Ragusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Never will I forget my first impression of Ragusa! Lovely, medieval Ragusa, which we saw in the mystic gloaming! The twilight had fallen as we crossed the square Piazza at the end of the trolley line, and made our way past the café with its little tables set out under the thick shade of mulberry trees. With strange, sad music played upon a two-stringed "guzla" dying away behind us, we stept within the shadow of the stupendous walls and entered the ancient Porta Pile" (pp. 218-219).

"Ragusa is a very small city, but so picturesque, so well paved, and so scrupulously clean, that it takes rank, in these respects at least, with famous Italian cities, like Florence and Pisa, of which it often reminds you. In its general arrangement, Ragusa follows the plan of Venice. The Corso runs at right-angles with the Piazza on which, at the further end, is the Rector's Palace, exactly as the Piazza San Marco turns into the Piazzetta on the end of which is the Doge's Palace. On each side of the Corso, are narrower thoroughfares with charming Venetian Gothic doorways and lovely windows with graceful balconies, which, no doubt, earned for the city her nickname of "Venezia Minore" (pp. 228-229).

"As truly "delightful" as we found other Dalmatian cities, they all sank into insignificance when compared with this "fairest gem of Adria", a lovely medieval jewel still boasting its original, antique setting. Few cities in the world can offer the traveler such a number of unique attractions. All the modern comforts can be secured at more than one of the excellent hotels just outside the walls, to which is added an exquisite situation high above the bluest of blue seas, on a shore clothed with luxuriant semi-tropical vegetation. With a glorious history recorded unbrokenly by a long line of illustrious writers, the republic is also the proud possessor of a store of ancient relics, which, in richness of workmanship and artistic beauty, have rarely been excelled — heirlooms hoarded by monks with loving care in old cupboards black with age, treasures protected by bolts and bars, and safeguarded by locks with many keys in the dim vaults of church treasuries. And there are other treasures — even more precious to some of us — exquisitely carved capitals and graceful columns, soaring campaniles and ancient palaces, hoary clock-towers and time-mellowed buildings, still protected by the same massive walls and frowning bastions which have preserved them unimpaired for more than a score of centuries — for our delight, and for the joy of posterity.

The moment you step within the stupendous walls the prosaic twentieth century is left behind you. Shut in a narrow space, a winding road, descending between the walls of the fortifications by a sudden turn, brings you into the city — and back into the Middle Ages! The straight, well-paved Corso, or Stradone as it is often called, stretches before you, lined on both sides with fine buildings, tiny shops, hoary churches, and queer dwellings, and gay with an attractive crowd of people sauntering to and fro. A crowd in which are seen Dalmatians of every type and class, interspersed with a sprinkling of people of all other nationalities. At the far end of the Corso is the ancient Torre dell'Orologio, a most picturesque clock-tower with an arch under it, through which runs the tortuous road under many walls and over many bridges to Porta Plocce, the other gate of this most quaint of fortified cities" (pp. 234-235).

"[…]. At almost any hour of the day a snapshot of picturesque Ragusans can be caught here. The fountain, raised from the Piazza by a broad, low step, is built in part under a quaint round arch let into the wall of the building behind. This arch has time-stained stone ribs dividing it off into sections, and by its somber shadow it makes a most effective background for the picture formed by gossiping crowds in gorgeous costumes drawing water and chattering together at the fountain. […]. 

A few steps on the Corso from the votive church of St. Salvatore, is the Franciscan church and monastery" (pp. 238-239).

"While here, Ragusa, with her sunny Corso, her gay shops, her bustling life, is forgotten, and a holy calm and divine peace fall like benedictions on the tired spirit. The soul is uplifted as the world fades away, while you sit entranced on the old marble bench and dreaming of the past, listen to the chanting monks, the water in the fountain, and drink in the beauty around. You dream of mystic, dark-robed figures who, in long vanished years, sat here by the fountain where you sit, and whose very names are forgotten. But the garden blooms with the same wealth of flowers, the fountain sings the same old song, the time-stained marble is warmed by the same sun, just as in those summer days of long, long ago. Even the music the choir is chanting is the same — it is only the voices of those ancient choristers that are mute — as they long have been. […].

And now for a passage from the diary, written in the Imperial Hotel: «Have forgotten the date (some time in July), but it doesn't matter. Wish I had a brand new adjective to devote exclusively to Ragusa — incomparable, superlatively lovely Ragusa! […]».

«Just inside Porta Pile, what should I discover to my dismay but a postcard booth, which gave me the horrors, for it seemed so terribly incongruous a thing in a medieval tenth-century town. But as the booth was there — and I wanted to get some cards — I stifled my indignation and bought a set from the smiling matron in charge, who was delightfully Dalmatian, and nodded so pleasantly that I completely forgot to count my change. I must admit I never know how to count foreign money, but John does. He looked over my change from this purchase, and asked me why I had let her cheat me out of thirty heller. I was really upset until he told me the difference amounted to only six cents. I suppose the woman thought American millionaires didn't count their change, so she wasn't particular to give me every heller due. Everybody here cheats me»" (pp. 243-246).

"On coming from the solemn shadows of the church into the sunny Corso, with its chattering crowds and gay colors, the street seemed all the brighter by comparison. Ragusa's streets are full of life and color. Dalmatians of all types and every style of costume are met everywhere, but in the Corso and Piazza are gathered the gayest crowds. Here you will come face to face with Canalesi women in stiffly starched white coifs, laboriously plaited, and see Herzegovinian maidens who look like brides, with their tiny red caps adorned with a flowing white kerchief, edged with lace or fringe, hanging down their broad backs like wedding veils. Many Ragusa women forcibly remind you of Rome. They are of the swarthy, Italian type. Their resemblance to the women of the Campagna is accentuated by bright kerchiefs similar to those seen in many Italian cities. The majority of the males wear the huge and hideously full, blue Dalmatian trousers, which have a habit of sagging most alarmingly. These trousers always seem in imminent danger of parting company with the upper garments completely, notwithstanding that above the sash worn around the waist is usually worn a broad leather belt. This belt forms a cummerbund sort of pouch, in which the Ragusan carries his arsenal of knives and pistols – the latter of the blunderbuss variety.

During a short stay, it is almost impossible to learn to distinguish people by their styles of dress. The variety seen in headgear alone, is quite bewildering. There are tall green hats trimmed with strips of black astrachan, and tiny red caps without a brim, gorgeous Bosnian turbans, the green turban of the Moslem who has been to Mecca, Albanians in near-white fezes, Herzegovinians in "pork-pie" berettas, Austrian officers in stiff military caps, and subjects of the Sultan in scarlet, or bright red fezes, having long, dangling, silk tassels. In addition to all this Oriental variety, will be seen a generous sprinkling of the heterogeneous collection of head-coverings usually encountered in a five-minutes' walk down Broadway.

At what are known as "Oriental Emporiums", the greater portion of the wares, I believe, are banked up outside the shops. Some of the very finest Persian and Turkish rugs and draperies we saw were displayed on the outer wall of a shop near Onofrio's big fountain. The cost of each article for sale in the Corso fluctuates with the appearance of the prospective purchaser, growing greater or less in exact proportion to the amount of affluence he seems to have, and the interest shown in the article to be purchased. John very wisely always leaves me somewhere else whenever he wants to buy anything. He declares that I ruin a bargain, even if I don't say a word, just by the way I look. In a tailor's shop we saw a number of Albanians sewing. They sat doubled up on a queer little platform like a shelf, with their feet under them, Turkish fashion, stitching away on gorgeous jackets and caps. All were men, and it seemed odd to see them sewing silver and gold braid, putting on little glittering spangles, and working patterns in tinsel thread. We priced some of the finished caps which hung on the walls of the shop, but they asked us four dollars. John never smiled when he explained, in his best Italian, that he must have been misunderstood. He wanted one cap — not half a dozen.

I was delighted to discover a fine, big photograph and picture store on the Corso, and wished to buy a number of views, for fear some of our own might not turn out well. But the man in charge was listless, and apparently too tired to show us his stock. He didn't utter a word. Contenting himself with simply pointing to a lot of fly-specked, sun-faded postcards, he went on picking his teeth. The jewelry shops are the most attractive of all, with their varied assortments of filigree ornaments, ranging from rings and earrings to huge belt buckles ten inches across. Chains and hair ornaments of many kinds are seen, and hairpins adorned with gilt chains and hanging balls in silver-gilt. Here, in fact, is seen all the jewelry with which Dalmatian women delight to bedeck themselves. Any number of barbaric-looking ornaments can be purchased. Chains of coins, rings, and the metal gewgaws of the people, pass from generation to generation; they represent the wearer's "dot", and she displays them with conscious pride. She aims not only to make herself attractive by a brave show of finery, but hopes her "dot" will catch the eye of some unmarried swain, and secure his serious attention.

In a queer, flat glass case hung on the outer wall of a shop in the Corso, I caught sight of a number of the dangling filigree buttons which men wear strung over the fronts of their sleeveless jackets. I made John go in and price them. I'm afraid I did forget, and so, maybe, I looked too eager; for when the man came out with a key he unlocked the case and put the buttons right in my hand, before he had even mentioned the price. After critically inspecting me from tip to toe, and then inspecting John, and having properly "sized us up", the man laconically declared: «Vier kronen, jedes!». «Four kronen, each?» exclaimed John in astonishment, for that statement meant eighty cents apiece for the buttons. «Ya, jedes», answered the man. Taking the buttons, John handed them back, and, without wasting a word, we turned and left him, speechless with astonishment. He hadn't dreamed that we knew what the buttons were worth, from having priced some exactly similar over in Spalato. As we passed a couple of sailors who had been interested spectators, we heard one of them say: «Not fool Engleesch! Mer-ikar Yankee — all right! Me been in New York». He nodded to us and smiled knowingly. We smiled, too.

Travelers intending to pay a visit to Constantinople can not do better than go by way of Dalmatia. It affords an excellent school in which to learn the art of Oriental bartering. John declared after his weeks of experience in "dickering" for everything he bought, that he could now hold his own with the most wily of Ragusa's shopkeepers. The joke is that, instead of getting provoked or discourteous when he begins to bargain with them, they all beam upon him most approvingly. «The reesch Engleesch», who pay without question the ridiculous prices demanded of foreigners for everything, to them is simply an egregious fool. A customer who is an "easy mark" (no matter what the amount of his purchase) is, in the eyes of a Dalmatian merchant — exactly as in the opinion of the Turk — an imbecile, unworthy of consideration; and one for whom they have only contempt.

No matter how gay and chattering a Ragusan may be, if one only mentions the word "earthquake," instantly the face grows solemn and the person loses not a moment in crossing himself. […]. One of the most attractive and striking buildings in Ragusa is the Dogana, or Sponza, as the customhouse here is more commonly called. It is one of the buildings that have survived the earthquake of 1667; and it has not only a lovely loggia on the front facing the Piazza, but has a fine, large inner court, with a double arcade, which is most effective. On an end wall is the cipher, "I. H. S.", in the center of a garland supported by two serious-looking angels, with a long Latin inscription in letters of lead let into the stone, which we couldn't read, but it gives the date "MDXX". The custom-house occupies the ground floor. The public scales for weighing all merchandise hang in the central arch, just opposite the entrance. […].

In front of the church of St. Biagio, and facing the Sponza, in the center of the Piazza, is Orlando's column, one of the city's most famous landmarks. […]. Orlando's column not only typifies Ragusa's freedom of jurisdiction and commerce, but serves as a support for the great staff on which floated the banner of the republic. In the year 1825, a hurricane overturned the column, and at that time a plate having an ancient inscription was discovered, which supplied some valuable data. It tells in Latin that the «stone and standard» were erected in 1418, during the pontificate of «Papa Martino V.*** To the honor of God and of St. Biagio, our official gonfalon». For half a century the knight and his column lay dishonored and neglected, stored away in the Rector's Palace. Fortunately, in 1878, Orlando was duly restored to his original position in the Piazza, where the old column and its quaint figure once more delight the eye" (pp. 251-259). 

"The duomo occupies one end of the Piazza and is built across it, so that it forms a complete end to the vista as you stand under the loggia of the Sponza and look down the quaint thoroughfare with St. Biagio to the right, and the clock-tower, the Corpo da Garda, and the Rector's Palace to the left. In looking the other way, a splendid picture is obtained from the steps of the duomo, of the entire length of the Piazza, with the palace in the foreground to the right, and with the custom-house and clock-tower at the other end. Behind the Sponza rises the great bare mountain which is climbed by Ragusa's massive fortifications, in zigzag of walls and towers, to its gray, gaunt summit, which almost appears to hang over the city. Once the slopes were well wooded, but to-day, like the greater part of Dalmatia, the mountain is bare. Its vanished forests, which once supplied the wood for the houses that became fuel for the flames, now linger only in the Illyric name for Ragusa, "Dubrovnik", which means, "the woody". The present cathedral was rebuilt after the great earthquake. It is necessary to specify which earthquake, for the city has the unenviable reputation of having indulged in a greater or less seismic disturbance about once in every twenty years, altho it is so massively built that it is difficult to realize it. Earth tremors have always been most strongly felt along the Corso, which was originally an arm of the sea, and cut the city in two. The narrow streets on either side have steep flights of steps that remind you of Naples. They still retain many fine dwellings in the Venetian style of architecture, which escaped the quakes that vented their fury along the Corso, or Stradone, as many Ragusans call it. Everything in the city seems to have at least two names. Many places are designated by such a variety of appellations that names become confusing. Even St. Biagio is called St. Blaize half the time. At the hotel I heard some one say he is known in English as St. Giles. […]. The duomo's treasury is probably the most valuable in all Dalmatia. It is protected by massive bolts and bars, and can be seen only once a week. Even then the opening is attended with much formality, the bishop, treasurer, and commune each using his own key, and having a particular fastening to unlock before the great doors swing open" (pp. 277-279).

"Turning now to the diary: «There are a number of nice people at the Imperial. Of course, as it is July, they are not of the fashionable coterie that spends the winter months here. John says he's glad of it, for in 'the season' everything is high-priced, and the hotel jammed with a lot of rich Russians and Austrians. Fortunately, there is no one here now who is very 'ultra', and I don a clean shirtwaist and sail into the big salon as if we were the real thing among American millionaires. Oh! if only we were. Of all the people whom we have met, we like the Von Karfenbergs best. He is a great, big Teuton, a major in the Kaiser's army, and his 'Freda' is a small, black-eyed, dainty little woman, who leads her big, blond giant by the nose. They seem to be devoted to each other, and yet they are diametrically opposite in type, size, sex, disposition, everything. But it only proves the adage that love delights in opposites. Frau Freda Augusta Victoria von Karfenberg, as she informed me was her name, without the hint of a smile, is a cute little thing, and speaks English very well indeed. 'Ach, you have a very gute man,' she told me; 'myself can see it. He gets himself much provoked when you laugh so much, but he says nothing. Now, the major, when he gets himself mad, he says something! When he gets himself more and more mad, I see it is the time to begin the pet. I say to him, "Ah, my Hans, what then is it which you makes provoked?" And I kiss him, and his face pet — and soon he smile down at me, and again himself is!'»" (pp. 281-282).