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Imago Dalmatiae. Itinerari di viaggio dal Medioevo al Novecento

Cattaro

"It was six o'clock when we moored alongside the quay of Cattaro, one of the most picturesque cities of the whole Adriatic, so I had plenty of time to walk about and see the place as well as to make arrangements for my advance into Montenegro on the following day, in order to be present at the festival of St. Peter, during which a fair is held, to which congregate thousands, not only from Montenegro, but from all the surrounding countries. Thanks, however, to Persich Effendi, the Ottoman Consul of Ragusa, to whom I had brought an introduction from the Ottoman Ambassador at Vienna, I found everything already prepared for my trip. The agent of the Austrian Lloyd at Cattaro, Signor Jackschich to whom I can never feel too much obliged, had already procured for me a guide and two horses, thus saving me all trouble, and allowing so much more time to look about me at Cattaro. As soon as we had obtained pratique, the formality of which we carried out regularly at every place we touched, though, in reality, it was a farce, Signor Jackschich came on board, and having introduced himself and told me what he had arranged, placed himself at my disposal for the rest of the evening. We at once went on shore, and traversing the Mall, which lies between the quays and the walls of the city, and which serves as the promenade of the Bocchesi, we passed through the principal gate of Cattaro, and entered the precincts of the fortifications. […].

The fortifications of the town are connected by crenelated walls with the fort on two sides, thus inclosing a considerable space on the face of the mountain, something in the shape of a triangle, of which the town would form the base, and the fort the apex, which is still garrisoned, and many a harmless rusty old cannon can be seen peeping through the embrasures. […]. Here, as in most other cities in Dalmatia, no horse, or vehicle of any kind (except sedan chairs) is allowed to enter. The streets in consequence are beautifully clean, and the piazza, which is paved in squares of alternate coloured marble, is more like the floor of the hall of an Italian palace than anything else. The streets are narrow, as might have been surmised, but there are some very fine old houses, some exquisite bits of art hidden away in nooks and corners which one would have loved to sketch had there been time, half built up porticoes with oleanders peeping over them, and bits of lovely hammered iron work of the Renaissance period. […].

My friend Paton does not render half justice to this city in his charming book, "The Highlands and Islands of the Adriatic"; but he is so in love with Ragusa - and, if truth must be told so am I - that he has nothing to say for Cattaro; it is true he saw in Winter, when it must be a dismal place. But Cattaro, for all that, deserves a visit, and anyone fond of sketching will spend, with profit, several days in and about the place. […].

Having returned from the opposite side of the water, we took a walk up and down the esplanade between the water and the walls, to look at the beau monde on their boulevard, and then adjourned to the café on the same esplanade to have some ices al fresco, and make our final arrangements for the following morning. The public walk at Cattaro is very well laid out, and the most is made of the very contracted space at command. Two rows of large trees extend along the walls on each side of the gate, above which is to be seen, as usual, the Lion of St. Mark. […]. At the northern end of the Mall is the café, and round about it the grounds are laid out in gardens, where, under the shade of gigantic oleanders and mulburry trees, little round tables, made of enormously thick slabs, resting on short central pillars, for all the world like Brobdingnagian mushrooms, are laid out and surrounded with stools for the accomodation of all comers. […]. Here I fell in again with the Russian Consul, who introduced me to one of the finest specimens of men I ever saw, a Montenegrin chief, by name Pero Pejovich, commandant of the Grahovo (pronounced Graho), who had come from Risano in a boat, and was bound for Montenegro to be present at the Feast. He was dressed in full gala Montenegrin costume, plus the Risano jacket of crimson cloth without sleeves, thickly embroidered with gold, and on it the medals and decorations he had gained in battle. At another table were seated, also in full costume, two Montenegrin ladies of a family who had been exiled for political causes, and who were waiting at Cattaro in hopes of obtaining an amnesty which would permit them to return to their homes. […].   

The musical hum of the many voices, the exquisite Trebigne tobacco in our cigarettes, the delicious coffee, all conspired to make that evening one of the most delightful I ever passed. I got another chair, and stretched my legs on it; the natives stared - no Oriental ever thinks of stretching his legs - the acme of comfort for him is to tuck them under him. I felt supremely happy, and expressed myself so. "I could live here for ever", I said to Signor Jackschich. "Nay", rejoined Pero Pejovich, "but wait till it rains, and you will soon wish to run away from Cattaro. I have known it rain here for six weeks without stopping for a moment". At this juncture, the band of the Austrian regiment quartered here came on the scene, with the same lamp arrangement I had seen at Pola, and for upwards of an hour played the most delicious music to our intense delight. […]. 

That I should have an excuse for delaying a little longer, I began to talk in Italian to a little beggar boy who had quietly been asking me for something the whole evening, […]. "Don't take any notice of the young ruffian", said Signor Jackschich, "he is the plague of the town, and the worry of his father. He won't work, and he is in every mischief that is going". "But I don't tell lies - neither do I steal", retorted the bold young brat, who could be no more than eight or nine. "It is too hot to work, and as to going home to sleep la dentro", he said, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb to the town, "when I can enjoy the cool nights under these trees al fresco, I would rather not!". He spoke excellent Italian, and his manner was dignified and self possessed. "Diable!" said Yonin, "nous avons ici un philosophe!". "Can you speak German or French, little chap?" I said. "No", he replied in Italian, "non parlo che Illirico ed Italiano". I gave him coins to the amount of about a franc; but when he saw so much money in the palm of his hand - an amount which, to his eyes, seemed perfectly fabulous - his first impulse was to hold it out to me again, thinking I was joking with him" (pp. 155-162). 

"Skirting by the bastions which defend Cattaro on the sea side, we crossed the bridge that spans the little mountain torrent which here empties itself into the sea, and turning sharply to the right we passed through the open market-place where the Montenegrins come down to sell their farm-produce to the Bocchesi; but who, owing to the somewhat evil name they have unfairly acquired, are never allowed to penetrate into the city unless they first deliver up their arms at the military post outside, just as we do at Aden with the Arabs of the surrounding districts. Having crossed the market-place, we reached in a few minutes the base of the rocks, and at once commenced ascending that wonderful road zigzagged across the face of the mountain, and known by the name of "Le scale di Cattaro"" (p. 166).

"So up we we climbed, zigzag after zigzag, some of us above and some of us below until we reach the top of the scala where Austrian territory ceases and Montenegro begins. The sun was now well up above the Eastern horizon, when the sudden cessation of the road gave us notice of our change of territory, […]. Perched as we were almost perpendicularly over Cattaro, […]. It was one of the most beautiful and extraordinary sights I ever saw, and only laked the presence of foliage to make it perfect. But total absence of timber is the characteristic of the entire cost of Dalmatia". (pp. 171-173).

"Cattaro is innocent of either inn, hotel, khan, or caravansary, but good accomodation had been prepared for me inside the town. […]. The Bocchesi (as the natives call themselves) have one cause of heart-burning and envy, less than we in our country; there are no carriage-people in Cattaro to look down upon you who have to trudge on foot, and the nearest approach to anything of the sort is an antique sedan-chair mounted on wheels exactly like the celebrated old push at Hampton Court, which was occasionally brought into requisition on gala days, when such happened to be wet ones also. […]. The Bocchesi dine at twelve noon, or at one at latest, and sup at nine, no one ever thinking of a meal at five!" (pp. 273 e 277).