Transcriber’s Notes.

[Page 59]—immediatetly changed to immediately.

[Page 137]—every changed to ever.

[Page 207]—changed Mount Lovcen to Mount Lovčen.

The advertisements at the beginning of the book have been placed at the end after the index.

Other changes made are noted at the [ end of the book.]

The map on [Page viii] has been scanned from another copy of The Lands of the Tamed Turks [ here] which has the same copyright date. This map was missing from the current book.

Footnotes have been numbered in one continuous sequence.

THE LANDS OF THE
TAMED TURK

THE LATE QUEEN DRAGA OF SERVIA.

Copyright, 1910,
By L. C. Page & Company
(INCORPORATED)

All rights reserved

First Impression, September, 1910

Electrotyped and Printed by
THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. Simonds & Co., Boston, U.S.A.

TO
E. McC. J.

FOREWORD

Because of their pivotal positions, politically and geographically; because of their tempting adaptation to colonization; because of their vast proven and hidden resources; because of their divers other advantages, too numerous to mention, the Balkan States have been, are and will continue to be, as once a certain writer so aptly put it, the “Powder Box of Europe.”

Constant conflict, however, has stunted their progress, and it has only been within the past few years that these lands—conspicuously lacking in the arts of peace, but overcrowded with types and replete with wonderful scenery, their histories sated with war and romance—have begun to be disclosed to the travelling world. Only within the past few years their outlying districts have been connected with their business centres by telegraphic communication; only within the past few years railroads have been constructed, steamship lines inaugurated and hotel accommodations perfected. Yesterday their peoples were almost barbaric; to-day they are more highly civilized and more finely cultured than perhaps we are inclined to admit; to-morrow they may be famous. They have been makers of history for our forebears and us; they will be makers of history for posterity and its children.

It is to assist the reader to frame a more just opinion of that southeastern corner of Europe, “The Lands of the Tamed Turk,” and those who people it, that this volume of personal observations and experiences of travel, interspersed with brief bits of history, is offered.

The author begs to tender his appreciation to Mr. Nox McCain for the use of several unusual photographs published herewith; also to the editors of The Metropolitan Magazine, New York, Travel Magazine, New York, and The National Geographic Magazine, Washington, with whose kind permission are herein reprinted, verbatim, certain parts of special articles on the Balkan States by the author, and some of the illustrations accompanying them, which appeared in the periodicals mentioned above.

MAP.
Click[ here] for larger map

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

[The Lands of the Tamed Turk]

CHAPTER I

WHY THE BALKANS?

The Rundreise Ticket—Why the Balkans?—When and Where English is Heard—Why Not the Balkans?

For a week we had remained in London, trying furiously to make up our minds which part of the Continent would interest us most. In the evenings at dinner we laid bare our ideas collected during the day, and endeavoured to formulate plans, but those countries which one favoured to visit seemed in no wise to appeal to the other. By the end of the week we had about completed our inventory of the tourable parts of Europe without one of us being inoculated with a special desire to revisit any of them. Then some one suggested, “Why not the Balkans?”

That seemingly insignificant little interrogation cut short our evening convocations in London as abruptly as one would snuff the wick of a candle, for inside of forty-eight hours we had purchased our “Rundreise” and “Hapag” tickets and were speeding Vienna-ward.

To the seasoned traveller the following brief explanation may seem a trifle superfluous but, at the same time, it may be the means of saving a world of bother and inconvenience, no small item of expense and an incalculable loss of temper to the uninitiated—especially in countries where an English-speaking individual is regarded with no little curiosity.

The “Rundreise,” or “Round-trip-ticket,” is an institution in itself. On it you may travel, for example, from London to Constantinople and return to London by way of any route or in any direction. You may go to Paris, to Cologne, and up the Rhine to Frankfort; thence to Vienna, Buda-Pesth, Constantinople, and return by way of the Levant and the Riviera. There are a hundred different routes by which to go and come, a hundred interesting parts of countries to pass through, a hundred beautiful cities to visit. You may travel by rail or by boat, first, second or third class—according to the price paid—but you must return to the starting-point, or, at all events, you will have paid for that privilege, and it concerns but you if you do not care to avail yourself of it.

The one serious proviso of the “Rundreise ticket,” and one that will be at once a drawback to some and a boon to others, is that no luggage may be checked on it. But the less luggage and the smaller the assortment of clothes taken for travel in the Balkans the better—providing, of course, your mission does not necessitate your being dined and wined by the nobility and diplomats.

The “Hapag ticket” is, in the language of the Magyar, of the same general specie as the “Rundreise.”

And in contemplating such a trip through the Southeast of Europe, two important questions naturally arise: Why? and why not the Balkans?

To the first there are many convincing replies. The Balkan States have been, for two thousand years, the “Powder Box” of Europe. The Greeks, and, after them, the Romans, came and saw and conquered; the Venetians, for a time, swept all before them along the coast of the Adriatic; for five hundred years the Turks, thirsting for the blood of the Christians, have attacked, have been repulsed and have attacked again, shocking the entire world with their atrocious massacres. One need not hunger for history in travelling through the Balkans. In addition, its peoples are primitive, their customs are curious and their methods mediæval. They are backward and unsophisticated in everything but war—and that word “war” has been the slogan in the “Near East” for centuries.

Furthermore, the territory has been left uninvaded by the frantic tourist,—in fact, an American is regarded as a wonder to look upon, and his harmless little camera, aimed promiscuously, is as apt to conjure up a crowd of stary-eyed, open-mouthed, inquisitive natives as the perpetration of a political tragedy.

And woe is he who cannot speak German, or at least enough of that language to ask the questions necessary to travel, for the days of “personally conducted” tours through the Balkans have yet to come. He may speak French fluently but, exclusive of the diplomatic circles, it would be as much to his advantage to adhere to American slang. The exceptions, however, invariably prove the rule, and it is when English is least expected to be heard that its utterance is the most heartily appreciated.

“A CROWD OF STARY-EYED, OPEN-MOUTHED, INQUISITIVE NATIVES.”

The head-waiter of the hotel in Belgrade had been a deck steward on a trans-Atlantic liner and of course surprised us upon our arrival with a generous speech in English.

The hotel proprietor in Sophia spoke nine languages with great fluency and, in addition, had been studying English from newspapers. He had so far advanced in the mastery of the grammar as to have been able to read Dickens (whether he understood it or not is another matter), but I had the honour of being the first English-speaking person upon whom he had had the opportunity of airing his pronunciation. Considering the fact that he had never before indulged his English in conversation he butchered it to a remarkably small degree, and was understood without an excessive amount of difficulty.

As another example of this clandestine knowledge of the English language throughout the Balkan Peninsula, I was standing one evening on the molo at Ragusa, watching two fishermen load their small boats with nets and other implements of the catch. At the stern of their craft was displayed a large and cumbersome lantern having a powerful reflector. I questioned the rower in German, such as it was, as to the use of this paraphernalia, and, as I had not heard a word of my mother-tongue in the town—in fact, all along the Dalmatian coast—my auricular nerves suffered a profound but agreeable shock when the man replied, “The sardines follow the light while we lead ’em into the nets.” He had been a sailor and had visited almost every port in the United States as well as in England.

And, why not the Balkans?

In place of the mountain-trails and muddy cart-roads of a few years ago there are now railway lines that form a network through the most interesting sections, and travel is facilitated proportionately. The scenery is as picturesque as any in Europe, while the touch of colour, in the garb of the peasants mingling with the variegated uniforms of the always conspicuous army, adds an unalloyed charm seldom enjoyed along the time-honoured travel routes of the Continent. Good hotels, at which the food is excellent and well prepared, may be found in the cities, and the accommodations, if not luxurious, cleanly and comfortable.

THE HOTEL PROPRIETOR, SOPHIA.

As late as 1853-54 not a single telegraphic line existed beyond the Austrian frontier. Along the highway from Belgrade to Constantinople, through Nisch and Sophia, messages from the Western courts to the Sublime Porte were carried by dare-devil riders at a speed which sacrificed horse-flesh regardlessly. A notable achievement was the ride along this route of one Colonel Townley, who covered eight hundred miles in the incredibly short time of five days and ten hours. To-day the “Orient Express” eats its tortuous way tri-weekly from Calais to Constantinople, crossing Europe from edge to edge, in a fraction over four days.

Hardships of travel through the near East have vanished, although, in countries so backward and so seldom visited by the sightseer, it would be highly improbable that inconveniences would not be encountered. But these inconveniences are doubly cancelled by the pleasures and sensations of vibrating between the beauty-spots of pugnacious little principalities, whose histories have been written so indelibly with blood upon the pages of the world’s progress.

CHAPTER II

BUDA-PESTH AND BELGRADE

Buda-Pesth and Its Language—From Buda-Pesth to Belgrade—The Servian Passport System—First Impressions of Belgrade—Garden Spots in and about the Servian Metropolis.

Buda-Pesth, with its imposing buildings, its kaleidoscopic market scenes and its impossible language, seems to be the Eastern jumping-off place, so to speak, of Continental travel. It is the suburb of Europe; but what a fascinating suburb it is, to be sure! Its architectural beauty is unsurpassed; its situation unrivalled, with the Danube coursing between the old city, Buda, and the new city, Pesth; its parks are veritable bowers of refreshing green; its cafés are interesting and its military music delightful. It is the Mecca of Magyar aristocracy and, if one can infer aught from natural proof, it has been well adopted.

But the language! The atrocious combinations of vowels and consonants fairly numb your powers of pronunciation. In order that your attempts to even read the signs may be made all the more tantalizing, our own, the Roman, alphabet is used to muddle the brain of the foreign visitor. When we see the writings of the Chinese or the Greeks, for instance, we are not inclined to regard these tongues as altogether unmasterable, but to behold the letters of our alphabet so haphazardly jumbled together and capped with many accents, grave and acute, seems bitter indeed. Taking it all in all the Hungarian tongue seems analogous to a waste of talent.

THE FISCHER RAMPARTS, PESTH.

One delightful evening I summoned my courage and ventured into a trolley-car, hoping that it might eventually take me near the Casino of the principal park. It did, mirabile dictu, and I alighted. But a week in Buda-Pesth had not passed without many and varied experiences. In order to be doubly cautious and not mistake my car to return to the hotel—for, luckily, this one made the park its terminus and returned by the same route—I unsheathed my note book and copied then and there the name of the route from a sign on the side of the car. Fortified with this valuable data I was prepared to enjoy the evening with reckless abandon, mingling with the crowds, listening to the music and concerning myself not at all as to the way to get home, for I had only to wait until a car came along marked [a]“Városlíget-Eskü-Tér-Podmaniczy-Utcka,”] whatever that means, and I would be among friends.

If you do not stop to look at the signs—for what is a city of this era without a host of glaring, gilded advertisements—Buda-Pesth is just as enticing, but on a somewhat smaller scale, as Vienna, and at the end of a fortnight we were loth to leave. As the next slip of our Rundreise book read “Belgrade,” we jammed ourselves into one of the dusty compartments of a crowded railway train bound for the Servian frontier.

Among our fellow-passengers was an aged, rheumatic Jewish woman, travelling from Vienna to Constantinople, who became very sociable, despite her affliction, and lighted one cigarette from the stub of the other as she unveiled to us her past history in broken German.

The railway line from Buda-Pesth to Belgrade, traversing the great Hungarian steppes, is devoid of attractive scenery and the journey of seven hours becomes somewhat tiresome, especially if the season is summer with its accompanying heat and the train is uncomfortably crowded. Agriculture along the route seems to be very much on the wane, but enormous herds of long-horned cattle, flocks of sheep and tens of thousands of pigs tell succinctly of the product of that portion of Hungary. Now and again you may see a native driver in heavy leather boots, white petticoat, or smock, to his knees, and a derby hat (not a very dignified-appearing combination of apparel), tending a large flock of unusually huge geese, tapping the laggards deftly with his long willow switch.

THE ELIZABETH BRIDGE,—BUDA IN THE BACKGROUND.

The minute you cross the Danube at the Servian frontier you begin to feel the influence, although a waning one, of a nation that has been struggling desperately for hundreds of years to regain her lost provinces—the Turks. It is not so noticeable in Servia as in Bulgaria, not so noticeable in Bulgaria as in Bosnia and the Herzegovina, but it is there, nevertheless; the sullen, silent suffering of a nation of stoics, whose forefathers were defeated in their murderous attempts to Mohammedanize Europe only at the very gates of Vienna itself.

The fact that Servia entertains exaggerated fears for her own is brought to the notice of the traveller—and forcibly, too—at Zemlin, on the Austrian side of the Danube River, opposite Belgrade. At this point one of King Peter’s ominous-looking arms of the law, resplendent in epaulets and gold cord, boards each and every train from the west. Although his trailing sword appears to be no little hindrance to his ease in getting about, his temper remains unruffled and he examines with polite suspicion the passports of all who expect to leave the train at the Servian capital. The name of the owner of the passport is jotted down on a piece of paper which, later, in the depot, is handed surreptitiously to a pair of warlike individuals who guard the exit to the street, while the customs officials are demanding excuses for the contents of your grips. Between these two warriors you must pass out from the depot and give them your name, which is forthwith checked off the list previously furnished by the portly train inspector.

But this is not all.

Upon arrival at the hotel you are handed an information blank, which must be filled in with your name, address, occupation, religion, where you came from, how long you expect to remain in the city, your ultimate destination and such data as would facilitate the authorities in bringing you to earth in case you attempted to cut short the life of the King or incited the natives to revolt.

One of these blanks, for you must fill in two, is kept at the hotel; the other is sent to police headquarters. No matter how insignificant you may imagine you are when in your mother-country, you are under the eagle eye of the government continuously in Servia. Your every move is watched and made a note of. It matters not even if you change to another hotel; the police are immediately notified to that effect. You are branded as a suspicious character and will remain so until you prove it or leave the country, vindicated.

Your first impressions of the metropolis of Servia are apt to be a bit disappointing, and especially so if you arrive at night, for Belgrade is anything but an imposing city, even in the daytime. You are driven rather recklessly through streets of very uneven cobbles, miserably lighted and apparently abandoned by human beings. The business, and, at the same time, residential part of the city, in which your hotel is located, looks down from the crest of a hill upon the squalid, old Turkish quarter on one side, from which emanates a veritable vapour of highly seasoned cookery, and the poor Servian district and warehouses on the other. To the west, on a cliff overlooking the junction of the Danube and the Save, are the Kalemagden Park and the old fortress, the guns of the latter having been long since silenced by the Treaty of Berlin of 1878, which forbade Servia fortifying her Austrian frontier.

“The cheerful boulevards of Belgrade,” as one author earnestly puts it, may have been in existence at the time the phrase was coined, but I very much doubt it, because of the dearth of evidence of these alleged “boulevards” ever having deserved such flattery.

This Kalemagden Park, however, is one of the few beauty spots of the Servian capital. Another is in the vicinity of the konak, or palace, of King Peter, in the eastern portion of the city. The street borders one end of the konak and continues past the garden and lawn which the building faces: if it were not for the gates being guarded constantly by soldiers one would hardly imagine the edifice to be the residence of a royal household. The mutinous murder of King Alexander and Queen Draga in 1903 occurred in the old konak, later demolished by order of the present ruler, which stood in front of the new palace but facing the gardens and the street.

Three miles to the east of the city is located Topchidere Park, the beautiful country-seat of the ill-fated Prince Alexander, who was but one victim of the many infamously successful plots of the Servian regicides. His chalet stands on the opposite side of the roadway from the little chapel, and in the garden his stone tea-table is still preserved. Above it spread the branches of a monstrous tree of some three hundred years of age, famous from the fact that from its massive limbs the invading Turks were wont to hang their Christian victims. Near by is the country estate of the present Crown Prince, with stables and kennels containing his favourite horses and dogs.

Topchidere is the improvised country club of the Belgraders, and many are the social functions given in its casino—if I may apologize for the use of the word “casino” in describing the ramshackle frame house of carousal in the Park. But the gardens are really beautiful, and are kept in excellent condition by state prisoners detailed to work in them.

CHAPTER III

TWENTIETH CENTURY SERVIA

The Servians—The Rise of the Nation—The Army—The Race-meets—The Market in Belgrade—National Customs—The National Dance.

To the seeker of health and of pleasure, to the lover of the beautiful in art and in nature, to the reveller in gayety and luxurious living, Servia as a travel territory is null and void. It is a country of interest to the public only so long as it continues to bask in the limelight as a disturber of Balkan peace. It is the tool of Russia, the enemy of Austria, the contempt of Bulgaria and the hatred of Turkey. Indeed its only true friend may be said to be its relative—miniature Montenegro. If the Balkan Peninsula is the “Powder Box” of Europe, Servia certainly deserves to be called the “Percussion Cap” of the Balkan Peninsula.

THE NATIVE SERVIAN HEAD-DRESS.

To the student the Servians are a nation of types; as a race they are gifted by nature with unusual powers of observation, shrewdness and strength of character, but from the fact of their having been so long oppressed has arisen a disposition to concealment and even absolute distrust. They are patriotic and loyal to a marked degree, which may account, in part, for their emotional proclivities. They are absolutely fearless, but this fearlessness assumes at times a tinge of the opera bouffe, as in the late controversy with Austria, which leads us Americans to think of them as a nation of charlatans.

But I digress. It is not my desire to enter into any rehearsals of the political conditions in the pivotal Near East. I exhaled a deep-breathed oath when this volume was commenced to confine my writings herein to the travelling through and brief descriptions of these “Lands of the Tamed Turk,” introducing such history as might seem romantic and interesting and instructive enough to be absorbed by the reader.

Only since the final suppression of the Turks have the Servians “found themselves,” so to speak, and the rapid rise of the nation has been remarkable. In the early years of the nineteenth century, before its revolt under the leadership of George Petrovitch—Kara, or Black George, as he was called by the Turks—Servia could not boast of a single schoolhouse; there was not even a wagon road in the whole country, except what remained of the ancient Roman highway between Belgrade and Nisch; because the Turks forbade the building or even repairing of houses of Christian worship, the churches were, for the most part, in miserable ruin; the entire population at that time was scarcely larger than that of the single city of Detroit to-day. Then Servia was merely a province of Turkey, governed by a Vizir sent from Constantinople. The country was not only the seat of internal friction, but tribes, in rebellion against the Sultan, exploited the land as a private estate.

But listen to the changes of a hundred years.

As I write, Servia maintains eight hundred and sixty elementary schools for boys and a hundred and fifty for girls; fourteen middle grade schools with, and twelve without, classical departments; six high-schools for girls; two technical academies; two schools for teachers; one commercial college; a school of agriculture; a military academy; and an university. Public instruction is free and compulsory. Of the twelve hundred and seventy-eight towns and villages throughout the country the important ones are connected by rail, and telegraphic communication exists between most of the others.

The contemptible pig still constitutes the chief article of export, but the raising of swine, instead of the cultivation of the soil, although the latter is by no means unprolific, has been handed down from generation to generation as an ingenious method of the Servians for saving the products of their country from the destructive raids of the Turks.[1] In some districts, however, fruits and cereals are cultivated and exported in abundance. Many thousands of cases of plums find their way to France annually, whence they are re-exported to America, and sold under the label of French products. From this fruit is pressed the national drink of Servia, slivivitz, a sort of plum brandy, which, when imbibed freely, produces most grotesque effects—so I am told.

[1] To those of the Mohammedan faith pork is a forbidden delicacy.

Although the whole kingdom covers little more than twice the area of the state of New Jersey, the regular army consists of some twenty thousand men. The organization of it, however, is based upon a law enacted in 1893 which, if executed, would place in the field three hundred and thirty-five thousand men, but financial stringencies have curbed the application of this statute. For every Servian between the ages of twenty and thirty, military duty for two years in the regular army is compulsory; and during the remaining years of his middle life he is classed in the first, second or third divisions of the reserves, according to his age.

Belgrade itself, the capital of the country, has a population of eighty thousand, being about the size of Hartford, Connecticut, and it is a singular fact, as well as an amusing one, that no less than two thousand of this number are policemen. These guardians of the peace, who are at the same time units of the army, are well-drilled and are housed in military barracks.

DRINKING A FRIENDLY GLASS OF SLIVIVITZ.

Naturally, the army is the phase of Servian life most often met with in the capital. You will see it on every hand, at all hours and clothed in every conceivable colour of uniform. It throngs the parks and takes complete and indisputable possession of the cafés; in which the prices of beverages advance simultaneously with the tuning-up of the gypsy orchestras. Should you drive out to one of the rather ridiculous race-meets you will notice that the army-officers’ race is the most important event on the programme. Like as not, upon such an excursion, the King will drive past you, bowing graciously; although the races are comparatively crude affairs, he and the other members of the royal household are ardent devotees of the sport.

At the race course the army lines the fence bordering the track, while half a dozen heavily equipped peasants in black alpaca caps vie with each other as to the speed of their respective mounts. At one meet which I attended, a rider was thrown within a short distance from the tape, which his horse was about to cross ahead of the other contestants by two hundred yards. But his mind was set upon winning the race by fair means or foul and, picking himself out of the dust, he bravely endeavoured to cross the line on foot in advance of the fast-approaching cloud of rivals. Upon his failure to do so a heated discussion immediately arose as to whether the horse won the race or the rider lost it.

For a Balkan city Belgrade is exceptionally apt in acquiring the ways and “means” of the Westerner. As the traveller is about to leave the hotel to take a train a hall bell is rung, followed by a general mustering of all hands, from the head clerk to the cook’s helper, each of whom expects to receive some token of appreciation for services rendered. I suppose I had helped at least sixteen to establish themselves in business, and was just about to make a second start for the depot when one of the confederates came running breathlessly towards me. Would I be good enough to wait just one moment because the zimmer mädchen (and Heaven knows I tipped her munificently each time she brought me warm water for shaving or lined the marble bathtub with a sheet—and in Belgrade a bath costs seventy-five cents, anyway) was on her way downstairs? But time was precious with me and as I drove away I heard, faintly, the tardy and disappointed zimmer mädchen clattering along the flagstone hall.

I even saw an automobile, of uncertain vintage and questionable parentage, in Belgrade, honking its noisy way through the crowds of gaping peasants near the market.

And in the word “market” I have unconsciously mentioned one of the most interesting sights to be had during a visit to a Slavonic city. Every day is “market-day” in Belgrade, but on Sunday mornings the bizarre scene is augmented by peasants in holiday garb from all the surrounding country-side, while Turkish “boze”-sellers (this word “boze” is not to be conflicted with the American slang expression which signifies intoxicating liquors) peddle about the contents of their buckets, shrieking the avowed virtues of their stock in trade. This “boze,” a sort of sweetened oatmeal water, is freely consumed in Servia by shopkeepers, artisans and peasants.

A “BOZE” PEDDLER, BELGRADE.

But I must withhold the description of a typical market scene in the Balkans, and devote a certain amount of space to it in connection with the Bulgar capital of Sophia where one of the most interesting markets in the world is held on Friday of each week.

Of the customs of the country there are many which are quaint and singular, especially among the peasant population, but only a few of the more common ones will bear description.

In the Servian orthodox church there are a hundred and eighty feast days in the year, the continued observance of which places business in a state of chaos. Divorce is easily obtained, and for the slightest cause, through the ecclesiastical tribunals, and it carries with it no social disgrace; but to wed a cousin, no matter how distant, is attended with absolute ostracism.

Instead of bride’s-maids at a wedding the Servians employ two kums, or godfathers, each of whom is compelled by custom to give the bride a dress-length of silk. A particularly significant honour is bestowed upon the dever, who acts in the capacity of the best man at the marriage ceremony. He carries a bouquet, wears a white sash and other ludicrous regalia, and for no reason whatever must he leave the bride for an instant throughout the day of the wedding.

As a general rule the wife is older than the husband and the bridegroom’s relatives have preference over those of the bride. The bride herself is regarded as little more than a household slave.

Each regiment of the army, like each Servian family, revels in the protection of a patron saint, and the celebration of the slava, or patron saint’s day, of a regiment is the only occasion of the year upon which all ranks of the army are considered socially equal. In the family the slava usually takes place upon the anniversary of that family’s conversion to Christianity, and on that day it is the custom to call upon one’s friends whose slava it is.

THE PRISHTINA COSTUME, WORN BY SERVIAN WOMEN ON FEAST DAYS.

Characteristic of every Slavonic nation is its national dance, and the Servians, not to be outdone in this respect by their cousins, boast of what they call the “Kola,” an extremely picturesque variety of the terpsichorean art, partly adapted from the Russian and partly invented by themselves. This “Kola” is danced upon the least provocation, and at every function. It matters little where they may be; in the streets of Belgrade or tending their flocks in the fields, if a group of Servians feel a “Kola” coming on they must give vent to their enthusiasm. It is danced upon the field of battle by the soldiers, and the King leads it at every state ball. At first sight it seems ridiculous, almost childish, and especially so when danced at one of the royal functions where gray-whiskered diplomats of all nations, high officials of state in uniform and be-jewelled leaders of Servian society trail like a kaleidoscopic serpent in the wake of the King, as he twists and turns up and down the polished floor of the great ball-room in the palace. But it seems to wax more and more fascinating and impressive the more often one sees it danced.

I was returning by carriage one warm, humid afternoon, from the cool environs of Topchidere Park, when I noticed a regiment of Servian soldiery drilling on the parade ground near one of the barracks. Suddenly the order to stack arms was given. Two of the privates rushed with all possible speed to the barracks and returned with a couple of violins. As they commenced the typical Slavonic music of the “Kola” the nine hundred and more officers and men linked arms and, forming one long line of white coats and caps, blue breeches and black boots, went through the mystic mazes of the national Servian dance with much precision, no little amount of gusto and a great deal of effervescent enthusiasm. As I witnessed this “Kola” it was nothing if not an inspiring sight.

CHAPTER IV

THE SERVIAN DYNASTIES

Karageorge—Milosh Obrenovitch—Murder of Karageorge—Turkey Grants the Title of Prince—Milosh Abdicates—Abdication of Prince Michael—Alexander Abdicates—Prince Milosh Re-installed, His Death and the Re-election of Prince Michael—Murder of Michael—Prince Milan’s Marriage, Abdication and Death—Alexander Elected.

The very early history of Servia and her peoples has been daubed so freely with myth and fable that it would be confusing and tedious to enter into it. Instead, I shall confine myself to the brief narration of the two later dynasties, explanatory of the world-renowned friction between them.

Of all the capitals of the world none deserves more unquestionably the sobriquet of “The Capital of Crime,” as I have named a later chapter, than that of Servia. Since the beginning of the nineteenth century four reigning monarchs have been ruthlessly murdered in or near Belgrade, and four others have been forced to abdicate. What would have been the fate of these latter had they not foreseen it can readily be imagined. King-killing is chronic with the Servians and there are to-day twenty-nine men incarcerated in the prison at Belgrade, charged with plotting against the life of the present ruler, King Peter Karageorgevitch.

The history of these national tragedies, the latest of which, in 1903, shocked the civilized world, begins with the histories of the two royal families of Servia, and takes us back a hundred years, to a time when the country was suffering the most from the perennial invasions of the bloodthirsty Mohammedans.

“The end of the year 1801 saw Servia a prey to systematized vandalism. It was a reign of unexampled tyranny and cruelty. The bloodthirstiness of the Sultan’s janizaries increased like the strength of a torrent. The Dahis, in obedience to the Sultan’s firmans, commissioned murderers to proceed through Servia and kill all the mayors of towns and villages, chiefs of cantons, priests and monks. A wave of terror swept over the land, spreading panic in every direction. Mothers hugged their children to their breasts and men in hushed whispers spoke of self-destruction as a less miserable fate than falling into the hands of the Turks. Every male over seven years of age was to be destroyed. But something in the Servians which had hitherto lain dormant, a spirit of manhood which had not been manifested before, arose under the whip of the gigantic thraldom; seemingly the crushed and oppressed drew breath, the instinct of self-preservation kindled in their hearts, and the embers burst out into a new flame of patriotism.”

Such, then, happened to be the deplorable conditions in Servia when George Petrovich, or Kara-George, a poverty-stricken peasant of a fiery temperament, but a man of dominating energy, morose and taciturn, imbued with this patriotic flame, descended from the little village of Topola where he made his home. By means of his character and personal magnetism he rallied his countrymen and posted the now-famed proclamation, which called upon the whole of Servia to rise against the Turks. The latter were driven from the country after a siege of eight days, and for nine years Karageorge ruled in Servia and kept at bay the subjects of the Sultan.

But in 1813, the Turks, encouraged by the jealousy which had been impregnated in the hearts of the military chiefs on account of the pre-eminence of Karageorge, proclaimed a holy war. In vain did the peasant leader appeal to his people to withstand the attacks of the Mohammedans and, in the end, he fled disgusted to his mountain home.

It was at this time that the Servians found a new champion in Milosh Obrenovitch, General of Rudneek under Karageorge, and, after a successful campaign against the Turks, he was proclaimed a hero.

Karageorge, off among the hills, was loth to see this Milosh taking his place in the hearts of his people, so, in 1817, disregarding utterly the orders of the Vizir and the advices of Milosh himself, he decided to return to his subjects. He stopped for the night at the house of Semendria Vouitza, who, oblivious to the old ties of friendship and his duties as a host, murdered his guest as he slept, and who knows but at the instigation of Milosh Obrenovitch?

This, then, was the first of the Servian royal tragedies, and the beginning of the deep and terrible feud between the families of Karageorge and Obrenovitch, the latest victims of which were the unfortunate and weakly King Alexander, the last Obrenovitch, and his queen, Draga, in 1903.

In 1830 Turkey permitted Milosh to assume the title of “Prince Milosh Obrenovitch I.” By this action she yielded to Servia’s demands, for Turkey had suffered defeat in the hands of the Russians in 1829, and Russia was literally the sponsor of Servia. But in 1839 the broil between the old adherents of Karageorge and the followers of his successor, far worse than mere family jealousies, because it divided a nation, caused the abdication of Prince Milosh in favour of his elder son, Prince Milan, who held the reins of government but a few short weeks when he died and his brother, Prince Michael, assumed the leadership of the Servians.

Only three years later Prince Michael was compelled to resign and Alexander, son of Karageorge, was elected in his stead. The year 1859 witnessed the enforced resignation of Alexander and the re-instalment of old Prince Milosh Obrenovitch, who had answered the fickle summons to return to his people. He died the following year, and Prince Michael was, for the second time, made the reigning head of Servia.

The fact that Michael’s wife, who was Princess Julia, a descendant of a royal Hungarian family and maid of honour to the Empress of Austria, was childless gave rise to the dastardly Karageorgevitch plot to put an end to the Obrenovitch dynasty by the murder of her husband. Milosh Obrenovitch, junior, so to speak, a grand-nephew of Prince Michael, was the only heir to the Servian throne and the would-be regicides were confident that a new constitution might be proclaimed in favour of Peter Karageorgevitch, the present ruler and a grandson of the peasant, Black George. The sooner this should be attempted the better, for was not Prince Michael even then contemplating the divorce of his wife, in order that he might marry Katrine Constantinovitch, his cousin, and so insure an heir to the throne in the birth of a son?

June 10, 1868, was the day set for the tragedy.

Taking advantage of the Prince’s custom of driving unattended by military escort through the deer park at Topchidere, four men, all criminals with notorious careers, met him along the road as he drove in his carriage with Katrine Constantinovitch and two other relatives. As the Prince’s carriage advanced, these four men stepped to one side and bared their heads in recognition of his Royal Highness. Hardly had he passed when they fired simultaneously upon the royal party, killing the Prince almost instantly and mortally wounding Mlle. Constantinovitch.

Owing to a mishap to the carriage of the conniving news-bearer the true tale of the tragedy reached Belgrade before him and it was only through the masterful diplomacy of M. Petrovitch Blasnavatz, the Minister of War, that the throne of Servia was saved for the young Milan Obrenovitch.

In 1872 Prince Milan reached his majority and three years later, in Vienna, fell in love with the beautiful, charming Roumanian princess, Natalie, who was destined to play such a prominent role in the future of the Servian nation. To their union was born a son, Prince Alexander, “Little Sasha,” as the Servians lovingly called him. Natalie was popular with her subjects, and in many ways their love for her was made manifest. On one occasion, when she lay confined in her apartments before the birth of Alexander, the people walked along the street in front of the palace on tiptoe and spoke only in whispers, so fearful were they of disturbing her quiet.

But Milan, although a devoted parent and an unimpeachable patriot and ruler, proved himself nothing less than a Machiavellian roué. The persistent outcries against his dual life gained Natalie a divorce, which was subsequently revoked on account of her refusal to leave the country. Then, because of the continued murmurs of the Karageorgevitch faction against him, Milan abdicated and bade farewell to the “Little Sasha” on March 6, 1889. He died later in Vienna financially, physically and morally bankrupt.

THE LATE KING ALEXANDER OF SERVIA.

CHAPTER V

ALEXANDER AND DRAGA

Alexander—Draga—The Meeting—Draga’s Return to Belgrade—Russia’s Intrigues—Marriage of Alexander and Draga—Origin of the Plot to Murder.

After the abdication of Milan, Natalie took up her home in Biarritz in a chateau which she had previously purchased; while back in Belgrade, Alexander, under the guidance of regents, had taken upon himself the burdens of a nominal ruler of Servia. It was not long, however, before the want of the devoted affection and the healthful moral influence of his mother began to produce their effects. In many ways Alexander endeavoured to emulate his father. Although headstrong in the extreme, even to stubbornness, he became pitiably vulnerable, under the tutelage of less scrupulous associates, to influences not altogether conducive to his popularity as a king.

It was to his indiscretion and contumacious perversity that was accredited one of the most horrible royal tragedies in the history of the world. In fact, it was on one of Alexander’s imprudent escapades that he met Draga Maschine, then lady-in-waiting to his mother and the adventuresome widow of an engineer in the Servian army. An illicit union with this woman kindled the spark of love between them, which ignited, as time wore on and the number of their meetings increased, into the burning flame of passionate devotion.

Of the women of Belgrade, Draga Maschine, at the time of her ascendency, was an acknowledged star in point of beauty of face and figure. She was tall and graceful in bearing; her eyes were dark and lustrous; her hair was said to have been black like the hue of a raven; the curves of her mouth were bewitching; the type of her chin was indicative of determined character. Beyond these attributes she was vivacious and alluring. While yet a mere girl of seventeen she had been married to a young army engineer, but even at that tender age she had had the reputation of being a maid of uncertain morals, and her marriage failed to act as a curb to her perverted desires and inclinations. She had been wedded barely a year when her husband took his own life because of her alleged disregard for the holy bonds of matrimony. It was then that Colonel Maschine, her brother-in-law and her enemy from the first, plotter against the King and the man destined to act the role of arch-murderer in the final scene of the greatest of Servian tragedies, swore he would have retribution for her conduct, which, he said, had been the cause of his brother’s suicide.

In due course of time Draga became fired with the hope of future social distinction. She had been dragged through the mire of ill-repute and was now determined to attain the coveted recognition of society, not as an adventuress, but as a lady of wealth and rank. To this end she even sought the influence in her behalf of a minister of the Servian court, and through him the unsophisticated Natalie resolved to help her, pensioned her, and finally made Draga one of her ladies-in-waiting at Biarritz.

In 1898 the young King Alexander, upon a visit to his mother at Biarritz, met Draga, his future queen and for whom he felt no little affection from the first.

Natalie, during this visit of her son, laid before him her plans for his marriage to Princess Lilly Mirko of Montenegro, his cousin, an Obrenovitch descendant and one of the most beautiful women in all Europe. But the King, already having been subjected by the subtle charms of Draga (who, by her beauty and manners, had established herself as the most fascinating of Natalie’s attendants), disappointed his mother by taking no thought of her proposal.

On the other hand, Draga Maschine left not a single stone unturned to win the love of the young King. Their secret meetings were the gossip of the community. Finally, Natalie became alarmed at the mutual infatuation of her son and her superlatively captivating lady-in-waiting and dismissed the latter from her entourage. But this action seemed only to weld more securely the relations of the pair, for Draga returned triumphantly to Belgrade and the scenes of her early degradation as none other than the mistress of the King himself.

This marks the date when the power of Draga over Alexander was brought to bear in earnest. It was at her instigation that the King, upon attaining his majority, locked his regents in a room of the palace after having invited them to dinner, drew his revolver, boastingly declared himself the all-powerful King of the Serbs and issued an order that his father, Prince Milan, then living humbly in Vienna, should be shot the moment he might attempt to cross the Servian frontier.

Then Russia, always partial to the Karageorgevitch dynasty, and prime promoter of the political intrigues of Servia for her own aggrandizement, foresaw a possible end of the Obrenovitch dynasty and, by the leverage of the King’s love for his mistress, proceeded forthwith with skill and subterfuge to pave the way for a Karageorgevitch ruler.

Anticipating the final outcome of the possible marriage of Alexander and Draga, Russia commissioned the wife of a Cossack colonel as an agent to use her influence to bring about such a union. Accordingly, this woman became a personal friend of Draga; she interested herself in Draga’s love affair and, at an opportune moment, broached to her the subject of marriage with the King. Draga protested on the ground that they loved each other and were already very happy, but the exalted position of a Queen of Servia was so incessantly brought to her mind that she finally acquiesced to the suggestions of her supposedly friendly adviser. The King was assured that Russia would recognize the marriage, for the Great White Czar himself consented to act as best man, and the day for the wedding was set.

What must have been the thoughts of Alexander as he drove that day through the decorated streets of Belgrade? Was he so wrapt up in his love for the aspiring Draga that he had failed to discover the plots against him? Or, aware of the deep-rooted intrigue to further the ends of a selfish monarchy, did he stubbornly face disaster and ultimate death in his loyalty to his Queen?

As the royal couple returned to the konak from the cathedral, after the marriage ceremony, the streets were thronged with a staring, phlegmatic crowd, which looked upon its new Queen in silence and wonder. Not a cheer was raised; not a trumpet sounded. All marvelled, and stood aghast at the thought that so strange and incongruous a union had received the sanction of the church.

Because of the marriage of Draga to the King the ire of her enemies had been expanded to the highest power. The net of conspiracy continued to be woven more tightly about her and her faithful but foolish husband. When she learned that it was a physical impossibility for her to become a mother she schemed to pass off an alien child as a legitimate heir to the throne; but the Czar of Russia, who had been asked to act as god-father to the child, and who, at the same time, seriously doubted the motherhood of Draga, sent his court physician to Belgrade to investigate. So frantic became the new Queen’s desire to give birth to a son that, in her dilemma, she made use of her irresistible power to induce Alexander to proclaim her own brother, Nikodim Lunyevitza, as heir apparent; this Alexander did, disregarding utterly the entreaties and expostulations of the Ministry.

His action galled the Servians beyond endurance, and immediately plans were set on foot to dispose of the Queen, and the King also, should he persist in the validity of his proclamation. It is said that a woman was sent to Geneva to propose to Peter Karageorgevitch that he come to Belgrade and be proclaimed King by the army, it being understood that he accept the liberal constitution previously annulled by Alexander.

Everything now pointed to the murder of the King and Queen, but the former, although warned by word and by letter many times, seemed oblivious to all danger. He went so far as to augment the bitter feeling by issuing an order transferring a number of officers, who were known to have conspired against him, to garrisons in the interior of the country. All Servia was aware that a royal tragedy was pending. Even Draga realized it for, on the very day before her assassination, she wrote pathetically in a letter to a friend: “I am haunted by a dreadful presentiment, and often at night I seem to see a terrifying picture of Michael[2] in his death agony, stretching his blood-stained hand toward his murderers and crying, ‘Stop! My brothers! It is enough!’”

[2] Undoubtedly Prince Michael is meant, Alexander’s great-grand-uncle, an account of whose murder in Topchidere Park in 1868 has been given in a previous chapter.

CHAPTER VI

THE CAPITAL OF CRIME

Plans of Procedure—Meeting of the Regicides—The First Move—The Murder of the King and Queen—The Assassination of Others—The Royal Burial—The Murder of the Brothers Novakovics in 1907.

Swiftly and silently had been fomented the plot of wholesale slaughter, of which the Queen was marked as the first and chief victim. If the King could be induced to sign a form of abdication he was to be given a chance for his life; his refusal meant death. The murderers—and of these there were almost a hundred who cut and slashed at the lifeless bodies of their sovereign—would then descend upon the house of the Queen’s relatives and kill all in cold blood. This was to be followed by the assassination of the King’s adherents, including General Zinzar Markowitz, the Prime Minister; General Pawlowitch, the Minister of War; M. Todorowitch, Minister of the Interior; and many officers of the army who had refused to join, or who had expressed themselves as being opposed to the plot to kill the royal couple.

The red glow of the setting sun had scarcely faded from the sky behind the walls and turrets of the old fortress on Wednesday evening, June 10, 1903, when the regicides gathered at the “Crown Café” to discuss and perfect their plans for the invasion of the palace that night. They sat about smoking and laughing and drinking until many were in a state of intoxication. The scene was one common in Belgrade. You will see just such a company of officers grouped about the tables along the street in front of any restaurant in the Servian capital of a summer evening. Perhaps, if you will notice, some of these men wear upon the breast, amid an array of other medals, a small, white Maltese cross. You may be sure that the proud possessors of these crosses were implicated in the terrible plot of that June evening—mayhap, some whom you will see are the very ones who, frenzied by the sting of liquor, broke open the door to the royal bedchamber and fired mercilessly upon the helpless occupants. The white crosses are decorations pinned on the breasts of those who helped to do away with Alexander and Draga by King Peter himself, in apparent grateful recognition of their services.

A SIDEWALK CAFÉ, BELGRADE.

During this preliminary meeting of the regicides at the café it was announced that everything had been arranged satisfactorily: the co-operation of the servants and soldiers, within the palace and without, was assured by none other than Colonel Maschine, the brother-in-law of the Queen, who personally had made arrangements to thus afford the least possible difficulty in entering the konak; the doors of the palace would even be left unlocked; a regiment of soldiers had been commissioned to cover the rear of the conspirators and repel any attack.

By midnight all details had been completed, and the truculent corps of more or less intoxicated officers moved stealthily toward the palace gates. After overwhelming a suspiciously weak and pitiful resistance on the part of the guards they tramped across the garden and lawn, burst through the unlocked doors of the konak and scrambled pell-mell up the broad stairs in search of the royal apartments. An officer encountered in the hallway was killed instantly, and a private who offered some slight resistance suffered a like fate. General Petrowitch, loaded revolver in hand, was the next victim, although he endeavoured to conceal the exact whereabouts of the royal couple by leading the crowd to another part of the palace.

Needless to say, the King and Queen were awakened by the shots on the stairs and the loud curses of the frantic criminals. How they endeavoured to conceal themselves in their helplessness must have been pathetic indeed. Hurrying from their bed, and still clothed in night attire, they secreted themselves in an adjoining closet which was used as a wardrobe-room by Queen Draga. Here they crouched together, trembling in prayer, while their conspirators raged through room after room, demolishing bric-à-brac, overturning tables and chairs, tearing pictures from the walls and looting the palace from top to bottom.

Through a window in this closet the luckless King and Queen saw, by the dim, flickering light of the street lamps, a great crowd collect outside the palace gates. They were unable to comprehend why this crowd stood motionless and silent—why they did not rise up, like the devoted and loyal subjects they were supposed to be, and offer assistance.

At seven minutes past two a stick of dynamite was applied to the door of the bedchamber, the explosion of which burst the barrier to atoms and stopped a clock which stood upon a mantel in the room. One report has it that the Queen, thinking the officers had departed, owing to a sudden lull in the noise in the bedchamber, foolishly raised the window in the closet and cried to the crowd outside in the street, “You will save your King and Queen.”

This action is said to have disclosed to the men the hiding-place of their victims. At all events the latter were discovered cowering in a corner of the closet, praying and pleading for mercy. The Queen was fired upon and killed instantly, and the King, in trying to shield her, fell a victim to the volley of shots hardly a moment later. Not to shrink from fulfilling an oath previously taken by many of the officers, that each would bury the point of his sword in the corpse of the Queen, they mutilated and hacked the bodies beyond recognition. It was found later that the body of Queen Draga bore no less than fifty-seven sword wounds.

And then, as a fitting sequel to their ghastly proceedings, the regicides tossed the bodies from the window of the closet where the King and Queen had stood but a few moments before and looked out upon the crowd. They fell with a thud into the garden below, where they remained until ten o’clock the following day, all the while being viewed apathetically by the passing and repassing throng of people. At that late hour, Russia, whose embassy was directly across the street from the konak, to cover as much as possible the part she had played in the tragedy, in the person of her minister demanded that the bodies be removed.

Leaving the palace and the carnage they had wrought there, the regicides, led by Colonel Maschine, sought the home of the Queen’s family and succeeded in killing her two brothers, Nikola and Nikodim. The Minister of War suffered the same fate in his home and the Minister of the Interior was severely wounded.[3]

[3] A certain author claims that the Prime Minister was also killed, but I have the best of authority for contesting that point. He was thrown into prison and has only lately been released. At his home Alexander and Draga indulged in the most of their courtship.

KING PETER KARAGEORGEVITCH OF SERVIA.

About this time Colonel Nikolics, the commandant of the Danube Division of the army, who, with a regiment of infantry, was in quarters outside the city, heard of what was going on in Belgrade. In a heroic attempt to bring his troops to the palace gates, with the hope of saving his sovereigns, he was met at the edge of the town by a revolutionary regiment under the command of Colonel Gagowitch. Both officers were killed in the hand-to-hand encounter which followed.

The bloody labour of this night was at last terminated by the murder of many officers of the army, who had been branded by the revolutionaries with the hot iron of revenge for being in league with the King.

The morning of June eleventh dawned gray and dismal. The very heavens seemed mortified at the awful butchery of the night before. Rain descended in torrents, while crowds of indifferent Servians paced to and fro in front of the palace. The city was in the hands of the revolutionaries.

There is no need to go into political details of the aftermath: suffice it to say that Peter Karageorgevitch was elected King by the Parliament and notified to leave Geneva for Belgrade at once. The family feud of a hundred years had been brought to an awful termination, since Alexander, having no heir, was the last descendant of Milosh Obrenovitch.

Under cover of the blackness of the night of Friday, June twelfth, two roughly hewn coffins were carried into the konak, and in them were placed the mutilated remains of Alexander and Draga. No care whatever was even taken to clothe the bodies properly. While the people of Belgrade still slept and dreamed of the events of to-morrow the hearse was driven, slowly, out through the rear gate of the palace grounds, over the cobbled streets, up to the weather-beaten door of the little chapel of the Obrenovitch family, which stands in the old cemetery of St. Mark, back of the city. Graves had been prepared hurriedly under the board floor of the chapel and, after chanted benedictions had been uttered by two priests—the only mourners—the bodies of the chief victims of the bloodiest national tragedy of modern times were lowered reverently to their final resting-place.

Story has it that the rambler roses, which cover thickly the fence in front of the palace grounds, had bloomed white until the summer of 1903, but that the spilled blood of the royal couple had changed their hue to red. Of course this is a consoling little piece of fiction, circulated by the friends of the Obrenovitch dynasty; but one thing is agreed upon by all, that the roses never bloomed in such profusion or with such gorgeous colouring as they did that year.

THE BALL-ROOM OF THE NEW PALACE, BELGRADE.

While strolling by the palace grounds to-day you would scarcely believe that only a few years ago the konak of Alexander and Draga stood upon the very spot where now a bandstand, festooned with electric bulbs, shelters the musicians as they play for the royal family, while the street in front hums with the chatter of gay promenaders. You will see the same red rambler roses, forming a brilliant screen to the beautiful garden in the background. Perhaps you can, through the eye of your imagination, see the very spot upon which fell the distorted remains of royalty on that memorable tenth of June.

Notwithstanding the fact that the untimely death of the last Obrenovitch put an end to the family contentions, a number of dastardly crimes are perpetrated each year in Belgrade by the constituents of the two rival houses. The latest Servian outrage to be hawked before the world was the murder in prison of the brothers Novakovics on September 28, 1907, because of their too zealous efforts to bring to the bar of Justice the real murderers of King Alexander.

Captain Novakovics, a short time after the murder of the late King and Queen, was the instigator of a wide-spread scheme to bring the regicides to trial. This scheme was betrayed, Novakovics was tried by court martial and sentenced to two years’ imprisonment, during which period two unsuccessful attempts to poison him were made. Upon his release, although his health was permanently shaken, he started a daily paper called “Za Otadjbinu,” in the columns of which he attacked the present ruling dynasty and, in more or less open language, accused King Peter, unflinchingly, of being the prime mover of the plot to do away with Alexander. His printing presses were seized and he was arrested the second time, the absurd charge having been brought against him that he had stolen three screws from his own machine which, a few hours before, had been sold at auction by the police. Twenty-five days of incarceration in an under-ground dungeon with many of the worst criminals in the land failed to break his spirit, and he—with his brother, who had also been arrested and sent to prison—was transferred to a cell which overlooked the street. Again bribes and threats failed to insure his future silence.

Finally, the two brothers, unable longer to withstand the assaults made upon them by the prison-keepers, decided to call public attention to their case. Having secured, during a moment of relaxation on the part of the guards, rifles from a near-by room, they barricaded the door to their cell quickly and commenced firing toward the ceiling. The police, failing in courage to burst open the door, resorted to a heinous method of overpowering the prisoners, which was invented on the moment by a reinstated detective agent. A solution of saltpetre was inserted through the window of the cell. Gradually the rifle-firing ceased, the door was broken open and, although the prisoners lay senseless upon the floor, the enraged jailers riddled their bodies with bullets.

People, who had gathered outside attracted by the shots of the prisoners, cried, “Asphyxiates were forbidden at The Hague!” “Down with the police!” “Enough of regicide rule!” But the prison was soon surrounded with cavalry troops and the crowd dispersed.

Captain Novakovics was a scion of one of the best Servian families, and had been married but four months before his assassination. His body was not only forbidden to be placed in the family vault, but his relatives were not even allowed to attend his funeral.

CHAPTER VII

PREDICTIONS OF SERVIAN TRAGEDIES

Prediction of the Assassination of Prince Michael—Natalie’s Visit to the Parisian Fortune-teller—The Prediction in London of the Murder of Draga and Alexander.

Strange and mysterious as it may seem, the occult, the supernatural, has played no small part in the destiny of Servian affairs. Personally, I am not of clairvoyant proclivities, I know nothing whatever of the goings-on at spiritualistic seances, neither am I even slightly versed in anything that pertains to psychical research, but in this chapter I am compelled to give credence to the cabalistic power displayed by three persons, two women and one man, in their wonderful predictions of three separate and distinct turning points in the life of the Servian nation.

The first of these was the prognostication of the fate of Prince Michael, the second was that of the social ascendency of Draga, and the third, that of the horrible death of Queen Draga and her husband—this latter foretold in a foreign city, almost three months before the tragedy really occurred, by one who had neither seen nor had had any connection whatever with the King and Queen of Servia.

On the morning of the very day of the assassination of Prince Michael Obrenovitch in Topchidere Park, a poor peasant of Cremna, of local distinction because of his occult powers of divination but unknown outside of his immediate community, tore through the mountains like a madman, beating his breasts with his fists and crying, “Our Prince is dead! They have murdered our Prince!”

The cry was taken up by all with whom he came in contact, repeated broadcast and, in an incredibly short space of time, it was upon the lips of every one in Belgrade.

The peasant of Cremna was seized and thrown into prison, charged with being a fanatical disturber, but hardly before the verification of the tragedy had reached the capital.

The facts of this case are now preserved in the minutes of the national assembly.

The second instance of occultism occurred in 1897 while Draga was in the service of Queen Natalie, the year before she met her future husband.

Natalie had laughingly suggested to Draga and Mademoiselle Tzanka, another member of the Queen’s coterie, that they accompany her on a visit to a certain mind-reader and spiritualistic medium of wide reputation in Paris. The trio called upon this supernaturally-endowed person, Madame de Thebes by name, and Natalie requested that the future be read for her son, the young Alexander, and for her friends. To her the Parisian fortune-teller replied, “Madame, you nourish in your bosom a viper which will turn and sting you”; evidently meaning Draga. She continued that the marriage of the young King would determine the whole future of Servia.

Some inept futurity was predicted for Mademoiselle Tzanka, but to Draga the woman said: “You, Madame, will rise to a higher position than you even imagined. One day you will even reign a queen; but when that day dawns your life will be in danger, and you will drag your lover and your husband to his ruin and his death.”

This story was published eventually in the newspapers and, three years after Draga’s ascent to the throne was prophesied, she denied vehemently that such had ever been predicted, but in the same breath she denounced Mademoiselle Tzanka scurrilously for having dared to repeat what had taken place in Paris.

In describing the seance at which the prediction was made of the murder of Alexander and Draga I can do no better than to take, verbatim, in part or as a whole, the statements of Mr. William Stead, editor of the Review of Reviews, who was the host on that occasion, and of his Excellency, M. Mijatovich, at that time Servian Minister at the Court of St. James and a distinguished diplomat. These signed statements were made to the press by Mr. Stead and others who were present, and relate what actually took place at the seance.

Mr. Stead’s Statement

“I had invited a numerous company, including M. Mijatovich, Earl Grey, Mr. L——, Mr. Gilbert Elliot, etc., to come on Friday, March 20th, 1903, to witness an experiment in psychometry by Mrs. Burchell at our weekly ‘at home’ in Mowbray House.

“The ‘at home’ at Mowbray House began at four in the afternoon. The psychometric experiment began an hour later, in the presence of seventy or eighty persons. In about half an hour it was seen that the conditions were adverse, and Mrs. Burchell went upstairs to give private sittings, where she succeeded much better, while the company remained below and discussed psychometry. This went on till after seven.... About eight we went to the restaurant of Gatti and Rodesano, Strand ... I sat at the head of the table, with Mrs. Burchell on my right and Mrs. Manks on my left. Mr. L—— sat at the opposite end of the table, next to my private secretary, on the other side of Mrs. Burchell....

“During the dinner the conversation was general. We talked at my end of the table about many things, and as Mr. L—— was present, I talked about him and about Servia. But as far as I can remember the name of the King was never mentioned, nor was anything said that directly or indirectly could suggest the idea of his assassination. No such thought was present to my mind. As for Mrs. Burchell, she is a plain North Country woman, who dispenses medicine of her own making, who has had a family of ten children and who did not seem to me a person who had either interest in, or knowledge of, the Balkan Peninsula. She has since, in the St. James Gazette, written: ‘As to my knowledge of Servian affairs, I was then completely ignorant, and did not know either the King’s name or the Queen’s antecedents or name, or anything in connection with them in any way.’ She was tired and silent at dinner, depressed by the consciousness of the afternoon failure at psychometry, and I addressed most of my remarks to Mrs. Manks.

“After the dinner there were several descriptions given by Mrs. Burchell of the impressions which she had received in connection with various members of the company. It was in her descriptions of the impressions she had received from Mr. L—— that he nodded from time to time; an indiscretion which led to a protest from my private secretary. This, however, had nothing to do with the vision of the assassination. When the prediction was made Mrs. Burchell had her eyes closed. I had no idea, while she was speaking, whether she was describing a tragedy that had taken place long ago or was predicting what would happen. I did not know what was in the envelope which she placed to her brow until after all was over. When the paper was taken out of the envelope, not being able to decipher the Cyrillic characters, I asked Mr. L—— whose name it was. He replied, ‘The King.’He then entered into conversation with Mrs. Burchell, but I did not hear what she said.

“The other two clairvoyants present, Mrs. Brenchley and Mrs. Manks, declared that they saw the same scene when it was in progress, and Mrs. Brenchley was only one degree less excited than Mrs. Burchell. It was she who added the detail about the Russian uniforms.”

The Statement of M. Mijatovich

“I, Chedomille Mijatovich, now residing at 51, Palace Gardens Terrace, Kensington, make this statement, as being, to the best of my knowledge and belief, a full and exact narrative of what I know of this remarkable affair.

“I have long taken a deep interest in psychical research, and this brought me, five or six years ago, to make the acquaintance of Mr. Stead, the editor of Borderland and The Review of Reviews. Knowing my interest in these subjects, Mr. Stead invited me to be present at a meeting in his office in Mowbray House, Norfolk Street, London, on Friday afternoon, March 20, 1903, when a psychometrist of some repute was to give a demonstration of her capacity to receive impressions from articles held in her hand, of the origin and nature of which she had no information. The following is an extract from Mr. Stead’s letter:

“‘On Friday next at our “at home” we shall have a very good clairvoyant at Mowbray House. She has undertaken to do from twelve to twenty tests. That is to say, ten or twenty articles will be submitted to her at random, of all of which she will know nothing, and she will state what she sees in connection with each. I hope that you will be able to come and to bring with you one or two articles, the clairvoyant reading of which might be of interest or value....’

“I accepted the invitation. The rooms at Mowbray House were crowded. The lady, whose name I was told was Mrs. Burchell, complained that the conditions were bad, and the experiment was a failure.

“Among the articles brought to Mowbray House for submission to the psychometrist was the signature of King Alexander. The name was signed in Cyrillic characters on a sheet of paper which was enclosed in an envelope. It was prepared in order to see whether the psychometrist, from handling the envelope, could ‘sense’ and describe the person of the King. That was the sole object of the experiment. Nothing more was claimed or expected.

“Owing to the number of articles offered for experiment, and owing also to the abrupt termination of the trials, the envelope with the King’s signature was not produced.... While I was present nothing was said as to its existence.

“When I quitted Mowbray House the King’s signature was left with one of the company, Mr. L——, who remained behind to dine with Mr. Stead, Mrs. Burchell and some others. I was unable to stay to dinner as I had to go to the Court at Buckingham Palace that evening. I returned home feeling that the experiment had been a failure.

“On the following morning ... I was surprised to receive a visit at my house ... from Mr. L——. He said that after the dinner in the restaurant a seance had been held, at which he had submitted the envelope, containing the King’s signature, to Mrs. Burchell. He told me that on receiving the envelope she had been thrown into a state of violent agitation. She had then described the assassination of the King and the attempted assassination of the Queen in the interior of the palace. He gave me many details which had convinced him that Mrs. Burchell had actually seen in clairvoyant vision the assassination of my Sovereign in the interior of his palace.

“On the following Tuesday, March 24th, I made it my business to call at Mowbray House in order to ascertain from Mr. Stead his version of what had happened.... On returning home I made an entry in my journal, of which the following is an exact copy:

“‘London (51, Palace Gardens Terrace),

“‘March 24, 1903.

“‘This afternoon I went to Mowbray House, Norfolk Street, Victoria Embankment, to see Mr. William Stead (the editor of Review of Reviews), and to ask him what it was that his clairvoyant of last Friday (March 20th) said of King Alexander. Mr. Stead told me.

“‘Mr. L—— gave her into her hand a small paper. She held it for a moment and then said: “This is the signature of a young man in a very high position! Yes, it is the signature of a King!” (She then proceeded to describe King Alexander’s appearance). “He has his Queen at his side; she is a brunette, older than he. But, O God! What do I see? Oh, it is too terrible....” And then, Mr. Stead said, she suddenly fell on her knees, clasping excitedly her hands, and with closed eyes and uplifted head she prayed to the Great Spirit to—save them, if possible! “I see them both, the King and Queen; and there is a dark man with the dagger in hand. He tries to kill them; it is a terrible struggle; the Queen escapes unhurt, but the King is assassinated!” Stead said Mrs. Bourcher (sic), the clairvoyant, was terribly agitated. She described what she saw in the presence of several ladies and gentlemen, who were deeply impressed with it.’

“Four days later, on March 28th, I wrote a letter to King Alexander, in the course of which I felt it my duty to warn him as to impending danger. I did not keep a copy of my letter, but I perfectly well remember the passage in question.... I wrote as follows:

“‘I know your Majesty will laugh, as you usually laughed when I spoke to you about clairvoyance, so I am not going to give you all particulars about the latest experience which I have had, but I implore your Majesty to take all possible measures for your personal safety, not only when you drive about or when you go to the church or the theatre or to the park, but when in your palace especially, because I have reason to believe that an attempt will be made to assassinate you in your own palace.’

“My wife read my letter before it was sent off and she confirms the accuracy of this account of its contents. I may say that I had often talked to King Alexander about psychic experiences, but he always mocked me and would not take them seriously. I never before sent him any warning as to an attempt on his person.

“I was myself so deeply impressed by the importance of the clairvoyant’s vision that I half expected that the King, despite his skepticism, would summon me to Belgrade in order to hear more details. This expectation was not realized. He neither sent for me nor took any notice of my warning.

“When the news arrived of his tragic end, my thoughts instantly recurred to the warning which I had sent him, and I stated to several representatives of the press the fact, which was duly published in the London evening newspapers of June 11th.”

What Actually Took Place at the Seance

“It was after ten o’clock at the restaurant when Mr. L—— thrust an envelope into Mr. Stead’s hand, saying, ‘Try her with that!’ Mr. Stead took the envelope, not knowing what it contained, and waited till the good lady had finished a description to the last of the sitters. She was getting tired and wished to go home. Mr. Stead put the envelope in her hands and asked her to try once more and see if she could get anything with it.

“Mrs. Burchell took the envelope in her two hands and sat for a moment, still. She turned the envelope round and round once or twice and then said, in a loud, clear voice, ‘Royalty! An important person—a King!’

“The announcement riveted attention and we listened eagerly for what was to follow. Mrs. Burchell spoke with extreme rapidity and in breathless excitement. There was nothing to indicate that the medium was in a trance. She had been talking quite normally just before Mr. Stead gave her the envelope. Her eyes were closed, but this might have been done to aid in abstracting her from her surroundings. She spoke exactly as if she were looking through a window into an interior and describing what she saw to us who were beside her. Near to her were two other clairvoyants, Mrs. Brenchley and Mrs. Manks.

“Mrs. Burchell began by saying, ‘Royalty! An important person—a King! He is standing in a room in his palace. He is dark; stout body and long neck. With him is a lady, the Queen—brunette. And there,’pointing to a corner of the room, ‘I see a child.’ Then, becoming very excited, the medium exclaimed, ‘Terrible! Terrible! It is all bloody. I cannot bear to look. Oh, it is terrible! I cannot bear it. I see a very dark man rushing into the chamber. He tries to kill the King. The lady implores them to spare him. Oh—’ and with a cry of horror Mrs. Burchell suddenly flung herself upon her knees in such a way that Mr. Stead thought she would fall and stretched out his hand to save her. She did not fall, however, but with clasped hands the medium continued in a voice of agonized entreaty:

“‘They are killing him. Oh, save him, save him! The Queen falls on her knees and implores them to save her life—they will not listen. Oh, what tumult! what bloodshed! How terrible—they kill him; she pleads in vain. Now they fling her on one side and stab her with a dagger, and—Oh, oh!’—and then Mrs. Burchell, exhausted with emotion, was falling over on her side on the floor when Mr. Stead got her up and put her on her seat.

“When Mrs. Burchell fell on her knees, Mrs. Brenchley sprang up, saying, ‘Yes, yes, I get it in the air. They are killing him; I see it.’

“‘And I also,’ said Mrs. Manks clasping hands with Mrs. Brenchley, and both following her (probably Mrs. Burchell’s) distracted cries and utterances with cries of, ‘Yes, yes! We see it; she is quite right.’

“Mrs. Burchell, in her agitation, dropped the envelope on the floor. Mrs. Brenchley picked it up and, holding it, continued to describe the scene in an agitation only a little less than Mrs. Burchell’s, exclaiming, ‘Oh, the blood—how horrible! Look, how dark it becomes; see—the soldiers are coming upon us—shooting down all they meet—’

“‘What are they like?’ asked someone.

“‘They seem to me like Russian uniforms; but it is dark and I cannot see clearly....’

“‘Now the King is dead!’ she (Mrs. Brenchley) cried. ‘But, oh, what confusion! What bloodshed!’

“All these ejaculatory comments were rapidly uttered as Mrs. Burchell was being helped to her seat and not much notice was taken of them at the time. Mrs. Brenchley, however, declares that she has a lively recollection of what she saw and what she said.

“Mr. Stead turned an inquiring gaze to Mr. L——, who had given him the envelope....

“‘What was in the envelope?’ Mr. Stead asked.

“‘Look!’ said Mr. L——. Opening the envelope he took out a sheet of note-paper on which was the signature, ‘Alexander.’

“‘It is the King,’ he exclaimed.

“‘But,’ said Mr. Stead, ‘her description—was it correct?’

“‘It was exact,’ replied Mr. L——. ‘The palace, the King, the Queen. Her description is exact.’

“And then the medium, who had been silent as if recovering from the emotion through which she had just passed, said:

“‘Depend upon it, it will all happen as I have seen it, if nothing is done to prevent it, and that ere long!’

“Mrs. Burchell’s own version is that she added,‘Even then, although they may postpone it, it will certainly come to pass.’”

CHAPTER VIII

NISCH AND SOPHIA

From Belgrade to Nisch—Nisch—Provincial Hotel Accommodations—The Monument of Skulls—Tzaribrod—Sophia—Value Received for $1.25 per Diem—Dragoleftsky.

For a long time the words “Brigands” and “Bulgarians” seemed to me synonomous, for it was not so very long ago, I thought, that to be kidnapped and behold the tragic story of your life subsequently illuminating the pages of every journal, you had only to go to Bulgaria; and these thoughts were not devoid of some prestige. But since the days of Pat Crowe and Raisuli the Bulgarian man-stealers seem to have forgotten their lines and faded ignominiously into the wings of the stage of publicity. In fact, I discovered later, that you might be just as safe in your room at the “Grand Royal Hotel” in Sophia as it would be possible to be in your apartments in any fashionable hotel in America—and safer, because at the “Grand Royal” in Sophia you are not in the predatorial power of a gang of domesticated yeggmen disguised as waiters, porters, bellboys and what not. So we decided to tempt our fate on a certain June morning by shaking the dust of Belgrade for that of the Servian frontier.

FRUIT VENDERS, NISCH.

But eight hours’ travel in the local train so anæsthetized our desires to continue the journey, on such a train, at least, that the little vine-clad station at Nisch appealed to us most invitingly. We also determined then and there to explore the town behind it.

A two-mile drive over even rougher cobbles than Belgrade can boast of, connects the station with the centre of the town, and I might add that it is the longest two miles I have ever driven.

As we rattled along, the diminutive one-story dwellings of Nisch seemed to be scattered over an unlimited area. A single small mosque constitutes the only remaining suggestion that the town was at one time in the possession of the Turks.

Finally we stopped in front of one of the hotels—poor excuses, all of them, believe me—and commenced to bargain and barter for accommodations, only to discover that all of the rooms were occupied; I doubt if the place could have housed more than half a dozen patrons at one time. We tried another hostelry, with the same result. Then another. The train on which we had arrived, the last one leaving Nisch that day in either direction, had long since departed for Sophia; the hotel people seemed anything but desirous of taking us in, for I am dubious about their houses being so crowded as they were said to be; and we commenced to consider a suitable place in which to leave our luggage, so that we might at least walk the streets that night unencumbered. Our driver, too, was apparently at his wits’ end, but after we had tendered him an extra dinare as a stimulant he thought he knew of just one more hotel where it might be possible to obtain rooms, and, accordingly, we were rattled thither. Here our trials ended, for the proprietor of this place graciously consented to accommodate us during our stay.

After first walking through a combination office and general loafing-room, containing at one end a bar, reeking with foul-smelling tobacco-smoke and alive with Servian officers who shuffled over the sanded floor or played billiards at an antequated table or sat about telling the gossip of the garrison, then through a labyrinth of narrow passages, across a court and up two flights of stairs, we came upon our room.

I think we paid about fifty cents a day each for this room, but in the Balkans you get a great deal more for your money at the hotels than you would dare to expect in America. The floor was scrupulously polished; clean bed-clothes were on the beds; fresh water had been brought up for both drinking and toilet purposes; spotless white candles projected from each candlestick; hair-combs and brushes (for your application if you cared not to doubt the cleanliness of the previous user) adorned the bureau; and a gaudy pair of bed-room slippers reposed beneath each bed, awaiting only the insertion of your tired toes. Our meals we ate on the pavement in front of the hotel, “without restraint or finger bowls,” surrounded by the army, sniffed at by the dogs and stared at by the multitude, while a pet sheep nibbled playfully at our coat buttons.

In Nisch the soldier element ever predominates over the civilian, for here is located a Servian garrison of some 2,500 men. Evidently they consider themselves proficient in military tactics, for they are always on the streets, and the pavements in front of the hotels are constantly crowded with officers, smoking and drinking. And every soldier wears a different uniform. There are blue coats with white trimmings, white coats with blue trimmings; there are black trousers with green stripes and green trousers with black stripes, not to mention the brown trousers with red stripes; there are gray caps with black visors and black caps without visors. Every private stops on the street to salute his officer and every officer stops to salute his superior officer; the place reminds one of a health resort for the treatment of St. Vitus’ dance.

The moment you unlimber your camera, the peasants and townspeople, who are none too familiar with the habits, customs or pastimes of English-speaking visitors, crowd around in veritable droves, until you have to give up in disgust and resign yourself to the good luck you may hope to have with your snapshots. Only a week after we left Nisch an Englishman was arrested for taking photographs in and about the city, and he had a very great deal of trouble in finally convincing the authorities that his object in making pictures was entirely inoffensive and not with a view of better explaining to his home War Department the position of the Servian fort. As it was, he was held in Nisch for some days until the British Minister to Servia demanded his release.

To say the least, the people of Nisch are primitive and their looks belie not their methods. Here, for the first time, I saw put into practice a process which was in vogue centuries ago; the proprietor of the hotel, after making out his bill, sanded the wet ink instead of using a blotter.

There is but one object of absorbing interest to be seen in Nisch, and that is what once was a tower of human skulls, erected by the Turks. This ghastly monument commemorates the Turkish victory over the Servians near Nisch in 1809, and it is said to have been composed originally of twelve hundred of the enemies’ skulls. Now but one remains, too deeply imbedded in the mud-cement for easy extraction, and for that reason left undisturbed by the relic-hunter. When Nisch became Servian all the skulls which could be found, except this one, were buried reverently.

Because the time of arrival and departure of trains in the Balkan States appears to be a matter of mere conjecture and of little consequence, it is the custom for travellers to be at the depot at least an hour before train time. On the day set for our departure from Nisch we were awakened at four in the morning, so that we might have plenty of time to take coffee, be jolted the two miles over the cobblestones and wait for the train for Sophia, due to arrive at Nisch at six o’clock.

The route from the Servian frontier to the capital of Bulgaria is rich in wild and picturesque scenery, for almost immediately after leaving Nisch steep grades are encountered and continue until the divide is reached at Dragoman. From there the line descends none too gradually and Tzaribrod is the next stop. At this point the Servian crew surrenders the train to the care of the Bulgarians, a perfunctory customs examination is made of your baggage and you turn the hands of your watch an hour faster to “East European Time.” Beautiful mountain scenery marks the remainder of the journey, and in exactly six hours after leaving Nisch (including the hour change of time) you are in Sophia.

When you alight from the train don’t think you have made a mistake and wax discouraged because you did not locate Sophia immediately, for almost all of these Balkan towns have an unhandy habit of springing up some two or three miles inland from their respective railway stations. You have only to jump into one of the numerous open cabs which meet all trains, each of a different and distinct Renaissance design, and make signs that you wish to be driven to the Hotel So-and-So.