Through the Land of the Serb

by M. E. Durham

Rashka, a tiny place, was founded in 1846. It is only the fact that it is on the very edge that makes it a place at all. It feels itself very important, and its talk is of Turks, and of Macedonia and of Old Servia. That I must cross the line and be able to say that I had been in Old Servia was taken for granted. It was discussed as seriously as though it was a raid we were about to make. Having the permission of the police and having reported our proposed expedition to the Nachelnik, who saw no objection to it, the doctor and the gentleman-who-spoke-German escorted me through a sentry-guarded gate to a wooden bridge guarded at one end by a Servian and at the other by a Turkish soldier. We explained that we had come to see Someone-Effendi, and were allowed to pass. On this side the river there is nothing but a custom-house, a coffee-shop, and a cottage or two. From the bridge the track winds to Novibazar, which is but three hours distant, and, on the hills above, two fortresses guard it. I could get there and back in a day, and imparted the notion at once to my companions, who were horrified, and thought that the chances of returning were extremely remote. The Servian frontier regards the Turk as hopelessly untrustworthy. It has had, at any rate, plenty of opportunity of judging.

We waited humbly the appearance of Someone-Effendi, quite on our p's and q's. The enemy soon appeared, rather grubby, in a tarboosh and a scrubby European overcoat. My presence was explained. We were all very polite to one another. I was irresistibly reminded of the meeting of two dogs who approach each other growling from opposite sides of the road, decide not to bite, wag stiff tails and pretend to be glad to see one another, while their bristles stand up on their backs. Chairs were brought, we were asked to sit down, and the inevitable black coffee appeared. Then I was told that as I was in Turkey I must see the coffee-shop, and we adjourned thither.

The owner of it, a burly handsome fellow with a yellow moustache and eyes as blue as an Anglo-Saxon's, sprawled, picturesque in black-and-white striped costume, on the bench in the balcony. He was friendly, and we had more coffee and some sticky sweet stuff, while he smoked cigarettes in a holder the mouthpiece of which was a fine lump of amber and the stem black wood and silver filigree. "He is a Turk," said my companions. "He doesn't look like one," said I; for every Mohammedan calls himself a "Turk," and this one was like a fair Albanian. They repeated my remark to him, upon which he laughed and said that he did not speak Turkish. He wore a very handsome silver chain round his neck, and that and the cigarette-holder attracted my attention. "Those are from Skodra," I said. He beamed. "You know Skodra!" And he vowed gleefully that of all cities in the world Skodra was the finest, and appealed to me to support him. My companions were incredulous, they had never been there. The statement that I had been there twice satisfied him, and he smiled at me frankly, for now we knew that we had the same tastes. "You have seen the bazaar?" I nodded. "Oh, that is fine, very fine," he said. The bazaar would indeed have been a suitable background for him; I could imagine him cheerily filling up the gaps in his cartridge belt, and even more cheerily fighting on the Turkish side against all and any who should wish to force Western ideas into that and other happy hunting grounds.

Drinks differ in all lands, but everywhere it is correct to offer and accept too much of them; so we drank an inordinate quantity of coffee, said farewell to the Effendi, and were soon safely off the premises and in our own territory.

The captain took me a walk along the Servian frontier by the rivers side, a rich and beautiful land ablaze with a wonderful variety of wild flowers; only the two Turkish fortresses kept in mind the fact that the green land across the narrow stream was one of the sorest spots in Europe. The captain's tale of a boy who had been shot not long before by the Turks was concluded as we came in sight of the last fort, and we turned back. I think we went about three miles and took an hour over it; but the captain was very warm, and all his friends agreed that the English walked at an alarming pace.

By request, I made a drawing. It was of the frontier, the Turkish custom-house, and the fort-capped hill. It was supposed that it would annoy the Turks greatly if they knew, but they didn't. "And where," I asked, "are your forts? I have only seen Turkish ones." "Oh," was the cheerful answer, "forts are for defence—we are only going forward!"

Rashka was very hospitable. It gave me coffee; it gave me wine, beer, jam, water, eggs and bacon; it entertained me to the best of its ability. I was sorry to leave it, but time pressed. The diligence said it would start at 5 a.m., but did not do so till 6; I hung about waiting. It was a perfect morning; the mountains were blue on a pale lemon sky, and the grass was hoary with dew. "What a beautiful day!" I said to a man who was standing by the inn door. "No," he said gloomily; "to-day is Kosovo Day. That was a bad day for us." It was June 15 (O.S.). In the churches throughout the country there were solemn services in memory of the defeat in 1389, and there in front of us was Stara Srbija across the river.

The diligence proved to be a springless cart with a basket-work top, and as the horses were poor and the roads bad, we were eleven and a half hours upon that road, instead of eight, as I had been promised. It was dark when at last the crazy vehicle jogged painfully into Kraljevo.

Kraljevo ("The Town of the Kings") did not receive me amiably. I crawled into the hotel stiff and sore, was awaiting soup, and had just sent off my letter of introduction, when a severe personage in black arose from a little table at the other end of the room and made straight for me. Striking his hand heavily on the table to compel my attention, he said very loudly, "You have come from Rashka?" He spoke Servian, and did not even stop to inquire if I understood it. Having a clear conscience and an introduction to one of the leading men of the town, I returned his stare and said "Yes." "You will leave here to-morrow morning," he asserted. "No," said I firmly. We paused for a moment. "Have you a passport?" he asked. "Yes," said I. "Show it me at once." "It is a very good passport," I remarked, spreading it on the table; "it is English." I watched with some amusement his vain and elaborate pretence of deciphering it. Then he said, "When are you going?" "I don't know," said I. He chose to imagine that this meant I did not understand, so he shouted the question at me again very aggressively. As I meant him to know that it was no use chivying the English, I said, "Perhaps Monday, perhaps Tuesday, I do not know." "You will leave to-morrow early," he said. I reflected that if I did not stand to my guns the next British subject would have a bad time; so I said firmly, "I will not. I am English, and that passport is good." He looked at it again, reflected that, if it were good, things might become awkward, threw it down, and left abruptly. "Good-night," said I, but he did not respond.

Shortly afterwards the two gentlemen to whom I had been recommended came on the scene. They were so anxious to help me in every way that I did not betray the fact that I had already had a skirmish. But the landlord did. Next day I learned that my aggressor was the Nachelnik (burgomaster) himself, and that my new friends were extremely angry with him. He was introduced to me and told by whom I was recommended. He looked at me suspiciously, shook hands in a guarded manner, and spied furtively at my sketch-book, which was lying open on the table. I immediately offered it him for inspection, but it did not reassure him at all. Greatly to my surprise, however, he volunteered to take me for a drive in the afternoon. As I was quite used to being suspected, I only thought the episode funny; but my two acquaintances were so much upset about it that I was sorry they had been told.