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of eatable stuff that came his way, and could do wonders in the
manipulation and repair of an ox-cart. But clearly these simple
skills do not survive town life. Peter was only one example of many
that I encountered. The problem that troubles Bulgaria to-day and
will trouble her for some time to come is that of finding from her
almost exclusively peasant population enough statesmen, lawyers,
priests, teachers, leaders generally who will have substituted for
peasant virtues and peasant abilities the savoir faire of the cultivated
European. They show a tendency to lose the one before they gain the
other.
My life with Peter was brief. He was such a good fellow that I
was quite willing to retain him, even though I had to be the servant
really, and his services were only useful as interpreter. But his health
improved. Possibly the better food and the open-air regime that I
insisted upon were responsible. Peter became healthy enough to
do something for the army and, of course, he went away to do that
something. Though he had become a good deal devoted to me his
chief devotion was to his country. I honoured him for deserting me.
Incidents of the mobilisation of the troops showed this strong
and general patriotic ardour. At the call this trained nation was in
arms in a day. The citizen soldiers hurried to the depôt for their arms
and uniforms. In one district the rumour that mobilisation had been
authorised was bruited abroad a day before the actual issue of the
orders, and the depôt was besieged by the peasants who had rushed
in from their farms. The officer in charge could not give out the
rifles, so the men lit fires, got food from the neighbours, and camped
around the depôt until they were armed. Some navvies received
their mobilisation orders on returning to their camp after ten hours’
work at railway-building. They had supper and marched through the
night to their respective headquarters. For one soldier, the march was
twenty-four miles. The railway carriages were not adequate to bring
all the men to their assigned centres. Some rode on the steps, on the
roofs of carriages, on the buffers even.
At Stara Zagora I noted a mother of the people who had come to
see some Turkish prisoners just brought in from Mustapha Pasha. To
one she gave a cake. “They are hungry,” she said. This woman had
five men at the war, her four sons in the fighting-line, her husband
under arms guarding a line of communication. She had sent them
proudly. It was the boast of the Bulgarian women that not a tear was
shed at the going away of the soldiers.
At a little village outside Kirk Kilisse a young civil servant, an
official of the Foreign Office, spoke of the war whilst we ate a dish
of cheese and eggs. “It is a war,” he said, “of the peasants and the
intellectuals. It is not a war made by the politicians or the soldiers of
the staff. That would be impossible. In our nation every soldier is a
citizen and every citizen a soldier. There could not be a war, unless it
were a war desired by the people. In my office it was with rage that
some of the clerks heard that they must stay at Sofia, and not go to
the front. We were all eager to take arms.”
At Nova Zagora, travelling by a troop train carrying reserves to
the front, I crossed a train bringing wounded from the battlefields.
For some hours both trains were delayed. The men going to the front
were decorated with flowers as though going to a feast. They filled
the waiting time by dancing to the music of the national bagpipes,
and there joined in the dance such of the wounded as could stand on
their feet.
At Mustapha Pasha I arrived one night from Stara Zagora with a
great body of correspondents. With me I had brought about a week’s
supply of food, leaving other supplies with my heavy baggage. But
on the train journey, taking up a full day, this supply disappeared.
No one else seemed to have food supplies handy, and I fed all I
could, including a Bulgarian bishop (who showed his gratitude
afterwards by “cutting me dead” when it was in his power to do me
a slight favour). When we reached Mustapha Pasha it was to find
no hotels, lodging-houses, cafés, or stores. All the food supplies had
been requisitioned by the Bulgarian military authorities. There was
plenty of food in the town but none could be bought. I tried to get a
loaf of bread from a military bakery, offering to the soldier in charge
up to five francs for a loaf. He was sturdily proof against bribes. But
subsequently I was given a loaf for nothing on the ground that I was
“in distress”; as indeed I was, though with £100 in my pocket.
Between Silivri and Ermenikioi, travelling with a fine equipment
for the time being—a cart and two good horses and a full supply of
food, purchased at Tchorlu and Silivri—I was eating lunch by the
roadside when four Bulgarian soldiers came up and with signs told
me that they were starving, and asked for food. They had become
separated from their regiment and, I gathered, had had no food for
two days. They were armed with rifles and bayonets and could have
taken from me all they needed if they had wished. But that thought
did not seem to have entered their heads. I gave them a meal and a
little bread and cheese to see them on their way. One of these poor