irje, and Kaprije. It was no joke. The races
were in heavy fishing boats over a course of fifteen
hundred metres !

But if the women are proud, so too are the men. They
consider themselves as sailors second to none, now that
Perast has fallen from her high estate. They like to quote
the old saying: * First the men of Perast, then the men of
Zlarin, then the men of Bakar, and then the rest.' In the
days of the old Austrian Lloyd, the crack ships of the
former Empire, more than half the sailors were from

VANISHED GLORIES: BIOGRAD AND VRANA 73

Zlarin. One old captain has turned his house into a sort
of museum of the former Lloyd.

Indeed, Zlarin is a pleasant place. I am not surprised
that the nobles of Sibenik chose it as a retreat when their
city was ravaged by the plague and only 1,500 souls
left alive there. What a Decameron it must have been!
But, alas, there was no Boccaccio.

VII
REBELLIOUS SPLIT

small river/ the Jader, 'that does not run
JL above three miles, obstructed, here and there, by
tophaceous banks, nourishes in its mossy grots an ex-
quisite species of trout. Hence some author, who must
have been a much better judge of good eating than of
the actions of great men, took occasion to write that
Diocletian (acting worse than Esau) renounced the
pleasure of commanding almost all the then known earth,
to eat quietly his bellyful of these fishes, in his magnificent
retirement at Spalatro. I know not if Diocletian was as
great a lover of fish as he was of herbs ; but believe that
Spalatro, without any motive of gluttony, must then have
been a delicious habitation; and, to strengthen this
belief, I imagine the neighbouring mountains to have
been covered with ancient woods which, in our times
(1787), by its horrid bareness, reverberates an almost
insupportable heat in the summer days. It is certain, that
a turn for philosophy and perhaps a trait of wise policy,
was the motive of Diocletian's retirement. He lived ten
years in tranquillity at Spalatro, and perhaps would have
enjoyed a longer life, if the letters of Constantius and
Licinius had not come to disturb him. Notwithstanding
all the ill that the Christian authors have written (one
copying the other) of this Dalmatine Emperor, perhaps
with greater piety than impartiality and truth, it must
be confessed, that he was a man of extraordinary merit.
He mounted the throne without any effusion of civil
. blood, led to it by his own virtues; and after a reign of
twenty years, gave perhaps the greatest example of
philosophical moderation, that ever was heard of in the
world. I reckon it a singular honour to Diocletian, his

74

REBELLIOUS SPLIT 75

having been praised by Julian, among the Caesars, as
he certainly would not havs spared him, if he could have
said anything to his prejudice.'

Pliny says that it was cabbages.

Even as, through the Middle Ages, the Palace of
Diocletian actually was Split there are still three
hundred houses within its walls so his mighty presence
dominated the life of the city. Though it has had a long
and stormy history and is now the greatest seaport of
Dalmatia and one of the three most active and energetic
cities of Yugoslavia, the visitor's first thought is of
Diocletian. The citizens, too, do him honour, though
I question whether that honour has not gone too far in
the creation of 'Diocletian's Bar', which is a most
ordinary boite de nuit.

I will not again describe the magnificent ruins of the
Palace. I have done it before, and others have done it
before me. Besides, every visitor may get innumerable
guides and pamphlets describing the principal details
for little or nothing. For those who want real information,
I recommend the invaluable Jackson and, of course,
Robert Adam's drawings. The best general description
is still that in Gibbon's Decline and Fall.

Adam was here in 1757, a few years before Fortis, and
made detailed drawings of the Palace, which later became
the basis for the Adam style. You may find the work of
Diocletian's architects repeated and embellished in many
English homes. But his investigations drew upon him the
suspicion of the Venetian authorities, and he was put
into prison as a spy, whence he escaped only by the
intervention of the Venetian commandant, Robert
Graeme. That name interests me. How did a Graeme
come to such a position? Perhaps he was an adherent of
the Stuarts who had fled from England after the '15
or the '45 ? But no one could tell me.

I have before me a detailed history of Split. It is one
of the most bloodthirsty and complicated documents

76 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

that I have ever had to unravel, and I fear that its
intricacies would merely bore the average reader. So I
will give only the shortest precis in as telegraphic a style
as possible.

The Palace was built between 295 and 305, and Dio-
cletian lived there until 313. The next fact was the
murder there of Julius Nepos, pretender to the Empire,
and more or less Caesar of Dalmatia, in 480. It was dam-
aged but not sacked by the Avars, who destroyed Salona,
and then became the refuge of the Salonitans. Its first
'mayor' was a certain Severus.

The Croats could not take it in their raids, and it
became part of the Byzantine theme of Dalmatia. Neither
could the Franks, and it remained Byzantine after the
Peace of Aachen in 812. But in 882 a local document of
Prince Trpimir mentions Croats and Latins as living in
amity within its walls.

Under the great Croat king, Tomislav, two Church
Councils were held in Split, in 925 and 968. Despite the
resistance of the Croat bishops, led by Gregory of Nin,
the Latin service was then preferred above the Croat.
Split became the centre of an archbishopric, and ecclesias-
tically supreme over all the Dalmatian cities.

It was then ruled by the Croat kings, who held the
titles of Eparch and Patrician from the Byzantine emperor.
In 1000 the Venetians took the city, under Doge Peter II,
Orseolo. Apparently they were not seriously opposed, and
it was here that the treaty was signed between them and
Suronja. It was then 'nobilissimam et validam urbem,
quae totius Dalmatiae metropolis constat'. About 1069
it was retaken by the Croat king, Petar Kresimir IV,
who again lost it for a short time to the Normans, who
were in their turn driven out by the Venetians. It was then
a semi-autonomous city, governed by its own statutes.

From then until 1217 it changed hands several times,
between Croato-Hungarians and Venetians, while retain-
ing a nominal allegiance to Byzantium.

REBELLIOUS SPLIT 77

Split now became more powerful than her rulers. She
had her own statutes and her own independence under
an elected podesta, who was sometimes a Venetian and
sometimes a member of the powerful Croat families of
Nelipid and Subid. Long years are occupied in petty
wars with Trogir, the Poljica republic, and the pirates
of Omis.

In the fourteenth century the people of Split were so
much in the power of the Subidi that they felt their
liberties endangered. So they intrigued both with Venice
and with the Croato-Hungarian Crown. The changes of
this period are positively bewildering. Every five or ten
years Split has a different overlord.

In 1390 that overlord was the most famous of the
Bosnian Kings, Stefan Tvrtko, and in 1403 it was his
general, Hrvoje Vuki<5, who remained until 1413 and
made himself decidedly unpopular. On his disgrace the
people sang a mass of thankfulness for their deliverance
from Pharaoh. But this may have been due to his leanings
towards the Bogumil heresy, for they had little real cause
to regret him. Without his strong rule, Split lost much
land and power, and in 1409 suffered the indignity of
being sold to Venice for 100,000 ducats.

Through the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries Split,
under Venetian governors, had her hands full in defending
herself against the Turks, especially after the fall of
Klis, and had little time for civil strife. The Turkish
frontier was on the Jader, only a mile or so away from
the city. After the fall of the Venetian republic in 1797
she had the same history as the rest of Dalmatia.

All these people have left traces on the architecture
and appearance of Split. Mostly, of course, Diocletian,
and after him Hrvoje Vuk&d and the Venetians.

But I will leave the rest of Split to the professional
guides and try to explain the curious influence that this
city always has on me every time I visit it. For though
the past hangs about it like a veil, it is essentially a city

78 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

of the present. Though the real people of Split are not
sailors till a few years ago not a single Splifianin was a
sea-captain it is the greatest port in Dalmatia, and a
magnet to the islanders who form the most energetic
portion of its populace. It is, for the visitor, essentially
a place of passage. Yet one lingers in it and the days slip
by unconsciously. One does nothing very much, save
watch the wheeling swallows in the Central Square, or
stroll up and down the molo, where the sailing boats
form a floating market, selling wine and oil and fruit
from planks hung out over their sterns. Yet one's days
seem full of incident. Its people are gay, careless, and
eternally rebellious. They are always either singing or
protesting. It is as unstable as the waters of its harbour,
and yet it endures. It has many of the less pleasant
aspects of a great waterside, yet it remains somehow
aristocratic. And its surroundings are still worthy of the
retirement of an emperor.

The wide sweep of the harbour and the tremendous
amphitheatre of the mountains give it an air of majesty
when approached from the sea. And, indeed, those
mountains are the barriers of another world. Split looks
outwards: the sea brings her citizens new goods and new
ideas from the outer world. The people of the moun-
tains look inward: their horizon is bounded by their
massive rocks, and their conception of the outer world
is limited to Split herself. As late as 1922 there were still
men who could not believe that there is no longer a
Caesar in Vienna or a Sultan in Tsarigrad. They were
of the eternal verities and could not change. It is the
young men from the army that speak of the king in
Belgrade. Mountain women, coming into the city, will
listen open-mouthed to the tales of some returned
emigrant and then ask timidly:

'You have been in America?'

'Yes.'

'Well, how is my son, Jovo Matutinovid?'

REBELLIOUS SPLIT 79

In the villages every one knows every one else. How
could it be otherwise in America?

Rebellious Split, on the other hand, is keenly political.
In 1910 they saluted Alexander on his return from
Montenegro as their future ruler. They furnished many
martyrs during the war to realize that rule. And now that
it has at last been realized, they are always searching for
fresh causes of revolt. It is possible that St. Jerome came
from somewhere near Split. It would explain his splenetic
temper and his heartfelt repentance:

'Spare me, O Lord. For I am a Dalmatian/

There are a lot of places to go to near Split. One's
difficulty is, not to find, but to choose. There is Trogir,
for example, that most lovely of little medieval cities,
with a cathedral almost as beautiful as that of Sibenik.
When you are there, ask any of the older women how
they drove out the Italian army of occupation, armed
mostly with umbrellas ! The story is true, but no one save
Kipling could make it sound so.

But for purely personal reasons, which have no part
in this book, I did not want to go again to Trogir.

'Nessun maggior dolore ' But I counsel every one else

to do so.

Besides a wanderer cannot wander everywhere. I
decided to use Split as a headquarters, and first revisit
Klis and Salona and then go to the islands.

Salona is not far from Split, and was, in classical
times, far the greater city. Indeed, Split was little more
than the palace ; the classical site was Epetion, the modern
Stobrec.

It was really an important city, capital of Dalmatia,
with a population estimated at between forty and sixty

80 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

thousand souls. It is celebrated by many classical writers,
including Lucan, whose lines:

Qua maris Adriatici longas ferit unda Salonae
Et tepidum in molles zephyros excurrit Hyader

no writer has been able to omit, and was mentioned by
Constantine Porphyrogenitos as being half as large as
Constantinople itself. That, I fear, was an exaggeration,
but it gives a measure of its importance. Its great period
began after the Civil War, when it had luck or foresight
enough to hold to Caesar against Pompey, and under
Augustus the Colonia Martia Julia Salonae was one of
the leading cities of the Empire. More important for the
archaeologist, it was one of the greatest centres of early
Roman Christianity, and, because of its early destruction,
those monuments have not been overlaid by more recent
piety. They date from, roughly, the end of the third
century, the epoch of Venantius and Domnius, to the
beginning of the seventh, when it was destroyed. That
is a rare period, so Salona has a great reputation. It is
probably the finest site yet discovered for early Roman
Christianity.

That is, indeed, the great advantage of discoveries in
the Balkans over those in Greece and Italy. For the
Greeks and Romans rebuilt their cities and continued
to live in them, whereas the nomad Slavs and Avars, who
destroyed the classical civilization of the Balkans, usually
left the sites waste and built their villages elsewhere.
So that such damage as has been done since their destruc-
tion has been done by time, by amateur archaeologists,
or by peasants requiring building material. Often the
sites have been entirely forgotten and covered with
earth, only waiting excavation. At the worst, one may
find a few cottages at or near the site, usually with some
such names as Zlokudani (the evil houses) or Gradiste
(the buildings), etc. The same is, of course, true of
British sites such as Verulamium, which is some way

REBELLIOUS SPLIT 8l

from medieval St. Albans, but Britain was a wild and
distant province, whereas the Balkans were the bridge
between Greece and Italy, were highly civilized, and,
under the Claudians, the centre of the Roman Empire.

Salona was, from the archaeological point of view,
twice destroyed ; once by the Avars in the seventh century,
who left it ruined, but more or less intact, and again by
the Venetians, who feared that the ruins might shelter
Turkish raiding bands. The second destruction was,
archaeologically, the more regrettable. Senator Giam-
battista Giustiniani, writing in the sixteenth century,
before this destruction, says:

'The nobility, grandeur, and magnificence of the city
of Salona, may be imagined from the vaults and arches
of the wonderful theatre, which are seen at this day;
from the vast stones of the finest marble, which lies
scattered on, or buried in the fields; from the beautiful
column of three pieces of marble which is still standing
in the place where they say the arsenal was, towards the
seashore; and from the many arches of surprising beauty,
supported by very high marble columns; the height of
the arches is a stone-throw, and above them was an
aqueduct, which reached from Salona to Spalatro
There are to be seen many ruins and vestiges of large
palaces, and many ancient epitaphs may be read, on fine
marble stones; but the earth, which is increased, has
buried the most ancient stones, and the most valuable
things.'

Perhaps it was this earth that has preserved much of
the ruins of Salona as we now see them. Certainly it
was the love and care of Monsignor Buli<5 that uncovered
them. He was a most remarkable old man. I met him,
in 1925, shortly before his death, and am proud of the
memory. Not only did he restore Salona and make it a
place of pilgrimage to the archaeologists of the world,
but he built himself a little villa in the Roman style
within the circuit of the ancient walls and literally lived
G

82 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

with his work. Further, he was a patriot and an enthusiast,
and had that subtle sense of humour which, despite the
comic papers, is common among really learned men.
I remembered, for example, his exquisite list 'of light
refreshments obtainable at the villa, and on this occasion
copied it down verbatim. Here it is:

SALONIS

AD

BONUM

PASTOREM

VILLICUS

EFFOSSIONUM

DABIT

VINUM SALONITARUM SIVE ALBUM SIVE AUBRUM SIVE NIGRUM
OPTIMUM QUOD NON CORRUPIT MALITIA HOMINUM

ZYTHUM BOSNIACUM

AQUAM SALUBERRIMAM IADRI FLUMINIS

AQUAM FONTIS MATTONIANI

PERNAM SALONITANAM

CLUPEAS ISSAEAS SALSAS

OVA RECENTIA VEL SORBILIA VEL COCTA

BUTYRUM SALONITANUM RECENS

CASEUM VEL DALMATICUM VEL HELVETICUM

PANEM BIS COCTUM VEL DOMESTICUM

LAC VACCINUM

COGNAC SPALATINUM

MEL QUOD APIS TUSCULANA CONDIDIT

POTIONEM EX FABA ARABICA
FICUS UVAM PIRA POMA MELONES EX AGRO SALONITANO

(TEMPORE ET AESTIVO ET AUTUMNALI)
IMAGINES ANTIQUITATUM SALONITANARUM

PHOTOGRAPHICAS ET
EPISTULAS SALUTATORIAS VILLICUS VENUMDABIT.

There is also a good story about him and Bernard
Shaw. It is probably not true, as, as far as I remember,
Bulid was dead before Shaw's visit. But si non e vero

A patriotic sentiment has led the people of Split to
erect, in the central peristyle of Diocletian's palace, a

REBELLIOUS SPLIT 83

colossal statue of Gregory of Nin. The effect is provo-
cative, as Gregory was a Christian and a nationalist,
while Diocletian was opposed to both. The bishop
is enormous, menacing, and impressive, the work of
Metrovic. But it is in no way Roman. Nothing could
be more opposed to the classical spirit, even in the
debased form of Diocletian's day, than this crude vigour
and striving. Bulid acknowledged its greatness, but was
indignant about its being placed just there. The styles
did not mix: it was a glaring false quantity.

'Yes/ Shaw is supposed to have replied. 'I agree with
you. If I were the town council of Split, I would pull
down Diocletian's palace.'

The road to Klis is calculated to make any tapeworm
giddy. I remembered crawling up it in an ancient
Chevrolet bus to see the tournament of the Alka at
Sinj, and, at the remembrance, even the open touring-car
in which we were seemed to smell once more of over-
heated leather cushions and scorching bearings. For
Klis is high up in the mountains, guarding the pass
that leads from Split to Sinj, the Lika, and, eventually,
Bosnia. It was for centuries one of the key positions of
the Balkans.

On the other side of the funnel-like gorge winds the
narrow-gauge railway to Sinj. Its course is even more
complicated than the road. After a while one gets used
to these mountain railways that look like a coil of rope
carelessly flung over the mountain saddle in enormous
loops and whorls. But the line to Klis is one of the most
far flung.

For it has a peculiar problem of its own. The gorge is
like a funnel, with its narrow end resting on the cup of
the mountains. Behind these, in winter, the bora piles
up, more like water than wind, until it literally overflows
into the gorge. Then it sweeps downwards with concen-

84 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

trated and irresistible force. In the early days, before
the windbreaks were built, it several times derailed the
train, and even now the services are suspended if the
bora is blowing at more than eighty kilometres an hour.

On its high rock in the mouth of the gorge, Klis was
an impregnable fortress, secure against everything save
famine or treachery. Even against artillery it would be
a formidable barrier. Range after range of ramparts
encircle the hill, till they culminate in the citadel on the
summit. Nowadays there is a road to the outer gate. A
few years ago it was not only impregnable, but wellnigh
unapproachable.

I was travelling with the director of Adriatic Tourism,
Jerko Culid, at whose charming house in Firule I had
already found real welcome and hospitality, and some
other friends. As we walked slowly upwards, through
gate after gate, towards the citadel, he spoke of Petar
Kruzid and his heroic defence of Klis.

On the summit there was a fresh, cool breeze, which
was doubly pleasant after the closeness of the summer
air at Salona. Like a magician, Mr. dulic conjured up
from somewhere or other jugs of cool wine and platefuls
of wine-dark Dalmatian ham, a table and chairs. We sat
there, looking out over the enormous panorama. Behind
us was the pass to Sinj, a narrow channel between bare
mountains; before us, the gorge widened and broadened
until it lost itself in the fertile plain of the Splitsko polje
and the Riviera of the Seven Castles. A little to the left
was Split itself and the wooded hillside park of Marijan.
Then the new harbour works and Vranjic, like a tiny
Venice in the centre of the bay. Then the trout-filled
Jader and the ruins of Salona, and, beyond them, the
fertile villages of the Seven Castles and distant Trogir.
Immediately below was the village of Klis, towards which
a tiny train was climbing stertorously. While, far out to
sea, stretched the islands. One could see an incredible
distance; beyond Ciovo and Brafi and rosemary-scented

REBELLIOUS SPLIT 85

Solta to Hvar and even, vaguely perceived, far-distant
Vis. It was a view that surpassed all superlatives.

The grim ramifications of the fortress itself are full of
an awesome and sombre charm. But time has softened
their outlines and tilled the crannies with wild rosemary,
sweet-smelling salvia, and lavender. On the very summit
is a church, that was once a Turkish mosque, but the
minaret has gone. In the citadel are rooms, used until a
few years ago as prisons for political prisoners. The
windows, if one may use such a term for wide stone
embrasures, were unbarred. I climbed on the sill of one
and looked down. Bars were unnecessary. Below was a
sheer rock-wall of four or five hundred feet.

Mr. Culi6 wishes to restore the fortress and to make
it a resort for tourists and the people of Split on hot
summer days. He explained his methods, and they were
good. Thank goodness, he will control the work. For he
is a man of great taste and sensibility. Klis will be a
perfect place for a little restaurant and quiet walks and
talks of an evening, and he will in no way spoil its majesty
and grandeur.

Nevertheless I was glad to be there once more while
it is still deserted and serene.

VIII
CITY OF PIRATES: OMlS

I HAVE important letters to write. But nothing seems
very important in Dalmatia. There is always some
good reason for putting things off. I am sitting in a cafe
on the seafront at Omi, the first of my excursions from
Split. A boat like a Liburnian galley, descendant of the
ancient pirates, is entering the harbour, and I have
stopped everything to look at it and to wonder how
any one can possibly live in a little house half-way up the
great stone rampart of the Biokovo.

Omi was a pirate stronghold. But all the pirates have
gone now: or perhaps they have all turned hotel-keepers
or taxi-drivers in Dubrovnik. But it doesn't matter. They
have left their mark on Omis, which is doubtless more
comfortable for their absence.

Those villages, for instance. The older ones are far
up on the hillside, out of reach of the pirate raids, with
watch-towers to give the alarm. Only the fortified towns,
or the more recent settlements, are on the seashore. Omis
itself, for example. No one dared to attack it. The
Venetians spent many millions of ducats in an attempt
to dislodge them, and a Senator remarked that she would
willingly pay as many more to have kept her fingers
unburnt. After the Neretljani, the people of Omis were
the most famous sea-robbers, under the Kacid family.
They played the racketeers' game too, exacting protection
money from Kotor and Split and Dubrovnik to let their
ships pass in peace. There are several treaties of the twelfth
century to prove the fact; and in 1221 the Pope himself
preached a holy war against them for plundering the ships
of the Crusaders. Only in 1444 were they forced to yield to
the Venetians, as the last independent city of Dalmatia.

86

CITY OF PIRATES: OMI 87

Omi was always a pirate town. She had little trade and
little truck with the trappings of nobility. In the whole
city I could only see one coat of arms, and that the
bishop's. I asked the parish priest how he reconciled
bishops with piracy, but he merely shrugged his shoulders
and remarked that they had different ideals in the Middle
Ages. Their clergy, too, were a tough lot. They used the
cryptic Bosnian script up to the early nineteenth century,
and were not free from suspicion of the Bosnian heresy.
We might say of them today that they had leanings
towards Bolshevism. The priest showed me a magnificent
silver-gilt Italian thirteenth-century ostensorium. Prob-
ably plunder !

They chose their site well. For, though Omi today
is a pleasant little place of tree-shaded avenues, it lies at
the mouth of the Cetina gorge, where all the pirate
fleets of the world might lie secure. On the rocks above
are grim ruins of castles and watch-towers, but the
streets today seem more distinguished by the astonish-
ingly large percentage of pretty girls. Altogether a pleasant
place.

I decided to see this fearsome canyon, which so im-
pressed Fortis when he went up it to see the Gubavica
falls. They are harnessed now to an electric power-
station, but the transmission wires and the road through
the gorge have done little to lessen its grandeur.

I followed the road along the quay, which was strewn
with drying chrysanthemums. The Dalmatian chrys-
anthemum produces pyrethrum, whence is prepared one
of the most potent bug-powders in the world. However,
as far as Omis is concerned, it is an export trade !

The road turns abruptly into the gorge. It was very
still and quite deserted. Across the river was a tiny
church and two or three cottages, but no sign of inhabit-
ants. There was not a sound, save the tinkle of a distant
waterfall from a great height and the croaking of innumer-
able frogs, treble and bass answering one another in

88 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

antiphony. A little farther on were rich water-meadows,
unapproachable save by boat, and huge masses of bright
purple flowers, of which I do not know the name. I
carried some of them about with me for days, but when
at last I met a knowledgeable botanist, they were already
beyond hope of identification.

There are six kilometres of navigable river here,
almost inaccessible save by sea before the road was built.
No pirates could have found a better haven.

A little farther along the Cetina is the Poljice. This
little mountain region was for many centuries an inde-
pendent republic. It was still independent at the time
Fortis writes, and he was one of the few foreigners
to visit it. I cannot resist quoting some of his long
and interesting description of their government and
customs :

'The Government of this little republick has something
singular in it; and deserves to be known. Three orders
or ranks of persons compose the whole body of the people,
consisting of about fifteen thousand. Twenty families
pretend that they are descended from noble Hungarians',
i.e. Croats, not Magyars, 'who in turbulent times had
taken refuge in these parts. Another larger number of
families boast that they are nobles of Bosnia, and the
rest are the commonalty of peasants. Every year, on
St. George's day, the Poglizans hold their diet, which
they call Zbor . . . where they chuse new magistrates or
confirm the old ones. The Veliki Knes, or great Count,
is the first dignity of the state, and is always chosen
from the noble Hungarian families. ... It happens but
seldom that the great Count is chosen without violence,
because there is generally more than one candidate. In
that case, after having canvassed the votes underhand,
one of the boldest partisans lays hold of the box con-
taining the privileges of the community, which is the
deposite annually committed to the care of the great
Count: he runs with the box towards the house of him

CITY OF PIRATES: OMI 89

for whom he is engaged, and every member of the diet
has a right to pursue him with stones, knives and fire-
arms ; and many make use of their right to its full extent.
If the man takes his measures well, and gets safe to the
house proposed with the box, the great Count is duly
elected, and none dares make further opposition/

Incidentally to my earlier remarks about the Slavonic
gods, Fortis mentions that 'the shepherds of Pogliza
have a particular devotion for St. Vito', and also mentions
a Pirun Dubrava or Grove of Perun. Possibly in these
villages they retained many pagan rites. The Neretljani
were pagans long after the rest of the Slavs were 'con-
verted', and the people of the Poljice resembled them
in many respects.

There is a Vidova Gora also on the island of Brae,
whither I went next day. Conformant to so great a saint
or deity have it which way you will it is the highest
point on the island, and there was almost certainly a
grove there at one time.

Brae is the largest of the islands of Dalmatia and one
of the most charming. Doubtless it has a long history,
but little is known of it. Pliny mentions the excellence of
its goats, 'capris laudata Brattia', and Fortis the excellence
of its wines and cheese. Near Splitska the foundations
of a third-century basilica have recently been found.
That is about all.

I arrived at Sumartin on Brae on the eve of Corpus
Christi. It lies at the extreme southern end of the island
in a sheltered bay, with a most magnificent view over the
Biokovo. It is so small that it is scarcely mentioned in
the guide-books, but a leading citizen is building there
a comfortable modern hotel which will be open next
season (1939). I looked for a room at the Sailor's Inn,
with anchors in white pebbles picked out on the paths.
The hostess said she had one, and promptly disappeared.
I waited, growing hungrier and hungrier. Finally, I could
stand no more, but decamped to the opposition inn, the

90 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

Sarajevo, where I found a good room and good food, as
well as good company.

It was lucky that I did so. For my window overlooked
the quay, where tomorrow's procession was to pass.
The whole village was in eager preparation; maybe my
dilatory hostess had been thus preoccupied. The smiling
step-daughter of my present host was storing sacks of
sweet-smelling broom flowers in the corridor, and all
that night I slept in their heavy odour as if drugged.

Early next morning I was awakened by the chatter of
girls under my window. The quay was strewn from end
to end with yellow blossoms, forming a thick flowery
carpet. All the fishing boats were lined up along the
quay, and their masters were decorating them with
flowers and green leaves. Just below the church a decor-
ated temporary altar had been put up and the space
before it cleared to allow of an inscription in flowers:
Zdravo, tilo Isusa. Hail, Body of Jesus. Everywhere
girls were lugging baskets deep with golden blooms and
scattering them right and left as if for a feast of Ceres.

About half-past ten the bells of the monastery began
to ring, and the quay emptied of all save the flower-girls.
Every one else, in their best dresses, were going to the
church. Alas, there is no longer a national costume on
Brae!

The fishermen had finished decorating their boats and
were now occupied in placing their nets along the edge
of the quay, with the main trawls stretched across the
pathway of the procession, in the form of a rude cross.
Might they, too, be blessed by the Sacred Body of Christ.

About eleven the procession left the church, to an
almost deafening clangour of bells. They halted before
the temporary altar and then moved slowly onwards,
chanting, along the quay. There was bustle among the
fishing-boats. As the Sacrament passed by, they, too,
swung from their mooring and, gaily decorated with the
great fishing-lamps brightly lit, followed the procession

CITY OF PIRATES: OMI 91

along the water's edge. I am in no way religious, but the
whole scene was deeply moving. At last they slowly
passed out of sight into the village, leaving behind them
the heavy scent of incense and crushed broom.

Mr. thilid was to meet me that afternoon at Povlje,
a village a few kilometres away. I asked how I was to
get there, as the road was long and there were no convey-
ances in Sumartin. How far would it be over the crest of
the hill? Only some eight or ten kilometres. Very well,
I would walk.

That walk was one of the most difficult and most
beautiful of my life. Brae does not show her most attrac-
tive side to the sea. The shores are bare and rocky, with
scarcely a trace of vegetation, save in the sheltered bays
where are the villages. The winter bora sees to that.

But away from the exposed seashore it is different.
The paths are narrow and made of rough stone that
tears the very soul out of one's boots. One's feet suffer,
but one's heart is filled with colour and gaiety. It was the
better that day for there was no one in the fields, and the
only sign of man was a hydroplane zooming overhead.
Bright green lizards were sunning themselves on the hot
stones, to vanish, with quivering tails, at my approach.
The stone walls themselves were bright with yellow
broom and the peculiarly rich velvety red of the pome-
granate blossom. The fields were either laid out in drill-
room vineyards, or with the gruesome contortions of
the olives, the one looking like new recruits training for
some war, the other like aged veterans bent and twisted
by its service. The fat bulbous figs seemed aggressively
conscious of their fruitfulness, like the figures in
Botticelli's Primavera. Sometimes I came to a patch of
raw stone, with only the inevitable rosemary and salvia
to give it life. Then I would crush the leaves in my hand
and walk on, refreshed by their fragrance. And sometimes,
on the right, I would look down at some sheltered sea-
cove, blue and still.

92 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

I hurried. The boat I was to meet was due at five, and
I have a hearty distrust of peasant time estimates when
it is a matter of cross-country walking. There was no one
to ask how far I was from Povlje, and no house or village
by the way. So at last, when the hillside fell away before
me down to the shining white tops of the village, it was
only a quarter past three. I believe that I established a
record.

Those roofs were fascinating. They were made of stone
slabs of such dazzling whiteness that, in the height of
summer, they seemed snow-covered. I have only seen
them at Povlje and the next village to it, Pucisce.

I scrambled down the precipitous alleys of the village
to the quay, hot and tired. There were a knot of peasants
and sailors, playing boce. Knowing that there was no inn
at Povlje, I threw myself on their mercy, and was soon
enabled to get outside of a jug of wine. Then I sat down
to wait and, later, to take a hand in the game and chat
with an old sailor who had been in most corners of the
globe and had a smattering of most languages. Now he
was smitten with the idea of a universal language:

'I am trying to learn Esperanto in my old days. But it
is such a beastly language ; rather like a gelded Spanish.'

Culid arrived by boat a couple of hours later. He had
business in Povlje, which is trying to develop as a tourist
resort. There is no reason why it shouldn't, for it has a
lovely situation and a good plage. But, at present, it has
no accommodation, and we decided to return to Sumartin
for the night. I was too tired to walk back, so we looked
for horses and found one mule, Gala, and one donkey,
Kreo. So we set out via Selca by 'Brae express'.

Now I am a very bad rider, and Kreso was a very bad
donkey. He kept lagging behind the placid Gala, and
every time my peasant tried to stir him up, which was
every two minutes, he kicked.

Selca is a village of stonemasons. The quarries of
Brae have been famous since the earliest times. Diocle-

CITY OF PIRATES: OMI 93

tian's palace is built of Bra stone, and Trogir Cathedral,
and many public buildings all over the world. It possesses
the curious quality of coming straight from the quarries
in a workable state and slowly hardening on contact
with the air.

It is therefore a solidly built place, with many fine
houses; one had almost said palaces, save that the place
has no nobility, nor, with one or two doubtful exceptions,
ever had. A very large percentage of the inhabitants are
the descendants of an individual stone-cutter who should
really have been an assistant after the Flood, so much has
he increased and multiplied. The most striking building
is an enormous unfinished church, made by the local
stonemasons of their famous local stone. It is grandiose
but not inspired. If it is ever completed, it will be able
to shelter eighteen hundred worshippers, roughly speaking
the entire population of the village.

These men of Brae have, in general, a wide conception.
Some years ago, when the local council decided to have
a park, it was suggested that it should be dedicated to
Josip Strosmajer, the great Croat bishop and Yugoslav
patriot. But the people of Brae had even wider ideas.
They dedicated their park to Tolstoy, as the great apostle
of all-Slav union, and his statue is still there. It is a pity
that present politics have tended to narrow this wide
stream into a petty local channel.

But I cannot describe all the charming villages of
Brae. I would like to linger at Milna, where the Sargo
inheritance wrought such turmoil, or at Sutivan, where
I stumbled in the dark through a seventeenth-century
oil-press, or at Nerezi, once the residence of the counts,
or at Bol; but the largest and most interesting place on
the island is Supetar. Thither we went next morning, in
the teeth of a maestral, with the sea a beautiful dark blue,
flecked with white , and the sun rising glorious behind the
Biokovo ; that is if you can call it rising, for it is already
high in the sky before its first rays top that terrific rampart.

94 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

Supetar is one of the best places in Dalmatia to recom-
mend to a visitor who wants company, but not too much
of it, who wants reasonable comfort without undue
luxury, who has not too much money at disposal, and
who desires rest without solitude. It is clean and comfort-
able and picturesque. And Split is only an hour away by
boat. Also, it makes a special and agreeable type of
rakija, out of green walnuts.

But I could not linger, though I would have liked.
Instead I had come for a special reason ; Supetar was the
native town of the Petranovid family, some of whom
emigrated to Chile and made there an incredible fortune.
In fact the careers of some of the Yugoslav emigrants,
like the Petranovids or the Mihanovids, read like success-
stories of the nth degree. Here, too, they are buried; and
their mausoleum is one of the most beautiful works of
art in the entire world. This I can say with sincerity and
conviction. It stands in the little cypress-planted grave-
yard, a few feet from the sea, and is the work of the great
Yugoslav sculptor, Toma Rosandid.

Every part of this marvellous tomb is a work of art,
filled with piety and poetic truth. From the mourning
angel, with wings folded over bent back and bowed head,
on the top of the building, down to the corbels and
brackets, every detail is perfect. The mausoleum itself is
of white Bra6 stone while the angel and the gates are of
bronze.

The angel mourns, yet it is not the mourning of
despair, while the figure of St. Michael calls those within
to a glorious resurrection. There is the pity and the com-
passion of death, without its terror and without its fear.
These dead are waiting too, but they wait in hope and
without suspense.

The bronze gates are the most lovely things of their
kind I have ever seen. On them the legions of good
strive for the souls of the dead with those of evil, but in
their triumphant trumpets one sees ultimate victory.

CITY OF PIRATES: OMI 95

To my mind, it is a far greater work than the more
famous Ra&d mausoleum by Ivan Meitrovid at Cavtat.
Here there is none of the tortured striving that mars
Metrovi6's work. Yet it is odious to make such compari-
sons. For Mestrovid is essentially epic. The spirit of the
Yugoslav epics, which he has so perfectly translated into
stone, fills his work with vigour, force, and heroism.
Looking at it, one hears the sound of trumpets and of
warriors shouting for battle. Rosandid is lyric. His
sculpture is pure lyrical form, and almost sensuous
beauty that makes one look and look again. The trumpets
sounding here are the trumpets of the resurrection,
calling to eternal life ; Mestrovic would have made them
the trumpets of the judgment. In Rosandic's work are
all the tones of the orchestra, including the soft wail of
the violins and the delicate filigree of the wood-wind.
One leaves MeStrovid's mausoleum almost stunned; one
leaves^ Rosandid's with a feeling of compassionate
exaltation.

IX
THE ISLAND OF WINE: VIS

A COMBINATION of curiosity and gluttony led me
to Vis. For the wines of Vis are as famous today
throughout Yugoslavia as they were throughout trie
polite world in classical times. 'In Lissa (Vis), an island
of the Adriatic, says Agatharchis, there grows a wine
which, compared with any other, exceeds it in goodness.'

That, of course, was long before phylloxera days, but
the heat and stones of Vis have even tamed the American
vine to excellence. Indeed, on the tiny island of Bisevo,
opposite the village of Komiza on Vis, the old vines still
exist. It was the only place in Dalmatia, perhaps in
Europe, where the dreaded plague did not come.. But
its small production is scarcely enough to satisfy both
islanders and connoisseurs.

It is a wonder, really, that the phylloxera should ever
have reached Vis itself. For it is the most distant of the
Adriatic islands, far out in a sea that has long turned
from shore green to deep Adria blue. From the shore it
can only be rarely seen from great heights, such as Klis.

I went first to Komiza, which lies on the west of the
island, sheltered from the open Adriatic by the little
island of Bisevo. It is not a tourist centre ; indeed, there
is but one small hotel, and that of no special merit. It is,
firstly and foremostly, a fishing village and a large one.
The whole air has an indefinable odour of fresh sardines,
which is not unpleasant, and there are five canning
factories. The typical landscape has always a half-dozen
or so nets drying in the sun. Those who are not engaged
in fishing or in the factories or vineyards are either
making or mending nets, and the place is as full of
contented cats as BaSka.

96 %

THE ISLAND OF WINE! VIS 97

The rocky shores of Vis itself are good fishing grounds,
and those of Bievo and Sv. Andrija still better. But best
of all are the rocky islets of SuSac and Pelargosa, far out
in the Adriatic. Pelargosa today is uninhabited, save
for an automatic lighthouse, if that may be classed as
an inhabitant. Furthermore, it is nominally Italian, but
treaties have secured the rights of Vis to fish along its
shores. At one time, when the fishing season opened,
the harbour of Komiza presented a strange sight. As
many as seventy fishing vessels would line up across the
harbour and, at a sign from the harbour-master, race the
seventy-odd kilometres to Pelargosa, rowing night and
day to get the choicest places for the coming season. It
was no child's play, for competition was severe and the
boats heavy and clumsy. But the prizes were large, for
who got the best position held it for the rest of the
season. Today the ceremony has fallen into disuse,
partly because of the use of motor vessels and partly
because there are fewer competitors and therefore plenty
of room for all.

Komiza is a friendly place. I arrived there totally
unknown, and within three hours had found a company
of congenial fellow-spirits. We met before the caf of the
'Battle of Vis', named in memory of the great defeat
of the Italians by the Austrian admiral Tegethoff, whose
fleet was mainly manned by Dalmatians. One of them
offered to show me round the town, while we all arranged
to meet that evening for fish and wine.

Naturally our first visit was to a sardine factory. It
was not one of the largest, but there were a hundred
and forty girls at work of all ages, from lovely young
creatures of fifteen or sixteen to withered hags of
indefinite age. But all were singing gaily as they worked.
The local songs of the island; 'schlagers', have not yet
reached Komiza,

Komiza, as it is today, is largely modern, but there
are still one or two ancient buildings of interest. The
H

98 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

town-hall is an uncomfortable and ugly building of 1585,
but the main church of the town is more interesting.
It bears the curious title of 'Our Lady of the Pirates',
and is really three churches combined into one, which
makes it far more broad than long. It contains a wonder-
working portrait of the Virgin, which was once stolen
by pirates. But every time they attempted to row past
the harbour point the power of the picture held them
back, till at last they threw it into the sea and were free
to go. The picture returned to its place in the church,
which was enlarged in honour of the miracle. Was the
miracle invented to account for the name, or the name
chosen to give credence to the miracle? It would be
interesting to know. For in the original Croat form it
appears that Our Lady herself was the pirate !

Another church in the town has a more explicable
miracle, in the form of a complicated mechanism invented
by an ingenious priest for revealing and elevating the
Sacrament without apparent human aid. But now every-
one in Komiza knows the secret, and it only amazes the
countrywomen who come to see it on the rare occasions
when it is still used. In this church was once a relic still more
wonderful to the faithful, the head of Jesus Himself!

It was a pity that it was too late to go to Bisevo. The
sea there is so clear that the fishermen say one can see
the bottom at fourteen fathoms, and there is a blue
grotto there even more intricately beautiful than that of
Capri. From such a cavern might Thetis have been born.

The island of Vis was indeed an important Greek
colony of Syracusans, Issa. Perhaps it has, indeed, added
its quota to mythology. For the Bisevo grotto is worthy
of the most beautiful legends of the sea-nymphs, while a
little way away is the solitary rock needle of Jabuka, which
is composed almost entirely of natural iron so that it may
well be the loadstone-mountain that played such havoc
with the mariners of Sindbad. I would have liked, too,
to see the Abbey church founded there in the ninth

THE ISLAND OF WINE! VIS 99

century, and to have tasted the Blue Grotto prosek from
the old vines.

But I was content enough to wander through the
village, watching the fishermen at work. In one sheltered
corner a group of strong young, men, stripped to the
waist, were sledging at some green herb whose juice is
said to preserve nets. The pungent aromatic smell filled
the air.

It is by smells that the memory is most strongly moved.
Perhaps the comparative disuse of that sense makes its
occasional joggings of the memory sharper and more
poignant than those of sight and hearing. At any rate,
I shall never again smell that pungent herb or fresh
sardines without seeing a clear-cut picture of nets drying
on the foreshore of Komiza ; even as the smell of crushed
mint brings back memories of Kastel Stari fifteen years
ago, or burning pine-cones a still clearer picture of a
summer evening on the Baltic or nights in the Canadian
woods longer ago than I care to recall. While other and
less pleasant smells recall only too clearly the little town
of Leucas in Greece, quite the most complicated collection
of stinks I have ever experienced.

The price of fish is low these days. But the Komiza
fishermen have compensated somewhat for their losses
by forming a Co-operative for lobsters and other shell-
fish, which always fetch a good price in Belgrade or the
tourist resorts. They keep them in a huge concrete basin,
roofed over with boards, so that it is always cool and
dark like the sea-caves that these creatures love. One
circulates in this murky grot in a little boat, picking out
enormous lobsters, crayfish, or spider-crabs with a net,
while the two 'guardian-dogs' race frantically up and
down the planks a foot or so above one's head, filling the
place with clangour.

I like also to recall that evening in Komiza, though,
I am ashamed to say, our merrymaking resulted in several
protests being lodged next day at the municipality. There

100 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

were seven of us, led by a Slovene schoolmaster who,
like all Slovenes, was a lover of wine, and found Komiza
a place after his heart. I was a foreigner. The others
islanders.

Our feast was simple. It consisted of several litres of
pure old Vugava wine from the local vineyards, dark
golden yellow in colour and fourteen degrees in strength,
'quod non corrupit malitia hominum'. The only food was
a strudel of salted sardines, a speciality of Vis, which
satisfied the tummy but increases the thirst. We found
a piano, a 'cello, and a violin, and made such music as
Komiza rarely heard.

The schoolmaster was a disciple of Freud. 'I need it,'
he said, 'for my work.'

I asked him why. Surely no one in Komiza has com-
plexes ?

'It's the Jugo (south wind),' he said. 'When that blows
they are all mad here, even the schoolchildren. I can do
nothing with them.'

I told him that, as far as I had read Freud, he offered
no cure for 'mass hysterical phenomena induced by
atmospheric disturbances', but he continued his request
until the conversation was entirely monopolized by
Bacchus and Orpheus, and at last subsided.

That wine was really good. We got to bed at three, and
I rose next morning at seven with a clear head, to keep
an appointment at Vis. Remembering my experience
with Kreso, I chose a mule for my journey across the
island, and a good steady beast he was. There is a road
and a bus service, but I wanted to see a circular church
which lies off the road and might have been old Croatian.
A peasant was waiting below with my animal.

As we rode slowly up the path above Komiza, through
the rocky terraces where the famous vines are cultivated,
I felt a sense of peace and of satisfaction. For good wine,
as well as strong emotion, can sometimes produce a
mental as well as physical catharsis. Komiza lay stretched

KOMIZA

THE ISLAND OF WINE: VIS 101

out before us in the lovely semicircle of its harbour, with
Bievo beyond. I felt a pang of regret at leaving. I had
made good friends there in a short time. We halted on
the crest of the hill and looked back for a few silent
moments.

My companion began discussing with me his way of
life and his family budget. My mule-hire would be a
godsend to him. It was simple enough. If the price of
a kilo of bread equalled that of a kilo of fish or a litre of
wine, then the year was good ; if not, then it was hard.
This year wine and fish were cheap and bread a little
dearer. It was not yet a bad year, but it was not an easy
one. He described his work, spraying all day in the
vineyards and rowing or fishing all night. Sometimes he
would fall asleep at the oar. He envied some of the
peasants who had found a special kind of sand in one of
the many grottoes of the island that was suitable for
grinding glass, and were making a good thing out of it.

We stopped near my church for wine, and I went to
investigate. But there was nothing of special interest
about it, save that it was circular. I would hazard myself
that it was merely a converted watch-tower. In another
hour we had entered Vis.

Vis has played a considerable part in British history,
and the forts around the harbour still bear English names.
There is also an English graveyard and an English
consulate, the latter for no apparent reason save to look
after the graveyard. During the Continental System of
Napoleon, the British seized Vis and Korcula and made
them centres for the export of British goods to Central
Europe and Germany via Bosnia and Croatia. The island
grew rich under this smugglers' regime, and doubled in
population. In 1811 the French admiral Dubordieu
attempted to drive the British from Vis, but was thor-
oughly defeated by a smaller British force under Hoste.
We held the island until 1815, when it was handed over
to Austria.

102 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

That was but one of the many naval battles fought
near Vis, the 'Adriatic Gibraltar'/ But that which most
impressed the people was the great victory of Tegethoff
in 1866. During the Italian occupation of 1918-1921, the
Italians took away the Lion of Vis which commemorated
their defeat, but this piece of stone was merely a symbol,
and the memory remains.

There is a general air of well-being about Vis, which
is a tidy little city of stone houses grouped around the
magnificent harbour. The impression is a little spoiled
by the erection of a hideous Orthodox church in concrete,
which does not match the landscape, and merely mocks
the beautiful Serbo-Byzantine style. It was erected by
some trick of political jobbery, and, as there are practically
no worshippers, it could be pulled down with profit.
An interesting feature of Vis is the nursery for palms and
tropical plants, which grow here in the open air and are
exported to all parts of Dalmatia.

From Vis I went to the island of Korcula, intending
thence to make for Metkovic and, eventually, Dubrovnik.
But instead of going directly, I preferred to land at Vela
Luka on the northern end of the island, and thence cross
the island by bus.

Vela Luka is beautiful, but not particularly interesting.
It has a lovely plage and a wide sheltered harbour, ideal
for sailing, as well as reasonably comfortable hotels, and
should develop, as it hopes to do, into a very pleasant
tourist centre. After all, every one is not grubbing for
antiquities, and Vela Luka has all the other qualities
that the visitor demands. I liked the practical broad-
brimmed straw hats of the peasant women and the
smiling faces of the young people. But they are not
musical! In the Sokol House I heard a bassoon playing
in one key against two trumpets in another; the harmony
would have startled even Stravinski.

THE ISLAND OF WINE: VIS 103

The road to Korcula leads through fields fertile for
stony Dalmatia to Blato, a large village famous for its
folk-dance, the Kumpanija. It is stone-built and rather
primitive with eyeless houses in severe rows. Yet it is
rather impressive in its simplicity, and the air is heavy
with the sweet scent of lindens.

Thence through scanty forests of stone-pine to real
forest country, where the road winds along the edge of
precipitous cliffs, with forest behind and blue sea below,
to Korula. It is a magnificent run and well worth the
taking.

Korcula is an ancient and a very beautiful city, with
narrow cool stone streets and open shady parks. On it
the Venetians have set their mark as nowhere else in
Dalmatia. The lion of St. Mark is everywhere to be
seen. But, as usual, he has set his paw on many earlier
buildings.

It was also famous for its stonemasons, who have
made the city beautiful. Some of the former houses of
the nobility are among the most lovely in Dalmatia,
especially those of the Arneri and Lanzi families. The
still more famous family of Polo came from here. It was
doubtless his Italian blood that gave Marco his quick
perception and skill in intrigue; but perhaps we may
credit his love of wandering in the far places of the earth
to his sea-borne native city of Dalmatia. There are still
a few Polos in the city.

These stonemasons have not lost their medieval skill.
There is a delightful little fountain here, supported by
bulbous frogs, which is really charming, and was erected
only a few years ago.

Yes, Korcula is ancient, but not as ancient as the famous
Antenor inscription makes her. This states that Korcula
arose out of the ashes of burning Troy, but it is well-
known that it was erected in the sixteenth century. Yet
another inscription records the gratitude of the citizens
to their English governor, for Korfiula was in English

104 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

hands at the same time as Vis and enjoyed under English
rule a measure of self-government which she had not
known since the days of Korkyra Malaina and has not
known since.

Korcula also has a cathedral. It is not, perhaps, so
beautiful as those of Sibenik or Trogir, but it is most
extraordinarily interesting. In general design it is a
simple large-scale Dalmatian church, but it has been
decorated with stone carvings in the most perfect taste
that give a curious sense of applique work; especially if
one compares the elaborate facade with the severe sim-
plicity of the back and sides. On each side of the main
portal, representing once again the entry into Paradise,
are Adam and Eve, on this occasion not so discreet, as
they are both squatting in what I believe is known as
the 'frog-position'. On the elaborate cornice are strange
beasts in stone, including the famous elephants which,
however, are so conventionally carved that it is not easy
to recognize them. There has been a lot of controversy
about these beasts. Probably they were wrought to the
designs of South Italian masters, who in turn had copied
from the Saracens. It would be a fascinating idea to
connect them with Marco Polo and his stories of the East,
which many believed for long to have been mere travellers'
tales, but there is unfortunately no evidence to enable
one to do so.

There is some very fine carving inside the cathedral
also, especially on the columns and the stone badalquin
of the main altar. But perhaps the most interesting thing
is a fine Byzantine ikon and several other pictures strongly
influenced by the Byzantine school. This Byzantine
influence in Dalmatian art would be a good theme for
some student of art. There was a long period of Byzantine
political influence here, as well as a certain amount oi
give and take between the two churches, and many
articles were plundered by the Dalmatian sea-robbers,
Also, in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, many

THE ISLAND OF WINE: VIS 105

Greek artists took refuge in Dalmatia. Among them was,
for a time, Domenico Theotocopuli, later famous as
El Greco.

I was, unfortunately, too early to see the knightly
games of the Moreska, which take place on the patronal
feast of St. Theodor, on June zQth each year. Their origin
is uncertain ; local tradition assigns it to the brief period
of Genoese rule between noo and 1129. The name
means 'Moorish 5 , and the subject is a struggle between
Moors and Ottomans. The Black King Moro, with his
followers dressed in black, in parody of Moorish dress,
snatch from the Ottoman Sultan Osman his betrothed,
Bula (this word in Serb still means a veiled Turkish
woman). Their followers fight and then themselves in
single combat, Bula frantically intervening to save her
beloved. With the final victory of Osman, the lovers are
again united. The dances are rapid and rhythmical,
requiring much skill and long training. In the fight
scenes a novice might well receive a nasty blow. They
fight each with two swords, striking and parrying with
extraordinary speed and precision; and these are no
feigned blows. It is an interesting and exciting perform-
ance, well worth the seeing.

Opposite Kocula, across a narrow strait, is the rocky-
peninsula of Peljesac, also famous for its wines. This
time the highest summit is not dedicated to Vid; but it is
to St. Ilija, the successor of Perun the Thunderer. On
Peljesac are some of the most charming smaller seaside
resorts of Dalmatia, Viganj, Kuciste, and Orebi<5, but
I had no chance to visit them. I should have liked to do
so, for I heard of an ethnographical problem there that
interested me. The people about Viganj are known
locally as Firauni, otherwise Pharaohs, and their three
villages are named Viganj (bellows), Nadkovan (anvil),
and Kovacevid (smiths). Surely this means a gypsy
settlement, who have forgotten their origin? For the
smith's in the Balkans is a gypsy trade, and even now,

106 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

in England and elsewhere the gypsies are sometimes
known as Pharaohs.

Nor was I able to stop at Makarska. Somehow Makarska
has always eluded me. I have passed through it at least
a dozen times and have watched it from the ship
grow from a little town of no particular importance to
one of the most popular and fashionable resorts in
Dalmatia, rivalling Rab and Crikvenica. Its bay is beauti-
ful, and its situation, at the foot of the Biokovo, magnifi-
cent. More I cannot say.

This time I went straight on down the Neretljanski
Kanal to Metkovid Thence I went to South Serbia, but
of that more in its proper place.

From now on, my old friend and travelling companion
Fortis begins to desert me. For we are now approaching
the territory of the former Republic of Dubrovnik, which
was an independent state in Fortis's time and not under
Venetian control. Peljesac was a part of its territory,
and Fortis did not cross the frontier.

The estuary of the Neretva is little known to tourists.
In pre-war times it had a bad reputation for malaria,
which it no longer deserves. Furthermore, though it has
a certain melancholy beauty of its own, it is not cheerful,
and there are no tourist centres near. Also, it is well off
the track of the usual passenger lines. Only those on
business or bound for the railhead, as I was, go there:
who else would go to Metkovid ?

Its complicated creeks and marshy lakes were the home
of the Narentines, the Neretljani, both before and after
the coming of the Slavs the most ferocious pirates of the
earlier ages, from Roman times until the Turkish con-
quest. Even then a large number of them under the
Vlatkovid family refused to submit to the Turks and
moved to the northern coastlines, where they became
the ancestors of the brave but bloodthirsty Uskoks.
Incidentally, they remained pagan long after the conver-
sion of the other Slavs.

THE ISLAND OF WINE: VIS IOJ

I climbed on to the bridge to look at the chart. It was
a pre-war one, showing the course of the river winding
through desolate and detestable marshy lagoons and salt-
marshes. But, though still much remains to be done,
the district has improved immensely. The salt-marshes
of the chart are now rich and fertile fields, and, indeed,
the valley and estuary of the Neretva, when all the
reclamation work is done, will be able to grow enough
to feed all hungry Dalmatia.

An even more ambitious project is now in hand,
namely to extend the road and railway from Metkovid
down to the seashore at the village of Plode, and thereby
eliminate entirely the long and costly journey to Metkovid.
The road is almost ready, and the railway soon will be,
but it will still be some years before the new port is ready.

I have not by me a history of Metkovid. But surely all
this plain and all these marshy lakes are comparatively
recently formed, probably by the silt carried down by
the swift-flowing Neretva. For the famous Roman city
of Narona is not far from modern Metkovid, on a site
which no one but a lunatic would choose for a city today.
Certainly the landscape has changed from Roman times.

Some way from the entrance we could see the typical
bright green waters of the Neretva mingling with the sea
water. Probably all this first part of the canal is recently
formed land ; all the way indeed until Komin and Opuzen,
where bare karst hills come down to the river's edge. It
makes a curious contrast ; on one side hills scarred and pock-
marked, as bare of vegetation as an ice-floe, and on the other
wide stretches of yellow wheat and dark-green tobacco.

Somewhere in these lagoons the pelicans breed. Or
so say the guide-books. But no one whom I know has
ever seen one. Nor had the captain. Indeed, a wonderful
bird is the pelican.

Of Metkovid, the least said the better. It is not an
interesting town, and lies between two worlds. There is no
more good Dalmatian wine, and notyetgood Bosnian coffee.

X
DUBROVNIK

DUBROVNIK is undoubtedly the pearl of the
Adriatic, but like all pearls it has a great price. In
the season it is more expensive, and its people more
rapacious than any other place in Dalmatia. Therefore
I stayed there only a short time. I love Dubrovnik, and
have been there many times, but I will choose a winter
visit for description.

It was the day of St. Vlaho, the patron saint of the
republic. Dubrovnik was dressed up for the occasion.
There were garlands on the church of St. Vlaho itself
and all the other churches of this pious town. The Stradun,
the main street between the upper and lower city gates,
was pricked out in electric lights strung along the even
roofs of the houses. At the Pile gate, the old drawbridge
over the city moat, long abandoned to a wilderness of
oleanders, had been repaired and was to be raised on its
ancient counterweights after the bishop's blessing in
the afternoon.

The whole city was en fete. At five o'clock I had been
wakened, or rather stunned, out of a heavy sleep by the
roar of cannon firing a salute to the saint from the fortress
of Lovrijenac. Even at that early hour the market was
busy and the streets thronged with people. There were
peasant girls from the Konavle, in black dresses with
bright patches of embroidery at neck and throat, and
little pork-pie hats. There were islanders in baggy blue
breeches and waistcoats of gold and silver braid, with
broad sashes half concealing the hilts of ancient swords
and pistols, and every other kind of national costume
from the territories of the former republic. Two bands
perambulated the city at intervals. Flags hung from

108

DUBROVNIK ICQ

every window. On the Pile Gate, on Lovrijenac, on the
Orlando column in front of St. Vlaho, floated the white
standard of the saint, under which the people of Dubrov-
nik had fought and traded for almost a thousand years.

I had arrived the day before the feast, by the little
train which wanders for twenty-four hours up and down
the Bosnian mountains on its way from Belgrade. In the
morning I had strolled once again through the narrow
streets of the city, like a cat in a new home, trying to get
once again the spirit of this ancient city. I had avoided
the wiles of at least a dozen persons who, seeing my
pipe, wanted to show me exactly what King Edward had
done and where. Finally, I had enjoyed a well-cooked
bronzino in a side-street restaurant, where a bushy
bunch of twigs over the door proclaimed, as in the Middle
Ages, that good wine was sold within.

Dubrovnik has not changed much. Inside the circuit
of the walls it has probably not changed much since the
disastrous earthquake of 1667, which gave the city much
of its present form. But it is always fascinating, especially
to those who know the history of its famous argosies.
Every street recalls a name of one of those proud
merchant-nobles who ruled this, the most advanced and
cultured republic of Europe outside Italy for many
centuries. One was named after the famous Ragusan
cardinal. Ilija Saraka.

Probably the only change of note has been the building
of the Gradska Kafana in the old building between the
lovely Palace of the Rectors and the Medieval Mint. But
the exterior has scarcely changed, and the orchestra still
plays under the massive arches of the former harbour.
It has become the regular rendezvous of Dubrovnik,
and thither I went.

The city was full for the festival, and a glance round
discovered many old acquaintances. I joined a table.
The conversation was easy and decorous, sliding smoothly
from the intricacies of Dubrovnik history and archi-

110 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

tecture to the history and charms of the passers-by. It
is this ease of manner and lack of self-consciousness
which makes up the tradition of Dubrovnik courtesy,
the tradition of generations of aristocrats which has now
seeped into the spirit of the people.

From where we sat we could look up the brightly-lit
Stradun, now lined with a double row of masts decorated
with wreaths of purple and orange, the heraldic colours
of the city. On each was a shield with a device, the coats
of arms of the former vlastelins. It was while we were
amusing ourselves trying to pick them out that one of
the party said:

'Do you know Ivo Saraka?'

I remembered the street of the cardinal, and asked if
he were of the same family. He was. No, I did not
know him.

'He has been ill recently and does not come out much/
said my informant. 'But I know him very well. We could
go along and see him together/

I was only too glad. Dubrovnik in summer is a tourist
centre, full of gay young people who bathe and boat all
day long and dance all night. But Dubrovnik in winter
is once again the proud, somewhat reserved, city of the
Middle Ages; especially now on the eve of the festival
of the patron saint. The Gradska Kafana, modern and
echoing with recent song-hits, did not harmonize with
this mood.

'All right. Let's go now/

Saraka's house was in one of the narrow side-streets
on the left of the Stradun, where the noble families used
to live. This was old Ragusa, and used to be divided
from the plebeian quarter of Dubrovnik by a canal which
is now the Stradun. Over the doorway was an ancient
coat of arms, weathered by age, on which we could still
discern the shape of a fish, a pun upon the family name.
The huge wrought-iron knocker dated from the times when
Dubrovnik locks were famous throughout the Balkans.

DUBROVNIK III

We knocked. Despite the hum of the crowds in the
Stradun, the side-streets were empty and almost deserted.
The noise echoed deafeningly from house to house. Far
up on the third floor a single light showed the owner to
be at home. We hammered again. This time it seemed
that even the dead must wake, and we were rewarded by
seeing a flickering light pass downwards across the
windows, and at last the sound of footsteps within. The
great door opened and an old peasant woman in national
costume appeared, with a lamp held high over her head
to see the intruders. She recognized my companion and
smiled:

'Come in. Gospar Ivo is upstairs.'

She led the way up the broad stone staircase. The
lower floor, as in so many houses of the Dubrovnik
aristocracy, had once served as office and storehouse,
and the flickering light of the lamp revealed vague shapes
of old carved furniture, coffers, and other relics. From
the first floor upwards a range of pictures followed the
windings of the stair; some allegorical, some ancestors
of the Saraka family in robes and chains of office. The
old servant lifted the lamp for us to see.

Our host was in the top room of the house, which alone
was still in use and somewhat warmer than the dank
stone below. He welcomed us gravely and courteously,
and we sat down at a heavy walnut table, the weak circle
of the lamplight scarcely illuminating our three faces.
He has always refused to have electricity installed.

There are certain moments in which, for a few brief
minutes, time seems non-existent. We might have been
sitting in a Rembrandt picture, save that the faces in the
lamplight were of that clear-cut medallion type character-
istic of the south, not the victorious pagan south of
Tintoretto or Correggio, but the ascetic south of El
Greco, who was trained by a Dalmatian. The face of my
companion opposite was deeply etched in shadow, every
line and wrinkle clearly outlined, while naked cupids and

112 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

voluptuous nymphs showed uncertainly around him,
when the wick burnt higher, from a painted cabinet
behind. He spoke with a strange mixture of deference
and familiarity, his hands moving continually. Saraka, it
the other end of the table, might have been carved in
stone save for the movement of his lips and the occasional
flash of his eyes. Only now and again he put his hand to
his head. His white expanse of forehead and great hooked
nose made him seem like an amiable but aristocratic
vulture.

He apologized that he had been ill. The old woman,
meanwhile, remained still, with folded hands, in the
darkness at the farther end of the room.

He spoke of the past of Dubrovnik and the pride of
her nobles, in a broad Ragusan dialect in which the basic
Slav was freely mingled with Latin and Italian. His
memory was prodigious. I asked him how many of the
vlastelin families were left.

'Only six. In my own family, only myself and two
cousins.'

4 You never married ?'

'No. My cousins also are unmarried.'

I thought of the story that the people tell ; that when
Napoleon's marshal, Marmont, afterwards ennobled al-
most as if sarcastically Due de Raguse, had ended for
ever the city's long centuries of pride and independence,
the noble families had decided to refrain from marriage
and thus gradually to disappear, rather than outlive their
former glory. But I did not like to ask him directly if
such a contract was made. In any case, it does not matter.
Whether made or not, it is being carried out.

Most of the noble families have indeed died out, as
though they realized that they were no longer in place
in this modern striving world, and preferred to leave
behind them a fragrant and romantic memory rather
than a picture of decadence and decay. The Sorgos are
represented only by collateral branches of another name.

GATEWAY OF THE PALACE OF THE RECTORS, DUBROVNIK

DUBROVNIK 113

The Restis are no more. The Ranjinas, whose poems and
plays are among the greatest heritage of Yugoslav liter-
ature, can now be traced only in their works or on the
great carved coat of arms over the door of their one-time
palace. The Ohumucevidi, who made most of their
fortune in Spain, have also gone. A slab in the Dominican
monastery records that a member of their family was an
admiral in the Spanish Armada, and whose seamanship
in English waters astonished the Spaniards and so
annoyed Queen Elizabeth that she wrote furious letters
to the Ottoman Sultan that he punish the presumptuous
city. The Gondola-Gundulidi almost every Ragusan
family had both a Slav and a Latin name have also
died out, though the work of Ivan Gundulid is still read
and his statue decorates the public square. Only the
Sarakas, the Bonas, the Gozze-Gucetidi and one or two
others still survive. But they, too, are dying out. And
that will be the end.
'And the feast of St. Vlaho?'

'It served to hold the republic together. Once a year
at least the people saw the city and its power. We nobles
encouraged it. We were a close community and kept the
rites of Catholicism very strictly. We even maintained a
sort of unofficial literary censorship among ourselves.
Once, when the Dutch ambassador was here, he refused
to kneel to the Host. "I do not believe," he said, "that
that is really the body of Christ." "And do you think we
believe?" answered a noble. "But we kneel, just the same
for the sake of the people." And the ambassador knelt.
No we were all humanists, platonists. We worshipped
Plato and we lived by Petrarch.

'Only by keeping the forms and ceremonies strictly
could we survive: and by maintaining the power of the
nobles. Think of us for a minute; a tiny republic with
Venice and the Emperor on the one side, and the Serbs
and afterwards the Turks on the other. Do you see that
scroll?' He pointed to a document in Arabic script on
i

114 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

the wall. 'That is the original treaty signed with the
Sultan for trading rights, before the Turks entered
Europe in the fourteenth century. That scroll there is
the Sultan's toghrul. So, when they came, we were not
a country to be conquered, but an allied state. We knew
they would come: and we knew they would win. Our
secret service was good, the best in the world.'

It was more than an hour later that we made our way
down the broad stone staircase to the street outside.

Next day I saw him again. The ceremonies had begun
at the unearthly hour of five in the morning with High
Mass in the Church of St. Vlaho. At six, the band again
paraded the city, and then went to the Plode gate to
welcome the deputations from the eastern villages of the
Konavle and then to Pile to welcome those from the
west, from Lopud, Ombla, Ston, Peljesac, and the islands.
All were in full national costume with magnificent
banners, some of them centuries old and thin as wafers.
The saluting battery on the Mincteta tower greeted them
as they entered the gates to place their standards on the
steps of St. Vlaho in front of the Orlando column.

The day before had been overclouded, but St. Vlaho
had decided to smile upon his people, for the day of the
festa itself was clear and cloudless without even the
shape of a man's hand upon the glittering blue surface
of the Adriatic. There was only a gentle breeze which
made the standards on St. Vlaho float out gently from
time to time, displaying their gay colours toned by age.

The greatest feature of the festa was the procession
after mass of the relics of St. Vlaho. The square and the
Stradun, crowded before, were now so densely packed
that it was scarcely possible for the guard of honour to
clear a way for the procession. I tried a dozen points of
vantage to get a photo, each more difficult to attain than
the last. Finally, I settled on the top of the steps of St.
Vlaho, standing on the broad stone balustrade to see
over the heads of the standard-bearers who, being all

DUBROVNIK 115

six feet or more, made me feel like Gulliver among the
Brobdingnagians.

The procession started from the cathedral, the Gospa,
where the statue and relics of St. Vlaho are kept. There
are a good many of them. Indeed, once a local paper,
more truthful than pious, suggested there were enough
to make several originals.

Originally an Armenian bishop of Sebastos who
suffered martyrdom in the early fourth century, St.
Vlaho, or St. Blaise, became the patron saint of Dubrovnik
by one of those singular visitations so common in the
Middle Ages, but denied to our present age of little
faith'. In the tenth century, the Venetians visited Dub-
rovnik with a huge fleet, half of which anchored off
Lokrum and half at Gruz, thus surrounding Dubrovnik
from -the seaward side. Their professions were friendly,
their preparations ominous. But they were well received
and even shown the circuit of the walls. Now it chanced
that at that time the canon of the cathedral church was
a certain Stojko, who often carried on his pious exercises
until late in the night. In the midst of his meditations he
saw the church around him filled with armed men, and
among them an old man of venerable aspect who called
him aside. He was, he said, St. Vlaho, bishop and martyr,
who had been sent by heaven to guard the city of Dub-
rovnik. He had himself that night defended the city with
his heavenly battalions, but the next night heavenly aid
must yield place to earthly, and the city prepare itself
for an attack from the seaward side. The pious Stojko
warned the Council of Dubrovnik. The treacherous
attempt was foiled, and St. Vlaho accepted as patron
of the city.

Under a vast canopy held aloft by eight white-robed
boys the image of St. Vlaho started on its tour of the
town, preceded by gaily decorated priests, carrying
portions of the saint in gold and jewelled reliquaries.
He must have been a very Siva, as I counted no less than

Il6 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

fourteen arms, but was later informed that these impres-
sive gold cases contain no more than a fraction of finger-
nail. The bishop in dalmatic and mitre led the procession
with a guard of honour. The air, warm and still, was
clouded with incense.

As the canopy passed, the standard-bearers took their
banners and joined the cortege. On my point of vantage,
I was already entangled in the folds of one, which wrapped
me from head to foot like a modern parody of that
venerable patron. I only wriggled out in time by slipping
over the edge of the balustrade altogether, where I found
myself perched on a stone cornice decorated with the
heads of saints. Thus, Diocletian-like, however, I man-
aged at last to get my photograph, despite my involuntary
sacrilege which was shared by several swaying, gaily-
dressed peasant girls who giggled and squeaked as the
priests passed below.

For some minutes we stood there as the bands and the
procession once more made their circuit of the town.
Then a murmur of voices and the kneeling of the people
before the relics held out for them to kiss, proclaimed
the return of St. Vlaho down the Stradun. He moved
slowly, behind his bishop, through the dense mass of
the people. Slowly but surely they approached the steps
of the church.

It was a magnificent pageant of civic pride. As each
standard-bearer came to the statue of Orlando he halted
and swept his standard almost to the ground in a magnifi-
cent gesture of allegiance. Here it was that the ancient
oath to the republic used to be taken, but the republic
is no more, and only the ceremony remains. Each village
and each island halted in formal devotion, and then
passed on into the church. The standards seemed to
wave more proudly, the sun to shine brighter. The gay
colours of the national dresses turned the Stradun into
a vast flower-garden.

DUBROVNIK 117

Very many people, including myself, have written
about the history of Dubrovnik, and still more have
written about its architecture. Therefore I will write now
of a subject equally interesting, but far less known in
England its literature.

After the break-up of the Serbian Empire after the
death of Duan and the final dissolution of the last
Serbian state with the fall of Smederevo in 1459, there
were only two independent Yugoslav states, Montenegro
and Dubrovnik. In Montenegro the beginnings of
literature were soon choked by the incessant wars against
the Turks, and the printing-press at Obod, set up in
1485, was melted down to make bullets. The only centre
of Yugoslav literature and freedom of thought was
Dubrovnik. The main stream of Yugoslav literature
broke up into a number of lesser currents, most of them
backwaters, which did not unite again to form a national
movement till the beginning of the nineteenth century.
In Croatia, in Serbia, in the Voivodina, in Bosnia, and
in Slovenia, only a few isolated writers maintained a
tenuous continuity along provincial lines. The main
current of literature flowed through Dalmatia, and the
centre of that stream was Dubrovnik.

The first great period of Dubrovnik literature developed
in the full spirit of the Renaissance. The influence of
contemporary Italian literature was strong, and, indeed,
many Dubrovnik writers wrote also in that language and
took a high place in Italian literature. Dante and Petrarch
found many imitators and admirers. Life was easy and
carefree, the bonds of the Church relaxed. Masquerades,
pastorals, and comedies took the place of the liturgies
and church services of earlier times.

The luxury of the great patricians was extreme: in
1521 Marin Georgid brought Titian himself from Italy
to paint the walls of his palace at Gruz, and Vlaho Sorko-
cevid produced pastorals in the great hall of his palace
in 1549. Among the first Dubrovnik writers to use the

Il8 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

Slav tongue were Sisko Mencetic (1457-1537) and
Djordje Drzi<5 (1461-1501). Both were followers of
Petrarch, and repeated his cliches in somewhat artificial
love poems; but none the less they laid the foundations
of a new period in Yugoslav literature. Dinko Ranjina
(1536-1607) was the first great introspective poet of the
language. He was at one time Rector of the Republic,
and was also a member of the salon of Cosmo de Medici,
whose brilliance he copied in Dubrovnik. His poems
still breathe the spirit of the Middle Ages, though in a
renaissance form, a knight-errant in a jester's cap. The
lust of living preached by the poets of his time he regarded
as an illness. He held obstinately to an ideal of pure love,
and was not content merely to regard women as a theme
for poetasters.

After Ranjina, the finest poet of love among the
Dubrovnik writers of the sixteenth century was Savko
Bobaljevi(5. In quite another style was the Benedictine
monk, Marko Vetranid. His poems are often reflective
and religious in tone, but sometimes he whipped his verse
into almost Rabelaisian satire of the abuses of the Church,
and did not hesitate to goad the Vatican itself. Of this
period also was the poetess Cvijeta Zuzorid, who is
celebrated as the greatest woman poet of Yugoslavia,
though in fact she spent most of her life in Italy, and
wrote even more in that language than in Slav.

Writers of masques, pastorals, and comedies were
many. Nikola Naljekovid surpassed even the customary
licence of the Italian playwrights in his comedies written
for the famous Carnival of Ragusa. Cubrinovid is still
remembered and honoured for his allegory The Egyptian,
which was written in a pleasant style, and is full of local
colour, and is occasionally revived even at the present day.

But the greatest writer of this period is Marin Drzid
(1510-1567), whose comedies can still be read with
interest and enjoyment. He gives a true picture of the
renaissance in Dubrovnik, to use his own phrase, 'its

DUBROVNIK 119

belly full of wine to the throat'. In his comedies he
created a large number of excellent types from Ragusan
society, and showed himself rich in an experience of
men and women, from which he himself was never able
to profit. Through his comedies dart merry lovers, old
people ridiculous in their passions, unfaithful wives,
spendthrifts, courtesans, venal servants, misers, thick-
headed husbands, and naive peasants. He was a true
precursor of Molire, who might easily have uttered his
sarcastic remark: * Without a penny one cannot even say
a prayer.'

His own life was equally typical of his time, torn
between licence and humanism on one side and religion
and discipline on the other. He took orders in Dubrovnik
and yet was the real founder of its theatre. Himself an
adventurer, with dreams of reforming the Ragusan
constitution, he was poet, musician, theologian, and
actor. He was at one time Rector of the famous University
of Siena, and at another secretary to the notorious political
adventurer, Count Rogendorf. His pastoral Plakir has
a marked resemblance to Shakespeare's Midsummer
Night's Dream.

Meanwhile on the island of Hvar, Hektorovid was
writing idylls on the lives of the fishermen, and in Split,
Marko Marulid, elegant Latinist and sincere thinker,
foreshadowed in his work the struggle between the
ideals of the Renaissance and the Reformation. Flaccus
Illyricus (Matija Vlacid) was one of the literary leaders
of the Protestant school of Melanchthon.

The seventeenth century, after the great earthquake,
was for Dubrovnik a period of political and commercial
decline, but of literary exuberance. The number of
poets and writers in the national language was legion.
More emphasis was laid upon Slav themes, and the
marked Italian influence of the previous century is less
noticeable. It is also the great period of Dubrovnik
latinity, the last indeed in which Yugoslav writers of

120 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

importance used that tongue, culminating in the work
of the Jesuit Roger Boskovic (1711-1787), whose Theoria
philosophiae naturalis, published in 1758, became world-
famous.

The Catholic reaction was vigorous and energetic,
and profoundly coloured the literature of the time.
Bobadilla, the friend of Loyola, founded a Jesuit college
in Dubrovnik. Here Ivan Gundulid, the greatest poet
of Dubrovnik, was educated, and it is significant that
for his great poem Osman, in which he dramatized the
centuries of struggle between the Slavs and the Moslems,
he chooses for his hero the Catholic King of Poland. It
illustrates his favourite theme, the impermanence of all
earthly glory. The earlier Tears of the Prodigal Son,
on the same theme, betrays also his Jesuit upbringing,
but is at the same time one of the most profound and
beautiful lyric poems in the Yugoslav language. The
third of his greater works, Dubravka, is an apotheosis
of the glory of Dubrovnik. The beautiful fountain
outside the Pile gate commemorates it. Even in his life-
time he earned the proud title of 'rex Illyrici carminis',
and it is certain that the literature of Dubrovnik attained
its greatest glory in his time and by his work.

Four other figures in the Dubrovnik literature of the
seventeenth century added to the literary glories of the
Republic: Ignjat Djordjid, a noble, a Jesuit, and later a
Benedictine, whose immense output included everything
from sensual love to religious ecstasy; Djivo Bunid,
an exquisite writer of light-hearted love-songs; Stijepo
Djordjid, whose comedy, the Dervish, a parody of con-
temporary styles, is the best humorous poem of the
century, and Junije Palmotid, a writer of first-class drama.

But this great period of Dubrovnik literature was its
swan-song. Later writers are of little merit. The centre
of real importance shifted elsewhere, and in the eighteenth
and nineteenth centuries little of real value was written.

Before leaving Dubrovnik, I made my usual pilgrimage

Q

DUBROVNIK 121

to the Dominican monastery to see my old friends the
red cats. I had with me a Belgrade acquaintance,
resplendent in beach pyjamas. As we entered, the old
abbot was walking in the cloisters. I asked him about
the cats; but, alas, they have both died, full of years and
honours, and their place has been taken by a black-and-
white torn, who has not yet acquired their majestic
philosophy. The abbot introduced me, and then glanced
across at my companion. He led me aside: 'Remember/
he said, 'my son, there are three things unfaithful: the
sea, a woman, and a cat. 5

Alas for me; I love all three of them!

It would take me too long to speak of all pleasant
places around Dubrovnik, After all, Dubrovnik is not
all Dalmatia, nor Dalmatia all Yugoslavia. So I must
leave Lopud and Srebreno, Mlini and Kolocep, Trsteno
and Kupari, to the inquisitive visitor. But no one should
forget the Dubrovacka Rijeka, where the Ombla, in the
magical manner of karst rivers, springs fall grown out
of the mountain-side to form a wide stream where great
ships may lie at anchor. This place was chosen by the
nobles of Dubrovnik for their summer palaces, of which
some remain. They had taste and a sense of beauty.
Also, there is one of the best restaurants of all Dalmatia
here, the Teta Jela.

Nor, if you have time, should you forget Mljet. I had
not: but I was sorry, for I would have liked to see the
mongeese (? mongooses?). Some years ago Mljet was
infested with snakes, and they were introduced to stay
the plague. Now there are no snakes, but many mongeese.

Despite the pundits, I still agree with the Reverend
Abbot Ignjat Djurdjevid, of the Congregatio Melitensis,
who wrote in 1730 of St. Paul's shipwreck. To a lay eye,
everything fits his theory. Paul's road to Rome would
surely have been up the Adriatic and then over land,
possibly from Ravenna. Mljet is the first island of any
size in the Adriatic, when approached from the stormy

122 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

south. It was called Melita in Paul's time: and then
that prevalence of snakes! No, the old abbot had good
grounds.

But I could no longer linger in Dubrovnik. I must go
on to Cavtat, then through the Konavle, to the Boka
Kotorska and south.

Cavtat was the ancient Epidaurus, and may therefore
claim to be the mother of Dubrovnik, which was founded
by refugees from that city after it was destroyed by the
Slavs in the seventh century. In those times it was the
most important city between the Neretva and the Boka.
It was only rebuilt some time in the tenth century as
Castra Pitaura, and was then known as Civitas vetus,
whence it derives its present name. Until 1427 it belonged
to various Slav nobles, and was then bought by Dubrovnik,
and was a sort of state port when Serb or Bosnian rulers
visited that city.

It is now very charming and quiet, with some repu-
tation as a yachting centre; also because of the rather
florid villa of Mr. Banac, where the Duke and Duchess
of Windsor, and also of Kent, have often stayed. There
is also a small English colony there, which is far more
good-natured and hospitable than English colonies
abroad are apt to be.

The great pride of Cavtat, however, is the Racid
mausoleum, by Ivan Mestrovic. It is a marvellously
impressive monument, simple and severe at first sight,
with a certain epic grandeur, although not very large in
scale. The bronze doors, between two lovely and serene
caryatids, depict the four Slavonic apostles or saints,
Cyril, Methodius, Gregory, and Sava. Inside, the ceiling
is wonderfully designed with angels' heads gazing down-
wards in mathematical precision at a mosaic pavement
of the four evangelists with their accompanying beasts.
The figure of St. Rok, with his ever-faithful dog at his
feet, is superb.

Indeed, superb and austere are the words that first

DUBROVNIK 123

come to mind in describing it. Yet to me it is curiously
inhuman, the product of an intelligence that has sensed,
rather than experienced, beauty. Here MeStrovic* has
more harmony than in his sculptures, say, at Split, but
he has lost something of his force, and in so doing some-
thing of his peculiar attraction. Death does not seem to
mean so much to him as life; here it is a state of cold
and static apprehension, not, as in the Rosandi<5 mau-
soleum, an awesome yet gentle mystery and hope. No
one can come away from this tomb unimpressed. Yet,
if I had the choice, I would sooner lie in Brae.

Incidentally, every lover of great art should see this
mausoleum for himself, in the stone. All the pictures and
postcards I have so far seen of it show it as squat and
uninspiring. It is certainly neither the one nor the other.

XI
THE BOKA KOTORSKA

THE festival of Sv. Trifun of Kotor used to be held
the day after that of Sv. Vlaho. But the long political
and commercial rivalry of the two cities often led to
clashes between the upholders of the rival saints, and the
two ceremonies are now, as a rule, held at the same time.
Therefore I have never yet had an opportunity of seeing
the Kotor feast, which is at least as interesting as that
of Dubrovnik.

Sv. Trifun was also a martyr from Asia Minor, having
suffered at Kampsadas in Phrygia in A.D. 250 at the age
of eighteen. His life and death are more interesting than
those of most martyrs, whose sufferings have as a rule
a deadly monotony. Even when unskilfully described in
the Delia Vita e del Martirio di S. Trifone, they have
a fairy-tale quality that reminds one of Remy de Gour-
mont. His relics were brought to Kotor in 809, when
he was at once accepted as patron of the city and also
of the Guild of the Boka Sailors. (Bokeljska Mornarica),
probably the oldest association of its kind still existent,
whose first regulations far pre-date the famous Laws of
Oleron. The statute was revised in 1463, which is the
date of the document usually shown to tourists, but the
records of the Guild go back to 809, and possibly even
earlier, when they were under the protection of St.
Nicholas, patron of all sailors.

For the sailors of the Boka have always been accounted
the finest in Dalmatia. Even rival Zlarin accepts this.
Not only Kotor itself, but Prcanj, Dobrota, Perast, and
other cities of the Boka were famous for their daring and
skilful navigators. When the land behind the mountains
ceased to be Slav and became Turk, this power declined,

124

THE BOKA KOTORSKA 125

but their skill and daring continued to be used in the
service of other nations. The place of honour on the
ships of the Venetian admirals was reserved for the
navigators of Perast, who led their fleets at Lepanto.
And later Peter the Great of Russia, while he learnt
shipbuilding and navigation in Holland and England,
enrolled his sailors from the Boka. The staff of the first
great Russian admiral, Zmajevic, a native of the Boka,
is still preserved in the Cathedral of Sv. Trifun. Inci-
dentally I notice in the history of the Guild that I have
now before me, dated 1899, i.e. under Austrian rule,
that the Admiral of the Mornarica, Count Antun Tripun
Lukovid, was at that time living in Cardiff.

I always enter the Boka with a lightening of heart.
Not only is its natural beauty so striking as to be always
new and always to reveal some fresh facet of awe-
inspiring majesty, but the nature and character of the
people are subtly different from those of northern Dal-
matia. Perhaps the sea has given them a wider outlook,
or perhaps the solemn grandeur of their mountain fjord.
Whatever the reason, the people of the Boka are of
mixed creeds, the majority Orthodox, with Catholics
only in some of the cities. But they live together in a
broad-minded tolerance. Indeed, in one village, a little
south of the Boka itself, there is a church with two
altars where the rival services are solemnized alternatively
and without friction. Would that such tolerance were
universal! They are more open-hearted, simple, and
hospitable. Their pride is the sea, and their patriot-
ism wide and all-embracing. It is the only place in
Dalmatia where one is not eternally pestered to talk
politics.

There are two ways to enter the Boka. One is by road
or rail from Dubrovnik, through the lovely Konavle
valley, famous for the beauty of its people and their
dresses, and Sutorina, once a Turkish enclave dividing
the territories of Dubrovnik from those of Venice (the

126 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

corresponding enclave on the north is at Klek, near the
Neretva). But the finest way is by sea.

The watchers of the fjord are the fortresses of OStro
and Mamula. Then you enter the outer bay, about
fifteen miles long, and thence through the Verige, a
narrow strait once closed by chain-booms, into the
inner bay, as large as the outer, where is Kotor itself,
Perast, Risan, and many other famous cities. The whole
is encircled by mountains, rising to six or seven thousand
feet from the water's edge. Those on the right are the
Krivosije, snow-capped for half the year, whose sturdy
highlanders refused the Austrians, and defied the whole
might of the Empire for more than a decade.

Once through the Verige, and the immensity of the
Boka is almost frightening. The mountains press menac-
ingly forward to the narrow strip of cultivated land where
the cities stand, as if threatening to push them and
their vineyards and olive-groves into the still, dark waters
of the inner gulf. In ancient times they actually did so,
for ancient Risan, the capital of the Illyrians and seat of
that ferocious enemy of Rome, Queen Teuta, was over-
whelmed by a landslide. Traces of its masonry may still
be seen on clear days far down under the water.

Before Perast are the twin islands of St. George and
the Gospa od Skrpelja, each with its church. The island
of the Gospa is said to have been built artificially of
stone by the Perastines, in fulfilment of a vow. Certainly
it was the graveyard of the city when it was at the height
of its power. The tall sentinel cypresses around the little
church and the black water around, for the sun penetrates
late into this corner of the Boka, make it seem like an
island in Lethe, and one watches to catch sight of Charon
setting out with his bark from deserted Perast to ferry
a few more souls to eternal forgetfulness. No wonder
Bocklin chose it for his 'Isle of the Dead'.

For Perast is now deserted. The beautiful Renaissance
palaces stand empty, and the great church seems still

THE BOKA KOTORSKA 127

more desolate when filled with the few fishermen who
still live in the shadow of that former glory. Ichabod !

Kotor itself is, however, vigorous and progressive, for
it has now its natural hinterland, from which it was so
long cut off by political barriers. Perhaps it is the most
impressive of the Boka cities, for immediately behind it
rises the tremendous mass of the Lovden, the Black
Mountain itself, up whose precipitous sides you may see
the hairpin serpentines of the road to Cetinje. Halfway
up the mountain-side a white dot marks the gendarmerie
station where was the former frontier blockhouse. The
people of Kotor say that the winter snows cease at this
point, as if fearing to pass the former boundary. But of
the Lovden road I shall speak later.

The market of Kotor is always bright with the national
costumes of the Montenegrins. They look strangely
exotic under the frowning Venetian battlements, still
decorated with the arms of the noble families. Some of
these families are indeed noble, both by descent and by
achievement. In the days when Kotor was the port of
the Serbian Empire, it was Nikola Bud who was the
famous chamberlain of Tsar Dusan, and it was a friar of
Kotor, Vid the Franciscan, who built the church of High
Dedani, perhaps the most beautiful in all Serbia.

The streets of Kotor are even more narrow and confus-
ing than those of Split or Sibenik. I spent at least half-
an-hour trying to find my way to St. Trifun, in a city
really not much bigger than a pocket-handkerchief. It
is a wonderful old church, dating in its present state
from 1166, but built on an older foundation of 809. A
gateway of the older church is still preserved in the
sacristy, showing intricate Slavonic ornamentation, some-
what similar to the Anglo-Saxon style. But it needs a
new cicerone. The old fool who showed me round
pointed out one thing after another, murmuring:

This is six hundred . . . this nine hundred . . . this
three hundred, years old', or, occasionally when imagin-

128 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

ation failed: This is very old indeed/ Amusing, but not
instructive.

Kotor is hot, very hot, and somewhat airless. To bathe
there is like bathing in a conservatory. So I went on
around the Boka to Hercegnovi on the outer bay, my
favourite resort in all Dalmatia, which I always choose
to rest in when I have had enough travelling.

Of Hercegnovi I have written elsewhere, long and
enthusiastically. But I must break my rule of not mention-
ing hotels by name, to say a word for the Hotel Boka.
Better than any hotel I know in Dalmatia, it combines
solid comfort with real friendliness and hospitality; and
its terrace is beautiful. One overlooks the outer Boka,
sitting under a canopy of bougainvillea and among
feathery, splayed palms. It is not difficult to spend hours
there, doing absolutely nothing, although there is plenty
to do in Hercegnovi. I rested there for several days,
and only the fact that I was a guest and ashamed to strain
hospitality too far prevented my staying still longer.

In the morning I would bathe, in one of the few plages
where the water is deep enough to dive directly into its
refreshing coolness. In the evenings I would walk to the
lovely Orthodox monastery of Savina to chat with the
monks and look at the treasures given them by the
Tsars of Russia, or brought with them from their first
home at Tvrdjos in the Hercegovina, which they deserted
after the Turkish conquest. There, too, is the simple
crystal cross of St. Sava. But the simplicity is atoned for
by the tales and legends of that wonderful man. There,
too, are the last words written by the ill-fated King
Alexander before leaving his native land for Marseilles
in October 1934. History will make of him, too, a great
figure.

I had a travelling companion on the boat to Ulcinj.
I mention her because she is typical" of a large number
of Central European women, not only Yugoslavs, but all
the peoples of the Danube basin. The people of the

THE BOKA KOTORSKA 129

mountains and the sea-coast are entirely different. Her
father was a rich peasant of Slavonia, and she herself
was living an 'emancipated' life in Belgrade. She was
pretty, healthy, and energetic, with practically no real
education, but with plenty of intelligence and good-
humour, and no morals whatsoever. She had no interest
in any of the things that interested me; history was for
her a closed book which she had no desire to open. She
had been brought up on the rich, monotonous Danube
plain, and it was her first visit to the hills and the sea.
I expected to get from her some new and unusual angles
on Dalmatia; and I did, though they were not of the sort
I expected. Her name was Resi, and she considerably
widened my experience.

The day before she had been on a trip to Cetinje,
over the Lovden pass, perhaps the most magnificent
scenery in all Europe. I asked her what she thought
about it:

'Very pretty. But boring. There was nothing but
mountains.'

I thought of the unending monotony of the fields of
maize that seem to stretch from horizon to horizon in
the rich plains around her village, and could find no
answer.

We started early. There was a slight swell, and the
boat was crowded like a barrel of anchovies. A holiday
camp was on its way to Sutomore. So I made friends
with the captain and found room on the bridge to sit
and look about me. I asked Resi to join us, where she at
once started a flirtation with the second officer. For,
if she had no interest in places, she had plenty in people.

We steamed slowly along past the peninsula of Lustica.
It is a sparsely-peopled district, like a little pocket of
primitivism between the Boka and Budva. Traces of
the blood-feud still linger in the customs of the people,
and early last year there was a formal reconciliation of
two offended tribes, with ceremonies that have been

130 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

forgotten elsewhere for a hundred years. One of the
villages of this district is made up of Orthodox Serbs,
but all with Spanish names. I went there once, trying
to discover their origin, but was unsuccessful, as they
knew nothing of their ancestors. Usually a Spanish name
in the Balkans means a Jew, as the Balkan Jews are
nearly all descendants of the Sephardi, driven out of
Spain by Ferdinand and Isabella the Catholic, and have
preserved not only their names but also their language.
But this village did not seem to fit the bill. For one
thing, they had forgotten their origins and their language,
and, save for name, were as Serb as their neighbours.
Secondly, Jews seldom become peasants, but rather
traders and townsmen. Thirdly, they had no Jewish
characteristics of appearance or gesture. I finally con-
cluded that they must be descendants of the Spanish
soldiers who once held Hercenovi, and who had been
sent across the bay when the new masters took charge.
But that is only a hypothesis.

Budva itself is one of the coming resorts of Yugoslavia.
It is a tiny little walled medieval city on a spit of land
sticking out into the sea, with a curious precipitous
island-rock just in front of the tiny harbour, which is too
shallow for any but the smallest vessels. Its origin goes
back to Roman times, but it was unruly under the
Venetians, who limited the number of houses in the
city and of persons who might dwell there. It has had
to wait until now to develop, and is now doing it with
a will. For the plages of the Montenegrin coast are the
finest on the Adriatic. Several hotels are unable to hold
the flood of guests, and a huge new one is now being
built.

Behind Budva serpentines another road to the Boka,
through the Tivat polje and over the shoulder of Lovden.
Yet another leads to Cetinje, past the castle of Petrovac,
the grimmest and most impressive of all the fortresses
of the coast, yet so far up in the mountains that it is

THE BOKA KOTORSKA 131

scarcely visible from the sea. Beyond Budva a long sandy
beach curves away to St. Stefan, a tiny city built on an
islet with a narrow causeway to the shore, like a miniature
parody of Budva; and beyond that again the summer
palace of the Yugoslav royal family at Milocer.

This southern coast was the step-child both of the
Venetians and of the Austrians. The only interest they
took in it was to see that it did not belong to Montenegro.
The extraordinary beauty and the quality of its bathing
beaches did not interest them. For there are no islands
to shelter the coast and the shallow sandy bays that are
so splendid for bathers were worse than useless as
harbours. Until far south, at Bar, there is not a single
harbour for large ships. And the hinterland was Monte-
negro, so there was little trade. So it was left to dream on
for centuries in primitive neglect. Only the present govern-
ment is attempting, and not unsuccessfully, to develop it.

But my mind was brought back to the present by Resi.
She was seasick. It must be a natural gift, for the sea
was scarcely moving. Maybe she was hungry. For there
is a famine on board. The excursionists have eaten
every thing on the ship, down to the last slice of bread,
and at Budva the cook had not managed to get anything
as the shops were closed for the siesta. We could only
offer brandy, coffee, and cigarettes, none of which are
sustaining on an empty and seasick stomach.

I know this coast, and it may, on occasion, be very
rough. Before starting I had asked Resi if she were a
good sailor, and she had said yes. Only now I realized
that she had never set foot on a boat before.

The coast was now steep and precipitous, with great
cliffs dropping hundreds of feet to the water's edge.
On the hills behind were dotted tiny Orthodox monas-
teries, some of them of great age. One was re-consecrated
recently by the Serbian Patriarch. I wonder if he was
seasick. I should like to see a seasick Patriarch.

Sutomore brought us no relief. It is a lovely little

132 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

place, ideal for a summer holiday, but it, alone of
Dalmatian resorts, has no molo, and we did not go
alongside, but disembarked our excursionists, squealing
and giggling, into open boats.

Bar was better. It is a beautiful harbour, almost land-
locked, and guarded by the twin castles of Haj and
Nehaj. The hills surrounding it are a steely green with
immense forests of olives, which are the local source of
wealth. On one side, old boundary posts marked the
former Montenegrin frontier, for jealous Austria at last
allowed the port of Bar to the Montenegrins, possibly
because the communications were so bad that it was of
little value save as a harbour for the Bang's yacht. Old
Nikola's palace may still be seen: it is now an agricultural
school.

But the Montenegrins were not inactive. They gave a
concession to an Italian company to build a railway
across the divide from Bar to Virpazar on the Lake of
Skadar, and the buildings of the company are still the
greater part of Bar. Stari (old) Bar is some way inland.
Until a year or so ago, this was the only railway in
Montenegro, and its snail-like twistings across the
mountains were the source of endless jokes at its expense.
A peasant is said to have walked to Virpazar and arrived
there before the train. It is quite possible; not necessarily
one of the jokes.

Our famine was partially repaired by fresh figs.

It was growing dusk as we set out on the last lap, to
Ulcinj. The mountains rose in fantastic confusion, range
behind range, as if a child were drawing and refused to
leave the smallest space unoccupied by some rugged
clear-cut peak. There was something faery in the scene.
Or rather there would have been if Resi had not still
been seasick. But even that could not dull the beauty of
the Ulcinj citadel, which we approached as the sun was
setting in brilliant colours behind its shattered walls.
Here at last was the 'rose-red city half as old as time'.

XII
CORSAIR CITY: ULCINJ

ULCINJ is no longer Dalmatia. All the other cities
of the coast have a certain similarity, due to the
influences of Italy and the West. Ulcinj has none. It is
of a different world.

Its history has taken quite a different course. It was
a city of the Colchians, and later an important city of
the shadowy Illyrian Empire of Agron and Teuta, that
stretched from Sibenik to Lesh (Alessio in Albania). It
was mentioned by Pliny as Olcinium, and was transferred
from its earlier site a few miles up the coast to its present
one under Justinian in the sixth century, for fear of the
Avar invasions. In the eighth century it was taken and
held by the Saracens, and the nearby hill of Mavrijan
(Moorish) probably preserves a memory-of that time. In
the first half of the ninth century the Emperor Basil I
cleared the seas of these pirates, and for the next three
centuries Ulcinj was ruled sometimes by Greek, sometimes
by Slav rulers. At the great period of the Nemanja
dynasty in Serbia, it appears to have been held by a
relative of theirs, Vukan, and his son George in 1242
is referred to as Rex Georgius dominus Ulcinii. In the
same year it was unsuccessfully attacked by the Tatars.
Fresh complaints of piracy broke out in 1281, but during
the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries it was still in
Christian hands, sometimes Venetian, sometimes Slav
rulers of the families of Straimirovi<5 and BalSid, though
the origin of this latter dynasty has been disputed by
Albanians and Norman French! (? de Baux).

But all this is the dry bones of history, and has left no
mark on Ulcinj, save some ruined walls in the deserted

134 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

citadel, and an inscription of the BalSas so corrupt that
to my mind it is a fake of some pious patriot.

What gave Ulcinj its peculiar colour and the most
splendid period of its history was the Turkish conquest
of 1571, when it was taken by Uluch Ali, Bey of Algiers,
as ally of the Sultan Selim II in his war against Venice.
After Lepanto, Uluch Ali became Turkish admiral with
the title of Kilidji (the sword), and his corsairs settled
in Ulcinj. From that time onwards Ulcinj has been, and
remains, a Moslem seaport.

All through the seventeenth century these corsairs
harried the ports and shipping of southern Dalmatia. In
January 1624 ^7 entered the Boka and destroyed Perast
and attempted to do so again in 1687, but were defeated
by a force of Perastines and Montenegrins, who killed
almost half of them and forced them to disgorge their
booty. Then the famous corsair, Hajdar Karamidjia, of
Greek descent, became captain of the city and successfully
defended it against the Venetians in 1696. It was he who
built the Pasha's Mosque and the fountain near it, which
still exist.

These corsair wars were rendered more ferocious by
the fact that captured Moslems had to ransom themselves
with Christian slaves, and so kept, so to speak, a stock
on hand. They did not wish to share the fate of Dinko
Kampsa, who could not do this, and was stoned to death
on the island opposite Budva.

The corsairs of Ulcinj rapidly adopted the Albanian
customs and language, and it is probable that the so-called
Albanian sailors used by Venice in her Uskok wars were
from Ulcinj, as the real Albanian is a poor sailor.

Many famous pirate names are still preserved in the
annals of Ulcinj; for example, Hadji Alija, whose base
of operations was near Vlori (Valona in Albania), and
whose spirit, sword in hand, is still said to haunt the
waves. Also Liko Cen, who was commissioned by the
Sultan to free the Adriatic of the still more notorious

CORSAIR CITY: ULCINJ 135

Greek pirate Haralampija of Messolonghi. This he
succeeded in doing, and entered the Golden Horn in
triumph with Haralampija's body tied to his bowsprit.
For this, his own sins were pardoned, and he ended his
life as a merchant. In the eighteenth century a chronicler
writes: 'In Ulcinj live some six thousand persons, pirates
who call themselves merchants, and live after the manner
of Algiers on plunder.' Towards the end of the sixteenth
century Serb names also appear among them. When the
notorious Mehmed BuSatlija became Pasha of Skadar,
however, Ulcinj was a little republic. He attacked the
city to defend trade, scuttled its ships, and forced it to
submit. The corsair days of Ulcinj were over.

But before leaving the historical side of Ulcinj, there
is one very interesting story to be told. When in Belgrade,
I had heard of a negro village near Ulcinj, but had put
it down to imagination. However, it happens to be true,
and there are still several negro families in Ulcinj itself
and in the village of Stoja near Bar. At the time of the
Montenegrin War of 1878 there were still fifty families,
and before that many more. I asked one of them whence
his family had come, and he said, probably with truth,
that they were the descendants of slaves brought there
by the corsairs. He added that they had been harem-
keepers, but when I asked him how they had managed to
found families, he did not seem to grasp my meaning.
Perhaps the corsair harems were more laxly kept. More
probably they were used as labourers.

These negroes were used as dowries by the rich
families. But after a certain number of years they were
freed, and children born to them were born free. Then
they became sailors, peasants, and sometimes even
shipowners, never craftsmen.

They were all Moslems, and rarely married out of
their colour, and were very great dandies. After Ulcinj
was taken by the Montenegrins, many left for Skadar and
Durres (Durazzo). So that the old custom of the negro

136 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

gathering at the Push Arabi (the Arabian Field) to dance
and eat sweatmeats for three days on end no longer
exists. At one time as many as three hundred used to
gather there.

The story of one of these little nigger boys reads like
a page of the Arabian Nights. At the time when the
famous pirate 'Lambro' (Haralampia) was harrying the
Adriatic, the Sokoleva of Ulcinj was preparing for sea,
and a negro brought his son, Musta, to the captain as
cabin-boy. After the crew was armed, the ship sailed.
There were fourteen sailors and Musta. Near San Gio-
vanni di Medua they were attacked by Lambro and all
the crew slain save Musta, who was taken to Messolonghi
as a slave. Three years later, Liko Cen rid the seas of
Lambro, and Lambro's wife freed all her household slaves,
including Musta. Thence, via Vlori, he returned to Ulcinj.

Naturally all the people of Ulcinj thought him dead
with the rest of the crew, and he himself was so changed
that they did not recognize him. It was night when he
came and knocked on his mother's door. When she asked
who was there, he replied her long-lost son. The people
of Ulcinj, awakened by the knocking, thought him a
vampire, and took guns to kill him. But his mother
prevented them, saying that if she smelt behind his
left ear she would know him. On her doing so, she cried
out: 'This is my son, Musta.' The people fired salutes
of joy, and next day prepared a great feast, with three
cauldrons of halva (a sweet, sticky sweetmeat).

Musta lived until 1900, and was 124 when he died.
His capture and adventures were a common story in
Ulcinj, and thus came to the ears of my informant, to
whom Musta himself retold it.

There are two luxurious hotels in Ulcinj. The pity of
it is that neither of them is yet open. It was Resi the
practical who found rooms.

CORSAIR CITY: ULCINJ 137

All Moslem towns have a certain sameness. But, after
a couple of months in Dalmatia, the Moslem atmosphere
came with all the force of novelty. To find on the sea-coast
a town with eight mosques in working order, and heaven
knows how many in ruins, was surprising. For that is
characteristic of Moslem communities. When a mosque
begins to fall to bits, nobody worries very much about it.
Some pious hadji will doubtless build a new one. Whether
this is due to a religious contempt for the earthly habit-
ation even of God, or whether there is more virtue to
the soul in building than in repairing a mosque, I do not
know. I only know one Yugoslav Moslem, however, who
gave his own money as a bequest to repair a mosque,
and I rather fancy that was because his house faced it and
he didn't want it pulled down and a skyscraper erected
in its room. At all events, his pious bequest has assured
him a good view from his windows for at least a generation
to come.

Our rooms were clean and fairly comfortable. But there
is no water-supply in Ulcinj, and I shrank from the ordeal
of shaving in cold water with a blunt blade. So next
morning I called Resi, and we went together into the
fiarsija (Moslem market).

There, there were barbers for export. Judging from
the number, the whole of Ulcinj must spend its spare
time getting shaved: judging from the faces in the market,
however, no one ever seems to have any spare time. Later
I discovered most of them to be little more than intimate
kafanas for conversation and coffee. For at Ulcinj the
coffee is good once more, black and thick and with a real
taste, such as only Moslems and a few Serbs can make.
The coffee of Dalmatia is thin and watery, like English
coffee, which now tastes to me like dirty dishwater.

I was shaved, therefore, by a spruce young Albanian,
who kept asking me personal questions, prompted by his
younger brother. They were both rogues, but amiable.
They were particularly puzzled about Resi. Was I married ?

138 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

"Yes."

"And is madame your wife?"

The idea was new to me, and I did not at once catch
their drift. I said no.

"Ah, but you are a meraklija (connoisseur) !"

I was so startled by this suggestion that I took another
look at Resi, who was sitting waiting for me in the kafana
opposite. She certainly looked very pretty. Well, perhaps
I was after all.

Finally I asked what was the price.

"0, we have no prices in Ulcinj. Give what you like."

I gave what I would have given in any other Yugoslav
provincial town. I could see that they were satisfied, but
at the same time disappointed that they had not found a
mug. They tried to get their own back by selling me
smuggled Albanian cigarettes and perfume at extortionate
prices.

There are no social distinctions in Ulcinj. Every one
talks to every one else on a basis of perfect equality. I sat
in front of the shop with the two hairdressers, and
various others came to join the group. Certainly we were
tourists, but apparently we passed muster. Not so a pair
of bright young things who passed through the Sarsija
in bathing dresses; it was a tactless thing to do, for the
plage is quite ten minutes away. A number of the older
Moslems turned away their heads. Their own women go
heavily veiled.

One of them came and sat down beside me, muttering,
'Unbelievers!'

I replied mildly that God has many forms.

'No,' he replied firmly. 'They were talking Serb. God
has only three tongues.'

'And they?'

'Arabic, Latin, and Albanian.'

As I was talking Serb myself, there seemed no answer
to that one.

The Albanian element is very strong in Ulcinj. There

CORSAIR CITY: ULCINJ 139

is a large Montenegrin quarter up the hill, but they do
not come so much into the fiarsija. Along the seafront
you will hear mostly Serb, but in the carsija mostly
Albanian.

Two more Albanians, this time in European dress,
joined the group. Malik, the hairdresser, introduced
them. One was a handsome young man with an eagle
nose and dark penetrating eyes I thought at once of
the corsairs.

'He comes from Durres, and is one of the richest
merchants in Albania/ said the irrepressible barber in
almost an awed voice.

The young man nodded and smiled. All that he had
understood was Durres. He spoke not a word of Serb.
Then he turned and saw Resi, and the fat was in the fire.

It was, I think, a case of love at first sight, at least on
his part, for Resi would love no one for more than ten
minutes at a time. But it greatly complicated my stay
in Ulcinj. For Resi knows only Serb, and I was called in
by both to act as interpreter. We were a pretty tower of
Babel. For I do not know Albanian, and he had to speak
faulty Italian. I, who do not know that language very
well, had to translate to Resi in Serb. Finally, I threw
her reputation to the wolves and told the lovesick Hamdi
to hire one of the barbers as interpreter.

For example, the next day, Hamdi insisted on hiring
a car to go and see the salt-pans in the plain behind the
city. I agreed, but insisted that our interpreter go too.
I could not stand a whole afternoon of Italian raptures,
especially as Resi was now mocking him openly in Serb,
with phrases that I could not, or would not, translate.

The expedition began with an argument that proved
to me that all the pirates of Ulcinj are not dead. Some
of them are chauffeurs. What Hamdi said to him I don't
know, because it was in Albanian, but he finally agreed
to take us at a reasonable price.

The name Ulcinj is supposed to come from an Illyrian

140 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

word, though exactly what language is meant by Illyrian
I do not know, possibly something like Albanian, meaning
'low field'. The low field in question lies behind the
city, stretching from the edge of the mountains to the
Albanian frontier at the river Bojana. On it lie the salt-
pans, an enormous expanse of flat concrete tanks, six
and a half kilometres long, and perhaps a kilometre
across. Into them the salt water of the Porta Milena is
pumped and there left to evaporate under the broiling
heat. The salt gradually forms on the surface of the
water, like a thin sheet of ice, and then sinks to form a
thick sediment at the bottom of the pans. It is harvested
once a year, in August. At the time of our visit it was
June, and the deposit in the tanks already thick, with
white icy patches on the surface of the water where fresh
layers were forming. The heat was intense, and the white
glare on the salt hurt the eyes.

Along the banks of the Porta Milena were stacked
huge mountains of rough industrial salt, each containing
some hundreds of tons, of a dirty cream colour, covered
with temporary covers of red tile, so that they looked
like the roofs of large houses that had sunk down into
the earth. Gangs of men, almost naked and burnt black
by the sun, were loading it into barges. Beyond the last
salt-pan stretched dreary marshland. At one time this
polje was dreaded for its malaria, as parts of the Bojana
are even now, but the disease-bringing mosquito does
not like the salt, and it is now comparatively healthy,
while the distance to Ulcinj itself is too great for even
the most athletic anopheles.

The salt-pans have all the dreary beauty of monotony.
But the tourist instinct is quickly stilled under so fierce
a sun. We were half-cooked and thirsty, and, like Cole-
ridge's mariner, had water, water everywhere but not a
drop to drink. Curiously enough, Resi was deeply inter-
ested. It was the bustle of human activity that held her
attention.

CORSAIR CITY: ULCINJ 141

At the workers' canteen lunch was not yet ready. So
we stopped at the only kafana in that desolate wilderness,
kept by an Albanian for the Albanian workers. They are
a sober lot with a curious weakness for sweetmeats. The
kafana had rakija, to be sure, and a certain amount of
indifferent wine. But its main staple was sweet, thick
liquors of pear and cherry, raspberry syrup and Greek
mastic, of which a little goes a very long way. The only
thing to eat was bread with halva, sweet and coarse as
barley-sugar.

There was no sign of taste or refinement. -But hunger
.is the best sauce, and we ate and drank these childish
sweets with zest. The whole company was very merry,
playing absurd practical jokes. I learnt:

'Rrnoft ShquipnieP (Long live Albania!),
and my Albanian without tears was received with applause.

One or two workers dropped in and joined us. One was
dumb. Never until then did I realize how much a man
can say without words. In a few vigorous gestures and
caricatures he gave us his opinion of the Spanish war.
There was no doubt where his sympathies lay.

I have shown my Albanian friends in Ulcinj as some-
what eccentric. Indeed, the two barbers were rogues of
the first water, while poor Hamdi was rather more tragic
than comic. I knew Resi well enough to know that she
would never take him seriously. But the Albanians as
a people are a remarkably sympathetic lot. They are not
industrious, but that is the fault of their history. But
they are manly, good-humoured, with a ready wit, and
strictly honest. They have a code of honour which,
though crude and primitive, has served them well for a
thousand years. They are sober and satisfied with little.
They are hospitable, and welcome any stranger whom
they respect; to others they are reserved and contemptu-
ous. As individuals they have the finest of the virtues
and the more manly of the vices. Their women are moral,
reserved, and almost always strictly virtuous. In the

142 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

house they have a position of esteem; outside it they
are still in a subjection, which may also be laid at the
door of history. Often, when one has a chance of seeing
them at all, they are extremely beautiful. I snapped one
in the carsija; but then she was a Malisor and a Catholic.
Even then, I had to dodge a jealous husband.

They are extremely individual, and do not take kindly
to government unless it is strong and they approve its
methods. They have much in common with the Monte-
negrins, although for centuries they have waged tribal
warfare across the borders. Now, under King Zog, they
are acquiring order, civilization, and polish, and, from a
short visit to Diirres and Tirana, it seems to me that they
have enough character to acquire the civilization without
being dazzled by the polish. I know the Albanians of
South Serbia well, and like them. But I never thought
them capable of controlling a well-ordered state. But
after a visit to Albania itself, I changed my views. Cer-
tainly there is a strong Italian influence there; but that
is veneer. Scratch an Albanian and you will still find an
Albanian. They learn from the Italian, but in their heart
of hearts despise him and retain their own sturdy
independence.

For many years after the war there was bitterness and
friction between the Greeks and the Albanians and the
Serbs and the Albanians. But that is slowly breaking
down under the urgent yet dimly conceived idea of
Balkan unity in which Albania will play her part. I may
fairly say that there is no Balkan people today which
does not regard with sympathy the renaissance of the
'old Pelasgian race'.

My favourite walk in Ulcinj was to the former citadel.
It occupies the whole peninsula that forms one of the
'horns' of the harbour. From a distance it is a little
reminiscent of Dubrovnik, but of a Dubrovnik deserted
and shattered, as it might have been had the city never
been rebuilt after the earthquake of 1667.

CORSAIR CITY: ULCINJ 143

In the whole vast extent of the fortress only two or
liree families still live, in tumble-down palaces. It is a
strange impression to go there in the evening, for while
lie fortress as a whole is empty and desolate, the abode
)nly of ghosts, the glassless windows of these few
nhabited houses are lit with electric light.

There are few inscriptions or coat of arms, for the
jreat period of Ulcinj was under the corsairs, who took
ittle stock of heraldry. Occasionally you will find a
Christian monogram or a shield from Venetian times, but
rarely. The Balsa inscription, as I have said before, looks
like a fake. Indeed the only indubitable trace of pre-
Venetian rule that I could find was a fine piece of Slavo-
Byzantine ornamentation built into the steps of the main
:hurch, afterwards mosque, of the fortress. It, too, is
aow ruined and deserted.

The final destruction of the citadel dates from the
Montenegrin war of 1878.

It is a fascinating, but somewhat perilous, walk at
night, for the battered walls may suddenly open into a
sheer drop to the water beneath. It is not hard to recreate
there the shapes of Liko Cen, of Uluch Ali Kalidji, 'the
sword', or of the uneasy ghost of Hadji Alija. Probably
it is too late to repair the fortress now, but none the less
it adds an air of vanished splendour to the little town,
contrasting oddly with the other horn of the harbour,
where the two new hotels are rising in brick and concrete,
the new challenging the old across the still waters of
the bay.

But I had had enough of Hamdi and his barbers.
Capriciously, I decided to leave next morning. Resi
begged to come with me. She said she could not face
Hamdi's raptures alone.

XIII
LAND OF THE BLACK MOUNTAIN

WE started at the ungodly hour of 4 a.m. But I
need not have worried about missing the bus. It
came and considerately hooted under my window at
half-past three, and went on hooting until I looked out
to prove that I was not still abed. I had made friends
the day before with the owner, incidentally also the
chauffeur, in a long wrangle about the fare to Cetinje.
In the more out-of-the-way parts of Yugoslavia, no one
pays very much attention to the printed fares. They
serve only as a basis for bargaining. He showed no ill-
will when I eventually compounded for about 60 per
cent of the official rate.

This Montenegrin outpost land is one of the wildest
in Yugoslavia. After passing through the carsija, where
the two barbers were already up to speed us on our way,
we turned at once into the hills, following the winding
course of a long mountain valley, with occasional fortress-
like farmhouses. Now and again, on our right, we caught
tantalizing glimpses of lovely and silent bays. It was more
than an hour's run to our first stop at Stari (old) Bar.

This, too, is a deserted city. At a distance it looks
magnificent, a walled city with a large Venetian fortress,
built on the edge of a little ravine and guarding the pass
through the mountains. It was evidently a place of some
importance, being of considerable size, but how looks
like the scene of a Gothic novel, for the buildings have all
been covered with ivy and other climbing plants, so that
it has not the rugged desolation of the fortress of Ulcinj.
It, too, was destroyed in the Montenegrin wars, though
it was probably in decadence before that time. The present
village, for one can no longer call it a city, is built outside

144

LAND OF THE BLACK MOUNTAIN 145

the walls, with the main street, which is most surprisingly
stone-paved throughout, ending abruptly at the outer
wall of the fortress.

We stopped there for almost an hour while the mail
was being prepared in the curious post-office with a
fence made of Roman and Venetian inscriptions from
the old city. So we had plenty of time to look about.
But Resi was still with me, who has not an interest in
ruins, and I was half afraid to spoil the effect of its roman-
tic beauty by further probings. Besides, we were both
ravenously hungry.

The new village of Old Bar is a strange transition
from the purely Oriental to the modern Montenegrin.
The main street is clean and well arranged, but the side-
streets are squalid and casual. The shops were still shut
it was only a little after five but the market was already
commencing, and the kafanas were open. Nevertheless,
I do not advise the tourist to rely upon them. They had
nothing but scone-like bread, Turkish coffee, and eggs.
One landlord obligingly offered to cook us anything we
chose to buy in the town, but after a glance at the meat
market, we returned to the eggs. By the time we were
more or less appeased, our bus was hooting for
departure.

Thence, through forests of tortured olives to New Bar.
That and Ulcinj are the only Yugoslav towns without
public shoeblacks.

One gets more amusement travelling by bus in Yugo-
slavia than in any other way; that is, on the non-tourist
routes. Journeys are long, and a companionship of the
road quickly established. Furthermore, a bus has a
definite character of its own, which a train hasn't, while
there is too much room on a boat.

We stopped just outside Bar for the driver to change
the bouquet on the dashboard. It was evidently a regular
thing, for a pretty peasant girl was already picking and
binding the flowers as we arrived. Then a peasant pro-

146 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

duced a bottle of home-made rakija, and, after scrupu-
lously wiping the mouth with his sleeve, offered it round.
It tasted like fire, but was astonishingly refreshing.

Now we were ascending the wide spirals to cross the
Sutorman range, stopping at tiny mountain villages on
the way. From the summit we enjoyed a last marvellous
view of the perfect semicircle of Bar Harbour, before
plunging downwards in even closer spirals towards
Vir-Pazar and the Lake of Skadar.

The first view of Vir-Pazar, the 'Whirlpool-market',
and the Lake of Skadar is an experience. It looks not so
much like a lake as a sunken world. The bare karst hills
run straight down into the water, which is still and
shallow, with the green of water weeds showing through,
and trees growing in desultory lines. In the stiller reaches
the surface is covered with a dark green alga. Only in
the distance is the lake clear and blue.

Vir-Pazar itself is almost surrounded by water, with
the roads forming causeways binding it to the higher
land around. For the Lake of Skadar is really a flooded
polje, with .the higher hillocks standing out of it as
islands. A drop of two or three metres in the water-level
would make it possible to reclaim almost a third of its
area and to rescue for cultivation many broad acres that
have been rendered valueless since the silting up of the
river Bojana forced the lake to its present level. Then
the real lake, that section which looks blue and not
green, would become a friend and not an enemy of man,
and this part of Montenegro, which at present has to
import grain, would become a great producing centre.
It is a grandiose plan, but not really as difficult or as
expensive as it at first appears.

Vir-Pazar is picturesque to look down upon, but uninter-
esting to stay in. What devil induced the bus to halt
here for lunch I do not know. The guide-book says it
has a good inn with excellent local food. It may be so.
But in a town of not more than a couple of hundred

LAND OF THE BLACK MOUNTAIN 147

houses, I failed to find it. The inn was bad and the food
execrable.

So we were only too glad to push off again towards
Rijeka Crnojevida, along a road that clung to the rocky
hillsides by its eyelids as if scared of falling into the lake.

The northern end of the lake is dotted with tiny
islands, some of which have a melancholy record as
places of exile in Montenegrin times. One still supports
a monastery. Another, the largest, Vranjina, near the
entrance of the Crnojevid river, is supposed at one time
to have been the capital of Zeta, the predecessor of
Montenegro. At present that bare and dromedary islet
merely supports a miserable fishing village and a multi-
tude of snakes. Perhaps at that time the Skadarsko polje
was not permanently flooded. In such a case it might
have been a good site. I was told there was nothing
interesting to see there, so did not trouble to interrupt
my journey.

Rijeka Crnojevida would have made a better stopping
place. It is a picturesque little place on the CrnojeviB
river, and has acquired beauty therefrom. There is
nothing particularly interesting in the village itself, save
that its principal inn is cleaner than at Vir-Pazar.

The Crnojevic river is an arm of the Lake of Skadar,
winding between tall cliffs of bare karst of that peculiar
blackness of Montenegro. Seen from the Podogorica
road, it has an extraordinary beauty ; the still waters and
frowning black cliffs and twisting course seem like a
stage scene for the coming of Siegfried's ship to Iceland,
but the surface of the water is dead and unrippled, covered
with water-plants, and leaving only a narrow strip of
open water for the passage of the postal packet to Skadar.
At certain seasons it is a blaze of white water-lilies, as
gay and decorative as a Japanese print, so that the amateur
art-critic has his work cut out to identify the school of
the celestial author. A painter could make a marvellous
picture of the Crnojevid river. But he had better exhibit

LAND OF THE BLACK MOUNTAIN 149

remained the capital of the Montenegrins. He also inflicted
the first of a long series of defeats on the Ottoman armies,
who tried to subdue the Black Mountain.

From time to time the Montenegrins acknowledged
a shadowy overlordship of Turks and, in earlier times,
Venetians, but neither at any time had any effective rule.
True, the Turks destroyed Cetinje, but then had once
more to retreat. The truth was that, before the building
of modern roads, the Black Mountain was impregnable.
A small army the Montenegrins could defeat; a large
army could not live in that stony and barren land.
Montenegro became synonymous with South Slav
freedom.

After the extinction of the Crnojevid family, Monte-
negro was ruled by its bishops, and by a rather ill-defined
authority called the gubernador. But with the rise of the
greatest of the Montenegrin families, Petrovic-Njegos,
these two authorities were combined, so that Montenegro
was ruled by a sort of autocratic theocracy, the line of
descent being from uncle to nephew. Only later did it
become a kingdom with a normal line of succession.
Gradually it increased its tiny territory. Always it had a
burning interest in Yugoslav liberation, always a hatred
of the Turks. Unruly and undisciplined, but brave and
enthusiastic, it [rendered great services to the Yugoslav
ideal. But dynastic quarrels embittered the issue in the
late nineteenth century and during the Great War, King
Nikola flirted with the Central Powers. Finally the people
of Montenegro deposed the dynasty and declared their
adherence to the kingdom of the Serbs, Croats, and
Slovenes at Podgorica in 1918, and the gallant history
of Montenegro became merged in that of Yugoslavia.

The present Yugoslav dynasty is closely allied to the
former Montenegrin line, and the late King Alexander I
was born at Cetinje.

Incidentally the Yugoslav name for Montenegro is
Crna Gora, both, of course, meaning Black Mountain.

150 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

The greatest ruler of Montenegro was the Prince-
Bishop Petar Petrovid-Njegos. He was also the greatest
poet of the Yugoslav language, surpassing even Gunduli<5
in the power and sweep of his characterization and the
beauty of his language. He writes in a very terse style,
a little reminiscent of Browning, and equally difficult to
read. His two greatest works are poetic dramas, describing
the two most vivid events in Montenegrin history. The
finest of them, the Mountain Wreath (Gorski Vijenac),
describes the Montenegrin Vespers. Islam had begun
to penetrate even among the Montenegrins, whose
whole existence had been bound up with the struggle
for the Cross. Heroic measures were decided on, and at
a given moment all Moslems in the country were given
their choice of conversion or the sword. The outbreak
began at Vir-Pazar. But it is not in mere narration that
the poem is so remarkable, but in the character drawing
of the leaders, both Christian and Moslem, the clash of
ideals, and real depth and feeling of the verse. The
second drama describes the short rule of Stefan the
Small, a political adventurer who came to Montenegro
and for a time ruled by giving out that he was the murdered
Russian Tsar Peter III who had escaped his enemies.
The Montenegrins accepted him, having always had a
great fondness for the Russians, whom they considered
as the greatest of the Slav peoples and their especial
protectors. The wisdom and good sense of his rule was
sufficient to prove his claims to be untrue !

A third great poem, The Light of the Microcosm, is
Miltonic and visionary, but now little read. .

This long period of eternal struggle against the Turks
has had a great influence on the character of the Monte-
negrin. He has so long been a warrior that he now finds
it difficult to be anything else, and still regards the trader
and the artisan as beings of a somewhat lower order.
He has, in fact, preserved in a primitive form the spirit
of the medieval knight, with all its virtues and very many

LAND OF THE BLACK MOUNTAIN 151

of its prejudices. He makes a first-class soldier and
administrator, but a poor subordinate. Therefore the
Montenegrin outside his own country either rises rapidly
to a position of trust and influence, or, alternatively,
becomes the most morally corrupt of all the Yugoslavs.
It is a question of character and of education. Those
who have the character to apply their code of honour
and heroism to the complexities of the modern world
become great men; those who forsake it, rapidly acquire
a Western polish and Western vices, but little else.

The heroic code of the Montenegrin is deeply respected
by the other Yugoslavs, but is also the occasion of a good
deal of dry humour. Jokes against the Montenegrins in
Yugoslavia are almost as common as against the Scotch
in England.

A peasant story tells how, when God was distributing
the stones on the Days of Creation, the Devil slit open
the bag as He was passing over Montenegro. It certainly
describes the landscape. But, none the less, a trip through
Montenegro is extremely beautiful. The mountains are
high and impressive, the poljes little green patches of
fertility. The rivers, rich in trout, rush foaming through
picturesque gorges. Almost at every season there is some-
thing to lend a touch of colour to the grim landscape.
At this time it was the rich red of the pomegranates;
later it will be the brilliant yellow of the pumpkins.

This is the Montenegro that most tourists know. But
the eastern districts are different. There is less stone there
and more forests, and at the mountain saddle between
Cetinje and Podgorica the Mediterranean flora ceases
and the Continental begins. There are no more figs and
olives and pomegranates, but forests of pine and an
occasional poplar gives a hint of the typical landscape of
South Serbia.

I had come through that way from Fed a short time
before, when I had been forced to make a rapid visit to
a friend in Skoplje. But I shall not describe Fed here; it

A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

will come in its proper place. But the bus trip from there
to Cetinje is remarkable and well worth while for the
traveller who wishes to see a little more of Montenegro.
In this way he will traverse the entire length of the former
kingdom.

The road was made in 1925, and is a masterpiece of
engineering. It passes through the Rugovo gorge, with
the mountain torrent of the Bistrica below. But one is
well advised, if one has the money, to go by private car.
For the buses are covered, and in the depths of the gorge
one cannot see the tops of the mountains and loses some
of the effect, as if one were travelling through a tunnel.
I was, unfortunately, forced to take the ordinary bus,
which was overcrowded, and got a very stiff neck trying
to crane outwards and look up.

It is rather a terrifying road. For the gorge is narrow,
and to ascend to the pass it has to serpentine up the
sides of the ravine itself in more than usually break-
neck turns and gradients. Also the Montenegrin chauffeurs
are so familiar with its fearsome abysses that they regard
them with a contempt that the average passenger does
not share. But they are really efficient, and their incessant
sounding of the horn is really necessary, although irri-
tating. On that particular journey we met a private car
that had omitted to hoot, and just managed to draw up,
nose to nose, on the narrow road with wheels a few inches
away from a drop of some seven or eight hundred feet!

It was June, but we ascended twice to the snowline
before reaching Podgorica. The first and most important
pass was the Cakor, about five and a half thousand feet
above sea-level. The houses here are still wooden; the
typical stone-built Montenegrin houses commence a
little before Podgorica, but the brilliant national costumes
are even more in evidence. The upland meadows are gay
with cyclamens, huge buttercups, and yard-high foxgloves.

My companion this time was a high official of the
Provincial Administration, who snored peaceably on my

LAND OF THE BLACK MOUNTAIN 15$

shoulder. At intervals I thrust him to the other side, but
he only slumped back again, only to wake once to curse
when a home-made basket of wild strawberries burst
over his white suit and covered him with purple patches.
On the way we passed the cross-roads to Kolain, once
a wild enough spot, but now a favourite forest resort.
It is especially beloved by the Albanians, and I was
interested to note that the unveiled Moslem girls for
the veil is forbidden in Albania unpacked at the frontier
and entered Yugoslavia in accordance with thelaws of Islam.

There could scarcely be a greater contrast between
Andrijevica, the first town on this route, and Podgorica
the second. Andrijevica is built of wood amongst forests;
Podgorica of stone amid stones. Yet neither is very
interesting. The Montenegrin countryside is lovely,
but the towns are dull. At Podgorica there is a fine
medieval bridge, the ruins of Roman Dioclea, and,
curiously enough for Montenegro, mosques. But it is
dull, none the less.

So, for that matter, is Cetinje. It is only interesting
because it was once a capital and a very small one, so
that there are palaces, government offices, and legations
on a dolls' house scale. The palace is interesting to those
who can re-create the characters of vanished worthies
from inanimate things, and there are many places which
have been important in the history of Montenegro. But
the landscape does all that is necessary in that regard,
and, otherwise, Cetinje is sleepy and undistinguished.
But the journey there from the coast is well worth while
because of the Lovden Pass, and there are a couple of
good hotels, with good food and discreet music. Of more
hectic amusements Cetinje has none; it is a city of pen-
sioners, leading family lives. It is only because of its
distinguished history and the pride of the Montenegrins
that it has become the capital of a province. From any
other point of view, Dubrovnik would have been the
better choice.

154 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

Incidentally, at Cetinje I decanted Resi. She decided
to stay there, and I to go back to Dubrovnik and thence
into Bosnia.

The road from Cetinje to the sea is now well known,
and bus loads of tourists cover it daily during the season.
They are right, for such a journey can rarely be found
elsewhere. One skirts the Cetinjsko polje, and thence
over a range of mountains into that of NjeguSi, the native
village of the NjegoS family. At the village inn a 'serdar'
joined us, a very mountain of a man in full national
costume of leather hide sandals, full baggy blue breeches,
wide sash bristling with ornamental daggers and pistols,
gold and silver embroidered waistcoat, and the character-
istic Montenegrin cap. Despite his ferocious appearance,
he was a mild and genial old gentleman, who greeted
the aged and ragged postman sitting beside me with a
'Good morning, president!'

Every one in Montenegro likes to have a title. .

After a stop at the * Grand Hotel', a small stone cottage
selling beer, we started on the climb towards Lovden.
Away on the left a small round building on the summit
marked the tomb of the poet and prince-bishop. Suddenly
and surprisingly, at the top of the col, we came once more
in sight of the sea.

It is next to impossible to convey in words the view
of the Boka from the Lovden pass. The sight of the fjord
and the mountains below is so remarkable that even after
many experiences of it one still catches one's breath in
wonder. The sight of it remains clearly etched on one's
memory even after months and years of other seas and
other mountains. To use superlatives is simply to belittle
its greatness.

The pass is so high that one looks right over the
summits of the intervening mountains across the inner
bay to the outer and to the deep sea beyond. Kotor
itself is at first hidden, being almost directly below one.
You see it later as you descend. It gives you the same

LAND OF THE BLACK MOUNTAIN 155

feeling of gasping wonder as on first seeing a fine land-
scape from a descending plane. Every detail seems
small, and the whole vastness alone important. When
Lovden is itself shrouded in clouds, the scene below is
even more impressive; for through the mist one catches
tantalizing glimpses of dark mountains and bright blue
seas which grow clearer and clearer as one descends.

The bus winds slowly down the steep serpentines of
the Lovden, and the details of the scene become more
and more important. First you see the mountain-bound
plateau of Tivat and the mysterious Gulf of Traste;
then Hercegnovi shining white in the distant sun. Farther
down the central mountains of the Boka block them out,
and as one descends to the level of their summits you
look over the inner bay with its two magical islands,
Perast, Dobrota, and Prcanj. Still lower and you come
in sight of Kotor itself and the great fortress of St. Ivan,
laid down below like a map in a guide-book. It is still
half-an-hour's journey away, yet it looks as though you
could pitch a stone on to its battlements. One of the
large ships of the Jadranska Plovidba at the quay-side
seems like a child's toy. Then lower and lower, till you
are no longer with the help of Lovden master of the
mountains, but they instead rise up about you, dwarfing
you once again into insignificance. And at last, from the
heights where there may yet be traces of snow, you
descend to the magnolias and oleanders, the feathery
palms and the broiling heat of Kotor.

This time I did not stop, but went straight on to
Dubrovnik. To-morrow mid-day I shall leave for Bosnia.

XIV

FROM EAST TO WEST: SARAJEVO IN
TRANSITION

I LEFT Dubrovnik by slow train. It is a practice that
I do not recommend to others, for the Bosnian
railways are slow and foodless and uncomfortable. They
burn soft coal that turns one to a chimney-sweep in a
hour or so. True, there was a fast train also, with a
restaurant car attached, but that started at night, and
familiarity has by no means aroused in me a contempt
for the Neretva valley. Despite heat, famine, and dirt,
I take every opportunity of seeing it again.

But in justice to the Yugoslav railway system, I must
also say that a week or so after my journey they intro-
duced Diesel trains on this route, which are clean and
comfortable, and, considering the mountainous nature
of the route, fairly fast. The tunnels are no longer smoky
pits of horror, but cool oases; and there is a buffet on
the train. This excellent idea will shortly be introduced
on other routes as well.

This is not a good line, but it is a wonder that there is
a line there at all. It crawls slowly upwards in intricate
serpentines over the mountains behind the Dubrovaka
Rijeka. First on one side, then on the other, one looks
down at the most lovely panorama of shining blue sea,
graceful and solemn cypresses, and old, stone-built
summer palaces of the former Dubrovnik patricians.
Almost directly below one is the source of the Ombla.
Then a patch of bare stone, and then the last view of the
Adriatic, the Bay of Dubrovnik, with Cavtat hi the
distance, and a tiny white dot that is the MeStrovid
mausoleum. Then naked karst and the sun-scorched
station of Uskoplje.

156

FROM EAST TO WEST: SARAJEVO IN TRANSITION 157

But in July the karst is not quite so forbidding. The
summer heats have not yet scalded its shallow-roote4
grasses. The pomegranates are just beginning to turn-,
from red blossom to bulbous fruit. Tall yellow flowers
stand defiantly in the chinks of the stones. In the tiny
cup-like Vrtaci' of red earth, which alone are cultivable,
there are still tufts of green maize, or, rarely, yellow corn.
It is already too high and exposed for olives, but there
are still figs and the first whitish flowers of the autumn
pumpkins. It is not so grim and impressive as in winter,
but it is more friendly.

Then we creep down once more to the Popovo polje,
whose exact nature always worries the inquisitive tourist.
In spring it is a vast shallow lake, with little red-roofed
villages along its stony banks. But in early summer the
waters sink away into underground ghylls or Conors',
leaving a shallow but rich deposit of reddish earth, which
is extraordinarily fertile. Sometimes the peasants get
two, or even three, crops from it before the waters rise
again to replenish it. So waterless is it in high summer
that every village has its cistern to preserve drinking
water, for the river is not a mere trickle. It has disappeared
altogether. Now, in July, it is a field of young corn and
broad-leafed tobacco plants. For the Hercegovinian
tobacco is excellent, and many connoisseurs prefer its
broad leaves to the smaller more aromatic leaves of the
Macedonian tobacco of South Serbia.

Here, too, you will see the old-fashioned hand-ploughs,
usually with a wooden coulter. Steel implements would
break in the stony soil.

At Gabela we entered the valley of the Neretva. It is
not far from Metkovid, but how different a landscape!
For the river is no longer olive and dirtied, but flows
with a clear pure green which becomes more and more
intense as one advances up the valley until at Mostar
it is like emerald watered silk. The trees were heavy
with fruit; figs and golden apricots.

158 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

The people, too, have changed. The men working in
the fields wear tattered fezzes, and the women national
costume. At Capljina, a large but undistinguished town,
we passed several hundred of them, evidently going to
work in some factory. Most were Moslem.

It may come as a surprise to some people to know that
more than a million Yugoslavs are Moslems. Even those
who do know the fact usually call them Turks, and assume
that they are flotsam left in the Balkans after the Turkish
conquest. It is a fairly natural mistake, seeing that Bosnia
and the Hercegovina were de facto Ottoman till 1875
and de jure until 1908; and it is further complicated by
the fact that they often use the word Turk of themselves,
the national and religious ideas having become hopelessly
tangled up in their minds. As a matter of fact, there have
never been many Turks by race in Bosnia and the Herce-
govina, and not many more in South Serbia, where a
few scattered villages of real Turks still remain. Few> if
any, of them know Turkish well, and this district is, in
fact, celebrated for the purity of its Serbo-Croatian.

The Ottoman power was essentially an Empire and
not a nation. There was no national feeling, and the
difference between conquerors and conquered was one
of religion. Many of the greatest men of the Ottoman
Empire were Slav or Albanian by origin, and for a long
time Serbian was the official language in dealing with
foreign ambassadors.

In Serbia the Turkish authorities were the agents of
a purely military occupation, and lived largely in the
few towns, whence they were easily evacuated after the
Serbian insurrections. In South Serbia the problem,
though more complex, was in essentials similar. But in
Bosnia it was quite different. Instead of becoming a
Turkish province, governed by Turkish officials, Bosnia
became a more or less autonomous province, governed
de facto by Moslem descendants of the former Slav
nobility, who frequently paid remarkably little attention

FROM EAST TO WEST: SARAJEVO IN TRANSITION 159

to the officials sent from Stambul, who were scarcely
permitted within Sarajevo, but governed more or less
nominally from Travnik or Banja Luka.

The reason for this curious fact must be sought for
far back in history, and is connected with the somewhat
mysterious sect of the Bogumils, whose memorials may
still be found in the more distant parts of the country
and in the Sarajevo Museum.

The sect originated in the dark ages in Bulgaria. We
know its earliest precepts largely from its enemies, who
describe it as anti-moral and anti-social. The former it
can hardly have been, as the extreme ascetics of the sect
even eschewed marriage; the second, from a medieval
point of view, it probably was, for it very early developed
nationalist tendencies, and insisted on the Word of God
being preached in the language of the people. This was
not to the liking of the Greek priesthood among the
Bulgars at that time.

Thence it spread into Macedonia, where it has left
many traces on place-names, but was again persecuted
by the Nemanjas. In Bosnia, however, it was welcomed
and almost became a national Church, though its earlier
asceticism was much modified and its antinomian tenets
restricted by a rough Church organization. The Bogumils
might indeed be classed as forerunners of the Reformation,
and, in fact, their influence and teachings strongly
affected the Patereni of Milan, the Albigensians of
Toulouse, and perhaps even the Lollards of England.

The Bosnians, then as now, were a political and
religious transition between Catholic Croats and Orthodox
Serbs, who agreed only in regarding their theories of the
equal powers of Good and Evil as Manichaean as
indeed they were and persecuting them. Both also had
an eye to their territory. Thus, without Christian support,
the Bosnian nobles had no great aversion to being con-
verted to Islam, and, incidentally, saving their position
and property in the process. A great part of the so-called

l6o A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

conquest of Bosnia was accomplished by the Bosnians
themselves ; a great part of the long tale of treachery that
accompanied it was genuine conversion. The Bosnian
feudal lords became Moslem begs and retained their
power. The peasantry also followed suit, to an extent
unheard of in Serbia and Macedonia, and the creation
of a Moslem population was in the main a peaceful
process.

Many, however, continued their Bogumil rites under
the cover of Islam. The last Bogumil family, that of
Helez, is supposed to have died out in the village of
Dubrovfiani as late as 1867.

Just beyond Capljina, on the far side of the river, is
one of the most lovely cities of Bosnia, Pocitelj. Unfortun-
ately a thick clump of trees screens most of the view
from the train, so that the passer-by has only a momentary
glimpse. The man with a car is luckier; he can stop and
investigate.

The regular rectangle of the walls, climbing up the
steep river bank, gives one the impression that the whole
city has been tipped forward by a kindly djinn in order
that one may 'see the works'. In the mathematical centre
of the rectangle is a fine mosque, with the usual square
sahat-kula (clock-tower) behind. Pocitelj is first men-
tioned in 1448, but is probably older, for the Hungarian
king-errant Mathias Corvinus garrisoned it in 1465
against the Turks, who none the less took it under
Hazabeg in 1471. Under them it became a small but
strong fortress, after the destruction of Gabela by the
Venetians in 1715, the most important in the lower
Neretva valley. The mosque was built in 1562 by a certain
Hadzi Alija, but was later repaired by one of the most
famous sons of Pocitelj, SiSman Ibrahim Pasha, who
was Vali of Egypt. His first name has a curiously Bogumil
ring about it.

The whole Neretva gorge is very beautiful, and the
train follows the river faithfully along a series of fertile

SARAJEVO

FROM EAST TO WEST: SARAJEVO IN TRANSITION l6l

poljes; first, that of Gabela, and then, after an interval
of sterile stone, by that of Mostar. Here the river Buna
joins the Neretva in a series of cascades, and one can
just see the deserted mosque and the old coffee-houses
near the source of that river, which, like the Ombla,
issues in fall stream from the mountain-side. The coolness
and the excellent trout of this charming spot made it a
favourite summer resort of the Moslem begs.

At each stop of the train, most of the passengers rushed
out to the drinking-water pumps with cups, bottles,
and utensils of every description. The heat was intense ;
water spilled on the track literally dried before one's
eyes. At first I had laughed at the bottle-maniacs. But
as early as Gabela I had acquired a bottle of my own
and was soon leading the gang.

The Mostar polje is literally the meeting of East and
West. The houses of Mostar itself are still stone-built,
and the streets paved in the Mediterranean manner. But
the gardens of the mosques and the little familiar coffee-
houses are definitely Bosnian. Nature, too, has chosen
Mostar as a frontier. Here are the last figs and apricots
and the first walnuts and chestnuts. The Hercegovina
is mostly karst: Bosnia mostly forest; and the Ivan
Planina which divides the two also divides the watersheds
of the Adriatic and the Black Sea.

It is a curious feeling to stand on the banks of some
river, not a hundred miles from the Adriatic, as the
Sana or the Kupa, and to think that the stream at one's
feet eventually discharges into the Black Sea. The Black
Sea watershed is enormous ; that of the Adriatic short
and precipitous.

But it was dark when we crossed the Ivan Planina, and
already midnight when we reached Sarajevo.

One of my favourite places in Sarajevo is Mustafa's
shop. Not only is it interesting in itself, with its show of
M

162 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

old embroideries, weapons, metal-work, and jewellery,
but it is like a pleasant social club. One may sit there,
comfortably drinking Turkish coffee, and sooner or
later all the visitors and most of the inhabitants of
Sarajevo will drop in for a chat. There is no entrance
fee but friendship, and no subscription save a willingness
to converse.

Sometimes I would sit there almost all day, chatting,
smoking, and drinking coffee. That coffee becomes an
obsession. Sometimes between us we would drink forty
cups a day. We even lunched in the shop, off djuvec and
salad, brought in from a Moslem restaurant, and served
in big silver dishes. Each person had a wide trencher of
bread and ate either with spoon or fingers. There is an
absurd prejudice against eating with the fingers. It can
be a perfectly dignified and satisfactory procedure.

Our particular cookshop was a good one, for it was
kept by a man who had been a head cook in the Sultan's
palace, in the days when there was a Sultan. He was a
master of his art, and would produce djuvecs, kebabs,
and other Oriental dishes that were both tasty and satis-
fying. His sweetmeats were superb, and his salads
flavoured with interesting herbs, of which I could only
learn the dialect names, which are useless elsewhere. He
was a jovial ruffian, with many good stories of old Stambul,
and his kitchen was always open to inspection. My only
objection was that he cooked everything in mutton fat,
which takes a certain amount of practice to assimilate.

Those who came and went in the "shop as we sat and
talked were a lively cross-section of Sarajevo. Firstly,
there were the tourists, arrogant Germans, diffident
Englishwomen, talkative Italians, or loudly dressed
Magyars. Then there were the craftsmen of the market,
who would tumble piles of old jewellery on to the counter
and argue about how to re-set them; or some dignified
old lady waiting to sell some marvellously embroidered
coat which may have been in her family for generations.

FROM EAST TO WEST: SARAJEVO IN TRANSITION 163

For there are plenty of nouveaux pauvres in Sarajevo.
Or some girl who entered shyly to deliver some em-
broidery work and would not lift her veil, as well as
streams of miscellaneous seekers after posts and privi-
leges. For Mustafa's family has great political influence.

It was a fascinating place, that shop, and there was
always good conversation. For the Bosnian Moslem of
good family is a gentleman in every sense of the word,
while the many differences between him and the Christian
only add a certain spice to the talk which would range
from history to politics, from women to food, and from
art and poetry to the new motor-trains. Seldom have I
enjoyed days more, and seldom have I done so little and
yet learned so much.

Mustafa's shop is in the Ba-Carija, which is at once
typical of Sarajevo and foreign to it. For the life in
Bas-Carsija goes on much the same today as it has for
a hundred years, while Sarajevo itself, outside this
charmed circle, is changing, alas, only too rapidly. In
the old days the market was the centre of revolt; when
the shutters were up in the carija something serious was
happening, or about to happen. Now it is the centre of
Moslem conservatism, none the less strong for being
easy-going and good-natured.

No one takes life very seriously in the Sarsija. When a
man has done enough for the day, he simply sits back,
chats with his friends, and drinks coffee. I have heard a
respectable merchant, sitting in his own shop, tell a
number of tourists that the owner was out, and that he
could do nothing till he returned. He was in the middle
of an interesting conversation, and did not want to be
disturbed. (When I told an American friend of this, he
gave me an hour's lecture on business methods!) The
porters work till they have made their ten or twenty
dinars, enough for the day. Then they knock off. If
any one comes along with more work, they will simply
refer him to some colleague who has not yet earned

164 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

his daily portion. Ba-Carsija is a lesson in the art of
living.

Most of the shops are open to the street, and the patron
sits there cross-legged, going leisurely about his business.
They are so small that he can usually reach all his stock
without rising. If an important customer or a friend
comes, there is always a coffee-shop within hail. Only
in the craftsmen's streets for each trade has its own
street the noise of the tiny hammers on the copper is
like the Hall of the Nibelungs. All else is grave and
dignified: save in the street of the pawnbrokers and
moneychangers, where most of the shopmen are Jews,
is there much noise, bustle, and gesticulation.

There is no need for any one in Ba-Carija to move
out of his shop. For the world brings all the things that
he wants to his feet. There is a constant stream of pedlars
passing to and fro, selling every conceivable form of
food and drink, any sort of trinket and utensil ; anything,
in fact, from fine lace to smuggled tobacco. There is
always plenty of time. Just sit and drink coffee and chat;
what you want will come to you sooner or later. Most
of them sit without shoes, but with a pair of wooden
pattens handy, to cross the road if necessary.

But if the masters are dignified, the apprentices
are little devils. One of them is just now trying to
light a train of fire-crackers to startle a sleeping ca&-
keeper.

The Moslems are very kind to animals, and the easy,
go-as-you-please life of the arsija is shared by a multi-
tude of cats and kittens, which look sleek and well cared
for. I have known Mustafa waste hours playing with a
kitten, while another of my market friends, the last
tassel maker in the carija, usually has a cat sleeping on
his knee. There is little wheeled traffic in the small
streets of the market, and they come and go silently and
peacefully upon their lawful occasions.

The arija is built close to and around the wonderful

FROM EAST TO WEST: SARAJEVO IN TRANSITION 165

Beg's Mosque, built by Ghazi Husrav Beg the Victorious
in 1530. He was one of the great benefactors of Sarajevo,
and there, too, is his medresseh and the ruins of his
hammam.

The life of the carija still goes on much as in old
times. But a good deal of the splendour has departed,
outmatched by the competition of modern life. There
are no more pasvandjijas to patrol the streets by night
with their wooden rattles, and the great hans are empty
and deserted, their mission taken over by large hotels
in the western quarter of the city. Mustafa would some-
time look sadly out and say:

'Old Sarajevo is dying out; every day I see funerals
passing by of men I have known.'

It is not to be wondered at. Nor, perhaps, is it altogether
to be regretted, save by those who regard foreign cities
as museums for their entertainment. For old Sarajevo
was bound to go, broken down by modern practice and
modern competition. It is inevitable that the arija
become more and more a tourist attraction, and less and
less a power in the city.

For the Bosnian Moslems, though conservative in
their customs, are sufficiently wide awake to modern
life. True, the old noble families, the begs and agas, have
been crippled by the land reform, and, being used to a
life of ease, with serfs for every service, have not been
able to adapt themselves and are dying out in poverty.
But it was necessary that the peasants own the land they
tilled, and the Moslem trading families and intellectuals
take a part in Yugoslav life at least commensurate with
their numbers. The Minister of Communications, Dr.
Mehmed Spaho, is a Moslem.

The women, too. In the carSija they still go veiled and
wrapped in those voluminous 'zars' that I irreverently
refer to as 'flea-bags'. Custom is still strong in Sarajevo.
But many of the younger ones have discarded the veil
and are taking their rightful places in the community.

l66 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

Few, if any, continue to wear it when they go, say, to
Belgrade.

There is no compulsion, save that of family and custom.
The veil is gradually being discarded, because it is no
longer sutiable for modern life. But the process sometimes
passes through some amusing transitions. On the Moslem
corso, along the banks of the Miljacka, I have seen
ladies dressed in the latest fashion, with a tiny black
veil hiding mouth and eyes. I had almost written 'impene-
trable', but as a matter of fact the veil of Sarajevo is by
no means so ; it is sometimes so transparent that I question
if it is not an aid to coquetry. Be that as it may, the
heavily veiled woman is still a mystery ; one's eyes follow
her in the street, trying to discern her secret, or dwell
curiously on hands and feet, trying to guess her age and
social station. Without the veil, only great beauty draws
the eye.

The most comic example of this transition I ever saw,
however, was at Zelenika on the Gulf of Kotor, where
a Moslem family was on holiday. The young and pretty
wife actually went down to the plage in a bathing dress
and a veil !

The attitude of the Moslems themselves is typical of
a changing society. It is rather like the acceptance of the
stage in Victorian England. The older generation hold
firmly to the old traditions, including the veil. The
younger generation is content to let matters take their
natural course.

But modern life has bitten deeply into the old life of
Sarajevo. It is not only that the fine old houses of the
begs with their secret gardens and quiet fountains are
disappearing before modern mud-and-hairpin villas.
What is more important to the visitor is that the old
caf6 life is dying out. The lovely moonlit caft gardens
on Jekovac and Bistrik are now silent by night. Since
1935, the life of Sarajevo has moved from the suburbs
to the King Alexander Street, and the famous 'sevdalinke'

FROM EAST TO WEST: SARAJEVO IN TRANSITION 167

can only be heard in a few cafts in the centre, or in
private gatherings. The well-known 'Volga' is now a
cabaret, the 'Sadrvan' is a tourist centre, occupied at
the time of my visit by a troupe of barnstormers, and
the curse of the radio has descended upon many of the
most charming of the smaller cafes, where one hears
stale Viennese waltzes or indifferent salon music in
place of the lovely old Bosnian songs. Only in a few
places and at the Moslem picnics can one still hear them
at their best. Nowadays the best professional sevdalinka
singers are in Belgrade, where their delicate art is being
spoiled.

It is a pity. For the sevdalinkie were typical of Sarajevo.
They are not in one sense Bosnian, for they are not
folk-songs. They are a product of the rich and cultured
Moslem life of the capital and a few larger towns. They
have Serbo-Croat words and Oriental melodies. Many of
them deal with events in the life of the city, still more
with 'sevdah', the helpless love-yearning, bitter and
fatalistic, of the Moslem. 'Od sevdaha gore jada nema'
(there is no bitterer pang than sevdah) runs one of them,
unless it be kara-sevdah, or black sevdah, when the
mind is darkened, life seems useless, and the only way
out is death. From these songs one may re-create old
Sarajevo.

The great sun has veiled his face ;
Veiled his face in shame, to see
How Omer-beg reproves his love.
She has passed barefoot across the court,
With loosened hair, passing Omer by,
Without a lantern and without a servant
And without permission of her lord.

Another tells of the love of a peasant and a Moslem lady,
another rejoices in her young love riding proudly through
the SarSija, another tells of a girl who died of longing for
her love taken to far Anatolia, another of Ademkoda, the

i68

A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

young bride, who waters her bride-chest with her tears,
for she is to wed a man she does not love. Yet another
relates a wedding tragedy:

Ali-beg has quarrelled with his love
That first night upon the silken cushions.
He has bound her hands behind her, saying:
'Tell me, love, who has been before me?'

While yet another is full of bitterness and revenge:

'The ravens hover

Above Maglaj ;
Over Omer's tower,

That mighty beg.'

Omer's love goes out
And asks the ravens
Over Maglaj :

*O ravens, tell me,
Birds of ill-omen,

Whence have you come ?
From what city?

And did you see Omer,
My lovely beg?'

Answered the ravens
Above Maglaj :

'Hear us, true love

Of Omer-beg!
This morning we came

Early from Doboj.
We saw there Omer,

Thy lovely beg.

He sits in the inn,

Rakija drinking
And wastes his ducats

On dancing-girls.
He loves those of Doboj

More than thy youth/

When the true love of
Omer

Heard these words
She leapt from the window

To earth below.
But her dead lips spake:

'May God lay a curse

On every girl
Who wastes her youth

In taverns and inns
For foolish pleasure

And sinful lust.'

So spoke the true love

Of Omer-beg;
And lived no more

In her young beauty.

It is equally hard nowadays to find good Oriental
dancers. But that is not the fault of Sarajevo, for the
best dancers were usually imported. None the less, I
managed to find my old friend Alegra at the Sadrvan.

FROM EAST TO WEST: SARAJEVO IN TRANSITION 169

Alegra is now getting on in years, and has been dancing
since she was eight. She comes from Beirut, speaks all
the languages of the Levant, and can be delightfully
improper in a good many others. But her body is still
lissom and graceful, and she has become famous as the
best 'coek' in Yugoslavia. In fact she told me that she
has just bought a house in Belgrade.

Usually Turkish dancing, or, more vulgarly, belly-
dancing, is an ungracious and repulsive series of wriggles
by fat jelly-like women, who seem always to be slipping
out of their trousers. I fear very much that is what the
average visitor will see ; I was myself treated to such an
exhibition at the Jance Han in Skoplje. But it can be
both beautiful and graceful, as well as grotesque, and
this middle-aged red-haired Jewess has the personality
to make it so. I am glad to know it; otherwise the raptures
of the Arabic poets would be reduced to senile Semitic
mouthings at repellent avoirdupois.

Almost every muscle of the body is called into play,
and, in really good dancing, the movements are slow and
rhythmical like living sculpture. Naturally the stomach
muscles play a great part, but a really skilful cocek can
put a wealth of meaning even into this unpromising part
of the body. But I do not recommend it to our ballet
enthusiasts. They had better stick to Sheperazade.

Alegra told me, incidentally, that she had been asked
to give lessons to a lady novelist. But the lady was thin,
and hips and breasts and tummy must be trained to this
difficult art from an early age. At last she gave up in
despair:

'Mais, madame, vous n'avez pas de quoi!'

But I did not spend all my time in Mustafa's shop or
in the kafanas. At the town hall, an impressive building
in the Turkish bath style, I met the Moslem historian
of Sarajevo, Hamdija Kresevljakovid. He was at work on
a monograph on the former fountains and waterworks of
Sarajevo. Like a real scholar, he likes to verify his facts,

170 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

and had decided to trace down the site of every fountain
and every stream mentioned in his work. In 1874, J us t
before the Austrian occupation, there were sixty-eight
different water-supply systems and a hundred and fifty-
six public fountains, to say nothing of innumerable
private ones. So he had his work cut out. I offered to
accompany him.

The sites of most of those in the centre of the town
were well known, so we spent most of our time in the
outskirts, which are the most beautiful parts of Sarajevo.
One morning we walked out to the cafe of Bendbasha on
the Miljacka, and thence into the old fortress. Bendbasha
means the 'last weir', and it was there that the timber
merchants used to sit and wait for their logs which were
rafted down the Miljacka. Each recognized his goods by
his brand and carried on business in comfort, drinking
coffee on the balconies overlooking the river. You may
do that still, though there are no more rafts.

The fortress is comparatively recent in date, for in
its great days Sarajevo was an open town far from the
frontier. But it housed the most distinguished families,
and still possesses the most beautiful Moslem homes,
with wide latticed cardak-balconies and large gardens
and beautifully wrought iron door-handles. It was a
purely residential quarter, and there were no shops
save the necessary bakers ; for Moslem families mix their
bread and cakes at home and send them to the public
baker. Indeed, the absolute necessities for any Moslem
quarter are a mosque, a fountain, and a baker's shop,
and they are usually found close together. Jekovac is
just above the market, and to its quiet streets the merchants
used to retire after the day's work. Even now it is a
perfect picture of a high-class Sarajevo suburb, a sort
of Moslem Park Lane. The main street used to have a
mountain stream running down the centre, driving
twelve water-mills. At the top of the street, near the
Yellow Bastion, is a most delightful kafana with terraces

FROM EAST TO WEST: SARAJEVO IN TRANSITION 171

overlooking the gorge of the Miljaka, and shaded by
plum-trees and sweet-scented lindens.

In the afternoon we crossed to Bistrik on the other
side of the Miljacka. Those steep winding streets were
delightful. I did not regret the hours we spent there,
poking into odd corners to find traces of former
fountains.

We started up the hill along a paved road from near
the Emperor's mosque. It was very steep and paved
with huge stone blocks. Hamdija explained that it was
the beginning of the Stambul Djol, the old military road
to Constantinople, along which the Tatars carried
messages to the Sultan in swift-footed relays. Post-
couriers were known as Tatars long after the last of that
race had disappeared from Bosnia.

He stopped for a moment to point out a graveyard to
me. One of the surprising features of Sarajevo is the
graveyards. You find them in the most unlikely places.
There are graves in the public park, beside the main
cinema, and in the centre of one of the principal streets.
Often they are very small, with perhaps five or six
turbaned headstones. Usually the graves are grass-grown
and anonymous, with perhaps a sword to show the
inmate was a janissary, or a text from the Koran. This
one was more than usually desolate, and the memorials
mostly simple blocks of uncarved stone.

'That was the strangers' graveyard,' said Hamdija.
'If a foreigner died in Sarajevo, he was buried here, and
his friends knew where to find his grave.'

From the top of Hosein Breg is perhaps the finest
view over Sarajevo, the most lovely city of the Balkans.
There are eighty-six mosques left, some beautiful works
of architecture like the Emperor's or the Beg's mosques,
or those of Ghazi Ali-Pasha, or Cekrekcija Muslihuddin;
others simple houses with stumpy wooden minarets.
Before the sack and burning of Sarajevo by Prince
Eugene of Savoy in 1697, there were still more. By great

172 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

good chance, however, some of the finest, being of stone,
survived.

We wandered for hours around the narrow twisting
streets of the quarter, noting down positions on a large-
scale map, and chatting with elderly people who remem-
bered the time of the occupation. Finally, Hamdija said
he would call it a day, and rolled up the map. It was
getting dark, and we were tired.

So we found a kafana near the Bistrik station and sat
down for coifee.

4 It should be good here/ said Hamdija. "That fountain
across the road was once famous through all Sarajevo
for the quality of its water for making coffee. Real
"meraklije" used to send their servants for it all the way
from Jekovac,' and he pointed to the fortress-quarter
on the steep bank across the river. It was.

Sarajevo is built at the spot where the gorge of the
MiljaSka begins to widen into a valley. But the city soon
outgrew its limits, and sprawled contentedly on the
steep mountain slopes on either side. The kafana we had
chosen was high up on the Bistrik slope, just above the
railway line to Little Stambul and Pale and, eventually,
Belgrade. Below us the city lay spread out like a map.
It was growing dusk, and the setting sun picked out the
minarets, the white headstones of the cemeteries, and
the clumps of tall poplars, turning them to shining silver
and dark bronze. In the little wooden kiosks in the
garden couples were chatting intently. There was a
pleasant cool breeze from the mountains.
'Tomorrow,' said Hamdija, 'we shall go over there/
'There* was the gypsy quarter, officially the quarter
of Dajanli Osman-beg. It is cleaner than most gypsy
quarters, the home of horse-copers and smiths and
wild-looking women who shout after you 'to tell the
cards'. The little houses are no longer quiet and secret,
but wide open to the street. The gypsy does not want
and does not understand privacy. All his life is open to

FROM EAST TO WEST: SARAJEVO IN TRANSITION 173

the most casual eye, and many of them sleep peacefully
in the sunny alleys. Further, they do not bother one
overmuch by begging; gypsies seldom do in their own
quarters, though they are an infernal nuisance in the
city. They are all Moslems. But Islam has not altered
their happy-go-lucky style of life, and their women do
not veil. But it has had one good effect. They keep,
more or less, the rules of ritual ablution, and thus are
cleaner than the average gypsy. And you may listen to
all the songs you please.

But I could not stay too long in Sarajevo, though I
would have liked to do so. There is material enough in
it for a dozen books, and many lovely places around,
such as Pale or Stambluci<5 in the cool forests, the moun-
tain peaks of Trebevid and Bjelasnica, and the gay little
spa of Ilidza, where in the summer there are still good
singers of the sevdalinke. And in the city itself there is
the District Museum, where the ethnographic section
will give the visitor with little time at his disposal an
excellent idea of Bosnia as a whole. Also the relics of
Roman times and the memorials of the Bogumils. But
my time was not as short as that. I like museums, but
prefer to see for myself. Therefore, next morning, I took
train for Jajce and the forest country.

XV
THE FOREST COUNTRY

main lines from Sarajevo to Belgrade and the
JL sea crawl laboriously over high mountains; there
are a hundred and fifty-four tunnels between Cacak and
Dubrovnik. The main line to Brod, along which I
travelled as far as Lasva, follows a fertile river valley, and
has only one tunnel. It was like a release to move swiftly
on a Bosnian railway.

It had rained during the night, but a little way out of
Sarajevo the sky cleared, leaving the countryside fresh
and green. For Bosnia is rich soil and dense forest, in
contrast to the fantastic rock spires and pinnacles on the
other side of Ivan Planina. The villages are built of tent-
like wooden houses with shingled roofs. Mostly they are
poor, for Bosnia was nobody's child from 1875 to 1918,
and now, even when they have money, they have almost
forgotten how to make intelligent use of it. The peasants
are mixed Orthodox and Moslem, with occasional
Catholic patches as one goes farther north, towards
Croatia. Many of them are still backward and super-
stitious. But the stock is good, and the impetus given by
the industrialization of Bosnia in the past few years,
coupled with the work of the excellent Yugoslav school
system, has done much to improve their lot, both
spiritually and materially.

The towns are still largely Moslem, but not so culti-
vated and progressive as Sarajevo.

At Kakanj, the first of the industrial centres in Bosnia,
we saw for the first time since Dubrovnik wild cherries,
small and bitter, and very different from the fat and
luscious fruit of the Sarajevo markets.

Till a few years ago, Bosnia lived largely by her forests,

THE FOREST COUNTRY 175

with Italy as her best customer. But a combination of
circumstances, in which the application of sanctions took
a great share, crippled the forest industries, and more
and more attention was given to the minerals in which
Bosnia abounds. The present Government has been
especially active in this, and now great industrial centres
are springing up at Zenica, VareS, Ljubija, and else-
where. An English company is even working gold. But,
as in the history of man, wood has given way to metal.
The economic future of Bosnia is in her iron.

Not that wood has ceased to be important. Forestry
will always bulk large in Bosnian economy, and a coura-
geous effort has been made to reorganize the industry,
the greater part of which is controlled by a semi-state
company, the Sipad. The afternoon before I had called
at their elaborate head office in Sarajevo and got per-
mission to use their forest railways.

Our first important stop was at Visoko, an ancient and
famous city, but not impressive from the railway line-
It was the capital of the Illyrian tribe of the Desiati,
who revolted against the Romans under their King Bato,
and there has been found the largest Illyrian inscription
yet known. Later it became the stronghold of the Bosnian
ruler, Kulin Ban, and in the early fifteenth century the
capital of the Bosnian kings, who dated their trading
concessions to Venice and Dubrovnik from Visoko.

But little or nothing remains of the Visoko of before
the Turkish conquest, save the ruins of the fortress, a
medieval church, and some fine sarcophagi. Modern
Visoko was founded by the Turks in or after 1463. It
had at one time nine mosques, and was the most famous
centre of the leather trade. Indeed, the sandals of Visoko
are still valued, although the trade has declined, being
still carried out according to the methods of the sixteenth
century !

It would have been more interesting to stop there than
at Lava, where I had to wait a weary hour for my connec-

176 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

tion to Jajce, as the main-line train was late. There is
a lovely poplar-fringed trout stream here, but little else.

From LaSva to Jajce the railway becomes once more
typically Bosnian, that is to say, it pants and crawls over
mountain passes with great wheezings and bellowings.
As far as Travnik it follows the course of the LaSva.

The first sight of Travnik is, however, worth much
weariness. One comes upon it suddenly around a bend
of the Lasva valley, in which it is built. It was for many
years the seat of the Bosnian vezirs, who made it beautiful
and, although it was badly damaged by fire some thirty-
five years ago, it is still beautiful. A rapid glimpse reveals
houses of the finest period of Bosnian Moslem architec-
ture, luxuriant gardens filled with fruit trees, and a
tremendous fortress built by the Bosnian kings. The
peasants, too, in the station were wearing an interesting
costume, black and white striped gaiters, long white
linen trousers under short white skirts, and stiff linen
coifs, like nuns. Unfortunately I had not time to ask them
if they were from Travnik itself, and, if so, of what
religion.

I think, then, that I must have dozed. The train was
hot, the motion soporific, and the air heavy with the
scent of trees and flowers after recent rain. When I woke,
we were near Donji Vakuf, stertorously climbing the
rack railway over the Komar Pass, 2,500 feet above
sea-level, with an engine fore and aft. On these rack
railways one travels like the Israelites, between columns
of smoke by day and pillars of fire by night.

Jajce is one of the most strikingly beautiful cities of
Yugoslavia. But I should not like to live with that beauty
before my eyes. The canvas is overcharged. There is no
feeling of rest. It would be like living in a small room
with a Rubens.

It is built on a conical hill, with the castle of Hrvoje
Vukcid on the summit. Just outside the walls, the pictur-
esque Bosnian houses clamber up the slopes, their dark

THE FOREST COUNTRY 177

tent-like shapes broken by a lovely Venetian campanile
of the church of St. Luke, a few minarets, and the squat
form of the 'Bear Tower'. Around the hill flows the river
Pliva in a series of picturesque cascades, which culminate
in a terrific waterfall where the Pliva descends into the
narrow canyon of the Vrbas. It is astounding, but
uneasy.

Incidentally, it must be one of the most photographed
places in the world.

I went at once to the station of the forest railway, for
the company had told me that one of their officials would
accompany me. There I met a set-back. The train left
Jajce only on Sundays and Thursdays, and it was now
Monday. But the station-master made light of it.

'No matter. We will send a special train for you. That
will be much better. Also, you will not have to get up
so early/

It certainly was much better. But it was a solution I
had not expected. Yugoslav hospitality has few limits.
The station-master would call for me next morning.

That left me free to explore Jajce, and it is worth
exploring. Though its greatness was limited to a bare
hundred years, it had, in that time, managed to collect
about it a cloud of legend. For it was the last stronghold
of the Bosnian kingdom, the last desperate stand of the
Slavs to maintain an independent state, before they
succumbed to the long centuries of Ottoman rule. The
site was occupied in Neolithic and Roman times, but it
does not seem to have had any special significance before
the Bosnian Ban, Hrvoje Vuk&<5 (1391-1404), built the
fortress here. This was the same Hrvoje who was lord
of Split, and whom the canons of that city cursed as
Pharaoh. It seems that he was a Bogumil, or at least
tolerated that creed, and his life and that of his successors
was taken up in continual struggles against the Hungarians,
which weakened their resistance to die victorious Turks.

Here, too, lived and was executed the last King of

N

178 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

Bosnia, Stjepan Tomaevi<5, in 1463. He was a weak-
kneed sort of character, but his death has lent him a
sort of halo. Legend has it that he was executed by the
Turkish leader in person, who excused the treachery by
which he succeeded in capturing him by the words:
'Only a fool gets bitten twice by a snake from the same
hole/

The Bosnian kingdom may seem of little importance
to us now. But it bulked large in its day. Despite its
heresy, the Doge of Venice wrote to Pope Pius II:
'Before our eyes, the richest kingdom of the world is
burning', while Mathias Corvinus, who contributed very
greatly to its downfall, referred to it as the 'harbour of
Christianity'. The Turks, too, realized the value of their
conquest. After the peace of Karlovci, they refused to
exchange the war-devastated Bosnian March for rich
lands in Wallachia. 'These towns,' they said, 'are the
gateway to Constantinople/ Certainly they were the
gateway to Sarajevo.

I am not a Rotarian, but several times on my journey
I had been the guest of various Rotary Clubs. One of
them had given me an introduction to the manager of
the Jajce Electricity Works, Mr. Schleimer. Despite his
name, he is not a German but a Slovene. In him I found
a real friend and an enthusiastic archaeologist. He was
especially proud of the Mithraeum which has been found
and excavated at Jajce, largely by his initiative. And it
is indeed interesting. It is the only Mithraeum that I
have seen where traces of the original colour can still
be seen on the reliefs. Curiously enough, not a single
readable inscription was found here, but excavations at
Sipovo ( ? Scipio) near Jajce have proved that the Xth
Legion was quartered nearby.

The 'catacombs' of Hrvoje Vukcic seem to have a
spiritual affinity with the Mithraeum. What on earth
induced him to hew a church and mausoleum out of the
solid rock of the citadel, \vhen he had above ground one

THE FOREST COUNTRY 179

of the most splendid sites in Europe is almost beyond
comprehension. But there it is. One descends into a
chapel of considerable size, and then still lower into a
vault with empty recesses and a large altar. Apparently
he was challenged by death before he had finished his
preparations for meeting it. At any rate, the work is
unfinished, and the walls undecorated save for the Vuk&<5
coat of arms near the door, and some Bogumil symbols
over the main altar. But it is awesome in its dank solidity,
and must have been even more so before the municipality
put in a few feeble electric bulbs. It is also very cold.
After the heat of the summer day outside, the vault was
like a refrigerator.

It is curious why a man like Vukcid should have chosen
this chilly cavern for his family tomb. Most men of his
period and power would have demanded display; but
here it is even far from easy to find the entrance. But the
Bogumils were a curious sect. Perhaps there was in his
mind some analogy with the early days of the persecuted
Church. At all events, his 'catacomb' would have made
a perfect Mithraeum.

But one thing in Jajce disappointed me. Only a few
years ago the Pliva used to drive a whole battery of
water-mills just below the main street of the city. They
were beautiful and picturesque, as well as practical.
Every one took photos of them, and I myself used one
in a previous book on Yugoslavia. Two or three were
particularly interesting, for the blades were arranged in
a circular form like a sort of peasant turbine.

Now, alas, they are no more. In 1932 a series of earth-
tremors shook Jajce. There were twenty-three of them,
one after the other, and though the city itself suffered
little or no damage, there was a landslide on the banks
of the Pliva, and a couple of thousand cubic metres of
earth fell into the stream and altered its course. Now the
water-mills are high and dry, absurdly perched on tall
wooden stilts, and looking ridiculously pathetic so far

l8o A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

from their native element. Nowadays they are deserted,
and it is only a question of a year or two before they
collapse.

I was just going to add that Jajce is a perfect example
of a medieval Bosnian city. But it is not so medieval
after all; modernism has set even here its cloven foot.
A kafana by the river, advertising its cheapness, has
called itself: * Kafana Demping (Dumping)M

As far as Jajce there are excellent roads and a good
motor-bus service, which continues along the gorge of
the Vrbas to Banja Luka, where the normal railway
system again commences. But the country into which
I was now going is ill served by communications, and is
the most primitive and ill-developed of all districts of
Yugoslavia, except the Homolje mountains of East
Serbia. In a few years, when the new Adriatic line and
the Una river line are completed, this will be remedied,
and doubtless many other of these beautiful little Bosnian
cities will become tourist centres, with good hotels as
at Jajce. For the moment, it is not to be recommended.

This is not altogether the fault of the Yugoslavs. Much
money is needed to develop a devastated district, and
the Bosnian March may truly be so described. It was for
centuries the battlefield of the fierce soldiers of the
Croatian military frontiers and of the Martolossi, which
were the Ottoman equivalent. Life and property were
insecure, and the people brutish and depraved. Now it is
getting better; but convalescence is always the longest
part of any illness.

I have, on the whole, drawn a fairly favourable picture
of Ottoman rule. In fact, it was for centuries very much
better than the Yugoslav historians like to describe it.
Even now there are peasants of the older generation who
regret its swift, if unequal, justice and its clearly-defined
code of privileges and duties. But when the central
authority weakened, whether at Stambul or Sarajevo,
the local begs and spahis got out of hand and ruled with

SELLER OF ' BOZA,' A TEMPERANCE DRINK

THE FOREST COUNTRY l8l

the worst excesses of the feudal system. Each section
of the Empire did much as it pleased, and, although
there were a few wise and tolerant men like Mustafa
Pasha, 'the Mother of the Serbs', the Ottoman pashas
and valis for the most part became drunk with power
and misused it horribly. Those appointed by Stambul
only thought to get rich quickly before they were replaced
by a richer or more cunning intriguer, while those who
had become more or less independent only thought to
consolidate their position. The pashas of Janjina, Skadar,
or Vidin ruled like independent princes; the begs of
Sarajevo changed vezirs almost at their will, while the
murder of Mustafa Pasha by the Belgrade janissaries
led to a period of oppression that was one of the chief
causes of the insurrection of Karageorge and the eventual
liberation of the Serbian people. In Bosnia and the
Hercegovina, the extortions of the tax-gatherers led to
a series of revolts, culminating in the Nevesinje insurrec-
tion of 1875, the direct cause of the Austrian occupation.
Several English people wrote of Bosnia in those days,
whose honesty and personal knowledge give one no
reason to doubt their facts, which tally only too well
with German and Yugoslav authorities. Miss Irby and
Miss Mackenzie did their best to educate the children
of the 'raja' in Sarajevo, and left a moving account of
their struggles and the condition of the provinces. Sir
Arthur Evans, the famous archaeologist, walked through
the country at the actual time of the Nevesinje revolt,
and his book Through Bosnia and Hercegovina on Foot
during the Insurrection (Longmans, Green, 1877) describes
the condition of the people, and remains the best sketch
of Bosnian history which has yet appeared in English.
The terrible punishment of impalement was too ghastly
for Victorian stomachs ; I am afraid it is still too ghastly
to describe in detail. Suffice it to say, that the living
victim was spitted on a sharp stake, which entered the
body at the crotch of .the legs and emerged about the

182 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

back of the neck. In this condition he might if tough, and
the Serbs and Bosnians are tough, linger on for several
days. Of more usual methods he writes more freely:

'The Zaptiehs, the factotums of the Turkish officials,
are immediately quartered on the villages' (for non-
payment of extortionate dues) 'and live on them, insult
their wives, and ill-treat their children. With the aid of
these gentry, all kinds of personal tortures are applied
to the recalcitrant. In the heat of summer men are stripped
naked, and tied to a tree smeared over with honey or
other sweet stuff, and left to the tender mercies of the
insect world. For winter extortion it is found convenient
to bind people to stakes and leave them barefooted to
get frostbitten; or at other times they are thrust into a
pig-sty and cold water poured on them. A favourite plan
is to drive a party of rayahs (Christian peasants) up a
tree or into a chamber and then smoke them with green
wood. Instances are recorded of Bosniac peasants being
buried up to their heads, and left to repent at leisure.'

It is little wonder then that the Bosnian peasant became
suspicious and brutish, so that the Turks themselves
said: Krk BoSnjak bir adam forty Bosnians one man.
It is a great tribute to his character that today he is, for
the most part, hospitable and good-humoured towards
strangers, though still slower-witted than his Serb or
Croat kinsmen. I have heard some of these tales from
men whose fathers and mothers had to undergo such
tortures. The ingenious gentlemen who write such
literature as The Pleasures of the Torture-Chamber would
do well to investigate the past of Bosnia. It is also little
wonder that the Bosnian regiments were the most reckless
and ferocious of the former Austro-Hungarian army,
and were the terror of the Italians on the Piave front.

These pleasing gentry also left a trail of hereditary
disease in some of the villages that is only now being
stamped out. However, let me add that no tourist is ever
likely to find himself in these districts.

THE FOREST COUNTRY 183

But enough of these horrid details ; they explain much
that is otherwise difficult to explain in the Bosnian March.

The station-master came next morning to tell me that
my special train had arrived. It consisted of a forestry
inspection coach, divided into two compartments, one
for sleeping, the other with chairs and a table, and it
had a little observation platform back and front. For the
first part of the journey he would come with me himself;
then an engineer from Sipad would accompany me.

The first part of the journey was along the shores of
the Lake of Pliva. Although it is mentioned in all the
guide-books, it is difficult of access, and few people have
actually been there. But it is evident that its calm forest-
bordered beauty will, sooner or later, make it a popular
tourist resort. Also it is very rich in trout. But at the
moment there is only a tiny inn at the distant village of
Jezero (meaning 'lake'), and one or two villages with the
typical wooden houses and the occasional stone-built
tower of some former beg. Now, it is lovely in its un-
troubled solitude; but it needs little imagination to see
it with comfortable hotels along its shores, good bathing-
places, and many boatloads of happy tourists on its still
waters. I was told there were mosquitoes, but I neither
saw nor heard one myself.

Jezero used to be the main market of Jajce, but is now
unimportant. One or two of the very few remaining
Turks (real Turks, I mean, not Moslem Slavs) still
live there.

Henceforward, for two days' journey all is wood. We
are entering the forest country.

I sat pleasantly drowsing on the observation platform,
watching the rails stretch out interminably behind us.
The country here is pleasant and fertile, and, despite
the Moslem element, cultivated in the Western manner.
It is rolling downland, rather like the English Midlands.
Just beyond Sipovo, we left the valley of the Pliva and
began to climb. Below was the source of the Pliva, split

184 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

into a dozen streams, each with a water-mill straddling
the current. We were now at a height of about two
thousand feet, and looked down on the valley as from
an aeroplane. It is wonderful country, but as yet scarcely
touched by the desultory cultivation of a few villages.

Perhaps we lay too much stress on comfort. These
Bosnian villages are not really as bad as they are described;
those who say they are unfit to live in are transferring
to Bosnia the ideas of modern England. Considering
their history, this is not fair. They should be compared
with the villages of the Wars of the Roses; then they
could stand the comparison.

The station-master, drowsy with the heat and the
rocking of the tiny train, fell asleep. He also nearly fell
off the observation platform. When I grabbed the collar
of his coat, he woke with a start and looked about him
vaguely to get his bearings. We were now in a country
of heather, while just before us rose the blackish green
wall of the primitive forest. Soon we were running
through its giant avenues.

Looking back at the forest, the light plays strange
tricks with one's eyes. The nearby forests seern green
and friendly, but the trees of the more distant hillsides
as we retreated from them seemed to follow us, closing
in upon us in threatening rows. I can quite understand
primitive man who peopled the forest with nymphs
and demons. Only the occasional red of a tree rather
like a rowan broke the dark monotony of the green,
through which the line ran for mile upon mile with
scarcely a sign of man or villages.

Everything is wood here. Even our engine was burning
wood and filling hair and eyes with ash. This is no
journey for a hairy man. An Orthodox priest would
soon look like an ash-pile. Still, it is not so unpleasant
as the soft sulphurous coal of the passenger lines.

Cardak was nothing but a station with huge piles of
cut timber. Mliniste little more, save that one of the rare

THE FOREST COUNTRY 185

roads crossed the line here and there was a tiny inn.
There is no chance for towns or villages to grow, for,
despite the dense virgin forests they have not been cut
since medieval times, if then there is no water in these
highlands. Every drop has to be brought in tanks from
Drvar, fifty kilometres away. When there is a forest fire,
it is almost impossible to put it out.

Now, in July, the forest was still fresh and green. But
in August it is parched and dry, and every railway journey
is a danger, lest some stray spark catch the timber.
Then the larger trees, some of them nearly a hundred
feet high, flame up like gigantic torches.

The railway, naturally, is built through the densest
forest. Every few miles an exploitation line branches off,
and high piles of stacked timber lie by the track, awaiting
transport to the mills at Drvar. It was built during the
war, partly to ensure more rapid forest exploitation,
partly to provide an alternative route for troop move-
ments, for the Brod line was threatened by the Serbs,
and the Lika line had not yet been built. Therefore it is
more solidly built than an ordinary forest line.

At Potoci the name means 'water-brooks', but there
seem to be none there our little engine showed its
worth by picking up 180 tons of cut timber for Srnetica.
The line now was more or less level. Such a load
would have been impossible on the steep gradients from
Pliva.

The line follows the upper slopes of the Grmec moun-
tains, and now and again we caught a glimpse of a village
in some valley a thousand feet or more below us, so
encircled by the mountains that it might have served
Wells for his Country of the Blind. How do the people
of such villages live ? They have absolutely no communi-
cation with the outer world, save for the talk of the young
men back from military service. There are no towns
near, and even those which may be reached by the forest
railway are tiny one-horse places. To go to Banja Luka

186 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

or Zagreb would seem to them more terrifying that a
week-end in Moscow or Peking to us. There are some
men and many women there who have never seen a
train or a motor-car, though they may perhaps have
glimpsed a cruising aeroplane.

Even Srnetica, where I was to spend the night, was
not a town but merely a collection of small houses
belonging to the Sipad employees, and a railway repair
yard. It lies in a clearing made by a forest fire, in a hollow
of forested, mist-wreathed mountains. I slept in the
station and ate in the canteen. I can quite understand
the number of forestry employees who get persecution
mania and do mad things. A short while ago one of them
ran amok, killed two members of the Skupstina, and
wounded the director of the Sipad railway. There is
nothing much even to drink. A self-centred character
can do nothing but withdraw into himself and brood.
The normal amusements seem to be reading week-old
newspapers and spitting over the fence. The horror
nemorum is not dead.

Next day I took the daily passenger train to Prijedor,
but, by the hospitality of Sipad, still retained my private
coach. For the first half of the journey it is rather like
that from Jajce, till one descends into the valley of the
Sana, down which logs used to be floated to the mills
at Dobrlin, until it was found that exploitation was
outstripping afforestation and they were closed. The
mountains all around are marked with long white scars
like knife-cuts, the remains of peasant flumes. On the
KlekovaCa the ardent mountaineer may find edelweiss
in plenty.

The Sana runs into the Sava, and is the beginning of
the fertile plains, with their rich fields of corn and maize.
From here north there are no more mountains worth
mentioning. The people, too, are more easygoing, and
the Moslems become outnumbered by the Christians.

At Prijedor I stopped for the night. It was once a very

THE FOREST COUNTRY 187

important market town, and is still celebrated in a folk-
song commencing:

How great is the Prijedor market !
Where my lovely Fata walks. . . .

Now, it is not very interesting. The fortress is still
picturesque, surrounded by the waters of the Sana as
by a moat, and the minarets have a style of their own.
Some of the little kafanas, too, are charming. But the
accommodation is lousy probably literally. I slept once
more in the Sipad railway station.

XVI

TRAPPISTS AND TURKS: BANJA LUKA

I HAD a dreadful headache when I arrived at Banja
Luka. The night before, at Prijedor, I had been
sitting late with one of the local judges and had drunk
more rakija than was good for me. Rakija is not for
serious drinking; but the wines of Bosnia are poor.

But, none the less, Banja Luka was hospitable. I soon
found friends enough to forget my headache, and it was
a treat to find a really comfortable hotel after the various
makeshifts of the last few days.

Until a few years ago, Banja Luka was not a very
important place. That it was for a time the residence of
the Bosnian vezirs did not help it very much. They
never beautified it as they did Travnik. But when the
country was divided into banovinas, it became the capital
of the Vrbas province, and new government buildings,
a theatre, and a somewhat grandiose Orthodox cathedral
were built. Today, the modern part of Banja Luka is
clean and pleasant.

There is also an interesting little museum, with
examples of costumes and handicrafts from all parts of
the province, which is well worth seeing.

As regards the city itself, it is not of great interest,
save for the mosque of Ferhad Pasha, one of the most
beautiful in all Yugoslavia, which was built by that
pasha with the fifty thousand ducats of ransom that he
obtained for his distinguished prisoner, Count Aeursperg,
after the defeat of the Austrians here in 1737. There are
also some very lovely little kafanas by the Vrbas, opposite
the remains of the fortress,

It is largely due to the Polish consul that I got to
know something more of Banja Luka. He is a breeder

188

TRAPPISTS AND TURKS: BANJA LUKA 189

of carp on a large scale, with fish-ponds at Razboj and
Prijedor, and has lived in Banja Luka nearly twenty
years. We at once found a common interest in his love
of Siamese cats.

The first evening we went out to Gornji Seher, the
summer residence of the former begs and notables of
Banja Luka. It is a Moslem village, with many kafanas on
the river's edge, and it is delightful to sit there and watch
the twin minarets, one on each side of the Vrbas, gradu-
ally melt into the twilight, till at last they seem like
ghostly white fingers pointing upwards through the
darkness, as if eternally witnessing the glory of Allah.
The song of the night crickets mingled with the hum of
the Vrbas, and a young man at the next table began
singing sevdalinke in a light reedy tenor. One of them
told of the widow of Cafer-aga, who indignantly refused
the advances of the vali of Banja Luka: 'Since Banja
Luka first was built, never was there a lovelier widow. . . .'

Next day the consul was going out to his fish-ponds
at Razboj and asked me to join him.

The road between Banja Luka and the Sava is not
interesting. The country is a part of the Sava valley,
which is rich but monotonous. Only where the great
river itself ennobles it, is it beautiful. The villages, too,
are undistinguished. But the people are interesting.

They are nearly all colonists, either Orthodox Serbs
brought by the begs as labourers, or more recent Catholic
Croats and Germans, brought by the religious orders.
They have, therefore, little or no sense of Bosnia as a
unit, and still have a certain serf mentality. This last
shows itself in refusing to say anything displeasing. If
one is walking ten or twelve miles from one's destination,
a peasant will tell you that it is 'not much farther than
the next corner*. A few days before there had been a
most terrific storm of rain and hail, which had flattened
out the crops and done immense damage. When we
asked a peasant about it, he replied hesitatingly:

IQO A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

'Well, we did have rain, but, saving your presence, it
was as if dew fell.'

These people, having no historical connection with
Bosnia, know nothing of its traditions. The average
Serb, and a good many Croats, will gladly tell you stories
about DuSan the Mighty, Marko Kraljevid, or the pious
Tsar Lazar. These worthies of the fourteenth century
are, thanks to the wonderful heroic ballads, as live to
him as if they had lived yesterday. Such legends as they
know of their own countryside are either connected with
the far-distant Byzantine rulers or with the Moslem
begs or the Croato-Hungarian kings. Of Tvrtko, Kulin
Ban, Hrvoje Vukcid or Stjepan Tomasevid, who were
equally great figures in their day, they know absolutely
nothing. Also, though the country has been for more
than sixty years under Christian rule, the feeling of
Moslem superiority still exists.

The fish-ponds were extraordinarily interesting. They
consist of about five hundred hectares of marsh-land,
converted into five small shallow lakes by dikes, which
in the course of years have become thickly overgrown
with willows, reeds, and bulrushes. The carp likes muddy
water, and the pools were thick with plancton and various
water-plants and covered with dense patches of water-
lilies. It was warm, almost hot, to the touch. Now and
again a brownish swirl of mud showed where a carp
had been rooting, and as we approached silently in our
boat we could see it hasten away, leaving a trail of ripples.
The fish are a special variety brought from Poland, and
he sells them, alive, as far afield as Palestine.

These quiet, silent pools have all the melancholy
beauty of the Fens. While the consul and his manager
were talking technically about the feeding of fish and
taking samples of the water to estimate the percentage
of plancton, I was perfectly happy to lie in the bows of
the boat, watching the changing colours of the waters
and the willow-fringed banks. In the main pool there

TRAPPISTS AND TURKS I BANJA LUKA igi

were a number of fish-traps, where we caught and
examined fat carp, estimating weight and growth before
setting them again free to increase and multiply. They
are melancholy beasts ; I could not help thinking of the
poem of Guillaume Appolinaire, and quoted it to the
consul, who was delighted.

Dans vos viviers, dans vos 6tangs,
Carpes, vous vivez longtemps.
Est-ce que la mort vous oublie,
Poissons de la melancholic ?

The shallow waters were, also, the home of countless
waterfowl, wild duck, storks, and herons. The storks
stalked solemnly around, secure and fearless. No Yugo-
slav will touch a stork, and sometimes, on the Sava or
Danube marshes, one can see huge flocks of four or
five hundred of them together. A stork flying against the
sunset, with wide ragged wings and lumbering flight,
has all the charm of a Japanese print of the best period.
The manager shook his fist, however, at the herons, for
they are bitter enemies of his beloved fish. He also told
me that at certain seasons there are many spoonbills here,
perhaps from the neighbouring bird-sanctuary of Obedska
Bara. I have read in an English periodical of good repute
a distinguished ornithologist stating that the spoonbill is
rarely found in Europe, and then only in certain districts
in Albania. It is not true. Spoonbills are regular guests
along the Sava.

We returned by way of the peasant spa of Slatina, one
of several of that name in Yugoslavia. The whole country
is rich in mineral springs of every description, some of
them world-famous, as RogaSka Slatina, others merely
a few sheds for the local peasants. It is a good thing, for
the heavy cuisine makes for stomach diseases. Almost
every middle-aged Yugoslav goes to one or other of
these spas for an annual cure, and usually brings his wife
and children with him. So they have become social

IQ2 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

centres, and a great deal of match-making goes on. They
are always full of life and gaiety and good spirits.

So I felt the contrast more strongly when we stopped
at Our Lady of the Star, the largest Trappist monastery
in Europe. It is famous throughout Yugoslavia for the
quality of its cheese and beer.

My ideas of the Trappists had been derived almost
entirely from The Garden of Allah. Therefore it was
with surprise that I found the monastery wide and
welcoming. It is exceedingly large and exceedingly rich,
and, though its inmates keep the ferocious Trappist rule
with great strictness, they are by no means merely
contemplative ascetics, but have done very much to
improve the countryside, building not only their famous
dairies and brewery, but also mills and an electric-light
plant.

The story of its foundation is romantic. In 1869 the
Trappist father Franjo Pfanner obtained formal permission
from the Sultan to buy land in the Empire. But the pasha
of Bosnia refused to believe, and even when it was
confirmed from Sarajevo, the Moslems of Banja Luka
put every difficulty in his way, being ashamed that their
city should first sell land to the giaour. The first seller
was forced by public opinion to revoke his contract, and
eventually the Trappist fathers bought their land from
a Serb merchant.

Even so, they dared not erect a monastery, but had
to hide their real intention from the Turks. The pasha
considered the building too big and strong for raja, and
again intervened. But Father Pfanner concealed beneath
his godliness a talent for intrigue. Little by little he
wheedled extra concessions from the Turks until the
monastery was an established fact. He even managed to
acquire a bell, strictly forbidden by Turkish law, and
imported it in a vat of wine. During a great drought he
offered the prayers of his monks for rain, and was, rather
surprisingly, accepted. But he said they could only pray

TRAPPISTS AND TURKS: BANJA LUKA 193

effectively if summoned by a bell; so he obtained per-
mission to ring his bell, 'but only until rain fell'. But
he continued the practice even after the drought broke,
and the pasha no longer interfered. The present magnifi-
cent buildings, however, date from 1913.

I have never fully been able to understand why God
should be the better pleased by the denial of natural
functions. But I will say that these Trappists have
acquired a sense of calm and balance that must compen-
sate largely for the lack of human intercourse with their
fellows. Perhaps the soul really does get purified by their
self-imposed denials, though I should have thought it
more praiseworthy to acquire this peace after openly
acknowledging the limitations of flesh and spirit. But
there are some great scholars amongst them, though by
virtue of their rule I could not speak to them, and with
their ideal of self-sacrifice for the good of others I am
in whole-hearted sympathy, the more so as I could not
follow it myself. 'Video meliora proboque. . . .'

I was also pleased to hear that no man is forced to take
the strictest vows until he has passed through a long
novitiate. So that, after all, the psychology of the 'Garden
of Allah' is at fault. I can understand that, once the rule
is accepted, it would grow to be almost a necessity of life.

But I do not admire their taste in art. The new church
of the monastery is a tremendous affair, if only by virtue
of its solidity, its enormous size, and its prevailing white
colour. It was designed by the German church artist,
Diamant of Munich, brother of the present abbot, and
is in the heavy modern German ecclesiastic style. Its
massiveness and use of any material save the obvious
one oppresses me horribly, and the inhuman efficiency
of everything, the neat cubicles and ordered cupboards,
makes one think more of a barrack than a temple. But
there is no denying its force and its impressiveness. I
found myself murmuring: 'Terribilis est locus iste. . . .'

XVII
ZAGREB

IT was on the day of St. Florijan, the patron of fire-
men, that I last went to Zagreb. The day was overcast,
but the sun shone brightly in the intervals between the
clouds. There was a procession, led by the priests,
followed by men in old-time uniforms with long curved
swords and fur-trimmed capes Panduri. The people of
Zagreb love dressing up.

It started from the old church of St. Mark, that church
in the Upper City with the gorgeously coloured tiled
roof. Before it was the stone on which Matija Gubec,
leader of the peasants' revolt, is said to have suffered
for championing the cause of the people against the
feudal nobles. He was crowned there with a red-hot
crown, seated on a red-hot throne, after tortures un-
speakable. One of the church dignitaries assisting is said
to have gone mad, and eventually died, crying out:
'Blood, blood, blood!.

By present-day standards the programme of Matija
Gubec was not unreasonable. It boiled down to 'the land
for the peasants and the abolition of serfdom'. But for
the seventeenth century it was too radical. His men got
out of hand and committed excesses ; nothing, however,
comparable to those of the nobles against him. His
peasant army was soon routed, and himself captured. *

Time, however, brings its own revenges. Today,
Matija Gubec is a national hero, and memorials to him
have been formally unveiled by distinguished popular
leaders.

A pertinent professor informed me that Matija Gubec
was probably not burned here, but before the cathedral.
However, it doesn't matter. Legend has it that he was

194

ZAGREB 195

burned here, and legend is sometimes more important
than fact.

It is a very pleasant place, this Upper City. Its palaces
are those of the old Croat nobility and history is in all
its stones. The palace of Baron Rauch is now the mayoral
offices. The noise and bustle of modern Zagreb are far
below, in the Jelaci<5 Square and along the Ilica, whither
one descends by a primitive funicular. To get there by
car one must climb the steep road through the Kamenita
Vrata, the Stone Gateway, a favourite shrine, where
your vehicle will pass through the smoke of a thousand
candles flickering before holy pictures, and amongst
peasants and townswomen kneeling before the Madonna.
From the Strosmajer Alley, one may look out over the
modern city of Zagreb below, with its modern hotels
and busy, tree-lined squares stretching in well-ordered
lines to the open space before the station. Immediately
below one, in the Jelacid Square, the great Croatian Ban
still stretches an avenging sword towards rebel Hungary.
Crowds of pigeons coo gently on that sword, and the
young people of Zagreb make rendezvous 'under the
taiP of his charger.

I walked back towards the Church of St. Mark. I
remembered its interior as somewhat frowzy and uninter-
esting. But now it has been renovated, and the decoration
placed in the hands of two of the greatest Yugoslav
artists, Ivan MeStrovid, the sculptor, and Joso Kljakovid,
the painter. The result has been excellent. The church
even seems to have grown in size, as it has certainly
improved in appearance. The pseudo-Gothic mon-
strosities of Bolle have been removed and replaced by
a simple and dignified modernism. Over the main altar
is the marvellous wooden crucifix by Mestrovid which
caused such a sensation when exhibited in London just
after the war. It is untraditional in style, but deeply
religious in feeling. There is also a fine relief in stone of
St. Mark, patron of the church, and a beautiful 'pieta'

196 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

in wax. The St. Mark is Mestrovic at his very best,
unlaboured and with deep feeling. The evangelist is
sitting with a book upon his knee and pen poised to
continue working. His face is calm and yet concentrated,
as if trying to recall the exact words and deeds of his
divine Master to enter in the evangel.
The frescoes of Kljakovid are extraordinarily interest-
ing. Perhaps he has been a little influenced by Mestrovid;
the angel at the mouth of the tomb is sculptural in force
and feeling. Yet one does not get the impression of copy,
but of sensitive collaboration. But what is more interesting
to the ordinary observer is that Kljakovid has interpreted
the story of Christ as a Croatian peasant story. The
faces and the costumes are those of Croatian peasants.

One may see the face of the Madonna any day, reflected
in the young peasant mothers who come in from the
villages to sell their handicrafts on the Jelacid Square,
and one may surprise the looks of deep devotion and
the characteristic attitudes of the worshipping shepherds
at any village festival during the procession of the Host.
After all, the Christ legend is universal to the Christian
peoples, and it is very moving to see it interpreted in
terms of the people of everyday life that one may see
around one on the squares and in the villages. It is far
better than a false antiquarianism or a slavish copy of
older masters, who, after all, did the same thing diem-
selves. The people of the great Serb frescoes of the
Middle Ages are the people of that place and time ; while
the Italian masters always used the material that was to
their hand.

The whole church impressed me very deeply. It has
a poetry of devotion that, among modern churches, I
have also found in the little Rumanian church at Vr^c,
where a Rumanian painter whose name I do not know
has interpreted the story of Christ with the types and
costumes of his own people. He has the same feeling as
Kljakovid, but not his mastery of technique. Incidentally,

ZAGREB : FROM THE STROSMAJER ALLEY

ZAGREB 197

there is a self-portrait of the artist in the fresco of the
Golden Calf.

The crucifix of Mestrovid has come in for a good deal
of criticism, most of it ill-informed or spiteful. Certainly
it is a departure from the simpering figure of tradition.
But so much to the good. If Christ did not suffer, there
was no reason for His sacrifice. No one can imagine the
fat and fleshy figure of the Baroque crucifixes praying in
agony to let the Cup pass from Him.

At first the peasants were uncertain and unwilling to
worship before this tortured and pain-scarred figure.
But now they have become used to it, and when I entered
there were as many worshippers as one would expect
on the feast-day of a comparatively unimportant saint.
Metrovi<5, it is said, used often to come here himself,
and was never offended by the sincere criticism of the
peasants, or the reasoned criticism of the intelligent. But
criticism that was neither the one nor the other angered
him. The parish priest once ventured to criticize the
figure, but all he could find to say was:

'Well, it isn't exactly liturgical.'

Then Mestrovici was really angry. What, in God's
name, is a liturgical Christ?

I find it difficult to make up my mind about Zagreb.
It is a cultivated city, a proud city, and, in its way, a
capital. Yet it has something provincial about it. In no
other large city have I come across such clique bitterness.
If you ask about some distinguished artist, painter, or
writer, nine times out of ten you will get the answer:

'I used to know him well so and so many years ago.
But we are not on speaking terms now.'

Of course, if he is a politician, it is a hundred times
worse!

It is a pity. For it means that the undoubted abilities
and energies of Zagreb are being wasted in petty squab-
bles. It means that the city of Yugoslavia, which talks
most about democracy, is the least democratic. In this,

198 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

it is rather like Dublin. Indeed, the spiritual attitudes of
the two cities are curiously the same.

I came across this mania in its acutest form when I
tried to meet Miroslav Krleza, the greatest living Croatian,
perhaps even Yugoslav, writer. Finally, I simply rang
him up myself, explained who I was, and asked for an
appointment.

We met in the Cafe Esplanade, and I was surprised.
One never gets used to finding writers totally unlike
their books. He seemed cordial but unaccountably shy,
a large man with the look of a bon viveur.

His books, on the other hand, are bitter and satiric,
with a biting fury at the futilities and vanities of aristo-
cratic Zagreb, now falling into pieces in decadence and
display. His plays are almost pathological in the nervous
hysteria of their characters, who seem to carry on their
shoulders all the weight of a dying feudalism. He is the
Croatian pendant to the Serbian satirist, Branislav
NusiC. Only where Krleza kills by mordant ridicule,
Nui<5 kills equally effectively with a brutal humour.
Krleza uses a poisoned rapier, and Nui<5 a peasant
cudgel. Krleza attacks a decayed aristocracy and NuSid
a bumptious plutocracy. Yet these two men can always
be sure of full houses, whether at Zagreb or Belgrade.
Other dramatists come and go, by fortune, favour, or
fashion. Only these two hold the stage, each by his own
method. One comes away from a Krleza play feeling that
one has been picking at the foundations of society, but
that something better may possibly be built on the
devastated site. One comes from a NusicS play rocking
with laughter and feeling that the new society is as full
of fools and fancies as the old. It is perhaps a pity that
Belgrade should judge Zagreb by Krleza, or Zagreb
Belgrade by Nui<5. But at least each city has the courage
to laugh at its own faults also. What would London be,
if we were judged only by Noel Coward ?

But some of the best of the aristocratic tradition still

ZAGREB 199

lingers about Zagreb. For one thing, it has the best opera
in Yugoslavia. It has also fine art galleries and museums,
and, in the old quarters, an air of cultured ease. One of
the best galleries, the Modern Gallery, is in a Hapsburg
palace. There is evidence in it of tradition and a deep
feeling for the arts. But, as always in Yugoslavia, the
sculpture is far finer than the painting, which smells too
much of Paris and post-war Vienna. One of the older
generation, Racki, is strangely reminiscent of Blake. And,
of course, there is always the Mestrovic gallery, which
needs no introduction.

Zagreb is also a city with a very mixed population.
When I think of the Croats, I think more of the people
of the villages and the sea-coast than of Zagreb. On the
corso in the evenings, or in the crowded caf6s, one hears
much German and not a little Hungarian. There is also
a large Jewish population. But it says much for the
innate good sense and toleration of the Croats, qualities
not always apparent in their actions, that there is little
anti-Jewish feeling. Most of what there is, is probably
economic in origin.

Zagreb, too, has many of the graces of a city with a
great tradition. You may find there first-class bookshops,
good music, good wine, and many men of taste and
learning, though they live for the most part in too reserved
a way to influence the city as they should. Some of the
old Croat families are decadent, the subject-matter of a
Krle2a, but others are still the salt of their earth which
has not lost its savour. Life here can be more cultivated
and leisurely than in new and violent Belgrade. The
metropolis, by the nature of things, must be the main
centre of new development, but that does not lessen the
role of Zagreb. It is and, if it can get rid of its absurd
jealousies, will remain the cultural capital of Yugoslavia,
even as we hope, when the present madness has died
down a little, Vienna may become the cultural capital
of Germany. Each has much to give to its country and

200 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

its people. The parallel indeed goes yet deeper. But the
under-shades each must discern for himself.

But the real Croat is in the villages, and it is the constant
influx from the villages that brings new life and a national
feeling to Zagreb. For in its history the city has not been
pre-eminently Croat, merely the convenient centre for
aristocratic and political feuds and administrations.
Therefore to the villages I determined to go.

It is not necessary to go far. Around Belgrade the
villages have become corrupted by city life; around
Zagreb they act as a brake upon it. Just outside the city
limits, just beyond the great cemetery of Mirogoj, where
the grave of the Croat leader Stjepan Radid has become
a national shrine, begin the forest-covered slopes of the
Slijeme. It is a god-send to the people of Zagreb. On
Sundays and feast-days its immense area is filled with
little groups of young people, happy and healthy, usually
singing Croat songs to a harmonica or guitar. For one
reason why Zagreb has so great a musical tradition is
that the people themselves are really musical. Nearly all
the Croat composers use national themes as a basis for
their work; so for that matter do the Serbs, more rarely
the Slovenes, who are intellectuals and modernists.
Haydn, too, used Croat melodies continually in his
works, and appears to have been of Croat origin.

From the heights one may see clearly the former division
into two cities, which caused such trouble in the history
of Zagreb and hindered its development. In the City
Museum are old prints showing them completely divided.
One can see also the new quarters of the city, which have
developed surprisingly in recent years, and are laid out
with good taste and a sense of plan. Also the Maximir
Park with its attractive zoo, and the buildings of the
former semi-autonomous Croatian administration; and,
in the background, the silver line of the Sava and the
rich valley lands from which the city draws its wealth.

Fromjiie summit, however, there is quite another

ZAGREB 201

view. From the terrace of the comfortable Tomislav
Dom, recently built by the Croatian Mountaineering
Society, one can look north over the Croatian Zagoqe,
a region of low forest-covered mountains, with charming
villages, each with its tiny white steeple. That is the real
Croatia, a country of hard-bitten, hard-drinking peasants.
A popular song begins:

Never yet was Zagorec
Who ever sold his wine ;
But in merry company
Drank it to the dregs.

And very good wine it is, as we found at the mountain
hostel.

Most of the villagers of the Zagorje have preserved
their national costumes, as have also even the villages
on the outskirts of Zagreb itself. The peasants are proud
of it, and rightly so. Even the ubiquitous Bata has had
less influence here than elsewhere. To them it is a symbol
of their country and their people, and they are proud of
both. Even the children wear it in miniature edition.
One must deeply respect a people that so preserves its
tradition, and is too sensible to be laughed out of it by
first generation town dwellers.

We went down, then, to the village of Gracani, where
there was a festival in honour of St. Florijan. Not that
there are any firemen here, but he has also other duties.
Before the church large marquees had been erected, and
little booths where young lovers could buy gaily-decorated
hearts for their beloved.

All the peasants were in national costume. The only
city-dressed people were a few visitors like us. Every one
was very friendly, and we sat on long wood benches,
listening to the peasant band, drinking a sugary wine
made especially for festivals, and eating honey-cakes.

Meanwhile the sky had been getting more and more
overclouded. On the heights of the Slijeme, it has been

202 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

even cold. Now a swirl of mist, circling down the valley,
showed that up there it was raining. There was a flurry
of booths trying to get under cover in time. Before we
could get to our car, the rain was coming down in
streams and torrents, weighing down the canvas of the
marquees. The ground beneath our feet turned in a few
moments to a rich sea of mud. Every one stood on the
benches and tables, and one young man started a song.
Even if the festival were spoilt, we would still be merry.
A fire or two on which lambs had been roasting for supper
were extinguished in a few moments.
St. Florijan was doing his stuff.

XVIII
SLOVENIA

SLOVENIA is quite distinct from the rest of Yugo-
slavia. Landscape, temperament, history, tradition,
and language: all are different. The common bond is
race. Sceptics might add 'the ties of common funk'.

The landscape is Alpine. Slovenia is the eastern
continuation of the Alpine system of Switzerland and the
Tyrol. At first glance one might be in either of those
two countries. Only a closer inspection reveals that
almost all the older churches, whose towers are so typical
of the countryside, are or have been fortified against
Turkish raids. Also the Slavonic language of all the signs.
But the high snow-covered peaks, the wooden chalet-like
houses, the flower-spattered upland pastures, the little
sawmills, and the rich flocks are familiar. Only here the
rivers run towards the east, uniting at last to form the
mighty Sava, the main road to Belgrade and the east.

The Slovene temperament is Slav, but with a great
deal of the order and method of the German. They are
the best subordinates of Yugoslavia. They are a serious
people, with a greater percentage of books published per
head than any other people. They have a great, though
recent, literary tradition, which has produced great writers
like Presern and Cankar, and almost every Slovene knows
German, and a large number Italian as well. With their
comrades under Italian rule and those in America, they
number approximately three million. In Yugoslavia
itself, there were at the last census (1931) about one
million two hundred thousand of them.

The Slovene language is comprehensible to the Serb
or Croat, but has marked differences. It is far more
archaic and complicated, and, incidentally, far more

204 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

difficult to learn. After Serbian, it sounds curiously
explosive, but the great Slovene poets have tuned it to
melodious and pleasing rhythms. As in all mountain
districts, there are very many sub-dialects, of which the
literary language is a more or less artificial adaptation.

Slovene history is a puzzle for the Englishman, who
finds it hard to understand a struggle for liberty lasting
over a thousand years in which scarcely a single incident
of historical importance occurs. In fact, the most wonder-
ful thing about the Slovenes is that they exist at all as a
nation, after so many centuries of foreign rule.

The Slovenes settled in their present homes in the
early sixth century, replacing the Celto-Roman inhabit-
ants of earlier times, partly as independent tribes under
their princes, partly as tributaries of the Avars. After
that people was annihilated by the Franks, they became
a frontier march of the Empire, under Charlemagne.
A frontier march they remained throughout most of
their history, under various Markgraves, now defending
the Empire against the Hungarians, now other Slavs,
later against the Turks. Throughout the whole of feudal
times, they only make three important appearances on
the stage of history, a brief period of glory under the
powerful Counts of Celje, a brilliant revival of national
feeling and language during the Reformation under
Primoz Trubar, and a participation in the peasants'
revolts. Later, under the Dual Monarchy, they came
directly under Austrian rule, and their powerful nobles
merely a German ruling caste. During this time the few
towns were almost completely germanized; Slovene was
scarcely spoken, and Austrian art and architecture
triumphed everywhere. Its influence is still very marked
today. But, as with all Slav races, the real strength of the
people lay in the peasants who remained uncompromis-
ingly Slav, and developed in their own way in their dis-
tant mountain valleys. Goldsmith's 'rude Carinthian boor'
probably thought he was shutting the door on a German.

SLOVENIA 205

The formation of the Illyrian province of Napoleon
re-awoke dormant national feeling. Ljubljana became the
administrative centre, and Slovene was admitted to
equality with French and German. This was the first
period of revived Slovene literature, and the Slovene
poets celebrated Napoleon as a deliverer.

When the Slovenes fell once again under Austrian rule,
national feeling was already awake and active. The
Slovene people produced great writers and philologists,
who stressed the Slav origin of their people. It was
Kopitar who encouraged and assisted Vuk Stefan
Karad2id, the founder of modern Serbo-Croat language
and literature. The Slovene Church, too, took a hand,
helping the people and encouraging the feeling of
nationality. Bishop SlomSek, one of the stoutest nation-
alists, is almost a saint to the Slovenes.

In 1870 the Croats and Slovenes made a common
statement of their Yugoslav aims. Attempts to germanize
the country became less and less successful. After the
war they followed their leader, Antun Korosec, now
Yugoslav Minister of the Interior, and voted for union
with the Croats and Serbs.

This long struggle was none the less bitter for being
largely without major incident. It has left the Slovene
with a sincere admiration for the German, but with an
equally sincere distrust of his methods and intentions.
The same applies only a little less to the Italian, who
always coveted, and now holds, the western districts of
Slovenia, and Istria. Their culture is always overshadowed
by Germany, but their sympathies, when not purely
clerical, for they are devoted, almost bigoted, Catholics,
turn towards France and England, who have, and can
have, no territorial ambitions at their expense.

Once across the borders of the Drava Province, as
Slovenia is now officially called, the river Sava changes
character. From a broad and dignified waterway, it
becomes a fast-rushing mountain river. You can find

206 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

trout here; in the muddy waters of the lower reaches
they would stifle.

At Zidani Most the train turns into the valley of the
Savina, past Celje, for Maribor. There I was received
with a hospitality rare even in Yugoslavia. In the comfort-
able hotel bedroom I felt pleased and happy. There was
no doubt about Maribor. I liked it. Next morning I spent
many minutes watching athletic cats scrambling about
the pointed roofs of the castle before going down to
breakfast.

When I was last in Maribor, the great hall of the castle
was a cinema. It would have been curious to see Charlie
Chaplin or Wallace Beery in that riot of Baroque extrava-
gance, but I remember that by chance I happened on
Bergner in Catherine II, which was not inappropriate.
Now, thanks to the effort of the local lovers of art, the
castle has been purged of its intruders, various recent
accretions removed, and the whole building restored to
something like its previous beauty. Especially the cloister-
like galleries have been cleared. They were probably
the work of Domenico de Lalio, who restored the castle
in 1544, after it had been badly damaged in a Turkish
raid. Those galleries are beautiful, but look a little strange
in Maribor. They are more reminiscent of the south than
of the home of winter sports.

The castle is a mixture of styles, Gothic, Renaissance,
and Baroque, but age has weathered them into a unity.
Now that the rubbish of the last 150 years is being
cleared away, the castle will again be able to represent
the Mark-burg, as it has done for centuries. Save that
now it is a western March, and the barbarians come
from another side.

Generally speaking, the Baroque has spread unchecked
over Slovenia. I myself cannot get to like its tawdry
tinsel, despite one or two fine examples that I have to
admire in spite of myself. But sometimes the older and
more native Gothic can still be found, and when it is

SLOVENIA 2O7

found it is beautiful. Modern Slovene taste inclines
among the intellectuals to modernism, and among the
peasants to the traditional and by now familiar Baroque.
An example of this at its best or worst, according to
taste is the column erected in the Main Square in 1681
to commemorate the cessation of the terrible plague that
followed the Thirty Years War. The statue was added
later, in 1743. In the Maribor Museum are some lovely
wood statues of the Gothic period and a glass-painting
apparently by Diirer.

It is not, however, in the naive style of the peasant
glass-painting, which is unfortunately dying out. These
pictures, actually on glass, painted by a lasting process
which has survived the centuries, are not great works
of art, but they are extremely charming by reason of their
gay colours and deep religious sense. They are dying out
for a very practical reason; they were originally so painted
that the holy figures might survive the smoky winters
in the little Alpine huts. In other words, that the Holy
Saints might be periodically washed. Now that housing
has improved, their reason for existence is gone.

Incidentally, I should like to make a protest against
distinguished authors making broad statements about
local art with insufficient knowledge. I have just read a
book on Rumania, where a very distinguished author
indeed states that this art is peculiar to Transylvania. It
is not. It is found in Slovenia, and, I believe, in Bavaria
also. He goes on to say that good caviare is prepared
outside Russia only at Valcov in the Danube Delta.
First-class caviare is prepared at Kladovo, where I lived
a month and ate it almost every day. He also makes
some astonishingly sweeping statements about the
Byzantine traditions of fresco-painting, having apparently
never heard of the Serbian school of DeSani, Studenica,
Staro Nagorifiane, Manasija, and a hundred and one
other places, or the work of the Serbian painters and
architects in Rumania. I should have thought that the

208 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

Slav inscriptions in places where the Russians never
came until fresco-painting was long dead, would have
been enough to remind him. Also those eighteenth-
century portraits of Turkish beauties by European
artists may still be found in the Herberstein castle,
where they came through the connection of that family
with the still more famous Zrinjskis. However, to be fair,
until I read his book I myself thought those to be unique.

An art, however, which does seem peculiar to Slovenia
I speak with reserve, being afraid of being caught in
my own trap! is the beautifully painted bee-hive
boards, decorated with scriptural scenes and figures of
saints, and, more rarely, secular heroes. A group of
twenty or thirty of these box-like hives, each with its
gaily painted panel, is a lovely sight, which may still be
seen, although the modern Slovene peasant mostly uses
plain washes of colour. The best specimens are now in
museums.

Yet another thing typical of Slovenia is the 'klapotec'
or wind-rattle, used to scare birds from the vineyards.
Slovene poets have used it as the symbol of their country.

Maribor is a patriotically Slovene city. When Styria
was a political unit, the centre of German culture and
tradition was Graz, of Slovene culture and tradition
Maribor. It was not then so important as it is now. For
its growth and development, it has to thank its position
on the main Vienna-Zagreb railway line.

The interest of Maribor is not, however, limited to
the city itself, nor was the hospitality of its people. The
next afternoon I was taken to see Ptuj. This name,
seemingly unpronounceable to English eyes, is derived
from the Roman Poetovium. It was an important Celto-
Illyrian settlement, which was conquered by the Romans
under Augustus, when it became the centre of military
operations in Pannonia and the headquarters of the
Vinth Legion Augusta, and, later under Claudius, of
the Xlllth Legion Gemina. Under the Flavians it became

SLOVENE COSTUME

SOUTH SERBIAN COSTUME

SLOVENIA 2O9

a municipum, and under Trajan a colony, Colonia Ulpia
Traiana Poetovio. It was in his palace at Ptuj that the
unfortunate Gallus was arrested by Constantius and sent
to Pola to be executed in 354. It was also the site of the
bloody battle between Theodosius the Great and Maximus
and finally had the melancholy honour of being the
home-town of the last miserable Roman Emperor,
Romulus Augustulus.

The way to Ptuj lies along the lower Drava Valley.
A shrine at which we stopped was built over a Bronze Age
grave. Near the roadside the river has changed its
course was the Roman port of the Classis Flavia
Pannonica. Between Maribor and Ptuj are no less than
three Mithraea. In more recent times the villages here
were colonized from Bosnia, and the people still retain
certain peculiarities of customs and dialect.

At Ptuj I again met St. Florijan. His statue, dated
1745, stands in the market-square, a precaution against
the many fires which devastated Ptuj in the preceding
century. Another statue, of the Virgin, commemorates
the deliverance of Ptuj from the Turks in 1664.

There are many traces in Ptuj of the earlier and purer
Gothic style, before it became corrupted by the Baroque.
The church of the Minorites has some good frescoes of
the thirteenth century, and the parish church of the
town, built about 1312 on the site of a still older church
where Cyril and Methodius heard the Slav mass on their
abortive journey to Rome, has also good Gothic work.
There are also remains in the museum, which is housed
in the thirteenth-century Dominican monastery. In it is
still preserved an altar to the god Liber and the goddess
Libera, proving that the famous vineyards of Slovenska
Gorica had their devotees, then as now.

But the most striking of all the memorials of Ptuj is

the medieval column of shame. It is about fifteen feet

high and six broad, and is a Roman tombstone. On it

the god Orpheus charms with his lute the birds and

p

210 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

beasts, the mourning Aphrodite rifles the dead Adonis,
and Orpheus once more tries to charm the gods of the
underworld to restore to him the lost Eurydice.

The mayor of the city had accompanied me on my
sightseeing, and after, in true Slovene fashion, suggested
that we, too, sacrifice to Liber and Libera. He led the
way to an old tavern, with a bunch of wood-shavings
over the door in place of the customary bush. It is now
kept by a fat and smiling Slovene, the best possible
advertisement for his own food and wine, but was first
founded by one of the few Jews of Slovenia, and is still
known as Judennacl. There we ate and drank of the
best; Slovene sausages from Kranj and heavy wine
from Ljutomer. We sat under the cool vaults, gaily
decorated with stencils of a peasant wooing. The pro-
prietor joined us, and also his daughter, who served.
The Ljutomer wine is heady, and we grew merry. Liber
and Libera received a full oblation.

At last the mayor suggested that we see the church
at Crna Breg. It was not far, and we had a car. I said
that we had perhaps sacrificed too much to other gods,
but he insisted, and I was too somnolent to argue. Se we
went through vineyards and up a tiny twisted road to
the church. It was once fortified, and remnants of the
old fortifications still remain. Indeed, the Turks on this
foray in 1474 remained here for some time, liking the
land, and there are several families in the village with
Turkish surnames.

The church was built in the fifteenth century, and is
now a mixture of Gothic and Baroque. But what I was
intended to see was a marvellous relief of the family of
the Counts of Celje, each tiny head a masterpiece of
portraiture. The colours are still clear, and the features
and dresses clearly recognizable. It is like a procession
of the centuries. The parish priest explained whose was
each head, and told me of their history, but my head was
not yet clear of the Ljutomer, and the whole church

SLOVENIA 211

seemed full of former lords and ladies of the house of
Celje,

Finally I told the priest as much. But he pooh-poohed
the idea.

'Where were you? Judennacl? But that is not wine.
Come and taste some of mine.'

Thank goodness this time we left the chauffeur outside,
so got back to Maribor in safety.

It may be that the Alpine landscape, with its lonely
valleys and snow-capped mountains, exercises a peculiar
spell. I know that is true of myself, and I have noticed
it often enough in others. When I am in Slovenia I have
not the same interest in art, in history, in people, as I
have in the other districts of Yugoslavia, and I have
many friends in England who would not dream of going
to France or Italy or Spain without having at least a
superficial background, a literary frame in which to
place their impressions, but who return from Switzerland
and the Tyrol without the smallest idea of those coun-
tries. I could not spend a day in the comparatively
uninteresting Voivodina without wanting to know more
about it, whereas I have spent months in Slovenia and
come back with no more than a general impression of
having spent a very pleasant holiday. One spends all the
day in the open air, making endless excursions. Nature
has so far outstripped man in her creations that the towns
and villages of Slovenia seem only a background to her
masterpieces; whereas the mountains and ravines of
South Serbia, of Dalmatia or of Montenegro seem only
the background to the human dramas that have been
played out among them. It is the same with the literature
of the Alpine lands. The interest is in the landscape;
the characters are only too often bloodless puppets.

I have spent several holidays at Bled, for example.
But the impression that remains with me is that of a
lovely lake among mountains, surrounded by luxurious
hotels, and with little gondolas gliding over smooth

212 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

water to and from the island church in the centre of the
lake. One month, spent in winter before the snow was
deep enough for ski-ing, recalls to me a picture of dark
reeds, lit by gleams of light from the terrace of the Hotel
Toplica, receding into soft velvety darkness, and of being
awakened in the morning by the groaning and cracking
of the ice forming on the lake, which echoed among the
mountains like the grumbling of giants or the distant
artillery of some celestial war. Yes, and I must add the
picture of the peasant women on home-made skis and
skates gliding over the ice to the church in the lake.

Slovenia is the classic land of ski-ing. It is the only
country that evolved for itself skis, independent of
Scandinavia, and which has a native word for them not
borrowed from the north. The Slovene historian Valvasor
mentions them in the seventeenth century on the plateau
of Bloka, near Ljubljana, describing the peasants as
walking on the snow with the aid of planks, and descending
the snow-slopes with the speed of devils.

I remember also unforgettable days on the Lake of
Bohinj, where the mountains rise so high round that
the waters in the early morning and at twilight seem
almost black. At the lower end of the lake, near the lovely
little Gothic church of St. Janez, is the summer residence
of the Yugoslav Prince-Regent Paul, which was made
familiar to the British public as the scene of the betrothal
of the Duke and Duchess of Kent, who return there
frequently. I prefer Bohinj to Bled myself. Bohinj is
wilder and more awesome, Bled calm and lovely, but
more open and familiar. One might call Bled a beautiful
but placid blonde, Bohinj a tempestuous and incalculable
brunette.

I remember, too, the serenity and loneliness of the
Logar valley, and have spent happy months in the valley
that leads from Jesenice on the Austrian (German, if
you like) frontier to Ratefe on the Italian. For sheer
beauty and comfort, it is perhaps the best place for a

SLOVENIA 313

summer or winter holiday in Yugoslavia. The mountains
here are sheer and precipitous, more imposing than the
rounded summits of the Pohorje near Maribor. Moun-
taineers tell me they are better, and skiers that they are
not so good. I cannot judge, as I am only a moderate
mountaineer, and have never mastered skis. But the
villages are lovely and the mountains superb. There is
nothing so restful as to lie in some flower-strewn meadow,
high up on the slopes, after a sharp climb, and look
down at the peaceful valley below, or up at the snow
peaks above. There one can achieve the impossible;
namely, to do absolutely nothing, save lie still without
thoughts and without desires and let the changing patterns
of the clouds or the changing colours of the mountains
pass before one's eyes in a passionless content. I have
stayed in Kranjska Gora for more than a month, one of
the most perfect holidays of my life. But I never even
went inside the church, and could not say now what
is its period. Sir Humphry Davy, the great scientist,
lived for years in this valley, in the little village of Pod-
koren, and thought it the most beautiful spot in the
world. His house is marked with a tablet. A little farther
on, at Ratece Planica, is the largest ski-jump in the
world, where world records are made.

Slovenia is a comfortable land to wander in. The
efficient Slovene Mountaineering Society, S.P.D., has
published excellent maps of all the mountains and
marked the main paths by little unobtrusive red circles.
(By the way, the curious-looking inscription Tes pot'
means footpath.) They have also built excellent and
exceedingly comfortable mountain hostels in the most
unlikely places, to aid serious mountaineers. But they do
very well also for the dilettante. They have good food,
and always excellent company; usually in the evenings
they are full of mountaineers making ready for a stiff
climb early next morning. One or other of them has
always got a harmonica, and everybody sings. The

214 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

Slovene songs, too, are typically Alpine. They even
yodel. But the Slav tongue gives them a piquancy, and,
though not musically very interesting, they are exceed-
ingly gay and tuneful. I remember one of these hostels
in particular, built on a wide meadow with a tiny mountain
stream through it, directly under the stupendous north
wall of the Triglav.

Triglav, meaning the 'three-headed', is the highest
peak in Yugoslavia, and has almost a religious significance
for the Slovenes. It was the Olympus of the Slavonic Gods,
and many legends are associated with it, particularly the
lovely story of the Zlatorog, the golden-antlered stag.
Rimski-Korsakov has an opera with an early Slav setting
that takes place at Triglav.

I did a little mountaineering on this journey also, but
I confess it with shame. For I went to the summit by car.
There is an excellent motor-road from Maribor to the
Pohorjski Dom. This time I was the guest of the local
chemist, who was, as all Slovenes, a lover of the moun-
tains and went there whenever possible. His car was a
marvel ; it must have been at least fifteen years old, and
looked it. But it scuttered up the mountain roads like a
frightened rabbit. Those who have read Sinclair Lewis's
Free Air will have a clear picture of our progress.

We started late. By the time we reached the three
thousand feet level and the Pohorjski Dom, it was already
night. But there was a full moon, and we walked through
the lovely and silent pinewoods to the caf6 of St. Bolfenk.
This was once a medieval shrine, with a tiny chapel.
Now it is a cafe with a terrace, on the very crest of the
Pohorje, overlooking the whole Drava valley. The fac-
tories were still working, and there was a line of light
from the great power-station at Fala along the silvery
line of the Drava to Maribor, and beyond to Ptuj. Behind
were only darkling pinewoods. All the excursionists had
long gone home, or were hunting supper in one of the
two mountain hostels a mile away. There were only

SLOVENIA 215

lights and immensity and silence and for this is Slovenia
excellent wine. The moon was rising, and we were in
no hurry to return. We paid the sleepy innkeeper and
sat on there, chatting, until late. Finally, after a ghostly
journey back through sleeping villages, we returned to
Maribor in the early hours of die morning.

I did not trouble to sleep at all that night. For the next
morning I had to take leave of my hospitable friends and
go onwards. But I had determined to go back by a round-
about route, along the Drava and Mislinja valleys, via
Slovenjgradec, where I could stop for a few hours between
trains.

At a little after five the air was still clear and cold, but
an hour later it grew warmer, and the river valley was
filled with mist. I could scarcely see the big power-
station at Fala, which looked rather like Trollhattan.

It was a curiously international train, which began its
journey in German Austria, passed through Yugoslavia,
and recrossed the frontier. Also, it was almost empty.
I sat alone, dozing and watching the lovely valley of the
Drava, where even at that early hour an occasional
fisherman was sitting patiently, and the big rafts of logs
were setting out on their long journey via Osijek to the
Danube and Belgrade. At Dravograd-Meza I changed
into the train for Slovenjgradec.

When I arrived, it was still too early to knock up
acquaintances, so I strolled out of the town to the old
fortress on the hill nearby. There was no one there, but
the main gateway was open, and I could pry about
inside. It was a typical medieval fortified church, in the
Gothic style, evidently little used, for the church was
bare and chill, and only in the side-chapel a Baroque
altar clashed with the impression of chivalrous austerity.
After a few moments, I came out and smoked quietly
on a wooden bench opposite a tiny caf6, also apparently
deserted, on whose white wall St. Florijan again appeared,
pouring water on a burning house. Probably both church

3l6 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

and caft are only open on saints 5 days. It was getting
warm now, and the air was full of scents and the hum-
ming of innumerable bees. Thence, past the inevitable
Stations of the Cross, back to Slovenjgradec.

It was on this hill that the temple of Roman Colatium
stood, but there were no traces left there, though in the
city a few inscriptions and columns are preserved. The
castle itself dates from about 1000, and the town of
Slovenjgradec as Windischgraetz is first mentioned in
documents between 1090 and 1206 as the site of a mint.
In 1453 the cure of the parish was entrusted by the
Emperor Frederick III to Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini, who
later became Pope Pius II. Later in the century, Slovenj-
gradec suffered badly from the inevitable Turkish raids,
and in 1489 from the Magyars.

Perhaps its most interesting association, however, is
with the famous Austrian family that took its name from
the place, Windischgraetz. Their former summer palace
still exists, a sprawling building of stucco arcades and
many outhouses. It is now a school. Also Hugo Wolf was
born here, in an old house on the left of the main street.
I was glad to know this. Now I can better appreciate
the facile beauty of his songs.

But I had come to see the church. There are, in fact,
two. The modern one was built after the Turkish raids, is
Baroque and uninteresting. The older one was first
deserted and then turned into a storehouse. Recently it
was re-opened and cleansed of its rubbish. It was built
in 1251 and dedicated to St. Elizabeth. Just before the
Turkish raid in 1450 it was decorated throughout in
fresco by the painter Andreas of Otting. Twenty-four
years after the church was deserted, with the result that
the frescoes have been almost perfectly preserved in
all their original freshness, They are perhaps the most
wonderful examples of Gothic painting in Slovenia.

The few hours I had before my train left, I spent
with a young Slovene in wandering about the fields and

SLOVENIA 217

watching the antics of a nestful of young hawks. My
companion was learning English by some home-made
method of his own. I left Slovenjgradec and Slovenia at
last with his heartfelt farewell in my ears:

'Good-bye, mister. I am afraid to see you again.'

XIX
YUGOSLAV SYNTHESIS: BELGRADE

little lions of the Kalemegdan fortress at
JL Belgrade are gentle and long-suffering beasts. In
winter they wear little caps of snow, and their manes
and tails are white and glistening with frost. In summer
they lie as if exhausted by the pitiless heat, their heads
resting on their plump sheep-dog paws, and their eyes
fixed on the distant plain beyond the junction of the
great rivers.

Nevertheless, in spite of their air of benevolent and
sphinx-like wisdom, they are comparatively recent
comers. They have only known the Kalemegdan as a
park with spacious promenades built among the ancient
bastions and the inner line of defence converted into
tennis-courts and outdoor skating-rinks. But possible
association with those tremendous and age-old walls
has given them precocious knowledge. Cynical and
oracular beasts !

The country over which they are gazing changes with
the seasons in a cycle of ever-familiar novelty. During
the spring floods there is nothing but a sheet of sullen,
dirty brown water with limits hinted rather than defined
by the drowned tree-tops of the islands and the farther
bank. Out of this desolate white-capped mass rise a few
fishermen's huts, various navigation marks, and the
pathetic and deserted pavilions of the bathing establish-
ments. As the floods subside, leaving behind them a rich
coating of silt, the banks and islands begin to assume a
definite shape and break into the green of willows,
marsh-forest, and tangles of matted briars with an almost
ferocious exuberance. Then the colonies of storks return
to the Zemun roofs, and forage hungrily along the creeks

218

220 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

years it was the frontier station of the old Austrian-
Hungarian Empire, and was separated from Turkish
Belgrade not only by the accident of the frontier, but by
the more terrible barrier of the plague quarantine. Later,
after Serbia became independent, Zemun remained an
important trading centre, and its fat and good-natured
German burghers became prosperous and powerful. It
was then, and was encouraged to remain, a German
island in a Slav countryside. Even today the suburb of
Franzstal is purely German.

Today most of its exclusiveness has disappeared. For
one thing the town is no longer German, and most of the
inhabitants are now Yugoslav. But now that it is no
longer the frontier, its privileges have disappeared.
Indeed, it has even begun to lose its separate identity, and
is being merged in the growing city of Belgrade. A few
years ago it was declared a part of the Belgrade munici-
pality, and the process is now almost completed by the
erection of the new quarter of the Belgrade Fair and the
reclamation of the land by the Sava bridge.

For the moment, however, it has retained much of its
separate individuality. Its low, sprawling Central Euro-
pean houses, with shady courtyards and small, discreet
windows opening on to the street, give it a certain unity,
in marked contrast to the vigorous and pushing modernity
of Belgrade, which is being rebuilt at an almost incredible
speed, and in every conceivable style of the last twenty
years.

Life in Zemun is still more spacious and orderly than
in Belgrade. It is most noticeable in the smaller details.
Here are policemen, dressed familiarly and somewhat sur-
prisingly in old English uniforms which, as a rule, do not
fit. In Belgrade they are gendarmes, armed and efficient.
Here one still struggles with sleepy and refractory ladies
of the telephone exchange, whereas in Belgrade all the
'phones are automatic. There is only one tramline and
much less noise.

YUGOSLAV SYNTHESIS: BELGRADE 221

But probably the most individual thing about Zemun
is the storks. There are no storks in Belgrade. They nest
on the roofs along the main street, where their wide
irregular nests look like a series of enormous flue-brushes
projecting from the chimneys, as if the little town were
preparing a sort of stupendous spring-clean. Thence
they look down on the passers-by, secure in the knowledge
that they are considered bringers of good luck, and that
no one would dare to harm, or even to insult, a stork.
They return, year after year, to the same nests, and the
failure of a stork family to reappear perennially is con-
sidered a great misfortune. Unhappily it is now more
frequent as Zemun gets more and more urbanized. Soon
one will have to look farther afield.

They are a graceful and dignified element in the
population. Usually one of the pair is out in the marshes
hunting frogs, while the other stands on one leg and
preens back or breast feathers, occasionally chattering to
the next house-top with staccato clatterings of the beak.
There is something dignified even about their flight.
They fly, as a rule, very high, with slow flappings of their
wide ragged wings and their long legs trailing behind
them. They land like aeroplanes, wheeling down in slowly
narrowing circles.

This regular existence is somewhat accelerated by the
importunate demands of the baby storks, but even a
large and hungry family would never hustle a stork so
much as to lose his dignity altogether.

Approached from the water, there are three outstanding
features about Zemun: the railway station, the water-
front, and the Hunyadi tower. The railway station is a
relic of greater days. It is a colossal building, which
used at one time to house the customs officials of the
Dual Monarchy, and shows up from the river like an
enormous blot of yellow stucco. Today it is a veritable
white (or should one say yellow?) elephant. It seems a
pity to tear it down, while its size and position make it

222 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

difficult to suggest any use for it. Perhaps it might make
a good tram depot !

The water-front is really beautiful. The river bank has
been riveted with huge blocks of stone, and along the
edge of the embankment a fine double avenue of trees
has been planted. It is a charming walk, cool and pleasant
even in the most scorching days of summer, yet the
inevitable corso still takes place in the main street of
the town, even on the most airless days. Still, the object
of a corso is not to see, but to be seen.

To my mind it is a detestable habit, only to be explained
by the patriarchal regime south of the river, which
necessitates the sons and daughters of the better families
making respectable acquaintances outside their family
circle by some such artificial means. But, once across the
Danube, the structure of society is freer and more easy-
going, and the necessity of the corso less apparent.
However, it has this advantage. The pleasant walks and
meeting-places of the town are never overcrowded. The
61ite are all on the corso.

The actual conduct of a corso is something of a mystery.
Every day, for a stated period, roughly from six to eight
in the evening, the appointed street is filled with a loiter-
ing crowd which fills streets and pavements and paralyses
all reasonable movement. The younger people walk up
and down in small groups, the married couples parade
their domestic happiness, and the elders sit in a kafana
or on the pavement at tiny tables and criticize. Ticking-
up' in the English sense of the word is rare, and, when it
occurs, is carried out most discreetly. Save perhaps in
Belgrade itself, the corso is a most respectable perform-
ance. However, even the most sketchy of introductions
will serve as an excuse for a chat in passing, and possiby
those temporary and precarious contacts serve as occasions
for future rendezvous. Compared with a Balkanic corso,
Hyde Park seems an orgy of vice !

However, the shady waterfront is almost deserted at

YUGOSLAV SYNTHESIS: BELGRADE 223

the most pleasant hours of the day, save for the passengers
disembarking from the river steamers, or knots of peasants
arguing and gesticulating about the octroi station about
the duties on tomatoes or melons.

Above the passenger stages are the anchorages of the
Danube barges, huge black hulks with their living
quarters and navigating bridge perched on the stern, as
if in imminent danger of falling off. As a rule the barge-
master's family lives on board, and includes, besides
several precocious children unclothed in precarious
bathing dresses, poultry, dogs, and -even an occasional
wiry grey pig. The poultry meander up and down their
plank bridges on to the bank, where they scratch for
luxuries at the edge of the revetment. Yet a sudden scare
will send them all scuttling back across their planks, like
a child's drawing of the animals entering the Ark. How
they distinguish their own plank and barge among so
many exactly similar is a mystery.

The dogs require a dissertation to themselves. They
are of every conceivable breed, as many as possible being
united in a single dog. Yet their nautical life seems to
have given them certain general characteristics common
to all sailors. They are intensely proud of their own
vessel, and will brook no intrusion on her cherished
decks without protest; otherwise they are good-tempered,
noisy, companionable, and promiscuous in their amours.
It would be a good thing for some one searching for
novelty to collect three or four of the more remarkable
specimens and breed from them a new and composite
'Danube barge-dog', to be awarded a separate class at
Crufts. It would certainly be a remarkable animal.

There are various historical monuments to be found
in Zemun. But they are not many considering its stormy
and turbulent past. Of the prehistoric settlements there
remain a few mounds, the uncertain tracings of some
huts, and those vague and almost indecipherable scratches
and pieces of pottery, out of which pre-historians re-

224 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

create the life of long-distant ages. Of Roman Taurunum
little more remains; a few stones only. The fury of the
Huns destroyed it once and for all. From the Middle
Ages there is somewhat more: and most of all from the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries with their long
struggle for position and privilege between German,
Slav, and Magyar.

The most impressive of these is the Zemun watch-
tower, erected a few years before the war, in the centre
of the medieval fortress. It is associated with the memory
of Hunyadi Janos, the great Hungarian leader, who, in
alliance with the Serbian despot George of Smederevo,
passed his life in unceasing struggle with the Turks. It
has been the custom of later historians, particularly
those of the nineteenth century, to regard the long
struggle between the Hungarians and the Turks as a
clear-cut contest between Cross and Crescent, and
entirely to ignore the part played by the Serbian despots.
Nothing is farther from the truth. Christendom was
hopelessly divided, and nearly always one or more of
the Christian princes of central Europe was in alliance
with the Turks. Many of them, forced to choose between
Turkish and Hungarian overlordship, chose the former,
and the feeling between Greek Orthodox and Roman
Catholic was at least as bitter as that between Moslem
and Christian. Had Christendom ever been united, or
even had the principal frontier powers, the Serbs, the
Hungarians, and the Venetians, managed to act together,
they could undoubtedly have held back the tide of
Turkish invasion. But quarrels for precedence among
the Serbian nobles, civil wars in Hungary, and the pre-
dominantly commercial ideals of the Venetians, all
played into Turkish hands. They were at least as capable
politicians as they were experienced soldiers.

Domestic intrigue and bad faith were universal. The
great figures of the time were those who by force of
personal character managed to rise, if only for a few years,

YUGOSLAV SYNTHESIS: BELGRADE 225

above the petty turmoil of nobles and estates, and to
realize the danger of the growing Turkish Empire ; such
men as the despots Stefan Lazarevic and George and the
Hungarian leader Hunyadi Janos. Even the alliance of the
two latter was overshadowed by personal quarrels.

Incidentally Hunyadi Janos, or Sibinjanin Janko as
the Serbian ballads call him, appears to have been of
Rumanian origin. The pretender to the Hungarian
throne, Hunyadi's irreconcilable enemy Henrich of Celje,
once wrote to Despot George to say 'that he should put
to death the children of Hunyadi Janos, so as to wipe
out for ever those dogs of Vlachs'.

At present the memorial tower is not in very good
repair. The staircase to the second gallery is without a
handrail and is dangerous. Part of the stone coping has
fallen away and been repaired, safely enough, but with
little regard to the design of the building as a whole.
But one can go up to the first gallery, which encircles
the tower. On one side lies Belgrade, the 'White city',
which only from here seems worthy of its name, when
the setting sun lights up walls and windows and tips
its pinnacles with fire. Save to the south over Serbia one
looks out over the huge expanse of the plain, and can
trace the intricate windings of the creeks in the low
marsh lands and the bends of the Danube and the
TamiS.

Below are the battered walls of the old fortress. Their
line can be traced easily enough, but the only definite
section is the great well. Behind, is the military grave-
yard, surrounded by a high stone wall, pierced by flank-
ing loopholes, as though waiting for the dead to rise and
take up their arms again in defence against some ghostly
enemy.

The fortress of the Kalemegdan is on a high bluff,
overlooking the confluence of die two greatest rivers of

226 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

Europe, the Danube and the Sava. It has for centuries
been regarded as the key to the Balkans, and is a natural
centre of communications.

Needless to say, such a site has been inhabited from
the very earliest times. In pre-historic days there were
settlements here, as also at Zemun and Panevo, and at
Vinca a few miles down the Danube. The relics of these
most ancient settlements are now being excavated, and
may be seen by the learned or the curious in the Museum
of Prince Paul in Belgrade. Probably there was communi-
cation between them and the pre-Greek civilizations of
the Aegean, but this communication was evidently later
broken, as in Neolithic times the Danube cultures are
purely Central European.

First the Illyrians held Belgrade. They 'appear out of
the uncertain mists of the earliest ages and dwell there
until displaced by the great migration of the Celts, who
occupied Belgrade in the fourth century B.C., and lived
there more than three hundred years, naming their city
Singidunum, by which it was kno^^n to the Romans. The
little river on which Pancevo stands is still called the
Tamis, the same Celtic root as our own Thames.

Under the Romans, Belgrade was an important trading
centre, but it was never of great administrative impor-
tance. The great Roman cities were at Sisak (Siscia) and
Sremska Mitrovica (Sirmium). The main legionary camp
was at Viminacium, now the insignificant village of
Kostolac.

In Byzantine times, the city increased in importance
and was the seat of an Arian bishop. During the wander-
ing of the nations, it was taken and re-taken many times.
The Huns demolished it; Justinian the Great rebuilt it.
But it was no longer a cultural centre, but only a pre-
carious outpost of empire.

In the Dark Ages the list of conquerors grows rapidly:
Huns, Avars, Kumans, Bulgarians, and many other
transient and ephemeral empires won and lost it. The

YUGOSLAV SYNTHESIS: BELGRADE 227

one important fact in all this welter of nameless history is
the coming of the Slavs, who, though not at once occupy-
ing Belgrade, colonized the country around it and settled
there, where they remain to this day.

In the early Middle Ages Belgrade once more appears
upon the scene of definite history. Still a Byzantine
frontier city, it was vigorously disputed by the energetic
Hungarians, 'a cavalry people with an iron rule', and
the growing power of the Serbs. These two peoples, in
fact, disputed the possession of Belgrade for over three
hundred years.

Under the leadership of the famous dynasty of the
Nemanjas, the Serbian people, till then a nation of loosely
organized tribes, began to take a leading part in Balkan
affairs. Belgrade first became a Serbian city under King
Stefan the First crowned in the twelfth century.
Although subject to violent attacks by the Hungarians,
it was the capital of Stefan Dragutin Nemanja, and was
an important city under Stefan Milutin. But the move-
ment of the Serbian power was south and east, towards
Constantinople, and under the great warrior and first
Serbian Emperor, Stefan Dusan the Mighty, Belgrade
was once again a frontier city which was quickly lost after
his death.

This is the time of the Ottoman invasions, which
destroyed the Byzantine civilization, then the most
advanced in the world, and broke the power of the
Balkan states. But the Serbs still maintained a consider-
able state under their despots, which stretched from the
Iron Gates of the Danube to the Adriatic. But their
lands were scattered, and not even the genius of their
great despot Stefan the Tall, Lazarevid, the greatest
warrior and one of the greatest poets and statesmen of
his time, could save them. For a time his capital was in
Belgrade. The Tatar invasion of Turkey gave the Serbs
a few years' respite, but when the Turkish army, then the
most highly organized and disciplined in the world,

228 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

returned to Europe, the fate of Serbia could no longer
be in doubt.

Stefan's successor, the despot George Brankovid, was
forced to hand Belgrade over to the Hungarians and built
as his capital the fortress of Smederevo, a few miles down
the river, whose mighty ruins can still be seen. But
Smederevo fell in 1459, and the fate of Belgrade was
already certain. It was taken in 1521 by Suleiman the
Magnificent after twenty attacks. Shortly after this it
became the seat of a pasha and the centre of a Turkish
administrative district.

For nearly three hundred years Belgrade became a
Turkish city, and even in the Belgrade of today one can
still find traces of their rule. Throughout the seventeenth
and eighteenth centuries the forces of Christendom, at
last awake to the dangers of Turkish invasion by the
conquest first of Serbia, then of Hungary, and the
repeated attacks on Vienna, lay before the walls of
Belgrade and pitted their greatest generals against the
Turks. In 1688 it was taken by Maximilian Emanuel of
Baden, but was lost again two years later. In 1717 it
was again taken by Prince Eugene of Savoy, the greatest
general of his age, and was held by Austria until 1739.

We have an account of Belgrade under the Turks,
written by the traveller Celebija. He speaks of the fortress
as a 'precious stone, full of wonders'. It had a double line
of fortifications, and one hundred and sixteen towers of
defence. The lower part of the fortress was so arranged
that from its walls not even the most powerful archer
could shoot into the inner fort. He speaks also of four
great iron gates and of enormous dungeons, more than
a hundred feet deep, and able to hold three thousand
prisoners.

The Kalemegdan has been destroyed and rebuilt
seventeen times. The main outlines that it has today date
from this period of strife between the Christian armies
and the Turks. Now the old fortifications have been

YUGOSLAV SYNTHESIS: BELGRADE 229

turned into pleasant walks and alleys, and the Kalemegdan
is probably the most beautiful park of Europe. The little
church of Ruzica also dates from this time, and owes its
singular preservation to the fact that the Turks used it
as a powder magazine. In the upper park is the tomb or
'tulbe' of Mustafa Pasha, 'Mother of the Serbs,' who was
killed here by the indignant janissaries, but popular
tradition also associates it with that other Mustafa 'the
Black', the Grand Vizier who tried to take Vienna in 1683.

Although wars and treaties freed the Turkish provinces
north of the Danube, Belgrade still remained in Turkish
hands. The Austrian general, Laudon, took it once more,
but only held it for a short time. But his occupation was
extremely important, since he used many Serbian
auxiliaries in his armies and re-awakened their national
consciousness which had previously been expended in
the personal service of the Austrian Emperor.

It was only by a national movement that Belgrade could
be freed once and for all. This came about by Turkish
oppression and misrule. In the first years of the nineteenth
century the pashaluk of Belgrade was governed by the
pasha Mustafa, an enlightened man who protected the
Serbs. But the hereditary caste of the janissaries con-
spired against him, killed him in the Belgrade Kalemegdan,
and organized a rule of force under their leaders the Dahis,
defying even the Sultan himself. Fearing the Serbs,
they organized a massacre of their leaders, and the people,
driven to extremities, took up arms. They chose as their
leader Kara or 'Black' George Petrovid, a man of un-
doubted military genius. He welded the Balkan Serbs
into a fighting force which, driven on by the powerful
impulses of patriotism and despair, was irresistible.
Karageorge entered Belgrade in triumph in 1806, and
made it his capital.

The European powers then took a hand in the game
of Balkan politics, which gradually degenerated into the
ignoble and intricate chafferings of the 'Eastern Question',

230 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

Serbia being used as a pawn to further the ambitious
designs first of Austria and then of Russia. A few years
after the revolt of Karageorge, the Turks returned in
force, suppressed the revolt, and re-entered Belgrade.

Oppression began again, worse than before. For a
time the Serbian people, through their spokesman,
MiloS Obrenovic, tried to obtain concessions from the
Porte, but at last nothing was left save a second rebellion.
Belgrade again became Serbian, though the Kalemegden
remained in the hands of the Turks. By a hatti-sheriff
(irrevocable edict) of the Sultan, read to the people of
Belgrade in 1830, the Serbs obtained a sort of qualified
independence.

This position could not last. The new Serbia grew daily
more powerful, the Turkish Empire more and more
disorganized. Finally, a minor quarrel between Serbs
and Turks led to the commandant of the fortress ordering
a bombardment of the undefended town. The situation
now became critical, and the Turks could no longer
maintain their position. Belgrade and the seven other
fortresses in Turkish hands were 'confided to the care
of Prince Michael'. Turkish pride was saved, and the
Serbs remained de facto masters of their country. On
April 6, 1867, Riza Pasha, the last Belgrade Mutasherrif,
handed over the keys of the fortress to Prince Michael.
Belgrade and Serbia were free !

Despite its long tale of history, Belgrade is a city with
the virtues and the vices of youth. It is energetic and
hasty, inconsiderate and careless of consequence! It has
moments of rare beauty, tempered by others of the
sheerest vulgarity. It has grandiose plans, which are often
spoilt by mediocre achievement. So it is always tearing
down, to begin anew. It has an enormous tolerance for
all that does not get directly in its way; then it has
moments of sheer fanaticism. Its people have a lusty

YUGOSLAV SYNTHESIS: BELGRADE 231

love of wine, women, and song, which is often a crust
concealing a spiritual shyness and a tremendous sense of
the ideal. It is adolescent and blundering. But at least
it is alive!

It is a city of the most violent contrasts, as befits its
position as key to West and East. In it are many sensitive
and cultured artists, but its public artistic life is con-
temptible. Socially, it varies from almost harem-like
restrictions to an ultra-modern freedom. Amours are
everywhere, but there is little or no organized vice. It
has almost no night-life in the Western sense of the world
such as it has is merely a bad copy but in few other
cities does one so often sit until dawn with wine and
song. It bristles with rumours and intrigues, but no one
takes either of them very seriously. There is little grey
in the life of Belgrade, but there is a bewildering criss-
cross of blacks and whites.

Probably the first thing to strike the visitor is the
incredible number of kafanas and 'bife' (buffets). For the
Beogradjanin is a gourmet. They cater to every taste
and every pocket, but almost all serve the various special-
ities of the Serbian cuisine. It is worth while knowing
something about these. For one thing they are extremely
good, and for another they are often, in the interior of
the country, the only eating,

To be accurate, there is no such thing as a specifically
Serbian cuisine. The same dishes may be found through-
out the Balkans, under various names. Many of them are
originally either Turkish or Greek. Stuffed paprikas or
tomatoes with a sour-milk sauce are always a stand-by;
so are the sarmas, cabbage leaves, either fresh or soured,
stuffed with rice and minced meat, and served with sour
cream or tomato sauce. Stuffed vine-leaves cooked in the
same way are even better. Other good dishes are djuve,
a kind of thick rich stew of paprikas, tomatoes, and
potatoes with meat or fish, musaka, a Balkan shepherd's
pie, usually of aubergines cooked in kajmak, which is

232 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

a kind of thin cream-cheese, janija, and many others.
There are innumerable varieties of tripe, which are
better than they look; especially sirite, which look like
chrysanthemums steeped in blood.

But the main supports of all Balkan kafanas are the
spit and the grill. In both cases the meat is cooked over
charcoal embers, which gives it a very pleasant flavour.
Sucking-pigs, looking rather like impaled babies, are
excellent for those without imagination. Then there are
cevabcidi, little skinless sausages of mixed chopped meat,
and raznidi, pieces of meat slowly grilled on tiny skewers
and so served, like cats' meat, and countless others too
numerous to mention. Take courage then, and try them.
Even the most unlikely-looking kafana can produce
something good, whereas ambitious attempts to copy
French cooking only too often end in culinary disillusion.

There are also countless local cold delicacies. Try
prsut, dried meat cut in very thin slices, so that the light
shining through them shows a dark red. The best is from
pork, and is made at Uzice ; that from beef is not to be
recommended to the beginner. There is good black
caviare from Kladovo authentic sturgeon this and
not so good red caviare from Ohrid, made from trout.
Incidentally, a young Danube sterlet cooked on the grill
is the most delicious of all fresh- water fish after the trout.
In South Serbia and in the higher-class Belgrade restaur-
ants you will also find the lake-trout of Ohrid, a fish
which by all geologic rules ought to have been a fossil
aeons ago, but whose flesh is so sweet that medieval
rulers organized services of couriers to have it on their
tables. It is only found in the Lakes of Ohrid and the
Siberian Baikal.

The number of wines is legion. Apart from the Dal-
matian and Slovene wines, which I have already men-
tioned, there are good white wines from the Fruska Gora,
an excellent riesling, and a sweet sparkling wine Biser
(the Pearl), and from Smederevo. Good red wines come

YUGOSLAV SYNTHESIS: BELGRADE 233

from the 2upa and from Negotin. A first-class 'rose'
wine is the Smederevo Ruzica, made from Hamburger
grapes, which has a slight muscatel flavour; dessert
wines include the KarlovaSd Bermet, with a curious
taste as of burnt almonds, and the Dalmatian proSek.

Serbian rakijas are also excellent and cheap. They
cost a penny a glass, whereas bad imitations of French
liqueurs cost four or five times as much. The ordinary
sljivovica made from plums is not to everybody's taste,
but the double-distilled ljuta (fierce) is good. Rakija
may be made from almost anything. The best 'dry'
rakijas are from plums, various herbs (travarica), juniper
(klekovaca), and wine shoots (komovica or lozovaca);
the best sweet ones from cherries (vinjevaca), green
walnuts (orahovaca), or pears (krukovaca). The best
liqueur is the well-known Maraschino, which is made in
Dalmatia. Pelenkovac, from wormwood, is detestable,
but very good for the tummy.

However, I am not writing a cookery book. I shall have
done enough if I encourage others to experiment for
themselves. If you do not insist on French or English
cooking everywhere, you will never fare badly. If you do,
you may, or more probably may not, fare well.

To understand the living tradition of the Serbs and
the endurance they have shown under misfortune, it is
better to leave Belgrade, which, like all capitals, is a
cosmopolitan city, and make an excursion to Oplenac.
On the way, one passes the mountain of Avala, the first
of the Serbian mountains, an almost perfect cone, forest-
covered, which had at one time a Turkish fortress on its
summit, to overawe Belgrade. There is the Mausoleum
of the Yugoslav Unknown Soldier, a stupendous work by
Ivan Mestrovid. It displays the majesty of death and the
grandeur of the sacrifice made by the peasant soldiers of
Yugoslavia. Of all the nations of the Great War, Serbia
suffered the most, having at one time lost all her territory,
and having nearly a quarter of her people destroyed by

234 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

war and disease. The recovery of that territory and the
brilliant advance of the Serbian and Allied armies from
the Salonica front is perhaps the most epic achievement
of the Great War. For the Yugoslav soldiers on the other
side, for many of the provinces of Yugoslavia were part
of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the dilemma was
perhaps even harder; either to fight against their brothers
in blood in a war that could bring them no advantage,
or to be shot as cowards and traitors. Many chose the
second, harder,, alternative. It is sometimes surprising
to see on Serbian war memorials the dates 1912-1918,
but one must remember that the Austrian ultimatum
followed almost directly after the victorious close of the
Balkan wars, with only the briefest interval of peace.
Many of the finest men of Yugoslavia have, if you include
guerilla warfare against the Turks, spent all their younger
years in war.

The Metrovi<5 memorial is new, and worthy of the
great nation that Yugoslavia has become. But I myself
have still a sneaking sympathy for the older memorial
erected by the peasants just after the war. It was a simple
cairn of stones, brought from all districts of Yugoslavia,
topped by a simple stone cross. It had less splendour, but
allowed the imagination greater play.

Recently Belgrade has become the diplomatic capital
of the Balkans, largely owing to the vigour and ability
of Dr. Milan Stojadinovid, the present Prime Minister.
His foreign policy has been masterly. After the war,
Yugoslavia was surrounded by enemies. Scarcely a single
one of her frontiers could be relied upon in case of a
second struggle, and there were several occasions when
such a struggle might have broken out. The old allies of
the Great War, France and England, were much loved,
but far away. Italy, so far from being friendly, occupied
much of Dalmatia till 1923. Germany (Austria), Hungary,
and Bulgaria were licking their war wounds in resent-
ment. A first attempt was made to better this situation

YUGOSLAV SYNTHESIS: BELGRADE 235

by a combination of Yugoslavia, Rumania, and Czecho-
slovakia into the Little Entente, a name which was
originally given in ridicule, but which has been adopted
in honour. It commenced by a series of bi-lateral treaties
against a possible attack by Hungary. The other frontiers
were still uncertain.

The present situation is as near perfect as the stormy
diplomacy of post-war Europe will allow. The loose
alliances of the Little Entente have become a confederate
unit, working in harmony and co-operation. The con-
tinual rumours of its dissolution have been proved wrong
by many years of co-operation, economic as well as
political. At the time of writing it is even weathering
the German-Czechoslovak crisis. The late King Alex-
ander, who made the first moves in the policy of Balkan
unity, wished to follow this by a similar confederation of
the Balkan states. This was achieved by the Balkan Pact,
of Yugoslavia, Rumania, Greece, and Turkey, with
disgruntled Bulgaria and dependent Albania dissenting.
This pact has now also become a close economic and
political unit, and the recent Pact of Friendship between
Yugoslavia and Bulgaria, and the still more recent
Salonica Pact, prove that Bulgaria also is now de facto,
if not de jure, a part of Balkan unity. Peace on the Adriatic
has been achieved by an agreement with Italy, which
means also improved relations with Albania. No pact
has been made with greater Germany, but economic
relations are close, and friendship seems sincere.

These pacts are of varying popularity with the people,
who still look mainly to France and England. But there is
no doubt that they are practical politics and sound
statesmanship. To set up to be a political prophet is to
prove oneself a fool. But one can say that the situation
at the moment is better than Yugoslavia (or pre-war
Serbia) has ever previously known.

Foreign statesmen and delegations come regularly and
frequently to Belgrade, and practically all of them lay a

236 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

wreath on the Avala memorial, and then go on to Oplenac
to pay homage there to the makers of Yugoslavia, the
Kings Peter I, known as the Liberator, and Alexander I,
known as the Unifier. Both shrines are perennially gay
with flowers.

The way to Oplenac lies through the smiling Sumadija.
The name means Country of Forests, but man has long
ago conquered the forests, and to-day it is rich downland
and fertile fields. It is the heart of Serbia, the centre of
the insurrections against the Turks, and took the place
of South Serbia as the traditional centre of Serbdom,
when the latter was conquered by the Turks in an enslave-
ment that lasted until 1912. The Turks in the Sumadija
lived mostly in a few towns and fortresses. The peasants
remained in the village zadrugas, or family organizations,
more or less untouched save for the visits of tax-collectors.
Under Turkish rule they became backward and ignorant
in the Western sense; literature, art, and education prac-
tically did not exist. But national tradition lived fiercely,
upheld by the Church, sustained by the national customs,
and given colour and life by the marvellous oral literature
of the heroic ballads. When the time came for revolt,
the peasants of the Sumadija knew for what they were
rebelling.

All the Serbian rulers and nobles of the Middle Ages
built zaduzbine, or church bequests, for the good of their
souls, and out of natural piety. It is due to this custom
that the wonderful medieval art and architecture of the
Serbs still survives. This custom was perpetuated, or
revived, by the Karageorge family. The church at
Oplenac is a zaduzbina of King Peter.

He chose Oplenac as his site because of its close
association with the first Serbian insurrection, which was
led by his ancestor Black George Petrovid, founder of
the dynasty. It was at the village of OraSac, near Topola,
where the Serbian leaders, driven to extremes by the
oppression of the Turks, met secretly and determined at

YUGOSLAV SYNTHESIS: BELGRADE 237

least to die fighting. It was at Topola itself that the
standard of revolt was raised and Karageorge chosen as
their leader. Topola is the nearest village to the hill of
Oplenac, on which the church stands.

Karageorge had lived on and off at Topola for twenty
years before the insurrection as a pig-breeder, pigs being
then, as now, one of the principal sources of wealth of
the Serbian village. He had also served under the
Austrians, where he learnt something of the military
technique of that time, knowledge which served him in
good stead in later years. After the insurrection he made
Topola his centre, building there a 'konak' or country
house, and a small fortress. They were destroyed by the
Turks in 1813.

The late King Alexander, however, rebuilt the konak
of Karageorge in the original style, the one surviving
tower of the fortress is to be a museum of the insurrection,
and the church of Karageorge, which was rebuilt by
Princess Ljubica, wife of Milo the Great, still exists.
So that there is much left in Topola to remind one of its
greatest son.

The career of Karageorge, begun in glory, ended in
tragedy. Forced to leave the country, he took no part in
the second insurrection under Prince Milos Obrenovid,
who obtained a measure of self-government, partly by
arms, partly by skilful diplomacy. Karageorge, mean-
while, was in touch with the Hetairia, which dreamed of
a Balkan federation of free states, and returned to Serbia,
determined to try and win complete freedom by force of
arms. He landed at Smederevo and made his presence
known there to the voevod Vulicevid, who advised Milo.
MiloS felt that Karageorge's plan was precipitate, and
would endanger both the newly-acquired position of the
Serbs and his own personal position. Karageorge was
killed secretly in his tent, and his head sent to the Pasha
of Belgrade, who sent it to the Sultan Mahmud II.

It is difficult to blame MiloS altogether for his action.

338 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

Turkey was again strong, and it was time for diplomacy
rather than open conflict. So far, his action was that of
a statesman. But it is certain that Milo was actuated by
personal motives and love of a power which he would
not divide with another, especially another so powerful
and so beloved as Karageorge. But the worst result of
his action was to commence a terrible dynastic feud
between the Karageorgevic and Obrenovid families,
which darkened the whole political history of Serbia in
the nineteenth century, until it was finally wiped out in
blood in 1903.

But Karageorge's great deeds were not forgotten by
his people. Two years after his death his body was taken
to the church at Topola by order of the Princess Ljubica,
and his tomb rapidly became a place of pilgrimage. It
remained there until September 8, 1930, when it was
reburied in the magnificent zaduzbina of King Peter I.

The great church at Oplenac is, therefore, not old.
The exterior was more or less finished in 1912. But it
is in the ancient tradition of Serbo-Byzantine architecture,
and worthy of its great medieval originals. True, the
architect, K. Jovanovid, broke from the strict canon by
arranging the cupolas of the church in a cross instead of
diagonally, but the Serbian canon was always freer than
the pure Byzantine, and the churches of each century of
the great period of Serbian architecture, lasting roughly
from the middle of the twelfth century to the middle of
the fifteenth, are distinguished by a marked originality
of form and a great progress of architectural technique
and interest. At all events, his daring has been justified,
as the whole effect of the building is magnificent.

It is especially beautiful in winter, when the country
is covered in snow ; the trees form lovely frosted traceries
around the white marble church, and the bright colours
of the frescoes show even more brilliantly in the hard
white snow-glare.

Another departure, but a justifiable one, is the use of

YUGOSLAV SYNTHESIS: BELGRADE 239

mosaic. The medieval Serbian monasteries are painted,
though the earlier painting makes use of a gold ground
in imitation of the mosaic technique.

The church was considerably damaged during the
Great War, but in 1923 the late King Alexander I, the
son of King Peter, undertook its renovation and added
the mosaics, designed after the most beautiful frescoes
of the monasteries of South Serbia. Oplenac, with the
Stockholm Town Hall's Golden Room,is probably the most
beautiful example of modern mosaic work in the world.

The old conventions have been followed freely, but
on the whole faithfully. On the outside of the church,
under the arms of the Karageorgevid family in white
marble, is a fresco of the patron of the church, St. George,
while within are a fine series of frescoes depicting the
principal incidents of his life, or at least of his hagiography,
for this scoundrel bishop has,- both in Yugoslavia and in
England, usurped a place of honour to which his actual
achievements do not justify him. The central part of the
church is devoted to the lives and works of the Serbian
medieval saints and rulers. In particular, a series of
twenty-four mosaics portray the life and work of St. Sava,
the first Serbian archbishop, and the most famous
churchman of the Serbian people. His historical career
is, on the other hand, worthy of all honour. All the
rulers of Serbia are here also, from the Grand 2upan
Nemanja, the founder of the greatest Serbian dynasty,
to the Emperor DuSan the Mighty and the Despot
George Brankovid, the last independent Serbian ruler
till the liberation from the Turks. Following medieval
custom, King Peter is also depicted near the doorway,
holding the model of the zaduzbina, as 'ktitor* or donor.

The church is marble throughout. The altars, the
columns, and the choir stalls are of white marble, there
is a band of green marble six feet broad around the
church, and the floor is also marble in various shades of
grey and yellow. Its austerity is tempered by the brilliance

340 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

of the mosaics, which are said to be made up of more
than fifteen thousand shades.

Beneath the tattered and bullet-torn standards of the
Serbian regiments, which now hang peacefully from the
great marble pillars of the central cupola, lie two tombs
of plain white marble, the inscriptions on them short and
simple. On the right is that of Karageorge, inscribed
with his name and the dates 1762-1817. On the left,
that of King Peter I, 1844-1921. Above each tomb a
lamp is continually burning.

There is no artificial lighting in the great church, only
the giant candelabra and the shimmering altar-lamps.

Under the main body of the church is the crypt, which
is also the mausoleum of the Karageorgevid family. Here
lies the body of the late King Alexander I the Unifier.
Ever since the assassination at Marseilles, this tomb has
been a centre of pilgrimage for the Yugoslav people, and
hundreds of thousands of peasants have come from all parts
of the country to pray at the tomb of their late leader.

I was in Belgrade when the body was brought home.
All the way from Split the railway line had been thronged
with weeping peasants, waiting to see their king pass
by on his last journey. There were nearly half a million
mourners in Belgrade, more than the whole population
of the town. The whole atmosphere was tense and
expectant. We talked, despite ourselves, in hushed
whispers. When at last the coffin appeared in the great
square before the railway station, where the people had
been waiting since earliest dawn, there was a sort of moan
that passed over all that vast concourse of people, like a
slough of wind over reeds, right up into the Terazije
and the centre of the city.

He was a great man, and his whole people mourned
for him.

XX
THE HOME OF CAUSES WON: SOUTH SERBIA

I COULD not help comparing Oplenac with the
monastery where I found myself a week or so later.
This was Markov Monastir, founded in the early four-
teenth century by King Vukasln and his son Marko,
who became the legendary hero of the Serbs, .Marko
Kraljevic".

Legend has worked a strange transformation in Marko.
In actual fact, he was one of the petty princes who
carved out a kingdom for himself after the break-up of
the Serbian Empire of Dusan the Mighty. His capital
was at Markovgrad, that huge mass of volcanic rock a
mile or so outside Prilep. There is still the lovely monas-
tery of the Holy Archangel, perched high up on the
mountain-side, and a number of ruined courts and
churches on the plain below. From its spacious balcony
one can look out over the rich Pelargonian plain to
Bitolj and the heights of Perister. On the doorway of the
monastery church can still be seen contemporary portraits
of Marko and VukaSin, grave bearded warriors with the
eyes of dreaming eagles.

In history, Marko was a vassal of the Turks, and died
fighting in the Turkish ranks as an ally. Legend tells
how he prayed, none the less, that the Christians might
conquer, though he himself be the first to fall. But it
appears that he fought honourably for his overlord.
However, the marvellous cycle of the heroic ballads
associated with his name have given him a different
character. In them he appears more than life-size, a
hero sans peur and sans reproche, at least according to
the ideas of his age. With his huge studded mace and
bear-skin cap, mounted on his wonder-horse Sarac,

R 241

242 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

who drinks the red wine with him 'half he drank and
half to Sarac gave' he is a figure of fear to the evildoer,
which later ages identified with the Turk. He is not
afraid to face the Sultan himself, and he ploughs the
highways to prevent the Turkish soldiers and merchants
from passing.

In the course of ages he became the hero of the Serbs,
a far clearer figure to the peasants than their great kings,
or even the Emperor Duan himself. He is befriended
by the vilas of the mountains, and the greatest champions
of Islam cannot stand against him. He gradually assumes
more and more the character of a hajduk, one of those
fierce outlaws, half brigand and half patriot, who kept
alive the spirit of rebellion under Turkish rule. He meets
and conquers heroes who lived in history centuries after
his death. He is rough and passionate and cruel, but he
has always a sense of his duty and honour to Serbia and
the Holy Cross. He is an embodiment of the fierce spirit
of patriotic revolt, even as the Holy Tsar Lazar is the
embodiment of a mysticism based on hope. His deeds
and his songs have filled the centuries and fill them
still.

Yes, such is the Marko of legend. These songs, which
have immortalized him, are the greatest heritage of the
Yugoslav race. Originating in South Serbia, they are
sung through all the Yugoslav lands, even in Bulgaria.
The cycles of Marko Kraljevid, violent and passionate,
were perhaps the favourites of the Middle Ages. Today,
they seem farther away from us than the lovely cycle of
Kosovo, where the Tsar Lazar chooses a heavenly before
an earthly crown, where the nine brothers Jugovidi go
to their death at Kosovo to be bewailed in verse as
moving as any written by their noble mother, where
Milos Obilid, smarting under the suspicion of treachery,
kills the Turkish Sultan in his tent, and where the Maiden
of Kosovo comes after the fight to weep over the slain.
These are the stuff of history; but still more are they the

THE HOME OF CAUSES WON: SOUTH SERBIA 243

stuff of tradition. And tradition, though it may distort
the story of the past, has power to create the story of the
future. When the Serb soldiers freed the field of Kosovo
in 1912, they knelt and kissed the earth that to them was
holy, and whose carpet of blood-red paeonies sprang
from the blood of the heroes who died there more than
five hundred years before.

These are not the only cycles of the heroic ballads,
though they are .the best. Others tell of the exploits of
the hajduks; others, changing the scene, speak of the
Uskoks and Ivo of Senj. Yet others record in verse the
oppression of the Dahis and the insurrection and victories
of Karageorge. One or two of the most lovely are uncon-
nected with any cycle and are pure legend, such as 'The
Building of Skadar' and * Simeon the Foundling'. Their
origin goes back to the far pre-Christian past. Yet, even
so, they are connected with the names of historical
personages. The Serbian bard could hardly envisage a
poetry unconnected with the national tradition.

A lesser known cycle deals with the life of St. Sava, and
thus connects us directly with the Serbian monasteries,
the second great creation of the medieval Serbian soul.
Sava was the youngest son of the Grand 2upan Nemanja,
the founder of the greatest Serbian dynasty. His secular
name was Rastko. But, even as a young man, the life of
courts did not attract him. When only seventeen, he fled
from court with some wandering monks of the Holy
Mountain, and when the hue and cry finally found him
he had already shaved his head and taken the monastic
vows, as the monk Sava. All that the pursuers could
bring back to his father was the golden locks that he .had
cut off and discarded for ever.

For twenty years he resided on the Holy Mountains,
where he soon acquired a reputation not only for piety,
but for reliability and capable devotion to the interest
of the Church. He was soon entrusted with important
ecclesiastical duties and negotiations between the monks

44 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

>f Athos and the Patriarchs of Constantinople. These
luties schooled him in statecraft which was to prove of
nestimable value in later years.

But Sava was not only a monk; he was also a Nemanja.
ie saw clearly that a Serbian national state could only
>e built up on a Serbian national church. He saw the
lecadence of Byzantine life and its influence on his
roung and impressionable people. Yet he respected the
civilization of the Greeks and wished the Serbs to get
he best from it.

In 1197 his father abdicated and came also to the
ioly Mountain, as the monk Simeon. There he built
,he magnificent monastery of Hilendar, which was for
iges the centre of Serbian monastic life. There it was that
3ava wrote the life of his father, Stefan Nemanja, in a
Beautiful clear style that entitles him to be called the first
jreat Serbian writer.

In 1204 his father died, and, his restraining influence
jone, violent quarrels broke out in Serbia over the
succession. Sava left Mt. Athos and returned to his
:ountry. Now his training in statecraft served him well,
Hungary and Byzantium, both fishing in troubled waters,
took different sides in the quarrel. It seemed as if the
Serbian state was to fall to pieces a few years after it had
been founded. Sava composed the quarrels and ensured
the succession.

But in the meantime his opportunity had come, and
from a different source. In 1204 the Latins had taken
Constantinople, and the Greek Patriarch was forced to
flee to Nicaea. The Serbian Church was therefore cut
off from the seat of authority, and was compelled to rely
upon the Archbishop of Ohrid, then the subject of a
foreign power. Sava, therefore, went to Nicaea and,
urging the danger of Latin Church influence in Serbia
and the value of the Serbs as an ally against the Latin
Emperor of Constantinople, counselled the creation of an
autonomous Serbian Orthodox Church. His request was

THE HOME OF CAUSES WON: SOUTH SERBIA 245

granted by the Patriarch, and Sava himself became first
Archbishop of the autonomous Serbian Church.

He fixed his centre at the Monastery of 2ia, whose
blood-red towers still stand magnificently in the wooded
valley near Kraljevo. There he controlled the destinies
of the Serbian Church until 1233, when he resigned the
power to his pupil Arsenius and set out on a pilgrimage
to the Holy Land. But meanwhile he had carried out
far-reaching and permanent reforms, and closely asso-
ciated the work of the Church with that of the nation
and the dynasty. It may truly be said that the medieval
Serbian state was created materially by the Nemanja
dynasty, and spiritually by Sava and the Serbian Orthodox
Church.

To the end of his life Sava remained a worker. His
many voyages always combined piety and statecraft.
The last of them was in connection with the autonomy
of the Bulgarian Church, and it was at Trnovo, the holy
city of the Bulgarians, that he died, as the guest of the
Bulgarian Tsar Asen, on January 12, 1235, in the sixty-
first year of his age. The Bulgarians also loved and
esteemed the life and work of St. Sava, and it was only
under protest that they allowed King Vladimir to take his
body from the great Rila monastery to that of Milesevo,
where it remained until Sinan Pasha had it exhumed and
burnt on the hill of Vracar in Belgrade in 1595.

All creeds venerated Sava, and still venerate him. The
Catholic King of Bosnia was crowned on his tomb at
Milesevo, and the Catholic sculptor Ivan Metrovid has
included him among the four great Slavonic saints. He
has continued to live, too, in the hearts of the people as
well as of the priests. Many are the peasant tales, some
rather naive, of his wanderings and miracles. He was,
perhaps, the greatest of the Nemanjas.

I spent several days wandering about South Serbia
before I got to Markov Monastir. Of all districts of
Yugoslavia, I like it perhaps the best. But I cannot,

246 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

though I would like, give it the space it deserves. To
describe South Serbia would need another book instead
of a few short pages.

I went first to Ped. But I did not use the new railway
line, for I wanted to see Prizren once more, and there is
no line to Prizren. Therefore I took a bus from UroSevac.

Travelling by bus in South Serbia is always an event.
But this journey began in perfect order, save for the
inevitable quarrels about seats, for the chauffeur, a burly
fellow with dancing-girls tattooed all over his arms,
insisted on apportioning the seats according to his own
ideas. I fought like the rest and got a good place.

We travelled to Prizren like good tourists, through bare
hills, newly-planted oak forest, and with the snow-capped
peaks of the Sara always in view. It was at Prizren that
the fun began.

Prizren has not changed much in the last five
years. It was still the picturesque ramshackle Oriental
town that I remembered, with the clear stream of the
Bistrica running through it. It was once the capital of
Duan the Mighty, and a little way upstream from the
city are the ruins of his fortress and his magnificent
monastery, now, alas, only a few courses of carved marble.
The great stone porch of the Mosque of Sinan Pasha,
he who burned the relics of St. Sava, has fallen down.
Otherwise there is little change.

O yes! I had forgotten. There is a new hotel. When
I was there last, there was only a tiny gostionica. I had
arrived after a long and tiring ride, and did not like the
look of it. Therefore I sought a private room, and knocked
at the door of a lovely old Turkish house. Had they a
room? They had, and I was shown into a spacious and
beautifully proportioned chamber with an exquisite
ceiling of carved woodwork.

'This/ I thought, 'is perfect/ but nevertheless had
doubts. The house was old and built of wood. It would
be better to ask. Diffidently, I inquired:

THE HOME OF CAUSES WON: SOUTH SERBIA 247

'Have you any bugs here?'

My hostess was most offended.

'Bugs! Of course there are bugs! Do you take this
for a stable?'

So, in the end, I went back to the gostionica and spent
a peaceful night.

Prizren is still somewhat primitive. It is near the
frontier and cut off from Skoplje by the Sar mountains.
Also there is no railway. Therefore the officials stationed
there do not like it. Our chauffeur remarked bitterly:

'There is nothing here. No bathing, no sport, no
cinemas. It is a place of exile. If ever a mother loses her
son, she can be sure to find him in the south.'

I cannot quite agree with him. There is beauty, there
is plenty, and one of the best markets in South Serbia.
But then I haven't got to live in Prizren.

As there is no railway, the bus service is the main
means of communication, and the majority of the passen-
gers got out at Prizren. When I got back to the bus, to
continue my journey to Pec, there were only five of us,
all men. Therefore we were transferred to an older and
smaller bus, which must have dated from the occupation,
and looked as if it had been under fire.

The driver turned to me, as the only 'gospodin' in the
bus, and said timidly:

'Are you in a great hurry to get to Pe6?'

I said no; an hour or so was of no great importance
to me.

'Do you mind, then, if we stop and bathe. I will hurry
up as much as I can, so that we will have time.'

He did. I am surprised that we reached the outskirts
of Prizren with any teeth left, after that jolting over old
and uneven Turkish cobbles. On the main road it was
only a little better, as the inevitable repairs were in
progress.

A little outside the town we picked up a gendarme.
The driver's face fell. His bathe seemed out of the

248 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

question now. But I, too, was hot and sticky, and thought
it was up to me, as a 'gospodin/ to take a hand. So I
said boldly:

'We are going to stop and bathe. Will you join us? J

He was only too glad, having just walked some ten
kilometres from a distant village. So at a bridge over the
Drim, where that miserable stream has a somewhat
deeper pool, we parked the bus on the roadside and all
turned out to bathe in the clear cold water. It did us
good. We were all, including the gendarme, singing
lustily when we arrived at Djakovica.

Djakovica is a town of white dust and darkly veiled
women, Albanian Moslems mostly. But there are some
fine houses in the Oriental style. Thence we drove on
towards Defiani.

High Decani is one of the most lovely of all the monas-
teries, and one of the most interesting. For the chief
architect was a Franciscan friar from Kotor, a certain
Vid, who added romance details to the Serbo-Byzantine
style. Had time permitted a completely Yugoslav style
might have eventuated. It lies in a fold of the barren
mountains, just off the fertile valley of the Metohija, in
a forest of flowering chestnuts, and watered by one of the
many streams with the name of Bistrica. It was com-
menced in 1327 by Stefan Uro III, who is usually known
as Decanski, and completed by his son, Dusan the
Mighty, in 1335, who also added the frescoes thirteen
years later.

The fact that it was built by a Catholic is a striking
tribute to the religious tolerance and national unity of
those days. Some of its unique beauty is perhaps due to
this Western influence, but much is also due to its material,
courses of red, steel-blue, and grey marble which have
toned into a wonderful mellowness. Doors and windows
are richly carved with intricate designs of birds, beasts,
and plants. The interior is frescoed throughout. There
are more than a thousand of them, covering every detail

THE HOME OF CAUSES WON: SOUTH SERBIA 249

of the church, even the pillars, whence various Stylite
saints look down on one. A whole wall is decorated with
the family tree of the Nemanjas, where every face has
life and character. It is one of the most beautiful of all
the Serbian monasteries, less austere but more human,
a fairyland of colour where every picture is connected
either with Holy Writ or with the Serbian past.

There are more than a thousand Orthodox monasteries
in the wide expanse between the FruSka Gora and the
Adriatic and ^Egean seas, and although very many were
irretrievably damaged during the long centuries of
Ottoman domination, there are still a sufficient number
preserved intact to show the glories of their architecture
and the brilliant fantasy of their frescoes.

Broadly speaking, there are three main periods. The
earliest was previous to the rise of the Nemanja dynasty.
At this time Byzantine influence was paramount, archi-
tecture was almost purely Byzantine in type, and the
frescoes are still conventional and two-dimensional in
style, often with the gold ground in imitation of mosaic.
Many of them were, however, rebuilt or redecorated
under the Nemanjas, the greatest period of Serbian
medieval art, which lasted throughout the late twelfth, the
thirteenth, and the fourteenth centuries.

An original Serbo-Byzantine school then began to
develop. Fresco painting became more realistic, greater
attention was paid to nature and to expression; portraits
began really to represent their subjects, and little by
little there grew up a three-dimensional 'Renaissance'
style of Serbian painting which strongly supports the
view held by several prominent scholars that, had it not
been for the Turkish invasions, the great period of
Renaissance art might have begun in the Balkans and
not in Italy.

Fresco painting continued to develop in the churches
and monasteries built under the Serbian despots of the
fifteenth century, but architecture tended to become too

250 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

florid, and after the conquest of the entire country by
the Turks all art and architecture came to a stop. In the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries there is little or
nothing.

The third period of Serbian architecture reveals an
art in decadence. The many Serbian monasteries built
in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries on Austrian
or Hungarian soil still show traces of the national Serbo-
Byzantine architecture, as at Kovilj in the Baka, but
Jiiese are gradually ousted by the growing influence of
Austrian Baroque, and the monasteries of the Fruska
Gora have little in common with those of the- great
centuries of Serbian medieval art.

All the monasteries of the early period have been
extensively rebuilt or redecorated in the thirteenth and
fourteenth centuries by Slav architects and artists. One
of the best preserved is that of St. Panteleimon at Nerezi,
built in 1 164 by Alexis Comnenos, the Byzantine governor,
on the mountain slopes to the west of that city. The
architecture is of the purest Byzantine school. The
wonderful marble ikonostas has been broken, but the
fragments are preserved. The frescoes are of various
dates. Some, near the altar, are the work of Greek painters,
while many others have been added by Slav artists. The
name of one of them, Stojka, has been preserved. A few
have been repainted in the nineteenth century, which
certainly adds to their quaintness, but destroys much of
their beauty and value.

Among the oldest monasteries are those around the lake
of Ohrid. Ohrid was the home of the saints Kliment and
Naum, disciples of the first Slavonic apostles, Cyril and
Methodius, and as early as the tenth century became a
centre of Slavonic culture and Christianity, whose
influence extended as far as distant Russia. At the time
of the Serbian Emperor Duan there were said to be
more than a hundred churches and monasteries along
the shores of the lake. More than forty still remain in

STREET IN OHRID

THE HOME OF CAUSES WON I SOUTH SERBIA 251

various stages of preservation. Some of them date back
to the tenth and eleventh centuries, but almost all under-
went some degree of restoration between 1334 and 1400,
when many of the finest were built.

The oldest and most famous of these is the basilica of
St. Sofia, at one time the cathedral of the Archbishops of
Ohrid. It was built in the ninth century on the ruins of
a pagan temple. In Turkish times it was changed into a
mosque, the frescoes covered over, the pulpit changed
into a mimbar, and a minaret now removed was
added. But a good deal of careful restoration has been
done, and the fine frescoes are being cleaned of their
chalk covering and are little the worse for their long
banishment. They provide an interesting contrast between
Byzantine and Serbian art. The earliest were painted by
order of the Greek Archbishop Leo between 1025 and
1056. They are the oldest and finest Byzantine frescoes
in Yugoslavia. But there are also fine sequences painted
in the latter, more naturalistic, Serbian style of the
fourteenth century, including a Vision of the Last
Judgment.

After the conversion of St. Sofia into a mosque, the
church of St. Kliment became the cathedral. It was
built by the Byzantine Emperor Andronicus II, but was
much enlarged under Serbian rule seventy years later.
Among the frescoes is a fine sequence of the life of
Nebuchadnezzar.

I will not weary the reader with an account of all the
churches and monasteries of Ohrid. Those that the
visitor will see, even without any special interest in
fresco, are those of St. Jovan Bogoslov, probably built
during the reign of Tsar Dusan, on a rocky cliff over-
looking the lake near the city of Ohrid, and that of the
Virgin of Zahumlje, usually known as St. Naum, on
another rock at the far end of the lake some thirty odd
kilometres away. The old church was founded in the
ninth century, but extensively renovated in the thirteenth.

252 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

The frescoes, though quaint, have been repainted at
various dates. The belfry is new, replacing an older one.
It is not a happy addition, being in concrete, which is a
most unsuitable addition. Also the frescoes, by the
Russian painter Kolesnikov, are terrible and quite un-
worthy of comparison with the older masters. Among the
martyrs he has placed Tsar Nicholas II.

At the risk of forsaking the sublime for the ridiculous,
I must tell a good story about St. Naum. Part has been
told already, but not all.

In 1929 there was a frontier dispute about St. Naum,
the site being claimed by both Yugoslavs and Albanians.
In fact, the monks were of both nationalities. Both sides
wrote long and impassioned appeals to all the chancelleries
of Europe, including the British Foreign Office.

One petition, sent by the Albanians, stated the monks
of St. Naum were so incensed at the idea that it might
be handed over to Yugoslavia that, if this were the case,
they would be forced to violate their vows.

Unfortunately the typist, in copying this document,
put a V in place of a V in the last word.

When the document, thus typed, appeared at the
Foreign Office, it was handed to a well-known official.
He merely looked at it for a moment, and then added
a marginal note : 'A clear case for the intervention of the
Papal bull.'

But to return to our monasteries. One of the oldest
and most beautiful of all is Studenica, in the Ibar valley.
Its iguman had precedence over the other abbots, and
held the title of Grand Archimandrite, and presided over
the council that elected the Patriarch and bishops. It
was the first and greatest of the 'royal monasteries' which
had a certain autonomy and owed allegiance directly to
the king. The church itself, of white marble, already
shows traces of Western influence in its construction,
especially in the details of doors and windows, which are
more Romanesque than Byzantine. It was founded about

THE HOME OF CAUSES WON: SOUTH SERBIA 253

1183 by the Grand 2upan Stefan Nemanja. Several of
the original twelfth-century frescoes have remained
intact, including a fine portrait of St. Sava. Others
were restored with care and reverence, so that the church
as a whole has retained its artistic. unity. The original
frescoes were added after the death of Nemanja by his
son Vukan, who, with many other members of the
Nemanja family, is buried here.

I cannot here describe all the great monasteries of
South Serbia. So I will only mention them. The finest
are blood-red 2ia, the Coronation church of the Serbian
Kings, near Kraljevo; Milesevo, near Prijepolje in
Bosnia, built by King Vladislav between 1234 and 1243,
where St. Sava was buried; Sopofiani, built by Uros I
in 1265, near Raska; the church of the Virgin at Matejid,
built somewhere before 1300, and perched like an eagle's
nest on the mountains overlooking the Kumanovo plain;
Treskavac, originally Byzantine, but rebuilt by Dusan
in 1335; the Holy Archangel at Prilep; the Church of
St. George at Staro Nagoricane, near Kumanovo, built
by King Milutin in 1313; Gracanica on the field of
Kosovo, the most imposing architecturally of all the
Serbian churches, also a foundation of King Milutin,
and Decani.

After the fall of the Serbian power in the south, after
the battle of Kosovo in 1389, the tradition of monastery
building was continued by the Serbian despots (that, by
the way, is a title and not a description), who maintained
an independent state in the northern part of Serbia near
the Danube, with their capital now at Belgrade and now
at Smederevo. They are of particular interest, as they
display the purest development of the Serbian style
which was now quite independent of Byzantine influ-
ences. The frescoes, too, are quite original in style. Of
the many monasteries built during the first part of the
fifteenth century, the most interesting are Lazarica,
Ljubostinja, and Kaleni<5 in the Sumadija, Markov

254 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

Monastir near Skoplje, and, above all, the great monastery
of Resava or Manasija, built by the despot Stefan
Lazarevid in the last years of Serbian independence.
It is defended by huge stone walls, with flanking towers,
and at first sight looks more like a fortress than a monas-
tery. But the church is among the most beautiful in the
country, and the contrast between its peaceful cupolas
and rich carvings and frescoes and the bleak stone
fortifications is particularly striking.

But to return to my journey. At Fed I was seduced by
the high-sounding title of the Hotel Imperial to forsake
my old and trusted friend in the main street, where I had
often stayed before. To tell the truth, there was not
much wrong with it, save that it was by no means imperial.
The food was good and the beds clean, but a French
professor, who was stopping the night there on his way
to Cetinje, was vocally indignant about the public offices,
which were situated between two pigsties !

There was the usual colourful throng in the main
street. Perhaps to a newcomer they would be wildly
exciting. But one of the disadvantages of looking at any-
thing for a long time is that one cannot see it at all. There
were Albanians in black and white national dress, with
trousers hitched so precariously on their hips that they
seemed in imminent danger of falling off. There were
Montenegrin 'serdars* in full dress, mostly pensioned
soldiers, for Fed is a town of pensioners. There were
grave, bearded Orthodox priests, with faces like Byzan-
tine Christs. There were the usual Moslem women in
veils and 'fleabags', often with silk stockings and Paris
shoes peeking out beneath. There were pert little girls
in loose baggy trousers and tight-fitting bodices too
young, these, to have to* have the veil. There were
Orthodox peasant women in the brightly-coloured
embroideries of the Metohija national costume. A brilliant
throng, indeed, but one to which I have grown accus-
tomed. But one passer-by made even me sit up and take

THE HOME OF CAUSES WON: SOUTH SERBIA 255

notice. An Albanian in national costume was leading an
ox-waggon down the main street. In it was his wife. She
was wearing a black veil over a white dress, and a pair
of bright cerise woollen gloves !

Naturally I had come to Pe<$ to see the Patriarchate.
It lies in the mouth of the great Rugovo gorge, so that
the mountains seem to make a frame around its squat
cupolas. It is a strange building, composed not of one
medieval church, but three, so that it is full of frescoes,
corridors leading nowhere in particular, and changing
floor levels. But it is saturated with the spirit of
history.

The seat of the Serbian Orthodox Church was moved
there in 1346, when seven-gated 2ica was too close to
the Hungarian frontier, under the reign of Tsar DuSan.
It was in that year also that the Serbian Archbishop was
advanced to the rank of a Patriarch and crowned his
master as Emperor of Serbs, Greeks, and Albanians, the
future ruler of the Byzantine Empire, had not the Turks
come and destroyed his wide-flung plans. He was crowned
at Skoplje, not only by the Serbian Patriarch, but by the
Bulgarian and the Greek Archbishop of Ohrid.

But the role of Ped was to be less brilliant, though
equally glorious. Under Turkish rule, the Christian
peasants became raja, that is to say, subject peoples,
more or less in the position of serfs. The temporal power
was little by little destroyed. The only national institution
left was the church, which was a centre of national
feeling made doubly strong by the sharp religious cleavage
between Moslem and Christian. But it was too dangerous
a centre. Shortly after the fall of Smederevo in 1459, the
Serbian Patriarchate was abolished by the Turks, and
the spiritual power exercised by the Greek Archbishops
of Ohrid. But the national feeling was still kept alive by
the Serbian priests, and even more by the national
poetry. The darker side of feudal times was forgotten,
and a tradition created of the good old days of freedom.

256 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

In 1557, however, the Serbian Patriarchate was again
revived by the Grand Vezir, Mehmed Sokolovid, one
of the many Serb Bosnians who had accepted Islam and
risen to high rank. He appointed his relative Makarije,
a monk of Hilendar, to the Patriarch. Thus Fed became
once more a national and cultural centre for the Serbs.
The Patriarch was acknowledged as spiritual chief of his
people, and to some extent represented them also in
temporal matters. Churches and monasteries began to
be repaired and rebuilt, and Church books copied and
distributed. It was a time of spiritual regeneration,
though on a modest scale, as the Church was never
allowed to grow too powerful under Turkish rule.

After Makarije's death in 1574, his successors began
to dream dreams of national liberation. They entered into
negotiations with the Western powers, Austria and
Russia, and stirred up revolts against Turkish rule,
such as that of Voevod Grdan in the Hercegovina.
Missions were sent to the courts of Russia and the
Moldavian Prince Bassarab, and even to Rome.

Almost all the Ped Patriarchs became involved in these
patriotic intrigues, and matters came to a head during
the Austro-Turkish wars of the seventeenth century,
when Serb volunteers actively assisted the Austrian
troops. The Patriarch Arsenius III was forced to fly, and
in 1690 crossed the Danube into Austrian territory with
a very large number of Serbian families. This was known
as the Great Migration, and was a turning-point in the
history of the Serbian Orthodox Church. The successor
of Arsenius, Kalinik I, succeeded in calming the outraged
Turks, but his successors attempted yet another rebellion
during the Austro-Turkish war of 1737, and only managed
to save his life by flight. The power of the Ped Patriarchs
declined rapidly, and in 1766 was finally abolished.
From then until the Serbian insurrection of 1804 most
of the higher clergy in the Serbian land under Ottoman
rule were Greeks.

FROM TETOVO IN SOUTH SERBIA. WATCHING A WEDDING
PROCESSION

THE HOME OF CAUSES WON: SOUTH SERBIA 257

Incidentally the Great Migration accounts for the large
number of Albanians in these districts. When the Serb
families left, they descended from their mountains and
colonized the rich valleys of the Metohija and Kosovo,
where very many of them still remain.

The Patriarchate, however, continued to exist at
Sremski Karlovci in pre-war Hungary, and still carried
out its role as a centre for the Serbs, this time those
under Austro-Hungarian rule. But after the liberation
the dignity was revived, and the present Dr. Gavrilo holds
the proud titles of Serbian Patriarch, Archbishop of Ped,
and Metropolitan of Belgrade and Karlovci.

Next evening, waiting for my train to Skoplje, I felt
thoroughly bored. It was getting late, but I could not
feel sleepy, although I had to rise early the next morning.
So I decided to explore Ped; hitherto I had known only
the main streets. The town is cleaned in the Turkish
manner; that is to say, swift streams of water run along
the streets carrying away all dust, dirt, and other rubbish
thrown into them. When they are really swift, as at Ped,
the system is quite efficient, though street-sweepers have
been introduced as well, to take the place of die pariah
dogs which are a bit too casual and indiscriminate for
Yugoslav tastes. I do not know what the towns of modern
Turkey are like ; but the Yugoslavs have certainly improved
the systems of pre-war Turkey.

Street-lighting in Fed is inadequate. So I carefully
oriented myself by a minaret and took a note of the
direction in which the streams were running before
setting out. Then I dived into a maze of side-streets.

All the side-streets in Pec are more or less the same,
as all residential houses open on to an inner court and
show nothing to the outer world but an eyeless wall,
with perhaps one tiny latticed window for a porter, or
for the very mild Moslem flirtation where the lover can
scarcely catch a glimpse of his beloved. After wandering
through a labyrinth of these in the dark, I picked out
s

258 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

the minaret once more and a stream, and made for the
Hotel Imperial.

Alas, it was a different mosque and a different stream,
and it was too dark to see the shapes of the mountains.
In a few moments I was very thoroughly lost.

I looked about me to see some one of whom I could
ask the way. But I must have been some way from the
main street, for everything was silent and deserted. In
the daylight Fed seems insignificant, although it covers"
an area quite out of proportion to the number of its
inhabitants. But in the dark it seemed enormous. So it
was with a sigh of relief that I saw a man coming
towards me.

He turned out to be a rich Moslem beg. But he was
also a very friendly and up-to-date young man, with a
brother in the Yugoslav Air Force. Instead of retiring into
disgruntled obscurity after the loss of his serfs, he had
taken to trade and continued to prosper. He invited me
to his house, a rare honour for a stranger and a 'Frank'.

From the outside it seemed like all the others ; a mere
mud wall, topped with tiles. But inside it was beautiful,
especially in the velvety darkness. The garden was
pleasant with the sound of running water, and somewhere
in the poplars a nightingale was singing. He called for
lights, and we sat in the ardak-balcony on fat billowy
cushions, drinking rose cordial, until dawn.

Therefore the contrast seemed yet greater when I
came at last to Markov Monastir. I went there with a very
dear friend, in a rickety old fiacre, the only vehicle that
would accept us. For there is no road to Markov Monastir,
and a taxi would soon come to grief in the river bottom
which we had to ford. We started early, before the sun
grew too intense.

It was the typical landscape of South Serbia, a land-
scape that one grows to love, and which always forces
one to return. The way lay along a fertile valley, through
fields of tobacco, opium, and maize. On the right were

THE HOME OF CAUSES WON I SOUTH SERBIA 259

the snow-capped peaks of the Sara. Along the road,
peasants in national costume greeted us courteously. In
the river valleys, now muddy and parched by the heats
of high summer, clumsy water-buffaloes wallowed
contentedly. It is hard work prodding one of these out
of his muddy lair. The road, if road it could be called,
was bordered by graceful avenues of poplars.

We passed through two villages, one Turkish, built of
ramshackle mud-brick houses, with the ruins of a cifluk or
Turkish manor-house recalling the feudal times not so
long distant, the other Serb, better kept and cleaner,
where a hospitable householder stopped us for a glass
of rakija.

Then on, along a mountain stream, and up into the
foothills.

The first sight of Marko's monastery was lovely. We
came upon it suddenly over the crest of a tiny hill. The
beautiful old fourteenth-century church rose proudly
out of a circle of heavily-built walls, with a massive iron-
studded gate, and, behind, the monastery buildings with
broad wooden balconies open to the sun and wind.
Everything seemed silent. We hammered at the great
gates.

The Father Superior opened them to us. Nowadays
not many Serbs become monks, and many of the finest
monasteries have only a single inmate. Father Damaskin
lived here alone, with a few monastery servants. We
unharnessed the horses and left them and the fiacre in
the shade under a trellis of vines near the well in the
huge courtyard. Then we went upstairs for coffee and
'slatko,' jam served with glasses of cold water, the
traditional commencement of Serbian hospitality.

Father Damaskin was a young and intelligent man,
with a deep sense of piety, yet with a quick wit and
curiously sad eyes. He had been one of the 'aces' of the
Yugoslav Air Force, but had been so damaged in a crash
that he was no longer fit for active life, and had retired

260 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

to this life of service and meditation. The monastery lands
are large, and he had plenty to do.

He had taken over the control of the monastery a few
years before, when old Makarije, his predecessor, had
died. His grave 'Makarije, the Slave of God' showed
white and raw on a tiny mound before the church.

Thither we went. It is small, as are most of the Serbian
churches, for the great religious gatherings are held in
the open air. But it is of singular beauty. The walls are
covered with frescoes of the best period, that of the first
Turkish invasions. Over the doorway the patron saint
Demetrius bears on the crupper of his horse a tiny
black-robed archimandrite, who repaired the church in
Turkish times. Beneath the feet of his charger is a Turkish
warrior with broken yataghan and spear. But this is of
later date. Within, the frescoes of Vukain and Marko
still dazzle one with their beauty.

One, in particular, kept me gazing long. It represents
Rachel mourning for her slaughtered children. They are
grouped around her, hieratically stiff and dressed in
white, the Oriental colour of mourning. She, among them,
lifts her hands to heaven in an attitude of compassionate
despair, as if hoping for the day of deliverance that was
not to come until 1912, nearly six hundred years after
her pictured plaint. What feelings must that fresco have
aroused in all those long darkened years ?

We had intended to go back the same day, but Father
Damaskin entreated us to stay. Why not? The monastery
had plenty of guest-rooms, seldom used. So we sat in
the wide Cardak-balcony and drank wine and chatted till
the shadows fell over the courtyard and the white chalk
cliff on the far side of the stream looked like some silent
and forgotten waterfall.

We slept well that night, though Father Damaskin,
as a precautionary measure, arranged our rooms far from
one another, on opposite sides of the courtyard.

'After all', he said, 'this is a monastery.'

THE HOME OF CAUSES WON: SOUTH SERBIA 261

I woke early. Outside my window the stream was
murmuring pleasantly. The nightingale had ceased, but
the crickets were still chirping and the frogs had not
ceased their night-long concert. A dawn wind was gently
stirring the poplars, and the first rays of golden sunlight
were just beginning to touch the cupola and balconies.
I was peaceful and content, with the present and with
the past. It seemed a good moment, while the dream was
still present, to leave South Serbia.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

'TpHERE is an abundant literature on Yugoslavia, but a large
JL number of the books printed are of very little real value.
For those who want to know more about the country, I attach
a short list of books, which are either instructive or interest-
ing, and, I hope, in most cases both. I assume the reader does
not know Serbo-Croatian, so am not including any works in
that language.

The best general account of the people and their way of
life is still La Peninsule Balkanique of Jovan Cvijic*. An excel-
lent account, if a trifle dry, of the progress made since the
war in South Serbia, is La Macedoine by Jacques Ancel.
The Abbe* Fortis will already be familiar to all who have
read this book. An English translation of his Voyage in Dal-
matia was published in London in 1787. There is, I believe,
a later edition, but cannot trace it. The best modern accounts
are Yugoslavia by J. Patterson in the 'Modern States* series,
which is more political, and my own Profane Pilgrimage,
which deals more extensively with South Serbia than I have
in this book. Bernard Newman's Albanian Backdoor is inter-
esting and, on the whole, reliable. The Albanian backdoor
in question is Ohrid. Louis Adamic's The Native's Return
has some very lovely descriptions and some extraordinarily
tendencious politics.

There is no good general history available in English.
Those that have appeared are sketchy and usually tendencious.
The best sketch of Bosnian history is included in Sir Arthur
Evans' Through Bosnia and Herzegovina on Foot during the
Insurrection, 1877, a most interesting book. The same sorry
story is told in The European Provinces of Turkey by Miss
Irby and Miss Mackenzie, also from first-hand experience.
Louis Vojnovic has published a Histoire de Dalmatic, which
is interesting reading. Von Ranke's History of the Serbian
Insurrection is not only good history but remarkably beautiful
prose. He had the advantage of knowing some of the leaders
of the insurrection personally. There is a good English
translation. Konstantin Jirecek's History of the Serbs goes,

BIBLIOGRAPHY 263

unfortunately, only up to 1570, It is a necessary book for
every student, but very dry reading. It is published in German
and Serbo-Croat. The same remark applies also to his other
historical studies. For the political history of just before the
Great War and also for minority questions, the best guide is
Professor Seton- Watson.

A good general history of the Balkans, including Serbia
and Montenegro, but not Croatia, Slovenia, and Dalmatia,
is Miller's The Ottoman Empire and its Successors. Recent
editions have supplements to bring it up to date. Miss
Waring's Serbia in the Home University Library is beauti-
fully written, but is a war book, and therefore somewhat
heated in tone. Professor Temperley's History of Serbia is
second only to Von Ranke. A detailed and interesting history
of Serbia in the nineteenth century by an American professor
is appearing sporadically in the Slavonic Review. I do not
know when it will be completed.

The best book on Dalmatian art and architecture is F.
Jackson's Dalmatia, Istria, and the Quarnero, 1887. No writer
has yet approached its quality in any language. Slovene
Medieval Art by Fran Stele, published in Ljubljana, is a
magnificent work on a special subject, with French and
English text. Professor Gabriel Millet has published some
good books on Serbian medieval frescoes, in French.

Professor Bernhard Gesemann has written on Yugoslav
literature in German and Dragutin Subotid has published a
study, Yugoslav National Ballads, in English, which contains
many of the best translations. There is an accurate, but rather
pedestrian, translation of the Mountain Wreath (Gorski
Vijenac) by J. Wiles. Owen Meredith's Serbski Pesme (sic!)
are terrible.

A good study of Yugoslav folk-lore in English, from a
medical aspect, is Healing Ritual by P. Kemp. There is no
good general study on the subject in English. Unclean Blood
is an interesting study by Bora Stankovid, in novel form. An
English translation has been published under the title of Sofka.

There are several novels dealing with Yugoslavia. Most
of them are bad. Those that are good include Orient Express
by van Doolaard, Balkan Monastery by Stephen Graham,
and Illyrian Spring by Ann Bridge. There is a good deal of
novelist's licence in all three.

264 A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

There is no good guide-book of Yugoslavia in English,
though I believe that Miss Muriel Currey is now engaged on
writing one. At the moment the best guide-books are Herbert
Taub's Fuhrer durch Jugoslawien> 1929, which is somewhat
out of date, and, of local interest, Slowenien by Rudolf Badura.
Mrs. F. Copeland has also published a very handy little
mountaineers' guide of Slovenia, which is obtainable in
Ljubljana.

The Central Press Bureau at Belgrade also publishes some
useful little books in French: La Yougoslavie par les Chiffres
(annually), Belgrade , Les Penseurs Yougoslaves, Histoire de
Yougoslavie, by the late Professor Stanoje Stanojevid, and
La Literature Yougoslave. They give a good general idea.

Mr. David Footman has also written several amusing and
witty books about Yugoslavia, some, such as Balkan Holiday
openly, others, like most of his novels, with the Yugoslav
localities very thinly concealed under various pseudonyms.

INDEX

Aachen, Peace of, 76

Abbazia, 7

Abfalter, Ivan, 10

Adam, Robert, 75

Ademkoda, 167

Agatharcis, 96

Agron, 133

Albanians, 137 et seq. , 141 et seq. ,

153, 248, 252, 254 et seq., 257
Albigenses, 159
Alegra, 168 et seq.
Alexander I, King, 79, 128, 149,

236,239,240
Alexius Comnenos, 250
Alibeg, 168
Alibeg Atlagid, 69
Andreas of Otting, 216
Andrijeyica, 153
Andronicus II, Emp., 251
Arauzpna, 68
Arsenius I, Patriarch, 245
Arsenius III, Patriarch, 256
Asen, Tsar, 245
Athos, Mt., 243, 244
Auersperg, Count, 188
Augustus, Imp., 208
Austro-Hungarian Lloyd, 7, 72
Avala,Mt.,233,236
Avars, 10, 19, 76, 81, I33> 204,

226

Bakar, 16, 72

Bakota, 35

BalSid (BalSa), 133, 143

Banac, Bozo, 122

Banja Luka, 158, 188 et seq.

Bar, 131, i32,(Stari), 144

Barbat, 36 et seq.

BaS-CarSija, 162 et seq.

BaSka, 15 et seq., 20 et seq.

Basil I, Emperor, 133

Bassarab, Prince, 256

Bato, King, 175

Bela III, 68

Bela IV, 42

Belgrade, 199 et seq., 218 et seq.

BendbaSa, 170

Benkovac, 48 et seq.

Biograd-na-Moru, 54> 64 et seq.

Biokovo, 86, 89, 93, 106

BiSevo, 96, 98

Bistrica, 152, 246

Bistrik, 166, 171, 172

Bjtolj,24i

Bjelasnica, 173

Blandona, 68

Blato, 103

Bled, 2ii

Bloka,2i2

Bobadilla, 120

Bobaljevid, Savko, 118

'Boce,' 28, 92

Bdcklin, 126

Bogumils, 12, 77, 87, 159 et seq.,

160, 173, 177, 179
Bohinj,2i2
Bojana river, 140
Boka Kotorska, 124 et &eq., 134,

154 et seq.
Bokeljska Mornarica, 124 et seq.

Bol,93

Bona family, 113

Borelli family, 69

Boskovid, Roger, 120

Bosna, 8

Bosnian March (Krajina), 183

et seq.

Bosnian heresy, see Bogumils
Brag, 84, 89 et seq.
Brajdica, 2
Brod, 174

Brothers of Croatian Dragon, 28
Bud, Nikola, 127
Bucentoro , 65
Budva, 129, 130, 134
Bulgaria, 159, 245
Bulid,Msgr.,8i et seq.
Buna, 1 60
Bunid, Djivo, 120
Bunjevci, 39
Burnum, 51
Buiatlija , Mehmed ,135

Cacak, 174
Cakor, 152
Cankar, 203
Capljina, 158, 160
Cardak, 184

266

A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

at, 95, 122 etseq., 156
___ rekclja Muslihuddin, 171
Celebija,Evlija,228
Celje,2o6

Celje, Counts of, 204, 210
Celts, 66

Cen, Liko, 134 et seq., 143
Cetina, 87

Cetinje, 127, 129, 144, 148 et seq.
Charlemagne, 204
Ciovo, 84
Coastal road, 40
Cofeci, 169 et seq.
Cokoyac, 67 et seq.
Colatium, 216

Corvinus, Matthias, 160, 178
Crikvenica, 16
Crna Breg, 210
Crnojevic, Ivan, 148
Crnojevid river, 147 et seq.
Croats, 3 et seq., 25 et seq., 44,

65 et seq., 76 et seq., 195 * *^-
Cubrinovic", 118
Culidjerko, fyetseq., gi
Cyril and Methodius, 26, 122,

209,250

Dahis, 229^5*3., 243

Dajanli Osman Beg, 172

Damaskin, Father, 258 et seq.

D'Annunzio,2

Danube, 218 et seq.

Davy, Sir Humphry, 213

Decani, 127, 207, 248 et seq. ,253

Decanski, 248

De Dominis, 35

'Demping* cafe, 180

Desantte family, 24

Diamante of Munich, 193

Dioclea, 153

Diocletian, 74 et seq.

Disnid, Petar, 60

Djakovica, 248

Djordjic, Ignjat, 120

Djordjic*, Stijepp, 120

Djurdjevid, Ignjat, 121

Dobrlin, 186

Dobrota, 124, 155

Dolac, 66

Dolin, 36

Domenico de Lalio, 206

Domnius, 8z

Donji Vakuf, 176

Drava province, 205 et seq., cf.

Slovenia
Drava valley, 209 et seq. t 214

et seq.

Dravograd-meza ,215
Drim river, 248
Drvar, 185
Drzic, Djordje, 118
Dr2ic,Marin, 118
Dubordieu, Admiral, 101
Dubrovcani (village), 160
Dubrovnik, 106, 108 et seq.,

153, 155,156,175
Duke of Kent, 122, 212
Dur, Jakov, 10
Durres (Durazzo), 135, 139
Duan, Tsar, 61, 117, 127, 227,

239,241,246,250,255

Edward, King, see Windsor,

Duke of
El Greco, 105
Elizabeth of Hungary, 69
Epetion, 79

Eugene, Prince of Savoy, 171 , 228
Evans, Sir A., 181

Fala, 215

Ferhad Pasha, 188

FerhatpaSiC family, 69

Flaccus Illyricus, 119

Food, 22 et seq., 162 et seq., 231

et seq.
Fortis, AbbS, 18, 26, 30, 33, 39,

51, 60, 68, 70, 87 et seq., 106
Franciscans, Bosnian, 60
Frankopan family, 3, 4 * se 4->

15, 16, i&etseq.
Franks, 76, 204
Franz, Joseph, Emp., 49
Franzstal, 220
Frederick III, Emp., 216
Frescoes, 249 et cd.
'FushArabi,' 136
Fuzine, n et seq.

Gabela, 157, 1 60
Callus, 209
Gavrilo, Dr. 257
Genoese, 105

George of Smederevo, 225 et
seq., 228, 239

Georgid, Marin, 117
German colonists, 189, 220
Ghazi Ali Pasha, 171
Giacomo, Francesco da, 55
Gibbon, Edward, 75
Glagolithic, 25 et seq., 66 et seq.
Gondola-Gundulic* family, 113
Gornji Seher, 189 et seq.
Gorski Vijenac, 150
Gospa od Skrpelja, 126
Gozze-Guetic family, 113
Graani,2Oi et seq.
GraSanica, 253
Gradska Kafana, 109
Graeme, Robert, 75
Grandic* pension, 22
Graz, 208

Grdan, Voevod, 256
Gregory VII, Pope, 68
Gregory of Nin, 26, 76, 83, 122
GrobniSko Polje, 10
Grme mountain, 185
Gruz, 115
Gubavica, 87
Gubec, Matija, 194
Giustiniani, Giambattista, 81
Gundulid, Ivo, 113, 120
Gypsies, 105, 172 et seq.

Hadji Alija (Ulcinj), 134, 143,

(Po&telj), 1 60
Haj-Nehaj, 132
Hajdar Karamidjia, 134
Hajduks, 243
Halil Beg, 69
Haralampia, 135
Haydn, 200
Hazabeg, 160
Herberstein, 208
Hercegovina, 156 et seq.
Hercegnovi, 128, 155
Hektorovid, 119
Helez family, 160
Hetairia, 237
Hilendar, 244, 256
Holy Archangel monastery, 241,

253

Holy Mount, see Athos
Homplje, 1 80
Hosein Breg, 171
Hoste, Admiral, 101
Hotel Boka, 128

INDEX 267

Hungarians, 160, 177, 178, 204,

224,227 etseq.
Hunyadi Janos, 225 et seq.
Hunyadi Tower, 221, 224
Husrev Beg Ghazi, 165
Hvar, 85, 119

Ilica, 195

Ilidza, 173

Illyrian Province, 205

Illyrians, 126, 133, 175, 226

Irby, Miss, 181

Irish, 66

Issa, 98

Italian occupation, 4 et seq.

Ivan Planina, 1 60, 174

Ivo of Senj, 16 et seq. t 243

Jablanac, 39
Jabuka, 98

Jackson, 35, 54, 56, 75
Jaderriver, 74,77, 80
Jadranska Plovidba, 154
Jajce, 176
JanCe Han, 169
Jekovac, 1 66, 170
Jela&cS Ban, 195 et seq.
Jesenice,2i2
Jews, 130, 199
Jezero, 183
Jovanovic', K., 238
Judennacl, 210
Jugpvidi, 242
Jurindvor, 28

KaCiC* family, 86

Kakanj, 174

Kalemegdan, 218 et seq., 225

et seq.

Kalenic*, 253
Kalinik I, Patriarch, 256
Kamenita Vrata, 195
Kampsa, Dinko, 134
Karadzi<5, Vuk Stefan, 205
Karaganian, Mr., 64 et seq.
Karageorge, 229 et seq., 236 et

seq. ,240 ,243
Karin sea, 45,49
Karlobag, 41,42
Karlovci peace, 178
Karst, 8 etseq., 157

KatelStari,99
KiStanje, 51

268

A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

'Klapotec,' 208

Kick, 126

Klekovafca mountain, 186

Kliment, 26, 250

Klis, 7, 12, 42, 53, 83 et seq., 96

Kljakovic, Jozo, 195 et seq.

Kmetstvo, 43

Knin, 50, 52, 53

Kolasm, 153

Kolesnikov, 252

Koloman, 3

Komar pass, 176

Komin, 107

Komiza, 96 et seq.

Konavle, 108, 114, 122, 125

Kopitar, 27, 205

Kor&ila, 102 et seq.

Korosec, Dr. Antun, 205

Kosovo, 43,242, 253

Kotor, 124 et seq. t 154, 155

Kovil, 250

Kraljevica, 16 t

Kraljevo,253

Kranjska Gora, 213

Kresevljakoyic, H., 169 et seq.

Kresmxir IV, 65,67,76

'KreSo,' 92

KrivoSije, 126

Krk, 15, 19 etseq.,6s

Krka, 5 i,52, 53, 58e**?2.

Krleza, Miroslav, 198 et seq.

KruSic", Petar, 7, 84

Kufciste, 105

Kulin Ban, 175

Kumanovo,253

Kupa (battle), 17, (river), 160

Lambro, 136 et seq.
LaSva, 174
Laudon, 229
Lazar,43,242
Lazarica, 253

Lei, 43

Leo, Archbishop, 251

Lesh, 133

Leucas, 99

Liber and Libera, 209

Liburna, 51

Lidanka, 12

LiSko Polje, 12

Lika, 18,41,47,69

Lissa, see Vis

Ljubica, Princess, 237, 238

Ljubija, 175

Ljubljana, 212

Ljubostinja,253

Ljutomer, 210,

Logar valley, 212

Lollards, 159

Lopar, 30

Loretto , 4

Lovc"en, 127, 129, 153 et seq.

Lovrijenac, 109

Lucan, 80

Lukovid, Count Antun, 125

Lukovo,4o

Lutica, 129

MaSkovic*, Jusuf, 69, 70

Madalina, 53

Maglaj, 1 68

Mahmud II, Sultan, 238

Makarije, Patriarch, 256, (monk),

260

Makarska, 106
Malaria, 62, 63
Mamula, 126
Manasija, 207, 234
Maric*-Galzigna , 3 5
Marias tern, 192 et seq.
Maribor, 206 et seq.
Marijan, Mt., 84
Marinus , hermit , 3 1
Marko Kraljevic", 234, 241 et seq.
Markov Monastir, 241, 245, 253,

258 et seq.
Markovgrad, 241
Marmont, 61 et seq. t 112
Martin V, Pope, 19
Martolossi, 180
Maruli<5, Marko, 119
Matejid, 253
Mavrijan Mount, 133
Maximilian Emanuel of Baden,

228

Maximir Park, 200
Maximus , 209
Mencetid , Siko , 1 1 8
Messolonghi, 135
MeStrovic, Ivan, 83, 95, 122

et seq. 9 156, 195 et seq., 245
Metkoyic*, 102, 106 et seq. t 157
Metohija, 248, 254, 257
Michael, Prince, 230

INDEX

269

Mihanovic", 94

,,

Military Frontiers, 180
MiljaCka, 166, 170
Milna, 93
Milocer, 131
Miles' Obilid, 242
Miles' Obrenovic*, 230, 237 et seq.
Milutin, King, 227, 253
Mioslav, 65 , 66
Mirogoj , 200
Mislinja valley, 2 15
Mithraea, 178 et seq., 209
Mliniste, 184
Mljet, 121
Mongols, 10
Mongooses, 121
Montenegro, 131 et seq., 144

et seq.
Montenegrins, 132, 134, 150

et seq., 154

Montenegrin War, 135, 143
MoreSka, 105
Mostar, 160 et seq.
Musta, 136 et seq.
Mustafa, i, 161 et seq.
Mustafa Pasha, 181, 229 et seq.

Nadkovan, 105

'Nahlin,'4S

NaljeSkovic, Nikola, 118

Napoleon, 49, 61, 67, 101, 205

Nardino, Giovanni, 60

Narentines, 106

Narona, 106

Naum, 26, 250, 251

Nebuchadnezzar, 251

Negroes, 135 et seq.

Nehaj (Senj), 18

Nelipi<5i,6i,77

Nemanja family, 133, 159, 227,

243 et seq. 9 245, ,249, 253
Nemanja, Grand Zupan, 239,

243,244,253
Nepos, Julius, 76
Neretljani, 86, 89
Neretljanskikanal, 106
Neretva, 106, 156 et seq.
Nerezi,25O
NereziSte, 93
Nevesinje revolt, 181
Nicaea, 244

tticcolo Fiorentino, 55
Nicholas II of Russia, 252
Nikola, King, 132, 149
Nin,6s,66

NjegoS, 150 et seq., 154
NjeguSi, 154
Novi Vinodol, 16
Novigradsko More, 44 et seq.
Nugent family, 4 et seq.
Nuli6, Branislav, 198 et seq.

Obedska Bara, 191

Obod, 117, 148

Obrenovic* family, 233, cf. MiloS

Obrenovic*
Obrovac, 39 et seq., 44 et seq.
Ohrid (town), 250 et seq.
Ohrid, Archbishopric, 244, 251,

2 55

OhurnuSevic* family, 113
Olcinium, 133 .
Ombla, 8, 121, 156
Omer-beg, 167
Omi, 77, 86 et seq.
Oplenac, 236 et seq., 241
Opuzen, 107
OraSac, 237
Orebid, 105

Orpheus monument, 209, 210
Orseolo, Doge Peter II, 76
Orsini, Giorgio, 55 et seq.
Otro, 126
Ostrog, 148

Pag, 40, 42

Pale, 172

Palmotic*, Junije, 120

Pantevo, 226

Panduri, 194

Pannonia, 208

Pasman, 65 et seq.

Patareni, 159

Paul, Prince-regent, 212

Paulicians, 60

Pec", 151, 246 et seq., 254 * seq.,

257 et seq.
Pelargosa, 97
Pelargonia, 241
Peljesac, 105
Perast, 72, 124, 134* *5S
Perister, 241
Perun,43,89, 105

A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

PeruSid, 50

Petar I, King, 236 et seq. t 240

Petranovid family, 94

Petrovid-Njego, 149 et seq.

Pfanner, Franjo, 192 et seq.

Piave, 182

Pile Gate, 108, 114

Pius II, Pope, 178, 216

Planica, 213

Pliny, 75 ,89, 133

Pliva river, 177, 179* l8 3>

(lake), 183 etseq.
Plode, 107
Po&telj , 1 60 et seq.
Podgorica, 149, 152
Podkoren,2i3
Poetoyium, 208 et seq.
Pohorje, 213, 214 et seq.
Pohorjski Dom, 214
Poldi, 35 etseq.
Poljica, 77, 88 et seq.
Polo family, 103
Popovo polje, 157
Porphyrogenitos , 80
Porta Milena, 140
Possedaria, Counts of, 50
Potoci, 185
Povlje, 91 et seq.
Prcanj, 124, 155

Premuda, Dom Vinko, 25 et seq.
Presern,203
Prijedor, 186, 187, 189
Prijepolje, 253
Prilep,24i,253
Prizren,246 etseq.
Prvid, 16
Ptuj,2o8 etseq.
PuciSde, 92

Quarnero, 6, 7

Rab, 21, 26, 30 et seq., 65

Raid family, 95 , 122 et seq.

Raki (historian) , 12 , (painter) , 1 79

Radid, Stjepan, 200

Raduid, 51

Ranjina , Dinko , 1 1 8

Ranjina family, 113

RaSka, 253

Rastko, 243

Ratee, 212,213

Rauch, Baron, 195

Ravni Kotari, 46, 48 et seq.

Razanac, 43 et seq.

Razboj, 189 etseq.

Recanati, 4

Resava, 254

'Resi,' 128 etseq., 154

Resti family, 113

Rijeka (Fiume), 2, 3

Rijeka Crnojevida, 146 et seq.

Rila monastery, 245

Rimski-Korsakoff, 214

Risan, 126

RizaPasha,230

Rogaka Slatina, 191

Rogendorf, Count, 119

Romulus Augustulus, 209

Rosandid, Toma, 94 et seq., 123

Rugpvo Gorge, 152 et seq.

Rufica (church), 229

Sadrvan, 166

St. Andrija (island), 97, (church),

44

St. Ante, 49
St. Antun,34
St. Bolfenk,2i4
St. Elias,43
St. Florijan, 194 et seq., 201

etseq., 209, 21 5
St George, 239, (island), 126,

(church), 253
St. Ivan (fortress), 155
St. Janez,2i2
St. Jerome, 79
St. John, Order of, 69
St. Jovan Bogoslov, 251
St. Kliment,25i
St. Lucia, 27

St. Mark, Zagreb, 195 et seq.
St. Naum,25i,252
St. Panteleimon, 250
St. Paul, apostle, 121
St. Rok, 122

St. Sava, 122, 128,239,249 et seq.
St. Sofia (Ohrid),2Si
St. Trifun, 124 etseq., (church),

129

St. Vlaho, 109 et seq., 115 et seq.
Salona, 58, 76 et seq., 79 et seq.
Salt pans, 140 et seq.
Sammichele, Leonardo, 53
San Marino, 31

INDEX

371

Sana river, 160, 186
Saracens, 133
Sara mountains, 246
Sarac, 241

Sarajevo, i, 159, 161 et seq. t 178
Saraka, Ilija, 109
Saraka, Ivo, no et seq.
Sava, 189,205
Savina, 128,206
Scardona, 58
Schleimer, Mr., 178
Selca, 92 et seq.
Selim II, Sultan, 134
Senj, 12, 1 6 etseq. ,26
Senjska Vrata, 16, 19, 21
Seton-Watson, Prof, (transla-
tion), 17, 18

Sevdalinke, 166 etseq., 189
Severus of Split, 76
Shaw, Bernard, 83
Shaw, Jane, 6

Sibenik, 51, 56 et seq., 66, 73
Simeon, monk, 243, 244
Simeon the Foundling, 243
Sinan Pasha, 245, 246
Sipad, 175 et seq.> 163 et seq.
Sipoyo, 178, 183
Sirmium, 226
Siscia, 226

Sisman Ibrahim Pasha, 160
Skadar (town), 135, (lake) 146

Skadar, Building of, 243

Skoplje, 169,255

Skradin, 54, 58, 60 et seq. y 66

Skrljevo, 9, 10

Slatina, 191

Slijeme,20i etseq.

SlomSek, Bishop, 205

Slovene language, 203, 204

Slovene Mountaineering Society,

213

Slovenia, 203 et seq.
Slovenjgradec, 215 et seq.
Slovenska Gorica, 209
Smederevo, 117, 228, 237, 255
Sokolovic*, Mehmed, 256
Solta, 85
Sopo&ni, 253
Sorgo family, 1 12
Spaho, Dr. Mehmed, 165
Spalat(r)o, see Split

Split, 74 et seq.

Splitska, 89

Sremski Karlovci, 257

Srnetica, 185 et seq.

Stambulfcic, 172

Starigrad, 44

Staro Nagoricane, 207, 228

Stefan Dragutin, 227

Stefan Duan, see DuSan

Stefan the First-crowned, 227

Stefan Milutin, see Milutin

Stefan the Tall, Lazarevic*, 225,

227, 228
StobreS, 79
Stoja (Bar), 135
Stojadinovic, Dr. Milan, 234
Stojka, 250
Storks, 22 1 etseq.
Stradun, 108 et seq.
Straimirovi<5 family, 133
Strosmajer, Bishop, 27, 93
Strosmajer Alley, 195
Studenica, 207, 252
Styria,2o8
Subid-Zrinjski family, 4, u, 16,

42,44,50,61,77,208
Subotica, 39
SukoSane, 65

Suleiman the Magnificent, 228
Sumadija, 236, 258
Sumartin, 89 et seq.
Supetar, 93 et seq.
Suronja, 65, 76
Suac, 97
Susak, 2 et seq.
Sutivan, 93
Sutomore, 129, 131
Sutorina, 125
Sutorman, 146
Svetislav, 65
Svetovidj 42

TamiS, 226

Tatars (race), 42, 227, (couriers),

171

Taurunum, 224
Tegethoff, 97, 102
Templars, 68
Teuta, 126, 133
Theodosius the Great, 209
Tivat, 155
Tkon, 67

272

A WAYFARER IN YUGOSLAVIA

Tolstoy, 93

TomaSevic, Stjepan, 178

Tomislav, King, 76

Tomislav Dom, 201

Topola, 237 et seq.

Trajan, 209

Trappists, 192 et seq.

Traste, 155

Travnik, 159, 176, 188

Trebevid, 173

Treskavac, 253

Triglav, 214

Trnovo, 245

Trogir, 4, 42, 77, 79, 84

Trpimir, 76

Trsat,2 et seq. , 16

Trubar, Primo2, 204

Tunny ladders, 15

'Turks' (Moslem Slavs), 158

Turks, 10, 43, 60 et seq., 77, 106,
113, 128, 149 et seq., 158, 175
et seq., 177 et seq., 180 et seq.,
183, 206, 208, 209, 210 et seq.,
216, 227 et seq., 241 et seq.,
250 et seq.

TvrdjoS, 128

Tvrtko I, King, 69, 77

Ulcinj, 128, 132, 133 et seq.,
144, 145

J? U ?\ A l i? I34> I43
Uro I, King, 253

UroS III, King, 248

UroSevac, 246

Uskoks, 7, 12, 16, 41, 106, 135,

243
Uskoplje, 156

Valvasor, 212

VareS, 175

Vela Luka, 102

Velebit, 15, 16, 19, 39, 45, 65

Venantius, 81

Venice and Venetians, 20, 26,
34, 53, 65 et seq., 68 et seq., 76
et seq., 86, 103, 130, 133 et seq.,
143, ?44, 149, 160, I75 , 234

Verbenico (Vrbnik), 27

Verige, 126

Vetranid, Marko, 118

Vid (god), 42, 89, (friar), 127, 248

Vidovdan, 43

Viganj, 105

Viminacium, 226

VinSa, 226

Vinciguerra, Antonio, 19, 20

Vinjerac, 44

Vir-Pazar, 132, 146, 156

Vis, 85, 96 et seq.

Visoko, 175

Visovac, 58 et seq.

Vivarini, 35

Viatic, Matija, 119

Vladimir, King, 245

Vladislav of Naples , 69

Vladislav, King Serb, 253

Vlatkovid family, 106

Vraar, 245

Vrana, 64, 67 et seq.

Vranjid, 84

Vranjina, 147

Vrbas river, 176, 180, 188

Vrac, 196

Vugava, 100

Vukan, 133, 253

Vukain, King, 241

Vuki6, Hrvoje, 77, 176, 1

et seq.
VuliSevic", Voevod, 237

Windisgraetz, 216

Windsor, Duke of, 28, 45, 100

Wolf, Hugo, 216 *

Zabljak, 148
Zadubine, 236
Zagorje, 201 et seq.
Zagreb, 194 et seq.
Zahumlje, Virgin of, 251
Zaptiehs, 181
Zara,43, 4 8, 65 et seq.
Zemun,2i8 et seq.
Zelenika, 166
Zenica, 175
geta, 147

Zidani Most, 206
Zlarin, 71 et seq., 124
Zlatorog, 214
Zmajevid, Admiral, 125
Zrinjski, see SubicS-Zrinjski
Zrmanja Canyon, 45 et seq.
Zuzori<5, Cvijeta, 118
Zvonimir, King, 28