Through the Land of the SerbDurham, M. E. (Mary Edith)
History
Through the Land of the Serb
Durham, M. E. (Mary Edith)
Montenegro -- Description and travel; Serbia -- Description and travel
The cathedral of the Roman Catholics is a large brick building, some
fifty years old, with a tall campanile, standing in grounds which are
surrounded by a high wall. Its great blank interior, owing to lack of
funds, has not suffered much from "decoration." At the gateway the women
loosen their veils and go into God's house with uncovered
faces--beautiful faces, with clean-cut, slightly aquiline noses, clear
ivory skins, red lips, and dark eyes with long lashes. There are benches
in the nave, but a large proportion of the congregation, especially the
country-folk who crowd in on feast days, prefer to sit on the floor;
they spread a little rug or handkerchief, kick off their shoes and squat
cross-legged on it as in a mosque; women with their breasts covered with
coins that glitter as they sway to and fro in prayer; mountain-men with
their cartridge belts upon them ready for use against a brother
Albanian. A fine barbaric blaze of colour, scarlet and scarlet and
scarlet again. The service begins; harshly dissonant voices, loud and
piercing, chant the responses; and the deep sonorous voice of the young
Italian at the altar rings out like the voice of civilisation over the
barbaric yowling of the congregation. As he mounts the scarlet and gold
pulpit there is a hush of expectation. The sermon, in Albanian, is a
long one, and the crowd hangs breathless on his words. His delivery and
his action are simple and dignified, and I watch him sway his
congregation with deep interest, though I can understand no word. He is
working up to a climax, and he reaches it suddenly in a sentence that
ends in the only non-Albanian word in the sermon, "Inferno." The word
thunders down the church on a long-rolled "rrrr," and he stands quite
silent, grasping the edge of the pulpit and staring over the heads of
the people. There is a painful hush, that seems like minutes. Then he
suddenly throws himself on his knees in the pulpit and prays. Violently
moved, his flock prostrate themselves in a passion of entreaty, and
those who sit on the ground bend double and touch the floor with their
foreheads.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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