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An Observer
in the
Near East
------------------------------------------------------------------------
=Unwin’s Colonial Library.=
271. =The Seven Streams.= By WARWICK DEEPING.
272. =Love in the Lists.= By K. L. MONTGOMERY (Author of “The
Cardinal’s Pawn”).
273. =The Pride o’ the Morning.= By AGNES GIBERNE.
274. =The Web of the Past.= By the COUNTESS OF CROMARTIE.
275. =Saints in Society.= By MARGARET BAILLIE-SAUNDERS.
276. =A Supreme Moment.= By Mrs. HAMILTON SYNGE.
277. =The Fatal Ring.= By DICK DONOVAN.
278. =The Procession of Life.= By HORACE A. VACHELL (Author of
“Brothers,” “The Hill,” etc.).
279. =The Rise of Philip Barrett.= By DAVID LYALL.
280. =Beggar’s Luck.= By NELLIE K. BLISSETT.
281. =The Marquis’s Eye.= By G. F. BRADBY.
282. =The Parson’s Wood.= By VIOLET A. SIMPSON.
283. =Captain Maroon.= By ROBERT STUART.
284. =The Third Kiss.= By HERBERT FLOWERDEW.
285. =The Difficult Way.= By MABEL DEARMER.
286. =Dick Pentreath.= By KATHARINE TYNAN.
287. =The Princess Priscilla’s Fortnight.= By the Author of “Elizabeth
and Her German Garden.”
288. =The Flight of Georgiana.= By R. N. STEPHENS.
289. =The Lady Noggs, Peeress.= By EDGAR JEPSON (Author of “The
Admirable Tinker”).
290. =A Dazzling Reprobate.= By W. R. H. TROWBRIDGE.
291. =The Lapse of Vivien Eady.= By CHARLES MARRIOTT.
292. =The Smiths of Surbiton.= By KEBLE HOWARD. Illustrated.
293. =The Blue Peter.= By MORLEY ROBERTS.
294. =Fanny Lambert.= By H. DE VERE STACPOOLE.
295. =A Son of Arvon.= By GWENDOLEN PRICE. A Welsh Story.
296. =A Millionaire’s Courtship.= By Mrs. ARCHIBALD LITTLE.
297. =An American Duchess.= By ARABELLA KENEALY.
298. =The Adventures of a Supercargo.= By LOUIS BECKE.
299. =Cecilia’s Lovers.= By AMELIA E. BARR.
300. =The Grey Domino.= By Mrs. CHAMPION DE CRESPIGNY.
301. =The Prey of the Strongest.= By MORLEY ROBERTS.
302. =Men at Arms.= By Major W. P. DRURY.
303. =Sons of the Milesians.= By the COUNTESS OF CROMARTIE.
304. =A Double Marriage.= By LUCAS CLEEVE.
305. =The House in Spring Gardens.= By Major ARTHUR GRIFFITHS.
306. =Whispers about Women.= By LEONARD MERRICK.
307. =Latter-Day Sweethearts.= By Mrs. BURTON HARRISON.
308. =Law not Justice.= By FLORENCE WARDEN.
309. =An Impetuous Girl.= By ADELINE SERGEANT.
310. =Man and Maid.= By E. NESBIT.
311. =Raffles, the Amateur Cracksman.= By E. W. HORNUNG.
312. =The Nymph.= By F. DICKBERRY (Author of “The Storm of London”).
313. =New Treasure Seekers.= By E. NESBIT. Illustrated.
314. =Counsels of the Night.= By LUCAS CLEEVE.
315. =The Dream and the Business.= By JOHN OLIVER HOBBES.
316. =A Matrimonial Lottery.= By C. O’CONOR ECCLES.
317. =Lady Fitzmaurice’s Husband.= By ARABELLA KENEALY.
318. =Silas Strong.= By IRVING BACHELLER (Author of “Eben Holden”).
319. =A Drama in Sunshine.= By HORACE A. VACHELL (Author of
“Brothers”).
320. =Saba Macdonald.= By “RITA.”
321. =The Whip Hand.= By KEBLE HOWARD (Author of “The Smiths of
Surbiton”).
322. =The Woman Thou Gavest.= By LADY TROUBRIDGE.
323. =The Crystal Age.= By W. H. HUDSON.
324. =The Soul Stealer.= By C. RANGER GULL (GUY THORNE).
325. =A Gamble with Life.= By SILAS K. HOCKING.
326. =The Great Court Scandal.= By WILLIAM LE QUEUX.
327. =The Iron Gates.= By ANNIE E. HOLDSWORTH.
328. =At the Sign of the Peacock.= By K. C. RYVES.
329. =The Red Burgee.= By MORLEY ROBERTS.
330. =The Modern Way.= By Mrs. W. K. CLIFFORD.
331. =Success in Life.= By Dr. EMIL REICH.
332. =The Sins of Society.= By FATHER BERNARD VAUGHAN.
333. =The New Chronicles of Don “Q.”= By K. and HESKETH PRICHARD.
LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN.
NOTE.—_A List of the Colonial Library, Nos. 1 to 270, can be had on
application._
[Illustration: HIS MAJESTY KING PETER I. OF SERVIA.]
AN OBSERVER IN
THE NEAR EAST
_ILLUSTRATED BY PHOTOGRAPHS BY THE AUTHOR
AND PRINCESS XENIA OF MONTENEGRO_
_COLONIAL EDITION_
(_This Edition is for Circulation in the British Colonies only_)
LONDON
T. FISHER UNWIN
ADELPHI TERRACE
1907
_All rights reserved_
PREFACE
The reason of the anonymity of this book is obvious. Revealing as it
does the actual state of affairs in the Balkan Peninsula in this present
year of grace 1907, it contains many plain truths and much outspoken
criticism.
By a long journey of close, confidential inquiry through Montenegro,
Northern Albania, Dalmatia, Bosnia, Herzegovina, Servia, Bulgaria,
Roumania, Turkey, and Macedonia, I have, at risk of betraying certain
information imparted to me under seal of secrecy, endeavoured to place
the actual and serious truth before English readers, and thus render
complicated questions, such as Bulgaria and the Exarchate, more
intelligible than heretofore.
Private audiences were granted me by the various kings and princes of
the Balkan States, and by His Imperial Majesty the Sultan, as well as by
almost each member of the various Cabinets in turn, so that I was
enabled to gather information, some of which is, of course, known in the
chancelleries of Europe, while other facts will probably come as a
revelation, even to Balkan diplomats themselves.
What I was told in one country was often contradicted in the next. Yet,
possessing many “friends at Court,” I was afforded unique facilities for
studying, in each country, the various questions on the spot. My
inspection of the Servian prisons, in company with the Minister of
Justice, was, for instance, the first occasion upon which a foreigner
has been allowed to study the penal system in that country; while I am,
I believe, the only Englishman to visit and be the guest of those wild
brigandish tribes of Northern Albania.
The secret aims and aspirations of the various Balkan States herein
explained are based upon actual information gathered from confidential
and reliable sources. The exposure of the shameful German and Austrian
intrigues is no mere idle denunciation, but are actual facts, as
revealed to me by certain Cabinet Ministers and other persons equally
responsible, and supported by documentary evidence which I have had
through my own hands.
As regards that land of terror, fire, and sword, Macedonia, I can only
say that I have spared the reader many horrifying details and
photographs of what I saw there with my own eyes. The blood of those
poor defenceless women and children who are daily slaughtered by Greek
bands cries aloud to Europe for vengeance.
Will there be war between Bulgaria and Turkey during the present year?
To arrive at a definite conclusion upon that very serious point was one
of the chief objects of my inquiry, and this record of its
result—injudicious though I may be in putting it in print—will probably
be read with interest by many to whom the Near East, with its mysteries,
its constant plots, and its tangled politics, is as a closed book.
All through the Balkan Peninsula the weak are to-day being crushed by
the strong. The Austrian Eagle has overshadowed and grasped Bosnia, she
has her talons into Servia, and is casting covetous glances upon gallant
little Montenegro. On the other hand, as part of the secret policy of
Christian Germany in her advance southward, the poor defenceless
Macedonians are being daily outraged, murdered, or burned alive—the true
facts being always suppressed and the news scarcely ever being allowed
to leak out—while the Kaiser every day lifts his eyes to Heaven,
implores the Divine aid, and consigns the destinies of his Empire to the
direction of the Almighty!
To Germany, in great measure, is the present terrible state of Macedonia
due. Her diplomacy at the Sublime Porte has recently exposed, beyond all
doubt, that she secretly aids Greece and abets the Greek bands in their
nefarious work of outrage, murder, and extermination.
The Kaiser could, by simply lifting his hand, stem the blood-lust of
those armed hordes, and bring peace and security to the Macedonian
population. But his secret policy is to create disorder in that
terror-stricken country, so that Bulgaria and Turkey must be compelled,
ere long, to fly at each other’s throats.
Therefore he closes his Imperial eyes to those scenes of wanton
slaughter that daily are a disgrace to our civilisation in this
twentieth century, and matters are rapidly going from bad to worse.
SOFIA, _April 1907_.
CONTENTS
-------
MONTENEGRO
CHAPTER I
THE CITY IN THE SKY
PAGE
Why I went to the Balkans—The road to Montenegro—Cettinje and its
petroleum tins—About the blood-feud—England and
Montenegro—Warned not to attempt to go to Albania—My guide a
marked man—The story of Tef—A woman’s fickleness, and its
sequel 19
CHAPTER II
AN AUDIENCE OF PRINCE NICHOLAS
The Palace at Cettinje—A cigarette with the Prince—The policy of
Montenegro—A confidential chat—His Royal Highness’s admiration
for England—His views upon Macedonia—He urges me not to attempt
to go to Albania, but I persuade him to help me—His Highness’s
kindness—Souvenirs 29
NORTHERN ALBANIA
CHAPTER I
INTO A SAVAGE REGION
Wildest Albania—Warnings not to attempt to travel there—I decide
to go, and take Palok—Prince Nicholas of Montenegro bids us
farewell—On the Lake of Scutari—Arrival at Skodra—Passports,
rabble, and backsheesh—Photographing the fortress in
secret—Treading dangerous ground—Albania the Unknown 41
CHAPTER II
WHERE LIFE IS CHEAP
Fired at in the street of Skodra—My comfortless inn—Panorama of
life—Armed bands of wild mountaineers in the streets—The Sign
of the Cross—-Scutarine people—The fascination of Skodra—In the
den of my friend Salko—Making purchases—Short shrift with
swindlers—Some genuine antiques—Ragged and shoeless soldiers of
the Sultan—Men shot in the blood-feud—“It is nothing!” 48
CHAPTER III
THE LAWLESS LAND
My friend Pietro—Visit to his house—His wife and sister-in-law
unveil and are photographed—Scutarine hospitality—Forbidden
newspapers—I get one in secret—The Turkish post office—I want
to visit the Accursed Mountains—Difficulties and fears—The
Feast of the Madonna—Christians and Mohammedans—My first
meeting with the dreaded Skreli—Shots in the night 58
CHAPTER IV
IN THE ACCURSED MOUNTAINS
Vatt Marashi, chief of the Skreli tribe, invites me to become his
guest—Our start for the Accursed Mountains—Rok, our
guide—Independence of the Skreli—Brigandage and the _bessa_—A
night under a rock—My meeting with Vatt Marashi and his
band—The Skreli welcome—How they treat the Turks—Vatt’s
admissions—I become the guest of brigands—A chat in the
moonlight 68
CHAPTER V
LIFE WITH A BRIGAND BAND
The Skreli a lawless tribe—No man’s life safe unless the chief
gives his word—Vatt prophesies a rising against the Turks—Our
walks and talks—Our meeting with our neighbours the Kastrati,
and with Dêd Presci their chief—A girl who avenged her
husband’s death—The significant story of Kol—Manners and
customs of the wild tribes—Farewell to my good friend Dêd—An
incident a fortnight later 81
BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA
CHAPTER I
SOME REVELATIONS
Through Dalmatia to Herzegovina—Over the Balkan watershed—Bosnia
and Sarayevo—A half-Turkish, half-Servian town—Austrian
persecution of the Christians—Some astounding facts—A land of
spies and scandals—The police as murderers—A disgrace to
European civilisation 95
CHAPTER II
DUST IN THE EYES OF EUROPE
How spies work in Bosnia—Secret agents dog the stranger’s
footsteps—My own experience—Fighting the spy with his own
weapons—To “nobble” the foreigner—How an unfavourable book was
purchased by the Austrian Government—Bribery of Press
correspondents—A country worse than Russia—Some suggested
reforms—The secret policy of Austria in the Balkans 108
SERVIA
CHAPTER I
THE TRUTH ABOUT SERVIA
The diplomatic circle in Belgrade—Studying both sides of the
Servian question—Austrian intrigue—113 known foreign spies in
Belgrade!—An illustration of the work of secret agents—Quaint
Servian customs—Pauperism unknown—Servia to-day and to-morrow 119
CHAPTER II
AN AUDIENCE OF KING PETER
At the New Konak—I sign His Majesty’s birthday-book—The
audience-chamber—King Peter greets me, and we chat over
cigarettes—My private audience—His Majesty and English
capitalists—Great openings for British enterprise—The King
gives me some instances of paying concerns, and tells me many
interesting facts—His Majesty invites me to return 130
CHAPTER III
SERVIA’S AIMS AND ASPIRATIONS
Audiences of M. Pachitch, the Premier and “strong man” of Servia,
and of M. Stoyanovitch, Minister of Commerce—My friend, Dr.
Milenko Vesnitch, Minister of Justice—The Servian case as I
found it—Austria Servia’s arch-enemy—Dr. Vesnitch a smart
up-to-date politician—Undeniable prosperity of the country
under King Peter’s rule 136
CHAPTER IV
THE FUTURE OF SERVIA
Servia and the Macedonian question—A sound Cabinet—England and
Servia—Appointment of Mr. Beethom Whitehead as British Minister
very gratifying to the Servians—King Peter ever solicitous for
the welfare of the people—What the Prime Minister told me
concerning the future—The new railway to the Adriatic 146
CHAPTER V
TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW IN SERVIA
A retrospect—A sitting of the Skupshtina—Peasants as
deputies—Servia as an open field for British
enterprise—Enormous mineral wealth—Mr. Finney, a mining
engineer who has prospected in Servia for seventeen years,
tells me some interesting facts regarding rich mines awaiting
development—No adventurers need apply 157
BULGARIA
CHAPTER I
SOFIA OF TO-DAY
At the Bulgarian frontier—A chat with M. Etienne, French
ex-Minister of War—Evening in Sofia—A city of rapid
progress—Engaging peasants for Earl’s Court Exhibition—Amusing
episodes—Social life in Sofia—The diplomats’ club—The Bulgarian
Government grant me special facilities for investigation 181
CHAPTER II
BULGARIA AS A FIELD FOR BRITISH ENTERPRISE
Audiences of members of the Bulgarian Cabinet—Dr. Dimitri
Stancioff, Minister for Foreign Affairs, the coming man of
Bulgaria—His policy—Facts about the mineral wealth and mining
laws—Advice to traders and capitalists by the British
Vice-Consul in Sofia—Our methods as compared with those of
other nations 191
CHAPTER III
WILL BULGARIA DECLARE WAR?
A sitting of the Sobranje—Declarations by the late Prime Minister
Petkoff and Dr. Stancioff—The new Minister of Foreign Affairs—A
sound progressive government—Strong army and firm policy—Will
the deplorable state of Macedonia still be tolerated?—Ominous
words 197
CHAPTER IV
THE BULGARIAN EXARCHATE AND THE PORTE
A difficult and little-understood problem—Bulgaria the “dark
horse” of the Peninsula—An explanation of the question between
Bulgaria and Turkey—The Bulgarian Church and the Imperial
Firman—The present position of the Exarchate—Europe should
listen to the Bulgarian demand—Chats with Macedonian
orphans—Their terrible stories 206
CHAPTER V
AT A ROSE DISTILLERY
Tobacco growing in Bulgaria—The otto-of-rose industry—About
adulteration—Difficulties of obtaining the pure
extract—Corrupting the peasant—What Monsieur Shipkoff told
me—Some tests to discover adulteration—Interesting facts about
roses 217
CHAPTER VI
THE FUTURE OF BULGARIA
Bulgaria’s future greatness—Her firm policy in Macedonia—An
audience of Dr. Stancioff, Minister of Foreign Affairs—A chat
with the Prime Minister—Turkey the enemy of Bulgaria—Balkan
“news” in the London papers—How it is manufactured—Turkish
dominion doomed 226
ROUMANIA
CHAPTER I
BUCHAREST OF TO-DAY
My friend the spy—How I was watched through the Balkans—An
exciting half-hour—The Paris of the Near East—Gaiety,
extravagance, and pretty women—Forty years of progress—The
paradise of the idler—Husbands wanted! 235
CHAPTER II
ROUMANIA’S AIMS AND INTENTIONS
Monsieur Take Jonesco, Minister of Finance—The smartest man in
Roumania—An interview with General Lahovary, Minister of
Foreign Affairs—Secret aims of Roumania—A better frontier
wanted—Germany’s insincerity—Some plain truths—The question of
a Balkan Federation—Oil wells waiting to be exploited by
British capital 244
CHAPTER III
A CHAT WITH THE QUEEN OF ROUMANIA
The royal drawing-room—Her Majesty’s greeting—Her kind words of
welcome—Roumania not in the Balkan States—We talk politics—The
name of “Carmen Sylva”—The Queen’s deep interest in the
blind—She shows me some photographs—Public interest in the new
institution—I visit it next day 253
TURKEY
CHAPTER I
THE LAND OF THE WANING MOON
The Orient Express again—On the Black Sea to Constantinople—A
disenchantment—My dragoman—How to bribe the Customs
officers—Mud and dogs—A city of spies—Feebleness of British
policy at the Porte—Turkish adoration of Germany—The basis of
my confidential inquiries 265
CHAPTER II
IN SEARCH OF THE TRUTH
His Excellency Noury Pasha—A quiet chat at his home—Turkish view
of European criticism—The Turk misunderstood—The massacres in
Macedonia—My visit to the Sublime Porte—His Excellency Tewfik
Pasha tells me the truth—A great diplomatist—The fashion to
denounce Turkey—The attitude of the Porte towards
Bulgaria—Significant words 274
MACEDONIA
CHAPTER I
PLAIN TRUTHS ABOUT MACEDONIA
War imminent between Bulgaria and Turkey—My secret
inquiries—Atrocities by the Greek bands—Chats with the leaders
of the insurrection—The truth about the intrigues in
Macedonia—I visit the scene of the massacres—Stories told to
me—Horrifying facts—Germany behind the assassins—A disgraceful
truth 285
CHAPTER II
THE TRUTH EXPOSED
Summary of my confidential information—War this year—The attitude
of Greece, Bulgaria, Roumania, and Turkey—Procrastination,
promises, and perfect politeness—A matter more serious than
Macedonia—Warning to British statesmen and the public—The real
truth exposed—Germany and India 299
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
HIS MAJESTY KING PETER OF SERVIA _Frontispiece_
MAP OF THE AUTHOR’S ROUTE THROUGH THE NEAR EAST 16
PERO, MY MONTENEGRIN DRIVER 20
ALBANIANS IN CETTINJE 20
THE ROYAL PALACE, CETTINJE 24
PRINCIPAL STREET IN CETTINJE 24
HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE NICHOLAS OF MONTENEGRO 28
THE PETROLEUM TINS OF CETTINJE 32
THE MONASTERY, CETTINJE 32
MR. CHAS. DES GRAZ, CHARGÉ D’AFFAIRES AT CETTINJE 34
THE PIAZZA, RAGUSA 34
RYEKA, MONTENEGRO 42
ZABLIAK, MONTENEGRO 42
PALOK, MY COMPANION THROUGH THE SKRELI COUNTRY 44
IN SKODRA (TWO VIEWS) 48
MY FRIEND SALKO OUTSIDE HIS HOUSE IN SKODRA 54
PIETRO’S SISTER-IN-LAW UNVEILED BEFORE THE CAMERA 54
ROK, TRIBESMAN OF THE SKRELI 58
PIETRO LEKHA 58
THE MADONNA OF SKODRA 64
THE PROCESSION WITH AN ARMED GUARD 64
THE MIREDITI: AN ALARM! 66
THE MIREDITI AT PRAYER 66
MY ROAD IN NORTHERN ALBANIA 70
THE WAY TO THE SKRELI 70
VATT MARASHI, CHIEF OF THE SKRELI TRIBE 74
THE SKRELI AT HOME 76
AN ALBANIAN VILLAGE 76
AMONG THE SKRELI: LÛK AND HIS FRIENDS 80
MRIKA, THE WOMAN WHO CARRIED ON THE BLOOD-FEUD 84
MY BODYGUARD IN NORTHERN ALBANIA 90
BUNAQUELLE, BOSNIA 96
JAJACE, BOSNIA 96
SARAYEVO, BOSNIA 112
IN HERZEGOVINA 112
HIS EXCELLENCY NICHOLAS PACHITCH, PRIME MINISTER OF 120
SERVIA
HIS EXCELLENCY DR. MILENKO VESNITCH, SERVIAN MINISTER 124
OF JUSTICE
HIS EXCELLENCY COSTA STOYANOVITCH, SERVIAN MINISTER OF 126
COMMERCE
THE ROYAL PALACE, BELGRADE: THE BALLROOM 130
ROYAL PALACE, BELGRADE (EXTERIOR) 132
PRINCIPAL BOULEVARD OF BELGRADE 132
HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE GEORGE OF SERVIA 134
MR. BEETHOM WHITEHEAD, BRITISH MINISTER AT BELGRADE 138
MR. ALEX. TUCKER, SERVIAN CONSUL-GENERAL IN LONDON 138
THE ROAD TO THE EAST: THE LAST VIEW OF EUROPE 144
VILLAGERS AND GIPSIES IN MIRIAVO (SERVIA) 144
THE BRITISH LEGATION, BELGRADE 148
THE KNES MIHAJELOWA, BELGRADE 148
IN THE “KALEMEGDAN,” BELGRADE 160
THE MARKET-PLACE, BELGRADE 160
HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE FERDINAND OF BULGARIA 180
PEASANTS IN SOFIA MARKET-PLACE 182
THE OLD MOSQUE, SOFIA 182
HIS EXCELLENCY DR. DIMITRI STANCIOFF, BULGARIAN 184
MINISTER OF FOREIGN AFFAIRS
THE LATE MONSIEUR D. PETKOFF, PRIME MINISTER OF 188
BULGARIA
THE ROYAL PALACE, SOFIA 190
THE MAIN BOULEVARD, SOFIA 190
HIS EXCELLENCY N. GHENADIEFF, BULGARIAN MINISTER OF 192
COMMERCE
EARLY MORNING IN SOFIA 194
ON THE ROAD TO THE SHIPKA 194
THE BULGARIAN SOBRANJE 196
GEN. MICHAEL SAVOFF, BULGARIAN MINISTER OF WAR 198
HIS EXCELLENCY L. PAYACOFF, BULGARIAN MINISTER OF 200
FINANCE
SIR GEORGE BUCHANAN, BRITISH MINISTER AT SOFIA 200
MILITARY MANŒUVRES IN BULGARIA (TWO VIEWS) 204
PEASANTS AT VLADAJA, BULGARIA 208
BULGARIAN MILITARY TYPES 208
PEASANTS NEAR TIRNOVO, BULGARIA 210
TZIGANES ON THE ISKER ROAD 214
WHERE I SPENT A COMFORTLESS NIGHT IN BULGARIA 216
BULGARIAN LAUNDRESSES 216
THE ROSE-FIELDS NEAR KAZANLIK 220
GATHERING ROSES AT KAZANLIK 224
TESTING OTTO-OF-ROSE AT KAZANLIK 224
BULGARIAN PEASANTS DANCING THE “HORO” 226
SUMMIT OF THE SHIPKA PASS 228
DEFILE OF THE ISKER 228
HIS MAJESTY KING CHARLES OF ROUMANIA 234
SNAP-SHOTS IN BUCHAREST (TWO VIEWS) 236
THE ROYAL PALACE, BUCHAREST 240
BOULEVARD ELISABETA, BUCHAREST 240
HIS EXCELLENCY GEORGE CANTACUZEN, ROUMANIAN PRIME 244
MINISTER
HIS EXCELLENCY TAKE JONESCO, ROUMANIAN MINISTER OF 244
FINANCE
HIS EXCELLENCY GEO. G. MANU, ROUMANIAN MINISTER OF WAR 246
SIR CONYNGHAM GREENE, BRITISH MINISTER AT BUCHAREST 246
GEN. JACQUES LAHOVARY, ROUMANIAN MINISTER OF FOREIGN 248
AFFAIRS
HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN OF ROUMANIA 252
THE QUEEN OF ROUMANIA’S BLIND INSTITUTE AT BUCHAREST 256
BLIND INMATES AT WORK 260
HIS EXCELLENCY TEWFIK PASHA, MINISTER OF FOREIGN 264
AFFAIRS OF THE IMPERIAL OTTOMAN EMPIRE
HIS EXCELLENCY NOURY PASHA 274
THE ENTRANCE TO THE BOSPHORUS 280
IN CONSTANTINOPLE 280
LAKE OF OCHRIDA, MACEDONIA 285
LAKE OF PRESBA, MACEDONIA 285
MACEDONIAN WOMAN ABDUCTED BY TURKS FROM KLENE, NEAR 288
DEBR, AND RESCUED BY A BULGARIAN BAND
GENERAL TZONTCHEFF, THE BULGARIAN LEADER IN MACEDONIA 288
A BULGARIAN BAND IN MACEDONIA 292
GENERAL TZONTCHEFF IN MACEDONIA 304
THE TURKISH BURIAL-GROUND AT SCUTARI, ASIA MINOR 304
[Illustration:
THE NEAR EAST
_Stanford’s Geog^{l.} Estab^{t.}, London._
London: Eveleigh Nash.
]
MONTENEGRO
CHAPTER I
THE CITY IN THE SKY
Why I went to the Balkans—The road to Montenegro—Cettinje and its
petroleum tins—About the blood-feud—England and Montenegro—Warned
not to attempt to go to Albania—My guide a marked man—The story of
Tef—A woman’s fickleness, and its sequel.
I entered the Balkans by the back door. The luxuries of the Orient
Express had no attraction for me. I wanted to see the Balkans as they
really are, those great, wild, mountainous countries, so full of race
hatreds, of political bickerings, of fierce blood-feuds, of feverish
propagandas—those nations with their interesting monarchs and their many
mysteries.
The “Orient” runs direct from Paris to the Balkan capitals, it is true,
but if one goes to study a people the capital is not the only place in
which to discover the truth. One must go into the country, move among
the peasantry, hear their grievances and investigate their wrongs.
Therefore I decided to enter the East by Montenegro, and also visit the
wild and little-known regions of Northern Albania.
The comfortable voyage by the Austrian-Lloyd mail steamer _Graf
Wurmbrand_ from Trieste down the Adriatic, touching at Pola, the
Austrian naval station, Lussinpiccolo, Zara—famed for its
maraschino—Sebenico, Spalato, and Gravosa to Cattaro, has been already
described by many writers. Suffice it to say that it is perhaps one of
the most picturesque of pleasure-trips in the world, for every moment
one has a fresh panorama of mountain and blue sea, of green, fertile
islands with subtropical vegetation, and tiny white villages nestling at
the sea’s edge, as the steamer threads her way through the narrow and
often difficult channels.
At times the wild scenery, especially in the Bocche di Cattaro, reminds
the traveller of the Norwegian fiords, and at others the coast is an
almost exact reproduction of the French Riviera.
The object of my journey was, however, not in order to write a mere
description of men and places. There have been other travellers in the
Balkans who have related their story, therefore my mission was to make
careful inquiry into the present unsettled state of affairs, try and
discover the grievances of both sides, and endeavour to obtain from the
rulers and statesmen of the various nations their aspirations for the
future. This I succeeded in doing, for the various monarchs of the
Balkans graciously gave me audience; and from their Ministers, from the
middle classes, and from the peasants, I was enabled at last to form
some conclusion as to the real situation—political, economical, social,
and financial.
The writer who attempts to place the various Balkan questions
impartially and clearly before the public will at once find himself
utterly confused, and wallowing wildly in a morass of misstatement and
misrepresentation. The Balkans are torn by race hatreds, party strife,
and the intrigues of the Powers. The Turk hates the Bulgar, the Serb
hates the Austrian, the Roumanian hates the Greek, the Albanian hates
the Montenegrin, the Bosnian hates the Turk, while the Macedonian hates
everybody all round. What is told to one authoritatively one hour, is
flatly contradicted the next; therefore it is not in the least
surprising that in the European Press there have been so many
misstatements about the various Balkan questions, the real truth being
so very difficult to obtain.
[Illustration: Pero, my Montenegrin Driver.]
[Illustration: Albanians in Cettinje.]
I have, however, endeavoured to obtain it, and at risk of being
injudicious, to place before the reader the facts as they are, without
any political bias, or any seeking to gloss over the many glaring
defects of administration of which I have myself been witness.
To describe the beauties of the Bocche di Cattaro, that series of
winding channels where the high grey mountains rise sheer from the
water, would be only to traverse old ground. Suffice it to say that I
landed at Cattaro on a bright, sunny noon, and found upon the quay a
tall, lean mountaineer who had been sent to meet me.
To the traveller fresh from the West the Montenegrin costume of both
women and men is very attractive, but a few days in the Balkans soon
accustoms the eye to a perfect phantasmagoria of colour and of costume.
Pero was my driver’s name, and I noticed that around his waist was a
revolver belt, but minus the weapon. I inquired where it was, and with a
grin he informed me that Cattaro, being in Dalmatia, the Austrians would
not allow Montenegrins to bring arms into their country; so they were
compelled to leave them on the other side of the frontier, ten
kilometres distant.
My bags packed upon the three-horse travelling carriage and secured with
many strings, and Pero equipped with a plentiful stock of cigarettes, he
mounted upon the box, whipped up his long-tailed ponies, and we started
on our eight-hour ascent of that great wall of mountain that hides
Montenegro from the sea.
As we ascended through the little village of Skaljari we entered upon a
magnificent road, said to be one of the greatest engineering feats of
modern times, and steadily ascended, until at the striped
black-and-yellow Austrian boundary post we crossed the frontier, and
were in the “Land of the Black Mountain”—Montenegro. Across the road, at
an acute angle, a row of paving-stones marks the frontier, and soon
afterwards we found ourselves in the wildest and most desolate mountain
region. At a lonely roadside hut Pero obtained his big,
serviceable-looking revolver, and I, of course, wore mine in my belt;
for in Montenegro or Albania arms make the man. A man unarmed is looked
upon as an effeminate coward. Indeed, by order of Prince Nicholas every
Montenegrin must wear the national dress, both men and women, and every
man must carry his revolver when out of doors.
Four hours from Cattaro we were in a lonely mountain fastness, a wild,
desolate, treeless region of huge limestone rocks of peculiar volcanic
formation, which gave them the appearance of a boiling sea. The views
over the Adriatic as we turned back were so superb that, despite
photographing being strictly forbidden on account of the fortresses in
the vicinity, I could not resist the temptation to take one or two
surreptitiously. On, through a bleak, uninhabited country, we at last
reached the guard-house of Kerstac, and then half an hour later found
ourselves upon a plateau where, in the centre, stood the small clean
village of Nyegush, the ancestral home of the reigning family, and the
scene of most of the Montenegrin wars of independence. Here we halted
for half an hour at the post-house, and before we left, the big,
lumbering post-diligence, with its armed guard, came up behind us.
Before we moved off again it had grown dark, the moon shone, and for
four hours longer we alternately climbed and descended through that wild
region of silence and desolation, until at last we saw, deep below, the
lights of Cettinje, the little capital, and an hour later brought us to
the unpretending “Grand” Hotel.
Hardly had I entered my room when there came a loud knock at my door,
and a tall, scarlet-coated Montenegrin warrior, armed to the teeth,
entered and saluted. For a moment I looked up at him aghast, but the
mystery was solved when, next second, he handed me with great ceremony a
telegram from a dear friend in England wishing me Godspeed. I had taken
him to be, at least, one of the Prince’s bodyguard, and he was only a
plain telegraph messenger!
This was but one of many surprises in store for me in Montenegro. Next
morning I went out to look round the clean little capital, when, on
passing the Prince’s palace, I saw a number of soldiers drawn up, and as
I went by, the band suddenly struck up the British National Anthem! I
raised my hat, halted, and stood puzzled. Surely they were not honouring
me! Another moment, however, and I recognised the reason. In a carriage,
accompanied by the Grand Marechal of the Court, there drove up my friend
Mr. Charles des Graz, the newly-appointed British Chargé d’Affaires to
Montenegro, who was about to present his credentials to His Royal
Highness the Prince.
Montenegro is perhaps the most interesting country in all the Balkans.
Cettinje, a small, clean town of broad streets and one-storeyed,
whitewashed houses, is a little city in the sky, lying as it does in a
cup-shaped depression at the summit of a high, bare mountain. Its long,
straight, main street reminds one very much of a small country town in
England, if it were not that everyone is, by law, compelled to wear the
national dress, and every man has in his belt his big, long-barrelled
revolver, without which he must never go out of doors.
The men, sturdy mountaineers, are of fine physique—handsome fellows, all
of them. Their dress consists of dark blue baggy trousers, white woollen
gaiters, raw-hide shoes, a scarlet jacket heavily braided with gold, and
a small round cap, with black silk around the edge and the crown of the
same colour as the jacket, bearing the Prince’s initials in Servian
letters, “H.I.” The women, who are particularly good-looking, wear dark
skirts, beautifully hand-embroidered blouses, and a kind of long coat,
with open sleeves of soft, dove-grey cloth. Forbidden to wear European
hats, they are compelled to adopt an exactly similar cap to the men,
except that the crown is embroidered instead of bearing the royal
initials.
Nowhere have I seen such glorification of the male as in Montenegro. To
the men, born fighters as they are, work is undignified; therefore the
women toil while the opposite sex look on. I saw women employed in
building operations and performing work which, in other countries, is
left to day-labourers.
Cettinje is quaint in the extreme. The only houses of foreigners are the
various Legations, and the only foreigners are diplomats with their
wives and families. The first thing that strikes the stranger is the
number of petroleum tins. Opposite the hotel I saw a great ring of empty
tins, numbering some hundreds, ranged around a fountain. A few women
were squatting gossiping, and an armed policeman lounged against the
water-source. On inquiry, I found that there was a water famine, and the
tins had been placed there at dawn to await the moment when the
authorities thought fit to allow the people to get their daily supply.
The women had gone away to work, and would return later. The
Montenegrins a short time ago constructed a reservoir, but there was a
crack in it, so the water ran away. Hence the famine.
The petroleum tin is never out of sight for a single moment in Cettinje.
At any hour, and in any street, you see women and children carrying
them. They are used for everything, from milk-pails to flower-pots.
In Cettinje one comes for the first time up against the dark-faced,
scowling Albanian in his tightly fitting trousers of white wool striped
with black, his dirty white fez, and the swagger of superiority in his
gait. He is well armed, and for a good reason. The Montenegrin hates the
Albanian, because of the constant border feuds over at Podgoritza, where
blood is constantly spilt, and where I have seen a Montenegrin in the
market squatting over a basket of apples with a loaded rifle.
That morning I was chatting to a man in Montenegrin dress, of whom I had
bought some excellent cigarettes, manufactured by the Montenegro Tobacco
Monopoly—an Italian syndicate, by the way—and happened to mention that I
was on my way to Albania.
“Ah, gospodin!” he exclaimed, holding up both his hands, and glancing at
the revolver in my belt. “Take my advice. Don’t go into Albania or
Macedonia. You are not safe there from one moment to the other. For half
a word they’ll shoot you dead as easily as they drink a glass of wine.
No man’s life is worth a moment’s purchase there. I’m Albanian
myself—from Kroja—and I know.”
[Illustration: The Royal Palace: Cettinje.]
[Illustration: Principal Street of Cettinje.]
This was scarcely reassuring. I looked about me on every hand as I
strolled through Cettinje. All was so quiet, so orderly, so very
peaceful there, even though the big, burly mountaineers in the
gold-laced jackets eyed me with askance as I passed. Not without some
trepidation I took a number of photographs, for I had heard that, like
the Turk, the Montenegrin was averse to having his counterfeit
presentment put upon paper. Nevertheless, the first feeling of
insecurity having passed, I very soon found myself quite at home in
Cettinje, and in the midst of very good and kind friends.
A good many foreigners come up from Cattaro to pry about Cettinje for a
day or two, buy picture-postcards and antique arms, sneer at the honest
Montenegrin, and return into Dalmatia. Towards such, the Montenegrin is
not particularly polite. But those who go to Cettinje to seriously and
thoroughly study the people and their future will find a great deal of
genuine and charming hospitality.
My first day in Cettinje was lonely. Afterwards, until I left, I was
always with friends and officials, who took the greatest trouble to
answer my questions and explain matters.
Montenegro is entirely unlike any other country in the world. Its air of
antiquity is particularly pleasing, while on every hand the beneficent
rule of Prince Nicholas is apparent. Every man in Montenegro swears by
his Prince, whom he almost worships. They call him their “father,” and
if His Royal Highness raised the standard of war tomorrow, every man
would rise and fight to the death. The Prince is accessible to all his
people—more so to them, indeed, than to the diplomats. Sometimes, early
in the morning, he will sit in an arm-chair on the steps leading to the
entrance of his palace, and there hear the complaints or petitions of
his people. In this patriarchal way he often ministers justice. Last
year he granted Montenegro a Constitution, and there is now a Skupshtina
similar to that of Servia; but the people have not yet quite understood
that in future they must go to the Ministers, and not to their Prince.
They will see him, and nobody else.
In no country is loyalty and patriotism so strong as in Montenegro. The
army is well trained, and the whole country being one huge natural
fortress, a foreign enemy would experience enormous difficulty in
gaining entrance. In Cettinje, even a constant traveller like myself
meets with continual surprises. One day, while walking at the rear of
the Bigliardo, or old palace—so called because when built the first
billiard table was introduced—I heard the sound of clanking chains
behind me. At first I took no notice, but as it continued with regular
rhythm I glanced behind, when, to my amazement, I saw a convict in
leg-fetters with difficulty taking his afternoon stroll beneath the
trees! There were several others on the grass plot before the prison,
idling in the shadow or gossiping with their friends, who had come to
keep them company!
Inquiries showed that most of these prisoners were murderers, not for
robbery but for vendetta. In Montenegro the blood-feud is constant, and
life is held very cheap. It invariably commences by jealousy, and is of
everyday occurrence. Two lovers quarrel, and one is shot. Then the
blood-feud commences, and unlike in Italy or other Southern countries,
the vendetta is not only upon the murderer, but upon his next-of-kin.
Therefore, if the assassin escapes into Servia, Bosnia, or Turkey, as he
so often does, the brother of the dead man takes up the feud and kills
the assassin’s brother without parley when next he meets him. I myself
saw a man shot dead one night in Ryeka, at the head of the Lake of
Scutari, and the murderer walked coolly away undeterred. It was the
blood-feud, and no one took much notice.
“_S’bogom!_” (God be with you!) It is the expression you hear on every
hand in the Balkans. In the streets the peasants touch their round caps
in salute and exclaim, “_S’bogom!_” When you leave for a journey and
when you return, when you rise and when you go to rest; even if you go
for a short walk—it is the same. Life is so uncertain in those wild
regions that the protection of the Almighty is invoked upon you always,
and your revolver is ever ready in your belt.
In Cettinje I had a faithful guide and servant, a black-eyed, somewhat
sinister-looking Albanian, named Palok. He travelled with me through
Montenegro and Albania, and was most faithful and devoted. Besides
Albanian and Serb he spoke a little Italian, and possessed a keen sense
of humour.
One day, while we were travelling through the wild, bare mountain, a
perfect wilderness of huge boulders without a single tree or even blade
of grass, we halted for our midday meal, and while eating he told me of
a great friend of his who had recently been killed at Spuz for vendetta,
and he added, fondling the butt of his revolver, “I too, gospodin, shall
die before long.”
I looked at him in surprise. His usually humorous face had changed. It
was dark and thoughtful, and his black eyes were fixed upon me.
“Is there a blood-feud upon you, then?” I asked, in surprise.
“Yes,” he replied briefly; and though I endeavoured to persuade him to
tell the story, it was not until the following day that with some
reluctance he explained.
“A year ago my brother Tef, away in Scutari, fell in love with a
beautiful girl. He had a rival—a young Albanian, a coppersmith in
the bazaar. They quarrelled, but the girl—ah! she was very
beautiful—preferred Tef. Whereupon the rival one night took his
rifle and laid in wait for my brother in the main street of Scutari.
Early in the evening he left the house of the girl’s father, and as
he passed the fellow shot poor Tef dead.”
And he paused as his brow knit deeply, and his teeth were set tightly.
“Well?” I asked.
“Well, gospodin. What would you have done had your own brother died a
dog’s death? I took a rifle, and within a week the murderer was in his
grave. I shot him through the heart—and then I left Scutari.”
“And you are safe here, in Montenegro?”
“Safe! Oh dear, no,” he answered. “One day—it may be to-day—the fellow’s
brother will kill me. He must kill me. It is Fate—why worry about it? It
does one no good.”
And the marked man, the man doomed to die at a moment when he least
expects it, rolled a cigarette and lit it with perfect resignment.
“And are you not afraid to go with me back to Scutari?” I asked, amazed
at his fearlessness.
“Afraid, gospodin!” he exclaimed, looking at me in reproach as his hand
instinctively wandered to his weapon. “Afraid! No Albanian is afraid of
the blood-feud. I have killed the murderer, and his brother must kill
me. It is our law.” And the doomed man smiled gravely.
“And the girl?” I asked.
“Ah! They are all the same,” he answered, with a quick shrug of the
shoulders. “A month ago she married a tobacco-seller—a man old enough to
be her father. Poor Tef! If he could but know!”
“And the blood-feud still continues?”
“Of course—until I am dead.”
Then Palok smoked on in silence, entirely resigned to the fate that
awaits him. He knows that one day, as he walks along the road, the sharp
crack of a hidden rifle will sound, and he will fall to earth, another
victim of a woman’s fickleness.
_S’bogom!_—God be with you!
[Illustration: HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE NICHOLAS OF MONTENEGRO.]
CHAPTER II
AN AUDIENCE OF PRINCE NICHOLAS
The Palace at Cettinje—A cigarette with the Prince—The policy of
Montenegro—A confidential chat—His Royal Highness’s admiration for
England—His views upon Macedonia—He urges me not to attempt to go to
Albania, but I persuade him to help me—His Highness’s
kindness—Souvenirs.
“His Royal Highness the Prince will be pleased to grant you private
audience at four o’clock this afternoon, gospodin.”
The tall, burly aide-de-camp in the little round cap, high boots, pale
blue overcoat, and pistols in his belt, saluted, and we shook hands.
It was then three o’clock, and I was just about to go out to visit
Madame Constantinovitch, the mother of Princess Mirko. So I had to
return at once to my room and dress for the audience. The kings and
princes of the Balkans have a habit of summoning one at a moment’s
notice, and paying visits at unearthly hours.
Here, in Cettinje, in the heart of these wild, desolate fastnesses, one
seems so far removed from European influence, yet how great a part has
this rocky, impregnable country, with its fierce soldier-inhabitants,
played in the politics of Eastern Europe, and how great a part it is
still destined to play in the near future!
The fact that everybody is armed gives the stranger an uncanny feeling.
The man who brings one’s coffee wears a perfect arsenal of weapons in
his sash, and one quickly acquires the habit of carrying a revolver
one’s self. Indeed, if you are wise, you will carry a good serviceable
weapon from the moment you enter the Balkans to the moment you quit
them. But if you approach the Albanian frontier, you will be at once
warned not to fire without just cause. A few shots is sufficient to
alarm the whole neighbourhood for many miles, and on hearing the alarm
every man seizes his rifle and flies to the rendezvous, fully equipped
and eager for the fight with those Albanian border tribes, of whom I
afterwards had the good fortune to be the guest.
I had already had a long chat with Prince Danilo, the Crown Prince of
Montenegro, whom I found a very smart and highly educated man, fully
alive to the political difficulties of the neighbouring states and the
necessity of Montenegro preserving her independence. He held very strong
views upon the terrible state of affairs in Macedonia, and gave me many
interesting details about his own country.
Having met him, and also his younger brother, Prince Mirko, I was
particularly anxious to make the acquaintance of their father, Prince
Nicholas, the ruler of the sturdy, warlike dwellers of the “Land of the
Black Mountain”—the principal and most striking figure in this
remarkable country, where peace and war walk ever hand-in-hand.
Since 1860, when his uncle, Prince Danilo, was assassinated, he has
ruled justly, if somewhat sternly, and has succeeded in raising his
nation from a state of semi-civilisation to the high place it now
occupies in the Eastern world. In 1888 he gave the country a Civil and
Criminal Code, and last year he granted a Constitution. Indeed, he has
done all in his power to induce his warriors to follow the arts of peace
without forgetting those of war.
At the hour appointed, the royal aide-de-camp called in a carriage and
drove me to the Palace,—a long, dark brown building of somewhat plain
exterior, as befits the home of a fighting race,—where I was received in
the great hall by half a dozen bowing servants in scarlet and gold. Here
I was met by the chamberlain, who conducted me up the grand staircase
and into the great audience-chamber, with its many fine paintings and
highly polished floor. Then, after a moment, the Prince—a brilliant
figure—entered, shook me by the hand, and welcomed me to Montenegro.
These formalities ended, His Royal Highness said in Italian, “Come, let
us go into yonder room. We shall be able to talk there more
comfortably.” And he led me into a smaller chamber, where he gave me a
seat at the table where he sat.
The afternoon was gloomy, and dusk was creeping on, therefore upon the
table a great antique silver candelabra had been set, and by its light I
was enabled to obtain a good view of the ruler of Crnagora, the “Land of
the Black Mountain.”
Of magnificent physique, tall, muscular, with hair slightly grey, he
bore his sixty-five years lightly. Attired in the splendid national
costume of scarlet, blue, and gold, with high boots, he wore a single
decoration at his throat, the Cross of Danilo, of which Order he is
Master. Upon his handsome, well-cut features the candles shed a soft
light, causing the gold upon his dress to glitter, and I noticed, as I
asked him questions, how his dark, keen eyes shot quick, inquiring
glances of alertness.
After the first few minutes of regal formality His Highness’s manner
entirely changed. Putting ceremony aside, he produced his cigarette
case—of crocodile skin, with the royal crown and cipher in gold in the
corner—offered me a Montenegrin cigarette, took one himself, lit mine
with his own hand, and then we fell to chatting.
In the delightful hour and a half we smoked together I asked the
prince-poet many questions, and learnt many things. He explained several
difficult points in Balkan politics, which to me, an Englishman, had
always been puzzling. We spoke—in Italian—of Macedonia and of a certain
well-known foreign diplomat in London who was our mutual friend, the
Prince giving me a very kind message to deliver to him.
Presently I referred to the splendid result of his rule, and related to
him a little incident which had occurred to me in Nyegush a few days
before, as showing how deeply he was beloved by his nation. A smile
crossed his fine open countenance as he replied simply, “I have done my
best for my people—my very best; and I shall do so as long as God gives
me life. I am happy to believe that my people appreciate my efforts.”
“And now, Monseigneur,” I asked, “will you tell me what is the present
position of Montenegro?”
“The present position is peace,” was his prompt answer. “I have granted
a Constitution, and the first meeting of the new Skupshtina has been
held successfully. Though the Albanian question is always with us, I am
thankful to say we are on the most excellent terms with Turkey, while
towards Russia we are pursuing our traditional policy. For the Emperor
Francis Josef of Austria I have nothing but the most profound
admiration, and I owe very much to him.”
“And towards England, Monseigneur?”
“England has been, as you know, Montenegro’s very best friend,” replied
the Prince. “I, personally, have the greatest respect and admiration for
your great country. We Montenegrins always remember that it was Mr.
Gladstone who gave us the strip of seaboard on the Adriatic with
Dulcigno. He was our greatest friend, and his memory is respected by
every man in Montenegro. Of Tennyson, too, I am a great admirer. I am
very fond of his poems.”
“You are a poet yourself, Monseigneur,” I remarked, remembering that
more than one poetical drama from his pen had been successfully produced
on the stage.
His Royal Highness smiled, and puffed slowly at his cigarette.
“I have written one or two little things, it is true; but nothing of
late.”
“I wonder if I dare ask your Royal Highness to write a few lines for me
as a souvenir of my visit?” I asked, not without some trepidation.
“Ah!—well—I won’t promise,” he laughed. “All depends whether I’m in the
mood for it.”
“But you will try, won’t you?”
And the Prince nodded assent.
Then we spoke of Servia and of recent events there; but he was not
inclined to discuss the question, and naturally so, when it is
remembered that his daughter was the late wife of King Peter.
[Illustration: The Petroleum tins of Cettinje.]
[Illustration: The Monastery: Cettinje.]
Returning to the burning question of Macedonia, I saw that he was well
informed of all that was transpiring around lakes Presba and Ochrida and
down in Serres.
“It is a monstrous state of affairs,” he declared. “Something must be
done at once, for as soon as spring comes again the massacres will
increase.”
“But there are outrages, tortures, and massacres every day,” I remarked.
“Ah yes,” he sighed, “I know. Most terrible details have reached me
lately. But you are going to Macedonia yourself, and you will see with
your own eyes.”
“And what, in your opinion, would be the best settlement of the
question?” I inquired.
“There is but one way, namely, for the Powers to call a conference and
place Macedonia under a governor-general, who must be a European prince.
The reforms would then be carried out, and the Greek bands expelled from
the country. How long will Europe tolerate the present frightful state
of affairs?”
“The fact is, Monseigneur, that we, in England, are very ignorant of the
true state of things, or even of the facts of the Macedonian question,”
I said.
“Ah, there you are quite correct. If your English public knew what was
really happening—how an innocent Christian population is being
slaughtered and exterminated because of international rivalry—they would
cry shame upon those responsible for this wholesale murder and outrage.
But”—he smiled—“I almost forget myself. My position as a ruler forbids
me to talk politics, you know!”
And we laughed together.
“So you are going to Servia, Bulgaria, Roumania, and to
Constantinople—eh?” he remarked a little later, when we had lit fresh
cigarettes. “In Bulgaria, and also in Roumania, you will see many things
that will interest you. The Bulgarians are very strongly armed, and so
are the Roumanians.”
“Her Majesty the Queen of Roumania has also promised me audience,” I
said.
“When you see her, will you please present to Her Majesty my most
cordial respects. She is so very charming.”
“I want, Monseigneur, to visit Northern Albania, leaving Montenegro by
Ryeka and Scutari. Would that be the best route, do you think?”
“What!” he exclaimed, in surprise. “Do you actually contemplate visiting
the tribes up in the Accursed Mountains?”
“Certainly. Why not?”
“Well, my advice is, don’t think of going there. If you do, you will
never return. You’ll be shot at sight, like a dog. You have no idea what
those uncivilised tribes are like. The whole country is utterly
lawless.”
“So I understand. But I’ve also heard that the Albanian possesses a deep
sense of honour. And I thought that I might possibly obtain permission
from one or other of the chiefs.”
The Prince was silent for a moment. Then, looking at me across the
table, said—
“Do not go. It is far too great a risk.”
His advice was the same that my friends in London had given me; the same
that I had received there, in the marketplace of Cettinje.
But I was determined, and pressed His Royal Highness to assist me, at
last receiving his promise of help. By his kind permission, the Albanian
named Palok acted as my guide, and what eventually happened to me in
that wild region will be seen in the following pages.
“Well,” exclaimed the Prince at last,“if you go up there, it must be at
your own risk. I’ve warned you of the danger. No one has been up there
for many years. It has been attempted, of course, but travellers have
either been held to ransom, and the Turks have been compelled to pay for
their release, or else they have simply been shot by the first Albanian
meeting them. The country beyond Scutari is the most unsafe in the whole
Balkan Peninsula.”
[Illustration:
Mr. CHAS. DES GRAZ,
British Chargé d’Affaires at Cettinje.
]
[Illustration: The Piazza: Ragusa.]
I replied that I intended to make the attempt.
“Well, then, I wish you _buon viaggio_,” he laughed. “May every good
luck attend you, and—as we say in Montenegro—_S’bogom!_ (God be with
you!) When you return—for I suppose you will pass this way down to the
sea—come and see me, and tell me all about the Skreli and Kastrati
country—for of course I am highly interested. They are always at war
with our people on the frontier.”
“I will let your Royal Highness know the moment I am back in Cettinje,”
I promised.
Then rising, he gripped my hand warmly, saying—
“Then I will help you if I can. Be careful of yourself, for I shall be
anxious about you. Again, _S’bogom!_”
And the Prince accompanied me to the head of the grand staircase, where
I made my obeisance, turned and descended through the rows of armed and
bowing servants ranged in the hall, charmed by His Royal Highness’s
graciousness towards me and by the pleasant chat I had enjoyed.
When, after my journey through Northern Albania, I one afternoon
re-entered that audience-chamber, and he came forward with outstretched
hand to greet me, he exclaimed—
“Well, well! I am so glad to see you back safe and sound. You look a
little thinner in the face—a little travel-worn—eh? Life in the Albanian
mountains is not like your life in London or Paris, is it? But never
mind as long as you are safe,” he laughed, placing his hand kindly upon
my shoulder. “Come along to this room. It is more cosy,” and he led me
to the smaller apartment, his own private cabinet.
For nearly two hours I sat relating to him what occurred on my journey,
and describing the wild country which had, until then, been practically
a sealed book. Even though Cettinje is so near, hardly anything was
known of the Skreli, the Hoti, the Klementi, or the Kastrati tribes,
save that they were brigandish bands who constantly raided the
Montenegrin frontier.
The Prince listened to me with great attention, and put many questions
to me as we smoked together.
Then rising, he took from a drawer in his great writing-table a small
scarlet box, and as he opened it he bestowed upon me a compliment
undeserved, for he said—
“There are few men who would have risked what you have done. Therefore I
wish to invest you with our Order of Danilo, as a mark of my
appreciation and esteem.”
And he displayed to me the beautiful dark blue and white enamelled cross
of the Order, the same that he was wearing at his throat, surmounted by
the royal crown and suspended upon the white ribbon edged with cerise.
After he had invested me with the Order, saying many kind things to me,
which I really don’t think I deserved, he added—
“The _chef du chancellerie_ will send you the diploma in due course, and
I trust, when you petition your own gracious Sovereign King Edward, that
His Majesty will allow you to wear this insignia.”
I thanked His Royal Highness, gripped his hand, and a few minutes later
passed through the line of bowing servants out of the Palace.
And that same evening I received from His Royal Highness the signed
photograph which appears in these pages.
Before I left Cettinje I received the following expressive lines,
written especially for me by a Montenegrin poet who is a great
personage, but whose name he would not permit me to give. They are in
Servian as follows, and I have placed their English translation below:—
S’ veledušnog Albiona
Pružiše se dvije ruke
Crnoj Gori da pomogu
U junačke njene muke
S’ vrućom rječu na ustima
Gladston diže Crnogorce
A Tenison za najprve
U svijet ih broi borce
Na glas svoih Velikana
Britanski se narod trže
Da pomože da zaštiti
Crnu Goru iz najbrže
Posla svoje bojne ladje
Što na tečnost gospostvuju
Veledušno da zaštite
Domovinu milu Moju
O fala ti po sto puta
Blagorodni lyudi Soju
Dok je svjeta dok je greda
Nad Ulcinjem koje stoju
Hraniće ti blagodarnost
Ova šaka sokolova
Koima si u pomoci
Stiga putem od valova.
The literal translation in English is as follows:—
From the great-souled Albion,
Two arms were stretched
To help Montenegro
In her heroic sufferings.
With fiery word on his lips
Gladstone lifts up Montenegrins,
Whilst Tennyson declared them
The very first fighters in the world.
On the call of their great men,
British people rose up
In quickest manner, to help
And to protect Montenegro.
They despatched their war-ships,
Which rule over the seas,
Generously to protect
My Fatherland so dear to me.
Oh! thanks to thee, hundredfold thanks,
Noble race of men.
As long as the world lasts,
As long as the mountains above Dulcigno stand,
Will remain grateful to thee,
This handful of falcons,
To whose help thou didst come
By the road of the waves.
NORTHERN ALBANIA
CHAPTER I
INTO A SAVAGE REGION
Wildest Albania—Warnings not to attempt to travel there—I decide to go,
and take Palok—Prince Nicholas of Montenegro bids us farewell—On the
Lake of Scutari—Arrival at Skodra—Passports, rabble, and
backsheesh—Photographing the fortress in secret—Treading dangerous
ground—Albania the Unknown.
Before leaving London various insurance companies had flatly declined to
accept the risk of “accident,” because it was known that I intended
visiting Albania.
Indeed, no company in the City would insure me, and at Lloyd’s the
premium quoted was exorbitant. This was the reverse of reassuring.
Northern Albania I knew to be the wildest and most savage country in the
East, and the Accursed Mountains, which I wanted to visit, were held by
brigandish tribes, who shot the traveller at sight or held him to
ransom. So little is known about them that they had always held a
peculiar fascination for me.
I searched through the journals of the Royal Geographical Society for
many years past, but found little mention of Northern Albania, while of
books of actual travel in that region there were none. These facts had
decided me to accept the risks, whatever these might be, and go into
those wild, inaccessible mountains which bear the name of Accursed.
Everybody warned me of danger. Friends in England constantly urged me to
“take care of myself,” as though that were possible when in the midst of
a hostile tribe; and in fact there seemed to be a conspiracy on the part
of friends, strangers, and officials to prevent me penetrating the Land
of Mystery.
When I mentioned my intention in Cettinje, everyone, as I have already
said, held up their hands and raised their eyes. It was sheer madness,
they declared. Nobody’s life was worth a moment’s purchase outside the
town of Skodra—or Scutari, as it appears on our maps. Outside—beyond
Turkish control—well, I should not be allowed to travel a couple of
miles before I had a bullet through me from behind a rock at the
roadside.
Everybody had some weird or horrible story to tell about the savagery of
the Hoti, the Kastrati, the Skreli, and other savage tribes inhabiting
those high, misty mountains beyond the Montenegro border. The one or two
Albanians—tall, muscular fellows in white felt skullcap, tight white
woollen trousers heavily braided with black, and a kind of black bolero
with long fringe—whom I had seen in Montenegro were certainly a
sinister-looking, forbidding lot. But I had come to the Balkans to
investigate and to learn the truth; therefore the more I was urged not
to attempt to go into the mountains, the firmer was my determination to
do so.
His Royal Highness, Prince Nicholas himself, had at one of the audiences
he granted me seriously queried the advisability of undertaking the
journey. Almost daily on the Albanian frontier were raids into
Montenegrin territory, and the whole border was constantly terrorised by
the Albanian bands, who shot the Montenegrins wherever found. Indeed,
the market at Podgoritza, where men squatted with loaded rifles over
four or five fowls or a basket of apples, was sufficient to tell me the
truth; while the daily talk of that town was of fighting with the wild
race who live across the border. The Montenegrin hates the Albanian, and
has surely good cause to do so. Many a comely Montenegrin maiden—and
some of them are exceedingly beautiful—has been captured in those night
raids and carried across into Turkish territory, to be heard of no more.
And many, too, are the reprisals by the Montenegrins; mostly, however,
with serious losses to themselves.
[Illustration: Ryeka, Montenegro.125]
[Illustration: Zabliak, Montenegro.]
Palok, whom I had engaged as my guide, had, he said, been born in
Skodra, or, as we call it, Scutari, which causes it to be confounded
with the city on the Bosphorus. He also declared that he was well known
there, and the fact that he also spoke Italian caused me to accept his
services.
When I asked Fevzi Pasha, the Turkish Minister in Cettinje, for a
passport for Skodra, or “Scutari d’Albanie,” as it appears on the
_visa_, he granted it, but not without words of caution. “In Scutari you
will have nothing to fear,” he said. “I will give you a note to the
Governor of the town. But do not go into the country. If you do, you’ll
be shot like a dog.”
I thanked him, but had no intention of taking his well-meant advice.
At half-past three one dark morning I took Palok, and we drove out on
the road that wound high up across the great lonely mountains to the
little town of Ryeka, whence a small steamer plies down the Lake of
Scutari to Skodra. The drive was cold and weary, through a barren waste
of rocks, but the bright autumn sun was up ere we reached Ryeka, and
just as I boarded the big canoe with long, upturned, pointed prow, which
takes passengers and baggage down the sluggish stream to the boat at the
entrance to the lake, I saw, on the road above, a fine military figure
in pale blue, riding a splendid white charger and followed by an
officer.
In a moment every head was bared. It was Prince Nicholas, who was
staying at his palace at Ryeka, taking his morning ride.
He espied me, pulled up, and shouted down in Italian—
“Hulloa! Good-morning! Then you are off to Albania after all, eh?”
“Yes, Monseigneur,” I responded.
“Did you get my message last night?” he inquired, referring to a
confidential matter.
“Thank you, Monseigneur, yes.”
“Very well. Only be careful of yourself, you know, and when you get
back, come and tell me all about it.” And, laughing, His Royal Highness
waved his hand with a merry “Bon voyage!” and cantered away, while my
half a dozen fellow-travellers in gold-braided costumes regarded me in
wonder that their Prince should stop and converse with me—a perfect
stranger.
Down the silent river, between steep green hills we glided. Choked by
the tangle and rot of weeds, it was the haunt of thousands of waterfowl,
and, as we passed, the herons rose with a lazy flapping of wings,—a
stream that might well be haunted by the fairies, for the water was
unruffled and the silence deep and complete.
Boarding the little steamer, the _Nettuno_, lying at the mouth of the
river, we were soon out in the great green lake, with the high mountains
looming grey in the far distance. As we steamed due south, the barren
mountains of Montenegro were soon left behind. At Virpasar and Plavnitza
we picked up passengers, a fat Turkish peasant woman carrying two
baskets of fowls, and three young Montenegrins, fully armed with rifles
and revolvers. Because she was not yet in Turkey, the woman wore no
veil; yet in the evening, as soon as Skodra came in sight, she produced
her veil, and carefully adjusted it, laughing with me the whole time,
and wound it until only her bright dark eyes were visible.
From Virpasar an Italian company is now building a railway to the
Montenegrin port of Antivari, so that in a couple of years the lake will
be connected with the Adriatic, and form the much-needed trade route for
Montenegro. The Servians, indeed, are hoping also to use Antivari as
their Adriatic port, and thus be free of the excessive Customs dues and
other oppression placed upon them by Austria-Hungary. When in Belgrade,
M. Stoyanovitch, the Servian Minister of Commerce, explained to me the
several schemes for the construction of a railroad from Krushevatz, in
Servia, by way of Novi-Bazar, Ipek, Podgoritza, and Ryeka, to join the
Italian line at Virpasar, and so to the Adriatic or to San Giovanni di
Medua. Servia must secure a port, and this line, whenever made, will be
a most paying concern, for by its extension from Stalacs—on the main
Belgrade-Sofia line—to Orsova, it would receive most of the exports of
Southern Russia to Western Europe.
[Illustration: PALOK, my companion through the Skreli country.]
The mere handful of lake-side dwellings which now constitutes Virpasar
will, ere many years have passed, grow into an important trade centre,
and upon the great silent lake, surrounded by those high sheer mountains
where the eagle and the pelican are now the only signs of life, big
passenger and freight steamers will soon ply. The railway, which must be
built ere long, will quickly bring a civilising influence upon Northern
Albania; therefore, if one wishes to see it in all its wildness, it must
be seen to-day. In another decade the Albanian brigand—the real thing
out of the story-book—will be only a matter of history.
The calm, bright day was perfect. The surface of the great lake was like
a mirror, and the fringe of giant mountain constantly changed in
colour—grey, blue, purple, and rose—as the hours wore on, and the sun
sank westward in all the crimson glory of the death of the autumn day.
Now and then, with our rifles, we took pot-shots at the pelicans, but
with little result. A young Montenegrin killed one, and the huge bird
came down with a great splash into the water. At last, in the falling
twilight, we cast anchor at the head of the Boyana River, which empties
itself into the lake, and then, boarding another high-prowed canoe,
where a Turkish soldier sat over us with a loaded rifle, we were rowed
slowly up to the low line of ramshackle buildings, which was our first
sight of Skodra.
With our farewell to the _Nettuno_ we had said good-bye to civilisation,
as represented by sturdy Montenegro. We were in Albania, the wildest and
most turbulent country in the East.
We landed upon some slimy steps amid a perfect babel of shouts. Hundreds
of unwashed Turks and Albanians were awaiting us, all shouting in a
language of which I understood not one word. Every man, armed and of
ferocious aspect, seemed ready to make short work of both Palok and
myself. Indeed, so unpleasant is the landing at Skodra, that Palok
himself had already sent a message to a friend of his—a typical brigand
of the first water—to give the Customs officer a tip, and so make
pleasant our path through that dark, evil-smelling hole where the Turks
collect their dues. Palok’s friend, whom I only saw on that one
occasion, and whose name I could not ascertain, had managed to secure
from somewhere a mustard-coloured ramshackle fly, the upholstering of
which was in ribbons. The driver, in his white fez, with dirty white
baggy trousers and yellow tunic, came forward and saluted me with deep
obeisance, while I was explaining to the passport officer—a ragged,
consumptive youth—that my name was not “We, Sir Edward Grey.”
The chief of the Customs was a long, very thin, white-fezzed Turk with
large silver-mounted pistols in his belt, very tight white trousers, a
gold-embroidered jacket, and pointed slippers that turned up at the toes
in the most approved style. He was a real live Bey, so Palok told me,
but he was not averse to receiving tenpence as a tip. Later, when I left
Scutari (or Skodra) again, I gave him ten Austrian crowns, for I had in
my bag a couple of thousand cigarettes, which, by Turkish law, are
prohibited from leaving the country. His charge for winking at the
contravention is five crowns a thousand!
Turkish Custom Houses are weird places, and it is no wonder that the
British Ambassador at Constantinople is just now pressing for some
reform. Your belongings are not only thoroughly examined and heavily
assessed for Customs—if you won’t tip—when you enter Turkish territory,
but the same happens when you leave. Woe-betide those who dispense with
the services of a discreet dragoman and do not tip. All that you may
have bought in Turkey will be found liable to duty. Gold embroideries
will be weighed, and anything that has the Sultan’s monogram upon it—as
so many embroideries have—will be at once confiscated.
The man in the fez is grave and inexorable. His attitude is as though he
would scorn the offer of a bribe and throw you into prison for daring to
insult an official of His Imperial Majesty. Yet outside the Custom House
he keeps a crafty ragamuffin who is ready to accept a four-franc piece
on his behalf, and for that he will pass a thousand pounds’ worth of
goods with only a pretence of search! The Custom House at Galata on the
Bosphorus is a case in point. There are five officials there who share
the spoils from the traveller.
Yes, the land of the Crescent is indeed a quaint country. The corruption
of Turkish Customs officials is no doubt due to the frequent non-payment
of their stipends. They must live, and do so by accepting bribes. I
afterwards spoke to certain high government officials at Constantinople
about it, and they admitted that they knew bribery existed extensively,
but at present were utterly unable to suppress it.
Over the ramshackle Custom House, a dark hole without a window, frowns a
shattered fortress containing one or two antiquated guns, a photograph
of which I afterwards obtained surreptitiously, and which appears in
these pages. Had I been discovered, I might have spent an unpleasant
year or so in a Turkish prison. But even that offence, so heinous in
Germany, France, or Austria, I suppose I could easily have expiated with
a few piastres of backsheesh. In Turkey you can do anything—if you are
prepared to pay.
Upon that filthy crowd around the Custom House at Skodra, upon those
crumbling buildings, upon that old white fortress, upon the tower of
Skodra itself, a mile away, the centuries of progress have made no
impression. Here is the country of a mediæval people, the life of an age
long ago past and forgotten.
While our fellow-travellers were squabbling, arguing, shouting, and
cursing the wild, dirty mob who now filled the Custom House, we, with
our baggage—canvas bags, specially made to sling on mules for mountain
travelling—ascended into the mustard-coloured conveyance and were driven
along a country lane, very English in its appearance, with bramble
hedgerows and ditches; yet the high, thin minaret of a mosque before us,
and the carefully latticed windows of a house, preventing the women-folk
from being seen from the roadway, and giving the place an air of
mystery, showed us to be in the land of His Majesty the Sultan—in
Albania the Unknown.
CHAPTER II
WHERE LIFE IS CHEAP
Fired at in the street of Skodra—My comfortless inn—Panorama of
life—Armed bands of wild mountaineers in the streets—The Sign of the
Cross—Scutarine people—The fascination of Skodra—In the den of my
friend Salko—Making purchases—Short shrift with swindlers—Some
genuine antiques—Ragged and shoeless soldiers of the Sultan—Men shot
in the blood-feud—“It is nothing!”
I had not been in Skodra half an hour before a man fired at me with his
revolver.
It was my welcome to Albania, and I confess that I drew my own weapon
from my belt, prepared to defend myself.
I had arrived at the _han_, or inn, a poor place dignified by the name
of Hôtel de l’Europe, washed, and descended to the street, when, on
emerging from the doorway, somebody fired his pistol right in my face.
The flash startled me, and in an instant I was on my guard with my back
to the wall. In that brief second all that I had heard of the insecurity
of Albania flashed back.
My assailant—a tall, ragged-looking, middle-aged Turk in a scarlet
fez—laughed in my face and uttered some words that I did not understand.
He saw my weapon shining in the dim light, and pushed it away with a
laugh. His manner struck me as friendly, so I dropped my arm; whereupon
another man, in passing, also fired, then another and another, until,
ten seconds later, everybody in the street was firing indiscriminately,
and bullets were flying in all directions.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: In Skodra.]
I held my breath. Had the place actually revolted against the Turk just
at the moment of my arrival? If so, I was in luck’s way. I knew that the
Albanian hated the Turk, for Palok had told me that the revolution was
only a question of time, and that one day his people would drive them
out of Skodra. The place was once Servian, and captured by the Turks in
1479. Yet the Albanian still looks upon the Turk as a miserable
intruder, and intends one day, ere long, to drive him out.
Around me, on every hand, pistols were being fired, the flashes showing
red in the night, and I stood breathless, wondering what was happening.
The man who had fired in my face was grinning at my alarm, when Palok
dashed out to me.
“Signore! Signore!” he cried, in Italian. “It is nothing! Don’t be
alarmed. It is only the vigil of the fast of Ramadan. It is our way of
celebrating it!”
By that time every man in the whole town was firing off his revolver.
The din was deafening.
“Very well,” I laughed. “Then I’ll celebrate it too,” and, raising my
arm, I also emptied my weapon in the air.
The grinning Turk who had first fired and alarmed me saluted me by
touching chin and forehead, and then we laughed together. It was
certainly fortunate for him and for myself that I had not let fly, but
he did not seem to heed at all the danger of firing suddenly upon a
foreigner ignorant of what was about to happen.
The _han_, with the dignified name of “hotel,” was certainly an
uncomfortable place. Cold roast pork, a trifle “high,” was all I could
get to eat, and this was washed down by a light red vinegar, which was
probably at one time wine. For five days running I had that very same
pork served twice a day, until I sent Palok into the bazaar to buy me
other supplies. A narrow camp bed, an iron washstand with tin fittings,
a pail and a deal table, comprised my furniture, the best accommodation
that Skodra could afford.
Yet the town is perhaps one of the most interesting in all the Balkans,
and its people the most strangely mixed and wearing a greater variety of
Eastern costume than even in Constantinople itself.
The bazaar, down by the river, is full of quaint types and most
interesting. Its uneven pavement is quite as unclean and slippery with
the dirt of ages as are the streets of Constantinople, but its dark
little sheds are filled by workers, silver and copper smiths,
embroiderers, armourers, weavers, jewellers—in fact, one sees every
trade being carried on in the same primitive way and with the same tools
as in the Middle Ages.
Skodra is not a town of progress, for there telephone or electric light
is forbidden; machinery of every kind is against the law, and neither
newspapers nor books are allowed to enter Albania. Therefore in those
crooked streets of the bazaar the traveller is back in mediæval days,
and the town of to-day is just as Florence was in the days of Boccaccio
or Dante. Like the mediæval Florentines, many of the men from the
mountains shave their heads, leaving a tuft of bushy hair at the back,
which is cut square at the neck. With their tight-fitting
black-and-white striped trousers, black woollen boleros, their belts
filled with cartridges, and a rifle over their shoulders, they are a
fine, manly race, with swaggering gait, clean-cut features—mostly
Catholics, who spit openly at the lean, ragged, ill-fed soldiers of the
Sultan.
They come down from the mountains in armed bands, and walk through the
town, a dozen or so together, in complete defiance of the Turk. With men
upon whose heads a price has been set—known brigands or murderers,
indeed—I have chatted and drunk coffee in the bazaar, all wild fellows
who know no law except their own, and who do not acknowledge the Turk as
their ruler. When I inquired of Palok the reason of their immunity from
arrest, he replied—
“Why, signore, if the Turks captured one of these, the whole of Northern
Albania would rise as one man. The tribes would sweep down from the
mountains and sack and burn Skodra within twenty-four hours. Life in
this town is very uncertain, I can tell you. One never knows when the
rising will take place. All is ripe for it, and when it comes, then
woe-betide the Turk and all the Moslems. Have you not noticed the Sign
of the Cross over the doors of the Christians? Is that not significant?”
The Albanian tribesmen are mostly Catholics, together with some
Orthodox; yet they combine religion strangely with war. They go to the
Catholic Cathedral in Skodra with loaded rifles, which they place before
them as they kneel and pray, and before murdering their enemy they will
go and ask Providence to assist them.
The town Christian of Skodra is, for the most part, a very excellent
fellow. Palok, whom I found was well known, introduced me to many of
them, and in that wild land I received very many charming kindnesses
from perfect strangers.
The costume of the Scutarine men is distinctly quaint and curious. A
short dark red jacket, the front and sleeves of which are so completely
braided with narrow black braid as to almost hide the foundation, and
edged with dozens of oblong brass buttons; a pair of wide, dark blue
baggy breeches reaching to the knee; a round flat fez with a huge blue
silk tassel that falls about the shoulders; a bright, striped silk sash;
their legs in white cotton stockings and feet in patent leather
dress-shoes. Such is the dress of the average Christian one meets in
Skodra.
The attire of the women is even more extraordinary. They veil, just as
do the Mohammedan women, and only uncover their faces when they go to
church. For the most part they are beautiful when young, with clear,
delicate complexions, handsome features, and dancing black eyes; but
after seventeen appear to soon lose their beauty and become prematurely
wrinkled and old. The outdoor dress is generally made of the same dark
red cloth as the men’s jackets, so completely embroidered as to appear
black. Indeed no Scutarine, either man or woman, goes out in a dress
unless it is covered with embroidery. In every street you will see a
dozen men squatting cross-legged in a little dark shop, busily plying
the needle upon the narrow black braid, and applying tiny pieces of
green cloth among the braid as additional ornament. Often the braiding
is a marvel of needlework and design, and some of the outdoor costumes
of the women, though exceedingly ugly, are ornamented in such a manner
as to amaze the Western eye.
Female outdoor attire is, of course, of the divided skirt order,
trousers of thick braided cloth so clumsy that the wearer can only walk
with difficulty, a long cape, richly embroidered on the shoulders and
reaching to the hips, with a square kind of sailor collar that is raised
and pinned to the crown of the head. From the bridge of the nose to the
knee falls the white veil, like the Moslem women, while from the sash
are pinned gaily coloured silk handkerchiefs, which, appearing below the
cape, lend additional colour to the most unwieldy and ugly of all the
dresses of the East. The wearer cannot walk, but can only waddle with
difficulty.
The streets of Skodra are, however, a perfect panorama of costume. In
the dark entries the shuffling Mohammedan women, white-clothed from head
to foot and veiled, look ghostly and mysterious; the Mohammedan
unmarried girls with the striped red-and-white veil wrapped about them;
Albanians from the south in short, stiff cotton skirts like exaggerated
kilts; Turks in greasy frock-coats and discoloured fezes, strolling
slowly, fingering their beads to pass the time through Ramadan; fierce
tribesmen from the mountains in all sorts of different costumes, fully
armed and ready to shoot in an instant at discovering an enemy even
there in the crowded bazaar; unveiled country women in short, coarse,
black homespun skirts, wearing great iron-studded belts and savage
ornaments in brass, copper, and gold; giggling girls from the mountains
four or five days distant, dressed in their gorgeous gala dresses,
laughing as they bargain with the voluble keepers of the tiny shops in
the bazaar.
Skodra fascinates one. There is no European influence here: not a soul
is in European dress. It is the unchanging East—the same life that has
existed here for centuries. The Turks are, however, fanatics, and Palok
will not allow me to smoke a cigarette in the street in the daytime, for
in the fast of Ramadan the Mohammedans abstain from all food, drink, and
tobacco from four in the morning till the gun fires on the fortress at
sunset.
Upon Palok’s advice I even wore a fez, so as not to be too conspicuous.
When I asked the reason, he simply grinned, shrugged his shoulders, and
said—
“The signore believes Skodra to be a safe place. But it is not always
so. Why run unnecessary risk? And a fez is very comfortable.”
So after buying a fez, I took it to the ironer, a white-bearded old
Turk, who pressed it and shrunk it and combed out its tassel with great
ceremony, and then I assumed the distinctive mark of the Sultan’s
subjects, evidently to the great relief of the faithful Palok.
On our first visit to the bazaar Palok discovered a friend. He was a
very tall, thin-legged Albanian, in a white fez, a white woollen bolero,
and the usual black-and-white woollen trousers and turned-up shoes of
raw-hide and interlaced string. In one of the narrow, tortuous ways of
the bazaar, on a kind of platform before a small ramshackle booth, where
rope and twine were displayed, he was squatting cross-legged, staring
into space and awaiting customers.
Suddenly espying Palok, he seized his slippers, which stood near him,
and sprang out upon the filthy pavement. Next second the pair were
clasped in embrace, and after many mutual words of warm welcome in
Albanian, I was introduced.
The seller of string looked me up and down critically until his eye
caught my revolver in my belt, and then, apparently satisfied with my
appearance, he touched his chin and brow in salutation.
We ascended to the little platform, and a box was brought for me to sit
upon. A shout into the narrow alley brought me a cup of Turkish coffee.
“This is my friend, Salko,” Palok explained, in Italian, after the pair
had been apparently discussing me. “_Mio buon amico._ One of the best
men in the bazaar. For eight years we have been parted, and how pleased
I am to see him again.”
Salko interrupted, whereupon Palok said—
“My friend apologises, signore, that he cannot take coffee with you, or
offer you a cigarette. It is Ramadan, you know.”
I offered Salko my case, and, taking a cigarette, he placed it aside
until after sunset, touching his chin and brow and laughing merrily.
I wanted to buy several things in the bazaar—a piece or two of old
silver, if I could find it—and some antique embroideries which Palok had
told me I could find. He told Salko this, whereupon he shouted outside
to a passer-by, and in a moment the news was all over the bazaar, and
all sorts and conditions of men appeared with various things for sale:
beautiful silver-mounted and gem-studded pistols and swords, old silver
ornaments, embroideries of the sixteenth century, genuine antiques of
all sorts, old jewellery—in fact, in a quarter of an hour Salko’s little
shed-like shop presented the appearance of that of an antique dealer.
Two gorgeous Turkish ladies’ costumes attracted me. The trousers were of
silk, and interwoven with real gold and silver thread; the boleros of
rich crimson velvet, wonderfully embroidered with gold; the sashes gay;
and the little fezes, with golden sequins, smart and coquettish. They
were the real thing, and could be worn at a fancy-dress ball in England
with certain success.
I liked them, for they were the genuine thing. Dresses such as they were
are not made nowadays. Turkish ladies of to-day prefer the lighter
stuffs of the Franks, silks from Paris, and figured gauzes from Germany.
Those dresses had once graced the harem of some great Pasha—perhaps,
indeed, that of the Sultan himself. So I allowed Salko to bargain for
them.
I watched, and was amused.
The man who had them to sell apparently asked a price that was
exorbitant, whereupon my friend, with a wave of his hand, ordered him to
pack them back in the bundle.
High words followed, and I expected every moment the pair would come to
blows. The vendor was a round, fat-faced eunuch, with an ugly scar
across his brown cheek. And while the controversy was in progress, the
others who had wares to offer squatted about and advised each side as to
how much the costumes were really worth. Then at last both sides got at
loggerheads, hard words were used and insulting gestures; fists were
shaken, and angry scowls exchanged, until I momentarily expected that
there would be a free fight and bloodshed.
[Illustration: My friend Salko outside his house in Skodra.]
[Illustration: Pietro’s sister-in-law unveiled before the Camera.]
One man I noticed who had not spoken was fingering the hilt of his
knife, as though itching to join in the fray.
“I’m going out of this,” I told Palok, whereupon he only laughed.
“There’s really nothing to fear, signore. It is always so. They ask
double, and Salko is teaching the fellow manners. You are a foreigner,
and you don’t understand.”
I admitted that I did not.
The argument continued, and in the end the fat-faced eunuch was bundled
out by Salko into the dirty alley and his goods thrown after him.
Nobody smiled. Such treatment seemed usual, and on the following day I
bought the dresses.
The next was a little old Turk with a long white beard, who had an old
silver ornament for sale, one of those triangular boxes which women wear
round their necks containing scraps of the Koran, supposed to protect
them from the influence of the Evil Eye.
Though he came meek and humble, Salko glared at him. No. The Englishman
was his guest, and he would see that only what was just was paid. He
took the ornament from me, and weighing it in his hand, judged its
worth. Two other men agreed, and the old man, without being consulted,
was handed the money and told to be gone.
Assuredly business methods are quaint in the town we Europeans call
Scutari.
Another after another—shopkeepers, all of them in the same category as
Salko himself—was interviewed. Those who offered rubbish were promptly
ordered out. And so, before me, seated upon my box, was unfolded the
treasures of the bazaar.
And assuredly some of the curios offered were fit to grace any museum.
Seldom does a foreigner visit Skodra, therefore it still contains many
real antiques; and there being no sale for them, prices are not
exorbitant. It is, indeed, one of the few places left where one can
obtain anything worth having.
A long, lean Christian, in his flat round fez and enormous tassel,
offered me nine early Greek gold coins that had only a week before been
discovered in a tomb. I doubted the tomb part of the story, but I was
afterwards shown it half a mile away, and could also have bought the
actual vase in which they had been found. I am not a collector of coins,
so I declined them. One day, however, those coins will, no doubt, find
their way into one of our European national collections, for they were
so perfect that they looked as though just fresh from the matrix.
I was turning over in my hand a number of antique gem rings, when of a
sudden, just outside, not a dozen yards from where I sat, there was a
loud shout, followed by a pistol-shot. Then more shouting, and a little
crowd gathered. In alarm I sprang to my feet, and I saw outside a
mountaineer, in white felt skullcap, lying in a pool of blood with part
of his face blown away.
A man in black-and-white trousers stalked past, flourishing his big
pistol and threatening to shoot anybody who dared to stop him. He was
the assassin.
“It is nothing, signore,” Palok declared, reseating himself. “Only the
blood-feud. The men were _in sangue_, and have met. In such cases one
must always die. The man who shoots first gets the best of it,” and he
grinned.
For fully five minutes the man lay in the filthy gutter without a hand
being placed upon him to see if life were extinct. Then it occurred to
somebody to see. He was pronounced dead, and a couple of men carried
away the corpse. No police or guard put in an appearance, and the life
of the bazaar went on as though nothing unusual had happened.
But nothing unusual had happened. Such assassinations occur every day,
and nobody takes any heed of them. The blood-feud is part of the
Albanian creed, both Mohammedan and Christian.
It is not, however, pleasant to have a man shot dead before one’s eyes,
nor does it tend to inspire confidence in one’s own personal safety.
This was my first experience of the murderous instinct of the wild
Albanian, but ere three days I had still other opportunities of
reflecting upon Palok’s remark that Skodra was not so safe a place as it
looked.
Indeed, the town itself is, at intervals, threatened with massacre.
Every now and then rumours fly round that the mountain tribes are about
to descend upon the place and drive out the Turks. Then everybody
retires to their houses—each residence has high walls, and is more or
less a fortress—the bazaar is closed, the shops are barricaded, and the
ragged soldiers of the Sultan assemble under their greasy-tunicked
officers—and wait.
The blow for liberty has not yet been struck by the Albanians, but it
will assuredly come ere long.
I wanted to investigate, and get at the truth. That is the reason why
those high, blue, misty mountains that I could see afar from the narrow,
crooked streets of Skodra held me in such fascination; that is why I
disregarded all advice to the contrary, and determined to visit the
Albanian at home in his rocky fastness.
That same night, after Salko had bargained for me, I was eating my
evening meal—of pork—when another shot sounded out in the dark, unlit
street.
It was nothing, I was told by Palok five minutes later. A man had been
found dead in the darkness. That was all.
The average number of assassinations in Scutari is about three per day.
Nobody cares, for justice is nobody’s business except that of the dead
man’s brother, or his next-of-kin.
True, there is an Imperial Court of Justice, a lath-built shed with
gaping holes in the roof. Its steps are moss-grown, and its windows
mostly broken or devoid of glass.
Outside the place, after midday, the brave defenders of the Ottoman
Empire, those shoeless men with their ragged uniforms dropping off them,
sell their ration of bread to the passer-by in order to get money to buy
cigarettes. They remain unpaid, and their bread is their only source of
income. And upon the protection of these Skodra has to rely.
Is it any wonder that when sinister rumour runs through the bazaar,
everybody shoulders his rifle and sits on his wall, prepared to defend
his own home?
CHAPTER III
THE LAWLESS LAND
My friend Pietro—Visit to his house—His wife and sister-in-law unveil
and are photographed—Scutarine hospitality—Forbidden newspapers—I
get one in secret—The Turkish post office—I want to visit the
Accursed Mountains—Difficulties and fears—The Feast of the
Madonna—Christians and Mohammedans—My first meeting with the dreaded
Skreli—Shots in the night.
Those bright, sunny autumn days in Skodra will live for a long time
within my memory.
Though a stranger in that half-savage place, where law and order are
unknown, I received perhaps more genuine hospitality from perfect
strangers than in any other place in the Balkan Peninsula.
Through Palok’s introduction I quickly found myself among friends, who
exerted their utmost in order to entertain me, and went out of their
way, even in face of their own national customs and beliefs, to oblige
me. The Albanian idea of hospitality is old-world and charming. A case
in point was one of my friends, a wealthy Scutarine merchant named
Pietro Lekha, whose portrait is here reproduced. He was a Christian, and
spoke a little Italian. At first, when I was introduced to him in the
bazaar, he was silent and taciturn, apparently regarding me with some
suspicion; but very soon this wore off, and we became the best of
friends. We took coffee together constantly, and he gave me exquisite
cigarettes. In Albania there is no _régie_, as in other parts of Turkey,
therefore one can choose from the peasant-women the very best light
tobacco in leaf, have it cut, and afterwards employ professional
cigarette-makers to manufacture you cigarettes. I did this, and sent a
quantity of cigarettes of the very first quality to England, far milder
and sweeter than any to be purchased in Constantinople—or anywhere else
in the world, for the matter of that.
[Illustration: ROK, tribesman of the Skreli.]
[Illustration: PIETRO LEKHA.]
Finding that I was taking photographs, Pietro became interested. He
accompanied me on my expeditions, and we had spent some days together
before I dared to inquire about his wife, the veiled lady whom I had
once had pointed out to me in the bazaar.
Palok had told me that Pietro’s brother had, three months ago, married
the most beautiful girl in Skodra, and that he and his young wife lived
at Pietro’s house. A bold thing then occurred to me—to beg permission to
photograph them.
I knew well that these people were averse to having their photographs
taken; nevertheless I very discreetly broached the subject one day when
sipping coffee with Pietro.
He gave me no decided answer. Indeed, he declared himself ready in any
way to serve me, but as to photographing his women-kind—well, it was
against all custom. What would his friends say if they knew?
I dropped the subject, rather crestfallen. I wanted to be invited to his
house and to meet his wife and sister-in-law, both of whom were declared
to be very beautiful. Yet he seemed in no way inclined to so far extend
his hospitality. I spoke to Palok and urged him to use his power of
persuasion, with the result that two days later I received an invitation
from Pietro to call upon him at his house at three o’clock to take
coffee, and further, he added—
“If you really wish to bring your camera, you may. I have spoken to my
brother, and he will let you take a picture of his wife, providing you
give your undertaking not to make any copies for sale, or to show it
here to people in Skodra.”
I willingly gave the undertaking, and at the appointed hour, accompanied
by Palok, we rang at the big gate in a high white, prison-like wall that
enclosed my friend’s dwelling, and were admitted into the garden, in the
centre of which stood a great square house.
Pietro came forward to greet me, a picturesque figure in his Scutarine
dress, the flat fez with big tassel, the embroidered coat, baggy
trousers, and white stockings. The ground floor was devoted to stables,
but above we found ourselves in a large square apartment with divans.
Upon the floor were beautiful Eastern rugs. On one side was the big,
gaudily painted dowry-chest, and here and there small low tables. The
room, with its heavy hangings, was very cosy, and over everything was
the sweet odour of otto-of-rose. In one corner was a great brass
brazier, and upon a chiffonier were a few European knick-knacks,
evidently household treasures. The only picture on the wall was a small
oleograph of the Madonna.
A rush-bottomed chair was produced for me, while Pietro and Palok
squatted cross-legged upon the divans. Then the servant was sent to
inform the ladies of our arrival.
Presently both wife and sister-in-law entered, gorgeous in silk and
gold, the most striking costumes I have ever seen off the stage. White
gauze veils were wrapped about their heads and corsage, leaving only
their eyes visible; and thus attired they saluted me and, with Pietro
acting as interpreter, welcomed me.
Afterwards they retired, and at Pietro’s order reappeared without their
veils. The younger woman was indeed lovely, with a fair white skin,
beautiful soft lines of beauty, magnificent black eyes, and lips that
puckered into a sweet, modest smile when I involuntarily expressed my
surprise at her marvellous good looks. I had heard that Albanian ladies
were beautiful, but I certainly never expected to be presented to such a
type of feminine loveliness.
Over her bare chest hung strings of great gold coins, while across her
brow were rows of sequins. Her richly embroidered dress, the jewels in
her ears, the bangles upon her arms, all enhanced her great personal
beauty, while she stood before me, her face downcast in modesty—for
except her husband and his brother no man had ever beheld her unveiled.
At that moment her husband entered, and I congratulated him upon the
possession of such a beautiful wife. Then we all laughed together, and
descended to the garden, where I was allowed to take photographs of her,
veiled and unveiled, as well as of Pietro’s wife, who was, of course,
much her senior, and who, although she had lost her youthful beauty, was
still very charming.
Returning again to the upstairs salon, we all sat round, while the
newly-married beauty brought us first lemonade, then delicious Turkish
coffee in tiny round cups upon a great gilt tray, followed by _rakhi_,
that spirit so dear to the Turkish palate, and afterwards real
_rahat-lakoum_, or Turkish delight.
Then, after an interval, veiled again once more, the beautiful young
woman brought me a cigarette and lit it for me, afterwards wishing me
adieu and modestly retiring.
All was done with such perfect grace and modesty as to create a most
charming experience. It was, to say the least, novel, to sit there with
those squatting Albanians and be waited upon by the prettiest girl in
Skodra.
Pietro told me that newspapers and books being forbidden, anyone found
in possession of them was at once arrested. He, however, gave me
surreptitiously a copy of the Rome _Tribuna_, which had been smuggled in
a day or two before; and it was welcome, being the first newspaper I had
had for several weeks.
Truly Skodra is a strange place. I had occasion to go to the Turkish
post office one day. It was, I found, a wooden shed. Inside was a low,
filthy truckle bed, a small table—at which sat a consumptive youth in a
fez—a broken chair and a large iron safe, the door being secured by a
piece of string being tied about it!
Of drainage there is none. Sewage runs down the centre of most of the
streets, especially in the bazaar, and its odour is the reverse of
pleasant on a sunny day. In the neighbourhood of butchers and
slaughterers the gutters run with blood, which the dogs lap and enjoy,
and near the stalls of fruiterers and vegetable-sellers the piles of
refuse rot in the sun and decay.
Yet everywhere, both in the streets of the Mohammedan quarter and in
those of the Christians, are interesting sights at every turn. When
night falls the place is dark and mysterious, for there are no lights
save that issuing from the chinks of a door or from the windows of a
barber or a coffee-seller. Through the windows of a mosque, perhaps, can
be seen the swaying figures of Turks at prayer, faint in the dim oil
lights, while in the blackness of the street the patrol passes, a dozen
Turkish soldiers with loaded rifles, headed by one man carrying a
lantern. The place is insecure after nightfall, even to the Scutarines
themselves, therefore nobody ventures out, and by nine o’clock every
house is bolted and barred.
At that hour, it being Ramadan, the Turk was feasting and taking his
ease, while opposite the _han_ where I lived a Turkish soldier would
come nightly and sing weird prayers under the window of the Governor of
the _vilayet_, that perfectly useless official, whose authority extends
only to the confines of the town itself, and who fears to exercise it
lest he should rouse the slumbering ire of those fierce tribes who live
in the Accursed Mountains above.
Many strange sights I witnessed and many strange things I heard in
Skodra.
Men, fierce mountaineers who, in some cases, bore across their
countenances marks of sword or gun-shot wounds, told me their
stories—exciting narratives of love, war, and the blood-feud. All were
Albanians, and believed Skodra to be the finest capital in the world.
England, because it carried on no political intrigue among them, like
Austria and Italy, they did not regard as a Power. Mine was a country
far away, I was told, and therefore perfectly harmless. Hardly anybody
had heard of London. Those who had, declared that it could not be so
large or so beautiful as Skodra.
The days I spent there were with the one object of obtaining, by some
means, permission from one or other of the mountain chieftains to allow
me to travel in the country.
Palok had promised to endeavour to arrange it for me, and so had Pietro,
but by their manner I saw that they considered any such attempt a piece
of sheer folly, and far too hazardous. They were too polite to tell me
so, but I read in their faces that they did not intend me to go, if it
were possible to prevent me.
Therefore surreptitiously I had recourse to my faithful friend of the
bazaar, Salko, himself a member of the fierce tribe of the Skreli, who
had more than once terrorised the town. When, through an interpreter, I
one evening explained my desire, he rubbed his chin doubtfully and
wagged his head. He would do his best, but it was dangerous—very
dangerous, he declared.
And yet, he went on, the thing might perhaps be managed. An Albanian of
the mountains, though he might be a brigand and annoyed the Turks, and
though he might shoot Turkish soldiers like dogs wherever met, was
nevertheless a man of his word. If I was promised safe escort, then I
might go into the mountains without even my revolver, for no harm would
come to me.
Yes; he would promise to see what he could do. But it was difficult, and
it would take time. In the mountains they had no great love of
foreigners.
To the coming Feast of the Madonna many men from the mountains would
arrive, and there would be opportunity to speak with them. No; he would
say nothing to Palok—if I so wished. Therefore I waited, and hoped.
Now the celebrated Madonna of Loretto was, before the Turkish occupation
of Skodra, at the little ruined church near the Boyana River, and even
now down to the annual _festà_ come representatives of all the various
tribes, men and women, from sometimes a week’s journey distant, filling
the streets with a perfect panorama of colour and costume.
The Feast of the Madonna is indeed the day to see Skodra at her best.
You may travel the whole of Europe, from the Channel to the Urals, or
from the White Sea to the Bosphorus, and you will never see such a
variety of types and of costume as during the two days of that feast.
That clear sunny morning the whole town was agog. The Christians had it
to themselves, for while they feasted the Mohammedans fasted. The two
peoples keep distinctly apart during religious festivals, and Turkish
soldiers, their blue uniforms green with age, greasy at the collar, and
often shoeless, patrol the town, ready to fire on the people at the
least provocation. At least, so they say. If, however, they did fire,
then woe-betide them! Every man goes armed in Skodra, and the garrison
would certainly be wiped out were the alarm once given to those wild
fellows up in the mountains.
All is orderly, however—all brilliant. The streets are full of
Christians from the country, the men tall, thin-legged fellows, with
black-and-white striped trousers and black furry bolero, carrying loaded
rifles upon their shoulders; and the women in the various gay costumes
of the tribes, each wearing profusions of gold coins strung across their
breasts, heavy gold earrings, and the younger married ones with dozens
of gaudy silk handkerchiefs suspended round their heavy brass or iron
studded girdles, presents to them on their recent marriage. Most of the
_katunnare_ (peasant-women from the plains) are dressed in a short black
homespun skirt and bodice combined, reaching to the knees and
embroidered with red. Around the waist is a heavy hide belt about five
inches broad, studded with iron, and with two big polished cornelians to
form the buckle. Some are of antique silver of beautiful workmanship,
and others, more modern, are gilt. These women wear nothing on their
heads, but the gaily-dressed _malzore_ (women of the mountains) wear a
bright silk handkerchief arranged very much in the same manner as the
women around Naples. The _malzore_ are extremely good-looking, and all
carry a small embroidered sack over their shoulder, for in Skodra on the
night prior to the _Festà_ of the Madonna every Christian house is open
to receive visitors and give them food and shelter, whoever they may be.
So these little sacks contain humble presents to the hosts.
Pietro met me in the street as I was going to the Cathedral, and told me
that on the previous night he had given food and beds to twenty-eight
mountaineers of both sexes. Albanian hospitality is certainly unbounded.
[Illustration: The Madonna of Skodra.]
[Illustration: The Procession with an Armed Guard.]
As I strolled through the narrow lanes of the Christian quarter towards
the Cathedral, and the gaily-dressed chattering women in groups hurried
forward to get a place within, I was struck with their neat and clean
appearance. Their finery was in no way dingy or dusty, and yet many of
them had been a whole week on a journey through perhaps the roughest
region in the whole East.
How different was the _festà_ to that I had known in the Italian towns!
About the Cathedral there is nothing unusually attractive—a big bare
edifice with high square campanile in modern Italian style. It stands in
the centre of an open space, surrounded by great high, fortress-like
walls, entered by a strong gate with huge iron bars—significant that one
day ere long it will be held against the Turks. No Mohammedan ever
passes those gates. Even the military patrol lounge outside, leaning on
their rifles.
Within the enclosure I found a great crowd of peasant women; females of
the town, veiled with gauze so fine that one could almost see their
faces; Scutarine men in their best jackets and baggy trousers; and the
swaggering, white-capped warriors from the mountains, men of the
Miriditi,—so dreaded by the Turks that they are allowed to carry their
rifles with them,—of the fierce Skreli, the Hoti, and the Kastrati.
The Skreli, with the Miriditi, are allowed to carry their rifles because
the Turks hold them in fear. The authorities know full well that to
arouse their ire would be to bring destruction upon the whole _vilayet_,
for they hold the communications, and if the tribes revolted, as they no
doubt would, then the army of the Sultan would have a very hard task to
suppress the rebellion.
So while the Kastrati and the Hoti—also dwellers in the Mountains of the
Accursed—the Klementi, the Shiala of the foot-hills, and the others are
compelled to leave their rifles at the entrance to the town, the Skreli
and the Miriditi stalk along in armed bands of twenty or thirty through
the streets to the church, grinning defiance at the Turks, who are
supposed by Europe to be their masters.
Under the trees around the Cathedral the wild, fierce men, who would
hold the traveller to ransom or shoot him with less compunction than
they would kill a shepherd-dog, were squatting in rings with their
rifles before them, gossiping. Every man wore a belt full of cartridges
and a bandolier across his shoulders—sometimes even two. War and
religion are strangely mixed in Skodra.
Into the dimly-lit Cathedral I managed to squeeze, and there, kneeling
on the stones and filling the whole place right out into the grass
enclosure, were men of all grades, from the peaceful Scutarine merchant
to the wild tribesman, and women with their faces uncovered bowed
towards the brilliantly lit altar, where the thin-faced Italian priest
mumbled the prayers.
The sight was strangely impressive; the silence unbroken save for the
low voice of the priest and now and then the clank of arms.
For two days in the year, to celebrate the Christian festival, the
brigand tribes from the mountains come down, notwithstanding that upon
the heads of many of those sinister-looking men before me the Turks had
long ago set a price. I stood gazing at that kneeling throng, to whom,
though devout and humble in God’s house, murder was deemed no wrong.
The service ended, a great procession was formed, and headed by four
fine stalwart men of the Skreli with loaded rifles, made a slow tour
from the altar outside and round the enclosure, while an orchestra in a
band-stand opposite played selections. The sight was curious—those armed
men ready to protect their priests in case of sudden onslaught by the
Turks.
During the whole morning I took many photographs, and in the afternoon,
when I returned, I found the orchestra playing operatic music, which was
being listened to by the tribesmen with marked attention. They are, I
afterwards found, devoted to music. The programme ranged from selections
from _La Bohème_ and _Carmen_ to the “Segovia” valse and our old
melodious friend, “The Honeysuckle and the Bee.” The latter air quickly
became popular among the tribesmen, who picked it up and began at once
to whistle it.
[Illustration: The Mirediti: An Alarm!]
[Illustration: The Mirediti at Prayer.]
Slowly fell the mystic twilight of the East. The glorious afterglow had
deepened into grey, and night was creeping on quickly when fire balloons
were sent up, and then gradually the whole Cathedral became outlined in
fairy lamps against the steely sky, even to the utmost point of the high
square tower. Men and women gazed upward, and crossed themselves.
Later, while walking back with Palok, we encountered a group of armed
tribesmen talking excitedly, shaking their fists, and apparently
quarrelling. Palok joined the crowd, and inquired what had happened.
Then, turning to me, he said—
“Oh, it is nothing, signore. The town of Kroia has revolted. The Turks
sent soldiers yesterday, but they were Albanians, and would not fire on
the people. To-day some artillery arrived, and thirty people have been
killed—mostly women. A man has just ridden in with the news. It is
nothing. We are always fighting the Turks at Kroia. There will probably
be a massacre to-night.” And he deftly rolled a cigarette as he spat in
defiance of the hated Mussulman.
Later that night I was awakened from sleep by a shot below, and, taking
my revolver, went to the window. The night was black, and I could
discern nothing.
I heard men’s voices raised in the street below, and suddenly saw the
red flash of firearms and heard a second report.
Then all was quiet, except receding footsteps.
The shots disturbed nobody, or if they did, nobody opened door or
window. The town was asleep, and by the distant sound of a tom-tom I
knew that the hour was half-past three; for the music was calling upon
the Faithful to eat, preparatory to the day’s fast.
What had happened? All was silent, therefore I closed my window and
slept again.
In the morning I was told that it was “nothing.” Two men of the Shiala
had been found dead outside.
Was it the blood-feud? I asked.
Palok only raised his shoulders and exhibited his palms.
“It was nothing, signore—really nothing.”
CHAPTER IV
IN THE ACCURSED MOUNTAINS
Vatt Marashi, chief of the Skreli tribe, invites me to become his
guest—Our start for the Accursed Mountains—Rok, our
guide—Independence of the Skreli—Brigandage and the _bessa_—A night
under a rock—My meeting with Vatt Marashi and his band—The Skreli
welcome—How they treat the Turks—Vatt’s admissions—I become the
guest of brigands—A chat in the moonlight.
While seated on the box in Salko’s dark little stall in the bazaar he
introduced his friend Rok to me.
A middle-aged tribesman in the regulation costume of tight white woollen
trousers heavily striped with black, black bolero with deep woollen
fringe, and a felt skullcap, once white, but now not overclean, he
squatted opposite me and touched chin and brow in salute. His loaded
rifle lay before him on the ground.
He eyed me critically up and down, my pigskin gaiters apparently
receiving his admiration.
“Rok, here, is of the Skreli, a fearless fighter of the Turks and one of
my best friends,” Salko went on to explain. “I have told him of your
earnest desire to go and see our country; that you are neither Austrian
nor Italian, but English and not a spy. Our friend is returning to-day,
and has promised to speak to Vatt Marashi, our chief, on your behalf.”
“Tell the honourable Englishman that if he comes to us he must be
prepared for a rough life. We live in the mountains,” Rok said through
the interpreter, laughing pleasantly as he lit the cigarette he took
from my case.
Coffee was brought, and we sealed our compact of friendliness.
If Vatt Marashi, the renowned chieftain who so often held travellers to
ransom, and whose influence was so dreaded by the Turks, consented to
allow me to visit him, then Rok would return, he promised, and be my
guide.
For half an hour we chatted and smoked. Then the burly mountaineer rose,
slung his rifle over his shoulder, touched chin and brow again, grasped
my hand warmly, and stalked out on his three days’ tramp to the wild
region in the mountain mists that was his home.
I waited on in Skodra, and, to my great delight, he one morning
reappeared with a message from his chief that, providing I took only
Palok, and had no escort, he would be pleased to welcome me and show me
all the hospitality in his power. I need fear nothing, it was added. I
was to be guest of Vatt Marashi, chief of the Skreli. He had issued the
order to the tribe. Any who dared to insult or injure me should pay for
it with their life. Therefore I should be given safe-conduct, and need
not have a moment’s anxiety.
By this, Palok, who had been entirely opposed to the attempt, became
reassured, and soon after noon, with a mule packed with my lightest
baggage, we set our faces out across the great rolling plain that lies
between the town and the high wall of blue distant mountains—the wildest
corner of all Europe. They are a series of fastnesses, in which any
small army would at once be massacred and where a large one would
starve.
We were a merry trio as we marched forward in the bright autumn
sunlight, but about a kilometre beyond the town the road ended in a
ford, where we crossed a wide shallow river, and then straight across
the plain and past several tumuli to where a defile showed in the
mountains. The ancient Bridge of Messi, built under the Venetian
dominion, was crossed, and then we had our first experience of the road
in Albania—a rough, narrow way gradually ascending, almost too bad even
for mules.
Nobody who has not visited Northern Albania can have any idea of the
wildness of those bare grey rocks, of the roughness of the tracks, or
the savagery of life there. Northern Albania is to-day just as it was
under the Roman Empire. The might of Rome has waned, the Servian has
come and gone, the Venetian has been swept away, and the Turk is now
nominally master. But the country has never, through all the centuries,
been annexed, and those wild tribes, descendants of the savage people
who inhabited those fastnesses before the days of Greek dominion, have
never been tamed. The Northern Albanian is the last survivor of mediæval
days. He has no written language—indeed, his alphabet, with its many
soft and hard “ssh” sounds, has never yet been determined—therefore he
has no literature and no newspaper. Thin, wiry, and muscular, he wears
raw-hide slippers, in which he moves with cat-like, stealthy tread—a
habit survived from prehistoric days—while his very dress is protective,
rendering him at a short distance difficult to discern, so like is he in
colour to the rocky background. He looks as though he had just stepped
down from a mediæval Florentine fresco, with his head half-shaven, hair
long at the back and cut square across the shoulders.
He is entirely unchanged ever since the Turk found him, except that of
late he has adopted the breech-loading rifle and a particularly heavy
pattern of revolver. The black furry bolero which he wears, without
exception, is the sign of mourning for his great prince, Skender Beg,
who died in 1467, after being at war with the Turks for over twenty
years; therefore with him fashions do not easily change, and “latest
novelties” in dress are unknown. Great are the changes that have come
over the world during the past thousand years or so, but Northern
Albania has remained unaffected by them, and is still in a measure in
the lowest depths of barbarism. The Turk does not rule. The wild,
inaccessible country is under the various independent tribes, ruled by a
chieftain according to unwritten laws which have been handed down orally
from remote ages, and one of the fiercest and most independent of these
chiefs was Vatt Marashi, the man whose guest I now was to be.
[Illustration: My road in Northern Albania.]
[Illustration: The way to the Skreli.]
Compared with the tribesmen, the Albanian Christian of Skodra is a puny
person. The mountaineers are a barbaric, lawless people, without any
education save the schools established by Italian and Austrian monks as
part of the political propaganda; for, truth to tell, both countries
have recently conceived the idea of turning Northern Albania to account
for their own purposes on the day of the downfall of the Turk. Therefore
both Powers are frantically exerting every effort to curry favour with
the people, a fact which is glaringly apparent even to the rough,
uneducated tribesmen themselves.
The Northern Albanian may be entirely uneducated and a barbarian, but he
is at heart a brigand, and is certainly no fool.
My friend Rok was particularly intelligent, and as we toiled along over
those rough, rock-strewn paths he gave me much information about his
country, and declared that both Austria and Italy were equally their
enemy.
After sundown we rested at a point high up above a dark gloomy defile,
where a stream wound away towards the plain, and there ate some slices
of cold mutton and black bread with a glass of _rakhi_, our three rifles
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 whatever might be the state of the
path, were stealthy. Indeed, he almost crept along, for his feet fell in
silence, and with his rifle ever ready, his keen black eyes were
searching on every side for the enemy which he appeared to expect to
meet at every turn.
Sometimes as he walked in front he would halt, and closely scan a mass
of tumbled rocks, as though he had suspicion of 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, and when, as 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 until 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. He
humorously called it his _han_, or hotel.
To light a fire would be to attract hostile attention, and the cold up
there was intense. I tried to sleep, but was unable, therefore I rose
and 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 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 hate—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 forward again with the first grey of dawn until, just before noon,
Rok halted in the narrow track which wound round the face of the bare
grey mountain, and, drawing his revolver, fired three times in 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 Cettinje, 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 have not 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 an illustration 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.
They were about twenty, certainly the fiercest and most bloodthirsty
gang I have ever set my eyes upon. 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 skullcaps, 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 shaved,
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
until 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 ever since those long-ago days
when the weekly _Boys of England_ formed my chief literature.
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 upon a wood fire, and out of it my
host, myself, and Palok had pieces of boiled chicken and rice, which had
specially 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 savage tribes is never broken,
and if the stranger eats the food of the Skreli, even though he may be
an enemy, his person is sacred for twenty-four hours afterwards. While
the food remains undigested he may not be injured or captured.
And 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, until later that afternoon their chief assured
them to the contrary.
Then that wild horde became, to a man, my devoted servants.
[Illustration: VATT MARASHI, Chief of the Skreli tribe.]
Vatt, the _Baryaktar_ (from the Turkish _bairakdar_, or
standard-bearer), unlike most Albanians, is fair-haired, above the
average height, extremely muscular, with a constant smile of hearty
good-fellowship. His eyes are fierce and barbaric; nevertheless he is
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, one of the wildest rulers of wildest Europe.
On every side, as we went forward to the tiny cluster 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 save when captured and
held to ransom. 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 Skodra 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 satisfactory.
“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 thought of such a prize.
And then I marched along, my rifle over my shoulder—a brigand for the
nonce like my host.
Surely it was one of the quaintest experiences of a varied and
adventurous life.
The tiny house in which I was given quarters had an earthen floor and
consisted of two rooms, the ceilings and walls of which were blackened
by the smoke of years. The owner was an old man with his wife and
daughter, the latter being a pretty young woman of about nineteen,
dressed in the gorgeous gala costume with golden sequins, the same that
I had seen down at Skodra during the _festà_. She had on her best in my
honour, I suppose, and her husband, a good-looking young fellow five
years her senior, seemed justly proud of her. His name was Lûk. I named
him Lucky, but he did not appreciate the wit. He was, I found, one of
the chief’s bodyguard who had come to greet me at the confines of the
Skreli territory, and proved a most sociable fellow, ever ready to
render me a service.
“These good people will look after you and make you as comfortable as
they can,” my host said, when he had introduced me to them. “I have to
go along the ravine, but will return in time to eat with you this
evening. You like good cigarettes? I will send you some.” And he shook
my hands, and turning, went out, stalking again at the head of his
ferocious-looking band.
[Illustration: The Skreli at Home.]
[Illustration: An Albanian Village.]
The bedroom, occupied in common by the family, was given over to me. My
bed on the floor was a big sack filled with dried maize-leaves. It was
not inviting, but Palok, having examined it critically, declared it to
be “_cosi cosi_,” and having slept out a couple of nights, I was
compelled to accept his verdict.
The girl in the sequins boiled us coffee over the fire, and with her
father and husband I sat outside the house in the golden sunset, smoking
and chatting. Both were full of curiosity. England was to them a mere
legendary land, and they had never heard of London. When I mentioned it
they declared that it could not possibly be so large as Skodra.
I told them of Cettinje and other towns in Montenegro I had visited, but
they held all Montenegro in contempt, for were they not always raiding
over the frontier? Lûk declared that he had walked in Podgoritza openly,
and in the marketplace shot a man with whom he was in _gyak_, or
blood-feud.
“I walked out again, and no one dared to stop me,” he added, with pride.
“It would have been worse for them if they had.”
“But the Montenegrins are no cowards,” I ventured to remark.
“Certainly not. They are very brave, but they dare not follow us here.
They always get lost in the mountains, and once they lose their way they
lose their lives,” he added, with a grin. “Our men killed four over
yonder mountain a few days ago.”
“The blood-feud?”
“Of course. It arose out of that.”
From the half-dozen other poor mountain homes came forth men, women, and
children, who grouped around us, watching in curiosity. According to
Palok, rumour had at first gone round that I was a prisoner, therefore
they had refrained from coming forth to see me. Now, however, they knew
the truth, they welcomed me as their guest.
Just before it grew dark the _Baryaktar_ returned, followed by the
bodyguard, without whom he never seemed to move. They did his bidding,
executed his orders, and were ever at his beck and call—the picked men
of the tribe.
While Vatt squatted on the floor I sat upon my suit-case, and together
we ate a kind of mutton stew, rather rich, but not unpalatable. There
was an absence of table cutlery, therefore we ate with the aid of our
pocket-knives and fingers. Now and then the old woman would pick a
tit-bit out of the pot and hand it to me with her fingers. I was
compelled to accept the well-meant hospitality, even though her hands
were not particularly clean.
The hot dish was tasty, but I could not manage the sour black bread, for
it was mouldy, and gritty into the bargain.
It was a weird picture, the interior of that lowly hut, lit by the dim
oil lamp of almost the same type as used by the early Greeks. The
uncertain firelight glinted upon the gold of the dresses of the
chieftain and of Lûk’s pretty wife, and threw, now and then, into relief
those strangely unfamiliar faces, the barbarians of an age bygone and
forgotten. The very language they were speaking was, as an unwritten
one, utterly incomprehensible and unintelligible to any but the born
Albanian.
I rubbed my eyes—on account of the smoke—wondering if it were really
only a very few weeks ago that I had driven a motor from London down to
Windsor, that I had seen _The Catch of the Season_, and trod the red
carpet of the Savoy afterwards.
And to-night I was actually having supper with real live brigands of the
mountains!
Lûk produced a bottle of _rakhi_, and Vatt Marashi lifted his tin mug to
me. I took a little of the potent spirit in the bottom of my own
drinking-cup, and tossed it off. It was not half as bad as I expected.
Then the chief took me outside the house, and in the clear moonlight we
sat down with Palok upon a big rock to chat.
He rolled me a cigarette of most excellent Turkish tobacco—of his own
growing, he told me—lit one himself, and we sipped the coffee brought to
us by Lûk’s wife.
The scene spread before us was superb—a magnificent panorama of
mountains, some tipped with snow, white and brilliant under the
moonbeams. Below us, the valley was a great chasm of unfathomable
blackness.
With my strange host I chatted upon many subjects, and found him far
more intelligent than I had believed. Keen-witted, quick of perception,
just in his judgment, and yet filled with an intense hatred of both Turk
and Montenegrin alike, he explained to me many things of great interest.
He told me of the glorious traditions of his sturdy race and of the
prince of the Skender Beg family, who, they hoped, would one day come
back to rule them.
“We, the chieftains, hold authority from him,” he declared. “Oh yes, he
will come some day. Of that we are quite certain.”
“Englishmen have never dared to come here, have they?” I asked, with
some curiosity.
“Only once—a year or two ago. I discovered three of your compatriots
poking about in the rocks and chipping little pieces off. I had them
captured, and brought to me. At first I thought I would hold them to
ransom and make the Turks pay. But they were evidently poor fellows, for
their clothes were worn almost to rags, and they had very little money.
So I gave them their money back and sent them with an escort down to the
plain, forbidding them to enter our country again. I wonder why they
came, and why they were chipping the rocks?”
I told him that they were evidently mining prospectors; that Englishmen
travelled all over the world to discover minerals; and that a mine in
his country would be a source of great wealth. But my explanation did
not appeal to him. He could not see why they were chipping off those
pieces of rock. It was not flint, otherwise they might have wanted them
for gun-locks. No, the trio were distinctly suspicious characters, and
he was glad that he had expelled them.
“Have you ever held Englishmen to ransom?” I inquired.
“One. Five years ago. He came here shooting—after bears, I think. He was
evidently a great gentleman, for his guns were beautiful. The Turks paid
promptly.”
“Because he was an Englishman—eh?”
“Most probably,” he laughed. “Are they afraid of you English as they are
afraid of us?”
And soon afterwards he bade me good-night, and left me to throw myself
down upon my mattress of leaves and listen to the snoring of Palok and
the assembled family in the adjoining room.
I had thought Skodra barbaric, but here I was in an utterly unknown
corner of the earth, in an absolutely savage land—a land that knows no
law and acknowledges no master; a land that is the same to-day as it was
in the days of Diocletian and of Constantine the Great—Albania the
Unchanging.
[Illustration: Among the Skreli: Lûk (first on the right) and his
friends.]
CHAPTER V
LIFE WITH A BRIGAND BAND
The Skreli a lawless tribe—No man’s life safe unless the chief gives his
word—Vatt prophesies a rising against the Turks—Our walks and
talks—Our meeting with our neighbours the Kastrati, and with Dêd
Presci their chief—A woman who avenged her husband’s death—The
significant story of Kol—Manners and customs of the wild
tribes—Farewell to my good friend Dêd—An incident a fortnight later.
The bright sunny days I remained with the Skreli were full of interest.
On every hand, from Vatt himself down to the humblest of his tribe, I
received only the greatest kindness and hospitality. If I went out in
Vatt’s absence, a dozen armed banditti followed me, mounting guard over
me; for, as they told me, one never knew what little “accident” might
happen. With the tribes of the Shiala and the Pulati they were not just
then on particularly friendly terms, and there had been a series of
sharp encounters a week ago. Having given their word to be responsible
for my safety, it behoved them to take precautions.
I walked with Vatt Marashi every day, making long excursions through the
mountains by the secret paths known only to the tribe.
Would I care for some sport? If I cared to come next year and bring a
friend, or even two, he would let me shoot. My friends would always be
welcome, and I could assure them of their safety. There was plenty of
game, and lots of bears, lynx, and wolves. I should tell my friends in
England, and come back for a month or two. I promised that I would, for
in our walks I saw quantities of game. My friend shot several eagles,
but I was not successful in bagging one.
As he was stalking at my side one afternoon, his argus eyes everywhere
and a cigarette in his mouth, I returned to the subject of the Turks and
their “occupation” of Albania.
“Bah!” he exclaimed, with a sneering curl of the lip. “They dare not
come here. We, with the Kastrati, the Hoti, the Klementi, the Pulati,
and the Shiala, are masters here. We have held the land always, and
shall hold it still. We acknowledge no law except our own, and pay no
taxes to anybody. The Turks, when they conquered Northern Albania,
thought they could crush us. They tried to, but soon discovered their
mistake. So ever since that they have left us severely alone, and
retired into Skodra. They know full well that when we unite with our
brothers, the Miriditi, in the south, then Skodra will be at our mercy.”
“And if the Sultan sends his soldiers here?”
“Well, and what then?” he asked, with a flash in his eyes. “Do you think
we fear them? Many of them are Albanians, and would not fight us. Again,
you have experienced the road here. What would an army do here? We
should pick them off as fast as they came up. There are forty thousand
of us Skreli alone, remember, without all the other tribes. If a Turkish
army came in here, depend upon it, it would never get out again.”
“And is there likely to be a rising against the Turks?” I inquired, much
interested.
“Why, of course. The revolt will come one day ere long—when we are
ready. We can, however, afford to wait at present. Turkey will soon have
her hands full with Bulgaria and Macedonia, and then—well, we shall help
Bulgaria, and in a week there won’t be a Turk in Skodra.”
“You mean there will be a massacre?”
For answer he shrugged his shoulders.
“And after the revolution?”
“After we have driven out the Turk we hope to obtain our independence
under either France or some other far-off country—England, for instance.
Austria and Italy are, through their priests, conducting a strenuous
propaganda all through Northern Albania—so strenuous as to be
ridiculous. They foolishly think that we are like children, and that we
do not discern their ulterior motives. Oh, it is very amusing, I can
tell you! We accept their schools and their money, and put our fingers
in our cheeks, for we don’t intend to have anything to do with either
Power when the rising comes. We will help Servia or Bulgaria, or even
Montenegro, to drive the Turk from Albania, but we will not lift a
finger for either Italy or Austria. The secret agents of both Powers are
always endeavouring to penetrate here among us and carry on their
propaganda. But we do not want them, and will not have them. More than
one has of late—disappeared.”
“Shot?”
He smiled in the affirmative.
“It is true,” he said, “that we kill—and kill often—for the vendetta—for
espionage—and in the frontier disputes with Montenegro. Alas! we have
here but little of the _bessa_ (truce). But you must remember we are not
like you English. The people have no government, except myself. I make
the law, and they obey. We are Christians. We believe in God and in the
Virgin, and soon we will drive the Mohammedan fanatics from our land.”
He spoke with an air of conviction, and, judging from my observations
while I was guest of his tribe, I believe that when war between Turkey
and Bulgaria comes—as it must come one day before long—these wild people
will sweep down upon the Turks and play frightful havoc with them.
Skodra is often alarmed, and the people retire into their houses and bar
their doors because the tribes are believed to be coming. One day they
will come, and when they do those open drains in the streets will run
with blood. The sign of the cross upon the Christian houses is in
preparation for the day of vengeance.
My walks with Vatt Marashi, though often very fatiguing, were full of
interest. He was never tired of making inquiries regarding England and
England’s power. Did the Sultan recognise England as an independent
state, and did we send an Ambassador to the Sublime Porte, like Austria
and Germany? He knew that England once had a Vice-Consul in Skodra—but
he committed suicide, it was said, poor fellow.
Nothing very extraordinary, I remarked inwardly. Doomed to live in such
an out-of-the-world place as Skodra would be sufficient to drive any
European to take his life. Of brigandage, Vatt Marashi told me that they
held up but few travellers nowadays, and only, indeed, when there was
necessity. Yet a year or two ago they held the worst reputation of any
of the tribes.
One day while we were climbing the rocks—for Vatt and his bodyguard
thought that they might get a shot at a bear—there was a sudden alarm.
The hawk’s eyes of my companions espied strangers, and a sudden halt was
called. In a moment we were all under cover of the rocks. Every man
unslung his rifle, and Vatt himself, with knit brows, drew his big
pistol with silver butt, while I crouched behind a rock with my rifle
ready, expecting something to happen.
Nothing, however, did happen, for a few moments later there were shouts
from the opposite side of the defile, answered by my companions, who
came forth and waved their rifles over their heads as sign of greeting.
Vatt, replacing his pistol in his belt, spoke in a loud, sharp voice,
and received an answer. Those mountaineers can throw their voices long
distances, and be heard distinctly, a fact I often noticed.
Then Palok told me that the strangers were of the neighbouring tribe,
the Kastrati, and that their chief, Dêd Presci, had come to pay Vatt a
visit.
For me this was fortunate, for it gave me an opportunity of meeting the
other ruler of Northern Albania; for next to the Skreli the Kastrati are
most powerful in the Accursed Mountains.
[Illustration: MRIKA, the woman who carried on the blood-feud.]
Half an hour later we met our visitors. Dressed very similarly to my
companions, they wore white tassel-less fezes instead of the little
white skullcap, and the black stripes down their trousers were somewhat
different. The two chieftains touched foreheads, and I was afterwards
introduced. Dêd Presci, a round-faced, pleasant man, rather stout and
burly, his hair cut in mediæval style, gripped me warmly by the hand,
saying—
“I heard that you were in Skodra during the _festà_. Some of my men told
me there was an Englishman. But I never expected to meet you. Perhaps
you are coming across to see me—eh? If so, you are quite welcome.”
“I may come next year to shoot, with a couple of English friends. May I
visit you then?”
“Most certainly. You have only to warn me of your coming through one of
our men down in Skodra, and I will give you safe escort,” was his reply.
“If you are fond of sport, you will find plenty with us. Only bring a
tent, and perhaps some provisions; for our food is not what you
foreigners are used to.”
“Then I shall return one day before long,” I promised.
“Do. You need fear nothing, you know. We never betray a friend.”
“Or forgive an enemy,” added Vatt, laughing.
“Especially if he be a Turk,” I remarked; whereat both chiefs laughed in
chorus.
That evening I ate with the pair in a small lonely house on the
mountainside, and the moon had long risen before Palok and I returned to
Lûk’s.
My photographic camera was, from the first, regarded with a good deal of
suspicion, and it was with very great difficulty I persuaded anybody to
have his picture taken. Many surreptitious snap-shots I took with a
small “Brownie” camera, for unfortunately I had run out of films for my
own larger Kodak. But I was able to secure some photographs, which now
appear in this volume.
Early one morning, soon after sunrise, I was walking with Lûk and Palok
when a young woman passed us.
“That is Mrika Kol Marashut,” Lûk remarked.
“And who is she?” I asked.
“Mrika—the woman who carried on the blood-feud,” was his answer. “Two
years ago she was the most beautiful girl of our tribe, and had a dozen
men ready to marry her. She married Lez, a smart young man from the
Pulati side, and one of the _Baryaktar’s_ bodyguard, like myself. A
month after their marriage Lez was treacherously killed by his brother,
who lived down by the White Drin, and was violently in love with her.
When she received the news she became half demented by grief. But, by
slow degrees, she formed her plans for the blood-feud, and having no
male relatives, resolved to take it on herself. She therefore left us
and was absent nearly a year, during which time she persistently
followed her brother-in-law first to Ochrida, in Macedonia, then to
Skopia, Prisrend, and many other places, always awaiting her opportunity
to strike the blow. This came one afternoon when her husband’s assassin
was walking in the main street in Skodra, and she took Lez’s pistol from
her belt and blew his face away. It was valiant of a woman—was it not?
But not only that,” he went on. “Having killed the murderer, she went
straight to his parents’ house, three days’ journey, and shot them both
dead. Since then she has been back with us, for poor Lez’s death has
been avenged. I was sorry he died,” he added regretfully, “for he was
one of my dearest friends.”
Murder is hardly a crime in Albania, for life is cheap—very cheap. An
enemy or a stranger is shot like a dog, and left at the roadside.
Palok told me of an incident which truly illustrates the utter disregard
the Albanian has for other people’s lives. He was once with a man of the
Hoti—on the Montenegrin frontier—who had just obtained a new rifle,
probably from a murdered Turkish soldier. While he was inspecting it a
man passed close by, a stranger, whereupon the man with the new gun
raised it to his shoulder, took aim, and fired. The stranger fell dead.
Palok remonstrated, but his companion merely said that he was testing
his gun’s accuracy. Was it not better, he asked, to test it that way,
instead of waiting till face to face with an enemy?
The assassin is never punished, except by those who take up the
blood-feud. If the murder takes place in a town the guilty one escapes
to the mountains, or gets away into Macedonia, or into Servia, where he
earns his living by sawing firewood. Every few years the Sultan issues
an irade “for the pacification of the blood,” as it is put, and the
murderer then returns. He pays a small tax to the Turkish Government,
after which he cannot be arrested; and if he pays about three hundred
crowns to the relatives of his victim, the blood-feud is at an end.
This, of course, does not apply to the mountain tribes. They care not a
jot for the Sultan or for his irades. There is no law—save that of the
blood-feud, the vendetta falling upon the murderer and upon his next
male relative. Many were the curious facts regarding the blood-feud and
the Albanian laws of hospitality told to me.
A case in point was that of a young man named Kol, a friend of Lûk’s, a
tall, wiry youth, of somewhat sinister expression—a typical bandit out
of a book-illustration.
I was talking to Lûk about the hospitality extended by the various
tribes to each other when Kol passed, and he beckoned him, saying—
“He has just had a curious experience in the Klementi country. Let him
relate it to you.”
So at Palok’s invitation the young fellow accepted one of my cigarettes,
placed his rifle against the wall, and flung himself down upon a small
boulder near us.
He blew a cloud of smoke from his lips, stroked his knees with his
hands, and looked at me with considerable curiosity, wondering why I
should want to know his story.
“The stranger is interested in your adventures with the Klementi. Tell
him all about them.”
“Bah!” he said, with a slight shrug of the shoulders. “It was
nothing—mere chance—luck, if you like to call it so. There is nothing to
tell.”
“But what there is interests the Englishman. He is the _Baryaktar’s_
guest, remember,” Lûk remarked.
“Well,” said the young man reluctantly, “I was in blood-feud with a man
of the Klementi, and went over there to kill him. I laid in wait one
evening, and as he drove home his sheep I shot him from behind a rock.
He had killed my father, therefore I had a just right to avenge his
blood. My shot, however, aroused the whole valley, and I knew that I,
the only stranger, would be suspected and killed. Therefore I sped away
down the valley in the darkness till I reached a poor little house. An
old woman was there, and I craved food and shelter for the night. She
gave me food at once—for, like ourselves, the Klementi never send a
stranger empty away. I was hungry, for I had crossed into the Klementi
region in secret, and dared not seek food lest my presence became known
to the man I intended to kill.
“Scarcely had I eaten the meat the old woman had given me when there
came the sound of voices outside, and to my horror I saw four men
carrying the body of my victim.
“‘See!’ they cried to the woman who was befriending me. ‘One of the
Skreli has killed your son!’
“Then I knew that it was the murdered man’s mother who had given me
shelter. A moment later the men, among whom was the elder brother of the
victim, discovered me.
“‘See!’ they cried. ‘There is your son’s murderer. We will kill him!’
“I stood with my back to the wall, knowing well that my last moment had
come. The dead man’s brother raised his rifle while I drew my pistol,
prepared at least to fire once more before I died. I was caught like a
rat in a trap!
“The old woman, however, seeing my position and my helplessness, cried—
“‘No. Though he has killed your brother, you may not touch him. He is
beneath our roof; he has eaten our bread, and our protection must remain
over him till to-morrow’s sunset. Remember, my son. It is our law.’
“The man dropped his rifle, and his friends drew back at the old woman’s
reproof.
“‘Go!’ she said to me, after glancing at her son’s body. ‘You have eaten
our bread, and therefore you cannot be harmed.’
“‘Yes, go,’ added my victim’s brother. ‘Till to-morrow’s sundown I will
not follow. But after that, I shall track you down, and, before Heaven,
I will kill you.’
“Need I say that I took up my rifle, and leaving the house travelled
quickly all night and all next day, until I returned here? But,” added
Kol, with a slight sigh, “we shall meet one day—and he will most
certainly kill me.”
Is there any other country in the world where such a code of honour
exists? I am inclined to think not.
Had I been in the midst of a highly civilised people—a foreigner
wandering in the wilds of Yorkshire, for example—I certainly should
never have received the many charming kindnesses that I did at the hands
of those rough, uncivilised tribes. Climbing like cats up the
mountainsides as they did, I was often compelled to lag behind, being
unused to such walking. But, laughing merrily, those armed banditti
would take me by the arms and help me up the steeper places; they would
roll cigarettes for me, carry my rifle when I grew fagged, and fetch and
carry for me like children.
My neat Smith-Wesson hammerless revolver was constantly admired, as
being a much more handy and serviceable weapon than their own big
pistols—Austrian-made revolvers fitted to antique silver butts that had
once done service to flintlocks. My Browning repeating revolver, with
its magazine holding eight cartridges, was declared a marvel of
ingenuity, and on many occasions Vatt and his men amused themselves by
firing with it at targets.
Once he remarked, with a grim smile, that it would be a handy weapon
against the Turks. Where could he get one? Was it costly?
And when I promised to send him one through our mutual friend in the
bazaar down in Skodra, as souvenir of my visit, his joy knew no bounds.
A month later I fulfilled my promise, sending it across from Sofia, and
have since received an acknowledgment of its safe receipt.
I wonder whether he has yet used it against the hated Turk? Whether or
not, he no doubt struts about with it in his belt, a greater chief than
all the others, because he possesses the very latest and deadliest of
weapons.
When one evening I told my host that I had still a long way to
go—through Bosnia, Herzegovina, Servia, Bulgaria, Roumania, and
Macedonia—and that I must bid him farewell, his face fell. He seemed to
genuinely regret.
“But you will return soon,” he urged. “You will redeem your promise, and
bring your friends to shoot. Bring that friend you told me about who
shoots tigers in India. I want to see what sort of shot he is. And the
friend who shoots partridges and pheasants.”
I promised that I would go back to him before long.
“Remember, there will be no danger—none. Tell your friends that Vatt
invites them, and that they are free to go anywhere—anywhere,” he said,
waving his hand over the wild panorama of mountain and valley that is
his indisputable domain.
Next day I rose, packed my small belongings, and with a little present
to Lûk and to his pretty wife prepared to leave, when, judge my
amazement to find Vatt and his bodyguard outside, and to hear that the
chief had decided to accompany me right down to Skodra!
This indeed he did, and when we arrived in the town held by the Turks he
strutted down the main street with me, apparently proud of his guest,
and in open defiance of the scowling ragged soldiers in dirty red fezes.
Though a deadly enemy of the Turks, he openly defied them. As we walked
along the streets there came close behind us twenty of his faithful
followers, armed to the teeth and carrying their rifles ready loaded in
case of trouble.
But there was no trouble. The Turks of Skodra are wise enough to let the
Skreli severely alone.
Trouble will, however, come one day before long, and then alas for the
subjects of the Sultan. The Albanians will avenge the blood of the
Christians now spilt daily in Macedonia, and the Turk will be driven
back southward—or at least what is left of him.
[Illustration: My Body-guard in Northern Albania.]
I parted from Vatt at the door of my so-called _albergo_. He took a
glass of _rakhi_ with me, and afterwards, with a hearty hand-grip, he
told me not to forget my promise to return. Then he left me, stalking at
the head of his armed band, who one and all wished me _bon voyage_, and
he went down the street on his return to his mountain home.
But the irony of Fate followed. A fortnight later I found myself riding
with a strong military escort on the other side of the mountains, where
I had been so hospitably entertained—along the frontier of the Skreli
country.
It was growing dusk, and we were passing through a deep ravine, our
horses stumbling at every step, when of a sudden the crack of a rifle
startled us.
Next instant a dozen rifles flashed fire in the deep shadows to our
left. The Skreli outposts were sniping at us!
In a moment we had all dismounted and sought cover, and for fully ten
minutes returned their fire vigorously, while the officer of the escort
kept up a volley of imprecations on the heads of my late hosts, who
were, of course, in ignorance that they were firing upon “the
Englishman.” We were too far off each other to do much harm, therefore
we simply blazed away. I was crouched behind a rock with the muzzle of
my rifle poked through a convenient crack, and fired towards the spot
where the flashes showed.
A good deal of powder and bad language were expended, until at last our
friends on the other side of the valley, apparently thinking we were too
far away, ceased firing, and we of course did the same.
It was a mutual truce. For ten minutes longer we waited in order to see
what would happen. Then, leading our horses, we crept carefully along on
our way northward, out of the range of our friends’ guns.
Those moments were exciting, however, while they lasted, yet they were
not without their grim humour.
BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA
CHAPTER I
SOME REVELATIONS
Through Dalmatia to Herzegovina—Over the Balkan watershed—Bosnia and
Sarayevo—A half-Turkish, half-Servian town—Austrian persecution of
the Christians—Some astounding facts—A land of spies and
scandals—The police as murderers—A disgrace to European
civilisation.
In the darkest hour before daylight I bade farewell to my friend Mr.
Charles des Graz, the British Chargé d’Affaires in Cettinje, and
mounting into the pair-horse carriage, left the Montenegrin capital to
descend that most wonderfully engineered road over the face of the bare
mountains to Cattaro, on my way to Herzegovina and Bosnia.
Though still dark, Cettinje was already stirring, and as I drove through
the long main street, armed men who were my friends saluted me, and
shouted “_S’bogom!_” My driver and myself were armed too, in case of
“accident,” yet the Montenegrin roads are quite safe nowadays, thanks to
the pacific and beneficent rule of His Royal Highness Prince Nicholas.
Our eight-hour journey through the mountains was full of interest. Over
those bare, tumbled limestone rocks, devoid of herbage and wild to the
extremity of desolation, came the first rosy flush of dawn, and as we
watched, the sun gradually dispelled the greys into yellows and golds in
all the glory of the bursting of an autumn day. First, over the great
plateau on which Cettinje is situated; then up the bare face of the
mountain in a series of zigzags with acute angles; up, higher and
higher, where the wind cut one’s face like a knife; and higher still,
where we got out to walk, and so lighten the horses and warm ourselves.
I gave my driver a pull at my flask, for the temperature was below zero,
and we were both cramped and cold. Even through my leather-lined
motor-coat the wind cut like a knife, chilling me to the bone.
At the summit a glorious view, one more wonderful, perhaps, than any in
the whole of the Balkans. On the one side in the far blue distance the
Accursed Mountains of Albania, where dwelt my friend Vatt Marashi and
his fearless men, and on the other, away down in the rolling mists, lay
what looked like a series of lakes, but which in reality was the
wandering arm of the Adriatic, the magnificent fjord called the Mouths
of Cattaro—the Bocche di Cattaro.
Here we struck the single telegraph-wire which places remote Cettinje in
connection with the rest of the civilised world, and then the pace of
our rough mountain horses showed that we were descending. Far below were
a number of scattered houses, the little town of Nyegush, the chief
edifice of which is the unpretentious palace of the Prince, and for a
full hour and a half we wound down and down ere we reached its main
street and pulled up at the inn for half an hour to get some coffee and
to rest the horses.
Cramped and half-frozen as I was, the big steaming bowl of coffee was
indeed welcome. Then, after scribbling some postcards to friends in
England, I went for a brisk walk, took a photograph or two, and
returned, just as the horses were being reharnessed.
Down again, ever down, past a great dark cavern, and on until we came to
the row of stone slabs set in the road that marks the frontier between
gallant little Montenegro and her enemy Austria. And then, what a view!
Surely the most superb in all Europe!
Our old familiar tourist-Switzerland, the toy-Tyrol, the Norwegian
fjords, the trumpery-Apennines, and the high Balkans are full of
magnificent scenery, but for a picturesque combination of blue sea and
sheer bare mountain nothing that I have ever seen—and I have knocked
about Europe, I believe, as much as most men—equals that view from the
Montenegrin road.
[Illustration: Bunaquelle: Bosnia.]
[Illustration: Jajace: Bosnia.]
All is beautiful—all save that frowning fortress which the Austrians
have lately constructed to command the road, and which it is strictly
forbidden to photograph under pain of imprisonment as a spy. I, however,
risked it, and took another picture, which turned out rather well.
In Cattaro, being the bearer of despatches for His Britannic Majesty’s
Foreign Office in London, and being therefore armed with a
_laisser-passer_, my baggage was not examined, and at one o’clock I
again boarded the same steamer which had brought me from Trieste, the
_Graf Wurmbrand_, bound for Gravosa—which is the port for Ragusa, in
Dalmatia.
Ragusa I found a quaint, mediæval place, reminding me strongly of one of
those old towns on the Italian Riviera—I mean those unfashionable ones,
at which the train stops and nobody gets out—ones that you only visit if
you are motoring from Monte Carlo along to Genoa. It is a town of
ponderous walls, of narrow streets, and queer dark byways. Across its
dry moat and through its ancient gateway carriages do not pass, and as
soon as you are in the main street you are out of it again, and passing
through a water-gate are upon a small quay.
Difficult it is to realise that this quiet, old-world town, where
everyone speaks Italian, was once the great port of the Balkan
hinterland in the days when Venice was Queen of the Seas. And yet to the
antiquary it is pleasant to stroll in and out of the old
sixteenth-century churches, the Rector’s Palace, and the rest, to
examine the mediæval Onofrio fountain, and to spend a day, as I did,
among the architectural relics of an age bygone and long forgotten.
While there it rained for the first time after the long dry season. And
if you have ever been in Italy—or anywhere, indeed—in the extreme south
of Europe on the first day of the rainy season, you will know what I
mean when I say it was not a mere shower. Water came down in sheets, and
for a whole day and a whole night it never ceased, while the lightning
flashed and the thunder crashed and echoed in the chain of mountains
behind the town.
Palms and oranges grow in profusion in Ragusa, while across on the
beautiful island of Lacroma—which legend connects with Richard Cœur
de Lion—is vegetation more luxuriant than even upon the French Riviera.
Prince Mirko of Montenegro, Colonel Constantinovitch, his father-in-law,
and a number of wealthy people, mostly Austrians, have fine winter
villas outside the town, and life there in spring is said to be quite
charming.
Many yachts call there during the season, and there is opera at frequent
intervals. Zara, Spalato, and Lussinpiccolo are all favourite winter
resorts of the Austrians and Hungarians, but none is so smart or so
select as Ragusa, which, by the way, has its hotel, the Imperial, where
the charges equal, if not quite eclipse, those of the best hotels at
Nice or Monte Carlo, while the cooking is inferior.
For the owner of a pretty villa overlooking the sea who desires to spend
a quiet, healthful winter, Ragusa may be pleasant, but I confess it
struck me as a particularly dull little town—a place so full of faded
glory as to be painful.
The journey from Gravosa across Dalmatia, Herzegovina, Bosnia, and
Hungary to Servia I found tedious, though mostly through fine wild
mountain scenery. I performed it partly by road and partly by rail,
making Mostar and Sarayevo—the Bosnian capital—my halting-places.
The rail, a narrow-gauge one with a single train a day, starts from
Gravosa at five o’clock in the morning and first ascends the Ombla
valley from the sea. Gradually it rises in a series of zigzags over the
grey bare rocks and through many tunnels for sixty miles to Gabela, a
little mountain town, and then through the dry beds of a series of great
lakes, and across barren plateaux until it descends into the valley of
the Narenta, which narrows into a series of dark, romantic defiles,
while the mountains grow higher and more wild, until Mostar, the capital
of Herzegovina, is reached.
Mostar is a rather dull little town on the Narenta, still half-Turkish,
with its mosques and bazaar where one can obtain inlaid silver work from
Livino. But there was certainly nothing to attract, so I pushed on next
day to Sarayevo. Between the two capitals the scenery is superb, indeed
some of the grandest in the whole of the Balkans. Through the Great
Defile, or Gorge of the Narenta, the train slowly wends its sinuous
course beneath the high precipices of Velez, and then through the Prenj
Mountains, across the Glogosnica valley to the small garrison town of
Jablanica, a lonely little place in a very wild district.
Twenty miles farther on we came to Konjica, a picturesque little place
with a fine old Turkish bridge spanning the Narenta, where the train
halts, affording us time to explore the place and take a photograph or
two. Then the ascent is so steep that the puffing little locomotive is
fitted with cog-wheels to take us through the Trescanica valley up over
the ridge of the wild Ivan Planina, the high watershed between the Black
Sea and the Adriatic.
Progress is slow and halts are frequent. In places there have been
landslips, and we creep along the edges of dangerous precipices. But the
scenery fully compensates for the many tedious hours and for lack of
food—for in our ignorance I had omitted to lay in stores, and the only
thing I could obtain during the day was half a dozen apples! The Bosnian
frontier crossed, the train traverses the saddle of Vilovac, then
descends rapidly through beautiful wooded valleys and along the Bosna
and Zeljeznica rivers, until, in the darkness, Sarayevo with its many
electric lamps is reached—a railway journey even more interesting than
the well-known Gothard route.
My fellow-passengers from Mostar were two. One was a Turkish gentleman
who removed his slippers and sat cross-legged on the seat fingering his
beads until the sundown, when he produced some sandwiches from the tail
of his frock-coat, and slowly consumed them after his long fast since
four o’clock that morning. The other was a particularly communicative
Austrian gentleman, whom I recognised at once to be a spy.
Sarayevo, the Bosnian capital, is very Eastern, and, being so, is full
of attraction for the stranger. There is a very fair old-fashioned
hotel, the Europa, in the centre of the town, nearly two miles from the
station. It is a city of mosques, the minarets of which were all gaily
illuminated on the night of my arrival, producing a picturesque effect
against the night-sky.
The place is prettily situated—a town of some forty thousand
inhabitants, half Serb, half Eastern. Lying in the narrow valley, whence
the river Milyacka bursts forth from a gorge just above the town, the
dwellers by the riverside are mostly Austrian immigrants, while the
natives have their houses and their mosques on the hillside. Every house
has its own little garden, as in Servia, and of course the bazaar is the
centre of trade, as in every town where the beslippered Turk still
remains.
This _charshiya_, or bazaar, is a great labyrinth of dark, narrow,
ill-paved alleys flanked with booths, where every trade, each with its
particular quarter, is carried on in open view to the passers-by. The
copper ware, silver filigree, and carpets are attractive, but most of
the so-called Oriental goods are “fakes.” The place, though there is a
variety of costume everywhere, is not half so attractive as Skodra,
because of the Austrian bogey that pervades everything.
To buy specimens of Bosnian chiselled metal work it is best to go to the
Government School of Industrial Art, where the finest pieces of
workmanship may be seen in course of execution, and where the price
asked is a fixed one, below that demanded either in the bazaar or in
shops. The services for Turkish coffee in chiselled copper-gilt are of
chaste and very elegant design, perfect marvels of patience in
chiselling, and very appreciable to the Western taste in decorative art.
The chief feature of the bazaar is the Husref Beg Mosque, the finest in
the town, to which, though an Infidel, I was granted admission. I of
course put on overshoes, and made an interesting tour round with a
priest who only spoke Turkish, so that I did not learn very much from
him. Built about 1540, it is a fine spacious structure, with dome and
high minarets, and in front, in the quiet old courtyard, is a fine old
fountain for ablutions shaded by a very ancient lime tree. Before it,
sit several Turkish pedlars in turbans selling rosaries, printed texts
from the Koran, imitation otto-of-rose manufactured from geranium,
European collar-studs, and other trifles.
Another industry peculiar to Bosnia is the inlay of gold and silver into
bog-oak, or gun-metal, and many quaint little objects—boxes, bracelets,
brooches, and belt-buckles—quite unique in England, may be purchased.
The old silver filigree buttons displayed everywhere may also be used
with advantage by ladies for hat-pins.
A stroll through the town shows at once the mixed character of the
people, for all the names of streets are written up in three
languages—Turkish, Croatian, and Serb. The noisy thoroughfares are
crowded with Europeans, mixed up with baggy-legged men and veiled women,
men in fezes in all stages of disintegration, while the Bosnian ladies
wear the queerest head-gear I have ever set eyes upon. The hair is
parted in the middle and brushed down straight, while upon it is stuck a
tiny pork-pie cap of gaudy-coloured chintz or silk, edged with a
thousand gilt sequins sewn closely together, the most ugly and most
unbecoming head-dress imaginable. Yet it is evidently the _mode_, and is
worn by European ladies in all other respects attired as one would find
them in Vienna or in Budapest.
But this is Bosnia, and assuredly strange things happen here under the
unjust rule of Austria.
Strangers seldom come to Sarayevo. In the heart of that mountainous
region between the Save and the Adriatic, only approached from the south
by that rack-and-pinion railway, or from the north by the one train a
day from that un-get-at-able station in Slavonia, Bosnche-Brod, it is
entirely shut away from European influence—or European eyes, for the
matter of that—and quite off the track taken by strangers in the
Balkans.
Indeed, I would never advise the intending traveller to take that route
from Ragusa to Belgrade. Better by far take the steamer right up the
Adriatic to Fiume, and thence by rail, as it is quicker, and much less
fatiguing. I did not go to Bosnia, however, so much to see its capital
as to obtain some idea of the present system of government there, and to
hear from the lips of the people themselves the advantages, or
disadvantages, of the rule of His Majesty the Emperor Francis Josef.
With many well-known men in Sarayevo I talked. I heard both sides.
But I am bound to admit that some of the facts proved to me were
utterly amazing, showing how ill and unjustly governed is both
Bosnia and Herzegovina. I had read André Barre’s recent book, _La
Bosnie-Herzegovina_, and had doubted the very serious and direct
charges which he brings against the Austrian Administration.
Therefore I went to see for myself, to make inquiry, and to thoroughly
investigate.
The opinion I formed, after analysing the many facts placed before me,
is that the present oppressed state of Bosnia is surely a vivid
object-lesson to Servia, where day by day Austria is endeavouring, by
the most ingenious and unscrupulous forms of intrigue, to obtain a
footing. This latter I will explain more fully in my chapters on the
future of Servia. Suffice it here to say that poor struggling Bosnia is
to-day helpless beneath the talons of the Austrian eagle, and that the
administration is a shameful travesty of civilised rule.
The Serb population are more essentially the sufferers, and have been so
ever since the Austrian occupation allowed by the Treaty of Berlin.
Through the four centuries of the Turkish rule, the Christians were from
time to time oppressed, and in return revolted, more particularly in
1850 and 1875; but the position of the Serbs to-day is very little
better, if any, than it was before the Russo-Turkish War.
Indeed, it seems that the whole policy of Austria in Bosnia has been
directed against the Servian Orthodox people. The Servian Mohammedans
are not feared because of their ignorance, while their fatalism renders
them docile. On the contrary, however, the local Government of Bosnia
fears those professing the Orthodox faith, and, having established the
Jesuits solidly in the country, have proceeded upon a course of
systematic persecution. Austrian methods are too apparent all over the
Balkans. Unscrupulous to a degree, her policy in Bosnia has been one of
terror, of espionage, of famine, and of assassination. In truth it is
accomplishing the moral and material ruin of a splendid country, the
crushing of the noble Servian race which has, alas! fallen beneath its
hand.
At first I was inclined to doubt. The Serb is a patriot, sometimes given
to exaggeration. But very quickly, as the result of my inquiries,
evidences of Austria’s evil rule were apparent on every hand. To go into
a mass of detail is not within the province of this record of inquiry,
neither do I wish to scream hysterical condemnations. I went to the
Balkans, not for sight-seeing, but seeking to penetrate some of the
mysteries of their politics, and their aims for the future. I travelled
there in order to have audiences with the Kings, Princes, and Cabinet
Ministers of the various countries in the Peninsula. These were granted
me, and thus I obtained, at first hand, their views regarding the
present situation, and their hopes and aspirations.
In Bosnia, both on the Mohammedan and Christian side, I found only a
grave and grim story of misrule and oppression, which it may be well to
briefly outline, in order to show how Austria rules the unfortunate
country that falls beneath her dominion.
Under Austria, the Servian Orthodox Church is treated in a manner
utterly inconceivable in this enlightened century. Neither trouble nor
intrigue has been spared to separate the people from the Church. The
metropolitans nominated by the Emperor have been alienated from the
people, with the result that at Mostar the head of the Church is the
object of unanimous derision. No one will attend his church if he is
present, and on passing him in the streets they turn their heads or
hiss. Again, in Sarayevo the metropolitan is regarded with equal
disfavour. The old people refuse to receive the communion at his hands,
and each day upon the walls of his house are posted insulting placards.
To those who know the veneration with which the Serbs regard their
metropolitans, such signs as these show the general demoralisation
brought about by intrigue and the circulation of base calumnies. Not
only are the people encouraged to treat the heads of the Church with
contempt, but they are taught to hate the priests and to scoff at
religion. And this by an Empire which has the miserable effrontery to
call itself Christian!
Again, Saint Sava is, as is well known, the patron saint of the Servian
Church. He is considered the protector of churches and schools, and all
new churches in Bosnia and Herzegovina adopt for their _slava_, or
festival, the day consecrated to Saint Sava, January 14 (O.S.). This day
the Orthodox Serbs everywhere regard as a feast. In the morning there is
a solemn service, and in the evening the young people assemble to sing
national songs and dance national dances. But even this has been
disapproved of by Austria, who regards the feast as preserving the
national conscience. The Government commenced by prohibiting the second
portion of the fête, and then gradually suppressing the first. Pressed
by the authorities, the priests each 14th of January are suddenly taken
so ill that they cannot perform the service, or else they are
unavoidably absent from home on that day, so that no _slava_ can take
place. In this oppressed country every programme of a fête, no matter
what, must first pass the censor, who prohibits the singing of the old
Servian songs, and places a penalty upon anyone singing the “Hymn of
Saint Sava,” which is purely a religious one. Again, in many cases the
reply of the censor will arrive eight or ten days after the date of the
festival. Indeed, in many places, the _slava_ of private families—the
domestic name-day feast which, to the Servian, surpasses in interest
either Christmas or Easter—has actually been prohibited by the very
enlightened local authorities! This happened in the arrondissement of
Rielinski quite recently.
Of the history of the struggle of the Orthodox Church in Bosnia, or of
the strenuous Catholic propaganda, it is unnecessary to speak. Let us
deal with the present deplorable state of affairs, and with the future.
Woe-betide any heard singing the patriotic song of the Prince of
Montenegro, “Onamo ... Onamo,” for he will be punished severely. Spies
are on every hand, and no man knows at any moment when he may be thrown
into prison upon some fictitious charge. Austria, indeed, is
endeavouring to civilise and subject Bosnia by continued oppression, and
nowhere is this more apparent than in the Press. Like in Russia, every
word is subjected to the censor before printed. One buys the
_Musavat_—the organ of the Serb Mohammedans in Herzegovina, printed at
Mostar—and finds every paragraph bearing a number. There are many
numbers with the spaces blank—suppressed altogether. Again, in the
_Servian Word_, the organ of the Servian Orthodox in Bosnia, one finds
the same thing—numbers and blanks.
This is not, perhaps, surprising when practically every organ of the
Press is prohibited save the Government publications, of which the
_Bosniak_—an amusing journal fabricated by amateur journalistic
functionaries of the State—is a good example.
Among the hundred and four journals prohibited are most of the Servian
newspapers, even commercial, religious, and literary reviews; a number
of Hungarian journals, including the _Dubrovnik_ of Ragusa; every
Russian journal of whatever kind or description; and last, but surely
not least, the _Comments upon the Evangelists_ by the Metropolitan
Firmilien!
Every book or newspaper entering Bosnia or Herzegovina goes through the
censor’s office, while the postal employés note, and hand to the police,
the names and addresses of the receivers of prohibited publications. So
it is not only in Russia and Turkey where one cannot read a foreign
journal, but here, under the enlightened rule of His Majesty the Emperor
Francis Josef.
Bosnia is, truth to tell, an unknown land as far as the rest of Europe
is concerned, and probably these facts may come as a complete surprise
to English readers, who are apt to regard Austria as a Christian and
progressive Power, instead of what she is, the Ogre of the Balkans.
To the injustices inflicted upon the peasantry, to their many grievances
and their violated rights, I have not space here to refer. Under such
rule as pertains, the wretched condition of the Serbs in the rural
districts may well be imagined. As André Barre has truly said, “Austria
entered Bosnia and Herzegovina, not for the purposes of reform, nor to
civilise, but to satisfy a political desire, a military ambition to
triumph over a people by slowly and methodically exterminating them.”
“J’ai mis le pied sur la tête du serpent,” said Count Andrassy, speaking
to Lord Salisbury after the signature of the Treaty of Berlin. And those
words give to-day the key to the Austrian policy. She seeks to crush the
Serbs, not only in Bosnia, but in the kingdom of Servia itself, and to
Germanise the whole land by steel and by hunger. And such is the present
pitiable situation—a situation unrealised in England—a situation which
has actually called forth the hostile criticism of the Vienna journals
themselves—including the semi-official _Neue Freie Presse_—against the
present barbarism of the occupation.
Any industry or commerce exploited by Serbs is at once crushed and
ruined, while in the police we have vivid examples of corrupt
maladministration only equalled in Russia. The police persecutions are
scandalous. Many were related to me by persons who had themselves been
victims. The Bosnian citizen beneath the claws of the police is utterly
without defence. If the paternal Government of Austria attempt to deny
this, let the recent cases of M. Gligorie Jeftanovitch of Sarayevo, M.
Chola of Mostar, M. Stiepo Srchkitch, M. Ilia Duckovitch, M. Risto
Maximovitch, M. Radoulovitch, M. Nikolas Pichkakutch of Banja-Louka, and
the sad affair of Pierre Dorliatcha of Bosnia-Novi, amid a thousand
others, be cited, to show what travesties of justice are performed in
this remote corner of the Balkans. A whole volume, indeed, could be
written upon the corrupt Austrian police methods which vie with those of
Holy Russia. But it must suffice here to cite cases upon which no denial
can be offered by the authorities.
The Austrian authorities, who are so glib with their semi-official
denials and statements, which we see almost daily in the London
newspapers, will have some difficulty in disproving the disgraceful
incident at Sokolatz, near Sarayevo, not long ago. Here, during the
Easter fête, the gendarmes were formed round the church “to maintain
order.” A peasant saw one of the gendarmes endeavouring to outrage a
young woman, and ran to inform the authorities. Whereupon the gendarme
shot the peasant dead with his revolver. There was no inquiry regarding
the murder, though witnessed by at least a hundred persons. And the
official account of the affair—which I have myself seen—actually
declares that the unfortunate peasant died _a natural death_!
This is but one single case of hundreds. All over the country the police
and gendarmes shoot the witnesses of their crimes, and there is never an
inquiry. Of a verity the barbarities of the police in Bosnia are a
disgrace to a nation that calls itself civilised, and cry for reform
quite as loudly as they do in the Land of the Tzar.
Let the reader who doubts this outspoken condemnation of Austrian
administration go to Bosnia and see for himself. He will find that I
have understated the facts, and things will be told him that surely will
stagger belief.
CHAPTER II
DUST IN THE EYES OF EUROPE
How spies work in Bosnia—Secret agents dog the stranger’s footsteps—My
own experience—Fighting the spy with his own weapons—To “nobble” the
foreigner—How an unfavourable book was purchased by the Austrian
Government—Bribery of Press correspondents—A country worse than
Russia—Some suggested reforms—The secret policy of Austria in the
Balkans.
Spies are a necessity to autocratic Governments. Their business is to
prevent the execution of plots, to discover all secrets affecting the
security of the Prince or the State, and to supply information which may
be used with advantage in diplomacy by their employers.
In Bosnia one of the largest items in the national expenditure is the
sum expended upon espionage. Here, however, its character is very
different from that described above. Its agents have no work in
connection with political plots, for the crushed and humiliated people
are far too feeble to conspire against the State. Their nefarious work
is simply to spread intimidation and suspicion among the inhabitants,
and to put them in defiance one against the other—indeed, to promote
disorder, so that the force of Austria may be consolidated upon them.
This secret stirring up of internal strife by Austria is part of her
policy, not only in Bosnia but in Servia and other parts of the Balkans.
In the kingdom of Servia she is especially active to-day. Indeed, her
unscrupulous methods are well illustrated by what occurred on the
assassination of King Alexander and Queen Draga. Instantly after the
assassination Austria mobilised her troops in all the garrisons on the
Servian frontier, at Semlin, Pancsova, and Neusatz, with orders to enter
Servian territory on the first sign of trouble. At the same time there
was sent into Belgrade a perfect army of _agents provocateurs_—police
spies, all of them—who promenaded the town crying to the crowd, “Come
on! Come on! Let us wreck and demolish the Embassy of Austria, the
supporters of the dynasty of Obrenovitch!”
The Servian people, fortunately, hesitated, though they all had good
cause to make a demonstration against their bitterest enemies. Then the
Minister of the Interior intervened, and put military guards at all the
Legations. The agitators were arrested, and at their trial were proved
beyond doubt to be actual agents of Austria, sent there to create
disorder and so allow the Austrian troops to enter Servia!
And as such, with a strong protest to Vienna, they were ignominiously
expelled.
In Sarayevo one half of the population is paid to spy upon the other
half. Ask any man in Bosnia or in Herzegovina his opinion of his
neighbour, and he will tell you to beware of him, as “he is a spy, and
will denounce you to the authorities.” Ask the accused about his
accuser, and he will tell you exactly the same thing. The whole place
simply swarms with secret agents. In the country, peasants are given
cows in payment for information about their neighbours, which is, of
course, very often false. Stories are manufactured for the sake of
reward. Expense is nothing. Agents follow you everywhere—in the town, in
the country, and even beyond the frontier.
Oh yes! Bosnia, with all her natural beauties of scenery, is a truly
delightful place under the present régime. The Government have their
spies in private houses in the guise of domestics—for, by preference,
they employ women and priests. Every pavement in the towns carries a
spy, therefore silence here is certainly golden. The spy system is more
complete and elaborate than either in Russia or in France, and a good
deal more costly—all energies being devoted against the unfortunate
Serbs.
In such an oppressed and persecuted country it goes without saying that
the stranger is well looked after. From the moment I crossed the
frontier of Herzegovina, to the moment I left Slavonia at Zimony, I was
never lost sight of. Perhaps because I was known to be the bearer of
Government despatches, I was suspected of being a British agent in
disguise. My passport was never asked for until I desired to leave
Austrian territory and cross the Save to Belgrade, yet with the
marvellous secret system I was, while in Bosnia, a marked man. Each time
I strolled in the streets of Mostar or of Sarayevo, a spy dogged my
footsteps—sometimes a man, sometimes a woman—and my every movement was
carefully noted.
A gentleman, apparently staying in the hotel and speaking excellent
French, volunteered to be my guide about Sarayevo. He was a pleasant,
nonchalant fellow, and represented himself to be a commercial traveller.
I accepted his kind offices, well knowing him to be a spy, and was
rather amused at the idea of the authorities providing me gratuitously
with such an excellent cicerone. Wherever I went, so also did he. By all
kinds of clever ruses he endeavoured to discover the reason of my visit;
and I, in order to aggravate him, managed to elude his questions and so
increase his suspicions. In my travels in various out-of-the-world
corners of the Continent I have had a wide experience of spies and their
ways, therefore I set myself to puzzle my inquisitive friend by adopting
the self-same methods as he himself was adopting.
This continued for a couple of days, when he gave me up and disappeared.
After that I was watched by two agents, who kept me always under close
surveillance. I was more amused than annoyed, yet I confess I
entertained constant anxiety regarding the confidential despatches that
were in my possession, to be handed over to the King’s Messenger on his
way from Constantinople to London at the earliest moment.
The traveller can only reach Sarayevo from three points: from the north
from Bosnche-Brod or Banja-Louka, and from the south by Metkovitch. The
local authorities of these three places know each traveller who passes,
and to the stranger’s compartment there enters a pleasant person of
engaging manner, who becomes his fellow-traveller, whiles away the
tedious hours, explains the objects of interest along the route, and at
the same time discovers a good deal about the new-comer. The secret
agent will discourse upon the peace of the country, the prosperity of
the people, the impartiality of the administration, and the rapid
strides of progress being made on every hand. Meanwhile, news of the
stranger has been telegraphed to Sarayevo, and when the polite traveller
has parted from the stranger, the latter at once falls under a strict
surveillance, of which he never dreams.
Should you let drop the remark that you have come to Bosnia to study the
conditions of the country, then the attention paid to you will be
prodigious. Kind friends, overflowing with information, will be your
guides everywhere: they will conduct you to visit the authorities; they
will pay for your cabs, give you luncheons at restaurants, and accompany
you of an evening even to the door of your bedroom, until you will think
the country a veritable El Dorado. Strangers who come to study are, of
course, dangerous to the Administration, and therefore are carefully
watched, and treated with unsurpassing generosity. Spies surround him,
and the people, knowing those spies by sight, fear to approach him. In
some cases a peasant or a citizen has approached a stranger and told him
some plain truths—the truths I have learnt and written in these
pages—and for doing so has invariably been sent to prison. These lessons
have borne fruit, for nowadays nothing in the world will induce the
Bosnian peasant to talk to a stranger. He is far too afraid.
If any serious criticism of Bosnian administration is published abroad,
the authorities always seek to immediately purchase and suppress it, and
many are the sums yearly paid in blackmail to unscrupulous writers who,
knowing the truth, threaten to make exposure. I will give a case in
point. Not very long ago there was in Prague published a brochure
severely criticising the Bosnian policy, giving a description of the
maladministration, and pointing out the disastrous state of the
finances. A copy of this fell into the hands of M. Stakievitch, late
director of the administration of the Bosnian local Government, and at
that moment _en congé_. He at once apprised the local Government, who
immediately sent Dr. Berx to Prague, with orders to suppress the
publication of the book at all costs. The Government, after some brief
negotiations, paid the sum of 100,000 florins (200,000 fcs.) for the
destruction of the book and the silence of its author upon the state of
Bosnian finance!
Then on the return of Dr. Berx no fewer than forty functionaries were
arrested on charges of having given information to the author. Is not
this sufficiently significant? Every newspaper in Bosnia and Herzegovina
is well subsidised, and in return is compelled to chant the praises of
the administration of the local Government, while all correspondents of
foreign journals are equally the recipient of money from the State. In
Bosnia the foreign newspaper correspondent lives well and grows fat.
Thus does Austria throw dust in the eyes of Europe.
With religion persecuted, education at a standstill, and the Press
either gagged or suborned, Austria is slowly carrying out her policy of
crushing the Serbs. In Bosnia you have no right to pray, no right to
think; you must blindly obey and laud with flattery the very talons
outstretched to rend you. It is a land where justice is a farce, where
lies are told as truths, where the police persecute and murder, where
the poor are oppressed, where the official grows wealthy, and where no
man is secure from the false denunciation of spies eager for reward.
Should it be permitted in this twentieth century to one European people
to crush another European people under the false pretext of
civilisation? The Bosnians are neither negroes nor red-skins, but a
civilised religious race, part of the great Serb nation, with the same
right to live, the same right to religion, liberty, and to justice as
the canting hypocrites of Vienna themselves. Why should they be
exterminated?
So careful is the local Government of Bosnia not to allow the truth to
leak out that up to the present little has been heard in Europe of the
plain, unvarnished facts I have here put forward. But it is a subject
that will come before the public ere long, and then we shall see if the
Powers will still stand by and allow the destruction of a people who do
not merit the hatred of their master.
[Illustration: Sarayevo: Bosnia.]
[Illustration: In Herzegovina.]
Bosnia and Herzegovina are both rich countries; the soil is productive,
the inhabitants are intelligent and apt in agriculture, industry, and
commerce. The provinces are capable of moral and material expansion, if
such were permitted, and there is no reason why the whole country should
not be peaceable and prosperous.
Save André Barre, scarcely a writer has up to to-day had the courage to
frankly criticise the rule of His Imperial and Royal Majesty the Emperor
of Austria. So carefully are the facts concealed by the local
authorities—who adopt the self-same tactics of Russia before the
uprising—that strangers going to Bosnia see or hear practically nothing,
and what they do see is all rose-tinted. What I have written here is,
however, based upon my own observations, and upon what was told and
proved to me by responsible persons in Mostar and Sarayevo, men who,
living under the persecution of police and Government, risked their
liberty in speaking with me. I have therefore put the facts plainly, in
order that the English reading public may form their own conclusions.
The reforms urgently needed are many.
From the religious point of view, what is required is effective liberty
of conscience, liberty of the cult, and the autonomy of the Serb
Orthodox Church. From the moral point of view, the religions and customs
of the different nationalities in Bosnia should be respected, liberty of
education should be given as well as liberty of speech and liberty of
the Press.
Regarded from an economic point of view, an immediate solution of the
agrarian question is required; a readjustment of the unjust taxes; the
establishment of schools of agriculture, as in Servia and Bulgaria;
liberty of commerce and industry; and the establishment of poor-relief
and poor-houses.
Many reforms are also required in the Administration. The citizens of
the two countries should be eligible for employment in public offices;
the public functionaries should be replaced by a more educated class;
the police force should be purged and diminished; the costly spy system
should be entirely abolished; a less corrupt justice should be
introduced, and economy effected in the present wasted finances.
Yet how can one hope for reforms from a nation like Austria, who is
working daily and unscrupulously to crush and exterminate the
unfortunate Serbs under their rule, with one aim and one policy, namely,
to extend their territory south through Novi-Bazar and Macedonia in
order to obtain the port of Salonica?
Under the Treaty of Berlin the Powers have a right to interfere. If they
would check Austria’s advances southward they should step in at once and
claim, in the name of civilisation and humanity, justice for poor
persecuted Bosnia. If half a dozen African negroes are maltreated by a
Belgian rubber-hunter we throw up our hands in pious horror, lift our
eyes heavenward, the papers are flooded with “atrocities,” often
manufactured, and questions are asked in the House. Yet when we have
here a whole country being vigorously and secretly crushed under our
very noses, by a Power who intends to be one of our rivals in the East,
we turn our heads in the opposite direction. Austria, we say, is a
Christian country, and can do no wrong!
Go to the Balkans, and you will see what I have seen. You will then
realise the clever, subtle influence of Austrian agents in
Montenegro—where they persuade the pride of the country to emigrate,
themselves paying the expenses, and thus sap the nation of its future
population; in Northern Albania, where the priests in Austrian pay never
cease to descant upon the benefits of Austrian rule; in Servia, where
they are ever stirring strife; in Bulgaria, where their spies are ever
active; and in Macedonia, where they secretly encourage the Greek bands
to massacre the Bulgars.
Thus over the whole of the Balkans Austria has spread forth her wings,
and her dark, threatening shadow is now across everything. The Austrian
policy, shown so very plainly to all who travel in the Balkans, is to
compete with Germany and become the paramount Power in the Peninsula,
and obtain Montenegro, Albania, and Macedonia for herself, together with
the much-coveted port of Salonica. From this latter point she already
has a railway—constructed by the late Baron Hirsch—through Usküb, and
joining the main Vienna-Constantinople line at Nisch, in Servia.
Therefore part of the policy is to lay hold of the kingdom of
Servia—though under the present régime there, and with a Government so
firmly established as it is, there is, I think, very little to fear in
this latter. Fortunately, Servia knows how to take care of herself.
Such is the programme of Austria—one of extermination and extension. And
with these facts in view, indisputable to every traveller, surely it is
in the interests of the Powers to remain no longer indifferent to the
state of affairs in Bosnia.
Is it possible that the prophetic words of the Russian delegate
Gortchakoff, speaking at the Berlin Congress, will ever come true, as so
many of his prophecies have done?
He said, “The tomb of Austria is in the Balkans.”
SERVIA
CHAPTER I
THE TRUTH ABOUT SERVIA
The diplomatic circle in Belgrade—Studying both sides of the Servian
question—Austrian intrigue—113 known foreign spies in Belgrade!—An
illustration of the work of secret agents—Quaint Servian
customs—Pauperism unknown—Servia to-day and to-morrow.
The stranger’s first impression of Belgrade is that it is a rather dull
Russian town.
Coming from Bosnia and Albania, one misses the quaint costumes and the
life and movement in the streets, the fierce men with rifles, and the
veiled shuffling women. The Turk, though he has a mosque here, is
unseen.
At Semlin—or Zimony, as the Hungarians call it—the last town on the
Austrian side of the Save, one’s passport is carefully examined and
registered, not by the Servians, to allow you into the country, but by
the Austrians, to allow you to pass out!
As bearer of despatches for His Britannic Majesty’s Government, I had no
difficulty either with passport or luggage; otherwise, with the Customs
War raging, I might have suffered considerable delay. Crossing the
river, I ere long found myself in comfortable quarters in the Grand
Hotel in Belgrade—comfortable indeed after the rough life and hard fare
in Northern Albania.
My letters of introduction having been presented to the Servian Cabinet
Ministers and members of both political parties, and having called upon
Mr. Beethom Whitehead, the newly appointed British Minister, I quickly
found myself in the centre of a very smart and merry diplomatic circle.
To His Excellency M. Nicholas Pachitch,—the Premier and strongest man in
Servia; to Madame Pachitch; to His Excellency Dr. Milenko Vesnitch,
Minister of Justice; to Madame Vesnitch, an American and one of the most
charming and beautiful ladies in Belgrade; to M. Stoyanovitch, Minister
of Commerce; to Commandant Yossiphovitch, aide-de-camp to His Majesty;
to Colonel Tcholak-Antich, the Royal Marechal; to the Minister of
Finance; to M. Drago Yankovitch of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs; to
Mr. Alexander Yovitchitch, late Servian Minister in London; to Colonel
Christich, his wife, an Irish lady, and Miss Annie Christich; to Mr. C.
L. Blakeney of the British Legation; and also to Mr. Beethom Whitehead,
the British Minister, and Mrs. Whitehead, I owe a deep debt of gratitude
for their kindness to me socially, and their invaluable assistance
during my inquiries.
There are but few English in Belgrade—not more than two or three
residents. But at the hotel I was fortunate in finding my friend Mr. A.
M. Tucker, Servian Consul-General in London, who with his wife was in
Belgrade in connection with a financial undertaking. Mr. Tucker is an
official who has rendered many services to the Servian Government.
Moving in the official set, I was soon able to see for myself the social
life in Belgrade, which I found very bright and very entertaining. In
the mornings the streets are filled with well-dressed ladies and gallant
officers, in perhaps the smartest uniforms in Europe. The hour of the
siesta is from one till three, then at five the cafés overflow till
seven. Someone is always giving a dinner or reception, and bridge is
played everywhere; for in no other city in Europe has it “caught on”
more than it has in Belgrade.
The British Legation is, of course, the smartest house among those of
the diplomatists, and that of Madame Vesnitch among the Cabinet
Ministers. French and Italian are the languages spoken in society.
[Illustration:
24 Octob. 1900 Belgrad. Nic. P. Pachitch
Prime Minister of Servia.
]
The city of Belgrade is in a transition state. Already in many of the
principal streets fine new buildings have been completed, and many are
now in the course of construction. The roads, it must be said, are
execrably paved, so uneven that driving is a torture. But the reason
they have not been repaved during the present régime is because a new
drainage system is about to be carried out, and when this is done they
will be asphalted and converted into boulevards. The natural situation
of “Beograd”—or the White Fortress—is magnificent, high up on a hill at
the junction of the Save and the Danube. Behind rises the extinct
volcano of Avala, where, according to one tradition, a great treasure is
hidden, and to another that the mountain is rich in gold and silver
deposits.
The centre of life in Belgrade is the gay café of the Grand Hotel. From
five to seven in the afternoon everyone is there, card-playing, smoking,
sipping _slivovitza_ (plum gin) or drinking _bock_, and listening to the
excellent band, while the inner hall is filled with smart ladies and
their cavaliers. Save the peasantry one sees about the street, the oxen
drawing primitive carts, and now and then a man wearing a fez, there is
little that is Eastern in Belgrade, save the slightly dark complexion
and cast of features of the Servians. For the most part the women are
very handsome, but they seem, like most Eastern races, to lose their
beauty at an early age.
Though I made it my duty to hear and study both sides of political
questions in Belgrade, and though I spent many hours with those in
fierce opposition to the present régime, I must say that I received on
every hand the greatest kindness, while everybody seemed ever ready to
render me a service.
The Servians are a highly intelligent and thoughtful race. The young
officers in the streets are not of the ogling, giggling genus one knows
so well in Germany, France, and Italy, but though smarter in appearance
than either nation, they are serious, polite, and gentlemanly to a
degree. The King, when speaking to me of military matters, pointed out a
curious fact, namely, that so intelligent was the average Servian
recruit that in six months he usually learnt what in France took him
eighteen months.
In feminine circles it struck me that there was a great extravagance in
dress. I saw the very latest Paris hats and smart, well-cut gowns, which
bore evidence of the expensive _couturière_ worn by the wives of
struggling officials, and I learnt that about ten pounds was no uncommon
price for a hat. All classes seem to vie with each other to dress well,
and in the brilliant salons at night one sees some of the smartest gowns
in Europe.
As regards cooking, I fear I cannot say very much that is favourable.
That at the Grand is decidedly poor, save perhaps the dishes of
delicious sterlet; and of the various restaurants I tried, the only one
which reached excellence was that kept by an Italian, one Perolo, who
was for many years chef to King Milan. There one can dine well—if one
knows what to order. The younger diplomatists dine there in a room
together, entrance to which is forbidden, save to a few chosen ones.
The diplomatic circle do a good deal of entertaining. The British
Minister and his wife give large dinner-parties every Tuesday, which are
very delightful functions; while each Thursday afternoon Mrs.
Whitehead—who is a very charming hostess—is at home. The Foreign Office
have certainly been happy in their choice of Mr. Whitehead to fulfil the
very difficult and onerous task of renewing diplomatic relations, for he
is a skilled diplomatist, and has been for many years in St. Petersburg,
Brussels, Tokio, Constantinople, and Berlin, where he was, until
recently, Councillor of Embassy. He also speaks Russian.
The Legation is one of the most tasteful houses in Belgrade, and is
filled with highly interesting collections from Japan. The German
Minister, Prince Max Ratibor, with his wife and stepdaughter, the young
Princess Taxis, also give a good many smart entertainments.
The capital is, of course, a hotbed of political intrigue, and all
foreigners arriving are suspected of being secret agents. They are
watched, their correspondence often opened, and their business in
Belgrade thoroughly investigated and reported upon. At first the
stranger resents this kind of thing. On my arrival I found myself
constantly watched, but as soon as it was known who and what I was, the
surveillance ceased.
I mentioned the matter to one of the high police officials, whereupon he
explained that in Belgrade alone he held a list of no fewer than 113
known secret agents of Austria! “We therefore keep secret agents for our
own protection. Can you blame us?” he asked.
In the diplomatic circle one hears everywhere a cry of “shame” upon the
false news which, being supposed to emanate from reliable sources in
Belgrade, is really manufactured across the Save at Zimony by
irresponsible journalists in the pay of Austria. The Servian officials
actually gave me the names of some of these gentlemen.
In the English newspapers one reads constantly telegrams from Vienna,
generally to that very irresponsible and sensational journal the _Zeit_,
declaring that there are all sorts of plots in Servia against King
Peter. A short time ago this journal actually had the audacity to say
that the Crown Prince was insane! Such telegrams should be read with
entire disbelief, for they emanate from certain Hungarian journalists
who were expelled from Belgrade on account of the false news despatched
from there, and now live across the river at Zimony, whence they
continually launch their tirades against Servia and the Servians.
What I read from time to time in the English papers regarding Servia is
so utterly opposed to the truth—and in our most responsible journals,
too—that it often utterly amazes me.
There is a scheme on foot started by an English company to build a large
new hotel in Belgrade—which is badly wanted. The Grand is full to
overflowing all the year round, and strangers are nightly turned away.
It is, I believe, intended to build the hotel on English lines, with a
few private sitting-rooms where the traveller can be quiet and rest in
peace away from the turmoil and clatter inseparable from a huge garish
café.
The streets are usually broad, straight, and if not actually handsome
thoroughfares, are well adapted for improvement and the erection of
larger buildings. Most of the suburban houses are of a ground floor
only, which strike the Englishman as curious; for as the windows are on
a level with the street, there is an utter lack of privacy in family
life. Servians of both sexes, I noticed, are great cigarette-smokers,
and Servian cigarettes I found were the best in the Balkans.
The pleasantest promenade is the Kalemegdan, the pretty gardens situated
behind the old fortress which commands the junction of the Danube and
the Save, while on the bank rises the Neboyscha (the fearless) tower, of
which many terrible tales are told of the days of the Turks. In the
Kalemegdan, adorned with bronze busts of Servian poets and savants,
smart Belgrade promenades every afternoon and admires the beautiful view
from the Fikir-Bair (“the slope of dreaming”), the smart uniforms of the
officers lending the necessary touch of colour to complete a charming
scene.
The religion is, of course, Greek Orthodox, with the independent Servian
Church, while the population of Servia is about three millions. Some of
the characteristic traits of the Servians are curious and interesting.
Every Servian family has, each year, its saint’s day, and in every
Servian drawing-room one finds a small wood panel with the image of that
saint painted thereon. The day usually falls upon that of some great
fête such as that of St. Nicholas, the Archangel Michael, etc., which
are perhaps the two most fêted. The day in question is called the
_Slava_ (fête of the patron saint of the family). The saint fêted by the
head of the family is also fêted by his wife, children, and servants.
Some days before the fête the priest visits the house for the
benediction of water placed in a basin, after which he sprinkles with a
bunch of basil all members of the family, as well as various rooms, and
the image of the fêted saint.
All the household regard the week prior to the fête as a fast. The eve
of the day of the _Slava_ the lamp is lit before the image of the saint,
and is burnt for two days. A couple of days before the anniversary a
tasty dish is prepared, called the _Koljivo_, mainly composed of wheat,
nuts, and almonds. Those families, however, who fête the Archangel
Michael do not prepare this cake, for the people believe that the
Archangel still lives, and cakes are only offerings to the dead.
[Illustration:
HIS EXCELLENCY DR. MILENKO VESNITCH,
Servian Minister of Justice.
]
On the morning of the fête the head of the family lights a taper, and
the priest, after a ceremony, cuts a kind of bread specially prepared
and bearing a cross; after which he sprinkles wine upon it and upon the
_Koljivo_.
Everybody, from early morning, salutes the head of the family with the
words, “Sretna slava” (a happy fête), and grasps his hand. If the
visitor is a man, he embraces the husband; if a woman, the wife. The
daughter of the house offers the _Koljivo_ to the guests, and everyone
takes a spoonful of _slatko_—a kind of fruit preserve—brandy and coffee.
At noon, wine is also drunk. To the houses of the better class telegrams
and letters arrive all day. In the country districts the day is given up
to eating, drinking, singing, and toasts.
The fêted saint is considered to be the protector of the family, to whom
daily prayers are said and mediation asked with the Almighty.
Next to the _Slava_, the fête most widely celebrated is Christmas. There
is a Servian couplet that runs—
“_As there’s no day without light,
So there’s no rejoicing without the Servian Christmas._”
After a long fast, the Servian people await Christmas impatiently. It is
a day of feasting in the whole country. Two days before Christmas
Day—old style, of course—roasts are prepared, consisting of a lamb and a
sucking-pig. On the morning of Christmas Eve one of the boys of the
family goes into the forest and cuts the Christmas log or _Badgnak_—a
usage which was recognised in the old days in France. Choosing a young
tree, he recites a prayer and cuts it down, while another lad is careful
that the first branch cut does not fall to the ground. He clutches hold
of it, and it is placed in the milk, so that good cream shall be
produced, or upon the beehive, that the bees may bring good honey. The
bringing home of the Christmas log is attended by many quaint
ceremonies.
That evening, while the family is at supper—which mostly consists of
fruits—the head of the house takes three nuts in his right hand, and
throwing them towards the east exclaims, “In the name of the Father”;
then three others, which he throws to the west saying, “and of the Son”;
and then three others he throws to the north, adding, “and of the Holy
Ghost.” Then with three others he makes the sign of the cross, and
throwing them to the south, exclaims “Amen.”
With the dawn of Christmas Day visits commence, the first person
generally to arrive being a young man neighbour, known as the
_polaznik_. He embraces the master of the house, makes the sign of the
cross upon the Yule-log, and wishes good luck to the household. In the
Christmas cake is placed a piece of money, and the person to whom it
falls will have good fortune all the year.
The Easter feast comes third with the Servians, and is a great occasion
for egg-breaking, one egg being broken against the other. Each visitor
receives an egg, and the fête lasts three days. The gipsies, of whom
there are very many in the Balkans, go from house to house at Easter,
singing and wishing good fortune to the householders, receiving, of
course, money in return for their good wishes.
There is also an extraordinary institution among the Servians called the
_pobratime_. It often occurs that two persons of the same sex love one
another very dearly, and regret that they are not allied by
relationship. In such a case they go through a solemn ceremony, and
become _pobratimes_, or brothers by election. It is the same with both
sexes. In many cases religion or nationality does not count, for there
are numbers of cases where a Serb has chosen for _pobratime_ a Turk or
an Albanian. In some cases the ceremony is a grave and solemn one before
a priest. Sometimes, indeed, the two persons make a slight cut in each
other’s hands, and suck each other’s blood, so becoming blood relations.
This custom is, strangely enough, very prevalent among the more savage
of the African tribes. The _pobratimes_ remain faithful and devoted one
to the other until death.
[Illustration:
HIS EXCELLENCY COSTA STOYANOVITCH,
Servian Minister of Commerce.
]
Belgrade resembles no other European capital for several reasons. There
are no poor quarters of squalor and misery, and pauperism is unknown.
During the whole time I was in the capital not a single person solicited
alms. During the last thirty years land in the vicinity of the city has
quadrupled in value. Each house is generally occupied by one family, and
almost every house has a pretty garden or courtyard. For many years
there has been constant rebuilding, and nowadays houses are usually
built of brick in preference to stone—although there is a Brick Trust in
the country. A good granite is also employed, and the new buildings are
mostly ornate and handsome.
Modern Belgrade is well planned. The Rue Terasia and the Rue Prince
Michel run on the highest part of the plateau and form the main artery
of traffic, while from these two streets diverge other thoroughfares, on
the one side leading to the Danube, and on the other to the Save.
Viewed from the Danube, the panorama of Belgrade is a fine and imposing
one. A commodious quay is badly required for the ever-increasing river
traffic, but plans have already been prepared, and shortly the work will
be put in hand. High above the river runs the pleasant promenade in the
Kalemegdan Gardens, leading to the old fortress with its time-mellowed
red brick bastions, now turned into a prison. The position of the city
is certainly well adapted to expand into a really fine, handsome
capital, as it must become in the near future. It is the centre of
intellectual life of Servia. The Library and Museum testify to the
literary tastes of the Servians. The Museum is very rich in antiques,
and contains a highly interesting numismatic collection. Both science
and art are well cultivated in the Servian capital, which is also the
headquarters of the Metropolitan Archbishop, the courts of Cassation and
of Appeal, the État Major, the Military School, the Faculties, and the
Ecclesiastical School.
The capital of Servia therefore occupies a most favourable position, and
is designed to become a very important centre of commerce. Its situation
being at the junction of the Save and the Danube, at the head of the
railway which unites the European capitals with the Black Sea ports, as
well as with Salonica and Constantinople, it cannot fail to be the gate
of the whole commerce of the Orient. It is, indeed, the Gateway of the
East.
Nisch, in the south, is the town second in importance. In 1874 it
contained only 12,000 population, while to-day it has more than 30,000
inhabitants. Standing as it does at the junction of the Oriental with
the European railways, all the merchandise to or from Turkey passes
through it: either by way of Sofia, or by Usküb and Macedonia. The old
Turkish quarter has been recently destroyed, wide streets built, and the
town thoroughly modernised and brought up to date, while there are
several comfortable hotels. The country around Nisch is noted for its
excellent light wines, which, having tasted, I can recommend. In Nisch,
as in many other parts of Servia, there are many openings for the
profitable employment of British capital.
The Servian Government is anxious to promote commerce and industry
throughout the kingdom. It is ready to give facility and encouragement
to foreigners—and especially the English—to exploit the wealth that
undoubtedly abounds, and it will treat them honestly, justly, and well.
Country life presents many interesting features. The Servian is much
more industrious than the Roumanian or the Bulgar, and consequently is
much more the master of his own household. The house of the Servian
peasant is generally constructed of brick, situate in the valleys and
ravines, and is usually of one storey only. There are generally three or
four rooms, the larger one being used as a common sitting and dining
room. The furniture of the common room is very simple—a table, chairs,
and settle and wardrobe; while upon the whitewashed walls are coloured
religious prints. The other rooms are covered with bright-coloured
Servian carpets, and in some villages of the Machva and the valley of
the Morava—where the peasants appear to live in greater comfort—I found
Viennese bent-wood furniture. In the poorer districts the house often
consists of one room only, and is often constructed by the peasant
himself. Each house has its little garden, cultivated by the women or
the old folk, where vegetables are grown, more especially cabbages, of
which there is a great consumption in various forms, often preserved as
a kind of _choucroute_. Fresh-water fish is also a staple article of
diet, while caviare too is plentiful.
In my journey through Servia I was struck by the prosperity of the
peasant and his high intelligence everywhere. The country, especially in
the more mountainous districts, is most picturesque, and the quaint
costumes of both sexes are highly interesting. Time was when there were
many brigands in the more remote districts. An officer of my
acquaintance who has explored practically every corner of Servia told me
an amusing episode that quite lately occurred to him. He was riding one
day in the mountains in a far remote part of Servia, many miles from a
town, when he overtook a rather evil-looking man, who scowled at him. He
passed the time of day and inquired the road to his destination. Then he
added, “I’ve heard there are brigands round about here. Is it true?”
“Brigands!” exclaimed the man. “Well, we used to be brigands. But
nowadays the law is so strict that I and my comrades have given it up!”
The costume of the Servian peasant-women is quaint and of interest. It
consists of an ample skirt of wool or silk and a corset on which, over
the chest, is placed a piece of white gauze crossed. Over this is a kind
of bolero of tanned skin with the fur inside, cut lower than the waist
at the back, and open in front. Upon it are often gold or silver
embroideries. Upon the head is worn a small scarlet fez, around which
the plaited hair is coiled. The fez is often embroidered with seed
pearls, which descend from generation to generation and are often worth
twenty to thirty pounds. Then, lastly, there is the apron, which is part
of the national costume, and is of wool, hand-embroidered in gay
colours, many of them being of quaint and original design.
In the towns both men and women now adopt European costume. In the
country every peasant possesses a gun, and shooting as they do from
childhood, they are mostly very fine shots. They love the chase, and
shoot everything they can, for the country is full of all kinds of birds
and animals.
There is a good deal of superstition among the peasants, who are an
imaginative people, who believe in vampires, evil spirits, and witches,
and have many extraordinary legends and sayings concerning them.
CHAPTER II
AN AUDIENCE OF KING PETER
At the New Konak—I sign His Majesty’s birthday-book—The
audience-chamber—King Peter greets me, and we chat over
cigarettes—My private audience—His Majesty and English
capitalists—Great openings for British enterprise—The King gives me
some instances of paying concerns, and tells me many interesting
facts—His Majesty invites me to return.
As I drove into the wide gates of the New Konak one evening in November
to have private audience of His Majesty King Peter of Servia, sentries
saluted, idling detectives bowed, and the lines of blue-and-gold
servants drawn up in the entrance all bent low with one accord. The
royal palace is, indeed, well guarded.
In the large inner hall was a wide horseshoe staircase, which I
ascended. On every hand was a regal splendour, all in excellent taste
and all very new, for the palace built by King Milan has been renovated
since 1903, when the former royal residence of such tragic memory was
pulled down. Its site is now a pretty lawn.
At the head of the stairs the Royal Marechal, Colonel Tcholak-Antich, a
young man in bright blue uniform and many decorations, met me. With the
usual etiquette he told me his name, I told him mine, and we shook
hands. Then he said, “His Majesty is anxious that you should sign his
birthday book,” and he led me to the big council-chamber, where at the
head of the table he opened a beautiful book, which I signed upon the
proper page.
[Illustration: The Royal Palace, Belgrade: The Ballroom.]
I was at once conducted to the audience-chamber, the double doors of
which—to prevent eavesdroppers—were closed behind me, and I was left
alone to await His Majesty. The room, of fine dimensions, seemed, under
the myriad electric lamps, ablaze with gold. The beautiful gilt
furniture showed well against the carpet of crushed-strawberry, the
damask of the upholstery matching the carpet and being brocaded with
gold. Several fine modern paintings were upon the walls, and in the
centre of the magnificent apartment a large settee and several fine gilt
chairs set against a big gilt Renaissance table.
Scarce had I time to glance at my surroundings when the long white
folding-doors at the end of the room opened, and there entered a slim,
alert figure in a dark blue military uniform—a keen, dark-eyed,
grey-moustached man with a pleasant smile and hand outstretched—His
Majesty.
I made my obeisance, and took the proffered hand. “Come,” said the King
kindly in French, seating himself at the table, and motioning me to a
chair opposite him. “Well,” he commenced, “you know I have lived in
London, and I have heard of you, Monsieur N——,” and he went on to say
some highly gratifying words concerning myself; then producing a big
silver box of most excellent Servian cigarettes, gave me one, held the
match for me, and also smoked himself. He was, I noticed, quick, smart,
and shrewd, with both figure and bearing that greatly reminded me of
Lord Roberts, his general’s dark undress uniform being relieved by one
touch of colour, the crimson-and-white ribbon and white enamelled star
of Karageorge.
Then, when we were comfortably settled, I explained to him my reasons
for visiting the Balkans.
“You are very welcome here in Servia,” His Majesty said. “You have been
kind enough to say generous things about our country. All we ask of you
is not to flatter us—only inquire the truth for yourself. We Servians
have our faults—all nations have. But it must be remembered that we are
a young nation—like France was after the war of 1870. The Press of
Europe have not been altogether fair to us, for very many false
statements have been published regarding our people, and myself
personally. But how could they be contradicted? We only wish the organs
of the British Press would tell the truth regarding Servia. We have
enemies—who has not? But our policy is one of peace, and our earnest
endeavour is to develop the great resources of our country. Servia is,
as you know, one of the richest mineral countries in Europe.”
“I presume your Majesty’s Government will grant concessions for the
working of mines, or for other industrial enterprises?”
“Most readily. But only to responsible persons, who can show their
earnestness and that capital is at their command. Of late we have had
many concession-hunters here from various parts of Europe, but the
majority have gone empty away because they were discovered to be mere
speculators. No. Our urgent desire is that your British capitalists
should come here and study matters for themselves.”
“I believe some mines are already being worked by foreign capital?” I
remarked.
“Certainly—and very wealthy they are too. Take the Bor copper mine, for
instance. I visited it myself this year. The 500-franc shares are now at
3000 francs, and the output will shortly be enormous. They have recently
discovered in the workings traces that the ancient Romans had been
there. It will, so experts say, be found to be one of the richest copper
mines in Europe. Besides copper we have iron, coal, antimony, and even
gold—all of which might, with great advantage, be exploited by English
companies. We invite the English in preference, because I know that
English commercial undertakings are, for the most part, solid and sound.
You English always think well before you commence, and when you do
commence you go straight on to success. Therefore any industrial
enterprise, or any railways—which we want badly—that you may suggest to
us on behalf of British capitalists shall have our most earnest
consideration. That the country is in a settled state and is prospering
is, I think, shown by our finances. Before 1903 there was constantly a
deficit on the Budget. In 1903 we had over one million francs in excess
of the estimates, in 1904 we had five millions, and in 1905 a little
over four millions. Our engagements are regularly paid, and we have no
floating debt.”
[Illustration: Royal Palace: Belgrade.]
[Illustration: Principal Boulevard of Belgrade.]
“And the future?”
“Ah! you want me to talk politics,” he laughed, raising his hand with
the fine diamond upon it. “No. I make a rule never to do so. One of our
chief faults in Servia is that we gossip too much upon politics. You
have noticed that, I daresay, in the cafés, in the Legations, and
elsewhere—eh? All we Servians are the same—in Montenegro, in Bosnia, and
elsewhere. It is always so with a young nation. The future of Servia
will, I fervently hope, be one of peace and prosperity. It shall be my
most earnest endeavour to secure this for my people, so that Servia may
prove to Europe that she does not now merit the hard things said of her
in the past.”
His Majesty, after we had chatted about Florence, a city which I found
he knew quite well, then told me a very interesting fact. “We have here,
in Servia,” he said, “a most wonderful cure for rheumatism—the Ribarska
Banya. I only tell you what happened personally to me. During the
Russo-Turkish War I contracted acute rheumatism, and have been a martyr
to it ever since. I visited every watering-place in Europe, but none of
the so-called “cures” did me any good. Two years ago, with some
reluctance, I went to Ribarska and took the cure, and from that moment I
have never since been troubled. It was miraculous! With my own eyes I
saw a poor woman wheeled there entirely crippled, and twenty days later
I saw her commencing to walk. I would not have believed it had I not
seen it with my own eyes.”
For an hour and a half we chatted upon many things—of London, of Paris,
of Rome, of Vienna—for His Majesty is essentially an up-to-date man of
the world, as well as a monarch. Sincere and yet humorous, kindly and
yet with a hauteur that well befits his military bearing, he struck me
as a man well adapted to rule the Servian nation—a man who is thoroughly
in earnest, and is doing his level best for the future of his nation.
“We want no external troubles,” he declared to me. “We want to be
allowed to progress.”
And when I took my leave His Majesty grasped my hand warmly, saying, “I
hope, M’sieur N——, you will return to Servia often, and remember that
whenever you are in Belgrade I shall always be happy to give you
audience and have another chat with you. _Bon soir._”
I bowed. The long white doors opened noiselessly by an unseen hand, and
His Majesty was gone.
Next day an aide-de-camp brought me the autographed portrait which
appears in these pages, together with a very kindly message from His
Majesty.
Not only did I endeavour to learn the truth at the royal palace, but I
went among the people in various towns in Servia, making inquiries, and
I found on every hand that Servia was pleased and satisfied with her new
ruler.
King Peter was born on July 11, 1844, at Belgrade. A son of the reigning
Prince Alexander Karageorgevitch. Educated at Belgrade and Geneva, he
went to St. Cyr in France, and afterwards, during the war of 1870,
volunteered in the French army. In 1883 he married the Princess Zorka,
eldest daughter of Prince Nicholas of Montenegro, with whom he led a
very happy family life until her unfortunate death in 1890. For about
ten years he lived in Montenegro, but after his wife’s death he went to
Geneva for the education of his children. In Montenegro there is still
great admiration for him among the people, who have always regarded him
as one of the Serb princes.
There were four children, of whom three are still living, namely, the
Crown Prince George, now aged 20; Princess Helene, aged 19; and Prince
Alexander, aged 18. The Crown Prince after his studies in Geneva was
admitted by order of the Tzar into the Noble Guard at St. Petersburg,
and on the accession of his father left Russia to complete his studies
in Servia. At the present time he is engaged in university studies,
combined with his military ones. I had an opportunity of meeting him,
and found him a very smart and intelligent young fellow. Legally he is
now of age, and lately he represented his father at a great national
festivity, and acquitted himself with complete success. He is greatly
interested in all military questions, and is himself one of the best
riders in the country.
[Illustration: HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE GEORGE OF SERVIA.]
In his domestic circle the King is a model father, and his actions and
views are designed to promote in every way a good family life among his
people. He leaves politics to his Ministers, who are all of them highly
responsible men, but greatly interests himself in sanitation,
improvements in agriculture, the securing of a better standard of
morality, and in all questions of religion—in fact, his chief aim is the
advancement and well-being of his people, which, he is confident, cannot
be attained without a strong religious belief.
Only a short time ago he was making a tour in the country when to him
came the priests and authorities complaining that the people did not go
to church. His Majesty’s reply to the priests was: “If the people do not
come to you, you should go to them.”
From my own personal observation of His Majesty, I found him to be
exceedingly active, both physically and mentally. Though sixty-two years
of age, he may be seen every morning at five o’clock out riding in the
environs of Belgrade, making inspections of military camps and often
gossiping with and giving counsel to the lowliest peasants. Many are the
amusing stories told of these encounters, for often the peasants are
unaware that it is their sovereign. On one occasion, quite lately, he
was speaking with a peasant who complained to him of misbehaviour of a
subordinate functionary, and said, “The King ought to know it!”
whereupon His Majesty replied, “Yes, I think so. I will certainly tell
him.”
His Majesty told me himself that he does not believe in the old idea
that “the King can do no wrong,” or that monarchs are only “_par la
grâce de Dieu_.” He is of opinion that they should do everything to
fulfil the second part of the formula, “by the will of the people,” and
do their utmost for the people over whom they rule.
Without prejudice, and without bias, I have no hesitation in saying that
Servia to-day is under a most beneficent régime, and it is hoped that
her ruler, a splendid type of man and an up-to-date monarch, may be
spared many years to realise the high aspirations which he has for the
country that gave him birth.
CHAPTER III
SERVIA’S AIMS AND ASPIRATIONS
Audiences of M. Pachitch, the Premier and “strong man” of Servia, and of
M. Stoyanovitch, Minister of Commerce—My friend, Dr. Milenko
Vesnitch, Minister of Justice—The Servian case as I found it—Austria
Servia’s arch-enemy—Dr. Vesnitch an up-to-date politician—Undeniable
prosperity of the country under King Peter’s rule.
He who attempts to study Servian politics will find himself engulfed in
a perfect vortex of mystery and intrigue.
Politics occupy everyone’s thought in Belgrade. The Pachitch Party is on
everyone’s tongue. Be it at the luncheon table of the restaurant, over
the card-table at the Grand Café at six o’clock, in the salons of the
Ministers’ wives, or at the smart diplomatic receptions, the gossip is
always of politics. Hence it is that the secret agent is everywhere, and
one hears complaints on every hand of telegrams being noted and letters
tampered with.
Having regard to recent events and the presence of a horde of Austrian
spies, this is not, perhaps, surprising. Though Servia is undoubtedly
prospering and contented under King Peter and the present Ministry, yet
there is, of course, in politics an opposition—though not a formidable
one.
During my stay in Belgrade, besides being graciously granted private
audience by His Majesty King Peter, I had many opportunities of
discussing Servian politics with the Premier, M. Nicholas Pachitch; Dr.
Milenko Vesnitch, Minister of Justice; M. Stoyanovitch, the Minister of
Commerce; M. Patchu, Minister of Finance; M. Andrea Nikolitch, Minister
of Public Instruction; M. Yovan Gyaya, who has formed the new Radical
Party; and many other leading men of both sides. I very carefully
investigated each question, in order to present to the British public,
for the first time, the actual truth of the present state of affairs in
Servia.
Quite recently the British Government resumed diplomatic relations with
the Servian Court, therefore it is fitting that a fair and unbiassed
statement should now be put forward, in order to show Servia as she
really is, her aims, her aspirations, and her future policy in the
Balkans.
I confess that I found considerable difficulty in forming my
conclusions. The policy, however, which the present strong and
level-headed Government are pursuing is a policy which, having carefully
heard both sides, I have no hesitation whatever in endorsing as the very
best for the peace and future of the nation. It is strong, without being
belligerent, even though Austria has never ceased to annoy, irritate,
and intrigue.
Balkan questions are both difficult and intricate, but I will endeavour
to describe the true state of affairs as plainly and briefly as
possible. This work, though not intended to be a political treatise,
would be incomplete without some explanation of the mysteries of the
politics of the various Balkan countries I visited. Therefore, at risk
of being perhaps a little too outspoken, I will state the Servian case
just as I found it.
One of the burning questions in Servia at the present time is the
Customs War with Austria. The latter Power has endeavoured to ruin
Servia, but has fortunately not succeeded, even though her emissaries
are everywhere, and many newspaper correspondents are undoubtedly in her
pay. For this latter reason Servia has, for many years past, been
presented to Europe in a false light and columns of untruths telegraphed
from Zimony, or Semlin, the Hungarian town on the opposite bank of the
Save.
Briefly, the truth is as follows:—
Austria—and with her Germany—is slowly but surely marching to the East.
One sees and hears evidence of it everywhere in the Balkans. The
extended talons of the Austrian eagle are as apparent—and perhaps more
so in Servia than in Montenegro. Servia bars Austria’s way southward to
that much-coveted port, Salonica. It is therefore not to Austria’s
interest that Servia should be at peace. Unfortunately for Servia, the
Occidental people view the Eastern questions through the spectacles of
the Vienna Press, which is—for the most part—inspired by the Austrian
Government.
Austria is at the bottom of the whole of the Servian difficulties. As
long as things went badly in Servia—as under the régime of the late King
Alexander—they allowed matters to go on without interference, and
watched eagerly for the downfall of the kingdom. Unfortunate events
occurred, as is well known, but to the great dismay of Servia’s
arch-enemy, the country has become contented and is greatly prospering
under the rule of King Peter. For this reason, therefore, because a
prosperous era has set in, Austria has once again sought to stir discord
and to create troubles and difficulties. At the moment of writing the
secret police have a long list of over one hundred Austrian political
agents living in Belgrade alone!
How Austria seeks to compromise Servia in the eyes of Europe, and the
scandalous methods by which she is seeking to attain that end, is well
illustrated by a telegram which was supposed to emanate from Odessa, but
which I have indisputable evidence came from the same source as all the
others—an unscrupulous correspondent in Vienna in the secret pay of the
Austrian Government.
[Illustration:
MR. ALEX. TUCKER,
Servian Consul-General in London.
]
[Illustration:
MR. BEETHOM WHITEHEAD,
British Minister at Belgrade.
]
The amazing telegram in question appeared in the London newspapers on
January 2 this year, and was as follows:—
“The local agency of the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which
for the last twenty years has been specially retained in Odessa as a
convenient medium of secret intelligence respecting the Balkan States,
is in possession of indisputable proofs of the existence,
notwithstanding all recent and official denials from Belgrade, of a
widely ramified and elaborately matured plot for the execution of a
sudden _coup d’état_ and the expulsion of the Karageorgevitch dynasty
from Servia. Leading members, civil and military, of both the chief
political parties are stated to have joined the conspiracy.
“According to this information, the intended first result of the _coup
d’état_, if it be not marred, will be the establishment of a
provisional regency in the administrative hands of six or eight
Ministers. The regents would then take time to prepare a comprehensive
explanatory statement of the situation for presentation to the Great
Powers, which they would also consult as to the choice of an alien
prince for the royal throne of Servia. They will urge upon the
friendly consideration of the Powers the fact that the two peasant
dynasties of Obrenovitch and Karageorgevitch have been fairly tried
and justly found impossible and incompatible with the economical
welfare and progressive culture necessary to the worthy attainment of
Servia’s proper political destiny.”
In reply to this, the Servian Government nailed the lies upon Austria by
the following official statement, issued on January 3 from the Ministry
of Foreign Affairs at Belgrade:—
“All sorts of misleading fabrications have lately been issued to the
world by the Austrian Press for the purpose of compromising the
political situation in Servia, the latest report being that of an
alleged plot to exile the Karageorgevitch dynasty. Gradually and
systematically the Viennese newspapers have been communicating to the
foreign Press alarming news, injurious to Servia’s good name, and
certain quarters in Vienna consider it necessary to reserve the
fabrication regarding the exile of the Karageorgevitch dynasty as the
final stroke on the eve of the conclusion of the Servian loan. The
Austrian Press has even gone so far as to make use of prevarications
in order to succeed in giving credence to its report regarding the
exile of the royal dynasty, alleging they had obtained news from the
Russian Agency created at Odessa by the Russian Minister of Foreign
Affairs for special political service in the Balkans. According to our
information, _such an agency does not even exist_.”
Again, an ingenious gentleman representing the Vienna _Zeit_, who lives
opposite Belgrade, at Semlin, in Hungary, and fears to cross into
Servia, sent the other day, not only to the _Zeit_ but to the _Daily
Mail_, an extraordinary telegram declaring the Servian Crown Prince to
be slightly demented, and casting all sorts of insinuations as to what
was happening in the palace.
I chanced to be in Belgrade at the time, and showed the Crown Prince the
ridiculous concoction, and we both laughed over it.
“Bah!” he said, “it is really too silly to require contradiction.”
The true fact is that the young Crown Prince, who gave me the signed
portrait that appears in these pages, is a particularly smart young man,
and not only do his tutors, but also the Cabinet Ministers of Servia,
speak in the highest terms of his tact and intelligence.
But to Austria no method is too mean or too unscrupulous by which to
circulate false news to the detriment of Servia. Ask any Servian, and he
will tell you of Austria’s machinations in every quarter.
Quite recently a Servian author wrote some libellous and untrue articles
regarding the present dynasty, and was consequently arrested and
condemned to imprisonment. Whereupon the Austrian Minister in Belgrade,
without asking permission of the Minister of Justice, went to the prison
and prevailed upon the Governor to be allowed to see the prisoner
privately. Such action surely speaks louder than words!
The Austrian attitude was well exhibited on the occasion of the
accession of King Peter. His Majesty received two telegrams. The first
was from the Tzar, who said, “I hope you may be able to bring happiness
to the Servian people, and by doing so you will receive my friendship.”
The other was from the Emperor Francis Josef, and was certainly in the
spirit of dividing King and people, for His Majesty merely expressed a
hope that the evils existing would be remedied.
Austria’s chief aim in Servia is to estrange the people from their King,
to create as much discord and discontent as possible to crush the trade
of the country and to keep her poor. As long as she believed that Servia
was in a bad position economically and financially, things were allowed
to go from bad to worse. But as soon as an improvement was observed in
the national prosperity, a hostile policy was adopted, which has
rendered trade between the two countries impossible.
Careful inquiries of the Servian Cabinet Ministers and many statesmen of
both political parties show that even in the present position, with
Austria closed against her, Servia is nevertheless progressing, and
prospering more than the outside world ever dreams.
The last commercial treaty between Austria and Servia expired in 1904.
There was a desire on the part of Servia to at once renew it, but this
Austria-Hungary was unable to do, as she was rearranging her treaty with
Germany. When, however, the first negotiations were started, Austria
made very severe complaints regarding the Serbo-Bulgarian Customs Union,
and asked that the treaty in question should be annulled before
negotiations for the new treaty were started. The Servian Government,
desirous of pleasing Austria, replied that in the Serbo-Bulgarian
Customs Union there was a clause to the effect that if one of the Great
Powers raised a protest, amendments might be introduced. They therefore
suggested the postponement of this question, hoping that Austria was
satisfied, and would begin the _pourparlers_. But no such thing. Austria
had other aims, for very soon they coolly declared that if the
commercial treaty were renewed, Servia must buy her new armament for the
artillery of the Scoda works in Austria. This is peculiar, inasmuch as
the cannon in question is not that in use by the Austrian artillery!
The reason for this has been explained by the fact that certain members
of the Austrian Imperial family were financially interested in the works
in question. This, however, was not the real reason. There was one far
more subtle. The true political reason, indeed, was that the Austrian
Government wished to get a seat in the “Autonom-Monopol”
administration—the body which controls the loans, and which consists of
six members, namely, one French delegate, one German, and four Servians.
France and Germany were both friendly, but Austria, had she gained a
seat there, could at once have created internal dissension and
difficulty.
Nominally, the annual income from this “Monopol” is about thirty million
dinars, or francs, of which twenty million go to the creditors, leaving
ten million at the free disposal of the Government. Now had Austria
obtained a hand in this administration, she would have been able to
exercise a prerogative and a right of intervention in many matters
affecting the good government of the country—a danger that will at once
be apparent.
Austrian intrigue is everywhere apparent, not only in Belgrade, but
throughout the whole of Servia. Austria does not wish either a national
or a staple Government in Servia, and so, because they could not obtain
their ends, and because the present Government voices the national ideas
of the whole of the Serb people—who are as a matter of fact spread over
Croatia, Slavonia, Bosnia, Herzegovina, Montenegro, and part of
Hungary—they have pursued the Customs War, and put a prohibitive tariff
upon everything in the endeavour to close entirely the world’s markets
to Servia. The latter has of course retaliated by placing a prohibitive
tariff upon all goods from those nations who have no treaty—a move which
is of course directed against Austria, but by which other Powers must,
for the present, suffer.
As regards England, the first commercial treaty made by Servia after the
Berlin Treaty was with Great Britain, and it served as the base of all
the other treaties. Of this Austria-Hungary was jealous, and from that
time until to-day Austria has done everything in her power to discredit
and discourage British trade in the Balkans. In fact, so seriously
detrimental has been Austria’s influence against British trade that
naturally some time must elapse ere the damage done can be repaired.
Meanwhile, a new commercial treaty with England has been arranged, for
it was in Servia’s greatest interest that this should be done. Every
Servian I spoke to was loud in his praises of England, and of English
methods. Servia is very anxious to export her agricultural produce to
England, while in Servia—now that Austrian imports have stopped—there
are many open markets for English goods.
Austria believed that as all Servian exports were sent into
Austria-Hungary, Servia would be obliged in the end to accept their
drastic and unfair terms—the purchase of cannon and other restrictions.
On the contrary, however, it says much for Servia’s enterprise that,
though the Austrian frontier has been closed during 1906, yet Servia has
exported all her goods by way of Varna or Braila, or by Salonica, to
which port a line of rail runs from Nisch. The producer has felt the
Austrian oppression but little, if any at all. In fact, it is the
opinion of many statesmen in Servia that it would actually be in the
country’s interests if Austria continues her present hostile Customs
policy, for it will then compel the Servians to look for markets farther
afield, and arouse them to take strong initiatives.
It should be noted, too, that fifteen years ago Austria raised the same
trouble with Roumania, and the Roumanians are now happily emancipated
from the Austrian market, and are consequently prosperous.
At present, with the Austrian frontier barred for export, Servia must
build a railway to the Adriatic. The line from Nisch, _viâ_ Usküb, to
Salonica, though it runs through Macedonia, is practically under
Austrian control, and goods sent over it from Servia are subjected to
high tariff. Therefore there is a project afoot to construct a new line
from Kragooyevatz across the Kopaonik Mountains to Prisrend, and thence
through Northern Albania down to Skodra and the Adriatic at the port of
San Giovanni di Medua. An alternative scheme is to construct the line so
that it passes through Montenegro, and joins the line at present being
made by an Italian company from Antivari on the coast to Virpasar on the
Lake of Scutari.
One or other of these two schemes will certainly be adopted in the near
future, and when the line is completed, Servia will at once be entirely
independent of Austria, and secure an outlet to the Adriatic. Such a
railway will be of great strategic importance, as will be seen from a
glance on the map. I have been over parts of the projected route, and
certainly it will be a very difficult line to construct, on account of
the wall of mountains lying between the Lake of Scutari and the Servian
frontier. But its opening will mean civilising the wild tribes of
Albania and the further cementing of the Serb nation.
This last point is, indeed, the chief line of the Servian Balkan policy.
In my conversations with the Premier, with Dr. Milenko Vesnitch,
Minister of Justice, and with the Ministers of Commerce and of Finance,
I found them all in accord upon the one great principle of policy,
namely, the preservation of the great Serb nation, which consists of
over ten million persons, spread through Bosnia, Herzegovina, Slavonia,
Kossovo, Montenegro, Servia, Dalmatia, and many parts of Hungary itself.
This great population speak the same language and have the same
aspirations, namely, the unity of the great nation whose past history is
such a splendid one.
The policy of the Servian Ministry, whether military, economical, or
political, is all directed towards this one end, and here it may be
pointed out that King Peter is grandson of the great hero of the Servian
people, the peasant Karageorge, who in 1804 raised the Servians against
the Turks and defeated them.
King Peter has already given evidence of his patriotic sentiments, not
only interesting himself in the nation before he was elected ruler, but
perhaps it is not generally remembered that in 1875 he fought at the
head of his troop—which he raised himself, and crippled his finances
thereby—for the emancipation of Bosnia. In the Servian national poetry
there is a hero called Peter Mrcognitch, the Protector of the Poor
against the oppressors, and it was under this assumed name that the
present ruler of Servia fought. In 1870, too, he fought with the French
against the Germans, and was awarded the Legion of Honour for valour on
the battlefield. Therefore the Servians regard him as a patriot—as
indeed he is—and up to the present he has certainly shown himself an
able, wise, and discreet ruler, who has the interests of his country
very deeply at heart.
[Illustration: The Road to the East: The last view of Europe.]
[Illustration: Villagers and Gypsies in Miriavo (Servia).]
To refer to the tragic events of the night of June 11, 1903, is
unnecessary. All I can personally say is that I arrived in Belgrade full
of an Englishman’s natural prejudice against the present régime, but
after careful inquiry, not only in government and diplomatic circles,
but also among the adherents of the old régime, I came to the conclusion
that though drastic and cruel, yet had not those events happened that
night, hundreds of unfortunate ones would have lost their lives on the
following morning.
In the régime of the late King no one was safe in Belgrade. Draga had
her spies everywhere, and alas for those who dared to utter a word
against her or her methods! Leading men in the political, social, and
literary world of Belgrade to-day have explained to me how they had from
day to day lived in fear and dread of false accusations and arrest,
until life became so intolerable that many were almost driven from the
country. These men strongly disagreed with the methods of the regicides,
but they are now thankful they are free.
The truth of those black days of spies and suspicion in Belgrade in the
last days of Alexander’s reign has never been told. Only those who lived
there, and only those who hear the truth from the lips of responsible
persons, can realise how entirely the country was in the hands of one
unscrupulous woman. The journalists of Europe were horrified at the
methods by which the Obrenovitch were wiped out, and they condemned the
Servians. Not one had the courage, or the inclination, to put the facts
fairly and impartially before the public.
CHAPTER IV
THE FUTURE OF SERVIA
Servia and the Macedonian question—A sound Cabinet—England and
Servia—Appointment of Mr. Beethom Whitehead as British Minister very
gratifying to the Servians—King Peter ever solicitous for the
welfare of the people—What the Prime Minister told me concerning the
future—The new railway to the Adriatic.
I make no apology for the assassination of King Alexander and his Queen.
That matter is a closed page of Servian history. I only can state what I
saw and heard in Servia, and explain how I drew my own entirely
unbiassed conclusions.
One thing is certain, that Servia is at this moment in a very much more
prosperous condition than ever she was under King Alexander. Having met
every one of the Ministers, and spent many hours with them, I can safely
assert that, headed by M. Pachitch, quiet-mannered, sensible, and
thoughtful, they are, one and all, a very strong and intelligent
Cabinet, each member of which is doing his very utmost for the
commercial development and future welfare of the country he loves so
dearly.
There is no _poseur_ or political adventurer among them. Each man is a
sound, intelligent, and trustful statesman, whose watchword is, as His
Excellency Monsieur Pachitch put it to me, “Servia for the Servians.”
While in Belgrade I had several conversations with members of the
Cabinet, and also with Dr. J. Cvijic, the eminent author of that most
thoughtful work, _Remarks on the Ethnography of the Macedonian Slavs_,
regarding the all-absorbing question of Macedonia. Mention Macedonia to
any Balkan statesman, and he raises his shoulders and shakes his head.
It is a problem that nobody can solve. I endeavoured, however, by dint
of many inquiries, to discover in what way Servia would like the
Macedonian question settled.
Roughly speaking, Macedonia is divided into three _vilayets_—Kossovo,
Monastir, and Salonica. Now Kossovo is essentially Old Servia, and there
is no question that its people are still Serbs. Yet here we run up
against Austria again. She is doing all in her power to cause the
population to emigrate, and in their place attracting Albanians who
assist the Austrian propaganda. As regards the other two _vilayets_ of
Monastir and Salonica, the inhabitants are Serbs, Bulgars, Greeks, and
Mohammedans. Now it is a curious fact, and one which I believe no other
writer has noted, that until two years ago nobody spoke of any other
people in Macedonia but these. Suddenly, however, Europe was made aware
that there was still another people, for the Koutzo-Vlachs were, for the
first time, mentioned, and formed a new element in the already mixed
difficulty.
Now without doubt this new problem was introduced into the controversy
by Germany for two reasons. The first was to create, besides the
Mohammedan and Albanian, a Christian Conservative element for the
preservation of the Turk in Europe. Germany has therefore an economic
propaganda in Turkey, and when the time is ripe it will be followed by a
strong political one. She could not count on either Serbs or Bulgars in
Macedonia, but by this new intrigue she has courted the support of the
Mohammedans.
The second reason of the introduction of these hitherto unheard-of
Koutzo-Vlachs concerned the position in Roumania, of which a
Hohenzollern is King. Until two years ago the Roumanian patriots were
occupying themselves with a propaganda in Transylvania. As, however, it
is a great point in German policy to keep Roumania within the confines
of the Triple Alliance, and as hostilities had arisen between Austria
and Roumania on account of the propaganda, it was necessary for Germany
to find a means to occupy in some other way the fantasy of the Roumanian
people. And so the Koutzo-Vlachs were pushed forward as a fresh
discovery, and the King of Roumania, in a speech to his Parliament,
spoke of “their brothers in Macedonia.” Beyond this, all the claims put
in by the Koutzo-Vlachs for the expenses of their schools and other
things to-day receive the support of the German Ambassador at the Porte.
From the Servian point of view—a view that is shared very widely—it
would appear that the best method of solving the very difficult question
of Macedonia would be to give the various peoples complete
tolerance—that is, to give the Greeks, Serbs, Bulgarians, and Moslems
complete liberty to develop themselves for, say, ten years. After this
time a plebiscite, under the control of the Powers, might be established
with success. This would solve the ethnographical difficulty, which is
really the base of the whole question.
The signatories to the Berlin Treaty would do well to take the
initiative in this matter, and so end the internal trouble which is for
ever a disturbing element in Balkan politics. Servia is very anxious to
see England interesting and asserting her power more in the Balkans, and
British statesmen might well follow the policy of Palmerston and
Castlereagh. The first British representative to Servia was Colonel
Hodges, who in 1837 went to Belgrade, and very quickly secured a
predominant position in Servian matters, owing to the unselfishness of
the British policy in the Balkans and the liberal ideas which England
always represents in the world. The Servians therefore still look to
England as taking a leading part in the settlement of Macedonia, and the
sooner this is done the less peril will exist in the Near East.
Since the accession of King Peter many reforms have been introduced, and
on all sides the Servian people express content and prosperity. I will
give a few examples. For instance, in the budget before the King’s
accession there were periodical deficits, but every year since, as I
have already pointed out, shows a very substantial balance. Therefore
the present increasing prosperity is apparent at a glance. The financial
market, too, shows how Servian finances stand in Europe.
[Illustration: The British Legation: Belgrade.]
[Illustration: The Knes Mihajelowa: Belgrade.]
This is no doubt due, in the first place, to the constitutional
cautiousness of King Peter. He has inspired with confidence the
financial world in Paris and elsewhere, for it is well known that he is,
before all, a constitutional ruler, and that his Government will never
be anything else than a constitutional one. Therefore, by his attitude,
he has so improved the state of Servian finance that the future
prosperity of the country is assured.
When King Peter was proclaimed, the Servians restored their liberal
Constitution, which the late King, under the influence of his father,
had abrogated. This has opened the way to the development of the country
in every direction. There is, of course, much yet to be done. As regards
the administration of justice, several excellent reforms have been
introduced during the present reign. Dr. Vesnitch is at present
reforming the prison system, and is about to introduce, after studying
the question for fifteen years, a new and unique system. He is of
opinion that the prisoners from the towns should be separated from those
from the country, for two reasons.
He declares that when criminals from the towns commit crimes it is in
most cases because they are not sufficiently instructed in their skilled
labour. They are bad workmen, and hence their downfall. If, however,
they were classified and instructed in the prison, they would, when
discharged, be better prepared, with the assistance of the Prisoners’
Aid Societies, to seek an honest living. Again, the second reason is
that the influence of town-bred prisoners upon those from the country is
always an evil one, and should at all times be avoided. The Servian
Government have adopted the Minister’s point of view, and fresh prisons
are to be constructed upon that basis.
Another reform about to be introduced by Dr. Vesnitch is that of
“conditional release.” It is intended to preserve first offenders from
the demoralising influence of prison life, and to create a good moral
influence over those who commit a crime for the first time. In a word,
the Servian project seeks to conciliate the English method with the
French Loi Beranger.
In all the other administrations—public instruction, war, finance, and
agriculture—many other reforms have been introduced, and many are in
course of preparation. As a matter of fact, until two years ago Servia
had no University, but at present an excellent institution has been
established, the professors of which rank well with those of other
nations.
In the department of war, a very important reform is about to be carried
out, namely, the rearmament of the artillery. This is, of course, a wide
subject, and time must elapse before the defences of the country are in
an absolutely perfect state. Suffice it, however, to say that the
Ministers of War and Finance are exerting every effort to obtain the
best weapons in France, and, at the same time, to leave the country’s
finances uncrippled.
Recently diplomatic relations have been resumed with England, and the
Foreign Office have appointed Mr. Beethom Whitehead as Minister to
Servia. This has given great satisfaction to the Servians, for they see
in this action of England that their Government has already merited
serious consideration. The resumption of friendship with Great Britain
has been the means of greatly fortifying the Pachitch Ministry. It was
obtained through the good services of Italy and France, and especially
of the King of Italy, who, as is well known, is a great admirer of
England, in addition to being brother-in-law of King Peter.
Servia hopes that the result of this renewed friendship will be to
combat the German advances to the East; and this, of course, is greatly
to the advantage of England. The Servians also hope that in the near
future England will see her way to minimise the evils which Lord
Beaconsfield’s policy created in the Balkans when he allowed Austria to
occupy Bosnia and Herzegovina and to monopolise Balkan trade generally.
It is probable that Lord Beaconsfield’s error was due to his fear of a
Pan-Slavonic danger, but the time is certainly now ripe for England to
assert her power and stem the German tide.
It is within the range of possibility that ere long Russia will unite
with England, France, and Italy to take joint steps in the Balkans, and
if this is realised it will mean for Servia that her autonomy and free
development will be secured. Diplomacy is working towards this end, and
as the British Liberal Party is believed to be the protector of weak
nations, it is more than likely the hope will very soon mature.
I have in this chapter spoken always of Austria, and not of Hungary. I
have done so because Hungary hopes for her independence, and will, if
she gains it, certainly find herself on a level with Servia. The
sympathy between the Servian and Hungarian people is historical, and it
was proved lately by the transfer of the relics of the Hungarian hero,
Racotzy, who was the greatest opposer to Austrian rule. Quite recently
Wekerle, the Hungarian Premier, said in Parliament that “the basis of
Hungarian foreign policy has been, is, and has to be, the continuance of
Servia’s friendship.”
Hungary has always found warm friends in England on account of her
struggle for independence, and without doubt England will still support
her when the day comes. Until ten years ago it was generally thought in
Hungary that the Slav tendencies were dangerous to Hungary’s existence,
but that has now entirely changed, and instead of regarding Servia as an
enemy, they look upon her as an ally, and Germany as an enemy.
The renewal of diplomatic relations between Servia and England will, it
is felt certain, be the means of inducing British capitalists to make
inquiry of the many and excellent openings now existing. When once
England is materially interested in the Serb countries she will have a
motive in promoting Servia’s prosperity, and in protecting her from the
German advance, as a policy which surely will be to her own advancement.
It may be here interesting, too, if in conclusion I give a very brief
summary of the trade of Servia during 1905—the last published year—as
compared with the four previous years, as it will show the rapidly
growing prosperity under the present régime. In 1901 the exports were
65,685,653 fcs., and the imports 43,835,428 fcs.—a total of 109,521,081
fcs.; in 1902 the total was 116,944,408 fcs.; in 1903, 118,202,666 fcs.
For 1905 the figures were as follow:—
1905. 1904. Difference in 1905.
more (+) less (-)
Fcs. Fcs. Fcs.
Exports 71,996,274 62,156,066 +9,840,208
Imports 55,600,644 60,926,406 -5,325,672
Totals 127,596,918 123,082,472 +4,517,446
Increase of trade 16,395,630 1,226,660
Thus it will be seen that the country is undoubtedly entering upon an
era of prosperity.
By the Department of Public Instruction I was afforded facilities for
studying the educational system, and a few facts may prove interesting.
Though Servia has been a free country for less than a century, education
has already reached a very high level. It possesses a large number of
primary schools, secondary schools, and special schools, as well as a
high school in Belgrade which has lately been turned into a university.
The name “popular schools” is given to infant schools, primary schools,
and the superior primary schools. The course in the primary schools
lasts for six years, and in the primary superior schools two years.
Children in towns are sent into the first class of primary schools at
the age of six, and in the country at seven, the school year commencing
on September 1 and ending on June 29.
Schoolmasters on leaving the training college receive 800 dinars
(francs) per annum, and rise to 3000 dinars. Beyond this they receive an
allowance of 30 to 80 dinars a month in lieu of lodging. For 1905 I was
unfortunately unable to obtain the statistics, but I found that in 1904
there were in Servia 1093 schools for boys and 170 schools for girls, or
1263 primary schools. There were 1349 masters and 856 mistresses, or a
total of 2205 teachers. At the end of that scholastic year there were
85,365 boys studying and 22,081 girls, a total of 107,446 scholars.
There were also five normal schools with 25 masters, and six schools for
young girls with 25 mistresses. There are also several excellent private
schools. One Protestant and one Catholic are in Belgrade, while of the
three private schools for girls two are in Belgrade and one in Nisch.
As regards secondary schools, the course lasts eight years and is
terminable by examination. When the high school, or university course,
is ended, the students intending to become masters receive a
supernumerary place in a secondary school with a salary of 1500 dinars.
After about two years they pass the examination of professors, whereupon
they receive 2500 dinars, which is raised periodically to 6000 dinars.
The time-limit for professors is thirty years. In the secondary schools
are masters of languages and fine arts, and a very high standard of
instruction is given. The last return showed there were 4561 scholars
and 313 masters in these schools. These figures, however, do not
comprise the private gymnasiums of Alexinac and Gradiste, or the
superior schools for young girls at Belgrade and Kragooyevac.
The special schools comprise the religious seminary, the academy of
commerce, and the schools of agriculture. The religious seminary is at
Belgrade, and the course of instruction lasts nine years. There are two
schools of male teachers, one at Alexinac and the other at Yagodina, and
also two schools for female teachers, at Belgrade and at Kragooyevac.
Here, the course is for four years. The Academy of Commerce is in
Belgrade, where a course of three years is given. There is an excellent
School of Agriculture at Kralyevo, as well as a School of Forestry and
Viticulture at Bukovo, where a three years’ course is given.
The University, which is at Belgrade, has only recently been
established, for hitherto it was only a high school. The instruction is
of the very highest order, and without doubt it will turn out many
intellectual men in the near future.
One afternoon I went to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to have audience
of M. Nicholas Pachitch, the President of the Council of Ministers and
Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.
The Foreign Office is a great comfortable old building adjoining the
gardens of the royal palace, painted dead white, and commanding from its
windows a beautiful view over the Save and the rolling plains beyond.
The ante-chamber is a sombre, old-fashioned room, with heavy furniture,
several fine pictures, and polished floor. But I was not given long to
inspect it, for a few minutes later I was ushered into the private room
of the man whom all Servia regards as the greatest and cleverest
politician—the man who is to make the New Servia.
I found him a quiet-mannered man, with kindly smiling eyes behind his
spectacles, his long beard and hair just silvered with grey, his voice
low, soft, and deliberate.
In the midst of a turbulent day—for the Skupshtina was sitting and
important questions were being discussed—he received me calmly, and
though two Cabinet Ministers were waiting outside for audience, he was
cool and deliberate. His manner was charmingly polite, and after
greeting me, gave me a seat at the table beside him, and readily
answered the questions I put to him.
“You have come here to learn about our country,” he said, smiling.
“Well, what can I tell you? You have, I daresay, heard a good deal in
England—some truth, and some facts that are untrue—facts manufactured by
the enemies of Servia! We want peace. Our tariff difficulties with
Austria are regrettable, but we cannot accept the Austrian terms. We
cannot guarantee to buy our war material and railway rolling-stock from
Austria. Because we are a small country the Austrian Empire is imposing
upon us terms which it is utterly impossible for us to accept. We must
arm our artillery with the best armament, be it Austrian, French,
German, or English. It is surely the duty of the Government to do this.
Why should we be bound to Austria in this matter? As regards England,
Servia is delighted at the resumption of diplomatic relations, and at
the appointment of Mr. Whitehead, who is a clever diplomatist, a
cosmopolitan, and who already understands us. It is now our intention to
show Europe that we are a sound nation, and by so doing we hope that
English capitalists will seek to exploit our vast mineral wealth. In
Servia there are mines in all parts—coal, iron, copper, lead, antimony,
zinc, and even gold. They only require working, and great profits must
accrue. I daresay you have seen the geological map which the Ministry of
Commerce has recently prepared. If not, I am sure Mr. Stoyanovitch, the
Minister, will allow you to see it.”
“And the present condition of the country?” I asked.
“Under the present rule the people have shown themselves absolutely
contented. There is an entire personal liberty which did not exist under
the late King. Our watchword is ‘Servia for the Servians.’ Our policy is
to avoid all outside complications, and endeavour to do our utmost to
develop the resources of the country.”
“And Macedonia?”
His Excellency smiled and shrugged his shoulders slightly.
“Ah! Macedonia!” he sighed. “Now you have touched upon a difficult
question. The population there is mixed, it is true, and the problem
puzzles every statesman in Europe; yet my own personal opinion is that
in the course of a year or two the Powers will discover a mode of
settlement which will be found to be beneficial to all concerned.”
“And the future policy of Servia?”
“You can tell them in England that all Servia desires is ‘peace,’” His
Excellency answered, smiling at me through his spectacles. “This we are
doing all we possibly can to promote. His Majesty has great admiration
for the English, and the Government are ready to grant concessions for
industrial and mining enterprises to English capitalists—if properly
introduced. I can assure you that they will find in Servia excellent
returns for their investments. But inquire for yourself, and you will
find that Servia is to-day more prosperous than ever she was under the
late King. Inquire among the people, not only in Belgrade, but away in
the heart of the country where you are going. Let the people speak for
themselves, and they will tell you how far our endeavours have been
successful.”
And then, after half an hour’s chat, during which he told me many
interesting facts, and gave me every facility to enable me to conduct my
inquiries, I rose, shook hands, and left, convinced that a Ministry
under such a clear, level-headed statesman—a really great man—could not
do otherwise than raise the country into a position of wealth combined
with respect.
Upon every Servian’s tongue I heard the name of Pachitch, and my own
observations all showed most conclusively that he and his party, with
the concurrence of the King, are guiding Servia to peace, happiness, and
great prosperity.
A few days later, while at luncheon at the house of Dr. Vesnitch,
Minister of Justice, I had an interview with M. Stoyanovitch, the
Minister of Commerce. He, like all the other members of the Cabinet, has
the interest of Servia deeply at heart. He is dark-haired, middle-aged,
keen, clever, and a thoroughly competent business man. Our conversation
mainly turned upon the projected railway to unite the Danube with San
Giovanni di Medua, in Albania, and so give to Russia, Roumania, and
Servia a port on the Adriatic.
The future of Servia, he declared, depended upon this line. She must
have a direct outlet for her trade, and he prophesied that within three
years the line would be built. The cost will be about 80,000,000 francs,
or 150,000 francs per kilometre. Roughly, the length is about 500
kilometres. He pointed out that an English company would experience but
little difficulty in obtaining a concession from the Turkish Government
to pass through Turkish territory, while a French and German company
would be prohibited. The line would be the highroad to Russia from the
south, and would be an extremely paying one, for in addition almost the
whole of the Servian imports and exports would be carried over it.
“British capitalists would do well to inquire into it,” he said. “We
have surveyed the route, and have the complete plans at the Ministry of
Public Works. To anyone introduced by you, Monsieur N——, we should be
very pleased to show them.”
And the Minister went into details as to the excellent results which
must certainly accrue from the undertaking and the profits which the
company would certainly make.
Servia has undoubtedly a very big future before her, and her statesmen
are ever looking far ahead.
CHAPTER V
TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW IN SERVIA
A retrospect—A sitting of the Skupshtina—Peasants as deputies—Servia as
an open field for British enterprise—Enormous mineral wealth—Mr.
Finney, a mining engineer who has prospected in Servia for seventeen
years, tells me some interesting facts regarding rich mines awaiting
development—No adventurers need apply.
Servia has, indeed, had a turbulent past.
For centuries she has been torn by war and ground under the heel of the
oppressor. From the days of Stevan Lazarevitch, at the end of the
fourteenth century, until the revolt of the Serbs against Turkish rule
under Karageorge in 1804, the country was constantly crushed and
constantly disturbed. Karageorge declared Belgrade and the neighbouring
region the free State of Servia, which was unfortunately not
accomplished until after great sacrifices and many heroic battles.
In 1813, however, while Russia was engaged in her final conflict with
Napoleon, the Turks again seized Servia, and Karageorge with several
other chiefs was exiled to Austria. Two years later, Milosch
Obrenovitch, with the aid of some chiefs, made another struggle for
liberty, which, thanks to the Treaty of Bucharest, was crowned with
success, and the interior autonomy of Servia thus became an accomplished
fact.
In 1842 Alexander Karageorgevitch, the younger son of Karageorge,
ascended the Servian throne as Prince, and under his rule the government
of the country was modelled upon modern lines, and many institutions
started which aided to develop the civilisation.
Exterior politics and the corruption of the officials by friends of the
Obrenovitch were successful in creating so much discontent that
Alexander at last abandoned the throne. Upon this, the Skupshtina, or
National Assembly, elected the aged Prince Milosch, who died very soon
afterwards. In 1861 his son, Prince Mihailo, succeeded, but in 1868 was
shot at Topschider, near Belgrade, through motives of personal
animosity. His cousin Milan, who was heir to the throne, was then in his
minority, and Servia was governed by a Regency of three persons.
During Milan’s reign there occurred, 1876-78, the war with Turkey and
the securing of four new departments, the recognition of the
independence of Servia by the Berlin Treaty, the proclamation of the
kingdom in 1882, the unfortunate war with Bulgaria in 1885, and the
promulgation of a new constitution which, with some slight modification,
is still in force. After the abdication of King Milan, his son Alexander
mounted the throne. His unfortunate matrimonial alliance with the
ambitious Draga, who quickly assumed authority, was soon responsible for
much discontent. Life became impossible in Servia owing to the
maladministration in every department, and the army revolted, with the
tragic and regrettable result that is so well known.
After the death of King Alexander in 1903, the Skupshtina elected the
son of Alexander Karageorgevitch as King under the title of Peter I.
With the present political acquisitions and the progress already made in
the highroad of civilisation, Servia has already obtained a high place
among civilised nations. But, alas! as the Servian author, M. Zrnitch,
has put it, the Servians are only free in the head—Servia—and the
arms—Montenegro. The other parts of their organism are still held in
thraldom by the foreigner.
While in Belgrade I was afforded an opportunity of visiting the
Skupshtina and being present at a somewhat heated debate. Just before my
arrival two deputies had, it was said, come to blows. All that I saw
there was most orderly, and certainly the speakers—even those in their
quaint brown peasant dress—were mostly eloquent.
Servia badly needs a new Parliament House. The present Skupshtina is a
large bare whitewashed building with two galleries, one for the
diplomats and Press, and the other for the public. In front of a
life-sized portrait of His Majesty sits the President, keeping order
with his bell, and on either side at baize-covered tables sit the
Ministers. The benches are set in horseshoe shape, and look very
uncomfortable. The deputies consist of all classes, from the wealthy
landowner to the peasant, and all receive fifteen francs a day expenses
while the House sits.
Plans have already been prepared for a new and handsome Parliament
House, which is to be built on a fine site behind the royal palace, and
it is believed the work will be commenced during the present year. The
sooner the National Assembly is properly housed the better, for the
present building is mostly of wood, old, rickety, and the reverse of
dignified. None are so alive to the urgent necessity of providing
comfortable quarters for the deliberations of the Skupshtina than His
Majesty himself, for it was he who explained to me what is intended.
After the revolution of June 2, 1903, the National Assembly convoked by
the Government of the kingdom of Servia gave the country, on June 15, a
new constitution, which was ratified three days later. The Skupshtina is
composed of deputies elected directly by the people, and its members,
during their office, cannot be sued or arrested without the consent of
the Skupshtina itself—save in the case of _flagrant delit_. Besides the
“Little Skupshtina,” which carries on the government of the country,
there is also the “Grand Skupshtina,” which consists of double the
number of deputies, and which is only summoned in exceptional
circumstances, namely, to elect the King; to elect regents; to decide
the succession of the throne; to deliberate upon any modification of the
constitution; to decide upon any cession or exchange of territory; or
when the King wishes to consult them. The King alone has the right to
choose or dismiss his Ministers.
In Servia there are 17 departments, 81 arrondissements, and 1571
communes. At the head of each department is a prefect nominated by the
King, at the head of each arrondissement a sous-prefect, and at the head
of each commune a mayor elected by the people.
Military service is compulsory, and the number of conscripts average
26,700 a year. The duration of service in the active army is for cavalry
and infantry two years, and eighteen months for other branches of the
service. I visited various barracks, and was afforded several
opportunities of inspecting the troops. Both officers and men seem
exceedingly smart and capable. Many of the officers had received their
military education in France, Germany, and Russia, while one artillery
officer I met had studied at Shoeburyness!
When the defensive forces are re-armed, as they will be completely
within the next twelve months, Europe will find in Servia a very capable
and well-trained army. Every Serb is a born fighter, and no detail is
being overlooked to render Servia’s defences up to date and complete.
Servia is not a country of great landowners. Apart from the property
held by the State, the land is almost wholly divided among peasant
proprietors. The law grants to every Servian peasant 2.8 hectares of
land, which cannot be sold to pay private debts. It is also forbidden
for cultivators to give bills of exchange. These two measures are of
great importance in preserving the land to the Servian peasant. The
country is a very rich agricultural one—perhaps one of the richest in
Europe. Yet one fact struck me as curious, namely, that in Belgrade one
cannot obtain any good milk, and all butter worth eating comes from
Budapest. There is a very great opening in Servia for dairy-farmers, a
branch of industry which, it seems, does not exist. The vines have, in
recent years, been all destroyed by the phylloxera, but they are being
rapidly replaced by the American variety. The country around the
arrondissements of Smederevo, Golubac, Ram, and Krayina are particularly
noted for good grapes and excellent wine.
[Illustration: In “The Kalemegdan”: Belgrade.]
[Illustration: The Market Place: Belgrade.]
Tobacco is a monopoly of the State. It is purchased upon a tariff fixed
by special commission, and is of well-known quality and peculiarly
adapted for the manufacture of cigarettes. The departments where it is
principally cultivated are Vranya, Krayina, Nisch, d’Uzice, and
Kragooyevac, while in other parts of Servia the Turkish varieties are
grown with great success, and for aroma will compare well with the
tobacco of Albania or Kavala. Not only is sufficient tobacco grown in
Servia to supply the wants of the country, but the quantities exported
are increasing year by year. A favoured few Englishmen, and especially
diplomats in various parts of Europe—who know the excellence of the
special quality of Servian cigarettes—have them direct from Belgrade.
Cigarettes bought for export cost one-half the price they do for
consumption in Servia.
Marmalade and _slivovitza_—an _eau-de-vie_ made of prunes—are also two
articles manufactured in Servia and largely exported, about three
million francs’ worth of the former, and two hundred thousand francs’
worth of the latter being sent out of the country annually.
There are immense forests in various parts of the country with a great
wealth of timber unexploited, as a glance at any good map of Servia will
show, while the sportsman will find there plenty of game of every kind,
from bear, lynx, wolf, and such-like animals, down to the quail, pigeon,
partridge, pheasant, and woodcock. The whole country teems with game,
and the only prohibitions are upon the stag, deer, chamois, and hen
pheasants. There are many sporting clubs, the chief one being in
Belgrade, where a paper is also published called _Le Chasseur_.
Servia’s mineral wealth is well known to geologists. Gold, in diluvial
and alluvial deposits, is being worked at Timok, at Pek, and at other
places, while cinnabar is found at Avala, near Belgrade, and in the
villages of Brajici, Bare, and Donja Tresnica. At Podrinye, at Lyuta
Strana, at Zuce, at Crveni Breg, in the region of Avala, at Rudnik, at
Kopaonik, at Djurina Sreca there is lead; at Zavlaca and Kucajna, zinc;
and at Povlen, Suvobor, Cemerno, Aldinac, Majdanpek, Bor in Timok and
Rtanj, large deposits of copper. Arsenic is found in various regions,
but principally near Donja Tresnica, in the department of Podrinye;
while antimony is known to exist in the Zajaca region. Rich iron is
waiting to be exploited upon the Kopaonik, in Vlasina, Rudna Glava,
Crnajka (department of Krajina), on the Vencac, in the centre of Servia,
and on the Boranja (in Podrinye); while there is coal in places too
innumerable to mention in this work.
All this enormous mineral wealth might well be exploited by British
capital. The Servian Government are, however, very careful to whom they
give concessions, and will not entertain, for a single moment, any
application, unless the applicant is properly introduced and can give
undeniable proof of his _bona fides_. Therefore the adventurer who
thinks he will, without capital, be able to make a “good thing” will
find himself sadly disappointed. The Government is extremely anxious to
receive _bona-fide_ proposals, and as His Majesty himself informed me,
will grant concessions, but only to firms or companies who mean serious
and legitimate business.
The Servian State is owner of all the subsoil of its territory, and can
give what rights it thinks proper to foreigners to prospect and work.
British capitalists would do well to make inquiries, for, from certain
information I gathered in Belgrade, I have no hesitation in saying that
great returns await those who commence serious mining operations in that
rich and inexhaustible field.
As the future wealth of Servia will depend to a large extent on the
exploitation of her mineral resources, and as Englishmen must, ere long,
be interested in her mines—as they are in mines all over the world—a few
facts concerning the Mining Law of Servia may not be out of place here.
The Government grants two kinds of rights to make researches, the
“simple right” and the “exclusive right.” The former is given for one
year, and may be extended to two years, and is limited to the three
communes indicated. The second lasts a year, but is renewable each year
as long as required, and it gives a right to explore over 500,000 square
metres of mining field.
The State gives concessions for mines for fifty years upon a sufficient
number of mining-fields each of 100,000 square metres, the boundaries of
which are fixed by a special commission. To obtain a concession it must
first be proved that there are undoubted traces of minerals; that the
capital is sufficient, and a plan of the proposed works has to be
furnished. The concessionaire, after fifteen years of uninterrupted
work, becomes proprietor, but he must continue to pay the mining duties,
and of course conform to the Mining Law.
Both the prospector and the concessionaire are obliged to work
regularly, take proper precautions for the well-being and personal
safety of their workpeople, report annually upon work executed, and
furnish each year plans for next year’s work. There must be no mining
beneath roads, water-courses, buildings, or cemeteries.
All rights of research and all concessions are lost if the specified
work is not executed within the first year, or is interrupted without a
reason approved by the Minister, or by bankruptcy.
The State, in order to encourage industry, favours the importation of
all machinery and material for use in mines, as well as the exportation
of the ore obtained, and gives many other advantages to the
concessionaire.
Of late, Belgrade has been overrun with foreign concession-hunters, most
of them of the adventurer type. I met several of them in Belgrade. In my
conversation with the Ministers I quickly learnt that the Government,
fully alive to the great mineral resources of their country, and
confident in the great wealth that must in a few years accrue, will have
absolutely nothing to do with any person who comes to them without
introduction.
In Belgrade, I repeat, the doors are closed to the irresponsible
concession-hunter, but at once open to anyone who on being introduced
can show his _bona fides_ and that he has capital behind him.
In the course of my inquiries into the mineral wealth I had a number of
conversations with Mr. J. R. Finney, Ass. I. M. & M., an English mining
engineer who has spent seventeen years in prospecting and working mines
in Servia.
No one knows more about mines and traces of minerals in the country than
he.
He pointed out to me that the mineral deposits of Servia have been
worked to a very great extent from very early times, as the remains of
Roman and Venetian works prove and the enormous slag-heaps found in
various parts of the country. He himself has on many occasions found,
while prospecting, rude ancient implements, bones, etc. Of the ancient
Roman workings, copper, galena, and silver were obtained at Kopaonik; at
Rudnik, lead, silver, and zinc were mined; at Kucajna, gold, silver,
zinc, and coal, while alluvial gold is to be found all along the Pek
River, and especially where it joins the Danube. This gold has, he said,
evidently been worked down in course of time from a rich quartz reef
which is known by certain persons, including himself, to exist.
At the Rebel copper mine, which Mr. Finney himself discovered, he found
ancient workings that had been shored up with timber, but so long ago
that the wood was petrified! Again, the wood was pine, which does not
now exist in the forests. The latter are all beeches, and it is known
that in course of long ages beeches kill the pines. At the mine in
question is an extensive copper-smelting works, and a very large
percentage of metal is obtained. All over this same district Mr. Finney
has prospected, and declares that in the mountains of Medvednick and
Povlen there are large deposits of lead, copper, silver, and antimony
all awaiting exploitation.
Some very important copper mines and smelting works are at Maydan Pek,
and have been worked at a good profit for years, while at Bor there has
been erected a large smelting works, which are capable of producing ten
tons of copper daily. Large deposits of antimony exist, to Mr. Finney’s
knowledge, at Zajitchar and Krupanj.
“I quite admit,” said Mr. Finney, as we were chatting, “that some mines
in Servia have not been successful. The bulk of them have been
over-capitalised. Take, as an instance, one company with £300,000
capital, which left £20,000 for working. The consequence is that the sum
at disposal has not been sufficient to develop the mine or to work
sufficient to pay interest on £280,000.
“Again, in many cases men unacquainted with any foreign language, or
with the customs of the country, have been sent out here to manage, and
with instructions from a board in London utterly ignorant of the
requirements of the case. As an instance of this, a certain company that
I could name sent out to Servia six managers in three years. In such a
case, with a manager dependent upon interpreters and ignorant of the
people, the price of labour and materials rises from 200 to 300 per
cent. I have known these prices to be paid. Again, there is some little
reform needed in the mining laws, and the Government would be well
advised if they compelled the communes to put the roads in better
repair. Transport is at present somewhat difficult, and if the communes
put the roads in order they would, in the long-run, greatly benefit by
the opening up of the country. Such,” Mr. Finney added, “are some of the
reasons why foreign mining undertakings in Servia have not been
altogether successful in the past. But for the future there is great
hope, and English capitalists will do well to regard Servia as a field
where good profits may easily be made.”
----------------------------
AN ALPHABETICAL LIST OF THE PRINCIPAL SERVIAN PLACE-NAMES
ALEXANDROVATZ Chief town of the arrondissement of Koznitza,
on the river of that name.
ALEXINATZ Chief town of the department of the same
name, at the junction of the Morawa with
the Morawfitz. 6000 inhabitants. Copper
mines. The monastery of Sant Stepan is in
close proximity.
ALEXINATZ Department with arrondissement of 30
communes.
ARANGYELOVATZ Chief town of Jassenitza, department of
Kragooyevatz. 1000 inhabitants. Source of
Boukovik mineral waters. Watering-place
much frequented from May till October.
ARILIE An arrondissement of 23 communes in Oujitze,
valley of the Morawa Serbe.
ARILIE Chief town of arrondissement of that name,
department of Oujitze.
AZANJA Town in Jassenitza. 4500 inhabitants.
AZBOUKOVATZ Arrondissement of 38 communes in Podrinié.
BANIA Watering-place very frequented, in the
department of Alexinatz. Ruins of a Roman
bath and of a feudal castle. View upon
Pyramid of Rtanje, and one of the most
picturesque places in Servia.
BANIA Hot-water springs an hour from Nisch.
BANIA-YOSCHANITZA Chief town of Yoschanitza, in Kruschevatz.
BELAVIA Mineral-water springs in the arrondissement
of Yagodina.
BELIVNIA Chief town of the arrondissement of
Prokoupatz, department of Toplitza.
BIELA-PALANKA Arrondissement in Pirot of 44 communes.
BIELITZA Small tributary of the Morawa. Also name of
an arrondissement.
BLATO-LUZNITZA Chief town of Luznitza, department of Pirot.
BOGATITCH Chief town in the arrondissement of Matchva,
in Schabatz district.
BOLIEVATZ Chief town of an arrondissement in the
department of Tzrna Reka, at foot of Mount
Ratni.
BOLIEVATZ An arrondissement of the Zrnarjeka.
BRESTOVATZ Station between Nisch and Vranya.
BRZA-PALANKA Chief town of an arrondissement in Kraina, on
the Danube.
BRZA-PALANKA Arrondissement on the Roumanian frontier with
20 communes.
DERVEN Chief town of the arrondissement of
Sverlichka, department of Kniajevatz.
Monastery of S. Arangel in the vicinity.
DESPOTOVATZ Arrondissement with 33 communes in Tchoupria.
DJEP Station between Nisch and Vrania.
DJUNIS Station on the Morawa.
DOBRA Coal-mine on the Danube between Golubatz and
Dolni Milanovatz.
DOBRITSH Arrondissement in Toplitza with 85 communes.
DOLNI DUCHNIK Chief town in the arrondissement of Zaplania,
department of Nisch.
DOLNI MILANOVATZ Chief town of the arrondissement of
Poreschka-Rieka, in Kraina, on the Danube.
Fine forests; stone and lignite in the
vicinity.
DRAGATCHEVO Name of an arrondissement of which Gutscha is
the chief town, in Tchatchak. 55 communes.
DRINA Tributary of the Save between Bosnia and the
Servian frontier. Excellent trout-fishing.
GAMSIGRAD A locality near Zaitchar. Close by upon a
plateau near Timok are most interesting
ruins of a Roman fortress. One of the best
preserved ruins in Servia.
GLEDIKJ A plateau south of Kragouievatz.
GOLEMO-SELO Chief town of the arrondissement of
Polianitza, in Vrania.
GOLIA Mountains on the frontier of Novi-Bazar.
GOLUBATZ Arrondissement of 29 communes.
GOLUBATZ Mining centre on the Danube.
GOLUBINIE Mountains in Kraina.
GORNI-MILANOVATZ Chief town of the arrondissement of Takovo
and of the department of Rudnik. 3000
inhabitants. School of commerce.
GRDELITZA Station on the Nisch-Vrania railway, south of
Vlatchotinza.
GREATCH Station near Alexinatz, on the Belgrade-Nisch
railway.
GROTZKA Small river, which gives its name to an
arrondissement of 17 communes.
GROTZKA Town on the Danube, near Belgrade.
GRUJA Tributary of the Morawa Srbska, which gives
its name to an arrondissement of 63
communes.
GUBEREVATZ Important traces of minerals 35 kilometres
from Belgrade.
GUTSCHA Chief town of Dragatchevo, department of
Tchatchak. Splendid pastures.
GUTSCHEVO-BORANJA Mountains in the department of Podrinie.
HASSAN-PACHA Chief town of the arrondissement of
Jassenitza, department of Semendria. 3200
inhabitants.
IBAR Tributary of the Morawa Srbska.
IVANYITZA Chief town of Moravitza, department of
Oujitze. 200 inhabitants. Wheat-growing.
JADAR Tributary of the Drina, which gives its name
to an arrondissement of 40 communes. Chief
town, Loznitza.
KAMENITZA Chief town of the arrondissement of
Podgaratz, in Valievo.
KATSCHER Arrondissement, of which the chief town is
Rudnik. 38 communes.
KLADOVA Chief town of the arrondissement of
Kljoutscha, department of Kraina, on the
Danube. 2706 inhabitants.
KLIOUTSCHA Arrondissement, of which the chief town is
Kladova, north of the Kraina.
KNIAJEVATZ Chief town of the department of that name at
the foot of the Balkans. Growing of cereals
and a school of commerce.
KOLUBARA Tributary of the Save. Gives its name to two
arrondissements.
KOPAONIK Mountains to the south of the Dinaric Alps.
KORMAN Station ten kilometres north of Alexinatz.
KOSSMAY Mountain which gives its name to an
arrondissement of which the chief town is
Iopot, department of Belgrade. 26 communes.
KOSTLENIK Mountain in the department of Rudnik.
KOURSCHOUMLIE Chief town of the arrondissement of
Kossanitza, on the Turkish frontier.
Country noted for its wines.
KOUTSCHEVO Chief town of the arrondissement of Svidje,
on the Pek. Coal mines.
KOZIERITZA Chief town of the arrondissement of Tzerna
Gora, department of Oujitza.
KOZNITZA Watercourse and tributary of the Morawa
Srbska, which gives its name to an
arrondissement of 92 communes in the
department of Kruschevatz.
KRAGOUIEVATZ Chief town of the department of that name,
and ancient capital of Servia. Situated on
the Lepnitza. 13,000 inhabitants. Contains
a large library, a gun-factory, and
powder-magazine. Potteries and stone
quarries. Excellent wine grown here.
KRAINA Department in the north-east of Servia. Chief
town, Negotin.
KRALIEVO Chief town of the arrondissement of the same
name, department of Tchatchak. 4200
inhabitants. Lead and iron mines. Military
school.
KROUPANIE Town in the department of Loznitza. Lead,
zinc, and antimony mines.
KRUSCHEVATZ Chief town of the arrondissement and
department of that name, with 6200
inhabitants. Ancient residence of the Tzars
of Servia. Vine culture.
LAPOVO Junction of the railway Belgrade-Nisch with
the line to Kragouievatz.
LEBANE Chief town of the arrondissement of
Yablonitza, at the junction of the Medvedja
and Buguecka.
LEPENATZ A series of plateaux in the south-west, near
the environs of Nisch.
LEPNITZA Tributary of the Morawa, which gives its name
to the arrondissement of which Ratscha is
the chief town. 40 communes.
LESKOVATZ Chief town of an arrondissement of that name
in the department of Nisch. Monastery of S.
Radni in vicinity. Arrondissement contains
77 communes.
LIPOVATSCHA Small river in the arrondissement of Ratscha.
LOZNITZA Chief town of the department of Podrinie.
4000 inhabitants. School of commerce.
LUBOVIA Chief town of the arrondissement of
Asboukovatz, upon the Drina.
LUZNITZA An arrondissement with 54 communes in the
department of Pirot.
MAIDANPEK Important mining centre 30 kilometres from
Dolni-Milanovatz, on the Danube. Iron and
copper. Vast forests.
MASSOURITZA An arrondissement on the Bulgarian frontier,
department of Vrania. 43 communes.
MATSCHWA An arrondissement of 24 communes in Schabatz
district, north-east of Servia.
MIONITZA Chief town of the arrondissement of Kolubara,
department of Valievo.
MLAVA Tributary of the Danube which gives its name
to an arrondissement of which the chief
town is Petrovatz. 32 communes.
MORAWA Chief river in Servia, and by its tributary
the Morawa which rises in the Yavor
mountains, waters much territory in the
south-east of the kingdom. There is an
arrondissement of the same name in the
department of Rudnik, with 38 communes.
MORAWITZA Tributary of the Morawa which gives its name
to two arrondissements, one of 31 communes,
the chief town of which is Bania, in
Alexinatz, and the other, of which Yvanitza
is the chief town, in Oujitza, with 149
communes.
NEGOTIN A town of 6000 inhabitants, in Kraina, East
Servia. Noted for its wines.
NISCHAVA Tributary of the Morawa, which gives its name
to the arrondissement of which Pirot is the
chief town. 65 communes.
NOVI HAN Chief town of the arrondissement of Timok, in
the Tchiprovatz Mountains, on the Bulgarian
frontier.
OBRENOVATZ Chief town of the arrondissement of Possava,
department of Valievo, on the Tamnava, near
its confluence with the Danube. 3000
inhabitants.
OMOLJE Mountains. Highest, 3500 metres, in the
department of Pojarevatz.
ORATSCHA A town in Semendria, upon the small river
Rallya. Also the name of an arrondissement
of 14 communes.
OROPSI Mineral springs near Belgrade.
OUB Chief town of the arrondissement of Tamnava,
in Valievo.
OUJITZE Town of 8000 inhabitants in the department of
the same name. Wine and school of commerce.
OVTSCHAR Mountains near Tchatchak. Sulphur baths.
PARATCHIN Chief town of an arrondissement of that name
on the Zanitza, department of Tchoupria.
The monastery of S. Pelka is not far
distant.
PETCHENIKOTZA Town at the confluence of the Jablonitza and
the Morawa.
PETROVATZ Chief town of the arrondissement of Mlava, in
Pojarewatz.
PIROT Chief town of the department of that name in
the south-east of Servia. 14,000
inhabitants.
PODGORATZ Mines of iron, copper, and lead, in Valievo.
Lithographic stone is quarried.
PODGORIE Arrondissement of 29 communes in Valievo.
PODRINYE A department in the west of Servia. Chief
town, Loznitza.
PODUNAVLYE Arrondissement of 25 communes in Smederevo.
POJAREVATZ Chief town of an arrondissement of that name.
13,000 inhabitants. Mining centre. School
of agriculture. The scene of the famous
Congress of 1718.
POJEGA Chief town of an arrondissement of that name,
department of Oujitza. The arrondissement
contains 52 communes.
POLYANITZA An arrondissement on the Turkish frontier,
department of Vrania.
PORESCHKA Tributary of the Danube in a deep valley
between the Pekska and the Misosch
mountains. It gives its name to an
arrondissement of 11 communes, in Kraina.
PORTES DE FER (GYERDAP) “The Iron Gates” of the Danube, or passage
between the Balkans at the point where the
river leaves Servia. There is also a small
town of 3000 inhabitants. In the mountains
in the vicinity the wild cherry is found.
It is very rare, and is much sought after
for the manufactory of expensive furniture.
POSSAVA An arrondissement of 27 communes in Belgrade.
Also one in the department of Valievo.
POSSAVO-TAMNAVA Arrondissement of 54 communes in the
department of Schabatz.
POTSERIE Arrondissement of 34 communes, of which the
chief town is Schabatz.
PRECHILOVATZ Chief town of an arrondissement of that name
in Alexinatz.
PREILLINA Chief town of the arrondissement of the
Morawa, a few kilometres from Tchatchak.
PRIBOI Town on the railway Nisch-Vrania.
PRILIKA Mineral springs in the arrondissement of
Oujitze.
PROKOUPATZ Arrondissement of 104 communes in department
of Toplitza.
PROKOUPLIE Chief town of Toplitza and of the
arrondissement of Dobritsch.
PSCHINIE An arrondissement of 89 communes in Vrania.
RADJEVINA Chief town of Radjevo, in Podrinie, on the
Bosnian frontier. Lead mines.
RADJEVO Arrondissement of 32 communes.
RADOUYEVATZ A town on the Danube at the point where the
right bank ceases to be in Servia.
RAJAN Chief town of the arrondissement of that
name, in Alexinatz. The Monastery of S.
Roman is in the vicinity.
RALLYA Station on the Belgrade-Nisch line. Important
mining centre. Also the name of a small
river.
RAMA Arrondissement of 31 communes, of which
Veliko Graditcha is the chief town.
RASCHKA Chief town in the arrondissement of
Stoudenitza, department of Tchatchak, at
the foot of Mount Golia.
RATSCHA Chief town of the arrondissement of Lepnitza,
in Kragouievatz. Also the name of an
arrondissement of 28 communes in Oujitze.
REKOVATZ Chief town of the arrondissement of Levatch,
in Yagodina.
RESNIK Station on the Belgrade-Nisch railway.
RESSAVA Tributary of the Morawa which gives its name
to an arrondissement of 24 communes in
Tchoupria.
RIPANIE Station and mine on the line Belgrade-Nisch.
RTANIE A pyramidical mountain of 3900 metres in the
arrondissement of Alexinatz.
RUDNIK Chief town of the arrondissement of Kastcher,
department of Rudnik; also the name of a
range of mountains in the centre of Servia.
RYBAR Mineral springs in Kruschevatz.
SAVA A tributary of the Danube which joins the
latter at Belgrade.
SCHABATZ A town of 11,000 inhabitants upon the Save,
capital of a department of that name.
SCHORNIK A plateaux to the west of Oujitze.
SCHUMADIA A vast forest extending through the
departments of Belgrade and Rudnik.
SEMENDRIA Chief town of a department of that name,
situated on the Danube, with 7500
inhabitants. Vine culture.
SIKIRITZA A station between Belgrade and Nisch. Lignite
is known to exist here in large quantities.
SIKOLIE A mining centre in the Kraina.
SLATIBOR A chain of mountains forming part of the
Dinaric Alps separating Servia and Rascie
(Novi Bazar). Also the name of an
arrondissement of 30 communes in Oujitze.
SMRDAN-BARA Excellent sulphur springs at the confluence
of the Drina and the Save in Loznitza. Very
picturesque.
SOPOT Chief town on the arrondissement of Kossmai,
department of Belgrade.
STALATZ The junction of the railway
Kruschevatz-Oujitze and the line
Belgrade-Nisch.
STANISCHITZA High plateaux in Kruschevatz.
STIG An arrondissement of 13 communes in
Pojarevatz, the chief town being
Koutschevo.
STUDENITZA Tributary of the Ibar, which joins it between
the mountains Iakowo and Radotschewo. It
gives its name to an arrondissement of 144
communes in Tchatchak. The chief town is
Ratschka, near which is the celebrated
monastery of Tsarska Lavra, built in the
twelfth century by the orders of Krale
Stefan Nemania, who became a monk under the
name of Simeon. The monastery, in the
Slavonic style, Orthodox and Byzantine, is
entirely constructed of white marble, and
is of marvellous beauty.
SVERLICHKA Arrondissement of 40 communes, the chief town
of which is Derven, in Kniajevatz.
SVILAINATZ Chief town of Ressava, upon the river of that
name in the department of Tchoupria.
TAKOVO Arrondissement of 43 communes in Rudnik.
TAMNAVA A tributary of the Save which gives its name
to an arrondissement of 42 communes in
Valievo.
TCHAITINA Chief town of the arrondissement of Slatibor,
near the Bosnian frontier, twenty
kilometres from Mokragora.
TCHATCHAK Chief town of a department of that name,
situated upon the Morawa Serbe. 4200
inhabitants.
TCHOPITZ Chief town of Kolubara, department of
Belgrade.
TCHOUPRIA Chief town of a department of that name,
situated upon the Morawa at its confluence
with the Kamenitza. 5200 inhabitants.
Lignite.
TEMNITCH A department with capital of the same name.
TEMNITCHKA Mountains in the south of Yagodina which give
their names to an arrondissement of 43
communes.
TIMOK A river which rises near Biela Palanka, runs
to the north, and falls into the Danube a
little below Radouyevatz, after serving as
frontier to Servia and Bulgaria for 50
kilometres. The name also of an
arrondissement of 20 communes of which
Novi-Han is the chief town, in the
department of Kniajevatz.
TOPLITZA A river rising in the Kopaonik mountains, and
falls into the Morawa near Nisch. It also
gives its name to a department of which
Prokouplie is the chief town.
TOPOLA A small town in Kragouievatz. 3100
inhabitants.
TOPSCHIDER First station on the line Belgrade-Nisch.
Royal villa and gardens. Also mining
centre. The name of a small river falling
into the Save.
TRNAVA An arrondissement of 29 communes, the chief
town of which is Tchatchak.
TRSTENIK A town of 2000 inhabitants, situated on the
Morawa Srbska, in Kruschevatz. Manufacture
of millstones. Also the name of an
arrondissement of 38 communes.
TZERNAGORA A mountain which gives its name to an
arrondissement of 126 communes in Oujitze.
UMKA A town on the Save, department of Belgrade.
VALIEVO Chief town of the department and
arrondissement (of 62 communes) of the same
name. 7500 inhabitants. Lithographic stone.
Town lit by electricity by an English
concessionaire, Mr. J. R. Finney.
VARVARIN A town in the department of Yagodina. Stalatz
station.
VELIKA-LUKANIA A town at the foot of Mount Radotschina,
department of Pirot. The monastery of S.
Aranghel is near.
VELIKA-PLANA The junction of railways between
Belgrade-Nisch and Semendria.
VELIKI-POPOVITCH Chief town of the arrondissement of
Despotovatz, situated on the Retsava.
VELIKO-GRADISHTE A town at the confluence of the Pek and
Danube. 4016 inhabitants. Wheat-growing.
VERSCHKA-TCHOUKA Mountain between Novi-Han and Zaitchar. Rich
coal mines.
VIZZOTSCHKA An arrondissement in Pirot containing 26
communes.
VLADIMIRTSI Chief town of the arrondissement of
Possavo-Tamnava, in Schabatz.
VLADITCHIN-HAN Small station on the Nisch-Vrania line.
VLASCHKA Fifth station from Belgrade, towards Nisch.
VLASSINA Chief town of the arrondissement of
Mazouritza, in Vrania, on the Bosnian
frontier.
VLASSOTINZE A town situate on the Vlassina-Vignes, in
Nisch. Also the name of an arrondissement
of 51 communes.
VRANIA Chief town of a department of that name in
South Servia, on the Nisch-Uskub line. Vine
culture. At Bania, in the vicinity, mineral
springs.
VRATCHAR Arrondissement of 20 communes in the
department of Belgrade.
WRATARNITZA A plateau to the east of Zrna-Rieka,
Bulgarian frontier.
WRNTZE Excellent mineral springs upon the road from
Kralievo to Trstenik, in the arrondissement
of Kruschevatz.
YABAR Chief town in the arrondissement of Morawa.
Abundant lignite.
YABLANITZA A river falling into the Morawa at
Brestovatz-Tchetina, and giving its name to
an arrondissement of 58 communes,
department of Toplitza.
YADAR A tributary of the Drina which gives its name
to an arrondissement of 40 communes in
Podrinie.
YAGODINA Chief town of the department of that name and
of the arrondissement of Bielitza, upon the
Constantinople road. 5000 inhabitants.
Station on the Belgrade-Nisch line.
YASSENITZA A tributary of the Morawa, which gives its
name to an arrondissement of 27 communes in
Kragouievatz. Also a small tributary of the
Medjloudje and the name of an
arrondissement of 15 communes in Semendria.
YAVOR Mountains on the western frontier of Servia.
YBAR Tributary of the Morawa Serbe, which it joins
near Kralievo.
YOSCHANITZA Small tributary of the Ibar which gives its
name to an arrondissement of 71 communes in
Kruschevatz.
YVANITZA Chief town of the arrondissement of
Morawitza, in Oujitze. 2000 inhabitants.
Cereals.
ZAGLAV An arrondissement of 51 communes, of which
Kniajevatz is the chief town.
ZAGOUBITZA Chief town of the arrondissement of Omolje,
upon the Mlava. The celebrated monastery of
S. Giorgiak is in the vicinity.
ZAITCHAR One of the arrondissements of the Zrna Rieka.
25 communes. Also name of the capital of
the department. 7000 inhabitants. Coal
mines.
ZAPLANIE An arrondissement of 55 communes in the
department of Nisch.
BULGARIA
[Illustration: HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE FERDINAND OF BULGARIA.]
CHAPTER I
SOFIA OF TO-DAY
At the Bulgarian frontier—A chat with M. Etienne, French ex-Minister of
War—Evening in Sofia—A city of rapid progress—Engaging peasants for
Earl’s Court Exhibition—Amusing episodes—Social life in Sofia—The
diplomats’ club—The Bulgarian Government grant me special facilities
for investigation.
The Orient Express—that train of dusty _wagons-lits_ which three days a
week gives communication between Ostend and the East—had just passed the
Bulgarian frontier at Tzaribrod, and my passport had been examined and
stamped by a keen-eyed little man in black.
I was sitting in the dining-car with a very distinguished French
statesman, M. Etienne, ex-Minister of War, and we had been chatting for
several hours as the train wound through the defiles of the Servian
mountains.
A diplomat’s wife, with four pet spaniels, on her way, I believe, from
Japan to the Turkish capital, was seated at the next table to ours. She
had ordered coffee, for which she paid with a thousand-franc French
note! The takings of the “pudding-car” of the “Orient” must be
considerable, for the _maître d’hôtel_ promptly cashed the note—nine
“one-hundreds,” some French gold, silver, and copper—and received a few
centimes as a tip! It was my first quaint experience in Bulgaria. Mark
Twain with his million-pound-note should come here. Curiously enough, I
afterwards met the diplomat’s wife in Constantinople.
Entering Sofia from the station, the traveller is at first sadly
disappointed. The place looks dismal and half finished. There are wide
roads and boulevards laid out, with scarcely a house in them. Your cab
suddenly turns a corner. The high pointed minaret of a mosque comes into
view, and lo! you are in a wide boulevard, which would really do credit
to Brussels. You pass a many-domed building, the Cathedral, and
presently a pretty garden behind railings, and a long handsome building
with sentries at the entrance-gate—the Palace of Prince Ferdinand. You
are in modern Sofia.
After a wash at the hotel, I went to the Palace, signed my name in His
Royal Highness’s visiting-book, and then went forth to wander in the
streets.
It was now already dark. In the trees of the central boulevard thousands
of rooks were cawing and circling above, disturbed by the lights and
movement of the street. Men were shouting the evening newspapers in
strident voices, and one could almost imagine oneself back on the
Boulevard des Italiens at the absinthe hour, with the camelots crying
“_V’la la Presse!_” Only, in Paris, rooks do not nest in the streets,
nor do the watchmakers have twenty-four inches of space and a chair in
the windows of the smaller cafés. A walk along any of the principal
streets at once shows the Bulgar to be a fighter, for the display of
arms of all kinds, even to the modern Browning automatic pistol, is
immense.
Here, one is really in the Balkans. The last official census gives
sixty-six Englishmen and forty-six Englishwomen in the whole of
Bulgaria. I met six only. Uniforms, upon Russian models, are
everywhere—the peaked cap, the grey overcoat, the big revolver. Men in
European dress jostle with peasants in linen blouses, round astrachan
caps, and drab blankets around them, or others in sheepskin jackets with
the wool inside, all with the inevitable round Balkan cap of astrachan.
The Turk, too, is quite at home and friendly with the Christian, and
modern progress is typified by the electric trams whizzing and clanging
everywhere.
[Illustration: Peasants in Sofia Market Place.]
[Illustration: The Old Mosque: Sofia.]
Sofia is essentially a town of progress. During the past eighteen months
whole streets of new villas have sprung up upon its outskirts, and such
a rush has there lately been for building plots that our Foreign
Office—who want to build a new Legation—are unable to get any decent
site in a central position. Sofia is just now in the transition stage.
Great new public buildings and fine boulevards are springing up
everywhere. There is a beautiful new theatre, a new post office, a new
Agricultural Bank, and hosts of minor structures, all spacious and well
built, which, in themselves, show Bulgaria to be a country of rapid
advancement.
Unlike some other Balkan countries, there seems no lack of money here.
Just now, for example, it is proposed to expend a little matter of
fourteen million francs upon roads in the Principality, and the cost of
the new market-halls and other buildings will probably be prodigious.
But the Bulgar is essentially a thrifty person. During the past twenty
years he has transformed his capital from a wretched little Turkish town
into a really handsome city. In twenty years to come, at the present
rate of progress, it will be the Brussels of the East, for it is
modelled upon the same plan.
Sofia is a city of quaint contrasts. Fine modern shops, where one can
obtain the latest Parisian perfumes, the latest French _modes_, or
expensive table delicacies, are hopelessly mixed up with the Turkish
stalls where sallow-faced men are squatting at work, or sitting
pensively at the seat of custom. The Sofia tradesman likes to expose his
wares, whatever they may be, in the street, for in that he still retains
the trace of the trade manners of the Turk. The pavements of the main
streets are heaped with wares—fish in barrels, meat, groceries, live
fowls, live pigs tied to lamp-posts, and among it all jostle the
passers-by.
The broad Maria Luisa Ulitza, the Dondukoff Boulevard, or the Pirotska
Ulitza are, on a Friday, the market-day, crowded with peasants in the
most picturesque costume of all the Balkans. Until a year or two ago the
skirts and head-dresses were of white linen embroidered, but in these
modern times the women dye all their white clothes a pale blue.
Therefore they all seem to wear the same delicate shade. The married
women have their heads covered with a pale blue handkerchief, and wear a
heavy silver girdle; but the village maidens all have their hair parted
in the middle and hanging in a hundred small plaits with sequins down
their backs, while over the left ear they wear a bunch of fresh flowers,
which gives them a most coquettish appearance. The skirt is short,
always hand-embroidered, and sometimes studded with gold sequins, while
over all is worn a short jacket of sheepskin with the wool inside,
rendering them somewhat podgy.
The men from the country, a fine tall race, wear embroidered costumes,
the jackets of dark stuff flowered in pale blue and ornamented with
hundreds of pearl buttons, tight white trousers embroidered at the
knees, and the inevitable round cap, without which no Bulgar is
complete.
I spent one amusing morning with Mr. James Bourchier, the well-known
Balkan correspondent of the _Times_, who is six months each year
resident in Sofia. He was on the local committee of the Balkan
Exhibition at Earl’s Court while I was on the London committee, and our
mission was to discover in the market some good-looking peasant girls to
go to the wilds of West Kensington. He had already been to several
villages, but the girls, he said, were rather chary of going so far from
home, even though assured by their local Mayor of their well-being and
safe return.
On the particular day of our visit to the market my journalistic friend
had arranged to meet the Mayor of one of the neighbouring villages—a
peasant—and with his aid try induce some of the best-looking girls to
grace the Bulgarian Section of the Exhibition. The village Mayor being
prevented from joining us, we determined to start upon a voyage of
discovery ourselves.
It was a rather formidable undertaking. We, however, spent an amusing
morning; but though we talked with many comely girls with flowers in
their hair, we somehow were unable to impress any of them with the
advantages of a free trip to London. Unfortunately, they did not take
us at all seriously; there was a good deal of tittering at our
proposals, and the market with its vegetables, its sucking-pigs on
strings, and its turkeys tied head downwards on cross-sticks, was
drawn blank. We could only hope that next Friday, with the presence of
the confidence-inspiring Mayor, we might be more successful.
[Illustration:
HIS EXCELLENCY DR. DIMITRI STANCIOFF,
Bulgarian Minister of Foreign Affairs.
]
As a matter of fact, a few days later, accompanied by my friend, M.
Dimitri Stancioff, of the Commercial Department of the Ministry of
Foreign Affairs, and M. Mandersheff, another functionary from the same
Ministry, we took carriages out to the picturesque village of Vladaja,
some seventeen kilometres from Sofia on the broad highroad that leads to
Kustendil and Macedonia. The drive was a delightful one in the bright
winter sunshine, through a fertile undulating country, until, turning
off from the well-kept military road, we found ourselves in a small
village lying in a deep dark ravine.
Here the costumes were very quaint and interesting, the men in long
blouses of white blanket-like woollen stuff trimmed with black, raw-hide
shoes, and their legs bound with leather thongs; while the women and
girls wore gay colours, short lace-edged petticoats, and quantities of
gold sequins and coins about their necks. Some of those strings of coins
were worth at least from fifteen to twenty pounds.
Our journey of investigation was distinctly humorous. Sometimes the four
of us could not agree as to the personal beauty of a fair candidate for
the approbation of the British public, while those we spoke to were
mostly shy to answer our questions. Many of the village girls flatly
refused to leave their homes unless their lovers were also employed in
the Exhibition, but after much explanation, a good deal of chaff, and
considerable giggling, the names of several were taken in order that
inquiries should be made of the village Mayor before the presentation
and signature of their agreement, which provided for their fare to
London, the payment of their wages, their insurance for the benefit of
their family in case of accident, and their safe return to Bulgaria at
the termination of the Exhibition.
We engaged one flute-player—a tall, dark-faced young giant in
sheepskins—after he had displayed his aptness with his instrument. The
local _han_, wherein we rested, drank _rakhi_, and ate cream-cheese, was
a big common room with earthen floor. In the centre was a large stove,
upon which was cooking some steaming dish with appetising odour. Around
us sat dozens of huge burly fellows, bulky in their sheepskins,
gossiping and drinking wine, a fierce-looking assembly, to be sure, and
yet withal extremely good-humoured.
After a while, the village musician was discovered, a short little
fellow who played a quaint kind of two-stringed violin, and almost as
soon as he sounded the weird, plaintive music, young girls with flowers
entwined in their long plaited tresses, and others, slightly older, with
the white handkerchiefs on their heads—the badge of matrimony—came
trooping forth to perform for us the national dance—the _horo_.
Forming in a line, the youths and maidens crossed arms, linked their
hands in each other’s belts, and then began a curious kind of dance,
keeping step with the music and ever advancing and retreating, keeping
it up for a full half-hour. Now and then the tune was changed, and with
the tune the dance.
In the clear Eastern afterglow of evening, with the thin crescent moon
slowly rising, it was a quaint and curious scene. The weird music, the
strange costumes, the cries of the dancers, and the merry laughter of
the girls, will long live within my memory as a picture worthy the brush
of a great painter.
And as we drove back to Sofia through the silent, starlit night, I
wondered what impression those simple-minded folk, so far removed from
Western civilisation, would receive of our fairy-lamps, pasteboard,
tinsel, imitation mountains, brass bands, and water-chute at Earl’s
Court!
What would be the stories of their adventures in West Kensington and the
wonders of London when they returned to remote Vladaja?
I had, like every other Englishman, always regarded Bulgaria as a _terra
incognita_, where local manufactures were absent and where most goods
were imported. Therefore a surprise awaited me one day when Monsieur M.
V. Lascoff, Director of the Bulgarian Commercial and Industrial Museum
at Sofia, took me round that institution, and showed me specimens of the
various goods produced in the country. In the museum was a most
wonderful collection of articles representing the manufactures of
Bulgaria, ranging from violins to soap, and from table-covers
manufactured from beautifully embroidered jacket sleeves to writing-ink
and tinned fruits.
One of the prominent industries is the distillation of otto-of-roses in
the Shipka district, where in summer the whole country is covered with
blossom, an industry to which I will devote a chapter. Carpets, very
similar to the dark crimson-and-blue Persian varieties, and goat-hair
floor-coverings are made largely by the peasantry, who also weave by
hand wonderfully fine gauzes, tissues, and dress-stuffs. Felt hats,
blankets, pottery, and copies of antique filigree jewellery are also of
peasant manufacture, and are really wonderfully done. The stranger has
no idea, until shown this museum, of the rapid progress the country is
making commercially.
While passing round the museum I chanced to admire two pairs of very
fine antique silver earrings of rare design worn by the Bulgarian
peasants two centuries ago, whereupon the case was at once opened, and
they were presented to me as a little souvenir of my visit.
Sofia, being a brand-new city, is not, of course, quite perfect. It
requires, among other things, a good system of drainage and the
repavement of its streets. The latter work is to be commenced in a few
months’ time. A good first-class hotel, too, is also badly required. At
present the hotels, though clean, are poor and comfortless, and neither
they nor the restaurants do credit to the go-ahead character of the
progressive Bulgarians. All this, however, will soon be remedied, for I
heard of schemes for new hotels with fine restaurants and
winter-gardens. So in six months’ time the traveller may expect to be in
the full enjoyment of them, for in Sofia they do not talk, but act.
If you are anywhere in the Balkans and mention Sofia, you will be told,
with a sigh of regret, “Ah! they have a club there. We haven’t.” I had
heard this in Belgrade, in Sarayevo, in Ragusa, in Cettinje—in fact,
everywhere throughout the Balkans; therefore, with some curiosity I
entered the sacred portals of the much-talked-of club with my friend
Colonel Hubert du Cane, the British military attaché, and was elected a
member during my stay in the Bulgarian capital.
It certainly is a most excellent and comfortable club—one of the best I
know of on the whole of the Continent. The rooms are cosy and artistic,
and the members are most diplomats, Cabinet Ministers, and high
functionaries of the State. At lunch, representatives of most of the
European Powers assemble at the long table and chat merrily, while at
dinner, at the small table at the end, M. Petkoff,[1] the Premier; Dr.
Dimitri Stancioff, the Foreign Minister; and several other members of
the Cabinet, dine nightly at “the Ministers’ table.”
-----
Footnote 1:
M. Petkoff has, since the present work has been in the press, been
assassinated while walking in the Boris Garden in Sofia.
-----
The food is excellent, though there are, of course, some grumblers, and
the whole institution is conducted on similar lines to a first-class
London club. Perhaps the custom of personally introducing the stranger
to every single member of the club strikes the foreigner as a little
unnecessary, yet without doubt there is real good-fellowship existing,
such as is entirely absent in some other clubs I know—the English Club
in Brussels and the Florence Club in Florence, in particular.
Men, and especially the diplomats, find it a very great boon, for to go
to Sofia is to find a real good club and quite a host of good
cosmopolitan friends ever ready to show the stranger all kinds of
hospitality.
Social life is far from dull. Sport and games of every kind are most
popular. There is an excellent tennis club, hockey is played three or
four times a week, and large riding parties, personally conducted by
Baron Rubin de Cervin, the Italian military attaché, go out for long
jaunts into the neighbouring mountains several times each week. Then at
night there are constant dinners and receptions at the Legations, and
everyone seems to lead a very pleasant life, without a moment’s dulness.
[Illustration:
HIS EXCELLENCY D. PETKOFF,
Prime Minister of Bulgaria.
]
Lady Buchanan, wife of Sir George Buchanan, the British Minister, is the
principal hostess, and with her daughter is foremost in Sofia society.
Until ill-health prevented her recently, she was an ardent player of
hockey and tennis, and constantly in the saddle. Her entertainments are
always brilliant, and in her pretty salon one meets everyone who is
anyone in Sofia.
Again, the Military Club is another centre of social life. The building
is a handsome one, with an extremely fine ballroom, where dances, given
every week through the season, are attended by the elite of Sofia. I
went to one, and found it a particularly gay and brilliant function.
Government institutions in Sofia amazed me. They would do credit to any
European capital. The Agricultural Bank, the inner working of which I
was permitted by Monsieur N. Ghenadieff, Minister of Commerce, to
inspect, is a fine new building of huge dimensions, with a beautifully
ornamented board-room, and its operations no doubt tend much towards
securing the public prosperity of Bulgaria. M. Seraphimoff, the
Governor, who conducted me round, told me that the bank had its origin
in the time of the Turkish rule. As far back as 1863, the Governor of
the _vilayet_ of the Danube created small banks in order to aid the
peasants, the villagers repaying their loans in crops and the banks
selling the produce.
During the Russo-Turkish War, however, many of these banks lost their
capital, for the Turkish functionaries escaped with all the funds they
could place their hands upon. The Provisional Russian Government
re-established the banks, and they have continued to progress until the
present institution was founded. It now has eighty-five branch offices
in the principal towns and agents in most of the villages. Its direction
is under a governor and four directors nominated by Prince Ferdinand.
The operations of the institution are as follows: to accept deposits; to
grant loans on mortgages or securities; to grant loans upon cattle and
agricultural produce; to advance money to the peasants for the purchase
of cattle, seeds, or agricultural implements; to make personal loans; to
open current accounts with peasants; to buy agricultural implements,
seeds, and machinery for the peasants; to accept loans for departments
or communes; and for the transfer of securities. The interest charged or
given is 5 per cent. for deposits for five years, 4 per cent. for three
years, and 3 per cent. for one year. In 1901 the amount of the bank’s
operations was 535,575,182 francs, while in 1905 it amounted to
1,180,778,378 francs, thus showing how greatly it is appreciated by the
peasant, and of what enormous benefit it is to the country.
While there, I saw many uncouth peasants in their sheepskins from
far-distant villages come and obtain loans, repay their interest, or
make petition for their inability to pay. It is very apparent that all
of them greatly appreciate the fact that the Government is their
creditor and not the Jews.
Another institution which I inspected was the State printing press, a
fine building containing the latest machinery; and afterwards I was
shown the building of the magnificent new church of St. Alexander
Newsky, which, being constructed in blocks of white stone just behind
the old church of St. Sophia, is costing over three million francs, and
is to be in memory of the Russian liberator of Bulgaria.
Truly, everywhere one turns in Sofia one sees some new buildings, for
signs of rapid progress and up-to-dateness are on every hand.
Bulgaria, with Servia, is surely destined to expand in the near future,
and the “big Bulgaria” must some day ere long be an accomplished fact.
[Illustration: The Royal Palace: Sofia.]
[Illustration: The Main Boulevard: Sofia.]