‘Why, I should never dream of marrying your son! Who said such a
thing? I, for one, will never live in a country where the men go
about in sheep-skins and the women twine flowers in their hair. Ugh!
Bulgaria may suit those who like the simple life, but for me, Vienna,
civilization, and a decent opera. Besides, when I marry I shall marry
a real man!’”
Princess Luisa, who usually called herself Countess of Montignoso,
or Countess de la Rose, when travelling, was nothing if not
unconventional. I used to see her practically every day in Florence.
Her beautiful villa was close to my own house, and in consequence she
often sat in my study telling me about members of the Hapsburg family.
Nobody ever knew where the Hapsburgs would break out next. The
Archduke Ludwig Salvator grew wine and sold it; his brother Archduke
Charles had a hobby of mending locks and riding daily on ’buses and
trams around Vienna, while the Duke Charles of Parma repaired watches
and clocks and did not forget to charge for his services.
Of the old Duke Charles the Princess once told me a funny story.
We were walking along the Passeggio, or esplanade, at Leghorn
together one evening, after having paid a visit to my old friend Mr.
Montgomery Carmichael, the well-known British Consul who wrote that
most delightful book, _In Tuscany_.
“I remember being taken to Meissen by my mother to see the old
Duke Charles of Parma. He was nearly blind, but still an elegant,
commanding figure,” said she.
“He passed his thin hand over my face slowly, and then said in French:
“‘Ah, yes I You are growing good-looking--like Marie Antoinette
somewhat--but with a happier expression.’ Then, with a sudden
outburst, he added, ‘Look at me well, Luisa! I am a rare type of
beast. I am your great-grandfather, old and ugly.’
“I looked at the erect and elegant figure in uniform, with the Order
of the Golden Fleece, and said:
“‘Ah! but when you were younger you were very handsome. I have seen
your portrait at the Hofburg.’
“‘Yes, yes,’ and a smile crossed his sightless countenance. ‘True, I
was young once, and enjoyed life--enjoyed it greatly, I can assure
you; and doubtless you too, Luisa, will enjoy it.’
“‘Well,’ remarked my mother coldly, and with meaning, ‘I hope Luisa
will not follow in your footsteps, grandfather!’
“The old man seemed pleased at this reference to the amours of
his early days, and before I left he gave me a very beautiful
eighteenth-century golden casket set with fine jewels, which I still
possess.
“That evening on our drive back from the Schloss into Dresden, about
fifteen miles, my mother told me an amusing story of the old Duke.
It appears that about five years before, when his eyesight was as
yet unimpaired, he was still a _bon viveur_. He was old and he was
toothless, for his pet abomination was false teeth. My father had,
one day, laughed at his empty mouth, saying:
“‘I know of a really excellent dentist--a good fellow, in Vienna,
who keeps me supplied with teeth--Kaltner, in the Praterstrasse. Why
not call him in and get him to make you a set? You would look twenty
years younger!’
“The old Duke was much impressed by the latter remark, and though he
declared he would never wear such abominations, he secretly called in
the dentist, who made him a complete set.
“They arrived on the day when he was giving a luncheon to half a
dozen pretty women--for he dearly loved a charming face--and for that
meal he wore them, priding himself that his valet had said that with
them in his mouth he was rejuvenated. The meal commenced merrily, and
he was particularly gracious to a certain Countess who sat on his
right, when suddenly he experienced difficulty. He had laughed with
his fair guests when, to his horror, he found himself unable to shut
his mouth!
“For a few moments he remained with his mouth open, a look of
terrible consternation upon his face. The guests thought he had been
seized with a fit. Suddenly, however, he took his false teeth from
his mouth, saying:
“‘Curse Ferdinand and his damned dentist! I’ll have no more of the
abominable things!’ and he cast them across the room. They struck a
marble statue, and went into a dozen pieces. There they remained till
two flunkeys entered with dignity and swept them up into a dust-pan!”
* * * * *
Here is a scandal, a strict secret of the Imperial family, which the
Princess disclosed to me concerning the Emperor of Austria, Karl
Franz Josef, who succeeded to the throne during the war.
It seems that the Emperor, before his accession, was a boon companion
of the German Ex-Crown Prince, and used to accompany him to the
various capitals on many disgraceful escapades. He also suffered from
that very prevalent malady known as impecuniosity. The Archduke Otto
and the Archduchess Maria Josepha, his parents, were a “hard-up”
pair, who had considerable trouble to make both ends meet. The old
Emperor had no great love for them because they were a stiff-necked,
pious couple, who had looked askance at His Majesty’s little
peccadilloes, and had whispered some hard things that had returned to
the Emperor’s ears.
Karl, one night in his peregrinations about Vienna, met a Jewish
singer at the Hofopern named Elsa Bland. She was a dark-haired woman
with a marvellous voice. The Viennese young men-about-town were
all raving over her beauty at the time the Archduke appeared in
her dressing-room. Karl Franz Josef became deeply fascinated, and
naturally wanted to give her a present, but he had not the cash with
which to purchase one. The embryo Emperor went to his mother, the
Archduchess, with an excuse to borrow some money, but the old lady,
who knew the world of Vienna well, guessed the motive of the request,
and sent her son empty away.
Not to be outdone in his amorous device, Karl Franz Josef, a man of
some resource where women are concerned, devised a plan.
The dark-haired, soft-spoken Jewess received three days later some
magnificent jewels that were naturally the admiration of all her
friends.
Next night a new musical opera was to be produced, and all Vienna
attended. Elsa Bland was taking an important part, and old Maria
Josepha was present.
To her horror, when fixing her glasses on the opulent Jewess, who was
her son’s friend, she recognized on the singer’s neck and arms the
contents of her own jewel-case, heirlooms of the Imperial family!
She called her son that same night and accused him of being a thief,
as indeed he was. But he only laughed vacantly, and declared that
Elsa Bland’s smiles were well worth a few paltry jewels.
In despair, his mother enlisted the sympathy of a friend, Count
Salm-Reifferscheidt, whom she asked to negotiate with the Jewess for
the return of the jewels.
The dark-haired Elsa, who had a male acquaintance in the background,
as is so often the case with women of her class, refused to give them
up. They had been presented to her by “her friend the Archduke,” and
they were hers. She had no knowledge whence they had come, and she
cared less, she said.
The situation became daily more critical. The handsome Elsa declared
that if she were worried any more by the Count she would hand a
written statement to her friend Rohr, a journalist on the staff
of the _Neue Freie Presse_, and expose the fact that His Imperial
Highness, the Archduke, had stolen the contents of his mother’s
jewel-box!
The only way out of the difficulty was to pay--and pay heavily. But
the worst fact was that none of the parties had any money!
So, after many family conferences, at which many hard words were
uttered, it was at last decided to go to the Emperor and present the
case.
The Count described to Princess Luisa what took place. The Emperor,
fearful lest Elsa’s friend, the journalist, should be told, and make
“copy” out of the scandal, to his pecuniary advantage, had Rohr
at once called to audience. The newspaper-man was amazed when the
Emperor bestowed on him a cross and ribbon “for services rendered
to the Empire.” Next day the Emperor called up the old Archduchess
and gave her a severe lecture, followed an hour later by a further
lecture to the fast-living young man who was heir to the throne.
Elsa Bland at length drove a very keen bargain with the Count, who
was at last compelled to go to the Emperor and borrow the sum that
the opera-singer demanded. In the end the money was paid, the jewels
restored to their rightful owner, and the fair Elsa was turned out of
Austria, bag and baggage, much to the dismay of Karl Josef.
* * * * *
Another story I heard in Court circles in Vienna concerns the Shah of
Persia, the famous Nasr-ed-Din.
The Emperor of Austria had entertained him at the Hofburg, but so
disgusting were the habits of his--the Persian--suite that an excuse
was made to send them on to Salzburg. The Grand Duke of Tuscany,
unconscious of what had happened in Vienna, invited the “King of
Kings.” He was a striking man, who wore a diamond aigrette in his
turban, and who, before he would ride out, had the mane of one of his
white horses dyed scarlet. Then, when he went forth with great pomp,
a servant held over the monarch’s head a huge and gorgeous golden
umbrella.
But the havoc created by the suite! The main hall of the west wing
of the palace, being built of marble, was given over to them as a
slaughter-house! They killed sheep and lambs on the inlaid marble
floors and roasted them whole there. Imagine the mess, the blood, the
disorder, and the smoke!
The Grand Duke and his family were in tears. A courier was sent to
the Emperor with an urgent note, asking him how they could get rid of
their unwelcome guests.
He brought back a reply in the Emperor’s own writing to the effect
that the Shah was there for a fortnight, and it would be a grave
insult to send him away. He would visit the Court of St. James next.
“Well,” airily exclaimed Poldo, the Archduke’s son, one day to his
mother, “they’ve turned the hall into a slaughter-house, I see. Now
they are saying their prayers in the Blue Salon. I am told they are
to sacrifice hens on the carpet there at noon to-morrow--they cut off
their heads, you know! I saw Egyptians doing it once outside a mosque
in Cairo!”
The thought of hens having their heads sliced off in the Blue Salon
was too much for the Archduchess, who at once became indignant and
sent for her husband.
Meanwhile Poldo whispered to his sister:
“The hen fiction has about filled mother up with horror, eh?”
At last the Shah left, after he had distributed presents with a
generous hand to everyone in the household, down to the kitchen-maids.
But the state of the rooms after they had gone was something too
horrible for words. Pigs could not have left worse behind.
CHAPTER THREE
Among Real Brigands--King Nicholas and the Skreli Brigands--I
am the First Englishman to Visit them--Life with a Brigand
Band--Vatt Marashi, Chief of the Skreli--The Brigand’s Code
of Honour--Keeping Strange Company.
A year, almost to the day, after my first visit to Montenegro, I
was back again in Cettigné, for I had resolved upon an adventure. I
always seek to see new countries and new people for the purpose of
writing novels, and trying to interest the public that has always
been so kind and generous to me.
I had travelled from London by way of Trieste, and taken the Austrian
Lloyd steamer, the _Graf von Wurmbrand_, to Cattaro, and then up that
ladder-like road to Cettigné, where I arrived one summer’s afternoon.
I called at the Palace, and wrote my name in the visitors’ book.
Within a couple of hours I was handed a command to audience. I went,
and when His Majesty King Nicholas had greeted me I told him the
object of my visit, saying:
“I want, your Majesty, to be allowed to go into Northern Albania, and
see the mountain tribes of which so much has been said.”
“The Skreli brigands!” he exclaimed in surprise. “Do you actually
contemplate visiting the tribes in what we Montenegrins call ‘The
Accursed Mountains’?”
I replied that such was my desire, whereupon he said:
“Take my advice. Don’t go. If you do, you will never return. Or you
may be held to ransom, just as the American lady, Miss Stone, was.
You will probably be shot at sight, like a dog. The whole country
is in a lawless state. You have no idea what those uncivilized
tribes are like. They are on our frontier, so I know. You are too
venturesome,” declared he.
But I was determined to see what the country was like in those
distant misty mountains, and I pressed His Majesty to assist me.
Twice I saw him, and on the third occasion he very reluctantly gave
me, as servant, a young, black-haired, eagle-eyed man, named Palok,
one of his own servants, who was a member of the tribe of the Skreli,
the dreaded brigands of Albania.
Our preparations for our adventurous journey occupied four days, and
on the fifth King Nicholas was kind enough to ride down to the shore
of the Lake of Scutari to see us off in a boat.
“Be careful!” said he. “I have given Palok a letter to Vatt Marashi,
the chief of the Skreli, asking him to give you safe conduct. I hope
he will. But I am much against your adventure, Monsieur Le Queux.
While you are away I shall be thinking of you. If you be held to
ransom, they will say I am to blame, but there--well, _S’bogom!_ (God
be with you.) But come back, and tell me all about it.”
In all the Slav countries “_S’bogom_” is a common salutation on
greeting or taking farewell of a friend. And on that early summer’s
morning, I felt as I was rowed across the lake that I was going into
a savage, unknown region--as I really was.
At Scutari, Palok left me for six days, and returned with a fellow
tribesman named Rok, a tall, cadaverous-looking ruffian. He told
me that he had been up in the mountains, and that the dreaded Vatt
Marashi had invited me to his forbidden fastness.
Next day we set out for the Accursed Mountains.
The Northern Albanian may be entirely uneducated, a barbarian, and at
heart a brigand, but is certainly no fool.
My new friend Rok was particularly intelligent, and as we toiled
along over those rough, rock-strewn paths and spoke in Italian, he
gave me much information about his country, and declared that Austria
and Italy were both equally their enemy.
After sunset, we rested at a point high up above a dark, gloomy
defile, where a stream wound away towards the plain, and there we
ate some slices of cold mutton and black bread and drank a glass of
_rakhi_, the rifles of my companions lying at hand in case of sudden
emergency.
I had noticed the queer, sinuous, almost uncanny way in which Rok
walked. His movements at even pace irrespective of the state of the
path, were stealthy. Indeed, he almost crept along, for his feet fell
silently; and, with his rifle ever ready, his keen black eyes were
searching every side for the enemy that he appeared to expect to meet
at every turn. It was an uncanny experience.
Sometimes, as he walked in front, he would halt, and closely scan a
mass of tumbled rocks, as though he suspected a lurking enemy; then,
thoroughly satisfying himself, he would go forward again without
glancing back. He was certain that no enemy was in his rear.
From his movements and natural caution, I could plainly see that we
were traversing a country not altogether friendly, so when we sat
over our evening meal, I asked Palok. His reply was:
“The Shiala are not on very friendly terms with the Skreli just now.
But it is nothing, _signore_, nothing.”
We went forward till darkness closed in, and then lay down to sleep
under an overhanging rock almost on the face of a sheer precipice, a
place in which Rok told us he often stayed on his way down to Skodra
(Scutari). He humorously called it his _han_, or hotel.
We dare not light a fire for fear of attracting hostile attention,
and the cold up there was intense. I tried to sleep, but was unable,
therefore I arose, sat outside in the bright, glorious moonlight, and
kept watch, while Rok curled himself up like a dog and snored soundly
in chorus with Palok.
There, in the East, the full moon seems to shine with greater
brilliance than in Northern Europe, and beneath its white rays those
bare, rugged mountains looked like a veritable fairyland. Only the
cry of a night-bird and the low music of the stream far below broke
the stillness of the Oriental night, and as I sat there I reflected
that I was the first Englishman who had ever been the guest of the
redoubtable chieftain, Vatt Marashi, the man whom the Turks so
hated, the man of whom blood-curdling tales had been told me both in
Montenegro and in Skodra, and whose fame as a leader of a wild band
had not long before been proclaimed by the London newspapers.
For hours I sat thinking, sometimes of my good fortune, at others of
my perilous position alone in the hands of such a people. But I had
heard that, notwithstanding their barbaric customs, an Albanian’s
word was his bond. Therefore I reassured myself that I should not be
the victim of treachery and reported to Constantinople as “missing.”
Slowly at last the moon paled, and I grew sleepy. That terrible road
had worn me out. Therefore I woke Palok to mount guard, and flung
myself down in his place and slept till the sun, shining in my face,
awakened me.
Through the whole day we went forward again, over a path so bad that
I often had to scramble with difficulty. I tried to ride the mule,
but it was out of the question, so I walked and stumbled, and was
helped over the rough boulders by my companions. The Skreli country
was surely an unapproachable region.
That night we slept again in the open, but in a spot less sheltered.
Then on once more with the first grey of dawn, till, just before
noon, Rok halted in the narrow track that wound around the face of
the bare grey mountain, and, drawing his revolver, fired three times
into the air.
The shots reverberated in a series of echoes. It was a signal, and
almost ere they had died away came three answering shots from no
great distance, and I was told that we were now in the Skreli region,
and there was nothing more to fear.
In Podgoritza, in Cettigné, in Skodra, and in Djakova I had heard
terrible stories of this fighting race, and of Vatt’s fierce hatred
of the Turks. Yet everyone had told me that, the chief having invited
me, I need not have a moment’s apprehension of my personal safety.
So I went forward, reassured, to meet my host.
Half an hour later I came face to face with real brigands--brigands
who looked like illustrations out of a boy’s story-book, the men who
had so often held up travellers and compelled the Turkish Government
to pay heavy ransoms.
There were about twenty, certainly the fiercest and most bloodthirsty
gang on which I have ever set my eyes. They were dressed in the
usual skin-tight white woollen trousers, with broad black bands
running down the legs, a short white jacket, also black-braided,
the sleeveless woolly bolero of mourning, hide shoes with uppers
consisting of a network of string, and small white skull-caps. Each
man carried in his belt a great silver-mounted pistol of antique type
and a silver-sheathed, curved knife, while around both shoulders were
well-filled bandoliers, and in the hand of each a rifle. Like Rok,
the heads of all were shaven, leaving a long tuft at the back, in the
mediæval Florentine style.
With one accord they all raised their rifles aloft and shouted me
welcome, whereupon one man stepped forward--a big, muscular fellow
with handsome face and proud gait--the great chief Vatt Marashi
himself!
Attired very much as his followers, his dress was richer, the jacket
being ornamented with gold braid. The silver hilt of his pistol
was studded with coral and green stones, probably emeralds, but he
carried no rifle. Jauntily, and laughing merrily, he approached me,
and bent till his forehead touched mine--the Skreli sign of welcome.
And all this in Europe in the twentieth century!
Was I dreaming? Was it real? I was the guest of actual brigands,
those men about whom I had read in story-books!
Vatt Marashi, holding my hand the while, addressed me. What he said
was interpreted into Italian by Palok as:
“You are welcome here to my country--very welcome. And you
are an Englishman, and have travelled so far to see us! It
is wonderful--wonderful! You live so far away--farther than
Constantinople, they say. Well, I cannot give you much here or make
you very comfortable--not so comfortable as you have been down in
Skodra. But I will do my best. Come, let us eat.”
I returned his greeting, whereupon the whole crowd of us walked along
to a spot where a cauldron was standing on a wood fire, and out of it
my host, myself, and Palok had pieces of boiled chicken and rice that
had especially been prepared for my coming.
The object of this meal, I afterwards learnt, was to cement our
friendship. The Albanian code of honour is astounding, even to
our Western ideas. A word once given by those Albanian tribes is
never broken, and if the stranger eats the food of the Skreli, even
though he prove an enemy, his person is sacred for twenty-four hours
afterwards. While the food remains undigested he may not be injured
or captured.
So while I ate with this wild chieftain his band squatted round,
apparently discussing me.
It was probably the first time they had seen an Englishman, Palok
explained, and they were at first inclined to regard me as a secret
agent of the Government, till later that afternoon their chief
assured them to the contrary.
Then that wild horde, to a man, became my devoted servants. I
photographed them, and the picture appeared in my book on the Near
East, together with Princess Xenia’s photographs.
Vatt, the _Baryaktar_ (from the Turkish _bairakdar_, or
standard-bearer), unlike most Albanians, was fair-haired, above the
average height, and extremely muscular. He had a constant smile
of hearty good-fellowship. His eyes were fierce and barbaric;
nevertheless, he was pleasant of countenance, and I certainly found
him, from first to last, a staunch and excellent friend.
Lord of those wild, rugged mountains, his word was obeyed with a
precision that amazed me. A striking figure he presented as, with me,
he marched at head of his bodyguard, his chest thrown out proudly,
his head up, his keen eyes ever searching forward like every Albanian
of the hills, the wildest ruler of wildest Europe.
On every side, as we went forward to the tiny clusters of little
houses that formed the village where I was to be quartered, were bare
grey limestone rocks, without a single blade of grass, a desolate
mountain region into which no foreigner had penetrated except when
captured and held to ransom, as Miss Stone had been, the United
States Government having paid a large sum for her release. Through
centuries have that same tribe ruled that barren land, and no
conqueror of Albania has ever succeeded in ousting them.
“You have, no doubt, heard down in Scutari terrible things about me,”
he said, laughing, as, later on, we walked together. He had rolled me
a cigarette and given it to me unstuck. “I expect you feared to come
and see me--eh?”
I admitted that I had heard things of him not altogether calculated
to make me feel at ease.
“Ah!” he laughed, “that is because the Turks do not like us. Whenever
a Turkish soldier puts his foot a kilometre outside Skodra, we either
take away his Mauser and send him back, or else--well, we shoot him
first.”
“But they say that your men capture travellers.”
“And why not?” he asked. “We are Christians. Is it not permissible
for us to do everything to annoy those devils of Turks? But,” he
added, “if they say that I treat my prisoners badly, they lie. Why,
they get plenty of food and are well treated. I give them some
shooting if they like, and they generally enjoy themselves. But I
know. I too have been told that the Turks say I once cut off a man’s
ears. Bah! all Turks are liars!”
“Then it is only to annoy the Turks that your men commit acts of
brigandage?”
“Of course. The ransom is useful to us, I admit, but we live by our
flocks, and our wants are few. We are not like the people down in
Skodra. We are better, I hope.”
“And do you always watch the roads on the other side of the mountains
yonder?”
“Always. Our men are there now, all along the route between Ipek and
Prisrend. Who knows who may not pass along--a rich pasha perhaps.”
And his face relaxed into a humorous smile at the thought of such a
prize.