SARAJEVO—THE SPIRED CITY
From Belgrade to Sarajevo—The Turkish Bazaar—A Bosnian Street
Sprinkler—Horse-races at Ylidze—A Dervish Dance.
It is by no means an uninteresting nor an unpleasant train ride of
seven hours and a half across the well-kept, fertile farm lands of
Austria-Hungary; from Belgrade, in Servia, southward to the little
junction town of Brod. This line continues through Agram to Fiume,
Hungary’s solitary seaport, but if you would visit the Austrian
provinces of Bosnia and the Herzegovina, nominally Turkish territory,
you must change at Brod and take your compartment in one of the
miniature cars of the little narrow-gauge train which, later, puffs and
snorts its tortuous, labyrinthine way across, between and under the
mountains, up grade and down to Sarajevo, Mostar and, finally, Gravosa
on the Adriatic Coast.
Before Bosnia (including Croatia and the Herzegovina) was placed under
the suzerainty of Austria-Hungary by the Treaty of Berlin of 1878—a
treaty time-worn and often honoured in the breach—the traveller, in
order to cover the one hundred thirty-eight miles between Brod and
Sarajevo, was compelled for comfort’s and safety’s sake to resort to
the springless mail cart of the Austrian Consulate in Bosnia and spend
forty-eight weary hours _en route_. If, on the other hand, he wished to
be lavishly independent and hired a native conveyance for the journey,
three nights would have to be spent on the road, sleeping in _khans_
and fearful of his very life.
Although, in point of geographical position, it was the nearest
neighbour of civilized Europe, the social condition of Bosnia was at
that time the most barbarous of all the provinces of European Turkey.
Not one man in a hundred knew how to read, and there was not a single,
solitary bookshop throughout the length and breadth of the province.
While the soil teemed with various valuable minerals, its hills
thickly wooded with virgin forests, its plains and valleys fertile,
well-watered and productive, its commerce was contemptible. Under
Turkish rule, _plums_ constituted the most valuable article of trade.
[Illustration: THE AUSTRIAN ARMY BARRACKS AT SARAJEVO.]
To-day all this is changed. The fields are cultivated; mines have
been prospected and developed; public schools are everywhere and
education is compulsory; the Austrian army has put an end to the
maraudings of the Mohammedans and polices the country, having its
headquarters in great garrisons in Mostar and Sarajevo. An admirably
operated railway line eats its way throughout the entire length of the
province, the proposed extension of this railway through the Turkish
vilayet of Novi-Bazaar having been one of the bones of contention
between the Sublime Porte and the Austrian Government but a short while
ago.
As fate will have it, the express train leaves Brod at midnight, and,
consequently, some of the most picturesque mountain scenery along the
route is lost to the traveller, but as he does not reach Sarajevo, the
capital of Bosnia, until ten o’clock the following morning, an early
awakening will be rewarded with wild mountain scenes and interesting
types galore.
The mere mention of a narrow-gauge train seems to convey to the average
American the unpleasant idea of discomfort, if not hardship, of travel,
but this train will prove itself clean and comfortable far in excess of
your expectations.
Each section of the railway carriage comprises two single seats, facing
each other as in our own sleeping cars, and there are _no_ upper
berths. Furthermore, you may draw the curtains of your section and,
although it is not possible to retire in the true sense of the word,
you will enjoy being screened, during the night at least, from the
stares of your over-curious fellow-passengers.
For some unknown reason I had neglected to draw the curtains of my
compartment after I had prepared myself for the night. Across the
aisle a Bosnian occupied somewhat more than his allotted space, and
when he learned, by quizzing me surreptitiously in German as to my
nationality, that I was from America, he launched a volume of questions
in my direction, the answers to some of which, I confess, rendered me
nonplussed for the moment and sleep impossible.
Was it a long journey from America to Bosnia?
How long?
Did I come in a steamboat?
Were there many black men in America?
How many?
These queries, and a host of others of the same stamp, gave me just
cause to wonder if the man had not mistaken me for a travelling
Baedeker. Had he been as tired as I was he would have enjoyed a night’s
rest just as much as I. Finally, I became desperate and jerked the
curtains together—a rude procedure, no doubt—and went to sleep with a
volley of interrogations raging about me. If my Bosnian friend wished
to know during the night aught of the history, topography or population
of the United States, I fail to remember, having conveniently lost
consciousness, but he was ready with a fresh volume of questions when I
awakened in the morning.
At seven we stopped long enough to take coffee on the vine-arboured
station-porch of a little village; a short twenty minutes later the
station-master rang his bell, the train conductor blew his horn and
the engineer tooted his whistle, all of which seem to be absolutely
necessary to start a train in the Balkans, and we were off again,
whisking over the wonderfully well-kept roadbed, past the water tanks
and the switch towers in their immaculate coats of fresh, white paint,
through tunnels, across gorges, and in three more hours we arrived at
Sarajevo.
One might as well be precipitated from the clouds into Turkey itself as
to come suddenly upon Sarajevo from the country in the North. In this
little city it isn’t one Turk here and one Turk there, as in Belgrade
or Sophia, but more than half the population is Ottoman. Here the
Mohammedan element occupies a most interesting bazaar that covers in
area several city blocks; on every hand the pencil-like pinnacles of
the forty-odd mosques rear themselves skyward; the streets are alive
with red-fezzed Mohammedans in spacious knee breeches, Turkish women in
bloomers and veiled goddesses of the Harem. At the noon hour the air
reverberates with the cries of the Muezzins, in response to which the
faithful spread themselves devoutly upon their knees in the courtyards
and on the steps of their houses of worship.
Sarajevo lies on both sides of the Miljača River, the banks of
which are protected from the ravages of flood by well-built and not
inartistic stone walls. Mountains surround the town on all sides. The
streets are narrow as becomes a Turkish city, but under the Austrian
régime they are kept clean as new pins. The buildings, especially the
government ones, are large and well-proportioned, the shops are good
and the hotels excellent.
[Illustration: SOME TURKISH HOMES IN SARAJEVO.]
Of course the principal attraction in Sarajevo is the bazaar, a sort
of perennial market where the Turk and his art may be studied to
advantage. This bazaar is a permanent affair, divided into streets
or lanes which tangle and twine themselves around a small square
centered by a public fountain. Wednesday is characterized by a
“grangers’ meeting” and the streets overflow with Turkish and Bosnian
truck-farmers bartering their produce. This is the day to rub elbows
with the sullen, lazy Mohammedans. They squat about the fountain,
presumably caring little whether they sell their fruits and vegetables
or not; immense four-legged loads of hay or wood, which cover the
little pack-animals from nose to tail, wobble up and down through
the narrow thoroughfares, compelling you to seek the shelter of a
convenient doorway to allow them to pass; veiled women, with even
their hands shielded by cotton gloves from the admiring gazes of the
men-folk, amble silently by, ghost-like, while the _kafanas_, or coffee
houses, buzz with the gossip of outstretched Turks who sip their coffee
and smoke cigarettes until the place smells like the hybrid of a
tobacco factory and a coffee-packing establishment.
Almost any day of the week, however, the pound and tinker of sandalled
artisans are to be heard in the workshops which border the streets of
the bazaar. The coppersmith hammers out his Turkish coffee sets and his
brass trays, many of which he etches with a sharp-edged tool in ornate
designs and figures; the shoe and harness-maker sits cross-legged as he
plies the needle back and forth, a cigarette between his lips and a
cup of thick, black coffee ever at his elbow; the gold and silversmith
deftly inlays his gun metal cigarette cases with threads of precious
metals, first scoring with a tool the design to be worked upon the
object, much as a dentist might prepare a cavity in a tooth for a gold
filling. You might readily imagine yourself in Damascus, instead of in
the capital of a province of Austria-Hungary.
Objects of considerable interest to me in this Bosnian city were the
home-made street sprinklers which tend to serve the purpose of the
municipal government, although they never would be regarded by us as
labour savers. A huge hogshead is mounted on four wheels, filled with
water and hauled through the streets by a horse driven by a native. In
that much the contrivance somewhat resembles our own variety, except
for the native. But here lies its salient feature: it requires two men
to operate it, for how on earth would it be possible for one man to
drive the horse and sprinkle the street at one and the same time, in
Bosnia?
[Illustration: DOUBLE-DECKED STORES IN THE TURKISH BAZAAR, SARAJEVO.]
From the rear of the hogshead protrudes a long hose terminating in a
sprinkler, like the nozzle of a watering pot. One end of a rope is
fastened to this sprinkler, and the other is attached to a second
native, whose duty it is to walk behind the cart and swing the hose
from side to side by means of the rope, the while sprinkling himself as
well as the roadway. Wet feet invariably result from this crude method,
but the “man behind the street sprinkler” should be deemed above his
fellows in point of cleanliness, if such a condition meets with any
commendation whatever in Bosnia, for the labourers in Sarajevo, as a
rule, look as though they had never been on intimate terms with soap
and water in all their lives.
In the afternoons horse-races usually take place at the quaint little
summer resort of Ylidze, at the foot of the mountains, to be reached
either by train or by a rather dusty drive of eight miles. These races
furnish about the only excuse the fashion and _élite_ of Sarajevo have
to display their dresses and uniforms. The grandstand and paddock
are packed with Worth gowns and three-foot hats, (mind you!) and
the bookmaker does a land-office business with the be-medalled and
gold-braided Austrian army. But the real devotees of the races are the
Turks and peasants who drive for miles and miles to attend them, and
whose Oriental costumes outline in gayest of colours both sides of
the course. In the late afternoon, at the conclusion of the race-meet,
Bosnian society repairs _en masse_ to the beautiful and fashionable
Villa Bosna, where, in the cool of the evening, in the casino or under
the great trees, it sups and dines and chatters, until it is time for
the last of the evening trains to leave for Sarajevo.
Like the Turks of any Eastern city those of Sarajevo comprise many
different sects, and it was on the day before I took my departure that
a Bosnian porter, whose patron I had been repeatedly during my stay
in the city, and who took seriously to heart the alleged fabulous
wealth of _all_ English-speaking people, came to my hotel to ask if I
might care to witness a Dervish dance that evening. These calisthenic
devotions, held by this most fanatical sect of Mohammedans in their
mosque upon the night of each full moon, constitute a weird religious
ceremony, not excelled as a spectacle even by the famous Antelope
and Snake Dances of the Hopi Indians, and I promptly accepted the
invitation to attend.
[Illustration: “THE REAL DEVOTEES OF THE RACES.”]
Shortly after nine o’clock, my guide, the pronunciation of whose real
name sounded so much like “Jim” that I shall hereafter allude to him as
such, called for me, and together we started off for the darkened
Turkish quarter. With Jim in the lead, carrying in his hand a ponderous
Turkish lantern, which resembled more an oil can than anything I can
think of, we stumbled over the cobbles, through the narrow streets,
past the latticed windows of the low-roofed Turkish houses and, after
three-quarters of an hour (during which time I am safe in saying we
climbed every hill in the town) we arrived at the door of the Dervish
mosque.
In the courtyard the bodies of several of the departed lay in state,
as is the Mohammedan custom before burial. After proceeding through
several rooms and negotiating as best we could as many flights of dark,
precipitous stairs, we finally found ourselves in a balcony overlooking
the room in which the “dance” was to take place. On the opposite side
of the balcony from us, behind closely-woven lattice-work, was seated a
group of female admirers of the dancers. On the floor below, at one end
of the room, stood a shrine, on each side of which a Dervish apostle
sat cross-legged. The pungent odour of burning incense and candles
filled the atmosphere.
Presently the worshippers, all men, arrived, removed their slippers
and squatted on the floor facing the altar, forming a semi-circle.
When all were seated, probably thirty in number, one of the patriarchs
near the shrine commenced a low, dismal chant. After many repetitions
this was memorized by the worshippers, who then chanted it together,
emphasizing the first beat of a common time rhythm, their bodies
swaying in unison from side to side. The tempo of the song and the
movement of the bodies accelerated gradually. At the end of ten or
fifteen minutes this particular chant was stopped abruptly and another
was commenced, which continued for an equal length of time.
But to worship in a sitting posture did not seem to produce the desired
effect and the men, at the beginning of the succeeding wail, arose
to their knees to continue the services. Swinging and grunting in
this position tended to heighten their emotions to a greater extent,
and some of the worshippers became so accustomed to and numbed by
the swaying movement that they hopped about the floor in a state of
semi-consciousness, their faces engraven with an almost unearthly look,
like that of sufferers from delirium tremens. At the end of each chant
several required being led back by their fellows to their original
positions in the semi-circle.
Still they were not satisfied with the result, and, after an hour of
howling in sitting and kneeling positions, they stood up to put a more
emotional finishing touch to their devout proceedings. By this time the
floor was littered with fallen turbans and the rugs used to kneel upon
were scattered about the room. After several more exhaustive efforts
to work off their superfluous religious ardour had been resorted to
without apparent avail, the men snatched drums and cymbals from hooks
upon the wall and commenced beating them furiously, in rhythm to
the wails of the priests. The din produced on these instruments was
almost deafening and the antics and shouts of the chanting fanatics
transformed the place, literally, into the interior of a madhouse.
During the final scene all were shouting at once, each trying to outdo
the other, as if to receive some recognition for his religious ability
from the high priests. From time to time a Dervish would fall upon the
floor, completely enervated but trying, unconsciously, to continue his
part. On the whole it constituted one of the most repulsive sights of
infidel worship.
At half-past eleven the “dance” was over and I was quite willing to
take up my position behind Jim and be guided through the narrow streets
back to civilization.