NISCH AND SOPHIA
From Belgrade to Nisch—Nisch—Provincial Hotel Accommodations—The
Monument of Skulls—Tzaribrod—Sophia—Value Received for $1.25 per
Diem—Dragoleftsky.
For a long time the words “Brigands” and “Bulgarians” seemed to me
synonomous, for it was not so very long ago, I thought, that to be
kidnapped and behold the tragic story of your life subsequently
illuminating the pages of every journal, you had only to go to
Bulgaria; and these thoughts were not devoid of some prestige. But
since the days of Pat Crowe and Raisuli the Bulgarian man-stealers seem
to have forgotten their lines and faded ignominiously into the wings of
the stage of publicity. In fact, I discovered later, that you might be
just as safe in your room at the “Grand Royal Hotel” in Sophia as it
would be possible to be in your apartments in any fashionable hotel in
America—and safer, because at the “Grand Royal” in Sophia you are not
in the predatorial power of a gang of domesticated yeggmen disguised
as waiters, porters, bellboys and what not. So we decided to tempt our
fate on a certain June morning by shaking the dust of Belgrade for that
of the Servian frontier.
[Illustration: FRUIT VENDERS, NISCH.]
But eight hours’ travel in the local train so anæsthetized our desires
to continue the journey, on such a train, at least, that the little
vine-clad station at Nisch appealed to us most invitingly. We also
determined then and there to explore the town behind it.
A two-mile drive over even rougher cobbles than Belgrade can boast of,
connects the station with the centre of the town, and I might add that
it is the longest two miles I have ever driven.
As we rattled along, the diminutive one-story dwellings of Nisch
seemed to be scattered over an unlimited area. A single small mosque
constitutes the only remaining suggestion that the town was at one time
in the possession of the Turks.
Finally we stopped in front of one of the hotels—poor excuses,
all of them, believe me—and commenced to bargain and barter for
accommodations, only to discover that all of the rooms were occupied;
I doubt if the place could have housed more than half a dozen patrons
at one time. We tried another hostelry, with the same result. Then
another. The train on which we had arrived, the last one leaving Nisch
that day in either direction, had long since departed for Sophia;
the hotel people seemed anything but desirous of taking us in, for I
am dubious about their houses being so crowded as they were said to
be; and we commenced to consider a suitable place in which to leave
our luggage, so that we might at least walk the streets that night
unencumbered. Our driver, too, was apparently at his wits’ end, but
after we had tendered him an extra _dinare_ as a stimulant he _thought_
he knew of just _one more_ hotel where it _might be possible_ to
obtain rooms, and, accordingly, we were rattled thither. Here our
trials ended, for the proprietor of this place graciously consented to
accommodate us during our stay.
After first walking through a combination office and general
loafing-room, containing at one end a bar, reeking with foul-smelling
tobacco-smoke and alive with Servian officers who shuffled over the
sanded floor or played billiards at an antequated table or sat about
telling the gossip of the garrison, then through a labyrinth of narrow
passages, across a court and up two flights of stairs, we came upon our
room.
I think we paid about fifty cents a day each for this room, but in
the Balkans you get a great deal more for your money at the hotels
than you would dare to expect in America. The floor was scrupulously
polished; clean bed-clothes were on the beds; fresh water had been
brought up for both drinking and toilet purposes; spotless white
candles projected from each candlestick; hair-combs and brushes
(for your application if you cared not to doubt the cleanliness of
the previous user) adorned the bureau; and a gaudy pair of bed-room
slippers reposed beneath each bed, awaiting only the insertion of your
tired toes. Our meals we ate on the pavement in front of the hotel,
“without restraint or finger bowls,” surrounded by the army, sniffed at
by the dogs and stared at by the multitude, while a pet sheep nibbled
playfully at our coat buttons.
In Nisch the soldier element ever predominates over the civilian, for
here is located a Servian garrison of some 2,500 men. Evidently they
consider themselves proficient in military tactics, for they are always
on the streets, and the pavements in front of the hotels are constantly
crowded with officers, smoking and drinking. And every soldier wears
a different uniform. There are blue coats with white trimmings, white
coats with blue trimmings; there are black trousers with green stripes
and green trousers with black stripes, not to mention the brown
trousers with red stripes; there are gray caps with black visors and
black caps without visors. Every private stops on the street to salute
his officer and every officer stops to salute his superior officer; the
place reminds one of a health resort for the treatment of St. Vitus’
dance.
The moment you unlimber your camera, the peasants and townspeople,
who are none too familiar with the habits, customs or pastimes of
English-speaking visitors, crowd around in veritable droves, until you
have to give up in disgust and resign yourself to the good luck you
may hope to have with your snapshots. Only a week after we left Nisch
an Englishman was arrested for taking photographs in and about the
city, and he had a very great deal of trouble in finally convincing the
authorities that his object in making pictures was entirely inoffensive
and _not_ with a view of better explaining to his home War Department
the position of the Servian fort. As it was, he was held in Nisch for
some days until the British Minister to Servia demanded his release.
To say the least, the people of Nisch are primitive and their looks
belie not their methods. Here, for the first time, I saw put into
practice a process which was in vogue centuries ago; the proprietor of
the hotel, after making out his bill, _sanded_ the wet ink instead of
using a blotter.
There is but one object of absorbing interest to be seen in Nisch,
and that is what once was a tower of human skulls, erected by the
Turks. This ghastly monument commemorates the Turkish victory over
the Servians near Nisch in 1809, and it is said to have been composed
originally of twelve hundred of the enemies’ skulls. Now but one
remains, too deeply imbedded in the mud-cement for easy extraction, and
for that reason left undisturbed by the relic-hunter. When Nisch became
Servian all the skulls which could be found, except this one, were
buried reverently.
Because the time of arrival and departure of trains in the Balkan
States appears to be a matter of mere conjecture and of little
consequence, it is the custom for travellers to be at the depot at
least an hour before train time. On the day set for our departure
from Nisch we were awakened at four in the morning, so that we might
have plenty of time to take coffee, be jolted the two miles over the
cobblestones and wait for the train for Sophia, _due to arrive_ at
Nisch at six o’clock.
The route from the Servian frontier to the capital of Bulgaria is
rich in wild and picturesque scenery, for almost immediately after
leaving Nisch steep grades are encountered and continue until the
divide is reached at Dragoman. From there the line descends none too
gradually and Tzaribrod is the next stop. At this point the Servian
crew surrenders the train to the care of the Bulgarians, a perfunctory
customs examination is made of your baggage and you turn the hands of
your watch an hour faster to “East European Time.” Beautiful mountain
scenery marks the remainder of the journey, and in exactly six hours
after leaving Nisch (including the hour change of time) you are in
Sophia.
When you alight from the train don’t think you have made a mistake and
wax discouraged because you did not locate Sophia immediately, for
almost all of these Balkan towns have an unhandy habit of springing up
some two or three miles inland from their respective railway stations.
You have only to jump into one of the numerous open cabs which meet all
trains, each of a different and distinct Renaissance design, and make
signs that you wish to be driven to the Hotel So-and-So.
[Illustration: A STREET SCENE, SOPHIA.]
During the ensuing voyage, your driver, in red fez and baggy,
ill-fitting Turkish bloomers, will, by deft manipulation of the reins,
graze more lamp-posts and curb-stones without regard to speed
limits or to the possible scattering of his fares _en route_ than any
fire-engine driver it has ever been your misfortune to come in contact
with. Yelling with the full power of his leather lungs, sometimes at
his animals and sometimes at the foolhardy Bulgarians who may get in
his way, he will jolt you diagonally across trolley tracks and swing
you dangerously around corners, now on the port tack and now on the
starboard, like an ambulance driver on a hurry call.
Finally, and suddenly, his horses stop literally on a ten-cent piece
in front of the hotel; you feel around to ascertain if your frame is
intact and the tempo of your heart-beats once more assumes a natural
rhythm. Bowing peasants with bared heads (the reason for the ceremony
is known only to themselves, but I have a suspicion that they all hope
to receive from you some gratuity for living) line the sidewalk, while
the hotel proprietor graciously assists you to alight and escorts you
to your rooms, at the same time making profuse apologies for the style
and period of their appointments.
For the Bulgarian equivalent of one dollar and a quarter a day each,
you may lodge and feast at this hotel. You will find the food of great
variety and the cooking excellent; the Turkish coffee, which is always
to be had in these Eastern provinces, and to learn the making of which
you must attempt an excursion into the culinary department, is the best
you have ever tasted; and delicious wine or refreshing beer, the latter
served temptingly in tall, thin, frosted glasses, is included in the
price paid.
Perhaps your apartments consist of a suit of rooms on the second floor,
overlooking a thickly wooded park, which occupies the whole of the
block opposite. The floors are hard wood parquetry and the sitting-room
is furnished like a throne chamber with plush-covered, handsomely
carved, high-backed chairs and divans. In one corner stands an immense
tile stove, a replica of those to be seen in Vienna, resembling more a
sarcophagus than a heater. The bed-room contains two beautifully-carved
beds, burdened with thick, soft feather comforters, while at the side
of each is placed a small stand bearing an attractive electric reading
lamp. The only complaint I had to make was that the thousands of
jackdaws, which held daily conclave in the park during the early hours
of the morning, kept up such an incessant squawking and screeching
that, had our sleeping apartment not been the more remote from the
street, I should have begged the proprietor to give us a back room.
As it was, we were compelled to bury our heads, ostrich-like, under
the feather comforters to deaden the racket, although the season was
mid-summer.
Your comfort during your stay having been assured, you will hurry to
the street to mingle with the people of Bulgaria and to get acquainted
with their capital, this noisy little city of Sophia, situated snugly
at the foot of the snow-capped Balkans, the majestic Mount Vitosch to
the south.
The streets of the new town, each named after some local celebrity of
the era of liberation, radiate like the spokes of a wheel from the
royal palace as a hub. They are well-paved, wide and well-lighted
with electricity, but within the precincts of the old town, now fast
disappearing, you may still find many narrow cross streets and courts,
lined on either side with picturesque Turkish bazaars which continually
invite your patronage.
During our stay in Sophia the trial was being conducted of the
twenty-year-old assassin who murdered the Prime Minister a few months
previously. The opposite side of the street from the law courts was
daily thronged with inquisitive townspeople, hoping to obtain a glimpse
of the boy-murderer, as he was being taken to and from the prison. He
was found guilty and executed.
A wonderful panoramic view of the city and of the surrounding country,
a view that will amply repay you for the almost hazardous carriage ride
over worse than miserable roads, may be had from the foot-hills beyond
the little village of Dragoleftsky, some eight miles to the eastward.
Here you may also get a glimpse, at short range, of how the Bulgarian
peasant lives and has his being. You will see the women washing clothes
in a crude tub, hewn out of the trunk of a tree, a tub that looks not
unlike some kind of “dugout” canoe; while an _olla podrida_ of geese,
chickens, pigs and children swarm on the bare floor of the farmhouse.
Should you proceed farther into the mountains, on foot, of course, you
will come upon one of the enormous monasteries which were the heart and
soul of the movement for Bulgarian liberation, and around which most of
the fighting against the Turks took place.
[Illustration: A BULGARIAN VILLAGE CHURCH.]