The bazaar—Turkish gipsies—The vendetta—An assassin—A way to pay debts—Bosnian refugees—A card-party—Paving-stones—Burglars—
Army doctors—Change for a ten pound note—Our horses.
After this we visited the bazaar. Imagine a labyrinth of narrow lanes, paved with large round blocks, polished by the feet of many generations; the open booths laden with every variety of European and Eastern goods; the roofs of every height and at every angle, projecting far over on either side—almost meeting in places—joined by festoons of vines, that keep out the glare of the midday sun; and a thick crowd of armed men and veiled women, some mounted, some on foot, in every variety of barbaric costume.
Here is an armourer's shop, the owner, a sour-looking Mohammedan, in snowy festinelle, jacket stiff with gold embroidery, sits cross-legged on his counter, surrounded with every sort of weapon. The Arnaut gun, with flint lock, narrow steel stock beautifully worked, and Damascened barrel fully five feet long, silver inlaid, and hooped with gilt bands, first attracts our attention. The barrels of these guns are rarely of Albanian make, but have been handed down from father to son for generations, and are re-stocked over and over again ere they are condemned. Most of them are of Venetian make; the marks of the most famous gunmakers of the old republic are found inscribed on them. I came across several Tower-marked barrels of antique date, seeming strange in their Albanian stocks. Here we have yataghans, some with plain ivory hilt, others glittering with gold and precious stones, worth a prince's ransom. Here is the long-barrelled Miridite pistol, with quaintly-carved brass stock. Here all the accessories for killing one's fellows—cartridge belts, carved brass cartridge and oil-rag boxes, flints soaking in a pan of water, and so on.
The next stall is a potter's. He works steadily at his wheel, and surrounds himself with gracefully-formed bowls and pitchers of red clay.
Then we have the fruiterer: pomegranates, figs, oranges, vegetables, and fruits too unknown to us, lie in profusion on his counter.
Here is a worker in leather. He provides you with richly-ornamented saddlery, belts for your sweetheart ornamented with the heads of pins, purses, and the curious treble sack which the Arnaut straps in front of him to hold his yataghan and two lengthy flint pistols. Here is a man embroidering a piece of black or red cloth with the most artistic and delicate patterns in gold or silk. This is to be portion of the garment of a woman of rank.
Here is the carpenter. He is at work on a large square box of deal, coarsely painted with bright colours. This is intended to contain the trousseau of the bride, and is the prominent object of the woman's apartment in an Albanian house.
In short you can buy anything in the bazaar, from a horse to a para's worth of halvar.
One of the most curious sights of the bazaar is its gipsy quarter. After traversing one or two sordid alleys, one comes upon a sort of terrace, where, scorning the sun or rain, unprovided with stall or booth, are the zingali tinkers. A wilder and more uncouth lot I never cast eyes upon. Dressed, or rather ragged, in a strange Oriental costume of their own, blackened by exposure, speaking a tongue unknown to all here, there is something very uncanny in them—no wonder that the superstitious Arnaut fears and dislikes them. The women are unveiled, their breasts are bare, and the old hags could well stand as models for a witch of Endor, or any other unearthly and fearsome thing in female human form.
The gipsy has a greater raison d'être here than elsewhere in Europe.
The proud races of these regions, more especially the Montenegrins, consider it degrading in the highest degree to work in iron, except in the case of the manufacture of arms. Thus, whereas the Albanians of Scutari, Jakova, and Priserin are excellent workers in other metals, all tinkering is left to the despised zingali.
It is quite the proper thing to have a stall in the bazaar. Men of the highest rank sit behind their wares for a few hours of the day, not perhaps caring much whether they sell or not; but this crowded mart is the common rendezvous, and answers the purpose of a club.
As you force your way through the crowd some friend will recognize you, and beckon you to squat by him on his counter, among the cheap Manchester goods, while you talk over the latest gossip over coffee and cigarettes. We soon had formed so many friendships, that a stroll through the bazaar meant for us the swallowing of prodigious quantities of the thick Eastern coffee, which, by the way, is the best of all, if properly made.
It is by no means unusual to have your shopping disturbed by the report of fire-arms. I have already alluded to the blood feud, or vendetta of Albania. This is here carried to an extent quite unknown in other countries. Indeed, the Franciscan missionaries told me that it is very rare indeed to find a really old man in the mountains, the chances being so much in favour of any given man being killed sooner or later in these constant feuds.
It is in the bazaar, on market-days, that men of two families engaged in a vendetta are most likely to meet. You can generally tell whether a man has a feud on hand, by his furtive look; his pistols are cocked, he carries his gun also cocked in his hand, and looks behind him constantly, for fair play is unknown here. To stab a man behind his back is quite legitimate.
The Arnauts are Roman Catholics, and, as Christians, are by law forbidden to carry arms in the towns. But these powerful tribes are too strong to heed the government regulations. No Arnaut ever comes into the town without his arms, and no one dares interfere with him.
Our friend the gendarme took us to the stall of a friend of his—a notable man, Bektsé Tchotché by name. He was an ill-featured Albanian Mussulman, about forty years of age, dressed in a national costume that must have cost hundreds of pounds, so rich it was. The blade of his yataghan was inlaid with an elaborate gold device from point to hilt. Its handle was rough with large diamonds. His long Albanian pistols were gold hilted, and beautifully carved. This fellow, a man of rank, does not seem to carry on any ostensible trade at his stall, but it was hung with a collection of weapons similar to those on his person. Our gendarme whispered to us, "This is a brave man; much respected; has killed more of his fellow-townsmen than any other Scutarine."
Imagine a policeman in England seriously pointing out, as an admirable character and brave nobleman, the most atrocious murderer of the county. Yet this is what this Bektsé Tchotché is.
Murder is not a crime here, however cold-blooded and cowardly. The assassin has but to fear the vengeance of the family—there are no police to interfere with him, especially if he be a Mohammedan. This state of things breeds in the towns a race of ferocious bullies, ready and waiting to wash out any fancied affront with your heart's blood.
This man, who is in the enjoyment of several hundreds of pounds sterling per annum, has devoted himself entirely to murder. If you meet him in the town you see him sitting erect on a gaily equipped horse, which he encourages to prance and caracole from one side of the street to the other, to the great danger of passers-by. In Albania furious riding is not an offence—in fact, it is difficult to find what is. If an unoffending passer-by jolt against him accidentally on his promenade, a bullet is most probably sent into him instanter. As all his pistols are at full cock, and have hair triggers, they not unfrequently go off accidentally in the crowded bazaar.
Perfectly incredible to any one who has not visited these countries, is the light in which assassination is regarded. It is more an amusement than anything else—the sport of men. Walk through the streets of Scutari, and you will find the marks of bullets on every house.
The following was quite a recent affair. A young swell one morning was presented with his account, a few shillings only, by his shoemaker. His noble blood could not suffer the indignity long. He walked down the bazaar, found the beast of a tradesman standing in front of his stall, holding his child in his arms, and, without a word, blew his brains out. This gentleman, I need hardly say, is still at large, and swaggers about as usual.
We drank coffee with Bektsé Tchotché, and had a long conversation with him, the gendarme acting as interpreter. He was very kind and polite, and invited us to see him again.
The bazaar at Scutari is full of strange sights, but the most strange and pitiful is a scene one can witness every day outside a certain baker's, who has made a contract with the government. Here for hours patiently waits a miserable crowd of wretches, men, women, and children, thin and pallid, with—yes, even smelling of—starvation.
At last a door opens in the loft, and at once they seem to wake from their death-like lethargy; they press up, each trying to be first; they raise their lean arms, and utter prayers and objurgations, hoarse and cracked with hunger. A piece of undercooked maize bread is given to each, and they depart, devouring it in silence. These are Bosnian refugees, families that have emigrated from their homes at the instance of the Turkish government, which now can do so little for them. Better for them had they stayed in their native valleys, and trusted to the justice of the Austrian giaours. Outside the town, by the roadside, one comes across some that are so worn with travel and hunger that they have not the energy to come with the others to receive the scant rations. Here is a typical group. A veiled woman, sitting patiently by the wayside, with several small children lying by her, all starving, and one evidently dying. The father is dead—killed while resisting the infidels, far away in Bosnia. These unfortunates do not beg—they sit there in mute apathy. The children, maybe, crouch up nearer to their mother when they see a giaour passing. If you show some small coins, and beckon to them, the eldest child will perhaps take courage, and painfully drag itself to you, will take the gift, look wonderingly at you with his big eyes (unnaturally big in the white shrunk face), say not a word, and return to his mother to pour what he has received into her lap. The mother all the time sits there impassive, to all outward appearance, quite heedless of what is going on, and utters not a word. It is the daily sight of these poor wretches, and the tales they have to tell, that so excited the Albanian Mussulmen to resist à outrance any occupation of their country by Austria, for of course that power is considered by them as the accursed cause of all this suffering.
We returned to the house of our friend the gendarme, and had a most interesting conversation with him on the customs of his country. He narrated to us, among other things, the last little affair in the way of blood feuds.
"A friend of mine," said he, "was playing at cards in the bazaar with another gentleman. The latter accused my friend of cheating. His reply, of course, was a pistol-bullet, which instantly killed the other.
My friend, knowing that many of the dead man's relations were about, escaped from the town to a house he has in the mountains, where he could stay in safety for awhile. The relations of the other, being unable to avenge his death on the person of his murderer, adopted the following very clever plan to entrap and kill, without incurring any risk themselves, the nearest relative of my friend, his father. Two men went to the old man's house, and told him that his son had been slain by a man of Koplik, and that his murderer was now staying in a khan on the road to that village. They offered to accompany him and assist him to avenge his son's death. The old man swallowed the bait without suspicion. On a lonely part of the road, as he rode somewhat in advance of his two companions, they at the same moment fired their pistols into his back, then cutting off his head, sent it in a package to his son."
Thus are things managed in this pleasant land of Albania.
It was dark before we left our friend's house, so he sent his Miridite servant to accompany us with a lantern to our hotel.
Scutari is not lit by night with lamps of any kind, so it is almost impossible to find one's way in the dark through the narrow intricate alleys. Besides, as the paving is laid down carelessly, to say the least of it, one would run a good chance of breaking one's neck, if one dispensed with the services of a link-man. One occasionally comes across deep pits in the middle of a street, or against a rough stone projecting up quite three feet above the average level of the others.
As the town is subject to floods, high stepping-stones are placed across the streets at intervals. All this makes walking in the dark exceeding unpleasant in this city.
I said somewhere back that the police have little to do in Scutari.
They have one function at any rate. They patrol the streets at night, and arrest all who are not provided with lit lanterns. This rule is strictly enforced. If any one were walking lanternless any night in the town, and did not immediately respond to the patrol's challenge and surrender himself, he would most probably receive a rifle-bullet or so into him. Burglars, provided they carry lamps, are, as far as I can make out, not interfered with by the police. An attempt to break into our consul's house was made not long ago. A watchful cavasse (body-servant) saw the men in the garden, and opened fire on them with his gun from a window. The fire was returned, and kept up for half an hour or so between the two parties, simply by way of passing the time pleasantly, I suppose. The Albanians are vile shots, and no damage was done on either side, beyond may be a window or so broken. The police kept carefully out of the way all the time.
Three army doctors dined with us at the hotel table d'hôte. They were not in a happy state of mind. Their whole conversation was a vehement abuse of the Turkish Government. As they understood Italian we were able to join in the talk. One of them, a very amusing old fellow, an Armenian, waxed very warm over his grievances. "Ah, Signor, you have no idea what a corrupt, vile thing this Turkish Government is. The court eats all the country. We who work, the employés of the state, the doctors, the soldiers, never receive any pay now. We are put off with excuses on excuses, lies on lies. As long as they think they can obtain our labour for nothing, not a para will they let slip through their fingers. Look at my case. I have been a doctor in the Turkish army for forty years, I have been through the Crimea, over all Asia, in the service of the Porte. I am entitled to a good pension. I have been day after day to the office at Constantinople, and put my case before the authorities. They put me off with all sorts of fair promises, but I knew what that meant, so went to them day after day, and worried them so much that they decided to get rid of me in some way. 'There is a permanent hospital in Scutari, in Albania,' they told me. 'In consideration of your long service we appoint you as head doctor of it. Start at once to your post.' Now that I have travelled all this way, at my own expense mind you, what do I find? The permanent hospital no longer exists—it is a myth, and they knew it at Constantinople all the time, and no doubt chuckled merrily, when I had turned my back, at the clever way they had rid themselves of the importunate old nuisance."
Our friend the gendarme called on us after dinner. He too had his grievance. He had just called on his commandant, in hopes of receiving some small portion of the arrears of pay due to him. The following brief conversation ensued:—
"What do you want here, Lieutenant P.?"
"I want money."
"What? Eh! Money! What on earth for?"
"To procure bread."
"Ah! bread; that is well. Do you know what there is in the caisse?"
"No."
"Well, there is nothing; and I see little chance of there being a single para there for some time. So go, young man, and do not indulge in extravagant habits. I advise you as an older man."
After a few consultations with Mr. Green, Brown and myself determined to carry out our original plan of riding to Janina, and of visiting Priserin on our way, if the Leaguesmen were willing to receive us in that city.
Our friend the gendarme offered to accompany us the whole way for a small consideration. This suited us exactly. For with him we could converse, and the chances were small of our meeting people who could understand any Western language, on our route. Besides, the Turkish government compels all travellers to take an escort of zaptiehs. At certain stages these are changed, and another escort is given, of greater or less numerical strength according to the state of the country to be traversed. In the company of this officer, we should probably be able to dispense with this nuisance, except perhaps on a few stages where brigands were supposed to be prowling about. An escort of zaptiehs is really of little use; for when brigands are come across here, it is not in twos and threes, but in overwhelming numbers.
We were rather surprised when our intended companion told us that he could easily procure letters of safe-conduct for us to the chiefs of the League at Priserin and Jakova, as he himself had many intimate friends among the head men of that formidable organization, at Scutari. Curiously illustrative was this of the present condition of this country. Here was an official of the Turkish Government, an officer of police, openly associating and sympathizing with rebels, whose avowed object it is to throw off the Turkish yoke by force of arms, and place a prince of their own choice on the old stone throne of Scanderbeg at Kroia.
The next thing to do was to make preparations for our journey. We had spent all our gold, so found that we were obliged to change some of our English notes. This was no easy matter. After some difficulty, with the assistance of Mr. Green we found an old Christian merchant, Shouma by name, reputedly of great wealth. He might be able to manage the little affair for us.
We called on him, and according to the custom of the country we indulged in coffee, sweetmeats, sherbet, and cigarettes before commencing to state our business. Very suspiciously he looked at the notes. Bills of exchange he would have discounted without hesitation; I believe our own promissory notes would have satisfied him. But in governments this wise man had no faith. He did not believe in a paper currency.
He had observed how in his own country it had depreciated till at last it was absolutely valueless. He knew that even Austria's notes were worth considerably less than the sum they are supposed to represent.
I tried to explain to him what Bank of England notes really were—
what the difference between a convertible and an inconvertible paper currency was; but Shouma evidently considered that the convertible paper was a still more subtle device of a more clever government to hoodwink and swindle the people.
However, he agreed to change a ten pound note for us, provided that Mr. Green guaranteed that it really was worth ten golden sovereigns.
Mr. Green was of course willing to do this for us. Shouma accordingly took our note, but told us that it would take three days at least to rake together so large a sum as ten pounds in Scutari. He would go that very day to the bazaar, and get as much as he could, for us to go on with.
In three days, a huge packet of metallic discs, of every size and inscription, was ready for us. This was accompanied by a document, lengthy as the manifest of a mail steamer, specifying the value of this wonderful ten pounds' worth of coins.
He gave us 131 piastres and a fraction for each sovereign. It took us two hours to count and verify our change. There were silver medjidiés at 22½ piastres each, all sorts of curious concave plates of base metal, worth 11½, 6¾, 13½, and many other odd sums nasty to calculate.
There were Greek coins, Russian roubles, old Austrian swanzickers bearing the effigies of Maria Theresa, Peruvian and Mexican dollars, and I know not what besides. Verifying one's change, is no joke in Albania.
To shop in the bazaar of Scutari is a maddening operation, unless one heroically resigns oneself to the certainty of being cheated twice over in every transaction; for not only must one bargain fiercely and cunningly, and beat down the price the merchant asks for an article in the first instance, but after one has come to terms, and is about to hand over his fifty piastres, say, another still warmer and more utterly confusing discussion is sure to ensue as to the value of the coins one presents to him.
The piece of money you yourself received as a twenty-piastre bit, he insists is worth only eighteen.
"See here," he says, "this swanzicker you give me has a hole through it; that diminishes its value by two paras." Two or three neighbours are called in to decide the question. Each has a different opinion on the subject.
The fact is that all money is acceptable here, and that, especially since Turkey's reduced circumstances, the currency consists of the old, semi-defaced coinage of a dozen nations at least, whose value is arrived at by guesswork. I met no one in Albania capable of telling off-hand how many piastres a given piece was worth.
We spent the three days Shouma had given us, in preparing for our journey, and seeing as much as we could of the habits and customs of the Scutarines.
As we had made up our minds to ride, we paid a visit to the bazaar to purchase two horses. All sorts of extraordinary animals were produced, and refused.
At last we came across one that struck our fancy—a long-legged, extremely lean creature, tall for the country, of a red-brick colour.
Brown, who is a horsey man, proceeded to examine him in a scientific manner, to the admiration of the Arnaut stablemen.
He pointed out the weak points of the animal by signs to the dealer, who was quite as sharp as any of his fraternity in England.
Brown, wishing to express his disapproval of the extremely emaciated condition of the horse, pointed to his ribs; whereon the man, misunderstanding his meaning, deliberately counted them before him—a very easy process in the case of this Albanian Rosinante—
and indignantly signified to my companion that he was too much of a gentleman to offer for sale a horse that was not provided with a sufficient number of those necessary costal supporters.
The animal was then trotted out, down one of the crowded alleys of the bazaar. He found favour in Brown's critical eye, so the bargaining commenced.
" Sa paré? " (how much) I asked.
The dealer held up both his hands, and said, "napoleon Frank"—to signify that he wanted ten napoleons.
Brown expressed infinite disgust, and held up two fingers.
The dealer in his turn turned his back, with indignant gesticulations and exclamations at the ridiculously low offer.
At last a bargain was struck, the money counted out, and the purchase delivered to us.
We were mounted at the time on two horses Mr. Green had kindly lent us; so we led off Rosso—as we named our animal, in consequence of his rosy hue—with a rope behind us.
Through Mr. Green we managed to procure another steed, a younger animal, and of more robust habit than the lean and haggard Rosso.
From his more gentlemanly appearance we gave him the name of Effendi.
We managed to pick up two saddles in the bazaar—one the regular Turkish saddle, at first so uncomfortable to the novice, but gaudy with flimsy metal ornament; the other was a secondhand Turkish officer's saddle, similar to that used in Europe, and provided with formidable-looking holsters.
We felt very proud of our purchases, and took a long ride the same afternoon over the plain, to a very fine old Venetian bridge that spans a branch of the Bojano, Mr. Green's son accompanying us.
Rosso and Effendi proved to be all that could be desired.