Part 11 (1/2)

Owing to the absence of the British Consul, we went to see the acting Vice-Consul, who is a Scutarine, and a very courteous gentleman. Like all the rich merchants of Scutari, he spoke Italian fluently, and through him we got an insight into the merchant houses. An extremely aged kava.s.s, in the long white skirt or kirtle worn largely in Scutari, and with the British Arms emblazoned on his fez, respectfully kissed our hands, and we were told that he had been in English service for over forty years. But he could not speak a word of any language except Albanian.

The Vice-Consul placed another kava.s.s at our disposal to accompany us on our explorations of the town, and gave him further permission to attend us on our proposed ride to Podgorica. This latter idea we were forced to give up ultimately, as the roads were considered too dangerous. As a matter of fact, a big shooting affray took place in the district through which we should have traversed a few days afterwards.

Quite one of the sights is Mr. Paget's house (of Paget's Horse fame), situated in the heart of the town. The clock tower affords a fine view, though the time that it keeps is startling to the new-comer. As is known, the Turks have a time of their own, which has a difference of four hours and a half to our time. It is misleading to get up at an early hour, say six o'clock, and find that it is already half-past ten. And again you feel you ought to be sleeping at one o'clock at night, till you remember that it is really only about eight o'clock.

In the bazaar of Scutari representatives of every clan in Albania can be seen, and each tribe has his distinctive dress, so that the variety of national costumes to be seen there can be imagined. The Scutarines are of course very much in evidence, clad in a jaunty sleeveless and magnificently-embroidered jacket, silk s.h.i.+rt, and enormous baggy breeches of black, and heavily pleated. How heavily pleated they are can be gathered when twenty to twenty-five yards of a kind of black alpaca are used for one pair of knee-breeches. White stockings and a red skull-cap--not the high Turkish fez--with a huge blue silk ta.s.sel reaching to the waist, complete the attire. Their women-folk look picturesque in a large scarlet cloak, with a hood half covering the face.

The student of Albanian costumes can make a complete study of the subject in Scutari, rendering a journey into the vast country beyond almost unnecessary.

We always took a camera with us, but with very poor results. It is against the Mahometan religion to be photographed, neither are photographers looked upon with pleasure. We did once plant our camera in the main street of the bazaar, to the great anger of a policeman who ordered us off, luckily after we had secured a picture.

When we were quite new to Scutari, it happened we were waiting for a boat to take us off to the steamer, when we were struck with a particularly fine old Scutariner in red fez and long flowing skirt.

Through the medium of an interpreter, I politely asked the permission to take his picture. He solemnly nodded his head backwards, and I, rejoiced at so good a subject, hurriedly erected the stand. When I next glanced at him, his face was purple with rage, and he made a threatening movement. For a moment I was quite at a loss to understand the why and wherefore, until our interpreter hastily explained that it was against the old man's religion.

”But he said 'yes,'” I expostulated. ”At least he nodded.”

”That means 'no,'” said the interpreter.

”What does?” I demanded. ”Saying 'yes,' or nodding it.”

Then the man explained to me at some length, as I repacked my camera, that in the Orient to shake the head means ”yes,” and a nod--a quick elevation of the chin accompanied by a click of the tongue--is negative. This custom is largely adopted in Montenegro, particularly amongst the peasants, but even then we never quite knew if a shake of the head was meant in the Turkish or European sense. It is a confusing and irritating habit, and takes months to get accustomed to.

Visitors to Montenegro usually spend a day in Scutari, for the route by steamer is the only perfectly safe way of entering the town.

Pa.s.sengers by the steamer are not required to have their pa.s.sports vised, if they state their intention to the official, who promptly boards the steamer on its arrival, to return by it next day. But names and particulars are carefully noted and laid before the Governor.

During this particular visit, we were already well known to the Turkish officer in charge of this department, a pleasant little fellow, inordinately proud of his French which he had just learnt; but still he worried us greatly, calling daily and even sending obvious spies to find out how long we really meant to stay and our object. We tried to impress upon him that we had no base intentions on the town, and were really quite harmless individuals, but he remained friendlily suspicious till he bade farewell to us on board the little steamer _Danitza_.

It is about four hours to Plavnica, and the trip across the lake is very fine, surrounded as it is by magnificent mountains and dotted with tiny wooded islands along its northern bank. We did not disembark at Plavnica, the nearest point for Podgorica, but proceeded _via_ Virpazar up the river to Rijeka, the final station of the steamer and connecting link with Cetinje. The voyage up to Rijeka is delightful, as the boat threads her way through a narrow channel between lofty green hills. It is a picture of as true sylvan beauty, peace and quiet, as can be found on many of the upper reaches of the Thames.

At Rijeka we waited in an inn for the carriage, which we had ordered by telegraph from Cetinje to take us back to Podgorica, and were startled to hear a revolver-shot fired in the village. Everyone was running excitedly to a certain small ”dugan,” or shop, and thither we also directed our steps and found a bleeding Montenegrin standing over a prostrate and insensible Turk.

What had happened was as follows. The Montenegrin had bought some tobacco from the Turk, and claimed to have been given two kreutzers (under a halfpenny) short in change, whereupon the Turk accused the other of having hidden it.

”Thou art a liar!” promptly cried the Montenegrin, and received a bullet in the thigh as an answer from the enraged Turk. Not seriously hurt, the Montenegrin, equally quickly, drew his revolver and, using it as a club, knocked the Turk insensible; in fact, he was thought to be dead. However, we afterwards heard that he had recovered.

Shortly afterwards we were spending a few days in Cetinje, and were again witnesses of the final act of another small drama which was enacted about this time.

One morning we saw about twenty Montenegrins brought into the town heavily chained, and on inquiry we were told the following story.

A young man, whom we will call Andreas to prevent confusion, had been for some time in Austria, and not finding work he returned to his village, named Ljubotin, half-way between Rijeka and Cetinje, or, to be more correct, just below the Bella Vista in the hollow. He arrived in the night, penniless and in a desperate condition, and waited outside his widowed mother's house till he saw that all the men, his relations, had left and gone to work in the fields. Entering the house he demanded money of his aged mother, who indignantly refused him--he seems to have been a bad lot altogether--and as he threatened to take it by force, she hurriedly called in the village kmet, or mayor, to protect her. But the kmet was also aged and infirm, and brought a young man with him. This young man remonstrated with Andreas, who was breaking open the chest, and said--

”Give me thy revolver.”

”Thus I give it thee,” answered Andreas, and drawing his revolver he shot the man dead.

Andreas then fled out of the house into the fields, and the murdered man's relations speedily gathered together and pursued him. They espied the fugitive running and fired at him, whereupon Andreas threw up his arms and fell to the ground. His pursuers thinking him dead, left him. Andreas was in reality shamming, and crawling through the bushes saw his uncle at work and promptly fired at _him_.

This time he met his deserts, for his uncle, unhurt, returned the compliment and shot him through the head.