Podgorica--Its central position--Our headquarters--Easter in
Montenegro--Our experience of it--We view the town--The prison and its
inmates--Christian and Mahometan friction--The modern town--The market
and the armed buyers--The Black Earth--Easter customs--Montenegrin
methods of doing business.
[Illustration: GENERAL VIEW OF PODGORICA]
If it were not for the dangerous proximity of the Albanian border,
Podgorica would have been made the capital of Montenegro. It is
favourably situated for a trade centre, and, owing to this fact, has
naturally gathered a large population (the largest in Montenegro),
approaching ten thousand. Lying on a rich and fertile plain, within
easy reach of the Lake of Scutari, and connected by good roads with
Cetinje and Niksic, it is within market distance, so to speak, of
Kolasin and Andrijevica. From these districts, and from the Albanian
borders, the people flock in crowds, and the Podgorican market is by
far the most important in the country. But--and it is a big "but"--in
this case the Albanian frontier is only an hour's walk away, and it
would never do to risk the persons of the Royal Family and the
Ministers in a sudden Albanian raid, and troubles and disturbances are
of everyday occurrence.
We made Podgorica our headquarters during our sojourn in the land of
the Black Mountain mainly for its central position, but also for the
opportunity afforded us there for studying Montenegrin life.
It would be difficult to forget our first visit to the town. It was
Easter Sunday evening when we arrived at the Hotel Europa, and after
seeing our luggage carried in, started out on a tour of inspection,
and also to present our letter of introduction to Dr. S., the
veterinary surgeon of Montenegro. We had not got more than fifty yards
from the hotel when we were forced to beat a hasty and ignominious
retreat. At Eastertide, which is one of the biggest feasts in the
Greek Church, beggars, halt and maim, blind and tattered, pour into
all the larger towns of the country. They come from Turkey, Albania,
Bosnia, and Dalmatia--in fact, from everywhere within reach--and make
a rich harvest, for the Montenegrin opens his heart, his hand, and his
house at Easter. In our innocence we imagined this to be the normal
state of affairs in Montenegro, and were greatly cast down.
But our worthy host armed himself with a big stick, and we sallied
forth again under his guidance. Even then it was no joke, and the
house of Dr. S. came as a haven of refuge. Anyone who has been in the
East knows what an amount of persistency and endurance the Oriental
beggar possesses.
[Illustration: THE RIBNICA]
We were received as old friends and welcomed to the Easter table,
which was set, as in any other Montenegrin house at this season, for
anyone and everyone who has the remotest claims of acquaintanceship.
Several men were present, to whom we were at once introduced; amongst
others a canny Scotchman, the only Britisher living permanently in the
country. We were a cosmopolitan gathering. There was Dr. S., a
Roumanian, an Austrian ornithologist, a Scotchman, our innkeeper was a
Macedonian, and two or three Montenegrins. From that evening date many
of the pleasant friendships which we made in Montenegro.
The next day our newly-made friends showed us Podgorica. It is divided
into two distinct parts--the old, or Turkish town, and the new
Montenegrin town, which dates from the conquest of 1877. The two
halves are separated by the River Ribnica, which flows in a deep bed
before the crumbling walls of the Turkish quarter. At one angle of the
town the Ribnica enters the Moraca, Montenegro's biggest and most
important river.
Most picturesque is the old Turkish quarter, still surrounded by the
same bastions and walls which not so long ago defied the Montenegrin
army. But the houses, as well as the walls, are fast falling to ruin;
for at the order of the Prince the market has been removed to the
other side, and, in comparison with the new town, there are few
inhabitants left. The fortifications still bear witness to the fierce
struggle which took place before them, and one bastion was breached
more successfully than ever Montenegrin cannon had done, by lightning,
during the bombardment. Many of the older inhabitants, as well as the
walls, show traces of the former conflict, a noseless man being no
great curiosity.
Not for nothing has the Montenegrin won his fame as one of the
fiercest fighters in the world. He was never outdone in atrocities by
his enemies. It was the rule of war (and is now, to a great extent) to
either behead one's prisoner on the spot, or, if the day had been
exceptionally heavy, and more heads could not be carried conveniently,
noses were taken instead. Perhaps the phrase "to count noses"
originated in these lands. However, it usually ended the same, for the
noseless man would, as a rule, bleed to death; but some have lived
through it, and can be met with anywhere in Montenegro or Albania.
Many fierce fights took place in and about Podgorica, and the ghastly
picture of victorious Montenegrins at the conclusion of an affray,
sitting in groups, each with a small or large heap of heads and noses
before him, "counting the bag," has many eye-witnesses still living.
In the Turkish town lies the prison, soon to be the only one in
Montenegro. A new wing is rapidly nearing completion to accommodate
the female prisoners, who are at present incarcerated in Cetinje. We
visited the director that Easter Monday morning, and were received
unofficially in his quarters. We always had great fun with that man--a
pompous individual filled to overflowing with the importance of his
position, and, not unlike men similarly afflicted, most aggressively
stupid.
As a great favour, and after our united persuasion, he allowed us at
last to look from a window overlooking the courtyard of the prison. As
in Cetinje, the prisoners walk without let or hindrance in the
spacious walled-in courts before their cell doors. Being Easter no man
was chained, a privilege they owe to the Prince, who always releases
the prisoners from their fetters during the great festivals; one
wretched individual, however, we noticed more heavily manacled than
even a murderer of the worst kind. He was, we were informed, a
dangerous madman, though, poor devil, he looked harmless enough,
slouching round and round the yard. The primitive custom of confining
dangerous lunatics (for the harmless are allowed their full liberty
outside) in the common prison is soon to be done away with. A large
lunatic asylum is rapidly nearing completion near Danilovgrad--another
memorial of Prince Nicolas' improvements.
The prisoners were sleek and fat--those imprisoned for long terms or
for life bearing witness of the good treatment which they receive at
the hands of the authorities. One youngish man in particular
attracted our attention, a merry laughing fellow whose girth had
reached alarming proportions. He was imprisoned for life, and his
crime, which sat so lightly upon him, had been a particularly
atrocious and dastardly murder for plunder--a crime practically
unknown in Montenegro.
Imprisonment is more real here than in Cetinje. There is none of that
delightful promenading up and down before the prison walls, hours
pleasantly whiled away with a friendly visitor from afar over a pint
of wine. The only glimpse of the outside world that these prisoners
obtain is when a few of them fetch water daily from a well outside the
walls.
As we gazed upon the strange scene from the window above, of prisoners
and warders amicably chatting together, others squatting in groups
over a harmless game, a horrible voice disturbed the serenity of the
picture. Then at a closely barred window a face appeared, with matted
hair and long unkempt beard. It was the face of a madman; with
terrible curses he filled the air, and we looked inquiringly at our
cicerone.
"That man is a political offender," came the answer. "For fifteen
years he has waited his trial, and now he has become hopelessly
insane. Many years ago he endeavoured to stir up a revolution against
the Prince, and fled to Vienna, where he carried on his treasonable
propaganda. But he was enticed back, and thrown into solitary
confinement such as those who are traitors to their Prince receive.
For an hour every day these prisoners are allowed to walk in the yard,
but this man from the first refused to avail himself of the privilege,
and now he has become what you see."
"Will he never regain his freedom?" we asked.
A shrug of the shoulders was all that our guide vouchsafed, and with
that awful voice ringing in our ears we were glad to turn away.
Two mosques still exist, and are in use, for the Turkish population is
fairly large, though owing to recent events rapidly diminishing, but
the Prince does everything in his power to cultivate a friendly
feeling with the Mahometans. His country is the asylum for the
persecuted Turk as well as the fugitive from justice, and, if his
crime is political, he will be warmly welcomed.
But, Woman again has upset the best of intentions, and within a year
four elopements of Turkish girls from their homes with Montenegrins
have taken place in Podgorica. These girls have been baptised and
married to their Christian lovers. A worse insult to the Mahometan
faith does not exist. But of this more anon.
The modern town is painfully plain and uninteresting. Montenegrins
have no knowledge or love of architecture. Each house is built
solidly of stone, square and undecorated. Even the palaces of the
Royal Family are of puritanical simplicity externally.
There are the law courts, post and telegraph offices, and
police-station all in one, a school, and a market-place, with a very
ugly memorial to the fallen Montenegrins in the last war. Otherwise,
the town is laid out with broad streets, all planted with trees,
exactly like a South African township.
Building plots are free, the only obligation to the owner being that
he must run up the outside walls of the house at once. The roof and
internal work can be completed at leisure. A large part of the town
consists of mere shells of houses, the owners waiting for the means of
completion.
Some little distance from the town, across the Moraca, is the Prince's
palace of Krusevac, which he occasionally visits. It stands quite
alone on a slight eminence.
The view round Podgorica is one of the most fascinating features of
the place. It is one of those perfect views which never tire, and
always present some new beauty, and the armed rough men in their
brightly coloured and novel costumes are in complete unison with the
picture. These national costumes seem so absolutely fitting to
Montenegro that the otherwise plain and uninteresting buildings of
the town are turned merely into a background for the ever-moving
stream of colour. The Turkish bazaars with their gaudy wares hung out
into the street, the red-jacketed Montenegrin, the Turk in pure white,
the Scutarines in their distinct and original costume, and the
Albanians who flock in hundreds to the market in coarse white serge,
heavily bordered with black braiding, rifles over their shoulders and
a bandolier round their waists, make a never-ending picture. We never
wearied of wandering about the streets on market days. Then the town
is filled to overflowing with a multi-coloured crowd, and every man
from a distance brings his rifle.
How odd it looked at first to see an Albanian with perhaps a
shilling's-worth of field produce spread out before him, and at his
side a rifle loaded and cocked; or, again, a Montenegrin boy of
perhaps fourteen, with his rifle across his knee! To keep order in
this formidably armed crowd of men, many animated with the fiercest
racial and religious hatred of each other, are some dozen Montenegrin
gendarmes, armed, as is every Montenegrin, with but a heavy revolver.
Deadly enemies meet on the market-place, men standing in blood feud
with one another, and speak, often expressing a fervent prayer soon to
be able to put a bullet into the other at the first opportunity,
but--outside the town. Podgorica is mutually held as neutral
territory, and is very rarely violated. This is strange where men fear
not death.
But, outside, perhaps but half an hour from the outskirts of the town,
these men will meet and shoot and kill; for murder, or sudden death,
to use their euphemistic way of looking at matters, is by no means
uncommon.
There is a great tract of land about an hour's ride from Podgorica
characteristically called the "Crna Zemlja" or Black Earth. It is
neutral, lying between Montenegro and Albania, and the man who sets
his foot on it carries his life in his hands. Men who know, say that
every inch is soaked in blood. It is overlooked by some small hills
from Albania, and is covered with long pampas grass, affording good
cover for a man, and they shoot there for love of killing.
But to return to Eastertide.
It is a good time to visit Montenegro for first impressions. The
Montenegrin outdoes himself in open-handed hospitality; every house is
open, and everyone visits his neighbour. The best chamber in the
house, as often as not the only living-room among the poorer classes,
is set out with all the good things the owner possesses. On the table
stand meat, eggs, bread, wine, and spirits; and it is a grievous
insult to leave that room without tasting, and tasting liberally, of
all. This lasts three days, and it is more than enough.
And we were particularly honoured, being Englishmen and strangers: one
might say we were painfully honoured. What quantities we were forced
to eat and drink! At one house, that of a poor man, who lived with his
wife in a tiny room, we were presented with a bottle of Munich beer,
his greatest treasure, given him once by a friend who had travelled.
He doubtless considered it a luxury of a priceless kind, and it cut us
to the heart to drink that man's beer. But we had to; he took no
denial, barely tasting it himself.
We might have stood it fairly well were it not for those eggs,
hard-boiled Easter eggs, the shells coloured red or blue. This
institution is a positive torture to the unfortunate digestion, which
suffers untold torments at Eastertide.
There is a game played with these hard-boiled eggs which reminds one
forcibly of schooldays. Two men each select an egg, and one, holding
his egg firmly, allows the other to endeavour to crack it, only the
pointed ends being used.
But this harmless if childish custom once led to a vendetta. A man
once cracked such an enormous quantity of eggs, that in the evening he
was challenged to show his marvellous egg, which he persistently
refused to do. This led to words and words to revolvers, and the man
was shot. Then the egg was found to be a clever imitation in stone.
Though Podgorica is the trading centre of Montenegro, business is not
carried on in the same brisk way as in other lands.
We once wished to send a parcel of feathers home, and went accordingly
to the post office. It was towards evening then, and we were informed
that the postmaster was "not at home," and were asked to come next
day. The following morning we again visited the post office, when the
contents were carefully noted, and long lists filled out which took
roughly about half an hour; at the end of which time a head was thrust
out of the window, asking us to call in about an hour and pay. This
was because no post-office clerk is allowed to receive money; he is
strangely enough not always honest, and the postmaster was again out.
At the end of the hour we returned and paid.
Another time I tendered a gulden in payment of a telegram, and had to
wait a quarter of an hour while a boy was sent into the town to obtain
change.
In matters of business it is well to possess one's soul in patience. A
more unbusinesslike set of people is hard to be found, yet in driving
a bargain they are remarkably shrewd, to put it kindly.
Even in such trivial matters as purchasing a hen no indecent hurry is
shown. Such a transaction may take days. For instance, you wish to buy
a hen, and signify the same to a man, and he will say--
"I have a hen which I can sell thee, but it will break my heart. Such
a hen, and such eggs! I feel I cannot part with her."
"Very well," you say; "don't make yourself miserable; I'll buy one
somewhere else."
"But give me till to-morrow. It is too sudden."
And he goes away. If you are not in a hurry, it does not matter and
you wait. It is amusing.
Next day he will come again and say that he has another hen nearly as
good as the first, but, as he loves you and respects you, he will part
with his beloved hen at a consideration, and names a price far beyond
its worth. You refuse, and state your price for the _good_ hen, the
ordinary market price, which he indignantly refuses and departs. In a
few hours he will come again, bringing a hen which, almost with tears,
he tells you is _the_ hen--his beloved hen.
"Take her," he says, "as a present."
Whereupon you press upon him the market price, which of course he
takes, and the matter is finished.
Such little episodes are trying at first. The Montenegrin loves
money--it is his curse, or rather the curse of every country on the
brink of civilisation--but he also loves to play the gentleman, who
hates sordid money transactions. He will often make you a present and
afterwards send in an extortionate bill.
But, usually, you make him a monetary present _at once_, which he
takes with thanks, at your own price.
If it were not for money, what an ideal race the Montenegrins would
be! But then that is the same with a good many people.