Madame, however, had evidently something on her mind which she wanted to tell me, and held an Albanian debate with the company. Unable any longer to bear the cross-legged attitude, I had retreated, when I had eaten enough, to the bottom step of the little ladder that led to the upper room, and watched the strange scene. The smoke eddied in wreaths round the room and drifted out above; the farther corners were quite dark. The bizarre group squatted round the fire; the trouser-legged woman voluble and eager; the sandal-shod, mediævally-clad men, their clean-cut profiles silhouetted against the blaze, or outlined with red light, handed round a tiny pair of tongs with which they picked out fragments of burning wood and lighted their cigarettes. All were interested. I wondered what it was all about. Monsieur turned and explained. His wife, he said, liked me very much; their only daughter was married; they were lonely. Would I stay with them for always and be a daughter to them? Now I had seen what the house was like; they would all be very good to me, and we should all be "molto contento." Everyone waited anxiously for my reply. They were quite serious about it, and I replied in the same spirit, that I had a mother and that, naturally, I must return to her. They inquired her age and where she lived, and then agreed that it would be impossible for her to live alone, and that I was right, though they lamented the fact. Then they told me their ages and asked mine, and we were all equally astounded; for they had regarded me as a very young thing, and I had put them all down as at least twelve years older than they were. I have no doubt that they were speaking the truth, and that it was the roughness of their lives that had so aged them, and Monsieur was really not more than forty, and his wife forty-two.
About nine o'clock the company from outside all left, having first stood up and crossed themselves and wished each other good-night ceremoniously. Monsieur lit a tiny lantern, of which the glass was grimy, and led the way up the steps to the "molto bella camera." Here there were three heaps of bedding in a row. "This," said he cheerfully, "is yours, this is my wife's, and this is mine." I had been quite Albanian for some hours. Now the West arose in me and would not be gainsaid. I murmured something about the other room. It was my host's turn to be scandalised now. Horrified, he exclaimed, "The gentleman in there is not married!" and called for his wife. They talked it over, and then he kindly said that he and his wife could sleep with the other gentleman if I really preferred it; "but," he added, "you are not married, you will be all alone." Then he gathered up the bedding in a bundle, they wished me good-night, and left me with a sackful of dried maize husks on two packing-cases, and a wadded coverlet. He returned almost immediately to ask if I should like a key, which, he said, was quite unnecessary. I reflected that if he meant to burgle me he would do so, key or no key, so I thanked him and said I was sure it was not needed. This gave him great pleasure, and he told me repeatedly that his house and all he possessed were mine. Then he left me, and at once through the thin partition wall I heard three flops as the three lay down on their mattresses. I followed the Albanian plan, curled up on the packing-cases as I was, and slept for nearly nine hours without stirring.
When I woke, quite refreshed, the sun was streaming through the cracked shutters. I heard my neighbours shake themselves and issue forth, so I shook myself and issued forth too. Monsieur, Madame, and the gentleman-who-was-not-married were all flat on the floor blowing up the fire. They were enchanted to see me and hear I had had a good night, and shook hands enthusiastically. Except that their hair was a little rougher, they looked just as they had the night before, but by the bright morning-light I saw that Madame's dirty grey jacket was really purple silk with a silver pattern, and had once been very gorgeous. Washing was my chief idea, and I told Monsieur I should like some water. He replied the coffee would be ready in a minute. I said it was for my hands, so he fetched half a tumblerful and poured it over them. As they had not been washed for twenty-four hours, it made very little difference. I indicated a tiny tin basin. Madame understood at once, and filled it for me. I took it to my room, and she followed. Her delight and astonishment when she found I had taken the precaution of bringing soap with me were really beautiful, and the sponge was an article she had never seen before. She immediately called to her husband, and he and the gentleman-who-was-not-married hurried to see the sight. They danced with glee when they saw how the water ran out of the holes, and were all seized with a wild desire to try it. This I steadily refused to understand in any language. Owing, indeed, to the scarcity of water and the quantity of spectators, the wash was hardly satisfactory. They forgot the sponge in the joys of seeing me brush my teeth. A tooth-brush was a complete novelty. Monsieur, whose teeth were as white as a dog's, begged to be allowed to use it only for a moment, but just then the coffee opportunely boiled over, they rushed to the rescue, and I was saved.
I was then reminded of the invitation to breakfast with the Montenegrin kavass, and was hurried off to his house. In spite of his brave attire of the night before, his top-boots, his green embroidered coat, and his gold waistcoat, his mansion was only one degree more civilised than the Albanian's. The ground floor was used as a shed. We ascended a step-ladder to the floor above, where he stood beaming, and conducted me at once to the bedroom. The outer room, or kitchen, was quite bare, with smoke-grimed rafters, and a heap of firewood and a few pots and pans in it. The fire blazed on the hearthstone in the corner, and his wife was making coffee. He introduced me to her, and told her that I was English and must have a large cup with milk in it. He swelled with pride about his knowledge of the English, and introduced me with ceremony to the company five men and a woman, who had, it seemed, all been invited to meet me. The top-boots, a rifle, a cartridge belt and a revolver hung on the wall, and of course the patron saint of the family. There were two iron bedsteads, a table, a chair or two, and a bench. I sat on the bench, and the Albanian on one of the beds, which he admired very much. He then favoured the company with the details he had learned about me the night before – my age, my brothers and sisters, etc. – all of which appeared to interest them greatly, as did also the plan of adopting me as a daughter, which they strongly urged me to accept. The kavass, however, did not mean him to do all the talking, but fetched a key and unlocked the chest in which he kept his best clothes and other valuables. From this he extracted a good pair of laced-up boots and handed them to me with delight. They were stamped inside with the name of an English maker, and were nearly new. He had scarcely ever worn them, he valued them so – had bought them in Constantinople for two pounds "sterline." They made quite an impression on the company, and I expressed my great joy at beholding them. His wife brought in the coffee, black for everyone but myself. Mine was a large bowl full of boiled milk with a little coffee in it. The kavass showed it to the company and explained that, besides that, the English always ate a little piece of pig with an egg on it. This so fired the Albanian's imagination that he leaped up with the intention of scouring the neighbourhood for fragments of pig, and I had some difficulty in checking the pig-chase. Whatever was cooked for me I knew I should have to eat, and boiled milk and bread were at any rate safe. They all begged me to make a long stay at Dulcigno. I could spend the evenings at their respective houses, and they would all be glad to see me. As, however, it was a fine day and the weather had lately been most unsettled, I determined to take advantage of it and ride to Antivari while it was possible. I therefore thanked everyone, and said I should like a horse and guide that day at eleven o'clock. Then an odd complication ensued, for they only knew Turkish time, and by Turkish time twelve o'clock is sunset, nor could I make them understand. They settled the matter, however, in the simplest way by saying that they would get the horse at once, and let it wait till I was ready. "Two gentlemen," said the Albanian, were also going to Antivari, and as their private affairs were not urgent, they too would wait and accompany me when I pleased. So, everybody being satisfied, I thanked the kavass, shook hands all round, and went off to have a look at Dulcigno by daylight.
The bay, with the old town on the promontory and its Venetian walls, is very beautiful. The town stretches down the valley and round the bay, and several mosque minarets tell of the Turk. The Mohammedan women here wear an odd and hideous great hooded cloak of coarse brown woollen stuff bound with red. In this they slink about like bogies, and the Moslems, both men and women, have a furtive and rather ashamed appearance, very different from their swagger in Skodra. In the old town, pieces of carving built into walls and well-hewn stones are all that is left of the Venetian occupation: Dulcigno fell into Turkish hands in 1571, and though Venice made two attempts to recapture it, Turkish it remained. It was taken by the Montenegrins in 1877, restored to the Turks by the Berlin Congress, and finally handed over to Montenegro by the Powers in 1880. Dulcigno has a fine bay, but as it is not yet connected with the interior by a decent road, there is not much done in the way of traffic.
When I returned, I found a white pony and three men awaiting me. One was the guide, the others the "two signori" who, I had been told, were going my way; fearsome objects. Both were cartridge-belted and be-weaponed, and looked like two half-moulted birds of prey perched each in a heap on the edge of the doorstep. They fixed me with their grey hawk's eyes and snorted when introduced. I went into the inn and asked for my bill. Monsieur was coy about it. He looked me all over and considered how rich I was. Then he said, would I think three francs too much? He was delighted when I paid it without a murmur, and thanked me repeatedly. I took a tender farewell. Madame embraced me three times, and matters having gone so far, with a final effort at being Albanian, I kissed her three times, shook hands with numerous stripey-legged gentlemen, tied my bags to my saddle, and mounted.
The scenery was magnificent and the path bad. Rock, rock, almost all the way, either very steep up or very steep down. The white pony climbed like a cat; all he bargained for was to have his head loose. I hitched the reins on the saddle peak and let him have his own way. The three Albanians shot ahead, walking swiftly and silently with a long, swinging stride. Neither the quality of the ground nor its steepness made any apparent difference to them, nor did they trouble about me in the least, and I often lost sight of them altogether, for one cannot hustle a horse over wet rock. Nothing, however, bothered the white pony; he was used to heavier weights than myself. When we came to a series of smooth steep inclines, he simply spread out his legs and tobogganed in the neatest manner, gathering his hoofs together at bottom and starting down the next one so easily that I did not think it worth while to dismount. The country was almost uninhabited, though fertile and wooded. Wherever cultivated, it appears to yield well. Olives and figs flourish, and I noticed a few fields of flax. Then below us the Adriatic and the bay of Antivari blazed blue, we zigzagged down a very steep hillside all loose stones, I saw the ruined town up the valley and the Prince's palace upon the shore, and felt at home again. We reached the plain and a good road, and a carriage dashed round the corner at a smart trot with the Archbishop in it. He waved and hailed me at once, and roared with laughter at my turn-out and escort, which would really have done admirably at home on Guy Fawkes Day. The "two gentlemen" disappeared quite suddenly by a short cut to the town, without even a farewell snort, and I never saw them again. Why they accompanied me at all I never fathomed. They may have conversed with my guide when they were ahead, in my presence they scarcely spoke a word even to each other. When we got to the cross roads, I turned the white pony Prstan-wards, and was soon welcomed by Maria in the little cottage on the beach. I had been told the ride was a six hours' one, and we had done it in six and a half, which was not bad.
For the benefit of such travellers as wish to see Dulcigno and who do not crave to understand the domestic arrangements of the Albanians, I ought to add that it is possible to find decent rooms in private houses in the Montenegrin part of the town.
PART II
OF SERVIA
"The Standing is slippery and the Regress is either a Downfall or at least an Eclipse; which is a Melancholy Thing."
– BACON.
CHAPTER X
BELGRADE
Servia is only some thirty-six hours distant from London by rail, but for England it is an almost undiscovered country. Nor do the other nations flock thither. I gathered this on my journey on the main line from Agram to Belgrade through the crown-lands of Hungary, over endless plains and miles of floods. Guards and ticket-collectors alike agreed in telling me that it was impossible for me to go to Belgrade. "You will require a passport," they said. And when I said that I had one, they replied sadly, "It is probably not good." "Belgrade," said an old lady in the corner, "and you are English! Oh, then you are the new school inspector. You have come, have you not, from an English Society to report on Servian education? Two other ladies have been already." "Perhaps I shall meet them," I suggested. "Oh no," said the old lady cheerfully; "that was when I was a girl. It was about 1864 that I saw them. Naturally I thought you came for the same purpose!" As I had no mission from the Government, she agreed with the guards that the expedition was impossible, and I was soon left alone in the carriage. As Agram had refused to book me farther than Semlin, I did not feel particularly cheery about it myself. Semlin opined I was a governess, and made no difficulty about booking me on! The train crashed across the iron bridge over the Save, and we arrived. It was half-past ten at night when I alighted in Belgrade – alone, friendless, and knowing nothing of either country or people except what I had gathered from a few books, mostly not up to date. Guide-book there is none, and a little of the language was all that I had to rely upon to see me through a strange land.
The first Servians I encountered were the two soldiers who take the passports, which have to be reclaimed next day. I grasped this fact and passed through, with some satisfaction, as I heard behind me the wrathful voices of several Italians and Germans who were fiercely refusing to part with their papers, and were being shouted at in Servian. Thinking it would wound their pride to be offered female British assistance, I left them to fight it out, and was the first, in consequence, to get through the "Customs." Then I rattled uphill through the dark deserted streets, where the night sentries with greatcoats and rifles were already on guard, and arrived at my hotel.
My only letter of introduction was a failure, as the addressee was abroad; the British Consul, whom I had been specially told to inform of my proceedings by the Servian Minister in London, had not yet arrived, and the secretaries at the British Ministry were quite new. This is a fate that pursues me. When I arrive at a place for the first time, the Powers that arrange such things always give the Consul a holiday, or appoint a new one who has not yet learnt the language. But having never yet failed to find friends on my travels, I did not worry about my possible fate up country. Several things began to happen at once. "Where," said I to the waiter, when he brought me my coffee on the very first morning, "where am I likely to see the King and Queen?" He looked at me with a peculiar expression. "You want to see our King?" he said. "You won't see him. He dare not come out of the konak. He is probably drunk," he added contemptuously. I made no remark, for there was none that it seemed expedient to make, and though I haunted the neighbourhood of the konak industriously, each time that I returned to Belgrade, I never saw either King or Queen. This was in the summer of 1902.
Belgrade (Beograd = "The White City") is most beautifully situated. For a capital to be so placed that the enemy can shell it comfortably from his own doorstep is of course ridiculous, but for sheer beauty of outlook Belgrade is not easy to surpass. Perched on a hill, at the foot of which Save joins Danube, it commands westwards a wonderful expanse of sky and stream and willows, with a pale mauve distance of Servian mountains, while opposite lie the rich plains of Hungary and the little town of Semlin. Belgrade is a new town, a quite new town, and no longer deserves the name of "The White City," its general effect from a distance being dark; but the name is an old one, and "white" is a favourite Servian adjective. It is a bright, clean town; the houses, seldom more than two storeys high, look solidly built; there are plenty of good shops, and the streets are wide and cheerful. It looks so prosperous and the inhabitants so very much up to date, its soldiers are so trim, its officers so gorgeous, and the new Government offices are so imposing, that one is surprised to find that the country, owing to mismanagement, is financially in an almost desperate condition.
There is little wheeled traffic in the streets, nor is this a wonder, for the pavement is indescribably vile. "Ah, but you should have seen it in Turkish times," say the Servians, and they do not worry about it; for they have two lines of electric trams, and your Servian is not a pedestrian. Coming as I did, straight from Cetinje, I spent the first few days in wondering whether the very dark, short people who crowded the trams of Belgrade, for lack of energy to walk up the street, were really blood-relations of the long-legged giants who stride tirelessly over the crags of Montenegro with never a sob. I never saw a Servian who looked as if he took exercise because he liked it. Neither did I ever see any attempt at an athletic sport. On the other hand, wherever I went, people expressed amazement that I could find any pleasure in travels that entailed so much exertion. I have never met folk that walked so slowly. I used to try not to pass people in the street, and vow it is as difficult as to win the slow bicycle race. An average Serb seems to think two miles an hour sharp going; his ordinary pace I cannot pretend to estimate, and when he has nothing particular to do, which is often, he sits down and plays cards. In my whole life I do not think I have seen so many cards as I did in Servia. In the cafés, hotels, and restaurants the soft slither and plap-plap of the painted pasteboards and the tap of the chalk as the players write the score goes on from morning till night, and forms a running accompaniment to every meal. When asked what struck me most on arriving in Servia, I often referred to this habit, and astonished my questioners. "We are obliged to play cards," they said; "chess is too difficult, and we cannot afford billiard-tables." In public, very little money changes hands, it is merely a matter of a few coppers, a way of killing the time that hangs so heavily on their hands; for Servia, in spite of the West European look of its capital, has not yet I learned to be in a hurry.
Card-playing has comprehensible attractions, but the Servians are possessed of a quite original vice which is not likely to lead other folk astray. They drink too much cold water, and they drink it till they are pulpy. An average Serb drinks enough cold water for an English cow. I doubt whether the language contains an equivalent for "bad training," for when I tried to explain the idea it created surprise. A doctor told me he had never heard the theory before. To him it seemed a natural and wholesome habit; moreover, he added, "there is plenty," and seemed to think it was rather wasteful to leave any unswallowed. To me it explained the lack of activity; the nation is water-logged. All day long and every day the Serb calls for a glass of cold water, and when he has drunk it he calls for another. Perhaps owing to this he has little space left for alcohol; at any rate, I never saw a drunken man, even amongst the peasants returning from market.
Belgrade, in fine weather, is a very agreeable town to do nothing in for a day or two. But its historic fortress, its beautiful garden, and the woods of Topchider are all too well known to require describing. One mosque only, and that a dilapidated one, tells of the departed Turk. The mass of the inhabitants (60,000) are Orthodox Serbs, and a colony of Spanish-speaking Jews lives in the low-lying quarter called Dorchol. I think I saw the whole colony, from the tiniest beady-eyed baby to the stoutest grand-mamma, for they flocked to see me pass as though I were a coronation procession. Unaware that a foreign woman travelling alone in Servia was a unique event, I wished them "good day" cheerfully, and went my way.
The "old konak," a rather mean-looking building painted a raw cream colour, and standing in a small garden with sentry boxes in front of it, has since acquired hideous fame. For in it, but a year later, did Alexander's ill-starred reign come to its awful end. Belgrade was so civil to me, there was such perfect order in the streets both by day and night, all was outwardly so quiet, that even now I find it hard to realise that that ugly yellow house has been turned into a shambles. That the King would have to leave and at no distant date was obvious, but I believed it would be by the usual route, and as I watched the swirly yellow Save hurrying along below, I murmured, "There's one more river, one more river to cross." It is a marvel that Servian rulers continue to dwell within sight of the Save. It is the most "men-may-come-and-men-may-go" river in all Europe. But in Servia, though you may flee from the Save, you can never lose sight of the political situation, which is a parlous one. Servia is too small to stand quite alone. Without, she is surrounded by Austria, Turkey, and Bulgaria. The first is slowly squeezing her, preparatory to swallowing her whole, should a favourable chance arise; the second yet holds the heart of the old Servian Empire; and with the third Servias quarrel dates from the seventh century. Internally Servia is torn by parties who differ as to which of the Powers it is advisable to propitiate, and these parties dance to external wirepulling.
Things being as they are, it is small wonder that the Serb suspects everyone that crosses his frontier and believes he has come for obscure political reasons. I entered Servia cheerfully unaware of this, and soon learnt that the police were watching my movements. Belgrade, like Montenegro and Dalmatia, took me for a Russian, otherwise I neither knew nor cared whether Belgrade thought about me at all. Wishful of learning the language and of seeing things Servian, I determined to go to the theatre, and in the old happy days, when I was as yet guileless and unsuspicious, I stopped and began to slowly decipher a playbill at a street corner. I had struggled through but little of it when I was approached by a policeman on duty, a picturesque personage in a brown uniform with red braiding. He touched his cap to me and said most politely in very fair French, "Our language, Mademoiselle, is very difficult for une Anglaise. Permit that I assist you," and proceeded to translate the bill. Surprised and pleased, I asked myself, "Which of our own bobbies could thus assist a foreigner?" and being accustomed to be called Russian, I asked, "How did you know that I am English?" "Oh," he replied cheerfully, "Mademoiselle only arrived here on Monday, and I, you see, am in the police. Naturally I know. Also the officer at the custom-house has stated that Mademoiselle knows some of our language, and that is most unusual in a foreigner." As a freeborn British subject, I was considerably taken aback to find that the police were so well informed about me. Immediately and rashly I said to myself, "When in Rome do as the Romans. I too can ask questions." There was something about the policeman that was oddly familiar; he was a tall fair man, quite unlike the short dark type that I was beginning to recognise as Belgrade-Servian. So I said to him, "Yes, I am English. Where do you come from? You are not a Serb of Servia." "Ah no," he said, with a sigh; "I am far from my people. I come from a quite little place of which Mademoiselle has never heard. I come from the neighbourhood of Kolashin." This at once enlightened me. Foolishly proud of my knowledge, I laughed and replied, "Kolashin? Oh yes, in Montenegro, near the Albanian frontier. You are Crnagorach!"
It was his turn to be astonished now, and he almost leapt with amazement. He broke into his native tongue. "You know my fatherland! You know my fatherland!" he cried in great excitement. "You have been there! Have you seen my Prince, our gospodar Nikola? Have you seen Prince Danilo? Prince Mirko? the Princesses Milena? Militza? Have you been to Podgoritza? to Ostrog?" etc. "Yes, yes," said I to everything. "Bogami! Bogami!" (Oh my God!), he cried. Then he took a long breath, pulled himself together, and started a torrent of the most fluent French. "Mademoiselle," he said, "I will tell you everything. I came from Kolashin twelve years ago with a comrade. He also is a policeman; he is now in the next street. As soon as he arrived here he married a Servian woman, and he has been unhappy ever since. I, Mademoiselle, am unmarried. I detest these Servian women. They are bad, Mademoiselle, they are unfaithful! I would not take one on any account, and I cannot afford to go back to my own country for a wife. But you, Mademoiselle, you are half Montenegrin; you have the heart of a lion; you know my country; you have seen my Prince; you speak my language! Unfortunately, Mademoiselle, I must remain in this street," – here I mentally offered thanks to the powers that had rooted him to this spot, "but on Sunday afternoon I shall be free. I shall come to take you out to Topchider. We shall have something to eat; soon we shall become good friends; soon we will be married. I am a very good man, Mademoiselle," here he smote his chest. "The British Consul can learn all about me from my captain. You can teach English in Belgrade, and we shall soon be very rich. But," he added very seriously, "you are staying at the Grand Hotel, a most expensive place! You must not stay there. I shall tell you of a much cheaper one, and on Sunday we will go out together!" He paused, rather for want of breath, I fancy, than for a reply, the favourable nature of which he took for granted. I seized the opportunity. "Thank you very much," I said, "but I am leaving Belgrade to-morrow, and I have no time." "Oh, but why, Mademoiselle? You have only been here a week, and it is a so charming town! Restes, je te prie, jusqu'à Dimanche, jusqu'à Dimanche!" "Impossible!" I cried; "adieu, adieu!" and fled round the nearest corner. As I left for Nish early next morning, I saw him no more, and on my subsequent return to Belgrade dodged, with the speed of a pickpocket, whenever I saw a tall policeman looming in the distance.