[7]Since writing the above another tribal disturbance has taken place between the Zatrijebać and the Hotti. This time it was the Hotti who drove their flocks, also from time immemorial, to a certain spot in Zatrijebać, and as the latter tribe have since cultivated the intervening ground, they felt justly irritated. As the only real argument is the rifle, they met and argued the point in this fashion in February, 1902, and many fell on both sides. A notable incident which is worth recording is, that a man of Hotti fought on the side of the Zatrijebać against his brethren and was killed. His body was afterwards handed back and his clan demanded to know if he had fought as a man. "In the front rank," was the answer. Then they took the body and gave it an honourable burial and agreed to let the dispute drop. In this action our friend the monk had his habit riddled with bullets whilst attending the wounded.
[7]Since writing the above another tribal disturbance has taken place between the Zatrijebać and the Hotti. This time it was the Hotti who drove their flocks, also from time immemorial, to a certain spot in Zatrijebać, and as the latter tribe have since cultivated the intervening ground, they felt justly irritated. As the only real argument is the rifle, they met and argued the point in this fashion in February, 1902, and many fell on both sides. A notable incident which is worth recording is, that a man of Hotti fought on the side of the Zatrijebać against his brethren and was killed. His body was afterwards handed back and his clan demanded to know if he had fought as a man. "In the front rank," was the answer. Then they took the body and gave it an honourable burial and agreed to let the dispute drop. In this action our friend the monk had his habit riddled with bullets whilst attending the wounded.
Round the fire another evening an argument as to the wrongs of Fatalism,i.e.God's Will, led to a characteristic story by the monk in defence of hisviews. Dr. S., like many men who lead such lives as he does, was a rigid fatalist.
An Albanian found his enemy in vendetta, working in a field. Hiding himself, he prayed to God and S. Nicholas to direct the bullet.
"Lord," he prayed, "should I hit this man in the breast, then I shall know that I do this deed by Thy Will."
He laid his rifle on a stone, took careful aim, and the other fell dead shot through the breast.
"By God's Will I killed him," he answered, when the priest endeavoured to impress upon him his crime.
The lighter side of nature was given us by another story.
Shortly after the priest's arrival at Zatrijebać a half-naked man came to him. The worthy friar took pity on him and gave him a clean white shirt of his own.
On the following Sunday during the Mass, as he turned to his congregation to give the Benediction, to his horror he saw the man with the shirt drawn over all his ragged clothes, in a front row. It was with the greatest difficulty, he concluded, that he could restrain a smile.
We were afforded a novel and striking scene before we left Zatrijebać in the form of an open-air Mass on Sunday.
The church being in the course of rebuilding, arough altar had been hastily constructed, or rather knocked up—for it was of most crude workmanship—of wood planks on a small grass plot.
From nine a.m. onwards the people began to assemble, coming from all parts of the large and straggling district, and sat about in groups gravely talking. Towards eleven o'clock a large number of peasants had arrived, and the altar was covered with not a fair white cloth as usual, but with something suspiciously resembling a long and not overclean towel. A tiny crucifix was placed upon it, and the young priest robed himself there in sight of the whole congregation.
A group of elder men knelt or squatted on the small open space immediately in front of the High Altar, but the majority of worshippers ranged themselves under the shade of some small trees and on the low surrounding walls.
These same trees bear weekly a strange and incongruous fruit, for they are used as pegs whereon the Albanians hang their rifles during service. All round, the walls are stacked with rifles, for, like the Puritans of old, they come to church fully armed with rifle, handjar, and revolver, and round their waists, the inevitable bandolier of cartridges.
AFTER MASS AT ZATRIJEBAĆAFTER MASS AT ZATRIJEBAĆ
On approaching the altar every man pushed back the cloth which is swathed round his half-shaven head, and kneeling, piously crossed himself. Theolder men displayed even more reverence, and kissed the earth. The younger men were much the same as their cultured and civilised brothers, lounging through the service, half seated on a wall, and barely crossing themselves.
But the general effect was one of great reverence and striking in the extreme. We watched this strange congregation with great interest, and during the most sacred part of the service, when all, even the blasé young men, prostrated themselves, the effect was unique.
Picture a cut-throat, shave half his head, leaving a tuft of hair on the back by which he kindly assists his victor to decapitate him, expecting a like consideration in return, long drooping moustachios, clad in Turkish clothes, a belt full of cartridges, with revolver and murderous-looking yataghan artistically displayed—of such was this congregation. Men who half-an-hour afterwards would shoot an enemy in the course of a vendetta, or otherwise, without any thought of remorse. Yes, and coolly cut off his head and bring it home to his admiring wife and daughters, now so discreetly and respectfully kneeling behind them. This is not an over-drawn picture. It happens often.
Of such consisted the congregation under the green trees, blue sky, brilliant sunshine, in that perfect landscape this Sunday morning. And ofsuch is peopled a part of the vast country of Albania. A people who hold human life as nothing—a reckless and brave nation of devout Roman Catholics.
At the conclusion of the service we came in for a lot of inspection, and going in to dine soon afterwards we chanced to look out of the window overlooking the scene of the morning Mass. Still a great crowd hung about, and on the late High Altar sat men smoking cigarettes. After dinner we bade farewell to our young host, amidst honest regrets on both sides. The Franciscan had given us a new insight into the mysteries of life.
"At Fundina," said Dr. S., "you will meet one of the modern heroes of Montenegro. A man named Kećo, whose fame has reached to the uttermost ends of the land."
We had bidden farewell to our host and were riding past the last houses and huts of the clan of Zatrijebać on our way to Fundina. The path tended downwards, and shortly the great plain of the Zeta burst suddenly into view as we rounded a corner of the mountains. Beyond lay the Lake of Scutari with its background of mountains.
It was early in the evening when we reined in our horses before a modest stone house and dismounted. It was Fundina, a straggling village built on the sloping sides of a mountain from which it takes its name.
Voivoda Marko, the hero of Medun, defeated the Turks on these slopes in the first engagement of thelast war, successfully inaugurating the campaigning which secured to Montenegro all the territory through which we had been riding for so many weeks, including the towns of Podgorica and Nikšić, and the great valley now stretched at our feet.
Podgorica lies like an oasis of green trees on the rolling, but treeless, plain.
The Albanian border is but a rifle-shot away, and the village of Dinoš and the fortress of Tusi are plainly to be seen.
We decided to spend the night here and hear Kećo's story, though Podgorica was only three hours' distance. It would be a fitting finish to our mountain tour to sleep on the battlefield of Fundina, and in the house of a modern hero.
"I warn you," remarked the doctor, "that Kećo much belies his deeds by his appearance."
Kećo was not in his house when we arrived, and we had our ceremonial and inevitable black coffee brought to us on a small natural platform of rock overlooking the magnificent valley.
Shortly afterwards a small and insignificant man approached us, with haggard looks and grey hair. He greeted the doctor effusively.
"This is Kećo," said Dr. S.
As he took the tobacco tin which was proffered him his hands trembled so excessively that the rolling of a cigarette was a work of art.
"His nerves are gone," explained the doctor. "He lives in hourly danger of his life."
Kećo soon left us to prepare our meal and quarters for the night, and it was not till after supper, when we were seated round the fire in his little house and smoking, that he would consent to tell his story. Even then he spoke at first reluctantly, but soon warmed to his subject. His wife was always present and looked anxious. Several men were in the room.
"Though my hands tremble and my hair is growing white," he began, "yet I do not fear death. We must all die, and I know that my fate must speedily overtake me. This house I have built for my wife, and stocked with what money I had, to provide for her. They shall not kill me easily. Twice have they tried. The first time I was in the fields when men fired at me from a long distance. I took my rifle and made a détour, and, as my enemies recrossed the border, I was there waiting for them. But I did not hit one. Another time seven men hid themselves only thirty yards away from my house, in the evening, but they dared not shoot then, for my wife was by my side."
"You know," explained the doctor, "the life of a woman is sacred; should a woman by the greatest accident shoot a man, the vendetta falls on her husband—she may not be touched; or, should a woman be killed in a vendetta, even by the merestaccident, the shame would be unspeakable. The murderers and their families, or even their clan, would be blotted out, for in such revenge all would join. Kećo's wife never leaves his side after dusk, and, you see, she has saved his life once already within his knowledge; who knows how often unawares?"
"Tell us the origin of thy blood-guiltiness," said we. Dr. S. had told us the story, but we wished to hear it from his lips.
"I had a cow which was my pride," went on Kećo. "She yielded more milk than any other cow and of a far better quality. Men praised the milk and the cheese when I took it to the market in Podgorica for sale, and none more than Achmet, a Turk from Dinoš.
"One morning I went to milk my cow, and could find her nowhere. My most treasured possession was gone. I searched for her all that day and the next on the mountain sides, but in vain. On the next market day as I wandered gloomily across the market-place of Podgorica, Achmet, the Turk, accosted me.
"'Where is thy milk?' he asked, 'which is so wonderful, and where are thy marvellous cheeses?'
"I replied that I knew not, and would have passed on.
"'Make thy mind easy,' continued Achmet, anevil smile spreading over his face, 'for I have thy cow.'
"'Ah! she has strayed across the border,' I cried. 'Thank God she is found.'
"'She strayed across the border,' said Achmet, 'but under my guidance. Thou hast not lied. Her milk is indeed of the good quality that thou hast boasted. For a Christian dog like thee she is far too good.'
"To this hour I wonder that I did not strike him dead. My rage rendered me powerless to move or see. It was as if a black cloud descended over my eyes. When I recovered, Achmet was gone.
"For many weeks I went to the Law Court whenever I visited the market, demanding the restitution of my cow by legal means, and each time was I put off by answers and promises. And Achmet was always on the market-place taunting me with tales of the cow and her calf. For she had calved. But the law is strict, and I never dared shoot him whilst in the town, and this the coward knew.
"When I saw that I should get no help from the law, I took two men from this village. They are here in this room," he said, pointing to two men seated near us. "And one morning I went across to Dinoš. I did not go at night, like the thief, but when the sun was highest, and when all could see me. I left my comrades outside Achmet's house,and went in alone. There I found my cow and her calf, but only the women were present. So I drove the cow and the calf out of the door towards my comrades. Then, lest any should think that I was afraid, I fired my rifle into the air. Very soon the men came running from the fields, and amongst them Achmet and his son. When they saw me and my cow, they came towards me firing, but being unsteady from running, the bullets flew wide. Then I took careful aim and shot Achmet dead, and then his son. We then ran quickly, and though men pursued us, they were afraid to come too near lest I should shoot them likewise, and so we came back to Fundina in safety. Since then the men of Dinoš wait for me, and they will kill me soon, for the insult is very great that I have put upon them, and the fame of my deed has travelled into all lands." As he said this his eyes lit with fire, and the spirit of heroism shone out in the seemingly timid-looking man.
"Must thou stay here, in Fundina?" I asked, "where thy enemies are so near. Why not go to Cetinje or Nikšić?"
"Men know me for a hero," he answered proudly. "What would they say if I ran away and sought safety elsewhere? I should be a double coward, for I should leave my brothers to inherit my fate. No, I shall wait here till they come, and they shall notfind me unprepared or sleeping. See, every night I make my bed in a different place, sometimes in one room of the house, sometimes in the bushes outside. They never know where I shall sleep, for these dogs love to kill their enemy in the night."
Silence fell upon us as Kećo finished. The wood fire crackled and flickered, lighting up fitfully the serious faces of the men sitting round.
Half guessing our thoughts, Kećo said—
"To-night no attack will be made. We shall keep guard outside."
We felt abashed. We confess thoughts of a nocturnal assassination had not pleased us, and yet these wild mountaineers had already provided for such a contingency. When we went outside the house before turning in, Dr. S. pointed out the figure of a motionless sentinel leaning on his rifle some little distance away.
"It is odd that the women are so respected," I remarked to the doctor, "when no other law seems recognised. Do they never take part in a vendetta?"
"Never as a woman," said the doctor. "If it should happen that a woman is the last surviving member of a family, the rest having been killed in a vendetta, she may continue the feud, but as a man. She then assumes the clothes of the opposite sex, procures arms and cuts herself off from the world, living as a hermit. Do you remember that Albanianwoman at Easter time in Podgorica who kissed me so fervently?"
We nodded, for we had been much amused at the scene. A wild-looking, unkempt Albanian woman had kissed the doctor most effusively.
"Though she had assumed the woman's garb for the Easter festival, she is to all intents and purposes a man, and hence the man's kiss of peace. She then asked me for a revolver which I had promised her some time ago."
We turned in soon after, but not before we heard another story.
Two cairns on the road to Plavnica, and but half an hour from Podgorica, had often been pointed out to us. They were erected to the memory of an attack made on four gendarmes in connection with a long-standing vendetta. A party of Albanians had hidden themselves in two hollows beside the main road at night and as the gendarmes passed they fired into them, killing one and badly wounding two others. This happened shortly before our arrival.
Another scene had been enacted a few days ago which they now related to us, to prevent us perhaps thinking too much of Kećo's story, and dreaming of it.
The men of the Zeta had sworn revenge for the death of their gendarme, a famous man and great favourite, but at the time Prince Nicolas had sternlyforbidden reprisals. But such things are not forgotten, and a man had crossed the Zem into Albania. Coming on a party of men working in a field, he had fired, but his aim was unsteady, and he only wounded his intended victim slightly. Then he fled, hotly pursued, and received a bad wound as he crossed an open space. Still he managed to elude his pursuers for the time being, and reached the River Zem. Here his strength failed him and he clung, half fainting from loss of blood, to the bushes fringing the bank, unable to go any further. In this position a man of the clan Hotti found him, as he was coming along the river. Having heard the shots and seeing a bleeding Montenegrin, he put two and two together and promptly shot him. The other Albanians, directed by the report, now came up, and literally hacked the corpse to pieces. So the Zeta peasants are now two deaths to the bad. In conclusion, we were told that the authorities have reason to believe that the murdered man had been accompanied by others on his raid into a friendly country and were seeking for these men most diligently to punish them severely.
For their violating the border laws?
No, for deserting their comrade, and leaving him to meet his death alone, and the sentence for this craven deed is ten years.
Next morning we rode into Podgorica, and comparative civilisation, after a period of roughing it of the hardest description. We had often gone from five a.m. till seven or eight p.m. on a couple of eggs and an occasional glass of milk, and had hard going all the time. It proved to us pretty conclusively how we of civilised lands disgustingly and habitually overeat ourselves.
We finished considerably harder and more fit than at the start, and we had lived the whole time as the Montenegrins of the mountains live.
One remarkable gift of which these mountaineers are possessed, and which deserves special remark, is that of long-distance talking. Men can speak with each other in the higher altitudes at distances of five miles and more, where our ears could hardly distinguish a faint sound of the human voice. Children are accustomed to it at an early age, and the quaint sight of a mother conversing with her child guarding some sheep on a neighbouring hillside is often to be witnessed. This gift must be acquired young, it seems, for Dr. S., who has lived twelve years amongst the Montenegrins, could neither make himself heard, nor understand, though he said that he had given himself much pains to learn the art.
As we rode into Podgorica that morning, we were struck by meeting several groups of the Turkish inhabitants hanging about outside the town. Arriving in the town, only Montenegrins were to be seenin the streets, walking somewhat ostentatiously up and down, their natural swagger greatly exaggerated. The news of the elopement of another Turkish maiden soon reached us, and that day at dinner, an officer, detailed to prove the matter, told us the story.
A young Montenegrin had won the heart of the maiden, and accompanied by a friend, he had gone to the wall of her house and given a preconcerted signal. The girl had come, but a dispute now arose between the men as to who should ultimately marry her, and she, in great disgust, had told them to go away and settle the matter. It seems that the girl had no particular wishes as to whom she should marry. At last the friends arranged matters satisfactorily and the girl was abducted, if one can call an elopement an abduction. However, in the eyes of the Turks it was a forcible abduction, and the fact that the girl was related to the most influential Turk in the town did not improve matters. The Beg had demanded the restitution of the girl at once and punishment of the offenders. The Prince had sent officials to settle the dispute. The girl, however, very naturally refused to be given back, as she would probably have been killed, and insisted on her baptism and marriage taking place forthwith.
As the officer said to us—
"This is a free country, and we shall not give back the maiden against her will."
This had incensed the Turks beyond measure. The town was being patrolled nightly, and the Beg attempted flight to mark his anger. But this the Prince would not allow, and the Beg was stopped by gendarmes as he was entering a carriage one night. Only if he first gave up his orders, decorations, and his sword of honour, and, furthermore, took his wives and belongings with him, could he leave the country.
Such was the state of affairs on our return. At night we went armed, and really had hopes of seeing a street fight. One evening a shot was fired in the town, and in the twinkling of an eye men turned out rifle in hand. Nothing came of it, and the crowd of several hundred armed Montenegrins slowly dispersed. Had further shots been fired, we were told, the peasants from far and near would have taken up the alarm, and in an hour thousands would have flocked into the town. No wonder the Turks were chary of taking revenge into their own hands.[8]
[8]Again, since writing the above, this statement has been fully proved. In February, 1902, a party of Turkish soldiers, half starved in their frontier block-houses, attempted a raid into Montenegro. They were accompanied by a brother of the famous Achmet Uiko; whose story has been related elsewhere. In spite of the caution which the raiders displayed, the news reached Podgorica as soon as they had crossed the border and seemingly eluded the vigilance of the Montenegrin frontier guards. A party of Montenegrins lay in wait for them in Dr. S.'s summer garden (a spot where we had often spent many pleasant hours) and the Turks were challenged. As an answer the marauders fired at their unseen challengers, doing no harm, but an answering volley killed two of them. The rest were captured, one only making good his escape, and were brought into the town. But the volleys had alarmed the whole district, hundreds of men pouring into Podgorica from all the neighbouring villages and hills, till many thousands had assembled.—Cetinje, March, 1902.
[8]Again, since writing the above, this statement has been fully proved. In February, 1902, a party of Turkish soldiers, half starved in their frontier block-houses, attempted a raid into Montenegro. They were accompanied by a brother of the famous Achmet Uiko; whose story has been related elsewhere. In spite of the caution which the raiders displayed, the news reached Podgorica as soon as they had crossed the border and seemingly eluded the vigilance of the Montenegrin frontier guards. A party of Montenegrins lay in wait for them in Dr. S.'s summer garden (a spot where we had often spent many pleasant hours) and the Turks were challenged. As an answer the marauders fired at their unseen challengers, doing no harm, but an answering volley killed two of them. The rest were captured, one only making good his escape, and were brought into the town. But the volleys had alarmed the whole district, hundreds of men pouring into Podgorica from all the neighbouring villages and hills, till many thousands had assembled.
—Cetinje, March, 1902.
But the mischief done was great. Many families emigrated, much to Prince Nicolas' anger, for he encourages by every means in his power the extension of the Turkish population. They bring trade and cultivate the lands far more diligently than the Montenegrin warriors.
So it was that we witnessed during these few days the festival of the Sultan's birthday, which seemed strangely incongruous considering the mixed feelings of the inhabitants.
In the morning, all the town officials called on the Turkish Consul. The militia were formed up and the whole, led by the Montenegrin War Banner, proceeded in solemn procession to the principal mosque. On their return, a royal salute was fired from a bastion of the old wall, and in the evening the town was illuminated.
It was an extraordinary sight, and one not easily to be forgotten. All the houses stuck candles in every window, by order of the Prince; the market-place and the War Memorial were covered with lamps, but the most striking feature of all was the illumination on a small hill immediately behind the old town. This hill overlooks the town, and wascovered by rows of lamps. In the streets Turks, Albanians, and Montenegrins jostled each other; at peace, at any rate, for one evening.
A day or two later, a very different spectacle could have been witnessed. The main street leading to the church on the outskirts of the town was lined by waiting Montenegrins, and not a Turk was to be seen. Soon a carriage drove rapidly from the church, with a blushing Montenegrin girl and a gold-embroidered Montenegrin at her side. It was the late Turkish maiden, now a radiant Montenegrin bride and Christian. Several Turks had been caught endeavouring to approach the church with revolvers concealed, but were promptly turned back.
And so ended an eventful week.
One day, quite by accident, we discovered the arrest-house, or place where prisoners are detained pending their trial and sentence. We were passing a door which led down by a few steps into a courtyard, when an acquaintance of ours accosted us.
We went inside and spoke to him for some minutes. He was a merry individual and a clerk in a Government office.
He requested us to bring our camera and photograph him on the next day. Then he moved and a chain clanked. Neither of us had realised that this was a prison till that moment, though we had passed that door many times.
Next day we came again, and took a picture of our genial friend, whom we found seated and playing the gusla to a crowd of other prisoners, some exceedingly heavily chained.
One or two guards came up and we spent an hour in a pleasant chat.
Our friend was only "in" for a few days for making a rude remark about the Chief of Police. The chained men were mostly murderers, if we may use such a harsh term for those who are compelled to kill their enemies by the relentless laws of the vendetta, and who would be punished by the laws of man should they prove themselves guilty of cowardice.
The vendetta in Montenegro is a legal anomaly. Men are punished in either case.
Though we visited the famous Monastery of Ostrog at the very beginning of our visit to Montenegro, and Nikšić at the conclusion, both places lie so near together that we put them now in this order for the sake of simplicity.
It was our good fortune to be enabled to witness the annual pilgrimage to the shrine of S. Vasili, which takes place during the Greek Whitsuntide.
Ostrog is the Lourdes of the Balkans, as many equally miraculous cures take place as at the Roman Catholic rival in the Pyrenees. The Serb-speaking races from far and near flock there in enormous numbers, as well as many Mahometans and Catholics.
S. Vasili (or Basil) was a native of the Hercegovina and a holy man of great repute. About a century ago he had a vision telling him to travel to Montenegro, and there to found a monastery. Accordingly he set out, taking with him a greatquantity of building material, and chose a spot not far from Podgorica, on the right bank of the Zeta. But in the night the material disappeared, and S. Vasili hunted high and low. After a weary search it was found at Ostrog, and there he built his place of retreat, living many years, working many miracles, and dying as a saint. He is buried there, and it is said that any believer has but to visit the shrine, and whatever his wish may be, it will be fulfilled. Thus cripples have walked back the way which they were carried, sick have been made whole, and the mentally afflicted have gone away rejoicing. Certain it is that many wonderful cures are yearly effected there.
Furthermore, the name of Ostrog appears often in the glorious annals of Montenegrin history. The oft-told tale of Prince Nicolas' father, Mirko, "The Sword of Montenegro," who was besieged in that inaccessible cleft in a precipice with a handful of men, is one of the most famous feats of Montenegrin arms. The charred cliffs still bear silent witness to the efforts which the Turks made to burn out the little garrison by throwing bundles of flaming straw from above.
Ostrog is about six hours' drive from Podgorica. The road passes along the River Zeta, leaving the village of Spuž on the right, and past the flourishing little town of Danilovgrad, soon to be the connectingtown between Cetinje and Nikšić on completion of the projected road.
There is nothing of interest in Danilovgrad, though the market is of some importance. A little way beyond the town a nearly complete building can be noticed. It is the lunatic asylum.
From this point onwards the road ascends slowly but steadily until a deep valley lies to the right, and the Zeta assumes quite diminutive proportions. The mountains opposite rise to an ever-increasing height, until a few tiny buildings can be made out by the help of field-glasses. It is Ostrog. That morning we could make out the tents and booths of the pilgrims, and a dark mass of surging humanity. But it is still a very long distance away. The road climbs up to the head of the valley to the village of Bogetić, full that morning of the carriages of the wealthy pilgrims. During the Whitsun festival carriages are scarcely to be procured in the whole of Montenegro, or in Cattaro either.
We broke our fast here, and then drove for another mile or so where a path leaves the road, and the pilgrim has either to proceed on horseback or on foot. We had to go on foot, and a very long and tiring walk it proved to be. Besides Dr. S. and his factotum, Lazo, we took another man with us, a wretched puny individual, but seemingly possessed of more endurance than any of us. He led us by a short cutover rocks, and up slippery breakneck walls of cliffs, over which our guide skipped nimbly, and having reached the top seemingly hours before us, sat down and beamed benevolently.
Half-way, the rain came down in sheets, and we took shelter in a wayside inn, or rather hut. It was crowded with returning pilgrims whom the threatening weather had forced to depart earlier than is their wont.
As the weather momentarily cleared, we pushed on, and the remaining distance was one of the most interesting walks it had been our fortune to witness. A ceaseless stream of pilgrims poured down the rocky path. It came on to rain again, but one and all wished us luck in the name of God and S. Vasili. Nearly every costume of the Balkans was represented. The Bosnian, in sack-shaped baggy trousers, fitting the lower leg, either of crimson or blue cloth, a smart-coloured Turkish jacket, a broad shawl round his waist displaying armouries of knives and pistols, on his head a fez wound round with a huge turban cloth, mounted, or leading a pack-horse; his wife in coarse black trousers; the Hercegovinans, with breastplates of silver ornaments, exquisite in workmanship and of great antiquity; sombre Servians, and white-clad Albanians, whose trousers are embroidered with black braid in fantastic tracing; fez, head-cloth, and neat little Montenegrin cap; trousersof red, pink, blue and black; gigantic Albanians in high riding-boots, sitting their horses like Life Guardsmen; Macedonians, Greeks, and even pure-blooded Turks; Montenegrins in creamy white frock-coats worn over gold-braided crimson jackets; and dark-blue costumes with red worsted tassels of the poor Dalmatian peasants—all passed us in bewildering confusion.
The women (who were for the most part Montenegrin) showed up well in comparison with their sisters from Sarajevo, whose attire is, to say the least, comical. For in the larger towns of the Austrian occupation territory they are undergoing the stage from East to West, and appear in huge Turkish trousers and cheap, gaudy European blouses. The contrast between the Sarajevan and the graceful Montenegrin is positively ludicrous. But of all the costumes, male and female, the palm must be given to the Montenegrin. They carry themselves with a princely air, and their picturesque costume is a model of good taste; for Montenegro is, as Mr. Gladstone has remarked, the beach on which was thrown up the remnants of Balkan freedom. After the battle of Kossovo, all the Serb nobility who would not submit to the Turk fled to Crnagora, and the traces of heredity are easily to be recognised in their superb carriage.
MONTENEGRIN WOMENMONTENEGRIN WOMEN
It was well after midday when we reached theplateau on which the lower and modern monastery is situated. We entered through a gate into a wide path bordered with booths in which crowds of joyful pilgrims sat refreshing themselves. In spite of the departing crowds that we had passed, the place was still densely packed, for over twenty thousand people visit Ostrog. We squeezed into one of the booths and sat watching the surging mass pass to and fro.
The mixture of costume was even more marked than on the path below. It was a brilliant kaleidoscope of colour. Nothing but colour—colour. Very rarely could a man in European clothes (the richer Dalmatians) be noticed, and he seemed strangely out of place and harmony.
As we sat and gazed, two Bosnian minstrels, from bad memory and an indifferent ear, began playing on a fiddle and a guitar, and though their music was atrocious, the wild Turkish songs which they sang gave the finishing touch to the scene. It was not till they began playing snatches of music-hall airs, such long-forgotten tunes as "Daisy," that we hurriedly moved on.
The Archbishop, Mitrofanban, heard of our arrival soon after, and immediately sent for us. When we approached, he was sitting on the steps of a house, surrounded by a brilliant staff of Montenegrin nobles and many priests, while below a great crowd of pilgrims stood in a ring, watching the nationaldance, which was being performed before His Grace. The dance stopped as we drew near. The Archbishop received us very kindly—this was our first meeting with him—and expressed his pleasure to see strangers from such a distant land in Ostrog. He assigned a room to us in his house, and gave orders for us to be fed during our stay. Murmuring our thanks, we attempted to withdraw, but we did not escape before we had solemnly drunk the usual coffee. It was rather an ordeal to consume that very hot coffee in the face of the multitude, and we were painfully conscious of our many shortcomings in personal appearance. Muddy and half-wet riding clothes and flannel shirts do not seem to go with crimson and gold, high boots of patent leather, and sparkling orders. A Horseguardsman's uniform would be more in keeping. When we left, the dancing resumed and was kept up till a late hour that night. We noticed another national dance at Ostrog. A much more barbaric performance than the stately and solemn movement of the ring dance, or kolo.
In this case two performers dance at a time, a man and a woman. A small ring is made by the spectators, who also supply the relay couples. The man endeavours to spring as high as possible into the air, emitting short, Red Indian yells, and firing his revolver. The woman gives more decorous jumps; and, keeping opposite each other, they leapbackwards and forwards across the small open space. After a few minutes they are unceremoniously pushed aside, after giving each other a hasty kiss, and another couple takes their place. This goes onad lib., and we were soothed to sleep by those wild yells.
THE LOWER MONASTERY, OSTROGTHE LOWER MONASTERY, OSTROG
Next morning we were up bright and early, and about seven o'clock commenced the actual pilgrimage. A steep and stony path winds up through a dense wood for about an hour. Fanatical pilgrims make this journey sometimes barefoot, but the ordeal is sufficiently severe without these little additions. The whole way is lined with beggars, sometimes hardly recognisable as human beings, who must reap a rich harvest by the exhibition of their ghastly woes.Theyconstitute the ordeal.
Maimed stumps of limbs, deformed children, repulsive and festering sores, and other diseases too foul for description were proudly exhibited at every step. A cap was placed invitingly in front of each, and partly filled with alms already given. In piteous agony diseased hands and quavering voices besought us in the name of God and their saint to alleviate their sufferings with the gift of a kreutzer. It was not a sight that will lightly escape the memory.
We reached the top, hot and nauseated, but were fully compensated by the unique view. The monastery is built under an overhanging precipicewhich rises to a giddy height above. The charred rocks bear telling evidence to the miracles which have saved the little edifice from burning.
We went straight to the shrine, through a little door scarcely more than four feet high (the wooden lintels of which being the handiwork of S. Vasili were piously kissed by the Montenegrins), through two long and narrow passages hewn from the living rock and emerged suddenly in a small rock chamber, dimly lit by an oil lamp and about twelve feet square. The five of us filled the space, and, as our eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, we were able to distinguish a wooden shrine taking up the whole length of one side—where the mortal remains of the Hercegovinan lay. Another side was occupied by an open coffin containing the vestments and crucifix. On a chair sat a Greek priest who rose when we entered. At the foot of the shrine lay a cripple.
We stood for some minutes in utter silence, and then followed the lead of the doctor, who approached the coffin and kissed the crucifix, which a priest gave to us all in turn: a plate for alms lay on the vestments: then the woodwork of the shrine was likewise kissed, and we emerged again into the narrow gallery.
The heat had been intense in the little chapel, and we were in that limp and exhausted state that one experiences in a Turkish bath.
THE UPPER MONASTERYTHE UPPER MONASTERY
The gallery was open on one side where a large bell was fixed, and this our puny guide struck four times vigorously in the sign of a cross without a word of warning.
After the impressive solemnity and silence of the preceding minutes, we nearly jumped out of our skins, and when our injured hearing had sufficiently recovered so that we could distinguish the sound of our own voices, we demanded an explanation of this apparently childish and wanton outrage.
He said that he had struck the bell for the renewal of his strength. It appeared an unnecessary request.
Dr. S. explained that pilgrims strike the bell on emerging from the shrine, praying for some special benefit.
We next went up a lot of steps to a platform under the shelving cliff where there was a beautiful spring of water. The view which it commanded was magnificent. Below us lay the lower monastery and the deep valley of the Zeta, the mountains rising again sharply on the further side; to the right and left stretched wooded slopes.
Then we descended again and paid the priest a visit. This man, over eighty years of age, has spent forty years of his life as a hermit in that rocky crag. With the exception of Whitsuntide and the occasional visits of pilgrims, he lives entirely alone, subsisting on vegetables. His appearance was mostpatriarchal, his snowy white beard and saintly look impressing us greatly. When he heard that we were from England, he embraced and kissed us repeatedly, much to our embarrassment. His joy knew no bounds, and he kept us with him in his rock-hewn cell for a considerable time. He even consented to be photographed, for the first time in his life, facing the ordeal with unflinching courage.
The descent to the lower monastery was made in record time, and with half-closed eyes. We found the Archbishop standing in the shade of an enormous tree surrounded by a large ring of Montenegrins. He beckoned to us, asking us for our impressions, and needless to say we solemnly drank coffee. This beverage began to pall before we left Montenegro.
After partaking of a splendid meal (for the country), washed down with wine such as is not to be obtained elsewhere in the land, we paid a farewell visit to His Grace and departed.
Already the booths were fast disappearing and a mere handful of peasants remained. Many pilgrims journey from seven to eight days on foot or on horseback to Ostrog, over mountain passes and barren regions; so that the pilgrimage is very real.
Before we leave Ostrog, we will mention one of the miracles which we had the opportunity of authenticating.
A wretched Turk living to-day in Podgorica, acripple crawling painfully on hands and knees, once made the pilgrimage to Ostrog. Friends carried him to the shrine, where he lay all night. Then he rose up and walked back to Podgorica rejoicing, with those who had carried him the day before. As he crossed the Vizier bridge, he sceptically remarked that he would have been healed without undergoing the farce of the pilgrimage. Straightway he fell to the ground, the same helpless cripple that he was before.
The Turk and the witnesses still live—in fact it happened but a few years ago—to tell the tale.
The road to Nikšić, which we left to proceed to Ostrog, climbs to the height of 750 metres in crossing the mountain ridge dividing the valley of the Zeta from that of Nikšić. The scenery is throughout fine and wild. In a succession of serpentines, the road descends sharply on to the great plain, the fertile valley of Nikšić.
The town can be seen immediately on leaving the mountainous gorge, the cupola of the cathedral standing up boldly from the surrounding flat.
A long viaduct is crossed, built by the Russians, at the foot of the mountain, for in the winter floods are common, and Nikšić was at times nearly cut off from the rest of Montenegro.
Nikšić is probably the coming capital of Montenegro. In fact, it has been but a question of moneythat has prevented the removal of the Government from Cetinje a long time ago.
The Prince has recently built himself a large palace, the Russians have erected a large church, and roads are now in the course of construction connecting it with Risano on the Bocche di Cattaro, and Cetinje, and again with the Cattaro-Cetinje road.
When these roads are completed, Nikšić will have a most central position, and the unquestionably rich and fertile plain can be opened up. Without doubt it is the coming trading centre, and already it is running Podgorica very close.
The day after our arrival—we had arrived in the night—we saw the town under most unfavourable conditions. A violent thunderstorm had raged incessantly for many hours, and the streets were in parts inundated. Water was pouring in miniature waterfalls from the ground floors of many houses which possessed a higher background. Braving the elements, and often making detours to avoid the lakes, we walked to the palace and the church. Both lie together outside the town.
A flight of steps lead up an artificial mound, over-shadowing the somewhat barrack-like palace, where stands the new cathedral. It is the most striking edifice in the whole country, surmounted with a dingy light yellow cupola. It is not pretty or tasteful, but it is distinctly imposing, and one can wellrealise the marvellings that it has given the simple Montenegrins. Inside it is severely plain and void of any furniture, except the thrones for the Royal Family. Round the walls are lists of the men who have fallen in recent wars.