CHAPTER IX_Through the Land of the Serb

SKODRA TO DULCIGNO

I have on one point, at any rate, a fellow-feeling with the Albanian.

Skodra fascinates me. When I am not there--only then, mind you--I am

almost prepared to swear with him that it is the finest city in the

world, and a year after my first visit I found myself again on the

steamer, hastening Skodra-wards, with the intention of riding thence to

Dulcigno. Skodra greeted me warmly as an old friend. That exalted

official the Persian beamed upon me and said that for Mademoiselle a

passport was not necessary, the customs let me straight through, and I

was soon settled comfortably in my old quarters. The Persian, because,

so he said, of our long friendship, but really because he was aching

with curiosity, called upon me at once in the crumpled and unclean white

waistcoat in which he fancies himself, and chatted affably.

He comes, so he tells me, of a most exalted family; were he only in

Tehran, instead of, unfortunately, in Skodra, he would be regarded with

universal respect and veneration. As I have no idea of the standard

required by Tehran, I condoled with him gravely, and accepted his

statement. It was a great joy to Skodra, he informed me, that I should

have come alone. No other lady had ever done so. Only une Anglaise

would; for the English alone understand Turkey--are her dear friends.

Here his enthusiasm was unbounded. Upon Turkish soil every English

person was as safe as in England. This was owing to the excellence of

the government. "There is," he said, "no government like ours." I told

him the latter statement was universally believed, and pleased him

greatly. He soared to higher flights. It was astonishing, he said, and

most annoying, that false accounts of Turkey were published by foreign

papers. He would go so far as saying that they never told the truth. It

was even said that in parts of Turkey there had been considerable

disturbances lately. Parole d'honneur, this was quite untrue. Never had

the land been in a more tranquil or flourishing condition, and as a

proof of his assertion he told me that his information was entirely

derived from official sources.

Now at this time, "according to foreign papers," Russia, aided by

Turkish troops, was vainly trying to force a Consul into Mitrovitza,

encounters between troops and desperate villagers were reported almost

daily from Macedonia, trains on the Salonika line had been more than

once "held up," and the governor of the very district we were in had

been shot at some months before. But he burbled on of the beauty of the

British Government and of the support it always afforded in the hour of

need. Everything desirable, including liberty and equality, flourished

under the Crescent, he said. At this moment a poverty-stricken little

gang of ragged men tramped past, bearing in turns upon their shoulders a

long battered old coffin, from which the paint was almost worn away.

They stopped to shift it nearly opposite us. It was lidless, and the

dead man's white face, his knees, and his great sheepskin stood above

its edge. He lay in his clothes just as he died. The Persian, with

ill-timed merriment, pointed to the corpse. "A dead sheep,

Mademoiselle!" said he contemptuously. He addressed some remark in an

unknown tongue to the mourners. The coffin-bearers passed sullenly. "A

dead Christian," I said to him sharply. "Yes, yes, a Catholic," he

admitted. I stared hard at his shifty eyes; he hastily dropped into

politics again, and I thought about equality.

Not being desirous of emulating Miss Stone, and as the Persian for

imaginativeness rivalled his fellow-countryman, Omar Khayyam, I

collected advice from various quarters. Great as were the joys of

Skodra, Dulcigno was my object; but I did not seem to get any nearer

arriving there. Everybody combined to try to frighten me off the ride.

Having played about Skodra for over a week, however, I persuaded myself

that the Albanian was a friendly and much maligned being, took all the

responsibility upon myself, and decided to carry out my plan. I fixed

the matter up with a rush. Dutsi, the man who was to guide me, turned up

early in the morning with a sturdy pony; I said farewell, and started

through the town on foot. It was no use my mounting, said Dutsi

mournfully, till we had passed the passport place; the Turks were very

bad about passports--_diavoli_, in fact. This with a gentle air of

resignation, as if it were highly possible it would not be worth while

to mount at all. We walked along the banks of the Bojana till we came to

its point of union with the Drin. Over the Drin is a big wooden bridge

with a fantastic arch of wood across it, and on the bridge stood

soldiers in the dirty rags that the Turks call a uniform. "Your

passport," said Dutsi hurriedly. I produced it; but as none of the

authorities could read anything but Turkish, it was useless. Dutsi

looked anxious. "They want your name," he said, and looking at the

passport-case, which is stamped "Mary E. Durham," he read out "Marie"

with triumph. Everyone was satisfied. I entered Skodra as "Edith of

London"; I left it as no less a person than "Mary of England." Great and

obvious are the blessings of the passport system. I gave a twopenny

bakshish, and we passed on to the bridge. Dutsi was a changed being; his

spirits rose as soon as the Turks were left behind. He told me he was

much attached to the English, and that now I might mount.

After an hour or so of enjoyment, the road got worse, and then rapidly

worse still, and fuller and fuller of water. The Bojana was in flood,

and the waters were out. My beast splashed through water almost up to

his belly, and Dutsi took circuits through peoples maize fields. Then it

got so bad that we left the track and laboured fetlock--deep through

ploughed land, and saw ox-carts bogged to the axle in the sea of mud

that was all that was left of the road. And after a little of this, the

track was lost altogether, and we wandered round through tracts of mud

and streams, forced a passage through an osier bed only to come to a

swirling sheet of water, tried back, and finally made for a hovel and

hallooed for help. The owner came out, took us over his own grounds, and

started us again on something like a path, which soon disappeared.

Dutsi, however, now knew the direction, and the pony was extraordinarily

clever at climbing greasy banks, boring his way through the willows on

top, and scrambling over the ditch the other side without even once

"pecking." We came to some low hills, and got on to dry ground at last.

Then Dutsi discovered to his distress that my umbrella, which he had

tied to the back of the saddle, was gone. This was a sad loss, but it

was evidently gone beyond recall. Dutsi in despair laid the blame

entirely on those devils the Turks, who made such devils of roads, and

were such devils to the good Christians that they were unable to improve

the country. "Oh, the devils!" said Dutsi; "they have lost your devil of

an umbrella." This relieved his feelings, and when I pointed out the

inky clouds that were rapidly rising and said we had better hurry, he

remarked piously, that though it looked like rain he believed that, in

consideration of the loss of my umbrella, God would not permit it, for

He does not like the Turks. Thus comforted, we proceeded, over low

ground again, splashing over fields that, properly drained, should be

magnificent water meadows, but were liquid slush in which great yellow

spearwort flourished. At last we came to the river's edge and the

ferryman's hut.

A great barge was dragged alongside the bank and the pony persuaded to

enter it. I sat on the edge and curled up my toes, for the bottom was

covered with water, and we were soon off. The boat was towed some

distance up stream and let loose, and the force of the current combined

with skilful steering swept it across. Dutsi was now happy; we should

have a "buona strada" all the way! He began telling me of a noble and

wealthy Englishman, one X. of the Foreign Office, to whom he had acted

as guide in the spring in a shooting expedition, one of the best and

kindest signors that existed, and we progressed slowly over the "buona

strada," which was like a dry torrent bed, for we were now back among

the limestone rocks again. Presently we arrived at a stream with a plank

across it. "The frontier, the frontier!" cried Dutsi, and, as we set

foot on the other side, he announced that we were in a free and

Christian land, Montenegro! Now, he said, we would rest and eat some

bread. So we sat down under a tree, and I discovered that the

improvident creature had brought nothing more filling with him than a

few cigarettes. As my chances of getting to Dulcigno depended entirely

on him, I supplied him with two of my three eggs and three-quarters of

my loaf, and we were just setting to work when we heard a loud

"tom-tom-tomming." Out of the bushes came a gang of seven very black

gipsies, four muzzled bears, and a loaded ass. Between them they carried

five rifles and seven revolvers, and they certainly looked the "Devils

Own." The pony snorted and stamped at the bears, and would have bolted

had he not been tied fast; we hadn't a weapon between us, and Dutsi

looked so green that I thought "all the fun of the fair" was about to

begin. "Dobar dan," said I, through a mouthful of egg, for it is always

as well to be civil. They made no answer, but scowled upon us and went

surly by, single file, the boy who was in charge of the bears beating

his tambourine rhythmically the while. As soon as the last of them had

disappeared round the corner, Dutsi announced that they were very, very

bad and all Turks (_i.e_. Moslems), and that now we must have a long

rest. He was obviously afraid of catching them up.

Meanwhile the storm clouds were rapidly catching us up. We waited some

ten minutes. I insisted upon starting then, and came upon the gipsies

almost immediately, for they were making the bears dance in the yard of

a lonely cottage on one side of the road. Dutsi caught the pony's head,

led him round silently on the grass and behind some bushes, and we

passed unseen, to his great relief. As he was very tired, I dismounted

and gave him a ride. The free and Christian road was no better than the

heathen one, but we got on very cheerfully for some way. Then the

floodgates of the heavens opened, and, in spite of the loss of my

umbrella, the rain came down in sheets. Dutsi most gallantly offered me

his, but as I had a mackintosh I begged him to keep it for himself, and

remounted and rode through the worst rain I was ever out in. Luckily we

had just arrived at a decent road, and we took shelter under the first

large tree. The whole landscape disappeared behind the grey torrent, and

out of it suddenly rushed the wildest figure I have ever seen--an old,

old woman, tall and lean, clad only in a long pair of cotton drawers

tied under her armpits. Her lank wet hair streamed from her head like

long black snakes, and she stood out in the rain and waved her arms

madly round like mill sails, as she poured out a torrent of Albanian.

"She wants us to go to her house," said Dutsi. "It is over there," as

she pointed into the rain, "half an hour away! I tell her, 'No, thank

you.'" Still the old woman gesticulated and shouted. "Falé miners"

(thank you), repeated Dutsi over and over again in a deep sing-song. She

made a last effort. "One million times in the name of God, she asks us

to come," said Dutsi, with a smile. "She says she can do no more." Nor

could she, apparently, for she disappeared again into the rain as

suddenly as she had come. "It is better to sit here in the dry," said

Dutsi. "How far is it to Dulcigno?" I asked. "Two hours at least," said

Dutsi. I wondered miserably whether the saddle-bags were water-tight,

and thought of my only change of clothes; and as there was no prospect

of food, and I had only had one egg and a little bread since early

morning, I attacked my Brand's beef lozenges and blessed the maker.

When the storm lifted, we started again, and through sun and storm

arrived in a heavy shower in sight of Dulcigno just as that most

melancholy sound, the clink of a loose shoe, caught my ear. I suggested

the best inn to Dutsi. He said dismally, "There is only one," and we

climbed the hill and entered the town,--a row of houses, a forge, a

mosque, and some shops,--and to my dismay pulled up at a tiny Albanian

drink-shop. "Ecco l'albergo," said Dutsi. I jumped off the pony and

hurried in, out of the downpour. I was streaming, Dutsi was streaming,

the pony had cast his shoe, and we had been nearly nine hours instead of

five and a half on the way. It was a case of any port in a storm. The

stripey-legged owner welcomed me effusively in broken Italian, and led

me through into an earth-floored kitchen and up a few wooden steps to a

"molto bella camera" over the shop, talking excitedly. It was a minute

apartment, quite unfurnished, except that a trouser-legged lady was

curled up fast asleep on a heap of mattresses on a sort of divan of

packing-cases. "My wife," said he, giving her a poke, whereupon she

jumped up like a jack-in-the-box, threw her arms round my neck, and

kissed me three times. Dutsi appeared with the saddle-bags. He glanced

round the room appreciatively, for it was the sort of place he felt at

home in, and said it was "dosta dobra" (pretty good), also that the

people were very good and all Christians. Then he very considerately

suggested that I had better change my clothes and would perhaps prefer

to be alone, and they left me. My "change," wrapped in a sheet of

waterproof and in saddle-bags, was quite dry, and my mind relieved on

this point was free to contemplate the possibilities of the

establishment. One window had once had glass in it, the other never.

Except the heap of bedding, there was nothing in the room but a rifle, a

cartridge belt, and a picture of St. George. The rain was falling in

sheets; seeking for other quarters would result in soaking my only dry

clothes; moreover, I was tired. I decided to stay in shelter for the

present, and descended to the "kitchen."

The floor was of earth and sloped up, for the house was built on the

hillside. In one corner Dutsi, my host, and another striped gentleman

were all squatting on their haunches round a splendid wood fire which

blazed on a big slab of stone; Madame was making coffee, and Monsieur

lemonade. A place was made for me at once, and I joined the squatting

circle. They were most anxious about my health, felt me to see if I were

really dry; and Madame, as she was unable to make me understand, kissed

my hands and face. The fire had been lighted expressly for me, said

Monsieur, and now they would all enjoy it. I appealed to Dutsi in an

undertone about the possibility of better accommodation, but he was

positive about this being the only inn. A room in a private house could

be found perhaps by the sea, but that was half an hour away; moreover,

these were most excellent people, and had lent him a coat and a pair of

shoes. Their hearty friendliness filled me with trust from the first;

the extreme primitiveness of the place attracted me. I said to myself,

"You wanted to see the Albanians, and the Lord has delivered you into

their hands. This is a unique opportunity," and I settled in and tried

to behave like one of the family. Dutsi took a tender farewell of me,

and begged me to give his love to X. of the Foreign Office, that

bravest, noblest, and most admirable signor in the whole world, and to

tell him that he (Dutsi) was praying God night and day to protect him

and bring him back to Albania. Then the rest of the company, whose

curiosity had been aroused, were told of the glories of X., and the fact

that I was his compatriot counted greatly in my favour; for in these

out-of-the-way corners the reputation of the Empire depends entirely on

the conduct of the two or three individuals who happen to have

represented it, and the responsibility upon them is heavy indeed.

Dutsi departed, and I felt a bit lonesome; but the company rejoiced over

me like children over a new kitten. They patted and stroked me, and

broke off little pieces of bread for me, and, as I could not understand

Albanian, grunted and burbled over me like friendly guinea-pigs. The

place was thick with pungent wood smoke, which escaped from a window

near the roof. The rafters overhead were black and smoky, the walls

rough stone; there was a heap of logs and brushwood in the farther

corner, and a few pots hung on pegs. Otherwise there was nothing. In

England, even in Anglo-Saxon times, my ancestors had tables and chairs.

I sat cross-legged by the blazing logs with streaming eyes, and wondered

which century I was in. And the firelight danced on the only up-to-date

thing in the room, the barrels of a rifle and revolver and the brass

tops of the cartridges in the belt of the man next me. For living, we

can go on as before with the same old things, but when it comes to

killing we really require something better. From time to time Monsieur

retired to the bar to deal out rakija to customers, and the fame of my

arrival soon spread. If the customers were of lowly standing, they were

invited in to see me; if, on the contrary, they were great men,

Montenegrin captains for instance, Monsieur asked me if I would be so

good as to step out and speak to them. These were all huge, all

courteous, all friendly, and all unable to speak anything but Servian.

Rain still poured, but as everyone who came to see me took a glass of

something, trade was good. One gentleman who spoke Italian was such a

tremendous swell that I asked him if there were any better hotel in the

place. This surprised him, and he replied that there was no other, and

the cooking here was excellent. Having interviewed some half-dozen

captains and a lot of shaven-headed up-country Albanians, I retired to

the kitchen again, and began drying my wet under-garments one by

one--an operation that interested Monsieur so deeply that he insisted

upon helping, and singed them freely. In came, in a dripping overcoat, a

strapping, cheerful, great Montenegrin, who hailed me joyfully in

Italian, sat down, and, smiling gleefully, remarked in English, "a cat,

a dog, a orse, a and, a man," and some dozen other words. Everyone

looked on in admiration. I returned in Servian, to his delight, and he

explained to me that he was kavass to the British and Foreign Bible

Society in Constantinople, and was home for a holiday. His friendliness

was unbounded; he insisted that I was to breakfast with him next

morning, and demanded to know what I was going to have for supper. He

knew all about the English, he said, and I must have roast beef.

Monsieur retired to a corner and came back with the carcase of a lamb

and a caldron. The kavass was greatly opposed to this; Monsieur was much

excited; anything I required he was willing to try! A great debate

ensued. They appealed to me, and I chose the lamb and the pot, for the

mere idea of an Albanian culinary experiment alarmed me. So Madame

fetched a hatchet, and the lamb was chopped in chunks on the hearthstone

and put into the caldron with a sheaf of onions, and I reflected that I

had at least secured mutton broth. The kavass was greatly disappointed,

as he wished to show them how to make a real English dinner. I thanked

him for his trouble, promised to breakfast with him, and he took his

leave.

As it had now ceased raining and was still light, Monsieur proposed that

we should go for a walk. The town is a large one, the shops built of

wood, many in Turkish style. We went into quite a number, not to buy

anything, but just so that the people could really have a good look at

me, and I shook hands with them all, Monsieur the while swelling with

pride. Throughout the walk he expatiated on Montenegro and the joys of

living under the government of the Prince; so good, so just. Here a man

was free. They were saved from those devils the Turks. He was himself an

Albanian of a Skodra family. "You are Catholic?" I said, for nearly all

Skodra Christians are Catholics. "Oh no," he said, "now I am a

Montenegrin, of the Church of Montenegro. Oh, what good people!" We got

under shelter just in time, and he showed me his other means of gaining

a living. He was an umbrella-mender, and also he embroidered the gold

patterns on the tops of caps. "I am always at work," he said, "and this

house is my own." Everything he possessed he admired and valued. As for

his wife, he informed me she was one of the best women in the world, and

he called upon me to admire everything she did. God had not given him a

son, and this was, it was true, a grief to him, but then "I have so much

else," he said cheerfully, "a house that is warm and dry, and a good

wife and plenty of friends, and a good daughter." The daughter had last

year delighted her father by making a most excellent marriage. She had

married a Montenegrin, and lived in Podgoritza. His shop was a chilly

open shed, his kitchen an English peasant would have considered an

inferior coal-hole, and he was so pleased with them that I was ashamed

of having doubted whether they were good enough for me.

I returned to Madame and helped stir the pot. Monsieur shut up and

barred the outer shop, some other men appeared, and we sat down to

supper. We each had a basin, a spoon and a fork, and used our own

knives. We all stood up while they crossed themselves; then Madame

uncovered the caldron, and we squatted round it and set to work. The

broth, being the stewing of a lamb, was excellent, and as my friends

greatly preferred the meat with all the goodness boiled out of it, there

was plenty for me. On my account there were extra luxuries, and all were

pleased. We dipped out of the caldron and offered one another the

tit-bits. When the lamb's head was fished up, Monsieur was grieved that

I should not have had it, and pulling out the eyes and tongue, offered

me them in his hand. In order to make me understand exactly what the

morsel was, they put out their own tongues and waggled them about. I

said I had had quite enough and thanked him, and they divided the

delicacies carefully between them, each taking a bite.

A discussion took place, and then Monsieur produced a little picture, an

ordinary, crude colour-print of the Virgin. It seemed to bother them

greatly. Monsieur evidently admired it, his friends doubted its

orthodoxy. There was something written under it that alarmed them. "Ask

the lady," said one of them in Servian. "Do you know Latin?" said

Monsieur. "Oh yes," said I, for I am always willing to oblige, if

possible. "She knows everything," they said, and the little picture was

handed to me. Under it was written "Ave Maria, etc." "What language is

that?" said the first man eagerly. "That is Latin," said I. "Latinski!"

they cried in horror. Instantly, as though it were infectious, the poor

little picture was whipped out of my hand and poked into the fire.

Monsieur shoved it down with his foot. The Roman Catholic Madonna flamed

up, and everyone breathed freely again. Monsieur made an apologetic

explanation, but his friends were obviously shocked at finding such a

thing in a respectable house. Oddly enough, in spite of my acquaintance

with the wicked language, it did not seem to occur to anyone to doubt my

orthodoxy.

Madame, however, had evidently something on her mind which she wanted to

tell me, and held an Albanian debate with the company. Unable any longer

to bear the cross-legged attitude, I had retreated, when I had eaten

enough, to the bottom step of the little ladder that led to the upper

room, and watched the strange scene. The smoke eddied in wreaths round

the room and drifted out above; the farther corners were quite dark. The

bizarre group squatted round the fire; the trouser-legged woman voluble

and eager; the sandal-shod, mediævally-clad men, their clean-cut

profiles silhouetted against the blaze, or outlined with red light,

handed round a tiny pair of tongs with which they picked out fragments

of burning wood and lighted their cigarettes. All were interested. I

wondered what it was all about. Monsieur turned and explained. His wife,

he said, liked me very much; their only daughter was married; they were

lonely. Would I stay with them for always and be a daughter to them? Now

I had seen what the house was like; they would all be very good to me,

and we should all be "molto contento." Everyone waited anxiously for my

reply. They were quite serious about it, and I replied in the same

spirit, that I had a mother and that, naturally, I must return to her.

They inquired her age and where she lived, and then agreed that it would

be impossible for her to live alone, and that I was right, though they

lamented the fact. Then they told me their ages and asked mine, and we

were all equally astounded; for they had regarded me as a very young

thing, and I had put them all down as at least twelve years older than

they were. I have no doubt that they were speaking the truth, and that

it was the roughness of their lives that had so aged them, and Monsieur

was really not more than forty, and his wife forty-two.

About nine o'clock the company from outside all left, having first stood

up and crossed themselves and wished each other good-night

ceremoniously. Monsieur lit a tiny lantern, of which the glass was

grimy, and led the way up the steps to the "molto bella camera." Here

there were three heaps of bedding in a row. "This," said he cheerfully,

"is yours, this is my wife's, and this is mine." I had been quite

Albanian for some hours. Now the West arose in me and would not be

gainsaid. I murmured something about the other room. It was my host's

turn to be scandalised now. Horrified, he exclaimed, "The gentleman in

there is not married!" and called for his wife. They talked it over, and

then he kindly said that he and his wife could sleep with the other

gentleman if I really preferred it; "but," he added, "you are not

married, you will be all alone." Then he gathered up the bedding in a

bundle, they wished me good-night, and left me with a sackful of dried

maize husks on two packing-cases, and a wadded coverlet. He returned

almost immediately to ask if I should like a key, which, he said, was

quite unnecessary. I reflected that if he meant to burgle me he would do

so, key or no key, so I thanked him and said I was sure it was not

needed. This gave him great pleasure, and he told me repeatedly that his

house and all he possessed were mine. Then he left me, and at once

through the thin partition wall I heard three flops as the three lay

down on their mattresses. I followed the Albanian plan, curled up on the

packing-cases as I was, and slept for nearly nine hours without

stirring.

When I woke, quite refreshed, the sun was streaming through the cracked

shutters. I heard my neighbours shake themselves and issue forth, so I

shook myself and issued forth too. Monsieur, Madame, and the

gentleman-who-was-not-married were all flat on the floor blowing up the

fire. They were enchanted to see me and hear I had had a good night, and

shook hands enthusiastically. Except that their hair was a little

rougher, they looked just as they had the night before, but by the

bright morning-light I saw that Madame's dirty grey jacket was really

purple silk with a silver pattern, and had once been very gorgeous.

Washing was my chief idea, and I told Monsieur I should like some water.

He replied the coffee would be ready in a minute. I said it was for my

hands, so he fetched half a tumblerful and poured it over them. As they

had not been washed for twenty-four hours, it made very little

difference. I indicated a tiny tin basin. Madame understood at once, and

filled it for me. I took it to my room, and she followed. Her delight

and astonishment when she found I had taken the precaution of bringing

soap with me were really beautiful, and the sponge was an article she

had never seen before. She immediately called to her husband, and he and

the gentleman-who-was-not-married hurried to see the sight. They danced

with glee when they saw how the water ran out of the holes, and were all

seized with a wild desire to try it. This I steadily refused to

understand in any language. Owing, indeed, to the scarcity of water and

the quantity of spectators, the wash was hardly satisfactory. They

forgot the sponge in the joys of seeing me brush my teeth. A tooth-brush

was a complete novelty. Monsieur, whose teeth were as white as a dog's,

begged to be allowed to use it only for a moment, but just then the

coffee opportunely boiled over, they rushed to the rescue, and I was

saved.

I was then reminded of the invitation to breakfast with the Montenegrin

kavass, and was hurried off to his house. In spite of his brave attire

of the night before, his top-boots, his green embroidered coat, and his

gold waistcoat, his mansion was only one degree more civilised than the

Albanian's. The ground floor was used as a shed. We ascended a

step-ladder to the floor above, where he stood beaming, and conducted me

at once to the bedroom. The outer room, or kitchen, was quite bare, with

smoke-grimed rafters, and a heap of firewood and a few pots and pans in

it. The fire blazed on the hearthstone in the corner, and his wife was

making coffee. He introduced me to her, and told her that I was English

and must have a large cup with milk in it. He swelled with pride about

his knowledge of the English, and introduced me with ceremony to the

company five men and a woman, who had, it seemed, all been invited to

meet me. The top-boots, a rifle, a cartridge belt and a revolver hung on

the wall, and of course the patron saint of the family. There were two

iron bedsteads, a table, a chair or two, and a bench. I sat on the

bench, and the Albanian on one of the beds, which he admired very much.

He then favoured the company with the details he had learned about me

the night before--my age, my brothers and sisters, etc.--all of which

appeared to interest them greatly, as did also the plan of adopting me

as a daughter, which they strongly urged me to accept. The kavass,

however, did not mean him to do all the talking, but fetched a key and

unlocked the chest in which he kept his best clothes and other

valuables. From this he extracted a good pair of laced-up boots and

handed them to me with delight. They were stamped inside with the name

of an English maker, and were nearly new. He had scarcely ever worn

them, he valued them so--had bought them in Constantinople for two

pounds "sterline." They made quite an impression on the company, and I

expressed my great joy at beholding them. His wife brought in the

coffee, black for everyone but myself. Mine was a large bowl full of

boiled milk with a little coffee in it. The kavass showed it to the

company and explained that, besides that, the English always ate a

little piece of pig with an egg on it. This so fired the Albanian's

imagination that he leaped up with the intention of scouring the

neighbourhood for fragments of pig, and I had some difficulty in

checking the pig-chase. Whatever was cooked for me I knew I should have

to eat, and boiled milk and bread were at any rate safe. They all

begged me to make a long stay at Dulcigno. I could spend the evenings at

their respective houses, and they would all be glad to see me. As,

however, it was a fine day and the weather had lately been most

unsettled, I determined to take advantage of it and ride to Antivari

while it was possible. I therefore thanked everyone, and said I should

like a horse and guide that day at eleven o'clock. Then an odd

complication ensued, for they only knew Turkish time, and by Turkish

time twelve o'clock is sunset, nor could I make them understand. They

settled the matter, however, in the simplest way by saying that they

would get the horse at once, and let it wait till I was ready. "Two

gentlemen," said the Albanian, were also going to Antivari, and as their

private affairs were not urgent, they too would wait and accompany me

when I pleased. So, everybody being satisfied, I thanked the kavass,

shook hands all round, and went off to have a look at Dulcigno by

daylight.

The bay, with the old town on the promontory and its Venetian walls, is

very beautiful. The town stretches down the valley and round the bay,

and several mosque minarets tell of the Turk. The Mohammedan women here

wear an odd and hideous great hooded cloak of coarse brown woollen stuff

bound with red. In this they slink about like bogies, and the Moslems,

both men and women, have a furtive and rather ashamed appearance, very

different from their swagger in Skodra. In the old town, pieces of

carving built into walls and well-hewn stones are all that is left of

the Venetian occupation: Dulcigno fell into Turkish hands in 1571, and

though Venice made two attempts to recapture it, Turkish it remained.

It was taken by the Montenegrins in 1877, restored to the Turks by the

Berlin Congress, and finally handed over to Montenegro by the Powers in

1880. Dulcigno has a fine bay, but as it is not yet connected with the

interior by a decent road, there is not much done in the way of traffic.

When I returned, I found a white pony and three men awaiting me. One was

the guide, the others the "two signori" who, I had been told, were going

my way; fearsome objects. Both were cartridge-belted and be-weaponed,

and looked like two half-moulted birds of prey perched each in a heap on

the edge of the doorstep. They fixed me with their grey hawk's eyes and

snorted when introduced. I went into the inn and asked for my bill.

Monsieur was coy about it. He looked me all over and considered how rich

I was. Then he said, would I think three francs too much? He was

delighted when I paid it without a murmur, and thanked me repeatedly. I

took a tender farewell. Madame embraced me three times, and matters

having gone so far, with a final effort at being Albanian, I kissed her

three times, shook hands with numerous stripey-legged gentlemen, tied my

bags to my saddle, and mounted.

The scenery was magnificent and the path bad. Rock, rock, almost all the

way, either very steep up or very steep down. The white pony climbed

like a cat; all he bargained for was to have his head loose. I hitched

the reins on the saddle peak and let him have his own way. The three

Albanians shot ahead, walking swiftly and silently with a long, swinging

stride. Neither the quality of the ground nor its steepness made any

apparent difference to them, nor did they trouble about me in the least,

and I often lost sight of them altogether, for one cannot hustle a horse

over wet rock. Nothing, however, bothered the white pony; he was used to

heavier weights than myself. When we came to a series of smooth steep

inclines, he simply spread out his legs and tobogganed in the neatest

manner, gathering his hoofs together at bottom and starting down the

next one so easily that I did not think it worth while to dismount. The

country was almost uninhabited, though fertile and wooded. Wherever

cultivated, it appears to yield well. Olives and figs flourish, and I

noticed a few fields of flax. Then below us the Adriatic and the bay of

Antivari blazed blue, we zigzagged down a very steep hillside all loose

stones, I saw the ruined town up the valley and the Prince's palace upon

the shore, and felt at home again. We reached the plain and a good road,

and a carriage dashed round the corner at a smart trot with the

Archbishop in it. He waved and hailed me at once, and roared with

laughter at my turn-out and escort, which would really have done

admirably at home on Guy Fawkes Day. The "two gentlemen" disappeared

quite suddenly by a short cut to the town, without even a farewell

snort, and I never saw them again. Why they accompanied me at all I

never fathomed. They may have conversed with my guide when they were

ahead, in my presence they scarcely spoke a word even to each other.

When we got to the cross roads, I turned the white pony Prstan-wards,

and was soon welcomed by Maria in the little cottage on the beach. I had

been told the ride was a six hours' one, and we had done it in six and

a half, which was not bad.

For the benefit of such travellers as wish to see Dulcigno and who do

not crave to understand the domestic arrangements of the Albanians, I

ought to add that it is possible to find decent rooms in private houses

in the Montenegrin part of the town.

[ILLUSTRATION: MONTENEGRIN PLOUGH.]

PART II

OF SERVIA

"The Standing is slippery and the Regress is

either a Downfall or at least an Eclipse; which is

a Melancholy Thing."--BACON.

CHAPTER X

BELGRADE

Servia is only some thirty-six hours distant from London by rail, but

for England it is an almost undiscovered country. Nor do the other

nations flock thither. I gathered this on my journey on the main line

from Agram to Belgrade through the crown-lands of Hungary, over endless

plains and miles of floods. Guards and ticket-collectors alike agreed in

telling me that it was impossible for me to go to Belgrade. "You will

require a passport," they said. And when I said that I had one, they

replied sadly, "It is probably not good." "Belgrade," said an old lady

in the corner, "and you are English! Oh, then you are the new school

inspector. You have come, have you not, from an English Society to

report on Servian education? Two other ladies have been already."

"Perhaps I shall meet them," I suggested. "Oh no," said the old lady

cheerfully; "that was when I was a girl. It was about 1864 that I saw

them. Naturally I thought you came for the same purpose!" As I had no

mission from the Government, she agreed with the guards that the

expedition was impossible, and I was soon left alone in the carriage. As

Agram had refused to book me farther than Semlin, I did not feel

particularly cheery about it myself. Semlin opined I was a governess,

and made no difficulty about booking me on! The train crashed across the

iron bridge over the Save, and we arrived. It was half-past ten at night

when I alighted in Belgrade--alone, friendless, and knowing nothing of

either country or people except what I had gathered from a few books,

mostly not up to date. Guide-book there is none, and a little of the

language was all that I had to rely upon to see me through a strange

land.

The first Servians I encountered were the two soldiers who take the

passports, which have to be reclaimed next day. I grasped this fact and

passed through, with some satisfaction, as I heard behind me the

wrathful voices of several Italians and Germans who were fiercely

refusing to part with their papers, and were being shouted at in

Servian. Thinking it would wound their pride to be offered female

British assistance, I left them to fight it out, and was the first, in

consequence, to get through the "Customs." Then I rattled uphill through

the dark deserted streets, where the night sentries with greatcoats and

rifles were already on guard, and arrived at my hotel.

My only letter of introduction was a failure, as the addressee was

abroad; the British Consul, whom I had been specially told to inform of

my proceedings by the Servian Minister in London, had not yet arrived,

and the secretaries at the British Ministry were quite new. This is a

fate that pursues me. When I arrive at a place for the first time, the

Powers that arrange such things always give the Consul a holiday, or

appoint a new one who has not yet learnt the language. But having never

yet failed to find friends on my travels, I did not worry about my

possible fate up country. Several things began to happen at once.

"Where," said I to the waiter, when he brought me my coffee on the very

first morning, "where am I likely to see the King and Queen?" He looked

at me with a peculiar expression. "You want to see our King?" he said.

"You won't see him. He dare not come out of the konak. He is probably

drunk," he added contemptuously. I made no remark, for there was none

that it seemed expedient to make, and though I haunted the neighbourhood

of the konak industriously, each time that I returned to Belgrade, I

never saw either King or Queen. This was in the summer of 1902.

Belgrade (Beograd = "The White City") is most beautifully situated. For

a capital to be so placed that the enemy can shell it comfortably from

his own doorstep is of course ridiculous, but for sheer beauty of

outlook Belgrade is not easy to surpass. Perched on a hill, at the foot

of which Save joins Danube, it commands westwards a wonderful expanse of

sky and stream and willows, with a pale mauve distance of Servian

mountains, while opposite lie the rich plains of Hungary and the little

town of Semlin. Belgrade is a new town, a quite new town, and no longer

deserves the name of "The White City," its general effect from a

distance being dark; but the name is an old one, and "white" is a

favourite Servian adjective. It is a bright, clean town; the houses,

seldom more than two storeys high, look solidly built; there are plenty

of good shops, and the streets are wide and cheerful. It looks so

prosperous and the inhabitants so very much up to date, its soldiers are

so trim, its officers so gorgeous, and the new Government offices are

so imposing, that one is surprised to find that the country, owing to

mismanagement, is financially in an almost desperate condition.

There is little wheeled traffic in the streets, nor is this a wonder,

for the pavement is indescribably vile. "Ah, but you should have seen it

in Turkish times," say the Servians, and they do not worry about it; for

they have two lines of electric trams, and your Servian is not a

pedestrian. Coming as I did, straight from Cetinje, I spent the first

few days in wondering whether the very dark, short people who crowded

the trams of Belgrade, for lack of energy to walk up the street, were

really blood-relations of the long-legged giants who stride tirelessly

over the crags of Montenegro with never a sob. I never saw a Servian who

looked as if he took exercise because he liked it. Neither did I ever

see any attempt at an athletic sport. On the other hand, wherever I

went, people expressed amazement that I could find any pleasure in

travels that entailed so much exertion. I have never met folk that

walked so slowly. I used to try not to pass people in the street, and

vow it is as difficult as to win the slow bicycle race. An average Serb

seems to think two miles an hour sharp going; his ordinary pace I cannot

pretend to estimate, and when he has nothing particular to do, which is

often, he sits down and plays cards. In my whole life I do not think I

have seen so many cards as I did in Servia. In the cafés, hotels, and

restaurants the soft slither and plap-plap of the painted pasteboards

and the tap of the chalk as the players write the score goes on from

morning till night, and forms a running accompaniment to every meal.

When asked what struck me most on arriving in Servia, I often referred

to this habit, and astonished my questioners. "We are obliged to play

cards," they said; "chess is too difficult, and we cannot afford

billiard-tables." In public, very little money changes hands, it is

merely a matter of a few coppers, a way of killing the time that hangs

so heavily on their hands; for Servia, in spite of the West European

look of its capital, has not yet I learned to be in a hurry.

Card-playing has comprehensible attractions, but the Servians are

possessed of a quite original vice which is not likely to lead other

folk astray. They drink too much cold water, and they drink it till they

are pulpy. An average Serb drinks enough cold water for an English cow.

I doubt whether the language contains an equivalent for "bad training,"

for when I tried to explain the idea it created surprise. A doctor told

me he had never heard the theory before. To him it seemed a natural and

wholesome habit; moreover, he added, "there is plenty," and seemed to

think it was rather wasteful to leave any unswallowed. To me it

explained the lack of activity; the nation is water-logged. All day long

and every day the Serb calls for a glass of cold water, and when he has

drunk it he calls for another. Perhaps owing to this he has little space

left for alcohol; at any rate, I never saw a drunken man, even amongst

the peasants returning from market.

Belgrade, in fine weather, is a very agreeable town to do nothing in for

a day or two. But its historic fortress, its beautiful garden, and the

woods of Topchider are all too well known to require describing. One

mosque only, and that a dilapidated one, tells of the departed Turk. The

mass of the inhabitants (60,000) are Orthodox Serbs, and a colony of

Spanish-speaking Jews lives in the low-lying quarter called Dorchol. I

think I saw the whole colony, from the tiniest beady-eyed baby to the

stoutest grand-mamma, for they flocked to see me pass as though I were a

coronation procession. Unaware that a foreign woman travelling alone in

Servia was a unique event, I wished them "good day" cheerfully, and went

my way.

The "old konak," a rather mean-looking building painted a raw cream

colour, and standing in a small garden with sentry boxes in front of it,

has since acquired hideous fame. For in it, but a year later, did

Alexander's ill-starred reign come to its awful end. Belgrade was so

civil to me, there was such perfect order in the streets both by day and

night, all was outwardly so quiet, that even now I find it hard to

realise that that ugly yellow house has been turned into a shambles.

That the King would have to leave and at no distant date was obvious,

but I believed it would be by the usual route, and as I watched the

swirly yellow Save hurrying along below, I murmured, "There's one more

river, one more river to cross." It is a marvel that Servian rulers

continue to dwell within sight of the Save. It is the most

"men-may-come-and-men-may-go" river in all Europe. But in Servia, though

you may flee from the Save, you can never lose sight of the political

situation, which is a parlous one. Servia is too small to stand quite

alone. Without, she is surrounded by Austria, Turkey, and Bulgaria. The

first is slowly squeezing her, preparatory to swallowing her whole,

should a favourable chance arise; the second yet holds the heart of the

old Servian Empire; and with the third Servias quarrel dates from the

seventh century. Internally Servia is torn by parties who differ as to

which of the Powers it is advisable to propitiate, and these parties

dance to external wirepulling.

Things being as they are, it is small wonder that the Serb suspects

everyone that crosses his frontier and believes he has come for obscure

political reasons. I entered Servia cheerfully unaware of this, and soon

learnt that the police were watching my movements. Belgrade, like

Montenegro and Dalmatia, took me for a Russian, otherwise I neither knew

nor cared whether Belgrade thought about me at all. Wishful of learning

the language and of seeing things Servian, I determined to go to the

theatre, and in the old happy days, when I was as yet guileless and

unsuspicious, I stopped and began to slowly decipher a playbill at a

street corner. I had struggled through but little of it when I was

approached by a policeman on duty, a picturesque personage in a brown

uniform with red braiding. He touched his cap to me and said most

politely in very fair French, "Our language, Mademoiselle, is very

difficult for une Anglaise. Permit that I assist you," and proceeded to

translate the bill. Surprised and pleased, I asked myself, "Which of our

own bobbies could thus assist a foreigner?" and being accustomed to be

called Russian, I asked, "How did you know that I am English?" "Oh," he

replied cheerfully, "Mademoiselle only arrived here on Monday, and I,

you see, am in the police. Naturally I know. Also the officer at the

custom-house has stated that Mademoiselle knows some of our language,

and that is most unusual in a foreigner." As a freeborn British subject,

I was considerably taken aback to find that the police were so well

informed about me. Immediately and rashly I said to myself, "When in

Rome do as the Romans. I too can ask questions." There was something

about the policeman that was oddly familiar; he was a tall fair man,

quite unlike the short dark type that I was beginning to recognise as

Belgrade-Servian. So I said to him, "Yes, I am English. Where do you

come from? You are not a Serb of Servia." "Ah no," he said, with a sigh;

"I am far from my people. I come from a quite little place of which

Mademoiselle has never heard. I come from the neighbourhood of

Kolashin." This at once enlightened me. Foolishly proud of my knowledge,

I laughed and replied, "Kolashin? Oh yes, in Montenegro, near the

Albanian frontier. You are Crnagorach!"

It was his turn to be astonished now, and he almost leapt with

amazement. He broke into his native tongue. "You know my fatherland! You

know my fatherland!" he cried in great excitement. "You have been there!

Have you seen my Prince, our gospodar Nikola? Have you seen Prince

Danilo? Prince Mirko? the Princesses Milena? Militza? Have you been to

Podgoritza? to Ostrog?" etc. "Yes, yes," said I to everything. "Bogami!

Bogami!" (Oh my God!), he cried. Then he took a long breath, pulled

himself together, and started a torrent of the most fluent French.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "I will tell you everything. I came from

Kolashin twelve years ago with a comrade. He also is a policeman; he is

now in the next street. As soon as he arrived here he married a Servian

woman, and he has been unhappy ever since. I, Mademoiselle, am

unmarried. I detest these Servian women. They are bad, Mademoiselle,

they are unfaithful! I would not take one on any account, and I cannot

afford to go back to my own country for a wife. But you, Mademoiselle,

you are half Montenegrin; you have the heart of a lion; you know my

country; you have seen my Prince; you speak my language! Unfortunately,

Mademoiselle, I must remain in this street,"--here I mentally offered

thanks to the powers that had rooted him to this spot, "but on Sunday

afternoon I shall be free. I shall come to take you out to Topchider. We

shall have something to eat; soon we shall become good friends; soon we

will be married. I am a very good man, Mademoiselle," here he smote his

chest. "The British Consul can learn all about me from my captain. _You_

can teach English in Belgrade, and _we_ shall soon be very rich. But,"

he added very seriously, "you are staying at the Grand Hotel, a most

expensive place! You must not stay there. I shall tell you of a much

cheaper one, and on Sunday we will go out together!" He paused, rather

for want of breath, I fancy, than for a reply, the favourable nature of

which he took for granted. I seized the opportunity. "Thank you very

much," I said, "but I am leaving Belgrade to-morrow, and I have no

time." "Oh, but why, Mademoiselle? You have only been here a week, and

it is a so charming town! Restes, je te prie, jusqu'à Dimanche, jusqu'à

Dimanche!" "Impossible!" I cried; "adieu, adieu!" and fled round the

nearest corner. As I left for Nish early next morning, I saw him no

more, and on my subsequent return to Belgrade dodged, with the speed of

a pickpocket, whenever I saw a tall policeman looming in the distance.

CHAPTER XI

SMEDEREVO--SHABATZ--VALJEVO--UB--OBRENOVATZ

Smederevo from the Danube is a most impressive sight. A huge brick

fortress surrounds the promontory with castellated walls and a long

perspective of towers; a grand mediæval building lying grim on the

water's edge, a monument of Servias death-struggle with the Turks. Built

in 1432 by George Brankovich, son of Vuk the traitor of Kosovo, it was

Servia's last stronghold, and its makers, in defiance of the Crescent,

built the Cross in red bricks into the wall where, now the tide of

invasion has at last ebbed, you may still see it. And all the nineteen

towers still stand.

Having landed, and reflected that I could not escape for many hours, I

walked up the main street and I prayed that the populace would prove

friendly. It was--very. I had not gone far when I was marked by the

policeman. He was much perturbed. He walked all round me at a very

respectful distance, and discussed with everyone on the way what he had

better do. Finally he came up and asked me in Servian, if I spoke it.

"Very little," said I, and volunteered that I was English, which caused

him to call up reinforcements. By this time a fair audience was

collected, for the hope of seeing some one "run in" will gather a crowd

anywhere. Having ascertained that I understood German, he called up a

man to speak to me. The man, pleased with the importance he was gaining,

poured out a long string of mysterious noises which resembled no known

tongue. Then he turned to the policeman and said, in Servian, "She

doesn't know German." The policeman was in despair, and so was the

populace. "Speak Servian slowly," I said. "Where do you come from?"

"London." "Where are your friends?" "In England." "What are you doing?"

"I have come to see Servia." This pleased him very much. "Have you any

brothers?" "Yes." "Where are they?" I supplied the information and other

family details. Finally he summed up the evidence, and imparted to the

surrounding multitude the information that I had come all alone to see

Servia and the Servians. This, he said, was "very good." He touched his

cap and smiled affably, and the assembly broke up. All this amused me,

but I lived to see the day when these interviews became a weariful

burden.

I had luckily hit on the day of a great cattle and pig fair. The open

space between town and fortress was filled with peasants and their

beasts, great grey draught oxen, sheep, horses, goats, and, above all,

the staple product of Servia, pigs. The Servian pig is a great

character. He rules indeed large tracts of country. He is cared for,

tended, and waited upon. I have seen a large sow walking with dignity

down the middle of the road, followed by a number of human retainers,

each carrying one of her piglets like a baby in arms, while she set the

pace, stopped to grubble at anything that interested her, and looked

back from time to time with her beady little eyes to see that her

infants were being properly cared for.

Here in the market the pigs were the most important personages present,

and knew it. They are great woolly beasts, some of fair complexion,

beautifully curly as to their backs. Their snouts are long and unringed.

Being of a highly practical nature, the first thing they did on arriving

at the market field was to dig themselves cubby-houses. Those that were

lucky enough to find a hole full of water sat in it, and were supremely

happy. Some quite small mud-holes were packed with pigs lying on the

black ooze and crammed together like sardines in oil. All talked

incessantly. There were hundreds of tender babes wandering about, but

the families never got mixed. The little ones are longitudinally

striped, like young wild boars, and very elegant. Their mothers found

mud-holes if possible, and the children sank in up to their eyes. All

were extremely tame. If the owner of a pig family wished to shift camp,

he strewed a few beans to start them with, and the whole lot followed,

conversing cheerfully, and rearranged themselves neatly whenever he

chose to sit down again. The mud-coated ones lay and baked in the sun,

like live pork pies, till their mud casing was hard and bricky.

While I was absorbed in pigs, a gentleman came up, took off his hat, and

launched me into the language again. He knew a very little French, and

with that and Servian extracted the same information as the policeman

had done. But he went farther. "Had I been into the fortress?" was his

next. I have a great respect for frontier fortresses in all parts of the

world, and it had not occurred to me to do more than examine it from a

distance. "It is the only thing to see here; I will take you over it,"

he said. I gratefully accepted the offer, imagining the place was now

public like the fortress of Belgrade, and we approached the gate and

were saluted by the sentry, who made no objection. Passing in, I found

to my astonishment that it was full of soldiers, and very much the

reverse of a public promenade. My friend, who seemed to be a well-known

person, asked the first private we met for the Commandant. "The

Commandant," he said, "is over there, with the artillery." Off we

started in search of him, and were soon hotly pursued by an apologetic

soldier, who explained that no foreigners were admitted. I suggested

retreating, but my escort would not hear of it, and, quite undaunted,

took me over to a party of very smart officers who were sitting at a

table under some trees. To them he introduced me with a flourish. They

leapt to their feet, made most elegant bows, and were all struck dumb

with amazement. My friend then persisted that, as I was English and had

come so far, I ought to be shown the fortress. None of them could speak

anything but Servian, and were very shy. I said all I could to them in

answer to their questions and tried to say good-bye, as it was obvious

that their orders did not allow them to take foreigners round. Moreover,

it did not seem to me that there was anything of further interest to me

to be seen. I was inside and had a good view of the huge walls and

towers, the great open space they surrounded, and the rough irregular

masonry they were built of. To send for the Commandant, as my friend

urged, seemed absurd. I got up to go. However, after a whispered debate,

the officers asked me if I would like to see the view from the walls,

and one of them volunteered to take me. He hustled me with elaborate

care quickly and guiltily past the artillerymen, who were taking a gun

to pieces, and must have been inventing horrible secrets. Poor things!

they might have explained it all to me without my being any the wiser. I

remembered Dreyfus, and could scarcely help laughing at the ridiculous

position I had managed to get into. The wall was soon ascended, and the

view over the Danube certainly very fine, but I felt sure I ought to

depart, so skipped quickly down again; but the poor officer in spurs

took a long while arriving at the bottom. We returned to the gate, and I

endeavoured to thank him; he shook hands in an elaborate manner,

saluted, and I emerged from George Brankovich's great fort, which has

been besieged by Servian, Turk, and Hungarian, but never before, I

believe, surprised by the English. My friend kept repeating, "You are

English, and they ought to have shown it you," and was very much vexed.

Smederevo has no other sights, and Shabatz on the Save was my next

experiment in towns. It can be reached by a local boat from Belgrade,

also by rail. Let no one, however, be persuaded into taking the train

unless he wishes to realise thoroughly, once and for all, the joys of

living upon a hostile frontier. The train journey was an hour and a half

shorter than that by boat, and I imagined that to book from one town to

another in the same country was a simple matter, though I was aware that

the frontier had to be crossed, so I walked cheerfully down to the

station. I asked for a ticket to Shabatz, and was, as a result,

immediately conducted to the station police bureau, where a youth in a

light blue coat was busily stamping passports and inquiring into

every-one's past and future existence. My advent upset the dull current

of everyday routine. I said I wanted to go to Shabatz, thinking to

smooth matters down, but it only created more excitement. The pale blue

youth put everything aside in order to fathom the mystery of my

movements. Servian frontier police are funny and amusing people. They

spare no pains to unravel plots; I hope they will find one some day as a

reward for their efforts. If, instead of only myself, there had been say

forty or fifty tourists in Servia, the entire land would possibly have

been disorganised, trains delayed, criminals left unarrested, and

burglaries committed, while the police officials were straining every

nerve to ascertain the number of brothers and sisters, and past,

present, and future actions of the visitors! I did my best to assist

their plans, and have in fact provided them with the materials for a

fairly accurate biography of myself, should one ever be required. Its

excessive dulness went a long way towards soothing their agitated

nerves. Pressure of business forced the pale blue youth to stamp my

passport and let me go while his appetite for details was yet

unsatisfied, and I hastened to buy a ticket for Shabatz. This was

impossible. I could only book across the river to Semlin. By this time I

was really interested in frontier existence, and began to regard the

trip as a sporting event. Feeling righteous and bold as a lion, being

armed with a stamped passport and a ticket, I walked down the platform

only to be stopped short by sentries. The pale blue youth from the

office came flying up. Having hurried up through his business, he

intended learning a little more about me while yet there was time. As he

spoke nothing but his native tongue and was fluent and excited, we did

not get on very well; but I imparted my proposed plan of seeing Servia

to him, and he stood on the step of the carriage till the train started.

Hardly were we off when another officer turned up. He took the passport

and wrote my name in a little book, but had unfortunately no time to ask