SERVIA,
YOUNGEST MEMBER OF THE EUROPEAN FAMILY:
OR, A
RESIDENCE IN BELGRADE,
AND
TRAVELS IN THE HIGHLANDS AND WOODLANDS OF THE INTERIOR,
DURING THE YEARS 1843 AND 1844.
BY
ANDREW ARCHIBALD PATON, ESQ.
CHAPTER XVI.
Poshega.—The river Morava.—Arrival at Csatsak.—A Viennese Doctor.—Project to ascend the Kopaunik.—Visit the Bishop.—Ancient Cathedral Church.—Greek Mass.—Karanovatz.—Emigrant Priest.—Albania Disorders.—Salt Mines.
On leaving Ushitza, the Natchalnik accompanied me with a cavalcade of twenty or thirty Christians, a few miles out of the town. The afternoon was beautiful; the road lay through hilly ground, and after two hours’ riding, we saw Poshega in the middle of a wide level plain; after descending to which, we crossed the Scrapesh by an elegant bridge of sixteen arches, and entering the village, put up at a miserable khan, although Poshega is the embryo of a town symmetrically and geometrically laid out. Twelve years ago a Turk wounded a Servian in the streets of Ushitza, in a quarrel about some trifling matter. The Servian pulled out a pistol, and shot the Turk dead on the spot. Both nations seized their arms, and rushing out of the houses, a bloody affray took place, several being left dead on the spot. The Servians, feeling their numerical inferiority, now transplanted themselves to the little hamlet of Poshega, which is in a finer plain than that of Ushitza; but the colony does not appear to prosper, for most of the Servians have since returned to Ushitza.
Poshega, from remnants of a nobler architecture, must have been a Roman colony. At the new church a stone is built into the wall, having the fragment of an inscription:—
A V I A. G E N T
I L F L AI I S P R
and various other stones are to be seen, one with a figure sculptured on it.
Continuing our way down the rich valley of the Morava, which is here several miles wide, and might contain ten times the present population, we arrived at Csatsak, which proved to be as symmetrically laid out as Poshega. Csatsak is old and new, but the old Turkish town has disappeared, and the new Servian Csatsak is still a foetus. The plan on which all these new places are constructed, is simple, and consists of a circular or square market place, with bazaar shops in the Turkish manner, and straight streets diverging from them. I put up at the khan, and then went to the Natchalnik’s house to deliver my letter. Going through green lanes, we at length stopped at a high wooden paling, over-topped with rose and other bushes. Entering, we found ourselves on a smooth carpet of turf, and opposite a pretty rural cottage, somewhat in the style of a citizen’s villa in the environs of London. The Natchalnik was not at home, but was gracefully represented by his young wife, a fair specimen of the beauty of Csatsak; and presently the Deputy and the Judge came to see us. A dark complexioned, good-natured looking man, between thirty and forty, now entered, with an European air, German trowsers and waistcoat, but a Turkish riding cloak. “There comes the doctor,” said the lady, and the figure with the Turkish riding cloak thus announced himself:—
Doctor. “I’ bin a’ Wiener.”
Author. “Gratulire: dass iss a’ lustige Stadt.”
Doctor. “Glaub’ns mir, lust’ger als Csatsak.”
Author. “I’ glaub’s.”
The Judge, a sedate, elderly, and slightly corpulent man, asked me what route I had pursued, and intended to pursue. I informed him of the particulars of my journey, and added that I intended to follow the valley of the Morava to its confluence with the Danube. “The good folks of Belgrade do not travel for their pleasure, and could give me little information; therefore, I have chalked out my route from the study of the map.”
“You have gone out of your way to see Sokol,” said he; “you may as well extend your tour to Novibazaar, and the Kopaunik. You are fond of maps: go to the peak of the Kopaunik, and you will see all Servia rolled out before you from Bosnia to Bulgaria, and from the Balkan to the Danube; not a map, or a copy, but the original.”
“The temptation is irresistible.—My mind is made up to follow your advice.”
We now went in a body, and paid our visit to the Bishop of Csatsak, who lives in the finest house in the place; a large well-built villa, on a slight eminence within a grassy inclosure. The Bishop received us in an open kiosk, on the first floor, fitted all round with cushions, and commanding a fine view of the hills which inclose the plain of the Morava. The thick woods and the precipitous rocks, which impart rugged beauty to the valley of the Drina, are here unknown; the eye wanders over a rich yellow champaign, to hills which were too distant to present distinct details, but vaguely grey and beautiful in the transparent atmosphere of a Servian early autumn.
The Bishop was a fine specimen of the Church militant,—a stout fiery man of sixty, in full-furred robes, and a black velvet cap. His energetic denunciations of the lawless appropriations of Milosh, had for many years procured him the enmity of that remarkable individual; but he was now in the full tide of popularity.
His questions referred principally to the state of parties in England, and I could not help thinking that his philosophy must have been something like that of the American parson in the quarantine at Smyrna, who thought that fierce combats and contests were as necessary to clear the moral atmosphere, as thunder and lightning to purify the visible heavens. We now took leave of the Bishop, and went homewards, for there had been several candidates for entertaining me; but I decided for the jovial doctor, who lived in the house that was formerly occupied by Jovan Obrenovitch, the youngest and favourite brother of Milosh.
Next morning, as early as six o’clock, I was aroused by the announcement that the Natchalnik had returned from the country, and was waiting to see me. On rising, I found him to be a plain, simple Servian of the old school; he informed me that this being a saint’s day, the Bishop would not commence mass until I was arrived. “What?” thought I to myself, “does the Bishop think that these obstreperous Britons are all of the Greek religion.” The doctor thought that I should not go; “for,” said he, “whoever wishes to exercise the virtue of patience may do so in a Greek mass or a Hungarian law-suit!” But the Natchalnik decided for going; and I, always ready to conform to the custom of the country, accompanied him.
The cathedral church was a most ancient edifice of Byzantine architecture, which had been first a church, and then a mosque, and then a church again. The honeycombs and stalactite ornaments in the corners, as well as a marble stone in the floor, adorned with geometrical arabesques, showed its services to Islamism. But the pictures of the Crucifixion, and the figures of the priests, reminded me that I was in a Christian temple.
The Bishop, in pontificalibus, was dressed in a crimson velvet and white satin dress, embroidered in gold, which had cost £300 at Vienna; and as he sat in his chair, with mitre on head, and crosier in hand, looked, with his white bushy beard, an imposing representative of spiritual authority. Sometimes he softened, and looked bland, as if it would not have been beneath him to grant absolution to an emperor.
A priest was consecrated on the occasion; but the service was so long, (full two hours and a half,) that I was fatigued with the endless bowings and motions, and thought more than once of the benevolent wish of the doctor, to see me preserved from a Greek mass and a Hungarian law-suit; but the singing was good, simple, massive, and antique in colouring. At the close of the service, thin wax tapers were presented to the congregation, which each of them lighted. After which they advanced and kissed the Cross and Gospels, which were covered with most minute silver and gold filagree work.
The prolonged service had given me a good appetite; and when I returned to the doctor, he smiled, and said, “I am sure you are ready for your café au lait.”
“I confess it was rather langweilig.”
“Take my advice for the future, and steer clear of a Greek mass, or a Hungarian law-suit.”
We now went to take farewell of the Bishop, whom we found, as yesterday, in the kiosk, with a fresh set of fur robes, and looking as superb as ever, with a large and splendid ring on his forefinger.
“If you had not come during a fast,” growled he, with as good-humoured a smile as could be expected from so formidable a personage, “I would have given you a dinner. The English, I know, fight well at sea; but I do not know if they like salt fish.”
A story is related of this Bishop, that on the occasion of some former traveller rising to depart, he asked, “Are your pistols in good order?” On the traveller answering in the affirmative, the Bishop rejoined, “Well, now you may depart with my blessing!”
Csatsak, although the seat of a Bishop and a Natchalnik, is only a village, and is insignificant when one thinks of the magnificent plain in which it stands. At every step I made in this country I thought of the noble field which it offers for a system of colonization congenial to the feelings, and subservient to the interests of the present occupants.
We now journeyed to Karanovatz,1 where we arrived after sunset, and proceeded in the dark up a paved street, till we saw on our left a café, with lights gleaming through the windows, and a crowd of people, some inside, some outside, sipping their coffee. An individual, who announced himself as the captain of Karanovatz, stepped forward, accompanied by others, and conducted me to his house. Scarcely had I sat down on his divan when two handmaidens entered, one of them bearing a large basin in her hand.
“My guest,” said the captain, “you must be fatigued with your ride. This house is your’s. Suppose yourself at home in the country beyond the sea.”
“What,” said I, looking to the handmaidens, “supper already! You have divined my arrival to a minute.”
“Oh, no; we must put you at your ease before supper time; it is warm water.”
“Nothing can be more welcome to a traveller.” So the handmaidens advanced, and while one pulled off my socks, I lolling luxuriously on the divan, and smoking my pipe, the other washed my feet with water, tepid to a degree, and then dried them. With these agreeable sensations still soothing me, coffee was brought by the lady of the house, on a very pretty service; and I could not help admitting that there was less roughing in Servian travel than I expected.
After supper, the pariah priest came in, a middle-aged man.
Author. “Do you remember the Turkish period at Karanovatz?”
Priest. “No; I came here only lately. My native place is Wuchitern, on the borders of a large lake in the High Balkan; but, in common with many of the Christian inhabitants, I was obliged to emigrate last year.”
Author. “For what reason?”
Priest. “A horde of Albanians, from fifteen to twenty thousand in number, burst from the Pashalic of Scodra upon the peaceful inhabitants of the Pashalic of Vrania, committing the greatest horrors, burning down villages, and putting the inhabitants to the torture, in order to get money, and dishonouring all the handsomest women. The Porte sent a large force, disarmed the rascals, and sent the leaders to the galleys; but I and my people find ourselves so well here that we feel little temptation to return.”
The grand exploit in the life of our host was a caravan journey to Saloniki, where he had the satisfaction of seeing the sea, a circumstance which distinguished him, not only from the good folks of Karanovatz, but from most of his countrymen in general.
“People that live near the sea,” said he, “get their salt cheap enough; but that is not the case in Servia. When Baron Herder made his exploration of the stones and mountains of Servia, he discovered salt in abundance somewhere near the Kopaunik; but Milosh,2 who at that time had the monopoly of the importation of Wallachian salt in his own hands, begged him to keep the place secret, for fear his own profits would suffer a diminution. Thus we must pay a large price for foreign salt, when we have plenty of it at our own doors.”
Next day, we walked about Caranovatz. It is symmetrically built like Csatsak, but better paved and cleaner. (1)
(1) I have since heard that the Servian salt is to be worked.
- Tran. note: today this town is called Kraljevo. ↩︎
- Tran. note: Miloš Obrenović, the leader of the Second Serbian Uprising, Knez (Prince) of Serbia 1817-1839 and 1858-1860. Miloš Obrenović was a pig merchant who stood out in the First Serbian Uprising (1804-1813) and rose to the position of vojvoda (military leader, nobility rank would be similar to a Duke). One of the few remaining vojvodas after the defeat of the First Serbian Uprising, Miloš was able to deftly negotiate increased rights for Serbia. In 1817, after the Second Serbian Uprising, he had Karađorđe, the leader of the First Serbian Uprising, killed in order to prevent loss of power and Ottoman concessions. Although an autocrat, Miloš ended feudalism in the first year of his reign and created the new, independent peasant class of society. During his first reign, the first Serbian constitution (1835 Sretenje Constitution) was written, but was revoked after 100 days after a joint threat by the Austrian, Russian and Ottoman Empires as being too liberal, including anti-slavery clauses. In his second reign, he persecuted political opponents who he saw responsible for this exile and the first law about legislature was passed, starting the parliamentary system in Serbia. Even though he was illiterate, 82 schools, 2 semi-gymnasiums, 1 gymnasium and the Liceum of the Principality of Serbia were founded during his first reign.
↩︎
