THE CHURCH, NIKŠIĆTHE CHURCH, NIKŠIĆ
THE CHURCH AND THE PALACETHE CHURCH AND THE PALACE
The platform on which the church stands commands a view of the country. The simplicity of Prince Nicolas' palace is thus accentuated, for it is situated on perfectly open ground, and there is no garden or any railings round it. Naked and forlorn, it gives the spectator a sad impression of poverty. On another side is the old Church of Nikšić, ridiculously small and half-ruined. The Russians did a good deed, for the comparison is absolutely absurd if a comparison can be drawn between a hovel and a S. Peter's.
The town is a long straggling collection of small houses, very uninteresting and plain, and beyond lies the historical ruin of the old fortress, stormed by Prince Nicolas in person.
In the town itself, broad streets and an enormous market-place are the only features.
We spent a few days in Nikšić, but in this instance we were never able to rid ourselves of the first impressions, and we left gladly, though the town was not without its humour. It contains the only brewery in Montenegro, a ramshackle place and producing very poor beer. The post office is a tumble-downouthouse, also we were shown the house which would in the course of time be the Bank of Montenegro.
It is hard to realise that Nikšić is the coming town, in spite of its gaudy cathedral, but progress makes sometimes wonderful strides.
Our visit to Nikšić was a failure all round. We arrived to see the Prince ride out of the town at the head of a great cavalcade for the mountains, and again missed the opportunity of presenting ourselves.
Our intended tour to the Durmitor, Montenegro's highest mountain, was frustrated, owing to the Prince's retinue having taken every horse in the place, in addition to the weather having completely broken up, and so we missed one of the finest parts of the country.
Before we leave Podgorica for good our readers must be introduced to the Club. It was not a club in the English sense of the word, but P. and I always called that hour or two at sunset so delightfully spent in the company of that cosmopolitan gathering, the Club. Podgorica was our base, from which we made all our trips and excursions, so that we were there off and on during the whole of our lengthy sojourn amongst the sons of the Black Mountain. From the "members" we gleaned many stories of past and present vendettas and quaint customs which we had not had the good fortune to witness ourselves. Amongst the regular members was of course Dr. S., who was three nationalities rolled into one—to explain, born in Roumania, he entered into Austrian service and became an Austrian subject, and finally twelve years in Montenegro had quite "Montenegrinised" him. He was very angry if wetold him this. In the course of his duties as sole veterinary surgeon he had travelled, and travelled continually from one end of the land to the other, there was not a corner or collection of huts where he had not been. He had been snowed up in winter in the mountains, attacked by wolves, and shot at by Albanians, and had witnessed many a scene of the vendetta.
Another even more interesting character was L., an Austrian, who for years had been employed by scientific institutions in ornithological and geological research in Montenegro and Albania. He had carried his life in his hands for weeks together amongst the untameable mountaineers across the border. A man whose terribly hard life had turned him into a man of bone and muscle, rivalling the most active Montenegrin in strength and endurance. And what a fund of anecdote and adventure he could reel off! Without doubt he was one of the most interesting and fascinating men we have ever met; a perfect rifle, gun, and revolver shot, fine horseman and entertaining companion.
Then there was a Montenegrin professor, he was the father of the party, though the taleshetold were not at all becoming to his age and learning. He spoke about eight languages well and perhaps that had slightly turned his brain. Once he had served a term of imprisonment for an outspoken criticism, andwhen he became tired of it, he sent an ultimatum to the effect that if he were not released at once, he would break out himself, take a rifle and bundle of cartridges and hold the Lovćen (a high mountain) against all comers. The originality of his threat gained him his freedom. Since then he has kept a closer guard over that unruly member and only unburdened himself in the seclusion of the Club. Otherwise P., myself, and a young and intensely patriotic Scotchman completed the list of regular members.
We had a few occasional "country members," officers and officials whom some of us knew well from Cetinje or Nikšić, but we were mostly alone. At first we met in the garden of one Petri, a good-tempered giant of about six feet eight inches, but in spite of our patronage he managed to ruin himself at cards and so we were forced to adjourn to an old Albanian rascal named Gugga. What fun we had with that dear old boy, whom we irreverently called Skenderbeg! One day in a moment of ill-advised confidence he had told us that he was descended from that great Albanian hero and patriot. But he was an educated and travelled man, having lived for many years in Venice, spoke an excellent Italian and correspondingly atrocious German, which latter he delighted to inflict upon us. He was most amusing in his hatred and contempt of the Montenegrin peasant.
Gugga kept a big shop, and when irritated by acustomer he had a regular formula which loses much of its wit when translated, as it rhymes in Serb. The humble Montenegrin is remarkably feminine in the way he shops. He will spend half an hour in the store examining everything with great curiosity. At last he will ask the price of a certain article. Gugga, whose choler has been slowly rising during his customer's long and tiring inspection, gives a purposely indistinct answer, whereupon the Montenegrin will inquire "What does he say?" Gugga, furious at being spoken to in the third person, turns savagely upon the astonished Montenegrin saying—
"What dost thou say? What dost thou mean?What stinks here? Get out, ass and son of an ass."
Another famous saying of his was in speaking of Montenegro, its past and present rulers. "This land," Gugga would say in all seriousness, "was first accursed by God, its maker; then by Diocletian, then by the Sultan, then by our Gospodar (Prince), and lastly by Gospodin Milovan." Gospodin (Mr.) Milovan was the last Governor of Podgorica, a man always endeavouring to introduce modern improvements into the town, much to the disgust of its inhabitants who are nothing if not conservative, and amongst other sufferers was our friend Gugga. He substitutes the word "blessed" for "accursed," according to his audience.
We met after the arrival of the mail diligence from Cetinje about half-past six or seven o'clock in the evening. Proceedings usually commenced with a heated argument as to the time, the last comer being accused of unpunctuality. It was always an unsatisfactory argument, for no member ever had the same time as another. A sort of go-as-you-please time was kept in the town, but as either your watch invariably gained ten minutes in the day—according to the town clock it did—or lost a quarter of an hour, no one had any confidence in the official time, and each swore to the regularity of his own timepiece. One great advantage of this discrepancy of time was that try as one would, one was never late for an appointment. Somebody was sure to be present to back up an indignant protest, that you were five minutes early.
One evening was particularly memorable, it was in Petri's garden, then, that we had met as usual. P. was in a pensive and sentimental mood, usually caused by the magnificent sunsets. From our table we commanded a splendid view of those crimson-tinted peaks in the far distance, and the mysterious purple gloom which, like a rich robe, covered the intervening hills. By some strange coincidence the subject of music came up, and P. bitterly lamented the absence of that gentle muse from such grand surroundings. I don't believe there is a piano in thecountry except at the girls' school at Cetinje. The Scotchman had suggested the gusla as a substitute, and had been met with derisive laughter, for he had made the suggestion in all good faith. He was one of the most unmusical men I have ever met. The professor had followed this up with a learned discourse on the gusla, and the lesson to be learnt from it in the origin and development of modern music, when suddenly the sounds of a violin, being tuned in the room behind us, arrested his flow of speech. In another few moments the unseen musician began to play, and a deep silence fell upon us, for he was playing our music and recalling memories of bygone days. Snatches from Italian opera, and old well-known songs followed each other as we sat in the twilight and listened, conjuring up pictures of opera-house and concert-hall in this far-away land. Then the music ceased, and the tinkling of coins on a plate proclaimed the status of our serenader. In a few minutes a ragged, fair-haired boy stood before us, wearily holding a plate in his hand. As we dived into our pockets the doctor asked him in Serb, who he was and whence he came. He gazed blankly in answer, and P. said to me, "He looks quite English." A joyful smile lit up his tired face as he answered—
"I am English, sir. I will fetch father; he will be so pleased."
His father came out, a battered violin under hisarm, and we were all struck with his miserable half-starved and ragged appearance. He played to us, he did not even play well, poor fellow, but still we listened appreciatively, and then some of us took him home, fed him, and we all contributed to his wardrobe. We were all of different sizes and build, and the result was sadly comical. Before he left us he told his story. It was not new or even interesting, but intensely pathetic; one of a large family, fair education, and finally a clerk at £80 a year. A pretty typewriter, marriage, and no help from his father. First the girl wife was dismissed, and then the boy husband. The child was born, and the mother died from lack of proper nourishment and comfort. For a few years the father earned a few coppers by playing before public-houses in the East End, and then took to the road. Somehow or other he found himself on the Continent, and after many years he had turned up here. It was all very vague and incoherent. Often starving, homeless, and speaking no language but his own, is it to be wondered that the man had lost count of days, years, and time? Now he had a desire to journey to Greece, why, he knew not, but he clung to it with all a weak man's obstinacy. We could never let him trudge through Albania, and so the Scotchman procured him a free passage to Corfu by steamer. He left us one morning, leading his son by the hand,and over his shoulder a sack containing his worldly possessions, a sorrowful, ludicrous, and pitiful picture.
Many weeks afterwards—P. and I had been on an expedition in the meantime—we sat again in Petri's garden at just such a sunset. We remembered the musician, and one of us jokingly remarked that his music would not be so appreciated in Greece as by us music-starved exiles. Then the Austrian told us the sequel. He had heard it from a murderous Albanian friend of his, who sometimes brought him specimens. The wanderer had not used his ticket, and had walked from Antivari to Dulcigno, from thence he had attempted his original plan of crossing Albania on foot. He knew nothing of geography or nationality, and doubtless imagined that he could earn his way as in a civilised country. On the way to Scutari a band of Albanians stopped him, and he played to them. The instrument pleased them, and they took it from him. Then they took the boy—though why they did so is not clear, for they do not kidnap children—and the father, in a fit of wild despair, sprang at the nearest Albanian. The Albanians are always glad of an excuse to kill; the wanderer found his death in perhaps the only moment of heroism that he had displayed throughout his wretched life. Such, though, was the story our informant had gleaned, and it took the edge off our evening's amusement.
But other evenings we were merry, and many were the wonderful stories of adventure told over bottled beer and an extraordinary salad which old Gugga mixed before us—to make an appetite, as he said.
We got to love Podgorica in the end, and left its streets, full of gaudy-coloured humanity, the old shot-riddled town across the river, and the glorious mountain panorama, with sorrow. There was always something to talk about, from a threatened raid of the Albanians to the abduction of a Turkish maiden. Death is always very near in that unknown border town.
The day of our final departure from Podgorica, we drove to the famous Crna Zemlja, or Black Earth.
The object of our visit was chiefly to call on a young Albanian, who had repeatedly invited us. Though an Albanian, he is a Montenegrin subject and a corporal in the standing army.
As a matter of fact, he is a fugitive from his clan, the Klementi, where his life is forfeited in a blood feud. The Prince wisely uses such men as a kind of extra border guard, giving them land and houses on the actual frontier line, knowing that they will keep a doubly sharp watch to preserve their own lives.
The Black Earth is an absolutely flat and treeless plain, covered at times with grass, which mischievous Albanians love to set fire to in the hopes of somesport with peasants, who might attempt to extinguish the conflagration. The River Zem divides it and constitutes the boundary, but the land on both sides is neutral by mutual consent. It is courting death to walk upon it. Block-houses dot it at frequent intervals, containing small garrisons of Montenegrin and Turkish soldiers.
As we drove past the first Montenegrin block-house, we were reminded of a ride which we once took to it, while our knowledge of the border dangers was nil. On that occasion we had cantered, innocently, straight towards it, and were amused to see its little garrison promptly turn out. A man came running towards us motioning us to halt. This unmistakable request we suddenly obeyed, for the men behind had covered us with their rifles.
Explanations followed, and the rest of the men came up smiling; but they sent us back towards Podgorica at once, which was only half an hour's ride away—saying that a bullet from the overlooking hill would be no unusual thing.
To-day we left this block-house on our left, and, striking the Zem, we drove along it till we reached a solitary house. A few hundred yards further down was a Turkish fort, with the banner of the Star and Crescent hanging lazily at the mast.
This house was the home of our friend, quite a young man of sixteen, but married and a proudfather. He could well have been mistaken for twenty-five.
He was working in his field as we drew near, and hurried to meet us. First of all we went to the Zem, which fifty yards away would be unnoticed, as it lies between two deep banks, which break off suddenly and without any indication. This historical little river looked very peaceful as it flowed through deep basins, hollowed out of the rocky bed, and splashed over great boulders. How often has it been crossed by bands of men intent on bloodshed and murder, who often recrossed, flying and hunted fugitives! What quantities of blood have dyed those clear and crystal pools! What awful doings of death have they reflected!
The Turkish soldiers opposite turned out, and viewed our movements inquisitively. Our Albanian friend hinted that a too lengthy inspection might be misunderstood, so we withdrew.
The house was a curiosity. One-storied, and solidly built of stone; it had no windows, but suggestive loopholes. The ground floor was empty. We looked inside for the staircase, but in vain, and this was scarcely odd, because there was none. The family lives above, and the only means of entry to their dwelling is by a ladder. This is drawn up after the last man, for the night.
As we clambered up the ladder and crawledthrough the narrow doorway, the young mother (of fifteen) kissed our hands.
An aged lady, evidently the great-grandmother of one of the young couple—at least, to judge by her decrepit appearance, she might well have been that (in reality she was the boy's mother)—sat spinning in a corner. A weeping and noisy infant lay strapped immovably in a wooden cradle with no rockers, which a young maiden attempted to soothe by covering it with a thick cloth and rocking it vigorously.
That Montenegrins survive the ordeal of infancy is a proof of their iron constitutions. An ordinary healthy English baby would be suffocated in five minutes under that hermetic pall, or, escaping this fate, would die of concussion of the brain from violent jarring to and fro, which we have inadvertently termed "rocking."
A wood fire smouldered in one corner of the room, and the embers were blown into flames as the little can of water was placed in them to boil. As the water boils, several spoonfuls of coffee are put in—of thegoodcoffee, only used for distinguished visitors—and the whole allowed to boil up three or four times. Then cups are produced, sugar added, and the thick mixture poured out. This beverage is drunk when it is cool enough, and when the grounds have sunk in a thick sediment at the bottom of the cup.
A REALISTIC PERFORMANCEA REALISTIC PERFORMANCE
AN ALBANIAN HOME ON THE CRNA ZEMLJAAN ALBANIAN HOME ON THE CRNA ZEMLJA
The room, our treatment, and the coffee-brewing are typical of many such visits that we paid in Montenegro.
Afterwards spirits were produced, tobacco tins exchanged, and arms—rifles, revolvers, and handjars—inspected and criticised. Any relics or curiosities are produced, and everyone becomes very friendly.
Before we left, an old man (some relation of our host) came up as we were examining a fine handjar, that heavy and hiltless sword which forms part of both the Albanian and Montenegrin fighting kit, though they are no longer universally carried in times of peace. The handy revolver has replaced the former beltful of pistols and yataghan. But in border fighting the handjar is always taken, and, when time permits, the victim is still decapitated by a single blow of that murderous weapon.
The old man—a villainous-looking rascal, with shaven head and scalping lock—favoured us with a graphic mimicry of a fight, showing the methods in his day. He took the handjar between his teeth and a musket in his hands, yelling and scowling fearfully; then, the last cartridge fired or the moment for hand-to-hand combat arrived, the rifle was thrown away, and brandishing the handjar in the air, he darted towards us. It was a most realistic performance, and made us feel thankful that it was only play.
Suddenly the old man stopped his wild yellingand burst out laughing. He laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.
We glanced behind us at the loophole door, and there, with a horrified look, peered our driver, revolver in hand.
He thought that we were being murdered. He was a foreigner and new to Podgorica, but more of him anon.
Then we took our leave and drove on to another block-house, and visited the commandant. After that we returned to Podgorica, and that afternoon, affectionate leave-takings over, we departed for Cetinje, en route for Cattaro.
That drive, which should have taken about seven hours, was a memorable one, and a fitting conclusion to our visit.
We wired to the hotel in Cetinje in the morning, ordering supper to be ready for eight o'clock. Then we had hoped to leave at one p.m. At two we again wired from Podgorica for supper to be delayed till ten.
A hundred yards from the town we stopped, and the driver mended some harness with a piece of wire. A mile further on something else broke. If nothing gave way, a horse kicked a leg over a trace, necessitating its partial unharnessing. Each time the driver (he of the morning's drive and a native of Hercegovina) descended, swearing softly betweenclenched teeth, in caressing tones, and his face set in a forced smile. If we had not understood what he said, he might have been addressing endearing remarks to his horse, or holding serious converse with a friend.
It became very monotonous after a few hours—should we go for three hundred yards without a stop of five or ten minutes, it was a matter for comment. We began to feel alarmed, fearing worse things.
Rijeka we reached at eight p.m. instead of five, and we sent another wire, stating our arrival to be uncertain, if not improbable.
We seriously contemplated staying the night, but an appointment next morning forced us to give up this idea.
After an hour's rest we proceeded. The same weary repetition was resumed, either the near side horse lashed out violently and remained hung over a trace, or the axle boom or something broke.
We dozed, and I awoke from a sudden jar to find the driver sound asleep, the horses wandering aimlessly along, a precipice of many hundred feet below us on one side. The road takes sharp turns every hundred yards, rendering it impossible to see far ahead, and traffic even at night is not uncommon. Drivers shout when nearing a corner, particularly on coming downhill, which they do at a great pace. Ishuddered at the thought of a carriage dashing suddenly round a corner upon us as we painfully climbed, for our driver slept soundly. I even shouted in his ear, but in vain. Then I struck him, and with effect. Inured as we were already by the dangers of that drive, we slept no more.
I looked at my watch; it was one o'clock. In another hour the look-out hut of Bella Vista loomed up indistinctly, and we thought of that grand view of the Lake of Scutari and the mountain panorama to be seen from there.
We stopped all the way down into Cetinje, at intervals, and had a long wait actually in the town itself while the driver hunted up a friend and borrowed a spanner.
At three a.m. we arrived, and refused the offer of our driver to take us down to Cattaro next day. He assured us that everything would be in order by the afternoon. But we declined, even though he made us a cheap offer, below the ordinary price. We had no more confidence in him or his carriage, or his wonderful kicking horse—in fact, we gave quite a curt and rude refusal, when he pressed the matter.
Safe inside the old-fashioned hostelry of Reinwein, we thanked Providence for our safe arrival. We had been through a few dangerous experiences during our sojourn in the Land of the Black Mountain, but none worse than this.
The carriage was small, and we suffered agonies from cramp; every moment we expected to see it fall to pieces; one of the horses lashed out violently, narrowly missing the face of the driver, if only touched with the whip, every time hitching itself over a trace and threatening to kick the decrepit structure behind it to bits; the devilish anger of the man, his lurid and comprehensive cursing in that soft voice, the danger of dashing over a precipice, constituted a journey which we fervently pray may never again fall to our lot.
We have said that there are not many stirring events happening in Cetinje. But this was due to the fact that we had only a very superficial knowledge of the town. To appreciate it fully, though, it is absolutely necessary to know the country and the people first. We had quite made up our minds to go down to Cattaro the day following the memorable drive from Podgorica, but a mutual acquaintance, a Montenegrin of high standing, met us as we strolled aimlessly down the main street that morning. When he heard that we were leaving in a few hours, he became quite excited. Had we really seen everything, in Cetinje too?
"Yes," said we. "We have visited the monastery, watched the soldiers drilling, chatted with the criminals, and know every burgher of the town, at least by sight."
"First you must see the hospital and then youmust attend a trial in the Supreme Court of Appeal," said our seducer. "And as for vendettas," he added with pride, "we too have our little quarrels. On the spot you are standing a man was shot five years ago, and in the act of dying he killed his assailant."
"Tell us the story," we broke in eagerly. Montenegro is demoralising in this respect. One becomes so used to bloodthirsty anecdotes that one wonders how other countries exist without the excitement of the vendetta. Then the intercourse with noted murderers and assassins makes a mere ordinary man whose hands are not stained with the blood of his fellow-beings seem dull and tame. Our eagerness pleased our friend and we adjourned to the café opposite.
About five years ago a near relation of the Prince died, and was taken to the home of Petrović in Njeguši. To do honour to the dead man, the men of Cetinje and the men of Bajice—a village at the further end of the valley—accompanied the corpse as a guard of honour.
Now a corpse is waked in true Irish style in this country, and by the time the escort had returned to the valley of Cetinje and halted at Bajice for a parting glass, the condition of the mourners resembled the close of a Bank Holiday in London. The too liberal indulgence in raki or spirits does not always provoke that mellowness which followsa good dinner and a glass of port. On the contrary, you become argumentative and convinced of the truth of your side of the question, and you do not hesitate to tell the other man that he is more or less of a fool. So it came to pass in Bajice that those of Cetinje argued that they were the better men, a statement which did not conduce to good fellowship—in fact, a Voivoda who was present, a native of Bajice, had to interfere to prevent the only true solution of the question in point. He was an aged man, and the men of Cetinje proceeded home without proving their statement. One man, however, stayed behind to continue the argument, and this naturally enraged the Voivoda. He ordered him to be beaten. Nothing loath, the worthy villagers fell upon him, and belaboured him with such fervour that he soon fell insensible to the ground. Before he lost consciousness, he was heard to utter a threat to the effect that his assailants would be sorry for it.
Then he was carried to the hospital in Cetinje and lay six weeks recovering.
When he was well again, his thoughts were occupied with revenge, and in this scheme he was greatly assisted by his relations.
"Thou wilt be killed, of course," they said, "but thine and our honour must be avenged. Who are the men of Bajice to beat one of us and go unpunished?"
He was of the same opinion, and cast about for a suitable victim. Now the son of the aged Voivoda who had ordered the assault lived in Cetinje. He was the captain of the Royal Body Guard, the hero of many a fight with the Turks, and famed throughout the land. We knew his son, who stands about six feet four inches, and he is said to have been small compared to what his father was.
"He shall be the victim," said the man of Cetinje, and his relations applauded the choice.
One morning early the captain emerged from a shop, and from a distance of a few feet, the avenger of his honour fired at him from behind, hitting him in the neck. The captain fell forward on his face, saying, "Who has shot me?" and turning saw the assassin running up the street. With his last strength he drew his revolver, and resting his elbow on the ground, he fired once; the man reeled but continued his headlong flight: again the wounded officer fired, and as he sank forward dying, he had the satisfaction of seeing the fugitive throw up his hands and fall dead, shot through the heart. The last shot was fired at a distance of fifty yards.
"As you can imagine," concluded our informant, "the news of this affray nearly caused a pitched battle between Bajice and Cetinje, which was only prevented by the energetic action of the Prince. He called the two clans together before his palaceand with marvellous judgment picked out the ring-leaders and imprisoned them, and the rest were sent home with such a warning of what would come if he heard any more about it, that all interest was lost in the dispute. Men do not like to face our Prince when he is angered, and his constant presence in Cetinje is a great drawback to the vendetta. Now I must leave you, and to-morrow you shall visit the hospital."
We strolled to the market-place, which was full of peasants and their produce. It is not nearly such a scene of life as is met with elsewhere. The Albanian element is almost totally absent, and that alone takes fifty per cent. of the wildness off. Neither are rifles brought to Cetinje, so that it presents a far more peaceable aspect. Still it is crowded, the guslars do a literally roaring trade, and there are always a sprinkling of men from the Vasović and other outlying clans to liven up the scene.
Here old friends and comrades in arms meet, called to the capital as witnesses, or principals, in a law case, or to draw their salaries as small officials of their districts. The conversation on these occasions is always the same, and if heard often, becomes monotonous. The unvarying formula of greeting is quaint and terse, but it loses much of its impressive character by translation. One word in explanation. The Montenegrins cannot utter the simplest remarkwithout invoking the Almighty in some form or another. The use of the word "Bog," or "God," is incessant.
Picture an aged man, whose grey stubble fringes a weather-beaten and furrowed face with a grizzled moustache. He is smoking a grimy tchibouque in a contemplative fashion, as he stands on the outskirts of the chattering throng. To him approaches a second stalwart, lean man about the same age and appearance. He is also smoking a long tchibouque; it is a custom which the elder inhabitants have adopted from the Turks.
"May God protect thee," says the new-comer gravely, as though he had never given vent to such a momentous utterance before.
"May God give thee good fortune," answers the other, with equal solemnity; and removing their pipes, they clasp hands and fervently kiss each other. Then the smoking is resumed, and between the puffs the following conversation ensues.
"How art thou?" says the new-comer, gazing with affection at his old comrade.
"Well, thank God," replies the other.
"Thank God."
"And how art thou?"
"Well, thank God."
"Thank God."
Now it is the new-comer's turn for the Montenegrin catechism.
The questions already asked and answered are only the prelude, so to speak, before they settle down to serious business. "Kako ste?" ("How art thou?") is simply as meaningless as "How do you do"; in fact, a mere matter of form.
"Art thou well?" says the questioner, referring to the other's state of health, who replies—
"I am well, by God, thank God."
"Thank God," says the questioner, breathing more freely, and continuing.
"How is thy wife?" "How are thy children?" "Thy grandchildren?" "Thy brother?" "Thy sister?" To all of which a deep-toned "Well, thank God," is given.
Having satisfied himself that the whole family is in reasonable health, and quite certain that he has omitted no important relation, the catechiser proceeds to inquire as to the other's worldly possessions.
"How are thy crops?"
"God will give me a good harvest."
"How are thy horses?" "Thy sheep?" "Thy goats?" "Thy cows?" "Thy pigs?" "Thy bees?"
It must be clearly understood, to appreciate the humour of the scene, that the formula has been shortened to avoid vain repetition. Every question is asked in full, and answered with a pious "Dobro, hfala Bogu" ("Well, thank God"). Not a word is omitted. The concluding question is put, after afew moments' thought that really no item has been left out, and this covers any lapse of memory.
"And, in short, How art thou?"
"Dobro, hfala Bogu" ("Well, thank God").
"Hfala Bogu" ("Thank God").
Now it is the other's turn, and precisely the same questions are asked, varied perhaps with an inquiry as to the state of health of the district "standard bearer" or "mayor." Then a few minutes' general conversation are indulged in as to the direct cause of the other's visit to Cetinje, and each satisfied that he has gained every particle of information, they clasp hands, kiss, and part with a measured "S'Bogom," signifying that they commend each other to the Almighty's keeping.
The simplest and most inoffensive query is answered thus:—
"Hast thou any milk?" says the thirsty wayfarer, pausing at a hut.
"I have none, by God," and the stranger proceeds wearily on his way.
Our visit to the hospital was decidedly interesting. The senior doctor of Montenegro was an ex-Austrian military surgeon. He was very pressing in his invitation, so one day we wended our steps thither at eleven o'clock. We were met by a smart-looking nurse, who told us that the doctor was at present engaged in an operation, and would be with usshortly. He soon appeared, and, apologising for the simplicity of the building, started taking us round. First he led us into the accident-room, where the injured are first treated. There were the usual operating-tables and cases of instruments. "We treat wounds that are suppurating here," he said pleasantly. "Our real operating-room is in the other house, and is much better fitted up. This being the only hospital in the country I have all the operations to perform, generally one a day."
Then we went into the Röntgen room. The X rays, the doctor informed us, was very useful in locating bullets. In the men's ward a young man was pointed out to us who had been shot twice during a kolo dance in the arm and leg.
"The Montenegrins," said the doctor, "are very careless when they fire their revolvers during a dance, and I get a good many patients that way." Afterwards we visited some other wards, and we were finally taken to the other operating-room, or theatre. But it was only a reproduction of the other on a large scale. "The Prince is very generous," said the doctor, "and gives me a free hand. We have every modern appliance, and I have trained my assistants to such an extent that I can absolutely rely on them. The hospital costs a lot of money, for we only charge a krone (about a franc) a day, and then they petition that they cannot pay."
After inscribing our names in a book we went back to our midday meal.
The hospital, from a medical and surgical standpoint, is extremely up to date, and at its head is a doctor who may be counted as one of the finest operators in Europe; at his own request his name has not been mentioned. It is another instance of Prince Nicolas' benevolence to his people, another of the progressive movements which he is ever introducing into the country. Every district has a doctor, all of whom are under the head doctor at Cetinje, who directs all treatment in the case of an epidemic. Serious cases are sent to Cetinje and treated there, but these are largely surgical. The fame of the doctor at Cetinje has reached the furthermost village; men who have suffered for years now troop joyfully to the capital, and the number of operations increases yearly.
May the hospital and its capable chief flourish and continue to bring the blessings of science to the worthy sons of the Black Mountain!
The Law Court in Cetinje is distinctly quaint. All civil cases are conducted in public, and the method of procedure is simplicity itself.[9]Firstly there are no lawyers and no costs, the rival parties conducting their case in person—that is to say, they are present, and are examined and cross-examined by the judge and his six assistants. All the preliminaries have been committed to writing and are read out by the clerk of the court, the only other official present. In a small inclosure sit the plaintiff and defendant and their witnesses; behind a railing, stand and sit the audience of admiring friends and relations.
[9]This is all altered now since the end of 1902, when a new code and system was introduced, more up to date.
[9]This is all altered now since the end of 1902, when a new code and system was introduced, more up to date.
The room is long and low. At the further end on a raised dais sits the judge, behind whom is a lifesize reproduction of the Prince's photograph. At a horseshoe-shaped table sit the other judges, three on each side, and in the middle is another table holding the Bible, crucifix, and two candles. The candles are lit when a witness takes the oath.
In the intervening space is a large and comfortable easy-chair, or perhaps it would be more correct and dignified to call it a throne. It is occupied by Prince Nicolas whenever he comes in, as he often does, for an hour or so, for he takes a keen interest in the law cases of his subjects. When he is present the proceedings are in no way altered, but the Prince himself puts now and then a pertinent question to the witnesses. Furthermore, it is here that the Prince every Saturday, when he is in residence in Cetinje, holds public audience and receives petitions and complaints from his lowliest subjects. Every petition must be committed to writing, and in the appointed order each man or woman steps forward while the document is read aloud by the clerk. The Prince puts a question or two to the petitioner and then gives his answer to the request, which is duly noted, and the next person called.
It is all so simple and quick that it is hard to realise the importance of this commendable institution. In the olden days the Prince dispensed justice and favours, seated under the shade of an enormous tree, which has now, however, been destroyed. Butin the height of summer, a shady spot in the open air is still found.
We listened to one case, that of a woman who had amassed a large sum of money—for Montenegro—by fetching water from a distance at so much a gallon. Cetinje is almost waterless in summer, and water-carriers can earn small fortunes, particularly if equipped with a donkey or two, as was this woman. Having saved a few hundred guldens, she proceeded to lend it to needy friends—people are foolish in this respect, even in Montenegro. It would have been all right if she had not neglected the simple precaution of insisting on an I.O.U. for each loan. Her money gone, she not unnaturally asked that some of it should be returned, for she had fallen on evil days. But all knowledge of such loans was denied by the ungrateful borrowers.
It was a knotty point to decide. Should the judges believe the woman's word, or the emphatic denials of the debtors that they had ever received a kreutzer? The seven looked hopelessly at each other, and then wisely retired to the seclusion of a private room, awaiting divine inspiration.
As of yore, the little prison, or rather house of detention, had a great attraction for us. Many afternoons we wended our way thither to while away an hour in the genial company of the prisoners and their warders. The handsome young director of prisons usually accompanied us, ostensibly but tobear us company, though doubtless he was acting on higher orders, and had instructions to see that our eccentricities did not go too far.
We organised sports on some occasions, chiefly consisting of putting the weight,i.e.a large stone, but theywouldswindle and invariably overstepped the limit line, declaring that they hadn't afterwards.
But it was their stories that we loved to listen to. They were mostly harmless quarrellers, for we shunned the debased thieving criminal; a man who could steal was vigorously excluded from our circle. There was one exception, however, and he was a Hungarian, a deserter from his regiment. That in itself is not a punishable crime, but he had eased the regimental cash-box of a thousand kronen at the time of his departure, and was awaiting the result of investigations. He maintained that the money was his, and was quite indignant when it was hinted that he must have stolen it; but unluckily he destroyed any belief in his honesty by invariably contradicting himself as to how he came by it. But he was such a good-natured, pleasant-spoken man that we let him sit by our side and prevaricate, till we bade him cease from further blackening his soul.
We gleaned a lot more information from the young director of the prison, and amongst it the method of recapturing escaped prisoners. In the central prison at Podgorica, if a prisoner escapes, therest of the criminals are sent out to catch him. Very often they find him, and never has a prisoner abused this privilege, all punctually returning by a given date.
We stayed at Reinwein's inn, an unpretentious building, both as regards the exterior and interior, but as Reinwein himself is a Viennese, and has been for twelve years in the service of the Prince, acting often as cook, it is quite safe to say that at his house the best cooking in the whole of Montenegro is to be found. Coming into the country this would not be so noticeable, but after months in other Montenegrin towns the cooking is most appreciable. We spent very happy evenings in his bare little dining-room, with a decidedly cosmopolitan gathering. The most noticeable feature was the number of languages in use. Even Dalmatia, Bosnia, and the Hercegovina, where a three-languaged man is the rule, paled into insignificance. There was a Turkish official staying at Reinwein's, transacting business for his Government, and every evening men came to see him; that man was to be heard—he was a Neapolitan by birth—conversing fluently in Turkish, Albanian, Serb, Greek, Italian, and French, alternately. One evening I was trying to follow the conversation, which began in Italian, then he wandered off into other tongues, explaining, evidently, a letter written in Turkish. I got interested and went over to his table, and, afterwards, he told me which languages he had been using. Besides this little list, Reinwein spokeRussian with another man, German largely with us, and P. and I passed remarks to each other in English, which was the only unknown language. One evening two Hungarian tourists arrived, and then we fled from that Babel, fearing for our reason.
An affable old Turk, seedy in appearance, but extremely entertaining, owned to six languages, not counting others of which he had only a smattering. Serb he didn't count as he said he could only talk on easy subjects in that tongue. It is very humiliating, that sort of thing, it is liable to lower the opinion of one's own intelligence. We kept late hours, too, at Reinwein's, we couldn't help it.
But all good things must come to an end, and at last the day of our departure arrived. Cetinje itself was quite a different place to us than when we knew it formerly. Representative of the land in a certain sense it rightly is, but then a fairly full knowledge of the country must be acquired first to understand in what respects it represents the life and customs of the people beyond. To the stranger who extends his visit for only a week, it is sure to give manifold false impressions, for though Montenegro is quiet and peaceable enough, the appearance of Cetinje is rather too assuring. For here there is little trace of vendetta and quarrelling, which, however, under the powerful hand of the present Prince Nicolas, are surely dying out through all the land. When the factis taken into consideration that the Montenegro of forty years ago was a rough and dangerous country, inhabited by a people who knew nothing of the outside world, and lived simply for themselves in their own land, it will be seen what miraculous progress has been made in the path of civilisation during the present reign. Peace and order have been established to a wonderful degree, and the State reorganised and set on a surer basis. With a powerful hand and not too much external help the Prince has carried through his reforms, and, like David in his final exhortation to Solomon, leaves the way ready for still greater progress to be made in the future. And the comparison holds good in more respects than one.
We drank our last little cup of coffee, oddly enough, in the historical monastery of Ivan Beg in the company of the Vladika, to whom we were paying our farewell respects, and half an hour later were whirling down to Bajice under the shadow of the mighty Lovćen.
As the grand Bocche di Cattaro again burst on our view and the first black and yellow sign-post of Austria was passed, we turned again for a last look at those seemingly forbidding and inhospitable mountains; but only forbidding and inhospitable to the enemy of the brave little race beyond. To the stranger, fresh from the comforts and improvements of civilisation, it is a revelation of how men live,knowing nothing of the luxuries of the outer world, and keep themselves untarnished in honour; honest and God-fearing where a man is judged by his deeds and not by his words. Where men do not steal or lie, and where the humble peasant looks his Prince in the face and says—
"Lord, I am a man like thyself."
They have their faults and failings, many of their customs seem barbaric to our eyes: but may they long be preserved from the evils of civilisation!
Later, as the ship ploughed her way through the waves, and the mountains of Crnagora became ever more and more faint and indistinct, we thought of Tennyson's words:—