The recent State trial for high treason at Cetinje was a most
sensational affair, the prisoners--many of them ex-Ministers and
politicians of high rank being accused of a conspiracy to destroy
the Montenegrin Royal Family root and branch. Mrs. Vivian was the
only woman present, and her photographs were the only ones taken.
Her description of the trial, with its picturesque environment and
mediæval atmosphere, will be found extremely interesting.
I feel quite spoilt for home-made pageants or foreign processions after
assisting at the sensational State trial for high treason in Montenegro--a
sight which transports one at once into mediæval times again. The ordinary
person may imagine that it is quite an everyday affair, and that
conspirators grow like blackberries on the hedges of Montenegro, but then
the ordinary person knows little about foreign lands apart from Norway,
Switzerland, or Italy, and less than nothing about the Near East. When I
was in Montenegro my family was besieged with inquiries after my safety
and hopes that I might escape unhurt from the brigands and bandits who
must infest the Black Mountains; whereas in Montenegro the remark that
greeted me was that it was very brave of me to pass through so many lands
on the way to the principality, but that now I was there all was well.
I think it is time, therefore, to explain that the trial, far from being
an everyday affair, was something unheard-of in a land where everyone,
though, of course, warring against the fiery Albanian and enjoying a
certain amount of friendly sparring with neighbours, adores his beloved
Prince and looks on him as chieftain, father, and general Providence all
rolled into one.
[Illustration: PRINCE NICHOLAS OF MONTENEGRO--THE CONSPIRATORS PLOTTED TO
DESTROY NOT ONLY THE PRINCE, BUT THE ENTIRE ROYAL FAMILY.
_From a Photograph._]
Indeed, Prince Nicholas must be counted among the lucky ones of this
earth. He has not only been blessed with talents and tact above those
bestowed on the ordinary man, but he has also been watched over by the
gods and allotted more luck than falls to the lot of most mortals. Like
King Edward, he is popular wherever he goes, and he has a genius for
statecraft. When he came to the throne forty years ago Montenegro was
absolutely unknown; probably barely one in a hundred of educated people
knew that such a place was to be found in the atlas. During those forty
years the Prince has fought successful wars against the Turk, more than
doubled his territory, married his daughters to some of the greatest
_partis_ in Europe, and made the name Montenegro a household word for
valiant men and deeds of daring.
But Prince Nicholas, unluckily for himself, married his eldest daughter to
a certain Prince Peter Karageorgevitch. This lady died many years ago, and
in the course of time Prince Peter was called from his haunts in
Switzerland to take the Crown of Servia from the hands of the regicides.
Whether he knew anything of their evil plans beforehand need not be
discussed here; but, at any rate, ever since the day he entered Belgrade
he has been their tool, and as wax in the hands of the ringleaders.
Nevertheless, people were astonished when it was discovered last October
that bombs were being smuggled over the Turkish frontier, coming from
Servia. A plot was discovered to blow up the whole of the Montenegrin
Royal House--not only the Prince and his two sons, but the Princess and
her two daughters, her daughters-in-law, and even the poor little
grandchildren, so that the entire family might be exterminated root and
branch!
[Illustration: THE EXTERIOR OF THE COURT-HOUSE, SHOWING SENTINEL ON GUARD.
_From a Photograph._]
The affair was engineered in Belgrade, and the bombs were manufactured by
a Servian officer at the State Arsenal of Kragujevats. It was also
rumoured by those who might be expected to know that the dreams of the
blood-stained authorities in Belgrade are to unite Montenegro, a Slav
nation speaking the Servian language, with Servia, and the idea was that
if there were no member of the House of Petrovitch left alive the throne
might possibly fall to the share of a Prince Karageorgevitch, one of the
sons of Prince Nicholas’s eldest daughter.
The Crown Prince George of Servia is not exactly one’s ideal of a model
ruler. This young gentleman, whose hobby is said to be to bury cats in the
ground up to their necks and then stamp them to death, is more one’s idea
of a youthful Nero or Caligula, and Heaven help the nation delivered over
to his tender mercies. Before the trial, however, rumours were all that
one heard; so everyone was on tiptoe with expectation, wondering what
sensational revelations would come to light.
By great good luck we happened to arrive in Montenegro just a week before
the trial began. We steamed in one of the excellent boats of the Austrian
Lloyd past the grey mountains of Istria and through the wonderful fjords
of the Bocche di Cattaro till we cast anchor under the peak of Lovcen. In
a victoria drawn by two tough little Dalmatian horses we climbed the
mountain side in zigzags, persevering up the vast rocky wall till we found
ourselves some four thousand feet above the sea below. I have neither time
nor words to describe the view, a task which needs the pen of a poet like
Prince Nicholas himself, but must dash on, like our game little horses, to
Cetinje, down the steep sides of silver mountains, which gleam in the
tropical sun without a vestige of green to relieve their Quaker-like hues.
[Illustration: THE JUDGES IN THEIR GORGEOUS NATIONAL COSTUMES--TO THE
RIGHT OF THE SOLDIER WILL BE SEEN THE BOMBS WHICH WERE AN IMPORTANT
“EXHIBIT” IN THE TRIAL.
_From a Photograph._]
As a town Cetinje is not thrilling, but it lies in a lovely neighbourhood
and is peopled with perhaps the most picturesque race in the world. For
the Montenegrins are not only the most magnificent specimens of humanity
in point of size, clad in gorgeous raiment which, I feel sure, Solomon in
all his glory could not have beaten, but they have behind them a past
which can scarcely be beaten by any fighting race on earth.
Some five hundred years ago the Turks defeated all South-Eastern Europe in
the Battle of Kossovo, and Servia and Bulgaria entirely, and Roumania to a
certain extent, fell under the sway of the Ottomans. Then, the story goes,
the bravest and the noblest of those lands, disdaining to live beneath the
banner of the Crescent, withdrew to the eyries of the Black Mountains,
where, thanks partly to their valour and partly to the favourable position
of the land (which is a natural fortress), they defied the Turks. They
never intermarried with the inferior races, and so have preserved the
magnificent physique and extraordinary distinction of bearing which
strikes every stranger who visits Tsernagora. Indeed, if it comes to a
question as to who should be the dominant race in Servia and Montenegro,
it seems more fit that Servia should be taken under the wing of a race
which has done deeds all these centuries instead of merely talking.
We found at the hotel that half the newspapers of the Near East and Vienna
were sending correspondents, and we therefore felt ourselves lucky in
getting a room in the front looking down the main street, where everything
in Cetinje happens, and where, towards sundown, when the siesta is over
and the air becomes cool and pleasant, you may find anyone you want to
see. Half-way down we saw a crowd of people in national costume (for in
Cetinje, thanks to the Prince’s influence, it is universally worn)
standing outside a house. “They are waiting to try and get a seat in court
to-morrow,” I was told, “but only a score or so will succeed, for there
are thirty-two prisoners, each one guarded by a soldier, besides all these
journalists to be made room for.”
Through the good offices of the Prince’s secretary, to whom His Highness
had confided us, we were provided with tickets, which was lucky for us,
for when we arrived within sight of the court-house we found a cordon of
soldiers guarding it. We were stopped and our passes examined before we
were allowed to proceed. When we reached our destination, a long, low,
grey stone building with the Montenegrin two-headed eagle over the door,
an officer took us in hand and led us with ceremony to our places. I
looked round me with great satisfaction from my red velvet arm-chair in
the ranks of the Diplomatic Corps. Not only was I the only English person
there save one, but I was the only woman in the whole place.
It was the most thrilling trial I have ever witnessed. At the top of the
room, behind a long table beneath the picture of Prince Nicholas, sat the
nine judges, all save one in the most gorgeous national costume: long
coats of pale green cloth, heavily braided, with waistcoats of vivid
carnation red, crossing over to one side and covered with beautiful gold
embroidery. Baggy breeches of ultramarine blue and smart top-boots
continued the gay effect, which was completed by a bulky sash of striped
and gold silk wound round the waist, and containing an assortment of
daggers and revolvers; for a good Montenegrin would as soon think of
coming out without them as an Englishman without his collar.
In the middle sat the President, a person of extreme distinction and great
dignity, who conducted the proceedings in an irreproachable manner. A
small table stood before him, on which a pair of high tapers were placed,
and between them was a copy of the Gospels, bound in red velvet and gold
metal-work, and a crucifix. On his left hand sat a Mohammedan judge, with
red Turkish fez and simpler costume than that of the Montenegrins; and on
his right the bombs were all set out on a little table as evidence,
guarded by an immense soldier about six-foot-six in height and of a
forbidding aspect. It gave one a certain creepy sensation to see, only a
few feet away, enough of these infernal machines to send the whole of the
court-house into the clouds, and to know that close by were thirty-two
desperate men who would stick at no kind of devilry. The bombs were little
square flasks of grey metal with screw tops, almost like the fittings of a
common dressing-bag or luncheon hamper, and certainly did not betray by
their appearance what terrible things they really were. For these
particular bombs were manufactured in a very ingenious fashion, and were
enough to make an Anarchist tear his hair with envy. At the foot of the
table was the black bag in which the infernal machines had been smuggled
over the frontier.
A story is told of the conspirator’s journey which brings a touch of
comedy into the affair. When he passed through Austria he had the bag
registered as luggage, for it was so heavy that he feared it might attract
attention if placed in the rack. A mistake was made by the clerk and he
was overcharged. The honest official discovered his mistake directly the
train started, and telegraphed off to the junction to describe the man,
giving orders that the money should be refunded. At the junction the
conspirator was found, and the station-master came up to him to inquire if
he had not registered a black bag. Overcome with terror and dismay, and
thinking he was discovered, the man seized the bag and bolted, leaving the
official greatly perturbed and convinced that he had to do with a madman.
The court-house itself was long, low, and white, with a blue ceiling and a
boarded floor. A long table ran half-way down either side of the hall to
accommodate the journalists, and half-a-dozen arm-chairs were arranged in
a good position for the diplomatists. These were almost empty on the first
day, and my next-door neighbour, a polite young Turkish attaché,
considerately moved out of the way whenever he saw that I was trying to
take a photograph. And, indeed, it was not the easiest task in the world
to get pictures of the proceedings. The prisoners were a restless set of
people, who fidgeted, sprang constantly to their feet, and interrupted the
speakers in a very tantalizing way. As there was not very much light a
fairly long exposure had to be given, and there were difficulties in
propping the camera up satisfactorily and also in disguising my intentions
as much as possible. However, I had the satisfaction of knowing that mine
were the only photographs taken, for the local photographer who had been
commissioned by the authorities to take some pictures declined to try,
owing to the obstacles.
The thirty-two prisoners, guarded by soldiers on either side, occupied
benches all down the centre of the hall. Some of them were in European
dress, thus differing from the majority of Montenegrins. Amongst them were
all sorts and conditions of men, from peasants to ex-Ministers of the
Crown. It is not often one finds a former Prime Minister, four
ex-Ministers, three high State officials, and several Deputies all in one
trial for high treason. As a rule, the accused were puny, furtive-looking
striplings, a contrast to their stalwart compatriots; but their
imprisonment of several months may have had something to do with this.
Many were students who had gone to Belgrade to complete their studies and
had there imbibed Anarchistic and revolutionary principles. The judge
showed great tact and firmness in dealing with them.
[Illustration: THE CONSPIRATORS LISTENING TO THE READING OF THE
INDICTMENT.
_From a Photograph._]
As the long indictment which contained all the particulars of the plot was
being read out by the counsel for the Crown--a handsome man in full
Montenegrin costume--first one prisoner and then another started from his
seat, rudely interrupting and violently contradicting. A clamour then
arose from the whole thirty-two. The judge expostulated, begged them to be
reasonable, and finally touched a silver hand-bell. The soldiers pulled
them down to their seats again, but seemed as gentle in their methods as
policemen with Suffragettes. As names were mentioned now and again in the
indictment, exclamations of derision and protest were heard from the
prisoners. They next complained bitterly that they had no note-books or
pencils with which to take down the points and prepare their defence,
whereupon the President ordered that paper and pencils should be brought
to them at once. The indictment was long, and it finally asked for the
death penalty as punishment. At this loud clamours arose, and the
excitement grew so intense that a nervous feeling communicated itself to
the public. The President by this time despaired of keeping order, and
directed that the prisoners should be taken back to their prisons. One
alone remained, Raikovitch, the man who brought the bombs into Montenegro,
and the principal prisoner.
Raikovitch was a rather good-looking young man, dark and sallow. He had a
large, round nose, a round chin, and even his forehead seemed to bulge.
But his black, beady eyes struck me as shifty, and he appeared somewhat
ill at ease. In spite of his confident manner he would glance round at the
pressmen’s table every few seconds to note what effect his defence was
having on them. But he had an amazing fluency, and his story flowed on
like a river. There was no bullying by Public Prosecutor or judges.
Every now and then the President, tapping his fingers with a pencil, would
interrupt the prisoner with a short, sharp question, evidently very much
to the point, and he pulled up the prisoner’s counsel very sharply on one
occasion for attempting to prompt his client. Presently there was a small
stir, for Raikovitch was heard to denounce Vukotic, the nephew of Princess
Milena, Prince Nicholas’s wife, as having been in communication with and
paid by the conspirators. No one seemed to know who would be accused next,
and the Servian Minister, who was present, must have experienced feelings
of uneasiness. Raikovitch was next led to the table to examine the black
bag, to identify it as his luggage, and acknowledged that those were the
bombs he had brought into the country. His defence lasted for the rest of
the day.
[Illustration: SOME OF THE AUDIENCE.
_From a Photograph._]
Next morning, when the prisoners were brought back, the sitting was even
more agitated. The ex-Deputy Chulavitch was accused. He leapt to his feet,
and in a voice of thunder shouted that he had been betrayed--he had been
sold! Later on, however, he acknowledged that he had received thirteen
napoleons for his help in the plot. Various other prisoners were accused,
but all had answers and excuses at first. Some said they acted on behalf
of others. Others said they had taken no active part, but had only known
of the conspiracy. They would confess one day, and the next flatly deny
everything they had said before. Later on in the trial, however, they
found means of communicating with each other, and arranged on a line of
common action.
[Illustration: INSIDE THE PRISON AT CETINJE--THE CELL DOORS ARE GENERALLY
OPEN AND THE PRISONERS ARE ALLOWED TO TAKE EXERCISE IN THE YARD.
_From a Photograph._]
Few documents could be produced in evidence against the accused, but a
great sensation was caused by the reading of a letter from a Montenegrin,
now an officer in the Servian army, to his brother. In it he promised both
moral and material support for the plot and enclosed a thousand francs
from King Peter. At this there was profound silence in the court, and a
deep impression was left on the minds of the public.
A student named Voivoditch then gave the details of the plot. He had
brought bombs from Belgrade with the express intention of killing Prince
Nicholas and Prince Mirko. It was arranged that various Government offices
were to be set on fire and in the confusion bombs were to be thrown
against the palace, a small building which would be easily destroyed.
Then, acting on the lines of the Servian regicides, the Ministers and
principal people in Cetinje were to be assassinated and their houses
wrecked.
The trial lasted several weeks, for with fifty persons accused and
thirty-two prisoners to examine and hear, things cannot be done in a
moment. But the principal witness against the prisoners was a certain
Nastitch, a Servian journalist from Serajevo. He brought the gravest
charges against the Servian Government. As he had been present at the
manufacture of the bombs he said that he was entitled to speak with some
authority. Last year he was sent to Kragujevats State Arsenal by a Captain
Nenadovitch, cousin of King Peter, who gave him a letter to the Commander
from the Servian Crown Prince. In this letter the Prince begged the
Commander to allow Nastitch to stay ten days in the arsenal whilst the
bombs were being made. They were then given to him to be consigned to
Captain Nenadovitch in Belgrade, who told him that they were to be
employed in a patriotic enterprise. A little later he was informed that
the police had sequestrated the bombs, as Pasitch, the Prime Minister, had
been informed of his stay in Kragujevats.
Nastitch then began to perceive that some mischief was being hatched, and
that Nenadovitch was trying to throw dust into his eyes. He put two and
two together and got a shrewd suspicion of what was really up. So he
crossed over to Semlin, in Hungary, from Belgrade, as no letters are safe
from being opened by the Servian secret police, and communicated with
Tomanovitch, Prime Minister of Montenegro. He asserted that he did not
fear denials, since he had documents to prove the truth of what he said.
He next produced specifications of the bombs, and then asked the judges to
have those in their possession examined to see whether they were not
identical. At the conclusion of his evidence Nastitch was applauded loudly
by the public, and was cheered as he left the court.
There were several rather interesting little touches in the evidence of
other prisoners. One was found to be sending secret messages to a friend
written in microscopic handwriting under the postage-stamps of the letter.
Under one was written: “Is it true that Stevo has confessed everything?”
Stevo being Raikovitch.
Raikovitch was brought up a second time and confronted with various
prisoners, who accused him of inventing the whole plot. He met every
accusation with complete calm and cynicism. Indeed, it seemed impossible
to disturb his sang-froid. He proclaimed aloud that he would laugh even
when climbing the steps of the gallows. He was the type of the complete
_poseur_, considering himself the centre of attraction, choosing his
language with the utmost care, and throwing himself into appropriate
attitudes. When asked if he was not a Socialist, he replied, “Of course I
am a Socialist. I must confess, however, that I am not _absolutely_ sure
what Socialism is!”
[Illustration: THE GOVERNOR OF THE PRISON (ON RIGHT) AND A MONTENEGRIN.
_From a Photograph._]
The ex-Prime Minister, Radovitch, was the most interesting of the
villains, and was quite a story-book scoundrel. He had enjoyed the favour
of the Prince, and had been Court Chamberlain for some years. It was
expected that he would make a favourable impression on the public, for
when he had come back from Paris to deliver himself up, arriving
dramatically the very morning of the opening of the trial, he had been
cheered all along the streets of Cetinje, and flowers had been thrown at
his feet; but in court he cut a sorry figure indeed. For six weary hours
he spoke unceasingly, and all the time about himself only! According to
his own version he is the cleverest, the most capable of Montenegrins--in
a word, he is the only patriot in the land. He alluded contemptuously to
the judges, and cried theatrically to the President: “I am proud and happy
to stand before you as defendant, for I would not change places with you,
my Lord President!” He boasted of the Prince’s affection for him and
openly betrayed that he expected to be let off easily.
The trial lasted over a month. This is no joke in a sweltering Montenegrin
summer, and both judges and prisoners must have heaved sighs of relief
when every witness was heard and the suspense was nearly over. Six were
condemned to death, but only two of these, Chulavitch and Voivoditch, were
in custody; the others had escaped abroad. Raikovitch and the Minister
Radovitch were sentenced to fifteen years’ imprisonment. Thirteen others
received sentences varying from two to ten years, and several were
discharged either because they were innocent or from lack of proof.
[Illustration: A WARDER, WITH THE HEAVY CHAINS AND ANKLET WORN BY
PRISONERS.
_From a Photograph._]
I was interested in visiting the prisons of Cetinje and Podgoritza. Both
are very small, which speaks well for the state of the country. Few
murders are committed, and these are rarely for gain, but usually acts of
revenge. The men concerned in the plot were confined at Cetinje, in a
small and somewhat primitive building, but when they had been sentenced
they were removed to Podgoritza. Both prisons are built round a courtyard
in which exercise can be taken, for the doors of the light and roomy cells
were open all day long. Nearly every cell contained an oven, and the
prisoners were allowed to cook their food themselves. The daily rations
consisted of two pounds of bread and the sum of fourpence, with which they
could buy what they liked.
I was taken over the place by the Governor, a very kindly-looking giant,
who seemed as if he could not hurt a fly. If I am ever unlucky enough to
be put under lock and key, I should like to have a jailer just like him.
He and a Montenegrin officer, who spoke most excellent French, were very
kind in helping me to take photographs. Some of the prisoners wore irons
which I rather wanted to photograph, but they thought it might hurt the
men’s feelings, so they offered to lend me a jailer to be manacled and
snap-shotted. He thought it the greatest joke in the world, and quite
entered into the spirit of it all. Just as I was about to press the button
he gesticulated wildly. He had remembered that there was a little
collection of a dozen or so weapons of warfare in his capacious belt, and
these were not at all in keeping with the irons. So he pulled out daggers
and pistols galore, and looked quite thin by the time he had finished.
We also visited the prison at Podgoritza, a large town some forty miles
from Cetinje. Here we found a strange collection of men and women. There
was a saintly-looking pope, who had appropriated the funds of his church.
He was dressed in priest’s robes and did the honours of the place. We saw
several convicts who were being kept in solitary confinement, and pushed
cigarettes to them between the bars. They seemed to feel the boredom most;
otherwise they have an easy time. They do little work in summer and still
less in winter, and a great part, of the day is spent in sleep. The cells
looked far more comfortable than barrack-rooms, and prisoners in
Montenegro evidently have little to complain of.
There were ten or twelve women there. These were nearly all guilty of
infanticide. When I came into their quarters they rushed at me, seized my
hands and kissed them, and tried to make me sit down and talk to them.
But, as I could not understand a word they said, and one of them looked
very mad, I made my escape as soon as possible.
It will be long before I forget that strange trial, which for spectacular
effect might have taken place in Venice in the magnificent Middle Ages.
The splendid figures of the judges rivalled the signori in all their
glory, and the gigantic soldiery in gay and glowing colour made one almost
forget the prisoners, until their primitive, almost savage, behaviour
reminded one of their existence and of the fact that even nowadays in
Europe things happen that eclipse the achievements of mediæval criminals.