The Club and its members--Gugga--Irregularities of time--The absence
of the gentle muse and our surprise--The musician's story and his
subsequent fate--The Black Earth--A typical border house--The ordeal
of infancy--A realistic performance which is misunderstood--Concerning
a memorable drive--A fervent prayer.
Before we leave Podgorica for good our readers must be introduced to
the Club. It was not a club in the English sense of the word, but P.
and I always called that hour or two at sunset so delightfully spent
in the company of that cosmopolitan gathering, the Club. Podgorica was
our base, from which we made all our trips and excursions, so that we
were there off and on during the whole of our lengthy sojourn amongst
the sons of the Black Mountain. From the "members" we gleaned many
stories of past and present vendettas and quaint customs which we had
not had the good fortune to witness ourselves. Amongst the regular
members was of course Dr. S., who was three nationalities rolled into
one--to explain, born in Roumania, he entered into Austrian service
and became an Austrian subject, and finally twelve years in Montenegro
had quite "Montenegrinised" him. He was very angry if we told him
this. In the course of his duties as sole veterinary surgeon he had
travelled, and travelled continually from one end of the land to the
other, there was not a corner or collection of huts where he had not
been. He had been snowed up in winter in the mountains, attacked by
wolves, and shot at by Albanians, and had witnessed many a scene of
the vendetta.
Another even more interesting character was L., an Austrian, who for
years had been employed by scientific institutions in ornithological
and geological research in Montenegro and Albania. He had carried his
life in his hands for weeks together amongst the untameable
mountaineers across the border. A man whose terribly hard life had
turned him into a man of bone and muscle, rivalling the most active
Montenegrin in strength and endurance. And what a fund of anecdote and
adventure he could reel off! Without doubt he was one of the most
interesting and fascinating men we have ever met; a perfect rifle,
gun, and revolver shot, fine horseman and entertaining companion.
Then there was a Montenegrin professor, he was the father of the
party, though the tales _he_ told were not at all becoming to his age
and learning. He spoke about eight languages well and perhaps that had
slightly turned his brain. Once he had served a term of imprisonment
for an outspoken criticism, and when he became tired of it, he sent
an ultimatum to the effect that if he were not released at once, he
would break out himself, take a rifle and bundle of cartridges and
hold the Lovcen (a high mountain) against all comers. The originality
of his threat gained him his freedom. Since then he has kept a closer
guard over that unruly member and only unburdened himself in the
seclusion of the Club. Otherwise P., myself, and a young and intensely
patriotic Scotchman completed the list of regular members.
We had a few occasional "country members," officers and officials whom
some of us knew well from Cetinje or Niksic, but we were mostly alone.
At first we met in the garden of one Petri, a good-tempered giant of
about six feet eight inches, but in spite of our patronage he managed
to ruin himself at cards and so we were forced to adjourn to an old
Albanian rascal named Gugga. What fun we had with that dear old boy,
whom we irreverently called Skenderbeg! One day in a moment of
ill-advised confidence he had told us that he was descended from that
great Albanian hero and patriot. But he was an educated and travelled
man, having lived for many years in Venice, spoke an excellent Italian
and correspondingly atrocious German, which latter he delighted to
inflict upon us. He was most amusing in his hatred and contempt of the
Montenegrin peasant.
Gugga kept a big shop, and when irritated by a customer he had a
regular formula which loses much of its wit when translated, as it
rhymes in Serb. The humble Montenegrin is remarkably feminine in the
way he shops. He will spend half an hour in the store examining
everything with great curiosity. At last he will ask the price of a
certain article. Gugga, whose choler has been slowly rising during his
customer's long and tiring inspection, gives a purposely indistinct
answer, whereupon the Montenegrin will inquire "What does he say?"
Gugga, furious at being spoken to in the third person, turns savagely
upon the astonished Montenegrin saying--
"What dost thou say? What dost thou mean?
What stinks here? Get out, ass and son of an ass."
Another famous saying of his was in speaking of Montenegro, its past
and present rulers. "This land," Gugga would say in all seriousness,
"was first accursed by God, its maker; then by Diocletian, then by the
Sultan, then by our Gospodar (Prince), and lastly by Gospodin
Milovan." Gospodin (Mr.) Milovan was the last Governor of Podgorica, a
man always endeavouring to introduce modern improvements into the
town, much to the disgust of its inhabitants who are nothing if not
conservative, and amongst other sufferers was our friend Gugga. He
substitutes the word "blessed" for "accursed," according to his
audience.
We met after the arrival of the mail diligence from Cetinje about
half-past six or seven o'clock in the evening. Proceedings usually
commenced with a heated argument as to the time, the last comer being
accused of unpunctuality. It was always an unsatisfactory argument,
for no member ever had the same time as another. A sort of
go-as-you-please time was kept in the town, but as either your watch
invariably gained ten minutes in the day--according to the town clock
it did--or lost a quarter of an hour, no one had any confidence in the
official time, and each swore to the regularity of his own timepiece.
One great advantage of this discrepancy of time was that try as one
would, one was never late for an appointment. Somebody was sure to be
present to back up an indignant protest, that you were five minutes
early.
One evening was particularly memorable, it was in Petri's garden,
then, that we had met as usual. P. was in a pensive and sentimental
mood, usually caused by the magnificent sunsets. From our table we
commanded a splendid view of those crimson-tinted peaks in the far
distance, and the mysterious purple gloom which, like a rich robe,
covered the intervening hills. By some strange coincidence the subject
of music came up, and P. bitterly lamented the absence of that gentle
muse from such grand surroundings. I don't believe there is a piano in
the country except at the girls' school at Cetinje. The Scotchman had
suggested the gusla as a substitute, and had been met with derisive
laughter, for he had made the suggestion in all good faith. He was one
of the most unmusical men I have ever met. The professor had followed
this up with a learned discourse on the gusla, and the lesson to be
learnt from it in the origin and development of modern music, when
suddenly the sounds of a violin, being tuned in the room behind us,
arrested his flow of speech. In another few moments the unseen
musician began to play, and a deep silence fell upon us, for he was
playing our music and recalling memories of bygone days. Snatches from
Italian opera, and old well-known songs followed each other as we sat
in the twilight and listened, conjuring up pictures of opera-house and
concert-hall in this far-away land. Then the music ceased, and the
tinkling of coins on a plate proclaimed the status of our serenader.
In a few minutes a ragged, fair-haired boy stood before us, wearily
holding a plate in his hand. As we dived into our pockets the doctor
asked him in Serb, who he was and whence he came. He gazed blankly in
answer, and P. said to me, "He looks quite English." A joyful smile
lit up his tired face as he answered--
"I am English, sir. I will fetch father; he will be so pleased."
His father came out, a battered violin under his arm, and we were all
struck with his miserable half-starved and ragged appearance. He
played to us, he did not even play well, poor fellow, but still we
listened appreciatively, and then some of us took him home, fed him,
and we all contributed to his wardrobe. We were all of different sizes
and build, and the result was sadly comical. Before he left us he told
his story. It was not new or even interesting, but intensely pathetic;
one of a large family, fair education, and finally a clerk at L80 a
year. A pretty typewriter, marriage, and no help from his father.
First the girl wife was dismissed, and then the boy husband. The child
was born, and the mother died from lack of proper nourishment and
comfort. For a few years the father earned a few coppers by playing
before public-houses in the East End, and then took to the road.
Somehow or other he found himself on the Continent, and after many
years he had turned up here. It was all very vague and incoherent.
Often starving, homeless, and speaking no language but his own, is it
to be wondered that the man had lost count of days, years, and time?
Now he had a desire to journey to Greece, why, he knew not, but he
clung to it with all a weak man's obstinacy. We could never let him
trudge through Albania, and so the Scotchman procured him a free
passage to Corfu by steamer. He left us one morning, leading his son
by the hand, and over his shoulder a sack containing his worldly
possessions, a sorrowful, ludicrous, and pitiful picture.
Many weeks afterwards--P. and I had been on an expedition in the
meantime--we sat again in Petri's garden at just such a sunset. We
remembered the musician, and one of us jokingly remarked that his
music would not be so appreciated in Greece as by us music-starved
exiles. Then the Austrian told us the sequel. He had heard it from a
murderous Albanian friend of his, who sometimes brought him specimens.
The wanderer had not used his ticket, and had walked from Antivari to
Dulcigno, from thence he had attempted his original plan of crossing
Albania on foot. He knew nothing of geography or nationality, and
doubtless imagined that he could earn his way as in a civilised
country. On the way to Scutari a band of Albanians stopped him, and he
played to them. The instrument pleased them, and they took it from
him. Then they took the boy--though why they did so is not clear, for
they do not kidnap children--and the father, in a fit of wild despair,
sprang at the nearest Albanian. The Albanians are always glad of an
excuse to kill; the wanderer found his death in perhaps the only
moment of heroism that he had displayed throughout his wretched life.
Such, though, was the story our informant had gleaned, and it took the
edge off our evening's amusement.
But other evenings we were merry, and many were the wonderful stories
of adventure told over bottled beer and an extraordinary salad which
old Gugga mixed before us--to make an appetite, as he said.
We got to love Podgorica in the end, and left its streets, full of
gaudy-coloured humanity, the old shot-riddled town across the river,
and the glorious mountain panorama, with sorrow. There was always
something to talk about, from a threatened raid of the Albanians to
the abduction of a Turkish maiden. Death is always very near in that
unknown border town.
The day of our final departure from Podgorica, we drove to the famous
Crna Zemlja, or Black Earth.
The object of our visit was chiefly to call on a young Albanian, who
had repeatedly invited us. Though an Albanian, he is a Montenegrin
subject and a corporal in the standing army.
As a matter of fact, he is a fugitive from his clan, the Klementi,
where his life is forfeited in a blood feud. The Prince wisely uses
such men as a kind of extra border guard, giving them land and houses
on the actual frontier line, knowing that they will keep a doubly
sharp watch to preserve their own lives.
The Black Earth is an absolutely flat and treeless plain, covered at
times with grass, which mischievous Albanians love to set fire to in
the hopes of some sport with peasants, who might attempt to
extinguish the conflagration. The River Zem divides it and constitutes
the boundary, but the land on both sides is neutral by mutual consent.
It is courting death to walk upon it. Block-houses dot it at frequent
intervals, containing small garrisons of Montenegrin and Turkish
soldiers.
As we drove past the first Montenegrin block-house, we were reminded
of a ride which we once took to it, while our knowledge of the border
dangers was nil. On that occasion we had cantered, innocently,
straight towards it, and were amused to see its little garrison
promptly turn out. A man came running towards us motioning us to halt.
This unmistakable request we suddenly obeyed, for the men behind had
covered us with their rifles.
Explanations followed, and the rest of the men came up smiling; but
they sent us back towards Podgorica at once, which was only half an
hour's ride away--saying that a bullet from the overlooking hill would
be no unusual thing.
To-day we left this block-house on our left, and, striking the Zem, we
drove along it till we reached a solitary house. A few hundred yards
further down was a Turkish fort, with the banner of the Star and
Crescent hanging lazily at the mast.
This house was the home of our friend, quite a young man of sixteen,
but married and a proud father. He could well have been mistaken for
twenty-five.
He was working in his field as we drew near, and hurried to meet us.
First of all we went to the Zem, which fifty yards away would be
unnoticed, as it lies between two deep banks, which break off suddenly
and without any indication. This historical little river looked very
peaceful as it flowed through deep basins, hollowed out of the rocky
bed, and splashed over great boulders. How often has it been crossed
by bands of men intent on bloodshed and murder, who often recrossed,
flying and hunted fugitives! What quantities of blood have dyed those
clear and crystal pools! What awful doings of death have they
reflected!
The Turkish soldiers opposite turned out, and viewed our movements
inquisitively. Our Albanian friend hinted that a too lengthy
inspection might be misunderstood, so we withdrew.
The house was a curiosity. One-storied, and solidly built of stone; it
had no windows, but suggestive loopholes. The ground floor was empty.
We looked inside for the staircase, but in vain, and this was scarcely
odd, because there was none. The family lives above, and the only
means of entry to their dwelling is by a ladder. This is drawn up
after the last man, for the night.
As we clambered up the ladder and crawled through the narrow doorway,
the young mother (of fifteen) kissed our hands.
An aged lady, evidently the great-grandmother of one of the young
couple--at least, to judge by her decrepit appearance, she might well
have been that (in reality she was the boy's mother)--sat spinning in
a corner. A weeping and noisy infant lay strapped immovably in a
wooden cradle with no rockers, which a young maiden attempted to
soothe by covering it with a thick cloth and rocking it vigorously.
That Montenegrins survive the ordeal of infancy is a proof of their
iron constitutions. An ordinary healthy English baby would be
suffocated in five minutes under that hermetic pall, or, escaping this
fate, would die of concussion of the brain from violent jarring to and
fro, which we have inadvertently termed "rocking."
A wood fire smouldered in one corner of the room, and the embers were
blown into flames as the little can of water was placed in them to
boil. As the water boils, several spoonfuls of coffee are put in--of
the _good_ coffee, only used for distinguished visitors--and the whole
allowed to boil up three or four times. Then cups are produced, sugar
added, and the thick mixture poured out. This beverage is drunk when
it is cool enough, and when the grounds have sunk in a thick sediment
at the bottom of the cup.
[Illustration: A REALISTIC PERFORMANCE]
[Illustration: AN ALBANIAN HOME ON THE CRNA ZEMLJA]
The room, our treatment, and the coffee-brewing are typical of many
such visits that we paid in Montenegro.
Afterwards spirits were produced, tobacco tins exchanged, and
arms--rifles, revolvers, and handjars--inspected and criticised. Any
relics or curiosities are produced, and everyone becomes very
friendly.
Before we left, an old man (some relation of our host) came up as we
were examining a fine handjar, that heavy and hiltless sword which
forms part of both the Albanian and Montenegrin fighting kit, though
they are no longer universally carried in times of peace. The handy
revolver has replaced the former beltful of pistols and yataghan. But
in border fighting the handjar is always taken, and, when time
permits, the victim is still decapitated by a single blow of that
murderous weapon.
The old man--a villainous-looking rascal, with shaven head and
scalping lock--favoured us with a graphic mimicry of a fight, showing
the methods in his day. He took the handjar between his teeth and a
musket in his hands, yelling and scowling fearfully; then, the last
cartridge fired or the moment for hand-to-hand combat arrived, the
rifle was thrown away, and brandishing the handjar in the air, he
darted towards us. It was a most realistic performance, and made us
feel thankful that it was only play.
Suddenly the old man stopped his wild yelling and burst out laughing.
He laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.
We glanced behind us at the loophole door, and there, with a horrified
look, peered our driver, revolver in hand.
He thought that we were being murdered. He was a foreigner and new to
Podgorica, but more of him anon.
Then we took our leave and drove on to another block-house, and
visited the commandant. After that we returned to Podgorica, and that
afternoon, affectionate leave-takings over, we departed for Cetinje,
en route for Cattaro.
That drive, which should have taken about seven hours, was a memorable
one, and a fitting conclusion to our visit.
We wired to the hotel in Cetinje in the morning, ordering supper to be
ready for eight o'clock. Then we had hoped to leave at one p.m. At two
we again wired from Podgorica for supper to be delayed till ten.
A hundred yards from the town we stopped, and the driver mended some
harness with a piece of wire. A mile further on something else broke.
If nothing gave way, a horse kicked a leg over a trace, necessitating
its partial unharnessing. Each time the driver (he of the morning's
drive and a native of Hercegovina) descended, swearing softly between
clenched teeth, in caressing tones, and his face set in a forced
smile. If we had not understood what he said, he might have been
addressing endearing remarks to his horse, or holding serious converse
with a friend.
It became very monotonous after a few hours--should we go for three
hundred yards without a stop of five or ten minutes, it was a matter
for comment. We began to feel alarmed, fearing worse things.
Rijeka we reached at eight p.m. instead of five, and we sent another
wire, stating our arrival to be uncertain, if not improbable.
We seriously contemplated staying the night, but an appointment next
morning forced us to give up this idea.
After an hour's rest we proceeded. The same weary repetition was
resumed, either the near side horse lashed out violently and remained
hung over a trace, or the axle boom or something broke.
We dozed, and I awoke from a sudden jar to find the driver sound
asleep, the horses wandering aimlessly along, a precipice of many
hundred feet below us on one side. The road takes sharp turns every
hundred yards, rendering it impossible to see far ahead, and traffic
even at night is not uncommon. Drivers shout when nearing a corner,
particularly on coming downhill, which they do at a great pace. I
shuddered at the thought of a carriage dashing suddenly round a
corner upon us as we painfully climbed, for our driver slept soundly.
I even shouted in his ear, but in vain. Then I struck him, and with
effect. Inured as we were already by the dangers of that drive, we
slept no more.
I looked at my watch; it was one o'clock. In another hour the look-out
hut of Bella Vista loomed up indistinctly, and we thought of that
grand view of the Lake of Scutari and the mountain panorama to be seen
from there.
We stopped all the way down into Cetinje, at intervals, and had a long
wait actually in the town itself while the driver hunted up a friend
and borrowed a spanner.
At three a.m. we arrived, and refused the offer of our driver to take
us down to Cattaro next day. He assured us that everything would be in
order by the afternoon. But we declined, even though he made us a
cheap offer, below the ordinary price. We had no more confidence in
him or his carriage, or his wonderful kicking horse--in fact, we gave
quite a curt and rude refusal, when he pressed the matter.
Safe inside the old-fashioned hostelry of Reinwein, we thanked
Providence for our safe arrival. We had been through a few dangerous
experiences during our sojourn in the Land of the Black Mountain, but
none worse than this.
The carriage was small, and we suffered agonies from cramp; every
moment we expected to see it fall to pieces; one of the horses lashed
out violently, narrowly missing the face of the driver, if only
touched with the whip, every time hitching itself over a trace and
threatening to kick the decrepit structure behind it to bits; the
devilish anger of the man, his lurid and comprehensive cursing in that
soft voice, the danger of dashing over a precipice, constituted a
journey which we fervently pray may never again fall to our lot.