More memorial stones—We get wet again—Unwilling hosts—A fall—The Franciscan of Zatrijebać—The ravine of the Zem—Methods of settling tribal differences—A change of diet and more pleasant evenings—A fatalist—Sunday morning.
Punctually at eight a.m. next morning we took an affectionate farewell of the Fathers, though I mounted hurriedly first to avoid the repetition of the welcoming chaste salute.
Our path lay for two hours over a rocky and barren country similar to the naked Katunska district round Cetinje. Gone were the rich green pasturages and wooded valleys in exchange for a waste of grey rocks. But a large wood was ultimately reached, only a little less dangerous than the wood of Vučipotok. Similar precautions were observed in passing through—in fact, our carbines were carried loaded again all day. The Albanian border was never more than a rifle-shot away. Numerous gentle reminders of the dangers of the path existed in the shape of memorial stones all the way along. We met several families, all fully armed of course, driving their flocks before them to the mountain grazing-grounds of the Kom.
It was about one o'clock when we emerged on a large barren plateau. On the further side, just across the border, lay the Albanian village of Korito, which Dr. S. knew, and where we intended spending the rest of the day and night.
Half-way across, a sudden storm of rain and hail came down, and I have never got wet through so quickly in my life. Within five minutes, the water was running out of my boots. My leather coat, though waterproof, let regular rivers down my neck. It was a rain that would not be denied, and icy cold.
In that waterspout we sat and waited while Dr. S. hunted up his friends; but apparently they had all left, with their flocks. A few Albanians appeared, and by the dint of much persuasion Dr. S. induced them to show us an empty hut. As soon as they had done this they left us, looking at us in an unfriendly and suspicious manner. We got our baggage in as quickly as possible, and by this time we were shivering with cold. No wood could be seen, and Dr. S. again sallied forth, and by the aid of small bribes some wood was brought and we soon had a fire burning.
However, our natural buoyancy rose again with the fire, and we made a very light meal off the food that we had with us. It was not more than a few mouthfuls apiece, but nothing could be got here. Then we solemnly stood round the fire and dried ourselves, the steam rising like pillars of cloud, and hiding our figures from each other. The warmth was very agreeable and comforting.
Several Albanians now crowded in, examining our arms, and were so unfriendly, not to say threatening, that we hastily reconsidered our plans. Firstly and foremostly, we had no food, watch would have to be kept all the time, over the horses and at the hut, using up two men, so the prospect was not pleasing.
So we saddled up and left about three for Zatrijebać, four hours' distance, happy to be rid of our unwilling hosts.
The difference between the treatment of strangers by Albanians and Montenegrins was very marked.[5]
Our path led us through the great wood of Kostice, and, owing to the recent heavy rain, the track, never very plain, was in parts entirely obliterated. Twice we lost ourselves, and once more a drenching shower came on, repeating the morning douche. Still we plodded on with stumbling horses over the slippery way till we emerged on the great plain or plateau of Zatrijebać. Zatrijebać is an Albanian clan several thousand strong who live under Montenegrin rule. They serve as Montenegrin subjects in the army, give no trouble except in occasional border fights with rival Albanian clans, and their bravery is proverbial. Further, they are Roman Catholics. The country is most curious, great slabs of stone lying about in a promiscuous fashion as if it had once rained them, and the path was certainly the most vile of the whole trip, which is putting it as strongly as possible.
[5] I have since learnt differently.—R.W.
It was climbing or rather scaling a small rock that my long-expected fall came. Alat, my horse, floundered badly at an angle of forty-five degrees and lost his balance completely. The doctor, who was behind, shouted to me to pull him up, but as I was sliding off his back with a broken girth at an ever-increasing velocity, I was unable to follow this very excellent advice. Down I came heavily on the stones, luckily on the high side of the path, landing on my back with my legs all mixed up in Alat's. My saddle and saddlebags followed me in quick succession, and something hit me violently over the head—that was my carbine. Providentially Alat stood still, and my cartridge belt saved my back.
I got up when I could sort out my legs, making remarks to Dr. S. about that girth which he said afterwards were quite artistic. Many, many years ago the girth may have been good and strong, and it had undoubtedly seen better days. Next I sought one named Stephan. He had always assured me that it would last another week. Montenegrins are careless about such things.
The rest of the way I had to walk, which dried me, as the path was steep and tiring. At the house of Dr. S. in Podgorica we had met a young Franciscan monk, a Neapolitan and a great student. He at once invited us to visit him in Zatrijebać, where he is the spiritual shepherd, and to spend a few weeks with him. On approaching a roofless church, in the course of rebuilding, we espied this young monk rushing to meet us. With all the fervour of his race, he embraced and kissed us repeatedly, welcoming us to his home. He gave me his bed, and the other remaining one was put at P.'s disposal, and he would not hear of our leaving next day or the next.
There are but two other Roman Catholic churches in Montenegro, in Antivari and Dulcigno,[6] in fact only where the Albanians are in sufficient evidence.
[6] The Austrian Legation in Cetinje has also its own chapel.
We had intended to visit Zatrijebać at the beginning of our mountain tour, but the district was considered unsafe at that time. A quarrel over the appointment of a new captain had led to the relations of the disappointed candidate shooting the brother of the new captain. Two boys, aged fifteen and sixteen respectively, had ambushed their victim, and put no less than seven bullets into him at a distance of four hundred yards, which is pretty good shooting. The boys got away across the border, but wholesale arrests took place, and it is not well to visit districts thus excited. The young Franciscan repeated to us the story that evening round the kitchen fire, where we spent very many happy hours. He spoke of it sadly.
"The vendetta is a terrible thing," he said. "It respects neither the laws of God nor man."
Our host would not rest till he had shown me the famous view, and Dr. S. accompanied us. As one stands outside the church, a magnificent panorama is spread out, seemingly without a break. But should one wish to ascend the mountains opposite so temptingly near, a great ravine must be first descended. Ten minutes' walk brings one to the edge of a precipice 2,400 feet deep, so appalling and so sudden that one's breath is momentarily taken away. It is a spot to sit and meditate on the grandeur of the work of the Master of all architects. The majesty of that mighty ravine is, indeed, awe-inspiring.
At the bottom, a mere tiny thread, flows the Zem, a river which has often run blood, and whose source is hardly known as it rises in the unknown Procletia, "the Accursed Mountains" of history. A wall of mountains rises beyond. Steep and precipitous as is the descent on the Zatrijebać side, still a path trodden daily by mountaineers winds and zigzags down to the bottom. Then as we seated ourselves on a carefully selected and safe ledge and gazed on this unique picture, the monk told us of a bloody battle fought not so very many years ago by the men of Zatrijebać and the clan of Hotti who inhabit the opposite mountains. It was a quaint illustration how questions of boundary lines are settled without the aid of expensive Courts of Arbitration.
When the new frontier was laid down at the conclusion of the late war, the River Zem was Montenegro's limit. On the hill beyond lies a grazing-ground which has been used as a summer pasturage by the Zatrijebać from times immemorial. Though technically now belonging to Albania, and in particular to the clan of Hotti, the Zatrijebać still continued to drive their flocks across the ravine. The Hotti remonstrated, and finding this of no avail, took possession of the plateau. Their opponents coming over found the rival clan posted in a seemingly impregnable position on every point of vantage on that steep ascent. Though armed with inferior rifles (in those days), they attacked at once, and by reckless bravery came to hand-to-hand conflict. Then a terrible encounter ensued, men seized each other and threw themselves over the cliffs, and to complete the utter discomfiture of the Hotti, the Kuć came to the assistance of their neighbours and the Hotti were nearly annihilated. Since then no questions have been asked, and annually the cattle and sheep of Zatrijebać graze in peace in Albania.
It was a very similar dispute which has happened so very recently at Mokra near Andrijevica.[7]
Supper gave us a much needed change of diet. Boiled fowl and vegetables came as a luxury after days of tough and stringy lamb. We sat at a table again too, on chairs, and felt quite ashamed of our recently acquired habits.
The evenings round the kitchen fire were just as delightful as our hut experiences, and if possible, more novel. Here we had fierce Albanians, with their half-shaven heads and scalping lock, and a scholar, a student of philosophy, a man of wonderful ideals, in the form of the young Franciscan, instead of unkempt shepherds.
[7] Since writing the above another tribal disturbance has taken place between the Zatrijebać and the Hotti. This time it was the Hotti who drove their flocks, also from time immemorial, to a certain spot in Zatrijebać, and as the latter tribe have since cultivated the intervening ground, they felt justly irritated. As the only real argument is the rifle, they met and argued the point in this fashion in February, 1902, and many fell on both sides. A notable incident which is worth recording is, that a man of Hotti fought on the side of the Zatrijebać against his brethren and was killed. His body was afterwards handed back and his clan demanded to know if he had fought as a man. "In the front rank," was the answer. Then they took the body and gave it an honourable burial and agreed to let the dispute drop. In this action our friend the monk had his habit riddled with bullets whilst attending the wounded.
Round the fire another evening an argument as to the wrongs of Fatalism, i.e. God's Will, led to a characteristic story by the monk in defence of his views. Dr. S., like many men who lead such lives as he does, was a rigid fatalist.
An Albanian found his enemy in vendetta, working in a field. Hiding himself, he prayed to God and S. Nicholas to direct the bullet.
"Lord," he prayed, "should I hit this man in the breast, then I shall know that I do this deed by Thy Will."
He laid his rifle on a stone, took careful aim, and the other fell dead shot through the breast.
"By God's Will I killed him," he answered, when the priest endeavoured to impress upon him his crime.
The lighter side of nature was given us by another story.
Shortly after the priest's arrival at Zatrijebać a half-naked man came to him. The worthy friar took pity on him and gave him a clean white shirt of his own.
On the following Sunday during the Mass, as he turned to his congregation to give the Benediction, to his horror he saw the man with the shirt drawn over all his ragged clothes, in a front row. It was with the greatest difficulty, he concluded, that he could restrain a smile.
We were afforded a novel and striking scene before we left Zatrijebać in the form of an open-air Mass on Sunday.
The church being in the course of rebuilding, a rough altar had been hastily constructed, or rather knocked up—for it was of most crude workmanship—of wood planks on a small grass plot.
From nine a.m. onwards the people began to assemble, coming from all parts of the large and straggling district, and sat about in groups gravely talking. Towards eleven o'clock a large number of peasants had arrived, and the altar was covered with not a fair white cloth as usual, but with something suspiciously resembling a long and not overclean towel. A tiny crucifix was placed upon it, and the young priest robed himself there in sight of the whole congregation.
A group of elder men knelt or squatted on the small open space immediately in front of the High Altar, but the majority of worshippers ranged themselves under the shade of some small trees and on the low surrounding walls.
These same trees bear weekly a strange and incongruous fruit, for they are used as pegs whereon the Albanians hang their rifles during service. All round, the walls are stacked with rifles, for, like the Puritans of old, they come to church fully armed with rifle, handjar, and revolver, and round their waists, the inevitable bandolier of cartridges.
AFTER MASS AT ZATRIJEBAĆ
On approaching the altar every man pushed back the cloth which is swathed round his half-shaven head, and kneeling, piously crossed himself. Theolder men displayed even more reverence, and kissed the earth. The younger men were much the same as their cultured and civilised brothers, lounging through the service, half seated on a wall, and barely crossing themselves.
But the general effect was one of great reverence and striking in the extreme. We watched this strange congregation with great interest, and during the most sacred part of the service, when all, even the blasé young men, prostrated themselves, the effect was unique.
Picture a cut-throat, shave half his head, leaving a tuft of hair on the back by which he kindly assists his victor to decapitate him, expecting a like consideration in return, long drooping moustachios, clad in Turkish clothes, a belt full of cartridges, with revolver and murderous-looking yataghan artistically displayed—of such was this congregation. Men who half-an-hour afterwards would shoot an enemy in the course of a vendetta, or otherwise, without any thought of remorse. Yes, and coolly cut off his head and bring it home to his admiring wife and daughters, now so discreetly and respectfully kneeling behind them. This is not an over-drawn picture. It happens often.
Of such consisted the congregation under the green trees, blue sky, brilliant sunshine, in that perfect landscape this Sunday morning. And of such is peopled a part of the vast country of Albania. A people who hold human life as nothing—a reckless and brave nation of devout Roman Catholics.
At the conclusion of the service we came in for a lot of inspection, and going in to dine soon afterwards we chanced to look out of the window overlooking the scene of the morning Mass. Still a great crowd hung about, and on the late High Altar sat men smoking cigarettes. After dinner we bade farewell to our young host, amidst honest regrets on both sides. The Franciscan had given us a new insight into the mysteries of life.