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OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES
IN THE NEAR EAST




I




OUR ALLIES AND
ENEMIES IN THE
NEAR EAST.
BY
JEAN VICTOR BATES
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY THE RIGHT HON.
SIR EDWARD CARSON, K.C., M.P.
NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
68i FIFTH AVENUE




PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LirrED,
BRUNSWICK ST.,STAMFORD ST., S.E.1,
AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.




INTRODUCTION
To several generations of Englishmen the " Eastern Question"
has been a familiar phrase. But to many it has been no more
than a phrase like the title of some well-known classic they
have never read. They had a vague notion that somehow or
other it was a dangerous thing-an unexploded bomb that
might go off at any minute if carelessly handled. But it had
so long remained an apparently innocuous "dud" that the
forebodings of those who with knowledge predicted that sooner
or later a conflagration was certain to start out of it had come
to be disregarded. And even to-day, when the prediction is
fulfilled, the true relation between the Eastern Question and
the war is very imperfectly realised by those who look no deeper
than the events which provided the Germanic Empires with the
immediate pretext for setting the world on fire.
A long and intricate tangle of cause and effect, stretching
back into centuries of bygone history, and complicated by the
clash of rival religions and competing nationalities, is involved
in the problems that collectively constitute the Eastern Question,
out of which this conflict has sprung. Unless a reasonable and
definite solution of these problems is arrived at as a result of
the war, no peace that can be arranged will endure. If the seed
be suffered to remain in the soil, it is only a question of time
before another crop will spring up and ripen. A better understanding of the Near East and its people is, therefore, now
more than ever of interest for all of us, and it is because this
unpretentious volume helps us to such an understanding that
its appearance deserves a welcome at the present moment.
The book is not, however, a formal poltical treatise. Miss
Bates does not draw her materials from protocols or treatises
or diplomatic correspondence; nor does she discuss " war aims"
v


337357




INTRODUCTION


or disputed claims to territory. But the picture she presents of
the peoples inhabiting the Balkan Peninsula, drawn as it is
from close observation based on long and intimate familiarity
with their daily lives, their speech, their history, their legends
and traditions, their occupations, manners and ideas, emphasises
numerous points of social, religious and ethnological significance
which must be reckoned with in any attempt to settle political
perplexities of the Near East.
We have in these pages a vivid and picturesque description
of the regions bordering on the Danube, and south of the rivers,
dating from the very eve of the events of which they were
destined to play so tragic a part, for the author only just succeeded in escaping from them before the breaking of the storm;
and the contrast which this description offers to the conditions
which we know to prevail there to-day gives additional interest
to the record. A cruel fate has extinguished the glitter of
Bucharest, with its superficial imitation of the pleasures and
fashions of Paris; the heavy hand of Austria has fallen more
severely than ever on Miss Bates's gay gipsy friends, and with
more relentless fury on the simple peasants of Serbia and shepherds of the Bukovina; while by this time, we may hope, the
privations of war have perhaps tamed even the swagger of the
Magyars, and chastened the arrogant egotism by which the
stupid Saxon colony in Transylvania proves the persistence of
racial type.
But although the external aspect-the life so full of movement and music, of colour and joie de vivre-which Miss Bates
describes in her pleasant, flexible style-although all this must
have undergone sad change in the last three devastating years,
the mosaic of rival creeds and races which forms the social
structure of the Near East will present the same problems as
before. And as the complexity of this structure appears in
every line of Miss Bates's account of the Balkan peoples, her
work has a special value at a time when the threads of their
destiny are being woven into a new fabric.
EDWARD CARSON.
May 1918.




CONTENTS
PART I
THE LOWER REACHES OF THE DANUBE
CHAPTER I                    PAGE
PLACES AND PEOPLES ON THE ROUMANIAN DANUBE.   1
CHAPTER II
FROM WIDDIN TO THE BLACK SEA...           14
PART II
IN ROUMANIAN LANDS
CHAPTER III
BUCHAREST....                           28
CHAPTER IV
IN THE HEART OF ROUMANIA.....41
CHAPTER V
THE EARLY GERMAN SETTLERS IN TRANSYLVANIA...  55
CHAPTER VI
THE TENTED ONES.......  69
CHAPTER VII
BUKOVINA-THE LAND OF THE BEECHES....  81
PART III
BULGARIA
CHAPTER VIII
SOFIA-THE BULGAR CAPITAL AND ITS INHABITANTS..  95
CHAPTER IX
MILITARY LIFE IN THE CAPITAL...... 117
vii




viii             CONTENTS
CHAPTER X               PAGE
THE COWARD TZAR'S TACTICS....    121
CHAPTER XI
THE NIGHT SIDE OF SOFIA.130
CHAPTER XII
THE ROYAL PALACE.....141
CHAPTER XIII
A TYPICAL BULGAR VILLAGE......147
CHAPTER XIV
AMONGST THE ROSE-FIELDS..              163
CHAPTER XV
THE  GIPSIES.......... 173
CHAPTER XVI
KING FERDINAND-THE BULGAR ATTILA....180
PART IV
AMONGST THE JEWS
CHAPTER XVII
A JEWISH HOUSEHOLD IN CROATIA.....187
CHAPTER XVIII
A CROATIAN VILLAGE MARKET......198
CHAPTER XIX
EVENING IN THE JEWISH HOUSE......212
INDEX........... 221




OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES
IN THE NEAR EAST
PART I
THE LOWER REACHES OF THE DANUBE
CHAPTER I
PLACES AND PEOPLES ON THE ROUMANIAN DANUBE
ON the perpendicular cliff bounding the famous defile of Kazan,
where the waters of the Danube, hitherto calm and smooth,
gather up violence and tear themselves through the opposing
Carpathian and Balkan Mountains, is this inscription-cut into
the rock eighteen hundred years ago-to commemorate the Dacian
triumphs of the Emperor Trajan.
IMP. CAESAR. DIVI. NERVAE.
F. NERVA TRAJANUS. AUG. GERM.
PONTIF. MAXIMUS TRIB. POT. iU.
PATER PATRIAE COS. iI.
MONTIS L. I I AN BUS
SUP AT E.
Here the legions of Caesar passed by! A shaft of sunlight
flashes suddenly through the awesome, gloomy gorge of the
Kazan and dyes the time-worn inscription blood-red. It is
wearing towards evening in the June of the year. Far back there
to the westward the central plains of Europe, vast lands of corn
and wine, smile prosperous and peaceful. Only here is there
darkness and strange foreboding. Long, long ago in the beginning of time, when Titans stalked the earth, from north and
south, gigantic hostile mountains mustered in their strength to
frustrate the desire of the mighty Danube-according to the
Balkan legend-perpetually in love with the beautiful Euxine
B




2


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


Sea, and for ever seeking to enjoy her embraces. At the broad
reaches of the river, just below Bazias, the whole horizon to the
south and east, up to this point unlimited in its immensity,
becomes a solid mass of relentless, rocky, scowling heights without
any apparent break. Since the dim legendary day when the
Danube declared war upon the Carpathians, the struggle has
raged unabated between these mighty forces. By a titanic and
aeon-prolonged effort the torrent succeeded in bursting a narrow
passage through the very heart of the mountains which barred
its way to the sea it seeks. Cramped between cliffs two thousand
feet high into a channel one hundred and twenty yards wide the
waters hurl and lash themselves furiously onwards, roaring
defiance, proclaiming their victory.
Here the legions of the Emperor Trajan passed by! A bloodred flash of sunlight illuminates the inscription cut so long ago
by a world conqueror, and all along the rugged face of the precipice, a foot or two above the swirling rapids, can still be seen the
deep square sockets which once held the beams that supported
the wooden gallery-the road over which the Roman centurions
led their soldiers to conquest. War haunts this Defile of Kazan.
Out in mid-stream a jagged rock rears itself and round it eddies
a terrible whirlpool. Closer and closer crowd the cliffs, louder
and louder roar the rapids, shouting as they shouted thousands of
years ago before the history of man commenced, thundering as
they thundered in the ears of the Emperor Trajan. He has gone,
but these waves, these mountains remain. Greeks, Romans,
Huns, Avars, Magyars, Turks, Slavs, French and Germans, all
have come and seen and gone, seeking conquest one over the
other, and one after the other they have heard these waters laugh
them to scorn.
Then comes peace. Like a soul let loose from hell the steamer
emerges into sunshine and tranquillity. The pier of Orsova is in
sight.
Orsova-those who come to it from the west reach here the
terminus of Western civilisation, those who arrive at it from the
east here find themselves at the last gateway of the Orient. At
Orsova, according to Strabo, the Danube ended and the Ister
began, the lower river being known to the Greeks as the " Iotpoc."
Indeed, no mention is made of the Upper Danube before its discovery by the Roman armies, who bestowed upon it the name of
Danubius. Probably the name is a translation of the Aryan word
Danu, which means moist, or it may perchance be an adaptation of
the old Persian word signifying a river. The great river changes
its name many a time on its journey eastward, and it is quite the
same in Orsova whether one talks of the Danu, the Duna, the
Dunari or the Dunai, for in its market-place German, Magyar,




IN THE NEAR EAST


3


Roumanian, Slavonic, Turkish, and Romany are jabbered by
the jostling racially antagonistic crowds, and a quarrel or an
argument is seldom carried on in fewer than four languages I
It is a sapphire, star-spangled night, full of the warm intoxicating perfume of roses, jasmine, syringa, and oleanders, mingled
with a suggestion of ancient garbage, defective drainage, and
damp river-smells. A narrow, cobbled street unfolds its white
houses with their crazy roofs and overhanging cornices, ornamented with weird carvings and supported by wooden timbers,
upon which the projecting fronts of the barred windowed edifices
rest. There are sepulchral, odoriferous laneways-for this is the
lowest quarter of Orsova-through which flit white, sheepskin-muffled figures. The distant twanging of a zither can be
heard, the long-drawn-out wail of a Tzigane violin, unfamiliar
voices, and a vivid patch of garish yellow light shows up the
entrance to a disreputable inn. Like all such places in this part
of the world, it is built about a quadrangle space, round three
sides of which run two-storeyed wooden buildings. Passing
through the low doorway, the common eating-room is crowded
with customers. At rough cherrywood tables huddled groups
of men and women are conversing over coffee, wine, and cards.
Such a babel of unknown tongues, such volumes of rhetoric, such
barbaric surroundings! Evidently the owner of the establishment is a Magyar patriot, for cheap lithographic prints of Kossuth,
Count Szechenyi, and the murdered Empress Elizabeth-three
ever-popular personages amongst the Hungarians-hang on the
blue and white plaster walls. Swinging from the low raftered
ceiling stinking oil lamps flare and glare upon faces wild as the
neighbouring torrents. Under the nearest light sit three or four
strongly-built young fellows. They are worth studying if only
on account of their dress, which is simplicity itself, a single coarse
white linen shirt, reaching barely to the knee-worn with a
dignity indescribable-a red leather belt about thirteen inches
wide, a sheepskin pelisse, cowhide sandals, secured to linenswathed feet by leather thongs, a towering cone-shaped black and
shaggy lambskin cap, from beneath the hairy fringe of which
the owner's tresses fall in wisps to the shoulders. They are
Roumanians, sons of a race whose glory has been long in dawning, but whose noonday will probably be all the more splendid
because of its tardy coming. Through the shadow cast by their
wild headgear their eyes dart to and fro restlessly observant.
Seen clear-cut against the lamplight their bronzed, classic profiles proclaim their Imperial Roman descent even more convincingly than do history and the Latin tongue in which they
converse. Compare these men's faces with the wooden, expressionless, ponderous, fair-complexioned countenances of two




4


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


black-coated, black-hatted Saxons hailing from Hermannstadt,
descendants of German colonists of seven hundred years back,
who are gobbling inevitable Sauerkraut at the adjoining table.
These " Saxons " regard their Roman neighbours with contempt
-contempt tempered by fear. They have a local proverb:
" God grants to us the knowledge which the Roumanians always
get too late."
A few yards removed from these two groups a Magyar csikos
is making violent, and indeed, having regard to the publicity of
the situation, rather indecent, love to his sweetheart. He also,
like the Roumanians and like the Saxons-who are veritable
replicas of figures in old Flemish art-differs in no wise from his
forbears who followed their leader Arpad through the Carpathian
passes and swept across the Central European plains. Eighteen
hundred years have not robbed the Roumanians of their Latin
physiognomy and language, seven centuries have left the Saxons
still boorish, and a thousand years have failed to take from the
Magyars their Mongol characteristics. Alert, hard of eye, with
raucous voice, brave, emphatic of gesture, unscrupulous, voluptuous, latently cruel, good-natured to a degree, the Magyars have
features that leave no doubt as to their Finnish-Turko-Mongol
descent. In his own way this csikos is as fine a specimen of the
human species as are the Romans; nevertheless, seen side by side
with them, he strikes one as having a certain vulgarity, as lacking
that peculiar stamp of good breeding which is a trait of the
Roumanian herdsmen. In his gaudy dress of voluminous white
pantaloons, short, glossy black half-boots, with massive silver
spurs, embroidered linen waistcoat, silver-buttoned and silverbechained black cloth jacket, narrow high black hat, surmounted
with ostrich and peacock's feathers, with long hair plaited into a
couple of stiff pigtails, he looks what he is, a child of a self-made
nation, which has arrived at a prosperity as yet unachieved by its
less fortunate and more gentle neighbours. To the onlooker at
the moment the horse-boy's face is amiable enough, for he has
eaten well and drunk better of the heady red wine of Karlowitz.
For once his woman and not his horse receives his entire attention. Comely the girl assuredly is, full bosomed, neat waisted,
radiant with exuberant vitality. She wears the customary frisky,
bustling, Magyar petticoat-indeed, petticoats, for they number
up to seven or eight-of bright blue and green and red-flowered
cotton, as scanty as a ballet dancer's, springing out horizontally
at right angles to her waist. She wears scarlet leather, gilttasselled boots and short-sleeved, white, muslin bodice, and
brightly-hued shoulder kerchief. Framing her swarthy rosy
moon face, her jet-black hair, interwoven with gay ribbons and
coins, descends almost to her knees, and a daring bunch of




IN THE NEAR EAST


5


poppies and cornflowers flames over one ear. Even if her face
be too broad and high in the cheek-bones, even if her eyes be too
small, too glittering, too obliquely set, she is still a beauty in
her way.
Bulgars and Serbs are there also, and in the distance may be
descried some Turks, a Jew, a company of Tziganes, and a
shifty-eyed, frock-coated  commercial-travelling  Greek. The
atmosphere is charged with danger. To begin with, the recent
wars have deepened the inherited jealousy and aversion which
the tribes and races of the Balkans cherish towards one another,
and there is not a girdle in the room-saving that of the Jew,
whose race characteristics include an aversion from weaponswhich does not hold a business-like dagger and, generally, a brace
of pistols. The place is filthy and has a startling and disturbing
odour. Hates and prejudices ancient as the hate of Cain,
microbes old as the seven plagues reinforced by enterprising
modern varieties bred Eastwards in the congenial ports of the
Black Sea and brought here by scores of dirty barges and
steamers, flourish between these grimy walls and wax fat.
Sanitary laws and modern science have done something to
temper the ferocity of the living things, but neither politicians
nor Ambassadors, neither potentates nor Powers have succeeded
in allaying or even checking the bitterness of racial feelings.
As has been said, the Defile of Kazan is the gateway between
the East and the West, the old and the new, and this is the
old world where a thousand years are but as yesterday. From
this town down river to the sea-here perhaps more than most
places, because in such frontier towns opposing races cling
most fiercely to racial traditions and customs-not only the inhabitants, but also their houses, their boats, implements, dress,
and mode of living are unchanged by the passing centuries.
Saxon dwellings differ, invariably, from  Roumanian, Magyar
homesteads are dissimilar to those of the Bulgars, the Serbs, the
Tziganes, or the Turks. Their respective builders glory in the
fact that their various styles of racial architecture are unaltered
and indeed apparently unalterable. If we are to judge by the
ancient carvings found in Rome depicting the Dacian wars,
things here are as they were when Trajan's galleys beat their
way through these perilous rapids of the Danube. To be sure
there are oases of modern civilisation, smart up-to-date civilisation, in Orsova. At the newest hotel British and American
visitors, who are " doing the Balkans" on the Danube Steam
Navigation Company's comfortable vessels, can command baths
and afternoon tea. The best hotel in the town prides itself on
its imported virtues and vices, but in it one is absolutely out of
touch with the variegated passions, the variegated lives of the




6


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


strange and unfathomed peoples who squabble and hope, and
toil and sigh and sing through their existences along the banks
of the great tribal river and in this Market Square.
To come back, however, to the Bulgars. Surly and dour of
aspect are they, for nature created the Bulgars sulky. The campaigns of the past few years have added another big and bitter
grievance to their historic collection. They feel they have been
" done " out of the booty and supremacy which they expected
would be theirs after the defeat of Turkey. Here they sit
hunched up in an exclusive circle, exuding ill-will and resentment,
which, however, does not interfere with their appetites, for, with
the exception of the csikos and his companion, they alone of all
the customers are indulging in a double-course meal. An immense bowl of onion soup, stuffed cucumbers, a flat pastry made
with flour, cheese, honey and cream, and tankards of fermented
maize beer are set before them, and if their sun-scorched broad
faces are churlish of expression their garments are remarkably
cheery to behold. It is a Bulgarian fete-day and these peasants
have probably indulged in a few-miles-trip up-stream. In honour
of the occasion they have donned their best. Being more thrifty
than their neighbours, the beauty-loving Serbs and displayloving Magyars, the Bulgars, on working days, discard ornaments
and embroideries and dress soberly in dull, durable, neutraltinted raiment. Only on high days and holidays do they burst
forth in all their magnificence-the men in black velvet jackets,
spotless linen shirts, equally spotless tight-fitting woollen
breeches, huge sheepskins, resembling hearth-rugs, worn, like the
celebrated coat of Brian O'Lynn, " with the skinny side out and
the furry side in," leather gaiters, hide sandals, and round lambskin caps. The women are equally dazzling and uncomfortable,
in costumes made in two separate parts, the lower one being a
chemise of white cambric or muslin which wisps round the ankles
in clinging folds, whilst above this is the second portion, a sort
of pinafore or stole, of costly blue or crimson velvet, embellished
with quaint Byzantine designs, wrought in silver and black braid,
the whole confection being confined by a broad embroidered belt,
clasped in front by enormous solid silver buckles. The final touch
to the toilette is given by a score or so of gaudy bead necklaces,
which jangle and clink with every movement. Cheerful raiment
does not make merry faces, so far as these Bulgar women are
concerned. They are doleful, browbeaten looking creatures,
lacking that gaiety of disposition which helps their sisters of the
other Balkan nations, whose lot is no easier than their own, to
ride above circumstance. To the Bulgar women falls the lion's
share of the work in the fields, as well as at home. They marry
in their early teens, and have numerous children whom they




IN THE NEAR EAST


7


suckle up to the age of four and even five years; naturally, therefore, they not only seem, but are, old and haggard in their
twenties. Nor do they take much trouble to hide this fact. Far
from it. That they are virtuous they would prove by their determination not to appear beautiful. Each tress of their luxuriant
hair is strained, plastered and oiled back from their bulging high
foreheads, and the whole is finally gathered into painfully tight
braid-knotted plaits.
At a neighbouring table sit a group of Serbs, who between
gusts of conversation are devouring bowls of maize porridge.
Dress is the feature which least separates them from their Bulgar
kinsfolk. Silver-buttoned zouaves, white shirts, ample leather
belts, baggy blue or brown breeches, folded at the knees into
clumsy woollen puttees, sandals, and sheepskin caps mark them
broadly as Serbs of the north. But every district, almost every
village, has its own particular fashion for the embellishment of
these jackets, breeches, and other articles of dress. By the
buttons on a coat, the embroidery designs on a sheepskin, even
the manipulation of the leg wrappings, it is possible to ascertain
exactly from where the wearer hails. A glance at these rival
peoples is sufficient to satisfy one of their racial differences.
Whereas the Bulgars bear every trace of Mongol breeding, the
Serbs are pure Slavs, and as such are free from the uncouthness
of form and manner which marks their neighbours. The Jew
in his long black kaftan and high black hat is the Jew one meets
from one extremity of the Carpathian Mountains to the other.
The Turks-well, the Turks deserve more than a casual glance.
To describe the principal individual in their group. He is extraordinarily fat, and sublime in his serenity. His benign, olive
countenance perspires tranquillity of soul and body-he is the
only really non-irritant living thing in the cafe-beneath a
diminutive red fez topped by a superb blue turban. A magentapink striped cotton jacket, minus sleeves, through the armholes
of which white shirt-sleeves protrude, a fringed crimson shawl
swathed about " a fair round belly," billowy dark blue trousers,
and heelless wickerwork slippers complete the picture. This
gentleman is a vendor of perfumes. His home is in Roumelia,
where the ottar rose farms breathe fragrance. War has destroyed
his trade, but he is a Mussulman and a philosopher, and so long
as he is not deprived of his hubble-bubble life still holds charm.
For him, as for his defeated nation, " things are as they are, and
the consequences will be what they will be." The Mussulmans,
the Tziganes, who crouch in the background oddly silent, and
the Jew constitute the non-Christian minority. All at once there
comes a stir, followed by a lull in the buzz of conversation. A
figure, heroic in proportion, enters and takes possession of the




8


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


only vacant table. The last touch has been put to the wonderful
kaleidoscopic picture. Great Russia, and a Cossack to boot, has
come upon the scene. Probably he is the soldier servant of some
Russian Grand Duke who is taking the waters at the famous
sulphur springs of Mehadia, the Thermae Herculis of the ancient
Romans, which lie so picturesquely amidst the mountain gorges.
Those who cling to the delusion that the Cossacks are monsters
of brutality would find little support for their opinion in either
the expression or behaviour of this youth. His costume-a long
scarlet coat belted in at the waist, a black astrakhan cap, double
rows of gleaming cartridges worn athwart the breast, spurred
boots, a curved knife, and a revolver-is not more savage than
that of the Bulgars or Serbs. There is something exceptionally
winning in his smile, and the pretty little waitress-sh";o a
Szekel-hastens to take his order, bored as she is by the uuur
compliments of the Albert Diirer and Hans Sachs reproduced
Saxons sitting by, who seem to object on principle to smiles.
It is nearing midnight, and the cafe holds but little attraction
once its human contents have been scrutinised, and so the
travellers go back to the quay and the steamer, past the dark
overhanging balconies and the gruesome, cut-throat byways.
Some one is singing a Magyar love-song. The voice is strong if
somewhat strident. Few Hungarians can claim the rich, full,
seductive notes of the Slavs, Italians, or Roumanians. Through
the blue and diamond-sprinkled night, above the soughing and
murmurings of the breeze and the turbulent waters of the rushing
river, the melody rings out in a minor key, crystal clear:"Uri nemzet' eredete, derek, jeles, sz6p termete,
Gyongyos, Koves, sz6p ruhaja, ruhajanal szebe orczaj;
De mit hasznal, ha hamis,
De mit hasznal, ha hamis." 1
With a screaming, mocking cry the song ends abruptly-it
would not be Magyar if it terminated otherwise-and a pair of
wicked sloe-black eyes set in a raven-dark, flower-decked head
catch and hold the stranger's gaze, and from between the bars
of the verandah comes the inquiry: " Fekete Tengerig? " 2 Yes,
on to the Black Sea when the first pale streak of dawn touches
the Waters of Strife.  In the meantime let us summon up
1 "She is born of noble stem,
Fairer than the fairest gem
Which upon her robe doth shine,
Graceful, beautiful, divine.
What avails it all to me?
She is false as false can be! "
2 " To the Black Sea? "




IN THE NEAR EAST


9


visions of the Danube on its journey hither-the Danube on the
far side of the Kazan gateway. First, and this vision is very
far off, we see a green glade in the placid Suabian lands, where
the mighty river, there a tiny, fussy brook, babbles in baby glee.
Next arise distant pictures of smug and tidy German villages;
of quaint, mediaeval German towns washed by the ever-growing,
ever-restless river; of the stately Hapsburg capital; of Budapest
the glittering, with its marble quays and gold-crowned palaces.
Then come visions of the solitary, limitless Hungarian plains,
where the profound silence is broken only by the laughter of the
hurrying, dancing waters, the cry of the wild birds, and the
monotonous cropping noise of countless browsing herds; recollections of the smell of sun-warmed hides; of heavy, horn-crested
heads lifted inquiringly; of the warning bellow of the buffaloes
to their young. Pleasant visions of straggling white villages set
in the midst of space and plenty; of naked, copper-hued peasants
loading huge barges with golden grain, cattle, and timber;
memories of primitive floating water-mills; of queer river craft
filled with red-haired pigs; of primaeval, enchanted forests, dim
and fairy-haunted, where the wild boars and hobgoblins sport
and roam at will; of fragrant, mysterious purple nights full of
elfin noises and the twinkling fires of Tzigane encampments, of
Tzigane music, which tosses the soul to madness and badness
upon waves of fierce, seductive, passionate melody; memories,
too, of ancient legendary castles, of the gallant walls of Belgrade
flying exultant banners above its ramparts; memories of bygone
times, when this river ran red with the blood of nations who slew
and tortured for the Truth each believed itself to be alone
possessed of, forgetful in their furious strivings that"All Faith is false, all Faith is true:
Truth is the shattered mirror strewn,
In myriad bits; while each believes his little bit the whole to own."
*      *       *      *      *      *      *
Morning-and the pompous little steamer puffs its important
way out to mid-stream through a crowd of lesser vessels, quaint
canoes, and rafts. The landing-stage, with its crowd of brilliantlyclad peasants, brigand-like porters and fishermen, recedes and
takes its place along with all the other memories. Overhead
the azure sky is unflecked by a single cloud. It is hot, even at
this early hour, and over the drowsy island of Ada Kaleh the
mists, which foretell a scorching noontide, are rising in pearly
whiteness. Here on this long, narrow, rose-embowered island,
with its toy houses, toy mosque and tapering minaret, reside
those amiable and imperturbable Turkish colonists whom no
persuasion, pleasant or unpleasant, can banish or disturb, who,




10


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


although they be dwellers on Austro-Hungarian territory,
blandly ignore the fact when it comes to obeying laws or paying
taxes, at the same time disavowing any allegiance whatever to
the Government of the Sultan! Possession being nine points of
the law, they enjoy life and live excellently on spoils taken from
credulous tourists, and by smuggling Turkish tobacco across the
adjacent frontiers of Roumania, Serbia, Hungary, and Bulgaria.
For a while the stream runs comparatively smoothly between
low, fertile hillsides, then once again the mountains mass up,
and about four kilometres below the Roumanian frontier another
terrific conflict begins between the river and the submerged rocks
which for about three miles interrupt its course. Closely
hugging the Roumanian bank, the vessel rushes through the
difficult and perilous passage of "The Iron Gates." In these
rapids the stream falls over sixteen feet. Dynamite and human
ingenuity in the year 1896 cleared away many of the mighty
unseen boulders which lay in the path of the river. Nevertheless,
the danger for shipping is still considerable, and this is as much
a place of death as is the gorge of Kazan. When at its fullest
height the sound of the water passing over these rocks is carried
for miles around, like the roar of ceaseless thunder.
Then once more comes rest. The most energetic of things
created must eventually bow before the force of climate, and
from the Iron Gates onwards the atmosphere and spirit of the
East insinuate their influence more and more upon the boisterous
river. At the clean little Roumanian town of Turnu Severin,
where the ruined Tower of Severus looks down from a bower of
lovely blooming gardens, the angry, hurrying tide degenerates
into a fat, deep, lazy, broad-bedded, luxurious stream. Across
the flood at Kladovo, on the Serbian bank, looking eye to eye
with this fortress of Severus, is a similar crumbling mass of
masonry. It was exactly where these two watch-towers stand
that Trajan flung his bridge of stone, and across it led his legions
to the conquest of Decebal, King of the Dacians. Trajan's
Column in Rome tells the story of this historic victory better than
mere words can do. Burning noontide on a blazing June day is
not the time for the dreaming of dreams or the seeing of visions,
yet it is impossible to avoid looking back across the time-dimmed
centuries and beholding in fancy the endless procession of races
and tribes which in their day here traversed the Danube.
Romans surged by and passed on, Huns and Gepidi followed in
their footsteps. On their heels came the Avari, the Slavs, the
Bulgarians, the Hungarians, and the Turks, never to speak of
the Tziganes, who, so says the legend, were driven out of India
by Tamerlane, travelled to Egypt, and, after much wandering,
entered Northern Central Europe by this bridge. Speeding past




IN THE NEAR EAST


11


this town of ghostly armies it may be noticed that, to-day as a
thousand years ago, the two battered fortresses are guarded by
white-garbed soldiers, Serbs and Roumanians. Sometimes in
the quiet reaches of the river a fleet of rickety canoes comes into
view, drifting with the current, each canoe manned by a couple
of fishermen, who drag the heavy nets behind them as they go.
Little by little a pinkish, yellowish tinge comes over the face
of the landscape, and here and there are clumps of green foliage
hiding clusters of small homesteads. These are almost all
situated on the Serbian bank, and only the squat mud or wattle
huts of the sentries enliven the Roumanian shore. It is very
quiet; the heat is the heat of a Balkan summer day. Everything
is asleep, " The whole world is but the dream of the great Lord
Buddha."
Brza Palanka, on the Serbian side, is reached, and nightfall.
All day long its white-clad, sandalled, and fezzed inhabitants
have filled their gourds at the wells on the overshadowing hillside. All day long they have carried on business-such leisurely
business as it is-in the dusty, dirty, cobbled streets, have
washed their garments in the creeks where the tall reeds rustle,
have spun and weaved, have eaten their grapes and maize cakes,
and drunk their wine, and sung their dolefully sweet ditties and
played with their children under the shade of the vine-enwreathed
porches of their tumble-down dwellings. But now they are
resting, and only the brigand-like sentry paces up and down, up
and down, on the high parade ground behind the town.
Radujevac, on the right shore, is the last Serbian village along
the Bulgarian frontier. It is a dull place mentally and commercially, with its never-swept, aimless streets which end in
nothingness, its patriarchal stockades, its wattle and mud huts,
its few shops and many wine taverns, its primitive hand-looms
and hand-mills, its Biblical wells, and ever-hungry, ever-buzzing
mosquitoes, its forlorn market-place, where pale, large-eyed
oxen and hunchbacked buffaloes chew the cud, where Tziganes,
scurvy dogs, and live stock in general prowl at large, and where
piles of luscious fruits and vegetables and baskets of glowing
flowers vie in brilliance with the garments of the people.
Below Radujevac the scene opens upon vast, far-flung spaces
and low sweeping hills. The entire land lies panting under the
white glare. The sky pulses in ether waves, and the distant
receding peaks of the Carpathians on the Roumanian shore,
azure also, with traceries of silver, grow dim and fairy-like, whilst
away on the Bulgarian plains the faint, pearly outlines of the
Balkan ranges creep slowly into view. Here and there are a
few poor cottages, here and there swineherds drive their undisciplined herds homewards. Sometimes, with cracking whips, a




12


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


train of wagons laden with woolpacks and drawn by oxen, whose
bells tinkle across the water, roll by and are soon left behind.
On the shore of one reed-whispering inlet a troop of Tziganes are
engaged in setting up their brown tents and cooking over a fire,
the blue smoke of which curls lazily up into the hot air. Distant
voices sound amongst the willows and rushes, unseen children
shout at play, and birds twitter sleepily. A Roumanian
shepherdess is to be seen tending her sheep and goats. She is
spinning wool in primeval fashion from the distaff in her hand
as she saunters through the dried grasses, singing as she goes.
She is clad in a short white woollen mantle over a straight-cut
white chemise, which is folded in plaits upon her rounded bosom,
with her dark hair braided back from her oval, cameo-like face
and detained in a loose knot behind by a high tortoiseshell comb,
from which flutters a snow-white muslin veil. She has neither
shoes nor sandals to hide the symmetry of her slender, smooth
brown legs and feet, and she might have been a model for Phidias.
A grape-eyed, chubby baby occupies the cradle, made of wicker
hoops, which is slung by cords from the young woman's splendid
shoulders, and she appears to find the world a distinctly pleasant
place.
A capricious, irresponsible lover is the Danube. Time and
again it would seem that the attractions of the waiting sea had
ceased to lure. At places, the most remarkable of which is
found some distance down-stream below Orsova, the flood winds
and curves erratically in its course and seems to retrograde
towards Moldavia. Half dividing Bulgaria from Serbia there is
a cluster of mountains, which nose up against one another like
a herd of distressed cattle. They too drop away in the stern,
and soon Kalafat and Widdin loom in sight. The image of the
departing sun is lengthened in the water, which reflects back
the golden, crimson, and purple of the fire in the west; but only
for a brief while, for there is scarcely any twilight in this land,
and night follows hard upon the heels of the day.
Kalafat, the Roumanian, is modern, prosperous, and handsome-a well-ordered town with a beautiful cathedral to proclaim its Christianity. Widdin, the Bulgarian, is much too old
to be wholesome, and is decidedly down-at-heel. From it shoot
up any number of white minarets, which, with its green- and
blue-domed mosques, its groves of tall cypress trees, and indescribable air of indolence, stamps it as a derelict stronghold
of the Prophet. There is no love lost between Kalafat and
Widdin, and many a time in bygone days they have met in
hideous bloodshed. There is no haste about landing to inspect
the sights of Widdin, for life moves at a slow pace hereabouts
and hurry is an unknown stupidity. Moreover, to lie here on




IN THE NEAR EAST


13


deck through the short warm hours of translucent darkness is a
pleasure not to be forgone. An enormous round, melon-coloured
moon and myriads of stars float and twinkle upon the velvety
dark blue firmament. Under their light the waters, the fantastically rigged ships, the queer, yawning barges, the mosques,
the slender minarets, the inky-black cypress groves glitter as
if touched with molten silver. From the old, old gardenslegacies of the Turkish domination-come wafted on the soft
breeze the perfume of roses. There is not much night life in
Widdin, where the steamer is berthed-there never is in an
Oriental town. For long the only sounds that break the silence
are the lappings of the waves, the barking of the scavengering
dogs, the whisperings of the wind, and the rattle of the chains
which secure the boats to their anchorages. Suddenly from the
interior of a little open-air khan, or caffine, frequented by
sailors, comes a peal of laughter, followed by the dancing notes
of a violin, the piping of a flute, and the clashing of a tambourine.
A tenor voice trolls out a beautiful Greek song; so clear is the
atmosphere that every word, every note, is borne across the
waters. Again silence, and again music-Tzigane music!
But why attempt to describe gipsy melodies  Has a good God
collaborated with a bad devil to teach them to this vagabond
race?
But the stars are fading, the moon is sinking, and the chill of
dawn creeps into the air. Soon the traveller may land and
wander through this ancient town; but a description of it and
of the further course of the Danube to the Black Sea must be
reserved for another chapter.




CHAPTER II


THE ROUMANIAN DANUBE FROM WIDDIN TO THE BLACK SEA
"Oh, brooding East!
Oh, winds of Dawn!
From the night-long feast
The Kings have gone.
What hosts will come
Down the World's Highway,
At the roll of the drum
For-the Day? "
WIDDIN is a place best seen from a distance. A nearer view
brings disappointment. At night from the river it seems possessed
of a mysterious charm, but the practical light of day shows it to
be a very ordinary town. Like many of the Danube ports, it has
not yet made up its mind whether to be Christian or Mohammedan, Bulgarian or Turkish. As a terminus for some of the
larger sailing vessels that navigate the river, it has importance
and an air of activity. Balkan towns invariably awake with
a spontaneous and universal [clatter. There are no timid preliminary noises. Apparently every one bounds up at exactly
the same moment, and, without more ado, gets to work. Ten
minutes after dawn business is in full swing.
The Mohammedan quarter differs greatly from the Christian.
It is squalid, 'ancient, insanitary, full of waddling, shuffling,
snivelling, sad-faced, intolerably depressed, degenerate Mussulmans. There is the usual extensive market-place, and, what is
almost as usual in these old Danubian ports, a great citadel or
fortress, which overlooks the green meadows and casts its shadow
across the wretched dwellings of Islam. The principal thoroughfare is long and bordered by stunted, sometimes gaily painted,
houses, small open shops and deeply alcoved cafes, where, even
at this early hour, customers are seated, sipping coffee, gossiping
and discussing politics. The knowledge of three languagesBulgarian, Roumanian and Turkish-is desirable from Widdin
down to the sea if the wayfarer would buy and bargain successfully; and to these tongues might, with advantage, be added
German, moder Greek and Serbian, as well as a smattering of
14




OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES IN NEAR EAST 15


Southern Russian, seeing that the leather trade is principally in
the hands of Circassians and Little Russians. The queerest of
queer folk come and go and give one the impression of never
having been in bed at all. Bulgarian soldiers in high caps, belted
tunics, and brown red-slashed homespun trousers, with revolvers
and clanking sabres, stride by. Caravans of merchandise on
clumsy arabas, or native carts-grotesque vehicles, formed of
long tree-trunks joined together by slight wooden poles, without
springs, with wobbling wheels groaning as if in pain, drawn by
patient, much-flogged oxen or buffaloes-converge towards the
centre of the town, their loads heaped so high as to make them, on
their drunken wheels, perilously top-heavy. A ludicrous picture
the beasts make, their forelocks dangling between their horns,
dyed flaring yellow-a sure preventive against the evil eye.
Two country-women, perched aloft on pack saddles with legs
crossed on the top of their skinny little ponies' necks, ride by,
industriously plying their distaffs. Donkeys drift along, their
worried, wistful faces and trembling spindle legs alone visible
beneath their enormous loads. Not always does Widdin show
such a queer medley of peoples and races. But this is the chief
fair day of the summer, and many quaint folks and strangers have
come to buy and sell. Here are some poor, cringing, unmanly
Armenians, dressed in ankle-long dirty cotton dressing-gowns,
slit up at the sides, giving a glimpse of baggy trousers, their bare
feet thrust into slippers the heels of which have long departed,
with dirty fezzes on their shaggy, filthy heads. Here, too, are
a couple of nomad Turkomans, accompanied by their ladies, all
riding astride. Greeks, Jews, Serbs, Vlachs, flit in and out of
the shops and stand in knots about the corners. Roumanian
shepherds, brown of face, brown of eye, clad in voluminous soft
brown woollen cloaks, brown woollen leg wrappings and brown
hide sandals, discourse wild melodies on brown reed pipes as they
lead their shuffling, bleating flocks of brown sheep to the marketplace. Troops of blunt-nosed, mat-like dogs wander about.
That high-turbaned, blue-cloaked, crumpled-looking personage
over there is a Tartar farmer from Medjidie, in the Dobrudja. He
has an evil countenance and his squinting, shifty eyes peer
furtively from under his lofty headgear. Whoever tries to cheat
this gentleman with regard to the value of the woolpacks which he
has brought by barge up river from the Dobrudja, will literally
find that he has " caught a Tartar." Under the shade of a spreading catalpa tree, near a yellow-coloured, three-towered church of
the Orthodox Faith, an old Turk, with a parrot nose and beady
black eyes, with a face not unlike those seen on the ancient
Byzantine mosaics, is selling rahat lakoum, which is set out in
little sugary pink and white pyramids on a lacquered tray, and




16


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


his companion, a boy, in a red fez and indigo blue shirt, is diligently stirring a brass cauldron of the boiling sweetmeat over a
charcoal-filled brazier. A prodigiously fat, long-haired, blackrobed priest puffs and pants up the steps of the sacred edifice,
pausing half-way to take breath and bestow his blessing on any
who may care to claim it.
Seated round a wooden table, set out on the pavement in front
of a cafe, is a Roumanian wedding party. Of all the strange,
brilliant groups they are the most brilliant. The bridegroom
and his best man are slender, well-knit, sunburnt young fellows,
eagle-eyed, eagle-nosed, thin-lipped. They wear the gala dress of
their nation-white skin-tight breeches with braided extremities,
a gaily-embroidered scarlet coat, a dazzling white linen shirt
standing out in stiff pleats over the hips, a jaunty little black hat,
a rose behind the ear, and dagger in belt. The bride and her girl
friend have likewise donned holiday attire, which for women
consists of a long, clinging white robe, a scarlet or blue silverfringed apron-catrinte-a gauze, sequin-spangled veil, held off
from the forehead by two little silver horns. There is a local
saying that " God gave the Romdn women beauty in exchange
for happiness," and these girls, with their oval, richly-tinted
faces and velvety dark eyes, certainly uphold their countrywomen's reputation for good looks. Nor do they appear to have
bartered away any of their happiness. There is something
refreshingly pagan in their careless, merry laughter and free,
untrammelled gestures.
Widdin has many German-owned shops, and a disagreeable
climate. It is as objectionably scorching in summer as it is
freezing cold in winter.
Riding at anchor near the wharf are many old-world sailing
vessels, in appearance like those in which Drake sallied forth to
seek empire in a new world. Their sters are towering, pompous
and ornate,' and single masts spring from the centre of their
decks. Various peculiar and primitive fishing boats and numerous gigantic flat-bottomed barges roll and heave along the river.
Cargoes are being unloaded. One gaping hold is vomiting out
a freight of squealing Dobrudja swine, more like wild boars than
ordinary domestic pigs, thin, light little brutes, but capable of
being converted into most succulent pork. It is well to give
them a wide berth, for the fleas which reside on them are quite
the most active and ferocious of their kind. Another craft is
crammed with a flock of the famous Baragan sheep, which in
former times provided the only mutton thought fine enough to be
served at the Sultan's table. On a raft alongside are stacks of
odoriferous Dobrudja ewe's-milk cheeses wrapped each in its
separate sheepskin. There are mountains of lumber. There are




IN THE NEAR EAST


17


wine casks labelled, "Piscul Cerbulul" and "Gotnar," with
smaller tubs marked " Tsuica," which bring to mind the primeval
Carpathian forests and the vineyards of Moldavia and Jassy.
No easy task is it for the steamer to steer a clear course into midstream. But scenes and places more fascinating than Widdin
are calling the traveller, and on the water the breeze brings no
dust.
Just below Widdin, at the Bulgarian town of Ar6er Palanka,
the Danube changes its course from the south to the east and
continues to flow in this direction for about three hundred miles
until Silistria and Cernavoda, in the Dobrudja, are reached.
Hamlets and towns slip by one after the other, each shining
whitely against the low, drab, grassy, willow-grown banks and
the muddy shore, where, at intervals amongst the reeds and
drying fishing nets, children and even grown women are bathing
and disporting themselves in the shallows, their only covering
being the mud on their bodies. Lom Palanka, celebrated for its
wells, and Rahova and Korabia and Nicopoli are reached and
left behind. Evidently all these ports are commercially in a
flourishing state, and the late Balkan wars seem to have wrought
little injury from a trading point of view. Night falls again,
purple, star-gemmed, lucent beneath the luminous rays of the
moon, and the " Calea lui Trajan." 1 Sleep is impossible so long
as mankind's most remorseless tormentors, the mosquitoes, continue to thrust their poisonous proboscis into every exposed pore
of one's skin. Awful and blood-curdling tales are related hereabouts-the Danube Valley abounds with tragic stories-but
none awaken a stranger's sympathy more fervently than those
which tell of the sufferings and deaths which have resulted from
the carnivorous habits of these entirely evil insects. It is said
that, not so many years ago, husbands in the Danube Valley,
when tortured to distraction by mosquitoes, were wont to strip
their wives and tie them up close by in the fond hope that their
superior attractions would divert the attentions of these venomous
insect pests!
Another day dawns and develops to noon and wanes to sunset,
leaving behind unfading memories of sunken marshes, glassysurfaced lagoons and solitary lakes, where the silence is unbroken
save by the faint rustling of shy animal life, by the calling of the
pheasants, the " peeh-wheeting " of the plovers, the water dashes
of the coots, the whirl of flocks of winged bustard, duck, geese,
and swans, the flop-flopping of the huge-beaked pelicans, white
cranes, herons and gawky storks, by the twittering bickerings
of the blue-tits, and yellow-hammers, dabchicks, chaffinches,
mavises, ringdoves and countless other feathered species which
1 Trajan's Road-the Roumanian name for the Milky Way.
C




18


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


inhabit the willows and alder bushes overshadowing the rush and
reed-grown creeks, amongst which millions of frogs keep up an
incessant croaking. Yes, there are many things to recall on the
Roumanian river bank-forlorn picket stations and lonely Romdn
sentries, and on the Bulgarian and higher shore-rich, undulating
pasture lands and small rounded hills, and scattered thatch-roofed
homesteads, quaint haystacks, and enormous herds of red-eyed,
black buffaloes, with flat curved horns, whose chief aim in life
is, apparently, to get to the water and there cool their sore, suncracked hides, wallowing and snorting in the deepest morasses,
submerging in the mud every portion of their bodies except their
soft, gloomy noses. Here the god Pan rules supreme; here
amongst these deserted watery meadows he plays his pipe-perhaps it is only the pipe of a Romdn herd-boy?-here, amongst the
lonely, unfamiliar, blue and lilac and purple and golden flowers,
which bloom in great patches among the brown and green rushes.
Sheets of pale scabious and chicory and monstrous clumps of
fragrant heliotrope cover the little islands lying out in mid-stream,
secure behind their whispering willow boundaries, and sandy,
tamarisk-grown sand-banks.
But not all the day's recollections are so full of lonely quietness.
There remain, too, picturesque memories of ships with snowy
canvas full spread, moving majestically up river and, less
majestically, down. Memories of old-world water-mills which
sometimes break out from their mud creeks and get drawn into
the waterway, there to come into disastrous collision with larger
and more agile craft. Memories of timber rafts, and keelless
barges, and fisher folk who seek for caviare. Memories of yellow,
dusty roads, winding over the landscape into the horizon, along
which crawl writhing, twisting trains of ox-wagons, or fateblown troops of homeless Tziganes, carrying their whole world with
them on the backs of their ponies. Necopoli, too, brings up a
vision six hundred and twenty years old, a vision of the terrible
day when it was the scene of a battle which decided the fate of all
the Christian States of South-Eastern Europe. Not much effort
of imagination is required to call to life again King Sigismund of
Hungary and the princes, captains and soldiers of Burgundy,
France, Bavaria, Suabia, and Styria, the Knights of St. John, the
nobles of Serbia, Transylvania and Wallachia, and to see them
once more arrayed in all their glory with banners and lances
glinting in the sunlight which burns over the rolling hill beside
the great river, and its tributary, the Aluta, or to see again at
sunset their Turkish conqueror, Bajazet, with his victorious
Janissaries and Spahis galloping in triumph over the corpses of
Christian Europe's chivalry.
Sistova, unchanged and unchangeable, lies about twenty-five




IN THE NEAR EAST


19


miles below Necopoli. Here a generation ago the Russians
crossed the Danube on a pontoon bridge and marched through
the streets, across maize and wheat fields, to Plevna and the
Shipka Pass, which is really not a pass at all but only a sinuous
hilly road over one of the Lower Balkans. Here, as elsewhere
along the river, the name of Trajan is still remembered and held
in respect. It is not the tales of Plevna that the children love to
listen to, or that the native bards of both sides of the river love
to chant. It is the prowess and might of the Conqueror of Dacia
which forms the undying theme of nearly every local Bulgarian
and Roumanian ballad, and naughty children are told if they do
not " become good " their forefathers' conqueror, the great Roman
Emperor, will appear in human form, with three heads and waxen
wings, and fly away with them to some fearful place on the other
side of Constantinople.
By the time Sistova has come and gone one fact has become
undisputable, namely, that the Bulgars of the Danube Valley
are a most disagreeable people, and, as if it were not enough to
be ugly of disposition, they are also distressingly unprepossessing
of countenance. What wonder is it, therefore, that the vivacious,
beauty-loving, irrepressible Serbs on one side, and the gay,
artistic, take-things-as they-come, pagan-hearted Roumanians
on the other side, both cordially dislike these dour, slow-thinking,
surly, impolite, greedy, though, no doubt, " honest "and " industrious " Bulgars, these market gardeners of the Danube, who
growl and grumble from their cradles to their graves, giving
nothing with a good will, unless indeed it be a tedious rechaufe
of their wrongs and grievances?
Rustchuk, on the Bulgarian shore, is the most important and
the most western town on the banks of the lower reaches of the
Danube. In it there is a constant circulation of peoples, ideas,
and commerce, due to the fact that it is directly situated on the
great main route to Constantinople (via rail to Varna, on the
Black Sea), while it is barely two hours distant from Bucharest,
the beautiful Roumanian capital. It is strongly fortified, and
possesses the usual citadel, which still shows marks of the Russian
bombardment of 1877, and can boast of tolerably well-swept,
well-built streets and quite a number of up-to-date shops, the
windows of which are crammed with all those familiar horrors
that are " made in Germany." Nevertheless, even Rustchuk has
not been able to break free from the spell of the East. Wedged
in between the smart, new, plate-glass-windowed shops are stalls
and booths and little "Kismet "-ruled Oriental stores, where
bright carpets, silver ornaments, strange foods, brilliant
embroideries, luscious fruits, sweetmeats, sheepskins, hide
sandals, and perfumes can be purchased. Between Rustchuk




20


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


and Giurgevo, the Roumanian port of Bucharest, the river
widens out to a breadth of three miles. Giurgevo is likewise a
picturesque, busy, thriving place, not very Oriental in aspect, for
Roumania, though in the East, is not of the East. The quay,
which does not exactly join the town of Giurgevo, is crowded with
goods-timber, oil and wine casks, farm    produce, etc.-all
brought down for shipment from the interior of Roumania. The
streets are thronged with light-hearted, handsome Romdns,
smart, brown-uniformed officers and soldiers, white and blue and
scarlet-clad peasants, arcadian shepherds, priests of the Orthodox faith, hairy red pigs, sheep, droves of geese and turkeys,
fawn-coloured oxen, dainty, Parisian-attired ladies of fashion,
buffalo wagons, and motor-cars. A glimpse at Giurgevo makes
one realise that the descendants of Trajan's legionaries are no
longer going to exist on their eighteen-hundred-years-old reputation, but are themselves about to achieve greatness.
The scenery is flat and featureless between these ports and
Turtukai, a distance of some thirty miles. Then the banks again
rise, and on the luxuriant little islets vines, poplars, willows,
fairy-bright flowers grow and blossom in profusion.
On a projecting neck of land which juts out into the streamat this point a broad, island-dotted lagoon-backed by tawny
hill-tops surmounted by heavy earthworks of the same colour,
with yellowish walls encircling a little forest of spires, turrets,
white minarets, bright domes, and pointed house-roofs, is Silistria.
The mere name of Silistria brings a resentful scowl to Bulgar
faces, for it recalls bitter and recent defeat and humiliation.
Before the late Balkan campaigns this town marked the spot
where the Bulgarian frontier left the Danube and turned in a
south-easterly direction towards the sea. Silistria has since
become Roumanian, and the Bulgar sentries had to take up their
outpost duties back half-way between Rustchuk and the large
village of Turtukai.
After Silistria the river finds itself checked by the rising plain
of the Dobrudja, and, turning leisurely towards the north, continues to flow parallel with the sea-coast for 150 miles until, at
Galatz, it bends eastwards to the Black Sea.
If not the most important port on the Danube, Silistria is
perhaps the strongest of the river fortresses. Beyond it stretches
the long, dreary, perilous road across the Balkans to the city of
the Sultan. Blood has dyed the history of the place red: Greek
blood, Roman blood, Slav blood, Turkish blood, even English
blood have stained its cobbled streets through long and tortured
centuries. After Silistria the scenery is dreary beyond description. On the right are grassy hills, and to the left are marshes
intersected by straggling branches of the main stream, where




IN THE NEAR EAST


21


green rushes and rank grasses flourish in the sticky, black,
horrible mud, which after sundown exudes fever and a very evil
odour. From this point down to the Delta it is not an exaggeration to say that every dweller in the valley is born with the
dreaded Danube fever in his blood. It is, indeed, asserted that the
temperature of these Danube fishermen is ever above normal!
Now we are in the Dobrudja (which means " good pasture "),
the name given to the wild, rolling, God-forsaken plain which
lies on the right of the river opposite the equally lonely and
deserted Baragan steppe. Between these two vast stretches of
open country the Danube winds and curves, sometimes shallow,
sometimes deep, around sprawling, marshy islands, the two
largest of which measure respectively fifty and forty miles in
length and about ten miles in breadth.
It is difficult to describe utter emptiness, utter loneliness. All
the objects and scenes and life with which one has become familiar on the voyage now vanish. The floating mills, the white
villages, the bright costumes, the sounds and sights of human
activity are no more to be seen or heard. The East and the
atmosphere of the East hold this land in thrall. The political
and military power of Islam may have retreated, but its ideals
and doctrines remain, and the very air of the Dobrudja brings
supineness, fatalism, a belief in the uselessness of combating
anything, especially the silent, irresistible forces of Nature, the
will of a passionless, remorseless Deity.
Along the muddy, sunken river banks the rushes and stunted
willows are a brilliant green, and on the islands, glowing in great
vivid patches behind the rushes, low scrub, and tamarisk, there
are wonderful flowers-melilot, the sweet-scented clover, convolvulus, wild roses, blue veronica, chicory, snapdragon. Up and
down stream go tow-boats and lighters and sailing vessels,
manned by brightly-clad Turks, Roumanians, or Greeks. Here
and there one of these ships may be seen stuck high and dry
on a muddy reef, a derelict, driven to destruction by one of the
sudden violent squalls so common on the Lower Danube. But it
is not the things near at hand which attract and rivet the attention; it is the vast, limitless solitudes beyond which seem to
cast a spell upon the traveller. Look there to the left across the
rising grassy desert of the Baragan. Parched under the burning
summer sun the steppe drifts and rolls away, away far as eye
can reach. The soil is yellow, and the whole landscape is touched
by the same dead, dull hue. Out there is a desert, a desert whose
monotony is broken only by a few yellow roads, or tracks, where
the saffron dust lies a foot deep, to rise in blinding, choking
clouds with the passing of every wandering bullock caravan, or
sheep and swine herd. Sometimes the grass gives place to maize,




22


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


but both grass and maize are yellow-yellow grass covering a
boundless, undulating, melancholy desert. Here and there, at
rare intervals, are villages, or rather clusters of rude, clay, wattleroofed huts surrounded by tall, decrepit, wattle fences. Summer
may be terrible here, but winter is still more awful when the
snow covers the face of the earth, when the fierce Russian wind
sweeps by with hurricane force, leaving men and beasts frozen
stark in death; when the wolves muster to satisfy their hunger
and the ravens croak over the icy fields. Civilisation cannot tame
the Dobrudja; civilisation may bring railways and bridges, but
the homes and thoughts and customs of the inhabitants are not
more civilised to-day than they were in the days of the Roman
Conquest. The village huts are the same now as they were
eighteen hundred years ago: queer erections of earth which,
viewed from a distance, show only their wattle roofs. For, in
order to render the heat of summer and the cold of winter more
endurable, they are built in holes or caves dug in the ground.
When a Dobrudja homestead is being constructed the earth is
first hollowed out into a pit, the sides of which are smoothly
plastered with mud mixed with cow-dung. A great fire of straw
is then lighted within the hole and kept burning until the interior
is baked to a brick-like solidity and dryness, after which the
place excavated is roofed in by wooden beams covered by wattles
and rushes. As a rule, a chimney is non-existent, and the illsmelling, eye-injuring smoke-the smoke of cow-dung mixed with
straw-filters out through the door, round which a few stunted
bushes are planted to protect the entrance from sun and wind.
A couple of wooden planks, a table, a box to hold the family
treasures and clothing represent the furniture of a typical peasant
home in this land of Good Pasturage. There are folks here who
cannot boast even such dwelling-places as these. Since time was
young the Dobrudja has been a chosen hunting-ground for nomad
tribes. The Vlachs, the Tziganes, the exiled Tartars have drifted
for ages to and fro across its wind-swept spaces, pitching their
tents where they would, grazing their flocks and herds where they
found the best pasture, the purest water, and the kindliest
villagers. These tribes enjoy, at least, human companionship,
but not so the shepherds. Homeless and comfortless, they too
roam the wilderness, but they roam it alone. Summer and
winter, year in, year out, they watch their flocks and guide them
from upland to valley. Clad in uncured and ragged sheepskin
caps, coats, and breeches, these shepherds and herdsmen of the
Dobrudja bear a ludicrous resemblance to shaggy old rams as
they saunter along between their heavily laden pack donkeys or
ponies, preceded by their huge, savage, woolly, tailless, and, of
course, yellow dogs, and followed by their sheep, which likewise




IN THE NEAR EAST


23


seem tinted with the same jaundice hue. Up and down, backwards and forwards, over the solitudes they wander, seldom
speaking to men, still more seldom to women. On fine, warm,
still evenings one can hear them coming in the distance, the wild,
sad music of their pipes mingling with the rustling and sobbing
and sighing of the long grasses and the murmuring of the breeze.
There is something mysterious in the dark, thin, dreamy faces 6f
the nomads of the Dobrudja, something which tells that they have
come into direct contact with the forces of Nature and found
them irresistible; something which tells that to them " has been
revealed the story of the Overwhelming."
"A forsaken land, a wilderness, a land where no man
dwelleth," 1 and the depression of soul grows deeper as the sun
casts a last slanting ray of gold and orange across the boundless
plains, as the dusk descends, and the silence of the night, the
silence of the Silent One, which broods over lonely places such as
these envelops the earth.
The hours pass, and the purple night grows more transparent.
The moon fades and the stars cease to be of any account. A long
streak of rosy light and some crimson, golden-edged cloudlets
proclaim the coming of the morning. Then, in a burst of splendour, the Sun, the mighty god, rides up and takes the new day
to his arms.
With the morning and the sunshine the light-steeped spaces
seem to tremble and move as clouds of black and reddish and
yellow buffaloes, swine, and sheep slowly emerge grazing. Some
scantily-attired fishermen are drying their nets beside their flatbottomed boats, and a little goatherd is piping dolefully to his
flock on a neighbouring hillock. Pelicans and storks, herons and
cranes, geese, mallards, teal, widgeon, quail, and snipe, and
apparently all the singing birds of the world are awake and
feeding and quarrelling and carolling amongst the reeds and
willow-fringed islands. A troop of wild horses lift their heads,
neigh, and gallop off on unshod hoofs, with tails and manes
flying. Clear and thrilling, the song of the lark rings high overhead. Outside one hamlet is a wide circle of stones set on edge
and standing about three and a half feet high. Within this
threshing ring a drove of half-broken mares and foals are being
chivied around and around by some shock-headed peasants who
squat on the wall yelling unutterable and untranslatable things,
brandishing long cow-tail whips, while the much-scared animals
tread and trample the grain from the stalk. This is how they
thresh their corn in the Dobrudja. It may not tend to purity, but
it is very ancient.
Clearly outlined against the blue sky, following the contours
1 The Dobrudja contains many villages, yet it always appears deserted.




24


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


of the low, gently swelling hills, rise the ramparts of the Great
Wall of Trajan, which runs in an unbroken line for forty-five
miles right down to Kustendji, on the Black Sea. Under its
shelter the benighted or storm-struck wanderers of the plains
have been wont to seek refuge through long ages. Well they
know every inch of this marvellous old ditch, which measures
twelve feet deep on one side and forty on the other, and is over
twenty feet wide at the top. Many a benighted Vlach and
Tzigane, many a forlorn and perishing shepherd, has blessed the
name of the Great Conqueror who raised this barrier across the
bleak, treeless, unshadowed, shelterless plain; whose soldiers
brought hither by means unknown these tremendous boulders 1
to form a fortress and a shade in a lonely land.
At Tchernavoda, or Cernavoda-Black Water-the Danube is
over a mile wide and has the consistency and colour of Scotch
broth. This mile of actual river swells at certain seasons of the
year into many miles of slimy water. Low hills and a series of
limestone cliffs, covered with wild vine and clematis, bound the
stream on the Dobrudja side, but the opposite shore lies so low
that more often than not it is under flood. In midsummer an
emerald-green sea of rushes, reeds, and rank grass envelops the
orange-coloured, mosquito-infested channels and half-dry gullies
created by the receding spring floods. The town itself is dull and
purely commercial. In spite of its bustling activity the Orient
has also marked it for its own in many things besides squalor.
Along the quay there are large ships lying to, and cargoes of
grain and live-stock and petroleum and wine are being loaded by
barbaric-visaged labourers of various nationalities.
Noise, flies, fleas, and dust are the things which strike one
most in this town of the " Black Water," not even excepting the
immense double railway bridge over the river and the monster
granaries where corn is stored sufficient to feed millions.
As to the bridge, undoubtedly it is a splendid monument of
modern human enterprise. For over twelve and a half miles
its lofty viaducts and fairy-light arches tower proudly above the
far-stretching lakes and swamps, linking up the railway from
Kustendji (Constanza), on the Black Sea, across the river northwestwards till it joins the Roumanian main line which runs from
Suczawa, in Bukovina, through Moldavia and Wallachia, and
crosses the Hungarian frontier at Verciorova. By this bridge
Roumania "Beyond the Water" is united with Roumania
proper.
Most of those who work and loiter on the landing-stage of
Cernavoda are strange and peculiar-looking people. Here are
1 Many of the stones which formed Trajan's Wall, and which are now
more or less scattered, weigh 7 or 8 or 9 tons.




IN THE NEAR EAST


25


Tartar Mussulmans from Mejidieh, a settlement lying half-way
down to Kustendji, which at the time of the Russian immigration over a century ago was nothing but a miserable village of
about fifteen hovels, with a khan and a mosque, situated on a
fever-stricken marsh, but which these exiles have now converted
into a fairly prosperous town. They are a stolid-looking people
these Crim-Tartars, and their bilious countenances, topped by
the customary inadequately small red fez, are ugly, but they
are nevertheless a plucky and industrious community. The
Slav element also is strong on the Dobrudja, and the Russian
language is largely spoken by the descendants of the different
Russo-Slav tribes and sects who came here at various times.
Amongst these are the Lipovans, or " Old Believers," whose
ancestors left their native country because they objected to Peter'
the Great assuming the title of Supreme Head of the Russian
Church. Then there are the Cossacks, settlers from the Ukraine,
who hold the same religious views as the Lipovans and do most
of the fishing on the lower river. To these may be added halfbred Bulgars and a few Serbs. Then there are Greeks-experts
in intrigue and trickery wherever found-as well as Jews, Turks,
Armenians, Muscovite Russians, and swarms of Tziganes. Aliens
and half-breeds seem to predominate in the Dobrudja.
Near Hirsova, ancient Carsium, the scenery changes and
becomes beautiful and hilly, and on a height at the entrance to
a defile there is a battered old Turkish castle. The outlook, too,
grows more cheerful. Somehow the great lagoons and meandering lakes seem more inclined to smile, and every island is carpeted
with myriads of wild flowers. The scattered villages appear
slightly less wretched; the huts are still of clay, roofed with
wattle, but they have tiny, blossoming gardens, and their drab
mud walls are hidden behind vines and gourd plants. The
inhabitants appear less melancholy, and wear the Roumanian
dress of white linen.
By this time it is evident that the mighty torrent, which has
been gathering volume, if not passion or activity, from its
hundreds of tributaries, is nearing the end of its quest. Below
Hirsova one is apt to forget that the Danube is a river at all, for
the banks recede to such a distance that, unless the day be clear,
the land is scarcely visible, and should one of the characteristic
Lower Danube storms arise the agonies of sea-sickness recall
the ocean. The islands widen and lengthen and become more
frequent. The stream breaks into channels, and navigation
grows extremely difficult. Melancholy descends once more, and
is emphasised by the presence of thousands of doleful, long-billed
pelicans standing like lugubrious sentinels in rows upon rows
amongst the rustling water grasses and reeds. Winging their




26


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


way home to the distant Dobrudja highlands, a couple of eagles
swoop high overhead, fitting residents in this land of desolation.
At Braila, the next stopping-place, the scene at the quay is
much the same as at Cernavoda. There is the same crowd of
odd, mixed-up-looking people; the same bewildering noises; the
same flies, and fleas, and mosquitoes; the same patiently waiting procession of buffalo wagons; the same big granaries and
factories; the same cargoes and the same number of German
traders! In the architecture, however, of the town itself, as
seen from the river, the influence of Russia is plain in the gaudilycoloured domes and burnished spires. Here, too, the shipping
is larger than at Cernavoda, and great sea-going vessels of several
thousand tons displacement are at anchorage beside the wharfs.
After Braila comes Galatz. Any one acquainted with a big,
bustling, Oriental port can picture Galatz. It is enough to say
that it is not a place of decay, nor of beauty, nor of poetic
memory. Here trading Germany again leads the way-an unpleasant fact to be digested by the nation which sings how it
rules the waves. Over these waves of the Danube Great Britain
commercially does not hold sway-as yet.
This disagreeable consideration, and the equally obnoxious fact
that Galatz is the most dust-possessed spot ever created, have
become two fixtures in the mind when once again the steamer
commences to makes its way down river, and one leaves, without
regret, the grain capital of the Danube sitting green and white
and glittering on the neck of land which runs out between the
Sereth and the Pruth.
Beyond Galatz the river writhes and, with a final twist, turns
eastwards and bursts, near Tultcha, into three separate channels,
which struggle across an immense, horrible, and unhealthy
alluvial delta towards the sea.1 Considering that at many points
along the lower reaches, particularly at the centre of the Cernavoda valley, the land lies below the level of the river, it is not
surprising that the country surrounding these mouths of the
Danube is almost perpetually in a state of flood. Even at midsummer the swamps and lakes are often joined together into one
huge watery whole, covered here and there for miles upon miles
1 There are three mouths to the Danube by which it enters the Black
Sea-the Kilia, the Sulina, and the St. George's. By the Treaty of Paris
(1856) a European Commission was constituted (on which were represented
Austria, France, Great Britain, Prussia, Russia, Sardinia, and Turkey) to
execute works necessary to put the entrance to the river in the best possible state for navigation. The engineer to this Commission was Sir
Charles Hartley, under whose direction works were carried out that completely changed the character of the lower reaches of the river and made
the Sulina, or middle branch, navigable for large sea-going vessels.




IN THE NEAR EAST                      27
with masses of raw green bulrushes and reeds. A fit place,
truly, for frogs, waterfowl, and mosquitoes, but the last place
on earth one would fancy for human habitations! Yet even
here there are villages. Those on the Dobrudja are miserable,
but they cannot be compared in misery with these. Sunken
between great osier quagmires, with their foundations stuck fast
in oily, stinking mud, from out of which their pointed wattle
roofs rise like so many half-submerged haystacks, they give an
appearance of complete and abject destitution. An old-time Irish
cabin would appear a palatial residence beside one of these delta
hovels. In summer the roads are water-logged; in winter they
are sheets of ice. There is no happy mean of climate here.
The cold oftwinter is as extreme as the heat of summer, when
the entire land is smitten as with a pestilence by a plague of
flies, myriads of mosquitoes spreading among the unfortunate
inhabitants malaria and various other varieties of illnesses.
Nevertheless, herds of sheep and horses are bred on the swampy
stretches, and the summer scene is enlivened by moving masses
of inky-black buffaloes revelling in the slime of the lagoons.
Adown the Sulina channel the steamer is passing as the sun
sinks behind in a passion of scarlet and gold, which colours
every lake and pool and swamp until all seem filled with blood.
The waterway is alive with vessels silently moving, coming and
going. Their tall masts and sails are dyed the same blood-red
hue. The Wander Spirit whispers, and voices, sinister, prophetic, seem to come from out the Unknown. A wonderful,
waiting, breathless stillness falls on the world. The glow fades;
a solitary star burns yonder in the east. Its light touches something almost as brilliantly white as itself-a long, curling bar of
pearl lying directly in front of the ship's bow.
And then a Voice, familiar to travellers born of a race which
does its business on the great waters, the Voice of the Seagentle, mysterious, mighty-murmurs through the gathering
shadows, whispers among the phantom visions, that the great
River has at last found its Love and that its varied course is
ended.




PART II
IN ROUMANIAN LANDS
CHAPTER III
BUCHAREST WHEN THE WAR CAME
IT is along the boulevards of Bucharest, as it is along the
boulevards of Paris, that the traveller can best study the life
of the city in its most characteristic phases. Here the dull,
grey, serious world seems to be non-existent. To the town-bred
Roumanian, born a flineur, the streets are a source of neverending delight. There is so much to stare at, to marvel at, to
revel in. It seems scarcely credible that fifty years ago these
streets were nothing better than rough country roads, in the
mud of which ox-wagons and carriages were wont to stick fast,
while the sidewalks were paved with boulders taken from the
bed of the Dombovitza. Well within the memory of the older
inhabitants petroleum lamps were the only lights obtainable,
sanitation was conspicuous by its absence, and the Royal palace
was little better than a huge farmhouse. Now there is not a
vestige of an old building to be seen from one end to the other
of the grand boulevards, where nationalism, independence,
petroleum wells, granite quarries, and grain have changed an
old into a new 'Roumania. Turn, however, down any one of the
side streets leading off the main thoroughfares and enter the
older quarters of the town, and it will be possible to fancy oneself back again in a Roumanian country village. Small, low,
white or pink, wooden-roofed cottages, with stacks of firewood
and sheds leaning up against them, surrounded by tall, bright
green, poplar, mulberry, and plane trees, and orchards, fronted
by tiny gardens full of lilies, roses, and sunflowers, meet the eye.
Everywhere is heard the cackling, gobbling, crowing and screeching of cocks, hens, turkeys and geese. Here in one open space
a flock of white sheep with fawn-coloured ears and fawn-coloured
feet are resting, guarded by a couple of shaggy, bare-legged,
bronzed shepherds clad in huge brown felt cloaks, with black
28




OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES IN NEAR EAST 29
astrakhan caps, the size of a tea-cosy, on the swart heads, and
with ten-foot staffs in their hands. Deplorably mingled with
the sheep are the goats-goats of all sorts and styles, black,
brown, white, and mottled; goats with horns, sweeping in
immense curves over their backs. Not far off, under a clump of
alders and willows, are some ox-wagons, and beside these, on the
dusty ground, sleepy-eyed white oxen and buffaloes lie chewing
the cud, while others of their species are hauling along their
squealing, wooden-wheeled, overladen carts, the noise from which
is enough to set the strongest nerves on edge. Behind booths
set out upon the roadways the market folk are serenely waiting
for purchasers. The women turn their distaffs, the men smoke
and play cards and leave fortune unwooed, apparently indifferent
as to whether or not they do bad or good business. Herein
Roumanians differ absolutely from the French, with whom, and
not always correctly, they are compared. With " the dignity of
labour" these excellent people are totally unacquainted. Yet
no one works harder for six days out of seven than does the
ordinary Roumanian peasant, who is the backbone of the nation,
but he works to live, not lives to work. It is by no means the
Roumanians only who possess stalls in these old side streetsTziganes, Turks, Jews, Greeks, Bulgarians and Armenians have
also set out their merchandise. On the nearest table are scores
upon scores of sweet cakes and rings of white bread sprinkled
with poppy-seeds; at the next are squares and rolls of raw
leather for sandals; on another, where the flies buzz horribly,
are piles of dried eels and dried fish in various stages of objectionableness. Farther on a potter is displaying his beautiful earthenware pitchers and bowls. Adjoining his stall an ancient crone is
uttering shrill warnings against the dangers of the Evil Eye, and
urging all wise people to buy a matrasoare, or amulet, from her
collection. She does a roaring trade, especially amongst the
women, for the Romdns of to-day believe as implicitly in ghosts
and phantoms, spirits and omens, fairies and demons, as they
did in the days of Trajan, and, consequently, a matrasoare dangles
from every prudent neck. Opposite the amulet store stands a
queer kind of tea-table, on which is a samovar and a row of
metal cups, presided over by another wrinkled dame. Not far
removed, under the big, sweet-smelling lime trees, a Turkish
rose-vendor is selling roses which are to be boiled into jam. In
a pair of glittering brass scales he is carefully weighing out the
perfumed petals, whilst he gossips with a bird-fancier who is
squatting in the centre of his cages, wherein are yellow canaries,
Java sparrows, parrakeets, thrushes, nightingales, and ringdoves.
Across the way are the vegetable and fruit sellers. All round
their booths are scattered heaps of crisp lettuce, cabbage, cauli



30


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


flowers, pumpkins (huge enough to make a Cinderella's carriage),
artichokes, clusters of garlic and onions, scarlet tomatoes, and
scores of gigantic baskets brimming over with wild strawberries,
nectarines, freckled apricots, peaches, figs, red and white and
black cherries, and melons, like so many green bombshells. An
armful of melons can be " had for a joke " in this country, and
thirsty, perspiring wagoners, shepherds, and swineherds are
seated on the edge of the pavement with faces plunged into rosy
wedges of the fruit, from which the juice spurts and trickles on
their white shirts. Sizzling over a brazier a yard or so removed
from the fruit-booth is a tremendous copper cauldron full of an
oily, red-tinted broth or gravy. Above it, suspended from the
poles, are strings upon strings of withered, dried-up little black
sausages-carnale; and the proper thing to do, so far as these
carnale are concerned, is to buy a few-that is, if the mere sight
of the " delicacies " does not prove over-nauseating-and before
eating, which must be done on the spot, dip them for a few
moments into the fat, red gravy. Then come the fish and caviare
stalls, supplied from the Danube fisheries. These stand in
close proximity to the dried fruit and seed booths, the grainsellers, knife-grinders, ikon-dealers, and jewellers, and at the
end of the long line a young girl is crying, " Busioc de dragoste "
(" love sweet basil ") and " mavalnic " (a kind of fern). She, too,
finds ready purchasers amongst her sex, for superstition says
that a sprig of basil, if worn in a maiden's girdle, is sure to keep
her lover faithful, and that a spray of the fern is equally certain
to procure a husband for the wearer, be she ever so old and ugly!
Easy good-nature and joyousness permeate everywhere. Friend
chaffs friend across the stalls and sunlit roadway. People sing
-sing like birds at the tops of their voices and pour out floods
of sweet, wild melody. Boys and girls pass and repass, balancing wide wicker baskets laden with flowers and fruit on their
heads. Water purveyors clank their bronze pitchers. Greasy,
long-haired popas, lifting dirty hands in benediction, shuffle
homewards and dinnerwards, weighed down beneath packages,
bags and baskets literally bulging with comestibles. Donkeys
and pack ponies trot by, raising clouds of powdery golden dust.
A ballad-singer, an old man, nearly blind, twangs his cobza,l and
chants a long-winded ditty about the loves of some lovers in the
years gone by. A piata (clown) in harlequin accoutrement is
making an exhibition of himself for pence, and on a miniature
stage, something like that at an English Punch-and-Judy show,
a doll play is being acted by the pdpusele (dolls), which attracts
the interest of a crowd of grown people as well as of children
by the extremely witty, satirical dialogue which makes mock
1 A kind of mandolin-the Roumanian national instrument.




IN THE NEAR EAST


31


of human nature under all circumstances and everywhere. The
sharp, hot sun shines on handsome dark faces, on beautiful vivid
costumes, on the green trees and glowing, blazing mountains of
fruit and flowers. Infants and dogs sprawl and play on the
grassy plots in company with the ever-present pigs and poultry.
Round the small Oriental cafes Bulgars, Turks, Tartars and
Greeks are sipping wine and rachiu (brandy). Amongst them are
few Roumanians, as these strongly disapprove of indulging in
strong drink on week-days, and regard a fellow-countryman who
gets afumat (fumed) on any occasion except fete-days and
Sundays with disapproval, but on holidays woe betide the
Roumanian who cannot make merry with his friends!
Right in the very heart of the poorer quarter of Bucharest,
beyond the streets of pale, time-weary houses hidden under
softly-spreading vines and glowing flowers, beyond the street
of the cobblers, the street of the brass-beaters, the street of
the wine-merchants-for here in these ancient precincts the
Oriental custom yet lingers which allots to each trade its
own special street; past the byways and shadowy laneways,
where hang grotesque, gaily-painted shop signs, relics of those
ages when only philosophers and priests and cranks could
read or write; past the stone cisterns where the common folk
resort to wash their linen-and the love of fresh white clothing
amounts to a veritable passion in Roumania; away on past these
water-places, where with laughter and song the broad-browed,
deep-bosomed, beautiful women are slashing and rolling wet and
glistening garments, hurtling them into the water, gathering them
together again, lifting them high above their heads as they sing
for sheer joyousness; past all these, in the very heart of old
Bucharest, is the Place of Old Things-the " Hala Vechiturilor."
The majority of the shops and stalls in this second-hand goods
market are kept by Jews, bulbous-nosed, red and curly-haired,
bilious and freckled of complexion. Speaking of these same
freckled Israelites, there is a Roumanian legend which relates
how, after the resurrection of the Saviour, some Jews in Jerusalem
were sitting at supper round a large bowl of goose and saffron
soup. They began to quarrel about the death and mysterious
disappearance of the body of Jesus, and one of them, getting very
angry, said that he would believe the story that was being circulated if the bird of which the soup had been made came out of
the pot whole and flew away. Whereupon, with a loud cackle,
the goose immediately dashed out of the vessel, squirted the
yellow grease over the unbelieving company, and bit the nose
of the chief doubter, with the unpleasant consequences that " for
ever and ever the Jew pendi (pigs) are born and go to their graves
with swollen noses and yellow spots on their skins "




32


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


There is a feeling of alarm among Roumanians that they may
be some day swamped by foreigners. Set in the midst of " the
Slavic ocean," with the Magyars on the further side of their
mountain fortresses, and behind these again the Germansmost loathed of all peoples except the Jews-with thousands
upon thousands of Greek, Bulgarian, German, Magyar, Turkish,
Armenian, Russian, Italian, American, British, Jewish, Tartar
and Tzigane colonists seeking what they may devour within their
borders, undoubtedly their national peril is great. It is estimated
that there are between 400,000 and 600,000 Israelites and 300,000
Gipsies, to mention only two of these alien settlers, in Roumania
proper. Therefore it is not surprising that, having for centuries
endured the bitterness of foreign invasion and occupation, the
Roumanians are fond of quoting their proverbs: " Nici o poama
nu-i amard Ca strainatatea'n tard /" 1 and again, "Atunci zi face
strainul Irate, Cdnd a da din piatra lapte, si straina surioard, Cand
a pocni pusca goali." 2 For every alien race which crosses their
frontier the Romans have a witticism to describe its particular
racial characteristics. For example, of the Turk they say:
" Give him money and he will offer you his eyes "; of a Bulgar:
"Kick him and he will lick your sandals "; of an Armenian:
"Step on him and he will serve to keep your feet clean, but
keep away from his tongue "; of an Hungarian: " Leave him
to guard the thing you value least "; of a Jew: " You can eat
but not trade with him "; of a Greek: " If a dog's tail wags
once, the Greek will run a day's journey "; of a German: " Give
him a pig and you will give him a companion." To the Britishers,
who believe in making England a home from home for every
alien who chooses to pitch his tent in their midst, the Roumanian
laws, which limit the rights and liberties of foreign settlers, may
appear harsh and unjust. But the Roumanians know their own
business best; they know their own weaknesses, and they have
acted accordingly. As it is, even here in this "Hala Vechiturilor,"
despite all these laws and precautions, the Jews carry things
off with a high and irritating hand. " God will frustrate our
enemies," they assert, adding, with a jingle, " Meanwhile, we
have their money! " This " Market of Old Things," like the
Thieves' Market in Moscow, is the receptacle into which the city
sewers of thievery and robbery empty, and members of the Chosen
Race are the chief recipients of the goods. If a silver salver, a
piece of china, a gold watch, a jewel, a valuable book, be pilfered,
look for it in this place of old things. Not, of course, that everything on these stalls or in these dim, dingy dens has been stolen;
1 " There is no bitterer fruit than foreigners in the land."
2 " You will make the foreigner brother when milk will spring out of
the stone, and the foreigner a sister when the gun will go off unloaded.'




IN THE NEAR EAST


33


on the contrary, many of the articles have been reluctantly made
over in lieu of money to their present owners by the hard-living,
gambling, spendthrift Roumanian nobles, who often spend half
their lives squandering their substance and the other half jocosely
lamenting that they have been so stupid. In their nasty, stained
black tallars (velvet caps), under which their sandy hair is cropped
short except for two horrible oily curls, called pertchiuni, the
men lounge about the doorways of their shops, whilst their
womenfolk crouch in groups mending faded old garments and
time-dimmed embroideries, whilst the children roll about at will
amongst melon and cabbage rinds and evil-smelling bundles of
ancient clothing. The air reeks with the frowsy, heavy odour
of unclean humanity, and this is the only really unclean place in
Bucharest. It is well named " The Place of Old Things."
The hour for the midday meal has arrived, and before the
luxurious Restaurant of Capsa smart motors and birjas are
depositing their occupants, all, of course, of the wealthy or
aristocratic class, else they would not be lunching here, or at
its rival establishment-Enescu's. Usually the place is crowded
to overflowing; every square yard of its glistening, tiled, and
polished wooden floor is occupied, every place taken at the scores
of small, exquisitely-appointed tables. The lofty mirrors reflect
many faces-faces of society beauties, of prominent senators,
politicians, and officers of the Roumanian Army. It is said that
the art of cooking is deteriorating in Paris. If this is so, the
reason must be because all the great chefs have gone to Bucharest,
and especially to Capsa's. Pagans in their appreciation of
excellent and artistically served food, these elegantes, and, for
that matter, also the bourgeois, spare neither money nor pains
to obtain the best. All Europe is ransacked in order that the
kitchens of these restaurants may be adequately supplied. It
is reported that of late years, and since Western Europe awakened
to the knowledge that there is such a thing as a civilised
Roumanian, the veteran Parisian gourmets have taken to treating
themselves to a week's holiday in the City of Joy, in order that
they may revel in six suppers in Capsa's and six lunches at
Enescu's. From the hors d'oeuvre to the coffee and the petit verre,
from the carved and gilt cherubs on the white walls to the heapedup banks of rare pink and white roses, the carnations and lilies
which contrast so delicately with the satiny, snowy damask-all
is perfection, but it is perfection that cannot be sampled for a
few francs. After settling a lunch bill in such a place as this
one understands how it is that the Roumanian nobles of to-day,
like their ancestors, who became contaminated by the luxurious
habits of their Phanariote rulers, seldom manage to live within
their means, and too frequently find themselves at the mercy of
D




34


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


the Lending Race. The murmur of Roumanian voices chattering
in unison, the soft, musical bastard Latin, which the soldiers of
the Empire left among the conquered Dacians eighteen hundred
years ago, is never harsh enough to drown or spoil the sensual
strains of the Tzigane band, which is playing an air from Massenet,
interspersed with Roumanian marches, dances, and folk-songs.
Frivolous as the atmosphere of the place may be, nowhere else
in Bucharest, not even in the antechambers of the Senate House,
are more political plots and intrigues concocted than within these
four walls.
If the peasant women of this land are fair, equally comely are
the ladies of the upper classes, at least when they are young;
but they age quickly, and in later life are inclined to stoutness.
As to dress, not even their French kinswomen can compete with
the Bucharest femme du monde, with whom dress is everything,
whether it be the national costume, which the Queen has contrived to make fashionable, or whether it be the artistic productions procurable at any of the chic couturieres who have their
salons in the grand boulevards of the Roumanian capital.
It is too hot and the mosquitoes are too voracious to make
the lime-tree and catalpa-shaded path which lies along the bank
of the Dombovitza a pleasant place for a promenade. The
boulevards are glaring, and stretch away in long, burning, blazing
straight lines further than one cares to stroll on a sultry day.
The splendid Ionic facade and dome of the Athenaeum, the temple
sacred to the Roumanian's gods of Music or Art, flash back the
sun's rays with savage passion. To get away from the swelter
of the streets-for even such airy, flowery thoroughfares as these
are apt to be oppressive when the temperature exceeds 76~ F.
in the shade-becomes a wish, then a craving, and, like the
legendary Bucar and his dog, one turns involuntarily towards
the hills, towards the big, golden-hued cathedral with the three
towers, which Constantine, Cantacuzene, and Radu Leon built
in the sixteenth century on the site of the ruins of the tiny church
which, according to the legend, was the pious life-work of the
wandering shepherd Bucar-hence the name Bucharest, or
Bukharest-never to speak of his dog! The way leads up past
the Chamber of Deputies, past any number of handsome State
buildings, Ministers' residences and lovely gardens, to a gateway
with four pillars or gateposts, each surmounted by an eagle with
outspread wings, holding in its beak a Greek cross. In a courtyard overshadowed by limes stands the dreamy, sun-blistered
old church. Through the gloom of the interior the beautiful
screen of silver-gilt with its glittering ikons, the half-hidden
jewelled altar and canopy, the gold-encrusted walls, the lofty,
carved pulpit, and the silver coffin of Dimitri, Bucharest's patron




IN THE NEAR EAST


35


saint, dimly appear. Under the arch of the massive porch, where
three-hundred-year-old saints and angels, wearing gigantic golden
haloes on the backs of their holy and emaciated heads, smile
each from a separate alcove; and between the niches the disrespectful blue-breasted pigeons flutter and coo and whirl, and
thank, let us hope, the holy men who made these holy niches
for holy saints to dwell in, for there is nothing like a church,
after all, when it comes to love-making and nest-building!
From the quaint wooden belfry a few yards across the way a
chime of deep-toned bells peals through the still air. The sun
is a white furnace overhead, the sky as blue as any turquoise.
To the left lies the Parliament House, to the right is the home
and garden of the Metropolitan, a garden where the jarring
noises of life never penetrate, where amongst roses and clematis,
lilies, lavender, heliotrope, fiery geraniums, carnations, pansies,
poppies, and larkspur the bees and butterflies flit from sweetness
to sweetness, where the paths are sticky with honeydew and
strewn with the dropping tassels of the acacias' blooms, where
the nightingales pour out their hearts in song the whole fragrant
night through.
Down-not far down-in the valley lies a city of fantasy,
built of silver and gold and emeralds and pearls, for so Bucharest
appears from this height with its blue and gilded and copper
domes and spires, its white houses, and verdant green parks and
avenues scintillating in the sun's rays as would gems. Colourcolour laughs and rollicks and flames. Not a vestige of smoke
sullies the atmosphere, although three hundred thousand people
have their being within its walls. See there the long avenue of
the Chaussee, which runs on without a break right into Transylvania. As far as the racecourse, in the suburbs, it is planted
with waving trees and bright flower-beds, behind which-so
curiously intermingled is town with country-are meadows kneedeep in grass. There, too, are the roofs of the market booths
and the little tumble-down by-ways, where the forenoon was
spent, where the ox-wagons rumble, the sheep bleat, the Jews
cheat, and the tragedies and comedies of the humble are played
out. Near where the houses cluster thickest is an open green
patch sprinkled with colour, shaded by trees-the Cismegin
Garden. Nestling in cool groves are the palatial residences of
the Boyards, with their roofs of lead, their galleries and arched
passages, in style half Byzantine, half Turkish. Not far from
the largest of these rise the shining domes of the Asyle H6lene,
and winding like a serpent through the centre of all, between stone
quays and willow and alder and lime-tree fringed banks, flows
the Dombovitza. The quays show signs of busy life, but further
out, where the town begins to thin-if one were near enough to




36


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


see-herds of creamy oxen are resting, lost to view on the mudslopes under the green foliage. It is a disappointing river, the
Dombovitza, sluggish of movement, lacking in character, but
from here its mosquitoes, its monotonies, its odours, are not
noticeable, and only its silvery, sinuous beauties are visible.
Here, at any rate, it is the Dombovitza ape dulce!
" Dombovitza, magic river,
Silver shining, memory-haunted,
He who drinks thy crystal waters
Ne'er can quit thy shores enchanted."
Dreaming under the smile of the golden-haloed saints whilst
waiting for the sun to lose some of its supremacy, the mind leaps
back across the centuries to the time when Trajan came marching
from the West across these undulating hills and made this land
his own, not merely by conquest, but by the exercise of justice,
mercy and sympathy. His legions stayed in Dacia for the comparatively short period of one hundred and sixty-eight years;
but to this day his power is felt, and the people still adore his
name, still speak his tongue, still tell their children that they had
for fathers the soldiers of Imperial Rome. Since Trajan's time
swarms upon swarms of other conquerors have swept through
this valley, have devastated these hillsides, have eaten and drunk
of the fruit and the wine, the corn and the honey, of its plains,
mountains, and vineyards. The "shrill voices and savage
gestures and strange and terrible deformity of the Huns," who
followed Attila, " the Scourge," have been heard and seen here.
Goths, Visigoths, Avars, Magyars, Tartars, Turks and Muscovites, all have in turn laid plunderous hands upon this country;
but the Roman Emperor Trajan stands alone-Roumania's only
real conqueror, for he made the people's soul his own. How did
he do it? What secret force did he bring to bear? He found a
more powerful weapon than cruelty, oppression, and brute force.
On one of the panels of his triumphal arch commemorating his
Dacian conquest, which was set up in Rome before Agrippa's
Pantheon, a scene was sculptured depicting a woman kneeling at his feet. Dante has immortalised the story in his
Purgatorio "" Quiv' era storiata l'alta gloria
Del roman prince, lo cui gran valore
Mosse Gregorio alla sua gran vittoria.
Io dico di Traiano imperatore:
Ed una vedovella gli era al freno
Di lagrime atteggiata e di dolore.
Dintorno a lui parea calcato e pieno
Di cavalieri: e l'aquili dell' oro.
Sovr' esso in vista al vento si movieno.




IN THE NEAR EAST


37


La miserella infra tutti costoro
Pareva dir: Signor, fummi vendetta
Del mio figliuol, ch' e morto, ond' io m'accoro.
Ed egli a lei rispondere: Ora aspetta
Tanto, ch' io torni. Ed ella: Signor mio,
Come persona in cui dolor s'affrettaSe tu, non torni? Ed ei: Chi fia dov" io,
La ti fara. Ed ella: L'alturi bene
A te che fia, se '1 tuo metti in obblio?
Ond' elli: Or ti comforta: che conviene,
Ch' io solva il mio dovere anzi oh' io muova:
Giustizia il vuole, e Pieta mi ritiene."
Yes, Trajan was a Pagan, but the legend says that he walks
to-day by the will of the Almighty, and at the request of Saint
Gregory, " in the Courts of Paradise," because he showed kindness
to a widow woman of Dacia.
Time is wearing on; Bucagi, the loftiest of the Carpathian
range, clearly visible from this point, has sent down a soft breeze
to cool the baked, stifling pavements and hot, dry air. The
city awakens to energy, its " meridiationis " is at an end, and
the hour has struck when it is customary for the belles and
flineuses of society, like the gods and genii of the ancients, who
were commonly supposed to show themselves to man after their
midday nap, to issue forth in their glory, to see and be seen.
It is an easy stroll down to the Chaussee, where crowds of lesser
folk are gathering to gaze on the passing show. In the meadows
behind the roadway, English and French nurses are superintending the gambols of their pampered charges who pick daisies, ride
in goat-carriages, and watch the antics of the clowns and harlequins. On the side paths the promenaders saunter up and down,
laughing and talking scandal. For scandal is very dear to them,
seeing they are of a cynical rather than a reverential trend of
mind. They believe in little, and certainly not in the possibility
of either their male or female acquaintances being possessed of the
qualities of Lucretia or Sir Galahad. So far as the last-mentioned
individual is concerned, if he came to Bucharest he would probably
meet with scant sympathy, and his wisest plan would be to make
the most of his skull-cracking and sword-thrusting talents, and
keep his other attributes in the background. Indeed, it is to
be doubted if even his bellicose proclivities would meet with full
appreciation, for the Roumanians, as it has also been stated,
nourish a distinct objection to fighting, if it can by any chance
be avoided.
In the Roumanian capital there is none of the cant of a morality
that is not. Pretty women are fair game here, and the hunters
make no secret of their zest for the chase, nor do the hunted




38


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


fair ones manifest the slightest desire to escape from pursuit.
Feminine innocence in the City of Joy stands for want of charm,
and that is only another word for failure. The woman who has
not been gossiped about considers herself ill-used, and even the
fair-haired and pretty Queen is not exempt. Birjas tear here
and there at a frantic pace, and, strange as it may seem, it is the
birjas or droshkies of Bucharest that first, amongst all the interesting things in the Roumanian capital, attract the stranger's
attention. " Have you ever observed our birjas? " is the invariable question put to newly-arrived travellers, and the answer
must be in the affirmative. Drawn by superb teams of horses
-steppers from the Ukraine-with flying tails and manes and
ribbons, the reins held square in wide outstretched hands by
gigantic coachmen wearing high fur caps and long, padded,
royal-blue plush coats and scarlet sashes, the ends of which the
chief occupant of the carriage holds, one in either hand, and pulls
according to the direction desired to be taken, these birjas seem
to claim all one's attention as they dash madly through the streets.
Hussar officers, clad in black or scarlet uniforms adorned with
gold facings, gallop to and fro, saluting. Infantry officers, in
chocolate or dark blue jackets and breeches, lounge along the
footways, smoking and muttering compliments under the hats
of the debutantes, who march sedately in front of their watchful
papas and mammas, for the young girls are kept under strictest
supervision, and are never permitted to venture out unattended.
Another minute and a brilliant equipage, with the motley, showy
royal liveries and outriders, has come and gone, leaving the spectators gazing after the lovely face and ripe-corn hair of the King's
Consort. A regiment, headed by its band and colours, passes
en route for barracks. Ambassadors and senators raise their hats
gravely to their acquaintances, and also pass on. The thoroughfare gradually becomes more and more thronged, and the thought
of dinner intrudes itself. Back then to the grand boulevards,
where the seats outside the cafes are occupied by all sorts and
conditions of well-dressed people, eating ices and drinking coffee
and liqueurs, whilst they discuss the papers, and speculate on the
political international crisis.
In Enescu's delightfully cool and comfortable restaurant many
smart and select dinner-parties have foregathered. The women
wear demi-toilette, the men, as a rule, morning dress. Sparkling
glass, snowy damask, smooth service, and elegance are as assured
here as superb cooking. There is no jarring discord of clattering
plates, knives and forks, no horrid gobbling of a hungry mob;
even the incessant stringent roar of the boulevard is powerless
to disturb the soothing well-bred serenity of the place, where the
guests linger for hours over their dinners and suppers.




IN THE NEAR EAST


39


But to the traveller the temptation comes to wander through
the ancient quarters of the town-the mvsterious places where
the Tziganes dwell, where fortunes are told, and music is heard
the night through. The splendour of the sunset has faded, the
sky is soft and pale, with delicate dove-like tints, and the stars
are peeping out of its still depths. Solemn indigo and black
shadows have gathered in the deserted market-places and along
the small rustic streets, behind the gleaming boulevards. Round
the doors of the pale-faced shops, where the quaint, old-world
signs hang out, groups of humbler folk are interchanging smalltalk, playing dominoes, smoking, sipping coffee, and reading the
evening journals. From a distance comes the noise of music.
Following the direction of the sound, passing down a laneway
running between some little fenced-in gardens, overlooked by
low white houses with dark verandahs, from which, seen dark
against interior light of the rooms, figures are leaning out, one
arrives at a large open square bordered with limes. It is plainly
the batltura of the locality, for over yonder is the public-house
or inn, now ablaze with light and surrounded by a score of tables
and benches. The scrdnciob or swing, which is always erected in
such places at Easter, is still standing, black and clean-cut against
the sky. White-clad figures are converging from every side towards the open doorway of the tavern, and the light from the
swinging lamps suspended from its balcony and from the trees
flickers down on the scarlet sashes, white shirts, and lambskin
caps of the men, on the silver-embroidered aprons and sequinspangled head-coverings of the women. The music ceases indoors, and presently the players emerge, thread their way through
the crowd clustered about the doorway, and take their places
on a raised platform beneath the lamp-hung verandah. The
tables are deserted, white figure clutches at white figure, hands
are outstretched, and soon a giant ring is formed, and the Hora
commences. The dance is led by the flicdi or leading young men.
They it is who change the time and steps, who pair off the partners,
and they it is who lead the chorus. For the Hora is danced to
song, and at the beginning of each verse the flicdi scream out
personal remarks and jokes to the discomfiture or delight of the
dancers.
These remarks are called strigaturi (shouts) and generally
they are of a decidedly caustic nature; but woe betide the fool
who takes offence. Now and again they may chance to be complimentary, where the girls are concerned, but more frequently
they are decidedly coarse, not to say indecent, and half the
bruised eyes and broken noses in Roumania are the result of
quarrels resulting from the strigaturi of the flMcdi. The circle
widens, more and still more couples join in, the pace increases,




40 OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES IN NEAR EAST


the chanting grows louder. The ring breaks into two rings, into
three rings. Spangled veils and silver and gold embroideries
glitter, gold and silver and coral necklets twinkle, sandalled and
high-booted feet fly until the circles melt into three whirling,
blurred white clouds flecked with light and colour. The music
is wilder and stranger, and more fascinating even than the dance;
sometimes it is frenzied and passionate, sometimes it is a long,
slow rhapsody drawn from the heart of memory, and sometimes
the melody-if so it can be called-sinks to a mere whisper, to
a murmur which steals into the ear and thrills the soul with a
craving for what is out of reach or what, perhaps, is past and lost
for ever, with a feeling that could one but follow where it leads
one would reach the lands of heart's desire. In the crude, guttering lamplight these Roumanian Tziganes, with their delicate
profiles, olive skins, lustreless black hair falling in masses on the
shoulders, with their soft, glowing, gleaming dark eyes, almondshaped Oriental eyes-which have nothing European in their
setting or glance-stand writhing and swaying above their
instruments. From time to time they shriek untranslatable
things in Romany, and show their glistening teeth in mocking
ribald laughter.
The hours fly by on winged feet. The moon sails above the
shining domes and roofs to smile with tender splendour in the
pansy-blue sky; and at last the east blushes crimson, the birds
begin to sing in the gardens, the pleasure-surfeited dancers
reluctantly awake to the fact that another day's work is before
them, and the wily Tziganes slip off towards their camp on the
outskirts of the city, where already the morning fires are sending
up blue trails of smoke, and naked, curly-headed children are
peeping from behind ragged tent-awnings to give them welcome
and gloat over the spoil.
Country folk are coming in to market. The creaking oxwagons are being unloaded; the sweetmeat and cake sellers,
the water sellers and the milk vendors are calling their wares,
the glossy-haired, calm-eyed women have taken up their positions
behind their booths and are twisting their eternal distaffs. The
day has had its evening and its morning. The men and women
of the workaday world are emerging for another cycle of labour,
while the fashionable beauties of the City of Joy lie amongst their
pillows-unthinking, careless, unknowing.
Such was Bucharest when the war came.




CHAPTER IV


IN THE HEART OF ROUMANIA
"Across the mountains the mist hath drawn
A cov'ring of bridal white;
The plains afar make lament, and mourn
That the flutt'ring veil of the mist-wreaths born
Hath hidden the mountains from sight."
THE little village of Vaja lies in a valley near the foot of the
North-Eastern Carpathians. It is built in a kind of crooked
semicircle, and consists of about fourteen homesteads. In the
centre of the semicircle stands a small candle-snuffer steepled
wooden church, together with the old, white-haired, long-bearded
popa's cottage and garden. Stretching out right and left of this
are the villagers' houses, each shaded by tall trees, each surrounded by its own wattle stockade topped by a forbidding
defence work of interwoven thorn bushes. The homesteads of
Vaja are very elaborate in design and colouring, and it is the
boast of the inhabitants that in no other village throughout the
length and breadth of Roumania is it possible to find such beautiful dwellings of such long and proud family pedigrees. In the
middle of each stockade stands the house. They are all alike, the
little country homes of Free Roumania, the only difference being
that some may be prettier than others, and in the hill districts,
such as this, they are built of wood, whereas those on the plains
are made entirely of clay and wattles. One by one the logs were
felled and carted down from the forests which fringe the mountain
slopes; one by one they were hewn into beams and fixed securely
together into these spacious, one-storied, thatch-roofed cottages. Then, with infinite care, the plaster, compounded of
earth and cow-dung, was put on. When the clay had been dried
by the sun and wind, the walls were whitewashed till they
glistened like snow, and finally, the adornment of the woodwork,
the doors, the window sashes, ceilings and the verandahs, was
commenced. The clay used for the adorning, which is dyed a
warm red, was smeared on carefully in long straight stripes; the
pillars, or tree-stems, supporting each prispa (verandah) and the
balustrades of the staircases that lead from the casa, or yard, in
41




42


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


front of each dwelling, were enlivened by red bands of this clay
paint. There are many buildings beside the house itself enclosed within the stockades. In every well-to-do casa there
stands an outhouse for the cattle, a commodious pigsty and a
hencoop, and, if the family be prosperous, there is a cosdr, or
barn, for storing maize. The cosar is an eccentric-looking creation
of basket-work built close to the house on piles, and measuring
about seven feet in width by thirty in length. In this airy
loft the threshed maize is packed immediately the harvest is
garnered, and kept free from damp by the air which circulates
freely through its reed-woven walls. At a safe distance from
this inflammable erection, in some distant corner of the casa, is
a hole in the ground with a tripod set above it, where the fire
smoulders which boils the family pot of mamaliga, or maize
porridge. Behind the dwelling-houses is a lean-to, or shed, in
which are stored the old-world farm and agricultural implements,
the prehistoric wooden ploughs and churns with which these
peasant folk still carry on their work. Ranged in order, on
shelves, on the walls, above the ploughs and hoes and spades,
are scores of domestic utensils-earthenware pots, bowls, pitchers
and platters, their number and presence being accounted for by
the fact that it is customary in Roumania to set apart special
vessels for use when celebrating the various religious fasts and
feasts; for each fast and feast its own utensils, and these must
not be employed except on the special occasion for which they
are intended. For example, the plates and cups for the Easter
feast must on no account be placed on the table alongside of,
or be mixed up with, the bowls and pots of the Christmas festival. At the rear also of every homestead is an untidy garden,
where every sort and kind of bright and perfumed flower, and
almost every species of vegetable, seems to bloom and flourish.
A long line of bee-hives invariably occupies the farthest end of
each garden under the shade of the stockade and the encircling
trees; and in'the principal and centre flower-bed are invariably
to be found three bunches of busioc1 and three of minta,2 the
plants that bring luck in love to the homesteads from one end of
Roumania to the other.
Here doors are never locked, and across the thresholds there
is always waiting the warmest of welcomes. Entering any of
the cottages from the prispa, the first apartment reached is the
tinda, or hall. It is a bare place, furnished only by a huge oven,
or cuptor, and by a rdsnita, or hand-mill. In the oven a log
fire burns the whole year round, and in the mill the maize for
daily consumption is ground between two heavy stones. Beyond


1 Sweet basil.


2 Mint.




IN THE NEAR EAST


43


the tinda is the chief living-room, likewise warmed by an immense
oven, or stove, behind which are rows of planks covered with
rugs and sheepskins, where the family sleep during the winter.
Beside this common sleeping-place is a gigantic carved chest,
reaching nearly to the ceiling and containing the most valuable
treasures of the community, and all round it are heaped up rolls
of hand-woven carpets, silks, embroideries, and skins: precious
heirlooms handed down from one generation to the other.
Nailed on the wall above the plank beds, and hung so as to
face the east, are the icoane, or holy pictures, and beneath them
are suspended the family bridal jewels, a bunch of sweet basil
and a tiny lamp. Not more than a glimpse of the clean white
walls of the room is visible, for the whole place is draped with
beautiful, gay, heavily-embroidered woollen cloths, brilliantlyhued, hand-woven mats and carpets, and skins.
Such is one of the houses that make up a typical Roumanian
village.
At the foot of the slope on which the hamlet rests is a boisterous
little torrent, bordered by silvery willows, and on its bank, overhanging the water, is the mill-an odd, crazy, box-like, wooden
affair perched aloft on four spidery pine-trunk legs. To this the
country folk bring their corn, and each waits patiently for his
turn, which is generally long in coming, for slowness is characteristic of the country. There is an inn, of course, though few,
save peasants, ever pass the night in its beds, which abound with
parasites; but it does a roaring trade on holidays and Sundays,
when the whole countryside gathers to dance and eat and drink.
The broad, white road, which starts a little higher up and winds
like a ribbon right down into the valley, passes the door of the
inn-yard, which is not called a casa in this case, but the btdatura,
or "the beaten ground." Here in summer the dancing takes
place, and here, too, the village swing is set up on Easter Saturday, to stay up either till it is smashed to pieces or till the Sunday
after Ascension Day. The hostel is kept by a Jew. Jews with
freckled skins, red curls, and pendulous noses seem to have the
monopoly of all such places in Roumania, as they have, too, the
talent for obtaining the best wine; so the saying has arisen:
" Look for good milk from thin cows and for good wine from a
Jew in a mean inn."
Long, long ago, before the Principalities of Wallachia and
Moldavia were ever thought of, in the far-off splendid time when
the land was free for all to take, in the days when Slavs and
Dacian-Romans lived peacefully side by side, the story goes that
every one was rich and happy and did what they liked without
let or hindrance. The Roman legions had passed over the land;
but what of that? They were a brave and gallant people and




44


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


their Emperor, " the Imparatul Trajan," was a just conqueror.
No one in those days objected when the Roman Veterani
came and settled here on the uplands and became the richest
and best landowners-the original ra6zshi,2 and Moshneni of
what is now Moldavia and Valachia. There is more than one
family in Vaja which is possessed of a batran,3 and which can
prove by documents its Roman descent. No one objected even
when outlaw adventurers, of no particular race, came and
thrived on lands which they simply took in " the trdnta dreapta "
(" the fair fight ") and made their own. Indeed, most of the
songs and ballads which are still heard in the mountains sing
the praises of the Roman settlers and of the enterprising outlaw
adventurers, and many a tale is told of how a handsome scallywag
came and seized not only land, but also a daughter of the land.
Then fell the blighting shadow of the Middle Ages, the terror
of the Turkish rule, and the misery of the Greek oppression. Up
from the lowlands came the poor fugitive Roman folk of the
plains, and here on the shoulders of the great hills and in their
deep ravines the people who are to-day the purest and strongest
element of the Roumanian nation held the passes against their
enemies. Here amid lowering crags the Roman tongue was
never vanquished, and here the Roman songs and music, beliefs,
and customs survived every hostile attack. Nevertheless, it was
a hard struggle, and many were forced to leave even these strongholds and go into exile as distant as Moravia and Istria, where they
still call themselves "Romeri," but where they became known
to the strangers amongst whom they settled as the " Vlachi."
Undoubtedly the Greeks were the people who wrought the
most enduring harm in Roumania, for they laid the seed of classhatred in the land. Before their coming-not as a conquering
warrior host, but as a mean, cruel army of worthless, cowardly
adventurers-there existed little, if any, bad blood between the
wealthy landowners, the boiars, and the peasantry. But with
the advent bf the Greeks the true boiars became demoralised.
Little by little the original nobility sank under the Greek influence, and either went down like gentlemen into poverty and
oblivion or turned traitor, intermarried with the foes of their
country, and learnt and adopted their vices. The peasants were
forced to toil for alien masters, in whose eyes they were no better
than sheep and oxen, and from this time onward the name boiar
was altered by the lower classes into the name ciocoi, which
1 Discharged Roman soldiers who were given estates in Dacia, now
Roumania.
2 Landlords.
3 An estate which has belonged to a family since the Roman occupation.




IN THE NEAR EAST


45


means an upstart or parvenu. Although the Greeks were eventually sent about their business, they left their evil trail behind
them, which can be traced only too plainly in the character of the
decadent Roumanian nobility who frequent the capital and whose
Romdn blood has been tainted by the hated Greek element. Still
more plainly also, as it has been said, can the track of the Greek
serpent be seen in the bitter animosity which exists between the
rich and poor. In most of the mountainous districts, however,
the injurious foreigners failed to upset to any very serious degree
the good fellowship between the classes.
Only two really unpleasant corvees are these villagers compelled to render to the State: First, when the boys grow up they
must undergo military training, which they thoroughly detest;
not so much because they dislike soldiering, being naturally a
peaceful folk, although once under fire few could put up a fiercer
fight for their country than the Roumanians; but because they
loathe army service, for they feel severely the confinement of
towns and barracks, and are more liable than most races to uncontrollable attacks of home-sickness. Moreover-and this is
important-they fondly cherish their long black hair; and flowing locks are, of course, remorselessly cropped by the military
authorities. Likewise to part from their sheepskins is a hard
wrench. The second State duty which they are called upon to
perform is the payment of the land taxes. This is also unpopular, but what is objected to is not so much the taxes as the
unequal system of taxation. Why, argue the peasantry, should
a man be taxed who lives honestly, tilling his own fields, while
one who is landless and sells his merchandise or labour to gain a
living goes untaxed save for a paltry thirteen or fourteen francs
per annum? But these are trifles, after all, and on the whole
the State is a tolerably good father to its children. In the small
barn-like school of Vaja the children daily imbibe free education,
which the parents formerly objected to on the plea that it deprived them of child labour on the land, but which lately they
have come to regard with more complacency on the ground that
" those who read and write can live without working and can ask
high wages for doing nothing but sitting before an inkpot with a
pen." They have concluded, too, that it is well to be able to
meet their customers and rivals in the town markets on equal
terms ahd so avoid impositions. In the case of sickness, moreover, they like to know that in the last extremity they can
summon the free services of the State doctor of the plasa,l who,
although he seldom arrives in time to save the life of the patient
-distances being great-nevertheless makes them realise that
1 A division, or a district.




46


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


their peasant lives are of some importance to the Rege. Again,
they gather satisfaction from the fact that the care of their souls
is also undertaken by the State, which pays the popa to scare
away the devil by exercising magic and by chanting the mysterious and incomprehensible liturghia in the Church on fasts,
feasts, and Sundays. As to legal matters, well, the primar, who
is the Mayor, is a kindly man, one of themselves, and not a landlord, and as there is little quarrelling there is not much need to
bother about the law. With a Government capable of making
its decrees respected, a public credit which has succeeded in
inspiring confidence in the minds of the investors, an army that
has proved its bravery and efficiency, a court which exercises
a wholesome influence upon the easy morality of the capital, an
agricultural population transformed from serfs into free yeomen:
with all these advantages the country of Trajan's legions is fast
developing into a land of happiness and prosperity.
So much for existence in Vaja on this morning of St. George's
Day, the twenty-third of April, the day of the year when all
good Roumanians come forth in gala attire to greet the spring.
Through the red fog of war the sunny picture of the tiny hamlet
still shines serenely. The dew is still glistening on the grasses
of the uplands, on the larkspurs, gentians, pansies, scabious,
vetchlings and daisies in the meadows; the gossamer threads
are still clinging to the red, white and pink rose hedges which
border the byways and lanes. From all directions come the song
of birds, the merry, rippling noise of countless tiny brooks and
rivulets which are scurrying down through the dense pine forests
of the foothills to join the little river which rushes boisterous
and foam-flecked through the valley towards the plains, passing
under a primitive wooden bridge at one end of the village and
beneath the queer box-like mill at the other. The first ray of
dawn has broken upon a transformed and enchanted world.
Gone are the deep snowdrifts which lay yards deep in every
ditch and gully, gone are the icy rains and winds of March, finished
and over are the Zilele babei-" Old woman's days."  Saint
Nicora in the North, and Saint Theodore in the South have
valiantly sallied out and once again caught and held the Sun in
his flight from the earth. They have stopped him-so say the
Romans-just as he was galloping away for ever over the world's
edge, in a big chariot drawn by white horses, on which sat the
ten evil, ugly old witches who make the ice and snow and the
storm wind; and, having soundly whipped these obnoxious
females, and sent them running, the two saints have returned in
triumph, bringing with them the captured Sun, who, once free
from bad feminine influence, is now ready to smile upon everything and every one in creation. For the past fortnight the




IN THE NEAR EAST


47


cuckoo has, as the peasants say, " sung one in the face," and at
the earliest sound of its voice the oxen were yoked to the ploughs
and the two hundred hardest days of Roumanian field labour
began. All the gloom and hardships of the winter have vanished
and even its chilly memory has drifted into nothingness, like the
ragged streamers of fantastic mist shapes which hovered at sunrise
above the lower slopes. Appallingly white, tremendous, and
splendid the titanic mountains rear themselves up against the
deep blue sky, their bold, rugged peaks, sharp as needles, rugged,
denticulated, crowned with snow, their almost perpendicular
sides scoured and riven by a thousand water courses. The
region of cloud is indicated by a long, trailing stratum of white
vapour which, floating half-way between their summits and
their pine-covered base, seems to sever them in two. Full of
majestic strength the grand Carpathians lift their heads defiantly
as if to bid those who would storm their fastness beware. White
head behind white head, bold, fierce, spear-like, they seem in
their pride to cleave the heavens. Up there on those stern,
bleak cliffs all is barren, sterile, desolate, save for the wild lifethe golden eagles, that nest in the rocky fissures, the chamois,
the capra de munte, as they are here named.  Gloomily the
dense pine forests roll like a dark cloak around their feet, merging
lower down into larch and beech woods, green as an emerald,
which in turn give place to the high pasture lands, green too,
broken by splashes of brilliant colour. The gorges are filled
with purple amethystine shadows, which touch every rock and
tree and cliff with magical illusion. Through the furrows of
these ravines the burden of the ice from the peaks has but
lately descended in avalanches. A few weeks ago, when the first
thaw began, deafening roars, like a cannonade, heralded the
furious onslaughts of the snows. A distant booming reminded
those who heard it that the mountain forces are never at rest,
and that in their mystery lurks the energy of creation. Up
there, on those grim, naked heights, split and rent by aeons of
time, the lightning is born which so often flashes death, at midsummer, amongst the flocks and herds grazing on the fields
beneath. Up there the thunder crashes from crest to crest,
and is answered by the echo, till the very earth quakes. Up
there the armies of the storm ride to the muster before charging
down in clouds upon the valley. There may be truth after all
in the Romdn saying: " Leave us our God and our mountains,
and we and our homeland are safe! "
It is a saint's day, and therefore one of idleness and pleasure,
for where is the God-fearing Roman who would venture to commit
such an offence against the Almighty as to labour on a feast-day?
There has been little sleep indulged in during the night; since




48


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


the cdntdtori (cock-crowing) from every white and red cottage
and outhouse, has come the babble of voices, the clatter of pots,
the quacking of geese and barking of dogs; now, at the manecate,1
the bell chimes in the squat little belfry which stands, all by itself,
in the churchyard, and from the meadows beside the river steals
forth the wild call of the bucium.2
Shouts of laughter and girlish screams of merriment suddenly
arise from the vicinity of the well near the outskirts of the village,
and along the white, dusty road comes a whirl of what looks like
a flock of white and scarlet birds. The girls have gone in their
finest clothes, with their pails slung from their shoulders, and
wreaths of flowers on their heads, to draw the first water of
summer, and they have been met on the way home by the fldchi
(young men), who endeavour to catch them before they reach
the gates of their various stockades. Like a whirlwind the girls
dash by giggling, breathless, black hair streaming, sandalled feet
pattering, but the boys win the race, the pails are captured, and
the prisoners are compelled to have their faces splashed with the
water by their admirers. Love-making is often a rough pastime
in Roumania, and the stronger sex are allowed to carry matters
with a high hand, and are invariably masters of the situation.
It is the fldcai who order everything, and the girl who shows any
objection to their lordly ways, the girl who cannot take "a
sugui," that is to say, "a joke," is tabooed. Young women
pretend to an aversion from kissing and elbow nudging, and
tickling and teasing and horse-play in general, but it must be
only pretence, and woe betide the fair one who sincerely snubs
her fldc6u; for such an one there will be no partners at the dance,
no pleasant conversation at the winter evening party, when the
villagers meet, week after week, in the different houses, to sit
round the hearth, spin the wool and flax, carve the woodwork,
sup off hot maize and cucurigi,3 tell folk-stories and sing ballads.
The boisterous little troop pause for breath near the entrance
to the bdtdturg, the boys elated, the girls exhausted by the chase.
The first excitement over, they stand chattering amicably together, the men, with lazy complacency, staring at their sweethearts, who are in no wise disconcerted by the emptiness of their
pails, but who, after unhitching the yokes, worn across their
shoulders, pull their distaffs from out their girdles and commence
spinning. They are worth more than a casual glance, these girls.
Roumania is the country of beauty, and in its mountainous
districts may be seen faces which would set half the world crazy,
1 Hour of uprising.
2 The bucium is a sort of horn-very primitive in form and sound-made
out of the horn of a ram.
a Maize grains baked in salt.




IN THE NEAR EAST                      49
if only the world knew of their existence. Look at the nearest
in this group. Under the pitiless, glaring sunlight she stands
bareheaded, her silky, blue-black hair platted tightly like a
crown round her regal little head; in her long white chemise,
ornamented at the hem, and wide, loose sleeves with red and
blue needlework, with her supple waist girt round by a rich,
silken, multitinted sash, from under which two straight-cut
garments, like aprons-the catrinta-worn, one behind and the
other before, descend to the edge of her robe, against the contrasting whiteness of which they blaze with colour and silver
embroidery. Like all hill-folk, she wears the opinci, or sandals.
There is race in every curve of her small, firm bosom, in every
indolent, sensuous movement, in every glance of her dark eyes,
in the stateliness of her whole person, which, to borrow a Romdn
description of a Roman beauty, is " tall and like a willow rod,
and made as if to go through a ring."  The youth beside her is
also tall, but he is comparatively fair of complexion, and possesses
the blue eyes, the narrow, long face and larger bones of the men
of the extreme north. He is every whit as handsome as the girl,
and the gala dress suits him to perfection. It consists of a pair
of long white and remarkably tight homespun woollen trousers,
secured to the waist by a broad, scarlet woollen sash; over this
is a sort of coat of brown fleecy stuff, and above this again is a
sheepskin jacket, wrought on the surface of the skin with scarlet
and silver embroidery. On his head-it being a hot day —he
flaunts, in place of the usual lambskin cap, a huge, wide-brimmed
black felt hat, lavishly bedecked with gay ribbons a yard long,
and coloured beads. He, too, has on the opinci, but these he
will change for heavy boots when the dancing begins; for the
ficaii like to hear their heels stamp in time to the music.
Shortly after noon, when the dinner has been devoured, the
inhabitants congregate round the doors of the stockades to gossip
and await the coming of the Tziganes, whose underground settlement lies on the brow of the nearest mountain, at the spot where
the pines yield place to the larch and birch. There are two species
of Tziganes in Roumania: the nomadic tribes, who never settle
down anywhere, and the tribes who cease to wander during the
winter months, and who, in late autumn, select some place,
generally on the edge of a mountain forest, where they burrow
dwellings in the earth, cover the entrance to these holes with a
thatched, pointed roof, and there remain till about the first
of May, when they recommence their peregrinations. These
rabbit-warren settlements are called bordeie, and each is ruled
(that is, when rebellion does not undermine authority) by a chieftain, who goes by the name of the " bulibasha " —the "Allpowerful," or " God One "!
E




50


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


Sedentary life is at all times injurious to the race, and the
gipsies who inhabit the bordeie are generally less healthy than
those of their brethren who dwell in tents. With regard to the
Tzigane professions or employments, there are tribes who deal
in horses, tribes who build houses-the Roumanian building
trade is all in Tzigane hands-those skilled in silver and brass
work, and those who tame bears. Added to these are the spoonmakers, the lingurari who, for some reason unknown, are the
most despicable and degenerate of their kind. Amongst all
these classes and professions there are fortune-tellers and lutari,
or musicians. The gift of second sight and a genius for music
are the birthright of the children of Hagar, and life would indeed
be dreary for the gorgio 1 if either of these were lost. Criminals
and outlaws though the Tziganes may be-creatures without a
God, a country, or a home-they still rule by reason of their
mysterious birthrights.
For instance, how would the village folk enjoy their holiday
without the gipsies to play for them? As it is, they are restless,
impatient, their eyes wander towards the trail of smoke which
rises against the dark forest, and they shuffle their sandalled
feet, as if in anticipation. Another few minutes and across the
rickety bridge of fir stems which spans the deep ravine close to
the Tzigane camp, a single file of ragged forms is seen passing.
The gipsies are on the way, and every one makes a rush in the
direction of the batdtura. In the dusty square scores of country
people from the outlying districts are congregating. Friend meets
friend with the customary greeting, " Sd trditi! "-" May you
live! " All morning in the large restaurant and in front of the
inn people have been drinking healths. They are not a drunken
nation, the Romdns, especially the rustics. To drink on the
innumerable fast-days or during the week is considered stupid,
and habitual drunkenness is regarded with horror, but the man
who does not drink, and drink with a will, on Sundays and holidays is looked upon as a spoil-sport and an 3diot. One must
know exactly when to begin and when to end so far as winebibbing here is concerned, for if one drinks too much or too often
one is pointed at as an om pdtimas; that is, a person suffering
from a weakness or a disease, and if one fails to drink on the right
occasion one is equally scorned. " Drink, but do not drink thy
wits away," as the liomdn proverb puts it, is, perhaps, the best
rule to follow.
The scene is one of splendid brilliancy, the festive costumes of
Vaja and the neighbourhood surpassing most localities in gorgeousness and profusion of ornament. In every Roumanian


1 The Tzigane name for the individual who is not of gipsy blood.




IN THE NEAR EAST


51


heart lurks vanity and a passionate love of the beautiful. Rather
than lack fine raiment these poor peasants would go without food.
"Stomacul nu are oglinda "-" the belly has no mirror "-the
national proverb declares. Nothing made by machinery is
thought fit to wear; and every scrap of Roumanian peasant
clothing must be spun and sewn at home. The devotion of the
women to their distaffs is consequently not surprising. Before
the dance opens take a closer scrutiny of the company. Mingled
with the villagers are strangers; most of these are shepherds,
lowlanders by birth, who have brought up their flocks to the
highlands for pasturage during the hot season, and who love the
rolling pasture lands rather than the pines and the crags. From
the day when, as babies, their mothers wrapped them in sheepskins, till the day when they are buried out on the open spaces
beneath a wooden cross surmounted by the sign of their callinga tuft of fleecy wool-they are children of the fields, and they
hate the trees and the mountain ranges because, if these had not
been created by a God who ought to have known better, there
would have been more room on which to graze their flocks. St.
George's Day, from daybreak to noon, is an important one with
them, for only on this day in the year does superstition permit
them to count their sheep. In contrast to these woolly-garbed
shepherds are the hill-folk and woodmen. So near do they live
to the great mountains that they have become, as it were, a part
of them, and whether they be herdsmen, hunters, woodcutters,
charcoal burners, or agriculturists, they have one and all explored
the innermost recesses of their darkest forests and ravines. As
different in character and appearance as are the mountains from
the plains are the peoples of the Roumanian highlands and
lowlands.
The Tziganes have arrived and have mounted the platform
erected in the centre of the bdtatura, for if they are to play their
best they like to feel themselves in the heart of the whirling
circles, and the hora never goes so well as when the musicians
form its centre.
It is the duty of the fldcdi to open the dance, their leader
making the start, after he and his fellows have sorted the couples.
St. George's Day is the day on which the Roman mothers introduce the marriageable girls into society. Not until she has made
her public entry into life and " joaca'n hora "-" she dances at
the dance "-is a maiden thought to be ready for marriage, and
only when her trousseau is completed and her dowry fixed (which
is, as a rule, accomplished when the girl is about fifteen years of
age) is a maiden allowed to listen to the songs of love, and her
prayer then is: " Fd med, Doamne, ce mi-i face numai nu-mi da
ce nu-mi place "-" Do with me, Lord, what you like, but give




62


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


me not what I dislike." Military service is long here, and,
speaking generally, youths like to marry and have done with it
before they are called out, and most of the debutantes present will
be wedded before the feast of the Russalii-Holy Trinity-and
more than two-thirds of them have already received parental
orders with regard to the life-partners they are to select.
Violent, presumably, are the heart-beats of the fair and bashful ones now brought out for inspection. Etiquette ordains that
they shall be conducted to the dance by the chief of the flicdi,
who, taking each by the hand, leads her up to the partner selected
for her. A man does not dance with a girl in Roumania; he
"dances her," much as a boy would spin a hoop, and this he
must do with great elegance and dash. In this land of dancing a
good masculine dancer is one who not only goes gracefully through
the movements himself, but also contrives that his partner likewise comports herself with ease and agility. He must, moreover,
prove himself a wit, for the verses by which the dance-the hora
-are accompanied are always composed off-hand and take the
form of caustic or complimentary rhymes directed towards
different members of the company. It is during the dance that
the love-making between would-be sweethearts usually begins.
The first way a man manifests his admiration for a girl is to
pluck her handkerchief out of her hand. There is always a
tough struggle over this, for it would be immodest in a maiden
to let him take it without expostulation. Of course he gets his
wish, but, unsatisfied, he then wrestles with her until he has also
captured her girdle-and this done the pair are on the high road
to matrimony. The hora is danced in a circle, or, if the dancers
be numerous, in two or three circles. The men grasp the women
by their girdles, the women clutch the men by the shoulders, the
speed and excitement increase, the circle revolves and whirls,
the verses re-echo. Under the influence of music and wine the
Tziganes become frantic, the strident cries and stamps of the
dancers and spectators stimulate them to greater exertions until
the very atmosphere is palpitating with passionate harmony.
The leader of the band alters the tune and time according to
fancy; two sharp taps of his bow indicate that a change is impending, and although his companions do not know beforehand
what melody is coming, at the first note they fall in without a
hitch, and the dancers likewise manage to move as he directs.
Never in this land can the Tziganes say: " We have played to
those who did not dance! " The Roumanians are born dancers,
just as the gipsies are born musicians. Nature, and not art, has
been their mistress, and the result is entrancing. At last from
sheer exhaustion the bows fall to the players' sides, and the feet
lag, but the dancing does not cease until at cockcrow, when the




IN THE NEAR EAST


53


stars have melted away above the mountain tops, the frenzied,
panting, worn, flushed, and perspiring company breaks up and
betakes itself off, not to bed, but to work.
Between the dances a large amount of food and drink is consumed. The Jewish innkeeper has made ample provision for
the healthy appetites of his guests. At the tables set round
the building the hungry peasants are devouring hot porridge,
stewed vegetables, soup, and cakes baked of malai, a sort of
Indian meal, washed down by copious draughts of wine and,
perchance, a little too much rachiu, and as the afternoon wears
on not a few becoming afumat, and, to quote the Romdn
saying: " being tipsy believe themselves to be emperors."
Behind the prispa, in the big, cool, green-garlanded restaurant,
a crowd of children have clustered around the favourite storyteller of the village, who "threads pearls "-for that is how,
in the country, they speak of story-telling- better than the
best. Every tale has its characteristic introduction and conclusion, such as: " There happened once what happened once;
but if it had not happened it would not be told "; or, " Once
upon a time something happened whose like never occurred
before-if it had not happened it would not be told-since the
flea had one foot shod with ninety-nine pounds of iron and
jumped into the skies to get us fairy-tales, and the fly wrote on
the wall: 'Let him be a liar who doesn't believe them.' " And
for endings they have quaint verses like the following:"Into the saddle then I sprung
To tell this tale to old and young."
All Romdn stories are tinged with local colour, and fuller of the
play of poetic imagination than those of the rest of Europe,
which repeat the same stories in other forms. This may be due
to the fact that, although the Romdns are undoubtedly a Latin
people, the descendants of the soldiers of Imperial Rome itself,
who married Dacian wives, have in the course of time drawn
into their veins some Slavic blood, and if in physiognomy,
feature, and language, and fundamental characteristics they are
Latins, in romantic and poetic temperament they resemble the
Slavs. One of this old pearl-threader's tales is about seven
shepherds, who, being tired of the mountains, left their sheep
and " journeyed down on to the flat parts of the world, where
they walked on and on trying to reach the spot where the earth
becomes a swamp before it meets the sky and comes to an end."
The story is very lengthy and has no particular meaning, no
definite ending, certainly no moral, yet it is beautiful Into it
are introduced all sorts of incongruous characters, and spirits,
and beasts, and witches, and, of course, an emperor, and, be it




64 OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES IN NEAR EAST


remembered, it is never kings or princes, but only emperors who
figure in the fairy-tales of Roumania. Here and there at intervals through the narration numerous usages, incidents, and
phrases of everyday Roman life are dwelt upon; the use of basil
for sprinkling holy water is spoken of, so is the belief in the need
of human sacrifice to prevent the church bell from tumbling
down, the advisability of making three crosses and three prostrations to the East when one comes to the fringe of a dark and
lonely forest, the care which must be taken not to meet a squinting
man at dawn, seeing that such a personage is sure to be a disguised member of the strigoi-those fearsome vampires who
issue from graves. Warning also is given as to how best avoid
the wiles of the dracu and his draci,l who are wont to take on
themselves all manner of odd shapes, but who love best " gloomy
and deep waters where the sun never glints." The devil, by the
way, is feared and respected quite as much as God by the
Romdns, and there is a strong suspicion that the Almighty's
reason for turning "the Horned One " out of heaven was petty
jealousy because "the Horned One was growing too clever
and was handsome."
At length the story draws to an end, the pearl-threader's glass
is filled up amid vociferous hand-clapping, and the song-singer
takes his turn at amusing the company. Musical though they
be, the Romdns look for excellence, not so much in the melody of
a song as in the rhyme of its verses. The Slavs have much
sweeter singing voices than the Romdns, which is strange, as the
speaking voices of the latter are so exquisitely soft-toned. Nevertheless, like their Slavic neighbours, the Romdns, one and all,
sing cheerfully from morning to night. Apparently SouthEastern Europe is the homeland of melancholy ditties. Here, as
in the Slav countries, even the songs intended to be merry are
in a minor key. They are chanted to the accompaniment of a
pipe, and the professional singers are, as a rule, blind beggars.
This artiste has evidently found a theme which stirs the hearts
of his listeners. It is a war song which describes the national
struggle for liberty, and, although they do not love war for war's
sake, the audience hearken spellbound. If the pearl-threader's
story was long, the song-singers' doina is longer. Night falls
and yet he chants, for the story of Free Roumania cannot be
told in a few verses. Out in the batdtura the Tziganes are still
fiddling for dear life. Those who were afumat have become more
afumat, and the Jew has done a good business. The little ones
have dropped to sleep on the guest-house floor, but the songsinger still sings.
Come what may, however, Roumania-Sd trditi!
1 The devil and his attendants.




CHAPTER V


THE EARLY GERMAN SETTLERS IN TRANSYLVANIA
"And I must not omit to say
That in Transylvania there's a tribe
Of Alien people that ascribe
The outlandish ways and dress
On which their neighbours lay such stress
To their fathers and mothers having risen
Out of some subterraneous prison
Into which they were trepanned
Long time ago in a mighty band."
" The Pied Piper of Hamelin," BROWNING.
ONCE upon a time, so the Germans of Transylvania tell their
children, a piper appeared in a far-away town in Germany, and
out of the spite which he entertained for the burgers stole away
all the children of the place, took them into a hole, and led them
by dark ways underground until they came to another hole which
opened in the country where they now dwell.1
The rain is over-thanks be to God-it would have been unfortunate if the first summer fair-day had dawned inclement. The
ancient clock on the ancient tower of the fortress church of
Egerburg, which rears itself aloft on the summit of the hill
overlooking the town, has just struck seven, but no one really
knows whether or not its announcement is to be depended upon,
seeing that this is the only clock within a circumference of twenty
kilometres, that it is extremely aged, and that it has not been
cleaned or repaired for generations. Enough to say it is early,
1 The Saxons came to Transylvania along with many other German
tribes from the Rhine provinces, Mecklenburg and Flanders, in the eleventh
century. They came under the special and personal protection of Geisa II,
King of Hungary, who granted them absolute liberty, free lands with no
taxation, provided they rendeIed him assistance in the struggle which he
and his successors were obliged to carry on against the turbulent Magyar
nobles. The German settlers were permitted to make their own laws and
elect their own rulers, and were, in fact, a separate and distinct nationality
until, in 1876, they were deprived by the Magyars of their autonomy.
They remain Germans and speak the spurious German still to be heard in
many parts of Northern Germany.
55




56          OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES
early and a radiant blue morning. An atmosphere of sedate fuss
pervades. Along the principal street, which is so broad that nine
big ox-wagons can move up and down it without wheels interlocking wheels, which is flanked by old, grey, stone houses, with
heavy bulging buttresses and deep-set lattice windows, with queer
overhanging gardens brimming over with flowers-this street,
which the Egerburgers regard as the centre of civilisation, is
thronged to overflowing with a maze of bullock carts loaded with
hides, barrels of wine and farm produce of all kinds, with timebattered and crazy shandrydans and pedestrians driving cows,
calves, pigs, and sheep. People come and go under the solemn
and gloomy archways and through the ponderous oaken doorways, and the uproar of feather-bed making and carpet beating
extraordinary rises from all the worm-eaten wooden and iron
balconies which so exactly resemble the one over which, in grand
opera, a fat Faust is supposed to clamber to the shrine of his pigtailed goddess, that no surprise would be experienced if the place
suddenly re-echoed with the tramp of mailed feet and the blare of
the " Soldiers' Chorus." This street is, to repeat, a source of
pride to the inhabitants. Everybody who is anybody is consequently obliged to dwell in it, and every one who is no one has
perforce to reside in the byways leading off it, in thoroughfares
so narrow that when the residents on one side desire to shake
hands with their neighbours over the way, this can with ease be
accomplished by merely stretching arms across from balcony to
balcony. Both buildings and people in Egerburg appear to
possess the power to stave off death. The seven-hundred-yearsold, siege-defying fortress church on the top of the hill, the quiet,
moss-grown stone passages which link courtyard with courtyard,
the quaint window-boxes, now almost hidden under trails of
waxen stephanotis and scarlet geraniums, and even " die alten
Miutterchen," 1 who expand with good nature and adipose tissue
upon their tiny " creepy " stools in the market square, each and
all seem to know the secret of longevity. Perchance it is the
air which preserves things hereabouts, the scented breezes that
rush through the streets straight from the heart of the forest
which rolls upwards to the snow-crowned summits of the Carpathians, whose lower slopes begin to rise directly behind the
town. Perchance it is the resinous fragrance of the trees, the
cold freshness of the snows which counteract the ravages wrought
by time, or perhaps the fairies of the hills and woods have cast
a spell upon these good folk and their belongings, which, acting
like a narcotic, renders them sublimely complacent in disposition, makes them omit to wind and clean their clock, to count
1 " The old4Grannies."'




IN THE NEAR EAST


57


the passing hour, or-to die. But the chances are it is the air
and not a spell that conserves them, for the Egerburgers are
Germans, and, as such, they are not by any means given to
falling under spells, although they are never tired of relating
how their forefathers were, in the long ago, enticed by witchery
from their homes in Germany and led away by a fairy man.
Be the reason what it may, however, the fact remains that these
Saxons quite fail to realise that yesterday is not to-day; they
live in the past, not in the present, and set their faces sternly
against everything new or progressive.
Follow this incline, roughly paved with cobbles, and mount the
long flight of stone steps leading up to the fortress church. The
words " church " and "fortress " are synonymous in Saxon
Transylvania. The steps are steep and worn hollow by the feet
of countless generations, and one speculates how, in the Middle
Ages, the refugees found it possible to convey their heavy loads
of foodstuffs, their sick, their beasts and household treasures in
safety to the citadel. On either side of the steps are high, mosscovered walls softened by climbing roses, and at the top of the
stairway is an archway opening into the outer hof, or yard.
This hof encircles the second wall of the fortress, round which
runs a moat long since run dry and now almost concealed by
briers, nettles, and wild flowers. The remains of the ancient
drawbridge are still plainly visible, and beside the ruins lie
stacked-up piles of immense granite boulders, the ammunition
which, once upon a time, the besieged were wont to hurl upon
the besiegers, the Tartars and Turks who came up regularly
every spring on the wings of the stormy south-eastern wind.
The ground of the yard is paved with granite flags, and a ring of
widespreading lime trees cast a golden-green shade on low stone
benches where, on balmy summer evenings, the townsfolk sit
to take the air and propagate scandal. There is nothing especially curious about either these benches or limes, but there is
something decidedly odd in the formation of this first wall, in
which, at intervals all the way round, are deep recesses, or
alcoves, or cupboards, each protected by a massive oaken door
secured by an equally massive iron lock. And if one wishes to
explore into the secret recesses of the Saxon-German mind and
character, this can be done by opening one of these doors and
investigating what it conceals-a thing not so easily done, for
the keys are in the safe custody of the Herr Pastor, and he is
decidedly suspicious of strangers who display any interest in
his mysterious cupboards. But if by chance a glimpse could be
obtained of their interiors the truth would be recognised that the
German mind, whether here in Transylvania or far away in
Prussia, either in the long-fled years of the Middle Ages or to-day,




58


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


never has been and never will be capable of finding goodness or
honesty in minds which are not Teutonic. " We Saxons have
never found ourselves amongst decent folk," grunts the usually
uncommunicative guardian of the place, " so we cherish our goous
behind strong locks." In other words, the Egerburgers, like all
their Saxon kindred throughout the German settlements of
Transylvania, keep vast stores of bacon, salt pork, corn, wine,
and oil hoarded up in their sanctuary larders-these wall recesses-in canny expectation of some never arising occasion
when their neighbours, presumably the amiable, inoffensive, and
thriftless Roumanians, "the dirty Wallachs," as the Saxon
terms them, or the eat-drink-and-be-merry-for-to-morrow-we-die
Magyars, or the easy-going, " much-too-rapidly-increasing"
Slavs may take it into their heads to pillage the Saxon towns
and homesteads. In ages gone by doubtless it was a wise and
necessary law which ordered that the church fortresses should be
kept plentifully supplied with comestibles. In the days when
the Sultan's armies pitched their camp beneath the shadow of
these walls, when the gates had swung to upon the last arriving
batch of refugees from the surrounding districts, when the
female population of a dozen villages huddled for shelter within
the inner hol, and, from there, supplied the Saxon soldiers with
boiling oil and pitch to deposit upon the craniums of the assaulters,
an ample food supply meant victory. But, seeing that nowadays
no such peril threatens Egerburg, it seems a pity that this
ancient Saxon law still holds good, and that its birgers still
zealously obey it, and pack away in their musty alcoves quite
one-half of their yearly harvest of wine, corn, oil, and meat.
It is a warm day and the odours which emanate from these
treasures are anything but fragrant. " Oh, yes, naturally the
pork and bacon rot, and the grain becomes mildewed, and the
oil turns rancid, and the rats devour what they ought not to
devour, but what of that? " snorts the custodian. " Egerburg
is proud of its church stores. Are they not the largest and
richest in all the land, and, well, what can foreigners be expected
to understand? What do they know of the dangers which beset
us godly Saxons who dwell in the midst of peril and have only
the right arm of our good Herr Gott to lean upon? " The
Saxons are very fond of invoking the Eternal; His name is never
off their lips; nevertheless, He too comes in for some of their
mistrust, else why these decaying provisions? Closer interrogation may result in the discovery that it is upon its salt pork
and bacon stores that Egerburg especially prides itself. Every
Saxon town cherishes some particular vanity with regard to its
hoardings. One boasts its corn cupboards, another its wine
cellars; as it has been said, Egerburg goes in for pork and bacon!




IN THE NEAR EAST


59


By mounting another and shorter flight of steps and entering
the archway beyond the moat the second hof is reached. To the
right of this entrance is the old, now disused graveyard, where
the sweetbrier and rose-entwined tombstones, with their quaint
bas-reliefs, lean against each other as if for support. And to the
left are the houses of the Herr Pastor and the Herr Hann,1 each
house a miniature fortress in itself, with much of their grimness
obscured by flowering creepers and long trails of stephanotis, a
plant that in these parts flourishes in every nook and cranny.
Passing the graveyard and the houses, and traversing the yard,
with its ring of limes and stone benches, another portico is
arrived at, and beyond this third archway and wall lies the heart,
as it were, of the citadel in which is situated the church. Against
the blue sky it towers up massive and inviolate as if challenging
the world to combat and demanding recognition and respect,
although, whatever to the contrary its owners may think, its day
is done and its bastions, turrets, and loopholed fastnesses no
longer serve any purpose whatever. Its venerable walls are
scaling, their surface is broken by the falling out of stones, ivy
and roses cling about their hoariness. The towers have, each
two or three storeys. Every tower and each floor has its provision for separate defence, every enclosure is constructed to
withstand a separate siege. There are embrasures for the crossbow men, sloping battlements for the launching of boulders, in
the event of the enemy having carried the outer defences, little
tunnels through which to pour the scalding oil, trap stairs without
egress to snare the foe into a sort of pit in which they could be shot
down, turrets for a sudden rally. The massing of stonework,
the contrivances to facilitate attack and defence, are extraordinary. One can imagine the bygone furious assaults, the
dense, seething crowd of green and scarlet turbaned heads, the
clang of weapons beneath the posterns and within the towers,
the invocations to " Allah " and the " Herr Gott," which rang
out as Christians and Mussulmans, Turks or Tartars and Teutons,
closed in the death grip.
During the intervals the dead and gone inhabitants of this
eagle's nest were probably happy enough, and congratulated
themselves that for the moment they had escaped a gory death,
which was, in their generation, the rule and not the exception.
All is very reposeful up here to-day; the sunshine glints on the
crumbling walls, the flowers and mosses, lichens and ivy peer out
from and cling to every turret. Nature holds undisputed sway
and the birds are the only disturbers of the silence. Pause an
instant before entering the church, and gaze at the view. It is
1 The Mayor.




60


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


like looking down upon a map both geographical and racial.
Immediately below is German Egerburg, with its red-tiled,
pointed roofs, its grey and quaint byways, where, for centuries,
Saxons have lived upon the same site, in the same houses, within
the same environment. Near where the broad street merges into
the country highway there is a cluster of whitewashed, red
verandahed, stockade-encircled cottages; that is the Roumanian
quarter of the town, for the Transylvanian Germans never permit
"the heathen," namely, the native races of the land, to reside
among them. Beyond the Roumanian cottages again are a score
or two of square, whitewashed, mud huts-the settlement of
the Bulgarian onion-growers and market gardeners, whilst still
further out along the road, on an open piece of ground, a multitude
of dark brown, cone-shaped objects show where the Tziganes have
pitched their encampment; and lastly, far away on the distant
horizon of the valley a faint bluish haze indicates the whereabouts
of Szederkeny, the nearest stronghold of the Magyars, and a
thriving, modern market town. In the rear and on either side
rise the great white-browed mountains, with their sweeping and
precipitous flanks, their chaos of shattered rocks, their boisterous
torrents, thick forests, and vividly green lower slopes, and right
before lies the long valley with its seas of ripening corn, hemp,
colza, flax, and scarlet poppy fields, its acres upon acres of vineyards, its orchards and rich pasturages, intersected here and
there by dusty, poplar-bordered roads, winding, willow-edged
streams, clumps of oaks, and pools of still water, fringed with
reeds and rushes. Innumerable flocks of sheep and herds of
cattle move to and fro over the grass lands. A tiny, drifting
blur of rose and white, tipped with something which glitters in the
sunshine, meanders along the road; it is a troop of peasants going
to work with scythes slung across their backs; the road they are
traversing leads across the Danube to Constantinople. Borne on
the breeze comes the warm perfume of vines, of clover, of freshlycut grass, lines, larches and firs, of mountain lavender and
thyme, of roses, stephanotis, heliotrope and stock, mingled with
the acrid reek of burning wood wafted up from the tall chimneys
of the houses.
In contrast to all this loveliness of Nature the interior of the
church strikes one as chill and ugly. Round the crudely whitewashed stone walls are empty niches where, in the days before
Luther, stood images of saints and angels. The windows, set
high towards the roof, are unstained and protected by bars of
rusty iron; the seats are primitive wooden benches, on which at
intervals are laid fat black Bibles and Psalm-books, each book
marking the seat of a parishioner. All is bald and repellent save
where, behind the Communion table and the lofty black oak




IN THE NEAR EAST


61


pulpit, two beautiful Oriental carpets blaze with defiant colour.
They are trophies of war, these splendid, moth-eaten tapestries,
having been captured from the Turkish besiegers, along with the
silver and gold, ruby-encrusted plates and goblets that are locked
up in the fourteenth-century chest under the Herr Pastor's chair,
from which they are brought out only for the Christmas, Easter,
and Pentecost sacramental celebrations. Hard, unyielding
seating accommodation and hard, unyielding doctrines are the
chief characteristics of this church of Egerburg and the faith it
represents, and it is delightful to get out into the sunlight that
does not discriminate between the just and the unjust. The
bees that inhabit the Herr Pastor's hives are droning lazily, the
blue pigeons coo fatuously in the turrets, an idyllic peace broods
over everything, and thoughts wander, until, with a start, they
are recalled to the present by the clanging of the cracked church
bell, the "Turks' Bell," as it is called, which, with all else, has
succeeded in cheating time of its rights. For seven hundred
years it has remained at its post; in tumultuous times it was the
first to perceive the glint of the Turkish spears as they advanced
up the valley and give the alarm, and now, with voice no longer
what it was, at noon, at sunset, and at the hour of Gottesdienst
it bravely wags its rusty tongue.
In the market square business is proceeding with the gravity
and orderliness which are typical of Saxon life. There is no confusion, no hustling or bustling. The booths and stalls are set out
in very straight rows, everything is in its place, and there is a
place for everything. The cattle do not roam at large, prodding
people in the ribs, but are confined in roomy, wooden-paled pens.
The ox-carts are drawn up in a line. There is a fowl market, a
feather market, a butter, cheese, and egg market, a fruit and
vegetable market, which is largely in the hands of the Bulgars,
a cloth market, where the vendors are mostly Slavs, a pottery
and an embroidery market, chiefly controlled by Roumanians.
Just as there is no dirt or noise or confusion, so is there no gaiety
or even animation. A subdued spirit seems to have damped the
verbosity of the light-hearted Slavs, the Roumanians, and the
obstreperous Magyars. The hardly snubbed Jews and the irrepressible, lawless Tziganes go about cautiously as if fearful of
pushing their bargains and their clieatings too far. The joy of
life so noticeable in the other market-places of South-Eastern
Europe is here conspicuous by its absence. Colour there is in
plenty; the Saxon costumes do not lack brilliancy, but beneath
the brilliancy are frigidness and gloom. Not a voice is lifted in
song, no one ventures upon a witticism or indulges in chaff. No
1 Divine service.




62


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


polite or friendly greetings are interchanged except between the
people of the races which the Saxons regard as barbarians. Even
in the sleepy and dull fairs of Mecklenburg and Westphalia more
liveliness is to be met with, but there, in the land of their fathers,
the Germans do not feel the same caution and reserve are required
as here, where they are " infested " on every side, as they themselves express it, by " vermin," where for centuries they have
cultivated a surly and mistrustful demeanour as a safeguard
against the wiles of the wicked. To yield one jot or tittle of their
rights, to forsake their time-worn and now absurd customs and
prejudices, to alter so much as a button on their mediseval dress
is, in their eyes, an unforgivable crime. Because the Roumanian
smiles courteously and murmurs " Applecaciune," 1 that is sufficient reason for the Transylvanian German to refuse so much as
a grunt in reply; because the Slav hails him in the name of
" Christ the Risen," that is exactly why the Saxon hunches his
shoulders and praises his " Herr Gott " that he is not an idolater,
as is his would-be friendly, if alien, neighbour. " Come out from
among them and touch not the accursed thing" was the text
upon which the Herr Pastor founded his last Sunday's hour-long
sermon, and it was a subject congenial to his hearers. The only
unpopular topic and popular sin which their spiritual adviser
dilates upon is vanity. Vanity in dress is a vice which runs
rampant through Saxon land. The most miserly-and meanness
is very prevalent-squander large sums upon their personal adornment, and it is a pity that the bodies thus bedecked are not more
beautiful. The average Transylvanian German is a decidedly unlovely being, and neither the climate nor the exquisite surroundings of the land where they have settled has rendered them more
prepossessing. They are every one faithful replicas of their
Teutonic forefathers, possessed of the same raw-boned, heavily
constructed figures, the same all-annihilating feet, the same
wooden visages, fair complexions, light blue eyes and flaxen hair
possessed by the models which Hans Sachs so loved to paint.
As they advance in years they put on flesh, and the sight of the
stupendous Hausfraus who are rolling homewards, laden with
baskets of merchandise, brings to mind the story of how the
Tartars when they made incursions into this land were wont to
declare that if the Germans made things not a little unpleasant
for them in the matter of boiling oil and hurtling boulders, the
game was worth the candle, for, when captured, the Saxon ladies
made most succulent stew.2 The artist who seeks only colour
1 " Good day-Good morning."
2 Many historians assert that the Tartars were, at times, cannibals,
and almost all the Saxon tales of the Tartar wars declare that they-the
Tartars-killed and ate their prisoners, especially the women, which may
or may not be true.




IN THE NEAR EAST


63


can find it all over Saxon territory, and does it signify, after all,
if the girls are clumsy and the men boorish when they are clothed
like the sun with splendour? Next to personal vanity, the
most prominent trait in the Saxon character is egotism, a trait
natural to Germans the world round, and the trait which above
everything renders them unpopular and causes their critics to
overlook even their good points. In the year 1651 the Saxon
rulers, spiritual and secular, attempted to impose severe punishment upon those who over-indulged their taste for display.
Long lists of forbidden luxuries in dress were published, but the
otherwise law-abiding Saxons preferred to suffer the penalty
rather than surrender their extravagances, so the extravagances
remain to this day. Each township and parish in the country
has its own particular costume, and the attire favoured by the
fair ones of Egerburg is ultra-resplendent. See this group of
women gathered round the entrance to the cloth market. It is
easy to distinguish between the married and the single; a glance
at their respective head-dresses will tell whether they are matrons
or maids. Both the wedded and unwedded wear, for foundation, a long white linen chemise adorned with cross-stitch embroidery; over this garment is a full blue or black stuff petticoat,
and over this again is a white net skirt, all of which are confined
to the waist by a broad gold braid girdle fastened by an enormous
silver garnet-inlaid 1 clasp. The black leather shoes of workdays have been discarded for high-heeled scarlet leather boots,
laced to show an inch of the gaudy woollen hosiery beneath.
With respect to the head coverings, the appropriated dames
present a curiously bald appearance; not a hair is allowed to
escape below the closely-fitting white and starched muslin caps
that are firmly bound round their skulls with bands of scarlet
ribbon, the ends of which drop down behind to the hem of the
skirts. Two silver and garnet pins, secured to the cap above each
ear, complete these fantasies. Nor is the headgear of the girls
any less elaborate. Each damsel carries a borten,2 as it is
termed, perched on the extreme top of her head, where goodness
knows how it is induced to remain perpendicular. The borten
is a weird sort of chimney-pot hat minus brim and crown, a tube
constructed of cardboard and covered with black velvet. From
the back of this erection a cascade of multicoloured ribbons,
measuring several fingers in breadth, flutter down to below the
end of the petticoats, and beneath hat and ribbons the young
woman's lint-fair locks stream free in the wind. A finishing
touch is given to all the Saxon ladies' costumes by a voluminous
crimson satin, silver lace fringed handkerchief, which is carried
1 Garnets are plentiful in Transylvania.
2 The name given to this Saxon head-dress.




64


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


ostentatiously between the finger and thumb, possibly to advertise their owners' superiority over their sisters of other races,
who, as a whole, believe in natural methods when it comes to
nose-blowing! Dress is the only thing in which the Saxon
men permit their womenfolk to outshine them. The garments
of the masculine gender are not nearly so outlandish. Tightfitting, white woollen breeches, high, black leather boots, a
handsomely embroidered waistcoat, a loose, short, black overjacket studded with silver buttons, a broad-brimmed, highcrowned black felt hat, comprise the Saxon male's attire, and to
this is added on high days and holidays a flower buttonhole and
a rosette of gay ribbons. The only individuals who are evidently
perfectly innocent of personal conceit are the old people, especially " die alten Mutterchen," who, having found the struggle to
suppress over-redundance of figure too much for them, have
surrendered, let themselves spread, and settled down comfortably inside formless stuff bedjackets and petticoats, content
if allowed to brush out their daughters' hair, arrange their
bortens, and hold their mirrors.
Watch the crowd, and it will be noticed that it divides itself
up into bands or groups. Over there stands a bevy of girls, some
distance from them is a company of married women, across the
road some young men are lounging, and at the tables in the front
hof of the adjoining inn half a dozen elderly, pot-bellied bfirgers
are seriously employed in speeding down their gullets quantities
of hammelsbraten, Kalbs-schnitzel, and beer. Each of these
groups represents a separate and distinct association in Saxon
social life. The girls, for example, represent the virgin Schwesterschaft-sisterhood-of Egerburg. This sisterhood is governed
by its own self-imposed rules, meets on certain occasions at
certain houses-in the homes of members-where they ply their
wheels and sing their own girlish rockenlieder. On marriage the
members pass on to the sisterhood of the matrons, which also
possesses its own laws of etiquette, its own places of assemblage,
its own songs and interests. As for the men, the youths over
the way belong to the Bruderschaft, or brotherhood, of the
bachelors of the town, and the gobbling biirgers are members
of the local Nachbarschaft, or neighbourhood. These Bruderschaften exist all over Transylvanian Saxon land, and each
association is controlled by an Altknecht, or chief, who is elected
yearly by vote. This personage's duty lies in seeing that the
members of his brotherhood are clean and tidy in dress, that they
do not eat grossly and audibly, do not cause uproar in public
places, do not spit, scratch, snore, snort, or blow their nasal
organs loudly during divine service, do not omit to partake of
the Sacrament four times in the year, do not conduct themselves




IN THE NEAR EAST


65


offensively in the presence of women, or thrust themselves
nearer than a handbreadth to the persons of the members of
the Schwesterschalt, whose spinning meetings, by the way, the
Altknecht and his company must attend in order that report may
be given of the work done by the girls. For all sins of omission
and commission the Altknecht is authorised to impose fines varying from ten to fifty kreutzers, according to the gravity of the
misdeed. On abandoning celibacy, members of the Bruderschaft
are admitted into the community of the Nachbarschaft, which is
directed by an individual, chosen by vote, on whose shoulders
rests the responsibility of seeing that the commands of the Herr
Pastor and the Mayor, or Hann, are carried out; also, that the
streets are kept clean, the poor receive assistance, that "evil
women who loiter in the thoroughfares " are corrected, that
naughty children are chastised, and that husbands and wives,
when in dispute, do not publicly " make tumult." Next to the
Herr Pastor the Herr Hann is the most important of potentates.
He-the Herr Hann-is addressed as " Euer Weisheit," while his
wife, the Frau Hanim, is greeted as " Your excellent Virtue."
Wealth, a blameless reputation, and a house in the principal
street of the town are the chief things which a candidate for this
post must possess when he goes up for election, especially the
house in the big street. As to the Herr Pastor, he too is elected
by vote, and holds the parish whilst he lives. Nevertheless,
although he is sure of his bread and butter, he earns his living
hardly. In return for a free house, a garden, some land, and a
small income he is expected not only to know the best and
surest means to adopt towards the attainment of paradise and
the avoidance of hell, but also how best to cultivate potatoes and
vines, how to breed rare poultry, how to cure swine fever,
measles, whooping cough, how even to inscribe effusive love
letters, and how to conduct law cases, while his wife must be able
to impart to all who ask every domestic secret from broth-making
up to match-making and midwifery. Match-making is carried on
amongst the Saxons with the most cold-blooded indifference as to
the sentiments of those whom the community at large think
ought to enter the holy estate of matrimony. Love is not considered a necessary prelude to wedded life. Once a year on St.
Catherine's Day, the twenty-fifth of November, all the marriages
arranged during the past twelvemonth take place, and the
Altknechts and their followers on the evening before stride about
the villages and towns knocking at the doors and shouting
"Bringt Rahm," 1 and in reply to the summons every one is
obliged, by local Saxon law, to provide the households where
1 " Bring cream! t
F




66


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


weddings are to take place with milk, eggs, cream, butter, bacon,
and cakes. And next day the whole land becomes one huge
Speisesaal, where every one eats and drinks to exhaustion, after
which, if able, they dance, not as the less gluttonous Roumanians
and Slavs dance, out of sheer light-heartedness and passion, but
heavily, laboriously, more because it is their custom and duty
to dance at weddings than for enjoyment. There are no Tziganes
to make music. The Saxons abominate them, and the gipsies
cordially return their hatred; so the music is rendered by a
band of musicians drawn from the townsfolk, who never seem
able to agree together either as to time or tune. " Walsers "
and " Polkas "-not the beautiful Kola, Hora, or Czdrdds-are
trodden through with elephantine vigour, and within airless
salons, for the Saxons do not approve of outdoor dancing.
Finally, at the termination of three days' gorging and stamping
and cornet and violin caterwauling, the bridal pairs betake themselves to their new homes, which, like themselves, are not of this
century, but belong, so far as architecture and furniture are
concerned, to the Germany of the Middle Ages. And each couple
settles down, temporarily, behind their wainscoted walls and
lattice windows, amid their copper pots and pans and pottery,
carved oaken benches, lofty chests and brass-bound cupboards,
crammed full of swelling down pillows and bed covering. The
word " temporarily " is used with regard to the settling down of
Saxon bridal pairs, because more than half the husbands and
wives part company and apply for divorce within the first year,
divorce being one of the easiest things obtainable here, and the
following St. Catherine's Day witnesses a matrimonial game of
change partners. Large families the Saxons have no desire for,
and there are, as a rule, never more than two children born in a
household. Not even the fact that their racial enemies, the
Slavs and Roumanians, are rapidly increasing around them can
induce them to perceive that they are doomed to extinction if
they persist in limiting their offspring. Love, as it has been said,
does not soften Saxon marriage life, nor, indeed, does it sweeten
any relationship. Fathers and mothers do not pretend to
affection towards their children, and, naturally, the children do
not return what they have not received. The keynote of existence is sounded in the old saying: " Every man for himself
and the devil take the hindmost." In the trading places of the
Roumanians and Slavs there is plenty of give and take; the
young care for the old, the strong, generally speaking, show
kindliness towards the weak. Not so here. See that old granny
who is trying to raise a load of faggots on to her back. Does
any sturdy member of the Bruderscha/t put out a hand to assist
her? Certainly not; she is to these boys only a figure for fun,




IN THE NEAR EAST                      67
and not worth more than a gibing laugh. Does this able-bodied
damsel who is strutting along, red satin handkerchief in hand,
display the slightest concern that her unfortunate, perspiring
mother is lumbering wearily in her wake, laden with purchases?
No; the aged must expect to be the beasts of burden; they
are no use for anything else! The only people who meet the
Saxons on equal ground when it comes to egotism are the Magyars,
and between them rages war to the knife. The stubbornness
with which the Saxons cling to the things of the past handicaps
them in their battle against the Hungarians, who reach out
greedily to the things and ideas of the future. But the Saxons
when they meet with reverse merely shrug their shoulders, and
repeat their old belief and prophecy that " Some fine day in the
by and by a great German host will come to their aid from out
the Fatherland, and then all the bad Slavs, Roumanians, and
Magyars will be put to the sword, and the whole world will
become German, for that is the Herr Gott's wish and He will
bring it to pass." 1
It is now evening and the market is over and the peasants
have dispersed homewards. Come down the street to where at
the entrance to the town stands an old-world restaurant. In the
dimly-lighted Speisesaal many market folk are drinking and
smoking their long china pipes, and round the door opening from
the road into the hof a crowd has congregated. Evidently something is about to take place, for set in the yard under the trees
are long wooden tables covered with blue and white check cloths,
and the fumes which issue from the kitchen premises foretell
an unstinted supply of paprikds hendl, sausages, and sauerkraut
for the Abendessen. There are many Roumanians, Slavs, and
Magyars in the crowd; they are making mock, rudely enough, at
the Germans, and even a passing Ldndler 2 deigns to join in the
scoffing. Presently the noise of doleful singing can be heard in
the distance, and a procession heaves in sight, led by an old man
attired in a long dark woollen garment and carrying a drum on
which he beats a tattoo. Following after him come the members
of the Egerburg Bruderschaft, who also wear sombre-hued,
monkish vestments and bear staves in their hands. They are
chanting the last verse of an ancient Lutheran psalm, and on
their arrival at the restaurant the proprietor sallies out to welcome
1 This is the favourite story told by the Saxons to their children, and
every Saxon confidently credits it and looks for the coming of German
armies from Germany to establish them here, and the German race over
the entire universe. It is interesting, because it proves that the worldempire indulged in by William of Germany is one which began centuries ago.
2 An Austrian. The name Lndler is given by the Saxons to any
Austrian in Transylvania.




68 OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES IN NEAR EAST


them. " Good day, good people. From whence do you come?
Are you weary? And for what purpose have you worn out
your shoes? " Whereupon the old man with the drum answers:
" We have journeyed as did our fathers from our Fatherland of
Germany into this country of godless barbarians. We are a free
people, the noblest of people, and we came here of our own
accord, with staff in hand, to turn the heathen from wickedness
and to work the will of God. We be Germans as were our fathers,
and God is with us wherever we go! " Then the righteous ones
take their places at the tables and yell for beer, and the heathen
put their tongues in their cheeks and their fingers to their noses,
complacently count their children on ten fingers, and stroll off
miauing like cats in imitation of the Lutheran melody just
chanted, which in the ears of the music-loving natives of these
lands sounds not very different from the lamentations raised by
the domesticated animals mentioned.
So do the Saxons keep the racial gulf open which for eight
hundred years has yawned between them and the real children of
the countries of South-Eastern Europe.
Folly, even the childish folly of these German exiles, gives
cause for sadness, and an indescribable melancholy makes itself
felt. The sun is sinking and strikes luridly on the red pointed
roofs and the grey walls of the fortress. The " Turks' Bell " rings
for the Gottesdienst, and He whose desire it is that men should
dwell together in friendship, He at least has done nothing to mar
the peace of the evening hour and of His world. The breeze of
the morning has dropped; not a breath stirs the golden tassels of
the limes; the pines have ceased to undulate and murmur; the
meadows and cornfields lie still and asleep; the night is clear and
starlit, and the mountains keep their eternal silence. Everybody
except the pilgrims has gone to bed, but they are drinking hard
and singing the song of the Saxon emigration in the Platt Deutsch
tongue of their forefathers.
The melody penetrates to a poor cottage some way along on the
roadside, and a Slav mother tells her children: " Those are the
Germans who are drinking, my little ones, the Germans who were
brought here long, long ago from their home in the Devil's Land,
and came out of a big hell-hole in this country, fetched up by a
wicked wizard because the children of this land were naughty
and forgot to say 'Good day' to the fairies of the caves and
wells, and so deserved to be punished, and, as sure as you have
heads upon your bodies, my infants, they came fot this reason."
Here, therefore, are three versions of the story of how the
Germans came to Transylvania, and unbiased and open-eyed
people who come to these parts will do wisely to look about them
before they decide as to which story is true.




CHAPTER VI


THE TENTED ONES
THE red-gold corn stands ripe and splendid. The heat on the
plains is the heat of a midsummer's forenoon. The hum of life
sounds through worlds that are within worlds, for the Magyar
puszta has many separate worlds and each has its own special
life. On the bosom of the steppe are deserts where there is not
the faintest trace of water, no trees, and scarcely a sign of vegetation; dreary sand plains swept by stinging, blistering, scorching,
or ice-cold winds. On it, too, are fever-laden marsh-lands where
wild swans, cranes, and storks breed undisturbed in the rustling
green reeds between the patches of soda and salt bogs, crusted
with glistening white powder. Again, there are vast cornfields
and grass-lands, prairies, over which multitudes of buffaloes
and white-horned oxen come hurtling and lurching in furious
career, their quivering nostrils turned towards the running breeze.
And these are only some of the worlds the traveller may pass
through without meeting a human being for twelve or even
twenty-four hours; where the eagles, ravens, swans, peewits,
troops of wild horses, swine, oxen, wolves and the Tziganes reign
supreme. This is the land upon which Attila the Hun, in times
gone by, built his palace, where his fiat-nosed, slit-eyed, yellowskinned barbarians wandered and pillaged at will. This is the
country across which Arpad led his victorious hosts, and over
which the Turks and Tartars swept up to work evil on Christendom. At great distances apart, buried in the recesses of the
waving maize and long grass, are villages, mere clusters of low,
pointed-roofed, white-gabled, blue- and orange-striped cottages,
and such a village is Siofok, a place much frequented by the
children of Cain. Round Siofok the corn now rears itself a foot
above the tallest man's head, but to-morrow its pride will be
brought low, for to-day is the Feast of Peter and Paul, the eve
of the Magyar harvest. Like a pearl set in shield of gold seems
Siofok on this summer noontide. The nearest railway is distant
eighteen hours' journey by wagon, straight as a crow flies across
the Alfold; and the broad, dusty, stoneless track, or road, which
comes up from the southeast and goes on towards the north69




70


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


west, divides its two rows of white-washed homesteads. In
strips upon strips, measuring more than eighty kilometres in
breadth and as many in length, the cornfields sway from horizon
to horizon with silky, gentle movement. Between the yellow
ranks run plantations of angry red poppies; and like ships over
a boundless golden ocean, carts, drawn by stately silvery-hided
oxen, move to and fro along the furrows. Butterflies flutter
everywhere in myriads, and millions of larks, seen like tiny
black specks against the azure sky, are bursting their throats
in melody. "It is a country straight as the path of honour
and open as sincerity," say its Magyar children. "It is the
land of breezes and sweet scents," declare its Tzigane lovers,
and for once both these far from dependable races speak truly.
The day has been a busy one for the villagers. Hundreds
of strange foldmelokl have arrived from districts adjoining to
assist with the harvesting, the courtyard of the fogado 2 is blocked
with szekers,3 and since early morning there has arisen the noise
of perpetual movement, the barking of dogs, neighing of horses,
lo wing of cattle, shouting and crackling of whips. As the heat
o f the day increases, however, the commotion begins to subside.
In the long, cool, wooden alds,4 the footsore, sun-scorched
buffaloes and oxen are chewing the cud, jostling one another
and shaking the willow branches tied to their horns as protectives
against the flies. For hours the housewives have been stirring
yawning cazaroles5 of savoury crimson paprika hendl,6 garlicflavoured porridge, and gulyds hus.7  A fortnight's lay of the
village goose-eggs have been boiled, and black bread has been
baked sufficient to nourish a regiment. Under the hot glare of
the sun, before big, wood fires, many species of beasts and birds
have been roasted on spits, or simmered in pots, suspended over
the flames by means of three stakes set upright together in a
tripod. " Nothing like a full belly when one must sweat amongst
the kukoricza," 8 is the Hungarian saying, and surely every
stomach will be well filled to-morrow! The narrow-necked,
earthen pitchers stand cleansed and ready in each yard alongside the wooden tshuttoras.9 On the shelves of every kitchen
are smoking heaps of raisin, nut, and poppy-seed cakes, and there
is no lack of bottles of badacsony in the village cellars. Siofok
is a place famed over three hundred kilometres for its hospitality,
and the most rapacious appetites here find satisfaction. "The
1 Farm labourers.    2 A village inn.  3 Magyar farm-carts.
4 Shed for cattle.   6 Earthenware pots.
6 A stew made of fowl, red pepper, and rice.  7 A beef stew.
8 Maize.
9 Rough wooden vessels used everywhere in Hungary. They are
carried by the herdsmen, reapers and shepherds, strapped on the back,




IN THE NEAR EAST


71


Slav and Tzigane dogs smell our food and crawl up to gather
the crumbs," declare the villagers, and many of the former,
poor, timid " Tots," 1 as they are scornfully named, have already
gathered and are gazing wistful-eyed and mildly envious upon
the wealth and plenty of their Magyar masters. For a twelvehour day of toil they hope to be rewarded with a single kronen
and a substantial meal! It is a wonderful feast this of Peter
and Paul, a feast of strength, of health, of joy, hope, pride and
riches. It is the day when every trueborn Magyar stands up,
breathes in his puszta air, snaps his fingers and shouts-" En
Magyar vagyok! /" 2 It is the day on which all the dirty, mean
peoples who "sully" Magyarland are expected to sigh with
jealousy and wish they had been born masters and not servants.
At every house, under each of the little, muslin-curtained, gaily
painted windows, which peep out from each white gable, the
family sz6hordo3 is crowded with men who smoke vigorously
whilst they exchange the news which they have brought from
other villages. Round the cottage doors the women are sewing,
knitting, and gossiping. It is very hot, so hot and still that
those who have journeyed over the plains assert that at noon
they saw the Deli-bdb 4 beckoning them to quit the hard, dry
highway and come to where she smiled beside a cool, tree-shaded
stream. But with the wiles of their national witch the Alfolders
are too well acquainted to be deceived.
Work finished, the inhabitants deck themselves out in their
finest garments and bands of the kisleany 5 are strolling about
the street, with naked brown arms flung across one another's
shoulders. Clad in the flaunting glory of their Magyar galaday dresses, their crimson, outstanding, purple and blue petticoats swinging short to their plump knees above high, silverembossed, scarlet leather boots, their crisp, white bodices, coral,
silver and glass necklaces, ear-rings and brooches, twinkling in
the sunshine, their black hair carefully oiled and sleeked over
their plump, sunburnt cheeks, and falling in gaudily be-ribboned
plaits below their embroidered, black velvet belts, they look
1 " No men."                2 ( I am a Magyar."
3 Long wooden benches which are set beneath the shade of the gables.
The word sz6hordok-szohordo-(singular) means "word-bearer," given
because, on these sz6hord6, people are wont to gossip.
4 The Deli-bdb (" Fairy of the South "), or the Fata Morgana, is the
national fairy of Hungary, and is a sprite in the shape of a lovely young
woman who makes a mirage on the plains: sometimes a mirage of a city
with spires and castles, sometimes one of green woods, fields, and soothing
meadows, which bear such a resemblance to reality that travellers are
frequently deceived and lost,
6 Young girls,




72


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


what they are, handsome daughters of a bold, handsome,
domineering, pleasure-loving, and passionate race. By no means
modest or retiring, they cast sensuous, ardent glances at the men
and boys who are lounging under the poplar and acacia trees or
playing bowls on the green beside the duck-pond. The holiday
costumes of the latter are also shouting with colour. With
their legs almost hidden under long, white linen, fifteen-metrewide, lace-edged breeches, in their gorgeous silk and silver
stitched waistcoats, their glistening black, high-crowned felt hats
adorned with bright ribbons, flowers, and peacocks' feathers,
their black, polished, silver be-spurred boots, and their clean
white starched shirts, they successfully rival the opposite sex
in magnificence. Now and again the ardent glances of the
kisleany are answered; a man interrupts his game or his conversation, strides over to his temptress and deliberately embeds
the nails of his thumb and forefinger in the flesh of her bare arm,
showing his white teeth, as he inflicts the torture, in an insolent,
mocking grin. Whereupon the object of his attentions screams,
and, in turn, bites her tormentor in the wrist or neck, whilst
the onlookers shriek with delight, clap their hands in applause,
and wink suggestively, for, ever since the days of Attila, the
Magyars have been more than a little brutal in their love-making.
Though the sun is sinking low on the horizon, the atmosphere
remains stifling. There is not a breath of air. The village
horn has sounded to summon the joszag 1 home for the night,
and in a straggling little troop the cows and pigs meander up
the street, each scenting unaided its own particular stall or sty
and making for it promptly. The boys and girls have fetched
in their pails of scarce and precious water from the dgds,2 which
throws out giant arms, gallows like, against the sky on the outskirts of the village. To the westwards the sun, a blood-red
ball of fire, has slipped down behind the earth, and the whole
plain is bathed in the afterglow. A column of swollen, sulky,
indigo clouds rides slowly up from below the world's edge and
hangs heavy and gloomy against the fading glow of the sunset.
A paraszt 3 on horseback looms on the sky-line, the outline of
his figure showing vague and undefined in the half light. The
snowy-blossomed, perfumed acacias and the stiff, tall poplars
stand like sentinels in the dusk. Here and there pale forms flit
1 Village flocks and herds.
2 An gds is an Hungarian well, resembling all wells seen in this country
and the Balkan States. It is a typical Oriental structure, and consists
of a deep shaft sunk in the soil and enclosed by a low parapet. The
water is raised by a long cross beam, fastened to a pole of equal length
to which a rope and bucket is attached.
3 Horse-breeder,




IN THE NEAR EAST


73


to and fro showing like blurrs of whiteness. Long, deep shadows
creep across the fields till, at last, landscape melts into a glimmering, grey-blue whole and the night descends-a languorous,
moody night. Between the wagons in the courtyard of the
fogado some of the foldmelok, wrapt in their bundas, have huddled
down to sleep in the dust beside their ill-tempered dogs. Out
on the puszta all is quiet save for the faint, gentle rustling and
bustling of the insects in the maize stalks, the croaking and harsh
screaming of some uneasy night-birds! The heavy, ill-omened
clouds have spread and obscured the stars and the moon.
A long tongue of flame runs up into the darkness from a
cleared space near the cornfields some little distance beyond
the village. The Tziganes have kindled their fire and are preparing their supper. The soft, monotonous dronings of the
Romany voices mingle with the night sounds, the ruddy glow of
the burning logs illuminates the tattered brown tents, the
trodden, straw-littered camping ground, the big, snorting leather
bellows, the tripod set above the embers, the two wheeled taligas,1
the snarling, uneasy curs, the troop of weary, miserable rosinantes,2
and the circle of swarthy Rom faces gazing indolently into the
flames! In the zone of blackness beyond the light small groups
of the villagers are congregated. They have come to persuade
the gipsies to play a czardas, but, for once, the latter are unresponsive. The Tziganes who come to Siofok belong to the
tribe, or tribes, of the Rom race known as the " Sdtoros Czigdnok,"
or " Tented ones," and of all the " Farao nepek," 3 they are the
purest blooded. They only, amongst the many branches of
their race, have steadfastly clung to, obeyed, and preserved their
ancient racial laws and customs. " We separate not from the
Rom; we are faithful to death to the Rom; we pay our debts
to the Rom," is their proudest boast. In the Viennese, Budapest,
and Belgrad coffee-houses, gardens and ball-rooms, they are never
found; for the cramping laws, wiles, principles, and duties of
civilisation they have nothing but contempt. They are real
Tchingani, who, many declare, worship the sun, who love
the wind, the great spaces, the clear waters and forests; and
who, because they have been faithful to their Rom laws and
customs, have also kept their strange, intangible birthrightthat mysterious power which helps them to behold and comprehend things hidden from other and more civilised peoples.
Reckless as children, they are happy despite the fact that they
are the outcasts of the outcast, without religion, country, home,
or any assured means of livelihood.
1 A species of cart much used by the gipsies.
2 A peculiar breed of horses.  3 King Pharaoh's people.




74


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


" Bad is their mood to-night," whispers one of the bystanders
to another; " see yonder old crone how she mutters and makes
signs, no chance of getting a czardds out of them this evening."
Nor is the speaker mistaken. The Roms are surly and obstinate.
A pretty girl shoves her work-roughened hand under the beaky
nose of the crone mentioned, smiling persuasively, " Come nowtell me my fortune, good rawnie! 1 But the ancient female
only vouchsafes a grunt, pulls her shawl over her face and
crouches back yet further into the shadows. A peculiar unrest
seems to hover over the camp, a disturbed, shifty expression is
noticeable in the melancholy, cunning, low-browed, swarthy
faces, and the pointed, fawn-like ears, beneath the lank black
hair, appear to be cocked as if on the alert for some expected
sound or summons. Contrary to custom the taligas have not
been altogether unloaded, and the only valuables which the
wanderers have unpacked are the massive silver tankards2 from
which the chief and a few of the older men of the tribe are drinking.
There is plainly nothing to be gained by waiting; better home
and bed, seeing reaping must be started at sunrise. But scarcely
have the villagers begun to move off towards their cottages
than the chief suddenly changes his mind, imperatively beckons
them to return, and, with three sharp claps of the hand, brings
a couple of spindle-legged, stark-naked boys bounding out from
one of the tents, who, in answer to their master's nod, again
disappear and return struggling under the weight of an immense
tzymbalon-the cymbals on which the Roms have played ever
since the day when the Creator fi:st taught them to steal and
wander. The two brown urchins set the huge lyre on an upturned wooden box and place the rag-padded, whalebone hammers in readiness. This done, the chief puts his fingers between
his teeth and gives a soft whistle, which results in the appearance
of about half a dozen young fellows who advance into the light,
moving stealthily with the velvet tread of cats or tigers. A few
Rom words are exchanged between them and the chief, with
the like result that they, too, vanish for a moment to return
carrying their violins, 'cellos, and flutes. The Magyars are
evidently going to get what they have clamoured for-they
generally do, being extremely fond of forcing their will on others;
but, will they enjoy the music they have desired? There is an
ominous gleam of malice in the black, green-speckled, Tzigane
eyes; and the foreheads, sealed with the brand of the first
murderer, which everywhere and always stamps the Romany
1 " Lady," in the Rom tongue.
2 Many of the tented tribes, though poor in the extreme, are possessed
of beautiful and ancient silver heirlooms which have descended from
generation to generation.




IN THE NEAR EAST


75


race, are lowering. The Tziganes have consented to "make
music " to-night, but many of those present begin to feel instinctively that it will be evil music not conducive to raising the
spirits of its hearers. Some of them surreptitiously make the
sign of the Cross, some shiver and wish themselves elsewhere,
but Rom music is like strong drink to them and where it is concerned they are hopeless and helpless drunkards. The wine is
now to their lips and, although they know, by experience, its
enervating power, they have not got the strength to refrain from
drinking of it.
The supple body of the violin leader, who stands in the centre
of the players, sways, the dusky cheeks caress the instruments,
the bows sweep outwards, upwards and downwards, the greenblack eyes flame with ecstasy, then quickly veil themselves
behind a filmy phosphoric glaze,' and across the palpitating,
breathless silence steal out the first notes of the supernatural
music, with all its weird charm, its fire and mystery. They are
painting a picture, as they always do.
At first all is peace, the melody ripples through a world that
is contented and prosperous, nothing mars the secure tranquillity
of the sunny, cloudless day, everywhere is the scent of flowers, of
trees, rich vineyards and orchards. The lowing and bleating
of flocks and herds sound pleasantly, the church bells chime to
prayer, the birds sing. Long-cloaked juhasy 2 lead their flocks
to pasturage, merry-eyed csikos3 gallop their horses over the
plains, wagons go by laden with fruit and grain and wine. Women
spin in the kitchens of the whitewashed farmsteads and children
play unmolested in the village streets. The clear air vibrates
to the music of the gay czardas, young men and maidens make
love and marry, and in every pocket is gold, in every stomach
plenty. Nothing disturbs the harmony of existence: nothing
will, nothing can, disturb it.
But all at once, in the twinkling of an eye, there comes a change.
The deep-toned cymbals crash under the padded hammers, the
violins shriek and wail, and through the din and clamour of the
barbaric rhythm rises a different scene.
The sun's light has gone out and the world is ashen pale.
Over the plains and over the far-away mountains rush hosts of
black storm clouds. Nearer and nearer rolls the thunder.
Birds and beasts seek shelter but find none. Beneath the
banners of the advancing tempest is a lurid light, violet tongues
1 See " The Gipsy," in The Jew, the Gipsy and El Islam, by Sir Richard
F. Burton, K.C.M.G., F.R.G.S., etc. "The strange stare like nothing
else in the world, over which comes, at times, a thin glaze that seems to
emit phosphoric light."h
2 Shepherds,             3 Puszta horse boys.




76


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


of lightning flash from out the darkness, the wind yells like a
soul in agony, the rain lashes through the cornfields and forests.
A wicked spirit is abroad. Mighty armies are mustering under
a commander whose countenance is like that of the Evil One.
The whole earth echoes with the clang of arms, the trampling
of feet, the clattering of hoofs, the rumble of heavy wheels, the
roar of artillery. From the once contented and peaceful lands,
from the prosperous homesteads, from the thriving towns goes
up the noise of sobbing, of groaning, the crying of little children,
the wailing of frenzied women.
On and on rushes the terrible music. The green-black eyes
blaze behind their filmy veilings, as curse follows curse. The
Tziganes become as wild creatures demented. Their bodies and
souls are absolutely dominated by the music whose meaning
they alone understand. There is devilry in their playing, a
strange, sinister devilry, full of the spirit of hate and destruction.
Around the brightly lighted spot where they stand is darkness;
around their music is darkness. It is as if the gloom enclosed
the fire, and the heart of the fire the Tziganes. The flames dance
on their thin, mystic, Asiatic faces, on their half-closed, malicious
eyes. The audience stand spell-bound, unable to move or
protest, and the Roms laugh diabolically, gleefully, as maniacs
laugh, or as the persecuted might laugh who find their tormentors
at their mercy, and, having never known pity, have no pity to
give. To-night the tables are turned, and the children of forty
centuries of persecution are the bullies and are making the most
of their opportunity.
Another few minutes and the end has come. The horrible,
devilish music dies away in a prolonged, unearthly moan, a
scarcely heard, unfinished whisper. The padded whalebone
hammers drop with a clatter on the big tzymbalon, the bows fall
to the musicians' sides, and the sinewy, noiselessly treading
figures and sombre, haunting faces melt once more into the
gloom, leaving behind them only a hideous memory.
There is no attempt at applause, no shouts of " Viva! 1 or
"Eljen! " 2 The vision conjured up by the uncanny "Farao
nepek " still holds the crowd in thrall, the music still saps their
energies. For some time no one ventures to stir or speak, and
when, eventually, an effort is made to throw off the spell no
boisterous farewells are exchanged, no one cries " Servus! " 3 or
" Latcho Ratti! " 4 The path running between the maize stalks
and leading from the Tzigane encampment to the white-gabled
cottages is traversed in doleful silence, and even the monstrous


1 " Life!" or "Live!"
3 (4 At your service! " (from the Latin).


2 "Long live 12
4G44 Good night! "




IN THE NEAR EAST


77


down pillows, of which the housewives of Siofok are so proud,
fail to woo sleep to the villagers. Long after the most lethargic
cock has crowed, until the first grey glimmer of a thunderous
dawn has tried, unsuccessfully, to penetrate the heavy clouds,
the good people of Siofok sit drinking, sullen-faced and sullenhearted, vainly endeavouring to shake off, by means of wine and
tobacco, the fear of, they know not what, that troubles them.
Did the Rom chief mean anything particular, they ask themselves,
when he told one of the kisleany, who had inquired of him when
he and his tribe were likely to come again to Siofok and " make
the music that brings tears," that: " When we shall come again
is not for us to say, but soon, very soon, you will not need our
tdcho Romany gillis 1 to cause your tears to flow "?
Soon after the coming of the grey glimmer in the eastwards
the swollen sky bursts, and the rain descends in such torrents
that the harvest is completely ruined, and, with it, not a few of
the villagers, especially those who had been foolish enough to
borrow and spend beforehand the money they had reckoned
on getting for the sale of the grain. Peter and Paul have frowned
and played them falsely, and the furious people tear their votive
offerings and little burning tapers from the shrine of the two
harvest Saints, and crush both paper roses and smouldering
candles under their spurred boots, bitterly cursing the Deity,
the angels, themselves, and the devil. The Magyars are a noisy
folk, not given to enjoy, or endure, either pleasure or pain
stoically. There is, therefore, a tremendous uproar this morning.
But through all the uproar, of a sudden, sounds an ear-piercing
whistle. It comes from the direction of the place where yesterday
evening the Tziganes had pitched their camp. This first whistle
is answered by another as shrill, and the second is replied to by
a third, a fourth, a fifth, sixth, and seventh. Some of the older
inhabitants pause in their expostulations to God and the devil,
and strain their ears to hearken, for they know the whistle of
the Roms, by which, in times of emergency or peril, tribe calls
to tribe to follow the Tzigane " Pateran," or trail, the call which
humanity's wanderers have made use of in order to communicate
amongst themselves since the time of the world's morning, since
long, long before they pitched their tents in Europe and learnt,
to their detriment, the meaning of Christian love and justice,
before they lit their camp fires under the placid countenance
of the Egyptian Sphinx, before they tasted the fruits of the
Indus Valley, before they tuned their cymbals in the " Land of
the Five Rivers." It is the cry that, according to tradition,
Cain, the father of their race, uttered when he fled into the night
with hand red with the blood of Abel.
1 Native gipsy melodies.




78


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


The road which passes through Siofok and divides its two
rows of gabled homesteads leads from the south-west into the
north-east straight over the Hungarian puszta, through the
Carpathian ravines, over the melancholy Galician plains and
on right into the central provinces of Russia. Up along this
road in the hours which intervene between the Eve and the
Feast Day of Peter and Paul, 1914, rolls a queer procession
of raggedly clad men and boys on foot, or, mounted on
wretched horses and ponies, of crudely painted, crazily put
together taligas, the wooden troughs of which are piled high
with shabby goats'-hair tents, tent-poles, pots, bales of stuff,
musical instruments, shivering wild-eyed women, and swarms
of naked mulatto-hued children, followed by footsore colts,
sheep and cattle, tame bears, and scores of yelping dogs.
With heads bent under the cruel, blinding, drenching rain, out
of the black into the chill, grey dawn come troop after troop
of the Sdtoros Czigdnok, "the Tented ones."  The ankle-deep
mud of the road clings to their carts, and impedes their progress,
the wind rises and soughs across the spaces, every now and
then big, zigzag streaks of flame cut through the greyness from
sky to earth, the atmosphere reeks with the smell of sulphur,
the eagles and ravens scream and wheel in descending circles,
but to the misery of their journey the Tziganes are oblivious, for
their eyes are seeking only the signs left in the way by their
kindred, the gipsy troops who have preceded them along the
track. The Rom spoor, the gipsy roadmarks, may have no
significance for, and be not even discernible by the gorgio,l but
the small heaps of leaves and pebbles in the shape of a cross,
star, or half-moon, the little rings of twigs, the queer, roughly
scratched figures, resembling odd geometrical designs, are well
understood by and convey much to the Romany folk, and have
been the means by which, through centuries, when hunted, they
reached safety. So on this fateful morning of the Festival of
Peter and Paul they seek and find their Pateran, and when they
have found it they call to their brethren to follow in their wake.
Three years have elapsed since that morning, and to-day the
villagers know what the Tziganes meant when they said that
soon they would not need the tdcho Romany gillis to make them
weep. The whole earth is brim-full and running over with
tears, they are being shed by both the world's rulers and the
world's slaves, amongst the last mentioned of whom are the
Tziganes. In a lately published issue of the Magyar official
journal, the Narodne Novine, the order appears commanding
the "seizure of all male Tziganes throughout Austria-Hungary
1 Rom name for Christians.




IN THE NEAR EAST


79


between the ages of eighteen and fifty years of age, also, all
Tzigane property, horses and live-stock, carts, tents, culinary
utensils, implements, papers, foodstuffs, fire-arms and money,
to be confiscated by the military authorities." But, perchance,
because even the Central Powers see the inexpediency of committing to print their most hideous deeds, the journal does not
publish the order in full, for it makes no reference as to what
was to be done to the Rom woman. Nevertheless, acting under
this half-published order, these women were separated from their
menfolk, herded into companies and sent to dig the AustroHungarian trenches on the Italian and Galician fronts,1 where
many of those who proved unequal to the work were flogged to
death by their taskmasters. On reading this announcement
in the Narodne Novine the writer-who fortunately made
her escape in time to avoid the war-recalls the scenes and
incidents she witnessed in Siofok on that three-year-fled harvest
festival of Peter and Paul; and recalls, moreover, having been
told, about three weeks after these scenes and incidents had
occurred, that the greater number of the Sdtoros Czigdnok, or
tented gipsies, had, for some reason best known to themselves,
trekked out of Austria-Hungary, along with many of their kinsfolk from the Balkan States, and made their way by the highroad which passes through Siofok, across the Carpathians, into
Galicia, and finally into the heart of Russia, this exodus being
made only by the Sdtoros Czigdnok, the pure-blooded tribes, not
by the gipsies who frequent the cities, or by those who dwelt in
permanent habitations.2 And remembering all this, the question
arises, did these poor Sdtoros Czigdnok realise beforehand, or, at
least, feel by instinct that the war was coming? Had they this
knowledge in their minds on the night described in this article,
when they made strange and ominous music for the Siofok
villagers beside the maize-fields?
Those who have lived amongst them and learnt the ways and
speech, if not the thoughts, of the Roms know them to be possessed of an extraordinary, indeed supernatural, power of clairvoyance, which, undoubtedly, enables them to unravel and
unveil the most hidden secrets past, present, and future, but
by what means and how is the secret they have never yet disclosed. Liszt, who knew them as intimately as any one not of
Rom blood can know them, asserts that the gift of prophecy
ascribed to their race is a too deeply planted and universal
1 As the writer's sister has been held up in Hungary during the war,
and is consequently familiar with much that has occurred in that country,
this may be taken as a fact.
2 The city gipsies largely fell victims to the war.




80 OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES IN NEAR EAST


belief not to have substantial ground for its existence. Personally, the writer, who has spent many years amongst them, is
convinced and has no hesitation in saying, that the power or
influence which enables them, without human instruction, to
make beautiful music, to imitate the various languages of the
birds and beasts, to lay, find, and follow their racial spoor from
one end of Europe, Asia, or Africa to the other, is the same
power or influence which bestows upon them the gift of-to
call it by a homely expression-second sight, a gift which, by
the way, is only possessed in its entirety by those tribes who
have remained faithful to the Rom laws, by those who, scorning
civilisation, have dwelt most closely with Nature. It is assuredly
to this mysterious gift of clairvoyance that the Rom folk owe
the preservation of their race: " the race which," as one of its
historians has written, " cannot be crushed or crossed, being as
it is so strangely subtle, so adaptable, so cunning and wise,
seeing its ego, in whatever condition it is found or hidden, wherever its dwelling, is as independent to-day as it will be to-morrow,
of the laws which regulate and order the disappearance and
absorption of races into other races, and which is as free at the
present hour as it was when first it was created under the sun
of its birthland, wherever that unknown birthland may have
been!"  " What wonder then," queries another authority on
Romanology, " that the craving to penetrate more deeply into
the Unknown comes over one at the sight of the dark Rom
faces? What wonder that, on gazing into the green-black
Tzigane eyes, the desire arises to get away from the sordid
materiality which surrounds modem existence, and to probe
deeper into the Veiled, the Unseen-the Unseen with which
they-the gipsies-are so familiar, simply because they live
with Nature and so live with God, seeing that Nature is God? "




CHAPTER VII


BUKOVINA-THE LAND OF THE BEECHES
How many people who have scanned reports of fierce fighting
in the Sereth Valley, in the north-west of Moldavia, know anything about this little country? To the majority it becomes
visualised as a place of utter desolation, of devastated villages, of
dreary, muddy roads over which artillery lurch to and fro on
their mission of death and torture, over which drift doomed and
maddened multitudes of war-smitten peasants, over which the
raw-headed vultures wing by, scenting the dead and dying that
they may devour them.
Once upon a time, in the reign of ~tefan Domn eel MareStephen the Great, Prince of Moldavia-when the Bukovina was
the richest province of that sturdy ruler's dominions, Albrecht,
King of Poland, thought fit to pitch his camp and graze the
horses of his army on the great open plain lying along the river
Pruth. Whereupon Stefan Domn eel Mare sallied out with all
his forces and put the intruders to flight after having slain half
their host and taken twenty-five thousand prisoners, of whom
many were haughty and dissolute nobles. Fearing greatly, the
Polish king made overtures to ~tefan and offered a large ransom
for the release of his subjects. But the Moldavian prince was
not a man who did things half-heartedly. He refused his enemy's
offer, and ordered many ploughs to be made. To these he
harnessed the Poles and sent them out to till the lands of the
Bukovina, after which he obliged them to sow in the furrows
which they had ploughed the seeds of the beech tree.
In time these seeds grew up into great stretches of forest, and
so the country came to be called the " Dumbrevile Roshe "which is, being interpreted, The Land of the Bloody Beech
Forest. Legend declares that a terrible curse, the curse of blood
has lain upon the country from that day to this; that the murmur
of dead voices sounds through the rustling branches of its woodlands; that the sighing of the slain may be heard through its
softest breezes; and the fact remains that the shadow of the
sword has never through long centuries departed from the fields
and forests of the Bukovina.
G                     81




82


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


Stefan died, and much of Roumanian power and liberty died
with him. His dominions came under the rule of the Sultan,
and the free descendants of the Veterans of the Emperor Trajan
and Decebalus the Dacian learnt the bitterness of foreign oppression. In the year 1775 the Sublime Porte, having for long held
in thrall this Roumanian Land of the Beeches, ceded it to the
Imperial Court of Austria " as an unequivocal proof of friendship,
affection, and good neighbourliness," or, to speak truly, ceded it
because Austria, discontented with its slice of partitioned Poland,
put a pistol to the head of the Unspeakable Turk and demanded
the gift. On that midnight, so the Roumanian legend relates,
in the old monastery of Putna, in the Bukovina, where rest the
bones of the Roumanian princes, the great Buga (bell) began to
toll by itself, and tolled louder and louder. And the monks
awoke in fright and rushed into the church, which they found
bright with a strange and terrible light not of earth, which light
went suddenly out and left them groping in thick darkness.
Then the holy men brought flaming torches and oil-lamps, but
the torches went out, although there was no wind, and the lamps
did likewise, although they were full of oil, and from the tomb of
~tefan Domn eel Mare came an angry and awful voice calling
curses upon the spoilers of his country, and the monks fled in
terror. Next morning when they returned it was to find the
portrait of the great prince fallen to the ground and blackened
out of recognition, as if by smoke, and a coldness as of death
filled all the building.
In spite, however, of the curse which is said to rest on this
Land of the Beeches, it gives pleasant pictures of a strange
country and a curious people. Let us catch a glimpse of the
cheery little town of Teke. It is a place of no importance whatever, though, to be sure, the simple country folk who frequent
its market are convinced that it is the hub of the universe. It
lies half-way down on the slope which stretches from the great
mountains to the valley of the Sereth. A quarter of a mile
behind it, beyond the pit where the town refuse is thrown,
beyond the untidy, grass-grown cemetery with its tall white
wooden crosses and odd little shrines, is a monstrous plantation
of scarlet poppies, and alongside the poppies blooms a field of
staring, brown-eyed, yellow sunflowers, and on the other side of
the poppies and sunflowers is a narrow grassy pathway which
skirts the outer fringe of a vast forest. In this beech forest a
man may wander for days without meeting any of his kind. But
those familiar with the secret windings of this green world can
follow them safely-bears, wolves, wild swine, and Tziganes, of
course, permitting-over the ever-rising moss and leaf-strewn
ground, through the silent colonnaded aisles of the grey, smooth




IN THE NEAR EAST


83


beech trees twenty-four feet in girth, which rear themselves aloft
and spread fan-shaped, polished branches against the bluest of
blue skies. Those who have been born and bred beside the
forests, where the sunlight glimmers faintly in golden patches
through the green, satiny leaves, where the solemn stillness is
undisturbed save by the low rumbling growl of a stray bear in
search of berries, the song of the birds, the crackling of the
brown leaves and nuts under the feet of the passing swine, and
the music of running water, those who know the way, after
going upwards for many hours, can reach at last the spot where
the beeches yield place to yews and silver birches, to mountain
ash and oak, and finally to the gaunt, straight-stemmed pines
which set the limit to vegetation and beyond which rise the foothills, the gaunt, grey precipices, and the snow-crested, impassable
summits of the Carpathians. It is a long road which winds
us from Teke to the dazzling browed mountains, and most people
are too lazy or too timid to follow it.
Standing with one's back towards the forest uplands, a full
view of the lands lying between the town and the far-off Sereth
river can be obtained. Right before and on either side the country
opens in an almost unbounded vista of low, billowing hills, which
roll gently down in wave after wave of gorgeous colour like
huge, brilliantly embroidered pieces of tapestry or glittering
brocade. There are no walls, no hedgerows, no artificial boundaries in this landscape. Big emerald green pastures merge
softly into still bigger fields of flaming poppies, red-gold maize,
rye, barley, and wheat, into great crimson and mauve and
purple-hued patches of vetch, into immense plum orchards and
flower-starred meadows. Here and there between willow-fringed,
rosebush-shaded, iris and forget-me-not bordered banks flow small,
swift streams; here and there, nestling amongst clumps of trees,
are tiny villages; here and there broad white poplar-flanked
roads uncoil themselves from behind rolling hillsides and meander
into the hazy blue distance. The world lies panting in the white
light of the noontide midsummer sun, and the gush of the year's
life has reached its climax in this country, where the soil gives
back freely and many-fold all that it receives. Well may the
envious farmers of the neighbouring countries call this the Land
of Promise, the Land of Honey and Butter.
The assertion made by the historian Sulzer, that " often in
summer-time in the Bukovina clear honey rains down from
heaven, which the inhabitants erroneously call manna," does
not read so much like a fable after all when once the reader's
eyes have beheld in its full glory the Land of the Beeches; and
those who are familiar with the little Duchy are not prepared to
dispute the statement made by Prince Kantemir, who declares




84


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


that " before sunrise there is wont to fall a dew upon the leaves
and flowers in the mountains and plains of the Bukovina, which
the inhabitants collect in vessels; and floating on the top of the
waters, the ponds, lakes, and streams they also find the most
beautiful butter, which differs from common butter neither in
taste, smell, nor colour. This butter contains so much nourishment that if sheep were driven to the pastures at the time of this
butter-dew they would in a few days die of suffocation; so that
the shepherds keep their sheep on the less grassy slopes of the
mountains during the months in which it is most abundant."
As we have said, Teke is not an exciting or very progressive
sort of place. It boasts one wide, ill-paved street, which is
neither German nor Roumanian in character, a spacious, planetree-shaded market square, an indescribably dirty inn opening
on to a large bdt&tura (courtyard), which advertises the fact that
its proprietor is a Jew by its filthiness and the crude and hideous
stripes of blue paint with which it is daubed. The town possesses
also three places of worship: the barn-like, pompous Conventicle
where, in German, the Herr Pastor extols the Almighty with
unction; the squat, square, cross-patterned church of the
Orthodox Eastern faith; and the shabby little whitewashed
edifice where pray the few Catholics. It is not, in truth, Teke
which attracts; all the interest connected with it is centred mainly
round the peoples who frequent its streets and its market. Search
all civilised Europe, and possibly no other place could produce
a more racially intermingled and diverse crowd than that which
is doing business in its streets on this Friday and fair-day.
Although the Bukovina was forced into the Empire of the Hapsburgs, it still remains a Roumanian country, and most of the
peasants are lineal descendants of Rome and Dacia. But time,
immigration, and conquest have introduced many other races and
tribes. There are here assembled the equally legitimate children
of the countless peoples who, through centuries, swarmed from
East to West and from West to East across this much-trodden
microcosm of South-Eastern Europe. On the faces of the peasants
have been left traces of the passing of the Goths, of the Ostrogoths, the Slavs, the Jaszok, the Magyars, the Huns, the Avars,
the Marcomanni, the Vandals, the Tartars, the Jewish Ashkenasi, the Sigynni. Amongst the country folk who stroll about
the cobbled square, who sit huddled in the midst of their abundant
farm produce and merchandise, who rumble by in their cumbersome ox-wagons, are Roumanians, Ruthenians, Saxons, Germans
proper, Armenians, Jews, Magyars, Poles, Tartars, and Turks.
The cattle fair of Teke is famed far beyond the frontiers of the
Duchy; dealers come by the score from Lw6w, Warsaw, Vienna,
Prague, and Budapest to purchase the live-stock fattened on the




IN THE NEAR EAST


85


neighbouring luscious pasturages. The three chief roads leading
to the town have been thronged since dawn with troops of
peasants resplendent in their best clothes, cheery and garrulous.
Here come countless slowly-moving, springless bullock and ox
carts loaded up with white-clad Roumanians and Ruthenians,
numberless queer, ramshackle vehicles, resembling rather dilapidated black wagonettes, drawn by miserable sore-backed horses,
each occupied by ten or twelve Jews, who crouch facing one
another along the sides, looking like nothing so much as dishevelled roosting hens in their black kaftans and high-coned
black fur caps. Tramping patiently along besides these are knots
of pedestrians laden with great baskets of vegetables, fruit, eggs,
cheese, and butter, or bearing on their heads or backs bales of
homespun stuffs and embroideries. And in and out amongst the
procession move scores of donkeys, herds of stately oxen and
wobbly-legged calves, grunting pink- and red-haired porkers,
droves of young steppe horses, unbroken plunging colts, flocks of
outraged and aggrieved geese and gobbling turkeys, and hundreds
upon hundreds of sheep led by shepherds, each of whom is
discoursing melodiously, if dolefully, upon his bacium.1 Riding
astride bony, old, weary-eyed ponies are white-kerchiefed women
almost lost to view beneath bales of merchandise of all sorts,
and screaming, whining bundles of the coming generation.
Dodging in and out amongst the crowd are shaky-wheeled Tzigane
carts swarming over with stark-naked copper-hued children, old
women, brown tents, tent-poles, pots, and pans, behind which
struggle the more hardy of the troop, shamelessly ragged, wildeyed girls and long-haired men with pack ponies and tame
bears in tow. Magyar horse-boys in wide-brimmed hats and
grotesquely roomy white linen breeches; smug, wooden-faced,
light-eyed, flaxen-haired Saxons travelling at ease in neat bluepainted wooden conveyances; Armenians, who appear barely to
have shoe-leather to walk upon, but who are probably fairly
affluent, despite their shabbiness; Bulgar pedlars with trays
slung round their necks; nondescript hawkers and beggars from
all the adjoining countries, mix, and glow, and pass by like
leaves blown up by a summer breeze. Listen to the buzz of
voices which chatter in at least five different tongues. Sometimes it is Polish, soft, harmonious, rather inclined to become
whining when spoken by the uneducated, full of silky l's and
rolling r's; or sometimes the salutations are exchanged in
mongrel Southern Russian, which, compared with Polish, sounds
slightly harsh, shrill, and hissing. And running like a deep
undercurrent or mellow accompaniment through these may be
1 A sort of horn,




86


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


caught the liquid, resonant, leisurely speech of the Latins, whilst
here and there rises the jarring, guttural, corrupt German of the
Jews and Saxons, with just a hint of pure Teutonic, and last,
but certainly not least, there is the incessant rattle of hard,
metallic, aggressive Magyar, which, even when reduced to a
whisper, involuntarily causes one to glance anxiously about in
search of some reason for excitement or quarrel.
Nor is it only the peoples of the Bukovina which recall the
chequered history of the little land. Dotted all over the many
pooled plains between the Dniester and the Pruth, through the
gloomy primaeval forests of Luczyna; on the pleasant undulating
country about Suczawa; in the romantic valley of the Putna;
along the fruitful, well-cultivated banks of the Sereth; over the
melancholy rocky wildernesses of the Raren and Dzumalen; on
the lower slopes of the chalk mountains in the north; round the
extinct volcano of Ouschor in the south, are villages where dwell
the representatives of many past and present nationalities,
the adherents of many past and living religions. These contrasting and bitterly opposed peoples may meet and trade in the
public market-places; but only when it is a matter of business
do they make the slightest attempt to fraternise. Take the
Roumanian villages of the Bukovina first. Despite every effort
on the part of the Teutonic Government, they still retain their
Roumanian characteristics. Their homesteads are the same
whitewashed, red-painted, wooden constructions; have the same
cross-surmounted gables, the same sloping thatched roofs, the
same shrine-frescoed walls, inset with the same little crude pictures
of unfamiliar, soup-plate-haloed saints; each small casa is surrounded by the same high wickerwork fence; and each dwelling
is quaintly, roughly beautiful, with the beauty which seems to
belong to everything the Roumanians are possessed of. Needless
to remark, no self-respecting Teuton would dream of condescending to reside alongside "the Wallach swine," so they build for
themselves small replicas of the villages of the distant Fatherland. In these, each prim, two-storied stone house stands
complacently secure in the centre of an immaculately clean,
flagged, or cobbled courtyard, set about by a forbiddingly solid
and lofty stone wall. Indeed, everything connected with the
German villages of the Bukovina is solid, from their red-tiled
pointed roofs and their closely-latticed, neatly-curtained windows,
to their fortress-like churches and well-guarded orchards and
gardens. The Wallachs are content to construct their villages
along either side of the public road. Not so the Germans. In
their settlements there are invariably three or four so-called
streets running in the form of a cross or triangle in the midst
of which is the church. Along the German gutters there is




IN THE NEAR EAST


87


never any garbage, and no scantily-attired infants sport amongst
friendly geese and amiable porkers; yet, judging by the unsavoury odours which emanate from both German and Roumanian
Bukovina villages, with respect to sanitation the ideas of both
races are evidently much the same. At intervals here and there
between the Roumanian and German hamlets may be found
those of the Jews and Ruthenians.
Jewish villages are never by any chance salubrious or lovely,
but these in the Bukovina are extraordinarily horrible. Sordid
clusters of wretched wooden hovels, plastered with mud and
cow-dung and smeared over with glaring blue paint, they are,
like their inhabitants, indescribably loathsome. The reek of
cabbage stew and garlic, offal, and verminous humanity meets
the nostrils in every direction. In the open doorways lounge and
sprawl black-kaftaned men, gaudily-turbaned women, and their
lice-infested offspring. Until one has learnt the little ways of
the Israelites it seems incomprehensible why in open, sparselypopulated lands like Galicia, Moldavia, and the Bukovina, human
beings should be obliged to compress about five families, a couple
of cows and pigs, not a few turkeys, and a considerable number
of fowl into two low-roofed rooms, which are lighted and ventilated only by a three-inch-wide slit in the wall! Every one to
their taste, however, for, as the rustic Jew hereabouts cannot
claim poverty as an excuse, it must be their natural instinct
which prompts them to exist in this state of filthiness and intimacy. As for the habitations of the Ruthenians, they, too, are
so many tiny offshoots of Little Russia. The wooden, or clay,
and brushwood, straw-thatched huts of which they are composed
stand, as do those in the Roumanian and Jewish villages, along
both sides of the highway. To the English eye there is something
rather familiar in their aspect, for each small homestead is encircled by a low hedge of briers or willows, and has a pretty
flower garden in front and vegetable garden in the rear. Moreover, there is always a triangular goose green at one end of the
hamlet near the church, which is of the Eastern faith, and a
pond shaded by alder bushes, where congregate the ducks and
babies, and in the vicinity of which are wooden benches where
the old cronies sit on warm evenings, exchanging the latest local
scandals.
These, then, are some of the many and varied species of settlements to be found in the Duchy. Only some, however, for it
would take over-long to describe in detail the townlets of the
thrifty Magyars and Szekels, the frowsy Armenians, or the
mysterious underground rabbit warrens of the semi-nomad
Tziganes. The day is wearing on, and the market of Teke is at its
height, and no better opportunity could be had for studying some




88


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


of the races and peoples who have come hither from far-off and
surrounding villages. See here, beside this big booth festooned
with sausages, a group of Roumanians. They are mountain
shepherd people, judging by their garments, which are not quite
similar to those worn by their neighbours of the plains. In nothing
do they differ from their free kinsfolk, who dwell beyond the
jurisdiction of the Hapsburg Emperor. Austro-German rule has
failed to take from them their extreme exclusiveness, to which
is assuredly due the fact that they have never become absorbed
by the people among whom they dwell. The close observer will
soon detect an indescribable something which stamps them as a
folk free at heart, but suffering under humiliation. The centuries
of subjection have left their mark upon them, and they have lost
some of the serenity, the gaiety and simplicity which belong to
their race. They lack energy also, and they seem bored, uninterested, dull, but they only seem so. Under a naturally kindly
and polite exterior there lurks a hidden and deadly hatred-be
it remarked the free Roumanian is neither an extreme friend nor
an extreme enemy-and as they doff their sheepskin caps to the
German or Magyar masters, and in their musical language bid
them " Bune deminiace! " with eyelids carefully down-dropped,
the flash of detestation which leaps up in their long, sleepy, dusky
eyes, and which covertly follows those greeted, might prove illuminating to many who accuse the " poor, lazy, ignorant, harmless
Wallachs " of having sunk to a hopeless level of serfdom. Never
by any chance do the Roumanians, whether free or enslaved, forget an injury. Between their teeth to-day, as yesterday, they
hiss behind the back of each Teutonic spoiler, " Tine mente /" I
With them, to cherish the memory of an insult is a sacred duty;
to forget, an inexcusable weakness. But being a deliberate people,
and knowing the hour of vengeance has not yet come, they bide
their time, apparently with cringing submission. They are compelled to veil their feelings, and in consequence-speaking only of
the Austrian-oppressed portion of the race-they have grown
cunning, deceitful, indolent, and over-reflective. In their dealings
with foreigners, whether they be Germans, Magyars, Jews, or
Ruthenians, they display a strictly civil and polite attitude, but
intimate intercourse with outsiders they never indulge in, and
intermarriage with strangers not of their blood they regard with
horror. The Roumanian youth who weds a foreigner forfeits his
racial and paternal birthright and becomes " unclean "; and the
Roumanian girl whose parents " give from her people " is considered even more contemptible than the commonest prostitute.
So they keep themselves pure Roumanians, to the disgust of their


1 " Thou shalt remember! 'z




IN THE NEAR EAST


89


Austrian overlords. To return, however, to the group indicated.
At first glance the masculine members of the party might be mistaken for so many big goats or rams walking on their hind legs,
for from head to foot they are enveloped in monstrous long-haired,
matted skins of these animals, whilst on their heads, leaving
barely the eagle nose and clean-cut mouth and chin of the wearer
visible, tower black cone-shaped lambskin caps. Underneath this
woolly or hairy mass appear the owner's extremities, swathed in
yellowish-white woollen bandages, shod in classical oval opinci.
Happily their female kind, who are very handsome, leave more
of their persons open for inspection. Clad in straight-falling white
tunics and the brilliantly-coloured catrinta of their nation, with
their blue-black hair smoothly braided round their heads or hanging in two plaits down their backs, barefooted, with distaff in
hand, these drowsy-eyed, round-cheeked, red-lipped young women
seem to devote all their interests to their spindles.
These shepherds live in a world of their own-a world of boundless, fragrant, wind-swept, sun-warmed spaces. Their German
rulers are wont to declare that these Wallachs are no better or
wiser than the sheep they tend. Being highly civilised, modern
materialists, these propagandists of Kultur are not able to comprehend a people who have apparently no ambition save to be
allowed to follow unmolested their ever-shifting flocks and herds
over flower-gemmed uplands during the summer, across the snowcovered, freezing plains in winter. They cannot be expected to
understand this vile, unwashed " horde of barbarians " who nurture " imagined " wrongs, and on poor reed pipes wail to a perhaps
listening Creator, and perchance Avenger, the doina (song) of their
race-sorrow, hope, and prayer; these " Wallach swine " who are
satisfied to eat and drink only curdled milk (jantita), black bread,
and water, who would choose death rather than to be forced to
dwell in tidy, stove-heated, airless, Christian, German houses,
where they could grow corpulent on beer, sauerkraut, and
sausages! There are others, however, who, not being German,
have had longer experience of civilisation and know its weak
points, in whose minds, as they watch the silent herdsmen of
the Bukovina, rises the thought: Are they so stupid after all, or
are they not, on the contrary, very wise and philosophical I
Compare their faces with those of the Jews, who, whatever their
failings, cannot be described as lacking in intellect and knowledge of the world. Search every Israelitish, bilious-complexioned,
long-nosed, shifty-eyed, red-curl-framed countenance, there is
not one which could be described as contented, let alone happy.
Yet these socially despised Hebrews are the real masters of
the Bukovina. They rule everything and everybody, from the
bristling-moustached, heel-clicking, sword-trailing staff officers




90


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


stationed in Czernowitz, down to the small, fat Austrian who
keeps the store over yonder at the corner of the street. They
are the chief agents and brokers. The mechanical trades, with
perhaps two exceptions, are entirely in their hands, and, indeed,
no business, important or otherwise, is transacted without their
mediation. Nobles, landowners, swaggering officers, petty shopkeepers, all must bow before the Hebrews, for by them alone
can one be accommodated with timely loans. In fact, no Christian-provided he be possessed of a single heller piece-can get
born, can eat, drink, work, play, get married or be buried without
Jewish aid. There is no escape from the patient, cautious,
humble, resistless rule of the kaftaned potentates. Only those
who have literally nothing to call their own, except the sandals
on their feet, the staffs in their hands, and the poetry and the
songs in their hearts-only the poor, uncultured shepherds, and
swineherds, and cattle-herders, and Tziganes are left unrobbed,
for they have nothing to be robbed of.
To push one's way through the throng, avoiding undesirable
proddings from the lengthy horns of the cattle; to steer clear of
the plunging hoofs of the startled unbroken colts; to dodge the
irately whisking tails of the ample-waisted, fly-tormented draught
oxen; to give a sufficiently wide berth to the hind quarters of the
hoarheaded mother donkeys, who have their soft, woolly babies
to look after, and who are, in consequence, rather nervous; to
keep cool before an oncoming charge of a multitude of red, humpbacked pigs; to negotiate successfully a passage between the
numerous bewildered flocks of sheep and goats, is a task which
requires the utmost concentration, both mental and physical.
Round the square are four rows of untidy stalls and booths, and
everywhere is a litter of baskets, grain sacks, straw and hay, and
uncured gory hides. In one spot a rotund personage of doubtful
nationality, possibly a Bessarabian, is roasting pork and some
fowls over a heap of red embers, beside which is a makeshift
table of planks, set on a couple of barrels, for the use presumably
of those who choose to sample the cooking. A three-chinned,
jolly-looking, curly-bearded old pop is at present the only diner.
The stall immediately beside this temporary restaurant is blocked
up with quantities of beautiful glazed, brightly-hued earthenware
pottery. The peasants who preside over it are Poles, and for
luck they have decorated their booth-poles with rosemary. If
Polish pottery be gay, the Polish dresses of the girl sellers are
gayer. Scarlet and blue petticoats, white bodices, shawls in
which every tint and hue-lavender, orange, purple, vermilion,
green, and brown-intermingle in exquisite harmony; glossy topboots, and strings upon strings of glittering beads dazzle and
delight. Pale as cameos are the young Polish faces, but this




IN THE NEAR EAST


91


pallor is not due to ill-health, for the daintily-complexioned ones
can carry loads which would surprise the average donkey. Next
to this pottery stall is one presided over by Ruthenians, where
home-made household utensils and farm implements are sold by
lazy-looking men attired in red and blue embroidered white shirts,
baggy trousers, heavy top-boots, and by women wearing orange or
purple turbans, rose-red skirts, loose blue jackets, striped aprons,
coral and blue glass beads, and, likewise, shiny black top-boots.
The Ruthenians of the Bukovina are not nearly so agreeable as
their kinsfolk in Galicia and Little Russia, and their manners
leave much to be desired. Oppression has developed in the agricultural Roumanians a tendency to deceive, a determination to
get by intrigue what they cannot come by honestly, but it has
not interfered with their natural politeness. The same, however,
cannot be said about the Ruthenians; they, too, are cunning,
but they are also rude. They set their faces against every oneGermans, Jews, Armenians, Roumanians, but particularly the
Poles-and just now they are waging a wordy warfare upon their
racial foes in the neighbouring stall, who in their turn are shrieking out replies which sound like so many convulsive sneezes.
Further on is a long table covered with cakes, pastry, and bread
baked in rings and dusted over with sunflower seeds. Behind
these seductive edibles sits an overflowingly fat old Jewess, clad
in a black, red-beflowered sateen dress and a green towering
turban, which might, in Mussulman lands, proclaim her a
descendant of the Prophet. She is conversing in vile German
with a dignified, saintly-faced, elderly gentleman wearing a seedylooking black frock-coat and a rakish red fez-an Armenian, as a
glance at his long, narrow head, beaky nose, and pointed blueblack beard goes to prove. Though outwardly on the best of
terms, the Jewish lady and the Armenian are inwardly deadly
enemies; they eye one another with wily caution, for when
these two parasitical races meet it is ever a case of Greek confronting Greek. Some Tziganes are loitering near by with ears
cocked and eyes alert, and back to mind comes the Roumanian
fable which relates how, when God had created all the different
kinds of men, He found He had still a lump of clay left over, so,
rather than waste it, He kneaded it carefully into three pieces,
and out of the first He created the Jew, out of the second the
Armenian, and out of the third the Tzigane.
It would be no easy matter to sort out all the odd human
clippings, scraps, and rubbish here collected. There, for instance,
is a company of those strange mountaineers who are known as
Huzzulen, or Huzules. Their name is derived from the ancient
Dacian word " Huzz," or robbers, but they are certainly of Slavic
origin, and those who are the most competent to judge say they




92


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


came long ago from the Slav countries further north and settled
amongst the ravines of the highest ranges of the Transylvanian
Alps. In speech and custom they closely resemble the Ruthenians, but they are more active, sturdier, and less loquacious. Once
upon a time they lived-as their name affirms-upon the spoils
which they pilfered from others. To-day they are quite an honest,
hard-working, prosaic community, who earn their living decently
by charcoal-burning, wood-felling, and carving. In spite of the
fact that each wields a huge and murderous hatchet, from which
no respectable member of the Huzzulen tribe would consent even
for an instant to be parted, they give one the idea that they have
been tamed, and their comfortable, wide white woollen breeches
and coats and their general air of well-nourished prosperity point
to the fact that they make rather a good thing of life by pursuing
peaceful methods.
Again, there is a Calvinistic Szekel who wants to buy a calf
from a Catholic fellow Szekel, who evidently is equally desirous
of selling the beast. But there is a custom hereabouts which
ordains that sales must be conducted through the medium of a
mediator, and they are awaiting this individual's arrival. They
are, on the whole, despite their short legs, long bodies, and flat,
square faces, rather fine-looking fellows, though not by any means
picturesque. Just as prolonged serfdom leaves its traces upon
those who have endured it, so also liberty, long preserved and
hardly fought for, lays a sign upon human beings; and the
Szekels are amongst the few of the many tribes and peoples of
these lands who have through the centuries successfully resisted
all attempts to filch from them their freedom. The origin of the
Szekels is wrapped in mystery. In many of their traits they
bear a likeness to the Magyars, and yet the idea that they are
blood-brothers to the Hungarians, whose tongue they speak, has
of late years been disputed. There is, however, much which
resembles the Mongolian Asiatic in the grave formality of their
manner arnd speech, in their pompous, never ruffled dignity, in
their fastidious jealousy where womenkind are concerned.
Note that sulky-looking fellow in the red flannel blouse, blue
breeches, high boots, and fur cap. He belongs to the Russian
sect called the Philoppowanes or Lippowanes-in English, the
Old Believers. He is a Muscovite, as his tow-coloured locks and
pale blue eyes go to show, a descendant of those Russians who
emigrated to escape religious persecution between one and two
hundred years ago, and whose chief settlement in the Bukovina
lies round the neighbourhood of Kilmoutz. Doubtless this
tousle-headed person's grim and austere demeanour is but the
reflection of his grim and austere religion. The Old Believers
originally came to loggerheads with the Orthodox Russian Church




IN  THE NEAR EAST                    93
because they protested against any change being made in the
Orthodox liturgies, and tenaciously upheld the view that in a total
lack of learning, in wild and gloomy fanaticism, lay salvation.
He greets, with a solemn and surly nod of his canary-hued head,
an even queerer and quite as sour-expressioned representative of
the human species, a white-bearded, cadaverous-faced individual
belonging to another curious sect entitled the Cassidim, or Just
Ones. The Just Ones are Jews, and are distinguished from their
co-religionists, for whom they have invented the name of Misnagdim-adversaries-by their deep-rooted hatred to all civilisation and progress; hence, possibly, the reason why the towheaded Old Believer and this Just One are prepared to hobnob,
both having the same reactionary opinions, if not the same religion.
Most of the Hebrews who reside permanently in the Bukovina
belong to the Cassidim, and, though they wear the same greasy
kaftans and cultivate the same oily ringlets, they dislike one
another cordially. The Cassidim nurture a predilection for
saints, angels, and very black devils; the Misnagdim regard such
things with shivering horror, and denounce the saint and angel
adorers as idolaters. The Misnagdim are not in it when it comes
to cheating, in which the Just Ones have no rivals. They are
the slyest of sly impostors, and their priests take the fullest
advantage of the bigotry, superstition, and crass ignorance of
their tribe. They insinuate that they can heal sicknesses, drive
out demons, win lawsuits, and build up fortunes by pronouncing
magic words, and by their curse kill off whole families or reduce
them to beggary. They claim to hold personal intercourse with
Jehovah, and woe to the fool who ventures to dispute their
miracles! Never by any chance does a Rabbi of the Cassidim
die poor. Leaving a margin for exaggerated stories, which relate
how they eat and drink like princes and bedeck their wives and
daughters with precious stones and costly raiment, the fact
remains that they are very wealthy and that their womenfolk are
extremely beautiful-a fact hard to believe when one has not
seen the ladies but has seen the men!
How many roads there are leading to heaven from the Bukovina, and each road has its finger-post asserting that it is the
one and only highway to the feet of the Eternal! There is the
road of the Roman Catholics, the road of the United Greek
Church, the road of the non-United Greek Catholics, that of the
Armenian Roman Catholics, the roads of the Popowei, Bespopowei, Lutherans, Zwinglers, Calvinists, Unitarians-mostly
Szekels-the Reformed Jews, the Orthodox Jews, the Cassidim,
the Karaites and Mahomedans, never to mention the pleasant
heathenish pathway along which jog the Tziganes.
The market-place is losing its animation. The afternoon is




94 OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES IN NEAR EAST
waning, and the sun has slid down till it touches with fire the
white summits of the mountains. The ox-wagons, Hebrew
carts, the flocks and herds, the geese and turkeys, and pedlars
and hawkers, the Jews, Turks, infidels, and heretics are making
ready to take their departure to their respective villages. The
birds and beasts in the rustling forest have gone to sleep and the
poppies have said good-night to their friends the sunflowers. Long
shadows creep over the red-gold maize-fields and meadows, and
the frogs commence their nightly concert amongst the reeds which
fringe the banks of the streams.
Verily it is a unique country, and whether the traveller wanders
through its dense beech forests, or explores its snowy-crested
mountains, or visits its rich river valleys, he will find that in the
Bukovina dull-eyed Boredom holds no sway.




PART III


BULGARIA
CHAPTER VIII
SOFIA-THE BULGAR CAPITAL AND ITS INHABITANTS
MIDSUMMER, and a blazing hot morning in Sofia. The sun
beats down fiercely on the long, monotonous, straight, broad
streets and avenues that spring out starwise over the plain, like
the tentacle of an octopus, from the hillock on which stands the
Palace and Alexander Park. Dust lies thickly on the wilting
leaves of the trees bordering the flagged footways, dust dims
the colours of the flowers in the stiffly laid out plots of the public
gardens. Behind its iron gates, the solid barrack-like white
palace looks still duller and more expressionless than usual, even
the sentries on guard and the few grey and brown jacketed,
black-kalpaked soldiers grouped round the doors seem half asleep.
Sofia is a colourless city, probably one of the most colourless in
Europe. How on earth did the beauty-loving Turks tolerate
such a spot even for an hour, not to speak of centuries? But
after all the Sofia of the Bulgarians is not the Sofia of the Turks,
nor is there anything naturally ugly in the site whereon the city
is built. The lofty wind-swept plateau may be burnt as brown
as a hazel-nut, but through the brown runs a faint, curious tinge
of lavender which deepens into purple where on all sides the
landscape rises towards the foothills of the Balkan ranges.
Mount Vitosk, whose crest is snowcapped for two-thirds of the
year, and whose steep forehead is rarely seen except through a
pearly veil of clouds, lacks nothing in splendour or loveliness.
Truth to tell, it is Christianity and Western, or rather BvlgarGerman civilisation which must be held responsible for the unattractiveness of King Ferdinand's capital, for there is scarcely
a trace left of the Ottoman occupation, and in fact not more than
three of the buildings now in sight are over forty years old.
Follow one of the brand-new, semi-genteel boulevards down
which the electric trams are buzzing and clanging and take a
95




96


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


look at the houses. They are all numbered and all are exactly
alike-white-plastered, one- or two-storied stucco erections with
green or blue verandahs, middle-class residences of the villa
type, set discreetly back from the thoroughfare, surrounded by
dreary " cat walks " and hedged in by stunted, unhealthy-looking
shrubs or wooden palings.
It is still quite early, and in the Grand Hotel Bulgaria drowsyeyed waiters are languidly employed sweeping up cigarette-ends
and removing the coffee-cups and soiled glasses of last night,
whilst on the balconies of the villas, tousled-headed females in
floppy dressing-gowns are energetically whacking bulging feather
beds and gaily-coloured quilts, drawing breath every few minutes
to shriek out commands and injunctions to individuals unseen in
the background. It is not safe, however, to take people at their
face value in Sofia. These busy ladies, although they look like
crosses between scullery-maids and cook-housekeepers, are almost
certain to be the wives or daughters of well-to-do citizens,
officials or ministers. The servant question in Sofia, as elsewhere, is a problem which householders cannot solve and are
never weary of discussing. Mistresses must perforce do much of
their own housework. By and by the aroma of freshly-made
coffee floats out through the windows, and presently business
men, emerging from the brightly-painted doorways, board the
trams going citywards. Is it all a dream, the long journey in
the Orient Express, and is this really only one of those prosaic
suburbs in which bourgeois Berlin abounds? But as if in answer
to the question, there springs up the tall white minaret of the
old Turkish mosque. Above and beyond the maze of telegraphic
wires and poles, the tawdry stucco villas and their unkempt
gardens; beyond the vulgar hoardings and hideous kiosks, the
big, ultra-moder  Opera House, the Parliament building, the
National Bank, and the towering new Cathedral; beyond the
Boulevard Dondukoff-the Regent Street of Sofia-with its
plate-glass windowed shops full of cheap German wares; beyond
the gardens, the one patch of green coolness in this dusty and
monotonous city, the dome and minaret rear themselves aloft
into the blue sky, and one seems to catch from the far-distant
past an echo of the Muezzin's cry through the din and turmoil
of to-day-" Allah-el-Allah! " It has a wonderful and chequered
history, this mosque. It was built by the Emperor Trajan as a
pagan temple. Next came Constantine the Great, who turned
it into a Christian church, and in turn the Turks took possession
and converted it into a mosque. Now? Well-now it is only
the Bulgarian National Museum, stripped of all its sacred associations, but where even yet a few faithful sons of the Prophet,
clinging to ancient memories, resort in secret, evening after




IN THE NEAR EAST


97


evening, to repeat verses of the Koran, as their forefathers were
wont to do.
There is nothing pleasing in the Sofia of which the Bulgars
are so inordinately proud. Of course they are to be congratulated
on having cleared away the ancient decrepit and disease-infested
mosques, the vast mounds of stagnant dust, the rubbish heaps
of former days. They are to be congratulated on having planted
trees and laid out faultlessly paved streets, which cross and recross one another. They are to be congratulated on having
spanned their river with such a magnificent lion and eagle ornamented bridge. They had doubtless good intentions in erecting
the monstrous cathedral Newski, at a cost of ~1,000,000, and in
filling the city with statues which recall to mind the so-called
works of art in Berlin. They are to be congratulated on the
excellence of their water supply, their drainage system, and their
secret police. They claim credit, too, on the extraordinary
morality of their capital, where race-courses are practically nil,
where lotteries and gambling are taboo, and where vice, though
undoubtedly present, is carefully hidden under cover of virtue.
They have certainly accomplished an immensity of work in an
incredibly short period, in fact they have overturned and reconstructed everything, good, bad, and indifferent, since the year
1878, but from a tourist's point of view the result is disappointing. The traveller does not penetrate into the Balkans to see
and enjoy what he is accustomed to at home, and so he must
search for those hidden regions of the city which by some miracle
have escaped the vandal pickaxes of progress.
It is Friday and the Moslem Sabbath. It is also the weekly
market-day, and the dusty highways stretching straight as a
rule across the plains are thronged with peasants, bringing in
their merchandise and farm produce from the scattered villages
situated great distances apart on the open plateau or amongst
the valleys and gorges of the mountains. They are all converging upon the old quarter, the ancient market-place of the Turks,
and one can follow them there. But it is more advisable to
meet them half-way at the point where the interminable stucco
villas really do end; where the smooth flagged footways at last
give place, first to cobbles and then to gritty roads or lanes,
where in a sort of "no-man's-land," in the neighbourhood of
refuse heaps and gipsy camps, queer little clusters of open booths
and stalls and small tumble-down refreshment shanties, displaying in Cyrillic characters the words "Kafe," or " Cai," " Bira,"
or "Vino," proclaim the end of the city and the beginning of
the country. Here must pass at the places of toll all the folk
-simple and otherwise-who do not wear the silk hats and
black tail-coats, atrocious German importations so dear to the
H




98


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


soul of the Sofiote townspeople, or, to give them their correct
name, the "Tschorbadja "-the middle class, the people who
can afford to eat meat and soup every day. Here one can
stand aside and see the real Bulgaria, for Bulgaria is a peasant
land, and the time-servers and upstarts who fawn around the
Court and hold Government posts under "the Coburger,"
greatest upstart of all, are every one of peasant extraction, though
they would fain have it believed otherwise.
Notice the groups as they arrive, see the huge country carts
or arabas, prehistoric, springless vehicles, constructed of two treetrunks joined together by fifteen or sixteen rough wooden poles.
They look like moving houses, so overloaded are they with vegetables, gourds, gigantic pumpkins, hay, fruit, bales of homespuns,
barrels of wine, poultry in cages, undressed skins and goodness
knows what else. The wobbling wheels roll drunkenly from side
to side groaning as if in agony, and the slow-moving docile oxen
that draw them peer out with calm, gentle eyes through their
shaggy forelocks which have been dyed brilliant saffron, as
security against the evil eye. By the side of these carts walk
drivers, long goads in their hands with which from time to time
they brutally urge their beasts to activity. Where there is any
room to spare on the summits of the loads the men have appropriated it and the women and children are left to follow after as
best they can. Two of these arabas may be taken as representing a zadruga, or household, for the communal system still
exists in Bulgaria.
Never was there such a silent multitude! Those who look
for gaiety or laughter or songs in this land will look in vain.
The mercurial Serbs may sing and joke, the light-hearted
Roumanians may dance and indulge in antics altogether unseemly
-in Bulgarian opinion-but never by any chance do these dour,
silent countryfolk forget their dignity, or stoop to what they
sneeringly call "play-acting." Indeed, Nature has placed but
scant temptation in their way. They have not the slightest
hankering after the things which make existence so pleasant
amongst their Latin neighbours the Roumanians, and their socalled kinsfolk, the Serbs. Music leaves these Bulgars cold, they
can rarely sing in tune, nor have they been gifted with a talent
for poetry or a taste for beauty, or for love-making, or kissing,
or exchanging compliments. Apparently they have never
anything to talk about, and having nothing to say, keep silent.
Sofia has already been described as a colourless city. But it
is not so much the glaring whiteness of its streets and buildings
that renders it dull. Even here, where there are no silk hats
and German-made garments, here amongst the glitter of the
variously clad crowd, the scene is curiously drab-dull with the




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dullness lying far below exterior things, in the very heart and soul
of the nation. Just as sometimes at high noon, on a cloudless
June day, a greyness descends through the sunshine, so, in the
same way, the most brilliant sights, the gayest scenes in this
strange land are touched with greyness. Not a smile, not a
friendly nod is exchanged. If one speaks to another, it is only
to utter a surly, "How goes it? " and the gruff abrupt answer
comes back, "Spoliate," meaning, "Well, but it might be better,"
for they never, on principle, admit that they are pleased or even
tolerably contented with their lot. It is not their way, any more
than it is their way to place trust in any one or anything they
have not proved. Even after proof has been given they still ask
for more, muttering "Pitai patils? " i. e. "Who has tried? " or
" Who knows? " as with heads down and eyes and ears furtively
alert they plod stolidly along, turning neither to the right nor the
left. It is hot enough to roast an egg if placed in the roadway,
yet they might be clad to meet the elements in the Arctic regions.
Both sexes are enveloped in huge wadded sheepskins, or frieze
coats, and their figures have an oddly grotesque appearance.
The long, straight-cut, white linen or woollen chemises worn
by the women with such classic grace in the other Balkan countries, here only tend to make the wearers look like so many
animated sausages, the reason being that the Bulgar women
consider many thick petticoats conducive to health, and when
these are crowded on under the narrow chemises the effect can
better be imagined than described. Above the chemises they
have donned three-quarter length, dark blue, homespun, sleeveless coats, edged with fantastic scrolls and patterns wrought in
black, red and white braid. Over these coats, or beneath them,
as taste directs, are aprons, of every colour of the rainbow, bordered
with strips of rich embroidery. Broad, raw-hide sandals are
secured to legs whose naturally substantial proportions are rendered even more astonishing by being swathed and re-swathed
in yards upon yards of white linen or homespun cloth. Add
necklaces-" ozarlitza " —earrings, strings of coins-" naniz "-and
white, red or green kerchiefs-" schamia " —drawn with painful
and unbecoming severity and tightness across their brows and over
their skulls, leaving not so much as a hair visible, stiff pigtailsmade to assume extraordinary length by an abundant addition of
black horsehair-each pigtail encased in a string tube or long bag,
tricked out with multicoloured ribbons, and their costumes are
complete. As for the men, each has on a tremendous sheepskin
overcoat-" djube"-a pair of wide breeches-" poture"-an
under jacket-" abba "-a red " pajas " or sash, hide sandals —
"opinci "-and last, but not least, the universal " kalpak,' or
high cylindrical wool cap, without which no true Bulgar Chri.tiafi.;




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OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


would venture forth. One glance is enough to prove that these
people are not pure-blooded Slavs, and, indeed, they have very
little of the Slavonic in their composition. Back to memory
flashes the description of the Hunnish tribes, written by Ammianus
Marcellinus in the fourth century: " All have strong, well-built
limbs and thick strong necks and their faces seem hewn out of
wood in a rude manner. They are ugly; they wear on their heads
round lofty caps and their legs are covered with rags and goatskins, and their bodies are clad in linen cloths and skins. They
are treacherous and ignorant of the distinction between right and
wrong. They express themselves with difficulty, are immoderately covetous for gold, and are so cantankerous that many times
a day they quarrel with one another without cause." Not a
pleasant description, but then the Huns were not a pleasant
people. Historians may differ as to the origin of the Bulgars,
but those who decline to believe that they are descended from
the followers of Attila on at least one side of the family, have
assuredly not lived in Bulgaria!
The Bulgars themselves have no objection to being regarded
as the offspring of these ancient barbarians; they are indeed
exceedingly proud of their Khan, Asparukh, under whom in the
year 679 A.D., as the " Buailcaic " (river folk), they left 'heir
stronghold on the Volga, to sweep down upon and conquer the
Slavonic inhabitants of Moesia-the Bulgaria of to-day-bringing
with them and forcing upon their victims all the uncouth characteristics which still distinguish them from the Serbs and
Roumanians. Although they adopted the Slavonic tongue and
religion, and intermarried with the native Slavs, they have remained through all the centuries Hunnish in instinct, habit, and
appearance. If the streets, shops, and houses of Sofia are almost
identical with those of any large town in Prussia, so also the
faces and character of the Bulgars are as truthful replicas of the
faces and character of the Prussians, in whose land, as every one
knows, tlhe Hunnish element is as strong at this present hour as
it was in ancient times. Every disagreeable trait the Bulgars
have got has been laid at the door of their former oppressors, the
Turks. To the impious teaching of Mahomet nine out of ten
ordinary intelligent, modern Christians attribute all the unlovable
qualities of the Bulgars. But if the Ottoman rule has worked
such evil amongst them, why are the Serbs and the Roumanians
not equally warped and churlish of disposition? No-the Bulgars
are what they have ever been, a crossgrained tribe, and neither
the religion of Jesus nor the religion of Mahomet can be held
responsible for what is innate in their character. There are some
who count them handsome, and so far as physique goes they are
a fine race. Both sexes are powerfully built, deep chested, broad




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shouldered, sturdy legged. Generally speaking, their faces are
oval in youth, heavy jowled in old age. Their heads are closely
cropped and round as a ball, their noses are flat, their mouths
coarse, their eyes small, bright, and obliquely set, but it is difficult
to say much about the latter, seeing they rarely look one straight
in the face.
Such is the Bulgarian, and these peasants on their way to
the market of Sofia may be taken as average types of their race.
Here they go in hundreds, shuffling along in the dusty sunshine,
the men who are not seated in the carts or driving the oxen,
moving untrammelled by burdens, which are borne by the weaker
sex. As the Turks scornfully put it, the only difference these
Christians see between their women and their draft animals is
that the beasts are given rest when weary, whereas the luckless
women receive nothing but a kick. Two dozen live fowls, slung
from a pole carried across the shoulder, a small pig, tied by its
hind legs with a rope, a great keg of butter, or a big web of homespun, are loads from which the Bulgar female's back is not permitted to shrink, and to every load, as a rule, is added one if not
two infants.
Judging by the mountains of vegetables and fruit, the mighty
baskets of eggs, the tubs of fresh cheese and butter, the barrels
of wine, the rich merchandise of all sorts with which their arabas
are laden, they are evidently well provided with the good things
of life. But should any one so much as hint that they are fortunate, that they have enough and to spare, the suggestion will
only meet with a cold stare and the morose reply, " All very
well-enough for to-day perhaps, but the 'Tschernidni' (black
days) will surely come again, and then what will we do? It
may be that we starve or take a sickness, God alone can tell, so
it is needful to be careful, oh! very careful! " Therefore they
go on being careful, they go on hoarding and saving and stinting,
and from the day they first see the light till the day they go back
into darkness they never experience an hour of what other people
call enjoyment. In short, the faculty of joie de vivre, the gift
God has bestowed so liberally upon the Serbs and Roumanians, is
absolutely non-existent in this country.
It has been mentioned that every two of these carts represent
a household, or zadruga, and a household in Bulgaria means a
group or band numbering anything between twenty and fifty,
or perhaps more, persons. Of late years strenuous efforts have
been made to abolish this patriarchal system of living. But
ancient customs die hard here, where all seem determined on
doing certain acts in certain ways and in no other, much to the
disgust of " the Coburger" and his German-modelled Government. So despite opposition the people still persist in herding




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OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


together in little companies or communities. Each zadruga is
under the rule of a chief called the Domakin, and the poorest
communal household can boast of at least one pair of oxen and
a couple of buffaloes, each pair worth respectively, in English
money, from twelve to fourteen pounds; thirty to sixty sheep,
besides a goodly number of goats, geese, and fowls, with a portion
of land measuring five or six hectares, equal to some twelve and
a half or fifteen English acres. The different branches of a family
reside in separate dwellings, or little cottages, called " Kolibi,"
built round the parental house to form a small but compact
settlement, or tiny village, and so it comes about that a Bulgarian
village is made up of, say, six or seven lesser villages surrounded
by a sort of common, called a " Mera," where the flocks and
herds of the united zadrugas enjoy free pasturage. Each family
manages its own farm, and outside labour is scarcely ever employed; moreover, the boys and men of each household ply
individual trades, such as shoemaking, tanning, carpentering,
building, and, as a rule, one youth is set apart to be a priest" pope "-whose fees for services rendered outside the zadruga
to which he belongs, together with the earnings of his blood
brothers, are pooled for the common benefit of the community.
Speaking of these earnings, the Bulgars, like all Oriental, or semiOriental races, are chronically suspicious, not only of foreigners,
but also of one another. A whole house community or clan may
have their fingers in the particular pie belonging to some individual of the family, but into this pie a person with a different
surname will be wise not to intrude his fingers, lest they be burnt;
for the fool who pries into, or even manifests a friendly and casual
interest in private family concerns in this land, must, declare the
native wiseacres, with much shaking of their heads, be a rogue
and a robber in disguise.
It is safe to say that the average Bulgar suspects every one,
except himself, consequently the question of where to deposit
the family earnings is one which is constantly giving rise to
friction. Banks and bankers are regarded as dangerous in the
extreme, and the favourite spot to deposit the communal savings
is a hole in the centre of the family land. To part with a stolinka (centime) is pain and grief to these people, they are egoists
of the egoists, and for this reason they set their faces, as it has
been stated, against employing outsiders. But, having a keen
eye for the main chance, they see no reason why they should not
make hay, so to speak, on the fields of the adjoining countries.
" There is good money to be earned," they declare, " beyond
our own frontiers," and in order to further their individual
interests in the neighbouring lands, they have established trade
associations or companies. There is, for example, the Bulgarian




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103


Association of Market Gardeners-" gradinarski druzhini "-which
has over ten thousand members, all of whom emigrate at certain
seasons to the vicinity of the towns and cities across the Bulgarian
border, where they hire themselves out as gardeners and agriculturists. In the same way there is the Brass-workers' Company,
the Shoemakers' Company, the Skin-dressers' Company, and so
on. One feels curious to discover how so many individuals,
each brimful of doubt as to the integrity and goodwill of the
other, can travel about and work together in unity. But here
again their natural caution and selfishness somehow or other
prevents them coming to fisticuffs, so that the daggers and firearms they carry in their belts are rarely drawn except for most
prosaic reasons. They do not stab their adversaries, these
peasants, they regard stabbing, and shooting, and poisoning as
a royal sport, to be indulged in by their sovereign and his ministers, they simply nurse and nourish their hatreds, and wait,
wait with dogged patience, to take revenge, by means generally
infinitely more cruel than a clean dagger thrust.
Still the procession is passing, streaming in from the brown
and lavender green-patched plains, where there are no hedgerows or landmarks of any kind between one field and' another,
where the farmsteads and tiny white-steepled churches peep
cautiously out through closely planted poplar groves, just as
they did in the old times when life was even cheaper than it is
to-day. Although the Bulgarian element predominates, there
are many other nationalities, creeds, and races to be seen in the
crowd. Pit-patting along, as merrily as if their diminutive
bodies were not half hidden under loads as big as haystacks,
are half a dozen spindle-legged, donkey-hoofed pack ponies.
Upon, and suspended from their high wooden saddles, which
reach far over their withers, are oddly-shaped bales and boxes
wrapped in brightly-hued rugs and pieces of brown canvas lashed
into place by scarlet and blue ropes. These cheery little beasts
are driven by a couple of bare-legged Turkish boys, wearing corncockle blue shirts, red fezes and nothing else. They appertain
to a hawk-featured, hawk-eyed, elderly Mussulman-a Pomak,
that is to say, a Bulgarian Mohammedan, whose progenitors in
bygone days forswore Christianity and accepted the creed of the
Prophet, along with a fat bribe, a piece of fertile land, and other
material benefits. By all accounts these perverts found their
new religion agreeable, certainly not one of them was ever known
to return to Christianity, and their descendants are to-day more
fanatically inclined than even their co-religionists, the Turks.
The Bulgars have a proverb which says: ' Poturica je gorji od
Turcina "-" One who has become a Mohammedan is worse than
a Turk," which may be taken to mean that he is, in Bulgar




104


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


opinion, the lowest and most despicable of human beings. Yet
this Pomak looks a gentleman, and a personage of means and
education, judging by his turban, which is of grass-green silk,
proof positive that the wearer has made a pilgrimage to the tomb
of the Prophet. There is, at any rate, no greyness in his costume,
for his crimson, silver-embroidered jacket, blue and white linen
shirt, full dark blue breeches, white stockings, red and blue
stitched sandals, pink, purple, and yellow sash, bristling with
many curved knives, and inlaid ivory and steel handled pistols,
are all products of looms or workshops which have never employed
crude modern dyes and shoddy materials. The teaching of
Mahomet has, moreover, brought some refining influence to
bear upon his manners, for unlike his Christian Bulgar brothers,
he shows some consideration for his women who accompany him
-his wife, a waddling bundle of black and white clothing, from
out of which peeps a pair of lustrous henna-stained eyes and a
slender olive, henna-tipped hand, and his daughter, a tiny scrap
of as yet unveiled femininity, decked out in a pair of gleaming
pink silk Turkish trousers-" shalvas "-an absurd sea-green
tunic, flip-flapping green slippers, and a spangled gauze headcovering. A whiff of delicious fragrance comes floating through
the stifling air as the queer little cavalcade ambles by, and one
suddenly becomes aware of the secret contained in these oddlooking bales and boxes. This is an old-fashioned attar of rose
merchant, and he is bringing to market his precious essence, which
in small, very, very small gilt glass flagons, each containing not
more than two or three drops of the costly liquid, he will easily
sell to the foreign traders for seven, eight, or even nine leva apiecea lev is equivalent to a franc. He may get even more for his
scent-bottles to-day, since war has made such havoc with the
industry. The merest breath or suggestion of this essence is
enough to transport one in fancy to those far-away Thracian
valleys where the dew on mornings such as this sparkles in crystal
drops on' ruby, coral, and pearl gemmed fields, where roses such
as the Persian poets loved and hymned bloom heavy headed,
velvet soft, and sweet for miles upon miles, far as eye can reach.
Alas, only for a few blissful moments does the pleasant vision
last. In a column of choking dust the ponies and their owners
disappear, and with a loud snorting and grumbling a herd of
horrible, inquisitive-nosed, malodorous, red-haired swine put in
an appearance. Behind the pigs, chivied and worried in the way
they should go by a group of snarling, yellow dogs, drift a flock
of sheep and goats under the charge of two or three shepherds,
wrapped in vast, grey, homespun mantles. In Serbia and
Roumania, the shepherds, like the Good Shepherd in the Good
Book, lead their flocks gently and carry the lambs in their bosoms.






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Not so in Bulgar land; animals are animals here, and are only
valued and fed as merchandise. They bring in cash to their
owners' pockets. They are driven, not led, and who, in this
practical country, would be such an idiot as to encourage them
along the hot roads with music and song? If the pigs are unsavoury, the goats are the proud disseminators of an odour so vile
that it can almost be seen.
Following hard on the heels of these objectionable creatures
come a troop of Vlach muleteers, some on foot, some riding, though
most of their beasts are already borne down under huge weightsbales, cooking utensils, tent-poles, old women, babies, and provisions. Of all the strange, quaint, diverse specimens of the
human species who perambulate the Balkan Peninsula, these
Vlachs are amongst the most interesting and least known.
Speaking a language that is a conglomeration of Latin, Greek,
Slavonic, Turkish, and Albanian, they belong to no particular
nation or tribe, and, like the Tziganes, flit to and fro, pitching
their striped black and red and white tents, grazing their flocks,
ponies and mules, and doing odd jobs-chiefly carrying-wherever and for whomsoever the spirit moves them. They quarrel
with none, take orders from none, and are possessed of no racial
or political animosities or aspirations. They are, in fact, the
most jovial, happy-go-lucky, hail-fellow-well-met, civil souls under
the sun. They never steal hens, they rarely tell lies, they poach
on no man's preserves, they have as few enemies as they have
coins in their pockets, and in consequence they are permitted
to settle down anywhere, in any country that takes their fleeting
fancy. When questioned, they proclaim themselves Romans,
or, in their own tongue, " Arumani," and most people recognise
in them descendants of the Roman-Dacians who fled into these
south-eastern lands in the days when the westward-moving
barbarians drove the Roman eagles beyond the Danube. Wherever the wind blows fresh, and the water and pasturage are pure
and wholesome, there the Vlachs are found, living in comparative
comfort, in scrupulous cleanliness and cheerfulness, spinning and
weaving the wool of their own flocks, breeding their own cattle,
mules, and ponies, dancing their own dances, and chanting their
own half-sad, half-gay songs. In their sky-blue cotton shirts,
pleated out over their hips to form a sort of kilt or " fustanella,"
in their trim, dark homespun leggings, reaching to their thighs,
and worn so as to display to advantage their shapely limbs, in
their jaunty, indigo-blue, velvet-collared, scarlet-braided coats,
bedecked with crimson tassels, their neat, red-resetted, turnedup-toed shoes, and dazzling white fezes they swagger along,
looking as if the world belonged to them-which perhaps is true
-careless of everything, happy, if only because the sun is shining




106


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


and they are alive. Amiability sparkles in their blue, rather
Anglo-Saxon eyes, their faces are fresh and rosy, they are indeed
an attractive, prosperous-looking, if homeless community, and
they present a curious contrast to the next comers. These are
a band of villainous-visaged, brown-jacketed, white-skullcapped
Arnants-Armenians-some red-fezzed, wide-petticoated, sly-eyed
Greeks, two or three filthy Russian Jew pedlars, and a couple of
wheezy, long-haired, long-bearded, disgustingly fat " popes" in
greasy black robes and high, black, stove-pipe hats. White-linenclad Roumanians, Serbian merchants, bringing in carpets from
Pirot, wizen-faced Armenians, Moldavians, and Tartars from the
Dobrudja, come and come and come without interruption, drifting in from who knows where in search of who knows what.
The majority seem bent on business, only the Vlachs and the
Tziganes, those devil-may-care, shock-headed, copper-skinned,
black-eyed, white-toothed, gaily be-ragged Ishmaelites, seem
entirely happy-leaping, bounding, yelling, dancing, laughing
round their ramshackle, gaudily painted taligas stacked heavenwards with every necessity of life from tents to battered saucepans and weird-looking musical instruments; wizened old crones,
naked infants astride wretched donkeys. Others lug along handcarts loaded with all sorts of rubbish. They prance by in a whirlwind of dust and noise indescribable. Carts, carts, carts, more
ponies, more oxen, and smelly sheep, pigs, and goats, more
Bulgars lumber up and pass the toll-houses, the coffee, and wine,
and beer shanties, and make their way down the long, broad,
straight boulevard into the old, sunflecked market square lying
in the blue cool shadows cast by the Bany a bashi Djamia-the
only place of worship left to the Moslems-and the walls of the
ancient Turkish Battlehouse.
This quarter of the old town, which has thus far escaped the
shovel and pickaxe, is still picturesque and Oriental. It is situated
in the dip of a cup, or hollow, or small valley, on the upper edge
of which stand the palace and all the new public buildings.
Netted with crooked, dirty streets, and choked with low shambling houses, it recalls the days of Turkish rule, and in it nothing
has been changed since the Treaty of Berlin, when in a single
year five thousand of Mahomet's chosen were driven from their
homes to seek refuge in another land. This market square, the
streets adjoining it, and the shabby Jewish quarter are the only
unvulgarised spots in Sofia. But already, it is said, plans are in
existence to demolish these remnants of the historic city, which,
for over four centuries, was the proud stronghold of the Sultan's
governor-generals who held sway over the whole Balkan Peninsula, except Bosnia and the Morea. There are no beggars squatting round the door of this mosque. The Mohammedans of Sofia




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are very poor, only intense love of locality binds them to this site
of their former splendour. Isolated by religion and by custom,
they find life both hard and bitter, and even though, as far as
in them lies, they observe the teaching of their Faith, which
declares that without generosity towards the poor no man can
hope to enter Paradise, still the beggar would be a very poor
beggar indeed who relied for a livelihood on their donations;
and as for the Christians, is not this the land where every one
sleeps on his purse, and parts with nothing until he has received
an equivalent return?
A stone's throw from the Mosque people are going in and
coming out of the doors leading to the bathing-place, where there
is no need to boil the water, by the by, since it bubbles up, already
heated, out of the earth. A notice attached to the entrance
announces the fact that the bath-house is open to the public
on all days except Mondays, when it is reserved for the military,
and when, armed with soap and towels, the entire garrison in
detachments of a hundred at a time march in to perform their
weekly ablutions. Overlooking the acacia bordered, cobbled
square are, as it has been said, wistful, old, old houses whose
sloping roofs are now being jostled, crushed, and smothered
almost out of existence under the rapid advance of new and
forbidding-looking moder buildings. They have come very far
down in the world, these poor old houses, and one wonders what
fate overtook their former owners, and where are all the dusky
beauties, who in bygone times gazed from out their barred
and shuttered windows, and went in and out through their
beautifully carved portals. Immediately beneath the walls and
in front of these houses are rows of little open one-storied shopsor wooden huts-with skull-cracking doorways, in the dim reoesses of which cross-legged Mussulmans sit the whole day long,
puffing away at their hubble-bubbles and waiting, serenely
inactive, for fortune to smile upon them. Greek money-changers
and coin vendors, Levantine Jewish antique and old clothes
dealers, carpet weavers, makers of damascened yataghans, knives
and swords, lakoum, confectionery, kalpak, earthenware and
copper-pot sellers drive bargains and ply their trades in the
gloomy background of their respective dens. Close by, under a
wooden flap-awning, is a portly, excellently nourished, bulletheaded Bulgar, with restive, suspicious eyes, shaded by bushy
brows and a bilious complexioned countenance that matches in
colour the unappetising loaves-he is a baker-which he has
arranged before him in open order upon the pavement. Every
now and then he spits contemptuously, aiming carefully for the
pedestrians, and avoiding as carefully his bread. In the next
doorway, over a charcoal brazier, another enterprising native is




108


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


peering into the depths of a monster cauldron, in which simmers
a pork, onion, garlic and red-pepper stew, one mouthful of
which would certainly cause those unaccustomed to such savoury
compounds to see stars and break out into violent perspiration.
He is likely to find plenty of customers presently, for if there
is anything that can warm the unresponsive soul, and loosen the
tongue of the Bulgarian peasant, it is boiled swine flesh. What
is one man's meat is another man's poison, however, and the mere
smell of this stew is disgusting to the children of Islam, who, as
they go by, turn their heads away with an expression of loathing,
much to the edification of the portly baker, who jeers after them:
" Come and eat-come and eat, for if you will not, then when you
come to die you will all be turned into wild pigs! " 1 Everywhere
can be seen the usual Balkan huddle-muddle of races and tribes,
everywhere can be heard the babel of conflicting tongues and
dialects, and over all hangs the close, musty atmosphere, the
general air of age and languor peculiar to the Orient. Mangy
dogs, with scarcely a hair on their scraggy backs, tear and scratch
at their festering sores. The "Boyadji "-sellers of a drink
made of millet-rattle their metal trays and cups; the sherbet
and pink lemonade vendors tinkle their glass tumbler necklaces
and cry to the thirsty to come and drink; the cheese and sourmilk and sweetmeat merchants, the sellers of mutton on wooden
skewers, bawl their readiness to dispose of their good things.
Here come a lot of Turks actually hurrying! Has the end of all
things arrived? Yes, for one of them at any rate, for this is a
funeral, and in order to shorten the torments of the dead, like
good Osmanlis, the bearers of the rough coffin are trotting towards
the grave where the body will be speedily deposited, and the
Mollah will say a few words from the Koran, after which the
mourners will squat themselves down in a circle round the place
of interment, to smoke their pipes and gossip. Not one of them
shows the least sign of grief. The deceased was a good Mussulman and so for a surety his soul is now with Mahomet, enjoying
the caresses of houris.2 As the little procession passes, the
sleek-coated, white and fawn-hued oxen and the red-eyed buffaloes
which have been unyoked and lie chewing the cud lift their
heads and sniff. From out the indigo shadows of the alleys
and bylanes come the gleam of orange and scarlet gourds and
melons; of piled-up hillocks of grapes, some yellow, some white,
1 The Bulgarians have a superstition that Turks who have never eaten
pork will, after death, be converted into wild boars.
2 The Balkan Turks believe that the evil spirits have power to torment
the spirits of the dead from the moment they breathe their last breath
till the earth is put over them. Hence the fact that Mussulmans hurry
towards their burial-grounds,




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some purple; of figs, sacks of red pepper and flaming tomatoes.
On planks supported by baskets or wooden barrels are jars of
boiled butter, great blocks of amber honey, sugary cakes, rolls of
embroidery, webs of white linen and homespun, costly rugs, silver
and brass ornaments, gay cottons and ribbons, glittering ikons
and crucifixes, gigantic bags of golden-husked maize, piles of
roses and carnations. Colour-colour everywhere; and yet,
even here, in this old-world unspoilt coner of the city, the curious,
inexplicable greyness still makes itself felt, still seems to steal
the kindness and geniality from the sunshine, to rob the colours
of their depths and richness, leaving only a fierce, glaring,
irritating hardness.
By this time the good ladies of the villas, their early morning
labours ended, have struggled into their corsets and outdoor
garments, and, string bags on arms, have sallied forth with loins
girt for action to do battle with the tradespeople and marketfolk. Shopping here in this weekly market is an elaborate, timeconsuming and minute process. The Oriental method of doing
business still prevails; it is a method which exactly suits the
Bulgar character, else be sure it would long since have been
abolished. The dealers set their prices, the customers theirs,
and often three or four hours of desperate conflict elapse before
a compromise is reached and the danger of an apoplectic fit on
one or other or both sides averted.
It is customary in most lands where people buy directly from
the markets, for house-mistresses to do their shopping attended
by a maid, whose duty it is to carry home the heavy goods
purchased. Not so in Sofia. As before stated, the servant
problem cannot be solved in Bulgaria. This is an emancipated
country, the fact is dinned into one's ears from the moment
one sets foot in it till the moment one re-crosses its frontier, and
the inhabitants are deeply imbued with a sense of their own
personal and national dignity. For this reason they look upon
domestic service as dreadfully derogatory. Only the lowest,
most miserable outcasts will deign to become servants, and they
make it their business to extract the uttermost farthing from
their employers for their condescension in so doing. A peasant
would almost rather see his daughter starve than allow her to
be hired out "into slavery," to quote the local expression;
consequently, only poor widows or girls who have lost their
character are available, and the former, by the way, invariably
make it a stipulation, that they may import their entire family
into their employer's home and affections. For, of course, these
"treasures " consider themselves as the social equals of their
mistresses and masters, and woe befall the unfortunate ladies
who do not introduce them to their visitors, and who refuse them




110


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


the entree of their drawing-rooms! Such short-sighted lack of
appreciation is deserving of instant punishment, and the insulted
ones, with noses in the air and violent abuse upon their tongues,
pack up their belongings, shake the dust of ingratitude from off
their feet, and betake themselves elsewhere within the hour,
generally speaking to the next-door house, where they are sure
to be received with open arms and the assurance that they will
receive every consideration. Consideration, to the British way
of thinking, is not, however, much, so far as physical comforts
go. A mat in the vestibule or a straw mattress in the kitchen is,
as a rule, thought good enough for a Sofiote abigail-and as often
as not, her numerous offspring. But then again, if this accommodation strikes one as, to say the least of it, poor, that to which
employers are accustomed is not much better. The outwardly
pretentious, brand-new houses in the Bulgar capital are exceedingly cramped and inconvenient. All is made for show and
nothing for comfort. There is no such thing in any of them as a
" spare " room, and very frequently three or four persons sleep
in one bedroom, while two make their beds on the sofa and divan
in the salon! The lower middle-class Londoner knows more
about comfort than these well-to-do citizens. But no need to
pity them. They have exactly what they desire, and if that is
sufficient for them, well-it is no one else's concern. Before
going back to the market and whilst speaking of such matters as
servants and masters, the payer and the paid, it is worth noticing
how thoroughly the absurd spirit of snobbishness has taken hold
of these citizens. " I would not demean myself," is the phrase
most frequently overheard. Amongst the " Tschorbadja" class
no self-respecting mother will nourish her own infant, no grownup child will carry a message to a shop at the bidding of its
parents, the most poverty-stricken loafer would not stoop to
carry a load for a stranger, not even if the stranger proffered him
a liberal tip! To sew or embroider, to do anything in the shape
of needlework, entails, however, no loss of caste, and so it goes on.
To do one thing is to lower one's prestige, to do another is to
further it. There is, indeed, no end to the social rules in this
parvenu country.
To return to the market. As the morning approaches midday
the crowds begin to diminish and business grows slacker. There
is not much more to be seen. The ladies from the villas have
long since panted homewards, laden like pack ponies, or asses,
with the wherewithal to cook their one o'clock dinners, this
being the fashionable hour for dining in Sofia. The stall and booth
keepers are also busy counting up their "takes," under the
supervision of their relatives and partners in business. If it be
true that the affairs of human life hinge upon confidence, then




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111


a vast number of "affairs" in Bulgaria must surely be dissociated from their hinges, for amongst these people there is no
such quality as confidence. Quite a number are signing documents, writing their names or getting others to write their names
on pieces of paper. Each piece of paper represents a bargain,
a promise; bargains and promises must be made tangible and
visible here, they must be written down in ink-" Tscherns na
bjelo "-" Black and white for me," declares the Bulgar merchant,
" else how can I know that I am not being duped? "
Yes, they are a thrifty, business-like, shrewd nation, but, why
do they make such a blatant display of these virtues?
No use to linger, there is lunch, or rather dinner, to be thought
of, and the best place to get a decent meal is decidedly not in
this antiquated locality.
A short walk and one finds oneself back in moder times, in
the heart of the city. In the principal square, near the Newski
Cathedral, on the wall of which the paint and mortar have scarcely
yet had time to dry, the sunlight sparkles on Zocchi's immense
statue of the " Tzar Liberator," the Russian emperor to whom
the Bulgarians owe a debt so stupendous that they have made
up their minds it would not pay them to attempt to meet it, except by the erection of this statue. In every town and homestead
throughout the country the inhabitants have decorated their
walls and adorned their streets with prints, autographs and
statues, shoddy and otherwise, of the man who thirty-six years
ago found them in darkness and groaning under the rod of the
Sultan, but their gratitude goes no further, and the generosity
of Russia, proved by the Treaty of San Stefano, has for many a
long day been forgotten.
So much has been written and told about the marvellous
" schemes " carried out of recent years, under the direction of
King Ferdinand, that perchance one is inclined to expect rather
too much of Sofia. Certainly if his Majesty has spent all the
time he would like people to believe, poring over plans and maps,
and burning the midnight oil in his velvet upholstered fumoir,
the windows of which overlook this boulevard, then all that can
be said is that the results are disappointing. Of course, everything is very magnificent and showy and up-to-date. Everything
has undoubtedly cost a mint of money. But for some reason
nothing is really pleasing. Take the grand boulevards, the
Pirolska Ulitza, the Maria Luisa Ulitza, and the Dondukoff
Ulitza with their smart plate-glass windowed shops. If one so
much as breathed the word vulgar in connection with them in
all probability a couple of the omnipresent secret police officials,
whom the "Nation's Hero " pays out of his own royal pocket
for his own private enlightenment and protection, would pounce




112


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


down and promptly take one into custody. But those who are
willing to risk drawing upon themselves " the Coburger's" displeasure will agree that both boulevards and shops are, to put
it mildly, ordinary. As to the goods displayed in the latter they
are all of German and Austrian manufacture, and one's eye is
confronted by Teutonic jewellery, hosiery, millinery, modes,
works of art-chiefly cheap prints and picture postcardsphotographs, often indecent, of scantily garbed actresses and
dancers, flamboyant protraits of the Kaiser Wilhelm and his
illustrious family, of the Austrian ruler, and last, but not least,
of King Ferdinand himself, attired in every conceivable costume:
one time as a Bulgarian peasant or country squire, at another
as a Bulgarian Admiral or Field-Marshal. Apparently British
commercial travellers have not, as yet, thought of exploring these
regions, or it may be they have done so and been told to take
their wares to other markets, for there is not a sign or suggestion
that such a thing exists as British trade. But stay, this is
perhaps an exaggeration, for here, in the tailor's establishment,
are two labels inscribed with the words "High Life" and
"Sporting ": one attached to an impossible green suit surmounted by a brown tweed cap; the other secured to a pair
of startling black and tan breeches, a mustard-coloured coat,
topped by a rakish, billycock hat. Thank heaven, however, a
mere glance suffices to acquit Great Britain of having perpetrated
such horrors! " High Life " and " Sporting " atrocities along
with the sausages, the boots and shoes, the literature, and twothirds of everything have come all the way from Berlin, while
Vienna must be held responsible for the remainder.
The scene out of doors, at any rate, is animated. Traffic is
well ordered. Pony carts and bullock wagons, two-horsed
droschkies and automobiles come and go. Trams clang and buzz,
a policeman stands on duty at every corner. Civilisation,
Central European civilisation, has full sway, and it is almost, but
not quite, possible to forget that in these very streets, under the
broad light of day, more political murders, more convenient
" removals "-(to quote the local expression)-have taken place
within the past thirty years, than in any other Christian capital
in Europe. Then, too, who would think that these boulevards,
all of which converge upon the palace, are laid out expressly to
provide right of way for impromptu artillery practice? A wise
government precaution, for, as some one has remarked, "one
cannot always tell in so changeable a climate as Bulgaria when the
political wind may shift."
As to the cafes and restaurants, it is only recently that any
attempt has been made to cater, in the moder sense of the word,
for the inner man. Ten years back the cafes of Sofia were no




IN THE NEAR EAST


113


better than dirty pot-houses, where women of respectable character were never seen. Now things have somewhat improved;
" the Coburger " has brought his influence to bear with the result
that the sidewalks of the principal thoroughfares are inconveniently obstructed by little green-painted tables, covered with
blue and red and white striped or checked cloths and surrounded
by painfully uncomfortable chairs for the accommodation of
any who may be inclined to rest awhile, read the daily papers,
write postcards and partake of light refreshments such as a
slab of butterbrod, a sausage, a tankard of beer, or a cup of thick,
sweet, black coffee. As a rule, however, the Sofiotes prefer to
take their meals, even their " snacks," in the privacy of their
homes, and they seldom are generous enough to share food or
drink with strangers, or even with their most intimate friends.
Consequently, Sofia enjoys the reputation-well deserved-of
extraordinary inhospitality. Of course, the Hotel de Bulgarie
and the Hotel Bristol are thoroughly cosmopolitan and modern
as regards accommodation and management, and at their tables
d'hote all the customary luxuries are obtainable. But in the
majority of other hotels one is forced to face the unpleasant fact
that a bed and early morning coffee are all that the proprietors
are either able or willing to provide. Even ordinary public reception rooms are a rarity.
The sacred hour of dinner has just struck and the streets are
thronged with hurrying figures, pouring homewards and foodwards. The shops are putting up their shutters and the bureaus
are emptying for the solemn lull of business which lasts for the
better part of two hours. If politics are unstable in Bulgaria,
the Bulgarian midday feast, of a surety, revives one's faith in the
stability of, at least, something. Not having received an invitation to sample any of these substantial private meals, the only
thing to be done is to enter a restaurant and pay for one's food.
If the stranger wishes to know and see the real Sofiotes at feeding
time the Hotel de Bulgarie and the Austrian and German
restaurants are not the best places to find them. By the real
Sofiotes, or rather the real Bulgarians, one means the extreme
patriots, who are for ever advertising their national and individual " simplicity," boorishness of manner, bluntness of speech,
and, above all, " honesty." But there has risen of late years
another class of Bulgarians, the parasites who hover about the
Court, who fawn upon the " Schwaba," 1 and whose chief aim and
object in life is to become as like the king as possible; rather a
difficult undertaking, seeing Ferdinand, the Fox, was yesterday
1 A name given by the Bulgarians to King Ferdinand. It is a name
much the same as " Boche '" or " Hun."
I




114


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


a Frenchman, is to-day a German, and will be to-morrow-who
knows what? So if the desire is felt to study the rank and file
of the population it is advisable to patronise a popular, or
" Tchorbadja," eating-house, such as this at the corner of the
Boulevard Dondukoff. Do not expect to find the tables
spread with stainless white cloths, and adorned with glittering
silver and fresh flowers. Do not hope to be enlivened by music,
or the cheery babble of tongues. Instead of frescoes, such as one
sees in the restaurants of Bucharest, there is here only an ugly
greenish-tinted mirror, about three feet high, running round the
four walls, and above it, facing the door, is a large oleograph of
King Ferdinand in military dress. Whilst searching for a seat
an indescribable and uncomfortable suspicion that one's room
would be preferable to one's company arises. Nor is the suspicion the result of imagination. In this land, so full of idiosyncrasies, all foreigners are more or less unwelcome, and the
inhabitants unconsciously and invariably adopt towards them an
air of half-amused, half-scornful curiosity combined with thinly
veiled depreciation. If they do not manifest actual contempt
they assuredly take care to display a disagreeable spirit of condescension. Only the Germans escape this national rudeness,
and some, though not all of this contempt, simply because, as
a writer has remarked, " The Bulgars will put up with anything,
pretend anything, endure anything, from sheer love of working
out for themselves the line of least resistance towards any goal
they have chosen and intend to keep for themselves." They
had, in the year of 1914, a national goal to reach, also a revenge
to carry through, and they were convinced that Germany would
stand their champion in the future and assist them in its achievement. Consequently, they treated the subjects of the Kaiser
Wilhelm with a certain amount of deference, if not cordiality.
Time flies, however, and so, to cease from digressions and find
a seat. The greater number are already occupied and many of
those still unappropriated have name-cards or half-empty bottles
of wine, or exclusive looking beer tankards planted defiantly
in front of them, indicating, presumably, that they are reserved.
Restaurant keepers here, as in other Continental cities, make a
considerable reduction in their prices and set apart special
places or tables for their regular clients, and woe betide any one
who trespasses upon these sacred preserves. The food served
in this, as in most of the Sofiote eating-houses, is apt to prove
alarming and discouraging to foreigners. Whereas the Roumanians are cooks par excellence the Bulgarians are hopelessly
the reverse, and the cuisine is merely a bad imitation of secondrate Teutonic cookery. Gourmets will certainly not discover
on this menu the hor8 d'aeuvres, salades, entrees, souffles and




IN THE NEAR EAST


116


delicate wines which are procurable from Bucharest restaurateurs.
For the equivalent of four francs huge chunks of greyish beef,
from which all nourishment and flavour has departed into the
soup, leathery paste dumplings, sprinkled with grated cheese,
greasy red-pepper and vinegar impregnated stews redolent of
garlic and onions, thick soup, the national " tchorba," preceded
by strange and sweet liqueurs, and washed down by quantities
of thin sour wine, or flat, native beer, or " prokesh," the lager
manufactured by the German brewers who have settled in the
country, and perhaps, but only perhaps, a glass of " Euxineograd "-the only palatable Bulgarian wine: these are the most
that can be expected, so instead of kicking against the pricks,
make the best of things and prepare to masticate the viands
provided. It is irritating to be compelled to eat these weird
dishes, in the order which Bulgarian taste-and no other-deems
most appetising. First a sweet, then meat, then soup, thenbut why continue?-enough to say that amongst this race it is
plainly the rule to put the cart before the horse. Each portion,
each piled plateful of food, looks as if it was intended for consumption by a large and voracious dog, rather than a human
being; and one can only marvel and be glad that in this degenerate
age there are yet existing digestions vigorous enough to cope with
such meals! Judging by the noises issuing from behind the
newspapers, which the customers have erected as screens between
themselves and the rest of the company, the comestibles are
evidently being hurtled the way they should go at a tremendous
pace and with the heartiest relish. As for the newspapers, where
else are there such voluminous journals? They consist of eight
or nine closely printed pages of literary matter-in Cyrillic
characters-from which all that is interesting and as much that
is true has been censored by the authorities, several crude
illustrations and vulgar caricatures. They cost three-halfpence
and are dear at the price. But these good people would never
dream of sitting down to a meal without purchasing one, if not
two copies.
When a customer arrives-speaking of the men, for the women
are conspicuous by their absence-he hangs up his hat on the
big, many-branched wooden hat-rack, near the entrance, generally
expectorates into one of the sawdust-filled spittoons which are
placed, at intervals, round the room, takes a prolonged stare at
his reflection in the mirror, and drops down with a grunt in the
direction of the waiter, who returns the grunt and brings whatever
is ordered, whilst the client unfurls his newspaper and disappears
from sight, if not from sound, until the time arrives for lighting
his cigarette and cleaning his teeth with one of the restaurant's
toothpicks. Then in a few moments he rises, extracts a pocket




116 OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES IN NEAR EAST


comb, composedly arranges his toilet before the glass, seizes his
hat and betakes himself off without so much as a friendly nod,
or a how-do-you-do for any one.
The reason why so few women frequent the public eatinghouses is probably due to the fact that the Bulgars have not as
yet wholly shaken off Turkish influence. In the average masculine Bulgarian's opinion the proper place for women is at home.
The Mussulmans get much abuse for their treatment of their
womenfolk, but at any rate when possible they present them
with lollipops, soft cushions, servants and compliments, whereas
the Bulgarians give them nothing save hard work, a narrow
education, and the assurance of their company when hungry,
sleepy, or sick. So the typical good woman of this land is still
expected to sit on a pedestal of home-made virtue, awaiting the
pleasure or displeasure of her lord and master.
By now the atmosphere is almost thick enough to cut with a
knife. In spite of the heat not a window is open-draughts in
Sofia being considered the cause of all disease-and every one
is smoking furiously. Through a curtained doorway a glimpse
can be had of the adjoining room where some of the customers
have begun a game of billiards. Billiards in Sofia are played by
the cannon game, but the luck supplied by the pockets is provided for by a number of little ninepins being placed in the centre
of the table, and he who hits down one of these ninepins scores
many points. The more ninepins brought low the greater one's
luck. Perchance the name skittles is more descriptive of the
Bulgarian game than billiards. At the next table a group of
elderly gentlemen have pushed back the cloth and are indulging
in a game of whist-card-playing, by the way, being the favourite
pastime with the Sofiotes. They all look grave as judges and one
would think that they had staked their entire fortunes on the
result. But gambling in real Bulgaria, as distinct from the
Palace circle, is regarded as scarcely less than a deadly sin, and
these worthy business men have no intention of risking a farthing.
Despite their black coats and silk hats and golden watch-chains,
they are peasants at heart, possessed of all the peasant instinct
for hoarding-for burying their treasure out of sight, for hiding
from one another the amount of their incomes. The acquisition
of riches-five hundred pounds per annum is here reckoned a
fortune - has not made them less suspicious, cautious, or
niggardly. In short, they have not the moral courage to play
for high stakes.




CHAPTER IX


MILITARY LIFE IN THE CAPITAL
OUT beyond the swing doors the glare has lost none of its
fierceness. The boulevards are practically deserted. Heavy
dinners such as these require to be slept off, and the citizens are
all dozing. Even the impish, red-fezzed, Turkish bootblacks,
and the strident voiced newsvendors have ceased from activity.
The blue pigeons that live in the nooks and crannies of the dome
of the " Buyuk Duamia " have stopped cooing and betaken themselves out of sight. Then suddenly, and with startling clearness,
through the drowsy quietness a long-drawn-out bugle-call sounds
from the neighbourhood of the cavalry barracks beyond in the
suburbs, and as if in answer to the summons half a dozen officers
emerge from a cafe across the way, and with much sword-clattering come down the street. They stride along in silence at a pace
which indicates that they purpose getting somewhere in a certain
time. They look like business, nor do their looks belie them,
for they are, with perchance the exception of the Prussians, the
most practical, hard-worked, and poorly paid members of the
military profession in Europe. Two of these squarely built,
sullen, stubborn-faced youths are clad in the dark blue uniform
of the artillery, another wears the black, handsomely epauletted,
frock-coat and black astrakhan kalpak, the regulation out-ofdoors dress for officers when off duty, and the remaining three
have on simple workaday white canvas, double-breasted tunics,
flat white linen caps-the Russian furazka-homespun cloth
breeches and heavy top-boots. They are returning to their
respective barracks for the three-hour afternoon drill. From
five o'clock every morning till seven-thirty every evening, with
an hour's interval for dinner and a few minutes' pause for coffee,
they are kept with their noses to the grindstone. The decorations on their tunics prove that they have seen service during
the recent campaigns. Yet are they not permitted to rest on
their laurels. Work in the Bulgarian army is carried on at high
pressure, efficiency alone counts and democratic principles hold
good. This is speaking generally; there is, however, an inner
military circle where neither efficiency nor democratic principles
117




118


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


are considered. To this inner circle are admitted the cadetsmost of them sons of "the Coburger's " special creatures, Court
parasites, paid assassinators and politicians-who in their
protector's opinion seem likely to develop into the arch scoundrels
so necessary to the attainment of his royal projects and ambitions.
From these favoured ones, of course, nothing is expected, except
progress in villainy. But their less fortunate and more honest
comrades are counselled to toil and pass any number of examinations, which are a sore trial to their somewhat slow brains.
What they lack in brilliancy must, therefore, perforce be made up
by plodding determination and grinding study. Sport, even if
they had the time to indulge in it, has for them no attraction.
They never play out-of-door games, as a rule they are poor
horsemen. Was there ever a Bulgar born who looked at home in
the saddle? They have no social talents, or, indeed, manners,
hardly one of them could be described as a gentleman in the
proper sense of the word. But, after all, perhaps, they are not
altogether to blame for their lack of culture. Their days are
spent amid coarse, rough, though wholesome surroundings. The
institution of the Mess is unknown. Married officers reside in
small, hired, wretchedly furnished houses, where their wives
do the cooking and look after the children, as a rule without any
outside help, and the bachelors pass a Spartan existence in the
cheapest lodgings procurable, purchase their own food, cook their
own morning coffee and meagre suppers over the stoves in their
bed-sitting-rooms, and take their midday meals at the restaurants
best suited to their means. There is, to be sure, a tolerably good
military club arranged after the model of the French cercle, but
it appears to be of little service towards making garrison life
more pleasant. Sometimes, but not often, a few kindred spirits
in a regiment meet at this club or at a cafe to play cards or
billiards, but somehow none of these Bulgarian officers, even
when yqung, manifest any very ardent desire to enjoy one
another's company. The friendship and affection so prevalent
amongst brother-officers in the British army is totally nonexistent. As for the entertainments to which they may be
invited these are few and far between. Military officers are not
idolised here as they are in Germany. Sofia, to repeat, is not a
sociable capital. Two reasons can be given for this: first, the
dearth of servants; and secondly, the dislike on the part of the
citizens to spend more money than they can help. Dinners are
almost tabooed. Sometimes, on " Name Days    1 and holidays,
1 " Name Days " are the Saints' Days of families or individuals, each
family and person having a special patron saint, by whose name as a
rule they are called.




IN THE NEAR EAST                       119
small and very stupid parties are given, at which conversationnever lively-private theatricals, and cards are the amusements,
and the refreshments, handed round once, and only once, during
the evening, consist of lemonade, sherbet, fruit, biscuits, coffee,
and, of course, the eternal " slatko," a mawkish sort of jam, tiny
platefuls of which are proffered the guests on arrival. At rare
intervals balls are held at the foreign legations, which festivities,
however, Sofiotes outside the Government do not patronise in
great force. Again, there are impromptu dances-" hops," as
the Americans call them-where the suppers leave much to be
desired, and the wines are most unlikely to excite the company,
which dresses according to taste, in national costume, in  confections " procured from the Boulevard Dondukoff, in tail-coats,
frock-coats, or even in " sporting " or " high life " suits such as
those already described. Once, or perhaps twice, a year, to each
of the barracks perfumed and silk be-crowned royal invitations
are despatched, commanding the officers of the garrison to attend
a Court ball at the Palace. These balls, by the by, are given with
an object. The "Coburger" is cunning, he has studied the
Bulgar character, and is wide awake to the fact that the " simplicity" and " honesty" of his subjects has gone bad, so to
speak, from overlong keeping. In short, the private qualities
of his subjects are no longer free from sophistry. He sees the
snobbery beneath this national pose and he knows that snobs
adore splendour. So he envelops himself in dazzling splendour,
dines off golden dishes, amid rare flowers, scents himself, till, as
gruff and vulgar old Stambuloff once expressed it, " he reeks like
a civet," wraps himself in " a royal robe of azure blue velvet
slashed with silver," 1 and encrusted with diamonds, employs
more flunkeys, supports more parasites and courtiers than any
of the really mighty monarchs of Christendom, pours out money
like water, observes a stricter etiquette even than did Le Roi
Soleil himself, and finds intense satisfaction in sending his
bourgeois people away, like the Queen of Sheba, dazzled and
awestruck. These Court balls give the toadies of Sofia a certain
fearful pleasure, and although they loudly protest against such
" wicked extravagance and luxury," and mutter dark threats
and hint at the curtailment of royal expenditure, they nevertheless grovel in heart before all this magnificence, and follow
sulkily-slaves to-day as they were yesterday-at the heel of
the bully who so thoroughly understands the art of mastering
bullies.
1 This is the costume worn by King Ferdinand every St. George's Day
(April 23), this being the fgte-day of the military order of bravery, of
which order the King has made himself the chief " brave."




120 OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES IN NEAR EAST


To return, however, to the Bulgar officers, these six who have
by now rounded the corner of the street and the rest of their
comrades in arms. No one can dispute that they have many
solid virtues. They rarely drink, they do not gamble or get into
debt, though this is as likely as not due to foresight on the part
of others beside themselves. They are healthy, frugal, moral,
hardworking, and level-headed to a degree. Yet one feels
instinctively that beneath all these excellent qualities, under the
veneer with which a certain amount of education and civilisation
has too rapidly covered them, lurks cruelty. It is not an
emotional sort of cruelty, but the calculating, brutal cruelty of
servility, the cruelty of a people who have never learnt the true
meaning of honour, who have never possessed an ideal. Ugly
stories are told of their barbarity during the recent wars. These
rumours may have lost nothing in the telling, but as the saying
goes, " it is not possible to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear."
The Bulgarian army, which is the Bulgarian nation, in all its
ranks, from generals down to privates, is an army of peasants,
not peasants such as the Serbs, for the latter are idealists, who,
through long centuries, fought for and at last won their national
liberty by their own unaided efforts in fair and honourable warfare. No, the peasants of this country have not yet passed
through the furnace of purification, they have not yet found their
ideal. They did not earn their freedom, it was given to them by
a Europe which could no longer tolerate, what they, the Bulgars,
made such a whine about, but from which they never attempted
to rid themselves-the Turkish domination. To-day the same
Europe is beginning to wonder with some nervousness, what use
will be made of this gift of national liberty. Assuredly, there is
no evidence to show that the Bulgars intend to do to others as
they would be done by. They have made a bad start. Ingratitude towards Russia, their chief liberator, treachery, hatred,
envy and malice towards their Allies, their every action, indeed,
since they ceased to yelp over Turkish "atrocities" proves
clearly that they have still much to learn and more to suffer
before they are fitted to take rank amongst the honourable and
trustworthy nations of the modern world.




CHAPTER X


THE COWARD TZAR'S TACTICS
IT is quite true, politics are the curse of Bulgaria. A political
microbe of the most virulent and infectious species is in this air,
else why did the sight of half a dozen Bulgar officers give the text
for such a wearisome dry-as-dust dissertation on matters that
are best left to pathologists, diplomats, and prime ministers?
To quote a pompous Manchester globe-trotter-not a merchantmet this morning, who is just now spending his holidays in
" doing " the Balkans: " Take them all in a lump, these rotten
little countries, and what are they? Nothing but a muddy
miserable duck-pond out of which the Kaiser, the Old Boy in
Vienna, and their commercial 'touts ' have been trying to catch
salmon, but from which they have only managed to hook out a
tinsel crown or two for their pauper princes and some orders for
their factories. Thank goodness, we Britishers don't need to
descend to this sort of sport, we have our Empire, and it is
strong enough for anything." But this globe-trotter had not
reckoned with a certain factor in the situation, which will yet
have a part to play in the future, a factor which suddenly makes
its appearance. A sharp rattle of musketry, hoarsely guttural
barks of command, a distant blare of music, the flag above the
Palace comes sliding down its pole, the stony-faced sentries
on guard before the royal gates stiffen automatically to the salute,
there is a sudden whirl and flash of blue and grey uniformed figures
mounted on restive Hungarian horses, and a great chocolatecoloured automobile sweeps out into the sun-lit square. Another
instant and through the yellow dust cloud comes a fleeting vision
of a sinister face. This vision shows a pair of piercing, yet shifty,
insolent black eyes, set closely into the pinched bridge of a large
pendulous nose which droops over and almost hides the thinlipped sensual and cruel mouth, closed like a trap upon pointed
rat teeth, an obstinate chin partially concealed by a well-trimmed
grey beard, which springs out at right angles from the face. What
is there in this countenance to cause people to shudder 2 It is
not exactly ugly, casual observers have sometimes even called
it handsome, nor is it quite repulsive, and yet, repulsive is the
121




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only word by which it can be described. When gazing into it
one feels convinced that there must be some truth in the idea
that the human body may become possessed by devils. Do not
the petty mean spirits of Ferdinand of Bulgaria's Teutonic
ancestors leer out through his eyes? Do not the devilish spirits
and the dark and evil souls of his other ancestors, chiefest of
whom was Philip Egalite, regicide, coward, and voluptuary, sneer
again in his cynical egotistical smile? Is it much wonder that
the Bulgarians cling so tenaciously to their ancient belief in the
Evil Eye, seeing they live under such a sinister influence? They
hate him, though he stuns and dazzles them, this King, born in
Germany, of the breed of Satan. They hate him as few but they
know how to hate, sullenly, revengefully, unalterably. "Away
with the Schwaba-he has betrayed us! Down with him-kill
him! " hissed and yelled the furious crowd which lately gathered
in this square to witness his return from that Balkan war, which
was to bring so much glory and benefit to the nation, but which
has been productive of nothing save defeat, disappointment, and
most bitter humiliation. The Bulgars feel like this. Then why,
ask some, have they not blown the upstart's brains out? Why have
they not exercised their national prerogative and murdered him,
as Stambuloff and many another of their best patriots have been
murdered? Why is Ferdinand the Fox still an encumbrance
to the earth? The answer is forthcoming. He is alive simply
because as murderer in chief he knows how to deal with murderers.
He is alive because his subjects are more afraid of him than he
is of them. He is still in the land of the living because he has
organised for his exclusive use and pays out of his own privy purse
the finest secret police service ever known, the members of which
zealously guard, not only their master, but also their master's
most favoured and flattered friends. His enemies, open and
secret, they are authorised to " remove " as they call it, when it
is deemed expedient. The Bulgars may be a slow-thinking, shortsighted folk, but they are not so dense or so blind that they cannot
perceive lurking behind "the Coburger" and his secret agents
another terrible force, pitted against which their much-vaunted
national and independent prowess would be as a blade of grass
before a hurricane. Perhaps they do not desire this power " in
shining armour " to withdraw its presence, for it may some day
render their country service. But whether they like it or not
they know quite well that the hated Schwaba is the Kaiser
Wilhelm's viceroy, his puppet, and so they dare not attempt to
free themselves. History is only repeating itself. Just as they
were once the abject slaves to the Turkish Sultans, so are they
slaves to-day to a German Emperor.
It is very rarely the Sofiotes get the chance of staring at their




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sovereign. A coward from birth, Ferdinand, since the day he
was howled at in the streets, has enshrouded himself in an
impenetrable veil of mystery. That the royal standard flies
over his palace is no guarantee that he is in residence. Like a
passe beauty he shuns the crude honest daylight, and every care
is taken that when possible his out-goings and in-comings occur
during the dark hours. Some say he is a haunted man, that
" The Dead Hand," which, preserved in a jar of spirits of wine,
stands on Madame Stambuloff's table in her little home, not
many streets removed from this square, beckons him night after
night and points to somewhere, to something still within the
keeping of the future. Many have it that in his ears ring always
the awful prophecy directed against himself: " Wherever you are,
the blood of Stambuloff will be with you. In your home, among
your family, in church, in office, the shadow of Stambuloff will
follow you and will leave you in the world never more." It
would, indeed, be strange if this potentate with the wicked face
were altogether indifferent to what this world and the next
might have in store for him, and one fully understands why,
despite the presence of police and soldiers, the chauffeur drives the
chocolate-coloured car along at a pace which risks every life to
ensure the safety of its corpulent owner.
Another eddy of whirling dust, one or two more guttural barks
of command, a gleam of drawn sabres, and the evil vision vanishes.
In five minutes the " Tzar of all the Bulgars," the " Strong Rock
in a Stormy Ocean," 2 the "War Lord of the Balkans," the
" Conqueror of the Bosphorus" (!) is well on his way to the fairy
suburban palace which he has built for himself at Vrana, on the
slopes of Mount Vitosch. When he arrives at that reposeful
and exquisite little " Paradise " he will, perchance, breathe more
freely, for behind almost every rosebush, and many roses bloom
1 In a small villa in Sofia the old widow of Stambuloff keeps her murdered husband's right hand in a glass bottle on her table. This hand she
declares " will never be buried until the man who gave the order to kill my
husband is revealed to the world, and I get my revenge." Mme. Stambuloff
has reason to know-she received the information from her dying husband's lips-that Ferdinand is the assassin who commanded his servants
to slay the Bulgarian Prime Minister. Whether or not Mme. Stambuloff
is correct in her assertion is a question best answered by King Ferdinand
himself. To quote his own words: " When I went to Bulgaria, I decided
that if there were to be assassinations I should be on the side of the
assassins." As the world knows, Ferdinand hated Stambuloff, although
he owed him everything, even his crown-perhaps he hated him for this
very reason, and so hating him, he did what his evil nature directed him
to do-got rid of him.
2 " I am the rock, against which the waves beat in vain; I am as the
oak in the forest."-Speech by King Ferdinand.




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OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


in the gardens of Vrana, are his chosen watch-dogs, and all who
venture within a mile of the grounds are called upon to produce
their credentials. Out there on the cool, green mountain side,
Ferdinand, the ambitious, can lay aside the trappings of royalty,
and play at being an honest farmer and philanthropist. Clad
in a tweed suit-presumably not fashioned after the styleless
"Sporting" and "High Life "-or in one of his many comic
opera, richly embroidered, fine linen and silken crimson sashed
" national " costumes, he saunters amongst his flowers, inspects
his white marble dairies, his stables, game farms, poultry runs,
his fat cattle, and his famous and varied golden cage imprisoned
birds. He interviews his man milliners, discusses the latest
perfumes, consults his chef, composes verses, plays the piano, does
a little sketching, and listens to his chief detective's report. There
are many nightingales in the shrubberies of Vrana, and on these
fragrant moonlit nights the air is so warm that one of his chiefest
royal pleasures is to lie stretched like a Roman Caesar at a feast,
a posy of white roses or carnations in his hand, upon a silken
divan, watching his " dear peasants" gambol-it is difficult to
imagine Bulgars gambolling-through their country dances, or
listening to them chanting their ancient folk-songs. Needless
to say these dances and songs are most artistically arranged and
prepared under the able supervision of the best Viennese music
and dancing masters-the good people in the neighbourhood of
Sofia having long since forgotten that there was ever such a thing as
horas to be danced and old melodies that could be chanted. It
goes without saying, too, that the Court circle loudly applauds
and vociferously enthuses, and the "dear peasants " are graciously
summoned to approach the cushioned divan and kiss the fat,
white, bejewelled hand of their patron, whereupon they are
promptly conducted beyond the gates, whilst their mighty Caesar
betakes himself to rest in his enormous azure and silver-spangled
bed, 'where he dreams. How truly wonderful, too, are these
dreams, how especially entrancing is the one in which he beholds
himself astride on a white horse-this horse episode does not
perhaps altogether please the royal visionary, seeing he greatly
fears horses and has many all too vivid recollections of slippery
saddles, hurried passages through mid air and painful arrivals
upon terra firma-riding at the head of a vast army into a white,
blue sea-engirt, minareted city, into a beautiful church called St.
Sophia, where a crown of dazzling brilliance is put upon his head
and a sceptre of uncontrolled power is placed in his hands and
the whole world. This fair dream has no end, although it has a
beginning, a beginning in Ronacher's Circus-a Vienna caf —
one winter day, in the year 1886, when, leaving a game of billiards
and a tankard of beer, the dreamer Ferdinand of Saxe-Coburg,




IN THE NEAR EAST


125


aged twenty-six, sub-lieutenant in the Austrian army, accepted
the offer, by every one else spurned, of the Bulgarian crown at
the hands of three travel-stained, surly, and hitherto rebuffed
Bulgar politicians. Gradually, very gradually, the dream then
began, and has grown in splendour; sometimes it may perchance
have lost its brilliancy, indeed once it actually faded into the dimness of the impossible, but months later it returned more dazzling,
more enrapturing, more intoxicating than ever. To pervert a good
saying-" To those who believe all things are possible," King
Ferdinand of Bulgaria is firmly convinced that he has been
chosen by the Almighty to replace the Cross on the summit of
St. Sophia: that he has been elected by Heaven to enter Constantinople as the victor of southern and south-eastern Europe:
that he has been born to perform his ablutions in the Bosphorus:
and time alone will tell whether or not his belief is true. Meanwhile
he dreams and waits, intrigues and lies, prepares and covers his
activities with a glittering cloak of frivolity and inconsequence.
Enough for the present of King Ferdinand and his dreams.
The afternoon is going by, the shops have re-opened and people
are reading the papers, drinking and eating round the green tables
on the pavements. This is the hout when the Sofiotes, having
well dined and dressed, are wont to take their walks abroad.
Crowds are strolling in the Alexander Park, adjoining the Palace,
and in the public gardens at the entrance to the city, in the latter
of which is a lake, any number of kiosks and a large beer-garden,
where a military band, on fine days, crashes out the most up-todate German music airs and Yankee " cake-walks." Seated on
the chairs and benches under the dusty acacia trees, Macedonian
nurses are tending their charges and old ladies are knitting as if
their lives depended on the number of stitches they put in before
supper-time. These Bulgars are so very, very industrious! Scores
of sallow, high cheek-boned, sturdy little girls and boys are playing
up and down the gravel paths. They all have the quite-too-goodto-be-wholesome look that one only expects to see in German
children, but considering that they have been reared on the milk
of Teutonic influence since birth it is only natural they should
show the result of their upbringing in their appearance. It is
not in these parks or gardens, however, that the rank and fashion
of Sofia take the air. At this hour the boulevard down which
King Ferdinand has just driven is the one and only place to be
seen if one wishes to preserve a reputation for smartness. Why
this choice of a promenade has been made is hard to say, for never
was there such a long, dusty, unbending, wind-swept, sun-scorched
highway. The correct thing to do is to follow one's nose and the
crowd, for over a couple of miles, until too tired to walk further,
and then turn right-about face and come back again, hot, weary




126


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foot-sore and ignorant as to why, for what reason, one has got
one's feet so blistered and one's temper so ruffled. Picture any
of the roads leading from Berlin into the flat country beyond,
and this fashionable promenade of Sofia can be imagined. Here
are the same respectable humdrum townspeople; here are the
same perambulators, the same go-carts, the same thoroughly
domesticated fathers of families, arm in arm with their stout,
loudly attired Lucretias, herding numerous olive branches. Here
are the same students, who have studied everything except how
to be gentlemen. Here also are scores of white-gloved, sabrerattling officers, in black, brown, grey, white ultra-smart uniforms,
only these Sofiote sons of Mars do not seem quite so sure of themselves as their Berlin confreres. The sidewalks are thronged, and
up and down the broad roadway go all sorts and descriptions of
vehicles. Lumbering, groaning arabas, now emptied of their
loads, jostle and threaten prehistoric phaetons drawn by three
or sometimes four horses-an unnecessary waste of labour, seeing
most of these outlandish conveyances are constructed of wicker,
and are so light and fragile that a single kick from any of the
horses would prove absolutely disastrous. Decrepit " victorias "
harnessed to oddly speckled brown and white ponies, with blue
beads dangling from their necks and splashes of henna on their
foreheads-the Evil Eye again-obstruct the inconsiderate
automobiles that hoot and scream derision, and otherwise make
themselves objectionable to every one and everything except
their occupiers.
Nobody-that is to say, no real, true Sofiote-can abide motors.
It is, perhaps, not so much the cars themselves they detest as the
individuals who ride in them. To possess a motor is to proclaim
oneself a personage of means and position, a Government or Court
servant, or a secret agent of one or other important and sometimes evil influences. Between the ordinary folk, who earn their
money professionally or commercially, and the public or royal
officials yawns a deep gulf of envy and suspicion. The average
man in the street regards every politician, minister, and Court
hireling as a cheat and a rogue. All are, nevertheless, keenly
ambitious to become rogues. When, for instance, a Sofiote boy
shows exceptional ability, then and there his parents decide to
use every effort towards getting him a job in the Government, or,
still better, about the Palace. It is of no consequence how petty
the post may be, to have a relative in the public or royal service
is everything. Naturally such good luck cannot fall to all,
hence the jealousy and dislike heaped upon those who prove
successful. It is safe to say that the majority of these automobiles
belong to politicians, secret service agents, and Court parasites.
The wages paid them may be trifling, but seeing they enjoy




IN THE NEAR EAST                       127
unlimited opportunities to augment their pay by methods never
inquired into, they can well afford luxuries.
King Ferdinand is a proverbial take-all and give nothing.
Even so one would fancy he might share with his subjects his
faultless taste in dress.  He has been the originator of
the picturesque uniforms of his army, why then does he not
set his fertile brain to work out schemes for the better clothing
of his people? His talent-rare in a Teuton-as a designer of
frocks has for some years stimulated the admiration of the
Parisian and Viennese couturieres. Does he not loll for hours,
in the salons and ateliers of the world's master dressmakers,
discussing the latest mysteries and whimsicalities of fashion?
Speaking on good authority the Sofiote gossips declare that before
their sovereign grew fat, and took to trimming and pruning his
beard in lieu of his figure, his corset bills were more formidable
than those of a professional beauty. The same little tattlers
assert, moreover, that he is invariably overtaken by nervous
prostration when brought into contact with an ugly or dowdily
clad female. If this latter report be correct then his Majesty
either shuts his eyes when he meets the Sofiote ladies, or his nerves
are chronically out of order, for, alas! the garments worn by the
gentler sex of his capital are atrocious beyond description, nor
are their wearers fair to look upon. Some wag has said that
"dress should, like a filet-de-boeuf, be neither overdone nor
underdone." It here errs in both particulars. The would-be
fashionable costumes, and head-dresses of these promenaders
make one think of so many bedraggled fowls or dejected gardens,
and one comprehends why Bulgaria's royal Don Juan selected
his hundred and-one Anne Simons 1 beyond his own frontiers.
As already said the Sofiote ladies of the Tschorbadja are undisputably plain. A few of the very young girls might perchance
be designated as comely. They belong to the solid, fleshy type;
most of them have glittering, rather obliquely set, sunken eyes,
quantities of glossy, coarse, brown or black hair, perfect teeth,
square, thick, low set figures and surprisingly small, if podgy, feet
and hands. But once over the border-line dividing extreme youth
from maturity-which is crossed in Bulgaria when a girl reaches
her nineteenth or twentieth birthday-they begin to show signs
of having tired of the struggle against their relentless foes, adipose
1 Anne Simon, a beautiful gipsy actress, was one of King Ferdinand's
mistresses and victims. When he wearied of her he threw her over with
great cruelty. Whereupon she followed him from Paris and Vienna to
Sofia, where, acting under orders from his royal master, Captain Boitscheff,
one of the Palace agents, arranged the murder of the unfortunate woman,
whose body was discovered in a shockingly mutilated condition in a low
quarter of Sofia.




128


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


tissue, wrinkles and a sallow complexion, and ere long they make
complete surrender. They discard their corsets, screw their
ample tresses into unbecoming knots, and relapse into loose
wrappers, felt slippers, and quite impossible out-door costumes.
In excuse, it may be said that even the most affluent women of
the Tschorbadja are overworked. When one has to light the
fires at cockcrow, cook three substantial meals per day, wash,
scrub, spin, mend, do the marketing, annihilate cheating tradespeople, patriotically swell the population by the production of a
healthy little Bulgar every twelve months or so, and above all,
show oneself on all occasions, and under all circumstances, agreeable and obedient to one's husband, not much time remains for
personal adornment. The husband rules supreme in the Bulgarian home, and he would be startled out of his Bulgar phlegm
should his wife appear before his presence looking pretty or chic.
Fear for her reason would undoubtedly be the only sensation
aroused.
Although the crowd consists chiefly of Tschorbadja Bulgars,
there are here also, as in the market-place, many representatives
of other nationalities; of these latter the Jews are the most interesting. In this country, as everywhere throughout central eastern
and southern Europe, there are multitudes of the bulbous-nosed,
pendulous-lipped, oily-skinned, Yiddish-speaking Hebrews, the
Jews best known to the world, and from whom the world has
obtained nearly all its ideas and prejudices with respect to the race.
But in addition to these, and indeed outnumbering them, there
are also, as in Bosnia and Serbia, another tribe of Israelites. This
tribe may be termed the Jewish aristocracy. It is not difficult to
distinguish them from the Bulgars, their racial kindred of the more
ordinary type and the other nationalities. To begin with, they
are well and tastily dressed, and added to this they are, generally
speaking, extremely handsome, especially the women. Slender
of build, oval faced, with small, clearly cut features, pale olive
complexions, and lustrous dark eyes, they might be mistaken for
Spaniards. Spain is, in fact, the country from whence they fled
to these parts of Europe between three and four hundred years
ago to escape the Inquisition; and Spanish, a quaint old-world
Spanish, is the language which they still speak. They are called
the Spaniole, and between them and the Poli, as their German,
Polish, Russian, Austrian and Hungarian, Yiddish-speaking, and
lower bred kinsfolk are named, there is little or no intercourse.
These Spanioles of Bulgaria are nearly all merchants, moneychangers and thriving shopkeepers. They have a talent-rare
in this land-for making life pleasant as well as profitable, they
cultivate the fine arts, reside in comfort in one of the best quarters
of the city, and are, in truth, as superior in every way to their




IN THE NEAR EAST


129


Christian neighbours as they are superior to their co-religionists,
the dirty, ignorant, and very poor Poli.
It would take from now till long after sunset, however, to
describe the various peoples and nations who are strolling up and
down this roadway or standing about in groups exchanging the
news of the day. The news of the day, by the by, is chiefly
confined to politics or the Court. Anyone may whisper anything
-taking, of course, the risk of being overheard by the secret Court
or Government watchers-of the King, his family, his courtiers,
the ministers, and public officials. Against the abuse of these the
worst said the better in the opinion of the Sofiotes. But it must
not be thought that they find the same pleasure in spreading
abroad gossip and scandal concerning their own domestic affairs.
One of the first things a stranger will notice is the absence of
what might be called ordinary social "chit-chat."  In the
caf6s, hotels, on the streets, scarcely a word is breathed regarding
the inner and family life of the people. This is largely due to the
fact previously mentioned, that Oriental sentiments and prejudices
have never been wholly eradicated, and the Bulgars still cling
to the idea that it is shameful to discuss publicly either their
home lives or their womenkind. Even the cold-blooded, calculating Sofiotes, however, have their hidden scandals, which no
amount of precaution or " whitewashing " can altogether conceal
or excuse.


K




CHAPTER XI


THE NIGHT SIDE OF SOFIA
THE hour of seven has chimed from the city clocks, and the
crowd has turned homewards. The atmosphere is still like that
of a fiery furnace; a breathless curtain of silence lies upon the great
plateau stretching between the blue sky overhead and the brown
purple earth beneath. All around the plain, the encircling mountains rear themselves aloft, and the white cloud veil has momentarily lifted, showing a glimpse of haughty, snow-crested summits,
rugged cliff sides, and deep purple ravines. The sun, a great
round red fire god, is dropping down into the west, leaving in its
track across the lapis ]azuli heavens a stream of ruddy gold.
Here and there, on the scorched level landscape, rolling out from
where one stands to the lower foothills are coppery, lavendertinted patches of newly upturned soil; here and there, long distances apart, are clumps of poplars, embracing tiny unseen villages
and little red-tiled churches, the steeples of which dart up whitely
against the dark foliage; here and there are bands of emerald green
maize and wheat, green speckled streaks of tobacco, big vineyards
and orchards. There is not a boundary or fence visible anywhere,
except where the roads run white and straight from hamlet to
hamlet. In this climate night settles down hastily. Another
hour and the scene will be flooded in a sea of rose golden glory,
which, fading as rapidly as it came, will give place to a strange
cold twilight that creeps from the plain up, up to the amethyst
and violet hills, touching them one by one with a deadening
chill. Then more swiftly than one can tell the gloomy and deadly
greyness will change and become blue, a silvery transparent blue,
and the blueness will deepen to violet, and the violet will grow to
sapphire, and the sky will seem to rise, expand, spring up as it
were higher and wider from one snow-capped peak to another,
and suddenly, from out the velvety darkness, the stars will flash
out white and glistening, and the nightingales in the groves will
wake to song. Trembling merry little breezes will frisk down
through the browning gorges and bustle through the poplar groves,
and the prudent Sofiote housewives will hurriedly make fast their
windows muttering: " The night airs are most dangerous."
130




OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES IN NEAR EAST 131


As one passes the public gardens on the fringe of the city, a
military band is just blaring out the last item of its afternoon
programme, and the strains of the National Bulgarian Anthem,
the "Shumna Maritza," strike furiously upon the ear. The
Sofiotes are extremely proud of their military bands and they like
them to make as much noise as possible. Tzigane music is not
over popular here. It is not uproaribus enough. As a gipsy once
pathetically remarked: "They only want noise, these Bulgars,
and we can give music." There are, of course, many gipsy
bands, but they are very inferior to those heard in Serbia, Hungary, and Roumania. The mercurial, impressionable Ishmaelites
play by inspiration, not to order. Given a congenial atmosphere
and a sympathetic, appreciative audience they can play like
seraphs. Treat them as the Bulgars treat them-dress them up
in outlandish fancy costumes, in tight-waisted scarlet and blue
tunics, ornamented with cheap tinsel, insist that they wash their
faces, compel them to follow a repertoire not of their own choosing,
and their genius vanishes. No-the Bulgars like their own music
best, that is to say, Bulgars think Bulgarian playing is superior
to any other, but curiously enough, they have a partiality for
the works of foreign composers. It is almost the only thing
foreign that they seem to tolerate. A glance at one of the programmes which are strewn about on the garden paths shows that
from 2.30 till 7 p.m. these crowds have been complacently listening to German waltzes, American " cake-walks," French marches,
selections from  the  " Runaway Girl,"  " Floradora," and
" Trovatore "; and lastly-will wonders never cease-" fantasy
founded on the famous English song,-' I've loved her ever
since she was a baby."' Yes-these cultured Sofiotes have
evidently " progressed " beyond the old-time horas and folksongs! The only Bulgarian melody on the programme is the
National Anthem! If all the Bulgarian compositions require as
much energy put into them as the "Shumna Maritza," it is not
surprising that the natives have adopted Wagner and the masters
of the German school. The perspiration is streaming down the
faces of the musicians and they have sought relief in loosening
their belts. Crash-bang-whack-bellow —clang-the bassoons
and trombones, the shrieking piccolos, the big and little drums,
the brazen cymbals, the enormous booming guitars-tambouratch
-are gradually working up to a thunderous, tremendous fortissimo,
and the air palpitates with martial ardour. Presumably the
Bulgars have obtained their taste of violent noises from the Turks,
who also delight in beating gigantic copper drums and metal
plates, and in leaping without rhyme or reason from one nerve
and ear shattering sensation to another. What do these bandsmen care for time or notes? All that is here needed or appreciated




132


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


are strong muscles and lusty lungs. More than two-thirds of
the players-most of them raw country conscripts-have never
seen or handled these instruments till they joined up a few months
ago-the Bulgarian army has no professional bandsmen. But,
they realise what is expected of them-noise; and they are doing
their duty with such terrific energy that nothing remains to
be done but to take refuge in instant flight before the oncoming
blast of the grand finale.
Where to spend the evening, that is the question? Supper in
Sofia, quaintly called dEjeuner, is the next consideration. The
restaurant patronised at midday does not attract. What about
a butterbrod and beer in an open-air garden cafe chantant, or
another solid repast in one of the fashionable and garish brasseries
on the Maria Luisa Ulitza or the Pirolska Ulitza? Or shallit be an
Oriental meal and Oriental dances and music in one of the popular
eastern eating-houses, in the vicinity of the old mosque? Decision
must be made quickly, for already half the population has supped.
All the public places of amusement have opened their doors an
hour ago, for Sofia being a notoriously moral capital, goes to bed
at ten o'clock. The garden cafe chantants in Sofia are not
tempting, they are too humdrum, and dully virtuous, also the
food and drink served in them, even the butterbrod slabs and
beer, is frequently stale and flat. As for the smart brasseries,
they are merely poor imitations of third-rate Berlin beer-houses,
and, to be frank, fleas are rather too much in evidence in the
Turkish quarter. Suddenly comes the recollection of an obscure,
queer little cafe in one of the narrow lanes leading from the new
to the old part of the city. The aroma and flavour of the coffee
drunk in it two years ago is recalled, and the problem is solved.
There are few places so interesting as these rare, and now fast
disappearing, nondescript semi-Mohammedan, semi-Christian
eating-houses. Exteriorly the one mentioned has nothing to
recommend it; the doorway, overshadowed by a heavy, wormeateni verandah, looks more like a dark cave-mouth leading to the
bowels of the earth than an entrance to a respectable restaurant.
Suspended from the verandah is a battered sign inscribed with
the proprietor's name, in Cyrillic, or as the word is here, Kyrilliza,
letters, and also a notice to the effect that wines, beer, coffee,
dinners and music are provided. This promises well, but the
fragrant smell of coffee which floats out through the doorway
promises still better, and turning in from the street and pushing
back a second door one finds oneself in a long low-ceilinged room
filling the whole length and width of the house. It is badly lighted,
except where at the far end some oil lamps swinging from the
rafters cast a ruddy glow on a richly carpeted dais, flanked on
one side by an upright piano and on the other by a few rusty


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IN THE NEAR EAST


133


music-stands. Hanging from the whitewashed walls are brilliant
rugs, shawls and scrolls emblazoned with strange golden devices.
Broad-carpeted divans, covered with many cushions and strips
of crimson cloth and beautiful embroidery, glow warm and colourful through the gloom. More cushions lie strewn under the dais
for the use of those who prefer to squat cross-legged in Oriental
manner. Two rows of dumpy wooden tables and dumpy rushcovered stools and a buffet with stacks of dishes, cups, and glasses
comprise the rest of the furniture. Seated on these stools and
squatting on the cushions are a number of men and not more than
three or four women whose nationalities are as dubious as their
morals. The company is variegated: it includes low-class Turks,
whose unshaven chins, ill-fitting voluminous sagging trousers
and discoloured jackets seem much the worse for their wear; not
a few big, bull-like Bulgar rustics and soldiers; some Greeks in
soiled white kilts, red velvet jackets and claret-hued blacktasselled fezes stuck on the back of their closely cropped heads;
black-kaftaned Armenians, a couple of Albanians and one or
two nondescript individuals, and a German Jew in ordinary dress.
The earthen floor is clean and freshly sanded, and though the
atmosphere is, to put it plainly, putrid, the only evil odours are
the reek of garlic and onions and the pungent smell of over-hot
humanity. On all sides rises the strange, sucking, gurgling,
gobbling noise of soup-imbibing and stew-eating. It is a noise
one soon grows accustomed to in these Balkan lands. Mingled
with this can be heard the soft hissing murmur of Slav and Turkish
and the guttural snapping of Bulgar voices. A boy in a blue
tunic and fez hurries by, carrying two mighty bowls of steaming
thick and very red tichorba, this and highly seasoned paprika,
stews, mutton hash, roast fowl, black and white bread spread
with salt, mustard and slices of cucumber or pumpkin, curds,
native wine, raki, beer, Greek cognac, tea served in tumblers with
slices of lemon, and sucked boiling through straw tubes, all sorts
of sweet sugar and nut sprinkled pastries and coffee are the
comestibles obtainable. In a small alcove opening out from one
side of the room a benevolent-faced, hoary-bearded old Turk
is preparing coffee over a charcoal-filled brazier. Judging by
his dress he must be a person of ample means, for he wears a winecoloured jacket with loose sleeves all covered with gold braid,
a green embroidered waistcoat, a blue and crimson silk sash,
pendulous fawn-coloured breeches, white stockings, red morocco
leather, curly toed slippers, a broad belt buckled over a brace of
silver-mounted pistols, a kara bitchak-black knife-also ornamented with silver and quite two feet long, a silver chain necklace,
to which is attached a tiny silver box, containing a verse of the
Koran-yet another specific against the Evil Eye-also a pair




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OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


of maasha, or small silver tongs, used to pick up embers from the
fire with which to light his pipe (the pipe itself is kept tucked
away amongst the folds of his ample trousers); and lastly,
a towering, multicoloured turban, wound round with a twist of
coral pink silk. In spite of all this magnificence his soul does not,
apparently, at present soar above his coffee-making. During
the day he has carefully roasted the beans and ground them fine
as flour in his little handmill. Now, on receipt of each order,
he measures out about a teaspoonful of this powder, adds to it
half the same quantity of sifted sugar and puts both coffee and
sugar into one of the many little brass pots ranged before him in
a semicircle on a bench. Then he pours on the mixture rather
less than a wineglassful of boiling water, drawn from a cauldron
kept ready on a second brazier, swiftly thrusts the coffee-pot
into the heart of the fire, waits till the contents begin to froth,
and, quick as lightning, just as boiling-point is reached, he whips
the vessel out of the coals and hands it to one of the attendants,
who springs with it to the customer, empties it into his, or her,
cup and grins-sure that his master's thick, dark, never too
strong, never too weak, and quite perfect beverage will meet
with approval. Racial animosities are not permitted, it seems,
to intrude upon the peace of this establishment. The coffeemaker and proprietor is a Turkish Mussulman and his chief waiter
is a mongrel Christian, a tub-figured, bald-as-a-coot-headed
individual, who speaks the fag-end of seven languages and volubly
curses in Turkish, Yiddish, Armenian, Slavonic and Greek the
half-score of urchins who are supposed to do his bidding. Lifting
a podgy finger this shining-headed, black-coated personage points
to a vacant place, and with an ingratiating smile on his fat lips,
a whisk of his napkin at a passing fly, inquires with much unction
what the foreign lady will be so good as to eat-calf flesh perchance, and of course soup, the soup for which their house enjoys
such fame.? Every one stares, but the stares are more kindly
than critical, and one does not experience the disagreeable sensation felt in the more moder restaurants of being unwelcome.
After all, the greater number of the customers are also aliens, which
probably accounts for their toleration. This old Turk, too,
cannot be a bigot, else he would not admit Christians to his cafe
on a Friday evening-the Moslem holy-night-nor would he allow
the consumption of pork on his premises, only against one thing
does he set his shrewd old face-see the notice on the wallnamely, the discussion of politics; and who can doubt his wisdom?
If a religious or political argument should start here amongst
such a motley crowd as this, there could be no telling how it
would end-more likely than not, in a miniature Balkan war.
Heads would surely be broken, noses would bleed, and the ever




IN  THE NEAR      EAST               135
watchful police descend upon the scene of action, the cafe would
forfeit its right to existence and King Ferdinand would once more
have occasion to remark: " National and religious effervescence
is always going on in my country."
Half an hour goes by and the fumes of tobacco-not Bulgarian,
but smuggled Serbian, than which there is none better-rise in
blue clouds to the raftered ceiling. The customers bring their
noses closer together in conversation across their glasses. The
fezzed and turbaned occupants of the cushions on the floor puff
and grunt over their hubble-bubbles, and the attendants run to
and fro replenishing coffee-cups and answering the calls for raki
and vino. There are, by the way, no licensing laws in Sofia: all
are at liberty to sell and consume as much spirituous liquor as
they wish; and yet, however apt the populace are to become
intoxicated with politics, they rarely lose their wits through
inebriation.
No announcement has been made as to the nature of the entertainment which is to be given. Not a sign of life has stirred in
the mysterious screened-off regions at the rear of the dais. All
at once, from between two of the heavy rugs draping the wall, a
monstrously stout lady-a Jewess, if noses are to be trustedwearing as little as possible in the way of a semi-transparent,
sequin-spangled, black gauze gown, and as much as possible in the
way of tawdry jewellery, powder and paint, precipitates herself
upon the platform and is immediately joined by a pale dissipated
young fellow in a black velveteen coat, striped cloth breeches
and a flaring silk kerchief knotted round his neck, who munches
a long tooth-pick with much nonchalance. A second time the
rugs are parted to allow of the entrance of a little white-haired,
purple-faced man in a rusty black evening suit, carrying a violin,
and a second enormous and tawny-haired female, clad in flowing
pink silk, with a gold necklace on her fat neck and any quantity
of rings on her pudgy and not over-clean hands.  With an
expansive smile, a kiss from her finger-tips for the audience, the
first comer, the lady in the gauze frock, beckons to the pallid
youth in the velveteen coat to come forward, waves the tawnyhaired pianist to the crazy piano stool, whispers a word to the
beetroot-complexioned violinist, and, throwing out her chest,
draws a breath and pauses, perhaps in expectation of some
encouragement. She waits, however, in vain. The turbaned
occupants of the cushions on the floor have, by now, smoked themselves into a temporary paradise and beyond intermittent grunts
through their hubble-bubbles, remain silent. The Bulgars shrug
their shoulders, bring their noses still closer together over their
coffee-cups and beer-tankards and continue conversing, whilst
a couple of Greeks give vent to their amusement in a burst of




136


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


hilarity as the lady with a wriggle and a shriek opens the song.
Of both singing and song the less said the better. For more than
ten minutes the purple-faced violinist rends the vitals of his
instrument, the pink-garbed pianist does her utmost to destroy
what life remains in the already feeble piano, whilst the lady in
the spangled gauze screams aloud, valiantly struggling to outshriek the bull-like roarings of her companion, the youth with the
tooth-pick. It is a typical Bulgarian love duet, and like all such
ditties of interminable length. Of course, it tells a story. Bulgar
songs invariably tell stories, few of them particularly edifying.
Here is the tale translated into cold practical English: "A
beautiful young man" falls in love with a fair damsel, who
promptly returns his passion. All goes smoothly, they make love,
they are betrothed, they marry, they devour the wedding feast,
the young man's parents recompense the young woman's parents
"in yellow gold," " a goodly sum," for the loss of the young
woman's services as field labourer; the young woman's parents
hand over her dowry and the bridal procession rides away to the
young man's parental zadruga. For some time complete happiness
reigns. The young woman proves her devotion to the young man,
her husband, by "toiling from sunrise to sunset in the fields,"
by "spinning the white wool and cooking savoury foods."
Meanwhile the young man goes amongst his companions in the
market-place and boasts of his wife's-the young woman'sbeauty. Suddenly-the tragedy is opened by a crash which
makes the piano reel on its worm-eaten legs. To his horror the
young man perceives that a fearful change has come over his
" fair dove," his " pure white swan." To be brief, he notices
that the young woman has lost her good looks, which, by the way,
is not to be wondered at, considering the strenuous life she leads!
"To all the winds of heaven " the young man gives forth his
anger and disappointment. "Tears roll down his cheeks," he
" can find no pleasure in wine," he " droops his head," and will
not speak to his parents or his friends. For long he " broods
upon his sorrow," he " laments his woes," and just as he is at his
worst his mother comes to him with the news that his once
" beautiful swan " has given birth, not to the expected son, but
to a daughter. This brings matters to a crisis. The young man
departs alone to the mountains and abuses high heaven for
sending him so hard a fate. Having so done he snatches his
trusty knife from his belt and whets it upon a stone. Then he
hastens home, and as he approaches the cottage he beholds the
young woman suckling the infant in the doorway. Being of a
forgiving and amiable disposition she greets him with a tender
smile and the inquiry: " My husband, why so sad? " With outstretched arms she seeks to embrace him, whereupon he sees that






IN THE NEAR EAST


137


her neck is " soft and white as foam," nevertheless "he answers
not a word," but thrusts the knife down through the soft smooth
whiteness of the young woman's bosom and " his hand is strong
as steel." No need to continue; the story ends here, though the
unfortunate heroine and the inconsiderate hero have still a great
deal to discourse about before the one dies and the other runs to
tell his mother.
As said, it is a typical Bulgarian love-song and it speaks for
itself. Who composed these ancient folk-songs no one can say,
and even what date ought to be assigned to them cannot well
be determined. They have come from the crude primitive
soul of the people. Generation after generation has sung them.
Cruel and brutal, they voiced the sentiments and actions of a
cruel and brutal nation. Had Mr. Gladstone possessed even a
slight knowledge of the Bulgarian literature; had he heard
chanted these Bulgar love and haiduk-brigand-songs; had
he known the heart and soul of the race who composed them, he
might perhaps have paused to consider whether by chance, with
regard to the " atrocities " against which he so wildly protested,
it was not a case of choosing between the pot-Turkey, and the
kettle-Bulgaria. He might have realised that if the Turks
betimes indulged in the pastime of killing Bulgars, the Bulgars
likewise, when occasion offered, found relaxation in butchering,
not only Turks, but also one another. If the sentiments and
deeds dilated upon in these Bulgar folk-songs are dark and
savage, so, too, is the surrounding scenery-gloomy forests,
bleak mountains, lonely plains, rushing torrents. There is in
them nothing gay, nothing bright, nothing to make one smile.
No applause is bestowed on either the " gem " or its interpreters,
and the quartette, headed by the lady in diaphanous raiment,
beat a hasty and crestfallen retreat amid clamorous demands
for more coffee and beer.
A short interval and once again the draperies are pulled aside,
and three beautiful Turkish girls glide into view. The curving
lines of their slender figures are revealed rather than hidden
beneath clinging rose satin tunics. Their breasts are supported
by broad, massive silver, coral-studded girdles. Their heavy
coils of night-black hair entwined with golden and silver coins
fall over their ears and are looped together below their chins.
Huge earrings, gold and coral beads, silver and coral bracelets
and anklets jangle and tinkle with their every movement. Their
small, high-arched feet and long rounded arms are bare save for
jewellery. Their hands are glittering with rings and their fingertips are stained with henna. To the accompaniment of an
unseen band of zithers, tambourines, Oriental bagpipes, hand
drums and a chorus of men's voices chanting in a minor key,




138


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


in high weird falsettos, they break into a gesture dance. To
and fro, each girl on her own square foot of carpet, from off which
she never stirs, at first constrainedly and slowly, they begin to
undulate their bodies in time to the thumping, strumming,
sobbing, tapping, clashing, droning, uncanny music. The dance
itself is absolutely silent, except for the jangle made by the
necklets and anklets of the dancers. Backwards and forwards,
waving their white supple arms, twisting their pointed fingers
and agile toes, heaving their firm round breasts, they coil and
serpentine themselves into every conceivable pose and contortion.
They are not really dancing, only swaying in the breeze of their
imaginations, bending like flowers in the summer's wind. So
indifferent to their surroundings do they appear that one might
fancy them sibyls visited by a god unknown. Their faces,
oval, peach complexioned, scarlet lipped, with black arched
eyebrows made blacker with kohl, are mask-like and expressionless. Their eyes are down dropped under their kohl-painted
lashes. The heat of the room is almost insupportable. Mingled
with the fumes of food, wine, coffee, and tobacco smoke comes
the overpouringly sweet perfume of rose essence. The senses
grow numb, intoxicated by the sensual atmosphere, the monotonous music, the subtle rhythmic movements of the dance.
Bang-the drum beats a sharp tattoo, the bagpipes shrill, the
tambourines ring, the chorus soars higher and louder, and with
a bound, the girls leap like cats into the air and drop down
again with a soft thud of unshod feet upon the crimson carpet
and fall to wriggling as if taken possession of by demons. The
mask of indifference is thrown aside, in the light of the lamps
their big, long, wicked, onyx black eyes blaze with mocking
laughter. Through their red pouting lips comes the gleam and
glint of dazzling teeth. Now furiously, passionately, now
languorously, voluptuously, now imperiously, now coquettishly,
they spring and gyrate, bend and rise, advance and retreat,
crooning all the while under their breath some incomprehensible,
half-spoken, half-sung melody. Their rosy draperies wind and
curl about their slim, strong limbs, their flexible hips shake,
their arms circle pearly white against the dark rich colouring
of the background. The rose fragrance steals across the fetid
air.- The silver mocking laughter in their eyes ripples aloud
from their mouths, their breasts swell and pant, as if about to
burst from all support and covering. Their glances seem to
touch one's person like a slow burning caress. Their warm,
passion-possessed bodies are brimful of the sap of life, they
have the compelling, irresistible, vivid, animal magnetism. Their
laughter-the laughter of a moment-trills out like bird-songs
on a spring morning in Eastern lands. They whirl, they wriggle




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139


like snakes, they stand suddenly upright, straight and stiff and
still as young poplars. They bound with discordant screams
back again to energy and movement. They love, they hate,
they repel, they fascinate, they irritate, they delight. Sometimes
their ardour is cold, refined, sometimes it is hot, fierce, cruel,
disgusting. So they dance, and as they dance they whisper to
themselves, over and over again, their tiny, murmuring, mysterious songs or incantations, and the wild, melancholy, tuneless,
unfamiliar music taps and taps, thrums and bleats, wails and
whines, shrieks and clashes, as if it would never cease, any more
than the primitive untamed, untamable human passions it
interprets will cease, so long as humanity and this wicked world
lasts.
Needless to remark, it is a dance as indecent, as full of sexual
suggestion as anything can be, but, like the turbaned personages
on the cushions, who are gazing spell-bound, having found something worth the abandonment of their hubble-bubble paradises,
one only desires that it should be continued indefinitely. At
last, however, all is over. The barbaric music ceases abruptly
on an ear-piercing, long-drawn-out note, the three vivid, graceful
figures, with an odd gurgling sort of sob or moan, collapse into
three little motionless silken heaps, and one suddenly becomes
conscious of surrounding realities.
The night is still young-so the bald-headed waiter, in his
Tower of Babel lingo, declares with an oily smile and the assurance
that the entertainment is not nearly ended and another entrancing
performance may shortly be expected. If there is no licensing
law in Sofia, there is certainly no law curtailing restaurant hours.
As to appetites of the customers, these also seem beyond control.
From the kitchen regions comes the hissing and spluttering of
frying fat, and many in the company are embarking upon their
second or third suppers, shouting between the mouthfuls for
further cups of coffee, boiling tea, tankards of beer, and glasses
of vino. It is well seen that the place is not patronised by the
Sofiotes proper, else it would not be worth the proprietor's
while to keep open till this hour, seeing that no Bulgarian, who
wishes to advance himself, could possibly afford to run the
gauntlet of prejudice by being seen about during the small
hours of the morning. Bed at ten o'clock, a feather bed with
monstrous pillows above and beneath, a worn-out wife who
probably snores, and as often as not two or three children and
an uneasy infant for company, all packed together in a stuffy,
hermetically sealed bedroom, this is the fate to which the average
Sofiote male of average and comfortable means must submit, if
he wishes-as all good Bulgarians do wish-to be considered
ultra-respectable and not like the other ungodly folk beyond




140 OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES IN NEAR EAST
the frontiers. But even sanctimonious, prosperous, moral and
ultra-respectable Sofia has its seamy side, the side met in this
shabby, cheery, mongrel pot-house, where the prodigals of half a
dozen nations and races foregather to sup on their husks, leaving
the irreproachably conducted to enjoy the sensible, wholesome
things which they, the black sheep, have forfeited. Yet one
leaves this haunt of the outcasts with a sigh, and not a little
sympathy. After all, there are still found some to agree with
Kipling's prodigal, that the husks eaten with the ne'er do weels
are often more appetising than the pies and puddings, the meats
and sweetmeats of the righteous, especially the Bulgarian
righteous.




CHAPTER XII


THE ROYAL PALACE
A BIG round silvery moon is sailing overhead in the sapphire,
star-gemmed sky, which runs like a twisted, spangled, luminous
ribbon between the high bracketed, and now black as ink, roofs
of the old houses overlooking the cobbled, narrow street. Not a
creature is about, not a sound is to be heard except an occasional
distant footfall or the yowling of the amorous cats prowling
aloft on the tiles. On either side of the tortuous roadway
yawn dark by-ways and sinister-looking entrances. A queer
sensation, partly fear, partly curiosity, comes over one, the why
and wherefore of which it is difficult to ascertain. Is not this
Sofia, where public and private morals are carefully supervised by
the largest and most adroit police force in the world,1 where human
life, ordinary human life, to be accurate, and property, is held
in more respect than in any other European capital? Are not
these houses and streets periodically and diligently searched
by the authorities and patrolled by gendarmes both by day and
night? Nevertheless the nervousness remains and indeed increases. It is not so much fear for one's own insignificant person
that is felt, but simply a vague, unreasoning, perhaps unreasonable, dread of something intangible, something unknown. Back
to memory flash the tales of the many assassinations which have
been perpetrated in this same well-ordered, over-policed city.
The fact that these assassinations were political does not detract
from their brutality and hideousness. It may be true; the
statistics, presumably correct, prove it true, that private individuals and their belongings are safeguarded in a remarkably
efficient way by the Bulgarian Government, but the knowledge
that one's person and purse are protected by men who when
they see fit, or rather, when theyreceive official orders, "remove,"
by methods of mediaeval barbarity, all and any who may either
inadvertently or by intent stand to obstruct royal or ministerial
plans, this knowledge is, to say the least of it, unpleasant.
1 Three years before the war, in 1911, investigation proved that the
police force in Sofia was the largest-taking into consideration the size
and population of the city-in the world.
141




142


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


The shadows are dark, and stand out in startling contrast
against the spectral brightness of the full glory of the moonshine.
Bathed in the clear, cold light the broad shining, deserted boulevards and avenues stretch their long arms far out into the
slumbering plain. In double rows far, far down each unbending
thoroughfare the electric lamps gleam in the deep velvety purple
night. The tall, lily flower minarets, the statues, the pallidfaced buildings, the domed churches that are so white by day
have now a bluish tinge. The dusty, sun-smitten acacia trees
fringing the pavements, revived by a heavy dew fall, are gently
rustling their pale, drooping fragrant blossoms in the small,
delicious breeze that comes fluttering in from the encircling
mountains, and the flower-beds in the Alexander Park, which
is adjacent to the Royal Palace, are sending out a faint, fresh,
sweet perfume of damp earth, heliotrope, stocks and roses.
Listen-the nightingales, the famous nightingales, who build their
nests and lay their eggs and give their concerts under the special
protection of " the Coburger," are singing. It would be pleasant
to stroll along the paths of the royal gardens, past the walls of
the white palace, to sit amongst the nightingale bushes, to breathe
the odour of the jasmine, but alas! the iron, crown-emblazoned
gates are closed and the sentries stand to bar the way, stiff and
immovable as stone monuments, and the moonbeams play upon
their fixed bayonets.
The inmates of the big, barrack-like residence are evidently
all abed, for not so much as a candle is glimmering in its many
eyes. What a host of parasites find accommodation within its
four square walls-Chancellors of Orders, Chiefs of the Secret
Cabinet, Military and Civil Secretaries, Grand Almoners, Court
Marshals, Major Domos, Directors of the Civil Lists, Masters
and Minor Masters of Ceremonies, Court Physicians, Gentlemen
of the Stables, Inspectors of Cavalry, Attaches to the King,
Attaches to the Queen, Ladies of the Robes, Ladies-in-waiting,
Gentlemeh-in-waiting, Court Painters and Poets, Gold Sticksin-waiting, Commandants of the Palaces, Valets, Maids-ofHonour, Wardrobe Men, Wardrobe Women, Keepers of the Silverware, Keepers of the Jewels, Cellarers, Coachmen, Grooms,
Mouth Cooks, Kitchen Employees, hosts of Chasseurs, Flunkies,
Chaffeurs, etc., etc. Never did monarch, since Louis XIV of
France, keep so many human creatures to do him pleasure and
service as Ferdinand the Upstart of Bulgaria. Probably it is
because he-Ferdinand-is an upstart that he strains every
nerve to excel in magnificence even his brother upstart and
beau ideal, the Kaiser of Germany. His first marriage cost his
subjects one hundred and twenty thousand pounds, the new
Cathedral he built cost them one million extra taxation. " What




IN THE NEAR EAST


143


of that," exclaimed " the Coburger," " money is to me so many
bagatelles! "  Fate played an ironic trick upon the niggardly
Bulgar folk when it gave them a king who plays pitch and toss
with millions, who has imported into their capital such swarms
of parasites: parasites whom their small municipalities must
feed and grovel before in the various villages their sovereign sees
fit to visit when he makes his royal excursions through his
dominions.  They grumble-of course they grumble-these
peasants whose average cost of living per head, per day, does
not exceed twopence, whose food during the greater part of the
year consists solely of black bread and garlic, and whose chief
aim and object is to reduce even this expenditure, and so have
the more gold to handle, gloat over, and bury in their earth holes.
Truth to tell it is the innate snobbishness of the Bulgarians
which has prevented them from doing more than grumble at
the extravagance of the Court. They, too, are upstarts, and
like their upstart king, they adore display and etiquette, behind
which the latter entrenches himself and his gilded tawdriness.
The moonlight is gleaming on the double glass windows of the
Tzar's private apartments. See, there is the corner balcony,
behind which is the steel-walled, azure and rose-du-Barry velvet
draped furnoir, where the Bulgarian overlord keeps his
treasures, his suits of chain armour, his curios, his stuffed trophies
of the chase, the " favourite " portrait of his poor, pretty, good,
timid little first Queen, whom he hated even before he married
and whom he soon " removed " by a slow and sure method, too
subtle and polite to be designated by the crude vulgar word
murder. Up in that room, when in residence in his capital,
the Satan of the Balkans sits to hear read the reports made by
his Beelzebubs.1 Within its armoured and velvet covered walls,
through its secretly locked spring doors, crested with the fleur-delis and the Bulgarian royal arms, practically all the devilish
plots and intrigues which have caused the name of this country
to stink in the nostrils of moder civilisation have been matured,
and privy orders have been issued for the assassination of the
most honourable of his ministers, single-hearted officers, patriotic
statesmen and many, many lesser folk who, because they were
just and true of heart, found it impossible to do the bidding or
bow with acquiescence to the will of their sovereign. It is said
that from this room, where Death takes his seat at every council,
there is a secret wire connecting it with a certain evil suburb
on the edge of the plain, called Netschuinar, where reside the
royally remunerated and employed band of skilled professional
1 This is the name given by the Bulgarians to King Ferdinand's agents,
spies, "creatures," and paid murderers.




144


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


" removers."  By means of this wire "the Coburger " can immediately get into communication and transact business with
his army of cut-throats. Look up, too, and around and notice
that from this corner balcony an expansive view of the entire
city is obtainable, and gazing from it the Balkan Satan can give
free rein to his faculty for dreaming. Many say he chose this
wing of the palace because of the view it afforded of a particularly
beautiful minaret, the contemplation of which, it is also said,
assists him in weaving his dreams. This minaret is very white
and very slender, it is in itself a fantasy in stone. Let any
dreamer close his, or her, eyes to the modern and western architecture by which it is surrounded, and replace it in fancy with
trefoil-shaped arches of red and pearly marble, with black-green
cypress groves and a hundred snowy domes. Then raise this
real minaret to the crest of an imagined hill, and set it down
beside a dream mosque, the largest and most beautiful that can
be conceived built of mother-of-pearl and fine, pure gold. Instead
of yonder brown and lavender Balkan plateau, picture the cobalt
waters of the Golden Horn and the magic, fairy city which, for
so many troubled, restless centuries the nations, emperors and
kings, the potentates and powers of Christendom have schemed
and hoped, warred and intrigued, yearned and failed, always
failed, to conquer. It is an easy dream to dream, but it has
brought many to disaster and by none has it been realised.
Like a mirage upon a sunlit, burning desert, Constantinople
still beckons, still fascinates, still seduces, still eludes and mocks.
An hour after midnight. The city clocks boom and buzz.
A hoarse shout, a bugle call, the stony-visaged sentries spring
to life, wheel round and march off to change guard. A dog
howls at the moon, and a huge policeman comes clanking down
the footway and stops to glare at the foreigner who is unconventional enough to be out and abroad at this ungodly hour.
He is plainly meditating arrest, his Bulgarian suspicions are
thoroughly aroused, he produces a pocket-book, indicates as the
place of interrogation a spot under a street lamp, demands to
see one's passport and puts a score of questions, including queries
as to one's age, the maiden name of one's mother, the occupation
of one's husband-nothing can persuade him that there is not
a husband in the case-one's reason for coming to Bulgaria, for
not being safely tucked up in bed, for being in this street at this
particular hour, and so on. His pen is the pen of a ready writer,
all and everything is inscribed in the voluminous notebook,
if he could discover a Cyrillic word or letters to express the
sneeze which, in the midst of this cross-examination, overtakes
the object of his attentions, it too would have been inscribed
in his archives. He covers pages, and finally, having nothing




IN THE NEAR EAST


145


more to write about, he grunts, glares at one even more ferociously,
and with his fat, white-gloved hand, points authoritatively across
the way in the direction of the Hotel Bulgaria-the address he
has been given. There is nothing for it but to obey order, and
beat a humiliating and hasty retreat towards the tall porticoes
of the refuge mentioned. Through the entrance door, across the
dimly lighted vestibule, down the corridor, the zealous arm of
the law pursues the cause of his uneasiness, and as he pursues he
grunts, clatters his heavy boots, rattles his enormously long
sabre, and awakens the night porter with a shock, who starts
up, rubbing his bleary eyes, at this apparition, so august, so aweinspiring. He, also, is forced to undergo a cross-examination,
ordered to bring forth the hotel visitors' book, and is again interrogated, with the result that the amiable official is assured, so
far as his suspicious nature will permit him to be assured, that
neither the Bulgarian King nor the Bulgarian State is in any
immediate peril. Nevertheless he remains convinced, and
expresses his conviction in the foulest of language, that foreign
women-especially the one before him-are-to put what he
thinks and says into polite words-entirely lacking in decency
and morality. But why worry or lose one's temper? Is not
this the country where every one makes a point of treading upon
every one else's pet corns? Is not this the land where almost
every hour brings its own insult and petty annoyance, where
even the most easy-going dispositions are apt to become bellicose,
unless the possessors of these easy-going dispositions are wise
enough to laugh away the irritations and impolitenesses, treating
them with the contempt which they deserve?   Through the
open window of the hotel bedroom the moonlight is falling in
silvery pools on the bare, polished floor, lighting up the tall,
white china stove, the table set round, German fashion, with
stiff-backed, red rep-upholstered chairs, the monster bed with
its all-engulfing eider-down quilt and pillows and the inevitable
cheap and gaudily framed portrait of King Ferdinand in full
military uniform hanging above it, flanked by pictures of his
dead and living Queens, and faced, on the opposite wall, by a
lithograph of the Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany. The bed is a
place of torture, smothering and slow torture, and the night
breeze floating in through the open window is fresh and fragrant.
Only at this hour during the hot Balkan summer does the atmosphere of Sofia feel pure and crisp, as if during the night it had
been disinfected of the smells and dust of the day. It is worth
losing a few hours' sleep to be able to watch the sun rising over
the great plain, to breathe the invigorating freshness of these
golden summer day-breaks. The moon is still sailing serenely,
but it has lost some of its whiteness and the stars are not so
L




146 OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES IN NEAR EAST


glistening as they were an hour ago. The sapphire blueness of
the sky has grown paler. The traditional cock crows and is
unanswered by his fellows. The birds in the public gardens
awaken, and all at once across the sea of roofs and domes and
beyond the minarets, beyond the wide dim plains and above
the encircling mountains a pink flush rises from the east. It
deepens to crimson and the song of the birds swells up and up.
Another and yet another shaft of burning crimson glory leaps
into the sky. The moon faints and fails in her way, the stars
one by one are out-dazzled and vanish. From the surrounding
chimneys curls of smoke are mounting, proclaiming the fact that
the poor, hardworked Sofiote housewives have already kindled
their fires and are making breakfast. Voices ring out from the
adjoining streets and the tremor of wakefulness is in the air.
Far away, but drawing nearer, can be heard the creaking and
whining of araba wheels, the lowing of oxen, and the cracking
of whips. The countryfolk of the villages on the brown and
lavender plain have long since been up and doing, and the roads
leading athwart the plateau will soon be thronged with carts
and beasts and people making for the early market. The vanguards of the various processions have by now started forth
on their daily pilgrimage. Another few minutes and the crimson
light in the east has changed to gold, and through the gold the
sun comes rushing up above the world and a new day is born.
The hotel staff, like the servants and courtiers of the Princess
who overslept herself for a hundred years, bound from their
slumbers, and, as if to make up for lost time, hurl themselves with
shouts, screams, and violent clatterings and batterings into their
various tasks and occupations. The feather bed has at least
this advantage: buried in its pillows it may be possible to escape
out of earshot of the hideous commotion.
Bulgarians never cease boasting of their energy, industry, and
thrift. Admirable qualities these and worthy of all praise, but
is it necessary that they should be advertised and accompanied
by so much noise, such nerve-upsetting commotion? The question is unanswered. The feathers surge up and choke, and
through the belated restless sleep which follows, the vision of
the King of the Evil Eye ceases not to haunt and torment.




CHAPTER XIII


A TYPICAL BULGAR VILLAGB
THE village of K — on the Thracian Plain. Within the
Valley of Roses lie the one-hundred-mile-wide Bulgarian rosefields. There are a hundred and seventy-two villages, all
exactly alike, in the Valley of Roses, besides two towns, Shipka
and Kazanlik, famous, both, for the battles which were fought
in their streets when Skobeleff's Russian army so gallantly
defeated the troops of the Sultan.
The red-tiled roofs of K — nestle under the foot of a big
mountain, the sister mountain to Mount Shipka, which rears its
mighty head five thousand feet into the blue sky. Gazing down
from these heights the world seems a very fair and happy place.
Turn southwards and see, far as eye can reach, the vast plain
stretching out into nothingness, dotted with red and white villages,
orchards, corn and tobacco fields, encircled by rose-forests whose
perfume on warm May days, such as this, is wafted even to the
topmost mountain crag. Then turn northwards and behold, far,
far beyond the ocean of rolling wooded hills, the grey, snow-clad
peaks, a silver streak of water-the Danube as it bends northeastwards by Rustchuk. Hidden amongst the green hillsides is
Trnovo, the ancient capital of the Bulgarian Tzars. Plevna, too,
is concealed between the billowing ranges, and also Gabrovo, on
the river Jantra, famous for its school, its three bridges and
Byzantine church. Eagles swoop and whirl across the frowning
brow of the Shipka, wheeling round the lonely obelisk and its
image in carved stone of their species.
The high-road running north and south passes near, but does
not touch, the cluster of wall-engirt homesteads which comprise
the village of K —. Broad, white, and dusty is this track,
which in times gone by was haunted by the terrible haidouts,
and the equally terrible cut-throat Bulgarian comitadjis, who,
wearing the Ottoman uniform and receiving Turkish pay, collected
the tithes, robbed, massacred, and tortured their fellow Bulgars,
not always by official order, and so helped to gain for their master,
the Sultan, the name of "the unspeakable Turk! " Along this
147




148


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


highway has passed, through many centuries, countless strange
tribes, peoples, and armies. It is an historic road, and because
history in these parts has always been inscribed in blood and tears,
the countryfolk take care to avoid the places where history has
been written, neither cottages nor churches, and only a few
wretched hans, overlook its straight, pitiless whiteness, for, as
the Bulgarian proverb says:  Only fools build houses on the
roadside."
To reach K —    one must follow a little rutty lane leading
off the main way. This lane runs between two rows of stiff, tall,
poplar trees, and in wet or snowy weather is so muddy as to be
nearly impassable, and seldom can any vehicle save an ox-drawn
araba negotiate its ruts, quagmires, and boulders. There is a
Bulgar saying which declares, " The slower you go the further
you'll get," and swift travelling on these roads means assuredly
a broken wheel or wheels. Even when within earshot of the
barking of its multitudinous dogs, or the voices of its inhabitants,
not a glimpse can be obtained of the settlement, owing to the thick
verdure of the fruit trees behind which the villagers secrete
themselves and their homesteads. Taking one of the grassy
footpaths through these orchards, in another moment or two, one
finds oneself suddenly in the centre of K, which is the hub
of the universe to most of the good people who are born and live
and die in it, sometimes without going further afield in their
existence than Shipka or Kazanlik. Some wiseacres assert
that the zadruga system is dying out in Bulgaria. But those
who say this cannot have been to the Valley of Roses, nor visited
K —, else they would know that nothing has changed, and
there is no reason to suppose that anything will change in this
sequestered spot. Roughly speaking, the inhabitants of this
hamlet are made up of half a dozen enormous families in all their
branches, that is to say, each family has three or four generations,
and every far-out, second or third cousin, removed heaven knows
how many times, dwelling, if not under the same roof, at any rate
within the communal stronghold, behind the wall, or paling,
which surrounds the homestead, common-yard, the out-houses,
barns, etc. Each of the half-dozen families in K-  possesses a
large cottage, where dwells the head of the clan, the grandparents
or great-grandparents, or great-great-grandparents and their more
immediate relatives, while in a group around this central homestead are the smaller huts or cottages, the kolobi of the sons,
grandsons, great-grandsons, cousins, and all the oddments of blood
connection to the third, fourth and actually, in one case, the fifth
generation.
There is at first sight not much difference between the Serbian
and Bulgarian houses or villages. Here, as in Serbia, the cottages




IN  THE NEAR      EAST               149
have whitewashed walls and are surmounted by the same sloping
red-tiled roofs. In the large and more progressive Bulgar villages
the whitewash covers stone and cement; here, in K, it
hides only hard-baked clay and cow-dung, mixed with chopped
osier wattles. Much patience is required to build these mud
dwellings. First, a number of supports-tree trunks-are set
up round the site chosen, then the cow-dung, clay, and wattles,
beaten into a stiff paste, are pressed into the spaces intervening
between the supports. The walls thus made are left to dry and
harden in the sun, after which they are whitened, and the clay
floors are beaten into the solidity of marble, though, to be sure,
the surface is singularly undulating in foundation. Exteriorly
they resemble odd-shaped beehives; their domed roofs have
such quaint top-knots and their eaves drop so far down over
the walls which stand flush on the ground and are never higher
that one story. They are like, yet, on closer inspection, curiously
unlike, the Serbian peasant houses. Maybe it is due to the fact
that the Bulgarian cottages have such microscopic windows,
some indeed no windows at all, that they seem as if they, or rather
the people in them, took not the slightest interest in the outside
world; and herein they differ from the Serbian homesteads, the
poorest and meanest of which invariably gives the impression
of being open and smiling, ready and anxious to receive any who
may choose to enter. Inhospitality is, indeed, the chief characteristic of all Bulgar houses, just as inhospitality is one of the
three principal characteristics of the Bulgars themselves. These
people have never abandoned the Oriental customs which they
learnt from the Turks, and they still, to some extent, incarcerate
their women within their domestic fortresses. The walls and
palings round their dwellings and their small windows are erected
and fashioned with a double purpose: first, to prevent the female
inmates roving abroad more than necessity requires; and second,
to keep out beasts of prey, both animal and human. It is, therefore, advisable to bear in mind whilst travelling in this country
that the inhabitants, if not desirous of receiving visits from their
own compatriots, are even more adverse to the presence of
foreigners.  To return, however, to K. Its half-dozen
zadrugas and its han stand on either side of a broad path or
lane, which is too short to be called a road, the fronts of the dwellings and not their gable ends-as in Serbia-opening on to the
pathway, at one end of which is the whitewashed church, the
village store, and the schools, whilst out beyond the orchards
lies the " Mera " or the common land, half-pasturage and halfwoodland, where the villagers graze their united flocks and have
the sanction of the Government to cut wood. The right to graze
and obtain timber from the " Mera" is only held by people




150


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


owning a house or property in the adjoining village, and outsiders
are not permitted to trespass on this communal property. Each
homestead is, as stated, ringed round by a high fence of baked
mud or plaited wattles. The family group of residences occupy
the centre of a walled-in courtyard, and close to the cottages are
wooden sheds, pig and sheep pens, hen-roosts, workshops, barns,
and so on. The soil of these courtyards is baked so hard in summer
that it cracks, and the malodorous surface dust, rising with every
breeze, blows through the doorways, covering everything with
fine whitish powder. This dust is bad, but not nearly so bad as
the mud into which it is converted in winter, when the best kept
yards become little better than lakes, and the sticky clay, mixed
with animal manure, is brought indoors in lumps on the sandalled
splay feet of all who come and go between the out-houses and the
cottages. In every court there are a few dwarfed trees, used as
shelters from the sun and as scratching posts by the cattle, and
except for these shrubs there is not a vestige of greenery within
the enclosed spaces, no sign of a garden. The vegetables are
grown in patches outside the enclosure. A few of the entrance
doors have vines trained over them, but this is the only attempt
at adornment. In a distant corner of the ground is the inevitable
duck-pond, where the babies, geese, and ducks waddle, roll, and
otherwise enjoy themselves-the babies after the silent, emotionless fashion of the Bulgar race, infantile as well as adult. There
is, of course, the public duck-pond which is situated near the
schools. It is fed from a mountain torrent. Occasionally it
is quite deep, and at other times merely a slimy, ill-smelling,
weed-grown, mosquito-infested morass. In this pond, so dearly
beloved by the pigs and infants, the hideous red and white eyed,
long-horned buffaloes, who ask nothing from anybody save a
good " blow-out " and a dip every little while, take their stand on
days when the lethargic flies make life intolerable, and here they
like to wallow up to their necks in the gurgling, squelching
horribleness. Not a good place this, one would think, for washing
the village linen, yet here the women contrive somehow to make
their clothes whiter than many moder laundries can do. Nowhen all is said that can be said K-  is not a pretty village,
though the scenery in which it is set is beautiful beyond description. There is about it a deliberate untidiness, which seems
to proclaim that the inhabitants have enough to do pursuing
serious and important duties without wasting time upon trifles
such as tend only to the pleasure and not to the sordid profit of
existence.
So much for the exterior of the houses. The next thing to be
done is to manufacture some pretext by which it will be possible
to enter the paternal central cottage of one of the zadrugaC.




IN  THE NEAR EAST                   151
The best way to gain admittance, if not a warm welcome, is to
suggest carrying through some business transaction with the
owner. Hint at the purchase of a pig, or some butter, or homespun, for, when it is a question of money, a Bulgar will open the
door even of his wife's bedroom, provided, of course, the price
is good and is paid promptly. Double the market price for a
web of hand-woven linen is now offered the " Chorbaji," which
word, when translated, means the " Maker of Soup," this being
the name given to the head man, or petty mayor of a village,
who is empowered by the combined tadrugas to rule and control
everything and everybody in the settlement. In another few
moments the bait is swallowed. The " Chorbaji," with a widening
of his mouth, which, possibly, is all he can do in the way of smiles,
beckons and leads the way into his stockade. He is a well-to-do
personage, despite his much-patched, ludicrously wide breechespoturi; his faded, crimson homespun cloth jacket-abba; and
his very greasy kalpak. Shabby or soiled clothing cannot be
taken to indicate that the wearers are poor hereabouts; nobody
is really poor in K -. There is, indeed, more money in solid
gold in each of these mud and wattle cottages than there is in
many apparently thriving and comfortable English or Scotch
farmsteads. Especially in the Valley of Roses are the peasants
prosperous, and if they choose to live as though they had not so
much as a couple of stotinki-something less than a farthing-to
jingle upon a tombstone, that is their look-out, and he will be in
truth a fool who listens to the ever doleful tale of poverty. These
tales are a speciality for foreign ears I To repeat, there is no
poverty in rural Bulgaria, and therefore no need for almsgiving.
Meanwhile the " Chorbaji " is waiting, and one must not keep
a gentleman waiting who can claim to have presided at the
christening feasts of a veritable host of great- and not a few greatgreat grandsons. Nevertheless, despite his responsibilities, the
"Soup Maker " does not appear any older than the ordinary wellreserved Britisher who boasts of being a mere grandfather I
Hs only signs of age are long white hair, a patriarchal white
beard, and an extremely rotund figure. On closer inspection,
his Tartar featured face is seen to be netted and lined with deep
wrinkles, which show in tiny, white streaks through the copper
hue of his skin, but he seems guaranteed to last for many another
year. As for his homestead, it can be taken as a typical example
of a prosperous Bulgarian peasant home. Against the outer wall
and close to the entrance are two large ovens, heated by wood
burned beneath them. One of these is used for baking the
family bread, the other for boiling the prune jam ---latkodeprived of which latter, meals would be like the apples of
Sodom to the Bulgars. Above and around the low doorway are




152


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


suspended strings upon strings of bright, scarlet paprika, or redpepper pods, the favourite flavouring with Balkan cooks.
" Beware of the Dog" ought certainly to be inscribed upon all
dwellings in this country, for no sooner has a stranger crossed a
threshold than a fearsome and monstrous yellow, white-spotted,
and shaggy-haired specimen of the canine tribe precipitates itself
upon one's person, and, if not called to order, generally manages
to make himself the possessor of a portion of one's dress and person
in shorter time than it takes to think of the Bulgarian words for
" good dog," " nice dog," etc. Beyond the fearsome beast which
guards this establishment, and which, with a brutal kick of his
sandalled foot, the " Chorbaji " sends slinking and snarling halfway across the yard and out of biting distance, is the common
kitchen and living-room. It is an immense place, and is at
present unoccupied except for two elderly women who are bending
over the stove-a couple of toothless, hairless, old, old crones, who,
if it were humanly possible, one would believe belonged to a
generation older than the " Chorbaji," and half a dozen crawling,
sprawling infants of the " in arms " age. The remainder of the
family, both those who inhabit this, the central, or paternal,
cottage, and the adjoining kolibi, are out working, for the rose
harvest is at its height and every available hand is required to
gather the swiftly blossoming, swiftly dropping, and most precious
petals. The middle-aged females beside the stove scarcely vouchsafe a glance, and, to an amiable " Good day! How do you do? "
the toothless and hairless ones merely mumble " Spoliate ""Well enough-but might be better," accompanying their
reluctant replies with peering, furtive stares at one's face and
clothes. There is plainly not much chance of enticing them into
conversation, so it only remains to see all that is to be seen and
abandon the old ladies to their meditations.
Opening out of this kitchen are two other rooms: namely, the
store-room, where the foodstuffs, wine, family linen, and woollen
materials are kept; and the family sleeping apartment, where
repose the members of the household of both sexes, or as many of
them as can squeeze into the one immense communal bed or
find space to lie down on floor rugs, which, by day, are rolled up
and put on one side. Needless to remark, even this gigantic
bedroom has its limitations, and the human overflow is, consequently, forced to find accommodation in the store-room and
the kitchen, in the vicinity of the stove and on the benches. The
floors of all the rooms are black and shining, polished and scoured
and stamped to extraordinary firmness, if not evenness. This
cleanliness is more or less due to the absence of tables, which, in
this country, are scarcely known. A family may, perchance, if
exceptionally wealthy, possess a table, but the best Bulgar tables




IN  THE NEAR EAST                   153
are raised only a few inches from the ground, and the majority
of peasant households are content to eat off low wooden trays
or stools, and even these are regarded as luxuries to be set apart
for the old people, or for the few and far between visitors, the
lesser folk being accustomed to eat round a cloth laid on the floor.
The furniture, like the tables, in this, as in most Bulgarian
cottages, is difficult to find. A narrow bench runs along one side
of the wall, and there is a huge walnut-wood chest in which the
carpets, best rugs, the silver ornaments of the women, the homespuns, embroideries, and gala costumes are locked away. Instead
of chairs are stacked up piles of gaily coloured cushions, but
however reposeful they may appear, if sat upon, eventually and
assuredly they will prove the cause of much unpleasantness by
reason of the fleas that have their habitation therein. If the
furniture is conspicuous by its absence there is no dearth of shelves.
On two rows of these stand the crockery, the blue, red, and white
bowls, the earthenware pots and pitchers, the burnished copper
cooking-pans. The baked-mud stove, shaped like a huge beehive,
is fed from the hearth in the centre of the wall separating the
living-room from the bedroom, and by this arrangement both
apartments are heated. A divan, covered with many cushions,
is placed near the stove, and from this place of vantage the old
crones are stealthily staring one out of countenance, as if they had
never before-in all probability they never have-beheld such a
thing as a foreigner. As for pictures, there are only two-an
appallingly grotesque portrait of the never-to-be-got-rid-of
German Kaiser, and the other, a faded, but once flamboyant,
picture of the gallant Prince Alexander, the ruler whom these
Bulgars, despite the fact that he had consolidated their nation,
defended their country against external foes, and helped to secure
its prestige and liberty, turned upon, intrigued against, and so
abused him, that in despair he shook the dust of the then Bulgaria
Principality from his feet and left it and them to their fate;
in other words, to their present King Ferdinand, of the Evil Eye.
But it is quite in keeping with the nature of this curious people
that they should now preserve Alexander's portrait, bemoan
and bewail his death, extol his every action and moan: " God
dealt cruelly by us, in removing from our midst our brave,
our handsome, our noble Prince, and left us  " But the secret
police do not permit the lamentations to proceed further, for the
King of the Evil Eye is a very jealous demi-god, and will have no
other demi-gods beside himself.
These two portraits are the only wall ornaments-no Holy
Eikon, no crucifix, no religious picture or emblem, such as is
found in every Serb and Roumanian home. But then, with the
latter peoples religion is a part of their everyday existence. They




154


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


love, worship, and admire both with their hearts and lips the Christ
and the Blessed Saints, as they love and admire everything that
is beautiful and worthy of love and veneration. When the Serbs
and Roumanians light their little lamps under their holy pictures,
they do so out of pure, unquestioning affection. To them the
Christ and His Saints are living and indisputable facts. Not so
with these "more enlightened" Bulgarians. Their religion is
formal, a religion of feast and fast keeping, and if the truth were
but known, a fearful respect for the devil and evil spirits, takes
the place of love and adoration of the, for them, too gentle and
lovable Christ. Therefore, they seldom display holy pictures in
their cottages, or erect crosses or shrines by their roadsides, and
the majority of them are content to leave their churches, those
outside Sofia, at any rate, bare and ugly. The Serbs and
Roumanians, as has been said, adore the beautiful; the Bulgars
adore nothing, but dread the horrible, and this is the religious
difference between the several peoples. Of course, the Bulgarians
claim to be good Christians. At Christmas and Easter and on the
other great Church festivals they make confession. They are
particular, also, to observe the numerous and strict fasts of the
Orthodox Greek Church, and promptly make up for their abstinence by indulging in tremendous and stupefying gorges. They
pay the fees due to their popes for baptisms, marriages, and
funerals. They cherish most bitter hatred towards their racial
and individual enemies and towards every one not of their creed;
and they are invariably ready and willing to argue for the rightsthe tangible and material rights-of their national faith. But
they are somewhat confused in their ideas concerning the future
of the soul after death. In a vague sort of way they believe, or
rather they do not dispute the fact, that there is a Heaven and a
Hell, also, some kind of half-way place between for the reception
of the mediocre. They are, however, so concerned with the present
that they let the future take its chance, though many of them
rofess to be able to tell from the appearance of a corpse, which
has been in the grave for three years (not more and not less),
how the departed spirit is faring. For this reason they have in
some districts the objectionable custom of disinterring the dead
and exposing them, even when in a frightful state of decomposition, to the public gaze, much in the same way as children do,
who, having buried their dolls in the garden, dig them up again
just " to see what has happened! "
Meanwhile, to return to the kitchen. In a distant corner are
some long, queerly shaped wooden receptacles, not unlike pigtroughs. In one of these, a new-bor baby is sleeping, rolled in a
gaily embroidered flannel shawl. Its little face glows like a pink
flower from the depths of the tekneh, for this is the name given




IN THE NEAR EAST


155


to these receptacles, which are made to serve a treble purpose,
being sometimes used as cradles, sometimes as baking-troughs,
and on other occasions as store-places for the family clothing.
Though comparatively clean the room is filled with an acrid
smoke. The air, what there is of it, is sickeningly close and
heavy, for the weather is hot, scorchingly hot, as it always is
during a Balkan midsummer, and the one small window is
hermetically closed. Not a breeze is stirring, and the atmosphere,
for a hundred miles around, is redolent with the perfume of roses.
Out of doors, the fragrance is delightful, but here, in this fusty,
smoky room, it makes one giddy. It is as if the odour of all the
roses in creation had been thrust and held under one's nostrils.
And indeed imagination is this time not so far removed from fact.
For see, over there through the half-open bedroom door, those
four big bundles of multicoloured woollen rags. Each of these
weird, mummy-like bundles, if their many wrappings were
unwound, would reveal a tiny, oblong, narrow-necked, earthenware jar, or bottle, a few inches in length. These small sealed
tubes contain a few drops of the most precious, most jealously
hoarded family possession, the most precious thing in the valley,
and one of the rarest and most costly things in the world-pure
atdr of roses. When it is remembered that a single adulterated
drop of this essence is sufficient to perfume from end to end one
of the great shops of the Rue de la Paix, or Bond Street, it is
not to be wondered at if a score or so of unadulterated drops
emit a perfume which, though indescribably sweet, is decidedly
overpowering. Were the scent of the rose essence not combined
with other smells as disgusting as the former is fragrant, one
might be able better to endure the result. One of the malodours,
which mingle with the perfume, rises with the smoke from the
stove in which burns a fire of faggots and cow-dung, whilst the
other comes wafting in through a hole situated half-way up one
of the walls of the room. To economise warmth, of which the
Bulgars never have too much, it is usual to leave a hole such as
this-it is about the size of a man's head-open in the partition
between the dwelling-house and the stable, thus enabling the
heat, generated by the cattle, to add to the warmth and also, be
it remarked, the evil smell and stuffiness of the house.
Seen like witches through the smoke wreaths, the two elderly
females already mentioned are stirring a couple of huge copper
pots filled with a thick, grey broth, a broth for which the Bulgars
have a special weakness, made from millet and water, chunks
of bullock's liver, onions, garlic, and other vegetables. Over the
embers, scattered on the hearth, some flat cakes are in baking.
Could any but a Bulgar stomach tolerate cakes baked on cowdung? Now that the subject of eating is mentioned, it may be




166


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


said that however coarse and repulsive the food of the average
Bulgarian peasants may seem to be when cooked, it is at least
plentiful and nourishing. But it is seldom, save on religious
festivals, that they permit themselves to enjoy the good things
which Nature so amply provides! Now and then one may chance
to come across countryfolk who live well; who are not too niggardly to feed themselves in accordance with their means and
opportunities; who are not satisfied to sit down three times a
day, week in week out, to boiled maize, flavoured with paprika,
garlic, and a little grease. More than two-thirds, however, of
the populace are so mean that they stint their stomachs to put
more gold into their pockets, or rather into their family money
pits. They have land, plenty of it, land and gold; and, of course,
politics are the ruling passion. Roughly speaking, each peasant,
each grown man, is possessed of five or six hectares-that is, from
twelve to fifteen acres-of soil, so rich that it requires no manure
and will grow almost anything without much trouble or cost
on the part of its owner. Think for a moment of what these
Bulgar farmers have growing beside their thresholds, to be had
almost for the taking-potatoes, carrots, cauliflowers, cabbages,
turnips, monster gourds, egg-plants, melons, red peppers,
wheat, barley, maize, rice; and in certain districts, tobacco,
plums, prunes, peaches, grapes, pears, cherries, apples, quinces,
mulberries, tomatoes, figs. In live stock they also possess
sheep, pigs, goats, oxen, geese, turkeys, fowls, ducks, hares, and
quantities of other kinds of game. They have all this, and yet
most of them have not the heart-for they of a certainty do not
lack the appetite-to feed on anything better than maize, porridge,
millet broth, tchorba (an extremely filling sort of soup made
principally of liquefied fat), paprika, garlic, onions, black bread,
and yoghourt (sour curds), with water as a beverage, or, on rare
occasions, a little thin, sour wine. Only on feast days is this
meagre fare exchanged for food more appetising, and then, as
but natural, the misers overeat themselves to such an extent
as to give rise to the national saying: " Fasts go before feasts,
and feasts before full and sore bellies! " Sometimes one feels
inclined to wonder why and for what purpose the Bulgars scrape
and stint and save. As already mentioned, they are not, by any
means, convinced as to the existence of another world, and are
only sure of the present-the material present-nor have they
any very deep affection for one another. It cannot be that they
hoard for their children, for parents actually seem to grudge what
they are obliged to spend on their offspring. They are egoists,
pure and simple, and, even when old, with the proverbial leg,
and indeed half its fellow, already in the grave, they still hug
their individual interests and their gold, counting and recounting






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157


their every stotinki. They still haggle over bargains, still subsist
on maize porridge, and wait, evening after evening, to reckon up
the proceeds of the day's market, to which every morsel of farm
produce is sent to be converted into hard cash. But after all,
why wonder? These people lead the life they like to live, and,
when all is said and done, is not this the aim and object of the vast
majority of human creatures?
The " Chorbaji " is willing, if not eager, to open the door of
his homestead-for a consideration-but entertainment or
hospitality must not be expected. For this, one must apply
later at the han, which stands on the opposite side of the lane-way
intersecting the settlement. Little by little the old fellow proffers
some information as to the habits and interests of his family.
He has more blood relatives, he declares, with pride, than any of
the villagers, and all of these, with the exception of the babies
and the children under twelve years of age, who are still undergoing compulsory education in the State school, are strong and
able for work, which means that they are capable of bringing in
grist to the communal mill. One thing is clear, if the Sofiotes
put money in the German trader's pockets, the Bulgar peasants
assuredly put little or nothing into any pockets but their own.
It is safe to say that there is absolutely nothing, from the hairpins of the women up to the copper pans and earthenware pots
on the shelves, which is not home-made. From long before
sunrise till late in the evening, year in year out, the entire community, men, women and children, are busy in the fields, sowing,
tilling, and tending and gathering their vegetables, their corn
and their tobacco; toiling in their vineyards and orchards;
herding their flocks; seeing to their dairies; spinning and weaving
their linen and wool; cutting out and fashioning their garments;
embroidering; making their sandals and sheepskin coats, their
pottery, their wine, their bread; conveying their produce and
merchandise to market; and, as now, working in the rose-fields,
from the cultivation of which they gain the greater part of their
wealth. By and by one manages to extract the information
that each male member of the household has, moreover,^his own
special trade, or profession, which he practises for the benefit of
the community and sometimes outsiders and foreigners. Two
of the " Chorbaji's " sons, for example, are gardeners,l members of
the Association of Gardeners, and go every year, with a troop
of their compatriots, to Bucharest, where they tend the flowers
in the public parks. Another son is a carpenter, he also belongs
to the Association of Carpenters, and, at certain times, emigrates
1 The Bulgars are the most skilful gardeners in south-eastern Europe,
and find employment in lands beyond the frontier of their own country.




158


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


to the cities, where he finds well-paid employment. Of the
grandsons, one is a tanner and dresses the hides; a second is a
tailor and sews the sheepskin coats; a third is a bricklayer; a
fourth is a shoemaker, and to him falls the lot of making the family
sandals; a fifth-the cleverest, says his grandfather-is in Sofia,
"learning to become a politician and a Minister"; and lastly,
the sixth is a consecrated pope, who resides at home and saves the
family much money in the way of baptismal, marriage, and funeral
fees, and earns, between whiles, a not to be despised income, by
caring for the souls of the other inhabitants of K   - and conducting the services in the village church. Judging by what his
grandparent says, this last-mentioned individual must, indeed,
be a very fine person, and hope is held out that he may presently
deign to appear upon the scene, though at present he is occupied
picking the rose petals. Seeing that he has a beard long and
silky, a figure tall and stout, and a voice most sonorous and loud
in the chant, it may be as well to explain that he is almost sure to
find favour and fortune as a pope in Bulgaria, these attributes
being more admired and sought after than many virtues.
The atmosphere of the place is not conducive to either pleasure
or health, and is rapidly growing worse. There is nothing more
to be seen of interest, except the out-houses, which are much the
same as other out-houses, moreover the " Chorbaji " is obviously
growing suspicious that he may be asked to dispense an invitation
to the approaching mid-day meal. It is time, therefore, to move
on. Before departure an extravagant sum is demanded, and
is perforce paid, for a microscopic piece of embroidery, farewell
is taken of the ancient dames, and, passing out into the yard and
the white, glaring sunshine, one is again confronted by the yellow,
shaggy dog, who considers it incumbent upon him to charge once
more open-mouthed upon the intruder. But another equally
efficacious kick relegates him to his proper place and the way is
clear. Reassured that nothing will be required of him, the
" Chorbaji " throws out a hint at parting that after, not before,
supper, he and his family will be at home and he would have no
objection to receiving a second visit, and no doubt drive another
bargain, to the benefit of himself and the discomfiture of his
visitor.
Out into the road then, and not too soon, for it is only with the
first breath of air, fresh and sweet, if hot, that one realises how
deadly sick it is possible to become from the combined odours
of rose essence, smouldering cow-dung, Bulgar soup, and pigsty!
It takes only a few moments to reach the han, and surely never
was there inn so outwardly unprepossessing! Like all Bulgar
hans it runs round three sides of a large quadrangular space
and it is comprised of a combined series of one-storied, wooden




IN THE NEAR EAST


159


buildings, hovels, or huts, in which beasts and humans are lodged
hugger-mugger, with only a thin wall of baked clay and wattles
to separate them. A sort of outer and roofed gallery, raised
about half a foot from the ground, encircles the entire block of
buildings, and from it each room can be reached by a separate door.
This, by the way, is a matter for thankfulness; as there are no
interior passages in the han, and every apartment opens directly
into those adjoining it, there would otherwise be the danger of
having one's slumbers disturbed by the passage through the
bedroom of a belated ox, buffalo, or horse en route for its allotted
place of repose. A room means a room and nothing morespeaking generally-in Bulgarian country inns. That is to say,
there is a floor and four walls, but not so much as a suggestion
of furniture, not even a rug, a cushion, or a basin. People are
expected either to make the best of the bare, uncleanly boards,
or to provide their own bedding, As for washing, han keepers
never wash, why then should others wish to do so? As for a
dining-room, there is none, meals are taken on the verandah in
company with a grunting, gobbling, chuckling assemblage of
pigs, geese, turkeys, fowls, and anything else in the way of live
stock that elects to join the party.
Entrance to the courtyard of this inn of K- is made through
a dilapidated old gateway overgrown with vines and surmounted
by a small room, a kind of watchtower. Passing under this archway one sees on the right the public cafe or pot-house, in the
doorway of which the proprietor is lying stretched at full length,
a pipe in his mouth, his kalpak tilted over one eye. He is a
warning, if warning be needed, of what to expect on the premises.
To begin with he is repulsively dirty. His sheepskin and once
white breeches are drab in hue and ragged, his shirt and crimson
sash, bristling with daggers, bear the reminiscences of sundry
meals, and his toes are protruding from his grimy foot wrappings
and sandals. Fat, flabby and heavy of figure, with a bilious
complexion and hooked nose, a stubbly growth of blue-black
beard and tufty black hair, with bloodshot, squinting little pig
eyes that dart here, there, and everywhere, but refuse to look one
straight in the face; with a loose slobbery mouth, and a gap
where his front teeth once were, he is unquestionably one of the
most villainous, forbidding, and ferocious-looking individuals it
would be possible to conceive. His wife, who is also big, fat,
dirty, and very ugly, is busy amongst some bowls of yoghourt,
that stand against the wall of the pot-house. Like all good
Bulgar housewives she makes her own curds. In this yoghourt,
so say many wise people, lies the secret of the longevity of the
Bulgarians. Be this as it may, yoghourt is unquestionably an
exceedingly nourishing food, and wherever one goes in this land




160


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


it is the first and last dish set before one. As already said, it
is a species of curds made from cows', buffaloes', ewes', or goats'
milk, of the freshest and best. The milk is put immediately after
it is taken from the animal, into wide, shallow earthenware bowls,
which are then placed on the top of a slow fire and the contents
brought to a gentle simmer. When this point has been reached,
the vessels are removed from the fire and set out to cool in the
open air. The most important thing in the making of yoghourt
is to know the exact temperature at which the milk should be
impregnated with a morsel of the old-that is to say with yesterday's-yoghourt. When cold the cream is carefully drawn back
from the sides of the bowl by a flat wooden skimmer, and a
morsel of twenty-four-hours-old curd is dropped in, along with
three black seeds, as a charm against the Evil Eyed. The yoghourt is then left to stiffen till it becomes a dry pure white substance rather resembling pale cream cheese.
The han-keeper's wife has just inserted a finger into each of
her bowls, found the temperature suitable, and put in the pieces
of old curd, when she lifts her eyes and is confronted by that
rarest of all sights in K, a stranger! The spectacle is so
astonishing that she loses her nerve, seizes the skimmer, and
begins scratching her head with it until recalled to her senses
by her spouse, who has scrambled to his feet and is about to
open negotiations.
With heads together the pair carry on a lengthy and whispered
conversation, interspersed with shrill and violent exclamations
from the lady and deep bellows of Bulgarian blasphemy from
the man, until at last the matter is settled and they agree to
" give to gracious lady a room to herself," with-wonderful to
relate-a bed in it. This commodious apartment has never, so
the pair vehemently assert, been let to the shepherds, cattledrovers, Jewish pedlars, and other nomads who so frequently
pass that way. On inspection, alas! this luxurious apartment is
found to be more like a dingy whitewashed barn than anything
else. It is situated next door to the pothouse and contains an
ancient, worm-eaten, wooden bedstead, heaped with gaudily
coloured cushions and rugs, a threadbare patch of carpet, and a
four-legged stool. In answer to an inquiry as to whether a basin
and water were procurable the woman at first shakes her head,
then apparently changes her mind, flip-flaps down the verandah
on ponderous, sandalled feet, and presently re-appears carrying
a tiny earthenware pitcher, containing about half a pint of cold
water, and a basin, not larger than a small porridge bowl. This
she sets down with a crash in the exact centre of the room, with
a resentlul expression on her face as much as to say, " These
odious foreigners, what will they want next? " But being a




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161


Bulgar she accepts the inevitable, and will put up with anything
if it means profit to herself.
As it is not advisable to be over particular whilst sojourning
in the Peasant State, the room is engaged and dinner is ordered.
There is one good thing about dinners in Bulgaria, they always
appear to be in readiness. Go into the most outlandish han,
order a mid-day meal or a supper, and inquire when it can
be served. The reply is in every case the same-in ten minutes,
and, in the time stated, the food, such as it is, makes its
appearance.
The fat proprietor and his fat spouse stampede in the direction of the kitchen, which lies somewhere to the rear of the pothouse, and soon the sultry air is filled with savoury odours, and
the quietness is broken by deafening screeches and a continuation
of the bull-like bellowing. Pots and pans rattle and clatter,
sundry earthenware vessels seemingly go the ultimate way of
all crockery, the hissing and spluttering of frying and frizzling
sound across the courtyard, and the pigs, turkeys, geese, and
fowls gather for a feast. A flash of crimson, blue and white, a
whirl of plump, naked brown legs and arms, and a big, brawny
damsel, with a face like the rising sun, and scared, round, rabbit
eyes, rushes down the verandah, bolts through the bedroom door,
seizes upon the four-legged stool, and carries it to the balcony,
where she sets it down with violence. From beneath her arm
she then produces a coarse blue-and-white check cloth, creased
and stained, but nevertheless a tablecloth. Having spread this
on the stool she bounds back perspiring and panting to the
kitchen. A brief interval and again she appears, lurching and
staggering under the weight of a tray piled with dishes, the
dinner ready, as promised, in the proverbial ten minutes. And
a real Bulgarian dinner it is, possibly more greasy and solid than
usual, but the best that is obtainable hereabouts. It consists
of a drab-coloured soup, of the same kind seen in the " Chorbaji's " pot, several hard-boiled eggs, with melted sheep's tail
fat for sauce, stuffed cucumbers, a dish locally called bomber,
a very oily stew made from a whole fowl, including most of its
feathers, onions, garlic, and paprika. This once athletic bird
the rabbit-eyed damsel insists on dismembering limb from
limb, tearing the sinews and the bones asunder with her greasy,
uncleanly hands. For sweets there is a flat, round cake of
Bulgarian pastry-melena-which is exceedingly good, made
of white fine flour, honey and cream, a heavier cake of the
same species, called banitza, slatko, or prune jam, and a bottle
of pinkish-tinted native wine, sour enough to put one's teeth on
edge for a week. The fowls, pigs, and han dogs, of the same
yellow, shaggy, cross-grained breed as the specimen encountered
M




162  OUR ALLIES AND        ENEMIES IN     NEAR EAST
in the "Soup Maker's" yard, cackle, grunt, and otherwise
make themselves obnoxious, the plates are thumb-marked and
sticky, the mosquitoes and flies swarm, buzz, and meet death by
drowning in scores in the grease, everything except the melena,
the banitza, and the slatko is reeking and overflowing with
garlic and liquefied fat, but the food is abundant and wholesome enough after a coarse fashion, and, after all, one has to eat
one's peck of dirt in life-and fat as well in this land-so why
worry?




CHAPTER XIV


AMONGST THE ROSE-FIELDS
DINNER over, it is time to consider where and how best the
afternoon can be spent. Walking does not offer much attraction,
for the heat is growing still more intense, and between the
glamorous, white-crested, purple violet mountains and the valley
the air is scarcely to be called air, so stifling, so sickeningly
heavy and sweet is it with the scent of millions upon millions,
miles upon miles, of sun-warmed roses. During the last half-hour
a couple of arabas have jolted into the yard, and the tired drivers
are standing round the pothouse door clamouring for food and
drink for themselves and their beasts.
A dispute has arisen between the proprietor and one of the
new-comers, whose fustinella and long-tasselled scarlet fez proclaim him a Greek. Probably the fight is about something very
trivial, but in this country of hopeless and eternal racial animosity
-especially since the late war-a glance, a mere smile, a scowl,
is often sufficient to cause bloodshed. Thrashing the air with
his arms, the nimble-witted, caustic-tongued wearer of the
fustinella is hurling abuse at the han-keeper, whose replies, being
Bulgar maledictions, it would be scarcely advisable to translate.
Meanwhile the rest of the company, consisting of the Greek's
fellow-drivers, the han-keeper's wife, the rabbit-eyed handmaiden, and a few of the village women, treat the quarrel for
what it is worth, and leave the pair to bring it to what conclusion
they may. So, following their example, come out into the
fragrant rose-fields, away from the dusty han-yard and the
village.
The lately vacant and deserted laneway now presents a scene
of animation. Numerous springless country carts are drawn up
in the shelter of the trees, which throw cool, waving, indigo
shadows on the glaring, dusty road. Groups of white-clad men
and women stand and sit about smoking and talking, and the
level hum of their voices mingles with the whinneying of the
horses, and low grumblings of the oxen, the barking of countless
dogs, the merry jingling of araba bells, crackling of whips, and the
cooing and fluttering of the doves round the eaves of the cottages.
163




164


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


The rose-pickers are resting after their mid-day meal, and the
result of their morning labours is to be seen in the huge willow
baskets, brimming over with pink and white rose-petals, that are
piled in the courtyards of the houses. Now comes an opportunity to learn the secret of how the purest and most fragrant
atdr of rose is obtained. Naturally, modern methods are also
employed, and there are factories in the large towns of this
district, where the latest contrivances, the most up-to-date
machines are used in the distillation of the flowers. But here
in K, as in all the other obscure hamlets of the rose-growing
country, the methods by which the scent is extracted are much
the same as on the day when first rose-petals were crushed by
human hands and found to have a sweet odour.
There is an old story told to the Bulgar children, which declares
that the recipe for the making of the atdr was given to an old
witch by a good fairy whom the former had saved from the spell
of a wicked sister fairy. The tale runs that the good fairy, when
she came to return thanks to the old witch, discovered her sitting
beside a pool of clear water, close to which grew a beautiful rosebush. " I will make you rich," whispered the fairy: "take a
bowl, fill it with clean, cold, sparkling water, and scatter upon it
the rose-leaves of this bush." The witch did so, whereupon the
fairy said: "Set the bowl with the rose-leaves in the brightest
ray of sunshine from dawn till nightfall." Again she was obeyed,
and when the sun sank behind the hills the fairy came again
bringing a white goose feather, which she put into the hand of
the witch, and clasping her hand over that of the old woman
she helped her to lift the rose-petals gently from the bowl and
skim with the feather from the water the thin, shining, silvery
mist, or film, which lay on the surface. This mist, which was
finer than a cobweb, she then told the witch to place in an earthenware pot and seal it up from the air. This also was done, and the
witch brought home the.jar, and so strange and wonderful was
the perfume that it brought the neighbours from miles round to
breathe its fragrance, and until the hour the witch died all the
people, the animals and birds followed her, gave her presents and
loved her dearly, because she carried with her wherever she went
the good fairy's rose perfume. It is only a fairy tale, but this
primitive recipe is still followed by many of the villagers here and
elsewhere throughout the valley. Given the proper bloomsnot all roses will yield the right perfume-cold spring water, a
large, shallow, copper bowl and a blazing sun under which to
place the vessel filled with water and floating petals, and, when
the heat of the day is over, if the rose-leaves are very cautiously
removed, the semi-transparent rose-oil, in all its natural purity
and strength, will be seen lying, like gossamer, on the surface




IN THE NEAR EAST


165


of the water, just as it did in the witch's bowl. In many homesteads, however, charcoal fires have taken the place of sunshine,
but otherwise the same ancient methods are adhered to, and
some who know say that the old-fashionedly made atdr is the
finest.1 Follow this troop of girls who are bringing their baskets
of deep red " Damascena," pearly white " Moscata," and Sempervirens roses into one of the courtyards. Immense braziersful
of smouldering charcoal stand in a shed adjoining the central
building. In the shadow of the wall of baked mud and wattles,
protected from the sun by leafy branches and wet white homespun cloths, are many red earthenware pitchers of freshly drawn
spring water, and as many high, round, brightly burnished
copper cauldrons, shaped like gigantic jam-pots, are set in close
proximity to the braziers. A large white sheet is spread on the
beaten ground of the courtyard, and on this sheet the girls, as
they enter, empty the contents of their baskets. Already the
heap of glowing, sparkling, fragrant blossoms has grown to the
size of a small hillock. A number of old women are crouching
round the sheet, and as each load is flung down they examine
and sort out the blossoms, putting like with like, discarding the
wilted, imperfect, or diseased blooms, and carefully separating
the petals from their stems. Meanwhile other women are fitting
trays, made of white linen stretched tightly on willow hoops,
into the cauldrons. Watch how these pots are arranged. First
of all some spring water is poured into the bottom of the cauldron,
and one of the linen trays is strewn with rose-petals and placed
on a niche or groove cut about an inch above the water. Then
a second tray is covered with the blooms and set on another
ridge, an inch or so above the first and lower tray, likewise a
third, fourth, fifth, and sixth tray is inserted, one above the
other, until the cauldron is filled with a series of linen shelves
or trays, each bearing its own rose-petals, each placed close to,
but not touching, the adjoining trays or shelves. When the
cauldron has received its many trays of blossoms, a lid, consisting
of a thick, air-impervious pad of felt, or thick woollen home1 There are other copper pots, or alembics, consisting of a convex
copper boiler, narrowed at the top to a neck, which carries the headpiece
or condensing tube through a vessel containing cold water until it meets
the receiver. Distillation goes on until the turbid-looking rose-water
which is produced equals in weight the amount of petals in the boiler.
The boiler is then removed and cleansed, and the process is repeated
with fresh blossoms. The turbid fluid is again distilled, and this time
there appears upon the double-distilled rose-water a yellowish liquid
floating upon the surface of the water. This is the atdr of rose. Many
of these boilers contain 240 lb. of water, but only three-quarters of this
amount is poured in, and 25 lb. of blossoms are added.




166


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


spun, is fastened securely on the top, and the vessel is placed
on one of the braziers, where it is left to stand for several days,
on a constantly replenished fire, kept at a rather low but equable
temperature by the slowly burning, but, as has been said, never
extinguished charcoal. At the end of this time, when the
cauldron is removed from the brazier and the lid and trays are
carefully removed, the pure oil of the roses is found lying at the
bottom of the cauldron. During the days it has stood on the
brazier the water at the bottom has evaporated through the trays
and the rose-leaves, and has at last been absorbed by the padded
lid. So gradually, by this steaming process, all the essential
oil, all the fragrance of the blooms, has been extracted. But even
then some perfume remains in the petals taken from the trays,
and, that nothing may be lost, they are collected in a mass,
and crushed between wooden rollers, till the last drop of the
essence has been obtained.
Through the open door of the shed, into the breathless air of
the midsummer afternoon, the heat from the braziers is pouring
out, palpitating and visible. The odour of the atdr and the
great piles of newly plucked, but already fading, roses produce
a headache. A dead still haze clings about the metallic blue
sky. Not a vestige of a cloud is visible, not a ruffle of breeze
can be felt. Along the high-road, stretching out beyond the
trees which encircle the village, an endless procession of crawling,
whining arabas and pack ponies is moving, lurching over the
sun-caked ruts and the thick white dust with which they
are covered. The oxen and buffaloes which draw them gaze
out with interminable calm from under their rose-loads, and
shake their saffron-dyed forelocks 1 in protest against the flies.
Roses, roses everywhere, a sea, an ocean of roses, a white,
white road, white sunshine, white oxen, a drifting throng of
white-clad figures moving over the whiteness and through the
crimson and pink and white and green billows of vivid colour,
a blur of brown faces, naked, sun-scorched brown arms and
legs, the sound of shrill, barbaric chanting, of slow, deep ox
bells, of the tripping jingle of pack pony bells, of the crackling of long curling whips, of the thud of heavy sticks upon
the quivering, reeking hides, of the barking of dogs, the wailing of wheels, the odour of the blossoms, of sweltering beasts,
of sweating humanity. These are the noises and smells; these
are the things which make up the impression one receives of a
rose harvest scene, only later does the mind begin to calculate
and realise what this wealth of roses, this wealth of everything
agricultural, means to these Bulgars, who are always grumbling
1 The oxen have their forelocks dyed yellow to keep off the Evil Eye.




IN THE NEAR EAST


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that they are the most unfortunate folk on earth! Take these
rose-fields, there is really no reason why roses should blossom
so superabundantly hereabouts. The winters are as intolerably
cold as the summers are unendurably hot, and during the spring
the valley is swept by bitter winds, yet nowhere else, not even in
Persia or India, are such blooms to be found. Again and again
have efforts been made to grow the atdr bushes in other districts
of south-eastern Europe, but every effort has failed. Some
experts declare that the success of the rose-culture in Bulgariadespite ignorance and despite the employment of prehistoric
implements, not to mention the severe climate-is due to a certain
quality of the soil, which, by the way, is very fine and sandy,
and is in many places impregnated with oxide of iron. Others
assert that the reason is discoverable in the peculiar atmosphere
and in the formation of the neighbouring mountains. Nevertheless, it still remains a mystery why the atdr roses, which, of all
species, are the most sensitive to climatic and atmospheric conditions, should elect to shed their fragrance on such a crude soil,
not to say, amongst such a crude, unappreciative, and beautydespising people.
Imagine the riches which these dour countryfolk gather from
their rose-harvests. Previous to the late wars they generally
got twenty-five shillings, in English money, for one ounce of atdr,
which ultimately fetched six times this amount in the capitals
of Europe and America. To be sure, it takes three thousand
two hundred kilogrammes of rose-petals to yield a single kilogramme of oil, and the gathering of two and a half acres to produce
seven thousand two hundred pounds weight of petals, which
means two and a half pounds weight of the atdr, or essential oil.
But the prices given for the perfume are, as said, enormous.
For example, a small jar containing about forty-nine or fifty
ounces of essence was sold a few months ago to a travelling
representative of a famous Paris firm for over one hundred and
fifty pounds in gold! Naturally, the trees require the expenditure
of a considerable amount of care and labour.1 The atdr roses
prefer the hill slopes and have a curious affection for the winds,
1 A Bulgar rose-garden is laid down in either spring or autumn. Young
rose-shoots are torn off larger plants so as to carry with them portions of
the roots, and these are laid down horizontally in trenches about a foot
deep and five feet apart. They are then covered with earth and manure.
Shoots generally appear at the end of six months, when they are earthed
up, and the plants are over a foot high within the twelve months. The
rose-bushes are at full bearing in five or six years, and last for about fifteen
years. No pruning is required, except the cutting off of all dead leaves.
The flowers must be gathered, if possible, early in the day and at once
distilled.




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OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


the Balkan winds, which in spring sting with icy fierceness.
Moreover, they are not productive for the first five or six years,
and require to be dressed several times a year; but not even a
Bulgar can say they do not repay their owners. Different people
make different calculations as to the money brought in annually
by the inhabitants of this valley from the sale of their atr; but,
though opinions may differ, the sum, before war raised prices,
could not have been far short of over one hundred and sixty or
seventy thousand pounds. Add to this the money realised each
year by the sale of grain, including rice, oil, wine, embroideries,
homespuns, fresh and dried fruits and tobacco, never to speak
of minerals, and then ponder whether or not commiseration for
the " poor " Bulgars was not and is not misplaced. " Give the
Bulgars all the riches of heaven, with the crown of the good God
thrown in," declared a Serb, "and they will still say, 'We
are possessed of nothing, and fortune has cheated us of our
rights.' " When one recalls all the wailings and complainings
which these people have sent out to all the European Powers;
when one calculates and considers the lavish amount of pity which
they have demanded as a right and received as a right; it must
be conceded that, as with everything else, they possess an extraordinary talent for appropriating and turning to excellent account
public compassion and sympathy. The longer one knows the
Bulgars, the more the truth is brought home that they are the
licensed beggars of Christendom.
Dismissing for a time the subject of the Bulgars and their
national characteristics, turn from the village and take the road
leading towards the hills, towards the flowers, the meadows, and
gardens.
Ten minutes' walking brings one to the opening of the mountain
path that zigzags across the hillside from out a distant and
shadowy ravine. The track curves up, up, in and out, round
the wooded spurs, disappearing and reappearing between the
jewelled rose plantations, the fields of green-golden maize and
speckled green tobacco, the rich orchards and vineyards. By
now the afternoon is wearing on and the countryfolk are back at
work amongst the rose-bushes, where, decked out, as is customary,
in their most dazzling white and brilliantly embroidered "Prasnik " (fete-day garments), in spotless linen shirts and chemises
and brilliant crimson and blue embroidered vests, they are plucking the blooms and throwing them into enormous willow baskets,
chanting all the while their shrill, uncanny, and monotonous
folk-songs. As one passes some of them spare a moment to lift
their sun-bronzed faces and stare at the stranger. Picture these
rose-fields lying on the steep breasts of the great purple mountains.
Those who have seen only trim, well-ordered, conventional and




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169


confined rose-gardens, in which each coddled, artificially fed bush
is named and numbered, can have not the slightest conception
of the almost startling loveliness, the luxuriance, the wonder
and splendour of these miles upon miles of long Bulgar rosefields. Imagine what it is like to be able to lose oneself in a forest
of roses, to stand shoulder deep in their perfume and glory, to
be unable to move without literally forcing one's way through
branch upon branch, tree upon tree, heavy with dew-spangled,
gem-like blooms, that intoxicate and enrapture with their fragrance. Think of millions upon millions and as many more millions of roses, some pink as the inside of a shell, some deep crimson,
velvet soft, with dark passionate hearts, some white as pearls
or snow-flakes, some creamy as sea-foam, others yellow as gold.
Drooping, fainting in the fierce sunshine they sway to and fro
drowsily on their leafy stems, whilst the warm breeze from the
heights above, felt here for the first time, ripples through their
branches and passes carrying their sweetness where it wills.
Big blue and brown, yellow, white and tortoiseshell butterflies
hover and dance overhead, strange burnished, gleaming insects,
and thousands of bumble-bees hum and make droning noises
as they dart in and out of the blossoms. A myriad larks are
" winging their merry journey towards the sun forgetful of themselves from sudden inebriety of pleasure." One might almost
fancy the rubicon of this mortal life had been crossed and this
was indeed Paradise, were it not that the rose-garlanded
visages which peer from amongst the foliage are so obviously
of the flesh fleshly. Nor are Bulgar voices, any more than
Bulgar countenances, particularly suggestive of the sphere
celestial. No, Paradise must surely be a place of repose, where
toil, or rather sordid and recompensed toil, is unknown. But
even in the very heart of these rose-fields it is impossible to escape
from the commercialism which holds this land in such a vicelike grip. To these harvesters who pluck the blossoms from
sunrise till sundown the roses are only beautiful because they
represent gold-hard, glittering gold-which, like the man with
the one talent, they will bury in the earth of their back yards.
The more rosebuds the more atdr they will obtain, and consequently the more they will have to hoard. It is not vanity or
love of the beautiful which prompts these Bulgar girls and women
to adorn their sleek black heads with rose garlands. The wreaths
are merely worn as a precaution against sunstroke or mosquitoes!
What a pity that a land so rich, so fragrant, so laughing and
glowing with colour and sunshine should belong to people such
as these, whilst elsewhere, under grey, cheerless skies, in crowded,
stifling cities, there are so many who yearn for beauty and who
so often gladly squander their last farthing on a few common




170


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


seeds or a cheap little bunch of half-dead flowers! Nor are the
roses the only beautiful things here. There are, as has been
said, the grain-fields and the orchards, the vineyards and tobacco
plantations which, sweeping up from the valley, drive long wedges
in amongst the rose plantations. Monster cherry and walnut
trees laden with scarlet, white, golden and black fruit, quinces,
wild apple and mulberry bushes border the steep, rough, stonestrewn path. Here and there on the lower slopes are curiously
green upland meadows starred with corn-cockles, ox-eyed daisies,
mauve and white pansies and lilies; where graze flocks of sheep
and goats guarded by shock-headed, barefooted, primeval-looking herdsmen, wearing enormous homespun mantles, and followed
by shaggy-haired, mustard-coloured dogs. Far up past the
green fields and fruit trees, amid groves of pine, stricken with
age and weather, bearded like patriarchs with streamers of silvery
moss, through whose branches the soft breeze sings and whimpers
though not a leaf is stirring; far up where swift tumultuous
streams rush down steep, narrow channels, dashing headlong into
rainbow-tinted falls; far up where beside the mossy banks of
mountain torrents the spray rises in glinting, prismatic clouds;
where the air is sweet and fresh with new and unfamiliar odours;
where strange, unknown, scarcely heard music, the music of the
mountains, greets the ear,-at this altitude the air is much
cooler, more buoyant and exhilarating. By and by where
the path ceases to be even a track, at the opening to a ravine,
flanked by mighty mountain walls, cool with perpetual shade and
full of subtle, transparent blue and purple shadows, one reaches
a sort of platform, and here it is well to pause. If half the grim
and gory robber stories told hereabouts are true, it would be
foolhardy indeed to explore further, especially as night descends
suddenly in these parts and there is little or no twilight.
There are still, however, a few moments to spare before descending, and the view is one to remember. All around and very far
below stretches the wide, sunlit country dotted with white and
red tree-embowered villages. Directly beneath, amid its poplars,
lies K-. The sun-rays flash on the white spire of its little
church, and above the dark, encircling foliage its crimson roofs
send up a thin, blue haze of smoke. The pale green vineyards,
the orchards, gold-green cornfields, tobacco plantations and rosegarden resemble a vast, many-hued patchwork quilt. Like a
pool of blood, beside one great maize-field gleams a giant plot
of rank opium poppies. To the right and left, on either side, the
heaving wooded lower hills roll away, wave upon wave, a flowing
tide of purple, northwards and southwards.
That slender, glimmering streak of silver is the Danube, and
if one's eyes were as far-sighted as one's fancy it would be possible




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171


to really see the city of Rustchuk. Over the white roads which
run in parallel lines, from north to south and east to west across
the valley, float filmy dust clouds, raised by the passing and
repassing of many caravans. Scarcely discernible black specks,
like tiny crawling flies, move slowly over these highways; they
are arabas and ox-wagons, flocks and herds going home for the
night. A feeling of remoteness suddenly smites one, and new
emotions, born of the wild, make themselves felt. The worldrush in one's being is calmed into great stillness by the peace of
these untrodden places; the world voices are borne away on the
murmuring breeze, and the petty tumults of earth are forgotten
in the silence of the heights. The atmosphere is so extraordinarily brilliant, so crystal clear, that even the farthest removed
objects appear close at hand. One would willingly stay up here
for ever, if it were possible; but, unhappily, time is flying, and the
snowy crests of the mountain monarchs, which tower to the rear,
stupendous and awful, are no longer dazzling white, but rosepink, and the topaz sunshine is changing to palest amethyst.
In a few minutes the amethyst will have become crimson, and
the crimson will fade leaving the world overhead a pellucid green,
and then the green will change and deepen into violet and the
white stars will spring out, and the valley and all the world will be
wrapped in purple shadows. Therefore, unless one moves, and
moves speedily, there will be nothing for it but to spend the night
on this projecting and unprotected crag, at the mercy of the
terrible Youdas and Vilas and all the other malevolently disposed
nature deities which, in Bulgaria, are believed to haunt these
mountains and torrents after sunset. Somehow, in this country,
civilised ideas are apt to take flight. In place of the Christian
conception of the Deity many ancient and pagan demi-gods
have arisen, each of whom has his, or her, particular dominion.
There are here invisible powers which rule the air, powers which
rule the rivers, lakes, springs and rains, other powers which govern
the beasts and birds, others that are supreme in the mountains,
and others which control the fruits of the earth. These many
and varied semi-deities, none of whom appear, by all accounts,
to be possessed of any beneficent or amiable qualities, are attended
by hosts of mischievous lesser spirits, witches, wizards, sprites,
hobgoblins, and djins, who are generally supposed to pass their
time squabbling with one another and making existence as
troublesome and vexatious as possible for the species human.
Although the Bulgars are nominally Christians, and would be
furiously indignant if their right to be thought such was questioned, it cannot be denied that their Christianity is exceedingly
superficial. Down in the innermost depths of their nature lurks
unaltered the crude, cruel paganism of their Hunnish ancestors,




172 OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES IN NEAR EAST
which is not, be it remarked, the beauty-worshipping, merry,
wholesome paganism of the Serbs or the Roumanians. The
few beautiful and poetic ideas, beliefs or superstitions, the few,
very few, beautiful songs and melodies found amongst these people
have unquestionably come to them, or been pilfered by them
from their pure-bred Slavonic neighbours. The Bulgars, individually and collectively, are incapable of producing anything
pleasantly imaginative, anything romantic or poetic, happy or
inspiring.
Perhaps it is these gloomy pagan demi-gods and beliefs that
are now weaving evil spells and casting a chill on the surrounding
loveliness, but, be the cause what it may, a curious and indescribable gloom has descended, which not even the peace and serene
majesty of the mountains and the sweetness and quiet of the
May evening can dispel. Is it then true, and is this magically
beautiful and fertile land dominated by some wicked and subtle
wizardry?
As one nears the valley the noises of human life rise in greeting.
Sometimes there comes the cheery, intermittent tinkle and jangle
of araba bells, or a cry of a drover, the barking of dogs, or the
lilt of one of the weird folk-songs chanted by the rose-pickers.
A blue, fast-fleeting shadow scurries over the waving grasses and
wild flowers of the upland meadows and, with a savage, angry
scream, an eagle flashes by on his way to the eerie on one of the
precipices overhead. Then very softly and plaintively there
steals out on the evening air the wail of Bulgar bagpipes. Some
goatherd, alone on the heights above, is making music, seeking
perchance, as is the custom of his kind, to charm away the malicious intentions and designs of the spirits of the mountains and the
oncoming night. The lugubrious sounds emitted by these native
pipes are anything but agreeable when heard at close quarters,
but heard, as now, in the great spaces and from a long distance,
their whining, sobbing, discordant music, if music it can be called,
seems to blend in harmony with the untamed wildness of the
landscape.




CHAPTER XV


THE GIPSIES
WORK has ended for the day in the rose-fields and the country
folk are loading their carts and driving them villagewards.
Groups of men and girls are strolling along the roadway. They
seem to have nothing to converse about. Neither greetings nor
farewells are exchanged; there is no joking or chaffing; no merrymaking. Some of the women are chanting a chorus in a minor
key, holding hands and swaying their bodies and heads to and
fro in time to the dirge-like melody. Down the laneway, dividing
the homesteads of the village, the cows are wandering to be
milked; a wide phalanx with straggling wings. What with
beasts and wagons, baskets of roses and villagers, there is scarcely
room to move. The cows hereabouts, like their masters, seem
to consider every one and everything de trop except themselves,
for they march along regardless of the fact that humanity and its
belongings require, at least, a modicum of space. More than
once it may become expedient to take refuge within a yard whose
gate is opportunely open, an action generally surlily, if silently,
resented by the owners, and always vehemently objected to by
whole packs of dingy yellow dogs, that leap out, yelp and show
their fangs with every apparent intention of rending the intruder. They are a cowardly lot, however, these Bulgar dogs; it
is sufficient merely to stoop for a stone, and, ere one's back
has straightened, there is nothing to be seen of them except
discreetly vanishing heels and tails.
At this hour the drinking-room of the han is the customary
and popular rendezvous for the masculine element of the community, and the one hospitable spot in the village is already
crowded. As the windows are small and set high in the wall,
and the brief twilight is rapidly turning to darkness, the proprietor has lit the solitary oil lamp which swings from a rafter
in the fly-infested ceiling, and through the clouds of tobacco
smoke one can dimly discern a mass of dusky faces and nebulous
white figures. The night is scarcely less stifling than was the
day, yet a monster brazier, stoked with flaming charcoal, is
pouring out an intolerable heat from one corner of the room,
173




174


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


and none of the guests have discarded their stuffy woollen jackets
or sheepskins. The fat host and his fat wife are rushing hither
and thither, filling up glasses with raki and sour pink wine,
brewing coffee over the brazier in dozens of tiny copper pots, and
issuing stringent orders to the red-faced, rabbit-eyed domestic,
who is also darting about dishevelled and almost distraught.
Under the stimulating influence of the raki, coffee, and cigarettes
the taciturn peasants are gradually becoming less so, but should
they suspect the presence of a foreigner or even a stranger of
their own nationality, the buzz of conversation would cease instantly. There is a door at the back of the caf6. To slip through
and dispose of one's person on a stool behind the buffet takes but
a moment; here all that passes can be heard and seen without
the knowledge of the company. Seated on the benches and
cross-legged on the floor cushions, squatted on pieces of harness
taken from the ox-carts unyoked in the yard, the occupants, their
tongues unloosed, are exchanging opinions on the subjects which
chiefly interest them. From discussing the prospects of the rose
harvest, they have turned to politics, for which, as Bulgars, they
have such an overweening passion. In an incredibly short time
they have lashed themselves into a sullen sort of excitement over
their favourite grievance, namely, Bulgaria's national wrongs.
It is difficult to follow every word of the conversation, but of its
bitterness there can be no doubt. It must be remembered that
these peasants seldom read a newspaper and depend for their
news of the outer world on rumour, so it happens that in gathering-places such as this, night after night, especially in recent
months, they have met and related to one another and passed
on by word of mouth (needless to say with much lurid embroidery)
to their compatriots in the adjoining villages the most fantastic
opinions, rumours and impossible tales, all of which circle and
recircle round their racial, national and political hatreds and
enmities, fears and aspirations. One individual in the crowd
appears to be the chief spokesman. Recollection comes of having
noticed him earlier in the day selling goods behind the leather
curtain of the village store, or shop, which, by the way, is a
most accommodating, if dilapidated, establishment, situated at
one end of the laneway, near the common duck-pond, where
everything is apparently procurable from tin-tacks to cheese and
salt pork. The personage mentioned is a slight, meek-visaged,
grey-bearded old fellow, who, at first sight, one would say could
not hurt a fly. He is assuredly not a Bulgar, despite the fact
that he is clad in the Bulgar peasant dress, white homespun
breeches, embroidered underjacket, sheepskin overcoat, and black
lambskin kalpak, for his features are aquiline and finely formed,
his manners are suave, and his voice musical and low pitched;




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moveover, though he speaks the Bulgarian-Slavonic fluently, his
accent is not that of a native. Whatever he is saying is plainly
of deep interest to his companions, for they are hanging enthralled
and fascinated on his every syllable and gesture. As usual, the
text of the argument is the woe of Bulgaria and the recent " betrayal " of its people. Now and then one misses a sentence, but
more often each word clearly penetrates to the recess behind the
buffet, where, thanks to the close proximity of the brazier, the heat
is really painful. The steady murmur of the speaker's voice
is just lulling one's senses into drowsiness, when they are abruptly
and efficaciously roused to alertness by the word " England,"
uttered with a ferocity of hatred which is electrifying. England!
What has England to do with Bulgaria and its affairs, or this old
man and his grumblings? one queries. What grudge can he or
these peasants of the Valley of Roses have against Great Britain?
What, indeed? A quick glance taken over the top of the glassbottle-covered counter is more than sufficient to assure one that
the Power which in the past did so much for and gave so much
to these people and their country is now, for some mysterious
reason, held by them in execration. As he warms to his discourse
the old storekeeper's tones alter. His speech becomes shriller
and harsher, he hisses and splutters out his sentences and gradually succeeds in working both himself and his hearers into a
towering passion. It seems as if, having deliberately nursed
many terrible-though imagined-and long accumulated injuries
and insults, he is determined to ventilate them to the best of his
ability. " England is our implacable and treacherous enemyEngland is responsible for our humiliation. Serbia is nothing but
the poor, feeble tool of the accursed English and Russian Governments. The time is soon coming when we will take our vengeance-' soon.' I tell you, my brothers, 'we will show our teeth I'
Only a little more patience and-"
An outburst of hand-clapping and grunting welcomes this
extraordinary harangue and, encouraged, the speaker takes in
his second wind and recommences. Every abuse is hurled at,
everything that is vile is laid at the door of Great Britain first,
and Russia afterwards. It is scarcely believable, but it is only
too true. These ignorant Bulgar villagers, in this shabby, outof-the-way caf6, are actually being taught to curse England, for
certainly, had they been left to themselves, not one of them would
have known anything about Britain except what their State
school maps and geographies tell them, namely, that it is a faraway island entirely surrounded by water; and as for Russia,
though they still call her their liberator, what do they know of
Russia? Back to one's mind, in a flash, comes the memory of words
spoken some months ago by a Serbian Minister in Belgrad. "Great




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OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


Britain has a secret enemy; this enemy has placed his paid agents
in every Bulgar city, town and village; yes, and also in the
towns and villages of Serbia, Greece and Roumania. So long
as they spread ill-will and agitation amongst the Powers, there
can never be peace. We Serbs do not heed what these paid mischief-makers and spies say, for we are aware of the facts. England must beware, for suddenly, it may be to-day, or to-morrow,
this hidden enemy, having accomplished his work and laid his
plans, will reveal himself, and then-Is England ready? Is France
ready? Is Russia? "
The place is no longer tolerable. The heat of the brazier and
the sentiments proclaimed by the storekeeper and approved by
his listeners are more than irritating for a Britisher who is a
patriot and who cordially detests all who love not England,
love not fresh air, but chew garlic, and-judging by the everincreasing odour of humanity-love not soap and water.
So it is out once more into the fresh clean air. The night
breeze from the hills is cool and refreshing both mentally and
physically. By the light of the great round moon, that has
leaped up into the sapphire sky to keep company with the
glittering stars, every object stands out visible as by day. The
sparkling, snow-capped mountains soar aloft tremendous and
wonderful. It is as though the common earth had been transformed into a fairy world of dreams. The courtyard is embarrassingly thronged with every species of vehicle, ox-wagons,
arabas, phaetons and gipsy taligas. Bales, boxes, bedding and
cooking utensils litter the ground. A troop of Tziganes or, to
give them the name they are here called, Zagundzhis, have
arrived and are unharnessing their ill-fed, weary beasts and
leading them away to join their dumb companions in labourthe donkeys, pack ponies, oxen and buffaloes that are dozing
or chewing the cud in the black-blue shadows which fall aslant
in irregular, sharply-4efined shafts of darkness on the dusty
earth. The carts have been unshipped of their poles, and
beneath them lie the drivers, huddled heaps of sheepskin and
frieze. They are snatching some rest before starting forth again
at sunrise on their respective journeys. The moonlight gleams
here and there on tousled black heads and savagely picturesque,
low-typed faces. Now and then one catches the ugly glint of
daggers or pistols in crimson, silver-encrusted belts, or the
simmer of blue beads worn as an antidote against the malice of
the Evil Eye. The gipsies intend to make a night of it. Some
of the women of the tribe are spreading gaily-striped rugs on
the only vacant spot of the yard. Others have kindled a fire
of logs and are roasting meat and fowls on metal spits which
they hold above the embers, whilst their men-folk look on and




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177


give orders. As they loll at ease or bound and glide to and fro
like panthers between the red, flickering glare of the fire and the
cold, bluish-white moonshine they might be taken for fauns and
nymphs, so extraordinarily muscular, yet graceful, so agile, so
sinuous are they in their movements. The scanty, filthy rags,
which barely cover them, only serve to display their lithe,
animal beauty. Through the transparent dusk flash their white
teeth and glistening, lustrous black eyes. They laugh, chatter,
scream and coo together in the strange old, old Romany tongue
which sounds, to those who know and love their race, like the
soughing and rustling of the wind, the rippling of water, the
wordless crying and calling of the wild. The Bulgars abhor
the gipsies. This abhorrence is inborn in them, it is the unalterable, unreasoning detestation which always exists between
two races naturally opposed and unsympathetic to one another.
The Ishmaelites may be and are regarded as despicable and
troublesome by other nations, they are sharp enough thorns in
the flesh of the Serbs and Roumanians, the Greeks and the
Magyars. But amongst these latter nations their music easily
earns for them money, and ever-ready, indeed eager, forgiveness and leniency. Not so in Bulgaria, where the inhabitants
not only hate them but have no ear for the magic gipsy music
and certainly no desire to waste money on vagabonds of any
sort; and as for toleration and pardon for the weaknesses and
failings of the outcasts, well, Bulgars never tolerate and never
forgive anything except when it profits them to do so. Nevertheless they cannot shake off the curious spell which the Roma
cast over both their friends and their foes. "They are mad,
they are wicked, the devil has marked them for his own,
but they have a dreadful power; they are wizards and witches
and we fear them," once explained an old Bulgarian woman.
" Better for us to permit them to rob us of our sheep and hens
than that they should throw their blight upon us." Needless to
say, therefore, the Zagundzhis take heed to benefit by the awe
in which they are held hereabouts, and usually contrive to make
up for what they do not receive for their music by pilfering
whatever comes their way. " They live like dogs, let them
die like dogs," is the invariable remark made when a
gipsy falls ill; and when he dies, then in truth their enemies
take out their revenge in cruelty and insult!
Stepping cautiously over the bales and boxes, the pots and
pans, the bundles of slumbering humanity, one reaches at last
the portion of the verandah fronting the best bedroom where
the rabbit-eyed damsel is for a second time setting out the
table. She has hung up a lamp on one of the balcony poles, and
the clouds of mosquitoes it is attracting almost make one scratch
N




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in nervous anticipation. Supper is very similar to the meal
eaten at midday, but hunger is a good sauce, and the hard-boiled
eggs swimming in sizzling oil, the thick, red-not grey-soup,
the mutton, paprika and garlic stew, banitza and slatko, wine, a
glass of raki, and excellent coffee, which the rabbit-eyed one
dispenses with her own uncleanly hands, are soon disposed of.
By this time the girl's slowly working brain has doubtless come
to the conclusion that the imbecile foreigner can be inveigled
into the bestowal of a tip, and though she dislikes and mistrusts
aliens as thoroughly as do the rest of her nation, she, like them,
would gladly be prepared to grovel before the prince of darkness
himself for the smallest coin. So she grins and grins, automatically drawing back her lips a little wider with each grin from her
square white teeth. Then, as if struck by a stab of intelligence,
she winks one sloe-black eye, puts a dirty, plump finger to her
shining, perspiring forehead, whereon never a hair is allowed to
escape from under the tight scarlet headkerchief, and, uttering
a squeal, off she tears in the direction of the premises at the rear
of the cafe. A moment, and back she comes, triumphantly brandishing a small stringed instrument, not unlike a mandoline. The
scared expression has gone from her face and its place has been
taken by one of cunning slyness, the expression usually noticeable on Bulgar countenances when business is meant. Without
more ado down she flops cross-legged on the boards of the
verandah, twangs a few chords, and, jerking back her head,
breaks into a Bulgar folk-song. Her voice is harsh and nasal,
and as for the song, on a night like this surely the only things
which any one, even a Bulgarian, could sing about would be love,
passion, poetry, beauty? So it might seem; but alas, there is
nothing romantic, soothing, beautiful, gentle, nothing in keeping
with the resplendent loveliness of the scene and hour in the
rabbit-eyed damsel's ditty. In melody, words and sentiment,
it is a typical Bulgar folk-song. There are scores of others
exactly the same. At interminable length, and with irritating
monotony, it relates how a peasant's house has caught fire.
Whereupon, "being a prudent man," this peasant inquires of
himself what he will save from the ravaging flames, his " black
steed with its golden saddle," or his " fair young wife and little
children "? He considers whilst the flames spread and "send
out tongues of fire into the heavens," and as he considers his
" good and wise " mother comes and whispers in his ear: " The
horse, my son, for of a truth thou canst easily get a fresh wife
and new children, but a horse to thy liking will be hard to find."
Being, therefore, a prudent man, the peasant rescues his steed,
likewise the golden saddle, and "the flames eat up the flesh of
his fair young wife and little children," and "the children cry




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179


and their mother weeps, bathing their burns with her tears and
saying to them: ' Burn, burn, my dear little ones, burn, dear
hearts, till ye become white ashes, and I, thy mother, a crimson
coal, and upon us thy good grandmother will come and gaze and
be exceedingly glad of heart for the prudence of her son.'"
The horrible recital or dirge ends with an ear-piercing howl
and a sharp, cruel tug of the strings, then ere one has time to
expostulate or escape the singer breaks out afresh; and long after
the rabbit-eyed songstress has pocketed her tip and taken her
departure the morbidness awakened by her vindictive, cruel,
unmelodious chantings remains to trouble. Leaning here on
the balcony rail in the pure white moonlight, one has time to
think, but the thoughts are not so reposeful as the surroundings.
The breeze, which an hour ago had ruffled the leaves and stirred
the powdery dust in the courtyard, has dropped, as it frequently
does in the Balkans just before dawn. The transparent sapphire
darkness is warm and heavy with the perfume of roses. Mingled
with the fragrance of the blossoms comes whiffs of smouldering
wood and a faint reminiscence of cooking, along with other smells
peculiar to the East, not the least of which is that of pack animals
which have never been groomed and whose sores are something
which must be smelt to be appreciated. Fortunately, however,
the sweeter odours predominate. All is very quiet. Their supper
demolished, the gipsies have curled themselves up like snakes
round the dying embers of their fire. The nightingales in the
depths of the rose forests are pouring out love rhapsodies to the
flowers, and the frogs in the village duck-pond are croaking as
determinedly and tirelessly as the storekeeper whose voice is
still to be heard breathing out hatred and vengeance. Save for
this last discordant noise there is nothing to disturb the tranquillity which can only be experienced in places far remote from
the turmoil, the hurry, and bustle of a city.




CHAPTER XVI


KING FERDINAND-THE BULGAR ATTILA
ONCE again the question rises and waits for a reply. How is
it that a people who have dwelt in this lovely country for twelve
centuries have failed so completely to absorb something of the
beauty with which they are encircled? The query is perhaps
best answered by another query. Have the Jews changed in
temperament or physiognomy during their long exile? Have
they lost any of their racial characteristics or adopted those of
the nations amongst whom they have sojourned? Has either
climate or scenery detracted from their Oriental appearance?
Why, then, expect these Bulgars to be anything save what they
are, have been, and ever will be to the end of time, namely, Huns?
Can they, by calling themselves and being called a Slavonic race,
become Slavonic? No. They are not Slavs, and only a few
months ago, as in the years 1885, 1886 and 1906, M. Bobchev,
the Bulgarian Envoy at Petrograd, on his return to Sofia, after
the conclusion of the Treaty of Bucharest, declared: "The
ideas hitherto prevalent in Bulgaria have been profoundly
disturbed.... Since Slavism has not helped us, it is advisable
that we renounce it. We must dissolve the Slavonic Society,
abolish the 'Slavjanska Besseda,' and inter everything suggesting racial affinity with the Slavs. Do not tell us anything
more about Slavism or the Slav idea and our unity with the Slavs.
These are but empty words."
In their instincts, thoughts, habits, outward aspect the
Bulgarians, as said, are as Hunnish as were their forefathers
who in the dim ages of history dwelt beside the river Volga.
That they speak the Slavonic tongue and belong, materially, if
not spiritually, to the Slavonic Church, and that, when and where
it has suited their purpose, they have proclaimed themselves Slavs,
cannot alter this fact. Attila, their ancient chieftain, left his
trail in many parts of Europe, and in two countries he permanently established his seed. In the lands to-day called
Prussia and Bulgaria his lineal descendants are still encountered,
and amongst them the Attila robber spirit, the spirit of blood
lust and vengeance, still rules supreme.
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OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES IN NEAR EAST 181


The han bed is hard and in it many parasites have made their
home. They, too, have Hunnish characteristics and appetites,
and to escape from their voracity one is forced to return to the
coolness of the verandah to await the return of the sunrise.
Soon the air, lately so still, begins to palpitate with life. In
the east a blood-red streak of light starts up behind the silver
pinnacles of the mountains. The nightingales, passion weary,
have ceased singing, and the voices of the frogs and the storekeeper are silent. But Nature abhors a vacuum, and a hundred
cocks are sounding the reveille. Morning is unfurling its banners,
and the day, with what it may bring, is rushing up swiftly and
perforce must be met.
Since that May morning-is it three and a half years ago, or
two and a half centuries?-the civilised world has risen to meet
the day which it heralded and has been brought face to face with
its horror, and with barbarism beside which the barbarism of
Attila was as nothing. The Huns of the North under Wilhelm
of Hohenzollern and his Hunnish neighbours have combined
forces with their kindred the Huns of the South, and together
they have declared war, not only on civilisation but on Christianity
itself. Since that May morning Germany, Bulgaria, and their
Allies have committed crimes which must never be forgotten or
excused. Well indeed had it been for humanity if it took care
to remember and forbore to excuse wickednesses wrought upon
its peace and security in the past. Well had it been for Great
Britain and her fellow combatants if she had kept in mind and
refused to forgive those nations and tribes who have in history
been guilty of disturbing the world's peace and security. For
only in such remembrance and unforgiveness lies safety. Had
the statesmen and politicians, had the great peace-loving
democracies behind them known, as they should have known,
the Huns of Europe both past and present, had they studied
the lessons of bygone years, they would have realised, before
too late, the peril this race of Attila will always be to
Christendom. Again, had they studied, even casually, the
personal characters of Wilhelm of Hohenzollern and Ferdinand
of Bulgaria, the individual and collective characters of the
German and Bulgarian peoples, it would have been to their
profit, and might possibly have saved the Universe from the
torture it is now enduring. As this chapter is dealing with
Bulgaria, compare the nature and disposition of King Ferdinand
with the description given by Jornandes which he took from the
account written by Prisus the Byzantine historian, who was
a contemporary of Attila and knew him personally: " HeAttila-had eyes little and cunning. He thrust his head for



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OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


ward as he went and darted his glances all about, going proudly
withal, like one destined to terrify the nations and shake the
earth. His words were soft and his actions brutal. He left
the dead unburied in their thousands for a warning. He
devoured women with a ferocious passion, every day having its
victim, and his bastards formed indeed a people. He knew no
religion but was intensely superstitious. As a General he was
seldom in the field, he commanded rather than led and ever
preferred diplomacy to battle.' His greatest weapon was prevarication. He would debate matters with subtlety for years and the
continual embassies of Theodosius amused without exhausting
him. He played with his victims as a cat does with a mouse and
would rather buy a victory than win it. He played with Empire.
His ideal was the creation of a Hunnish Empire. For this cause
he sought to unite the Barbarian Tribes and Nations under his
sceptre. He wished to be Emperor, and having made use of his
brother Bleda he assassinated him. He loved good living and
splendour, ate from silver dishes brought to him by Slave maidens
attired in white linen. He was the tyrant of the Universe and
he knew only his own necessity, and regarded whatever suited
him as lawful and legitimate and was determined to bring all
the whole world under his domination." So much for Attila,
now what of his descendant  The birth, childhood and youth
of Ferdinand of Bulgaria are obscure. He was merely a petty
German princeling, educated by the Black Jesuit Fathers, and
imbued with the sentiments which govern in Vienna, Budapest,
and Berlin. When a lieutenant in the Austrian army, unknown except for his vicious, sensuous life, he was called from a
billiard-room in a public Viennese cafe to wear the crown of
Bulgaria which none but he would deign to accept. Since that
hour his policy has been one of intrigue, treachery and cruelty.
Like Attila, his favourite weapon has been prevarication. He has
tricked the ambassadors of Europe. Those who opposed his will
or stood in the way of his ambition he murdered, not with his
own hands, for he is a coward, but through those of his chosen,
well-paid band of assassins. Whether they were undesired friends
or honest opposers they were silenced for ever by his order; even
the Bulgarian Prime Minister to whom he owed his throne he
foully murdered, and indirectly he was the cause of his first wife's
death. He has never led his troops into action, but, from a safe
distance in the rear, has invariably taken credit for the victories
that fell to their arms. Nor has he had any respect for religion,
seeing he prostituted his son, to serve political purposes-an
1 Cf. Jorn., R. Get. 36. "Homo subtilis antequam arma gercret, arte
pugnabat..."




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183


action which broke his unhappy Queen's heart, who, like the
beautiful, timid Ildico, the wife of Attila, he forced into marriage.
Nevertheless he is so superstitious that the sight of an owl on
his palace walls has been known to turn him livid with terror. His
treatment of women could not be decently described in print,
enough to say his mistresses and victims have been legion, and
when he tired of them, generally speaking, he had them " removed" after the summary fashion which he employed to rid
himself of the discarded "Anna," whose body was discovered,
hideously mutilated, in a Sofia slum. To further his own ends
and attain Imperial ascendancy, he has united the many warring
political factions within his realm and allied himself to his brother
Huns, Wilhelm of Hohenzollern and the Emperor of Austria.
He has recognised no law moral or divine when it barred the
path to his personal self-aggrandisement. He has loved luxury
and soft living, and has rivalled the decadent Emperors of Rome
and Byzantium in lasciviousness and prodigality. The bodies
of the innocent millions he has tortured and slaughtered have been
left on the blood-drenched fields of Europe as a warning that he
knows not mercy or justice, and is defiant even of the God Who,
having given life, will surely require it again at the hands of its
wanton destroyers.
If Attila, Ferdinand, and Wilhelm of Hohenzollern be so alike,
what similarity can be proved to exist between their subjects,
the Huns of Germany and Bulgaria? First, had these nations
not been of Hunnish breed they would have ere now turned in
revolt against their rulers. But the instinct to oppress, to rob,
torture and murder, so marked in their overlords, is as inbred in
the rank and file. They admire and are subjected by the very
things which would drive other and finer-grained peoples to madness and rebellion. They do not love their masters, for they
cannot love, but they fear them and at heart respect them for
the cruelty which they display. Perhaps one of the best descriptions of the moder Bulgarians, the Southern Huns, is given by
M. Ludovic Naudeau in his treatise entitled, A Bulgarian
Soldier, which, be it noted, was written before the present war
and before Bulgaria had committed the atrocities which have
to-day placed her, along with Germany, beyond the pale of
Christian civilisation.
"A careful examination of the Bulgarians shows them to
possess little psychological similarity with any other Slav people.
They reason coldly and with calculation and exercise strong
control over a heart that is very far from sensitive. They have
no mysticism and they lack warm and noble idealism. They
lack, too, cordiality. They openly declare themselves a military
people. They are materialistic and incredulous and do not look




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OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


beyond the immediate present. They do not work to deserve
Heaven, but to reorganise the exploitation of the earth. They
are obstinate and cravers after benefits. Nor are they afraid
to appear cynical when they explain that they are always ready
to avail themselves of any opportunity without being perturbed
by principles or scruples. Always ready to surrender or to lend
to those who bid the highest, they are ever prepared to sacrifice
to the interests of the morrow the small amount of affection
which they may still exhibit for the benevolent protectors on its
eve. There is no shadow of sentimentality about them, either
religious or historical, and gratitude is to them a kind of luggage
with which they are unlikely to overload their transports. The
great Pan-Slav idea simply amuses them. They long only for
one thing-the aggrandisement of Bulgaria. The mass of
coarse and obstinate peasants who constitute the Bulgarian army
is led by corps of officers who themselves own to the same origin."
When the description of the Huns, written by the Roman,
Ammianus Marcellinus, in 375 A.D., is read, it will again be easily
seen how closely the Huns of that date resemble the Huns of the
present. To quote a passage from this historian: "The Huns
are undisciplined and savage beyond all parallel, they are treacherous and inconstant, and like brute beasts are utterly ignorant of
the distinction between right and wrong. They have no respect
for religion, are fickle, and immoderately covetous of gold. They
are coarse and strong and are, without doubt, the original cause
of all the destruction and manifold calamities which have befallen mankind."
History is but repeating itself. The Huns of Attila's day
-the fifth century-went up in their barbaric fury against the
civilisation of Imperial Rome. The Huns at this hour, under
the Hohenzollern Wilhelm, the Hapsburg Karl, and Ferdinand
" the Coburger," are attacking not only the British Empire but
the civilisation of the entire modern world. Well indeed, it
must again be said, had it been for humanity had it remembered
and profited by the lessons of the past!
" We have backed the wrong horse," declared the late Lord
Salisbury with reference to Turkey, and Great Britain assuredly,
during the last forty-eight years, " backed the wrong horse"
when she made light of and treated with contempt the proffered
goodwill, the friendships and political knowledge and foresight
of civilised nations and peoples and grasped the treacherous,
barbaric hand of Germany, looking forsooth to the children of
Attila for almost everything-for "knowledge," "culture,"
even morals; whilst the Hun " benefactors," their fingers, metaphorically speaking, to their noses, led the politicians, diplomats
and merchants of Britain whithersoever they would.




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185


So impregnated, alas, are some so-called Britishers with the
poison of their former (?) Hunnish friends that they are actually
clamouring to be permitted to reopen negotiations with the
world's enemy! in order, presumably, that they may return to
their "spiritual home" in Hunland. Incredible as it may
appear, there are a few-happily only a few-who condone the
barbarities wrought upon Belgium, France, Serbia and Roumania
by the Hun, Wilhelm of Hohenzollern, and his blood brother,
Ferdinand of Bulgaria. Of Bulgaria they whine: " We could
have bought her neutrality, if not her friendship, had we listened
to her proposals, given her Macedonia, and permitted her to
occupy it with her troops! But Serbia was obstinate, she spurned
King Ferdinand's terms, and she has only herself to thank for
the suffering brought upon her people."
Yes-Serbia, fortunately for Great Britain and the Allies,
knew Bulgaria, the Bulgarians, and their Sovereign too intimately
to fall into such a trap. The Serbians have good reason for
realising that when the Huns speak of peace they are invariably
arming themselves for battle. They had seen huge war supplies
hurried down from Berlin to Sofia, and they were perfectly
cognisant of the fact that, at the very moment " the Coburger "
was making his treacherous proposal, whilst his insulting terms
to the Allies were still on his lips, his battalions were being massed
on their frontiers. The Serbs knew that if Macedonia was conceded to Bulgaria and Bulgarian troops were allowed to occupy
that country, a reason would, on that instant, be put forward for
another quarrel and their foes would strike them in the back,
having first secured a more favourable military position-Macedonia-one nearer and more convenient to the scene of action.
Great Britain, therefore, and the entire world owes Serbia a
debt of gratitude, and this debt, though too stupendous to be
paid in full, must, so far as possible, be cleared. Serbia was left
by a British Government to meet on all sides the ferocious
Bulgarian attacks; Serbia was left to pay the heavy price for the
ignorance, deliberate or otherwise, of British statesmen who
proved unworthy of the trust laid upon them; Serbia, the valiant,
deserted and alone, faithfully and long kept the gate to India.
That she has been practically annihilated is not her fault, but
the fault of those who deserted her. Let another, and a better,
British Government, therefore, led by more far-sighted, more
honest, and patriotic statesmen and diplomats, see to it that
Serbia reaps at least some small reward for her gallantry. Let
the people of Great Britain make amends, in so far as they can,
for the wrongs of the past by establishing a Southern Slav Union
united in language, in religion, in racial consciousness, in SouthEastern Europe, and then, and only then, will she secure for




186 OUR ALLIES AND         ENEMIES IN     NEAR    EAST
herself, against Hunnish barbarism, the high-road to her Indian
dominions. But leave this road, as it now is, a track down which
the Hunnish tribes may swarm at will from their lair in Central
Europe towards the Persian Gulf, and India is lost to England;
and once again and even, if possible, more horribly the
descendants of Attila will arise to devastate and destroy the
world.
There is nothing for it but to draw now and for ever the tangs
of the Hun monsters. This is a fact known to all true pacifists.




PART IV


AMONGST THE JEWS
CHAPTER XVII
A JEWISH HOUSEHOLD IN CROATIA
IN his Esprit des Lois Montesquieu wrote that " a religion
burdened with many ceremonies attaches men to it more strongly
than one which has but few." How often the truth of this argument was brought to mind during a long sojourn in the Jewish
family of Aschkenazy! How often, even across the welter of
bloodshed and death now stretching between that humble home
and oneself, does the heart go out, attracted by some strange
charm, to the kindly Hebrew folk who observed so faithfully
their ancient Israelitish creed with all its tedious innumerable
ceremonies! These people, by their broad-mindedness, and hospitality to a stranger of alien faith and race, won, if not a convert
to their creed, at least a believer in its power to help its adherents towards the attainment of the ultimate goal to which
there are so many and such devious pathways.
The hand of time has gone back nearly four years and again
one is gazing at the old house of the Aschkenazy family. It
stands on the river Kulpa, in Croatia, on the fringe of the little
garrison town of K —. No one remembers when this house
was new. There is a tale that before the memory of any of the
townsfolk it was inhabited for a period by the French Marshal
Marmont, who once gave a supper in what is now the dining-room,
on which occasion the big round table, still in use, was laden with
dishes of gold and silver, and one of the guests was no less a
personage than the great Emperor Napoleon, whose Empress,
by the way, gave her name-Marie Louise-to the only good road
in Croatia. Furthermore, it is said, the Marshal and the World's
Conqueror actually reposed together in the depths of the huge,
wooden, four-post bedstead in the guest-chamber, an immense
apartment, now occupied by the Aschkenazy's English " Miss,"
187




188


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


who, eighteen months ago, succeeded a Friulein from Berlin.
Casually it may be remarked that the bed's present occupation
by a Britisher is furiously resented by the Teutonic inhabitants
of the town, who are bristling with wrath at the indignity meted
out to their race by " those filthy, fat, little Jewish pigs." In
the first place they are angry that the " sweet young maiden "
of Germany was dismissed for having a scandalous intrigue with
a Bosnian officer stationed in the town; and secondly, they are
annoyed that an English girl should have stepped into the vacant
post and been given the best bedroom, whereas their own countrywomen have been relegated to very humble quarters: " the
Jewish swine " evidently considering " anything good enough
for a German," and nothing too comfortable or luxurious to offer
the-doubtless-spying and overbearing " Miss."
The house, to repeat, is old and battered, a square, once whitewashed, gigantic, two-storied building bearing some resemblance
to an English fifteenth-century inn. Its front is pierced by an
archway large enough to allow of vehicles reaching the ill-paved,
moss-grown courtyard round which it is built. Over this courtyard the inner windows of the house look down, whilst those on the
other side open on to the outer world, namely, the market-place
of the town, and, at the rear, the river Kulpa. In the centre of
the yard is a lichen-covered stone fountain, whence the drinking
water is drawn regardless of the laws of sanitation. From this
court, too, spring four ladder-like flights of wooden stairs, half of
whose steps have long since disappeared before the ravages of
time and weather. These stairs lead directly to the second floor,
to the dining-room, a couple of the bedrooms, and the kitchen,
into all of which, at the opening of the cranky doors at the heads
of the ladders, blow, at different seasons, whirling eddies of dust
or snow: the elements, like everything and everybody else,
being at liberty to enter at will every nook and cranny in the
building, which, by the way, possesses neither passage nor landing
nor hall. The sleeping-rooms have each two doors, and in order
to reach any of them one must of necessity encroach upon the
privacy of the adjoining apartments even should their owners
be at the time occupied with their toilets. Not infrequently
this arrangement is disconcerting, especially when one is laboriously endeavouring to wash from head to foot in a hand-basin,
which is the only bath obtainable save the unwieldy copper
receptacle wherein, previous to fasts and feasts, the family perform their ablutions. One becomes inured to everything, however-even to washing in full gaze of the interested and admiring
eyes of half a dozen gaily-clad market-women, who, bent on
disposing of their wares, many a time intrude upon the spectacle
of a foreigner splashing in a bowl!




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189


There is one thing, unfortunately, which it is very difficult to
ignore, or even tolerate, namely, the unsavoury odours which are
wafted up from a hole in the floor of the kitchen, down which are
flung all the slops and oddments of refuse, cooking and otherwise,
and from which, to repeat, float up scents distinctly not of Araby.
This hole and the untrapped pipe attached to it, leading nowhere
in particular, are objects of much pride to the family. Most
houses in K — have not a vestige of drainage, neither untrapped
pipes nor yawning holes, consequently this curious possession,
entitled " English sanitation," is looked upon as an extraordinary
and modern innovation.
The outlook from the front windows is extensive, if not lovely.
Picture a large dusty square, roughly paved with cobbles between
which sprout tufts of rank grass. Here at cockcrow on the weekly
fair-day a vast concourse of cattle, horses, pigs, geese, poultry, and
white-clad peasant folk assemble to dispute every inch of the
ground. Here, too, are set up hundreds of booths and stalls laden
with all kinds of merchandise, from glowing embroideries to fruit,
butter, eggs, and cheeses. Lying directly across the square is the
" promenade," or principal street of K —, a dreary thoroughfare
of small shops, shaded by stunted round-headed acacia trees,
and at right angles to the house and this street are the barracks
of the Magyar troops, which, with the Austrian and Slavonic
regiments, form the garrison of the tiny, rampart encircled town.
Seen from the market-place the old house thus described looks
as if it was pitted with small-pox. The whitewash and plaster
have dropped off here and there, and many of the red tiles on its
roof have been carried away during the storms which blow up
every springtime from the region of the Karst. Added to this
the lower portions of its walls are green-stained and oozing with
damp. As, however, the foundations of the building literally
overhang the waters of the treacherous Kulpa, this dampness and
greenness is only to be expected, seeing there is scarcely a year
when the stream does not burst its banks and inundate half the
neighbourhood, leaving in its retreat many decomposing corpses
of cats and rats, and any quantity of slimy, mosquitoes and feverimparting mud.
Now what of the interior of this queer old mansion? To begin
with, only the second of its two stories is fit for human habitation,
the ground floor having, years ago, been leased in perpetuity to
rats, mice, and spiders. But Theresa Aschkenazy, the owner,
to whom an introduction will presently be given, is not an
individual to allow even the most miserable of her possessions
to go absolutely to loss, and is not above doing a little lucrative
business on her own account; so, in two of these almost ruined
apartments below stairs she sells, on market days, grain, tanned




190


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


leather, undressed sheepskins, and, be it whispered, issues trifling
money loans to the impecunious country-people.
There is a truly strange mixture of sordidness and refinement,
of ugliness and beauty, found both in the house and its inmates.
Who would imagine that above this dingy, musty ground-floor,
or within these weather and time beaten walls, is anything either
beautiful or prosperous? Clamber up one of the four flights of
stairs, however, before making too sure; preferably the flight
on the right of the courtyard. Push open the creaking wooden
door at the top, and enter without more ado the historic diningroom already mentioned. It is a spacious, lofty apartment with
a glistening parquet-inlaid floor and many deep-set windows,
shaded by rich green and gold brocade curtains. The dark and
much-patched panelling of its walls is draped with antique Oriental
tapestries, and the chill bareness is warmed here and there by long,
silky-haired, white skin rugs. Massive silver and crystal goblets
gleam in a big carved oak cupboard, and the sunshine plays merrily
on the swinging, bronze, lapis-lazuli encrusted lamps. Close
to the green and gold tiled stove is a luxurious divan spread with
gaily-hued silken coverlets and cushions. A grand piano occupies
the space between two of the four windows. Round the enormous age-blackened table, at which, it is said, Napoleon once
supped, stand a stately circle of exquisitely carved, high-backed
wooden chairs.
Traversing this room and passing through a second doorway
one reaches the salon. Its azure blue ceiling-the work of some
long dead and forgotten Italian artist-has faded, and the many
plump pink cherubs that flutter over its blueness amid
conventional flower garlands have lost a good deal of their
rosiness. Its gold and white panelling, its many oval gilt-framed
mirrors, are chipped and tarnished, and the pale blue striped
brocade of its eighteenth-century furniture has faded. Nevertheless it is a pleasant place, airy and very cheerful. The finest
and cleanest of fine and clean lace curtains ripple softly on the
shining floor in the breeze streaming through the open casements.
On the gilded, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, centre table stands a
Sevres vase, in which blooms a tiny myrtle bush tricked out with
coquettish knots of pink and blue ribbons. Rare miniatures, all
sorts of small quaint bibelots lie scattered about in all directions.
A couple of white wicker baskets, brimming over with fresh red
roses, are set on the tall gilt consoles flanking either side of the
white porcelain stove. Sparkling old-world chandeliers with
heavy glass lustres hang suspended by ornamental gilt chains
from the summer sky ceiling. Altogether, to repeat, it is an
exceedingly pleasant place this salon, and if it were not for the
fact that the " English sanitation," otherwise, the horrible drain



IN THE NEAR EAST


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pipe, emits odours too aggressive to be ignored, it would probably
be redolent of fading roses and musk.
The third door opens into the embroidery closet. Here the
furniture is scanty, and all is arranged with a view to work, not
idleness or ease. All it contains are a few unyielding wicker
chairs, three or four spinning-wheels, several embroidery frames,
a white painted table, a work-box or two, a capacious brassbound chest, filled with multi-coloured silks and wools, strips
of marvellous needlework and embroidery and quantities of
silver and gold thread. In this room for several hours each day
the ladies and female servants sit sewing, spinning, chattering,
and filling cigarette papers with the golden Bosnian tobacco;
cigarette-making being, in these parts, recokoned amongst the
domestic accomplishments.
The next apartment is the library. From floor to ceiling tower
handsomely carved black oaken shelves, laden with volumes in
almost every classic and modem language-Latin, Greek, Hebrew,
English, French, Italian, Spanish, German. This ramshackle,
rambling mansion and its furnishings are old, but whereas the
building itself is little better than a semi-ruined barn, nearly all
it shelters is of value. Sometimes the eye is arrested by the
wondrous colouring and radiance of rare pictures, sometimes by
the glint of armour, the sparkle of crystal and curiously set jewels,
or the glow of costly Oriental carpets and tapestries. Over and
through all broods the spirit of the Hebrew race, which, of all
races of mankind, was the earliest to awaken to a consciousness
of the beautiful, the ideal. Here, in these rooms, one somehow
begins to understand how suffering and persecution have been
the principal factors in the building up of Hebrew culture, in the
development of the ancient artistic genius of the Jewish people.
Thrown back upon themselves, isolated from the world, they have,
through the centuries, gradually created for themselves a world
of their own, in which the love, comprehension, and value of beauty,
innate and inalienable from their race, rules supreme.
To return, however, to the library. Passing through it one
enters the first of the many sleeping apartments, namely, the
state bedroom, as to the occupation of which the Teutonic
inhabitants of K-  have taken such offence. Except that it is
larger, and that its ancient four-post bedstead, hung with crimson
brocade curtains, is said to have afforded hospitality to Marshal
Marmont and the Emperor Bonaparte, it does not differ much
from the other bedrooms that open out, one after the other,
glassy floored and reposeful, round the remaining portion of the
great square building, till they merge on to the kitchen premises,
that in turn open across the top of the stairs into the dining-room.
Each bedroom boasts a four-post, canopied, and brocade-hung




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OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


bed, an old, gilt-framed blotched mirror, a tiled stove, a table,
a couple of chairs and a washing-basin, entirely inadequate for
cleanliness. Each is possessed of two monster oaken cupboards,
one for the accommodation of personal clothing, whilst in the other
is stored a goodly supply of fine linen, bound with various coloured
ribbons, and perfumed with cedar dust, lavender, and rosemary.
It is the habit in' this country, by the by, to spend many hours
of the day in one's bedroom, and every morning the bedding is
carried out into the open air, beaten, brought back again and
re-arranged in such a fashion as to give the beds the appearance
of divans or sofas. Bedrooms in fact cease to be bedrooms and
become reception rooms, to be freely entered by friends and
strangers of both sexes. If one is obliged to perform one's toilet
during the hours of daylight, as already stated, one must take
the chance of having to do so in public; privacy not being
regarded as an essential. Speaking of the bedroom cupboards,
the gossips of K — declare that they are filled with hoarded
treasures, and undoubtedly gossip is for once right as regards
the contents of not a few of these chests and wardrobes. Linen
is not, by any means, the only thing stored within these crumbling
walls!
So much for the house; now, what of its inmates? To begin
with, there is Theresa Aschkenazy, the mistress of the establishment, a widow; secondly, there is Josef Aschkenazy, Theresa's
brother, a confirmed bachelor; thirdly, there is Lidia, the daughter
of Theresa; and lastly, the English " Miss," two Croatian Christian
servant-maids and the boy-of-all-work, who has, it seems, no name
at all, and, like the Gibeonites of old, is the hewer of wood and
drawer of water to the children of Israel. Theresa is thirty-nine,
but gives the impression of being nearer fifty. She is short, and
abnormally fat. She waddles as she walks, probably because her
legs are too short for her body and have over-much to support.
As to her face it is large, flat, round and very red. Her eyes,
black as sloe-berries,'are obliquely set, narrow, and generally
half-shut, but their darting sidelong glances are full of shrewd,
and at times malicious, cunning. As to her hair, it is brown and
abundant, and she wears it dragged off her shining forehead over
a stupendous, half-moon-shaped topee, which no persuasion can
induce her to discard. To say she has a taste for dress is to underestimate one of her strongest racial passions. It is a delight to
behold her sallying forth every afternoon and Sabbath morning
attired in all her glory. On these occasions, having discarded
the shapeless scarlet dressing-gown, in which she is wont to spend
the earlier hours of the day, she adorns herself like the sun. Her
inborn sense of the artistic does not, alas! manifest itself in her
costumes. On the extreme summit of her topee she balances




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193


on high days and holidays, a hat, wide in brim, aspiring in crown,
surmounted by a mass of definitely nodding black and white
plumes, artificial flowers, tulle and gaudy ribbons. Her rotund
person is squeezed into corsets that contrive in some mysterious
fashion to coax all their owner's superfluous adipose tissue
above where the waist-line ought to be, thus giving her the
similitude of a strutting and conceited pigeon. Grasping a voluminous black satin bag in one tightly gloved podgy hand, an
umbrella in the other, with skirts trailing in the summer dust
or winter slush, she bears down upon wherever may be her
destination. Poor Theresa's clothes are a permanent jest in
K -, but to ridicule and jeers she is either oblivious or indifferent. Of course, she is fully aware that, as a Jewess, she is
considered beyond the pale of local or, indeed, any society.
Sometimes this fact, when she finds time to remember it, troubles
her slightly, for although inured, like all her race, to snubs and
derision, in her secret soul she craves for friendship, not so much
for herself as for the sake of her little daughter Lidia. "They
might know, these stupid Christians, that neither my child nor
her fortune is for them; Lidia can only marry with one of her
own faith; and her money will never be used to pay the debts of
a rascally lieutenant. But, she is young after all, and is as eager
for amusement as other maidens   " Here follows a sigh, for,
beneath all her cunning shrewdness and avarice, Theresa hides a
heart of gold purer even than that which stands to her credit
in the bank.
Lidia, the apple of her mother's eye, is seventeen. She is
small, delicate, and pale as a snowdrop. Her face, heart-shaped,
and ending abruptly in a little, pointed, deeply cleft chin, and
framed in a halo of dusky curls, is more a dream face than a real
one, despite the pouting crimson mouth, which, when smiling,
shows teeth like pearls. There is nothing especially striking
in the girl's appearance. She is too fragile, too insignificant to
be termed beautiful. Only her strange spirituality and her eyes
never fail to haunt the memory of the few who deign to bestow
on her more than casual attention. As to her eyes, they are
sometimes blue as gentians, sometimes purple: arched by
sensitive dark brows, fringed by sweeping lashes, and in their
innocent depths there is something strangely tragic. It is the
common opinion amongst the peasants that the Jewish girl of
Aschkenazy is gifted with second sight, the country-people rarely
meet her on the road without muttering a prayer and crossing
themselves. Of friends she has none. Educated at the Christian
school of K -, she was, however, never encouraged to share
the games or confidences of her companions. There are very
few unreformed Jews in the town and most of them are old, dull
o




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OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


and dirty, consequently, outside her own family, Lidia has only
her English governess, her dog, and the servants with whom to
exchange a thought. That she speaks fluently and can read the
literatures of six modern languages; that she can peruse the
Classics in the original, and of course Hebrew; that she has a
voice like an angel and could, if need be, earn her living as an
opera singer or musician; that she can cook and dust, darn and
embroider, and, what is more, that she has inherited the fortune
of her father and will inherit those of her mother and uncle, and
is, even now, in a position, if race and religion permitted, to pay
the debts of a dozen extravagant lieutenants; that she is sweet
in herself and altogether lovable-counts for nothing. Like all
her people, she is outcast, an outcast of the outcasts, seeing she
is born of the stiff-necked tribe of Askenazim which, since the
Dispersion, has, of all the houses of Israel, most fiercely resisted
conversion to Christianity.
As to Josef Aschkenazy, he is not at all an attractive person,
so far as outward appearance goes. But the few who know him
intimately-the poor Jews of his synagogue, his sister Theresa,
Lidia, the servants, his mongrel dog " Lovik "-are devoted to him.
So, evidently, the soul hidden within his squat, stout, bandylegged body, must be worthy of some regard. His face, like
Theresa's, is flat, red, round, and large. He, too, has beady,
coal-black eyes, that nothing escapes. In business he is a petty
banker, and, as such, he lends money to the needy, which he
contrives to get back again with considerable interest. Those
whom he has assisted in difficulty are ungrateful, and declare he
is "a Hebrew blood-sucker," "a swinish Hebrew rogue," but
to these slanders he pays no heed, for, after all, people are never
wont to be just or grateful to those from whom they have
borrowed. Josef is rich, to repeat, richer by far than most,
but he finds in this no reason why he should finance politicians,
seeing he has always made it a point to shun everything and
every one connected with politics. As to Imperial favours and
bribes he holds them in the utmost contempt. Time and
again have the high and mighty ones in authority made it plain
that, on their part, they; are prepared to smile upon Josef and his
family. More than once-indeed, scores of times-they have
hinted that the most exclusive circles in Viennese society will
gladly open their doors to him and his: to " the Jewish swine,"
if the "swine" will but place at the disposal of the powers
that be whatever pearls of value they may see fit to demand as
price for such a privilege. But Josef has no desire to forswear his
principles or abandon his racial and religious exclusiveness.
He has not the slightest ambition to remove to Budapest or
Vienna, and there keep open house for impoverished professors,




IN THE NEAR EAST


195


journalists, attaches of the Chinese, Japanese, and Persian Legations; 1 and an open purse for every derelict rapscallion archduke, prince, and Court parasite who, chancing to have drifted
"on the rocks," would deem it not unbecoming to dignity to
sponge upon Jewish charity. If, as the cafe notices run, " Jews
and dogs are not admitted to bierhallen," unless-though this
is only inferred-they happen to be the supporters of aristocratic
Christian degeneracy, then, argues this long-headed, honest,
little Israelite, it is better to stay outside and imbibe one's beer
at home in the society of one's fellow dogs-canine and Hebrewwhose affections are not a purchasable commodity. By this
it may be seen that Josef is obstinate and the reverse of a snob.
What is more, in common with his sister, he is at heart and not
onlyin principle devoted to his religion and strict as to its observances, and this alone is sufficient to deter him from buying his
way into the Catholic court salons of Vienna. He is plainly
aware that those Hebrews who have once bowed the knee to Baal
have almost invariably developed into the most ferocious and
implacable of anti-Semites; he knows that the most dangerous
enemies of his people and his faith are the Israelites who, having
sold their birthright for a mess of pottage, are likewise, only too
often, as ready to barter their brethren. This, then, is the reason
why Josef Aschkenazy keeps his wealth to himself and spends
it amongst his poor co-religionists and the peasantry. This is
why the high authorities bear a grudge against him and his, and
this is why the old house on the river Kulpa stands a forlorn lodge
in a field of cucumbers. There is, however, one Christian who has
perception enough to see beneath the surface, who, without exactly
knowing why, has gradually grown to love these despised Hebrews.
It is a matter for curiosity and astonishment with the townsfolk how the young and well-born English "Miss" can not
merely live with, but actually seem happy amongst, such uncongenial surroundings and in such company. Yet the English
" Miss " is happy, happier far than she was in the palace in Vienna
where she slept in an attic, had for pupil an Archduchess, and
was not always paid her salary. Time, common sense, an excellent digestion, and perhaps, who knows? a sympathetic soul,
has come to her rescue and she has grown accustomed to the
strange Jewish laws and customs which regulate the household;
to the strange Jewish dishes; to the lack of such trifling matters
as baths and privacy; and, above all, to the loneliness and isolation which, perforce, she is more or less obliged to share with
her employers. They-these scorned folk-are so kind. To
them she is not a servant but a personage of importance, who has


1 The only Legations which would tolerate association with Hebrews.




196


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


graciously consented to teach her wonderful English language
to the little Lidia. That they pay her to do so is a fact which
never appears to strike them. Truth to tell, on the day when
she first beheld the frowzy, scarlet-clad form of Theresa and the
small, corpulent, vulgar figure of Josef, her heart had sunk. It
had sunk still further when, after climbing the rickety stairs,
she caught the first whiff of the obnoxious drain-pipe. But
when, suddenly, the ugly little woman in the impossible clothes
put out her fat arms and took her into them; when the unprepossessing Josef preceded her into the best room carrying her
boxes on his shoulders and shouting welcome; when little Lidia,
with her starry eyes, kissed her hand and brought her a cup of
boiling, hay-tinted tea; when, just before she dropped to sleep
in the all-engulfing bed, she became drowsily conscious of three
anxious Hebrew faces peering through the curtained doorway"to see," as was afterwards explained, "if the poor tired one
had all she desired and was likely to spend a reposeful night"
-she, the English " Miss," knew that she had acted wisely when,
disregarding the warnings and expostulations of many advisers,
she had thrown in her lot with the world's rejected.
Nor has she ever had occasion to alter her opinion. The
Jewish food is, of course, a trial, it is so greasy, so redolent of
garlic and spices. For a day or two after her arrival, although
she made the best of it, her appetite had failed. Had she left
a meal untasted at the archducal table no one would have cared
or indeed noticed. Not so here. Theresa and Lidia were distressed; a secret conclave was held, with the result that at suppertime Josef came home from his business bringing with him a
few slices of the choicest Prague ham-to him an unclean thingwhich he had gone to the far end of the town to purchase for " the
Miss," whose stomach he perceived was not strong enough to
support " our cooking." It was a trifle, but is not life made up of
trifles? and it has beep by trifles such as this that the English
girl has come to appreciate the unappreciated. People who are
possessed by the modern devil of unrest would assuredly find
everyday existence in the old house unendurable, for the simple
reason that those so possessed are dependent upon their fellowcreatures-all as restless as themselves-for everything that, in
their opinion, as in that of the world generally, makes life tolerable.
Cut off, as they would be here, from social intercourse, deprived
of the pleasures, the excitements, even the occupations which
to-day have come to be so essential and necessary to the average
human being of every class, they would rapidly fall victims to
their own boredom.
Nevertheless, for the lucky few who carry the secret of happiness
within themselves, the serene tranquillity of this Jewish home can




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197


but fascinate and charm. What if the great world mocks and
boycotts? In this ostracised Hebrew world one can afford to
be independent of the larger outside world. For here are to be
found interests and pleasures for all who possess brains and
education. Art, music, literature, languages, a talent for brilliant
conversation, a sense of the beautiful, a keen capacity and business
ability to do even the commonest duties with efficiency-these
are the things, these the qualities which never fail to counteract
the discomfort and loneliness, and open wide the door to this
little Jewish world, which, however, so few condescend to explore.
In all there are about one hundred Orthodox, namely Unreformed,
Jews in K, and from their Reformed or Liberal racial brethren,
as from the Christians, they hold aloof. Of these hundred persons the majority are poor, and barely contrive to eke out a livelihood as small shopkeepers, tradesmen, bankers, and pedlars.
So it comes about that it is to the family of Aschkenazy the old
Rabbi looks for payment of his modest income and the funds
needful for the upkeep of the tiny, barnlike synagogue, as also
for the wherewithal to support the sick, friendless, and old folk
of his flock.
From their obligations as the only wealthy members of their
community, Theresa, Josef, and Lidia never shrink. Not only
by gifts of money, but by daily and personal care, they promote
the well-being and happiness of their less fortunate co-religionists.
This naturally entails the expenditure of time, thought, and labour.
Again, the monotony of existence is so frequently broken by the
feasts and fasts of the Hebrew religion, in which all are obliged
to take part. The Passover in itself forms quite an epoch, and
the Passover holidays are as eagerly anticipated as Christmas
amongst Christians. Is it possible to succumb to ennui in these
spring weeks, when, for days previous to the great festival,
Theresa tears at the head of the servants through the house, and
literally turns its contents upside down in a wild search for whatever is unclean or unlawful?-when every nook and cranny in
the old mansion is investigated and "whatever offends "-it is
never, alas! the " English sanitation "-is solemnly denounced
and, if possible, destroyed, with the assurance to Jehovah that,
" all leaven and wickedness that is in our house we declare of no
more worth than dust "?




CHAPTER XVIII


A CROATIAN VILLAGE MARKET
WITH the memory of the old house and its inmates rise visions
also of many quiet, pleasant, profitable days spent beneath its
roof. Of them all, that which shines clearest and stays longest
is the recollection of a certain Sabbath eve in the July previous
to the outbreak of war. Somewhere far off a voice has droned
the hour of three, it is the voice of the town watchman. The
cocks in the courtyard are crowing, and the dawn guard has
taken the place of the midnight guard before the barrack gates.
The rats that inhabit regions behind the wall panelling are
enjoying a last scuttle round their quarters before sunrise, and
the croaking frogs in the willows bordering the river have all
gone to sleep. Another few moments and the blue-breasted
pigeons and white doves in the eaves begin to coo and flutter,
and already from away beyond the ramparts comes the faint
lowing and bleating of the flocks and herds that are streaming
down upon the market square immediately beneath the windows,
End at last it is borne in upon one that this is Friday, the Christian
weekly fair-day, and the eve of the Jewish Sabbath. The air
of Croatia places no temptation in the way of lie-abeds. The
breezes that come rushing down from the Karst and across the
Hungarian plains are so fresh that one awakens of a morning
invigorated, alert, and filled with the desire to spring up and
enjoy its freshness. But it is still too early, and for the next
hour or two one lies listening to the noises growing and swelling
in the little town.
Half-past five, and the tall, lissom figure of Efika, the Croatian
maid, appears on the threshold, carrying a gaily-painted wooden
tray with a pot of coffee, a couple of crisp golden rolls, honey,
and some boiled butter. The girl is a typical Slav, supple as a
wild cat, with a little round head, velvety, ivory-tinted skin,
full-lidded, amber-brown eyes, and a superabundance of mousecoloured hair which she takes infinite trouble to hide. Clad in
a straight-falling white linen chemise, or robe, girt round the
waist with a broad leather belt, her head and shoulders enveloped
in the white muslin kerchief which so tends to accentuate the
198




OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES IN NEAR EAST 199


extraordinary resemblance these Southern Slavonic women bear
to the Madonnas of Botticelli, Efika might have stepped out of
one of the Holy Family pictures of the great painter. She does
not look oppressed or overworked, nor is she, for the old-fashioned
Jews are always kind to servants; nevertheless, the veriest drudge
in a cheap London boarding-house would recoil mutinous from
the work which this Croat girl takes as a matter of course. From
dawn till sundown day in day out she scrubs and polishes floors,
scours dishes, attends table, assists in the cooking, baking, and
washing, carries messages, brings stuff from the market, rolls
cigarettes, spins, mends, and embroiders; always smiling, ever
ready with a joke or a compliment, Efika is indeed very far
behind the times in her ideas as to the duties and privileges of
hired service. Bidding a cheery good morning, setting the tray
on the table by the window, and pouring the daily modicum of
hot water into the basin, she pit-pats back again on twinkling
naked feet to the kitchen, there to prepare the second breakfast,
which is laid in the dining-room at seven-thirty for all who wish
to partake of it. Whilst enjoying the first or " little " breakfast
one can find amusement in watching the market crowd. A
minute description of a K- fair-day would take from now till
nightfall to relate. White-robed, sandal-shod Croats, bellskirted, gaudily bedecked, scarlet-booted Magyar women,
turbaned Bosnians, blue-coated soldiers, sheepskin-cloaked shepherds and swineherds, semi-nude gipsies, multitudes of beastsbuffaloes, oxen, pigs, geese and poultry, hundreds of wagons of all
sorts and sizes, booths, stalls, piles of glowing fruit, skins,
embroideries are all blended together in one brilliant kaleidoscopic
whole. To those who have a taste for dazzling blinding colour
and primitive human nature this square, on these Friday mornings,
would prove a sheer delight.
Suddenly, high above the din and hum of grumbling beasts,
creaking wagon wheels, and the babble of the busy crowd,
shrills out the voice of Theresa Aschkenazy, and by craning
far out over the window ledge it is possible to catch a glimpse
of her rotund, scarlet-robed form, standing in the entrance to
the courtyard. Evidently she has just finished plucking the
fowl which she is wildly brandishing in the direction of a mass
of feathers, plainly with the object of impressing upon her companion, the yard-boy without a name, his abominable laziness
in contrast with her own energy. Voices are generally loud in
these parts, and at first strangers find it difficult to realise that
violent quarrelling is neither universal nor perpetual when,
from sunrise to sunset, the entire community bawls and yells
all that has to be said, however trivial. But even in this land
of loud speaking, Theresa's voice is remarkable. People declare




200


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


they can hear her a kilometre away, and the quiet Lidia, at
times, bewails the fact. In truth Theresa's spirit and energy
are too large and restless to be conveniently contained within
her squat little person. She has all, and, if possible, more than
all the vital driving force that makes the Hebrew people the
most long-lived, healthy, and resisting race on earth. " If I was
to keep quiet and turn my thumbs I would go mad or, what would
be worse, fatter," is the excuse she proffers when her activities
and bawlings happen, as they frequently do, to get on other
people's nerves. Though it is now barely six o'clock she has
been up and doing for at least three hours, and this despite
the fact that she did not retire to rest till long after midnight.
First she waked the domestics, shook and slapped them-all
in good part, be it said-till, willy nilly, they arose before there
was occasion. Then she clattered on flip-flap, heelless slippers,
thrust over bare feet, to the kitchen to superintend the kindling
of the wood fire, to help the yawning Gibeonite to bring in the
logs and draw the water. Then she turned the handle of the
coffee-roaster, saw that the coffee-pots were properly burnished,
assisted in kneading the morning bread, and watched it baking
on the embers. Having so done, she went the rounds of the
bedrooms, shrieking the hour; dragged the sleeping Lidia from
beneath the bedclothes, informing her that it was not seemly that
a virtuous Jewish maiden should slumber longer than her mother;
beat a terrific tattoo on whatever small portion of her brother
Josef's body he had indiscreetly left vulnerable to attack, and,
finally, seizing the keys of the store-rooms on the ground floor,
she flopped down the rickety stairs bent on opening commerce
upon the advent of the first market cart full of peasants. The
plucking of the fowl has been merely an interlude in the grain
and leather bartering. Of course, she has the utmost contempt
for other people's business capacities, and consequently believes
in doing her own marketing, and it is edifying to watch her
darting out at intervals through the archway and charging down
upon the various stalls.
Croatian marketing has its own special characteristics, of
which the hunt for bargains and the well-nigh superhuman and
persistent endeavours to obtain a very great deal for very little
are the most noticeable. Every right-minded housewife in
K      likes to persuade her friends, and still more, her foes,
that she can outwit the tradespeople, and Theresa is as desirous
as the rest to proclaim her achievements in this respect. She
is ever the first to start a skirmish across a market stall and the
last to lay down her arms. Attended by Efika, or the cook
Sofia, flaunting her flaring dressing-gown in the face of convention
-for, though a Jewess, with no social rights, Theresa belongs




IN THE NEAR EAST


201


to the class which is expected to wear Western fashions and to
walk abroad decently shod-she elbows and pushes her way
along the narrow paths between the booths, tables and piles of
merchandise, and as she goes she haggles, argues, mocks, and
screams till the awe-inspired dealers give her what she wants at
the price she offers, whereupon she betakes herself homewards
still airing her views at the top of her voice as to the goods and
their vendors. The tirade about the pile of feathers is terminated
with a resounding box on the ear of the nameless boy just as
the town clocks chime seven and as the bells of the Greek and
Catholic churches start their call to matins. It is time for
second breakfast, and back again up the stairs pants the moving
spirit of the house, triumphantly laden with baskets and bundles
containing edibles of every sort and description.
The table in the big dining-room is spread with a clean, coarse,
red and white linen cloth, and on it are a great copper pot of
fragrant coffee, an earthenware jug of boiled milk, a pitcher,
containing thick and steaming chocolate, a wooden trencher
bearing a big loaf of dark grey peasant bread, a white cloth
enfolding many crusty, delicious, fresh rolls, a dish of white
acacia honey, some roasted eggs, boiled butter, and a bowl of
sour curds. Not a meal to be despised, even if the appetite
had not been sharpened by Croatian air, and the more one
devours the better pleased its providers will be. But do not
expect to be coaxed, or even asked to eat. Here is food, therefore sit down and take of it without troubling about other
people. If one wishes for anything at the far end of the table,
then put out a long arm and take it or get up and fetch it, or
else do without it. But on no account put another to the
inconvenience of passing the wished-for comestible round. If a
person is so stupid as to quit the room unsatisfied, the blame
must not be laid at the door of the host, for, to invite people to
eat when it is obviously intended that they should eat, or to
ask them to continue eating after they have once laid down their
knives and forks, is to suggest that they are without intellect or
discretion. Only in the case of illness such as that which once overtook the " Miss " is any remark passed on the appetite or lack of
appetite on the part of a member of the company. By this
it may be gathered that table manners here are not quite in
accordance with those generally recognised in society. Fastidious
and polite folk would assuredly be terribly disgusted if they
could see Theresa just now splashing the coffee into her cup,
blowing it noisily and vigorously, then flinging it down her
throat and cramming after it more than half the roll she has
torn asunder with her teeth and fingers. They would, moreover,
be scandalised if they beheld her dipping her bread alternately




202         OUR   ALLIES AND      ENEMIES
into the curds and honey, scornfully regardless of such superfluous things as knives or spoons. Undoubtedly, too, the ultraprudish and conventional would be scandalised if they heard
some of the remarks and witticisms interchanged by the family
during the brief breathing intervals rendered necessary by such
ferocious methods of mastication. Jews, taken as a whole, are
delightful and brilliant conversationalists, but the freedom of
speech indulged in by both sexes at the meal would prove embarrassing to people brought up to avoid looking the primitive
and fundamental facts of Nature in the face. But, after all,
these people are so frank and natural in themselves that they
see nothing shocking or indelicate in the great truths of life.
Fifteen minutes is considered ample time for the disposal of this
fairly substantial repast, and, ere her last bite has been swallowed,
the mistress of the house has waddled back to her duties. How
numerous these self-imposed tasks are it would be impossible
to say, for no pie, speaking not altogether figuratively, whether
it be her own or another's, can, in Theresa's opinion, turn out
a success unless she has had several fingers in its baking.
A few moments later Josef likewise betakes himself to his
business, leaving his niece and the " Miss" to their lessons.
Since her fourth birthday, when, in accordance with Jewish
custom, Lidia was taught to repeat the first Hebrew verse of the
Shema: " Hear, 0 Israel; the Lord our God is One," down
to the present hour, when she sits reading English aloud in the
azure blue salon, the girl's life has been spent in hard and
systematic study. One feels sometimes puzzled as to how she
finds anything fresh to learn. Though the "Miss " has taken
an English College degree and is proficient in languages, she
has long ago discovered her limitations and now regards herself
more as the companion than the governess of the small Jewess.
In every age this race has recognised the power of learning. The
keen wits and sharp intelligence of even the poorest and least
educated of Israelitish children are notorious. Learning and
the learned class are honoured in the Hebrew community in a
way it would be difficult to parallel amongst any other nation
or people. Average Jews have no sympathy, only supreme
and sometimes cruel contempt for the ignorant or stupid. Their
ancient verdict: "The people who know not the law are
accursed," still holds good, and woe betide the brainless or
ignorant amongst them. The education which Lidia has received
was also given to Theresa, and to Theresa's mother and grandmother, for though women occupy a very menial and subordinate
position in Jewish society and religion, they are nevertheless
considered worthy of receiving instruction. More than this,
girls who have not been sufficiently educated are almost as




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heavily handicapped in the Hebrew matrimonial market as are
their dowerless sisters.
Referring to matrimony, Theresa has, of late, been pursuing
a most important bargain-financially at least-in respect of a
future husband for her daughter. The negotiations have been
conducted without consulting Lidia's sentiments, Jewish maidens
of the unreformed sect not being supposed to possess either
wishes or tastes when it comes to the selection of their life
partners. In this case the " bargain " is the son of a wealthy
Trieste Hebrew merchant. Lidia has not seen him since her
babyhood, but on receiving his photograph, she wept bitterly,
declaring to deaf ears that nothing on earth would induce her
to marry any one so utterly hideous. Needless to say, her tears
and expostulations have not been of the slightest avail. The
affair is practically arranged, and the betrothal, all being well,
is to take place next month. Meanwhile, the unfortunate little
puppet and victim of Jewish prejudice and custom still goes on
learning lessons! Not that these market mornings are very
conducive to serious study. The distracting noises of the fair,
the banging of doors, the rustling and shuffling of sandalled feet
through the rooms, the coming and going of laughing inconsequent
market folk make, concentration of thought somewhat difficult.
When a Croatian house has no front door to shut against the
public, it stands to reason that it is open to intrusion.
Although the well-to-do townspeople never condescend to
exchange visits with Jews, the peasants from the surrounding
country are not above doing so. In this land Teutonic and
Magyar snobbery and oppression make things as intolerable for
the native peasantry as for the Hebrews. Poor Slavs and unconverted Jews are alike animals in the eyes of the oppressors, and
as such are not worth a moment's consideration. Being gifted
with a genius for self-preservation, the Israelites can afford to
snap their fingers at circumstance; not so the great bulk of their
poor Slavonic Christian neighbours. Racially the latter are
looked on as an even greater menace to Teutonic and Magyar
supremacy than the Jews, and the bullies would as soon think
of preserving and nourishing a nest of destructive rats or scorpions
as of promoting the health and happiness of the Croatian
peasantry. Consequently, there are no charitable organisations
in K —, and few, if any, deem it their duty to assist or comfort
their less fortunate fellow-creatures.  But where German and
Magyar Christianity has failed, the religion of Judah has come
to the rescue, and Theresa, the sharp-tongued, avaricious Theresa,
who in business dealings invariably gets her full pound of
flesh, is practically the only person in the district upon whom
the sick and sorry, the unwanted and downtrodden, can rely




204


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


for advice, assistance, or even common kindness. On market
mornings she holds, so to speak, her weekly receptions, and it
is only necessary to peep through the kitchen door to see how
well these are attended. Every available chair, stool, and bench
is occupied by an old man or woman, who, wearied by the long
tramp into the fair, has stumbled up the stairs certain of a
welcome, rest, and food. A tremendous cauldron of maize and
onion porridge is bubbling on the open fireplace for the benefit
of the hungry. The usually speckless red-tiled floor is marked
by the passage of many dirty feet. As there are not a sufficient
number of chairs and stools to go round, those who cannot find
other accommodation have seated themselves on the ground
amid the litter of baskets and bales, of fruit and vegetables,
eggs and butter, embroideries, homespuns, and bunches of live
fowls, geese, ducks, and turkeys, tied together by the legs.
The savoury, sustaining porridge, served out in gaily-coloured
earthenware bowls, and wholesome rye bread, put vigour into
the worn-out ill-fed bodies, and the thin, wistful Slavonic faces
grow less sad. For the babies, too, there is plenty of milk,
medicine when needed, and most tender and unstinted sympathy.
Like nearly all Hebrew women, Theresa is wonderfully maternal
in her instincts. Hard-headed and remorseless though she may
be in business matters, she has, as said, many good qualities and
soft spots in her character, and she knows how and when to be
generous better than some Christians.
There is but one thing living which is turned with insult from
the old house, namely, the pig. Now pigs in Croatia are numerous
and exceedingly privileged beasts, accustomed to sleep and eat
with their owners. Naturally, therefore, it is difficult to instil
into them the fact that in this house their absence is preferable
to their " unclean" company. If the stairs were not so precipitous they might possibly force an entrance; as it is, despite
every discouragement, scores of them have congregated in the
courtyard, where they are nosing around and making themselves
in every way obnoxious in the hope of discovering something
eatable. But in vain, for Theresa is superstitious and clings
firmly to the ancient Jewish idea that evil spirits make their
abode in rubbish heaps, upon which it is consequently dangerous
to tread. Sofia and Efika are in their customary Friday morning
bad tempers. It must be owned that it is far from soothing to
the nerves to be obliged to manipulate pastry and serve up an
elaborate dinner under such circumstances, nor is it altogether
gratifying to be obliged to stand aside and watch the floors upon
which one has expended so much beeswax and labour converted
into a public thoroughfare.
Towards eleven-thirty the market begins to empty. Wagons




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and carts, flocks and herds, wander homewards past the ramparts
and along the straight white roads leading into the outlying
country. The guests bid a reluctant good-bye and cautiously
descend the broken stairs, laden with their queer belongings, and
leaving in their trail reminiscences of garlic and unwashed
humanity, also, be it added, many fleas. The pigs are driven
through the archway, the booths are taken down, and on the
stroke of noon the big square resumes its normal, deserted
aspect. The Jewish Sabbath does not begin until evening, that
is, till twenty-five minutes after sundown, when, to quote the
ancient law, " three clear stars become visible." There is really
no reason why this afternoon should be observed as a holiday,
yet Theresa makes it a rule that all in the house, even the boy
without a name, are free to do what pleases them from the midday
dinner until shortly before sunset.
It is the only hour that can be called shadeless. The sun is
burning in pitiless fierceness on the courtyard and the dusty,
garbage-littered square, on the narrow streets, on the sleepy
gurgling river that laps the poplar trees alongside the walls of
the crumbling old house. But indoors all is pleasant and cool.
The dilapidated green wooden shutters have been drawn down,
and only a few hot bars of sunshine lie across the shadows of
the great dining-room and fall in topaz splashes of light on its
glistening dark floor. The red and white check cloth has been
removed from the shining brown table and on it are set a loaf
of bread, two crystal bottles (one filled with red Dalmatian wine,
the other with spring water), a knife, fork, spoon, and glass for
each person, and a brass basin of fresh water.
Kant, the German philosopher, maintained that as smell is
the least important of the senses it is not worth cultivating.
Can he ever have breathed the perfumes which pervade an
Orthodox Jewish house during the cooking of a meal? Anyhow,
at this moment there is no question as to the importance of the
olfactory organs. Every room is reeking with the pungent
Oriental odours of kosher meats, of stews, soups, and sauces, the
recipes of which are probably as old as the Pentateuch itself.
All at once the temporary quiet is broken by a whirlwind of
excitement that, rising in the kitchen regions, sweeps through
the house. Everybody screams at everybody, saucepans clatter,
pots and pans rattle, there is a swift scurrying of sandalled feet,
and the dining-room door bursts open allowing the entrance of
the crimson-faced, crimson-gowned Theresa. Breathing heavily
in her wake are Efika and Sofia, each staggering under the weight
of an immense tray laden with dishes. Following them come
the rest of the family. As the dishes are hurled down, seemingly
anyhow, on the table, and the stiff high-backed chairs are pulled




206


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


forward, Josef, Theresa, and Lidia in turn dip their fingers into
the water in the brass bowl, then dry them in the white, bluefringed linen cloth placed in readiness beside it, so obeying
Hebrew law as to purification before partaking of food.
If Careme, the French prince of chefs, denounced the cookery
of the old Romans as too heavy, he would certainly have applied
the same censure to the old-fashioned Hebrew cuisine. Jewish
meals and Jewish dishes are most astonishingly substantial,
and, to put it mildly, rather trying to a Christian digestion.
Take, for example, the roast fowl which occupies the place of
honour in the menu. It is tough, naturally, seeing that not a
couple of hours ago it was industriously picking up grain in the
market-place unconscious of its impending fate. The toughness
might, perchance, yield to chewing, but, alas, there is no getting
away from the fact that it has been basted in horribly strong
goose fat, and flavoured with garlic; that it is stuffed with
sage, thyme and bread-crumbs soaked in oil; that it is cold
and greasy, and has been hacked behind the scenes into uninvitinglooking pieces. As to the salad which accompanies it, the less
said the better. Enough to state it is a nasty oily mess made
up of beetroot, some coarse sort of raw cabbage, small cucumbers,
garlic, and horse-radish. As to the sweet tarts filled with
pounded hazel-nuts and sugar, they might possibly have been
very good if they, also, like the fowl, had not been cooked with
goose dripping. Happily, however, there are other really
excellent, if rather curious and strange, delicacies to fall back
upon. Most of these latter are taken straight off the fire and
handed round in brown earthenware saucepans. Here, for
instance, is an odd-looking, white, pasty stuff which is and
yet is not macaroni. It is stewed in oil, not butter, for the
Mosaic rules of diet forbid the eating of flesh meat with milk
or anything made from milk, such as curds, cream, and so on.
A firm brown omelet garnished with parsley and green mint;
potatoes swamped in caraway seed sprinkled gravy; gourd
and cucumber soup; some savoury odds and ends of caviare
and smoked fish spread on small slices of black bread bring to a
close the more serious half of the meal. During a pause, whilst
the dishes are being removed, fingers are again dipped in the
bowl, and cigarettes and wine are passed round. Now for things
sweet and frivolous, and in fairness be it said, that, even had one
hitherto been unable to consume a morsel, the dessert, which
presently puts in an appearance, condones for all former deficiencies. To begin with there is a bowl, the size of a hand-basin,
filled to the brim with pink and golden peaches, apricots, purple
and yellow plums, green figs, also an enormous melon, pears,
tiny crisp almond biscuits, a large pot of rose-leaf jam, dried




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fruits of every sort, such as raisins, nuts, figs, and prunes. Last,
but not least, comes the most delicious coffee imaginable, which
is not really coffee at all, but a thick, sweet, mysterious mixture
of chocolate and coffee, made from an ancient Persian recipe
of which Theresa alone knows the secret. One thing must be
confessed, the table manners at dinner are even less in conformity
with the usages of " good society " than they were at breakfast.
There is not the slightest danger that one may inadvertently
be guilty of some breach of politeness, simply because there is
no such thing as conventional politeness, and no one cares or
has time to notice any one else. Every one does and says
exactly what he or she feels inclined to do or say, and after all,
why should they behave otherwise? As outcasts from society
why should they not snap their fingers at the rules and regulations, the restrictions and conventionalities which govern the
social world into which they are refused an entrance? They
are fond of their meals, and show that they are hungry. They
eat like wolves, making as much noise as possible, in short,
they are just honest, simple, sensible folk, who go their own
way and allow others to do the same.
Ample justice having been done to the good things, the time
arrives to repeat the formula of Thanksgiving to God for His
benefits. Beckoning for silence, Josef rises from his chair, folds
his finger-tips together, and says, " Let us offer Thanks," to which
the rest of the company, standing, reply, " Blessed be the name
of the Lord of Whose bounty we have partaken, Who satisfieth
every living thing with favour, and through Whose goodness
we live, Who will give strength and send peace to His people."
The old grace, as it sounds through the midday stillness, is
answered by the soft persistent cooing of the pigeons and doves
that are sheltering from the scorching sunshine beneath the
eaves, and it seems as if not a little of the promised peace which
the exiles have been praying for and expecting through long
ages is already in their possession. Through the partially closed
shutters comes floating in the delicious perfume of acacia blossoms
and clove pinks, the willows on the river banks rustle softly, the
water ripples and murmurs, and from the market-place comes
the laughter of children at play. On other days, after grace
has been said, the family separate at once, and no time is allowed
for idling or gossip. But as to-day is a half-holiday, seats are
resumed, fresh cigarettes are lighted, coffee-cups are replenished,
and conversation drifts from one subject to another, from music
to literature, from literature to art, or science, or, now and then,
more practical, homely, frivolous matters such as the market
prices, the vintage, and harvest prospects; a long-planned trip
to Fiume; or, even clothes! It is immaterial to these Hebrews




208


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


what language they employ, for they speak almost as many
tongues as the holy Apostles on the morning after Pentecost!
Sometimes the discourse is carried on in Slavonic, sometimes in
Italian, or French, or German, or English, or Hebrew, for, as
they themselves explain, " We like to choose the language which
we think best suited to the subject we wish to talk about."
By and by Theresa grows drowsy, she always does at this hour
of the day, and after much shuffling of her bare feet under the
table in search of her slippers she betakes herself to her room
to sleep for the next hour, and in a few moments Josef has
followed her example. Sofia and Efika, their energy exhausted
for the time being, are also dozing on the kitchen threshold at
the top of the stairs. The boy without a name is playing cards
with a companion near the fountain. Not a creature can be
seen, the whole place has relapsed into a state of semi-lethargy,
and no wonder, for the heat is almost insupportable. Just
beside the arched entry to the yard is a mighty and very untidy
heap of logs, the family fuel, which the scapegrace Gibeonite
ought to be-but is not-industriously chopping into convenient
pieces. Past this a little grass-grown pathway, bordered with
gigantic sunflowers, winds down beside the outer wall of the
courtyard to the river edge where the tall reeds and rushes are
whispering and the willows and poplars are rustling their leaves,
now stiff and parched by the sunshine of scorching interminable
summer days. A warm, scarcely perceptible breeze stirs the
surface of the lazily flowing stream. Lidia suggests a stroll along
the bank, and stooping she dabbles her little fingers in one of
the frog and fly infested creeks. Under her wide-brimmed hat
her eyes have deepened to the colour of the purple irises. For
this Jewish girl who has never been further into the great world
than twenty kilometres outside the town ramparts, the river has
a peculiar attraction. Day after day just about this time and
sometimes in the evenings she steals away alone to dream and
watch the water passing onwards into the countries she has never
seen, and never will see until she has earned her liberty by
marriage with a man she already detests. Across on the further
bank stretches a wide meadow. It is used as a drill-field by the
Austrian-Hungarian troops of the garrison, and for several hours
daily it is dotted over with little groups of blue-coated figures,
squads of recruits learning the rudiments of warfare. This afternoon its far-stretching, sun-browned surface is undisturbed,
except where a little troop of white-garbed peasants is slowly
melting into the horizon. Perhaps it is not altogether true to
say that the river is the only thing which attracts Lidia
Aschkenazy to the spot. Certainly it was across these reeds and
beneath the branches of these poplar trees that the " Miss " and




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her pupil first encountered the Oberleutnant Carl Von Orrasch
in the month of April last. The Oberleutnant was young and
good-looking, but, unlike most Austrian officers, he had a thirst
for knowledge. From the gossips of the town he had learnt
that the " dirty old Jewess " who dwelt in the dilapidated house
beside the river had engaged an English governess for her
daughter. Because he was poor and was obliged to subsist on
his pay, and because he was surprisingly conscientious and
ambitious where his professional duties were concerned, he had
never been able to spare the time, even if he had had the money,
for English lessons, and the small knowledge he possessed of the
British tongue had been obtained through the medium of books.
Naturally, therefore, he was interested in the coming of the
foreigner, though, with the rest of the townspeople, he found
it scarcely credible that any Christian, not to say an English
lady, could endure existence amongst these Hebrew rag-bags.
For a while he pondered over the matter. Would he, or would
he not, cultivate the acquaintance of the governess? That the
lady in question might not wish to meet his overtures half-way
never occurred to him. Of course the condescension would be
entirely on his side, but it was unquestionably a rare opportunity
to put his book-acquired pronunciation to the test. Promotion
from Headquarters for efficiency in languages, especially English,
might be secured if only he could feel assured that the dignity
of his uniform and his " Vonhood " would not be contaminated
by even indirect association with things Semitic.
Then, one day quite inadvertently, it happened that as he
was still deliberating upon the pros and cons he suddenly looked
from the drill-field across the narrow stream and beheld the
Englishwoman and her pupil gathering spring flowers on the
opposite bank. Ambition overruled caution and prejudice.
Politely saluting, he inquired in his best English if the " gnddiges
Fraulein" had seen his dog. No, the gracious lady had not
done so; how indeed could she, seeing the animal did not exist?
Nevertheless, the excuse, though flimsy, proved sufficient, the
ice was broken, the usually conventionally inclined, but, at the
moment, rather homesick " Miss," forgot to be frigid, and, to
make a long story short, the acquaintance thus began rapidly
developed, so far as the governess and the Oberleutnant were
concerned, into practical friendship. Many meetings and many
English conversational lessons took place, not always across the
stream. Von Orrasch, being, after all, a mere man, and something of an artist, despite the fact that he was one of the " grand
Seigneurs,"-" die Herren Ofizieren "-was not altogether immune from the influence of the small Lidia's elusive beauty, but
managed to convince himself that it was solely a desire to study
p




210


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


English pronunciation and grammar that made him tolerate
her society. The Jewish girl, on her part, took things as they
came, and like a child playing in the sunshine, was happy without
inquiring into the reason; whilst the governess, ignorant of
foreign customs, prejudices, and above all, human passions, likewise took everything as a matter of course and pursued her
phlegmatic, undiscerning British way oblivious of consequences.
As for Theresa, poor fool, she would have been scarcely mortal
had her long and sorely snubbed soul not expanded under the
flattering thought that one of the dashing, sword-clashing young
demi-gods had actually stepped down from his pedestal to
exchange greetings with her daughter.
So a few weeks drifted by, and then it came about that, with
the outwardly reluctant, but, in reality, palpitating and delighted
permission of Theresa, the " Miss " despatched a note to the
Oberleutnant Carl Von Orrasch, in which, on behalf of the
family and herself, she invited him to goiter.l The invitation
was promptly and cordially accepted, and the even tenor of life
in the old house was disturbed by the advent of still more mops
and pails, soap-suds, dusters, by half-frenzied domestics and a
wholly frenzied Theresa. Precisely at four o'clock on the afternoon of the great day the finishing touches were given to the
azure blue salon, and on the gilt and ivory inlaid table was
spread a feast worthy of the exalted guest. There were chocolate
tarts and hazel-nut cakes, caviare, butter-brod, and chestnut puree,
iced strawberry cream, crystallised flowers and fruits, sweetmeats,
coffee, sherbet, pale golden tea, and the rarest and most costly
of Hungarian wines and liqueurs. Attired in a startling, not to
say blindingly resplendent, creation of pea-green silk, elaborately
trimmed with silver sequins and yellow lace, with purple swollen
wrists bulging above the tops of her white kid gloves, with tired
feet forced into agonisingly tight, high-heeled shoes, with awe
and perturbation pathetically written over every square inch of
her large countenance, Theresa took her seat upon the striped
blue brocade sofa and, gasping, wiped the perspiration from her
forehead, taking care not to disarrange her freshly curled toupee.
From one of the windows overlooking the market-place a pair
of lustrous, pansy-hued eyes gazed unblinkingly out to catch
the first glint of a blue and rose tunic, and the " Miss " in the
background congratulated herself upon having been the means
of bringing some pleasure into her pupil's dull, and hitherto
isolated, existence. Half an hour passed and dozens of blue and
rose tunicked figures came along and went by, but not one of them
took the cobbled path across the big square. The townspeople


1 The name given here to afternoon coffee.




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211


ventured abroad for their airings and strolled up and down the
" promenade," the bugles on the ramparts called for evening
parade. The coffee and tea grew cold, and the ices lost their
crispness. At last, as six o'clock chimed from the belfries above
the crimson roofs, as the shadows began to lengthen, a woodenvisaged orderly clattered up the stairs and presented the irate
governess with a letter. It was a polite and honestly contrite
epistle to the effect that the writer, the Oberleutnant Carl Von
Orrasch, was " truly grieved " that, at the last moment, he had
been obliged to cancel the engagement, his commanding officer
having refused to permit him accepting the gracious Frau
Aschkenazy's kind, highly esteemed, much appreciated, and
deplored-to-be-obliged-to-refuse, hospitality."
Thus Von Orrasch's English studies came to an abrupt termination, as did also the well-meant but futile endeavours of the
" Miss " to alter the unalterable. Theresa, in a tempest of
wrathful weeping, tore off her green finery, wrenched the toupee
from her head, sent it hurtling through the window into the
water-pail which the Gibeonite was carrying across the yard,
after which she bawled to Efika for her old dressing-gown and
flip-flap slippers, and vowed by Moses and the Prophets never
again to hanker after the flesh-pots of Egypt. Josef, who had
not, by the by, been optimistic as to the tea-party, gobbled up
the dainties, and between each mouthful declared he had foreseen how it would be. The governess blamed herself for her
indiscretion, and threw the Oberleutnant's apology into the fire.
Lidia, pleading a headache, went to bed, and placidly resumed
her lessons the following morning, but took no more walks by
the river until about two weeks ago, when she heard that the
Oberleutnant's regiment had been ordered to Zagreb. By tacit
consent the silly little spring-time interlude was relegated to
oblivion, and life in the old house resumed the even and monotonous tenor of its ways. Now it is midsummer, and the tadpoles
in the creek beside the poplars and the violet bed have developed
into sprightly green frogs. The voices of the nightingales, that
in May sounded so sweet, have changed and become harsh,
unmusical. The reeds and rushes have lost their brilliant freshness and are already wilting and falling under the passionate
kisses of the sun. Another blue-coated battalion drills in the
field across the stream, and for some reason which she does not
disclose, Lidia, paler and more dreamy than she was on that
bygone April day, seems curiously attracted to this spot, and
here, as said, she often stands watching the water slipping by and
on into the lands she has never seen.
P2




CHAPTER XIX


EVENING IN THE JEWISH HOUSE
IT is very peaceful in this little corer of the big world on this
golden and blue July afternoon. The air is overburdened with
the scent of acacias, privet, roses, flowering vines, myrtle and
oleanders. The sun is extracting odours less fragrant from the
moist and oozy places left partially dry during this season by the
receding river, and the myriads of flies and mosquitoes appear
to have been dulled to stupor by the oppressive heat. The
crimson and white roses, and scarlet and pink climbing geraniums,
blooming in riotous brilliancy on the courtyard wall glow and
burn against the cloudless turquoise sky. The green huddle of
the trees is scarcely unruffled by the soft wind; from the meadows
on either side comes the tinkle of goat bells; and far away over
the wide stretching plain can be seen the faint and rugged outlines of the Karst mountains, pale violet against the paler blueness
of the atmosphere. The flowers are drooping in the scorching
glare. The birds, their courting days over, have settled down to
prosaic married life and are twittering complacently to one
another before starting out to seek their suppers. One would,
indeed, feel loath to return indoors on an evening so fine were it
not that Theresa has promised, as she expresses it, to " make
music " before the coming of the Sabbath. The bribe, however,
is irresistible, at any rate to those who have ever been fortunate
enough to hear Theresa Aschkenazy's music. It is close on six
o'clock, and there is not much time to lose. In these parts the
sun does not linger, once he has made up his mind to depart;
the twilight is so brief as to be scarcely appreciable, and the
"three clear stars," which are the traditional heralds of the
Jewish Sabbath, speedily put in appearance.
In the courtyard the boy without a name is reluctantly drawing
the evening supply of water from the fountain. Efika and
Sofia, having slept off their fatigue, have prepared supper and
brought in the cold meats which have been cooked preparatory
to the twenty-four-hour rest during which time work is forbidden.
The table has been covered with a clean, starched, white, lacefringed cloth. In the centre of it has been placed the four-feet212




OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES IN NEAR EAST 213


high, very beautiful and ancient seven-branched Sabbath
candlestick, which during the week is kept locked out of sight
in one of the household treasure cupboards. This great candlestick is an heirloom, and has been handed down from one generation to another of the Aschkenazy family through centuries,
despite innumerable vicissitudes and wanderings. On one side
of it are placed two loaves of specially baked bread, each wrapped
in a spotless lace-trimmed napkin. These loaves are, by the
way, Sabbath remembrances of the double portion of manna
which, during the journeyings of Israel, was gathered on Fridays.
Opposite to them, and alongside the candlestick, is an enormous
silver goblet and a crystal jug containing unfermented wine.
The meal itself consists of a cold roast fowl, a large dish of cold
sliced veal, salads, a melon tart, almond cakes, rose and plum
preserves, a peach compote, a comb of white acacia honey, red
and white Hungarian and Dalmatian wines, fresh, dried and
crystallised fruits of all sorts, and lastly, a brown earthenware
pot filled with the same kind of delicious coffee that was drunk
at dinner, set in a wooden bowl with ice. The Sabbath supper
is never eaten until the appearing of the "three clear stars,"
but it is customary to make everything ready long before there
is occasion, and Jewish customs, however meaningless, are always
scrupulously respected by Theresa. Moreover, this, to repeat,
is the evening when Sofia and Efika are free to dance in the far
from respectable public salon attached to one of the town caf6s,
from which they seldom as a rule return till four or five next
morning, considerably the worse for their night's jollification.
But although she shakes her head in disapproval at the laxity
of Christian morals, Theresa neither interferes nor offers advice
in what she considers her domestics' affairs, and certainly not
hers.
As the sunshine is no longer beating against the windows, the
green wooden shutters have been thrown wide, and every door
in the house has been opened to allow free passage to the balmy
evening breeze. Theresa, dressed in her black silk Sabbath
best, sits running her fingers over the keyboard of the piano.
Josef is reading the paper in the window seat, the doves and
pigeons still keep up their gentle, tireless cooing under the eaves,
and Lidia has curled herself up into a little white ball amongst
the crimson and purple cushions of the divan. Lovely flickering
gleams of rose-golden light are playing hide-and-seek over the
ebony dark floor, the tall silver candlestick, the swinging bronze
and lapis-lazuli lamps, old tapestries and pictures. The bells
of the Catholic church are chiming for Vespers, and the idlers
who during the afternoon strolled along the " promenade " have
gone home to their evening meals.




214


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


Suddenly the brooding silence is broken by a glad ripple of
fairy music. Under Theresa's podgy, work-roughened fingers
the piano becomes a thing of life. It seems as if one could almost
hear elfish feet tripping through the quaint, half-sad, half-merry,
youthful, whimsical "de Kosciuszko" polonaise. Theresa's
mother was a Polish Jewess, and Theresa plays as only those
can play who have within them the passion and genius, the
zal-strange word, embracing a strange diversity, and a strange
philosophy-of that unhappy country. Those who pose as
skilled musicians, because, forsooth! they can play correctly,
either at sight or from memory, a certain number-even, it may
be, very many-of the finest and most difficult compositions,
would surely be compelled to acknowledge the limitation of their
talents if they could but hear this ugly commonplace woman
"making music."   Preludes, nocturnes, scherzos, concertos,
sonatas, polonaises, mazurkas, ballads, impromptus, boleros,
minuets, tarantulas, the melodies of the seventeenth century,
works of forgotten and dead masters, the music of the present
century and of living composers, the music of all lands and
peoples and schools, she knows, and can interpret without the
aid of printed notes. Now it is the adagio from Chopin's Second
Concerto with all its warmth and brilliancy, its sparkle and
gloom, its anguish and joy. Again it is a Schubert melody,
childishly simple and very sweet, and again a mad pagan gipsy
dance. Then, all at once, through the peaceful serenity of the
summer evening, like the roar of distant artillery, the first
tremendous, ominous chords of Chopin's Grand Polonaise in F
sharp minor crash out. It is as if the drums of a great army were
rolling for battle. Lidia starts erect, her eyes fixed on the fastreddening square of sky seen through the window. Josef drops
his pipe and the ashes fall unheeded on his cherished Sabbath
waistcoat as the weird chords, dark and lurid as the hour before
a hurricane, succeed, one another, bar after bar, broken only by
the brief, tender, whimsical mazurka, which, as interlude, serves
by bitter irony of contrast to deepen the gloom and mystery of
the original theme, which breaks out again even more lurid than
before. Like a dream, with no other conclusion than a sort of
convulsive shudder, the passionate, half-frenzied music ceases
with the same abruptness as it began. Lifting her hands from
the notes and pushing back her chair with a mocking laugh,
Theresa scans the faces of the audience, her black eyes twinkling
maliciously. Though kindly of heart she is an inveterate tease,
and her teasing proclivities are frequently tinged with cruelty.
Why, it would be impossible to say, but, since scolding the
Gibeonite this morning for indolence respecting the plucking
of the fowl she has been in one of her most capricious moods.




IN THE NEAR EAST


215


As a Jewess, she realises how strong, almost magical, is the
power which music wields over the imaginative, artistic Hebrew,
and especially the Slavonic Hebrew soul, and she has deliberately
made use of it to disturb the nerves of her listeners. Still laughing
like a spoiled child she rises from the piano and bustles out of the
room to see after some household matter, delighted in having
disturbed the equanimity of the company. It may be that
Theresa's own restless individuality is as distracting as the
music; anyhow, by the time she has disappeared downstairs,
and out of the courtyard, every one is again in a good temper.
Josef flicks the ashes from his coat and re-fills his pipe. The
"Miss " coaxes Lidia for at least one song before sunset, and
the girl, in answer to the request, takes the seat vacated by her
mother, strikes a few rambling notes, and breaks into a famous
Hymn to the Virgin. As the lovely young voice rings out in all
its fresh, full-toned purity through the open windows, and across
the market-square, the sentry halts, glances up at the house, and
crosses himself hurriedly. There is a group of peasants squatted
close by the courtyard entrance, supping in a circle round and
from a huge bowl of maize porridge and curds. They, too,
make the sign of the Cross, and stop with their spoons half-way
to their mouths to hear the singing of the Aschkenazy " witch
child."
The long, long summer day is almost at an end. To the
eastwards the pale, clear, turquoise sky is reflecting back the
flaming, burning splendour of the west, and above the trees a
great silver-golden moon is sailing. The sun has gone, a ball of
fire, leaving in its path wide outward and upward starting rays
of dazzling rose-hued light. The moon climbs higher. The
crimson changes to palest green, and, as the last soft notes of the
song die into silence, the stars rush out proclaiming the Israelitish
Sabbath. Theresa hurries in, carrying a lighted taper. She is now
all gravity and importance, solely intent upon the serious religious
duties which, as mother of the household, fall to her lot. Taking
her place at the head of the table opposite her brother, and
beckoning to the others present to stand behind the chairs they
are to occupy, she reverently sets light to the seven coloured
candles in the big silver candlestick, pronouncing over them as
she does so: " Blessed art Thou, 0 Lord our God, King of the
Universe, Who hast sanctified us by Thy Commandments, and
commanded us to light the Sabbath lamp." The taper is then
applied to each of the swinging bronze lamps, and in a few
moments only the farthest corers of the wide room are left in
shadow. The lighting of the Sabbath lamps, by the way, must
be done with scrupulous care, for it is against the laws of the
Jewish Orthodox faith to touch fire during the twenty-four hours'




216


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


rest. The lamp lighting over, it is Josef's turn to conduct the
ceremonies. Lifting the jug of unfermented wine he fills the
silver goblet, and holding both vessels above his head, he repeats
the Kiddgsh verses beginning with the words: " Blessed art Thou,
O Lord our God, Who wast pleased with us and hast given us for
a heritage in love Thy holy Sabbath." Whereupon he puts the
wine to his lips, drinks, and hands it across the table to his sister,
who, following his example, also drinks and passes the goblet
round to each friend or member of the family. This being an
ordinary Sabbath-evening service there is only one goblet, or
Kiddg8h-cup, as it is called, but during the Feast of the Passover
it is customary to place three or four cups beside the wine jug
for the use of the poor, or any " strangers " or " sojourners "
who may perchance have sought the hospitality of the house.
This custom is reminiscent of the Middle Ages, when the Jews,
as a universally hunted and persecuted people, were obliged in
self-defence to befriend and shelter one another. The Commandment regarding the Sabbath, as given in Exodus, runs: " Remember the Sabbath Day to sanctify it," or " keep it holy,"
and the traditional way of explaining this injunction is, " remember it over wine," consequently, this Sabbath wine-drinking is
called the Kiddish, or Sanctification.
The bowl of clear water is now passed from one to the other,
and each dips his or her hands in it, preparatory to breaking the
Sabbath bread. The two loaves are taken from the napkins,
and holding one in either hand Josef pronounces the formal
thanksgiving and prayer of consecration: " Blessed art Thou,
O Lord, King of the Universe, Who bringest forth bread from the
earth." Whilst speaking, he breaks the loaves in pieces, and
keeping one portion for himself, he distributes the remainder
amongst the company.1 It is so brief, so primitively simple, this
Service, and yet to these people it means so much. To them
the Sabbath, with all its ceremonies, is a precious legacy from
their splendid past, a reminder of the Covenant which the Eternal
made with their forefathers. In a bitter and hostile world it has
been a divinely given rest from trouble and toil, it has consecrated their home life and kept them together as one and a
separate people, even when all the forces of Christendom united
to destroy and undermine both their racial unity and racial
isolation.
As the beautiful words of the closing Benediction echo through
the wide, lamp-lit room, one experiences a curious twinge of
1 As it may be noticed, there is a remarkable similarity between the
Jewish Kiddash and the Christian Sacrament; and it was doubtless, during
the celebration of the former, at the supper before His Crucifixion that
Christ ordained the rite of Holy Communion.




IN THE NEAR EAST


217


envy. Before one's mind's eye looms the mighty pageant of
the world's history. Nations and peoples rise to supreme power,
serve that purpose for which they were created, and sink again
to impotency. Emperors and kings come up, stay awhile, and
are swept into oblivion. The great procession rolls up and passes,
as it will continue to pass so long as time and the human race
endure, and still the promise made to Israel by Him Who is
Everlasting stands firm: " Thy seed shall be as the sand of the
sea for numbers. Thou shalt possess the gates of Thine enemies,
and in Thee shall all the nations of the earth be blessed." For
an instant one seems to catch a faint gleam of the Shekhinah.
" Blessed art Thou, our God, Who at Thy Word bringest on the
evening twilight, Who with wisdom openest the gates of the
heavens, and with understanding changest times and variest
the seasons, Who arrangest the stars in the watches in the sky
according to Thy Will.... Sound the great Trumpet for our
Freedom. Lift up the Ensign to gather our exiles. Bring us
from the four corners of the earth and gather again Thy banished
ones. We hope still in Thee, 0 Lord our God."  " Jehovah is
the only —had-God."   For over nineteen hundred years has
this Benediction followed Israel through the desert places of the
world. In the dens and hiding-places, in the noisome ghettoes,
it has been with these exiles. Through fires and massacres,
through persecution and misery, it has rung in their ears, comforted their hearts and taken the sting from both life and death.
With these words on their lips they watched the torches of Roman
legionaries destroy their Temple and beheld the Holy Place of the
Most High reduced to ashes. With these words they answered
the interrogations of the Spanish Inquisitors who flayed and
burned them alive. With the promises and blessings of this old
prayer to strengthen them they have, from age to age, drained
their cup of bitterness to the dregs, declaring: " Jehovah is the
only —hag —God! "
Looking into the kindly, homely faces gathered round the table
one realises how mistaken is the idea that the Hebrew religion is
simply a cold, hard, austere faith, which gives nothing and yet
demands of its followers a rigorous and exacting obedience.
If there is no love contained in or taught by the Israelitish creed,
how is it that, in Jewish homes, in ordinary Jewish households,
such as this, there is found, speaking generally, deeper, more
unselfish, family affection, greater respect for the aged, more
tenderness for the young, and more generous hospitality towards
strangers-even towards those who are anti-sympathetic to the
Hebrew religion and race-than is to be met with in the homes
of Christendom? How is it that Christians, whose religion is
professedly based on love, so rarely take the trouble to hide their




218


OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES


aversion of Jews, whilst the latter, whose creed is commonly
supposed to be devoid of love, as seldom show themselves capable
of malice or uncharitableness?
Not once, but many times during the evening this question
intrudes itself. Is there not something radically wrong in the
social and religious laws of countries that treat these people as
outcasts, and yet admit to posts of honour and influence the
offscourings of Christianity?
Supper is over and the tapers in the warm night wind that is
blowing in through the windows are guttering low to the sockets
of the seven-branched candlestick. Josef, deprived of his pipe,
smoking being prohibited on the Sabbath, is solacing himself
with many cups of strong iced coffee. With elbows planted
upon a cleared spot of the table, surrounded by soiled plates and
dishes, her stumpy fingers thrust through her toupee, Theresa, as
is her wont on Sabbath evenings, is chanting forth some edifying
sentences from the Talmud. Like all old-fashioned Jews she
regards this book with almost as much reverence as the Deity
Himself. " What is this Talmud? " asked a certain famous
philosopher. "What is Truth? " said Pilate, and it would
probably be as easy to answer the one query as the other. The
Talmud is the Talmud, and it would be saying little to describe
it as a pandect of all Hebrew laws, human and divine, civil and
canon; as a document holding the mind and heart, the hopes
and fears, the errors and sufferings, the goodness and greatness
of Israel for many hundred years. Composed by the people it
tells the story of thirty generations of their stormy existence.
It is a work which wanders from myth to morality, from legend
to logic, from religion to reason, from earth to heaven. It is a
cyclopean volume full from cover to cover of an immense olla
podrida of law, medicine, astronomy, mathematics, metaphysics,
heresies, absurd superstitions, and bad grammar.
Theresa drones on. The mosquitoes swarm in through the
open casements to hum and buzz round the lamps and candles.
Lidia has gone to sleep in the window seat, Josef is drinking his
last cup of coffee, and the " Miss " has long since yawned herself
to bed, the town watchman passes across the market-square
crying the hour. It is midnight and the cocks in the courtyard
barn are growing restless. The guard is being changed at the
barrack gates and for a moment hoarsely shouted orders and the
clatter of muskets ring sharply through the silence. Then all is
again quiet except for the croaking of the frogs, the wailing and
hooting of the owls, the muffled squealing of the doves, the clickclick of the interminable crickets in the grassy places beneath the
walls, and the scampering of the rats behind the panelling. In
the moonlight the crimson-tiled roofs and the copper-tipped




IN THE NEAR EAST


219


spires, the tall pink oleanders and the round-headed acacia
trees that border the square shine as if touched by liquid silver.
The night wind has fallen, and in the echoing, moon-flecked rooms
of the old house there lingers the fragrance of dying roses, dying
summer, and memories of a tranquil past.
*      *      *      *      *      *      *
What has been the fate of the old house and its inmates since
the outbreak of the World War? The answer is given in the
following letter from Lidia Aschkenazy to her English governess,
who left Croatia in August 1914. This letter reached England
vid Italy through a source which, for obvious reasons, it would
be unwise to disclose. It runs thus:(MY VERY DEAR MISS,
" How can I tell you in my poor English of the sorrows
and miseries which have come upon us since we said farewell on
that dreadful day when you left us, I now know, for ever! You
see I put no name or address on this letter, for though it may not
come to the eyes of our enemies, it is yet possible they might
find and read it. You acted rightly when you took my Uncle
Josef's advice and returned to your own country. You will be
grieved to hear that I am now quite alone in the world, and am
lying very sick, so sick that they say I will soon die, in a hospital
in Zagreb. But I will be glad to die, for how could I live alone?
We were Slavs, and what made our foes more angry, we were
also Jews. To have been born Slavs-and Jewish Slavs-was a
grave mistake! Dear Miss, you remember the market-square
before our house, where we used to buy pretty things on Fridays,
where we used to laugh at the animals and watch the peasants
selling their fruit and embroideries? Surely never again, I
think, will there be another market-day in K -. For how
can one have a market when there are none to buy or to sell?
Soon after you went away they put up in the square a gallowsis not that the English word for the thing on which people are
hanged?-and every morning for many days they hung upon it
thirty or forty or more of the poor Serbo-Croats and Croats who
lived on the plain outside the town. They said that these poor
people had made plots with Serbia against Austria-Hungary and
were traitors. You know, dear Miss, they were only poor,
stupid ones, our peasants, who could neither read nor write.
Then one morning the soldiers came and took away my Uncle
Josef. He too, they said, was a traitor, and had worked evil
against the Government. My poor uncle who never cared for
politics! We never spoke to him again. He was not tried,
which was unjust, and they hanged him also in the marketplace, three days after they had taken him away. He died in




220 OUR ALLIES AND ENEMIES IN NEAR EAST


front of our home, dear Miss, they made us watch him die.
Efika and Sofia were hanged the next morning; we do not know
why, but I am sure it was because they thought, or pretended to
think, they had also been making plots. Poor pretty Efika
and Sofia, who loved us so well! When my mother saw my uncle
die she went mad, and yet they sent her to the prison in K-,
and she died there not many weeks ago. Our house and all the
things in it you said were so beautiful have been taken by the
soldiers on the day my uncle was hanged. Our fortunes, too,
my uncle's, my mother's, and mine, have been-is the word
correct?-confiscated. So I am now a little beggar without a
home or any friends except the kind woman who kept the sausageshop where my uncle used to buy the ham. Only for her I
would have died before I am going to die. But she took me into
her home and fed me, and when I tumbled sick sent me with her
sister to this Zagreb hospital, where I lie in a straight white bed
in a white cold room without any one to speak to me or kiss me.
Dear Miss, how happy I would be if I could see you even once
again, but this I know cannot be. We will never go again for
walks beside the river, and never see again the field where the
soldiers used to drill, where we saw first the Oberleutnant Von
Orrasch. From the woman of the sausage-shop I heard that
he, like all the others, is dead. His regiment was one of the first
in the advance on Serbia and he was killed. Do you remember
the funny way he pronounced the English words on the beautiful
spring day when he asked us about his dog beside the Kulpa?
You were so angry because he did not come to our tea-party, but
I know it was not quite his fault. Does not the law forbid such
as he to make friendship with Jews? Perhaps there will be
different laws in the place where he, and my uncle, and mother,
and nearly all the world has gone to, and where I am soon to go?
Now good-bye for always, my own dear Miss. Try and do not
forget your little Lidia, who loved you so well.
" Farewell, or perhaps only au revoir.
" LIDIA."
So, as will be seen, the State has, at last, obtained access to
the L —   money-bags, and there is no interest attached to the
" loan."




INDEX


Abba, 99, 151
Ada Kaleh, 9
Africa, 80
Agbs, 72
Agrippa's Pantheon, 36
Alas, 70
Alexander Park (Sofia), 95
AlfOld, 69-80
Altknecht, 64
Aluta, 18
Ammianus Marcellinus, 100, 184
Anne Simons, 127, 183
Anthem (Bulgarian National), 131
Arabas, 98, 166
Arder Palanka, 17
Armenian Roman Catholics, 93
Armenians, 25, 87, 91
Arnants, 106
Arpad, 69
Aschkenazy, 187-220
Asia, 80
Askenazim (tribe of), 194
Association of Market Gardeners
(Bulgarian), 102
Asyle H6lene, 35
Athenaeum (Bucharest), 34
Atrocities (Turkish), 120
Attar of rose, 155-169
Attila, 36, 69, 72, 180-186
Austria-Hungary, 78, 219
Austria (Imperial Court), 82
Austrian Overlords, 89
Avari, 10


Believers (old), 93
Benediction (Jewish), 216, 217
Berlin, 185
Bessarabian, 90
Bierhallen (Vinnese), 195
Billiards (Sofia), 116
Birjas, 33, 38
Black Sea, 20
Black Water, 24
Bobchev (Monsieur), 180
Boiars, 44
Bonaparte (Emperor), 191
Bordeie, 49
Borten, 63
Bosnia, 106
Bosphorus, 123, 125
Botticelli (Madonnas of), 199
Boyadji, 108
Braila, 26
Bread (Sabbath), 216
Breakfast (Jewish), 201
Britain (Great), 184, 185
Bruderschaft, 64
Brza Palanka, 11
Buailcaic, 100
Bucagi (Mount), 37
Bucar, 34
Bucharest, 19, 28-40
Bucium, 48, 85
Budapest, 9
Buga, 82
Buildings (State, Bucharest), 34
Bukovina, 24, 81-94
Bulgars (appearance and costume),6
Bulibasha, 49
Biurgers, 55
Burgundy, 18
Busioc, 42
Busioc de dragoste, 30
Buyuk Duamia, 117
Cafes chantants (Sofia), 132
Calea lui Trajan, 17
Candlestick (Jewish), 213, 215
Cantacuzene, 34
CAntAtori, 48
Catrinta, 49


Badacsony, 70
Bajazet, 18
Balkan ranges, 11
Balls (Court in Sofia), 119
Banitza, 162
Bany-a-bashi-Djamia, 106
Baragan, 16, 21
BAtAtura, 39, 84
Batran, 44
Bavaria, 18
Bazias, 2
Bedrooms (Jewish, Croatian), 192
Belgrade, 9


221




222


INDEX


Capra de munte, 47
Capsa, 33
Careme, 206
Carsium, 25
Casa, 42
Cassidim, 93
Cathedral (Bucharest), 34
-     (Sofia), 96, 97
Catherine (Saint), 65
Cernavoda, 17, 24
Chamber (of Deputies, Bucharest),
34
Chaussee (Avenue of), 35
Chorbaji, 151, 152, 157, 158
Christianity (German and Magyar),
203
Church (Orthodox Russian), 92, 93
-- (United and Catholic), 93
Ciocoi, 44
Circassians, 15
Cismegin, 35
Civilisation (Central European), 112
Coburger (the), 98, 101, 112, 113,
118, 142, 143, 144, 184
Cobza, 30
Coffee (Jewish, Persian), 207
Cognac (Greek), 133
Comitadjis, 147
Commandments (Sabbath), 216
Concerto (Chopin's second), 214
Constantine, 34
Constantinople, 19
Cookery (Teutonic), 114
Cosar, 42
Cossacks (costume and appearance),
8, 25
Court (Bulgarian Royal), 142
Covenant (Jewish), 216
Croatia, 187, 198, 219
Csikos (costume and life), 6, 75
Cucurigi, 48
Cuptor, 42
Customs, ceremonies (Sabbath),
213-218
Cyrillic (Kyrilliza), 132
Czirdas, 66, 73
Czernowitz, 90
Dacians, 34
Dancers, Dancing (Turkish), 137 -139
Dante, 36
Danube, 1-27, 147, 170
Dead Hand (the), 123
Decebal, 10, 82
D6li-bab, 71
Designs (in costumes, Byzantine), 6


Dimitri (Saint), 34
Dinners (Bulgarian), 161
Distillation (rose perfume), 165
Djube, 99
Dniester (river), 81, 86
Dobrudja, 15, 16, 17, 20, 21, 106
Dogs (Bulgarian), 152
Doina, 54, 89
Domakin, 102
Dombovitza (river), 28, 34, 35, 36
Domination (Turkish), 13
Dominions (British-Indian), 186
Dondukoff (Boulevard), 96, 111
Dracu, 54
Drinking salon, 174, 175
Dumbrevile Roshe, 81
Dzumalen (Wilderness of), 86
Egerburg, 56-68
Egypt, 10
Eikon, 153
Emperor (of Austria), 183
Empire (British), 184
- (Southern Slav), 185
Enescu, 33, 38
Envoy (Bulgarian), 180
Esprit des Lois, 187
Europe, 80
- (South-Eastern), 185
Euxineograd (wine), 115
Evil Eyes, 29, 122, 133, 146, 153
Express (Orient), 96
Farao nepek, 73, 76
Fashions (in Sofia), 127
Fathers (Black Jesuit, the), 182
Ferdinand   (King),  appearance,
character and ancestors, 95, 111,
122, 180-186
-- (The Fox), 113, 122
Fiume, 207
Flacai, 39
Flacau, 48
Fogado, 70, 73
Foldmelk, 70, 73
Food (Jewish), 206, 207
France, 18
Fumoir (King Ferdinand's), 143
Furazka (Russian), 117
Fustanella, 105, 163
Gabrovo, 147
Galatz, 20, 26
George's Day (Saint), 46
Gepidi, 10
Giurgevo, 20




INDEX


223


Golden Horn, 144
Gorgio, 50, 78
Gotnar, 17
Gottesdienst, 61, 68
GoAter, 210
Government (British), 185
Greeks, 15, 21
Gregory (Saint), 37
Gulyas hus, 70
Haiduk, Haidouts, 137, 147
Hala Vechiturilor, 31
Hans (Bulgarian), 148, 158-179
Herr Hann, 59
Hirsova, 25
Hof, 57
Hohenzollern, 181, 183, 184, 185
Hora, 39
Horned One, 54
HStel (Bristol), 113
--     (Grand Bulgaria), 96, 113, 145
House (Eating, in Sofia), 132, 139
Huns, 10, 180-186
Huzzulen (Huzules, Huzz), 91, 92
Icoane, 43
Ildico, 183
India, 10
Indus Valley, 77
Iron Gates (the), 10
Islam (dwellings of), 14
Ister, 2
Istria, 44
Italy, 219
Janissaries, 18
Jantita, 89
Jantra (river), 147
Jews, 15
- (Orthodox), 197, 205
- (Reformed), 197
(talent for languages), 208
- (Unreformed), 193
Jornandes, 181
J6szag, 72
Juhasy, 75
Kaiser Wilhelm, 112
Kalafat, 12
Kalpak, 99, 151
Kant, 205
Kantemir (Prince), 83
Kara bitchak, 133
Karl (the Hapsburg), 184
Karlowitz, 4
Karst, 189, 198, 212
Kazan, 1


Kazanlik, 147, 148
Kiddtish-cup, 216
(the), 216
Kilmoutz, 92
Kisleany, 71, 72, 77
Kladovo, 10
Knights (St. John), 18
Kola, 66
Kolibi, 102
Korabia, 17
Kosciuszko (de), 214
Kukoricza, 70
Kulpa (river), 187, 188, 220
Kultur, 89
Kustendji, 24
Lakoum, 107
Lamps (Sabbath), 215
Landler, 67
Land (of Five Rivers), 77
— (of the Bloody Beech Forest),
81-94
-- (of Honey and Butter), 83
Language (Polish), 85, 90
(Suabian), 9
- (Southern Russian), 15, 85
Lautari, 50
Legations (Chinese, Japanese and
Persian), 195
Lev, Leva, 104
Lingurari, 50
Lipovans, 25
Liszt, 79
Liturghia, 46
Lom Palanka, 17
Luczyna (forests of), 86
Lw6w, 84
Maasha, 134
Macedonia, 185
Magyars (features and costume), 4
69-80
Malai, 53
Mamaliga, 42
Manchester (globe-trotter), 121
Manecate, 48
Manna, 213
Marie Louise (Empress), 187
Maria Luisa (Ulitza), 111, 132
Market (Croatian), 199, 200, 221
Marmont (Marshal), 187, 191
Matrasoare, 29
Meats (Kosher), 205
Mecklenburg, 62
Medjidie, 15
Mejidieh, 25
Melena, 161




224


INDEX


Mera, 102, 149
Metropolitan, 35
Military (life in Sofia), 118, 119,
120
Minaret (Sofia), 144
Minister (Serbian), 175
Minta, 42
Misnagdim, 93
Moesia, 100
Mohammedans (Bulgarian), 103,104
Moldavia, 24, 44, 81-94
Montesquieu, 187
Morea, 106
Moshneni, 44
Moslem (Holy Night), 134
- (Sabbath), 97
Mosquitoes, 17, 189
Muscovite, 92
Music (Bulgar), 98, 131, 132
-    (Jewish), 212
- (Tzigane), 69-80
Mussulmans, 7
Nachbarschaft, 64
Name Days, 118
Naniz, 99
Napoleon (Emperor), 187
Narodne Novine, 78, 79
National Museum (Sofia), 96
Naudeau (Ludovic), 183
Nicopoli, 17
Nicora (Saint), 46
Nightingales, 142
Om patimas, 50
Opera House (Sofia), 96
Opinci, 49, 99
Orrasch (Carl von), 209, 220
Orsova, 2, 4
Ouschor (volcano of), 86
Ozarlitza, 99
Pacifists, 186
Paganism (Bulgarian), 171
Pajas, 99
Palace (Bucharest), 28
Paprika, 152
Paprika hendl, 70
Papusele, 30
Paraszt, 72
Parliament House (Bucharest), 35
Passover (the), 197
Pateran, 77, 78
Peasant State (the), 161
Pendi, 31
Pentateuch (the), 205


Pertchiuni, 33
Peter and Paul (Saints), 69, 77, 78
Phidias, 12
Philoppowanes (Lippowanes), 92
Piata, 30
Pigs, 204
Pirolska Ulitza, 111, 132
Pirot, 106
Piscul Cerbulul, 17
Plains (Galician), 78
Plasa, 45
Plevna, 19, 147
Poli, 128, 129
Police (Sofia), 141
Politics and politicians (Bulgarian),
175
Polonaise (Chopin's Grand), 214
Pomak, 103
Popas, pop, 30, 90, 158
Porte (Sublime), 82
Poture, 99
Poturi, 151
Prague, 84
Prasnik (fete-day clothes), 168
Primar, 46
Prime Minister (Bulgarian), 182
Prison (in K-  ), 220
(Sofia), 142
Prispa, 41
Prisus, 181
Prokesh, 115
Promenade (Sofia), 125, 126
Prussia, 57, 180
Pruth (river), 26, 86
Purgatorio (Dante), 36
Puszta (Hungarian), 69, 78
Putna, 82, 86
Queen (Roumanian), 34, 38
Queens (King Ferdinand's), 145
Rachiu, 31
Radujevac, 11
Radu Leon, 34
Rahova, 17
Raki, 133
Raren (the wilderness of), 86
Risnita, 42
Rawnie, 74
Razashi, 44
Rege, 46
Religion (Bulgarian), 154
Restaurants (Sofia), 114, 115
Rockenlieder, 64
Rom, 73
Romanology, 80
Rome (Imperial), 184




INDEX


225


Romeri, 44
Ronacher's Circus, 124
Rose Fairy (Bulgarian), 164
- (Damascena), 165
Roses, 155, 169
-   (Moscata), 165
-    (Sempervirens), 165
Roumanian (marriage party, costume), 16
-     (sentries and herd-boy), 18
(shepherdess), 12
- women (beauty of), 16
Roumanians (costume), 3
Roumelia, 7
Rubbish heaps, 204
Russalii, 52
Russia, 78, 176
Russian (Muscovite), 25
Russians (Little), 15
Rustchuk, 19, 147, 171
Ruthenians, 85
Sabbath (Jewish), 199
Salisbury (Lord), 184
Salon, 190
Salons (Catholic Hapsburg Court),
195
Sanitation (English), 189
SAtoros Cziganok, 73, 78, 79
Saxons, 55-68
Schamia, 99
Schwaba, 113
Schwesterschaft, 64
ScrAnciob, 39
Senate House (Bucharest), 34
Serbia, 185
-    (nobles), 18
Serbo-Croats, 219
Serbs (costume, origin and character), 7
Sereth (river), 26
-     (valley), 81
Servants (Croatian), 199
Shalvas, 104
Shema, 202
Shipka (Pass and mountain), 18,
147, 148
Shumna Maritza, 131
Sigismund (King), 18
Silistria, 17, 20
Siofok, 69
Sistova, 18, 19
Slatko, 119, 151
Slavism (Pan), 184
Slavonic (race, tongue, Church), 180
Sofia, 95-146
Soldiers (Bulgarian), 15


Songs (Bulgarian), 136
-     (Bulgarian Folk), 124, 178
Sophia (Saint), 124
Soup-maker, 151
Spahis, 18
Spaniole (Jews), 128
Speisesaal, 66
Spoor, 78
Stambuloff (Madame), 123
Stefan Domn cel Mare, 81, 82
Stolinka, 102
Strigaturi, 39
Strigoi, 64
Styria, 18
Suabia, 18
Suczawa, 24, 86
Sugui, 48
Sulina, 27
Sulzer, 83
Supplies (war), 185
Szekels, 92
Szekers, 70
Sz6hord6, 71
Tacho Romany Gillis, 77, 78
Taligas, 74, 78, 106
Tallars, 33
Talmud (the Jewish), 218
Tambouratch, 131
Tamerlane, 10
Tartars, 22, 25
-     (Crim), 26
Tchernavoda, 24
Tchingani, 73
Tchorba, 115
Teke, 82-94
Tekneh, 154
Thanksgiving (Jewish), 207
Theodore (Saint), 46
Theodosius (Emperor), 182
Thieves' Market (Moscow), 32
Thracian Plain, 147
Tichorba, 133
Tinda, 42
Tobacco (Serbian, Bulgarian), 136
170
Tots, 71
Tower (of Severus), 10
Traders (German), 26
Trajan (bridge), 10
- (Emperor), 1, 19, 36, 98
Transylvania, 18, 67
TrAnta dreapta, 44
Treaty of Berlin, 106
-     of San Stefano, 111
Trieste, 203
Triumphs (Emperor Trajan's), 1




226


INDEX


Trnovo, 147
Troops (Austrian, Hungarian), 208
Tschernidni, 101
Tschgrbadja, 98, 110, 127, 128
Tshuttoras, 70
Tsuica (wine), 17
TuItcha, 2 6
Turkey, 184
Turk's Bell1, 61, 68
Turnu. Severin, 10
Turtukai, 20
Tzar Liberator, 111
Tziganes, 10, 18, 22, 25, 40, 69-80
Tzymnbalon, 74
Ukraine, 25, 38
Vaj a, 41
Valachia, 44
Valley (of Roses), 147-178
Varna, 19
Verciorova, 24
Veterani, 44
Vilas, 171
Village, villagers and houses (Bul.
garian), 147-179


Villages (Jewish), 87
Vitosk (Mount), 95, 123
Vlachs, 15, 22, 24, 105, 106
Volga (river), 100
Vrana, 123, 124
Wallachia, 18, 24
Wallachs, 86-94
War (the World), 219
Warsaw, 84
Wells, 1 1
Westphalia, 62
Widdin, 12-17
Wine (Dalmatian), 205
Women (Southern Slavonic), 199
Yoghourt, 156, 159, 160
Youdas, 171
Zadruga, 98-101, 102, 148
Zagreb, 211, 219, 220)
Zal, 214
Zilele babei, 46
Zocchi, I111
1 K-;


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