We reconsider our opinion of Cetinje—­A Montenegrin wake and its consequences—­A hero’s death—­Montenegrin conversation—­Needless appeals to the Deity—­We visit the hospital.

We have said that there are not many stirring events happening in Cetinje.  But this was due to the fact that we had only a very superficial knowledge of the town.  To appreciate it fully, though, it is absolutely necessary to know the country and the people first.  We had quite made up our minds to go down to Cattaro the day following the memorable drive from Podgorica, but a mutual acquaintance, a Montenegrin of high standing, met us as we strolled aimlessly down the main street that morning.  When he heard that we were leaving in a few hours, he became quite excited.  Had we really seen everything, in Cetinje too?

“Yes,” said we.  “We have visited the monastery, watched the soldiers drilling, chatted with the criminals, and know every burgher of the town, at least by sight.”

“First you must see the hospital and then you must attend a trial in the Supreme Court of Appeal,” said our seducer.  “And as for vendettas,” he added with pride, “we too have our little quarrels.  On the spot you are standing a man was shot five years ago, and in the act of dying he killed his assailant.”

“Tell us the story,” we broke in eagerly.  Montenegro is demoralising in this respect.  One becomes so used to bloodthirsty anecdotes that one wonders how other countries exist without the excitement of the vendetta.  Then the intercourse with noted murderers and assassins makes a mere ordinary man whose hands are not stained with the blood of his fellow-beings seem dull and tame.  Our eagerness pleased our friend and we adjourned to the cafe opposite.

About five years ago a near relation of the Prince died, and was taken to the home of Petrovic in Njegusi.  To do honour to the dead man, the men of Cetinje and the men of Bajice—­a village at the further end of the valley—­accompanied the corpse as a guard of honour.

Now a corpse is waked in true Irish style in this country, and by the time the escort had returned to the valley of Cetinje and halted at Bajice for a parting glass, the condition of the mourners resembled the close of a Bank Holiday in London.  The too liberal indulgence in raki or spirits does not always provoke that mellowness which follows a good dinner and a glass of port.  On the contrary, you become argumentative and convinced of the truth of your side of the question, and you do not hesitate to tell the other man that he is more or less of a fool.  So it came to pass in Bajice that those of Cetinje argued that they were the better men, a statement which did not conduce to good fellowship—­in fact, a Voivoda who was present, a native of Bajice, had to interfere to prevent the only true solution of the question in point.  He was an aged man, and the men of Cetinje proceeded home without proving their statement.  One man, however, stayed behind to continue the argument, and this naturally enraged the Voivoda.  He ordered him to be beaten.  Nothing loath, the worthy villagers fell upon him, and belaboured him with such fervour that he soon fell insensible to the ground.  Before he lost consciousness, he was heard to utter a threat to the effect that his assailants would be sorry for it.