Serbia: A Sketch

by Helen Leah Reed

Serbian soldiers on the banks of the Drina

Then the wraith of an army began to hope; and on the island the soldiers were recuperating, and the little boys—a quarter of those who had poured into the great procession from all the roads, from every little village, from every town—the dead, would not swell the triumph of the victors. Those by the sea rested and grew stronger; and after a while the world began to hear that Serbia, deprived of her country, a Nation living in exile, was getting ready to claim her own. She was now one of the Allies. Her army could give an account of itself. "Poor Serbia!" they had said. "Plucky Serbia!" they were now saying, and it was even possible to imagine the world crying, "Lucky Serbia!" The soldiers recuperating at Corfu; the women working at Corsica making the wonderful embroideries that had given Serbia fame the world over; the downtrodden under the feet of the Conqueror, living in shattered dwellings in Serbian town and village, and praying, praying for the restoration of their homes, hiding their tears while they worked or prayed or nursed the sick—all, all working for Serbia.

Then those people who recognize heroism, those people who admire patience and silent bravery, those people who long had cried, "Plucky Serbia!" who had long been working for Serbia, now worked the harder, and other workers joined them, until there were few sections of the globe where there was not a group working for Serbia. The remnant of the army, too, worked harder than ever, training, gathering strength, adding to its numbers,—and at last it was ready.

Then Serbia had a vision of the men who had made her great—Vladimir, who first showed that union is strength; Michael, her earliest King, and Stephen Nemanya, who gave her a real kingdom, and Stephen Dushan, whose dreams of a Serb Empire had given her glory; then Lazar Grebelyanovitch, her brave and generous defender at Kossovo. Again, after her long sleep, Karageorges, heroic and just, grandsire of King Peter; and last, Milos Obrenovitch, whose cleverness had laid the foundation for much of her present good.

Had she changed too quickly from the old patriarchal system before she could rightly replace it? All this time, she now realized too well, she had been only half-educated. It was easy enough for the great Nations to criticize her, forgetful of the long past years when they were in her condition, yet none of them could deny her her heroic past.

Then Serbia looked toward the sea. She no longer felt the pain of her grief and her bruises; she was no longer alone. Friendly hands reached out to her on every side, and beyond the sea lay noble England, and strong Canada, and heroic France—Allies fighting for her, for her who might never be able to reward them; and, nearer to her, she could see fair Italy, magnificent Russia, and brave Montenegro and Roumania. All, all had been fighting for her, for in fighting for liberty, they fought for the oppressed of the whole world. They had been fighting her battles—the battles of the days of her strength. And there, farther off, was friendly America. For the moment she saw her ideal State—the union of Serb countries into one independent National State—a Serbian or a Croato-Serb monarchy.

Then, a shout, a clamor of voices, "Monastir! Monastir! Serbia! Serbia!" Not a year since that awful retreat, and now the long exile was nearing its end. King Peter, and the Crown Prince, the Government, the whole Nation were hurrying home!

"There is no death without the appointed day," chants the old pesma. Serbia will live!