CHAPTER XIX
The Club and its members—Gugga—Irregularities of time—The absence of the gentle muse and our surprise—The musician's story and his subsequent fate—The Black Earth—A typical border house—The ordeal of infancy—A realistic performance which is misunderstood—Concerning a memorable drive—A fervent prayer.
Before we leave Podgorica for good our readers must be introduced to the Club. It was not a club in the English sense of the word, but P. and I always called that hour or two at sunset so delightfully spent in the company of that cosmopolitan gathering, the Club. Podgorica was our base, from which we made all our trips and excursions, so that we were there off and on during the whole of our lengthy sojourn amongst the sons of the Black Mountain. From the "members" we gleaned many stories of past and present vendettas and quaint customs which we had not had the good fortune to witness ourselves. Amongst the regular members was of course Dr. S., who was three nationalities rolled into one—to explain, born in Roumania, he entered into Austrian service and became an Austrian subject, and finally twelve years in Montenegro had quite "Montenegrinised" him. He was very angry if we told him this. In the course of his duties as sole veterinary surgeon he had travelled, and travelled continually from one end of the land to the other, there was not a corner or collection of huts where he had not been. He had been snowed up in winter in the mountains, attacked by wolves, and shot at by Albanians, and had witnessed many a scene of the vendetta.
Another even more interesting character was L., an Austrian, who for years had been employed by scientific institutions in ornithological and geological research in Montenegro and Albania. He had carried his life in his hands for weeks together amongst the untameable mountaineers across the border. A man whose terribly hard life had turned him into a man of bone and muscle, rivalling the most active Montenegrin in strength and endurance. And what a fund of anecdote and adventure he could reel off! Without doubt he was one of the most interesting and fascinating men we have ever met; a perfect rifle, gun, and revolver shot, fine horseman and entertaining companion.
Then there was a Montenegrin professor, he was the father of the party, though the tales he told were not at all becoming to his age and learning. He spoke about eight languages well and perhaps that had slightly turned his brain. Once he had served a term of imprisonment for an outspoken criticism, and when he became tired of it, he sent an ultimatum to the effect that if he were not released at once, he would break out himself, take a rifle and bundle of cartridges and hold the Lovćen (a high mountain) against all comers. The originality of his threat gained him his freedom. Since then he has kept a closer guard over that unruly member and only unburdened himself in the seclusion of the Club. Otherwise P., myself, and a young and intensely patriotic Scotchman completed the list of regular members.
We had a few occasional "country members," officers and officials whom some of us knew well from Cetinje or Nikšić, but we were mostly alone. At first we met in the garden of one Petri, a good-tempered giant of about six feet eight inches, but in spite of our patronage he managed to ruin himself at cards and so we were forced to adjourn to an old Albanian rascal named Gugga. What fun we had with that dear old boy, whom we irreverently called Skenderbeg! One day in a moment of ill-advised confidence he had told us that he was descended from that great Albanian hero and patriot. But he was an educated and travelled man, having lived for many years in Venice, spoke an excellent Italian and correspondingly atrocious German, which latter he delighted to inflict upon us. He was most amusing in his hatred and contempt of the Montenegrin peasant.
Gugga kept a big shop, and when irritated by a customer he had a regular formula which loses much of its wit when translated, as it rhymes in Serb. The humble Montenegrin is remarkably feminine in the way he shops. He will spend half an hour in the store examining everything with great curiosity. At last he will ask the price of a certain article. Gugga, whose choler has been slowly rising during his customer's long and tiring inspection, gives a purposely indistinct answer, whereupon the Montenegrin will inquire "What does he say?" Gugga, furious at being spoken to in the third person, turns savagely upon the astonished Montenegrin saying—
"What dost thou say? What dost thou mean?
What stinks here? Get out, ass and son of an ass."
Another famous saying of his was in speaking of Montenegro, its past and present rulers. "This land," Gugga would say in all seriousness, "was first accursed by God, its maker; then by Diocletian, then by the Sultan, then by our Gospodar (Prince), and lastly by Gospodin Milovan." Gospodin (Mr.) Milovan was the last Governor of Podgorica, a man always endeavouring to introduce modern improvements into the town, much to the disgust of its inhabitants who are nothing if not conservative, and amongst other sufferers was our friend Gugga. He substitutes the word "blessed" for "accursed," according to his audience.