THE HIGHWAY OF MONTENEGRO—II
Jan awoke nearly dry, or in a sort of warm dampness, at 4.30 a.m. Not a soul was about, and we packed by candle. There was a purple dawn, and the towering cliffs behind the minarets glowed a deep cerise for at least ten minutes ere the light reached the town. The streets were still and deserted, but at last an old man with a coffee machine on his back, and a tin waistbelt full of pigeon-holes containing cups, took a seat at a corner. At six he was surrounded by groups of Albanian workmen drinking coffee, and he beckoned us to come and take coffee with him, but we were suspicious of the cleanliness of his crockery. A miserable-looking woman in widow's weeds was loitering about the door of the post office, and with her was a tattered girl surrounded by trunks, suit-cases, and bandboxes, so we guessed they were there to be fellow passengers. A waggon loaded with boxes halted before them, but the widow declined to let her baggage go by it.
At last the post waggon came. It was a small springless openwork cart with a rounded hood on it, so that it could roll when it upset—which was the rule rather than the exception—luggage accommodation was provided only for the "soap and tooth-brush" type of traveller; but the widow insisted upon packing in all her movables, and after that we four squeezed into what room was left. The seat was low, one's chin and knees were in dangerous proximity, and a less ideal position for travelling some thirty-five miles could not be imagined. The widow's portmanteau, all knobs and locks, was arranged to coincide with Jo's spine. The tattered maid was loaded with five packages on her knees which she could not control, so we looked as cheerful as we could and said to ourselves, "Anyway it will do in the book."
At the start Jan was rather grateful for the squash, for the air was chilly; soon the damp, exposed parts of his clothing cooled to freezing point, and it was lucky that they were not more extensive.
As we rolled over the craters and crests of the—what had once been—stone-paved streets, the driver halted, here to buy a large loaf of bread, there to purchase smelly cheese, and finally to pick up a gold-laced officer, whom we took to be the post-guard. The driver, who sat back to back with Jan, grumbled at him because he took up too much room. But Jan replied that it was his own fault for not making the carriage bigger, and that his knees were not telescopic. We received the post of Montenegro, for this was the only road out; it consisted of three letters and a circular, so we judged that Montenegrin censorship was pretty strict.
The road was flat, the surrounding country covered with little scrubby oak bushes, in and out of which ran innumerable black pigs who had long cross pieces bound to their necks to prevent them from pushing through hedges into the few maize fields. As the miles passed Jan slowly began to dry, his temperature went up and his temper became better. The widow, we discovered, was the relict of a Greek doctor who had died of typhus in Plevlie, and she was returning to her native land.
Presently we came to a small inn, a hut like all others, and the driver commanded us to get out. By this time we were accustomed to the sight of nobles kissing market women relatives, and it did not surprise us to see the officer embrace the rather dirty hostess of the inn and kiss all the children; but when he took his place behind the bar and began to serve the coffee!... It was a minute before we realized that he had not been guarding the three letters and the circular, but merely was returning home.
At the Montenegrin frontier, which was some hours on, a soldier asked us for a lift, as though he could not see that we were already bulging at all points with excess luggage; at the Serbian frontier Jan was asked for his passport, and as they did not demand that of the widow, we concluded that they imagined her to be Mrs. Gordon, and Jo and the tattered one, two handmaids.
Immediately over the frontier the road began to be Serbian, but not as Serbian as it became later on, and we reached Rudnik—and lunch—in good condition. Another carriage similar to our own was here, containing a Turkish family. The father, a great stalwart Albanian, and the son a budding priest in cerise socks. The priest was carrying food to his carriage, and we discovered that a woman was within, stowed away at the back like the widow's luggage, and carefully protected by two curtains, so that no eye should behold her. Her sufferings between Rudnik and Mitrovitza can be imagined when you have heard ours.
From Rudnik we walked to ease our cramped limbs, and the road became so bad that the driver went across country to avoid it. Here is the receipt for making a Serbian road.
"The engineer in charge shall send two hundred bullock trains from Here to There. He shall then find out along which path the greater number have travelled (i.e. which has the deepest ruts), after which an Austrian surveyor shall map it and mark it, 'Road to There.' Should the ruts become so deep that the carts are sliding upon their bottoms rather than travelling upon their wheels, an overseer must be sent to throw stones at it. He and ten devils worse than himself shall heave rocks till they think they have hurt it enough, when they may return home, leaving the road ten times worse than before, for the boulders by no means are to fill the ruts, but only to render them more exciting."
Oh, we walked. Indeed, we walked a good deal more than the driver thought complimentary, we got out at every uphill, and put steam on so that we should not be caught on the downhills. By supreme efforts we managed to get in four hours' walking out of the torturous thirteen. Once—when we were a long way ahead—we were stopped by a gendarme.
"Where are your passports?" demanded he.
"In the post-waggon," replied Jan.
"Why did you leave your passports in the post-waggon?"
"Because they were in the pocket of my great-coat."
"Why did you leave your great-coat in the post-waggon?"
"Because it is hot."
"I shall have to arrest you," quoth the gendarme.
But his officer came from an adjoining building and told him not to make a fool of himself, and on we went, taking short cuts, following the telegraph poles, which staggered across country like a file of drunkards.
Eventually the carriage caught us up and the driver insisted that we should get in. He added that he could not lose all day while we walked, and that he would never get to Mitrovitza; it seemed superfluous to point out that we had gone quicker than he, but to avoid argument we clambered in. The driver, in a temper, slashed his horses, and off we went, over ruts and stones full speed ahead. It was like being in a small boat in a smart cross-choppy sea, with little torpedoes exploding beneath the keel at three minute intervals; and this road was marked on the map as a first-class road; the mind staggers at what the second and third-class must be like. These countries are still barbarous at heart, but Europe cries out upon open atrocities, and so they have invented the post-waggon. After all, pain is a thing one can add up, and the sum total of misery produced by the post, travelling daily, must in time exceed that of the Spanish Inquisition. Thus do they gratify their brutal natures.
We bounded along. The brakes did not work, the carriage banged against the horses' hocks, who, in turn, leapt forwards, and our four heads met in a resounding thump in the centre of the waggon; after which Jo insisted that the widow should turn her hatpins to the other side. The widow's luggage cast loose and hit us in cunning places when we were not looking. The cart rocked and heaved, and we expected it to turn over. There were other waggons on the road—heavy, slow ox carts, exporting wool or importing benzine or ammunition, with wheels of any shape bar round—some were even octagonal; and as they filed along they gave forth sounds reminiscent of Montenegrin song, a last wail from the hospitable little country whose borders we were leaving behind us.
The driver promised us a better road further on; but the better road never came, and we hung on waiting for something to break and give us relief. There were hints, it is true, unfinished hints: some day men will be able to travel in comfort from Mitrovitza to Ipek, but the day is not yet. It is strange how the human frame gets used to things, and we grew to believe that our driver not only liked, but joyed in each extra bang and jolt—collected them as it were—for certainly he never avoided anything, though occasionally he wound at the brake, but that was only for show, because he knew that it did not work.
We reached Mitrovitza at dark with bones unbroken, and rattled down a road with vague white Turkish houses upon one side, and a muddy looking stream reflecting dull lights on the other. One last lurid lunge, we leapt across a drain and broke a trace bar, but too late, we had arrived.
The Hotel Bristol was full—why are there so many hotels in Serbia named Bristol?—but we were received by a stupid-looking maid at the Kossovo, and were given a paper to sign, saying who we were. Then down to the restaurant, where we had a beefsteak which was a dream, and back to bed, which was a nightmare, for all night long we bounced and banged and bruised our journey over again, and awoke quite exhausted.
The first impression of a town which is entered by moonlight is usually difficult to recover on the following morning, it is often like the glimpse of a pretty girl caught, say, in a theatre lobby, and the charm may never be rewoven. So it was with Mitrovitza, which in daylight seemed just a dull, ordinary Turkish town. The Prefect was a bear, and sent us on a long unnecessary walk to the station, a mile and a half. Sitting on the road was the dirtiest beggar we had yet seen. As we came towards her she chanted our praises, bowing before us and kissing the dust; but she aroused only feelings of disgust and getting nothing, she turned to curses till we were out of sight. The chief imports at the station seemed to be cannons and maize; the only exports, millstones, which looked like and seemed almost as palatable as Serbian bread. We did our business without trouble, and coming back the beggar praised us once more till we had passed, then hurled even louder curses after us.
We came to a tiny café in which were faint tinkling, musical sounds.
Jan: "I wonder what that is?"
Jo: "It sounds queer: shall we explore?"
Jan: "I dunno, perhaps they wouldn't like us."
Jo: "Come along. Let's see anyhow."
And up we went. In a large room was a deep window seat, and in the window the queerest little Turkish dwarf imaginable. The little dwarf was sitting cross-legged, and was playing a plectrum instrument. His head was huge, his back was like a bow, and his plectrum arm bent into an S curve, which curled round his instrument as though it had been bent to fit. He was a born artist, and rapped out little airs and trills which made the heart dance. There were three soldiers at tables, and presently one sprang out on to the floor and began to posture and move his feet, a woman joined him; the little man's music grew wild and more rapid; another man sprang in, another woman joined, and soon all four were stamping and jigging till the floor rocked beneath them. We gave the little man a franc for his efforts, and his broad face nearly split in his endeavour to express a voiceless gratitude.
We were no longer royalty, we were just dull, ordinary everyday folk, and at the station had endless formalities to go through, examinations of passes, etc., during which time all intending passengers were locked in the waiting-room. But at last we were allowed to take seats in the train, and off we went.
We passed through the plain of Kossovo where old Serbian culture was prostrated before the onrush of the Turk, and whence Serbia has drawn all its legends and heroes; possibly the most unromantic looking spot in all Europe, save only Waterloo. Here, far to the left, was Mahmud's tomb:—Mahmud the great victor, stabbed the day before the battle, and dying as he saw his armies victorious. History contains no keener romance. Serge the hero, accompanied by two faithful servants, galloped to the Turkish camp, and commanded an interview with the Moslem general, who thought he was coming to be a traitor. In face of the Divan the hero flung himself from his horse, drew his sword, and stabbed Mahmud where he sat, surrounded by his armies. Before the astounded guards had recovered their surprise, Serge was again upon his great charger and was out of the camp, cutting down any who barred his passage. Mahmud did not die immediately, and his doctors slew a camel and thrust him into the still quivering animal; when the dead beast was cooling, they slew another, and thus the Moslem was kept alive till the Serbian hosts had been overthrown. He and the Serbian Czar were buried on the same field—one dead in victory, one in defeat.
We trundled slowly over the great plain whose decision altered the fate of the world, for who knows what might have grown up under a great Byzantine culture? The farms were solidly built houses with great well-filled yards, surrounded by high and defensible walls. We came into stations where long shambling youths, dressed in badly made European clothes, lounged and ogled the girls in "this style, 14/6" dresses. Signs of culture!
Why should the bowler hat, indiarubber collars, and bad teeth be indissolubly bound to "Education Bills" and "Factory Acts"? Why should the Serbian peasant be forced to give up his beautiful costume for celluloid cuffs, lose his artistic instincts in exchange for a made-up tie? It is the march of civilization, dear people, and must on no account be hindered.
Coming back to Serbia from Montenegro was like slipping from a warm into a cool bath. One is irresistibly reminded that the Lords of Serbia withdrew to Montenegro, leaving the peasantry behind, for every peasant in the black mountains is a noble and carries a noble's dignity; while Karageorge was a pig farmer. There is a warmth in Montenegro—save only Pod.—which is not so evident in its larger brother; a welcome, which is not so easily found in Serbia. The Montenegrin peasant is like a great child, looking at the varied world with thirteenth-century unspoiled eyes; centuries of Turkish oppression has dulled the wit of the Serb, and at the outbreak of the war Teutonic culture was completing the process.
We passed beneath the shadow of Shar Dagh, the highest peak in the peninsula, six thousand feet from the plain, springing straight up to a point for all to admire, a mountain indeed.
We reached Uskub at dusk, found a hotel, and went out to dine. The restaurant was empty, but through a half-open door one could hear the sounds of music. The restaurant walls were—superfluously—decorated with paintings of food which almost took away one's appetite; but one enormous panel of a dressed sucking pig riding in a Lohengrin-like chariot over a purple sea amused us.
In the beer hall a tinkly mandoline orchestra was playing, and a woman without a voice sang a popular song—one thought of the women on the Rieka River—a tired girl dressed in faded tights did a few easy contortions between the tables, and in a bored manner collected her meed of halfpence—we thought of the cheery idiot of Scutari. Was it worth it, we asked each other, this tinsel culture to which we had returned? And not bothering to answer the question went back to our hotel and to bed.
