Albania
by E. F. Knight · English · Gutenberg #39684 · 443,120 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Albania
A narrative of recent travel
Author: E. F. Knight
Release date: May 13, 2012 [eBook #39684]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39684
Credits: Produced by Mark C. Orton and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from scanned images of public domain material
from the Google Print project.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALBANIA ***
Produced by Mark C. Orton and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from scanned images of public domain material
from the Google Print project.)
ALBANIA.
[Illustration: A SCIENTIFIC FRONTIER.
_Page_ 229.]
ALBANIA:
A NARRATIVE OF RECENT TRAVEL.
BY E. F. KNIGHT,
BARRISTER-AT-LAW.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS.
London:
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON,
CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET.
1880.
[_All rights reserved._]
Transcriber's Note: Inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, and
hyphenation have been retained as printed. Words printed in bold are
noted with tildes: ~bold~.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
Where to go to?--An unknown country--The expedition--Our
inventor--Our equipment--The doctor--A useful remedy--The
start--Venice--Trieste 1
CHAPTER II.
On board an Austrian Lloyd--Voyage to Spalato--The coast of
Istria and Dalmatia--Old Venetian cities--Our fellow-passengers
--Pola--A Turkish officer--The Morlaks--Why is England a triangle?
--Sebenico--Arrival at Spalato 11
CHAPTER III.
Dalmatian _cuisine_--The Emperor Diocletian--Remains of the
old palace--We make two friends--Wines of Dalmatia--Customs
of the Morlaks--A visit to Salona--A great fete--Costumes--
Morlak singing 28
CHAPTER IV.
Voyage to Cattaro--A bora--The gulf of Narenta--The Herzegovina
--The Island of Curzola--Ragusa--The Bocche di Cattan--The
frontier of Montenegro--The fortress of Cattaro--Evening
promenade--Personal attractions of the Cattarine ladies--
Rough roads--Prince Nikita's coach--Bosnian refugees--A
Bosnian's luggage 45
CHAPTER V.
March to Cettinje--The pass across the frontier--Montenegrin
warriors--Cettinje--A land of stones--The Prince's Hotel--
Frontier disputes--The commission--Montenegrin method of
making war--A game of billiards--A Draconic law--A popular
prince 60
CHAPTER VI.
The occupation of a Montenegrin gentleman--The public library
--Prince Nikita's prisoners--Albanian _versus_ Montenegrin
--A Montenegrin loan--The prince as a sportsman--The museum--
The hospital 78
CHAPTER VII.
Journey to Scutari--Atrocities--A runaway--The vale of Rieka--
A Montenegrin sailor--The lions of Rieka--The perils of the
night 90
CHAPTER VIII.
A great victory--A good old custom--On the Lake of Scutari--
The londra--The debateable land--Boat song--Encampment--Scutari
--A reminiscence of Cremorne--The brothers Toshli--Willow-pattern
plates--At the British consulate 100
CHAPTER IX.
Condition of Albania--Her races--The Mussulman--The Christian--
The Arnaut--Prince Scanderbeg--Turkish rule--Albanian language
--Gendarmes on strike--A Scutarine beauty--Courtship and marriage
--Nuns 116
CHAPTER X.
The bazaar--Turkish gipsies--The vendetta--An assassin--A way
to pay debts--Bosnian refugees--A card-party--Paving stones
--Burglars--Army doctors--Change for a ten pound note--Our
horses 132
CHAPTER XI.
Our Lady of Scutari--A miracle--The fete--A funeral--A drunken
Arnaut--Our escort--Two more Britons--Warm discussion--War--
Marco 151
CHAPTER XII.
March to Podgoritza--An Albanian khan--Our cook--The Fund--
Across the lake--Night visitors--The frontier--Podgoritza--
The armourer--The war minister--Dobra Pushka 163
CHAPTER XIII.
War preparations--Our camp visitors--An impromptu ball--
English-consul fashion--Robbers--Ruins of Douka--A dangerous
bath--Bastinado--Karatag yok mir 181
CHAPTER XIV.
An escort--A Turkish dinner-party--Brigands--Our sportsman--A
chief of the league--Objects of the rebels--Achmet Agha--A
meeting of the league--The boulim-bashi of Klementi--An Arnaut
chieftain 194
CHAPTER XV.
To Gussinje--The valley of the Drin--A rough road--In the
mountains--Hospitality--A pretty woman--A scientific frontier
--Franciscans--Dog Latin--Marco Milano 215
CHAPTER XVI.
The mission-house--Gropa--The mandolin--A letter from Ali Bey
--A trap--Our throats in danger--Retreat--Nik Leka--Proverbs--
A pleasant evening 238
CHAPTER XVII.
Rosso and Effendi--A barbaric feast--Patoulis--Mead--The future
of Albania--The Italia Irridenta--Sport in Meriditia--Dick
Deadeye 251
CHAPTER XVIII.
The coffin--A Pasha's death--Horse-dealing--The postman--
Brigands--An hotel bill--Down the Bojana--Dulcigno--Pirates
--Farewell 268
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
SPALATO 26
BOCCHE DI CATTARO 48
WALLS OF CATTARO 49
CETTINJE 65
THE LONDRA 102
SCUTARI FISHING HARBOUR 109
PODGORITZA 177
A SCIENTIFIC FRONTIER 229
ALBANIA.
CHAPTER I.
Where to go to?--An unknown country--The expedition--Our inventor--Our
equipment--The doctor--A useful remedy--The start--Venice--Trieste.
One day last autumn I was sitting in my Temple chambers, wondering what
I should do with myself in the Long Vacation, when I was aroused from
my reverie by the entrance of my clerk.
"Here is Mr. N., sir."
"Show him in."
N. entered, and his chance visit solved my problem.
"Don't know what to do with yourself? Why, I have the very thing for
you. Three friends of mine--Brown, Jones, and Robinson--are preparing
for a tour in Albania. I saw Brown this morning, and he told me they
wanted somebody else to join their party."
To cut the narrative short, I was introduced to Brown, Jones, and
Robinson, as I shall call my travelling companions in this book; and it
was not long before I decided to join them in a trip which promised to
be a very amusing one. My friends were artists, and had chosen this
almost unknown country for their summer tour, as being an unexplored
mine for their pencils, both as regards magnificence of scenery and
picturesqueness of costume. I myself knew nothing about Albania before
starting, with the exception of what I had gleaned from "Childe
Harold." The lines where the poet sings,
Albania, rugged nurse of savage men,
came to my mind; so I took down Byron from my shelves, and read all
that he has to say about
The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee,
With shawl-girt head, and ornamented gun,
And gold-embroider'd garments fair to see.
The information was scanty, but sufficient to show me that no more
interesting country could have been chosen for our expedition. I
purpose, in this book, to give a narrative of our wanderings in
Montenegro and Northern Albania.
My aim is not at all an ambitious one, and I do not intend to enter
very deeply into the history and already over-discussed politics of the
races of Eastern Europe, but merely to jot down my own first rough
impressions of the country; for my object is principally to show my
readers how well worthy of a visit it is, and by describing the ways
and means of travelling in it, to encourage and render some assistance
to any who may purpose to follow in our footsteps over the Highlands of
ancient Illyria. My fellow-travellers proposed to travel in a rough
style, not to hamper themselves with servants, and to ride or walk, as
seemed best when we reached the country.
The originator of the expedition, Robinson, had evolved an imaginary
Albania from his inner consciousness, and was therefore always ready to
answer, off-hand, any question we might ask him as to what we should
take with us in the shape of baggage, &c.
He always advanced his opinion so unhesitatingly, and would give us so
many facts as to the climate, nature of the country and manners of the
people, that, till I knew him better, I imagined that he must have
either travelled in these countries himself, or at least have had a
very dear and confiding friend who had done so, for no amount of
reading could have brought about so intimate an acquaintance with the
subject.
We were certain to meet with an abundance of big game, he told us, so
must each be provided with a rifle--the result was, I armed myself with
a Martini-Henry. He procured a Winchester rifle (I think, later on in
our heavy marches, he regretted having taken this ponderous weapon).
Brown provided himself with a lighter Winchester carbine. Jones wisely
took no rifle with him. We each had a good revolver, and our scanty
baggage was contained in three saddle-bags. Robinson, in addition to
his other great qualities, was a wonderful inventor, and insisted on
furnishing the expedition with a huge tent, which subsequently was
christened "the White Elephant." This was packed for the journey in a
long coffin-like box, and many were the wranglings and afflictions over
that unfortunate package. Cabmen, railway porters, custom-house
officers, police, all alike suspected it, and hindered its unhappy
progress in every way. A fantastic axe, a gigantic yataghan-looking
knife, and a cooking apparatus, were also devised by our ingenious
friend, and constructed under his supervision. Many and many a plan he
drew up before he perfected these marvellous inventions, and long was
it ere he could find artisans intelligent enough to comprehend and
carry them out. We trembled for all these _impedimenta_, and warned our
friend that four camels at least would be necessary to transport them.
Remonstrances were useless; we were told it was impossible to travel in
Albania without these; so, with reluctance, and foreboding of future
troubles, we gave in. Accidents of various kinds delayed our start.
Brown and myself at last waxed impatient, and after waiting long for
our tardy companions, who never would come up to the scratch, but
postponed the journey from one day to another (each to be fixed and
unchangeable), we decided to precede them, and await them either at
some Dalmatian port or in Montenegro. We settled to leave London on the
18th of September, took through tickets to Trieste, and appointed to
meet in our war-paint at Victoria Station at seven o'clock in the
evening, so as to catch the eight o'clock train for the Dieppe boat.
At seven o'clock the whole length of Spiers and Pond's refreshment-bar
at Victoria Station was monopolized by the travellers and the numerous
friends who had come to see the last of them. "You are certain to have
your throat cut, old fellow, so you might just as well have one last
beverage with me," was an oft-repeated and encouraging salute.
I should say that those who were spectators of our departure must have
imagined that we were bound on an expedition to the centre of Africa,
at least. Our appearance was certainly remarkable. We were arrayed in
blue flannel shirts, rough blue pilot suits, and top-boots. Brown, too,
had closely shaven his head, which gave him a decided Millbank
appearance. Our luggage consisted of a saddle-bag, a rifle, and blanket
each. Robinson was anxious for us to take "the White Elephant" with us;
we did not see it. I forgot to state that Brown had taken upon himself
the charge of the medical department, and had arranged a little box of
horrible implements and medicaments. The properties of these I do not
think he knew much about. As can easily be imagined, we fought very shy
of him in his surgical character throughout the journey. At the last
moment we remembered another medicine which might, with advantage, be
added to our chest; we had incidentally heard that brandy was a useful
remedy in some illnesses. We accordingly sent my clerk over to that
excellent tavern, the "Devereux Arms," for a bottle of this fluid; it
was lucky we did so, for, curiously enough, both of us suffered on
several occasions from those maladies for which it is supposed that
beverage is a specific; to such an extent, indeed, that though none of
the other bottles in the chest were even uncorked, this one had
frequently to be replenished.
In sixty-two hours from the time we left London we were in Venice. We
were haunted by two guilty consciences during the whole of our run
across Europe. For we had to cross three frontiers, and were laden
with contraband, in the shape of revolvers and rifle cartridges. In
consequence of our suspicious appearance, our baggage was generally
examined. At Modane, where is the most unpleasant frontier custom-house
in Europe, the officers have instructions to confiscate all revolvers.
Thus we had to conceal our own on our persons. As they were large, and
so caused a suspicious-looking protuberance of our outer clothing, we
did not feel quite happy until we were again seated in a carriage, and
plunged into the darkness of the Mont Cenis.
From Venice we took the steamer to Trieste--a twelve hours' journey.
The boat was crowded. Brown and myself tossed up as to whether he or I
should sleep alongside a very fat old lady who obstructed the entrance
to one of the two only vacant berths. I won the toss, and ungallantly
enough surrendered the place of honour to Brown.
At six in the morning we were alongside one of the quays at Trieste,
and landed without being subjected to any custom-house inspection. We
put up at the Hotel Delorme, at which well-known hostelry the Prince of
Montenegro had been recently staying, on his return from a visit to the
Emperor of Austria at Vienna. We found that an Austrian Lloyd steamer
started at five the next morning for the different Dalmatian and
Albanian ports; so, as Trieste is not a very interesting place, we
determined to steam as far as Spalato, and there await our companions.
We telegraphed to them to that effect.
We wandered about the town sight-seeing the whole day, visited the
Lloyd Arsenal, and called on our consul, Captain Burton, the well-known
traveller. He gave us some useful information, and recommended us to
several people on the Dalmatian coast. He strongly advised us to take
plenty of quinine with us, as the fever season had commenced, and
tertians had been exceptionally frequent in Southern Dalmatia this
year, after the severe drought this part of Europe had experienced.
We took two _sedea platea_ at the Theatre Fenice, the opera for
the evening being "Lucia di Lammermoor." The _prima donna_ was an
English Jewess, Madame Isidore, of whom, as a foreigner, the Triestines
seemed to be very jealous, for her excellent singing met with a cold
reception. When the opera was concluded, we wandered about the town for
a short time. I find in my diary this note: "The beer of Trieste is
good."
An English-speaking commissionaire at our hotel had insisted on
piloting us about to the different places of interest. He was an
amusing man, had tried most professions, had even been a butler in an
English family. He had recently been butler, or what here corresponds
to a butler, to a Triestine; but, after a few weeks, left his place in
disgust, for, as he expressed it, "The Italian no understand life like
you English. In cellar no wine. I go to my master. Sar, I leave you."
"Why? what is the reason?"
"Sar, I came here as butler. There is nothing to buttle. I go."
We retired to our beds about one, and enjoyed a few hours' sleep before
the time came for embarking.
At three o'clock the next morning we were aroused by our
commissionaire, who had promised to see us off. We dressed hastily, and
sallied forth in search of an early breakfast before our vessel sailed,
and soon found a cafe which had not yet closed its doors. The waiters,
and the place itself, had that disreputable and up-all-night appearance
which is only apparent to those who themselves have arisen betimes from
sober couches. I think my friend and myself rather regretted that we
had so risen, and had not wandered about the town till the hour of
sailing; for to turn into bed from one to three is productive rather of
discontent with things in general than of that freshness, as of a
button, the little cherub proverbially enjoys.
After swallowing our coffee we found our way to our vessel, the
"Archduke Paul," bid adieu to our commissionaire, introduced ourselves
to the steward, and, selecting two comfortable berths, turned in for a
little more sleep.
CHAPTER II.
On board an Austrian Lloyd--Voyage to Spalato--The coast of Istria and
Dalmatia--Old Venetian cities--Our fellow-passengers--Pola--A Turkish
officer--The Morlaks--Why is England a triangle?--Sebenico--Arrival at
Spalato.
When I awoke, the sun was shining brightly through the skylight, and
the familiar thud of the screw told me we were under way. On mounting
to the deck, I found that we were to have a glorious day to enjoy the
scenery of the coast. There was not a cloud in the sky, and a fresh and
pleasant breeze was blowing off shore. As our vessel was to touch at
nearly every harbour of Istria and Dalmatia, we were never more than
one or two miles distant from some coast, either of the continent or of
the innumerable islands which stud the Eastern Adriatic from Fiume to
Cattaro.
Very few English tourists ever wander among these remote provinces of
the Austrian Empire, yet they are exceedingly easy of access, and
possibly no countries in Europe are so interesting.
The fine scenery, the picturesque costumes and manners of the
population, and above all, the remarkable Roman and Venetian
antiquities, render them well worthy of a visit. It is surprising
indeed that they are so little known.
The Austrian Lloyd steamers run up and down between Trieste and Corfu
three times a week, and are as clean and comfortable as any in the
world. Again, all countries under Austrian rule are perfectly secure,
banditti being entirely unknown. Of course, if any one ventures inland,
one must not expect to meet with all the luxuries of civilization;
indeed, it must be confessed that even the hotels in the chief
seaports, such as Cattaro, would seem rather rough to the sybarite. We
met with universal kindness and civility, and even honesty, throughout
Dalmatia, from the Austrian officers and officials, as well as from the
Sclav and Italian population. We found every one anxious to go out of
their way to point out to us the lions of the district. The tariff at
the hotels is very low, as it is, by the way, on the Austrian Lloyds,
where the two really excellent meals provided daily at one and eight,
cost one and one-and-a-half florins (paper) respectively. In short, one
lives luxuriously for about five shillings a day. The officers are
gentlemanly and well-educated men--Dalmatians or Italians, as a
rule--and very glad to fraternize with jovially-disposed English
passengers. One is almost sure to find one or more who speak English.
We took our tickets for Spalato, at which very interesting town we
determined to stay for a few days. This is but a two-hundred miles' run
from Trieste, but forty-two hours are spent in the passage. For though
very little merchandize is taken on board at the several ports touched
at, in order to pick up mails and passengers, a most unnecessary amount
of time is wasted in each. Of this of course we are not sorry. Now the
steamer would anchor off some picturesque little town, such as Pirano,
crowned by its ancient fortress--a relic of the great republic which
once ruled all this coast--and now bring up alongside the marble quay
of some ancient Roman city, such as Pola, with its gigantic
amphitheatre reflected on the purple Adriatic.
The scenery of the coast is very beautiful. The mountains are lofty
and fantastically serrated, and cleft into profound fissures and
chasms; while innumerable islands surround one on every side, so that
one seems to be sailing on a large lake rather than a sea. Each turn
round some jagged promontory reveals some new wonder, and there is not
a village that is not picturesque and antique, with Venetian fortress
or Byzantine church rising from the very water's edge. It is
impossible to say what colour the Adriatic is; it is certainly the
most chameleon-like of seas, and changes its hue quite irrespectively,
as far as I could see, of atmospheric influence, under a sunny sky
from deepest violet to most delicate turquoise, but ever beautiful.
However, after a time, there is something remarkably wearisome in this
coast; for though the mountains are grandly formed, they are almost
universally barren, the vegetation being scant and trees exceedingly
rare. The Venetians made the most of their possessions when they had
them, and destroyed the once magnificent forests of Illyria in a most
ruthless manner. Nearly all the timber for their fleets was procured
from these mountains.
The result is, that they are hopelessly bleak and barren, while the
country in many places presents for miles inland the appearance of a
stony desert. I do not think there is a region in Europe so wild and
desolate as the plains in the neighbourhood of Novegrad; however, I
believe that further inland, and so almost inaccessible, large and fine
forests abound.
The weather was mild enough now, in the latter end of September (80 deg.
Fahr. in the shade), but this is a frightfully hot and parched-up
country in the summer. The vegetation, where there is any, is
sub-tropical; the date-palm, the aloe, and the cactus, are seen
springing here and there from the rocks; citrons, pomegranates,
almonds, are cultivated in many parts of the Lowlands.
We steamed slowly on throughout the day, till the setting sun lit up
the high Dinanic Alps, which is a precipitous and unbroken line,
lowered in the background above the lesser maritime chains. The barren
precipices assumed the most lovely tints, in some places glowing like
molten iron, while the shadows toned down to a deep hazy purple. But
soon the sun had forsaken the loftiest peak, and the quick-coming
darkness reminded us that our supper was spread in the comfortable
cabin. The day had been a very enjoyable one, for the scenery and
inhabitants were alike new to us. Our deck passengers were lying about
in most picturesque groups. Here some Hungarian recruits devouring
their rations greedily; here some wild-looking Dalmatian Morlaks; here
a solemn Turkish merchant, puffing at his long pipe; Montenegrins,
Greeks, and an ugly-looking lot of felons, manacled and chained
together, completed the scene. We had touched at Pirano, Parenzo, and
Rovigno, in the morning. As our vessel brought up alongside the quay at
Pola, we were enabled to stretch our legs for an hour on shore. We
might have had two hours there had it not been for the extreme
deliberation and prudence with which the officers of these steamers
approach a quay.
The vociferations and evident anxiety of every one on board whenever
this operation had to be performed would lead one to suppose that it
required extraordinary delicacy and skill, and was attended with no
small risk. Our captain was evidently excessively pleased and proud
whenever he had safely accomplished this duty, and looked round with a
very self-satisfied and admire-me-if-you-please air as he wiped the
perspiration from his brow.
So deep was the water, and so unobstructed the harbour, that one would
have imagined it would have been easy to have steamed the vessel right
up to her berth, but that is not the way they do things here.
When we were about half-a-mile off the shore a boat was lowered, which
took out at a cable to a large buoy in the roads; then it was found
that the line attached to the cable was not long enough to reach the
buoy, so we had to steam a little nearer. When, after a good deal of
bungling, we succeeded in making fast our bow to this buoy, another
cable was taken from our stern to the quay; and, while the first was
being gradually slacked out, our donkey-engine slowly coiled up the
second cable and drew the vessel stern foremost to her berth.
However, with all these precautions, we did not make fast without some
accident. One of our passengers, an Austrian naval officer, who was
contemplating the proceedings through his eyeglass, got in the way of a
warp, when it tautened suddenly, caught him in the middle, and
projected him into the sea. Great excitement ensued, but he was soon
rescued by a soldier on the quay, who hooked him up with his bayonet.
We were accompanied on shore by a fellow-passenger whose acquaintance
we had made, a smart-looking young Turkish officer of gendarmerie. He
was an Albanian Christian, a native of Scutari, and had just returned
from a journey to Trieste. As this was the first time he had left his
native country, he was amazed and pleased at all he saw; but he had
evidently formed no high idea as to the moral character of the
Europeans. The amazing wickedness of the Triestines was a theme on
which he harped throughout the journey.
Pola is the head-quarters of the Austrian navy; there were three or
four of their finest vessels there at the time. We observed that the
proportion of officers and men to the number of ships was very great.
Our Turk came with us to visit the remains of the Roman amphitheatre,
one of the finest in Europe. The Romans he had never heard of, but had
been informed on good authority that the massive edifice before him had
been constructed in one day by the devil. We all had supper together on
board this evening, and had a most amusing conversation with our new
friend over our coffee and subsequent pipe and grog. He could speak and
write Turkish, French, Italian, Albanese, and Sclave.
We naturally wished to learn from him what sort of a country Albania
was, whether travelling was comparatively safe, and how we ought to set
to work.
"Albania is perfectly safe," he said; "safer than Trieste. There are no
banditti; you can walk alone from Scutari to Salonika, and be treated
as a friend by all, especially as you are an Englishman."
What our friend understood by "perfectly safe" was not exactly what a
timid tourist would understand by the term. On being questioned as to
the police system, he replied: "Well, it is not in an exceedingly happy
condition just now, for having received no pay or rations for fourteen
months, the gendarmes have struck work."
"And how do you get on without them?"
"Oh, just as well as with them; we Albanians do not require police; we
understand what is just, and can take the law into our own hands; the
police always were useless. In a wild country like ours, a criminal--a
murderer, for instance--can always escape them; he takes refuge in the
mountains, and the gendarmerie know better than to follow him there. If
we trusted to them, there would be no security for life or property;
but this is how we manage. If, for instance, a man murdered me and
fled, my family are bound to revenge my death; if they cannot find the
murderer himself, they kill one of his family."
"Does not this system lead to a good many lives being sacrificed over
one quarrel?"
"It acts well as a rule. But, as you say, it does lead to some
bloodshed. Just before I left Scutari a man shot another's pig, which
had strayed into his field; the owner of the pig immediately walked
over to the other man's house and blew his brains out, which he was
bound to do as a man of honour; then a relation of the slain man shot a
relation of the other behind his back as he strolled into the bazaar,
totally unaware of the existence of any quarrel between the families."
"Was that looked upon as fair play?"
"Everything is fair in our blood feuds. This very man was himself shot
a few days afterwards as he was coming out of a mosque, by the brother
of the man he had killed, who was waiting for him behind a wall.
Several others on both sides were killed in this pig dispute, till at
last the two families met and settled the matter amicably, and without
dishonour to either party, for it was shown that an equal amount of
damage had been inflicted on both families--ten men of one having been
slain; nine men, one woman, and a pig of the other."
Our friend told us that he himself had a blood feud on hand, and had to
keep a very sharp look out.
I noticed that his hand was bandaged, and inquired how he had hurt it.
"Oh," he said, "I scratched it with my sabre, and so poisoned it. I
have enemies at Scutari, and some months ago expected to be murdered
any day; but, determining to kill some of them first, when the time
came poisoned my sabre with a strong animal poison. I accidentally
scratched myself with it one day. Luckily the poison was nearly rubbed
off by that time, but as it was it very nearly took me out of this
world."
Many other little anecdotes we extracted from our friend, all
illustrative of the extreme security of Albania. Among other things we
were warned never to allow people to walk close behind us; not to pay
excessive attention to the lady portion of the population--that being
the most frightful crime that one can be guilty of in that country.
We played at dominoes, drank grog, and discoursed on various topics
till a late hour; then retired for the night, during which the old
vessel steadily steamed her eight knots an hour.
The Austrian Lloyd Company are bound, by their contract with the
Government, not to run their vessels at a higher speed; why, no one
could inform us.
On awakening the next morning we found ourselves moored to the quay of
the fine old town of Zara. We went on shore with our new friend, who,
by the way, was saluted by the Austrian officers and soldiers when they
observed his uniform--an honour which we afterwards found was rarely
paid him by his own men in Scutari, in the present discontented
condition of the half-starved Turkish soldiery. We had time to visit
the monuments of this interesting old Venetian fortress, the fine
churches, and the magnificent cathedral, built by Doge Dandolo.
The streets are narrow, sewerless, and malodorous; but would be the
delight of artists. The natives wear a particularly picturesque
costume, but are exceedingly dirty, and not prepossessing in features.
I had somehow or another formed an idea that as we advanced southwards
into the more uncivilized countries of Herzegovina, Montenegro, and
Albania, we should find that the population, as it became more and more
artistic in appearance, would at the same time become more and more
dirty and villanous-looking. Seeing how very nasty these Dalmatians
were, I expected to come across something very horrible indeed later
on. In this I must say that I was agreeably disappointed; for all these
reputedly barbarous races are far more intelligent, clean, and
handsome, than the dull and in every way objectionable Morlak of
Southern Austria, who much resembles his brother the Bulgarian.
One of the natives of this district writes thus of his countrymen:--
"For every article of necessity and comfort Dalmatia is dependent on
other countries. There is clay, but no potter; quartz, but no
glass-work; timber, but no carpenter; lime, but no kiln; coal, but no
mine; iron, but no furnace; rags (plenty of them), but no paper-mill."
These words, written some years ago, are almost true of the present
day. The wretched condition of the country is partly due to the regime
of the Venetians, who got what they could out of it, but did little for
the improvement of the people. The greater portion of the territory was
acquired by Austria from Venice in 1798.
But though the Government has established schools, and a university at
Zara, and done much in many ways to ameliorate the condition of things,
Dalmatia is still in a very backward condition. The natives look with
suspicion on, and are far from grateful for, the benefits they receive
from the State. The Austrians are cordially hated by both the Sclavs
and the Italians. These two latter, again, are very jealous of each
other. So great is the mutual dislike, that it is rare to find even two
fellow-townsmen of the different races on anything like friendly terms.
To a casual observer, at any rate, it seems that Austria has no very
secure footing in this country, and has effected a mere military
occupation of it.
The Government does its best to conciliate the people. They are lightly
taxed, and have been allowed to retain many important rights and
privileges.
The population has been disarmed by the Austrians, who are now carrying
out the same policy in the Herzegovina and Bosnia--their lately
acquired possessions.
Thus the Morlaks--who, like their neighbours in the Turkish provinces,
were wont to stalk about bristling with pistols and knives, even in the
towns--are now obliged to be contented with enormous red ginghams,
which have become quite a feature in the national costume.
Luckily for Austria, three-quarters of the population are Roman
Catholics, those of the Greek Church being the minority; thus Russian
intrigue, though it is carried on by numerous agents, does not effect
much harm among the Sclavs of these districts.
After having visited the many objects of interest in this old Venetian
city, and having tried and highly approved of the Rosoglio and
Maraschino, for the manufacture of which it is now celebrated, we
returned to our vessel, and were soon once more steaming down the
ever-changing coast to the southwards.
The sky was obscured by clouds and the wind was strong; but there was
little sea, for the islands were so frequent that we but rarely caught
a glimpse of the open Adriatic. The shores, both of continent and
island, were very stony and barren. There seemed to be no cultivation
or any sign of life for miles. I should say that there must be
thousands of uninhabited islands along this coast.
We had for some time been silently smoking our cigarettes on the
bridge, observing the desolate panorama as it swept by us, when our
Turk suddenly broke in with--
"Why do not you English, who are so strong, and take a part so often in
other people's quarrels, fight for yourselves and recover what
Buonaparte took from you."
I was obliged to confess that I did not quite understand to what he was
alluding.
"Ah, your countrymen never confess to a defeat. But tell me, is not
England a triangle in shape?"
"It is true."
"So I have been told. Now how long is it since she has been of that
form?"
Not being able to give any reply to this difficult query, he
enlightened my ignorance.
"I have been told that when Buonaparte made an alliance with the
Russians and the Italians, he beat England, and each of the three
powers took from her a slice--thus leaving her triangular in shape. Is
it not so?"
While he spoke he drew an imaginary diagram in the air with his sabre,
illustrative of this unfortunate episode in our history. Our friend was
utterly unaware that England was surrounded by the seas. His idea was
that our empire consisted of an extensive region bordering on Russia,
of which India was a province.
He was very anxious to learn if there were Sclavs in England; whether
Queen Victoria was a Sclav; whether the English did not assume a
blackish-brown complexion in the winter, in consequence of the
perpetual fog. I tried to enlighten him on some of these matters, but I
do not think he placed any credence in a word I said, though he was too
polite to exhibit his incredulity.
With the assistance of the donkey-engine we brought up alongside the
quay of Sebenico, and there remained for about half-an-hour. I find in
my diary this one note: "Sebenico does not smell nice." This was a
first impression.
On my return journey I visited this town, and well worthy of a visit it
is.
It is built on the slope of a steep mountain, and rises from the
water's edge in an amphitheatre of quaint old buildings, a colossal
Venetian fortress dominating all. The approach to it from the sea is
remarkable. A labyrinth of narrow channels between rocky islands
affords a difficult access to the shipping.
The Canale de St. Antonio--the one by which the steamer enters the
port--is in one place so shut in by the precipitous islands, that it
seems as if one could touch either side of it from the deck with
outstretched arm. The streets are narrow, dirty, and steep; but some of
the houses are very lofty and quaint, and all are impressed with the
solemn and grandiose character of the Venetian style.
We steamed on through the afternoon, which was wild and stormy. The
setting sun lit up the lofty and gloomy mountains of the Herzegovina,
which far away inland towered above the lesser intervening heights,
with a lurid light, while fierce gusts, driving black clouds before
them, swept down the ravines till they struck our vessel in violent
squalls which heeled her over, and sent the white spray hissing over
the small rocky islands which jutted out everywhere to leeward of us.
[Illustration: SPALATO.
_Page 26._]
At nine o'clock this evening we were alongside the quay of Spalato.
Bidding adieu to our friends on board, and promising our Turk to visit
him at Scutari, we threw our baggage into a small boat manned by some
ragged and noisy ruffians, whose language was so rapid and so horrible
in sound, that I could not but admire them for their evident ability to
understand each other, and inwardly formed a higher opinion of the
intellectual capacity of this branch of the Sclav race at any rate.
CHAPTER III.
Dalmatian _cuisine_--The Emperor Diocletian--Remains of the old
palace--We make two friends--Wines of Dalmatia--Customs of the
Morlaks--A visit to Salona--A great fete--Costumes--Morlak singing.
On landing we were at once pounced upon by the Custom-house officers,
who could not quite make out our semi-military appearance. Our baggage,
however, was not examined, so our cartridges once more escaped.
Re-shouldering our guns, and handing over our blankets and saddle-bags
to a quay-loafer, we marched off to the Hotel de Ville, which we were
told is the best inn in the town. A very fair one it turned out to be,
consisting of the first and second floor of a portion of a large
desolate-looking colonnaded square, recently built by a company, whose
shareholders I believe will willingly part with their shares at the
price of issue, for they have not met with much encouragement to
continuing their work. The telegraph and post-offices, and the
restaurant of the hotel, at present monopolize the completed portion of
the square. On the other unbuilt side is a sulphur spring, not
sufficiently appreciated by the faculty of Spalato.
The restaurant adjoining the hotel is a fair one for this country, but
the cuisine of Dalmatia can hardly be recommended. The dishes presented
to the traveller are not exactly German, nor are they exactly Italian,
but combine the worst properties of the two without any of the good. On
the other hand, the rooms in this hotel are very clean and comfortable,
and the charge at this, as at all other restaurants on this coast, is
considerably lower than in most countries of Europe. Having dined, we
strolled through the town, whose nightly aspect we did not think very
much of.
Instinct led us to the principal cafe. It is in the piazza in the
centre of the town, and is greatly frequented by the Austrian officers
as well as by the local civil swells. The open-air part of the cafe is
a pleasant arbour of sub-tropical creepers. Here we smoked our
cigarettes, and sipped our iced coffee for an hour or so, amused with
the quaint costumes of the people and the lofty houses around us,
dating from the old Venetian days, as their elegant porticoes and fine
carvings plainly showed. On the wall of one house near the cafe there
are some very curious religious carvings. Eve presenting the apple to
Adam is very comic.
Spalato is a town at which one could easily pass a considerable time in
most enjoyable loafing. The old Venetian city is built within the
extensive walls of the palace of Diocletian, but the modern town has
spread considerably beyond their limits. These ancient walls formed a
useful defence against the piratical hordes that infested this coast
during the Middle Ages, till the strong arm of the Venetian Republic
swept the Adriatic of these freebooters, whose detestable excesses were
the terror of the whole maritime population.
Spalato is built on a promontory formed by the deep inlet on whose
shores is situate the old Roman city of Salona, while the large islands
of Brazza and Bua shelter the harbour from on-shore winds.
It was to this pleasant spot that the Emperor Diocletian, himself a
native of Salona, retired in the year 305, when, weary of empire, he
resigned the imperial purple. On the sea-shore, a few miles from
Salona, he built himself this magnificent palace, in which he passed
the remainder of his life without care or regret, taking great pleasure
in cultivating his garden with his own hands.
The outer walls form a square, each side of which is nearly a mile in
length. These to a great measure still exist, but the modern houses
built against and _into_ them have by no means improved their
appearance. The Cathedral of Spalato was the Pagan Temple which
Diocletian constructed in the centre of the area, and is a very
symmetrical building. Many of the columns, and also the Sphinx, which
ornament the palace, were brought here from Constantinople and Egypt.
We were awakened early the next morning by a knock at our door. On our
replying to it a pleasant-looking stout gentleman entered smiling, and
introduced himself to us as Marco Bettoni, _capitaine de long cours_.
He had heard of the arrival of two Englishmen in the town, so as he
spoke English himself, he had come to offer his services to us. A very
useful and agreeable companion he proved to be. The Dalmatians are
excellent sailors, and these retired _capitaines de long cours_ form a
most respectable element in the population. Most of the _Podestas_ or
mayors of the small villages are of this class. They are always men
who have knocked about the world, and are happy to assist travellers
in every way.
After breakfast we visited some of the lions of Spalato, in the
company of our new friend. The architecture of the narrow streets,
with their lofty balconied houses, and the ever-recurring Lion of St.
Mark carved over the archways, constantly reminded one of the old
Republic. We went to the "Porta Aurea"--the "golden gate," which
pierces the outer wall of Diocletian's palace from the north. I sat
down under a blazing sun, and managed to make a sketch of it. During
the process I was surrounded by a crowd of admiring Morlaks. When the
marble columns which supported the arches were in their places, it
must have been very beautiful. The ancient Temple of Jupiter, now the
Cathedral of Spalato, was within the precincts of the palace. It is
now surmounted by an elegant _campanile_, which was constructed after
its conversion into a Christian church. From the summit of this--200
feet above the sea--there is a charming view over the town, the
harbour, and the islands of the Adriatic beyond.
The interesting remains of this town have been so well described by
former travellers, that I will not here enter into them. Suffice to say
that Spalato offers at every step some curious relic of early Christian
as well as Pagan days, not to mention the fine Venetian buildings. In
the architecture of the palace as well as in the statuary brought from
Salona, and stored here in the public museum, one can detect the
transition state of art, and the falling off of the old classic beauty
of form.
We were introduced by our new friend to a very pleasant French
gentleman, who was of great service to us during our stay. M.
Vigneau was an _AEnologue_, a native of Bordeaux, and had come
hither to be manager of a company recently started at Spalato, for the
production of superior classes of wines. The natives of the country
were quite ignorant of the science, their wines being rough and
unpalatable--surcharged with tannin. But, under the scientific and
skilful direction of M. Vigneau, it has been proved that Dalmatia is
capable of producing excellent wines, emulating the finest vintages of
his native land. Other companies have since his attempt been started
for the like purpose, but as far as I could judge the "_Societe
AEnalogue de Dalmatie_," as the original Spalato undertaking is called,
produces the largest variety and most excellent quality of wines.
We visited the buildings of the company. It was the vintage season, and
huge butts were brimming with the ripe fruit outside the door. In the
yard two employes sat at a table purchasing the grapes, as picturesque
Morlaks--men, women, and children--bore in the purple spoil in sacks
and baskets of every size. These were weighed, and the little bundles
of money were handed over to them in return. Now and then a basket
would be refused, the quality of grape being inferior; when the wild
people would enter into a fierce discussion with many gesticulations,
but were peremptorily told to move on, as their noise was useless. The
Morlaks are civilized enough to know some of the tricks of trade spoken
of by the "divine Artemus" as common among the American manufacturers
of apple-sauce, the difference being that in the one case the bottom of
the vessel is filled with sawdust and in the other with stones.
We indulged in a feast of grapes at M. Vigneau's, and then adjourned to
his spacious cellars to try his various wines. The huge casks, which
contain enough of the rich fluid to drown the largest elephant, had
been brought in sections from Bordeaux--the natives being incapable of
constructing them. The wines we tasted were exceedingly good, and the
different varieties might pass for the best burgundies, sherries, and
ports; there is also an excellent light wine. These wines are improved
by a sea voyage. They are cheap, and need only to be introduced into
England to be appreciated and widely consumed. Indeed I am sure many of
us have unknowingly drunk and enjoyed them, for M. Vigneau told me that
not only were large quantities exported to Italy, but--especially since
the Phylloxera plague had broken out--also to France, to the Bordeaux
district itself, where doubtlessly they are blended with the native
product and sent to us under many fair-sounding Chateaux brands.
The Sclav names which the Spalato wines bear are not musical. M.
Vigneau gave me all the details and prices. These wines could be sold
in England, after paying all transport and custom expenses, at a very
low rate indeed. The company is sufficiently old for us to have tasted
and approved some choice vintages that had been twelve years or so in
bottle, and very excellent they proved.
M. Vigneau had spent a few years in England, and speaks English very
well. So between him and the kindly old sea-captain, we did not feel
ourselves at all abroad in Spalato. Without them we should not have got
on, for our knowledge of Italian was limited, and of Sclav we knew but
the names for bare necessaries. At Spalato we had many opportunities of
observing the manners and customs of the mixed population of the
Dalmatian coasts.
The native Italians and Sclavs keep very much to themselves. There is
no society of any kind, and I cannot say I was in any way favourably
impressed with them. The Austrian garrison, officers and men, on the
other hand, created a very favourable impression. There is none of that
swagger and bounce which is too often displayed by the troops of some
nations we know of when in the midst of a subject alien and hostile
race. The officers are very gentlemanly-looking men, and the Hungarians
who were quartered here struck one by their jovial and kindly manners.
The Austrian officers much dislike service in this province; it is the
Siberia of Austria. The people do not speak their tongue, and will not
mix with them; and the upper classes studiously insult them, as far as
they dare. The Morlaks or Sclav peasantry are an interesting race, but
not much to be admired.
They are from all accounts great thieves and liars, and more backward,
I should say, than any people in Europe. They have no desire for
improvement. Any one who endeavours to introduce some new manufacture
or industry among them is treated with suspicion; every obstacle is
studiously thrown in his way.
The costumes of the male Morlaks are very picturesque, varying in
different districts. They wear the baggy trousers coming to the knee;
the embroidered vest and red sash of the East. In most parts the
head-dress is a skull-cap, flat at the top, sometimes red; generally
the colour is indistinguishable for the accumulated grease of years.
They wear _opunkas_ on their feet. These are sandals or slippers,
with turned-up toe; made of rough thongs of oxhide; they are tied to
the foot with straps of the same material. The Morlak is always
accompanied by his long pipe with its red clay bowl. He is also
addicted to smoking cigarettes through brightly painted wooden tubes
fully three feet in length. The dress of the women differs so much in
districts that it is impossible to give anything like a general
description of it; it is not unlike that of the Southern Italians.
They, too, wear the opunka.
The Morlaks have many strange superstitions and customs. To any one who
wishes to see in the life the barbarous manners of the Middle Ages in
all their picturesqueness, a voyage in these countries can be
recommended. However, the Austrians have eliminated one of the most
picturesque, if rather objectionable, features of the good old times.
Hordes of brigands no longer overrun Dalmatia; the vendetta is now
unknown; and travelling, if rough, is unattended with danger; and I may
add that Morlaks, despite their other faults, are exceedingly
hospitable, and will give up their one bed to the travelling stranger.
The women of this race are treated in true Eastern fashion; that is,
not much better than the beasts of burden.
As in the East, those of the higher class rarely leave their houses,
but sit lazily in their chamber acquiring a becoming pallor of
countenance and fatness of limb. A Sclav will not allude to his wife in
conversation without an apology for mentioning so low a thing. "My
wife, excuse me, sir," is the common way of bringing her into a
sentence. As in the East, too, the unchaste woman is regarded with
great abhorrence. What vice there may be has to conceal itself in dark
places, for the old punishment of the stoning is by no means unknown
here. In the towns of Albania, this outward show of morality--for that
is all it really is, just as in the old days, when the virtuous man to
throw the first stone was not to be found--is still more ferociously
demonstrative, cases of guilty parties of both sexes having been torn
to pieces by the mob being of not unfrequent occurrence there.
The following incident happened shortly before our arrival at Scutari.
A Turkish officer of police, who had carried on a flirtation with the
German servant of a foreign consul, was discovered, seized by several
men, and beaten till he fainted with his wounds, and was left by them
for dead.
The next day was Sunday. Hiring a trap, we drove, with our two friends,
along a good road, across a wine-producing country, commanding pleasant
views of sea and mountain, to Salona--the old Roman city--the
birthplace of Diocletian. It is but four miles from Spalato. As we
approached it we saw, some miles off inland, on a precipitous buttress
of the mountain, the ancient and impregnable fortress of Clissa,
commanding the approach to Spalato from the Herzegovina.
Salona is situated on the sloping ground at the head of the deep and
beautiful inlet of the sea, which bears the same name. The ruins have
been excavated, and there are no important remains to be seen, for the
town was thoroughly sacked and destroyed by the Gothic hordes. It was
from Salona, in 544, that Belisarius set out to rescue Italy from
Totila and his Goths. The town had withstood several sieges. Attila
himself is reported to have once captured it. Having for years enjoyed
peace, lulled into a false and fatal sense of security, the Salonites,
the historian tells us, gradually fell into a state of incredible
luxury and sensuality. This was the Sybaris of the East. At last the
day of trial came, and the effete citizens were found to be incapable
of defending their homes against the hardier foe.
The Avars overran Dalmatia in the year 639.
Salona easily fell into the hands of the Barbarians. The sinful city
was plundered and burnt to the ground; and where stood its stately
theatres and temples, there is now but an uninhabited wilderness.
Its site commands a splendid view over the blue gulf, and dark, far
mountains. This day, at this season of the year, when a brown tint was
on the tangled groves, and a purple bloom on the grapes, while a fresh
sea wind sighed through the desolate ruins, the general effect was very
impressive.
Here we wandered a couple of hours or so through vines and brushwood,
the fallen walls of houses, tombs, shattered friezes and columns
meeting us at every turn. Nearly everywhere, on raking off the thin
layer of overlying rubbish, beautiful tessalated pavements are
disclosed to view. The Morlak peasantry crowded round us and sold to
us, at ridiculously low prices, coins of the Diocletian era, vases and
beautiful lacrymals, irridescent and scaling off with age. Several were
melted out of shape by the fires of that fierce sacking more than a
thousand years ago.
The Roman aqueduct which supplied the palace of Diocletian, at Spalato,
with water, is still in very fair repair.
The modern city suffers much from want of water. This necessary has to
be carted in from a long distance.
The restoration of the old aqueduct has been decided on; and to have
come to a decision will suffice the Dalmatians for some years to come.
It is to be hoped that the plan will ultimately be carried out. "The
Spalatans will then have no excuse left for not washing themselves;" so
I said to Mr. Vigneau, innocently. "Oh, you don't know them," said he;
"they will discover that washing opens the pores, and renders them more
susceptible to the _trebesine_ (the fever)."
The source of the _Gindro_, where commences the aqueduct, is well
worthy of a visit. About a mile from Salona--at the head of a wild and
beautiful well-wooded gorge down which this torrent flows--the further
progress of the traveller is barred by a precipitous wall of rock. At
the foot of this wall an enormous volume of ice-cold water rushes out
upwards from an orifice in the rock, filling up a deep, broad pool,
which foams and whirls as the spring spouts up from underneath with
incredible force, forming a dome of water on the surface. There is
something horrible in the Titanic forces and furious whirl, that makes
one dizzy; one cannot look down long. The water overflowing from the
pool partly feeds the aqueduct, which is carried along the slope of the
hill, and partly rushes down the gorge, turning on its way the huge
wheel of a flour-mill.
This mill we visited with M. Vigneau. The enterprising individual who
had started it seemed very disheartened. The latest machinery had been
brought hither at great cost. But this was too great a novelty for the
conservative Morlak peasantry, who resented and fought shy of the
innovation, preferring to grind their corn between two flat stones
picked up in the river bed, as their fathers did before them.
We drove home before sunset, as there was much fever about. There was
not a cottage near here that had not some of its occupants prostrated
by the _trebesine_.
Tuesday, September the 30th, was a great Dalmatian holiday. On foot, on
mule-back, in the rough waggons drawn by diminutive oxen, the peasantry
trooped in. The Morlaks are very fond of feasts. Every other day seems
to be dedicated to some saint or other, who would avenge himself were
he neglected. The working days are few, as M. Vigneau bitterly
complained.
I believe this peasantry still observes several feasts whose origin
dates back to Pagan times.
The holiday gave us a good opportunity of viewing the various costumes
of this country at their best.
Not least quaint were the Jews of Spalato. Some were long-bearded,
solemn-looking old fellows, dressed in the same sombre garb the Jews of
Venice wore when Shylock drove sharp bargains on the Rialto.
The groups that filled the narrow streets were very Eastern in
appearance. The pig-tailed Morlak, clad in his Sunday jacket; the
savage-looking Bosnian Turk, with turban, broad sash, and gay slippers;
the Greek sailors; all had an outlandish appearance, that told us we
were far from home--"from home and beauty" too, for of the latter there
was little to be seen at Spalato. I honestly saw no women who could,
with the grossest flattery, be called pretty, between Trieste and
Montenegro. And what can make one feel so alone in a strange land, as
the absence of fair women.
The Dalmatian Sclavs are unfortunately very fond of raising their
voices in song. A gang of youths would-walk down a street arm-in-arm,
shouting some native ballad. The music and singing of the East is
always of a melancholy character; but never have I heard anything so
dismal as the barbaric dirges of the Morlaks. The song is a sort of
monotonous chant, which has a peculiar querulous complaining spirit in
it; and yet a suppressed and timorous complaining, as of slaves that
had not for centuries known what independence and freedom was.
How different is the song of the free Montenegrin (of the same race as
the Morlak). It is of the same monotonous character, but has a go and
energy in it, inspired as it is with the warlike feats of their heroes
in the present as well as in the past--not a song of regret for some
by-gone greatness, but an exultation in the brave and illustrious now.
Each verse of a Morlak song dies away in a long and sad howl, followed
by a silence, before the next verse is taken up. This produces a
peculiarly depressing effect.
Our arrival was pretty well known all over the town, for strangers are
not frequent, especially Englishmen. The citizens, who could not
conceive any one being mad enough to travel for amusement, especially
in their country, discussed us curiously. M. Vigneau told us he had,
several times each day, to give a long narrative of the lives,
pursuits, &c., of Brown and myself, in order to satisfy the eager
inquirers.
On hearing that we intended to visit Albania, the verdict always was,
"They will not come back"--this with a meaning shrug of the shoulders.
I have, on more than one occasion found, when I have left England for
some unknown and supposed dangerous country, that as I gradually neared
it the reports and accounts of the perils of that land became less and
less alarming. For "distance" lends terror as well as enchantment "to
the view."
In the case of Albania, however, the nearer we approached it the worse
was the reputation of its fierce inhabitants for murder and robbery;
the more earnestly were we warned against travelling in such a
cut-throat region. This was not an encouraging sign. However, the best
plan is ever to go on as far as one can, and believe little one hears.
CHAPTER IV.
Voyage to Cattaro--A Bora--The gulf of Narenta--The Herzegovina--The
island of Curzola--Ragusa--The Bocche di Cattaro--The frontier of
Montenegro--The fortress of Cattaro--Evening promenade--Personal
attractions of the Cattarine ladies--Rough roads--Prince Nikita's
coach--Bosnian refugees--A Bosnian's luggage.
We had been in Spalato nearly a week. The steamers from Trieste did not
bring us Jones and Robinson, so we determined to push on. We bid adieu
to our good friends, who evidently considered our heads doomed to fall
beneath Albanian yataghans, and embarked on October the 2nd at 4 p.m.,
on an Austrian Lloyd, bound for Cattaro, which lies up a long gulf at
the foot of the Montenegrin mountains. There we were to leave
civilization and the sea coast, and commence our inland march. From
Spalato to Cattaro is a forty-eight hours' journey by the steamer. For
the last few days the genial Scirocco, or south-east wind, had been
blowing; but to-day the fierce gusts of the Bora, or north-east wind,
had changed, in a trice, the warm autumn weather to bitter winter.
This wind beats very heavily on the eastern coast of the Adriatic, and
is much dreaded by seamen.
The quaint lateen craft of the country, constructed on such antique
lines, skimmed by us with close-reefed sails--curious sails they are,
many-coloured, and painted with pictures of suns and grotesque saints.
Throughout the wild afternoon and night we steamed on, touching at
Almissa and Macarsca on our way. The next day we steamed up the long,
land-locked gulf of Narenta. The scenery, as usual, was fine, but so
indescribably desolate and barren that the eye soon wearied of it. On
the gulf of Narenta a narrow strip of Herzegovina runs down to the sea,
thus, till that province was acquired by Austria, dividing her
territory in two.
We anchored off a spot called Neoum, which is on this recently acquired
slip, in order to land soldiers and munitions for the troops. Neoum is
a military post recently established by Austria on the bare sides of
the mountain. We landed, and found a barrack, a telegraph station, and
a public-house; these were the only buildings. It is an important
position, however, as being the nearest point to Mostar, in
Herzegovina, to which town the Government is now constructing a
military road from here. Next we touched at the picturesque fortress of
Curzola, on the island of the same name. It is surrounded by grand old
Venetian walls and towers, which rise from the water's edge.
This night we anchored for several hours off Gravosa, the northern
harbour of Ragusa. The latter wonderful old city, perhaps the most
interesting of all Dalmatia, we had time to explore in a rapid way.
There was once a Republic of Ragusa. The fact that it successfully
maintained its independence, when all the surrounding countries had
been acquired by Venice, will testify to the strength of the little
state. The chief street is broad, and contains lofty and noble
houses--residences of the old merchant princes--strong-built, with
elegant balconies and carved porticoes. From this street narrow streets
ascend the mountain side, in steps of granite. Arches are thrown from
house-top to house-top; there are some grand bits for a painter. The
town is paved with broad, flat stones, which gives it a very clean
appearance.
The next was a glorious day. The gentle south wind once more brought
summer back to us, and the lateen-rigged boats again shook out their
reefs, and displayed all their gaudy canvas.
It was early in the day when we steamed through the entrance of the
Bocche di Cattaro.
This magnificent fiord has often been described. It certainly contains
some of the finest scenery in Europe.
The deep gulf winds into the heart of the wild Montenegrin mountains.
At first it is quite six miles in width, then it narrows to a few
hundred yards, then again widens into an extensive lake as the
fantastically-shaped, almost perpendicular masses of bleak rock jut far
out into the deep clear water in rugged promontories, or retire from it
in dark and profound chasms and ravines.
Here and there houses and churches are seen perched on seemingly
inaccessible ledges, thousands of feet above the blue water which
reflects them. There are several small towns on the shores of the
Bocche. Castelnuovo and Perasto have beautiful situations. Pleasant
villages, half buried in olive gardens, are built on the lower slopes
of the hills.
But the first view of that extraordinary fortress, Cattaro, is never to
be forgotten. At the very head of the last arm of the Bocche the dark
blue masses of mountain, here higher and more precipitous than
elsewhere, shut in a deep bay.
[Illustration: BOCCHE DI CATTARO.
_Page_ 48.]
More than 4000 feet above, on the ridge, is the frontier of Montenegro--a
country by the sea, looking down on the blue water, yet shut out from it
by its big neighbours.
[Illustration: WALLS OF CATTARO.
_Page_ 49.]
A bold bluff of rock, a thousand feet or more in height, slightly
projects from the main mass, perpendicular, bare, cleft into profound
chasms. This extraordinary site has been chosen for the most wonderful
fortress in Europe. Below, on the narrow margin between rock and sea,
is built the town. Along the water's edge is a quay, to which are
moored the beautiful craft of the country. This has been converted into
a pleasant walk, fringed with trees. Behind this is the old Venetian
wall of the city, with its fine solid towers and broad battlements; the
time-darkened stones in places luxuriantly overgrown with the lovely
flowers and creepers of the sunny South. Passing through the
portcullised gate, one enters into a strange, quaint city. The streets
are narrow, the houses lofty, and covered with grotesque carvings. No
carts, carriages, or horses, are permitted to enter the town. This,
by-the-bye, is the case in most Dalmatian cities. The whole is paved
with large flags. Cattaro is of some length, but very narrow, for it is
shut in by the steep cliff which rises immediately from behind it.
Now the walls of the town, after bounding it on the sea front, zigzag
up either side of the bluff I mentioned, till they meet on its crowning
point, a thousand feet above the sea, where stands a formidable-looking
castle.
On observing how they rise and dip, adapting themselves to the little
ravines and irregularities of the rock, one is irresistibly reminded of
the pictures of the great wall of China one was so much impressed with
in the spelling-books of childhood.
Very old the town and fortifications are. No improving Goth has yet
taken aught away from their grotesque grandeur.
It is very difficult to describe the effect of all this, for the
scenery in and around Cattaro is such as is not to be found elsewhere,
quite _sui generis_. The most _blase_ traveller would utter an
exclamation of surprise when that wonderful fortress suddenly appeared
before him, like some great city of the genii that one has read of in
fairy tale, or seen in some half-remembered nightmare. The high cliff,
with its grey fortress, seems ready to topple down on the town any
moment. Some of the huge masses of overhanging rock have at times been
dislodged, and fallen below; many of these are chained to the mountain,
to prevent this catastrophe.
So lofty and steep are the surrounding heights that Cattaro does not
enjoy much of the light of the sun; the shadows depart late, and soon
set in. But during the few hours in the middle of the day that the
sun's rays do fall on it, this place is like an oven--possibly the
hottest town in Europe.
About four o'clock in the afternoon our steamer was alongside the quay.
We marched off to the Hotel Cacciatore, a very decent place, whose
proprietor is a quaint fellow, with a perpetual smile, who imagines he
can speak French. The restaurant is fair, and frequented by the
officers of the garrison. The custom-house officers did not trouble us,
but the mosquitoes did; so, too, did certain insects that inhabited our
beds.
Brown is one of those unfortunate people whose blood is exceptionally
sweet and palatable to insect life, and to whom, consequently, the
hours of darkness in these lands bring no peace, but sleepless torments
worse than the guiltiest, liveliest conscience could inflict. He
brought with him from England a large packet of insecticide, and every
night, before he retired, made careful preparations to withstand the
usual siege. He was not contented with dusting himself all over so
freely that he set the whole Albanian expedition sneezing for an hour,
but he would also build around his body, on the bed-clothes, an
impregnable rampart of the powder so broad and lofty that the most
active flea would fail to leap it.
The next day was Sunday--a warm and delicious day. We attended the
service, and enjoyed the fine music in the old Venetian church. In the
evening we visited the public promenade on the quay outside the walls,
which was crowded by the population and the country people in their
Sunday best.
At the end of this promenade there is a public garden, and a
_cafe_ under the ramparts. The marble tables are placed out of
doors, among the bright flowers and creepers. Here we sat lazily
smoking our cigarettes, and listening to the music of the Hungarian
military band that played just in front of us. There is no gas at
Cattaro; the town is lit with petroleum. The band carries its own
lamps. It was curious to see the men troop into the garden, each with a
pole over his shoulder, to which hung his lit lantern. This place is
really delightful on such an evening as this. The scene was exactly
like some great scenic display on the boards of a large theatre--some
dream of fairyland. One could not help half expecting to see some
bright Eastern ballet trip in the next moment. The promenade in front
of the walls was the stage and proscenium. The lovely Eastern night,
the moon hanging over the great hills, the blue waters and the
fantastic shipping, the giant walls and towers, the grand mountains
behind all, the picturesque crowd, and the lively music, all combined
to form a perfect spectacle, magic-like--to say theatrical would be an
unworthy adjective--that I, for my part, never imagined could be found
within a week's journey of practical, ugly London, dear old place
though it is.
Costumes flitted by us as brilliant and strange to the eye as those of
an Alhambra _opera bouffe_. The Morlak, the lithe and bright-eyed
Greek, the turbaned Turk of Bosnia, with glowing robe, solemn and
haughtily-looking; the Montenegrin mountaineer, with his white coat
tied on with silken sash, and richly embroidered vest; the Albanian in
fez, snowy kilt, rough capote, and jacket stiff with gold; the Arnaut,
with his manly tight-fitting dress, stalking through the crowd, looking
the fierce and undaunted savage that he is--all these strolled or stood
in groups, completing the picture with their richly-coloured and varied
costume. The very Europeans, with their sadder-hued dress, formed no
unpleasing foil to these.
The ladies, with unbonnetted heads, over which a shawl is gracefully
thrown in Venetian fashion, their little feet silk-stocked and
slippered, as in the East, above which, just peeping below the black
silk dress, hung a mere suspicion of delicate white embroidered
petticoat, were charming--if not seen too near: an ungallant verdict,
reluctantly wrung from a veracious traveller.
The Hungarian and other Austrian uniforms were also no unpleasing
feature in the throng.
I have just now, and I think on other occasions, used the term European
in contradistinction to the term Dalmatian. I only follow the usage of
the country. I found that Dalmatians and Albanians always spoke of
Europe as if they were quite apart from it. "You Europeans," "you in
Europe," was a common phrase.
The music ceases--the lights are extinguished. We must pass through the
walls by the narrow gate into the city. By night the portcullis is half
lowered, so we have to stoop to go through, as if to bow in obeisance
to the winged lion of St. Mark that is carved in the old stone above.
We walked through the quaint old streets, whose broad clean flags rang
metallically under our feet. The town was now deserted and silent. As
we approached the hotel we stood and listened to one remarkable noise
which can be heard once every hour at Cattaro, and which produces a
very curious and pleasing effect. This is the watchword of the sentries
on the walls. First, the sentinel below at the gate-tower commences,
with the long wailing cry; then the next takes it up, then the next,
and so on, right up the zigzag fortifications to the fortress up in the
mountain, a thousand feet above, each cry fainter than the last. Then,
when the sentinel at the extreme summit has shouted out the word--his
voice almost inaudible to us so far below--it is carried down the other
side of the walls, distincter and distincter again, until it reaches
the starting-point again, and the man posted on the grim old tower just
before us gives out in loud voice the last intimation that all is well.
We loafed about the neighbouring mountains and shores for some days,
waiting to see if those dilatory travellers, Jones and Robinson, would
turn up. We visited the new road now being constructed into
Montenegro--a difficult undertaking to surmount these frightful rocks.
The old road, which is carried in long zigzags from above Cattaro to
the summit of the pass, is calculated to test the wind and muscles of
the pedestrian. It is a very rough affair; and though much labour has
been expended to clear away the larger rocks that obstruct the way, yet
in some places one has to clamber over boulders of considerable height.
The Montenegrins look upon this rough track as being a model high-road.
It is far better than most of the so-called roads of Montenegro and
Albania. But in these countries it is generally difficult to make out
what is intended for road, and what is not. The roughest mule-track of
Switzerland is as good as a great highway here.
The Prince of Montenegro recently paid a visit to the Emperor of
Austria, at Vienna, where he was made very much of. When he was about
to return to his native mountains, the Emperor was much puzzled to know
what would be a fitting present to make to the semi-barbaric despot. At
last he bethought him of a splendid state-carriage, on whose panels
were painted the arms of the principality, and four fine horses.
The Prince was much gratified, and the costly gift was taken by steam
to Cattaro. Here an unexpected difficulty arose. The carriage could not
be taken to Cettinje, for there was nothing that by the greatest
stretch of compliment could be called a carriage-road leading into the
principality. So here, at Cattaro, in Austria, the coach has to remain
until the new road be completed, which will not be for some time to
come. Whether the coach was originally given in anticipation of the new
road, or whether the new road is being constructed for the coach, I was
not able to discover.
On the next day the Duke of Wittemburg arrived here by steamer, on his
way to Cettinje. A deputation of gorgeously-clad Montenegrin notables,
tall, handsome, and straight, armed to the teeth was on the quay to
receive him. These contrasted favourably with the municipal
authorities, who were there for the same object. A German or Italian in
swallow-tail coat, black silk hat, and white kid gloves, in broad
sunlight, is an uncomfortable and unpleasing object.
In the afternoon the guns from the fort above the town fired twice--the
signal that the Trieste steamer was in sight. This time we made certain
that our friends were on board.
So confident were we, that Brown and myself tossed up as to whether
Jones or Robinson should be at the charge of a bottle of maraschino to
be consumed by the quartette.
We were again disappointed. We went on board; they were stowed away in
no part of the vessel. The deck presented a curious appearance; it was
crowded with turbaned Bosnian refugees, who with their wives and
families had deserted their native land, intolerable to them since its
occupation by the Austrian giaours. They were now on their way to the
new lands promised to them by the Porte. This exodus is much more
extensive than is generally imagined. These poor people bore their
grief with true Oriental apathy. They had laid their mats on the decks,
and were squatting on them smoking silently, holding no converse with
the hated giaours around them. The veiled women crouched up close under
the bulwarks in a shrinking manner, while the little nude children
sprawled about anywhere. I need not add that all swarmed with vermin.
They had their Penates with them, of course. Their luggage was rather
scanty.
It was a curious sight to see them trooping out of the vessel, each man
bearing his _impedimenta_--his mat, pipe, and coffee-pot; this was
all. One family had a European portmanteau; this was opened at the
Custom-house. Its contents proved to be--on one side potatoes, on the
other a coffee-pot! The potatoes doubtlessly had been dug from the
little enclosure round the homestead in the old country.
We decided to give up our friends, and start on the morrow for
Cettinje, the capital of Montenegro, for we had wasted some time, and
were anxious to commence our march into the wild interior, and see what
lay beyond that barrier of cloud-capped rock before us.
We found a Montenegrin who owned a small wiry mountain horse. He agreed
for a small sum to guide us, and carry our baggage to the capital.
Before leaving Cattaro we changed some English sovereigns into
swanzickers. This is an old Austrian coin, out of circulation in the
Empire, of the date of Maria Theresa, and as a rule bearing her effigy.
This is the coin particularly affected by the Montenegrins, they always
value anything in these elsewhere obsolete swanzickers.
The Turkish modern coinage is also accepted, but under protest. The
silver Medjidie seems to have a different value in every Montenegrin
village. Austrian modern money or paper they will have nothing to do
with, as a rule. Of course gold of any kind is readily taken.
The value of the English sovereign and French napoleon is well known
all over eastern Europe. I was surprised to find that the humblest
mountaineer in Albania knew the exact change for these pieces. The only
difficulty in changing them lies in the possibility of a village not
being able to muster a sufficiency of the small coin as an equivalent.
Bank-notes are of course useless in these wild countries; but at
Cattaro and Spalato, and other Dalmatian towns, there are
money-changers who will change these with pleasure.
When we were at Cattaro the pound sterling was worth eleven florins,
sixty centimes, or thirty-three-and-a-half swanzickers.
CHAPTER V.
March to Cettinje--The pass across the frontier--Montenegrin
warriors--Cettinje--A land of stones--The Prince's Hotel--Frontier
disputes--The commission--Montenegrin method of making war--A game of
billiards--A Draconic law--A popular prince.
Early on the morning of October the 9th, we commenced our journey in
earnest. We passed through the land-side gate of the town, where our
Montenegrin guide with the horse was awaiting us. Just outside this
gate is the Montenegrin Bazaar, as it is called. It consists merely of
two rough sheds built for the use of the Black Mountaineers, who come
down to sell their produce at Cattaro. Here, too, before they enter the
town, they are obliged to leave their mules and arms.
The latter was found to be a very necessary regulation, as quarrels
which ended in bloodshed used often to occur between the fierce
highlanders and the Cattarines. The two peoples are never on the best
of terms--the former being accused of many a midnight descent into the
valleys, to pillage and carry off all they can lay hands on. But the
present Prince of Montenegro has to a great extent reformed his savage
subjects.
A small Morlak boy was deputed by the Montenegrin to lead the horse,
and guide us to the capital of the land of stones.
He was the proud possessor of a lockless Turkish pistol, which he stuck
jauntily in his sash, and of which he was evidently very proud, for he
would stop every now and then to readjust the formidable weapon.
It is not a six hours' march from Cattaro to Cettinje.
Every few yards of progress up the zigzag path revealed some new view
over the indescribably grand gulf below.
At last we were far above town and fortress. They lay at our feet like
a map. The eye could follow all the windings of the Bocche; and so high
were we above it, that we could look over three successive chains of
lofty mountains. The blue water stretched in three long streaks between
them; while far away, over the furthest range, the blue Adriatic lay
peacefully under a cloudless sky. It was a scene of unparalleled
vastness and magnificence.
The summit of the pass was 4500, the fortress that tops the walls 1000
feet above the sea, by our aneroid.
We had chosen a gala day for our entry into Montenegro--for following
us a mile or so behind, were the Duke of Wittemburg and a numerous
_cortege_ on horseback, on their way to Prince Nikita's palace.
We turned a rocky bluff, and a stone marked the frontier of the huge
Empire and little Principality.
Here, drawn up on the left side of the rough track, two deep, were
about eighty armed, splendid-looking Montenegrins, awaiting to serve as
guard of honour to the duke as far as the capital.
They were magnificent men, giants--all considerably above six feet in
height, and broad in proportion. Each wore the long snowy coat of
Montenegro--tied in with a broad sash. Their vests were red, and richly
embroidered with gold and silk. Heavy plates formed of silver buttons
covered their chests, well calculated to offer good resistance to sabre
cut or bayonet.
They wore the national head-dress, which deserves a special
description.
It is a round flat-topped cap of red cloth; round its side, and just
overlapping its upper surface, is stitched a black band. In a corner of
the red circle thus left at the top is embroidered a semicircle, in
gold thread, into which is also often worked the initial letters of
Prince Nikita's name in Sclav characters. This cap has a symbolical
meaning. When the old Servian kingdom was broken up, and the
South-western Sclavs became subject to strange races, the wild mountain
district of Montenegro alone preserved its independence; so its
inhabitants draped their red caps with black, in mourning for their
enslaved brethren. The corner of gold on the red cloth is meant to
represent Montenegro--the one corner of liberty on the field of
blood--the one free spot of the old Sclav kingdom.
The sashes of these highlanders were stuck full of yataghans and
pistols. Some were the richly-worked pistols of Albania, some the long
Austrian grasser revolvers. This is the favourite small arm of the
Montenegrins, who invariably scrape off the bluing when they purchase
one of these weapons, as they consider it looks dirty, and prefer the
bare steel.
Their guns were the Austrian breech-loading rifles of the old pattern;
very fair weapons, but not to be compared to the Martini-Henrys which
are so common in Albania.
These fine men--their plaids blowing to and fro with the fresh highland
breeze, drawn up here on the savage mountain side, while the strains of
the military band at Cattaro rose up from the abyss beneath--looked
very imposing.
At Neigoussa, a miserable little village, there is a _Khan_. Here we
halted, gave our horses a feed, and sitting on the stone bench outside,
lunched off goat's milk, cheese, and sausage, while the wild people,
all armed to the teeth, crowded round us, and respectfully asked to be
allowed to inspect our arms. His arms are the only things a Montenegrin
loves and takes an interest in. He spends half his time in cleaning and
polishing them. Our guns and revolvers were always much admired, and
their systems had to be carefully explained at every halt. My revolver
was the new army weapon, with patent extractor. This was something
entirely novel to them. How often in this country or in Albania would
some chief, covetous of the _Pushka Inglisi_, bring out a handful of
coin, and say eagerly, "_Coliko_, _gospodine_," or "_Sa pare_,
_Zutni?_" (How much, sir?), as the case might be. Our little guide had
mastered its system, and would borrow it and proudly dilate on its
excellencies to the men we met on the way.
At this _Khan_--having a large and appreciative audience round
him--he favoured it with a lengthy lecture, with detailed explanations,
followed, as far as I could make out, by a biography of the two English
travellers. Startling it must have been, too, judging from the admiring
and awe-struck way in which the men turned and stared at us during the
narrative.
[Illustration: CETTINJE.
_Page_ 65.]
Early in the afternoon we marched down the high-street, or rather the
solitary street, of the smallest capital in Europe.
Cettinje is but a village of sordid huts, above which rises, imposing
in contrast to the other buildings, the palace of Prince Nikita.
My sketch represents the view from the hotel--for Cettinje now
possesses this luxury.
The winged house in the centre is the palace. On the right is the
Bishop's residence and cathedral, if this term can be applied in this
case. In the background is the well-known tower on which the heads of
slain Turks were wont to be stuck on spikes, exposed to the jeers of
the populace. The present Prince has put an end to this practice and
has constructed a wooden belfry on its summit, in which is a large
bell, only rung in cases of great emergency, when the hillsmen are to
be suddenly called in order to repel some more perilous foray than
usual from beyond the border. Cettinje is built in a broad plain, not
over fertile, surrounded by lofty hills. This is not the richest plain
in Montenegro; but considering what a desert of stones this country for
the most part is, it appears a very well favoured spot indeed to the
mountaineers.
The legend says that the Almighty, when he distributed stones over the
earth, accidentally upset the bag which contained them over Montenegro.
It truly looks like it--a more desolate and barren region it is
difficult to find: a desert of broken masses of limestone piled one on
the other in fantastic heaps. Its character is expressed in the names
given it by its neighbours. Montenegro in Italian, Karatag in Turkish,
Tchernagora in Sclav, all have the same meaning--The Black Mountain.
As a Montenegrin told me, "This is a poor, rocky country of ours: we
produce but two things--fighting men and flea-powder."
This insecticide of Montenegro, made of a certain rock-plant, is
renowned all over the East, and is largely exported. It is very
efficacious, and well bears out the dogma so impressed upon us in our
youth, that bountiful Providence ever finds the antidote where she
gives the evil. "The nettle and the dock grow side by side."
The hotel is the finest building in the capital after the palace. It
belongs to the Prince, who, observing that inquisitive tourists were
beginning to visit his realm, bethought him of this good speculation.
He has placed a sergeant of his army in it as manager.
On entering it we were ushered into a comfortable room, not by a
smiling chamber-maid, but by a gigantic barbarian bristling with arms.
We sat down and rested for an hour, discussing our plans.
Here we were at last, in the capital of the war-like little State of
which the world has heard so much of late--a State which has been
belauded far and wide; a State whose fierce sons Mr. Gladstone speaks
of in such warm terms, as very far the bravest, noblest warriors of
modern Europe; a State which has for so many hundreds of years
successfully withstood the Turk in many a heroic battle; but which now,
spoiled by too much praise, petted by the rest of Europe, swollen with
pride, dreams of aggrandizement at the expense of Turkey, and nurses
vast and ambitious projects, in which the central idea is--Cettinje the
capital, Prince Nikita the king, of a vast confederacy of the Southern
Sclavs.
The Austrian occupation of Herzegovina and Bosnia was naturally very
displeasing to the Montenegrins, crushing several of their grand hopes.
That Montenegro for years carried on intrigues in the Herzegovina,
incited the Christian population to revolt, and encouraged them to look
forward to the day when they should be subjects of Prince Nikita, is
notorious. The Principality was ever a place of refuge for
Herzegovinian fugitives; and, as my readers know, lent valuable
assistance in that last insurrection which ended in a great European
war.
In the late war Montenegro was very successful, as we all know. Her
troops on several occasions defeated the Turks with great slaughter. It
is true that her foemen were not of the first line, but starving,
shoeless, demoralized Redifs. However that may be, the representatives
of the Powers, at the Congress of Berlin, considering that the prowess
and success of her armies merited some recompense, handed over to her a
large slip of Turkish territory, giving her what she had so long
coveted, a seaport--Antivari.
Her new territory has proved rather troublesome to her, a not unalloyed
good. The inhabitants of it do not approve of being thus
unceremoniously handed over to the hated Karatags, and offered--and
are, I shall have to show by and by, still offering--a formidable
resistance to the Prince's troops. As I am on the subject, I may state
that the wise men at Berlin made a very serious mistake when they drew
a line across the map, to represent the new frontier.
In the first place, whereas it would have been easy to have handed over
lands to Montenegro which are inhabited by co-religionists of hers, who
would have welcomed their new masters, it was thought fit to give her
districts and villages inhabited by the most fiercely fanatical
Mohammedans of Albania. That bloodshed and future troubles would
result, any one who knew the country could have foreseen. I shall have
a good deal more to say on this subject when I get to Albania. The fact
of the matter is, there is no reliable map of this country, so the
representatives at Berlin worked in the dark, confused between the
utterly contradictory description of the region given by Turkish and
Montenegrin envoys.
A good story is told, illustrative of the geographical knowledge of
some members of the congress. A noble English representative was
conversing with one of the Turkish representatives. He had recently
been studying the map of this coast.
"Now," said he, "look here. This little Montenegrin difficulty must be
settled. They want a sea-port; give them one: let them have Cattaro."
"We have no objection to that," replied the Turk with a smile, for he
knew that the port in question belonged to Austria.
The Englishman was delighted. He went straight to his Austrian
colleague. "Ah, the Montenegrin difficulty is settled," he said. "All
is smooth now; the Turks have given in."
"I am glad of that. What, then, is proposed?"
The amusement of the Austrian can be imagined when he heard that the
Turks had no objection to giving up an Austrian fortress to Prince
Nikita.
A frontier commission was sent over last spring to mark out definitely
the new boundary-line. It was composed of course of representatives of
all the Powers interested. I heard, from several people I met, of the
sufferings and difficulties of this much-to-be-pitied expedition. To
draw out any frontier-line based on the instructions they had received
was hopeless.
At last, about two months before our arrival, a melancholy troop might
have been seen descending the rough track that leads from Cettinje to
Rieka. The gates of the heavens were opened. The path was converted
into a foaming torrent. They reached Rieka wet and miserable. The
commissioners then retired to bed and hot beverages, fearful of fever
and rheumatism.
At last a happy thought struck one. "The rainy season is commencing. We
must postpone our labours till next spring. Let us return to our wives
and families."
The English commissioner alone held out, and urged that they should
continue their work now. He told them that the rainy season was a good
two months off yet. In vain; the others had had enough of it; they
threw up the sponge. The commission broke up. What excuse was made to
the several Powers that had sent it out, I know not, but the real cause
was a rain-storm on the Montenegrin hills.
The English commissioner was much admired by the populace, and made
himself by far the most popular of the lot. He was a good foot taller
than any other member of the expedition, and looked like a fine man, as
well as a _diplomat_, for so every one is called here who works for a
foreign government. He was attended, as far as I could make out, by two
smart non-commissioned officers of the line, also big and imposing. One
of these thought it incumbent on him to sport a fez at Scutari, which
at once stamped the English branch of the commission as Turcophil.
We were aroused suddenly by a loud barbaric shout, not much resembling
the cheers of an English crowd.
The Duke of Wittemburg had arrived, so we walked down the high street
to see his reception. The whole of the capital had turned out--a
picturesque mob, every man of which bristled with arms. The Albanian or
Montenegrin never leaves his doorstep without buckling on a very
arsenal of formidable-looking weapons. The women, of whom some were
pretty, mixed freely with the throng. These wear the same sleeveless
white coats as the men do, but no sash ties it in at the waist. Under
this is a many-hued dress or petticoat of thick and rough material,
which falls some six inches or more below the coat. Their legs are
wrapped in shapeless gaiters. They wear the opunka on their feet. They
are fond of stringing small Turkish coins, half-piastres and the like,
with which they ornament their heads and breasts. Some of the necklaces
constructed with the small silver coins are really very pretty.
About 200 men or more were drawn up along the road-side, near the
palace, who fired a salute as the _cortege_ arrived. Some Montenegrin
nobles, in their extravagantly gorgeous dress, mounted on small wiry
horses, rode hither and thither, giving orders to the men. Fine
specimens of guerilla chieftains they were, all of great height,
handsome, and sinewy.
Very characteristic of this country was it to see the men fall into
their places. A gun was fired--the signal that the duke and his party
had been sighted in the pass. Then all down the high-street you might
see tobacconist, leather merchant, and baker, leap from his counter or
leave his work, seize his rifle--always at hand, and always loaded--and
run down to the palace gate, where he would take up his position with
his fellows in the line. The discipline seemed rather slack, but the
strict discipline of a European army would be useless for these men,
trained to fighting from their childhood as they are, and who never or
rarely descend to the plain to join battle with regular troops, but
fight behind the rocks and stones they know so well.
Montenegro has no regular paid army. Every man is a soldier in time of
war. Prince Nikita telegraphs his orders to the various _Voyades_
or chieftains, and each of these calls out the fighting men of his
district. It requires but little time to mobilize these wild forces.
There is no commissariat to be organized, no heavy transport train.
Each man buckles on his belt of cartridges, throws his plaid over his
shoulders, seizes his rifle, and stalks out of his door, ready for the
campaign. The women take the place of the commissariat. Each man's
wife, or mother, or sister, as the case may be, is his commissariat.
The women come and go between home and camp, bearing provisions and
ammunition. For the particular nature of the service required of the
Montenegrins this system is perfect; for they never carry war beyond
their frontiers, and the distance between home and the front is never
very great. No less hardy than the men, the women here are surprisingly
active and strong, and walk nimbly across these fearful mountains with
incredibly heavy burdens on their backs.
We dined at the table-d'hote of the Prince's hotel to-day, in very
aristocratic company.
The highest officers of the little State are regular _habitues_ of
the hotel dinner.
We sat down with the court painter--a young Ragusan who had travelled
in America and France, and spoke a curious English, with a half
foreign, half American accent, freely larded with Yankee idioms; our
landlord; the Secretary of State, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, and
the Prince's adjutant.
The latter is a handsome young fellow, a cousin of the Prince, and with
him has been educated at the Lycee St. Louis le Grand, at Paris. All
the grandees were in full Montenegrin dress, bristling with pistols and
yataghans; for in Montenegro the men do not put by their weapons when
in a friendly house, as is the case in Albania.
The conversation turned on politics. Mr. Gladstone, of course, was
their hero. They were all well acquainted with his pamphlet, which has
been translated into their tongue. The hatred they expressed for Lord
Beaconsfield was intense. They were by no means reserved in the terms
of their abuse.
There was one thing that excited their astonishment to a great degree.
"You Englishmen," said one, "Christians--civilized--a great people! How
comes it that you allow a Jew to govern you?"
Seeing that we were not quite of one mind with them, and were not such
great admirers of Holy Russia as were they, they politely turned the
conversation.
We then got on the subject of the perpetual wars on the Turkish
frontier, which in ferocity and romantic incident excel the old feuds
of our Northern border-land.
A man happened to enter the room while we dined. Our landlord
introduced him to us as a very brave fellow, who had cut off
twenty-three heads in one battle of the late war, and who, in
consideration of his prowess, had received a medal from the hands of
the White Czar.
From cut-off heads and noses we got on the subject of Prince Nikita.
His praises were loudly sung. This autocrat is greatly beloved by his
people. He is a handsome man, tall and powerfully built; married to a
very lovely Montenegrin. That the Prince has done much for his country
is certain. He has succeeded in abolishing many of the more barbarous
customs of his subjects.
Quarter is now given in war by the Montenegrins; and though the
mutilation of captured and dead foemen is practised as of old, yet the
Turkish heads are no longer bought by the bishop prince at so much a
head, to be exhibited on the tower which overlooks the capital.
In the good old times, if you paid a friendly call on the late
Metropolitan, a genial kind old gentleman, it was quite a common thing
to have your conversation and coffee interrupted by the unceremonious
entrance of some wild fellow staggering under the weight of a heavy
sack. "Ah! good, good, my son!" the old prelate would say, with
sparkling eyes. "How many of them?"
The man would then empty the bag on the floor. Its ghastly contents
would be numbered, and the price of blood paid over. The heads would be
raked up again and carried off to the tower, then the conversation
would be quietly resumed where it left off.
Brigandage is now unknown in Montenegro, for the Prince has done all he
could to make his country respectable and of good fame throughout
Europe.
His subjects have the reputation of being great pilferers.
The Draconic laws of the country punish this offence with hanging. The
Prince has lately mitigated the penalty to whipping. In the eyes of his
children this is a still more horrible punishment.
A whipped Montenegro is worse than dead--disgraced--outraged--an
outcast on the earth. Many who have been condemned to the whipping have
been known to fall down at the Prince's feet and pray to him for
mercy--for death--death with torture, rather than the great infamy.
A Montenegrin whipping is no joke; so severe is it, that death often
follows the punishment.
I must say, in justice to this people, it is not on that account that
the penalty is so dreaded. For like his neighbour the Albanian, the
Montenegrin is indifferent to death or physical suffering. He is indeed
perfectly brave.
Dinner completed--a much better dinner, I may add, than any Dalmatian
hotel can afford--we retired to the adjoining cafe, in which was a very
inferior billiard-table. The room was full of armed Montenegrins,
smoking and raki-drinking, a wild-looking crew. It is to be feared that
so civilized a luxury as a cafe and billiard-table must lead many young
Montenegrin gentlemen into dissipated habits.
Here--playing together for pots of Austrian beer--were the Minister of
Finance, the Prince's adjutant, the innkeeper, the postman, and the
pot-boy. In what metropolis, even of the most democratic republic,
would one meet with such fraternizing equality as in this little
absolute despotism of Montenegro? It was an exceedingly funny sight.
All the players were terribly in earnest--quiet and stern over their
game.
CHAPTER VI.
The occupation of a Montenegrin gentleman--The public library--Prince
Nikita's prisoners--Albanian _versus_ Montenegrin--A Montenegrin
loan--The Prince as a sportsman--The museum--The hospital.
The next morning we rose betimes, to visit the lions of the Montenegrin
capital.
It struck us, as it strikes most travellers in this country, that the
favourite occupation of a Montenegrin in time of peace is to swagger
about in peacock fashion in conspicuous places where he is likely to be
seen, proud of his fine dress and splendid weapons, which he sticks
ostentatiously in his silken sash. The women do work hard here, but I
have never seen a Montenegrin of the sterner sex demean himself by any
labour. They are all gentlemen, in the good old sense of the word. They
can't do any work, and wouldn't if they could.
There is no industry of any kind in this country. Their embroidered
robes, their metal work, their saddlery, all come from Albania, or are
here worked by emigrants from that province.
The Black Mountaineers have many virtues, but, _pace_ Mr. Gladstone,
industry is not one of them.
How they manage to procure their expensive get-up often puzzled me.
True, all the riches of the country are on the not over-clean backs of
the inhabitants.
Miserably poor the common people are. A bad season, as this one has
been, equals in horror and suffering even what Ireland has just
experienced. Yet a Montenegrin, be he starving, can always manage to be
well armed, and often gay with gold embroidery.
We met a string of women, some by no means ill-favoured, bearing
building materials--wood, bricks, and the like--on their broad
shoulders. They had brought these all the way from Cattaro. As all the
luxuries, and many of the necessities of life, have to be brought up
that frightful path on the backs of the fair sex, Cettinje is by no
means a cheap place to live in. It made my eyes open to learn the cost
of a feed of hay for one's horse.
We walked up the high street, till we reached an institution of which
the natives are very proud--the public library.
This was but a small room. The books were few in number, all in the
Sclav tongue. I was surprised to find the chief Russian, German,
French, and Italian journals lying on the table. There was a _Standard_
and _Illustrated London News_ of as recent a date as September the
27th.
The Prince, who of course is consulted as to what publications are to
be admitted into his realm, has curiously enough selected from our
daily papers the one that, above all others, takes a view of general
European politics diametrically opposed to that of himself and his big
ally in the North.
The next object of interest we visited was the prison. Imagine a
courtyard open on the street, generally, I believe, unguarded. Here
all offenders against the law squat on the ground, or stroll about as
they like. They are allowed to receive their friends, who bring them
little luxuries. A most happy-go-lucky sort of a prison, and very
characteristic of the country. These prisoners, were they so inclined,
could escape in a moment. They never attempt such a thing. They are
ordered to remain there and consider themselves prisoners for so many
days, and there they stay, smoking patiently till their time is up.
In so small a country as Montenegro, it is hardly an exaggeration to
say that everybody knows everybody. The flight of a prisoner would be
telegraphed to every village--he would soon be re-captured. For so
great is the love and fear entertained by this people towards their
Prince, that none would venture to shelter or assist a runaway from his
prison. Again, to fly across the frontier is a plan few would care to
resort to. The Montenegrin loves his country too much to desert it, and
is too much disliked by his neighbours to expect to be by them received
with open arms.
The Prince had occasion to send an important message to Cattaro one
winter. Heavy snow rendered the path dangerous--almost impracticable.
So, as it was a pity to risk the life of an honest man, a criminal
from the prison was called out, and ordered to carry the letter to
the Austrian fortress, and return immediately. No one for a moment
suspected that the man, having regained his liberty, would stay away
for good. Indeed, he carried out his mission safely, and returned
within two days.
While we were lunching with the grandees in the hotel, several loud
explosions, succeeding each other in rapid succession, shook the house
to its foundation. We were told that the noise proceeded from the new
road to Cattaro, where the rock is being blasted with dynamite. We went
out to see the sight. The plain at the back of the hotel was crowded
with groups of men, women, and children, who seemed pleased and excited
at the spectacle. Every now and then from the rocky ridge, about half a
mile off, would spout a huge volume of smoke and fragments of rock,
which was followed shortly by a loud roar.
The recklessness of the spectators was amazing. A fragment of rock
would fall in the midst of them occasionally, which called forth peals
of laughter. They would all rush up to see how deep it had forced its
way into the soil. One large piece of rock whizzed by us and buried
itself near the hotel, not ten yards from where we were standing, and
almost between the legs of a little boy. The urchin screamed with joy
(as did all round--the narrow shave was an excellent joke), and threw
himself on the ground to disinter what had so nearly proved his
destruction. The stone was nearly as large as a man's head, and had
buried itself quite eighteen inches in the ground--a sufficiently
formidable missile. We were told that a rock had been projected into
the Prince's palace the other day during the blasting operations, and
that several people had been killed or seriously wounded at different
times. The Black Mountaineer is too accustomed to scenes of carnage to
be anything but reckless and careless of life.
In the afternoon we saw the Prince himself, as he enjoyed the fresh air
of the plain. He was walking in a slow and dignified manner, followed
closely by two attendants. He wore the national costume; over his
shoulders was thrown a magnificent cloak of furs. Whichever way he
turned his head, and he did so often, every one within radius of his
vision immediately uncapped himself, and as instantly resumed his
head-covering when his sovereign's eyes were turned in another
direction again. On no other occasion does the Montenegrin doff his
cap; this mark of respect is due to the Prince alone. He wears it
indoors as well as out.
Here a man salutes his equal with a kiss on the cheek, his superior
with a kiss on the hand or hem of the garment, according to the rank.
Woman, an inferior and subject being, never ventures to do more than
humbly take in her own, even her husband's, hand and kiss it.
We did not have an interview with Prince Nikita, though we had letters
of introduction for him. As he was entertaining the Austrian Grand
Duke, we considered that he had enough distinguished foreigners on his
hands for one time. Later on Robinson and Jones did interview him, and
were much pleased with his frank and genial manner. He is always very
glad to see any strangers that visit his domains, and is anxious that
his endeavours to civilize and ameliorate the condition of his people
should be better known and appreciated by England.
I fear that he and his people have been almost too highly appreciated
of late. Some would persuade us that the Montenegrins are the finest
people in Europe--a race of Demigods. The popular superstition as to
the "unspeakable Turk" is no less absurd than that which exaggerates
the virtues of the noble Montenegrin.
They are brave warriors. They are cunning enough to know that the good
opinion of civilized Europe is worth having. They are intensely
self-conceited; they hate the Turk and the Albanian; they are too proud
of their warlike qualities to care to work; and, in my humble opinion,
will never be more than they are now, picturesque, poor mountaineers,
very inferior in mental capacity to their neighbours the Albanians,
Christian or Mohammedan, and no wit less ferocious and cruel in war.
But Albania has an ill-name among those who know her not. She is the
scapegrace of the Eastern Adriatic--the cause of all troubles
hereabouts, it is said. Montenegro, on the other hand, enjoys a high
reputation.
This is natural. Subsidized or bribed by two of the Powers that be,
petted by the same, she plays a good game, and encourages the
superstition that she is much more virtuous and civilized than the
neighbour whose territory she lusts after.
The unfortunate Arnaut has no Prince Nikita, is robbed by the so-called
government of Turkey when it is strong enough to affect him in any way,
has no friends, but is surrounded by cunning enemies, hungry for his
lands.
Let any disinterested person travel among Montenegrin and Arnaut, and I
think he will conclude, as I did, that the latter is as brave a
warrior--more industrious, more intellectual--in every way of a finer,
nobler race, than his much belauded hereditary foe.
The cares of State lie not heavily on the shoulders of Prince Nikita.
The little work he does do he is very proud of. Europeans that have
conversed with him have come away with the impression that he is the
hardest-working, most conscientious prince in Europe.
I am told that now that he has constructed a very complete network of
telegraph wires throughout his realm, he considers that one thing alone
remains to bring Montenegro up to his standard of civilization.
This is a National Debt. He talks seriously of negotiating a loan in
some of the European capitals, and proposes to hypothecate the timber
of the State forests. We saw a good deal of Montenegro in this and in a
later visit; but had great difficulty in discovering where these fine
forests were. We often made inquiries. "Ah! when you reach So-and-so,
you will see them on your right hand." So-and-so reached, we could
perceive nothing but the eternal stones of the Karatag, made further
inquiries, and were referred to some further spot where we should find
huge primeval forests darkening mountain and valley, the haunts of wild
beasts, where the axe of the woodman had never been heard to resound,
where twenty men linked hand-in-hand would fail to encircle the
gigantic trunks.
We pursued these phantom forests, but never found them, so we
concluded that they existed only in the imaginations of the
Montenegrin financiers.
At last, it is true, on the frontier, near Klementi, we did come
across what might be called forests, but the timber was not large;
and, growing where it did, in inaccessible haunts of the eagle, in the
heart of the wild mountains, it was next to useless.
I should say that if the Principality endeavoured to raise a loan on
the security of her inexhaustible stones, she would be about as
successful as she will be if she seriously tries to hypothecate her
forests.
A rather cynical person, a foreigner, who knows Cettinje well, gave me
an amusing summary of Prince Nikita's method of passing his time. In
the morning he sits in his palace; occasionally sends a message of
little import to some village _Voyade_, through the medium of his
new toy, the "electric telegraph." A few telegrams constitute a hard
day's work for the Prince. Some relaxation is necessary. Sport is
suggested; so off he rides, with his Court, to Rieka, in whose stream
are trout of fabulous size. Here he enjoys a good afternoon's fishing.
With rod and fly? No; but in a more wholesale and princely fashion.
With dynamite! Truly a royal pastime! He is also a poet in his way,
and turns out rather dismal compositions in his native tongue. He is
an affectionate husband, and is wont, on fine evenings, to serenade
the princess with the one-stringed guzla, or violin of Montenegro,
accompanying it with his voice, which he raises in song of his own
making.
A Montenegrin notable, a fine young fellow, quite six feet five inches
in height, kindly offered to be our guide over a Museum of great
interest, which is situated at the further extremity of the town. The
Museum is merely a small, rough-plastered room, but it contains what
is well worthy of visit--a collection of trophies taken from the Turk
in those wars which have raged fiercely and cruelly between the two
races for so many hundreds of years. Here were the spoils of a
thousand battles. Guns of very antique date--curious, ricketty weapons
of Middle Age Europe. Here the long Albanian gun, with silver-inlaid
barrel, and small narrow stock of beautifully carved steel; old
muskets with English Tower marks; Martini-Henry and Winchester rifles
hung on the walls, bringing one down to more recent campaigns. Sabres,
blood-stained and broken; mountain howitzers, tattered standards, some
falling to pieces with age, some rent with ball and shell; the richly
inlaid scimetars of some old Prince of Orient, lances, old
chain-armour, and I know not what besides, lay in confusion all around
us.
In one corner of the wall hung certain trophies which are calculated to
sadden the English visitor. These are the decorations of the slain
Turk. Among the Medjidies were numerous Crimean medals, English and
French. It was not pleasant to see these here at Cettinje, taken as
they were from the breasts of many a veteran ally of ours in the olden
time--heroes of Kars, may be; soldiers of Williams.
From this melancholy collection we were taken to see the Hospital. The
surgeon, a Herzegovinian by birth, kindly showed us over the
establishment. It was a rough place, but answered its purpose well
enough. The beds were occupied chiefly by those who had been badly
wounded in the late war. The patients were crowded together in a way
that would have much astonished an English doctor. But these hardy,
temperate people, have marvellous constitutions, and the air of
Cettinje is pure and bracing; so no ill has resulted so far, from a
system which would invite pyaemia, and kill off half the inmates of a
London hospital in a week.
We stayed at Cettinje for three days. By that time we had seen enough
of the metropolis, so held a council as to whither next we should bend
our steps.
As Albania, and not Montenegro, was the object of this expedition, we
decided to cross the frontier to Scutari, the capital of North Albania,
where resided an English and other consuls, who could give us useful
information.
We found the best, indeed the only, way of reaching Scutari from here
was to go by land to Rieka, a Montenegrin village on the river of the
same name, and then hire a boat to take us down the Rieka, and across
the great lake of Scutari, to the Albanian capital, which is situated
at its furthest extremity.
CHAPTER VII.
Journey to Scutari--Atrocities--A runaway--The vale of Rieka--A
Montenegrin sailor--The lions of Rieka--The perils of the night.
We left Cettinje early on a sunny, fresh October morning. Our baggage
was strapped on the back of one of the sturdy little horses of the
country, which was led by a diminutive native, not twelve years of age,
yet armed with yataghan and loaded revolver. His father--a tall, fine
fellow, who came to see us off--had been subjected to a horrible
mutilation. His nose had been cut off by the Albanians, taking with it
the whole upper lip, giving him a ghastly appearance. One meets with an
astonishing number of men who have been victims of this barbarous
custom. The Montenegrins are quite as great offenders in this respect
as are their Albanian foemen. Indeed, I came across more mutilated men
in Scutari alone than in all Montenegro.
In the last war, a handsome young Montenegrin was taken prisoner by the
Turks. As he was wounded, he was sent to the hospital at Scutari. Some
of the ladies of the different consulates, who were doing all that lay
in their power to alleviate the sufferings of the wounded, took great
interest in this interesting young man. A curious and most offensive
smell was noticed at his bedside; it increased, day by day, till it
became quite unsupportable. At last its origin was discovered. Rolled
up in his coat, which lay by his side, were eighteen Turkish
noses!--the tokens of his valour in the field.
Our Montenegrin friends were not pleased to hear that we were going to
Albania. "Stay with us," they said; "travel in our country. There is
more to see than in Turkey. You will like us. Those beasts of Albanians
will cut your throats of a certainty, devils that they are." But we
wished to hear the other side of the question, and notwithstanding the
warnings of owe hosts, determined to visit the "beasts" and "devils,"
and form our own opinion about them.
A crowd of wild-looking mountaineers had assembled to see us off. We
had scarcely got under weigh when an amusing incident happened. Our
pack-horse, exhilarated by the fine fresh air of the morning, and a
hearty breakfast, thought that a nice canter across the plain of
Cettinje would be a pleasant way of beginning the day. So off he went
at a canter over the low stone walls, across the potato-fields, through
the dried torrent-beds, in a direction quite opposite to that which his
_compagnons de route_ had chosen. It must have been a ridiculous
sight. First a saddle-bag fell off his back, then he would throw a
blanket off, until our properties lay scattered all over the plain. We
followed as fast as we could with our heavy boots and rifles. We at
last caught him, readjusted our baggage, and once more turned his head
to the mountain, where soon the narrow and precipitous path obviated
all chance of his repeating the performance.
I was smoking a cigarette at the time of the mishap, and swallowed it
by accident as I leaped over a wall. The result was an unwonted silence
and solemnity on my part for the next half-hour or so.
I was much struck by the behaviour of our guide and the other
Montenegrins, when the refractory horse was captured.
English carters, under the same circumstances, would have given vent to
much foul language, and would probably have brutally belaboured the
wretched animal. But these Montenegrins showed no sign of impatience,
said not a word, but quietly repacked the horse and led it off. Turks,
Albanians, Montenegrins, and all Easterns, whatever their other faults,
are very good to the dumb animals that serve them, and never ill-treat
them.
To shoot any animal wilfully, for the mere sake of killing, excites
great indignation in the breast of an Albanian. An English naturalist,
who travelled in their country in order to make a collection of birds,
was looked upon as something not much better than a devil. His very
servant was so horrified at the wholesale massacre of the innocents
carried on by his master, that he gave him notice that he could serve
such a fiend no longer, and left him on the spot. Yet these are the
very people who feel no compunction in blowing your brains out from
behind a fence, in satisfaction of some trifling quarrel.
It is an easy morning's march to Rieka. The rough path first ascends
the rocky ridge which divides the plain of Cettinje from the valley of
Rieka (Rieka = river). When we reached the summit of this ridge a most
magnificent scene opened out before us.
The great valley lay at our feet. From the windy desolate height on
which we stood we saw far beneath the silver stream of the Rieka,
fringed with poplars, winding down a long fertile vale. From the edge
of the water-side meads the great mountains rose sheer up on either
side--of every form and colour--some barren, in curious strata which
shone in the morning sun like successive rings of opal and Parian
marble, others covered with woods, that had already assumed their
autumn tints, and sent forth a perpetual moan as the strong highland
wind passed over them.
From the lofty eminence on which we stood chain was seen rising over
chain, valley behind valley, till, far away behind all, there gleamed a
long broad sheet of water, the great lake of Scutari, backed by the
fantastic-shaped rugged mountains of Albania, utterly barren, serrated
and pinnacled like a gigantic gothic cathedral, and through the medium
of the clear southern atmosphere appearing of a delicate pinkish hue.
This valley of Rieka is far the most fertile of Montenegro, and the
village of the same name which is situated on the brink of the clear
stream is the prettiest, cleanest, and seemingly most prosperous of the
country.
The extreme smallness of some of the fields, if they can be so called,
which is remarkable all over Montenegro, struck us much, on our descent
down the rough slopes of the mountain.
Soil is scarce. We here saw walled enclosures so small that three or
four potato-plants at the most filled them up. Our procession entered
Rieka about mid-day. This village consists of one street along the
river side. The houses are built tastefully of wood, something in the
Swiss style. Outside each house was the usual stone bench, on which,
again, as usual, half the family sat, smoking lazily, evidently with
nothing on earth to do. Of course we were inspected with some curiosity
as we passed.
Not understanding the language, we were utterly at the mercy of our
guide. We tried to signify to him that we wished him to conduct us to a
_khan_. He shook his head, and paid no other attention to our remarks,
but deliberately marched us off to the establishment which he thought
was alone suitable for the English _Gospodinas_. It was the largest
house in the place, whitewashed, and partly hanging over the water, at
the corner of the pretty bridge which spans the stream.
We halted at the foot of the stone steps which led up to the door, and
unpacked our horse; while the crowd stood round, admiringly, and
whispering to our guide queries as to what these curious strangers
might be.
The door of the house opened, and a pleasant-looking old lady,
richly-attired, and tinkling at every motion with the strings of
Turkish coins which she wore as ornaments, came down smiling, bowed low
to us, kissed our hands, and invited us within. We were soon made at
home, and a welcome repast of wheaten cakes and goats' flesh was placed
before us, with good _raki_ to wash it down.
The captain of the village came in while we were lunching--a
splendid-looking fellow, who stalked in with the magnificent carriage
which distinguishes the chieftains of _Tchernagora_. He approached us
with both hands stretched out, and shook us cordially by the hands,
and gave us what was evidently a very kindly welcome, in words we
unfortunately could not understand. A few other men of rank came in
to see us, but none could speak any language but their own, so our
conversation was limited to smiling welcomes on the one hand, and
smiling thanks on the other. We all found that this after a time became
monotonous, so we endeavoured to render the interview a little more
amusing by a mutual inspection of weapons.
After lunch a room was prepared for us. This was by far the most
civilized mansion we came across in Montenegro. There were actually
beds in it. Such a luxury was quite unknown a few years ago in this
country.
The Montenegrin never takes his clothes off. On retiring for the night,
he merely rolls himself up in his plaid, and lies down on the bare
floor of his house.
A shake, and then an inspection and buckling on of arms, suffice for
his toilette in the morning. We were sketching the village after lunch,
when a man passed us, stopped, looked at us a moment curiously, and
then, to our astonishment and delight said, "You should be Englishmen,
strangers."
This man turned out to be a Montenegrin, who had once got somehow to
Constantinople. Here he shipped on board an English brig, and so had
visited London, Liverpool, and other ports. It is a question whether a
Montenegrin had ever before adopted the sea as a profession, it is
hardly in the line of the Karatag, detesting as he does discipline and
confinement of any kind.
He was known as Greek Jack on board the brig, he told us. English
sailors I have always found, have rather a vague idea as to the limits
of the little realm of King George. Any one who has a cut-throat
appearance, and is picked up anywhere between Dalmatia and Cyprus, is
at once looked upon by our tars as one of them blank Greek chaps. His
English was scanty, but rich at any rate in every foullest oath our
seaports can teach the foreign visitor.
Nearly every other word was an emphasis of this nature. From him we
learnt that the house we occupied belonged to the prince. He himself
was now a hand on board the prince's steam-yacht, a very small vessel,
in which the great Nikita is wont to travel on the Lake of Scutari,
when on a dynamite fishing expedition.
Our new friend kindly offered to act as our guide if we wished to do
the lions of Rieka.
These consisted of two little public-houses, one famous for its wine,
the other for its raki. We did them; the result was that our cicerone's
English became more and more indistinct, but at the same time more and
more larded with profanity, till gradually, from every other word, two
out of every three words at least, were oaths. Had there been one more
lion to be done, I verily believe that every word of his conversation
would in our country have rendered him liable to that small pecuniary
penalty which our statutes inflict in such cases.
Raki and mastic, the favourite beverages of this part of Europe, are
drinkable: that is all that can be said for them.
Raki is a colourless spirit, extracted from the skins of grapes after
the wine-making. It is not nice, but is, I should say, pure and
wholesome.
Mastic is extracted from mountain herbs, tastes like absinthe, and is
probably nearly as poisonous.
This was a night of tribulation for Brown.
Our room swarmed with the far-famed Montenegrin fleas, and other still
more ferocious natives. The ramparts of insecticide with which he
surrounded himself availed nought. Sleep he knew not.
In the dead of night I was suddenly awakened by the utter collapse of
the wooden bed on which I slept. It fell to pieces without any warning,
and precipitated me on the floor.
Stories I had read in Christmas Annuals of robber inns, and traps that
opened out in floors to swallow up the sleeping traveller, flashed
across my brain. But there was no occasion for alarm. On lighting a
match and inspecting the ruins, I came to the conclusion that the bed
had been undermined by vermin--that was all.
CHAPTER VIII.
A great victory--A good old custom--On the Lake of Scutari--The
londra--The debateable land--Boat song--Encampment--Scutari--A
reminiscence of Cremorne--The brothers Toshli--Willow-pattern
plates--At the British Consulate.
The next was a glorious morning. We were up at daybreak, and with the
assistance of our friend, bargained with four men to take us in a boat
to Scutari.
The captain of the village also came to our aid, and beat down the
rather exorbitant demands of his countrymen.
The captain was evidently an important personage--to be respected and
feared; for the fellows ceased their vehement jabbering, and became
very humble and quiet, when he appeared on the scene.
Our nautical friend told us that this _Voyade_ was a distinguished
warrior. He had been engaged in that great victory gained over the
Turks in 1858.
Some of my readers may remember that in that year an army of 6000
Turkish regulars invaded Montenegro. They had advanced some miles up
one of those frightful defiles by which alone the Black Mountain is to
be penetrated, when they were surprised by a body of Montenegrins, much
inferior in numbers, but having the advantage of a thorough
acquaintance with every rock and crevice of the grey hills. Of the 6000
Turks, but six men and the commander of the expedition escaped. It was
only owing to the intercession of certain of the great powers that the
Prince did not follow up this great victory by an invasion of the
Herzegovina, where, of course, all the Christians would have flocked to
his standard.
An international commission was sent out to definitely settle a
frontier-line between Montenegro and Turkey--as vain an undertaking as
that of the present year will probably prove to be.
As we knew not how long a voyage lay before us, we laid up a store of
provisions in our vessel--the round wheaten cakes of the East, "baken
on the coals," probably similar to those the Shunamite placed before
Elisha long ago, a gourd of wine with a strong smack of the goat's
skin, goat's milk cheese, and an abundance of fine black grapes.
Our boat awaited us some few hundred yards down the stream, where the
water was sufficiently deep to float her; for the Rieka is here but a
shallow brook. Our boatmen had a good deal of poling and wading to do
for the first mile or so, as we were constantly grounding on the
shingle banks.
Before leaving, a ceremony had to be observed which prevails all over
these countries, and which, like many good old customs, has died out in
more civilized countries. Our host tucked a bottle of raki under his
arm, and, taking a small glass in his hand, accompanied us to where we
were to embark, and then handed round the final stirrup cups in most
liberal manner.
The _londra_, as the boat of the country is called, is a roughly-made,
flat-bottomed affair, with prow and stern alike--sharp pointed, and
running up high out of the water, something like the Venetian gondola.
These boats are of every size, from the small cranky tub propelled with
one oar, to the lengthy twelve-oared vessel.
They have little beam, and must be exceedingly dangerous on the lake in
choppy weather--indeed, accidents often occur; but every one here is so
happily careless, and trustful in _kismet_, that these ricketty coffins
have not been superseded by any more seaworthy craft.
The _londra_ is tarred inside and out; there are no benches; the
passengers squat on their blankets at the bottom of the boat. The
rowers stand up facing the bow, and force their long clumsy sweeps
through the water in short, quick jerks.
[Illustration: THE LONDRA.
_Page_ 102.]
They do not make use of rollocks, but twist vine or clematis branches
into grommets, which run through holes made for the purpose in the
gunwale. These grommets soon wear out, and have to be replaced three or
four times in a day's journey. The londra, notwithstanding its rough
build, progresses at a very fair pace, so long as it does not meet with
a strong head-wind, when its little hold on the water is much against
it.
Having comfortably settled ourselves at the bottom of our vessel, among
our blankets and saddle-bags, we bid adieu to our sailor friend with an
_au revoir_ in London, when he should next visit that port, and got
under weigh. Our crew consisted of four brigand-like Montenegrins, who
were dirty and miserable, in all save their weapons, which were
beautiful. One was the proud possessor of a long pistol, with a silver
hilt inlaid with precious stones, the spoil of the Turk. Each had his
gun with him, so we were a formidable-looking party.
The banks of the Rieka are exceedingly fine; rocks and dense foliage on
either side, with occasional glimpses of the great mountain behind.
Where the river broadened into the lake we rowed through large fields
of waterlilies in full bloom. The country seemed altogether
uninhabited. We passed one or two londras, whose crews entered into
animated discourse with our men, evidently anxious to know who the
European travellers might be. At last we were on the great lake. On all
sides it is shut in by lofty mountains, some, I should say, quite
10,000 feet in height. Its surface is studded with numerous bare rocky
islands, uninhabited by man, but noisy with multitudes of wild fowl and
pelicans. Egrets, divers, and ducks, are very numerous on this water.
We hugged the western or Montenegrin shore, for the provisions of the
Berlin Treaty have given nearly all this side of the lake to the
principality.
We were struck by the extreme desolation of the country; gaunt,
uncultivated mountains fell to the water's edge. Population there
seemed to be none.
Once we saw a village on the shore; on approaching it, it proved to be
ruined, deserted--a mere heap of charred debris--a melancholy relic of
fierce frontier war. Here, as later on, on the plains of Podgoritza, I
noticed that there was a sort of debateable land on the borders of the
two countries--a desert region, where men dare not build or cultivate,
not knowing when the dogs of war should again be loosed. Thus rich
plains are left to the wolf and lynx, the peasant preferring to build
his homestead in the poorer but more secure fastnesses of the
mountains, than on the rich lowland, where he would sow only that a
hostile horde should reap.
As there was a slight breeze, our men hoisted a small square sail, of
whose use they seemed to have but little idea. They made fast the sheet
and tack to the weather gunwale, and attempted to sail close hauled.
We moved through the water it is true, but astern and to leeward. Much
wrangling then ensued as to the proper method of navigating the vessel.
Ultimately the crew lowered their canvas in despair, of which we were
not sorry, for we very nearly capsized once in a slight squall. Halyard
and sheet were securely knotted, and of course the clumsy craft would
not come up to the wind.
Had the puff been a little stronger we must have gone down.
Swimming would not have been easy with our heavy accoutrement.
We could not converse much with the men, as our knowledge of
Montenegrin was exceedingly limited. We had compiled a little
dictionary, with the assistance of our friends, at Cettinje. The usual
programme of handing tobacco round, examining each other's arms, was
gone through.
Brown rather astonished one of the crew; he had taken hold of the
fellow's rifle, and wishing to express his approval of it, pointed to
it and read out of the dictionary what he thought was Sclav for "good
gun," but which on more careful inspection proved to signify "roast
mutton."
All day we paddled along the lone shore, but no town was yet in sight.
The evening brought with it one of the most magnificent sunset effects
I have ever witnessed. The near mountains on our starboard hand assumed
a cold dark appearance as the sun set behind them. Their deep barren
defiles had a weird bleakness about them, such as one sees in lifeless
Arctic landscapes.
But far away on the port hand, across the water, the rays of the
setting sun fell full on the great Albanian mountains, which towered
behind the broad plain that fringes the eastern shore of the lake.
Every detail of the fantastic peaks and fissures of the barren granite
was sharp and distinct in this clear atmosphere.
Where the rock jutted out it was lurid crimson, as of red-hot
coal--elsewhere, of lovely rose and golden tints, while the darker
shadows of the hollows were of a deep purple or violet. So utterly
barren were these great offshoots of the Mount _Scardus_, that under
this strange light the scenery was of a peculiarly unearthly and weird
nature. One could almost imagine oneself to be gazing at a landscape of
some lifeless star--a chaos of molten matter--silent but for the
occasional roar of fire and volcanic action.
But the blue shadows soon rose up from the water's edge, till the last
highest peak lost its crown of fire, and the fine day was succeeded by
a lovely starlit night.
The day had been hot, but now it became intensely cold; the wind, which
was right in our teeth, freshened; the ripple that broke on the shingle
shore became louder; and soon the surface of the lake was broken into
short choppy waves capped with foam, that glistened in the starlight.
The water washed occasionally over our bulwarks in ominous splashes.
There was evidently quite enough sea for our frail craft. But our men,
though they made little progress against the head-wind, pulled on
pluckily, encouraging themselves with a wild barbaric chant, which was
caught up now by one, now by another--a monotonous yet energetic song,
to which their blades kept time.
One of these boat-songs was afterwards translated to me. It runs
something thus (I have preserved to a certain extent the irregularity
of the original):--
Now then, my hawks, pull! pull!
Let the boat fly over the water!
The rocks on the shore are full
Of Arnauts, thirsty for our slaughter.
But we fly swifter than their bullets go.
They cannot take aim, so swift we row.
Pull! my hawks, pull!
Long before their slow feet can return
We will fall upon their village--sack and burn,
Tear up the smoking rafters of their homesteads
Into torches that shall light our homeward way,
Laden with rich spoil and foemen's heads.
Now then, my hill hawks, pull away!
Pull! my hawks, pull!
We expected every moment to see the lights of Scutari burst upon us as
we rounded some rugged promontory; but hour after hour of the night
passed by, and still no sign of human habitations. Suddenly our boatmen
rested on their oars, and entered into a short discussion. When they
had come to a decision they pointed to the shore, and endeavoured to
explain something to us; what, we could not make out. The dictionary we
had compiled at Cettinje was a modest work, containing only words of
greeting and the names of strict necessities. The next operation of our
crew was to run the boat high and dry on the shingle beach; they then
disembarked, and beckoned us to follow.
A fire was soon made up with the brushwood and oleander that grew
thickly on the bank.
[Illustration: SCUTARI FISHING HARBOUR.
_Page_ 109.]
What next? we wondered. Was this merely a halt for a little rest and
supper? or had our crew struck work, and determined to camp here for
the night? We soon found out that the latter was their intention; for
after we had supped and smoked a few cigarettes, they one by one rolled
themselves up in their cloaks and fell asleep, feet to the fire.
We followed their example, and in consequence of our close proximity to
the Montenegrins experienced the attacks of vast armies of fleas.
At four in the morning we got under weigh; it was still dark, but the
first faint streak of dawn was visible over the eastern hills. We
discovered, later on, that we had encamped on the beach till daylight,
because all boats are prohibited from approaching Scutari during the
night.
Three Turkish gunboats are stationed off the town, by whom we should
have been challenged and stopped, had we proceeded.
At about seven in the morning we reached Scutari. First we had to row
through a curious fishing village, which is at the junction of the lake
and the broad river that here flows into it. A large number of thatched
huts, built on piles, form regular streets in the centre of the stream.
Then the town lay before us, with its old Venetian fortress perched on
a lofty rock in the back ground.
We were not much struck by the general appearance of the capital of
North Albania--a dingy, dilapidated bankrupt sort of a place it seemed
to be.
Scutari is built on the flat promontory formed by the river Bojana,
which takes off the waters of the lake to the Adriatic, and another
river, which flows into the lake after having crossed the spacious
plain which lies between Scutari, and the distant mountains of
Biskassi.
On landing, no custom-house or custom-house officers were anywhere
visible. We paid off our ship, selected a ragged-looking ruffian to
carry our luggage, shouldered our rifles, and marched off to the hotel
Toshli, at the other end of the straggling town, which had been
recommended to us by the gendarme whose acquaintance we had made on the
Austrian Lloyd steamer.
Our first impressions of the city were not favourable. It had an
appearance of melancholy decay, still trying to keep up an appearance.
The mosques, and some of the better Turkish houses, were rather gaudily
ornamented with wooden carvings and bright paint; but now the carvings
were broken, and the paint half rubbed off. There was a
tea-garden-in-liquidation look about the place.
I remember once seeing Cremorne by daylight. It was some time after
outraged respectability had closed the gardens; the occasion being a
patriotic meeting which was held there, during the Russo-Turkish war.
It was a sad sight to one who had known the place in other days. The
plaster statues were broken; the pagodas and the other gimcrack
edifices were mouldy, tumbling to pieces, and destitute of paint. This
melancholy city of Scutari reminded me irresistibly of Cremorne that
day. Everything had been allowed to fall into decay. Any repairing of
public or private buildings had long been given up by government and
people. One rickety mosque was very funny; its steeple was tiled, if I
may use the expression, with the sides of paraffin boxes and Huntley
and Palmer's biscuit tins.
The rough paintings on its walls were chipped and dim. The very mollah,
in his turban and dirty blue robe, who stood at the door, had a
dissipated and unkempt appearance, which harmonized with his
surroundings.
Our first impressions of the inhabitants were no less unpleasing. There
was a haggard, anxious, half-starved expression in the faces of all we
met--a savage fierceness in their eyes, which we had not observed in
Montenegro. No one besides ourselves was in European costume, but we
attracted no attention; all stalked by us with the utmost indifference.
Every man we met--kilted Mussulman, or white-clad Arnaut--was armed to
the teeth.
It was some way to Toshli's. We passed through many narrow streets,
paved in a fashion well calculated to dislocate the ankles, and
traversed numerous grave-yards, neglected and filthy in the extreme.
The hotel turned out to be an unpretending sort of an establishment,
half grocery, half cafe. It was kept by two brothers, Greeks from
Janina. It was situated in the principal street of the Christian
quarter, close to the foreign consulates. Toshli's is a rough
free-and-easy sort of place, but is to be recommended. The cuisine was
really very fair. It was curious to observe in the grocery how many
English commodities were procurable.
On the shelves I saw Huntley and Palmer's biscuits, Cross and
Blackwell's pickles, and, most wonderful of all, brown Windsor soap--an
article for which I should imagine that there could be no demand in
Albania.
One meets with certain English manufactures in the most remote regions
of the world.
I have bought Gillot's steel pens in an Arab town in a remote oasis of
the Saharah.
Another curious fact is, that here at Toshli's, and everywhere else in
Eastern Europe where plates are in use, one invariably meets with our
old willow-pattern services. There is a very large exportation of these
from England to these countries.
The cafe of the hotel, in which is a billiard-table, is much frequented
by the Christian merchants, and the Turkish military doctors of the
garrison; these are all Christians, being Armenians, Greeks, Poles, and
other foreigners.
Italian is understood by many of the Christian merchants here, being
the language of commerce on these coasts.
There must, I should say, be a certain amount of Italian blood in the
veins of the citizens of Scutari, for it was long one of the strongest
Venetian dependencies, and sustained one of the most heroic sieges of
history, when Mahomet II. overran Eastern Europe, in the fifteenth
century, with his vast hordes of infidels, inflamed with uninterrupted
success.
Scutari was finally acquired by Turkey in 1479, by treaty.
The brothers Toshli received us with open arms, for the gendarme had
prepared them for our arrival. Having settled ourselves in a
comfortable bed-room, which was elegantly draped with strings of
malodorous--not to say putrid--sausages, we indulged in some
cafe-au-lait, a luxury we had not enjoyed for some time.
We then called on Mr. Kirby Green, the British consul-general for North
Albania, and charge-d'affaires for Montenegro. This gentleman seemed
exceedingly glad to see us, met us with outspread hand, and the remark
that "it was rare to see any of his countrymen out here, it was quite
an eventful day for him." During our stay in Scutari, Mr. Green did all
in his power to assist us in every way. This gentleman, whose
experience of Eastern character is very extensive, is emphatically the
right man in the right place. It was surprising to find what influence
he has in the country, and how excellently he upholds the dignity of
England.
He stands very high in the opinion of the natives of both creeds.
"Yes, he is pasha here, and greater than the pasha," was often said of
him in my hearing, both by Christians and Mohammedans. They hold him in
high respect; and the firmness and justice with which he invariably
acts, astonishes and pleases these Orientals, so little accustomed to
the like.
Up in the wild mountains, later on, when among the fierce Miridites and
Klementis, no sooner did the men we met hear that we were from Scodra
(as Scutari is called by the Albanians) and friends of Zutne Green, the
savage frown and suspicious handling of yataghan would change to smile
of pleasure, and hand outstretched in welcome.
We told Mr. Green what our plans were, and asked him if they were
feasible.
We thought of traversing Albania from north to south, from Scutari to
the port of Previso, opposite Corfu, by the route of Priserin, Ochrida,
Monastir, and Janina. Mr. Green is not a man to discourage travellers
without good cause, but said, "Priserin, let me tell you, is the
headquarters of the Albanian League, an organization of the most
fanatical Mussulmen of the country, whose object is to resist the
Austrian advance, and the Montenegrin claims, by force of arms.
"These men are now worked up to a high pitch of religious zeal, and
hatred of the Christians. Priserin is, with perhaps the exception of
Mecca, the most dangerous spot for a Christian in all Mohammedan
countries. It is true that they may receive you very well, as
Englishmen, and entertain you with the greatest hospitality; or they
may cut your throats as soon as they see you. It is a toss up which of
the two they will do.
"You will be either honoured guests, or abominations to be instantly
put to death.
"They are the same men that murdered Mehemet Ali, at Jakova. So I
advise you to consider the matter carefully."
As guests at Mr. Green's table, later on in the evening, we received a
lot of very useful information as to the state of the country, and the
ways and means of travelling through it.
CHAPTER IX.
Condition of Albania--Her races--The Mussulman--The Christian--The
Arnaut--Prince Scanderbeg--Turkish rule--Albanian language--Gendarmes
on strike--A Scutarine beauty--Courtship and marriage--Nuns.
Having now brought my readers into Albania, it does not seem out of
place to here give a rough sketch of this almost unknown province of
Turkey.
The first thing that strikes one is the utter lawlessness of the
people. The Turks have never assimilated their remoter possessions. It
is not in their character to do so. They seem, even after so many
centuries, to be merely temporarily encamped in Albania. They have
pachas and garrisons in the towns, but the natives enjoy a surprising
amount of independence, and are allowed to do pretty well as they
like. Indeed, the government is very weak here, neither feared nor
respected--merely tolerated. The mountain tribes are almost as little
under Turkish rule as were the Montenegrins themselves, over whom,
until the treaty of Berlin, the Porte claimed a suzerainty. Out of the
towns, Turkish officials are not to be found. A powerful tribe will
often refuse to pay the _dimes_ to the tax farmer, when a bloody and
cruel war will probably ensue, lingering on for years in the hills, in
which the government troops will often come off the second best.
At the period of our visit, Albania is in a state of positive
anarchy--the gendarmerie on strike, the soldiers refusing to salute
their officers, neither having received pay for months, while the
natives hold seditious meetings publicly, and unmolested, in the
mosques of the garrison towns, in which rebellion against the Porte is
fearlessly advocated.
Nowhere is the rotten condition and utter helplessness of the Porte
more apparent than here.
The natives, though of one race, may be divided into three classes,
differing very much in manners and character. First, we have the
Albanian Mohammedan. This is the "wild Albanian kirtled to the
knee"--in North Albania, found chiefly in the towns. He is the
aristocrat, maybe an owner of lands in the mountains, which he lets out
to Arnaut tenants, living on his rents. He is intensely proud of his
caste, a despiser of his Christian fellow-townsmen. Courteous,
gentlemanly, not over strict in the observance of his creed, he will
drink raki on the quiet with an easy conscience.
His walk is a haughty stalk. With his gold-embroidered vest, bright
sash--his leather pouch in front, in which are stuck two gold-hilted
jewelled pistols and yataghan, his many-folded snowy festinelle, or
kilt, which swings from side to side as he struts along--he is indeed
an imposing-looking figure.
Secondly, we have the Christian town's-man of the Latin Church--how
different in every respect! He wears the fez, Turkish jacket, baggy
trousers tied in at the knee, followed by white socks, and European
elastic-side boots.
As a Christian the law forbids him to carry arms. There is the timid,
fawning, insincere look in his face, so characteristic of the
oppressed. These Christians are all traders or merchants, many of them
wealthy, but not daring to be over ostentatious, for they live in fear
and dread of their unscrupulous neighbours of the other creed, who have
on more than one occasion pillaged the Christian quarter. Their
position is much what that of the Jews was in medieval Europe.
The dress of the Christian town's-women is not becoming, though
exceedingly expensive. Their robe is heavy and thick with gold
embroidery, which crackles loudly as they walk. Out of doors they are
enveloped in a very ugly red cloak: it is baggy and shapeless. Take an
egg, paint it red, cut a good slice off one end and stand it up--you
will form a very good idea of a Scutarine Christian lady in outdoor
costume. As they are veiled, like the Mohammedans, it is equally
impossible to judge of the beauty of either face or figure.
Next we have the third class of the population, the most interesting of
all, the country people--or rather, mountaineers, for little but
mountain is there in North Albania. These are the Arnauts--Skipitars,
as they call themselves--a fierce, hardy race of almost savages,
independent, unconquered by the Turks. They too are Latin Christians,
but how different from their co-religionists in the town! Their
features are indicative of minds that would not tolerate slavery. They
stalk proudly through the streets of the towns, bristling with arms,
notwithstanding the laws which forbid the Christian to do so. These
warlike tribes are too strong to heed the regulations of the feeble
government. Their dress is simple, but very manly and workmanlike. They
are clad in white homespun from head to heel. Their head-dress is a
white skull cap; sometimes they twist a long scarf round the head and
under the chin, very much in the style of the Bedouin--this is the
"shawl-girt head" that Byron speaks of; a white jacket, with tight
sleeves reaching to the wrist, of thick woollen stuff, ornamented with
black braid here and there; trousers of the same material, and
similarly black braided, baggy behind, but thence close fitting to the
leg until they reach the ankle, where they are slit and open
out--exactly the cut indeed of the nether garments of the American
Indian, except that the lower end is of thicker material, and has the
appearance of a gaiter, though it is of one piece with the rest of the
garment; opunkas on the feet; a sash round the waist, of common red
stuff or of silk, according to the wealth of the man; round the waist a
belt, with leather pouch in front, in which the long beautifully worked
pistols and yataghan are stuck; a belt of Martini-Henry cartridges over
the sash, if he own one of these rifles--if not, a belt from which
depend quaint elegantly-carved cartridge and oil-rag boxes, of gold or
brass, and long tassels of black silk.
Such is the appearance of an Arnaut mountaineer--a grand costume,
showing off the supple, erect frame--the very dress for a savage
warrior. The Arnaut, like the Mussulman, shaves his head, leaving a
little bunch of hair on the scalp. This gives him a very Indian-like
and ferocious appearance. No one who has not seen it can form an idea
how this shaving increases the savageness of the expression.
The dress of the women is as hideous as that of the men is handsome. It
is not unlike that of the Montenegrins. Their heads are swathed in
richly-hued shawls. Their dress is of very thick coarse material, and
shapeless. They are fond of wearing leather bands round the waist,
ornamented with pins, which are thrust through the leather, with their
ends bent up, their heads thus forming elegant patterns on the outside.
Round the neck and on the dress, the Arnaut belle wears strings of
piastres, swanzickers, and other small coins. Her legs are swathed
thickly with a sort of gaiter, which completely prevents one from
forming any idea as to the shapeliness of her lower limbs. Most of the
mountaineers still wear over their shoulders the curious little black
cloak, not unlike the tippet which English ladies have recently copied
from their coachmen, which was adopted in mourning for the death of the
great Albanian hero Scanderbeg, whose exploits are still sung over the
wintry fire by many a mountain bard, to the melancholy accompaniment of
the mandolin. There is not an Albanian who is not acquainted with his
history.
Albania was once an independent Christian country, though paying
tribute to the Porte.
John Castrioti was Prince of the mountain fortress of Kroia and the
surrounding country. In 1404 a son was born to him, who was christened
George. This was the future hero and deliverer of Albania.
The Prince was persuaded to send this son to the court of Murad II. to
be educated. Contrary to the promises made to the father, the boy was
brought up in the Mohammedan faith, and when old enough he entered the
Turkish army.
On the death of Castrioti, Murad seized his dominion, and attempted
with fire and sword to convert the people to the true faith. From that
time Scanderbeg formed a design to expel the Turk and liberate his
countrymen. He swore a great oath in secret, that never till he died
would he cease to wage war on the Turk. The opportunity soon came. He
entered into a secret agreement with the Hungarians, and with their
assistance defeated the Turks at Nissa with great slaughter.
A fierce war, in which no quarter was given, was then commenced between
the Albanians and their oppressors. Driven at times into the fastnesses
of the mountains; Scanderbeg ever renewed his brave, seemingly
fruitless attempt, when occasion offered.
Ultimately he succeeded in driving the Turks out of Albania; he
renounced the Mohammedan faith, and established himself on the throne
of his fathers.
Even when he lived the deliverer was almost worshipped as a God. He
died in 1467. Then the Albanians, deprived of his skilful generalship,
were in time subjugated by the Turks.
Prince George Castrioti was without doubt an extraordinary man. The
name of Scanderbeg (Alexander) was given him by the Turks, in their
admiration of his prowess.
To say that the Turks have subjugated the Arnauts is not strictly
correct. Their position is something like that of the French in the
remoter parts of Algeria. They hold certain towns, the intervening
country being occupied by independent tribes, governing themselves,
having their own laws.
Why, if a Turkish pasha wishes to traverse the mountains through the
district of a certain tribe, he must consult the Boulim-Bashi, the
town-representative or consul of that tribe, obtain his permission--his
safe-conduct--ere he dare undertake the journey.
The administration of criminal law is not a large item of the expenses
incurred by the Turkish Government in their rule of Albania. They leave
all this to two unpaid judges, who have from time immemorial been the
only two dispensers of justice tolerated by the free people--viz.,
Judge Lynch and Judge Vendetta. Of these I shall have more to say
by-and-by.
The Arnauts are divided into several powerful clans, of which the
Clementis and the Miridites are the most important in this district.
The tribes differ slightly in costume and language. Some tribes, like
the Miridites, are in a wretched condition, starving in their
mountains, the result of a long protracted war with the government,
originating probably in some petty dispute with a tax collector. These
wars hang on in a desultory way for years, until the wretched
highlanders, in order to support existence, are obliged to become
bandits and cattle-lifters--outlaws--the enemies of all men. A Miridite
is now a wretched object generally. I have seen them crawl through the
narrow alleys of the bazaar of Scutari, ragged, scowling at every one,
haggard and weak with hunger, their arms sold for bread--the sign of
extreme poverty, for it is a bitter thing for an Arnaut to part with
his beloved weapons, heirlooms as a rule. The ramrod of his lost
pistols alone dangles from his belt. This, curiously enough, no man
ever seems to part with--probably because it is unsalable.
The Albanians are by some supposed to be the descendants of the ancient
Pelasgi, and of a far purer race than are the modern Greeks. From the
uniformly classic features of the people I should be inclined to adopt
this view. The men have splendid skulls, lofty broad brows and small
delicately moulded features.
The women are the most beautiful in Eastern Europe. The children are
lovely. They have large solemn eyes and splendid mouths--this latter is
their most striking feature--slightly turned down at the sides, which
gives a singularly sweet and thoughtful expression. One cannot be long
among the Arnauts before perceiving that they are evidently of a noble
and ancient race, to which the Montenegrin and other Sclav races will
bear no compare. The polite manners, the delicacy of perception and
tact of these otherwise savage mountaineers, is very pleasant. Fierce
and cruel as foes, reckless of life, they yet are splendid friends;
faithful--knowing not what treachery is--truthful, virtuous;
hospitable, jovial companions, abstemious as a rule, yet not
disinclined on grand occasions to pass freely round the cheering raki
(a spirit extracted from grape skins after the wine is made) and the
absinthe-like mastic.
The language of the Skipitars, as the Arnauts call themselves, varies
much in different districts. Old Illyrian probably in origin, it
contains Greek, Latin, and Sclavonian words, in almost equal proportion;
at least, so it seemed to me, here in the north. For instance, here
are the first thirteen numerals in Albanian; the three tongues I
mention are all traceable in these--_gni_, _du_, _tre_, _kater_,
_pens_, _giasct_, _sctat_, _tete_, _nand_, _deit_, _gnim-deit_,
_dum-deit_, _trem-deit_.
The Albanians do not write in Sclav characters as do their northern,
nor in Greek as do their southern neighbours, but, unlike all other
races hereabouts, use the Latin character. In addition to our
twenty-four letters, they have five others, something like, yet
differing in form and pronunciation from, certain of the Greek letters.
Such are the inhabitants of the country--a country as wild as they.
Well did Byron call Albania "the rugged nurse of savage men."
The Acroceraunian Mountains and the Mount Pindus send their branches
across the whole province. Rugged rocks are heaped one upon the other,
with summits hidden in the clouds. It is a region of tempests, which,
like to Montenegro, is too poor and barren to produce aught but
warriors, who seem ever to thrive best on poor soil, as the stately
pines do. The products of the country are few. The acorns of the
Vallona oak, which are used for dyeing purposes, martin skins, and
boxwood, are the only exports; and not much of these finds its way out
of the country. The history of Albania would afford much of interest to
any one who would study it.
Once included in the great Bulgarian kingdom, then divided into small
principalities, Albania was at last, not without much bloodshed,
absorbed by her two powerful neighbours--Venice on the north, Turkey on
the east. All the valour of Prince Scanderbeg could only delay for one
lifetime the subjugation of his beautiful native land.
Our friend the officer of gendarmerie called on us on the following
morning. With him we took a stroll through the town.
He was rather melancholy. He had received no pay for fourteen months,
and was commencing to be disgusted with his profession.
His men were in still more wretched plight. Their red uniforms were
ragged and torn; many were barefooted. The poor fellows seemed to be
all half-starved. At the present moment they were on strike--"en
greve," as our friend rather mildly termed what we should call mutiny.
I do not imagine the community loses much by their defection, for the
gendarmerie in Albania is a miserable and almost useless body of men.
It might fairly be asked what is the good of having police at all in a
country where murder and every other crime are recognized institutions?
Even rebellion and treason seem not to be punishable offences, for, as
I shall have to narrate further on, the Albanian League hold seditious
meetings under the very nose of the pashas.
What then have the police to do?
With our friend as cicerone to explain all we saw, we traversed the
Christian, and then the Mohammedan quarter of the town.
The streets of the latter are dismal alleys, with lofty walls on either
side; for the Mussulman is a person of retiring habits. He loves to
build his house, and establish his harem, in the centre of a pleasant
garden, which he surrounds with such high walls that no prying eye can
spy his conjugal bliss. A semi-detached villa would never suit him. A
door in one of these walls was open, so Brown peeped through into the
garden within, to the great horror of our companion, who told him if
the jealous Turk saw him he would instantly send a bullet into him.
This officer--who, as I believe I have already explained, is a Roman
Catholic Christian--took us to his house, and introduced us to his
sister, an exceedingly pretty woman. The indoor costume of the Albanian
ladies is much more becoming than the ugly scarlet garment that
completely conceals their beauty in the streets. This lady was the wife
of a wealthy Christian, and her dress was exceedingly costly. The
jacket was stiff with beautiful gold embroidery, and large gold coins
hung from her neck and girdle.
The manners of an Albanian lady are very pretty and gracious. She
brought us coffee with her own hands--small and beautifully-formed as
are those of all her race--and sat by us on a heap of cushions, deftly
made herself a cigarette, and commenced smoking. She conversed with us
in broken Italian, which fell very prettily from her charming lips.
The women of this country do not wither up into old hags by the time
they are thirty, as do most orientals and southerners, but preserve
their peachy complexions and youthful beauty as long as do the women of
our own island. It is true they often get over-corpulent, owing to
their exceedingly sedentary lives. A woman of the higher orders but
rarely leaves her house; and as she is perpetually squatting
cross-kneed, in Turkish fashion, on a divan, or rug, her lower limbs
become rather deformed, the result being that her walk is a very
ungraceful waddle, rather like that of a well-fed duck.
Our friend's sister had been but recently married. Courtship is
curiously managed among the Scutarine Christians. The lover--if he can
be so called--never sees his intended till the day of his marriage. A
young girl is confined in her father's house for a few years before she
arrives at a marriageable age. No men but her nearest relatives ever
see her. When her parents consider she is old enough, they let it be
known among their friends that they have a marriageable daughter on
hand. Probably the young lady's brother will come up to you--if you are
a good catch--some day in the street, and say, "You are just the man I
wanted to see. My sister is now fourteen years of age. You must marry
her." It is an insult to refuse such an offer, for it is generally
looked upon as a great honour. However, if the Benedick be rather
doubtful as to the advantages of the match, and is desirous of
ascertaining whether his proposed bride be endowed with personal
attractions, he goes off to an old woman, whose profession it is to
intervene in such cases. She calls on the bride, inspects her, and
returns to give him an unbiassed summing-up of the young lady's
qualities. If he is satisfied, the wedding-day is fixed, but not till
the last moment does he view his bride. After the marriage ceremony a
very curious performance is gone through. The Albanians entertain
peculiar ideas as regards women. To linger with, to be affectionate
with, the fair sex, they consider to be degrading to a man's dignity,
unfitting him for the sterner business of war. Thus the youth affects
to despise the sex, is very shy of showing the slightest regard for it.
His sentiments, indeed, are very much those of English boys of a
certain age, who would blush to be seen playing with girls. Now, during
the marriage feast the bride retires to a room. The bridegroom refuses
to follow, and is bound to offer strong resistance; while the other
guests--father-in-law, mother-in-law, and all--slap and push in the
sham-reluctant one, who at last has to yield to superior numbers, and
enters the chamber.
As a young lady is so closely confined to her parents' house until the
day of her marriage, she naturally is very anxious to quit a single
state, which is by no means a state of blessedness. Should years go by,
and no suitable youth accept her hand--for, as I have shown, he can
hardly be said to demand it--one course is open to her, in order that
she may gain that freedom she yearns after. She becomes a nun, and
adopts the white robe of the Scutarine sisters.
The nuns here are by no means confined within great stone walls, as in
some countries. They must attend certain services at the church, but at
other times they wander about at their own sweet will, and enjoy an
absolute liberty that none others of their sex ever acquire in the
East. As a natural consequence, if scandal is to be believed, their
lives are not entirely unbrightened with flirtations with the other
sex.
CHAPTER X.
The bazaar--Turkish gipsies--The vendetta--An assassin--A way to pay
debts--Bosnian refugees--A card-party--Paving-stones--Burglars--Army
doctors--Change for a ten pound note--Our horses.
After this we visited the bazaar. Imagine a labyrinth of narrow lanes,
paved with large round blocks, polished by the feet of many
generations; the open booths laden with every variety of European and
Eastern goods; the roofs of every height and at every angle, projecting
far over on either side--almost meeting in places--joined by festoons
of vines, that keep out the glare of the midday sun; and a thick crowd
of armed men and veiled women, some mounted, some on foot, in every
variety of barbaric costume.
Here is an armourer's shop, the owner, a sour-looking Mohammedan, in
snowy festinelle, jacket stiff with gold embroidery, sits cross-legged
on his counter, surrounded with every sort of weapon. The Arnaut gun,
with flint lock, narrow steel stock beautifully worked, and Damascened
barrel fully five feet long, silver inlaid, and hooped with gilt bands,
first attracts our attention. The barrels of these guns are rarely of
Albanian make, but have been handed down from father to son for
generations, and are re-stocked over and over again ere they are
condemned. Most of them are of Venetian make; the marks of the most
famous gunmakers of the old republic are found inscribed on them. I
came across several Tower-marked barrels of antique date, seeming
strange in their Albanian stocks. Here we have yataghans, some with
plain ivory hilt, others glittering with gold and precious stones,
worth a prince's ransom. Here is the long-barrelled Miridite pistol,
with quaintly-carved brass stock. Here all the accessories for killing
one's fellows--cartridge belts, carved brass cartridge and oil-rag
boxes, flints soaking in a pan of water, and so on.
The next stall is a potter's. He works steadily at his wheel, and
surrounds himself with gracefully-formed bowls and pitchers of red
clay.
Then we have the fruiterer: pomegranates, figs, oranges, vegetables,
and fruits too unknown to us, lie in profusion on his counter.
Here is a worker in leather. He provides you with richly-ornamented
saddlery, belts for your sweetheart ornamented with the heads of pins,
purses, and the curious treble sack which the Arnaut straps in front of
him to hold his yataghan and two lengthy flint pistols. Here is a man
embroidering a piece of black or red cloth with the most artistic and
delicate patterns in gold or silk. This is to be portion of the garment
of a woman of rank.
Here is the carpenter. He is at work on a large square box of deal,
coarsely painted with bright colours. This is intended to contain the
_trousseau_ of the bride, and is the prominent object of the woman's
apartment in an Albanian house.
In short you can buy anything in the bazaar, from a horse to a para's
worth of halvar.
One of the most curious sights of the bazaar is its gipsy quarter.
After traversing one or two sordid alleys, one comes upon a sort of
terrace, where, scorning the sun or rain, unprovided with stall or
booth, are the zingali tinkers. A wilder and more uncouth lot I never
cast eyes upon. Dressed, or rather ragged, in a strange Oriental
costume of their own, blackened by exposure, speaking a tongue unknown
to all here, there is something very uncanny in them--no wonder that
the superstitious Arnaut fears and dislikes them. The women are
unveiled, their breasts are bare, and the old hags could well stand as
models for a witch of Endor, or any other unearthly and fearsome thing
in female human form.
The gipsy has a greater _raison d'etre_ here than elsewhere in Europe.
The proud races of these regions, more especially the Montenegrins,
consider it degrading in the highest degree to work in iron, except in
the case of the manufacture of arms. Thus, whereas the Albanians of
Scutari, Jakova, and Priserin are excellent workers in other metals,
all tinkering is left to the despised zingali.
It is quite the proper thing to have a stall in the bazaar. Men of the
highest rank sit behind their wares for a few hours of the day, not
perhaps caring much whether they sell or not; but this crowded mart is
the common rendezvous, and answers the purpose of a club.
As you force your way through the crowd some friend will recognize you,
and beckon you to squat by him on his counter, among the cheap
Manchester goods, while you talk over the latest gossip over coffee and
cigarettes. We soon had formed so many friendships, that a stroll
through the bazaar meant for us the swallowing of prodigious quantities
of the thick Eastern coffee, which, by the way, is the best of all, if
properly made.
It is by no means unusual to have your shopping disturbed by the report
of fire-arms. I have already alluded to the blood feud, or vendetta of
Albania. This is here carried to an extent quite unknown in other
countries. Indeed, the Franciscan missionaries told me that it is very
rare indeed to find a really old man in the mountains, the chances
being so much in favour of any given man being killed sooner or later
in these constant feuds.
It is in the bazaar, on market-days, that men of two families engaged
in a vendetta are most likely to meet. You can generally tell whether a
man has a feud on hand, by his furtive look; his pistols are cocked, he
carries his gun also cocked in his hand, and looks behind him
constantly, for fair play is unknown here. To stab a man behind his
back is quite legitimate.
The Arnauts are Roman Catholics, and, as Christians, are by law
forbidden to carry arms in the towns. But these powerful tribes are too
strong to heed the government regulations. No Arnaut ever comes into
the town without his arms, and no one dares interfere with him.
Our friend the gendarme took us to the stall of a friend of his--a
notable man, Bektse Tchotche by name. He was an ill-featured Albanian
Mussulman, about forty years of age, dressed in a national costume that
must have cost hundreds of pounds, so rich it was. The blade of his
yataghan was inlaid with an elaborate gold device from point to hilt.
Its handle was rough with large diamonds. His long Albanian pistols
were gold hilted, and beautifully carved. This fellow, a man of rank,
does not seem to carry on any ostensible trade at his stall, but it was
hung with a collection of weapons similar to those on his person. Our
gendarme whispered to us, "This is a brave man; much respected; has
killed more of his fellow-townsmen than any other Scutarine."
Imagine a policeman in England seriously pointing out, as an admirable
character and brave nobleman, the most atrocious murderer of the
county. Yet this is what this Bektse Tchotche is. Murder is not a crime
here, however cold-blooded and cowardly. The assassin has but to fear
the vengeance of the family--there are no police to interfere with him,
especially if he be a Mohammedan. This state of things breeds in the
towns a race of ferocious bullies, ready and waiting to wash out any
fancied affront with your heart's blood. This man, who is in the
enjoyment of several hundreds of pounds sterling per annum, has devoted
himself entirely to murder. If you meet him in the town you see him
sitting erect on a gaily equipped horse, which he encourages to prance
and caracole from one side of the street to the other, to the great
danger of passers-by. In Albania furious riding is not an offence--in
fact, it is difficult to find what is. If an unoffending passer-by jolt
against him accidentally on his promenade, a bullet is most probably
sent into him _instanter_. As all his pistols are at full cock, and
have hair triggers, they not unfrequently go off accidentally in the
crowded bazaar.
Perfectly incredible to any one who has not visited these countries, is
the light in which assassination is regarded. It is more an amusement
than anything else--the sport of men. Walk through the streets of
Scutari, and you will find the marks of bullets on every house.
The following was quite a recent affair. A young swell one morning was
presented with his account, a few shillings only, by his shoemaker. His
noble blood could not suffer the indignity long. He walked down the
bazaar, found the beast of a tradesman standing in front of his stall,
holding his child in his arms, and, without a word, blew his brains
out. This gentleman, I need hardly say, is still at large, and swaggers
about as usual.
We drank coffee with Bektse Tchotche, and had a long conversation with
him, the gendarme acting as interpreter. He was very kind and polite,
and invited us to see him again.
The bazaar at Scutari is full of strange sights, but the most strange
and pitiful is a scene one can witness every day outside a certain
baker's, who has made a contract with the government. Here for hours
patiently waits a miserable crowd of wretches, men, women, and
children, thin and pallid, with--yes, even smelling of--starvation. At
last a door opens in the loft, and at once they seem to wake from their
death-like lethargy; they press up, each trying to be first; they raise
their lean arms, and utter prayers and objurgations, hoarse and cracked
with hunger. A piece of undercooked maize bread is given to each, and
they depart, devouring it in silence. These are Bosnian refugees,
families that have emigrated from their homes at the instance of the
Turkish government, which now can do so little for them. Better for
them had they stayed in their native valleys, and trusted to the
justice of the Austrian giaours. Outside the town, by the roadside, one
comes across some that are so worn with travel and hunger that they
have not the energy to come with the others to receive the scant
rations. Here is a typical group. A veiled woman, sitting patiently by
the wayside, with several small children lying by her, all starving,
and one evidently dying. The father is dead--killed while resisting the
infidels, far away in Bosnia. These unfortunates do not beg--they sit
there in mute apathy. The children, maybe, crouch up nearer to their
mother when they see a giaour passing. If you show some small coins,
and beckon to them, the eldest child will perhaps take courage, and
painfully drag itself to you, will take the gift, look wonderingly at
you with his big eyes (unnaturally big in the white shrunk face), say
not a word, and return to his mother to pour what he has received into
her lap. The mother all the time sits there impassive, to all outward
appearance, quite heedless of what is going on, and utters not a word.
It is the daily sight of these poor wretches, and the tales they have
to tell, that so excited the Albanian Mussulmen to resist _a outrance_
any occupation of their country by Austria, for of course that power is
considered by them as the accursed cause of all this suffering.
We returned to the house of our friend the gendarme, and had a most
interesting conversation with him on the customs of his country. He
narrated to us, among other things, the last little affair in the way
of blood feuds.
"A friend of mine," said he, "was playing at cards in the bazaar with
another gentleman. The latter accused my friend of cheating. His reply,
of course, was a pistol-bullet, which instantly killed the other. My
friend, knowing that many of the dead man's relations were about,
escaped from the town to a house he has in the mountains, where he
could stay in safety for awhile. The relations of the other, being
unable to avenge his death on the person of his murderer, adopted the
following very clever plan to entrap and kill, without incurring any
risk themselves, the nearest relative of my friend, his father. Two men
went to the old man's house, and told him that his son had been slain
by a man of Koplik, and that his murderer was now staying in a khan on
the road to that village. They offered to accompany him and assist him
to avenge his son's death. The old man swallowed the bait without
suspicion. On a lonely part of the road, as he rode somewhat in advance
of his two companions, they at the same moment fired their pistols into
his back, then cutting off his head, sent it in a package to his son."
Thus are things managed in this pleasant land of Albania.
It was dark before we left our friend's house, so he sent his Miridite
servant to accompany us with a lantern to our hotel.
Scutari is not lit by night with lamps of any kind, so it is almost
impossible to find one's way in the dark through the narrow intricate
alleys. Besides, as the paving is laid down carelessly, to say the
least of it, one would run a good chance of breaking one's neck, if one
dispensed with the services of a link-man. One occasionally comes
across deep pits in the middle of a street, or against a rough stone
projecting up quite three feet above the average level of the others.
As the town is subject to floods, high stepping-stones are placed
across the streets at intervals. All this makes walking in the dark
exceeding unpleasant in this city.
I said somewhere back that the police have little to do in Scutari.
They have one function at any rate. They patrol the streets at night,
and arrest all who are not provided with lit lanterns. This rule is
strictly enforced. If any one were walking lanternless any night in the
town, and did not immediately respond to the patrol's challenge and
surrender himself, he would most probably receive a rifle-bullet or
so into him. Burglars, provided they carry lamps, are, as far as I
can make out, not interfered with by the police. An attempt to break
into our consul's house was made not long ago. A watchful _cavasse_
(body-servant) saw the men in the garden, and opened fire on them with
his gun from a window. The fire was returned, and kept up for half an
hour or so between the two parties, simply by way of passing the time
pleasantly, I suppose. The Albanians are vile shots, and no damage was
done on either side, beyond may be a window or so broken. The police
kept carefully out of the way all the time.
Three army doctors dined with us at the hotel table d'hote. They were
not in a happy state of mind. Their whole conversation was a vehement
abuse of the Turkish Government. As they understood Italian we were
able to join in the talk. One of them, a very amusing old fellow, an
Armenian, waxed very warm over his grievances. "Ah, Signor, you have no
idea what a corrupt, vile thing this Turkish Government is. The court
eats all the country. We who work, the employes of the state, the
doctors, the soldiers, never receive any pay now. We are put off with
excuses on excuses, lies on lies. As long as they think they can obtain
our labour for nothing, not a para will they let slip through their
fingers. Look at my case. I have been a doctor in the Turkish army for
forty years, I have been through the Crimea, over all Asia, in the
service of the Porte. I am entitled to a good pension. I have been day
after day to the office at Constantinople, and put my case before the
authorities. They put me off with all sorts of fair promises, but I
knew what that meant, so went to them day after day, and worried them
so much that they decided to get rid of me in some way. 'There is a
permanent hospital in Scutari, in Albania,' they told me. 'In
consideration of your long service we appoint you as head doctor of it.
Start at once to your post.' Now that I have travelled all this way, at
my own expense mind you, what do I find? The permanent hospital no
longer exists--it is a myth, and they knew it at Constantinople all the
time, and no doubt chuckled merrily, when I had turned my back, at the
clever way they had rid themselves of the importunate old nuisance."
Our friend the gendarme called on us after dinner. He too had his
grievance. He had just called on his commandant, in hopes of receiving
some small portion of the arrears of pay due to him. The following
brief conversation ensued:--
"What do you want here, Lieutenant P.?"
"I want money."
"What? Eh! Money! What on earth for?"
"To procure bread."
"Ah! bread; that is well. Do you know what there is in the _caisse_?"
"No."
"Well, there is nothing; and I see little chance of there being a
single para there for some time. So go, young man, and do not indulge
in extravagant habits. I advise you as an older man."
After a few consultations with Mr. Green, Brown and myself determined
to carry out our original plan of riding to Janina, and of visiting
Priserin on our way, if the Leaguesmen were willing to receive us in
that city.
Our friend the gendarme offered to accompany us the whole way for a
small consideration. This suited us exactly. For with him we could
converse, and the chances were small of our meeting people who could
understand any Western language, on our route. Besides, the Turkish
government compels all travellers to take an escort of zaptiehs. At
certain stages these are changed, and another escort is given, of
greater or less numerical strength according to the state of the
country to be traversed. In the company of this officer, we should
probably be able to dispense with this nuisance, except perhaps on a
few stages where brigands were supposed to be prowling about. An escort
of zaptiehs is really of little use; for when brigands are come across
here, it is not in twos and threes, but in overwhelming numbers.
We were rather surprised when our intended companion told us that he
could easily procure letters of safe-conduct for us to the chiefs of
the League at Priserin and Jakova, as he himself had many intimate
friends among the head men of that formidable organization, at Scutari.
Curiously illustrative was this of the present condition of this
country. Here was an official of the Turkish Government, an officer of
police, openly associating and sympathizing with rebels, whose avowed
object it is to throw off the Turkish yoke by force of arms, and place
a prince of their own choice on the old stone throne of Scanderbeg at
Kroia.
The next thing to do was to make preparations for our journey. We had
spent all our gold, so found that we were obliged to change some of our
English notes. This was no easy matter. After some difficulty, with the
assistance of Mr. Green we found an old Christian merchant, Shouma by
name, reputedly of great wealth. He might be able to manage the little
affair for us.
We called on him, and according to the custom of the country we
indulged in coffee, sweetmeats, sherbet, and cigarettes before
commencing to state our business. Very suspiciously he looked at the
notes. Bills of exchange he would have discounted without hesitation; I
believe our own promissory notes would have satisfied him. But in
governments this wise man had no faith. He did not believe in a paper
currency.
He had observed how in his own country it had depreciated till at last
it was absolutely valueless. He knew that even Austria's notes were
worth considerably less than the sum they are supposed to represent. I
tried to explain to him what Bank of England notes really were--what
the difference between a convertible and an inconvertible paper
currency was; but Shouma evidently considered that the convertible
paper was a still more subtle device of a more clever government to
hoodwink and swindle the people.
However, he agreed to change a ten pound note for us, provided that Mr.
Green guaranteed that it really was worth ten golden sovereigns. Mr.
Green was of course willing to do this for us. Shouma accordingly took
our note, but told us that it would take three days at least to rake
together so large a sum as ten pounds in Scutari. He would go that very
day to the bazaar, and get as much as he could, for us to go on with.
In three days, a huge packet of metallic discs, of every size and
inscription, was ready for us. This was accompanied by a document,
lengthy as the manifest of a mail steamer, specifying the value of this
wonderful ten pounds' worth of coins.
He gave us 131 piastres and a fraction for each sovereign. It took us
two hours to count and verify our change. There were silver medjidies
at 22-1/2 piastres each, all sorts of curious concave plates of base
metal, worth 11-1/2, 6-3/4, 13-1/2, and many other odd sums nasty to
calculate.
There were Greek coins, Russian roubles, old Austrian swanzickers
bearing the effigies of Maria Theresa, Peruvian and Mexican dollars,
and I know not what besides. Verifying one's change, is no joke in
Albania.
To shop in the bazaar of Scutari is a maddening operation, unless one
heroically resigns oneself to the certainty of being cheated twice over
in every transaction; for not only must one bargain fiercely and
cunningly, and beat down the price the merchant asks for an article in
the first instance, but after one has come to terms, and is about to
hand over his fifty piastres, say, another still warmer and more
utterly confusing discussion is sure to ensue as to the value of the
coins one presents to him.
The piece of money you yourself received as a twenty-piastre bit, he
insists is worth only eighteen.
"See here," he says, "this swanzicker you give me has a hole through
it; that diminishes its value by two paras." Two or three neighbours
are called in to decide the question. Each has a different opinion on
the subject.
The fact is that all money is acceptable here, and that, especially
since Turkey's reduced circumstances, the currency consists of the old,
semi-defaced coinage of a dozen nations at least, whose value is
arrived at by guesswork. I met no one in Albania capable of telling
off-hand how many piastres a given piece was worth.
We spent the three days Shouma had given us, in preparing for our
journey, and seeing as much as we could of the habits and customs of
the Scutarines.
As we had made up our minds to ride, we paid a visit to the bazaar to
purchase two horses. All sorts of extraordinary animals were produced,
and refused.
At last we came across one that struck our fancy--a long-legged,
extremely lean creature, tall for the country, of a red-brick colour.
Brown, who is a horsey man, proceeded to examine him in a scientific
manner, to the admiration of the Arnaut stablemen.
He pointed out the weak points of the animal by signs to the dealer,
who was quite as sharp as any of his fraternity in England.
Brown, wishing to express his disapproval of the extremely emaciated
condition of the horse, pointed to his ribs; whereon the man,
misunderstanding his meaning, deliberately counted them before him--a
very easy process in the case of this Albanian Rosinante--and
indignantly signified to my companion that he was too much of a
gentleman to offer for sale a horse that was not provided with a
sufficient number of those necessary costal supporters.
The animal was then trotted out, down one of the crowded alleys of the
bazaar. He found favour in Brown's critical eye, so the bargaining
commenced.
"_Sa pare?_" (how much) I asked.
The dealer held up both his hands, and said, "napoleon Frank"--to
signify that he wanted ten napoleons.
Brown expressed infinite disgust, and held up two fingers.
The dealer in his turn turned his back, with indignant gesticulations
and exclamations at the ridiculously low offer.
At last a bargain was struck, the money counted out, and the purchase
delivered to us.
We were mounted at the time on two horses Mr. Green had kindly lent us;
so we led off Rosso--as we named our animal, in consequence of his rosy
hue--with a rope behind us.
Through Mr. Green we managed to procure another steed, a younger
animal, and of more robust habit than the lean and haggard Rosso. From
his more gentlemanly appearance we gave him the name of Effendi.
We managed to pick up two saddles in the bazaar--one the regular
Turkish saddle, at first so uncomfortable to the novice, but gaudy with
flimsy metal ornament; the other was a secondhand Turkish officer's
saddle, similar to that used in Europe, and provided with
formidable-looking holsters.
We felt very proud of our purchases, and took a long ride the same
afternoon over the plain, to a very fine old Venetian bridge that spans
a branch of the Bojano, Mr. Green's son accompanying us.
Rosso and Effendi proved to be all that could be desired.
CHAPTER XI.
Our Lady of Scutari--A miracle--The fete--A funeral--A drunken
Arnaut--Our escort--Two more Britons--Warm discussion--War--Marco.
The morrow (October 18th) was the great holiday of North Albania, the
day of Our Lady of Scutari.
Long ago all this country was Christian. In this city there then stood
a beautiful wooden image of the Virgin Mary. Thousands of the faithful
were wont to flock hither year by year to offer their devotions at her
feet, and to be healed of their infirmities; for no sick man that had
faith was ever known to kiss the white feet of the image and not depart
whole.
But it came to pass that a certain priest made himself very unpopular
among the people. I do not quite know for what cause, but at any rate a
large multitude came to the church one day, and declared that unless
something that they desired was granted to them they would then and
there abjure the religion of Christ and embrace Mohammedanism. Rightly
or wrongly, the priest would not give in; whereupon the people tore
their rosaries from their necks, and marched off to the nearest
Mohammedan village, that the mollahs might receive the renegades into
the fold of the Prophet; whereupon Our Lady of Scutari, sorrowful and
angry at the desertion of those for whom she had wrought so many good
things for so many years, left her shrine in this ungrateful land.
That night the wooden image disappeared. It was not heard of for
months--when tidings came that on the very same night that this event
happened, an image of the Virgin miraculously entered a church in a
remote village of Italy, and there took up its abode. A loud voice was
also heard, crying out over Scutari, that not till the last Turki
(Mohammedan) had left Albania would Our Lady of Scodra be appeased and
forgive her children: then, and not till then, would she return to her
old shrine.
This day was the anniversary of the miraculous departure of the image,
long ago; and an impressive service was held in the great ugly square
church of the Christians in this city.
The interior of this building is almost entirely devoid of any ornament
whatever, and bears no resemblance to any church elsewhere.
The priests that minister to the spiritual wants of the Albanians are
Franciscans and Jesuits, all of whom are Italians. The Franciscan monks
have a convent and schools. The Jesuits have tried their best to
monopolize the education of the people, but are not much liked.
It was difficult, standing in this bleak building, in the midst of so
wild and outlandish though very devout a congregation, to imagine
oneself attending a Christian service.
The fierce-eyed shaven-headed Arnaut mountaineer jostled with the
mild-looking Scutarine Christian and kilted Mussulman; for those of the
other faith, curiously enough, offer their devotions on this day to the
mother of the Christ whom they despise. Indeed though one half the
Albanians call themselves Christians, and the other half profess to be
Mohammedans, there is really little distinction between them. The
Mohammedans worship the Virgin Mary; the Christians make pilgrimages to
the sepulchres of Mussulman saints, and mingle all sorts of grotesque
alien superstitions with their Christianity, which the priesthood in
vain strive to eradicate.
I was told that even some relics of the old Greek paganism linger in
these mountains.
I myself have seen the Arnauts attempt to read the future from the
entrails of a sheep which they had slain for a feast.
Before the service we had an opportunity of witnessing a Christian
funeral. The coffin was borne on the shoulders of men, while the women
followed at a distance, crying and wailing, as is and has been the
custom, in all the East, for all time:--
"He was strong in the chase, he was handsome, he was lovable, he was
brave. Alas! no more will he be loved, no more will his swift feet
carry him to the hunt. His enemies will rejoice, and throw away their
fear. Alas! alas! he has gone from us! he will be hidden in the cold
earth."
In the evening a band played outside the church, and the jolly
Franciscan monks tucked up their gowns, and proceeded to amuse the
crowd with several balloons, which they filled with hot air and
liberated, to the great delight of all.
It was a good-humoured though savage-looking mob, and would set a good
example to many a gathering of Western civilization. The streets were
gaily lit with many-coloured Chinese lanterns. As we walked home after
the termination of the proceedings, I noticed that there were one or
two cases of drunkenness.
There was one man, an Arnaut, pretty far gone. As I consider the
different effects of alcohol on the brains of different races to be a
very interesting and curious study, I stood and watched the mountaineer
for some time, at a safe distance; for he bristled with arms of course;
and if a drunken man, carrying with him two loaded pistols, a gun, and
yataghan, should run amuck, or conceive a sudden dislike to the English
foreigners, the consequences might be unpleasant. However, he did
nothing of the kind. The sole effect of the raki was to make him
exceedingly devotional. He knelt down, raised his hands, and prayed in
a loud voice, and with a most intense and passionate earnestness. He
swung backwards and forwards--wrung his hands, as he worked himself
into a phrenzy of religious excitement. Then he kissed the muddy ground
over and over again with fervour, under the impression perhaps that he
was still at the foot of the empty shrine of the Madonna.
Lastly, he fell prone, face down in the mud, dead drunk, when his
friends raised him and carried him off, with looks of shame on their
faces, for drunkenness is considered to be a beastly and degrading vice
in this uncivilized country.
While we were breakfasting on the following morning, our friend the
gendarme appeared, with a very downcast and despondent visage.
"The beasts!" he said. "O, these Turks! I cannot go with you, friends.
I had obtained leave, as you know, to accompany you on your journey
through Albania. Well, late last night I was sent for, and told that I
must stay at Scutari. They had seen me often in your company, and, as
is their custom, became jealous and suspicious; so they have got up
some idle excuse to prevent my going with you. This is the way they
treat us. They give us no pay; and when we do get a chance of making a
little money, do their best to get in our way."
Our poor friend was very cut up, and naturally so, for to be guard of a
party of Inglezi was a rare windfall for
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