The Flaming Sword in Serbia and ElsewhereStobart, M. A. (Mabel Annie)
History
The Flaming Sword in Serbia and Elsewhere
Stobart, M. A. (Mabel Annie)
World War, 1914-1918 -- Hospitals; World War, 1914-1918 -- Personal narratives
The Serbian people whom I had met during the first six months had
appealed strongly to me. Lovers of poetry and of peaceful arts;
intelligent and imaginative; impressionable to new ideas; warm-hearted,
gay, with a keen sense of humour; brave as soldiers, courageous as
citizens; responsive to the best within reach, whilst aiming at ideals
possibly beyond reach: how could they fail to awaken a sympathetic
response? Is there any other of the Balkan nations which could more
safely be entrusted with responsibility for the evolution of culture
in the Near East, than our youngest ally? I had felt this strongly
during their time of triumph, but I felt it more strongly in their
time of trouble. Adversity, like X-rays, reveals the bones, and the
marrow, too, within the bones; and if adversity reveals no weakness,
the constitution may be reckoned sound.
My old friend, Captain Doctor Yovan Yovannovitch, from whom I had
received many kindnesses, was present at the dinner, and he told
me that His Royal Highness the Crown Prince, had, in the morning,
expressed a wish to see me. Accordingly, after dinner, I went, with
the Captain, to the house in which the Prince was staying, and the
Captain sent a messenger to ask if H.R.H. would like to see me now?
Some important general was, at the moment, having audience, but the
general was dismissed, and I was graciously asked to come in and have
a talk. The Prince was in his study, sitting at his writing table, and
we talked, in French, about Serbia, not as though she were dead, but
as though she were a bride preparing in an ante-room of the world's
cathedral, for union with the great ideal. Serbia is fortunate in
possessing as heir-apparent, this intelligent, brave, and modest prince.
On Thursday, December 23rd, we must, without fail, start for Medua,
or we might miss the last steamer, and we should then have to walk to
Durazzo, over tracks, which, from all accounts, were, if possible, more
difficult than those we had already met. Most of our ponies were now
unfit for work till they had had rest and food, and we gave them to
Headquarters, and kept six.
But the road to Medua was said to be possible for ox-carts; we,
therefore, ordered four, with Albanian drivers, to be at the Consul's
house at 7.30 a.m. to carry our food and bedding. The girls would not
ride, and I thought they might accept a lift on the carts when tired.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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