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Chapter VIII
Incidents of Bulgarian Character
Some further incidents of Bulgarian life gleaned during war-time
will illustrate the national characteristics of the people.
Peter was a secretary-servant whom I engaged at Sofia to
accompany me to the front because he could speak English, a
language he had learned at the Robert (American) College in
Constantinople, where he was educated. Peter was to be partly a
secretary, partly a servant. He was to interpret for me, translate
Bulgarian papers and documents, also to cook and to carry if need be.
He was destined to be a lawyer, and was the son of a small trader.
A Peasant of the Tsaribrod District
Peter was interesting as illustrating the transition stage between
the Bulgarian peasant (for whom I have the heartiest admiration) and
the Bulgarian statesman, diplomat, “personage” (for whom I have
not—generally speaking and with particular exceptions—nearly so
much admiration). He had not lost the peasant virtues. He was loyal,
plucky, patriotic. But he had lost the good health and the practical
knowledge of life of the peasant stock from which he sprang.
The Bulgarian on the land lives a laborious life, bread and cheese
his usual sole food, with a little meat as a rare treat, and a glass of
vodka as his indulgence for Sundays and feast days only. Marrying
early he is astonishingly fecund. Transfer him to town life and he
soon shows a weakening in physical fibre. The streets sap away his
field-bred health. A more elaborate diet attacks the soundness of
his almost bovine digestion. There is no greater contrast between
the Bulgarian peasant on the land, physically the healthiest type
one could imagine, and the Bulgarian town resident, who has not
yet learned to adapt himself to the conditions of closely hived life
and shows a marked susceptibility to dyspepsia, phthisis, and
neurasthenia. The Bulgarian peasant has the nerves, the digestion
of an ox. The Bulgarian town-dweller, the son or grandson of
that peasant, might pass often for the tired-out progeny of many
generations of city workers.
Peter could not serve in the army because his lungs were affected.
That was why he was available as my secretary-servant. Peter was, as
regards any practical knowledge of life, the most pathetically useless
young man one could imagine. He could make coffee, after the
Turkish fashion, and had equipped himself for a long campaign with
a most elaborate coffee machine, all glass and gimcrackery, which of
course did not survive one day’s travel. But he had not brought food
nor cooking pots nor knife nor fork nor spoon: no blankets had he,
and no change of clothing—just the coffee-pot, a picture of a saint,
and an out-of-date book of Bulgarian statistics, which he solemnly
presented to me, with his name affectionately inscribed on the flyleaf.
I dared not throw it away, and so had to carry its useless bulk
about with me until Peter and I parted. In addition to his lack of
equipment, Peter could not roll a rug, make a bed, or fend for himself
in any way.
The Bulgarian peasant in his life on the land is on the whole a
very clever chap as regards the practical things of existence. During
the campaign I noticed how he made himself very comfortable.
Whenever he was stationed as a guard for a railway bridge or in
any other semi-permanent post, he half-dug, half-thatched himself
an excellent shelter. He made use for food supplies of every scrap