In the first place, we had no desire to stay there at all. We were
waiting for a steamer to take us to Scutari, but a violent storm had
arisen and the steamer failed to appear. Furthermore, we were not
actually at Plavnitza, but upon the quay, the best part of half an
hour's walk from the village along a sort of embankment that was swept
by wind and rain and where the mud was so deep and sticky that it
needed courage to face it.
There were many people in the same plight as ourselves, but when it
became a matter of certainty that the steamer was not going to show up
they returned to the village and sought accommodation there for the
night. No doubt a large number were disappointed.
For ourselves, we stayed where we were--on the quay. We had found
shelter of a kind, and we were not disposed to give it up to someone
else on the remote chance that after ploughing our way through the mud
again we might find something better at the village.
There was only one building on the quay, a storehouse for goods
delivered by the steamer. Just now there was nothing doing, and the
doors were locked. There was, however, a small room, with a dirty
narrow bed in it; it was occupied generally by the watchman, but he
happened to be absent that night. He had left his son in charge, a
sickly, pale-faced boy of fourteen or fifteen, who never ceased smoking
cigarettes, and who had the manners and conversation of a grown man.
It was in this room that a crowd of us sought refuge from the storm,
and here, when most of the others took their departure, we elected to
remain. Our small host was very kind--he gave up his bed to us--but it
was quite beyond his power to make the general conditions anything but
disgusting in the extreme. We shiver still at the recollection of them.
Our young friend had been lavish in his hospitality, and so we shared
the room with some half-dozen men--excellent fellows, but whose habits
could hardly commend them as companions for the night. The fact that
there was a lady in the party made no difference to them at all.
Oh, the atmosphere of that room! It was redolent of stale fish,
cigarette smoke, and the smell of foul garments sodden with rain. The
storm that raged outside made it quite impossible to open door or
window.
It was very cold, and we, like the rest, had been drenched to the skin,
but, of course, we could not think of removing any of our wet clothes.
We were faint for want of food, too; expecting to reach Scutari that
night, we had brought but little with us, and that we had consumed at
midday. But in that foetid atmosphere we could not have eaten much,
however richly supplied we might have been.
Our little host sat on a box and smoked and talked with his other
guests for the best part of the night. It was the same with them all.
When they were not smoking and spitting they were eating dried fish and
cheese, the order of which was sickening to sensitive nostrils.
The boy was bare-footed, and his clothes hung about his wizened,
deformed body in rags. They were palpably verminous, and, knowing this,
we shuddered for the bed upon which we lay. Nevertheless, the poor
little fellow was so cold when at last, like the rest of the company,
he stretched himself out on the filthy floor to sleep, that we were
impelled to give him one of our coverings, ill as we could spare it.
We had but a small fragment of candle, which spluttered to its end
somewhere in the early hours of the morning. After that we lay,
sleepless, in total darkness, listening to the moaning of the wind
outside and the contented, unconcerned snoring of our companions. And
there was a great fear upon us--that the coming of day might not bring
us relief, for if the storm continued, as was by no means unlikely,
the steamer would be indefinitely held up, nor could any rowing-boat
venture forth. If there had only been a road to fall back upon! But
there was none.
We shall not easily forget our night upon the quay at Plavnitza, and
it certainly never occurred to us that we were likely to be envied the
experience!