Through the Land of the Serb. M. E. Durham
VIII.
PART II
OF SERVIA
| X. | BELGRADE |
| XI. | SMEDEREVO—SHABATZ— VALJEVO—UB—OBRENOVATZ |
| XII. | NISH |
| XIII. | PIROT |
| XIV. | EAST SERVIA |
| XV. | THE SHUMADIA AND SOUTH-WEST SERVIA |
| XVI. | KRUSHEVATZ |
PART III
MONTENEGRO AND OLD SERVIA
1903
| XVII. | KOLASHIN—ANDRIJEVITZA—BERANI—PECH |
| XVIII. | TO DECHANI AND BACK TO PODGORITZA |
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
MONTENEGRIN WOMEN, CETINJE CEMETERY NEAR CETINJE BAKER'S SHOP, RIJEKA—ALBANIAN AND TWO MONTENEGRINS BULLOCK CART, PODGORITZA UPPER MONASTERY, OSTROG RUINS OF ANTIVARI MOUNTAIN ALBANIANS IN MARKET, PODGORITZA STREET IN BAZAAR, SKODRA SKODRA MOSQUE, SKODRA SHOP IN BAZAAR, SKODRA MONTENEGRIN PLOUGH SERVIAN PEASANTS TRAVELLING GIPSIES, RIJEKA, MONTENEGRO SOLDIERS' MONUMENTS CHURCH, STUDENITZA—WEST DOOR. CORONATION CHURCH, KRALJEVO TSAR LAZAR'S CASTLE CHURCH, KRUSHEVATZ—SIDE WINDOW OF APSE THE PATRIARCHIA, IPEK (PECH) PODGORITZA MAP OF THE LANDS OF THE SERB
PUBLISHER'S NOTE
In the spelling of proper names the system adopted in the Times Atlas has been followed as nearly as possible. Owing to the absence of Miss Durham in Macedonia, the following pages have not had the advantage of her revision in going through the press.
PART I
MONTENEGRO AND THE WAY THERE
"What land is this?"
"This is Illyria, lady."
Twelfth Night.
THROUGH THE LANDS OF THE SERB
CHAPTER I
CATTARO—NJEGUSHI—CETINJE
I do not know where the East proper begins, nor does it greatly matter, but it is somewhere on the farther side of the Adriatic, the island-studded coast which the Venetians once held. At any rate, as soon as you leave Trieste you touch the bubbling edge of the ever-simmering Eastern Question, and the unpopularity of the ruling German element is very obvious. "I—do—not—speak—German," said a young officer laboriously, "I am Bocchese"; and as we approached the Bocche he emphasised the fact that he was a Slav returning to a Slav land. Party politics run high even on the steamboat.
We awoke one morning to find the second-class saloon turned into a Herzegovinian camp, piled with gay saddle-bags and rugs upon which squatted, cross-legged, a couple of families in full native costume, and the air was thick with the highly scented tobacco which the whole party smoked incessantly. The friendly steward, a Dalmatian Italian, whispered hastily, "This is a Herzegovinian family, signorin'. Do you like the Herzegovinese?" Rather taken aback, and not knowing what his politics were, I replied, stupidly enough, "I find their costume very interesting," This frivolous remark hurt the steward deeply. "Signorin'," he said very gravely, "these are some of the bravest men in the world. Each one of these that you see would fight till he died." Then in a mysterious undertone, "They cannot live without freedom … they are leaving their own land … it has been taken, as you know, by the Austrian. … They are going to Montenegro, to a free country. They have taken with them all their possessions, and they go to find freedom."
I looked at them with a curious sense of pity. Though they knew it not, they were the survivors of an old, old world, the old world which still lingers in out-of-the-way corners, and it was from the twentieth century quite as much as from the Teuton they were endeavouring to flee. All these parti-coloured saddle-bags and little bundles tied up in cotton handkerchiefs represented the worldly goods of three generations, who had left the land of their forebears and were upon a quest as mystical as any conceived by mediæval knight—they were seeking the shrine of Liberty. "Of old sat Freedom on the heights"; let us hope they found her there! I never saw them again.
On the other hand,