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 hiscompagnons de routehad 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 akhan. 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 EnglishGospodinas. 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 goodrakito 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 ofTchernagora. 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 thisVoyadewas 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.
Thelondra, 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 inkismet, that these ricketty coffins have not been superseded by any more seaworthy craft.
Thelondrais 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.
THE LONDRA
THE LONDRA.Page102.
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 anau revoirin 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 débris—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 MountScardus, 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 fullOf 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 returnWe will fall upon their village—sack and burn,Tear up the smoking rafters of their homesteadsInto 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!
Now then, my hawks, pull! pull!Let the boat fly over the water!The rocks on the shore are fullOf 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!
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 returnWe will fall upon their village—sack and burn,Tear up the smoking rafters of their homesteadsInto 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!
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.
SCUTARI FISHING HARBOUR
SCUTARI FISHING HARBOUR.Page109.
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 café. 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 café 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 café-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 chargé-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 Zutné 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 thedimesto 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,téte,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 grève," 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.