We stayed at Reinwein’s inn, an unpretentious building, both as regards the exterior and interior, but as Reinwein himself is a Viennese, and has been for twelve years in the service of the Prince, acting often as cook, it is quite safe to say that at his house the best cooking in the whole of Montenegro is to be found.  Coming into the country this would not be so noticeable, but after months in other Montenegrin towns the cooking is most appreciable.  We spent very happy evenings in his bare little dining-room, with a decidedly cosmopolitan gathering.  The most noticeable feature was the number of languages in use.  Even Dalmatia, Bosnia, and the Hercegovina, where a three-languaged man is the rule, paled into insignificance.  There was a Turkish official staying at Reinwein’s, transacting business for his Government, and every evening men came to see him; that man was to be heard—­he was a Neapolitan by birth—­conversing fluently in Turkish, Albanian, Serb, Greek, Italian, and French, alternately.  One evening I was trying to follow the conversation, which began in Italian, then he wandered off into other tongues, explaining, evidently, a letter written in Turkish.  I got interested and went over to his table, and, afterwards, he told me which languages he had been using.  Besides this little list, Reinwein spoke Russian with another man, German largely with us, and P. and I passed remarks to each other in English, which was the only unknown language.  One evening two Hungarian tourists arrived, and then we fled from that Babel, fearing for our reason.

An affable old Turk, seedy in appearance, but extremely entertaining, owned to six languages, not counting others of which he had only a smattering.  Serb he didn’t count as he said he could only talk on easy subjects in that tongue.  It is very humiliating, that sort of thing, it is liable to lower the opinion of one’s own intelligence.  We kept late hours, too, at Reinwein’s, we couldn’t help it.

But all good things must come to an end, and at last the day of our departure arrived.  Cetinje itself was quite a different place to us than when we knew it formerly.  Representative of the land in a certain sense it rightly is, but then a fairly full knowledge of the country must be acquired first to understand in what respects it represents the life and customs of the people beyond.  To the stranger who extends his visit for only a week, it is sure to give manifold false impressions, for though Montenegro is quiet and peaceable enough, the appearance of Cetinje is rather too assuring.  For here there is little trace of vendetta and quarrelling, which, however, under the powerful hand of the present Prince Nicolas, are surely dying out through all the land.  When the fact is taken into consideration that the Montenegro of forty years ago was a rough and dangerous country, inhabited by a people who knew nothing of the outside world, and lived simply for themselves in their own