missed the animals which were a part of the family at home, and which
she had fed and cared for all her life. She was torn between a longing
to go back to her home and a real love for the life in school. Her
examination marks would decide which it was to be. Of her Serbian
studies she felt fairly sure. It was the strange English language that
staggered her--its incomprehensible verbs, its spelling without a clue.
Some of the Serbian girls spoke it well, and from them she learned
more than from her books. The queer names for food and clothes and the
objects in the schoolroom she was beginning to master.
[Illustration: STRINGING PEPPERS]
While the rabbits were nibbling their peppers someone came running to
the green door. ‘Draga, your father and mother are here!’
Her mother bent over her, enveloped her in the soft white folds of her
headdress, and smothered her with kisses. ‘Oh, what a clever girl to
pass in everything, even the strange English!’ she whispered, and her
father’s eyes shone proudly upon her.
Suddenly Draga knew how glad she was to stay, how proud that she could
hold her place among the other girls; and she realized that her parents
too, as much as they missed her, would rather leave her than take her
back. Together they were all working for the future.
THE TRUCE
When Rastem was born his father hung a gun and a cartridge belt on the
wall for him. There they were to stay until Rastem was fourteen years
old, when he would take them down himself and wear the belt and carry
the gun for the first time. Meanwhile, he began his life in a little
painted cradle, into which his mother strapped him so tightly that he
could move neither legs, arms nor head, but lay like a little mummy,
completely covered with a rough homespun blanket.
Rastem lived in Albania, the land of the mountain eagle. His home was
in a strange old town perched so high on a mountain-top that the clouds
hung over it like a dark flat roof so that the cocks crowed all day, as
they do when calling the hens to shelter from a storm.
Rastem’s father was a well-to-do man, and the family lived in a
pleasant house the plastered walls of which were painted with birds and
foliage. There were many slatted windows and a cheery tiled roof with
broad eaves.
Next door to Rastem lived Marko, a boy of about his own age. Though
their families never visited each other, and though the gate between
the two yards was kept locked, the two little boys had discovered one
another as soon as they began to walk; and gazing through the openings
in the fence of woven branches that separated them, they had quickly
come to an understanding. Later on, they worried a passage under the
hedge through which they crawled freely to pass long hours of play
together. They did not understand why at first Marko was scowled at
when he went to Rastem’s house and Rastem was scowled at when he went
to Marko’s house; but as neither of the boys was contented long without
the other, their elders soon let them go and come as they liked.
When they grew older and mingled with other children they found out
what the trouble was. Between the two families there was what in
Albania is called a blood feud; that is, someone in Marko’s family had
shot someone in Rastem’s family during a quarrel, and had killed him.
It had happened a long time before. The man who had shot the other had
fled to a foreign country and his children had grown up there; but
until someone in Rastem’s family shot a man in Marko’s family the feud
could not end, nor was the honor of Rastem’s family clear.
That old quarrel of the grown people seemed a far-off, foolish thing
to the boys, and no concern of theirs. They looked into each other’s
eyes and grinned in perfect comradeship when the larger boys urged them
to fight it out together. There was too much fun to be had out of life
to waste time in quarreling; and Kruja, that strange old town, was not
a bad place to grow up in. Its one long, curving street, which skirted
the mountain-side like a tail, was crowded with open booths and was so
narrow that the roofs met overhead. Here on market days were the clack
and tap of little hoofs as the donkeys pushed through the crowd with
broad loads of hides and wood or with saddlebags stuffed with lambs or
a baby or two. And there the coppersmiths beat out trays and water pots
before one’s eyes. The shoemakers cut the delicately curved slippers
from scarlet or orange or black leather, the hatters shaped a white or
red fez over a block of wood, and artificers in silver polished pistol
handles as thickly set with bright stones as a plum pudding is with
raisins.
There was also the barber, a white bearded Turk in a heavy turban and
a robe of gold-colored silk, sitting on green cushions amid basins and
jars of polished copper. Then, too, there was the amusing Mohammedan
who called to prayer from the white minaret. He came at certain hours
into the tiny balcony that swung out under the spiked roof of the
minaret, took hold of his ears in a comical manner and uttered a harsh
and dismal shout, which was echoed by the wall of rock behind him.
Far above the point of the minaret towered a cliff, on the summit of
which a battered castle with one square tower was blocked against the
sky. There were strange tales about the castle, which Rastem learned
when he began to grow up, and here the boys played at the game of
defending the castle against the Turks, sending stones thundering into
the depths of the ravine below as their ancestors had done in the days
of Skanderbeg, when the Turks had conquered the country, to rule it
cruelly for hundreds of years, until at last, through the great War,
Albania regained her freedom.
The boys realized dimly that something glorious had happened; but they
did not know how great a change had come over their country, for life
in Kruja had not changed much since the war, except to grow harder.
Every one was poor and wore old clothes, which was a hardship for the
Albanians, who love their gorgeous costumes. Fortunately they have
strong homespun, which lasts for years. Rastem wore trousers of rough
white woolen material braided with black, a Skanderbeg jacket, and
sandals of cowhide.
A few days before Rastem’s fourteenth birthday his father found him
looking longingly at the gun on the wall. ‘I am sorry, Rastem,’ he
said gravely, ‘that you and Marko are such friends. It can bring you
nothing but sorrow.’
‘Why sorrow?’ asked Rastem, startled.
‘Why? Because of the feud between us,’ said his father. ‘It rests with
you to clear the family honor. You don’t take it seriously now, but
when you and Marko are men, either you will shoot him or he will shoot
you.’
‘Shoot Marko? Never!’ exclaimed Rastem with flaming cheeks and eyes.
‘It is the law of your country and your tribe. You cannot change it,’
said his father; ‘it is written in the Canon of Lek.’ And he left the
room.
Rastem was angry and excited. All the pleasure in his gun was gone.
In order to get away from the sight of it, he went into his mother’s
room. It was a homelike place. The wooden ceiling was painted green,
with bunches of flowers. There was a warm-colored rug on the floor, and
a divan covered with carpets ran the length of one side, under a row of
latticed windows. In the little open cupboards in the walls Rastem’s
mother kept spices and perfumes and sweets. There were no chairs, but
two sides of the room were skirted by a low platform of brickwork,
over which were spread mats and cushions. On the bricks stood a
brazier of glowing coals. Rastem sat down cross-legged and spread his
hands to the warmth. The room was fragrant and drowsy. Outside, the
rain slapped against the window and a mass of cloud surging up from the
valley blotted out the world.
[Illustration: RASTEM AND MARKO]
The boy was very wretched. He had been taught to do many things that
seem strange to us, but were quite right to him, such as taking off his
shoes when he entered a house, keeping his hat on at the table, and
eating his mutton and rice with his fingers. So when he was told by his
father that he must shoot his best friend he had a sickening fear that
after all he might be forced to do it if he could not find a way out.
‘Skanderbeg kept his sword for his enemies,’ he reasoned, ‘not for his
friends.’ Now that Albania was at last free from the Turks, it would be
a fine thing indeed for Albanians to begin to kill one another! It was
unthinkable that he should shoot Marko. He _must_ find a way out!
There were the two men from Tirana and Kruja, he pondered. They had had
a feud, but they had sworn a _besa_ or truce for six weeks, in order to
carry out a cattle deal; and they had laughed together and visited like
good friends. To be sure, when the six weeks were up, they had shot at
each other and one of them had lost two fingers. Why had they not done
business and enjoyed each other for a longer _besa_?
And then an idea came to Rastem! He struck his hands together and
rushed out of the house. ‘Marko!’ he called, tearing at the gate. And
Marko met him halfway, under the big olive tree.
‘Look here, Marko,’ said Rastem, ‘why can’t we end this feud, not by
shooting each other, but by swearing a _besa_ for the rest of our
lives? The old quarrel isn’t our affair, but the _besa will be_, and
we’ve got to keep it. So long as we do, no one can hurt us.’
‘So long as we keep the _besa_, no one can hurt us,’ repeated Marko
slowly. ‘Why, of course! Why did we never think of that, Rastem?’ he
cried, excitedly.
Under the olive tree, the two boys clasped hands and swore eternal
friendship while far above them two mountain eagles circled slowly on
flat wings round the Skanderbeg tower, and through the breaking clouds
the Adriatic gleamed like a streak of silver on the horizon.
THE SKANDERBEG JACKET
Five hundred years ago a boy named George Kastriota leaned over the
wall of his father’s castle and peered into the depths of the gorge
below. He could see a little white goat far down, just above the line
of mist that hid the bottom of the chasm. She was cropping the fresh
leaves of a bush, which had taken root in a cracked rock. George
watched her, fascinated. Would she try to come higher? Yes, she did.
At least she raised her head. But when she saw the wall of sheer stone
that rose above her, she flicked her tail and bounded downward instead.
George laughed, and shouted back to his brothers, who were playing in
the courtyard, that not even a goat could scale the walls! There was a
merry romping troop of children in the castle. How safe they felt up
there under the sky!
Their father was a Prince of the Albanian mountain tribes who call
themselves ‘Men of the Eagles.’ His fortress stood on the Rock of
Kruja, with the mountain dropping steeply from it. Only on one side a
rugged path led up to the gateway. Over this went and came a stream of
wiry mountain ponies and their riders, bringing provisions and arms
and messages to the inmates of the castle.
Most of them wore short jackets of rough white wool with tight sleeves
to the elbow, large white pompons in front of their shoulders, and
square collars with fringe, which hung to their waists behind. When
it rained heavily, as it often does on the Rock, they drew the heavy
collars over their heads, crossing the fringe and holding it firmly
between their teeth. This left both hands free for weapons, and weapons
were needed in those days. Prince Kastriota was away fighting most of
the time, and with him the Men of the Eagles, trying to press back the
Turks who more and more were mastering the country.
But the people in the castle felt safe, though they knew there were
enemies in the land. George and his brothers and sisters often played
at defending the fortress, dropping stones over the wall and listening
to hear them thud in the depths, or they amused themselves by looking
down on the village people as they gathered around the great ‘Kruja,’
or fountain, with their water pots, and stopped to talk about the army
of Turks who were conquering the lowlands.
[Illustration: AN ALBANIAN STORY-TELLER]
At one corner of the castle a great tower of white stone stood out
against the background of gray rock. This was the watch-tower. From
it the young Kastriotas could see clear across Albania, from the sharp
mountains, over the hot plain and the steaming marshes to the sea,
which seemed to lie forever in sunshine, no matter how dark it might be
on the Rock.
Every road and trail was visible from the tower, for the mountains were
bare, except where olive groves had been planted just below the castle.
For miles around no enemy could approach unseen. Sometimes the watchers
saw dark patches moving across the plain, and knew that they were
troops of Turkish soldiers.
So things went for years. At last when George was nine years old, a
terrible thing happened. The dark patches grew larger and came closer,
until the people of the castle, looking anxiously over the wall, could
see bands of Turkish cavalry driving the Men of the Eagles before them
toward the mountains. On they came, until Prince Kastriota, riding hard
with only a handful of men, reached the castle to tell his family that
Albania was lost, and that he should have to make such terms as he
could with the Turks; it was useless to try to hold the castle against
them.
The Sultan agreed to let the Prince go on living in the castle at
Kruja, but he would have to give up his four sons as hostages, and the
Albanians would have to pay a yearly tribute.
Kastriota took his boys aside and explained to them what it meant to
be a hostage; that so long as he, their father, did not rebel against
the Sultan, the boys were safe, but if there should be an uprising in
Albania they would be put to death; also, that if they did not obey the
Sultan and keep faith with him, the Men of the Eagles would be made
to suffer. The boys bravely promised to play the game, but it must
have been a sad day at Kruja when the Sultan rode away with his young
captives.
The boys were treated honorably; they were given fine horses, and
perhaps they enjoyed much of the journey, for they were used to hard
travel in the saddle, and did not tire easily. Once beyond the barrier
of their own mountains, they crossed the great tableland of Macedonia,
more open than any country they had known, where firm roads made by the
Romans centuries before led past cities and castles, and by beautiful
churches and convents built by Bulgarians and Serbs, but now all under
the hand of the Turk.
At last they entered Thrace and came to Adrianople, where the Sultan
lived--if you wish to look for it on the map you will find it south
of Bulgaria. The palace at Adrianople was very different from the
castle at Kruja. It stood on the hot plain instead of among the cool
mountains, and it was filled with a soft luxury that did not exist in
the home on the Rock. It was beautiful with marbles and mosaics, with
gardens and fountains. There were rugs and hangings, silks and perfumes
such as George had never before known.
George was a kind, brave boy, quick to learn. He won the heart of the
Sultan, who was kind to him and brought him up with his own children.
He never forgot his parents on the dear Rock, but since he was only
nine years old when he was taken as a hostage, he soon lost his
homesickness and began to make friends about him. The Sultan gave him
a new name, Skanderbeg, from _Skander_, which means Alexander, because
the mother of Alexander the Great had been an Albanian, and _beg_ or
prince, because he was of high rank.
So Skanderbeg began his new life. He learned to ride and hunt and
fight. When he was eighteen years old the Sultan put him in command of
an army and sent him into Asia Minor, which, you will see, is not far
from Adrianople.
Perhaps Skanderbeg would always have remained the Sultan’s friend
if his brothers had been treated kindly. But when his father, John
Kastriota, died, the Sultan poisoned all three of them and annexed
Albania to his empire. After that, Skanderbeg went about with an angry
heart under his armor, and when the Sultan had a new war on his hands
and sent the young captain to fight the Hungarians, he looked for his
chance to escape.
He had no quarrel with the Hungarians. All he wanted was to be free;
free to go back to his own people, whom he now knew to be unhappy
and oppressed. He wanted to escape from the soft life of Adrianople
and to be back in Albania among the rocks and the Men of the Eagles
in their white jackets, helping them to regain their freedom. In
his army there were many Albanians who, like him, had been taken to
Turkey as prisoners and made to fight for the Sultan. These men joined
Skanderbeg, and together they escaped across Serbia and through the
dangerous mountain passes into Albania.
The people came down from the mountains and flocked to Skanderbeg. The
Turks were driven out of the country and for twenty-five years--as long
as Skanderbeg lived--Albania was free.
So George Kastriota came back to Kruja to be the helper and the hero of
his people. When he died the grief of the tribesmen was so great that
they dyed their white jackets black, and so they are worn to this day.
You will see the Skanderbeg jacket everywhere in Northern Albania--on
the shepherds of the hills; on the men of the many tribes who come
riding to market on their wiry ponies, their deep collars drawn over
their heads to protect them from rain or sun; and on the metal workers
and the farmers of Kruja, who linger about the great fountain which
still gushes out from the rock below the ruined castle.
MIRKO AND MARKO
Mirko and Marko were two gay little Montenegrin pigs. They had the
freedom of the Ivanovitch kitchen, where they lived in peace and
plenty, and as they were plump and handsome, every one admired them.
Zorka alone did not think of them in terms of bacon and sausage. To her
they were playfellows.
Zorka’s father worked in the sawmill, her grandmother kept the house,
and Zorka kept the pigs. The length of their life was one bright
summer, spent for the most part with Zorka under spreading beech trees
or along roadways thick with tufted clover.
One evening, as they came home through the shady village, an old blind
man sat in the square singing as he strummed on a one-stringed fiddle.
He was a wandering minstrel or _gouslar_, and he sang the deeds of
heroes and the triumph of courage over loss and suffering.
[Illustration: ZORKA WITH HER PET PIGS]
The song was as wild and sad as the hills that are dark with firs, but
the villagers crowded about the singer, for they loved the brave tales
of their people, who had never lost their strip of bare mountain or
their freedom. Zorka tiptoed closer and gazed at the old man. He had
only one eye, but that was as keen as a hawk’s. A flat skullcap slanted
over his gray hair. He wore a long, dark green coat edged with silver
braid, blue knee breeches and a crimson waistcoat, faded but heavy with
rich embroidery.
Fascinated, Zorka hovered on the edge of the circle, listening to his
shrill chant. The pigs trotted on contentedly toward home.
On the way their greed led them into a wild adventure. A plank bridged
the swift mill-race, which skirted the road and led to the watermill on
the opposite side.
The pigs had passed this plank every day of their lives, and had always
longed to cross it, for they could smell the fresh meal from afar; but
if they so much as pointed their greedy, pink noses in that direction
someone appeared in the doorway brandishing a stick and Zorka jerked
them anxiously back by their tails. Now Zorka was not with them and
there was no one in the doorway. It stood open, and the sunlight fell
on a silvery heap of meal on the floor under the mill stone. Its
fragrance floated to them. Their stiff little hoofs tapped across
the gangway and they plunged up to their ears in the soft, delicious
mess. Then, as they wallowed blissfully, there came a sudden _whack_,
_whack_, on their plump backs, and the angry voice of the miller’s
wife drowned their terrified squeals. In a cloud of flying meal they
scurried back over the plank out of reach of the cudgel, making a bee
line for the safety of their own kitchen.
But the miller’s wife had other ways of reaching them than with a
stick. She stopped Zorka’s father as he was going home to supper. ‘The
next time,’ she cried angrily, ‘I’ll cut their throats and hang their
hams in the chimney!’
The threat troubled Zorka’s father, who feared that he might have
to pay for the spoiled meal. He went home with a deep frown between
his brows. ‘That settles it,’ he said, ‘those pigs must go to market
to-morrow. They are as fat as young geese now, and should bring a good
price, but another scrape like to-day’s would wipe out all the profit.’
Zorka, crossing the threshold, heard the fatal words, and her heart
stood still. The five minutes that she had spent in listening to the
_gouslar_ had perhaps cost the lives of her playmates. She took her
place at the table speechless with dismay. There was a nice mutton
stew, with beans and gravy, but Zorka could swallow hardly a mouthful.
Her gaze was fixed on two sleek forms sleeping in the shadow of a bench
by the door, their sides rising and falling peacefully.
Her father made plans quickly. He himself could not go to market, for
his work at the sawmill kept him, and the grandmother was too old for
the hard journey. Zorka’s aunt was going, but she had two donkeys laden
with firewood, and a third on which her baby in one saddlebag would
balance a young kid and some turnips in the other. She could not be
expected to look after two frisky pigs. Zorka must go with her and take
Mirko and Marko safely to the market at Podgoritza.
This filled Zorka’s heart with tumult. The journey was an event. She
had made it only once in her life, and that once so long ago that she
could hardly remember it. The market town lay almost at the other end
of Montenegro. It would take two days on foot to reach it. They would
have to go down, down from the wooded valley where the village of
Kolashin lay, through bare, rocky gorges, crossing and recrossing a
wild river many times, with the gray walls of the mountains towering
high above them.
There would be many people going from the village, and others would
join them on the road, coming from high places in the hills and deep
places in the blue valleys. They would eat their meals along the
way--meals of leeks and milk-white cheese, with black bread, and
sometimes they would stop at a tavern or a friend’s house to drink
thick, sweet Turkish coffee from little brass cups.
There would be gossip and music and laughter all the way down to
Podgoritza, but Mirko and Marko would not return from the fair. Their
blithe life spent in hunting for the best fodder along the brook would
be over.
So the next morning big tears stood on Zorka’s cheeks as she tied a
yellow handkerchief over her head and bound her sandals. She let Mirko
and Marko out of their comfortable pen, fed them an exquisite breakfast
of boiled potatoes and milk, then washed and dried them before she
joined her Aunt Basilika on the edge of the village. There a group of
people were loading their donkeys under the beech trees. As most of
the wood for building and burning in Montenegro comes from the Valley
of Kolashin and the mountains behind it, many people were carrying
firewood or charcoal for sale. Others had potatoes or walnuts, eggs and
cheese or great sacks of wool. There were droves of sheep and goats,
and a few cows. The cattle had to be driven slowly in order not to run
all their fat off before they reached the market.
Mirko and Marko joined the procession in high spirits. The smell of
garden stuff and grain was enticing to them, and Zorka had to put
them on a string to keep them from racing ahead under the feet of the
donkeys. Long after the sun had risen for the rest of the world, the
path that the market-goers followed lay in twilight, for eastward the
mountains rose in a sheer wall that seemed to touch the sky.