NORTHERN ALBANIA
CHAPTER IINTO A SAVAGE REGION
Wildest Albania—Warnings not to attempt to travel there—I decide to go, and take Palok—Prince Nicholas of Montenegro bids us farewell—On the Lake of Scutari—Arrival at Skodra—Passports, rabble, and backsheesh—Photographing the fortress in secret—Treading dangerous ground—Albania the Unknown.
Before leaving London various insurance companies had flatly declined to accept the risk of “accident,†because it was known that I intended visiting Albania.
Indeed, no company in the City would insure me, and at Lloyd’s the premium quoted was exorbitant. This was the reverse of reassuring. Northern Albania I knew to be the wildest and most savage country in the East, and the Accursed Mountains, which I wanted to visit, were held by brigandish tribes, who shot the traveller at sight or held him to ransom. So little is known about them that they had always held a peculiar fascination for me.
I searched through the journals of the Royal Geographical Society for many years past, but found little mention of Northern Albania, while of books of actual travel in that region there were none. These facts had decided me to accept the risks, whatever these might be, and go into those wild, inaccessible mountains which bear the name of Accursed.
Everybody warned me of danger. Friends in England constantly urged me to “take care of myself,†as though that were possible when in the midst of a hostile tribe; and in fact there seemed to be a conspiracy on the part of friends, strangers, and officials to prevent me penetrating the Land of Mystery.
When I mentioned my intention in Cettinje, everyone, as I have already said, held up their hands and raised their eyes. It was sheer madness, they declared. Nobody’s life was worth a moment’s purchase outside the town of Skodra—or Scutari, as it appears on our maps. Outside—beyond Turkish control—well, I should not be allowed to travel a couple of miles before I had a bullet through me from behind a rock at the roadside.
Everybody had some weird or horrible story to tell about the savagery of the Hoti, the Kastrati, the Skreli, and other savage tribes inhabiting those high, misty mountains beyond the Montenegro border. The one or two Albanians—tall, muscular fellows in white felt skullcap, tight white woollen trousers heavily braided with black, and a kind of black bolero with long fringe—whom I had seen in Montenegro were certainly a sinister-looking, forbidding lot. But I had come to the Balkans to investigate and to learn the truth; therefore the more I was urged not to attempt to go into the mountains, the firmer was my determination to do so.
His Royal Highness, Prince Nicholas himself, had at one of the audiences he granted me seriously queried the advisability of undertaking the journey. Almost daily on the Albanian frontier were raids into Montenegrin territory, and the whole border was constantly terrorised by the Albanian bands, who shot the Montenegrins wherever found. Indeed, the market at Podgoritza, where men squatted with loaded rifles over four or five fowls or a basket of apples, was sufficient to tell me the truth; while the daily talk of that town was of fighting with the wild race who live across the border. The Montenegrin hates the Albanian, and has surely good cause to do so. Many a comely Montenegrin maiden—and some of them are exceedingly beautiful—has been captured in those night raids and carried across into Turkish territory, to be heard of no more. And many, too, are the reprisals by the Montenegrins; mostly, however, with serious losses to themselves.
Ryeka, Montenegro.125
Ryeka, Montenegro.125
Ryeka, Montenegro.125
Zabliak, Montenegro.
Zabliak, Montenegro.
Zabliak, Montenegro.
Palok, whom I had engaged as my guide, had, he said, been born in Skodra, or, as we call it, Scutari, which causes it to be confounded with the city on the Bosphorus. He alsodeclared that he was well known there, and the fact that he also spoke Italian caused me to accept his services.
When I asked Fevzi Pasha, the Turkish Minister in Cettinje, for a passport for Skodra, or “Scutari d’Albanie,†as it appears on thevisa, he granted it, but not without words of caution. “In Scutari you will have nothing to fear,†he said. “I will give you a note to the Governor of the town. But do not go into the country. If you do, you’ll be shot like a dog.â€
I thanked him, but had no intention of taking his well-meant advice.
At half-past three one dark morning I took Palok, and we drove out on the road that wound high up across the great lonely mountains to the little town of Ryeka, whence a small steamer plies down the Lake of Scutari to Skodra. The drive was cold and weary, through a barren waste of rocks, but the bright autumn sun was up ere we reached Ryeka, and just as I boarded the big canoe with long, upturned, pointed prow, which takes passengers and baggage down the sluggish stream to the boat at the entrance to the lake, I saw, on the road above, a fine military figure in pale blue, riding a splendid white charger and followed by an officer.
In a moment every head was bared. It was Prince Nicholas, who was staying at his palace at Ryeka, taking his morning ride.
He espied me, pulled up, and shouted down in Italian—
“Hulloa! Good-morning! Then you are off to Albania after all, eh?â€
“Yes, Monseigneur,†I responded.
“Did you get my message last night?†he inquired, referring to a confidential matter.
“Thank you, Monseigneur, yes.â€
“Very well. Only be careful of yourself, you know, and when you get back, come and tell me all about it.†And, laughing, His Royal Highness waved his hand with a merry “Bon voyage!†and cantered away, while my half a dozen fellow-travellers in gold-braided costumes regarded me in wonder that their Prince should stop and converse with me—a perfect stranger.
Down the silent river, between steep green hills we glided. Choked by the tangle and rot of weeds, it was the haunt of thousands of waterfowl, and, as we passed, the herons rose with a lazy flapping of wings,—a stream that might well be haunted by the fairies, for the water was unruffled and the silence deep and complete.
Boarding the little steamer, theNettuno, lying at the mouth of the river, we were soon out in the great green lake, with the high mountains looming grey in the far distance. As we steamed due south, the barren mountains of Montenegro were soon left behind. At Virpasar and Plavnitza we picked up passengers, a fat Turkish peasant woman carrying two baskets of fowls, and three young Montenegrins, fully armed with rifles and revolvers. Because she was not yet in Turkey, the woman wore no veil; yet in the evening, as soon as Skodra came in sight, she produced her veil, and carefully adjusted it, laughing with me the whole time, and wound it until only her bright dark eyes were visible.
From Virpasar an Italian company is now building a railway to the Montenegrin port of Antivari, so that in a couple of years the lake will be connected with the Adriatic, and form the much-needed trade route for Montenegro. The Servians, indeed, are hoping also to use Antivari as their Adriatic port, and thus be free of the excessive Customs dues and other oppression placed upon them by Austria-Hungary. When in Belgrade, M. Stoyanovitch, the Servian Minister of Commerce, explained to me the several schemes for the construction of a railroad from Krushevatz, in Servia, by way of Novi-Bazar, Ipek, Podgoritza, and Ryeka, to join the Italian line at Virpasar, and so to the Adriatic or to San Giovanni di Medua. Servia must secure a port, and this line, whenever made, will be a most paying concern, for by its extension from Stalacs—on the main Belgrade-Sofia line—to Orsova, it would receive most of the exports of Southern Russia to Western Europe.
Palok, my companion through the Skreli country.
Palok, my companion through the Skreli country.
Palok, my companion through the Skreli country.
The mere handful of lake-side dwellings which now constitutes Virpasar will, ere many years have passed, grow into an important trade centre, and upon the great silent lake,surrounded by those high sheer mountains where the eagle and the pelican are now the only signs of life, big passenger and freight steamers will soon ply. The railway, which must be built ere long, will quickly bring a civilising influence upon Northern Albania; therefore, if one wishes to see it in all its wildness, it must be seen to-day. In another decade the Albanian brigand—the real thing out of the story-book—will be only a matter of history.
The calm, bright day was perfect. The surface of the great lake was like a mirror, and the fringe of giant mountain constantly changed in colour—grey, blue, purple, and rose—as the hours wore on, and the sun sank westward in all the crimson glory of the death of the autumn day.
Now and then, with our rifles, we took pot-shots at the pelicans, but with little result. A young Montenegrin killed one, and the huge bird came down with a great splash into the water. At last, in the falling twilight, we cast anchor at the head of the Boyana River, which empties itself into the lake, and then, boarding another high-prowed canoe, where a Turkish soldier sat over us with a loaded rifle, we were rowed slowly up to the low line of ramshackle buildings, which was our first sight of Skodra.
With our farewell to theNettunowe had said good-bye to civilisation, as represented by sturdy Montenegro. We were in Albania, the wildest and most turbulent country in the East.
We landed upon some slimy steps amid a perfect babel of shouts. Hundreds of unwashed Turks and Albanians were awaiting us, all shouting in a language of which I understood not one word. Every man, armed and of ferocious aspect, seemed ready to make short work of both Palok and myself. Indeed, so unpleasant is the landing at Skodra, that Palok himself had already sent a message to a friend of his—a typical brigand of the first water—to give the Customs officer a tip, and so make pleasant our path through that dark, evil-smelling hole where the Turks collect their dues. Palok’s friend, whom I only saw on that one occasion, and whose name I could not ascertain, had managed to secure from somewherea mustard-coloured ramshackle fly, the upholstering of which was in ribbons. The driver, in his white fez, with dirty white baggy trousers and yellow tunic, came forward and saluted me with deep obeisance, while I was explaining to the passport officer—a ragged, consumptive youth—that my name was not “We, Sir Edward Grey.â€
The chief of the Customs was a long, very thin, white-fezzed Turk with large silver-mounted pistols in his belt, very tight white trousers, a gold-embroidered jacket, and pointed slippers that turned up at the toes in the most approved style. He was a real live Bey, so Palok told me, but he was not averse to receiving tenpence as a tip. Later, when I left Scutari (or Skodra) again, I gave him ten Austrian crowns, for I had in my bag a couple of thousand cigarettes, which, by Turkish law, are prohibited from leaving the country. His charge for winking at the contravention is five crowns a thousand!
Turkish Custom Houses are weird places, and it is no wonder that the British Ambassador at Constantinople is just now pressing for some reform. Your belongings are not only thoroughly examined and heavily assessed for Customs—if you won’t tip—when you enter Turkish territory, but the same happens when you leave. Woe-betide those who dispense with the services of a discreet dragoman and do not tip. All that you may have bought in Turkey will be found liable to duty. Gold embroideries will be weighed, and anything that has the Sultan’s monogram upon it—as so many embroideries have—will be at once confiscated.
The man in the fez is grave and inexorable. His attitude is as though he would scorn the offer of a bribe and throw you into prison for daring to insult an official of His Imperial Majesty. Yet outside the Custom House he keeps a crafty ragamuffin who is ready to accept a four-franc piece on his behalf, and for that he will pass a thousand pounds’ worth of goods with only a pretence of search! The Custom House at Galata on the Bosphorus is a case in point. There are five officials there who share the spoils from the traveller.
Yes, the land of the Crescent is indeed a quaint country.The corruption of Turkish Customs officials is no doubt due to the frequent non-payment of their stipends. They must live, and do so by accepting bribes. I afterwards spoke to certain high government officials at Constantinople about it, and they admitted that they knew bribery existed extensively, but at present were utterly unable to suppress it.
Over the ramshackle Custom House, a dark hole without a window, frowns a shattered fortress containing one or two antiquated guns, a photograph of which I afterwards obtained surreptitiously, and which appears in these pages. Had I been discovered, I might have spent an unpleasant year or so in a Turkish prison. But even that offence, so heinous in Germany, France, or Austria, I suppose I could easily have expiated with a few piastres of backsheesh. In Turkey you can do anything—if you are prepared to pay.
Upon that filthy crowd around the Custom House at Skodra, upon those crumbling buildings, upon that old white fortress, upon the tower of Skodra itself, a mile away, the centuries of progress have made no impression. Here is the country of a mediæval people, the life of an age long ago past and forgotten.
While our fellow-travellers were squabbling, arguing, shouting, and cursing the wild, dirty mob who now filled the Custom House, we, with our baggage—canvas bags, specially made to sling on mules for mountain travelling—ascended into the mustard-coloured conveyance and were driven along a country lane, very English in its appearance, with bramble hedgerows and ditches; yet the high, thin minaret of a mosque before us, and the carefully latticed windows of a house, preventing the women-folk from being seen from the roadway, and giving the place an air of mystery, showed us to be in the land of His Majesty the Sultan—in Albania the Unknown.
CHAPTER IIWHERE LIFE IS CHEAP
Fired at in the street of Skodra—My comfortless inn—Panorama of life—Armed bands of wild mountaineers in the streets—The Sign of the Cross—Scutarine people—The fascination of Skodra—In the den of my friend Salko—Making purchases—Short shrift with swindlers—Some genuine antiques—Ragged and shoeless soldiers of the Sultan—Men shot in the blood-feud—“It is nothing!â€
I had not been in Skodra half an hour before a man fired at me with his revolver.
It was my welcome to Albania, and I confess that I drew my own weapon from my belt, prepared to defend myself.
I had arrived at thehan, or inn, a poor place dignified by the name of Hôtel de l’Europe, washed, and descended to the street, when, on emerging from the doorway, somebody fired his pistol right in my face. The flash startled me, and in an instant I was on my guard with my back to the wall. In that brief second all that I had heard of the insecurity of Albania flashed back.
My assailant—a tall, ragged-looking, middle-aged Turk in a scarlet fez—laughed in my face and uttered some words that I did not understand. He saw my weapon shining in the dim light, and pushed it away with a laugh. His manner struck me as friendly, so I dropped my arm; whereupon another man, in passing, also fired, then another and another, until, ten seconds later, everybody in the street was firing indiscriminately, and bullets were flying in all directions.
In Skodra.
In Skodra.
In Skodra.
I held my breath. Had the place actually revolted against the Turk just at the moment of my arrival? If so, I was in luck’s way. I knew that the Albanian hated the Turk, forPalok had told me that the revolution was only a question of time, and that one day his people would drive them out of Skodra. The place was once Servian, and captured by the Turks in 1479. Yet the Albanian still looks upon the Turk as a miserable intruder, and intends one day, ere long, to drive him out.
Around me, on every hand, pistols were being fired, the flashes showing red in the night, and I stood breathless, wondering what was happening. The man who had fired in my face was grinning at my alarm, when Palok dashed out to me.
“Signore! Signore!†he cried, in Italian. “It is nothing! Don’t be alarmed. It is only the vigil of the fast of Ramadan. It is our way of celebrating it!â€
By that time every man in the whole town was firing off his revolver. The din was deafening.
“Very well,†I laughed. “Then I’ll celebrate it too,†and, raising my arm, I also emptied my weapon in the air.
The grinning Turk who had first fired and alarmed me saluted me by touching chin and forehead, and then we laughed together. It was certainly fortunate for him and for myself that I had not let fly, but he did not seem to heed at all the danger of firing suddenly upon a foreigner ignorant of what was about to happen.
Thehan, with the dignified name of “hotel,†was certainly an uncomfortable place. Cold roast pork, a trifle “high,†was all I could get to eat, and this was washed down by a light red vinegar, which was probably at one time wine. For five days running I had that very same pork served twice a day, until I sent Palok into the bazaar to buy me other supplies. A narrow camp bed, an iron washstand with tin fittings, a pail and a deal table, comprised my furniture, the best accommodation that Skodra could afford.
Yet the town is perhaps one of the most interesting in all the Balkans, and its people the most strangely mixed and wearing a greater variety of Eastern costume than even in Constantinople itself.
The bazaar, down by the river, is full of quaint typesand most interesting. Its uneven pavement is quite as unclean and slippery with the dirt of ages as are the streets of Constantinople, but its dark little sheds are filled by workers, silver and copper smiths, embroiderers, armourers, weavers, jewellers—in fact, one sees every trade being carried on in the same primitive way and with the same tools as in the Middle Ages.
Skodra is not a town of progress, for there telephone or electric light is forbidden; machinery of every kind is against the law, and neither newspapers nor books are allowed to enter Albania. Therefore in those crooked streets of the bazaar the traveller is back in mediæval days, and the town of to-day is just as Florence was in the days of Boccaccio or Dante. Like the mediæval Florentines, many of the men from the mountains shave their heads, leaving a tuft of bushy hair at the back, which is cut square at the neck. With their tight-fitting black-and-white striped trousers, black woollen boleros, their belts filled with cartridges, and a rifle over their shoulders, they are a fine, manly race, with swaggering gait, clean-cut features—mostly Catholics, who spit openly at the lean, ragged, ill-fed soldiers of the Sultan.
They come down from the mountains in armed bands, and walk through the town, a dozen or so together, in complete defiance of the Turk. With men upon whose heads a price has been set—known brigands or murderers, indeed—I have chatted and drunk coffee in the bazaar, all wild fellows who know no law except their own, and who do not acknowledge the Turk as their ruler. When I inquired of Palok the reason of their immunity from arrest, he replied—
“Why, signore, if the Turks captured one of these, the whole of Northern Albania would rise as one man. The tribes would sweep down from the mountains and sack and burn Skodra within twenty-four hours. Life in this town is very uncertain, I can tell you. One never knows when the rising will take place. All is ripe for it, and when it comes, then woe-betide the Turk and all the Moslems. Have you not noticed the Sign of the Cross over the doors of the Christians? Is that not significant?â€
The Albanian tribesmen are mostly Catholics, together with some Orthodox; yet they combine religion strangely with war. They go to the Catholic Cathedral in Skodra with loaded rifles, which they place before them as they kneel and pray, and before murdering their enemy they will go and ask Providence to assist them.
The town Christian of Skodra is, for the most part, a very excellent fellow. Palok, whom I found was well known, introduced me to many of them, and in that wild land I received very many charming kindnesses from perfect strangers.
The costume of the Scutarine men is distinctly quaint and curious. A short dark red jacket, the front and sleeves of which are so completely braided with narrow black braid as to almost hide the foundation, and edged with dozens of oblong brass buttons; a pair of wide, dark blue baggy breeches reaching to the knee; a round flat fez with a huge blue silk tassel that falls about the shoulders; a bright, striped silk sash; their legs in white cotton stockings and feet in patent leather dress-shoes. Such is the dress of the average Christian one meets in Skodra.
The attire of the women is even more extraordinary. They veil, just as do the Mohammedan women, and only uncover their faces when they go to church. For the most part they are beautiful when young, with clear, delicate complexions, handsome features, and dancing black eyes; but after seventeen appear to soon lose their beauty and become prematurely wrinkled and old. The outdoor dress is generally made of the same dark red cloth as the men’s jackets, so completely embroidered as to appear black. Indeed no Scutarine, either man or woman, goes out in a dress unless it is covered with embroidery. In every street you will see a dozen men squatting cross-legged in a little dark shop, busily plying the needle upon the narrow black braid, and applying tiny pieces of green cloth among the braid as additional ornament. Often the braiding is a marvel of needlework and design, and some of the outdoor costumes of the women, though exceedingly ugly, are ornamented in such a manner as to amaze the Western eye.
Female outdoor attire is, of course, of the divided skirt order, trousers of thick braided cloth so clumsy that the wearer can only walk with difficulty, a long cape, richly embroidered on the shoulders and reaching to the hips, with a square kind of sailor collar that is raised and pinned to the crown of the head. From the bridge of the nose to the knee falls the white veil, like the Moslem women, while from the sash are pinned gaily coloured silk handkerchiefs, which, appearing below the cape, lend additional colour to the most unwieldy and ugly of all the dresses of the East. The wearer cannot walk, but can only waddle with difficulty.
The streets of Skodra are, however, a perfect panorama of costume. In the dark entries the shuffling Mohammedan women, white-clothed from head to foot and veiled, look ghostly and mysterious; the Mohammedan unmarried girls with the striped red-and-white veil wrapped about them; Albanians from the south in short, stiff cotton skirts like exaggerated kilts; Turks in greasy frock-coats and discoloured fezes, strolling slowly, fingering their beads to pass the time through Ramadan; fierce tribesmen from the mountains in all sorts of different costumes, fully armed and ready to shoot in an instant at discovering an enemy even there in the crowded bazaar; unveiled country women in short, coarse, black homespun skirts, wearing great iron-studded belts and savage ornaments in brass, copper, and gold; giggling girls from the mountains four or five days distant, dressed in their gorgeous gala dresses, laughing as they bargain with the voluble keepers of the tiny shops in the bazaar.
Skodra fascinates one. There is no European influence here: not a soul is in European dress. It is the unchanging East—the same life that has existed here for centuries. The Turks are, however, fanatics, and Palok will not allow me to smoke a cigarette in the street in the daytime, for in the fast of Ramadan the Mohammedans abstain from all food, drink, and tobacco from four in the morning till the gun fires on the fortress at sunset.
Upon Palok’s advice I even wore a fez, so as not to be too conspicuous.
When I asked the reason, he simply grinned, shrugged his shoulders, and said—
“The signore believes Skodra to be a safe place. But it is not always so. Why run unnecessary risk? And a fez is very comfortable.â€
So after buying a fez, I took it to the ironer, a white-bearded old Turk, who pressed it and shrunk it and combed out its tassel with great ceremony, and then I assumed the distinctive mark of the Sultan’s subjects, evidently to the great relief of the faithful Palok.
On our first visit to the bazaar Palok discovered a friend. He was a very tall, thin-legged Albanian, in a white fez, a white woollen bolero, and the usual black-and-white woollen trousers and turned-up shoes of raw-hide and interlaced string. In one of the narrow, tortuous ways of the bazaar, on a kind of platform before a small ramshackle booth, where rope and twine were displayed, he was squatting cross-legged, staring into space and awaiting customers.
Suddenly espying Palok, he seized his slippers, which stood near him, and sprang out upon the filthy pavement. Next second the pair were clasped in embrace, and after many mutual words of warm welcome in Albanian, I was introduced.
The seller of string looked me up and down critically until his eye caught my revolver in my belt, and then, apparently satisfied with my appearance, he touched his chin and brow in salutation.
We ascended to the little platform, and a box was brought for me to sit upon. A shout into the narrow alley brought me a cup of Turkish coffee.
“This is my friend, Salko,†Palok explained, in Italian, after the pair had been apparently discussing me. “Mio buon amico.One of the best men in the bazaar. For eight years we have been parted, and how pleased I am to see him again.â€
Salko interrupted, whereupon Palok said—
“My friend apologises, signore, that he cannot take coffee with you, or offer you a cigarette. It is Ramadan, you know.â€
I offered Salko my case, and, taking a cigarette, he placedit aside until after sunset, touching his chin and brow and laughing merrily.
I wanted to buy several things in the bazaar—a piece or two of old silver, if I could find it—and some antique embroideries which Palok had told me I could find. He told Salko this, whereupon he shouted outside to a passer-by, and in a moment the news was all over the bazaar, and all sorts and conditions of men appeared with various things for sale: beautiful silver-mounted and gem-studded pistols and swords, old silver ornaments, embroideries of the sixteenth century, genuine antiques of all sorts, old jewellery—in fact, in a quarter of an hour Salko’s little shed-like shop presented the appearance of that of an antique dealer.
Two gorgeous Turkish ladies’ costumes attracted me. The trousers were of silk, and interwoven with real gold and silver thread; the boleros of rich crimson velvet, wonderfully embroidered with gold; the sashes gay; and the little fezes, with golden sequins, smart and coquettish. They were the real thing, and could be worn at a fancy-dress ball in England with certain success.
I liked them, for they were the genuine thing. Dresses such as they were are not made nowadays. Turkish ladies of to-day prefer the lighter stuffs of the Franks, silks from Paris, and figured gauzes from Germany. Those dresses had once graced the harem of some great Pasha—perhaps, indeed, that of the Sultan himself. So I allowed Salko to bargain for them.
I watched, and was amused.
The man who had them to sell apparently asked a price that was exorbitant, whereupon my friend, with a wave of his hand, ordered him to pack them back in the bundle.
High words followed, and I expected every moment the pair would come to blows. The vendor was a round, fat-faced eunuch, with an ugly scar across his brown cheek. And while the controversy was in progress, the others who had wares to offer squatted about and advised each side as to how much the costumes were really worth. Then at last both sides got at loggerheads, hard words were used and insulting gestures; fists were shaken, and angry scowls exchanged,until I momentarily expected that there would be a free fight and bloodshed.
My friend Salko outside his house in Skodra.Pietro’s sister-in-law unveiled before the Camera.
My friend Salko outside his house in Skodra.
My friend Salko outside his house in Skodra.
My friend Salko outside his house in Skodra.
My friend Salko outside his house in Skodra.
Pietro’s sister-in-law unveiled before the Camera.
Pietro’s sister-in-law unveiled before the Camera.
Pietro’s sister-in-law unveiled before the Camera.
Pietro’s sister-in-law unveiled before the Camera.
One man I noticed who had not spoken was fingering the hilt of his knife, as though itching to join in the fray.
“I’m going out of this,†I told Palok, whereupon he only laughed.
“There’s really nothing to fear, signore. It is always so. They ask double, and Salko is teaching the fellow manners. You are a foreigner, and you don’t understand.â€
I admitted that I did not.
The argument continued, and in the end the fat-faced eunuch was bundled out by Salko into the dirty alley and his goods thrown after him.
Nobody smiled. Such treatment seemed usual, and on the following day I bought the dresses.
The next was a little old Turk with a long white beard, who had an old silver ornament for sale, one of those triangular boxes which women wear round their necks containing scraps of the Koran, supposed to protect them from the influence of the Evil Eye.
Though he came meek and humble, Salko glared at him. No. The Englishman was his guest, and he would see that only what was just was paid. He took the ornament from me, and weighing it in his hand, judged its worth. Two other men agreed, and the old man, without being consulted, was handed the money and told to be gone.
Assuredly business methods are quaint in the town we Europeans call Scutari.
Another after another—shopkeepers, all of them in the same category as Salko himself—was interviewed. Those who offered rubbish were promptly ordered out. And so, before me, seated upon my box, was unfolded the treasures of the bazaar.
And assuredly some of the curios offered were fit to grace any museum. Seldom does a foreigner visit Skodra, therefore it still contains many real antiques; and there being no sale for them, prices are not exorbitant. It is, indeed, one of the few places left where one can obtain anything worth having.
A long, lean Christian, in his flat round fez and enormoustassel, offered me nine early Greek gold coins that had only a week before been discovered in a tomb. I doubted the tomb part of the story, but I was afterwards shown it half a mile away, and could also have bought the actual vase in which they had been found. I am not a collector of coins, so I declined them. One day, however, those coins will, no doubt, find their way into one of our European national collections, for they were so perfect that they looked as though just fresh from the matrix.
I was turning over in my hand a number of antique gem rings, when of a sudden, just outside, not a dozen yards from where I sat, there was a loud shout, followed by a pistol-shot. Then more shouting, and a little crowd gathered. In alarm I sprang to my feet, and I saw outside a mountaineer, in white felt skullcap, lying in a pool of blood with part of his face blown away.
A man in black-and-white trousers stalked past, flourishing his big pistol and threatening to shoot anybody who dared to stop him. He was the assassin.
“It is nothing, signore,†Palok declared, reseating himself. “Only the blood-feud. The men werein sangue, and have met. In such cases one must always die. The man who shoots first gets the best of it,†and he grinned.
For fully five minutes the man lay in the filthy gutter without a hand being placed upon him to see if life were extinct. Then it occurred to somebody to see. He was pronounced dead, and a couple of men carried away the corpse. No police or guard put in an appearance, and the life of the bazaar went on as though nothing unusual had happened.
But nothing unusual had happened. Such assassinations occur every day, and nobody takes any heed of them. The blood-feud is part of the Albanian creed, both Mohammedan and Christian.
It is not, however, pleasant to have a man shot dead before one’s eyes, nor does it tend to inspire confidence in one’s own personal safety.
This was my first experience of the murderous instinct of the wild Albanian, but ere three days I had still other opportunitiesof reflecting upon Palok’s remark that Skodra was not so safe a place as it looked.
Indeed, the town itself is, at intervals, threatened with massacre. Every now and then rumours fly round that the mountain tribes are about to descend upon the place and drive out the Turks. Then everybody retires to their houses—each residence has high walls, and is more or less a fortress—the bazaar is closed, the shops are barricaded, and the ragged soldiers of the Sultan assemble under their greasy-tunicked officers—and wait.
The blow for liberty has not yet been struck by the Albanians, but it will assuredly come ere long.
I wanted to investigate, and get at the truth. That is the reason why those high, blue, misty mountains that I could see afar from the narrow, crooked streets of Skodra held me in such fascination; that is why I disregarded all advice to the contrary, and determined to visit the Albanian at home in his rocky fastness.
That same night, after Salko had bargained for me, I was eating my evening meal—of pork—when another shot sounded out in the dark, unlit street.
It was nothing, I was told by Palok five minutes later. A man had been found dead in the darkness. That was all.
The average number of assassinations in Scutari is about three per day. Nobody cares, for justice is nobody’s business except that of the dead man’s brother, or his next-of-kin.
True, there is an Imperial Court of Justice, a lath-built shed with gaping holes in the roof. Its steps are moss-grown, and its windows mostly broken or devoid of glass.
Outside the place, after midday, the brave defenders of the Ottoman Empire, those shoeless men with their ragged uniforms dropping off them, sell their ration of bread to the passer-by in order to get money to buy cigarettes. They remain unpaid, and their bread is their only source of income. And upon the protection of these Skodra has to rely.
Is it any wonder that when sinister rumour runs through the bazaar, everybody shoulders his rifle and sits on his wall, prepared to defend his own home?
CHAPTER IIITHE LAWLESS LAND
My friend Pietro—Visit to his house—His wife and sister-in-law unveil and are photographed—Scutarine hospitality—Forbidden newspapers—I get one in secret—The Turkish post office—I want to visit the Accursed Mountains—Difficulties and fears—The Feast of the Madonna—Christians and Mohammedans—My first meeting with the dreaded Skreli—Shots in the night.
Those bright, sunny autumn days in Skodra will live for a long time within my memory.
Though a stranger in that half-savage place, where law and order are unknown, I received perhaps more genuine hospitality from perfect strangers than in any other place in the Balkan Peninsula.
Through Palok’s introduction I quickly found myself among friends, who exerted their utmost in order to entertain me, and went out of their way, even in face of their own national customs and beliefs, to oblige me. The Albanian idea of hospitality is old-world and charming. A case in point was one of my friends, a wealthy Scutarine merchant named Pietro Lekha, whose portrait is here reproduced. He was a Christian, and spoke a little Italian. At first, when I was introduced to him in the bazaar, he was silent and taciturn, apparently regarding me with some suspicion; but very soon this wore off, and we became the best of friends. We took coffee together constantly, and he gave me exquisite cigarettes. In Albania there is norégie, as in other parts of Turkey, therefore one can choose from the peasant-women the very best light tobacco in leaf, have it cut, andafterwards employ professional cigarette-makers to manufacture you cigarettes. I did this, and sent a quantity of cigarettes of the very first quality to England, far milder and sweeter than any to be purchased in Constantinople—or anywhere else in the world, for the matter of that.
Rok, tribesman of the Skreli.Pietro Lekha.
Rok, tribesman of the Skreli.
Rok, tribesman of the Skreli.
Rok, tribesman of the Skreli.
Rok, tribesman of the Skreli.
Pietro Lekha.
Pietro Lekha.
Pietro Lekha.
Pietro Lekha.
Finding that I was taking photographs, Pietro became interested. He accompanied me on my expeditions, and we had spent some days together before I dared to inquire about his wife, the veiled lady whom I had once had pointed out to me in the bazaar.
Palok had told me that Pietro’s brother had, three months ago, married the most beautiful girl in Skodra, and that he and his young wife lived at Pietro’s house. A bold thing then occurred to me—to beg permission to photograph them.
I knew well that these people were averse to having their photographs taken; nevertheless I very discreetly broached the subject one day when sipping coffee with Pietro.
He gave me no decided answer. Indeed, he declared himself ready in any way to serve me, but as to photographing his women-kind—well, it was against all custom. What would his friends say if they knew?
I dropped the subject, rather crestfallen. I wanted to be invited to his house and to meet his wife and sister-in-law, both of whom were declared to be very beautiful. Yet he seemed in no way inclined to so far extend his hospitality. I spoke to Palok and urged him to use his power of persuasion, with the result that two days later I received an invitation from Pietro to call upon him at his house at three o’clock to take coffee, and further, he added—
“If you really wish to bring your camera, you may. I have spoken to my brother, and he will let you take a picture of his wife, providing you give your undertaking not to make any copies for sale, or to show it here to people in Skodra.â€
I willingly gave the undertaking, and at the appointed hour, accompanied by Palok, we rang at the big gate in a high white, prison-like wall that enclosed my friend’s dwelling, and were admitted into the garden, in the centre of which stood a great square house.
Pietro came forward to greet me, a picturesque figure in his Scutarine dress, the flat fez with big tassel, the embroidered coat, baggy trousers, and white stockings. The ground floor was devoted to stables, but above we found ourselves in a large square apartment with divans. Upon the floor were beautiful Eastern rugs. On one side was the big, gaudily painted dowry-chest, and here and there small low tables. The room, with its heavy hangings, was very cosy, and over everything was the sweet odour of otto-of-rose. In one corner was a great brass brazier, and upon a chiffonier were a few European knick-knacks, evidently household treasures. The only picture on the wall was a small oleograph of the Madonna.
A rush-bottomed chair was produced for me, while Pietro and Palok squatted cross-legged upon the divans. Then the servant was sent to inform the ladies of our arrival.
Presently both wife and sister-in-law entered, gorgeous in silk and gold, the most striking costumes I have ever seen off the stage. White gauze veils were wrapped about their heads and corsage, leaving only their eyes visible; and thus attired they saluted me and, with Pietro acting as interpreter, welcomed me.
Afterwards they retired, and at Pietro’s order reappeared without their veils. The younger woman was indeed lovely, with a fair white skin, beautiful soft lines of beauty, magnificent black eyes, and lips that puckered into a sweet, modest smile when I involuntarily expressed my surprise at her marvellous good looks. I had heard that Albanian ladies were beautiful, but I certainly never expected to be presented to such a type of feminine loveliness.
Over her bare chest hung strings of great gold coins, while across her brow were rows of sequins. Her richly embroidered dress, the jewels in her ears, the bangles upon her arms, all enhanced her great personal beauty, while she stood before me, her face downcast in modesty—for except her husband and his brother no man had ever beheld her unveiled.
At that moment her husband entered, and I congratulated him upon the possession of such a beautiful wife. Then weall laughed together, and descended to the garden, where I was allowed to take photographs of her, veiled and unveiled, as well as of Pietro’s wife, who was, of course, much her senior, and who, although she had lost her youthful beauty, was still very charming.
Returning again to the upstairs salon, we all sat round, while the newly-married beauty brought us first lemonade, then delicious Turkish coffee in tiny round cups upon a great gilt tray, followed byrakhi, that spirit so dear to the Turkish palate, and afterwards realrahat-lakoum, or Turkish delight.
Then, after an interval, veiled again once more, the beautiful young woman brought me a cigarette and lit it for me, afterwards wishing me adieu and modestly retiring.
All was done with such perfect grace and modesty as to create a most charming experience. It was, to say the least, novel, to sit there with those squatting Albanians and be waited upon by the prettiest girl in Skodra.
Pietro told me that newspapers and books being forbidden, anyone found in possession of them was at once arrested. He, however, gave me surreptitiously a copy of the RomeTribuna, which had been smuggled in a day or two before; and it was welcome, being the first newspaper I had had for several weeks.
Truly Skodra is a strange place. I had occasion to go to the Turkish post office one day. It was, I found, a wooden shed. Inside was a low, filthy truckle bed, a small table—at which sat a consumptive youth in a fez—a broken chair and a large iron safe, the door being secured by a piece of string being tied about it!
Of drainage there is none. Sewage runs down the centre of most of the streets, especially in the bazaar, and its odour is the reverse of pleasant on a sunny day. In the neighbourhood of butchers and slaughterers the gutters run with blood, which the dogs lap and enjoy, and near the stalls of fruiterers and vegetable-sellers the piles of refuse rot in the sun and decay.
Yet everywhere, both in the streets of the Mohammedan quarter and in those of the Christians, are interesting sightsat every turn. When night falls the place is dark and mysterious, for there are no lights save that issuing from the chinks of a door or from the windows of a barber or a coffee-seller. Through the windows of a mosque, perhaps, can be seen the swaying figures of Turks at prayer, faint in the dim oil lights, while in the blackness of the street the patrol passes, a dozen Turkish soldiers with loaded rifles, headed by one man carrying a lantern. The place is insecure after nightfall, even to the Scutarines themselves, therefore nobody ventures out, and by nine o’clock every house is bolted and barred.
At that hour, it being Ramadan, the Turk was feasting and taking his ease, while opposite thehanwhere I lived a Turkish soldier would come nightly and sing weird prayers under the window of the Governor of thevilayet, that perfectly useless official, whose authority extends only to the confines of the town itself, and who fears to exercise it lest he should rouse the slumbering ire of those fierce tribes who live in the Accursed Mountains above.
Many strange sights I witnessed and many strange things I heard in Skodra.
Men, fierce mountaineers who, in some cases, bore across their countenances marks of sword or gun-shot wounds, told me their stories—exciting narratives of love, war, and the blood-feud. All were Albanians, and believed Skodra to be the finest capital in the world. England, because it carried on no political intrigue among them, like Austria and Italy, they did not regard as a Power. Mine was a country far away, I was told, and therefore perfectly harmless. Hardly anybody had heard of London. Those who had, declared that it could not be so large or so beautiful as Skodra.
The days I spent there were with the one object of obtaining, by some means, permission from one or other of the mountain chieftains to allow me to travel in the country.
Palok had promised to endeavour to arrange it for me, and so had Pietro, but by their manner I saw that they considered any such attempt a piece of sheer folly, and far too hazardous. They were too polite to tell me so, but I readin their faces that they did not intend me to go, if it were possible to prevent me.
Therefore surreptitiously I had recourse to my faithful friend of the bazaar, Salko, himself a member of the fierce tribe of the Skreli, who had more than once terrorised the town. When, through an interpreter, I one evening explained my desire, he rubbed his chin doubtfully and wagged his head. He would do his best, but it was dangerous—very dangerous, he declared.
And yet, he went on, the thing might perhaps be managed. An Albanian of the mountains, though he might be a brigand and annoyed the Turks, and though he might shoot Turkish soldiers like dogs wherever met, was nevertheless a man of his word. If I was promised safe escort, then I might go into the mountains without even my revolver, for no harm would come to me.
Yes; he would promise to see what he could do. But it was difficult, and it would take time. In the mountains they had no great love of foreigners.
To the coming Feast of the Madonna many men from the mountains would arrive, and there would be opportunity to speak with them. No; he would say nothing to Palok—if I so wished. Therefore I waited, and hoped.
Now the celebrated Madonna of Loretto was, before the Turkish occupation of Skodra, at the little ruined church near the Boyana River, and even now down to the annualfestà come representatives of all the various tribes, men and women, from sometimes a week’s journey distant, filling the streets with a perfect panorama of colour and costume.
The Feast of the Madonna is indeed the day to see Skodra at her best.
You may travel the whole of Europe, from the Channel to the Urals, or from the White Sea to the Bosphorus, and you will never see such a variety of types and of costume as during the two days of that feast.
That clear sunny morning the whole town was agog. The Christians had it to themselves, for while they feasted the Mohammedans fasted. The two peoples keep distinctlyapart during religious festivals, and Turkish soldiers, their blue uniforms green with age, greasy at the collar, and often shoeless, patrol the town, ready to fire on the people at the least provocation. At least, so they say. If, however, they did fire, then woe-betide them! Every man goes armed in Skodra, and the garrison would certainly be wiped out were the alarm once given to those wild fellows up in the mountains.
All is orderly, however—all brilliant. The streets are full of Christians from the country, the men tall, thin-legged fellows, with black-and-white striped trousers and black furry bolero, carrying loaded rifles upon their shoulders; and the women in the various gay costumes of the tribes, each wearing profusions of gold coins strung across their breasts, heavy gold earrings, and the younger married ones with dozens of gaudy silk handkerchiefs suspended round their heavy brass or iron studded girdles, presents to them on their recent marriage. Most of thekatunnare(peasant-women from the plains) are dressed in a short black homespun skirt and bodice combined, reaching to the knees and embroidered with red. Around the waist is a heavy hide belt about five inches broad, studded with iron, and with two big polished cornelians to form the buckle. Some are of antique silver of beautiful workmanship, and others, more modern, are gilt. These women wear nothing on their heads, but the gaily-dressedmalzore(women of the mountains) wear a bright silk handkerchief arranged very much in the same manner as the women around Naples. Themalzoreare extremely good-looking, and all carry a small embroidered sack over their shoulder, for in Skodra on the night prior to theFestà of the Madonna every Christian house is open to receive visitors and give them food and shelter, whoever they may be. So these little sacks contain humble presents to the hosts.
Pietro met me in the street as I was going to the Cathedral, and told me that on the previous night he had given food and beds to twenty-eight mountaineers of both sexes. Albanian hospitality is certainly unbounded.