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An Observer

in the

Near East

Unwin’s Colonial Library.

• 271. The Seven Streams. By Warwick Deeping.
• 272. Love in the Lists. By K. L. Montgomery (Author of “The Cardinal’s Pawn”).
• 273. The Pride o’ the Morning. By Agnes Giberne.
• 274. The Web of the Past. By the Countess of Cromartie.
• 275. Saints in Society. By Margaret Baillie-Saunders.
• 276. A Supreme Moment. By Mrs. Hamilton Synge.
• 277. The Fatal Ring. By Dick Donovan.
• 278. The Procession of Life. By Horace A. Vachell (Author of “Brothers,” “The Hill,” etc.).
• 279. The Rise of Philip Barrett. By David Lyall.
• 280. Beggar’s Luck. By Nellie K. Blissett.
• 281. The Marquis’s Eye. By G. F. Bradby.
• 282. The Parson’s Wood. By Violet A. Simpson.
• 283. Captain Maroon. By Robert Stuart.
• 284. The Third Kiss. By Herbert Flowerdew.
• 285. The Difficult Way. By Mabel Dearmer.
• 286. Dick Pentreath. By Katharine Tynan.
• 287. The Princess Priscilla’s Fortnight. By the Author of “Elizabeth and Her German Garden.”
• 288. The Flight of Georgiana. By R. N. Stephens.
• 289. The Lady Noggs, Peeress. By Edgar Jepson (Author of “The Admirable Tinker”).
• 290. A Dazzling Reprobate. By W. R. H. Trowbridge.
• 291. The Lapse of Vivien Eady. By Charles Marriott.
• 292. The Smiths of Surbiton. By Keble Howard. Illustrated.
• 293. The Blue Peter. By Morley Roberts.
• 294. Fanny Lambert. By H. de Vere Stacpoole.
• 295. A Son of Arvon. By Gwendolen Price. A Welsh Story.
• 296. A Millionaire’s Courtship. By Mrs. Archibald Little.
• 297. An American Duchess. By Arabella Kenealy.
• 298. The Adventures of a Supercargo. By Louis Becke.
• 299. Cecilia’s Lovers. By Amelia E. Barr.
• 300. The Grey Domino. By Mrs. Champion de Crespigny.
• 301. The Prey of the Strongest. By Morley Roberts.

• 302. Men at Arms. By Major W. P. Drury.
• 303. Sons of the Milesians. By the Countess of Cromartie.
• 304. A Double Marriage. By Lucas Cleeve.
• 305. The House in Spring Gardens. By Major Arthur Griffiths.
• 306. Whispers about Women. By Leonard Merrick.
• 307. Latter-Day Sweethearts. By Mrs. Burton Harrison.
• 308. Law not Justice. By Florence Warden.
• 309. An Impetuous Girl. By Adeline Sergeant.
• 310. Man and Maid. By E. Nesbit.
• 311. Raffles, the Amateur Cracksman. By E. W. Hornung.
• 312. The Nymph. By F. Dickberry (Author of “The Storm of London”).
• 313. New Treasure Seekers. By E. Nesbit. Illustrated.
• 314. Counsels of the Night. By Lucas Cleeve.
• 315. The Dream and the Business. By John Oliver Hobbes.
• 316. A Matrimonial Lottery. By C. O’Conor Eccles.
• 317. Lady Fitzmaurice’s Husband. By Arabella Kenealy.
• 318. Silas Strong. By Irving Bacheller (Author of “Eben Holden”).
• 319. A Drama in Sunshine. By Horace A. Vachell (Author of “Brothers”).
• 320. Saba Macdonald. By “Rita.”
• 321. The Whip Hand. By Keble Howard (Author of “The Smiths of Surbiton”).
• 322. The Woman Thou Gavest. By Lady Troubridge.
• 323. The Crystal Age. By W. H. Hudson.
• 324. The Soul Stealer. By C. Ranger Gull (Guy Thorne).
• 325. A Gamble with Life. By Silas K. Hocking.
• 326. The Great Court Scandal. By William le Queux.
• 327. The Iron Gates. By Annie E. Holdsworth.
• 328. At the Sign of the Peacock. By K. C. Ryves.
• 329. The Red Burgee. By Morley Roberts.
• 330. The Modern Way. By Mrs. W. K. Clifford.
• 331. Success in Life. By Dr. Emil Reich.
• 332. The Sins of Society. By Father Bernard Vaughan.
• 333. The New Chronicles of Don “Q.” By K. and Hesketh Prichard.

London: T. FISHER UNWIN.

Note.—A List of the Colonial Library, Nos. 1 to 270, can be had on application.

His Majesty King Peter I. of Servia.

AN OBSERVER IN
THE NEAR EAST

ILLUSTRATED BY PHOTOGRAPHS BY THE AUTHOR

AND PRINCESS XENIA OF MONTENEGRO

COLONIAL EDITION

(This Edition is for Circulation in the British Colonies only)

LONDON

T. FISHER UNWIN

ADELPHI TERRACE

1907

All rights reserved

PREFACE

The reason of the anonymity of this book is obvious. Revealing as it does the actual state of affairs in the Balkan Peninsula in this present year of grace 1907, it contains many plain truths and much outspoken criticism.

By a long journey of close, confidential inquiry through Montenegro, Northern Albania, Dalmatia, Bosnia, Herzegovina, Servia, Bulgaria, Roumania, Turkey, and Macedonia, I have, at risk of betraying certain information imparted to me under seal of secrecy, endeavoured to place the actual and serious truth before English readers, and thus render complicated questions, such as Bulgaria and the Exarchate, more intelligible than heretofore.

Private audiences were granted me by the various kings and princes of the Balkan States, and by His Imperial Majesty the Sultan, as well as by almost each member of the various Cabinets in turn, so that I was enabled to gather information, some of which is, of course, known in the chancelleries of Europe, while other facts will probably come as a revelation, even to Balkan diplomats themselves.

What I was told in one country was often contradicted in the next. Yet, possessing many “friends at Court,” I was afforded unique facilities for studying, in each country, the various questions on the spot. My inspection of the Servian prisons, in company with the Minister of Justice, was, for instance, the first occasion upon which a foreigner has been allowed to study the penal system in that country; while I am, I believe, the only Englishman to visit and be the guest of those wild brigandish tribes of Northern Albania.

The secret aims and aspirations of the various Balkan States herein explained are based upon actual information gathered from confidential and reliable sources. The exposure of the shameful German and Austrian intrigues is no mere idle denunciation, but are actual facts, as revealed to me by certain Cabinet Ministers and other persons equally responsible, and supported by documentary evidence which I have had through my own hands.

As regards that land of terror, fire, and sword, Macedonia, I can only say that I have spared the reader many horrifying details and photographs of what I saw there with my own eyes. The blood of those poor defenceless women and children who are daily slaughtered by Greek bands cries aloud to Europe for vengeance.

Will there be war between Bulgaria and Turkey during the present year?

To arrive at a definite conclusion upon that very serious point was one of the chief objects of my inquiry, and this record of its result—injudicious though I may be in putting it in print—will probably be read with interest by many to whom the Near East, with its mysteries, its constant plots, and its tangled politics, is as a closed book.

All through the Balkan Peninsula the weak are to-day being crushed by the strong. The Austrian Eagle has overshadowed and grasped Bosnia, she has her talons into Servia, and is casting covetous glances upon gallant little Montenegro. On the other hand, as part of the secret policy of Christian Germany in her advance southward, the poor defenceless Macedonians are being daily outraged, murdered, or burned alive—the true facts being always suppressed and the news scarcely ever being allowed to leak out—while the Kaiser every day lifts his eyes to Heaven, implores the Divine aid, and consigns the destinies of his Empire to the direction of the Almighty!

To Germany, in great measure, is the present terrible state of Macedonia due. Her diplomacy at the Sublime Porte has recently exposed, beyond all doubt, that she secretly aids Greece and abets the Greek bands in their nefarious work of outrage, murder, and extermination.

The Kaiser could, by simply lifting his hand, stem the blood-lust of those armed hordes, and bring peace and security to the Macedonian population. But his secret policy is to create disorder in that terror-stricken country, so that Bulgaria and Turkey must be compelled, ere long, to fly at each other’s throats.

Therefore he closes his Imperial eyes to those scenes of wanton slaughter that daily are a disgrace to our civilisation in this twentieth century, and matters are rapidly going from bad to worse.

Sofia, April 1907.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE NEAR EAST
Stanford’s Geog^l. Estab^t., London.
London: Eveleigh Nash.

MONTENEGRO

CHAPTER I
THE CITY IN THE SKY

Why I went to the Balkans—The road to Montenegro—Cettinje and its petroleum tins—About the blood-feud—England and Montenegro—Warned not to attempt to go to Albania—My guide a marked man—The story of Tef—A woman’s fickleness, and its sequel.

I entered the Balkans by the back door. The luxuries of the Orient Express had no attraction for me. I wanted to see the Balkans as they really are, those great, wild, mountainous countries, so full of race hatreds, of political bickerings, of fierce blood-feuds, of feverish propagandas—those nations with their interesting monarchs and their many mysteries.

The “Orient” runs direct from Paris to the Balkan capitals, it is true, but if one goes to study a people the capital is not the only place in which to discover the truth. One must go into the country, move among the peasantry, hear their grievances and investigate their wrongs. Therefore I decided to enter the East by Montenegro, and also visit the wild and little-known regions of Northern Albania.

The comfortable voyage by the Austrian-Lloyd mail steamer Graf Wurmbrand from Trieste down the Adriatic, touching at Pola, the Austrian naval station, Lussinpiccolo, Zara—famed for its maraschino—Sebenico, Spalato, and Gravosa to Cattaro, has been already described by many writers. Suffice it to say that it is perhaps one of the most picturesque of pleasure-trips in the world, for every moment one has a fresh panorama of mountain and blue sea, of green, fertile islands with subtropical vegetation, and tiny white villages nestling at the sea’s edge, as the steamer threads her way through the narrow and often difficult channels.

At times the wild scenery, especially in the Bocche di Cattaro, reminds the traveller of the Norwegian fiords, and at others the coast is an almost exact reproduction of the French Riviera.

The object of my journey was, however, not in order to write a mere description of men and places. There have been other travellers in the Balkans who have related their story, therefore my mission was to make careful inquiry into the present unsettled state of affairs, try and discover the grievances of both sides, and endeavour to obtain from the rulers and statesmen of the various nations their aspirations for the future. This I succeeded in doing, for the various monarchs of the Balkans graciously gave me audience; and from their Ministers, from the middle classes, and from the peasants, I was enabled at last to form some conclusion as to the real situation—political, economical, social, and financial.

The writer who attempts to place the various Balkan questions impartially and clearly before the public will at once find himself utterly confused, and wallowing wildly in a morass of misstatement and misrepresentation. The Balkans are torn by race hatreds, party strife, and the intrigues of the Powers. The Turk hates the Bulgar, the Serb hates the Austrian, the Roumanian hates the Greek, the Albanian hates the Montenegrin, the Bosnian hates the Turk, while the Macedonian hates everybody all round. What is told to one authoritatively one hour, is flatly contradicted the next; therefore it is not in the least surprising that in the European Press there have been so many misstatements about the various Balkan questions, the real truth being so very difficult to obtain.

Pero, my Montenegrin Driver.

Albanians in Cettinje.

I have, however, endeavoured to obtain it, and at risk of being injudicious, to place before the reader the facts as they are, without any political bias, or any seeking to gloss over the many glaring defects of administration of which I have myself been witness.

To describe the beauties of the Bocche di Cattaro, that series of winding channels where the high grey mountains rise sheer from the water, would be only to traverse old ground. Suffice it to say that I landed at Cattaro on a bright, sunny noon, and found upon the quay a tall, lean mountaineer who had been sent to meet me.

To the traveller fresh from the West the Montenegrin costume of both women and men is very attractive, but a few days in the Balkans soon accustoms the eye to a perfect phantasmagoria of colour and of costume. Pero was my driver’s name, and I noticed that around his waist was a revolver belt, but minus the weapon. I inquired where it was, and with a grin he informed me that Cattaro, being in Dalmatia, the Austrians would not allow Montenegrins to bring arms into their country; so they were compelled to leave them on the other side of the frontier, ten kilometres distant.

My bags packed upon the three-horse travelling carriage and secured with many strings, and Pero equipped with a plentiful stock of cigarettes, he mounted upon the box, whipped up his long-tailed ponies, and we started on our eight-hour ascent of that great wall of mountain that hides Montenegro from the sea.

As we ascended through the little village of Skaljari we entered upon a magnificent road, said to be one of the greatest engineering feats of modern times, and steadily ascended, until at the striped black-and-yellow Austrian boundary post we crossed the frontier, and were in the “Land of the Black Mountain”—Montenegro. Across the road, at an acute angle, a row of paving-stones marks the frontier, and soon afterwards we found ourselves in the wildest and most desolate mountain region. At a lonely roadside hut Pero obtained his big, serviceable-looking revolver, and I, of course, wore mine in my belt; for in Montenegro or Albania arms make the man. A man unarmed is looked upon as an effeminate coward. Indeed, by order of Prince Nicholas every Montenegrin must wear the national dress, both men and women, and every man must carry his revolver when out of doors.

Four hours from Cattaro we were in a lonely mountain fastness, a wild, desolate, treeless region of huge limestone rocks of peculiar volcanic formation, which gave them the appearance of a boiling sea. The views over the Adriatic as we turned back were so superb that, despite photographing being strictly forbidden on account of the fortresses in the vicinity, I could not resist the temptation to take one or two surreptitiously. On, through a bleak, uninhabited country, we at last reached the guard-house of Kerstac, and then half an hour later found ourselves upon a plateau where, in the centre, stood the small clean village of Nyegush, the ancestral home of the reigning family, and the scene of most of the Montenegrin wars of independence. Here we halted for half an hour at the post-house, and before we left, the big, lumbering post-diligence, with its armed guard, came up behind us.

Before we moved off again it had grown dark, the moon shone, and for four hours longer we alternately climbed and descended through that wild region of silence and desolation, until at last we saw, deep below, the lights of Cettinje, the little capital, and an hour later brought us to the unpretending “Grand” Hotel.

Hardly had I entered my room when there came a loud knock at my door, and a tall, scarlet-coated Montenegrin warrior, armed to the teeth, entered and saluted. For a moment I looked up at him aghast, but the mystery was solved when, next second, he handed me with great ceremony a telegram from a dear friend in England wishing me Godspeed. I had taken him to be, at least, one of the Prince’s bodyguard, and he was only a plain telegraph messenger!

This was but one of many surprises in store for me in Montenegro. Next morning I went out to look round the clean little capital, when, on passing the Prince’s palace, I saw a number of soldiers drawn up, and as I went by, the band suddenly struck up the British National Anthem! I raised my hat, halted, and stood puzzled. Surely they were not honouring me! Another moment, however, and I recognised the reason. In a carriage, accompanied by the Grand Marechal of the Court, there drove up my friend Mr. Charles des Graz, the newly-appointed British Chargé d’Affaires to Montenegro, who was about to present his credentials to His Royal Highness the Prince.

Montenegro is perhaps the most interesting country in all the Balkans. Cettinje, a small, clean town of broad streets and one-storeyed, whitewashed houses, is a little city in the sky, lying as it does in a cup-shaped depression at the summit of a high, bare mountain. Its long, straight, main street reminds one very much of a small country town in England, if it were not that everyone is, by law, compelled to wear the national dress, and every man has in his belt his big, long-barrelled revolver, without which he must never go out of doors.

The men, sturdy mountaineers, are of fine physique—handsome fellows, all of them. Their dress consists of dark blue baggy trousers, white woollen gaiters, raw-hide shoes, a scarlet jacket heavily braided with gold, and a small round cap, with black silk around the edge and the crown of the same colour as the jacket, bearing the Prince’s initials in Servian letters, “H.I.” The women, who are particularly good-looking, wear dark skirts, beautifully hand-embroidered blouses, and a kind of long coat, with open sleeves of soft, dove-grey cloth. Forbidden to wear European hats, they are compelled to adopt an exactly similar cap to the men, except that the crown is embroidered instead of bearing the royal initials.

Nowhere have I seen such glorification of the male as in Montenegro. To the men, born fighters as they are, work is undignified; therefore the women toil while the opposite sex look on. I saw women employed in building operations and performing work which, in other countries, is left to day-labourers.

Cettinje is quaint in the extreme. The only houses of foreigners are the various Legations, and the only foreigners are diplomats with their wives and families. The first thing that strikes the stranger is the number of petroleum tins. Opposite the hotel I saw a great ring of empty tins, numbering some hundreds, ranged around a fountain. A few women were squatting gossiping, and an armed policeman lounged against the water-source. On inquiry, I found that there was a water famine, and the tins had been placed there at dawn to await the moment when the authorities thought fit to allow the people to get their daily supply. The women had gone away to work, and would return later. The Montenegrins a short time ago constructed a reservoir, but there was a crack in it, so the water ran away. Hence the famine.

The petroleum tin is never out of sight for a single moment in Cettinje. At any hour, and in any street, you see women and children carrying them. They are used for everything, from milk-pails to flower-pots.

In Cettinje one comes for the first time up against the dark-faced, scowling Albanian in his tightly fitting trousers of white wool striped with black, his dirty white fez, and the swagger of superiority in his gait. He is well armed, and for a good reason. The Montenegrin hates the Albanian, because of the constant border feuds over at Podgoritza, where blood is constantly spilt, and where I have seen a Montenegrin in the market squatting over a basket of apples with a loaded rifle.

That morning I was chatting to a man in Montenegrin dress, of whom I had bought some excellent cigarettes, manufactured by the Montenegro Tobacco Monopoly—an Italian syndicate, by the way—and happened to mention that I was on my way to Albania.

“Ah, gospodin!” he exclaimed, holding up both his hands, and glancing at the revolver in my belt. “Take my advice. Don’t go into Albania or Macedonia. You are not safe there from one moment to the other. For half a word they’ll shoot you dead as easily as they drink a glass of wine. No man’s life is worth a moment’s purchase there. I’m Albanian myself—from Kroja—and I know.”

The Royal Palace: Cettinje.

Principal Street of Cettinje.

This was scarcely reassuring. I looked about me on every hand as I strolled through Cettinje. All was so quiet, so orderly, so very peaceful there, even though the big, burly mountaineers in the gold-laced jackets eyed me with askance as I passed. Not without some trepidation I took a number of photographs, for I had heard that, like the Turk, the Montenegrin was averse to having his counterfeit presentment put upon paper. Nevertheless, the first feeling of insecurity having passed, I very soon found myself quite at home in Cettinje, and in the midst of very good and kind friends.

A good many foreigners come up from Cattaro to pry about Cettinje for a day or two, buy picture-postcards and antique arms, sneer at the honest Montenegrin, and return into Dalmatia. Towards such, the Montenegrin is not particularly polite. But those who go to Cettinje to seriously and thoroughly study the people and their future will find a great deal of genuine and charming hospitality.

My first day in Cettinje was lonely. Afterwards, until I left, I was always with friends and officials, who took the greatest trouble to answer my questions and explain matters.

Montenegro is entirely unlike any other country in the world. Its air of antiquity is particularly pleasing, while on every hand the beneficent rule of Prince Nicholas is apparent. Every man in Montenegro swears by his Prince, whom he almost worships. They call him their “father,” and if His Royal Highness raised the standard of war tomorrow, every man would rise and fight to the death. The Prince is accessible to all his people—more so to them, indeed, than to the diplomats. Sometimes, early in the morning, he will sit in an arm-chair on the steps leading to the entrance of his palace, and there hear the complaints or petitions of his people. In this patriarchal way he often ministers justice. Last year he granted Montenegro a Constitution, and there is now a Skupshtina similar to that of Servia; but the people have not yet quite understood that in future they must go to the Ministers, and not to their Prince. They will see him, and nobody else.

In no country is loyalty and patriotism so strong as in Montenegro. The army is well trained, and the whole country being one huge natural fortress, a foreign enemy would experience enormous difficulty in gaining entrance. In Cettinje, even a constant traveller like myself meets with continual surprises. One day, while walking at the rear of the Bigliardo, or old palace—so called because when built the first billiard table was introduced—I heard the sound of clanking chains behind me. At first I took no notice, but as it continued with regular rhythm I glanced behind, when, to my amazement, I saw a convict in leg-fetters with difficulty taking his afternoon stroll beneath the trees! There were several others on the grass plot before the prison, idling in the shadow or gossiping with their friends, who had come to keep them company!

Inquiries showed that most of these prisoners were murderers, not for robbery but for vendetta. In Montenegro the blood-feud is constant, and life is held very cheap. It invariably commences by jealousy, and is of everyday occurrence. Two lovers quarrel, and one is shot. Then the blood-feud commences, and unlike in Italy or other Southern countries, the vendetta is not only upon the murderer, but upon his next-of-kin. Therefore, if the assassin escapes into Servia, Bosnia, or Turkey, as he so often does, the brother of the dead man takes up the feud and kills the assassin’s brother without parley when next he meets him. I myself saw a man shot dead one night in Ryeka, at the head of the Lake of Scutari, and the murderer walked coolly away undeterred. It was the blood-feud, and no one took much notice.

“S’bogom!” (God be with you!) It is the expression you hear on every hand in the Balkans. In the streets the peasants touch their round caps in salute and exclaim, “S’bogom!” When you leave for a journey and when you return, when you rise and when you go to rest; even if you go for a short walk—it is the same. Life is so uncertain in those wild regions that the protection of the Almighty is invoked upon you always, and your revolver is ever ready in your belt.

In Cettinje I had a faithful guide and servant, a black-eyed, somewhat sinister-looking Albanian, named Palok. He travelled with me through Montenegro and Albania, and was most faithful and devoted. Besides Albanian and Serb he spoke a little Italian, and possessed a keen sense of humour.

One day, while we were travelling through the wild, bare mountain, a perfect wilderness of huge boulders without a single tree or even blade of grass, we halted for our midday meal, and while eating he told me of a great friend of his who had recently been killed at Spuz for vendetta, and he added, fondling the butt of his revolver, “I too, gospodin, shall die before long.”

I looked at him in surprise. His usually humorous face had changed. It was dark and thoughtful, and his black eyes were fixed upon me.

“Is there a blood-feud upon you, then?” I asked, in surprise.

“Yes,” he replied briefly; and though I endeavoured to persuade him to tell the story, it was not until the following day that with some reluctance he explained.

“A year ago my brother Tef, away in Scutari, fell in love with a beautiful girl. He had a rival—a young Albanian, a coppersmith in the bazaar. They quarrelled, but the girl—ah! she was very beautiful—preferred Tef. Whereupon the rival one night took his rifle and laid in wait for my brother in the main street of Scutari. Early in the evening he left the house of the girl’s father, and as he passed the fellow shot poor Tef dead.”

And he paused as his brow knit deeply, and his teeth were set tightly.

“Well?” I asked.

“Well, gospodin. What would you have done had your own brother died a dog’s death? I took a rifle, and within a week the murderer was in his grave. I shot him through the heart—and then I left Scutari.”

“And you are safe here, in Montenegro?”

“Safe! Oh dear, no,” he answered. “One day—it may be to-day—the fellow’s brother will kill me. He must kill me. It is Fate—why worry about it? It does one no good.”

And the marked man, the man doomed to die at a moment when he least expects it, rolled a cigarette and lit it with perfect resignment.

“And are you not afraid to go with me back to Scutari?” I asked, amazed at his fearlessness.

“Afraid, gospodin!” he exclaimed, looking at me in reproach as his hand instinctively wandered to his weapon. “Afraid! No Albanian is afraid of the blood-feud. I have killed the murderer, and his brother must kill me. It is our law.” And the doomed man smiled gravely.

“And the girl?” I asked.

“Ah! They are all the same,” he answered, with a quick shrug of the shoulders. “A month ago she married a tobacco-seller—a man old enough to be her father. Poor Tef! If he could but know!”

“And the blood-feud still continues?”

“Of course—until I am dead.”

Then Palok smoked on in silence, entirely resigned to the fate that awaits him. He knows that one day, as he walks along the road, the sharp crack of a hidden rifle will sound, and he will fall to earth, another victim of a woman’s fickleness.

S’bogom!—God be with you!

His Royal Highness Prince Nicholas of Montenegro.

CHAPTER II
AN AUDIENCE OF PRINCE NICHOLAS

The Palace at Cettinje—A cigarette with the Prince—The policy of Montenegro—A confidential chat—His Royal Highness’s admiration for England—His views upon Macedonia—He urges me not to attempt to go to Albania, but I persuade him to help me—His Highness’s kindness—Souvenirs.

“His Royal Highness the Prince will be pleased to grant you private audience at four o’clock this afternoon, gospodin.”

The tall, burly aide-de-camp in the little round cap, high boots, pale blue overcoat, and pistols in his belt, saluted, and we shook hands.

It was then three o’clock, and I was just about to go out to visit Madame Constantinovitch, the mother of Princess Mirko. So I had to return at once to my room and dress for the audience. The kings and princes of the Balkans have a habit of summoning one at a moment’s notice, and paying visits at unearthly hours.

Here, in Cettinje, in the heart of these wild, desolate fastnesses, one seems so far removed from European influence, yet how great a part has this rocky, impregnable country, with its fierce soldier-inhabitants, played in the politics of Eastern Europe, and how great a part it is still destined to play in the near future!

The fact that everybody is armed gives the stranger an uncanny feeling. The man who brings one’s coffee wears a perfect arsenal of weapons in his sash, and one quickly acquires the habit of carrying a revolver one’s self. Indeed, if you are wise, you will carry a good serviceable weapon from the moment you enter the Balkans to the moment you quit them. But if you approach the Albanian frontier, you will be at once warned not to fire without just cause. A few shots is sufficient to alarm the whole neighbourhood for many miles, and on hearing the alarm every man seizes his rifle and flies to the rendezvous, fully equipped and eager for the fight with those Albanian border tribes, of whom I afterwards had the good fortune to be the guest.

I had already had a long chat with Prince Danilo, the Crown Prince of Montenegro, whom I found a very smart and highly educated man, fully alive to the political difficulties of the neighbouring states and the necessity of Montenegro preserving her independence. He held very strong views upon the terrible state of affairs in Macedonia, and gave me many interesting details about his own country.

Having met him, and also his younger brother, Prince Mirko, I was particularly anxious to make the acquaintance of their father, Prince Nicholas, the ruler of the sturdy, warlike dwellers of the “Land of the Black Mountain”—the principal and most striking figure in this remarkable country, where peace and war walk ever hand-in-hand.

Since 1860, when his uncle, Prince Danilo, was assassinated, he has ruled justly, if somewhat sternly, and has succeeded in raising his nation from a state of semi-civilisation to the high place it now occupies in the Eastern world. In 1888 he gave the country a Civil and Criminal Code, and last year he granted a Constitution. Indeed, he has done all in his power to induce his warriors to follow the arts of peace without forgetting those of war.

At the hour appointed, the royal aide-de-camp called in a carriage and drove me to the Palace,—a long, dark brown building of somewhat plain exterior, as befits the home of a fighting race,—where I was received in the great hall by half a dozen bowing servants in scarlet and gold. Here I was met by the chamberlain, who conducted me up the grand staircase and into the great audience-chamber, with its many fine paintings and highly polished floor. Then, after a moment, the Prince—a brilliant figure—entered, shook me by the hand, and welcomed me to Montenegro.

These formalities ended, His Royal Highness said in Italian, “Come, let us go into yonder room. We shall be able to talk there more comfortably.” And he led me into a smaller chamber, where he gave me a seat at the table where he sat.

The afternoon was gloomy, and dusk was creeping on, therefore upon the table a great antique silver candelabra had been set, and by its light I was enabled to obtain a good view of the ruler of Crnagora, the “Land of the Black Mountain.”

Of magnificent physique, tall, muscular, with hair slightly grey, he bore his sixty-five years lightly. Attired in the splendid national costume of scarlet, blue, and gold, with high boots, he wore a single decoration at his throat, the Cross of Danilo, of which Order he is Master. Upon his handsome, well-cut features the candles shed a soft light, causing the gold upon his dress to glitter, and I noticed, as I asked him questions, how his dark, keen eyes shot quick, inquiring glances of alertness.

After the first few minutes of regal formality His Highness’s manner entirely changed. Putting ceremony aside, he produced his cigarette case—of crocodile skin, with the royal crown and cipher in gold in the corner—offered me a Montenegrin cigarette, took one himself, lit mine with his own hand, and then we fell to chatting.

In the delightful hour and a half we smoked together I asked the prince-poet many questions, and learnt many things. He explained several difficult points in Balkan politics, which to me, an Englishman, had always been puzzling. We spoke—in Italian—of Macedonia and of a certain well-known foreign diplomat in London who was our mutual friend, the Prince giving me a very kind message to deliver to him.

Presently I referred to the splendid result of his rule, and related to him a little incident which had occurred to me in Nyegush a few days before, as showing how deeply he was beloved by his nation. A smile crossed his fine open countenance as he replied simply, “I have done my best for my people—my very best; and I shall do so as long as God gives me life. I am happy to believe that my people appreciate my efforts.”

“And now, Monseigneur,” I asked, “will you tell me what is the present position of Montenegro?”

“The present position is peace,” was his prompt answer. “I have granted a Constitution, and the first meeting of the new Skupshtina has been held successfully. Though the Albanian question is always with us, I am thankful to say we are on the most excellent terms with Turkey, while towards Russia we are pursuing our traditional policy. For the Emperor Francis Josef of Austria I have nothing but the most profound admiration, and I owe very much to him.”

“And towards England, Monseigneur?”

“England has been, as you know, Montenegro’s very best friend,” replied the Prince. “I, personally, have the greatest respect and admiration for your great country. We Montenegrins always remember that it was Mr. Gladstone who gave us the strip of seaboard on the Adriatic with Dulcigno. He was our greatest friend, and his memory is respected by every man in Montenegro. Of Tennyson, too, I am a great admirer. I am very fond of his poems.”

“You are a poet yourself, Monseigneur,” I remarked, remembering that more than one poetical drama from his pen had been successfully produced on the stage.

His Royal Highness smiled, and puffed slowly at his cigarette.

“I have written one or two little things, it is true; but nothing of late.”

“I wonder if I dare ask your Royal Highness to write a few lines for me as a souvenir of my visit?” I asked, not without some trepidation.

“Ah!—well—I won’t promise,” he laughed. “All depends whether I’m in the mood for it.”

“But you will try, won’t you?”

And the Prince nodded assent.

Then we spoke of Servia and of recent events there; but he was not inclined to discuss the question, and naturally so, when it is remembered that his daughter was the late wife of King Peter.

The Petroleum tins of Cettinje.

The Monastery: Cettinje.

Returning to the burning question of Macedonia, I saw that he was well informed of all that was transpiring around lakes Presba and Ochrida and down in Serres.

“It is a monstrous state of affairs,” he declared. “Something must be done at once, for as soon as spring comes again the massacres will increase.”

“But there are outrages, tortures, and massacres every day,” I remarked.

“Ah yes,” he sighed, “I know. Most terrible details have reached me lately. But you are going to Macedonia yourself, and you will see with your own eyes.”

“And what, in your opinion, would be the best settlement of the question?” I inquired.

“There is but one way, namely, for the Powers to call a conference and place Macedonia under a governor-general, who must be a European prince. The reforms would then be carried out, and the Greek bands expelled from the country. How long will Europe tolerate the present frightful state of affairs?”

“The fact is, Monseigneur, that we, in England, are very ignorant of the true state of things, or even of the facts of the Macedonian question,” I said.

“Ah, there you are quite correct. If your English public knew what was really happening—how an innocent Christian population is being slaughtered and exterminated because of international rivalry—they would cry shame upon those responsible for this wholesale murder and outrage. But”—he smiled—“I almost forget myself. My position as a ruler forbids me to talk politics, you know!”

And we laughed together.

“So you are going to Servia, Bulgaria, Roumania, and to Constantinople—eh?” he remarked a little later, when we had lit fresh cigarettes. “In Bulgaria, and also in Roumania, you will see many things that will interest you. The Bulgarians are very strongly armed, and so are the Roumanians.”

“Her Majesty the Queen of Roumania has also promised me audience,” I said.

“When you see her, will you please present to Her Majesty my most cordial respects. She is so very charming.”

“I want, Monseigneur, to visit Northern Albania, leaving Montenegro by Ryeka and Scutari. Would that be the best route, do you think?”

“What!” he exclaimed, in surprise. “Do you actually contemplate visiting the tribes up in the Accursed Mountains?”

“Certainly. Why not?”

“Well, my advice is, don’t think of going there. If you do, you will never return. You’ll be shot at sight, like a dog. You have no idea what those uncivilised tribes are like. The whole country is utterly lawless.”

“So I understand. But I’ve also heard that the Albanian possesses a deep sense of honour. And I thought that I might possibly obtain permission from one or other of the chiefs.”

The Prince was silent for a moment. Then, looking at me across the table, said—

“Do not go. It is far too great a risk.”

His advice was the same that my friends in London had given me; the same that I had received there, in the marketplace of Cettinje.

But I was determined, and pressed His Royal Highness to assist me, at last receiving his promise of help. By his kind permission, the Albanian named Palok acted as my guide, and what eventually happened to me in that wild region will be seen in the following pages.

“Well,” exclaimed the Prince at last,“if you go up there, it must be at your own risk. I’ve warned you of the danger. No one has been up there for many years. It has been attempted, of course, but travellers have either been held to ransom, and the Turks have been compelled to pay for their release, or else they have simply been shot by the first Albanian meeting them. The country beyond Scutari is the most unsafe in the whole Balkan Peninsula.”

Mr. Chas. Des Graz,
British Chargé d’Affaires at Cettinje.

The Piazza: Ragusa.

I replied that I intended to make the attempt.

“Well, then, I wish you buon viaggio,” he laughed. “May every good luck attend you, and—as we say in Montenegro—S’bogom! (God be with you!) When you return—for I suppose you will pass this way down to the sea—come and see me, and tell me all about the Skreli and Kastrati country—for of course I am highly interested. They are always at war with our people on the frontier.”

“I will let your Royal Highness know the moment I am back in Cettinje,” I promised.

Then rising, he gripped my hand warmly, saying—

“Then I will help you if I can. Be careful of yourself, for I shall be anxious about you. Again, S’bogom!”

And the Prince accompanied me to the head of the grand staircase, where I made my obeisance, turned and descended through the rows of armed and bowing servants ranged in the hall, charmed by His Royal Highness’s graciousness towards me and by the pleasant chat I had enjoyed.

When, after my journey through Northern Albania, I one afternoon re-entered that audience-chamber, and he came forward with outstretched hand to greet me, he exclaimed—

“Well, well! I am so glad to see you back safe and sound. You look a little thinner in the face—a little travel-worn—eh? Life in the Albanian mountains is not like your life in London or Paris, is it? But never mind as long as you are safe,” he laughed, placing his hand kindly upon my shoulder. “Come along to this room. It is more cosy,” and he led me to the smaller apartment, his own private cabinet.

For nearly two hours I sat relating to him what occurred on my journey, and describing the wild country which had, until then, been practically a sealed book. Even though Cettinje is so near, hardly anything was known of the Skreli, the Hoti, the Klementi, or the Kastrati tribes, save that they were brigandish bands who constantly raided the Montenegrin frontier.

The Prince listened to me with great attention, and put many questions to me as we smoked together.

Then rising, he took from a drawer in his great writing-table a small scarlet box, and as he opened it he bestowed upon me a compliment undeserved, for he said—

“There are few men who would have risked what you have done. Therefore I wish to invest you with our Order of Danilo, as a mark of my appreciation and esteem.”

And he displayed to me the beautiful dark blue and white enamelled cross of the Order, the same that he was wearing at his throat, surmounted by the royal crown and suspended upon the white ribbon edged with cerise.

After he had invested me with the Order, saying many kind things to me, which I really don’t think I deserved, he added—

“The chef du chancellerie will send you the diploma in due course, and I trust, when you petition your own gracious Sovereign King Edward, that His Majesty will allow you to wear this insignia.”

I thanked His Royal Highness, gripped his hand, and a few minutes later passed through the line of bowing servants out of the Palace.

And that same evening I received from His Royal Highness the signed photograph which appears in these pages.

Before I left Cettinje I received the following expressive lines, written especially for me by a Montenegrin poet who is a great personage, but whose name he would not permit me to give. They are in Servian as follows, and I have placed their English translation below:—

S’ veledušnog Albiona

Pružiše se dvije ruke

Crnoj Gori da pomogu

U junačke njene muke

S’ vrućom rječu na ustima

Gladston diže Crnogorce

A Tenison za najprve

U svijet ih broi borce

Na glas svoih Velikana

Britanski se narod trže

Da pomože da zaštiti

Crnu Goru iz najbrže

Posla svoje bojne ladje

Što na tečnost gospostvuju

Veledušno da zaštite

Domovinu milu Moju

O fala ti po sto puta

Blagorodni lyudi Soju

Dok je svjeta dok je greda

Nad Ulcinjem koje stoju

Hraniće ti blagodarnost

Ova šaka sokolova

Koima si u pomoci

Stiga putem od valova.

The literal translation in English is as follows:—

From the great-souled Albion,

Two arms were stretched

To help Montenegro

In her heroic sufferings.

With fiery word on his lips

Gladstone lifts up Montenegrins,

Whilst Tennyson declared them

The very first fighters in the world.

On the call of their great men,

British people rose up

In quickest manner, to help

And to protect Montenegro.

They despatched their war-ships,

Which rule over the seas,

Generously to protect

My Fatherland so dear to me.

Oh! thanks to thee, hundredfold thanks,

Noble race of men.

As long as the world lasts,

As long as the mountains above Dulcigno stand,

Will remain grateful to thee,

This handful of falcons,

To whose help thou didst come

By the road of the waves.

NORTHERN ALBANIA

CHAPTER I
INTO A SAVAGE REGION

Wildest Albania—Warnings not to attempt to travel there—I decide to go, and take Palok—Prince Nicholas of Montenegro bids us farewell—On the Lake of Scutari—Arrival at Skodra—Passports, rabble, and backsheesh—Photographing the fortress in secret—Treading dangerous ground—Albania the Unknown.

Before leaving London various insurance companies had flatly declined to accept the risk of “accident,” because it was known that I intended visiting Albania.

Indeed, no company in the City would insure me, and at Lloyd’s the premium quoted was exorbitant. This was the reverse of reassuring. Northern Albania I knew to be the wildest and most savage country in the East, and the Accursed Mountains, which I wanted to visit, were held by brigandish tribes, who shot the traveller at sight or held him to ransom. So little is known about them that they had always held a peculiar fascination for me.

I searched through the journals of the Royal Geographical Society for many years past, but found little mention of Northern Albania, while of books of actual travel in that region there were none. These facts had decided me to accept the risks, whatever these might be, and go into those wild, inaccessible mountains which bear the name of Accursed.

Everybody warned me of danger. Friends in England constantly urged me to “take care of myself,” as though that were possible when in the midst of a hostile tribe; and in fact there seemed to be a conspiracy on the part of friends, strangers, and officials to prevent me penetrating the Land of Mystery.

When I mentioned my intention in Cettinje, everyone, as I have already said, held up their hands and raised their eyes. It was sheer madness, they declared. Nobody’s life was worth a moment’s purchase outside the town of Skodra—or Scutari, as it appears on our maps. Outside—beyond Turkish control—well, I should not be allowed to travel a couple of miles before I had a bullet through me from behind a rock at the roadside.

Everybody had some weird or horrible story to tell about the savagery of the Hoti, the Kastrati, the Skreli, and other savage tribes inhabiting those high, misty mountains beyond the Montenegro border. The one or two Albanians—tall, muscular fellows in white felt skullcap, tight white woollen trousers heavily braided with black, and a kind of black bolero with long fringe—whom I had seen in Montenegro were certainly a sinister-looking, forbidding lot. But I had come to the Balkans to investigate and to learn the truth; therefore the more I was urged not to attempt to go into the mountains, the firmer was my determination to do so.

His Royal Highness, Prince Nicholas himself, had at one of the audiences he granted me seriously queried the advisability of undertaking the journey. Almost daily on the Albanian frontier were raids into Montenegrin territory, and the whole border was constantly terrorised by the Albanian bands, who shot the Montenegrins wherever found. Indeed, the market at Podgoritza, where men squatted with loaded rifles over four or five fowls or a basket of apples, was sufficient to tell me the truth; while the daily talk of that town was of fighting with the wild race who live across the border. The Montenegrin hates the Albanian, and has surely good cause to do so. Many a comely Montenegrin maiden—and some of them are exceedingly beautiful—has been captured in those night raids and carried across into Turkish territory, to be heard of no more. And many, too, are the reprisals by the Montenegrins; mostly, however, with serious losses to themselves.

Ryeka, Montenegro.125

Zabliak, Montenegro.

Palok, whom I had engaged as my guide, had, he said, been born in Skodra, or, as we call it, Scutari, which causes it to be confounded with the city on the Bosphorus. He also declared that he was well known there, and the fact that he also spoke Italian caused me to accept his services.

When I asked Fevzi Pasha, the Turkish Minister in Cettinje, for a passport for Skodra, or “Scutari d’Albanie,” as it appears on the visa, he granted it, but not without words of caution. “In Scutari you will have nothing to fear,” he said. “I will give you a note to the Governor of the town. But do not go into the country. If you do, you’ll be shot like a dog.”

I thanked him, but had no intention of taking his well-meant advice.

At half-past three one dark morning I took Palok, and we drove out on the road that wound high up across the great lonely mountains to the little town of Ryeka, whence a small steamer plies down the Lake of Scutari to Skodra. The drive was cold and weary, through a barren waste of rocks, but the bright autumn sun was up ere we reached Ryeka, and just as I boarded the big canoe with long, upturned, pointed prow, which takes passengers and baggage down the sluggish stream to the boat at the entrance to the lake, I saw, on the road above, a fine military figure in pale blue, riding a splendid white charger and followed by an officer.

In a moment every head was bared. It was Prince Nicholas, who was staying at his palace at Ryeka, taking his morning ride.

He espied me, pulled up, and shouted down in Italian—

“Hulloa! Good-morning! Then you are off to Albania after all, eh?”

“Yes, Monseigneur,” I responded.

“Did you get my message last night?” he inquired, referring to a confidential matter.

“Thank you, Monseigneur, yes.”

“Very well. Only be careful of yourself, you know, and when you get back, come and tell me all about it.” And, laughing, His Royal Highness waved his hand with a merry “Bon voyage!” and cantered away, while my half a dozen fellow-travellers in gold-braided costumes regarded me in wonder that their Prince should stop and converse with me—a perfect stranger.

Down the silent river, between steep green hills we glided. Choked by the tangle and rot of weeds, it was the haunt of thousands of waterfowl, and, as we passed, the herons rose with a lazy flapping of wings,—a stream that might well be haunted by the fairies, for the water was unruffled and the silence deep and complete.

Boarding the little steamer, the Nettuno, lying at the mouth of the river, we were soon out in the great green lake, with the high mountains looming grey in the far distance. As we steamed due south, the barren mountains of Montenegro were soon left behind. At Virpasar and Plavnitza we picked up passengers, a fat Turkish peasant woman carrying two baskets of fowls, and three young Montenegrins, fully armed with rifles and revolvers. Because she was not yet in Turkey, the woman wore no veil; yet in the evening, as soon as Skodra came in sight, she produced her veil, and carefully adjusted it, laughing with me the whole time, and wound it until only her bright dark eyes were visible.

From Virpasar an Italian company is now building a railway to the Montenegrin port of Antivari, so that in a couple of years the lake will be connected with the Adriatic, and form the much-needed trade route for Montenegro. The Servians, indeed, are hoping also to use Antivari as their Adriatic port, and thus be free of the excessive Customs dues and other oppression placed upon them by Austria-Hungary. When in Belgrade, M. Stoyanovitch, the Servian Minister of Commerce, explained to me the several schemes for the construction of a railroad from Krushevatz, in Servia, by way of Novi-Bazar, Ipek, Podgoritza, and Ryeka, to join the Italian line at Virpasar, and so to the Adriatic or to San Giovanni di Medua. Servia must secure a port, and this line, whenever made, will be a most paying concern, for by its extension from Stalacs—on the main Belgrade-Sofia line—to Orsova, it would receive most of the exports of Southern Russia to Western Europe.

Palok, my companion through the Skreli country.

The mere handful of lake-side dwellings which now constitutes Virpasar will, ere many years have passed, grow into an important trade centre, and upon the great silent lake, surrounded by those high sheer mountains where the eagle and the pelican are now the only signs of life, big passenger and freight steamers will soon ply. The railway, which must be built ere long, will quickly bring a civilising influence upon Northern Albania; therefore, if one wishes to see it in all its wildness, it must be seen to-day. In another decade the Albanian brigand—the real thing out of the story-book—will be only a matter of history.

The calm, bright day was perfect. The surface of the great lake was like a mirror, and the fringe of giant mountain constantly changed in colour—grey, blue, purple, and rose—as the hours wore on, and the sun sank westward in all the crimson glory of the death of the autumn day.

Now and then, with our rifles, we took pot-shots at the pelicans, but with little result. A young Montenegrin killed one, and the huge bird came down with a great splash into the water. At last, in the falling twilight, we cast anchor at the head of the Boyana River, which empties itself into the lake, and then, boarding another high-prowed canoe, where a Turkish soldier sat over us with a loaded rifle, we were rowed slowly up to the low line of ramshackle buildings, which was our first sight of Skodra.

With our farewell to the Nettuno we had said good-bye to civilisation, as represented by sturdy Montenegro. We were in Albania, the wildest and most turbulent country in the East.

We landed upon some slimy steps amid a perfect babel of shouts. Hundreds of unwashed Turks and Albanians were awaiting us, all shouting in a language of which I understood not one word. Every man, armed and of ferocious aspect, seemed ready to make short work of both Palok and myself. Indeed, so unpleasant is the landing at Skodra, that Palok himself had already sent a message to a friend of his—a typical brigand of the first water—to give the Customs officer a tip, and so make pleasant our path through that dark, evil-smelling hole where the Turks collect their dues. Palok’s friend, whom I only saw on that one occasion, and whose name I could not ascertain, had managed to secure from somewhere a mustard-coloured ramshackle fly, the upholstering of which was in ribbons. The driver, in his white fez, with dirty white baggy trousers and yellow tunic, came forward and saluted me with deep obeisance, while I was explaining to the passport officer—a ragged, consumptive youth—that my name was not “We, Sir Edward Grey.”

The chief of the Customs was a long, very thin, white-fezzed Turk with large silver-mounted pistols in his belt, very tight white trousers, a gold-embroidered jacket, and pointed slippers that turned up at the toes in the most approved style. He was a real live Bey, so Palok told me, but he was not averse to receiving tenpence as a tip. Later, when I left Scutari (or Skodra) again, I gave him ten Austrian crowns, for I had in my bag a couple of thousand cigarettes, which, by Turkish law, are prohibited from leaving the country. His charge for winking at the contravention is five crowns a thousand!

Turkish Custom Houses are weird places, and it is no wonder that the British Ambassador at Constantinople is just now pressing for some reform. Your belongings are not only thoroughly examined and heavily assessed for Customs—if you won’t tip—when you enter Turkish territory, but the same happens when you leave. Woe-betide those who dispense with the services of a discreet dragoman and do not tip. All that you may have bought in Turkey will be found liable to duty. Gold embroideries will be weighed, and anything that has the Sultan’s monogram upon it—as so many embroideries have—will be at once confiscated.

The man in the fez is grave and inexorable. His attitude is as though he would scorn the offer of a bribe and throw you into prison for daring to insult an official of His Imperial Majesty. Yet outside the Custom House he keeps a crafty ragamuffin who is ready to accept a four-franc piece on his behalf, and for that he will pass a thousand pounds’ worth of goods with only a pretence of search! The Custom House at Galata on the Bosphorus is a case in point. There are five officials there who share the spoils from the traveller.

Yes, the land of the Crescent is indeed a quaint country. The corruption of Turkish Customs officials is no doubt due to the frequent non-payment of their stipends. They must live, and do so by accepting bribes. I afterwards spoke to certain high government officials at Constantinople about it, and they admitted that they knew bribery existed extensively, but at present were utterly unable to suppress it.

Over the ramshackle Custom House, a dark hole without a window, frowns a shattered fortress containing one or two antiquated guns, a photograph of which I afterwards obtained surreptitiously, and which appears in these pages. Had I been discovered, I might have spent an unpleasant year or so in a Turkish prison. But even that offence, so heinous in Germany, France, or Austria, I suppose I could easily have expiated with a few piastres of backsheesh. In Turkey you can do anything—if you are prepared to pay.

Upon that filthy crowd around the Custom House at Skodra, upon those crumbling buildings, upon that old white fortress, upon the tower of Skodra itself, a mile away, the centuries of progress have made no impression. Here is the country of a mediæval people, the life of an age long ago past and forgotten.

While our fellow-travellers were squabbling, arguing, shouting, and cursing the wild, dirty mob who now filled the Custom House, we, with our baggage—canvas bags, specially made to sling on mules for mountain travelling—ascended into the mustard-coloured conveyance and were driven along a country lane, very English in its appearance, with bramble hedgerows and ditches; yet the high, thin minaret of a mosque before us, and the carefully latticed windows of a house, preventing the women-folk from being seen from the roadway, and giving the place an air of mystery, showed us to be in the land of His Majesty the Sultan—in Albania the Unknown.

CHAPTER II
WHERE LIFE IS CHEAP

Fired at in the street of Skodra—My comfortless inn—Panorama of life—Armed bands of wild mountaineers in the streets—The Sign of the Cross—Scutarine people—The fascination of Skodra—In the den of my friend Salko—Making purchases—Short shrift with swindlers—Some genuine antiques—Ragged and shoeless soldiers of the Sultan—Men shot in the blood-feud—“It is nothing!”

I had not been in Skodra half an hour before a man fired at me with his revolver.

It was my welcome to Albania, and I confess that I drew my own weapon from my belt, prepared to defend myself.

I had arrived at the han, or inn, a poor place dignified by the name of Hôtel de l’Europe, washed, and descended to the street, when, on emerging from the doorway, somebody fired his pistol right in my face. The flash startled me, and in an instant I was on my guard with my back to the wall. In that brief second all that I had heard of the insecurity of Albania flashed back.

My assailant—a tall, ragged-looking, middle-aged Turk in a scarlet fez—laughed in my face and uttered some words that I did not understand. He saw my weapon shining in the dim light, and pushed it away with a laugh. His manner struck me as friendly, so I dropped my arm; whereupon another man, in passing, also fired, then another and another, until, ten seconds later, everybody in the street was firing indiscriminately, and bullets were flying in all directions.

In Skodra.

I held my breath. Had the place actually revolted against the Turk just at the moment of my arrival? If so, I was in luck’s way. I knew that the Albanian hated the Turk, for Palok had told me that the revolution was only a question of time, and that one day his people would drive them out of Skodra. The place was once Servian, and captured by the Turks in 1479. Yet the Albanian still looks upon the Turk as a miserable intruder, and intends one day, ere long, to drive him out.

Around me, on every hand, pistols were being fired, the flashes showing red in the night, and I stood breathless, wondering what was happening. The man who had fired in my face was grinning at my alarm, when Palok dashed out to me.

“Signore! Signore!” he cried, in Italian. “It is nothing! Don’t be alarmed. It is only the vigil of the fast of Ramadan. It is our way of celebrating it!”

By that time every man in the whole town was firing off his revolver. The din was deafening.

“Very well,” I laughed. “Then I’ll celebrate it too,” and, raising my arm, I also emptied my weapon in the air.

The grinning Turk who had first fired and alarmed me saluted me by touching chin and forehead, and then we laughed together. It was certainly fortunate for him and for myself that I had not let fly, but he did not seem to heed at all the danger of firing suddenly upon a foreigner ignorant of what was about to happen.

The han, with the dignified name of “hotel,” was certainly an uncomfortable place. Cold roast pork, a trifle “high,” was all I could get to eat, and this was washed down by a light red vinegar, which was probably at one time wine. For five days running I had that very same pork served twice a day, until I sent Palok into the bazaar to buy me other supplies. A narrow camp bed, an iron washstand with tin fittings, a pail and a deal table, comprised my furniture, the best accommodation that Skodra could afford.

Yet the town is perhaps one of the most interesting in all the Balkans, and its people the most strangely mixed and wearing a greater variety of Eastern costume than even in Constantinople itself.

The bazaar, down by the river, is full of quaint types and most interesting. Its uneven pavement is quite as unclean and slippery with the dirt of ages as are the streets of Constantinople, but its dark little sheds are filled by workers, silver and copper smiths, embroiderers, armourers, weavers, jewellers—in fact, one sees every trade being carried on in the same primitive way and with the same tools as in the Middle Ages.

Skodra is not a town of progress, for there telephone or electric light is forbidden; machinery of every kind is against the law, and neither newspapers nor books are allowed to enter Albania. Therefore in those crooked streets of the bazaar the traveller is back in mediæval days, and the town of to-day is just as Florence was in the days of Boccaccio or Dante. Like the mediæval Florentines, many of the men from the mountains shave their heads, leaving a tuft of bushy hair at the back, which is cut square at the neck. With their tight-fitting black-and-white striped trousers, black woollen boleros, their belts filled with cartridges, and a rifle over their shoulders, they are a fine, manly race, with swaggering gait, clean-cut features—mostly Catholics, who spit openly at the lean, ragged, ill-fed soldiers of the Sultan.