Medun--Voivoda Marko--His life and heroism--His part in Montenegrin
history--Our ride to Medun--His widow--We visit his grave--The death
dirge--Montenegrin customs at death--Target practice--Our critics--The
hermit of Daibabe--We visit Spuz--A typical country inn and a
meal--The Turkish renegade gives his views on warfare--Dioclea.
During our repeated sojourns in Podgorica we made several excursions
to places of interest in the neighbourhood, chief amongst which was a
visit to Medun, Voivoda Marko Drekalovic's grave.
Medun lies in the heart of the mountains, about four hours' ride from
Podgorica, and is the capital (if one can apply such a high-sounding
name to a ruined fortress and two or three houses) of the Kuc. The Kuc
is a large province inhabited by one of the most warlike tribes of
Montenegro, and only recently came under its rule, though their
sympathies were never with their Turkish rulers. The fact that it
borders on Albania is significant, and accounts for its fighting
qualities.
Voivoda Marko was largely instrumental in bringing about the last war
with Turkey, which was so successful to Montenegro, when the Kuc,
Podgorica, Niksic, the entire provinces of East Montenegro, the Brda,
and the sea-coast from Antivari to Dulcigno were won and confirmed to
Montenegro.
The famous battle of Fundina was won by Marko and his tribe alone
against an overwhelming Turkish army before war had been officially
declared with Montenegro.
Beginning life as a shepherd boy, Marko ended his days as Voivoda (or
Duke), and his name is famed in many a song and beloved by the
Montenegrins as one of their greatest heroes. Many were the stories of
his reckless bravery, which one of his relations told us. Before he
had reached the age of twenty he had killed many Turks in single
encounter, and was in consequence outlawed. He lived for some years in
the mountain fastnesses of his land, and together with a handful of
adventurers, who had cast in their lot with his, made descent after
descent on any bands of Turkish soldiers that happened to pass through
his domain. His fame soon reached the ears of Prince Nicolas, who sent
for him and placed him for some years in his bodyguard--that _corps
d'elite_ of the Montenegrins.
At the age of twenty-five he returned home and harassed the Turks to
such an extent that he could not show himself openly by daylight. Like
another and more famous outlaw in the days of the kings of Israel, all
those that were bitter of soul came down unto him, and he became
captain over them. By night he descended upon the Turks wherever he
could find them, and made great slaughter among them. The Governor of
Podgorica, then Turkish, Yussuf Mucic by name, offered a large sum of
money for his head, but no one could be found willing to meet that
terrible man whom legend and story had endowed with supernatural
powers. Finally, a criminal consented to attempt the deed on the
promise of his liberty, and this led to one of the most incredible
episodes in Marko's life. The criminal lay in wait for him on a lonely
part of the road near Rijeka, and as Marko was passing along he
stepped suddenly on to the road pistol in hand. Marko in no way
attempted defence, but simply transfixed the man with a glance. The
wretched man in an ecstasy of terror shot himself, so penetrating was
the glance which the Voivoda had given him. So runs the story. Suffice
it to remark that Marko arrived safe and sound the same evening in
Cetinje, and a dead criminal was found on the next day by the
roadside. Now Yussuf, the Governor, was himself a soldier of some
repute, and when he heard of the failure of his messenger he
boastfully expressed a desire to meet the celebrated Marko in single
combat. On this challenge being reported to him Marko rode off on a
half-tamed steed at midday into the heart of Podgorica, and reined up
before the Pasha's house. In fear and trembling the Turks hastily
closed their bazaars and houses as that fearful horseman galloped
through their streets. In a loud voice Marko cried--
"I am here, Yussuf, to answer thy challenge. Wilt thou now come out
and fight with me?"
But fear filled the heart of the craven Turk, and he sent a woman to
the window to say that he was away from home. Marko knew this to be a
lie, and cried so that all should hear him that henceforth the
challenge was annulled. "I do not fight with cowards," he said, and
again galloped away unmolested.
Such was the power that superstition had weaved around his person that
he was commonly believed to be invulnerable, which belief was
afterwards belied by the fact that he carried two bullets with him to
the grave.
After this public insult to Yussuf, it was known that he would spare
no pains to take Marko's life, and a touching episode is told of the
love which Marko's tribe bore to him. His people were ever ready to
sacrifice their lives for him, and in this instance it was deemed
necessary to remove the obnoxious Pasha. Accordingly a cousin of Marko
journeyed to the Podgorican market with a pistol concealed in a load
of wood. He lay in wait before Yussuf's house and shot him down as he
emerged. The Turkish populace literally cut him to pieces--a fate
which the devoted man well knew would befall him.
This and other events led up to the attack made by the Turkish troops
on the tribe of Kuc, when, at Fundina, Marko and his small tribe smote
the Moslems hip and thigh. The rest is a matter of history. He had
died but a few months before our visit, and by his last wish was
buried in the little fortress of Medun, which many years ago he had
stormed at the head of a handful of men under circumstances of great
bravery.
The ride thither gave us our first taste of the mountains. Rough,
stony paths through rocky ravines, sometimes skirting deep precipices,
and all round the intensely wild and magnificent mountains, led us to
the great gorge where Medun is situated. Perched on a seemingly
inaccessible crag, stands the famous ruined fortress, and at its foot
Marko's house.
We were made welcome by his widow, a regal woman of middle age, and
still strikingly handsome. Her dead husband was not only a great hero,
but a poet and historian, and one of the most remarkable features of
his life was that, at the age of forty, he taught himself to write,
and made his name famous as well in the Serb literary world. He had
always treated her as his companion, and not as the average
Montenegrin treats a woman--as a being of inferior quality and a
better class of servant. Marko had a wonderful character; a great
athlete, perfect rifle-shot, and a military warrior and leader of men,
he brought home during his campaigns over one hundred Turkish heads;
but he was also a refined gentleman, a true poet, and merciful to his
enemies. He was a notable exception in the matter of prisoners--he
always let them go unharmed, sometimes escorting them himself to a
place of safety.
Our visit gave much gratification to his widow, who was pleased that
strangers from such a distant land should wish to visit her husband's
grave, and she was hospitality itself.
After a rest and food in her house, she conducted us herself up the
steep winding path to the grave. We came abruptly upon a small plateau
in front of a tiny chapel. The scene was striking in the extreme.
There was the grave, with a rough pile of stones at the head, on which
were placed the dead man's "handjar," revolver and sword, and many
wreaths. Two lighted candles were flickering in the wind, and in a
semicircle stood a group of rough, fully-armed mountaineers, the
retainers of the Voivoda. It was stormy, and great gusts of wind and
rain dashed round the rocky fortress, and in the distance a rugged
pile of mountain peaks towered up into the descending mist.
The widow left us, and, kneeling at the grave, quietly kissed the cold
stones, praying for a few moments in deep silence. Not a man spoke or
moved as we stood with bared heads and waited. Slowly rising, she came
to us and led us into the chapel, a bare shell, not even furnished
with an altar, and with the original earthen floor.
"My beloved husband wished to be buried in here," said the widow, "but
it was not allowed. The Prince wished him to be buried in Podgorica,
as he was never courtier and was so beloved and honoured by his
people--more than the Prince himself. But my husband called me to his
side, and with his last breath made me swear to bury him in this
chapel, or at least in front of it. And when the order came that he
should be buried below, I swore to shoot myself on his grave, and the
men of Kuc swore to take his body up here, even if they had to fight
every inch of the way. So it was allowed that he should be buried
here, but we shall bury him in the chapel, for that I promised him as
he died."
And she took my hand solemnly in hers, illustrating her oath to the
dying man, and I shivered in that gloomy chamber as her impassioned
voice echoed in its arches.
Suddenly a wailing of women broke upon the utter silence which ensued,
and nearer and nearer came that weird singing as it approached the
summit. The women were chanting Marko's death dirge. At last, as they
passed the little window, we went outside and saw four women,
dishevelled and weeping, approach the grave, kneeling on one side. The
widow left us again and knelt alone opposite.
One woman only sang at a time, a series of extempore verses telling of
the life and deeds of the hero--his accomplishments and goodness--in
the poetical language of this wild people.
"Oh, thou grey falcon, who was so mighty a hunter as thou?"
"Who indeed shall now wield thy bloodstained sword?"
"Oh, thou wolf, who is worthy to take thy place as our ruler and
father?"
And the others beat their breasts and tore their hair, wailing in a
wild unison, until the singer was exhausted and then another began.
Here and there a deep sob broke from a man, but otherwise the ring of
men with bowed heads remained in dead silence and immovable as the
rocks around them.
It was one of the most impressive scenes it has been our fortune to
witness, but we were glad when the widow rose and conducted us back to
the house. Some letters and poems of the Voivoda were shown to us, and
one of the letters to a friend then present in the room was read
aloud. The great rough Montenegrin was so touched at hearing the words
of his master and lord, that he turned away his head and sobbed. All
this time the women ceased not with their wild lamentations, and even
after we took our leave and started on our rough ride home in
pouring rain, that death dirge followed us, echoing in the ravines
and mountains.
[Illustration: THE GRAVE SCENE AT MEDUN]
Since then we have often heard the death dirge sung in Montenegro.
Sometimes in a house in passing; again, an old woman trudging to
market will sing the death dirge of a relation, perhaps dead many
years. But we never heard those piercing, wailing notes without having
the picture of Medun recalled vividly to our memory.
When a man dies he is laid out in the sitting-room, and all the
friends and relations are summoned. Then the men enter the room singly
and approach the corpse. Tearing open their shirts they beat
themselves with their fists on their naked breasts, often tearing the
flesh with their nails, and give vent to ear-piercing wails. Each
new-comer strives to outdo his predecessor in excesses, and horrible
scenes ensue. But the Prince discountenances this custom, and it is
slowly dying out, but only in the upper classes.
We often took our rifles and went out into the country for a little
target practice, and always succeeded in attracting a group of
spectators from adjacent villages or huts. Towards Albania we were
requested not to go for shooting, as the noise of rifle-shots is apt
to mislead the surrounding villagers. Even when shooting in other
directions, we were carefully warned not to fire rapidly, but to shoot
slowly and deliberately, as at target practice.
Rapid firing is "the alarm," and would mobilise a brigade of infantry
within an hour or two.
On one occasion we were shooting at a somewhat difficult object about
one hundred and fifty yards away. We were trying to hit it, standing,
and had not succeeded. A group of some twenty men had collected, and
they soon began to make facetious remarks. One offered to bring the
target nearer. Another said he would stand target for a few shots--we
shouldn't hit him. So we gave one or two of them our rifles and told
them to hit it. Immediately they selected stones as rests, and lay
down for their shot.
"Ah," said we, "we can do that; shoot as we do, standing, and without
a rest."
"That," they said, "is not shooting--who shoots like that in war?"
But we were inexorable, and needless to say they failed to hit
anywhere near.
The Montenegrins are good shots enough, if they can take long and
deliberate aim, steadying their rifles on walls or rocks, but
otherwise they are miserable marksmen.
Quite close to Podgorica there lives a hermit, a wonderful man who has
hewn out of the living rock a tiny chapel, a store-room, and a passage
leading to the chapel. He has only just completed it, and we inscribed
our names in his new book as his first visitors.
[Illustration: VOIVODA MARKO]
[Illustration: SIMEON POPOVIC AND HIS CHAPEL]
The hermit, a priest of most refined manners and appearance, named
Simeon Popovic, was most delighted at our visit. He spoke Russian and
French fluently; his story is quite a little romance.
Before he took Orders he had been a soldier, and was a rich man. It
was while he was absent on a campaign that his wife eloped and his
relations robbed him of all his money. He returned home to find
himself wifeless, dishonoured, and a beggar. Then he became a priest,
and a vision appeared to him, showing him Daibabe, where he now lives,
commanding him to go and build a church. He refused the offer of a
rich priorship and came to this place, possessed of no means whatever
wherewith to commence his life's work. Unable to buy building
materials, he began to hollow out a church from the rock, without help
or money of any kind, beyond that given him by the pious but direly
poor peasants of the neighbourhood. The labour must have been immense,
but there it stands a monument to man's perseverance and faith.
Simeon is reckoned as a saint by the peasants; they come to him from
all parts of the country, bringing their sick, and many cures are said
to have been effected there. He is a vegetarian, and subsists solely
on the products of his little garden.
Spuz lies on the River Zeta, and must be reached by a bridge. It is
always safer to dismount when crossing a Montenegrin bridge, off the
main roads. This was no exception, but the scenery was delightful.
Rising immediately at the back of the village is a steep hill crowned
by a mighty fortress. It was held formerly by the Turks, and the
peasants say that it was built by them; but the architecture is
distinctly Venetian and an exact counterpart of many fortresses in
Dalmatia.
It is strange, however, for there are no records that the Venetians
ever came further inland than Scutari.
The inn at Spuz, where we dined, was as other country inns (or krcma,
or han, as they are locally termed from the Turkish): earthen floor, a
bench, a few primitive stools and beds in the only reception-room. The
table is invariably rickety, so are the stools; but a tablecloth,
knives and forks are always mysteriously produced for guests even in
the most out-of-the-way places.
While our repast was being prepared we had a revolver shooting
competition outside the door, to which the whole village flocked. One
of the men made a very fine shot from his saddle at a tree-stump in
the river, about two hundred and fifty yards away, and _hit_ within a
few feet. It proved the accuracy and carrying distance of the
Montenegrin revolver.
[Illustration: SPUZ]
After our meal, consisting of raw ham, eggs (oh, those everlasting
eggs!), and a peculiar and nondescript kind of meat, about which we
asked no questions, the village captain called on us and bore us off
to his house for coffee.
This man, a Turkish renegade, was one of the most interesting men whom
we met. He was a marvellous talker--in fact, he never stopped during
our visit. How the subject came up has passed my memory, but suddenly
he rushed out of the room and brought back a handful of little medals.
"Look," he said, "each medal represents a human life, a head. We have
these given us for every head we bring back in war. Do you think I am
proud of them, and there are more than fifty? No, I weep when I see
them. When I had seized my foe by his hair preparatory to cutting off
his head, a vision of his mother, his wife, and his sisters appeared
before me, and I could have wept as I struck off his head. Why should
I kill this man? I asked myself. I know him not, he has done me no
harm, yet because it is war, arranged by princes and kings, we must
become murderers. And why should I kill him? because others would
misconstrue my act of mercy if I did it not, and brand me a coward,
aye and worse, a traitor. Why should _I_ make that mother childless?
why must _I_ rob that loving wife of her husband? Why _I_ be the means
of making those little children fatherless and orphans?"
I confess the picture that he conjured up of solemnly and with
streaming eyes cutting off his enemies' heads--and he had owned to
over fifty--as he thought of destitute homes and weeping women and
children, seemed decidedly tragi-comic; but the old man was earnest
enough, and was quite unconscious of the grim humour of the situation.
"Why," he went on, excitedly pacing the room, "why do not the German
Emperor and the King of England fight out their quarrels _alone_? Why
drag thousands of men from their homes and farms to fight _their_
quarrels?"
Again the idea of our King fighting a solemn duel, with perhaps
Maxims, over a question of an island in the Pacific, with the German
Emperor, while admiring millions looked on and applauded, caused a
smile which we with difficulty repressed from diplomatic reasons.
He took his scimitar now in his hand.
"Look, too, at the generals," he said excitedly, "directing battles
from safe places, while hundreds of innocent lives are thrown away in
an assault which that general has ordered from his place of safety.
Once," he went on--"I was fighting for the Turks then, and commanded a
body of soldiers--a general came to me, saying, 'Storm that hill,' and
I answered, 'No; thou art our leader, lead us to the assault.' And he
refused, saying, 'How can I direct the battle if I lead this
attack--who shall take my place if I fall?' And I drew my sword"--and
here he suited his action to his words--"and said I would kill him if
he did not take his true position as leader of men and lead us to the
attack--then I and my men would follow wherever he went. And the
general, who was a brave man, led us to the assault and fell--but we
took the hill and the battle was won."
It was strange talk to hear from such a man, little better than a
savage, yet unlike any of his adopted countrymen. That man in a
civilised country would have made himself known and even celebrated.
Not far from Podgorica, at the junction of the rivers Moraca and Zeta,
lie the remains of the once famous Dioclea or Dukla, as it is locally
called. The town is of Roman origin, and was surrounded by a complete
moat, which the Romans formed by digging a channel between the rivers.
It must have been a place of immense strength in the olden days, but
successive generations of warfare, which raged so pitilessly in this
district, have levelled it to the ground, and to-day little or nothing
can be seen from the adjoining roadway. On approaching there is also
very little to be seen, here and there a wall, and small fragments of
mosaic floors. Coins and other relics are still found in large
quantities, and it seems a pity that excavation, which could do so
much, has been only carried on in a very halting and desultory manner.
Legend and history relate that the famous Roman Emperor Diocletian was
born here, and gave his name to the town. The district of Dioclea,
which was one of the seven confederate Serb states formed by Heraclius
to repel the attacks of the Avars, is in reality the germ of modern
Montenegro.