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:—

The literal translation in English is as follows:—