At daybreak, had there been in the distance a few scattered palm trees and a stretch of sandy beach, we might easily have imagined ourselves in equatorial latitudes. The rays of the sun tinted the mainland and the islands in hues of saffron; there was scarcely a ripple on the deep turquoise-coloured water. We steamed up through the Canal di Zara, a channel three miles in width, between the mainland and the mountainous island of Ugliano, and at five in the morning the lines of the Graf Wurmbrand were made fast to the molo at Zara.
This old town was the ancient Jadera, even then in allegiance with Rome, where a Roman colony was established in 78 b. c. Many years later it was brought under the powerful yoke of the Venetians and numerous fragments of both periods still remain. The Zara of to-day is world famous for being the home of the maraschino industry, the delicious cordial distilled from the juice of the wild cherries which grow in abundance on the slopes of the neighbouring limestone hills, and you have never tasted real maraschino if you haven’t tapped the till in Zara.
In the evenings, the esplanade along the stone quay, which skirts the harbour, is alive with promenading Dalmatians of all classes, while one of the best military bands to be heard in a week’s travel plays inimitable music at the shore end of the molo. Except for the dearth of tourists and the absence of the incessantly gliding gondolas the water front at Zara almost resembles a scene along the Grand Canal in Venice.
The chief objects of interest in Zara seemed to be ourselves, and I do not remember ever having been stared at more than here in the capital of Dalmatia and barely off the beaten track of English-speaking travellers. The townspeople ran into each other, not to mention lamp-posts and stone walls, in their attempts to satisfy their curiosity. While we ate in the pretty little open-air café of the hotel the waiters stood around with their mouths open, their eyes as large as billiard balls, and the groups of Austrian army officers allowed their food to grow cold and their beer to become flat as they watched, none too furtively, our every move.
THE WATER FRONT, ZARA.
But there are many things to see in Zara, of which the natives seem to take little account when there happens to be a stranger in town. One of these objects worthy of inspection is the body of St. Simeon, the patron saint of the town, and the story of how he came into office (shall I say?) is interesting, and rather unique.
Sometime during the thirteenth century, the exact date is unknown, a caravel put into the port of Zara after a helpless battle with wind and wave on the Adriatic. On board was a nobleman returning from the Crusades, who asked that he might deposit in the cemetery the body of his brother which he had hoped to convey to his home for burial. While his ship was undergoing repairs the nobleman himself fell ill and died. Upon examining his documents it was discovered that the body of the alleged “brother” was that of none other than St. Simeon, the prophet who had held the infant Christ in his arms. The people of Zara, having come unexpectedly into the possession of so precious a relic, exhibited the body in the collegiate church of St. Maria, where it proved its sanctity by working miracles, and its fame quickly spread throughout the country.
For some years the body was allowed to remain in the church for the want of an appropriate shrine in which it might be preserved. In 1371 Lewis of Hungary, accompanied by his mother and Elizabeth, his wife, came on a visit to Zara. After viewing the saintly body of Simeon, Elizabeth, desiring to take with her some memento of the wonder-worker, broke a finger from one of the hands and hid it in her bosom. For this sacrilege St. Simeon punished her by striking her blind on the spot, caused her hand, the one with which she had taken the finger, to wither, and caused her breast, where she had hid the relic, to mortify. Frantic with the sudden loss of her sight, Elizabeth tried to flee from the church but was unable to find the door. She groped her way back to the casket, fell upon her knees and replaced the stolen finger, which immediately united itself to the proper hand, the Queen’s sight being restored the same moment. Again Elizabeth implored the forgiveness of the Saint and promised to present him with a silver casket in which his body might repose more comfortably than she thought it did in its wooden resting place. The story goes that this promise so reconciled the prophet that Elizabeth’s breast was healed forthwith and her withered hand was made whole.