INSECT POWDER OF MONTENEGRO—DESCRIPTION OF THE
MONASTERY—ENCAMPMENTS—FESTIVAL OF ST. PETER—A SAINT BY THE
WILL OF THE PEOPLE—PICTURESQUE SCENE—BOSNIAN CAFÉ—THE NATIONAL
INSTRUMENT—A TRAVELLED DALMATIAN—TALL MONTENEGRINS.
I awoke early the next morning, having slept most luxuriously on a spring
mattress and totally unmolested by fleas, thanks to the ample supply of
flea-powder thoughtfully strewn by my attendant, between the mattress
and the undersheet.
The insect powder of Montenegro is celebrated, you must know, in Eastern
and Southern Europe, and I can vouch for its excellence. It consists
simply in the small dried flower of some species of Pyrethrum, which
when wanted for use is ground in a coffee-mill and strewed about the bed.
The plant is found abundantly all over Montenegro, and owes its greater
virtue to the fact of being grown in very arid soil, untempered by the
slightest moisture, and exposed to scorching suns—everything about it
therefore is in the most concentrated form, and hence its efficacy; it
is a very considerable article of commerce, and is largely exported to
Russia and the Levant.
It was not therefore due to insect attacks that I was so early disturbed
from my slumbers on the following morning; still I was disturbed,
and that by the momentarily increasing hum of many voices and general
bustle of the thousands who were flocking to Cettigne for the festival
which was to take place on the morrow; but the great day of the feast
throughout the south of Europe is invariably the day before the feast,
"la vigilia del Santo," as the wording goes. The day of the feast itself
one confesses, goes to mass, and does the proper; all the fun and the
rollicking is generally the day before. So I got up, and pushing open
the outside green shutters which secured my windows, I looked into the
courtyard of the Palace, and over the walls beyond into the little plain,
which was gradually filling with numberless men, women, and children,
some on horseback, more on foot, but all gorgeously attired.
The sun was now getting high on the horizon, and the scene before me
was becoming more and more animated and interesting. In the open space
under my window, within the high enclosure of the Palace wall, men were
busy picketing a dozen horses, evidently from the costliness of their
trappings belonging to Chiefs and Woyvodes. While under a group of carob
trees, in one corner of the enclosure, were spread several rugs on which
were sitting cross-legged some of the owners of those quadrupeds, with
their clumsy high-backed saddles behind them, passively smoking their
chibouks while their attendants busied themselves preparing coffee.
Close on my right and just beyond the old Palace was the monastery,
which, owing to the lateness of the hour the evening before, I had been
unable to examine. Like the old Palace it is a sort of semi-fortified
building, constructed more for safety than for comfort. On the right
hand, as the observer looks at it in front, is the church, and next to
it a tall, square, and very modern tower erected to the memory of the
Vladika Peter, who is buried on the top of a somewhat difficult peak to
the south-west of Cettigne and about six miles distant. The body of the
monastery comes next, conspicuous by two rows of arched openings placed
one over the other, and to the left of them again are the apartments of
the Metropolitan. The whole is surrounded by a high wall, enclosing a
primitive garden in which are located a large number of beehives, (upwards
of a hundred). This wall is pierced by one large gateway, roofed over
and secured by a massive door, in front of which is the circular-paved
thrashing floor, so characteristic of the East. Every thing about the
monastery is of the simplest and rudest construction, and the church is
utterly unadorned, not from choice, I am assured, but from necessity.
In the monastery itself are many shady corners that would well repay
a few hours spent in transferring them to one's portfolio, and just at
the entrance inside the building, is a most extraordinary chasm in the
rock, through which a piercing cold wind is constantly blowing, coldest
when the weather is hottest; and so intense is the cold in that opening
that it is used in Summer as an ice-house for the cooling of wine and
the preserving of food. This phenomenon has never been satisfactorily
explained, because it is not only that the cavity is cold, but a strong
sharp cutting wind rushes out of it. I shall not attempt to account for
it, but will leave it as a problem for sharper wits than mine to solve.
As the day waxed older the number of arrivals increased on the plain of
Cettigne, till by eight o'clock in the morning it was dotted all over
with picketed horses and temporary encampments of all sorts. Having had
my simple breakfast of coffee, milk, and toast without butter—which is
quite unknown there though cream is plentiful—but accompanied by a good
plate of Albanian figs, I went out with Pero Pejovich, who came to fetch
me to visit the fair. For this festival of St. Peter offers a double
stimulus to the inhabitants of the surrounding country for a visit to
Cettigne—a religious ceremony and a considerable fair. And it may be
right for me to observe that this St. Peter, Patron of Montenegro, in
whose honour this great gathering annually takes place, is a saint _sui
generis_—indeed I was on the point of saying, when I detected and checked
myself, that he was a saint _extra palum ecclesiæ_; for he is neither St.
Peter the Apostle, nor St. Peter the Martyr, nor St. Peter the Hermit,
nor even St. Peter Igneus, who in a fit of zeal for the maintenance of
the laws relating to the temporalities of the church, walked through the
flames at Settimo in the eleventh century, to establish a case of simony
against another Peter, one Peter of Pavia, then Bishop of Florence; nor
any other canonical St. Peter I ever heard of, but simply St. Peter of
Montenegro, the old Vladika Peter I., Prince-Bishop of Montenegro, not
yet canonized by any ecclesiastical authority or other licensing body,
as I was assured, but simply a saint in virtue of the will of the people,
the Plebiscite of Montenegro, who insisted _autoritate nostra_ on having
him for their patron saint. He probably deserved to be canonized just
as well, and perhaps better than many another saint, and if history
tells truth, certainly better than his namesake, the so-called Peter
the Martyr, for he wisely, mildly, and virtuously ruled in Montenegro
for fifty-three years, viz., from 1777 to 1830, and the mountaineers
are fully justified in reverencing his memory.
Passing my arm through that of Pero Pejovich, who seemed to know and
be known of everyone, I began my expedition through a crowd of men,
women and children, that every moment grew denser and denser. It was the
most picturesque scene that could be imagined; all the neighbouring and
surrounding countries had sent their contributions to the fair—Bosnians,
Servians, Herzegovinians, Morlacks, Dalmatians, Albanians, Roumelians,
Turks, Greeks, Croats, Italians, &c.; but conspicuous among them all
for height of stature and nobility of countenance were the Montenegrins
themselves. I think that, even independent of their costume, I could
have always singled them out by their ruddy though sunburnt complexions,
grey or blue eyes, and open honest countenances.
We went to a booth where arms were sold, and I was astounded at the
number, variety, and richness of the weapons that were not only displayed,
but were actually sold. They seemed to me dear. I should have much
liked to purchase a handsome yataghan with silver hilt and in a sheath
of _repoussé_ silver. It was a very handsome weapon, and was made by
a celebrated artificer of Skodra, but the price was sixteen Napoleons,
which was more than I liked to give, and I suspect I could get one just
like it in Tichborne Street for half the money.
From the armourer we went to a tailor's booth, where piles of costumes of
different nationalities were exposed for sale; Morlack suits, Albanian
suits, and Montenegrin suits, some of cloth and some of velvet, but
all more or less embroidered in gold, and some literally overladen with
plates of silver gilt. From thence we went to a Bosnian _café_ of the
most primitive kind; a couple of large blankets stretched over a few
poles made a pretence of shelter, and on the ground were a few Turkish
rugs on which we squatted, while a very ugly and dirty gipsy-looking
woman was boiling coffee outside over a small fire of sticks contrived
between two stones; nothing could be more primitive. So we sat and
smoked, and in due time drank our coffee, which was simply abominable. I
remember it was, though I was not minding it much, being occupied at the
time with listening to a man performing on the national instrument, the
_guzla_ (pronounced goozla), whilst a girl was singing a low, monotonous,
plaintive air.
The _guzla_ is not an instrument which offers much scope to the performer;
it is simply a very primitive fiddle, with only one string, played upon
with an equally primitive bow; still it was surprising the amount of
harmony the man contrived to scrape out of it. The song, as Pero Pejovich
told me, was all about the old story, love and war, while the music, as
is almost always the case among barbarous nations, was in a minor key.
Having paid for our coffee and thrown a few paràs to the minstrels, we
sallied forth again.
"And now, friend Pero," I said, "I should like to see some of your
Montenegrin beauties. I have seen lots of fine men this morning; but as
to the women, friend Pero, they are a caution. I never saw so many ugly
ones congregated together."
My conductor smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and looked me in the face;
he did not know exactly whether he ought not to be angry. However, his
habitual good-humour prevailed, and with a loud laugh, he said:
"_Avete ragione, son brutte come il Demonio._ But wait, only wait till
you see the Princess; she is a pure Montenegrina, and beautiful enough
for the whole nation." And he spoke truth!
We now wandered away again towards a sort of native inn or khan, where
he said we should get some good Vienna beer to wash away the taste of
that abominable coffee. As we were passing some booths, where a variety
of cheap Manchester goods were being displayed with some English Delft
ware of the very commonest description, I was hailed with a "How d'ye
do, stranger?" from a dapper, wide-awake-looking little man, who came
out and spoke such excellent English that I took him to be a Briton
or an American; but he was neither; he was a Dalmatian from Sebenico,
who had been a great deal in England and America, and spoke English as
fluently as his native Illyrian. I had a long chat with him, and asked
him how trade was, and if he was doing well.
"No," he replied; "they don't know what trade is in these countries, they
have too many restrictions; and yet," said he, "you won't go into the
poorest cabin that you won't find one of these," handing me a wretched
sample of English pottery with a vile brown pattern on it; "such is
their preference for everything of English make."
Here Pero reminded me of the beer we had to drink, and that the time was
drawing near when I was to present myself at the Palace for my audience.
So we went off to the khan, where, having refreshed ourselves with some
of Vienna's best, with a lump of virgin snow in it, I bid my guide good
morning, and returned to the old Palace; when, having dressed myself, I
crossed over to the new one to pay my respects to the Prince according
to the orders received the day before.
Having penetrated through the outer gate, where the guards, I thought,
looked rather scowlingly on my strange attire—viz., a dark blue frock
coat, light grey trousers, and patent leather boots, the whole topped
with my Indian quilted helmet—I ascended to the hall door by half a dozen
steps, where I was met by the Prince's own henchman, a brother of the
Commandant of the Grahovo. He was yet taller than his brother, and must
have been at least six feet eight inches. I do not say this quite by
guess-work, though I did not actually measure him; but on a subsequent
occasion I did measure an immense Montenegrin, and found him six feet
seven inches without heels, and the henchman was decidedly taller than
he.
Well, _pour revenir à nos moutons_, I followed my Goliath into the
hall, which is small and low, terminating in a double staircase, that
bending round from each side joins again in the middle to form but one
flight, at the top of which I found myself in a vestibule with two more
guards on duty, and from that I was ushered into a fine large and well
proportioned room, handsomely furnished in Viennese style, and hung all
round with good portraits of the Prince's father, the celebrated Mirko,
the Emperor and Empress of Russia, the Emperor and Empress of Austria,
and many others.
Rooms open right and left off this. I was conducted into a smaller room
to the right, where, after waiting for only a few seconds, the Prince
came in. He addressed me in French, congratulating me on my courage for
having ventured so far into his country, not on account of the difficulty
of the road, "for all English are good mountaineers," but from the bad
name the country has in Europe.
"Don't you know," said he, laughing, "que nous sommes des ogres, et que
nous mangeons les enfans; however, you shall try how we cook them if
you will dine here to-night at eight."
I thanked His Highness for his kindness, adding that I had never heard
of their cannibal propensities, but in any case I should be happy to
eat anything His Highness also would eat, and making my bow backed out
of the saloon.
I then left my card for the Russian Consul, who was staying at the Palace,
and afterwards went to pay the same compliment to Mr. Nico Matanovich,
aide-de-camp to the Prince; after which I returned to my quarters, to
convert into a luncheon the repast which otherwise would have served
for a dinner, but for the hospitality of His Highness.