Spalato

"[Turning once more to the diary] «Our first glimpse of Spalato was wofully disappointing. It looked much more like a square fortress — built low and flat upon the shore — than a palace or an ancient city. Along the whole seafront runs a dilapidated wall in which are the remnants of the half-columns and arches of Diocletian's famous 'crypto-porticus', once a lovely open gallery, where he no doubt walked in the evening. To-day, a row of cheap dwellings, squalid restaurants, and shabby houses, with small modern windows and green wooden shutters, are wedged in between the ancient arches, the mean and modern so crowding the majestic and antique that the only result is a motley jumble. But we arrived in the garish light of a July day. In the glowing sunlight which blazed down upon them the poor old arches and columns only looked dark, dirty, and dilapidated; while the intense glare brought out every squalid detail of the unsightly buildings which were crowded in between them. But everything was changed when we walked upon the Marina, a few hours later; for the sunset clothed the old city with an ephemeral glory. In the fading light all the harsh lines and crudity completely disappeared, and Spalato was metamorphosed! […]. It is only nine o'clock, but I am very tired and sleepy, so I am going to bed. We have put up at the little Hotel Troccoli, in the Piazza dei Signori, in the Borge, or western side of the town. I must get rested for to-morrow, so I can start bright and early to 'do' Spalato»" (pp. 141 e 152).

"As we arrived by steamer, instead of driving or motoring over from Traü — which is by far the pleasanter way — we entered the city by the sea-gate, in the south wall under Diocletian's famous crypto-porticus. Once the water washed the walls, but now there is a broad, fine quay outside, well paved and planted with rows of trees. On entering the vaulted passage, which meanders along under houses which have been built where the emperor's palatial suite once was, it reminded me of nothing so much as a dark and slimy sewer. It was not only gruesome, but the walls were wet, and clumps of moss and tufts of grass and weeds had taken root between the interstices of the rocks over our heads. This tunnel is called by the Spalatrini, "La Grotta". By many twists and turns we at last reached the flight of steps which brought us out into the Piazza, once the peristyle. After having made a tour of the subterranean vaults, it was more astonishing to learn that in ancient times the palace kitchens were situated here, so that up and down these steps a host of slaves, laden with dishes for the imperial "triclinium," must have passed. It must be confest that the Grotta is far from being an attractive entrance. We ascertained, later, that the proper way to obtain an impression of the city is either through the Piazza dei Signori, and Porta Ferrea, the western gate, or, better still, by way of the northern gate, Porta Aurea, and along the adjoining lane, a narrow lane crowded with shops, which is all that is left of the once broad avenue now so encroached upon by dwellings that nothing remains but a wee little strip of daylight between the buildings.

Going straight down this street, we soon came to where the other street, running from the east gate to the west gate, crosses it at right angles. A few steps more brought us to the center of the palace, where remains of lovely old columns of the ancient peristyle stand right before us. […]. […] the motley little shops and dwellings built up between the old arches, with crude little balconies, green-shuttered windows, and cheap modern doors, crowding themselves in under the magnificent colonnade and even looking down brazenly from above. But, when we remember that these humble abodes were packed into the palace far back in the seventh century, and that they have been a part of the peristyle, or Piazza del Duomo, as it now is called, for hundreds of years, we realize that they have almost become a part of the Piazza — like the duomo itself, the steps and portico of the ruined vestibule, and the very Egyptian sphinx of black granite which sits in profound meditation on a low wall just outside.

The sphinx quite fascinated me. I heard that it is supposed formerly to have been one of a pair of sphinxes placed on the steps leading to the duomo — which was originally the mausoleum of Diocletian. All that is left of its companion is now to be seen in the museum. It seems that a falling stone, centuries ago, knocked off its head; and headless it remains to this day. For many years a diligent search failed to reveal the missing member, when lo and behold! a few years ago, when the missing head had almost been forgotten, some sharp-eyed citizen espied it built into the wall of one of the houses in the Ulica Ghetto. Governmental threats, bribes, and entreaties failed, however, to cause its humble owner to part with his ancient treasure, so in his wall it still remains. Painted in grotesque colors that none seeking the head may fail to discover it, while the mutilated body alone is treasured in the museum. Hieroglyphics on the base prove it to be of the epoch of Amenhotep III., who built parts of Karnak and Luxor, and who reigned about 1500 B.C.

The Temple of Æsculapius once stood just opposite the mausoleum, but it no longer can be seen through the arches of the peristyle; houses completely hide it from view. We might have had some difficulty in finding it, had it not been for our plan of the modern city. Going along the tiny alleyway to the west, exactly opposite the steps of the duomo, we soon discovered it. The ancient temple is now known as the Baptistery of Spalato, dedicated no longer to Æsculapius, but to St. Giovanni Battista" (pp. 156-160).

"Fortunately, when we reached Spalato the scaffoldings which had spoiled and obstructed the view during the long years of "restoration", had been removed from the campanile, the exquisite medieval tower built at the very portal of the mausoleum, now the duomo. The collapse of the campanile in Venice was a rude shock, but one which had valuable results all over Italy, for it caused immediate steps to be taken to preserve many other tottering relics of past years. The campanile at Spalato came in for a much-needed patching up, for even in the fifteenth century it required new underpinning. It had always been top-heavy, and was in great danger of falling from the further fact that it has no real foundation at all, having been built over the steps of what was the portico of the mausoleum, on platforms on each side of the entrance, like some towering Colossus of Rhodes.

Making our way through the peristyle, now the Piazza del Duomo, and passing between two small lions which guard the entrance, we ascended the steps and found ourselves in Diocletian's famous pantheon. […]. On coming into the duomo from the sunny Piazza, I could see nothing for a few minutes, the light within was so dim. I can not pretend to understand the pros and cons of the weighty archeological discussion that has taken place as to the ancient uses of this edifice. Some authorities still declare it to have been originally a temple to Jupiter, or some other god, while other learned savants as firmly insist it was Diocletian's mausoleum. If a mere woman may express an opinion, I will say that, so far as I am concerned, I feel sure it was the emperor's tomb and nothing else. It is very like all the pantheons I have seen. It gives you exactly the solemn impression obtained in the pantheon of Rome and that of Paris, and it is utterly unlike the Temple of Æsculapius, on the opposite side of the peristyle, which we know was originally a temple and not a tomb." (pp. 163-166). 

"I may forget the peristyle, the temple of Æsculapius, and even the sphinx and the ruined vestibule, but I feel sure I shall never forget the duomo, and its carved pulpit" (p. 172).

"«We have been all over Spalato sightseeing. [Runs the diary]. We have also visited the museum, but it was too full of anticos — which we knew nothing about — for us really to enjoy it. We went to the market-place, but there was 'nothing doing', as market day was over, so all the picturesque little stalls were empty and their white cotton covers packed away. It was hot and dusty in the square, so we didn't linger there. It was so very warm that John decided he must buy himself a lighter coat; but I was so weary, and my feet hurt so, I could not go a step further, consequently he left me in the Piazza, while he went back to one of the little shops. I sat down on the steps of the portico, just outside the ruined vestibule — of which only the door now remains. Close by me was the black granite sphinx – and an ugly thing, even if it is so ancient! The Spalato folk call it the 'Man-woman', but I can't imagine why, for it doesn't look like either. It holds a round thing in its paws, intended to represent the sun's disk, but the people here prefer to believe it is a loaf of bread».

«The shops here are the funniest kinds of little holes in the wall, and as dark as Erebus, but some of them have really fine filigree jewelry. Somehow or other, I didn't want to buy anything, altho John said he'd get me a bracelet, or a chain, or anything else I wanted. […]. I wish we were back in Washington — for if he does get sick I'm sure I never will be able to get a decent doctor here. If, like the rest of the people, the doctor talks nothing but this villainous Croatian, my poor John might die before I could find out whether he had malaria — and these Dalmatian cities are full of it — or that sleeping sickness, or bubonic plague, or some other of the awful things they have in the Orient. We are really so near the East here that I am afraid we can take anything. We see all kinds of odd-looking people on the marina. I counted five men with fezzes in one boat. John says there are people here from everywhere. In the harbor are queer little vessels from Greece, Turkey and the Black Sea; they come also from Italy and France, and even from England. A perfect babble of tongues is heard on the quay when they bargain with each other excitedly, buying and selling noisily, like a lot of street vendors on a Saturday night in the Bowery».

«There is certainly no Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals in Spalato, for I never saw animals treated more barbarously, except, possibly, in Naples. I took a picture of one poor little donkey on the marina, so laden down with bundles of straw you could hardly see his nose. There is the greatest abundance of fruit; we saw market-boats loaded with nuts and figs, dates and plums, oranges and lemons, and every kind of vegetable, from beets and tomatoes to green corn and quantities of enormous cabbages. The marina, or quay, outside Diocletian's 'crypto-porticus,' is simply a moving-picture show at almost any hour of the day or evening. The harbor is always filled with boats, picturesque cargoes of every imaginable shape and color, protected from the sun by awnings made from gaily dyed sails».

«The people are mostly blond; the men usually have huge corn-colored, bushy mustaches, which they fondly caress as proudly as any Beau Brummel. The women wear English calicoes, and have folded kerchiefs over their heads. The men look delightfully quaint in baggy blue trousers, short brown jackets and leather cummerbunds stuffed with things, and topped off by a gorgeous plaid silk scarf. It is really very interesting and Oriental here, […]»" (pp. 175-179). 

"«Going back to the hotel, through the Piazza dei Signori, I noticed a sweet-faced little woman crying as if her heart would break. Two men were with her, but they paid no more attention to her than if she had been a cat or a dog. She appeared to be about twenty years old, and wore a sleeveless Dalmatian jacket, and on her head a little pork-pie cap, covered with a huge white kerchief, the ends of which were knotted under her chin. Her apron was bright red, finished with a heavy fringe; it looked exactly like a table cover. Over her shoulder she carried two big bags, woven in gay stripes of red, green, purple and yellow, and evidently of her own manufacture. The men carried no impedimenta whatever, so I suppose the bags, which appeared to be stuffed full to overflowing, contained not only her own but their belongings. […], it makes my American blood boil to see how these swaggering Dalmatian lords of creation treat their poor, abused women. I can not get used to it. These ignorant clowns believe women are inferior creatures, fit only to labor in the fields and slave at their looms, from morning till night. They actually consider it a disgrace to be seen talking to a woman – and the poor, browbeaten, overworked creatures meekly endure everything, because, as John says, 'they haven't got enough horse sense to know any better'».

«The older man, I guessed at once, must be the girl's father. He had on the regulation Dalmatian blue waistcoat, and the 'voluminous-in-the-seat-tight-in-the-leg trousers.' I noticed that he wore a faded red cummerbund and a pair of patched 'opankas.' The other man was much younger, and instead of the red cap sported a bright crimson fez with a long, dangling, black silk tassel, which hung jauntily over his left ear. He was a would-be dandy, a Dalmatian beau, and I hated him at once, in spite of his gorgeous waistcoat, covered with rows of jingling silver filigree buttons. His incipient little corn-shucks mustache was turned up fiercely at the ends, à la Emperor William. By the very way he wore his fez cocked on one side, and by his strut and jaunty air, I knew in a moment he must be a conceited jackanapes. If he is that poor girl's husband I am sorry for her. For I know he is a vain, flirtatious, selfish creature»" (pp. 187-189).

"«Oh, I mustn't forget to write that yesterday we attended mass in the cathedral. Altho the mausoleum makes a wee little duomo, it was splendid! The place was jammed with worshipers; with the candles lighted, the music of the choir, the priest in his robes, and the black-eyed acolytes swinging beautiful old brass censers, with yards of clinking chains — it was simply divine! I am sure I never will forget that service, and the splendid sermon preached from the exquisitely carved pulpit; altho, of course, I couldn't understand a word. But I enjoyed it exactly as much, maybe more, than if I had. I wouldn't have missed it for anything»" (p. 193).