The occupation of a Montenegrin gentleman—The public library—Prince Nikita's prisoners—Albanian versus Montenegrin—A Montenegrin loan—The Prince as a sportsman—The museum—The hospital.
The next morning we rose betimes, to visit the lions of the Montenegrin capital.
It struck us, as it strikes most travellers in this country, that the favourite occupation of a Montenegrin in time of peace is to swagger about in peacock fashion in conspicuous places where he is likely to be seen, proud of his fine dress and splendid weapons, which he sticks ostentatiously in his silken sash. The women do work hard here, but I have never seen a Montenegrin of the sterner sex demean himself by any labour. They are all gentlemen, in the good old sense of the word. They can't do any work, and wouldn't if they could.
There is no industry of any kind in this country. Their embroidered robes, their metal work, their saddlery, all come from Albania, or are here worked by emigrants from that province.
The Black Mountaineers have many virtues, but, pace Mr. Gladstone, industry is not one of them.
How they manage to procure their expensive get-up often puzzled me. True, all the riches of the country are on the not over-clean backs of the inhabitants.
Miserably poor the common people are. A bad season, as this one has been, equals in horror and suffering even what Ireland has just experienced. Yet a Montenegrin, be he starving, can always manage to be well armed, and often gay with gold embroidery.
We met a string of women, some by no means ill-favoured, bearing building materials—wood, bricks, and the like—on their broad shoulders. They had brought these all the way from Cattaro. As all the luxuries, and many of the necessities of life, have to be brought up that frightful path on the backs of the fair sex, Cettinje is by no means a cheap place to live in. It made my eyes open to learn the cost of a feed of hay for one's horse.
We walked up the high street, till we reached an institution of which the natives are very proud—the public library.
This was but a small room. The books were few in number, all in the Sclav tongue. I was surprised to find the chief Russian, German, French, and Italian journals lying on the table. There was a Standard and Illustrated London News of as recent a date as September the 27th.
The Prince, who of course is consulted as to what publications are to be admitted into his realm, has curiously enough selected from our daily papers the one that, above all others, takes a view of general European politics diametrically opposed to that of himself and his big ally in the North.
The next object of interest we visited was the prison. Imagine a courtyard open on the street, generally, I believe, unguarded. Here all offenders against the law squat on the ground, or stroll about as they like. They are allowed to receive their friends, who bring them little luxuries. A most happy-go-lucky sort of a prison, and very characteristic of the country. These prisoners, were they so inclined, could escape in a moment. They never attempt such a thing. They are ordered to remain there and consider themselves prisoners for so many days, and there they stay, smoking patiently till their time is up.
In so small a country as Montenegro, it is hardly an exaggeration to say that everybody knows everybody. The flight of a prisoner would be telegraphed to every village—he would soon be re-captured. For so great is the love and fear entertained by this people towards their Prince, that none would venture to shelter or assist a runaway from his prison. Again, to fly across the frontier is a plan few would care to resort to. The Montenegrin loves his country too much to desert it, and is too much disliked by his neighbours to expect to be by them received with open arms.
The Prince had occasion to send an important message to Cattaro one winter. Heavy snow rendered the path dangerous—almost impracticable. So, as it was a pity to risk the life of an honest man, a criminal from the prison was called out, and ordered to carry the letter to the Austrian fortress, and return immediately. No one for a moment suspected that the man, having regained his liberty, would stay away for good. Indeed, he carried out his mission safely, and returned within two days.
While we were lunching with the grandees in the hotel, several loud explosions, succeeding each other in rapid succession, shook the house to its foundation. We were told that the noise proceeded from the new road to Cattaro, where the rock is being blasted with dynamite. We went out to see the sight. The plain at the back of the hotel was crowded with groups of men, women, and children, who seemed pleased and excited at the spectacle. Every now and then from the rocky ridge, about half a mile off, would spout a huge volume of smoke and fragments of rock, which was followed shortly by a loud roar.
The recklessness of the spectators was amazing. A fragment of rock would fall in the midst of them occasionally, which called forth peals of laughter. They would all rush up to see how deep it had forced its way into the soil. One large piece of rock whizzed by us and buried itself near the hotel, not ten yards from where we were standing, and almost between the legs of a little boy. The urchin screamed with joy (as did all round—the narrow shave was an excellent joke), and threw himself on the ground to disinter what had so nearly proved his destruction. The stone was nearly as large as a man's head, and had buried itself quite eighteen inches in the ground—a sufficiently formidable missile. We were told that a rock had been projected into the Prince's palace the other day during the blasting operations, and that several people had been killed or seriously wounded at different times. The Black Mountaineer is too accustomed to scenes of carnage to be anything but reckless and careless of life.
In the afternoon we saw the Prince himself, as he enjoyed the fresh air of the plain. He was walking in a slow and dignified manner, followed closely by two attendants. He wore the national costume; over his shoulders was thrown a magnificent cloak of furs. Whichever way he turned his head, and he did so often, every one within radius of his vision immediately uncapped himself, and as instantly resumed his head-covering when his sovereign's eyes were turned in another direction again. On no other occasion does the Montenegrin doff his cap; this mark of respect is due to the Prince alone. He wears it indoors as well as out.
Here a man salutes his equal with a kiss on the cheek, his superior with a kiss on the hand or hem of the garment, according to the rank.
Woman, an inferior and subject being, never ventures to do more than humbly take in her own, even her husband's, hand and kiss it.
We did not have an interview with Prince Nikita, though we had letters of introduction for him. As he was entertaining the Austrian Grand Duke, we considered that he had enough distinguished foreigners on his hands for one time. Later on Robinson and Jones did interview him, and were much pleased with his frank and genial manner. He is always very glad to see any strangers that visit his domains, and is anxious that his endeavours to civilize and ameliorate the condition of his people should be better known and appreciated by England.
I fear that he and his people have been almost too highly appreciated of late. Some would persuade us that the Montenegrins are the finest people in Europe—a race of Demigods. The popular superstition as to the "unspeakable Turk" is no less absurd than that which exaggerates the virtues of the noble Montenegrin.
They are brave warriors. They are cunning enough to know that the good opinion of civilized Europe is worth having. They are intensely self-conceited; they hate the Turk and the Albanian; they are too proud of their warlike qualities to care to work; and, in my humble opinion, will never be more than they are now, picturesque, poor mountaineers, very inferior in mental capacity to their neighbours the Albanians, Christian or Mohammedan, and no wit less ferocious and cruel in war.
But Albania has an ill-name among those who know her not. She is the scapegrace of the Eastern Adriatic—the cause of all troubles hereabouts, it is said. Montenegro, on the other hand, enjoys a high reputation.
This is natural. Subsidized or bribed by two of the Powers that be, petted by the same, she plays a good game, and encourages the superstition that she is much more virtuous and civilized than the neighbour whose territory she lusts after.
The unfortunate Arnaut has no Prince Nikita, is robbed by the so-called government of Turkey when it is strong enough to affect him in any way, has no friends, but is surrounded by cunning enemies, hungry for his lands.
Let any disinterested person travel among Montenegrin and Arnaut, and I think he will conclude, as I did, that the latter is as brave a warrior—more industrious, more intellectual—in every way of a finer, nobler race, than his much belauded hereditary foe.
The cares of State lie not heavily on the shoulders of Prince Nikita.
The little work he does do he is very proud of. Europeans that have conversed with him have come away with the impression that he is the hardest-working, most conscientious prince in Europe.
I am told that now that he has constructed a very complete network of telegraph wires throughout his realm, he considers that one thing alone remains to bring Montenegro up to his standard of civilization.
This is a National Debt. He talks seriously of negotiating a loan in some of the European capitals, and proposes to hypothecate the timber of the State forests. We saw a good deal of Montenegro in this and in a later visit; but had great difficulty in discovering where these fine forests were. We often made inquiries. "Ah! when you reach So-and-so, you will see them on your right hand." So-and-so reached, we could perceive nothing but the eternal stones of the Karatag, made further inquiries, and were referred to some further spot where we should find huge primeval forests darkening mountain and valley, the haunts of wild beasts, where the axe of the woodman had never been heard to resound, where twenty men linked hand-in-hand would fail to encircle the gigantic trunks.
We pursued these phantom forests, but never found them, so we concluded that they existed only in the imaginations of the Montenegrin financiers.
At last, it is true, on the frontier, near Klementi, we did come across what might be called forests, but the timber was not large; and, growing where it did, in inaccessible haunts of the eagle, in the heart of the wild mountains, it was next to useless.
I should say that if the Principality endeavoured to raise a loan on the security of her inexhaustible stones, she would be about as successful as she will be if she seriously tries to hypothecate her forests.
A rather cynical person, a foreigner, who knows Cettinje well, gave me an amusing summary of Prince Nikita's method of passing his time. In the morning he sits in his palace; occasionally sends a message of little import to some village Voyade, through the medium of his new toy, the "electric telegraph." A few telegrams constitute a hard day's work for the Prince. Some relaxation is necessary. Sport is suggested; so off he rides, with his Court, to Rieka, in whose stream are trout of fabulous size. Here he enjoys a good afternoon's fishing.
With rod and fly? No; but in a more wholesale and princely fashion.
With dynamite! Truly a royal pastime! He is also a poet in his way, and turns out rather dismal compositions in his native tongue. He is an affectionate husband, and is wont, on fine evenings, to serenade the princess with the one-stringed guzla, or violin of Montenegro, accompanying it with his voice, which he raises in song of his own making.
A Montenegrin notable, a fine young fellow, quite six feet five inches in height, kindly offered to be our guide over a Museum of great interest, which is situated at the further extremity of the town. The Museum is merely a small, rough-plastered room, but it contains what is well worthy of visit—a collection of trophies taken from the Turk in those wars which have raged fiercely and cruelly between the two races for so many hundreds of years. Here were the spoils of a thousand battles. Guns of very antique date—curious, ricketty weapons of Middle Age Europe. Here the long Albanian gun, with silver-inlaid barrel, and small narrow stock of beautifully carved steel; old muskets with English Tower marks; Martini-Henry and Winchester rifles hung on the walls, bringing one down to more recent campaigns. Sabres, blood-stained and broken; mountain howitzers, tattered standards, some falling to pieces with age, some rent with ball and shell; the richly inlaid scimetars of some old Prince of Orient, lances, old chain-armour, and I know not what besides, lay in confusion all around us.
In one corner of the wall hung certain trophies which are calculated to sadden the English visitor. These are the decorations of the slain Turk. Among the Medjidiés were numerous Crimean medals, English and French. It was not pleasant to see these here at Cettinje, taken as they were from the breasts of many a veteran ally of ours in the olden time—heroes of Kars, may be; soldiers of Williams.
From this melancholy collection we were taken to see the Hospital.
The surgeon, a Herzegovinian by birth, kindly showed us over the establishment. It was a rough place, but answered its purpose well enough. The beds were occupied chiefly by those who had been badly wounded in the late war. The patients were crowded together in a way that would have much astonished an English doctor. But these hardy, temperate people, have marvellous constitutions, and the air of Cettinje is pure and bracing; so no ill has resulted so far, from a system which would invite pyæmia, and kill off half the inmates of a London hospital in a week.
We stayed at Cettinje for three days. By that time we had seen enough of the metropolis, so held a council as to whither next we should bend our steps.
As Albania, and not Montenegro, was the object of this expedition, we decided to cross the frontier to Scutari, the capital of North Albania, where resided an English and other consuls, who could give us useful information.
We found the best, indeed the only, way of reaching Scutari from here was to go by land to Rieka, a Montenegrin village on the river of the same name, and then hire a boat to take us down the Rieka, and across the great lake of Scutari, to the Albanian capital, which is situated at its furthest extremity.