THE FUTURE OF BULGARIA
Bulgaria’s future greatness—Her firm policy in Macedonia—An audience of
Dr. Stancioff, Minister of Foreign Affairs—A chat with the Prime
Minister—Turkey the enemy of Bulgaria—Balkan “news” in the London
papers—How it is manufactured—Turkish dominion doomed.
The future of Bulgaria is assured.
Bulgaria, with Servia, is destined to become the power in the Balkans.
Vigorous, strong, and fearless, under a Prince who has the courage of
his own convictions, the country is one of progress, of great military
strength and continual expansion. The Bulgar differs from the Roumanian
inasmuch as he is more patriotic and far less extravagant; he is frugal,
progressive, and active. His capital is not the weak imitation of Paris,
as is Bucharest, nor are his officers gorgeously dressed and corseted.
On the contrary, they are hardy, well trained, well equipped, and
business-like to a degree.
Some interesting sidelights upon Bulgaria’s growing military strength
have been revealed at the recent manœuvres, while an afternoon walk
through Sofia will show how rapidly and firmly is the capital being
established—the capital which is destined some day to be the capital of
the Balkans.
[Illustration: Bulgarian Peasants dancing the “horo.”]
On every hand I saw evidence of Bulgaria’s future greatness. The
Ministry, without exception, is a strong one and incorruptible. There is
a firmness and stability about everything, all betokening a great
future. Ministerial crises are few, and the people do not neglect their
affairs for politics, as is the case in some Balkan countries. Under
Prince Ferdinand Bulgaria has progressed amazingly, and in the near
future will assume a position of supreme importance in the Peninsula.
Her policy towards Roumania is, however, a somewhat undecided one. While
the Roumanians fondly think that Bulgaria cannot take decisive action in
Macedonia without her consent, Bulgaria seems to calmly ignore
Roumania’s existence. I have reason for believing that some satisfactory
agreement will be arrived at in the course of the next month or two.
Bulgaria, however, is wide awake and well aware that Roumania is
desirous of a slice of her territory from the Danube down to the Black
Sea. Only to obtain this would Roumania be party to any alliance
regarding Macedonia.
One morning at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Sofia I had audience
with the newly appointed Minister, His Excellency Dr. Dimitri Stancioff.
He is the coming man of Bulgaria, at one time private secretary to the
Prince, and afterwards, as already explained, diplomatic agent in St.
Petersburg, where he had an extremely brilliant career.
Of middle height, slim of figure, with dark hair slightly silvered, a
keen, rather aquiline face, and sharp eyes, he is a man full of eager
activity, quick perception, and indomitable energy.
He had only been in office a few days, and was overwhelmed with work,
yet he spared me half an hour for a chat, although certain chiefs of the
foreign missions were waiting for audience. In his quiet, sombre,
business-like cabinet, he sat behind his littered table, smiling affably
and ready to answer any questions I put to him.
“You want to see Bulgaria? Very well, I will give orders that you have
good guides, and that you are supplied with all the official information
available. Only,” he laughed, “please do not flatter us. We prefer
honest criticism.”
He took down a list of the heads of the information I wanted, gave me a
cigarette, and then we discussed the future of Bulgaria.
“His Royal Highness the Prince has told me that he sent you an
autographed portrait last night. Have you received it?”
I replied in the affirmative.
“He will see you in Varna,” he went on. “His Highness particularly
wishes to see you.”
Then I asked him to explain Bulgaria’s future policy in the Balkans.
“You heard my speech in the Sobranje. Well, that constitutes in brief
the future policy of Bulgaria—peace. We are a young nation, and we do
not desire any complications with our neighbours. You have seen Sofia.
You have seen how in the past ten years it has risen. Yet there still
remains very much to do. The city is in a state of construction, and so
it is all through the country. All we desire is to be allowed peace, in
order to develop our resources.”
“And your relations with Turkey?” I asked.
“Ah! those constant incidents in Macedonia are of course regrettable.
The question is always with us. Yet since I assumed office I have
received reports from our diplomatic agent in Constantinople which
clearly show that Turkey has assumed a much more conciliatory attitude.
We are hoping for the best. Our relations with Turkey are still
friendly, and the friendship is becoming daily more firmly cemented.
What we wish, however, to see is greater interest taken by the Powers in
the Macedonian question. Neither Bulgaria nor Servia nor Roumania can
solve the great problem—only joint action by the Powers. We hope that,
ere long, an international council may be held to discuss and decide the
question once and for all. The present state of affairs is intolerable.
But you will see for yourself when you get into Macedonia.”
And assuredly, two months later, I did see—things that are incredible in
Europe in this twentieth century.
[Illustration: Summit of the Shipka Pass.]
[Illustration: Defile of the Isker.]
I also had a pleasant chat with Monsieur D. Petkoff, the Prime Minister.
We sat next each other at dinner one night at Sir George Buchanan’s, and
I learnt that he had been responsible for the destruction of old Sofia,
and the laying out of the new city. For six years of the reconstruction
he had been Mayor of the capital, and, as I afterwards learnt, to his
efforts the great progress had been due. Sofia may well be called
Petkoffopolis. At any rate, it is hoped that one of the streets will be
named after him. He struck me as an earnest, thoughtful man, the born
leader of a party. Rather short of stature, dark-haired, with a small
imperial just turning grey, his countenance was strong, open, and very
pleasant. He spoke deliberately, with an air of conviction, and his
conversation with me, which was of a private nature, was that of a man
who believed in the future of his country and was an advocate of peace
and progress.
As Austria is Servia’s sworn enemy, so is Turkey the enemy of Bulgaria.
War would have been declared by Turkey against Bulgaria long ago, were
it not for the personal veto of the Sultan, who is not only contrary to
hostilities with his near neighbour, but views Bulgaria with increasing
favour. His Majesty has, if the real truth be told, accurately gauged
his neighbour’s military strength. The war party in Turkey have long
been eager for an attack upon Bulgaria, but the Sultan is a far-seeing
monarch, and no one knows better than he that Bulgaria is very strong in
a military sense, and is a power to be reckoned with if ever the
Macedonian question is solved by force of arms.
At present it is the Greeks who, by their unwarrantable attacks upon the
Macedonian villages, are attempting to incite and provoke Bulgaria. Here
is an instance. Not long ago the Bulgarian police received secret
information, and searched the house of the Greek Bishop of
Philippopolis, where they found many incriminating documents showing
plainly that the Greek Church was actually collecting funds for armed
raids upon the Bulgarians in Macedonia. Letters were found addressed to
the various Greek priests giving the orders as to how they should act.
These somehow got into the papers, whereupon a serious riot occurred in
Philippopolis, and the Bulgarian soldiery were sent to quell it.
Bulgaria’s enemies, mostly subsidised Press correspondents, declared
that the riot against the Greeks was provoked by the Government itself,
and such statements were published broadcast in the Press of Europe.
These allegations, however, had absolutely no foundation, for the rising
was purely a local one, prompted by the knowledge that the Bishop was
fostering a conspiracy against their brothers in Macedonia. If ever the
Bulgarian public was provoked to reprisals, it was on that historic day,
and the Government’s action was perfectly justified in interfering,
otherwise the demonstration against the Greeks would have spread all
over the country, with very serious result.
Our English arm-chair critics—those who do not travel and see the
country for themselves—do not understand the Balkans. They form their
opinions from the incorrect and misleading statements made by
journalists and by journals subsidised by the enemy. Some of the
statements are so absurd as to be amusing, for they are utterly devoid
of the slightest foundation of fact. Indeed, they are often mere tissues
of plausible falsehoods.
While in the Balkans I read extraordinary accounts in the _Zeit_ of
things that, to my own personal knowledge, never happened. Each day, in
fact, the latest brand-new intelligence from the Vienna factory is
served up to Europe with sauce so piquant as to betray its origin.
The greater part of the so-called “news” concerning the Balkans
appearing in the English Press is utterly unreliable. The
correspondents, with few exceptions, are Austrians, and also act as
correspondents of the anti-Servian or anti-Bulgarian papers printed in
Vienna. From Austria these unscrupulous scribblers gain more than from
England, and therefore we are allowed glimpses of the Balkans only
through Austrian spectacles. Spend a week in any Balkan city, and you
will in future heed none of the glib _canards_ you read in your
responsible London morning paper regarding Servia or Bulgaria.
Austria and Turkey are for ever conspiring in the Balkans. Austria has
her eye on Servia, while Turkey intends, if possible, to put her foot
into Bulgaria, or at least to prevent the formation of a “big Bulgaria.”
As far as Turkey is concerned, as long as the Sultan lives there will be
no declaration of war against Bulgaria. His Majesty’s death would, I
fear, be the declaration of war between the two countries—and then the
sallow-faced gentleman in fez and slippers will have an unhappy time.
The day of the Sultan’s death will put the Balkans aflame, and then the
map of the Peninsula will assuredly be very quickly altered.
But before then Bulgaria may declare war.
ROUMANIA
[Illustration: HIS MAJESTY KING CHARLES OF ROUMANIA.]
CHAPTER I
BUCHAREST OF TO-DAY
My friend the spy—How I was watched through the Balkans—An exciting
half-hour—The Paris of the Near East—Gaiety, extravagance, and
pretty women—Forty years of progress—The paradise of the
idler—Husbands wanted!
My friend the spy picked me up at Rustchuk.
He was a well-dressed, middle-aged man, in a black overcoat with a
velvet collar. His face was sharply cut and intelligent, but his dark
eyes were set rather too closely together to suit me. Suddenly I
recollected having seen the same man in the streets of Sofia a week
before. Indeed, I saw him frequently when in the Bulgarian capital, but
until I met him that night upon the Danube steamer, between Rustchuk and
Guirgevo, the thought never occurred to me that the fellow was
persistently following me.
Then, like a flash, each of the occasions I had seen him came back to
me. Not only had he followed me in Sofia, but I now recollected having
seen him in Belgrade and in Zimony. The fellow was a spy—Austrian
without a doubt. It was not my first acquaintance with spies. I had met
many of them in the course of my wanderings up and down Europe. Some,
indeed, are among my personal acquaintances.
Until you travel in the Balkans, and more especially if you are having
interviews with Ministers and officials, you can have no idea of the
audacity and activity of Austria’s secret agents. They swarm everywhere.
The Grand Hotel at Belgrade is full of them, and in Sofia they also
flourish as part of the great secret army which the Austrian Government
keeps in the East, from Zimony right down to Constantinople.
It was a bitterly cold night, with slight drizzling rain. The spy was
standing on deck in the shadow at a little distance from me. The
recollection that I had with me a quantity of official documents given
and lent to me by the Servian and Bulgarian Governments was the reverse
of reassuring. I felt in my pocket for my revolver. Yes, the handy
little weapon was ready for use, in case of necessity.
There were only four or five passengers, and I knew that across the
Danube the Roumanian train taking me on to Bucharest would be
practically empty. And so it proved, for after landing, getting my
passport _viséd_ and my baggage through the Roumanian Customs, I walked
to the train, to find it empty, lit only by dim flickering oil-lamps,
which gave scarcely sufficient light to see into the corners of the
compartments.
I looked back, and yes, surely enough, the spy was following me! I was
alone, for I had sent my servant on to Bucharest by the morning train. I
got into a compartment, and presently, after some manœuvring, he got
in with me. I was annoyed, but I had my weapon in my outside pocket, and
intended to fire through my pocket if he attempted to attack me, or get
at my despatch-box on the seat at my side.
Calmly he lit a cigarette, then inquired in French—which he spoke
excellently—
“M’sieur is going on to Bucharest? Ah! what a wretched train service—eh?
I suppose you go on to Constantinople?”
I looked him straight in the face and replied—
“My destination is no affair of yours, m’sieur. And I have neither
desire nor intention that you should follow me any farther. You must
think I’m blind. I saw you in Servia a dozen times, and in Bulgaria
afterwards, and here you are in Roumania! Your game may be interesting
to yourself, but it is annoying to me, I can assure you—very annoying.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration: Snap-shots in Bucharest.]
The fellow looked aghast. He was not clever at all; for he stammered
something in Hungarian, and then, in French, declared that he had never
followed me. We had met and re-met by accident, he assured me. That was
all.
“Well,” I said, pretty sternly, “just take care that we don’t meet again
by accident after to-night. You understand?” The train was moving, so he
was compelled to travel in the same compartment with me to the next
stopping-place on the fifty-mile run that separates the Danube from the
Roumanian capital.
“I know,” I went on, “that you think I have some official documents with
me that would be extremely interesting to your employers. Yes, I admit I
have had some, but I’m scarcely such a fool as to travel about with
them. They would be interesting reading to you, but fortunately they are
already safe in London. So you are really only wasting your valuable
time, my dear monsieur.”
“M’sieur quite misunderstands me—he takes common politeness for
inquisitiveness.”
“Well, I don’t want any of your polite attentions,” I declared very
bluntly; “and if you don’t get out at the next station I shall just kick
you out. You understand that?”
He saw I had my hand in my jacket-pocket all the time, and doubtless
guessed what I had there.
“I shall stay here,” he answered defiantly.
“Excellent,” was my response. “And when we get to the next station I
shall call the gendarmes and have you arrested as a foreign secret
agent.”
“You’ve made a great mistake,” he declared resentfully.
“Very well. Let’s see. You remain here, and I’ll call the police.”
He did not reply. For half an hour he sat quite silent, while I, fearing
treachery, kept my hand upon the trigger of my weapon, for as a matter
of fact I had with me some papers of the very highest importance to
Austria—papers that would have compromised certain highly-placed persons
in the Balkans. The spy was evidently aware of this, and it was the
motive of his strenuous endeavour to seize an opportunity to get hold of
the confidential statements in question. In Roumania, as in Servia, they
treat foreign spies with scant courtesy, and the fellow’s manner belied
his defiant words.
That half-hour was an exciting one, until at last, after what seemed an
interminable period, the train slowed down and came to a standstill,
when my inquisitive friend of evil intentions descended, and without a
word disappeared in the darkness.
I thought I had rid myself of his surveillance, but I was mistaken. Next
day I met him in the streets of Bucharest, and so persistently did he
follow me that I was compelled to lodge a complaint with the police. As
soon as I had done that, I saw him no more. My own belief was that he
was arrested. He may be in prison now, for all I know. In any case, he
disappeared as completely as though the earth had swallowed him up.
This little incident, both annoying and exciting at the time, was my
first adventure on entering Roumania, but it was soon forgotten amid the
gaieties of smart Bucharest.
The Roumanian capital is a place apart. Roumania is not a Balkan State
in any sense of the word, and has progressed so rapidly during the forty
odd years of its freedom that in Bucharest to-day, save for Roumanian
names over the shopfronts, one may easily believe oneself to be in Paris
or in Brussels.
Indeed, some of the buildings, notably the new Post Office, the Ministry
of Foreign Affairs, and the Academy, are unequalled not only in
Brussels, but even in Paris. Bucharest is a gay city of external
glitter, bright, merry, and highly amusing after some of the dull,
half-civilised country towns in the Balkans. Smart cafés and
confectioners, expensive hotels, shops that charge double prices of
those in Paris, and theatres where one pays a sovereign for a stall, are
all to be found in Bucharest. The boulevards are broad and full of life
and movement, and the Calea Victoriei, the Boulevard Carol, and Strad
Lipsicani are as busy as any thoroughfare of a Western capital.
Nearly every public building has a dome, while the chief object of a
Roumanian seems to be to build for himself a wonderfully ornate house
and gild the railings in front. Many of the façades of the private
houses are marvels of florid bad taste. Again, though in the streets, in
drawing-rooms and at cafés and theatres, I met hundreds upon hundreds of
officers, crowds of lieutenants, swarms of captains and a good
sprinkling of generals, all in wonderful uniforms, yet I was four days
in Bucharest before I discovered a real soldier—and then quite by
accident. He wore a brown uniform, and I mistook him for a _wagon-lit_
conductor.
Bucharest is a city of vivid contrasts—a wildly gay, go-ahead city,
which justly bears the reputation of being one of the most expensive in
the world. For the poor it is the cheapest; for the rich, the dearest.
Prices, for instance, at the Hotel du Boulevard are higher than at the
Savoy or Carlton in London, yet everything is excellent, the sterlet
quite as good as at the Hermitage at Moscow, and the caviare such as one
only gets in the best restaurants in Russia.
As one wanders in the streets the Western eye meets many quaint sights.
For instance, the _birjas_, or cabs, are open victorias drawn by a pair
of long-tailed Russian horses, and driven by men wearing great padded
overcoats of blue-black velvet—huge affairs that give them very portly
proportions. Around the waist is worn a piece of gaily coloured satin
ribbon,and on the head the round Balkan cap of astrachan. Most of the
drivers are Russian refugees, and form a distinct class apart. Cabs are
extremely cheap, and the rate at which one is driven would be reckless
were it not that the men have such perfect control over their horses.
The British colony is not a large one. Its head is, of course, our
Minister, Sir Conyngham Greene, in whose able hands British interests in
Roumania have recently been placed. Keen and active, he has already
rearranged our Consular service in Roumania, and placed the Legation on
the same footing as those of the other Powers. While every other
European nation owns a Legation house in Bucharest, we have none; and
while I was in the Roumanian capital he was a fellow-guest at the Hotel
du Boulevard. It is understood, however, that the Foreign Office—or the
Treasury—have recently been shamed into the necessity of buying a house,
and very soon Sir Conyngham will have a fitting residence, as the other
representatives of the Powers.
Nobody ever deigns to walk in Bucharest. Everybody takes cabs, therefore
the streets are filled with vehicular traffic till far into the night.
At evening, indeed, Bucharest is at her best. Smart restaurants, with
pretty, well-dressed women, cosy theatres, flash café-chantants, and
noisy garish cafés abound all over the town, while outside, notably at
the Villa Regala, in the centre of a park, smart dinners and suppers are
given.
The _jeunesse dorée_ are an effeminate and extravagant crowd. Gambling
permeates the whole of society, and large sums are lost and won every
evening. I know personally one member of the Roumanian Cabinet who
thinks nothing of losing or winning a couple or three thousand pounds
each week at cards. He plays every afternoon at the Club, and is always
open to play any comer for any stake proposed, no matter what it may be.
Bucharest is a typical capital of a wealthy, easy-going country. The
people are charitable, and spend freely—when they have it. The
shop-windows, where the most expensive table delicacies are displayed,
show the foreigner the Roumanians’ extravagance in eating, while the
dresses one sees on the giddy women-folk are as up to date as any that
one notices in the Champs Elysées, the Bois, or at the Opera. Yet amid
all this up-to-dateness the old horse-tram still survives and jogs
along, and the patient white oxen toil slowly through the streets,
dragging their heavy springless carts.
Unlike Sofia, or in Belgrade, peasants are seldom met with in the
streets of Bucharest. One may go a whole week without coming across a
woman in national costume, unless, of course, the market is specially
visited. I, however, met, in Bucharest, Mr. Harold Hartley, one of the
directors of the Earl’s Court Exhibition, and we made many pleasant
excursions into the country together. To the traveller from Western
Europe the city is highly interesting and full of curious types,
especially of the young elegant, whose present fashion, it seems, is to
shave only the front of his chin and cheeks and grow a beard all round,
very similar in cut to that of a monkey.
[Illustration: The Royal Palace: Bucharest.]
[Illustration: Boulevard Elisabeta: Bucharest.]
When one recollects that about forty years ago Roumania was a
semi-civilised nation, and Bucharest a little Oriental town, its present
size and splendour are astounding. To King Charles’ rule much of this
progress is due, and in order to celebrate the fortieth year of his
reign there has recently been held a very pretty Exhibition, a miniature
of the great Exhibition of Paris. It was, I found, most interesting, and
fortunately it has been decided to preserve several of the more
important buildings, including a really excellent replica of a Roman
amphitheatre. The gaming-room is also to be preserved, of course, for
the “little horses” have great attraction for the merry people of
Bucharest.
Yes, this Paris of the East is indeed a strange place, especially to
those used to Western morals and manners. Everyone lives far above his
income, for there seems no limit to extravagance. Prices are often
extortionate. As an example, I was charged at one restaurant half a
crown for a whisky-and-soda! At a shop across the street the charge for
the same whisky was 6 fr. 50 c. a bottle.
Several of the restaurants are excellent, notably the Enescu, behind the
royal palace, a big place, where the best Tzigane music in Roumania is
provided gratis. The gipsy band is under one Christache Ciolac, a famous
violinist, who one day will no doubt make his mark in London. The
orchestra of the Enescu ought to be imported to one of our smart
restaurants and it would create a great sensation, for our present
so-called Roumanian music cannot be compared with the real thing. Here,
at Enescu’s, there is no dressing up in fancy costumes—not even
dress-coats. But the music is there, the strange weird gipsy melodies
and dances that run in one’s head for days afterwards.
The cookery at Enescu’s, too, is perhaps the best in the Roumanian
capital. Next to it is the restaurant of the Boulevard, where at
luncheon there is a table set apart for the diplomats, and is always
occupied by the various young attachés and secretaries. After that,
comes Capsa’s. The feminine element in the restaurants at dinner is much
the same as it is at home, except that one often sees a mother and two,
or even three, daughters dining alone—dining in public, so that they may
be seen by some stray swain who is desirous of marriage. One night at
Enescu’s, at the table next to us, sat an Italian duchess of ancient
lineage married to a Roumanian aristocrat, with her three pretty
dark-eyed daughters of varying ages, eating solemnly, the mother ever
watchful to see whether any man had his eye upon them. We afterwards saw
them near midnight at a café solemnly sipping _sirops_ and looking
mournful and woebegone. A diplomat who was with me told me that her
Grace had been in Bucharest staying at an hotel for the past six months,
trying to get her daughters off her hands, and was now beginning to be
disgusted at her non-success.
The Roumanian has a great hatred of the Jew. Perhaps it is because his
extravagance brings him so often into their hands. But the country is
full of Hebrews. The capital is not over-burdened with them, but in some
towns in Northern Moldavia Jews are in the majority. Indeed, their total
number in the united provinces exceeds 300,000, or about one-twentieth
of the entire population, a larger ratio than in any other country in
the world. In most provincial towns they have the monopoly of selling
strong drinks, and are of course ever ready to lend money to the
peasant-proprietors. Were it not for the fact that the law forbids any
Jew from holding landed property—or any foreigner, for the matter of
that—half the soil would probably soon be in their hands. The Moldavian
Jews speak a different language, wear a different dress, and keep
themselves aloof from their neighbours, just as do the picturesque
cabmen of Bucharest.
Roumania can boast one artist who is really great, whose name is N. J.
Grigoresco. I was shown some of his works, the property of Mr. Ernest
Goodwin, of the Roumanian Bank, and found that they were of the Barbizon
school, which is very natural, as he was a fellow-worker with Millet.
Without exception the work was excellent, and I believe there is some
idea of having an exhibition of it in London.
In Bucharest there is none of the laziness or languor of the Orient.
Everyone is bent on business or upon pleasure, and life for the idler is
perhaps even more pleasant there than in any other capital of Europe.
Yes, Bucharest of to-day astounds one in many ways.
CHAPTER II
ROUMANIA’S AIMS AND INTENTIONS
Monsieur Take Jonesco, Minister of Finance—The smartest man in
Roumania—An interview with General Lahovary, Minister of Foreign
Affairs—Secret aims of Roumania—A better frontier wanted—Germany’s
insincerity—Some plain truths—The question of a Balkan
Federation—Oil wells waiting to be exploited by British capital.
I had a number of interviews with the members of the Roumanian
Cabinet,[2] General Jacques Lahovary, Minister for Foreign Affairs, and
M. Take Jonesco, Minister of Finance, being both particularly helpful to
me in my inquiries regarding Roumania’s political aims and aspirations.
-----
Footnote 2:
Since this volume has been completed the Roumanian Cabinet has
resigned on account of the recent peasant rising, which, by the way,
was greatly exaggerated by the Austrian press.
-----
With the President of the Council, with General Manu, Minister of War,
and with M. Jean Lahovary, Minister of Commerce, I also had long and
interesting conversations.
M. Take Jonesco struck me as by far the strongest and shrewdest man in
the present Cabinet. Keen, quick, and far-seeing, he has of recent years
played a prominent part in bringing his country into its present
satisfactory state. Essentially a man of action, a smart politician, and
a patriot, he is nevertheless very English, for he has an English wife,
and his beautiful home is essentially English. Unlike most statesmen in
the East, he is frank and outspoken. He speaks his mind fearlessly, and
the Opposition hold him in terror. Through his good offices I was
afforded facilities for studying various questions and forming my own
conclusions. General Lahovary, too, is a strong and brilliant man
politically, of essentially military bearing, with a clever countenance,
a long grey moustache, and wears a monocle with a tortoise-shell rim.
[Illustration:
His Excellency GEORGE CANTACUZEN,
Roumanian Prime Minister.
]
[Illustration:
His Excellency TAKE JONESCO,
Roumanian Minister of Finance.
_Photo_] [_Elliott & Fry._
]
My audience with him was of an essentially confidential nature. He told
me many interesting things which, for the present, it would be
injudicious to publish, in view of the strained relations between
Bulgaria and Turkey. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs is a millionaire’s
palace—huge white-and-gold _salons_, with polished floors, fine
pictures, and beautiful gilt-and-red damask furniture. A showy
millionaire built it as his residence, and died soon afterwards. Then
the Government bought it for an old song, with the result that the
Ministry is housed in more gorgeous quarters than any other Ministry in
Europe.
From my inquiries in various political quarters in Bucharest, both among
members of the Government and the Opposition, I found one unanimous
view, that war between Turkey and Bulgaria over Macedonia must come at
an early date. In Roumania the opinion is that even though a European
prince be appointed Governor-General of Macedonia, the war between the
two countries would only be postponed. It is believed that Bulgaria is
strong, and that the Stancioff policy will be to resist the Turk by arms
within a very few months.
As Bulgaria hates the Turk, so does Roumania. But the latter will not
assist Bulgaria unless she gets some _quid pro quo_. This fact became
very forcibly impressed upon me. Bulgaria cannot attack Turkey without
Roumania’s consent, so the Roumanians declare. And moral support will
only be given on one condition. That is, if Bulgaria, as the result of
the war, annexes any Macedonian territory—as she naturally would do—then
she should cede to Roumania that portion of her territory lying between
the Danube and the Black Sea, taking a line from a little east of
Rustchuk to a little east of Varna. Such condition is certainly not to
be viewed in Bulgaria with any satisfaction, yet as its acceptance would
mean the extension of Bulgaria to the Adriatic, the settlement of the
Macedonian question, and the final destruction of effete Turkey as a
power in Europe, the Bulgarian Cabinet are considering it very
carefully.
Roumania is not over-anxious to extend her territory, but her present
frontier between Rustchuk and the Black Sea is one which she knows it
would be impossible to defend in case of hostilities. She therefore
desires a better frontier, in order that she can hold her own in time of
war. Besides, she naturally will want some of the spoils when the Turks
and Greeks are driven from Macedonia.
The Roumanian policy is one of peace, combined with firmness. General
Lahovary is not a vacillating statesman. His policy is one of progress,
as his action towards Greece over the ill-treatment of Roumanians in
Macedonia has shown. It is intended, no doubt, that the much-vexed
question shall not be settled without Roumania having a hand in it. As
is well known, Germany protects Roumania’s interests in Macedonia.
Through her, the Roumanian schools have been established in Salonica,
Monastir, and other places; but quite recently the good relations with
Germany have been somewhat lessened owing to some friction regarding the
exploitation of the Roumanian oil wells by a German syndicate. The
German intention was to make a trust, which Roumania promptly quashed by
passing a special Act directed against them. It is a curious fact that
since this friction Germany has stood by and witnessed the terrible
atrocities committed by the Greek bands upon the Roumanians in Macedonia
without raising her voice in protest. This, in itself, is sufficient to
make one doubt Germany’s sincerity, and certainly the eyes of the
Roumanians are already pretty wide open to the machinations of Berlin in
the Balkans.
[Illustration:
His Excellency GEO. G. MANO,
Roumanian Minister of War.
]
[Illustration:
SIR CONYNGHAM GREENE,
British Minister at Bucharest.
_Photo_] [_Bassano._
]
The conflict between Roumania and Greece—whatever may be thought of the
very recent discovery of Roumanians in Macedonia—is quite simple. There
are in Macedonia undoubtedly a small percentage of the population which
speaks Roumanian, and who are appealing to their brothers for protection
to allow them to remain Roumanians. In face of this appeal there are two
courses of action possible. One is to reply, “You are of no importance;
you are so few; you are too far away; you cannot expect us to embroil
ourselves in foreign politics for your sake. And besides, our ideals and
our aspirations are different.” The other reply is to adopt the course
which, for the past forty years, all Roumanian Governments have adopted,
namely, to protect and support their subjects abroad and look after
their general interests. Roumania has already done this in Macedonia.
She obtained an irade from the Sultan recognising the Roumanians in
Turkey as a nation apart, and giving them the right to live as
Roumanians. And what has been the result? Bands of Greek _antartes_ at
once crossed into Macedonia and began to assassinate and torture every
Roumanian subject they could lay hands upon. Is it therefore any wonder
that diplomatic negotiations should be broken off between Bucharest and
Athens?
The action of Roumania in pressing for the rights of Roumanians in
Macedonia and in obtaining the irade has, of course, been the subject of
much criticism in the European press. M. Take Jonesco has been
personally criticised as having been the prime mover of the agitation of
the past two years. I mentioned it to him, and he denied that Roumania
had any ulterior motive in Macedonia save to protect her subjects there
and to allow them their own language, their own religion, their own
education, and give them freedom to live as Roumanians. It was absurd,
he declared, to suggest that Roumania intended to acquire territory in
Macedonia, or that the Roumanian Valachs were of only recent discovery.
Their geographical position refuted the first suggestion; and as to the
second, he proved to me that geographers and travellers had written
about them a century ago, one proof being that the English traveller
Leake had mentioned them in his book, published in 1814, saying that the
race in question were undoubtedly Roumanians. Leake also says: “The
Valachs occupy the centre of Macedonia and Thessaly, and nearly all the
Pindre, forming three principal groups.” The Finance Minister also
showed me the evidence collected by the Roumanian writer, Nicholas
Papahagi, and recently issued under the title _Les Roumains de Turquie_.
To me he proved most conclusively that the Roumanian contention was at
least well founded, and that the European critics were incorrect in
supposing that Roumania wants territory in Macedonia. She may have her
eye upon that little strip of Bulgaria in order to strengthen her
frontier, and, I think, quite naturally. She knows that “a big Bulgaria”
is bound to arise. She can never hope to be of equal strength with the
Bulgar. Therefore she wants to entrench herself now that there is a
forthcoming opportunity.
Both General Lahovary and M. Take Jonesco were quite frank with me in
their explanation of Roumania’s future policy. Roumania knows that
nowadays right, if not supported by force, is not might. Grand words, if
not sustained by bayonets, bring serious men into ridicule. During the
past two years the Roumanian army has been improved, consolidated, and
brought into perfection. But their intentions are entirely pacific, even
though they have not hesitated to augment the war budget, and will still
augment it if necessary. Roumania intends to remain passive in the
present Balkan complications, but if she finds it necessary for the
protection of her compatriots in Macedonia she will, like Bulgaria, take
arms against the Turk and drive him back into his capital, and across
into Asia Minor—which is surely the best place for him.
I spoke with several Roumanian statesmen upon the idea of a
Confederation of the Balkan States. Most of them were in accord that
such a thing was within the bounds of possibility, but that it was very
unlikely that Roumania would ever enter such a Confederation. Roumanians
are fond of declaring that their country is not a Balkan State, yet if
such Confederation were formed it seems difficult to see how Roumania
could hold aloof.
[Illustration: GEN. JACQUES LAHOVARY, Roumanian Minister of Foreign
Affairs.]
It is perhaps premature to talk seriously of such a Confederation. In
the various political quarters where I referred to the question, I found
that Roumanians considered it at present very difficult of arrangement,
and very dubious whether Roumania could ever enter it. Events of the
last thirty years have considerably altered the map of Europe, and in
each case smaller States have been amalgamated into kingdoms and
empires, such as Italy and Germany. The saying of King Corvin that “The
kingdom which has not one language is a mad kingdom” is, in our days, no
longer true, Austria being an example. The Serbs, the Bulgars, the
Greeks, and the Roumanians are widely separated by language and by race.
Yet, threatened on the one side by Germany and the other by Austria,
they may, in the near future, find it judicious to combine, as the only
way of preserving their territory and independence. The difficulties of
the problem are, however, many. The Greeks and Bulgars are at drawn
swords, the Roumanians and Greeks have broken off diplomatic
negotiations, and between the Serbs and Bulgars the feeling is not
really so friendly as it should be. At the bottom of all, too, we find
the everlasting question of Macedonia, which, in itself, must prevent a
Confederation. But if it is ever accomplished, then it will take a high
place in the general politics of Europe. Besides, it is improbable that
the Confederation could ever be formed without objections being raised
by the Powers, and it is very likely a great war might result. In
Roumania, therefore, the idea of a Balkan Confederation is not regarded
with great favour. The first question of all is Macedonia—ever
Macedonia, and “the terrible Greek.”
As regards the internal politics of Roumania, they are not within the
scope of this present volume. Both the finance and commerce of the
country seem to be in an excellent state notwithstanding the recent
dissatisfaction of the peasantry. Thanks to the efforts of M. Jonesco,
the finances of the country are now in a thoroughly sound condition, and
every day sees greater prosperity. As I found in Servia and in Bulgaria
openings for British capital, so there is in Roumania also many openings
for British industrial enterprises, especially weaving. The climate is
not favourable for cotton-spinning, but for weaving there are many
enterprises that would pay good dividends.
In the petroleum wells there have been, since their discovery fifteen
years ago, about 150,000,000 francs of foreign capital invested. Greater
part of this is German, but there is also a French, Italian, and Dutch
element in the various companies exploiting the wells. The Standard Oil
Company of America have about 15,000,000 francs invested, but there is
no British enterprise. The oil is refined in Roumania, but a good deal
of crude oil is sent to France, as well as great quantities of benzine.
From Turn Severin, on the western border of the country, the petroleum
zone can be distinctly traced at the foot of the Carpathian Mountains,
skirting them in their course through the country towards Bukovina and
Galicia on the north-east. Along the whole length of this zone are
primitive hand-dug wells, the workings prior to 1873, when the American
oilfields were discovered. Since 1895, however, a new stimulus was given
to the industry by the modification of the mining laws, and from that
date the oil industry has been gradually increasing, and only awaits the
introduction of British capital to develop the enormous oil-fields.
It is claimed that the Roumanian petroleum contains 14, 15 and 25 per
cent. more pure oil than American, Galician, or Caucasian oils
respectively. The total production in 1905 was 602,000 tons, or double
the production of four years ago, while the export has nearly doubled in
the past two years. The Deutcher and Dresden Banks and the Disconto
Gesellschaft have about three million and a half pounds invested in it,
while a new company, called the “Trajan,” with a capital of £200,000,
has recently been formed, of which Marmorosch, Blank, & Co. of
Bucharest, the principal promoters, have taken two-fifths. It will
absorb the “Helios” and several other minor companies.
Very large areas of the Roumanian oil-fields are the property of the
State, and have hitherto been unworked, but the Minister of Commerce,
when I questioned him upon the subject, informed me that a law recently
passed by the Chamber provides for the leasing of these lands to private
companies, though important provisos are introduced in order to prevent
monopolies. The Minister explained to me the chief points of the new
laws, and as they may interest British capitalists, I give them. It
appears that the Government may now lease for a period of fifty years
prospected or unprospected land of maximum areas of 100 and 1000
hectares respectively. The concession is granted to the party offering
the highest rent. No more than three lots can be leased to one
concessionaire. The capital, which must be at least 2,000,000 francs for
every 100 hectare lot of prospected land or 1000 hectares of
unprospected land, must be deposited. Amalgamation or assignment is
illegal, and any secret fusion involves loss of the concession. The
State reserves to itself the exclusive right of working all means of
transport for petroleum, and will take a compensation of at least 10 per
cent. on the gross profit of the working. Over and above that rent, the
State participates in the net profits of the working as follows: (1)
one-third should the net profit fluctuate between 10 and 30 per cent.;
(2) from 30 and more per cent., the share of the State is 50 per cent.
of the net profits. The State levies upon concessionaires a lease-charge
of 20 francs per hectare, and in addition the general taxes are to be
paid. All concessions are subject to Roumanian laws and regulations, and
the State assumes no responsibility for the profitableness of land
leased.
These conditions are certainly onerous, yet there is no doubt a big
field for British capital in Roumanian oil. The Minister of Commerce
impressed upon me this fact, and declared that he would give every
facility to intending concessionaires, providing they were properly
introduced, and were persons who meant serious business.
In the words of our Consul-General at Galatz, “It is not very easy to
account for the apathy of British capitalists in seeking openings in
Roumania. Perhaps its position in the remote corner of Europe, and
perhaps the difficulties of language have something to do with it.”
Anyhow, there is a big future before the oil industry in Roumania, and
it is amazing that no one has yet had the courage to try the business
under the new conditions. As the Minister pointed out, “The American
Standard Oil Company are already firmly established in Roumania. Why
should not an English company also work the fields?”
The future, and not a far-distant one, will no doubt see many of the
wells exploited by British capital.
In Roumania there are also salt mines sufficient to supply the whole
world. The coal deposits are not numerous, but iron and copper are known
to exist, though they are not yet exploited.
I had an opportunity of examining the commercial statistics for the
present year, not yet published, and they showed on the exports an
augmentation on each of the past six years of considerably over 100
million francs. This, in itself, speaks volumes for the prosperity of
this the most civilised and progressive nation of the Orient, which has,
no doubt, a greater and far more brilliant future before it.
[Illustration: HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN OF ROUMANIA.]
CHAPTER III
A CHAT WITH THE QUEEN OF ROUMANIA
The royal drawing-room—Her Majesty’s greeting—Her kind words of
welcome—Roumania not in the Balkan States—We talk politics—The name
of “Carmen Sylva”—The Queen’s deep interest in the blind—She shows
me some photographs—Public interest in the new institution—I visit
it next day.
I was standing one Sunday evening in the great drawing-room of the royal
palace at Bucharest, chatting with Madame Zoe Bengesco, lady-in-waiting
to the Queen of Roumania.
Madame Maurojeni, _grande-maîtresse_ of Her Majesty’s Court, had
appointed my audience for half-past six, and as the bowing liveried
servants had conducted me through the great entrance and up the large
red-carpeted horse-shoe staircase, I was struck with the old-fashioned
comfort, combined with taste, everywhere displayed.
While chatting with Madame Bengesco, who was inquiring after some mutual
friends in Belgrade, I glanced around the great salon or salons—for
there are two of equal proportions, the one running at right angles with
the other. Splendid old brocade-covered furniture, tables with
interesting knick-knacks, a grand piano, the fine organ upon which Her
Majesty so often plays, beautiful hangings, magnificent paintings upon
the walls and old Persian rugs upon the polished floor, all combined,
under the soft electric light, to produce a harmony of quiet taste and
luxury.
The salons were huge, high-ceilinged, and splendid, yet there was an air
of homeliness about them, and indeed about the whole palace, that I have
not found in other royal palaces of Europe wherein I have been received.
The great quiet room bore traces of the artistic hand of Her Majesty
herself.
I had asked for audience not without some misgiving, for His Majesty the
King was lying very ill, and the Queen—the “Carmen Sylva” of European
literary fame—was at his bedside always, administering to her sick
husband’s wants, nursing him, and reading aloud to him for hours each
day. For weeks she had given audience to no one, therefore it was a
pleasant surprise when Madame Maurojeni told me that the Queen was going
to make an exception in my case.
I was chatting with Madame Bengesco, and suddenly turned to find Her
Majesty—a tall, fine figure _en décolletée_, a sweet smile of welcome
upon her face—standing before me. She wore a very handsome gown of pale
dove-grey _crêpe-de-chine_, but no jewellery save a single gold bracelet
and one or two very fine rings.
“So you have come to see our country, Mr. N——?” Her Majesty exclaimed in
English, smiling pleasantly, after I had made my obeisance, and she had
shaken hands with me. “Come, let us sit over in that corner. It is more
cosy.” And she conducted me to a luxurious little corner of the salon,
while the lady-in-waiting retired.
I began by thanking Her Majesty for giving me audience at such a time of
anxiety.
“I have just left the King to come to you,” she answered. “He is very
much better, I am thankful to say, and yesterday took a little
nourishment. Ah yes, it has been a most anxious time for me. You will
forgive me if I am a little tired, won’t you? When I heard you were in
Bucharest I determined to meet you. I have heard of you, long ago, you
know! Now, tell me, what brings you to Roumania?”
I explained that my confidential mission was to inquire into the future
of the Balkans, whereupon she interrupted me with that sweet laugh that
is one of her characteristics, saying—
“Ah, you must never include us in the Balkan States, recollect! We
Roumanians speak another language; the Danube separates us from the
Balkans, and we have nothing in common with the races on the other side
of the river. The reason why we are not taking part in this year’s
Exhibition at your Earl’s Court is because they have called it ‘The
Balkan Exhibition.’”
I laughingly promised to be very careful on the point in future. As she
sat before me, the handsome, thoughtful countenance, the white hair
brushed straight back, and the soft and very becoming head-dress, Her
Majesty was surely the most picturesque, the most interesting, and
perhaps the most accomplished and intelligent of the Queens of Europe.
I told her of my journey through Northern Albania, in which she was
deeply interested, and asked me lots of questions. Then I explained how
I was on my way to Constantinople and through Macedonia, whereupon she
made a quick gesture with her hands, and exclaimed—
“Then you are studying Macedonia! Ah, what a very difficult task you
have! We have Roumanians in Macedonia, as you know—and, poor people,
they are being treated very badly. What the outcome of it all is to be,
who can tell? There are so many conflicting peoples, so many conflicting
interests, so much jealousy among the Powers.”
“Ah! I see that your Majesty takes an interest in politics!” I
exclaimed.
“No. You are mistaken,” she answered. “I, of course, know the general
outlines of most of the subjects, but I am a woman, and am not expected
to be a politician. My sphere lies in endeavouring to do good to the
people, to ameliorate their sufferings, and to look after my various
charitable institutions.”
Surely the name of Carmen Sylva—that sweet-faced, womanly woman who,
though a queen, is so charming and unassuming—is synonymous with all
that is good and charitable. For Roumania, she has done what no other
woman has done. Nearly all the charity of the country has been
initiated, and partly supported, by her efforts. She lives her life for
the poor and needy, and has worked hard for years on their behalf.
In society in Bucharest I had heard some talk of her great interest in
the blind, and that one of her protégés, himself a blind man, had
invented a machine by which the Braille type for blind-books could be
printed by type, instead of, as hitherto, being embossed by hand. This
subject I referred to, when at once her eyes shone with enthusiasm and
she said—
“Then if you would like to know all about it, Mr. N——, I’ll tell you. It
all came about in this way. Some years ago I had, as copyist, a servant,
quite a poor man. His young wife and his children had died, and, poor
fellow, he was in the greatest depths of despair when I took him into my
service. So I gave him very hard work to do, in order that his mind
should be occupied and he should forget. Well, time went on, and I was
always much interested in the welfare of the blind, when one day this
servant came to me and told me that a certain blind man named
Theodorescu, whom we had rescued, was making experiments whereby the
Braille books could be multiplied by printing, and thus place reading
and instruction in the hands of every blind person in the world. This, I
saw, would mean light in the darkness of the afflicted, so we provided
the poor fellow with means to perfect his invention, with the result
that he produced a rough and somewhat incomplete process. This was then
taken over by Mr. Monske, an old servant of mine, who worked here in a
room in the palace for over a year trying to perfect the machine. We
made no mention of it to a soul, but kept it a dead secret, until at
last success came, and now it is patented over the whole world—the first
complete machine for printing books for the blind!”
“Have you many blind in Roumania?” I asked.
“They say we have twenty thousand. But I believe we have many more,
because already in Bucharest the police have discovered for me many more
than were shown upon their statistics. But let me tell you what the
outcome of this invention is, and what it will be,” the Queen went on.
“I have recently started a small blind institution, where the books will
eventually be printed. I might tell you that some time ago, before the
invention was perfected, we sent for an American machine, a cumbersome
affair, which cost three thousand francs. Our machine will cost only
three hundred francs. A Vienna firm wished to manufacture them, but I
preferred that they should be made here, in Roumania. Well, our small
institution—which is under the direction of Mr. Monske and his wife—is
already in working order. See”—and she rose and took me across the
salon, where there were a number of photographs arranged in a big frame
surmounted by the royal crown and cipher, copies of which are reproduced
in these pages.
[Illustration: The Queen of Roumania’s Blind Institute in Bucharest.]
“Here, you see, are some pictures which the photographer very kindly
sent me. Aren’t they interesting? Here is the first child we found. He’s
an intelligent little chap, with musical instincts evidently, for I was
told a few days ago that he had been found trying to play four
instruments at once! Here you see them basket-making—here they are
having a concert—and here is a group—and so on. Aren’t they
interesting?” she asked enthusiastically. “And to think that they were
nearly all found as beggars. Some are men who have been in good
positions. That man was an officer, for instance!”
Then Her Majesty went back to her seat, and I reseated myself with her.
“The present institution is only the beginning,” she said. “I have a
scheme for establishing a city for the blind—a model town, to which the
blind of every nation may come and work, and support themselves. Now I
will tell you something about it. When it was known that I intended to
do this, people came forward on every hand to give me assistance. One
gentleman gave me 100,000 francs, while a lady has given me the site for
the city near Sinaia, a beautiful place where, close by, we have a
castle. The site is an ideal one, and very shortly we shall lay it out
with model houses built in modern style, in which two families can live.
We do not wish to separate a blind man from his family, but the kitchens
will be in common, so that the wife may be relieved of much of her
household duties and afforded time to work and earn money.”
“We have several model villages in England, your Majesty,” I remarked.
“The one called Port Sunlight might interest you. I could perhaps get
photographs from Mr. Lever, who built it.”
“Oh, do. It would be so kind of you. Will you ask him?” she said. “I
might get some excellent ideas from Mr. Lever’s scheme. Of course we
must have a working men’s club, a concert hall, a church, and recreation
room.”
“And what does your Majesty call your present institution?”
“In Roumanian it is ‘The Hearth of Light,’ but in English it would be
better translated as ‘The Home of Light.’ Would you like to visit it?”
“I should be delighted,” I replied.
“Then Monske shall call for you and show you everything. Remember that
the people are not paupers. From the first day they come to us they
receive one franc a day, which is increased according to the skill they
show in chair-making, basket-making, rope-making, and other such
industries. As regards the blind city scheme, Mrs. Fern, wife of a
former American Minister here, is starting for the United States in a
few days, and is taking one of the new machines with her, and is going
to hold conferences and explain the scheme in the principal cities of
America. You see now, for the first time, education is fully open to the
blind. The books will be printed as easily as other books, and will be
within the reach of all. It is a splendid thing—and I am happy to say
that I am receiving donations from every side. I have worked for years,
and now the people are, I am gratified to think, appreciating my efforts
in the cause of humanity. Yesterday Monske came to me and showed me 500
francs he had that day received. I held up notes for 7000 francs, which
I had also received. One firm has sent me a magnificent organ, and I
have even poor families subscribing a franc a month towards the blind.
Does not that show that in the hearts of the people there is a corner
for the poor afflicted? But remember that the blind colony is to be open
to all nationalities. It is a big undertaking, I admit; for I have in
Roumania twenty thousand people and their families. Yet the scheme will
work, I am confident. And while they are now in penury, they will soon
be educated, and be able to place themselves, by their work, in a
position of independence.”
For over an hour we chatted together, until, after promising to send me
a signed photograph of herself and of the King, she rose, saying—
“I am so delighted to have had a chat with you, Mr. N——. I will send Mr.
Monske to you in the morning. But the King is alone, and will want me to
read again to him, so I must go.” And Her Majesty, smiling graciously,
gave me her hand, saying, “_Au revoir._”
I bowed over it, thanked her for the audience, and retired, charmed by
her marvellous personality, her sweet silver voice, her kindly manner,
and her queenly bearing, all of which combined to create an impression
which will always remain with me—an hour spent with a woman who is
unique in the whole world.
Next day Her Majesty sent me the autographed photograph which appears on
another page, together with a very charming note of thanks for a slight
service I had been able to render her.
One morning a few days later, by the Queen’s order, I was shown over her
Blind Institute, which is called the “Vatra Luminoasa Regina Elizaveta,”
and is in the Boulevardul Carol, in Bucharest.
A large comfortable house, standing back from the road in its own
grounds, it is the first institution to be founded under the new scheme,
and the nucleus of what will most certainly become a great and important
charitable work. Mr. Monske, the Director, a pleasant-faced, youngish
man, with a bright, open expression, received me, in the business-like
office, where a blind typist was busy with correspondence, using a
Remington machine with celluloid caps on each third key.
“Ah!” exclaimed the poor afflicted typist in French, “you do not know
what this place means to us! Take myself, for example. I was a clerk in
an office here, in Bucharest, and eight years ago I went totally blind.
My life after my misfortune was one of misery. I was in the depths of
despair, for the blind are not wanted on the earth. And then came the
good Queen, and saved me. My story is the same as all of us here—lifted
out of despair and placed in a position of comfort and independence, for
all of us are paid for our work.”
The poor clerk seemed thankful from the very bottom of his heart. He was
full of praise of Her Majesty’s great goodness, and the kindness of the
private persons helping her. Of Mr. Monske he sang praises, and then
when he was told who and what I was, he asked me in the name of his
fellow-inmates of the Institute to tell the English what a grand and
noble work “Carmen Sylva” was doing.
Mr. Monske then took me to the music-room, a large bright apartment with
a fine organ,—the gift of a blind Austrian gentleman,—two pianos, and
other musical instruments. On the walls were the portraits of the King
and Queen, while the floor was of polished oak. Here, one afternoon each
week, Her Majesty comes, accompanied by her ladies-in-waiting and some
friends, and gives the blind inmates and their families a musical
entertainment. Thus the Queen keeps the Institute under her own personal
supervision.
In another room—a play-room—I saw a homely-looking woman playing with a
little blind child of four years, while the oldest inmate I saw was
about sixty. The dormitories for the thirty-two inmates that were there
at the time of my visit were scrupulously clean and very airy. Each man
had his bed, his washstand, his lock-up wardrobe, while the floors
everywhere were covered with linoleum.
I was taken to a long new building, just erected in the grounds, which
is being fitted as a rope-works. There is room for thirty men to work
with ease. Close beside it is about to be erected a private chapel,
given by a gentleman in Bucharest, while on the other side of the house
I was shown the chair-making workshops, the overseer of which was a
blind man himself. Here, while some were expert menders of cane chairs,
others were being taught the trade. The Director explained that he had
just signed a big contract with a firm of chair-makers, and showed me
the hundreds upon hundreds of frames ready to go into the hands of the
blind.
[Illustration: Blind Inmates at Work.]
The last department I was shown was that in which the new Theodorescu
machine was being used to emboss blind-books. It is an interesting and
ingenious method by which the type, consisting of small blunt pins, is
set in a brass frame very similar to ordinary type, and is set indeed by
the blind themselves. Then, when a frame is full, it is put into a
special press, and any number of impressions can be taken from the
embossing-pins.
Mr. Monske first reduces the printed book to embossed Braille
characters, and these are set up by the blind compositors, and
impressions taken very rapidly. I was shown bulky volumes of well-known
works that have already been printed in this manner and now, for the
first time, given to the blind. Recently Mr. Monske made a tour to the
various blind institutions in France, Austria, and Germany, and without
any prospectus, sold 140 of the machines. It certainly is a simple but
most ingenious invention, which in the future will bring great profits
to the Queen’s blind colony.
As regards private subscriptions, I was shown the list. They range from
50 centimes to £4000. On the day previous to my visit it was shown by
the list that Her Majesty had received over 5000 francs in donations.
Funds are coming in, it is true, but for the development of the scheme a
large sum is required. It is for that reason that Her Majesty is making
an earnest appeal all over the world to those interested in the welfare
of the blind. Her great institution—of which this is only the nucleus—is
an international one, and men and their families of all creeds and
nationalities are eligible. Her Majesty has asked me to say that
subscriptions, however small, can be sent either to Madame Zoe Bengesco,
Dame d’Honneur to the Queen of Roumania, Bucharest, or to Mr. R. Monske,
Director “Vatra Luminoasa Regina Elizaveta,” Boulevardul Carol 31,
Bucharest, and would be duly acknowledged.
TURKEY
[Illustration:
HIS EXCELLENCY TEWFIK PASHA,
Minister of Foreign Affairs of the Imperial Ottoman Empire.
]
CHAPTER I
THE LAND OF THE WANING MOON
The Orient Express again—On the Black Sea to Constantinople—A
disenchantment—My dragoman—How to bribe the Customs officers—Mud and
dogs—A city of spies—Feebleness of British policy at the
Porte—Turkish adoration of Germany—The basis of my confidential
inquiries.
From Bucharest to Constantinople is not at all an unpleasant journey.
The Orient Express runs twice a week to Constantza, the Roumanian port
on the Black Sea, where there is a fine and comfortable
passenger-steamer service direct to Constantinople.
At Bucharest Station I was seen off by several kind friends, with many
parting injunctions to “take care of myself” in Macedonia, and it was
not without regret that I left the gay little Roumanian capital, where I
had received so much hospitality, from Her Majesty the Queen down to
some of the humblest of her subjects.
The “Orient,” on the Constantza line, is not so well fitted, nor is the
food so good, as upon the direct line from Paris to Constantinople by
way of Belgrade and Sofia.
The whole train was shabby, dusty, and over-heated, and the dinner,
instead of the usual _table d’hôte_, was _à la carte_. The only item on
the bill of fare, however, proved to be beef-steak. The small piece
cooked for me was fit only for a dog, and served on a dirty tablecloth;
therefore I was compelled to make my dinner off stale bread and soapy
cheese. And this on a _train de luxe_—and one of the principal European
Expresses!
The Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits et Grand Express Européenes
are not very considerate towards travellers to the East. There is
neither competition in sleeping accommodation nor buffets, therefore the
rolling-stock is often old-fashioned and dirty, and the food leaves very
much to be desired. Surely upon a journey of three or four days, the
maximum degree of comfort should be secured! Why should the traveller
who spends one night between Calais and Nice be better provided for than
he who goes East from Ostend to Constantinople—a four days’ journey?
In the “Orient,” the old-fashioned coal-fire heating in every carriage
is still in vogue, and consequently the person who is unfortunate enough
to have a berth near the stove is half roasted, while he who is at the
farther end is half frozen. The traveller who goes East would certainly
welcome the up-to-date _wagons-lits_ of the Mediterranean or Carlsbad
Expresses.
I travelled in the “Orient” from Paris to Vienna, from Belgrade to
Sofia, from Bucharest to Constantza, and from Nisch in Servia to Paris,
and on each of the trains were the same defects in sleeping comfort, and
often in food.
It is to be hoped that the Company will shortly remedy this, for on some
of their routes, notably Calais-Paris, or Paris-Marseilles, the food is
all that can be desired.
The Express, after passing the wonderful bridge over the Danube, arrives
at the quay at Constantza, or Kustendji, as is its local name, at eleven
o’clock at night, where the mails from London and Vienna are quickly
transferred on board, and we are soon under steam, with the flashing
light of Cape Tusla fast disappearing at the stern.
The steamer _King Charles_ makes the voyage from Constantza to
Alexandria, calling at Constantinople, and is a very comfortable and
up-to-date boat, with excellent state-rooms and a fine saloon, and
ladies’ drawing-room. Officers and men are Roumanians, but as the head
steward speaks French there is no difficulty. An excellent supper at
midnight, with Roumanian white wine, caviare, and a glass of
_slivovitza_ to follow, and then a stroll on the deck in the white
moonlight.
Past the Kamara and Shabaloh lights, we at last see the broad rays from
the Kali Akra, and then we head straight out upon the lonely sea for the
Bosphorus. One by one, the tired travellers, some of them from Ostend,
Berlin, or Petersburg, make for their berths, and finding myself alone,
I turn into the comfortable deck cabin kindly secured for me by telegram
by my friend the Minister of Finance in Bucharest.
Rising early, I was already out on deck and taking photographs as we
passed the two Turkish forts, Kilia and Poiraz, at the narrow entrance
to the Bosphorus. And after stopping to take up our pilot, we crept
slowly up the narrow channel amid delightful scenery, some of which I
photographed and have reproduced in these pages, past the pretty summer
resort of Therapia and Anatoli Hissar, until we approached the capital
of Turkey, with her hundred domes and minarets, looking almost like a
fairy city against the blue cloudless sky as we approached.
But what a disenchantment on landing! That terrible rabble at Galata in
the midst of dirt and squalor, of shouting touts, scrambling porters,
and scavenger dogs, is a thing to be ever remembered. Fortunately, I had
a Greek dragoman, one Demosthenes Cambothecras, to meet me. I can
recommend him as an excellent and honest fellow, and to the intending
traveller I may say that a letter addressed to the Pera Palace Hotel
will always find him.
He stood on the quay amid the thousand off-scum of Constantinople, and
shouted my name. I shouted back, and ten minutes later we met. When I
gave him over my baggage ticket, he said—
“The customs here, m’sieur, are difficult. But, with your permission, I
will give the officer five francs.”
I assented readily, and my luggage was passed without inquiry, while
that of a bespectacled Hungarian next me was examined piece by piece,
greatly to the disgust and consternation of his obese wife.
I saw no money pass in the shabby, shed-like Custom House, but he told
me that the chief of the Customs employed an agent out in the street to
receive his bribes! So much for the morality of the Custom dues in
Turkey. In that very same week the British Ambassador had made protest
to the Sublime Porte regarding the same thing, but was promptly “snuffed
out” by the all-influential Power, Germany.
Germany and German interests are always paramount in Turkey. If you are
an Englishman, you may take a back seat and endure all your passport
worries, but the German is, by the Turk, supposed to be his friend.
German diplomacy is clever, wary, and unscrupulous, and in the Sultan’s
capital you are treated with deference if you are a subject of the
Kaiser William.
And how strange and ridiculous it all is! Germany intends ere long to
wipe Turkey off the face of Europe—only Turkey cannot see it. She is
fascinated and spellbound by German cringing and German goodwill, all
pretence, and all directed towards the one end of traitorous
abandonment.
Great Britain, notwithstanding her fine Embassy, is entirely eclipsed by
the big white palace overlooking the Bosphorus which houses the German
Ambassador. Tewfik Pasha, the Sultan’s Minister for Foreign Affairs,
lives beneath its shadow, and the Turks look upon Germany as their
natural protector and friend. A British protest to the Porte passes
unheeded, while a German protest receives attention and adjustment the
very next day. A German diplomatist at the Sublime Porte told me this
with a roar of laughter, adding—
“We are the only diplomatists here. We are listened to. You are merely
tolerated.”
And verily he spoke a great truth.
Our big grey Embassy in Pera, with its gorgeous Montenegrin _kavass_,
may be extremely ornamental and impressive, but nowadays of little use.
The British taxpayer is paying for the glorification of Great Britain
without one single farthing’s worth of benefit. The Turkish
Government—clever as they are—laugh in the face of our persevering and
well-meaning Ambassador. They give him, or his representative, cups of
rather badly-made coffee in Tewfik’s shabby anteroom at the Sublime
Porte, and put their fingers to their noses behind his back. It is not
the fault of our Ambassador, or of his staff. All of them are practised
diplomatists, who endeavour to their utmost to do their duty to King and
Country, and to protect British interests in the East. The fault lies in
the timid policy and shrinking politeness adopted by our present
Government. The late lamented Lord Salisbury, or Lord Beaconsfield,
would never for a moment have submitted to the open rebuffs which Great
Britain daily meets with nowadays at Constantinople.
The Turk knows that Germany is behind him, and is therefore defiant. So
British diplomacy is beaten every time.
Constantinople swarms with spies. If you have ever been there, and
landed from a steamer, you will recollect that a crowd of unwashed
porters swarm on board directly the ship is made fast. Every man of that
ragged rabble is a spy. He is only allowed on board on condition that he
gives information to the Custom officers ashore as to any concealment of
revolvers, books, or prohibited articles. Respectable dragomans are
constantly asked to assist in this, and offered monetary reward, as well
as a permit to board the ship, but they refuse—and leave the espionage
to the rabble.
And so it is all through the Turkish capital. Spies are everywhere—they
haunt one in all the hotels, even in the much-advertised Pera Palace—and
every movement of the stranger is noted. If you happen to be a German
and have shown your passport in the Custom House, then you go hither and
thither and do whatever you like. But if you are of any other
nationality you will be suspected and haunted by all sorts and
conditions of secret agents, until you kick the mud of Constantinople
off your boots.
I have been more than once in the Sultan’s capital, and on each
occasion, on entering it, have been seized with a fit of depression,
which has only been removed when I have got my passport _viséd_ by the
British Consul-General, and also by the Turkish police, preliminary to
leaving the place.
The squalor in Galata, in Stamboul, and even in aristocratic Pera,
sickens one. The streets, unswept for ages, are an inch deep in slimy
mud, upon which one slides and slips at every step, and the grey,
wolf-like dogs, held sacred by every Turk, prowl about in hordes, each
in their own quarter, living in the streets and sleeping in doorways.