AGRAM.
Evening has come, and the still, smooth waters of the Save, reflecting
the sky, are like an upturned shield of gold. Not a ripple laves the
shore. The black ibis and crested grebe have gone to roost in the
low brushwood that fringes it on either side. Not a zephyr stirs the
slender stems of the pampas-grass. All nature is still, but over the
corn-fields comes the sound of voices, singing a Slavonian melody, slow
and sweet, like an evening hymn, which, rising and falling in pathetic
cadence, is in wondrous harmony with the scene.
Casting our eyes in the direction of the sound we see a number of
reapers, whose sickles flash in the setting sun as they lop the golden
grain, the women, wearing scarlet kerchiefs round their heads, looking
like poppies in the corn. They are singing in unison a _piesma_,
one of those national ballads which have descended from the ancient
troubadours, or _guslars_ as they are here designated.
To the right rise undulating hills resting their summits on the saffron
sky; and from a belt of forest at their base now comes the distant
jingling of bells, upon which the reapers, leaving their sickles on the
ground, traverse a narrow pathway through the _heide-korn_ and
wend their way homewards. We watch them crossing the darkling landscape
in picturesque procession till they are nearly out of sight, and then
turn our faces towards Agram, for since the sun has sunk to rest,
miasmatic vapours have been slowly rising from the marshes. In the
vicinity of this placid stream, fevers lurk, and the “pestilence that
walketh in darkness” waits not for the night.
As we hastily pursue our way towards the little Croatian capital, the
distant throb of a _kobsa_ comes wafted over the calm waters, and
the voice of a peasant singing in a clear rich tenor, as he accompanies
himself on his simple instrument. Floating on the glassy bosom of the
stream a small black speck now comes in sight. It is a _bredvos_,
containing happy peasants on their way from Agram or some village on
the opposite bank; and the musical “burr” of the _kobsa_ comes
nearer, for the boat, a heavy flat-bottomed craft almost as broad as it
is long, with its large square prow rising high above the water, makes
for the shore.
These ballads, which the traveller hears continually in Croatia, and
said to be older than old Homer himself, are the very mainspring of
national life, and are the chief means of keeping alive in the hearts
of the Slávs, that yearning after national unity of which in these days
we hear so much.
To the left of the river are the plains on which a lonely shepherd’s
hut and two water-lifts are seen standing out black against the sky,
but to the right are clusters of wooden huts roofed with shingles,
and lying beneath blue mountains. On the balconies, overshadowed by
sheltering eaves, the dwellers sit or stand, the bright colour of their
costumes gleaming warmly in contrast with the prevailing gloom, for
night is falling fast. As we approach the capital, lights are burning
in many a window, whilst away in the west and above the irregularly
built houses, though the sun set fully an hour ago, a long streak of
intense carmine melting into orange reminds us of the far East.
[Illustration]
The summer nights are delightful in Agram itself, and resemble those
at Venice. The air is balmy, the sky soft and tender, and the great
stars, flashing out of the purple sky, scintillate with the changeful
splendour of the ruby, the topaz, and the emerald.
Reaching the outskirts of the little city, the most important place on
the Save, our way takes us through the long street that leads to the
Jellachich Platz, so called from a Ban of that name, who once ruled the
province as Viceroy. Let us stroll into the restaurant of the hotel
“K’Carnu Austrianskomu!” The instant we do so we realise our distance
from the civilised West, for on asking for a newspaper, several are
instantly handed to us, every one of which is either in Windic or
Croat, the latter called _hrvatsky_, being the colloquial dialect
of the district. Although Agram is the centre of Slavonic literature,
the language spoken here is less pure than that spoken by the Slávs of
the south-east.
No fewer than nine periodicals are published in this thriving little
capital, whilst a Literary Society has recently been formed for the
purpose of circulating books, journals, and pamphlets throughout the
Sláv provinces, to further which clubs and reading rooms have been
established in almost every village. Like the Magyars, the Croatians
are very jealous of German influence, and the publication of books and
papers in that language is in every way discouraged.
Croatia enjoys a political autonomy, and has a Diet of its own, of
which every Croatian noble is a member, the affairs of the State being
vested in the Ban. The Croatians are bent on self-improvement, and one
of their greatest ambitions is to become independent of Austria in the
way that Hungary is, and to form with these nations a triple-monarchy.
In religious tenets they belong exclusively to the Greek and Roman
Catholic Churches; using, as Slávs of the Western Church, what is
termed the Glagolic alphabet in contra-distinction to that used by the
Bulgarians, invented by Cyrillus. The most ancient and pure Slavonic
is found in what is called the “Ecclesiastical Slavonic” or “Old
Bulgarian,” into which the Bible was translated in the middle of the
9th century.
This clean, bright little city contains between eighteen and twenty
thousand inhabitants, and consists of an upper and lower town. The
former is built on the side of a rocky hill, so steep that the houses
in the narrow streets, which rise abruptly tier above tier and are
approached by long flights of zigzag steps, look down the chimneys of
those on the opposite side of the way. This part of the city, which was
once fortified, constituted the citadel. It is now, however, occupied
by the _canaille_ of Agram, and this quarter may be said to rival
ancient Cologne in its variety of perfumes that are not found in either
Messrs. Rimmel or Piesse and Lubin’s distilleries. Climbing the steep
and rugged steps, we pass groups of people sitting at their doorways
in the evening air; whilst the moon, prodigal of her gifts, bears her
blessing up the unwholesome, narrow streets, and silvers each crazy
tenement with a touch as soft and loving as though it were the abode of
kings. Making our way upwards, and passing the quarter of the “great
unwashed,” we at length reach broad, clean streets and lofty houses,
and come to the Palace of the Ban, the various public offices, the
Academy of Law, and the Museum. On another hill, separated by a narrow
sandy gorge, and surrounded by fortifications and high battlemented
walls, stand the Cathedral and Palace of the Archbishop. Exposed for
centuries to the incursions of the Turks, many of the churches of
Croatia, like those of Transylvania, were strongly fortified.
Beyond the foreground of picturesque house-tops, the Save, creating a
shimmering pathway across the plains, is seen winding its way towards
the Bosnian Mountains, whose outlines are softly pencilled on the sky.
This river, taking its rise on the confines of Istria, after flowing
through Croatia, divides Slavonia from Bosnia, and still forms the
boundary between Christianity and Islam.
The Save also forms with the Theiss one of the principal tributaries
of the Danube, and, swelling its waters by emptying itself into the
mightier river at Semlin, is one cause of the disastrous inundations
which so frequently occur in the region of the Alfőld.
* * * * *
It is Sunday, and, like the Protestant Debrecziners, the Agramese,
combining the service of God and Mammon, on this day hold their weekly
market. The streets are one blaze of colour, and it is to be doubted
whether even Rome itself, before the sharp traits of her people began
to be obliterated by modern innovations, presented a more splendid
spectacle. It is well we planned that our last wanderings in the
Austro-Hungarian dominions should be in Croatia, for the costumes are
far more beautiful here than any we have hitherto met with on any of
our travels, this scene alone being worth coming all the way from
Ángolország to see.
Looking down the long straight street that leads to the Jellachich
Platz, we find it thronged with people hurrying to the market, and the
predominating tints of their costumes, white, scarlet, and green, are
rendered all the more striking by the black, curled lamb’s wool, with
which portions of their dress are trimmed.
The women are attired in short white skirts, stiffly starched, and
fluted to the waist, over which a long straight calico frontal is
worn, trimmed with broad horizontal stripes of scarlet braid, laid on
in a gradation of widths, the white full bodice, embroidered at the
throat, being covered with innumerable rows of coral beads. Over this
is generally worn a small white jacket of white kid, bordered with
the black lamb’s wool before mentioned, a beautiful fleece resembling
that known in England under the rather vague term of “Astracan.” The
jacket in question is made so as to leave the front of the bodice
exposed to view with its wealth of coral beads, and is not only one
mass of the richest embroidery in various coloured silks, but small
pieces of silver foil in the shape of stars are also added, which
glisten in the sunshine. In addition to all, the fronts of this costly
article of attire called a “_cabanitza_” are adorned all over with
scarlet tassels. The girls wear a scarlet kerchief round the head,
but the married women a very imposing and effective head-dress, which
in some respects resembles the square white _taglia_ worn by the
Neapolitan women, but much larger, consisting of a large square of
muslin or calico, trimmed either with lace and scarlet braid supported
on two curiously shaped pieces of wood called “horns,” round which the
back hair is coiled. Nothing can be more becoming or dignified than
this covering for the head, and a group of women thus attired form
pictures that an artist would love to portray. How their dazzling,
spotlessly white, and fan-like petticoats glisten as they trudge
merrily along, some carrying long white bundles in their arms, which
on closer inspection turn out to be _bambinos_, swathed in yards
and yards of homespun linen, whilst others, like graceful Caryatids,
are supporting on their Juno-like heads large flat round baskets filled
with fruit or vegetables. Even the old women wear embroidered bodices
and scarlet and white skirts. Yonder sit a group of ancient Amazons
in close conclave, who may have been amongst those who in 1848 clad
themselves in the panoply of war, and went forth to aid their husbands
in the battle against Kossuth, singing patriotic songs, and improvising
others as they marched towards the Imperial city.
The Croatian men also figure largely in embroidery. Their brown or
black cloth tunics are handsomely worked in scarlet; whilst, slung
over the shoulder by a cord of the same colour, is a large square bag,
designated a “_torba_,” which, hanging at the side, is completely
covered with little scarlet tassels an inch and a half long. These
Croatians, male and female, except in the matter of jewellery, are more
given up to the pomps and vanities of this wicked world than even the
Hamelsdorf girls themselves.
In the square, peasants from the country round have been arranging
their goods since break of day, and the whole place, from its gaiety
and bustle, wears the appearance of an annual fair, rather than that of
a weekly market. All is so bright, so gay, with such a delicious and
harmonious mingling of colour, that we look down at our own hideous
garments of the civilised West with their Quaker-like sobriety and
sartorial gloom, with feelings almost akin to shame. Verily there is no
prettier sight in the universe than Agram on a Sunday morning; but the
traveller must be no sluggard, and must be up and out at seven o’clock,
the hour when the villagers come trooping in. At ten the market is
over, and, obedient to the summons of the bells, the people flock to
church, and kneeling down before the service commences may be seen
devoutly praying, the men on one side of the church, the women on the
other, whilst kneeling on the steps of the altar may be seen a small
but promiscuous gathering of men, women, and children.
“Who are they?” I inquired in German of a lady who was sitting on the
same bench with me in a church close to the market, and pointing to the
group round the altar, all of whom seemed to be oppressed with sorrow
of some sort.
“They are poor country-people,” she replied softy, “and have some
especial blessing to ask, some member of their family is sick or dying.
Look at that young woman to the right of the altar! She has brought her
sick baby and laid it beneath the picture of the ‘Good Shepherd.’ Ah!
surely He will have pity,” and crossing herself devoutly she too knelt
down to pray.
Gazing in the direction indicated I saw the wee thing lying helplessly
in its bandages, its tiny face so pale and wan, that the former might
in truth have been its winding-sheet. In the centre of the group two
little boys were kneeling side by side, their small hands clasped and
their heads bent low. They came into the church alone, and, making
their way at once to the altar, threw themselves on their knees. What
grief was theirs, we wondered, and what blessing had they come to seek?
There was a silent pathos about these lonely children that moved me
even to tears.
[Illustration]
Mass is sung in the Slavonic tongue, a concession granted by the popes
to these Yougo-Slávs, in recognition of their heroic struggles against
the Osmanlis, and nothing can be more beautiful and touching than their
deep, slow chanting.
The country round Agram is very picturesque. A little beyond the city
lies the peaceful valley of St. Xavier, together with that of Tuskanac,
with their fragments of feudal castles, backed by a lofty hill crowned
with pines.
[Illustration]
Hiring a passing carriage, we drive towards the cool waters of the
Save. Shadows are lengthening across the plains, and the villagers,
crowding into the boats, are being ferried to the nearest church,
possibly two or three miles away. Far away on the hills the narrow
zigzag paths are indicated by strings of people coming in the same
direction, and we soon reach a church, in the enclosure of which
numbers of persons have already assembled waiting the arrival of the
priest; stately girls and women in their beautiful scarlet and white
garments and square head-gear, looking like Druidical priestesses in
their white fluted skirts, one and all affording a living mass of rich
and varied colour.[2]
[2] These pages were written just before the terrible earthquakes,
which not only rendered many of the inhabitants homeless by reducing
their houses to a heap of ruins, but which, by the violence of the
shocks and their frequent occurrence, kept the inhabitants in such a
state of alarm that, on four occasions, panic-stricken they fled from
the city and encamped in the plains beyond.
Our steamer, which starts at six A.M. to-morrow, awaits
us on the Kulpa at the junction of that river with the Save, a few
miles further down the stream. Returning to the hotel, we pick up our
luggage, and meet the steamer by the train which leaves for Sissek at
nine o’clock.
After passing Agram, the Save spreads itself out till it seems to
encircle the whole district in its embrace, reminding us of the
Lagoons at Venice. The moon is full, and, as the train rolls us along,
everything is so calm, so peaceful, and presents such an even surface
to the eye, that we appear to be surrounded by a broad sheet of silver.
Sissek--a miserable place with wide unpaved streets--contains many
objects of interest to the archæologist. The village of Old Sissek,
which adjoins it, contains numerous remains of pillars and ancient
buildings of Roman origin, together with a Roman causeway of massive
masonry by which it is approached.
On arrival, making our way at once to our steamer the “_Zrini_,”
we soon discern her amongst the dark objects with which she is
surrounded.
Sissek, though possessing a population of little more than 1200,
contains, at this time of year, when the harvest is being gathered in,
almost as many thousand. Being the centre of the corn trade, it is here
that the huge flat-bottomed boats freighted with grain are unloaded,
the men employed, called Latianer, coming each year to Sissek for
this purpose and leaving as soon as the season has passed. After being
unloaded the corn is conveyed by train to its destination, a great deal
finding its way to the English market.
A curious scene surrounds us. There are boats with houses on their
decks, others lying empty on their sides and half heeled over, and
others again close alongside taking in cargo. Here and there coloured
lights are twinkling faintly from the masts of smaller boats, and
far down the river’s reach more lights are burning where caravans of
merchants are bivouacking on the shore. In an hour’s time all is still,
the vessels have finished taking in their cargo, and no sound is heard
save the voices of boatmen weighing anchor, and the soft lapping of
ripples driven by the zephyrs of night against the steamer’s side.
At six o’clock A.M. the “_Zrini_” bursts from her
moorings, and, soon leaving the Kulpa, bounds like a captive let loose
into the waters of the Save.
More singular far than on the Danube boats is the motley assemblage
that greets the eye of the traveller as he cruises in one of the
steamers on the Save. Close to us, with their long chibouks standing by
their sides, are two Turks, or Osmanlis as they prefer being called,
for the term Turk is one of ridicule, signifying “rustic.” Beside them
sit a trio of young Servian ladies, dressed in black velvet jackets
with large hanging sleeves richly embroidered in silver. Standing near
the galley are a group of Albanians, warlike, magnificent-looking men
armed to the teeth, with square shoulders and limbs like athletes.
There are also men whose erect carriage, resembling that of the Serbs,
and frank open brows, proclaim them to belong to Montenegro, that brave
and independent little nation, which, although constituting a portion
of the border-land that fringed the dominions of European Turkey, has
never, like the other Sláv nations of the South, submitted to its rule.
As they walk the deck it is easy to see they have never been a subject
people. Their dress is a white tunic encircled by a shawl at the waist,
blue trousers tied in at the knee, and a small round cap with a crimson
crown adorned with gilt ornaments, the latter worn as a symbol of their
national freedom. Until lately they also wore an emblem of mourning
for the subject condition of their Sláv brethren, the Serbs, to the
vassalage of Turkey.
On the forecastle is a mass of human life quite Eastern in its aspect:
bright intelligent little Turks full of life and animation; heavy
Bulgarians with downcast eyes and beetling brows, who, sitting apart,
hold communication with no one; Armenians, Illyrians, Bosnians,
Croatians, Hungarians, and uncivilised-looking men from the villages
lower down the Save.
Occupying one side of the stern is a huge heap of sheepskins and
striped blankets, which we imagine must be covering passengers’ luggage
or bales of merchandise. Presently however the heap of what we supposed
to be inert matter moves slightly, and a little hand appears and then a
small Oriental-looking head, for beneath these blankets and sheepskin
rugs a Greek family were lying huddled together.
There is a little boy on board who interests us greatly. From early
morning we had noticed him sitting silently on his bundle, and
apparently alone. There was something in the expression of his face
that attracted our attention, as he sat with his head slightly elevated
and his eyes directed upwards. What could he be gazing at so intently
in the dazzling sunlit sky? Making my way towards him through the
groups of passengers, some of whom were gambling with curious cards,
others singing softly to themselves or lying at full length fast
asleep, I reached the spot where he was seated, and at once perceived
that he was blind. No one appeared to take any notice of him, as, with
pale face and that vacant, and infinitely pathetic expression which one
sees in the countenances of the blind, he sat alone.
Standing against the bulwarks smoking was a man who from his uniform I
recognised as a corporal in the Austrian army. Addressing me in German,
and pointing to the child, as though he had been a bale of merchandise,
he said,
“He was put on board at Jassenovatz.”
“Where is he going?” I inquired.
“How should I know,” was the rejoinder, as, shrugging his shoulders,
he walked across to some other part of the ship, adding, as he did so,
that he supposed “_somebody_ would meet him _somewhere_.”
He was in fact a piece of goods “to be left till called for.” Taking
his small hand in mine, I led him to the other side of the deck under
the shadow of the awning. What an odd quaint little specimen of
humanity he was, with his loose brown garments, cut precisely like
those of his elders, and his funny shapeless little shoes such as all
the Sláv peasantry wear, consisting of a flat piece of hide laced into
shape at toe and heel, with leather thongs!
At this moment the captain, passing by, enlightened me further as to
the history of this waif of humanity.
“That little urchin,” said he, looking down kindly upon him, “is a
_Minnesinger_ or _guslar_ as they call them in Croatia; the
Yougo-Slávs dedicate from their infancy to the Muses all male children
who are born blind. As soon as they are old enough to handle anything,
a small mandoline is given them, which they are taught to play, after
which they are taken every day into the woods, where they are left till
evening to commune in their little hearts with nature. In due time they
become poets, or at any rate rhapsodists, singing of the things they
never saw, and, when grown up, are sent forth to earn their livelihood,
like the troubadours of old, by singing from place to place and asking
alms by the wayside.
“It is not difficult for a Sláv to become a poet; he takes in poetic
sentiment like a rivulet does water from its source. The first sounds
he is conscious of are those of his mother singing to him as she rocks
his cradle, or trudges along to market with him tucked under her arm a
stiff little bundle. Then as she watches the dawning of intelligence
in his infant face, her mother-language is that of poetry, which she
improvises at the moment, and so, though he never saw the flowers,
nor the snow-capped mountains, nor the flowing streams and rivers, he
describes them out of his inner consciousness and the influence which
the varied sounds of nature have upon his mind.”
The interest this little _guslar_ awakened in us soon became
general, and, seated high upon a heap of rugs, he was made to sing in
his childish voice some of the sweet and simple Slavonian melodies.