Stephan our servant--Virpazar--The drive over the Sutormann
Pass--Antivari and Prstan--The beauty of the bay--We are delayed by
contrary winds--We are rowed to Dulcigno--We make the acquaintance of
Marko Ivankovic--A story concerning him--We shoot together--An episode
on a lake--Vaccination--The Turkish inhabitants.
For our journey to the sea-coast towns of Antivari (Bar) and Dulcigno
(Ulcinj) we deemed it advisable to take a servant with us, and our
choice fell on Stephan, a Hungarian by birth, but a ten years' sojourn
in the Land of the Black Mountain had completely Montenegrinised him,
if we may coin a word. As he was our constant companion for several
months, it would be well to describe him.
Every statement that Stephan made had to be liberally discounted--this
we found out afterwards--for he was a born liar, and not a skilful one
at that. He had one marvellous story about a large sum of money lying
in his name in a bank in Hungary, which he must fetch in person, but
he could never save enough money to make the journey. This was an
obvious falsehood. But the story of his coming to Montenegro seemed
true. He was a sergeant of an Austrian infantry regiment, and had
attempted to cut down his superior officer in a fit of rage, severing
his ear with a sabre. He fled to the Montenegrin border, which was
quite close to his garrison, and has been in Montenegro ever since,
wearing the national costume and married to a girl of the country.
Stephan was certainly a most violent-tempered man, but he was often
entertaining, full of fun, a decent cook, and could sing a host of odd
songs and snatches picked up in Austrian garrison towns. Otherwise he
was a thorough Montenegrin, though he considered himself vastly their
superior. His temper at other times would be vile, but the mastery
over himself was really great, and after a sharp remonstrance he could
change his mood completely.
Taking the omnibus of the Anglo-Montenegrin Trading Company, rudely
dubbed "the Hearse," to Plavnica, the station for Podgorica on the
Lake of Scutari, we transferred our luggage to a huge barge, or
"londra," and were slowly punted out on to the lake through one of
those extraordinary canals which intersect the marshy land at this end
of the lake. There the good ship _Danitza_, owned by the same company,
awaited us, and conveyed us to Virpazar, past our island of Vranjina
and its little chapel.
[Illustration: VIRPAZAR]
Virpazar is the scene of the Montenegrin Vespers in 1702, and one of
the richest villages in the district. Prettily situated up a long
estuary of the lake, it is nothing but a collection of about twenty
small houses, with arched ground floors, the people living on the
first floor. The village is frequently flooded in the winter.
The importance of this village lies in the fact that it is the
connecting link--and a very bad one at that--between the rest of
Montenegro and the sea. But no road connects it with the mainland, and
travellers from Cetinje or Podgorica must take the steamer from either
Rijeka or Plavnica to Virpazar, and from thence a good road leads over
the Sutormann Pass to Antivari. A road which is being built between
Virpazar and Rijeka will supply a long-felt want. At present, when the
Prince or Crown Prince wish to visit their favourite residence on the
sea at Topolica, near Antivari, the horses have to be sent by a
roundabout mountain path from Rijeka, taking many hours, while the
Princes take steamer and have a tedious wait in the inn at Virpazar.
To this inn we went--there was no choice about it; it is the only one,
and, moreover, there is but a single room for guests, serving as
dining and sleeping apartment. Though we arrived at midday, we had to
wait till the following day at noon for the postcart--twenty-four
hours in this very uninteresting hole.
But we hobnobbed with the local grandees, for there is the district
law court here (the captain and magistrate have their residences in
the village), and managed to pass the time fairly agreeably. In the
evening we sat under the trees in front of our humble yet princely
hostel, and talked of many things to our newly made friends. The frogs
in the marshes made a terrific noise, almost drowning our
conversation.
Next morning we entered the post-chaise, in which we had wisely booked
all the four seats, and made a start on our six hours' drive. What
would have happened had other travellers arrived is hard to imagine. A
wait of forty-eight hours till the next post went would have probably
caused annoyance, and this carriage was literally the only means of
conveyance on this side of Montenegro. It goes one day and returns the
next. Fortunately, passengers are extremely rare. The drive was of
great interest, winding up in a series of sweeping curves between
magnificent hills. The ridge on our left was the site of a great
battle in the last war, when a small Montenegrin force dislodged a
large Turkish army and captured Antivari and the long-coveted sea. The
danger and recklessness of the feat was apparent from the road, and it
was evidently not expected by the Turks, for a false step on those
rocky heights meant certain death.
[Illustration: ANTIVARI ON BAR]
The top of the Sutormann Pass (2,700 feet) was reached in about four
hours, and now the deep blue Adria was spread out before us, and our
tortuous descent commenced. Commanding the pass still stands a mighty
but much-battered fortress, taken by the gallant Montenegrins in
that memorable battle. But nowhere could the historical old town and
fortress of Bar, or Antivari, be seen. In fact, not till we were
within a few hundred yards of the town, was a single house in view. It
is hidden from sight in a hollow, surrounded by a forest of olive
trees.
All of a sudden the carriage drew up at a recently built stone house,
ornamented with the trophies of war. Piles of cannon-balls, old
cannon, splinters of shells are tastefully arranged on the walls.
Immediately in front of us stood the once famous fortress of Bar, now
a shot-riddled and ruined mass of stone, a mere shell of its former
strength.
Even then the town is hardly apparent, but in a few seconds one enters
it down a steep and slippery path of well-worn stones. On either side
are Turkish bazaars, out of which Turkish faces peer at the infidel
dogs. There is very little of the Montenegrin element apparent. We
only walked through the town once, as our destination was Prstan, the
actual seaport of Antivari.
We were somewhat rudely disillusioned. After an hour's drive along a
flat and ugly road, we espied a collection of some half a dozen
houses. Two or three of them are large and modern in appearance but
that was all. Was this, then, Antivari, Montenegro's important seaport
and the bone of contention with Austria?
Right well has Austria maintained its control of this little port. One
large house is that of the Austrian Vice-Consul, who lives in solitary
state, watching everyone who passes through the port. Opposite, on the
further horn of the bay, lies Spizza, an Austrian military station.
Antivari is, indeed, but Montenegrin in name.
Right on the shore and in the centre of the large bay stands a white
house, a short distance from the Austrian frontier, which is Topolica,
the favourite residence of the Crown Prince. Square, undecorated, and
uninteresting, it is almost an exact counterpart of the other
Montenegrin royal residences. Yet its position is superb. From either
corner of the bay, where the mountains meet the sea, stretches an
unbroken chain of mountain peaks, rugged and forbidding, but extremely
picturesque. Witnessed at sunset when the soft lights mellow the sharp
outlines, and the sombreness of the mountains is tinged with red, the
fascination which this place holds for this lover of nature, Prince
Danilo, can be well understood. We spent two days revelling in its
wild solitariness.
Our hotel was distinctly quaint, but we were very comfortable. Again
we had but one room for all, but it was clean, and the hostess, an
Austrian, an excellent cook.
We hoped to have started on our further journeys the following day,
and found a small sailing vessel anchored in the bay; the captain
consenting to take us on to Dulcigno. It was an Albanian boat, manned
by about half a dozen cut-throats, and in spite of warnings we
arranged to leave next day. Anything would be preferable to a ride of
eight hours over mountain tracks on mules to Dulcigno; and we were all
well armed.
But the next day brought contrary winds, and we were forced to spend
another day in Prstan. That day a large Italian steamer arrived and
anchored in the bay, to take Prince Nicolas to Italy for the
christening of his little granddaughter. Shortly before dark he
arrived, attended by two adjutants, and after speaking a few words to
the harbour captain, who respectfully kissed his hand, embarked in a
boat, and was pulled on board the steamer. We were again struck with
the immense breadth of his figure, clad in a long, grey military
overcoat, which makes him look much shorter than he really is. He is
really a typical-looking prince of a race of freeborn mountaineers. As
he receded from the shore, we drew our revolvers and joined in the
parting fusillade, shouting "Zivio" as lustily as any of the little
handful who had awaited him.
The agent of the Austrian Lloyd Steamship Company came to our rescue
on the following morning, as the Albanian boat made no preparations
for starting, and offered to take us in his own boat to Dulcigno.
This we gladly accepted, and about midday started in his large and
roomy boat, built for sailing or for rowing, and manned by four
Montenegrin sailors.
The wind failed us most of the way, and our four men propelled us with
long oars or sweeps which are worked standing up and facing them, a
method of rowing common in the Adriatic. It is a splendid exercise,
but like everything else it wants practice, as we speedily found out
when we took a turn.
Coffee, without which no true Montenegrin can exist, was made _en
route_, and proved highly acceptable.
Luckily we had taken a supply of food with us, though we had been told
that we should be in Dulcigno for supper, and this again we devoured
with ravenous appetites as the long hours wore on. The coast was
monotonous, a never-varying bank of hills descending to the water's
edge. Here and there a tiny village could be seen, but otherwise no
life, and little vegetation.
Not till nine o'clock in the evening did we reach Dulcigno, and the
impression that the lights in the houses on the hillsides made is not
easily to be forgotten. It seemed like a colony of spacious and
luxurious villas on well-wooded slopes. In pitch dark we arrived at a
quay, and groped our way out of the boat, and were led to the inn.
Great knockings and shoutings summoned the innkeeper from his early
slumbers. While waiting in the darkness below, the Turkish muezzins
ascended the many minarets, and began the evening call to prayer. The
weird chanting from so many voices (there are seven mosques in
Dulcigno) in the otherwise utter stillness had a most uncanny effect.
It was a strange arrival.
Our inn was slightly less primitive than the preceding ones. We had a
tiny bedroom apiece, and there was a room downstairs for eating
purposes, though we were always able to take our meals outside under
the trees.
Dulcigno, or Ulcinj, is certainly the prettiest town in Montenegro,
though it is to all intents and purposes Turkish in appearance. Built
partly on a hill overlooking the sea, it descends into a small bay
where the occasional passing steamers anchor. Well wooded and hilly,
it is really a delightful spot, though the Turkish element may or may
not detract from its beauty according to personal taste. The irregular
houses, the mosques with their slender towers, the bazaar, and the
gaily-dressed if dirty crowds that circulated between the rows of
shops--gave a distinctly pleasing effect. The heavily-veiled women,
wearing in addition to the veil a thick cloth cape with a capacious
hood, amused us greatly, for on meeting us, lest our bold eyes should
pierce their disguise, they would stop and turn their faces to the
wall. What these poor creatures suffer from the heat in these
ponderous cloaks can only be imagined, and Dulcigno is by no means
cold.
Though the fantastic picture conjured up the night of our arrival by
the twinkling lights, peeping out of the dark foliage, on the hillside
was not realised, still the entirely different picture of the reality
was equally pleasing.
We called the next morning on the harbour captain, an Austrian and
ex-sea-captain, who received us most kindly and courteously. Through
him we were at once able to make the acquaintance of one Marko
Ivankovic, a hunter of great prowess, whom we immediately engaged to
attend us for the shooting in the neighbourhood.
Now, though we will not go so far as to say that he was the sole
object of our visit to Dulcigno, still he did certainly influence our
plans. Once, during our very first stay at Podgorica, we met an
Austrian ornithologist and sportsman who told us a wonderful
experience of his at Dulcigno with this very man, Marko Ivankovic. He
had come to Dulcigno one night by steamer, to spend a few months in
this paradise for sportsmen, and as he entered a lowly inn, a man of
almost repellent aspect sat brooding gloomily, evidently lost in a fit
of abstraction. This man gave no greeting to the new-comer, who sat
down at the further end of the table and ordered food. Shortly
afterwards the man rose and silently left the room. An hour later this
same man reappeared in the doorway, cap in hand, and humbly asked
permission of the ornithologist to seat himself at the same table. The
permission was readily given, and the man (it was Marko) came near and
attempted to kiss L.'s coat. This action signifies the greatest
humility, and is only accorded to persons of the highest rank. L.
remonstrated strongly, saying--
"Why dost thou kiss my coat? I am a man like thyself, and no prince.
What wouldst thou from me?"
"Sir, I see that thou art a hunter (L. had his dogs with him), and I
would fain be thy servant."
L. wanted a man, and from his conversation he soon gathered that this
was no inexperienced huntsman, and so they spoke of terms. But Marko
at first would not hear of anything of the sort, saying he would serve
for nothing. Naturally L. refused to accept his services gratis, and
at last an arrangement was made that Marko should first prove his
capabilities and serve a term of probation. Even then Marko refused to
take money, but a present of a gun or some article to the value of his
services at so much a day.
With this plan L. was forced to be content, and two days afterwards
the expeditions into the neighbouring country were commenced. To tell
the story in L.'s own words:--[2]
"After we had been together some weeks Marko became gloomy and cast
down, unlike his usual merry self. It was no easy task to persuade him
to tell me what was the matter. It appeared that he was in debt, and
should not the money be paid very shortly, his house and all that was
his would be seized. Of course I gave him the money, which happened to
be more than his due up to that day, and he took it as a loan. This
condition he insisted on, and I laughingly assented."
It was then that we first heard of Achmed Uiko, who told us the story
of his life in Podgorica. Jovan, of the tribe Kuc, had been publicly
beaten in Dulcigno at this time, and in revenge had shot the Governor,
who had ordered this ignominious punishment. Jovan had fled to
Alessio, in Albania, with a price upon his head, and certain persons
came to Marko to beg him to follow the assassin and bring back his
head. Marko was then in L.'s service, and confided his dilemma to his
master, who told him that if he but harboured such thoughts he was not
fit to be his servant. Marko then refused, and Achmed Uiko accepted,
murdering Jovan in a boat while fishing, and the head was subsequently
displayed in Dulcigno. This is a noteworthy episode, for it led to the
abolition of corporal punishment and of the barbarous custom of
displaying heads on poles.
[Footnote 2: This story was published in the _Wide World Magazine_,
and is reproduced with the Editor's permission.]
To return, however, to the story:--
"After several weeks I made a day's tour with Marko to the Bojana. At
the mouth of the river, which you know is the outlet of the Lake of
Scutari, a large island has been formed by a stranded ship which sank
there, and all the debris, logs, and other rubbish have formed a delta
of some size upon the wreck. It abounds in game, and thither we
journeyed one morning early, reaching it some few hours later by a
small boat in which we ferried ourselves across. During the day a
great storm sprang up, precluding all chance of returning to the
mainland that evening. In a hut of boughs we spent a miserable night,
drenched to the skin by the incessant rain. Not till towards evening
of the following day could we recross, and it was bright moonlight
when we commenced our weary tramp, heavily laden and wet, to Dulcigno.
The neighbourhood is dangerous, both Albanians and Montenegrins shoot
at sight, and care must always be exercised.
"Perhaps we had covered half the distance, when Marko suddenly and
without a word of warning threw the bags and other things he was
carrying to the ground. 'It is a dog's life, nay worse, that I lead
with thee. My health is ruined, my clothes spoilt, and not a kreutzer
do I get.'
"I was furious at the man's infamous lie, for he was still several
guldens to the good, and even more so at the disadvantage he had taken
over me. Here we were alone in a wild and dangerous district, miles
from home, and not a human being near.
"'Thou liest, thou ungrateful dog. Thou art an ass without a face.'
"As I said this in my rage--it is a terrible insult to call a man a
faceless ass--Marko's face was transformed with speechless fury. His
high cheek-bones and black curly hair always made him unprepossessing,
for his was a distinctly negro type of face, and now with his lips
drawn back like a snarling wolf, disclosing his yellow teeth and
gleaming eyeballs, he looked like a fiend incarnate. I shudder now
when I recall that moonlit scene.
"His hand dropped like lightning on the butt of his revolver, but in
the moment I had sprung back a pace and covered him with my gun, which
I was luckily carrying cocked.
"'Thy hand from the revolver,' I cried, 'or thou art a dead man.'
Slowly his hand sank to his side. 'Pick up those things at once and
carry them before me, or as sure as there is a God in heaven I will
shoot thee like the dog thou art.'
"As if every movement was of the greatest exertion he picked up the
traps, saying as he did so, 'Thou shalt remember these insults.'
[Illustration: MARKO IVANKOVIC]
[Illustration: THE BRIDGE AT RIJEKA]
"'Be still!' I cried, covering him with my gun, 'and now precede me.'
"And in this fashion we returned to my house. He threw the load into a
corner of the room, and at the door he returned and repeated his
warning, vanishing in the darkness.
"From this time onwards I shot alone. Try as I would I could get no
one to come with me, and this I put down to the worthy Marko's
influence. Thrice I saw him while out shooting, but only once within
speaking distance. I then called to him 'Marko, I know thou wilt try
and kill me; but listen, I am married and have a wife and child at
home. For their sakes I ask thee to shoot at me from the front, and
thus give me a chance to defend myself.'
"He smiled strangely again, saying, 'Thou wilt remember thy insults,'
and disappeared.
"I always took cover when I saw him, but nothing happened, and the eve
of my departure arrived. The steamer left in the early morning, and
just as dawn was breaking and I was still in bed Marko entered the
room. He approached my bed, and laid upon the table by my head the sum
of money I had advanced him to repay his debt. Then he spoke:--
"'I saidst that thou wouldst remember the insults thou hast put upon
me. Here is thy money, and now listen to my story. Thou hadst scarce
set foot in Dulcigno when thy death was planned by an enemy, and I
was hired to do the deed. That was why I would take no wages, for I
was already well paid; besides, it was thought that thou wouldst then
certainly engage my services. I was to accidentally shoot thee while
hunting. What more easy than to stumble and for my gun to explode? But
when I knew thee, then I could not kill thee thus. I tried to provoke
thee that night, knowing thee to be a violent-tempered man; I provoked
thee into insulting me. I hoped thou wouldst have struck me, and then
it would have been easy. Thou wast very near death at that moment, for
in spite of thy gun I could have shot thee, but thou hadst grown too
much into my heart. Even in my rage I was powerless. And now here is
thy money. I have kept my word, and am an honourable man.'
"I sprang from my bed and stopped him. 'Who was my enemy?' I cried.
"'One who knew thee in Bosnia. This man had hoped that thou wouldst
visit him, and thy coffee was ready poisoned. When I left thy service
another man was hired to kill thee, but I followed thee wherever thou
went. Thus didst thou see me these three times.'
"I knew now who my enemy was. A man exiled by the Austrians for
treasonable practices whilst I was still an official in Bosnia. Marko
accompanied me to the ship, but not until I swore on my honour to
otherwise throw the money into the sea would he accept it, and then
only that which he had actually earned, not a kreutzer more, for I
would have willingly made him a present. Thus Marko Ivankovic went out
of my life, but I shall never forget him."
Such was the story we heard one evening in Podgorica, and which we
were here able to prove in part. When Marko heard that we were friends
of his former master, his face lighted up with joy, and he kissed our
hands. During our stay he was always with us, a devoted attendant and
servant. Another very interesting phase of his life had been spent in
the Hercegovina, where he fought as an outlaw for many years against
the Austrians. He still possesses two mementoes of his adventures in
that land, one in the form of an officer's undress jacket, technically
called a "blouse," and the other of a more permanent character,
namely, a maimed hand. He and his band were surprised one night by
gendarmes, and a fierce hand-to-hand fight ensued, during which an
Austrian aimed a cut at Marko with his sword. Marko caught the blow on
his hand and held the blade fast, but the gendarme drew back the
weapon sharply and severed all the tendons of his hand. Marko cannot
now open his hand, but his wounder was sped to the happy
hunting-grounds there and then, as he modestly relates.
Shooting of the same kind as on the Lake of Scutari is to be found in
abundance all round Dulcigno. Unfortunately the Bojana and the
afore-mentioned island at its mouth was closed to us. The evening of
our arrival two men had been shot there, and it is doubtful, even had
we insisted on going, whether the authorities would have permitted it.
It is not good to visit localities just after shooting affrays. In
this instance the peasants on both sides were excited, and we
reluctantly gave up the trip to which we had looked forward for some
time. However, there was plenty left to shoot over, and we had much
good sport with pelican, duck, and crane.
One rather unpleasant incident occurred during our stay, which very
nearly ended seriously.
The lakes and swamps over which we shot lay at about an hour and a
half's walk from the town, and it was necessary to be there by
daybreak. We had ordered our paddlers to await us one morning at dawn,
and on our arrival were considerably annoyed to find no one there but
a boy. After a short wait we started, taking the boy and the larger
londra, or canoe, Marko and Stephan paddling as well. A longer delay
would have spoilt our morning, as the fowl disappear long before the
sun is well up in the heavens. About an hour later we discerned a boat
paddling furiously towards us, and, coming alongside, the inmates
proved to be our missing crew. Seizing our canoe, the spokesman
addressed our boy, abusing him roundly, saying he had stolen his
canoe, and demanded the paddles peremptorily. The boy looked at us
helplessly, and naturally refused, for we were in the middle of a
lake. The man then became livid with rage, rocked our canoe violently,
threatening to overturn us into the water. Then his hand dropped on
his revolver, and in his face appeared unmistakably the lust to kill.
All this passed so quickly that we had listened to the altercation in
open-mouthed astonishment. The rage and violence took us utterly by
surprise, for nothing of the kind had ever happened to us before from
the naturally courteous Montenegrins. However, now the man's rage
communicated itself to us, and in the twinkling of an eye both Marko
and myself had covered him with our firearms--we both had guns at our
side--and Stephan began to talk. Stephan was a violent-tempered man,
and now he let himself go. He spoke for some minutes, and it was
lurid. The muzzle of my carbine began to wobble, for his fluency and
comprehensiveness were distinctly amusing, while our attacker, who
soon let go the butt of his revolver, listened with pained but
undisguised admiration. "And now, thou accursed one," wound up
Stephan, after he had paid attention, in his burst of eloquence, to
the man's family, antecedents, personal appearance, and probable
future, "go back to the hotel, and await my master's return! Thou
knowest the law. For even laying the hand on thy revolver in anger,
and against strangers in our land, thou wilt be thrown into prison,
and thou wilt receive ten months. I will come and see thee, and listen
to the music of thy clanking chains, and we will talk of to-day's
doings!" By the time Stephan had finished, abject fear was depicted on
the man's face, and his companions showed signs of having heard
enough. Murmuring apologies, they sheered off, and with a slow and
thoughtful rhythm paddled back the way they had come.
On our return to the inn several hours later the three men were
standing stiffly outside the door, cap in hand and thoroughly scared.
He who had attacked us spoke tremblingly, offering as an excuse that
they had fished all night and had but gone for some food before taking
us out again. They were direly poor, he said, and the fear of losing
their wages had upset them, the long night without sleep had destroyed
their powers of reasoning, and--would we forgive them for the
dastardly outrage? Needless to say we dismissed them, as do the
magistrates, with a caution.
We met amongst other Montenegrin officials the district doctor, an
interesting man of varied experience. At his invitation we witnessed
the annual vaccination, which is compulsory in Montenegro.
[Illustration: VACCINATION]
[Illustration: BAZAAR LIFE, DULCIGNO]
Outside the door of the principal mosque the doctor and his
assistants and some other officials took up their position one morning
and waited. Shortly afterwards crowds of children appeared on the
scene, mostly in charge of their Turkish fathers or elder brothers,
some of the latter scarcely able to carry their little burdens. Very
rarely a Turkish mother appeared, closely veiled, but the Christian
mothers invariably came; that is, the Albanian Christians from the
outlying villages. Very quaint are these women in a most picturesque
costume and carrying their infants in a cumbersome and unwieldy cradle
slung on their backs. It was a very varied assortment of babies which
was presented to the doctor, many of the Turkish children being so
emaciated and such a mass of repulsive sores, that many were sent away
as too weak. Most of them shrieked with fear, but a few came up
smiling, one and all comforted by their protector, either Turk, child,
or fond mother. The fathers invariably showed the most distressed
concern. It was a comical sight; outside the rails a motley crowd of
interested spectators and waiting children, and in the inclosure the
doctor pricking his patients one after the other in a most indifferent
manner. His clerk noted the names, and we, with some of the local
grandees, drank tiny cups of coffee and looked on.
The Albanian or Turkish element is very strong in Dulcigno, and they
are the only Montenegrin subjects exempt from compulsory military
service. The Montenegrin authorities told us that they were very
peaceable and industrious, giving no trouble whatever. It is, after
Podgorica, the largest town in Montenegro, and does a lot of trade in
small sailing-boats down the coast. As many as seventy-five per cent
of the men are usually away at sea, carrying the Montenegrin flag as
far as Constantinople. It is quite cut off from the rest of
Montenegro, except by a mule track connecting it over a difficult
mountain path with Antivari and the rest of the country. By sea it is
connected by the Austrian-Lloyd weekly Albanian Line, and by one or
two smaller steamers which occasionally call there, with Cattaro and
the Albanian coast towns.