Chapter SIX

Some Secret History--Tossing a Coin for the Throne of
Serbia--King Peter as an Artist--The Present King and
Queen--I am a Guest of King Ferdinand of Bulgaria--His
Presents to Me--The Assassination of Bulgaria’s Prime
Minister--My Own Narrow Escape--What King Ferdinand Thinks
of England.

On one of my visits to Belgrade I was charged with a secret mission concerning new armaments for Serbia, in view of the coming war--a mission that had a dramatic _dénouement_.

It being known that I was on terms of friendship with King Peter, I had been asked at Whitehall to have a private chat with him concerning certain political matters. It was a matter of secret diplomacy, apart from that of officialdom. Though it was no secret, of course, from my friend Sir Beethom Whitehead, who was then British Minister at Belgrade (and to whom I am much indebted for many social introductions in Serbia and elsewhere), it was deemed wise to keep the matter from the Serbian Government. Nor was it surprising, when one reflects how we British had treated Serbia on the King’s accession.

Well, I was at once granted private audience as usual, and during a whole afternoon laid before His Majesty the suggestions I had been instructed in London to make. He considered them calmly, and then entirely agreed.

“Monsieur Paschitch must know, but nobody else--for the present,” he said. “I will speak to him about it.”

Next day I called on the Prime Minister, the grey-bearded, serious man who is still one of my best friends, and we arranged certain details. Some greedy persons had to receive gratifications--for nothing is done officially in the Balkans without bribery. And perhaps it may here be whispered that secret commissions are not utterly unknown in Great Britain!

We made out a list of them, and the amounts that should be paid. Waiting at the hotel was my friend Mr. Alexander Tucker, Consul-General for Serbia in London. He was there as my secretary, representing a strong financial group, who were ready to arm Serbia for the great war that we knew was coming, though the world was doped by the politicians.

That evening I had arranged everything, even to the amount of bribery to be paid to the underlings, who professed to be pro-British, but whose palms were itching to be greased by anybody’s money.

In the secrecy of my bedroom at the Grand Hotel I discussed with my friend Tucker the details of the whole affair, and at ten o’clock that night I wrote out a cipher telegram to London, saying that all was arranged, and that I should return with the documents signed by the President of the Council on the following Thursday.

This message I myself took to the telegraph office, not daring to entrust it to anybody else, and later retired to rest, very well satisfied with the result of my delicate and rather difficult mission. I had, I felt, scored a great success for Britain’s prestige in the Near East--one that it was hoped would cause Bulgaria to come into line with our policy.

Mine was, in fact, the secret hand, administering quite unknown and unsuspected Britain’s policy in the Near East. The position in which I found myself was really a strange one. I was not a diplomat, but a catspaw, who allowed himself to be used for patriotic purposes in order to further our country’s interest and well-being.

I know there are some who have averred that I have made money out of the services I have tried to render to the British Government, but to those I reply that I have never asked, or received, _one single penny_ of the British taxpayers’ money; and, moreover, the cost of my fifteen years’ travelling across Europe, Asia Minor, and Africa as a spy and counter-spy of Britain I have defrayed out of the royalties on my novels. And I defy anyone to prove the contrary.

Patriotism is cheap to those who are paid for their speeches, their propaganda, or their official or parliamentary salaries, but as I have elsewhere stated, my own unswerving patriotism ruined me and kept me even a poor man.

To enter Court circles may be pleasant enough, for some, but when it is effected by a man who is compelled to write for his living, and who has no axe to grind save that of serving his King and country, it is often both heart-breaking and ruinous. There are well-known men I could name, among them at least two of our present Cabinet Ministers, who can testify to the truth of my statements, and to what I have endeavoured with all my heart to accomplish for Britain in the Balkans.

But to return to the incident of the Serbian armaments.

I awoke next morning feeling much gratified. I had a guarded conversation over the telephone with M. Costa Stoyanovitch, the Minister of Commerce, to whom M. Paschitch had spoken, and afterwards Dr. Vesnitch, the Minister of Justice, rang up and invited me to lunch.

Again I lunched in that handsome room, where the Crown Prince had related his irresponsible midnight revels. Madame Paschitch, M. Andrea Nikolitch, Minister of Public Instruction, and M. Patchu, Minister of Finance, were among the guests.

Suddenly Dr. Vesnitch was called to the telephone. When he returned his face was pale and grave, and he asked me into the next room.

“We are betrayed!” were his first words. “The Opposition knows everything! There has been a spy of Austria in the Grand Hotel, who has listened to all your conversations with Consul-General Tucker! They even know the text of the telegram you sent to London last night!”

I stood agape. It was the first time that a foreign spy had had the advantage of me.

“Well? What is to be done?” I asked quickly.

“Deny everything. We must. There will be questions this afternoon in the Skupchtina, and, to save the Government, we must refute them,” he replied. “I will warn the President of the Council. Meanwhile it will be best, Monsieur Le Queux, if you go back to your hotel and remain there till you hear of the results of the questions. Monsieur Paschitch will no doubt at once inform the King. Meanwhile the position of the Government is certainly most insecure. The pro-Germans are ready to defeat us at any moment.”

“But how can they know the text of my cipher message?” I asked the Minister.

He shrugged his shoulders and replied,

“I have given instructions to the Prefect of Police, and we shall see.”

I walked back to the hotel in a veritable vortex of intrigue and mystery. The Opposition had discovered the motive of my mission, and also knew the actual text of the message I had sent to London!

I waited for news. That afternoon the Leader of the Opposition rose in that semi-circular chamber, the Skupchtina, and put some very searching questions to the Prime Minister Paschitch.

Was it true that Monsieur Le Queux was in Belgrade on a confidential mission from the British Government concerning artillery and ammunition to be made in England? was one of the questions asked.

Whereupon Monsieur Paschitch rose solemnly and replied:

“It is true that Monsieur Le Queux, an English writer, is in Belgrade. He is on one of his periodical visits to see his personal friends, and have audience, as he always does, of His Majesty the King. Monsieur Le Queux is an Englishman who travels frequently in our Balkan countries, but, being no politician, nor in any way connected with the British Government, no political importance can be attached to his visit. He is here as any other Englishman may be in Belgrade.”

Whereupon the Leader of the Opposition, a fiery little man with a shock of black hair, rose flourishing the papers in his hand, and said:

“The explanation of His Excellency the President of the Council can hardly be in accordance with fact. There is a pro-British plot to obtain armaments from Britain, in return for a loan, and as proof of it Monsieur Le Queux despatched last night a telegram to London in cipher, but which, translated into plain language, reads--‘All arranged, terms satisfactory to Paschitch and Ministry. Government guarantee. His Majesty supports us. Leaving Thursday.’”

The reading of my telegram caused a great shock to the Government. Monsieur Paschitch repeated his denials, but everyone saw that the truth was out, and, indeed, two days later the inevitable Cabinet crisis came, and the Government resigned. I had been outwitted!

Now comes the sequel. Those members of the Serbian Government who were to have considerable “gratifications” out of the secretly arranged “deal” were all eager to discover the traitor. They were not long in ascertaining the truth. A young Serbian whom my friend Tucker knew, and who proved useful owing to his knowledge of English, was proved to be an Austrian. And in the room adjoining mine at the hotel, separated only by a wooden partition, was, I afterwards learnt, a man named Hoedl, a well-known spy of Austria.

Both were promptly arrested, and after a swift trial were sentenced to ten years’ hard labour for espionage.

I confess that I, thinking myself something of a secret agent, kicked myself for not taking proper precautions. But they always say that the shoemaker’s child is the worst shod! The contract for arms was not placed with Germany, but by a clever manœuvre on the part of Monsieur Paschitch it went to France.

I have seen Serbia under many conditions, grave and gay. I was with my old friend Charles Hands of the _Daily Mail_ and Sir Philip Gibbs, then of the _Daily Chronicle_, when we walked the streets of Belgrade together during the first Balkan War. We felt that Serbia must go under, and the outlook was black enough in all conscience at the time.

I had arrived from my home in Devonshire with a single suit-case. Six hours after the declaration of war I had been summoned to London by telegram. After two hours in London I caught the Orient Express, and within three days arrived at the Serbian front, being attached to the headquarters of King Peter and his son Prince George. I carried with me eight boxes of first-aid appliances, hurriedly got together in London, and they were the first to reach the wounded from outside Serbia. They were obtained by Madame Grouitch, wife of the Serbian Minister in London, and I was asked to convey them to the front.

For seven months I remained with the Serbians, and later on, when back in Belgrade, I took part in the triumphal procession as the King re-entered his capital after victory, and went to the Cathedral for the thanksgiving service.

King Peter was a man of many fine qualities. In addition to being a splendid soldier he was also something of an artist. He had a modest studio at the back of the Palace, where, in his dull loneliness, those hours of brooding over the might-have-beens and his lost love, he killed time by painting landscapes. Only his intimate friends were ever allowed to inspect his work, but on two occasions I sat with him while he worked, and, though I am no critic of art, I thought the scenes were very pleasing.

Once he said to me, hinting at the romance I have already described, “would rather be a picture-dealer in Paris or London than King of Serbia.”

Though he seldom saw Madame X after his accession, I know that they kept up a constant correspondence, and I wonder whether or not in years to come those letters they exchanged will be published. If they be, they will, I am sure, show the true sentiments of a greathearted and courageous sovereign, who was compelled by fortune to sacrifice, for his country’s needs, his deep affection.

At His Majesty’s burial recently Madame X stood by his graveside, a tall, handsome, pathetic figure, and wept bitterly, even though she is married, and is to-day a well-known figure in society, both in London and in Paris.

King Alexander, who now reigns over the extended country of Jugo-Slavia, is a tall, rather thin-faced young man of thirty-five, who speaks with a slight lisp, and is a very good linguist. Unlike his father or his brother George, he has little military enthusiasm, but is a deep reader and thinker, something of a scientist, and filled with true patriotism towards his nation, as was his father. He has been very kind to me on several occasions, and when I wrote congratulating him on his recent marriage, he replied referring to his father’s friendship towards me, hoping that I would soon be in Belgrade again.

A story I once heard concerning his relations with his brother Prince George I will venture to print. It was told me by an ex-Minister of Serbia one day, in the Military Club in Belgrade, but of its truth I have no means of ascertaining. I give it for what it is worth. When, in 1909, Prince George’s pranks and practical jokes grew to be a public scandal, his father, King Peter, became furious at the state of affairs, and suggested that he should renounce his rights as _Prince Héritier_. So he went to his brother, the present King, and said:

“The King has almost had a fit of apoplexy. I’m the bad boy, and old Paschitch has been lecturing me, and says I’ll have to renounce my claim to the throne. I don’t want it, as you know, but surely we ought to have even chances. I’ll toss you for it!”

And they did, with a French louis piece, Alexander winning the toss!

Next day, the 15th March, 1909, the resignation of the incorrigible Prince George was announced, and he went off to Russia to join the Army there.

I repeat that I cannot vouch for the truth of the story, but the person who told it to me is one of the best-known diplomats in the Near East, and he declared it to be a fact.

King Alexander’s consort I met in Bucharest, on one of my visits to “Carmen Sylva,” Queen of Roumania, which I will later on recount. She was then an extremely pretty girl, with a charming manner and elegant as became the daughter of an elegant mother, who was one of the most _chic_ and up-to-date princesses of Europe--Marie, daughter of our late Duke of Edinburgh.

* * * * *

From Serbia to Bulgaria is not a far cry, and I have been in Sofia many times. On one occasion I had left Paris, and was conveying some despatches from Belgrade to my friend Sir George Buchanan, who was British Minister to Bulgaria, and, later, Ambassador to Russia during the war. He was then at the Legation at Sofia, with his wife, Lady Georgina, and his daughter, who has lately achieved considerable success in literature.

On arrival at the Grand Hotel Bulgarie, a rather dismal place opposite the Royal Palace, at about four o’clock one summer’s afternoon, I announced my arrival by telephone, and Sir George promptly asked me to dine that evening at seven.

I was tired, and, having three hours to spare, I flung myself into an easy chair and slept till six o’clock. Then I dressed and drove to the Legation, a large, pleasant house, arriving just before seven.

On entering the drawing-room, where a number of guests were seated, I was greeted by Lady Georgina, who exclaimed:

“Oh, Mr. Le Queux, I’m so sorry you couldn’t come to dinner!”

I stood aghast in surprise.

Then I glanced at the clock, and saw that it was nine! I had forgotten to alter my watch after leaving Paris, for in Sofia they have Eastern European time, which is about two hours different to Greenwich.

The whole company laughed merrily at my discomfiture.

On the occasion of that visit to Sofia I was presented to King Ferdinand through the good offices of Monsieur Demetrius Petkoff, the Prime Minister, a very charming man, who had lost his arm in the Russo-Turkish War, and who spoke English perfectly and showed me many kindnesses. King Ferdinand during the war earned for himself the sobriquet “Foxy Ferdinand” among readers of English newspapers. Why I can never imagine. He is a well-read, extremely intelligent, refined man, possessed of a keen sense of humour, and not any more sly than any other European monarch.

The Palace is a long, one-storied building, built in the style of the Palace of Versailles, and surrounded by a small park. Before the gates of ornamental iron-work four sentries stand, and as one drives in they salute, and a few minutes later one finds oneself in the presence of Bulgaria’s ruler.

He was a fine, handsome man, of a rather Hebrew type, a keen aquiline countenance, rather sallow, a big nose, a pair of merry eyes, and a well-trimmed beard slightly grey. He was in military uniform, with epaulettes, and a white astrachan cap, and a single cross of one of the Orders at his throat.

He struck me as a rather stiff and overbearing person, vastly different to King Peter or the King of Italy, but it was apparent that he was somewhat interested in my visit. Why, I did not learn till later.

When I ventured to ask him for a photograph for my book _An Observer in the Near East_, he ordered one to be brought, and signed it.

“This is your second visit to Bulgaria, I understand,” he said. “Well, I hope you will see everything. You will see to it, will you not, Monsieur Petkoff?” he said to the Prime Minister at my side. “I will give orders.”

Then, turning again to me, King Ferdinand said with a smile:

“Do not judge us exactly by your Western standards, will you? I will try and make your stay as pleasant as it can be made. Later I shall be happy to receive you again,” and he bowed, a sign that the audience was at an end, and we backed out of the room.

It was quickly apparent that His Majesty had given orders that I should not be dull while in his capital, for to my hotel next morning came Monsieur Dmitri Standoff, of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and Monsieur Mandercheff, of the same Ministry, who told me that they had orders to drive me about the city and environs and show me everything. Thus for ten days I remained the guest of King Ferdinand, for I was not allowed to pay for anything, being made a member of the Diplomats’ Club, and being the guest each evening of either Monsieur Petkoff, the Prime Minister, or the Minister of Foreign Affairs.

An incident that occurred after I had been conducted over the fine National Museum--for there are many handsome buildings in Sofia--will illustrate the King’s generosity towards me while I was his guest. I had admired some old Turkish filigree jewellery in gold and silver, especially some great ear-ornaments worn by ladies of the harem two centuries ago, as well as some ancient Turkish embroideries and rich harem costumes embroidered in gold. Then I had again expressed my admiration of them when we had driven out to Vladaja, a pretty village on the road to the rose-fields of Kustendil, where the world’s supply of real otto of rose is distilled in Shipkoff’s factory.

On my return to the hotel that evening I found two huge parcels awaiting me, with a note from the Foreign Minister saying that he presented them “With the Compliments of His Majesty.”

On opening them, I found they contained every object that I had that morning admired.

Those national treasures of Bulgaria I brought home, and must confess that I distributed them among my lady friends!

The gifts, however, serve to show that even kings are not averse from a little kindly publicity in a book written by a foreigner.

And now comes a curious and dramatic incident, which pains me as I recall it.

One afternoon, after sitting in the diplomats’ gallery of the Sobranje, or Parliament, a very handsome and well-appointed chamber, where I had listened to the ministerial statement of Bulgaria’s future attitude towards Turkey, the gist of the speeches being translated to me by Monsieur Standoff, who sat at my side with the Russian and French Ministers, I was invited by General Savoff, Minister of War, to dine at his house.

The party proved an exceedingly pleasant one, and included Monsieur Dobrovitch, the King’s private secretary, and several Bulgarian Ministers, with their wives. I sat next to the Prime Minister Petkoff, whose round face, with its little grey “Imperial” beard, was ever overflowing with _bonhomie_, yet owing to his maimed arm he had considerable difficulty with his knife and fork, and in this I assisted him.

After dinner there was a small dance, and at about one o’clock in the morning I walked home with my friend, who lived in a large house facing the public park not far from my hotel.

It had been a delightful evening, and the brilliant Eastern moonlight was glorious as we strolled in and out of the dark shadows. Monsieur Petkoff was contemplating a visit to London, and we arranged to meet there. I asked him for his photograph, for he was one of the leading statesmen of the Balkans. He promised me one, and at his door I shook his hand and left him as he entered with his latch-key.

Next morning at ten o’clock, as he left his house to go to the Ministry, he was shot dead. Three revolutionists were arrested, and at the subsequent trial it was proved that I had had a very narrow escape, for they were lurking there in the shadow on the previous night, and, being ignorant of whom I might be, had refrained from making their _coup_!

Poor Petkoff shared the same fate as his predecessor Stambuloff. Together with Mr. James Bouchier, the deaf Balkan correspondent of _The Times_--whom the Bulgarians honoured by having a postage-stamp printed with his photograph--I stood at the graveside of the fine old statesman who had been my friend, and listened to the eulogy pronounced by the Minister of Foreign Affairs. Truly life in the Balkans has its adventures. The three assassins were duly executed.

No doubt I had a narrow escape on that glorious moonlit night, and it will ever remain in my memory.

The photograph that His Excellency had promised me was delivered to me by the police six hours after his death. It had been found in a sealed envelope on his desk, together with a charming note that I cherish, and its replica may be found in the book I have mentioned. The original stands in my study with a little piece of crape on its frame.

I have been in Sofia several times since, and I have had several audiences of the man whom the English have denounced as “Foxy Ferdinand.” He, like King Peter, has never been understood by us.

At heart he was an Anglophile. He loved the British nation, but diplomatic blunder after blunder, made from Whitehall by certain persons who know nothing of Balkan politics, estranged King Ferdinand from us.

One winter day, only a few months before the tragedy of Sarajevo, I stood in his audience chamber discussing a question regarding the best way of administering Macedonia, when he turned to me and revealed his innermost thoughts.

“Recollect,” he said vehemently, “if war comes I will never fight against England. I would rather abdicate. I love your country and admire your policy. It is only your vacillating politicians that I cannot endure. You British have your eyes closed to Germany’s machinations. True, my mother was German, and to a degree I am German myself. But if war comes, as it must, I will fight on your side, if your precious ill-informed officials will allow me!”

Precious ill-informed officials! Those words are to-day to me--and perhaps to many readers--prophetic. While Britain was lulled to sleep by the Campbell-Bannerman Administration, Ferdinand was alert to what the Kaiser intended.

I know that our memories are so short that the Great War is to-day an out-of-date topic with most people, but there are still those, including myself, who acted for so long as a humble but patriotic secret agent of Great Britain, who deplore the slow but sure grip of the German octopus upon our land.

Alas! it was a thousand pities that Bulgaria ever fired a shot against us, but my confidential reports to Whitehall were set aside by one who, never having been in the Near East, and possessing only a slight acquaintance with the French language, directed Britain’s policy towards “the powder-magazine” of Europe.

Month in and month out I made my secret reports to certain quarters, warning them that Europe was preparing for war and urging a conciliatory policy with both Bulgaria and Turkey. I was spending my hard-earned money in travelling hither and thither, and in entertaining those who might give me information.

For my pains, I received only jeers from those millions of politically-doped inhabitants of the United Kingdom, who, turning in their slumber, declared:

“War will never come in our lifetime,”

But was not that part of the ingenious and costly propaganda of Germany in our midst?

With Lord Roberts, Lord Charles Beresford, Lord Portsmouth, Lord Clarendon, Lord Balfour, Sir George Butcher, Lord Headley, Sir W. Joynson-Hicks, Lord Leith of Fyvie, and other of my friends, we all knew that the Kaiser intended war. The reason we knew was a discovery I made--one that has never been contradicted--and which I have recorded in another chapter.