Peaks of Shala

by Rose Wilder Lane

“The end of it was that Lec i Madhe became the king of the world. Is that written in the books? Po? Is it also written that he was made king of the world by the chiefs of the Malisori who had loved his father, and that Lec i Madhe himself was no man, nor ruler of men? Is it written that when the Malisori came back to their mountains after following Lec i Madhe to the ends of the earth they sang a song saying it was good that the eyes of Filip the Second were closed forever, that they might not shed tears of shame for his son? Is it written that this harm was done to the Shqiptars by a man who had gone down to the cities to learn from the Greeks to despise his own people?”

“No,” I said, “it is not exactly written so.”

But there were expostulations from some who, as Albanians, were proud of Lec i Madhe and would cry down this attack on their most renowned king, and objections from others who contended that the old man was right, and all these were silenced by the entrance of Padre Marjan, whose pale, fervent face and gentle voice brought us back to the present.

He was given the place of honor among these of his flock whom he had shriven, and Sadiri Luka hastened from the withdrawn corner where he had been talking with Perolli to make with his own hands a cup of coffee for the padre. When the readjusted group was settled again, and we had replied to Padre Marjan’s questions about our morning and our journey, I asked him whether Aristotle was an Albanian. He said, yes. I asked him then about the migration of the first Albanians and the coming of the Greeks in boats, and he said he believed these stories to be true. It was strange, I said, that the historians of the west, the Greek scholars of the universities, could be so misled. Padre Marjan smiled.

“All these old things are debatable, of course,” he said, “and it must be remembered that Greeks and Hellenized Albanians wrote all the records. We Albanians have given no material to scholars. Besides, is it strange that they should be mistaken about the lives of men who died thirty centuries ago, when they are mistaken even about their own times? In the same books which say that the Greeks were shepherds from the Danube you will read that the Albanians of to-day are Mohammedans, or brigands, or both.”

This was so true that I was silent, and, lounging comfortably upon the cushions, I smoked and watched the firelight run nimbly along silver chains and leap from cigarette holder to knife hilt with every slight movement of the entangled bodies around us. Padre Marjan spoke of the unimportance of past glories and shames, of the new dawn of liberty for Albania which brought responsibilities and duties, and of the importance of eternal things, of goodness, strength, and courage, given by God to man for man to use. For, said he, the knife in its scabbard cuts no leaves to feed the flocks, and the goodness of man when not used for those around him becomes a rusty knife, which is of value to no one.

His voice was tense in its softness, and, looking at his wasted face and feverish eyes, I thought, “This man is wearing himself out, here in these mountains, unknown, alone—for he must be starving for the companionship of equals; it is lonely to be always the superior—and when he has burned to ashes he will lie in a grave beside some village church, under a wooden cross from which the rain will wash his painted name long before the wood decays. There are so many of those little graves that the rain has made nameless and that no one visits except the nibbling sheep searching for a grass blade.” And I wondered where Lec i Madhe lay buried, for, after all, all men wear themselves out, or are worn out by the years, and the difference between the king of the world and the priest of Thethis is nothing to the rain. Then Padre Marjan gave back the empty coffee cup to Sadiri Luka, saying, “Per te mire (All good to you),” and rose. He would not stay to share the food which the women were even then bringing, for there was a sick man in upper Thethis, too ill to come to confession, who had sent, begging the padre to come to him. The sick man’s son waited for him at the door, and two chiefs laced his opangi, gave him his staff, and went with him a little way on the trail.

It was midafternoon, and since early morning the women had been preparing the feast they offered us. A special dispensation had been asked, and granted by Padre Marjan, for that feast, for though this was Lent, we were not Catholics, and never before had Americans been guests in upper Thethis. Far and wide the rumor had gone that in our own tribe we were daughters of chiefs, and it was with apologies that the village offered us its best.

When we had washed our hands in water poured from a silver pitcher, and dried them on a towel of white silk, a large brass tray was set on four midget legs in the midst of our cushions, and the other guests withdrew to places near the walls. Much urging persuaded Sadiri Luka to sit with us and share such parts of the feast as did not break the Lenten fast. Newly made wooden spoons were given us, and a silver bowl of hot chicken broth was set in the center of the tray.

Sadiri Luka spoke little, but his remarks were sound and well considered. While our spoons rhythmically dipped the delicious broth, he said that the whole question of good government in Albania depended upon the fixing of the frontiers, and that the League of Nations talks too much and does too little. He suggested, as explanation of this fact, that the League is made of human beings.