Dalmatian cuisine—The Emperor Diocletian—Remains of the old palace—We make two friends—Wines of Dalmatia—Customs of the Morlaks—A visit to Salona—A great fête—Costumes—Morlak singing.
On landing we were at once pounced upon by the Custom-house officers, who could not quite make out our semi-military appearance.
Our baggage, however, was not examined, so our cartridges once more escaped. Re-shouldering our guns, and handing over our blankets and saddle-bags to a quay-loafer, we marched off to the Hôtel de Ville, which we were told is the best inn in the town. A very fair one it turned out to be, consisting of the first and second floor of a portion of a large desolate-looking colonnaded square, recently built by a company, whose shareholders I believe will willingly part with their shares at the price of issue, for they have not met with much encouragement to continuing their work. The telegraph and post-offices, and the restaurant of the hotel, at present monopolize the completed portion of the square. On the other unbuilt side is a sulphur spring, not sufficiently appreciated by the faculty of Spalato.
The restaurant adjoining the hotel is a fair one for this country, but the cuisine of Dalmatia can hardly be recommended. The dishes presented to the traveller are not exactly German, nor are they exactly Italian, but combine the worst properties of the two without any of the good. On the other hand, the rooms in this hotel are very clean and comfortable, and the charge at this, as at all other restaurants on this coast, is considerably lower than in most countries of Europe. Having dined, we strolled through the town, whose nightly aspect we did not think very much of.
Instinct led us to the principal café. It is in the piazza in the centre of the town, and is greatly frequented by the Austrian officers as well as by the local civil swells. The open-air part of the café is a pleasant arbour of sub-tropical creepers. Here we smoked our cigarettes, and sipped our iced coffee for an hour or so, amused with the quaint costumes of the people and the lofty houses around us, dating from the old Venetian days, as their elegant porticoes and fine carvings plainly showed. On the wall of one house near the café there are some very curious religious carvings. Eve presenting the apple to Adam is very comic.
Spalato is a town at which one could easily pass a considerable time in most enjoyable loafing. The old Venetian city is built within the extensive walls of the palace of Diocletian, but the modern town has spread considerably beyond their limits. These ancient walls formed a useful defence against the piratical hordes that infested this coast during the Middle Ages, till the strong arm of the Venetian Republic swept the Adriatic of these freebooters, whose detestable excesses were the terror of the whole maritime population.
Spalato is built on a promontory formed by the deep inlet on whose shores is situate the old Roman city of Salona, while the large islands of Brazza and Bua shelter the harbour from on-shore winds.
It was to this pleasant spot that the Emperor Diocletian, himself a native of Salona, retired in the year 305, when, weary of empire, he resigned the imperial purple. On the sea-shore, a few miles from Salona, he built himself this magnificent palace, in which he passed the remainder of his life without care or regret, taking great pleasure in cultivating his garden with his own hands.
The outer walls form a square, each side of which is nearly a mile in length. These to a great measure still exist, but the modern houses built against and into them have by no means improved their appearance. The Cathedral of Spalato was the Pagan Temple which Diocletian constructed in the centre of the area, and is a very symmetrical building. Many of the columns, and also the Sphinx, which ornament the palace, were brought here from Constantinople and Egypt.
We were awakened early the next morning by a knock at our door.
On our replying to it a pleasant-looking stout gentleman entered smiling, and introduced himself to us as Marco Bettoni, capitaine de long cours. He had heard of the arrival of two Englishmen in the town, so as he spoke English himself, he had come to offer his services to us. A very useful and agreeable companion he proved to be. The Dalmatians are excellent sailors, and these retired capitaines de long cours form a most respectable element in the population. Most of the Podestas or mayors of the small villages are of this class. They are always men who have knocked about the world, and are happy to assist travellers in every way.
After breakfast we visited some of the lions of Spalato, in the company of our new friend. The architecture of the narrow streets, with their lofty balconied houses, and the ever-recurring Lion of St.
Mark carved over the archways, constantly reminded one of the old Republic. We went to the "Porta Aurea"—the "golden gate," which pierces the outer wall of Diocletian's palace from the north. I sat down under a blazing sun, and managed to make a sketch of it. During the process I was surrounded by a crowd of admiring Morlaks. When the marble columns which supported the arches were in their places, it must have been very beautiful. The ancient Temple of Jupiter, now the Cathedral of Spalato, was within the precincts of the palace. It is now surmounted by an elegant campanile, which was constructed after its conversion into a Christian church. From the summit of this—
200 feet above the sea—there is a charming view over the town, the harbour, and the islands of the Adriatic beyond.
The interesting remains of this town have been so well described by former travellers, that I will not here enter into them. Suffice to say that Spalato offers at every step some curious relic of early Christian as well as Pagan days, not to mention the fine Venetian buildings. In the architecture of the palace as well as in the statuary brought from Salona, and stored here in the public museum, one can detect the transition state of art, and the falling off of the old classic beauty of form.
We were introduced by our new friend to a very pleasant French gentleman, who was of great service to us during our stay. M.
Vigneau was an Ænologue, a native of Bordeaux, and had come hither to be manager of a company recently started at Spalato, for the production of superior classes of wines. The natives of the country were quite ignorant of the science, their wines being rough and unpalatable—surcharged with tannin. But, under the scientific and skilful direction of M. Vigneau, it has been proved that Dalmatia is capable of producing excellent wines, emulating the finest vintages of his native land. Other companies have since his attempt been started for the like purpose, but as far as I could judge the " Société Ænalogue de Dalmatie," as the original Spalato undertaking is called, produces the largest variety and most excellent quality of wines.
We visited the buildings of the company. It was the vintage season, and huge butts were brimming with the ripe fruit outside the door. In the yard two employés sat at a table purchasing the grapes, as picturesque Morlaks—men, women, and children—bore in the purple spoil in sacks and baskets of every size. These were weighed, and the little bundles of money were handed over to them in return. Now and then a basket would be refused, the quality of grape being inferior; when the wild people would enter into a fierce discussion with many gesticulations, but were peremptorily told to move on, as their noise was useless. The Morlaks are civilized enough to know some of the tricks of trade spoken of by the "divine Artemus" as common among the American manufacturers of apple-sauce, the difference being that in the one case the bottom of the vessel is filled with sawdust and in the other with stones.
We indulged in a feast of grapes at M. Vigneau's, and then adjourned to his spacious cellars to try his various wines. The huge casks, which contain enough of the rich fluid to drown the largest elephant, had been brought in sections from Bordeaux—the natives being incapable of constructing them. The wines we tasted were exceedingly good, and the different varieties might pass for the best burgundies, sherries, and ports; there is also an excellent light wine.
These wines are improved by a sea voyage. They are cheap, and need only to be introduced into England to be appreciated and widely consumed. Indeed I am sure many of us have unknowingly drunk and enjoyed them, for M. Vigneau told me that not only were large quantities exported to Italy, but—especially since the Phylloxera plague had broken out—also to France, to the Bordeaux district itself, where doubtlessly they are blended with the native product and sent to us under many fair-sounding Châteaux brands.
The Sclav names which the Spalato wines bear are not musical. M.
Vigneau gave me all the details and prices. These wines could be sold in England, after paying all transport and custom expenses, at a very low rate indeed. The company is sufficiently old for us to have tasted and approved some choice vintages that had been twelve years or so in bottle, and very excellent they proved.
M. Vigneau had spent a few years in England, and speaks English very well. So between him and the kindly old sea-captain, we did not feel ourselves at all abroad in Spalato. Without them we should not have got on, for our knowledge of Italian was limited, and of Sclav we knew but the names for bare necessaries. At Spalato we had many opportunities of observing the manners and customs of the mixed population of the Dalmatian coasts.
The native Italians and Sclavs keep very much to themselves. There is no society of any kind, and I cannot say I was in any way favourably impressed with them. The Austrian garrison, officers and men, on the other hand, created a very favourable impression. There is none of that swagger and bounce which is too often displayed by the troops of some nations we know of when in the midst of a subject alien and hostile race. The officers are very gentlemanly-looking men, and the Hungarians who were quartered here struck one by their jovial and kindly manners.
The Austrian officers much dislike service in this province; it is the Siberia of Austria. The people do not speak their tongue, and will not mix with them; and the upper classes studiously insult them, as far as they dare. The Morlaks or Sclav peasantry are an interesting race, but not much to be admired.
They are from all accounts great thieves and liars, and more backward, I should say, than any people in Europe. They have no desire for improvement. Any one who endeavours to introduce some new manufacture or industry among them is treated with suspicion; every obstacle is studiously thrown in his way.
The costumes of the male Morlaks are very picturesque, varying in different districts. They wear the baggy trousers coming to the knee; the embroidered vest and red sash of the East. In most parts the head-dress is a skull-cap, flat at the top, sometimes red; generally the colour is indistinguishable for the accumulated grease of years. They wear opunkas on their feet. These are sandals or slippers, with turned-up toe; made of rough thongs of oxhide; they are tied to the foot with straps of the same material. The Morlak is always accompanied by his long pipe with its red clay bowl. He is also addicted to smoking cigarettes through brightly painted wooden tubes fully three feet in length. The dress of the women differs so much in districts that it is impossible to give anything like a general description of it; it is not unlike that of the Southern Italians. They, too, wear the opunka.
The Morlaks have many strange superstitions and customs. To any one who wishes to see in the life the barbarous manners of the Middle Ages in all their picturesqueness, a voyage in these countries can be recommended. However, the Austrians have eliminated one of the most picturesque, if rather objectionable, features of the good old times. Hordes of brigands no longer overrun Dalmatia; the vendetta is now unknown; and travelling, if rough, is unattended with danger; and I may add that Morlaks, despite their other faults, are exceedingly hospitable, and will give up their one bed to the travelling stranger.
The women of this race are treated in true Eastern fashion; that is, not much better than the beasts of burden.
As in the East, those of the higher class rarely leave their houses, but sit lazily in their chamber acquiring a becoming pallor of countenance and fatness of limb. A Sclav will not allude to his wife in conversation without an apology for mentioning so low a thing. "My wife, excuse me, sir," is the common way of bringing her into a sentence. As in the East, too, the unchaste woman is regarded with great abhorrence.
What vice there may be has to conceal itself in dark places, for the old punishment of the stoning is by no means unknown here. In the towns of Albania, this outward show of morality—for that is all it really is, just as in the old days, when the virtuous man to throw the first stone was not to be found—is still more ferociously demonstrative, cases of guilty parties of both sexes having been torn to pieces by the mob being of not unfrequent occurrence there.
The following incident happened shortly before our arrival at Scutari.
A Turkish officer of police, who had carried on a flirtation with the German servant of a foreign consul, was discovered, seized by several men, and beaten till he fainted with his wounds, and was left by them for dead.
The next day was Sunday. Hiring a trap, we drove, with our two friends, along a good road, across a wine-producing country, commanding pleasant views of sea and mountain, to Salona—the old Roman city—the birthplace of Diocletian. It is but four miles from Spalato. As we approached it we saw, some miles off inland, on a precipitous buttress of the mountain, the ancient and impregnable fortress of Clissa, commanding the approach to Spalato from the Herzegovina.
Salona is situated on the sloping ground at the head of the deep and beautiful inlet of the sea, which bears the same name. The ruins have been excavated, and there are no important remains to be seen, for the town was thoroughly sacked and destroyed by the Gothic hordes.
It was from Salona, in 544, that Belisarius set out to rescue Italy from Totila and his Goths. The town had withstood several sieges. Attila himself is reported to have once captured it. Having for years enjoyed peace, lulled into a false and fatal sense of security, the Salonites, the historian tells us, gradually fell into a state of incredible luxury and sensuality. This was the Sybaris of the East. At last the day of trial came, and the effete citizens were found to be incapable of defending their homes against the hardier foe.
The Avars overran Dalmatia in the year 639.
Salona easily fell into the hands of the Barbarians. The sinful city was plundered and burnt to the ground; and where stood its stately theatres and temples, there is now but an uninhabited wilderness.
Its site commands a splendid view over the blue gulf, and dark, far mountains. This day, at this season of the year, when a brown tint was on the tangled groves, and a purple bloom on the grapes, while a fresh sea wind sighed through the desolate ruins, the general effect was very impressive.
Here we wandered a couple of hours or so through vines and brushwood, the fallen walls of houses, tombs, shattered friezes and columns meeting us at every turn. Nearly everywhere, on raking off the thin layer of overlying rubbish, beautiful tessalated pavements are disclosed to view. The Morlak peasantry crowded round us and sold to us, at ridiculously low prices, coins of the Diocletian era, vases and beautiful lacrymals, irridescent and scaling off with age. Several were melted out of shape by the fires of that fierce sacking more than a thousand years ago.
The Roman aqueduct which supplied the palace of Diocletian, at Spalato, with water, is still in very fair repair.
The modern city suffers much from want of water. This necessary has to be carted in from a long distance.
The restoration of the old aqueduct has been decided on; and to have come to a decision will suffice the Dalmatians for some years to come. It is to be hoped that the plan will ultimately be carried out.
"The Spalatans will then have no excuse left for not washing themselves;" so I said to Mr. Vigneau, innocently. "Oh, you don't know them," said he; "they will discover that washing opens the pores, and renders them more susceptible to the trebesine (the fever)."
The source of the Gindro, where commences the aqueduct, is well worthy of a visit. About a mile from Salona—at the head of a wild and beautiful well-wooded gorge down which this torrent flows—the further progress of the traveller is barred by a precipitous wall of rock.
At the foot of this wall an enormous volume of ice-cold water rushes out upwards from an orifice in the rock, filling up a deep, broad pool, which foams and whirls as the spring spouts up from underneath with incredible force, forming a dome of water on the surface. There is something horrible in the Titanic forces and furious whirl, that makes one dizzy; one cannot look down long. The water overflowing from the pool partly feeds the aqueduct, which is carried along the slope of the hill, and partly rushes down the gorge, turning on its way the huge wheel of a flour-mill.
This mill we visited with M. Vigneau. The enterprising individual who had started it seemed very disheartened. The latest machinery had been brought hither at great cost. But this was too great a novelty for the conservative Morlak peasantry, who resented and fought shy of the innovation, preferring to grind their corn between two flat stones picked up in the river bed, as their fathers did before them.
We drove home before sunset, as there was much fever about. There was not a cottage near here that had not some of its occupants prostrated by the trebesine.
Tuesday, September the 30th, was a great Dalmatian holiday. On foot, on mule-back, in the rough waggons drawn by diminutive oxen, the peasantry trooped in. The Morlaks are very fond of feasts. Every other day seems to be dedicated to some saint or other, who would avenge himself were he neglected. The working days are few, as M.
Vigneau bitterly complained.
I believe this peasantry still observes several feasts whose origin dates back to Pagan times.
The holiday gave us a good opportunity of viewing the various costumes of this country at their best.
Not least quaint were the Jews of Spalato. Some were long-bearded, solemn-looking old fellows, dressed in the same sombre garb the Jews of Venice wore when Shylock drove sharp bargains on the Rialto.
The groups that filled the narrow streets were very Eastern in appearance. The pig-tailed Morlak, clad in his Sunday jacket; the savage-looking Bosnian Turk, with turban, broad sash, and gay slippers; the Greek sailors; all had an outlandish appearance, that told us we were far from home—"from home and beauty" too, for of the latter there was little to be seen at Spalato. I honestly saw no women who could, with the grossest flattery, be called pretty, between Trieste and Montenegro. And what can make one feel so alone in a strange land, as the absence of fair women.
The Dalmatian Sclavs are unfortunately very fond of raising their voices in song. A gang of youths would-walk down a street arm-in-arm, shouting some native ballad. The music and singing of the East is always of a melancholy character; but never have I heard anything so dismal as the barbaric dirges of the Morlaks. The song is a sort of monotonous chant, which has a peculiar querulous complaining spirit in it; and yet a suppressed and timorous complaining, as of slaves that had not for centuries known what independence and freedom was.
How different is the song of the free Montenegrin (of the same race as the Morlak). It is of the same monotonous character, but has a go and energy in it, inspired as it is with the warlike feats of their heroes in the present as well as in the past—not a song of regret for some by-gone greatness, but an exultation in the brave and illustrious now.
Each verse of a Morlak song dies away in a long and sad howl, followed by a silence, before the next verse is taken up. This produces a peculiarly depressing effect.
Our arrival was pretty well known all over the town, for strangers are not frequent, especially Englishmen. The citizens, who could not conceive any one being mad enough to travel for amusement, especially in their country, discussed us curiously. M. Vigneau told us he had, several times each day, to give a long narrative of the lives, pursuits, &c., of Brown and myself, in order to satisfy the eager inquirers.
On hearing that we intended to visit Albania, the verdict always was,
"They will not come back"—this with a meaning shrug of the shoulders.
I have, on more than one occasion found, when I have left England for some unknown and supposed dangerous country, that as I gradually neared it the reports and accounts of the perils of that land became less and less alarming. For "distance" lends terror as well as enchantment "to the view."
In the case of Albania, however, the nearer we approached it the worse was the reputation of its fierce inhabitants for murder and robbery; the more earnestly were we warned against travelling in such a cut-throat region. This was not an encouraging sign. However, the best plan is ever to go on as far as one can, and believe little one hears.