BUHR B UK 309.H82 1927, j1 47qC -N I 4 I1 Ui t-A V -v i 4 -. I ^** * * #c r^ fA it V; L V v.,t' I 1~5a IP$YYS4IICW I P k'" -c, r , = 5. 1, Y r'Sj c CICIICO. -CC~~ s rrps rs "Lc.T ZC~ ci ........... \cr i,1,,.e.,e ~'L;sUC_;~C. 9 ' X," Y,f) r y Sv i" KINGDOM -T of the - F SERBS CROATS dSLOVEN J %.F Revisedfrom an oldMap Publishedby Laurie &Whittle, 53 Fleet StreetLondon as theAct directs. 12 "'May. 794 B O.ttv SL; o-f CJC4v, ba W- T Y eaarace 1 —. j... F ~ ---- CI - 1-: '..1 * itm. fei ' - _,_ _~rl BALKA N SKETCHES I "-^' ->s — lk. y - ip'k I I Am Wi -Ir, rI I -Z STREET IN OLD MOSTAR 0 —% 1 f6. ~ B A L K A N SKETC HE S An Artist's Wanderings in the Kingdom of the Serbs * * *BY * * L E S T E R with ILLUSTR ATI K 0 J2. LEAvs G. H O R N B Y -.-I ONS by THE AUTHOR I p x ' * q 0 0 N, AND COMPANY N 1927 <T/)ST/ LITTLE, BROW B 0 S T 0 vNLT t Copyright, 19926, By LiTTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY All rights reserved First Impression of the Trade Edition, February, 1927 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA ACKNOWLEDGMENT To His Royal Highness the King and to Her Royal Highness the Queen of the Serbs, Croats and Slovenes, a sincere appreciation of the romantic kingdom "where East meets West"; to Dr. A. Tresich Pavicich of the Serbian Legation at Washington; to M. Stephan Rachich, President of the Dubrovacka Parobrodska Plovidba, I am indebted for their exceeding kindness and courtesy. To Mme. Tsamados, who so delightfully explained many strange customs; to M. Tsamados, Ministre Extraordinaire, whose kindly help and indulgence in an erratic traveling companion's idiosyncrasies were deeply appreciated. To the lovely Daria, to the intrepid Lorrington, and to Milan Perisich, who interpreted for me the peasants of the Bosnian Mountains as only a man who loves his country could. To these and many more I owe deep gratitude. With her Adriatic Riviera already alluring to the traveler, with mountains of untold natural resources awaiting development, Serbia's future importance is assured. Glorious as has been her historic past, her present as the guiding parent of Yugo-Slavia knows no bounds. That this ancient nation of heroic armies and undaunted statesmen now stands a supreme power in the Balkans is the great good fortune of the Western world to-day. L. G. H. I., _ CONTENTS I DALMATIA: The Professors and a Lovely Austrian.... 3 II SPILATO: With Daria; Evening Along the Riva.... 13 III AT TRAU: "He Who Depreciates Comes to Buy".. 24 IV AN EMPEROR'S PALACE: A Pagan Temple and the Black Sphinx.. 30 V ALONG THE COAST: Old Ports and the Falls of the Kerka...... 46 VI AMONG THE ISLANDS: Of the Pirate Queen; Of Great Liars and of Fish that Climb Trees... 53 Vii CONTENTS VII RAGUSA: An Old Monk; The "Leedle German Girl "; The Ramparts. 66 VIII LACROMA: Where Summer Never Dies; The Canonized Yachtsman.. 83 IX CANNOZA AND THE OMBLA: Giant Trees; A Peasant's Song and a King's Wine. 92 X OF TRAVEL: An Expedition to Africa..101 XI BOCCA DI CATTARO: Risano; Cattaro and a Pagan Altar.. 108 XII IN HERZEGOVINA: Through the Karst; The Women of Mostar......118 XIII A MOUNTAIN WILDERNESS: Thunder Among the Peaks and a Sinister Silhouette...... 137 XIV AT ILIDZE: Source of the Bosna; the Miller and His Wife; Trout by the Thousand 144 XV SARAJEVO: Of Milo; In a Turkish Bazaar; Along the River..... 153 XVI THE LACE SHOP: Of a Modest Countess and a Friendly Hotelier. 167 XVII IN THE BOSNIAN MOUNTAINS: At an Inn; Of Hero Worship and the Royal Prince Marko......... 178 XVIII OF ARTISTS AND OTHERS: Sketching in Comfort; Again the Woman Pays..189 vii CONTENTS XIX OLD TURKISH TERRITORY: Hail Clouds; Peasant Faith; A Wolf.... 198 XX THE TURKISH VILLAGE: The Coppersmith; An Ancient Watermill; A Serbian Reminiscence of California.... 203 XXI ON LEAVING: A Telegram from Greece. 214 XXII LEAVE - TAKING: The Hospitality of a Turkish Peasant..... 221 ix I I k rb A. I - L3C C - - - — 1CT -iCiii-r - -L --- II, _ CZ)-L~172 L~~~L ___ E -I~ --- LIST OF SKETCHES STREE"T IN OLD MOSTAR ( CONTENTS. THE QUAI, TRIESTE DALMATIAN VILLAGE DALMATIAN MOUNTAINS FISHERMEN ADRIATIC COAST THE PROFESSORS PEASANT HEAD-DRESS. THE QUAI, SPILATO FRUIT MARKET, SPILATO in colors). Frontispiece..... vii 10 12 13 ~**. 15 xi LIST OF SKETCHES HARBOR ENTRANCE, SPILATO......23 SPILATo FISHERMEN........ 27 HERZEGOVINAN WOMAN.......29 AN EMPEROR' S GARDEN.......30 PORTO AUREA, DIoCLETIAN'S PALACE....33 TEMPLE RUINS, SPILATO....... 37 GosPoDsKi TRG, SPILATO.......39 ALONG THE COAST. 46 THE VELEBIT MOUNTAINS.......48 SEBINICO.. 51 AMONG THE ISLANDS.. 53 ISLANDS OF ROCK.... 55 CURZOLA...... 58 CURZOLA's FORTIFICATIONS......63 ]RAGUSA........... 66 PORTO PILE, RAGUSA........69 CLOCK TOWER OVERLOOKING THE STRADONE THE MONK........ BRIDGED MOAT AT PORTO PILE... RAGUSA's ANCIENT FORTIFICATION FROM THE STRADONE..... a.. xii 73 75 76 79 LIST OF SKETCHES THE PORT, RAGUSA........ 82 ARCO NATURALE, LACROMA...83 LORENZO TOWER, RAGUSA.....85 THE LACROMA-CANONIZED AMERICAN. 88 ADRIATIC MOUNTAINS. 90 RAGUSA (in colors)....90 GIANT PLANE TREES, CANNOZA.... 92 FORTIFICATIONS, RAGUSA....95 THE LION OF VENICE........100 FORT-CRESTED ROCKS OF RAGUSA...101 HERZEGOVINAN PEASANTS.......103 BOCCA DI CATTARO........108 WATERSPOUTS..........110 CLOCK TOWER AND PAGAN ALTAR, CATTARO.. 113 EVENING IN THE BOCCA....... 116 OLD TURKISH BRIDGE, MOSTAR.....118 SHEPHERDESS OF HERZEGOVINA..... 121 MOUNTAINEERS......... 122 A BALKAN SHEPHERDESS....... 125 FRUIT VENDOR, MOSTAR.....129 WOMEN OF MOSTAR........134 xiii LIST OF SKETCHES THE KAVANA IN THE MOUNTAINS A STRANGE SILHOUETTE AT ILIDZE.. RUSTIC BRIDGE OVER THE BoSNA THE RED CAFE', SARAJEVO STREET IN OLD SARAJEVO. THE MARKET PLACE. BOSNIAN PEASANTS (in colors) VEGETABLE STALLS. THE LACE SHOP. GRIFFIN FROM THE ]RAMPARTS OF Z AN UPLAND FARM... IN THE BOSNIAN MOUNTAINS THE INN.... BOSNIAN MARKET PLACE. BAZAARS, SARAJEVO.. OLD TURKISH TERRITORY. WEAi'HERED HOUSES.. iRj *... 137 * * * *140 * * * *144 * *..150 * * * *153 *...155 * * * *158 * * * *160 * * * *162 * * * *167 * * * 177 * * * *178 * * * * 181 * * * 185 * * * *189 * * * *191 * * * *198 * * * *201 GE. * 203 * * * *205 * * * *207 SHOPKEEPER OF THE TURKISH VILLA TURKISH HOUSES * * *. A KAVANA AT NIGHT * * xiv LIST OF SKETCHES' MOUNTAINHUTS * * * * 214 THE RussuN PEDLAR. b0215 CASTELNuovo, BocCA DI CATTARO a 217 STREET OF THE MONEY CHANGERS, SARAJEVO (in colors) 220 OLD BRIDGE AT DOBROVOGACE..... 221 AN ISLAND FORT... a. 223 U xv ~t ~4 I II~ BALKAN SK ETCHES Beautie is not as fond men misdeeme, An outward show of things that only seeme. SPENSER r I DALMATIA LL travelers are liars."... It was in a compartment of the Paris-Constantinople Express. Just before boarding the train I had stopped at the news stand in the Gare de Lyons to buy a Tauchnitz edition. During dinner the wagon-lit porter had been in to arrange my luggage, turn on the lights and leave a pillow. That complaisant, all-is-right-with-the-world feeling settling comfortably over me - book in hand - I leaned back in my pillow. How long I looked at the first page - glared at it - I cannot remember. My lethargy left me. Sitting bolt upright, I read and reread: "All travelers are liars." Shades of Marco Polo! This cheap, paper-covered edition was actually calling all travelers liars. Wondering if I would feel differently about 3 BALKAN SKETCHES it in another edition, I tried to visualize the same thing in a fine old English binding, on Van Gelder paper; so much do clothes influence our judgment. A little more elegant, perhaps - but still it meant the same thing - exactly. I for one was a traveler, but I was not a - well, perhaps it would be just as well not to cast the first stone. After all, it takes some imagination to lie - that is Art. All art is built on - imagination, we'll say. 'Surely it would have been much worse to be accused of having no imagination. Why not write "All travelers have imagination"? No, that will never do. That is an obvious lie, with no saving artistic grace. Lies can be so beautiful; and who does not know that "a thing of beauty is a joy forever", and that the truth can be most unpleasant. I was thinking of all this the next day as I stood on the deck of an Adriatic steamer, trying to appear interested in the well intended guidebook information offered by a German professor. He had volunteered to name the peaks that rose along the shore - impossible names that only a Croatian could pronounce. He was reading them letter by letter - then experimenting with the pronunciation, but his chief concern seemed to be in checking up the accuracy of the guide. We were gliding silently over a summer sea, along a coast of mountains old as time. Centuries ago Illyrian pirates had set sail from here. I knew that forgotten treasures of ancient Argonauts must still be moldering there in caves. 4 DALMATIA Herr Professor read on about the flora and fauna. Being one of those timid souls who feign a sympathetic interest while being bored, I was afraid of offending the old gentleman by turning on my heel. Yet this dread of offending a bore, as every one knows, is utter nonsense. It cannot be done. I first saw him with a brother professor, sitting opposite me at dinner the previous evening, just after leaving Trieste. I believe I had asked him for the salt. Coming on deck, after a good night's sleep and exhilarated by a cloudless September morning, I exchanged greetings here and there with fellow passengers, and found myself gazing at a figure in some extraordinary traveling clothes. I say found myself - rather, I was caught staring - and tried to wriggle out of the embarrassment by smiling an over-congenial "Good morning." It was the professor. Of course I might have concocted some glib excuse - but the strangeness of his attire fascinated me. His undertaker clothes of the night before had been re5 BALKAN SKETCHES placed by a sort of Tyrolean mountain-climber's costume. He wore a bilious near-heather mixture with an applique collar and lapels of billiard-table-green velvet. Topping this -and a little undersized - he wore on his head one of those Tyrolean Fedora affairs with side feathers. Carrying a red guidebook, a spiked stick, and the accentuated dignity of his bifocaled countenance, he lacked only the yodel. I had no way of knowing of his eminence as a professor; but when the annals record sacrifices made for science, comic opera must be credited with the loss of a great comedian. There we stood. The professor spent most of the time looking up in his guidebook the altitudes of the mountains and reading them aloud in meters. Just as I was about to extricate myself, the second professor appeared - no less artfully attired than the first. Obviously they had been to the same tailor. Instead of heather, this costume was of dark green with a suede collar. The hat feathers were different, but worn at the same coy angle. The accessories varied; a yellow leather field-glass case hung from its shoulder strap, and a sheaf of maps replaced the guidebook. The small white spot of a fisherman's lateen sail moves slowly along the coast. I look at the rocky mountain slopes, and their mammoth forms so dwarf the scale of the fishing boat that it is momentarily lost to view. A golden haze of autumn sunlight falls over the mountains. Basking there like hoary monarchs overlooking the sea, they seem to be 6 DALMATIA dreaming of the glories of long ago. There pagan gods were worshiped, Corinthian colonies were founded, Greek temples were built. From these rocky slopes the wild Avar hordes swept down upon them, pillaging and plundering. Mongols and Tartars invaded. The Romans came and saw and conquered, as their monuments still bear witness. The Turks overran and settled. Then the argosies of the Great Republic crossed the Adriatic. One by one these old trading ports of the mainland and the islands fell under the power of the Lion of Venice. Of this supremacy of the Doges, most Dalmatian ports show crumbling relics in abundance: battlements and towers of stone, where the Lion of Venice still prances but now, only in defiance of time. And centuries hence, these silent monarchs that now seem to be slowly passing in 7 BALKAN SKETCHES review will be musing here beneath an Adriatic sun - musing on still other civilizations that will have passed... There is no knowing where this play of fancy might have led me. An appeal from Herr Professor- of the green collar - solicited my attention. His faith had been shaken by the mountain chart. It was a profile of the whole coast in outline- one of those accordion-folded guidebook plans that shows a single zigzag line. It represented the mountains and valleys (like a stockbroker's chart indicating rises and falls where one could have made a fortune -if one could have foretold the zigs from the zags). "Der ting iss absolootly useless -id iss ein hombog!" Herr Professor, waving his hand toward one of the highest peaks, wanted to know if we thought he was wrong in criticizing a chart that showed no mountain at all there - but instead a deep valley. I had not the heart to explain matters. Assuming an air of deep consideration, I turned away to light my pipe, while his companion explained: "But, Herr Professor; you are holding der map opside down!" A shelf-like road part way up the mountainside ran the length of the coast. It showed only faintly, like a barely discernible thread on a sun-parched slope of the same goldengray color. Against the cobalt depths of the sky, these ashen peaks faded to almost white, so glaring was the contrast. At places along the coast - and sometimes on a mountainside 8 DALMATIA - one could see a little group of stone houses, miles away from any civilization; and one wondered what the lives of these peasants could be. Shepherds, no doubt, tending their flocks, spinning, growing what few vegetables they could in the scant soil of these arid, upland farms; and hoarding every stray fagot against the chill winds of the Bora that howl down from the North. High on a desolate slope, one saw a cave in the face of a cliff. The faintest suggestion of a path led to it. At some such place Demetrios and his plunderers must have had a lookout scanning the horizon - a far-seeing buccaneer who knew how to sight a prey worthy of the chase. The good Queen Teuta herself might well have sat there watching her swarthy crew trimming sail to overhaul some heavily laden Roman galley. Most of the passengers were lying about in deck chairs. A soothing drowsiness seemed to have been cast upon them. There were a number of smartly dressed women - Italians and Austrians -whom one might see in the season at Abbazia or Nice. The deck was gaily aflutter with brilliantly colored scarves and veils. This clearness of color, accentuated by the white railing, had a beautifully unreal quality. The deep ultramarine of the summer sea gave the scene a perfection that made it seem like some delightful stage setting. Regard the deck as a stage, and the Tyrolean-attired professors fitted in perfectly. How easily one imagined the tap of an orchestra leader's baton bringing them to the foot9 BALKAN SKETCHES lights with a few sprightly steps. They would sing some such tuneful ditty as: "Oh, we're the Tyrolean Trippers, Tra-la-la. Tra-la-la. Tra-la-la." Then would come the chorus, and the ladies in deck chairs would slip out from beneath their steamer rugs, appearing as bathing beauties. While my fancy dwelt lovingly on the vision of the chorus, one attractive person, becoming conscious of my gaze, adjusted her steamer shawl, looked toward the coast, and then at her Baedeker. The mountains had receded inland here. There were little bays and a number of small green-tufted islands of rock. A village, white with sunlight, stood out against rolling green hills. We passed a number of reefs, then an island -a sponge fisherman's settlement, one of the professors informed me - a few snug stone houses, built among the rocks - Kagran, it is called. Rounding an angular cape of 10 DALMATIA tree-crested rock, we steamed silently in among other islands. On one islet stood a small chapel. There were the islands of Trau and Bua, connected by a stone bridge. Close behind them, the mainland rose in a great slope of pastureland - so steep that you wondered at the shepherds and their flocks moving about there. Evidently this had interested the professors. They were developing the theory that the character of a country determines the character of the inhabitants; how the nomad desert tribes were a tall people and mountains would no doubt produce a race of people small in stature. The lady who had adjusted her steamer rug readjusted it. Her Baedeker slipped to the deck. Restoring it with my most affably distant yet most solicitous air of continental grace, I was repaid by the faintest suggestion of a smile, and an alluringly pleasant "Merci bien, Monsieur." She was Austrian, - that Titian blonde type with long lashes and a delicately flushed complexion. I was about to excuse myself when madame expressed her dismay at finding that her guidebook contained nothing about hotels since the reign of Austria. Had I heard what was now considered the best hotel in Spilato? My guidebook was no better. There seemed to be nothing later. Yet I would most certainly find out. This sad predicament of the fair Austrian aroused my sympathies, and, needless to say, to have ignored such distress-would have been heartless indeed. The spires of Spilato rose against a background of moun11 BALKAN SKETCHES tains, and lateen sails flecked the harbor. Luggage was being brought up on deck, while passengers were getting out their cameras. The professors were now speculating on what they were to see in Diocletian's palace - "If it was a ruin, how could it be habitable - how could thousands of people be living there?" The boat moved slowly up to the mole. In going ashore, assuring the Austrian lady that I had found out about hotels, I passed the professors. He of the green collar was vociferously explaining that the Dalmatians must be a small people if three thousand of them could live in one palace. 12 II SPILATO H ow delightfully intimate the chance meeting while traveling may become. One greets a next-door neighbor for years, with never more than a hint exchanged of each other's cherished illusions. The banalities of daily routine, familiar scenes, and no end of prejudices are the things that so often strip daily encounters of their charm the charm that under other circumstances, even a change of scene, might carry all the fascination of that strange aura, romance. Not that I imagined my fair Austrian companion ever divested of such an aura. Her fascination lay as much in an easy, unstudied sort of elegance as in the golden quality of her Titian loveliness. It is impossible to imagine her shorn of this loveliness - and I hesitated to ask myself why, in each new light or setting - why, every time I beheld her, 13 BALKAN SKETCHES she seemed to me to be growing constantly more beautiful, more lovely. Was it the mystic spell of a Dalmatian evening? Was it the lapping of water along the Riva and the stillness of the sea beyond, that accentuated the charm? Or was it she herself who lent to the time and place her own enchantment? In the evening we found Spilato alive with another people. Instead of the tall brawny peasants, who lounged along the Riva in the afternoon, evening brought out the elite of Spilato. This was the Corso. Where there had been native costumes, we now saw the latest fashions from Vienna passing to and fro in the ever-moving stream of promenaders. Cafes faced the Riva, - cafes with broad terraces, of chairs and tables and stubby palms. We stopped at one for Turkish coffee, and to gaze seaward at the gaily colored stream of life passing along the Corso; the youth of Spilato was out for its evening stroll. Young girls sauntered by, arm in arm, in twos and threes. The ripple of their laughter echoed the gay brightness of their long-fringed silk shawls. Cafe lamps intensified the kaleidoscopic color against the indigo depths of the evening sea. Tall brighteyed youths passed, embarrassed by some flirting coquette. A young officer, immaculate and proud of his first spurs, strode by, touching his brow with an air of careless condescension -until an elder officer approached. Then he became rigid with a salute of great precision; and three pretty girls, amused by his awkwardness, hugged each 14 t).... O.0~ FRUIT MARKET, SPILATO I SPILATO other's arms and tittered as they went by. The leisurely movement of the promenaders, the whispering of the palm fronds, suggested another world and another time. The two professors came along, comfortably smoking after-dinner cigars. They were far enough away from the lights so that only a few boys remarked their passing, amused by their odd clothes and Alpine sticks. We saw a few of the ship's passengers, among them a Foreign Minister and his wife. They were friends with whom I had dined recently in Trieste. The Minister had taken us to an old Italian restaurant -a place I shall long remember for their delightful company and for the bouillabaisse and the Lachrymae Christi; so I rose to greet them. Turning to introduce my fair companion, it flashed over me that I remembered only her first name - Daria. That would never do! I suppose I should have been embarrassed. But some guardian angel seems always to hover over me in emergencies, and I glibly introduced her as "Madame Waldteufel." It seemed to become her —it had an Austrian sound - and somehow, I associated the charming Viennese with a waltz - a waltz in the small hours of morning. My anxiety rose -and doubtless my temperature - when the ladies spoke of mutual acquaintances. They mentioned friends in the diplomatic world. They talked of changes in the different posts and of social gossip from the capitals What a brilliant affair, - the last Embassy Ball at Vienna! The scandal at Buda-Pesth, - the Polish Countess and the 17 BALKAN SKETCHES new Italian Secretary! And of changes in Paris, -who was to be the next Minister from - and so on. While the Minister was telling me of an island I should visit before leaving - Trau, as I remember it - I was listening, but secretly admiring the serene grace with which Daria had risen to the occasion. I was wondering how long it could last; how long could feminine curiosity be held at arm's length? At this point a young man arrived, with apologies, and in a profound manner handed a message to the Minister. The Minister, after introducing the young man as his secretary, glanced at the note, and with Madame rose to leave, with a pleasant expression of hopes for another meeting soon. After they had gone I apologized to Daria for any embarrassment that my impromptu introduction might have caused. Her smiling assurance that she had been "brought up among diplomats since childhood" was but a modest admission from one so gracefully endowed. Her father, it seemed, had been in the Austrian service during the reign of Franz Joseph, then at the Court of the Czar in St. Petersburg. Daria had been born there. Following her father's career in his appointments to different posts, she had lived in various capitals of Europe: Vienna, Belgrade, BudaPesth, Rome, Madrid, Paris. Her wanderings had given her, with this charmingly continental savoir-faire, a polyglot facility, including the Slavo-Croatian speech of Dalmatia; a 18 SPILATO Slavonic tongue the strangeness of which had invoked my profound respect. While we were speaking of these things, a faint smile played in her eyes. "Yes, I know, you have difficulties not only with Croatian, but also in pronouncing my name. I hardly recognized it when you introduced me. Madame la Ministrice was curious as to my identity, and the arrival of the Minister's secretary was most convenient." Meekly admitting my inability to remember foreign names, and after a few unsuccessful attempts at pronouncing her surname, I feigned a thorough dismay. I regretted that with my poor pronunciation its musical quality suffered in comparison with that of her first name - "a pretty name, Daria." This sally had the hoped-for effect, and I was permitted to call her "Daria", promising to honor the privilege by being more discreet in my introductions thereafter. Daria possessed a naive sophistication that was fascinating, a will-o'-the-wisp sort of understanding that penetrated like a flash to the heart of things, then vanished in the faintest suggestion of a smile. This fascinating quality, as I was to learn later, came from her careful bringing-up in a convent, where with feminine ingenuity - and a convent maiden's curiosity - many extra "study hours" had been devised for the perusal of the erotic classics. Like most con. tinentals of her class, she could speak freely of these with an 19 BALKAN SKETCHES entirely natural appreciation of their beauty, - "Le Chapitre Treize", "Apuleuis", "Contes Drolatiques", "Les Chansons de Bilitis", "Aphrodite", and many of the choicest "Memoirs." The mention of "Aphrodite" brought us to speak of its rarely gifted author. Pierre Louys had died just before I left Paris, and we had learned little of his life until we read his obituary. Daria was not surprised when I told her that Pierre Louys had written "Aphrodite" when he was still a boy in his early twenties. "Sometime before I leave this land of other gods, I hope to find an altar where I may pay tribute to the memory of Pierre Louys and Aphrodite." I confessed that for me it was he who first brought Aphrodite to life, -a mythological figure made to breathe by the magic of a youth. We wondered if the gray beards of Science had produced anything that tells us so well, or half so beautifully, of the life of the ancients. "Why," mused Daria, "is it not simpler to have such books when we are young? Everything is relative, after all. It seems so silly to mock life with masks." And we fell to playing with the idea that culture had made but few strides. Our hectic world strove in vain for monuments of beauty more worthy than those of the ancients. Was it then for us to belittle these elder gods? We glanced up at the colonnaded fagade of Diocletian's palace, majestic in its great Doric simplicity, serenely remote and seemingly unaware of the fungus growth of little stalls 20 SPILATO and shops huddled against its wall, - walls built sixteen hundred years ago. We spoke of the Dalmatian sculptor, Mestrovic, whose archaic strength would live through the years. He, like Bourdelle and that other Frenchman, Maillol-whose women were like the Greeks, but more seductive - idealized women of the vineyards, alive with living. Sculpture that lives must have something of the classic severity of architecture about it. This quality we do not always find in Rodin, - and yet, in another way, Rodin's work is more wonderful. His was the power of handling solid stone as though it had plastic flexibility. That a Dalmatian sculptor should produce work of archaic beauty was but the inevitable. From these mountains of the Dalmatian coast ancient sculptors had quarried their stone centuries ago. It is by our sculpture that the art of this generation must live; for, we agreed, from the work of the painters shown in the recent salons, it is clear that painting has become anaemic from excesses. We talked of Paris and of the new opera, "Esther." Daria's criticism of this was that of an artist. It was not feminine. She had not remembered who had sung the title role. The names of the cast had little interest for her, - nor had she even a criticism of the mise en scene. Her criticism was of the opera itself, of the score, and it seemed to me a pleasantly accurate estimate rather than an opinion borrowed from the critics. She thought "Esther" might well 21 BALKAN SKETCHES have been a French opera of Wagner's time, as if Meyerbeer had tried to be Wagnerian without using Wagner's motifs of the elements, - like a thunderstorm without the thunder. As we chatted more about music, I could not resist thinking how pleasant it would have been to have known Daria in Vienna. We spoke of the Volksgarten and Spring evenings under the lindens, and I fancied being there with her, the strain of some old Viennese waltz floating in through the linden-perfumed twilight. Many other things we discussed, until only a few silent pairs loitered along the sea wall. A great moon rose from the shimmering depths and cast its spell. Silence fell between us. We gazed out into the moonlight, out beyond the isle of Brazza. As I felt the enchanting Daria's arm close to mine, I thought of the Hindoo poet, Kolidos' dream of loveliness, in which the sea and the moon and a seductive maiden mingle their elusive charms - the moon's luster, the sea's caresses, and the maiden's grace - all elements of immortal Beauty. "On such a night as this When the sweet wind did gently kiss The trees - and they did make no noise By the perfect harmony of sequences with which Nature arranges all things, morning came with a caressing sunbeam softly stealing in through the persienne as if to wake oneoh, so gently; a seemingly trivial detail in itself, but certain 22 SPILATO occasions refresh themselves, re-presenting things which appealed only to the senses without so much as rousing even a passing thought at the time. I remember waking this morning in Spilato, feeling the balmy warmth of this ray of sun gold as it lingered there beside me, almost smilingly apologetic for rousing one from a repose of such blissful dreams. Still drowsing, I became aware of a delicately fragrant perfume in the room and wondered if it could be from flowering vines growing about my window. Ruminating on the sheer joy of being alive, I thought -what a lovely world. 19. / 1r.a - '%.!,. _. _B~ a. II '-.1 '. | E - M-E -. An'~ ";?^ _I i ----— 1a-J 23 Ir I --- -C, f 4AI - = — ___ III AT TRAU the suggestion of the Minister the previous evening, we had gone to Trau. The old cathedral, one of the finest in Dalmatia, was really worthy of more attention than Daria and I were inclined to give it. This clear autumn morning the island of Trau, as it lay smiling on the sea, was far more inviting than a dim interior. A fisherman climbed ashore and stretched himself in the morning sunlight. He had the air of one to whom time meant nothing. Farther along stood a few peasant women, fresh as the morning, in stiff homespun and kerchief headgear of gay colors. Beside great baskets heavy with dairy produce and fruit, they waited for the little steamer to take them across to Spilato. Two urchins astride a shaggy pony 24 AT TRAU crossed a bridge - an old turn-bridge connecting Trau with its sister island, Bua. The elder, a boy of about ten, beat the pony with an empty basket, and uttered a volume of raucous sounds that made us marvel where they came from. A few sheep passed, bleating, followed by some black and white goats; then a boy in a sheepskin coat, pulling an obstinate calf at the end of a rope. They all followed the same road around the end of the island and inland toward mountain pastures. Daria remembered that these were the pastures that had caused the professors to speculate, as we studied the island from the steamer. Heedless of all, the fisherman stood gazing seaward, squinting in the far-off way of mariners in sunny climes. We followed his gaze, out beyond the ruined castle at the water's edge, out across a sea shimmering with sequins of sunlight. There, between mountainous islands, hazy and faint like phantoms, we saw a speck of a sail, at first so far away it appeared to stand still. As we, like the fisherman, watched its approach, the single boatman glided slowly in, and dropping his sail, sculled leisurely along the shore. No sign of recognition was exchanged between the fishermen. Both appeared preoccupied. Farther along, near the peasant women, the newcomer made fast to the quay. The women moved nearer, looking into his boat. Immediately their kerchiefed heads started bobbing with admiration and approval. They asked many questions. The fisherman answered with a gesture of pride, holding up a magnificent red 25 BALKAN SKETCHES fish, glistening and golden, like a red flame in the morning sunlight. The first fisherman had observed all this from a distance. Without once taking his gaze from the group, he fumbled absentmindedly in the folds of his bulging sash. Producing tobacco and paper, he rolled a cigarette, licked it deliberately, and fingering again in his sash, brought forth a crude lighting arrangement of flint and steel. Still observing the others, he made several futile efforts to strike fire before his cigarette glowed. Then strolling slowly over - concealing his interest with an air of curiosity - he stood looking down at the other's fish. "What's the matter with that red herring?" The owner of the fish, now at work cleaning his boat, ignored the question. "What makes him so skinny?" Silence prevailed. Even the women who, a moment before, had been enthusiastic in their admiration, assumed a sort of ethical neutrality. "It's too bad red ones don't taste better than any other." These derogatory remarks continued until a toot from the little Spilato steamer warned passengers that it was time to go aboard. With the few first-class passengers we made our way to the upper deck. Going forward and looking down on the lower deck, among the boxes and baskets of fruit and fish we espied the fishermen. The great red fish became the object 26 AT TRAU of much wonder. Lying there, on top of a basket of sardines, it looked more tempting than ever, blazing in contrast against its silvery background. The disparaging fisherman, picking up the fish from time to time, balanced it in his hands only to put it down with some slighting gesture. The owner replied with a shrug of indifference, puffed at a longstemmed pipe and looked off across the water. Daria smiled and observed, "He understands only too well the truth of the traders' proverb of the East, 'He who depreciates comes to buy'." There was still time enough, and the man gazed idly along the coast, seemingly as remote and serene as the great wall of mountains uplifted against the depths of a cobalt sky. 27 BALKAN SKETCHES We steamed past a tree-fringed point of rock and, on the other side, the harbor light at the end of a long jetty. A small lugger crossed our bow with reef points slapping on a taut sail. Bracing himself against the tiller, a barefoot swarthy skipper looked back with a gleam of white teeth as he put his larboard scuppers awash. Beyond the sail-flecked animation of harbor life lay Spilato, spreading along the quay - the old port with ancient spires and campanili, sunning itself against its mountain background. Approaching the mole our boat slows down. For the first time the fishermen are talking together. Each in his turn balances the fish in his hands and estimates its weight. Freely criticizing each other's ability in this direction, they go on to the more important subject of the fish's value in dinars. "One hundred dinars would be cheap for that fine fish. From you I'll ask only fifty." "Fifty dinars for that miserable tinker? You know it's not worth fifteen, but I'll give you twenty-five." Taking the fish and dropping it into his own basket, he proceeds to count out the money. The owner reaches for his fish, calling upon all the powers above to protect him from robbery. But after a few more dinars are added to the others, the trade is concluded, and the seller, picking up a handful of sardines, drops them into the other's basket for good measure. The buyer, in turn, reaches beneath the 28 AT TRAU cover of one of his baskets, bringing forth a small mackerel - his token of continued amity. Before picking up their baskets to go ashore, one lights a cigarette, the other his long-stemmed pipe. Each goes his way along the quay, perfectly satisfied that he has the better of the bargain. An inquisitive graybeard in a braided coat with silver buttons stops to ask if the fish is fresh. "Fresh? He could not be fresher! Got him here in the harbor just now!" IFF _ 29 AA IV AN EMPEROR'S PALACE A N old woman sits among the ruins, tending her goats. Scrawny beasts, craning their necks to reach tufts of weed which grow from crumbling walls. This, centuries ago, was the pleasance of an Emperor. Here fountains played and hanging gardens cast their shadows over pillars of porphyry and pale marble. Exotic flowers of the East turned their faces to the sun, and drowsily closed with the dew of evening, leaving their balmy perfume lingering in the dusky silence. Here fell the idle play of a fountain, like sleep, all through the night- fell to the 30 AN EMPEROR'S PALACE lulling of night winds - or the song of some soft-voiced courtesan... All this seems now quite far away and slightly fanciful; but impressions of places take on something of the personality of one's company. Daria at times could be as delightfully eloquent in her silence as she could be amusing at other times by the piquant expression of her ultra-violet feminine insight. I must confess that ruins often bore me, but these dead stones of other centuries had come to life with something like a flush of romance. We had strolled through the fruit market, with sunlight and shadow playing over baskets of oranges, the reds and greens of tomatoes and peppers, and the colored headgear of the peasants - peasants who seemed of a time dating back to the ancient Venetian tower that rose above the market place. We walked through the Novi Grad with its newer buildings and stone-flagged streets. Where the old palace walls rose above the newer buildings we could trace the line separating the Novi Grad from the Stari Grad. I was thrilled to increase my Croatian vocabulary by discovering that stari was Serbian for "old." We had stopped beneath the trees in Spilato's public garden. To sit there was a relief from the heat, and it was a pleasant place from which to watch the peasants passing to and from the market. Other peasants wended their way through one of the crumbling gates - the Porto Aureaand disappeared in the maze of narrow streets. Just before 31 BALKAN SKETCHES we entered the garden we had paused to look at a corer of the ruins between the outer walls and the backs of some old dwellings - dwellings that had been built into the original Roman wall, rising some four or five stories and pierced with windows here and there. There were windows of odd shapes and varying sizes, - some barred with iron grilles, some shuttered, others opened and hung with drying clothes. In the area behind these houses we had stopped to gaze where the old woman tended her goats. This was Diocletian's garden! There in the shade, Daria remarked the peculiarities of these passing peasants while I made hasty sketches. A black-eyed gypsy girl with easy, panther-like grace carried a basket of fruit above her yellow-kerchiefed head. She moved silently, save for the tinkling music of her silver earrings and bracelets. Then came three old women, one following the other, bent nearly double beneath great bundles of gnarled roots. Daria gave each one a small coin, for which we received untold blessings. Along came an urchin in baggy trousers, trying with one hand to wind his scarf about his waist to keep his trousers from slipping down, while pulling a sleepy pack-pony along with the other. - Once or twice his efforts verged imminently upon failure. The hokey-pokey boy stopped with his red-wheeled handcart of blue and white, carrying ice cream under two brightly polished covers. Two peasants in rough homespun and small flattened-out red pill-box caps sampled his confection 32 ~^ 1.10 M- 4p ~ d~,P4~'~L I ZI, PORTO AUREA, DIOCLETIAN S PALACE I AN EMPEROR'S PALACE and bought cones - or the Dalmatian equivalent - a layer of ice cream, sandwich-like, between two gaufrettes. Then, who should pass but the professors, their heads buried in guidebooks so intently that they nearly collided with the peasants, and only by extreme dexterity was the ice cream held out of danger's reach. The professors looked ridiculously small beside the big peasants enjoying their cool refreshments. With perfunctory apologies, and bending over their guidebooks again, they passed on, leaving the natives gazing after them in open-mouthed amazement. This market place was a sun-parched stretch of treadworn earth where vendors of dry goods, shoes and trinkets displayed their gaudy wares on rickety tables beneath tattered awnings. There were stalls of meat and others of fish. Daria was attracted by the peasant bags and aprons, finely woven in native designs of bright colors. Most of the women shoppers carried these betasseled bags bulging with their purchases. On the fringe of the market place stood great bales and stacks of hay- the hay market - where peasants tugged at heavy loads, - women, in trousers, working like men. One old woman followed a pack-pony carrying a load all over the market, haggling, even tasting the hay, trying to get the owner to reduce his price. The last we saw of them, she was leading the way up a narrow street, the vendor following with his pony. The bargain had been closed. By midday, the traders' women were hard at work, sweat35 BALKAN SKETCHES ing and pulling beneath the sweltering rays of the sun, as they packed up their wares, while the men took a tolerant but inactive interest from the comfortable shade of the cafes. Their work finished, the women joined the men, some unwrapping lunches they had brought in from the country, and ordering pivo, a native beer much like stout. Others had the caf6 fare, - a sort of meat stew, with plenty of bread and cheese, and followed by Turkish coffee. Long pipes were brought out, -the stems often ornamented with colored beads. We passed within the walls of the Stari Grad, taking shelter in the shade of its narrow streets between high-walled buildings. And here we were certain that stari meant old, for everything within the palace walls had all the earmarks of being exceedingly stari. We walked between old stone houses in streets so narrow that the sun never reached the worn flags. There were booths and shops of tradesmen of all kinds: tinkers were hammering out copper - deep, bulging pots and flaring pans - quaint forms that had been used for centuries. Tanners were busied with strips of thick gray leather the size of a broad barrel stave, calculated to make a pair of shoes, though many of the peasants still make their own - a sort of turned-up sandal laced across the top with thongs. Tailors were at work, sitting cross-legged beneath dim lamps, most of the shops being dusky from lack of daylight. There were cafes, bakers and grocers, many of them with hanging signs bearing some symbol of their trade: a 36 AN EMPEROR'S PALACE great shoe, a barber's basin, or the rectangular tobacconist's emblem of the government seal. We stepped out of a stream of pedestrians to look down a shaded passage where another thoroughfare crossed. There, in a splash of sunlight, we saw colored headgear, shawls, and the little red Dalmatian caps of the men. They wore tunics thrown over one shoulder, an old custom that lent considerable "swank" to the Imperial Guard under the last empire - doubtless a survival of that epoch. Daria and I moved on through other streets and came to a small piazza where an octagon church presented its portico, almost hidden by the surrounding buildings; and peasants, 37 BALKAN SKETCHES stopping to make the sign of the cross, passed within its door. We followed, finding the cool interior in an almost total darkness, so sudden was the change from the sunlit piazza. At first only a few flickering candles could be seen; - the altars were lost in obscurity. We passed close to an old woman kneeling in prayer, with a market basket at her side. There was a gallery supported by columns of porphyry and red granite, and adorned with a frieze of hunting scenes and other subjects still less holy. As we became accustomed to the dimness, we perceived, dominating the peristyle, a sphinx of black granite, silent and enigmatic, as if cherishing some lingering mystery of the East whence it had come. On closer examination hieroglyphics were seen to be faintly traced upon the breast; and we wondered if any knew their meaning. We moved about in the shadows, and found remnants of ancient mosaics, long dimmed by time, and altars with faded flowers and well-nigh forgotten offerings. But always Daria went back to the black sphinx. It fascinated her. I would turn to whisper- for the stillness and the shadows seemed to compel silence - and see Daria standing before the sphinx. Was she enthralled by its archaic beauty? Was she wondering how it could have found its way here from the Nile Valley, to rest with its everlasting secret in the temple of an alien faith? A faint ray of light stealing into this dim interior from somewhere above shone upon my companion. It revealed a contrast of exquisite delicacy; a cameo-like quality of 38 -;-' \ A L1 — K j V. -...111-t GOSPODSKI TRG, SPILATO I I AN EMPEROR'S PALACE profile, and one wayward wisp of Titian hair, like a tongue of fire, was caught by the light of the sunbeam. Before the black granite sphinx Daria mused in silence, held by its cold mystery of centuries, she herself unconsciously aflame with a far deeper mystery - the ardor of youth. An old man who seemed to be a caretaker waited near the door. Dropping a few coins into the charity box, we stopped to ask him about the black sphinx. He looked at us for a few seconds with twinkling eyes beneath his shaggy brows; appearing to enjoy our curiosity. "I can tell you only what men know - wise men who have spent their lives in travel and in books. But I think there is more to know. Madame, I am just an old man, one who has never left this shore." He spoke French quite freely, but with a Slavic accent, and told us stories of the black sphinx as he had heard them from others who had tried to decipher the hieroglyphics. "A student of ancient things came here once and found the strange markings, - found it must have been made to guard some Pharaoh's tomb long before Christ. That it was brought to Diocletian from far shores is not surprising, for you know this same building, these octagonal walls, Diocletian built for his own mausoleum. This was the temple of Jupiter. And this palace, remember, he built here on a shore where his father had been a slave." Stopping to light his pipe, the caretaker continued: "And returning to his native land, with the power of wealth, he 41 BALKAN SKETCHES did as many men in a lesser way have often done since his time - sent to remote corners of the earth for treasures to adorn some dream of his youth. There were thousands of men here working like ants to fulfill that dream, and ships coming in from distant ports laden with costly cargoes. This black sphinx doubtless made some strange appeal to the Emperor's pagan instincts." Fumbling in his pocket, the old man drew forth a tattered book containing numerous notations. They were, he explained, translations, clippings and quotations from books referring to the early history of the palace. He knew them all by heart, but thumbed the pages to show data and authority for his fund of information. While Daria wandered inside to look at the black sphinx again, I sat in the shade of the portico, listening to the old fellow's stories. Here, where long-forgotten sacrifices had been made with strange ceremonies before pagan altars, I heard of a people who changed their faith. From this precious notebook I could see that the nine years Diocletian lived to enjoy the splendor of his palace were the years that saw the Emperor Constantine's conversion to Christianity. Diocletian, weary from the trials of an empire, had returned to his native shore to pass his later years free from trouble and strife. But the doom of Fate is unrelenting. Here he found the most deadly of all hates - a people fighting among themselves over different gods. Here he 42 AN EMPEROR'S PALACE found riots and bloodshed, as, close by, the silent stones of Salona tell only too well. Here he saw his gods betrayed. The despised followers of the Nazarene were undermining his faith -not his own faith, but that of his countrymen. Was it surprising that he had chosen to build his palace apart by the sea, in what, then, must have been isolation? Like an echo of the old Emperor's revolt come Wordsworth's lines:.. Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. Within the palace Diocletian built temples to his old gods -to Jupiter and Aesculapius. And here, where we were sitting, on the steps of this pagan mausoleum, the followers of a later faith now come to worship. This is now the Cathedral of Spilato. Diocletian lived and died true to his gods. Is it strange, then, that the sphinx still guards the Emperor's tombaloof, indifferent, undaunted by the changes of time? Here, in the dim light of this old temple, oblivious to the ebb and flow of worshipers of another faith, this pagan symbol bears a faint but eternal smile - serene with the memory of ancient gods. Here at the altar of a later faith, Christian offerings 43 BALKAN SKETCHES have already faded and turned to dust. Here flames have flickered their short lives away in the darkness. Burning incense has spent itself, its perfumed spell lingering only to vanish like vapor in the temple shadows, and to mingle there with the ghosts of long-forgotten incense burned to other gods in ages gone. It may be that this black sphinx still finds shelter here because of superstition. Here in a country of many peasants, where Mahomet is still a power, pagan beliefs have left indelible impressions. Among the present worshipers, Christianity is often a strange mixture of faith and superstition. That such relics are now treasured is a tribute to the present belief. Here, where the early Christians' hatred for things of pagan beauty had destroyed so much, these old fanaticisms have now become a thing of the past. And just back in the hills lies the sleeping city, Salona the city where many Christians lived in Diocletian's time. Now there is no life but the passing shepherds, going with their flocks to the hills beyond - the hills of the Seven Castles. There is ruin here now, where at night the jackal prowls. Years ago in the moonlight stillness a fountain dripped with the sapphire light of jewels. Here along its marble rim the lizard paused in shadow play, blinking to the song of a nightingale and stealing away with the light of morn. My thoughts had wandered far afield, and Daria had rejoined me as the old caretaker talked. He enjoyed having 44 AN EMPEROR'S PALACE an audience and told us of the temple to Aesculapius across the piazza. But we were no longer in the mood for mythology or history. Interesting as these old stones were, we were again attracted by the sunlight of Spilato, and the inviting spread of a caf6 terrace in the Gospodski Trg beckoned us. Here we lunched, leisurely sipping our wine of Brazza. And after coffee, Daria, gazing dreamily at a feather of smoke rising from her cigarette, explained her extreme interest in the black sphinx. "It was one of those haunting things. Somewhere in my memory there was such a sphinx. Do you know that aquatint by Felicien Rops, 'The Sphinx'?" 45 I it r i a -iwhr — I r~,i.....:.. W l: I Iw I i V ALONG THE COAST ROM Spilato my first urge had been to go south, but while sitting one evening at a cafe along the Riva, looking out across the sea, I recalled places to the north that were rich with legends. There was Zara; famous for its maraschino, and a market place where the peasant women were dark and high cheek-boned like Indians, and sat selling great baskets of eggs. There, also, were Roman ruins, survivals of a time when the port was known as Jadera. There were stones of an old temple that had been erected centuries ago by the good people of the city, as a tribute of gratitude to the Emperor Augustus. It was dedicated to his wife, Liva, and called - the Temple of Juno 46 ALONG THE COAST Augustus. The temple had been ruined many years ago, probably during the terrifying raids of the Avars who destroyed Salona; or perhaps later, for after the destruction of Salona, Jadera was made the capital of Dalmatia. Other later relics tell of battles between French Crusaders and the Hungarians. Then the Venetians came and established a prosperous port. Its battle-scarred walls still show marks which recall the days when Turkish pirates besieged the town, barbarians, undoubtedly in vari-colored turbans, who clamored over parapets with flashing cutlasses and knives in their teeth. That the dauntless Morgan prowled the Adriatic in later years there is little doubt. Caves said to be Morgan's retreats are still to be seen along wild and isolated stretches of this rocky coast. Just off Zara lies the isle of Ugljano, crested by old fortifications, somber and defiant as if awaiting the return of these long-vanquished buccaneers. While we gazed seaward from the Spilato cafe, reminiscing on these old ports, the lingering rays of a summer afterglow settled over the sea. Like perfumes that bring back memories, the waning of this balmy evening glow out across the Adriatic recalled impressions of places passed during the voyage down the coast. I remembered Zemonico, also fortified. Some distance inland was a place known as Grobnia, an old Tartar battlefield, now a stretch of rocky desolation. We came to Novigorod (New Town), hundreds of years old. Its grim castle was depressing, with a sad story of two Hun47 BALKAN SKETCHES garian queens who had been imprisoned to languish their last days there, long ago. And we passed Mare di Novigrad, where the tunny-fishers make great catches. Obidrac lies in the widening valley of the River Zermanja, and, towering up behind the town, the summits of the wild Velebit Mountains rise like painted scenes of exaggerated peaks. Just inland one sees Bekovac, and along the hill road near Podgragje you pass -a dreary place where excavations have been made. Roman cities lie here buried in almost forgotten stretches of barren waste. This, the curator of a museum informed us, was Assyria, once an important stronghold of 48 ALONG THE COAST Liburnia. On a hill near by the castle of Ostravica rises - a silhouette of ruins. A Hungarian king traded this castle years ago for another in Croatia. We sailed by the Island of Pasman. A "Home" for tourists is located there, and baths - Bagno Romano that were known to the Romans. Farther south lies the Isle of Morter, and an archipelago of small islands sifting away into the sea. Among them is a cultivated little island of vineyards and olive groves. It is called Zlarin and harbors an old settlement of coral fishermen. It is said that among the older men here are those who know the precious coral reefs so well that they go out at night to keep their choicest grounds a secret - a rare knowledge, when one hears that they lie ten miles off shore and a thousand feet below the surface of the sea. Then there is Creppano, which we were told was known to the ancients as "the Last of the Liburnians", and where sponge fishermen now live. I remember the coast became steeper there and various pretty villages were spotted against the hills. Just before stopping at Sebinico, we spied an old church on the crest of a mountain. I shall long remember this sunny rock-walled harbor of Sebinico. It was here that the Kerka came tumbling down from its mountain waterfalls near Scardona. We stopped there long enough to go inland and follow this river's foaming course through a rock-walled gorge, where the roar was almost deafening. From a narrow cleft in the rocks we 49 BALKAN SKETCHES came upon a wildly romantic valley - a green valley lush with a riotous undergrowth and flowering vines. It was a garden of such verdant beauty that one forgot the monotony of arid peaks rising skyward on all sides. There were terraces of rushing water shooting down over great black rocks, forming one cascade after another. I could still hear the echo of its thunder as it plunged down its stony course. At one place the falls rumbled between high rocky walls overhung with blossoming vines. It was evening when we were there, and an invisible mist rose from the white foam, permeating the air with an intoxicating perfume - a perfume sweet with the pollen of strange blossoms. I remember it was here that a great bird flew across the valley from one overhanging cliff to another, impressing upon me the sense of the height of these lofty peaks - or was it instead the great depth of the gorge? This perfume-laden air cast a balmy spell over the misty valley. Surely one might have heard wondrous bird songs, had it not been for the ever-roaring thunder of the falls. How was it I had not known Daria in Sebinico? It must have been that she had come aboard there, for it was not long after leaving this garden wilderness that we came to the islands of the sponge fishermen. It was there that the two professors held my attention with their likeness to comedians of opera boufle. And was it not just after I had visualized the chorus that the attractive Austrian lady had adjusted her steamer rug? And was it not Fate, whom I must consider 50 ALONG THE COAST my good genie, that caused her guidebook to slip to the steamer deck? At one turn in the rocks we came upon two chamois who stood trembling for a moment, posed on a jagged peak, and then bounded away out of sight to some eyrie known only to chamois and eagles. At one place where the river broadened, there was a small island occupied by an old monastery, - a lonely place indeed, where a few monks eked out existence. It was the Monastery of Vissovac, a poor order that has somehow survived the ages and the plundering raids of the Turks. It is said to be the smallest inhabited island in Europe. The loneliness of this little cloister seemed intensified by the vivifying murmur of the rushing waters, eddying by as they had for centuries. As we left, gliding smoothly over the blue surface of Sebinico Harbor, I looked back at its castle-crested mountain and, recalling the mysteries of the wild valley, promised 51 BALKAN SKETCHES myself to return. But the lure of the unknown seems always beckoning. Now that I had met Daria, and remembered that she had spoken of leaving for Ragusa in the morning, I decided to go south on the morning boat. The mountains and the wild river of Scardona were eternal. They would wait. 52 VI AMONG THE ISLANDS THE next morning Daria appeared in a smartly tailored traveling suit of dark blue with a small, close-fitting jade-green turban. I remember how becomingly it framed her cameo-like beauty, with only a suggestion of Titian hair to relieve the severity of the tightly bound silk, -a severity that becomes only well-cut features. I arranged for deck chairs, placed back to the sun. The professors were on board again, but that was hardly surprising, since there are but two sailings weekly from Spilato to Ragusa. They were still Tyroleans from the waist up, but white flannels were the thing for southern waters, and they had come prepared,- slightly shrunk, but still white flannels. It had been days since we had seen them, and he 53 BALKAN SKETCHES of the green collar greeted me as a long-lost brother and rejoiced to aid me with his guidebook as we moved out among the islands. Leaving Spilato Harbor, we passed close to the lighthouse at the end of the long mole. Ahead of us the lofty peaks of Brazza, blue and hazy, rose out of a glistening sea, pale silhouettes in the morning sunlight. Brazza was the home of Vugava, a sweet heady wine we had sipped in the Gospodski Trg; also in one of the Osterias along the water front, where the waiter who served it had pointed with pride toward this distant island. He explained that the wine was made there, in Brazza, where he had been born. He had told us that if we looked in passing the island, we could see his home, - a small house at the end of a long spur stretching far out into the sea; a white house near a tiny church with a tall steeple. As we rounded the point we saw a little settlement of small houses near the quaint slender-spired church. The promontory reached far out from a rocky shore,sprinkled with a scrubby growth of twisted pines, gnarly rock oaks and gray-green olive bushes. Inland the mountain slopes rose like carpets of brilliant green, and again we saw shepherds with their flocks. While we were passing the island, the professors stood near by; one held a map, but he of the green collar was faithful to his guidebook. He buried his head in its pages, reading aloud that it was "the largest and most populated of the Dalmatian islands"; that it was "forty kilometres 54 AMONG THE ISLANDS long -a mountainous island with peaks rising to the height of" - so on and on - missing the most beautiful part of the scene and adjusting his bifocals to look only after it had been lost to view. w - We came to another island, Lesina, a fertile spot of such beauty that it is called the "Madeira of the Adriatic." While the professors occupied themselves with statistics and dimensions, I told Daria the story of Demetrios, a pirate, who lived here when Teuta, the pirate queen, ruled over all Illyria. It was a tale I had found in an old French volume we had picked up while browsing about Spilato, - the story of a pirate lover who betrayed his queen for an island. This island of Lesina, then known as Pharia, had been the rendezvous of pirates during the reign of Queen Teuta. From here they set out on their plundering exploits, ravaging 55 BALKAN SKETCHES Roman settlements across the sea, and Teuta as a token had given this fertile island to Demetrios for his own. Then there came a time when Roman galleys, heavily manned and a hundred strong, came to Lesina. Demetrios was threatened by these overwhelming victors, became their confederate, and, assured of their protection of his island, led them against his queen. He who had been her counsellor knew the coast as none but a wily pirate could know it. Disguised as a Roman, he led the besieging galleys against Teuta's kingdom. The coast was overrun by the victorious Romans, and Teuta with her followers was driven back, taking refuge in remote mountain fastnesses. We saw those peaks towering to inaccessible heights above the coast, as forbidding as they must have looked to these Roman invaders centuries ago. And Demetrios was not only assured of retaining his island, - he was also given a strip of the mainland. But the "Good Queen" Teuta was still to be reckoned with, and bided her time until the Roman galleys sought conquests along other shores. Then, with her loyal vassals, she descended upon Demetrios' camp, and drove him from Dalmatia forever, to a wild retreat in the black mountains of Montenegro, from which he never dared return. In those far days of plunder and strife, Teuta, during her adventurous reign, accumulated a wealth of booty. Wearied by years of this hazardous life and harried by the invading Romans, the crafty queen divided her spoils with a few of her faithful chiefs, and taking an ample portion for herself, 56 AMON.G THE ISLANDS retreated to her birthplace, Risano. To this day, when steamers glide noiselessly over the glassy blue waters in the Bocca di Cattaro, Risano -a little village in a landlocked bay - is pointed out as the home of Teuta, the pirate queen. The silent bay, dark from the shadows of overhanging mountains, is known as "Pirates' Cove." It is so surrounded by lofty mountains that the sun seldom reaches its shores. In daytime the deep stillness makes it seem strangely remote, like some dim place of another world where there is no sunlight, no day. After night comes a twilight as of a long evening; then night again, - but rarely the clear light of day. But in following the story of Teuta, our thoughts had been diverted from the voyage. Demetrios' island was already astern and gradually diminishing. We passed Lissa, an island known for its wines and honey. The people, mostly sardine fishermen, find time to make olive oil as well as a well-known wine. But strangely enough, a product of greater renown is made from Lissa's wild chrysanthemums, -the efficacious Dalmatian insect powder! Ruined fortresses crown its hills. There is a convent on the island of Lissa, built on the remains of a Roman arena, and a ruined pile - the "Wellington Tower" - recalling a victory of the British fleet over the French in 1811. We pass a bay of rocky islands where there are caves and grottoes of stalactites and stalagmites, made weird by a strange 57 BALKAN SKETCHES blue light, as these lime deposits hold the sky's reflection from the water. Then we come to the jackals' island, Curzola, said to be one of the few places in Dalmatia where this animal still lives. We stop at the port long enough to make two sketches of some old Venetian ruins., O IV At Curzola, an Englishman came aboard. Until then I had been the only Anglo-Saxon passenger. I noticed the newcomer, not so much because he was English, but because I had seen him before somewhere. He was trim, well-set-up, youngish. I say "youngish"; he might have been anywhere between thirty and forty. There was something familiar about his lean figure and the swagger set of his loose tweeds. A coat of tan emphasized the clear blue of his eyes. Had he not had a familiar appearance, I should have looked the second time, for he was trying - not only trying, but suc58 AMONG THE ISLANDS ceeding - in lighting his pipe in the wind with a Dunhill lighter. I was searching my memory to place him, when we recognized each other in an exchange of glances. Once I heard his voice - one of the most delightful Haileybury accents off the stage - I recalled him perfectly. A picture flashed through my mind of a long, awning-shaded room in the old Queen's Park Hotel in Trinidad, ten years before. He was Lorrington, a young Englishman, one of a group with whom I had spent many pleasant hours. He was good at tennis, I remembered, but his hobby was fishing. We used to meet just before dinner, and leaning comfortably against the well-polished piece of mahogany that ran the length of this cool hotel room, I listened to many of Lorrington's exploits with rod and reel. At that time he had talked of settling down on a cocoanut plantation near Sangre Grande, a remote spot from which he used to go fishing in the Caribbean. But now we talked of the pleasant room at the old Queen's Park and lovingly of that beautiful piece of mahogany furniture - a piece already obsolete in the States. I can still see it - the soft green light filtering in from the awning-shaded terrace, and reflecting high lights like brilliant emeralds from the ingeniously arranged pyramids of glasses rising behind it. We spoke of that pleasant West Indian beverage made from sugar cane and freshly cut limes, and of George of the immaculate white coat, whose beaming features seemed to 59 BALKAN SKETCHES radiate the glory he had won mixing these deliciously refreshing concoctions known as "swizzles." In particular, there was an egg swizzle, rich and creamy, with all the seductive flavor of the Indies! George's swizzle was to the Indies what the pale amber nectar must have been to the ancients of these Adriatic shores. But all this was long ago, and Lorrington's hobby, fishing, had since taken him over the Seven Seas. From the Caribbean he had come by devious journeys around the world to fish in the Adriatic. Here Daria, who had listened with interest to our reminiscences, reminded us that lunch had been announced. We arranged with the steward for one of the smaller tables, so that Lorrington might tell us of his angling adventures, as we drank the famous wine of Brazza. Lunch finished with a delicious white cheese served with honey we had seen brought aboard at Lissa. Daria remarked on the delicate flavor of the honey. The steward told us it came from the wild flowers of the island. Then Lorrington and I spoke of our favorite honey of the Indies, where, as in California, orange blossoms furnish the bees with their nectar. I say our favorite honey, - recalling the unusual flavors I had tasted in the mountains of Porto Rico. I remember asking the Carib Indian boy if he had not spilled coffee in the honey. He grinned and in his slow West Indian drawl explained: "No, master, the bees, sir," and pointing below, toward 60 AMONG THE ISLANDS the coffee plantations, "they put it in, sir, from the coffee flower." At breakfast the next morning the Indian boy had served a much darker honey. "This has no coffee taste, sir," - but after trying it, I wished it had. It was flavored from the tobacco flower. But Daria knew best the sweet clover honey of the Alps. Lorrington remembered a day we had gone fishing together off Tobago, in a Cha-Cha boat with native fishermen. It amused Daria when he told of the grinning black boys who, for a sixpence, dove into water alive with sharks to see them scatter like so many minnows, for it is said in the Indies that sharks never touch black men. We caught some flying fish that day, and Lorrington recalled the potpie we made of them over a fire on the shore at night. Since then he had caught flying fish in the China Sea. He had become not only a circumnavigator but a world fisherman. Touching lightly on this place and that, he told of fly-casting for pike in the warm back waters of the Marne, and for salmon in the cold rapids of the Cascopedia. He knew Douarnenez, where they fish with blue nets for sardines. He described fishing in Japan, by torchlight, with leashed cormorants that dove for their catch. These birds have a sac below their beaks, and bring the fish to the surface, unswallowed because of rings that encircle their necks. The fishermen empty the captured fish from the birds' beaks into baskets. Lorrington told of a fish in India - a fish that could live 61 BALKAN SKETCHES on dry land and climb trees. While he talked of this amphibious fish, Daria stole a sly glance at me. It must have occurred to her, too, that Marco Polo had sailed the Adriatic, returning from the East with strange tales. But Marco Polo, having held an enviable reputation among famous liars for some six hundred years, has been robbed of much of his glory by moder scientific research. Some of his strangest stories have since been proven mere truthful records. He could never be classed with Herodotus. He was a traveler worthy of Lorrington's emulation - one who had sailed the Adriatic in the fifth century B. C. -a traveler whom the indolently skeptical Greeks described as one of the world's greatest liars, who bore these two remarkable distinctions -"Father of History" and "Prince of Liars." What a gloriously combined renown to have survived the ages! Should not this convince the most unsophisticated picayune quibbler about "truth" that to blink at the eternal halo of a really beautiful liar is nothing short of folly? Is it surprising that I thought of Lorrington as a latter-day aspirant for similar honors, as we listened to his story of the tree-climbing fish? Could it be that the Adriatic cast a spell, firing the imagination of travelers? A contemporary of Marco Polo is said to have written to him: "My friend, I note from your book that obviously not only can you not distinguish the False from the True, but you have a distinct bias toward the former." It is, of course, quite easy to recognize the great and differ62 AMONG THE ISLANDS entiating gap between "lies and damned lies." We have no patience with tellers of "damned lies" - lies told for gain - our admiration is only for that gifted favorite of the gods who lies beautifully for the sheer joy of it. After all, this is really a creative art, as worthy as any to color a humdrum world. _-.r __ a 2_ - ~ - ' And as we chatted on to the conclusion that it was hardly more likely that all travelers were liars than that all fishermen were liars, it seemed not at all improbable that the intrepid Lorrington - a fisherman-traveler and still a young man - could in time achieve a prominence worthy of a niche in the Hall of Fame. Although I am still very fond of him, I must admit that our angler fell off terribly in my estimation, when I looked up tree-climbing fish, the anabas, in an encyclopedia, and found that Lorrington could not be classed as a creative genius at all. There really is such a fish! 63 BALKAN SKETCHES The Adriatic could boast of her varieties of fish by the hundreds, from anchovies and sardines to dolphins and whales. Lorrington had come here to fish for the great sea perch, the orada, and the giant turtle. Ever since his youth at Oxford, when he had spent his holidays angling for the silvery perch in the quiet reaches of the Thames, he had longed to angle for the great sea perch of the Adriatic. He had read, in one of his early Greek books, Aristotle's praise of this fish (perca labrax), - perch measuring two to three feet in length. Then, too, the orada, a flame-colored fish with golden iridescent brilliancy, had been described by the epicurean Romans. They had kept them alive in bowls in the midst of hollowed-out banquet tables, that guests might feast their eyes before tasting their savory flavor. The giant sea turtles, he told us, weighed four to five hundred pounds and were more difficult to find. They were seen sometimes in the island grottoes, like those we had seen in the bay of Lissa, and again sleeping on the water, appearing like rocks rising above the surface. We had come on deck to find the sun already setting, and adjusted our chairs with backs to the shimmering water. We chatted idly as each turn of the coast revealed distant mountain forms, their colors changing in the roseate glow. As the golden orb sank to rest beyond the rim of the sea, the jagged peaks ran the gamut of color - pale yellow, burnt orange, waning to a deep flush of rose doree - with soft shadows of purple and blue creeping slowly toward the 64 AMONG THE ISLANDS peaks. The water, lulled by a late afternoon c, showed long streaks of sapphire across the placid reflection of a roseviolet sky. It had grown dark before we landed at Gravosa. Lorrington had gone below to look after his luggage. As we moved slowly in past the Light of Lapad, Dana was as curious as I to know what this old port would reveal. The lights along the quay showed the usual scurry of stevedores and dock hands preparing for the landing. Rising above the old water-front buildings of stone were great fantastic mountains dark and mysterious against a star-strewn sky. 65 _ _ -- " ''d- - - __IbGO9 -A?-INs Ie VM~1.W_12fe VII RAGUSA W E had been told of a delightful seaside hotel at Ragusa. While our passports were being visaed, we were met by the factotum of this hotel, who proved to be the manager himself. He had driven over to meet us, the landing at Gravosa being about five kilometers from the hotel. Taking charge of our luggage in an extremely polite and altogether efficient manner, he ushered us to his waiting motor. Why this manager-chauffeur felt called upon to demonstrate his startling ability as a driver, I 66 RAGUSA shall never know. Perhaps he shuddered at the fear that a cooling dinner might jeopardize his distinguished reputation (we had been told he had served the King of Serbia). We were literally shot through the night over strangely curving roads, up hill and down dale. We passed the lights of little shops, fruit stands, cafes; women clinging to the side of the road, carrying great bundles on their heads. We raced along stretches of dark road and through Ragusa at a fiendish speed. I remember glancing out at a broad cafe terrace with many tables and chairs, which passed like a flash. Old walls and great battlemented towers rose and vanished in the darkness- dim, fantastic forms. Never since the youthful thrills of a scenic railway ride have I held my breath as I did during this wild Gravosa-Ragusa drive. From Ragusa we raced out along the San Giacomo road to the hotel. This celebrated hostelry overlooked the sea from a slope terraced with gardens. The lights were still shining out across the palm-sheltered loggia, catching here and there on gay amaranth blossoms. The crystal and napery of out-ofdoor tables welcomed us as a scene of quiet and repose after our hectic ride. From this flowered terrace I later made many sketches. It looked straight over the sea. Blossom-laden sprays trailed along the wall; crimson-purple amaranths nodded idly in the breezes, like colored flames against a lapis sea, and there were many flowers. Fantastic shadow-patterns played across the tables. The leafy canopy of an old fig-tree hover67 BALKAN SKETCHES ing above tilted seaward against the sun like a parasol of green lace. This age-old coast seemed always to breathe of eternal youth. Farther along, the rocky coast was overgrown with cactus and giant aloes. Above the hotel a road - the San Giacomo road-twisted its shelf-like way along the coast from Ragusa through Valle di Breno, the village of Drieno huddled against the Herzegovinan Mountains, and around among the hills to Ragusavecchia. In the other direction beyond the garden terrace a little bathing beach curved inward, like a half moon. A new and attractive bathing pavilion stood in brilliant contrast against the cactus-grown cliffs. Bathers clad in hardly more than a golden tan stretched themselves along the pink sands or played about in the shallow surf that washed out to pale green in its salty foam. And there, jutting out into the sea, lay Ragusa, weatherbeaten and defiant, her crumbled fortifications stretching seaward like the paws of a lion drowsing in the sun. A few lateen-sailed luggers and small tartans were moored within the sunny port. The massive bastions and battlements were sun-bleached by the centuries. Once they had struck terror to stealthy sea prowlers and hostile galleons that roamed the Adriatic. And beyond, the sea stretched away, blue with the blue of countless summers. One is taken back to the time when the doges of Venice claimed Dalmatia as their ownthe length of the coast from Croatia to the Sultanas boun68 .?\ ' Il I 1 I 1~ I * RAGUSA daries - save only Ragusa. And to-day the old port faces the sea with a seeming gesture of pride in this independence, -pluming itself that the bodyguard of the doges and the strength of their navies were Dalmatians and that from these shores had come the invincible legions of the Caesars. Ragusa, like the port of some far Eastern kingdom, is set back from the world's highway of trade. It still lingers, strangely exotic - a southern gateway to this land of long ago. The garden terraces of our hotel dropped away to different levels, terminating among the rocks at the water's edge, a bathing place where we indulged in refreshing swims, afterward basking in the sun or reclining in deck chairs beneath large, gaily striped parasols. Bathrobes of brilliant colors added to the spectrum-hued splendor of this surfsprayed terrace. Daria's aquatic facility seemed as natural as her nymphlike loveliness. She would rise out of the water like a seal and lie gleaming and relaxed - another Aphrodite. After the sun bath, following the custom of this Austrian Riviera of other days, we would make our way leisurely upward and along the balustraded promenades, to take luncheon in the leafy shade of the dining terrace, now gay with vari-colored bathrobes. Our afternoons were varied by many diverting pilgrimages. We often sauntered through the old walled town of gates and towers. They were almost Moorish in their laby71 BALKAN SKETCHES rinths of massive arches and their twisting passages of wellworn stone steps. Beneath great porticos heavy battened doors studded with iron recalled their necessity in troublous times, when water flooded the moats that now lay parched and dry. The Stradone was the Corso of Ragusa. We entered from beneath an old clock tower to pass by shops hung with Dalmatian embroideries and rugs rich with soft blues and brown-reds. Silversmiths displayed Bosnian inlays with lacy filigreed buckles and bracelets. Gypsy bandeaux of gold ducats spoke of a time when Turkish currency was the coin of the realm. By the carved portals of an old church a stately campanile reared its ochre walls against an azure sky. This classical fagade was of San Salvatore. It reminded one of Santo Zaccara in Venice. The campanile, we found, belonged to the old Franciscan Church and monastery. Passing beneath a Gothic porch we saw little shops - shoemakers', saddlers', goldsmiths', and barbers' - and just at the entrance to the cloister, with windows opening into the garden, stands an old pharmacy. It is said to be one of the oldest pharmacies in Europe. We stopped to admire the dim interior, where rows of chemists' jars lined the walls. Each jar bore its Latin inscription and was illuminated with quaint and colorful designs made by some artisan of long ago. Within the cloister a garden of palms and other exotic plants grew thickly about a crumbling fountain surmounted 72 - C t, 4m.q I1 IV~ I I.. p - CLOCK TOWER OERG TE SA ' CLOCK TOWER OVERLOOKING THE STRADONE A9 RAGUSA by a statue of San Franciscus. The reflected brilliancy of the sunlit foliage cast a peculiarly cool green luminosity into the shade of the frescoed cloisters. A monk trod the worn flags, reading silently. We ventured within. Daria was attracted by the flowers. I remember how her finger tips lingered with a caressing touch on the tendrils of a blossoming vine. The contrast of her Titian loveliness with the somber brown garb of the friar brought a strangely disturbing worldliness to this monastic retreat. This situation had been apprehended long ago, and presently the monk humbly informed me that ($T4 only men were allowed to enter this inner garden. It seemed to me that his excellent volume had, for the moment at least, lost his interest. Passing beneath another arched portal we left the old 75 BALKAN SKETCHES walled town by a bridged moat and saw just ahead of us the cafe terrace of tables and chairs we had flashed by on the night of our arrival. Here we stopped for tea, and a girl selling pastry paused to offer her tray of sweets, and ventured a few hesitating words of English. I asked her where she had learned English, and with a pretty smile she volunteered the information: "I am a leedle German girl." "But why," I asked, "should that explain your English?" And before I realized my stupidity, she informed me, with something like a blush, "Oh, many leedle German girls spik Anglisch since American soldier-boys come in Germany." Daria admired her beautiful tan and spoke of it. 76 RAGUSA "Ja, I get it when I go - sporting - no, what you call it - schwimming." But finding that Daria spoke German, she talked freely for a moment in her own language before she resumed her vending of sweets among the tables. Then Daria explained, with a suggestion of teasing, that there was a chance for some one to help this little girl, for, like many others of her type, she cherished a longing to go to America. Daria had asked her why. "Because here are too much girls and too leedle money." From the end of the cafe terrace one looked out between great rocks. They were piled high with grim fortifications, stolid and dark, like the moss-tufted foundations that rose from the swishing wash of a churning sea below. Like the larger cafes of many South European ports, music comes with evening. Unusually good were the renderings of old operas and waltzes. Familiar airs fell like echoes from Vienna, and Daria was as much at home as though she had really been the Madame Waldteufel I had introduced to the Foreign Minister and his wife at Spilato. Returning, we climbed up little streets of worn flags. It was the old part of the town, stone built upon stone. Some cul-de-sacs ended abruptly in small courtyards. Here a mother, crooning an evening lullaby, nursed a baby. There a housewife sat preparing vegetables for the evening meal. We felt that we were intruding at this quiet hour. One old lady, I thought, sensed this feeling and offered us grapes 77 BALKAN SKETCHES as we turned to go. Daria asked her the way to the ramparts. With a kindly smile she took us through a small flower garden, at the end of which was a high wall with a door leading to a stone staircase within the wall. From the top we looked down over mossy roofs to the sea, stretching away in the sheen of a setting sun. We saw Lacroma and, along the coast, the San Giacomo road bending its way along the mountain sides toward Ragusavecchia. We walked part way around the town along these ramparts, until we could descend by another stairway, which brought us out not far from the cathedral. We stepped in, and were shown, high above the flickering candles of the altar, a picture attributed to Titian. The subject was the Ascension, and in that light the picture was so beautiful that whether or not it is by the master is of no importance except to the appraiser. Another altarpiece was by Andrea del Sarto. Leaving the cathedral we descended a broad escalier to the Palazzo dei Rettori, the rector's palace, with a fine old Italian Renaissance facade by the great Florentine artist, Michelozzo Michelozzi. Along the wall, beneath a shaded arcade, we saw behind the slender columns the old palace portico, Venetian windows with pointed arches, and, beneath them, stone seats. We stopped to rest a moment and a distinguished looking old gentleman, recognizing us as foreigners, volunteered the information that here, in the shade of this arcade, Senators sat for state ceremonies and 78 / I ~-4 - _.._._.- _ _. ^.-'- -— _, -t '-T4 'f _c~ 1L Am He. f%" I; ~~r41I flJ ' &I' ~. mA I FI C.::, i II RAGUSA'S ANCIENT FORTIFICATION FROM THE STRADONE A RAGUSA great festivities of other days. It was not difficult for us to imagine these old dignitaries sitting here in state, resplendent in their silken robes encrusted with heavy gold embroidery. Our pleasant guide was evidently some official of the town, for he took us into the courtyard Renaissance columns supporting high arches - and led us by devious ways through old corridors to show us the archives of this ancient republic. He even offered to take down some of the dusty volumes, but neither Daria nor I were in a mood for lingering. I assured him that it would probably be some time before my mastery of the language in which they were written would permit me to glean much from the treasures they held. As we came into the piazza again, we were shown a figure of Roland, erected, we were told, years ago in memory of the trade privileges of the town. Just beyond the clock tower, where we had entered the Stradone, stood another Venetian palace, with a colonnaded vestibule of beautifully carved capitals. This was the Dogana - customhouse and was adorned with a statue of San Biagio, Ragusa's patron saint. As we left to return by the Porta Ploce, the old gentleman told us we would pass a Dominican monastery. We were to follow the road between great stone walls until we came to a long staircase with a carpenter's shop in the comer of the church. The carpenter was there at work, - an appropriate trade, we thought, to be so enshrined. Bells had just struck 81 BALKAN SKETCHES the hour and we were further reminded that dinner would soon be waiting for us at the hotel. We looked down upon its little garden, where lights already twinkled, and the figure of our efficient maitre d' hotel could be seen busily moving about, straightening this tablecloth and that, before his guests arrived. I., *,,,. - I L 1'' [3Q II(. 82 qua" — " i i -"- --- — ".ing the part. A French actor, because there was no mistaking his gestures. If he was polite, he was polite. It i q. click as he bent from the waist. When he was surprised, he was surprised all over. He stood up straight, with wide-open eyes and high arched brows. If a suggestion of discretion was called for, his lids dropped - a sphinx would have seemed animated beside him. In contrast to this alert manager who presided over the 83 BALKAN SKETCHES dining terrace was a pottering old gardener who trimmed the shrubbery and raked up leaves. Here in the shade of palms and in a pleasant state of dolce far niente, we looked out on Lacroma, a tree-covered island just off the coast of Ragusa. Lacroma is the most lush and verdant of all the Dalmatian islands, and all along this part of the coast, sea zephyrs coming in across it bring a heavy perfume, a pleasant melange of rosemary, wild chrysanthemums and thyme. We had seen a boatman idling at his oars just off the coast day after day and discovered that he was the ferryman to the island. One afternoon, Dana and I hailed the boatman from the garden terrace, and went out to Lacroma. He rowed us around the end of the island where there were grottoes and an arco naturale. At another place he showed us the Mare Morto, and when we went ashore we followed paths up the garden island, among laurels and aloes rising from an undergrowth of myrtle. There was an abundance of "strawberry trees" with fruit resembling great strawberries. Rising up from a more cultivated garden of palms and flowering shrubs was an old Benedictine convent, San Marco, said to have been founded by Richard Coeur de Lion. A kindly old monk explained that Richard had built a chapel here to fulfill a vow made during a shipwreck, when his boat, returning from Palestine with the Crusaders, was driven ashore on Lacroma in a terrible storm. We came upon a weathered bust in a beautiful setting 84 $ LORENZO TOWER,9 RAGUSA L ACROMA of green. From a distance we thought it might be a bust of Richard. On closer inspection, we found to our amazement this bronze was not of Richard, but of the well-known American yachtsman-publisher, James Gordon Bennett. Curious to know the origin of the obvious reverence this holy order had for this whimsical Franco-American, I turned to the genial old friar for an explanation. We were told a story that would make a worthy preface for a thousand and second tale of the "Arabian Nights." It must be known that like most of these holy orders of the coast, the Fras were proud of their vineyards and made a wine worthy of discerning tastes. Mr. Bennett, it seemed, during one of his Adriatic cruises, had stopped at the island and recognizing the exceptional quality of the wine, had then and there devoted considerable attention to the work of this Benedictine brotherhood. In fact, the order came to look upon him as a great benefactor, and one of the brothers, as a tribute of appreciation, had displayed his skill as a sculptor and immortalized the American yachtsman with a place in the sun that only saints had graced before. There was also a sequel to the story, for recalling this anachronism of the monastery garden to a friend who also had cruised there, I was told of a time when these monks, somber in their long garbs of dark homespun, wore American yachting caps! There is an old custom of the market places, whereby after bargaining for hours and splitting the finest shades of values, the traders, finally clos87 BALKAN SKETCHES ing, will each give, as the fishermen of Trau did, the little customary addition to what was agreed upon, as a token of friendship. This offsets the curses they have piled on each other's heads while the trade was in progress. The yachting caps had been such a gift from Mr. Bennett on hearing that the wine he had bought had been generously measured. Being a frugal people, the monks wore the caps with mixed feelings of respect, economy, and homage toward their benefactor. But they were unaccustomed to the severity of 88 LACROMA a yachtsman's sartorial etiquette and wore their caps, some being too large and others too small, tilted at coy angles over one ear, or pulled well forward over the eyes. Facetious as it may seem, the bust of this Lacroma-canonized American rests exposed to the sweltering rays of a Southern sun, thirstily gazing over vineyards whose ambrosial juices shall nevermore be smacked as tasty tipple in the company of this convivial and festive connoisseur. I sat in the palm shade of the amaranth terrace one afternoon with Daria, looking off across the sea and along the coast toward Ragusavecchia. Strange mountain forms of distant islands lay hazy and faint along a far horizon. One small white cloud floated like a puff of vapor against the clear azure depths of the sky. And as I overlooked this summer sea, the small cloud, the distant islands - here where a few days before Lorrington had spoken of sea turtles and of Japan - a curious mingling of latent memories seemed to be induced by the drowsy spell of this summer day. It recalled a line from Lafcadio Hearn, "the dream of a summer's day." Then, too, perhaps there was a certain feeling of regret that Daria was soon to go her way south toward these distant islands, while my way lay inland through the arid peaks of Herzegovina to Bosnia. I told Daria this story of Lafcadio Hearn's in which there was an island, dim and far away like these, called "The Land Where Summer Never Dies." It was the story of a fisher-boy, Urashima Taro, who 89 BALKAN SKETCHES caught a tortoise, and knowing the tortoise to be sacred to the Dragon King of the Sea, set it free, for which the Dragon King rewarded the fisher-boy by offering him his daughter, a princess of the Land Where Summer Never Dies, as his bride. And in this dreamy tale, the drowsy spell of such a day as this steals over the fisher-boy, who is awakened by the presence of the beautiful maiden beside him in the boat, and with her he is transported to this far island of another world. There is a strange nuptial attended by sea creatures, followed by a life of great splendor, and a transformation from the simple life of a fisher-boy to one of royal elegance in the Sea King's palace. One day the Princess, aware that Urashima is not entirely happy, bids him good-by, that he may return once more to his other life, and gives him a lacquer box which, if he would return to her, he must never open, for therein lies his happiness. And Urashima is again transported by the magic of the gods across the sea, back to the fishing hamlet of his birth. Only the mountain shapes remain unchanged; the boats, the houses, and the fishermen of whom he asks his 90 i_ _ __ RAGUSA a LACROMA way are strange. One very old woman, feeling sorry for the boy who seems to have lost his way - the boy who says his name is Urashima Taro - smiles at his simplicity and indicates jhe cemetery, -an old cemetery on the mountain side, that is no longer used. She tells him that there he can find a stone, mossy and lichen-grown, bearing the characters of his name; that every year on the day of the Moon in the month of the Ox, the village temple burns incense to the memory of Urashima Taro. Urashima goes to the cemetery and gazes upon the stone. Bewildered, he returns and stands on the beach, gazing off across the sea to the island of the Land Where Summer Never Dies. He sees small white clouds floating toward the island - as he had seen them years ago. Curious for some explanation, he remembers the lacquer box. He loosens the cord that holds it. It contains only a puff of vapor that rises and passes away - like the other small white clouds -toward the distant island. He feels his blood chill and sees his hair, turned white, floating off in the breeze as he falls to the beach in a pile of dust, withered by the weight of hundreds of years. The story fascinated Daria. Its philosophy seemed to contain the secret of lasting happiness, - that one should not seek explanations with the gifts of the gods. 91 -l -,- - - -- e _~ =_ _ I= G'Ert%0 c- A_ IX CANNOZA AND THE OMBLA HE giant plane trees of Cannoza are long to be remembered. That the legends and history of the Greeks have so often glorified this tree is small wonder. What a place for repose! It was inevitable that the cool green shade of these giants should be a place of rest and meditation for the ancients. Was it not such trees that Pausanias, traveling in Achaia on the river Peirus, saw near Pharae and described as having "hollows where one could take a meal"? Vostizza, it was called. They were often personified by names. There was the plane tree of Stanchio, 92 CANNOZA AND THE OMBLA on the Isle of Cos. Another was "Menelais", said to have been planted by Menelaus near Kephial before his departure for Ilion. We went by boat from Gravosa and lunched there in the delightful old garden of Count Gozzi. Here were two of these world-famous trees. Daria and I sat at one of the tables in the shade of these spacious green canopies, and talked of Lorrington and his sea adventures. Then of Conrad, Masefield, Melville, and any number of others who in following the sea seem to have developed a certain facility in story-telling. When Conrad was spoken of, I countered with a mention of George Moore. How much more graceful his style seemed to me than that of Conrad - like the sensitive touch of an artist compared with the faultless workmanship of an artisan. Daria had read Moore's "Confessions" and his "Memoirs" which she thought were not like memoirs, but appeared to have their birth in the pages of the book. I know most men like Moore and many women do not. Is it not his graceful artistry we admire, and is that not as it should be? Daria had a mind that registered what she read, reasoned and reflected; she liked to indulge in retrospection. The charm of her manner could turn a conversation about dull lead, as if by some alchemy, into one of pure gold. Who should appear beneath the trees but the German professors! Happily we were secluded in a small arbor. The day was warm - as were the professors. With coats 93 BALKAN SKETCHES over their arms, one wiped his bifocals, while the other applied a plaid handkerchief to his dripping brow. It occurred to us then how slight was the decorative quality of obesity in shirt sleeves. That we should see them no more was evident, for from the seclusion of our arbor we overheard them talking, not of the plane trees but of an early breakfast to be arranged for, that they might take the morning boat. It would be unfair to say that the magnificent trees had not received their careful attention. One had very meticulously measured circumferences while the other agreed that the guidebook was correct; then they promptly lost all further interest in these glorious patriarchs of Nature. At the turn of a path we had our last glimpse of their perspiring forms disappearing beneath a shimmering bower of acacia, still vigorously applying plaid handkerchiefs to fevered brows. At lunch we had grapes that were particularly recommended - "strawberry grapes", uva fragola, we were told. And they were unlike other European grapes, though of an extremely familiar flavor to me. They were exactly like our Concord grape. Although I had never before noticed any similarity to the strawberry, having them recommended so highly as a rare delicacy, I fancied the strawberry flavor now decidedly asserting itself, and recalled a little vine in Concord, Massachusetts, where the first grape of this variety is said to have been grown. This led me to speak of America, 94 CANNOZA AND THE OMBLA and I told Daria of a country where historical landmarks go back a hundred years instead of a thousand. She had heard of the skyscrapers in New York, - so high that, like the Alps, they were capped with snow the year round! We saw a great cave in the rocks along the coast, and e e upon our return the boatman pointed it out as another retreat of Morgan's - and I thought of the number of places this old buccaneer had made interesting; of the lasting glory that lingers in the path of a pirate. Courses in history glorifying national heroes can never rival the colorful appeal of the adventures of an international outlaw. I recalled the interest attached to many of the old houses of our Colonial States, because famous generals of the time had spent at least a night in them. But Morgan is still 95 BALKAN SKETCHES remembered in a trail of glory reaching from the Caribbean to the Adriatic. The sun was already low as we neared Gravosa, and the valley of the Ombla spread its placid sheet of water inland between verdant mountains. Our boatman plied his oars over its mirror-like surface for some five or six kilometers, and there, tumbling down from the rocks, we saw the Ombla issuing from its subterranean course. No one knows the mysteries of this underground river, except that here and there it can be seen flowing at the bottom of deep wells between the mountains, -wells where blind fishes are said to live. A peaceful silence lies within this mountain-walled valley. We passed the little hamlet of San Stefano, and stopped to listen to a song, - the song of a peasant girl. She moved slowly along a tree-shaded path, unaware of our presence, balancing a great bundle of fagots on her head. It was a plaintive little song, of strange monosyllables sung in a variation of three or four minor notes, a primitive rhythm of pentameters. As she came nearer we knew that, like most of these evening songs, it was a lamentation. Daria and I exchanged silent glances; for once we were hearing a song of inimitable beauty - that rare perfection that is attained only by the unstudied simplicity of a natural expression. Emerging to view from the leafy path, the girl stopped still, like a frightened fawn, and gazed with great brown eyes until Daria spoke in a pleasant voice which the girl of the 96 CANNOZA AND THE OMBLA hills knew to be friendly. Daria asked her name, and after hesitating a moment she softly answered, "Danitza" (Morning Star). Daria tried to talk with her but it was difficult for them to understand each other; the girl's accent was one with which Daria was unfamiliar. We felt more embarrassed by the load of fagots than she who bore the burden, so we exchanged the usual "good-by" of the peasants"God-be-with-you", and strolled back to our boat. The girl slowly went her way, stopping now and then to look back from a distance, as curious about our presence in this remote valley as we had been to know the words of her plaintive little song of woe. Daria told me that most of these native songs were simple narratives by which the peasants unburdened their souls; that they were usually quaint parables of Nature likened to their own hardships, and in which they referred to themselves in the third person. These songs often contained such lines as "Dead is the house where the goussle1 is not heard"; "When there is no sunlight, fruit can never ripen"; or "Sheep must beware of wolves"; and many old proverbs of the country. These simple lines are often improvised and repeated over and over again to the melancholy decasyllabic rhythm of these lamentations in a minor key. The boatman's modest fee when we arrived at Gravosa again told us we were still far from the beaten path of tourists. Along the quay, beyond the line of little shops of 1An instrument of one string, usually played by story-tellers. 97 BALKAN SKETCHES Gravosa, we passed beneath old stone arches where buildings overhung the street. Farther on, we entered the garden wilderness of Lapad, stretching its verdant peninsula seaward in a silence broken only by the evening songs of birds. From the end of this point we had seen the flare of Lapad upon the night of our arrival. There were overgrown gardens of villas deserted for over a hundred years. A riot of undergrowth overran them; a tangle of footpaths wove intercepting ways beneath fragrant pine boughs. Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping, Haply of lovers one never will know, Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping Years ago. We strolled back again, past gardens of old villas recalling names of ancient Ragusan nobles, Brabacic,1 Pozza and Gondola. Rachic is another old Dalmatian name. A descendant of this old family is one of the most important figures in the recent development of Serbian shipping, a commerce for which the Dalmatians of old were famous. It is fitting to mention, in passing, that travelers to-day are indebted to Monsieur Rachic for the facilities of the most beautifully equipped and managed steamer service along the Dalmatian coast. And it is pleasant to recall a delightful luncheon with Monsieur and Madame Rachic at Ragus1 The ic termination of Serbian names is pronounced ich. 98 CANNOZA AND THE OMBLA avecchia, and the haunting memory of Madame Rachic who, because of her delightful presence, came near to making me forget that the lovely Daria would soon be leaving Dalmatia. Here, to my surprise, I was greeted by two beautiful children who spoke English fluently, as did their father and mother. And here, sitting over aperitifs, in the cool of a shaded roof terrace overlooking the gardens of Ragusavecchia, one of the mysteries of the terminations of Slavic names was explained. The ic, I was told, pronounced ich, was the equivalent of our son; that Stefanovic would be the equivalent for Stevenson, yet in some cases it was carried farther, like Stefanvi6ovic, which was a son of a son of Stefan. I shall have to admit that the potency of the deliciously blended aperitifs may have handicapped the further study of Slavic nomenclature. Then, too, after a luncheon well worthy of the aperitif, and during which the famous Dalmatian wines had been bountifully served, a bottle of rare old Armagnac was brought forth. This was the piece de resistance, the vrai nectar of all liqueurs. Pages could be devoted to its rare subtleties without fear of overestimating its mellow warmth. It was a gift to Monsieur Rachic from the well-known caves of the King of. But this surely would be a great breach of etiquette. I may dwell on the beauty of its deep amber color, the fragrant perfume of its bouquet, the permeating warmth of its delicate flavor - but to reveal the name of the royal owner of this precious 99 BALKAN SKETCHES ambrosia would be like revealing the cache of a hidden treasure. It would be a faux pas indeed in these days of unstable thrones to add to the apprehensions of the royal owner of this priceless vintage by revealing his identity. Then, too, I hope sometime to return to this sunny coast. 100 C *++ six ads >E WA~vAEg;*+yA:hN A so o Z: e Z:: +:: A: w S; S An:;; |6 + 8 * s 6 s + N + p e + ss s +; * 6+:; A; +++ + *+ Is + + x OF TRAVEL T o tell Daria how the wanderlust had led my desultory way to Dalmatia did not occur to me until, loitering beneath the plane trees of Cannoza, she mentioned her own prolonged visit. Stopping off on her way south to the Greek Islands, she had intended to continue her voyage on the following boat. But Daria's philosophy was not of the sort that allowed plans for the future to interrupt an agreeable present; the future, as we all know, is an uncertainty, but the sunny days of this Adriatic Riviera made a glorious present. Here were ancient ports where the wholesome spirit of 101 BALKAN SKETCHES progress had not undermined the people's veneration for old customs. The colorful national costumes were to be seen everywhere, varying with the provinces they represented. Although in the oldest part of Europe, it is comparatively "undiscovered" to most tourists, undoubtedly virgin territory compared to the far tropic isles of the South Seas which, as Daria aptly remarked, by now must be almost as demode as Trouville or Ostend. She, of course, had known of the sunny Dalmatian Riviera for years; but why had I, a foreigner, come here? My own happy peregrination had been largely a matter of chance. Strangely enough, Africa had been my first consideration - the "wilds of Africa", and this idea had taken root years ago while spending a winter in Tunis. I had been fascinated by pictures in a Tunisian photographer's display. They showed big game hunters posed - some victoriously, some obviously nonchalantly -gun in hand, one foot triumphantly resting on the prone form of some lifeless denizen of the jungle - usually a lion. Looking back upon it now, I realize that the spark of adventure then kindled in a youthful imagination had been lying dormant only until an opportunity for exploring the jungle presented itself. Imagine my delight when one day, out of a clear sky, I received an invitation to join a hunting expedition to the jungles of Africa. It was an official sort of document, bearing a London postmark, and containing the information that my name had been suggested as one of a small number to be 102 IiF HERZEGOVINAN PEASANTS I OF TRAVEL invited. Slightly as I knew the person whose name was given as having suggested mine - still more slightly must he have known me. For such an extravagant indulgence during my periodic states of comparative affluence must unfortunately be balanced by periods of penurious recuperation. I was, however, not only flattered but elated and eagerly perused the literature accompanying the letter. It offered all that could be expected. The members of the expedition were to be relieved of all responsibility of transportation, provisioning and equipment; also they were - as I have intimated -to be relieved of a considerable sum in pounds sterling. This, the brochure carefully explained, must naturally in such an undertaking be paid in advance. Having noted the address in Threadneedle Street, and being in London a fortnight later, I sought further information by stopping in. It was an upstairs office in one of the many onetime counting-houses in that part of the city. On the stairs, a well-dressed young foreigner was on the point of passing when he suddenly stopped. At once I recognized De Moissons, a dapper young vicomte. We had been to school together in Paris. Surprised to learn of each other's interest in the proposed expedition, we had a short chat and agreed to meet later. A pompous person was in charge of the office who, much to my surprise, assumed an air of polite indifference. With a somewhat perfunctory regret he told me the list was now practically filled, adding casually that it was already nearly 105 BALKAN SKETCHES two weeks since the invitations had been sent out. His indifference relaxed slightly on learning that De Moissons and I were old schoolmates. As I was thanking him, about to take leave, it occurred to the pompous person that one of the party had not yet sent in the necessary Bank of England certificate of subscription. In my case, if that slight detail of routine was immediately complied with, he could feel perfectly free to use his influence in giving me the preference. He mentioned several distinguished names of those already subscribed. They were mostly women, only two of whom I recognized, the Marquise Asphodel and her sister, Lady Copping-Copping of Coppington. The Marquise I knew but slightly, since her hobby was collecting coleopterous beetles - a subject in which my interest was not developed. Her sister, the Lady CoppingCopping, was of the well-known old family of Copping-Coppings of Coppington-on-Cop. Some forty years ago she had spent a year in India, which ever since had become - and by the most ingenious devices - her one absorbing topic of conversation. Later, in speaking of these ladies to De Moissons, I had no sooner intimated their dowager seniority than his French blood rose in revolt. He pronounced the whole scheme a snare and a delusion, declaring that for such decorous assemblies he preferred a Lord Mayor's reception. Although I agreed with him, my reason for doing so was not entirely the same. On the walls of the office I had recog106 OF TRAVEL nized the Tunisian photographer's enlargements and had been assured by the pompous gentleman that it was part of the written agreement that members of the expedition were, for a small supplementary payment, entitled to photographs of themselves in similar attitudes. Recognizing the originals of a number of "adventurers" who had been pictured in travel journals, I decided definitely to postpone my big-game hunting until assured of a photograph with a lion whose threadbare spots were less conspicuous. If my memory does not fail me, it was in the lounge of the old "Cri" as De Moissons and I sat chatting this over, that some casual mention was made of Dalmatia. Trivial as it may seem to some, the denouement of the proposed African adventure had left me with no more than a passing interest in the Dark Continent. But Dalmatia - a colorful name in itself - by one of those chameleon-like tricks of the mind had replaced Africa. It was now to my imagination the alluring field for future exploration, and with inquisitive pursuit I came to the conclusion that this sunny land was but little frequented by English-speaking tourists. 107 XI BOCCA DI CATTARO rTHE Sunday before Daria left on her southern journey we took one of the most delightful excursions in all Dalmatia -to the Bocca di Cattaro. Aboard one of the yacht-like Dalmatian steamers, in comfortably placed deck chairs, we sailed out from the picturesque harbor of Gravosa. Leaving the verdant point of Lapad behind us, we passed the fort-crested rocks of old Ragusa. Farther along, the island of Lacroma wafted the perfume of its fragrant blossoms seaward. We saw again the old monastery of San Marco rising from its garden setting and recalled the irony of Fate that had immortalized the American yachtsmanpublisher. Erratic as his whims had been, he doubtless had 108 BOCCA DI CATTARO never anticipated this last serene glory in the cloistered garden of the holy order. Along the coast we traced the San Giacomo road. It skirted the mountainside partway up this precipitous coast of rock. And there above the water's edge, set among its terraced gardens, our little hotel shone like a jewel in the morning sun. At a bend inland from the coast line the old bay of Ragusavecchia lay in placid repose. Cresting a hill above the town, in perfect harmony with its setting, stood Mestrovic's mausoleum for the old Dalmatian family of Rachic. I remembered again the archaic simplicity of his caryatides flanking the entrance to a vaulted interior where reliefs of winged cherubs cast a spell of celestial serenity. We recognized among other garden spots the Rachic villa which refreshingly recalled the delightful afternoon, when in pleasant company we sipped a king's ambrosial liqueur. And in this Sunday morning clearness, where the vineyardspotted slopes were sprinkled with little chapels and convents, I felt it not entirely irreverent to offer a silent thanksgiving to Bacchus. For some time we had noticed singular cloud formations seaward. Low masses had swept in from the horizon, darkening the sky. Perhaps the most unusual thing about these threatening forms was what at first seemed to be vertical clouds slender shafts that reached down as if licking the sea. They were clearly visible against the light-streaked sky along the far rim of sea. The waves were now kicking up 109 BALKAN SKETCHES and we saw that the objects of our curiosity were waterspouts. Although at a comfortable distance, we could see them writhing and twisting, playing over the frothing water with a moaning sound. It was like a voice from the sea, borne on the wind that now swept our deck. We watched a fisherman manoeuvre his small craft clear of a whirling deluge that seemed to pursue him; even while dropping his sail, another trick of the wind carried this treacherous column away to the south. The sea became calmer and the last of these waterspouts vanished like distant wisps of smoke. One of the ship's officers stopped to assure us that there 110 BOCCA DI CATTARO was little danger in the steamer's course - that this strange phenomenon we had witnessed was peculiar to that part of the Adriatic. It was, we were told, the result of conflicting tides and currents combined with the meeting of the Bora from the north and the sirocco from the southeast. Again jagged peaks rose out of the sea - a great wall of arid rock wild and remote in its lofty reaches skyward. Except for an occasional break, where a bay or flat stretch of fertility suggested a settlement, there remains no trace of the civilization left years ago by Greeks and Romans. We passed shadowy caves said to have been pirate retreats, and rounded the Punta d'Ostro, entering the Bocca di Cattaro. At the entrance to the Bocca was a small island, fortified to the water's edge and crumbling away in places. The shore beyond - the peninsula of Losicer, where a little convent marked a nuns' retreat - revealed shadows which we were told were blue grottoes. For some eighteen miles inland this deep blue inlet from the sea zigzagged its way between the mountains of the fjoid-like Bocca. Our first stop was Castelnuovo, an old port of battered fortifications. Continuing on our way through these inland lagoons we passed, in the narrowing straits, Le Catene the chain - where the inner bays were locked in olden days by a chain across this entrance. Beyond this point we saw a shadowy cove in a silent bay. This was Risano, the home of Teuta, the pirate queen of Illyria, and said to be the oldest settlement in Dalmatia. Nestled there among the moun111 BALKAN SKETCHES tains, its shadowy silence suggested all the richness of its ancient lore and legends. Here from the time of Teuta and the settling of the Romans in the second century, on down through the invasion by the Goths, to Byzantine rule in the seventh century and conquest by the Turks, was a wealth of history. Rising from the village, twisting up a mountain called Ledenice, a road made its way into the wild hilly country of Krivoie. There were two tiny islets at the entrance to this mysterious bay of Risano, side by side like sisters keeping some saintly vigil. From the verdure of one rose an old belfried convent. A small chapel spotted the other. Gazing across this silent lagoon toward these isolated retreats, Daria remarked that they were like old jewels set on blue silk. There were other old ports set against this mountain background: Perasto, said to be once the wealthiest town in the Bocca, still showing a number of ruined Venetian palaces that were the residences of rich traders. Opposite Perasto was Stolivo. Perzagno, a bright little town with three churches, and Dubrota, set in a wealth of green gardens, brought us to the innermost angle of the Bocca. We reached Cattaro, an ancient town struggling up the mountainside, surrounded by an old wall built on so treacherous a slope that one marvelled at the labor this defense must have cost the ancient settlers. Against the rocky face of the mountain one discerns an old cathedral, its twin towers dwarfed by the great altitude of its background. 112 I,,. 10 00" $P L -. 4w -- I cod- %. -,", I..-, CLOCK TOWER AND PAGAN ALTAR, CATTARO I i BOCCA DI CATTARO From a broad quay we strolled by a scattering of awningcovered fruit stands; peasant women sat in the spots of shade, selling grapes. At an ancient gate in the wall we entered a shady, stone-flagged piazza surrounded by old stone houses, their windows covered by shutters in varying shades of faded green. An awning-shaded cafe at the cathedral end of the piazza offered an inviting shelter from the sun, and we stopped there to sip the local wine before returning to the steamer. The quiet of a Sunday afternoon stillness seemed intensified by the mute walls of ancient days that surrounded the piazza. We stopped to admire an old Venetian clock tower and discovered close to the base a small obelisk of stone mounted on a square pedestal. It was an altar - a pagan relic of Roman times. Here in other days the graces of the gods had been invoked, and here at last was surely a fitting place to pause and in the name of Aphrodite - the foam-born goddess of Cythera - pay homage to Pierre Louys. And we recalled the line from his Premiere Epitaphe of "Les Chansons de Bilitis": "Et ne Sacrifie pas pour moi la chevre noire; mais, en libation douce, presse sa mamelle sur ma tombe." By the time we left Cattaro the Bocca was in shadow all the way to the sea, but on our way north after rounding the Punta d'Ostro, we could see still a lingering of sun gold along the mountain tops of the coast. This fading light 115 BALKAN SKETCHES changed from gold to rose, with deep violet shadows falling away to the sea. The sapphirine clearness of evening permeated the sky, intensifying its depth of color into a zenith of velvety lapis. As we moved in by Lapad, the restful tones of chapel bells came from the little convent. That Daria's last day in Dalmatia had been of such fitting loveliness I was thankful. From the landing we drove through Ragusa and out along the San Giacomo road for the last time. On the little garden terrace overlooking the Adriatic, Lorrington and a sparkling-eyed Italian lady were to join us for a farewell dinner. Our moustachioed matre d'hotel had outdone himself and I realized why he had been chosen to decorate the king's table. Ours was spread with sprays of rosemary and strangely pretty blossoms for which I knew no name. Lanterns hung from the leafy branches overhead, reflecting like 116 BOCCA DI CATTARO jewels on glasses and their sparkling contents. Dana appeared more lovely than ever in a Viennese creation of pale green chiffon shimmering with sequins, a seeming personification of the murmuring sea beyond the terrace where a sprinkling of starbeams fell like a mesh of silvery light. Lorrington's pretty Italian companion was becomingly gowned in what the Rue de la Paix would call, I believe, "ashes of roses." Lorrington told many amusing tales of travel - of the fish that flew and others that climbed trees, then of the seals and walrus of the frozen North where he intended to spend the coming winter. But the Italian lady's glances suggested that Lorrington's fate was like that of Cassandra, who, inspired by Apollo to prophesy, was condemned never to be believed. The animated Italian had recently been in America, studying our music of the South, negro spirituals. There was something incongruous in an Italian coming to America to study music, and I remember the sparkle of her dark eyes when she spoke of the difficulties that beset her. And if we were to judge between her charming little bursts of song that night, I am afraid the greatest impression was made by a song about Little Red Riding Hood. The few lines I remember were: "Little Red Riding Hood, How could she be so good And still keep the wolf from the door?" 117 XII IN HERZEGOVINA IORRINGTON had heard of a famous trout stream - the River Bosna. Since my destination was Sarajevo, -J close by, we took a compartment on the same train. Mostar, an old Turkish town, was halfway on our journey, and learning of an ancient bridge there, we decided to break the trip by stopping for a day or two, if it proved of interest. This long ride took us through Herzegovina along a shelflike mountain road, twisting and climbing among blanched gray cliffs, high above a roaring gorge. For miles there were no signs of habitation; the cliffs, steep and forbidding, made life seem impossible. It was a wilderness of towering rock. 118 IN HERZEGOVINA Our train climbed steadily until we were some six thousand feet above sea level, where at the base of a cliff deep down in the gorge we saw the source of a wild mountain stream gushing forth. This was the divide, and from here on to Mostar we descended gradually, passing through the arid Karst. Our way now lay along the broad, rock-strewn reaches of an ancient river bed, hardly less sterile than the rocky peaks rising on either side. Meager settlements appeared with a slight suggestion of green, where sparse gardens had been terraced here and there among the rocks. Small stone huts roofed with great slabs of shale came into view. Peasants stopped work to gaze at the little train, puffing its way along. Both men and women wore rough trousers of homespun and were seen only at rare intervals in the isolated patches of cultivation. Some of the scant gardens grew corn -tiny patches so small that a dozen or two stalks filled the wallhedged patch of precious soil. All the afternoon our train had crept slowly along, high above the crags and chasms of arid rock. There were long intervals during which no dwellings appeared - nothing but wild sterile peaks of rock. Late in the afternoon we passed through desolate stretches where we saw old monoliths- some standing on end and others held table-like by smaller rocks - and an occasional ancient watchtower - relics of Turkish times. We finally stopped at a small station where travelers, mostly peasants, left the train to 119 BALKAN SKETCHES gather round a small fountain on the platform, and fill their water bottles. The station itself was small and of stone. A squad of youths in military uniform accompanied an elderly officer. They were evidently recruits for an officers' school. The younger men, hopelessly awkward in their illfitting uniforms, had obviously scrubbed and brushed themselves in a vain attempt to emulate their superior - oh, much superior - officer. The major stood there as straight and trim as the slender sword hanging at his side. The boys stood at a respectful distance, uncomfortably alert. From their glances one knew they admired the colors of many campaigns blazing from the officer's tunic. His shining scabbard, the polished belt from which it hung, his insignia of rank, and, ornamenting his cap, the royal arms of Serbia might indeed rouse admiration in any recruit. His gleaming black visor dropped down almost flat against his brow, bent back in points like those of his dark moustache. Snapping the last clasp of his immaculate gloves, he glanced toward one of the youths, who noticed a slight movement of his superior's left foot. Immediately stepping forward, the boy brought forth a handkerchief, dropped on one knee, and dusted each boot from knee to toe. A toot from the forward engine was taken up by various honks and toots, and the platform was left almost deserted as the passengers scurried aboard. An old monk came puffing along, holding up his heavy brown Franciscan homespun. The guard raised his horn for the final signal and the 120 IN HERZEGOVINA gesture spurred on the pondering religieux in his elephantine advance, until he climbed aboard, mopping his brow and breathlessly uttering something between a curse and a prayer. Then at the guard's final toot, four peasant girls hurried on to the platform, all a-flutter in their gayest kerchiefs and starched skirts, screaming and laughing as they clambered into the third-class compartments. A boy with a basket of refreshments - his wares considerably diminished by the travel-weary passengers - lighted a cigarette and turned away as the train moved on. We passed some peasant girls in rough trousers, standing among the silvery branches of a fig tree and holding up handfuls of the rich purple fruit as though to tantalize us. As evening fell, one occasionally saw old men taking their places in stone shelters in order to sit guard over the ripening crops during the night. At little stations we saw mountaineers costumed like the brigands of fiction in great red 121 BALKAN SKETCHES turbans, short jackets with silver buttons, swag-seated trousers. Some had leggings, others wore heavy woolen socks, and still others had bare legs and were shod with turned-up Turkish sandals. About their waists broad sashes of green or red were wound in voluminous folds and served as pockets. One old veteran with great earrings and a heavy sweeping moustache wore a silver-studded belt, some eight or ten inches wide; it hung away in front, heavy with knives and pistols - as fine a touch for a brigand type as fiction ever invented. Lorrington and I were discussing him when the old monk, riding in our compartment, smiled complacently as he recognized the word brigand, and, in French, volunteered to inform us that he was doubtless a good old 122 IN HERZEGOVINA soul, but like many of these mountaineers carried arms for self-protection. "But why arms - are there no brigands in these mountains?" Lorrington asked him, with a shade of disappointment. "Oh, yes," the monk replied. "Not an entirely safe place for strangers?" I suggested. "Yes, perfectly safe." He saw our evident desire for explanation. "They seldom touch strangers, for fear the police and soldiers may hear of it. They would rather rob peasants. Then it is soon forgotten and they can come down again and raid another village. But there are no brigands here now." Both Lorrington and I remembered that it was scarcely a week before that we had read of the capture of Black Ivan or some such name, a well-known brigand of this section. The old monk straightened up and beamed pleasantly. "That is the reason why it is safe here now. This was Black Ivan's territory." And the old priest told us of robber raids here years ago, before it was part of Yugo-Slavia, when villages were sacked and the cattle driven away into the mountains, leaving the poor peasants, glad to escape with their lives, hiding somewhere in the hills. This might explain the custom of wearing jewelry of gold and silver coins, which even now is to be seen on the shepherd girls. Farther along the valley became more fertile, and pastures appeared; we saw dark-skinned gypsies in shawls 123 BALKAN SKETCHES and great pantaloons of red or white, wearing bands of gold or silver bangles across their foreheads, and others with bangled earrings and necklaces. Waiting at a small station was one black-eyed girl whose wrists were heavy with bracelets of silver coins that tinkled pleasantly as she moved about. We had seen but one other train. It moved along at a great distance, against the face of a cliff, and was equipped with three engines - two pulling and one facing backward on the rear end. We passed it at a bridge an hour or so later. It was made up of some four or five small flat cars carrying automobiles, in which peasants were comfortably seated, enjoying perhaps their first automobile ride, and which were surely more comfortable than the hard-seated compartments of the third-class cars in which the peasants always travel. Our course was still through the mountains as darkness fell. The little wood-burning locomotives puffed showers of sparks into the night to fall like a rain of gold down through the valley shadows. High above us timid stars sowed their pathway, gradually growing fainter in the glow of the moon. In the dim light of the compartment's lamp I thought of the struggle for existence these peasants of Herzegovina must endure, and wondered why any one lived in this arid Karst. There are miles of rocky stretches with but the scantiest sprinkling of vegetation. Here shepherds - but 124 I I I it 7 7 N 'A Yr A BALKAN SHEPHERDESS IN HERZEGOVINA more often goatherds - graze their shaggy animals among the rocks-how they find nourishment, heaven only knows. One wonders what compensates for the privations these natives suffer, but recalling the smiling girls who boarded the train and those gathering fruit, one realizes how gracefully Nature consoles mankind, - and that contentment lies not in possessions but in the pursuit of them; all that is required is a belief in the importance of one's occupation. Since values must always be comparative, the herder whose goats win the admiration of other herders in his province is as happy as the owner of a thoroughbred who wins the Grand Prix at Longchamps. To continue this line of speculation, is not the happiness of the child, making his first outline drawing of a cat, equal to that joy which must have been Franz Hals' in painting "Hille Bobbe"? Similarly do active men find happiness in hobbies, - collecting Lowestoft or beer mugs, Persian parchments or cigarette coupons, Tanagra figurines or cigarstore Indians, English mezzotints or comic valentines, ship models or souvenir spoons; it really doesn't matter. One of the most contented men I ever knew had a hobby for collecting specimens of earth - small vials of earth of all colors and shades - hundreds of them from all corners of the globe. Among them were vials of ashes and lava dust -dust from temple floors in Burmah; and another vial was from a crumbling Maya ruin. But for pleasant associations and the general approval of one's friends, I know of nothing to rival that dignified and 127 BALKAN SKETCHES time-honored custom of collecting famous vintages- a worthy mark of distinction that is still reverenced in the Old World. The Herzegovinan shepherd, in raising his gourd to his lips, suggests that a collection of wine containers offers great possibilities; it might well reveal the evolution of man. From this primitive gourd of the herder to the Spanish goatskin, the leathern bottel of merrie England, the bear bottles made famous by Russian kimmel, pinch bottles and so on. In America alone the early flint glass bottles, the "Liberty" bottle, the "Washington", "Jefferson", and "Jackson", the "Pine Tree", the "Log Cabin", and the "First Railway" bottle, are all significant in history. For centuries these ashen peaks of limestone and the desolate waste of the Karst have made Herzegovina the neglected stepchild of the Balkan provinces. A few recent investigations, however, have revealed buried riches beneath this forbidding calcined surface. That silver, iron and silicate in great quantities are to be found in these rocks, has long been known, but for mining, coal is necessary, and although I believe there is no coal to speak of in Serbia, there is plenty of oil and that now may easily be exchanged for coal for mining purposes. Until Yugo-Slavia came into being, these resources, being in different dominions, naturally complicated the working of her mines. But now in the possession of both fuel and silicate, it would seem more than likely that Herzegovina before long may disclose her wealth. A Serbian, in telling me of a silver mine he could have had for a song, shrugged his shoulders with a hopeless gesture. 128 (I lot I' Nf /r~treN 4; I V, IintNi %-K I I I -~ —/t_ // O' II - - --- -. - - H e '5 ov I- -...1 %, v r - - l FRUIT VENDOR, MOSTAR I IN HERZEGOVINA "Ah, but what's the use of a silver mine with no money to get the silver?" Just before we reached Mostar a railroad official came into our section, carefully scrutinizing everything from the patched upholstery to the knobs and latches, not omitting a glance at the occupants. When I questioned the priest about this close inspection, he explained. "Oh, his task is to report any damage that has been done by occupants of the compartments." And that threw some light on the manner in which he studied the occupants. It would undoubtedly be simpler to detect a guilty demeanor than the latest blemish in the dilapidated railway carriages. The arrival in Mostar was at midnight. Our little locomotive had ceased puffing. The last tired wheeze had spent itself on the night stillness, when a nerve-wracking noise immediately started up from the street side of the station. It sounded like some fiendish mechanical device for smashing panes of glass on a tin roof. Emerging from the station, we beheld this "mechanical device" - an old Ford touring car, holding in the full glare of its one headlight another common sight: watermelons! A little fruit-shop's display of Yugo-Slavian watermelons! But these greetings were to prove as deceptive as the well-known "English spoken" signs one finds scattered promiscuously about Europe. The one-eyed Ford and the watermelons were to be the only familiar sights in this old Moslem town. We had wired for reservations in the one hotel, the 131 BALKAN SKETCHES Narenta - so called because of its location overlooking the river of this name, along which the Turks had built Mostar many hundred years ago. Our arrival was therefore expected and perhaps our thirst had been anticipated, but our hunger had been completely ignored. This hotel was a huge place and we were shown into its caf6 where the dozen or so habitues, probably business men of the town, sat about sipping Turkish coffee, playing picquet and dominoes, seemingly lost beneath the great loftiness of the smoky room. A frail blonde lady - whose frizzled hair was conspicuous, perhaps from its exposure to the sun, shall we say? divided her attention between a tambourine, which she passed from table to table for contributions, and a piano which must also have been exposed to the devastating elements. I racked my mind trying to recall the vague familiarity of its tones; and I remembered the Ford we had heard at the station. The tones it lacked were more conspicuous than those it played. The only recognizable air must have been played for our benefit - "The Honeysuckle and the Bee" - which had been a favorite years ago during my student days in Paris but, even then, was of an old vintage. Our appeal for food was in vain, and contenting ourselves with a small bottle and some dried-up champagne cakes, we retired for the night. The garb of the women -the Turkish women, who seemed to predominate here - aroused my curiosity, as we 132 IN HERZEGOVINA strolled about Mostar. They seemed like animated hatracks holding one long, stiff, dark robe, which dropped away from a point above the head to the ground, where invisible feet seemed to move them along like some automatic and silent motive power. Neither face nor hands were visible. The front of this hood was open at the peak in a narrow vent, behind which one saw only the veil covering the face. After seeing several pass, I discovered the robe was a coat, a sort of coat-cape rather, made from a man's garment of heavy dark blue, the collar sewn together in a small ridge that formed a point above the head, the sleeves being folded back flat and unused. We rambled through the bazaar, a conglomeration of little shops and stalls built about a place, of which an old Turkish fountain formed the center, and where girls with veiled faces, voluminous pantaloons, and shrouded in scarves of many colors came for water. Looking at the interesting old crocks and jars which they carried deftly on their heads, I thought what a harvest some enterprising antique dealer could realize hete in this old village. These women doubtless were mostly servants and children of the near-by families, for the dark, shrouded figures of hatrack appearance seemed confined to the shoppers, the ladies of Mostar, who moved about from stall to stall, doing a great deal of bartering before they bought. An old bridge rose in a slender arch high above the Narenta, terminating at either end in what were once for133 BALKAN SKETCHES tifications and turrets of masonry but which now serve as dwellings. That this bridge was the nucleus of Mostar is clearly evident from the crumbling walls of vine-clad ruins, a ~c '\3~s~ the jutting balconies, and picturesque projections that have been added since its erection in the fifteenth century. From the center of the bridge one gazes down into the parched river bed, shelved with time-worn rocks. A narrow stream winds its eternal course as if striving to hold its own against the relentless sun of the dry season. At the back of the Narenta Hotel was a dining terrace of tall Moorish arches open on one side like a loggia - a cool retreat opening out on a garden of palms and flowering shrubbery interlaced with a tracery of gravelled paths. A 134 IN HERZEGOVINA minaret rose above the tree tops and here the muezzin appeared on his little balcony, calling in the name of Allah all good Mussulmans to prayer. To the right of this, overlooking the garden, were latticed windows of harems overrun with vines and fragrant flowers. Chameleon-like lizards darted here and there across the sun-splashed gravel to disappear in the shade of the verdure. A hooded barouche, of obsolete model in almost any other part of the world, stopped at the end of one of the garden paths. As I was speculating on the reason for the careful concealment of its occupant, its closed curtains parted and a veiled lady, shrouded in the strange dark garb of Mostar women, stepped silently from its shadow for her morning walk. Unaware of my observance she moved her veil aside. No sooner had she exposed the shadowy mystery of her olive features, with eyes heavily marked with kohl, than she discovered my presence and immediately readjusted her veil, moving slowly along the path until she was lost like a dark specter - mysteriously reminiscent of the bygone realm of the Turks. The attire of women has been the subject of endless volumes, and somewhere there must be cuneiform tablets containing fashion notes of the times, referring to the coy angle at which the well-known fig leaf should be worn. But nowhere have I ever seen reference to this strange costume of the women of Mostar. It was obviously derived from a man's coat and may have been a punishment imposed upon 135 BALKAN SKETCHES some venturesome harem beauty for stealing out in the night, disguised as a man, to keep a moonlight tryst. This in a person of prominence might easily have made it a la mode and caused its adoption as permanent. Strange as this dark shroud seems to me, to them the stiff bowler hat that marks another civilization must appear equally ridiculous. There comes to mind an old Turkish story of the wifebeating hodja who used to thrash his favorite wife daily. A neighboring hodja, coming in one morning unannounced, found his friend in the midst of this strange practice. "Aha," he cried, "so your little lady has been unfaithful!" "No, not at all," replied the old husband calmly, "not at all. She is an excellent wife and never does wrong." "Then why, pray tell me, do you chastise her so mercilessly?" The old hodja, sending his pretty wife from the room, explained philosophically, "Because, my dear friend, if I wait until she has done wrong, then it will be too late." The Turkish lady, having finished her morning stroll, had returned to her hooded carriage and, having closely drawn the shutters, was driven off beyond the garden to one of the houses where latticed harems overhung the street. Until this ancient vehicle passed from view my gaze followed it. It held my curiosity like a magnet. 136 XIII A MOUNTAIN WILDERNESS THE valley of the Narenta, along which this old Turkish city of Mostar raises its minarets, is surrounded by desolate peaks. They are lofty and arid - sky-piercing heights of a world where the voice of man is a thing unknown. Here is a bleak wilderness, as barren as the volcanic wastes shown in telescopic views of the surface of the moon. There was something like defiance in their grim remoteness. Stung with curiosity, one afternoon Lorrington and I set out on a journey of exploration -in no way anticipating the thrill the evening held in store. We followed the semblance of a road, stopping at a mountain kavana for coffee. 137 BALKAN SKETCHES It was the last remote mark of man - a one-room hut where, in a smoky alcove, an old Turk hovered over a charcoal fire. I noticed stuck in a piece of black bread an ancient knife. Its obsolete workmanship caught my fancy and I persuaded the old innkeeper to sell it. Our rock-strewn way wound up into the mountains and there lost itself in a small shelf-like pass. Lizards darted into crevices, as we disturbed their siestas. By late afternoon we had ascended high above all signs of habitation. Turning to look down into the valley, we saw Mostar like a toy village, where white minarets rose from the green banks of a twisting river. As the pass wound in among the mountains, the valley was lost to view. There were dark gorges and ugly chasms of jagged rock reaching down to unknown depths down "as straight as a beggar could spit." We peered over the precipice and Lorrington speculated absent-mindedly, "I pity the poor chap who ever misses his step here. He could be swallowed up by the mountains for all the world would ever know!" Sullen clouds darkened the sky, settling like a grim cowl over the loftiest eyries. A peal of thunder rumbled among the crags. Then came a deafening crash that echoed back and forth between the peaks, lingering like a dismal warning. We spoke of returning to the small kavana where we had stopped for coffee. But that place was now far down the mountainside. Darkness was already falling. Clouds had shut out the distant peaks, and the first large drops 138 A MOUNTAIN WILDERNESS nearly drenched us before we found shelter in a cavelike recess in the rocks. The storm was of such violence that fragments of stone were loosened, hurtling down into these chasms of eternity. With the shifting of low clouds peak after peak was obliterated; darkness had fallen. The rain and lightning passed as suddenly as they had burst forth. Only a distant rumble of thunder lingered - and a soothing aftermath of dark, dripping stillness. The storm over, we emerged from our shelter to watch the scurrying clouds. They appeared unusually close, like the sky in a theatrical transformation scene. A white moon rose above the peaks and into the rapidly clearing sky. Walls of rain-drenched rock revealed themselves in strangely fantastic forms, and in the moonlight took on a pale glow, iridescent and shimmering, like ghosts of mountains rising against an indigo firmament. Gazing at these weird formations, I must have lingered longer than I was aware, for when I turned to join Lorrington again, he was nowhere to be seen. A sense of loneliness seized me, and with quickening steps I hurried on to where the pass forked; it became more treacherous and narrower than ever. Should I follow the downward or the upward path? I called for Lorrington. There was no answer. Only my own voice, faintly echoing and reechoing from the shadowy depths of the abyss. No sooner had I started to hurry than an uncanny sight stopped me abruptly. From a bend in the pass I saw emerging a sinister silhouette, clear-cut against the moon. Some 139 BALKAN SKETCHES huge winged creature was stealthily approaching. Beast or bird, I could not tell. But this indelible impression I can never forget. It was as tall as a man, but with a large head, and, instead of arms, great drooping wings that flapped at times against two long shaggy legs. The slow threatening pace of the monster, never varying, bespoke its fearlessness. The moonlight was full upon me; I was clearly visible. To relate half the thoughts that passed through my mind in the short interval that followed would take pages. One wing of the creature hung out over the precipice; the other scraped the inside wall of rock. By these rasping scrapes I measured the seconds of its approach. As the 140 A MOUNTAIN WILDERNESS sound drew nearer, a piece of shale, loosened by the scraping wing, ticked its descent with a terrifying clearness down into the depths of the yawning gorge. Following the fall of this stone, a horrible silence settled in this mountain wilderness - and suddenly I remembered that Lorrington had not answered my call. Like a specter in a dream, the old Greek story of Ganymede, borne away on the wings of an eagle, obsessed me. I groped for a twig - for a handhold. There was nothing. To turn would have been folly. I must face the thing, whatever it might be. The knife! I remembered the old innkeeper's knife. Like a flash I had it drawn, setting myself for the encounter as a laboring breath from the oncoming shadow became horribly audible. What followed bewildered me. A deep voice uttered strange words. As unintelligible as these words were, I knew them to be friendly. One's senses become extremely acute at such times. The moon now cast its wan light upon my "bete noire", revealing - a genial old peasant carrying on his back a lifeless eagle. I had never realized that eagles were so large. Its spread of wings must have measured eight feet. I flattened myself against the wall as the old man passed, muttering humble apologies. Following him back as far as the inn, I invited the old fellow inside for coffee. My peace of mind was restored on finding Lorrington sitting there comfortably smoking, trying to improve his Slavic vocabulary. While I added a few touches to some rough sketches, he was indicating various objects 141 BALKAN SKETCHES tables, chairs, bread, etc., trying to repeat the innkeeper's names for them. I remember that beer was pivo, that coffee was kava, and bread was well, I forget what bread was: it really doesn't matter. The innkeeper, admiring the old hunter's eagle, and now priding himself on his ability to make us understand, explained that it was the largest bird he had ever seen in the mountains. We treated the old mountaineers to kava, and gladly would have welcomed something stronger, but the innkeeper regretted that all he had was coffee. When we left the inn, the moon was high in a star-strewn dome of velvet depths. The pass broadened into a rough road again, and we strode down the mountain, by the small stone huts of shepherds spotted at long intervals here in the upland pastures. At one rock-walled shelter we met gypsies. They were kindling a few fagots beneath a crude tripod of charred branches - drying out tattered clothes that had doubtless been drenched by the shower. We knew them for gypsies from the tinkle of coins worn by a swarthy girl. The silver glistened as she leaned forward, stirring the fire to a little burst of flame as we passed. As we proceeded through the rock-studded pastures and across the valley toward the village, Lorrington and I discussed the psychology of fright. The object of my recent scare had actually been as harmless as a butterfly. I was frightened, but I cannot truthfully say, intense as those 142 A MOUNTAIN WILDERNESS moments were, that my fright had eclipsed the mysterious phantasma of beauty enshrouding this adventure. Is it not so with all such reactions? We respond by intuitively summoning the keenest of our senses. Of course there are those phlegmatic beings - we all know at least one - who could undergo almost any ordeal unruffled. Can senses stifled by mental control know the full thrill of emotion - or only its intellectual counterpart? And we mused on the difficulties that arise from our popular conception of cultivation - that never-flagging criticism of Nature wherein the'development of the senses is so frequently neglected that they may be subservient to the intellect. As Lorrington quoted from Burs, But och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feelin'. The village minarets soon rose pale and slender in the still blue night. Stars twinkled high above the silverthreaded valley of the Narenta - and the sleeping town of Mostar. 143 r I XIV AT ILIDZE A PLEASANTLY serene indifference to the usual small annoyances of travel marked Lorrington as a traveler of experience and an unusually comfortable companion. One knew when things had gone wrong only by his manner of smoking. After a few quick puffs he would remove his pipe, slowly blow out a long thin cloud of smoke and gaze into it until he seemed to visualize some sort of consolation. I remember only two such variations in my companion's smoking. One was on the night of the thunderstorm in the mountains, when he asked the old innkeeper what his strongest beverage was, and the man answered, 144 AT ILIDZE "Coffee!" The other occasion was at Ilidze, and for that there was greater justification. We were on the way to the source of the Bosna. The morning was fresh with an autumnal clearness - the rainwashed clearness that follows morning showers. Great white clouds were scurrying away, above long stretches of green country. There was a small railroad to Ilidze, but on such a morning the thought of a train was irksome. For a trifle more we could hire a droshky. Hailing a much bewhiskered driver, we arranged for the trip, and as we settled back to enjoy the easy flexibility of this antiquated conveyance, we admitted that no motor-driven vehicle could surpass its comfort. We longed again for days when the hectic bumping of taxis would be a thing unknown. Ahead of us the long sunny road wound off across a fertile valley, and we wondered if the easy sway of the droshky was not as essential to the enjoyment of the rural splendor as the sunny sky above us. Fifteen kilometers away, on the opposite side of the valley, a ridge of mountains rose in a violet-blue haze. Somewhere among the trees at the foot of this ridge was our destination the far-famed source of the Bosna. The horses stepped along at a steady pace, tossing their shaggy manes upward as they sniffed fragrant breezes from freshly cut hayfields. Fields of tobacco, lush with wide waxen leaves, bordered the road, and farther away billowing stretches of wheat, silvered by the undulating breeze. Wild flowers grew along the roadside and bees droned among 145 BALKAN SKETCHES them. Butterflies stopped in their lazy flight - poised here and there on a wild chrysanthemum. Orchards of scrubby little fruit trees spotted the roadside fields - plums, olives, figs, and cherries. Laughing peasant girls were picking cherries. We waved greetings in passing, and looked back to admire their pretty costumes, bright kerchiefs, white blouses and dark baggy pantaloons. They responded only after we were some distance past. One mischievously threw a kiss and the others teased her, for Balkan peasant girls are little given to frivolity. They are what the French so delightfully term tres serieuse. The countryside was full of long low hills, rolling and green and flower-starred, like the idyllic pastures where Daphnis and Chloe frolicked while tending their herds. I remember these hills evoked memories of a time when a line in my "Mother Goose" book fascinated me beyond all others - "Over the hills and far away." It was such hills as these that I had fancied. This simple line even now casts its spell of beauty; its graceful ease - its rhythmic lilt - seem to me in perfect harmony with its lightly traced imagery, firing the imagination, like an ever-changing horizon to some enchanted land beyond. A light breeze parted the driver's bushy beard, spreading it fanlike, and in the same manner his coat tails flapped sidewise. As the horses jogged steadily forward, their highpointed collars bobbed before us, gay with green leather and elaborate brass trappings. We neared the ridge of 146 AT ILIDZE wooded mountains. The noonday heat was already becoming uncomfortable, and we felt a pleasant relief on entering the tree-shaded road that penetrated the woodland. After crossing a rustic bridge, the driver turned out of the road and walked his horses through a shallow watering place, stopping in the shade to refresh them. Leaving the droshky, we looked down into the stream from the bridge. This was our first view of the Bosna - an eddying brook of crystal clearness, gurgling its way along over mossy rocks, and splashed with sun-gold that filtered down through cool green shadows. We listened to the murmur of rushing water and peered into its twisting pattern of glistening shallows and shadowy depths. Lorrington touched my arm, making a gesture of silence, and directed my gaze to a spot where his practiced eye had already detected an easily recognized speckled form. His eyes sparkled, and whispering endless terms of admiration, he swore to catch the fellow if he had to make a hook from a horseshoe. After looking fruitlessly through his pockets, we hastened back to see if our driver could be of any assistance. Pulling out an old blanket, he found a pin which Lorrington, with dexterous fingers, quickly fashioned into a hook. A bit of horsehair, the wings of a small beetle, a piece of stout thread long enough to reach the water, and his tackle was complete. The lusty fellow was still lurking in the shadow, apparently waiting for the tempting morsel about to be offered 147 BALKAN SKETCHES him. Lorrington crept up with great caution, stealthy as an animal stalking its prey, when, splash! - the coachman, curiosity aroused, had moved near the bridge, stumbling over a stone which rolled into the stream not a foot from the trout. As I have said, Lorrington's annoyance was conveyed by his manner of smoking, but this time it is only fair to add that his betrayal of irritation was amplified by a hasty expression of his opinion of the coachman - in words closely resembling prayer. But the stupid driver's gaze indicated such absolute ignorance of the blessing bestowed upon him that the humor of the diversion well repaid us, and we drove off along the road, knowing that we had, nevertheless, scented the trail. It was already nearing lunch-time, and the driver, as if to divert our attention from the trout episode, assured us that a good lunch could be had at the miller's. The miller, it seemed, was also a sort of caretaker, a rustic who lived at the source of this well-known stream, and had the reputation for being bountifully prepared with wholesome country food for casual visitors. His house was only a few kilometers away. We passed some old parks with hotels of neglected elegance pleasantly set among the trees, and surrounded by gravelled paths and flowers gone to seed. This was Ilidze, of which we had heard, the health resort famous for its baths and sulphur springs. It was late in the season and with the turning leaves and but a single couple strolling in this autumnal garden, it presented a somewhat melancholy pic148 AT ILIDZE ture of peaceful quiet. A robin or two spotted the great lawns, and bird calls were the only sounds to break the verdant silence. The horses, refreshed by their stop at the river, and doubtless encouraged by the sight ahead of a long shady road between arching trees, seemed to quicken their pace. Pricking up their ears, they must have sensed that the end of the drive and their measure of oats was not far off. Some five kilometers beyond Ilidze we left the highway and drove down among the trees to stop before a small whitewashed house - a peasant's home, low and rambling, cosily set in the shade of great over-hanging trees. It suggested all the pleasant hospitality that the welcoming miller and his beaming wife were soon to show us. Rustic tables and benches were set among the trees. A few ducks quacked a welcome, anticipating food. With the aid of our scant Slavic vocabulary, larded with German, a little French, and many laughing gestures, we gleaned that the miller's wife could offer us plenty of trout, lamb chops, country-made sausage, wine and beer, cheese, and a well-known Bosnian pastry of cake and honey. Lamb chops had no appeal for me, when fresh trout could be had for the asking. We were shown the fish, swimming about in a little reserve on the edge of the stream but a few steps from the house. The miller's boy, net in hand, stood grinning, prepared to capture any trout we might indicate. The boy's dexterity with the net was something for admiration even from 149 BALKAN SKETCHES a fisherman like Lorrington. But imagine the surprise that was mine when my companion, this world fisherman, was asked to select his trout. He gazed down at them with sparkling eyes and meekly said, "No, thank you, I never eat fish!" -and ordered chops! While lunch was being prepared, we strolled across rustic bridges to little islands between interlacing streams. There in the shade of the trees, we were shown the small gushing source as it came forth at the foot of a wooded mountain, the top of which was screened from our view by the dense foliage. A path encircled a great pool dark with blue-green reflections from the shadowy evergreens along its grassy banks and alive with trout. One saw that it was running water only when the fish were carried backward as their fins 150 AT ILIDZE stopped moving. This shaded preserve, the miller explained, was fed by underground channels carefully screened to keep the wily trout from escaping. Our host, walking slowly along the banks, seemed to be looking for something. Then lie pointed to the largest trout I have ever seen-the "grandfather of them all." We gazed down at this patriarch - an unusually rotund trout about eighteen inches long. I remember we were also informed that it was twenty-five years old and weighed sixteen pounds. While he was an object of great admiration, we knew that the little fellows of a pound were those to please an epicure. A few low buildings were set just back among the trees, a hatchery where the government expert in charge showed us baths containing everything from spawn to small fish. Thousands upon thousands of these finny creatures swam before our eyes, in shaded baths of cold running water, and we were satisfied that the story of this stream being wellstocked was no exaggeration. The superintendent told us that during the hatching months over a hundred thousand fish a week were set free in the stream. The little footbridges fascinated me by their rustic grace. The miller pointed out a particularly narrow span, having but one slender rail. This was the "Koza Tchoupria", he gaily informed us, and not being inclined to dispute him, I waited for the forthcoming explanation. It was the local name for "goat bridge." We returned to find the rustic table set with spotlessly 151 BALKAN SKETCHES white homespun linen. Wine was being uncorked and we were soon satisfying our hunger. With the succulent trout before me, I could not envy Lorrington his chops, beautifully browned and done to a turn as they were. Our wine finished, the miller appeared with another bottle - his special vintage- and at our suggestion that he might better understand our appreciation, stayed to join us. I have since tasted the cool Bosnian wine at many other places in the country, also the delectable sheeps'-milk cheese and honey cake; but here in the blossom-perfumed shade, with bird songs from the leafy bowers, and the gurgling of the nearby brook, a lasting impression was made upon me that will evermore enhance these simple delicacies of the Bosnian peasants. After coffee had been served, we settled back to enjoy our pipes and reflect on the day's adventure and the peaceful charm of this sylvan dell. Here at last was a fisherman's paradise - and an artist's Elysian retreat. Sitting beneath the lacy boughs it came to me that some such spot must have inspired Wordsworth's line, The world is too much with us.. 152 -Wm 9i) ^SS!^^I% XV SARAJEVO OLERANCE marks the respect with which these peoples of varying faiths mingle their common lot. Here one sees the Bosnian peasant of orthodox faith drop his contribution into the cup of a blind Mussulman who squats, playing his goussle, at the entrance of a mosque. Glancing at the peaceful little stalls where Christians, Mussulmans and Jews mingle in business, while each goes his own way to cathedral, mosque or synagogue, I wondered if tolerance is not one of the greatest of virtues. 153 4 BALKAN SKETCHE'S Tattered awnings shade the continuous row of narrow stalls; in one we see brilliant arrays of fruit and vegetables; in another a mountain of white cheese from which the vendor chips a small sample, offering it at the end of a long knife. Another vendor passes, shouting his wares, which he carries in a great tray above his head. Squashes - baked squashes - golden brown, and when a purchaser chooses one it is generously sprinkled with powdered sugar. In still another stall colored dry goods are displayed. Festooned above the entrance hang rows of gay Bosnian socks knitted in bold designs. One shop is hung with hundreds of turnedup sandals - opankas - the maker at work beneath them. A booth displays woodenware - cradles, all sizes of tubs and buckets, spoons, spatulas and sieves. Farther along is a stack of Turkish trunks, - boxes the size of small sea chests painted bright green, the sacred color of Allah, and gaily decorated with crescents and palm leaves. At the upper end of the market place is a red caf6 butcher shop; that is, a butcher stands at his counter beneath the awning, hacking off chops from time to time as the waiterchef shouts his orders from the shadowy interior. Aside from the butcher's place, two tables with benches find adequate space in the ten-foot stretch of shop front. Stopping at one of these tables, I ordered pivo, not because I am fond of beer nor that I was thirsty, but it was the only cool Serbian drink I could think of. The passing peasant types brought forth my sketchbook, and I filled page 154 1 i /, I,,~ yl'/ I I1 I /A r. -,. ~Tr I STREET IN OLD SARAJEVO SARAJEVO after page, while the beer stood neglected. Two young bloods from the country gazed over my shoulder, keeping at a respectful distance except at intervals when they would lean forward with something like an oath. This continued, the gestures becoming closer and the oaths more vehement, until I looked up from my sketchbook to see that my companions were rendering a great service. For some fifteen minutes, at least, they had been killing flies that hovered about my beer. Gazing at the beer, I understood that their expert efforts had been but fairly successful. Before leaving, I summoned the waiter, ordering additional beers to reward my guardians for their gallant service. Just beyond the red cafe is the shop where I took coffee with Moustapha Hassanovich. I had stopped to buy one of the delicately inlaid cigarette holders of amber and silver, when a dapper young Bosnian Mussulman, with keen eyes and a pleasant manner, greeted me in English. This was unusual in a Bosnian shopkeeper. He spoke so faultlessly, that I asked if he had been in England. "No, I learned it by myself from a book. Also I correspond with English-speaking friends in London and in New York and they write so well, I am ashamed of my poor English, and study every night." Moustapha made no effort to sell me his beautiful old rugs and embroideries that covered the walls - not even the little inlaid table from which we had coffee. He was perfectly content with the opportunity to speak English, and 157 BALKAN SKETCHES told me that some day he hoped to have a shop on Fifth Avenue. As I left, he pleasantly invited me to drop in for coffee any time in passing. Lorrington returned to Ilidze with its elysian streams and comfortable quarters in the miller's house, while I stayed on in Sarajevo, finding the Hotel Europe an agreeable place with modern baths and a well-established cuisine. But what attracted me most was its proximity to the old market place and bazaars where visitors doubtless spend most of their time. Each day brought its adventures. In the bazaars, in what at first had seemed like Bedlam let loose, mixed a seething mass of color and a tumult of raucous cries from vendors. Here I came to do what little shopping was necessary, and 158 SARAJEVO even money-changing, that has a way of demanding one's attention at times. Fantastic and erratic as an artist's wanderings sometimes become, I know my most understanding friends would have looked upon it as nothing short of folly for a foreigner to stroll into a narrow alley of this bazaar and enter a little whitewashed hovel with barred windows to do his money-changing. In the lamplight, where peasants were pawning jewelry, buying, selling, and exchanging strange pieces of gold and silver, it looked like the den of the forty thieves. But appearances go for little in these old places and business was as orderly as in an American bank and, from frequent news reports, far safer. The gunman who attempted to ply his crafty trade here would soon realize how much more keenly astute the wily peasant is to the changing flash of an eye or the telltale pace of a stranger's step than are people who have spent their lives in cities. I had spent much time sketching in the bazaars and grew to feel after these business contacts that I would have been willing to pay a slight premium for the privilege of feeling myself a part of its life. But I had, as a matter of fact, received better exchange rates in the market district than the larger local banks offered, and I remember that most of the newer structures were bank buildings. In this little street of the money-changers, there was an old silversmith's shop where I had bought a gypsy necklace made from Turkish coins and a large pendant of a coin irregularly round, -a strange piece, fascinating with its 159 BALKAN SKETCHES primitive tracery of design. Looking up this piece later, I found it to be Persian - of the fifth century. Its face bore a crude profile of the crowned and fiercely bearded ruler of that time. And the old silversmith himself, who was likewise bearded, might easily have passed for another Solomon. One day, while loitering in one of the small and rarely available patches of shade of the market place, I followed the course of an old vendor of lemonade. He wore a great red turban and a scant apron, and carried two bulbous pitchers with long necks and slender spouts. They were tinned to look like silver and sparkled in the sunlight. One pitcher contained water with which he first rinsed his tin cup before pouring a creamy sort of lemonade for his customer. He had stopped beside the display of pottery,glazed jars and crocks of green and yellow, spread about the squatting figure of the turbaned potter. As the old vendor moved slowly about, offering his lemonade, I recognized the twenty-five para piece, about half a cent, as the price of a drink. At the slow rate of demand from customers, I should say he must be content with thirty to forty cents as receipts for a busy day. He stopped to pass the time of day at one fruit stand and another and exchange his greetings with the baker, the shoemaker, and the tinker who travels around mending pots and pans and broken crockery. With the latter he paused to chat for a while. The tinker looked at the lemonade man's tin cup and they moved into a shady corner, where he added 160 _ __r __ ~ t" Im EM M ~i i, ~,,.:~ ~~~.~... r F: a ~ "x 'rt.i; ~~ ~?1. 2 -~'.-i~, t ~~~~~. "':$~B?$;! IU re *r X F ii. L i; ~ ~d 1 lssi3r`?c4;"P i' 1 '~! i V 'i.i* 5 - - E BOSNIAN PEASANTS a SARAJEVO a drop of solder, strengthening the weakened handle. Bundling up his pack again, he took a generous drink of lemonade in exchange, and they went their ways, each hawking his wares. The lemonade vendor seemed to be well known among the peasants and from a gaily kerchiefed group of girls he moved on to serve a bearded hodja. This customer was of sleek and well-to-do appearance. He wore a long coat of broadcloth and tightly buttoned black leggings. His turban was a long tasseled fez, neatly bound, in light tan silk. As the old fellow disappears in the kaleidoscopic life of the market, I am attracted to the veiled Turkish women, moving about among the stalls, shrouded in materials varying in color from the somber black of the old women to the light colors of young girls and the customary voluminous trousers. The younger girls - under ten or twelve - go about unveiled. They are often pretty and a number of them blonde and blue-eyed. Laughing and gay in their brightcolored scarves and baggy trousers, they dress like their elders, but in lighter materials, gay with large figured patterns and broad stripes. Mingling with the turbaned Turks, are Bosnians, in pointed astrakhan caps and wide-sleeved shirts of white homespun linen, flaring away at the neck in starched frills that seem strangely incongruous, contrasted with the swarthy tan and heavy moustaches of the wearers. These fellows wear wide sashes of vermilion or emerald-green and dark 161 BALKAN SKETCHES homespun breeches and have fancy color designs woven into the cuffs of their socks, showing above their turned-up pointed sandals. Not infrequently the shout of one of these men is the warning to make way for a string of shaggy pack ponies following him through the market place and into one of the roads leading up the mountains or along the valley. The constant movement of color sifts out toward noon, when most of the shopping is finished and the tired shopkeepers sit in their shaded stalls to drowse through the afternoon hours, stirring themselves only to serve the few late shoppers. Small boys carry coffee -trays of small cups from the near-by cafes - and appear at the stalls from time to time to serve their regular customers. 162 SARAJEVO As the muezzin calls from the great mosque rising above the low-huddled buildings of the ancient bazaar, one sees the followers of Allah appearing before their shops with pitchers of water; rolling up their sleeves, they wash faces and hands, not neglecting to rinse their mouths. Then stepping out of their slippers, they bathe their feet before going to prayer. Others stop to bathe at the fountain in the treeshaded courtyard of the great mosque. Just out of the market place in the small streets leading into the country, one sees the little cafes with the shaggy ponies of peasants tethered outside until late in the afternoon, when their owners leave to turn homeward, - the astrakhan-capped peasants, sometimes sitting astride the high wooden saddles like Cossacks, but more often leading the tired pony along at the end of a rope. It was on one of the roads leading down the valley along which old coffeehouses overhung the stream here and there, inviting in their cool shade, that I strolled one morning, to discover an old garden restaurant. It was well out of town at a spot where drooping willows bent their lush boughs over the stream, touching lightly on the water's surface and bending to the movement of the current. It was a garden of willows and old plane trees with large green leaves, brilliant with canary green, translucent in the sun. Tables and chairs were set about in this cool shade, some close to the water's edge, where one looked down upon a few rowboats tied to a small float. The little cafe itself was almost hidden by the 163 BALKAN SKETCHES trees which threw violet shadows over its white walls. Coming in from the noonday heat of a dusty road, the shade of this riverside garden was refreshing. I chose a comfortable seat by the river's edge and sat quietly gazing, picturing compositions of great trunks with drooping branches and little tables. One could look out on the passing current of a river that eddied prettily above the hidden rocks and old roots stretching out in fantastic forms. This was doubtless a quiet time of day here, and except for a few chickens scratching about beneath the tables nothing disturbed the noonday silence. Down along the river a few peasant women were wading in the shallow water, their clothes pulled well up to the knees. This seemed unusual, and peering down into the clear water I saw three great Oriental carpets spread out on the white gravel river bed. The women dragged them out to give them a thorough scrubbing with soap and water, then spread them out in the running stream again to rinse them. This was the first time I had seen the Oriental method of washing rugs, one which doubtless accounts for the long life of these delicate weaves. When they were pulled up on the sunny bank to dry, I saw that they were huge prayer rugs, such as one seldom sees outside of museums or mosques. They were treated with great care by the women who washed them, for a Mussulman woman, except on such occasions, never treads on a prayer rug. A portly old innkeeper in a red turban and white apron 164 SARAJEVO strolled leisurely out beneath the trees. He moved a chair or two, and stood at a distance until I had finished a sketch. A genial smile lighted his roseate countenance as I held up a watercolor of his garden. He wanted to show his household the beauties that surrounded them. I was immediately taken into the bosom of the family and although we spoke different languages, there seemed to be no difficulty whatever in making them understand that I would like to stay for lunch in the garden. What could be simpler than to follow the old fellow into his kitchen and choose from an orderly array in a cool larder, food for luncheon? A pretty country girl, flushed by the heat from the small stove, had just baked one of the flaky Bosnian honey cakes. After turning it out of a large flat pan, she cut it crisscross into lozenge-shaped pieces. I had a glass of wine with the proprietor, and after lamb chops had started to sizzle over the charcoal fire, I returned to the shaded table in the garden where lunch was served. Having promised to meet Milo, a Serbian friend of whom I shall speak later, at one of the coffeehouses in town, I returned to find that he had made arrangements to visit the great mosque. The caretaker had been a schoolmate of Milo's, and met us at a side door, with extra large slippers, that the shoes of an unbeliever might not tread the sacred floor. A soft light filtered down from small windows set high in the wall just beneath the dome. The interior was extremely simple; mosaic walls with scripts from the Koran were the only decoration. Worshipers without shoes came 165 BALKAN SKETCHES in at the main entrance, and salaamed after each utterance of their prayer. They knelt on a platform the width of the mosque, raised above the spacious straw-matted floor before them. My gaze must have lingered on the straw matting, for the caretaker explained that they had really very beautiful rugs, some that had been given them by a former Sultan, but they were now being cleaned. When I told of seeing the rug washers along the river, the caretaker assured me that they were the mosque rugs, - that there were no others in all Bosnia for which they might be mistaken. Leaving the courtyard of the mosque, I stopped to look back at the weather-green dome arching above the whitewashed walls, then at the pillars along the raised platform at its broad entrance, with spiral stripes of green and white. My interest in Oriental architecture reminded Milo that I should see the Town Hall. This was an imposing edifice, extremely Oriental in character, the exterior being of henna and pale pink in broad horizontal stripes and wrought inside with delicate filigrees and mosaics, a replica of an Egyptian palace. Marble pillars supported a balcony above its lofty court of honor. 166 XVI THE LACE SHOP HE window was attractive because of the pretty wares displayed. There were gay Balkan embroideries, blouses, colored scarves and delicate feminine things of lace. It was in a quiet little street near the hotel, and often in passing I had stopped to gaze. Early one evening I stood before the window, wondering how to express myself in this language so alien - I had even composed what I believed to be a Serbian sentence - when an unusually attractive young person appeared in the open doorway. As I stood uncertain whether I should enter, the lady relieved my in167 BALKAN SKETCHES decision by stepping aside. Once within, my carefully formulated Serbian speech promptly deserted me and in its place I addressed the pretty shopkeeper in French. She smiled and to my great relief replied in as sweetly spoken French with a fascinating Slavic accent - as ever was heard. Within the shop, the alluring displays were bewildering and I stopped to look at a gay array of colored scarves. My utterance of French had, however, led the young lady to decide that scarves could be of no great interest. "Ah! Monsieur est frangais, alors - pas ici s'il vous plais, Monsieur." Radiant with a smile that was at once contagious, and as though my innocently intended French exclamation had been a bond of confidence, she led me into a small room at the rear of the shop - a part of it, but somewhat more delicately arranged with intimate things of frills and lace slightly suggesting a boudoir. "Elle est blonde ou brunette, Monsieur?" Without waiting for an answer, she continued in a delightfully musical ripple of French, and holding daintily before her own trim figure a most bewitching and abbreviated garment of disturbingly diaphanous lace, looked at me with a lightly questioning appeal. It seemed to say, "What more could Monsieur wish?"' She took advantage of my speechless admiration by adding, "II est jolie, n'est ce pas, Monsieur?" enhancing the filmy -garment still more by holding it a bit closer to her own chic person. 168 THE LACE SHOP Hesitating for a moment, fearful that an immediate reply would put an end to the pretty picture before me, I warmly agreed that it was very beautiful and promptly bought it. None but a stoic could have done otherwise. To have hesitated would have been nothing less than an unjust criticism, not so much of the dainty article, perhaps, as of the pretty shopkeeper's alluring demonstration. There was nothing for me to do but say, "If it pleases Mademoiselle, I will take it." And forgetting for the moment that I had stopped in to get something for Daria, I stood wondering what I would do with this pretty bit, when the young lady said she would send Monsieur's purchase to the hotel - although the parcel was no larger than a box of cigarettes. I was sweetly assured that it would be delivered this very evening at any time Monsieur would suggest. Now it so happened that the manager of the hotel, seeing me go and come with a sketchbook, had confided that he was an amateur, that perhaps I would like to see his collection of pictures. I had made an appointment to look at his paintings this particular evening. It now occurred to me that this had been a grievous mistake. Returning to the hotel, I was of half a mind to postpone the engagement, when a tinge of shame came over me as I thought again of the bewitching shopkeeper. After all, charming and attractive as she had been, she had at no time done more than display her wares in an engaging mannerwhich was no more than a shopkeeper's privilege. To con169 BALKAN SKETCHES sider it otherwise would have been to misjudge a sincere little person, who doubtless was simply doing her best to make a success of her modest enterprise. I was still thinking of the pretty picture she made, displaying her dainty garment, when I became suddenly aware that the manager-collector was standing beside me, saying that a droshky stood awaiting us at the door, that it was but a short drive to his house. After ascending several dark flights of stairs, we were let into the long corridor of an apartment almost destitute of furniture or other decorations. At the very end of this corridor my host unlocked a door and after he lighted the lamps I saw a room the walls of which were literally covered with paintings - oils, watercolors, pastels, portraits, landscapes, and miniatures - all kinds of pictures. I say all kinds, though after looking around, with a polite yet perfunctory admiration for the pictures which I saw were the collector's favorites, I realized that there were all kinds but good ones. I do not know when I have been so embarrassed, and yet this predicament often confronts almost any artist. When we had made the circuit of the walls and I was about to thank the collector-manager for his kindness, he pulled aside a drapery, revealing another room. This room contained his favorites, - why, I could not understand, since they seemed exactly on a par with the others. I supposed it was for sentimental reasons, for a great many of them were pictures of ladies - and others - some bearing dedications 170 THE LACE SHOP and dates of a time when this bald-headed old h6telier must have been a beau. There were photographs among them, some of himself with a well-waxed moustache. Before these I lingered a bit longer, with my most cordial imitation of admiration. The old fellow by now had gone to a cupboard, and producing wine and glasses, became reminiscent of a time when the halo of youth had glorified his past. I had not the heart to deny the old man the pleasure these recollections seemed to give him, although the wine was very bad, and for nearly an hour he rambled on until I rose to go. "But the pictures, Monsieur. I would be pleased to sell you some of them." Explaining that I was just a poor artist was not enough. Would not Monsieur take some of his pictures to America to sell them for him there, where there was lots of money? It occurred to me then that I might better appeal to his sense of thrift. I explained with great conviction that unluckily I happened to be an artist returning to America with my own humble efforts; that it would be exceedingly bad business and undoubtedly disastrous for my own success if I should at the same time offer for sale his wonderful paintings. And he saw that it was simply unfortunate that I was an artist, not a collector. Walking back to the hotel, I thought how little it really mattered whether these pictures were good or bad. The old fellow was not a bad sort and he had enjoyed collecting them, - a thing he could not have afforded had they been 171 BALKAN SKETCHES good pictures. Here was a hobby that seemed to have been the one consistent chain of harmony that had linked together a pseudo-romantic past with a commonplace present. I had no sooner returned to the hotel than a light tap on my door brought me to open it. A small package was presented from the darkness of the corridor, and I recognized the pretty shopkeeper's pleasant accent, saying that she thought it much better to deliver such a small parcel in person; hotel help, sometimes being curious or careless, might mislay it. She did not want Monsieur to think that she had forgotten her promise to deliver it this evening. It seemed so inhospitable to see this little lady timidly standing there in the doorway, that I thought at least I could invite her to enter - and with a hesitating gesture she modestly accepted the invitation. As I closed the door, she remarked what a cosy room I had and was attracted by some sketches I had pinned to the wall. They were mostly studies of market-place types and afforded her considerable amusement as she recognized some of the more familiar characters. She displayed an unusually intelligent interest in the sketches, and said she had studied art as a girl in Russia, in the convent where she had learned needlework. She had thought some of posing herself, but did not know any artists, adding in a demure manner that also she was not sure that her figure was perfect enough. In a sincere and naively appealing simplicity, she asked if I would be good enough to tell her. This seemed indeed a small favor to ask. I promptly 172 THE LACE SHOP assured the pretty Russian that since by her early study and her present vocation she, too, was an artist, and since we were so closely allied professionally, I could not refuse so slight a favor; that on the contrary I considered it a professional duty. Where the judgment of Paris would be difficult for the most tactful of men, to judge of the beauty of but one of the Graces could only be looked upon as the most delightful of tasks. Assuring my modest visitor that I considered her grace and beauty worthy of perpetuation by the brush of a master, I saw that her gaze was lingering on. a rare old bottle of Johannisberger which I had recently discovered in a small restaurant. It occurred to me that there was a time and a place for everything; that it might not be taken amiss if I, in turn, solicited a favor - her esteemed opinion of this old wine. With a pleasant affability she assured me that this would be a delightful opportunity to reciprocate, innocently remarking that it was a pretty bottle - of such an inviting appearance that it would undoubtedly prove worthy of investigation. While I searched my luggage for a corkscrew, my attention was solicited with a plaintive sweetness, "Now what does Monsieur think?" I could hardly believe my eyes, and as for answering her question, I required at least a moment or two before I could think at all. I beheld, stepping out from a dainty little pile of lacy things, the most bewitchingly modest personification of Nature in a glory of unadorned feminine perfection. 173 BALKAN SKETCHES My speechless admiration was put at ease in the same demure manner with which earlier in the evening I had been asked if the daintily displayed garment had pleased Monsieur. And again with an appealing simplicity I was asked almost impersonally if Monsieur approved. Was she really beautiful enough? I could not tell the truth-that she was not only beautiful, but too beautiful - and thinking of some of the slovenly hags that offer themselves as models, I assured my modest companion that she need have no lingering doubt as to her ability to please an artist. My timid visitor had noticed a bowl of fruit decorating the table. I invited her to partake of the tempting display, and she chose an apple. Not until then did I realize what an enchanting Eve my innocent guest had become, and saying as much seemed to please her. We were chatting pleasantly when there came a most disturbing rap at the door. Hastily removing from sight all signs of feminine apparel, my shy visitor stepped quickly behind a great armoire while I replied to the knock. It was the old hotel-manager-art-collector. Something was said about a lady calling an hour ago, but before his speech was finished, I interrupted with a most solicitous apology, wondering if I could persuade Monsieur to part with one of his small paintings. And since he knew pictures so much better than I, I would consider it a favor if he would use his own judgment in choosing one for me - promptly placing a few hundred dinars - about three dollars and a quarter - in his hand. 174 THE LACE SHOP I was assured in a most fatherly manner that it was a matter of no importance whatsoever who delivered parcels to my room; he had simply stopped to see that everything was all right. I thanked him warmly and was promptly left with an exceedingly affable "Dormez bien, Monsieur." As I closed the door, suppressing a sigh of relief that everything was so beautifully settled, my modest companion came shyly toward me as if for protection. "Oh, Monsieur, I am so glad." "So glad! Why so glad?" I wondered in amazement. "Oh, Monsieur, I thought at first it was my husband." "Your husband?" "Yes, Monsieur. You see, he is a very jealous man, getting quickly excited over little things, - he misunderstands." Her husband she briefly described as no less a personage than the Count Nicolai Vladimir Petrofski, once distinguished as a captain of cavalry in a Cossack regiment, but now reduced to the humble estate of local droshky driver of excellent health. Her further comment revealed him as an awkward person with an unbelievable lack of understanding. This, with a description of his bewhiskered appearance, convinced me that he was none other than the driver who had taken Lorrington and myself to Ilidze. Recalling how clumsily he had scared away Lorrington's trout, my emotions were thoroughly aroused in a deep and sympathetic feeling for this unfortunate little lady. 175 BALKAN SKETCHES But things were moving much too fast for me, and presently I was to be asked if she could not accompany me to America - as my sister. I must have appeared slightly bewildered, for her prompt assurance followed that once she was in America my responsibility would be at an end. She could easily look after herself. Of this I had little doubt. An ingenious plan was outlined by which she could capitalize not only her ability as a shopkeeper, but also her defunct Russian title, for titles, she coyly remarked, may be a great asset in America after they have outlived their usefulness in Europe. Gazing up at my sketches again, she ventured that if worst came to worst, she could pose in the bazaars in America, because they were especially devoted to her particularly feminine type of merchandise, much more so than the local bazaars. My bewilderment was again vanquished when the ambitious little countess-shopkeeper revealed to me that she had often seen in American fashion journals the delightfully illustrated advertisements of hosiery and undergarments - that her imperfect reading of English had led her to believe that Harper's Bazaar was an American counterpart for the local bazaar, and that American shops were quite naturally more devoted to moder feminine attire than they were here in an old world of peasantry. The hour was getting late. Recalling again that her husband was a droshky driver, I suggested that, if for no other reason, the success of any future plans might be facilitated 176 THE LACE SHOP by her returning home now instead of later. Gazing down the window to the stone-paved street, some fifty feet below, it seemed to me, now that all was quiet, perhaps discretion would be the better part of valor. After the pretty shopkeeper had so carefully delivered my parcel, it would have been inconsiderate not to accompany her downstairs and along the street to her door, to bid her good night in peace and quiet. As I waited for the night watchman to open the hotel door, a droshky passed the end of the street and the crisp snap of the driver's whip seemed to leave a significant echo in the stillness of the night. 177 XVII IN THE BOSNIAN MOUNTAINS H ERE in these Balkan provinces you will find a wholesome people, mostly peasants, exceedingly courteous and law-abiding. Although one has heard much of the unrest among the different States, since Serbia has spread her territory over Yugo-Slavia, that has become a thing of the past. The people themselves are peaceful, hard-working peasants. The tilling and harvesting is done by the stronger members of the family, both men and women. The elders stay at home to spin and weave the homespun from which most of their clothes are made. Others toil long hours on their upland farms, children and old men herding the mountainside flocks. During the long winter evenings older members of the family lighten the household tasks by telling stories. Then, 178 IN THE BOSNIAN MOUNTAINS too, each settlement has its story-teller or gooslar, for the story-teller uses a long single-stringed instrument called the goussle to accompany his chanted tales. They are mostly hero tales and doubtless have done much to keep alive the heroic spirit of this noble race. The magnificent history of this old Slavic nation shows that, from their conquests over the invading Turks down to modem times, they are among the bravest soldiers in all Europe. I remember an incident during the late War. It was in France. Three Serbs in ragged uniforms appealed to me, then in uniform, for information to help them join the American army. They were survivors of the shattered Serbian army, driven temporarily from their own country and working on farms in France. Two of them had been in America. Speaking English better than French, and cherishing happy recollections of the States, they were anxious to join the American army. I well remember their enthusiastic appreciation when given a note and directed to the nearest recruiting officer. On making inquiries later, I found that they were excellent soldiers. I must now speak of another fine Serbian subject, who refers fondly to his years in America, Milan Perisich, a young man who organized a number of Serbs to come from the far West, across the United States, over seas, and into the middle of Europe to fight for their native country. Like many other foreigners, he could have joined the A. E. F. with little difficulty, thus securing food and the tempting pay 179 BALKAN SKETCHES of an American soldier; but having been born in Serbia where heroes are still worshiped, he, like his recruits, heeded only the call of his country. That is patriotism. After the war Perisich served as interpreter with our Food Commission here in the Balkan States and in Constantinople. And even of these trying days, wearied by long hours of service, he retains, like the soldier he is, only pleasant memories. "They call me Milo," as he modestly put it soon after I first met him. He introduced himself while I was sketching one day along the river road to one of the outlying villages of Sarajevo. It was, I afterward learned, the road to his home - a little white peasant house at Savez Dobrovogace. There Milo lives with his little family - a wife and two small children - in his tiny home set in a mountainside garden of vegetables and fruit trees overlooking the river Miljacka. Tall and swarthy, with dark clothes hanging loosely on his lanky figure, and deep-set eyes that flamed with seriousness, he suggested to me nothing so much as a Serbian Abraham Lincoln. I must thank Milo for telling me many things and taking me to out-of-the-way places in the Bosnian Mountains that otherwise I might never have known. We were coming down from the mountains late one afternoon. Black clouds had been piling up. Then as if their forms had gradually dissolved, a permeating mist sifted into the valley, veiling all but the nearest slopes in a blue haze. In the gathering twilight, showers fell, filling little ruts that crossed our road, 180 iff lli! 44 f~to I4 TA IN THE BOSNIAN MOUNTAINS IN THE BOSNIAN MOUNTAINS where streams flowed down the mountainside. The mist in the valley was now like a shifting film of fairy-like gauze. Showers passed, shutting out details as by a diaphanous screen. The great mountains rose in echelons of subtly varying values -phantasies that vanished in the miststrangely reminding one of Hiroshigi's prints. We stopped at a spring where a barefoot girl of eight or ten was watering a great buff-colored ox. She prodded the animal to change his position so that we could approach the spring. Our intrusion aroused a touch of curiosity alike in the wideeyed gaze of the great animal and that of its youthful mistress. She led the docile beast away as unconcerned as though it were a pet lamb. The road wound around by a dense forest, shadowy and open between great tree trunks, spiked here and there with dark cypress and strewn with boulders. It seemed like the enchanted woodland I had always imagined, where Jason, after his long search, found the Golden Fleece, - the dragon-guarded sacred woods. As we neared this wood, Milo touched my arm. We heard the plaintive notes of a shepherd's flute and peering into the shadows saw coming down one of the mossy slopes among the boulders, first, the dignified rams and the bleating sheep, then, tottering helterskelter in the rear, the lambs. The shepherd boy followed in his hooded coat of sheepskin. There in the misty clearing the boy moved on ahead of his flock, picking up another trail that led down the mountainside toward a small group of 183 BALKAN SKETCHES stone huts. He vanished from sight as a faint echo of his pipes lingered in the evening stillness. The fairy-like mystery of this wooded Bosnian mountain was emphasized in the coming of night. A mountaineer's hut of stone came into view. The long eaves of its pitched roof fitted over the small windows like a winter cap pulled down to protect it from the snow. At the doorway an old woman stood spinning, with a distaff of raw wool. By the inevitable sequence with which night follows day, Nature peoples her settings with great consistency. The age-worn mountain, the ancient stone hut, the old crone spinning presented a complete harmony. We came to an inn - a long rambling place with eaves snuggled low over its small square windows. A few tired ponies stood drowsing with drooping heads and shaggy manes that hid their eyes. Squares of dim light from the small windows glistened on their wet wooden saddles. We heard the deep voices of men singing, and stopped to listen. They were powerful voices, filled with romantic exuberance and accompanied by the droning goussle. Entering quietly, we exchanged greetings, conforming to the peasant custom, and found a table at the opposite end of the low room. The singers were peasants - some in turbans, others in black astrakhan caps worn at rakish angles - and bold with the red wine they were drinking. The place was murky, doubtless from years of soot from the oil lamp hanging from a rafter in the center of the room. The corers of 184 IN THE BOSNIAN MOUNTAINS the room and beneath the rough-hewn tables and benches were deep with shadows. The songs the men sang, Milo told me, were old hero tales of Serbia, mostly of the gallant Prince Marko - Kralyevitch Marko - the great mediaeval hero of Serbia, whose praises the gooslars have sung for centuries. The chanting rhythm of the verse, often repeated over and over, gave Milo opportunity to translate for me at times. There were songs in praise of the hero's brave deeds that near the end rose in a vibrating crescendo. They had immortalized not only Prince Marko, but his wonderful horse, Sharatz, the piebald charger that always companions the hero in his marvellous exploits. He knew when to rear or 185 BALKAN SKETCHES kneel, to dodge the lance of an enemy, and Milo himself explained with a growing enthusiasm, "Sharatz could spring up to the height of three lengths of a lance and to the distance of four lance lengths forward"; and Prince Marko could "throw his heavy mace aloft as high as the clouds and catch it again in his right hand without dismounting from his trusty courser, Sharatz." These peasants sang of wild rides across the mountain tops, of vanquishing powerful enemies, especially the dreaded Turk, who were usually cleft in two by a single blow from Marko's mace. The mace, Milo told me, was said to weigh a hundred pounds. Sharatz was the most wonderful steed ever known, of such speed that he could easily overtake the flying Veele.1 Marko never rode another horse. They were comrades together for a hundred and sixty years. While speeding through the mountains, Marko could sleep without fear. Sharatz would protect him from the Zmay,2 the Haidooks,' and the Djinns.' Wonderful to relate, the Prince fed his horse as he did himself - the identical fare (! ) - giving him plenty of red wine. Although Marko was never known to have been intemperate, he consumed quantities of red 1 Veele - or Vile (singular, Veela or Vila). Minor deities, nymphlike and of wondrous beauty, in Serbian superstition, identical with the vv/IbaL and 7roraiol mentioned by the Greek historian, Procope. 2 Dragon. 8 Night brigands. 4 Cave giants, like the one-eyed Cyclops. 186 IN THE BOSNIAN MOUNTAINS wine, and, in quaffing to his name, these peasants justified their emulation of the gallant Prince. In one song Marko and his steed rode off together, described as "dragon mounted on dragon," - for in Serbia a dragon may be good as well as evil. Many of these songs were like chants and started in an easy rhythm of decasyllabic verse and accented in final runs of great exuberance. We bought wine for ourselves and another bottle for the singers, and joined them to drink to the renowned Prince Marko. The showers over, the peasants went out to untie their ponies and start up the mountain. We strode on in the opposite direction through Dobrovogace, toward Milo's house in the mountains. For some time we heard the peasants still singing until at last the sound of their voices was lost in the distance. I remarked that the singers were fine types. Milo did not respond immediately. After we had walked on in silence for a while, Milo said, "Maybe - for you, but they don't like me." In the darkness Milo explained, "You see, I'm a foreigner here." Knowing Milo's English was not faultless, I asked if he hadn't meant to say that I was a foreigner. "No, you're all right. They don't know what you are! But they know me. They know I was born in Herzegovina, and this is Bosnia. That means I'm a foreigner to them." Milo talked again of the States and his happy days in California. This was refreshing, for at least it was hearing 187 BALKAN SKETCHES of California from other than a native son. Milo told of being in business there - he had a lunch room near the Mexican border - and of the good times he had had with cinema celebrities who used to visit him on the way back from parties in Tia Juana. I had heard from lips other than Milo's that his own people had chosen him for president of their national society in the West. This, as I remember it, was in Montana, where many Serbs are engaged in mining and agriculture. Milo loved to talk of these happy days and lived them over again. They were more real to him than the dark mountains of Bosnia, where, as we strolled, the only sounds were the gurgle of an invisible mountain brook on its way along the black ravine, or the distant bark of a fox in the darkness. 188 It I ri, *j^J1L W41 r-;s 4., I 3 I' V - *s " - 9 - ns d~- 0 -r~tt.'W U tV -.-t ' W ^ b ^'^rm's^^I -- - - XVIII OF ARTISTS AND OTHERS G LANCING over the day's sketches, it is clearly obvious to me that my poor best is always done while blissfully unaware of all worldly trouble. In studio chats the question frequently arises, - Does not the artist do better work when happy? Or is the reaction reversed; is it not the happiness of satisfaction that follows good work? Reflecting on the works of artist friends, it is clear that the most pleasing, the rare works of elegant simplicity, are invariably by happy men. Those who scowl over perplexing problems produce at the best but scientific work -a sort of synthetic art. It will not appear surprising, then, 189 BALKAN SKETCHES to reveal here that there are a great number of staunch supporters of the belief that a continued state of bliss would be ideal, if not necessary, for the production of real art. After this revelation one realizes that artists should, with the greatest perspicuity, shrink from all difficult responsibilities, troublesome worries, encumbrances, inhibitions, and other disturbing embarrassments that would mar the blissful serenity of this Nirvana. Great things must be done with ease. Doubtless Solomon himself passed judgment with an exceedingly light touch, while chatting easily, -probably pleasantly anticipating what the morrow might bring in the way of wives from the local employment agency. Is it, then, surprising that plumbers, barbers, garagemen, bootleggers, and others following the vocations of highly skilled labor should flinch at the thought of manual exertions? Although mention of this may be arrogant presumption on the artist's part, we have a common bond with skilled labor. We, too, must cultivate an attitude of blissful repose during working hours. So, too, must we conceal all evidence of laborious effort. This is the telltale distinction between the work of an amateur and that of a master. Perhaps I have labored this point, but I hope with sufficient excuse. Any sincere union worker knows that there are people who actually refer to our desire for personal comfort and moments of meditation as - laziness! Brother artists may not accuse me of any breach in pro190 i U;fl A _It "\ A/ 5,9's-^.~ I e I if ( /. n=; I-i BAZAARS, SARAJEVO I I OF ARTISTS AND OTHERS fessional ethics when I reveal to the layman that we seldom attempt even a sketch without first carefully looking around for a tree to lean against, or a comfortable seat in the shade, or - even a cafe chair. In fact, a place at a cafe table is greatly favored by those who have given the matter careful consideration. Then, too, beneath the cafe awning one can partake of a pleasant draught with which to lift the spirits from time to time. Comfortably settled, the artist scans the horizon for a subject. But subjects to please the fastidious artist's fancy are not easily found. After exhaustive observations, he may even then find nothing worthy of his efforts and be obliged to continue his daily toil by moving on to another cafe. The serious worker is not easily discouraged. I have known artists to spend whole days in such painstaking search for inspiration. During these relentless quests the true artist must never become exasperated. Throughout this seeming futility of his search, he must always remember the importance of maintaining a happy state of mind. He may even be forced to take a little stimulant at times. This enables him to continue on into the evening, if necessary. Not infrequently, kind and sympathetic friends come to the artist's aid, - understanding souls who realize only too well that despondency may follow long fruitless essays. During these sustained efforts, unprotected by union hours, the noblest adherent to Art is likely to falter at times. Almost any artist can recall instances where serious 193 BALKAN SKETCHES workers have continued this pursuit, aided by artificial stimulant, on through the night and well into the morning, sometimes actually falling by the wayside from sheer exhaustion, with nothing more to show for it the next day than a taxi bill of astounding proportions. But the true artist is courageous. Some have been known to "carry on" for years in the face of what would seem like incessant defeat. There are zealous enthusiasts in Paris to-day. At any hour of the day or night they may be found - sitting at the Caf6 du Dome or across the Boulevard at the Rotonde. In fact, the demand in this student quarter is so great that a new cafe, The Select, has provided additional accommodations. Each student may appear idle, but actually he is the slave of his jealous mistress, Art. In fact, he may achieve an enviable distinction for these years of sustained pursuit. The elusive Muse seems often to hover near - at times about to succumb to his ardent wooing - then suddenly this fickle companion shrinks away with a hesitating shyness and vanishes before visiting the artist's studio. These devots are exceedingly sensitive souls, with a rare depth of understanding that few can appreciate. Each little group has at least one such apostle. He is known as a "great artist." The artists themselves have even been known to admit their "greatness." I remember one idol of abstracted appearance who was pointed out as "great." Anxious to know what his work was like, I asked some of his friends at the caf6. But they had never seen his pictures. 194 OF ARTISTS AND OTHERS I inquired of a girl to whom he had spoken in passing. She also was one of the soulful cult enthralled not by things but by the nebulous depths of feelings, and, like others of her cult, came to meditate at the cafe tables; to sit and wait for - well, something to happen to them. Almost anything would do if they felt that it would be - different. Not only would he do - he would be greeted by open arms, shall we say? In fact, like owners of worn-out mining prospects, she would gladly welcome any one as a partner. She, too, confessed that she had never seen the master's work. My inquiries seemed to cause her pain that changed to tenderness as she gazed at him. "But can't you see! Just look at him! Can't you see that he's great?" At that moment he was guzzling a demi! These long years of fruitless devotion are only for those really gifted workers who must be fastidious in selecting subjects worthy of their ability. The Muse, I fear, has but lightly touched my care-free brow. Like a child in a toyshop, I have rambled along, attracted by all things, amazed by the wonders that greet me at every turn, stopping to sketch - well, almost anything. And it is a never-ending source of surprise that such unpremeditated things come out much better than I have thought they would. One day in Sarajevo I found that I had developed an unusual fastidiousness. I must admit the sense of pride and consolation I found, feeling that after all a rare sensitiveness was being born within me. Then, embarrassed by a frequent 195 BALKAN SKETCHES involuntary pursing of the lips, I stopped at a chemist's. Bicarbonate of soda proved to be the acid test. My fastidiousness vanished like thin air. I had wined and dined, none too wisely - the night before. I just ambled around all the afternoon - there had been no morning - looking at this and that, unable to find anything that seemed just exactly the sort of thing I felt like doing. I remember one composition I was almost on the point of starting, when Fate stepped in to save me from a most ignoble humiliation. It was late in the afternoon. After serious consideration, mustering my reserve of fortitude, I persuaded myself to sit at a cafe table. It was near the river, overlooking a garden. The nesting symphony of late afternoon had already begun. There was a little triangle of high green hedge where splashes of sunlight fell in tender caresses. At last I felt the urge to sketch. Two curving paths vanished amid the green, with people going and coming. The muezzin's call from a near-by minaret was answered by turbaned figures moving toward the mosque. I sat gazing at the little green garden spot. Milo was with me. Knowing that I was about to start work, he left me to my task, strolling off to buy cigarettes. As I studied my composition, I noticed that of the two paths, one was an entrance where figures moved lightly towards what seemed to be a small mosque. A shadow-splashed dome rose in a graceful curve above the green. The other path seemed to be an exit. Men sauntered out leisurely, lit cigarettes, and moved on. It was a pleasant scene. 196 OF ARTISTS AND OTHERS Suddenly I saw a woman hurrying down the exit path. Her extreme agitation broke in upon the tranquillity of the scene. Abruptly she burst forth with blood-curdling shrieks that made my flesh creep; and before I could rush to her aid a crowd had surged round, listening to her wild cries and incoherent explanations. Something terrible had happened. I saw Milo in the crowd, making inquiries, and joined him to learn the horrible details. "This grief-stricken woman is the custodian of the comfort station. A man just rushed away without paying his twenty-five para fee." It seemed that the portals of this temple of Cloacina were equipped in the well-known manner so that each turn of the latch registered. Her misery was born of a fear that the inspector would make her pay. As she continued her lamentations, Milo further enlightened me. "She can't chase the culprit or other patrons will escape without paying. All she can do is wail." It was just another of life's perplexing problems where the woman pays. By now the light had faded. Consoled by the fact that artists were not the only ones who sometimes labored without recompense, and satisfied that no one can successfully combat Fate -that this was not a day for work-I repaired to the caf6 with Milo and once again listened to the "drowsy tinklings" of his reminiscences about happy days in Tia Juana. 197 XIX OLD TURKISH TERRITORY W E were wandering in the verdant Bosnian Mountains, as fertile and velvety as the mountains of Herzegovina had been austere. We came to a village of eight or ten stone peasant houses with long sloping roofs, and small cattle sheds, also of stone, built against the face of an overhanging cliff. Suddenly there were gunshots. A terrible din echoed among the mountains. Peasants had assembled to beat improvised drums - kettles and tubs - -while the children hammered pans and tin cans. Great 198 OLD TURKISH TERRITORY black clouds were piling up above the mountain tops. Milo scanned the leaden sky, saying simply, "Hail." "That's why the peasants make so much noise. To them, those clouds are devils that destroy the crops." I must have looked incredulous, for Milo went on, "Have you ever seen what hail does to crops?" I assented, and recalled storms in the Marne Valley where, with other students, I had spent several summers. In the heart of the champagne country I had seen the sky bombarded by great rockets when the sinister hail clouds came down from the north. When they gathered, great apprehension seized the peasants, who made ready their bombs, and throughout the length of the valley one heard a great booming and saw the white puffs break out against the dark clouds. Then would come the rain, falling in large drops. But we were curious to know if the clouds had really carried hail, and after the storms we went back into the hills, where vineyards were more isolated and peasants too poor to send up these expensive bombs. There we saw crops and even trees laid low, for great winds came down with these storms; and the precious vineyards were now a tattered waste that foretold hardships for the peasants depending upon them - the toil of a whole season was lost. * Recalling this, I no longer wondered that these poor Bosnian peasants grasped at the slightest hope of warding off threatened disaster. Their religion is a naturalism. The elements are personified by the deities they still believe in. 199 BALKAN SKETCHES Heavy mists that wavered and shifted across the black tree trunks, faintly visible here and there, enshrouded us like a cloak of silence. Variable and evanescent as were these transformations, they were hardly more changeable than the creeds that have swept this hoary land. Here, where the deities of Olympus were worshiped, we now find the Greek Orthodox side by side with the Mussulman and those of Roman faith. Can one wonder, when such a variety of creeds accompanies civilization, that these primitive peoples still stand in awe of the constant forces of Nature? Some twelve hundred years ago the Slavs invaded the Balkan peninsula, forming small independent States. YugoSlavia has been called the realization of the dream of these mediaval settlers. Here in the cataclysm of war whole nations have disappeared, to be reborn with one national consciousness. Hero-worshipers, like their sturdy forefathers, these steadfast peoples have been nurtured to a single nation. Not only through able statesmen has this been accomplished, but by centuries of unknown peasant bards.- the gooslars. Every Serbian village has its storyteller who sings of the valiant deeds of Marko Kralyevitch. We had passed the last of the green stubble, the last grazing grounds for the shepherds. Just before dusk settled we saw something prowling among the crags. It stopped for a moment, sniffed the air and stole away between the rocks. A smile of secret amusement spread over Milo's face as he observed my intense interest. "Vook," he said, and some200 OLD TURKISH TERRITORY how I knew that my Serbian vocabulary had been increased by the word for wolf. Had I been previously warned that there were wolves in these mountains, I doubt that I would el /1 this fellow must be hungry, having come down this far, doubtless looking for stragglers of some poor shepherd's flock. A long dismal howl rent the silence. '-* 201 BALKAN SKETCHES It suddenly occurred to me that we should be getting back for dinner. In fact, we might hurry a bit, for it would be at least an hour before we could reach town. "Yes," said Milo, "I think that's a good idea. That howl, you know, is the way wolves call their pack." And the habits of wolves furnished a subject for conversation until we got well down the mountainside. We met a graybearded shepherd and Milo told him of the wolf. The shepherd called to a long-horned goat with a bell tied about its neck. The goat served as "shepherd dog" and set about rounding up the stragglers of his flock. As we left, the old shepherd was settling himself by the embers of a small fire, charging an ancient breech-loading Turkish pistol. We reached Sarajevo and stopped at a coffeehouse. The turbaned proprietor greeted us with a nod, and set out two little brass coffeepots beside his charcoal fire. I realized that this country even now was more Turkish than many parts of Europeanized Turkey to-day. Although the government is no longer that of the Sultan, the customs of this old regime change but slowly. 202 xx THE TURKISH VILLAGE A Nelegant lady appeared one evening at the hotel. She was neither beautiful nor youthful, but conspicuously elegant,-almost objectionably so. Although the dining room was large, I had become accustomed to seeing certain persons appear regularly at the same tables. The other guests had been limited mostly to transient commercial travelers noticeable for their usual perfunctory buoyancy. A few were undoubtedly local politicians, for although the service was ordinarily good, it became nothing 203 BALKAN SKETCHES short of marvellous whenever they dined. Several wore fezes - the Mayor, I believe, was a Mohammedan. In comparison with all of these, the elegant lady was conspicuous. That the newly arrived guest had a decided leaning for fastidiousness, there was little doubt. Her numerous demands seemed to be in vain, for although the head waiter and most of his force at one time or another had devoted extreme attention to her instructions, they were, however, flustered to distraction until the elegant lady's dinner was finished, and she had left the room. Immediately after her departure, a modestly dressed young man rose from a near-by table and followed her out. Noticing this same procedure after each repast, and one day seeing the young man enter the hotel corridor carrying her luggage, I realized he was probably in the lady's service. One day Milo was to take me to see the old Turkish village overlooking the present town. We had started out along the river when a luxuriously equipped Rolls-Royce passed us. As it flashed by, we saw the elegant lady riding in state; the modestly dressed young man was the chauffeur. The dust had settled, the incident was past and forgotten, with no thought of ever hearing more of this affluent person. I do remember that Milo remarked the extreme speed at which they passed. Surely they must have been in a hurry, and that alone, to one brought up in an old country of Oriental customs, was a most unusual condition. On our climb up the mountain, we stopped at a coffeehouse, where the 204 THE TURKISH VILLAGE patron was one of Milo's boyhood friends. We were already high above the town and this was a welcome stop in our long climb. We looked down over the valley of the Miljacka, over Sarajevo, this city of a hundred mosques, like a jewel -A, (tfp' '-,. spreading its rays part way up the green of the mountainrimmed valley. The brilliancy of the sunlight and perhaps the little cafe where his friend busied himself preparing our coffee - always cafe Turque - led Milo to talk again about his days in California. And again I heard of the gay parties on their way to and from Tia Juana that lingered still in Milo's memory. 205 BALKAN SKETCHES "And money - my goodness - you would never see in a lifetime here in this place half the money you see in one day on one of those parties in Tia Juana." I heard of fortunes won and others lost and Milo, in more prosperous days, staking the losers on their return from across the border. We walked on up the mountain, through a fortified gate in the walls of this old Turkish village. I stopped to make sketches at every turn. I remember how sleepy the old village looked; I wondered how it could be so drowsy with the din from the pounding coppersmiths, hammering away as they had for ages and seemingly would for all eternity. They were fashioning great bowls, slender-necked pitchers and bulging kettles from flat disks of copper. These handwrought utensils were transformed by workers born to the trade, taking on their completed forms with a surprising rapidity as the deft blows were dealt with unfailing accuracy. A number of these smiths had stalls side by side, - old patched-up booths hung with pieces of tattered awning and shaded by the great trees lining the road before them. It was all so old that one wondered which had been there first - the trees or the weather-beaten shacks of the coppersmiths. Allured by this pleasant shade, I stopped to sketch while Milo roved about, watching the workers. They were squatted on the floor, usually three or four to a stall, each holding a round anvil, not unlike a cannon ball, in his lap or on the floor between his knees. Each one seemed to 206 A KAVNA AT NIGH I THE TURKISH VILLAGE specialize on some particular utensil; one, the long-necked Turkish pitchers; another, the kettles; and one booth was hung with the long-handled coffee-boilers of all sizes. We strolled through the village, passing beneath another old gate at the opposite end of the town, and out along the mountain road, where we stood looking down at an old mill. It was run as it had been for centuries, by a water-wheel, and a stream that dropped in a sparkling fall. The old mill was in a setting of green; clumps of bamboo grew along the stream and a locust tree, vividly green, like trees in old chromos, cast its shade across the doorway. The miller, white with flour, was helping a peasant unload sacks of precious grist, relieving the tired ponies that had labored up the mountain path in the heat of this afternoon sun. I stopped for another sketch, unaware of the approach of a flock of home-coming sheep, and found myself isolated, like an island, in a stream of sheep. They pattered on about me, as unheeding as the water of the brook which flowed by the bamboo stalks. There were narrow stone streets of grass-grown cobbles between weathered houses, and old Turkish cemeteries with lichen-covered stones. The strange turban-carved top indicated the resting-place of a Mussulman, usually surrounded by simple straight stones to mark the resting places of his wives. Somewhere in the mountains across the valley a shower had passed, and a rainbow bent its arc - an aura of vari209 BALKAN SKETCHES colored splendor -spanning the mist-strewn valley of minarets, - that mysterious response of the celestial East to the western sun - a symbol, in this "land where East meets West." The sun had already dropped behind the mountains. The grass-grown lanes were becoming shadowy in the twilight. At times we passed women, heavily veiled - and two of these in thinner veils turned as we passed them in one of the narrow streets on the fringe of this hillside village. We looked back. They stood with raised veils, smiling at us. "Bad women," remarked Milo. "I knew when they passed, because they wore thin veils." Milo stopped as a muezzin from the minaret of an old mosque called to the evening prayer, remarking the musical quality in the old muezzin's voice, which fell like a lullaby over this ancient village. On the way down we stopped at another coffeehouse. I was nearing the end of my stay in Bosnia, and Milo again grasped the opportunity to talk about California. "My, that's a country for you!" Thinking of consolation, I waved toward the beautiful valley before us, -green mountains and fertile fields, stretching away beneath the evening mist like a scene in Fairyland. "But how about this lovely land, Milo?" I asked him. "This land? Oh, this land is all right. This land is all right for you. You come to look. But you live here for a 210 THE TURKISH VILLAGE while, - you try to make money here, and I bet you don't stay long. The only people that get the money in this country are the politicians. But the people, the Serbians, are too honest. They don't know all the tricks that the politicians learn from the other politicians in Europe. If I knew how hard it would be for me to get my money back, for it cost me a lot of money - all I had - to bring those Serbian boys from the States, and I never get one cent back. The Government, they promise me - always year after year, they tell me the same thing, 'We look into it.' But I could die and they would still be looking into it, - but that does me no good." And as if to forget his sorrows - the hopelessness of reimbursement - he turned again to thoughts of California; he told of men who were known to be gamblers, men who frankly lived by their wits, to whom he lent money and never lost a cent. "And you talk about these mountains! My, how I remember those mountains of California!" And for some time Milo seemed lost in a dream, speaking in praise of this and that, as a wan smile played about his features, gazing off toward the mountains. I chatted on about their beauties, and Milo agreed that they were wonderful. "Yes, it's a wonderful country," said Milo, and feeling that after all he did see the beauty that lay before us in these Bosnian peaks, I said, "What's the name of those mountains, Milo?" He turned, his face lighting up as he pronounced, almost 211 BALKAN SKETCHES with reverence, "Sierra Nevada!" And on he went again, talking about Tia Juana, San Diego, the Sierra Nevadas. Milo will never know that I was asking him the name of this Bosnian mountain range. As I returned to the hotel after leaving Milo, I saw a crowd gathered near the door. The luxurious Rolls-Royce was back again, waiting in the midst of an admiring audience. The chauffeur was revealing its special comforts. It was the de luxe sort of equipment one rarely sees except at large automobile shows. Never before had I beheld such a car in actual use. It had all the conveniences of a moder apartment, including bed and bath. In the cafe after dinner, I saw the chauffeur enter, and after gazing about, follow the guiding index finger of the manager, now beside him, directly to my table. With the most humble apologies and a pathetic air of despair, he appealed to me as one who spoke English, asking if I could make known his wants to the hotel management. He was anxious to buy a typewriter. Although my assistance could not be very great, I gladly volunteered, and with a mixture of French, English and German, made known the young man's wants, while he was assured that he would be taken to the typewriter shop in the morning. That the chauffeur was particularly well educated was obvious. With a slight hesitancy, he invited me to join him in a liqueur. With decidedly less hesitancy I accepted. This quite naturally led to an exchange of courtesies. In fact, 212 THE, TURKISH VILLAGE several exchanges followed. I spoke of his luxurious car. "Yes," he confided, "I little knew what I was in for." I ventured an understanding glance. "No, not that -you see this car is mine. Madame has rented it for a week - with a slight misunderstanding of a chauffeur's duties!" The cafe closed soon after this. On the way to the elevator, to refresh the young man's memory, I reminded him that a boy would escort him to the typewriter shop in the morning. "Oh, yes; yes, indeed. I must get that typewriter. Madame has determined to write a book, and life has been made miserable for me since she decided two days ago. Although she is elated to-night, having settled at last on the title." I was speculating on the possibilities of a travel di la mode volume, when the young man revealed that the forthcoming work was to be called "Roughing it Among the Balkan Peasants." It occurred to me that the elegant lady was no doubt familiar with the life of Montesquieu, who in his time was the greatest authority on Persia and had never seen a Persian. 213 XXI ON LEAVING T HAT Lorrington was a genuine enthusiast there could be little doubt. Any sportsman would have recognized it. His luggage was no sooner unpacked than one saw a large assortment of tackle, well-ordered spoons and flies and many other odd bits lying about; small feathers, colored berries and beads which could be twisted into shapes of flies or beetles to conceal a hook. The making of this paraphernalia seemed to amuse him as much as actually whipping a stream and, working over some tiny decoy, he would chat on about the subtle differences in streams and seasons that demanded this fly or that. 214 ON LEAVING One day after his return from Ilidze, we were strolling through the market place. It was a fete day, and among the peasants, gay in bits of finery, some of the roughest fellows wore freshly \ starched shirts, with broad frilled \, collars of lace open at the throat. Among the wagoners and drivers of f pack ponies this was a startling con- [^r trast to their black astrakhan caps I and swarthy, moustachioed features.., The young men grouped together in and about the wine houses, while the girls in their brightest headgear wore d l bits of colorful ribbons, with their bandeaux and necklaces of coinbangle jewelry. Their coiffures had been elaborately done for all this fete-day finery. Many of the headgear were great silk kerchiefs, folded back to show to advantage the long fringe that hung to the waist. The girls strolled easily about, exchanging gossip and openly admiring one another's costumes. Lorrington was attracted by a Russian pedlar carrying a great tray supported by a strap around his neck and piled with highly scented toilet articles and hung with cheap trinkets and gay beads. I say he was attracted by the pedlar, but this itinerant merchant was also surrounded by a group of pretty peasant girls admiring his wares. The incessant 215 BALKAN SKETCHES hum of minor-keyed music of a folk dance drew me to the other end of the square, where awkward young fellows and smiling girls swayed to the rhythm of the music, touching shoulders as they moved about in a circle. Among the groups standing about, I observed that sometimes a girl would stop and, raising a young fellow's hand in hers, she would bow and kiss the back of it. It was obviously an old custom, for the object of this attention often gave it but passing notice or, preoccupied by conversation with his companions, paid no attention at all. Lorrington had not overlooked the opportunity to exchange pleasant glances with the peasant girls and admire their finery, but a string of gay beads was proof that the merchant's wares had been the real attraction. He held them up, proudly indicating this and that bead that would make a "wonderful thing for a fly." Even in the midst of this fete, he was still the fisherman. "I never could have forgiven myself if on my last day here I had passed up this remarkable collection of fly material." And sitting after dinner that night, he brought out the beads again and explained about insects and seasons and the sort of fish that would strike at this or that bead. Then he dwelt long and lovingly on his adventures in the sylvan depths round and about Ilidze, and vowed to return there to spend the remainder of his days. We ordered wine and drank to this pleasant future. I had not the heart to remind him of the days long ago in Trinidad, when he was 216 Stir tj YC VLStt(_LF/ C.s5b~Z — rL Ci - r 5L, z7C'~c r; C~9e rs, csFC,;z-c~ ic 4s CASTELNUOVO BOCCA DI CATTARO I 0 0 ON LEAVING equally enthusiastic about his Caribbean plantation at Sangre Grande. When Lorrington had put away the glass necklace, I brought out the old Persian coin that I had bought in the street of the money-changers. With an understanding glance he remarked not only its beauty, that pale shimmer of Eastern gold, but also how becoming it would be to Titian loveliness. We had gone to our rooms to finish packing. Traveling arrangements to leave in the morning for Gravosa had been settled, and we had wired for boat accommodations up the Adriatic to Trieste, planning to go on to Venice from there. Just as I had finished packing, there was a knock at my door. A telegram from Greece. Daria was to be in Venice on the twenty-seventh. It was signed T L W S N D. Why this cryptic end? Doubtless some code that the telegraph company had added by mistake. I had picked up the blue paper several times, read it and reread it, before it finally filtered through my tired brain that Daria had gone to visit friends in the Ionian Islands where Lafcadio Hearn was born. I knew the philosophy of the story of the Land Where Summer Never Dies had impressed her tremendously. Afterwards she had frequently referred to this idyllic land. Amused by my own stupidity, I smiled, thinking that, after all, wherever the lovely Daria was, might be called the Land Where Summer Never Dies. Going to Lorrington's room, I found him lying in bed, 219 BALKAN SKETCHES looking over an illustrated catalogue of fishing tackle. I told him of Daria's wire, and that he was invited to dine with us at Florian's on the twenty-seventh. I remembered from our farewell dinner to Daria in Ragusa that the spirited Italian diva was a Venetian, and I suggested to Lorrington, who had laid aside his catalogue, that her presence might lend a certain completeness to this festive occasion. Lorrington had already rung for the courier and telegraph forms, and I left him marshalling his best Italian, - a task in which I could be of little help. 220 __ F 4;P.,, "I,:,;.,c I ".i " 11 Owil-raf2m 43 im-Afllslill I ----.. 1 I.; ~~..~:D "' i; .. R B, . i:! ol~l;;. ~~ i 1 ~ "' I.......... STREET OF THE MONEY CHANGERS, SARAJEVO (,, -,. r _~ Awv-J1 py _L J XXII w LEAVE-TAKING ND so all books as well as all travel must come to an end. Although it is customary to close one's reminiscences of foreign travel with some reference to the Statue of Liberty, perhaps a touch from this older country would be equally appropriate. I have chosen an incident certainly as redolent of hospitality and of welcome as would be any reference to Bartholdi's great work, though indeed one which shows less enshrining of the feminine. We had taken shelter from a storm in the Bosnian mountains - Milo and I. A heavy mist had set in as we drew near 221 BALKAN SKETCHES some low Turkish huts, the peasants' houses differing but slightly from the cattle sheds close by. The mist turned to rain and we stopped for shelter beneath a mossy thatch. Huddled there but a short time, we became aware of the tread of some heavy animal approaching in the darkness. A cow appeared about to enter our shed, but on seeing us there, she stopped with a sort of tolerant indifference. The cowherd, a grizzly turbaned Turk, now came to investigate. Milo had no trouble in explaining our plight. The old fellow immediately pointed to a small house, inviting us to enter. No sooner had he opened the door, revealing a dimly lighted interior, than I fancied a scurrying of slippered feet and a clicking of wooden blocks. This sound of clicking blocks I knew to come from the rainyweather footgear of Turkish women. I glanced at Milo, knowing the little house had but a single room. It was pouring without. "That's the women," said Milo. "But," I objected, "they'll get soaked to the skin." "Oh, no, this fellow says they're all right. They're out in the cow shed." Our stay in the little house was short and exceedingly awkward. Although I wanted to rush out and humbly beg their pardon for the intrusion, I hesitated. I knew that the mere act of approaching - to say nothing of speaking tothe women of a Turk's household would be an extreme breach of etiquette. It would be far more embarrassing to all 222 LEAVE-TAKING concerned than my adjusting myself to the Mussulman custom. Our peasant host is doubtless still wondering about the strangers who left suddenly in the midst of the rain. There are times when to take one's leave is the kindest of acts. It was so for the women who waited so uncomplainingly in the cow shed, and it may well be equally so with my readers. Then, too, I must be in Venice on the twentyseventh for dinner with Daria. _0abl set- S END "* ~i) Z f o a cr Vs C -K ( V r. 4 a p St 5 ~5 1 -4' THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN GRADUATE LIBRARY DATE DUE, L i f /-". -. f Ir I...-..~.;:... C!.~...... I I & I 4 v 1 is r9 q I -.";... f.'. 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