Cattaro

"Cattaro is the last chapter in my story of Dalmatia! It is well called the «frontier where the West merges into, and is absorbed by, the East». The Oriental touch, first noticed in Zara, but so insignificantly as to be hardly noticeable, becomes by degrees the predominant coloring of the picture. At Cattaro we found ourselves in the very vestibule of the Orient, with all its Levantine garishness. […]. Unlike Risano, Cattaro has played a leading part in the drama of the Bocche. It is possible that it may yet become an arena in which Austria and the allies of Servia will make history.

The whole Bocche is famous for its wild scenery, but no part of it compares with Cattaro, surrounded as it is by mountains which soar aloft as superbly as those of any Norwegian fjord. The mountains called Montenegro are not black, but a cruel, dull, cold gray. Gaunt and bare, they rise majestically from the smiling blue waters of the bay, to the blue and smiling sky above. To the right of the town of Cattaro is the Lovćen, or Monte Sella as it is also called. It hangs threateningly over the city like a frowning demon awaiting an opportune moment to pounce upon and devour the frightened little town crouching at its feet. The city is as somber and shadowed as a Swiss village in a narrow mountain pass. […].

The very moment your foot touches the broad marina attention is fixt on the great amphitheater of stupendous rock which engulfs the city. Unconsciously your eyes are riveted on the mountains, and your interest centers on the long line of fortifications climbing up the Lovćen to the ancient castle-fort crowning the top of the ravine, which splits the rock in two; a fort which reminds you of a wild bird's aerie built on a lofty crag.

A new road constructed by the Austrians is a splendid feat of modern engineering. It now replaces the perilously steep and rough foot-path in use for centuries by peasants in their long journeys over the mountains. "The Ladder of Cattaro" is the name given to this new road. It mounts the steep side of the Lovćen, lurching from side to side like a drunken man; without rest, it staggers onward and upward, passing the castle and zigzagging its weary way over the wilderness of rock beyond. Crossing the Austrian frontier, the road is continued over stony wastes; across hills and hummocks, past stray little stone huts with tiny patches of flinty sterile soil, to the capital of Montenegro, Cetinje, "The City in the Sky".

The market at Cattaro — or bazaar, as I should call it — is held upon the broad, well-paved quay. Here almost any morning may be seen a heterogeneous collection of stale-looking vegetables, scrawny chickens, and half-starved little pigs, which constituted the bulk of the produce offered for sale. I feel quite sure there is no Board of Health in Cattaro. If there is, the bazaar is most shamefully neglected. Nowhere have I ever seen more flies or dirt and refuse of all kinds lying about than in this uncleanly, and unprepossessing market. And never did the wares on a market-stall, by their appearance, speak more eloquently of the terrible battle waged to raise something on arid land, «which grows nothing but rocks!».

The market people were as unlovely looking as their stock. Many of them were wrinkled old hags, women who were not so old in years, as they were broken and aged by lives of unceasing toil. These poor Montenegrin women, with faces deeply lined with care, know only the perpetual "struggle for existence". They come to Cattaro from far over the mountains. They arise long before daybreak and gather together their bags of potatoes, sacks of onions, and heavy baskets of sickly green cabbages. Then, having their burden strapped firmly to their backs, straining under their heavy loads, they begin their long journey on foot over and down the mountains to the market quay of the town, many miles away. All day long, in the heat and glare, they stand by their stalls, offering unceasingly their wares for sale, and when, at last, the day is over, with their scant earnings they purchase the flour or stores they need, and once more, with a new burden strapped to their tired backs, begin the arduous task of climbing and crossing the bleak and relentless mountains.

Cattaro is full of these Montenegrin "warriors" and their ever-toiling slaves. You can always distinguish the subjects of King Nicholas. By law they are obliged to appear in the national dress. Both women and men seem to wear the near-white heavy woolen coat, cut like a Russian Cossack's. Those worn by the women usually have no sleeves, while the men wear with their's a gay red sash, tied about their waists. Both sexes wear the coat over the usual Dalmatian costume, with its gaily braided jacket. The men affect the regulation, enormously full, blue trousers. The caps of Montenegrins are exactly like the ordinary miniature red-topped Dalmatian polo cap, only upon the crowns are half-circles in gold thread, with the initials of the "Gaspodar" — The Master, as Petrović Njegoš (King Nicholas I.) is known to his people. Of course, the women, while they wear the same little caps, do not have them adorned with the cipher of the sovereign, for they are not subjects — except of masculine contempt. We learned that no Montenegrin considers himself fully "drest" without his "gun"; in fact, there is a law punishing him if he leaves his domicile unarmed. Without his knives, revolver, and yataghan, he is not a man — only «a poor, contemptible creature, little better than a female». No wonder that, with a training which has for its only end and aim the making of "fighters," the Montenegrins are both fierce and cruel, delighting in bloodshed, and scorning all work as beneath the dignity of men.

I must confess that, while admitting the bravery of the big, hulking warriors who lounged on the quay, and strutted about the streets of Cattaro, I did not like them. They all seemed to have an air of impudent bravado. They stared at us brazenly, with a mocking insolence in their piercing black eyes, which was only partially veiled. I suppose the fact that John held the umbrella over me to protect me from the blazing sun must have seemed highly amusing to these uncouth barbarians — who look upon all women as simply "chattels". Many times at Cattaro we came face to face with these sturdy subjects of King Nicholas, who delight to idle away their time, lounging about, smoking and gossiping. We could tell them from the other Bocchesi, if not by their long, whitish coats and initialed caps, then by the huge woolen scarfs they wore with one end thrown rakishly over the shoulder. The other end was permitted to sweep the ground, the long fringe gathering up dust and dirt as the warrior, with shoulders thrown back and chin in the air, swaggered along, looking "anxious for trouble", as John declared. Not without cause, knowing only too well the national characteristics of the people with whom she has to deal, the Austrian Government compels the Montenegrins to leave their arsenal of knives and pistols at the frontier, before entering her territory — a wise precaution in a land where often the slightest difference of opinion may result in bloodshed.

While Cattaro is quaint and interesting, I must admit that to me it did not compare with either Zara or Traü, let alone historic Spalato and medieval Ragusa. […].

Austria seems fully cognizant of the important position occupied by Cattaro in any Balkan embroglio. The surrounding mountains fairly bristle with batteries and are honeycombed with concealed cannons. Every available spot is strongly fortified. Guns are to be found everywhere; not pointed out toward an enemy who may come by sea, but batteries to be trained upon an enemy who comes by land, an enemy who lies ever in wait, watching on the mountain top, a wily enemy wearing not only a Cossack's coat, the livery of his real master, but armed with the weapons he has provided.

It was a novel experience to feel a martial tension in the air. I delighted to look hard at everything, for the moment I did, up would suddenly pop a man in uniform, and, ten to one, armed with a field-glass, with which he would narrowly scan us. I annoyed John greatly, for he realized by my curiosity about things which did not concern us that I might get into endless trouble. But, I confess, I found it delightfully exciting to feel I was watched — that is, as long as the man in uniform was at a safe distance, and armed only with a spy-glass.

The city gates are closed promptly every evening at nine o'clock. Fortunately, the Porta Marina is left open for some time longer, for the quay is less stifling than places within the walls. It was on this very marina that Danilo II., the former "Gaspodar" of Montenegro, an uncle of the present king, who succeeded him, was assassinated, in 1860. The Porta Marina is presided over by a crestfallen Venetian Lion, which has a shamefaced look quite out of keeping with his wings and book. Possibly his humiliation may be accounted for by the fact that, for exactly a century, over his once indomitable head have stood two horrible griffins, holding up brazenly for all the world to see the arms of Austria" (pp. 327-335).

"The Greek church of St. Luka occupies a little campo in the middle of the town. It has the regulation two-story Greek bell-cot, in which always hang two bells, side by side, with a third bell above them. It is a plain, almost ugly, little church on the outside, and not much more prepossessing within. On entering, we found it dark and somber. There were a number of worshipers, the majority of whom were women, who knelt upon the stone floor and made as many genuflections as a Moslem at his devotions. As the floor was none too clean, and as they continually bowed and kissed it fervently, it was a repugnant sight. The church has no high altar; the altar's normal place being occupied by a large picture, a painting lavishly embellished with silver and gold. The icon showed the Virgin and Child, in a massive frame covered with glass, but so blurred and filthy it was almost impossible to see the figures under it. A number of dirty, rough-looking men, and dowdy, disheveled women, stood or knelt in prayer about the icon. Every few moments one or the other of them would come up and kiss the picture, again and again, after having made the sign of the cross three or four times. After watching their performance, we no longer wondered at its smudgy condition. John declared there could be nothing in "the germ theory", or Greek church devotees would never escape catching all "the diseases born of dirt" in the entire Bocchesi calendar. 

We saw so much to disgust us that we were glad to escape from St. Luka, and to leave behind us the gloomy, fetid church, smelling of stale incense and its squalid worshipers. It was delightful to step outside once more into the radiant sunshine and fresh morning air. We heard martial music and soon saw a brass band coming toward us and a company of well-drilled Austrian soldiers, led by an enormously tall, fine-looking young captain, whose smiling glance met ours.

Like two children, we laughingly fell in behind the crowd which followed in the wake of the soldiers. But on the way to the Piazza, or wherever they were going, I espied a splendid and most elaborately wrought-iron pump, which I could not resist. It was so artistic I simply had to stop and examine it. The massive handle was tied down with rope, so I imagine the pump must have been out of repair. I could not even guess what was its approximate date. Longing to know something about it, I inquired its history from a woman I saw standing with staring eyes and arms akimbo in the door of a nearby house. Letting me repeat my question many times, she contented herself at last by slowly shaking her head, nodding a weak negative, while with open mouth she kept her eyes fixt upon us, as if we were strange, wild specimens of humanity such as she had never encountered before. […].

«The moment we set foot in Cattaro» according to the diary, «we discovered it was hot and stifling. Seeing there was a fine, big hotel outside the walls on the splendid broad marina, I determined to have John get a room there. A café was seen on the ground floor, and nice, comfortable-looking rooms above, with large windows; a very necessary adjunct, for we knew the night would be breathless. We had been informed by the von Karfenbergs that there was only one first-class hotel in Cattaro, and that we had better lose no time in securing accommodations, as most bookings were made in advance. 'Let them go into the stuffy little town, to a stifling hotel, if they want to', I emphatically declared to John. 'We will get a room at this nice, breezy place on the quay'. 'But how do you know it is a hotel?' he asked dubiously. 'It doesn't say so. That café sign belongs only to the first floor and the garden.' (Sometimes I feel sorry for John — he is so stupid.) 'Is it likely that those rooms above the restaurant would be anything else? I do not believe even these Cattaro people would be idiotic enough to expect visitors to swelter inside the town, when they have such big, airy rooms right on the water!' But it is a good thing I didn't say any more — for I was wrong! It wasn't a hotel at all. The crazy Croatians used the upper floors as offices. So there was nothing to do but to enter the frowning gate to the hot city, and go as quickly as we could to 'the only good hotel.' It proved to be a particularly poor one, and already crowded to the doors. Never shall I forget my experience in that 'only good hotel' in Cattaro»" (pp. 339-342).

"«At last we started once more on our travels, followed down the stairs, by our whole retinue. I breathed a fervent prayer of thankfulness when we escaped from the place, […]. Round about Cattaro we trailed, going through what seemed to me an endless labyrinth of narrow, shabby, ill-lighted alleyways. […]. I knew we made a ridiculous sight, and I didn't wonder that people we met looked after us with open mouths. I was simply too tired and weary to care. After turning every corner we came to, we landed up against a blank wall, on which was fastened a quaint, old-fashioned iron lamp, in which dimly burned a flickering light. It reminded me of Venice. The dingy little alleyway looked exactly like one of the cute little calli I adore, so I became amiable at once. Another step brought us to an opening in the wall, and we soon noticed some steps under a trellis, leading into a garden. After several more steps, and twists and turns, lo! we were actually in Hotel Graz, 'the second-best hotel in Cattaro'. Never will I forget it! It was the oddest, most jumbled-up, funniest little place I ever was in and, for Cattaro, remarkably clean. Our room had two big windows, which looked down on a tiny strip of garden below, and on the row of tables set out under a grapevine, trained with patient care over a rudely improvised arbor, à la Biergarten».

«The garden must have been popular, for far into the night a crowd of chattering Austrian soldiers, Croatians, and other Bocchesi, sat under our windows drinking beer, and eating sauerkraut and Wienerwursts of enormous dimensions. They made so much noise I thought at first they were quarreling, and when I saw one of the rough-looking creatures begin to finger the handle of the revolver in his cummerbund, I got terribly nervous. But John said not to mind; it was nothing. He explained that these people play with their guns, like a Moslem with his beads, and a Frenchman with his mustache. And he was right, for it all ended amicably, and at last they went away together. We, indeed, breathed a sigh of relief when the last customers took themselves off, for they clattered their dishes, and their harsh voices and sputtering Croatian tongues 'murdered sleep'»." (pp. 347-349).

"«Yesterday morning we started for a walk before breakfast, for walking here is so much pleasanter when it is cool. Passing through one of the old town gates and going out to a funny, narrow bridge, which looked not only ancient but flimsy, we stopt to take a picture of the small, meandering stream known as the Gordicchio. A half-dozen soldiers came along and looked at us with sharp eyes, for all photographing is tabued in Cattaro. Altho I became fearful, they all passed us without making any comment, except one gawky fellow who I noticed hung back and waited for us. […]. As we approached, the man, standing at the end of the bridge, came forward to meet us. 'Where you come from, people?' he inquired smilingly; 'Ameri-kar? Yes? I knew it! Me, too, from Ameri-kar — me from Cheekaygo. You been Cheekaygo?'. We told him we had, and that we came from Washington. In a minute we were chatting with the Cattaro-American as if he had been a long-lost friend»" (pp. 352-353).

"I confess I do not love Cattaro as I did Ragusa; but still, I am sorry to go, more sorry still to know I have come not only to the end of my diary, but of Dalmatia" (p. 356).