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03-064 Front 4/24/03 10:38 AM Page i

EUROPEAN HISTORICAL DICTIONARIES

Edited by: Jon Woronoff

1. Portugal, by Douglas L. Wheeler. 1993. Out of print. See No. 40

2. Turkey, by Metin Heper. 1994. Out of print. See No. 38
3. Poland, by George Sanford and Adriana Gozdecka-Sanford. 1994
4. Germany, by Wayne C. Thompson, Susan L. Thompson, and
Juliet S. Thompson. 1994
5. Greece, by Thanos M. Veremis and Mark Dragoumis. 1995
6. Cyprus, by Stavros Panteli. 1995
7. Sweden, by Irene Scobbie. 1995
8. Finland, by George Maude. 1995
9. Croatia, by Robert Stallaerts and Jeannine Laurens. 1995. Out of
print. See No. 39.
10. Malta, by Warren G. Berg. 1995
11. Spain, by Angel Smith. 1996
12. Albania, by Raymond Hutchings. 1996
13. Slovenia, by Leopoldina Plut-Pregelj and Carole Rogel. 1996
14. Luxembourg, by Harry C. Barteau. 1996
15. Romania, by Kurt W. Treptow and Marcel Popa. 1996
16. Bulgaria, by Raymond Detrez. 1997
17. United Kingdom: Volume 1, England and the United Kingdom;
Volume 2, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland, by Kenneth J.
Panton and Keith A. Cowlard. 1997; 1998
18. Hungary, by Steven Béla Várdy. 1997
19. Latvia, by Andrejs Plakans. 1997
20. Ireland, by Colin Thomas and Avril Thomas. 1997
21. Lithuania, by Saulius Suziedelis. 1997
22. Macedonia, by Valentina Georgieva and Sasha Konechni. 1998
23. The Czech State, by Jiri Hochman. 1998
24. Iceland, by Gu∂´mundur Hálfdanarson. 1997
25. Bosnia and Herzegovina, by Ante Cuvalo. 1997
26. Russia, by Boris Raymond and Paul Duffy. 1998
27. Gypsies (Romanies), by Donald Kenrick. 1998
28. Belarus, by Jan Zaprudnik. 1998
29. Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, by Zeljan Suster. 1999
30. France, by Gino Raymond. 1998
31. Slovakia, by Stanislav J. Kirschbaum. 1998
03-064 Front 4/24/03 10:38 AM Page ii

32. Netherlands, by Arend H. Huussen Jr. 1998

33. Denmark, by Alastair H. Thomas and Stewart P. Oakley. 1998
34. Modern Italy, by Mark F. Gilbert and K. Robert Nilsson. 1998
35. Belgium, by Robert Stallaerts. 1999
36. Austria, by Paula Sutter Fichtner. 1999
37. Republic of Moldova, by Andrei Brezianu. 2000
38. Turkey, 2nd edition, by Metin Heper. 2002
39. Republic of Croatia, 2nd edition, by Robert Stallaerts. 2003.
40. Portugal, by Douglas L. Wheeler. 2002.
03-064 Front 4/24/03 10:38 AM Page iii

Historical Dictionary
of the
Republic of Croatia

Second Edition

Robert Stallaerts

European Historical Dictionaries, No. 39

The Scarecrow Press, Inc.

Lanham, Maryland, and Oxford
2003
03-064 Front 4/24/03 10:38 AM Page iv

SCARECROW PRESS, INC.

Published in the United States of America
by Scarecrow Press, Inc.
A Member of the Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group
4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200
Lanham, Maryland 20706
www.scarecrowpress.com

PO Box 317
Oxford
OX2 9RU, UK

Copyright © 2003 by Robert Stallaerts

First edition © 1995 by Robert Stallaerts and Jeannine Laurens, European

Historical Dictionaries, No. 9, Scarecrow Press. ISBN 0-8108-2999-1

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored

in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission
of the publisher.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Stallaerts, Robert.
Historical dictionary of the Republic of Croatia / Robert
Stallaerts.—2nd ed.
p. cm.—(European historical dictionaries ; no. 39)
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 0-8108-4583-0 (Hardcover : alk. paper)
1. Croatia—History—Dictionaries. I. Title. II. Series.
DR1507.5 .S74 2003
949.72—dc21
2002154854

∞ ™ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of

American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper
for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.
Manufactured in the United States of America.
03-064 Front 4/24/03 10:38 AM Page v

To my parents
03-064 Front 4/24/03 10:38 AM Page vi
03-064 Front 4/24/03 10:38 AM Page vii

Contents

Maps of Croatia ix
Acknowledgments xv
Editor’s Foreword Jon Woronoff xvii
Reader’s Note xix
Acronyms and Abbreviations xxi
Chronology xxvii
INTRODUCTION xlix
THE DICTIONARY 1
BIBLIOGRAPHY 261
About the Author 343

vii
03-064 Front 4/24/03 10:38 AM Page viii
03-064 Front 4/24/03 10:38 AM Page ix

Borders of Croatia in 1991

03-064 Front 4/24/03 10:38 AM Page x

Croatia in the Eighth to Ninth Centuries

03-064 Front 4/24/03 10:38 AM Page xi

Croatia in the 10th to 11th Centuries

03-064 Front 4/24/03 10:38 AM Page xii

Croatia in the Mid-19th Century

03-064 Front 4/24/03 10:38 AM Page xiii

The Banovina of Croatia

03-064 Front 4/24/03 10:38 AM Page xiv
03-064 Front 4/24/03 10:38 AM Page xv

Acknowledgments

This dictionary claims no originality in research results. It owes a great

deal to most of the publications on the history of Croatia that are listed
in the bibliography. I am especially grateful to the persons and institu-
tions in Croatia with which I corresponded and which supplied me with
ample data and advice. To single out some of them would be unfair to
the rest. Nevertheless, I owe a special word of gratitude to Tomislav
Markus for his constructive criticism on the first edition of this diction-
ary; to Annie Van Wanseele for linguistic advice; and to Leo van Acht,
Jeannine Laurens, and the editor for editorial help. However, the many
remaining shortcomings are totally mine.
I gratefully acknowledge permission to reproduce maps from the fol-
lowing sources: Dušan Bilandžić et al., eds., Croatia between the War
and Independence, 2nd ed. (Zagreb: University of Zagreb and OKC Za-
greb, 1991); Mirjana Gross, Počeci moderne Hrvatske (Zagreb: Globus,
1985); Stanko Guldescu, History of Medieval Croatia (The Hague:
Mouton De Gruyter, 1964).

xv
03-064 Front 4/24/03 10:38 AM Page xvi
03-064 Front 4/24/03 10:38 AM Page xvii

Editor’s Foreword

The Republic of Croatia, to outside observers, is one of those new coun-

tries that resulted from the collapse of the former Yugoslavia. To its own
people, however, it is a very old country that is finally getting another
chance to forge a nation. The Croats trace their roots back many cen-
turies, and the depth of this resurgent nationalism helps explain why Yu-
goslavia split as it did and to some extent where it did. Of course, the
demise was messy and remains so. But Croatia has returned, and its
people are trying to make a success of their new state despite often for-
bidding circumstances. Indeed, there has been noticeable progress as re-
gards increased democratization and a rapprochement with their neigh-
bors and Europe more broadly and even somewhat with the economy.
This Historical Dictionary of the Republic of Croatia is particularly
useful in helping us understand what happened and why, and what pos-
sible directions may be taken in the future, for it briefs us on today’s
Croatia and the various forerunners and even earlier origins. It mentions
not only the former and present rulers and governing parties but also the
opposition then and now. It describes the more stable social, cultural, and
linguistic foundations alongside the unsteady political superstructure. In
addition to the Croats living in the new state, it considers those still out-
side as well as the minorities still inside and their respective problems.
While hundreds of entries provide essential information, the chronology
places events in a clearer framework, and the bibliography directs read-
ers to further sources of information.
Robert Stallaerts, who presents this broad panorama, has studied Yu-
goslavia and its components for nearly three decades, including several
years at the Institute for Economic Studies in Belgrade. He also at-
tended courses in Dubrovnik and Zagreb, in present-day Croatia. More
recently, in 1993, he worked as an interpreter at a humanitarian project
in Savudrija. Stallaerts, who is a researcher at the State University of

xvii
03-064 Front 4/24/03 10:38 AM Page xix

Reader’s Note

The Croatian language uses the Latin alphabet. However, some letters
are marked by diacritical signs and indicate specific sounds. In domes-
tic names and concepts, I have preserved the original spelling. The spe-
cific notations can approximately be summed up as follows:

c = ts pronounced as in “cats”
ć = tj “tulip”
č = ch “child”
d̄ = dj “bridge”
š = sh “shell”
ž = zh “leisure”

In the alphabetical order of the dictionary, I have ignored the influ-

ence of the diacritical signs: for example, c, ć, and č are treated as equal.
The Cyrillic alphabet can easily be transcribed into the Croatian Latin
version. This has been systematically done in the dictionary.
Words in boldface type are cross-references to other entries in the
dictionary.
Birth and death dates (when available) of prominent figures in Croa-
tian history have been added to their entries next to their names.

xix
03-064 Front 4/24/03 10:38 AM Page xviii

xviii • EDITOR’S FOREWORD

Ghent, has written extensively on Yugoslavia and Croatia with special

interest in the interaction between ethics and economics and the eco-
nomics of self-management and participation. Stallaerts was the coau-
thor of the first edition of this historical dictionary, and he has both up-
dated and expanded it for the second edition.

Jon Woronoff
Series Editor
03-064 Front 4/24/03 10:38 AM Page xx
03-064 Front 4/24/03 10:38 AM Page xxi

Acronyms and Abbreviations

ARK Antiratna Kampanja Zagreb—Antiwar Campaign

Committee Zagreb
ARSH Asocijacija Regionalnih Stranaka Hrvatske—Associa-
tion of Croatian Regional Parties
ASH Akcije Socijaldemokrata Hrvatske—Social Democrat
Action of Croatia
AVNOJ Anti-Fašističko Vijeće Narodnog Oslobod¯ enje
Jugoslavije—Antifascist Council of the National Lib-
eration of Yugoslavia
CCI Croatian Cultural Institute—Matica hrvatska (MH)
CHC Croatian Helsinki Committee for Human Rights—
Hrvatski Helsinški Odbor za Ljudska Prava (HHO)
CNB Croatian National Bank
CPY Communist Party of Yugoslavia
CROMA Croatian Managers’ Association
CSCE Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe
DA Dalmatinska Akcija—Dalmatian Action
DC Democratic Center—Demokratski Centar
DDI Dieta Democratica Istriana—Istrian Democratic
Assembly
DEMOS Demokratična Opozicija Slovenije—Democratic-
United Opposition of Slovenia
DHK Društvo Hrvatskih Književnika—Croatian Writers’
Association
DM Deutsche Mark
EC European Community
EMC European Movement Croatia
EU European Union

xxi
03-064 Front 4/24/03 10:38 AM Page xxii

xxii • ACRONYMS AND ABBREVIATIONS

FNRJ Federativna Narodna Republika Jugoslavija—Federative

People’s Republic of Yugoslavia
FTT Free Territory of Trieste
GATT General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade
HAZU Hrvatska Akademija Znanosti I Umjetnosti—Croatian
Academy of Arts and Sciences
HBOR Hrvatska Banka za Obnovu I Razvoj—Croatian Bank
for Reconstruction
HČSP Hrvatska Čista Stranka Prava—Croatian Pure Party of
Rights
HDMS Hrvatska Domovinska Stranka—Croatian Homeland
Party
HDS Hrvatska Demokratska Stranka—Croatian Democratic
Party
HDSP Hrvatska Demokratska Stranka Prava—Croatian Dem-
ocratic Party of Rights
HDZ Hrvatska Demokratska Zajednica—Croatian Demo-
cratic Union
HFP Hrvatski Fond za Privatizaciju—Croatian Privatization
Fund (CPF)
HGA Hrvatska Garancijska Agencija—Croatian Guarantee
Agency (CGA)
HGK Hrvatska Gospodarska Komara—Croatian Chamber of
Commerce
HINA Hrvatska Izvještajna Novinska Agencija—Croatian
News and Press Agency
HKBO Hrvatska Kreditna Banka za Obnovu—Croatian Credit
Bank for Reconstruction
HKDS Hrvatska Kršćanska Demokratska Stranka—Croatian
Christian Democratic Party
HKDU Hrvatska Kršćanska Demokratska Unija—Croatian
Christian Democratic Union
HMI Hrvatska Matica Iseljenika—Croatian Homeland
Foundation
HND Hrvatski Nezavisni Demokrati—Croatian Independent
Democrats
HNS Hrvatska Narodna Stranka—Croatian People’s Party
03-064 Front 4/24/03 10:38 AM Page xxiii

ACRONYMS AND ABBREVIATIONS • xxiii

HOS Hrvatske Oružene Snage—Croatian Armed Forces

HPSS Hrvatska Pučka Seljačka Stranka—Croatian People’s
Peasant Party
HR Hrvatski Radio—Croatian Radio
HRK Hrvatska Kuna—Croatian Kuna
HRTV Hrvatski Radio I Televizija—Croatian Radio and
Television
HSK Hrvatsko-Sprska Koalicija—Croat–Serb Coalition
HSLS Hrvatska Socijalna Liberalna Stranka—Croatian Social-
Liberal Party
HSP Hrvatska Stranka Prava—Croatian Party of Rights
HSS Hrvatska Seljačka Stranka—Croatian Peasant Party
HTV Hrvatska Televizija—Croatian Television
HUS Hrvatska Udruga Sindikata—Croatian Association of
Unions
HV Hrvatska Vojska—Croatian Army
HVEP Hrvatsko Vijeće Europskog Pokreta—Croatian Council
of the European Movement
HVIDRE Zajednica Udruga Hrvatskih Vojnih Invalida Domovin-
skog Rata—Association of Croatian War Invalids of
the Homeland War
HVO Hrvatsko Vijeće Obrane—Croatian Defense Council
ICTY International Criminal Tribunal for the Former
Yugoslavia
IDS Istarski Demokratski Sabor—Istrian Democratic
Parliament
IMF International Monetary Fund
JAZU Jugoslovenska Akademija Znanosti I Umjetnosti—
Yugoslav Academy of Arts and Sciences
JNA Jugoslovenska Narodna Armija—Yugoslav (People’s)
Army
JO Jugoslovenski Odbor—Yugoslav Committee
JRT Jugoslovenski Radio I Televizija—Yugoslav Radio and
Television
KNS Kršćanska Nacionalna Stranka—Christian National Party
KNSH Konfederacija Nezavisnih Sindikata Hrvatske—Con-
federation of Independent Trade Unions of Croatia
03-064 Front 4/24/03 10:38 AM Page xxiv

xxiv • ACRONYMS AND ABBREVIATIONS

KOS Kontra-Obavještajna Služba Jugoslovenske Vojske—

Intelligence and Information Office of the Yugoslav
Army
LCY League of Communists of Yugoslavia—Savez Komu-
nista Jugoslavije (SKJ)
LS Liberalna Stranka—Liberal Party
MH Matica hrvatska—Croatian Cultural Institute
MUP Ministarstvo Unutrašnih Poslova—Ministry of the In-
terior (term used for Croatian Police Forces)
NDH Nezavisna Država Hrvatska—Independent State of
Croatia
OZNA Odeljenje za Žaštitu Naroda—State Security Admin-
istration
PHARE Poland and Hungary Action for Restructuring of the
Economy
RS Republika Srpska—Serbian Republic (Bosnia-Herze-
govina)
RSK Republika Srpska Krajina—Serbian Republic of Krajina
SAA Stabilization and Association Agreement—Sporazum o
Stabilizaciji i Pridruživanju (SSP)
SDH Socijaldemokratska Partija Hrvatske—Social Demo-
cratic Party of Croatia
SDP Social Democratic Party
SDPH-SDP Socijaldemokratska Partija Hrvatske-Stranka za
Društvene Promene—Social Democratic Party-Party of
Democratic Changes
SDS Srpska Demokratska Stranka—Serbian Democratic
Party
SFOR Stabilization Force
SFRJ Socijalistička Federativna Republika Jugoslavija—
Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia
SHDP Stranka Hrvatskog Državnog Prava—Party of the
Croatian State’s Rights
SKOJ Savez Komunističke Omladine Jugoslavije—Communist
Youth Organization of Yugoslavia
SNS Srpska Narodna Stranka—Serbian National Party
SNV Srpsko Narodno Vijeće—Serbian National Council
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it alone for fifty years, you will have something worth waiting for—a
ring of it as big as a cartwheel. I have not done it—but it has been
done for me.
 TULIPS
One day short of St. Valentine’s (when Nature still takes the liberties
which men used to allow themselves) I am able to announce tulips
in bud in the open border, which is as much of a record as my
crocuses were on the 18th of January. I don’t speak of a sheltered or
fruitful valley by any means. What they may be doing with flowers at
Wilton and Wilsford has no more relation to me than their goings-on
at Torquay or Grange-over-Sands. Up this way, for reasons which it
would be tedious to report, the spring comes slowly—as a rule. This
year is like no other that I can remember, as no doubt the reckoning
will be.
I know what tulip it is. There is only one which would be so
heedlessly daring. It is that noble wild Tuscan flower which the
people of the Mugello and thereabouts call Occhio del Sole, which
has a sage green leaf, a long flower-stalk of maroon, and atop of
that a great chalice of geranium red with yellow base and a black
blotch in the midst. Looking into the depths from above there is the
appearance of a lurid eye. But its real name is Praecox, and
Parkinson says that it flowers in January. I don’t believe him. I have
had it for years, and never saw it before mid-March. Parkinson is
vague about tulips, classing them mostly by colour and inordinate
names of his own. You may have the Crimson Prince, or Bracklar; or
the Brancion Prince; or a Duke, “that is more or less faire deep red,
with greater or lesser yellow edges, and a great yellow bottome.”
Then there is a Testament Brancion, or a Brancion Duke; and lastly
The King’s Flower, “that is, a crimson or bloud red, streamed with a
gold yellow”—which ought to look indifferent well at Buckingham
Palace. Praecox used to grow freely in the hill country above Fiesole,
always on cultivated ground; and I have found lots of it in the poderi
of Settignano, not so much as of the ordinary blood red, a smaller
and meaner flower altogether; but enough to make a walk under the
olives in very early Spring an enchantment. Ages ago Mrs. Ross sent
me a hamper of them, which has lasted me ever since; for this tulip
increases freely, and is invaluable as the first of its family.
The next to appear will be the little Persian violacea, with its crinkled
wavy leaves flatlings, and the pointed bud, which gives a rose-
coloured flower when open, slightly retroflexed, enough so, at least,
to make it plain that the familiar ornament of Persian and Rhodian
tiles was adapted from it. I always thought its name was persica; but
Weathers, I see, makes that a bronze flower, and names violacea as
the earliest of all the Persians, which mine certainly is. So that, as
they say, is that. I find it happiest among rocks, as all bulbs, except
lilies, are if they can get there. How else secure the baking in
summer which is so necessary? A pretty thing it is, in short,
charming to discover for yourself in a corner of a man’s rock-garden,
all the more so as you will make your discovery at a season when
you least expect tulips; but there is nothing of a “sudden glory” to
be had from it. Nobody could be knocked off his æsthetic perch by a
Persian tulip, still less off his moral perch. I have known that done by
one of the Caucasian tulips—it led to swift and stealthy work with a
penknife at Kew. But that was a long time ago, and the delinquent
can never do it again, for a final reason.
The loveliest tulip in the world—I speak only of natural flowers, not
of nurserymen’s monsters—is, in my opinion, the little Bandiera di
Toscana, the sword-leaved, sanguine-edged thing with the narrow
bud of red and white, which opens in the sun to be a milky star. It is
the loveliest, alike in colour and in habit, but one of the most
fastidious. Short of lifting it, which the true gardener disdains to do,
there is no certainty that it will spring up again when the time comes
round. Your best chance is on rocks, I daresay; and I have
succeeded with it in a border under a south wall with a pent of
thatch over. It does not like frost, and abominates rain at the wrong
time of year. It clings, in fact, to its Mediterranean habits, which
some things contentedly lose—Iris stylosa, for instance, which
flowers here better in November than it does in April. I have my
clusianas—for that is their proper name—now in a terraced border,
full south, under clumps of mossy saxifrage, and they do as well as
can be expected. They return with the swallows, and open wide to
the sun; but I am not going to pretend that they ramp. If I could
afford it I would put them in a place where they could take their
chance of the spade; for there is this to be said of all the Florentine
tulips that, although they are not designedly lifted, they grow in a
country where every square yard of ground is cultivated, and
consequently are turned over by the plough of the spade every year
—no doubt to their vast benefit. But you must not mind how many
of them you slice, or bury upside down, or leave above ground at
that work—and I do mind.
The truly marvellous Greigi is just showing itself: no increase there, I
am sorry to say. Weathers says that it “reproduces itself freely.” Not
here, O Apollo. I cannot make any Caucasian tulips have families;
they are resolute Malthusians; nevertheless, I shall have my few
bubbles of scarlet as before, and before they have done with me
they will be as large as claret-glasses, on short stems, which are the
best kind of claret-glasses. I could do with a hundred of them, but I
don’t know what to give them that I have not given. They grow on
limestone at home, and I give them limestone. They are never
disturbed in the Caucasus, and I never disturb them. It is my
distance from the equator that beats me. So I must be content with
my three or four—only I shan’t boast of them to ladies from Aix-les-
Bains. A tulip, by the way, which I covet, but have not so far been
able to obtain, is called, I think, saxatilis. It has rather a sprawly
growth, but several flowers on the stalk, and is sweetly scented. In
colour it is faint and indeterminate; flushes of mauve, white and
yellow. Several nurserymen offer me bulbs by that name, some have
induced me to buy them; but it has never been the right thing. I
may be wrong, or they may be: I must ask an expert. It may be
priceless, in which case I shan’t have it. I bought some Peruvian
pseudo-crocus once, of a marvellous blue indeed—not a gentian, but
a kingfisher blue—at seven and sixpence per bulb, and the mice,
mistaking it for a real crocus, ate them all. “These are my crosses,
Mr. Wesley.” But, if we are talking about money, Mrs. Ross gave me a
tulip once which was worth, so she told me, twenty pounds.
Certainly it was very handsome, a tall Darwin of bronze feathered
with gold: called Buonarroti. It was prolific, and in no short time
filled the border in which it grew. If its sons had been worthy of their
sire there might have been hundreds of pounds’ worth of them, all
growing naked in the open air. But I observed that they grew paler
year by year; and when I returned to the garden after a five years’
absence I could not believe that I had ever planted such a bilious
tulip. My grand old Occhi del Sole, on the other hand, were as vivid
as ever.
I have never possessed the so-called native English tulip, whose
botanical name is silvestris; but I have seen it. I know where it
grows, and blows, and could take you to the place—only I shall not.
My father found it by chance, and brought a flower of it home in
high feather. He found it, truly enough, in a wood, so its name
describes its habits. Now, I inquire, is it an indigenous plant? It is
what I doubt. If it is, it must have existed from all time; the Iberians
must have grown it on their lenches, or found it lower down, in the
jungle. Yet it is unknown to the poets; and the word “tulip,” remark,
is a Turkish word disguised. Parkinson knows nothing of Tulipa
silvestris. Far more probably it came from the South, in the maw of
some straying bird—perhaps a hoopoo, or the hold of an
adventuring ship. That was how we became possessed of the wild
peony which is, or was, to be found on an island in the Severn Sea.
Who is to say how that happened? Perhaps Spanish sailors had a
peony growing in the after-cabin to Our Lady of Seven Dolours, and
were shipwrecked with her and it on the strand of Lundy. How did
two ilexes come to be growing out of the Guinigi tower at Lucca?
How did a fig-tree find itself in the middle arch of the bridge at
Cordova? There are more ways of accounting for a wild tulip in Kent
than by imagining that God Almighty bade it grow there.
I have left myself no room in which to treat of nurserymen’s tulips,
and the less the pity in that they can talk of them so eloquently
themselves. There is a Dutch grower who simply wallows in
adjectives about them every year. He photographs his children,
smiling like anything, up to the neck in tulips; he poses with his arms
full of them before his wife, like an Angel of the Annunciation. As for
his words, they come bubbling from him as they used from Mr.
Swinburne when he saw a baby. It is true that, like the talk about
them, they get taller every year. They are less flowers than portents,
and the only thing to do with them is to treat them as so much
colour, turning your garden for the time being into a Regent Street
shop-window. Brown wallflower and La Rêve look well, so do yellow
wallflower and Othello. Last year I tried Clara Butt and Cheiranthus
allionii, and had a show like Mr. Granville Barker’s Twelfth Night.
Rose pink and orange is not everybody’s mixture.
The finest unrehearsed effect I ever had with cottage tulips was
when we had a heavy fall of snow one 30th of April, and I went out
and saw the great red heads swimming in the flood like strong men.
They were up to the neck, and seemed to enjoy it. But they died of
the effort; for at night it froze.
 SUMMER
If, like me, you are more interested in seeing things happen than in
seeing them when they have happened, you will not be such an
advocate of Summer as of other, any other, seasons. For Summer is
the one time of year when practically nothing happens outdoors.
From about the middle of May—I speak of the south parts—to the
middle of September Nature sits with her hands in her lap and a
pleasantly tired face. There, my children, she says, I have done my
job. I hope you like it. Most of us, I own, do like it very much, and
signify the same in the usual manner by vigorous ball-exercise and
liquid refreshment, much of it of an explosive and delusive kind.
When the Summer is over, somewhere round about Michaelmas day,
Nature rolls up her sleeves and begins again. Properly speaking,
there are only two seasons—Spring and Summer. The people
therefore who, like me, prefer the Spring to the Summer, have more
time in which to exhibit or dissemble their love—and a good deal of
it, I confess, uncommonly beastly in the matter of weather.
The people who like everything are the people to envy. Children, for
example, love the Winter just as much as the Summer. They whistle
as they jump their feet, or flack their arms across their bodies; and
whistling is one of the sure signs of contented youth. I remember
that we used to think it rare sport to find the sponge a solid globe of
ice, or to be able to get off cleaning our teeth on the ground that
the tooth water was frozen in the bottle. I don’t believe I ever had
cold feet in bed, and am sure that if I did I had something much
more exciting to think about. There might be skating to-morrow, or
we could finish the snow-man, or go tobogganning with the tea-tray;
or it was Christmas; or we were going to the pantomime. All seasons
were alike to us; each had its delights. That of Summer,
undoubtedly, was going to the seaside. We always had a month of
that, and then a month in some country place or other which my
father did not know. That was done for his sake, because the
seaside bored him so much that even his children noticed it. It was
nothing to us, of course, as we lived in the country, and did not, as
he did, poor man, spend most days of the year in London; but
equally of course we weren’t bored. I never heard of a child being
bored, and can imagine few things more tragic in a small way. No: it
was always interesting to live in someone else’s house, learn
something of their ways, chance upon a family photograph, or a
discarded toy, or a dog’s grave in the shrubbery; or to read their
books and guess what bits they had liked—any little things like that.
And, of course, it was comfortable to know that one’s father wasn’t
always smothering a gape, or trying to escape from nigger-minstrels.
As for the sea—a very different thing from the seaside—I don’t
believe he ever looked at it. I am certain that I never saw him on the
sands. The sands are no place for you unless you had rather be
barefoot than not. Now, it is a fact that I never saw my father’s feet.
At the same time, I don’t know where else one could be in August,
except at the seaside. Really, there is very little to say for the
country in that month. The trees are as near black as makes no
matter, the hills are dust-colour, the rivers are running dry. True, the
harvest is going on; but the harvest is not what it used to be. You
had, indeed, “a field full of folk” (in old Langland’s words) in former
days. All hands were at it, and the women following the men,
building the hiles, as we call them; and the children beside them,
twisting up the straw ties as fast as they could twist. And then the
bread and cheese and cider—or it might be home-brewed beer—in
the shade! But bless me—last year I saw the harvesting of a
hundred acre field—our fields run very big down here; and the
whole thing was being done by one man on a machine! The Solitary
Reaper, forsooth! The man was reaper, tyer and binder all in one;
you never saw so desolate a spectacle. So the harvest is not what it
was. It may have attractions for the farmer, but for nobody else that
I can think of. Go north for your Summer and you may do better.
August is wet, generally, in Scotland, but when you are in Scotland
you won’t mind rain, or had better not. You can catch trout in the
rain in Scotland, and with a fly too: that is the extraordinary part of
it. And the Scottish summer twilights are things to remember. They
are overdone in Norway, where they go on all night; where the sun
may go behind the hill for five minutes and begin the day before you
have thought of going to bed. You can’t keep that up—but it is
exciting enough at first. The great charm of the Norwegian Summer
to me is that it includes what we call Spring. The other season in
that country is Winter, which begins in September and ends with
May. Then, immediately, Summer begins: the grass grows and is
ready for the scythe, the cherries flower and get ripe and are eaten
—all at once. You get those amazing contrasts there which you only
have in mountainous countries; which I remember most vividly
crossing the Cevennes from Le Puy to Alais. On the watershed I was
picking daffodils, only just ready to be picked; in the valley of the
Ardeche they were making hay, and roses were dusty in the hedges.
I slid from March into June—in twenty minutes. You will not be so
piqued in England; yet if your taste lies in the way of strawberries
for instance, you can do pretty work even in England. You can begin
in Cornwall, or Scilly, and have your first dish in early May, or late
April, with clotted cream, of course. Then you can eat your way
through the western shires to Hampshire, and make yourself very ill
somewhere about Fareham, in June. When you are able to stand the
journey, you can go on to the Fens and find them ready for you in
early July. In August you will find them at their best in Cumberland,
and in October, weather permitting, you will have them on your table
in Scotland. After that, if you are alive, and really care for
strawberries, you must leave this kingdom, and perhaps go to
California. I don’t know.
The Summer will give you better berries than the strawberry, in my
opinion. It will give you the wild strawberry, which, if you can find
somebody to pick them for you, and then eat them with sugar and
white wine, is a dish for Olympians, ambrosial food. Then there is
the bilberry, which wants cream and a great deal of tooth-brush
afterwards, and the blaeberry, which grows in Cumberland above the
2,000 foot mark, just where the Stagshorn moss begins; and the
wild raspberry which here is found on the tops of the hills, and in
Scotland at the bottoms. I declare the wild raspberry to be one of
the most delicious fruits God Almighty ever made. In Norway you
will have the cranberry and the saeter-berry; but in Norway you will
want nothing so long as there are cherries. I know Kent very well—
but its cherries are not so good as those of Norway.
I had no intention, when I began, to talk about eating all the time. It
is a bad sign when one begins that, though as a matter of fact we
do think a great deal of our food in the country—because we are
hungry, and it is so awfully good; and (as I daresay the Londoner
thinks) because we have nothing else to think about. That is a
mistake, and the Summer is the time to correct it, by spending it in
the country and trying to understand us. Let me be bold enough to
suggest to the Londoner who takes the prime of Summer to learn
the ways of the country in it, that he would prove a more teachable
disciple if he did not bring his own ways with him. He is rather apt to
do that. He expects, for example, his golf, and always has his toys
with him for the purpose. Well, he should not. Golf is a suburban
game, handy for the townsman in his off hours. Country people
don’t play golf. They have too much to do. The charabanc is another
town-institution, to be used like a stagecoach. Nothing of the
country can be learned by streaming over moor and mountain in one
of them. The Oreads hide from them; Pan and old Sylvanus treat
them as natural process, scourges to be endured, like snowstorms or
foot-and-mouth disease. The country is veiled from charabancs,
partly in dust, partly in disgust. For we don’t understand hunting in
gangs. The herd-instinct which such things involve and imply is not a
country instinct. We are self-sufficient here, still, in spite of all
invitation, individuals.
 THE LINGERING OF THE LIGHT
With the West wind blowing down the valley, wet and warm from the
Atlantic, men go home leisurely from their work in the fields, happy
in the last of the light, and enjoying, though they never say so, the
delicate melancholy of the hour. It is a gift you make no account of
when the East wind brings it you, for that Scythian scourge withers
what it touches, and under its whip the light itself seems like a husk
about the day. Old people tell us that it brings the blight, whatever
they mean by that. It brought locusts into Egypt once, and brings
influenza into England. Perhaps they put the two together. It brings
sick thinking too, a cold which has the property of drying up the
springs of the blood. There’s no escape from it. The air seems
thinner that comes from the East; brickwork will not keep it out, nor
glazed windows. One fancies in the black mood of it that the
“channering worm” at his work in the churchyard must feel it, and
dive deeper into the mould.
But now one can enjoy the sweet grave evening and turn the mind
hopefully to the prime of the year that is coming. The blackbird
whistles for it in the leafless elm; a belated white hen on the hillside,
very much at her ease, is still heeling up the turf and inspecting the
result. A cottage wife, having her fire alight and kettle on the boil,
stands for a moment at her open door. To mate the gentle influence
of the evening she has made herself trim in clean white blouse and
blue skirt, and looks what she was intended to be, a pretty young
woman with a pride in herself. A friend, going home, stops her
perambulator for a minute to exchange sentiments about the nights
“drawing out.” Almost as she speaks this one draws in—for at this
time of year twilight is a thing of moments. It will be dark before she
is home. No matter: the wind is warm and balmy; she can take her
ease, and her baby be none the worse. This is the weather that
opens the human buds as well as the snowdrops, and gems the
gardens with aconites, and the hearths with sprawling children. We
do not heed Dr. Inge down here.
Here’s the end of January, and the winter, by our calendar, over in
three weeks’ time. Since that calendar was written up we have
invented a new winter. It is more difficult to get through April with
safety, at least to garden buds, than any January we have known for
forty years; but as far as we are concerned ourselves we can stand
anything in April, with May to follow; whereas January can still
intimidate, and a cold spell then will cause twice the sickness of the
Spring-winter. January is to April as Till to Tweed:

“Till said to Tweed,

’Though ye rin wi’ speed,
An’ I rin slaw,
Where ye drown ae mon
I drown twa.”

If you look at the graves in a country churchyard, of the two outside

generations, that is, of old people and young children, nearly all will
have found their “bane” in December and January.
With us in the West, the thing which kills the plants in our gardens
also kills the villagers, very old or very young: excessive wet,
namely, followed by hard frost or murderous wind. The other day we
had a day of warm drenches, drifting sheets of rain, a whole day of
them, the wind in the West. About midnight, the weathercock
chopped round to meet a whirl-blast from the East: the sky cleared,
and it froze like mad. I went round my borders in the morning,
quaking at the heart. The garden was like a battle-field. Nothing can
cope with that. The babies get pneumonia, the veterans bronchitis,
the sexton is busy; every day you hear the passing bell. Yet whether
it is because we observe punctually the Laws of Being, or (as the
Dean will have it) in spite of it, the facts are that the supply of
babies never fails, and that we live to a great age. The oldest
gardener I know—I shouldn’t wonder if he were the oldest gardener
in the world—lives in this village. Eighty-nine.

“I know a girl—she’s eighty-five”—

That was Lord Houghton’s way of beginning a poem on Mrs. Grote.

My gardener beats her by four years. To and fro, four times a day,
he walks his half-mile—to work and back. I saw him the other day
half-way up a cherry-tree, sawing off a dead branch. Mrs. Grote
again:

“She lived to the age of a hundred and ten,

And died of a fall from a cherry-tree then.”

To look at his sapless limbs, you might think he could saw off one of
them and take no hurt. But not at all. Life is high in him still. His eye
is bright, his step is brisk. We have many octagenarians, but I
believe he is the patriarch of our village. Mr. Frederic Harrison, in
Bath, beats him by a year.
We are stoics, without knowing what that means down here.
Whatever our years tell us we make no account of them, or of
ailments, or physical discomfort; and as for Death, the Antick,
however close he stand to us—the Grizzly One, we call him—we take
no notice of him, so long as we can move about. The end is not long
in coming when a man must keep the house, or his bed. Then, so
sure as fate, he will stiffen at the joints and come out no more to
enjoy the lingering of the light. The chalk, which he has been
inhaling and absorbing all his life, will harden in him, and, he will tell
you, “time’s up.” Want of imagination, that fine indifference to fate,
perhaps—but I don’t know. I have never been able to deny
imagination to our country folk. The faculty takes various forms, and
is not to be refused to a man because it finds a harsh vent and
issues contorted. I prefer to put it that tradition, which is our
religion, has put obedience to the Laws of Life above everything
else. One of those laws says, Work. And work we do, until we drop.
There is a noble creature lying now, I fear, under a stroke which will
prevent her doing another hand’s turn of work. Her children are all
about her bed; I saw one of them this morning before she went
there. She confessed, with tears, the anguish it would be to see her
mother lying idle. Sixty-three, she was, and had never been a day
without work in her children’s recollection. She had never been in
bed after six in the morning, never stayed at home or abed except,
of course, for child-bed. She had had eight children, brought up six
of them to marry and prosper in the world. And now she lies
stricken, and they, those prosperous young women, all about her
bed. How well Shakespeare knew that world:

“Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,

Nor the stormy winter’s rages;
Thou thy earthly course hast run,
Home hast gone, and ta’en thy wages.”

Nothing for tears, or knocking of the breast. The words ring as

solemnly as the bell. I cannot conceive of earthly thing more
beautiful than such faithful, patient, diligent, ordered lives, rounded
off by such mute and uncomplaining death-bed scenes. The fact that
so they have been lived, so rounded off, for two thousand years
makes them sacred, for me. How often has the good soul whose end
I am awaiting now stood at her cottage door to mark the lingering of
the light? May her passing be as gentle as this day’s has been!
The Westminster Press
411a Harrow Road
London
W.9
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