MONASTIR AND THE GREEKS
The train to Monastir is very slow: it takes the best part of a day to
go about a hundred miles. The conductor, somewhat of a wag, informed
us that, as the natives are accustomed to paying for transportation
by the hour, they would probably drive if the railways charged more
than the carriage-man’s rate per hour. But this is not the only reason
the journey consumes such a length of time. Wherever there are two
ways between towns the track invariably takes the longer. This, we
were told, is due to the fact that while the Sultan seeks to limit
the number and the terminal lengths of railways in his dominions, the
Sublime Porte sees fit to subsidise these undertakings of foreign
companies according to the mileage covered.
Our train pulled slowly out of Salonica at 8 A.M., and dragged slowly
into Monastir at 5.45 P.M., half an hour late in spite of the liberal
time-table. The trip, however, was most interesting. There is a line of
old Roman watch-towers along the coast, dilapidated things resembling
Roman ruins in England. They are now inhabited by Turkish frontier
guards, to whom Greek smugglers must pay tribute in order to bring in
goods duty free. Behind these towers, across the bay, stands Olympus.
The historic mountain, already forty miles away, is still to remain
in view until we cross the Vardar Valley and burrow into the hills.
We had got to know Olympus well, and looked upon him as a sort of
sentinel of civilisation here on the border ’twixt East and West. The
old fellow had carried us back to schooldays, and jogged our memories
of the ancient Greeks. Of course, we appreciated his company on this
journey inland, and admired the majestic manner in which our old
friend travels. He goes along with the train just as the moon does;
passing over minor objects, towns, forests, and insignificant things,
and keeping steady pace with you, until a close range of unworthy
hills suddenly cuts him off from view. Distance lends enchantment, but
proximity makes importance.
After leaving the plain the train begins to climb over a watershed,
and gradually winds a tortuous way, up, up, up to the snow and the
clouds. In a few hours the line is a succession of alternating tunnels
and bridges--passages through the mountain-tops and spans across the
chasms. At every tunnel’s mouth and at every bridge was a little group
of tents and brush huts, from which ragged guards emerged to get the
bag of bread the train dropped off. A sea of mountains rolls away on
all sides. On the nearer slopes rectangular carpets of yellow corn and
red and white poppies spread out at irregular intervals. On the second
line the fields are less distinct. Further off the mountains blur out
into blue and grey, and finally mix colour with the clouds. Shortly
after midday the train threads the eye of a high peak and emerges in
sight, across a far valley, of Vodena--Watertown. It does not descend
to the plain and climb again, for that, besides being impracticable, is
the most direct route to the town. Around the mountain sides the train
winds for an hour through more tunnels and over more bridges, but in
view, when in the open, of a score of slender silver ribbons trailing
down a precipice that falls abruptly from the town’s edge. Passing back
of Vodena the track crosses the mountain streams, which tumble through
the streets of the town on their way to the fantastic falls.
Not the least of the charms on this road to Monastir is Lake Ostrova, a
mountain bowl of clear green water. The train does not cross the lake,
for again that would be too direct; it circles the shore at the base
of the mountains, taking, of course, the longer way round. To bridge
a Macedonian lake is like putting a pot-hat on an American Indian. It
is a legend in the Caza of Ostrova that the lake rose suddenly from
springs about a hundred years ago; and perhaps there is some truth in
the record, for at one end, on an island just large enough to hold a
mosque, stands a lone minaret--all that remains, it is said, of a once
populous village. There is always incentive for wild imagination in
Macedonian mountains. Several regiments of Albanians were camped at
the village on the shore of the lake, and every man of them gathered at
the station to meet our train. A field of white fezzes swept away from
the car window in every direction for a hundred yards. When Albanians
appear Slav peasants often suspend business. Generally fresh trout,
‘still kicking,’ are to be had at Ostrova station, but this day not a
single native ‘dug-out’ was drawn up on the beach.
[Illustration: ON A MACEDONIAN LAKE.]
Aboard our train was an Albanian bey returning with his little daughter
from a pilgrimage to Mecca. Friends were gathered at several stops
to greet him. They threw their arms about him and pressed faces with
him, but none of them noticed the girl. She was a marvel of beauty,
probably ten years of age, and yet, of course, unveiled. Her hair,
which hung in a single bunch under a soft blue homespun kerchief, was a
rich auburn--though the roots of it were black. Her finger-nails were
likewise dyed with henna. She wore richly figured bloomers, like the
gypsies, and a loose, sleeveless jacket of blue over a white blouse. We
told the Albanian his child was pretty, which caused him to exclaim in
alarm, ‘Marshalla!’--May God avert evil! It is bad luck in Turkey to
receive a compliment.
We asked the Albanian if he had many children. ‘One children and three
girls,’ was the reply.
At Monastir we surrendered our _teskerés_ to a Turkish official, to be
retained until we left town, and took a carriage to the Hôtel Belgrade.
This is the only hotel in the town; the others are all khans. In spite
of the immortal William, there is much in a name. By its presumption
the Hôtel Belgrade got the patronage of both the correspondents and the
‘reformajis’--as the reforming officers and officials were derisively
dubbed. There were some queer characters among us. A ‘special
commissioner’ of the _Daily News_ took his mission so seriously that
he never smiled, and always wore a silk hat. The other Englishman
suggested an opera hat for cross-country travel, in the hope that his
compatriot would spring it in the company of an Albanian and get shot.
An Italian official of the Ottoman Bank had taught himself English,
and was enraptured when we arrived. It was with much pride that he
addressed us at supper. But we did not recognise the language, and
expressed in French our unfortunate ignorance of foreign tongues. ‘That
is your own tongue,’ said the Italian; but even of this we understood
not a word. The man drew a pencil from his pocket, and on the back of a
letter wrote:
‘I am speaking English.’
We were astounded.
‘Perhaps I do not pronounce correctly,’ he wrote next. ‘I have learned
the noble language from books.’
The hilarious Englishman gave the unhappy Italian his first lesson at
once. He took the pencil, and wrote:
‘Always pronounce English as it is not spelt; spell it as it is not
pronounced.’
The Italian was an earnest student, and soon made progress. Before
we left the hotel he was interpreting to the proprietor for us. One
day the Englishman asked if there was any chicken on the bill of fare.
The Italian conversed with the proprietor for a few minutes, and then
informed us that there was ‘a kind of a chicken.’
‘What kind of a chicken?’ chirped the Englishman; and the special
commissioner of the _Daily News_ almost smiled.
‘It is a--what do you call it?--a goose, sir.’
The Italian went with us to the bazaars one morning to look at some
rugs, but he took us only to second-hand dealers, until we protested.
‘We do not want old rugs,’ we said.
‘Oh,’ said he, ‘you want young ones.’
The Hôtel Belgrade was, as you might imagine, kept by a Servian. It
was a most depressing place--except for the amusing Italian. Its bare
board floors were regularly scrubbed, and we seldom found extraneous
things in either the food or the beds. Nevertheless, there was a bad
smell about the place, from the garbage in the street, and much noise
from miserable dogs in front of it, which came for the garbage. The
front door was braced with stout props, which were set in place every
evening soon after twelve o’clock, Turkish, this being sundown; but
the doors of the rooms were without bolts. The steep staircase was
lighted with smoky kerosene lanterns, the bedrooms were supplied with
tallow candles. The dining-room was a gruesome place. Life-size prints
of King Alexander and Queen Draga stared down from the badly papered
walls. This was before the assassination of the monarchs; but after the
event (which called me to Belgrade) they hung there still. There was no
sentiment in the matter; the proprietor simply possessed no portrait of
King Peter, and was not prepared to lay out money for new pictures.
At the open door to the yard stood a smelly ram that had become
bow-legged from its own weight. It was so fat it could hardly waddle,
but it was never required to walk further than the length of a short
rope. The unfortunate animal was afflicted with the capacious appetite
of both goat and pig; it was able to eat anything and continually.
And everybody fed it. It got the uneaten vegetables from the ‘potage
légumes,’ fins of the fish if there was ‘poisson’ on the menu, bits of
daily lamb; even the stumps of cigarettes thrown in its direction were
promptly swallowed. Some of us protested to the proprietor, and offered
to buy the creature if he would have it killed. ‘What!’ exclaimed
the horrified Servian; ‘kill my luck? Stomackovitch has brought good
fortune to this house for eleven years!’ The bow-legged ram with the
insatiable capacity had been tied in the hotel yard ever since it was a
frisky lamb.
I became disgusted with the hotel, and tried the khans; but I had
run out of Keating’s. I had made friends with the missionaries (one
needs no introductions in Macedonia), and by frequent visits at the
mission I found that they were in the habit of having waffles for
breakfast, Indian corn for dinner, and home-made biscuits for supper.
These attractions of the American home were irresistible, and I
applied to Mr. and Mrs. Bond for permanent board and lodging. Now, the
missionaries are Puritan people, and while more than anxious for the
society of a fellow-countryman, they hesitated at taking me, fearing
that perhaps I was afflicted with evil habits; so before adopting me
the dear old people put me to a test.
‘We allow no strong drink in this house,’ remarked Mr. Bond.
‘So I perceive,’ I replied.
‘Do you smoke?’
‘I can do without tobacco quite easily.’
Condition three was a compromise. ‘We do not send for our post on
Sundays,’ said the missionary.
‘I can go for my own letters.’
‘You attend service?’
‘I do.’
The room I got for my goodness was on the first floor. It held a big
downy bed, wherein one could roll about without danger or discomfort.
There was a rug on the floor, on a washstand a china wash-bowl and
pitcher instead of the petroleum tin with faucet in the _khan_ yards
for guests who wash. My window looked out on the garden and over the
red-tiled roofs of the town, covered with storks’ nests.
The residence was situated on the border between the Turkish and the
Bulgarian quarters. Round the corner, in the upper room of a large
wooden building, was the church; and in the next street was the girls’
school, conducted by two American women with the assistance of several
Bulgarians educated at Samakov.
The number of people in the congregation was less than a hundred. They
were all Bulgarians, with the exception of one family of Albanians.
The school was quite prosperous, having several grades and boarding
pupils who came from a hundred miles around. Among the scholars were
Greeks from Florina, and Vlachs from Krushevo, as well as Bulgarians
and Albanians, all, of course, Christian girls. The school was a sort
of select seminary for the better classes.
Tsilka, husband of Mrs. Tsilka, his wife, and ‘the brigand baby,’ born
in captivity, lived near our house. Tsilka assisted Mr. Bond in his
duties, and Mrs. Tsilka taught at the school. They both spoke English
quite well, and the accounts they gave of the long captivity and the
ransom were extremely exciting. It was never dull at the mission.
There was always something interesting going on. My visit began in the
height of a panic. Rumour, which stalked rampant after the Salonica
outrages, planned trouble for Monastir on the following _fête_, St.
George’s Day. The Vali, under instructions from the Governor-General,
got his garrison in readiness to combat an attack by dynamiters, and
the civilian Mohamedans, being in an ugly mood, prepared to assist
the soldiers. No attack came from the Bulgarians, but the promises of
trouble were fulfilled nevertheless. Turks all ready, it required
but a signal to start them to work. The signal came in a row between a
Turk _khanji_ and a Bulgar baker over payment for a long due account.
The Bulgar died, and the mob of bashi-bazouks slaughtered some forty
other ‘infidels’ before being dispersed by the soldiers, who at first
assisted them.
[Illustration: A GREEK.]
Then came the panic. Christians closed their shops and barred their
doors, and the streets were deserted except for Mohamedans, who, one is
led to believe, would shoot a foreign _giaour_ as quickly as they would
a native infidel. The Vali sent a soldier to escort the Englishman
and me, being _giaours_, on our daily trips through the streets. The
trooper was given us for protection from the Bulgarians, but we kept
our eye fixed upon him, for he was an armed Mohamedan.
There was also a guard assigned to duty at the mission. This was a
youthful Turk, who brought with him a strip of matting in lieu of a
prayer rug. He came one morning at nine o’clock, and nine o’clock next
morning found him still at his post. We discovered the poor fellow
weeping, and asked the cause. He had been posted here to guard the
mission, and told to remain until relieved. His task was severe, as
he had brought no food. The missionaries fed him, and he remained
twenty-four hours longer before another soldier came to take his place.
The object of putting a guard in front of the mission was twofold.
One day he arrested a peasant who came to the mission with a bundle
and went away with a large piece of brown paper neatly folded in his
hand. This piece of paper, in which the economical peasant had brought
back my week’s washing, was the evidence produced against him. It was
carefully saved, and shown to the Vali. The washing-list was written
upon it.
To go about the town at night was thrilling. The patrols and sentinels
had orders to arrest--and later to shoot--any man discovered on the
streets without a lantern. Several times we were invited to dine at
the Consulates, and the Consuls sent their kavasses with a lantern to
escort us. As we proceeded down the streets the challenges would come
from a hundred yards away, and our Albanian trusty would reply in a
deep commanding tone. Even our own guard would jump to his feet on our
return as the light of the lantern turned the corner of our narrow
street. If nightfall overtook ox-teams or buffalo-carts within the
city, the horned beasts were unyoked where they were, blanketed and
fed, and their masters slept in the carts. It was uncanny stumbling
into munching beasts at night.
Sometimes, when a fight had taken place in the neighbouring hills,
a line of cavalry ponies, led by their masters, would pass down the
cobble-stone road back to the mission bringing the wounded soldiers
into the caserne. Often the men were mortally wounded and had to be
supported on the backs of the stumbling ponies. This was a gloomy
spectacle. It was peculiar to the night, for the Turks never brought in
their wounded till the streets were deserted; they are sensitive over
losses.
During an anxious period in Monastir there came around an anniversary
of the Sultan’s accession day. The streets were beflagged with Star
and Crescent, and Turkish designs in night-lights were arranged on the
hills. The day before the celebration long lines of soldiers made their
way from the camps and casernes to the various town ovens, each with a
whole lamb, dressed ready for baking, in a huge pan on his shoulder.
It was a curious sight to see these preparatory parades pass down the
streets with the potential dinner. This, indeed, was the only parade to
honour the Padisha, for on the anniversary day itself all ‘infidels’
braced the bars behind their doors, and Mohamedans remained in their
homes by order of the Vali; and only a doubled guard remained in the
streets, to be ready for an insurgent surprise. At night we left the
house and crossed the street to the school, and after putting out all
the lights--a precaution of the ladies--climbed to the top of the house
to see the illuminations on the hills. Not a sound was to be heard over
the entire city.
But no matter how intense the quiet in Monastir, there was always one
hour of the day when a fearful row raged. That was the hour the British
Consul took his daily walk. The Consul was a Scot, McGregor by name,
who owned a British bulldog and employed an Albanian kavass. The latter
is common to Consuls, but the bulldog was a novel and disturbing
element. As the fatted pup strode the narrow streets between his
master and his master’s man, a wave of protest from the native canines
followed in his wake. The native dog, like the native Mohamedans, is
averse to permitting an outsider within his sacred precincts; but,
unlike the Turk, the dog is not required to brook the insult in peace.
Whenever a protracted dog-fight passed down the semi-deserted streets,
’twas known that the British Consul was out for his daily walk; and
when the disturbance came towards the mission, the hired girl was sent
to put the kettle on for tea.
There were always visitors at the mission, and sometimes they were
peculiar people. One morning a forlorn native appeared at the door
with a dejected wife and two miserable children; they stood in a
row, salaaming submissively with their thin hands crossed upon their
empty stomachs. We went out to inquire their business, and heard the
following not unusual story. The man was unfortunately a Bulgarian, and
for that crime had been cast into prison in the general incarceration
of his race. During his confinement his shop had been plundered by
bashi-bazouks, and now he had nothing to live on, and nobody would give
him work. (It was a case of ‘No Bulgars need apply’; men who employed
Bulgarians were suspected of sympathy with the insurgents.) This Bulgar
had called at the mission--here he showed some embarrassment--to
see how much money he would receive if he and his family became
‘Americans’! This missionary explained that the Protestant Church
did not offer pecuniary inducements and other mundane rewards for
converts, as did the Greek, Bulgarian, Servian, and Rumanian Churches,
and told him that he would not become an American if he chose to join
the Protestant Church. The missionaries had a British relief fund at
their disposal at this time, and out of it gave the man a couple of
mijidiehs. He was made to understand, however, that this beneficence
was a gift, pure and simple, and in no way meant as a bribe to induce
him to leave the Orthodox Church. It is difficult for the Macedonian to
see why men give up comfortable homes in happy countries to come out
and live in a land like theirs.
On another occasion we received a visit from a more enlightened
Macedonian. He, too, was a Bulgarian, so he said; and in the same
breath told us that he had two brothers, one of whom was a Servian and
the other a Greek. This peculiar phenomenon, prevalent in many parts of
Macedonia, here came to my notice for the first time. I was puzzled,
and asked how such a thing was possible. The Macedonian smiled, and
explained that his was a prominent family, and, for the influence their
‘conversion’ would mean, the Servians had given one of his brothers
several liras to become a Servian, while the Greeks had outbid all the
other Churches for the other brother.
One day Mr. Bond filed a despatch at the telegraph office which
brought us a call from the police. A reunion of the missionaries of
European Turkey was taking place at Samakov, and the Monastir staff,
thinking it unwise to go to Bulgaria at this particular moment, sent a
message to the assembly reading ‘Greetings in the name of the Lord.’
The telegraph clerk accepted the despatch and the money. Three days
later a gendarme called at the mission to ascertain who this Lord was.
Mr. Bond explained to him at length, but the Turk was suspicious, and
carefully cross-examined the missionary. He wanted to know particularly
if the Lord for whom this telegram was being sent, and who must
therefore be in Monastir, was either a Russian or an Austrian. When
the missionary informed him that the Lord had been a Jew, the Turk was
surprised, but went away without further inquiry. Next day, however,
he called again, and asked if Mr. Bond would kindly put the statements
he had made in writing for the _bimbashee_. The missionary wrote out
a brief statement, pointing out that the Koran mentioned the Man in
question. But the telegram was never sent, nor was the payment for it
ever refunded.
[Illustration: A BIT OF OLD MONASTIR.]
Quite as subtle was the reasoning of the censor when a number of
quotations from the Bible, which it was desired to print on Easter
cards, were submitted to him. The censor required a thorough
understanding of each passage before he would pass it. Receiving this
he gave the missionaries permission to publish all the texts except
one--that of ‘Love one another,’ this precept being contrary to
the policy of _divide et impera_, by which the Sultans have defeated
the Christian peoples, both subject races and Great Powers, for many
generations.
* * * * *
On a short visit to Florina I once secured an abundance of first-hand
evidence of the manner in which the great Greek propaganda in this
district is conducted.
I went to Florina without authority, in the company of the stout Mr.
Reginald Wyon, correspondent of the _Daily Mail_, with the object of
getting through to Armensko, the scene of a recent massacre. Just
beyond Florina the Turks turned us back, and took us, at our request,
to the residence of the Greek Metropolitan, where we hoped to get some
information of the affair. The Metropolitan was reputed to be the
most violent propagandist in the Monastir vilayet. He had recently
made an extended tour through his district under the escort of a body
of Turks, exhorting all recalcitrant Christians to return to the
Patriarchate, warning them of massacre if they remained Bulgarians,
and assuring them, on the authority of the Vali, immunity from attack
by Turkish troops if they became ‘Greeks.’ In fear of punishment and
hope of reward whole villages of terrified peasants swore allegiance to
the Patriarchate, and their names were duly written in a great book.
Armensko was one of the villages visited.
For thus counteracting the work of the Bulgarian committees, and also,
according to the insurgents, for serving the Turkish Government as a
chief of spies, the bishop was condemned to death by the ‘Internal
Organisation.’
At the time of our arrival the bishopric was garrisoned with Turkish
troops. There were probably forty curly-bearded, hook-nosed, ragged,
greasy Anatolians--the same fellows, as far as one could see, who had
held us up one night at Salonica--quartered in the house. They had
possession of the lower floor, and their mats were spread throughout
the vast hall, and a large room at one side resembled an arsenal. The
Asiatics lolled about the steps and slept in the hall, and barely moved
for us to pass. We picked our way among the reclining forms, climbed
the steep steps, and stalked through a broad bare corridor, where our
footfalls sounded like thunderclaps, to a reception-room, of which the
only furniture was several small round coffee-stools. The walls were
hung with Turkish rugs, of an indifferent quality, behind the usual
divans, which were part of the construction of the building. The Turks,
as is their way, and the other occupants of the house because the
bishop was taking a siesta, walked the bare boards shoeless. It was not
necessary to inform him of our arrival. A tousled head poked itself out
of a door ready to say something a bishop shouldn’t, but, spying us,
jerked itself back. We were required to wait fifteen minutes for his
holiness to don his robes.
Then he appeared in a flutter of excitement. Pouring out
unintelligible apologies, he rushed up to my fat friend, being the
elder, threw his arms around him, and smacked him twice on each round
cheek. I saw I was to be treated likewise--there was no hope of
escape--so I bent to the ordeal, to save the bishop the trouble of
mounting a stool in all his robes. After he had finished with me the
loving soul stooped and gave even the little dragoman four resounding
kisses.
The Metropolitan was a man of about sixty years of age, with pronounced
Hellenic features. His beard and hair were almost entirely grey, but
both were full and abundant still. He wore no hat, and his long hair
was drawn straight back and done in a knot, like a woman’s.
The bishop was alive to opportunities, and the unexpected arrival of
two newspaper correspondents was a great chance for him. It quite
caused him to lose his dignity for the time being in an effort to
do the cause he espoused a service. He explained the presence of
the soldiers below; he had received a letter from the insurgents
telling him they would kill him unless he desisted from thwarting
their diabolical propaganda. Then, as a preliminary to a lengthy
discourse on Bulgarian atrocities, the bishop cautioned us to believe
every word he said. Indeed, we could take his word as we could that
of an English gentleman, and we could publish everything he said,
even if the committajis slew him for it. The old man here paused,
at our request, for the interpreter to translate his remarks, and
while interrupted, he called several attendants and despatched them
in different directions--two to the Greek school for ‘professors,’
another to the kitchen for coffee and jelly, and still a fourth on
another mission--all for our enlightenment and material benefit. Then
he resumed his lecture, during the course of which the professors began
to arrive, and with them came also a member of the Greek community,
who, the bishop proposed, should lodge us that night. The professors
joined the bishop in blaspheming the Bulgars, but our host-to-be only
substantiated accounts of atrocities at the appeal of the others.
Three little girls, who had to be dressed, were sent into the room.
They courtesied as they entered and kissed our hands. These were the
orphans of a man who had been assassinated by the committajis because
he refused to contribute to their revolutionary fund. These ‘brigands’
had murdered several priests in the district, mutilated their bodies
in a shocking manner, and laid them in the high-roads or before their
churches as a warning to their compatriots. No punishment, said the
Metropolitan, was too severe for such fiends, and, questioned by us, he
declared that he informed the authorities whenever he learnt that there
was a band in the district.
We asked the bishop for some information of the affair at Armensko, but
this was not in the line of his discourse, and he evidently did not
care to complicate the Balkan question for our uninitiated minds. The
great question was the Bulgarian propaganda. He dispensed with the
massacre as a ‘mistake of the Turks; they should not have done what
they did,’ and returned to the insurgent question.
We took notes of the Metropolitan’s remarks, but he was dissatisfied
that we should permit any to go unrecorded. Finally, as we started to
leave, the old man said, with a touch of resentment in his voice, ‘I
wish _I_ knew English; I would write letters to the _Times_ and let the
world know the truth.’
We went home with the Greek to whose tender mercy the bishop had
consigned us for the night. A meal was already served when we arrived
at his house, and his daughter, a pretty girl about twelve years of
age, attired in her newest native frock, stood ready to wait on us,
trembling at the honour. But the old man drove her from the room,
closed and bolted the door, and cautiously approached our dragoman.
‘Tell the Englishmen,’ he said in a whisper, ‘that the bishop is a
terrible liar!’
The interpreter was an English boy, whom we had picked up at Salonica,
and the peasants were not afraid to talk to him, as they would have
been to another native. It was obvious that the old man had more to
say, but we put him off until we had eaten. Then, again carefully
ejecting his gentle offspring, he proceeded to inform us that the
father of the little orphans we had seen had joined an insurgent band,
and then informed the bishop of the band’s plans; and the bishop
had transmitted the information to the authorities. The traitor was
discovered, hence his death. When the Metropolitan was in Armensko,
the Greek said, he told the people that if the Turks came they should
go out and meet them and tell them they were Greeks. The Turks came,
the peasants went out to meet them, but the Turks did not give them
time to announce their national persuasion.
The troops who destroyed Armensko were commanded by Khairreddin Bey,
a man already notorious for his methods. According to a report of the
committee, the Turks had met a body of 400 insurgents at Ezertze and
been defeated. At any rate, the Turks turned back towards Florina, and
on their way passed through Armensko, a village of about 160 houses.
Without warning they fell upon the inhabitants, slaughtered about 130
men, women, and children, and plundered and burned the houses. Some
Roman Catholic sisters of charity, who conduct a free dispensary at
Monastir, secured permission from the Governor-General to proceed to
Armensko and relieve the wounded. They arrived a week after the affair,
and found as many as sixty living creatures huddled together in the two
churches, the Greek and the Bulgarian, which, though plundered, had not
been destroyed. The human bodies had all been buried, but the carcases
of burned pigs, horses, and cows were still lying among the ruins,
decomposing and befouling the atmosphere. The sisters, whom we saw
after their return, said that some revolting crimes had been committed
upon the women. They gave the foreign Consuls at Monastir details of
the affair, and the Governor-General was indignant, and permitted them
to go to the relief of no more massacred villages.
[Illustration: ORTHODOX PRIESTS.]
The sisters brought the survivors to Florina, and those severely
wounded they took on to Monastir. The peasants were all the same
people; the same blood coursed through their veins, and they spoke the
same language, a corrupted Bulgarian, their vocabularies containing
some Greek and many Turkish words; but some were ‘Greeks,’ and some
were ‘Bulgarians.’ The ‘Greeks’ were received by the Greek hospital,
but admittance was refused those who had rejected the offer of the
Metropolitan of Florina to become ‘Greeks,’ and there was nowhere else
to take them but to the Turkish hospital.
The subjects of the Sultan do not love one another.
The rivalry between the racial parties--they cannot be defined as
races--works death and disaster among the Macedonian peasants.
Bulgarian and Greek bands commit upon communities of hostile politics
atrocities less only in extent than the atrocities of the Turks.
Sometimes Servian bands enter the field.
But the propagandas also greatly benefit the people. The Bulgarian,
Greek, Servian, and Rumanian schools--tolerated by the Government
because they divide the Macedonians--give the peasants an education
which they would not acquire at the hands of the Turkish Government.
In the large centres the ‘gymnasiums’ offer the inducements of higher
education, and in some cases music and art, for which professors are
brought from Budapest and Vienna. Children are often supplied with
clothes, boarded, and lodged without charge.
All this effort is to possess the greatest share of the community
when the division of the country comes. As far as the peasants are
concerned, I believe it would make very little difference whom the
country goes to, as long as the Government is liberal and equitable.
Indeed, I found sympathy with the Bulgarian cause among many Greeks,
Vlachs, and Servians, simply because the Bulgarians are fighting the
Turks.
The Greek clergy and other propagandists worked hard to influence us.
They brought documents to prove their contentions. But figures lie in
Turkey. A little thing like figures never bothers one of the ‘elect’;
a Turk can supply official documents proving anything--a map coloured
red as far as Vienna, or a census of the population showing more
Mohamedans in the land than there are inhabitants. And the other races
to some extent copy the Turk. Some of the Greek partisans contended
that the major part of the country was peopled by Greeks, but wiser men
explained that many members of the Greek community spoke Slav languages
and Vlach, but that they are Greeks, nevertheless, because their
sympathies are Greek.
‘The inhabitants of Normandy are not British,’ they said.
‘But is not this sympathy unnatural--the work of your clergy, by means
not wholly righteous?’
They said the adhesion of the other races to the Patriarchate was
entirely natural; the Bulgarians converted artificially with brigand
bands.
The Greeks fear that an autonomous Macedonia--for which the Bulgarian
committees are striving--would be annexed by Bulgaria, as in the case
of East Rumelia. The Greeks, therefore, support the Turks, until such
time as Macedonia becomes Hellenic. They have been at work for a
century converting the country. Before the creation of the Exarchate,
when there was but one Orthodox Church in European Turkey, they strove
to destroy the Bulgarian language, abolishing it from the schools
and churches. When the new Church was established they stamped it
schismatic; and many Bulgarians were afraid to leave the old Church,
and remain to-day faithful to the Patriarchate--and members of the
Greek community.
Some Greek partisans claim also the Servian communities of Macedonia
because the Servians have no autocephalous church, and all Greeks claim
the Vlach communities.
The Kutzo-Vlachs, or Wallachians, are a people akin to the Rumanians.
They speak a language similar to that of the Rumanians, evidently a
Latin tongue. The kingdom of Rumania claims these people, and conducts
a propaganda among them to retain them, in the hope of securing
territorial compensation--a corner of Bulgaria, perhaps--at the
division of Macedonia.
Until 1905 the Vlach churches were also under the direct control of the
Patriarchate; but Rumanian influence at Constantinople then obtained
their independence. The Greeks contested the separation violently,
and sought to prevent by force the installation of the Vlach clergy.
Rumania, not being contiguous to Turkey, was unable to give battle
with armed bands, and declared a civil war upon Greece. Diplomatic
connections were severed, trade treaties abolished, and Greek shipping
in the Danube was severely taxed.