Zara

"Having learned that the Brioni would not reach Zara, our next stopping-place, until after eleven that night, and that she was to leave at the unearthly hour of 4 a.m. we had decided to part company with her, but most unwillingly. […].

If Rovigno, the Lussins, and Pola were charming — and they really were — what shall I say of Zara? Words are, indeed, poor, colorless things with which to express the delight we experienced in discovering her perfect mine of riches! In my mind's eye I see now the old wells in the Piazza; the graceful and picturesque campanile; the fleet of fishing-boats in the harbor; the lovely acacia-shaded walk upon the ramparts; and can almost feel the fresh breeze which comes in from the sea! Where to-day — except on this seldom-visited shore — can cities like Zara be found? Zara! with her color, her medieval streets, and rare old churches filled with marvelous relics! There is not one Zara, only, in Dalmatia, there are many — not merely the bare bones of the long dead years, like Pompeii, but living embodiments of strongholds of the middle ages, which existed here at the dawn of the Christian era. Veritable gems of the Adriatic are these ancient cities, set like jewels in a golden, historic chain — cities, on whose venerable walls and lovely campaniles is written the name of Venice, fair bride of the sea; and where her faithful lion still stands on guard over the old, old gates.

It was so dark when we arrived in Zara we saw nothing but the new Dogana. […]. Early the next morning we started out sightseeing, but soon found that to do Zara and her antique treasures anything like justice we should have had a week instead of a day. We began with a pilgrimage to the old gates of the city. The first one visited, I admit, was rather disappointing. I think it was called the Porta Marina. It was much smaller than we had expected, and the lion over the archway was hideous! — a horrid, snarling creature with a halo, and his mane parted in the middle. Had it not been for his wings and book, I never would have recognized my well-beloved Lion of St. Mark, in this ugly beast — altho even he of Venice is not noted for beauty! But if this gate was not up to our expectations, everything else in the city certainly more than exceeded our highest hopes. The Porta Terra Firma is magnificent! I greatly doubt if any in Italy can surpass it in imposing dignity, a dignity and stateliness which its simplicity makes the more impressive. […].

In the morning the Piazza dell'Erbe, where the market is held, is the best place to see the life and color of Zara. Here we saw numbers of peasants from the outlying districts, among whom were the Morlacchi — strange, uncouth-looking people from the mountains of northern Dalmatia, of whom it could be truly said «Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these». The Morlak women were squatted in a row, on the flagged market-place in oriental fashion, with their country produce piled up in front of them on a kerchief, or on a piece of bagging spread on the ground. They had eggs, poultry, little squealing pigs and green vegetables for sale; and as we walked down the line offered us their wares in a terribly guttural, burring tongue — which John laughingly declared was «the worst yet!». These peasants wear a most striking costume. It consists of a coarse, near-white homespun linen smock, embroidered at wrists and over the breast with gaudy designs. Over it they wear a bodice, laced across the bosom with tinsel cords or strings. They have a short and voluminous skirt of some thick material sufficiently abbreviated in length to show their embroidered leggings, which are worked in colored thread and adorned with many beads like the leggings and moccasins of an American Indian. But as bizarre as were the garments I have mentioned, the most striking of all were their wonderful aprons! Marvelous creations — stiff as a board with the crudest of embroideries — showing bouquets of blue and green roses, or conventional designs in colors which would put to shame one of Turner's most vivid sunsets. The aprons of the Morlak women, and, in fact, those worn by all the female Croatians, were the oddest feminine garments I have ever seen. They were as thick and heavy as carpets, and reminded me of nothing so much as the wrong side of the Bagdad portières in our library at home. Add to this varied assortment of gay raiment long, dangling earrings; leather belts studded thickly with bright metal knobs, and fastened with huge silver-gilt buckles, almost as large as a breastplate; numerous cheap-looking bracelets and rings; and quantities of chains made of shells, beads, and jingling coins, which fittingly completed their barbaric gorgeousness.

The almost universal foot-covering in Dalmatia is a kind of shapeless slipper, or sandal, known as an "opanka." A Mr. Wheeler, an Englishman, made a sketch of these Croatian peasants in 1675. His drawing shows that the style in opankas in all these years has not changed in the least. When, some days later, we were in Ragusa, we noticed that a carved figure on one of the ancient columns wore with a Roman toga the same kind of footgear that we see worn here to-day. There is no question as to the great antiquity of the opanka. It is certainly simple enough in manufacture, as well as inexpensive and comfortable, which probably accounts for its long-continued popularity. In the market square we saw the whole process of manufacture "from factory to wearer" completed in a few moments. The merchant having selected a skin and laid it on the ground, the customer placed her foot on the skin. He then cut the hide in an oval roughly to fit the size of the customer's foot. (And that size was simply enormous! An "E-12" at least.) Many little slits were then snipped round the edge through which a thin strip of leather was run, by which it was drawn up like a bag, and the thongs tied around the ankle with a deft plait at the toe and more strings to lace it across over the instep — and there it was! «A ready-to-wear opanka, guaranteed made on the customer's own 'foot form'!».

Men and unmarried girls in Zara affected the same little round, bright red Dalmatian cap. It has a funny little tuft of black fringe hanging over one ear, and is worn at such an acute angle that an elastic band is sometimes necessary to keep it on. These absurdly small, brimless caps – and this is the land of radiant sunshine — always reminded me of the head-gear of the English Tommy Atkins; for they are of the same "pork-pie" shape, and worn like Tommy's, over one ear. Older women and matrons wear a huge white linen kerchief with embroidered hem and corners, tied under the chin, with the other ends extending well down their portly backs. By looking closely, I discovered that in many instances these shawl-like kerchiefs covered the same little red cap. If only I could describe in admiring words some lovely, dark-eyed creature that peeped out at us from the folds of these snowy kerchiefs, the picture would be complete! But, alas! truth compels me to admit that, while the Morlacchi and other Croatians are admittedly dark, they are far from handsome.

The male contingent were not one whit behind their women folk in gorgeous appearance. They had embroidered waistcoats buttoned down the side with bright metal buttons, and their jackets, usually sleeveless, were embroidered on the shoulders and down the seams with birds and flowers, while both waistcoat and jacket were liberally embellished with garish gold braid, tassels, and pendant knob links, of filigree silver, varying in size from a dime to a trade dollar. I am quite convinced that the writer of a comic opera could not do better than take a trip to Zara if he wants to get ideas for a setting. With the striking costumes not only of the Morlacchi and Croatians to afford inspiration, but with Bosnians, Magyars and Herzegovinians, as well to draw from, he could not fail to find effective combinations of color for costuming a chorus" (pp. 54-62).

"My diary reads: «Just back to the hotel from seeing grand old church. We were so tired from gadding about Zara all morning, we had to come back to rest up before dinner. We were in great luck! There was a festa of some kind going on, and the Piazza dell' Erbe – which is the 'Square of the Vegetables' — was a sight to see! It was simply crowded with peasants, who had come over from one of the neigh boring islands on some sort of pilgrimage to St. Grisogono's church — he is the Zaraian patron saint. They rowed over in boats and paraded about town, headed by men with banners, acolytes, swinging censers, and their priest and his attendants, in their best robes, stoles, and things. After them followed the islanders, walking two and two. I noticed that several of the pairs walked hand in hand – and all carried lighted candles. It was simply adorable — the church scene in Faust — but 'a truly, really story' — as I used to say when I was a wee girlie».

«As we were watching the procession, with all our eyes, we were startled by a sudden uproar in the Piazza. Three or four men had gotten into some kind of a brawl and were shouting and gesticulating so angrily, we thought them about to come to blows (we never can remember that these people are all given to mere bluster!). Well, John seeing a fine-looking Austrian officer approaching, stept up to him and politely inquired, in his best German, what the trouble was about. […]. 'The gentlemen are merely having a little political discussion', the officer smilingly replied, in very good English, taking off his cap and making us a profound bow. 'But why are they shouting so loudly?' I asked involuntarily, overcome with curiosity. For the taunt uttered by one had now been taken up, and was being repeated in concert by the other belligerents, until the clamor was deafening. He hesitated a moment — and I saw he was embarrassed; I feel confident he actually blushed — and then said very soberly, but with the wickedest laugh in his eyes: 'Madam, they are saying "Ižvadi košulya! Ižvadi košulya!"'. 'But what does that mean?' I inquired eagerly – not heeding John's nudge in the least. 'It is an old story. Many years ago these Croatians, whom we call "Morlacchi", had the custom of wearing their hair plaited in a pig-tail down their backs; and they wore the ends of their shirts outside of their trousers. This fellow the crowd is abusing, favors the present Croatian movement. They are what you call in America "guying" him! They are shouting "Ižvadi košulya" – which means "Out with your shirt!"'. […]».

«To get back to Captain Bela Masticevich — for that is his name, and it is a mouthful — our chance meeting with him was one of the most fortunate things which could have happened! He is very refined – and awfully handsome. (I adore good-looking chaps with brass buttons, clanking swords, gold braid and epaulets!) He is really a most charming fellow, and, best of all, he knows all about Zara, and speaks English fluently! He told us that he was 'on leave'; and simply insisted upon 'doing himself the great pleasure of showing us the town.' Being entire strangers, we, of course, demurred – not wishing to take up his time. But he said: 'There is nothing which I could do which would give me so much pleasure' — and he looked into my eyes when he said it, and I think John caught him. Of course he didn't mean a thing — these foreign men think it necessary to 'make eyes' at every one they meet. They consider it only being decently polite. It really is very amusing But, if John did it, I'd be simply furious!. […]. B— took us to the Giardini Publico — the public gardens — where we duly inspected five old wells, 'cinque possi,' sitting all in a row, from which the Zara women still draw water. It comes from some place — I forget what, and it passes through beds of sand — an antique filtration affair, centuries old. We saw another Roman column, too, but it wasn't as fine as the one in the market square. […]».

«We are to meet B— and take dinner with him in the 'Piazza dei Signori'. That means the Men's Square. Everything here belongs to the men! The only gay things about the women — poor, downtrodden creatures! — are their clothes. Their lives are all hard work, and dull and gray enough. I'm so glad I wasn't born a Dalmatian — or I feel sure I would be a bomb-throwing, acid-pouring, Croatian suffragette! But these women haven't sense enough to be anything but the beasts of burden they are. As I told John — when I saw a man riding on a donkey, smoking, while his poor wife trudged behind on foot, bowed over with the load she carried — every man in Dalmatia should sing: 'Let the women do the work, do the work, while the men take it easy!' It certainly would be a most popular ditty here, for it suits conditions to a nicety»" (pp. 64-69).

"But to return to our dinner in the Piazza dei Signori — it was simply perfect! Not just the food we ate at one of the little tables under an awning, but everything. The Caffè agli Specchi has two long rows of tables and the people walk right between them, going and coming in the Piazza — which has the usual clock-tower, communal palace, loggia, and all that, which one sees in every one of them. As we sat there eating and enjoying ourselves, there was a constant stream of people, all so delightfully 'foreign' they quite enchanted me. There were lots of natty Austrian officers with their brass buttons and clanking swords; funny-looking peasants pushing outlandish hand-carts; beetle-browed Morlacchi in stage trappings and bright gewgaws, carrying wineskins, swarthy contadini in embroideries and silver ornaments, bearing huge bundles; and pretty, dark-eyed Dalmatian girls, with marvelous aprons, and in coquettish red caps decked with strings of coins, selling flowers. Bela told us the magnificent individual in a crimson jacket with filigree buttons, almost the size of a hen's egg, was simply a member of the rural police. There were barefoot friars in brown, priests in long black cassocks, and the Greek 'sacerdotes' in high hats, with their hair — tied up in straggly psyche knots — showing under their beavers, and with a ridiculous blue silk sash tied around their waists, over their long, trailing, priestly robes. It was, as John said, 'As good as a show', and we had so much to see, we were sorry when the last course was served" (pp. 79-80).

"Zara is the very threshold of Dalmatia, and here particularly should we completely forget this prosaic twentieth century and every fact relative to big cities – boasting trolley-cars and modern hostelries with elevators, electric lights, private baths, and "phones in every room" — that we may enjoy to the utmost the unique experience of climbing up four flights of rickety stairs to the light of a flickering tallow-dip, and calling over the banisters for more water in the morning" (p. 74).