THROUGH DALMATIA AND THE BORDER-LANDS
EARLY the following morning they made their start, packs on backs, over
the low, waste lands of Dalmatia. The sun was burning hot; nothing
but extensive plains of desert met the eye; far in the distance were
low mountains, which glistened in the scorching sun with a startling
whiteness, most dazzling to the eyes. There was a sameness about the
landscape which wearied the boys.
"I certainly should not like to live here," remarked Leopold; "it
is not so nice as Tyrol; there is too much barrenness, and too much
dazzling whiteness."
"Nevertheless," replied his uncle, "this is a fine country; the wine
and olive oil are famous the world over, to say nothing of the fruit
and flowers. If you did but stop to think about it, most of the fruit
and flowers we have in Vienna out of season come from this region."
"But how can anything grow in a desert?"
"We shall soon see," replied his uncle. "Dalmatia looks baked, but it
is extremely productive."
After some time, the soil began to grow more and more irregular.
Great stones lay upon the surface, and immense fissures opened up at
irregular distances.
"Now, my boy, can you call this a desert?" asked Herr Müller. "Here are
the gardens of Dalmatia."
"The gardens?" exclaimed both children.
"Yes."
"But I see nothing but great ravines," said Leopold.
"They are not ravines, child, but great cracks opened up in the swampy
soil which has burst asunder from the terrific heat of the sun. But
that is what saves the country from starvation; on the bottom of these
fissures are deposits of fertile soil washed into them by the rains,
and here the peasant plants his crops. Here you see one too narrow to
plant anything in, but over there," and he pointed to the immediate
right, "is one which stretches a mile or more."
"How interesting!" exclaimed Ferdinand. "But what a queer place to
plant crops."
At the farm-house, a low, uninviting hut with thatch roof, they stopped
to fill their flasks. The farmer led them to the rear of the house
where was a huge tank of stagnant water.
"But we cannot drink that," said Herr Runkel, astonished.
"It is all there is," remarked the peasant. "In Dalmatia we drink rain
water. It is all we have. There are no streams in Dalmatia except in
the mountains, and often those are underground."
"Underground?" cried Ferdinand. "How do you get the water then?"
"Oh, the water runs along in the limestone until it meets with some
obstruction, or when it deems it time to appear upon the surface, then
it will flow on in a fine stream for some distance, when perhaps it
will disappear again for awhile."
"I never heard of such a thing," said Leopold, to whom water was so
very plentiful in Tyrol.
"It is a wise precaution of Nature," answered the peasant. "In these
hot lands, were it not for this provision, the streams would soon dry
up."
"But why don't you convey this water from the mountains to your home?"
asked Herr Müller.
"That costs too much; we have no money to spend on luxuries; we have
the rain and we gather the water as it falls."
Walking on, having thanked the peasant for his courtesy, they came in
sight of a convent.
"Now we shall have some fresh water, I am bound," said Herr Müller.
"Convents are always well supplied with refreshments of all kinds."
A friar in brown costume opened the door to them and ushered them into
a cool courtyard, paved with brick, in which were small openings at
regular intervals. At the well in the centre of the court the flasks
were filled with delicious, clear, cool water.
"It surprises me," said Herr Runkel, "that you have such delicious
water here, while just below, a mile or two, the peasant told us there
was no water available for miles around, except rain water."
"He is quite right, too," returned the affable friar. "If it were not
for the rain we should all perish; but the peasant does not take the
pains to collect the rain in just the same manner as we do."
He then explained to them the method of obtaining the drinking water.
The earth under the brick pavement was dug out to the depth of several
feet; the sides and bottom were lined with some hard substance,
sometimes clay, sometimes cement, to form a foundation to the cistern.
In the middle of the pit was built a well of brick; fine, clean sand
was then put in to the level of the court; the brick pavement was then
laid, through the openings of which the rain passed into the bed of
sand, and, as it seeped through the brick well eventually the sand
filtered the water from all impurities and imparted to it a taste,
without which it would have been "flat."
A brief rest, and some slight refreshment, upon which the friar
insisted, and the travelers plodded on; they passed peasants pushing
crude wooden ploughs such as have been in use since long-forgotten
ages, but which seem specially adapted to the rocky, stubborn soil of
Dalmatia. And being so close to the border of Bosnia they encountered
Bosnian peasants, fine tall men much like Turks in their costumes, for
Turkey lies just next door on the south. The Bosnian Mohammedan women
veil their faces like the Turkish women, and wear white garments with
an apron of many colors, not outdoing, however, the men with their gold
embroidered vests, their scarlet jackets and the fez upon their heads.
A curious contrariety of nature is, that although the Bosnians and
Herzegovians dislike the Turk, nevertheless they cling to the Turkish
costume with pertinacity. So deep was their hatred of the Turk that
these two provinces combined and placed themselves under the Austrian
rule.
As night approached, the travelers made their way towards a very large,
low house surrounded with outbuildings, and all enclosed by a strong
palisade of timbers built for defense.
"We shall pass the night at the Community House," said Herr Runkel.
"A Community House?" repeated Leopold.
"Yes. You see, in the olden times, the borders of this country, and
the neighboring ones, Servia, Bosnia, Croatia and Roumania, were
constantly being overrun by the Turks, who have always been the dread
of nations, their cruelty being proverbial. The inhabitants of these
border-countries were forced to protect themselves, as in unity was
their strength. Consequently, they built a Community or General House
in which the villagers might live together for mutual protection, and
mutual benefit as well."
"But they don't have wars to fear any more, do they?" asked Ferdinand.
"No. Nevertheless custom of long-standing cannot be lightly laid aside.
Our empress Maria-Theresa, seeing the advantage these communities
afforded as a means of defense, had a long line of them built, seven
thousand miles long, from the Carpathian Mountains on the east of
Transylvania to the sea-coast in Croatia to protect the border from
the Turks, but now these fortifications have been abandoned. However,
isolated Communities remain, being a part of the customs of Servia, and
you will find them vastly different from anything you have yet seen."
It was quite late in the afternoon; the sun had not yet sunk, because
the days were at their longest; however, it was certainly dinner-time,
if not past, and the party were hungry.
Knocking at the door of the largest and most important-looking
building, which was of timber, and one story only, it was opened by a
young man in Servian costume who ushered them into the room. It was
an enormous room, to say the least; in the centre extended a wooden
table set for the evening meal, and about which were already seated the
inhabitants of the Community.
The eldest man, who had the honor to be, at the time, the Stareshina or
Hausvater, arose from his seat and greeted the strangers.
"And may we have the honor of receiving you as our guests?" he asked,
simply.
Herr Runkel thanked him, and explained that they were on a tour of the
provinces with the lads, and should be most grateful for a night's
shelter. Room was made for them at the table, and right heartily were
they received by the Zadruga, or Community family. The two boys were
lost in admiration of all they saw; and although they were plied with
cheeses and meats and bread, and even fruits of all kinds, yet their
hunger seemed to have left them in their wonderment. At one end of the
great room was a brick stove or sort of fireplace, the largest either
of the lads had ever seen. To carry off the smoke from the blazing
logs, was built a huge canopy, round and very large at the bottom,
tapering to a small circumference at the top, and allowing the smoke
to escape through the open roof at that point. Over the fire, but high
enough to prevent them being burned, were cross-beams from which hung
huge pieces of beef, bacons, hams and all sorts of meat smoking for
future use, while the cooking was done in huge pots of iron suspended
by chains from the beams.
The women were dressed in white linen bodices with long, flowing
sleeves; their skirts were a combination of two wide aprons, one at
the front and one at the back, over which was another smaller apron
elaborately embroidered in brilliant colors. About their waists were
scarlet sashes, with a second somewhat higher up of the same brilliant
hue; red leather high boots, filigree silver ornaments or beads about
their necks, and on their heads a filmy veil with fancy border
fastened to the hair with a silver pin, and hanging far down over their
shoulders like a mist. In this most picturesque costume they certainly
resembled our scarlet flamingo or bird-of-paradise more than anything
else one could think of.
The men, too, were splendid in their gay costumes; loose trousers like
the Turks, with top-boots of black leather; scarlet vests embellished
with silver thread and silver buttons, and white coats, very long,
reaching almost to the boots.
The meal finished, the Stareshina (the presiding elder of the Zadruga)
and his wife, the Domatchina (which means homekeeper), arose and thus
gave the signal for the others to arise. Those women whose allotted
work it was to attend to the clearing of the table, betook themselves
to the task. The Domatchina arranges all the work to be done by each
during the week, and turn about is taken, so that there may be no
cause for dissatisfaction, while the Stareshina attends to the matters
of the farm. Thus harmony always prevails; prosperity reigns wherever
these Communities are established, and happiness is paramount.
Although there seemed no apparent necessity for a fire, fresh logs were
added. The men brought out their pipes, drew up the benches toward the
hearth and began conversation. Some brought their musical instruments;
the women sat with their spinning or sewing, while the little girls
even, were occupied with elaborate embroideries for their trousseaux
later in life, which are always begun in childhood.
There was great unity and happiness in the circle. Amid laughter, song
and anecdotes the evening passed; as the hour advanced the Stareshina
conducted evening prayers. Goodnight was said by all, and each family
betook himself to his own vayat (hut) outside the main building or
Koutcha, which alone was reserved for the use of the Stareshina and
the unmarried members of his family. As soon as one of his family
should marry, he would have a separate vayat built for him about the
Koutcha.
The travelers were conducted to the guest-house, reserved solely for
that purpose, and long into the night the children lay and talked over
the strange customs they had seen, and plied their elders with endless
questions as to the meaning of it all.
"Let them be children, Fred," said Herr Runkel. "We brought them on
this trip to learn," and he explained to them those things they wished
so much to know. That the Slavs never allow their hearth-fire to die
out, no matter how hot the season, for as surely as they do, all sorts
of evils would befall them; that is one of the unswerving superstitions
of the nation. The fire of their hearth is as a sacred flame to them,
which must be tended and cared for with unremitting zeal, which harks
back to the days of paganism when the fire was looked upon as the most
sacred thing in their religion, and was kept ever burning in their
temples and public places; finally it became the custom for each family
to have his own hearth or fire, but the superstition that should it die
out it would bring all sorts of maledictions upon the household, has
remained. No doubt the difficulty of obtaining the fire by means of
friction (matches of course, being unknown) accounted for the careful
preservation of the flame. However it be, the Slavs still retain the
ancient custom.
He explained to them how the House father and the House mother of this
great family are elected by vote, serving a given number of years;
sometimes one, sometimes more, as custom establishes; but usually the
eldest man in the Community holds that post of honor, while his wife
is the House mother. He told the lads how the farm is worked by each
member of the Zadruga under the supervision and instruction of the
Stareshina, each receiving his share, according to his labor, at the
end of the season, the finances being in charge of the House father. He
told them how many of the young men, longing for higher education at
the universities or in the arts, such as painting, etc., were sent by
the Zadruga to the city which afforded the best advantages for them,
the expenses being borne by the Community funds, should there not be
sufficient to the young men's credit to pay for it, entirely; this
extra sum being repaid when the students should be in position to do so.
The children were fascinated with the Community, where every one seemed
so happy and well cared for; and they begged to be allowed to remain
many days, but Herr Müller reminded them that Frau Müller would be
awaiting them at Gratz.
"But we shall come again, _nicht wahr, mein Vater_?" asked Ferdinand.
"Yes, we shall come again, and soon maybe," he replied.
"And I, too?" queried Leopold.
"_Naturlich._"
* * * * *
Off in the morning, the party journeyed through the southeastern
portion of Carniola, so rich in mountains and minerals. There were
unusual sights to be seen here, too; huge caverns were fashioned in the
rocks, and grottoes of curious formations. They saw the peasant women
making lace, a product for which the province is particularly famed.
At Marburg, Herr Runkel and Leopold Hofer bade farewell to their
companions, and boarded the train for Innsbruck where Herr Hofer would
meet his young son; while Herr Müller and Ferdinand continued on up
into Styria to the city of Gratz, where Frau Müller awaited them.
Styria, or Steiermark, is a splendid province of the Austria-Hungarian
empire, famous even in the time of the Romans, for its production of
ore, and holding to-day an important place in the commercial world for
its minerals. Gratz, the capital, is a charming city with an excellent
university, and lies on the River Mur. It has been said of it that it
is "La Ville des Grâces sur la rivière de l'Amour" (the favored city
on the river of Love) being a play upon words, amour (love) being
interpreted Mur.
Of course there was an excursion to the Castle-hill, where formerly
stood the ancient castle; and Herr Müller pointed out to the children
the spot where Charles II ordered twenty thousand books of the
Protestant faith to be burned in public.
A few days' visit and they were once more on their way for Vienna, and
home. Ferdinand's tongue had never ceased to chatter, there were so
many interesting details to report to the mother; and when Vienna was
reached it did seem as if the child never could settle down to life in
the City, after his splendid rambles about the open country, wandering
where he willed.
"Father," he remarked, after some days at home, "we did not go to
Moravia. We visited all the provinces except that."
"Yes, it is true," replied his father, "but, you know, we lingered
longer than we intended, and Teresa is due to arrive shortly. We
shall have to reserve Moravia for another vacation-time. I think you
will not find the customs there very different, however, from those
of Bohemia.[1] But I should like to have you see Olmutz, the ancient
capital of Moravia, where our emperor Franz-Joseph was proclaimed king."
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Our Little Bohemian Cousin.