Unknown Albania, Where War Clouds Are Gathering.

New York Times 100 years ago today, May 4, 1913:
    ALL parts of the Balkan Peninsula have been much in the limelight of late, but none more so than Albania. While the allies were winning victory after victory over the Turks, the question "What will become of Albania?" grew more and more insistent. Now, with the capture of the Albanian stronghold of Scutari by the Montenegrins, the question has snatched first place from all others in Europe. Is this jumble of grim mountain land, up to now so mysterious that it seemed not to belong to Europe at all, destined to bring about that much-heralded, much-dread horror — a "general European conflict"?
    What is Albania? Few can answer that with any degree of certainty. Its masters, the Turks, have never quite subjugated its lawless mountaineers. Only a small band of travelers has ventured into its fastnesses. In fact, until a short time ago there were parts of Albania that were unknown to outsiders — actually a part of Europe that was unexplored!
    Mysterious Albania still is, but it can no longer boast of being untrodden. An intrepid Frenchman. Gabriel Louis-Jaray by name, ventured into its unexplored portions in the Summer of 1909. He did not intend to write about it, apparently, but now that the region is becoming so famous as the powder magazine that may possibly blow up the peace of Europe he has produced a book called "Unknown Albania," telling of his experiences. It has just appeared in Paris, with a preface by G. Hanotaux, ex-Minister of Foreign Affairs of the French Republic — he who was in this country, by the way, a few months ago to help dedicate the Champlain Memorial — declaring that, if the Albanian question becomes one concerning all Europe, people will look upon Jaray's book as "a Bible and Koran" of Albania.
    The French traveler took his life in his hands when, starting from Uskub, he made straight for the heart of the Albanian mountains — the hitherto unpenetrated territories of Liuma and the home of the Mirdite tribes. Not long before a Russian Consul had been murdered in that neighborhood and other foreigners murderously attacked. Even while he was on his way there was open warfare all about him, for the Albanian patriots were engaged in an obstinate fight against the Turkish Army under Djavid Pasha that was bent on making them bow the knee once more to Ottoman rule.

Meeting with Djavid Pasha.
    One of the most interesting parts of Jaray's book is his description of a meeting with this very Djavid Pasha, who last week leaped again into the foreground of Albanian affairs after an interval of obscurity. When the news came that Essad Pasha, the Turkish General who so long held Scutari against the forces of King Nicholas of Montenegro, had proclaimed himself "King of Albania" and proposed to defy the allies and the powers of Europe, Djavid Pasha, it was said, had been chosen as his Minister of War. Essad, the dispatch added, was marching the 30,000 men whom he had taken out of Scutari toward the Albanian town of Tirana, where Djavid awaited him with 10,000, a portion of the army with which, for years, he had been breaking down the resistance of the Albanians.
    The French traveler met Djavid while the latter was giving his troops a breathing spell between two campaigns. Albania was pretty well subjugated. With his hardy soldiers Djavid had toiled up and down through the rocky defiles of the mysterious land, razing to the ground hundreds of the little loopholed forts into which the Albanian villagers scuttle at the approach of danger. It was at Mitrovitza, far in the interior, that the Frenchman came upon the doughty Turk, who was living in a little house close to the barracks in which were his soldiers. Says M. Jaray:

    The sun lighted up the room and touched with flame the gray and strangely brilliant eyes of Djavid Pasha.
    He told me of the campaign which he had just conducted against the Albanians. With only 1,400 men and three batteries he had traversed the Plain of Diakovo and the region around Ipek, burning the strongholds of the chiefs, those forts with walls 60 to 80 centimeters thick and having no openings but the smallest windows. He left detachments here and there, and his name had become the terror of the Albanians.
    His actions were a strange contrast to the inactivity that formerly prevailed. But Djavid Pasha knows well that all this is only temporary. The forts will be rebuilt, the Albanians will gather anew, and all must be done over again.
    But Djavid Pasha counts on doing it, if the situation in Turkey permits. Young, alert, of warlike aspect, with the flash of joy in his eye, he said to me on parting:
    "Go away quickly, because I Intend to pay another visit to Messrs. the Albanians — next Autumn, doubtless. It will be better for you not to be caught between our cannon and their rifles!"

    The visitor took his advice and made all possible haste to get away before Djavid got busy again. Already, while toiling from Uskub toward Mitrovitza, he had passed the battlefield of Kossovo, where, in the fourteenth century, the Turks shattered the Servian Empire of Stephen Dusan. Already he had seen Uskub occupied amid mad rejoicing a few months ago by a Servian Army bent on avenging that defeat of more than five hundred years ago.
    But he was not content. Ahead of him lay "unknown Albania" — in that direction he set his face, by no means sure that he could penetrate the hidden mountain lands and get to Scutari and the coast, but grimly resolved to try anyhow.
    "With him went an armed escort, using the magic name of Djavid and others locally revered or feared to force a passage for the foreigner. At every turn he was met by tribal chieftains, backed by squads of retainers armed to the teeth, all of whom, fortunately, decided to be hospitable. But Jaray was never quite sure how they were going to act.
    For instance, when he entered Ipek, an important town far beyond Mitrovitza, he found himself the cynosure of every eye. It was not the ordinary curiosity evoked by a stranger in strange garb. There was something sinister about it.
    Hundreds of persons in the narrow streets fixed their eyes on him; from behind doors, from every window of every house he could see eyes peering. Just such a scene had preceded the assassination of the Russian Consul at Mitrovitza a short time before.
    He reached his lodging place, still unscathed, and there sat down to await the worst. But nothing happened, and, at last, the secret of this strange reception came out.
    Just before the foreigner's arrival two mysterious closed carriages had driven into Ipek. When Jaray arrived the report spread right and left that he was a Consul sent by one of the great powers to Ipek — Ipek the inviolate! — practically untrodden by outsiders. There could be no doubt that he was a Consul — were not those in the mysterious closed carriages the members of his family, arriving ahead to get his quarters ready?
    Somehow, fortunately for him, his real identity was established soon after his arrival. Otherwise his travels would probably have ended then and there.
    From Ipek he proceeded to Prizrend, and from there plunged straight into the unknown, far beyond the pale of Djavid Pasha's protection.
    Wild as the country had been which he had already traversed, it was as nothing to what he now encountered. Railroads, telegraph, mail delivery — all were soon far behind. Tidings from the outer world were transmitted from mouth to mouth. Roads gave way to the merest steep stony trails, hugging the sides of precipitous mountains. Here and there in this desolation rose the forbidding forts of local chiefs, with a few shacks huddled close to them, and a few flocks grazing near by, ready to be driven at a moment's notice under the protecting walls of the fort. And every one of the few wayfarers encountered was armed to the teeth.
    At Kuksa, one of his halting places, he was received with splendid though primitive hospitality. Escorted by the local chiefs and some of his followers, all bristling with weapons, he started for the chief's domicile. On the way one of the escort, wishing to show his skill as a marksman, fired at a bird about 200 yards away.
    He missed. The effect was instantaneous. Says Jaray:

    I felt that all were ashamed, hurt. I could see that they possessed a personal pride both intense and excitable which exaggerated the most trivial incident. The tribe could not lie idle under such a stigma!
    Darkness was approaching. There was no time to lose. Two young tribesmen and the chief himself loaded their guns.
    All that is wanted is a target.
    Down below, very far away, there is a bird — so far away that I could scarcely see it.
    There is a shot. The bird falls to the ground. Some more birds fly in the opposite direction. Two shots sound. The birds fall.
    The expressions of the tribesmen's faces grow serene again. The honor of the tribe has been saved.

An Albanian Banquet.

    Then a great feast was given in the French visitor's honor. He and the natives squatted on the floor of a room, illuminated by candles, and consumed a truly regal meal. There was the national Albanian soup, containing milk, rice, lamb's kidneys, oil, pepper and vinegar — "the taste of which," remarks Jaray, "reminds me of nothing that I ever had before" — followed by lamb, killed especially in the traveler's honor. According to the custom of the country, one of those present took the skull, broke it with a stone, and handed the brain to the guest of honor. After that all fell to with a vengeance, "using their hands for forks and their teeth for knives," and for twenty minutes there was nothing but the sound of chewing. Then came Albanian cheese, an enormous cake made of cornmeal and oil, and, best of all, coffee, real coffee, served in cups so small that each guest could drink fourteen or fifteen of them.
    "Truly the coffee is the only part of the meal which I could enjoy afterward," says the Frenchman. "It was delicious, and I think that Albanians and Turks are right when they say that people in the Occident don't know what real coffee is."
    Then cigarettes were lighted, and little by little conversation flagged. Each man present picked out a place to his liking, lay down, and went to sleep. From there Jaray entered the territory of the Mirdites, which is well-nigh inaccessible on account of its precipitous mountains. "Two good Albanian marksmen," says the French writer, "could stop any force, no matter how strong it might be, at one of these difficult mountain passes, in which there is scarcely space enough to find a foothold."
    Now and then in this grim neighborhood Jaray and his escort met a native clothed in a strange black garb. This is worn, it is said, as perpetual mourning for Scanderbeg, the great national hero of Albania, who successfully resisted the Turks hundreds of years ago.
    After many days in these dangerous regions Jaray reached the shores of the Lake of Scutari, which, remote as it may appear to us, was to him a veritable piece of civilization. Crossing the lake, he entered Scutari, then merely a little town full of picturesquely clad people from Albania and all the neighboring lands, now the centre of the most serious storm threatening Europe. It is not an attractive place, says Jaray — ugly houses, ugly mosques, dirty streets.
    From Scutari the journey was easy. The Frenchman proceeded to Cettinje, King Nicholas of Montenegro's capital, and thence straight into genuine civilization. After his months of wandering through unknown regions he doubtless fully recognized the truth of these words spoken by one of those whom he had met back in the mountain land:
    "Albania to-day is France one thousand years ago."