We wired to the hotel in Cetinje in the morning, ordering supper to be ready for eight o'clock. Then we had hoped to leave at one p.m. At two we again wired from Podgorica for supper to be delayed till ten.

A hundred yards from the town we stopped, and the driver mended some harness with a piece of wire. A mile further on something else broke.

If nothing gave way, a horse kicked a leg over a trace, necessitating its partial unharnessing. Each time the driver (he of the morning's drive and a native of Hercegovina) descended, swearing softly between clenched teeth, in caressing tones, and his face set in a forced smile. If we had not understood what he said, he might have been addressing endearing remarks to his horse, or holding serious converse with a friend.

It became very monotonous after a few hours--should we go for three hundred yards without a stop of five or ten minutes, it was a matter for comment. We began to feel alarmed, fearing worse things.

Rijeka we reached at eight p.m. instead of five, and we sent another wire, stating our arrival to be uncertain, if not improbable.

We seriously contemplated staying the night, but an appointment next morning forced us to give up this idea.

After an hour's rest we proceeded. The same weary repet.i.tion was resumed, either the near side horse lashed out violently and remained hung over a trace, or the axle boom or something broke.

We dozed, and I awoke from a sudden jar to find the driver sound asleep, the horses wandering aimlessly along, a precipice of many hundred feet below us on one side. The road takes sharp turns every hundred yards, rendering it impossible to see far ahead, and traffic even at night is not uncommon. Drivers shout when nearing a corner, particularly on coming downhill, which they do at a great pace. I shuddered at the thought of a carriage dashing suddenly round a corner upon us as we painfully climbed, for our driver slept soundly.

I even shouted in his ear, but in vain. Then I struck him, and with effect. Inured as we were already by the dangers of that drive, we slept no more.

I looked at my watch; it was one o'clock. In another hour the look-out hut of Bella Vista loomed up indistinctly, and we thought of that grand view of the Lake of Scutari and the mountain panorama to be seen from there.

We stopped all the way down into Cetinje, at intervals, and had a long wait actually in the town itself while the driver hunted up a friend and borrowed a spanner.

At three a.m. we arrived, and refused the offer of our driver to take us down to Cattaro next day. He a.s.sured us that everything would be in order by the afternoon. But we declined, even though he made us a cheap offer, below the ordinary price. We had no more confidence in him or his carriage, or his wonderful kicking horse--in fact, we gave quite a curt and rude refusal, when he pressed the matter.

Safe inside the old-fashioned hostelry of Reinwein, we thanked Providence for our safe arrival. We had been through a few dangerous experiences during our sojourn in the Land of the Black Mountain, but none worse than this.

The carriage was small, and we suffered agonies from cramp; every moment we expected to see it fall to pieces; one of the horses lashed out violently, narrowly missing the face of the driver, if only touched with the whip, every time hitching itself over a trace and threatening to kick the decrepit structure behind it to bits; the devilish anger of the man, his lurid and comprehensive cursing in that soft voice, the danger of dashing over a precipice, const.i.tuted a journey which we fervently pray may never again fall to our lot.

CHAPTER XX

We reconsider our opinion of Cetinje--A Montenegrin wake and its consequences--A hero's death--Montenegrin conversation--Needless appeals to the Deity--We visit the hospital.

We have said that there are not many stirring events happening in Cetinje. But this was due to the fact that we had only a very superficial knowledge of the town. To appreciate it fully, though, it is absolutely necessary to know the country and the people first. We had quite made up our minds to go down to Cattaro the day following the memorable drive from Podgorica, but a mutual acquaintance, a Montenegrin of high standing, met us as we strolled aimlessly down the main street that morning. When he heard that we were leaving in a few hours, he became quite excited. Had we really seen everything, in Cetinje too?

"Yes," said we. "We have visited the monastery, watched the soldiers drilling, chatted with the criminals, and know every burgher of the town, at least by sight."

"First you must see the hospital and then you must attend a trial in the Supreme Court of Appeal," said our seducer. "And as for vendettas," he added with pride, "we too have our little quarrels. On the spot you are standing a man was shot five years ago, and in the act of dying he killed his a.s.sailant."

"Tell us the story," we broke in eagerly. Montenegro is demoralising in this respect. One becomes so used to bloodthirsty anecdotes that one wonders how other countries exist without the excitement of the vendetta. Then the intercourse with noted murderers and a.s.sa.s.sins makes a mere ordinary man whose hands are not stained with the blood of his fellow-beings seem dull and tame. Our eagerness pleased our friend and we adjourned to the cafe opposite.

About five years ago a near relation of the Prince died, and was taken to the home of Petrovic in Njegui. To do honour to the dead man, the men of Cetinje and the men of Bajice--a village at the further end of the valley--accompanied the corpse as a guard of honour.

Now a corpse is waked in true Irish style in this country, and by the time the escort had returned to the valley of Cetinje and halted at Bajice for a parting gla.s.s, the condition of the mourners resembled the close of a Bank Holiday in London. The too liberal indulgence in raki or spirits does not always provoke that mellowness which follows a good dinner and a gla.s.s of port. On the contrary, you become argumentative and convinced of the truth of your side of the question, and you do not hesitate to tell the other man that he is more or less of a fool. So it came to pa.s.s in Bajice that those of Cetinje argued that they were the better men, a statement which did not conduce to good fellowship--in fact, a Voivoda who was present, a native of Bajice, had to interfere to prevent the only true solution of the question in point. He was an aged man, and the men of Cetinje proceeded home without proving their statement. One man, however, stayed behind to continue the argument, and this naturally enraged the Voivoda. He ordered him to be beaten. Nothing loath, the worthy villagers fell upon him, and belaboured him with such fervour that he soon fell insensible to the ground. Before he lost consciousness, he was heard to utter a threat to the effect that his a.s.sailants would be sorry for it.

Then he was carried to the hospital in Cetinje and lay six weeks recovering.

When he was well again, his thoughts were occupied with revenge, and in this scheme he was greatly a.s.sisted by his relations.

"Thou wilt be killed, of course," they said, "but thine and our honour must be avenged. Who are the men of Bajice to beat one of us and go unpunished?"

He was of the same opinion, and cast about for a suitable victim. Now the son of the aged Voivoda who had ordered the a.s.sault lived in Cetinje. He was the captain of the Royal Body Guard, the hero of many a fight with the Turks, and famed throughout the land. We knew his son, who stands about six feet four inches, and he is said to have been small compared to what his father was.

"He shall be the victim," said the man of Cetinje, and his relations applauded the choice.

One morning early the captain emerged from a shop, and from a distance of a few feet, the avenger of his honour fired at him from behind, hitting him in the neck. The captain fell forward on his face, saying, "Who has shot me?" and turning saw the a.s.sa.s.sin running up the street.

With his last strength he drew his revolver, and resting his elbow on the ground, he fired once; the man reeled but continued his headlong flight: again the wounded officer fired, and as he sank forward dying, he had the satisfaction of seeing the fugitive throw up his hands and fall dead, shot through the heart. The last shot was fired at a distance of fifty yards.

"As you can imagine," concluded our informant, "the news of this affray nearly caused a pitched battle between Bajice and Cetinje, which was only prevented by the energetic action of the Prince. He called the two clans together before his palace and with marvellous judgment picked out the ring-leaders and imprisoned them, and the rest were sent home with such a warning of what would come if he heard any more about it, that all interest was lost in the dispute. Men do not like to face our Prince when he is angered, and his constant presence in Cetinje is a great drawback to the vendetta. Now I must leave you, and to-morrow you shall visit the hospital."

We strolled to the market-place, which was full of peasants and their produce. It is not nearly such a scene of life as is met with elsewhere. The Albanian element is almost totally absent, and that alone takes fifty per cent. of the wildness off. Neither are rifles brought to Cetinje, so that it presents a far more peaceable aspect.

Still it is crowded, the guslars do a literally roaring trade, and there are always a sprinkling of men from the Vasovic and other outlying clans to liven up the scene.

Here old friends and comrades in arms meet, called to the capital as witnesses, or princ.i.p.als, in a law case, or to draw their salaries as small officials of their districts. The conversation on these occasions is always the same, and if heard often, becomes monotonous.

The unvarying formula of greeting is quaint and terse, but it loses much of its impressive character by translation. One word in explanation. The Montenegrins cannot utter the simplest remark without invoking the Almighty in some form or another. The use of the word "Bog," or "G.o.d," is incessant.

Picture an aged man, whose grey stubble fringes a weather-beaten and furrowed face with a grizzled moustache. He is smoking a grimy tchibouque in a contemplative fashion, as he stands on the outskirts of the chattering throng. To him approaches a second stalwart, lean man about the same age and appearance. He is also smoking a long tchibouque; it is a custom which the elder inhabitants have adopted from the Turks.

"May G.o.d protect thee," says the new-comer gravely, as though he had never given vent to such a momentous utterance before.

"May G.o.d give thee good fortune," answers the other, with equal solemnity; and removing their pipes, they clasp hands and fervently kiss each other. Then the smoking is resumed, and between the puffs the following conversation ensues.

"How art thou?" says the new-comer, gazing with affection at his old comrade.

"Well, thank G.o.d," replies the other.

"Thank G.o.d."

"And how art thou?"

"Well, thank G.o.d."

"Thank G.o.d."

Now it is the new-comer's turn for the Montenegrin catechism.

The questions already asked and answered are only the prelude, so to speak, before they settle down to serious business. "Kako ste?" ("How art thou?") is simply as meaningless as "How do you do"; in fact, a mere matter of form.

"Art thou well?" says the questioner, referring to the other's state of health, who replies--

"I am well, by G.o.d, thank G.o.d."

"Thank G.o.d," says the questioner, breathing more freely, and continuing.

"How is thy wife?" "How are thy children?" "Thy grandchildren?" "Thy brother?" "Thy sister?" To all of which a deep-toned "Well, thank G.o.d," is given.

Having satisfied himself that the whole family is in reasonable health, and quite certain that he has omitted no important relation, the catechiser proceeds to inquire as to the other's worldly possessions.