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Reginald Wyon - The Land of the Black Mountain

R >> Reginald Wyon >> The Land of the Black Mountain




But our worthy host armed himself with a big stick, and we sallied
forth again under his guidance. Even then it was no joke, and the
house of Dr. S. came as a haven of refuge. Anyone who has been in the
East knows what an amount of persistency and endurance the Oriental
beggar possesses.

[Illustration: THE RIBNICA]

We were received as old friends and welcomed to the Easter table,
which was set, as in any other Montenegrin house at this season, for
anyone and everyone who has the remotest claims of acquaintanceship.

Several men were present, to whom we were at once introduced; amongst
others a canny Scotchman, the only Britisher living permanently in the
country. We were a cosmopolitan gathering. There was Dr. S., a
Roumanian, an Austrian ornithologist, a Scotchman, our innkeeper was a
Macedonian, and two or three Montenegrins. From that evening date many
of the pleasant friendships which we made in Montenegro.

The next day our newly-made friends showed us Podgorica. It is divided
into two distinct parts--the old, or Turkish town, and the new
Montenegrin town, which dates from the conquest of 1877. The two
halves are separated by the River Ribnica, which flows in a deep bed
before the crumbling walls of the Turkish quarter. At one angle of the
town the Ribnica enters the Moraca, Montenegro's biggest and most
important river.

Most picturesque is the old Turkish quarter, still surrounded by the
same bastions and walls which not so long ago defied the Montenegrin
army. But the houses, as well as the walls, are fast falling to ruin;
for at the order of the Prince the market has been removed to the
other side, and, in comparison with the new town, there are few
inhabitants left. The fortifications still bear witness to the fierce
struggle which took place before them, and one bastion was breached
more successfully than ever Montenegrin cannon had done, by lightning,
during the bombardment. Many of the older inhabitants, as well as the
walls, show traces of the former conflict, a noseless man being no
great curiosity.

Not for nothing has the Montenegrin won his fame as one of the
fiercest fighters in the world. He was never outdone in atrocities by
his enemies. It was the rule of war (and is now, to a great extent) to
either behead one's prisoner on the spot, or, if the day had been
exceptionally heavy, and more heads could not be carried conveniently,
noses were taken instead. Perhaps the phrase "to count noses"
originated in these lands. However, it usually ended the same, for the
noseless man would, as a rule, bleed to death; but some have lived
through it, and can be met with anywhere in Montenegro or Albania.

Many fierce fights took place in and about Podgorica, and the ghastly
picture of victorious Montenegrins at the conclusion of an affray,
sitting in groups, each with a small or large heap of heads and noses
before him, "counting the bag," has many eye-witnesses still living.

In the Turkish town lies the prison, soon to be the only one in
Montenegro. A new wing is rapidly nearing completion to accommodate
the female prisoners, who are at present incarcerated in Cetinje. We
visited the director that Easter Monday morning, and were received
unofficially in his quarters. We always had great fun with that man--a
pompous individual filled to overflowing with the importance of his
position, and, not unlike men similarly afflicted, most aggressively
stupid.

As a great favour, and after our united persuasion, he allowed us at
last to look from a window overlooking the courtyard of the prison. As
in Cetinje, the prisoners walk without let or hindrance in the
spacious walled-in courts before their cell doors. Being Easter no man
was chained, a privilege they owe to the Prince, who always releases
the prisoners from their fetters during the great festivals; one
wretched individual, however, we noticed more heavily manacled than
even a murderer of the worst kind. He was, we were informed, a
dangerous madman, though, poor devil, he looked harmless enough,
slouching round and round the yard. The primitive custom of confining
dangerous lunatics (for the harmless are allowed their full liberty
outside) in the common prison is soon to be done away with. A large
lunatic asylum is rapidly nearing completion near Danilovgrad--another
memorial of Prince Nicolas' improvements.

The prisoners were sleek and fat--those imprisoned for long terms or
for life bearing witness of the good treatment which they receive at
the hands of the authorities. One youngish man in particular
attracted our attention, a merry laughing fellow whose girth had
reached alarming proportions. He was imprisoned for life, and his
crime, which sat so lightly upon him, had been a particularly
atrocious and dastardly murder for plunder--a crime practically
unknown in Montenegro.

Imprisonment is more real here than in Cetinje. There is none of that
delightful promenading up and down before the prison walls, hours
pleasantly whiled away with a friendly visitor from afar over a pint
of wine. The only glimpse of the outside world that these prisoners
obtain is when a few of them fetch water daily from a well outside the
walls.

As we gazed upon the strange scene from the window above, of prisoners
and warders amicably chatting together, others squatting in groups
over a harmless game, a horrible voice disturbed the serenity of the
picture. Then at a closely barred window a face appeared, with matted
hair and long unkempt beard. It was the face of a madman; with
terrible curses he filled the air, and we looked inquiringly at our
cicerone.

"That man is a political offender," came the answer. "For fifteen
years he has waited his trial, and now he has become hopelessly
insane. Many years ago he endeavoured to stir up a revolution against
the Prince, and fled to Vienna, where he carried on his treasonable
propaganda. But he was enticed back, and thrown into solitary
confinement such as those who are traitors to their Prince receive.
For an hour every day these prisoners are allowed to walk in the yard,
but this man from the first refused to avail himself of the privilege,
and now he has become what you see."

"Will he never regain his freedom?" we asked.

A shrug of the shoulders was all that our guide vouchsafed, and with
that awful voice ringing in our ears we were glad to turn away.

Two mosques still exist, and are in use, for the Turkish population is
fairly large, though owing to recent events rapidly diminishing, but
the Prince does everything in his power to cultivate a friendly
feeling with the Mahometans. His country is the asylum for the
persecuted Turk as well as the fugitive from justice, and, if his
crime is political, he will be warmly welcomed.

But, Woman again has upset the best of intentions, and within a year
four elopements of Turkish girls from their homes with Montenegrins
have taken place in Podgorica. These girls have been baptised and
married to their Christian lovers. A worse insult to the Mahometan
faith does not exist. But of this more anon.

The modern town is painfully plain and uninteresting. Montenegrins
have no knowledge or love of architecture. Each house is built
solidly of stone, square and undecorated. Even the palaces of the
Royal Family are of puritanical simplicity externally.

There are the law courts, post and telegraph offices, and
police-station all in one, a school, and a market-place, with a very
ugly memorial to the fallen Montenegrins in the last war. Otherwise,
the town is laid out with broad streets, all planted with trees,
exactly like a South African township.

Building plots are free, the only obligation to the owner being that
he must run up the outside walls of the house at once. The roof and
internal work can be completed at leisure. A large part of the town
consists of mere shells of houses, the owners waiting for the means of
completion.

Some little distance from the town, across the Moraca, is the Prince's
palace of Krusevac, which he occasionally visits. It stands quite
alone on a slight eminence.

The view round Podgorica is one of the most fascinating features of
the place. It is one of those perfect views which never tire, and
always present some new beauty, and the armed rough men in their
brightly coloured and novel costumes are in complete unison with the
picture. These national costumes seem so absolutely fitting to
Montenegro that the otherwise plain and uninteresting buildings of
the town are turned merely into a background for the ever-moving
stream of colour. The Turkish bazaars with their gaudy wares hung out
into the street, the red-jacketed Montenegrin, the Turk in pure white,
the Scutarines in their distinct and original costume, and the
Albanians who flock in hundreds to the market in coarse white serge,
heavily bordered with black braiding, rifles over their shoulders and
a bandolier round their waists, make a never-ending picture. We never
wearied of wandering about the streets on market days. Then the town
is filled to overflowing with a multi-coloured crowd, and every man
from a distance brings his rifle.

How odd it looked at first to see an Albanian with perhaps a
shilling's-worth of field produce spread out before him, and at his
side a rifle loaded and cocked; or, again, a Montenegrin boy of
perhaps fourteen, with his rifle across his knee! To keep order in
this formidably armed crowd of men, many animated with the fiercest
racial and religious hatred of each other, are some dozen Montenegrin
gendarmes, armed, as is every Montenegrin, with but a heavy revolver.

Deadly enemies meet on the market-place, men standing in blood feud
with one another, and speak, often expressing a fervent prayer soon to
be able to put a bullet into the other at the first opportunity,
but--outside the town. Podgorica is mutually held as neutral
territory, and is very rarely violated. This is strange where men fear
not death.

But, outside, perhaps but half an hour from the outskirts of the town,
these men will meet and shoot and kill; for murder, or sudden death,
to use their euphemistic way of looking at matters, is by no means
uncommon.

There is a great tract of land about an hour's ride from Podgorica
characteristically called the "Crna Zemlja" or Black Earth. It is
neutral, lying between Montenegro and Albania, and the man who sets
his foot on it carries his life in his hands. Men who know, say that
every inch is soaked in blood. It is overlooked by some small hills
from Albania, and is covered with long pampas grass, affording good
cover for a man, and they shoot there for love of killing.

But to return to Eastertide.

It is a good time to visit Montenegro for first impressions. The
Montenegrin outdoes himself in open-handed hospitality; every house is
open, and everyone visits his neighbour. The best chamber in the
house, as often as not the only living-room among the poorer classes,
is set out with all the good things the owner possesses. On the table
stand meat, eggs, bread, wine, and spirits; and it is a grievous
insult to leave that room without tasting, and tasting liberally, of
all. This lasts three days, and it is more than enough.

And we were particularly honoured, being Englishmen and strangers: one
might say we were painfully honoured. What quantities we were forced
to eat and drink! At one house, that of a poor man, who lived with his
wife in a tiny room, we were presented with a bottle of Munich beer,
his greatest treasure, given him once by a friend who had travelled.
He doubtless considered it a luxury of a priceless kind, and it cut us
to the heart to drink that man's beer. But we had to; he took no
denial, barely tasting it himself.

We might have stood it fairly well were it not for those eggs,
hard-boiled Easter eggs, the shells coloured red or blue. This
institution is a positive torture to the unfortunate digestion, which
suffers untold torments at Eastertide.

There is a game played with these hard-boiled eggs which reminds one
forcibly of schooldays. Two men each select an egg, and one, holding
his egg firmly, allows the other to endeavour to crack it, only the
pointed ends being used.

But this harmless if childish custom once led to a vendetta. A man
once cracked such an enormous quantity of eggs, that in the evening he
was challenged to show his marvellous egg, which he persistently
refused to do. This led to words and words to revolvers, and the man
was shot. Then the egg was found to be a clever imitation in stone.

Though Podgorica is the trading centre of Montenegro, business is not
carried on in the same brisk way as in other lands.

We once wished to send a parcel of feathers home, and went accordingly
to the post office. It was towards evening then, and we were informed
that the postmaster was "not at home," and were asked to come next
day. The following morning we again visited the post office, when the
contents were carefully noted, and long lists filled out which took
roughly about half an hour; at the end of which time a head was thrust
out of the window, asking us to call in about an hour and pay. This
was because no post-office clerk is allowed to receive money; he is
strangely enough not always honest, and the postmaster was again out.
At the end of the hour we returned and paid.

Another time I tendered a gulden in payment of a telegram, and had to
wait a quarter of an hour while a boy was sent into the town to obtain
change.

In matters of business it is well to possess one's soul in patience. A
more unbusinesslike set of people is hard to be found, yet in driving
a bargain they are remarkably shrewd, to put it kindly.

Even in such trivial matters as purchasing a hen no indecent hurry is
shown. Such a transaction may take days. For instance, you wish to buy
a hen, and signify the same to a man, and he will say--

"I have a hen which I can sell thee, but it will break my heart. Such
a hen, and such eggs! I feel I cannot part with her."

"Very well," you say; "don't make yourself miserable; I'll buy one
somewhere else."

"But give me till to-morrow. It is too sudden."

And he goes away. If you are not in a hurry, it does not matter and
you wait. It is amusing.

Next day he will come again and say that he has another hen nearly as
good as the first, but, as he loves you and respects you, he will part
with his beloved hen at a consideration, and names a price far beyond
its worth. You refuse, and state your price for the _good_ hen, the
ordinary market price, which he indignantly refuses and departs. In a
few hours he will come again, bringing a hen which, almost with tears,
he tells you is _the_ hen--his beloved hen.

"Take her," he says, "as a present."

Whereupon you press upon him the market price, which of course he
takes, and the matter is finished.

Such little episodes are trying at first. The Montenegrin loves
money--it is his curse, or rather the curse of every country on the
brink of civilisation--but he also loves to play the gentleman, who
hates sordid money transactions. He will often make you a present and
afterwards send in an extortionate bill.

But, usually, you make him a monetary present _at once_, which he
takes with thanks, at your own price.

If it were not for money, what an ideal race the Montenegrins would
be! But then that is the same with a good many people.




CHAPTER VII

Medun--Voivoda Marko--His life and heroism--His part in Montenegrin
history--Our ride to Medun--His widow--We visit his grave--The death
dirge--Montenegrin customs at death--Target practice--Our critics--The
hermit of Daibabe--We visit Spuz--A typical country inn and a
meal--The Turkish renegade gives his views on warfare--Dioclea.


During our repeated sojourns in Podgorica we made several excursions
to places of interest in the neighbourhood, chief amongst which was a
visit to Medun, Voivoda Marko Drekalovic's grave.

Medun lies in the heart of the mountains, about four hours' ride from
Podgorica, and is the capital (if one can apply such a high-sounding
name to a ruined fortress and two or three houses) of the Kuc. The Kuc
is a large province inhabited by one of the most warlike tribes of
Montenegro, and only recently came under its rule, though their
sympathies were never with their Turkish rulers. The fact that it
borders on Albania is significant, and accounts for its fighting
qualities.

Voivoda Marko was largely instrumental in bringing about the last war
with Turkey, which was so successful to Montenegro, when the Kuc,
Podgorica, Niksic, the entire provinces of East Montenegro, the Brda,
and the sea-coast from Antivari to Dulcigno were won and confirmed to
Montenegro.

The famous battle of Fundina was won by Marko and his tribe alone
against an overwhelming Turkish army before war had been officially
declared with Montenegro.

Beginning life as a shepherd boy, Marko ended his days as Voivoda (or
Duke), and his name is famed in many a song and beloved by the
Montenegrins as one of their greatest heroes. Many were the stories of
his reckless bravery, which one of his relations told us. Before he
had reached the age of twenty he had killed many Turks in single
encounter, and was in consequence outlawed. He lived for some years in
the mountain fastnesses of his land, and together with a handful of
adventurers, who had cast in their lot with his, made descent after
descent on any bands of Turkish soldiers that happened to pass through
his domain. His fame soon reached the ears of Prince Nicolas, who sent
for him and placed him for some years in his bodyguard--that _corps
d'elite_ of the Montenegrins.

At the age of twenty-five he returned home and harassed the Turks to
such an extent that he could not show himself openly by daylight. Like
another and more famous outlaw in the days of the kings of Israel, all
those that were bitter of soul came down unto him, and he became
captain over them. By night he descended upon the Turks wherever he
could find them, and made great slaughter among them. The Governor of
Podgorica, then Turkish, Yussuf Mucic by name, offered a large sum of
money for his head, but no one could be found willing to meet that
terrible man whom legend and story had endowed with supernatural
powers. Finally, a criminal consented to attempt the deed on the
promise of his liberty, and this led to one of the most incredible
episodes in Marko's life. The criminal lay in wait for him on a lonely
part of the road near Rijeka, and as Marko was passing along he
stepped suddenly on to the road pistol in hand. Marko in no way
attempted defence, but simply transfixed the man with a glance. The
wretched man in an ecstasy of terror shot himself, so penetrating was
the glance which the Voivoda had given him. So runs the story. Suffice
it to remark that Marko arrived safe and sound the same evening in
Cetinje, and a dead criminal was found on the next day by the
roadside. Now Yussuf, the Governor, was himself a soldier of some
repute, and when he heard of the failure of his messenger he
boastfully expressed a desire to meet the celebrated Marko in single
combat. On this challenge being reported to him Marko rode off on a
half-tamed steed at midday into the heart of Podgorica, and reined up
before the Pasha's house. In fear and trembling the Turks hastily
closed their bazaars and houses as that fearful horseman galloped
through their streets. In a loud voice Marko cried--

"I am here, Yussuf, to answer thy challenge. Wilt thou now come out
and fight with me?"

But fear filled the heart of the craven Turk, and he sent a woman to
the window to say that he was away from home. Marko knew this to be a
lie, and cried so that all should hear him that henceforth the
challenge was annulled. "I do not fight with cowards," he said, and
again galloped away unmolested.

Such was the power that superstition had weaved around his person that
he was commonly believed to be invulnerable, which belief was
afterwards belied by the fact that he carried two bullets with him to
the grave.

After this public insult to Yussuf, it was known that he would spare
no pains to take Marko's life, and a touching episode is told of the
love which Marko's tribe bore to him. His people were ever ready to
sacrifice their lives for him, and in this instance it was deemed
necessary to remove the obnoxious Pasha. Accordingly a cousin of Marko
journeyed to the Podgorican market with a pistol concealed in a load
of wood. He lay in wait before Yussuf's house and shot him down as he
emerged. The Turkish populace literally cut him to pieces--a fate
which the devoted man well knew would befall him.

This and other events led up to the attack made by the Turkish troops
on the tribe of Kuc, when, at Fundina, Marko and his small tribe smote
the Moslems hip and thigh. The rest is a matter of history. He had
died but a few months before our visit, and by his last wish was
buried in the little fortress of Medun, which many years ago he had
stormed at the head of a handful of men under circumstances of great
bravery.

The ride thither gave us our first taste of the mountains. Rough,
stony paths through rocky ravines, sometimes skirting deep precipices,
and all round the intensely wild and magnificent mountains, led us to
the great gorge where Medun is situated. Perched on a seemingly
inaccessible crag, stands the famous ruined fortress, and at its foot
Marko's house.

We were made welcome by his widow, a regal woman of middle age, and
still strikingly handsome. Her dead husband was not only a great hero,
but a poet and historian, and one of the most remarkable features of
his life was that, at the age of forty, he taught himself to write,
and made his name famous as well in the Serb literary world. He had
always treated her as his companion, and not as the average
Montenegrin treats a woman--as a being of inferior quality and a
better class of servant. Marko had a wonderful character; a great
athlete, perfect rifle-shot, and a military warrior and leader of men,
he brought home during his campaigns over one hundred Turkish heads;
but he was also a refined gentleman, a true poet, and merciful to his
enemies. He was a notable exception in the matter of prisoners--he
always let them go unharmed, sometimes escorting them himself to a
place of safety.

Our visit gave much gratification to his widow, who was pleased that
strangers from such a distant land should wish to visit her husband's
grave, and she was hospitality itself.

After a rest and food in her house, she conducted us herself up the
steep winding path to the grave. We came abruptly upon a small plateau
in front of a tiny chapel. The scene was striking in the extreme.
There was the grave, with a rough pile of stones at the head, on which
were placed the dead man's "handjar," revolver and sword, and many
wreaths. Two lighted candles were flickering in the wind, and in a
semicircle stood a group of rough, fully-armed mountaineers, the
retainers of the Voivoda. It was stormy, and great gusts of wind and
rain dashed round the rocky fortress, and in the distance a rugged
pile of mountain peaks towered up into the descending mist.

The widow left us, and, kneeling at the grave, quietly kissed the cold
stones, praying for a few moments in deep silence. Not a man spoke or
moved as we stood with bared heads and waited. Slowly rising, she came
to us and led us into the chapel, a bare shell, not even furnished
with an altar, and with the original earthen floor.

"My beloved husband wished to be buried in here," said the widow, "but
it was not allowed. The Prince wished him to be buried in Podgorica,
as he was never courtier and was so beloved and honoured by his
people--more than the Prince himself. But my husband called me to his
side, and with his last breath made me swear to bury him in this
chapel, or at least in front of it. And when the order came that he
should be buried below, I swore to shoot myself on his grave, and the
men of Kuc swore to take his body up here, even if they had to fight
every inch of the way. So it was allowed that he should be buried
here, but we shall bury him in the chapel, for that I promised him as
he died."

And she took my hand solemnly in hers, illustrating her oath to the
dying man, and I shivered in that gloomy chamber as her impassioned
voice echoed in its arches.

Suddenly a wailing of women broke upon the utter silence which ensued,
and nearer and nearer came that weird singing as it approached the
summit. The women were chanting Marko's death dirge. At last, as they
passed the little window, we went outside and saw four women,
dishevelled and weeping, approach the grave, kneeling on one side. The
widow left us again and knelt alone opposite.

One woman only sang at a time, a series of extempore verses telling of
the life and deeds of the hero--his accomplishments and goodness--in
the poetical language of this wild people.

"Oh, thou grey falcon, who was so mighty a hunter as thou?"

"Who indeed shall now wield thy bloodstained sword?"

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