Cetinje and its sights--Prince Nicolas--The Archbishop--The
barracks--The princes--A visit to the prison and its system--Our
departure for Podgorica.
There is not much for the tourist to see in Cetinje; a day is quite
sufficient to do the sights, such as they are.
Unfortunately for the country, the tourist usually contents himself
with a look round the little capital and returns the way he came to
Cattaro, only a few prolonging the tour _via_ Rijeka to Scutari. Thus
a very erroneous impression is gained of Montenegro and its people.
Firstly only a small part of the Katunska is seen, which is the most
uninteresting district of the whole country; and, secondly, no idea of
the sturdy inhabitants can be formed from the handful of more or less
well-to-do officials and merchants, all intimately connected with the
outside world, round the proximity of Cattaro.
[Illustration: MONTENEGRIN INFANTRY]
[Illustration: THE VLADIKA AT THE MONASTERY OF IVAN BEG]
Cetinje, with its four thousand inhabitants, is simply the residence
of the Montenegrin Court, it is not even a trading centre, which the
absence of the Turkish element sufficiently proclaims. It is only the
question of expense which has hitherto prevented the transference
of the capital to another site, viz. Nikzic. Cetinje was chosen as the
capital some hundreds of years ago--1484, to be pedantically
correct--when a defensible position was the most important factor,
which even to-day is a point to be reckoned with.
We will first go round "the sights."
It possesses two historical buildings in the monastery and the
Billard, the rest being all of quite modern origin. The monastery is a
picturesque pile of grey stone, nestling under a lofty rock, on which
is perched the identical round tower, or "kula," to give it its local
name, on which the heads of Turks slain in battle were exhibited on
spikes. It was not so very long ago that the last grim trophies of war
graced its battlements. The monastery contains the burying vault of
the reigning house, and is the residence of the Vladika or Archbishop
of Montenegro. Prince Nicolas can be found any morning worshipping at
the tombs of his ancestors by the visitor who is willing to rise at
daybreak. Very often he is the only "faithful" present with the
officiating priest at an hour when the sun has hardly peeped over the
rocky ramparts of the town.
Prince Nicolas, the lord of this warrior nation, is a man of imposing
stature, so broad-shouldered that his height seems far less than it
really is, walking with head erect and firm tread and clad in the rich
national costume. The stranger involuntarily doffs his cap and
receives in return a short military salute, but accompanied by such a
piercing glance from a pair of cold grey eyes that he wonders if he is
not an intruder in the land. This is, however, far from the case.
Under that austere exterior beats a warm heart and an affability of
manner to which the lowliest of his peasants will gladly testify.
Prince Nicolas likes to see visitors to his land, and many are the
little acts of kindness and courtesy that the traveller receives, all
unknown, from his hand, for he knows the coming and going of everyone
who makes a longer stay than usual.
Sixty years ago Prince and Bishop were united in one person, and
though the Bishop or Vladika has to-day no temporal power, yet in
spiritual matters he is absolute. A very kindly man is the present
Vladika, Mitrofanban. By an odd coincidence his was practically the
first house we visited in Montenegro, and with him we drank our last
cup of coffee when we left many months later.
The other building is the old palace of the Princes of Montenegro,
which won its odd name of Billard or Biljar from the fact that a
former Prince was so addicted to the game of billiards that the
principal room of the palace was devoted to the game. It is now used
for State purposes. The upper floors are occupied by the Government
offices, and at one corner is the Supreme Court of Justice and
Appeal, whose judgments are only reversible by the Prince himself.
Further, the school and printing works are to be found within its
quaint old red-brick walls and bastions.
[Illustration: THE PRINCE'S PALACE]
Opposite to this picturesque old building stands the modern and
uninteresting one-storied palace of Prince Nicolas. It shows the
simplicity of his nature in perhaps a more marked degree than anything
else, for little or no privacy from his people is possible. He walks
from his house down a short flight of steps into the street. The small
courtyard at the back is surrounded by a low wall, the entrances
having no gates.
The recently erected palace of the Crown Prince Danilo, which stands
on the outskirts of the town, is a somewhat more pretentious building.
It has a large garden completely walled in, which is at any rate an
apology for privacy and seclusion.
To obtain a comprehensive view of the town, we climbed a small hill
immediately above the monastery, on whose summit stands the gilded
cupola erected to the memory of Danilo Petrovic, the Lord of Njegusi,
founder of the present dynasty. Very pretty the simple little town
looks from here, its red roofs giving a pleasing touch of colour to
the otherwise severe landscape of grey rock, dazzling white streets,
and sparsely vegetated valley.
One afternoon we visited the barracks, which are quite new, and the
quarters of the battalion of the standing army. The barrack rooms are
spotlessly clean, and the order and neatness unsurpassed, which,
together with the smart drilling and superb physique of the soldiers,
would delight the heart of the severest martinet. Everything connected
with the military training of the Montenegrins is up to the standard
of Continental excellence. All the officers undergo a long course of
training, either in Russia, France, or Italy, and right well have they
utilised this privilege. No wonder that the warlike Montenegrin drills
as well as his Continental brother. The standing army wear uniforms,
and at a distance remind one of our own troops, with their
tight-fitting, short red jackets and tiny caps.
[Illustration: _Monastery Billard Prince's Palace_ GENERAL VIEW OF THE
CETINJE]
Other conspicuous buildings are the theatre, where performances are
given in the winter in the Serb language and where Prince Nicolas'
famous drama, _The Empress of the Balkans_, was first performed; the
house of the Austro-Hungarian Minister, which is the best in
Cetinje,[1] and the hospital. It is the only hospital in Montenegro,
and is used almost solely for serious surgical operations. Here Prince
Mirko, the second son of Prince Nicolas, spends much of his time, for
his tastes run to bacteriology, and his skill with the microscope is
acknowledged. He is also a musician of no mean order, and the march
which he composed in honour of the city of Rome, and which was
performed there under the leadership of Mascagni, will be in the
memory of all. He has none of the tastes of his elder brother, who,
true to the traditions of his country, is a mighty hunter, and whose
prowess with rifle, gun, and revolver is acclaimed by the people who
understand these gifts better.
[Footnote 1: The Russian Minister has now an equally imposing
edifice.]
By far the most interesting episode of our sojourn in Cetinje was a
visit to the prison, which we were enabled to do with our camera, by
the kindness of the Minister of Justice. It was the first time in the
annals of Montenegro that strangers had been allowed to take
photographs in a prison.
At the appointed hour we approached the plain building, surrounded by
no wall of any kind, which does duty as the prison. It is soon to be
done away with, and all the prisoners will be transferred to the
central prison at Podgorica. Smiling warders welcomed us and conducted
us to their living-room, barely furnished and with an array of
revolvers--the property of the prisoners--hanging on the walls. A
female prisoner prepared us coffee, and while we were sipping the
inevitable beverage a glance through the window showed us men busily
sweeping the courtyard of the prison.
First of all a warder showed us the fetters--heavy, cumbersome irons,
which are riveted to one or both ankles, according to the sentence.
But it is only in exceptional cases of aggravated crime that this
severer sentence is meted out to the offender. Then we were conducted
by the main and only entrance into the courtyard, two sides of which
contain the cells of the prisoners. These gentlemen rose with alacrity
to their feet as we entered, evidently much pleased at the honour of
our visit. Only three men were chained, and of these one remained
moodily seated, staring indifferently on the ground before him. He
formed such a contrast to his fellow-prisoners' smiling faces that we
observed him closer, noticing that his clothes were such as the
officials and better class wear.
"Who is he?" I asked.
"A Government clerk convicted of embezzlement," was the answer. "Six
weeks in chains is his sentence."
"And what have the other criminals done?" was our next query.
"Oh, they have mostly quarrelled amongst themselves. They are not
criminals. We have very few thieves and robbers in Montenegro. This
youth," went on our informant, pointing to a young man with a pleasant
face, and who grinned with joy as he noticed the attention with which
we favoured him, "has a ten years' sentence for quarrelling."
"But quarrelling," we repeated. "Is it punishable to _quarrel_?"
"Yes, too many lives are lost," was the laconic reply.
"Oh," we exclaimed, a light breaking in upon us, "you mean murder!
They are all murderers?"
"We have no murderers," came the indignant response. "Our land is as
safe from murder as any other in the world. No one kills to rob or
steal in Montenegro. But we just quarrel amongst ourselves. We are
hot-blooded and shoot quickly, that is all."
P. and I looked at each other, but neither of us felt inclined to
venture any further remarks; so we examined a dark cell with interest,
without furniture or light, and one of six used for the worst kind of
offender, viz. the political. They were all untenanted. We had all
crowded inside, our warders as well, and as we emerged again into the
strong light, I noticed the gate wide open and no visible guard.
"You have left the gate open!" exclaimed P., as he saw it.
Our warders laughed. Afterwards we understood.
Then we inspected a common cell, where about a dozen men sleep. Each
man brings his own bedding and nicknacks, with which he decorates the
wall above his bed and makes the place as much like home as possible.
Loss of liberty is the only real punishment, and even that is not
carried to an excess. The Prince has said that the restraint that they
suffer is enough, and thus the prisoners have comparatively free
intercourse with the outside world, plenty to eat, and on festivals
wine and even spirits and a dance with their friends outside. This
latter scene we witnessed some time afterwards on another visit to
Cetinje. The only real severity is the chains, but these sturdy
mountaineers soon accustom themselves to these thirty-pound trinkets,
and when photographed take good care to arrange them tastefully and
prominently. When we lined them up for a picture, we demanded a front
place for the chained men, to their intense delight and the chagrin of
the others who cast envious glances at their more favoured brethren.
No doubt in that moment the unchained men wished they had gone just a
little further in their "quarrel."
After a pleasant half-hour with these quarrelsome gentlemen, we went
round to the ladies who occupy a wing of the prison, with all windows
and doors facing outwards on to the open ground. Again no fence or
wall marked a limit to their prison, and they walk in and out of their
cells at leisure. However, there is a boundary marked out by posts and
trees, beyond which they may not go. As we appeared they were sitting
about, singly and in groups, knitting peacefully in the warm sunshine.
We again inspected their quarters, and learnt that the odd score of
women represented the total crime of the land.
[Illustration: THE FEMALE PRISONERS]
A blushing and gratified array of staid matrons and coquettish girls
faced the camera, again only one young maiden of fifteen or sixteen
showing any sense of shame, and she fled into her cell, only to be
ruthlessly ordered out by a warder.
Soon afterwards we took our leave, and as we crossed the small
unenclosed square before the men's prison we found it crowded by the
late inmates of the courtyard, walking merrily up and down or chatting
with friends on the outskirts, over which neither party may step. Only
the dismal clanking of a chain here and there proclaimed to the casual
observer the fact that they were prisoners. Lithe, active, and
athletic men, none of whom fear death, and guarded by four warders in
the loosest possible fashion, yet they never attempt a dash for
freedom up the rocky slope which reaches down to their very promenade
ground. Flight would entail their escaping from their country
altogether, never to return, and that no Montenegrin has ever been
known to do. Even though they work for years in strange lands, they
invariably return to their rugged native mountains and end their days
in peace. And so they serve their time in patience, and go home at the
expiry of the sentence "without a stain on their character."
Many months afterwards we chanced to arrive in Cetinje on the occasion
of a great feast. A stranger happened to be with us, a German, and we
were showing him the sights. Naturally we also wended our way to the
prison, hoping to be able to give him the unique spectacle of the
prisoners strolling freely up and down their garden. As we neared the
square sounds of singing and music assailed our ears, and in front of
the women's quarters a large ring was swaying to and fro in the
national dance termed "kolo." Men and women were performing together,
otherwise the sexes are kept severely apart, while others sat around
in groups partaking of wine and food which their friends or relations
had brought them, and they all sat chatting and laughing together as
though this were their natural state of existence.
"The prisoners," I said, pointing to the dancers.
"Nonsense," said the German.
"Come nearer and listen," I answered, for even I had my doubts for the
moment; but my ear had caught the clanking of chains above the wild
music.
They were the prisoners right enough, and many of the men moved
heavily and awkwardly to the slow rhythm of the motion. It is not easy
to dance with such ornaments as are provided free and gratis by the
paternal Prince to curb an exuberance of spirits.
[Illustration: THE PRISONERS DANCING]
A great trial that the photographer has to undergo, be he professional
or a strolling amateur, is the immediate demand for the picture. The
mysteries of dark rooms and developing are not to be lightly
explained, and the refusal to show the picture, for which the vain
Montenegrins have so willingly stood, is accounted churlish. They are
only appeased with a promise of a picture a few weeks later. Their
names and addresses are hurriedly scribbled and handed with many
peremptory requests for the picture to be sent as soon as possible.
Just before we left Cetinje, on our way to Podgorica, during our first
visit, a bowing and deeply humble individual accosted us in the hotel.
When he had straightened himself up a bit, and we could see his face,
we recognised one of the prison warders. After many expressions of
sorrow for disturbing us, we gathered that on the occasion of our
visit to the prison only three of the four warders had been present.
The fourth--and it would appear the head warder--had arrived after our
departure, and learning of the photographs and his omission, had made
things a bit hot for his three favoured confreres. Therefore would we
of our goodness come and photograph him, and thus make life worth
living again? Would we restore the peace and harmony of that little
community?
With sorrow we declined, our carriage awaited us, and the day was hot.
Some other time, we said. And with that uncertain comfort he was
forced to be content.
"But," he said, "the money which you have so generously given us and
the prisoners has been expended on 'raki' (local spirits). We and the
prisoners will pray for your souls for many nights ere we sleep."
As we drove up the ascent from the town towards our new destination,
we glanced back at the red-roofed little capital and noticed the low,
grey stone building of the prison.
"We ought to sleep well to-night," remarked P., nodding towards it.
It is something to be prayed for, even if only by criminals of the
quarrelsome type.