Return to Servia.--The Danube.--Semlin.--Wucics and
Petronievitch.--Cathedral Solemnity.--Subscription Ball.
After an absence of six months in England, I returned to the Danube.
Vienna and Pesth offered no attractions in the month of August, and I
felt impatient to put in execution my long cherished project of
travelling through the most romantic woodlands of Servia. Suppose me
then at the first streak of dawn, in the beginning of August, 1844,
hurrying after the large wheelbarrow which carries the luggage of the
temporary guests of the Queen of England at Pesth to the steamer lying
just below the long bridge of boats that connects the quiet sombre
bureaucratic Ofen with the noisy, bustling, movement-loving new city,
which has sprung up as it were by enchantment on the opposite side of
the water. I step on board--the signal is given for starting--the
lofty and crimson-peaked Bloxberg--the vine-clad hill that produces
the fiery Ofener wine, and the long and graceful quay, form, as it
were, a fine peristrephic panorama, as the vessel wheels round, and,
prow downwards, commences her voyage for the vast and curious East,
while the Danubian tourist bids a dizzy farewell to this last snug
little centre of European civilization. We hurry downwards towards the
frontiers of Turkey, but nature smiles not,--We have on our left the
dreary steppe of central Hungary, and on our right the low distant
hills of Baranya. Alas! this is not the Danube of Passau, and Lintz,
and Molk, and Theben. But now the Drave pours her broad waters into
the great artery. The right shore soon becomes somewhat bolder, and
agreeably wooded hills enliven the prospect. This little mountain
chain is the celebrated Frusca Gora, the stronghold of the Servian
language, literature, and nationality on the Austrian aide of the
Save.
A few days after my arrival, Wucics and Petronievitch, the two pillars
of the party of Kara Georgevitch, the reigning prince, and the
opponents of the ousted Obrenovitch family, returned from banishment
in consequence of communications that had passed between the British
and Russian governments. Great preparations were made to receive the
popular favourites.
One morning I was attracted to the window, and saw an immense flock of
sheep slowly paraded along, their heads being decorated with ribbons,
followed by oxen, with large citrons stuck on the tips of their horns.
One vender of shawls and carpets had covered all the front of his shop
with his gaudy wares, in order to do honour to the patriots, and at
the same time to attract the attention of purchasers.
The tolling of the cathedral bell announced the approach of the
procession, which was preceded by a long train of rustic cavaliers,
noble, vigorous-looking men. Standing at the balcony, we missed the
sight of the heroes of the day, who had gone round by other streets.
We, therefore, went to the cathedral, where all the principal persons
in Servia were assembled. One old man, with grey, filmy, lack-lustre
eyes, pendant jaws, and white beard, was pointed out to me as a
centenarian witness of this national manifestation.
The grand screen, which in the Greek churches veils the sanctuary from
the vulgar gaze, was hung with rich silks, and on a raised platform,
covered with carpets, stood the archbishop, a dignified
high-priest-looking figure, with crosier in hand, surrounded by his
deacons in superbly embroidered robes. The huzzas of the populace grew
louder as the procession approached the cathedral, a loud and
prolonged buzz of excited attention accompanied the opening of the
grand central portal, and Wucics and Petronievitch, grey with the dust
with which the immense cavalcade had besprinkled them, came forward,
kissed the cross and gospels, which the archbishop presented to them,
and, kneeling down, returned thanks for their safe restoration. On
regaining their legs, the archbishop advanced to the edge of the
platform, and began a discourse describing the grief the nation had
experienced at their departure, the universal joy for their return,
and the hope that they would ever keep peace and union in view in all
matters of state, and that in their duties to the state they must
never forget their responsibility to the Most High.
Wucics, dressed in the coarse frieze jacket and boots of a Servian
peasant, heard with a reverential inclination of the head the
elegantly polished discourse of the gold-bedizened prelate, but nought
relaxed one single muscle of that adamantine visage; the finer but
more luminous features of Petronievitch were evidently under the
control of a less powerful will. At certain passages of the discourse,
his intelligent eye was moistened with tears. Two deacons then prayed
successively for the Sultan, the Emperor of Russia, and the prince.
And now uprose from every tongue, and every heart, a hymn for the
longevity of Wucics and Petronievitch. "The solemn song for many days"
is the expressive title of this sublime chant. This hymn is so old
that its origin is lost in the obscure dawn of Christianity in the
East, and so massive, so nobly simple, as to be beyond the ravages of
time, and the caprices of convention.
The procession then returned, the band playing the Wucics march, to
the houses of the two heroes of the day.
We dined; and just as dessert appeared the whiz of a rocket announced
the commencement of fire-works. As most of us had seen the splendid
bouquet of rockets, which, during the fetes of July, amuse the
Parisians, we entertained slender expectations of being pleased with
an illumination at Belgrade. On going out, however, the scene proved
highly interesting. In the grand square were two columns _a la
Vicentina_, covered with lamps. One side of the square was illuminated
with the word Wucics, and the other with the word Avram in colossal
letters. At a later period of the evening the downs were covered with
fires roasting innumerable sheep and oxen, a custom which seems in all
countries to accompany popular rejoicing.
I had never seen a Servian full-dress ball, but the arrival of Wucics
and Petronievitch procured me the opportunity of witnessing an
entertainment of this description. The principal apartment in the new
Konak, built by prince Michael, was the ball-room, which, by eight
o'clock, was filled, as the phrase goes, by all "the rank and fashion"
of Belgrade. Senators of the old school, in their benishes and
shalwars, and senators of the new school in pantaloons and stiff
cravats. As Servia has become, morally speaking, Europe's youngest
daughter, this is all very well: but I must ever think that in the
article of dress this innovation is not an improvement. I hope that
the ladies of Servia will never reject their graceful national
costume for the shifting modes and compressed waists of European
capitals.
No head-dress, that I have seen in the Levant, is better calculated to
set off beauty than that of the ladies of Servia. From a small Greek
fez they suspend a gold tassel, which contrasts with the black and
glossy hair, which is laid smooth and flat down the temple. Even now,
while I write, memory piques me with the graceful toss of the head,
and the rustle of the yellow satin gown of the sister of the princess,
who was admitted to be the handsomest woman in the room, and with her
tunic of crimson velvet embroidered in gold, and faced with sable,
would have been, in her strictly indigenous costume, the queen of any
fancy ball in old Europe.
Wucics and Petronievitch were of course received with shouts and
clapping of hands, and took the seats prepared for them at the upper
end of the hall. The Servian national dance was then performed, being
a species of cotillion in alternate quick and slow movements.
I need not repeat the other events of the evening; how forms and
features were passed in review; how the jewelled, smooth-skinned,
doll-like beauties usurped the admiration of the minute, and how the
indefinably sympathetic air of less pretentious belles prolonged their
magnetic sway to the close of the night.