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22. best of the houses of the Ragusan patricians are to be found, not
within the city, but by the port at Gravosa, and further on on the
way to Ombla. Several of those, while their other features are
Venetian Gothic, or even later still, have—commonly in their upper
loggie—a column or two supporting a round arch, which are
certainly not vulgar Renaissance, and which keep on the sound
tradition of the palace and the dogana. The finest of these is the
house of the Counts Caboga, known as Batahovina, on the coast on
the way to Ombla. Here, as in the palace, as in the dogana, an
arcade of this late local Romanesque supports an upper story of
Venetian Gothic, very inferior and most likely much later than that in
either of the civic buildings. It has however at each end an open
loggia matching the arcade below. The columns, plain and with
twisted flutes—distant kinsfolk of Waltham, Durham, Dunfermline,
and Lindisfarn—have capitals such as we might look for in much
earlier Romanesque.
23. CABOGA HOUSE, GRAVOSA.
This, we may note by the way, is the house in whose garden the
column from the palace, wrought with the Judgement of Solomon,
still lies hid. Indeed we might go further away from the palace than
the loggie of the houses. At Ragusa art extends itself to objects
which might have been thought hardly capable of artistic treatment.
Stone is common, and it is used for all manner of purposes. Among
other things stone vine-props are common. In not a few cases these
take the form of columns, slenderer doubtless than the rules of
classical proportion, realizing the description of Cassiodorus about
the tall columns like reeds, the lofty buildings propped as it were on
the shafts of spears. Sometimes the columns are fluted or twisted; in
a great many cases they have real capitals, with various forms
according to taste. It often happens that a row of such columns,
whether on a house-top or in a vineyard, really becomes an
architectural object, a genuine colonnade. Here the style, the
construction at least, is Greek rather than Romanesque; but the
24. principle is the same. A good and rational artistic form is kept in use,
and is applied to a purpose for which it is fitted.
All these examples, the palace, the dogana, the houses, the remains
in the Dominican church, we might almost say the vine-props, look
one way. All point to the existence of a Ragusan style, to an
unbroken Romanesque tradition, which could not wholly withstand
the inroads of the pseudo-Gothic of Italy, but which could at least
keep its place alongside of the intruder. All help us to see how
instructive must have been the course of architectural developement
at Ragusa, and how much has been lost to the history of art by the
destruction of so many of the buildings of the city in the great
earthquake. It is easy to see that for a long time the struggle
between the genuine Romanesque tradition, the Italian Gothic, and
the new ideas of the Renaissance, must have been very hard. How
long real Romanesque went on, bringing in new developements of
its own, but remaining still as truly Romanesque by unbroken
succession as anything at Pisa or Durham, is shown by the noble
arches of the palace, and the still later dogana. The slight touch of
Renaissance in some of the capitals of the palace in no sort takes
away from the general purity of the style. Still over these noble
arcades are windows of Venetian Gothic, and one of the most
characteristic features of the Ragusan streets are the flat-headed
doorways. But these, alternating as they do with pointed ones, help
to make out our case. On the other hand, it is equally plain that in
some cases the Renaissance came in early. A little chapel by the
basin at Ombla, bearing date 1480, is in a confirmed Renaissance
style, and looks more like 1580. Yet of true Renaissance there is very
little. One large house in the city, older than the earthquake, stands
quite alone as the kind of thing which might easily have been built in
Italy or copied in England. But at Ragusa, in the near neighbourhood
of several native doorways of different shapes, of many native vine-
props, of several native wells—for wells too take an artistic style and
copy the form of a capital—the regular trim Palladian building looks
strangely out of place. Even in the Stradone, where in the houses
there is little architecture of any kind, a touch of ancient effect is
25. kept in the form of the shops, with their arches and stone dressers,
thoroughly after the mediæval pattern. And some architectural
features never died out. The round window with tracery goes on
long after every other feature of Romanesque or Gothic is forgotten.
It is to be seen in endless little chapels of very late date in the city
and suburbs, sometimes standing apart, sometimes attached to
private houses.
The plain conclusion from all this is that at Ragusa the use of the
round arch for the chief arcades never went out of use; that it
always remained as a constructive feature, passing from
Romanesque to Renaissance, if fully developed Renaissance can at
Ragusa be said to exist at all, without any intermediate Gothic stage,
and continuing to invent and adopt any kind of ornament which
suited its constructive form. In windows and doorways, on the other
hand, the forms of the Italian Gothic came in and stood their ground
till a very late date. In most cases we wish the Venetian features
away; in the upper story of the palace they may be endured; but
conceive palace, dogana, Caboga house, with smaller arcades and
windows to match the great constructive arches. Such buildings as
these, now so few, make us sigh over the effects of the great
earthquake, and over the treasures of art which it must have
swallowed up. If Ragusa, in her earlier day, contained a series of
churches to match her civic arcades, she might claim, in strictly
artistic interest, to stand alongside of Rome, Ravenna, Pisa, and
Lucca. Her churches of the fifteenth century must have been worthy
to rank with anything from the fourth century to the twelfth. One
longs to be able to study the Ragusan style in more than these few
examples. It is not indeed absolutely peculiar either to Ragusa or to
Dalmatia. Many buildings in Italy and Sicily show a good native
Romanesque tradition, holding its own against the sham Gothic, and
showing a good fight against the Renaissance. Not a few arcades,
not a few cloisters, of this kind may be found here and there. But it
would be hard to light on another such group of buildings as the
palace, the dogana, and their fellows. In any case the Dalmatian
coast may hold its head high among the artistic regions of the world.
26. It is no small matter that the harmonious and consistent use of the
arch and column should have begun at Spalato, and that identically
the same constructive form should still be found, eleven ages later,
putting forth fresh and genuine shapes of beauty at Ragusa.
A TRUDGE TO TREBINJE.
1875.
[This paper, as giving the impressions of a first visit to the soil of
Herzegovina, during an early stage of the war, has been reprinted,
with the change of a few words, as it was first written.]
The first step which any man takes beyond the bounds of
Christendom can hardly fail to mark a kind of epoch in his life. And
the epoch becomes more memorable when the first step is taken
into an actual "seat of war," where the old strife between Christian
and Moslem is still going on with all the bitterness of crusading days.
In Europe it is now in one quarter only that such a step can be made
by land with somewhat less of formality than is often needed in
passing from one Christian state to another. It is now only in the
great south-eastern peninsula that the frontier of the Turk marches
upon the dominions of any Christian power; and, now that Russia
and the Turk are no longer immediate neighbours, the powers on
which his frontier marches are, with one exception, states which
have been more or less fully liberated from his real or asserted
dominion. That exception is to be found in the Hadriatic dominions
of Austria; and certainly no more striking contrast can be imagined
27. than that which strikes the traveller as he passes on this side from
Christian to Moslem dominion. Let us suppose him to be at Ragusa,
with his ears full of tales from the seat of war, all of which cannot be
true, but all of which may possibly be false. The insurgents have
burned a Turkish village. No; it was a Christian village, and the Turks
burned it. The Turks have murdered seven Roman Catholics. The
Turks have murdered seventy Roman Catholics—a difference this last
which may throw light on some cases of disputed numbers in various
parts of history. The Turks have threatened Austrian subjects.
Austrian subjects have attacked the Turks. An Italian has had his
head cut off by the Turks just beyond the frontier. A Turkish soldier
has been found lying dead in the road a little further on. These two
last stories come on the authority of men who have seen the bodies,
so that we have got within the bounds of credible testimony.
Meanwhile the one thing about which there is no doubt is the
presence and the wretchedness of the unhappy Herzegovinese
women and children whose homes have been destroyed either by
friends or by enemies, and who are seeking such shelter as public
and private charity can give in hospitable Ragusa. All these things
kindle a certain desire to get at least a glimpse of the land where
something is certainly going on, though it may not be easy to know
exactly what. Between Ragusa and Trebinje there is just now no
actual fighting; the road is reported to be perfectly safe; only it is
advisable to get a passport visé by the Turkish consul. The passports
are visé, but, so far for the credit of the Turks, it must be added
that, though duly carried, they were never asked for. The party, four
in number—three English and one Russian—presently set forth from
Ragusa. It is now as easy to get a carriage at Ragusa as in any other
European town. So our party sets out behind two of the small but
strong and sure-footed horses of the country, to get a glimpse of
what, to two at least of their number, were the hitherto unknown
lands of Paynimrie.
As long as we are on Austrian territory there is nothing to fear or to
complain of but those evils which no kings or laws can cure. The day
was rainy—so rainy that a word was once or twice murmured in
28. favour of turning back; but it was deemed faint-hearted to turn
again in an undertaking which had been once begun. On the
Austrian side the rain was certainly to be regretted, as damping the
charm of the glorious prospect from the zigzag road which winds up
from Ragusa to the frontier point of Drino. Ragusa, nestling among
hills and forts and castles, the isle of La Croma keeping guard over
the haven which has ceased to be a haven, the wide Hadriatic
stretching to the horizon, form a picture surpassed by but few
pictures even in the glorious scenery of the Dalmatian coast. On the
other side, it was perhaps no great harm if the rain made the savage
land between Drino and Trebinje seem more savage still. At the top
of the height the Austrian guard-house is reached, a guard-house
which the line of the frontier causes to be overlooked by a Turkish
fort above it. The guardians of the borders of Christendom look wild
enough in their local dress; but the wildness is all outside, though
one certainly does not envy them their watch on so dreary a spot.
Hard by is the place where the Italian lost his head; but the Italian
was openly in the ranks of the insurgents; so, though the thought is
a little thrilling, our present travellers feel no real danger for their
heads. The frontier is now passed; we are in the land where the
Asiatic and Mahometan invader still holds European and Christian
nations in bondage. We see no immediate sign of his presence. The
Turkish guard-house is at some distance from the Austrian, in order
to watch the pass on the other side, where the road begins to go
down towards Trebinje, as the Austrian guards the road immediately
up from Ragusa. But, if as yet we see not the Turk, we feel his
presence in another way. In one point at least we have suddenly
changed from civilization to barbarism. The excellently kept Austrian
road at once stops—that is to say, its excellent keeping stops; the
road goes on, only it is no longer mended in Austrian but in Turkish
fashion—a fashion of which the dullest English highway board would
perhaps be ashamed. We presently begin to see something cf the
land of Herzegovina, or at least of that part of it which lies between
Ragusa and Trebinje. It may be most simply described as a
continuous mass of limestone. The town lies in a plain surrounded
by hills, and it would be untrue to say that that plain is altogether
29. without trees or without cultivation. Close to the town tobacco grows
freely, and before we reach the town, as we draw near to the river
Trebenitza, the dominion of utter barrenness has come to an end.
But the first general impression of the land is one of utter
barrenness, and for a great part of our course, long after we have
come down into the lower ground, this first general impression
remains literally true. It is not like a mountain valley or a mountain
coast, with a fringe of inhabited and cultivated land at the foot of
the heights. All is barren; all is stone; stone which, if it serves no
other human purpose, might at least be used to make the road
better. That road, in all its Turkish wretchedness, goes on and on,
through masses of limestone of every size, from the mountains
which form the natural wall of Trebinje down to lumps which nature
has broken nearly small enough for the purposes of MacAdam.
Through the greater part of the route not a house is to be seen;
there are one or two near the frontier; there is hardly another till we
draw near to the town, when we pass a small village or two, of
which more anon. Through the greater part of the route not a living
being is to be seen. In such a wilderness we might at least have
looked for birds of prey; but no flight of vultures, no solitary eagle,
shows itself. As for man, he seems absent also, save for one great
exception, which exception gives the journey to Trebinje its marked
character, and which brings thoroughly home to us that we are
passing through a seat of war.
It will be remembered that, early in the war, the insurgents were
attacking the town of Trebinje, and, among later rumours, were tales
of renewed attacks in that quarter. But at the time of our travellers'
journey the road was perfectly open, and no actual fighting was
going on in the neighbourhood. Trebinje however was on the watch:
the plain before the town was full of tents, and, long before the
town or the tents were within sight, the sight of actual campaigners
gave a keen feeling of what was going on. Flour is to be had in the
stony land only by seeking it within the Austrian frontier, and to the
Austrian frontier accordingly the packhorses go, with a strong
convoy of Turkish soldiers to guard them. Twice therefore in the
30. course of their journey, going and coming back, did our travellers fall
in with the Turkish troops on their way to and from the land of food.
For men who had never before seen anything of actual warfare there
was something striking in the first sight of soldiers, not neat and trim
as for some day of parade, but ragged, dirty, and weather-stained
with the actual work of war. And there was something more striking
still in the thought that these were the old enemies of Europe and of
Christendom, the representatives of the men who stormed the gates
of the New Rome and who overthrew the chivalry of Burgundy and
Poland at Nikopolis and at Varna. But the Turk in a half-European
uniform has lost both his picturesqueness and his terrors, and the
best troops in Europe would be seen to no great advantage on such
a day and on such a march. And perhaps Turkish soldiers, like all
other men and things, look differently according to the eyes with
which they are looked at. Some eyes noticed them as being, under
all their disadvantages, well-made and powerful-looking men. Other
eyes looked with less pleasure on the countenances of the
barbarians who were brought to spread havoc over Christian lands.
All however agreed that, as the armed votaries of the Prophet
passed before them, the unmistakeable features of the Æthiop were
not lacking among the many varieties of countenance which they
displayed. But the Paynim force, though it did no actual deed of
arms before the eyes of our party, did something more than simply
march along the road. The realities of warfare came out more vividly
when, at every fitting point, skirmishers were thrown off to occupy
each of the peaked hills and other prominent points which line the
road like so many watchtowers.
The armed force went and came back that day without any need for
actually using their arms. Insurgent attacks on the convoys are a
marked feature of the present war; but our travellers had not the
opportunity of seeing such a skirmish. Still before long they did see
one most speaking sign of war and its horrors. By the banks of the
Trebenitza a burned village first came in sight. The sight gives a kind
of turn to the whole man; still a burned village is not quite so ugly in
reality as it sounds in name. The stone walls of the houses are
31. standing; it is only the roofs that are burned off. But who burned the
village, and why? He would be a very rash man who should venture
to say, without the personal witness of those who burned it, or saw
it burned. Was it a Christian village burned by Turks? Was it a
Turkish village burned by Christians? Was it a Christian village
burned by the insurgents because its inhabitants refused to join in
the insurrection? Was it a Christian village burned by its own
inhabitants rather than leave anything to fall into the hands of the
Turks? If rumour is to be trusted, cases of all these four kinds have
happened in the course of the war. All that can be said is that the
village has a church and shows no signs of a mosque, and that,
while the houses were burned, the church was not. The burned
village lay near a point of the river which it is usually possible to ford
in a carriage. This time however, the Trebenitza—a river which, like
so many Greek rivers, loses itself in a katabothra—was far too full to
be crossed in this way, and our travellers had to leave their carriage
and horses and get to Trebinje as they could. After some scrambling
over stones, a boat was found, which strongly suggested those
legends of Charon which are far from having died out of the memory
of the Christians of the East. A primitive punt it was, with much
water in it, which Charon slowly ladled out with a weapon which
suggested the notion of a gigantic spoon. Charon himself was a
ragged object enough, but, as became his craft, he seemed master
of many tongues. We may guess that his native speech would be
Slave, but one of the company recognized some of his talk for
Turkish, and the demand for the two oboli of old was translated into
the strange phrase of "dieci groschen." To our travellers the words
suggested was the expiring coinage of the German Empire; they did
not then take it how widely the groat had spread its name in the
south-eastern lands. At first hearing, the name sounded strange on
the banks of the Trebenitza; but in the absence of literal groats or
groschen, the currency of the Austro-Hungarian monarchy was
found in practice to do just as well. Then our four pilgrims crossed
and crossed again, the second time with much gladness of heart, as
for a while things looked as if no means of getting back again were
forthcoming, and it was not every one of the party that had a heart
32. stout enough even to think of trying to swim or wade. Charon's
second appearance was therefore hailed with special pleasure.
From the crossing-place to Trebinje itself our travellers had to trudge
as they could along a fearfully rough Turkish path—not rougher
though than some Dalmatian and Montenegrin paths—till they
reached the town itself, which this delay gave them but little time to
examine. The suburbs stretched along the hillside; below, the tents
of the Turkish troops were pitched on one side; the Mahometan
burial-ground lay on the other. After so much time and pains had
been spent in getting to Trebinje, a glimpse of Trebinje itself was all
that was to be had. But even a glimpse of Eastern life was
something, particularly a glimpse of Eastern life where Eastern life
should not be, in a land which once was European. It is the rule of
the Turk, it is the effect of his four hundred years of oppression,
which makes Trebinje to differ alike from Tzetinje and from Cattaro.
The dark, dingy, narrow, streets, the dim arches and vaults, the
bazaar, with the Turk—more truly the renegade Slave—squatting in
his shop, the gate with its Arabic inscription, the mosques with their
minarets contrasting with the church with its disused campanile, all
come home to us with a feeling not only of mere strangeness, but of
something which is where it ought not to be. It is with a feeling of
relief that, after our second trudge, our second voyage, our second
meeting with the convoy, we reach the heights, we pass the guard-
houses, and find ourselves again in Christendom. Presently Ragusa
comes within sight; we are in no mood to discuss the respective
merits of the fallen aristocratic commonwealths and of the rule of
the Apostolic King. King or Doge or Rector, we may be thankful for
the rule of any of them, so as it be not the rule of the Sultan. The
difference between four hundred years of civilized government and
four hundred years of barbarian tyranny has made the difference
between Ragusa and Trebinje.
33. CATTARO.
1875.
[I have left this paper, with a few needful corrections, as it was
published in March 1876. Since then, it must be remembered, much
has changed, especially in the way of boundaries—to say nothing of a
carriage-way to Tzetinje. Neither Cattaro nor Budua is any longer
either the end of Christendom or the end of the Dalmatian kingdom of
the Austrian. That kingdom has been enlarged by the harbour of
Spizza, won from the Turk by Montenegrin valour and won from the
Montenegrin by Austrian diplomacy. But Christendom must now be
looked on as enlarged by the whole Montenegrin sea-coast, a form of
words which I could not have used either in 1875 or in 1877. Of this
sea-coast I shall have something to say in another paper.]
The end of a purely Dalmatian pilgrimage will be Cattaro. He who
goes further along the coast will pass into lands that have a history,
past and present, which is wholly distinct from that of the coast
which he has hitherto traced from Zara—we might say from Capo
d'Istria—onwards. We have not reached the end of the old Venetian
dominion—for that we must carry on our voyage to Crete and
Cyprus. But we have reached the end of the nearly continuous
Venetian dominion—the end of the coast which, save at two small
points, was either Venetian or Ragusan—the end of that territory of
the two maritime commonwealths which they kept down to their fall
in modern times, and in which they have been succeeded by the
modern Dalmatian kingdom. After Cattaro and the small district of
Budua beyond it, the Venetian territory did indeed once go on
continuously as far as Epidamnos, Dyrrhachion, or Durazzo, while,
down to the fall of the Republic, it went on, in the form of scattered
outposts, much farther. But, for a long time past, Venice had held
beyond Budua only islands and outlying points; and most of these,
except the seven so-called Ionian Islands and a few memorable
points on the neighbouring mainland, had passed away from her
34. before her fall. Cattaro is the last city of the present Austrian
dominion; it is, till we reach the frontier of the modern Greek
kingdom, the last city of Christendom. The next point at which the
steamer stops will land the traveller on what is now Turkish ground.
But the distinction is older than that; he will now change from a
Slavonic mainland with a half-Italian fringe on its coast to an
Albanian, that is an Old-Illyrian, land, with a few points here and
there which once came under Italian influences. It is not at an
arbitrary point that the dominion in which the Apostolic King has
succeeded the Serene Republic comes to an end. With Cattaro then
the Dalmatian journey and the series of Dalmatian cities will
naturally end.
Cattaro is commonly said to have been the Ascrivium or Askrourion
of Pliny and Ptolemy, one of the Roman towns which Pliny places
after Epidauros—that Epidauros which was the parent of Ragusa—
towards the south-east. And, as it is placed between Rhizinion and
Butua, which must be Risano and Budua, one can hardly doubt that
the identification is right. But though Ascrivium is described as a
town of Roman citizens, it has not, like some of its neighbours, any
history in purely Roman times. It first comes into notice in the pages
of Constantine Porphyrogenitus, and it will therefore give us for the
last time the privilege of studying topography in company with an
Emperor. In his pages the city bears a name which is evidently the
same as the name which it bears still, but which the august
geographer seizes on as the subject of one of his wonderful bits of
etymology. Cattaro with him is Dekatera, and we read:
ὅτι τὸ κάστρον τῶν Δεκατέρων ἑρμηνεύεται τῇ Ῥωμαίων διαλέκτῳ
ἐστενωμένον καὶ πεπληγμένον.
We are again driven to ask, Which is the dialect of the Romans?
What word either of Greek or of Latin can the Emperor have got
hold of? At the same time he had got a fair notion of the general
position of Cattaro, though he runs off into bits of exaggeration
which remind us of Giraldus' description of Llanthony. The city
stands at the end of an inlet of the sea fifteen or twenty miles long,
35. and it has mountains around it so high that it is only in fair summer
weather that the sun can be seen; in winter Dekatera never enjoys
his presence. There certainly is no place where it is harder to believe
that the smooth waters of the narrow, lake-like inlet, with mountains
on each side which it seems as if one could put out one's hand and
touch, are really part of the same sea which dashes against the
rocks of Ragusa. They end in a meadow-like coast which makes one
think of Bourget or Trasimenus rather than of Hadria. The Dalmatian
voyage is well ended by the sail along the Bocche, the loveliest piece
of inland sea which can be conceived, and whose shores are as rich
in curious bits of political history as they are in scenes of surpassing
natural beauty. The general history of the district consists in the
usual tossing to and fro between the various powers which have at
different times been strong in the neighbourhood. Cattaro—τὰ κάτω
Δεκάτερα—was in the reign of Basil the Macedonian besieged and
taken by Saracens, who presently went on unsuccessfully to besiege
Ragusa. And, as under Byzantine rule it was taken by Saracens, so
under Venetian rule it was more than once besieged by Turks. In the
intermediate stages we get the usual alternations of independence
and of subjection to all the neighbouring powers in turn, till in 1419
Cattaro finally became Venetian. At the fall of the Republic it became
part of the Austrian share of the spoil. When the spoilers quarrelled,
it fell to France. When England, Russia, and Montenegro were allies,
the city joined the land of which it naturally forms the head, and
Cattaro became the Montenegrin haven and capital. When France
was no longer dangerous, and the powers of Europe came together
to part out other men's goods, Austria calmly asked for Cattaro back
again, and easily got it. To this day the land keeps many signs of the
endless changes which it has undergone. We enter the mouth of the
gulf, where, eighty years ago, the land was Ragusan on the left hand
and Venetian on the right. But Ragusa and Venice between them did
not occupy the whole shore of the Bocche; neither at this day does
the whole of it belong to that Dalmatian kingdom which has taken
the place of both the old republics. We soon reach the further of the
two points where Ragusan jealousy preferred an infidel to a Christian
neighbour. At Sutorina the Turkish territory nominally comes down to
36. the sea; nominally we say, for if the soil belongs to the Sultan, the
road, the most important thing upon it, belongs to the Dalmatian
King. And if the Turk comes down to the Bocche at this end, at the
other end the Montenegrin, if he does not come down to the water,
at least looks down upon it. In this furthest corner of Dalmatia
political elements, old and new, come in which do not show
themselves at Zara and Spalato. In short, on the Bocche we have
really got into another region, national and religious, from the nearer
parts of the country. We have hitherto spoken of an Italian fringe on
a Slavonic mainland; we might be tempted to speak of Italian cities
with a surrounding Slavonic country. On the shores of the Bocche we
may drop those forms of speech. We can hardly say that here there
is so much as an Italian fringe. We feel at last we have reached the
land which is thoroughly Slavonic. The Bocchesi at once proclaim
themselves as the near kinsmen of the unconquered race above
them, from whom indeed they differ only in the accidents of their
political history. For all purposes but those of war and government,
Cattaro is more truly the capital of Montenegro than Tzetinje. In one
sense indeed Cattaro is more Italian than Ragusa. All Ragusa,
though it has an Italian varnish, is Slavonic at heart. At Cattaro it
would be truer to speak of a Slavonic majority and an Italian
minority. And along these coasts, together with this distinct
predominance of the Slavonic nationality, we come also, if not to the
predominance, at all events to the greatly increased prominence, of
that form of Christianity to which the Eastern Slave naturally tends.
Elsewhere in Dalmatia, as we have on the Slavonic body a narrow
fringe of Italian speech, art, and manners, so we have a narrow
fringe of the religion of the Old Rome skirting a body belonging to
the New. Here, along with the Slavonic nationality, the religion of
Eastern Christendom makes itself distinctly seen. In the city of
Cattaro the Orthodox Church is still in a minority, but it is a minority
not far short of a majority. Outside its walls, the Orthodox
outnumber the Catholics. In short, when we reach Cattaro, we have
very little temptation to fancy ourselves in Italy or in any part of
Western Christendom. We not only know, but feel, that we are on
37. the Byzantine side of the Hadriatic; that we have, in fact, made our
way into Eastern Europe.
And East and West, Slave and Italian, New Rome and Old, might
well struggle for the possession of the land and of the water through
which we pass from Ragusa to our final goal at Cattaro. The strait
leads us into a gulf; another narrow strait leads us into an inner gulf;
and on an inlet again branching out of that inner gulf lies the
furthest of Dalmatian cities. The lower city, Cattaro itself, τὰ κάτω
Δεκάτερα, seems to lie so quietly, so peacefully, as if in a world of its
own from which nothing beyond the shores of its own Bocche could
enter, that we are tempted to forget, not only that the spot has been
the scene of so many revolutions through so many ages, but that it
is even now a border city, a city on the marchland of contending
powers, creeds, and races. But, if we once look up to the mountains,
we see signs both of the past and of the present, which may remind
us of the true nature and history of the land in which we are. In
some of the other smaller Dalmatian towns, and at other points
along the coast, we see castles perched on mountain peaks or
ledges at a height which seems almost frightful; but the castle of
Cattaro and the walls leading up to it, walls which seem to leap from
point to point of the almost perpendicular hill, form surely the most
striking of all the mountain fortresses of the land. The castle is
perhaps all the more striking, nestling as it does among the rocks,
than if it actually stood, like some others, on a peak or crest of the
mountain. One thinks of Alexander's Aornos, and indeed the name
of Aornos might be given to any of these Dalmatian heights. The
lack of birds, great and small, especially the lack of the eagles and
vultures that one sees in other mountain lands, is a distinct feature
in the aspect of the Dalmatian hills and of their immediate borders,
Montenegrin and Turkish. But, while the castle stands as if no
human power could reach it, much less fight against it, there are
other signs of more modern date which remind us that there are
points higher still where no one can complain that the art of fighting
has been unknown in any age. Up the mountain, during part of its
course skirting the castle walls, climbs the winding road—the
38. staircase rather—which leads from Cattaro to Tzetinje. On it climbs,
up and up, till it is lost in the higher peaks; long before the traveller
reaches the frontier line which divides Dalmatia and Montenegro,
long before he reaches the ridge to which he looks up from Cattaro
and its gulf, he has begun to look down, not only on the gulf and the
city, but on the mountain castle itself, as something lying far below
his feet. From below, Cattaro seems like the end of the world. As we
climb the mountain paths, we soon find that it is but a border post
on the frontier of a vast world beyond it, a world in whose past
history Cattaro has had some share, a world whose history is not yet
over.
The city of Cattaro itself is small, standing on a narrow ledge
between the gulf and the base of the mountain. It carries the
features of the Dalmatian cities to what any one who has not seen
Traü will call their extreme point. But, though the streets of Cattaro
are narrow, yet they are civilized and airy-looking compared with
those of Traü, and the little paved squares, as so often along this
coast, suggest the memory of the ruling city. The memory of Venice
is again called up by the graceful little scraps of its characteristic
architecture which catch the eye ever and anon among the houses
of Cattaro. The landing-place, the marina, the space between the
coast and the Venetian wall, where we pass for the last time under
the winged lion over the gate, has put on the air of a boulevard. But
the forms and costume of Bocchesi and Montenegrins, the men of
the gulf, with their arms in their girdles, no less than the men of the
Black Mountain, banish all thought that we are anywhere but where
we really are, at one of the border points of Christian and civilized
Europe. If in the sons of the mountains we see the men who have in
all ages held out against the invading Turk, we see in their brethren
of the coast the men who, but a few years back, brought Imperial,
Royal, and Apostolic Majesty to its knees. The same thought is
brought home to us in another form. The antiquities of Cattaro are
mainly ecclesiastical, and among them the Orthodox church,
standing well in one of the open places, claims a rank second only to
39. the duomo. Here some may see for the first time the ecclesiastical
arrangements of Eastern Christendom; and those who do not wish
to see a church thrown wide open from end to end, those who
would cleave alike to the rood-beam of Lübeck, the jubé of Albi, and
the cancelli of Saint Clement, to the old screen which once was at
Wimborne and to the new screen which now is at Lichfield, may be
startled at the first sight of the Eastern eikonostasis blocking off
apse and altar utterly from sight. The arrangements of the Eastern
Church may indeed be seen in places much nearer than Cattaro, at
Trieste, at Wiesbaden, in London itself; but in all these places the
Eastern Church is an exotic, standing as a stranger on Western
ground. At Cattaro the Orthodox Church is on its own ground,
standing side by side on equal terms with its Latin rival, pointing to
lands where the Filioque is unknown and where the Bishop of the
Old Rome has ever been deemed an intruder. The building itself is a
small Byzantine church, less Byzantine in fact in its outline than the
small churches of the Byzantine type at Zara, Spalato, and Traü. The
single dome rises, not from the intersection of a Greek cross, but
from the middle of a single body, and, resting as it does on pointed
arches, it suggests the thought of Périgueux and Angoulême. But
this arrangement, which is shared by a neighbouring Latin church, is
well known throughout the East. The Latin duomo, which has been
minutely described by Mr. Neale, is of quite another type, and is by
no means Dalmatian in its general look. A modern west front with
two western towers does not go for much; but it reminds us that a
design of the same kind was begun at Traü in better times. The
inside is quite unlike anything of later Italian work. It seems like a
cross between a basilica and an Aquitanian church. It is small, but
the inside is lofty and solemn. The body of the church, not counting
the apses and the western portico, has seven narrow arches, the six
eastern ones grouped in pairs forming, as in so many German
examples, three bays only in the vaulting. The principal pillars are
rectangular with flat pilasters; the intermediate piers are Corinthian
columns with a heavy Lucchese abacus, enriched with more
mouldings than is usual at Lucca. As there is no triforium, and only a
blank clerestory, the whole effect comes from the tall columns and
40. their narrow arches, the last offshoots of Spalato that we have to
record. For the ecclesiologist proper there is a prodigious
baldacchino, and a grand display of metal-work behind the high
altar. A good deal too, as Mr. Neale has shown, may be gleaned from
the inscriptions and records. The traveller whose objects are of a
more general kind turns away from this border church of
Christendom as the last stage of a pilgrimage unsurpassed either for
natural beauty or for historic interest. And, as he looks up at the
mountain which rises almost close above the east end of the duomo
of Cattaro, and thinks of the land and the men to which the path
over that mountain leads, he feels that, on this frontier at least, the
spirit still lives which led English warriors to the side of Manuel
Komnênos, and which steeled the heart of the last Constantine to
die in the breach for the Roman name and the faith of Christendom.
41. VENICE IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF THE
NORMANS.
TRANI.
1881.
The solemn yearly marriage between the Venetian commonwealth
and the Hadriatic sea had much more effect on the eastern shore of
that sea than on the western. On the eastern side of the long gulf
there are few points which have not at some time or other "looked
to the winged lion's marble piles," and for many ages a long and
nearly continuous dominion looked steadily to that quarter. On the
western shore Venice never established any lasting dominion very far
from her own lagoons. Ravenna was the furthest point on that side
which she held for any considerable time, and at Ravenna we are
42. hardly clear of the delta of the Po. In the northern region of Italy her
power struck inland, till at last, defying the precepts of the wise
Doge who could not keep even Treviso, she held an unbroken
dominion from Bergamo to Cividale. That she kept that dominion
down to her fall, that that dominion could live through the fearful
trial of the League of Cambray, may perhaps show that Venice, after
all, was not so unfitted to become a land-power as she seems at first
sight, and as Andrew Contarini deemed her in the fourteenth
century. Yet one might have thought that the occupation of this or
that point along the long coast from Ravenna to the heel of the boot
would have better suited her policy than the lordship over Bergamo
and Brescia. And one might have thought too that, amid the endless
changes that went on among the small commonwealths and
tyrannies of that region, it would have been easier for the Republic
to establish its dominion there than to establish it over great cities
like Padua and Verona. Yet Venice did not establish even a
temporary dominion along these coasts till she was already a great
land power in Lombardy and Venetia. And then the few outlying
points which she held for a while lay, not among the small towns of
the marches, but within the solid kingdom which the Norman had
made, and which had passed from him to kings from Swabia, from
Anjou, and from Aragon. It is this last thought which gives the short
Venetian occupation of certain cities within what the Italians called
the Kingdom a higher interest in itself, and withal a certain
connexion in idea with more lasting possessions of the
commonwealth elsewhere. At Trani and at Otranto, no less than in
Corfu and at Durazzo, the Venetian was treading in the footsteps of
the Norman. Only, on the eastern side of Hadria the Republic won
firm and long possession of places where the Norman had been seen
only for a moment; on the western side, the Republic held only for a
moment places which the Norman had firmly grasped, and which he
handed on to his successors of other races. And, if we pass on from
the Norman himself to those successors, we shall find the connexion
between the Venetian dominion on the eastern and the western side
of the gulf become yet stronger. The Venetian occupation of
Neapolitan towns within the actual Neapolitan kingdom seems less
43. strange, if we look on it as a continuation of the process by which
many points on the eastern coast had passed to and fro between the
Republic and the Kings of Sicily and afterwards of Naples. The
connexion between Sicily and southern Italy on the one hand and
the coasts and islands of western Greece on the other, is as old as
the days of the Greek colonies, perhaps as old as the days of Homer.
The singer of the Odyssey seems to know of Sikels in Epeiros; but, if
his Sikels were in Italy, we only get the same connexion in another
shape. A crowd of rulers from one side and from the other have
ruled on both sides of the lower waters of Hadria. Agathoklês,
Pyrrhos, Robert Wiscard, King Roger, William the Good, strove alike
either to add Epeiros and Korkyra to a Sicilian dominion or to add
Sicily to a dominion which already took in Epeiros and Korkyra. So
did Manfred; so did Charles of Anjou. And after the division of the
Sicilian kingdom, the kings of the continental realm held a
considerable dominion on the Greek side of the sea. And that
dominion largely consisted of places which had been Venetian and
which were to become Venetian again. To go no further into detail, if
we remember that Corfu and Durazzo were held by Norman Dukes
and Kings of Apulia and Sicily—that they were afterwards
possessions of Venice—that they were possessions of the Angevin
kings at Naples, and then possessions of Venice again—it may
perhaps seem less wonderful to find the Republic at a later time
occupying outposts on the coasts of the Neapolitan kingdom itself.
It was not till the last years of the fifteenth century, when so many
of her Greek and Albanian possessions had passed away, that the
Republic appeared as a ruler on the coasts of Apulia and of that land
of Otranto, the heel of the boot, from which the name of Calabria
had long before wandered to the toe. It was in 1495, when Charles
of France went into southern Italy to receive for himself a kingdom
and to return,—only to return without the kingdom,—that the
Venetians, as allies of his rival Ferdinand, took the town of Monopoli
by storm, and one or two smaller places by capitulation. What they
took they kept, and in the next year their ally pledged to them other
cities, among them Trani, Brindisi, Otranto, and Taranto, in return for
44. help in men and money. These cities were thus won by Venice as the
ally of the Aragonese King against the French. But at a later time,
when France and Aragon were allied against Venice, the Aragonese
King of the Sicilies, a more famous Ferdinand than the first, took
them as his share in 1509. We cannot wonder at this; no king, or
commonwealth either, can be pleased to see a string of precious
coast towns in the hands of a foreign power. Again in 1528 Venice is
allied with France against Aragon and Naples, and Aragon and
Naples are now only two of the endless kingdoms of Charles of
Austria. For a moment the lost cities are again Venetian. Two years
later, as part of the great pageant of Bologna, they passed back
from the rule of Saint Mark to the last prince who ever wore the
crown of Rome.
So short an occupation cannot be expected to have left any marked
impress on the cities which Venice thus held for a few years at a late
time as isolated outposts. These Apulian towns are not Venetian in
the same sense in which the Istrian and Dalmatian towns are. In
those regions, even the cities which were merely neighbours and not
subjects of Venice may be called Venetian in an artistic sense; they
were in some sort members of a body of which Venice was the chief.
Here we see next to nothing which recalls Venice in any way. The
difference is most likely owing, not so much in the late date at which
these towns became Venetian possessions, as to the shortness of
time by which they were held, and to the precarious tenure by which
the Republic held them. As far as mere dates go, Cattaro and Trani
were won by Venice within the same century. But, as we have seen,
the architectural features which give the Dalmatian towns their
Venetian character belong to the most part to times even later than
the occupation of Trani. Men must have gone on building at Cattaro
in the Venetian fashion for fully a century and a half after Trani was
again lost by Venice. There are few Venetian memorials to be seen
in these towns; and if the winged lion ever appeared over their
gates, he has been carefully thrust aside by kings and emperors.
More truly perhaps, kings and emperors rebuilt the walls of these
towns after the Venetian power had passed away. Still the
45. occupation of these towns forms part of Venetian history, and they
may be visited so as to bring them within the range of Venetian
geography. Brindisi is the natural starting point for Corfu and the
Albanian coast, and Brindisi is one of the towns which Venice thus
held for a season. The two opposite coasts are thus brought into
direct connexion. The lands which owned, first the Norman and the
Angevin, and then the Venetian, as their masters, may thus naturally
become part of a single journey. We may have passed through the
hilly lands, we may have seen the hill-cities, of central Italy; we may
have gone through lands too far from the sea to suggest any
memories of Venice, but which are full of the memories of the
Norman and the Swabian. We find ourselves in the great Apulian
plain, the great sheep-feeding plain so memorable in the wars of
Anjou and Aragon, and we tarry to visit some of the cities of the
Apulian coast. The contrast indeed is great between the land in
which we are and either the land from which we have come, or the
land whither we are going. Bari, Trani, and their fellows, planted on
the low coast where the great plain joins the sea, are indeed unlike,
either the Latin and Volscian towns on their hill-tops, or the
Dalmatian towns nestling between the sea and the mountains. The
greatest of these towns, the greatest at least in its present state,
never came under Venetian rule. Bari, the city which it needed the
strength of both Empires to win from the Saracen, is said to have
been defended by a Venetian fleet early in the eleventh century,
when Venetian fleets still sailed at the bidding of the Eastern
Emperor. Further than this, we can find few or no points of
connexion between Venice and these cities, till their first occupation
at the end of the fifteenth century. But that short occupation brings
them within our range. We are passing, it may be, from Benevento
to fishy Bari, as two stages of the "iter ad Brundisium." Thence we
may go on, in the wake of so many travellers and conquerors, to
those lands beyond the sea where the Lords of one-fourth and one-
eighth of the Empire of Romania, and the Norman lords of Apulia
and Sicily, the conquerors of Corfu and Albania, were alike at home.
Between Benevento and Bari the eye is caught by the great tower of
Trani. Such a city cannot be passed by; or, if we are driven to pass it
46. by, we must go back to get something more than a glimpse of it.
And Trani is one of the towns pledged to Venice by Ferdinand of
Naples. In the midst of cities whose chief memories later than old
Imperial times carry us back to the Norman and Swabian days of the
eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries, we find ourselves
suddenly plunged into the Venetian history of the end of the
fifteenth.
Trani then will be our introduction to the group of towns with which
we are at present concerned. At the present moment, it is
undoubtedly the foremost among them; but it is hard to call up any
distinct memory of its history till we reach the times which made it
for a moment a Venetian possession. Trani, like other places,
doubtless has its history known to local inquirers; but the more
general inquirer will very seldom light upon its name. It is hard to
find any sure sign of its being in Roman times, but it must be the
"Tirhennium quæ et Trana" of the geographer Guido. Let us take
such a common-place test as looking through the indices to several
volumes of Muratori and Pertz till the task becomes wearisome. Such
a task will show us the name of Trani here and there, but only here
and there. We do by searching find it mentioned in the days of King
Roger and in the days of the Emperor Lothar, but it is only by
searching that we find it. The name of Trani does not stand out
without searching, like so many of the cities even of southern Italy.
Yet Trani is no inconsiderable place; it is an archæpiscopal see with a
noble metropolitan church; and in our own day, though much
smaller than its neighbour Bari, it seems to share in the present
prosperity of which the signs at Bari are unmistakeable. The visitor
to Trani will find much to see there, but he will not find the stamp of
Venice on the city. Trani, like its fellows, had received its distinctive
character long before it had to do with Venice, and that character
was not one that was at all marked by Venetian influences. The city
is not without Venetian monuments; the memory of its Venetian
days is not forgotten even in its modern street nomenclature. There
is a Piazza Gradenigo, and an inscription near one of the later
47. churches records the name of Giuliano Gradenigo as the Venetian
governor of Trani in 1503, and as having had a hand in its building.
The castle might be suspected of containing work of the days of the
Republic; but a threatening man of the sword forbids any study of its
walls even with a distant spy-glass; not however till the chief
inscription has been read, and has been found to belong to days
later than those of Venetian rule. There is no knowing what may not
happen to places when they have once fallen into the hands of
soldiers; to the civilian mind it might seem that, when a king writes
up an inscription to record his buildings, he wishes that inscription to
be read of all men for all time. It is hard too to see how an
antiquary's spy-glass can do anything to help prisoners confined
within massive walls to break forth, as Italian—at least Sicilian—
prisoners sometimes know how to break forth. The metropolitan
church of Trani is happily not in military hands; neither are the
streets and lanes of the city, the houses, the smaller churches, the
arcades by the haven, the buildings of the town in general. All these
may therefore be studied without let or hindrance; civil officials,
even cloistered nuns, see no danger to Church or State if the
stranger draws the outside of a window or copies an inscription on
an outer wall. But though we may find at Trani bits of work which
might have stood in Venice, it is only as they might have stood in
any other city of Italy. There is nothing in Trani, besides the
memorial of Gradenigo, which brings the Serene Republic specially
before the mind. The great church, the glory of Trani, bears the
impress of that mixed style of art which is characteristic of Norman
rule in Apulia, but which is quite different from anything to be found
in Norman Sicily. It has some points in common with its neighbours
at Bitonto and Bari, and some points very distinctive of itself. It is
undoubtedly one of the noblest churches of its own class. If we were
to call it one of the noblest churches of Christendom, the phrase
would be misleading, because, to an English ear at least, it would
suggest the thought of something on a much greater scale,
something more nearly approaching the boundless length of an
English minster or the boundless height of a French one. In southern
Italy bishops and archbishops were so thick upon the ground that
48. even a metropolitan church was not likely to reach, in point of mere
size, to the measure of a second-class cathedral or conventual
church in England or even in Normandy. But mere size is not
everything, and, as an example of a particular form of Romanesque,
as an example of difficulties ably grappled with and thoroughly
overcome, the church of Trani might almost claim to rank beside the
church of Pisa and the church of Durham. And higher praise than
that no building can have.
CATHEDRAL, TRANI.
Fully to take in the effect of this grand church, it will be well not to
hurry towards it on reaching the city. Go straight from the railway-
station towards another bell-tower, not to that of the duomo. That
course will lead to the so-called villa or public garden. The
49. suppressed Dominican convent close by its gate has no attractive
feature except its tower, one of the usual Italian type, only with
pointed arches. But the grounds of the villa, raised on the ancient
walls of the monastic precinct, look down at once on the waves of
Hadria. In the northern view we look out on lands and hills beyond
the water; but no man must dream that the eastern peninsula of
Europe is to be seen from Trani. We look out only over the gulf of
Manfredonia—the name of the Hohenstaufen king is as it were
stamped upon the waters—to the Italian peninsula of Mount
Garganus. Hence, on our way to the metropolitan church, we pass
by the basin which forms the haven of Trani, a basin which reminds
us of the cala which is all that is left of the many waters of Palermo.
The distant view clearly brings out its main outline; above all, it
brings out those arrangements of the eastern end which form the
most characteristic feature. We see the tall tower at the south-west
corner; we see the line of the clerestory with its small round-headed
windows; above all, we see—so unlike anything in Northern
architecture—the tall transept seeming to soar far above the rest of
the church, with the three apses, strangely narrow and lofty, treated
simply, as it would seem, as appendages to the transept itself. Those
who have not seen Bitonto and Bari will not guess how great a
danger these soaring apses have escaped. The Norman of Apulia did
not, like the native Italian, deal in detached bell-towers; he clave to
the use of his native land which made the tower or towers an
integral part of the church. But he seems to have specially chosen a
place for them which is German rather than Norman, and then to
have treated them in a way which is neither German, Norman, nor
Italian. At Bitonto and in the two great churches of Bari, a pair of
towers flanks the east end. In Italy it might be safer to say the apse
end; but we think that in all these cases the apse end is the east
end or nearly so. Such pairs of eastern towers are common in
Germany; but there the great apse projects between them. At Bari
and Bitonto the whole apsidal arrangement is masked by a flat wall.
The towers rise above the side apses; the great central apse is
hidden by the wall carried in front of it. We thus get at the east end
a flat front, like a west front; we lose the curves of the apses, and
50. with them the arcades and grouped windows which form so marked
a feature in the ordinary Romanesque of Germany and Italy. A single
window, of larger size than Romanesque taste commonly allows,
marks the place of the high altar. And this window is adorned with
shafts and mouldings of special richness, and with animal figures
above and below the shafts. Now here at Trani, though all the apses
stand out, yet a like arrangement is followed. The central apse has
only a single window of the same enriched type; the side apses have
also only a single window each, but of a much plainer kind. Thus
much, without taking in every detail, we can mark in our distant
view; we can mark too somewhat of the unusually rich and heavy
cornice of the transept, and the upper part of the transept front, the
wheel window and the two rich coupled windows beneath it. We can
mark too the arrangements of the great square tower, crowned with
its small octagonal finish; and even here we can see that, with all its
majesty of outline, it is far from ranking in the first class of Italian
bell-towers. Its composition lacks boldness and simplicity, while it
has nothing remarkable in the way of ornament. Saint Zeno among
the simpler towers, Spalato among the more elaborate, stand indeed
unrivalled. But the cathedral tower of Trani, when closely examined,
is less satisfactory than its own majestic neighbour at Bari. It is not
merely that the pointed arch, always out of place in an Italian bell-
tower, is used in the upper stages. The pointed arch is used with
better effect, both far away in the noble tower of Velletri, and close
by at Trani itself, in the far humbler tower of the Dominican church.
The fault lies in this, that the windows, instead of being spread over
the whole face of each stage, are gathered together in the centre of
each, while two of them have rather awkward pointed canopies over
the groups of windows. Still, seen from far or near, it is a grand and
majestic tower, though its faults, which catch the eye at a distance,
become more distinct as we draw nearer.
The road by which we approach the duomo will give us no view of it
from the west, and, till we come quite near to the church, we shall
hardly see how closely it overhangs the sea. We take our course by
the harbour, for part of the way is under heavy and dark arcades
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