Voyage to Cattaro--A Bora--The gulf of Narenta--The Herzegovina--The
island of Curzola--Ragusa--The Bocche di Cattaro--The frontier of
Montenegro--The fortress of Cattaro--Evening promenade--Personal
attractions of the Cattarine ladies--Rough roads--Prince Nikita's
coach--Bosnian refugees--A Bosnian's luggage.
We had been in Spalato nearly a week. The steamers from Trieste did not
bring us Jones and Robinson, so we determined to push on. We bid adieu
to our good friends, who evidently considered our heads doomed to fall
beneath Albanian yataghans, and embarked on October the 2nd at 4 p.m.,
on an Austrian Lloyd, bound for Cattaro, which lies up a long gulf at
the foot of the Montenegrin mountains. There we were to leave
civilization and the sea coast, and commence our inland march. From
Spalato to Cattaro is a forty-eight hours' journey by the steamer. For
the last few days the genial Scirocco, or south-east wind, had been
blowing; but to-day the fierce gusts of the Bora, or north-east wind,
had changed, in a trice, the warm autumn weather to bitter winter.
This wind beats very heavily on the eastern coast of the Adriatic, and
is much dreaded by seamen.
The quaint lateen craft of the country, constructed on such antique
lines, skimmed by us with close-reefed sails--curious sails they are,
many-coloured, and painted with pictures of suns and grotesque saints.
Throughout the wild afternoon and night we steamed on, touching at
Almissa and Macarsca on our way. The next day we steamed up the long,
land-locked gulf of Narenta. The scenery, as usual, was fine, but so
indescribably desolate and barren that the eye soon wearied of it. On
the gulf of Narenta a narrow strip of Herzegovina runs down to the sea,
thus, till that province was acquired by Austria, dividing her
territory in two.
We anchored off a spot called Neoum, which is on this recently acquired
slip, in order to land soldiers and munitions for the troops. Neoum is
a military post recently established by Austria on the bare sides of
the mountain. We landed, and found a barrack, a telegraph station, and
a public-house; these were the only buildings. It is an important
position, however, as being the nearest point to Mostar, in
Herzegovina, to which town the Government is now constructing a
military road from here. Next we touched at the picturesque fortress of
Curzola, on the island of the same name. It is surrounded by grand old
Venetian walls and towers, which rise from the water's edge.
This night we anchored for several hours off Gravosa, the northern
harbour of Ragusa. The latter wonderful old city, perhaps the most
interesting of all Dalmatia, we had time to explore in a rapid way.
There was once a Republic of Ragusa. The fact that it successfully
maintained its independence, when all the surrounding countries had
been acquired by Venice, will testify to the strength of the little
state. The chief street is broad, and contains lofty and noble
houses--residences of the old merchant princes--strong-built, with
elegant balconies and carved porticoes. From this street narrow streets
ascend the mountain side, in steps of granite. Arches are thrown from
house-top to house-top; there are some grand bits for a painter. The
town is paved with broad, flat stones, which gives it a very clean
appearance.
The next was a glorious day. The gentle south wind once more brought
summer back to us, and the lateen-rigged boats again shook out their
reefs, and displayed all their gaudy canvas.
It was early in the day when we steamed through the entrance of the
Bocche di Cattaro.
This magnificent fiord has often been described. It certainly contains
some of the finest scenery in Europe.
The deep gulf winds into the heart of the wild Montenegrin mountains.
At first it is quite six miles in width, then it narrows to a few
hundred yards, then again widens into an extensive lake as the
fantastically-shaped, almost perpendicular masses of bleak rock jut far
out into the deep clear water in rugged promontories, or retire from it
in dark and profound chasms and ravines.
Here and there houses and churches are seen perched on seemingly
inaccessible ledges, thousands of feet above the blue water which
reflects them. There are several small towns on the shores of the
Bocche. Castelnuovo and Perasto have beautiful situations. Pleasant
villages, half buried in olive gardens, are built on the lower slopes
of the hills.
But the first view of that extraordinary fortress, Cattaro, is never to
be forgotten. At the very head of the last arm of the Bocche the dark
blue masses of mountain, here higher and more precipitous than
elsewhere, shut in a deep bay.
[Illustration: BOCCHE DI CATTARO.
_Page_ 48.]
More than 4000 feet above, on the ridge, is the frontier of Montenegro--a
country by the sea, looking down on the blue water, yet shut out from it
by its big neighbours.
[Illustration: WALLS OF CATTARO.
_Page_ 49.]
A bold bluff of rock, a thousand feet or more in height, slightly
projects from the main mass, perpendicular, bare, cleft into profound
chasms. This extraordinary site has been chosen for the most wonderful
fortress in Europe. Below, on the narrow margin between rock and sea,
is built the town. Along the water's edge is a quay, to which are
moored the beautiful craft of the country. This has been converted into
a pleasant walk, fringed with trees. Behind this is the old Venetian
wall of the city, with its fine solid towers and broad battlements; the
time-darkened stones in places luxuriantly overgrown with the lovely
flowers and creepers of the sunny South. Passing through the
portcullised gate, one enters into a strange, quaint city. The streets
are narrow, the houses lofty, and covered with grotesque carvings. No
carts, carriages, or horses, are permitted to enter the town. This,
by-the-bye, is the case in most Dalmatian cities. The whole is paved
with large flags. Cattaro is of some length, but very narrow, for it is
shut in by the steep cliff which rises immediately from behind it.
Now the walls of the town, after bounding it on the sea front, zigzag
up either side of the bluff I mentioned, till they meet on its crowning
point, a thousand feet above the sea, where stands a formidable-looking
castle.
On observing how they rise and dip, adapting themselves to the little
ravines and irregularities of the rock, one is irresistibly reminded of
the pictures of the great wall of China one was so much impressed with
in the spelling-books of childhood.
Very old the town and fortifications are. No improving Goth has yet
taken aught away from their grotesque grandeur.
It is very difficult to describe the effect of all this, for the
scenery in and around Cattaro is such as is not to be found elsewhere,
quite _sui generis_. The most _blase_ traveller would utter an
exclamation of surprise when that wonderful fortress suddenly appeared
before him, like some great city of the genii that one has read of in
fairy tale, or seen in some half-remembered nightmare. The high cliff,
with its grey fortress, seems ready to topple down on the town any
moment. Some of the huge masses of overhanging rock have at times been
dislodged, and fallen below; many of these are chained to the mountain,
to prevent this catastrophe.
So lofty and steep are the surrounding heights that Cattaro does not
enjoy much of the light of the sun; the shadows depart late, and soon
set in. But during the few hours in the middle of the day that the
sun's rays do fall on it, this place is like an oven--possibly the
hottest town in Europe.
About four o'clock in the afternoon our steamer was alongside the quay.
We marched off to the Hotel Cacciatore, a very decent place, whose
proprietor is a quaint fellow, with a perpetual smile, who imagines he
can speak French. The restaurant is fair, and frequented by the
officers of the garrison. The custom-house officers did not trouble us,
but the mosquitoes did; so, too, did certain insects that inhabited our
beds.
Brown is one of those unfortunate people whose blood is exceptionally
sweet and palatable to insect life, and to whom, consequently, the
hours of darkness in these lands bring no peace, but sleepless torments
worse than the guiltiest, liveliest conscience could inflict. He
brought with him from England a large packet of insecticide, and every
night, before he retired, made careful preparations to withstand the
usual siege. He was not contented with dusting himself all over so
freely that he set the whole Albanian expedition sneezing for an hour,
but he would also build around his body, on the bed-clothes, an
impregnable rampart of the powder so broad and lofty that the most
active flea would fail to leap it.
The next day was Sunday--a warm and delicious day. We attended the
service, and enjoyed the fine music in the old Venetian church. In the
evening we visited the public promenade on the quay outside the walls,
which was crowded by the population and the country people in their
Sunday best.
At the end of this promenade there is a public garden, and a
_cafe_ under the ramparts. The marble tables are placed out of
doors, among the bright flowers and creepers. Here we sat lazily
smoking our cigarettes, and listening to the music of the Hungarian
military band that played just in front of us. There is no gas at
Cattaro; the town is lit with petroleum. The band carries its own
lamps. It was curious to see the men troop into the garden, each with a
pole over his shoulder, to which hung his lit lantern. This place is
really delightful on such an evening as this. The scene was exactly
like some great scenic display on the boards of a large theatre--some
dream of fairyland. One could not help half expecting to see some
bright Eastern ballet trip in the next moment. The promenade in front
of the walls was the stage and proscenium. The lovely Eastern night,
the moon hanging over the great hills, the blue waters and the
fantastic shipping, the giant walls and towers, the grand mountains
behind all, the picturesque crowd, and the lively music, all combined
to form a perfect spectacle, magic-like--to say theatrical would be an
unworthy adjective--that I, for my part, never imagined could be found
within a week's journey of practical, ugly London, dear old place
though it is.
Costumes flitted by us as brilliant and strange to the eye as those of
an Alhambra _opera bouffe_. The Morlak, the lithe and bright-eyed
Greek, the turbaned Turk of Bosnia, with glowing robe, solemn and
haughtily-looking; the Montenegrin mountaineer, with his white coat
tied on with silken sash, and richly embroidered vest; the Albanian in
fez, snowy kilt, rough capote, and jacket stiff with gold; the Arnaut,
with his manly tight-fitting dress, stalking through the crowd, looking
the fierce and undaunted savage that he is--all these strolled or stood
in groups, completing the picture with their richly-coloured and varied
costume. The very Europeans, with their sadder-hued dress, formed no
unpleasing foil to these.
The ladies, with unbonnetted heads, over which a shawl is gracefully
thrown in Venetian fashion, their little feet silk-stocked and
slippered, as in the East, above which, just peeping below the black
silk dress, hung a mere suspicion of delicate white embroidered
petticoat, were charming--if not seen too near: an ungallant verdict,
reluctantly wrung from a veracious traveller.
The Hungarian and other Austrian uniforms were also no unpleasing
feature in the throng.
I have just now, and I think on other occasions, used the term European
in contradistinction to the term Dalmatian. I only follow the usage of
the country. I found that Dalmatians and Albanians always spoke of
Europe as if they were quite apart from it. "You Europeans," "you in
Europe," was a common phrase.
The music ceases--the lights are extinguished. We must pass through the
walls by the narrow gate into the city. By night the portcullis is half
lowered, so we have to stoop to go through, as if to bow in obeisance
to the winged lion of St. Mark that is carved in the old stone above.
We walked through the quaint old streets, whose broad clean flags rang
metallically under our feet. The town was now deserted and silent. As
we approached the hotel we stood and listened to one remarkable noise
which can be heard once every hour at Cattaro, and which produces a
very curious and pleasing effect. This is the watchword of the sentries
on the walls. First, the sentinel below at the gate-tower commences,
with the long wailing cry; then the next takes it up, then the next,
and so on, right up the zigzag fortifications to the fortress up in the
mountain, a thousand feet above, each cry fainter than the last. Then,
when the sentinel at the extreme summit has shouted out the word--his
voice almost inaudible to us so far below--it is carried down the other
side of the walls, distincter and distincter again, until it reaches
the starting-point again, and the man posted on the grim old tower just
before us gives out in loud voice the last intimation that all is well.
We loafed about the neighbouring mountains and shores for some days,
waiting to see if those dilatory travellers, Jones and Robinson, would
turn up. We visited the new road now being constructed into
Montenegro--a difficult undertaking to surmount these frightful rocks.
The old road, which is carried in long zigzags from above Cattaro to
the summit of the pass, is calculated to test the wind and muscles of
the pedestrian. It is a very rough affair; and though much labour has
been expended to clear away the larger rocks that obstruct the way, yet
in some places one has to clamber over boulders of considerable height.
The Montenegrins look upon this rough track as being a model high-road.
It is far better than most of the so-called roads of Montenegro and
Albania. But in these countries it is generally difficult to make out
what is intended for road, and what is not. The roughest mule-track of
Switzerland is as good as a great highway here.
The Prince of Montenegro recently paid a visit to the Emperor of
Austria, at Vienna, where he was made very much of. When he was about
to return to his native mountains, the Emperor was much puzzled to know
what would be a fitting present to make to the semi-barbaric despot. At
last he bethought him of a splendid state-carriage, on whose panels
were painted the arms of the principality, and four fine horses.
The Prince was much gratified, and the costly gift was taken by steam
to Cattaro. Here an unexpected difficulty arose. The carriage could not
be taken to Cettinje, for there was nothing that by the greatest
stretch of compliment could be called a carriage-road leading into the
principality. So here, at Cattaro, in Austria, the coach has to remain
until the new road be completed, which will not be for some time to
come. Whether the coach was originally given in anticipation of the new
road, or whether the new road is being constructed for the coach, I was
not able to discover.
On the next day the Duke of Wittemburg arrived here by steamer, on his
way to Cettinje. A deputation of gorgeously-clad Montenegrin notables,
tall, handsome, and straight, armed to the teeth was on the quay to
receive him. These contrasted favourably with the municipal
authorities, who were there for the same object. A German or Italian in
swallow-tail coat, black silk hat, and white kid gloves, in broad
sunlight, is an uncomfortable and unpleasing object.
In the afternoon the guns from the fort above the town fired twice--the
signal that the Trieste steamer was in sight. This time we made certain
that our friends were on board.
So confident were we, that Brown and myself tossed up as to whether
Jones or Robinson should be at the charge of a bottle of maraschino to
be consumed by the quartette.
We were again disappointed. We went on board; they were stowed away in
no part of the vessel. The deck presented a curious appearance; it was
crowded with turbaned Bosnian refugees, who with their wives and
families had deserted their native land, intolerable to them since its
occupation by the Austrian giaours. They were now on their way to the
new lands promised to them by the Porte. This exodus is much more
extensive than is generally imagined. These poor people bore their
grief with true Oriental apathy. They had laid their mats on the decks,
and were squatting on them smoking silently, holding no converse with
the hated giaours around them. The veiled women crouched up close under
the bulwarks in a shrinking manner, while the little nude children
sprawled about anywhere. I need not add that all swarmed with vermin.
They had their Penates with them, of course. Their luggage was rather
scanty.
It was a curious sight to see them trooping out of the vessel, each man
bearing his _impedimenta_--his mat, pipe, and coffee-pot; this was
all. One family had a European portmanteau; this was opened at the
Custom-house. Its contents proved to be--on one side potatoes, on the
other a coffee-pot! The potatoes doubtlessly had been dug from the
little enclosure round the homestead in the old country.
We decided to give up our friends, and start on the morrow for
Cettinje, the capital of Montenegro, for we had wasted some time, and
were anxious to commence our march into the wild interior, and see what
lay beyond that barrier of cloud-capped rock before us.
We found a Montenegrin who owned a small wiry mountain horse. He agreed
for a small sum to guide us, and carry our baggage to the capital.
Before leaving Cattaro we changed some English sovereigns into
swanzickers. This is an old Austrian coin, out of circulation in the
Empire, of the date of Maria Theresa, and as a rule bearing her effigy.
This is the coin particularly affected by the Montenegrins, they always
value anything in these elsewhere obsolete swanzickers.
The Turkish modern coinage is also accepted, but under protest. The
silver Medjidie seems to have a different value in every Montenegrin
village. Austrian modern money or paper they will have nothing to do
with, as a rule. Of course gold of any kind is readily taken.
The value of the English sovereign and French napoleon is well known
all over eastern Europe. I was surprised to find that the humblest
mountaineer in Albania knew the exact change for these pieces. The only
difficulty in changing them lies in the possibility of a village not
being able to muster a sufficiency of the small coin as an equivalent.
Bank-notes are of course useless in these wild countries; but at
Cattaro and Spalato, and other Dalmatian towns, there are
money-changers who will change these with pleasure.
When we were at Cattaro the pound sterling was worth eleven florins,
sixty centimes, or thirty-three-and-a-half swanzickers.