We reconsider our opinion of Cetinje--A Montenegrin wake and its
consequences--A hero's death--Montenegrin conversation--Needless
appeals to the Deity--We visit the hospital.
We have said that there are not many stirring events happening in
Cetinje. But this was due to the fact that we had only a very
superficial knowledge of the town. To appreciate it fully, though, it
is absolutely necessary to know the country and the people first. We
had quite made up our minds to go down to Cattaro the day following
the memorable drive from Podgorica, but a mutual acquaintance, a
Montenegrin of high standing, met us as we strolled aimlessly down the
main street that morning. When he heard that we were leaving in a few
hours, he became quite excited. Had we really seen everything, in
Cetinje too?
"Yes," said we. "We have visited the monastery, watched the soldiers
drilling, chatted with the criminals, and know every burgher of the
town, at least by sight."
"First you must see the hospital and then you must attend a trial in
the Supreme Court of Appeal," said our seducer. "And as for
vendettas," he added with pride, "we too have our little quarrels. On
the spot you are standing a man was shot five years ago, and in the
act of dying he killed his assailant."
"Tell us the story," we broke in eagerly. Montenegro is demoralising
in this respect. One becomes so used to bloodthirsty anecdotes that
one wonders how other countries exist without the excitement of the
vendetta. Then the intercourse with noted murderers and assassins
makes a mere ordinary man whose hands are not stained with the blood
of his fellow-beings seem dull and tame. Our eagerness pleased our
friend and we adjourned to the cafe opposite.
About five years ago a near relation of the Prince died, and was taken
to the home of Petrovic in Njegusi. To do honour to the dead man, the
men of Cetinje and the men of Bajice--a village at the further end of
the valley--accompanied the corpse as a guard of honour.
Now a corpse is waked in true Irish style in this country, and by the
time the escort had returned to the valley of Cetinje and halted at
Bajice for a parting glass, the condition of the mourners resembled
the close of a Bank Holiday in London. The too liberal indulgence in
raki or spirits does not always provoke that mellowness which follows
a good dinner and a glass of port. On the contrary, you become
argumentative and convinced of the truth of your side of the question,
and you do not hesitate to tell the other man that he is more or less
of a fool. So it came to pass in Bajice that those of Cetinje argued
that they were the better men, a statement which did not conduce to
good fellowship--in fact, a Voivoda who was present, a native of
Bajice, had to interfere to prevent the only true solution of the
question in point. He was an aged man, and the men of Cetinje
proceeded home without proving their statement. One man, however,
stayed behind to continue the argument, and this naturally enraged the
Voivoda. He ordered him to be beaten. Nothing loath, the worthy
villagers fell upon him, and belaboured him with such fervour that he
soon fell insensible to the ground. Before he lost consciousness, he
was heard to utter a threat to the effect that his assailants would be
sorry for it.
Then he was carried to the hospital in Cetinje and lay six weeks
recovering.
When he was well again, his thoughts were occupied with revenge, and
in this scheme he was greatly assisted by his relations.
"Thou wilt be killed, of course," they said, "but thine and our honour
must be avenged. Who are the men of Bajice to beat one of us and go
unpunished?"
He was of the same opinion, and cast about for a suitable victim. Now
the son of the aged Voivoda who had ordered the assault lived in
Cetinje. He was the captain of the Royal Body Guard, the hero of many
a fight with the Turks, and famed throughout the land. We knew his
son, who stands about six feet four inches, and he is said to have
been small compared to what his father was.
"He shall be the victim," said the man of Cetinje, and his relations
applauded the choice.
One morning early the captain emerged from a shop, and from a distance
of a few feet, the avenger of his honour fired at him from behind,
hitting him in the neck. The captain fell forward on his face, saying,
"Who has shot me?" and turning saw the assassin running up the street.
With his last strength he drew his revolver, and resting his elbow on
the ground, he fired once; the man reeled but continued his headlong
flight: again the wounded officer fired, and as he sank forward dying,
he had the satisfaction of seeing the fugitive throw up his hands and
fall dead, shot through the heart. The last shot was fired at a
distance of fifty yards.
"As you can imagine," concluded our informant, "the news of this
affray nearly caused a pitched battle between Bajice and Cetinje,
which was only prevented by the energetic action of the Prince. He
called the two clans together before his palace and with marvellous
judgment picked out the ring-leaders and imprisoned them, and the rest
were sent home with such a warning of what would come if he heard any
more about it, that all interest was lost in the dispute. Men do not
like to face our Prince when he is angered, and his constant presence
in Cetinje is a great drawback to the vendetta. Now I must leave you,
and to-morrow you shall visit the hospital."
We strolled to the market-place, which was full of peasants and their
produce. It is not nearly such a scene of life as is met with
elsewhere. The Albanian element is almost totally absent, and that
alone takes fifty per cent. of the wildness off. Neither are rifles
brought to Cetinje, so that it presents a far more peaceable aspect.
Still it is crowded, the guslars do a literally roaring trade, and
there are always a sprinkling of men from the Vasovic and other
outlying clans to liven up the scene.
Here old friends and comrades in arms meet, called to the capital as
witnesses, or principals, in a law case, or to draw their salaries as
small officials of their districts. The conversation on these
occasions is always the same, and if heard often, becomes monotonous.
The unvarying formula of greeting is quaint and terse, but it loses
much of its impressive character by translation. One word in
explanation. The Montenegrins cannot utter the simplest remark
without invoking the Almighty in some form or another. The use of the
word "Bog," or "God," is incessant.
Picture an aged man, whose grey stubble fringes a weather-beaten and
furrowed face with a grizzled moustache. He is smoking a grimy
tchibouque in a contemplative fashion, as he stands on the outskirts
of the chattering throng. To him approaches a second stalwart, lean
man about the same age and appearance. He is also smoking a long
tchibouque; it is a custom which the elder inhabitants have adopted
from the Turks.
"May God protect thee," says the new-comer gravely, as though he had
never given vent to such a momentous utterance before.
"May God give thee good fortune," answers the other, with equal
solemnity; and removing their pipes, they clasp hands and fervently
kiss each other. Then the smoking is resumed, and between the puffs
the following conversation ensues.
"How art thou?" says the new-comer, gazing with affection at his old
comrade.
"Well, thank God," replies the other.
"Thank God."
"And how art thou?"
"Well, thank God."
"Thank God."
Now it is the new-comer's turn for the Montenegrin catechism.
The questions already asked and answered are only the prelude, so to
speak, before they settle down to serious business. "Kako ste?" ("How
art thou?") is simply as meaningless as "How do you do"; in fact, a
mere matter of form.
"Art thou well?" says the questioner, referring to the other's state
of health, who replies--
"I am well, by God, thank God."
"Thank God," says the questioner, breathing more freely, and
continuing.
"How is thy wife?" "How are thy children?" "Thy grandchildren?" "Thy
brother?" "Thy sister?" To all of which a deep-toned "Well, thank
God," is given.
Having satisfied himself that the whole family is in reasonable
health, and quite certain that he has omitted no important relation,
the catechiser proceeds to inquire as to the other's worldly
possessions.
"How are thy crops?"
"God will give me a good harvest."
"How are thy horses?" "Thy sheep?" "Thy goats?" "Thy cows?" "Thy
pigs?" "Thy bees?"
It must be clearly understood, to appreciate the humour of the scene,
that the formula has been shortened to avoid vain repetition. Every
question is asked in full, and answered with a pious "Dobro, hfala
Bogu" ("Well, thank God"). Not a word is omitted. The concluding
question is put, after a few moments' thought that really no item has
been left out, and this covers any lapse of memory.
"And, in short, How art thou?"
"Dobro, hfala Bogu" ("Well, thank God").
"Hfala Bogu" ("Thank God").
Now it is the other's turn, and precisely the same questions are
asked, varied perhaps with an inquiry as to the state of health of the
district "standard bearer" or "mayor." Then a few minutes' general
conversation are indulged in as to the direct cause of the other's
visit to Cetinje, and each satisfied that he has gained every particle
of information, they clasp hands, kiss, and part with a measured
"S'Bogom," signifying that they commend each other to the Almighty's
keeping.
The simplest and most inoffensive query is answered thus:--
"Hast thou any milk?" says the thirsty wayfarer, pausing at a hut.
"I have none, by God," and the stranger proceeds wearily on his way.
Our visit to the hospital was decidedly interesting. The senior doctor
of Montenegro was an ex-Austrian military surgeon. He was very
pressing in his invitation, so one day we wended our steps thither at
eleven o'clock. We were met by a smart-looking nurse, who told us that
the doctor was at present engaged in an operation, and would be with
us shortly. He soon appeared, and, apologising for the simplicity of
the building, started taking us round. First he led us into the
accident-room, where the injured are first treated. There were the
usual operating-tables and cases of instruments. "We treat wounds that
are suppurating here," he said pleasantly. "Our real operating-room is
in the other house, and is much better fitted up. This being the only
hospital in the country I have all the operations to perform,
generally one a day."
Then we went into the Roentgen room. The X rays, the doctor informed
us, was very useful in locating bullets. In the men's ward a young man
was pointed out to us who had been shot twice during a kolo dance in
the arm and leg.
"The Montenegrins," said the doctor, "are very careless when they fire
their revolvers during a dance, and I get a good many patients that
way." Afterwards we visited some other wards, and we were finally
taken to the other operating-room, or theatre. But it was only a
reproduction of the other on a large scale. "The Prince is very
generous," said the doctor, "and gives me a free hand. We have every
modern appliance, and I have trained my assistants to such an extent
that I can absolutely rely on them. The hospital costs a lot of money,
for we only charge a krone (about a franc) a day, and then they
petition that they cannot pay."
After inscribing our names in a book we went back to our midday meal.
The hospital, from a medical and surgical standpoint, is extremely up
to date, and at its head is a doctor who may be counted as one of the
finest operators in Europe; at his own request his name has not been
mentioned. It is another instance of Prince Nicolas' benevolence to
his people, another of the progressive movements which he is ever
introducing into the country. Every district has a doctor, all of whom
are under the head doctor at Cetinje, who directs all treatment in the
case of an epidemic. Serious cases are sent to Cetinje and treated
there, but these are largely surgical. The fame of the doctor at
Cetinje has reached the furthermost village; men who have suffered for
years now troop joyfully to the capital, and the number of operations
increases yearly.
May the hospital and its capable chief flourish and continue to bring
the blessings of science to the worthy sons of the Black Mountain!