More memorial stones--We get wet again--Unwilling hosts--A fall--The
Franciscan of Zatrijebac--The ravine of the Zem--Methods of settling
tribal differences--A change of diet and more pleasant evenings--A
fatalist--Sunday morning.
Punctually at eight a.m. next morning we took an affectionate farewell
of the Fathers, though I mounted hurriedly first to avoid the
repetition of the welcoming chaste salute.
Our path lay for two hours over a rocky and barren country similar to
the naked Katunska district round Cetinje. Gone were the rich green
pasturages and wooded valleys in exchange for a waste of grey rocks.
But a large wood was ultimately reached, only a little less dangerous
than the wood of Vucipotok. Similar precautions were observed in
passing through--in fact, our carbines were carried loaded again all
day. The Albanian border was never more than a rifle-shot away.
Numerous gentle reminders of the dangers of the path existed in the
shape of memorial stones all the way along. We met several families,
all fully armed of course, driving their flocks before them to the
mountain grazing-grounds of the Kom.
It was about one o'clock when we emerged on a large barren plateau.
On the further side, just across the border, lay the Albanian village
of Korito, which Dr. S. knew, and where we intended spending the rest
of the day and night.
Half-way across, a sudden storm of rain and hail came down, and I have
never got wet through so quickly in my life. Within five minutes, the
water was running out of my boots. My leather coat, though waterproof,
let regular rivers down my neck. It was a rain that would not be
denied, and icy cold.
In that waterspout we sat and waited while Dr. S. hunted up his
friends; but apparently they had all left, with their flocks. A few
Albanians appeared, and by the dint of much persuasion Dr. S. induced
them to show us an empty hut. As soon as they had done this they left
us, looking at us in an unfriendly and suspicious manner. We got our
baggage in as quickly as possible, and by this time we were shivering
with cold. No wood could be seen, and Dr. S. again sallied forth, and
by the aid of small bribes some wood was brought and we soon had a
fire burning.
However, our natural buoyancy rose again with the fire, and we made a
very light meal off the food that we had with us. It was not more than
a few mouthfuls apiece, but nothing could be got here. Then we
solemnly stood round the fire and dried ourselves, the steam rising
like pillars of cloud, and hiding our figures from each other. The
warmth was very agreeable and comforting.
Several Albanians now crowded in, examining our arms, and were so
unfriendly, not to say threatening, that we hastily reconsidered our
plans. Firstly and foremostly, we had no food, watch would have to be
kept all the time, over the horses and at the hut, using up two men,
so the prospect was not pleasing.
So we saddled up and left about three for Zatrijebac, four hours'
distance, happy to be rid of our unwilling hosts.
The difference between the treatment of strangers by Albanians and
Montenegrins was very marked.[5]
Our path led us through the great wood of Kostice, and, owing to the
recent heavy rain, the track, never very plain, was in parts entirely
obliterated. Twice we lost ourselves, and once more a drenching shower
came on, repeating the morning douche. Still we plodded on with
stumbling horses over the slippery way till we emerged on the great
plain or plateau of Zatrijebac. Zatrijebac is an Albanian clan several
thousand strong who live under Montenegrin rule. They serve as
Montenegrin subjects in the army, give no trouble except in occasional
border fights with rival Albanian clans, and their bravery is
proverbial. Further, they are Roman Catholics. The country is most
curious, great slabs of stone lying about in a promiscuous fashion as
if it had once rained them, and the path was certainly the most vile
of the whole trip, which is putting it as strongly as possible.
[Footnote 5: I have since learnt differently.--R.W.]
It was climbing or rather scaling a small rock that my long-expected
fall came. Alat, my horse, floundered badly at an angle of forty-five
degrees and lost his balance completely. The doctor, who was behind,
shouted to me to pull him up, but as I was sliding off his back with a
broken girth at an ever-increasing velocity, I was unable to follow
this very excellent advice. Down I came heavily on the stones, luckily
on the high side of the path, landing on my back with my legs all
mixed up in Alat's. My saddle and saddlebags followed me in quick
succession, and something hit me violently over the head--that was my
carbine. Providentially Alat stood still, and my cartridge belt saved
my back.
I got up when I could sort out my legs, making remarks to Dr. S. about
that girth which he said afterwards were quite artistic. Many, many
years ago the girth may have been good and strong, and it had
undoubtedly seen better days. Next I sought one named Stephan. He had
always assured me that it would last another week. Montenegrins are
careless about such things.
The rest of the way I had to walk, which dried me, as the path was
steep and tiring. At the house of Dr. S. in Podgorica we had met a
young Franciscan monk, a Neapolitan and a great student. He at once
invited us to visit him in Zatrijebac, where he is the spiritual
shepherd, and to spend a few weeks with him. On approaching a roofless
church, in the course of rebuilding, we espied this young monk rushing
to meet us. With all the fervour of his race, he embraced and kissed
us repeatedly, welcoming us to his home. He gave me his bed, and the
other remaining one was put at P.'s disposal, and he would not hear of
our leaving next day or the next.
There are but two other Roman Catholic churches in Montenegro, in
Antivari and Dulcigno,[6] in fact only where the Albanians are in
sufficient evidence.
[Footnote 6: The Austrian Legation in Cetinje has also its own
chapel.]
We had intended to visit Zatrijebac at the beginning of our mountain
tour, but the district was considered unsafe at that time. A quarrel
over the appointment of a new captain had led to the relations of the
disappointed candidate shooting the brother of the new captain. Two
boys, aged fifteen and sixteen respectively, had ambushed their
victim, and put no less than seven bullets into him at a distance of
four hundred yards, which is pretty good shooting. The boys got away
across the border, but wholesale arrests took place, and it is not
well to visit districts thus excited. The young Franciscan repeated
to us the story that evening round the kitchen fire, where we spent
very many happy hours. He spoke of it sadly.
"The vendetta is a terrible thing," he said. "It respects neither the
laws of God nor man."
Our host would not rest till he had shown me the famous view, and Dr.
S. accompanied us. As one stands outside the church, a magnificent
panorama is spread out, seemingly without a break. But should one wish
to ascend the mountains opposite so temptingly near, a great ravine
must be first descended. Ten minutes' walk brings one to the edge of a
precipice 2,400 feet deep, so appalling and so sudden that one's
breath is momentarily taken away. It is a spot to sit and meditate on
the grandeur of the work of the Master of all architects. The majesty
of that mighty ravine is, indeed, awe-inspiring.
At the bottom, a mere tiny thread, flows the Zem, a river which has
often run blood, and whose source is hardly known as it rises in the
unknown Procletia, "the Accursed Mountains" of history. A wall of
mountains rises beyond. Steep and precipitous as is the descent on the
Zatrijebac side, still a path trodden daily by mountaineers winds and
zigzags down to the bottom. Then as we seated ourselves on a carefully
selected and safe ledge and gazed on this unique picture, the monk
told us of a bloody battle fought not so very many years ago by the
men of Zatrijebac and the clan of Hotti who inhabit the opposite
mountains. It was a quaint illustration how questions of boundary
lines are settled without the aid of expensive Courts of Arbitration.
When the new frontier was laid down at the conclusion of the late war,
the River Zem was Montenegro's limit. On the hill beyond lies a
grazing-ground which has been used as a summer pasturage by the
Zatrijebac from times immemorial. Though technically now belonging to
Albania, and in particular to the clan of Hotti, the Zatrijebac still
continued to drive their flocks across the ravine. The Hotti
remonstrated, and finding this of no avail, took possession of the
plateau. Their opponents coming over found the rival clan posted in a
seemingly impregnable position on every point of vantage on that steep
ascent. Though armed with inferior rifles (in those days), they
attacked at once, and by reckless bravery came to hand-to-hand
conflict. Then a terrible encounter ensued, men seized each other and
threw themselves over the cliffs, and to complete the utter
discomfiture of the Hotti, the Kuc came to the assistance of their
neighbours and the Hotti were nearly annihilated. Since then no
questions have been asked, and annually the cattle and sheep of
Zatrijebac graze in peace in Albania.
It was a very similar dispute which has happened so very recently at
Mokra near Andrijevica.[7]
Supper gave us a much needed change of diet. Boiled fowl and
vegetables came as a luxury after days of tough and stringy lamb. We
sat at a table again too, on chairs, and felt quite ashamed of our
recently acquired habits.
The evenings round the kitchen fire were just as delightful as our hut
experiences, and if possible, more novel. Here we had fierce
Albanians, with their half-shaven heads and scalping lock, and a
scholar, a student of philosophy, a man of wonderful ideals, in the
form of the young Franciscan, instead of unkempt shepherds.
[Footnote 7: Since writing the above another tribal disturbance has
taken place between the Zatrijebac and the Hotti. This time it was the
Hotti who drove their flocks, also from time immemorial, to a certain
spot in Zatrijebac, and as the latter tribe have since cultivated the
intervening ground, they felt justly irritated. As the only real
argument is the rifle, they met and argued the point in this fashion
in February, 1902, and many fell on both sides. A notable incident
which is worth recording is, that a man of Hotti fought on the side of
the Zatrijebac against his brethren and was killed. His body was
afterwards handed back and his clan demanded to know if he had fought
as a man. "In the front rank," was the answer. Then they took the body
and gave it an honourable burial and agreed to let the dispute drop.
In this action our friend the monk had his habit riddled with bullets
whilst attending the wounded.]
Round the fire another evening an argument as to the wrongs of
Fatalism, _i.e._ God's Will, led to a characteristic story by the monk
in defence of his views. Dr. S., like many men who lead such lives as
he does, was a rigid fatalist.
An Albanian found his enemy in vendetta, working in a field. Hiding
himself, he prayed to God and S. Nicholas to direct the bullet.
"Lord," he prayed, "should I hit this man in the breast, then I shall
know that I do this deed by Thy Will."
He laid his rifle on a stone, took careful aim, and the other fell
dead shot through the breast.
"By God's Will I killed him," he answered, when the priest endeavoured
to impress upon him his crime.
The lighter side of nature was given us by another story.
Shortly after the priest's arrival at Zatrijebac a half-naked man came
to him. The worthy friar took pity on him and gave him a clean white
shirt of his own.
On the following Sunday during the Mass, as he turned to his
congregation to give the Benediction, to his horror he saw the man
with the shirt drawn over all his ragged clothes, in a front row. It
was with the greatest difficulty, he concluded, that he could restrain
a smile.
We were afforded a novel and striking scene before we left Zatrijebac
in the form of an open-air Mass on Sunday.
The church being in the course of rebuilding, a rough altar had been
hastily constructed, or rather knocked up--for it was of most crude
workmanship--of wood planks on a small grass plot.
From nine a.m. onwards the people began to assemble, coming from all
parts of the large and straggling district, and sat about in groups
gravely talking. Towards eleven o'clock a large number of peasants had
arrived, and the altar was covered with not a fair white cloth as
usual, but with something suspiciously resembling a long and not
overclean towel. A tiny crucifix was placed upon it, and the young
priest robed himself there in sight of the whole congregation.
A group of elder men knelt or squatted on the small open space
immediately in front of the High Altar, but the majority of
worshippers ranged themselves under the shade of some small trees and
on the low surrounding walls.
These same trees bear weekly a strange and incongruous fruit, for they
are used as pegs whereon the Albanians hang their rifles during
service. All round, the walls are stacked with rifles, for, like the
Puritans of old, they come to church fully armed with rifle, handjar,
and revolver, and round their waists, the inevitable bandolier of
cartridges.
[Illustration: AFTER MASS AT ZATRIJEBAC]
On approaching the altar every man pushed back the cloth which is
swathed round his half-shaven head, and kneeling, piously crossed
himself. The older men displayed even more reverence, and kissed
the earth. The younger men were much the same as their cultured and
civilised brothers, lounging through the service, half seated on a
wall, and barely crossing themselves.
But the general effect was one of great reverence and striking in the
extreme. We watched this strange congregation with great interest, and
during the most sacred part of the service, when all, even the blase
young men, prostrated themselves, the effect was unique.
Picture a cut-throat, shave half his head, leaving a tuft of hair on
the back by which he kindly assists his victor to decapitate him,
expecting a like consideration in return, long drooping moustachios,
clad in Turkish clothes, a belt full of cartridges, with revolver and
murderous-looking yataghan artistically displayed--of such was this
congregation. Men who half-an-hour afterwards would shoot an enemy in
the course of a vendetta, or otherwise, without any thought of
remorse. Yes, and coolly cut off his head and bring it home to his
admiring wife and daughters, now so discreetly and respectfully
kneeling behind them. This is not an over-drawn picture. It happens
often.
Of such consisted the congregation under the green trees, blue sky,
brilliant sunshine, in that perfect landscape this Sunday morning. And
of such is peopled a part of the vast country of Albania. A people
who hold human life as nothing--a reckless and brave nation of devout
Roman Catholics.
At the conclusion of the service we came in for a lot of inspection,
and going in to dine soon afterwards we chanced to look out of the
window overlooking the scene of the morning Mass. Still a great crowd
hung about, and on the late High Altar sat men smoking cigarettes.
After dinner we bade farewell to our young host, amidst honest regrets
on both sides. The Franciscan had given us a new insight into the
mysteries of life.