Chapter 33

Montenegro's oldest building--The ride to the Moraca Monastery--A perilous bridge and ascent--The Abbot's tale--We inspect the monastery--The health of the King is drunk--The relative merits of Boers and Montenegrins--The Abbot makes us presents--We visit a peasant's house and a Homeric feast--A feu-de-joie--Departure from Kolasin--We are mistaken for doctors again--Raskrsnica.

In Montenegro there are, strangely enough, with one famous exception, no buildings of any great antiquity. This, however, can be easily accounted for by the repeated invasions of the Turks, who ravaged the land with a merciless fury. Montenegro was the only Balkan state which they were unable to bring to obedience, and the struggle, which began after the battle of Kossovo, has, perhaps, not reached its final stage yet, though other enemies have supplanted the Turk.

Far away in the heart of the mountains, and perched on the top of a high cliff, at whose feet the turbulent mountain torrent Moraca races past, there is situated a monastery, which takes its name from the river below.

This monastery is the only building that has escaped the scourge of the Turk, and, though often attacked, only once has it been partially burnt. Like its famous sister at Ostrog, it is constructed in a position where Nature has provided the best means of defence, and this the hand of man has skilfully utilised and improved. It was founded in the year 1252 by one of the sons of the famous Servian king, Stephan Nemanja, and dedicated to S. Nicholas. Right well has the saint watched over and protected his feof.

During our stay at Ostrog the Archbishop of Montenegro impressed upon us most strongly the necessity of visiting Moraca before leaving the country. He himself had lived there many years as the Archimandrite, and was besieged by the Turks during his sojourn within its walls.

So, accompanied by a guide, with whom the Governor of Kolasin had provided us, we made an early start one morning for the monastery. We had a perfect ride through dense beech forests, skirting a noisy little stream, of which we were able to obtain a glimpse every now and then through a break in the trees. On either side of the ravine the hills rose steeply to some height. We soon passed a lonely cross in a small clearing, erected to the memory of five Montenegrins who had been surprised and murdered there by the Turks.

It is always so in Montenegro, when the traveller is filled with a sense of peace at the grandeur of the wild mountainous scenery, or the beauty of a sylvan forest glade, a rough cross, or cairn of stones, will be pointed out where men have met a sudden and violent death.

Once, as our path led up a steep incline, our guide told us graphically how that, a few weeks ago, both a horse and its rider had fallen down the one hundred feet into the river below. The path was very narrow, and he strongly advised us in passing to take care, which remark seemed slightly superfluous after the vivid description with which he had just favoured us.

Crossing the stream we dismounted, and climbed to a small grassy plateau on which a church is being built for the shepherds of the district. It commanded a beautiful view. The path now ascended to a great height, and much walking had to be done, for a ridge of hills lay between us and our destination. At the top the valley of the Moraca could be seen with a magnificent background of rugged mountains. A breakneck descent of two and a half hours, most of it on foot, brought us to the river, which was crossed by a picturesque and broken-down bridge. On a cliff opposite stood the monastery.

While leading my horse over the bridge I chanced to rest for a moment on the central arch to enjoy the view. The guide, who was behind me, thrust me unceremoniously forward. It is not always safe to admire scenery from Montenegrin bridges. Certainly, on inspecting the bridge from below, he seemed to have shown no unnecessary caution. Two of the arches had completely given, and may collapse at any moment.

A very steep and dangerous path leads up to the plateau on which the monastery is situated. It was nearly the cause of a serious accident to me, for my saddle gave, and began to slip backwards. Had the horse made one false step at this critical moment I should have been dashed over a precipice of eighty feet. Just before the gates stands a small inn, where we left our horses and proceeded on foot.

The monastery strongly resembles a fortress, for the massive walls surrounding it are liberally loop-holed, and it can be entered from one side only. We entered a large courtyard with buildings on all sides. At the back a great mountain ascends obliquely, and in front an inaccessible precipice descends to the river. It was doubtless a tough morsel for the Turks in the olden days, though modern artillery would make very short work of it.

The Archimandrite, or Abbot, soon came down and welcomed us most cordially, conducting us to his room, where we were regaled with the inevitable strong black coffee. He was a big, handsome man, with the long beard and hair which all the priests of the Greek Church wear. Quiet and benevolent as he looked, he is famed throughout the whole country as a mighty warrior; for in times of war the priests fight with the soldiers for their beloved freedom. Strangely enough, in the last war with Turkey he played an important role in saving the very monastery of which he is now the spiritual head. He was then a colonel, and commanded a battalion. The following story of the rout of the Turks is taken down from his own lips.

In those years (1876-7) all this district was in the hands of the Sultan, and the Turks had just made an unsuccessful attack upon the Monastery of Ostrog. Their army, under the command of the famous Mehmet Ali Pasha, was retreating on Kolasin, pursued by the Montenegrins. On reaching the Monastery of Moraca they halted with the intention of first destroying it, and Mehmet Ali placed a battery in a commanding position on the opposite heights for the bombardment.

Unknown to the Turks, half a battalion of Montenegrins were stationed there as garrison, and the Pasha, thinking that he had but a handful of priests to deal with, sent down a small detachment to effect an entrance. The gate was opened, and they were enticed inside. Hardly had the last man set his foot within the courtyard when the Montenegrins fell upon them and beheaded them every one.

The Turks, deeming all safe, sent a second detachment to assist in bringing out the booty, and they met with a similar fate. Then Mehmet began to suspect that something was wrong, and made preparations for a bombardment; but it was too late. A brigade of pursuing Montenegrins had come up. They fell upon him from flank and rear, and a horrid slaughter ensued.

It must be confessed that the account seems incredible, and is, doubtless innocently enough, greatly exaggerated. But the worthy Abbot distinctly stated that out of 25,000 Turks only 2,000 or 3,000 escaped. It was indeed "a terrible tale of a Turk that is ghastly and grim and gory." The Montenegrins were but men 1,800 strong, just three battalions, one of which was commanded by Michael Dozic, the Abbot, and his battalion it was that took the Turks in the rear, throwing them into utter confusion.

To-day the peasants still find heaps of bones in the crevices and hollows of the rocks.

After this very pleasant story, we descended into the courtyard, which is formed in a semicircle. In the centre stands the church. It is built in the shape of a cross, and its porch and interior are gorgeously adorned with the most quaint frescoes; indeed, every particle of the walls and ceiling is covered with frescoes of the most crude design and vivid colouring, and the altar-screen is magnificently gilded. The colours are well preserved, and seem as fresh as when the monks first laid them on, for the painting all dates back to the time of the foundation.

It was somewhat horrifying to find that the frescoes behind the altar-screen were completely scribbled over. At first we put this down to impious tourists who delight in leaving their miserable names on the most historical buildings; but, on closer inspection, we found that they were copious notes in the form of a diary. The Abbot told us that Mitrofan Ban, the Archbishop, had written them during his lengthy abbacy many years ago.

There is another church, or rather tiny chapel, within the monastery which is about a century older than the rest of the buildings, and the interior is likewise covered with frescoes of the same crude and vivid painting. They represent scenes from the life of S. Nicholas, and the chapel is only used once a year during the pilgrimage which takes place on the feast of their patron saint.

Every year large numbers of Montenegrins flock to the monastery to offer prayers and offerings. Just outside the walls stands a small cannon, with a Turkish inscription, which four Montenegrins carried away one night from Kolasin when that town was in Turkish hands. Not only the bravado of such a deed, but the athletic feat of carrying such a weighty object over that difficult country, are very characteristic of this people. It is fired annually during the feast of S. Nicholas.

The worthy Abbot was greatly annoyed to find that we had ordered food below, and still more when he heard that we were returning to Kolasin the same afternoon. He repeatedly urged us to spend a few days with him, but, enjoyable as the visit would have been, previous engagements forbade our acceptance.

A second priest waylaid us as we were leaving for our meal, and carried us off to his room, where more coffee was served. He had travelled much in Turkey and the Black Sea, and we had a very pleasant conversation, but, after a short time, the pangs of hunger forced us to excuse ourselves. Our humble meal, which we partook of in the best chamber (and only bedroom), was hardly over when the young priest again rejoined us, bringing with him an enormous bottle of wine. Very solemnly he filled our glasses, and proposed the health of His Majesty King Edward VII. Our surprise was so great that we almost forgot to drink. And then came many questions as to the progress of the Boer war, questions with which, by the way, we were often assailed by the more intelligent classes during our travels.

To quote an instance which happened to myself once in Cetinje. While waiting outside the monastery for the appearance of the Prince, who was attending divine service within, I entered into conversation with a gendarme. We spoke of many things, and to my surprise, for he was but an ignorant peasant, he inquired as to the progress of the war. He asked the nature of the country, on which subject I was luckily able to enlighten him. Parts of it are not at all unlike Montenegro. At this he pricked up his ears.

"Thou hast been to the Transvaal?" he asked with increased interest. "Are the people brave like we are?"

"They are brave," I said, "but not as ye are. They only shoot at long distances, and object very strongly to hand-to-hand fighting."

The stalwart Montenegrin looked puzzled.

"Shooting is good," he answered; and after a pause he added, "at _first_, but that is not fighting. It is an empty glory to shoot one's enemy, if one cannot prove it afterwards." I knew he was alluding to the decapitating process. "And then the wild charge, the cutting with the handjar when rifles are thrown away--_that_ is fighting."

I explained that our soldiers loved the bayonet as much as the Montenegrin loved the handjar.

"But what can you do when the other side won't wait for it?" I asked.

"Then they are cowards," he answered judicially. "Are thy countrymen all as big as thou art?" he continued thoughtfully, feeling my biceps and scrutinising me closely.

"Some of them are bigger," I said.

"Then the Boers will have no chance," he said emphatically, and at this moment the Prince emerged from the church. This personal allusion to my size I took as a great compliment, for in a land where physical strength is an all-important factor candid appreciation of this kind is not meted out to one and all alike.

Extremely fatigued after our early start and long ride, it was an effort to keep from falling asleep, and noticing this the priest left. We were both comfortably asleep in corners when the wretched landlord appeared with armfuls of sheets and pillows at the order of the priest. He cruelly woke us up and proceeded to make beds. After that all thought of sleep was gone. Furthermore, in dirty and dusty riding-clothes one has not the heart to lie down on spotlessly clean sheets.

Soon afterwards the horses were ready, and we cantered up to the monastery to take our leave. But leave-taking was no such easy matter. Our pockets were filled with dried fruits, and after we were already in the saddle the Abbot presented us with packets of incense which he hurriedly fetched from the church. Waving him and the other fathers a last farewell, we started on our long ride back to Kolasin.

During our rambles in Kolasin the doctor took us to a peasant's house whom he knew very well. This acquaintance proved one of our most pleasant recollections of the country. The head of the house was a fine-looking man, lean and active, and possessed many decorations for past acts of bravery in the field. His son was in prison at the time for some political offence, but his daughter-in-law and two little babies, besides two or three unmarried daughters and sons, were living with him. The whole family outdid themselves in courtesy to us, and we were, as usual, considerably embarrassed by the behaviour of the women-folk. Though we went several times to the house, they would rarely seat themselves while we were present, and invariably kissed our hands in coming and going.

The doctor played games of cards with our host, but the united efforts of P. and myself failed to discover any method or system in the game. The doctor tried to explain at first, but after five minutes we begged him to desist. So we sat and looked on, drinking cups of black coffee and endeavouring to make friendly overtures to the babies, who openly showed that they considered us distinctly dangerous.

The house itself was curious. The ceiling was low and the walls were of great thickness. The windows were so small that it was barely possible to squeeze one's head through the opening. The idea of the house is to obtain the maximum amount of warmth, for the cold of these mountainous regions is intense in winter. In summer, however, these houses are delightfully cool.

The evening before our departure from Kolasin we were invited to an open-air feast at the peasant's country house.

The "country house" was, it is true, only a rough wooden shanty, but, as our meal was outside, it didn't matter.

When we arrived, after an hour's walk, we found a table set out with a white cloth and three wooden chairs on a green slope overlooking the valley of Kolasin. It was a delightful spot. Some little distance away the last few turns were being given to a lamb roasted whole on a spit over an open fire.

The feast was soon served up. The entire lamb, on a great wooden platter, an enormous bowl of milk, eggs, sheeps' cheese, and unlimited spirits. The women-folk waited on us and kept our platters full. Other men with their wives joined us, not to partake of this Homeric feast, but to see us gorge ourselves. It may not be a nice expression, but we were literally forced to eat to an uncomfortable state of repletion. They took no denial, and even then the lamb was not nearly finished. These mountaineers eat meat only on great festivals, and consume enough to last them for the next few months. They did not realise that we were content with sufficient to last us for the next few hours.

Our glasses, too, were kept replenished with the potent spirit of the land, and our respective healths were drunk, on the average, once every three minutes. When this began to pall they toasted each other, in which we had naturally to join, and these were followed by patriotic toasts. It was rather an uproarious evening.

About ten we took our leave, and our hosts drew their pocket cannons and started firing; we naturally replied, and a deafening fusillade went on till every man had emptied his revolver. With singing ears we returned to our hotel to find the town alarmed, excited groups were congregated in the Market Square. Our _feu-de-joie_ was speedily explained, and the men flocked into the inn. As a slight return for the fright we had given them, we paid for a few quarts of spirits. The Governor overlooked our law-breaking, for after dark firing is not allowed, and no doubt he envied us in his heart, for, poor man, he is in the clutches of the Band of Good Hope, much, we heard, to his disgust.

We left next day, and had a hearty send-off from the town, who turned out _en masse_ to witness our departure. The local doctor was not present. We had found no favour in his eyes.

Shortly after leaving the town we passed the Montenegrin Militia, hard at their weekly drill. No uniform is worn, every man coming in his everyday clothes, bringing only his rifle. But they drill very well and the discipline is excellent. A company was being dismissed as we came up, and a large number accompanied us for a long way.

The ride was magnificent that afternoon. The way wound up and up, and our last glimpse of Kolasin showed us the little town far away below us.

The usual Montenegrin trick was again played successfully on us, the "only two hours' ride" developing into a journey of six hours. But to-day we did not murmur; it is only at the end of a long and trying day that this style of humour is out of place.

For two hours our path threaded its way through dense beech forests. At one spot P. and I had ridden on so far in advance of the others that we dismounted and waited for them to come up. In the interval I was assailed by a man with a bandaged head. Doctors always wear European clothes in Montenegro, and without further inquiry, this man proceeded to sit down before me and remove his bandages, disclosing ultimately a ghastly eye.

"What must I do for it, Gospodin Doctor?" he asked at length, for beyond the usual greeting he had not spoken. One glance was sufficient, and P. got up and left us.

"Take it away!" I said, with averted face. "I am not a doctor, and never shall be."

I felt him looking at me with his uninjured eye. These simple peasants are always under the impression that our modern education comprises that of medicine.

"But, Gospodin, it has been like this for weeks," he went on, "and is very painful."

"There is a doctor at Kolasin. Go to him. _He_ will be pleased."

Evidently much hurt at my indifference, he slowly replaced his bandages and departed. Then our party caught us up, and we continued our way.

Later on we emerged from the woods, and, still climbing, we rode for the remaining distance on magnificent grassy slopes far above the forest belt. Several snow-patches still lay unmelted in the shady hollows, and often far below us. From this ridge we obtained our first good view of the lofty Kom, the second highest mountain in Montenegro, and our ultimate destination.

These great downs, across which we rode, had been only thrown open to the public, so to say, a few days ago, and were full of flocks of sheep and goats and large herds of cattle, grazing to their hearts' content after their long winter's imprisonment in the villages below. The Government fix the date when the shepherds may migrate into the mountain pasturages and when they must leave again for the lowlands.

We overtook or met several parties of Montenegrins, and even Turks, for the border is not far distant, travelling from place to place. We were viewed with obvious interest, and invariably greeted with respect, though there is nothing of subservience in a Montenegrin's salute. He feels himself in no way your inferior as a man until you have proved your superiority in shooting or physical strength.

In this part of the country Dr. S. always told the peasants that we were engineers, as a road is being contemplated.

About seven p.m. we branched off from the main path, and descended on foot a steep path into a thickly wooded valley. In a clearing of the trees stood a collection of wooden huts, a summer village of shepherds, called Raskrsnica.

It was our halting-place, and as our visit had been notified, we were received by a schoolmaster and taken to his hut, which was placed at our disposal.

No schools are held during the summer months, and the teachers often turn shepherds, as in this case, and migrate with their flocks to the mountains.