A group of grumpy people were sitting around a fire
built in the middle of the floor; they did not greet us--which is
unusual in Montenegro--but continued the favourite Serb recreation of
spitting. In the centre of them was an old man on a chair, also
expectorating, and by his side one older and scraggier, his waistcoat
covered with snuff and medals, palpitated in a state of senile decay,
holding in a withered hand a palmfull of snuff which he had forgotten to
inhale. There were a lot of women saying nothing and spitting. A sour,
hard-faced woman admitted that there was coffee.
Jo, trying to cheer things up a bit, said brightly--
"Is it far to Andrievitza?"
A woman mumbled, "Far, bogami."
Jo again: "It is cold on the road."
A long silence, broken with the sound of spitting, followed. At last a
woman in the darkest corner murmured--
"Cold, bogami."
It was like the opening of a Maeterlinckian play, but we gave it up,
sipped our coffee, and when we had finished, fled outside into the cold
which, after all, was warmer than these people's welcome.
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