The Banat of Matchva.--Losnitza.--Feuds on the Frontier.--Enter the
Back-woods.--Convent of Tronosha.--Greek Festival.--Congregation of
Peasantry.--Rustic Finery.
Through the richest land, forming part of the ancient banat of
Matchva, which was in the earlier periods of Servian and Hungarian
history so often a source of conflict and contention, we approached
distant grey hills, which gradually rose from the horizon, and, losing
their indistinctness, revealed a chain so charmingly accidented, that
I quickened my pace, as if about to enter a fairy region. Thick turf
covered the pasture lands; the old oak and the tender sapling
diversified the plain. Some clouds hung on the horizon, whose
delicate lilac and fawn tints, forming a harmonizing contrast with the
deep deep blue of the heavens, showed the transparency of the
atmosphere, and brought healthful elevation of spirits. Even the
brutes bespoke the harmony of creation; for, singular to say, we saw
several crows perched on the backs of swine!
Towards evening, we entered a region of cottages among gardens
inclosed by bushes, trees, and verdant fences, with the rural quiet
and cleanliness of an English village in the last century, lighted up
by an Italian sunset. Having crossed the little bridge, a pandour, who
was sitting under the willows, rose, came forward, and, touching his
hat, presented the Natchalnik's compliments, and said that he was
instructed to conduct me to his house. Losnitza is situated on the
last undulation of the Gutchevo range, as the mountains we had all day
kept in view were called. So leaving the town on our left, we struck
into a secluded path, which wound up the hill, and in ten minutes we
dismounted at a house having the air of a Turkish villa, which
overlooked the surrounding country, and was entered by an enclosed
court-yard with high walls.
The Natchalnik of Losnitza was a grey-headed tall gaunt figure, who
spoke very little; but as the Bosniac frontier is subject to troubles
he had been selected for his great personal courage, for he had served
under Kara Georg from 1804.[5]
_Natchalnik_. "It is not an easy matter to keep things straight; the
population on this side is all organized, so as to concentrate eight
thousand men in a few hours. The Bosniacs are all armed; and as the
two populations detest each other cordially, and are separated only by
the Drina, the public tranquillity often incurs great danger: but
whenever a crisis is at hand I mount my horse and go to Mahmoud Pasha
at Zwornik; and the affair is generally quietly settled with a cup of
coffee."
_Author_. "Ay, ay; as the Arabs say, the burning of a little tobacco
saves the burning of a great deal of powder. What is the population of
Zwornik?"
_Natchalnik_. "About twelve or fifteen thousand; the place has fallen
off; it had formerly between thirty and forty thousand souls."
_Author_. "Have you had any disputes lately?"
_Natchalnik_. "Why, yes; Great Zwornik is on the Bosniac side of the
Drina; but Little Zwornik on the Servian side is also held by Moslems.
Not long ago the men of Little Zwornik wished to extend their domain;
but I planted six hundred men in a wood, and then rode down alone and
warned them off. They treated me contemptuously; but as soon as they
saw the six hundred men issuing from the wood they gave up the point:
and Mahmoud Pasha admitted I was right; but he had been afraid to risk
his popularity by preventive measures."
The selamlik of the Natchalnik was comfortably carpeted and fitted up,
but no trace of European furniture was to be seen. The rooms of the
collector at Shabatz still smacked of the vicinity to Austria; but
here we were with the natives. Dinner was preceded by cheese, onions,
and slivovitsa as a _rinfresco_, and our beds were improvised in the
Turkish manner by mattresses, sheets, and coverlets, laid on the
divans. May I never have a worse bed![6]
Next morning, on waking, I went into the kiosk to enjoy the cool fresh
air, the incipient sunshine, and the noble prospect; the banat of
Matchva which we had yesterday traversed, stretched away to the
westward, an ocean of verdure and ripe yellow fruits.
"Where is the Drina?" said I to our host.
"Look downwards," said he; "you see that line of poplars and willows;
there flows the Drina, hid from view: the steep gardens and wooded
hills that abruptly rise from the other bank are in Bosnia."
The town doctor now entered, a middle-aged man, who had been partly
educated in Dalmatia, and consequently spoke Italian; he told us that
his salary was £40 a year; and that in consequence of the extreme
cheapness of provisions he managed to live as well in this place as he
could on the Adriatic for treble the sum.
Other persons, mostly employes, now came to see us, and we descended
to the town. The bazaar was open and paved with stone; but except its
extreme cleanliness, it was not in the least different from those one
sees in Bulgaria and other parts of Turkey in Europe. Up to 1835 many
Turks lived in Losnitza; but at that time they all removed to Bosnia;
the mosque still remains, and is used as a grain magazine. A mud fort
crowns the eminence, having been thrown up during the wars of Kara
Georg, and might still be serviceable in case of hostile operations.
Before going to Sokol the Natchalnik persuaded me to take a Highland
ramble into the Gutchevo range, and first visit Tronosha, a large
convent three hours off in the woods, which was to be on the following
day the rendezvous of all the surrounding peasantry, in their holyday
dresses, in order to celebrate the festival of consecration.
At the appointed hour our host appeared, having donned his best
clothes, which were covered with gold embroidery. His sabre and
pistols were no less rich and curious, and he mounted a horse worth at
least sixty or seventy pounds sterling. Several other notables of
Losnitza, similarly broidered and accoutred, and mounted on caracoling
horses, accompanied us; and we formed a cavalcade that would have
astonished even Mr. Batty.
Ascending rapidly, we were soon lost in the woods, catching only now
and then a view of the golden plain through the dark green oaks and
pines. For full three hours our brilliant little party dashed up hill
and down dale, through the most majestic forests, delightful to the
gaze but unrelieved by a patch of cultivation, and miserably
profitless to the commonwealth, till we came to a height covered with
loose rocks and pasture. "There is Tronosha," said the Natchalnik,
pulling up, and pointing to a tapering white spire and slender column
of blue smoke that rose from a _cul-de-sac_ formed by the opposite
hills, which, like the woods we had traversed, wore such a shaggy and
umbrageous drapery, that with a slight transposition, I could exclaim,
"Si lupus essem, nollem alibi quam in _Servia_ lupus esse!" A steep
descent brought us to some meadows on which cows were grazing by the
side of a rapid stream, and I felt the open apace a relief after the
gloom of the endless forest.
Crossing the stream, we struck into the sylvan _cul-de-sac_, and
arrived in a few minutes at an edifice with strong walls, towers, and
posterns, that looked more like a secluded and fortified manor-house
in the seventeenth century than a convent; for in more troubled times,
such establishments, though tolerated by the old Turkish government,
were often subject to the unwelcome visits of minor marauders.
A fine jolly old monk, with a powerful voice, welcomed the Natchalnik
at the gate, and putting his hand on his left breast, said to me,
"_Dobro doche Gospody_!" (Welcome, master!)
We then, according to the custom of the country, went into the chapel,
and, kneeling down, said our thanksgiving for safe arrival. I
remarked, on taking a turn through the chapel and examining it
minutely, that the pictures were all in the old Byzantine
style--crimson-faced saints looking up to golden skies.
Crossing the court, I looked about me, and perceived that the cloister
was a gallery, with wooden beams supporting the roof, running round
three sides of the building, the basement being built in stone, at one
part of which a hollowed tree shoved in an aperture formed a spout for
a stream of clear cool water. The Igoumen, or superior, received us at
the foot of the wooden staircase which ascended to the gallery. He was
a sleek middle-aged man, with a new silk gown, and seemed out of his
wits with delight at my arrival in this secluded spot, and taking me
by the hand led me to a sort of seat of honour placed in a prominent
part of the gallery, which seemed to correspond with the _makaa_ of
Saracenic architecture.
No sooner had the Igoumen gone to superintend the arrangements of the
evening, than a shabbily dressed filthy priest, of such sinister
aspect, that, to use a common phrase, "his looks would have hanged
him," now came up, and in a fulsome eulogy welcomed me to the convent.
He related how he had been born in Syrmium, and had been thirteen
years in Bosnia; but I suspected that some screw was loose, and on
making inquiry found that he had been sent to this retired convent in
consequence of incorrigible drunkenness. The Igoumen now returned, and
gave the clerical Lumnacivagabundus such a look that he skulked off on
the instant.
After coffee, sweetmeats, &c., we passed through the yard, and
piercing the postern gate, unexpectedly came upon a most animated
scene. A green glade that ran up to the foot of the hill, was covered
with the preparations for the approaching festivities--wood was
splitting, fires lighting, fifty or sixty sheep were spitted, pyramids
of bread, dishes of all sorts and sizes, and jars of wine in wicker
baskets were mingled with throat-cut fowls, lying on the banks of the
stream aide by side with pigs at their last squeak.
Dinner was served in the refectory to about twenty individuals,
including the monks and our party. The Igoumen drank to the health of
the prince, and then of Wucics and Petronievitch, declaring that
thanks were due to God and those European powers who had brought about
their return. The shabby priest, with the gallows look, then sang a
song of his own composition, on their return. Not being able to
understand it, I asked my neighbour what he thought of the song.
"Why," said he, "the lay is worthy of the minstrel--doggrel and
dissonance." Some old national songs were sung, and I again asked my
neighbour for a criticism on the poetry. "That last song," said he,
"is like a river that flows easily and naturally from one beautiful
valley to another."
In the evening we went out, and the countless fires lighting up the
lofty oaks had a most pleasing effect. The sheep were by this time
cut up, and lying in fragments, around which the supper parties were
seated cross-legged. Other peasants danced slowly, in a circle, to the
drone of the somniferous Servian bagpipe.
When I went to bed, the assembled peasantry were in the full tide of
merriment, but without excess. The only person somewhat the worse of
the bottle was the threadbare priest with the gallows look.
I fell asleep with a low confused murmur of droning bagpipes, jingling
drinking cups, occasional laughter, and other noises. I dreamed, I
know not what absurdities; suddenly a solemn swelling chorus of
countless voices gently interrupted my slumbers--the room was filled
with light, and the sun on high was beginning to begild an irregular
parallelogram in the wainscot, when I started up, and hastily drew on
some clothes. Going out to the _makaa_, I perceived yesterday's
assembly of merry-making peasants quadrupled in number, and all
dressed in their holiday costume, thickset on their knees down the
avenue to the church, and following a noble old hymn, I sprang out of
the postern, and, helping myself with the grasp of trunks of trees,
and bared roots and bushes, clambered up one of the sides of the
hollow, and attaining a clear space, looked down with wonder and
pleasure on the singular scene. The whole pit, of this theatre of
verdure appeared covered with a carpet of white and crimson, for such
were the prevailing colours of the rustic costumes. When I thought of
the trackless solitude of the sylvan ridges round me, I seemed to
witness one of the early communions of Christianity, in those ages
when incense ascended to the Olympic deities in gorgeous temples,
while praise to the true God rose from the haunts of the wolf, the
lonely cavern, or the subterranean vault.
When church service was over I examined the dresses more minutely. The
upper tunic of the women was a species of surtout of undyed cloth,
bordered with a design of red cloth of a liner description. The
stockings in colour and texture resembled those of Persia, but were
generally embroidered at the ankle with gold and silver thread. After
the mid-day meal we descended, accompanied by the monks. The lately
crowded court-yard was silent and empty. "What," said I, "all
dispersed already?" The superior smiled, and said nothing. On going out
of the gate, I paused in a state of slight emotion. The whole
assembled peasantry were marshalled in two rows, and standing
uncovered in solemn silence, so as to make a living avenue to the
bridge.
The Igoumen then publicly expressed the pleasure my visit had given to
the people, and in their name thanked me, and wished me a prosperous
journey, repeating a phrase I had heard before: "God be praised that
Servia has at length seen the day that strangers come from afar to see
and know the people!"
I took off my fez, and said, "Do you know, Father Igoumen, what has
given me the most pleasure in the course of my visit?"
_Ig_. "I can scarcely guess."
_Author_. "I have seen a large assembly of peasantry, and not a trace
of poverty, vice, or misery; the best proof that both the civil and
ecclesiastical authorities do their duty."
The Igoumen, smiling with satisfaction, made a short speech to the
people. I mounted my horse; the convent bells began to toll as I waved
my hand to the assembly, and "Sretnj poot!" (a prosperous journey!)
burst from a thousand tongues. The scene was so moving that I could
scarcely refrain a tear. Clapping spurs to my horse I cantered over
the bridge and gave him his will of the bridle till the steepness of
the ascent compelled a slower pace.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 5: Servia is divided into seventeen provinces, each governed
by a Natchalnik, whose duty it is to keep order and report to the
minister of war and interior. He has of course no control over the
legal courts of law attached to each provincial government; he has a
Cashier and a Secretary, and each province is divided into Cantons
(Sres), over each of which a captain rules. The average population of
a province is 50,000 souls, and there are generally three Cantons in a
province, which are governed by captains.]
[Footnote 6: Whether from the climate or superior cleanliness, there
are certainly much fewer fleas in Servia than in Turkey; and I saw
other vermin only once.]