Notwithstanding the unpromising condition of things, the breakfast was excellent; but mine host in the shirt sleeves, with whom I kept up a running conversation in Italian, was even better. An Italian by birth and education (for he was very well educated), he had rambled all over the Austrian dominions and the Turkish provinces in Europe. He had forgotten most of his native tongue without learning any other, and the jargon he spoke was something marvellous. Still, he varied this pot-pourri according to the nationality of those he addressed. The foundation was always Italian, but if he spoke to an Austrian the German element would predominate, while if he spoke to a Montenegrin the Slave would be in the ascendant. He was a most amusing character, and combined in himself the functions of doctor, dentist and apothecary, as well as that of keeper of a restaurant in Budua—hence the villainous combination of the odours of a scullery, a kitchen, and a pharmacy.
In spite of his griminess and the vile odours, I had some very pleasant conversation with him. I found him very well informed, and he gave me a most interesting account of the last descent of the Montenegrins. He had a most unconquerable horror of my favourite mountaineers, and believed there could be no peace nor prosperity in that part of the world until they should be all exterminated.
Having finished our breakfast, Heydeg and I strolled outside the walls to where the market is held under some magnificent old carob trees, and there, as at Cattaro, were numbers of Montenegrins disposing of their produce. Here we had some delicious fresh figs, and then lighting our cigars we went round the old fortifications, which are now only just sufficient for protection at night against any sudden incursion of the wild tribes of the interior. Then we had a good bathe in a most delicious little cove, entirely girt round with rocks, and with a sandy bottom that felt like velvet under our feet. We then again lit another cigar, and started on a tour of exploration through this old town.
Budua, situated at the extreme end of Dalmatia, in what used to be called Northern Albania, is the last Austrian city on the coast of the Adriatic. It is built on a low rocky promontory, and possesses no interest, save in its picturesque appearance, which it derives from its mediæval walls and machicolated towers—useless, indeed, against a civilized enemy, but still offering some protection against possible irruptions from Albanian freebooters. It is especially picturesque as seen from the sea, with its rugged background of naked mountains. Immediately about it there is some cultivation on the narrow strip of land which lies between the mountains and the sea; and corn, vines, olive trees, and mulberries for the rearing of silk-worms, are diligently grown.
Inside, it is not attractive—its streets are extremely narrow, no more than six feet wide in many instances; they are, however, well paved, and would do well enough, were it not for the utter disregard to cleanliness and drainage. Still there are some wealthy people living there, and many of the houses are very good and substantial. There are several good shops, (perhaps the word stores would best describe them), where a brisk trade seemed to be carried on. The Baron and I poked our way through all the nooks and crannies of the place. We found nothing to invite attention, but a great deal to shock the sight, and even the sense of smell. So we hurried on and went to pay a visit to my buxom Ballinrobe friend, who had not only quite forgotten her ancestral brogue, but had actually exchanged it for a decided American accent, which, to my ears, was not an improvement. She offered us neither English tea nor Irish whiskey punch, but gave us some delicious lemonade and maraschino; and showed by her manner that, if the brogue was gone, the hearty Irish welcome was there still.
From thence I went with the Baron to his own little apartment, which opened on to an enchanting little terrace, covered over with a grand "pergola" of vines, under whose refreshing shade we smoked away the time till we should go to dinner.
We had not been long enjoying an excellent repast at our pharmaceutical (deuced hard name to spell, by-the-by) restaurant when we were informed that the steamer for Corfu was entering the harbour, and would leave in two hours.
The time for parting had come at last, fresh bottles were tapped, and we all drank each others' health, and a happy journey to me amidst noisy demonstrations and much clinking of glasses. Dinner being at last completed, we all arose and walked in a body to the Mole, where, my luggage having preceded me, I went at once on board. There was no time for lengthy adieux, the steamer was whistling, and almost while we were shaking hands she cast off her moorings, and we were off.
