TWENTIETH CENTURY SERVIA
The Servians—The Rise of the Nation—The Army—The Race-meets—The
Market in Belgrade—National Customs—The National Dance.
To the seeker of health and of pleasure, to the lover of the beautiful
in art and in nature, to the reveller in gayety and luxurious living,
Servia as a travel territory is null and void. It is a country of
interest to the public only so long as it continues to bask in the
limelight as a disturber of Balkan peace. It is the tool of Russia, the
enemy of Austria, the contempt of Bulgaria and the hatred of Turkey.
Indeed its only true friend may be said to be its relative—miniature
Montenegro. If the Balkan Peninsula is the “Powder Box” of Europe,
Servia certainly deserves to be called the “Percussion Cap” of the
Balkan Peninsula.
[Illustration: THE NATIVE SERVIAN HEAD-DRESS.]
To the student the Servians are a nation of types; as a race they
are gifted by nature with unusual powers of observation, shrewdness
and strength of character, but from the fact of their having been
so long oppressed has arisen a disposition to concealment and even
absolute distrust. They are patriotic and loyal to a marked degree,
which may account, in part, for their emotional proclivities. They are
absolutely fearless, but this fearlessness assumes at times a tinge
of the _opera bouffe_, as in the late controversy with Austria, which
leads us Americans to think of them as a nation of charlatans.
But I digress. It is not my desire to enter into any rehearsals
of the political conditions in the pivotal Near East. I exhaled a
deep-breathed oath when this volume was commenced to confine my
writings herein to the travelling through and brief descriptions of
these “Lands of the Tamed Turk,” introducing such history as might seem
romantic and interesting and instructive enough to be absorbed by the
reader.
Only since the final suppression of the Turks have the Servians “found
themselves,” so to speak, and the rapid rise of the nation has been
remarkable. In the early years of the nineteenth century, before its
revolt under the leadership of George Petrovitch—Kara, or Black
George, as he was called by the Turks—Servia could not boast of a
single schoolhouse; there was not even a wagon road in the whole
country, except what remained of the ancient Roman highway between
Belgrade and Nisch; because the Turks forbade the building or even
repairing of houses of Christian worship, the churches were, for the
most part, in miserable ruin; the entire population at that time was
scarcely larger than that of the single city of Detroit to-day. Then
Servia was merely a province of Turkey, governed by a Vizir sent from
Constantinople. The country was not only the seat of internal friction,
but tribes, in rebellion against the Sultan, exploited the land as a
private estate.
But listen to the changes of a hundred years.
As I write, Servia maintains eight hundred and sixty elementary
schools for boys and a hundred and fifty for girls; fourteen middle
grade schools with, and twelve without, classical departments; six
high-schools for girls; two technical academies; two schools for
teachers; one commercial college; a school of agriculture; a military
academy; and an university. Public instruction is free and compulsory.
Of the twelve hundred and seventy-eight towns and villages throughout
the country the important ones are connected by rail, and telegraphic
communication exists between most of the others.
The contemptible pig still constitutes the chief article of export,
but the raising of swine, instead of the cultivation of the soil,
although the latter is by no means unprolific, has been handed down
from generation to generation as an ingenious method of the Servians
for saving the products of their country from the destructive raids
of the Turks.[1] In some districts, however, fruits and cereals are
cultivated and exported in abundance. Many thousands of cases of plums
find their way to France annually, whence they are re-exported to
America, and sold under the label of French products. From this fruit
is pressed the national drink of Servia, _slivivitz_, a sort of plum
brandy, which, when imbibed freely, produces most grotesque effects—so
I am told.
[1] To those of the Mohammedan faith pork is a forbidden delicacy.
Although the whole kingdom covers little more than twice the area of
the state of New Jersey, the regular army consists of some twenty
thousand men. The organization of it, however, is based upon a law
enacted in 1893 which, if executed, would place in the field three
hundred and thirty-five thousand men, but financial stringencies have
curbed the application of this statute. For every Servian between the
ages of twenty and thirty, military duty for two years in the regular
army is compulsory; and during the remaining years of his middle life
he is classed in the first, second or third divisions of the reserves,
according to his age.
Belgrade itself, the capital of the country, has a population of
eighty thousand, being about the size of Hartford, Connecticut, and it
is a singular fact, as well as an amusing one, that no less than two
thousand of this number are policemen. These guardians of the peace,
who are at the same time units of the army, are well-drilled and are
housed in military barracks.
[Illustration: DRINKING A FRIENDLY GLASS OF _SLIVIVITZ_.]
Naturally, the army is the phase of Servian life most often met with in
the capital. You will see it on every hand, at all hours and clothed
in every conceivable colour of uniform. It throngs the parks and
takes complete and indisputable possession of the cafés; in which the
prices of beverages advance simultaneously with the tuning-up of the
gypsy orchestras. Should you drive out to one of the rather ridiculous
race-meets you will notice that the army-officers’ race is the most
important event on the programme. Like as not, upon such an excursion,
the King will drive past you, bowing graciously; although the races are
comparatively crude affairs, he and the other members of the royal
household are ardent devotees of the sport.
At the race course the army lines the fence bordering the track,
while half a dozen heavily equipped peasants in black alpaca caps vie
with each other as to the speed of their respective mounts. At one
meet which I attended, a rider was thrown within a short distance
from the tape, which his horse was about to cross ahead of the other
contestants by two hundred yards. But his mind was set upon winning
the race by fair means or foul and, picking himself out of the dust,
he bravely endeavoured to cross the line on foot in advance of the
fast-approaching cloud of rivals. Upon his failure to do so a heated
discussion immediately arose as to whether the horse won the race or
the rider lost it.
For a Balkan city Belgrade is exceptionally apt in acquiring the ways
and “means” of the Westerner. As the traveller is about to leave the
hotel to take a train a hall bell is rung, followed by a general
mustering of all hands, from the head clerk to the cook’s helper, each
of whom expects to receive some token of appreciation for services
rendered. I suppose I had helped at least sixteen to establish
themselves in business, and was just about to make a second start for
the depot when one of the confederates came running breathlessly
towards me. Would I be good enough to wait just _one_ moment because
the _zimmer mädchen_ (and Heaven knows I tipped _her_ munificently each
time she brought me warm water for shaving or lined the marble bathtub
with a sheet—and in Belgrade a bath costs seventy-five cents, anyway)
was on her way downstairs? But time was precious with me and as I drove
away I heard, faintly, the tardy and disappointed _zimmer mädchen_
clattering along the flagstone hall.
I even saw an automobile, of uncertain vintage and questionable
parentage, in Belgrade, honking its noisy way through the crowds of
gaping peasants near the market.
And in the word “market” I have unconsciously mentioned one of the most
interesting sights to be had during a visit to a Slavonic city. Every
day is “market-day” in Belgrade, but on Sunday mornings the bizarre
scene is augmented by peasants in holiday garb from all the surrounding
country-side, while Turkish “boze”-sellers (this word “boze” is not
to be conflicted with the American slang expression which signifies
intoxicating liquors) peddle about the contents of their buckets,
shrieking the avowed virtues of their stock in trade. This “boze,” a
sort of sweetened oatmeal water, is freely consumed in Servia by
shopkeepers, artisans and peasants.
[Illustration: A “BOZE” PEDDLER, BELGRADE.]
But I must withhold the description of a typical market scene in the
Balkans, and devote a certain amount of space to it in connection with
the Bulgar capital of Sophia where one of the most interesting markets
in the world is held on Friday of each week.
Of the customs of the country there are many which are quaint and
singular, especially among the peasant population, but only a few of
the more common ones will bear description.
In the Servian orthodox church there are a hundred and eighty feast
days in the year, the continued observance of which places business in
a state of chaos. Divorce is easily obtained, and for the slightest
cause, through the ecclesiastical tribunals, and it carries with it
no social disgrace; but to wed a cousin, no matter how distant, is
attended with absolute ostracism.
Instead of bride’s-maids at a wedding the Servians employ two _kums_,
or godfathers, each of whom is compelled by custom to give the bride
a dress-length of silk. A particularly significant honour is bestowed
upon the _dever_, who acts in the capacity of the best man at the
marriage ceremony. He carries a bouquet, wears a white sash and other
ludicrous regalia, and for no reason whatever must he leave the bride
for an instant throughout the day of the wedding.
As a general rule the wife is older than the husband and the
bridegroom’s relatives have preference over those of the bride. The
bride herself is regarded as little more than a household slave.
Each regiment of the army, like each Servian family, revels in the
protection of a patron saint, and the celebration of the _slava_, or
patron saint’s day, of a regiment is the only occasion of the year
upon which all ranks of the army are considered socially equal. In the
family the _slava_ usually takes place upon the anniversary of that
family’s conversion to Christianity, and on that day it is the custom
to call upon one’s friends whose _slava_ it is.
[Illustration: THE PRISHTINA COSTUME, WORN BY SERVIAN WOMEN ON FEAST
DAYS.]
Characteristic of every Slavonic nation is its national dance, and the
Servians, not to be outdone in this respect by their cousins, boast
of what they call the “Kola,” an extremely picturesque variety of the
terpsichorean art, partly adapted from the Russian and partly invented
by themselves. This “Kola” is danced upon the least provocation,
and at every function. It matters little where they may be; in the
streets of Belgrade or tending their flocks in the fields, if a
group of Servians feel a “Kola” coming on they must give vent to their
enthusiasm. It is danced upon the field of battle by the soldiers,
and the King leads it at every state ball. At first sight it seems
ridiculous, almost childish, and especially so when danced at one of
the royal functions where gray-whiskered diplomats of all nations,
high officials of state in uniform and be-jewelled leaders of Servian
society trail like a kaleidoscopic serpent in the wake of the King,
as he twists and turns up and down the polished floor of the great
ball-room in the palace. But it seems to wax more and more fascinating
and impressive the more often one sees it danced.
I was returning by carriage one warm, humid afternoon, from the cool
environs of Topchidere Park, when I noticed a regiment of Servian
soldiery drilling on the parade ground near one of the barracks.
Suddenly the order to stack arms was given. Two of the privates rushed
with all possible speed to the barracks and returned with a couple of
violins. As they commenced the typical Slavonic music of the “Kola”
the nine hundred and more officers and men linked arms and, forming
one long line of white coats and caps, blue breeches and black boots,
went through the mystic mazes of the national Servian dance with much
precision, no little amount of gusto and a great deal of effervescent
enthusiasm. As I witnessed this “Kola” it was nothing if not an
inspiring sight.