Voyage to Cattaro—A Bora—The gulf of Narenta—The Herzegovina—
The island of Curzola—Ragusa—The Bocche di Cattaro—The frontier
of
Montenegro—The
fortress
of
Cattaro—Evening
promenade—Personal attractions of the Cattarine ladies—Rough roads—Prince Nikita's coach—Bosnian refugees—A Bosnian's luggage.
We had been in Spalato nearly a week. The steamers from Trieste did not bring us Jones and Robinson, so we determined to push on.
We bid adieu to our good friends, who evidently considered our heads doomed to fall beneath Albanian yataghans, and embarked on October the 2nd at 4 p.m., on an Austrian Lloyd, bound for Cattaro, which lies up a long gulf at the foot of the Montenegrin mountains.
There we were to leave civilization and the sea coast, and commence our inland march. From Spalato to Cattaro is a forty-eight hours'
journey by the steamer. For the last few days the genial Scirocco, or south-east wind, had been blowing; but to-day the fierce gusts of the Bora, or north-east wind, had changed, in a trice, the warm autumn weather to bitter winter.
This wind beats very heavily on the eastern coast of the Adriatic, and is much dreaded by seamen.
The quaint lateen craft of the country, constructed on such antique lines, skimmed by us with close-reefed sails—curious sails they are, many-coloured, and painted with pictures of suns and grotesque saints. Throughout the wild afternoon and night we steamed on, touching at Almissa and Macarsca on our way. The next day we steamed up the long, land-locked gulf of Narenta. The scenery, as usual, was fine, but so indescribably desolate and barren that the eye soon wearied of it. On the gulf of Narenta a narrow strip of Herzegovina runs down to the sea, thus, till that province was acquired by Austria, dividing her territory in two.
We anchored off a spot called Neoum, which is on this recently acquired slip, in order to land soldiers and munitions for the troops.
Neoum is a military post recently established by Austria on the bare sides of the mountain. We landed, and found a barrack, a telegraph station, and a public-house; these were the only buildings. It is an important position, however, as being the nearest point to Mostar, in Herzegovina, to which town the Government is now constructing a military road from here. Next we touched at the picturesque fortress of Curzola, on the island of the same name. It is surrounded by grand old Venetian walls and towers, which rise from the water's edge.
This night we anchored for several hours off Gravosa, the northern harbour of Ragusa. The latter wonderful old city, perhaps the most interesting of all Dalmatia, we had time to explore in a rapid way.
There was once a Republic of Ragusa. The fact that it successfully maintained its independence, when all the surrounding countries had been acquired by Venice, will testify to the strength of the little state.
The chief street is broad, and contains lofty and noble houses—
residences of the old merchant princes—strong-built, with elegant balconies and carved porticoes. From this street narrow streets ascend the mountain side, in steps of granite. Arches are thrown from house-top to house-top; there are some grand bits for a painter. The town is paved with broad, flat stones, which gives it a very clean appearance.
The next was a glorious day. The gentle south wind once more brought summer back to us, and the lateen-rigged boats again shook out their reefs, and displayed all their gaudy canvas.
It was early in the day when we steamed through the entrance of the Bocche di Cattaro.
This magnificent fiord has often been described. It certainly contains some of the finest scenery in Europe.
The deep gulf winds into the heart of the wild Montenegrin mountains.
At first it is quite six miles in width, then it narrows to a few hundred yards, then again widens into an extensive lake as the fantastically-shaped, almost perpendicular masses of bleak rock jut far out into the deep clear water in rugged promontories, or retire from it in dark and profound chasms and ravines.
Here and there houses and churches are seen perched on seemingly inaccessible ledges, thousands of feet above the blue water which reflects them. There are several small towns on the shores of the Bocche. Castelnuovo and Perasto have beautiful situations. Pleasant villages, half buried in olive gardens, are built on the lower slopes of the hills.
But the first view of that extraordinary fortress, Cattaro, is never to be forgotten. At the very head of the last arm of the Bocche the dark blue masses of mountain, here higher and more precipitous than elsewhere, shut in a deep bay.
BOCCHE DI CATTARO. Page 48.
More than 4000 feet above, on the ridge, is the frontier of Montenegro—a country by the sea, looking down on the blue water, yet shut out from it by its big neighbours.
. Page 49.
A bold bluff of rock, a thousand feet or more in height, slightly projects from the main mass, perpendicular, bare, cleft into profound chasms.
This extraordinary site has been chosen for the most wonderful fortress in Europe. Below, on the narrow margin between rock and sea, is built the town. Along the water's edge is a quay, to which are moored the beautiful craft of the country. This has been converted into a pleasant walk, fringed with trees. Behind this is the old Venetian wall of the city, with its fine solid towers and broad battlements; the time-darkened stones in places luxuriantly overgrown with the lovely flowers and creepers of the sunny South.
Passing through the portcullised gate, one enters into a strange, quaint city. The streets are narrow, the houses lofty, and covered with grotesque carvings. No carts, carriages, or horses, are permitted to enter the town. This, by-the-bye, is the case in most Dalmatian cities.
The whole is paved with large flags. Cattaro is of some length, but very narrow, for it is shut in by the steep cliff which rises immediately from behind it.
Now the walls of the town, after bounding it on the sea front, zigzag up either side of the bluff I mentioned, till they meet on its crowning point, a thousand feet above the sea, where stands a formidable-looking castle.
On observing how they rise and dip, adapting themselves to the little ravines and irregularities of the rock, one is irresistibly reminded of the pictures of the great wall of China one was so much impressed with in the spelling-books of childhood.
Very old the town and fortifications are. No improving Goth has yet taken aught away from their grotesque grandeur.
It is very difficult to describe the effect of all this, for the scenery in and around Cattaro is such as is not to be found elsewhere, quite sui generis. The most blasé traveller would utter an exclamation of surprise when that wonderful fortress suddenly appeared before him, like some great city of the genii that one has read of in fairy tale, or seen in some half-remembered nightmare. The high cliff, with its grey fortress, seems ready to topple down on the town any moment. Some of the huge masses of overhanging rock have at times been dislodged, and fallen below; many of these are chained to the mountain, to prevent this catastrophe.
So lofty and steep are the surrounding heights that Cattaro does not enjoy much of the light of the sun; the shadows depart late, and soon set in. But during the few hours in the middle of the day that the sun's rays do fall on it, this place is like an oven—possibly the hottest town in Europe.
About four o'clock in the afternoon our steamer was alongside the quay. We marched off to the Hotel Cacciatore, a very decent place, whose proprietor is a quaint fellow, with a perpetual smile, who imagines he can speak French. The restaurant is fair, and frequented by the officers of the garrison. The custom-house officers did not trouble us, but the mosquitoes did; so, too, did certain insects that inhabited our beds.
Brown is one of those unfortunate people whose blood is exceptionally sweet and palatable to insect life, and to whom, consequently, the hours of darkness in these lands bring no peace, but sleepless torments worse than the guiltiest, liveliest conscience could inflict. He brought with him from England a large packet of insecticide, and every night, before he retired, made careful preparations to withstand the usual siege. He was not contented with dusting himself all over so freely that he set the whole Albanian expedition sneezing for an hour, but he would also build around his body, on the bed-clothes, an impregnable rampart of the powder so broad and lofty that the most active flea would fail to leap it.
The next day was Sunday—a warm and delicious day. We attended the service, and enjoyed the fine music in the old Venetian church. In the evening we visited the public promenade on the quay outside the walls, which was crowded by the population and the country people in their Sunday best.
At the end of this promenade there is a public garden, and a café under the ramparts. The marble tables are placed out of doors, among the bright flowers and creepers. Here we sat lazily smoking our cigarettes, and listening to the music of the Hungarian military band that played just in front of us. There is no gas at Cattaro; the town is lit with petroleum. The band carries its own lamps. It was curious to see the men troop into the garden, each with a pole over his shoulder, to which hung his lit lantern. This place is really delightful on such an evening as this. The scene was exactly like some great scenic display on the boards of a large theatre—some dream of fairyland. One could not help half expecting to see some bright Eastern ballet trip in the next moment. The promenade in front of the walls was the stage and proscenium. The lovely Eastern night, the moon hanging over the great hills, the blue waters and the fantastic shipping, the giant walls and towers, the grand mountains behind all, the picturesque crowd, and the lively music, all combined to form a perfect spectacle, magic-like—to say theatrical would be an unworthy adjective—that I, for my part, never imagined could be found within a week's journey of practical, ugly London, dear old place though it is.
Costumes flitted by us as brilliant and strange to the eye as those of an Alhambra opera bouffe. The Morlak, the lithe and bright-eyed Greek, the turbaned Turk of Bosnia, with glowing robe, solemn and haughtily-looking; the Montenegrin mountaineer, with his white coat tied on with silken sash, and richly embroidered vest; the Albanian in fez, snowy kilt, rough capote, and jacket stiff with gold; the Arnaut, with his manly tight-fitting dress, stalking through the crowd, looking the fierce and undaunted savage that he is—all these strolled or stood in groups, completing the picture with their richly-coloured and varied costume. The very Europeans, with their sadder-hued dress, formed no unpleasing foil to these.
The ladies, with unbonnetted heads, over which a shawl is gracefully thrown in Venetian fashion, their little feet silk-stocked and slippered, as in the East, above which, just peeping below the black silk dress, hung a mere suspicion of delicate white embroidered petticoat, were charming—if not seen too near: an ungallant verdict, reluctantly wrung from a veracious traveller.
The Hungarian and other Austrian uniforms were also no unpleasing feature in the throng.
I have just now, and I think on other occasions, used the term European in contradistinction to the term Dalmatian. I only follow the usage of the country. I found that Dalmatians and Albanians always spoke of Europe as if they were quite apart from it. "You Europeans,"
"you in Europe," was a common phrase.
The music ceases—the lights are extinguished. We must pass through the walls by the narrow gate into the city. By night the portcullis is half lowered, so we have to stoop to go through, as if to bow in obeisance to the winged lion of St. Mark that is carved in the old stone above.
We walked through the quaint old streets, whose broad clean flags rang metallically under our feet. The town was now deserted and silent. As we approached the hotel we stood and listened to one remarkable noise which can be heard once every hour at Cattaro, and which produces a very curious and pleasing effect. This is the watchword of the sentries on the walls. First, the sentinel below at the gate-tower commences, with the long wailing cry; then the next takes it up, then the next, and so on, right up the zigzag fortifications to the fortress up in the mountain, a thousand feet above, each cry fainter than the last. Then, when the sentinel at the extreme summit has shouted out the word—his voice almost inaudible to us so far below—
it is carried down the other side of the walls, distincter and distincter again, until it reaches the starting-point again, and the man posted on the grim old tower just before us gives out in loud voice the last intimation that all is well.
We loafed about the neighbouring mountains and shores for some days, waiting to see if those dilatory travellers, Jones and Robinson, would turn up. We visited the new road now being constructed into Montenegro—a difficult undertaking to surmount these frightful rocks.
The old road, which is carried in long zigzags from above Cattaro to the summit of the pass, is calculated to test the wind and muscles of the pedestrian. It is a very rough affair; and though much labour has been expended to clear away the larger rocks that obstruct the way, yet in some places one has to clamber over boulders of considerable height. The Montenegrins look upon this rough track as being a model high-road. It is far better than most of the so-called roads of Montenegro and Albania. But in these countries it is generally difficult to make out what is intended for road, and what is not. The roughest mule-track of Switzerland is as good as a great highway here.
The Prince of Montenegro recently paid a visit to the Emperor of Austria, at Vienna, where he was made very much of. When he was about to return to his native mountains, the Emperor was much puzzled to know what would be a fitting present to make to the semi-barbaric despot. At last he bethought him of a splendid state-carriage, on whose panels were painted the arms of the principality, and four fine horses.
The Prince was much gratified, and the costly gift was taken by steam to Cattaro. Here an unexpected difficulty arose. The carriage could not be taken to Cettinje, for there was nothing that by the greatest stretch of compliment could be called a carriage-road leading into the principality. So here, at Cattaro, in Austria, the coach has to remain until the new road be completed, which will not be for some time to come. Whether the coach was originally given in anticipation of the new road, or whether the new road is being constructed for the coach, I was not able to discover.
On the next day the Duke of Wittemburg arrived here by steamer, on his way to Cettinje. A deputation of gorgeously-clad Montenegrin notables, tall, handsome, and straight, armed to the teeth was on the quay to receive him. These contrasted favourably with the municipal authorities, who were there for the same object. A German or Italian in swallow-tail coat, black silk hat, and white kid gloves, in broad sunlight, is an uncomfortable and unpleasing object.
In the afternoon the guns from the fort above the town fired twice—
the signal that the Trieste steamer was in sight. This time we made certain that our friends were on board.
So confident were we, that Brown and myself tossed up as to whether Jones or Robinson should be at the charge of a bottle of maraschino to be consumed by the quartette.
We were again disappointed. We went on board; they were stowed away in no part of the vessel. The deck presented a curious appearance; it was crowded with turbaned Bosnian refugees, who with their wives and families had deserted their native land, intolerable to them since its occupation by the Austrian giaours. They were now on their way to the new lands promised to them by the Porte. This exodus is much more extensive than is generally imagined. These poor people bore their grief with true Oriental apathy. They had laid their mats on the decks, and were squatting on them smoking silently, holding no converse with the hated giaours around them. The veiled women crouched up close under the bulwarks in a shrinking manner, while the little nude children sprawled about anywhere. I need not add that all swarmed with vermin. They had their Penates with them, of course. Their luggage was rather scanty.
It was a curious sight to see them trooping out of the vessel, each man bearing his impedimenta—his mat, pipe, and coffee-pot; this was all. One family had a European portmanteau; this was opened at the Custom-house. Its contents proved to be—on one side potatoes, on the other a coffee-pot! The potatoes doubtlessly had been dug from the little enclosure round the homestead in the old country.
We decided to give up our friends, and start on the morrow for Cettinje, the capital of Montenegro, for we had wasted some time, and were anxious to commence our march into the wild interior, and see what lay beyond that barrier of cloud-capped rock before us.
We found a Montenegrin who owned a small wiry mountain horse. He agreed for a small sum to guide us, and carry our baggage to the capital.
Before leaving Cattaro we changed some English sovereigns into swanzickers. This is an old Austrian coin, out of circulation in the Empire, of the date of Maria Theresa, and as a rule bearing her effigy.
This is the coin particularly affected by the Montenegrins, they always value anything in these elsewhere obsolete swanzickers.
The Turkish modern coinage is also accepted, but under protest. The silver Medjidie seems to have a different value in every Montenegrin village. Austrian modern money or paper they will have nothing to do with, as a rule. Of course gold of any kind is readily taken.
The value of the English sovereign and French napoleon is well known all over eastern Europe. I was surprised to find that the humblest mountaineer in Albania knew the exact change for these pieces. The only difficulty in changing them lies in the possibility of a village not being able to muster a sufficiency of the small coin as an equivalent.
Bank-notes are of course useless in these wild countries; but at Cattaro and Spalato, and other Dalmatian towns, there are money-changers who will change these with pleasure.
When we were at Cattaro the pound sterling was worth eleven florins, sixty centimes, or thirty-three-and-a-half swanzickers.