BEAUTIFUL ROAD—ATTACK OF FEVER—ARRIVAL AT BUDUA—BARON HEYDEG
AND SIGNOR MARCO MEDIN—A RESTAURANT—OUR HOST—DOCTOR, DENTIST
AND APOTHECARY—WALK ROUND THE FORTIFICATIONS—EXPLORATION OF
BUDUA—THE PARTING GLASS.
The twilight of Cattaro was fast merging into darkness when I returned
with my companions to the esplanade, where my horses were ready to take
me on to Budua. Our adieux were short but cordial, and in a few minutes
I was cantering away in company with Signor Jackschich, who lives in a
villa a couple of miles away from Cattaro.
If the tracks and paths of Montenegro are rugged and wild, the beautiful
road we were now travelling on made ample amends for the discomfort
I had endured in riding during the last few days. As we passed Signor
Jackschich's villa, I insisted on his remaining there, or his courtesy
would have induced him to keep me company ever so much further on; so
wishing him adieu for the twentieth time, I lit my cigar, and sticking
spurs into my pony, cantered away on my road to Budua. The ride was not
interesting. I started too late; I should have remembered that in those
latitudes, except at Cattaro, there is no twilight.
On leaving Cattaro the road is at first directly south, leading across
the isthmus of the peninsula which forms the western shore of the gulf
of that name. Having reached the sea, it continues to skirt the Adriatic,
except in those places where to avoid rounding a headland it runs inland
straight across the base of the promontory.
The night was fine, and we got on famously, but whether in consequence of
the good dinner, or the genial sensation produced by the atmosphere, or
the early hour I had risen in the morning, when it came to be about eleven
o'clock an indescribable feeling of lassitude and intense sleepiness came
over me. I would have given anything to lie down even for half-an-hour;
but it was out of the question, as we were at that time crossing a sort
of marsh, and there was not a dry spot to lie down on. So I was compelled
to ride on; but I suspect I dozed, and then during those moments of
extreme lassitude and prostration, when my vital powers were standing
at their lowest, I fear I imbibed some of those zymotic germs, some
malarious molecules, which a few days later manifested themselves by a
smart attack of fever. Thanks, however, to a good constitution and a few
doses of quinine, I was able to cut it short in three days, though it
stuck to me for a little while longer in the shape of an indescribable
sort of _malaise_.
At one o'clock A.M., we reached the gates of Budua, where I was met
by Baron Heydeg and Signor Marco Medin. Heydeg was an officer quartered
with his regiment at Budua, whose acquaintance I had made at Pola, and
with whom I had subsequently travelled. Medin was a native of Budua, who
had left his country many years before, had made money in California,
had married there a buxom Irish girl, a native of Ballinrobe, and had
now returned, a rich man, to end his days among his relations in Dalmatia.
They had been waiting for me a long time, and had walked some miles on
the road to Cattaro to meet me, but were beginning to think I was not
going to keep my word.
We were soon seated together at a comfortable supper, and at half-past
two A.M. I was finally allowed to retire to my bed, which Medin had
kindly procured for me in a private house—because here, as in Cattaro,
there is no hotel of any kind.
Tired and sleepy as I was, I passed but an indifferent night, for,
notwithstanding that my room had two large windows overlooking the sea,
and that I kept them both open, the heat was perfectly stifling.
I was just thinking of going out the next morning about ten, when in
walked the Baron and Signor Medin, and we at once adjourned for breakfast
at the same place where we had supped the previous night; I say place,
as it was neither an inn nor a _café_. How shall I describe it? The
following is the way we got at it, anyhow. In the main street of Budua,
near to the land gate, on the left hand as you come in, you meet with
five rugged stone steps, flanked by a shaky single iron railing. These
lead up to a strong wooden door, which at some period, of its existence
may have enjoyed the privilege of paint, but of which no trace remains
at the present moment, not even enough to enable one to make a guess at
the colour it once enjoyed.
Entering by this door, I found myself in a stuffy, dirty hall, "_a
terreno_" pervaded by a multitude of vile smells, one more awful than
the other, but all so dovetailed and commingled that it was perfectly
impossible to tell what the composition was. Turning sharp to the left,
we mounted a steep stone staircase, at the top of which we were greeted
by the same odour that had met us on entering, in which now the smell
of assafœtida and garlic clearly predominated. We found ourselves in the
kitchen of the establishment, over which reigned supreme a good-humoured,
fat German _Frau_ of fifty or more, assisted by two bright-eyed,
sharp-looking Dalmatian lads, begrimed with dirt and shining with grease
and perspiration. The _Frau_ piloted us through this kitchen, where
the heat must have been 110°, if not more, and brought us into the
dining-room, a pretty good-sized room with windows round the three sides
of it, the furniture consisting solely of one long deal table down the
middle, and a score of rush-bottomed chairs around it. At this table
were seated a dozen or so of German officers demolishing their "early
bit."
I was here received by the _Frau's_ worse half, a portly man of sixty
or thereabouts. His coat was off, but he had on instead a huge pair of
silver spectacles. He at once showed me to my seat at the table, when
I apologised, through the Baron, to the officers for disturbing them at
their breakfast.
Notwithstanding the unpromising condition of things, the breakfast was
excellent; but mine host in the shirt sleeves, with whom I kept up a
running conversation in Italian, was even better. An Italian by birth and
education (for he was very well educated), he had rambled all over the
Austrian dominions and the Turkish provinces in Europe. He had forgotten
most of his native tongue without learning any other, and the jargon
he spoke was something marvellous. Still, he varied this _pot-pourri_
according to the nationality of those he addressed. The foundation was
always Italian, but if he spoke to an Austrian the German element would
predominate, while if he spoke to a Montenegrin the Slave would be in the
ascendant. He was a most amusing character, and combined in himself the
functions of doctor, dentist and apothecary, as well as that of keeper
of a restaurant in Budua—hence the villainous combination of the odours
of a scullery, a kitchen, and a pharmacy.
In spite of his griminess and the vile odours, I had some very pleasant
conversation with him. I found him very well informed, and he gave me a
most interesting account of the last descent of the Montenegrins. He had
a most unconquerable horror of my favourite mountaineers, and believed
there could be no peace nor prosperity in that part of the world until
they should be all exterminated.
Having finished our breakfast, Heydeg and I strolled outside the walls
to where the market is held under some magnificent old carob trees, and
there, as at Cattaro, were numbers of Montenegrins disposing of their
produce. Here we had some delicious fresh figs, and then lighting our
cigars we went round the old fortifications, which are now only just
sufficient for protection at night against any sudden incursion of the
wild tribes of the interior. Then we had a good bathe in a most delicious
little cove, entirely girt round with rocks, and with a sandy bottom
that felt like velvet under our feet. We then again lit another cigar,
and started on a tour of exploration through this old town.
Budua, situated at the extreme end of Dalmatia, in what used to be called
Northern Albania, is the last Austrian city on the coast of the Adriatic.
It is built on a low rocky promontory, and possesses no interest, save
in its picturesque appearance, which it derives from its mediæval walls
and machicolated towers—useless, indeed, against a civilized enemy, but
still offering some protection against possible irruptions from Albanian
freebooters. It is especially picturesque as seen from the sea, with
its rugged background of naked mountains. Immediately about it there
is some cultivation on the narrow strip of land which lies between the
mountains and the sea; and corn, vines, olive trees, and mulberries for
the rearing of silk-worms, are diligently grown.
Inside, it is not attractive—its streets are extremely narrow, no more
than six feet wide in many instances; they are, however, well paved, and
would do well enough, were it not for the utter disregard to cleanliness
and drainage. Still there are some wealthy people living there, and many
of the houses are very good and substantial. There are several good shops,
(perhaps the word stores would best describe them), where a brisk trade
seemed to be carried on. The Baron and I poked our way through all the
nooks and crannies of the place. We found nothing to invite attention,
but a great deal to shock the sight, and even the sense of smell. So
we hurried on and went to pay a visit to my buxom Ballinrobe friend,
who had not only quite forgotten her ancestral brogue, but had actually
exchanged it for a decided American accent, which, to my ears, was not
an improvement. She offered us neither English tea nor Irish whiskey
punch, but gave us some delicious lemonade and maraschino; and showed
by her manner that, if the brogue was gone, the hearty Irish welcome
was there still.
From thence I went with the Baron to his own little apartment, which
opened on to an enchanting little terrace, covered over with a grand
"_pergola_" of vines, under whose refreshing shade we smoked away the
time till we should go to dinner.
We had not been long enjoying an excellent repast at our pharmaceutical
(deuced hard name to spell, by-the-by) restaurant when we were informed
that the steamer for Corfu was entering the harbour, and would leave in
two hours.
The time for parting had come at last, fresh bottles were tapped, and
we all drank each others' health, and a happy journey to me amidst
noisy demonstrations and much clinking of glasses. Dinner being at last
completed, we all arose and walked in a body to the Mole, where, my
luggage having preceded me, I went at once on board. There was no time
for lengthy adieux, the steamer was whistling, and almost while we were
shaking hands she cast off her moorings, and we were off.