mission from the British Government concerning artillery and
ammunition to be made in England? was one of the questions asked.
Whereupon Monsieur Paschitch rose solemnly and replied:
“It is true that Monsieur Le Queux, an English writer, is in
Belgrade. He is on one of his periodical visits to see his personal
friends, and have audience, as he always does, of His Majesty the
King. Monsieur Le Queux is an Englishman who travels frequently
in our Balkan countries, but, being no politician, nor in any way
connected with the British Government, no political importance can be
attached to his visit. He is here as any other Englishman may be in
Belgrade.”
Whereupon the Leader of the Opposition, a fiery little man with a
shock of black hair, rose flourishing the papers in his hand, and
said:
“The explanation of His Excellency the President of the Council can
hardly be in accordance with fact. There is a pro-British plot to
obtain armaments from Britain, in return for a loan, and as proof
of it Monsieur Le Queux despatched last night a telegram to London
in cipher, but which, translated into plain language, reads--‘All
arranged, terms satisfactory to Paschitch and Ministry. Government
guarantee. His Majesty supports us. Leaving Thursday.’”
The reading of my telegram caused a great shock to the Government.
Monsieur Paschitch repeated his denials, but everyone saw that the
truth was out, and, indeed, two days later the inevitable Cabinet
crisis came, and the Government resigned. I had been outwitted!
Now comes the sequel. Those members of the Serbian Government who
were to have considerable “gratifications” out of the secretly
arranged “deal” were all eager to discover the traitor. They were
not long in ascertaining the truth. A young Serbian whom my friend
Tucker knew, and who proved useful owing to his knowledge of English,
was proved to be an Austrian. And in the room adjoining mine at the
hotel, separated only by a wooden partition, was, I afterwards
learnt, a man named Hoedl, a well-known spy of Austria.
Both were promptly arrested, and after a swift trial were sentenced
to ten years’ hard labour for espionage.
I confess that I, thinking myself something of a secret agent, kicked
myself for not taking proper precautions. But they always say that
the shoemaker’s child is the worst shod! The contract for arms was
not placed with Germany, but by a clever manœuvre on the part of
Monsieur Paschitch it went to France.
I have seen Serbia under many conditions, grave and gay. I was with
my old friend Charles Hands of the _Daily Mail_ and Sir Philip Gibbs,
then of the _Daily Chronicle_, when we walked the streets of Belgrade
together during the first Balkan War. We felt that Serbia must go
under, and the outlook was black enough in all conscience at the time.
I had arrived from my home in Devonshire with a single suit-case. Six
hours after the declaration of war I had been summoned to London by
telegram. After two hours in London I caught the Orient Express, and
within three days arrived at the Serbian front, being attached to
the headquarters of King Peter and his son Prince George. I carried
with me eight boxes of first-aid appliances, hurriedly got together
in London, and they were the first to reach the wounded from outside
Serbia. They were obtained by Madame Grouitch, wife of the Serbian
Minister in London, and I was asked to convey them to the front.
For seven months I remained with the Serbians, and later on, when
back in Belgrade, I took part in the triumphal procession as the King
re-entered his capital after victory, and went to the Cathedral for
the thanksgiving service.
King Peter was a man of many fine qualities. In addition to being a
splendid soldier he was also something of an artist. He had a modest
studio at the back of the Palace, where, in his dull loneliness,
those hours of brooding over the might-have-beens and his lost love,
he killed time by painting landscapes. Only his intimate friends were
ever allowed to inspect his work, but on two occasions I sat with him
while he worked, and, though I am no critic of art, I thought the
scenes were very pleasing.
Once he said to me, hinting at the romance I have already described,
“would rather be a picture-dealer in Paris or London than King of
Serbia.”
Though he seldom saw Madame X after his accession, I know that they
kept up a constant correspondence, and I wonder whether or not in
years to come those letters they exchanged will be published. If they
be, they will, I am sure, show the true sentiments of a greathearted
and courageous sovereign, who was compelled by fortune to sacrifice,
for his country’s needs, his deep affection.
At His Majesty’s burial recently Madame X stood by his graveside, a
tall, handsome, pathetic figure, and wept bitterly, even though she
is married, and is to-day a well-known figure in society, both in
London and in Paris.
King Alexander, who now reigns over the extended country of
Jugo-Slavia, is a tall, rather thin-faced young man of thirty-five,
who speaks with a slight lisp, and is a very good linguist. Unlike
his father or his brother George, he has little military enthusiasm,
but is a deep reader and thinker, something of a scientist, and
filled with true patriotism towards his nation, as was his father.
He has been very kind to me on several occasions, and when I wrote
congratulating him on his recent marriage, he replied referring to
his father’s friendship towards me, hoping that I would soon be in
Belgrade again.
A story I once heard concerning his relations with his brother Prince
George I will venture to print. It was told me by an ex-Minister of
Serbia one day, in the Military Club in Belgrade, but of its truth
I have no means of ascertaining. I give it for what it is worth.
When, in 1909, Prince George’s pranks and practical jokes grew to
be a public scandal, his father, King Peter, became furious at the
state of affairs, and suggested that he should renounce his rights as
_Prince Héritier_. So he went to his brother, the present King, and
said:
“The King has almost had a fit of apoplexy. I’m the bad boy, and
old Paschitch has been lecturing me, and says I’ll have to renounce
my claim to the throne. I don’t want it, as you know, but surely we
ought to have even chances. I’ll toss you for it!”
And they did, with a French louis piece, Alexander winning the toss!
Next day, the 15th March, 1909, the resignation of the incorrigible
Prince George was announced, and he went off to Russia to join the
Army there.
I repeat that I cannot vouch for the truth of the story, but the
person who told it to me is one of the best-known diplomats in the
Near East, and he declared it to be a fact.
King Alexander’s consort I met in Bucharest, on one of my visits to
“Carmen Sylva,” Queen of Roumania, which I will later on recount. She
was then an extremely pretty girl, with a charming manner and elegant
as became the daughter of an elegant mother, who was one of the most
_chic_ and up-to-date princesses of Europe--Marie, daughter of our
late Duke of Edinburgh.
* * * * *
From Serbia to Bulgaria is not a far cry, and I have been in Sofia
many times. On one occasion I had left Paris, and was conveying some
despatches from Belgrade to my friend Sir George Buchanan, who was
British Minister to Bulgaria, and, later, Ambassador to Russia during
the war. He was then at the Legation at Sofia, with his wife, Lady
Georgina, and his daughter, who has lately achieved considerable
success in literature.
On arrival at the Grand Hotel Bulgarie, a rather dismal place
opposite the Royal Palace, at about four o’clock one summer’s
afternoon, I announced my arrival by telephone, and Sir George
promptly asked me to dine that evening at seven.
I was tired, and, having three hours to spare, I flung myself into an
easy chair and slept till six o’clock. Then I dressed and drove to
the Legation, a large, pleasant house, arriving just before seven.
On entering the drawing-room, where a number of guests were seated, I
was greeted by Lady Georgina, who exclaimed:
“Oh, Mr. Le Queux, I’m so sorry you couldn’t come to dinner!”
I stood aghast in surprise.
Then I glanced at the clock, and saw that it was nine! I had
forgotten to alter my watch after leaving Paris, for in Sofia they
have Eastern European time, which is about two hours different to
Greenwich.
The whole company laughed merrily at my discomfiture.
On the occasion of that visit to Sofia I was presented to King
Ferdinand through the good offices of Monsieur Demetrius Petkoff,
the Prime Minister, a very charming man, who had lost his arm in the
Russo-Turkish War, and who spoke English perfectly and showed me many
kindnesses. King Ferdinand during the war earned for himself the
sobriquet “Foxy Ferdinand” among readers of English newspapers. Why I
can never imagine. He is a well-read, extremely intelligent, refined
man, possessed of a keen sense of humour, and not any more sly than
any other European monarch.
The Palace is a long, one-storied building, built in the style of
the Palace of Versailles, and surrounded by a small park. Before the
gates of ornamental iron-work four sentries stand, and as one drives
in they salute, and a few minutes later one finds oneself in the
presence of Bulgaria’s ruler.
He was a fine, handsome man, of a rather Hebrew type, a keen aquiline
countenance, rather sallow, a big nose, a pair of merry eyes, and a
well-trimmed beard slightly grey. He was in military uniform, with
epaulettes, and a white astrachan cap, and a single cross of one of
the Orders at his throat.
He struck me as a rather stiff and overbearing person, vastly
different to King Peter or the King of Italy, but it was apparent
that he was somewhat interested in my visit. Why, I did not learn
till later.
When I ventured to ask him for a photograph for my book _An Observer
in the Near East_, he ordered one to be brought, and signed it.
“This is your second visit to Bulgaria, I understand,” he said.
“Well, I hope you will see everything. You will see to it, will you
not, Monsieur Petkoff?” he said to the Prime Minister at my side. “I
will give orders.”
Then, turning again to me, King Ferdinand said with a smile:
“Do not judge us exactly by your Western standards, will you? I
will try and make your stay as pleasant as it can be made. Later I
shall be happy to receive you again,” and he bowed, a sign that the
audience was at an end, and we backed out of the room.
It was quickly apparent that His Majesty had given orders that I
should not be dull while in his capital, for to my hotel next morning
came Monsieur Dmitri Standoff, of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs,
and Monsieur Mandercheff, of the same Ministry, who told me that
they had orders to drive me about the city and environs and show me
everything. Thus for ten days I remained the guest of King Ferdinand,
for I was not allowed to pay for anything, being made a member of the
Diplomats’ Club, and being the guest each evening of either Monsieur
Petkoff, the Prime Minister, or the Minister of Foreign Affairs.
An incident that occurred after I had been conducted over the
fine National Museum--for there are many handsome buildings in
Sofia--will illustrate the King’s generosity towards me while I was
his guest. I had admired some old Turkish filigree jewellery in gold
and silver, especially some great ear-ornaments worn by ladies of the
harem two centuries ago, as well as some ancient Turkish embroideries
and rich harem costumes embroidered in gold. Then I had again
expressed my admiration of them when we had driven out to Vladaja,
a pretty village on the road to the rose-fields of Kustendil, where
the world’s supply of real otto of rose is distilled in Shipkoff’s
factory.
On my return to the hotel that evening I found two huge parcels
awaiting me, with a note from the Foreign Minister saying that he
presented them “With the Compliments of His Majesty.”
On opening them, I found they contained every object that I had that
morning admired.
Those national treasures of Bulgaria I brought home, and must confess
that I distributed them among my lady friends!
The gifts, however, serve to show that even kings are not averse from
a little kindly publicity in a book written by a foreigner.
And now comes a curious and dramatic incident, which pains me as I
recall it.
One afternoon, after sitting in the diplomats’ gallery of the
Sobranje, or Parliament, a very handsome and well-appointed chamber,
where I had listened to the ministerial statement of Bulgaria’s
future attitude towards Turkey, the gist of the speeches being
translated to me by Monsieur Standoff, who sat at my side with the
Russian and French Ministers, I was invited by General Savoff,
Minister of War, to dine at his house.
The party proved an exceedingly pleasant one, and included Monsieur
Dobrovitch, the King’s private secretary, and several Bulgarian
Ministers, with their wives. I sat next to the Prime Minister
Petkoff, whose round face, with its little grey “Imperial” beard,
was ever overflowing with _bonhomie_, yet owing to his maimed arm he
had considerable difficulty with his knife and fork, and in this I
assisted him.
After dinner there was a small dance, and at about one o’clock in
the morning I walked home with my friend, who lived in a large house
facing the public park not far from my hotel.
It had been a delightful evening, and the brilliant Eastern moonlight
was glorious as we strolled in and out of the dark shadows. Monsieur
Petkoff was contemplating a visit to London, and we arranged to meet
there. I asked him for his photograph, for he was one of the leading
statesmen of the Balkans. He promised me one, and at his door I shook
his hand and left him as he entered with his latch-key.
Next morning at ten o’clock, as he left his house to go to the
Ministry, he was shot dead. Three revolutionists were arrested, and
at the subsequent trial it was proved that I had had a very narrow
escape, for they were lurking there in the shadow on the previous
night, and, being ignorant of whom I might be, had refrained from
making their _coup_!
Poor Petkoff shared the same fate as his predecessor Stambuloff.
Together with Mr. James Bouchier, the deaf Balkan correspondent of
_The Times_--whom the Bulgarians honoured by having a postage-stamp
printed with his photograph--I stood at the graveside of the fine
old statesman who had been my friend, and listened to the eulogy
pronounced by the Minister of Foreign Affairs. Truly life in the
Balkans has its adventures. The three assassins were duly executed.
No doubt I had a narrow escape on that glorious moonlit night, and it
will ever remain in my memory.
The photograph that His Excellency had promised me was delivered to
me by the police six hours after his death. It had been found in a
sealed envelope on his desk, together with a charming note that I
cherish, and its replica may be found in the book I have mentioned.
The original stands in my study with a little piece of crape on its
frame.
[Illustration: PETKOFF, Prime Minister of Bulgaria, who was murdered
a few hours after leaving me.]
[Illustration: My brigand body guard in Northern Albania.]
I have been in Sofia several times since, and I have had several
audiences of the man whom the English have denounced as “Foxy
Ferdinand.” He, like King Peter, has never been understood by us.
At heart he was an Anglophile. He loved the British nation, but
diplomatic blunder after blunder, made from Whitehall by certain
persons who know nothing of Balkan politics, estranged King Ferdinand
from us.
One winter day, only a few months before the tragedy of Sarajevo,
I stood in his audience chamber discussing a question regarding
the best way of administering Macedonia, when he turned to me and
revealed his innermost thoughts.
“Recollect,” he said vehemently, “if war comes I will never fight
against England. I would rather abdicate. I love your country and
admire your policy. It is only your vacillating politicians that
I cannot endure. You British have your eyes closed to Germany’s
machinations. True, my mother was German, and to a degree I am German
myself. But if war comes, as it must, I will fight on your side, if
your precious ill-informed officials will allow me!”
Precious ill-informed officials! Those words are to-day to me--and
perhaps to many readers--prophetic. While Britain was lulled to sleep
by the Campbell-Bannerman Administration, Ferdinand was alert to what
the Kaiser intended.
I know that our memories are so short that the Great War is to-day
an out-of-date topic with most people, but there are still those,
including myself, who acted for so long as a humble but patriotic
secret agent of Great Britain, who deplore the slow but sure grip of
the German octopus upon our land.
Alas! it was a thousand pities that Bulgaria ever fired a shot
against us, but my confidential reports to Whitehall were set aside
by one who, never having been in the Near East, and possessing only
a slight acquaintance with the French language, directed Britain’s
policy towards “the powder-magazine” of Europe.
Month in and month out I made my secret reports to certain quarters,
warning them that Europe was preparing for war and urging a
conciliatory policy with both Bulgaria and Turkey. I was spending
my hard-earned money in travelling hither and thither, and in
entertaining those who might give me information.
For my pains, I received only jeers from those millions of
politically-doped inhabitants of the United Kingdom, who, turning in
their slumber, declared:
“War will never come in our lifetime,”
But was not that part of the ingenious and costly propaganda of
Germany in our midst?
With Lord Roberts, Lord Charles Beresford, Lord Portsmouth, Lord
Clarendon, Lord Balfour, Sir George Butcher, Lord Headley, Sir W.
Joynson-Hicks, Lord Leith of Fyvie, and other of my friends, we all
knew that the Kaiser intended war. The reason we knew was a discovery
I made--one that has never been contradicted--and which I have
recorded in another chapter.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Evenings with “Carmen Sylva,” Queen of Roumania--Her Private
Life--“What is Conan Doyle Like?”--Her Interest in British
Novelists--She Bans Sex Problems and Does Not Like
Kipling--The Present Queen and Her Kindnesses to me--Life
in the Gayest Little Capital in the World--The Countess of
Cotroceni on Skis--A Laughter-loving Queen--Wicked Old King
Leopold of Belgium--My Chats with King Albert.
Let us pass from Bulgaria to Roumania, the romantic country of that
romantic Queen, the charming, silver-tongued poetess, who loved to
conceal her identity under the name of “Carmen Sylva.”
On my first visit to her gay little capital I met the big, burly,
fair-haired American, a wanderer and something of an adventurer, Mr.
William Caspar, to whom the British nation owes very much, as I shall
relate elsewhere in this volume. If there be one foreigner to whom
the British were indebted in the days immediately before the war, it
was to him, and his name should be recorded in our modern histories.
But this chapter deals with the private lives of monarchs I have met,
therefore I will return to the friendship that the Roumanian royal
family has extended toward me. Because I am a writer--I have never
called myself a “literary man,” remember--Her Majesty continually
invited me to the Palace, and I spent many a delightful evening with
her in her small, luxurious blue-and-gold drawing-room.
She never “got on” with her husband, King Charles. He was an erect,
stately, forbidding-looking man, with close-set eyes, and a full grey
beard; an irascible grumbler who never had a good word to say about
anybody, and who quarrelled so constantly with his Ministers that
Monsieur Take Jonescu--who was so well known in London during the
war--often refused a command to audience.
The Royal _ménage_ of Roumania was the reverse of happy, inasmuch as
the King lived on the left-hand side of the Palace and the Queen on
the right, and the pair were often not on speaking terms.
My visits to Her Majesty were always marked by the same etiquette.
I would receive a note from her private secretary asking me to come
to music at nine o’clock, and on arrival I was bowed into a small
ante-chamber, where one or the other of her ladies-in-waiting,
usually Madame Zoe Bengesco, or perhaps Madame Maurojeni, who was
_grande-maîtresse_ of the Court, would receive me. Then I was ushered
into the Queen’s pretty salon, or salons--for there were two of
equal proportions, the one running at right-angles to the other.
These apartments were furnished with splendid old brocade-covered
furniture; tables with interesting knick-knacks and photographs of
prominent European authors; a grand piano; and the fine organ on
which Her Majesty more than once played for my benefit. Rich heavy
curtains, fine modern paintings, a polished floor, all combined,
assisted by the softly-shaded electric lights, to produce a harmony
of quiet taste and the acme of luxury.
I well recollect the first time that Madame Bengesco ushered me
into that room. I was standing talking to the Lady of the Court
when, on turning, I found myself face to face with a tall, striking
white-haired lady _en décolletée_, with a sweet smile of welcome on
her well-preserved countenance. She wore a very handsome gown of
pale dove grey, but no jewellery save a single gold bangle and a
magnificent emerald ring, which I afterwards learnt had been given
her by the Tzar Alexander who was murdered. This ring she always
regarded as her mascot.
“I am delighted to welcome you, Monsieur Le Queux,” she said, as I
bowed. “Your books are not unknown to me. We read many English novels
in Bucharest, you know!”
“And we in England read your Majesty’s books also,” I ventured in
reply.
“Come,” she said. “Let us sit over in that corner,” indicating a
cosy-corner seat near the big blazing fire. And as we crossed the room
Madame Bengesco bowed and withdrew.
Our conversation turned upon English and French literature, and at
once I recognized how widely she had read recent English novels. She
was eager to know about a number of our popular writers. What was
Conan Doyle like? Had I met him? Was he anything like a detective?
She wanted to meet Clement Shorter because of his interest in the
Brontës. Did I know Lord Northcliffe, and was he a really great man?
She asked me about my friends--Max Pemberton, Sir William Robertson
Nicoll, H. G. Wells, Sidney Low, Rider Haggard, and St. John Adcock.
I was kept busy answering questions for a full hour.
Her Majesty had a violent dislike for politicians, it seemed, but was
intensely interested in our popular authors.
“I love Austin Dobson’s poems, and ‘The Sundial’ most of all. I
have tried to model some of my own verses after the lines he has
taken, with, alas! but poor success, I fear,” she added. “Next to
poetry, I love a real love-and-crime romance. I get all my books from
Hatchard’s, in Piccadilly, and I must say they send me everything
that is interesting. I detest books that deal with sex-problems. They
are better left unwritten. And, really, your women authors are the
worst offenders.”
“I am of your Majesty’s opinion,” I said.
“I am very glad of that. As far as I have read your own books, I have
never come across a line that a schoolgirl could not read,” she went
on. “Many writers are too frank, and, if they are, I give orders
that their future books are not to be sent to me. I will show you my
English books,” and she rose and took me into a large library, where
one wall was lined from floor to ceiling by all the most recent works
of popular authors.
“See this!” she said, pointing to Coulson Kernahan’s _God and the
Ant_. “I have read it five times. Is it not splendid? And these.” And
she pointed to two volumes by my old friend Robertson Nicoll.