OSTROG
I have driven the road many a time since, and I have been again to
Ostrog, but I shall never forget that day three years ago when I went
there for the first time. It was the only part of that journey about
which our advisers said we should find no difficulty; "foreign
languages" were spoken, and there would be no trouble about
accommodation. We started from Podgoritza early and in high spirits.
The valley of the Zeta is green and well cultivated. It narrows as we
ascend it, and an isolated hill crowned with the ruins of a Turkish
fortress stands up commandingly in the middle. This is the "bloody"
Spuzh of the ballads, the stronghold that guarded the former Turkish
frontier. Montenegro at this point was barely fifteen miles across, and
Spuzh and Nikshitje gripped it on either hand. From being a border town
with an exciting existence Spuzh has subsided into an unimportant
village. Danilovgrad, on the other hand, a few miles farther on, a town
founded in memory of the late Prince, is full of life, and though a bit
rudimentary at present, shows signs of soon becoming large and
flourishing. It is possible now to drive right up to the lower
monastery of Ostrog by a fine new road, but this did not yet exist on
my first visit, and we pulled up at Bogatich--a poverty-stricken
collection of huts and a tiny church. A tall, lean, sad-eyed
Montenegrin, with his left arm in a sling, came out of the little "han"
to greet us, bringing with him a strong whiff of carbolic. They were a
melancholy little household. His wife, who brought water for our reeking
horses, had had her right arm taken off an inch or two below the elbow,
and carried the bucket horribly in the crook of the stump. They cheered
up when they heard we wanted a guide to the monastery, and called their
daughter from the shed for the purpose.
She came out, a shy, wild-looking thing of about fifteen, barefooted,
her knitting in her hands, accepted the job at once, tied our two
hand-bags on her back with a bit of cord, and we started up in search of
the unknown, armed with a leg of cold mutton, a loaf of black bread, a
sketch-book, and a flask of brandy.
It was midday, and almost midsummer; the air was heavy with thunder, and
no breath of a breeze stirred as we scrambled up the loose stones. The
girl snorted loudly like a pig, to show us the way we should go, and
took us, in true Montenegrin fashion, straight up from point to point
without heeding the zigzags of the horse-track except where the
steepness of the rock compelled her. The way soon became steeper and
steeper, in fact a mere rock scramble, and it was abominably hot; and
when suddenly our plucky little guide, who had as yet shown no signs of
fatigue, gave out all her breath with a long whistle and pointed to the
nearest patch of shade, we gladly called a halt. The great advantage of
a girl-guide is that she takes you to the right place and you can rest
on the way. Little boys as a general rule are vague and inconsequent;
they pick up crowds of friends _en route_, even in the most desolate and
apparently uninhabited spots, and you don't generally arrive at your
destination. Either they don't know the way, or they conduct you to
another spot, for reasons of their own.
We sat with our girl, and made futile attempts to converse with her. It
was a wild, lonely spot, and save the rough track worn by generations of
pilgrims, as rugged as it was created. Great grey limestone rocks arose
around us, with sturdy young trees sprouting in the crannies; a small
grey snake wound its way over the sunbaked stones, and a tortoise
scrambled about the grass alongside. The valley shimmered in a hot haze
far below, and beyond towered the bare crags of the opposite mountains.
We seemed a very long way from anywhere. Appearances were however
deceptive, as a short scramble brought us to a wall, a gateway, and some
buildings. The girl seemed to think we had now arrived, and we imagined
that we were about to find the guest-house where French, Italian, and
German were spoken. We passed through the gateway on to a long wide
shelf on the mountain side, 1900 feet above the sea. Two or three very
poor cottages stood at the entrance, and at the farther end a tiny
church, crudely painted with a maroon dado of geometrical patterns, and
three small houses all apparently shut up and uninhabited. Not a soul
was to be seen. The girl went into one of the cottages and fetched a
tin pot of cold water, which we all drank greedily, seeing which the
cottage woman came out and supplied us with as much as we required, and
gave us a bench to sit on. She was mildly concerned at our appearance,
for we had sweated all through our shirts, and the girl had left a black
hand-print on my back, but she spoke no word of any other language but
her own, and speedily retired again to her cottage. We sat on the bench
and pondered, feeling very forlorn. If this were Ostrog, as the girl
assured us with vigorous nods, it was not worth the roasting scramble.
We were miserably disappointed, but decided that, as we had come to see
Ostrog, we would see it properly, and that, if there were any
inhabitants, they had not finished the midday siesta. We squeezed into a
patch of shadow and cut up the mutton and black bread with a
pocket-knife; the girl gladly assisted, and ate like a wolf, bolting
large chunks with great appetite. There was quite a cheery lot of brandy
in the flask, and as we carefully packed up the remains of the meal, in
case of a siege, we felt very much better.
Then down the wide white path from the houses came a man, an old, old
man in Western garb. He tottered up, and we hailed him in all our known
languages; French and Italian failed, but he responded to German, and
started at once on his own autobiography. He was an old soldier, he had
fought under Karageorgevich. Now he had retired here to end his days.
"They" had sent him here, and "they" had made him dig his grave. It was
waiting for him on the mountain side. He was very lonely, and had no
one to talk to. As soon as we could stem the torrent of his remarks, we
asked him about quarters for the night. "Had we an introduction from the
Archimandrite at Cetinje?" "No?" Then we had better go back where we had
come from, and we had better start at once, if we meant to get to
Nikshitje that night. We were appalled. He repeated obstinately, "You
must go, and if you take my advice, you will go at once. I can do
nothing for you. They," he admitted mysteriously, "cannot bear me. It is
useless for me to ask them. They can speak nothing but Servian, and you
will not be able to make them understand. They would have to send for
me. Moreover, they are asleep." He pointed to "their" house. We asked
when "they" were likely to wake up again, and he said it would be in
about an hour's time. We doubted his statements, for his air was very
malevolent, so as our little maiden was already coiled up on the ground
fast asleep, we thought it would be just as well to rest until "they"
could be appealed to. The old gentleman "who had no one to talk to" went
off and indulged in an animated conversation with the cottage woman,
while we dozed under a tree. When we aroused ourselves again, not much
rested, we saw the shutters of "their" house were now open, so we
marched up to the front door, knocked, and awaited results tremulously.
Nothing happened; we knocked a second time, and fled down the steps.
Immediately the door flew open, and there was the Archimandrite of
Ostrog himself, in long black gown, crimson sash, and high velvet hat--a
little old man whose thin iron-grey locks flowed on his shoulders. He
came rushing down the steps and shook us by the hands, saying, "Dobar
dan, dobar dan" (good-day), as heartily as though he had been expecting
us and we had come at last. We said, "Dobar dan," also, with enthusiasm,
and then the conversation came to an abrupt conclusion. He showed us
with great ceremony into his sitting-room, and made us sit on the sofa,
while he sat opposite on a chair. We felt acutely uncomfortable--not one
single word of English, French, German, or Italian did the good man
know. We made him understand that we had come from England, which amazed
him, and that we had walked from Bogatich. Then we stuck hopelessly and
helplessly, while he, undaunted, went on in his native language. It
seemed as if our climb to Ostrog had failed, and that flight was all
that was left for us. We got up and said "good-bye" politely. Our
departure he would by no means permit. "Sjedite, sjedite!" he cried,
waving us back to the sofa, and down we sat again, feeling much worse. A
Montenegrin about six feet four inches in height, clad in a huge brown
overcoat, answered his summoning bell, and presently returned with two
glasses of cold water on a brass tray which he offered to us
ceremoniously, towering over us and watching us with lofty toleration,
as a big dog does a little one. He waited patiently until we had drunk
every drop, collected the glasses, and silently retired from the room
backwards.
A horrible silence ensued. We took out our watches and showed them to
each other, in hopes that the Archimandrite would then understand that
our time was really up. But no. A fearful wrestle with the language
followed, and lasted till the Big-Dog Montenegrin reappeared, this time
with two cups of coffee. We obediently began to consume this, and the
Archimandrite, despairing of ever making us understand single-handed,
instructed his servant to fetch the gentleman-who-spoke-German. Through
him we were at once informed that the Archimandrite offered us
hospitality for the night in the house over the way. We were much
amazed, and accepted gratefully. With apologies, he then inquired if we
were married, and hastened to assure us that there was no disgrace
attached to the fact that we were not. We were slightly dismayed when we
were told we now had the Archimandrite's gracious permission to visit
the shrine, and that we were to start at once.
We were put upon the right track and left to our own devices. We had
been up since five, and had only had a scrappy, unhappy doze under the
tree, so we told each other we would go to sleep on the first piece of
ground that was flat enough. Having zigzagged up some way through the
wood, we lay down on a piece of grass, and should have been asleep in a
minute had not two natives appeared, an old man and a handsome lad. They
seemed much interested and concerned. I merely said it was very hot, and
hoped it would be enough for them. Not a bit of it. They started an
argument. I said I didn't speak the language, so they shouted to make it
clearer, and kept pointing up the path. What they meant I did not know.
It was evident, though, that the Handsome Lad did not mean to be trifled
with. He squatted alongside of us and shouted in my ear, while the old
man sat down and showed signs of staying as long as we did. So we
wearily started upwards again, and the Montenegrins, delighted at having
made us understand, went their way much pleased with their own
cleverness. We dared not rest again, and soon reached the upper
monastery of Ostrog, which was so strange and unexpected that the sight
of it did away with all thoughts of fatigue at once.
The path ended on a terrace cut in the rock 2500 feet above the sea. The
small guest-house stood against the mountain side, and a flight of newly
made steps led up through a stone doorway to a series of caverns in the
cliff face, cunningly built in and walled up to form tiny rooms, which
cling to the rock like swallows' nests. The big natural arch of rock
that overshadows them all is grimed with the dead black of smoke, and
two great white crosses painted on the cliff mark the shrine. Straight
above rises the almost perpendicular wall of bare rock, and far below
lies the valley. This is the eagle eyrie that, in 1862, Mirko Petrovich,
the Princes father, and twenty-eight men held for eight days against the
Turkish army of, it is said, ten thousand men. The Turks tried vainly to
shell the tiny stronghold, and even a determined attempt to smoke out
the gallant band failed. Mirko and his men, when they had used all their
ammunition and had rolled down rocks upon the enemy, succeeded in
escaping over the mountains, under cover of night, and reached Rijeka
with the loss of one man only. It is a tale which yet brings the light
of battle to the eyes of the Montenegrin and sends his fingers to
caress the butt of his revolver, and must be heard from Montenegrin lips
to be appreciated. A hundred years before, thirty men held this same
cavern against an army, and wild as these tales sound, the first glance
at the place forces belief. Twice only have the Turks succeeded in
occupying it. Once after Mirko and his men left it, and once in 1877,
when Suleiman Pasha held it, sent the proud message to Constantinople
that he had conquered Montenegro and that it was time to appoint a
Turkish governor--and was soon in hot retreat to Spuzh, losing half his
men on the way. The lower monastery has, on the other hand, been burnt
and rebuilt some ten times.
We sat and stared at the scene of these wild doings. The black,
smoke-grimed cavern told of the fierce struggle, and the great white
cross of the holy man whose body rests within. Sveti Vasili (St. Basil),
a local saint, was, early in the eighteenth century, Metropolitan of the
Herzegovina. In his old age he sought refuge in the mountains from
Turkish persecution, and passed his last days in this remote cavern
cared for and reverenced by the Christian peasants. Shortly after his
death they scooped out the rock and formed and dedicated to him the tiny
chapel where his body still rests. His shrine is held in the profoundest
veneration, and on Trinity Sunday (O.S.) pilgrims flock thither in
thousands, tramping on foot from Bosnia, the Herzegovina, from Albania,
even from the uttermost corners of the Balkan peninsula--a wonderful and
most impressive sight. Not Christians alone but also Mohammedans come to
the shrine of St. Vasili of Ostrog, for "four hundred years of apostasy
have not obliterated among the Bosnian Mussulmans a sort of
superstitious trust in the efficacy of the faith of their fathers," and
they come in hopes of help to the shrine of the man who suffered for it.
And so also do those strange folk, the Mohammedan Albanians. I have
passed the night up there in pilgrimage-time, when the mountain side was
a great camp and the greater part of the pilgrims slept by watch fires
under the stars; but in spite of the mixed nationalities and the
difference of religion, perfect order prevailed, and I saw many acts of
friendliness and consideration between folk from very different parts.
The precious relics have always been removed in times of danger, and
saved from the fate of those of the Servian St. Sava, which were
publicly burned by the Turks. They were, of course, removed during the
last war. The coffin is not a weighty one and the soldiers were strong,
but it became so heavy as they were carrying it down the valley that
they knew not what to do. This they took as a sign from the saint that
they should stop. They awaited the Turks, and triumphantly defeated
them. At the close of the war the relics were restored to the chapel
without any difficulty.
As we sat and looked at the knot of little cliff huts, a figure quite in
keeping with them came through the doorway and slowly approached us. A
magnificent old giant, with a silver beard and long white locks that
flowed upon his shoulders, and showed him to be a priest. A tall black
astrachan cap was on his head, and in spite of the heat he wore a heavy
cloak of dark blue cloth lined with fur, a long blue tunic, and wide
knickerbockers shoved into heavy leather boots at the knee. His high cap
and his big cloak gave him great dignity, and he welcomed us with superb
stateliness. Then, intimating we were to follow him, he conducted us to
his residence. It was a narrow little cave fronted in with planks. Here
we had to sit down while he fumbled at what was apparently a small
cupboard door. He threw it open, and behold--an oil painting of himself,
set in a gorgeous gilt frame that contrasted oddly with its rough
surroundings. It was evidently a presentation portrait, and he sat down
beaming by the side of it, for us to have every opportunity of admiring
the likeness. We spread all our scanty stock of Servian adjectives of
approval about recklessly, and the result was that from some mysterious
corner he produced a black bottle and a small liqueur glass, opaque with
dirt. He held the glass up to the light and looked at it critically;
even he realised that it was unclean; then he put in his thumb, which
was also encrusted with the grime of ages, and he screwed it round and
round. No effect whatever was produced on glass or thumb, for the dirt
in both cases was ingrained. For one awful second he contemplated his
thumb, and I thought he was going to suck it and make a further effort;
but no, he was apparently satisfied, and he filled the glass with a pale
spirit, which we hoped was strong enough to kill the germs. We drank his
health with a show of enthusiasm which seemed to gratify him, for he
patted us both affectionately.
[Illustration: UPPER MONASTERY OSTROG.]
He then showed us up a wooden step ladder to a still tinier cavern, a
dim cabin almost filled up by his bed, whose not over white sheets
betrayed the unpleasing fact that Ostrog was still subject to nocturnal
attacks and much bloodshed. In a glass case on the wall hung his two
medals, one Russian, the other Montenegrin, and, next these, three
signed and sealed documents in Cyrillic characters. He began reading out
place-names in Montenegro, Bosnia, and the Herzegovina, pointing to his
medals, and would gladly have "fought all his battles o'er again," if we
could but have understood him. His great treasure he displayed last, a
large and handsome walking-stick elaborately mounted in gold filigree
set with plates engraved with the said names. His admiration for it was
unbounded, and he handled it respectfully. The rugged old giant, and his
trophies, standing huge in his tiny lair up in the heart of the
mountains, the light from the little window falling on his silver hair
and beard, the glittering filigree, the dim squalid background, his
pride and glee over his treasures, and the royal air with which he
showed them, conjured up a whole life-drama in one swift instant. He
broke the spell himself by putting the stick carefully back into its
case, and, bowing and crossing himself reverently before a little ikon
of Our Lady, led the way out to the chapel.
The entrance was a low, narrow, rough-cut slit; he bowed twice and
crossed himself, saw that we did the same, then stooped down and went
into a small irregular cavern, its rough-hewn walls rudely frescoed with
Byzantine figures. It was very dark; one small window, hacked through
the cliff face, and the narrow doorway alone lighted it. Upon the rough
ikonostasis he pointed out the figure of St. Vasili in bishop's robes.
Then slowly and solemnly he began lighting the candles, striking a light
with flint and steel. It took him a long time, and his age was betrayed
by his tremulous hands and evidently weak sight. When he had finished,
and the cavern was a-twinkle with tiny flames, he approached the shrine.
Removing the covering, he fumbled with the lock, opened it, and then
threw back the lid slowly and respectfully. There lay the embalmed body
of the saint; the slipper-clad feet, the embroidered robes, and the gold
crucifix on the breast, only, showing. Modern science and ancient faith
had combined for perhaps the first and the last time, and the face and
hands of the saint were neatly covered with carbolised cotton-wool. I
was jolted back into the twentieth century with a rough shock. The sense
of smell--perhaps because it is a wild-beast one--brings up its trains
of associations more swiftly than any other, and the life of the old
world and the life of the modern one leapt up in sharp contrast.
To the old man, on the other hand, the scent was the odour of sanctity.
He was filled with awe and reverence, and gazed at the body like one
seeing a wondrous vision for the first time. He bent down slowly and
kissed the slippered feet, the crucifix on the breast, and the
cotton-wool over the face, crossing himself each time. Then, fearful
lest we should omit any part of the ceremony, he seized us each in turn
by the back of the neck, poked our heads into the coffin and held them
down on the right spots. We followed carefully the example he had set,
and completed our pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Vasili. He slowly
closed and locked the coffin, and rearranged the drapery upon it. Then
we debated together as to how an offering was to be made. He, however,
helped us out of the difficulty. He took a small metal bowl from the
window, placed it reverently upon the coffin and counted some very small
coins into it ostentatiously, clink, clink, then turned his back
discreetly and began slowly extinguishing the candles. He allowed just
sufficient time to carry out the approved ritual, and hurried back
eagerly to inspect the bowl. It appeared that we had acted quite
correctly on this occasion also. Coming out through the narrow door into
the open air again, we prepared to go; but the old man stopped us,
pointed upwards, and shouted for someone. The "someone" came, and turned
out to be the Handsome and Haughty Lad who had so cruelly chivied us
down below. He gazed at us with a superior smile, and in obedience to
his orders led us up to a yet higher cavern, where he showed us a spring
of very cold clear water. This is highly prized by the pilgrims to the
shrine, who all bring bottles or gourds to fetch some away in. The Lad,
I think, expected us to do so, and as he had, as he imagined, made us
understand by shouting before, he tried the same system again with great
violence. We hastily remunerated him for his trouble, in hopes of
changing his ideas, and he was sufficiently mollified to shake hands
with us. Whereupon we said good-bye, and left him.
Evening was drawing in when we reached the lower monastery, and service
had just come to an end in the little church. The Archimandrite,
followed by his small congregation, came out as we approached. We were
sleepy, dirty, and hungry, and the prospect of another interview in
Servian before getting food or rest was almost too much for us. To our
dismay, we were again conducted to the Archimandrites sitting-room. Our
relief was great when we heard the words, "Vous parlez français,
mesdemoiselles?" and we were introduced to a tall man in the long black
robes and high cap of the Orthodox ecclesiasts. Singularly beautiful,
his long brown hair flowing on his shoulders, he stood there more like a
magnificent Leonardo da Vinci than a living human being. He spoke gently
and kindly in the oddest broken French, expressing himself in little
rudimentary sentences, begging us to be seated and telling us we were
very welcome; "for we are Christians," he said simply, "and is not
hospitality one of the first of the Christian virtues? I, too, am a
guest here to-night. But you who have come so far to see us, it is the
least we can do for you. From England," he repeated, "alone, all the way
from England to see Montenegro, quelle voyage! véritablement des héros!
In Montenegro you are as safe, vous savez, as in your own homes, but the
journey--all across Europe, that is another thing!" The Archimandrite,
he explained, regretted that our room was so long in being prepared for
us. "It is because we have had a pilgrimage here lately and have had to
accommodate very many people. Therefore there was no place suitably
furnished for you, but they are putting down the carpets, and it will
soon be finished." We were horrified, and begged they would not take so
much trouble; but he would not hear of it. "Oh, it is a great pleasure
to us all to know that in England there is such a good opinion of
Montenegro that two ladies will come all alone into our country and
trust us; that the English should wish to know us!" I felt like an
impostor; it was embarrassing to be given hospitality as the bearer of
good-tidings from Great Britain, but to our innocent-minded entertainer
the idea seemed quite simple and sufficient. He had nothing but good to
say of everyone. For the two small boys who came in with the usual cold
water and coffee, he was filled with admiration--their build, their
muscular limbs, their honest, open faces. "Montenegrin faces," he said,
"ah! but they are beautiful my faithful Montenegrins! It is my life," he
went on, "to help these poor people. I have a church, a little, little
church, away among the rocks. It is there that I live. If I had known,
mesdemoiselles, before, that you were travelling this way, it would have
given me great pleasure to show it to you. But I did not know until
yesterday"; and he added, with a smile at our astonishment, "Oh yes, in
this country, vous savez, one hears of all strangers."
The conversation was broken off by the announcement that our rooms were
ready, and we all went over in a solemn little procession to the house
over the way, the two ecclesiasts, the four servants and ourselves, and
were shown in with many apologies for the poorness of the accommodation.
The dear good people were putting the finishing touches when we entered,
and had arranged two large rooms most comfortably. The Archimandrite
satisfied himself that the water jugs were full, that we had soap, and
that the beds were all right. Then both gentlemen shook hands with us
and wished us good-night, and withdrew. An anxious quarter of an hour
followed, during which we wondered whether we were going to be fed or
not, and regretted that we had bestowed the remains of the bread and
mutton on the girl; for we had been knocking about since five a.m., and
it was now eight p.m. Then there came a most welcome knock at the door,
and we were taken to a large dining-room and a good dinner. It was a
solemn meal. We were waited on by four men, who came in and out
silently, supplied our wants, stood at attention and gazed at us
stolidly. The largest was about six feet four and built to match, but
extremely tame in spite of his weapons and his I size. I don't think he
had the least idea how very small he made us feel.
Early next morning the Archimandrite and our friend were already about,
and came to see us breakfast and to beg that we would write our names in
the visitors' book. We said all that we could in the way of thanks to
our kind entertainer; he murmured a blessing over us, we shook hands,
and were soon wandering down the mountain side.