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Dp TDemetra laka
(MRS. KENNETH-BROWN)
THE GRASP OF THE SULTAN. Illustrated.
A CHILD OF THE ORIENT.
IN THE SHADOW OF ISLAM. Illustrated,
HAREM LIK: Some pages from the Life of Turkish Women.
FINELLA IN FAIRYLAND.
By Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth-Brown
THE DUKE'S PRICE
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK.....




The Heart of the Balkans




6




THE HEART OF THE
BALKANS
BY DEMETRA VAKA
(Mrs. Kenneth-Brown)
_myy,   ^ t  i '  is (1/^
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
MDCCCCXVII




COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY DEMETRA KENNETH-BROWN
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Published May q917




TO
HONORt WILLSIE
THESE PAGES ARE AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
BECAUSE SHE INSPIRED ME
TO WRITE THEM
315989




I




Contents
I. WILD ALBANIA.........................  I
II. ROMANTIC ALBANIA.....................   32
III. THROUGH THE LANDS OF THE BLACK-MOUNTAINEERS............................ 6i
IV. THE EAGLE AND THE SPARROW.......... 94
V. SERVIA, THE UNDAUNTED............... I10
VI. THE GYPSIES OF THE BALKANS.......... 145
VII. THE PRUSSIA OF THE BALKANS.......... 175
VIII. THE SONS OF THE HELLENES............ 204
IX. SALONIKI, THE CITY OF HISTOIES........ 227




6
I




The Heart of the Balkans


I
WILD ALBANIA
WE landed at Avlona, and from there were
to proceed through the interior. It was
immediately after one of the uprisings in
Albania, in which villages had been burned,
men had been killed, and women - well,
women always pay the largest penalty in
the fighting of men. Avlona, the morning
we landed, was serene and enchanting.
Framed by the blue Adriatic at her feet and
by the distant mountains above her, she
gave me the impression of a spoiled, handsome woman, who knew only the beautiful
things in life, and refused to hear of distressing things that had taken place behind
her back.
Our journey was to be made on mules, and
the first thing, of course, was to engage them
I




The Heart of the Balkans


and the muleteers, and to buy the provisions we should need during a trip of several weeks. Our tents and bedding we had
brought with us. During these preparations
I rested, and then walked about the fascinating town. The next morning we were
waked at five o'clock, and before six we
were climbing into our saddles. The air was
still and light; yet I had the impression that
there was a tremendous movement in that
stillness - that the air constantly traveled
from the sea to the mountains and back,
acquiring the saltness of the sea and the
freshness of Pindus and Olympus.
We were now off for the heart of Albania,
where the men were to find out the extent
of the damage done, and make a report on it
to the Turkish Government. The political
side of our expedition did not interest me
greatly. Not that I was indifferent to it, for
no Greek woman can be indifferent to the
fate of Albania - the land which contains
Epirus, one of the adored daughters of
2




Wild Albania


Greece, who, like Thrace and Macedonia, is
ever looking to the mother to free her from
the Turkish yoke. If I was not interested in
the political side of our journey it was because I knew the futility of any of these
investigations.
Albania was coveted by Austria and
Italy, both members of the Triple Alliance,
and to balk their desires, France and England meant to preserve the integrity of the
Ottoman Empire, no matter how much
blood soaked the soil of Albania, or any
other part of the Balkans. The political
situation in the Balkans had been the milk,
so to speak, on which I had been nourished,
and I had had a little too much of it. Knowing already what the practical results of our
investigations would be, what interested
me personally was the women of Albania;
and since, after leaving Albania, we should
cross the entire length and breadth of the
Balkans, I was to have an opportunity to
study the women of Montenegro, Servia,
3




The Heart of the Balkans


Rumania, and Bulgaria. I should see the
women of all these nationalities with my
own eyes, should have a chance to talk with
them, and hear what they had to say.
With this vivid expectancy was mingled
nervous dread. Ever since my brother had
told me that possibly I might be permitted
to accompany him on this expedition, I had
been eager for this great privilege. I had
read books and books about the countries
we were to travel through, and they had
told me of the history, of the men, of the
political squabbles, and of the commercial
possibilities: of the women no book spoke.
What were they like, the women who lived
in this land of blood-feuds and neverending killings? Were they educated at all?
Were they so ignorant that they were stupefied, or were they savages? What would
be the cardinal differences between them
and me, their sister, who, though a Greek,
and a Turkish subject, did not know the
terrors of constant combat?
4




Wild Albania


Even as I mounted my mule and took my
reins in my hands, I was afraid lest at the
last moment some of the men might grumble and say that this was no trip for a young
girl; but no one spoke the dreaded words,
and all having mounted, on and on we rode,
at the fast amble of the mule. Sometimes
we were speechless because of the wondrous
beauty of the land, and again we dropped
into pairs, and talked in subdued tones of
the horrors of the present, of the glories of
the past. All the men in the party were
Government officials. There was one
Frenchman, one Englishman, and the rest
were Greeks.
The Frenchman's mule fell in beside
mine, and M. Gaston Decourt, having
asked permission to smoke, began to deprecate the unreasonableness of the Albanians
in their revolts. He had brought to the investigation, along with his slim figure, his
silky beard, and his French witticisms, all
his Turkish prejudices, acquired at so much
5




The Heart of the Balkans


a month as an official. We had already had
several conversations on the boat, and I
knew that Albania would not gain much
from him. Presently, as his mule ambled
along beside mine, he asked a question
which showed that his mind was occupied
with the same theme as mine.
"Have you seen many Albanian women,
Mademoiselle? "
"A few, in Constantinople."
"Are they beautiful?"
"Beauty is such a question of taste," I
answered.
"I wish you would make your answers
less evasive." His manner was pettish. Had
he been a girl, one would have said he
pouted.
"Well, they are not good-looking in the
way a Frenchwoman is: they are different."
He twirled his mustache, as a certain
type of man always does when talking of
beautiful women, and looked up at the blue
sky, which seemed to rise higher, the higher
6




Wild Albania


we mounted. For a while I watched my
companion in silence. I broke it to remark:
"In these uncivilized countries they retain certain virtues we have discarded."
"What are they?" he inquired absently.
"They wash a woman's honor - even if
it only be coveted - with blood."
A supercilious smile played upon his full
red lips. There was no doubt that M.
Decourt was attractive, and no doubt that
he knew it. He did not seem to realize,
however, that he was now in a different
country from his usual haunts - in savage
Albania, where life was not worth a farthing. It is true that we were escorted by
soldiers, and were attached to the Government; but I had met a great many Albanians in Constantinople, and I knew how they
felt toward the Government and its soldiers.
In a sense I liked M. Decourt. He was the
charming, weak man who always makes an
appeal to the mother in a woman.
7




The Heart of the Balkans


That evening I spoke to my brother of
M. Decourt and his question. We were
camped at the foot of a mountain, which
looked quite near, but was a day's journey
from us. In a cluster of trees the soldiers
were pitching our tents, while the muleteers
were preparing to cook.
"I do not think M. Decourt appreciates
the danger in Albania. You had better
speak to him," I urged.
My brother smoked on, his face calm and
unruffled. One who did not know him might
have thought the conversation did not interest him; but I knew better. Presently
he took his cigarette from his lips and
said: -
"I'in sorry I brought you along. Even a
slight provocation on Decourt's part, and
none of us may come out of here alive. I
must speak to him seriously."
Late on the afternoon of the next day,
we came to our first village, a cluster of
8




Wild Albania


huts, and more huts in the distance, with
much land around them. Again our tents
were pitched. Here the scenery was of
the wildest. When Italy and Austria are
forced by human decency to take their
shadows off Albania, the country will develop into one of the wonders of the earth.
My brother and I walked to the village
briskly, for the evening cold was descending upon us. It looked quite deserted, so
tightly closed were the wooden shutters on
the small windows, and in such an unfriendly manner were the doors barred. A
plant with two red flowers was growing
upon the window-sill of one cottage.
"Some one must be in there," I said,
pointing it out to my brother.
We walked toward it, stumbling over the
rows of huge stones which protruded at intervals, and which remain above the snow
and mud during the winter and permit the
inhabitants to have intercourse with one
another. We knocked for some time at the
9




The Heart of the Balkans


door before a woman opened a crack. She
scrutinized us with a pair of black eyes,
large, unfathomable. I had expected to see
fear in them: it was my first agreeable disappointment. Indeed, she gave the impression of not knowing what fear was.
"May we come in and get warm?" I
asked. "It is long after sunset, and there is
a chill in your air in spite of its exhilaration.
This is my brother, and we are here to see
in what way we can help Albania."
"Who sends you?"
"The Government."
"The Government can help us best by
leaving us alone." The Greek she spoke
was as pure as the air of the mountains.
Noticing that she was about to close the
door, I hurried on: "Please don't shut us
out. After all, though we come from the
Government, we are Greeks, like you."
"If you are Greeks, the greater shame to
you for serving the Turkish Government."
I laid my hand on the tremendously
IO0




Wild Albania


thick door. "Please let us come in and get
warm," I persisted.
She stepped out of our way, and we
entered. In the depth of the low, long room
was a small fire, built against the stone wall
on the earthen floor. Before it sat two small
boys eating bread, which they were warming while eating. It was really colder in the
room than outside, unless one sat quite close
to the fire.
The children continued eating stolidly.
Again I was surprised that they showed no
sign of being cowed. From my pocket I
took a piece of chocolate and unwrapped it
for them.
"Pantele," said the mother, "these people are from the Government."
The older boy got on his feet, and came
and stood before me.
"We don't want gifts from the Government," he said. "We eat what is ours."
"You are not very civil," I replied, "especially since we have come here to get
II




The Heart of the Balkans


warm, and should like to give you something for your hospitality."
"We do not sell our hospitality in the
Land of the Eagle," the mother interposed.
Pantele stepped in front of my brother,
and examined him without fear or shyness.
"What are you doing in my mother's
house?" he demanded.
"We have come to hear your grievances,
and to see what can be done about them.
How old are you, Pantele?"
"I am eight - and you?"
"I am twenty-eight."
"How many Turks have you killed?"
"He does n't kill the Turks," the mother
put in contemptuously. "He serves them.
He is in their pay."
The boy came nearer, and touched my
brother with one finger. "Then you are a
goat," he observed.
"Why am I a goat?" my brother asked,
smiling.
I2




Wild Albania


"Because there are in the world the women who bear men, and the men who kill
the Turks; the persons who do neither are
the goats. I am eight, and I have not yet
killed a Turk, but I have at least carried
food through their lines to the men who
were killing them."
Perhaps there is no Greek who would not
- while yet so large a part of the ancient
Greek Empire still belongs to Turkey -
have sympathized somewhat with Pantele.
In French I said to my brother: "I envy
this woman her boy."
"I envy the boy himself," my brother replied; then to Pantele: "I wish you would
make friends with us." And laughable as it
may seem, there my brother and I sat for
a whole hour, explaining to eight-year-old
Pantele, and to six-year-old Anastasi, and
to their mother, the intricacies of the political world of the great Christian Powers.
The mother, squatting low, was rapidly
knitting, from natural sheep's wool, coarse
I3




The Heart of the Balkans


stockings for the men who were fighting for
their independence.
When we emerged into the open again,
and the door was shut after us, I took a long
breath of the cold, crisp air and exclaimed
with the thrill of the neophyte: -
"Brother, do you think we have helped
them?"
He put his arms around my shoulders.
"No, dear, not a bit. You tried splendidly,
but they are accustomed to listen, these
Albanians. They know that Austria and
Italy want their country - Servia and
Greece, too, wish to annex part of their
territory. Each of these nations tells the
Albanians what it is going to do for them;
but tlie Albanians are too shrewd not to be
aware that all this interest manifested in
them has the ultimate aim of acquiring
their land- and to that they will cling
with their teeth."
"But we don't want to take any territory
from them," I cried. "We only want to
I4




Wild Albania


help them - and don't you think we are
going to?"
"Not a bit."
"Yet you seemed so interested in the
thought of coming here."
We were now walking, arm in arm, under
the moonless, azure sky, filled with silvery
stars, which dimly guided us and kept us
from stumbling over the stones. We had
mountains behind us, and mountains alongside us, and mountains in the distance, and
from everywhere we could hear water falling with a rattling sound like musketry, as
if it had absorbed the bellicose spirit of the
country. They were wild and warlike little
streams, rushing from the mountains to
empty into the most enchanting of lakes.
My brother laughed at my remark, his
laugh sounding weird in the magnificent
night, and I felt annoyed; for I did not
think laughter a proper reply to me.
"Did you not want to come? " I persisted.
"Of course I did, but not for the reason
I5




The Heart of the Balkans


you suppose. In the Balkans I am no longer
in the nineteenth century; they transport
me back hundreds of years. I do not have
to read of the Middle Ages - I am of the
Middle Ages. Not only do I face their discomforts- I face their problems. In all
the civilized world you would not find a
child like eight-year-old Pantele. Here he
is common: he was common in the Middle
Ages. Before he is fourteen he will be taking life - and running for his life - as they
used to in the Middle Ages."
We were now nearing our camp. A big
fire was burning outside, a fire which was to
keep away the bears and wolves from us and
our beasts. One of our Albanian escort was
singing. My brother seized my arm: -
"Listen!" he whispered.
The song matched the sky and mountains
and the rushing waters - matched Pantele
and his family. It was a song full of passionate worship, and it was addressed, not to a
deity, not to a woman - to a rifle.
i6




Wild Albania


Two days later we reached a larger village, and I asked to be permitted to stay at
a house instead of camping out with the
rest of the party. To begin with I wanted
some hot water for a bath, and then I
wanted to see how they lived here.
My brother and I went to the priest's
house, which was very clean and neat. After
partaking of his simple hospitality we explained to him what I wished to do.
" Yes," - he pondered for a minute; -
" yes, I think you will be made comfortable
with the Karajhannis."
They apparently were the leading family;
for their house was the largest in the village,
and there were curtains at the windows.
They received me with mute hospitality,
and I ate of their goat's-milk cheese and
muddy bread, and was put to sleep in the
best bed. The sheets seemed woven of
coarse hemp. How many distinguished
guests had slept in them since last they had
been washed, I do not know; but I am
I7




The Heart of the Balkans


certain I was not the first. In the morning,
as I came down the main hall, the mother
was in earnest conversation with her fiveyear-old son, who, like Pantele, was blond,
with large gray eyes.
"Good-morning!" I said to the mother.
"You seem to be having a very earnest conversation with your little Stathe."
"What do you mean by earnest?" the
mother replied.
Thinking she did not understand the
word I explained: "Earnest is vital."
"And what is vital?" she asked again.
"Very important."
"Well, why should I be talking, unless I
had something important to say?" she said
slowly.
"Tell me what you were talking about, so
that I may know what you consider important."
"I was telling Stathe you were from the
Government, and showing him this." She
pointed to a dark blotch on the wall.
i8




Wild Albania


"What is that?"
"That is his father's blood. He was cornered here by ten soldiers. He killed all he
could, but they finished him."
I shuddered. "You saw your man killed
before your very eyes!"
She looked at me with the utmost disgust.
"If I had been here it would have been an
equal fight - ten Turkish soldiers to two
Albanians - and my man would have been
living to-day. He killed six and disabled
one before they finished him. I was telling
Stathe that there were four soldiers of the
Government you represent who must die
for his father. The rest he kills will be for
Albania."
"You will not clean this spot?"
"Not till Stathe takes the blood that is
owed us."
I sat down limply on a low stone which
served as a stool, feeling quite weak.
"Have you ever shot a Turk?" I asked
presently.
I9




The Heart of the Balkans


"What do you think I am - a cripple?
All of us women fight when the men are in
the mountains and we are surprised. Those
are my guns."
She pointed to an array of weapons on
the wall, clean and shiny as few things are
in Albania. And that woman was barely
twenty-two. She wore the Albanian fez on
her head, with a bright kerchief wound
around it. Her eyes were large and blue;
yet she had the Dante hooked nose, characteristic of Albanians of the North. Evidently her family had intermarried with
the Northerners. Her Greek, too, lacked
the purity of that of Pantele's mother.
The next woman I talked to was one we
met on the road. She was afoot, walking
with the proud, pantherlike stride of the
Highlander. She was barely sixteen. Her
throat and bosom were bare, and she wore
her dowry, in the shape of coins, around
her neck. Since she was traveling in our
direction, my brother offered her his mule,
20




Wild Albania


but on learning that we were from the
Government, she refused to accept it. I
dismounted and walked with her for several
hours. She had already walked steadily for
two days, and she was going to walk perhaps
for a month. She was going from one place
to another in search of her husband, who
had been taken alive by soldiers. She hoped
to ransom him with her dowry. On her
shoulders she carried a gun, like a man,
and above her hips hung a belt filled with
knives.
"If you don't find him, what will you
do?" I asked.
"I shall find him if he is alive."
"And if he is not?"
" In five months I shall be a mother. His
son I will bring up to avenge him."
Sincerely I hoped that the child of that
bride would be a girl. But in Albania
Nature provides for what she most needs.
There are five boys born to one girl. That
is why there are always plenty of men, in
21




The Heart of the Balkans


spite of the blood feuds, in spite of the uprisings, and in spite of the fighting.
As our journey progressed it seemed to me
that in every village we came to marriages
were being celebrated. Both brides and
grooms were very young. At one wedding
in particular the girl was a mere child. We
stopped to watch the ceremony.
"How old is she?" I asked her mother.
"She is in her thirteenth year," she replied.
"Is n't she too young to be married?"
"In a way she is. In fact, she was not to
be married till spring after next; but this
last uprising has cost us so many men that
we have to have more born. That is why
the brides of the next year and of the spring
after are all being married now."
She spoke much as if the men were trees:
so many having been cut down, so many
more must be planted for future use.
In one large village - they called it a
town in Albania - I decided to remain for
-a2'




Wild Albania


a few days. Our party was now going into
the heart of the mountains, where the men
of the uprising were in hiding. Terms of
peace and settlement were to be discussed.
I wished to remain behind because I was a
little tired of constant traveling, and also
because there was a Greek lady whom I
wished to know, who had been doing missionary work here for years.
I found my compatriot living in a very
nice stone house, built for her by grateful
Albanians. She had one of those sympathetic personalities which make people natural, and to the attraction of her face was
added a lovely voice and manner.
"Are they often ill?" I asked, after I
had explained to her how I happened to be
there.
"During epidemics, yes,- smallpox especially; for they accept epidemics as a
scourge from God, and refuse to do anything to prevent contagion because they
think it will anger God. At other times they
23




The Heart of the Balkans


are very healthy. Most of the children are
born in the fields where the women are
working, and neither mother nor child has
any medical attendance."
"Do you feel that you are helping them? "
"A little."
"Is your work discouraging?"
"It was at first. I was twenty-five years
old then: I shall soon be sixty, and I have
learned that Rome was not built in a day.
To-day they come to me. They trust me,
and that is a great deal. Even in the midst
of feuds sometimes they listen to me."
"What a wonderful life yours must be!"
I exclaimed admiringly. "What made you
take it up?"
"I am an Albanian Greek, you see. My
father was killed in a feud. My brothers
were brought up by my mother to avenge
him. A rich uncle who lived in Russia
adopted me when I was five. He died when
I was eighteen and left me all his money. I
came here and stayed two years, then I
24




Wild Albania


went away and studied medicine and came
back, and I have been here ever since."
"Your brothers?"
"They avenged my father, and they have
been killed in their turn. I have succeeded
in being respected, although I do not mean
to take the blood that is owed me."
She was the one loving spirit whom I met
during my journey through Albania.
On leaving her house I encountered M.
Decourt, who also had not accompanied
the rest of the party to the mountains, because he said he was feeling seedy. During
the last two days he had been giving me
food for thought. I saw him now, in his
courtly way, bending low as he talked to a
young Albanian girl, with whom he had
spent much of his time since coming to the
village. She was a girl of seventeen who had
been engaged three times to be married; but
all her fiances had been killed, and for each
of them she had been obliged to mourn a
year. She belonged to prominent people,
25




The Heart of the Balkans


and all the men of her family were among
the leaders of the uprising, and consequently
were in the depths of the mountains. Her
mother was dead, and she was living with
her grandmother. While M. Decourt was
speaking with her, I noticed an old man
looking at him out of fierce, half-closed
eyes. Since M. Decourt and I were not
staying at the same house, I had no opportunity of warning him of the danger of
his course.
My own hostess was an educated person.
She could read, and even write slowly. She
had been nice to me in a sulky kind of way.
As I now entered her house, she nodded
pleasantly, and remarked: -
"The priest has sent you some candied
rose-leaves, so I have made you some fresh
bread to eat them with."
I was extremely touched. "You are very
good to me!" I exclaimed.
"Well, you are not much bother, - and
you may have some hot water to-night."
26




Wild Albania


This last was overwhelming. It is true
she had given me hot water ungrudgingly
the first day I came to her; but she had
peremptorily refused to do it again, and
asked me why in the name of Mount
Olympus I needed so much washing? Was
I a leper? So now her voluntary offer of hot
water touched the climax of kindness, and
I expressed my appreciation.
"Well, I have not lived to be forty without knowing that people have peculiarities,"
she replied. "Yours is washing. But you
have been good to my little Zo" - that
was her ten-year-old daughter; "she has
been reciting to me the rhymes you taught
her, and they are pretty. Please teach her
some more of them, and I will give you hot
water every day."
Thus, in untamed Albania rhymes did
what nothing else would have been able to
effect: they made us friends and brought us
together. That evening we all sat by the
fire, she knitting woolen socks, her mother
27




The Heart of the Balkans
weaving coarse cloth, and her two widowed
sisters making men's garments. Everything these people wear they make themselves. Under normal conditions the house
would have been like a beehive. My hostess,
Kyra Melitza, had six sons, little Zoe, and
her husband. One of her sisters had seven
sons and the other four; and they all lived
in that house. Now the entire male population was in the mountains, awaiting the outcome of the negotiations.
I asked them what the cause of the latest
uprising had been.
"Taxes, as usual," replied the old
mother. "They raise and raise them. Now
they want one sheep out of ten. And what
do we get for our taxes? I was a young girl
when they promised us roads. You have
come from Avlona - have you seen any
roads?"
In the middle of our talk M. Decourt
came to call on me. He wore a flower in his
buttonhole. I apologized to the women for
28




Wild Albania


our French talk, since he could speak no
Greek. Yet I was glad no one understood us,
because it enabled me to warn him of the
imprudence of the course he was following.
I might as well have saved my breath,
however. He was fatuously disdainful of
my words, and I believe even thought them
inspired by jealousy.
After M. Decourt had gone away, Kyra
Melitza asked bluntly:
"Is he your future husband?"
"No," I replied.
"What did he come to see you for, then?"
"He is a friend," I explained.
"Fine customs!" she sneered. "Young
girls talking to strange men in foreign
tongues!" A little later she asked more
pleasantly: "Do you like him?"
"Yes, he is very nice."
"He is a fool!" There was a note of
menace in her voice; and after I was in bed
those few words haunted me and made me
uneasy.
29




The Heart of the Balkans


The next morning I awoke with the sun
and stood by the small window. Like an
Alp the mountain rose formidably before
me and cast its shadow across the view -
or perhaps the shadow was a presentiment.
Several people were moving in one direction,
and in the distance I saw the white-haired
old man and M. Decourt. It struck me that
there was something amiss here, and in
vague dread I quickly dressed and went out
of the house. I had gone but a little way
when I heard the report of a gun. I broke
into a run, and, turning the corner, saw the
old man open the weapon, take out an
empty cartridge, and blow through the
barrel. Then I noticed in a heap, at a little
distance, the body of Gaston Decourt.
I reached the old man, breathless. "You
- you - have n't - "  I gasped, and
pointed to the body.
He nodded. "So long as there is left an
old man in this place, no foreigner can wear
an Albanian woman's flower in his coat."
30




Wild Albania
The women stood in a wide circle around
the old man, heads erect, shoulders thrown
back. There was a fierce pride in their eyes
because the men held their honor so high.
The Greek woman doctor now came on
the scene. She addressed the old man in
the way old men are always addressed in
Albania: "Grandfather, may I bury him?"
"If you like, though such as he disgrace
a grave. His carcass should belong to the
jackals."
I cannot say that I behaved well, for I
wept and became hysterical, to the amazement of the women around me. Even little
Zoi expressed her astonishment, saying: "I
never saw a woman who wept for nothing."
When our men came back, they hushed
up the affair, and officially M. Decourt
died a natural death from typhoid fever.
They thought it lucky we did not all die in
wild Albania.




II
ROMANTIC ALBANIA
TaE death of Gaston Decourt fell upon our
party like a deadening blow and dampened
the spirits of all.
"You must have a strong stomach to
stand the diet of Albania," one of the Greeks
remarked with a grimace. "Mine has
always been delicate, and I have tasted
enough of the food of this savage country to
give me indigestion for the rest of my life.
I go no farther."
The others agreed with him. They were
pampered city men, and the coarse food,
the unavoidable hardships, the constant
traveling on muleback, over trails that
made them dizzy, - coupled with the risk
of losing their lives should they chance to
offend the untutored Albanian sense of
propriety, - were not to their taste. And
since the terms of peace between the Alba32




Romantic Albania


nians and the Government were settled,
for a time at least, that section of Albania
and the Turkish Government would be
at peace - until - until the Albanians, exasperated anew, should rise again.
Only for my brother did the Balkans
possess an allurement he could never resist.
As for me, I was young and full of enthusiasm: my world had been made up of books,
and the mystery of the Balkans attracted
me beyond the desire for comfort.
"Oh, do let us go on!" I urged my
brother, who needed no urging. And thus
our party of many dwindled down to us
two and one zaptie, himself a Southern
Albanian and a good fellow, who knew how
to control the muleteers and how to obtain
what we needed from the Albanians without
getting into fights with them. Moreover, he
had a good voice and enlivened our long
rides with the weird Albanian songs, which
seemed to invoke the spirits of that wild
country. The rest of the military escort we
33




The Heart of the Balkans


dismissed; for, as my brother remarked, it
added to our danger, not to our safety, since
one could see the hair of the Albanians rise
like the ruffs of angry dogs at sight of the
Turkish soldiery.
Albania is not only the oldest child of the
Balkans, but the oldest country in Europe.
It is ancient Illyria, and has resisted or
survived the Romans and the Huns, the
Macedonians and the Greeks, the Serbs and
the Bulgars, and it seems quite likely that
it will survive the Turks. Yet it lacks the
two great fundamentals which unite a
people and make a nation of it - a common language and a common religion.
Capable of resisting aggression and of fighting fiercely and stubbornly, the Albanians
have never been able —in spite of their
great pride in and love for their country -
to put aside their family, their tribal, and
their religious feuds, in order to form a
homogeneous nation.
We found the southern part to be Greek in
34




Romantic Albania


speech, Greek in looks, and Greek in faith.
When we entered the mountainous region
which, after several days of arduous muleback riding, brought us to the plateaus of
Central Albania, most of the people were
Mohammedans, though only the officialswho came from Constantinople- spoke
Turkish. Turkish, indeed, was little known
among the Albanians unless they had
worked in Constantinople as bodyguards -
a career for which their faithfulness and
bravery eminently fitted them.
These Mohammedans of Central Albania
were despised alike by the Turks and by the
Christians. The fact that they had turned
Mohammedans to save their lands and to
keep on the right side of the conqueror
made them an object of contempt to the
Turks and of hatred to the Christians. It
is true that this happened away back in the
fifteenth century - but in the Balkans they
have long memories. Being in the majority
here, they are a powerful faction, and in
35




The Heart of the Balkans


addition to their periodic uprisings against
the Turks they are engaged in fierce religious feuds against the Orthodox Albanians
of the South and against the Albanians of
the North, who, under Austrian and Italian
influence, - are Roman Catholics. Though
religion sits lightly on the shoulders of these
wild mountaineers, in its various forms it
has helped to fashion those differences
which have impeded the welding of the inhabitants of the country into a homogeneous whole. The only sure hyphen between
the various tribes is their excessive pride
in Albania and their lust for blood. Every
rock, every stronghold, every mountain has
its history - and that history is written in
blood,
Yet they compel one's sympathy, and
they compelled my admiration. If at times
they exasperated me with their boastfulness
of being the greatest country in the world,
because they were the greatest fighters, -
if I became weary of hearing how once,
36




Romantic Albania


under Iskander Bey, they had held millions
of Turks at bay, - I had to remember that
they were only children in civilization, and
that greatness, from their point of view,
consisted in the capacity to shed blood.
After we left the South we did not take
our own mules with us. We reasoned that
the best way to procure guides for the interior would be to hire mules with their
muleteers. Our logic proved false. To begin with, we discovered that the muleteers
only knew the main-traveled roads,- if
one may thus dignify the mountain trails
which connected one section of the country
with another,- and in addition, seeing
that all our muleteers "owed blood," they
had to leave us at most'inconvenient spots,
since their feuds had not at all been arranged with a view to the convenience of
travelers.
During the first three days of our journey
we encountered little that was interesting
beyond our unexpected changing of mule37




The Heart of the Balkans


teers. The villages we passed through —
whether large or small - were squalid and
miserable. The contrast between the
grandeur of the landscape and the human
misery was overpowering. Amid these
wonderful, lofty heights one expected to see
wonderful edifices and men and women of
intellect: and one saw only huts; women
bowed under the burden of heavy work;
and men armed to the teeth, ready to take
life. At times it seemed to me that I could
actually hear Albania moaning and begging
for peace, that she might end this existence
of always tearing to pieces, and an unfathomable sadness settled upon me. My smallness, my incapacity to help, crushed my
spirit. I heard Albania call, and all I could
answer was: "No, Albania, I cannot help
you. No one can help you, because you are
the key to Constantinople from the Adriatic; and all the great Christian Powers -
pretending that they are trying to preserve
the balance of power - all have their greedy
38




Romantic Albania


eyes fixed on the Golden Horn and the hegemony of Europe, to which everything else
shall be sacrificed. Bleed on, Albania; for
through your blood each one hopes to wade
to Constantinople."
At one of the larger villages, where we
spent the night, our trouble with guides
came to an end. We always made it a point,
while our tents were being pitched, to call
on the religious head of the community, be
he a Mussulman, a Catholic, or an Orthodox. We were always courteously received,
and since we spoke their respective languages, we came into direct communication
with them. As a rule they were men of
simple minds, and one felt that although
desirous of putting an end to the feuds, they
were more or less imbued with the spirit
of the country; and I regret to say that
we found more animosity between the two
groups of followers of Christ than we found
between the Christians and the Mohammedans.
39




The Heart of the Balkans


In this particular village there were two
flocks: the Orthodox, who were mostly
Vlachs, and the Mussulmans. We called
on the heads of both, and each offered us
the hospitality of his house. The Mussulman had a charming little wife, so sweet and
childlike that I wished to stay with her; and
we chose fortunately, for not only had I
a delightful bed to sleep in, but a bath,
which was the most ingenious thing I had
seen in Albania. It was a hole sunk in the
floor of the kitchen, about the size of a
barrel, and made of cement by pretty
Emmene Hanoum's husband himself. He
had built it to keep vegetables in, but
Emmene Hanoum used it as a bathtub.
She was a delightful and vivacious hostess, and waxed eloquent over the peaceful
spirit that possessed their villagers and the
friendship that subsisted between the&Christians and Mohammedans. "We have n't
had a blood feud or an uprising for ever and
ever so long," she declared. Holding up two
40




Romantic Albania


rosy fingers she went on impressively"not for more than two years."
Her hands were pretty and well kept.
The Mussulman Albanians treat their
wives better than the Christians do, and
whenever they can afford it, they engage
Christian women to wait upon them. Sweet
Emmene had "never put her hands into
cold water," as the saying is, which means
that she had always had a maid. She was
tall and slender, and her two little sons were
always climbing in her lap or upon her
back. She could neither read nor write, but
embroidered wonderfully. The village, she
told me, was unusually prosperous, and
there were men there who owned as many
as a hundred sheep. They were all very
hospitable, and every prominent citizen
wished to entertain us. Those to whose
houses we could not possibly go- for it
would have taken us a month to accept all
the invitations - gave us presents of meat,
eggs, vegetables, milk, and fruit. Indeed,
4I




The Heart of the Balkans


provisions for several days were thrust upon
us; and they begged us to tell the Government what a worthy, peace-loving community they were.
The Greek priest here was a find. He was
not only an educated but a broad-minded
man; and unlike most Albanians he appreciated that Albania was not the greatest
country in the world, with a past to which
those of Greece and Rome were nothing.
He was a Southern Albanian, an Epirote,
and his Greek was delightful. Certainly his
salary could not have come from his small
flock, and we concluded that Greece was
awakening to the possibility of Albania's
being divided, and that the Albanians had
better be prepared to choose wisely. It
was owing to Father Basil that the Orthodox Christians and the Mussulmans got
along well together. These two religions,
I believe, had formed an alliance against
the Catholics; for Turkey viewed the prot6g6s of Austria and Italy with greater dis42




Romantic Albania


favor than those of little Greece. Greece
only dreams of the redemption of Constantinople: Austria plans to acquire it.
Father Basil saved us from guides and
the troubles that went with them for the
rest of our journey. He took us to his heart;
for he had seen nothing of civilization since
leaving Constantinople some years before,
and it was really on his account that we
stopped so long in that village. Holding
sway over the entire Orthodox population
of that section of Albania, he had traveled
a great deal about the country and as far up
as Montenegro. He was quite aware of all
the political intrigues at work, and now and
then would close one eye and remark: "You
see how things work up here."
After he heard of our troubles with the
muleteers, he caressed his silky beard in
silence for some time. "I wonder!" he murmured at length, and again, "I wonder."
"What?" my brother asked.
"I wonder if Acheron, the fairy's son,
43




The Heart of the Balkans


would consent to go with you. He knows all
Northern Albania. Moreover, he owes no
blood, and none is owed to him, and every
one likes and respects him."
"Whose son did you say he was?" my
brother asked.
"A fairy's. You see he was found in the
woods when he was only a few months old.
He had been kept alive by a goat, who"daily
stood over him and gave him suck."
"But what makes you think his mother
was a fairy?"
"Because the honor of Albanian women
is above reproach: hence his mother could
only have been a fairy. And since he was
found near the river Acheron, he was named
Acheron, although the man who found him
and adopted him was a Mohammedan and
brought him up in the faith of the Prophet."
" Oh, do get him for us!" I cried. Both his
origin and his Homeric name fascinated me.
"I will try, though I don't say he will
come. Just now he is guarding his adopted
44




Romantic Albania


father's flocks in the mountains. I shall
send for him to-day."
The next evening at dusk Acheron appeared. He certainly did justice to his origin. He was the handsomest specimen of
a Greek I had seen in Albania. Tall and
well built, with classical features, he might
have been Achilles in person. He wore the
fustanella, the starched white kilts, of the
Southern Albanians; and the long blue tassel
of his fez fell gracefully on his shoulders,
mingling with his hair, which he wore rather
long. He was as different from the average,
unkempt shepherd as a thoroughbred is
from a cart-horse. His leggins, his waistcoat, his coat were all beautifully embroidered: it seems that the women of Albania
took pleasure in presenting him with handsomely embroidered garments to propitiate
the fairies, his kinsfolk.
Acheron liked my brother, and, having
looked me up and down, said he would go
with us if the priest would get some one else
45




The Heart of the Balkans


to guard his father's flocks. This Father
Basil promised to do, and at the next daybreak we were off, the Father admonishing us not to dare offer money to Acheron.
"He will tell you what he would like to have
and you can send it to him."
Acheron proved to be the greatest delight
of our journey. 'With all his other good
points he was clean and loved to bathe.
How he could have acquired such habits in
Albania I cannot imagine - heredity must
be very strong. Whoever his parents were I
am sure they could have been no common
people. Although he was a Mussulman,
Acheron adored the Virgin Mary, of whom
he spoke as "the little Christian fairy." He
had also picked up Greek as uneducated
people rarely do. It had come natural to
him, as had his love for poetry and his
graceful manners. He was Homeric in
name, face, and disposition. He believed
absolutely in his fairy origin, and played
the part with fervor.
46




Romantic Albania


Our journey became Acheron's journey.
He knew the hiding-places of birds, snakes,
and beasts, and was quite at home with
them. Had we been following any particular route and in a hurry, he would have been
the most exasperating of guides. As it was,
we stopped whenever he wanted us to, and
we awoke and started on whenever he told
us to. Thus we saw the northern part of
Albania as that handsome, irresponsible
creature knew it. It was in the springtime
and the peaks were yet snow-capped; the
trees were in blossom, and millions of wild
flowers tapestried the precipitous flanks of
the mountains. And we had Acheron to
explain everything, mingling fancies fearlessly with facts, and speaking of the fairies
as ever present.
Bathed in blood as Albania is, one would
imagine her devoid of all except the fierce
romance of armed strife; yet together with
the rifles and knives and blood feuds live
the fairies and all sorts of woodland and
47




The Heart of the Balkans


mountain spirits, who, like the millions of
wild flowers, bring beauty and charm to
that wild country. And Acheron was the
embodiment of mystic, romantic Albania.
Even its horrors were not horrible to him.
He told of the killing of men with the same
simplicity with which he one day brought
me a snake to play with, never imagining
that I might not care to touch it. To him
all wild animals were friends.
Once, at dusk, as we were riding along a
steep mountain-side, he walking by my side,
suddenly he seized the reins of my mule,
bringing it to a dangerous halt, at the same
time ordering the others to stop. As we
waited, breathless, not knowing what to
expect, we heard from afar the hoofbeats of
a galloping horse coming toward us at full
speed.
Considering that our mules had to walk
on our rocky path with the utmost caution,
this was marvelous. Acheron was greatly
excited, and so were my brother, the zaptie,
48




Romantic Albania


and I. The galloping came nearer and
nearer, and we strained our eyes to see the
daring rider. Yet, although the sound
passed quite close to us in the gathering
dusk, I saw neither horse nor rider: I only
saw Acheron salute, and heard him say: -
"May thy journey be of good omen!"
"Did you see the rider?" I questioned
eagerly.
"No; but I know who it was."
"Who was it?"
"The bride of the mountains."
He had often spoken to me about this
particular fairy, who, mounted on an invisible steed, galloped over the roughest defiles
of the mountains. There was not the slightest doubt that Acheron believed what he
said, and I, being young, and in Albania,
and in the deep dusk of a towering mountain - I do not know whether I believed it
or not. At any rate, I heard the galloping
hoofs; and although my Philistine brother
explained them to me, when we were alone,
49




The Heart of the Balkans


as the reverberations of some curious trick
of echo among the mountains, - like the
whispering-galleries in certain churches,his reasoning did not wholly convince me
at the time.
Before it became quite dark we pitched
our tents and lighted the brilliant fire which
was to keep wild beasts away from us; and
how wonderfully well I slept that night, and
every night in the Balkans, after many
hours in the saddle.
During our trip we passed many small
villages, where the women, prematurely
old, worked in the fields; and at evening we
always met them returning to their homes,
carrying tremendous loads on their heads,
the little children towing from their skirts.
The women perform every labor in Albania,
in order that the men may preserve their
strength for use in fighting. Near many of
these villages we dismounted to talk with
the women; and they stopped their work to
talk with us, or to fetch us some milk or
50




Romantic Albania


cheese, or even to go home with us and cook
us some mutton. As a rule, they were absolutely uneducated, but honest, shrewd, and
capable.
After leaving one of these villages, we
came upon a place where four paths crossed,
and there, securely fastened in a sort of
sling, a baby was hanging.
"Acheron!" I cried, "there is another
fairy baby, like you."
Acheron shook his head. "No; that is an
ill-omened baby, and it is left here, where
four paths meet, to break the spell."
"What kind of a spell?"
"All his brothers and sisters have died,
because the djinns have crossed the threshold of his home, so now they hang him
here, with three Maros [Marys] watching,
to break the spell."
He pointed to a group of three women
seated at the foot of a tree, some distance
off, and continued: "Every magic requires
three, or seven, or nine Maros. That is why
5I




The Heart of the Balkans


every family, be it Mussulman or Christian,
names one girl Maro, after your little Christian fairy. There was once a village where all
the Maros died. The inhabitants knew there
must be a spell over their village, so they all
left it."
The three Maros had got up, and they
met us before we reached the baby. They
asked us to say a prayer, as we passed beneath it, to help break the spell, in order
that it might live, and not die like all its
brothers and sisters.
In the outskirts of another village we
came upon a group of children feasting
around what looked like a small, newly
made grave.
"What are they doing?" I asked Acheron.
"They have buried a cat," he replied.
"You know a cat is a sacred animal, because Christ produced one from his sleeve.
When a cat dies, the children of the household invite their friends to come and help
52




Romantic Albania


bury it, and then they sit around the grave
and feast."
These were Mohammedan children, but
throughout Albania we found Christian
and Mohammedan beliefs and superstitions
commingled almost without regard to the
particular creed of any particular person.
On arriving at a town of some size, my
brother suggested that I wait there a few
days while Acheron and he climbed to the
summit of a certain mountain. I was invited to stay in the household of the pasha
of the town. The house was more like a
fortress than a home. It was two stories
high, built around three sides of a courtyard, and the outer wall was pierced only by
narrow windows, just wide enough to permit
the muzzle of a rifle to be poked through.
The household was tremendous. The
wife, - and in Albania most Mussulmans
are monogamous, - the sons and their
wives, the daughters and their husbands,
numerous near and distant kin, besides
53




The Heart of the Balkans


guests, all lived in this one abode. The
women of this household went about unveiled, and were permitted to talk with men.
They all wore richly embroidered bloomers,
reaching to the ankle, with an ankle-piece
of exquisite embroidery, short jackets or
waistcoats, with long coats of blue and
white. All evinced the greatest interest in
my journey, and especially in the conditions
we had found in those sections where the
uprisings had been.
Every one wanted to do something to
make my stay as pleasant as possible. I
slept in a large room where several beds
were made up on the floor every night for
the guests. Among us there was a young
girl vith an extremely attractive Oriental
face, who wore especially well-embroidered
clothes. I could not make out what her position in the household might be. At mealtimes, when we sat down, cross-legged on
the ground, around a huge, revolving table,
she seemed to have no special place. In
54




Romantic Albania


spite of my youth, I was placed next the
head lady. This particular girl took any
place that happened to be vacant; yet everybody petted her, and the old hanoum often
pinched her cheek and called her naughty
and endearing names.
On the second day of my stay I chanced
to see this girl —her name was Kouz6
- sitting in a small, hidden arbor with a
young man, and he had his arm around
her waist.
Knowing how the Albanians felt about
their women, I was seized with the fear that
in a short time I should be in the midst of a
feud, when first this young man, and then
all his male relatives, would have to be
killed.
An hour later, when we assembled for our
evening meal, Kouze came in, bright-eyed
and unconcerned. The more I looked at
her, the more she puzzled and attracted
me. Deviltry was in every glance of her
eye. After dinner I began to talk with her
55




The Heart of the Balkans


and her humor surprised me. As we were
parting I said: -
"Do tell them to put your bed next to
mine to-night."
She shook her head till the long gold-blue
tassel of her fez danced. "You have too
large eyes," she answered. "They see too
much." Nevertheless, when I went to bed,
hers was next to mine.
At dawn I was awakened by a whistling
in the courtyard under our windows - a
whistling which turned into a soft song.
From the bed next mine Kouze rose
quietly, slipped on her bloomers and long
coat, crept to the window, scrambled over
the sill, and, with the dexterity of a cat,
sprang to the ground.
I rushed to the window just in time to see
the arms of the same young man encircle
Kouze, before the two disappeared among
the trees beyond the courtyard. Though it
was still very early, I slept no more. Who
was there that I could warn, without
56




Romantic Albania


bringing on the catastrophe I wished to
avoid!
At breakfast-time Kouz6 came in, debonnaire and impish as ever. After the meal
was over, I joined her.
"You rose very early," I ventured.
"So I did." There was laughter in her
eyes and on her lips. She pinched my cheek,
and, bending like a bird, gave me a kiss that
was more like a peck. "Come, and I'll
show you some of my pretty clothes."
From a cupboard in the room in which we
slept she brought forth an armful of the
most exquisite clothes, besides a lot of silver brooches and bracelets. "They are all
mine!" she said.
I wanted to warn her of the danger she
was running, yet somehow I could not manage it. I felt that I should receive only ridicule in reply.
That afternoon the mother invited me to
drive with her, and as we were returning
through the woods, I espied Kouz6, and
57




The Heart of the Balkans


then made out that the young man was
again with her. Quickly I turned my head
away, afraid to look lest I should attract
attention to her. Yet it was my hostess's
laughter which made me look again.
"Madcap children!" she murmured;
"madcap children!"
"Who are madcap?" I asked innocently.
She laughed again. "Why, Kouze and
her husband."
"Her husband?" I cried. "Why, is
Kouze married?"
"Yes; she's married to my youngest
son."
My tragedy had blown away in smoke.
"Then why does she live the way she does? "
I asked.
"Because she has no children. Though
she has been married a year, no child is
coming yet - so she has no standing in the
household, and must take whatever is left."
That night when we were in bed, I reached
58




Romantic Albania


over and took Kouze's hand. "I am so
sorry, dear," I said. "This afternoon your
mother told me all."
Kouze dropped my hand, got up, pulled
her mattress nearer mine, and then took my
hand again in hers.
"Why are you sorry?" she asked, her
face very close to mine.
"You are treated terribly - just because you have no children."
"You," she answered, "are a simple
goose. I am as happy as a new moon -
I'm happy as a young rose- I'm the
happiest of olive trees."
"Happy - without being able to see
your husband?" I cried.
"But I do see him all I want. Sometimes
I go to him, and sometimes I don't - and I
make him suffer. Sometimes I let him kiss
me, and sometimes I don't -and he is
madly in love with me. It is a year we are
married, yet his hand trembles in mine. I
pray to the moon and to the stars and to all
59




The Heart of the Balkans


the trees that grow on the mountains that
they may withhold my son's coming yet
another year. I shall be fifteen when the
frost comes in —why should I bother?
And it is such fun, and I am the lord of my
master. We are lovers now. When children
come we shall be old married people, and I
don't want to be old. Besides, if I had an
apartment, he could come to it as his right.
Now I hold that right, and it is as it should
be."
In amazement I listened; that wild Albanian child, who could hardly read and
write, was promulgating sentiments which
I was to hear again, years later, from the
lips of the most advanced feminists of
America.




III
THROUGH THE LANDS OF THE BLACKMOUNTAINEERS
WHEN we left Albania and entered Montenegro, or Tserna-Gora, as it is called by the
inhabitants, we left behind whatever was
tender and soft in the scenery, whatever
was bloody and poetical in the people.
Perhaps I am wrong, but it'seems to me
that over every country hovers an atmosphere which emanates from the thoughts of
the people. In Greece, the sky, the hills,
the plains are clothed in an infinite variety
of soft, tender hues. One breathes in the
intellectual and artistic achievements of
Greece. This cannot be entirely a figment
of my imagination; for one day an American - after confiding to me that Athens
was a "one-horse town" - went on to say
that what bothered him most in Greece was
the unwarrantable desire that gripped him
to read and to study.




The Heart of the Balkans


In Albania I was prey to a sadness which,
while it depressed me, at the same time
made me live within myself a life of thought
and of dreams. It was a companionable
mood. The moment we crossed the border
and were on Montenegrin soil, every bit of
psychical influence departed. I saw things
with my eyes, heard them with my ears, and
analyzed them with my brain: my senses
had plenty of food; my soul alone went
hungry.: It was not that I did not know the
story of Montenegro; for I knew it better
than that of Albania. It was not history,
it was not facts that I lacked; but my imagination was not stimulated.
I have always been aware of two receiving capacities: the one through the concrete,
the other through the occult; and in Montenegro, at first, there was only the concrete.
I saw the olive groves, the fig bosques, the
admirable vineyards, the tall, handsome
men, the gaunt, bent women, the dark,
steep hills rising high, high above us; and I
62




Lands of the Black-Mountaineers


knew that on the highest of the hills were
the remains of Vladika Peter the First,
whom his people loved so greatly that on
his death in I830 they turned him into a
saint. And they buried him up there on
the heights so that all his subjects could see
him- so that he could keep watch over all
his subjects. Yet the soul of Vladika Peter
the First said nothing to my soul. I knew
only that his body was buried up there.
In the first Montenegrin village we exchanged ponies. A fair was going on in the
village, and it afforded me my first glimpse
of Montenegrin costumes, which are far
richer and more sumptuous than those of
any other Balkan nation. I enjoyed gazing
at the tall, martial-looking men. In some
ways they reminded me of the Cretans, except that the latter are very slender and
dress in black, and their faces - in spite of
their history of continuous fighting to free
themselves from the Turks - are essentially
intellectual. The Montenegrin men, even
63




The Heart of the Balkans


when they are educated and speak French
and Italian, - even when conversing on
intellectual topics,- always give me an
impression as if I were talking with wild
animals, who might spring on me if they
took a dislike to me.
In the company of Acheron I wandered
freely about the market. My brother had
gone to pay his respects to the priest and
to ask for information concerning our further journey. At the latter's suggestion
we parted that same day with our last
zaptie, since no military escort whatever
is necessary in Montenegro - especially if
there be a woman in the party.
Good-naturedly Acheron joked with the
natives,, whose language he spoke fluently,
while I looked about in vain for a pretty
face. There were none to be seen. Although
there were girls between thirteen and fifteen, and young married women and young
mothers, all the faces were hard and unresponsive. They seemed only to say that
64




Lands of the Black-Mountaineers


life was a continual burden. Even their
costume was less gorgeous than that of the
men, while their headgear seemed designed
more to conceal whatever favor Nature had
shown them than to enhance it. I was glad
to remember that in Tserna-Gora the women were valued for their chastity and for
their capacity for toil more than for beauty
and charm; had they been dependent on
the last two, it would have gone hard with
them.
We spent that night at the priest's home.
He was of the Orthodox Church. Montenegro, like Servia, has this great advantage
over Albania, that the Christian population
is not divided into different religious sects.
There were, however, a great many Mussulmans, who - as we understood from themselves - were very happy and comfortable
under Prince Nicholas.
Acheron insisted that we ought to start
next morning at three o'clock. He wanted
us to reach the heights, and from there to
65




I


The Heart of the Balkans
gaze down upon the lake of Scodra and the
Adriatic, "just as the sun gives them his
first kiss." Since we had learned by experience that Acheron was a past-master of
scenic effects, we were in the saddle by halfpast three. The beasts that were to carry
us looked as if they could never manage to
scramble up that terrifically steep hill; but
the priest assured us that they looked so
bony and hard simply because it was their
business to climb these steep hills —and
they did prove wonderful. They moved
slowly but steadily, knowing exactly where
to put their feet in the dangerous going.
Acheron, as usual, walked by my horse and
talked. He did not like Montenegro. He
cherished toward it the hostility of all Albanians, who know that it can expand only
at their expense.
With the first glorious colors of the sunrise we began to feast on the beauties
Acheron had foretold. No other part of
Europe can be so lovely. It was magic.
66




Lands of the Black-Mountaineers


The enchanting lake of Scodra glittered below the steep, black mountains; beyond it
was the blue Adriatic, and again beyond
that, Italy. And all that beauty belonged,
not to Montenegro, but to Albania, and to
the seas. Montenegro itself is nothing except piles of rocks, bleak and savage, rising
thousands of feet above this loveliness which
accentuates its bleakness and savagery.
When we reached Cettinje, the capital of
Tserna-Gora, we went directly to the house
of Gospody Pietro, who was to be our host.
We had met him in Turkey, and we were
now to meet his wife, reputed to be - next
to the princely family - among the prettiest
women of Prince Nicholas's dominion. They
received us very charmingly, and Gospody
Pietro himself lifted me from my horse.
"Well, Gospodija, so you have come to
find a husband in the land of the brave?"
Being well aware that the Montenegrins
looked down upon all other women but their
own, I replied: —
67




The Heart of the Balkans


"How could I, since there would be none
for me? I am an alien."
"But you are a Greek, and we make
some exceptions for the Greeks."
Gospoda Lena, the wife, came out, too.
She kissed my brother's hand, and then
kissed me on both cheeks. She was dressed
in the native costume, but wore the headgear with a bit of coquetry, displaying her
ears and neck. She was pretty for a Montenegrin, but would have been plain anywhere else. Their house, like that of all
the well-to-do, was a simple, whitewashed
edifice of two stories, clean and homelike.
She herself took me to my room, and though
we had come unannounced her guest-room
was spotless and smiling.
Since I had risen before three in the morning and had been in the saddle so many
hours, I said I should like to lie down.
She looked at me incredulously.
"But my dear child, it is daytime," she
expostulated. "People don't lie down in
68




Lands of the Black-Mountaineers


the daytime unless they are sick. Take off
your hat and wash your face and hands."
There was nothing to do but comply.
She herself poured a little water over my
hands, with which I washed my face. Then
I began to braid my hair.
"Let me braid it for you, my dear. It is
always better when done by some one else."
"Are you not a lady of the court?" I
asked.
"Yes."
"Then I am a princess, since you are
doing my hair."
"I never did any of the princesses' hair.
Princess Melena, their mother, used to
comb the eldest one's and the others helped
each other."
When I was ready she conducted me to
the dining-room, where our host and my
brother were already waiting; and there we
had our first three drinks, the three inevitable ones of some terrible burning stuff which
one must always drink, in the name of the
69




The Heart of the Balkans


Trinity, to make the welcome binding. The
rest of our meal consisted of bread, fruit,
and coffee.
Cettinje is the capital of Montenegro.
The word "capital" probably suggests to
the mind tall, handsome buildings, avenues,
theaters, and parks. There was nothing of
all this in the capital of Montenegro. It
was a small unpretentious village, dominated by the monastery and the palace
- both whitewashed, barrack-like houses.
The palace at that time consisted of twenty
rooms for the Government and the princely
family, with not a single bathroom.
Yet Cettinje does give the impression of
being a capital. In spite of its poverty and
smallness, it had the dignity and the aloofness bf a real capital; and its stern simplicity, its lack of pretentious buildings and of
crowds, made it a fitting first-city of the
Black-Mountaineers. The people there, as
in the whole of Montenegro, were hospitable
and honest, open-hearted, and essentially
70




Lands of the Black-Mountaineers


democratic. Our host would address his
servants, during meals, in this wise: -
"Oh, my brother, for the sake of God,
give me some more potatoes."
During the few days of our stay in Cettinje, I was exhibited mercilessly, and the
direct questions that were asked me gave
me a clear idea of the working of their
minds, which were straightforward and
clear-sighted.
Gradually the lack of beauty and grace
in the women receded in my mind, and
in its stead came forward their simplicity, their fearlessness, and their undaunted
courage. I began to understand why Montenegrin men preferred their women to
those of other lands. They were worthy
mates of those brave men. For over five
hundred years the Montenegrins have
fought to keep Tserna-Gora for themselves,
and the women have done all the other
work. They are the builders, the planters,
the harvesters; and during the fighting they
7I




The Heart of the Balkans


do the work of army orderlies. Indeed, I
have been told that if there be any crippled
men, the women carry them on their backs
to the front ranks that they may fight.
In Cettinje, and in two or three other
towns of equal size, one felt that the mountaineers at last were free from their perpetual struggle and fight against the encroachment of the Turks. But after we left Cettinje and began to see the small villages,
we knew that Montenegro was not yet a
country secure in her freedom - and then
we came to the frontier outposts!
The frontiers of Montenegro were drawn
by the men who made the Treaty of Berlin.
I said before that in Montenegro all that I
took in seemed to be of a concrete nature;
but In these frontier towns my imagination
was again appealed to. To find out to what
extent the Treaty of Berlin was unjust -
even infamous - one has but to study these
frontiers. They were delineated not for the
purpose of delimiting the various countries
72




Lands of the Black-Mountaineers


to their best advantage, and for their future
welfare, but to further the political intrigues
of the Great Powers. Servia and Montenegro were deliberately separated, and between the two Serb peoples the Turks were
thrust. That was done to please Austria,
whose interest it was to keep Servia and
Montenegro apart, and to keep them constantly harassed by the Turks. England
acquiesced, because it tricked Russia and
humiliated her - and at that time Russia
was the savage bear who dominated Albion's fears.
I have seen those frontier towns, and
though that was years ago, I wonder as I
am writing this whether the blood flooding
Europe at the present moment is not an
atonement for the wrongs Europe inflicted
on the peoples of the Balkans. Sorrowfully
I read of the massacre of the flower of European manhood, and thereupon I am transported back to those frontier towns of Montenegro and Servia. I see again the Serb
73




The Heart of the Balkans


women with their dull eyes and expressionless faces, and I hear the people say: "She
lost four sons in the last fighting"; "That
one lost her husband"; "That other one
lost all her brothers"; "The one with the
basket on her head lost every man who belonged to her." And although I did not see
those women shedding tears, I felt that
their hearts must sob to breaking, - and I
wonder if the sobs that are wringing the
hearts of the women of Europe to-day are
not the echo of the sobs of the women of the
Balkans.
In those frontier towns the people go
armed to the teeth, and a lot of desultory
fighting goes on, which the European chancelleries may know about, but of which the
people of Europe are kept in ignorance. The
Albanians are constantly incited to strike
at the Serbs, either by the Turks or by
Austria. Austria, in the last fifty years,
by money and intrigue has obtained great
influence in the northern part of Albania.
74




Lands of the Black-Mountaineers


She is ever pushing forward the Church of
Rome; and now she often interferes -
ostensibly for love of the Nazarene; in reality with the greed of the Hapsburgs.
It is to the interest of Austria - and also
of Italy- that there should be constant
turmoil on these frontiers. Then one day
there may be a chance to step in - to set
things right; and after things are set right
-to stay. That this has not happened
already is only because Italy prevents Austria - and Austria prevents Italy.
On these frontiers the people live in huts,
dress in rags, but walk about like moving
arsenals. Every one seems to be listening
for something to happen. Often it does
happen; and numerous newly dug graves on
both sides of the boundary tell what has
happened. The drama of Montenegro is
played on these frontiers. The rest is bleak
and poor - so poor that no Western mind
can conceive it. Whenever we stopped at
a small village and partook of their ever75




The Heart of the Balkans


ready hospitality, if we were allowed to pay
I went away feeling like a fairy queen at the
treasure we were able to reward them with.
But when we were sternly told that a Montenegrin brave did not sell his food, but
was willing to share it with us in the name
of God, - I went away feeling like a robber; for they had so little to share. God in
Heaven! how little they had! The women
of the poor never had a new dress till the one
they were wearing fell off them in sheer rags.
And then the new one that they got was
second-hand, bought at the fair. Yet their
pride and their courtly manners redeemed
their terrible poverty and clothed them in
dignity. Both men and women everywhere
were nice to us. They knew my brother had
fought in the Cretan uprisings and they
respected him. Me they held in complete
contempt; for I was small and slight, and
ten hours of riding on a scrambling pony, up
and down those terrific heights, was likely
to leave me without much starch, especially
76




Lands of the Black-Mountaineers


since it often happened that we had to rise
at three and even at two o'clock in the
morning, while our food consisted only of
dark bread and cheese, sometimes with
milk. After a few days in Montenegro I
learned not to speak of lying down. No
matter how tired I felt on arriving at our
journey's end, after refreshing myself with a
cupful of water to wash my face and hands,
I was ready to answer the questions asked
of me. They were always wanting to know
how we fared under the Turk in Constantinople, and they were all greatly surprised to
hear that we lived in comparative quiet and
friendship. And once -but only once-I
mentioned that I even had friends among
the Turkish girls. This admission brought
such an avalanche of reproach upon me
that I never mentioned it again.
I believe a Montenegrin woman is the
toughest human being in the world. She
does not sleep more than a few hours, and
the rest of the time she works in the fields,
77




The Heart of the Balkans


in the house, in the market, with the fortitude of a Spartan, with a resignation which
is truly Christian. She adores her man, of
whom she always speaks as "my brave
one." She asks for nothing in the world
except the certainty that her man will live
to see his sons grow up.
Montenegro, in spite of its geographical
position, has nothing to do with Europe,
and it came as a shock to me to seemounting the steeps like undaunted fighters
- regular telegraph poles. They were the
only things out of place in Montenegro. A
woman once pointed them out to me, exclaiming: -
"Oh! my sister, look well at these; for
each one of them carries a message to our
Prince. Hast thou ever seen such before?"
"Yes," I replied, "they are all over the
world, so that your Prince may talk with
the whole world."
"Ah, but God is good!" was her answer.
And I think she believed that God planted
78




Lands of the Black-Mountaineers


the telegraph poles in order that the outer
world might have word from the Prince of
Montenegro.
I had various amusing experiences with
these women, less in Cettinje and Podgoritza than in the villages, where I had to
share a room with other women. They all
assembled to see me undress, and if we
stayed more than one day, on the second
night they invited all their outside friends
to see me go through the ceremony. To
them it was one of the most marvelous sights
that they had ever witnessed, to see a
woman take off her clothes and put on a
night-gown. They would take up my garments, one by one, examine them, pass
them from hand to hand, and then, laying them aside, take up my underclothing.
And here I may say, for the benefit of those
who may contemplate traveling through the
Balkans, that underclothing of pongee is
the best kind to have. It does not require
ironing, and it is distasteful to certain
79




The Heart of the Balkans


minute Balkan inhabitants, which abound.
If possible, pongee sheets also will prove a
great comfort.
To return to the subject of undressing to
go to bed; in every village it was the greatest mystery to the Montenegrin women
why any one should wish to do this. Like a
pack of excited monkeys the women would
discuss the subject.
"Your clothes are quite clean. Why do
you object to keeping them on at night?"
they would ask.
Having never analyzed the reason, I
searched for it.
"It is more healthful to air one's clothing," I said.
"It can't be healthful," they retorted triumphantly, "or it would have made you big
and strong, like us."
"Perhaps," I suggested, "I should have
been even smaller."
They shook their heads in disbelief.
Then a very old lady said to me: -
8o




Lands of the Black-Mountaineers


"My child, by taking off your underwear
at night, you lose the healthy heat which
would keep you warm. Look at us! The
only reason we ever take our dresses off is
because we do not wish to wear them out."
When, however, I ventured to take a
sponge bath, they were actually wrathful.
In one of the villages, early in the morning,
my hostess invited as many as twenty of
her friends; then came to my room, woke
me, and told me to get up and take a
bath - "for I want my friends to see the
unholy use to which you put God's holy
water." Fortunately for me I was a Greek,
and born and brought up in Turkey, the
land of public baths, otherwise I might have
died of the shock of finding myself everywhere a public spectacle.
The houses of the poor were so badly built
that the air and rain could come in on all
sides; and sometimes in the smaller villages
my brother and I even had to sleep, fully
dressed, on the floor of the living-room, with
8i




The Heart of the Balkans


both men and women. On one such occasion, when the wind blew through the
cracks so gustily that the cloak under which
I was lying was repeatedly blown off,
my brother, after replacing it over me
several times, finally told me to wind it
around me, as the Montenegrins did. When
I had followed this advice, the hoarse voice
of an old Montenegrin at the other end of
the room sounded through the night: -
"God be thanked, they have at last
found the sense to do as we do."
Yet with all this hardship, I do not remember to have been ill once in Montenegro.
Little as it gave them, the men and the
women of this country loved it with a passion amounting to mania, and whenever a
new boy was born, there was jubilation all
over the village, because there was a new
man to fight for Tserna-Gora.
One day, standing on a plateau a little
way from Cettinje, looking at the country
82




Lands of the Black-Mountaineers


all around, I was wondering wherein lay
the strength of the sentiment we call patriotism. Montenegro stands in Balkan history as the bravest of all states, because
she has resisted the Turk for five hundred
years and kept herself independent. Yet
that independence meant terrific isolation,
abject poverty, and absolute ignorance.
My thinking was disturbed by Acheron,
who was coming up from below, climbing
like a goat. It was wonderful to watch him
moving among the rocks. Presently he
reached the place where I was standing.
"Acheron," I said, "the Montenegrins
are very brave, are they not? They have
always managed to keep their country to
themselves, have they not?"
"Oh, yes," he replied carelessly, "though
why any one should ever have wanted it, I
do not know. It is nothing but a heap of
stones, and I will tell you how they got
here. When God finished making the world,
he realized that stones were needed, so he
83




The Heart of the Balkans


appointed two angels to take a big bag
of stones and distribute them all over the
world. When they were flying over TsernaGora, the bag split and all the stones fell
here."
And from where I stood the reality certainly fitted the tale. Yet what patience,
what courage, what ingenuity the women
exhibited in raising their crops! There was
not a bit of earth on the edge of a precipice,
not a deposit of silt in a crevice, that they
did not manage to dig up by hand and plant
in potatoes. To Acheron I pointed out some
of these efforts of the women.
"How they do work!" I cried.
"They have to," he retorted. "You
know there are no fairies in Tserna-Gora,
and where there are no fairies to make
things grow with their breath, the people
have to work much harder. Look!" He
pointed far below us, where Montenegro and
Albania met. "Down there, near our borders, even flowers grow. That is because our
84




Lands of the Black-Mountaineers


fairies take pity on Tserna-Gora, and cross
over and make things plentiful. But you
cannot expect them to come up these horrible bare rocks."
At this juncture our hostess joined us,
and Acheron went away.
Gospoda Lena put her arm through mine,
and asked:
"What were you looking at, little sister?"
"I was looking down at Albania and her
fertile lands."
"Ah, some day Tserna-Gora will wrest
that part from the Turks, and then we shall
prosper."
"But that part belongs to Albania," I
expostulated. "You love your country, and
you have fought for centuries to keep your
liberty. Why do you wish to subjugate the
Albanians? They will fight you as stubbornly as you have fought the Turks."
"The Albanians are very unreasonable,"
Gospoda Lena returned. "Always they
85




The Heart of the Balkans
have been misgoverned. If we took them,
for the first time in their history they would
be well governed; and besides, it is vital
to the welfare of Montenegro to acquire that
district on the sea."
As I saw no immediate prospect of Montenegro getting any portion of Albania, I
did not argue the question. Also the words
of Gospoda Lena had truth in them. The
Albanians had constituted the phalanxes
of Alexander the Great, then the legions of
Rome, and later they were the backbone of
the wonderful Turkish army; yet they had
never been able to govern themselves, or
to stop killing each other, nor had even
achieved an alphabet.
Together Gospoda Lena and I walked to
the monastery, and presently came upon
the tomb of Danillo I, who, on his accession
in 1850, at the death of his uncle, Peter II,
separated the Church and the State. Up to
that time the succession had passed from
uncle to nephew, because the reigning
86




Lands of the Black-Mountaineers


prince was at the same time the archbishop,
the Vladika, and naturally was condemned
to celibacy. Danillo, however, who was of
the marrying kind, and who cherished the
ambition to leave a son to succeed him,
with the help of Russia brought about
the separation of the secular and spiritual
governments, and then married brave and
capable Princess Darinka. As I stood by
his tomb, I leaned over to see whether his
epitaph read thus: "Killed by one of his
own people, because he did not respect the
honor of a woman"; for that was the fate
of Danillo. He was shot in the back, on
the promenade of Cattaro, by an outraged
Tserna-Goritsi husband, eight years after
his accession, and died without leaving a
son. The present ruler, then Prince, now
King Nicholas Petrovitch of Niegush, is his
nephew, son of the famous warrior Gospody Mirko.
The epitaph of Danillo, however, like
most epitaphs, told no tales; and from there
87




The Heart of the Balkans


we passed through various enclosures, and
met the Vladika, whose hand I was permitted to kiss. Since the separation of the
secular and spiritual powers, another member of the reigning princely family becomes
archbishop.
As far as I could see, every bit of comfort
in Cettinje, every scrap of luxury, came
from Russia, who also gives an allowance
to the Prince, has educated his handsome
daughters, and, if I am not mistaken, has
even dowered them. Most of them are now
married. Three of them were at home when
we were at the capital, and we saw them on
Sunday at service. They mingled freely with
the people, and we were presented to them,
as every stranger is - or used to be, before
Prince Nicholas put aside the simplicity of
his ancestors and assumed the antiquated
title of king, and with it, I presume, the
ceremonies that go with the precious anachronism. This must rob Montenegro of
one of her great charms, the simplicity of the
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Lands of the Black-Mountaineers


ruler and the patriarchal traditions which
united the people to their Prince.
We spent twenty days in Montenegro, a
large part of the time on scrawny ponies as
sure and trustworthy as the Montenegrins
themselves. They took us up the terrific
hills and down the precipitous descents
with courage and patient endurance, and we
learned to like and trust them as we did the
people themselves. It is impossible to describe to what extent the life and honor of
a woman are secure among these BlackMountaineers. To them, to harm a woman
is to destroy the spring of life, to sin against
God Himself.
They are the most frugal and economical
of all people in the Balkans; yet they are
lavish to extravagance in the matter of
embroidered clothes for the men, in weapons, and in powder. At a great fair we
witnessed a dance executed by youths and
"braves" of Montenegro. At one point in
the dance, they leaped high in the air and
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The Heart of the Balkans


discharged their revolvers, and it was as if a
battle were going on. They must have shot
a thousand times while we were looking at
them. We were also invited to many song
parties, where the gusle, the national musical instrument, was used for accompaniment. The gusle is as primitive as the
Montenegrin, and like him it is povertystricken; yet the Montenegrins love it and
play it by the hour, while they sing their
national songs, which always tell of the
deeds of the "braves."
Though the most abject poverty is theirs,
I do not remember to have heard them complain, either about their lack of comforts
or about their lack of education - though
when it comes to education they were worse
off than the gusle. The number of women
who could read and write, when I was there,
was infinitesimal. There was more poverty
than in Albania - at least we saw more in
the twenty days we were there than we saw
during the two months we were in Albania.
90o




Lands of the Black-Mountaineers


How could it be otherwise with the sterility
of their land?
One day, one of our hosts, on bidding
us good-bye, pointed to the fertility some
thousand feet below us.
"We won that from the Turk," he exclaimed bitterly; "but the Treaty of Berlin
took it from us and handed it back to
Turkey. Yet it is a part of Old Servia; it
is inhabited by Serbs; it is drenched with
Servian blood, and it was ours, because we
had won it. It is now Turkish again, because the Treaty of Berlin decreed that it
should be so; because Austria demanded it,
and England acquiesced. Well," he ended,
" God from above some day will right things
that are now wrong."
We left him standing there, a handsome,
stately figure in his embroidered clothes.
After that we heard it over and over again
from people of all classes: "We took it from
the Turks, but the Treaty of Berlin, to
please Austria, gave it back to the Turks,
9I




The Heart of the Balkans


and left us hemmed in here, poor and miserable."
A few years ago, when I was in Italy, and
an Italian lady was complaining of Queen
Elena's inability to cope with her new position, and especially to spend money on her
clothes as a queen should, my mind traveled back to the little church in the monastery of Cettinje where Queen Elena, then
the young Princess of Montenegro, with her
sisters and her parents had come to worship,
and I remembered the people - the poor
people who were worshiping with her. My
Italian friend continued: -
"What do you think she did the other
day? She refused to buy a pretty hat -
because it cost a hundred francs! 'What
makes it so expensive?' she asked. 'This
piece of lace is real, Your Majesty,' the
milliner explained. 'Then take it off and
put on something less expensive. I cannot
wear a costly bibelot on my head when
people are starving.' Imagine a queen re92




Lands of the Black-Mountaineers


fusing to wear a hundred-franc hat, because people were starving!"
The contemptuous indignation of my
Italian friend was great; but I realized that
she could not see the world through the eyes
of Queen Elena. She had not been to Montenegro; she had not seen the huts, the gaunt
women, the rocks, the cultivated crevices
between, - and above all she had not seen
the frontier posts studded with graves. But
I had been to Tserna-Gora: I had seen it all.
I had partaken of their frugal fare, and I
understood the Queen of Italy. There are
some things that become printed on one's
soul, and not even the crown of a queen can
efface them.




IV
THE EAGLE AND THE SPARROW
AT the frontier of Servia we were to part
with Acheron. We did not require his services any longer, and he - which was more
important —was homesick for his own
mountains. We had become accustomed to
the wild, untamed creature, just as we had
become accustomed to the hardships of his
native land; and, like his land, he had been
a source of pleasure to us, a source for the
discussion and speculation which are so
pleasant to the Greek mind. Young as I
was, my brother had acquired the habit
of talking to me as if I were as old as he,
one of his theories being that mind has no
age.
In the starlight, seated outside our tents
on the last evening that Acheron was to be
with us, we told each other that we should
miss him greatly.
94




The Eagle and the Sparrow
"Why couldn't we take him with us
and gradually fit him into our manner of
living?" I suggested.
"Because then he would no longer be
Acheron, and that which charms us in him
would no longer be there. He is to us what
he is because of his surroundings, and above
all because of his irresponsible nature,
which so delightfully blends with his surroundings."
We retired that night without dispelling
the feeling of sadness at the impending separation. Generally my brother and I, in
talking over matters, managed to clear the
surcharged atmosphere. That night we not
only did not clear matters for each other,
but we were both aware that we did not
wish to. Children of the Greeks, we preferred to revel in sadness at the approaching
loss of Acheron. We mourned him beforehand, knowing that he would never again
be to us what he had been; that he was one
of those brief idyls of life impossible to be
95




The Heart of the Balkans


revived. We were both in a mood to encourage sadness, to be thrilled by it, and to
bathe in its gloom. It is a mood more necessary to the Greeks, I think, than to other
nationalities.
Before dawn we were ready for our last
day's journey. Acheron was not to accompany us the whole way to the station where
we were to take our first railway trip in the
Balkans. He was a dramatic manager by
instinct, and was going to take leave of us
long before we reached the commonplace
convenience which adds to the rapidity of
locomotion, but robs the traveler of a most
attractive means of knowing the country.
It was a cool, overcast dawn, and Acheron
was walking by my pony.
"Think, Acheron," I said, "after to-day
we shall never see you again."
"I have thought of that, and I am not
going to have it so. Your brother may not,
but you must."
"If my brother does not, neither can I."
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The Eagle and the Sparrow
"Do you remember the eagles I showed
you in Albania?"
I nodded.
"You saw how they lived?"
I nodded again.
"Well," said Acheron," I don't want you
to go to dirty Servia. I want you to go back
with me to my mountains and be my eagle
woman."
Shamefully I confess that when I understood what he meant, the first feeling in me
was the wrath of pride. He, Acheron, the
Albanian guide, to ask me to be his wife!
Then —it may have been the scenery
around us, it may have been the life in the
heart of Nature which we had led for almost
three months, or it may have been something better than pride - I did not answer
him from the meanest side in me. Instead,
I saw him as he saw himself, an eagle, free
and untamed, having his looks, his strength,
himself - a great deal to offer.
Fearful lest I might hurt his feelings, or
97




The Heart of the Balkans


worse yet his unreasonable Albanian pride,
I became at once a woman and a Greek.
Tact and cunning were my counselors.
"I cannot go back to the mountains with
you, Acheron," I replied, "for I am not an
eagle."
"I can teach you to be an eagle," he
announced, throwing back his head.
I shook mine. "I am only a little sparrow, Acheron, and were I to attempt to be
an eagle, I should appear ridiculous or be
killed in the attempt."
He looked at me with a new light in his
eyes -with the appraising consciousness
of an eagle for the sparrow he is proposing
to make his mate. Then he smiled encouragement, and the smile banished all
doubt from his handsome face.
It has been, and after so many years still
is, a great disappointment to me that not for
a single instant did the girl of books in me
become the girl of nature; that not for one
unforgettable second did my heart leap to
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The Eagle and the Sparrow
meet his. His beauty touched me incontestably, and all along I had been conscious
of his charm; but stronger than those two
potent elements was the fact that my mind
had never accepted him. Between us stood
a chasm of thousands of years of intellectual
demarkation. It was as impossible for me to
bridge it as it was for him even to realize its
existence. Yet what I have regretted is that
his charm and his beauty did not for the
fraction of a second cause my lips to desire
his; and that I remained, if not indifferent,
at least mentally conscious that we belonged
to different civilizations which raised an
impassable barrier between us.
"You need not die in the attempt,"
Acheron corrected me; "for you will have
me to protect you. And because you will be
my little sparrow, the eagles of Albania will
not laugh at you."
"But I am not only a little sparrow, but
a horrid little sparrow. I must have a great
many things that Albania cannot give me."
99




The Heart of the Balkans


"What is there that Albania cannot give
you?"
I temporized, and did not give him a
direct reply. "You have been seeing me
now on my holidays, Acheron, when for a
little time I could do many things, such as
ride all day, sleep in tents, eat black bread,
and, above all, live without books - and
those things I cannot do always."
Resentment began to grow in his large
brown eyes.
" It is better for you to live as we do. You
have grown prettier since the first day I
saw you. You remember that day at the
priest's? I did not even dream I should ever
come to want you. Now I do! And all that
because you have lived our way. As for
books, I can teach you much more than they
can. Why, two years ago a man from Angleterra came to our mountains to learn.
He had three times my age, and the priest
told me that he had read thousands of
books." Acheron shrugged his shoulders
IOO




The Eagle and the Sparrow
and snapped his fingers. "Why, the man
knew nothing! I had to teach him everything! Books!" he sneered. "Does Allah
write books? No, he makes Albania, and
people come to Albania to see and learn.
Come with me to my mountains, and I
will teach you everything, and make you
grow stronger and prettier every day."
Over his wild beauty there came a little
tenderness and the mist of loveliness was in
his eyes; and I am happy that the mother of
men in me, rather than tact and cunning,
took the lead.
"I will tell you what I will do, Acheron:
I will not come with you now to your mountains; but some time I will come back and
try to learn how to be an eagle woman.
If I can do it, then I shall be proudly
yours."
He sulked for several minutes.
"I have not offered myself to any woman
before, and there is not a woman in Albania
that I could not have. Since I ask you, you
I0I




The Heart of the Balkans


ought to come to me at once and not stop to
bargain."
"It is not bargaining, Acheron, it is
thinking. There are so many things I am
accustomed to have."
"You will have me, and that is more than
all things put together." His white teeth
flashed into a smile; yet with it there came
a gleam into his eyes which proved him
wholly Albanian. In the aeons during which
we humans have struggled onward from our
remotest ancestors, we must have acquired
some of the traits of the animals who people
the earth with us; and in the eyes of Acheron
there shone the savagery of the panther.
Nor did his words alleviate the gleam in his
eyes.
"i have a mind to do as I fancy - to take
you now with me to the mountains." He
glanced at the figure of my brother ahead.
"I can easily kill him."
I saw that he was seriously considering
the idea.
I02




The Eagle and the Sparrow
"That would not be mating, Acheron;
that would only be the great and powerful
eagle dragging a poor sparrow to his nest -
and you would find that in the dragging
the claws of the eagle would inflict a mortal
wound on the little sparrow. You are too
proud an eagle to do such a thing. The best
plan is still mine: I must come back to
Albania, and if then we can teach the little
sparrow to soar to the heights of the eagle,
without getting dizzy, than I shall be yours,
and you shall teach me the great things of
Albania."
He considered the proposition for fully a
minute.
"I believe that what I like best in you is
the way you put things, and if I were to take
you by force, you might not like to talk with
me as you do now."
"I should not talk at all. I should always
be weeping for my brother, and his slayer
would be for me the most hateful person
in the world; because you see, Acheron," I
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The Heart of the Balkans


explained further, "mating is n't only the
mating of what we can see, but the mating
of the souls we cannot see. If you were to
drag away my body, you could never have
my soul."
"What is a soul?" he asked.
"That thing which makes us dream wondrous dreams in the daytime when we are
not asleep."
He laughed. "Do you ever dream when
you are not asleep?"
"Don't you?"
"Yes; but I am the son of a fairy."
"Well, I dream, too, and if you were to
take me by force, I could never dream again
in the daytime."
My wild Albanian suitor turned upon me
the first glance of intellectual light I had
ever seen in his eyes. "If we could only
save the things we dream!" he exclaimed.
"Why can't we?"
"But we can, when we are really mated."
"When are you coming back, then? You
I04




The Eagle and the Sparrow
must come very soon. If you stay away too
long you will grow old, and I may no longer
wish to marry you."
At parting, he boldly told my brother
that I had promised to come back again and
learn to be his eagle woman.
Mano did not look at me. He only asked
Acheron earnestly if he thought I was capable of the great task.
"Oh, she will have me to teach her," he
replied confidently.
They shook hands.
"I should be proud to have you for a
brother," Mano said, and presented him with
a revolver of a new make such as Acheron
did not possess, and promised to send him a
further supply of cartridges besides those he
had with him.
After we were left alone, Mano reined
back his pony beside mine. "Did Acheron
make love to you?" he asked, with what I
thought was amusement.
I05




The Heart of the Balkans


I laughed. "I don't know that you would
call it 'making love.' At least it is not the
kind I have read of in books."
"That kind you will never meet, little
girl; for the people who write that lovemaking are sober, and those who make love
are drunk with a liquor made in heaven."
Then he threw back his head and did laugh.
"To think that Acheron should have wanted
you, of all human beings."
This time his amusement hurt.
"Why not? Because I am not pretty?"
"It is not beauty that makes a woman
loved - but you are no more a woman than
a cloud is."
Because I was afraid that he might be
right, I argued vehemently, and in the midst
of my argument I tumbled on the basic fact
that Acheron had wanted me for his wife.
The cold, intellectual gleam of the Greek
race was in my brother's eyes again. "You
must learn to look at things with reason,"
he commented. "If Acheron had really
io6




The Eagle and the Sparrow
wanted you - as a man wants a woman -
do you think for an instant that he would
have gone back without you? Do you believe if - for a moment only - you had
kindled the fire in that wild breast that you
could have put it out with clever phrases?
By this time you would be seated in front
on his horse, going up his mountain, and I
should be lying somewhere by the roadside
with a bullet-hole in my back."
I had not intended to tell my brother that
such an arrangement had passed through the
mind of Acheron; but we were two Greeks
at that moment, and if the light in my eyes
in any way resembled what I saw in his, the
process which goes to make an intellectual
must have eliminated the panther influence
long ago. His was cold, like that of the alchemist, searching for some verity; and I
was willing to lend him all the aid I could.
"Yes," I said, "Acheron contemplated
such a method. He put it simply: to kill
you and take me."
I07




The Heart of the Balkans


"Did he, indeed?" Mano rode on in
silence. A little later he reined in his horse
and inquired: "How did you dissuade him?"
There had existed a long argument between my brother and myself about the
mind and its power. I took it up again
now:
"You see, Mano, although you are older
and cleverer, and have read ever so many
more books than I, to-day I have the proof
that I am nearer the truth than you, when I
maintain that if we fully use our inheritance
of mind, we can go safely into the den of
a wild beast or walk on the waves of the
sea."
He clucked to his horse and we did not
speak again of Acheron. Late that night, in
Servia, in the house of General Petrovitch,
after I had gone to bed, my brother came to
kiss me good-night. Bending over me he
asked earnestly: -
"Tell me, little girl, did you not even
wish to kiss Acheron?"
0o8




The Eagle and the Sparrow
"I am sorry to confess, brother, I did
not."
He gave my head a pat. "Well, I have
no reason to complain, for once, that you
were nothing but a cloud. Had you kissed
him-" He broke off. After a slight pause
he concluded: "You and I do not mind
dying. What we care about is the manner
of our exit."




V
SERVIA, THE UNDAUNTED
ONE day's journey, and we passed from
Montenegro into Servia —Servia whose
people were the same as those of Montenegro, yet with what a difference! The
standards, the attitude toward life, even the
material comforts were of a different world.
It was the Balkans still, far behind the
rest of Europe; but the Balkans a trifle
mellowed, a trifle civilized, a trifle humanized.
The twenty-one days we had spent in the
stony parcel of land ruled over by Prince
Nicholas, whose ability would have done
justice to a greater kingdom, had been very
trying ones to me, personally, less for the
physical hardships I had endured than for
those my pride had been called upon to
suffer. I found tremendous joy in life; but
the thought that came to haunt me more
IO




Servia, the Undaunted
and more was: What was life to get out of
me? A young girl, slender as a reed, who
needed to lie down and rest after a day in
the saddle, and who stood aghast at the
tremendous amount of work performed by
the Montenegrin women, appeared an insignificant atom, compared to these capable
women of the Black Mountains. My last
hostess, in her perplexity over the reason for
my existence, turned to her husband and
asked: -
"Master Nikita, can you imagine this
young girl ever giving sturdy sons to her
husband?"
The husband caressed with his two hands
the belt which carried his many weapons
and shook his head doubtfully.
"That is why the Greeks are of no
account nowadays," he replied. "They
pamper their women, and they school them
as if they were boys. Why, the brother of
the gospoditja here tells me, without shame,
that she has read hundreds of books, and
III




The Heart of the Balkans


can poke her inquisitive little nose into
many foreign tongues."
"I call it positively indelicate," my hostess concluded - my hostess, a lady of the
court, who could neither read nor write,
but who had given to her master five sturdy
sons and a few girls besides.
In this wise, during each of the twentyone days that I had passed in the land of
the brave, I, who had gone there with a
pretty good opinion of my small person,
saw myself a little more depreciated in value.
Not that the Montenegrins meant to be unkind or rude; but they were a simple people,
and their amazement at me was so great
that, though a silent people, it lent them
speech. And so much did they marvel at
my slenderness and smallness that I began
to wonder myself if I were not really a pretty
useless baggage.
Then we came into the land of the Serbs.
We knew no one at our first stopping-place,
and went to the inn. It was late in the
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Servia, the Undaunted
afternoon. The hostelry was well lighted,
and with pomp and ceremony we were conducted to one of the three rooms which composed its sleeping-apartments. It was unpretentious and uncurtained, but it had a
real bed, a chair, and actually - I am not
making this up - it had a small mirror
hanging on the wall.
In Servia, as we gradually discovered, the
price for lodging depended on how many
people occupied a room. If you are willing
to pay for the space of a whole room, it is
yours. If you are willing to share it with
others, then you pay only for the space you
use. At times these three rooms may have
held twenty or thirty people!
After Albania and Montenegro, this inn
seemed sumptuous. I said that we knew no
one in the place; but there was an officer
whom my brother had met casually in Paris,
and him he wished to hunt up in order
to procure information about our journey
through Servia.
I"3




The Heart of the Balkans


"You lie down. I will order dinner, go
out and hunt up Petrovitch, and come back
presently," my brother said.
I threw myself on the bed. A few minutes
later mine host entered unceremoniously,
carrying a pitcher of water and a glass.
He filled the glass and offered it to me. I
sat up and drained its contents with pleasure. He refilled it, and offered it to me
again. This, too, I drank, more slowly, and
when I had finished, I had consumed all the
water I desired.
The Servian patiently refilled the glass
and presented it to me for the third time.
"I do not wish any more," I said.
"Ah, but do!" he coaxed. "In the name
of the Trinity, for welcome and good luck."
He was so earnest about it that I drank
the third glass also.
"God bless you!" he said, beaming upon
me, "God bless you!"
He went away, and I lay down again,
only to be redisturbed, half an hour later,
II4




Servia, the Undaunted
when he appeared with a cup of coffee and
a slice of bread. There was no use trying to
rest. I got up, drank the coffee, and began
to talk with him.
"How big is this place?" I asked.
"Not very big." He shook his head
sadly. "Nothing is big in Servia —not
even Belgrade or Nish. How could it be
otherwise, with the shadow of Austria falling on us like a blight, and preventing our
growth; with Bulgaria, on the other side,
hating us; with the Turks holding the better
part of the lands inhabited by Serbs; and
with our long, long conscription?" He lowered his voice. "And now, even God is
against Servia. The king - ah! the king,
and his terrible queen! What can Servia
do with Austria, Bulgaria, Turkey, and God
against her?" He leaned toward me, as if
I could give him an answer to the riddle.
Could I tell him why God was against
Servia —giving them first the unspeakable Milan, and now his son, a degenerate?
II5




The Heart of the Balkans


Could I tell him what was to become of
Servia?
All my fatigue had gone from me. Was
it the coffee or the intense human interest
aroused in my heart? Servian history I had
known long before I had ever thought of
going through the Balkans. It is a history
made up of great battles and great glories.
It contains Kossovo, fought and lost in the
fourteenth century, and glorious as any of
the battles of ancient Greece. Servia then
fought against Turkey, as Belgium fought
against the Germanic invasion, in our time.
Like Belgium she fell, but there fell with her
Sultan Amurad; and though Turkey was
successful - as Germany was - the crest
of the wave broke, and Europe was saved.
Servia's bleeding body, like Belgium's, lay
across the pathway of the conqueror, a
bulwark he could not scale.
From the glorious past of a great Servia,
I was brought back to a small Servia, harassed and hampered, and misgoverned by
16




Servia, the Undaunted
the degenerate son of a licentious king. The
innkeeper, the coffee-cup in his hand, stood
before me, demanding: -
"My young lady, what can we do? Even
threatened on all sides we could still be
something of a nation, had we a man as a
king."
"Why don't you rise and depose him?"
"Yes, but if we do, there may be a revolution. We shall be weakened, and Austria
will take us."
I leaned forward and touched the innkeeper's arm. The last three months I had
spent in Albania and Montenegro.
"Why don't you kill him?" I asked
simply.
With a thud the innkeeper put the cup on
the table, and, bending over, kissed the hem
of my dress; but he spoke no word.
"What is happening? " my brother asked,
entering the room.
"I have just asked him why they did n't
kill Alexander?"
II7




The Heart of the Balkans


"H'm!" my brother muttered. "You are
getting pretty well acclimated."
"And monsieur?" the innkeeper asked
hopefully. "Does monsieur agree with his
sweet sister?"
"My dear fellow, the wonder to me is
that you have not done it long ago."
The innkeeper beamed, and left the room
to prepare us a very good dinner.
"Do you know what broods over this
place, and indeed over the whole of Servia?"
my brother asked.
"What?"
"The longing of the people to be delivered from Alexander and Draga. We may
see the thing done while we are here. The
Setvians are a slow-moving people, but they
will not stand such a king forever. In Albania or Montenegro it would have taken
just the time to pull the trigger of a rifle.
But now make ready and let us dine; for we
are going to leave the hotel presently."
"Where are we going?"
i8




Servia, the Undaunted


"I found Petrovitch, and he will not hear
of our staying in an inn."
"But I thought you only knew him
slightly."
"That doesn't seem to make any difference. He simply will not permit us to
remain here."
When an hour later we were driven from
the hotel, we were taken, not to Petrovitch's
home, but to that of his father, because it
was a better one. The old gentleman received us outside his house, and told us how
happy he was to have us. He held my hand
and caressed it.
"You must be very tired, my pretty
child," he said. "I do not see what your
brother was thinking of to subject such a
delicate thing as you to the fatigue of many
hours of horseback traveling."
"Don't you despise me for being delicate? " I asked.
"Despise you! And does God despise the
roses?"


II9




The Heart of the Balkans


I almost wept with gratitude. Only
twelve hours ago and nothing but scorn had
been heaped upon me, because I was not a
useful cabbage.
His wife received us indoors, and was
delighted to welcome two people into her
home of whose existence she had been
unaware two hours before and who were
thrust upon her at a moment's notice. Like
her husband, she begged God to witness
that she would do her best for us - which
she did.
In a little while I Was put to bed, but
not before a delightful foot-bath had been
given me, my hostess considering that essential to draw the fatigue from my body;
and I slept the sleep of the comforted, between sheets that smelt of rose-leaves, and
with a sense of being in a land where women were no longer valued for their physical
endurance alone.
We spent three days with the old general
and his family, and met all his friends, both
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Servia, the Undaunted
in our house and in theirs. After that we
were passed on from place to place, like
royalty. When we were leaving one town
for another, our host and his friends were
solely occupied with the thought: To whom
shall they go next? Who would be the most
likely persons to give us comfort, and to
show us Servia at its best? They all discussed it, and invoked the help of God to
guide them in their efforts. Sometimes we
tricked them, and instead of going to the
town where we said that we were going, we
stopped at inns in by-places -not that the
whole of Servia, judged by European standards, is not a by-place; but we stopped at
by-places even for Servia. Thus we saw
the country both as honored guests and as
simple tourists.
The impression the Servians made on us
both - and especially on me as a girl -
was a charming one. Unlike the Albanians and the Montenegrins, they could talk
of the past without boasting, and without
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The Heart of the Balkans


always dwelling on the great empire that
once had been theirs. Although their history is most heroic, it was of the present that
they thought - for their doubtful future
that they planned. The shadow of Austria
was black and menacing even then; and the
treachery of Bulgaria, whom Austria was
ever using as a weapon against Servia, was
feared everywhere. To these anxieties was
added the old, old fear of Turkey. They
were indeed a trapped nation, surrounded
by enemies, governed by a degenerate pair,
and helpless through poverty. Yet with
it all they remained chivalrous, and their
attitude toward women had some of the
charm of the age of knight-errantry.
The women of Servia of all classes admired openly, but without envy, my small
intellectual accomplishments. They would
sit around me and listen, without understanding a word, when officers came in to
talk with me in French and Italian. They
prized education as only the people of
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Servia, the Undaunted
America do, and they looked upon it as the
greatest sign of civilization. Over and over
again they remarked that Greece was the
most civilized country in the world, since it
was the first to give equal education to men
and to women. "We here are so poor we
can hardly educate our men," they would
say simply. Poor little Servia, hard-pressed
and tired, always preparing for the great
struggle that was to come. No wonder her
streets were filled with soldiers and officers.
No wonder there was the severest conscription, and yet she alone was not dreaming
of ascendancy over the other Balkan States,
but only of commercial and educational civilization, to fit her to take her place as a
European State.
At that time there was little even of primary education for women. The daughters
of the better class could read and write, and
I knew several who could speak French; yet
I did not meet a single girl who was still
a student after her fourteenth year. They
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The Heart of the Balkans


were very childlike, with a great deal of innate refinement. Unlike the Albanians and
Montenegrins, the girls of the better classes
were secluded, their occupation consisting
of needlework, visiting, and church-going.
The women of the lower classes, like those in
the other Balkan States, worked in the fields;
yet during the six weeks we spent in Servia
I never saw a woman carrying a package,
large or small, in the company of a man who
was carrying nothing. The Servian men
seemed to have a tender attitude toward
the women, and to be anxious to shield them
as much as possible from the drudgery of
the daily struggle.
We were at several fairs, both for cattle
and for other wares, yet I never saw a
drunken man. The whole Servian nation
seemed singularly sober. When they wished
to offer us of their best, they offered us
water. Those who do not like the Servians call them water-logged. Water-logged
although they may be, they have never
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Servia, the Undaunted
shirked their duty to fight for any part of
Servia that needed their blood.
Compared with Albania, the natural
beauty of Servia may seem tame. One is
rarely awe-struck by Servian scenery. It is
of a different sort: it soothes and caresses;
it is ever present and becomes a part of
the daily life. Though one rarely exclaims
"Oh!" one is always aware of it, whether it
be the blue waters of the Danube or the
purple hills in the distance. That which
really compels the imagination in Servia is
the past: I had the same feeling I always
have in Florence, where the present recedes
and the past becomes predominant. As in
the old Tuscan city I always hear the clink!
clink! of the chains falling across the narrow
streets, and the crash of the stones hurtled
down from the battlemented houses, so in
Servia the present seems to vanish and I live
again in the Servia of old - in the time
of the great Nemanza princes, in the time
of the immortal Tsar Lazar. I march the
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The Heart of the Balkans


streets with the Servian armies, defending
their lands, inch by inch- now against
the Bulgar, their first oppressor, and then
against the Turk, the second and more
terrible invader.
So intensely did I feel the past that I
made everybody tell me of it; and they told
it, not in the grandiose way in which an
Albanian would have told of the imaginary
millions of Turks they held back, when
Iskander Bey was alive, nor with the ferocity
with which a Montenegrin would have told
of his country's bloody exploits, but with
the calm fatality of a nation which fought,
and fell - fought as fights a lion at bay, and
fell, like him, before overpowering numbers.
But in the past they were never content to
remain. Invariably they would return to
the present - to the degradation of being
ruled by a man who was neither brave nor
intelligent; and they were ashamed to look
you in the face, because they could not
speak proudly of their ruler.
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Servia, the Undaunted


When we were in Belgrade I hurt the feelings of my host and hostess by expressing
the wish to see the kingly pair.
"We beg of you not to see them," they
implored. "We do not deserve such punishment."
By accident I did see the king and queen,
and I understood the horror of their subjects
for them. There is no use dwelling now
either on their looks or on their conduct.
Servia to-day is ruled over by a man and a
warrior: a man who can rule in peace and
lead in battle. We have seen the Servians
in three consecutive wars, and we know
what they can do when they are led by a
man.
Servia enjoys the same advantage as
Montenegro in being entirely Orthodox, and
not split up into different religious sects. I
went to church every Sunday and every
holiday, and although their Church is the
Church of Greece, the difference between
the churches is as vast as the millions of
I27




The Heart of the Balkans


books which separate the development of
the two nations.
The Greeks of the better classes - and all
the Greeks who are educated immediately
belong to the better classes, whether they be
rich or poor - take their religion mentally,
while the Slavs take theirs emotionally.
Being still children in civilization, their God
is not a part of their soul, but something
grandiose, holy, barbaric, and revengeful.
He enters into their lives more as the punisher, as the inflicter of pain, than as the
daily bearer of forgiveness and help. His
name is more often evoked in Servia than
in Attica; yet one feels man's unity with
God in Greece: in Servia, rarely.
In spite of this, the Servians' attitude
toward the poor is brotherly and democratic. At the doors of the churches, immediately after service, the bakers appear with
their wares, and with them all the poor and
the maimed. And as the people come out of
the church, they buy bread and give it to
128




Servia, the Undaunted
the poor, and the latter put it in bags which
they have brought along for the purpose.
The Servians have little, but that little they
divide - always in the name of the barbaric
Deity whose pleasure it is to torture Servia.
Even when they were teaching me Servian,
for every sentence I mastered their inexorable God was called upon to listen to me.
A Servian may look ferocious or gaudy,
according to localities, yet when one begins
to talk with him one finds him a delightful
child. I never felt so old and so learned as I
did in Servia, for the little I knew was very
much admired and very much praised.
Servia, like the rest of the Balkans, is
subject to terrific storms. We were at Nish
when one of these storms broke upon us
as if it were going to annihilate the town.
Several officers came to the house where we
were staying, to help us pass away the time
when we could not go out. They all spoke
French, some even very well, except that
their construction was Servian. They offered
129




The Heart of the Balkans


to play cards, and our hostess, her two
daughters, and I played with them, while
the lightning and the thunder raged outside. In the midst of our game I asked a
question, and gradually the cards were laid
on the table while we talked on and on,
of Servia, of Austria, of Bulgaria, and of
Turkey, until the storm had worn itself out.
It was always thus: no matter what we
started doing, we always came back to politics and to the hemmed-in state of Servia.
That afternoon the officers were amazed at
my knowledge of the Balkan situation, and
especially of the Treaty of Berlin.
"But your history is my history," I argued. "I belong to the Balkans as well as
you."
"What! —you belong to the Balkans!
-how   can that be?" they exclaimed.
" Greece is the most educated country in the
world -how can it be a Balkan State?"
To them, somehow, the Balkans were not
so much a matter of geography as of educa130




Servia, the Undaunted
tion - and I am not sure but that they were
right.
Our progress through Servia revealed the
land - in spite of its beauty and its fertility
- as a bleeding, maimed thing. It is true
that in traveling on the Pirot Road one was
no longer obliged to gaze upon the ghastly
tower of skulls which formerly obtruded
itself upon the passer-by: a small chapel is
now built over it, and only those who wish to
know how the Turks treated the Servians
need enter. This Chela Kula, as it is called
in Turkish, is a grim monument, worthy of
the Balkans. It commemorates the heroic
defense of a little Servian stronghold by
Stefan Sindgelick. When finally the Turks
brought up an absolutely overwhelming
force, and all was lost, Sindgelick fired his
pistol into the powder magazine and blew
up what remained of the Servians, together
with a great number of Turks.
The pasha was so enraged at the loss inflicted on the Turks that he ordered the
I31




The Heart of the Balkans


heads of all the Servians to be brought to
him, paying as much as twenty-five piastres
($I.25) apiece for them; and he had them
embedded in rows on the outside of a tower
of brick and cement, their faces staring
forth at their conquered country. From
time to time, however, relatives of these
dead Servians dug the heads out of the
cement and buried them; and, as I have
said, a chapel is now erected over the tower,
and only four skulls remain to tell the tale
of this most gruesome deed.
But if the Chela Kula is now covered from
view, everywhere else - in towns, in villages, by the roadside, and in lonely mountain passes - we came across monuments
erected to the Servians who had fallen
defending their country; and these monuments are as simple as the Servian nature
itself. They are plain stones, sometimes
solitary, sometimes in small groups, and
again in battalions; and on each of them,
carved in flat relief, is the full-length por132




Servia, the Undaunted


trait of a man who died for his country.
They are all painted, too, and look like toy
soldiers - not that they are small, because
some of them are six feet in height; but
the anatomy and coloring are those of a
toy soldier. They were all painted presenting arms, and the effect was ghastly, especially if one came upon them at dusk.
Surrounded by these dead heroes, all Servia
gave one the impression of being a vast
Thermopylae, and each one of these stones
seemed to give the same message: "Go tell
to our beloved Servia, O stranger passer-by,
that faithful to her laws we are buried here."
Indeed, the whole of Servia is an appeal
of the dead to the quick. It is the past
presenting arms to the present. It is a song
of battle, sung by the dead to the living.
And while in Florence the past is only
a background, in Servia it dominates the
present: the souls of the dead guide the
souls of the living. This difference in effect
may be because Florence has outlived the
I33




The Heart of the Balkans


past, while to-day Servia is facing the same
problems, is fighting the same battles, as in
the past.
The realization of this came upon me very
strongly at a great cattle fair. It was a soft
summer day. The cattle were standing or
lying about; the pigs with their young
were huddled in holes they had themselves
dug in the ground; and the people were
dancing - for the Servians will dance on
the slightest provocation. The women were
dressed in gay colors, with gorgeous, barbaric sashes, which the men held while dancing. It was the kolo, their favorite dance;
they were in a circle, the men coquetting
with the women - and the attitude of the
men toward the women was quite different from that of the Albanians, Montenegrins, or Bulgars toward their women. It
was more Latin than Balkan.
We were in a valley, the soft breezes
blowing, and the men and women dancing
and making love to one another - yet high
I34




Servia, the Undaunted


above us stood a fortress, and the sentry
passing to and fro stood out against the sky.
My eyes traveled from the gay group of
dancers to the fortress above and to the
grassy mounds which I knew concealed
death-dealing cannon. How emblematic
the scene was of Servia- Servia, whose
frontiers were drawn by the Treaty of
Berlin not for the good of the Servians, but
to please Austria: and Austria's ultimate
aim was to make of brave Servia a Hapsburg State. The pathos of the little kingdom became intensely my own: though
Greece, Albania, Bulgaria, Rumania, and
Montenegro can look upon the freedom of
the seas, Servia alone cannot raise her eyes
without meeting those of sentries, guarding
her borders against hostile lands.
In spite of all this, or perhaps because of
it, there is something soft and tender about
the women of Servia. In their melancholy
voices they would sing the ballads of the past,
yet when we were able to talk together,
I35




The Heart of the Balkans


they spoke of the wonders of love and marriage with a feeling quite foreign to the
average woman of Albania, Montenegro,
and Bulgaria.
It was while staying at Nish as the guest
of an old Serb family that I witnessed a
curious ceremony, both pathetic and humorous. On the third day of my visit I noticed
great preparations in our household and
among the various relatives who were
always coming and going. Food was prepared in great quantities; boxes were filled
with small candles, quantities of incense
and incense-burners; while table-linen,
table-silver, and rugs were made into packages.
On inquiring the reason for all this I was
told that the morrow was the anniversary
of the death of the head of the family, and
that they were all going to the cemetery.
Of course I wished tremendously to gobut was that according to Servian etiquette?
Before going to bed I confided my wish to
136




Servia, the Undaunted
my hostess, begging her to forgive me if I
was doing something wrong.
"Not at all, my child," she answered.
"You see, as our guest we could only ask
you to share our joys; but when it came to
our sorrows, you would have to ask to share
them with us - and we are very sorry that
such a sad date should occur during your
stay."
The morrow was a soft, lovely summer
day, with all the fragrance of late June. We
started in several carriages, one of which
carried the necessary provisions for the observance of sorrow. At the cemetery the
candles were placed in rows on the grave
of the departed, and lighted; the incenseholders were filled with incense and lighted;
and the rugs and flowers were strewn all
about. Then the women fell on their knees,
and wept and wailed, and told the departed
one, in endearing terms, how much they
missed him, and how they wished he would
return to them. Naturally I entered into
I37




The Heart of the Balkans


the mood of the mourners, and prayed with
them; whereupon the women imparted the
news to the departed one that a young girl
from the land of the Greeks was with them,
and praying for the repose of his soul.
After a while, priests in magnificent
robes - presents from Russia- arrived,
kneeled by the grave, and prayed for the
dead. The service lasted about half an hour;
and when it was over, all dried their eyes
and began to prepare the banquet. It was
considered a bad omen to know the number of people present, but surreptitiously I
counted them: men, women, priests, and
servants, there were forty-nine. We had a
sumptuous feast of cold viands and all sorts
of delicacies, besides wine of the country,
which, in my opinion, is superior to that of
the Rhine or of Italy. The best table-linen
and the best plate were used. The Servians,
as I understood, at that time entertained
very little in their homes, and all their display was kept for these funeral feasts.
I38




Servia, the Undaunted
While we were eating, one after another
the mourners related humorous anecdotes
which had happened in connection with the
deceased. Since I had been in Servia nearly
six weeks by this time, and since they were
teaching me Servian every minute, I could
follow their conversation pretty well, and
whenever they thought I did not understand,
they would translate for me. I must say
that the whole scene was very funny, although the elders tried to keep a decorous
countenance. As for the young people, they
were ready to explode with laughter, and
only the strictest etiquette kept them quiet.
The eldest son of the family, who was
seated next to me, said: "Gospoditja, it is
not necessary for you to refrain from laughing aloud, because - although you are good
enough to share our sorrow -you did not
know my father."
Not being of a laughing disposition, I replied that I did not wish to laugh aloud.
"Perhaps not," he agreed; "only if you
I39




The Heart of the Balkans


should happen to wish to laugh, the young
folks will have to laugh with you, out of
politeness - you see?"
I did see, and it struck me as so funny
that I burst out laughing; and then all the
young people - and, I must admit, the old
ones, too - proved to be very polite.
After hours of feasting and anecdoting,
we rose. The candles had burned to the
ground. The incense had flooded the place
with its perfume. The silver, the rugs, the
plates, and the table-linen were gathered
up. What food was left was placed in separate baskets, and at the entrance to the
cemetery I understood why; for there were
assembled all the beggars of Nish, each
with a basket on his knees. Among those
baskets the remnants of the funeral feast
were divided with scrupulous exactness; and
each of the beggars, on receiving his share,
begged God to forgive the sins of the departed and to give repose to his soul.
We did not reach home till very late, and
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Servia, the Undaunted
the young people told me that we were to
dine out that evening. But dining out did
not mean going to a restaurant: in fact,
I doubt whether at that time Servian families ever went to hotels to dine, and I do
not remember having seen any restaurants.
Dining out meant buying our food from the
street venders.
Servia possesses certain facilities, which,
if they could be introduced into America,
would go far to solving the housekeeping
problems of many classes. At meal hours,
different venders sally forth, and, at the top
of their lungs, advertise their eatables. One
man sells soup, another fish, another meat,
while yet another dispenses pastry. Thus
anybody can acquire a four-course dinner,
deliciously cooked, for the great expense
of from ten to fifteen cents. These venders
provide not only the food, but, when desired, plates, forks, and knives, and many a
time my brother and I joined the diners-out
in the streets of Servia.
14I




The Heart of the Balkans


On the funeral day we did not sally forth
into the streets, neither did we'accept the
plates and forks of the venders: we sat decorously in our dining-room, while the servants bought the food and brought it to the
table.
Six weeks, of course, is a short time in
which to judge a nation, and my impressions of the Servians may be wrong. All
I can say, however, is that during the six
weeks we were there I did not see a single drunken man, or a street brawl of any
kind, although we attended every fair on
our way. That we were Greeks even seemed
to exempt our passports from examination,
and once a body of students hailed us in
Greek. Not that Servia and Greece have
not had periodical skirmishes, or that they
had not questions to settle between them:
for Macedonia was yet undivided. But the
Servian has the great virtue of not being a
perpetual hater. When he fights you, he
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Servia, the Undaunted
loathes you with his whole soul: when it is
over, he does not even remember it, and if
you recall it to him, he deprecates the whole
affair and observes how sad it was. If you
should ask him if he would fight again, he
would nod, and say, "Quarrels, you know,
must be settled - but why dwell on them
afterwards?"
When the men discussed the political
situation with us, they spoke of the Treaty
of Berlin, which had condemned them to
years of misery and bloodshed, much as an
injured child would speak, who felt the injustice of the grown-ups, yet knew he was
incapable of coping with it. They would
invariably end by saying: -
"It is so long now that God is punishing
us! Surely, some day, He will stop and give
us comfort. We have suffered for over six
centuries: is it possible that He cannot yet
be satisfied?"
Perhaps the God they feared so much is
at last satisfied. Perhaps when this terrible
I43




The Heart of the Balkans
war is ended, He will decide to give Servia
the chance she has been looking for so long
- unless the great Christian Powers again
squabble among themselves, and again call
upon Servia to pay the price.




VI
THE GYPSIES OF THE BALKANS
ON leaving Servia, my brother and I decided
to travel through the country called Old
Servia, which before the last Balkan war
against Turkey still formed a part of the
Ottoman Empire. It was here that we came
more into contact with the gypsies, although
these nomads could be found anywhere
throughout the peninsula. They were a
migratory population, but like the swallows always remade their nests in the same
places. Remaking their nests consisted of
unharnessing the half-starved, scrawny
ponies from their dilapidated, springless
wagons, and turning them loose to graze;
then pitching their tents, which harmonized admirably with ponies and wagons.
When settled, the gypsies immediately
set up their industries, and remained in
this locality until they had collected enough
I45




The Heart of the Balkans


money for the next migration. They traveled in companies, each one consisting of a
clan united by ties of blood or marriage, and
there were numerous babies to be tended
in each encampment. These same gypsies
of the Balkans came down to Constantinople and encamped in vacant places, on
the Bosphorus, or on the Sea of Marmora.
There I had first met them, had come to
know them, and - I confess - to like them,
although they enjoyed a reputation of the
worst. There was no crime that could
not be imputed to them. Fact and fancy
were mingled in the sinister deeds attributed
to them; for the people of the East have
vivid imaginations, and the Fourth Crusade, the Bulgars, and the reign of the Turks
have helped to stimulate their powers of
belief in evil.
Wherever the gypsies encamped, the
Devil's own halo encircled the place, and
God-fearing citizens would think many times
before passing their camp after dusk. In146




The Gypsies of the Balkans


deed, I was told by my nurse that whenever
the gypsies came to our island, she could see
the sparks of hell during the whole night,
and hear the cries and groans of the wicked
ones whose souls were under the heels of the
dark power. Considering that blacksmithing is one of the industries of the gypsies,
and that they work at any hour of the night,
it is quite natural that the hammer and
anvil should be heard in the darkness, and
that the sparks from the anvil should be
seen.
I was only eight when I first spoke to
a gypsy girl. A large encampment had
settled down not far from our house, and
one day, on returning from a visit with my
mother, I came upon a girl, seated under a
tree and moaning as I had never heard a
human being moan. I was some distance
ahead of my mother, and stopped and spoke
to the little girl. I touched her on the
shoulder several times before she raised her
head, and then I saw that she was hugging
I47




The Heart of the Balkans


a small dog, whose blood was dripping over
the sole garment she had on. There were
no tears in the girl's eyes, only misery. As
my mother had not yet come up to us, I
kneeled before her and the dog.
" Is he dead?" I asked.
"Not yet," she answered somberly, "but
he is going to die, and when he does,
I shall take the life of the man who did
this."
The little dog's tongue was hanging out
of his mouth, and his eyes expressed the
misery so graphically reflected in the eyes of
his mistress. Poor little gypsy cur, like his
mistress, unwelcome upon the face of the
earth! Ever since I can remember I have
ha'd a feeling of sympathy for all those whose
footsteps were dogged by unexplainable
scorn. Out of that feeling I next spoke: -
"The dog may still be saved. Come with
me to my home, and let my sister see him.
She is wonderful with sick animals."
A gleam of hope came into the eyes of the
148




The Gypsies of the Balkans
little girl. She rose quickly, and then I saw
how profusely the dog was bleeding.
"Do try to stop his bleeding," I cried, "or
he will lose all his blood before we reach
our home."
She put her little brown hands, the
fingers covered with extravagant paste
jewelry, over the little creature's wound.
Moved by the misery before me, I offered
my best unused handkerchief, and told her
to put it on his wound. To my horror,
Valerie bent her head and licked the wound,
and only then applied the handkerchief.
My mother now came up to us, gave a
glance at the gypsy and her dog, but said
not a single word even when I explained to
her that they were going home with us.
At home, my sister bathed the wound and
carefully bandaged it. She told the gypsy
that she must let the dog stay with us for a
few days. The girl hung her head and considered, and only consented to let him remain behind after my sister had declared
149




The Heart of the Balkans


that the dog might die if he were moved.
She dropped on her knees, threw her arms
around him, and poured out in her outlandish tongue the anguish she was suffering
in the separation. I did not understand her
language, but from her face I realized her
misery, and I ran to my mother, who had
left us after we had reached the house.
"Mamma," I cried, "the little gypsy dog
is going to stay with sister till he is cured,
and his mistress is weeping so! Can't we
let her stay in the house, too?"
"What you ask is absolutely impossible,"
my mother replied severely. "What is more,
I never again wish you to speak to a gypsy.
Do you understand- never again!"
"You did n't seem to object out there."
"I did not know in what language to
speak to you. Those gypsies know so many.
I was afraid she might understand and revenge herself on us."
"Now she is in the house," I persisted.
"Can't we, just for once, let her stay
150




The Gypsies of the Balkans
with her dog and not be separated from
him?"
My mother looked at me, and from experience I knew that the last word had been
said. I left her, and eight years old though
I was, I began that day to wonder why they
engaged priests to teach us the Gospel of the
Nazarene and then never let us practice it.
The few days that the gypsy dog remained in our house his mistress spent as
near our windows as she was permitted to
by those who kicked her about whenever
my sister or I was not looking. The dog was
cured, and when, leaping with joy, he was
placed in her arms, she was so grateful she
wanted to kiss my sister, but my mother,
who happened to be present, motioned to
my sister not to permit it.
Although I was forbidden to speak with
the gypsies, I did so whenever I could
clandestinely. My little gypsy, who was
named after Empress Elizabeth's favorite
daughter, Valerie, was a source of delight
151




The Heart of the Balkans


to me. I told my sister how she, too, could
speak with Valerie if she wanted to; but she
exclaimed:"I can't. Mamma forbids it."
"She will never find it out," I suggested.
"But I shall have to confess it to the
priest, and he will reprove me - and so he
will you," she ended.
"I don't mind," I replied. As a matter of
fact I did not mean to tell the priest; for I
had already begun to settle my affairs without his help.
My friendship with Valerie was dear to
me. First, because it had in it an element of
adventure, since I had to see her without
being found out. Second, because she told
me of their travels and their way of living.
From Valerie I learned much more than I
did later at college from a full course in
sociology.
They did not come to Constantinople
every year. Their travels extended from
there all across the Balkans and into
152




The Gypsies of the Balkans


Austria, and as they did not travel by express trains, it took them a long time to
go over so much ground. From the tales
Valerie told me I was quite aware that the
code of my new friend was different from
mine. Lie the gypsies did, steal they did,
and, when it was necessary, they killed. Yet
Valerie made everything quite natural, and
I accepted her code quite as naturally.
Philosophy and tolerance are inborn in a
child's nature. It is only later, as the various teachings of our elders take root in our
souls, that we acquire standards and begin
to judge the world from the particular
brand of civilization that is ours.
Thanks to my early clandestine friendship with Valerie, when my brother and I
were traveling through the Balkans I was
able to talk freely with the gypsies, and did
not avoid them with the superstitious hatred
which is our heritage in the East. We used
to come upon their encampments everywhere in the wilds of Old Servia, and they
I53




The Heart of the Balkans


certainly were a villainous crew to look at
- the men with their long hair and longer
earrings, the women in their fantastic raiment, their hair dressed in veils of such
daring colors that they screamed at one as
far as one could see them. And then, when
we came nearer there was the filth!
People will tell you in the Balkans that a
gypsy camp is to be avoided; yet I used to
hail them with pleasure. They added to the
wildness and savagery of Nature around us.
One day, several miles from Uskub, our
horses raised their heads and listened to
something we could not hear. At first we
thought they were smelling human blood;
but we came to the conclusion that something different caused their sniffing, since no
tremors of fear were passing through them.
Reining them in, we listened; but could
hear nothing, and started to ride on. After
a while a sound came to us, a sound like the
faint moaning of a torrent. The effect on
our horses was very peculiar: they seemed
I54




The Gypsies of the Balkans
to have forgotten their fatigue, and were
sidling along in a way that made me
nervous.
Finally we made out that it was weird
strains of music that reached us. "We are
nearing a gypsy camp," my brother said
with relief. "Some one is playing with more
fire than usual."
Within sight of the camp the music came
to us in its full beauty, or its full horror, I
do not know which. In subsequent years I
have heard many great masters play; but
such music as this I have never heard. It
was heavenly - it was hellish. Our horses
were as much affected as we: they pranced
as if they were steeds of the haute ecole, instead of poor, scrawny, Balkan ponies. As
for me I began to dream of things unheard,
unknown - only dreamable.
Sitting on a wagon, a youth was hanging
over his violin, playing, playing like mad.
Presently, without interrupting his music,
he sprang from the wagon and paced up and
I55




The Heart of the Balkans


down on the ground, still playing torrentially. We sat fascinated both by the player
and by his playing, trying all the time to
quiet our horses.
At last the music seemed spent; the boy
let his violin fall to the ground, where he,
too, threw himself, and the music was succeeded by heart-breaking sobs. His weeping, like his music, was torrential as a storm.
Like it, it ceased, when it had reached its
climax.
A girl was sitting in the entrance of a tent,
nursing a wee baby. She regarded the figure on the ground apathetically. We dismounted, and I gingerly approached her.
The tent was full of gypsies, either sleeping
or cooking, and in the woods were others
cutting wood for their fires.
"Why is he crying like this?" I asked the
girl.
She shrugged her shoulders. "He always
weeps when he plays as he did to-day."
"Is he your brother?"
I56




The Gypsies of the Balkans
"No, I belong to him, and this is his son.
He came into his little body only six weeks
ago. Before that he lived in me." She said
the last words with great pride in herself for
being the mother of a son.
My brother approached the now silent
player and touched him on the shoulder.
The boy raised his head and then sat up. His
eyes were deep black pools, filled with woe.
Mano offered him a handful of cigarettes.
The boy accepted them eagerly and pressed
them to his cheek. His hair was floating on
his back and his clothes were scanty and
dirty. He looked more dressed for bathing
than for living in the mountains.
" It went well to-day, did n't it? " Mano
said.
The boy smiled sadly, displaying his magnificent gypsy teeth. He picked out one of
his cigarettes and tossed it to the girl with
the baby. She leaped, with the baby, and
caught it in midair, and her pleasureful
laugh resounded for a second.
I57




The Heart of the Balkans


"Since it went well, why did you have
to weep?" my brother asked.
"I wept because it went so well."
"Why?"
"I do not know. Because I want things,
and do not get them!" he cried. "A year
ago I thought I wept because I wanted
her." With his eyes he indicated the sitting
girl. "She is now mine, and she has given
me a son - but I cry just the same."
A sob, and then another shook his breast.
"I know," my brother said sympathetically. "You want extravagant thingsthings that you only fancy."
The gypsy gave a strange look at Mano,
then leaned forward and touched him on
the chest.
"You understand - you? Then you
fiddle?"
"No; but I write. It is just as bad."
And then the boy, feeling the sympathetic atmosphere we were creating around
him, began to talk. "I think what I want is
158




The Gypsies of the Balkans
to be an emperor: to have people kneel before me and kiss the hem of my garments."
I could not help covering my face and
laughing silently; for his poor worn trousers
and his torn shirt had no hems.
Mano did not laugh. Seriously he
amended: "It isn't exactly an emperor
you want to be. What you want is to play,
as you played to-day, before millions of
people - to make them all worship your
music - to make that human sea weep
when you will, and laugh when you will."
The boy seized my brother's hands. "You
see into my head - you see into my heart!"
he cried. "Could I - could I do that?"
Mano nodded. "You did it to-day, even
though it was only three riders and three
horses. It was marvelous, my friend, your
playing. Never have I heard its like."
At that the boy began to tremble like a
leaf, and the tears sprang from the dark
pools of his eyes and trickled down to his
chin, and then to his chest and on to his
I59




The Heart of the Balkans


poor hemless shirt. And through his tears
and his sobs he talked wildly to us - talked
of the visions that came to him, and which
he brought to life with the power of his
violin. "Sometimes I can do it," he said,
"and at others I cannot. Yet I am most
unhappy when I can make alive the things
that live in the air only."
For days and days afterwards I thought a
great deal about the gypsy boy, and fervently wished to be present when he should
play to millions of people and be worshiped.
I wanted to see him realize his dream and be
present at his happiness. I was too young,
too inexperienced to know that the dream
of a great artist is never realized, and that
he is happiest when he is most miserable.
Some days afterwards we were caught by
one of those terrific, sudden storms that I
have witnessed only in the Balkans. It
was so violent that it uprooted trees, and
the rain washed down great stones.
60o




The Gypsies of the Balkans
"There is a sheltering place in a gorge
not far from here," said our guide; but when
we came to it, it was already occupied by
a gypsy encampment. The camp was bedecked with all kinds of bright-colored rags,
hanging stringily in the storm, and our
guide told us that it was a bridal encampment where a wedding was soon to take
place.
Some of the gypsies invited us to go into
their tents and lie down until the storm
passed; but since, with our mackintoshes
and the overhanging rocks, we were partially protected, we preferred the cleanliness of outdoors to the dubious shelter of
their tents. We sat down at the opening of
the gorge to watch the storm.
It ended as abruptly as it had started,
and our guide went in where he could dry
himself and prepare a meal for us. The
gypsies came out of their tents to give us
a look of inspection. They were more villainous in appearance, if possible, than the
I6I




The Heart of the Balkans


others we had come across, perhaps because
they had been so huddled together in their
tents during the storm. To my intense delight, however, among them was my old
friend Valerie, and it was she who was to be
the bride in ten days. They were waiting
for other gypsies in different parts of the
Balkans to come to the encampment.
It was several years since I had last seen
Valerie, and she had taken the time to grow
into a real woman. Her hair was braided
into a great many braids, in which were inserted hundreds of imitation coins. With
her copper color and her shining teeth and
her muscular, lithe figure, she made a very
stunning picture in that grandiose background.
She came and sat down near us. Her
eyes took in my brother in a long, comprehensive look; then they closed for a minute
and then opened again full on him. She
moved a little nearer him, crouching like a
dog at his feet. For some time she ignored
162




The Gypsies of the Balkans


me totally, but at length she turned abruptly to me and asked:"Are you married to him?"
"I'm too young to be married," I replied. "He is my brother."
She frowned. "You are not lying?"
I shrugged my shoulders.
She turned all her attention to my brother
again. He on his side sat gazing at the landscape as if he did not know she was there.
She did not seem to mind it, and there
ensued a long silence, broken only when she
commented: "Funny he should be your
brother. He is so handsome!" My feelings might have been hurt, had I not, for
the last three months, been accustomed to
remarks like this from all the people of the
Balkans. Having made this observation,
Valerie stretched herself full length on the
ground, her chin in her palms, and lost herself in contemplation of Mano.
"When you finish looking at the trees,
you can begin to look at me, effendi," she
i63




The. Heart of the Balkans


said wistfully, after we had sat thus for full
five minutes.
Mano at once turned to her. She smiled
very prettily at him, and he returned her
smile.
"Where is your wife?" she asked.
As my brother did not reply - and feeling quite left out -I answered for him:
"He has n't any," and at once knew that I
had displeased him.
In amazement Valerie cried, "But how
old are you?"
"Twenty-eight," he replied reluctantly.
"How curious - how very curious!" she
commented. "Are all the women you know
bloodless?"
I should have been amused at her questioning, except that I felt my brother was
greatly annoyed. Valerie sat up, and from
her bosom brought forth a small pouch of
tobacco and a booklet of tissue paper. She
tore out a leaf and carefully rolled a cigarette, licking the edge of the paper to make
I64




The Gypsies of the Balkans
it stick. When it was made, she lighted it,
took a puff, and with great ceremony presented it to Mano. Knowing how fastidious he was, I felt certain he could not possibly smoke that cigarette. She rolled one
for herself, and then observed:"I am to be married in ten days, and yet
I have not prepared a cigarette for the man
who is to possess me."
My brother said nothing to this.
"Smoke with me now!"
"I am sorry," Mano replied. "If you
will permit me, I will take this cigarette
with me as a souvenir; but I cannot smoke
it."
"Why?"
"Because I have already smoked, and
the doctors do not permit me to smoke
much on account of my heart."
I had never before heard my brother lie
- and I knew he was lying now, and I was
storing it away for future reference.
Valerie held out her hand for the cigar165




The Heart of the Balkans


ette. "Give it to me. Don't waste a good
cigarette for a souvenir. I wanted us to
smoke together, that was all."
She put out both cigarettes by spitting
on them, and then tied them to the edge of
a gaudy cotton scarf she was wearing.
"Let me tell your fortune." She crawled
nearer to Mano, and stretched out her
hand.
Mano put a coin in his hand, and held it
out to her.
With an imperious gesture she brushed
the coin away. "I am not telling you your
fortune for gain, but because I want to."
She took his hand in both of hers, and
stroked it several times. "It is the most
beautiful hand that I have ever seen," she
said slowly. She scrutinized the lines in it,
and presently began to read his fortune:
"Many women have loved you madly, but
a gypsy is coming into your life, and she
will love you more than any before, and
you will be very happy."
i66




The Gypsies of the Balkans
She watched him intently as she spoke,
but he was again gazing at the landscape
before him, his hand lying impassively in
hers.
Valerie became angry, and threw Mano's
hand from her. Addressing herself to me,
as if she were years and years older, she
ordered: -
"Go and play, child."
"No; I do not wish her to move, please,"
my brother intervened. "She is resting for
her journey."
Valerie showed her annoyance by the
movement of her shoulders, but that mood
did not last. She changed and began to
be sweet and lovely, like a nice dog. She
untied the cigarettes from her scarf and
smoked them, one after the other, telling
all sorts of charming things to Mano; taking each one of his features separately and
eulogizing it. Then boldly she asked:"Have you ever fallen in love with a
gypsy, effendi?"
x67




The Heart of the Balkans


"I have never had the honor of knowing a gypsy."
"You know me, now."
Although years lie between that day and
the present, with the eyes of my memory
I can see her still, alluring, feline, uncompromisingly feminine. And I cannot help
thinking that it is an advance in our civilization that it is the men who do the courting, and not the women.
There were a group of men seated around
the entrance of one of the tents. Pointing
to them my brother asked: -
"Is one of the men there to be your husband?"
Valerie indicated one of them.
"Don't you think that you have played
enough on his feelings for to-day? You must
not hurt him too much even for the sake of
the game."
A gleam of anger came into Valerie's
eyes. "I wasn't thinking of him at all.
Till to-day he filled my brain. I have forI68




The Gypsies of the Balkans
gotten him now, and - I am not playing
a game."
"Oh, yes, you are. You are trying to
make him jealous." Mano's tone was ice
cold. It froze me, but it transformed Valerie into a fury.
"Make him jealous of you - you whitelivered, soft-handed scorpion!" In her rage
she was a match to the storm of a little
while ago, and her rapidity of speech was
marvelous. Epithet followed epithet, in half
a dozen languages, and I knew that my
brother would have given a great deal to
have had me away. The things she called
him were full of color and picturesqueness,
but the groundwork was indecency. At
last I understood why my mother had forbidden me to speak to the gypsies.
After she had told Mano all she thought
about him, Valerie rose majestically. "My
man told me last night that he would give
me anything I wanted. I shall tell him that
I want your corpse for a footstool."
169




The Heart of the Balkans


All the tales Valerie had told me of yore
returned to me now with new power. In
that remote place, what chance had three
of us against a campful of gypsies.
"Oh, Valerie!" I cried, "remember how
good I was to you for years - and think of
your little dog and how we cured it!" It
was silly for me to think of so small a thing
in this crisis, but I added: " And I gave you
my best handkerchief, and you lost it."
To my surprise and relief, Valerie became
calm at once.
"Yes, you have been good to me," she
acknowledged; "and as for that pretty
handkerchief, I have it still. I never had
one so pretty."
"Did you find it again?" I asked.
"I never lost it. I lied to you, because
if you had known that I had it, you would
have told the police."
"But, Valerie, you were my friend."
"Was I?"
"Yes, and I loved you. And because I
I70




The Gypsies of the Balkans
loved you then, you are not going to hurt
my brother now."
From the corners of her eyes she watched
him, instead of answering me, and a tremor
passed over her.
"Do you know why I do not have you
killed by my man?" she asked Mano.
He smiled. "You are a very delightful
young person, Mistress Valerie. First you
tease your future husband; now you wish to
tease me by pretending that you will have
me killed; and all the time you are playing
a game, just because you are young and
happy."
She leaned against a tree, drawing her
slim, well-formed young figure up to its
full height. When she spoke her tone was
tender and wistful: -
"Effendi, effendi, can't you understand?
I am not playing a game." Again she repeated: "I have not been playing a game."
She raised her arms appealingly, and put
her hands behind her head, and gazed at
I71




The Heart of the Balkans


him with eyes that looked like a hurt dog's.
She was entirely different from all the creatures she had been during the last hour.
She was sad and lovable and extremely appealing. "Effendi, why are you so cold -
and do not understand?" And as he did
not answer her, suddenly, as if thirsting for
information, she asked: "Tell me, which
way does the brook run?"
"It runs downward," he answered.
"It runs downward because it cannot
help it. I am a little brook, effendi -" She
waited for him to speak, entreating him
with eyes that were lovely to look into now.
"You have nothing to say to that, effendi?"
Very gently he smiled at her.
"Do you like little brooks?" she asked
eagerly. "There is one not far from here.
If you walk straight, in that direction, you
will come to it; and on this side of the brook
there are three large trees, coming out of
one root. These trees are called the 'Three
Brothers.' A long time ago there were three
172




The Gypsies of the Balkans
brothers brave and handsome and tall,
like you, and women died for love of them.
They were slain, but because they were
so handsome and brave, these three trees
sprang up where they died. They are tall
and straight, and their branches are long
and shady. One cannot fail to find them."
She turned her face upward and scrutinized the sky.
"The moon rises late, to-night, effendi."
She made him a long temena; and ignoring
me as if I were not there, she turned and
walked away.
I never saw her again. As soon as it became dark, while the music of the gypsies was
playing its loudest, with infinite precaution
we left the camp - left it as if we were
thieves, escaping for our lives.
His finger on his lips, my brother imposed silence, and on and on we rode, in the
wilds of the Balkans, while the stars came
out one by one, until the full company had
taken their places in the pageant of the
I73




The Heart of the Balkans
night. We did not even halt when the moon,
as Valerie had predicted, rose late.
I touched my brother's sleeve and asked:
"Why are we traveling as if we were
thieves? "
"Thieves," he repeated musingly. "No,
little sister, perhaps never before have we
been so pure of purpose, so stainless of
theft."




VII
THE PRUSSIA OF THE BALKANS
WE entered Bulgaria late in the afternoon.
The sun was gone; only the faintest trace of
the multi-colored sunset rays remained. A
chill was in the air, - not the chill of Italy
at sunset, since that is essentially physical,
- a chill that numbed deeper. It was the
same sinking sensation one has in America
on entering a third-rate hotel. I had just
come from the squalid discomfort of Albania, the Spartan discomfort of Montenegro, the apologetic discomfort of Servia.
I had borne them all with the sporting spirit
of youth. But the discomfort that gripped
me on that first evening in Bulgaria chilled
my soul. I was miserably sad, without visible reason.
"I must be extremely tired," I said to my
brother.
I75




The Heart of the Balkans


"Why?" he asked, with curious interest
for so simple a statement.
I laughed nervously. "Because I want
to cry, without knowing why."
He nodded comprehendingly. "So it has
got you, too, has it?"
"What?"
"The chill of Bulgaria. All sensitive and
nervous people feel it, and there is no inoculation against it."
Of all the joys in the world, the greatest
is the sympathetic understanding of the untranslatable. To find suddenly that a sensation which overpowers one, and which
one does not rightly understand one's self,
is shared and understood by another, is to
give one an idea of divine comprehension.
I put my head on my brother's shoulder.
"Do you mean that I shall have this feeling every day? "
" Yes, after sunset - and it will help you
to understand the Bulgarians."
I raised my head. " Do you like them? "
176




The Prussia of the Balkans


I asked; for oddly enough during our travels
in the Balkans, while we had discussed all
the other nationalities at length, we had
never touched on the Bulgarians.
"You must know nothing about them
from me. You must meet them without
prejudice, as if you were a newborn child."
A Greek, I at once began to argue: "No
child can be born without prejudice, since
it is born with its heredity."
"Nevertheless, if you take a French child
and bring it up in England as an English
child, it will have the national English prejudices, no matter of what quality its brain
may be."
I took another tack. "I already know the
history of Bulgaria, and that cannot help
prejudicing me."
"In a way, yes; though since you are a
Greek it is not so bad as if you were English
or German."
I slept on Bulgarian soil knowing no more
about the Bulgars personally than the im177




The Heart of the Balkans


pression I got from the family with which
we were staying. The mother was a stern
woman, old before her age. The father was
a military man, sterner than the mother;
and the two daughters, with straight black
hair and high cheek-bones, were unbeautiful to look upon. Although they were wellto-do, there was only one servant, and the
girls had many duties, and during the meal,
which was abundant and tasty, they rose
and helped with the dishes. The father said
the meal-prayer, and we all crossed our
breasts three times, in the manner of the
Orthodox Church. The conversation was
meager and desultory, and the language
contained many more Turkish expressions
than in Servia. It lacked the charm of the
speech of the Albanians, the appalling directness of the Montenegrins, and the suavity
of the Servians. In spite of the hot meal I
could not shake the chill of Bulgaria from
me.
When we had finished eating, we crossed
178




The Prussia of the Balkans


ourselves again; the father rose and invited us to go into the "best room."
I asked if I might not stay in the diningroom and help. Housework was to my liking, and this would afford me an opportunity to talk with the girls, who were several
years older than I and looked twice my age.
"There is no need," the father said, and
there was absolute finality in his words.
He decided everything, as the man always does in Bulgaria. When you ask a
woman something, she raises her eyes to
those of her man. I have never seen in a
Bulgarian woman's eyes - be she mother,
wife, daughter, or sister - command, entreaty, or even earnestness. Her eyes were
merely the physical windows of a soul
trained to obedience.
After the work was done, the mother and
daughters came into the room where we
were. The mother darned; the daughters
worked on their trousseaus. They did not
speak during the entire evening.
I79


U




The Heart of the Balkans


The girls shared their room with me,
they in one bed on the floor, I in another.
The room, devoid of any comforts or prettiness, was scrupulously clean.  Alone, I
expected the girls to talk with me as the
other Balkan girls had. They kept silent.
Only when I was ready to slip into bed,
Stassa, the elder, said: -
"If you will come with me, I will show
you where the ikons are, and you can tell
your prayers."
Like all the peoples of the Greek Church,
they had niches for the ikons of the saints
and of Mary, with oil lamps burning before them, and thither Stassa took me. I
remember that I prayed to be spared the
chill of Bulgaria; but fervent as my prayer
was, I fear it was not even heard by the
Lord above. Perhaps the Greek poet is
right and "the hosannas of Paradise drown
out the cries of earth."
My two companions, as soon as they
had taken off their dresses and crept into
I8o




The Prussia of the Balkans


bed, fell to sleeping soundly and not very
quietly. At daybreak, Philio, the younger,
shook me by the arm.
"Get up! It is rose-gathering day," she
said.
God was good to me after all to make my
first knowledge of Bulgaria come in rosegathering time; for only then does the
stolid, unemotional Bulgarian soul seem
to breathe and stir in the stolid, unemotional Bulgarian breast. All over Turkey
and the Balkans there grows an exquisite
rose to the height of four and five feet. It
is known as the "Rose of the Sweets," because from its crushed leaves we make rose
preserve —one of the sweetest remembrances of my childhood; yet nowhere else
have I seen a festivity made of the gathering of its leaves.
Stassa and Philio dressed themselves in
heavy, home-woven white dresses with
lovely, embroidered aprons. I begged for
one to wear, too, and silently they gave it
i8I




The Heart of the Balkans


to me. We went down to the dining-room
and ate a piece of dry bread with a small cup
of black coffee, the usual breakfast of the
country. Then we made ready the luncheon
and supper which we were to take with us
to the fields. Guests arrived, and we all
piled into a springless carriage, drawn by
a pair of oxen whose heads were adorned
with rose wreaths.
Thus we started for the rose orchards. It
was a heavenly morning, soft and warm and
radiant, and as wagon after wagon filled
the streets with garlanded oxen and whiteclad women I began to feel happy. When
finally from one of the wagons the primitive, native music started, I actually began
to like Bulgaria. We drove for an hour
before coming to the rose orchards. In some
of the fields people were already at work,
and I was pleased that our host's orchard
was quite in the middle of them all, so that
we had to cross a full half-mile of rosebushes.
i82




The Prussia of the Balkans


The whole valley was given over to the
cultivation of roses. We began to smell
them before we could see them, and when
we were in their midst, it seemed to me as
if I could fairly taste the perfume. At our
journey's end the work began. The men sat
about and smoked and talked while the
women and the young boys picked the roseleaves. This was the only time I ever saw
Bulgarian men idle. I tried to work with the
girls, but soon found that their big, coarse
hands possessed a deftness and an accuracy
which came only with years of practice.
Both the eye and the hand need training.
Each girl carried two baskets, and unerringly judged which rose was for attar and
which for preserves. They tried to show me
how to differentiate between the two, but
despite my best endeavors, they crossly
told me that I was putting the roses into
the wrong baskets, and that I had better
confine myself to cutting up the leaves
after they were picked. It was very mortiI83




The Heart of the Balkans


fying, and yet the day stands out for me as
the one lovely day of my stay in Bulgaria,
the one in which the girls smiled like other
girls, and the boys treated the girls with a
trace of the gallantry they would have received in other countries.
The rest of my stay was stern and loveless. Why not? The Bulgarians are a race
with a stern and loveless purpose, which
in the reign of Ferdinand has been nursed
and tended and given every chance for
growth. Of that great purpose I received
my first inkling that night. We returned
home with the moon, having eaten our
supper in the fields. In our room we undressed silently, by the light of the little
lamp - a bowl about the size of a drinkingglass, half-filled with water, with an inch
of oil at the top, and a wick the size of a
match floating through a cork. This is the
lamp commonly used all over the Balkans
and Turkey.
Seated in my bed I was watching the girls
184




The Prussia of the Balkans


undressing when Philio said to me: "Are
you the prettiest girl of your town?"
Truth compelled me to answer that I
was not considered pretty at home.
The big round eyes of the girl bovinely
stared at me. Then Philio went on: "Your
town must have the most beautiful girls in
the world."
This sounded like the subtlest compliment. It was not intended as such. Bulgarians do not compliment. It was a matter-of-fact statement. To say something,
I answered:
"The Greeks are supposed to be a beautiful race."
"They are also a lying, thieving, cheating race," added Stassa. Again it was a
matter-of-fact statement. Had she spoken
with animosity I might have thought she
wished to hurt me for something I had done
to her; but there was no anger in her tone.
She spoke quite simply, from the conviction
in which she had been brought up.
i85




The Heart of the Balkans


After that I frequently heard similar
frank expressions of Bulgar opinion of the
Greeks. My nationality began to frighten
me at last, and to make it worse my brother
refused to discuss the matter. Usually we
talked things over, and he had a way of
throwing light when light was needed; but
as if the chill of the country had changed
his affection for me, he would not discuss
the Bulgarian opinion of our race with me.
So alone and forsaken I had to bear my
cross, and it was a cross under which I
staggered daily.
To understand this national hatred
which I encountered, and also to excuse it,
one Jmust know its origin. The Bulgars
were the last comers into the Balkans before the Turks. They were of Tartar stock,
and arrived early in the sixth century, about
three hundred years after the Serbs. Unlike the other Balkan peoples, they were
not divided into tribes, but formed a compact whole, led by a king to whom they
i86




The Prussia of the Balkans


owed absolute obedience. They successfully fought the Serbs and the Greeks, and
history tells us that even in those cruel
times they were noted for their cruelty.
In a hundred and fifty years they planted
themselves in the heart of the unhappy
peninsula. But although they subjected
the Serbs to their sway, the Serbs superimposed their language and their ways of
living upon them. What the Bulgar speaks
today is Old Servian, their own language
being entirely lost. From this springs the
fallacious idea that they are Slavs.
During the time of their supremacy they
were converted to the Greek Church. A
monk - Cyril, I believe, was his name -
landed in Saloniki from Constantinople,
made his way thence to the capital of Bulgaria, and presented himself before the king,
who sat surrounded by huge paintings representing his military exploits.
The good monk told the king of the power
of the Christian God.
I87




The Heart of the Balkans


When the monk had finished, the monarch waved his hand toward the paintings
on the walls.
"That is what I can do," he said. "Can
your Christian God do any greater things?"
"He can," replied the monk. "Give me
a few days with paint and brushes, and I
will show you."
Cyril retired, and with all the fervor of a
monk of that period set himself to painting
the Last Judgment. It is a pity that in subsequent wars this masterpiece should have
been lost. It must have been terrific in the
barbarity of its conception, since we are told
that on seeing it the Bulgar monarch fell
upon his knees and implored to be baptized
and saved from the wrath of such a powerful
God. Not only was he converted himself,
but he ordered all his subjects instantly to
become converted also.
In this spirit did Bulgaria accept Christianity, a spirit which has changed little in
the centuries that have elapsed.
i88




The Prussia of the Balkans


The Bulgars continued to be powerful
for a while longer. They even began to
dream of conquering Constantinople, then
the Greek Byzantine Empire. They harassed the Greeks until Emperor Basil,
called "the Bulgar killer," gathered together a strong force and so defeated them
that the Serbs also were able to throw off
their yoke and oppress them in turn. In the
tenth century the Bulgars and Vlachs again
became powerful for a short time, but from
then on the Serbs maintained their supremacy until the Turks appeared in the fourteenth century, and, with the others, the
Bulgars went down, not to be heard from
again until I877, when Russian rubles and
Russian soldiers fought to make Bulgaria
free once more.
Russia had been disappointed in the new
Servia, created a few years before. She was
also exasperated at the new Greece, and
thus decided to resurrect Bulgaria, call her
a Slav nation, and use her against them, and
I89




The Heart of the Balkans


also as a stepping-stone for her desires to
acquire Constantinople.
Thus it will be seen that the hatred of
the Bulgars for the Greeks and Serbs dates
back to the Middle Ages. As a matter of
fact everything in the Balkans dates back
to the Middle Ages. When Russia fought
Turkey in I877 and created a quasi-independent Bulgaria, the people rose with the
same ambitions, the same hatreds, the same
scores to settle, that they had gone down
with in the eleventh century. There was
but one desire in their hearts: to fight the
Serbs, to fight the Greeks, and to get back
the lands they had once before wrested
from them.
How strong this feeling was I did not appreciate until the close of our visit to the
family of an old general in Sofia. He was a
nice old man on the whole, and had not said
a single disagreeable thing about the Greeks
during our stay. When we were about to
move on he invited us to wait over a day
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The Prussia of the Balkans


in order to witness the maneuvers of the
Bulgarian army. He procured us good
seats and sat with us to explain the wonderful fighting machine as it marched by.
I have seen practically all the armies of
Europe on defile. Three of these stand out
above the others: the Bulgarian first, with
the German and the Turk following. Those
are, indeed, bodies of men whose object is to
conquer. Two other European armies to me
are pathetic: the English and the Greek.
When I watch an army it is the faces of the
men I look at. The Bulgars, the Germans,
and the Turks possess the suitable faces.
The Greeks and the English seem to apologize for being an anachronism in the civilized
world. One feels that both the Englishman
and the Greek will " do his bit," and die if
need be - or kill; but God! how he hopes
he will never have to kill. It is n't natural
for him to kill. His face, his mouth, the
shape of his head tell you that. The French
army alone, bristling with la gloire militaire,
19I




The Heart of the Balkans


possesses something which robs war of both
its horror and its apology. There is something in the French face which makes possible that incongruous phrase, "civilized
warfare."
On that day in Sofia, as I sat watching,
for hour after hour, regiment after regiment
pass, there was transmitted to me the joy
of the barbarian, the thrill of the untamed
beast. Oddly enough, although the men
carried the most modern weapons and were
clothed in modern uniforms, they reminded
me of the picture of Vercingetorix of ancient Gaul, in my little French history. Perhaps this was due to the preponderance of
the Tartar type among the men: high cheekbones, straight black hair, and the lips and
forehead of a race for whom war was the
noblest pursuit, its outrages the keenest
pastime.
Our host turned to me, in his eyes the
same unholy look as there was in the eyes
of the passing men.
I92




I


The Prussia of the Balkans
"That is the army that is going through
yours as a knife goes through a cheese," he
said.
My teeth were fairly chattering, yet I
answered: "Why do you call the Turkish
army my army just because I was born in
Constantinople?"
"I am not speaking of the Turkish army
- I am speaking of that pampered, pretty
army of the Greeks."
"You wish to fight the Greeks? Why?"
"Because when Macedonia ceases to belong to the Turks you will claim it - and
we want it. Once it was ours."
"But it was ours thousands of years before Europe even heard your name."
" That is a lie - a lie, I tell you! Because
you could always read and write, you wrote
the histories, and filled the world with lies."
Be it to my eternal shame that instead
of arguing I began to cry.
Our host touched my brother roughly on
the arm.
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The Heart of the Balkans


"You know, you, that what I say is true."
My brother's eyes never left the splendid army that kept on passing before us.
Slowly he answered: -
"It is true! that this army looks as if
it might go through ours as a knife goes
through cheese."
Thank God that it did not! When in
1913 the Bulgarian army at last fought
against the Greek, to the wonder of the
world, to the still greater wonder of Austria who was backing Bulgaria, and to the
greatest wonder of the Greeks themselves,
the civilized Greeks found that they could
fight as well as the uncivilized Bulgarians.
My brother's answer seemed to mollify
our host, and he continued talking, first
about the various regiments as they passed,
and then about the country as a whole.
Bulgaria is, indeed, a remarkable country in many respects. Determined to be
the dominant race in the Balkans, under
Ferdinand it has neglected no possible
I94




The Prussia of the Balkans


means to this end. They are to the rest of
the Balkans what Germany is to the rest of
Europe. Industrious to the point of stupefaction, utterly subordinating the individual
to the State, capable of complete obedience,
they become an easy prey to the schemes
of the most unscrupulous of rulers. A Bulgar can only stop working by getting drunk.
That is why one sees more drunkenness in
Bulgaria than anywhere else in the Balkans.
It is the sole means of relaxation. Sober,
the Bulgar must work: drunk, he can give to
his body much needed rest. He prides himself on his morality and on his freedom from
human tenderness. A young officer boasted
to me once that he had never wished to kiss
a woman. The Bulgar takes a wife to himself so that he may have an unpaid partner
and toil-mate, and one who will multiply
the hands that will toil with him.
The unlovely position of women in Bulgaria alone justifies them to me for their
willingness to enter Turkish harems, as no
i95




The Heart of the Balkans


other Christian Balkan women are willing
to do. The fact that there women are loved,
they hear, and do not toil often lures them
away.
Lena, our host's granddaughter, was
proud of her learning. She had a smattering of French and paraded it shamelessly.
She spoke of their eating-room as "our library," because it contained a shelf full
of yellow-backed French novels. George
Bernard Shaw depicts her perfectly in
Raina, in "Arms and the Man." When I
saw the play in New York I was transported
back to Sofia, and forgetting that I was in
a public place, I exclaimed aloud, "Why,
I know Raina," to the scandal of my companions.
Lena pointed to her yellow-backed
French novels, and haughtily explained:
"We Bulgarians are cultivating our minds,
and whereas you grew by inches, we are
growing by miles."
In certain material respects she was
I96




The Prussia of the Balkans


hardly exaggerating. In the thirty years of
her freedom Bulgaria has given a wonderful account of herself. In comparison with
her, Greece shows the same dowdiness that
England does when compared with Germany. Yet there is something in the Greek
eyes, as there is in the English eyes, which
makes you prefer their unprogressiveness to
the efficiency of their pugnacious antagonists. One feels that both the Germans and
the Bulgars, to acquire their material efficiency, have sacrificed the right to think
for themselves; that they have mortgaged
their souls for their bodies. The exchange
is brutally inadequate.
I did not mind Lena's exalting her people
at the expense of mine. I have never been
a partisan, nor felt the satisfying conviction that my race was better in all respects
than any other. Through Lena I could hear
and feel the Bulgarian soul, and she made
me understand how the Bulgarian soul was
being Prussianized, how systematically it
I97




The Heart of the Balkans


was being made to believe itself the superrace that must govern all the Balkans.
"Why do you think that you can rule
the Balkans?" I asked.
"Because we are not a dead race, like
you Greeks. Once, in the tenth century,
you prevented us from taking Constantinople. You were strong then; you are not
now - and Russia hates you. We shall
dominate you as you have never been dominated before."
There was the power of absolute conviction in her voice. She was twenty years
old, and to be married that year. Well could
I imagine how she would teach her sons the
lesson of conquest-to-come.
"What about Servia?" I asked.
"Oh! after we have made war on them
they will never rise again."
This was the spirit that animated all the
well-to-do classes. Simply but superbly
each one intimated to you that he was a
super-man. And from one and another I
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The Prussia of the Balkans


learned more of the fate in store for Greece.
One evening we went to a soiree, outside of
Sofia. Some were in evening clothes, some
in afternoon, and some in morning garments.
Of all the Balkan nations, the Bulgarians
alone have the air of parvenus. Perhaps it
is because they are not yet at ease in their
quasi-European clothes.  Pushing ahead
too quickly, it has been difficult for them
to retain poise. One cannot have everything.
We were an incongruous assemblythat
evening. We danced and sang without ever
getting into step or being in tune. After all
it did not matter: the Bulgarians are not a
dancing or singing race - they are a race
with a purpose.
Walking home that night a young officer
was at my side whose physical strength was
impressive.
"Things look different with the moon
from what they do with the sun," he observed.
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The Heart of the Balkans


"They are more elusive; they give more
scope to the imagination," I answered.
My harmless little answer caused him to
explode. "That is the contemptible thing
about you Greeks," he cried. "You talk as
if you were writing books - and, in the end,
that is all you are good for. That is why you
must go under, and the strong man will take
your place."
His arrogance and his immense muscular
splendor goaded me to rebellion.
"Don't try to outshine the Greeks in literature, then, or it might hurt your power
as conquerors."
"You let our conquering power alone,"
he growled. "Pretty soon we shall reduce
Servia to the place where she belongs - and
then we'll come to Greece."
I was so small by his side that I had to
throw my head back, as if looking at the
sky, to speak to him.
"Which of us do you hate most? " I asked,
tantalizing him.
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The Prussia of the Balkans


"I think we hate Greece the most," he
said slowly. "I don't know why."
"It is her past splendor which is so much
greater than yours," I agreed sympathetically. "And then, all people who think, love
her -when they have not even heard of
you."
With a blow he could have crushed me.
I felt that he would have liked to - the
Junker Prussian of Bulgaria exterminating
the flickering intellect of Greece.
"When we get into Athens, we shall tear
down the Acropolis, stone by stone," he
retorted grimly. "Then the world will hear
of us - and you will be forgotten."
It was the first time, but again and again,
while we were in Bulgaria, I heard that this
was to be the fate of the Acropolis, spared
by the Turks, and only partially destroyed
at the command of a German. Absolutely
to obliterate the Golden Age of the Athenians was the noble aim of Bulgaria.
This was the attitude of the upper classes.
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The Heart of the Balkans


The peasants were influenced in another
way. Passionately fond of their land, they
were told that the Serbs and the Greeks
coveted it, and would try to take it from
them. "But wait," they said. "We are
building up an army second to none. It
costs us half we earn; but after we have
crushed Servia and Greece, we shall have
all the land we want."
This was the song of the land: to crush
Servia and Greece; and for this, noble and
peasant gave all they could to the nation,
subordinating everything to the dream of a
greater Bulgaria. They impressed me - as
they impressed all the American and English travelers I met later - as the coming
race of the Balkans.
On the deck of the little steamer which
was taking us from Varna to Constantinople I stood at my brother's side watching the retreating coast of Bulgaria.
"Brother, they hate us with a powerful,
all-absorbing hatred," I said in a hushed
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The Prussia of the Balkans
voice. "They are strong, and we are weak.
Some day they will conquer us."
As I looked up at him, my brother's face
was typical of my race, which exalts books
and loathes militarism. Compared with
the burly, cruel Bulgarians he was so civilized, so frail even. I felt sure we should
never be able to withstand them. "Yes,
they will surely conquer us," I repeated.
He shook his head.
"They are a splendid race, but they are
possessed by hatred, and hatred is a poison
which consumes those who nurse it."




VIII


THE SONS OF THE HELLENES
AND what about the Greeks? How are they
preparing to meet Bulgaria?
To write about them is not so easy for me
as it has been to write about the rest of the
Balkans. Ten years ago a great editor said
to me:"Will you write me an article about
Greece and her people of to-day? You possess special qualifications for it."
I shook my head. "My special qualifications are against my writing it."
"How so?"
"The Greeks are my people. Their faults
hurt me. I should dwell more upon them
than upon their virtues."
"Don't write it, then," he cried. "It
would not be just."
In the time that has passed since that
conversation, I have learned much, and
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The Sons of the Hellenes


have purged myself, I hope, of more still.
Can I to-day write better about this people
which is my race? The task is fraught with
difficulties. To begin with, when one says
"the Greeks," one naturally thinks of the
inhabitants of that little land known as
Greece. Yet only a small minority of the
Greeks live there. In the Ottoman Empire
alone live twice as many. Then there are
those under the British flag, and many
others scattered all over the world.
I ought to know these various Greeks
pretty well, since I was born and brought
up among those of Constantinople, have
traveled through the interior of the Ottoman Empire, lived for a while in Athens,
and have been in almost all of those towns
throughout the Balkans, in Servia, Turkey,
Bulgaria, and Albania, where the Greek
population forms a large part of the total.
I have also been on some of the Greek
islands.
From the golden times of Pericles to those
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The Heart of the Balkans


of Constantine the Dane, to-day, -whether
Greece was leading the world in civilization
or had sunk beneath the yoke of Macedonia
or Rome, during her second florescence as
the Byzantine Empire, during her slavery
to Turkey, or after her desperate nine years'
struggle against tremendous odds had won
freedom for a small portion of her race, -
there never was a day when millions of
Greeks did not form Greek communities,
speak the Greek language, and cherish
Greek ideals. The Greeks have been nearly
as scattered as the Jews, and even more
nationalistic; that is one reason why it is
not so easy to write of Greece and the Greeks
as it is to write of the other Balkan nations.
Because of their intellectual life the
Greeks have persisted throughout the ages.
During the three hundred and seventyseven years in which they, as a whole, remained under the Turks, they never for a
moment ceased to be absolutely Greek in
spirit, Greek in ideas, and Orthodox in wor206




The Sons of the Hellenes


ship. Unlike their neighbors in the Balkans,
the Greeks are not a primitive race. They
are staggering beneath a heritage of past
grandeur which puts them, nationally, in
the category of fallen gentlefolk. That
heritage, in a large measure, is responsible
for many of their faults. Among the Greeks
-be they free or under alien domination
-I have always found a threefold bond
uniting them: pride of race, adoration of
their language and past, and a tenacious
clinging to their Church.
Only in certain parts of Asia Minor do
we find Greeks speaking Turkish instead of
Greek. There the conqueror has tried to
obliterate the Greek's nationality by forcing
him to abandon his language. As a result,
there the Greeks carry nationalism to fanaticism. In the first family that we visited, I
received a thrill which neither time nor distance has lessened. Before retiring to bed,
the members of the household, the servants,
and the guests assembled in the living-room.
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The Heart of the Balkans


A large Greek flag was unfurled, and all
kneeled before it; then the grandfather of
the family, in his old voice, tremulous with
age and emotion, prayed to the God of
the Greeks:
"0 Lord, have mercy upon thy children!
Help them that once more they may become tenants of their own lands, occupants
of their own churches, spokesmen in their
own assemblies, and teachers in their own
Greek-speaking schools. Help, God Almighty, the small struggling Hellas once
more to rise to its ancient splendor and
civilization."
It is impossible for me to render the incongruity of that prayer, pregnant with
Greek sentiment, addressed to the Greek
God,- and made in the Turkish language.
We remained in that household for almost
a week, but the nightly ceremony never lost
its thrill for me, nor did I experience less
fervor as I witnessed it over and over again
in other households all over Asia Minor.
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The Sons of the Hellenes


It is in that portion of Turkish-speaking
Greece that the great Greek patriots are
found, those who in times of national need
always come forward with their purses.
They are people of few graces and an extreme lack of polish, but of adamant virtue
and absolute religious conviction. They fulfill their duties in the early Christian spirit.
During periods of fasting all the butchers'
shops close, even though the period be forty
days. We were in Asia Minor just before
Easter, and for three whole days no food
of any kind was served. The whole population fasted, in order that they might receive the Holy Sacrament on Easter Day
in cleanliness of body.
It is my belief that we handicap the human mind by teaching it nationalism from
the dawn of its existence. We do not dwell
on the brotherhood of all men, and of the
love we ought to feel for one another, but
on the superiority of our own race, whether
we be civilized or savage. And excessive
209




The Heart of the Balkans


nationalism will be found wherever three
Greeks come together. It is a nationalism
different from that of Bulgaria: it is not
aggressive - it is complacent and self-sufficient, but irritating, nevertheless.
Ever since Alexander the Great, the
Greeks have passed from one conqueror to
another, saving only the period between the
sixth century and the fifteenth, when they
once again formed an independent nation
as the Byzantine Empire. It is true that
Greek culture often imposed itself upon its
conqueror, yet, with the one exception just
mentioned, the Greeks, politically, were not
independent from Alexander's time until in
1821 a part of them succeeded in throwing
off 'the Turkish yoke.
Each conqueror has undoubtedly polluted the Greek race, and in a measure its
language; but no conqueror - not even the
Asiatic Turk, who has kept him, and is still
keeping him, in semi-servility, and who
alone has refused to borrow from his culture
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The Sons of the Hellenes


- has been able to pollute his intellect. The
Greek remains to-day, as of old, a race par
excellence intellectual. Although illiteracy
in Greece is about fifty per cent, let a Greek
once start going to school and only the
greatest obstacles will prevent his going
to the university. He becomes educationdrunk: he wishes never to stop learning.
Even among the illiterate Greeks I have
not met one in whose life the writings of
ancient Greece did not play a major part.
They constantly quote the classics, while as
for AEsop he is to them what "Alice" is to
certain classes in America.
On the shores of the Sea of Marmora I
was fortunate enough to be in a little fishing village the day on which the fishing
boats were to leave for their long annual
fishing trip. At dawn I was awakened, and
came down to the shore to watch the ceremony which preceded the going of the fishing squad. Although the men were every
one of them Ottoman subjects, a little Greek
2II




The Heart of the Balkans


flag flew from the stern of every boat, reflecting the color of the sea and sky. They
were very graceful, those fishing boats, with
long black hulls, with one bright-colored
band above the water-line. All of them
bore names from Greek mythology or history: the Argonaut, Golden Fleece, Jason,
Poseidon, Pallas Athene, Aphrodite. The
men were to leave for a winter's cruise to
where the fishing was more abundant, and
they were seen off by the entire balance
of the population. Everything was festive,
with a festivity tempered by the knowledge
that the sea was treacherous, and that some
of the men might never come back to those
who would be anxiously waiting for them
during the cold winter months.
As the sun was rising the priest started
his service, surrounded by the men bareheaded, the women with heads bowed in
great reverence, and all clustered about the
figure that represented their faith to them.
It was a simple ceremony, suited to those
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The Sons of the Hellenes


simple fisher-folk, most of whom, as the
priest told me afterwards, could not read
or write. The service over, the men kissed
the hands of the priest and of the elders,
embraced their women and children, and
got into their boats. Laughter mingled with
the parting words, and the moist eyes were
not devoid of joy. The men and women
were exchanging light badinage, and most
of it consisted of allusions to past Greek
history and mythology. One woman, for
example, near whom I was standing, whose
name was Penelope, called out to her husband:"And Penelope shall remain at home, and
if it be necessary, she shall weave in the daytime and unravel at night, in order that she
may wait for her master."
" And I swear to thee," the man answered,
"0 Penelope, that there shall be no Calypso
in the path of thy man."
After all the boats were under way, there
came back to us from over the water, on the
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The Heart of the Balkans


cold, crisp morning air, the words of the
national Greek hymn:"From the holy bones of the Hellenes thou emergest,
0 Liberty!"
Everywhere the simple folk among the
Greeks are kindly, hospitable persons. The
worst of the Greeks are to be found among
the well-to-do classes in all the large cities,
where money abounds and has brought
with it the so-called "smart set." In this
respect Athens and Constantinople are the
worst of all. There we find the least attractive Greeks. Educated they always are,
and speaking probably two languages besides their own with fluency; but we find
them devoid of the simplicity and charm
characteristic of the Greeks of less well-todo classes. In this set, too, there is an entire lack of morality among the men, and
the double standard is appalling. From the
time the man is eighteen until he marries,
- which is thirty or older, - he knows no
duty toward his body except to gratify
2x4




The Sons of the Hellenes


his senses. He never thinks of himself as
the father of his race. When the Bulgarian
says, "I am better than the Greek because
I am moral," he means that he better conserves his vitality than the Greek, which is
absolutely true. From earliest childhood
great stress is placed on three things: the
fitness of our intellect; the virtue of the
woman; and the independence of the man.
No physical fitness is expected from the
man, and it is in this that the Greek is
inferior to the rest of the Balkan nations.
It is the conviction of every Greek that
some day we are to come back again into
our own - once more to become leaders in
intellectual civilization; yet never once have
I heard the virtue of self-restraint preached
for the men. We are to achieve our ends
merely by training our minds.
Every Greek in every class, however,
attaches the greatest importance to the purity of the woman. The more dissipated a
Greek is, the more he insists on the purity
2I5




The Heart of the Balkans


of his bride. Unblushingly he maintains
that this is important for the welfare of
his children. The slightest aspersion on a
woman's name- so slight as a broken engagement - may easily lead to murder.
Only a few years ago, in one of the leading
hotels in Athens, a Greek of one of the best
families deliberately shot another who had
broken his engagement with his sister. All
a woman's male relatives will spring up
spontaneously to avenge the least suspicion cast on a woman's good name, and
public opinion will back them up in the
extremest measures they may take. Yet
these same men have for themselves an
absolutely different code of morals. "Bah!
a man is a man," they say, and that will
dismiss the subject. Up to the time of his
marriage his life is his own; afterwards it is
a different matter.
The interdependence of the physical and
the mental seems never to have occurred to
the modern Greek. In furtherance of his
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The Sons of the Hellenes


ambition to take his place again among the
leading nations of the world he demands the
best schools and the best universities, of his
own and other countries. His physical wellbeing he neglects utterly. Yet in our homes
we are constantly being told to be worthy
of the past of our race.
In my tenth year, when I was bristling
with nationalism, I assigned to myself the
r61e of a Greek priestess. I felt that I ought
to talk to all the illiterate Greeks, tell them
about our past grandeur, and awaken them
to a realization of our present fallen state.
In my campaign I started with Agamemnon,
an old boatman. I found him seated by the
shore, mending his fishing nets, not far from
our house. Agamemnon was a particular
friend of mine. He possessed a queer sort
of humor which had a way of transforming
tragedy into comedy. Our acquaintance
had started on a day when a terrific storm
had swept the coast. A belated fishing boat
manned by three men was trying hard to
217




The Heart of the Balkans


make the harbor. It struggled desperately
with the sea, while men on the shore stood
ready with ropes to try to help it. When
nearly safe, the boat was capsized, and
despite the best efforts of those on shore,
the owner was drowned. All the men uncovered their heads as his body was carried
away; but after Agamemnon had replaced
his dirty hat on his head, he winked at me
and said:"Poseidon has got him at last. His score
is of long standing: now he is before the
mighty emperor of the seas to answer to
his charges."
"Do you expect to be called before Poseidon yourself some day?" I asked.
"All of us who sail over his domain expect
sooner or later to be called before his mighty
presence."
When I started out on my nationalistic
preachment it was Agamemnon whom I
first approached. I watched him in silence
for a while, admiring the way he handled
218




The Sons of the Hellenes


the langhetta with which he was mending his
net. His dexterity was almost womanly: it
fascinated me, but it did not make me forget my great mission.
"Did you know, Agamemnon," I said,
"that once we Greeks were the greatest
nation in the world?"
He looked at me with his quizzical eyes.
Instead of answering, however, he began
to relate tales of our past exploits. Greeks
are natural story-tellers, and I listened, delighted, while in this practical way he was
proving to me that he was aware of our
great past.
When he came to an end of his stories, I
cried: " We must again regain our former
position and power. We must train ourselves as soldiers, and take back the lands
that once were ours. Our youths all over
the world should go to Greece and do their
military duty."
Agamemnon's langhetta was poised in
midair. His well-shaped head was erect,
219




The Heart of the Balkans


with its Socratic hair and beard, and a
flicker of laughter twinkled in his eyes.
"We cannot get back our position in the
world by fighting," he observed.
"But that is how we got what is free
Greece to-day," I argued.
"H'm! that miserable little bit of land,"
he sneered. " I wish we did n't have it."
"Agamemnon!" I cried, horrified. "Do
you realize that the Acropolis is there,
and that free Greece protects it with her
flag?"
Agamemnon laughed so heartily that I
became offended. He mimicked me, as he
replied: -
"Free Greece protects it with her flag!"
He 'chuckled anew. "My little one, how
long do you think the Greek flag would
protect it if England, for instance, were to
make up her mind that she wanted the
Acropolis - or the whole of Greece, for that
matter? Just about two days, I should
imagine, and then-"   With his hands,
220




The Sons of the Hellenes


langhetta and all, he made a motion as of a
flag falling from its pole.
"Then what is there for us to do?" I
asked, in consternation.
"Get education, build schools everywhere, have every woman's son learn his
letters - that is the mission of the Greeks.
Did we have to fight to turn Roman Constantinople into the Greek Byzantine Empire? Not at all: it just got turned naturally.
The influence of the Greek mind could not
be withstood." He dropped his langhetta,
folded his big bony hands together, and
shook his Socratic head. Mimicking me
again he went on: "Send every youth to
Greece to be trained? Not a bit of it, my
little one, not a bit of it! Do you know what
I believe? Had we, during all these years
that we have been under the Turk, bent
our energies to educating him, teaching him
the Greek language, and initiating him into
Greek thought, he would have turned Greek
before now. The Turk does not know his
221




The Heart of the Balkans


soul is immortal, does he? Well, it was our
duty to teach it to him."
Agamemnon picked up his langhetta, and
painstakingly resumed his mending of his
fishing net. Presently he glanced up at me
once more.
"If I had any education I should n't be
sitting here mending a fishing net: I should
be teaching little boys and girls all over the
world just what the Greek spirit stands
for." He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I
have n't any education. I don't know how
to read and write - but I do my best. I
do not neglect opportunities. Whenever a
chance presents itself to me, I seize itas I have done with you this morning."
Agamemnon was not an exception in his
way of thinking; rather he was typical of
many. Illiterate, he believed in the omnipotence of education, as he believed that the
future of Greece lay in the ideals of her
mind, not in how much land she held. I
have talked with many of the working-class
222




The Sons of the Hellenes


among the Greeks, and everywhere I have
found them the same - worshiping money,
because money meant education for them
or for their children.
When I was older I talked with a spongediver of the AEgean, not in the same spirit
with which I had talked with Agamemnon,
but argumentatively. I told him that unless
we developed a good army Russia some day
would take Constantinople, and then we
should lose it forever.
"Forever? No!" he replied. "Let the
Muscovite have his smell at it; it is his turn.
He will not Russianize it any more than the
Turk has Ottomanized it. The Greek soul
can't be drowned. He will get the city,
that is all. And it will come back to us because of its spirit."
Everywhere among the people I encountered this same feeling. They did not
mean to fight for what would automatically
remain their own. I do not mean to say that
there is not a considerable party in Greece
223




The Heart of the Balkans


which believes in fighting, or that half the
clergy is not militant, or that there are not
a great number of Greeks outside of Greece
who dream of fighting for Greece. One of
these latter, an uncle, had charge of me
during my earliest childhood. On my fifth
birthday he presented me with a little Greek
flag, told me to make my prayers by it, and
to teach my sons to fight for it. But from
my experience I should say that the majority of the Greeks do not believe in fighting.
They consider it futile.
Nevertheless, when the call comes to fight
for their country, like the English they
flock to it from every part of the globe, although they may have become naturalized
citizens of other countries, or even may be
only the sons of naturalized Americans,
English, Russians, or others. They answer
the call without hesitation, paying their
own transportation whenever they can. I
have known of humble Greeks here in
America, who had flourishing little fruit,
224




The Sons of the Hellenes


candy, or flower shops, and who sold them
at a great loss so that they might be free
to go.
"What will you have?" they said to me;
"the mother country needs us."
"But you are an American citizen: you
don't have to go," I replied to one of them.
"No, we don't have to go; but would you
have Greece call to her sons in vain?"
And so they went, and seven thousand
of these American citizens were killed in
one battle alone, fighting against the Bulgars. They will respond whenever the call
is for the liberation of their compatriots,
although they will not, like the Bulgars, prepare to fight for the enslavement of other
races. Therefore the Bulgar thinks the
Greek effete, and meant to be conquered
by him who believes in fighting. The manner of thinking of the Greek is beyond him
who knows that through physical strength
and material efficiency he has a lead over
the Greek. While the Bulgarian glories in
225




The Heart of the Balkans
his muscle, the Greek delights in the plasticity of his mind and in his belief in the
immortality of his soul - and from these he
derives an exquisite joy which no conqueror
has yet been able to take from him.
All over the world to-day the Greek is
amassing money, reading books, and dreaming of a future to match his past; and he is
perfectly certain that some day, through his
mind alone, he will arise once more a leader
in thought, a master in spirit.




IX
SALONIKI, THE CITY OF HISTORIES
THERE are two ways of going to Saloniki,by sea, and by land; and whichever way the
traveler takes, he will be amply satisfied.
Until the last Balkan wars, or perhaps a
little earlier, when the Young Turks started
their revolution from Saloniki, the average person hardly knew that such a town
existed; yet for hundreds of years Saloniki
has been the political objective of Austria,
Russia, and even Italy.
Nature did its best in creating Saloniki,
but some black djinn must have cursed her
at birth. Admirably situated by sea and by
land, watered by three rivers, surrounded
by various chains of lofty mountains, and
mirrored in the most beautiful of seas, the
AEgean, she was created by God to be a
queen city: she has been transformed by man
into a storm center, or abandoned to squalor.
227




The Heart of the Balkans


I came to Saloniki for the first time from
Servia, on a summer afternoon. A laziness,
a sleepiness, an unliving haze hung over the
city. She looked to me as if put to sleep
by the wand of a magician for thousands
of years, and just awakening - dazed by
sleep, dazed by the events she had to face.
And all the people in the streets had the
same look of not being awake yet. Even
the Greeks had less of their catlike movement, and their quick-wagging tongues
seemed to be spellbound.
Indicating our luggage to a flowing-robed
Jew, possessor of an antiquated vehicle in
accord with the antiquity of the town, my
brother said: " Take it to the father hegoumenos of the Panaghia, and tell him that
the people to whom it belongs are coming
later."
Then, hand in hand, we set out through
the streets of the sleeping town. How teeming with history it was. Everything spoke
of the past, nothing of the present. To that
228




Saloniki, the City of Histories
atmosphere of the past the Jewish population especially added. They were garbed
in the clothes - one might almost think in
the identical clothes - they had worn when
they fled from Spain and the massacres of
Ferdinand and Isabella; and they looked
and talked as if they were still running to
save what they could from the wrath of the
Christian God. The then Sultan of Turkey
had offered them an asylum and liberty
to love their Maker as they chose. That
was during the halcyon days of the Ottoman Empire, when the Turks, ruling. the
fairest portions of Europe, lived and let
others live. It was during the period of their
magnificence, in which they were gentlemen
and acted like gentlemen.
Revolted by the injustice of the Spaniards, they had invited the Jews to come, and
they came, frightened by their persecution,
dazed by their martyrdom, and wondering
why all they had had been taken from them.
That was hundreds of years ago, yet to-day
229




The Heart of the Balkans


in Saloniki, when you see them in their long
flowing robes of calico print, and when you
talk with them, although they say never a
word of that haunting past, it is that past
that dominates you. They speak softly a
Spanish rendered Jewish by their Hebrew
tongues. It is caressing and soft, and so
absolutely the Spanish they brought with
them then that it differs materially from the
Spanish of to-day. Something about them,
whether seated cross-legged behind the
counters of their little shops caressing their
long flowing beards, or walking stealthily
through the quiet streets, speaks of the past
and of Spain. It is the same with all the
other nationalities one sees in Saloniki:
they represent the past, never the present.
We walked, as I said, hand in hand, as if
we were afraid of being separated and becoming lost in the past. We hardly talked.
The history of ages enveloped us; for we
were walking on the same road Xerxes trod
when he set out on the invasion of Greece.
230




Saloniki, the City of Histories


Each of the Balkan nations claims Saloniki.
The Greeks, because hundreds of years before Christ it was a Greek city, known as
Therma. The Serbs and the Bulgarians,
because from Saloniki they had received
their religion and what culture they possessed - in return for which they sometimes
looted it and sometimes held it. The Macedonians claimed it because - again before
Christ - a Macedonian king had remade it
and renamed it Thessaloniki, after his wife,
a sister of Alexander the Great. And since
all the Slavs in the Balkans imagine that
they are more or less descended from Alexander the Great, they claim it, too, - and
all these pretensions date from the Dark
Ages. Even the Italians regard it as rightfully theirs, because Rome, and afterwards
Venice, held it.
It is, indeed, a town that is saturated with
history: Greek, Macedonian, Persian, Balkan, Turkish, - even French, for did not
the French Marquis de Montferrat, of the
231




The Heart of the Balkans


Fourth Crusade, receive it as a part of the
loot of that piratical expedition, which set
out for the deliverance of the tomb of Christ
and ended by taking Constantinople and
many other towns? The French held it for
almost twenty years, until the Greek Prince
of Epirus fought them and drove them out.
Each nationality has left something behind.
You may even imagine, as you listen to the
phloisvos of the AEgean, that you are listening to Cicero, in exile, repeating his
orations.
To us Greeks, Saloniki is the second city
of our Byzantine Empire, in that period in
which we were once more a power, before
the Turks came and reduced us to slavery.
As my brother and I walked sedately through
the streets of the town, with Olympus and
Ossa, the great Greek sentinels of our rights
towering in the distance, we fell to reciting fragments of poetry, now in the pure
Greek, again in that adorable Laic language, in which the Armateloi of the late
232




Saloniki, the City of Histories
eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries
wrote. Yet we neither skipped with joy
before that wonderful physical beauty, nor
did we experience the exhilaration which
every Greek feels at the sight of the sea.
For several months now we had been ringed
about in Servia by the great mountains
which overshadow that country and rob
it of mental agility. Even when we don't
like the sea, we worship it - it lures us on;
it is a part of us, and lends to our minds
its fluid quality. Subdued and sobered we
walked on for hours, always conscious of the
necessity of treading softly, lest we frighten
the drowsy city.
Saloniki, at the time of which I write,
was Turkish, and the day when she was to
become the cradle of a supposed Turkish
regeneration was far off. She was merely
old Turkish, unkempt, squalid, picturesque.
We entered a few shops and bought some
trinkets, so that we might talk with the
Jews. To Greeks their lingo is not difficult,
233




The Heart of the Balkans


and we liked the men as we talked with
them. I even felt like patting one particular
old Jew and telling him not to be afraid,
because my Christian God was less exacting and less bloodthirsty than that of Ferdinand and Isabella.
We sat on backless stools in the middle
of the sidewalk, before a Turkish cafe. We
ate our loukoums and drank our coffee,
watching the ever-tranquil waves caress
the shore, listening to the murmur of the
flowing rivers, and all the time history was
pouring its presents from the arms of the
past. Our Turkish cafedji, clad in white,
with a large red-figured handkerchief as an
apron, and another'twisted around his red
fez, presented a wonderful bit of color. He
was a veritable Turk, not merely a Mohammedan, and followed the only profession, outside of soldiering, for which he is fit
and which he graces to perfection. We talked
with him a great deal, inviting him to come
and sit by us, which he did without humil234




Saloniki, the City of Histories
ity, without arrogance, with that dignity
which only the Turk possesses.
Our cafedji, of course, could neither read
nor write. History did not trouble him; he
was as innocent of the past as if it did not
exist: -
Was there prosperity in Saloniki?
Oh, yes, it was not hard to make a living, and the average Turk's living is so
simple.
Was he married?
Why, of course, since he was almost
thirty.
Did he have any children?
Naturally. What did people marry for?
If his wife had had none, he would have
taken another, in order that he might have
sons.
We arose and tramped a little longer, and
just at sunset came to the abode of the
priest where we proposed stopping. We
opened the wooden gate and entered the
extensive vegetable garden of our host. He
235




The Heart of the Balkans


was walking among his vegetables, rapidly
knitting a woolen sock, started from the
toe. He had no kalimafk on his head, and
his long hair, curly at the temples, was
gathered into a knot at his neck. He was
dressed in his flowing black robes, with a
wide purple velvet belt above his rotund
hips.
"We are your self-invited guests," said
my brother.
The hegoumenos stopped his knitting,
made the sign of the cross with three fingers of his right hand as a benediction, and
then let me bestow a kiss on his plump
white hand. My brother he only patted
on the shoulder, avoiding the awkwardness
tiat might have ensued had my brother belonged to the horrid Young Greece which
no longer kisses the hands of its priests.
Under his left arm was a long thin stick,
into which the knitting-needle was stuck
and from which the stocking was now hanging.
236




Saloniki, the City of Histories
"We have come to ask your hospitality,
since there is not a hostelry which could
give us even passable comfort."
The Greek priest nodded cordially.
"I am indebted to this lack of the town
for much pleasure that comes to me through
travelers."
At once we knew that he was not born in
Saloniki, that he was not newly awakened,
but that he was alive, possessed by the past,
conscious of the present, and that consequently we might learn from him more of
Saloniki than its streets, more even than
its past alone could tell us.
A little donkey, blindfolded and attached
to an old-fashioned water-wheel, was drawing water from a well, and a number of
young priests were working in the garden.
It was a lovely picture, full of quiet and
charm and rest. The hegoumenos called
out:"Here, brothers! Bring out chairs and
refreshments."
237




The Heart of the Balkans


These were placed in the shade, and
presently we were partaking of dry fish,
black olives, and black coffee, with a basket
full of such a variety of fruits as if it had
been sent by the Goddess of Abundance.
"Where do you come from?" our host
asked, with such lively interest that it was
manifest that he lived upon the visits of the
people who came from the outside world
and brought him news of his race.
"From Servia."
"How interesting! What were they doing
up there, the Serbs? What are they thinking, and how do they feel toward the Greeks?
Ah! if only a perfect understanding could
be reached between us." And there in that
slumbering town, on that beautiful afternoon, in that enchanting garden, we talked
of the future, the future of Greece and its
people, a future fraught with dangers and
possible disillusionment.
"Some day the Greeks must be strong
enough to take Saloniki from the Turks.
238




Saloniki, the City of Histories


They can no longer hold it." Thus spoke
the priest, the priest who had come from
outside to guide the spiritual welfare of his
flock - and who was more alive to their
future political status. His next question
was full of anxiety. "What were the Greeks
thinking? Were they preparing? Were they
remembering Macedonia, its misery, its
misrule?"
With him we stayed three days. Our
rooms were clean and spacious, our fare of
the best. They are good livers, those Greek
priests, who are half the servants of God
and half soldiers. And we talked always
of the great problem, the fate of Saloniki
and of the time when she must become
Greek again because the Turk could no
longer hold her.
And what of the Turk, the Turk who
owned Saloniki, only to keep her misruled
and in squalor - what did we see of the
Turk in Saloniki? Alas for his past grandeur, we saw him as we saw him all over the
239




The Heart of the Balkans


Balkans, where the jealousies of the Great
Powers still allowed him to remain a nominal ruler. He represented the near past,
crumbling to pieces before our eyes. He,
to me, was the real pathos of the peninsula.
On the third day of our stay we climbed
a long hill, at the top of which was a fortress.
We sat down under a plantain tree near the
entrance. An ill-clad sentry was marching
up and down. For a while we were undisturbed, then he came up to us.
"Get up and go away," he said. "You
can't stay here."
Had my brother not understood a word
he could not have acted more indifferently.
He always left the Turks to me, maintaining that I understood them better than they
did themselves. Perhaps it was because as
a child I had eaten their food, had slept in
their houses, and had twisted myself up in
the gymnastics with which they pray before their Allah.
"I told you to get up and go away," the
240




Saloniki, the City of Histories
sentry repeated. "What are you doing
here?"
"We are sitting down, and you had better sit down, too," I answered. "We come
from Constantinople. Perhaps you would
like to ask us some questions. We will
answer them."
"I have never been to Constantinople,"
he said surlily, " although I saw it from the
boat. But you can't sit here."
"But we are sitting here - how can you
say we can't?" I argued. " Where do you
come from?"
He frowned.
"Asia Minor?" I insinuated.
Like a little child from whom a confession is being wrung, he nodded.
"Married?" I persisted.
He nodded again. His frown was no
longer commanding; it was dejected. Yes,
he was married.
"How many boys?"
"Two."
241




The Heart of the Balkans


"How long is it since you have seen your
wife?"
At that he broke down. To see a man
cry is the most terrible sight in the world;
and when the man who cries is young and
strong and healthy, then his tears are the
most harrowing arraignment of the world's
injustice. He fell, rather than sat down beside me, and I patted him and comforted
him; because I love the Turks and know
their great qualities - know also that there
is every excuse for their faults.
Between his sobs he told his pathetic
story: how he had been taken from his wife
to fight in the Balkans, and then, when his
time of military service was at an end, he
had been forgotten, and he, the capital of
the empire, had been left to rot and fall to
pieces. For years he had received no pay, so
that even if he got his release, he would have
no means of returning to his far-distant
home. His youngest boy, five years old,
had been born a few months after he had
242




Saloniki, the City of Histories


left his wife, so some soldiers who had been
rushed through Saloniki a year ago had told
him.
As he talked in broken sentences, I could
imagine a hut, somewhere in Asia Minor,
where a young, poverty-stricken woman
had struggled with death to give the world
a son, who was to be taken from her to fight
for a country which gave her nothing in
exchange. This soldier before me, weeping
like a lad for his wife and children, represented a people hated and abhorred by the
world largely because it prayed to its God
in a different way from ours. Religion is
the highest expression of our development.
It is the dream our soul dreams, the song
our heart sings, and yet we hate our brother
because his soul dreams a different dream
and sings a different song. If God has
human feelings, how He must loathe us.
While the man wept, I was thinking.
Could we not have helped the Turk? Could
not the great Christian Powers have come
243




The Heart of the Balkans


to his assistance - for his sake, and not
for their own? The Great Powers seemed
to me like the soldiers who sat by the dying
Christ and raffled his clothes; but whereas
they came to an understanding in the raffle,
the great Christian Powers sat watching a
once great empire falling to pieces before
their eyes, just for want of a little help, like
rival vultures on the battlefield watching
a soldier dying.
That is what I saw in Saloniki of the
Turk. It was not a solitary case. It was to
be found all over the Balkans - men taken
from their homes, forgotten, and left to rot
in uniforms which were falling to pieces.
Of all the peoples under the rule of the
Turks, the Turk himself is the most pathetic.
And now that the time has come when he
will have to go, when he, the only outside
conqueror of Europe who came and stayed
as conqueror, is about to be ousted, let
people think of him as part of that great
brotherhood which ought to be the creed
244




Saloniki, the City of Histories


of our civilization, and remember that he
who is going has nowhere to go.
As I look back now I wonder why we did
not go down to the silent Jews and beg for
the necessary money to send the soldier
home. I feel certain that they would have
given it to us, and I also feel certain that
with the money in our hands we could have
obtained his release from the Turk in command; for he would have understood. The
governing Turk knows well enough that all
has not been well with his country, and if
it were not for his fatalism and the insidious
wormlike work of the Powers there might
have been a chance for him.
That night we told the father hegoumenos
about the young Turk and his tears.
"They are crumbling to pieces," he said
with unction. To him the incident was only
satisfactory proof of the disintegration of
the race which was keeping his own in subjection. He caressed his long, gray beard.
A mist of happiness softened his eyes.
245




The Heart of the Balkans


"Who knows, perhaps I shall yet preach
from the pulpit of our great Byzantine
church, for five hundred years desecrated
as a mosque."
He remained silent, hiding his hands under the long sleeves of his priestly robe.
Presently, his eyes burning with national
fanaticism, his voice vibrant with emotion,
he went on:"I have that sermon already written.
Shall I read it to you?"
Rising, he kneeled in the middle of the
room, removed two tiles from the floor, and
from a home-made safe beneath extracted
the beloved sermon.
He read it as if we two were a multitude
of Greeks flocking to St. George, with Saloniki once more under Greek sway.
He was not an old man then. When in
1913 Saloniki hoisted the Greek flag, and all
the Byzantine churches once more echoed
with the language of John Chrysostom, perhaps he, our hegoumenos, mounted the steps
246




Saloniki, the City of Histories


of the pulpit and delivered that sermon
which years before he had read to us while
Saloniki was still a Turkish town. To few
is it given to see their dreams realized: he
may have been one of those few.
As I am writing, Saloniki is Greek in name
only. Once more the queen city of the AEgean
is a storm center. She is the base for the
operations of the Allied armies in the Balkans, and French soldiers and English soldiers and soldiers from Italy and soldiers
from Servia are there, and for the first time
mighty Russia is treading the path where
Xerxes and Alexander trod. Saloniki cannot now be wearing her sleepy expression.
Awakened from her historic past, she has
become the vital point of the present; for
it is also there that the Cretan, Elentherios Venizelos, - great Greek patriot, or
traitor to his king, - presides over his provisional government, while still the Vardar
flows, the AEgean never angrily laps the
shores, and Olympus and Ossa look down
247




The Heart of the Balkans


upon the modern hosts as imperturbably as
they gazed upon Xerxes when he came to
invade Greece. What will be the fate of
Saloniki after this devastating, never-ending war? Will she remain Greek, or will she,
as in a new deal of injustice, be handed
over to another alien ruler, to await the day
when the curse shall be lifted from her and
from the rest of mankind? - the curse which
makes men regard the world in the light
of trade-routes and gold-reserves, forgetting
that we should be brothers first and merchants afterwards.
THE END


NOV 3 0 1917








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