Holman, the Blind Traveller.--Milutinovich, the Poet.--Bulgarian
Legend.--Tableau de genre.--Departure for the Interior.
Belgrade, unlike other towns on the Danube, is much less visited by
Europeans, since the introduction of steam navigation, than it was
previously. Servia used to be the _porte cochere_ of the East; and
most travellers, both before and since the lively Lady Mary Wortley
Montague, took the high road to Constantinople by Belgrade, Sofia,
Philippopoli, and Adrianople. No mere tourist would now-a-days think
of undertaking the fatiguing ride across European Turkey, when he can
whizz past Widdin and Roustchouk, and even cut off the grand tongue at
the mouth of the Danube, by going in an omnibus from Czernovoda to
Kustendgi; consequently the arrival of an English traveller from the
interior, is a somewhat rare occurrence.
One day I was going out at the gateway, and saw a strange figure, with
a long white beard and a Spanish cap, mounted on a sorry horse, and at
once recognized it to be that of Holman, the blind traveller.
"How do you do, Mr. Holman?" said I.
"I know that voice well."
"I last saw you in Aleppo," said I; and he at once named me.
I then got him off his horse, and into quarters.
This singular individual had just come through the most dangerous
parts of Bosnia in perfect safety; a feat which a blind man can
perform more easily than one who enjoys the most perfect vision; for
all compassionate and assist a fellow-creature in this deplorable
plight.
Next day I took Mr. Holman through the town, and described to him the
lions of Belgrade; and taking a walk on the esplanade, I turned his
face to the cardinal points of the compass, successively explaining
the objects lying in each direction, and, after answering a few of his
cross questions, the blind traveller seemed to know as much of
Belgrade as was possible for a person in his condition.
He related to me, that since our meeting at Aleppo, he had visited
Damascus and other eastern cities; and at length, after sundry
adventures, had arrived on the Adriatic, and visited the Vladika of
Montenegro, who had given him a good reception. He then proceeded
through Herzegovina and Bosnia to Seraievo, where he passed three
days, and he informed me that from Seraievo to the frontiers of Servia
was nearly all forest, with here and there the skeletons of robbers
hung up in chains.
Mr. Holman subsequently went, as I understood, to Wallachia and
Transylvania.
Having delayed my departure for the interior, in order to witness the
national festivities, nothing remained but the purgatory of
preparation, the squabbling about the hire of horses, the purchase of
odds and ends for convenience on the road, for no such thing as a
canteen is to be had at Belgrade. Some persons recommended my hiring a
Turkish Araba; but as this is practicable only on the regularly
constructed roads, I should have lost the sight of the most
picturesque regions, or been compelled to take my chance of getting
horses, and leaving my baggage behind. To avoid this inconvenience, I
resolved to perform the whole journey on horseback.
The government showed me every attention, and orders were sent by the
minister of the interior to all governors, vice-governors, and
employes, enjoining them to furnish me with every assistance, and
communicate whatever information I might desire; to which, as the
reader will see in the sequel, the fullest effect was given by those
individuals.
On the day of departure, a tap was heard at the door, and enter Holman
to bid me good-bye. Another tap at the door, and enter Milutinovich,
who is the best of the living poets of Servia, and has been sometimes
called the Ossian of the Balkan. As for his other pseudonyme, "the
Homer of a hundred sieges," that must have been invented by Mr. George
Robins, the Demosthenes of "_one_ hundred rostra." The reading public
in Servia is not yet large enough to enable a man of letters to live
solely by his works; so our bard has a situation in the ministry of
public instruction. One of the most remarkable compositions of
Milutinovich is an address to a young surgeon, who, to relieve the
poet from difficulties, expended in the printing of his poems a sum
which he had destined for his own support at a university, in order to
obtain his degree.
Now, it may not be generally known that one of the oldest legends of
Bulgaria is that of "Poor Lasar," which runs somewhat thus:--
"The day departed, and the stranger came, as the moon rose on the
silver snow. 'Welcome,' said the poor Lasar to the stranger;
'Luibitza, light the faggot, and prepare the supper.'
"Luibitza answered: 'The forest is wide, and the lighted faggot burns
bright, but where is the supper? Have we not fasted since yesterday?'
"Shame and confusion smote the heart of poor Lasar.
"'Art thou a Bulgarian,' said the stranger, 'and settest not food
before thy guest?'
"Poor Lasar looked in the cupboard, and looked in the garret, nor
crumb, nor onion, were found in either. Shame and confusion smote the
heart of poor Lasar.
"'Here is fat and fair flesh,' said the stranger, pointing to Janko,
the curly-haired boy. Luibitza shrieked and fell. 'Never,' said Lasar,
'shall it be said that a Bulgarian was wanting to his guest,' He
seized a hatchet, and Janko was slaughtered as a lamb. Ah, who can
describe the supper of the stranger!
"Lasar fell into a deep sleep, and at midnight he heard the stranger
cry aloud, 'Arise, Lasar, for I am the Lord thy God; the hospitality
of Bulgaria is untarnished. Thy son Janko is restored to life, and thy
stores are filled.'
"Long lived the rich Lasar, the fair Luibitza, and the curly-haired
Janko."
Milutinovich, in his address to the youthful surgeon, compares his
transcendent generosity to the sacrifice made by Lasar in the wild and
distasteful legend I have here given.
I introduced the poet and the traveller to each other, and explained
their respective merits and peculiarities. Poor old Milutinovich, who
looked on his own journey to Montenegro as a memorable feat, was
awe-struck when I mentioned the innumerable countries in the four
quarters of the world which had been visited by the blind traveller.
He immediately recollected of having read an account of him in the
Augsburg Gazette, and with a reverential simplicity begged me to
convey to him his desire to kiss, his beard. Holman consented with a
smile, and Milutinovich, advancing as if he were about to worship a
deity, lifted the peak of white hairs from the beard of the aged
stranger, pressed them to his lips, and prayed aloud that he might
return to his home in safety.
In old Europe, Milutinovich would have been called an actor; but his
deportment, if it had the originality, had also the childish
simplicity of nature.
When the hour of departure arrived, I descended to the court yard,
which would have furnished good materials for a _tableau de genre_, a
lofty, well built, German-looking house, rising on three sides,
surrounded a most rudely paved court, which was inclosed on the fourth
by a stable and hay-loft, not one-third the height of the rest.
Various mustachioed _far niente_ looking figures, wrapped _cap-a-pie_
in dressing gowns, lolled out of the first floor corridor, and smoked
their chibouques with unusual activity, while the ground floor was
occupied by German washer-women and their soap-suds; three of the
arcades being festooned with shirts and drawers hung up to dry, and
stockings, with apertures at the toes and heels for the free
circulation of the air. Loud exclamations, and the sound of the click
of balls, proceeded from the large archway, on which a cafe opened. In
the midst of the yard stood our horses, which, with their heavily
padded and high cantelled Turkish saddles, somewhat _a la
Wouvermans_, were held by Fonblanque's robust Pandour in his crimson
jacket and white fustanella. My man Paul gave a smack of the whip, and
off we cantered for the highlands and woodlands of Servia.