Chapter LII: Agram

Evening has come, and the still, smooth waters of the Save, reflecting the sky, are like an upturned shield of gold. Not a ripple laves the shore. The black ibis and crested grebe have gone to roost in the low brushwood that fringes it on either side. Not a zephyr stirs the slender stems of the pampas-grass. All nature is still, but over the corn-fields comes the sound of voices, singing a Slavonian melody, slow and sweet, like an evening hymn, which, rising and falling in pathetic cadence, is in wondrous harmony with the scene.

Casting our eyes in the direction of the sound we see a number of reapers, whose sickles flash in the setting sun as they lop the golden grain, the women, wearing scarlet kerchiefs round their heads, looking like poppies in the corn. They are singing in unison a _piesma_, one of those national ballads which have descended from the ancient troubadours, or _guslars_ as they are here designated.

To the right rise undulating hills resting their summits on the saffron sky; and from a belt of forest at their base now comes the distant jingling of bells, upon which the reapers, leaving their sickles on the ground, traverse a narrow pathway through the _heide-korn_ and wend their way homewards. We watch them crossing the darkling landscape in picturesque procession till they are nearly out of sight, and then turn our faces towards Agram, for since the sun has sunk to rest, miasmatic vapours have been slowly rising from the marshes. In the vicinity of this placid stream, fevers lurk, and the “pestilence that walketh in darkness” waits not for the night.

As we hastily pursue our way towards the little Croatian capital, the distant throb of a _kobsa_ comes wafted over the calm waters, and the voice of a peasant singing in a clear rich tenor, as he accompanies himself on his simple instrument. Floating on the glassy bosom of the stream a small black speck now comes in sight. It is a _bredvos_, containing happy peasants on their way from Agram or some village on the opposite bank; and the musical “burr” of the _kobsa_ comes nearer, for the boat, a heavy flat-bottomed craft almost as broad as it is long, with its large square prow rising high above the water, makes for the shore.

These ballads, which the traveller hears continually in Croatia, and said to be older than old Homer himself, are the very mainspring of national life, and are the chief means of keeping alive in the hearts of the Slávs, that yearning after national unity of which in these days we hear so much.

To the left of the river are the plains on which a lonely shepherd’s hut and two water-lifts are seen standing out black against the sky, but to the right are clusters of wooden huts roofed with shingles, and lying beneath blue mountains. On the balconies, overshadowed by sheltering eaves, the dwellers sit or stand, the bright colour of their costumes gleaming warmly in contrast with the prevailing gloom, for night is falling fast. As we approach the capital, lights are burning in many a window, whilst away in the west and above the irregularly built houses, though the sun set fully an hour ago, a long streak of intense carmine melting into orange reminds us of the far East.

The summer nights are delightful in Agram itself, and resemble those at Venice. The air is balmy, the sky soft and tender, and the great stars, flashing out of the purple sky, scintillate with the changeful splendour of the ruby, the topaz, and the emerald.

Reaching the outskirts of the little city, the most important place on the Save, our way takes us through the long street that leads to the Jellachich Platz, so called from a Ban of that name, who once ruled the province as Viceroy. Let us stroll into the restaurant of the hotel “K’Carnu Austrianskomu!” The instant we do so we realise our distance from the civilised West, for on asking for a newspaper, several are instantly handed to us, every one of which is either in Windic or Croat, the latter called _hrvatsky_, being the colloquial dialect of the district. Although Agram is the centre of Slavonic literature, the language spoken here is less pure than that spoken by the Slávs of the south-east.

No fewer than nine periodicals are published in this thriving little capital, whilst a Literary Society has recently been formed for the purpose of circulating books, journals, and pamphlets throughout the Sláv provinces, to further which clubs and reading rooms have been established in almost every village. Like the Magyars, the Croatians are very jealous of German influence, and the publication of books and papers in that language is in every way discouraged.

Croatia enjoys a political autonomy, and has a Diet of its own, of which every Croatian noble is a member, the affairs of the State being vested in the Ban. The Croatians are bent on self-improvement, and one of their greatest ambitions is to become independent of Austria in the way that Hungary is, and to form with these nations a triple-monarchy. In religious tenets they belong exclusively to the Greek and Roman Catholic Churches; using, as Slávs of the Western Church, what is termed the Glagolic alphabet in contra-distinction to that used by the Bulgarians, invented by Cyrillus. The most ancient and pure Slavonic is found in what is called the “Ecclesiastical Slavonic” or “Old Bulgarian,” into which the Bible was translated in the middle of the 9th century.

This clean, bright little city contains between eighteen and twenty thousand inhabitants, and consists of an upper and lower town. The former is built on the side of a rocky hill, so steep that the houses in the narrow streets, which rise abruptly tier above tier and are approached by long flights of zigzag steps, look down the chimneys of those on the opposite side of the way. This part of the city, which was once fortified, constituted the citadel. It is now, however, occupied by the _canaille_ of Agram, and this quarter may be said to rival ancient Cologne in its variety of perfumes that are not found in either Messrs. Rimmel or Piesse and Lubin’s distilleries. Climbing the steep and rugged steps, we pass groups of people sitting at their doorways in the evening air; whilst the moon, prodigal of her gifts, bears her blessing up the unwholesome, narrow streets, and silvers each crazy tenement with a touch as soft and loving as though it were the abode of kings. Making our way upwards, and passing the quarter of the “great unwashed,” we at length reach broad, clean streets and lofty houses, and come to the Palace of the Ban, the various public offices, the Academy of Law, and the Museum. On another hill, separated by a narrow sandy gorge, and surrounded by fortifications and high battlemented walls, stand the Cathedral and Palace of the Archbishop. Exposed for centuries to the incursions of the Turks, many of the churches of Croatia, like those of Transylvania, were strongly fortified.

Beyond the foreground of picturesque house-tops, the Save, creating a shimmering pathway across the plains, is seen winding its way towards the Bosnian Mountains, whose outlines are softly pencilled on the sky. This river, taking its rise on the confines of Istria, after flowing through Croatia, divides Slavonia from Bosnia, and still forms the boundary between Christianity and Islam.

The Save also forms with the Theiss one of the principal tributaries of the Danube, and, swelling its waters by emptying itself into the mightier river at Semlin, is one cause of the disastrous inundations which so frequently occur in the region of the Alfőld.

* * * * *

It is Sunday, and, like the Protestant Debrecziners, the Agramese, combining the service of God and Mammon, on this day hold their weekly market. The streets are one blaze of colour, and it is to be doubted whether even Rome itself, before the sharp traits of her people began to be obliterated by modern innovations, presented a more splendid spectacle. It is well we planned that our last wanderings in the Austro-Hungarian dominions should be in Croatia, for the costumes are far more beautiful here than any we have hitherto met with on any of our travels, this scene alone being worth coming all the way from Ángolország to see.

Looking down the long straight street that leads to the Jellachich Platz, we find it thronged with people hurrying to the market, and the predominating tints of their costumes, white, scarlet, and green, are rendered all the more striking by the black, curled lamb’s wool, with which portions of their dress are trimmed.

The women are attired in short white skirts, stiffly starched, and fluted to the waist, over which a long straight calico frontal is worn, trimmed with broad horizontal stripes of scarlet braid, laid on in a gradation of widths, the white full bodice, embroidered at the throat, being covered with innumerable rows of coral beads. Over this is generally worn a small white jacket of white kid, bordered with the black lamb’s wool before mentioned, a beautiful fleece resembling that known in England under the rather vague term of “Astracan.” The jacket in question is made so as to leave the front of the bodice exposed to view with its wealth of coral beads, and is not only one mass of the richest embroidery in various coloured silks, but small pieces of silver foil in the shape of stars are also added, which glisten in the sunshine. In addition to all, the fronts of this costly article of attire called a “_cabanitza_” are adorned all over with scarlet tassels. The girls wear a scarlet kerchief round the head, but the married women a very imposing and effective head-dress, which in some respects resembles the square white _taglia_ worn by the Neapolitan women, but much larger, consisting of a large square of muslin or calico, trimmed either with lace and scarlet braid supported on two curiously shaped pieces of wood called “horns,” round which the back hair is coiled. Nothing can be more becoming or dignified than this covering for the head, and a group of women thus attired form pictures that an artist would love to portray. How their dazzling, spotlessly white, and fan-like petticoats glisten as they trudge merrily along, some carrying long white bundles in their arms, which on closer inspection turn out to be _bambinos_, swathed in yards and yards of homespun linen, whilst others, like graceful Caryatids, are supporting on their Juno-like heads large flat round baskets filled with fruit or vegetables. Even the old women wear embroidered bodices and scarlet and white skirts. Yonder sit a group of ancient Amazons in close conclave, who may have been amongst those who in 1848 clad themselves in the panoply of war, and went forth to aid their husbands in the battle against Kossuth, singing patriotic songs, and improvising others as they marched towards the Imperial city.

The Croatian men also figure largely in embroidery. Their brown or black cloth tunics are handsomely worked in scarlet; whilst, slung over the shoulder by a cord of the same colour, is a large square bag, designated a “_torba_,” which, hanging at the side, is completely covered with little scarlet tassels an inch and a half long. These Croatians, male and female, except in the matter of jewellery, are more given up to the pomps and vanities of this wicked world than even the Hamelsdorf girls themselves.

In the square, peasants from the country round have been arranging their goods since break of day, and the whole place, from its gaiety and bustle, wears the appearance of an annual fair, rather than that of a weekly market. All is so bright, so gay, with such a delicious and harmonious mingling of colour, that we look down at our own hideous garments of the civilised West with their Quaker-like sobriety and sartorial gloom, with feelings almost akin to shame. Verily there is no prettier sight in the universe than Agram on a Sunday morning; but the traveller must be no sluggard, and must be up and out at seven o’clock, the hour when the villagers come trooping in. At ten the market is over, and, obedient to the summons of the bells, the people flock to church, and kneeling down before the service commences may be seen devoutly praying, the men on one side of the church, the women on the other, whilst kneeling on the steps of the altar may be seen a small but promiscuous gathering of men, women, and children.

“Who are they?” I inquired in German of a lady who was sitting on the same bench with me in a church close to the market, and pointing to the group round the altar, all of whom seemed to be oppressed with sorrow of some sort.

“They are poor country-people,” she replied softy, “and have some especial blessing to ask, some member of their family is sick or dying. Look at that young woman to the right of the altar! She has brought her sick baby and laid it beneath the picture of the ‘Good Shepherd.’ Ah! surely He will have pity,” and crossing herself devoutly she too knelt down to pray.

Gazing in the direction indicated I saw the wee thing lying helplessly in its bandages, its tiny face so pale and wan, that the former might in truth have been its winding-sheet. In the centre of the group two little boys were kneeling side by side, their small hands clasped and their heads bent low. They came into the church alone, and, making their way at once to the altar, threw themselves on their knees. What grief was theirs, we wondered, and what blessing had they come to seek? There was a silent pathos about these lonely children that moved me even to tears.

Mass is sung in the Slavonic tongue, a concession granted by the popes to these Yougo-Slávs, in recognition of their heroic struggles against the Osmanlis, and nothing can be more beautiful and touching than their deep, slow chanting.

The country round Agram is very picturesque. A little beyond the city lies the peaceful valley of St. Xavier, together with that of Tuskanac, with their fragments of feudal castles, backed by a lofty hill crowned with pines.

Hiring a passing carriage, we drive towards the cool waters of the Save. Shadows are lengthening across the plains, and the villagers, crowding into the boats, are being ferried to the nearest church, possibly two or three miles away. Far away on the hills the narrow zigzag paths are indicated by strings of people coming in the same direction, and we soon reach a church, in the enclosure of which numbers of persons have already assembled waiting the arrival of the priest; stately girls and women in their beautiful scarlet and white garments and square head-gear, looking like Druidical priestesses in their white fluted skirts, one and all affording a living mass of rich and varied colour.[2]

[2] These pages were written just before the terrible earthquakes, which not only rendered many of the inhabitants homeless by reducing their houses to a heap of ruins, but which, by the violence of the shocks and their frequent occurrence, kept the inhabitants in such a state of alarm that, on four occasions, panic-stricken they fled from the city and encamped in the plains beyond.

Our steamer, which starts at six A.M. to-morrow, awaits us on the Kulpa at the junction of that river with the Save, a few miles further down the stream. Returning to the hotel, we pick up our luggage, and meet the steamer by the train which leaves for Sissek at nine o’clock.

After passing Agram, the Save spreads itself out till it seems to encircle the whole district in its embrace, reminding us of the Lagoons at Venice. The moon is full, and, as the train rolls us along, everything is so calm, so peaceful, and presents such an even surface to the eye, that we appear to be surrounded by a broad sheet of silver.

Sissek--a miserable place with wide unpaved streets--contains many objects of interest to the archæologist. The village of Old Sissek, which adjoins it, contains numerous remains of pillars and ancient buildings of Roman origin, together with a Roman causeway of massive masonry by which it is approached.

On arrival, making our way at once to our steamer the “_Zrini_,” we soon discern her amongst the dark objects with which she is surrounded.

Sissek, though possessing a population of little more than 1200, contains, at this time of year, when the harvest is being gathered in, almost as many thousand. Being the centre of the corn trade, it is here that the huge flat-bottomed boats freighted with grain are unloaded, the men employed, called Latianer, coming each year to Sissek for this purpose and leaving as soon as the season has passed. After being unloaded the corn is conveyed by train to its destination, a great deal finding its way to the English market.

A curious scene surrounds us. There are boats with houses on their decks, others lying empty on their sides and half heeled over, and others again close alongside taking in cargo. Here and there coloured lights are twinkling faintly from the masts of smaller boats, and far down the river’s reach more lights are burning where caravans of merchants are bivouacking on the shore. In an hour’s time all is still, the vessels have finished taking in their cargo, and no sound is heard save the voices of boatmen weighing anchor, and the soft lapping of ripples driven by the zephyrs of night against the steamer’s side.

At six o’clock A.M. the “_Zrini_” bursts from her moorings, and, soon leaving the Kulpa, bounds like a captive let loose into the waters of the Save.

More singular far than on the Danube boats is the motley assemblage that greets the eye of the traveller as he cruises in one of the steamers on the Save. Close to us, with their long chibouks standing by their sides, are two Turks, or Osmanlis as they prefer being called, for the term Turk is one of ridicule, signifying “rustic.” Beside them sit a trio of young Servian ladies, dressed in black velvet jackets with large hanging sleeves richly embroidered in silver. Standing near the galley are a group of Albanians, warlike, magnificent-looking men armed to the teeth, with square shoulders and limbs like athletes. There are also men whose erect carriage, resembling that of the Serbs, and frank open brows, proclaim them to belong to Montenegro, that brave and independent little nation, which, although constituting a portion of the border-land that fringed the dominions of European Turkey, has never, like the other Sláv nations of the South, submitted to its rule. As they walk the deck it is easy to see they have never been a subject people. Their dress is a white tunic encircled by a shawl at the waist, blue trousers tied in at the knee, and a small round cap with a crimson crown adorned with gilt ornaments, the latter worn as a symbol of their national freedom. Until lately they also wore an emblem of mourning for the subject condition of their Sláv brethren, the Serbs, to the vassalage of Turkey.

On the forecastle is a mass of human life quite Eastern in its aspect: bright intelligent little Turks full of life and animation; heavy Bulgarians with downcast eyes and beetling brows, who, sitting apart, hold communication with no one; Armenians, Illyrians, Bosnians, Croatians, Hungarians, and uncivilised-looking men from the villages lower down the Save.

Occupying one side of the stern is a huge heap of sheepskins and striped blankets, which we imagine must be covering passengers’ luggage or bales of merchandise. Presently however the heap of what we supposed to be inert matter moves slightly, and a little hand appears and then a small Oriental-looking head, for beneath these blankets and sheepskin rugs a Greek family were lying huddled together.

There is a little boy on board who interests us greatly. From early morning we had noticed him sitting silently on his bundle, and apparently alone. There was something in the expression of his face that attracted our attention, as he sat with his head slightly elevated and his eyes directed upwards. What could he be gazing at so intently in the dazzling sunlit sky? Making my way towards him through the groups of passengers, some of whom were gambling with curious cards, others singing softly to themselves or lying at full length fast asleep, I reached the spot where he was seated, and at once perceived that he was blind. No one appeared to take any notice of him, as, with pale face and that vacant, and infinitely pathetic expression which one sees in the countenances of the blind, he sat alone.

Standing against the bulwarks smoking was a man who from his uniform I recognised as a corporal in the Austrian army. Addressing me in German, and pointing to the child, as though he had been a bale of merchandise, he said,

“He was put on board at Jassenovatz.”

“Where is he going?” I inquired.

“How should I know,” was the rejoinder, as, shrugging his shoulders, he walked across to some other part of the ship, adding, as he did so, that he supposed “_somebody_ would meet him _somewhere_.”

He was in fact a piece of goods “to be left till called for.” Taking his small hand in mine, I led him to the other side of the deck under the shadow of the awning. What an odd quaint little specimen of humanity he was, with his loose brown garments, cut precisely like those of his elders, and his funny shapeless little shoes such as all the Sláv peasantry wear, consisting of a flat piece of hide laced into shape at toe and heel, with leather thongs!

At this moment the captain, passing by, enlightened me further as to the history of this waif of humanity.

“That little urchin,” said he, looking down kindly upon him, “is a _Minnesinger_ or _guslar_ as they call them in Croatia; the Yougo-Slávs dedicate from their infancy to the Muses all male children who are born blind. As soon as they are old enough to handle anything, a small mandoline is given them, which they are taught to play, after which they are taken every day into the woods, where they are left till evening to commune in their little hearts with nature. In due time they become poets, or at any rate rhapsodists, singing of the things they never saw, and, when grown up, are sent forth to earn their livelihood, like the troubadours of old, by singing from place to place and asking alms by the wayside.

“It is not difficult for a Sláv to become a poet; he takes in poetic sentiment like a rivulet does water from its source. The first sounds he is conscious of are those of his mother singing to him as she rocks his cradle, or trudges along to market with him tucked under her arm a stiff little bundle. Then as she watches the dawning of intelligence in his infant face, her mother-language is that of poetry, which she improvises at the moment, and so, though he never saw the flowers, nor the snow-capped mountains, nor the flowing streams and rivers, he describes them out of his inner consciousness and the influence which the varied sounds of nature have upon his mind.”

The interest this little _guslar_ awakened in us soon became general, and, seated high upon a heap of rugs, he was made to sing in his childish voice some of the sweet and simple Slavonian melodies.