S. Vasili and Ostrog--Our drive thither--Joyful pilgrims--Varied
costumes--We meet the Vladika of Montenegro--The ordeal of hot
coffee--A real pilgrimage--The shrine of S. Vasili--The ancient
hermit--A miracle--Niksic--The gaudy cathedral and the Prince's
palace--We are disappointed in Niksic.
Though we visited the famous Monastery of Ostrog at the very beginning
of our visit to Montenegro, and Niksic at the conclusion, both places
lie so near together that we put them now in this order for the sake
of simplicity.
It was our good fortune to be enabled to witness the annual pilgrimage
to the shrine of S. Vasili, which takes place during the Greek
Whitsuntide.
Ostrog is the Lourdes of the Balkans, as many equally miraculous cures
take place as at the Roman Catholic rival in the Pyrenees. The
Serb-speaking races from far and near flock there in enormous numbers,
as well as many Mahometans and Catholics.
S. Vasili (or Basil) was a native of the Hercegovina and a holy man of
great repute. About a century ago he had a vision telling him to
travel to Montenegro, and there to found a monastery. Accordingly he
set out, taking with him a great quantity of building material, and
chose a spot not far from Podgorica, on the right bank of the Zeta.
But in the night the material disappeared, and S. Vasili hunted high
and low. After a weary search it was found at Ostrog, and there he
built his place of retreat, living many years, working many miracles,
and dying as a saint. He is buried there, and it is said that any
believer has but to visit the shrine, and whatever his wish may be, it
will be fulfilled. Thus cripples have walked back the way which they
were carried, sick have been made whole, and the mentally afflicted
have gone away rejoicing. Certain it is that many wonderful cures are
yearly effected there.
Furthermore, the name of Ostrog appears often in the glorious annals
of Montenegrin history. The oft-told tale of Prince Nicolas' father,
Mirko, "The Sword of Montenegro," who was besieged in that
inaccessible cleft in a precipice with a handful of men, is one of the
most famous feats of Montenegrin arms. The charred cliffs still bear
silent witness to the efforts which the Turks made to burn out the
little garrison by throwing bundles of flaming straw from above.
Ostrog is about six hours' drive from Podgorica. The road passes along
the River Zeta, leaving the village of Spuz on the right, and past the
flourishing little town of Danilovgrad, soon to be the connecting
town between Cetinje and Niksic on completion of the projected road.
There is nothing of interest in Danilovgrad, though the market is of
some importance. A little way beyond the town a nearly complete
building can be noticed. It is the lunatic asylum.
From this point onwards the road ascends slowly but steadily until a
deep valley lies to the right, and the Zeta assumes quite diminutive
proportions. The mountains opposite rise to an ever-increasing height,
until a few tiny buildings can be made out by the help of
field-glasses. It is Ostrog. That morning we could make out the tents
and booths of the pilgrims, and a dark mass of surging humanity. But
it is still a very long distance away. The road climbs up to the head
of the valley to the village of Bogetic, full that morning of the
carriages of the wealthy pilgrims. During the Whitsun festival
carriages are scarcely to be procured in the whole of Montenegro, or
in Cattaro either.
We broke our fast here, and then drove for another mile or so where a
path leaves the road, and the pilgrim has either to proceed on
horseback or on foot. We had to go on foot, and a very long and tiring
walk it proved to be. Besides Dr. S. and his factotum, Lazo, we took
another man with us, a wretched puny individual, but seemingly
possessed of more endurance than any of us. He led us by a short cut
over rocks, and up slippery breakneck walls of cliffs, over which our
guide skipped nimbly, and having reached the top seemingly hours
before us, sat down and beamed benevolently.
Half-way, the rain came down in sheets, and we took shelter in a
wayside inn, or rather hut. It was crowded with returning pilgrims
whom the threatening weather had forced to depart earlier than is
their wont.
As the weather momentarily cleared, we pushed on, and the remaining
distance was one of the most interesting walks it had been our fortune
to witness. A ceaseless stream of pilgrims poured down the rocky path.
It came on to rain again, but one and all wished us luck in the name
of God and S. Vasili. Nearly every costume of the Balkans was
represented. The Bosnian, in sack-shaped baggy trousers, fitting the
lower leg, either of crimson or blue cloth, a smart-coloured Turkish
jacket, a broad shawl round his waist displaying armouries of knives
and pistols, on his head a fez wound round with a huge turban cloth,
mounted, or leading a pack-horse; his wife in coarse black trousers;
the Hercegovinans, with breastplates of silver ornaments, exquisite in
workmanship and of great antiquity; sombre Servians, and white-clad
Albanians, whose trousers are embroidered with black braid in
fantastic tracing; fez, head-cloth, and neat little Montenegrin cap;
trousers of red, pink, blue and black; gigantic Albanians in high
riding-boots, sitting their horses like Life Guardsmen; Macedonians,
Greeks, and even pure-blooded Turks; Montenegrins in creamy white
frock-coats worn over gold-braided crimson jackets; and dark-blue
costumes with red worsted tassels of the poor Dalmatian peasants--all
passed us in bewildering confusion.
The women (who were for the most part Montenegrin) showed up well in
comparison with their sisters from Sarajevo, whose attire is, to say
the least, comical. For in the larger towns of the Austrian occupation
territory they are undergoing the stage from East to West, and appear
in huge Turkish trousers and cheap, gaudy European blouses. The
contrast between the Sarajevan and the graceful Montenegrin is
positively ludicrous. But of all the costumes, male and female, the
palm must be given to the Montenegrin. They carry themselves with a
princely air, and their picturesque costume is a model of good taste;
for Montenegro is, as Mr. Gladstone has remarked, the beach on which
was thrown up the remnants of Balkan freedom. After the battle of
Kossovo, all the Serb nobility who would not submit to the Turk fled
to Crnagora, and the traces of heredity are easily to be recognised in
their superb carriage.
[Illustration: MONTENEGRIN WOMEN]
It was well after midday when we reached the plateau on which the
lower and modern monastery is situated. We entered through a gate into
a wide path bordered with booths in which crowds of joyful pilgrims
sat refreshing themselves. In spite of the departing crowds that we
had passed, the place was still densely packed, for over twenty
thousand people visit Ostrog. We squeezed into one of the booths and
sat watching the surging mass pass to and fro.
The mixture of costume was even more marked than on the path below. It
was a brilliant kaleidoscope of colour. Nothing but colour--colour.
Very rarely could a man in European clothes (the richer Dalmatians) be
noticed, and he seemed strangely out of place and harmony.
As we sat and gazed, two Bosnian minstrels, from bad memory and an
indifferent ear, began playing on a fiddle and a guitar, and though
their music was atrocious, the wild Turkish songs which they sang gave
the finishing touch to the scene. It was not till they began playing
snatches of music-hall airs, such long-forgotten tunes as "Daisy,"
that we hurriedly moved on.
The Archbishop, Mitrofanban, heard of our arrival soon after, and
immediately sent for us. When we approached, he was sitting on the
steps of a house, surrounded by a brilliant staff of Montenegrin
nobles and many priests, while below a great crowd of pilgrims stood
in a ring, watching the national dance, which was being performed
before His Grace. The dance stopped as we drew near. The Archbishop
received us very kindly--this was our first meeting with him--and
expressed his pleasure to see strangers from such a distant land in
Ostrog. He assigned a room to us in his house, and gave orders for us
to be fed during our stay. Murmuring our thanks, we attempted to
withdraw, but we did not escape before we had solemnly drunk the usual
coffee. It was rather an ordeal to consume that very hot coffee in the
face of the multitude, and we were painfully conscious of our many
shortcomings in personal appearance. Muddy and half-wet riding clothes
and flannel shirts do not seem to go with crimson and gold, high boots
of patent leather, and sparkling orders. A Horseguardsman's uniform
would be more in keeping. When we left, the dancing resumed and was
kept up till a late hour that night. We noticed another national dance
at Ostrog. A much more barbaric performance than the stately and
solemn movement of the ring dance, or kolo.
In this case two performers dance at a time, a man and a woman. A
small ring is made by the spectators, who also supply the relay
couples. The man endeavours to spring as high as possible into the
air, emitting short, Red Indian yells, and firing his revolver. The
woman gives more decorous jumps; and, keeping opposite each other,
they leap backwards and forwards across the small open space. After
a few minutes they are unceremoniously pushed aside, after giving each
other a hasty kiss, and another couple takes their place. This goes on
_ad lib._, and we were soothed to sleep by those wild yells.
[Illustration: THE LOWER MONASTERY, OSTROG]
Next morning we were up bright and early, and about seven o'clock
commenced the actual pilgrimage. A steep and stony path winds up
through a dense wood for about an hour. Fanatical pilgrims make this
journey sometimes barefoot, but the ordeal is sufficiently severe
without these little additions. The whole way is lined with beggars,
sometimes hardly recognisable as human beings, who must reap a rich
harvest by the exhibition of their ghastly woes. _They_ constitute the
ordeal.
Maimed stumps of limbs, deformed children, repulsive and festering
sores, and other diseases too foul for description were proudly
exhibited at every step. A cap was placed invitingly in front of each,
and partly filled with alms already given. In piteous agony diseased
hands and quavering voices besought us in the name of God and their
saint to alleviate their sufferings with the gift of a kreutzer. It
was not a sight that will lightly escape the memory.
We reached the top, hot and nauseated, but were fully compensated by
the unique view. The monastery is built under an overhanging precipice
which rises to a giddy height above. The charred rocks bear telling
evidence to the miracles which have saved the little edifice from
burning.
We went straight to the shrine, through a little door scarcely more
than four feet high (the wooden lintels of which being the handiwork
of S. Vasili were piously kissed by the Montenegrins), through two
long and narrow passages hewn from the living rock and emerged
suddenly in a small rock chamber, dimly lit by an oil lamp and about
twelve feet square. The five of us filled the space, and, as our eyes
grew accustomed to the gloom, we were able to distinguish a wooden
shrine taking up the whole length of one side--where the mortal
remains of the Hercegovinan lay. Another side was occupied by an open
coffin containing the vestments and crucifix. On a chair sat a Greek
priest who rose when we entered. At the foot of the shrine lay a
cripple.
We stood for some minutes in utter silence, and then followed the lead
of the doctor, who approached the coffin and kissed the crucifix,
which a priest gave to us all in turn: a plate for alms lay on the
vestments: then the woodwork of the shrine was likewise kissed, and we
emerged again into the narrow gallery.
The heat had been intense in the little chapel, and we were in that
limp and exhausted state that one experiences in a Turkish bath.
[Illustration: THE UPPER MONASTERY]
The gallery was open on one side where a large bell was fixed, and
this our puny guide struck four times vigorously in the sign of a
cross without a word of warning.
After the impressive solemnity and silence of the preceding minutes,
we nearly jumped out of our skins, and when our injured hearing had
sufficiently recovered so that we could distinguish the sound of our
own voices, we demanded an explanation of this apparently childish and
wanton outrage.
He said that he had struck the bell for the renewal of his strength.
It appeared an unnecessary request.
Dr. S. explained that pilgrims strike the bell on emerging from the
shrine, praying for some special benefit.
We next went up a lot of steps to a platform under the shelving cliff
where there was a beautiful spring of water. The view which it
commanded was magnificent. Below us lay the lower monastery and the
deep valley of the Zeta, the mountains rising again sharply on the
further side; to the right and left stretched wooded slopes.
Then we descended again and paid the priest a visit. This man, over
eighty years of age, has spent forty years of his life as a hermit in
that rocky crag. With the exception of Whitsuntide and the occasional
visits of pilgrims, he lives entirely alone, subsisting on vegetables.
His appearance was most patriarchal, his snowy white beard and
saintly look impressing us greatly. When he heard that we were from
England, he embraced and kissed us repeatedly, much to our
embarrassment. His joy knew no bounds, and he kept us with him in his
rock-hewn cell for a considerable time. He even consented to be
photographed, for the first time in his life, facing the ordeal with
unflinching courage.
The descent to the lower monastery was made in record time, and with
half-closed eyes. We found the Archbishop standing in the shade of an
enormous tree surrounded by a large ring of Montenegrins. He beckoned
to us, asking us for our impressions, and needless to say we solemnly
drank coffee. This beverage began to pall before we left Montenegro.
After partaking of a splendid meal (for the country), washed down with
wine such as is not to be obtained elsewhere in the land, we paid a
farewell visit to His Grace and departed.
Already the booths were fast disappearing and a mere handful of
peasants remained. Many pilgrims journey from seven to eight days on
foot or on horseback to Ostrog, over mountain passes and barren
regions; so that the pilgrimage is very real.
Before we leave Ostrog, we will mention one of the miracles which we
had the opportunity of authenticating.
A wretched Turk living to-day in Podgorica, a cripple crawling
painfully on hands and knees, once made the pilgrimage to Ostrog.
Friends carried him to the shrine, where he lay all night. Then he
rose up and walked back to Podgorica rejoicing, with those who had
carried him the day before. As he crossed the Vizier bridge, he
sceptically remarked that he would have been healed without undergoing
the farce of the pilgrimage. Straightway he fell to the ground, the
same helpless cripple that he was before.
The Turk and the witnesses still live--in fact it happened but a few
years ago--to tell the tale.
The road to Niksic, which we left to proceed to Ostrog, climbs to the
height of 750 metres in crossing the mountain ridge dividing the
valley of the Zeta from that of Niksic. The scenery is throughout fine
and wild. In a succession of serpentines, the road descends sharply on
to the great plain, the fertile valley of Niksic.
The town can be seen immediately on leaving the mountainous gorge, the
cupola of the cathedral standing up boldly from the surrounding flat.
A long viaduct is crossed, built by the Russians, at the foot of the
mountain, for in the winter floods are common, and Niksic was at times
nearly cut off from the rest of Montenegro.
Niksic is probably the coming capital of Montenegro. In fact, it has
been but a question of money that has prevented the removal of the
Government from Cetinje a long time ago.
The Prince has recently built himself a large palace, the Russians
have erected a large church, and roads are now in the course of
construction connecting it with Risano on the Bocche di Cattaro, and
Cetinje, and again with the Cattaro-Cetinje road.
When these roads are completed, Niksic will have a most central
position, and the unquestionably rich and fertile plain can be opened
up. Without doubt it is the coming trading centre, and already it is
running Podgorica very close.
The day after our arrival--we had arrived in the night--we saw the
town under most unfavourable conditions. A violent thunderstorm had
raged incessantly for many hours, and the streets were in parts
inundated. Water was pouring in miniature waterfalls from the ground
floors of many houses which possessed a higher background. Braving the
elements, and often making detours to avoid the lakes, we walked to
the palace and the church. Both lie together outside the town.
A flight of steps lead up an artificial mound, over-shadowing the
somewhat barrack-like palace, where stands the new cathedral. It is
the most striking edifice in the whole country, surmounted with a
dingy light yellow cupola. It is not pretty or tasteful, but it is
distinctly imposing, and one can well realise the marvellings that
it has given the simple Montenegrins. Inside it is severely plain and
void of any furniture, except the thrones for the Royal Family. Round
the walls are lists of the men who have fallen in recent wars.
[Illustration: THE CHURCH, NIKSIC]
[Illustration: THE CHURCH AND PALACE]
The platform on which the church stands commands a view of the
country. The simplicity of Prince Nicolas' palace is thus accentuated,
for it is situated on perfectly open ground, and there is no garden or
any railings round it. Naked and forlorn, it gives the spectator a sad
impression of poverty. On another side is the old Church of Niksic,
ridiculously small and half-ruined. The Russians did a good deed, for
the comparison is absolutely absurd if a comparison can be drawn
between a hovel and a S. Peter's.
The town is a long straggling collection of small houses, very
uninteresting and plain, and beyond lies the historical ruin of the
old fortress, stormed by Prince Nicolas in person.
In the town itself, broad streets and an enormous market-place are the
only features.
We spent a few days in Niksic, but in this instance we were never able
to rid ourselves of the first impressions, and we left gladly, though
the town was not without its humour. It contains the only brewery in
Montenegro, a ramshackle place and producing very poor beer. The post
office is a tumble-down outhouse, also we were shown the house which
would in the course of time be the Bank of Montenegro.
It is hard to realise that Niksic is the coming town, in spite of its
gaudy cathedral, but progress makes sometimes wonderful strides.
Our visit to Niksic was a failure all round. We arrived to see the
Prince ride out of the town at the head of a great cavalcade for the
mountains, and again missed the opportunity of presenting ourselves.
Our intended tour to the Durmitor, Montenegro's highest mountain, was
frustrated, owing to the Prince's retinue having taken every horse in
the place, in addition to the weather having completely broken up, and
so we missed one of the finest parts of the country.