THE FEMALE PRISONERSTHE FEMALE PRISONERS
A blushing and gratified array of staid matrons and coquettish girls faced the camera, again only one young maiden of fifteen or sixteen showing any sense of shame, and she fled into her cell, only to be ruthlessly ordered out by a warder.
Soon afterwards we took our leave, and as we crossed the small unenclosed square before the men's prison we found it crowded by the late inmates of the courtyard, walking merrily up and down or chatting with friends on the outskirts, over which neither party may step. Only the dismal clanking of a chain here and there proclaimed to the casual observer the fact that they were prisoners. Lithe, active, and athletic men, none of whom fear death, and guarded by four warders in the loosest possible fashion, yet they never attempt a dash for freedom up the rocky slope which reaches down to their very promenade ground. Flight would entail their escaping from their country altogether, never to return, and that no Montenegrin has ever been known to do. Even though they work for years in strange lands, they invariably return to their rugged native mountains and end their days in peace. And so they serve their time in patience, and go home at the expiry of the sentence "without a stain on their character."
Many months afterwards we chanced to arrive in Cetinje on the occasion of a great feast. A strangerhappened to be with us, a German, and we were showing him the sights. Naturally we also wended our way to the prison, hoping to be able to give him the unique spectacle of the prisoners strolling freely up and down their garden. As we neared the square sounds of singing and music assailed our ears, and in front of the women's quarters a large ring was swaying to and fro in the national dance termed "kolo." Men and women were performing together, otherwise the sexes are kept severely apart, while others sat around in groups partaking of wine and food which their friends or relations had brought them, and they all sat chatting and laughing together as though this were their natural state of existence.
"The prisoners," I said, pointing to the dancers.
"Nonsense," said the German.
"Come nearer and listen," I answered, for even I had my doubts for the moment; but my ear had caught the clanking of chains above the wild music.
They were the prisoners right enough, and many of the men moved heavily and awkwardly to the slow rhythm of the motion. It is not easy to dance with such ornaments as are provided free and gratis by the paternal Prince to curb an exuberance of spirits.
THE PRISONERS DANCINGTHE PRISONERS DANCING
A great trial that the photographer has to undergo, be he professional or a strolling amateur, is the immediate demand for the picture. The mysteries of dark rooms and developing are not to be lightlyexplained, and the refusal to show the picture, for which the vain Montenegrins have so willingly stood, is accounted churlish. They are only appeased with a promise of a picture a few weeks later. Their names and addresses are hurriedly scribbled and handed with many peremptory requests for the picture to be sent as soon as possible.
Just before we left Cetinje, on our way to Podgorica, during our first visit, a bowing and deeply humble individual accosted us in the hotel. When he had straightened himself up a bit, and we could see his face, we recognised one of the prison warders. After many expressions of sorrow for disturbing us, we gathered that on the occasion of our visit to the prison only three of the four warders had been present. The fourth—and it would appear the head warder—had arrived after our departure, and learning of the photographs and his omission, had made things a bit hot for his three favoured confrères. Therefore would we of our goodness come and photograph him, and thus make life worth living again? Would we restore the peace and harmony of that little community?
With sorrow we declined, our carriage awaited us, and the day was hot. Some other time, we said. And with that uncertain comfort he was forced to be content.
"But," he said, "the money which you have sogenerously given us and the prisoners has been expended on 'raki' (local spirits). We and the prisoners will pray for your souls for many nights ere we sleep."
As we drove up the ascent from the town towards our new destination, we glanced back at the red-roofed little capital and noticed the low, grey stone building of the prison.
"We ought to sleep well to-night," remarked P., nodding towards it.
It is something to be prayed for, even if only by criminals of the quarrelsome type.
The drive from Cetinje to Rijeka, and from thence till the final descent to Podgorica, is quite as fine as any other part of Montenegro. For about twenty minutes after leaving Cetinje the road climbs and attains its greatest altitude on this tour, and at its highest point—only half an hour's walk from the town—possesses one of the most striking and beautiful views. It is rightly called "Bella Vista," and a shelter hut and chairs are thoughtfully provided for the visitor.
A wonderful panorama meets his eye as he suddenly reaches the top. A fantastic sea, as it were, of hills, like the waves of a storm-tossed ocean, encircles him, and at his feet, green and wooded, lies a long fertile valley. Stretching far away into the gates of distance in its vast expanse, glitters the Lake of Scutari. Round a small dim spur of landrunning into the lake, lies Scutari itself, which is, however, not visible. To the left a forbidding chain of magnificent mountains, dwarfing the intervening hills into insignificance, fascinate him by their repellent grandeur. Snow-clad, except in the height of summer, these mountains seem symbolical of the land they border, that savage and unknown Albania. A glimpse of a green valley below can just be caught, there lies Podgorica, our destination. At our feet a long, low-lying plateau ends abruptly in a wall of rock, through which the road vanishes, and which can be traced white and threadlike on the overhanging hillside. Beyond is the valley and town of Rijeka. The mountains to the right are the Rumija, behind whose naked comb is the deep blue Adria, and which we must climb to reach the port of Antivari. The lake is dotted at the near end with islands, distinguishable amongst which is a conical-shaped hill crowned by a fortress. That is Žabljak, the whilom capital of Crnagora, and home of its ancient rulers, the Black Prince dynasty. The whole view is like a map in bas-relief.
Gone now are the barren rocks and sparsely vegetated hills of the Katunska, and we are now in the fertile middle zone of Mediterranean vegetation, which includes the valley of the Zeta right up to Nikšić.
As we careered along, we were closely followedby another carriage, in which were crowded five Montenegrins and Albanians, who were evidently bent on making the pace. The Montenegrins are ever reckless drivers; they dash round sharp corners at full gallop, with a precipice of several hundred feet below—and there is never sufficient parapet to prevent a carriage dashing over—so that one involuntarily leans to the inner side of the carriage with that uncomfortable sinking feeling which can be experienced at sea. With a shout to warn anybody coming up the hill, the driver cracks his whip and dashes round each corner with a sublime indifference to danger.
Whenever we slackened, our pursuing carriage came up at a rush, and its occupants emitted wild yells and vociferated polite requests to pass. Off we tore again, and at last reached that point where the descent begins in serpentines to Rijeka. When we were tearing along a lower level of the road, but a few yards below our rivals, we noticed with momentary misgivings that they had drawn their long revolvers and were holding them in their hands.
Suddenly they began to fire, for no apparent reason, which habit is apt to be startling to a nervous traveller on his first journey. But our youthful driver let fly an answering shot; on inquiring he told us that it was to encourage the horses. Afterwards we never rode or drove any distance inthe country without our revolvers, so that we too might help in the encouragement.
That afternoon Rijeka presented a brilliant picture. On entering the town hundreds of peasants were congregated round the cattle-market on the outskirts, but it was on the broad street by the river bank that the most animated scene was to be witnessed. Every Montenegrin town should be seen on a market day, for then the peasants from far and near, in their best clothes and rifles over their shoulders, flock to the town with cattle and sheep and field produce. Rifles are usually carried when going on a long journey, particularly in the vicinity of Albania. This is partly as a sign of allegiance to their Prince, but chiefly because Montenegro stands ever before a sudden mobilisation. Should the soldier peasant hear the alarm, he must make his way at once for the rendezvous as speedily as possible, without détour. Further, hundreds of armed Albanians from the borders are always in their midst, as was the case to-day.
Rijeka is a very busy little place, being the half-way village between the capital and Podgorica, and is still more important as the starting-point of the little steamer which plies twice weekly down the lake to Scutari. The river runs between lovely green hills rising straight from its banks, wooded and luxuriant, reminding one not a little of the Thames at Cookham.
The Prince has a small palace just beyond the town, and spends the coldest winter months here, where he escapes the rigours of the climate in Cetinje. About half-an-hour's walk is the ancient fortress of Obod, famed in history as the site of the first printing-press (destroyed very soon by the Turks) in the Balkans, and indeed one of the first in the world, for Caxton was only a few years ahead. The fact speaks for the ever forward striving spirit which has animated Montenegro's rulers since its very foundation, and which only the rigours of pitiless warfare have hindered.
On leaving the pretty little township, we had considerable difficulty in forcing our way through the flocks which continually blocked the road. All the way we ploughed through herds of cattle and stampeding sheep and goats, much to the disgust of their shepherds. These men, chiefly vicious-looking Albanians, with loosely-slung rifle, and round their waist a bandolier of cartridges, lend a wildness to the lonely road which is likely to mislead the new-comer; and should one of them empty his revolver light-heartedly in the air, to be answered by another some distance away, the impression is considerably heightened.
The road climbs to a good height immediately and commands a fine view of the valley with the little river winding in and out. In winter the effect isthat of a great flood, for everywhere partially submerged trees and bushes show above the water. But in reality it was only a natural course of events, for in summer the water recedes and leaves great fields on which crops of maize are grown, while during the winter or rainy months the whole district of fertile land becomes again submerged. This view of the Rijeka was decidedly one of the prettiest in the country, combining, as it does every now and then, glimpses of the lake and the majestic Albanian Alps.
Always followed by our rival party, we halted at a wayside inn to refresh both man and beast. These inns are quaint little places. There is seldom any other floor than that already provided by Nature, which has been beaten flat.
We called for coffee, and partook of the country's wine, to whose acidity we never accustomed ourselves, and entered into conversation with our convivial companions. One, a horse dealer, spoke excellent Italian, and we met him often afterwards in the course of our travels.
When we had finished our libations, we naturally wished to have the bill or rather to know how much there was to pay.
"Nothing," was the answer.
"But we have had ——" It is not well to particularise—it was a thirsty day.
"There is nothing to pay," the woman reiterated.
The other party had guiltily slipped out of the room and climbed into their carriage, and our driver became impatient to maintain the lead. With mixed feelings we followed him out, and in another second were off again at a gallop.
It was always like that in Montenegro. We have gone into an inn or café and drunk a liqueur (a polite name for the fiery but wholesome local spirit), when a fresh glass will be silently placed before us. We have waved it away.
"Not ordered it," we would say.
"That man has," answers the boy, and points at a smiling Montenegrin on the other side of the room. Sometimes, and very often too, other guests follow suit, and the result is trying. We gave up visits to cafés afterwards, except when we were on pleasure bent and had an hour to spare. Hospitable, reckless, poverty-stricken Montenegrins—one can travel far before another such a race can be found.
The last two hours of the drive are uninteresting, chiefly because eight hours in a carriage is trying. Podgorica comes in sight long before it is reached, in the form of a cluster of trees on a grassy but dead-level plain, out of which two minarets show their graceful spires. The background is imposing, lowering Albanian mountains rise abruptly to their lofty heights from the level of the plain.
For an hour we drove along the plain, and passed a solitary building situated on a slight eminence. It was Kruševac, one of the Prince's country palaces, or, to be more correct, Prince Mirko's palace, as "Voivoda" or Duke of the Zeta, which ancient and historical title is his. Then for some distance we skirted the Morača, driving in an opposite direction to Podgorica till we came to the "Vizier" bridge, over which we crossed and retraced our way to the town.
The River Morača is a large mountain torrent, into which the Zeta flows only a short distance away from the town. It rushes over great boulders, forming here and there formidable rapids, between two deep banks, which, without any warning, break off suddenly from the flat and form precipitous sides fully two hundred feet deep. Two or three hundred yards away, no gap or break in the plain is observable. Sometimes the river swells almost to the top of its banks, and then the effect must be terrible. There is a ford near Podgorica, which the peasants use to avoid the long détour by the bridge, but woe to the man who makes a false step. Three women, carrying loads of wood, lost their footing during our stay, and were drowned. In its waters we swam every evening, and even in midsummer, when the river is low, the strength of the current required an expert and powerful swimmer to breast it, and it was invariably very cold.
THE VIZIER BRIDGETHE VIZIER BRIDGE
The bridge, built by an old Turkish Vizier many,many years ago, is most picturesque, and completely in keeping with the rocky banks and the foam-flecked, emerald-green waters rushing beneath. From this bridge a man once sprang into the depths below, to show that he was not intoxicated. As a matter of fact he was, but he emerged dripping a hundred yards lower down, unhurt and at least in his right mind.
There used to be a deep indentation in a stone of the bridge parapet—during our stay in the country it has been plastered up—which credulous Montenegrins relate to be the cut of a Turkish horseman pursuing a fleeing Montenegrin. The story goes that the Turk severed the Montenegrin's head from his body, and so violent was the stroke that he cut into the stone wall as well.
Again, just before the town, two slabs, standing exactly thirty paces apart, mark a similar episode, and the headless man is said to have run that distance before falling. This legend—which, furthermore, has many eye-witnesses still living in the town who swear to the truth—is more capable of belief if one takes into consideration the flight of a decapitated fowl in any of our poultry yards.
The road entering Podgorica is very similar in appearance to that which leads into Cetinje, only the first impressions are considerably wilder and more uncivilised than that of the capital. Hundreds of Turks and Albanians are smoking their evening"tchibouque" in the streets, and scowl in no friendly manner at the stranger. Some of them, namely, the merchant class, are, however, excellent people, travelled and educated, as we found out afterwards. The Albanian and Turk are the enterprising merchants of Montenegro, and improve on acquaintance, which is sometimes necessary.
We had a lonely, solitary feeling as we drove through the crowd of loiterers, and were glad to descend at a presentable-looking hostelry. How often first impressions are wrong we proved to the full in this instance.
Podgorica saw more of us than any other town during our stay, for we made it afterwards our headquarters. It would be difficult to forget that mountain-bounded valley and the town with its bustling streets of picturesque humanity. And then those sunsets! The peaks towering behind bathed in crimson, and the intervening hills rising one above the other to the furthermost summits like a giant staircase, rich in a mysterious purple. As we walked back from our evening swim, over the short, springing grass, that scene at sunset never abated its charms one whit. And we were always glad on entering the town that no one wore plain, ugly European clothes but ourselves. The national costumes, so full of colour, blended harmoniously with our feelings, and have left behind them an indelible picture.
GENERAL VIEW OF PODGORICAGENERAL VIEW OF PODGORICA
If it were not for the dangerous proximity of the Albanian border, Podgorica would have been made the capital of Montenegro. It is favourably situated for a trade centre, and, owing to this fact, has naturally gathered a large population (the largest in Montenegro), approaching ten thousand. Lying on a rich and fertile plain, within easy reach of the Lake of Scutari, and connected by good roads with Cetinje and Nikšić, it is within market distance, so to speak, of Kolašin and Andrijevica. From these districts, and from the Albanian borders, the people flock in crowds, and the Podgorican market is by far the most important in the country. But—and it is a big "but"—in this case the Albanian frontier is only an hour's walk away, and it would never do to risk the persons of the Royal Family and the Ministers in a sudden Albanian raid, and troubles and disturbances are of everyday occurrence.
We made Podgorica our headquarters during our sojourn in the land of the Black Mountain mainly for its central position, but also for the opportunity afforded us there for studying Montenegrin life.
It would be difficult to forget our first visit to the town. It was Easter Sunday evening when we arrived at the Hotel Europa, and after seeing our luggage carried in, started out on a tour of inspection, and also to present our letter of introduction to Dr. S., the veterinary surgeon of Montenegro. We had not got more than fifty yards from the hotel when we were forced to beat a hasty and ignominious retreat. At Eastertide, which is one of the biggest feasts in the Greek Church, beggars, halt and maim, blind and tattered, pour into all the larger towns of the country. They come from Turkey, Albania, Bosnia, and Dalmatia—in fact, from everywhere within reach—and make a rich harvest, for the Montenegrin opens his heart, his hand, and his house at Easter. In our innocence we imagined this to be the normal state of affairs in Montenegro, and were greatly cast down.
But our worthy host armed himself with a big stick, and we sallied forth again under his guidance. Even then it was no joke, and the house of Dr. S. came as a haven of refuge. Anyone who has been in the East knows what an amount of persistency and endurance the Oriental beggar possesses.
THE RIBNICATHE RIBNICA
We were received as old friends and welcomed tothe Easter table, which was set, as in any other Montenegrin house at this season, for anyone and everyone who has the remotest claims of acquaintanceship.
Several men were present, to whom we were at once introduced; amongst others a canny Scotchman, the only Britisher living permanently in the country. We were a cosmopolitan gathering. There was Dr. S., a Roumanian, an Austrian ornithologist, a Scotchman, our innkeeper was a Macedonian, and two or three Montenegrins. From that evening date many of the pleasant friendships which we made in Montenegro.
The next day our newly-made friends showed us Podgorica. It is divided into two distinct parts—the old, or Turkish town, and the new Montenegrin town, which dates from the conquest of 1877. The two halves are separated by the River Ribnica, which flows in a deep bed before the crumbling walls of the Turkish quarter. At one angle of the town the Ribnica enters the Morača, Montenegro's biggest and most important river.
Most picturesque is the old Turkish quarter, still surrounded by the same bastions and walls which not so long ago defied the Montenegrin army. But the houses, as well as the walls, are fast falling to ruin; for at the order of the Prince the market has been removed to the other side, and, in comparison with the new town, there are few inhabitants left. The fortifications still bear witness to the fierce strugglewhich took place before them, and one bastion was breached more successfully than ever Montenegrin cannon had done, by lightning, during the bombardment. Many of the older inhabitants, as well as the walls, show traces of the former conflict, a noseless man being no great curiosity.
Not for nothing has the Montenegrin won his fame as one of the fiercest fighters in the world. He was never outdone in atrocities by his enemies. It was the rule of war (and is now, to a great extent) to either behead one's prisoner on the spot, or, if the day had been exceptionally heavy, and more heads could not be carried conveniently, noses were taken instead. Perhaps the phrase "to count noses" originated in these lands. However, it usually ended the same, for the noseless man would, as a rule, bleed to death; but some have lived through it, and can be met with anywhere in Montenegro or Albania.
Many fierce fights took place in and about Podgorica, and the ghastly picture of victorious Montenegrins at the conclusion of an affray, sitting in groups, each with a small or large heap of heads and noses before him, "counting the bag," has many eye-witnesses still living.
In the Turkish town lies the prison, soon to be the only one in Montenegro. A new wing is rapidly nearing completion to accommodate the female prisoners, who are at present incarcerated in Cetinje.We visited the director that Easter Monday morning, and were received unofficially in his quarters. We always had great fun with that man—a pompous individual filled to overflowing with the importance of his position, and, not unlike men similarly afflicted, most aggressively stupid.
As a great favour, and after our united persuasion, he allowed us at last to look from a window overlooking the courtyard of the prison. As in Cetinje, the prisoners walk without let or hindrance in the spacious walled-in courts before their cell doors. Being Easter no man was chained, a privilege they owe to the Prince, who always releases the prisoners from their fetters during the great festivals; one wretched individual, however, we noticed more heavily manacled than even a murderer of the worst kind. He was, we were informed, a dangerous madman, though, poor devil, he looked harmless enough, slouching round and round the yard. The primitive custom of confining dangerous lunatics (for the harmless are allowed their full liberty outside) in the common prison is soon to be done away with. A large lunatic asylum is rapidly nearing completion near Danilovgrad—another memorial of Prince Nicolas' improvements.
The prisoners were sleek and fat—those imprisoned for long terms or for life bearing witness of the good treatment which they receive at the hands ofthe authorities. One youngish man in particular attracted our attention, a merry laughing fellow whose girth had reached alarming proportions. He was imprisoned for life, and his crime, which sat so lightly upon him, had been a particularly atrocious and dastardly murder for plunder—a crime practically unknown in Montenegro.
Imprisonment is more real here than in Cetinje. There is none of that delightful promenading up and down before the prison walls, hours pleasantly whiled away with a friendly visitor from afar over a pint of wine. The only glimpse of the outside world that these prisoners obtain is when a few of them fetch water daily from a well outside the walls.
As we gazed upon the strange scene from the window above, of prisoners and warders amicably chatting together, others squatting in groups over a harmless game, a horrible voice disturbed the serenity of the picture. Then at a closely barred window a face appeared, with matted hair and long unkempt beard. It was the face of a madman; with terrible curses he filled the air, and we looked inquiringly at our cicerone.
"That man is a political offender," came the answer. "For fifteen years he has waited his trial, and now he has become hopelessly insane. Many years ago he endeavoured to stir up a revolution against the Prince, and fled to Vienna, where hecarried on his treasonable propaganda. But he was enticed back, and thrown into solitary confinement such as those who are traitors to their Prince receive. For an hour every day these prisoners are allowed to walk in the yard, but this man from the first refused to avail himself of the privilege, and now he has become what you see."
"Will he never regain his freedom?" we asked.
A shrug of the shoulders was all that our guide vouchsafed, and with that awful voice ringing in our ears we were glad to turn away.
Two mosques still exist, and are in use, for the Turkish population is fairly large, though owing to recent events rapidly diminishing, but the Prince does everything in his power to cultivate a friendly feeling with the Mahometans. His country is the asylum for the persecuted Turk as well as the fugitive from justice, and, if his crime is political, he will be warmly welcomed.
But, Woman again has upset the best of intentions, and within a year four elopements of Turkish girls from their homes with Montenegrins have taken place in Podgorica. These girls have been baptised and married to their Christian lovers. A worse insult to the Mahometan faith does not exist. But of this more anon.
The modern town is painfully plain and uninteresting. Montenegrins have no knowledge orlove of architecture. Each house is built solidly of stone, square and undecorated. Even the palaces of the Royal Family are of puritanical simplicity externally.
There are the law courts, post and telegraph offices, and police-station all in one, a school, and a market-place, with a very ugly memorial to the fallen Montenegrins in the last war. Otherwise, the town is laid out with broad streets, all planted with trees, exactly like a South African township.
Building plots are free, the only obligation to the owner being that he must run up the outside walls of the house at once. The roof and internal work can be completed at leisure. A large part of the town consists of mere shells of houses, the owners waiting for the means of completion.
Some little distance from the town, across the Morača, is the Prince's palace of Kruševac, which he occasionally visits. It stands quite alone on a slight eminence.
The view round Podgorica is one of the most fascinating features of the place. It is one of those perfect views which never tire, and always present some new beauty, and the armed rough men in their brightly coloured and novel costumes are in complete unison with the picture. These national costumes seem so absolutely fitting to Montenegro that the otherwise plain and uninteresting buildingsof the town are turned merely into a background for the ever-moving stream of colour. The Turkish bazaars with their gaudy wares hung out into the street, the red-jacketed Montenegrin, the Turk in pure white, the Scutarines in their distinct and original costume, and the Albanians who flock in hundreds to the market in coarse white serge, heavily bordered with black braiding, rifles over their shoulders and a bandolier round their waists, make a never-ending picture. We never wearied of wandering about the streets on market days. Then the town is filled to overflowing with a multi-coloured crowd, and every man from a distance brings his rifle.
How odd it looked at first to see an Albanian with perhaps a shilling's-worth of field produce spread out before him, and at his side a rifle loaded and cocked; or, again, a Montenegrin boy of perhaps fourteen, with his rifle across his knee! To keep order in this formidably armed crowd of men, many animated with the fiercest racial and religious hatred of each other, are some dozen Montenegrin gendarmes, armed, as is every Montenegrin, with but a heavy revolver.
Deadly enemies meet on the market-place, men standing in blood feud with one another, and speak, often expressing a fervent prayer soon to be able to put a bullet into the other at the first opportunity,but—outside the town. Podgorica is mutually held as neutral territory, and is very rarely violated. This is strange where men fear not death.
But, outside, perhaps but half an hour from the outskirts of the town, these men will meet and shoot and kill; for murder, or sudden death, to use their euphemistic way of looking at matters, is by no means uncommon.
There is a great tract of land about an hour's ride from Podgorica characteristically called the "Crna Zemlja" or Black Earth. It is neutral, lying between Montenegro and Albania, and the man who sets his foot on it carries his life in his hands. Men who know, say that every inch is soaked in blood. It is overlooked by some small hills from Albania, and is covered with long pampas grass, affording good cover for a man, and they shoot there for love of killing.
But to return to Eastertide.
It is a good time to visit Montenegro for first impressions. The Montenegrin outdoes himself in open-handed hospitality; every house is open, and everyone visits his neighbour. The best chamber in the house, as often as not the only living-room among the poorer classes, is set out with all the good things the owner possesses. On the table stand meat, eggs, bread, wine, and spirits; and it is a grievous insult to leave that room without tasting, and tasting liberally,of all. This lasts three days, and it is more than enough.
And we were particularly honoured, being Englishmen and strangers: one might say we were painfully honoured. What quantities we were forced to eat and drink! At one house, that of a poor man, who lived with his wife in a tiny room, we were presented with a bottle of Munich beer, his greatest treasure, given him once by a friend who had travelled. He doubtless considered it a luxury of a priceless kind, and it cut us to the heart to drink that man's beer. But we had to; he took no denial, barely tasting it himself.
We might have stood it fairly well were it not for those eggs, hard-boiled Easter eggs, the shells coloured red or blue. This institution is a positive torture to the unfortunate digestion, which suffers untold torments at Eastertide.
There is a game played with these hard-boiled eggs which reminds one forcibly of schooldays. Two men each select an egg, and one, holding his egg firmly, allows the other to endeavour to crack it, only the pointed ends being used.
But this harmless if childish custom once led to a vendetta. A man once cracked such an enormous quantity of eggs, that in the evening he was challenged to show his marvellous egg, which he persistently refused to do. This led to words and wordsto revolvers, and the man was shot. Then the egg was found to be a clever imitation in stone.
Though Podgorica is the trading centre of Montenegro, business is not carried on in the same brisk way as in other lands.
We once wished to send a parcel of feathers home, and went accordingly to the post office. It was towards evening then, and we were informed that the postmaster was "not at home," and were asked to come next day. The following morning we again visited the post office, when the contents were carefully noted, and long lists filled out which took roughly about half an hour; at the end of which time a head was thrust out of the window, asking us to call in about an hour and pay. This was because no post-office clerk is allowed to receive money; he is strangely enough not always honest, and the postmaster was again out. At the end of the hour we returned and paid.
Another time I tendered a gulden in payment of a telegram, and had to wait a quarter of an hour while a boy was sent into the town to obtain change.
In matters of business it is well to possess one's soul in patience. A more unbusinesslike set of people is hard to be found, yet in driving a bargain they are remarkably shrewd, to put it kindly.
Even in such trivial matters as purchasing a henno indecent hurry is shown. Such a transaction may take days. For instance, you wish to buy a hen, and signify the same to a man, and he will say—
"I have a hen which I can sell thee, but it will break my heart. Such a hen, and such eggs! I feel I cannot part with her."
"Very well," you say; "don't make yourself miserable; I'll buy one somewhere else."
"But give me till to-morrow. It is too sudden."
And he goes away. If you are not in a hurry, it does not matter and you wait. It is amusing.
Next day he will come again and say that he has another hen nearly as good as the first, but, as he loves you and respects you, he will part with his beloved hen at a consideration, and names a price far beyond its worth. You refuse, and state your price for thegoodhen, the ordinary market price, which he indignantly refuses and departs. In a few hours he will come again, bringing a hen which, almost with tears, he tells you isthehen—his beloved hen.
"Take her," he says, "as a present."
Whereupon you press upon him the market price, which of course he takes, and the matter is finished.
Such little episodes are trying at first. The Montenegrin loves money—it is his curse, or rather the curse of every country on the brink of civilisation—but he also loves to play the gentleman, who hates sordid money transactions. He will oftenmake you a present and afterwards send in an extortionate bill.
But, usually, you make him a monetary presentat once, which he takes with thanks, at your own price.
If it were not for money, what an ideal race the Montenegrins would be! But then that is the same with a good many people.
During our repeated sojourns in Podgorica we made several excursions to places of interest in the neighbourhood, chief amongst which was a visit to Medun, Voivoda Marko Drekalović's grave.
Medun lies in the heart of the mountains, about four hours' ride from Podgorica, and is the capital (if one can apply such a high-sounding name to a ruined fortress and two or three houses) of the Kuć. The Kuć is a large province inhabited by one of the most warlike tribes of Montenegro, and only recently came under its rule, though their sympathies were never with their Turkish rulers. The fact that it borders on Albania is significant, and accounts for its fighting qualities.
Voivoda Marko was largely instrumental in bringing about the last war with Turkey, which was so successful to Montenegro, when the Kuć, Podgorica,Nikšić, the entire provinces of East Montenegro, the Brda, and the sea-coast from Antivari to Dulcigno were won and confirmed to Montenegro.
The famous battle of Fundina was won by Marko and his tribe alone against an overwhelming Turkish army before war had been officially declared with Montenegro.
Beginning life as a shepherd boy, Marko ended his days as Voivoda (or Duke), and his name is famed in many a song and beloved by the Montenegrins as one of their greatest heroes. Many were the stories of his reckless bravery, which one of his relations told us. Before he had reached the age of twenty he had killed many Turks in single encounter, and was in consequence outlawed. He lived for some years in the mountain fastnesses of his land, and together with a handful of adventurers, who had cast in their lot with his, made descent after descent on any bands of Turkish soldiers that happened to pass through his domain. His fame soon reached the ears of Prince Nicolas, who sent for him and placed him for some years in his bodyguard—thatcorps d'éliteof the Montenegrins.
At the age of twenty-five he returned home and harassed the Turks to such an extent that he could not show himself openly by daylight. Like another and more famous outlaw in the days of the kings of Israel, all those that were bitter of soulcame down unto him, and he became captain over them. By night he descended upon the Turks wherever he could find them, and made great slaughter among them. The Governor of Podgorica, then Turkish, Yussuf Mučič by name, offered a large sum of money for his head, but no one could be found willing to meet that terrible man whom legend and story had endowed with supernatural powers. Finally, a criminal consented to attempt the deed on the promise of his liberty, and this led to one of the most incredible episodes in Marko's life. The criminal lay in wait for him on a lonely part of the road near Rijeka, and as Marko was passing along he stepped suddenly on to the road pistol in hand. Marko in no way attempted defence, but simply transfixed the man with a glance. The wretched man in an ecstasy of terror shot himself, so penetrating was the glance which the Voivoda had given him. So runs the story. Suffice it to remark that Marko arrived safe and sound the same evening in Cetinje, and a dead criminal was found on the next day by the roadside. Now Yussuf, the Governor, was himself a soldier of some repute, and when he heard of the failure of his messenger he boastfully expressed a desire to meet the celebrated Marko in single combat. On this challenge being reported to him Marko rode off on a half-tamed steed at midday into the heart of Podgorica, and reined up before the Pasha's house. In fear and trembling theTurks hastily closed their bazaars and houses as that fearful horseman galloped through their streets. In a loud voice Marko cried—
"I am here, Yussuf, to answer thy challenge. Wilt thou now come out and fight with me?"
But fear filled the heart of the craven Turk, and he sent a woman to the window to say that he was away from home. Marko knew this to be a lie, and cried so that all should hear him that henceforth the challenge was annulled. "I do not fight with cowards," he said, and again galloped away unmolested.
Such was the power that superstition had weaved around his person that he was commonly believed to be invulnerable, which belief was afterwards belied by the fact that he carried two bullets with him to the grave.
After this public insult to Yussuf, it was known that he would spare no pains to take Marko's life, and a touching episode is told of the love which Marko's tribe bore to him. His people were ever ready to sacrifice their lives for him, and in this instance it was deemed necessary to remove the obnoxious Pasha. Accordingly a cousin of Marko journeyed to the Podgorican market with a pistol concealed in a load of wood. He lay in wait before Yussuf's house and shot him down as he emerged. The Turkish populace literally cut him to pieces—a fate which the devoted man well knew would befall him.
This and other events led up to the attack made by the Turkish troops on the tribe of Kuć, when, at Fundina, Marko and his small tribe smote the Moslems hip and thigh. The rest is a matter of history. He had died but a few months before our visit, and by his last wish was buried in the little fortress of Medun, which many years ago he had stormed at the head of a handful of men under circumstances of great bravery.
The ride thither gave us our first taste of the mountains. Rough, stony paths through rocky ravines, sometimes skirting deep precipices, and all round the intensely wild and magnificent mountains, led us to the great gorge where Medun is situated. Perched on a seemingly inaccessible crag, stands the famous ruined fortress, and at its foot Marko's house.
We were made welcome by his widow, a regal woman of middle age, and still strikingly handsome. Her dead husband was not only a great hero, but a poet and historian, and one of the most remarkable features of his life was that, at the age of forty, he taught himself to write, and made his name famous as well in the Serb literary world. He had always treated her as his companion, and not as the average Montenegrin treats a woman—as a being of inferior quality and a better class of servant. Marko had a wonderful character; a great athlete, perfect rifle-shot, and a military warrior and leader of men, he brought home during his campaigns over one hundred Turkishheads; but he was also a refined gentleman, a true poet, and merciful to his enemies. He was a notable exception in the matter of prisoners—he always let them go unharmed, sometimes escorting them himself to a place of safety.
Our visit gave much gratification to his widow, who was pleased that strangers from such a distant land should wish to visit her husband's grave, and she was hospitality itself.
After a rest and food in her house, she conducted us herself up the steep winding path to the grave. We came abruptly upon a small plateau in front of a tiny chapel. The scene was striking in the extreme. There was the grave, with a rough pile of stones at the head, on which were placed the dead man's "handjar," revolver and sword, and many wreaths. Two lighted candles were flickering in the wind, and in a semicircle stood a group of rough, fully-armed mountaineers, the retainers of the Voivoda. It was stormy, and great gusts of wind and rain dashed round the rocky fortress, and in the distance a rugged pile of mountain peaks towered up into the descending mist.
The widow left us, and, kneeling at the grave, quietly kissed the cold stones, praying for a few moments in deep silence. Not a man spoke or moved as we stood with bared heads and waited. Slowly rising, she came to us and led us into thechapel, a bare shell, not even furnished with an altar, and with the original earthen floor.
"My beloved husband wished to be buried in here," said the widow, "but it was not allowed. The Prince wished him to be buried in Podgorica, as he was never courtier and was so beloved and honoured by his people—more than the Prince himself. But my husband called me to his side, and with his last breath made me swear to bury him in this chapel, or at least in front of it. And when the order came that he should be buried below, I swore to shoot myself on his grave, and the men of Kuć swore to take his body up here, even if they had to fight every inch of the way. So it was allowed that he should be buried here, but we shall bury him in the chapel, for that I promised him as he died."
And she took my hand solemnly in hers, illustrating her oath to the dying man, and I shivered in that gloomy chamber as her impassioned voice echoed in its arches.
Suddenly a wailing of women broke upon the utter silence which ensued, and nearer and nearer came that weird singing as it approached the summit. The women were chanting Marko's death dirge. At last, as they passed the little window, we went outside and saw four women, dishevelled and weeping, approach the grave, kneeling on one side. The widow left us again and knelt alone opposite.
One woman only sang at a time, a series of extempore verses telling of the life and deeds of the hero—his accomplishments and goodness—in the poetical language of this wild people.
"Oh, thou grey falcon, who was so mighty a hunter as thou?"
"Who indeed shall now wield thy bloodstained sword?"
"Oh, thou wolf, who is worthy to take thy place as our ruler and father?"
And the others beat their breasts and tore their hair, wailing in a wild unison, until the singer was exhausted and then another began.
Here and there a deep sob broke from a man, but otherwise the ring of men with bowed heads remained in dead silence and immovable as the rocks around them.
It was one of the most impressive scenes it has been our fortune to witness, but we were glad when the widow rose and conducted us back to the house. Some letters and poems of the Voivoda were shown to us, and one of the letters to a friend then present in the room was read aloud. The great rough Montenegrin was so touched at hearing the words of his master and lord, that he turned away his head and sobbed. All this time the women ceased not with their wild lamentations, and even after we took our leave and started on our rough ride home inpouring rain, that death dirge followed us, echoing in the ravines and mountains.