A BULGARIAN MARKET
Bulgaria’s Busy Day—The Orient Express.
Returning to the people of the Bulgaria of to-day, the most
advantageous place and time to study them is in the market square of
Sophia of a Friday morning. This scene is alone worth the trip to the
Bulgarian capital, for I doubt very much if its equal, in the number
and variety of types, or in the kaleidoscopic effects of its constantly
vibrating patches of colour, can even be approached in any other
European city.
From seven in the morning until one in the afternoon the entire town
wears a circus-day air. The square surrounding the principal mosque
swarms with a hawking, bantering multitude of Greeks, Jews, Russians,
Turks, Roumanians, Serbs and Bulgarian peasants, all in gala dress; and
as for tongues you might well imagine yourself living in the good old
times in the immediate vicinity of the Tower of Babel. Here, as I have
said, you may observe the characteristics of the natives to the best
possible advantage, for one of the chief sources of interest in this
little-travelled principality or, in truth, throughout the whole of the
Balkan Peninsula, is its simple-minded, unsophisticated country people;
unsophisticated, except in occasional brigandage in the sparsely
settled districts.
[Illustration: “A HAWKING, BANTERING MULTITUDE ... IN GALA DRESS.”]
The market is opened officially at seven o’clock, but long before
that hour the peasants, representing many square miles of surrounding
territory, begin to arrive on foot, on horseback and in bullock
carts. That time-worn adage about the early bird holds true even in
Bulgaria, for those who dispose of their produce the quickest and who,
consequently, return home with the greatest number of shekels jingling
in their leathern money pouches, are the ones who obtain the most
desirable stands along the curb, by appearing early upon the scene.
By the time the Muezzin pops out to chant his doleful “Allah el Allah”
from the narrow balcony at the top of the mosque pinnacle, the square
below is already well-filled and from all directions the tardy ones
continue to pour in. The unpacking and arrangement of produce and the
chatter and gossip among the peasants themselves occupy the early
morning hours before the official opening of the market, for soon the
wholesale merchants and townspeople will be dodging in and out, bent on
obtaining the lowest quotations, and then there will be no time to talk
over the happenings of the intervening week since the last market.
Over there on the curb a swarthy, fur-coated individual has just halted
his puny pack-animals, whose dust-covered flanks tell that they have
tottered many miles under the bulging loads of wood. It is no wonder
that their master perspires as he tugs at the ropes to relieve the
little beasts, for, if you examine his clothing, you will wonder how
he came to get mixed in the seasons. Although the glare of the sun
is nothing if not calorific, this fellow’s legs are bundled closely
in thick, woollen stockings tied with thongs, while on his back and
reaching clear to his knees he wears a heavy sheepskin coat turned
wrong side out. But the particular style in which he wears this coat
proves beyond an atom of doubt that he knows as well as you the time of
year, for in winter he turns the wool on the outside.
[Illustration: BULGARIANS IN GALA ATTIRE.]
Now look, if you please, at this group of Bulgarian belles from the
mountains—symphonies in lavender. The ribbons in their hair are
lavender, the embroidery on their jackets is lavender, their long
underskirts and aprons are lavender, the linings of their sunshades
are lavender. How conscious they are of the tawdry effect of their fine
raiment, as they strut about through the dust in the middle of the
street! At their heels stalk, jealously, three Bulgarian beaux, also
gorgeously attired for the occasion in their Sunday-go-to-meetings.
On the other side of the street two women, each of whom looks to be
little less than a hundred years of age, are spreading aprons on
the dust-covered sidewalk and arranging thereon their baskets and
bundles. They will sell you the finest, most delicious cherries you
have ever closed your teeth upon for forty _centimes_ a litre; and
strawberries!—well, you just can’t wait to buy a basket of such
strawberries at the same price as the cherries. They are large and
luscious but a litre really does not weigh enough to get a great number
of fruit, for each one is worth at least two bites. I am not stretching
the tape a hair’s breadth when I say that I have measured Bulgarian
strawberries four and one-half inches in circumference.
Down the street now comes a parade of bullock carts, laden with wool.
The clumsy animals lumber lazily along, while the drivers, one of whom
walks in front of each team, tap deftly with their long poles first one
beast and then the other between the horns, to remind them to stay
awake until they arrive at the market. The carts are heavy affairs and
look for all the world like some sort of ancient chariots. And I may
state here that the bullock, a prototype of the water-buffalo of the
Far East, is a domestic animal commonly found in Bulgaria, and for what
reason it was originally imported to the country I have often wondered.
Nevertheless, it seems thoroughly acclimated, and is used as a beast of
burden by the peasants and farmers, not only on the plains but in the
mountains as well, where, you might imagine, its awkwardness and weight
would be to its disadvantage in negotiating the rocky roads.
In the slender shadow of the mosque tower another heavily-clothed
peasant and his wife are engaged in selling live stock. The woman
fondles a suckling pig under her left arm, while, with her free hand,
she holds another, head downward, by the hind feet. Each of these pigs
may be purchased for two _francs_, and for three, a live lamb from the
husband. A pair of spring chickens brings the same ridiculous price as
a suckling pig.
[Illustration: A GROUP POSED FOR THE CAMERA AT THE FRIDAY MARKET,
SOPHIA.]
In wedging your way through the crowd, which by this time surges
over the entire square and overflows into the adjacent streets,
you stumble over an old Turkish woman, in baggy, yellow bloomers
and curved-toed slippers, who has deliberately spread her array of
embroideries in the very centre of the sidewalk.
At the noon hour, when the Muezzin again calls the faithful to prayer,
the market is at its height. From a distance, the monotonous drone of
the street-cries sounds like the hum of a myriad insects, the swelling
cadenzas of which, as they float out upon the soporific atmosphere, may
be heard in any part of the city.
At last the peasants, after a profitable holiday in town, prepare
to start on their homeward journey. By the middle of the afternoon
the last solitary vender has departed with his pack-animals or his
bullock cart, his fur coat and his woollen stockings. Then the street
cleaners and street sprinklers take the square in hand. They sprinkle
the dust and scrub the pavement and in half an hour you would not have
believed that that same square was the place from which emanated, but
a short time before, the Babelonic hum-drum of hundreds of perspiring
market-people.
* * * * *
It may be the fashion, but it is altogether exasperating, to be called
at five-thirty in the morning, in order to take a train which leaves
at eight-fifteen. “But when in Rome—” at all events, we arrived at
the depot exactly one hour before the time set for the departure of
the “Orient Express,” which was to carry us back to Belgrade. But we
felt in no wise lonesome, for many others who wished to take the same
train had come to the depot even before us. The proprietor himself
accompanied us from the hotel and consumed the time taken to drive
the distance by asking us repeatedly to “make a recommend” in America
for his hostelry, and which we gladly consented to do. When the train
arrived he bade us good-bye with tears in his eyes, and graciously
kissed the hands of the ladies of the party.
According to our ideas, the word “Limited” as applied to the “Orient
Express” was a misnomer; in fact the only “limited” qualifications of
the train which we were able to discover were its limited speed and
its limited number of up-to-date conveniences. And there is one thing
peculiar about travelling through these countries: no matter upon which
side of the train you may take your seat, whether the train goes east
or west, north or south, whether it be morning or afternoon, your side
will be the sunny side. I believe if we had crawled under the seats
on some of the trains the sun would have shone up through the bottom
of the car. Perhaps we were clothed too heavily, or, perhaps, we only
travelled when the sun was exceptionally hot, but, whichever the cause,
we sweltered and perspired through almost every railway trip we ever
took in the Balkans.
Notwithstanding the “limited” features of the “Orient Express” we
were always glad to have a chance to travel on it, if for no other
reason than to enjoy our fellow-passengers and amuse ourselves by
the humour of the signs, which are tacked up in conspicuous places
in every compartment, to be heeded by the traveller. “Gentlemen must
not go to bed with their boots on,” read one of these placards, and
if the railway must needs have signs to warn its passengers against
such a breach of travel etiquette, we thought what a delicate piece
of business it must be for the porter or the conductor to enforce the
rule; for travellers are apt to act in a manner just contrary to the
notices of warning they see posted.
Another sign informed the passenger that “the conductor would shine
gentlemen’s boots upon request.” Evidently the railway company had not
anticipated the patronage of ladies, but, if they had, they hardly
presumed that ladies would require a “shine” or that they would retire
with “their boots on.”
It was on this train, too, that we saw the only Americans we had seen
or were destined to see for many weeks, two jovial rug-hunters of New
York, _en route_ home from a business trip to Constantinople. Also
included in the collection of passengers was an immaculate Englishman,
with coat tightly buttoned and gloves on, who sat all day in one
position for fear of disturbing one molecule of dust, and, owing to his
efforts, becoming redder in the face as the train proceeded.