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Discovering Diverse Content Through
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and as religious as his flock, he supplied a moral impulse which
redeemed much that was trivial in the conduct of the revolution; his
premature death from consumption was a real loss to Epirus and its
already hopeless cause.
M. Venizelos said little about general Balkan matters, he
appeared tired and dispirited, and it was evident that the Greek
Government was not going to get itself into trouble over the
Epirotes, in spite of their pure Greek origin. These unfortunate
people constituted the wealthiest and most civilized element in the
population of Albania, they had an indisputable right to a large share
in the Government of that country. This they had not got, and, with
the full knowledge of the Great Powers, they had been left,
politically, to the tender mercies of men saturated with Turkish
traditions, under the nominal Kingship of a conceited and ignorant
German Prince.
I reached Belgrade early in April, 1914. The city had resumed its
normal aspect. The General Staff were talking and planning war, the
general public was more interested in the working of the Commercial
Convention with Greece. In political and diplomatic circles vague
references were made to certain concessions to Bulgaria in the
Vardar Valley. These latter appeared to me to be so inadequate as to
be hardly worth discussing, and yet, as matters stood, the Serbs
refused to offer more. This attitude, however unfortunate, was more
reasonable in 1914 than at any previous period. In the absence of
direct railway communication between Greece and Servia, the
Commercial Convention would lose half its point, since the only
railway line available passed by the Vardar Valley through the heart
of the “Contested Zone.” No practicable trace for another line
existed, except a tortuous route impinging on Albania.
Ethnical and geographical conditions had conspired to make
Macedonia a “Debatable Land,” the creation of an independent
Albania had added fuel to the flames of discord, it had not only
shortened the Serbo-Greek frontier and prevented all communication
by sea, but, by thwarting Servian and Greek aspirations in that
direction, had engendered in both countries an uncompromising
state of mind. Bulgaria’s claims remained unaltered, they had
become crystallized by defeat and disappointment; amid the shifting
sands of Balkan politics they stood out like a rock.
The Great Powers had sacrificed the interests of Greece and
Servia directly, and those of Bulgaria indirectly, on the altar of an
Autonomous Albania. Ingenuous people claimed that this course had
been dictated by high-minded motives, by a benevolent, if tardy,
recognition of the principles of self-government, whose application in
other lands could wait on this strange experiment. Naïveté is
charming when not contaminated with hypocrisy, but one swallow
does not make a summer; a single act, however specious, cannot
efface a decade of intrigue.
An active economic policy in Macedonia had already been
initiated by the Austro-Hungarian Government. The first move was
characteristic, a share in the control of the Belgrade-Salonika
Railway was claimed, on the ground that a large part of the capital
for its original construction had been subscribed by citizens of the
Dual Monarchy. British newspapers dealt fully with the financial
aspects of the case, but refrained from criticizing a proposition which
deprived a sovereign independent State of the sole control of a
railway within its frontiers. The Servian Government tried to float a
loan with which to buy out the foreign shareholders, but failed—high
finance is international and obdurate to the poor. On ne prête qu’aux
20
riches.
I stayed in Vienna for a few days on my way to London. Here, it
was generally recognized that, in regard to Servia, a dangerous
situation was developing, which could not be neglected. Many
serious people frankly expressed the hope that some incident would
occur which would provide a pretext for taking military action
against the Serbs. No one wanted war, but every one felt that an
end had to be put to “an intolerable state of affairs”; the time for
conciliatory measures had passed, the Southern-Slav movement was
assuming menacing proportions, and would wreck the Austro-
Hungarian Empire, if steps were not promptly taken to nip it in the
bud.
Such were the opinions expressed, in private circles, by men and
women who did not know with what skill and ingenuity the net had
been spread for Servia. In official circles confidence was the
prevailing note; the lessons of the last two wars had been forgotten
in the Austrian War Office, where the efficiency of the Servian Army
was, as usual, under-estimated. Diplomats professed to have no
faith in the sincerity of Russia’s intentions when posing as the
champion of the Southern Slavs; such a policy struck them as being
too unselfish for the Government of the Czar.
Cynics are bad psychologists; to them Russia has always been
an enigma and a source of error. M. Hartwig expressed the Pan-Slav
point of view: Servia was part of Russia, the Serbs were “little
brothers,” destined once more to reach the Adriatic, to bar the
highway to Salonika, to fight again, if need arose, in Slavdom’s
sacred cause.
The Serbs themselves wanted independence, complete and
definite; they hoped to gain it with the help of Russia, and then to
found an Empire of their own. That Empire could be created only at
the expense of Austria-Hungary, Germany’s ally, mate of a monster
Python State which soon would raise its head.
Though outwardly at peace, Servia and Bulgaria were arming
with feverish haste, preparing to take their places in Europe’s
opposing camps. The pyramid was rising, taking shape; issues were
narrowing, effect was succeeding cause; the disintegration of the
Balkan bloc had left the Slavs and Teutons face to face, the arena
was cleared for a titanic struggle, those who knew anything of
Europe foretold the coming storm.
Austria-Hungary had not long to wait for the desired pretext.
The assassination of the Archduke Francis Ferdinand was a
sufficiently sensational incident to satisfy the most exacting. The
Dual Monarchy took the fatal step, and sent an ultimatum which was
its own death warrant.
Civilization stood aghast and feigned a moral indignation which
was far from being sincere. Austria-Hungary, in thus using a weak
and neighbouring race, was acting in strict conformity with moral
standards which the Great Powers themselves had set. Junkers in
Germany, Cosmopolitan financiers in Paris, Reactionaries in England,
and the Czar’s ministers in Russia had acted, or were prepared to act
in precisely similar fashion, each in their separate sphere. In the
eyes of these men, national sentiment was the appanage of Great
Powers, the day of small States had passed. They had admitted the
independence of Albania from motives of expediency, and at the
instance of Austria-Hungary, the very State which now they should
have judged.
The relations between the different European States were those
which exist between the denizens of a jungle—no moral laws
restrained them, the weak were the natural victims of the strong.
The peoples were sometimes passive, at others artificially excited,
but always helpless and inarticulate, driven like cattle in a herd. The
“Jingo” Press in every Christian land glorified might as right, eminent
soldiers told a respectful public that militarism alone could save the
Commonwealth, and that without its wholesome discipline the
nations would decay; science collaborated in the race of armaments,
which had become a source of riches and a patriotic cult.
The murder at Sarajevo gave Austria-Hungary an opening, she
pressed her advantage like a bully bent on the destruction of a weak
antagonist. Not only had the weak to go to the wall, and go there
with every circumstance of humiliation, a still more signal ignominy
21
was needed to mollify the wounded pride of men like Tisza; who
insisted that Belgrade should be occupied, and that Servian peasants
should, once more, endure the horrors of an alien yoke. Only by
such means could an Archduke be avenged and jungle law
maintained. Blinded by passion, Austria-Hungary had forgotten that
there were other carnivori in the jungle whose interests were
involved.
The Junkers, capitalists, journalists and soldiers, who had led
Europe to the verge of the abyss, now realized what lay before
them,—something incalculable, immense and elemental. Self-interest
was forgotten for a moment, even their callous minds recoiled.
These men had spent their lives talking of European War, and
making costly preparations for it, but at its near approach they
flinched. In Petrograd a supreme effort was made to avert the
cataclysm, it was cynical enough and revealed the morality of the
22
“Balance of Power” in Europe in a brief but pregnant phrase
—“Lâchez l’Autriche et nous lâcherons les Français” was the message
to the German Government. It came too late; public opinion in
Russia was dangerously excited, and behind the Russian people
stood another Power which also was suffering from “an intolerable
state of affairs.” For nearly fifty years the French had lived beneath a
sword of Damocles wielded with German arrogance; they supported
with difficulty the “Three Years’ Service” system, and had lent much
money to the Russians. The French Government seized its
opportunity, France made the Servian Cause her own.
Three crowned heads symbolized the might and power of
Central Europe—one, senile, embittered, selfish, surrounded by a
mediaeval Court; another, pompous, vain, ambitious, a war-lord, the
apex of a social pyramid which recognized no law but force; the
third, an autocrat whose will was law to millions, a man both weak
and obstinate, whose character was a riddle to those who knew him
best. Men such as these could not prevent the conflagration;
considering their influence and position one wondered why it had
not come before.
When war became inevitable, the British Empire was utterly
unprepared in both a mental and material sense; many educated
people of the upper classes were amazed at each other’s ignorance
of geography; the man in the street awoke from his wonted lethargy,
and studied geography, as well as ethics, in the pages of the Daily
Mail.
On August 10, 1914, a troop train passed through Woking
Station bound for Southampton Harbour. The men were typical
“Tommies” of the old Army, and were in the highest possible spirits.
One of them, more curious-minded than the rest, shouted to a be-
spectacled civilian on the platform, “’Ow far is it from ’ere to Servia,
guv’nor?” The train was in motion, and time did not admit of a
satisfactory reply.
After all, at that time, it did not matter where or how far away
an unknown land like Servia might be; all the best strategists were
agreed that Servia’s future destiny would be settled by a great battle
in the West. Poor Servia, it would take more than that to save her
from invasion; for the moment, anyhow, Heaven was too high, and
her Allies were too far.
A little over twelve months later, British and French troops were
being disembarked at Salonika and hurried thence to reinforce the
already beaten and retreating Serbs. I’ve wondered sometimes
whether the lighthearted boy, who tried to learn geography at
Woking Station, was of their number.
He may have struggled up the Vardar Valley and penetrated
narrow gorges, where the railway, for want of space, follows the
ancient road. He may have seen the mountains of Old Servia and
caught an echo from their frowning heights: “Too late, too late, ye
cannot enter now.”
 CHAPTER IX

The Neutral Balkan States—1915

My duties recalled me to the Balkan Peninsula in the early spring

of 1915. None too soon, the Allied Governments had turned their
attention to Near Eastern problems and had decided to dispatch an
Expeditionary Force to retrieve their damaged prestige in the East.
The main objectives were the Dardanelles and Constantinople,
respectively the gateway and the pivot of the Ottoman Empire and
points of inestimable strategic value for the future conduct of a
world-wide war. Imperial policy, in its widest and truest sense,
dictated this course of action and, as was natural and logical, the
Allied Power which had most at stake supplied the initiative and took
the lead.
Great Britain, in its dual capacity of guardian of the sea-routes of
the world and the greatest Mohammedan Power, has seldom been in
a more critical position. Germany and Turkey acting in combination
could approach the Suez Canal through Asia Minor, the Red Sea
through Arabia and the Persian Gulf through Mesopotamia. Enemy
successes in these three directions could hardly fail to have an
adverse influence on Mohammedan opinion and, under such
conditions, India itself would not be safe. The foundations of the
British Empire were endangered, threatened by forces both open
and insidious; a British policy, framed by men who understood their
business, was the only Allied policy which could properly meet the
case. The British statesmen then in office faced this grave situation
with steady eyes, and reached a conclusion which, at the time, was
widely criticized, but, to their credit, they persisted in it.
The fiat went forth from Downing Street, and on the experts of
Whitehall devolved the task of evolving a strategy in harmony with
policy.
Experts, of any kind, are good servants but bad masters; they
are prone to pessimism when called to work outside their special
spheres, and are, as a rule, indifferent prophets; like the Spaniards,
they often seem wiser than they are. Expert and official opinion on
both sides of Whitehall was opposed to the expedition to the
Dardanelles. The North Sea drew the Navy like a magnet, there it
was felt the decisive battle would be fought, and the desire of
islanders was natural to make security doubly sure. Mr. Winston
Churchill devoted all the resources of his forceful and energetic
personality to Eastern Naval preparations, he had both courage and
imagination, and brushed aside the protests of officials within his
jurisdiction, but these were not the only obstacles—sometimes he
must have wondered whether a chasm had not replaced the
thoroughfare which separates the Admiralty from the War Office. In
the latter building, an old machine, under new and inexperienced
direction, was creaking uneasily, barely able to stand the strain
caused by the war in France. To the War Office staff, it seemed as if
Pelion had been piled on Ossa, when they were asked to co-operate
with the Navy in a distant expedition, whose scope and nature
brought into strong relief their mental and material unpreparedness.
Refuge was sought in procrastination, difficulties were exaggerated,
the many human cogs of a complex machine groaned in the throes
of a new and unwelcome effort.
In enterprises of this nature, risks must be taken, a circumspect
and timid strategy misses the mark. In this particular instance, time
was the essence of the problem; a single Division, at the
psychological moment, was worth nine arriving late; a military force
of 20,000 men, acting in close support of the Allied Navies, could
have achieved success where a host a few weeks later, even if ably
led, might fail. The stakes were enormous, the obstacles, both naval
and military, formidable but not insuperable. A calm appreciation of
the situation should have convinced the most doubting spirits that
Constantinople could be taken by a well-timed and vigorous stroke.
At this period Turkey was isolated, her forces were disorganized and
short of ammunition, the Germans were unable to send either
reinforcements or war material to this theatre, except in driblets.
The position of Enver Pasha was precarious, his enemies were
numerous and active, they had viewed with profound misgivings the
rapid growth of German influence, and were ready for a change.
Constantinople was ripe for revolution; the wheel had turned full
circle, the Allies, by the irony of fate, could count on assistance from
reactionary elements, converted by mistrust of Germany into
potential supporters of our cause. The neutral Balkan States were
waiting and, in their hearts, longing for Allied intervention, it meant
the solution of many complicated problems, and they preferred even
unpleasant certitude to doubt.
A turning point in history had been reached; statesmen had
ordained the expedition and left its execution to amphibious experts;
prompt, energetic action based on careful plans was needed, action
combining force on land and sea. A watching world was wracked
with expectation, something portentous was about to happen, the
Small States held their breath. In Whitehall, an official mountain
trembled slightly, and forth there crept a tardy, unready mouse.
While troops were being crowded pell-mell into transports and
hurried to Gallipoli, the Foreign Office in London and Paris took up
the question of the neutral Balkan States. A suggestion that
reinforcements should be sent to Servia had gained support in
certain Allied quarters and, since the only available port of
disembarkation was Salonika, for this, if for no other reason, friendly
relations with the Greeks were sought. Under the cloak of the
commercial convention with Servia, ammunition was already passing
freely up the Vardar Valley, and it was hoped that the precedent thus
established might be extended so as to cover a still more benevolent
neutrality, and allow of the passage of French and British troops.
Greece was the only Balkan State which depended for its existence
on sea communications, she was completely at the mercy of the
Allies, and no amount of German intrigue, in court and military
circles, could twist the logic of hard facts. Neither King Constantine
nor his advisers were prepared to accept formally a technical
violation of Greek neutrality, they would have been helpless,
however, if the Allies had insisted. To a layman, the diplomatic
situation seemed to be typical of those described in a certain class of
novel, in which suave but firm diplomacy, supported by
overwhelming force, meets every protest with a soothing phrase and
lends an air of elegance to the most sordid bargain. When people or
States are weak, the path of consent descends by hesitating stages
from “No” through “Perhaps” to “Yes.”
The Allies did not negotiate upon these lines. They invited the
Greeks to send practically the whole of their army to reinforce the
Serbs; in return, they undertook to protect Greek communications
with Salonika, by occupying the “non-contested” zone in Macedonia
with Allied troops. In all my travels in the Balkan peninsula, I had
never come across a region to which the description “non-contested”
could be applied with any accuracy; in London and Paris it was
visualized by a miracle of self-deception, and acted like a charm.
Here was the solution of the Balkan question, an Allied force,
immobilized in this mysterious zone, would hold the Bulgarians in
check, encourage the Serbs and reassure the Greeks; Rumania
would see what efforts we were making and hurry to our aid; the
Turks, trembling for Adrianople, would make a separate peace.
For the moment the Greek Government was unable to entertain
the proposed arrangement; King Constantine and the Greek General
Staff rejected the suggested plan of operations and put forward
another of their own, which envisaged a second campaign against
Turkey and opened up alluring prospects further East. Temporarily,
the negotiations failed to secure either the co-operation of the Greek
Army or a more benevolent neutrality on the part of Greece. The
political situation in Athens became more and more confused. Allied
diplomacy paid assiduous court to M. Venizelos and, thereby, excited
the jealousy and mistrust of the King. Telegrams from an Imperial
War Lord addressed to “Tino” flattered the monarch’s vanity as a
strategist, he laughed, with some reason, at our tactics, and grew
convinced we could not win the war.
Sofia presented a very different aspect from Athens. In the
Bulgarian capital there was little bustle in the streets, political
excitement was not apparent, the inhabitants went about their
business quietly and, in the case of most of them, that business was
military in its nature. Bulgaria, though unwilling to commit herself
permanently, still nursed her wrongs; to obtain redress for these was
the object of the entire people, and no neutral State was better
prepared for war.
The alliance of Bulgaria was on the market, obtainable by either
set of belligerents at a price; that price was the territory in Thrace
and Macedonia, of which Bulgaria considered she had been
wrongfully deprived by the Treaty of Bucharest. If the Allies could
have satisfied the Bulgarian Government on this point, the Bulgarian
Army would have been employed with the same soulless ferocity
against the Turks as, in the end, it displayed against the Serbs.
The situation was clearly defined, and the rôle of diplomacy
limited to the manipulation of cross-currents of popular feeling and
personal sympathies, which, in Bulgaria as in every other State,
divided opinion among several political camps. Unfortunately for the
Allies, neither the British nor the French representative in Sofia had
the requisite qualifications for making verbiage about a “non-
contested” zone pass for a definite policy in the Balkans. The British
Minister was—rightly or wrongly—credited with Servian sympathies,
the French Minister was not a “persona grata” with King Ferdinand,
whose favour was all-important in a diplomatic sense. There does
not appear to have been any reason for the retention of either of
these officials in their posts, except the habitual unwillingness of
government departments to disturb routine. The difficulty of finding
substitutes did not arise in either case. Our Foreign Office had at its
disposal a brilliant young diplomatist, with a unique experience of
Balkan capitals, who could have rendered more useful services as
Minister in Sofia than as Counsellor of Embassy in Washington; a
well-selected French aristocrat would have received a cordial
welcome from a Prince of the Orleans family, who himself controlled
Bulgaria’s foreign policy, and whose “spiritual home” was France.
The foregoing were some of the imponderable factors in Bulgaria; in
1914 they could have been turned to good account, in 1915 it was
perhaps too late.
In time of war, a diplomatic duel is like a game of cards in which
victories are trumps; no amount of diplomatic skill can convert
defeat into success. During the spring and summer of 1915, our
Diplomats in the Balkans fought an unequal fight. The conviction
that a stalemate existed on the front in France and Flanders was
daily gaining ground, public attention was concentrated on the
Dardanelles, and here the operations were followed with an interest
as critical as it was intelligent. During the war against Turkey, the
topographical features in this theatre had been closely studied by
the Bulgarian General Staff, when a portion of the Bulgarian Army
had penetrated into Turkish Thrace as far as the lines of Bulair. To
these men our tactics became daily more incomprehensible. At first,
the assaults on the Western extremity of the Gallipoli Peninsula were
taken to be feints, intended to cover a landing in the neighbourhood
of Enos, but, when it was realized that these were the major
operations, when thousands of lives were sacrificed for the capture
of a few bare and waterless cliffs, their bewilderment became
intensified, and into all their minds there crept a doubt. General
Fitcheff, the Chief of Staff and a man whose English sympathies
were widely known, ran considerable risks by giving his expert
advice in regard to a landing on the coast near Enos; he was no
arm-chair critic but a practical soldier with recent and personal
experience of battlefields in Thrace. His views were identical with
those of the King of Greece and, indeed, of the vast majority of
soldiers in the Balkans. They were rejected or ignored; a pseudo-
omniscient optimism pervaded Allied counsels and acted like a
blight.
 Our friends in Bulgaria contemplated the useless slaughter at
Gallipoli with horror and dismay, waverers turned to German agents,
who took full advantage of every change of mood. An influx of
German officers and officials began about this time; they had access
to all Government departments, and assumed control of part of the
Bulgarian railway system; as one result of their activities
Constantinople received supplies of ammunition, whose Bulgarian
origin was suspected if not known.
The journey from Sofia to Bucharest lasts less than twenty-four
hours, its one noteworthy feature is the abrupt transition from a
Slavonic to a Latin race. The Bulgars are reserved and taciturn,
strangers are treated coldly, they are not wanted unless they come
on business whose utility can be proved. I left Sofia impressed by
the efficiency and self-confidence of the people, but chilled by their
morose and almost sullen ways. On crossing the Danube a new
world was entered, where hearts were warm and life was gay and
easy, where every one talked cleverly and much, and where,
perhaps, words counted more than deeds.
In the spring of 1915 Bucharest was a diplomatic arena, in which
all the Great Powers were making prodigious efforts. Russia had
ceased to treat her southern neighbour as a revolted colony; the
Central Empires had developed a sudden sympathy for Rumania’s
national aspirations, more especially in the direction of Bessarabia;
Great Britain had made a loan of £5,000,000, on little or no security,
and, as a further proof of disinterested friendship, was buying a
large proportion of the output of the oilfields, regardless of the
impossibility of either using or exporting this more than ever
precious product. A golden age had dawned, business men were
doing a roaring trade, cereals were being bought at fancy prices
and, looming ahead, were brighter prospects still.
I looked for the warlike preparations of which the War Office in
London had so confidently spoken. Of officers there appeared to be
no dearth, the streets and cafés were crowded with brilliant
uniforms, whose wearers sauntered slowly to and fro, bestowing
glances on the softer sex which were returned in kind. To seek the
favour of the fair has at all times been a martial occupation. A wise
man once remarked: “I know not how, but martial men are given to
love,” and added some comments on perils, wine and pleasures
which seemed to fit this case. But war is not made with officers
alone, men are required, men of the people, who have no decorative
functions in the piping times of peace. These were lacking, they
were neither on the streets nor in the barracks, they were in their
homes, producing wealth and not yet bearing arms.
Rumania was not prepared for war; no reservists had been
mobilized, training depots were at normal strength, there was a
shortage of horses for the Cavalry and Field Artillery, the Heavy
Artillery was deficient both in quality and quantity, the aviation
equipment was out of date, last but not least, the reserve stocks of
ammunition had been depleted, and the Rumanian arsenals lacked
the plant needed for their replenishment and the maintenance of an
army in the field.
A policy which co-ordinated diplomacy and strategy would have
carefully weighed the “pros” and “cons” of an alliance with Rumania.
The mere presence of an army in a certain geographical position
means little, unless that army is an organization ready to act,
containing within itself the means whereby its action can be
sustained. Rumania was a granary of corn, a reservoir of oil, both
valuable commodities, though more so to our enemies than
ourselves, but, from a military point of view, the co-operation of this
land of plenty involved a heavy charge. To meet this charge, not
only had guns and ammunition to be sent, the Rumanian Army was
short of everything, including boots and clothes. Supply alone,
though at this period difficult enough, did not completely solve the
problem, delivery required communications capable of transporting
at least 300 tons a day. No such communications existed between
Rumania and the Western Powers. Imports could reach Bucharest or
Jassy only through Servia or Russia, the railways in both countries
were inefficient and congested, to send ammunition by these routes,
in time of war, was to pass it through a sieve. The prophecy, made in
May, 1915, that the then existing communications could not deliver
more than a seventh of Rumania’s requirements was well within the
mark.
In short, in the spring and summer of 1915, the alliance of
Rumania would have been for the Western Powers a doubtful
advantage and a heavy responsibility. The first of these
considerations might, at least, have restrained the French Minister at
Bucharest from demanding Rumanian intervention with a
vehemence which too frequently degenerated into insult; it was fully
appreciated by the Grand Duke Nicholas who, in his quality of
Russian Generalissimo, described as “une folie furieuse” what the
French Diplomat thought would turn the scale in favour of the Allied
cause. The second consideration should have appealed to the British
Government, the representatives of a people who look before they
leap. British statesmanship had inspired the Near Eastern policy of
the Allies, and had chosen as first objectives Constantinople and the
Dardanelles. Impartial historians will justify this choice; here lay the
key of the whole Balkan situation, here were the lever and the
fulcrum with which to actuate the Neutral States. Once masters of
Constantinople and its waterways, the Allies would have found
Rumania willing, when ready with their help, to co-operate in a
concerted plan. Her army, based on the Black Sea and the Danube,
would have become dynamic, a source of strength, instead of
weakness, to an inert and passive Russian front; Bulgaria, reduced
to impotence, would either have kept a strict neutrality or, breaking
unnatural bonds, have returned to the Russian fold; the Greeks, with
their eyes on Smyrna, could not have held aloof.
During the early months of 1915, diplomatic activity in Athens
and Sofia might have achieved results, it might, conceivably, have
secured the co-operation of the Greeks and Bulgars in our
operations at the Dardanelles; at Bucharest the position was wholly
different. To urge Rumanian intervention at this period was foolish
and immoral, it demanded an immense sacrifice from the Rumanian
people which could not help the Allies and might do their cause
incalculable harm.
 Owing to geographical conditions, the Central Empires were able
to offer Rumania more than merely contingent support in return for
her co-operation and alliance. Numerous railways cross the
Carpathians and by means of these the Rumanian army could have
been promptly equipped and efficiently maintained during a forward
movement into Bessarabia, a province described by German
Diplomats as Rumania’s “promised land.”
Rumania lay between the upper and the nether millstones of
belligerent diplomacy, the mill was working at high pressure, but was
not grinding small. M. Bratiano, the Rumanian Prime Minister, was
equally uninfluenced by the promises of Germany, the blandishments
of Russia, the taunts of France, and the loans of Great Britain. He
refused to deviate from a policy of more or less impartial neutrality,
23
and awaited what he himself described as “le moment opportun.”
Disgruntled allied diplomats and many of his countrymen
reproached M. Bratiano with lethargy and cowardice, in reality they
owed him a debt of gratitude; better than they he knew the
unreadiness of the army and the country for an adventurous policy,
and, fortunately for Rumania in 1915, he possessed sufficient sense
and courage to reject their amateurish plans. On the other hand, he
had too sound a judgment to be dazzled by proposals, however
spacious, which held out prospects of territorial conquest at the
24
expense of Russia, although, as his father’s son, he suspected all
Russians of treachery and guile.
Since the death of King Charles in November, 1914, M. Bratiano
had been the guiding force in Rumanian political life; he stood
between the extremists, who clamoured for intervention on the
Allied side without regard for consequences, and the Pro-germans,
whose hatred and mistrust of Russia had overcome the instincts of
men of a Latin race; his influence with King Ferdinand was
undisputed, he used it to impose a neutral attitude, both in the
Council and at Court. This man had many qualities of high
statesmanship, he loved his country and had at least one deep
conviction—he was convinced that in the end the Allies would win
the war.
“Le moment opportun” of M. Bratiano was the moment when
Rumania could take up arms to fight on the Allies’ side, under
conditions which would confer a reasonable prospect of success; in
his more expansive moods he confessed to cherishing the hope, and
even the belief, that the Rumanian Army would deal the decisive
blow. A proud thought this, coming from a citizen of a little Neutral
State during so great a war; but Ion Bratiano was nothing if not
proud.
Events were to put a heavy strain on the Prime Minister’s faith
and hope, times of trial and temptation lay ahead, when more
garrulous champions of the Entente were to give way to doubt. The
withdrawal from the Dardanelles, Bulgaria’s alliance with the Central
Powers and Servia’s subsequent rout were incidents charged with
grave import to Rumania, and destined to postpone indefinitely “le
moment opportun.” M. Bratiano never wavered, he waited patiently,
by thus resisting the impulses of interest and sentiment, he faithfully
interpreted the Rumanian people’s will.
1915 was a black year for the Allies, a period of diplomatic
defeats and military disasters. The officials and experts had had their
way; the policy, which had frightened them and of which they had
disapproved, had been reversed; Servia, the victim of predigested
plans, had been overrun, the succour so long demanded had been
sent three months too late; the Near East, save for some ragged
remnants, immobilized in Macedonia, had been denuded of troops
and abandoned to the enemy; the legend of British tenacity and
perseverance had been tried in a fiery furnace and had not survived
the test.
Confusion, both mental and material, prevailed throughout the
British Empire; a vague uneasiness had entered every mind; a race
of hero-worshippers had vainly sought a hero and the market place
was strewn with broken idols. The war had introduced a new
dimension, an all pervading influence, a nightmare which haunted
waking moments, a great winding-sheet, a deluge submerging
human thought.
During these days of evil omen, one reassurance was
vouchsafed, one thought consoled, lightening an atmosphere of
gloom like a rainbow in a lowering sky. The British people, though
disillusioned and humiliated, still kept the virtues of their race; in
their hour of trial, they rose above misfortune, and proved
themselves worthy descendants of the inspired adventurers whose
heritage they held. Men to whom war was odious developed into
seasoned warriors, and women, who had never worked before, gave
up their lives to toil.
On battlefields, heroic valour was regarded as a commonplace,
in countless homes, self-sacrifice became a daily rite. In British
hearts, despair had found no place, theirs was a confidence born of
consciousness of strength, the strength which in Kinglake’s glowing
words is: “Other than that of mere riches, other than that of gross
numbers, strength carried by proud descent from one generation to
another, strength awaiting the trials that are to come.”
 CHAPTER X

Sleeping Waters

Oh Angel of the East one, one gold look

Across the waters to this twilight nook,
The far sad waters, Angel, to this nook!
Robt. Browning.

Before Rumania became a kingdom, and while Wallachia and

Moldavia were separate Principalities, under the suzerainty of Turkish
Sultans, a Russian Army occupied the land, the pretext for its
presence being the maintenance of law and order. The Russian
Government appointed as Pro-Consul a certain General Kissileff, who
planted trees and laid out roads and proved himself a wise
administrator; the good he did survives him, one of the roads he
planned and built commemorates his name.
The Chaussée Kissileff, or for short The Chaussée, is an avenue
of lime trees, which forms the first stage of Rumania’s “Great North
Road.” Four lines of trees border two side tracks and the Central
Chaussée. During the winter months, their spreading branches
afford protection from the wind and rain, in spring and summer, they
fill the air with fragrance and cast a grateful shade. This
thoroughfare is a boon to Bucharest, it is at once an artery and a
lung. Here, when Rumania was a neutral, courted State, beauty
encountered valour, while nursemaids, children, dogs and diplomats,
of every breed and nation, walked, toddled, gambolled, barked, or
passed on scandal, according to their nature and their age.
Beyond the race course the Chaussée bifurcates. One branch I
have already called Rumania’s “Great North Road,” it leads, as its
name implies, due north to the oilfields and the mountains; the
other is a humbler route, trending westward across a stretch of open
country towards a wooded, dim horizon. It I will name Rumania’s
“Pilgrim’s Way.”
When I was a dweller in the plain, few houses, large or small,
stood on “The Pilgrim’s Way,” which, after dipping to a stream,
curved to the west and followed the northern bank, its bourne some
feathery treetops, its only guardians cohorts of unseen frogs, whose
multitudinous voices rose in chorus, ranging the diapason of
croaking, guttural sounds. This was no intermediate zone athwart
the road to Hades, but the frontier of a region known to some as
“Sleeping Waters,” whose chief city was a garden on the stream’s
bank and beyond the distant trees.
The votaries of wealth and recreation followed the “Great North
Road,” seeking Ploesti’s oily treasures or villas and a casino at Sinaia,
where the gay world of Bucharest breathed mountain air in the
Carpathian foothills, and summer heat was tempered amid perennial
pines.
“The Pilgrim’s Way” was less frequented, but the pilgrims,
though not numerous, were, not the less select. Among them were
the Monarch and his Queen, the Prime Minister, the representatives
of several foreign Powers, and men and women bearing names
which rang like echoes of Rumania’s history when Princes ruled the
land.
If asked why they made their pilgrimage so often, the pilgrims
would have answered with a half-truth: “We seek serenity in a
garden fair, and shade and quiet after the city’s heat and noise”—
they certainly did not go to meet each other, nor did they, like
Chaucer’s characters, tell tales and gossip as they fared along the
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