Rosso and Effendi--A barbaric feast--Patoulis--Mead--The future of
Albania--The Italia Irridenta--Sport in Meriditia--Dick Deadeye.
Very warm and affectionate were our farewells on the morrow, when we
left the good Franciscans. "Ah!" said Luigi, "it is a sad thing thus to
make friends, and so soon part for ever. We may meet perhaps in some
other remote land. For we Franciscans are ever changing the scene of
our labour--now here, now there; in the deserts, in the teeming cities;
but always _in regionibus infidelium_."
We saddled and mounted our horses, and commenced our ride down the
ravine. Nik Leka walked; he carried with him two long pistols and a
Martini-Henry rifle, all, I observed, at full cock. This was all the
luggage he took with him. Honour should be given where honour is due.
Never did member of the equine race behave so well as did the fat
little Effendi and the lean and haggard Rosso. For twelve hours out of
the twenty-four from dark to dark, for six consecutive days, did these
worthy animals carry us over this wilderness of rock and ice. Fodder
was scarce. Rosso lived chiefly on the rare bits of timber he met on
the way. He did not care much for live trees, but had a preference for
the more tasty, decayed fallen wood. He was a _gourmand_ in his way.
Effendi had a more delicate stomach; a diet of fresh fallen snow had
greater charms for him than any other. We found they were of one mind,
or rather stomach, in their intense relishing of maize bread.
Our return journey was rendered difficult and dangerous by the frozen
snow which covered the mountains. However, just as the sun was setting
we approached the hut of Castrati.
Half a mile from it we passed a woman. She stopped, and spoke to us. We
at once recognized the pretty, smiling face. It was our old friend the
wife of the owner of the house. She ran on before us to apprize her
husband of our arrival. Nik Leka evidently saw that we admired the
lady. He was much tickled, slapped me on the shoulder, and said,
"Castrati mir" (Nice place, Castrati).
"Ah," I said, "Grue Castrati fort mir" (The women of Castrati very
nice).
The chieftain roared with laughter. My remark was repeated over and
over again in the hut this evening, and much amused every one.
On entering the hospitable house, our host and all the other
inhabitants of it came forward, and gave us a very cordial welcome.
They were genuinely glad to see us back safe. Nik Leka told our story.
They laughed, pointed to their throats, and shook us by the hands. Our
pretty hostess, speaking broken Albanian, so that we might understand
her, added, "Gussinje yok mir, Castrati mir."
A lot of neighbours came in. Every one was bustling about; preparations
were being evidently made for a grand feast in our honour.
The old crone in the corner was just where we had left her; I don't
suppose she had moved since. She was awakened from her lethargy by the
unwonted hubbub, looked peevishly round now and then, and mumbled
savagely.
I must describe this evening's feast in full, so characteristic was it.
The fire, as I before said, was lit in the middle of the mud floor, the
smoke escaping as it could. Huge logs--I ought rather to say
trees--were now piled on. A tremendous blaze was made up.
When we entered, the fire was low, a loaf of maize cooking in the
embers.
The method of making these loaves is simple. When the fire has burnt
long, and the floor beneath is thoroughly hot, the ashes are scraped
away in the centre, the loaf is placed on the bare mud, and an iron
cover, which fits closely to it, placed above it. Then the hot ashes
are once more raked back till they entirely bury the loaf and its
cover; and the baking commences.
Our host went out and killed the fatted sheep, and proceeded to prepare
it for roasting whole. A slit was made down the belly, the entrails
were taken out, the feet were tucked into the slit, which was then
carefully sewed up, and a wooden spit was run right through the carcase
from head to tail.
It was brought in and placed over the fire. The spit worked on two
rough logs, one of the women turning it with her hand.
We commenced our dinner by coffee drinking. There is certainly but one
way of making coffee--that in vogue in these regions. Let my readers
attend to this receipt, and try it.
On the fire is a pot of boiling water. A small saucepan, with a long
handle, just big enough to hold a coffee cup of water is taken (N.B. a
small Turkish coffee cup). Into it is thrown a teaspoonful of coffee,
freshly ground and freshly roasted, also a lump of sugar.
Boiling water is poured on it till the saucepan is full. Then the
saucepan is put on the fire. It boils over, is taken off for ten
seconds. Three times this operation is repeated, then the thick fluid
is poured into the cup; and delicious it will be found to be, if you
once get over your prejudice against grounds. We and all the other men
squatted on our rugs round the blazing fire and roasting sheep, and
commenced our dinner, the women, according to Eastern fashion, standing
or sitting in the corners of the room, watching us, and waiting till we
had done, when they would come in for their share of the feast. The old
crone was a favoured person; a bone was occasionally thrown to her by
the host while we dined, which she seized in her skeleton hands, and
sucked greedily with her toothless chaps.
There was a knowing old dog by her who knew, and took a mean advantage
of, her blindness and weakness, for he managed occasionally to steal a
succulent morsel out of her very hands.
While the sheep was roasting we were obliged to eat little delicacies,
intended, I suppose, to tickle our appetites. Our host would take
"patoulis" from the ashes of the fire (a sort of rancid, heavy dripping
cake), smear them thickly with honey, then on the top of all scatter
large lumps of goat's-milk cheese, and hand them to us in a pressing
way that permitted no refusal.
We were forced to eat so many of these that the roasting sheep, of
which we knew we would have to partake freely, turned before our eyes
like a horrid nightmare. Meanwhile Nik Leka looked on benignantly as he
put away the cakes in a way that surprised us.
We washed down all this with a very greasy sort of mead. Though of a
fairly omnibibant nature, we could hardly stomach this. At last we came
to the "_misch i pickun_," as the roasted sheep is called. Our host cut
it up with his yataghan, then proceeded to tear the flesh with his
fingers. We were well looked after, and treated as honoured guests. The
Arnaut would pull off some rich lump of fat, enclosing a kidney, and
hand it to one of us. The meat was really very good; all its richness
is kept in by this way of cooking, but probably a delicate-stomached
person might not relish the idea of devouring lumps of tepid mutton fat
with his fingers, without bread or salt.
I think I did very creditably at this meal. I know Jones, who finally
collapsed and could do no more, looked at me with amazement. Fat and
lean and crackling followed each other. Our host and Nik Leka did not
leave me alone for a moment. Now and then one of them would tear off a
large shred of meat, and stuff it into our saddle-bag for the next
day's provision.
At last we were as replete as Homer's heroes. Indeed the whole scene
carried one back to those days. The besiegers of Troy lit the fire of
logs, and roasted the beasts whole, and ate till they could not stand
or talk, just as did these no less savage Arnauts. Just like these too,
when the banquet was over, did they show their gratitude to their host,
and appreciation of his hospitality, by frequent hiccups and belchings.
The women and dogs gobbled up the remains in their corner, as we smoked
our cigarettes and toasted ourselves in old raki.
We were up before daylight the next morning. It had snowed heavily in
the night, so our descent to the plain was slow, and not unattended
with danger. Our good-byes at Castrati before starting were
affectionate and protracted. "_Me teneson miku idaxtun!_" (Good-bye,
dear friends), were the last words of our pretty hostess, as she waved
her hand to her departing admirers.
At the khan of Koplik, where we were beginning to be well known (this
was our fourth visit to it), we lunched off the fragments of the sheep
which our host had thrown into our saddle-bags in the exuberance of his
hospitality on the previous night. It was dark long before we entered
the intricate lanes of the faubourg of Scutari. So here we were once
again, having failed in our attempt to reach Gussinje. However, the
expedition had not been altogether a vain one. We had seen a good deal
of the manners and customs of the Arnaut; had journeyed away from the
main roads into the heart of the great mountains, where, I believe,
none of our countrymen had ever ventured before; and again, we had
learnt a good deal more of the real strength of the league than a
month's inquiries at Scutari could have taught us. Not that I did not
take the Franciscans' account with a few grains of salt. The fathers
hated the Mussulmen, and were anxious to withdraw our sympathies from
the defenders of Gussinje.
The world will hear a good deal of the doings of this Albanian League
some day, so a few remarks on what, from my observations, I consider to
be the real condition of affairs, will not, I think, be here out of
place.
The chiefs of the association are, I believe, honest men, patriotic,
and determined to carry out their programme to the death.
Ali Bey is spoken very highly of even by the Montenegrins, and if
reports prove true, will show himself no indifferent general.
Nearly every Mussulman in Albania is a member of the league, and its
forces are daily swollen by refugees from Bosnia and deserters from the
Turkish army.
That Turkey at first secretly assisted and encouraged the movement, I
think there can be no doubt. At any rate it is certain that the Porte's
representatives, even her highest officers in this country, openly
sympathized with it.
But the league has waxed too strong for the government, who could not
crush it now were it desirous of doing so. The leaguesmen, feeling
their strength, have extended their programme. Defence of their native
land against foreign invasion is now not their only cry, but Autonomy,
and the shaking off of the Turkish yoke are boldly discussed in the
bazaars of the garrison towns.
The Montenegrin difficulty may be settled; the principality may agree
to take some lands near Antivari in lieu of the Gussinje and Plava
district; but there are other and more serious complications behind.
To resist the advances of Austria on the north and Greece on the south
are the avowed objects of the league. It is only too probable that the
dual empire will be compelled to carry her arms into this province; for
a lawless, fanatical, self-ruling Albania will be far too troublesome
and dangerous a neighbour for her disaffected Bosnia. An occupation of
Albania is confidently spoken of by all the Austrian officers I met in
Dalmatia.
But an invasion of this country will be no mere military promenade. As
mountainous, and as easy of defence as Montenegro--inhabited by at
least as warlike a race, and better armed, Albania may prove as hard a
nut to crack, as the Black Mountain has proved to Turkey, who for
hundreds of years has in vain hurled army after army to perish on those
grey rocks.
I think there can be little doubt, too, that the Christian Arnauts will
join the league, in case of any invasion. They, too, love their
independence--for independent they practically are, the Turkish yoke
never having been felt in these wild hills.
Passionately fond of war, poor and starving, as the highlanders have
been since the Turco-Russian war, the certainty of plunder, if nothing
else, would compel them to join one side or the other,--and which that
side would be it is not difficult to say. That the Turks can
effectually interfere is quite impossible. Any one who knows how
high-strung the Mussulman sentiment now is, how insubordinate the
generally obedient ill-treated Turkish soldier has now become, can
easily foresee what would be the natural result of a Turkish general
leading his men to fight against their co-religionists, in order to
force them to deliver their country to the giaour. They would mutiny,
lay down their arms, fraternize with the men they had been incited to
slay. It would be the tale of Mehemet Ali over again.
I see some wild story went the round of the European papers, to the
effect that Muktar Pasha had led a force against Gussinje, and had been
assassinated. As a matter of fact he was, to my knowledge, nowhere near
Gussinje at the time. But such would be the fate of any commander who
led Turkish troops on so unholy an errand.
The Montenegrins have openly declared that they will treat the soldiers
of the league as rebels, giving no quarter. They are very sanguine; but
in my opinion if the Black Mountaineers and the Albanians are allowed
to settle their quarrel by themselves, no other power intervening, we
may hear of Ali Bey at Cettinje, before we hear of Marco Milano at
Gussinje.
How the Albanian difficulty will end it is difficult to see. That the
troubles of this lawless province of Turkey may indirectly lead to
serious complications is more than likely.
Beyond the Adriatic, too, lies another power, that is eagerly watching
the progress of matters--Italy.
The Italia Irridenta party is very anxious that the government should
lay a claim to Albania, when the day of Turkey's dismemberment comes.
All Italians consider that their country has been slighted and left in
the cold in the recent adjustment of oriental affairs. The Austrians,
without striking a blow, have acquired Bosnia and Herzegovina. England
and France have assumed a sort of protectorate over Egypt, even Greece
has gained territory.
That Italy is casting covetous eyes on Albania is certain; and equally
certain is it, that she would be seriously annoyed if Austria should
occupy the whole eastern Adriatic shore, from Trieste to the AEgean.
In Albania, one half of the inhabitants are Roman Catholics. The
priests, who here have great influence, are all Italians by birth.
These are accused of intriguing in the interest of their government, of
sowing seeds of rebellion among their flocks. On this point I am not
capable of giving an opinion. The Franciscan missionaries I met seemed
to be anything but friendly disposed towards the rulers of their native
land.
That the Italians have carried on intrigues down the whole East
Adriatic coast is certain. At the present moment the Albanian League
are in doubt whether to offer the princedom of their country, when they
have liberated it, to Ali Pasha, Midhat Pasha, or to a prince of the
house of Savoy. Whatever may eventuate, there is one thing very
certain; this is, that neither Mussulman nor Christian in Albania are
likely ever again to take up arms in defence of the Turkish Government.
They are sick of it.
The Mohammedans see that it is impotent to forward their interests in
any way. The Arnauts, who fought well for Turkey in the last war, have
been treated with great ingratitude ever since. They will only fight in
the future in independent defence of their country against the
foreigner.
If we are to believe the latest news from these regions; most of the
Christian clans have at last decided to join the league. When I was in
the country they were in a wavering and undecided state.
If this news be true, there is every prospect of a long-protracted and
ferocious war, for the Albanians are a terrible foe, and not easily to
be crushed when they once rise in earnest to defend their country, as
history has more than once showed. With such a leader as Ali Pasha
seems to be--of great ability, of intense zeal, ambitious to be a
second Scanderbeg--the autonomy of Albania may not be far off, and
probably may not be so very undesirable a thing.
For here we have a people in religion, sentiment, and race, utterly
differing from those Greeks and Sclavs, to whose mercies Mr. Gladstone
would like to see their native land delivered. They are a people quite
apart from the other eastern Adriatic peoples--a noble race, that
deserves its opportunity quite as much as do Montenegro and Bulgaria.
This question is attracting little attention now, but I should not be
surprised to find that before long this attempt of a brave people to
acquire its independence will gain the sympathies of the English.
Ingratitude is not an Albanian vice. It might happen that an Albanian
principality might prove, in some future time, an ally not to be
despised.
I will conclude these remarks by once more repeating, that any one who
travels in these countries with unbiassed mind must be of opinion that
the Albanians are quite as likely--to say the least of it--to prove
capable of self-government, as are any of the southern Sclav peoples,
and that unless it be deemed best that Austria, or some other great
power, occupy the country, it would be well that autonomy were granted
to them, and exceedingly unwise to deliver them over to Greece and the
neighbouring Slav states, who have quite enough to do in looking after
their own affairs.
On arriving at Toshli's, Brown, Robinson, our landlords, and other
friends, expressed their delight, and even astonishment, at seeing us
once more with our heads securely planted on our shoulders.
We exchanged experiences with Brown and Robinson. They chaffed us a
little on our failure in Gussinje; but we found that we could return
the compliment. When they left us for the Miridite mountains they
(Robinson especially) were exceedingly sanguine as to the success of
their sporting expedition. They would return to Scutari with a train of
mules laden with the skins of the beasts they had slain. They were
going to make such a bag as had never been heard of in Albania.
Now that they had returned they were remarkably reserved as to their
doings in the mountains. They came back empty-handed--of course because
they could not procure horses to carry the spoil.
At last--first from one, and then from the other--the true story leaked
out. Their sport had been a dismal failure. They found that the
highlands were, to say the least, chilly at this late season.
Marco struck, and would proceed no further into the snow-covered
wilderness, for our Arnaut follower had a liking for warmth, and a not
unnatural hatred and fear of the fierce brigands of the Meriditia, who
are the terror of all the country in the vicinity of their mountain
fastnesses.
Under these circumstances they returned to the lowlands, and visited
the seaport of Alessio, and some other neighbouring towns. The chief
events of their expedition were the great hospitality they received
from a Roman Catholic bishop in one place, and from a self-elected
pasha, an ex-brigand, in another.
Another follower had been added to our party during our absence. This
was one of those Bohemian dogs one occasionally comes across in cities.
A disreputable improvident, albeit clever and good-natured animal. He
had a profound contempt for orientals, and we were told invariably made
the acquaintance of any Europeans who visited Scutari. He generally
managed to pick up something at the consulates, but lived a very
hand-to-mouth sort of life; he was liked as a jolly fellow by the
decent dogs of Scutari. If any canine that ever prided himself on his
respectability scorned to associate with him, he, at any rate, had
cause to repent, if he audibly expressed his disgust in the vagabond's
presence. When the frontier commission was in Albania, this dog
attached himself to the English delegates, and was by them named "Dick
Deadeye," from his striking personal resemblance to that discontented
mariner on board H.M.S. "Pinafore." Dick Deadeye was out of town when
we were last at Scutari; but as soon as he returned and heard that
Englishmen were in the town, he hurried off to Toshli's, called on
Robinson and Brown, and kindly offered to accompany us whithersoever we
might wish to go.
A very affectionate old friend he turned out to be; very useful, too.
When the savage Albanian dogs would rush out from some wayside
farm-house to yelp at the strangers' heels, Dick Deadeye would soon
settle them.
The season was now far advanced; snow fell nearly every other day; and
it was evident that it would be difficult, and very unpleasant, to
travel further in this roadless country this year. Some of our party,
too, wished to be in London by Christmas. So, after holding a somewhat
stormy counsel, we decided to leave Scutari in three days' time, and
march to the port of Dulcigno, where we should just arrive in time to
meet the coasting steamer from Corfu to Trieste.