The journey to Montenegro--Arrival in Cattaro--Beauty of the Bocche,
and the drive to the frontier--First impressions of
Montenegro--Njegusi--The national troubadours--Arrival in Cetinje.
The simplest way of entering the Land of the Black Mountain is _via_
Cattaro in Dalmatia. The sea-trip from Trieste, which takes a little
over twenty-four hours, is a revelation of beauty, for the Dalmatian
coast is sadly unknown to the traveller. The journey can also be made
from Fiume, whence the "Ungaro-Croata" send a good and very frequent
service of steamers. But the idler should take a slow boat and coast
lazily down the Dalmatian archipelago, visiting all the smaller towns
and islands, which the fast line is bound to avoid. It is one of the
most beautiful sea-trips in Europe, each little port possessing gems
of old Roman and Venetian architecture, unrivalled, perhaps, in the
world and set in a perfect framework of lovely country and dancing
seascape.
It was a glorious morning in May when the _Graf Wurmbrand_, the
Austrian-Lloyd's fast steamer, left Trieste, bearing us to Cattaro.
The Gulf of Trieste is very beautiful, for the green hills, all
dotted with villas, the busy harbour life, the Julian Alps rising up
majestically far away on the starboard, and directly behind the town,
gaunt and grey, the naked Karst, of which we were to see so much in
Montenegro; all made a picture that it would be difficult to forget.
At midday we arrived at Pola. The entrance to the harbour is well
covered by islands, and on each of these frowns a great fort, some of
which, however, are so carefully hidden that their locality is only
betrayed by a flagstaff. A narrow channel leads to the inner harbour,
Austria's naval dockyard and arsenal. Here are the warships and
building yards, and away to the left, as a strange and unfitting
contrast, the Arena, one of the best-preserved specimens of Roman
work, rises seemingly from amongst the houses. Pola is full of Roman
remains. All is so green and peaceful, in spite of the countless
fortifications which render the harbour well-nigh, if not quite,
impregnable, that Nature and War seem for once to go hand-in-hand.
[Illustration: THE GRAF WURMBRAND IN THE BOCCHE DI CATTARO]
At twilight Zara looms up into view, and another short stay is made.
The town turns out _en masse_ for the coming of the _Wurmbrand_ or the
_Pannonia_--the fast boats from Trieste or Fiume are the events of the
week. There is no railway here. Unluckily Dalmatia's finest scenery is
passed in the night. Trau, with its splendid loggias and churches;
Spalato, with the grandeur of Diocletian's palace, are denied to
the traveller; Lesina, proudly calling itself the Nice of Austria;
Curzola, whose mighty Venetian bastions stand out into the sea, and
many another delightful little town and island, only show a twinkling
light or two in the darkness as the steamer ploughs by. At daybreak we
are nearing Gravosa, Ragusa's modern port. As we leave again, and
round the peninsula of Lapad, glorious in a mass of semi-tropical
vegetation, Ragusa bursts upon our view. Seen on a sunny morning it is
a sight for the gods. Built well into the sea on inaccessible cliffs,
surrounded by lofty walls, with a great hill as a background, it has
well been called the prettiest bit of Dalmatia. It possesses a
magnificent winter climate and a good hotel, so that people are
forsaking the Riviera for this comparatively unknown paradise.
Far too soon Ragusa fades away, and now the approaching mountains grow
higher and wilder. Those lofty peaks, towering above the others, black
and forbidding, are Nature's bulwarks of the land which we are
visiting. It is from a distance that the name "Black Mountain" seems
so aptly given to this fierce little state, though some historians
wish to explain the derivation otherwise.
The Bocche (or mouths) di Cattaro, three in number, are a consummate
blending of the Norwegian fjords and the Swiss lakes, and so lofty and
steep are the surrounding mountains that the sun can only reach the
bottom for a few hours at midday.
Away at the end of one fjord lies the village of Risano, an idyllic
spot, whence a road is in the course of construction to Niksic. All
the worthy Bocchese are absolutely Montenegrin in sympathy, and
Austria has had much trouble with these equally warlike Serbs.
A curious conical hill rises out of the town, a high wall zigzags up
to the fort above, showing Cattaro's strength of former days. Now, a
few insignificant mounds of earth far away on the mountain-tops are
all that is to be seen of the military might of modern Cattaro. Yet
how powerful are those forts only the Austrian authorities know.
Cattaro and the Bocche are impregnable from sea or land, though this
array of strength against land attack seems almost unnecessary, as
Montenegro possesses no heavy cannon at all. However, Austria is not
reckoning in this case with Montenegro alone. But these are political
questions.
We were fortunate in securing a carriage of the Montenegrin post,
which has good drivers, and what is still better, a fixed tariff, over
which there can be no dispute. The drivers of Cattaro ask, and often
get, twice the legal fare from ignorant strangers.
Cattaro affords no comforts to the traveller; more is the pity, as it
is one of the most magnificent spots in the world. The town itself is
tiny and a perfect maze of little Venetian streets, in which it is
easy to lose oneself if it were only larger. To walk upon the Riva and
gaze upon those precipitous mountains which tower above the town and
its militarily guarded walls is a sight which at first is hardly to be
comprehended. It is too stupendous. Such a masterpiece of Nature can
never tire.
Montenegrins crowd the streets, and the little market is full of
peasants who have wearily staggered down those steep paths in the
early dawn with their enormous loads of field produce. Stately men
wearing the insignia of their rank on their little caps pace up and
down majestically and contrast strangely with the dapper Austrian
officers. Their belts yawn suggestively, something is missing to
complete the attire. It is the revolver, which Austrian law compels
them to leave behind on entering her land. They are obviously ill at
ease without that familiar weapon, for ever and anon a hand strays
unconsciously to the empty belt seeking its wonted resting-place on
the butt.
Strolling one night on the Riva, we involuntarily held our breath as
we came in sight of the huge lake, for it is easy to forget that this
is the Adria. The waters lay unruffled before us, not a ripple
disturbed those glassy depths which reflected every tree and cottage
on the opposite bank. Each star found its double twinkling in that
placid mirror, and mountain frowned back on mountain. It was almost
unreal, so marvellous was the reflection. Behind us, at the top of the
great ridge, a silvery effulgence proclaimed the coming of the moon.
Her brilliant light silhouetted the grim and rocky ridge in startling
clearness, though it was four thousand feet above us. Through a gap
rises a peak, round which a filmy cloud had lovingly wrapped itself
like a lace shawl upon the snowy shoulders of a beautiful woman. We
took a turn down the quay, and at the end we turned our back on this
witching view. Hardly had we retraced our steps a few yards when we
and all our surroundings were bathed in a glorious white light. We
turned again, and were almost forced to shield our eyes as we gazed on
the gentle orb which had now surmounted the intervening ridge. The
whole fjord was now transformed into a sea of silver almost as bright
as midday. Each nestling village was distinct, even to the tiniest
window; each tree and shrub on the wall-like mountain, and even the
grim forts, were softened in that sweet radiance. The little paths
which zigzag up the hills to the forts above look like great white
snakes turning and twisting up those rugged cliffs.
At four o'clock on the following morning we made a start, and were
well up the mountain by the time that the sun began to make his
presence felt.
[Illustration: THE BOCCHE DI CATTARO]
The high road to Cetinje was built by the Austrians, and it is a
marvel of engineering skill, particularly the ascent of the almost
perpendicular wall of mountain rising abruptly from Cattaro. In series
of serpentines and gradients, which often permit the horses to trot,
the road winds up and up, every turn giving a still finer view of the
lake below. Cattaro remains in view practically the whole ascent. The
view from the top is magnificent and unsurpassed in Europe. The grand
bays look like miniature glass ponds, fringed with white toy villages,
and far away in the distance the deep blue Adria sparkles and glitters
in the sunshine.
Montenegro is entered some little distance from the top, but, as only
a row of paving stones indicates the spot, it is not till the carriage
dashes through a rocky gorge and out into the open Karst beyond that
the traveller realises that he has crossed the border. The sudden
change is startling, from the blue sea and green valleys to grey
masses of limestone rock and barren mountains. It is the Katunska, the
original stronghold of the Montenegrins, within which they defied all
comers.
At the first house, solidly built of stone, our carriage halted, and
the driver entered it, emerging with the revolver which he had to
relinquish on entering Austria. It is a formidable weapon specially
manufactured in Vienna for Montenegro, a foot and a half long, firing
an enormous cartridge. The revolver is always worn, by all classes
alike, and carried loaded by order. The upper classes carry a much
smaller and handier weapon, but a revolver must be carried by prince
and peasant alike.
Njegusi is the first town or village reached, and here an hour's rest
is always made. It is interesting, since it was once the temporary
capital, and as the home of the Petrovic family, the reigning dynasty.
It lies in a great hollow of fertile ground, and on the southern side
the historical Lovcen ascends. On the top the great prince and hero,
Peter II., is buried, and his mausoleum brings large numbers of
pilgrims yearly.
As our carriage drew up before the little hostelry, a crowd of boys
were standing in front of a house opposite, which is half telegraph
office and half school, for economy in buildings is practised in
Montenegro. They saluted us smartly in military fashion. The born
soldier is noticed at once, even in the small children; many
generations of fighting ancestors have bequeathed a smartness and
accuracy of movement which can be envied by many a Continental trained
conscript.
The traveller meets with little attention either here or in Cetinje.
It is not till he gets well off the beaten track that he sees the
hospitable and courteous Montenegrin as he really is.
[Illustration: NJEGUSI]
[Illustration: THE GUSLAR]
During our frugal breakfast of raw ham and goat's cheese, our
ears were assailed by the singing of the guslar, or Montenegrin
troubadour. The guslars, we noticed, are invariably blind, and as no
previous musical education seems necessary, it would appear to be a
monopoly of those so afflicted. Their singing is execrable according
to Western notions, a range of four or five notes in a wailing minor
key making up their register, and they accompany themselves on an
instrument (the gusla) from which they derive their name. It is
hand-made, resembling a cross between a violin and a mandolin. It
possesses one string, and is played with a short curved bow. With
careful handling, a series of discordant notes of wearying monotony
can be produced. The performance is altogether most doleful.
Yet they are the history books, the legend tellers of the country.
They fan the fire of patriotism and loyalty by songs of the deeds and
accomplishments of their Prince, of dead heroes and past glorious
battles, and form another link with the mediaeval world of which the
traveller is so strongly reminded at every step in Montenegro.
As we left the village we passed the birthplace of Prince Nicolas I.,
though the palace appears to have been entirely rebuilt. In nearly
every town or village of importance the Prince has a house, varying
considerably in size, but of equally unpretentious exterior.
The road still climbs and reaches the maximum height of three thousand
five hundred feet. From this altitude it steadily drops into Cetinje,
which lies about two thousand feet above the sea-level. The scenery is
unvarying, but not without beauty. It is essentially wild, but the
light colour of the rocks and the numerous shrubs which find a footing
in the crevices minimise the forbidding character of the country. The
land is magnificently adapted for guerilla warfare, where every foot
can be contested. Little patches of earth, washed down the hillsides,
lie in every hollow, and have been utilised by the careful peasant to
grow his tiny crops.
After about seven hours' driving, Cetinje appears in sight, at the end
of a long valley, and completely surrounded by the characteristic
naked and rugged rocks. The road descends by another series of
serpentines, and a long straight drive brings us into the town. The
valley is about four miles long and three-quarters of a mile broad and
absolutely flat.
The effect is most odd at first sight, a long main street, an open
market-place, and a few side streets constituting the capital of an
important European principality. The town, on entering it, bears a
strong resemblance to a South African township, where, as is the case
here, space is no object, and the houses are rarely more than one
story high.
We stayed at the Grand Hotel during our first visit. It is the only
really good hotel in Montenegro, and in consequence expensive. Here
all the tourists stay for a night or so during a hasty visit to the
Crnagora, and it is to be avoided by those who wish to see the
country.