and forbidden to visit his army. The French then began the forcible
return of the soldiers to Soviet Russia. As an alternative they could go
to Brazil. But the first transports for Brazil were stopped by wireless.
The Government of Brazil, after all, did not agree to receive the
Russians. So these miserables were put on the island of Corsica. Of the
others little is known. Large numbers have been returned to Russia.
Serbia and Czecho-Slovakia have covenanted to take a few thousand.
As for the civilian refugees, a hundred thousand of them are in desperate
straits. They cannot live in Constantinople, and they cannot get away.
It is a death-trap for them. For the women it is a trap far worse than
death. They are unpopular people in Europe now--the gentry of Russia,
people of education and gentle upbringing, the people of the old landed
families. I observe that with the signing of the trade treaty with
Soviet Russia funds have at once been started with the object of feeding
starving Russians in Russia. Charities are a British and American vice,
but something, not necessarily money, is due to the Russian refugees.
Human attention is needed--an honourable effort to solve the problem of
making these Russians self-supporting economic units. Mr. Ilin, at the
head of the Russian organization, is the man to approach. He is a
capable, quiet Russian, who is under no illusions as to the enormity of
the task or the difficulty of coping with it.
I met a Countess Trubetskoy, as poor as poor. "All I ask is something to
take my mind off our coming fate," said she. "Imagine it. I am reading
the Tarzan series of novels right through. Just to forget." They wish
to forget, and we, who used to talk of loving the Russians,--we have
forgotten.
EXTRA LEAVES
(ii) _On "Charity" and the Stagnation of Peoples_
In company with Mme. Tyrkova-Williams, I subsequently visited the
offices of the "Save the Children Fund" in London to try to get some
extra help for Constantinople, being convinced that the sufferings of
the children there far exceeded those of the children of Vienna and
Budapest and Prague. But no money can save the Russians at
Constantinople, or the "little things" which Wrangel's army leaves
behind them. Refugee men and women ought, perhaps, to be fruitless,
but they are not. The birthrate at Gallipoli and Constantinople is
high, and the lying-in hospitals are full. Is it not a characteristic
paradox of life that babies should keep coming into a world that cannot
find room for the parents? To provide for all these Russians for any
considerable time would involve the collecting of more money than the
rich of the world have to spare. When the hospitals of London are
threatened with closure for want of funds, it is clear that mere
"charity" is a useless resort. "Charity" moreover leaks. Though it is
much puffed up and advertiseth itself, and is supported on the public
platforms with sounding brass and tinkling cymbal, nevertheless it
faileth. There is knowledge, and it remains, prophecies and they are
fulfilled, but this thing which we call "charity" faileth, it vanisheth
away. "The fund will soon be exhausted," we hear on all sides. Why
not, then, try love? Why not try human action? Let men and women
think a little more and forget mere money. Inspired political action
is required, the refugees should be given some means of helping
themselves and should be distributed over Europe in countries where for
adults there is the chance at least of finding work, and where for the
children food abounds. Constantinople is an overcrowded caravanserai.
There is no lasting means of living for more than one-fifth of the
population, and almost no chance at all for the Russians. In Serbia,
in Bulgaria, in Bohemia, in France and England, and in the New World
there are at least chances of life for the homeless. At present there
is scarcely a nation in the world that will take in the unfortunate
Russians unless they are possessed of material means. France in this
is adamant. She keeps the Russians waiting longest of all. And yet
her responsibility for these Russians is very direct. The Russians
helped to save France in the war, and these Russians were used by
France to try and regain her lost investments in Russia. They believed
in a generous noble France which never abandoned her friends. It is
dumbfounding to the Russians that it should be France that is now
forcing them either to die or to return to Soviet Russia.
Rather than go back to "Sovdepia" many who think their lives are
forfeit there are ready to resort to desperate means of escape. They
steal over to Kemal and fight for him, or they sign on for Brazil, or
stow away in one or other of the many ships in the harbours. But
whilst adventurous escapades are possible for the men there is not even
that way open for the women and the old folk and the children. Many
are sure to die before they find salvation. The way to save the
greatest number is assuredly to allow the refugees to circulate freely
and find what life they can. Has not England been plastered with the
notice, "Don't pity a man; find him a job." That is something to apply
to the Russians. We cannot find them a job, but at least let us give
them a chance. There is room in Europe for these Russians, and they
would not prove long a burden once they were in the way of life.
In any case a great stagnant pool of human beings such as is found at
Constantinople, makes a dangerous place in the body politic of
humanity. Is the blood of all of us a little distempered? It comes
from foul pools and sluggish channels where conditions of health are
absent.
LETTERS OF TRAVEL
IV. FROM SOFIA
The last night at Constantinople was memorable, and it is strange to
contrast the brilliance, the clamour, the poignancy, of that time with
the quiet gloom and dirt of Sofia. Dinner with two young Russians at
the "Kievsky Ugolok"; vodka was taken as if it were part of a rite. We
were served by a beautiful woman with little hands. All the lights
were shaded and the violins crooned.
"The best of my youth gone in senseless fighting," said Count Tolstoy.
"Twenty-two to twenty-eight, think of it; surely the best years of
life, and campaigning all the while, from Insterburg to Sevastopol, and
who knows what more."
"I am going to cut it all and start afresh," said Col. S. "I don't
believe in the cause. If I could get a little farm in Canada or
California!"
"Well, you are married and have children, that makes the difference.
You are bound to them. But honour binds me to Russia--whatever
happens."
"It's a strange time."
"Yes, strange."
"Who knows what will happen next in Europe!"
"Do you think European civilization will fall?"
"I think it possible that it may."
"In my opinion also--it may happen. The fall of Russia is just a
forewarning--it will all go down."
Once more the favourite theme of conversation.
Going home at midnight, one sees the miscellaneous crowd still on the
street. From an open café window a gramaphone bleats out the strains
of "Pagliacci" into the street, as if "Pagliacci" also were a refugee
and was on the streets. Listening to it there came the thought that
our whole modern way of life, of which that opera is sufficiently
characteristic, was being chased from its home, chased out into an
unkind elemental world to beg its way. Then on a corner of a street a
hoarse woman calling repeatedly her price like a hawker at a market,
"_Chetiresta_! _Chetiresta_!" Quite a decent lady in Russia, the wife
of a bank-clerk or petty official, but now up against it, the great it
of revolution. Four crooked lanes go down to Petits Champs, all
a-jingle with Greek music and tinkling glasses and women's laughter.
The great glass-house cabaret below is refulgent with electric light,
and you see the figures swirl in a "_Grande Danse Moscouvite_." You
climb the mounting street to where dusky but handsome Punjabi soldiers
stand in front of the British Embassy, looking with sinless gaze on sin
passing by, and then to the hotel. You sleep in the office of the
hotel, between two safes, because there is no room to be had anywhere.
Your curtainless windows are right on the street, and the endless
razzle-dazzle of night-life goes on. In the disturbed after-hours of
midnight or early hours of morning you may see a dozen or so drunken
sailors pulling cabs and cabhorses on to the pavement, two sailors on
each horse, cuffing its flanks with their hats, shouting and
screeching, and evidently dreaming of the Wild West whence they come,
the Turkish cab-drivers absolutely placid and passive, however, and the
Turkish gendarmes unalarmed, whilst strapping fellows of the American
Naval Police with white bonnets on their heads, and neat blue jerkins,
rush in and literally fell the sailors one by one with their
truncheons, and fling them sprawling to the side-walk.
Next morning it is brilliantly and cruelly sunny, and on the way out of
the city the eyes rest on a young woman dressed in the fashions of
1917, but with burst boots and darned "tango" stockings, and rent,
shabby dress. The strong light betrays the disguises of a long-lived
hat and shines garishly on the powder and paint of a young-old face.
So Constantinople goes on.
What a contrast when you return to Sofia! It is a day's journey in the
express--a very short time, far too short to efface the vivid
impression on the senses made by Constantinople. Perhaps in one
respect Sofia resembles the great city, in that it is overcrowded.
Arriving at night, you are lucky to share a room with a Bulgarian
officer. The latter is lying in bed, and does not seem perturbed at a
civilian being put into his room. Perhaps he has been staying a long
time without paying, and the management is retaliating. There is a bed
which has sheets which may have been laid fresh for a German officer in
1915, and you wisely follow the custom of the country and sleep with
your clothes on.
Next day, when you step out on to the streets of the Bulgarian capital,
your eyes almost refuse to take in the change. You have such a strong
expectation of the moving picture of the Constantinople street that you
feel, as it were, robbed and astonished, as by a spell cast over your
world. You have been transported by enchantment to an entirely
different scene. Here is a strange quiet. A peasant population has
come to town in heavy clothes and heavy faces. Despite the war and all
the trouble it has meant, there is a feeling that all able-bodied men
and women are provided for. Here is none of the elegance and indolence
of Athens, or of the ingenuity and cleverness of Constantinople, but a
steadiness and drabness of a peasant clumsiness mark the new Sofia. It
is neither so pleasant nor so promising a place as it was in 1915. The
soil of the black years is upon it.
Sofia was a peasant city without much fashion or style then, and this
aspect has intensified itself. The peasant is the born enemy of the
town, and whilst he may be perfect in the country he is a boorish and
non-comprehending fellow when he comes to the capital to rule. The
peasant in power has very little use for the brighter side of
civilization. The more the latter is cut down the better for him. He
has, unfortunately, grasped the truism that "without the peasant
nothing can exist," and he is much disposed therefore to take more of
the profit of living for himself and cut down the expenses of
civilization.
In Bulgaria we have the curious anomaly of peasant communists in
political power and a king. Monarchy and a sort of Bolshevism.
"So you are all Bolsheviks here?"
"No, only peasant-communists."
"Is that not similar?"
"No. We have no international programme. International politics do
not interest us. We do not want any more wars. Governments make the
wars and the people have to fight them. Ask anyone, Did we want the
last war? Do we ever get anything out of wars? No. And now we have
an administration who will keep us out of trouble."
The speaker was an ordinary Sofian proletariat, earning his living in a
bakery. He seemed much pleased with Bulgaria as she is now; did not
want a port, or talk about plebiscites, or the alleged nationality of
those who dwell in the wildernesses of Macedonia.
So it is, a people of few words and not much racial ambition is in
power. The old diplomatists and politicians, the "bourgeois," as they
are now called, are all in opposition. Most of the educated and
cultured and rich are out of office and power. They pursue the same
old course of Balkan intrigue, communicating their opinions to you in
stage-whispers, but intrigue merely ends in intrigue and does not lead
to action. The old regime and old politics naturally find allies in
the press which, having been so venal in the past, finds it difficult
to turn to honest journalism. The venality of the press in Balkan
countries is a characteristic which does more harm to nationhood in
these parts than is understood. It springs from the original practice
of giving State subsidies to authors and journalists and newspaper
proprietors, on the ground that the reading public is too small to
support such people entirely. Receivers of subsidies are naturally
chary of writing against their patrons, and a great opportunity arises
for interested parties to buy the press. The advisability of buying
sections of the Balkan press is urged upon foreign Governments. So
journalism and the organs of public opinion become not only physically
debauched but poisoned at heart.
For that reason one need not pay much respect to the recrudescence in
the press of attacks upon Greece. It is true, Bulgaria has lost
Dédéagatch, her southern port, her window on to the Aegean, and a Greek
army is between Bulgaria and Constantinople, but peasant Bulgaria will
thrive quite well without a port; she virtually never used Dédéagatch,
and it would be obvious foolishness to shed more blood for the
possession of this remote harbour. The exit of Varna on the Black Sea
suffices for all the wants of new Bulgaria.
One meets many partisans of Bulgaria. English people naturally like
the Bulgars at first sight. The Bulgar is a good fighting man, and
that makes a strong appeal to the man of the world. He is simple, not
bumptious, gives himself no airs of traditional culture or modern
education, and therefore recommends himself. The cynical and false
opinion of 1914-15 regarding Bulgaria--that she would come in to the
war on the side that bid most money--is forgotten. And the
disloyalties of Bulgaria, disloyalty to the Russia who set her free and
to her erstwhile ally Serbia, are overlooked. The stupid Bulgarian
hates and intractabilities are ignored, and the new European partisans
would raise and strengthen her again, some being even ready, in
opinion, to set her flying against Greece once more.
There is one constructive hope which appeals to most thinking minds,
and that is, that at some time in the future Bulgaria could be merged
in Jugo-Slavia or federated with it. Serbia abandoned her own good
name and took this name of Jugo-Slavia or Country of the southern
Slavs, that she might form the basis of a commonwealth of all the
southern Slav nationalities. And if she embraces Croats and Slovenes
why not Bulgars, too? It is said that the Bulgars, in order to
ingratiate themselves with their war-allies, pretended that they were
not Slav, that they were in reality also Huns, kindred of Hungarians
and Finns. But a people with a language so like Russian could hardly
cling to that deception. The best way to avoid trouble in the Balkans
is to have larger, more comprehensive states. Therefore, one looks
forward to the mergence of Bulgaria in something better and safer by
and by.
Many Russians have found refuge in Sofia, a few thousand of the more
lucky ones who have managed to get away from Constantinople. I daresay
it is not realized how difficult it is to get out of that city to go
even such a short distance as Sofia. Even for an Englishman it is
difficult enough. What takes days for one of us takes months for a
Russian, and then he has to have sponsors. However, when once he gets
to Sofia, he finds the cost of living reduced five times. A pound
sterling would keep a Russian in Sofia for a week, but in
Constantinople for not much more than a day. Of course you can starve
for nothing in both cities: the cost of living ceases to be important
when you have nothing at all. But Sofia abounds in cheap white bread
and butter. You get a pat of about two ounces with your morning roll.
Vienna and Berlin may be on black bread, Budapest without butter, but
Sofia does not lack. And sugar seems plentiful, and meat is not dear.
Oranges are cheap, and the wine of the country is accessible.
Manufactures, of course, depend on the exchange, and are expensive.
There is cheap entertainment, the inexpensive tedium of the cinema and
the use of a theatre. Once more Russia in exile affords some cultural
help with performances of the Theatre of Art, concerts, and ballet.
Peter Struve has taken up his abode, and now makes bold to re-issue one
of Russia's principal critical reviews, the "Russkaya Misl." Here in
Sofia is a Russian publishing house, which has printed a translation of
Wells' impressions of Bolshevik Russia, and "At the Feast of the Gods,"
by Bulgakof, and Struve's "Thoughts on the Revolution," new books of
value which suggest that the old Russia still lives.
Asked how the Bulgars behaved toward the Russians, a foreign and
therefore perhaps neutral diplomat replied: "The Bulgar will not do
anything for people in distress. He is an egoist. He'll let his own
father starve rather than sacrifice anything of his own. He has cause
to be eternally grateful to the Russians, and now he has a chance to
pay back something of what he owes, but not he. He treats the Russian
as a beggar and an inferior, just because he sees him in a state of
failure and misery."
A Serbian, asked whether Bulgars and Serbs could come to an
understanding, said "No, because when the Bulgars were put in power
over Serbs by the strength of German arms they set about abolishing the
Serbian nation. In a cold-blooded way they went through the whole of
Serbia, murdering and destroying. A nation like the Bulgars," said he,
"is incapable of friendship."
A Greek, asked, "Could there not be an entente between Greece and
Bulgaria, a burying of the hatchet," replied: "No, there is a mortal
vendetta between us. There is something in the Bulgarian which makes
our people see red."
When these matters were referred to a Bulgarian, he smiled, and said:
"We shall obtain the protection of England or France; that will be
enough. Bulgaria is impregnable against enemies. Let any nation try
and take Bulgaria and her mountains, see what it would cost in human
lives. But these wars, what is the use of them: does anyone ever gain
anything by them?"
Bulgaria gained her freedom by a war. But of that it seemed untactful
to remind this denizen of Sofia. Besides, he was a kind of Bolshevik.
If Bolshevism were to sweep Europe, he would not be put out of doors.
Bulgaria also would be in the political advance-guard of world-progress.
"You do compulsory communal labour in the fields every year, do you
not?"
"Such a law has been passed. You see, we are an agricultural people.
Food is our life. The war greatly disturbed our population, and it was
not easy to get labour, or to get it at a reasonable price. So
compulsory labour was introduced--every man to do his share in
producing the daily bread."
So Bulgaria has met the peace. She was our enemy. But her money is at
least worth more than that of one of our Allies, and compares
favourably with that of another. The cost of living is low. Wages
have gone up to a considerable extent, and the able-bodied working-man
has enough for himself and his family. One saw how much more stable is
an agricultural state than an industrial one. If our Europe goes down
in economic ruin it does not at all follow that little states like
Bulgaria will be engulfed. On the contrary, Bulgaria as she is
constituted to-day would almost certainly survive. It is industrialism
and large business upon which our Western superstructures depend, not
on the tilling of the soil.
"Humanity, however, first depends on bread," said a Bulgarian in a
restaurant. "If civilization falls, it does not follow that humanity
will fall."
There was plenty of bread on the table in front of us.
"Well, thanks for the bread. But you know the text. There are some of
us who still want to live by the Word."
LETTERS OF TRAVEL
V. FROM BELGRADE (I)
A personal friendship with Bishop Nicholas of Zicca brought the gift of
his rooms in the Patriarchia, opposite the Cathedral. Nicholas, better
known during the war years as Father Nicholas Velimirovic, being on a
mission to the United States, his simple white-walled rooms hung with
bright-coloured ikons were free, and could be a home for a wanderer in
an over-crowded city. Kostya Lukovic, who during the war graduated at
Cambridge, treated me as if I were the England to whom he could repay
the gratitude he owed for our hospitality to him. Dr. Yannic, also
known to us in England, then a priest, now temporarily secretary to the
Constituent Assembly, was also very kind. A recommendation from
Balugdic, the Minister at Athens, opened many doors and obtained a
separate carriage for me at night on some wild trains. Archimandrites
and Abbots entertained me lavishly at the shrines of the Frushta Gora.
It can therefore be said that the Serbs know how to treat an Englishman
well when he passes through their country. Salutations therefore, and
thanks! They fought like lions, and they suffered as none others
suffered in Europe's terrible ordeal. A Serbian spark at Sarajevo
fired the arsenal of European militarism, and a common ungenerous
thought sometimes blames the spark instead of blaming the recklessness
of those who allowed Europe to be enkindled. And there used to be some
who could not forget Serbia's dynastic history. But that has been
forgiven, and Serbia has purchased a good name by a shedding of blood
and a national unhappiness unparalleled in the war. People said,
"Serbia is no more, Serbia can never be again." Yet after complete
loss of country to the most malevolent of foes, and after the agony of
Corfu, behold still Serbia fighting. And was it not the vigour of
Serbia's reconstituted army in 1918 which, under Misió and a French
Marshal, struck the critical blow at the Bulgar which ruined the whole
German confederation--brought about the surrender of Bulgaria and
Austria, and led infallibly to the Armistice! Whatever happens in the
new political turmoil, Serbia has won our admiration and gratitude in
the West.
The impression which one obtains in passing through the towns and
villages of Macedonia is very painful. Ghevgeli, on the Greek
frontier, and such places, remind one of the shattered areas of Western
Europe. You realize, if you did not do so before, that the deadly
disease of war ravaged this empty country as greedily as it did the
fullness of Flanders and France. Ruin stares from thousands of lost
homes, and from many you realize the inhabitants have been destroyed
also. There is recovery. Like convalescent maimed creatures, Skoplye
and Nish creep into the sunlight and show signs of animation. Not
nearly so many fields are ploughed as in Bulgaria. Why? Because the
labouring hands are lost. You see many jolly, laughing Turks in
Skoplye. They can laugh. Their manhood survives plentifully, but
death has gleaned in every Serbian family down there. The trains go at
a snail's pace through Serbia. One day we went all day and part of the
night at an average of five kilometres the hour. In Bulgaria and
Greece the trains go slowly, but they are express compared with the
trains from Ghevgeli to Skoplye. The reason is because the permanent
way has been almost ruined and will need years of work upon it, and all
bridges have been blown up. The train halts now and then, and then
most fearfully budges forward, scarcely moves, budges, budges upon
temporary wooden structures of bridges, and the workmen down below seem
veritably holding the bridges up whilst the trains go over them.