The Land of the Black Mountain Part 22

The Club and its members--Gugga--Irregularities of time--The absence of the gentle muse and our surprise--The musician's story and his subsequent fate--The Black Earth--A typical border house--The ordeal of infancy--A realistic performance which is misunderstood--Concerning a memorable drive--A fervent prayer.

Before we leave Podgorica for good our readers must be introduced to the Club. It was not a club in the English sense of the word, but P.

and I always called that hour or two at sunset so delightfully spent in the company of that cosmopolitan gathering, the Club. Podgorica was our base, from which we made all our trips and excursions, so that we were there off and on during the whole of our lengthy sojourn amongst the sons of the Black Mountain. From the "members" we gleaned many stories of past and present vendettas and quaint customs which we had not had the good fortune to witness ourselves. Amongst the regular members was of course Dr. S., who was three nationalities rolled into one--to explain, born in Roumania, he entered into Austrian service and became an Austrian subject, and finally twelve years in Montenegro had quite "Montenegrinised" him. He was very angry if we told him this. In the course of his duties as sole veterinary surgeon he had travelled, and travelled continually from one end of the land to the other, there was not a corner or collection of huts where he had not been. He had been snowed up in winter in the mountains, attacked by wolves, and shot at by Albanians, and had witnessed many a scene of the vendetta.

Another even more interesting character was L., an Austrian, who for years had been employed by scientific inst.i.tutions in ornithological and geological research in Montenegro and Albania. He had carried his life in his hands for weeks together amongst the untameable mountaineers across the border. A man whose terribly hard life had turned him into a man of bone and muscle, rivalling the most active Montenegrin in strength and endurance. And what a fund of anecdote and adventure he could reel off! Without doubt he was one of the most interesting and fascinating men we have ever met; a perfect rifle, gun, and revolver shot, fine horseman and entertaining companion.

Then there was a Montenegrin professor, he was the father of the party, though the tales _he_ told were not at all becoming to his age and learning. He spoke about eight languages well and perhaps that had slightly turned his brain. Once he had served a term of imprisonment for an outspoken criticism, and when he became tired of it, he sent an ultimatum to the effect that if he were not released at once, he would break out himself, take a rifle and bundle of cartridges and hold the Lovcen (a high mountain) against all comers. The originality of his threat gained him his freedom. Since then he has kept a closer guard over that unruly member and only unburdened himself in the seclusion of the Club. Otherwise P., myself, and a young and intensely patriotic Scotchman completed the list of regular members.

We had a few occasional "country members," officers and officials whom some of us knew well from Cetinje or Nikic, but we were mostly alone.

At first we met in the garden of one Petri, a good-tempered giant of about six feet eight inches, but in spite of our patronage he managed to ruin himself at cards and so we were forced to adjourn to an old Albanian rascal named Gugga. What fun we had with that dear old boy, whom we irreverently called Skenderbeg! One day in a moment of ill-advised confidence he had told us that he was descended from that great Albanian hero and patriot. But he was an educated and travelled man, having lived for many years in Venice, spoke an excellent Italian and correspondingly atrocious German, which latter he delighted to inflict upon us. He was most amusing in his hatred and contempt of the Montenegrin peasant.

Gugga kept a big shop, and when irritated by a customer he had a regular formula which loses much of its wit when translated, as it rhymes in Serb. The humble Montenegrin is remarkably feminine in the way he shops. He will spend half an hour in the store examining everything with great curiosity. At last he will ask the price of a certain article. Gugga, whose choler has been slowly rising during his customer's long and tiring inspection, gives a purposely indistinct answer, whereupon the Montenegrin will inquire "What does he say?"

Gugga, furious at being spoken to in the third person, turns savagely upon the astonished Montenegrin saying--

"What dost thou say? What dost thou mean?

What stinks here? Get out, a.s.s and son of an a.s.s."

Another famous saying of his was in speaking of Montenegro, its past and present rulers. "This land," Gugga would say in all seriousness, "was first accursed by G.o.d, its maker; then by Diocletian, then by the Sultan, then by our Gospodar (Prince), and lastly by Gospodin Milovan." Gospodin (Mr.) Milovan was the last Governor of Podgorica, a man always endeavouring to introduce modern improvements into the town, much to the disgust of its inhabitants who are nothing if not conservative, and amongst other sufferers was our friend Gugga. He subst.i.tutes the word "blessed" for "accursed," according to his audience.

We met after the arrival of the mail diligence from Cetinje about half-past six or seven o'clock in the evening. Proceedings usually commenced with a heated argument as to the time, the last comer being accused of unpunctuality. It was always an unsatisfactory argument, for no member ever had the same time as another. A sort of go-as-you-please time was kept in the town, but as either your watch invariably gained ten minutes in the day--according to the town clock it did--or lost a quarter of an hour, no one had any confidence in the official time, and each swore to the regularity of his own timepiece.

One great advantage of this discrepancy of time was that try as one would, one was never late for an appointment. Somebody was sure to be present to back up an indignant protest, that you were five minutes early.

One evening was particularly memorable, it was in Petri's garden, then, that we had met as usual. P. was in a pensive and sentimental mood, usually caused by the magnificent sunsets. From our table we commanded a splendid view of those crimson-tinted peaks in the far distance, and the mysterious purple gloom which, like a rich robe, covered the intervening hills. By some strange coincidence the subject of music came up, and P. bitterly lamented the absence of that gentle muse from such grand surroundings. I don't believe there is a piano in the country except at the girls' school at Cetinje. The Scotchman had suggested the gusla as a subst.i.tute, and had been met with derisive laughter, for he had made the suggestion in all good faith. He was one of the most unmusical men I have ever met. The professor had followed this up with a learned discourse on the gusla, and the lesson to be learnt from it in the origin and development of modern music, when suddenly the sounds of a violin, being tuned in the room behind us, arrested his flow of speech. In another few moments the unseen musician began to play, and a deep silence fell upon us, for he was playing our music and recalling memories of bygone days. s.n.a.t.c.hes from Italian opera, and old well-known songs followed each other as we sat in the twilight and listened, conjuring up pictures of opera-house and concert-hall in this far-away land. Then the music ceased, and the tinkling of coins on a plate proclaimed the status of our serenader.

In a few minutes a ragged, fair-haired boy stood before us, wearily holding a plate in his hand. As we dived into our pockets the doctor asked him in Serb, who he was and whence he came. He gazed blankly in answer, and P. said to me, "He looks quite English." A joyful smile lit up his tired face as he answered--

"I am English, sir. I will fetch father; he will be so pleased."

His father came out, a battered violin under his arm, and we were all struck with his miserable half-starved and ragged appearance. He played to us, he did not even play well, poor fellow, but still we listened appreciatively, and then some of us took him home, fed him, and we all contributed to his wardrobe. We were all of different sizes and build, and the result was sadly comical. Before he left us he told his story. It was not new or even interesting, but intensely pathetic; one of a large family, fair education, and finally a clerk at 80 a year. A pretty typewriter, marriage, and no help from his father.

First the girl wife was dismissed, and then the boy husband. The child was born, and the mother died from lack of proper nourishment and comfort. For a few years the father earned a few coppers by playing before public-houses in the East End, and then took to the road.

Somehow or other he found himself on the Continent, and after many years he had turned up here. It was all very vague and incoherent.

Often starving, homeless, and speaking no language but his own, is it to be wondered that the man had lost count of days, years, and time?

Now he had a desire to journey to Greece, why, he knew not, but he clung to it with all a weak man's obstinacy. We could never let him trudge through Albania, and so the Scotchman procured him a free pa.s.sage to Corfu by steamer. He left us one morning, leading his son by the hand, and over his shoulder a sack containing his worldly possessions, a sorrowful, ludicrous, and pitiful picture.

Many weeks afterwards--P. and I had been on an expedition in the meantime--we sat again in Petri's garden at just such a sunset. We remembered the musician, and one of us jokingly remarked that his music would not be so appreciated in Greece as by us music-starved exiles. Then the Austrian told us the sequel. He had heard it from a murderous Albanian friend of his, who sometimes brought him specimens.

The wanderer had not used his ticket, and had walked from Antivari to Dulcigno, from thence he had attempted his original plan of crossing Albania on foot. He knew nothing of geography or nationality, and doubtless imagined that he could earn his way as in a civilised country. On the way to Scutari a band of Albanians stopped him, and he played to them. The instrument pleased them, and they took it from him. Then they took the boy--though why they did so is not clear, for they do not kidnap children--and the father, in a fit of wild despair, sprang at the nearest Albanian. The Albanians are always glad of an excuse to kill; the wanderer found his death in perhaps the only moment of heroism that he had displayed throughout his wretched life.

Such, though, was the story our informant had gleaned, and it took the edge off our evening's amus.e.m.e.nt.

But other evenings we were merry, and many were the wonderful stories of adventure told over bottled beer and an extraordinary salad which old Gugga mixed before us--to make an appet.i.te, as he said.

We got to love Podgorica in the end, and left its streets, full of gaudy-coloured humanity, the old shot-riddled town across the river, and the glorious mountain panorama, with sorrow. There was always something to talk about, from a threatened raid of the Albanians to the abduction of a Turkish maiden. Death is always very near in that unknown border town.

The day of our final departure from Podgorica, we drove to the famous Crna Zemlja, or Black Earth.

The object of our visit was chiefly to call on a young Albanian, who had repeatedly invited us. Though an Albanian, he is a Montenegrin subject and a corporal in the standing army.

As a matter of fact, he is a fugitive from his clan, the Klementi, where his life is forfeited in a blood feud. The Prince wisely uses such men as a kind of extra border guard, giving them land and houses on the actual frontier line, knowing that they will keep a doubly sharp watch to preserve their own lives.

The Black Earth is an absolutely flat and treeless plain, covered at times with gra.s.s, which mischievous Albanians love to set fire to in the hopes of some sport with peasants, who might attempt to extinguish the conflagration. The River Zem divides it and const.i.tutes the boundary, but the land on both sides is neutral by mutual consent.

It is courting death to walk upon it. Block-houses dot it at frequent intervals, containing small garrisons of Montenegrin and Turkish soldiers.

As we drove past the first Montenegrin block-house, we were reminded of a ride which we once took to it, while our knowledge of the border dangers was nil. On that occasion we had cantered, innocently, straight towards it, and were amused to see its little garrison promptly turn out. A man came running towards us motioning us to halt.

This unmistakable request we suddenly obeyed, for the men behind had covered us with their rifles.

Explanations followed, and the rest of the men came up smiling; but they sent us back towards Podgorica at once, which was only half an hour's ride away--saying that a bullet from the overlooking hill would be no unusual thing.

To-day we left this block-house on our left, and, striking the Zem, we drove along it till we reached a solitary house. A few hundred yards further down was a Turkish fort, with the banner of the Star and Crescent hanging lazily at the mast.

This house was the home of our friend, quite a young man of sixteen, but married and a proud father. He could well have been mistaken for twenty-five.

He was working in his field as we drew near, and hurried to meet us.

First of all we went to the Zem, which fifty yards away would be unnoticed, as it lies between two deep banks, which break off suddenly and without any indication. This historical little river looked very peaceful as it flowed through deep basins, hollowed out of the rocky bed, and splashed over great boulders. How often has it been crossed by bands of men intent on bloodshed and murder, who often recrossed, flying and hunted fugitives! What quant.i.ties of blood have dyed those clear and crystal pools! What awful doings of death have they reflected!

The Turkish soldiers opposite turned out, and viewed our movements inquisitively. Our Albanian friend hinted that a too lengthy inspection might be misunderstood, so we withdrew.

The house was a curiosity. One-storied, and solidly built of stone; it had no windows, but suggestive loopholes. The ground floor was empty.

We looked inside for the staircase, but in vain, and this was scarcely odd, because there was none. The family lives above, and the only means of entry to their dwelling is by a ladder. This is drawn up after the last man, for the night.

As we clambered up the ladder and crawled through the narrow doorway, the young mother (of fifteen) kissed our hands.

An aged lady, evidently the great-grandmother of one of the young couple--at least, to judge by her decrepit appearance, she might well have been that (in reality she was the boy's mother)--sat spinning in a corner. A weeping and noisy infant lay strapped immovably in a wooden cradle with no rockers, which a young maiden attempted to soothe by covering it with a thick cloth and rocking it vigorously.

That Montenegrins survive the ordeal of infancy is a proof of their iron const.i.tutions. An ordinary healthy English baby would be suffocated in five minutes under that hermetic pall, or, escaping this fate, would die of concussion of the brain from violent jarring to and fro, which we have inadvertently termed "rocking."

A wood fire smouldered in one corner of the room, and the embers were blown into flames as the little can of water was placed in them to boil. As the water boils, several spoonfuls of coffee are put in--of the _good_ coffee, only used for distinguished visitors--and the whole allowed to boil up three or four times. Then cups are produced, sugar added, and the thick mixture poured out. This beverage is drunk when it is cool enough, and when the grounds have sunk in a thick sediment at the bottom of the cup.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A REALISTIC PERFORMANCE]

[Ill.u.s.tration: AN ALBANIAN HOME ON THE CRNA ZEMLJA]

The room, our treatment, and the coffee-brewing are typical of many such visits that we paid in Montenegro.

Afterwards spirits were produced, tobacco tins exchanged, and arms--rifles, revolvers, and handjars--inspected and criticised. Any relics or curiosities are produced, and everyone becomes very friendly.

Before we left, an old man (some relation of our host) came up as we were examining a fine handjar, that heavy and hiltless sword which forms part of both the Albanian and Montenegrin fighting kit, though they are no longer universally carried in times of peace. The handy revolver has replaced the former beltful of pistols and yataghan. But in border fighting the handjar is always taken, and, when time permits, the victim is still decapitated by a single blow of that murderous weapon.

The old man--a villainous-looking rascal, with shaven head and scalping lock--favoured us with a graphic mimicry of a fight, showing the methods in his day. He took the handjar between his teeth and a musket in his hands, yelling and scowling fearfully; then, the last cartridge fired or the moment for hand-to-hand combat arrived, the rifle was thrown away, and brandis.h.i.+ng the handjar in the air, he darted towards us. It was a most realistic performance, and made us feel thankful that it was only play.

Suddenly the old man stopped his wild yelling and burst out laughing.

He laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.

We glanced behind us at the loophole door, and there, with a horrified look, peered our driver, revolver in hand.

He thought that we were being murdered. He was a foreigner and new to Podgorica, but more of him anon.

Then we took our leave and drove on to another block-house, and visited the commandant. After that we returned to Podgorica, and that afternoon, affectionate leave-takings over, we departed for Cetinje, en route for Cattaro.

That drive, which should have taken about seven hours, was a memorable one, and a fitting conclusion to our visit.