The revolver is always worn, by all classes alike, and carried loaded by order. The upper classes carry a much smaller and handier weapon, but a revolver must be carried by prince and peasant alike.
Njeguši is the first town or village reached, and here an hour's rest is always made. It is interesting, since it was once the temporary capital, and as the home of the Petrović family, the reigning dynasty. It lies in a great hollow of fertile ground, and on the southern side the historical Lovćen ascends. On the top the great prince and hero, Peter II., is buried, and his mausoleum brings large numbers of pilgrims yearly.
As our carriage drew up before the little hostelry, a crowd of boys were standing in front of a house opposite, which is half telegraph office and half school, for economy in buildings is practised in Montenegro. They saluted us smartly in military fashion. The born soldier is noticed at once, even in the small children; many generations of fighting ancestors have bequeathed a smartness and accuracy of movement which can be envied by many a Continental trained conscript.
The traveller meets with little attention either here or in Cetinje. It is not till he gets well off the beaten track that he sees the hospitable and courteous Montenegrin as he really is.
During our frugal breakfast of raw ham and goat's cheese, our ears were assailed by the singing of the guslar, or Montenegrin troubadour. The guslars, we noticed, are invariably blind, and as no previous musical education seems necessary, it would appear to be a monopoly of those so afflicted. Their singing is execrable according to Western notions, a range of four or five notes in a wailing minor key making up their register, and they accompany themselves on an instrument (the gusla) from which they derive their name. It is hand-made, resembling a cross between a violin and a mandolin. It possesses one string, and is played with a short curved bow. With careful handling, a series of discordant notes of wearying monotony can be produced. The performance is altogether most doleful.
Yet they are the history books, the legend tellers of the country. They fan the fire of patriotism and loyalty by songs of the deeds and accomplishments of their Prince, of dead heroes and past glorious battles, and form another link with the mediæval world of which the traveller is so strongly reminded at every step in Montenegro.
As we left the village we passed the birthplace of Prince Nicolas I., though the palace appears to have been entirely rebuilt. In nearly every town or village of importance the Prince has a house, varying considerably in size, but of equally unpretentious exterior.
The road still climbs and reaches the maximum height of three thousand five hundred feet. From this altitude it steadily drops into Cetinje, which lies about two thousand feet above the sea-level. The scenery is unvarying, but not without beauty. It is essentially wild, but the light colour of the rocks and the numerous shrubs which find a footing in the crevices minimise the forbidding character of the country. The land is magnificently adapted for guerilla warfare, where every foot can be contested. Little patches of earth, washed down the hillsides, lie in every hollow, and have been utilised by the careful peasant to grow his tiny crops.
After about seven hours' driving, Cetinje appears in sight, at the end of a long valley, and completely surrounded by the characteristic naked and rugged rocks. The road descends by another series of serpentines, and a long straight drive brings us into the town. The valley is about four miles long and three-quarters of a mile broad and absolutely flat.
The effect is most odd at first sight, a long main street, an open market-place, and a few side streets constituting the capital of an important European principality. The town, on entering it, bears a strong resemblance to a South African township, where, as is the case here, space is no object, and the houses are rarely more than one story high.
We stayed at the Grand Hotel during our first visit. It is the only really good hotel in Montenegro, and in consequence expensive. Here all the tourists stay for a night or so during a hasty visit to the Crnagora, and it is to be avoided by those who wish to see the country.
CHAPTER IV
Cetinje and its sights—Prince Nicolas—The Archbishop—The barracks—The princes—A visit to the prison and its system—Our departure for Podgorica.
There is not much for the tourist to see in Cetinje; a day is quite sufficient to do the sights, such as they are.
Unfortunately for the country, the tourist usually contents himself with a look round the little capital and returns the way he came to Cattaro, only a few prolonging the tour viâ Rijeka to Scutari. Thus a very erroneous impression is gained of Montenegro and its people. Firstly only a small part of the Katunska is seen, which is the most uninteresting district of the whole country; and, secondly, no idea of the sturdy inhabitants can be formed from the handful of more or less well-to-do officials and merchants, all intimately connected with the outside world, round the proximity of Cattaro.
Cetinje, with its four thousand inhabitants, is simply the residence of the Montenegrin Court, it is not even a trading centre, which the absence of the Turkish element sufficiently proclaims. It is only the question of expense which has hitherto prevented the transference of the capital to another site, viz. Nikžić. Cetinje was chosen as the capital some hundreds of years ago—1484, to be pedantically correct—when a defensible position was the most important factor, which even to-day is a point to be reckoned with.
We will first go round "the sights."
It possesses two historical buildings in the monastery and the Billard, the rest being all of quite modern origin. The monastery is a picturesque pile of grey stone, nestling under a lofty rock, on which is perched the identical round tower, or "kula," to give it its local name, on which the heads of Turks slain in battle were exhibited on spikes. It was not so very long ago that the last grim trophies of war graced its battlements. The monastery contains the burying vault of the reigning house, and is the residence of the Vladika or Archbishop of Montenegro. Prince Nicolas can be found any morning worshipping at the tombs of his ancestors by the visitor who is willing to rise at daybreak. Very often he is the only "faithful" present with the officiating priest at an hour when the sun has hardly peeped over the rocky ramparts of the town.
Prince Nicolas, the lord of this warrior nation, is a man of imposing stature, so broad-shouldered that his height seems far less than it really is, walking with head erect and firm tread and clad in the rich national costume. The stranger involuntarily doffs his cap and receives in return a short military salute, but accompanied by such a piercing glance from a pair of cold grey eyes that he wonders if he is not an intruder in the land. This is, however, far from the case. Under that austere exterior beats a warm heart and an affability of manner to which the lowliest of his peasants will gladly testify. Prince Nicolas likes to see visitors to his land, and many are the little acts of kindness and courtesy that the traveller receives, all unknown, from his hand, for he knows the coming and going of everyone who makes a longer stay than usual.
Sixty years ago Prince and Bishop were united in one person, and though the Bishop or Vladika has to-day no temporal power, yet in spiritual matters he is absolute. A very kindly man is the present Vladika, Mitrofanban. By an odd coincidence his was practically