Max Pemberton, famed for wearing “fancy vests,” as Lord Northcliffe
used to call them; travel books by my old friend Douglas Sladen;
Seton Merriman, Ouida, H. G. Wells, Wilkie Collins, and Walter
Besant. Modern English poets were well represented, though, curiously
enough, I saw no volume of Kipling’s. Two long shelves were also
devoted to the works of American writers of fiction.
The opposite wall was lined with shelves filled with German and
Italian fiction, while at the end was a complete set of Maurice Le
Blanc’s works, and hundreds of volumes of French novels and poets,
all in uniform bindings, bearing the royal cipher in gilt on the back.
We returned to the salon, where she made me describe others of my
literary friends in London and tell some stories of them. I told
her of the house-dinners of the Savage Club, of the dinners of
the Vagabond Club, now alas! defunct, and of the various Society
hostesses who delighted to assemble literary people, not forgetting
Douglas Sladen’s famous receptions at his flat in Kensington, where
one met everyone worth knowing, and munched a sandwich and spent a
couple of hours in one’s own atmosphere of books and art.
“How I should love to go with you to Mr. Sladen’s,” the Queen said.
“Perhaps I may, eh, if I come to London?”
I promised that the next time she came to London I would take her one
evening.
“But they must not know who I am!” she laughed. “I will be your
friend Madame Somebody, eh?”
That well-remembered evening was one of the many I afterwards spent
with the delightfully well-informed woman, who was a patroness of
literature as well as a reigning Queen.
She was marvellously intelligent, and perfectly regal in her aspect
and her manner.
And, further, in Roumania, and throughout Europe, the name of “Carmen
Sylva,” that sweet-faced, womanly woman who, though Queen, was so
charming and unassuming, was synonymous of all that was good and
charitable. For Roumania she did what no other woman had attempted,
in that all the charity throughout the whole kingdom had been
initiated by her, and partly supported by her efforts. She lived
her life for the poor and needy, and worked hard for years on their
behalf.
On another evening, her secretary, Mademoiselle Helen Vacaresco,
introduced me to the Queen’s presence, and she became deeply
interested in Lord Leverhulme’s model village at Port Sunlight.
Would I get her particulars of it? I promised, and Lord Leverhulme
duly sent photographs and plans for a village, which she intended
to construct near Bucharest, but unfortunately her efforts were
frustrated by the outbreak of war. Again, she founded a school for
the blind on the same plan as that of Sir Arthur Pearson, and it is
still doing excellent work. She named it “The Home of Light.”
* * * * *
On three occasions I met the Crown Prince Ferdinand and his wife--the
present King and Queen--in Carmen Sylva’s salon, and had chats with
them, once just before King Charles’ death.
The present King, a Prince of the House of Hohenzollern, is rather
a dull person, who is fond of motoring and who takes but little
interest in his country’s well-being. The Queen on the other hand,
is, as she has ever been, a pretty, smartly-dressed woman who
believes in having a real good time. She spends much time out of
Roumania, in Paris, London, Brussels, or anywhere where there is
“something going on.” She loves to dance to a jazz band, and is an
inveterate cigarette-smoker. She seldom, if ever, reads anything more
elevating that a French novel, and loves to be photographed while
bathing, for the delectation of readers of the newspapers. This is
unfortunate, for the disregard of the conventionalities is typical of
the Roumanian woman, and is apt to create a wrong impression.
Once a white-bearded old French diplomat declared to me, in the
Travellers’ Club, in Paris:
“In all Bucharest, my dear fellow, I don’t believe there is a single
honest woman. I was Minister there for twelve years, and I think I
ought to know!”
I am inclined to believe he was nearly right, as far as a certain
section of Roumanian society is concerned, for my observations have
led me to the conclusion that the night-life of Bucharest is far
gayer than that of Paris or Budapest.
And, indeed, a certain British Minister of my acquaintance, who was
sent to represent us at Bucharest, closed the Legation, and, rather
than allow his wife and daughter to live in the place, kept them in
his country house in Surrey, and lived at the garish and expensive
Hôtel Boulevard.
Any of my readers who have visited Bucharest know the Hôtel
Boulevard, and they also know the Villa Regala, once a royal villa,
but now turned into a gay night-restaurant, where, at a wink or a
word to the hall-porter of the Boulevard, one will be provided with
a gay assembly of the gentler sex, ready to have supper, and to be
your most amusing friends, though you have never met before, and
after your supper turn night into day, and drive home hilariously in
the morning sunshine.
Gaiety and utter irresponsibility are in the atmosphere of Bucharest,
where, I confess, I myself have had many amusing adventures.
It is, _par excellence_, a fine city, a city of wild enjoyment and
wilder gambling, a city that justly bears the reputation of being one
of the most expensive in the world. And yet you certainly get your
money’s worth, as I have many times told my friends of the golden
youth of Paris. For the poor, Bucharest is the cheapest city; for
the rich, the dearest. Prices at the Hôtel Boulevard are far higher
than at the Ritz or Claridge’s in London, yet everything is perfect.
One can obtain no better cutlet of sterlet in all Russia than at
Capsa’s Restaurant, and the caviare that one eats on toast, with a
liqueur glass of vodka, at eleven o’clock, is as good as one can get
at the Arcadia Garden in Astrakhan. I have eaten sterlet in Moscow,
and caviare in the Arcadia, with its summer theatre and beautiful
gardens, so perhaps I may presume to criticize.
Yes, Bucharest is a riotous place. Ask any diplomat who puts his foot
across the threshold of the St. James’ Club, and he will close one
eye knowingly.
I do not know what the divorce laws may be in Roumania, but they are
rather lax, I think.
One little incident, at which I laughed heartily at the time, was a
practical joke played by my American friend, William Caspar.
In the course of his adventures in Bucharest society, in which I
often accompanied him, he met a very well-known lady, who, because
of his generosity, apparently believed him to be extremely wealthy.
She laughingly hinted to him that she wanted a new Paris gown, to
outshine one of her rivals at a very smart function. Caspar heard
all she said, and, being an exceedingly shrewd business man, he
resolved to teach her a lesson.
“Yes, madame, I will buy you a dress,” he drawled, while all three of
us were dining one night at Capsa’s, that gay restaurant in the Calea
Victoriei, where the wonderful gipsy band plays so magnificently, and
where meals cost far more than one could ever spend at any London
restaurant. “If you will do me the honour of accepting it, I will
send you a new gown.”
“But you don’t know the measurements!” declared the lady.
“Will you give me the name of your dressmaker, and I will see her?”
Caspar said, his big cigar still between his lips.
The lady gave him the address of her dressmaker, and three days later
she received, in a large cardboard costume box, with much tissue
paper--a doll’s dress!
I was once invited by the present Queen Marie to the Château of
Peleshor, a painfully new summer residence that King Charles had
built for his nephew, now King. I had driven from the station at
Sinaia, an overcrowded resort of _chic_ Roumanians who wear the very
latest of “creations” of the Rue de la Paix, and with me was the
Prime Minister, George Cantacuzen, a grey-headed man with mutton-chop
whiskers, whom I knew in Bucharest, and whom I found in the train.
We all took tea together in the summer villa, where the great airy
room was open to a magnificent vista of high mountains and glorious
woods.
The soft mountain breeze through the green and gold room was very
refreshing.
I recollect that little Princess Ileana came in to greet us, a
charming child with her fair hair falling over her shoulders, and
because she bounced about the room and upset a cup of tea her mother
severely reproved her, and sent her away with her German governess.
The conversation was mainly about an important military review at
which the Crown Princess would be compelled to appear on horseback at
the head of “the 4th Regiment de Rochiori.”
“I detest riding!” she declared to me. “And I can’t think who the
fool was who invented the fashion of women being military officers. I
believe it was the Kaiser.”
The tone of voice in which she mentioned the German Emperor revealed
that she had no great regard for him. Indeed, it is an open secret
that she usually referred to him as “His Pompousness of Potsdam,” a
name which she bestowed on him long before the war.
Her Majesty is a brilliant conversationalist, and, though so much
abroad, is highly popular, not only at her own Court, but at Rome,
Madrid, and St. James’. When at Deauville last year, she is credited
with remarking to the King of Spain, while discussing a little
tit-bit of scandal: “A man who loves a woman never tells her the
whole truth of what he thinks of her. The deeper his affection, the
more silent he becomes.” She is also credited with inventing, when in
the schoolroom long ago, the saying, “A little woman is a dangerous
thing.”
Queen Marie is an up-to-date consort, bright, intelligent, and
fascinating. Her husband is dull, apathetic, yet something of a
dandy. She is continually on the move, making fresh friends in
democratic circles, and thoroughly enjoying herself. Often she
travels _incognita_ to Paris, where she is a well-known customer at
the most expensive modistes in the Rue de la Paix, or she will spend
a week at Monte Carlo, and perhaps the next at St. Moritz, or at
Mürren, while the newspapers will say that she is in Vienna, visiting
an aunt. As a rule, the name she uses is Countess Cotroceni, which is
really one of her titles, and she always has with her one faithful
lady-in-waiting, who is quite as bright and merry as herself.
In summer the pair can frequently be seen bathing at Deauville, of
which place they are both very fond, or taking tea in the courtyard
of the Hotel Normandy, or eating shrimps and drinking sherry at the
Potinière. Their big, cream-coloured car is a familiar object along
the national highways of France, for Her Majesty, since peace has
reigned in Roumania, has been seldom at home. She has always called
me, ever since our first meeting, “Mr. Le Quex.” Lord Northcliffe
nicknamed me “Quex,” and used to delight in finding me with my friend
Twells Brex, and then introduce us as “Quex and Brex,” and say, “They
will now do their chameleon turn when Marlowe (the editor of the
_Daily Mail_) chances to turn his back.”
Poor Twells Brex! He told me of that persistent little spider that
spun its web over his bed as he lay dying.
“How very small things interest one when your days are numbered,” he
said to me, putting out his hand. “My little spider has been sent to
comfort and interest me. And, after all, we are only spiders in the
great universe with the ‘Einstein Theory,’ and our old friend Conan
Doyle communicating with spirits, eh?”
And he laughed merrily. Next day, alas! he was dead.
But I am digressing from the chapter--concerning only high personages
I have known.
Old King Leopold of Belgium--or “King Cléo-pold,” as King Edward
called him--I met on two occasions. He was a wicked old man. I was
presented to His Majesty in Brussels by my friend Mr. H. M. Stanley,
the explorer, after his return from the Aruwimi, and had a long
and interesting chat with him. The subject of our conversation was
travel, and he evinced considerable interest when I told him of my
projected journey with Harry de Windt, to explore the Kola Peninsula
in Northern Russia--which is still practically one of the few unknown
regions of the world to this day.
The second occasion I saw him was when I was passing in a motor-boat
beneath the wall of his beautiful garden at Villefranche, while
returning to Nice from the motor-boat races across the Bay of Monaco.
As we went along we were pelted with tangerine oranges by three
pretty, laughing girls in summer frocks, while, between them, dressed
in flannels, was the white-bearded old King, enjoying their fun. They
were apparently having a little carnival to themselves. The King of
the Belgians was always a very popular figure on the Côte d’Azur,
even though he was a very close-fisted old gentleman. He owned half
the Congo State, yet he would never pay for anything if he could
possibly help it.
King Edward never liked him. I know that to his intimate friend,
Baron Hirsch, he used always to refer to him as “that old Belgian
scoundrel.” Whenever King Edward could avoid King Leopold he would,
and on one occasion, when Prince of Wales, he resigned from an
exclusive Paris club because King Leopold had been elected a member.
He did not agree with King Leopold’s administration of his Congo
possessions--the slave-raiding, ivory-hunting, and all the terrible
atrocities that were suddenly revealed and could not be refuted. The
late Lord Roberts once remarked to me, when we were discussing him:
“Yes, King Leopold is an old vampire, who lives on the blood of the
blacks.”
Nevertheless, he was a gay old fellow who, in London, was often to be
seen with a couple of friends of his own kidney, idling in the lounge
of the Empire, or the Alhambra, for he had a peculiar _penchant_ for
ladies of the stage.
The exposures of the atrocities committed with his own knowledge
in the Congo State by the ivory-raiders, and the torture and
extermination of whole tribes of natives, greatly annoyed him.
He paid at least two famous French writers heavily for their
manuscripts, destroying them rather than allowing the damning
evidence to be published.
A Belgian journalist named Lefranc, who had been an army officer in
the Congo, wrote an awful exposure of the maladministration; how King
Leopold had given certain orders to deal harshly with the natives if
they refused to deliver up their ivory. He had photographed a number
of official documents, and had actually published the book. But His
Majesty bought up all the issued copies, and paid eight thousand
pounds for the manuscript and the type!
Only two copies saw the light of day, and one of those was shown to
me by Lefranc himself. It contained horrible disclosures of the slave
traffic carried on by His Majesty’s officers.
In the last couple of years of old “Cléopold’s” life, he fell in love
in his dotage with a lady named Vaughan, of whom he became very fond.
He at once abandoned his amorous adventures “and settled down.” On
his death the Baroness Vaughan laid claim to a very large portion of
his property, and a long law-suit resulted.
There is an amusing story of him. He always carried with him a bad
French franc. He had it in his pocket for over twenty years, and
would never move without it. His valet had to change it into the
pocket of every suit he wore, whether uniform or civilian, and he
usually changed four or five times a day, for he was a dandy of the
old school.
Princess Luisa of Saxony once asked him the reason of his belief in
the mascot and the history of the coin.
He drew it out. It was worn very bright and smooth, and was
apparently made of pewter.
“This was given to me late one night in Paris under peculiar
circumstances,” His Majesty said to her. “I was ill-dressed, and my
clothes were torn, for I had been robbed of all my money--every sou.”
She smiled, and suggested that he had been spending a merry evening.
“Yes, Luisa,” he laughed, “I had; but it is now nearly twenty years
ago. How well I recollect it! I stood beneath a lamp at the corner
of the Boulevard des Italiens and the Place de l’Opéra, penniless.
Though a king, I wanted a franc very badly at that moment to get
a glass of cognac, for I felt faint. So I actually begged of a
passer-by. Yes, I begged! Funny for a king to ask for relief. Well, I
was in Paris _incognito_, and I had my reason. The well-dressed man
I approached looked me up and down, and, recognizing my dilapidated
condition, gave me a franc. I then crossed to the Café de l’Opéra,
and paid for my glass of brandy with the coin, whereupon it was at
once found to be bad. Fortunately I saw a man in the café, a banker
in Brussels, who recognized me, and at once came to my assistance
after a whispered word from me. When I examined the coin I found a
date scratched on it. No doubt it was my benefactor’s mascot, and he
had given it to me in mistake. I have often thought since whether the
owner of that mascot ever dreamed to whom he had inadvertently given
his bad franc.”
Under King Leopold’s nephew, the present King Albert, Belgium has
arisen phœnix-like from the ruins caused by the War to a great and
increasing prosperity. Both King Albert and his Queen Elizabeth
are not only highly popular in their own country, but are welcomed
wherever they go. They both have a liking for air-travel, and I was
present recently one afternoon in the wireless hut at the Croydon
aerodrome when a machine descended, and, quite unexpected by the
staff, there stepped out the royal pair. Unconventionally the King
lit a cigarette and chatted with the pilot, while the Queen, who
looked as though she had not had a very comfortable journey, for the
weather was gusty, sat alone in the waiting-room while a car was
hastily obtained from the garage to convey them to the Ritz Hotel.
They were _incognito_, and, having crossed to do some shopping, they
returned to Brussels the next day.
Next time you see walking in Bond Street a very tall, handsome,
military-looking man, very spruce and erect, accompanied by a
well-dressed woman, look again and see if they are not King Albert
and his wife. They come to London at odd times, and even their coming
is unknown at the Belgian Legation.
Albert, who has generously granted me two audiences, is a progressive
monarch, and under his rule gallant little Belgium is daily
prospering. In the course of one conversation I had with him he made
a witty remark, saying:
“The honour of women consists in the good opinion that is held
concerning them.”
[Illustration: KING NICHOLAS OF MONTENEGRO.]
[Illustration: TEWFIK PASHA.]
CHAPTER EIGHT
What the Sultan of Turkey Told Me--His Distrust of the
Kaiser--The Ladies of the Imperial Harem--The Truth About
the Armenian Massacres--Their Authors Executed by Order
of the Sultan--How Noury Pasha’s Girls Escaped from the
Harem--A Chat with the Grand Vizier--His Fears--Professor
Vambery and the Sultan’s Carpets--A Day with the Prince of
Monaco on Board his Yacht--The Prince of Johore’s “Rags” at
Oxford--Painting the City “Red.”
Europe, and especially Great Britain, has never properly understood
the Turk. She does not to-day.
Through the good offices of Tewfik Pasha, Grand Vizier of Turkey, and
who is still my old and valued friend, I was granted an audience by
the Sultan Abdul-Hamid--or “Abdul the Damned,” as he was popularly
called in England--only a few weeks before the Young Turk Party arose
in Constantinople and kicked out of Turkey his hooked-nosed Majesty
bag and baggage, together with eighty-three ladies of the harem and
two hundred and forty-four female slaves.
I had known Tewfik Pasha as Turkish Ambassador to Berlin, but on
the first occasion I visited him in Constantinople, I received a
rude shock. In a ramshackle cab I drove from the Pera Palace Hotel,
through the dog-infested streets, to the Sublime Porte, as the
Government Offices are called. Having passed the sentries, I found
myself before a long, low, tumble-down building, the woodwork of
which had not been painted for years; a shabby, neglected place with
windows--some of them broken--that had not been cleaned for ages.
Entering, a messenger in a worn-out frock-coat and a greasy fez
greeted me, and ushered me along an endless corridor, up a flight of
stairs, and along still another corridor, the flooring of which was
so worn and rickety that through the cracks of the flooring one could
see into the corridor below. At last he ushered me into a small,
shabby room at the end, where there instantly appeared a servant
bearing the usual cup of coffee and cigarette.
Then I signed the visitors’ book, and in it saw the signatures
of all the diplomatic corps in Constantinople. Suddenly the
Russian Ambassador entered briskly, and, with a cheery “_Bon jour,
monsieur_,” also signed the book.
A moment later the secretary came, and, presenting to him His
Excellency’s regrets, explained that he had already an appointment
with me, and asked if he could call later. The representative of
the Tzar said he would call on the following morning, and I was
then ushered into the Grand Vizier’s private room, where there rose
to meet me the most powerful man in the Ottoman Empire--as even he
remains to-day. A quiet-mannered, quiet-spoken, grey-bearded old
gentleman, with kindly eyes and fatherly manner, he is entirely the
opposite of what one would expect of the “terrible Turk.”
In his frock-coat and well-ironed fez, he greeted me warmly.
With him stood my friend, Noury Pasha, a fair-bearded, slim man, much
younger, who was _Secrétaire-Général_.
I had been in Constantinople once before, and have been there many
times since, mostly on confidential matters, and, indeed, the reason
of my presence there that day was that I was on a journey of inquiry.
We discussed politics for a couple of hours, and it was plain that
His Excellency was greatly perturbed by the sudden rise of the Young
Turk Party, for he showed me a copy of a manifesto issued by the
“Ottoman Committee of Union and Progress.”
“This it was intended to issue broadcast,” he said. “But fortunately
the police got wind of it and have seized the printing press and
arrested fifteen of those who were responsible for its printing. I
have ordered all copies to be destroyed except this one, so that it
may not alarm the public. I have withheld its discovery from the
Sultan. If he knew of it he would be furious, and woe betide the men
under arrest. Read it!”
I took the small poster in my hand and read in French, as there was a
translation with the Turkish:
“During the thirty years of his reign Abdul-Hamid has
brought ruin on the land; one half of our patrimony he has
delivered to the enemy (Germany); he has destroyed our Fleet;
disorganized our Army; he has reduced the people to misery; he
has annihilated our Government system, and has left nothing
to the civil organization of the civilization of the past.
He has concentrated the whole Government into his own hands,
and has dismissed all his tried and experienced Ministers,
transferring the reins of office to self-seekers and traitors
willing to become his tools.”
The manifesto, continuing, urged that the despotic régime must end,
and prophesying that if it did not the enemies of the country would
again provoke disorders, in the hope that they would bring about
foreign intervention. It concluded with a firm demand that all should
unite “to depose the Sultan and make a clean sweep of the rotten and
traitorous Government.”
“Yes,” I said, as I handed it back to him, “it is certainly
calculated to inflame public opinion.”
“It is,” declared His Excellency vehemently, “and, between ourselves,
we are very uneasy about it.”
He had cause to be. Indeed, the incident is, I have thought, worth
recording in these pages because it was the first time that the
Turkish Revolutionary Party had been taken seriously, and I had been
let into the secret--one that I did not fail to transmit as soon as
possible to the proper quarter in London.
That night I dined with Noury Pasha at his pretty house, together
with his son. The Secretary-General of the Sublime Porte had held the
post for eighteen years, and to him was due Turkey’s constant and
clever juggling with the Powers. He pitted his wits against those
of the greatest European statesmen, and usually won. He held the
distinction of having had bestowed on him more foreign decorations
than any living man, and the late Lord Dufferin, in referring to him
one day when we were discussing him, called him “The Ironmonger,” on
account of the stars and crosses with which his breast was decorated.