THE GRAVE SCENE AT MEDUNTHE GRAVE SCENE AT MEDUN
Since then we have often heard the death dirge sung in Montenegro. Sometimes in a house in passing; again, an old woman trudging to market will sing the death dirge of a relation, perhaps dead many years. But we never heard those piercing, wailing notes without having the picture of Medun recalled vividly to our memory.
When a man dies he is laid out in the sitting-room, and all the friends and relations are summoned. Then the men enter the room singly and approach the corpse. Tearing open their shirts they beat themselves with their fists on their naked breasts, often tearing the flesh with their nails, and give vent to ear-piercing wails. Each new-comer strives to outdo his predecessor in excesses, and horrible scenes ensue. But the Prince discountenances this custom, and it is slowly dying out, but only in the upper classes.
We often took our rifles and went out into the country for a little target practice, and always succeeded in attracting a group of spectators from adjacent villages or huts. Towards Albania we were requested not to go for shooting, as the noise of rifle-shots is apt to mislead the surrounding villagers. Even when shooting in other directions, we were carefully warned not to fire rapidly, but to shoot slowly and deliberately, as at target practice.
Rapid firing is "the alarm," and would mobilise a brigade of infantry within an hour or two.
On one occasion we were shooting at a somewhat difficult object about one hundred and fifty yards away. We were trying to hit it, standing, and had not succeeded. A group of some twenty men had collected, and they soon began to make facetious remarks. One offered to bring the target nearer. Another said he would stand target for a few shots—we shouldn't hit him. So we gave one or two of them our rifles and told them to hit it. Immediately they selected stones as rests, and lay down for their shot.
"Ah," said we, "we can do that; shoot as we do, standing, and without a rest."
"That," they said, "is not shooting—who shoots like that in war?"
But we were inexorable, and needless to say they failed to hit anywhere near.
The Montenegrins are good shots enough, if they can take long and deliberate aim, steadying their rifles on walls or rocks, but otherwise they are miserable marksmen.
Quite close to Podgorica there lives a hermit, a wonderful man who has hewn out of the living rock a tiny chapel, a store-room, and a passage leading to the chapel. He has only just completed it, and we inscribed our names in his new book as his first visitors.
VOIVODA MARKOVOIVODA MARKO
SIMEON POPOVIĆ AND HIS CHAPELSIMEON POPOVIĆ AND HIS CHAPEL
The hermit, a priest of most refined manners and appearance, named Simeon Popović, was most delighted at our visit. He spoke Russian and French fluently; his story is quite a little romance.
Before he took Orders he had been a soldier, and was a rich man. It was while he was absent on a campaign that his wife eloped and his relations robbed him of all his money. He returned home to find himself wifeless, dishonoured, and a beggar. Then he became a priest, and a vision appeared to him, showing him Daibabe, where he now lives, commanding him to go and build a church. He refused the offer of a rich priorship and came to this place, possessed of no means whatever wherewith to commence his life's work. Unable to buy building materials, he began to hollow out a church from the rock, without help or money of any kind, beyond that given him by the pious but direly poor peasants of the neighbourhood. The labour must have been immense, but there it stands a monument to man's perseverance and faith.
Simeon is reckoned as a saint by the peasants; they come to him from all parts of the country, bringing their sick, and many cures are said to have been effected there. He is a vegetarian, and subsists solely on the products of his little garden.
Spuž lies on the River Zeta, and must be reached by a bridge. It is always safer to dismount whencrossing a Montenegrin bridge, off the main roads. This was no exception, but the scenery was delightful. Rising immediately at the back of the village is a steep hill crowned by a mighty fortress. It was held formerly by the Turks, and the peasants say that it was built by them; but the architecture is distinctly Venetian and an exact counterpart of many fortresses in Dalmatia.
It is strange, however, for there are no records that the Venetians ever came further inland than Scutari.
The inn at Spuž, where we dined, was as other country inns (or krćma, or han, as they are locally termed from the Turkish): earthen floor, a bench, a few primitive stools and beds in the only reception-room. The table is invariably rickety, so are the stools; but a tablecloth, knives and forks are always mysteriously produced for guests even in the most out-of-the-way places.
While our repast was being prepared we had a revolver shooting competition outside the door, to which the whole village flocked. One of the men made a very fine shot from his saddle at a tree-stump in the river, about two hundred and fifty yards away, andhitwithin a few feet. It proved the accuracy and carrying distance of the Montenegrin revolver.
SPUŽSPUŽ
After our meal, consisting of raw ham, eggs (oh,those everlasting eggs!), and a peculiar and nondescript kind of meat, about which we asked no questions, the village captain called on us and bore us off to his house for coffee.
This man, a Turkish renegade, was one of the most interesting men whom we met. He was a marvellous talker—in fact, he never stopped during our visit. How the subject came up has passed my memory, but suddenly he rushed out of the room and brought back a handful of little medals.
"Look," he said, "each medal represents a human life, a head. We have these given us for every head we bring back in war. Do you think I am proud of them, and there are more than fifty? No, I weep when I see them. When I had seized my foe by his hair preparatory to cutting off his head, a vision of his mother, his wife, and his sisters appeared before me, and I could have wept as I struck off his head. Why should I kill this man? I asked myself. I know him not, he has done me no harm, yet because it is war, arranged by princes and kings, we must become murderers. And why should I kill him? because others would misconstrue my act of mercy if I did it not, and brand me a coward, aye and worse, a traitor. Why shouldImake that mother childless? why mustIrob that loving wife of her husband? WhyIbe the means of making those little children fatherless and orphans?"
I confess the picture that he conjured up of solemnly and with streaming eyes cutting off his enemies' heads—and he had owned to over fifty—as he thought of destitute homes and weeping women and children, seemed decidedly tragi-comic; but the old man was earnest enough, and was quite unconscious of the grim humour of the situation.
"Why," he went on, excitedly pacing the room, "why do not the German Emperor and the King of England fight out their quarrelsalone? Why drag thousands of men from their homes and farms to fighttheirquarrels?"
Again the idea of our King fighting a solemn duel, with perhaps Maxims, over a question of an island in the Pacific, with the German Emperor, while admiring millions looked on and applauded, caused a smile which we with difficulty repressed from diplomatic reasons.
He took his scimitar now in his hand.
"Look, too, at the generals," he said excitedly, "directing battles from safe places, while hundreds of innocent lives are thrown away in an assault which that general has ordered from his place of safety. Once," he went on—"I was fighting for the Turks then, and commanded a body of soldiers—a general came to me, saying, 'Storm that hill,' and I answered, 'No; thou art our leader, lead us to the assault.' And he refused, saying, 'Howcan I direct the battle if I lead this attack—who shall take my place if I fall?' And I drew my sword"—and here he suited his action to his words—"and said I would kill him if he did not take his true position as leader of men and lead us to the attack—then I and my men would follow wherever he went. And the general, who was a brave man, led us to the assault and fell—but we took the hill and the battle was won."
It was strange talk to hear from such a man, little better than a savage, yet unlike any of his adopted countrymen. That man in a civilised country would have made himself known and even celebrated.
Not far from Podgorica, at the junction of the rivers Morača and Zeta, lie the remains of the once famous Dioclea or Dukla, as it is locally called. The town is of Roman origin, and was surrounded by a complete moat, which the Romans formed by digging a channel between the rivers. It must have been a place of immense strength in the olden days, but successive generations of warfare, which raged so pitilessly in this district, have levelled it to the ground, and to-day little or nothing can be seen from the adjoining roadway. On approaching there is also very little to be seen, here and there a wall, and small fragments of mosaic floors. Coins and other relics are still found in large quantities, and it seems a pity that excavation, which coulddo so much, has been only carried on in a very halting and desultory manner. Legend and history relate that the famous Roman Emperor Diocletian was born here, and gave his name to the town. The district of Dioclea, which was one of the seven confederate Serb states formed by Heraclius to repel the attacks of the Avars, is in reality the germ of modern Montenegro.
One market day, walking through the streets of Podgorica, we overheard a strange conversation. A Montenegrin Turk was sitting on a stone, when two Albanians approached him. Touching his revolver, one of the Albanians said—
"Sooner than own the whole of Montenegro, would I emptythisinto thy body."
The Turk, a small man, with slightly grey hair, looked up, and said indifferently—
"And thy desire is mine."
So they separated.
Almost immediately an acquaintance joined us, and we asked him the meaning.
"That man," said he, "is the famous Achmet Uiko. A terrible man, who has killed many men, and at the present moment there is an enormous sum of money on his head in Albania."
We then went to him, and asked him to come to our hotel to-morrow, and to tell us the story of hislife. He consented readily, saying that he would be with us at nine next morning, "if," he added significantly, "nothing occurred to detain him."
It happened that evening that an Englishman arrived on a short tour through the country, believing firmly that everything was as safe and as orderly as the average stranger thinks. A Turkish girl had been abducted from her home shortly before, and the town was in a state of great excitement, as it was the second case within the last few weeks. A rising of the Turkish inhabitants was feared nightly, and the house where the girl was confined—previous to her marriage with her Montenegrin lover—was carefully guarded by a score of armed Montenegrins.
We took the Englishman to this house, and as we were showing him the men with rifles around the doors and windows, we heard sounds of a sharp rifle fire some distance away on the border. Not long afterwards a Montenegrin doubled into the town with a report that heavy firing had been taking place at the village of Dinoš. Nothing further came of it, but our countryman went to bed with other ideas of Montenegro.
We awaited Achmet next morning, but at nine he had not arrived, and we began to wonder, as the hours went by, if his fate had at last overtaken him. But at noon he turned up, as quiet and self-possessed as yesterday, and excused himself in the following way.The Albanians who had expressed such murderous desires upon him yesterday at the market lived in Dinoš, and he had spent the night in emptying his magazine rifle repeatedly into their village.
"To show these dogs," he concluded, "that they cannot express such wishes to me with impunity."
His story, which is given shortly here, was taken down from his lips, but it is impossible to reproduce the man's quaint phraseology. He spoke in an indifferent way, and detailed all the circumstances in a most matter-of-fact manner and without the faintest trace of boasting.
He was born in Podgorica, then Turkish, and at fifteen fought in his first battle, killing three men. At seventeen he had a fight in the town, and was forced to flee to Scutari, where, shortly afterwards, he entered the Turkish service as a gendarme. He took unto himself a wife, but finding her faithless, he laid a trap to catch her and her lover together, when he killed them both. After this Achmet returned to Podgorica, where he was at once seized and imprisoned for his original offence, but he soon broke out and fled to the Albanian mountains. Here he lived as a robber until things began to get too hot for him, and he fled to Bosnia. In Bosnia he was the guest of a Serb, who befriended him, and when a Turk seduced his benefactor's wife, he killed the Turk to show his gratitude, and again was forced to flee the country.He next turned up in Antivari, where he was promptly imprisoned, but he overpowered the warder, took his rifle, and again escaped.
At this time the town captain of Dulcigno had been murdered, in revenge for a deadly insult, by a young Kuć, named Jovan, and Achmet was sent for, on the promise of pardon if he would follow Jovan into Albania and kill him. This he did, bringing Jovan's head with him as evidence. For this he received a large reward, and the Prince of Montenegro, having heard of him and his deeds, sent for him, pardoning all his previous offences, besides giving him one hundred napoleons.
Achmet now settled down at his present home near Podgorica, but was caught by the Turks and imprisoned on a false charge for four months, when he was able to prove an alibi.
Achmet fought in many border fights with the Montenegrins against the Albanians and distinguished himself greatly. Two Albanians once attacked the son of a famous standard-bearer, whose life he saved, capturing the assailants alive and bringing them into Podgorica. For this act the Prince gave him an old fortress for his home, and where he still lives.
Later on Jovan's brother, whom he had killed near Dulcigno, came early one morning to Achmet and fired at him; but Achmet caught him, and again brought his prisoner alive into the town, where hereceived ten years' imprisonment. These deeds are all the more remarkable as he brought his captures alive and delivered them over to justice. It is, firstly, not customary to take men alive; secondly, the feat is of extreme difficulty, for men fight to a finish in these lands.
Achmet is known to disappear periodically for several weeks, but of these affairs he would say nothing. But the most striking and romantic episode of this marvellous man's life has yet to be told.
Recently he was caught by his now arch enemies, the Turks, and imprisoned in the powerful fortress of Tusi, a few miles from Podgorica. Not content with putting on the usual extremely heavy chains, they added to their prisoner a second set of fetters. But friends smuggled into his possession a file, concealed in a loaf of bread. He filed through his chains, and the day previous to his escape he noticed a lot of straw bedding lying at the foot of the fortress walls. That night he completed the filing of the fetters, broke open the cell-door, and rushing through the sleeping soldiers he jumped the wall, landing without hurt on the pile of straw bedding below. Though fired at and pursued, he escaped unhurt.
We heard many such stories, but the story of Achmet was certainly the best, and these men do not lie. As the man took his leave, he gave usa pressing invitation to visit his fortress home in the mountains.
"I will slaughter my best lamb," he added, as a special inducement.
There was another highly interesting personality living in Podgorica, an ex-Albanian chief and refugee from his country, named Sokol Bačo. This fine old fellow, standing well over six feet, looked fifty instead of his sixty-five years, and had an equally interesting past. As a youth he had fought in many battles for the Turks, and was eventually selected with five other young men of high standing for the personal bodyguard of the Sultan. While on leave, which he was spending in his Albanian home, the order came for the disarming of the whole of Albania. Sokol's tribe refused, as did most of these warlike clans, though Sokol advised obedience. But his clan remained obdurate, and he was placed in the awkward predicament of being either considered a traitor by his countrymen or by his Sovereign. Sokol threw in his lot with his clan, and led them in battle against a Turkish force; but though he fought like a lion, the clan were defeated, and he was forced to fly. For many years Sokol lived in the Albanian mountains, half robber and wholly patriot; but the pursuit became too keen, and he came to Podgorica, where he entered the service of Prince Nicolas. His new Prince he serves loyally, and is highly esteemedin Montenegro, where he will doubtless end his days.
ACHMET UIKOACHMET UIKO
SOKOL BAČOSOKOL BAČO
While still comparatively new to the country, we once went for a week's shooting to the Lake of Scutari. Water-fowl abound there in marvellous numbers, consisting chiefly of crane, heron, thousands of duck, and a fair number of pelicans.
We had selected the island of Vranjina for our headquarters, known in history as the site of a famous treaty signed there between the Montenegrins and Venetians in the first half of the fifteenth century. It lies at the north or Montenegrin end of the lake.
As we were given to understand that we could drive to the lake, or at least to the River Morača, and thence take boat to the island, we loaded our carriage with ample luggage. With our guide's usual and admirable mismanagement, we were landed after a two hours' drive on the banks of the Morača, unable to get further without the carriage toppling down a steep bank into the rapid river. The driver unceremoniously bundled our traps on to the ground and drove happily off. The only person in sight was a diminutive girl, whom the guide promptly impressed into our service, and an appalling load was heaped upon her. Then a small boy appeared, and so we were able to make another start. The day was exceedingly hot, but we got some shooting to make up for it. We crossed the river in a crazyferry, found some men, and later on a boat, and reached the famous village of Žabljak about one o'clock. The village is still overlooked by a formidable fortress, but in the rude collection of huts it was hard to see the ancient capital of Montenegro, the home of the famous Black Prince dynasty.
One of the most wretched inns that it was our lot to find in Montenegro received us and our baggage. The village of course turned out to inspect us, and watched us eat our meal with interest. It was of the usual kind, consisting of eggs, raw ham, eggs, and dessert ofmorehard-boiled eggs, washed down with a remarkably sour wine.
After this repast we retired for a short nap into the room beyond. P. was tired and got on one bed, but I, displaying more caution, lifted the pillow before I trusted myself to the arms of Morpheus. My fore-sight was rewarded better than I deserved, and I had P. off his bed in the twinkling of an eye. As an explanation which his threatening attitude demanded at once, I silently lifted his pillow. It likewise teemed with life, and we postponed our post-prandial slumbers till a more fitting occasion.
At the foot of the village the Morača flowed past, now a formidable and swiftly running river. We were amused to see several oxen driven into it, and swim serenely to the opposite bank.
Only one small canoe could be found for us, whichwould ordinarily hold one man besides the two paddlers, with comfort. Into it were crowded three men and a quantity of baggage. In addition, it leaked, and periodically we were turned out on to a muddy and marshy bank while the canoe was bailed out.
This end of the lake is very curious, a series of natural canals run in all directions through vast swamps which only afford foothold in the height of summer. The thrifty peasants utilise the dry season to plant fields of maize, for the scorching sun dries these swamps in a very short space of time. In the winter or early spring, they are nearly or quite under water. As the lake is reached, small islands of dense willow trees grow out of the water, and in these islands are vast colonies of waterfowl. The effect is decidedly pretty, but very irritating to the sportsman, as the birds hide in the centre, and it is nearly impossible to force one's way in, even by wading.
We reached our destination, a little chapel with a house for the priest adjoining it, locally termed a "manastir," built on a rather high and conical hill on the south end of the island of Vranjina. The view from the chapel, as we afterwards found, was superb. The whole lake spreads out in its vast expanse. Scutari, or rather the hill behind which it lies, can be seen dimly in the distance. To the right, the Lovćen and the Rumija rear their lofty heads, and divide thelake from the Adria beyond. Away to the left the rugged snow-clad Albanian Alps stretch as far as the eye can see, piling themselves up in a wild and grand confusion. Several green submerged willow islands lay at our feet, round which crowds of snow-white cranes were circling. Such was our view as we reached the plateau in front of the chapel that evening, tired, hungry, and irritated, but still appreciative.
The priest, or "pop," clad in the national costume, as indeed are all the country clergy, and only distinguishable from his wild-looking parishioners by his uncut hair and beard (the Greek Church do not allow their ministers to cut their hair or beards), met us in a friendly manner, but absolutely refused to take us in at first. He said he had absolutely nothing in the house but a little goat's cheese, and no beds. However, we were desperate; to go to the village meant another hour's cramp in the canoe, and perhaps no better accommodation than here. Here we would stay, and starve.
By dint of much persuasion, the priest produced a mattress, and a man was sent down to the village to procure anything that he could find, and so we stayed in the monastery a week, and really enjoyed ourselves. We used to go out shooting at daybreak in canoes with two paddles apiece, and again in the evening, for the heat was overpowering about midday.
THE POP OF VRANJINATHE POP OF VRANJINA
AN ALBANIAN GIRLAN ALBANIAN GIRL
The method of fishing here is distinctly interesting. A large number are required to work the net, but they make enormous hauls. The procedure is as follows: One large boat is anchored near the shore and made fast to trees, and a huge net is taken out and spread in a circle, the ends being kept in the stationary boat. Two men, naked, stand a few feet from the boat in the water, keeping the sides of the net down and preventing the escape of fish as the circle is gradually narrowed by the men in the boat slowly pulling it in. The last bit requires their united efforts, for it is full of fish, some of considerable size. At the conclusion of the "haul" one of the men chose two of the largest fish and threw them into my canoe as a present; as thanks I lent my tobacco-tin, which they gratefully emptied.
Montenegrins carry tobacco in a tin and roll their own cigarettes; no other form of smoking is known amongst them, except the tchibouque by some of the older men, a relic of Turkish times. The tobacco is excellent, being often equal to the best Turkish, and ridiculously cheap.
We owe these worthy fisherfolk thanks for having given us one of the finest moonlight effects that it has ever been our lot to witness. We were returning home late one evening in our canoes, and as we rounded a corner of the island we came suddenly on their encampment. The men in their ragged butartistic costumes were sitting round numerous camp-fires cooking their evening meal on the bank, which sloped gently upwards, an old ruined fortress or "kula" forming a background.
As we gazed the moon came slowly over the brow of the intervening hill, illuminating the scene with its soft and silvery radiance, blending fantastically with the ruddy flames of the fires. Cooking-pots steamed and bubbled, and one group of men broke into an old Montenegrin fighting song, the water of the vast lake sparkled and danced in the distance, and we felt that only we and this rough group of fishermen were alive in the world.
It was an idyllic life that we led during our stay at Vranjina, though every comfort known to civilisation was lacking. We lived as did the hardy fishermen of the island, and a hard life it proved to be. The heat, however, was something tremendous, quite precluding any exertion from ten in the morning till the late afternoon. We had even in the early morning to use the greatest care to keep our necks and arms covered from the scorching rays of the sun, for bad blisters and burns were the sure reward of carelessness. The concussion of rapid shooting combined with the heat often brought on headaches so violent that to fire another cartridge was exquisite torture. One thing we did not suffer from, and that was loneliness.
The news of our visit spread to all the neighbouring villages, and we had a constant stream of visitors. Our swim, which we took after our early morning shoot in a delightfully cool spot, where a spring bubbled into the lake, was invariably witnessed by a group of fishermen, and very much amused they were too over our hair-brushes, soap, and other toilet articles.
They sometimes ascribed powers of healing to us, and were evidently quite distressed when we endeavoured to impress upon them our entire ignorance of medicine. Once a man insisted on baring his leg and showing me a horrible wound which would not heal.
Another time the school was marched out from the village of Vranjina, probably to have an object-lesson in geography. Doubtless the boys, after having seen real live Englishmen, would henceforth display an intelligent interest in the position of the British Isles. They came and spent a morning with us, and the young teacher, who spoke good Italian, asked us many questions, such as a young child asks his father, and equally difficult at times to answer.
Our messing arrangements were of the simplest, raw ham and eggs forming the staple food. We bought a lamb once, but it only lasted one meal, as everyone developed an extraordinary appetite—the parson, Lazo our servant, and all the men in the vicinity.
When we left we had the blessing of our worthy priest and fervent invitations to return again soon from some of the fishermen. One of the men took a great fancy to us, urging us to come to his house in Vranjina then and there, and "we would," he said, "drink gallons of wine," going on next day. "At any rate," he said, as we gently refused, "let us have a big drink together when ye come again."
We arranged our return to Podgorica ourselves, and got back within five hours, shooting a fine pelican on the way, which was the last shot that we fired on the Lake of Scutari.
For our journey to the sea-coast towns of Antivari (Bar) and Dulcigno (Ulcinj) we deemed it advisable to take a servant with us, and our choice fell on Stephan, a Hungarian by birth, but a ten years' sojourn in the Land of the Black Mountain had completely Montenegrinised him, if we may coin a word. As he was our constant companion for several months, it would be well to describe him.
Every statement that Stephan made had to be liberally discounted—this we found out afterwards—for he was a born liar, and not a skilful one at that. He had one marvellous story about a large sum of money lying in his name in a bank in Hungary, which he must fetch in person, but he could never save enough money to make the journey. This was an obvious falsehood. But the story of his coming to Montenegro seemed true. He was a sergeant of anAustrian infantry regiment, and had attempted to cut down his superior officer in a fit of rage, severing his ear with a sabre. He fled to the Montenegrin border, which was quite close to his garrison, and has been in Montenegro ever since, wearing the national costume and married to a girl of the country. Stephan was certainly a most violent-tempered man, but he was often entertaining, full of fun, a decent cook, and could sing a host of odd songs and snatches picked up in Austrian garrison towns. Otherwise he was a thorough Montenegrin, though he considered himself vastly their superior. His temper at other times would be vile, but the mastery over himself was really great, and after a sharp remonstrance he could change his mood completely.
Taking the omnibus of the Anglo-Montenegrin Trading Company, rudely dubbed "the Hearse," to Plavnica, the station for Podgorica on the Lake of Scutari, we transferred our luggage to a huge barge, or "londra," and were slowly punted out on to the lake through one of those extraordinary canals which intersect the marshy land at this end of the lake. There the good shipDanitza, owned by the same company, awaited us, and conveyed us to Virpazar, past our island of Vranjina and its little chapel.
VIRPAZARVIRPAZAR
Virpazar is the scene of the Montenegrin Vespers in 1702, and one of the richest villages in the district. Prettily situated up a long estuary of the lake, it isnothing but a collection of about twenty small houses, with arched ground floors, the people living on the first floor. The village is frequently flooded in the winter.
The importance of this village lies in the fact that it is the connecting link—and a very bad one at that—between the rest of Montenegro and the sea. But no road connects it with the mainland, and travellers from Cetinje or Podgorica must take the steamer from either Rijeka or Plavnica to Virpazar, and from thence a good road leads over the Sutormann Pass to Antivari. A road which is being built between Virpazar and Rijeka will supply a long-felt want. At present, when the Prince or Crown Prince wish to visit their favourite residence on the sea at Topolica, near Antivari, the horses have to be sent by a roundabout mountain path from Rijeka, taking many hours, while the Princes take steamer and have a tedious wait in the inn at Virpazar.
To this inn we went—there was no choice about it; it is the only one, and, moreover, there is but a single room for guests, serving as dining and sleeping apartment. Though we arrived at midday, we had to wait till the following day at noon for the postcart—twenty-four hours in this very uninteresting hole.
But we hobnobbed with the local grandees, for there is the district law court here (the captain and magistrate have their residences in the village), and managed to pass the time fairly agreeably. In theevening we sat under the trees in front of our humble yet princely hostel, and talked of many things to our newly made friends. The frogs in the marshes made a terrific noise, almost drowning our conversation.
Next morning we entered the post-chaise, in which we had wisely booked all the four seats, and made a start on our six hours' drive. What would have happened had other travellers arrived is hard to imagine. A wait of forty-eight hours till the next post went would have probably caused annoyance, and this carriage was literally the only means of conveyance on this side of Montenegro. It goes one day and returns the next. Fortunately, passengers are extremely rare. The drive was of great interest, winding up in a series of sweeping curves between magnificent hills. The ridge on our left was the site of a great battle in the last war, when a small Montenegrin force dislodged a large Turkish army and captured Antivari and the long-coveted sea. The danger and recklessness of the feat was apparent from the road, and it was evidently not expected by the Turks, for a false step on those rocky heights meant certain death.
ANTIVARI OR BARANTIVARI OR BAR
The top of the Sutormann Pass (2,700 feet) was reached in about four hours, and now the deep blue Adria was spread out before us, and our tortuous descent commenced. Commanding the pass still stands a mighty but much-battered fortress,taken by the gallant Montenegrins in that memorable battle. But nowhere could the historical old town and fortress of Bar, or Antivari, be seen. In fact, not till we were within a few hundred yards of the town, was a single house in view. It is hidden from sight in a hollow, surrounded by a forest of olive trees.
All of a sudden the carriage drew up at a recently built stone house, ornamented with the trophies of war. Piles of cannon-balls, old cannon, splinters of shells are tastefully arranged on the walls. Immediately in front of us stood the once famous fortress of Bar, now a shot-riddled and ruined mass of stone, a mere shell of its former strength.
Even then the town is hardly apparent, but in a few seconds one enters it down a steep and slippery path of well-worn stones. On either side are Turkish bazaars, out of which Turkish faces peer at the infidel dogs. There is very little of the Montenegrin element apparent. We only walked through the town once, as our destination was Prstan, the actual seaport of Antivari.
We were somewhat rudely disillusioned. After an hour's drive along a flat and ugly road, we espied a collection of some half a dozen houses. Two or three of them are large and modern in appearance but that was all. Was this, then, Antivari, Montenegro's important seaport and the bone of contention with Austria?
Right well has Austria maintained its control of this little port. One large house is that of the Austrian Vice-Consul, who lives in solitary state, watching everyone who passes through the port. Opposite, on the further horn of the bay, lies Spizza, an Austrian military station. Antivari is, indeed, but Montenegrin in name.
Right on the shore and in the centre of the large bay stands a white house, a short distance from the Austrian frontier, which is Topolica, the favourite residence of the Crown Prince. Square, undecorated, and uninteresting, it is almost an exact counterpart of the other Montenegrin royal residences. Yet its position is superb. From either corner of the bay, where the mountains meet the sea, stretches an unbroken chain of mountain peaks, rugged and forbidding, but extremely picturesque. Witnessed at sunset when the soft lights mellow the sharp outlines, and the sombreness of the mountains is tinged with red, the fascination which this place holds for this lover of nature, Prince Danilo, can be well understood. We spent two days revelling in its wild solitariness.
Our hotel was distinctly quaint, but we were very comfortable. Again we had but one room for all, but it was clean, and the hostess, an Austrian, an excellent cook.
We hoped to have started on our further journeysthe following day, and found a small sailing vessel anchored in the bay; the captain consenting to take us on to Dulcigno. It was an Albanian boat, manned by about half a dozen cut-throats, and in spite of warnings we arranged to leave next day. Anything would be preferable to a ride of eight hours over mountain tracks on mules to Dulcigno; and we were all well armed.
But the next day brought contrary winds, and we were forced to spend another day in Prstan. That day a large Italian steamer arrived and anchored in the bay, to take Prince Nicolas to Italy for the christening of his little granddaughter. Shortly before dark he arrived, attended by two adjutants, and after speaking a few words to the harbour captain, who respectfully kissed his hand, embarked in a boat, and was pulled on board the steamer. We were again struck with the immense breadth of his figure, clad in a long, grey military overcoat, which makes him look much shorter than he really is. He is really a typical-looking prince of a race of freeborn mountaineers. As he receded from the shore, we drew our revolvers and joined in the parting fusillade, shouting "Živio" as lustily as any of the little handful who had awaited him.
The agent of the Austrian Lloyd Steamship Company came to our rescue on the following morning, as the Albanian boat made no preparations forstarting, and offered to take us in his own boat to Dulcigno. This we gladly accepted, and about midday started in his large and roomy boat, built for sailing or for rowing, and manned by four Montenegrin sailors.
The wind failed us most of the way, and our four men propelled us with long oars or sweeps which are worked standing up and facing them, a method of rowing common in the Adriatic. It is a splendid exercise, but like everything else it wants practice, as we speedily found out when we took a turn.
Coffee, without which no true Montenegrin can exist, was madeen route, and proved highly acceptable.
Luckily we had taken a supply of food with us, though we had been told that we should be in Dulcigno for supper, and this again we devoured with ravenous appetites as the long hours wore on. The coast was monotonous, a never-varying bank of hills descending to the water's edge. Here and there a tiny village could be seen, but otherwise no life, and little vegetation.
Not till nine o'clock in the evening did we reach Dulcigno, and the impression that the lights in the houses on the hillsides made is not easily to be forgotten. It seemed like a colony of spacious and luxurious villas on well-wooded slopes. In pitch dark we arrived at a quay, and groped our way outof the boat, and were led to the inn. Great knockings and shoutings summoned the innkeeper from his early slumbers. While waiting in the darkness below, the Turkish muezzins ascended the many minarets, and began the evening call to prayer. The weird chanting from so many voices (there are seven mosques in Dulcigno) in the otherwise utter stillness had a most uncanny effect.
It was a strange arrival.
Our inn was slightly less primitive than the preceding ones. We had a tiny bedroom apiece, and there was a room downstairs for eating purposes, though we were always able to take our meals outside under the trees.
Dulcigno, or Ulcinj, is certainly the prettiest town in Montenegro, though it is to all intents and purposes Turkish in appearance. Built partly on a hill overlooking the sea, it descends into a small bay where the occasional passing steamers anchor. Well wooded and hilly, it is really a delightful spot, though the Turkish element may or may not detract from its beauty according to personal taste. The irregular houses, the mosques with their slender towers, the bazaar, and the gaily-dressed if dirty crowds that circulated between the rows of shops—gave a distinctly pleasing effect. The heavily-veiled women, wearing in addition to the veil a thick cloth cape with a capacious hood, amused us greatly, for onmeeting us, lest our bold eyes should pierce their disguise, they would stop and turn their faces to the wall. What these poor creatures suffer from the heat in these ponderous cloaks can only be imagined, and Dulcigno is by no means cold.
Though the fantastic picture conjured up the night of our arrival by the twinkling lights, peeping out of the dark foliage, on the hillside was not realised, still the entirely different picture of the reality was equally pleasing.
We called the next morning on the harbour captain, an Austrian and ex-sea-captain, who received us most kindly and courteously. Through him we were at once able to make the acquaintance of one Marko Ivanković, a hunter of great prowess, whom we immediately engaged to attend us for the shooting in the neighbourhood.
Now, though we will not go so far as to say that he was the sole object of our visit to Dulcigno, still he did certainly influence our plans. Once, during our very first stay at Podgorica, we met an Austrian ornithologist and sportsman who told us a wonderful experience of his at Dulcigno with this very man, Marko Ivanković. He had come to Dulcigno one night by steamer, to spend a few months in this paradise for sportsmen, and as he entered a lowly inn, a man of almost repellent aspect sat brooding gloomily, evidently lost in a fit of abstraction. Thisman gave no greeting to the new-comer, who sat down at the further end of the table and ordered food. Shortly afterwards the man rose and silently left the room. An hour later this same man reappeared in the doorway, cap in hand, and humbly asked permission of the ornithologist to seat himself at the same table. The permission was readily given, and the man (it was Marko) came near and attempted to kiss L.'s coat. This action signifies the greatest humility, and is only accorded to persons of the highest rank. L. remonstrated strongly, saying—
"Why dost thou kiss my coat? I am a man like thyself, and no prince. What wouldst thou from me?"
"Sir, I see that thou art a hunter (L. had his dogs with him), and I would fain be thy servant."
L. wanted a man, and from his conversation he soon gathered that this was no inexperienced huntsman, and so they spoke of terms. But Marko at first would not hear of anything of the sort, saying he would serve for nothing. Naturally L. refused to accept his services gratis, and at last an arrangement was made that Marko should first prove his capabilities and serve a term of probation. Even then Marko refused to take money, but a present of a gun or some article to the value of his services at so much a day.
With this plan L. was forced to be content, and two days afterwards the expeditions into the neighbouring country were commenced. To tell the story in L.'s own words:—[2]
"After we had been together some weeks Marko became gloomy and cast down, unlike his usual merry self. It was no easy task to persuade him to tell me what was the matter. It appeared that he was in debt, and should not the money be paid very shortly, his house and all that was his would be seized. Of course I gave him the money, which happened to be more than his due up to that day, and he took it as a loan. This condition he insisted on, and I laughingly assented."
It was then that we first heard of Achmed Uiko, who told us the story of his life in Podgorica. Jovan, of the tribe Kuć, had been publicly beaten in Dulcigno at this time, and in revenge had shot the Governor, who had ordered this ignominious punishment. Jovan had fled to Alessio, in Albania, with a price upon his head, and certain persons came to Marko to beg him to follow the assassin and bring back his head. Marko was then in L.'s service, and confided his dilemma to his master, who told him that if he but harboured such thoughts he was not fit to be his servant. Marko then refused, and Achmed Uiko accepted, murdering Jovan in a boat while fishing, and the head was subsequently displayed in Dulcigno. This is a noteworthy episode, for it led to the abolition of corporal punishment and of the barbarous custom of displaying heads on poles.