So we were conducted some way off to a garden by the stream, where we took his dignity at a disadvantage, for he was engaged, when we appeared on the scene, in the presumably unofficial act of dabbling in the shallow water, and was in a decided state of dishabille. However, he emerged on to terra firma, not the least disconcerted; and having, with due circumspection, arrayed himself in his dressing-gown and slippers, advanced towards us with undiminished grandeur, and went through the saluting process as if neither he nor ourselves had been conscious of each other’s presence till that moment. Then, bidding us take our seat upon mats spread upon the grass in the shade of a spreading pear-tree, he treated us to cigarettes and questioned us, by means of the Italian interpreter, as to the objects of our travelling and the places we had been to. While this was going on, several more Turks equally dignified made their appearance, arrayed in the long gowns of undress. These turned out to be the Mudìr, the Kadi, and the Imaum, each of whom went through the usual temena, or greeting, by touching in turn his head, mouth, and bosom, thereby intimating, in the majestic symbolism of the East, that in thoughts, words, and heart, he was equally loyal to us. From the subsequent arrival of a tepsia, several mysterious covers, and a roast lamb spitted in the usual way, we perceived that we were intruding on a pic-nic à la Turque, and accordingly expressed our desire of adjourning to the monastery, whither the Italian-speaking Effendi was dispatched to conduct us, the Kaïmakàm having first given orders that we should be provided with an arabà for our onward journey. The Kaïmakàm had previously asked us whether we were Romanists or Protestants, possibly not wishing us in the former case to have an opportunity of conversing with co-religionists.
Climbing up to the rocky height on which the monastery stood, we found ourselves in another cloistered court, not unlike what we had seen at Gučiagora. Outside was an old foliated cross, much the same as that which we had noticed at the other monastery, and dating, according to the monks, three hundred years back; but the buildings themselves were almost entirely of the present century. Inside the court we knocked at a door labelled in gold letters ‘Clausura;’ but no one opened it. Presently, however, a monk sauntered up from another direction, evidently to reconnoitre who the strangers might be before letting them into the sanctum—in troubled times a not unnecessary precaution. Seeing a Mahometan official with us he at once became, as the French say, boutonné; protested that there was nothing within worth our inspection; and when we told him our reason for visiting the monastery, which was to see the curious old Bosnian monuments contained there, went so far as to deny that any such existed.
We were beginning to despair of gaining admittance after this, and should probably have gone away without seeing the most interesting antiquity, perhaps, in the whole of Bosnia—the book, namely, of the Old Christian Nobility, as it existed before the conquest—had it not been for our old friend, the Major. In his official capacity Major Roskiević had obtained admission to this monastery. As an Austrian and a good Catholic, he had disarmed the suspicions of the monks, and had been admitted to a sight of their invaluable treasure. The Major, though as a rule he does not trouble himself about antiquities, had engraved one of the old designs illuminated in the book—the armorial bearings, namely, of the old kings of Bosnia; and as I happened to have copied and duly coloured this as an appropriate device for the outside of my note-book, and possible credentials to Bosniac Christians, I took it out of my pocket, and, as a last resource, held it up to the monk.
It proved an ‘open sesamé’ indeed! The monk, who thoroughly believed that no soul outside the monastic walls knew of the existence of the Book of Arms, much less that anyone possessed a facsimile of any of its illuminations, was visibly taken aback. The change that passed over his whole demeanour was most amusing. He no longer attempted to deny that the book we sought existed within, and was now as ready to welcome us inside as he had before been to keep us out. Another monk, who had come up during the conversation, which was held in Latin, went off to consult the Prior of the monastery, and there was something of the ‘Arabian Nights’ in the way in which the ‘Clausura’ door flew open, and a saintly vision of the Superior of the fraternity himself appeared above, beckoning us upstairs.
We were now ushered into a guest-room of much the same kind as at Gučiagora, and were treated with coffee and Bosnian wine in the same hospitable way, while the Prior and several of the brothers clustered round, and we conversed in German and Latin on our own travels, and the history and prospects of the country; the monks betraying that of the present state of affairs they knew more than they chose to tell. Presently, to our no small delight, the Prior went to an antique chest, and, unlocking it, brought out the old Book of Arms. It was enclosed in a worn vellum cover, and at the beginning was a Bosnian inscription, written in old Serbian characters, which, Englished, ran as follows:—
‘The Book of Arms of the Nobility of Bosnia or Illyria, and Serbia, together set forth by Stanislaus Rubčić, priest, to the glory of Stephen Némanja, Czar of the Serbs and Bosnians. In the year 1340.’[213]
Thus it was a monument of that most interesting moment in Bosnian history when, for a while, she formed part of that greater empire of the Némanjas, which seemed about to weld all the scattered Serbian populations between the Ægean, the Danube, and the Adriatic into one great State. It must not, however, be thought that this MS. itself dated back to the times of Czar Dūshan. The most cursory glance was sufficient to convince me that the book, in its present state, was a later copy. The designs were still mediæval, but the painting belonged to a period when the art of illuminating was almost dead. They were executed, not on parchment, as doubtless the original was, but on paper, which, however, was without any water-mark, and in places so polished by fingering as to look like vellum. The copyist, moreover, had left his mark in several mis-spelt and bungled words. That it was the original, as the monks asserted, cannot therefore for a moment be maintained, but I have no wish to deny that it was written previous to the Turkish conquest; and I warn any who may harbour such a wish that they have to reckon with Apostolic authority. At the beginning of the book is a short Latin note dated 1800, in which Gregorius, Episcopus Ruspensis, and Vicar Apostolic of Bosnia, certifies ‘that this codex has from time immemorial, namely, from the captivity of the kingdom of Bosnia, been zealously preserved by the reverend Franciscan brothers of the family of Foinica.’[214]
Upon the first page was blazoned the Queen of Heaven with the Child on her knees, seated on a golden half-moon. St. Mary was in the middle ages the tutelary goddess of Bosnia, and the crescent is the chosen emblem of Illyria. Next followed a picture of a saint attended by a lion, and intended, if the monks informed us rightly, to represent St. Martin.[215] This was succeeded by two saints beneath a cross, one of them holding a branch; these were Saints Cosmas and Damian, the doughty patrons of the Némanjas, whose effigies are still traceable among the rich frescoes of their chosen shrines.[216]