"Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have
entertained angels unawares."
"A story! Why, children, you certainly are the most persevering little
beggars for a story I ever encountered! Well, a story you shall have,
as your lessons were, I must say, particularly well said, this morning,
and, moreover, the afternoon _does_ look hopelessly wet."
A chorus of thanks responded to this promise; then Janie's demure voice
was heard asking, "Is it to be a true story, aunt, about some of the
foreign countries you have resided in? If so, I will bring the atlas."
Here Millie broke in eagerly, "Oh dear, I hope it is to be a romantic
story, full of murders, and caverns, and nice dark-eyed bandits isn't
it, Aunt Cattie?"
Aunt Cattie smiled inwardly at the contrast between these twin sisters,
yet their resemblance to their former selves when, six years before, she
had visited England. It was the same Janie who, at seven years old,
devoured books of geography and history, but laid down Aesop's Fables in
disgust, unable to detect truth embedded in fiction. It was the same
Millie who used coaxingly to beg for stories "all about naughty
children--_very_ naughty children--and please, auntie, they mustn't
improve." The same Janie and Millie, only a head and shoulders taller.
"It shall be a tale of the Black Mountain," said Aunt Cattie, after a
pause. "The Black Mountain, or Montenegro, is a real place, Janie,
marked in the map of Turkey in Europe, yet as wild and full of horrors
as Millie could desire. It is a tract of country, several miles long,
in the south-east part of Dalmatia. Its western side slopes down to, or
overhangs, the beautiful Adriatic Sea; the eastern, unhappily for its
peace, borders on Turkey, and between its gallant but lawless Christian
inhabitants and their Mahometan oppressors there has been, for
centuries, war, the most merciless you can imagine. We, who lived some
years in the neighbouring seaport-town of Cattaro, heard enough, and
sadly too much, of their atrocities."
During this preface to the story the girls had settled themselves with
their knitting at Aunt Cattie's feet, and Archie, their brother, at her
elbow, his eyes fixed on Aunt Cattie's animated face, and his ears
"bristled up," as Millie expressed it, in expectation of her promised
narrative. It began thus:--
"Mr Englefield and I, when first we married, in 1843, lived in a small
but pretty dwelling outside the gate of Cattaro. The front of our house
looked across to a narrow arm of the sea, to a range of hills. A bleak,
rocky mountain stood at the back of our house and of the town; so you
see we were in a very cramped situation. The sun rose an hour later,
and set an hour earlier with us than elsewhere; the noonday sun baked us
in summer, the keen winds, pent between our mountains, eddied round us
in winter, and in autumn we were often wrapped in dense fog for days
together."
Cattaro is a considerable port, in the hands of the Austrians, and some
of its traders were connected with the house of "Popham and Company,"
for which your uncle was then an agent. He was often away for weeks
together, on business. I remained behind, and was much alone, but time
never hung heavy on my hands, for it was fully occupied with making
sketches from nature. These I carefully finished afterwards, and they
found a ready sale at Corfu, through the kindness of a friend. These
little gains eked out our slender income, and I remember no moment of
purer delight than that in which I welcomed your uncle home one soft
autumn morning, and placed my first hoard of fifteen guineas in his
hand. "My own industrious Cattie!" he exclaimed, "how very hard you
have worked in my absence! You have earned a holiday, my dear. Say,
how and where shall we spend the week I have to devote to you?"
"O Laurie!" I cried, "on the Black Mountain--sketching on the Black
Mountain! You don't know how I long to explore it, and to paint its
scenery and its splendid-looking peasants! Do let us start at once!"
"My dear, are you crazy?" he answered quietly, "Why, those mountaineers
are a set of lawless cut-throats, that regard neither life nor property.
They--"
"I know, I know!" cried I. "They glory in cutting off as many Turkish
heads as they can, and carrying them home on the points of their lances.
Yes, it _is_ horrible, Laurie; still, we must make allowance for an
oppressed race, and remember how cruelly the Turks have treated them for
ages. I don't believe the Black Mountaineers would hurt a hair of our
heads, or of any unoffending traveller who threw himself on their
honour. Just let us try, Laurie."
I was only nineteen then, and quite fearless. For many days my lonely
rambles had been in the direction of Montenegro, and my upward gaze had
turned hourly towards the path which leads thither, issuing forth from
the gate of the town in a zigzag form, and mounting till it seems lost
in the clouds. It was so tantalising to know that three hours' ascent
on one of the stout mules of the country, would bring one to the heart
of the Black Mountain, and to the palace of its chivalrous Vladika, or
Prince-Bishop, the feared and adored monarch of a hundred and twenty
thousand Montenegrins. His praises and his exploits had been
continually rung in my hears by some hill-people with whom I had made
great acquaintance in the market-place. Week by week they brought me
fuel, eggs, and fruit, and in my dealings with them I had picked up a
smattering of their beautiful Slavonic language, and was eager to
display this new accomplishment to your uncle. However, I soon saw that
was not the time for pressing the subject upon him; on scanning his
sunburnt features there was a look of care upon them that was not usual.
When the bright look my little surprise called forth had faded away, he
appeared grave and harassed, and his tone, for the first time, was a
little abrupt. I felt sure something had gone wrong in the affairs of
Popham and Company.
So it proved; a younger brother of the firm, Mr John Popham, had come
out, some months before, to look after the affairs of the house, which,
for some unexplained reason, had gone less smoothly than usual of late.
Unfortunately he was not the right person to conduct such an inquiry,
for he was young, rash, and easily duped. Our agent at Ragusa, one
Orlando Jones, an artful, worthless person, half English, half Greek,
insinuated himself into his good graces, and managed to hoodwink him
completely. Now, you must know that Mr Englefield had long watched
Jones with suspicion, and in this last visit to Ragusa had obtained such
proofs of his dishonesty as appeared to him quite convincing. These he
thought it his duty to lay before Mr Popham. Unfortunately that young
gentleman took up the information hotly and unwisely, blurting out the
whole matter to Jones, instead of watching his conduct narrowly and then
judging for himself. Jones affected the most virtuous indignation when
charged with fraud by Mr Popham. He accused your dear uncle of base
jealousy, spoke movingly of his own services, and, in short, talked Mr
Popham so completely round that he turned the cold shoulder on his
faithful and tried servant. So your uncle returned to Cattaro deeply
hurt, and more anxious than ever about the safety of the house.
I heard not a word of all this at the time, for Mr Englefield was
secret as the grave as to the affairs of his employers. To soothe and
amuse him was my province; so I pulled out a budget of cheerful home
letters, and read them aloud, with comments, while he partook of
breakfast under the shade of our carob tree. His brow relaxed by
degrees, and after breakfast he proposed we should take a stroll
together; and we set out, following the bend of the sea-shore, and
returning by the eastern gate of the town. I am afraid this was a
little stroke of crooked policy on my part; for at this gate is held,
every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, a market, to which the
hill-people flock, and I knew it would be in full activity at that
moment, and my dear Montenegrins would be there in their trimmest
apparel. How I wish you could have beheld the scene: there were the
citizens of Cattaro in their sober garb--black cloth or velvet jackets
with silver basket buttons, small black caps, wide trousers also black,
black stockings, and a dull red sash--the only relief of this heavy
costume. In strong contrast to it were the bright dresses of the
mountaineers, numbers of whom were buzzing about, the men all armed to
the teeth, as their custom is. They were engaged in gossiping,
sauntering about, or comparing their guns and other weapons. Their
women, heavily laden, and square in figure, were transacting the real
business of the market. Amid the throng I looked out for some special
friends of mine, and soon espied them driving their mule down the zigzag
road. "O Laurie," said I, "yonder is the group I want to introduce to
you; look at my pretty peasant-wife Spira, and Basil her husband; is he
not a grand specimen? six feet three, and so broad-shouldered, and such
a frank good-tempered expression of face; look at his rich silver-hilted
dagger, and his long gun, and that graceful bright scarf (_strucca_,
they call it) wound round him; doesn't he look like a doughty warrior?"
"He does, indeed," your uncle answered; "permit me, however, to hint
that your friend appears scarcely as gal_lant_ as he is _gal_lant; he
stalks on unhampered, leaving his little wife to trudge after with that
huge bundle of firewood on her back."
"And a child on the top of it," I rejoined, laughing; "all husbands are
not like you, Laurie, who feel injured if I insist on carrying my own
umbrella. Now look at Spira's face--there is something so lovely in
that deep-tinted golden hair and those large mournful eyes. Don't look
at her hands or ankles, please--hard work has spoilt them."
Spira now came up to me and kissed my hand, with a low obeisance, as her
wont was; she did not speak when her husband was by--he greeted us
frankly; then leaning on his long gun, said to me: "I have brought the
fuel, the quinces, and the walnuts your Excellency desired; also the
mutton-hams you bespoke--they are of my wife's own curing (I ask your
pardon for naming her) and right well cured."
The articles were submitted to my inspection, approved of, and paid for,
Basil asking very fair prices for them, and handing over the silver to
Spira as if he could not be "fashed" to carry it. "Now, Basil," I
rather maliciously said, "pray relieve your wife of that heavy load; she
must be quite tired."
"Spira is used to heavy loads," replied the imperturbable Basil; "no
wife in our hamlet can carry so large a sheaf of corn as she."
Apparently it gratified Spira to be thus compared to a beast of burden;
for she crept up to Basil's side and kissed his sleeve. The little boy
perched on her back, who had hitherto remained motionless, his face
hidden against her neck, and only his tangled auburn curls visible, now
threw back his head suddenly, and uttered a hoarse cough. A thrill
seemed to run through the mother's whole frame at that sound, and she
lifted her terrified eyes to her husband. Whatever he might feel, he
was too proud to betray anxiety in our presence; and taking the boy off
Spira's shoulders he addressed him thus: "Fear not, Nilo, little Nilo;
thou shalt live and grow up to be a man, and cut off more Turks' heads
in thy day than thy father and thy grandfather, put together." So
saying, he tapped a bright silver medal attached to his own breast--the
Prince-Bishop's reward for extraordinary valour against the infidels.
The child looked up, amused; such a lovely child, of perhaps two years
old, with almond-shaped deep-blue eyes, pearly complexion, and sweet
dimpled mouth. I noticed, however, that the eyes were heavy, and the
lip soft pink, not red, coral; his breathing came thick, and there was
something of the same appearance of distress about him that I once
witnessed in a dear little brother of my own, who died in an attack of
croup. The sight roused within me feelings and memories that had long,
long slept.
The sky, meanwhile, had clouded over, and some heavy drops began to
fall--presaging one of those deluges of autumn rain which so often rush
down at Cattaro. Mr Englefield urged me to return home, adding, "Had
you not better offer shelter to your mountain friends? that pretty child
hardly looks stout enough to bear a drenching."
I acted on the kind suggestion, and Spira was thankful to accept my
offer; as by the time she had driven her mule to our door it rained in
torrents. The Montenegrin standard of cleanliness being very low, I
gave them an unoccupied room on the ground floor, and carried some food
to them there. Spira scarcely tasted it, but crumbled some bread into a
cup of milk and water for little Nilo, and coaxed him to swallow a
mouthful or two. By degrees her shyness wore off, and I drew her out to
talk of Basil and his exploits; how Basil had won a prize at a shooting
match given by their Bishop, and how he was esteemed nearly as good a
shot as that prince--not quite: nobody could quite come up to his skill,
who could hit a lemon thrown up to a great height in the air! This
seems a singular accomplishment for a Bishop in the nineteenth century,
does it not? Then she related how Basil had last year defended a pass
all by himself against five armed Turks; and how, in token of his
approval, the Vladika had deigned to baptise their little child, and
permitted him to be called Danilo (or Daniel) after himself. So far all
was smooth; but when the little woman entered into particulars about the
Turkish war, I was astonished to see how ferocious she grew. Her eyes
flashed and dilated as she denounced those "unbelieving dogs;" and she
talked of cutting off their heads as coolly as our sportsmen do of
bringing home the fox's brush! I was shocked, and tried to bring to her
mind the heavenly precepts of mercy towards our enemies; but she only
looked bewildered, and said in reply, "Excellency, they are Turks."
Saddened, and rather repelled, I went back to your uncle; but scarcely
five minutes later a ringing cry from Spira's part of the house made us
both start. We hastened to the spot, and beheld little Nilo stiff and
blue in his father's arms--his frame convulsed, and his throat emitting
that kind of barking sound which accompanies violent croup. Basil, as
he held him, looked the image of despair. As for Spira she had flung
herself in a heap in a corner of the room, crying out, like Hagar, "Let
me not see the death of the child!" Neither of them had an idea of
trying any remedy, unless laying a leaden image of Saint Basil (the
patron of Montenegro) on the baby's breast might be called such. When I
stole to Basil's side to look at the poor child, and offer a suggestion
of hope, he said briefly, "He is called; he must go, as our three others
have gone before him; I know it by that hoarse raven-note." Then
breaking down altogether, he cried, "Nilo, Nilo, would I could die for
thee, little one! would I could die for thee!" and the strong man sobbed
as if his heart would break. Your uncle and I, deeply moved, took
counsel together, and determined to try what could be done. I flew to
my well-stocked medicine-chest, and weighed out some croup powders; your
uncle, kind soul! went off in search of a bath and hot water. When I
returned, I found the parents on the move, preparing to carry their
child to a neighbouring church, that the priest might anoint it,
according to the rites of the Greek communion, before its death. The
rain had ceased, but a dense mist had gathered in and sent a chilly
breath through the doorway where Basil stood with Nilo in his arms.
Spira was following--her hands clasped over her bright bodice, and her
face looking ten years older than when she came in. So aghast was I at
this sight, that I stopped Basil peremptorily, exclaiming in my wretched
Slavonic, "Turn back, this instant, if you do not wish to kill the
child!" The father glared on me angrily, and stalked across the
threshold, muttering some word that sounded like "heretic;" but Spira,
whose lovely eyes turned upon me with a ray of hope, happily interposed:
she plucked him by the sleeve, kissed it, and said humbly, "Basil, the
lady is good; I pray you hearken to her!"
Most providentially, the proud mountaineer's resolution gave way before
this meek appeal. He turned back gloomily, let me take the child from
his arms, let me have my own way, in short; I beckoned to Spira to help,
and together we placed Nilo in the soothing warm water, and coaxed the
medicine between those pearly teeth, which at first closed stubbornly
against it. It was anxious work, with Basil's dark, distrustful eyes
lowering upon me, but, thank Heaven, a blessed and complete success
crowned our efforts. Half an hour later, the cold, stiff, little limbs
had relaxed, the breathing had become soft, and natural glow and
moisture had returned to the skin; the child knew his father, and lifted
his hands caressingly to stroke Spira's face. Oh, the pure exquisite
delight of those moments, and the deep thankfulness also! My heart
silently overflowed with both. Basil and Spira were beside themselves
with joy.
To be brief. We insisted on keeping Spira and the child with us till
Nilo's strength was restored; as for Basil, he discovered that he must
return to Montenegro that night. He stalked off through the misty
moonlight, glad, I believe, of the fresh air and rapid climb as a
safety-valve for his overflowing rapture. One look was all the thanks
he offered me at that time, but what a world of feeling did that look
convey!
The night passed without further alarm.
Little Nilo quickly recovered his strength, all the more quickly,
probably, from the unwonted care I insisted on bestowing on his
ablutions and diet. He became a bonnie boy, and wound himself round our
hearts, and very sorry we were when the time came for parting. Perched
on his mother's back, he returned to the Black Mountain the day week of
his seizure.
From that time, tokens of grateful, loving remembrance from our
Montenegrin friends ceased not to flow in. It rained quinces, figs, and
walnuts; poultry cackled at our door, the bringers running hastily off
to get out of the way of payment; and, finally, an elaborate epistle
from the parish priest of Cetigna (Basil's home) expressed the gratitude
of the village for this our simple act of kindness.