_BY E. ALEXANDER POWELL_

THE NEW FRONTIERS OF FREEDOMTHE ARMY BEHIND THE ARMYTHE LAST FRONTIERGENTLEMEN ROVERSTHE END OF THE TRAILFIGHTING IN FLANDERSTHE ROAD TO GLORYVIVE LA FRANCE!ITALY AT WAR

_CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS_

[Illustration: THE QUEEN OF RUMANIA TELLS MAJOR POWELL THAT SHE ENJOYSBEING A QUEEN]

THE NEW FRONTIERS OF FREEDOM

_FROM THE ALPS TO THE ÆGEAN_

BY

E. ALEXANDER POWELL

NEW YORKCHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS1920

COPYRIGHT, 1920, BYCHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

_Published April, 1920_

TO A REAL AND LIFELONG FRIENDMAJOR J. STANLEY MOOREOF THE DEPARTMENT OF STATE

AN ACKNOWLEDGMENT

Owing to the disturbed conditions which prevailed throughout most ofsoutheastern Europe during the summer and autumn of 1919, the journeyrecorded in the following pages could not have been taken had it notbeen for the active cooperation of the Governments through whoseterritories we traveled and the assistance afforded by their officialsand by the officers of their armies and navies, to say nothing of thehospitality shown us by American diplomatic and consularrepresentatives, relief-workers and others. From the Alps to the Ægean, in Italy, Dalmatia, Montenegro, Albania, Macedonia, Turkey, Rumania, Hungary and Serbia we met with universal courtesy and kindness. 

For the innumerable courtesies which we were shown in Italy and theregions under Italian occupation I am indebted to His ExcellencyFrancisco Nitti, Prime Minister of Italy, and to former PremierOrlando, to General Armando Diaz, Commander-in-Chief of the ItalianArmies; to Lieutenant-General Albricci, Minister of War; to AdmiralThaon di Revel, Minister of Marine; to Vice-Admiral Count Enrice Mulo, Governor-General of Dalmatia; to Lieutenant-General Piacentini, Governor-General of Albania, to Lieutenant-General Montanari, commandingthe Italian troops in Dalmatia; to Rear-Admiral Wenceslao Piazza, commanding the Italian forces in the Curzolane Islands; toLieutenant-Colonel Antonio Chiesa, commanding the Italian troops inMontenegro; to Colonel Aldo Aymonino, Captain Marchese Piero Ricci andCaptain Ernesto Tron of the _Comando Supremo_, the last-named being ourcompanion and cicerone on a motor-journey of nearly three thousandmiles; to Captain Roggieri of the Royal Italian Navy, Chief of Staff tothe Governor-General of Dalmatia; to Captain Amedeo Acton, commandingthe "_Filiberto_"; to Captain Fausto M. Leva, commanding the"_Dandolo_"; to Captain Giulio Menin, commanding the "_Puglia_, " and toCaptain Filipopo, commanding the "_Ardente_, " all of whom entertained uswith the hospitality so characteristic of the Italian Navy; toLieutenant Giuseppe Castruccio, our cicerone in Rome and my companion ondirigible and airplane flights; to Lieutenant Bartolomeo Poggi andEngineer-Captain Alexander Ceccarelli, respectively commander and chiefengineer of the destroyer "_Sirio_, " both of whom, by their unfailingthoughtfulness and courtesy added immeasurably to the interest andenjoyment of our voyage down the Adriatic from Fiume to Valona; toLieutenant Pellegrini di Tondo, our companion on the long journey bymotor across Albania and Macedonia; to Lieutenant Morpurgo, who showedus many kindnesses during our stay in Salonika; to Baron San Martino ofthe Italian Peace Delegation; to Lieutenant Stroppa-Quaglia, attaché ofthe Italian Peace Delegation, and, above all else, to those valuedfriends, Cavaliere Giuseppe Brambilla, Counselor of the Italian Embassyin Washington; Major-General Gugliemotti, Military Attaché, andProfessor Vittorio Falorsi, formerly Secretary of the Embassy atWashington, to each of whom I am indebted for countless kindnesses. Nolist of those to whom I am indebted would be complete, however, unlessit included the name of my valued and lamented friend, the late CountV. Macchi di Cellere, Italian Ambassador to the United States, whosememory I shall never forget. 

I welcome this opportunity of expressing our appreciation of thehospitality shown us by their Majesties King Ferdinand and Queen Marieof Rumania, who entertained us at their Castle of Pelesch, and ofacknowledging my indebtedness to His Excellency M. Bratianu, PrimeMinister of Rumania, and to M. Constantinescu, Rumanian Minister ofCommerce. 

I am profoundly appreciative of the honor shown me by His Majesty KingNicholas of Montenegro, and my grateful thanks are also due to HisExcellency General A. Gvosdenovitch, Aide-de-Camp to the King and formerMinister of Montenegro to the United States. 

For the trouble to which they put themselves in facilitating my visit toJugoslavia I am deeply grateful to His Excellency M. Grouitch, Ministerfrom the Kingdom of the Serbs, Croats and Slovenes to the United States, and to His Excellency M. Vesnitch, the Jugoslav Minister to France. 

From the long list of our own country-people abroad to whom we areindebted for hospitality and kindness, I wish particularly to thank theHonorable Thomas Nelson Page, formerly American Ambassador to Italy; theHonorable Percival Dodge, American Minister to the Kingdom of the Serbs, Croats and Slovenes; the Honorable Gabriel Bie Ravndal, AmericanCommissioner and Consul-General in Constantinople; the Honorable FrancisB. Keene, American Consul-General in Rome; Colonel Halsey Yates, U. S. A. , American Military Attaché at Bucharest; Lieutenant-Colonel L. G. Ament, U. S. A. , Director of the American Relief Administration in Rumania, whowas our host during our stay in Bucharest, as was Major Carey of theAmerican Red Cross during our visit in Salonika; Dr. Frances Flood, Director of the American Red Cross Hospital in Monastir, and Mrs. MaryHalsey Moran, in charge of American relief work in Constantza, in whosehospitable homes we found a warm welcome during our stays in thosecities; Reverend and Mrs. Phineas Kennedy of Koritza, Albania; Dr. HenryKing, President of Oberlin College, and Charles R. Crane, Esquire, ofthe Commission on Mandates in the Near East; Dr. Fisher, Professor ofModern History at Robert College, Constantinople; and finally of threefriends in Rome, Mr. Cortese, representative in Italy of the AssociatedPress; Dr. Webb, founder and director of the hospital for facial woundsat Udine; and Nelson Gay, Esquire, the celebrated historian, all threeof whom shamefully neglected their personal affairs in order to give mesuggestions and assistance. 

To all of those named above, and to many others who are not named, I amdeeply grateful. 

E. Alexander Powell. 

Yokohama, Japan, February, 1920. 

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

 AN ACKNOWLEDGMENT vii

 I ACROSS THE REDEEMED LANDS 1

 II THE BORDERLAND OF SLAV AND LATIN 56

 III THE CEMETERY OF FOUR EMPIRES 110

 IV UNDER THE CROSS AND THE CRESCENT 155

 V WILL THE SICK MAN OF EUROPE RECOVER? 176

 VI WHAT THE PEACE-MAKERS HAVE DONE ON THE DANUBE 206

 VII MAKING A NATION TO ORDER 243

ILLUSTRATIONS

The Queen of Rumania tells Major Powell that she enjoys being a Queen _Frontispiece_

 FACING PAGE

His first sight of the Terra Irridenta 12

The end of the day 20

A little mother of the Tyrol 20

Italy's new frontier 28

This is not Venice, as you might suppose, but Trieste 46

At the gates of Fiume 60

The inhabitants of Fiume cheering d'Annunzio and his raiders 78

His Majesty Nicholas I, King of Montenegro 124

Two conspirators of Antivari 130

The head men of Ljaskoviki, Albania, waiting to bid Major and Mrs. Powell farewell 142

The ancient walls of Salonika 158

Yildiz Kiosk, the favorite palace of Abdul-Hamid and his successors on the throne of Osman 194

The Red Badge of Mercy in the Balkans 208

The gypsy who demanded five lei for the privilege of taking her picture 234

A peasant of Old Serbia 234

King Ferdinand tells Mrs. Powell his opinion of the fashion in which the Peace Conference treated Rumania 240

The wine-shop which is pointed out to visitors as "the Cradle of the War" 252

THE NEW FRONTIERS OF FREEDOM

CHAPTER I

ACROSS THE REDEEMED LANDS

It is unwise, generally speaking, to write about countries and peopleswhen they are in a state of political flux, for what is true at themoment of writing may be misleading the next. But the conditions whichprevailed in the lands beyond the Adriatic during the year succeedingthe signing of the Armistice were so extraordinary, so picturesque, sowholly without parallel in European history, that they form a sort ofepilogue, as it were, to the story of the great conflict. To havewitnessed the dismemberment of an empire which was hoary with antiquitywhen the Republic in which we live was yet unborn; to have seeninsignificant states expand almost overnight into powerful nations; tohave seen and talked with peoples who did not know from day to day theform of government under which they were living, or the name of theirruler, or the color of their flag; to have seen millions of humanbeings transferred from sovereignty to sovereignty like cattle whichhave been sold--these are sights the like of which will probably not beseen again in our times or in those of our children, and, because theyserve to illustrate a chapter of History which is of immense importance, I have tried to sketch them, in brief, sharp outline, in this book. 

Because I was curious to see for myself how the countrymen of AndreasHofer in South Tyrol would accept their enforced Italianization; whetherthe Italians of Fiume would obey the dictum of President Wilson thattheir city must be Slav; how the Turks of Smyrna and the Bulgarians ofThrace would welcome Hellenic rule; whether the Croats and Slovenes andBosnians and Montenegrins were content to remain pasted in the Jugoslavstamp-album; and because I wished to travel through these disputedregions while the conditions and problems thus created were still new, we set out, my wife and I, at about the time the Peace Conference wasdrawing to a close, on a journey, made largely by motor-car anddestroyer, which took us from the Adige to the Vardar and from theVardar to the Pruth, along more than five thousand miles of those newnational boundaries--drawn in Paris by a lawyer, a doctor and a collegeprofessor--which have been termed, with undue optimism perhaps, thefrontiers of freedom. 

Some of the things which I shall say in these pages will probably giveoffense to those governments which showed us many courtesies. Those whoare privileged to speak for governments are fond of asserting that_their_ governments have nothing to conceal and that they welcome honestcriticism, but long experience has taught me that when they are toldunpalatable truths governments are usually as sensitive and resentful asfriends. Now it has always seemed to me that a writer owes his firstallegiance to his readers. To misinform them by writing only half-truthsfor the sake of retaining the good-will of those written about is asunethical, to my way of thinking, as it is for a newspaper to suppressfacts which the public is entitled to know in order not to offend itsadvertisers. Were I to show my appreciation of the many kindnesses whichwe received from governments, sovereigns and officials by refrainingfrom unfavorable comment on their actions and their policies, this bookwould possess about as much intrinsic value as those sumptuous volumeswhich are written to the order of certain Latin-American republics, inwhich the authors studiously avoid touching on such embarrassingsubjects as revolutions, assassinations, earthquakes, finances, orfevers for fear of scaring away foreign investors or depreciating thegovernment securities. 

It is entirely possible that in forming some of my conclusions I wasunconsciously biased by the hospitality and kindness we were shown, forit is human nature to have a more friendly feeling for the man whoinvites you to dinner or sends you a card to his club than for the manwho ignores your existence; it is probable that I not infrequentlyplaced the wrong interpretation on what I saw and heard, especially inthe Balkans; and, in those cases where I have rashly ventured to indulgein prophecy, it is more than likely that future events will show that asa prophet I am not an unqualified success. In spite of theseshortcomings, however, I would like my readers to believe that I havemade a conscientious effort to place before them, in the followingpages, a plain and unprejudiced account of how the essays in map-makingof the lawyer, the doctor and the college professor in Paris haveaffected the peoples, problems and politics of that vast region whichstretches from the Alps to the Ægean. 

The Queen of the Adriatic never looked more radiantly beautiful than onthe July morning when, from the landing-stage in front of the Danieli, we boarded the _vapore_ which, after an hour's steaming up the teemingGuidecca and across the outlying lagoons, set us down at the road-head, on the mainland, where young Captain Tron, of the Comando Supremo, wasawaiting us with a big gray staff-car. Captain Tron, who had been bornon the Riviera and spoke English like an Oxonian, had been aide-de-campto the Prince of Wales during that young gentleman's prolonged stay onthe Italian front. He was selected by the Italian High Command toaccompany us, I imagine, because of his ability to give intelligentanswers to every conceivable sort of question, his tact, and hisunfailing discretion. His chief weakness was his proclivity forroad-burning, in which he was enthusiastically abetted by our Sicilianchauffeur, who, before attaining to the dignity of driving a staff-car, had spent an apprenticeship of two years in piloting ammunition-laden_camions_ over the narrow and perilous roads which led to the positionsheld by the Alpini amid the higher peaks, during which he learned tosave his tires and his brake-linings by taking on two wheels instead offour the hairpin mountain turns. Now I am perfectly willing to travel asfast as any one, if necessity demands it, but to tear through a regionas beautiful as Venetia at sixty miles an hour, with the incomparablelandscape whirling past in a confused blur, like a motion-picture filmwhich is being run too fast because the operator is in a hurry to gethome, seems to me as unintelligent as it is unnecessary. Like allItalian drivers, moreover, our chauffeur insisted on keeping his cut-outwide open, thereby producing a racket like a machine-gun, which, thoughit gave warning of our approach when we were still a mile away, made anyattempt at conversation, save by shouting, out of the question. 

Because I wished to follow Italy's new frontiers from their verybeginning, at that point where the boundaries of Italy, Austria andSwitzerland meet near the Stelvio Pass, our course from Venice laynorthwestward, across the dusty plains of Venetia, shimmering in thesummer heat, the low, pleasant-looking villas of white or pink orsometimes pale blue stucco, set far back in blazing gardens, peeringcoyly out at us from between the ranks of stately cypresses which linedthe highway, like daintily-gowned girls seeking an excuse for aflirtation. Dotting the Venetian plain are many quaint and charmingtowns of whose existence the tourist, traveling by train, never dreams, their massive walls, sometimes defended by moats and draw-bridges, bearing mute witness to this region's stormy and romantic past. Toweringabove the red-tiled roofs of each of these Venetian plain-towns is itsslender campanile, and, as each campanile is of distinctive design, itserves as a landmark by which the town can be identified from afar. Through the narrow, cobble-paved streets of Vicenza we swept, betweenrows of shops opening into cool, dim, vaulted porticoes, where thetownspeople can lounge and stroll and gossip without exposing themselvesto rain or sun; through Rovereto, noted for its silk-culture and for itsold, old houses, superb examples of the domestic architecture of theMiddle Ages, with faded frescoes on their quaint façades; and so up therather monotonous and uninteresting valley of the Adige until, just asthe sun was sinking behind the Adamello, whose snowy flanks were bathedin the rosy _Alpenglow_, we came roaring into Trent, the capital andcenter of the Trentino, which, together with Trieste and its adjacentterritory, composed the regions commonly referred to by Italians beforethe war as _Italia Irredenta_--Unredeemed Italy. 

Rooms had been reserved for us at the Hotel Trento, a famous touristhostelry in pre-war days, which had been used as headquarters by thefield-marshal commanding the Austrian forces in the Trentino, signs ofits military occupation being visible in the scratched wood-work andruined upholstery. The spurs of the Austrian staff officers on duty inTrent, as Major Rupert Hughes once remarked of the American staffofficers on duty in Washington, must have been dripping with furniturepolish. 

Trent--or Trento, as its new owners call it--is a place of some 30, 000inhabitants, built on both banks of the Adige, in the center of a greatbowl-shaped valley which is completely hemmed in by towering mountainwalls. In the church of Santa Maria Maggiore the celebrated Council ofTrent sat in the middle of the sixteenth century for nearly a decade. Onthe eastern side of the town rises the imposing Castello del BuonConsiglio, once the residence of the Prince-Bishops but now a barracksfor Italian soldiery. 

No one who knows Trent can question the justice of Italy's claims to thecity and to the rich valleys surrounding it, for the history, thetraditions, the language, the architecture and the art of this regionare as characteristically Italian as though it had never been outsidethe confines of the kingdom. The system of mild and fertile Alpinevalleys which compose the so-called Trentino have an area of about 4, 000square miles and support a population of 380, 000 inhabitants, of whom375, 000, according to a census made by the Austrians themselves, areItalian. An enclave between Lombardy and Venetia, a rough triangle withits southern apex at the head of the Lake of Garda, the Trentino, originally settled by Italian colonists who went forth as early as thetime of the Roman Republic, was for centuries an independent Italianprince-bishopric, being arbitrarily annexed to Austria upon the fall ofNapoleon. In spite of the tyrannical and oppressive measures pursued bythe Austrian authorities in their attempts to stamp out the affection ofthe Trentini for their Italian motherland, in spite of the systematicattempts to Germanicize the region, in spite of the fact that it was anoffense punishable by imprisonment to wear the Italian colors, to singthe Italian national hymn, or to have certain Italian books in theirpossession, the poor peasants of these mountain valleys remainedunswervingly loyal to Italy throughout a century of persecution. Littledid the thousands of American and British tourists who were wont to makeof the Trentino a summer playground, climbing its mountains, fishing inits rivers, motoring over its superb highways, stopping in its greathotels, realize the silent but desperate struggle which was in progressbetween this handful of Italian exiles and the empire of the Hapsburgs. 

The attitude of the Austrian authorities toward their unwilling subjectsof the Trentino was characterized by a vindictiveness as savage as itwas shortsighted. Like the Germans in Alsace, they made the mistake ofthinking that they could secure the loyalty of the people by awing andterrorizing them, whereas these methods had the effect of hardening thedetermination of the Trentini to rid themselves of Austrian rule. CæsareBattisti was deputy from Trent to the parliament in Vienna. When war wasdeclared he escaped from Austria and enlisted in the Italian army, precisely as hundreds of American colonists joined the Continental Armyupon the outbreak of the Revolution. During the first Austrian offensivehe was captured and sentenced to death, being executed while stillsuffering from his wounds. The fact that the rope parted twice beneathhis weight added the final touch to the brutality which marked everystage of the proceeding. The execution of Battista provided a strikingobject-lesson for the inhabitants of the Trentino and of Italy--but notthe sort of object-lesson which the Austrians had intended. Instead ofterrifying them, it but fired them in their determination to end thatsort of thing forever. From Lombardy to Sicily Battista was acclaimed ahero and a martyr; photographs of him on his way to execution--an erectand dignified figure, a dramatic contrast to the shambling, sullen-facedsoldiery who surrounded him--were displayed in every shop-window in thekingdom; all over Italy streets and parks and schools were named toperpetuate his memory. 

Had there been in my mind a shadow of doubt as to the justice of Italy'sannexation of the Trentino, it would have been dissipated when, afterdinner, we stood on the balcony of the hotel in the moonlight, lookingdown on the great crowd which filled to overflowing the brilliantlylighted piazza. A military band was playing _Garibaldi's Hymn_ and thepeople stood in silence, as in a church, the faces of many of them wetwith tears, while the familiar strains, forbidden by the Austrian underpenalty of imprisonment, rose triumphantly on the evening air to beechoed by the encircling mountains. At last the exiles had come home. And from his marble pedestal, high above the multitude, the great statueof Dante looked serenely out across the valleys and the mountains whichare "unredeemed" no longer. 

[Illustration: HIS FIRST SIGHT OF THE TERRA IRRIDENTA

King Victor Emanuel arriving at Trieste on a destroyer after itsoccupation by the Italians]

Though Italy's original claims in this region, as made at thebeginning of the war, included only the so-called Trentino (by which isgenerally meant those Italian-speaking districts which used to belong tothe bishopric of Trent) together with those parts of South Tyrol whichare in population overwhelmingly Italian, she has since demanded, and bythe Peace Conference has been awarded, the territory known as the upperAdige, which comprises all the districts lying within the basin of theAdige and of its tributary, the Isarco, including the cities of Botzenand Meran. By the annexation of this region Italy has pushed herfrontier as far north as the Brenner, thereby bringing within herborders upwards of 180, 000 German-speaking Tyrolese who have never beenItalian in any sense and who bitterly resent being transferred, withouttheir consent and without a plebiscite, to Italian rule. 

The Italians defend their annexation of the Upper Adige by assertingthat Italy's true northern boundary, in the words of Eugène deBeauharnais, written, when Viceroy of Italy, to his stepfather, Napoleon, "is that traced by Nature on the summits of the mountains, where the waters that flow into the Black Sea are divided from thosethat flow into the Adriatic. " Viewed from a purely geographicalstandpoint, Italy's contention that the great semi-circular barrier ofthe Alps forms a natural and clearly defined frontier, separating her bya clean-cut line from the countries to the north, is unquestionably asound one. Any one who has entered Italy from the north must haveinstinctively felt, as he reached the summit of this mighty mountainwall and looked down on the warm and fertile slopes sweeping southwardto the plains, "Here Italy begins. "

Italy further justifies her annexation of the German-speaking UpperAdige on the ground of national security. She must, she insists, possesshenceforward a strong and easily defended northern frontier. She istired of crouching in the valleys while her enemies dominate her fromthe mountain-tops. Nor do I blame her. Her whole history is punctuatedby raids and invasions launched from these northern heights. But the newfrontier, in the words of former Premier Orlando, "can be defended by ahandful of men, while therefore the defense of the Trentino salientrequired half the Italian forces, the other half being constantlythreatened with envelopment. "

As I have already pointed out, the annexation of the Upper Adige meansthe passing of 180, 000 German-speaking Austrians under Italiansovereignty, including the cities of Botzen and Meran; the ancientcenters of German-Alpine culture, Brixen and Sterzing; of Schloss Tyrol, which gives the whole country its name; and, above all, of the Parsiervalley, the home of Andreas Hofer, whose life and living memory providethe same inspiration for the Germans of Tyrol that the exploits andtraditions of Garibaldi do for the Italians. 

That Italy is not insensible to the perils of bringing within herborders a _bloc_ of people who are not and never will be Italian, isclearly shown by the following extract from an Italian officialpublication:

"In claiming the Upper Adige, Italy does not forget that the highestvalleys are inhabited by 180, 000 Germans, a residuum from theimmigration in the Middle Ages. It is not a problem to be takenlight-heartedly, but it is impossible for Italy to limit herself only tothe Trentino, as that would not give her a satisfactory militaryfrontier. From that point of view, the basin of Bolzano (Bozen) is asstrictly necessary to Italy as the Rhine is to France. "

No one has been more zealous in the cause of Italy than I have been; noone has been more whole-heartedly with the Italians in their splendidefforts to recover the lands to which they are justly entitled; no onemore thoroughly realizes the agonies of apprehension which Italy hassuffered from the insecurity of her northern borders, or has been morekeenly alive to the grim but silent struggle which has been wagedbetween her statesmen and her soldiers as to whether the broadstatesmanship which aims at international good-feeling and abstractjustice, or the narrower and more selfish policy dictated by militarynecessity, should govern the delimitation of her new frontiers. But, because I am a friend of Italy, and because I wish her well, I view withgrave misgivings the wisdom of thus creating, within her own borders, anew _terra irredenta_; I question the quality of statesmanship whichinsists on including within the Italian body politic an alien andirreconcilable minority which will probably always be a latent source oftrouble, one which may, as the result of some unforseen irritation, break into an open sore. It would seem to me that Italy, in annexing theUpper Adige, is storing up for herself precisely the same troubles whichAustria did when she held against their will the Italians of theTrentino, or as Germany did when, in order to give herself a strategicfrontier, she annexed Alsace and Lorraine. When Italy puts forward theargument that she must hold everything up to the Brenner because of herfear of invasion by the puny and bankrupt little state which is all thatis left of the Austrian Empire, she is but weakening her case. Hersoundest excuse for the annexation of this region lies in her fear thata reconstituted and revengeful Germany might some day use the Tyrol as agateway through which to launch new armies of invasion and conquest. But, no matter what her friends may think of the wisdom or justice ofItaly's course, her annexation of the Upper Adige is a _fait accompli_which is not likely to be undone. Whether it will prove an act of wisdomor of shortsightedness only the future can tell. 

The transition from the Italian Trentino to the German Tyrol begins afew miles south of Bozen. Perhaps "occurs" would be a more descriptiveword, for the change from the Latin to the Teutonic, instead of beinggradual, as one would expect, is almost startling in its abruptness. Inthe space of a single mile or so the language of the inhabitants changesfrom the liquid accents of the Latin to the deep-throated gutturals ofthe German; the road signs and those on the shops are now printed inquaint German script; _via_ becomes _weg_, _strada_ becomes _strasse_, instead of responding to your salutation with a smiling "_Bon giorno_"the peasants give you a solemn "_Guten morgen_. " Even the architecturechanges, the slender, four-square campaniles surmounted by bulgingByzantine domes, so characteristic of the Trentino, giving place topointed steeples faced with colored slates or tiles. On the German sidethe towns are better kept, the houses better built, the streets widerand cleaner than in the Italian districts. Instead of the low, white-walled, red-tiled dwellings so characteristic of Italy, the housesbegin to assume the aspect of Alpine chalets, with carved woodenbalconies and steep-pitched roofs to prevent the settling of the wintersnows. The plastered façades of many of the houses are decorated withgaudily colored frescoes, nearly always of Biblical characters orscenes, so that in a score of miles the traveler has had the whole storyof the Scriptures spread before him. They are a deeply religious people, these Tyrolean peasants, as is evidenced not only by the many handsomechurches and the character of the wall-paintings on the houses, but bythe amazing frequency of the wayside shrines, most of which consist ofrepresentations of various phases of the Crucifixion, usually carved andpainted with a most harrowing fidelity of detail. Occasionally weencountered groups of peasants wearing the picturesque velvet jackets, tight knee-breeches, heavy woolen stockings and beribboned hats whichone usually associates with the Tyrolean yodelers who still inflictthemselves on vaudeville audiences in the United States. As we spednorthward the landscape changed with the inhabitants, the sunny Italiancountryside, ablaze with flowers and green with vineyards, giving way tosolemn forests, gloomy defiles, and crags surmounted by grim, graycastles which reminded me of the stage-settings for "Tannhäuser" and"Lohengrin. "

Seen from the summit of the Mendel Pass, the road from Trent to Bozenlooks like a lariat thrown carelessly upon the ground. It climbslaboriously upward, through splendid evergreen forests, in countlesscurves and spirals, loiters for a few-score yards beside the margin of atiny crystal lake, and then, refreshed, plunges downward, in a series ofsteep white zigzags, to meet the Isarco, in whose company it entersBozen. Because the car, like ourselves, was thirsty, we stopped at thesummit of the pass at the tiny hamlet of Madonna di Campiglio--Our Ladyof the Fields--for water and for tea. Should you have occasion to gothat way, I hope that you will take time to stop at the unpretentiouslittle Hotel Neumann. It is the sort of Tyrolean inn which had, Isupposed, gone out of existence with the war. The innkeeper, a jovial, white-whiskered fellow, such as one rarely finds off the musical comedystage, served us with tea--with rum in it--and hot bread with honey, andheaping dishes of small wild strawberries, and those pastries which theViennese used to make in such perfection. There were five of us, including the chauffeur and the orderly, and for the food which weconsumed I think that the innkeeper charged the equivalent of a dollar. But, as he explained apologetically, the war had raised prices terribly. We were the first visitors, it seemed, barring Austrians and a fewItalian officers, who had visited his inn in nearly five years. Both ofhis sons had been killed in the war, he told us, fighting bravely withtheir Jaeger battalion. The widow of one of his sons--I saw her; asweet-faced Austrian girl--with her child, had come to live with him, hesaid. Yes, he was an old man, both of his boys were dead, his littlebusiness had been wrecked, the old Emperor Franz-Joseph--yes, we couldsee his picture over the fireplace within--had gone and the new EmperorKarl was in exile, in Switzerland, life had heard; even the Empire inwhich he had lived, boy and man, for seventy-odd years, had disappeared;the whole world was, indeed, turned upside down--but, Heaven be praised, he had a little grandson who would grow up to carry the business on. 

[Illustration: A LITTLE MOTHER OF THE TYROL

We gave her some candy: it was the first taste of sugar that she had hadin four years]

[Illustration: THE END OF THE DAY

A Tyrolean peasant woman returning from the fields]

"How do you feel, " I asked the old man, "about Italian rule?"

"They are not our own people, " he answered slowly. "Their language isnot our language and their ways are not our ways. But they are not anunkind nor an unjust people and I think that they mean to treat usfairly and well. Austria is very poor, I hear, and could do nothing forus if she would. But Italy is young and strong and rich and the officerswho have stopped here tell me that she is prepared to do much to helpus. Who knows? Perhaps it is all for the best. "

Immediately beyond Madonna di Campiglio the highway begins its descentfrom the pass in a series of appallingly sharp turns. Hardly had wesettled ourselves in the tonneau before the Sicilian, impatient to begone, stepped on the accelerator and the big Lancia, flinging itselfover the brow of the hill, plunged headlong for the first of thesehairpin turns. "Slow up!" I shouted. "Slow up or you'll have us over theedge!" As the driver's only response to my command was to grin at usreassuringly over his shoulder, I looked about for a soft place to land. But there was only rock-plated highway whizzing past and on the outsidethe road dropped sheer away into nothingness. We took the first turnwith the near-side wheels in the gutter, the off-side wheels on thebank, and the car tilted at an angle of forty-five degrees. The secondbend we navigated at an angle of sixty degrees, the off-side wheels onthe bank, the near-side wheels pawing thin air. Had there been anotherbend immediately following we should have accomplished it upside down. Fortunately there were no more for the moment, but there remained thevillage street of Cles. We pounced upon it like a tiger on its prey. Shrilling, roaring and honking, we swooped through the ancient town, zigzagging from curb to curb. The great-great-grandam of the village wastottering across the street when the blast of the Lancia's siren piercedthe deafness of a century and she sprang for the sidewalk with theagility of a young gazelle. We missed her by half an inch, but at thenext corner we had better luck and killed a chicken. 

Meran--the Italians have changed its official name to Merano, just asthey have changed Trent to Trento, and Bozen to Bolzano--has alwaysappealed to me as one of the most charming and restful little towns inEurope. The last time I had been there, before the war-cloud darkenedthe land, its streets were lined with powerful touring cars bearing thelicense-plates of half the countries in Europe, bands played in theparks, the shady promenade beside the river was crowded withpleasure-seekers, and its great tourist hostelries--there were said tobe upwards of 150 hotels and _pensions_ in the town--were gay withlaughter and music. But this time all was changed. Most of the largehotels were closed, the streets were deserted, the place was as dismalas a cemetery. It reminded me of a beautiful house which has been closedbecause of its owner's financial reverses, the servants discharged, thewindows boarded up, the furniture swathed in linen covers, the carpetsand hangings packed away in mothballs, and the gardens overrun withweeds. At the Hotel Savoy, where rooms had been reserved for us, it wasnecessary, in pre-war days, to wire for accommodations a fortnight inadvance of your arrival, and even then you were not always able to getrooms. Yet we were the only visitors, barring a handful of Italiancommercial travelers and the Italian governor-general and his staff. Theproprietor, an Austrian, told me that in the four years of war he hadlost $300, 000, and that he, like his colleagues, was running his hotelon borrowed money. Of the pre-war visitors to Meran, eighty per cent. Had been Germans, he told me, adding that he could see no prospect ofthe town's regaining its former prosperity until Germany is on herfinancial feet again. Personally, I think that he and the otherhoteliers and business men with whom I talked in Meran were rather morepessimistic than the situation warranted, for, if Italy will have theforesight to do for these new playgrounds of hers in the Alps even afraction of what she has done for her resorts on the Riviera, and inSicily, and along the Neapolitan littoral, if she will advertise andencourage and assist them, if she will maintain their superb roads andimprove their railway communications, then I believe that a few years, avery few, will see them thronged by even greater crowds of visitors thanbefore the war. And the fact that in the future there will be moreAmerican, English, French and Italian visitors, and fewer Germans, willmake South Tyrol a far pleasanter place to travel in. 

The Italians are fully alive to the gravity of the problems whichconfront them in attempting to assimilate a body of people, ascourageous, as sturdily independent, and as tenacious of theirtraditional independence as these Tyrolean mountaineers--descendants ofthose peasants, remember, who, led by Andreas Hofer, successfully defiedthe dictates of Napoleon. Though I think that she is going about thebusiness of assimilating these unwilling subjects with tact and commonsense, I do not envy Italy her task. Generally speaking, the sympathy ofthe world is always with a weak people as opposed to a strong one, asEngland discovered when she attempted to impose her rule upon the Boers. Once let the Italian administration of the Upper Adige permit itself tobe provoked into undue harshness (and there will be ample provocation;be certain of that); once let an impatient and over-zealousgovernor-general attempt to bend these stubborn mountaineers tooabruptly to his will; let the local Italian officials provide theslightest excuse for charges of injustice or oppression, and Italy willhave on her hands in Tyrol far graver troubles than those brought on byher adventure in Tripolitania. 

Though the Government has announced that Italian must become theofficial language of the newly acquired region, and that used in itsschools, no attempt will be made to root out the German tongue or totamper with the local usages and customs. The upper valleys, whereGerman is spoken, will not, however, enjoy any form of local autonomywhich would tend to set their inhabitants apart from those of the lowervalleys, for it is realized that such differential treatment would onlyserve to retard the process of unification. All of the new districts, German and Italian-speaking alike, will be included in the new provinceof Trent. It is entirely probable that Italy's German-speaking subjectsof the present generation will prove, if not actually irreconcilable, atleast mistrustful and resentful, but, by adhering to a policy ofpatience, sympathy, generosity and tact, I can see no reason why thenext generation of these mountaineers should not prove as loyal Italiansas though their fathers had been born under the cross of the House ofSavoy instead of under the double-eagle of the Hapsburgs. 

We crossed the Line of the Armistice into Austria an hour or so beyondMeran, the road being barred at this point by a swinging beam, madefrom the trunk of a tree, which could be swung aside to permit thepassage of vehicles, like the bar of an old-fashioned country toll-gate. Close by was a rude shelter, built of logs, which provided sleepingquarters for the half-company of infantry engaged in guarding the pass. One has only to cross the new frontier to understand why Italy was sodesperately insistent on a strategic rectification of her northernboundary, for whereas, before the war, the frontier ran through thevalleys, leaving the Austrians atop the mountain wall, it is now theItalians who are astride the wall, with the Austrians in the valleysbelow. 

[Illustration: ITALY'S NEW FRONTIER

A sharp turn on the highroad over the Brenner Pass]

No sooner had we crossed the Line of the Armistice than we noticed anabrupt change in the attitude of the population. Even in theGerman-speaking districts of the Trentino the inhabitants with whom wehad come in contact had been courteous and respectful, though whetherthis was because of, or in spite of, the fact that we were traveling ina military car, accompanied by a staff-officer, I do not know. Now thatwe were actually in Austria, however, this atmosphere of seemingfriendliness entirely disappeared, the men staring insolently at usfrom under scowling brows, while the women and children, who had less tofear and consequently were bolder in expressing their feelings, frequently shouted uncomplimentary epithets at us or shook their fistsas we passed. 

Under the terms of the Armistice, Innsbruck, the capital of Tyrol, wastemporarily occupied by the Italians, who sent into the city acomparatively small force, consisting in the main of Alpini andBersaglieri. Innsbruck was one of the proudest cities of the AustrianEmpire, its inhabitants being noted for their loyalty to the Hapsburgs, yet I did not observe the slightest sign of resentment toward theItalian soldiers, who strolled the streets and made purchases in theshops as unconcernedly as though they were in Milan or Rome. TheItalians, on their part, showed the most marked consideration for thesensibilities of the population, displaying none of the hatred andcontempt for their former enemies which characterized the French armiesof occupation on the Rhine. 

We found that rooms had been reserved for us at the Tyroler Hof, beforethe war one of the famous tourist hostelries of Europe, half of whichhad been taken over by the Italian general commanding in the Innsbruckdistrict and his staff. Food was desperately scarce in Innsbruck when wewere there and, had it not been for the courtesy of the Italiancommander in sending us in dishes from his mess, we would have had greatdifficulty in getting enough to eat. A typical dinner at the Tyroler Hofin the summer of 1919 consisted of a mud-colored, nauseous-lookingliquid which was by courtesy called soup, a piece of fish perhaps fourtimes the size of a postage-stamp, a stew which was alleged to consistof rabbit and vegetables but which, from its taste and appearance, mightcontain almost anything, a salad made of beets or watercress, butwithout oil, and for dessert a dish of wild berries, which are abundantin parts of Tyrol. There was an extra charge for a small cup of blackcoffee, so-called, which was made, I imagine, from acorns. This, ofcourse, was at the best and highest-priced hotels in Innsbruck; at thesmaller hotels the food was correspondingly scarcer and poorer. 

Though the inhabitants of the rural districts appeared to be moderatelywell fed, a majority of the people of Innsbruck were manifestly inurgent need of food. Some of them, indeed, were in a truly pitiablecondition, with emaciated bodies, sunken cheeks, unhealthy complexions, and shabby, badly worn clothes. The meager displays in the shop-windowswere a pathetic contrast to variety and abundance which characterizedthem in ante-bellum days, the only articles displayed in any profusionbeing picture-postcards, objects carved from wood and similar souvenirs. The windows of the confectionery and bake-shops were particularlynoticeable for the paucity of their contents. I was induced to enter oneof them by a brave window display of hand-decorated candy boxes, but, upon investigation, it proved that the boxes were empty and that theshop had had no candy for four years. The prices of necessities, such asfood and clothing, were fantastic (I saw advertisements of stout, all-leather boots for rent to responsible persons by the day or week), but articles of a purely luxurious character could be had for almostanything one was willing to offer. In one shop I was shown Germanfield-glasses of high magnification and the finest makes for ten andfifteen dollars a pair. The local jewelers were driving a brisk tradewith the Italian soldiers, who were lavish purchasers of Austrian warmedals and decorations. Captain Tron bought an Iron Cross of the secondclass for the equivalent of thirty cents. 

We left Innsbruck in the early morning with the intention of spendingthat night at Cortina d'Ampezzo, but, owing to our unfamiliarity withthe roads and to delays due to tire trouble, nightfall found us lost inthe Dolomites. For mile after mile we pushed on through the darknessalong the narrow, slippery mountain roads, searching for a shelter inwhich to pass the night. Occasionally the twin beams from our lampswould illumine a building beside the road and we, chilled and hungry, would exclaim "A house at last!" only to find, upon drawing nearer, that, though it had evidently been once a habitation, it was now but ashattered, blackened shell, a grim testimonial to the accuracy ofAustrian and Italian gunners. It was late in the evening and bitterlycold, before, rounding a shoulder of the mountain up whose steepgradients the car seemed to have been panting for ages, we saw in thedistance the welcome lights of the hamlet of Santa Lucia. 

I do not think that the public has the slightest conception of thewidespread destruction and misery wrought by the war in these Alpineregions. In nearly a hundred miles of motoring in the Cadore, formerlyone of the most delightful summer playgrounds in all Europe, we did notpass a single building with a whole roof or an unshattered wall. Thehospitable wayside inns, the quaint villages, the picturesque peasantcottages which the tourist in this region knew and loved are butblackened ruins now. And the people are gone too--refugees, no doubt, inthe camps which the Government has erected for them near the largertowns. One no longer hears the tinkle of cow-bells on the mountainslopes, peasants no longer wave a friendly greeting from their doors: itis a stricken and deserted land. But Cortina d'Ampezzo, which is the_cheflieu_ of the Cadore, though still showing many traces of theshell-storms which it has survived, was quickening into life. The bigtourist hotels at either end of the town, behind which the Italiansemplaced their heavy guns, were being refurnished in anticipation of theresumption of summer travel and the little shops where they sellsouvenirs were reopening, one by one. But the losses suffered by theinhabitants of these Alpine valleys, desperately serious as they are tothem, are, after all, but insignificant when compared with the enormoushavoc wrought by the armies in the thickly settled Friuli and on therich Venetian plains. Every one knows, presumably, that Italy had todraw more heavily upon her resources than any other country among theAllies _(did you know that she spent in the war more than four-fifths ofher total national wealth?_) and that she is bowed down under anenormous load of taxation and a staggering burden of debt. But what hasbeen largely overlooked is that she is faced by the necessity ofrebuilding a vast devastated area, in which the conditions are quite asserious, the need of assistance fully as urgent, as in the devastatedregions of Belgium and France. 

Probably you were not aware that a territory of some three and a halfmillion acres, occupied by nearly a million and a half people, wasoverrun by the Austrians. More than one-half of Venetia is comprised inthat region lying east of the Piave where the wave of Hunnish invasionbroke with its greatest fury. The whole of Udine and Belluno, and partsof Treviso, Vicenza and Venice suffered the penalty of standing in thepath of the Hun. They were prosperous provinces, agriculturally andindustrially, but now both industry and agriculture are almost at astandstill, for their factories have been burned, their machinerywrecked or stolen, their livestock driven off and their vineyardsdestroyed. The damage done is estimated at 500 million dollars. It isunnecessary for me to emphasize the seriousness of the problem whichthus confronts the Italian Government. Not only must it provide food andshelter for the homeless--a problem which it has solved by the erectionof great numbers of wooden huts somewhat similar to the barracks at theAmerican cantonments--but a great amount of livestock and machinery mustbe supplied before industry can be resumed. At one period there was suchdesperate need of fuel that even the olive trees, one of the region'schief sources of revenue, were sacrificed. The Italians have set aboutthe task of regeneration with an energy that discouragement cannotcheck. But the undertaking is more than Italy can accomplish unaided, for the resources of her other provinces are seriously depleted. We arefond of talking of the debt we owe to Italy, not merely for hersacrifices in the war, but for all that she has given us in art andmusic and literature. Now is the time to show our gratitude. 

From Cortina, which is Italian now, we swung toward the north again, re-crossed the Line of the Armistice at Tarvis, and, just as night wasfalling, came tearing into Villach, which, like Innsbruck, was occupied, under the terms of the Armistice, by Italian troops. We had greatdifficulty in obtaining rooms in Villach, not because there were norooms but because we were accompanied by an Italian officer and weretraveling in an Italian car. The proprietors of five hotels, upon seeingCaptain Tron's uniform, curtly declared that every room was occupied. Itwas nearly midnight before we succeeded in finding shelter for thenight, and this was obtained only when I made it amply clear to theAustrian proprietor of the only remaining hotel in the town that we werenot Italians but Americans. The unpleasant impression produced by thecoolness of our reception in Villach was materially increased thefollowing morning, when Captain Tron greeted us with the news that allof our luggage, which we had left on the car, had been stolen. Itseemed that thieves had broken into the courtyard of the barracks, wherethe car had been locked up for the night, and, in spite of the fact thatthe chauffeur was asleep in the tonneau, had stripped it of everything, including the spare tires. I learned afterwards that robberies of thissort had become so common since the war as scarcely to provoke comment, portions of Austria being terrorized by gangs of demobilized soldierswho, taking advantage of the complete demoralization of the machinery ofgovernment, robbed farmhouses and plundered travelers at will. It ismuch the same form of lawlessness, I imagine, which manifested itselfimmediately after the close of the Napoleonic Wars, when bands ofdischarged soldiers sought in robbery the excitement and booty whichthey had formerly found under the eagles. Though the local policeauthorities attempted to condone the robbery on the ground that it wasdue to the appalling poverty of the population, this excuse did notreconcile my wife to the loss of her entire wardrobe. As she remarkedvindictively, she felt certain that the inhabitants of Villach werecalled Villains. 

I wished to visit Klagenfurt, the ancient capital of Carinthia, which isabout twenty miles beyond Villach, because at that time the town, whichis a railway junction of considerable strategic and commercialimportance, threatened to provide the cause for an open break betweenthe Jugoslavs and the Italians. Though the Italians did not demand thetown for themselves, they had vigorously insisted that, instead of beingawarded to Jugoslavia, it should remain Austrian, for, with the triangleof which Klagenfurt is the center in the possession of the Jugoslavs, they would have driven a wedge between Italy and Austria and would havehad under their control the immensely important junction-point where themain trunk line from Venice to Vienna is joined by the line coming upfrom Fiume and Trieste. The Jugoslavs, recognizing that the possessionof Klagenfurt would give them virtual control of the principal railwayentering Austria from the south, and that such control would probablyenable them to divert much of Austria's traffic from the Italian portsof Venice and Trieste to their own port of Fiume, which theyconfidently expected would be awarded them by the Peace Conference, lostno time in occupying the town with a considerable force of troops. Theyfurther justified this occupation by asserting that Jugoslavia wasentitled to Carinthia on ethnological grounds and that the inhabitantsof Klagenfurt were clamoring for Jugoslav rule. In view of thesedevelopments, I had expected to find Jugoslav soldiery in the town, butI had not expected to be challenged, a mile or so outside the town, by asentry who was, judging from his appearance, straight from a _comitadji_band in the Macedonian mountains. He was a sullen-faced fellow wearing afur cap and a nondescript uniform, with an assortment of weapons thrustin his belt, according to the custom of the Balkan guerrillas, and withtwo bandoliers, stuffed with cartridges, slung across his chest. He wasas incongruous a figure in that pleasant German countryside as one ofPancho Villa's bandits would have been in the Connecticut Valley. AndKlagenfurt, which is a well-built, well-paved, thoroughly modernAustrian town, was occupied by several hundred of his fellows, broughtfrom somewhere in the Balkans, I should imagine, for the expresspurpose of aweing the population. It was perfectly apparent that theinhabitants, far from welcoming these fierce-looking fighters asbrother-Slavs and friends, were only too anxious to have them take theirdeparture, having about as much in common with them, in appearance, manners and speech, as a New Englander has with an Apache Indian. Sogreat was the tension existing in Klagenfurt that a commission had beensent by the Peace Conference to study the question on the spot, itsmembers communicating with the Supreme Council in Paris by means ofAmerican couriers, slim young fellows in khaki who wore on their armsthe blue brassard, embroidered with the scales of justice, which was thebadge of messengers employed by the Peace Commission. 

A few miles outside of Klagenfurt my attention was attracted by an ironpaling, in a field beside the road, enclosing a gigantic chair carvedfrom stone. My curiosity aroused, I stopped the car to examine it. Froma faded inscription attached to the gate I learned that this was thecrowning chair of the Dukes of Carinthia, in which the ancient rulers ofthis region had sat to be crowned. There it stands in a field besidethe highway, neglected and forgotten, a curious link with a picturesqueand far-distant past. 

Our route from Klagenfurt led back through Villach to Tarvis and thenceover the Predil Pass to the Friuli plain and Udine, a journey which weexpected to accomplish in a single day; but there were delays inre-crossing the Line of the Armistice and other and more serious delaysin the mountains, caused by torrential rains which had in places washedout the road, so that it was already nightfall when, emerging from thegloomy defile of the Predil Pass, we saw before us the twinkling lightsof the Alpini cantonment at Caporetto, that mountain hamlet of blackmemories where, in the summer of 1917, the Austro-German armies, aidedby bad Italian generalship and Italian treachery, smashed through theItalian lines and forced them back in a headlong retreat which waschecked only by the heroic stand on the Piave. The Caporetto disasterwould have broken the hearts and annihilated the resistance of a lesscourageous people than the Italians. Yet the Italian army, shattered anddisorganized as it was, stopped the triumphant progress of theinvaders; stopped it almost without artillery or ammunition, forhundreds of guns had been abandoned during the retreat; stopped it withthe bodies of Italy's youth, the boys fresh from the training-camps, theclass of 1919, called to the colors two years before their time! Theystopped that victorious rush upon the line of the Piave, a broad, shallow stream meandering through a flat plain with never a height tocommand the enemy's positions, never a physical feature of the terrainto satisfy the requirements of strategy. Not only was the line of thePiave held by the Italians against the advice of their Allies, but itwas held in defiance of all the lessons taught by Italian history, forthat the Piave could not be successfully defended has been the judgmentof every military leader since first the barbarians began to sweep downfrom the Alps to lay waste the rich Venetian plain. The Italians madetheir heroic stand, moreover, without any help from their Allies. Thathelp came later, it is true, but only after the stand had been made. Youdoubt this? Then read this extract from the report of General the Earlof Caven, who commanded the Allied troops sent to the aid of theItalians:

"In 1917, in the terrible days which followed the disaster at Caporetto, I saw, just after my arrival at Venice, the Italian army in fullretreat, and I became convinced that a recovery was impossible beforethe arrival of sufficient reenforcement from France and England. But Iwas deceived, for shortly afterward I saw the Italian army, which hadseemed to be in the advanced stages of an utter rout, form a solid lineon the Piave and hold it with miraculous persistence, permitting theEnglish and French reenforcements to take up the positions assigned tothem without once coming in contact with the enemy. "

I have heard it said by critics of Italy that the retreat from Caporettoshowed the lack of courage of the Italian soldier. To gauge the courageof an army a single disaster is as unjust as it is unintelligent. Wasthe rout of the Federal forces at Bull Run a criterion of their behaviorin the succeeding years of the Civil War? Was the surrender at Sedan atrue indication of the fighting ability of the French soldier? Everynation has had its disasters and has had to live them down. Italy didthis when, on the banks of Piave, she turned her greatest disaster intoher most glorious triumph. 

Because it was my privilege to be with the Italian army in the fieldduring various periods of the war, and because I know at first-handwhereof I speak, I regret and resent the disparagement of the Italiansoldier which has been so freely indulged in since the Armistice. It maybe, of course, that you do not fully realize the magnitude of Italy'ssacrifices and achievements. Did you know, for example, that Italy helda front longer than the British, Belgian, French and American fronts puttogether? Did you know that out of a population of 37 millions she putinto the field an army of 5 million men, whereas France and hercolonies, with nearly double the population, was never able to raisemore than 5, 064, 000, a considerable proportion of which were black andbrown men? Did you know that in forty-one months of war Italy lost541, 000 in dead and 953, 000 in wounded, and that, unlike France andEngland, her armies were composed wholly of white men? Did you knowthat, in spite of all that has been said about the Allies giving herassistance, Italy at all times had more troops on the Western front thanthe Allies had on the Italian? Did you know that she called up theclass of 1919 two years before their time, a measure which even France, hard-pressed as she was, did not feel justified in taking? (I havementioned this before, but it will bear repetition. ) Have you stopped tothink that she was the only one of the Allied nations which won aclean-cut and decisive victory, when, on the Piave, she attacked with 51divisions an Austro-German army of 63 divisions, completely smashed it, forced its surrender, and captured half a million prisoners? Did youknow that she lost more than fifty-seven per cent, of her merchanttonnage, while England lost less than forty-three per cent, and Franceless than forty per cent. ? And, finally, had you realized that Italymade greater sacrifices, in proportion to her resources and population, than any other country engaged in the war, having devoted four-fifths ofher entire national wealth to the prosecution of the struggle? There isyour answer, chapter and verse, for the next man who sneeringly remarks, "The Italians didn't do much, did they?"

Just as the Trentino and the Upper Adige have been added to the kingdomas the Province of Trent, so the redeemed regions of which Trieste isthe center, including the towns of Gorizia, Monfalcone, Capodistria, Parenzo, Pirano, Rovigno and Pola, have been consolidated in the newprovince of Julian Venetia, with about a million inhabitants and an areaof approximately 6, 000 square miles. 

[Illustration: THIS IS NOT VENICE, AS YOU MIGHT SUPPOSE, BUT TRIESTE

The sails of the fishing craft are of many colors, yellow, burnt-orange, vermilion. At the head of the canal, its stately columns reflected inthe turquoise waters, the Bourse rises like some ancient Roman temple]

Trieste, which, with its suburbs, has a population of not far from400, 000, with its splendid terminal facilities, its vast harbor-works, its dry-docks and foundries, its railway communications with thehinterland, and, above all else, its position as the natural outlet forthe trade of Austria, Bavaria and Czecho-Slovakia, constitutes not onlyItaly's most valuable prize of war, but, everything considered, probablythe most important city, commercially at least, to change hands as aresult of the conflict. Curiously enough, Trieste is the leastinteresting city of its size, from a visitor's point of view, that Iknow. Venice always reminds me of a beautiful and charmingly gownedwoman, perpetually young, interested in art, in music, in literature, always ready for a stroll, a dance or a flirtation. Trieste, on thecontrary, is a busy, preoccupied, rather brusque business man, whollyself-made, who has never devoted much time to devote to pleasure becausehe has been too busy making his fortune. Venice says, "If you want agood time, let me show you how to spend your money. " But Trieste growls, "If you want to get rich, let me show you how to invest your money. " Thecity has broad and well-kept streets bordered by the same sort offour-and five-and six-story buildings of brick and stone which you findin any European commercial city; it has several unusually spaciouspiazzas on which front some really pretentious buildings; it has a fewarches and doorways dating from the Roman period, though far better onescan be found in almost any town on the Italian peninsula; on the hillcommanding the city there are an old Austrian fort and an ancientchurch, both chiefly interesting for the views they command of theharbor and the coast of Istria; some of the most abominably roughpavements which I have ever encountered in any city; one hotel whichjust escapes being excellent and several which do not escape being bad;and a harbor, together with the wharves and moles and machinery which gowith it, which is the Triestino's pride and joy. 

To my way of thinking the most interesting sight in Trieste is a smallchâteau, built in the castellated fashion which had a considerable voguein America shortly after the close of the Civil War, which stands amidmost beautiful gardens on the edge of the sea, two or three miles to thewest of the city. This is the Château of Miramar, formerly the residenceof the young Austrian Archduke Maximilian, who, dazzled by the dream oflife on an imperial throne, accepted an invitation to become Emperor ofMexico and a few years later fell before a Mexican firing-party on theslopes of Queretaro. Though the château has now passed into thepossession of the Italian Government it is still in charge of the agedcustodian who, as a youth, was body-servant to Maximilian. Barring thefact that the paintings and certain pieces of furniture had been removedto Vienna to save from injury by aerial bombardment, the interior of thechâteau is much as Maximilian left it when he set out with his bride, Carlotta, the sister of the late King Leopold of the Belgians, on hisill-fated adventure. In the study on the ground floor hangs aphotograph, still sharp and clear after the lapse of half a century, ofthe members of the delegation--swarthy men in the high cravats and longfrock-coats of the period, some of them wearing the stars and sashes oforders--who came to Miramar to offer Maximilian the Mexican crown. Theold custodian told me that he witnessed the scene and he pointed out tome where his young master and the other actors in this, the first act ofthe tragedy, stood. How little could the youthful Emperor have dreamed, as he set sail for those distant shores, that the day would come whenthe Dual Monarchy would go down in ruins, when the ancient dynasty ofthe Hapsburgs would come to an inglorious end, and when the garden pathswhere he and his beautiful young bride used to saunter in the moonlightwould be paced by Italian carabineers. 

If you will get out the atlas and turn to the map of Italy you willnotice at the head of the Adriatic a peninsula shaped like the head ofan Indian arrow, its tip aimed toward the unprotected flank of Italy'seastern coast. This arrow-shaped peninsula is Istria. In the westernnotch of the arrowhead, toward Italy, is Trieste--terminus of therailway to Vienna. In the opposite notch is Fiume--terminus of therailway which runs across Croatia and Hungary to Budapest. And at thevery tip of the arrow, as though it had been ground to a deadlysharpness, is Pola, formerly Austria's greatest naval base. Dotting thewestern coast of Istria, between Trieste and Pola, are four smalltowns--Parenzo, Pirano, Capodistria and Rovigno--all purely anddistinctively Italian, and, on the other side of the peninsula, thefamous resort of Abbazia, popular with wealthy Hungarians and with theyachtsmen of all nations before the war. 

Parenzo, Pirano, Capodistria and Rovigno were all outposts of theVenetian Republic, forming an outer line of defense against the Slavbarbarians of the interior. Everything about them speaks of Venice: thesnarling Lion of St. Mark which is carved above their gates andsurmounts the marble columns in their piazzas; their old, oldchurches--the one at Parenzo was built in the sixth century, beingcopied after the famous basilica at Ravenna, across the Adriatic--theinteriors of many of them adorned, like that of St. Mark's in Venice, with superb mosaics of gold and semi-precious stones; the carved lions'heads, _bocca del leone_, for receiving secret missives; the delicatetracery above the doors and windows of the palazzos, and all those otherarchitectural features so characteristic of the City of the Doges. Thereis no questioning what these Istrian coast-towns were or are. They areas Italian to-day as when, a thousand years ago, they formed a part ofVenice's far-flung skirmish line. But penetrate even a single mile intothe interior of the peninsula and you find a wholly different race fromthese Latins of the littoral, a different architecture (if architecturecan be applied to square huts built of sun-dried bricks) and a differenttongue. These people are the Croats, a hardy, industrious agriculturalpeople, generally illiterate, at least as I found them in Istria, andwith few of the comforts and none of the culture which characterized theLatin communities on the coast. In short, the towns of the western coastare undeniably Italian; the rest of the peninsula is solidly Slav. 

The interior of Istria consists, in the main, of a barren, monotonousand peculiarly unlovely limestone plateau known as the Karst, acontinuation of that waterless and treeless ridge, called by Italiansthe Carso, which stretches from Trieste northwestward to Goritzia andbeyond. With the exception of the Bukovica of Dalmatia and the lava-bedsof southern Utah, the Istrian Karst is the most utterly hopeless region, from the standpoint of agriculture, that I know. It is dotted with manysmall farmsteads, it is true, but one marvels at the courage andpatience which their peasant owners displayed in their unequal strugglewith Nature. The rocky surface is covered with a stunted, discouraged-looking vegetation which reminded me of that clothing theflanks of the mountains in the vicinity of the Roosevelt Dam, inArizona, and here and there are vast rolling moors, uninhabited by manor animal, as desolate, mysterious and repelling as that depicted by SirArthur Conan Doyle in _The Hound of the Baskervilles_. The Karst, likethe Carso, is dotted with curious depressions called _dolinas_, some ofthem as much as 100 feet in depth, the floors of which, varying inextent from a few square yards to several acres, are covered with soilwhich is as rich as the surface of the surrounding plateau is worthless. Because of the fertility of these singular depressions, and theirimmunity from the cold winds which in winter sweep the surface of theKarst, they are utilized by the peasants for growing fruits, vegetablesand, in some cases, small patches of grain, being, in effect, sunkengardens provided by Nature as though to recompense the Istrians, in somemeasure, for their discouraging struggle for existence. 

Just behind the very tip of the peninsula, on the edge of a superbnatural harbor, the entrance to which is masked by the Brioni Islands, is the great naval base of Pola, from the shelter of whosefortifications and mined approaches the Austrian fleet was able toterrorize the defenseless towns along Italy's unprotected easternseaboard and to menace the commerce of the northern Adriatic. Pola Is astrange mélange of the ancient and the modern, for from the topmosttiers of the great Roman Arena--scarcely less imposing than the Coliseumat Rome--we looked down upon a harbor dotted with the fighting monstersof the Italian navy, while all day long Italian seaplanes swooped andcircled over the splendid arch, erected by a Roman emperor in the dimdawn of European history, to commemorate his triumph over thebarbarians. 

It is just such anomalies as these that make almost impossible thesolution, on a basis of strict justice to the inhabitants, of theAdriatic problem. Here you see a city that, in history, in population, in language, is as characteristically Italian as though it were underthe shadow of the Apennines, yet encircling that city is a countrysidewhose inhabitants are wholly Slav, who are intensely hostile to Italianinstitutions, and many of whom have no knowledge whatsoever of theItalian tongue. The Italians claim that Istria should be theirs becauseof the undoubted Latin character of the towns along its coasts, becausetheir Roman and Venetian ancestors established their outposts here longcenturies ago, because the only culture that the region possesses isItalian, and, above all else, because its possession is essential to thesafety of Italy herself. The Slavs, on the other hand, lay claim toIstria on the ground that its first inhabitants, whether barbarians ornot, were Slavs, that the Italians who settled on its shores were butfilibusters and adventurers, and that its inhabitants, by blood, bylanguage, and by sentiment, are overwhelmingly Slav to-day. The onlything on which both races agree is that the peninsula should not bedivided. It was no easy problem, you see, which the peace-makers wereexpected to solve with strict justice for all. If my memory serves meright, King Solomon was once called upon by two mothers to settle asomewhat similar dispute, though in that case it was a child instead ofa country whose ownership was in question. So, though both Latins andSlavs may continue to assert their rights to the peninsula in itsentirety, I imagine that the Istrian problem will eventually be settledby the judgment of Solomon. 

CHAPTER II

THE BORDERLAND OF SLAV AND LATIN

It was the same along the entire line of the Armistice from the Brennerdown to Istria. Whenever the officials with whom we talked heard that wewere going to Fiume, they shook their heads pessimistically. "It's agood place to stay away from just now, " said one. "They won't let youenter the city, " another warned us. Or, "You mustn't think of taking the_signora_ with you. " But the representative of an American oil companywhom I met in the American consulate in Trieste regarded the excursionfrom a different view-point altogether. 

"Be sure to stop at the Europa, " he urged me. "It's right on thewater-front, and there isn't a better place in the city to see what'shappening. I was there last week when the mob attacked the FrenchAnnamite troops. Believe me, friend, that was one hellish business . .. They literally cut those poor little Chinks into pieces. I saw the wholething from my window. I'm going back to Fiume to-morrow, and if you likeI'll tell the manager of the Europa to save you a front room. "

His tone was that of a New Yorker telling a friend from up-State that hewould reserve him a room in a Fifth Avenue hotel from which to view aparade. 

As things turned out, however, we did not have occasion to availourselves of this offer, for we found that rooms had been reserved forus at a hotel in Abbazia, just across the bay from Fiume. Thisarrangement was due to the Italian military governor, General Grazioli, who was perfectly aware that the inhabitants of Fiume were not hangingout any "Welcome-to-Our-City" signs for foreigners, particularly forforeigners who were country people of President Wilson, and that thefewer Americans there were in the town the less danger there was ofanti-American demonstrations. In view of what had happened to theAnnamites I had no overpowering desire to be the center of a similardemonstration. Pursuant to this arrangement we slept in a great barn ofa hotel whose echoing corridors had, in happier days, been a favoriteresort of the wealth and fashion of Hungary, but whose once costlyfurniture had been sadly dilapidated by the spurred boots of theAustrian staff officers who had used it as a headquarters; in themornings we had our sugarless coffee and butterless war-bread on a loftybalcony commanding a superb panorama of the Istrian coast from Icici toVolosca and of the island-studded Bay of Quarnero, and commuted to andfrom Fiume in the big gray Lancia in which we had traveled along theline of the Armistice for upward of 2, 000 miles. 

We had our first view of the Unredeemed City (though it was really notmy first view, as I had been there before the war) from a curve in theroad where it suddenly emerges from the woods of evergreen laurel aboveVolosca to drop in steep white zigzags to the sea. It is superblysituated, this ancient city over whose possession Slav and Latin aregrowling at each other like dogs over a disputed bone. With its snowybuildings spread on the slopes of a shallow amphitheater between thesapphire waters of the Adriatic and the barren flanks of the IstrianKarst, it suggested a lovely siren, all glistening and white, who hademerged from the sea to lie upon the bare brown breast of a mountaingiant. 

The car, with its exhaust wide open, for your Italian driver delights innoise, roared down the grade at express-train speed, took the hairpincurve at the bottom on two wheels, to be brought to an abrupt halt withan agonized squealing of brakes, our further progress being barred by asix-inch tree-trunk which had been lowered across the road like abarrier at an old-time country toll-gate. At one side of the road was apicket of Italian carabinieri in field-gray uniforms, their huge cockedhats rendered a shade less anachronistic by covers of gray linen, withcarbines slung over their shoulders, hunter fashion. On the oppositeside of the highway was a patrol of British sailors in white drilllanding-kit, their rosy, smiling faces in striking contrast to thesaturnine countenances of the Italians. (I might explain, parenthetically, that Fiume, being in theory under the jurisdiction ofthe Peace Conference, was at this time occupied by about a thousandFrench troops, the same number of British, a few score Americanblue-jackets, and nearly 10, 000 Italians. ) The sergeant in command ofthe carabinieri stepped up to the car, saluted, and curtly asked for ourpapers. I produced them. Among them was a pass authorizing us to go whenand where we pleased in the territory occupied by the Italian forces. Ithad been given to me by the Minister of War himself, but it made aboutas much impression on the sergeant as though it had been signed byCharlie Chaplin. 

"This is good only for Italy, " he said. "It will not take you across theline of the Armistice. "

[Illustration: AT THE GATES OF FIUME

Major Powell (second from left), Mrs. Powell, Captain Tron of theItalian _Comando Supremo_, and the car in which they travelled 1, 000miles]

Thereupon I played my last trump. I produced an imposing document whichhad been given me by the Italian peace delegation in Paris. It hadoriginally been issued by the Orlando-Sonnino cabinet, but upon the fallof that government I had had it countersigned, before leaving Rome, bythe Nitti cabinet. It was addressed to all the military, naval, andcivil authorities of Italy, and was so flatteringly worded that it wouldhave satisfied St. Peter himself. But the sergeant was not in theleast impressed. He read it through deliberately, scrutinized theofficial seals, examined the watermark, and then disappeared into asentry-box on the roadside. I could hear him talking, evidently over atelephone. Presently he emerged and signaled to his men to raise thebarrier. "Passo, " he said grudgingly, in a tone which intimated that hewas letting us enter the jealously guarded portals of Fiume against hisbetter judgment, the bar swung upward, the big car leaped forward like arace-horse that feels the spur, and in another moment we were rollingthrough the tree-arched, stone-paved streets of the most-talked-of cityin the world. As we sped down the Corsia Deák we passed a large hotelwhich, as was quite evident, had recently been renamed, for the words"Albergo d'Annunzio" were fresh and staring. But underneath was theformer name, which had been so imperfectly obliterated that it couldstill easily be deciphered. It was "Hotel Wilson. "

To correctly visualize Fiume you must imagine a town no larger thanAtlantic City crowded upon a narrow shelf between a towering mountainwall and the sea; a town with broad and moderately clean streets, shaded, save in the center of the city, by double rows of stately treesand paved with large square flagstones which make abominably roughriding; a town with several fine thoroughfares bordered bywell-constructed four-story buildings of brick and stone; with numeroussurprisingly well-stocked shops; with miles and miles of concrete molesand wharfs, equipped with harbor machinery of the most moderndescription, and adjacent to them rows of warehouses as commodious asthe Bush Terminals in Brooklyn, and rising here and there above thetrees and the housetops, like fingers pointing to heaven, the gracefulcampaniles of fine old churches, one of which, the cathedral, wasalready old when the Great Navigator turned the prows of his caravelswestward from Cadiz in quest of this land we live in. 

Fiume lacks none of the conditions which make a great seaport: there isdeep water and a convenient approach, which is protected against theocean and against a hostile fleet by the islands of Veglia and Chersoand against the north winds by the rocky plateau of the Karst. Yet, despite its natural advantages and the millions which were spent in itsdevelopment by the Hungarian Government, Fiume never developed into aport of the size and importance which the foreign commerce of Hungarywould have seemed to require, this being largely due to its unfortunategeographical condition, for the dreary and inhospitable Karst completelyshuts the city off from the interior, the numerous tunnels and steepgradients making rail transport by this route difficult and consequentlyexpensive. 

The public life of the city centers in the Piazza Adamich, a broadsquare on which front numerous hotels, restaurants, and coffee-houses, before which lounge, from midmorning until midnight, a considerableproportion of the Italian population, sipping _café nero_, or talldrinks concocted from sweet, bright-colored syrups, scanning the papersand discussing, with much noise and gesticulation, the politicalsituation and the doings of the peace commissioners in Paris. Save onlyBarcelona, Fiume has the most excitable and irritable population of anycity that I know. When we were there street disturbances were asfrequent as dog-fights used to be in Constantinople before the Turksrecognized that the best gloves are made from dogskins. As I have said, a few days before our arrival a mob had attacked and killed in mostbarbarous fashion a number of Annamite soldiers who were guarding aFrench warehouse on the quay. Several prominent Fumani with whom Italked attempted to justify the massacre on the ground that a Frenchsailor had torn a ribbon bearing the motto "_Italia o Morte_!" from thebreast of a woman of the town. They did not seem to regret the affair orto realize that it is just such occurrences which lead the PeaceConference to question the wisdom of subjecting the city's Slav minorityto that sort of rule. As a result of the tense atmosphere whichprevailed in the city, the nerves of the population were so on edge thatwhen my car back-fired with a series of violent explosions, the loungersin front of a near-by café jumped as though a bomb had been thrown amongthem. The patron saint of Fiume is, appropriately enough, St. Vitus. 

In discussing the question of Fiume the mistake is almost invariablymade of considering it as a single city, whereas it really consists oftwo distinct communities, Fiume and Sussak, bitterly antagonistic anddiffering in race, religion, language, politics, customs, and thought. A small river, the Rieka, no wider than the Erie Canal, divides the cityinto two parts, one Latin the other Slav, very much as the Rio Grandeseparates the American city of El Paso from the Mexican town of CiudadJuarez. On the left or west bank of the river is Fiume, withapproximately 40, 000 inhabitants, of whom very nearly three-fourths areItalian. Here are the wharfs, the harbor works, the rail-head, themunicipal buildings, the hotels, and the business districts. But crossthe Rieka by the single wooden bridge which connects Fiume with Sussakand you find yourself in a wholly different atmosphere. In a hundredpaces you pass from a city which is three-quarters Italian to a townwhich is overwhelmingly Slav. There are about 4, 500 people in Sussak, ofwhom only one-eighth are Italian. But let it be perfectly clear thatSussak is not Fiume. In proclaiming its annexation to Italy on theground of self-determination, the National Council of Fiume did notinclude Sussak, which is a Croatian village in historically Croatianterritory. It will be seen, therefore, that Sussak, which is not a partof Fiume but an entirely separate municipality, does not enter into thequestion at all. As for the territory immediately adjacent to Fiume onthe north and east, it is as Slav as though it were in the heart ofSerbia. To put it briefly, Fiume is an Italian island entirelysurrounded by Slavs. 

The violent self-assertiveness of the Fumani may be attributed to thelarge measure of autonomy which they have always enjoyed, Fiume's statusas a free city having been definitely established by Ferdinand I in1530, recognized by Maria Theresa in 1776 when she proclaimed it "aseparate body annexed to the crown of Hungary, " and by the HungarianGovernment finally confirmed in 1868. Louis Kossuth admitted itsextraterritorial character when he said that, even though the Magyartongue should be enforced elsewhere as the medium of officialcommunication, he considered that an exception "should be made in favorof a maritime city whose vocation was to welcome all nations led thitherby commerce. "

Though the Italian element of the population vociferously asserts itsadherence to the slogan "_Italia o Morte_!" I am convinced that many ofthe more substantial and far-seeing citizens, if they dared freely toexpress their opinions, would be found to favor the restoration of thecity's ancient autonomy under the ægis of the League of Nations. TheItalians of Flume are at bottom, beneath their excitable and mercurialtemperaments, a shrewd business people who have the commercial future oftheir city at heart. And they are intelligent enough to realize that, unless there be established some stable form of government which willpropitiate the Slav minority as well as the Italian majority, the Slavnations of the hinterland will almost certainly divert their trade, onwhich Fiume's commercial importance entirely depends, to somenon-Italian port, in which event the city would inevitably retrograde tothe obscure fishing village which it was less than half a century ago. 

In order that you may have before you a clear and comprehensive pictureof this most perplexing and dangerous situation, which is so fraughtwith peril for the future peace of the world, suppose that I sketch foryou, in the fewest word-strokes possible, the arguments of the rivalclaimants for fair Fiume's hand. Italy's claims may be classified underthree heads: sentimental, commercial, and political. Her sentimentalclaims are based on the ground that the city's population, character, and history are overwhelmingly Italian. I have already stated that theItalians constitute about three-fourths of the total population ofFiume, the latest figures, as quoted in the United States Senate, giving29, 569 inhabitants to the Italians and 14, 798 to the Slavs. There is nodenying that the city has a distinctively Italian atmosphere, for itsarchitecture is Italian, that Venetian trademark, the Lion of St. Mark, being in evidence on several of the older buildings; the mode of outdoorlife is such as one meets in Italy; most of its stores and banks areowned by Italians, and Italian is the prevailing tongue. The claim thatthe city's history is Italian is, however, hardly borne out by historyitself, for in the sixteen centuries which have elapsed since the fallof the Roman Empire, Fiume has been under Italian rule--that of therepublic of Venice--for just four days. 

The commercial reason underlying Italy's insistence on obtaining controlof Fiume is due to the fact that Italians are convinced that shouldFiume pass into either neutral or Jugoslav hands, it would mean thecommercial ruin of Trieste, where enormous sums of Italian money havebeen invested. They assert, and with sound reasoning, that the Slavs ofthe hinterland, and probably the Germans and Magyars as well, would shipthrough Fiume, were it under Slav or international control, instead ofthrough Trieste, which is Italian. One does not need to be an economistto realize that if Fiume could secure the trade of Jugoslavia and theother states carved from the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the commercialsupremacy of Trieste, which depends upon this same hinterland, wouldquickly disappear. On the other hand, those Italians whose vision hasnot been distorted by their passions clearly foresee that, should thefinal disposition of Fiume prove unacceptable to the Jugoslavs, theywill almost certainly divert the trade of the interior to some Slavport, leaving Fiume to drowse in idleness beside her moss-grown wharfsand crumbling warehouses, dreaming dreams of her one-time prosperity. 

Italy's third reason for insisting on the cession of Fiume is political, and, because it is based on a deep-seated and haunting fear, it is, perhaps, the most compelling reason of all. Italy does not trust theJugoslavs. She cannot forget that the Austrian and Hungarian fractionsof the new Jugoslav people--in other words, the Slovenes andCroats--were the most faithful subjects of the Dual Monarchy, fightingfor the Hapsburgs with a ferocity and determination hardly surpassed inthe war. Unlike the Poles and Czecho-Slovaks, who threw in their lotwith the Allies, the Slovenes and Croats fought, and fought desperately, for the triumph of the Central Empires. Had these two peoples turnedagainst their masters early in the war, the great struggle would haveended months, perhaps years, earlier than it did. Yet, within a few daysafter the signing of the Armistice, they became Jugoslavs, and announcedthat they have always been at heart friendly to the Allies. But, so theItalians argue, their conversion has been too sudden: they have changedtheir flag but not their hearts; their real allegiance is not toBelgrade but to Berlin. The Italian attitude toward these peoples whohave so abruptly switched from enemies to allies is that of the Americansoldier for the Filipino:

 "He may be a brother of William H. Taft, But he ain't no brother of mine. "

The Italians are convinced that the three peoples who have been sohastily welded into Jugoslavia will, as the result of internaljealousies and dissensions, eventually disintegrate, and that, when thebreak-up comes, those portions of the new state which formerly belongedto Austria-Hungary will ally themselves with the great Teutonic or, perhaps, Russo-Teutonic, confederation which, most students of Europeanaffairs believe, will arise from the ruins of the Central Empires. Whenthat day comes the new power will look with hungering eyes toward therich markets which fringe the Middle Sea, and what more convenientgateway through which to pour its merchandise--and, perhaps, itsfighting men--than Fiume in friendly hands? In order to bar foreverthis, the sole gateway to the warm water still open to the Hun, theItalians should, they maintain, be made its guardians. 

"But, " you argue, "suppose Jugoslavia does _not_ break up? How can14, 000, 000 Slavs seriously menace Italy's 40, 000, 000?"

Ah! Now you touch the very heart of the whole matter; now you have putyour finger on the secret fear which has animated Italy throughout thecontroversy over Fiume and Dalmatia. For I do not believe that it is areincarnated Germany which Italy dreads. It is something far moreominous, more terrifying than that, which alarms her. For, lookingacross the Adriatic, she sees the monstrous vision of a united andaggressive Slavdom, untold millions strong, of which the Jugoslavs arebut the skirmish-line, ready to dispute not merely Italy's schemes forthe commercial mastery of the Balkans but her overlordship of that seawhich she regards as an Italian lake. 

Jugoslavia's claims to Fiume are more briefly stated. Firstly, she laystitle to it on the ground that geographically Fiume belongs to Croatia, and that Croatia is now a part of Jugoslavia, or, to give the newcountry its correct name, the Kingdom of the Serbs, Croats, andSlovenes. This claim is, I think, well founded, and this despite thefact that Italy has attempted to prove, by means of innumerablepamphlets and maps, that Fiume, being within the great semi-circularwall formed by the Alps, is physically Italian. The Jugoslavs demandFiume, secondly, because, they assert, if Fiume and Sussak areconsidered as a single city, that city has more Slavs than Italians, while the population of the hinterland is almost solidly Croatian. Withthe first half of this claim I cannot agree. As I have already pointedout, Sussak is not, and never has been, a part of Fiume, and itsannexation is not demanded by the Italians. Conceding, however, for thesake of argument, that Fiume and Sussak are parts of the same city, themost reliable figures which I have been able to obtain show that, evenwere the Slav majority in Sussak added to the Slav minority in Fiume, the Slavs would still be able to muster barely more than a third of thetotal population. By far the strongest title which the Slavs have to thecity, and the one which commands for them the greatest sympathy, istheir assertion that Fiume is the natural and, indeed, almost the onlypracticable commercial outlet for Jugoslavia, and that the strugglingyoung state needs it desperately. In reply to this, the Italians pointout that there are numerous harbors along the Dalmatian coast whichwould answer the needs of Jugoslavia as well, or almost as well, asFiume. Now, I am speaking from first-hand knowledge when I assert thatthis is not so, for I have seen with my own eyes every harbor, orpotential harbor, on the eastern coast of the Adriatic from Istria toGreece. As a matter of fact, the entire coast of Dalmatia would not makeup to the Jugoslavs for the loss of Fiume. The map gives no idea of thecity's importance as the southernmost point at which a standard-gaugerailway reaches the Adriatic, for the railway leading to Ragusa, towhich the Italians so repeatedly refer as providing an outlet forJugoslavia, is not only narrow-gauge but is in part a rack-and-pinionmountain line. The situation is best summed up by the commander of theAmerican war-ship on which I dined at Spalato. 

"It is not a question of finding a good harbor for the Jugoslavs, " hesaid. "This coast is rich in splendid harbors. It is a question, rather, of finding a practicable route for a standard-gauge railway over orthrough the mile-high range of the Dinaric Alps, which parallel theentire coast, shutting the coast towns off from the hinterland. Untilsuch a railway is built, the peoples of the interior have no means ofgetting their products down to the coast save through Fiume. Italyalready has the great port of Trieste. Were she also to be awarded Fiumeshe would have a strangle-hold on the trade of Jugoslavia which wouldprobably mean that country's commercial ruin. "

I have now given you, as fairly as I know how, the principal argumentsof the rival claimants. The Italians of Fiume, as I have already shown, outnumber the Slavs almost three to one, and it is they who aredemanding so violently that the city should be annexed to Italy on theground of self-determination. But I do not believe that, because thereis an undoubted Italian majority in Fiume, the city should be awarded toItaly. If Italy were asking only what was beyond all shadow of questionItalian, I should sympathize with her unreservedly. But to place 10, 000Slavs under Italian rule would be as unjust and as provocative of futuretrouble as to place 30, 000 Italians under the rule of Belgrade. Nor isthe cession of the city itself the end of Italy's claims, for, in orderto place it beyond the range of the enemy's guns (by the "enemy" shemeans her late allies, the Serbs), in order to maintain control of therailways entering the city, and in order to bring the city actuallywithin her territorial borders, she desires to extend her rule overother thousands of people who are not Italian, who do not speak theItalian tongue, and who do not wish Italian rule. Italy has no stancherfriend than I, but neither my profound admiration for what she achievedduring the war nor my deep sympathy for the staggering losses shesuffered can blind me to the unwisdom, let us call it, of certain of herdemands. I am convinced that, when the passions aroused by thecontroversy have had time to cool, the Italians will themselves questionthe wisdom of accumulating for themselves future troubles by creatingnew lost provinces and a new Irredenta by annexing against their willthousands of people of an alien race. Viewing the question from thestandpoints of abstract justice, of sound politics, and of common sense, I do not believe that Fiume should be given either to the Italians or tothe Jugoslavs, but that the interests of both, as well as the prosperityof the Fumani themselves, should be safeguarded by making it a freecity under international control. 

No account of the extraordinary drama--farce would be a better name wereits possibilities not so tragic--which is being staged at Fiume would becomplete without some mention of the romantic figure who is playing thepart of hero or villain, according to whether your sympathies are withthe Italians or the Jugoslavs. There is nothing romantic, mind you, inGabriele d'Annunzio's personal appearance. On the contrary, he is one ofthe most unimpressive-looking men I have ever seen. He is short ofstature--not over five feet five, I should guess--and even hisbeautifully cut clothes, which fit so faultlessly about the waist andhips as to suggest the use of stays, but partially camouflage thecorpulency of middle age. His head looks like a new-laid egg which hasbeen highly varnished; his pointed beard is clipped in a fashion whichreminded me of the bronze satyrs in the Naples museum; a monocle, wornwithout a cord, conceals his dead eye, which he lost in battle. His walkis a combination of a mince and a swagger; his movements are those ofan actor who knows that the spotlight is upon him. 

Though d'Annunzio takes high rank among the modern poets, many of hisadmirers holding him to be the greatest one alive, he is a far greaterorator. His diction is perfect, his wealth of imagery exhaustless; Ihave seen him sway a vast audience as a wheat-field is swayed by thewind. His life he values not at all; the four rows of ribbons which onthe breast of his uniform make a splotch of color were not won by hisverses. Though well past the half-century mark, he has participated in ascore of aerial combats, occupying the observer's seat in his fightingSva and operating the machine-gun. But perhaps the most brilliant of hismilitary exploits was a bloodless one, when he flew over Vienna andbombed that city with proclamations, written by himself, pointing out tothe Viennese the futility of further resistance. His popularity amongall classes is amazing; his word is law to the great organization knownas the _Combatenti_, composed of the 5, 000, 000 men who fought in theItalian armies. He is a jingo of the jingoes, his plans for Italianexpansion reaching far beyond the annexation of Fiume or even all ofDalmatia, for he has said again and again that he dreams of that daywhen Italy will have extended her rule over all that territory whichonce was held by Rome. 

[Illustration: THE INHABITANTS OF FIUME CHEERING D'ANNUNZIO AND HISRAIDERS

"Save only Barcelona, Fiume has the most excitable population of anyplace that I know. "

The patron saint of the city is, appropriately enough, St. Vitus]

He is a very picturesque and interesting figure, is Gabrieled'Annunzio--very much in earnest, wholly sincere, but fanatical, egotistical, intolerant of the rights or opinions of others, avisionary, and perhaps a little mad. I imagine that he would rather havehis name linked with that of that other soldier-poet, who "flamed awayat Missolonghi" nearly a century ago, than with any other character inhistory save Garibaldi. D'Annunzio, like Byron, was an exile from hisnative land. Both had a habit of never paying their bills; both hadoffended against the social codes of their times; both flamed againstwhat they believed to be injustice and tyranny; both had a passionatelove for liberty; both possessed a highly developed sense of thedramatic and delighted in playing romantic rôles. I have heard it saidthat d'Annunzio's raid on Fiume would make his name immortal, but Idoubt it. Barely a score of years have passed since the raid onJohannesburg, which was a far more daring and hazardous exploit thand'Annunzio's Fiume performance, yet to-day how many people rememberDoctor Jameson? It can be said for this middle-aged poet that he hassuccessfully defied the government of Italy, that he flouted the royalduke who was sent to parley with him, that he seduced the Italian armyand navy into committing open mutiny--"a breach of that militarydiscipline, " in the words of the Prime Minister, "which is thefoundation of the safety of the state"--and that he has done more toshake foreign confidence in the stability of the Italian character andthe dependability of the Italian soldier than the Austro-Germans didwhen they brought about the disaster at Caporetto. 

I have heard it said that the Nitti government had advance knowledge ofthe raid on Fiume and that the reason it took no vigorous measuresagainst the filibusters was because it secretly approved of theiraction. This I do not believe. With President Wilson, the Jugoslavs, d'Annunzio, and the Italian army and navy arrayed against him, I amconvinced that Mr. Nitti did everything that could be done withoutprecipitating either a war or a revolution. Much credit is also due tothe Jugoslavs for their forbearance and restraint under greatprovocation. They must have been sorely tempted to give the Poet thespanking he so richly deserves. 

 * * * * *

When the small army of newspaper correspondents who were despatched bythe great New York and London dailies to Khartoum to interview ColonelRoosevelt upon his emergence from the jungle started up the White Nileto meet the explorer, they were deterred, both by the shortage of boatsand the question of expense, from chartering individual steamers. Butthe public at home was not permitted to know of these petty limitationsand annoyances. On the contrary, people all over the United States, attheir breakfast-tables, read the despatches from the far-off Sudan datedfrom "On board the New York _Herald's_ dahabeah _Rameses_" or "The NewYork _American's_ despatch-boat _Abbas Hilmi_, " or "The Chicago_Tribune's_ special steamer _General Gordon_, " and never dreamed thatthe young men in sun-helmets and white linen who were writing thosedespatches were comfortably seated under the awnings of the samedecrepit stern-wheeler, which they had chartered jointly, but on which, in order to lend importance and dignity to his despatches, eachcorrespondent had bestowed a particular name. 

But the destroyer _Sirio_, which we found awaiting us at Fiume, we didnot have to share with any one. Thanks to the courtesy of the ItalianMinistry of Marine, she was all ours, while we were aboard her, from herknife-like prow to the screws kicking the water under her stern. 

"I am under orders to place myself entirely at your disposal, " explainedher youthful and very stiffly starched skipper, Commander Poggi. "I amto go where you desire and to stop as long as you please. Those are myinstructions. "

Thus it came about that, shortly after noon on a scorching summer day, we cast off our moorings and, leaving quarrel-torn Fiume abaft, turnedthe nose of the _Sirio_ sou' by sou'-west, down the coast of Dalmatia. The sun-kissed waters of the Bay of Quarnero looked for all the worldlike a vast azure carpet strewn with a million sparkling diamonds; onour starboard quarter stretched the green-clad slopes of Istria, withthe white villas of Abbazia peeping coyly out from amid the groves ofpine and laurel; to the eastward the bleak brown peaks of the DinaricAlps rose, savage, mysterious, forbidding, against the cloudless summersky. Perhaps no stretch of coast in all the world has had so varied andromantic a history or so many masters as this Dalmatian seaboard. Sincethe days of the tattooed barbarians who called themselves Illyrian, thiscoast has been ruled in turn by Phœnicians, Celts, Macedonians, Greeks, Romans, Goths, Byzantines, Croats, Serbs, Bulgars, Huns, Avars, Saracens, Normans, Magyars, Genoese, Venetians, Tartars, Bosnians, Turks, French, Russians, Montenegrins, British, Austrians, Italians--andnow by Americans, for from Cape Planca southward to Ragusa, a distanceof something over a hundred miles, the United States is the governingpower and an American admiral holds undisputed sway. 

Leaning over the rail as we fled southward I lost myself in dreams offar-off days. In my mind I could see, sweeping past in imaginary review, those other vessels which, all down the ages, had skirted these sameshores: the purple sails of Phœnicia, Greek galleys bearing colonistsfrom Cnidus, Roman triremes with the slaves sweating at the oars, high-powered, low-waisted Norman caravels with the arms of theirmarauding masters painted on their bellowing canvas, stately Venetiancarracks with carved and gilded sterns, swift-sailing Uskok piratecraft, their decks crowded with swarthy men in skirts and turbans, Genoese galleons, laden with the products of the hot lands, French andEnglish frigates with brass cannon peering from their rows of ports, thegrim, gray monsters of the Hapsburg navy. And then I suddenly awoke, for, coming up from the southward at full speed, their slanting funnelsvomiting great clouds of smoke, were four long, low, lean, incrediblyswift craft, ostrich-plumes of snowy foam curling from their bows, whichsped past us like wolfhounds running with their noses to the ground. Asthey passed I could see quite plainly, flaunting from each taffrail, aflag of stripes and stars. 

The sun was sinking behind Italy when, threading our way amid the mazeof islands and islets which border the Dalmatian shore, we saw beyondour bows, silhouetted against the rose-coral of the evening sky, theslender campaniles and the crenellated ramparts of Zara. It was so stilland calm and beautiful that I felt as though I were looking at a sceneupon a stage and that the curtain would descend at any moment anddestroy the illusion. The little group of white-clad naval officers whogreeted us upon the quay informed us that the governor-general, AdmiralCount Millo, had placed at our disposal the yacht _Zara_, formerly theproperty of the Austrian Emperor, on which we were to live during ourstay in the Dalmatian capital. It was a peculiarly thoughtful thing todo, for the summers are hot in Zara, the city's few hotels leave much tobe desired, and a stay at a palace, even that of a provincial governor, is hedged about by a certain amount of formality and restrictions. Butthe _Zara_, while we were aboard her, was as much ours as the_Mayflower_ is Mr. Wilson's. We occupied the spacious after-cabins, exquisitely paneled in white mahogany, which had been used by theAustrian archduchesses and whose furnishings still bore the imperialcrown, and our breakfasts were served under the white awnings stretchedover the after-deck, where, lounging in the grateful shade, we couldlook out across the harbor, dotted with the gaudy sails of fishing craftand bordered by the walls and gardens of the quaint old city, to theislands of Arbe and Pago, rising, like huge, uncut emeralds, from thelazy southern sea. At noon we usually lunched with a score or more ofstaff-officers in the large, cool dining-room of the officers' mess, andat night we dined with the governor-general and his family at thepalace, formerly the residence of the Austrian viceroys. Dinner over, welounged in cane chairs on the terrace, served by white-clad, silent-footed servants with coffee, cigarettes, and the maraschino forwhich this coast is famous. Those were never-to-be-forgotten evenings, for the gently heaving breast of the Adriatic glowed with aphosphorescent luminousness, the air was heavy with the fragrance oforange, almond, and oleander, the sky was like purple velvet, and thestars seemed very near. 

Though the population of Dalmatia is overwhelmingly Slav, quitetwo-thirds of the 14, 000 inhabitants of Zara, its capital, are Italian. Yet, were it not for the occasional Morlachs in their picturesquecostumes seen in the markets or on the wharfs, one would not suspect thepresence of any Slav element in the town, for the dim and tortuousstreets and the spacious squares bear Italian names--Via del Duomo, RivaVecchia, Piazza della Colonna; crouching above the city gates is thesnarling Lion of St. Mark, and everywhere one hears the liquid accentsof the Latin. Zara, like Fiume, is an Italian colony set down on aSlavonian shore, and, like its sister-city to the north, it bears theindelible and unmistakable imprint of Italian civilization. 

The long, narrow strip of territory sandwiched between the Adriatic andthe Dinaric Alps which comprised the Austrian province of Dalmatia, though upward of 200 miles in length, has an area scarcely greater thanthat of Connecticut and a population smaller than that of Cleveland. Scarcely more than a tenth of its whole surface is under the plow, therest, where it is not altogether sterile, consisting of mountainpasture. With the exception of scattered groves on the landward slopes, the country is virtually treeless, the forests for which Dalmatia wasonce famous having been cut down by the Venetian ship-builders orwantonly burned by the Uskok pirates, while every attempt at replantinghas been frustrated by the shallowness of the soil, the frequentdroughts, and the multitudes of goats which browse on the young trees. The dreary expanse of the Bukovica, lying between Zara and the Bosnianfrontier, is, without exception, the most inhospitable region that Ihave ever seen. For mile after mile, far as the eye can see, the earthis overlaid by a thick stratum of jagged limestone, so rough that nohorse could traverse it, so sharp and flinty that a quarter of an hour'swalking across it would cut to pieces the stoutest pair of boots. Underthe rays of the summer sun these rocks become as hot as the top of astove; so hot, indeed, that eggs can be cooked upon them, while metalobjects exposed for only a few minutes to the sun will burn the hand. Scattered here and there over this terrible plateau are tiny farmsteads, their houses and the walls shutting in the little patches undercultivation being built from the stones obtained in clearing the soil, atask requiring incredible patience. No wonder that the folk who dwellin them are characterized by expressions as stony and hopeless as thesoil from which they wring a wretched existence. 

No seaboard of the Mediterranean, save only the coast of Greece, is sodeeply indented as the Dalmatian littoral, with Its unending successionof rock-bound bays, as frequent as the perforations on a postage-stamp, and its thick fringe of islands. In calm weather the channels betweenthese islands and the mainland resemble a chain of landlocked lakes, like those in the Adirondacks or in southern Ontario, being connected bynarrow straits called _canales_, brilliantly clear to a depth of severalfathoms. As a rule, the surrounding hills are rugged, bleached yellow orpale russet, and destitute of verdure, but their monotony is relieved bythe half-ruined castles and monasteries which, perched on the rockyheights, perpetually reminded me of Howard Pyle's paintings, and by themedieval charm of Zara, Sebenico, Spalato, Ragusa, Arbe, and Curzola, whose architecture, though predominantly Venetian, bears characteristictraces of the many races which have ruled them. 

Just as Italy insisted on pushing her new borders up to the Brenner sothat she might have a strategic frontier on the north, so she lays claimto the larger of the Dalmatian islands--Lissa, Lésina, Curzola, andcertain others--in order to protect her Adriatic shores. A glance at themap will make her reasons amply plain. There stretches Italy's easterncoastline, 600 miles of it, from Venice to Otranto, with half a dozenbusy cities and a score of fishing towns, as bare and unprotected as abald man's hatless head. Not only is there not a single naval base onItaly's Adriatic coast south of Venice, but there is no harbor or inletthat can be transformed into one. Yet across the Adriatic, barely fourhours steam by destroyer away, is a wilderness of islands and deepharbors where an enemy's fleet could lie safely hidden, from which itcould emerge to attack Italian commerce or to bombard Italy'sunprotected coast towns, and where it could take refuge when the pursuitbecame too hot. All down the ages the dwellers along Italy's easternseaboard have been terrorized by naval raids from across the Adriatic. And Italy has determined that they shall be terrorized no more. Howhistory repeats itself! Just as Rome, twenty-two centuries ago, couldnot permit the neighboring islands of Sicily to fall into the hands ofCarthage, so Italy cannot permit these coastwise islands, which form heronly protection against attacks from the east, to pass under the controlof the Jugoslavs. 

"But, " I said to the Italians with whom I discussed the matter, "why doyou need any such protection now that the world is to have a League ofNations? Isn't that a sufficient guarantee that the Jugoslavs will neverattack you?"

"The League of Nations is in theory a splendid thing, " was their answer. "We subscribe to it in principle most heartily. But because there is apoliceman on duty in your street, do you leave wide open your frontdoor?"

To be quite candid, I do not think that it is against Jugoslavia, or, perhaps it would be more accurate to say, against an unaided Jugoslavia, that Italy is taking precautions. I have already said, I believe, thatthinking Italians look with grave forebodings to the day when a greatSlav confederation shall rise across the Adriatic, but that day, as theyknow full well, is still far distant. Italy's desperate insistence onretaining possession of the more important Dalmatian islands is dictatedby a far more immediate danger than that. She is convinced that her nextwar will be fought, not with the weak young state of Jugoslavia, butwith Jugoslavia _allied with France_. Every Italian with whom Idiscussed the question--and I might add, without boasting, many highlyplaced and well-informed Italians have honored me with theirconfidence--firmly believes that France is jealous of Italy's rapidlyincreasing power in the Mediterranean, and that she is secretlyintriguing with the Jugoslavs and the Greeks to prevent Italy obtainingcommercial supremacy in the Balkans. I do not say that this is myopinion, mind you, but I do say that it is the opinion held by mostItalians. I found that the resentment against the French for what theItalians term France's "betrayal" of Italy at the Peace Conference wasalmost universal; everywhere in Italy I found a deep-seated distrust ofFrance's commercial ambitions and political designs. Though the Italiansadmit that the Jugoslavs will not be able to build a navy for many yearsto come, they fear, or profess to fear, that the day is notimmeasurably far distant when a French battle fleet, co-operating withthe armies of Jugoslavia, will threaten Italy's Adriatic seaboard. Andthey are determined that, should such a day ever come, French shipsshall not be afforded the protection, as were the Austrian, of theDalmatian islands. Italy, with her great modern battle fleet and her5, 000, 000 fighting men, regards the threats of Jugoslavia with somethingakin to contempt, but France, turned imperialistic and arrogant by hervictory over the Hun, Italy distrusts and fears, believing that, whileprotesting her friendship, she is secretly fomenting opposition tolegitimate Italian aspirations in the Balkan peninsula and in the MiddleSea. (Again let me remind you that I am giving you not my own, butItaly's point of view. ) You will sneer at this, perhaps, as a phantasmof the imagination, but I assure you, with all the earnestness andemphasis at my command, that this distrust of one great Latin nation foranother, whether it is justified or not, forms a deadly menace to thefuture peace of the world. 

Because I did not wish to confine my observations to the coast towns, which are, after all, essentially Italian, I motored across Dalmatia atits widest part, from Zara, through Benkovac, Kistonje, and Knin, to thelittle hamlet of Kievo, on the Jugoslav frontier. Though the Slavpopulation of the Dalmatian hinterland is, according to the assertionsof Belgrade, bitterly hostile to Italian rule, I did not detect a singlesymptom of animosity toward the Italian officers who were my companionson the part of the peasants whom we passed. They displayed, on thecontrary, the utmost courtesy and good feeling, the women, looking likehuge and gaudily dressed dolls in their snowy blouses and embroideredaprons, courtesying, while the tall, fine-looking men gravely touchedthe little round caps which are the national head-gear of Dalmatia. 

Kievo is the last town in Dalmatia, being only a few score yards fromthe Bosnian frontier. Its little garrison was in command of a youngItalian captain, a tall, slender fellow with the blond beard of a Vikingand the dreamy eyes of a poet. He had been stationed at this lonelyoutpost for seven months, he told me, and he welcomed us as a manwrecked on a desert island would welcome a rescue party. In order toescape from the heat and filth and insects of the village, he had builtin a near-by grove a sort of arbor, with a roof of interlaced branchesto keep off the sun. Its furnishings consisted of a home-made table, anarmy cot, two or three decrepit chairs, and a phonograph. I did not needto inquire where he had obtained the phonograph, for on its cover wasstenciled the familiar red triangle of the Y. M. C. A. --the "_Yimka_, " asthe Italians call it--which operates more than 300 _casas_ for the useof the Italian army. While our host was preparing a dubious-lookingdrink from sweet, bright-colored syrups and lukewarm water, I amusedmyself by glancing over the little stack of records on the table. Theywere, of course, nearly all Italian, but I came upon three that I knewwell: "_Loch Lomond_, " "_Old Folks at Home_" and "_So Long, Letty_. " Itwas like meeting a party of old friends in a strange land. I tried thelater record, and though it was not very clear, for the captain's supplyof needles had run out and he had been reduced to using ordinary pins, it was startling to hear Charlotte Greenwood's familiar voice caroling"_So long, so long, Letty_, " there on the borders of Bosnia, with apicket of curious Jugoslavs, rifles across their knees, seated on therocky hillside, barely a stone's throw away. Still, come to think aboutit, the war produced many contrasts quite as strange, as, for example, when the New York Irish, the old 69th, crossed the Rhine with theregimental band playing "_The Sidewalks of New York_. "

We touched at Sebenico, which is forty knots down the coast from Zara, in order to accept an invitation to lunch with Lieutenant-GeneralMontanari, who commands all the Italian troops in Dalmatia. Now beforewe started down the Adriatic we had been warned that, because ofPresident Wilson's attitude on the Fiume question, the feeling againstAmericans ran very high, and that from the Italians we must be preparedfor coldness, if not for actual insults. Well, this luncheon at Sebenicowas an example of the insults we received and the coldness with which wewere treated. Because our destroyer was late, half a hundred busyofficers delayed their midday meal for two hours in order not to sitdown without us. The table was decorated with American flags, and otherAmerican flags had been hand-painted on the menus. And, as a finalaffront, a destroyer had been sent across the Adriatic Sea to obtainlobsters because the general had heard that my wife was particularlyfond of them. After that experience don't talk to me about Southernhospitality. Though the Italians bitterly resent President Wilson'sinterference in an affair which they consider peculiarly their own, their resentment does not extend to the President's countrymen. Theirattitude is aptly illustrated by an incident which took place at themess of a famous regiment of Bersaglieri, when the picture of PresidentWilson, which had hung on the wall of the mess-hall, opposite that ofthe King, was taken down--and an American flag hung in its place. 

The most interesting building in Sebenico is the cathedral, which wasbegun when America had yet to be discovered. The chief glory of thecathedral is its exterior, with its superb carved doors, its countlessleering, grinning gargoyles--said to represent the evil spirits expelledfrom the church--and a broad frieze, running entirely around theedifice, composed of sculptured likenesses of the architects, artists, sculptors, masons, and master-builders who participated in itsconstruction. Put collars, neckties, and derby hats on some of them andyou would have striking likenesses of certain labor leaders of to-day. The next time a building of note is erected in this country thecountenances of the bricklayers, hod-carriers, and walking delegatesmight be immortalized in some such fashion. I offer the suggestion tothe labor-unions for what it is worth. 

Throughout all the years of Austrian domination the citizens of Sebenicoremained loyal to their Italian traditions, as is proved by themedallions ornamenting the façade of the cathedral, each of which bearsthe image of a saint. One of these sculptured saints, it was pointed outto me, has the unmistakable features of Victor Emanuel I, another thoseof Garibaldi. Thus did the Italian workmen of their day cunninglyexpress their defiance of Austria's tyranny by ornamenting one of hermost splendid cathedrals with the heads of Italian heroes. Imaginecarving the heads of Elihu Root and Charles E. Hughes on the façade ofTammany Hall!

Next to the cathedral, the most interesting building in Sebenico is theinsect-powder factory. It is a large factory and does a thrivingbusiness, the need for its product being Balkan-wide. If, for upward offive months, you had fought nightly engagements with the _cimexlectularius_, you would understand how vital is an ample supply ofpowder. Believe me or not, as you please, but in many parts of Dalmatiaand Albania we were compelled to defend our beds against nocturnalraiding-parties by raising veritable ramparts of insect-powder, verymuch as in Flanders we threw up earthworks against the assaults of theHun, while in Monastir the only known way of obtaining sleep is to setthe legs of one's bed in basins filled with kerosene. 

Four hours steaming south from Sebenico brought us to Spalato, thelargest city of Dalmatia and one of the most picturesquely situatedtowns in the Levant. It owes its name to the great palace (_palatium_)of Diocletian, within the precincts of which a great part of the oldtown is built and around which have sprung up its more modern suburbs. Cosily ensconced between the stately marble columns which formed thepalace's façade are fruit, tobacco, barber, shoe, and tailor shops, whose proprietors drive a roaring trade with the sailors from theinternational armada assembled in the harbor. A great hall, which hadprobably originally been one of the vestibules of the palace, wasoccupied by the Knights of Columbus, the place being in charge of akhaki-clad priest, Father Mullane, of Johnstown, Pa. , who twice dailydispensed true American hospitality, in the form of hot doughnuts andmugs of steaming coffee, to the blue-jackets from the American ships. Asthere was no coal to be had in the town, he made the doughnuts with theaid of a plumber's blowpipe. In the course of our conversation FatherMullane mentioned that he was living with the Serbian bishop--at least Ithink he was a bishop-of Spalato. 

"I suppose he speaks English or French, " I remarked. 

"He does not, " was the answer. 

"Then you must have picked up some Serb or Italian, " I hazarded. 

"Niver a wurrd of thim vulgar tongues do I know, " said he. 

"Then how do you and the bishop get along?"

"Shure, " said Father Mullane, in the rich brogue which is, I imagine, something of an affectation, "an' what is the use of bein' educated forthe church if we were not able to converse with ease an' fluency iniligant an' refined Latin?"

When we were leaving Spalato, Father Mullane presented us with a _BonVoyage_ package which contained cigarettes, a box of milk chocolate, anda five-pound tin of gum-drops. The cigarettes we smoked, the chocolatewe ate, but the gum-drops we used for tips right across the Balkans. Inlands whose people have not known the taste of sugar for five years wefound that a handful of gum-drops would accomplish more than money. Afew men with Father Mullane's resource, tact, and sense of humor woulddo more than all the diplomats under the roof of the Hotel Crillon tosettle international differences and make the nations understand eachother. 

I had been warned by archæological friends, before I went to Dalmatia, that the ruins of Salona, which once was the capital of Roman Dalmatiaand the site of the summer palace of Diocletian, would probablydisappoint me. They date from the period of Roman decadence, so mylearned friends explained, and, though following Roman traditions, frequently show traces of negligence, a fact which is accounted for bythe haste with which the ailing and hypochondriac Emperor sought tobuild himself a retreat from the world. Still, the little excursion--forSalona is only five miles from Spalato--provided much that was worth theseeing: a partially excavated amphitheater, a long row of stonesarcophagi lying in a trench, one or two fine gates, and somebeautifully preserved mosaics. I must confess, however, that I was moreinterested in the modern aspects of this region than in its gloriouspast, for, standing upon the massive walls of the Roman city, I lookeddown upon a panorama of power such as Diocletian had never pictured inhis wildest dreams, for, moored in a long and impressive row, theirstern-lines made fast to the _Molo_, was a line of war-ships flying theflags of England, France, Italy, and the United States. On the right ofthe line, as befitted the fact that its commander was the senior navalofficer and in charge of all this portion of the coast, was AdmiralAndrews's flag-ship, the _Olympia_, but little changed, at least to thecasual glance, since that day, more than twoscore years ago, when sheblazed her way into Manila Bay and won for us a colonial empire. On herbridge, outlined in brass tacks, I was shown Admiral Dewey's footprints, just as he stood at the beginning of the battle when he gave the order"You may fire when you are ready, Gridley. "

Of the 18, 000 inhabitants of Spalato, less than a tenth are Italian, thegeneral character of the town and the sympathies of its inhabitantsbeing strongly pro-Slav. In fact, its streets were filled with Jugoslavsoldiers, many of them still wearing the uniforms of the Austrianregiments in which they had served but with Serbian _képis_, whileothers looked strangely familiar in khaki uniforms furnished them by theUnited States. It being warm weather, most of the men wore their coatsunbuttoned, thereby displaying a considerable expanse of hairy chest orviolently colored underwear and producing a somewhat negligée effect. Because of the presence in the town of the Jugoslav soldiery, the crewsof the Italian war-ships were not permitted to go ashore with thesailors of the other nations, as Admiral Andrews feared that theirpresence might provoke unpleasant incidents. Hence their "shore leave"had, for nearly six months, been confined to the narrow concrete _Molo_, where they were permitted to stroll in the evenings and where theItalian girls of the town came to see them. For a Jugoslav girl to havebeen seen in company with an Italian sailor would have meant her socialostracism, if nothing worse. 

Though Italy will unquestionably insist on the cession of certain of theDalmatian islands, in order, as I have already pointed out, to assureherself a defensible eastern frontier, and though she will ask for Zaraand possibly for Sebenico on the ground of their preponderantly Italiancharacter, I believe that she is prepared to abandon her original claimsto Dalmatia, which is, when all is said and done, almost purelySlavonian, Jugoslavia thus obtaining nearly 550 miles of coast. Now Iwill be quite frank and say that when I went to Dalmatia I was stronglyopposed to the extension of Italian rule over that region. And I stillbelieve that it would be a political mistake. But, after seeing thecountry from end to end and talking with the Italian officials who havebeen temporarily charged with its administration, I have becomeconvinced that they have the best interests of the people genuinely atheart and that the Dalmatians might do worse, so far as justice andprogress are concerned, than to intrust their future to the guidance ofsuch men. 

It had been our original intention to steam straight south from Spalatoto the Bocche di Cattaro and Montenegro, but, being foot-loose and freeand having plenty of coal in the _Sirio's_ bunkers, we decided to make adetour in order to visit the Curzolane Islands. In case you cannotrecall its precise situation, I might remind you that the CurzolaneArchipelago, consisting of several good-sized islands--Brazza, Lésina, Lissa, Mélida, and Curzola--and a great number of smaller ones, lies offthe Dalmatian coast, almost opposite Ragusa. From Spalato we laid ourcourse due south, past Solta, famed for its honey produced from rosemaryand the cistus-rose; skirted the wooded shores of Brazza, the largestisland of the group, rounded Capo Pellegrino and entered the lovelyharbor of Lésina. We did not anchor but, slowing to half-speed, madethe circuit of the little port, running close enough to the shore toobtain pictures of the famous Loggia built by Sanmicheli, the Fondazo, the ancient Venetian arsenal, and the crumbling Spanish fort, perchedhigh on a crag above the town. Then south by west again, past Lissa, thewestern-most island of the group, where an Italian fleet under Persanowas defeated and destroyed by an Austrian squadron under Tegetthof in1866. A marble lion in the local cemetery commemorated the victory andmarked the resting-places of the Austrian dead, but when the Italianstook possession of the island after the Armistice they changed theinscription on the monument so that it now commemorates their finalvictory over Austria. It was not, I think, a very sportsmanlikeproceeding. 

Leaving Lissa to starboard, we steamed through the Canale diSabbioncello, with exquisite panoramas unrolling on either hand, anddropped anchor off the quay of Curzola, where the governor of theislands, Admiral Piazza, awaited us with his staff. In spite of thebleakness of the surrounding mountains, Curzola is one of the mostexquisitely beautiful little towns that I have ever seen. The next timeyou are in the Adriatic you should not fail to go there. Time and thehand of man--for the people are a color-loving race--have given manytints, soft and bright, to its roofs, towers, and ramparts. It is a townof dim, narrow, winding streets, of steep flights of worn stone steps, of moss-covered archways, and of some of the most splendid specimens ofthe domestic architecture of the Middle Ages that exist outside of theStreet of the Crusaders in Rhodes. The sole modern touches are thecostumes of the islanders, and they are sufficiently picturesque not tospoil the picture. How the place has escaped the motion-picture people Ifail to understand. (As a matter of fact, it hasn't, for I took with mean operator and a camera--the first the islanders had ever seen. )Besides the Cathedral of San Marco, with its splendid doors, itsexquisitely carved choir-stalls black with age and use, its choirbalustrade and pulpit of translucent alabaster, and its dim oldaltar-piece by Tintoretto, the town boasts the Loggia or councilchambers, the palace of the Venetian governors, the noble mansion of theArnieri, and, brooding over all, a towering campanile, five centuriesold. The Lion of St. Mark, which appears on several of the publicbuildings, holds beneath its paw a closed instead of an openbook--symbolizing, so I was told, the islanders' dissatisfaction withcertain laws of the Venetians. 

But the phase of my visit which I enjoyed the most was when AdmiralPiazza took us across the bay, on a Detroit-built submarine-chaser, to aFranciscan monastery dating from the fifteenth century. We were met bythe abbot at the water-stairs, and, after being shown the beautifulVenetian Gothic cloisters, with alabaster columns whose carving wasalmost lacelike in its delicate tracery, we were led along a wooded pathbeside the sea, over a carpet of pine-needles, to a cloisteredrose-garden, in which stood, amid a bower of blossoms, a blue and whitestatue of the Virgin. The fragrance of the flowers in the littleenclosure was like the incense in a church, above our heads the greatpines formed a canopy of green, and the music was furnished by the birdsand the murmuring sea. Here we seemed a world away from the waitingarmies and the great gray battleships, from the quarrels of Latin andSlav. It was the first real peace that I had known after five years ofwar, and I should have liked to remain there longer. But Montenegro, Albania, Macedonia, all the unhappy, war-torn lands of the Near East laybefore me, and I turned reluctantly away. But my thoughts keep harkingback to the little town beside the turquoise bay, to the restfulness ofits old, old buildings, to the perfume of its flowers, and thewhispering voice of its turquoise sea. So some day, when the world isreally at peace and there are no more wars to write about, I think thatI shall go back to where

 "Far, far from here, The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay Among the green Illyrian hills. "

CHAPTER III

THE CEMETERY OF FOUR EMPIRES

We stood on the forward deck of the _Sirio_ as she slipped southward, through the placid waters of the Adriatic, at twenty knots an hour. Lessthan a league away the Balkan mountains, savage, mysterious, forbidding, rose in a rocky rampart against the eastern sky. 

"Did it ever occur to you, " remarked the Italian officer who stoodbeside me, a noted historian in his own land, "that four great empireshave died as a result of their lust for domination over the wretchedlands which lie beyond those mountains? Austria coveted Serbia--and theempire of the Hapsburgs is in fragments now. Russia, seeing herinfluence in the peninsula imperiled, hastened to the support of herfellow Slavs--but Russia has gone down in red ruin, and the Romanoffsare dead. Germany, seeking a gateway to the warm water, and a highwayto the East, seized on the excuse thus offered to launch her waitingarmies--and the empire reared by the Hohenzollerns is bankrupt andbroken. Turkey fought to retain her hold on such European territory asstill remained under the crescent banner. To-day a postmortem is aboutto be held on the Turkish Empire and the House of Osman. Think of it!Four great empires, four ancient dynasties, lie buried over there in theBalkans. It is something more than a range of mountains at which we arelooking; it is the wall of a cemetery. "

Rada di Antivari is a U-shaped bay, the color of a turquoise, from whoseshores the Montenegrin mountains rise in tiers, like the seats of anarena. We put in there unexpectedly because a _bora_, sweeping suddenlydown from the northwest, had lashed the Adriatic into an ugly mood andour destroyer, whose decks were almost as near the water as those of asubmarine running awash, was not a craft that one would choose forcomfort in such weather. Nor was our feeling of security increased bythe knowledge that we were skirting the edges of one of the largestmine-fields in the Adriatic. But the _Sirio_ had scarcely poked hersharp nose around the end of the breakwater which provides the excusefor dignifying the exposed roadstead of Antivari (with the accent on thesecond syllable, so that it rhymes with "discovery") by the name ofharbor before I saw what we had stumbled upon some form of trouble. There were three other Italian destroyers in the harbor but, instead ofbeing moored snugly alongside the quay, they were strung out in asemblance of battle formation, so that their deck-guns, from which thecanvas muzzle-covers had been removed, could sweep the rocky heightsabove and around them. A string of signal-flags broke out from ourmasthead and was answered in like fashion by the flag-ship of theflotilla, after which formal exchange of greetings our wireless began tocrackle and splutter in an animated explanation of our unexpectedappearance. Our hawsers had scarcely been made fast before a launch leftthe flag-ship and came plowing toward us, a knot of white-uniformedofficers in the stern. From the blue rug with the Italian arms, which, as I could see through my glasses, was draped over the stern-sheets, Ideduced that the commander of the flotilla was paying us a visit. 

"You have come at rather an unfortunate moment, " he said after theintroductions were over. "Last night we were fired on by Jugoslavs onthe mountainside over there, " indicating the heights across the harbor. "In fact, the firing has just ceased. There must have been a thousand ofthem or more, judging from the flashes. But I hope that madame will notbe alarmed, for she is really quite safe. They are firing at long range, and the only danger is from a stray bullet. Still, it is mostembarrassing. On madame's account I am sorry. "

His manner was that of a host apologizing to a guest because thechildren of the family have measles and at the same time attempting toconvince the guest that measles are hardly ever contagious. I relievedhis quite obvious embarrassment by assuring him that Mrs. Powell muchpreferred taking chances with snipers' bullets to the discomfort of adestroyer in an ugly sea; and that, having journeyed six thousand milesfor the express purpose of seeing what was happening in the Balkans, wewould be disappointed if nothing happened at all. 

When I left Paris for the Adriatic I carried with me the impression, asthe result of conversations with members of the various peacedelegations, that the people of Montenegro were almost unanimously infavor of annexation to Serbia, thereby becoming a part of the newKingdom of the Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes. But before I had spenttwenty-four hours in Montenegro itself I discovered that on the subjectof the political future of their little country the Montenegrins arevery far from being of the same mind. And, being a simple, primitivefolk, and strong believers in the superiority of the bullet to theballot, instead of sitting down and arguing the matter, they take coverbehind a convenient rock and, when their political opponents pass by, take pot-shots at them. 

My preconceived opinions about political conditions in Montenegro werelargely based on the knowledge that shortly after the signing of theArmistice a Montenegrin National Assembly, so called, had met atPodgoritza, and, after declaring itself in favor of the deposition ofKing Nicholas and the Petrovitch dynasty, which has ruled in Montenegrosince William of Orange sat on the throne of England, voted for theunion of Montenegro with the Kingdom of the Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes. Just how representative of the real sentiments of the nation was thisassembly I do not know, but that the sentiment in favor of such asurrender of Montenegrin independence is far from being overwhelmingwould seem to be proved by the fact that the Serbs, in order to hold theterritory thus given to them, have found it necessary to install aSerbian military governor in Cetinje, to replace by Serbs all theMontenegrin prefects, to raise a special gendarmerie recruited from menwho are known to be friendly to Serbia and officered by Serbs, and tooccupy this sister-state, which, it is alleged, requested union withSerbia of its own free will, with two battalions of Serbian infantry. IfMontenegrin sentiment for the union is as overwhelming as Belgradeclaims, then it seems to me that the Serbs are acting in a ratherhigh-handed fashion. 

I talked with a good many people while I was in Montenegro, and I wasespecially careful not to meet them through the medium of either Serbsor Italians. From these conversations I learned that the Montenegrinsare divided into three factions. The first of these, and the smallest, desires the return of the King. It represents the old conservativeelement and is composed of the men who have fought under him in manywars. The second faction, which is the noisiest and at present holds thereins of power, advocates the annexation of Montenegro to Serbia and thedeposition of King Nicholas in favor of the Serbian Prince-RegentAlexander. The third party, which, though it has no means of making itsdesires known, is, I am inclined to believe, the largest, and whichnumbers among its supporters the most level-headed and far-seeing men inthe country, while frankly distrustful of Serbian ambitions andunwilling to submit to Serbian dictatorship, possesses sufficient visionto recognize the political and commercial advantages which would accrueto Montenegro were she to become an equal partner in a confederation ofthose Jugoslav countries which claim the same racial origin. Mostthoughtful Montenegrins have always been in favor of a union of all thesouthern Slavs, along the general lines, perhaps, of the GermanicConfederation, but this must not be interpreted as implying that theyare in favor of a union merely of Montenegro with Serbia, which wouldmean the absorption of the smaller country by the larger one. They aredetermined that, if such a confederation is brought about, Serbia shallnot occupy the dictatorial position which Prussia did in Germany, andthat the Karageorgevitches shall not play a rôle analogous to that ofthe Hohenzollerns. Montenegro, remember, threw off the Turkish yoke acentury and three-quarters before Serbia was able to achieve herliberty, and the patriotic among her people feel that this hard-won, long-held independence should not lightly be thrown away. 

It is not generally known, perhaps, that, when Austria declared war onSerbia in August, 1914, an offensive and defensive alliance alreadyexisted between Serbia, Greece, and Montenegro. We know how highlyGreece valued her signature to that treaty. Montenegro, with an areatwo-thirds that of New Jersey, and a population less than that ofMilwaukee, could easily have used her weakness as an excuse forstanding aside, like Greece. Very likely Austria would not have molestedher and the little country would have been spared the horrors of a thirdwar within two years. But King Nicholas's conception of what constitutedloyalty and honor was different from Constantine's. Instead of acceptingthe extensive territorial compensations offered by the Austrian envoy ifMontenegro would remain neutral, King Nicholas wired to the SerbianPremier, M. Pachitch: "_Serbia may rely on the brotherly andunconditional support of Montenegro in this moment, on which depends thefate of the Serbian nation, as well as on any other occasion_, " and tookthe field at the head of 40, 000 troops--all the men able to bear arms inthe little kingdom. 

It has been repeatedly asserted by his enemies that King Nicholas soldout to the Austrians and that, therefore, he deserves neither sympathynor consideration. As to this I have no _direct_ knowledge. How could I?But, after talking with nearly all of the leading actors in theMontenegrin drama, it is my personal belief that the King, though guiltyof many indiscretions and errors of policy, did not betray his people. I am not ignorant of the King's shortcomings in other respects. But inthis case I believe that he has been grossly maligned. If he did sellout he drove an extremely poor bargain, for he is living in exile, inextremely straitened circumstances, his only luxury a car which theFrench Government loans him. It is difficult to believe that, had hebeen a traitor to the Allied cause, the British, French, and Italiangovernments would continue to recognize him, to pay him subventions, andto treat him as a ruling sovereign. Certain American diplomats have toldme that they were convinced that the King had a secret understandingwith Austria, though they admitted quite frankly that their convictionswere based on suspicions which they could not prove. To offset this, avery exalted personage, whose name for obvious reasons I cannot mention, but whose integrity and whose sources of information are beyondquestion, has given me his word that, to his personal knowledge, Nicholas had neither a treaty nor a secret understanding with the enemy. 

"The propaganda against him had been so insidious and successful, however, " my informant concluded, "that even his own soldiers wereconvinced that he had sold out to Austria and when the King attempted torally them as they were falling back from the positions on MountLovtchen they jeered in his face, shouting that he had betrayed them. Yet I, who was on the spot and who am familiar with all the facts, giveyou my personal assurance that he had not. "

Nor did the King give up his sword to the Austrian commander at Grahovo, as was reported in the European press. When, with three-quarters of hiscountry overrun by the Austrians, his chief of staff, Colonel PierrePechitch of the Serbian Army, reported "_Henceforth all resistance andall fighting against the enemy is impossible. There is no chance of thesituation improving_, " King Nicholas, in the words of Baron Sonnino, then Italian Foreign Minister, "preferred to withdraw into exile ratherthan sign a separate peace. "

I may be wrong in my conclusions, of course; the cabinet ministers andthe ambassadors and the generals in whose honor and truthfulness Ibelieve may have deliberately deceived me, but, after a mostpainstaking and conscientious investigation, I am convinced that we havebeen misinformed and blinded by a propaganda against King Nicholas andhis people which has rarely been equaled in audacity of untruth anddexterity of misrepresentation. To employ the methods used by certainBalkan politicians in their attempted elimination of Montenegro as anindependent nation even Tammany Hall would be ashamed. 

When, upon the occupation of Montenegro by the Austrians, the King fledto France and established his government at Neuilly, near Paris--just asthe fugitive Serbian Government was established at Corfu and the Belgianat Le Havre--England, France, and Italy entered into an agreement to payhim a subvention, for the maintenance of himself and his government, until such time as the status of Montenegro was definitely settled bythe Peace Conference. England ceased paying her share of this subventionearly in the spring of 1919. When, a few weeks later, it was announcedthat King Nicholas was preparing to go to Italy to visit his daughter, Queen Elena, the French Minister to the court of Montenegro bluntlyinformed him that the French Government regarded his proposed visit toItaly as the first step toward his return to Montenegro, and that, should he cross the French frontier, France would immediately break offdiplomatic relations with Montenegro and cease paying her share of thesubvention. This would seem to bear out the assertion, which I heardeverywhere in the Balkans, that France is bending every effort towardbuilding up a strong Jugoslavia in order to offset Italy's territorialand commercial ambitions in the peninsula. The French indignantlyrepudiate the suggestion that they are coercing the Montenegrin King. 

"How absurd!" exclaimed the officials with whom I talked. "We holdingKing Nicholas a prisoner? The idea is preposterous. So far as France isconcerned, he can return to Montenegro whenever he chooses. "

Still, their protestations were not entirely convincing. Their attitudereminded me of the millionaire whose daughter, it was rumored, hadeloped with the family chauffeur. 

"Sure, she can marry him if she wants to, " he told the reporters. "Ihave no objection. She is free, white, and twenty-one. But if she doesmarry him I'll stop her allowance, cut her out of my will, and neverspeak to her again. "

Because it has been my privilege to know many sovereigns and because Ihave been honored with the confidence of several of them, I have becometo a certain extent immune from the spell which seems to be exercisedupon the commoner by personal contact with the Lord's anointed. Savewhen I have had some definite mission to accomplish, I have never hadany overwhelming desire "to grasp the hand that shook the hand of JohnL. Sullivan. " To me it seems an impertinence to take the time of busymen merely for the sake of being able to boast about it afterward toyour friends. But because, during my travels in Jugoslavia, I heard KingNicholas repeatedly denounced by Serbian officials with far morebitterness than they employed toward their late enemies and oppressors, the Hapsburgs, I was frankly eager for an opportunity to form my ownopinions about Montenegro's aged ruler. The opportunity came when, uponmy return to Paris, I was informed that the King wished to meet me, hebeing desirous, I suppose, of talking with one who had come so recentlyfrom his own country. 

At that time the King, with the Queen, Prince Peter, and his twounmarried daughters, was occupying a modest suite in the Hotel Meurice, in the rue de Rivoli. He received me in a large, sun-flooded roomoverlooking the Tuileries Gardens. The bald, broad-shouldered, ratherbent old man in the blue serge suit, with a tin ear-trumpet in his hand, who rose from behind a great flat-topped desk to greet me, was astartling contrast to the tall and vigorous figure, in the picturesquedress of a Montenegrin chieftain, whom I had seen in Cetinje before thewar. I looked at him with interest, for he has been on the throne longerthan any living sovereign, he is the father-in-law of two Kings, and isconnected by marriage with half the royal houses of Europe, and he isthe last of that long line of patriarch-rulers who, leading their armiesin person, have for more than two centuries maintained the independenceof the Black Mountain and its people. 

[Illustration: HIS MAJESTY NICHOLAS I. KING OF MONTENEGRO

He has been on the throne longer than any living sovereign, he is thefather-in-law of two kings, and is connected by marriage with half theroyal houses of Europe]

King Nicholas, as is generally known, has been remarkably successful inmarrying off his daughters, two of them having married Kings, twoothers grand dukes, while a fifth became the wife of a Battenbergprince. Remembering this, I was sorely tempted to ask the King as to thetruth of a story which I had heard in Cetinje years before. An Englishvisitor to the Montenegrin capital had been invited to lunch at thepalace. During the meal the King asked his guest his impressions ofMontenegro. 

"Its scenery is magnificent, " was the answer. "Its women are asbeautiful and its men as handsome as any I have ever seen. Theircostumes are marvelously picturesque. But the country appears to have noexports, your Majesty. "

"Ah, my friend, " replied the King, his eyes twinkling, "you forget mydaughters. "

Another story, which illustrates the King's quick wit, was told me byhis Majesty himself. When, some years before the Great War, EmperorFrancis Joseph, on a yachting cruise down the Adriatic, dropped anchorin the Bocche di Cattaro, the Montenegrin mountaineers celebrated theimperial visit by lighting bonfires on their mountain peaks, a mileabove the harbor. 

"I see that you dwell in the clouds, " remarked Francis Joseph toNicholas, as they stood on the deck of the yacht after dinner watchingthe pin-points of flame twinkling high above them. 

"Where else can I live?" responded the Montenegrin ruler. "Austria holdsthe sea; Turkey holds the land; the sky is all that is left forMontenegro. "

One of the things which the King told me during our conversation will, Ithink, interest Americans. He said that when President Wilson arrived inParis he sent him an autograph letter, congratulating him on the greatpart he had played in bringing peace to the world and requesting apersonal interview. 

"But he never granted me the interview, " said the King sadly. "In fact, he never acknowledged my letter. "

I attempted to bridge over the embarrassing pause by suggesting thatperhaps the letter had never been received, but he waved aside thesuggestion as unworthy of consideration. I gathered from what he saidthat royal letters do not miscarry. 

"I realize that I am an old man and that my country is a very small andunimportant one, " he continued, "while your President is the ruler of agreat country and a very busy man. Still, we in Montenegro had heard somuch of America's chivalrous attitude toward small, weak nations that Iwas unduly disappointed, perhaps, when my letter was ignored. I feltthat my age, and the fact that I have occupied the throne of Montenegrofor sixty years, entitled me to the consideration of a reply. "

But we have strayed far from the road which we were traveling. Let usget back to the people of the mountains; I like them better than thepoliticians. Antivari, which nestles in a hollow of the hills, three orfour miles inland from the port of the same name, is one of the mostfascinating little towns in all the Balkans. Its narrow, winding, cobble-paved streets, shaded by canopies of grapevines and bordered byrows of squat, red-tiled houses, their plastered walls tinted pale blue, bright pink or yellow, and the amazingly picturesque costumes of itsinhabitants--slender, stately Montenegrin women in long coats ofturquoise-colored broad-cloth piped with crimson, Bosnians in skin-tightbreeches covered with arabesques of braid and jackets heavy withembroidery, Albanians wearing the starched and pleated skirts of linenknown as _fustanellas_ and _comitadjis_ with cartridge-filled bandoliersslung across their chests and their sashes bristling with assortedweapons, priests of the Orthodox Church with uncut hair and beards, wearing hats that look like inverted stovepipes, hook-nosed, white-bearded, patriarchal-looking Turks in flowing robes and snowyturbans, fierce-faced, keen-eyed mountain herdsmen in fur caps and coatsof sheepskin--all these combined to make me feel that I had intrudedupon the stage of a theater during a musical comedy performance, andthat I must find the exit and escape before I was discovered by thestage-manager. If David Belasco ever visits Antivari he will probablytry to buy the place bodily and transport it to East Forty-fourth Streetand write a play around it. 

There were two gentlemen in Antivari whose actions gave me unalloyeddelight. One of them, so I was told, was the head of the localanti-Serbian faction; the other, a human arsenal with weapons sproutingfrom his person like leaves from an artichoke, was the chief of anotorious band of _comitadjis_, as the Balkan guerrillas are called. They walked up and down the main street of Antivari, arms over eachother's shoulders, heads close together, lost in conversation, butglancing quickly over their shoulders every now and then to see if theywere in danger of being overheard, exactly like the plotters in amotion-picture play. From the earnestness of their conversation, theobvious awe in which they were held by the townspeople, and thesuspicious looks cast in their direction by the Serbian gendarmes, Igathered that in the near future things were going to happen in thatregion. Approaching them, I haltingly explained, in the few words ofSerbian at my command, that I was an American and that I wished tophotograph them. Upon comprehending my request they debated the questionfor some moments, then shook their heads decisively. It was evidentthat, in view of what they had in mind, they considered it imprudent tohave their pictures floating around as a possible means ofidentification. But while they were discussing the matter I took theliberty, without their knowledge, of photographing them anyway. It wasas well, perhaps, that they did not see me do it, for the _comitadji_chieftain had a long knife, two revolvers, and four hand-grenades inhis belt and a rifle slung over his shoulder. 

From Antivari to Valona by sea is about as far as from New York toAlbany by the Hudson, so that, leaving the Montenegrin port in the earlymorning, we had no difficulty in reaching the Albanian one beforesunset. Before the war Valona--which, by the way, appears as Avlona onmost American-made maps--was an insignificant fishing village, but uponItaly's occupation of Albania it became a military base of greatimportance. Whenever we had touched on our journey down the coast we hadbeen warned against going to Valona because of the danger of contractingfever. The town stands on the edge of a marsh bordering the shore and, as no serious attempt has been made to drain the marsh or to clean upthe town itself, about sixty per cent of the troops stationed there areconstantly suffering from a peculiarly virulent form of malaria, similarto the Chagres fever of the Isthmus. The danger of contracting it wasapparently considered very real, for, before we had been an hour in thequarters assigned to us, officers began to arrive with safeguards of onesort or another. One brought screens for all the windows; anotherprovided mosquito-bars for the beds; a third presented us withdisinfectant cubes, which we were to burn in our rooms several timeseach day; a fourth made us a gift of quinine pills, two of which we wereto take hourly; still another of our hosts appeared with a dozen bottlesof _acqua minerale_ and warned us not to drink the local water, and, finally, to ensure us against molestation by prowling natives, a coupleof sentries were posted beneath our windows. 

[Illustration: TWO CONSPIRATORS OF ANTIVARI

They stood lost in conversation, heads close together, exactly like theplotters in a motion picture play]

"Valona isn't a particularly healthy place to live in, I gather?" Iremarked, by way of making conversation, to the officer who was our hostat dinner that evening. His face was as yellow as old parchment and hewas shaking with fever. 

"Well, " he reluctantly admitted, "you must be careful not to be bittenby a mosquito or you will get malaria. And don't drink the water or youwill contract typhoid. And keep away from the native quarter, for thereis always more or less smallpox in the bazaars. And don't go wanderingaround the town after nightfall, for there's always a chance of somefanatic putting a knife between your shoulders. Otherwise, there isn'ta healthier place in the world than Valona. "

Across the street from the building in which we were quartered was alarge mosque, which, judging from the scaffoldings around it, was underrepair. But though it seemed to be a large and important mosque, therewas no work going forward on it. I commented upon this one day to anofficer with whom I was walking. 

"Do you see those storks up there?" he asked, pointing to a pair oflong-legged birds standing beside their nest on the dome of the mosque. "The stork is the sacred bird of Albania and if it makes its nest on abuilding which is in course of construction all work on that buildingceases as long as the stork remains. A barracks we were erecting washeld up for several months because a stork decided to make its nest inthe rafters, whereupon the native workmen threw down their tools andquit. "

"In my country it is just the opposite, " I observed. "There, when thestork comes, instead of stopping work they usually begin building anursery. "

I had long wished to cross Albania and Macedonia, from the Adriatic tothe Ægean, by motor, but the nearer we had drawn to Albania the moreunlikely this project had seemed of realization. We were assured thatthere were no roads in the interior of the country or that such roads asexisted were quite impassable for anything save ox-carts; that thecountry had been devastated by the fighting armies and that it would beimpossible to get food en route; that the mountains we must cross werefrequented by bandits and _comitadjis_ and that we would be exposed toattack and capture; that, though the Italians might see us acrossAlbania, the Serbian and Greek frontier guards would not permit us toenter Macedonia, and, as a final argument against the undertaking, wewere warned that the whole country reeked with fever. But when I toldthe Governor-General of Albania, General Piacentini, what I wished to doevery obstacle disappeared as though at the wave of a magician's wand. 

"You will leave Valona early to-morrow morning, " he said, after a shortconference with his Chief of Staff. "You will be accompanied by anofficer of my staff who was with the Serbian army on its retreat acrossAlbania to the sea. The country is well garrisoned and I do notanticipate the slightest trouble, but, as a measure of precaution, adetachment of soldiers will follow your car in a motor-truck. You willspend the first night at Argirocastro, the second at Ljaskoviki, and thethird at Koritza, which is occupied by the French. I will wire ourdiplomatic agent there to make arrangements with the Jugoslavauthorities for you to cross the Serbian border to Monastir, where westill have a few troops engaged in salvage work. South of Monastir youwill be in Greek territory, but I will wire the officer in command ofthe Italian forces at Salonika to take steps to facilitate your journeyacross Macedonia to the Ægean. "

This journey across one of the most savage and least-known regions inall Europe was arranged as simply and matter-of-factly as a clerk in atourist bureau would plan a motor trip through the White Mountains. Withthe exception of one or two alterations in the itinerary made necessaryby tire trouble, the journey was made precisely as General Piacentiniplanned it and so complete were the arrangements we found that mealsand sleeping quarters had been prepared for us in tiny mountain hamletswhose very names we had never so much as heard before. 

Until its occupation by the Italians in 1917 Albania was not only theleast-known region in Europe; it was one of the least-known regions inthe world. Within sight of Italy, it was less known than many portionsof Central Asia or Equatorial Africa. And it is still a savage country;a land but little changed since the days of Constantine and Diocletian;a land that for more than twenty centuries has acknowledged no masterand, until the coming of the Italians, had known no law. Prior to theItalian occupation there was no government in Albania in the sense inwhich that word is generally used, there being, in fact, no civilgovernment now, the tribal organization which takes its place beingcomparable to that which existed in Scotland under the Stuart Kings. 

The term Albanian would probably pass unrecognized by the great majorityof the inhabitants, who speak of themselves as _Skipétars_ and of theircountry as _Sccupnj_. They are, most ethnologists agree, probably themost ancient race in Europe, there being every reason to believe thatthey are the lineal descendants of those adventurous Aryans who, leavingthe ancestral home on the shores of the Caspian, crossed the Caucasusand entered Europe in the earliest dawn of history. One of the tribes ofthis migrating host, straying into these lonely valleys, settled therewith their flocks and herds, living the same life, speaking the sametongue, following the same customs as their Aryan ancestors, quiteindifferent to the great changes which were taking place in the worldwithout their mountain wall. Certain it is that Albania was already anancient nation when Greek history began. Unlike the other primitivepopulations of the Balkan peninsula, which became in time eitherHellenized, Latinized or Slavonicized, the Albanians have remainedalmost unaffected by foreign influences. It strikes me as a strangething that the courage and determination with which this remarkable racehas maintained itself in its mountain stronghold all down the ages, andthe grim and unyielding front which it has shown to innumerableinvaders, have evoked so little appreciation and admiration in theoutside world. History contains no such epic as that of the Albaniannational hero, George Castriota, better known as Scanderbeg, who, withhis ill-armed mountaineers, overwhelmed twenty-three Ottoman armies, oneafter another. [A]

Picture, if you please, a country remarkably similar in its physicalcharacteristics to the Blue Ridge Region of our own South, with the samewarm summers and the same brief, cold winters, peopled by the samepoverty-stricken, illiterate, quarrelsome, suspicious, arms-bearing, feud-practising race of mountaineers, and you will have the bestdomestic parallel of Albania that I can give you. Though during thesummer months extremely hot days are followed by bitterly cold nights, and though fever is prevalent along the coast and in certain of thevalleys, Albania is, climatically speaking, "a white man's country. " Itsmountains are believed to contain iron, coal, gold, lead, and copper, but the internal condition of the country has made it quite impossibleto investigate its mineral resources, much less to develop them. Withthe exception of Valona, which has been developed into a tolerably goodharbor, there are no ports worthy of the name, Durazzo, Santi Quaranta, and San Giovanni de Medua being mere open roadsteads, almost unprotectedfrom the sea winds. There are no railroads in Albania, and theindifference of the Turkish Government, the corruption of the localchiefs, and the blood-feuds in which the people are almost constantlyengaged, have resulted in a total absence of good roads. This conditionhas been remedied by the Italians, however, who, in order to facilitatetheir military operations, constructed a system of highways very nearlyequal to those they built in the Alps. Though the greater part of thecountry is a stranger to the plow, the small areas which are undercultivation produce excellent olive oil, wine of a tolerable quality, astrong but moderately good tobacco, and considerable grain; Albania, inspite of its primitive agricultural methods, furnishing most of the cornsupply of the Dalmatian coast. 

Albania, so far as I am aware, is the only country where you can buy awife on the instalment plan, just as you would buy a piano or anencyclopedia or a phonograph. It is quite true that there are plenty ofcountries where women can be purchased--in Circassia, for example, andin China, and in the Solomon Group--but in those places the prospectivebridegroom is compelled to pay down the purchase price in cash, notbeing afforded the convenience of opening an account. In Albania, however, such things are better done, a partial payment on the purchaseprice of the girl being paid to her parents when the engagement takesplace, after which she is no longer offered for sale, but is set aside, like an article on which a deposit has been made, until the finalinstalment has been paid, when she is delivered to her future husband. 

Albania is likewise the only country that I know of where every oneconcerned becomes indignant if a murderer is sent to prison. Therelatives of the dear departed resent it because they feel that thejudge has cheated them out of their revenge, which they would probablyobtain, were the murderer at large, by putting a knife or a pistolbullet between his shoulders. The murderer, of course, objects to thesentence both because he does not like imprisonment and because hebelieves that he could escape from the relatives of his victim were hegiven his freedom. If he or his friends have any money, however, theaffair is usually settled on a financial basis, the feud is called off, the murderer is pardoned, and every one concerned, save only the deadman, is as pleased and friendly as though nothing had ever happened tointerrupt their friendly relations. A quaint people, the Albanians. 

In order to develop the resources of the country and to transform itspresent poverty into prosperity, Italy has already inaugurated anextensive scheme of public works, which includes the reclamation of themarshes, the reforestation of the mountains, the reconstruction of thehighways, the improvement of the ports, and the construction of arailway straight across Albania, from the coast at Durazzo to Monastir, in Serbian Macedonia, where it will connect with the line from Belgradeto Salonika. This railway will follow the route of one of the mostimportant arteries of the Roman Empire, the Via Egnatia, that mightymilitary and commercial highway, a trans-Adriatic continuation of theVia Appia, which, starting from Dyracchium, the modern Durazzo, crossedthe Cavaia plain to the Skumbi, climbed the slopes of the Candavianrange, and traversing Macedonia and Thrace, ended at the Bosphorus, thuslinking the capitals of the western and the eastern empires. We traveledthis age-old highway, down which the four-horse chariots of the Cæsarshad rumbled two thousand years ago, in another sort of chariot, with thepower of twenty times four horses beneath its sloping hood. This willentitle us in future years to listen with the condescension of pioneersto the tales of the tourists who make the same trans-Balkan journey in acomfortable _wagon-lit_, with hot and cold running water and electriclights and a dining-car ahead. It is a great thing to have seen acountry in the pioneer stage of its existence. 

In that portion of Southern Albania known as North Epirus we motored foran entire day through a region dotted with what had been, apparently, fairly prosperous towns and villages but which are now heaps offire-blackened ruins. This wholesale devastation, I was informed to myastonishment, was the work of the Greeks, who, at about the time theGermans were horrifying the civilized world by their conduct inBelgium, were doing precisely the same thing, it is said, but on a farmore extensive scale, in Albania. As a result of these atrocities, perpetrated by a so-called Christian and professedly civilized nation, alarge number of Albanian towns and villages were destroyed by fire ordynamite. Though I have been unable to obtain any reliable figures, theconsensus of opinion among the Albanians, the French and Italianofficials, and the American missionaries and relief workers with whom Italked is that between 10, 000 and 12, 000 men, women, and children wereshot, bayoneted, or burned to death, at least double that number diedfrom exposure and starvation, and an enormous number--I have heard thefigure placed as high as 200, 000--were rendered homeless. The storieswhich I heard of the treatment to which the Albanian women weresubjected are so revolting as to be unprintable. We spent a night atLjaskoviki (also spelled Gliascovichi, Leskovik and Liascovik), three-quarters of which had been destroyed. Out of a population which, Iwas told, originally numbered about 8, 000, only 1, 200 remain. 

[Illustration: THE HEAD MEN OF LJASKOVIKI, ALBANIA, WAITING TO BID MAJORAND MRS. POWELL FAREWELL]

Though the great majority of the victims were Mohammedans, theoutrages were not directly due to religious causes but were inspiredmainly by greed for territory. When, upon the erection of Albania intoan independent kingdom in 1913, the Greeks were ordered by the Powers towithdraw from North Epirus, on which they had been steadily encroachingand which they had come to look upon as inalienably their own, they arereported to have begun a systematic series of outrages upon the civilpopulation of the region for which a fitting parallel can be found onlyin the Turkish massacres in Armenia or the horrors of Bolshevik rule inRussia. In their determination to secure Southern Albania forthemselves, the Greeks apparently adopted the policy followed with suchsuccess in Armenia by the Turks, who asserted cynically that "one cannotmake a state without inhabitants. "

I do not think that the Greeks attempt to deny these atrocities--theevidence is far too conclusive for that--but even as great a Greek as M. Venizelos justifies them on the ground that they were provoked by theAlbanians. That such things could happen without arousing horror andcondemnation throughout the civilized world is due to the fact that inthe summer of 1914 the attention of the world was focused on events inFrance and Belgium. I have no quarrel with the Greeks and nothing isfurther from my desire than to engage in what used to be known as"muck-raking, " but I am reporting what I saw and heard in Albaniabecause I believe that the American people ought to know of it. Taken inconjunction with the behavior of the Greek troops in Smyrna in thespring of 1918, it should better enable us to form an opinion as to themoral fitness of the Greeks to be entrusted with mandates over backwardpeoples. 

Though Albania is an Italian protectorate, the Albanians, in spite ofall that Italy is doing toward the development of the country, do notwant Italian protection. This is scarcely to be wondered at, however, inview of the attitude of another untutored people, the Egyptians, who, though they owe their amazing prosperity solely to British rule, wouldoust the British at the first opportunity which offered. Though theItalians are distrusted because the Albanians question theiradministrative ability and because they fear that they will attempt todenationalize them, the French are regarded with a hatred which I haveseldom seen equaled. This is due, I imagine, to the belief that theFrench are allied with their hereditary enemies, the Greeks and theSerbs, and to France's iron-handed rule, which was exemplified whenGeneral Sarrail, commanding the army of the Orient, ordered theexecution of the President of the short-lived Albanian Republic whichwas established at Koritza. As a matter of fact, the Albanians, thoughquite unfitted for independence, are violently opposed to being placedunder the protection of any nation, unless it be the United States orEngland, in both of which they place implicit trust. I was astonished tolearn that the few Americans who have penetrated Albania since thewar--missionaries, Red Cross workers, and one or two investigators forthe Peace Conference--have encouraged the natives in the belief that theUnited States would probably accept a mandate for Albania. Whether theydid this in order to make themselves popular and thereby facilitatetheir missions, or because of an abysmal ignorance of American publicsentiment, I do not know, but the fact remains that they have raisedhopes in the breasts of thousands of Albanians which can never berealized. Everything considered, I think that the Albanians might doworse than to entrust their political future to the guidance of theItalians, who, in addition to having brought law, order, justice, andthe beginnings of prosperity to a country which never had so much as abowing acquaintance with any one of them before, seem to have the bestinterests of the people genuinely at heart. 

Leaving Koritza, a clean, well-kept town of perhaps 10, 000 people, whichwas occupied when we were there by a battalion of black troops from theFrench Sudan and some Moroccans, we went snorting up the Peristeri Rangeby an appallingly steep and narrow road, higher, higher, always higher, until, to paraphrase Kipling, we had

 "One wheel on the Horns o' the Mornin', An' one on the edge o' the Pit, An' a drop into nothin' beneath us As straight as a beggar could spit. "

But at last, when I was beginning to wonder whether our wheels couldfind traction if the grade grew much steeper, we topped the summit ofthe pass and looked down on Macedonia. Below us the forested slopes ofthe mountains ran down, like the folds of a great green rug lyingrumpled on an oaken floor, to meet the bare brown plains of thathistoric land where marched and fought the hosts of Philip of Macedon, and of Alexander, his son. There are few more splendid panoramas in theworld; there is none over which history has cast so magic a spell, forthis barren, dusty land has been the arena in which the races of easternEurope have battled since history began. Within its borders arerepresented all the peoples who are disputing the reversion of theTurkish possessions in Europe. Macedonia might be described, indeed, asthe very quintessence of the near eastern question. 

With brakes a-squeal we slipped down the long, steep gradients toFlorina, where Greek gendarmes, in British sun-helmets and khaki, lounged at the street-crossings and patronizingly waved us past. Thencenorth by the ancient highway which leads to Monastir, the parched andyellow fields on either side still littered with the débris ofwar--broken _camions_ and wagons, shattered cannon, pyramids ofammunition-cases, vast quantities of barbed wire--and sprinkled withwhite crosses, thousands and thousands of them, marking the places wheresleep the youths from Britain, France, Italy, Russia, Serbia, Canada, India, Australia, Africa, who fell in the Last Crusade. 

Monastir is a filthy, ill-paved, characteristically Turkish town, which, before its decimation by the war, was credited with having some 60, 000inhabitants. Of these about one-half were Turks and one-quarter Greeks, the remaining quarter of the inhabitants being composed of Serbs, Jews, Albanians, and Bulgars. Those of its buildings which escaped the greatconflagration which destroyed half the town were terribly shattered bythe long series of bombardments, so that to-day the place looks like SanFrancisco after the earthquake and Baltimore after the fire. In thesuburbs are immense supplies of war _matériel_ of all sorts, mostlygoing to waste. I saw thousands of camions, ambulances, caissons, andwagons literally falling apart from neglect, and this in a country whichis almost destitute of transport. Though the town was packed withSerbian troops, most of whom are sleeping and eating in the open, noattempt was being made, so far as I could see, to repair the shell-tornbuildings, to clean the refuse-littered streets, or to afford theinhabitants even the most nominal police protection. The crack of riflesand revolvers is as frequent in the streets of Monastir as the bang ofbursting tires on Fifth Avenue. A Serbian sentry, on duty outside thehouse in which I was sleeping, suddenly loosed off a clip of cartridgesin the street, for no reason in the world, it seemed, than because heliked to hear the noise! Dead bodies are found nearly every morning. Murders are so common that they do not provoke even passing comment. Inthe night there comes a sharp bark of an automatic or the shatteringroar of a hand-grenade (which, since the war proved its efficacy, hasbecome the most recherché weapon for private use in these regions), aclatter of feet, and a "Hello! Another killing. " That is all. Life isthe cheapest thing there is in the Balkans. 

The only really clean place we found in Monastir was the American RedCross Hospital, an extremely well-managed and efficient institution, which was under the direction of a young American woman, Dr. FrancesFlood, who, with a single woman companion, Miss Jessup, pluckilyremained at her post throughout the greater part of the war. Theofficers who during the war achieved rows of ribbons for having acted asmessenger boys between the War Department and the foreign militarymissions in Washington, would feel a trifle embarrassed, I imagine, ifthey knew what this little American woman did to win _her_ decorations. 

It is in the neighborhood of one hundred and fifty miles from Monastirto Salonika across the Macedonian plain and the road is one of the veryworst in Europe. Deep ruts, into which the car sometimes slipped almostto its hubs, and frequent gullies made driving, save at the mostmoderate speed, impossible, while, as many of the bridges were broken, and without signs to warn the travelers of their condition, we more thanonce barely saved ourselves from plunging through the gaping openings todisaster. The vast traffic of the fighting armies had ground the roadsinto yellow dust which rose in clouds as dense as a London fog, whilethe waves of heat from the sun-scorched plains beat against our faceslike the blast from an open furnace door. Despite its abominablecondition, the road was alive with traffic: droves of buffalo, black, ungainly, broad-horned beasts, their elephant-like hides caked withyellow mud; woolly waves of sheep and goats driven by wild mountainherdsmen in high fur caps and gaudy sashes; caravans of camels, swingingsuperciliously past on padded feet, laden with supplies for the interioror salvaged war material for the coast; clumsy carts, painted in strangedesigns and screaming colors, with great sharpened stakes which lookedas though they were intended for purposes of torture, but whose realduty is to keep the top-heavy loads in place. 

Though the slopes of the Rhodope and the Pindus are clothed withsplendid forests, it is for the most part a flat and treeless land, dotted with clusters of filthy hovels made of sun-dried brick and withpatches of discouraged-looking vegetation. As Macedonia (its inhabitantspronounce it as though the first syllable were _mack_) was once thegranary of the East, I had expected to see illimitable fields of wavinggrain, but such fields as we did see were generally small and poor. Guarding them against the hovering swarms of blackbirds were manyscarecrows, rigged out in the uniforms and topped by the helmets of themen whose bones bleach amid the grain. In Switzerland they make a veryexcellent red wine called _Schweizerblut_, because the grapes from whichit is made are grown on soil reddened by the blood of the Swiss who fellon the battlefield of Morat. If blood makes fine wine, then the bestwine in all the world should come from these Macedonian plains, for theyhave been soaked with blood since ever time began. 

Our halfway town was Vodena, which seemed, after the heat and dust ofthe journey, like an oasis in the desert. Scores of streams, issuingfrom the steep slopes of the encircling hills, race through the town ina network of little canals and fling themselves from a cliff, in aseries of superb cascades, into the wooded valley below. Philip ofMacedon was born near Vodena, and there, in accordance with his wishes, he was buried. You can see the tomb, flanked by ever-burning candles, though you may not enter it, should you happen to pass that way. Hechose his last resting-place well, did the great soldier, for theoverarching boughs of ancient plane-trees turn the cobbled streets ofthe little town into leafy naves, the air is heavy with the scent oforange and oleander, and the place murmurs with the pleasant sound ofplashing water. 

Beyond Vodena the road improved for a time and we fled southward atgreater speed, the telegraph poles leaping at us out of the yellowdust-haze like the pikes of giant sentinels. At Alexander's Well, anancient cistern built from marble blocks and filled with crystal-clearwater, we paused to refill our boiling radiator, and paused again, a fewmiles farther on, at the wretched, mud-walled village which, accordingto local tradition, is the birthplace of the man who made himself masterof three continents, changed the face of the world, and died atthirty-three. 

Then south again, south again, across the seemingly illimitable plains, until, topping a range of bare brown hills, there lay spread before usthe gleaming walls and minarets of that city where Paul preached to theThessalonians. To the westward Olympus seemed to verify the assertionsof the ancient Greeks that its summit touched the sky. To the east, outlined against the Ægean's blue, I could see the peninsula ofChalkis, with its three gaunt capes, Cassandra, Longos, and Athos, reaching toward Thrace, the Hellespont and Asia Minor, like the claw ofa vulture stretched out to snatch the quarry which the eagles killed. 

[Footnote A: Portions of this sketch of the Albanians are drawn from anarticle which I wrote some years ago for _The Independent_. E. A. P. ]

CHAPTER IV

UNDER THE CROSS AND THE CRESCENT

Salonika is superbly situated. To gain it from the seaward side you sailthrough a portal formed by the majestic peaks of Athos and Olympus. Itreclines on the bronze-brown Macedonian hills, white-clad, like a youngGreek goddess, with its feet laved by the blue waters of the Ægean. (Ihave used this simile elsewhere in the book, but it does not matter. )The scores of slender minarets which rise above the housetops belie thecrosses on the Greek flags which flaunt everywhere, hinting that thecity, though it has passed under Christian rule, is at heart stillMoslem. Indeed, barely a tenth of the 200, 000 inhabitants are of theruling race, for Salonika is that rare thing in modern Europe, a citywhose population is by majority Jewish. There were hook-nosed, dark-skinned traders from Judea here, no doubt, as far back as the dayswhen Salonika was but a way-station on the great highroad which linkedthe East with Rome, but it was the Jews expelled from Spain by Ferdinandand Isabella who transformed the straggling Turkish town into one of themost prosperous cities of the Levant by making it their home. And to-daythe Jewish women of Salonika, the older ones at least, wear preciselythe same costume that their great-grandmother wore in Spain before thepersecution--a symbol and a reminder of how the Israelites were huntedby the Christians before they found refuge in a Moslem land. 

There are no less than eight distinct ways of spelling and pronouncingthe city's name. To the Greeks, who are its present owners, it isSaloniki or Saloneke, according to the method of transliterating the_epsilon_; it is known to the Turks, who misruled it for five hundredyears, as Selanik; the British call it Salonica, with the accent on thesecond syllable; the French Salonique; the Italians Salonnico, while theSerbs refer to it as Solun. The best authorities seem to have agreed, however, on Salonika, with the accent on the "i, " which is pronouncedlike "e, " so that it rhymes with "paprika. " But these are allcorruptions and abbreviations, for the city was originally namedThessalonica, after the sister of Alexander of Macedon, and thusreferred to in the two epistles which St. Paul addressed to the churchhe founded there. Owing to the variety of its religious sects, Salonikahas a superfluity of Sabbaths as well as of names, Friday being observedby the Moslems, Saturday by the Jews, and Sunday by the Christians. Perhaps it would be putting it more accurately to say that there is noSabbath at all, for the inhabitants are so eager to make money thatbusiness is transacted on every day of the seven. 

Besides the great colony of Orthodox Jews in Salonika, there is a sectof renegades known as Dounmé, or Deunmeh, who number perhaps 20, 000 inall. These had their beginnings in the _Annus Mirabilis_, when a JewishMessiah, Sabatai Sevi of Smyrna, arose in the Levant. He preached acreed which was a first cousin of those believed in by our ownAnabaptists and Seventh Day Adventists. The name and the fame of himspread across the Near East like fire in dry grass. Every ghetto inTurkey had accepted him; his ritual was adopted by every synagogue; theJews gave themselves over to penance and preparation. For a year honestyreigned in the Levant. Then the prophet set out for Constantinople tobeard the Sultan in his palace and, so he announced, to lead him inchains to Zion. That was where Sabatai Sevi made his big mistake. Forthe Commander of the Faithful was from Missouri, so far as SabataiSevi's claims to divinity were concerned. 

"Messiahs can perform miracles, " the Sultan said. "Let me see youperform one. My Janissaries shall make a target of you. If you are ofdivine origin, as you claim, the arrows will not harm you. And, in anyevent, it will be an interesting experiment. "

[Illustration: THE ANCIENT WALLS OF SALONIKA

Before us we saw the yellow walls and crenellated towers of that citywhere Paul preached to the Thessalonians]

Now Sabatai evidently had grave doubts about his self-assumed divinitybeing arrow-proof, for he protested vigorously against the proposal tomake a human pin-cushion of him, whereupon the Sultan, his suspicionsnow confirmed, gave him his choice between being impaled upon a stake, apopular Turkish pastime of the period, or of renouncing Judaism andaccepting the faith of Islam. Preferring to be a live coward to animpaled martyr, he chose the latter, yet such was his influence withthe Jews that thousands of his adherents voluntarily embraced thereligion of Mohammed. The Dounmé of Salonika are the descendants ofthese renegades. Two centuries of waiting have not dimmed their faith inthe eventual coming of their Messiah. So there they wait, equallydistrusted by Jews and Moslems, though they form the wealthiest portionof the city's population. But they live apart and so dread any mixing oftheir blood with that of the infidel Turk or the unbelieving Jew that, in order to avoid the risk of an unwelcome proposal, they make apractise of betrothing their children before they are born. It strikesme, however, that there must on occasion be a certain amount ofembarrasment connected with these early matches, as, for example, whenthe prenatally engaged ones prove to be of the same sex. 

I used to be of the opinion that Tiflis, in the Caucasus, was the mostcosmopolitan city that I had ever seen, but since the war I think thatthe greatest variety of races could probably be found in Salonika. Sitat a marble-topped table on the pavement in front of Floca's café atthe tea-hour and you can see representatives of half the races in theworld pass by--British officers in beautifully polished boots andbeautifully cut breeches, astride of beautifully groomed ponies;Highlanders with their kilts covered by khaki aprons; raw-boned, red-faced Australians in sun helmets and shorts; swaggering _chausseursd'Afrique_ in wonderful uniforms of sky-blue and scarlet which you willfind nowhere else outside a musical comedy; soldiers of the ForeignLegion with the skirts of their long blue overcoats pinned back and withmushroom-shaped helmets which are much too large for them; soldierly, well set-up little Ghurkas in broad-brimmed hats and uniforms of olivegreen, reminding one for all the world of fighting cocks; Sikhs inyellow khaki (did you know, by the way, that _khaki_ is the Hindustaniword for dust?) with their long black beards neatly plaited and rolledup under their chins; Epirotes wearing the starched and plaited skirtscalled _fustanellas_, each of which requires from twenty to forty yardsof linen; Albanian tribal chiefs in jackets stiff with gold embroidery, with enough weapons thrust in their gaudy sashes to decorate aclub-room; Cretan gendarmes wearing breeches which are so tight belowthe knee and so enormously baggy in the seat that they can, and whenthey are in Crete frequently do, use them in place of a basket forcarrying their poultry, eggs or other farm produce to market; coal-blackSenegalese, coffee-colored Moroccans and tan-colored Algerians, allwearing the broad red cummerbunds and the high red tarbooshes whichdistinguish France's African soldiery; Italian _bersaglieri_ with greatbunches of cocks' feathers hiding their steel helmets; Serbs inununiform uniforms of every conceivable color, material and pattern, their only uniform article of equipment being their characteristichigh-crowned _képis_; Russians in flat caps and belted blouses, theirbaggy trousers tucked into boots with ankles like accordions; officersof Cossack cavalry, their tall and slender figures accentuated by theirlong, tight-fitting coats and their high caps of lambskin; Bulgarprisoners wearing the red-banked caps which they have borrowed fromtheir German allies and Austrian prisoners in worn and shabby uniformsof grayish-blue; Greek soldiers bedecked like Christmas trees withmedals, badges, fourragéres and chevrons, in the hope, I suppose, thattheir gaudiness would make up for their lack of prowess; Orthodoxpriests with their long hair (for they never cut their hair or beards)done up in Psyche knots; Hebrew rabbis wearing caps of velvet shapedlike those worn by bakers; Moslem muftis with their snowy turbansencircled by green scarves as a sign that they had made the pilgrimageto the Holy Places; Jewish merchants and money-changers in the sameblack caps and greasy gabardines which their ancestors wore in theMiddle Ages; British, French, Italian and American bluejackets withtheir caps cocked jauntily and the roll of the sea in their gait;A. R. A. , A. R. C. , Y. M. C. A. , K. Of C. And A. C. R. N. E. Workers in fancyuniforms of every cut and color; Turkish sherbet-sellers with huge brassurns, hung with tinkling bells to give notice of their approach, slungupon their backs; ragged Macedonian bootblacks (bootblacking appeared tobe the national industry of Macedonia), and hordes of gipsy beggars, thefilthiest and most importunate I have ever seen. All day long thismotley, colorful crowd surges through the narrow streets, their voices, speaking in a score of tongues, raising a din like that of Bedlam; thesmells of unwashed bodies, human perspiration, strong tobacco, rum, hashish, whiskey, arrack, goat's cheese, garlic, cheap perfumery andsweat-soaked leather combining in a stench which rises to high Heaven. 

On the streets one sees almost as many colored soldiers as white ones:French native troops from Algeria, Morocco, Madagascar, Senegal andChina; British Indian soldiery from Bengal, the Northwest Provinces andNepaul. The Indian troops were superbly drilled and under the most irondiscipline, but the French native troops appeared to be getting out ofhand and were not to be depended upon. To a man they had announced thatthey wanted to go home. They had been through four and a half years ofwar, they are tired and homesick, and they are more than willing to letthe Balkan peoples settle their own quarrels. They were weary offighting in a quarrel of which they knew little and about which theycared less; they longed for a sight of the wives and the children theyhad left behind them in Fez or Touggourt or Timbuktu. Because they hadbeen kept on duty in Europe, while the French white troops were beingrapidly demobilized and returned to their homes, the Africans weresullen and resentful. This smoldering resentment suddenly burst intoflame, a day or so before we reached Salonika, when a Senegalesesergeant, whose request to be sent home had been refused, ran amuck, barricaded himself in a stone outhouse with a plentiful supply of riflesand ammunition, and succeeded in killing four officers and half-a-dozensoldiers before his career was ended by a well-aimed hand grenade. A fewdays later a British officer was shot and killed in the camp outside thecity by a Ghurka sentinel. This was not due to mutiny, however, but, onthe contrary, to over-strict obedience to orders, the sentry having beeninstructed that he was to permit no one to cross his post withoutchallenging. The officer, who was fresh from England and had had noexperience with the discipline of Indian troops, ignored the order tohalt--and the next day there was a military funeral. 

Salonika is theoretically under Greek rule and there are pompous, self-important little Greek policemen, perfect replicas of the BritishM. P. 's in everything save physique and discipline, on duty at the streetcrossings, but instead of regulating the enormous flow of traffic theyseem only to obstruct it. When the congestion becomes so great that itthreatens to hold up the unending stream of motor-lorries which rollsthrough the city, day and night, between the great cantonments in theoutskirts and the port, a tall British military policeman suddenlyappears from nowhere, shoulders the Greek gendarme aside, and with a fewcurt orders untangles the snarl into which the traffic has gotten itselfand sets it going again. 

Picturesque though Salonika undeniably is, with its splendid mosques, its beautiful Byzantine churches, its Roman triumphal arches, and thebrooding bulk of Mount Olympus, which overshadows and makes trivialeverything else, yet the strongest impressions one carries away arefilth, corruption and misgovernment. These conditions are due in somemeasure, no doubt, to the refusal of the European troops, with whom thecity is filled, to take orders from any save their own officers, but theunderlying reason is to be found in the indifference and grossincompetence of the Greek authorities. The Greeks answer this by sayingthat they have not had time to clean the city up and give it a decentadministration because they have owned it only eight years. All of theEuropean business quarter, including a mile of handsome buildings alongthe waterfront, lies in ruins as a result of the great fire of 1917. Though a system of new streets has been tentatively laid out across thisfire-swept area, no attempt has been made to rebuild the city, hundredsof shopkeepers carrying on their businesses in shacks and booths erectedamid the blackened and tottering walls. All of the hotels worthy of thename were destroyed in the fire, the two or three which escaped beingquite uninhabitable, at least for Europeans, because of the armies ofinsects with which they are infested. I do not recall hearing any onesay a good word for Salonika. The pleasantest recollection which Iretain of the place is that of the steamer which took us away fromthere. 

Before we could leave Salonika for Constantinople our passports had tobe viséd by the representatives of five nations. In fact, travel in theBalkans since the war is just one damn visé after another. The Italiansstamped them because we had come from Albania, which is under Italianprotection. The Serbs put on their imprint because we had stopped for afew days in Monastir. The Greeks affixed their stamp--and collectedhandsomely for doing so--because, theoretically at least, Salonika, whose dust we were shaking from our feet, belongs to them. The Frenchinsisted on viséing our papers in order to show their authority andbecause they needed the ten francs. The British control officer told methat I really didn't need his visé, but that he would put it on anywaybecause it would make the passports look more imposing. Because we weregoing to Constantinople and Bucharest, whereas our passports were madeout for "the Balkan States, " the American Consul would not visé them atall, on the ground that neither Turkey nor Roumania is in the Balkans. About Roumania he was technically correct, but I think most geographersplace European Turkey in the Balkans. As things turned out, however, itwas all labor lost and time thrown away, for we landed in Constantinopleas untroubled by officials and inspectors as though we were steppingashore at Twenty-third Street from a Jersey City ferry. 

There were no regular sailings from Salonika for Constantinople, but, by paying a hundred dollars for a ticket which in pre-war days costtwenty, we succeeded in obtaining passage on an Italian tramp steamer. The _Padova_ was just such a cargo tub as one might expect to findplying between Levantine ports. Though we occupied an officer's cabin, for which we were charged _Mauretania_ rates, it was very far from beingas luxurious as it sounds, for I slept upon a mattress laid upon threechairs and the mattress was soiled and inhabited. Still, it was verydiverting, after an itching night, to watch the cockroaches, which werealmost as large as mice, hurrying about their duties on the floor andceiling. Huddled under the forward awnings were two-score deckpassengers--Greeks, Turks, Armenians and Roumanians. Sprawled on theirstraw-filled mattresses, they loafed the hot and lazy days away inplaying cards, eating the black bread, olives and garlic which they hadbrought with them, smoking a peculiarly strong and villainous tobacco, and torturing native musical instruments of various kinds. At night ayoung Turk sang plaintive, quavering laments to the accompaniment of asort of guitar, some of the others occasionally joining in the mournfulchorus. I found my chief recreation, when it grew too dark to read, inwatching an Orthodox priest, who was one of the deck-passengers, preparefor the night by combing and putting up his long and greasy hair. Another of the deck-passengers was a rather prosperous-looking, middle-aged Levantine who had been in America making his fortune, hetold me, and was now returning to his wife, who lived in a littlevillage on the Dardanelles, after an absence of sixteen years. She hadno idea that he was coming, he said, as he had planned to surprise her. Perhaps he was the one to be surprised. Sixteen years is a long time fora woman to wait for a man, even in a country as conservative as Turkey. 

The officers of the _Padova_ talked a good deal about the mine-fieldsthat still guarded the approaches to the Dardanelles and the possibilitythat some of the deadly contrivances might have broken loose and driftedacross our course. In order to cheer us up the captain showed us thecharts, on which the mined areas were indicated by diagonal shadings, little red arrows pointing the way between them along channels asnarrow and devious as a forest trail. To add to our sense of security hetold us that he had never been through the Dardanelles before, addingthat he did not intend to pick up a pilot, as he considered theircharges exorbitant. At the base of the great mine-field which liesacross the mouth of the Straits we were hailed by a British patrol boat, whose choleric commander bellowed instructions at us, interlarded withmuch profanity, through a megaphone. The captain of the _Padova_ couldunderstand a few simple English phrases, if slowly spoken, but thebroadside of Billingsgate only confused and puzzled him, so, despite thefact that he had no pilot and that darkness was rapidly descending, hekept serenely on his course. This seemed to enrage the British skipper, who threw over his wheel and ran directly across our bows, very much asone polo player tries to ride off another. 

"You ---- fool!" he bellowed, fairly dancing about his quarter-deck withrage. "Why in hell don't you stop when I tell you to? Don't you knowthat you're running straight into a mine-field? Drop anchor alongside meand do it ---- quick or I'll take your ---- license away from you. AndI don't want any of your ---- excuses, either. I won't listen to 'em. "

"What he say?" the captain asked me. "I not onderstan' hees Engleeshver' good. "

"No, you wouldn't, " I told him. "He's speaking a sort of patois, yousee. He wants to know if you will have the great kindness to drop anchoralongside him until morning, for it is forbidden to pass through themine-fields in the dark, and he hopes that you will have a very pleasantnight. "

Five minutes later our anchor had rumbled down off Sed-ul-Bahr, underthe shadow of Cape Helles, the tip of that rock, sun-scorched, blood-soaked peninsula which was the scene of that most heroic ofmilitary failures--the Gallipoli campaign. Above us, on the bare brownhillside, was what looked, in the rapidly deepening twilight, like apatch of driven snow, but upon examining it through my glasses I sawthat it was a field enclosed by a rude wall and planted thickly withsmall white wooden crosses, standing row on row. Then I remembered. Itwas at the foot of these steep and steel-swept bluffs that the Anzacsmade their immortal landing; it is here, in earth soaked with their ownblood, that they lie sleeping. The crowded dugouts in which they dwelthave already fallen in; the trenches which they dug and which they heldto the death have crumbled into furrows; their bones lie among the rocksand bushes at the foot of that dark and ominous hill on whose slopesthey made their supreme sacrifice. Leaning on the rail of the desertedbridge in the darkness and the silence it seemed as though I could seetheir ghosts standing amid the crosses on the hillside staring longinglyacross the world toward that sun-baked Karroo of Australia and to theblue New Zealand mountains which they called "Home. " It was a nightnever to be forgotten, for the glassy surface of the Ægean glowed withphosphorescence, the sky was like a hanging of purple velvet, and thepeak of our foremast seemed almost to graze the stars. Across theHellespont, to the southward, the sky was illumined by a ruddy glow--avillage burning, so a sailor told me, on the site of ancient Troy. Andthen there came back to me those lines from Agamemnon which I hadlearned as a boy:

 _"Beside the ruins of Troy they lie buried, those men so beautiful; there they have their burial-place, hidden in an enemy's land!"_

We got under way at daybreak and, picking our way as cautiously as asmall boy who is trying to get out of the house at night withoutawakening his family, we crept warily through the vast mine-field whichwas laid across the entrance to the Dardanelles, past Sed-ul-Bahr, whosesandy beach is littered with the rusting skeletons of both Allied andTurkish warships and transports; past Kalid Bahr, where the high bluffsare dotted with the ruins of Turkish forts destroyed by the shell-fireof the British dreadnaughts on the other side of the peninsula and withthe remains of other forts which were destroyed in the Crusaders' times;past Chanak, where the steep hill-slopes behind the town were white withBritish tents, and so into the safe waters of the Marmora Sea. Though Iwas perfectly familiar with the topography of the Gallipoli Peninsula, as well as with the possibilities of modern naval guns, I was astonishedat the evidences, which we saw along the shore for miles, of theextraordinary accuracy of the fire of the British fleet. Virtually allthe forts defending the Dardanelles were bombarded by indirect fire, remember, the whole width of the peninsula separating them from thefleet. To get a mental picture of the situation you must imaginewarships lying in the East River firing over Manhattan Island in anattempt to reduce fortifications on the Hudson. Men who were in theGallipoli forts during the bombardment told me that, though they wereprevented by the rocky ridge which forms the spine of the peninsula fromseeing the British warships, and though, for the same reason, thegunners on the ships could not see the forts, the great steelcalling-cards of the British Empire came falling out of nowhere asregularly and with as deadly precision as though they were being firedat point-blank range. 

The successful defense of the Dardanelles, one of the most brilliantlyconducted defensive operations of the entire war, was primarily due tothe courage and stubborn endurance of Turkey's Anatolian soldiery, ignorant, stolid, hardy, fearless peasants, who were taken straight fromtheir farms in Asia Minor, put into wretchedly made, ill-fittinguniforms, hastily trained by German drillmasters, set down in thetrenches on the Gallipoli ridge and told to hold them. No one who isfamiliar with the conditions under which these Turkish soldiers fought, who knows how wretched were the conditions under which they lived, whohas seen those waterless, sun-seared ridges which they held against themight of Britain's navy and the best troops which the Allies could bringagainst them, can withhold from them his admiration. Their valor wasdeserving of a better cause. 

CHAPTER V

WILL THE SICK MAN OF EUROPE RECOVER?

Each time that I have approached Constantinople from the Marmora Sea andhave watched that glorious and fascinating panorama--Seraglio Point, St. Sophia, Stamboul, the Golden Horn, the Galata Bridge, the heights ofPera, Dolmabagtche, Yildiz--slowly unfold, revealing new beauties, newmysteries, with each revolution of the steamer's screw, I have declaredthat in all the world there is no city so lovely as this capital of theCaliphs. Yet, beautiful though Constantinople is, it combines the moralsqualor of Southern Europe with the physical squalor of the Orient to agreater degree than any city in the Levant. Though it has assumed theoutward appearance of a well-organized and fairly well administeredmunicipality since its occupation by the Allies, one has but to scratchthis thin veneer to discover that the filth and vice and corruption andmisgovernment which characterized it under Ottoman rule still remain. Barring a few municipal improvements which were made in the Europeanquarter of Pera and in the fashionable residential districts betweenDolmabagtche and Yildiz, the Turkish capital has scarcely a bowingacquaintance with modern sanitation, the windows of some of the finestresidences in Stamboul looking out on open sewers down which refuse ofevery description floats slowly to the sea or takes lodgment on thebanks, these masses of decaying matter attracting great swarms ofpestilence-breeding flies. The streets are thronged with women whosevirtue is as easy as an old shoe, attracted by the presence of thearmies as vultures are attracted by the smell of carrion. Saloons, brothels, dives and gambling hells run wide open and virtuallyunrestricted, and as a consequence venereal diseases abound, though theBritish military authorities, in order to protect their own men, haveput the more notorious resorts "out of bounds" and, in order to providemore wholesome recreations for the troops, have opened amusement parkscalled "military gardens. " In spite of the British, French, Italian andTurkish military police who are on duty in the streets, stabbingaffrays, shootings and robberies are so common that they provoke butlittle comment. Petty thievery is universal. Hats, coats, canes, umbrellas disappear from beside one's chair in hotels and restaurants. The Pera Palace Hotel has notices posted in its corridors warning theguests that it is no longer safe to place their shoes outside theirdoors to be polished. The streets, always wretchedly paved, have beenground to pieces by the unending procession of motor-lorries, and, asthey are never by any chance repaired, the first rain transforms theminto a series of hog-wallows. The most populous districts of Pera, ofGalata, and of Stamboul are now disfigured by great areas offire-blackened ruins--reminders of the several terrible conflagrationsfrom which the Turkish capital has suffered in recent years. "Should theUnited States decide to accept the mandate for Constantinople, " aresident remarked to me, "these burned districts would give her anopportunity to start rebuilding the city on modern sanitary lines" and, he might have added, at American expense. 

The prices of necessities are fantastic and of luxuries fabulous. Thecost of everything has advanced from 200 to 1, 200 per cent. The price ofa meal is no longer reckoned in piastres but in Turkish pounds, thoughthis is not as startling as it sounds, for the Turkish _lira_ hasdropped to about a quarter of its normal value. Quite a modest dinnerfor two at such places as Tokatlian's, the Pera Palace Hotel, or thePera Gardens, costs the equivalent of from fifteen to twenty dollars. Everything else is in proportion. From the "Little Club" in Pera to theGalata Bridge is about a seven minutes' drive by carriage. In the olddays the standard tariff for the trip was twenty-five cents. Now thecabmen refuse to turn a wheel for less than two dollars. 

Speaking of money, the chief occupation of the traveler in the Balkansis exchanging the currency of one country for that of another: lira intodinars, dinars into drachmæ, drachmæ into piastres, piastres into leva, leva into lei, lei into roubles (though no one ever exchanges his moneyfor roubles if he can possibly help it), roubles into kronen, and kroneninto lire again. The idea is to leave each country with as little aspossible of that country's currency in your possession. It is likeplaying that card game in which you are penalized for every heart youhave left in your hand. 

"But how is the Sick Man?" I hear you ask. 

He is doing very nicely, thank you. In fact, he appears to be steadilyimproving. There was a time, shortly after the Armistice, when it seemedcertain that he would have to submit to an operation, which he probablywould not have survived, but the surgeons disagreed as to the method ofoperating and now it looks as though he would get well in spite of them. He has a chill every time they hold a consultation, of course, but hewill probably escape the operation altogether, though he may have totake some extremely unpleasant medicine and be kept on a diet forseveral years to come. He has remarkable recuperative powers, you know, and his friends expect to see him up and about before long. 

That may sound flippant, as it is, but it sums up in a single paragraphthe extraordinary political situation which exists in Turkey to-day. Little more than a year ago Turkey surrendered in defeat, her resourcesexhausted, her armies destroyed or scattered. If anything in the worldseemed certain at that time it was that the redhanded nation, whose veryname has for centuries been a synonym for cruelty and oppression, woulddisappear from the map of Europe, if not from the map of the world, atthe behest of an outraged civilization. The Turkish Government committedthe most outrageous crime of the entire war when it organized thesystematic extermination of the Armenians. Its former Minister of War, Enver Pasha, has been quoted as cynically remarking, "If there are nomore Armenians there can be no Armenian question. " A people capable ofsuch barbarity ought no longer be permitted to sully Europe with theirpresence: they ought to be driven back into those savage Anatolianregions whence they came and kept there, just as those suffering from aless objectionable form of leprosy are confined on Molokai. But thefervor of a year ago for expelling the Turks from Europe is rapidlydying down. In the spring of 1919 Turkey could have been partitioned bythe Allies with comparatively little friction. No one expected it morethan Turkey herself. Whenever she heard a step on the floor, a knock atthe door, she keyed herself for the ordeal of the anesthetic and theoperating table. But the ancient jealousies and rivalries of the Ententenations, which had been forgotten during the war, returned with peaceand now it looks as though, as a result of these nations' distrust andsuspicion of each other, the Turks would win back by diplomacy what theylost in battle. How History repeats itself! The Turks have often beenunlucky in war and then had a return of luck at the peace table. It wasso after the Russo-Turkish War, when the Congress of Berlin tore up theTreaty of San Stefano. It was so to a lesser extent after the Balkanwars, when the interference of the European Concert enabled Turkey torecover Adrianople and a portion of the Thracian territory which she hadlost to Bulgaria. And now it looks as though she were once again toescape the punishment she so richly merits. If she does, then Historywill chronicle few more shameful miscarriages of justice. 

If the people of the United States could know for a surety of theavarice, the selfishness, the cynicism which have marked every step ofthe negotiations relative to the settlement of the Near EasternQuestion, if they were aware of the chicanery and the deceit and the lowcunning practised by the European diplomatists, I am convinced thatthere would be an irresistible demand that we withdraw instantly fromparticipation in the affairs of Southeastern Europe and of Western Asia. Why not look the facts in the face? Why not admit that these affairsare, after all, none of our concern, and that, by every one save theTurks and the Armenians, our attempted dictation is resented. In thelanguage of the frontier, we have butted into a game in which we are notwanted. It is no game for up-lifters or amateurs. England, France, Italyand Greece are not in this game to bring order out of chaos but toestablish "spheres of influence. " They are not thinking aboutself-determination and the rights of little peoples and making the worldsafe for Democracy; they are thinking in terms of future commercial andterritorial advantage. They are playing for the richest stakes in thehistory of the world: for the control of the Bosphorus and the BagdadRailway--for whoever controls them controls the trade routes to India, Persia, and the vast, untouched regions of Transcaspia; the commercialdomination of Western Asia, and the overlordship of that city whichstands at the crossroads of the Eastern World and its political capitalof Islam. 

In order better to appreciate the subtleties of the game which they areplaying, let us glance over the shoulders of the players, and get aglimpse of their hands. Take England to begin with. Unless I am greatlymistaken, England is not in favor of a complete dismemberment of Turkeyor the expulsion of the Sultan from Constantinople. This is a complete_volte face_ from the sentiment in England immediately after the war, but during the interim she has heard in no uncertain terms from her100, 000, 000 Mohammedan subjects in India, who look on the Turkish Sultanas the head of their religion and who would resent his humiliation asdeeply, and probably much more violently, than the Roman Catholics wouldresent the humiliation of the Pope. British rule in India, as those whoare in touch with Oriental affairs know, is none too stable, and thelast thing in the world England wants to do is to arouse the hostilityof her Moslem subjects by affronting the head of their faith. Englandwill unquestionably retain control of Mesopotamia for the sake of theoil wells at the head of the Persian Gulf, the control which it givesher of the eastern section of the Bagdad Railway, and because of herbelief that scientific irrigation will once more transform the plains ofBabylonia into one of the greatest wheat-producing regions in the world. She may, and probably will, keep her oft-repeated promises to the Jewsby erecting Palestine into a Hebrew kingdom under British protection, iffor no other reason than its value as a buffer state to protect Egypt. She will also, I assume, continue to foster and support the policy ofPan-Arabism, as expressed In the new Kingdom of the Hedjaz, not alonefor the reason that control of the Arabian peninsula gives her completecommand of the Red Sea and the Persian Gulf as well as a highroad fromEgypt to her new protectorate of Persia, but because she hopes, Iimagine, that her protege, the King of Hedjaz, as Sheriff of Mecca, willeventually supplant the Sultan as the religious head of Islam. (It isinteresting to note, in passing, that, as a result of the protectorateswhich she has proclaimed over Mesopotamia, Palestine, Arabia and Persia, England has, as a direct result of the war, obtained control of newterritories in Asia alone having an area greater than that of all thestates east of the Mississippi put together, with a population of some20, 000, 000. ) Though England would unquestionably welcome the UnitedStates accepting a mandate for Constantinople, which would ensure theneutrality of the Bosphorus, and for Armenia, which, under Americanprotection, would form a stabilized buffer state on Mesopotamia'snorthern border, I am convinced that, even if the United States refusessuch mandates, the British Government will oppose the serioushumiliation of the Sultan-Khalif, or the complete dismemberment of hisdominions. 

The latest French plan is to establish an independent Turkey fromAdrianople to the Taurus Mountains, lopping off Syria, which will becomea French protectorate, and Mesopotamia and Palestine, which will remainunder British control. 

Constantinople, according to the French view, must remain independent, though doubtless the freedom of the Straits would be assured by someform of international control. France is not particularly enthusiasticabout the establishment of an independent Armenia, for many Frenchpoliticians believe that the interests of the Armenians can besafeguarded while permitting them to remain under the nominal suzeraintyof Turkey, but she will oppose no active objections to Armenianindependence. But there must be no crusade against the TurkishNationalists who are operating in Asia Minor and no pretext given forNationalist massacres of Greeks and Armenians. And the Sultan mustretain the Khalifate and his capital in Constantinople, for, accordingto the French view, it is far better for the interests of France, whohas nearly 30, 000, 000 Moslem subjects of her own, to have an independenthead of Islam at Constantinople, where he would be to a certain extentunder French influence, than to have a British-controlled one at Mecca. The truth of the matter is that France is desperately anxious to protecther financial interests in Turkey, which are already enormous, and sheknows perfectly well that her commercial and financial ascendency onthe Bosphorus will suddenly wane if the Empire should be dismembered. That is the real reason why she is cuddling up to the Sick Man. Beingperfectly aware that neither England nor Italy would consent to herbecoming the mandatary for Constantinople, she proposes to do the nextbest thing and rule Turkey in the future, as in the past, through themedium of her financial interests. Sophisticated men who have read theremarkable tributes to Turkey which have been appearing in the Frenchpress, and its palliation of her long list of crimes, have been awarethat something was afoot, but only those who have been on the inside ofrecent events realize how enormous are the stakes, and how shrewd andsubtle a game France is playing. 

Strictly speaking, Italy is not one of the claimants to Constantinople. Not that she does not want it, mind you, but because she knows thatthere is about as much chance of her being awarded such a mandate asthere is of her obtaining French Savoy, which she likewise covets. Underno conceivable conditions would France consent to the Bosphorus passingunder Italian control; according to French views, indeed, Italy isalready far too powerful in the Balkans. Recognizing the hopelessness ofattempting to overcome French opposition, Italy has confined her claimsto the great rich region of Cilicia, which roughly corresponds to theTurkish vilayet of Adana, a rich and fertile region in southern AsiaMinor, with a coast line stretching from Adana to Alexandretta. Cilicia, I might mention parenthetically, is usually included in the proposedArmenian state, and Armenians have anticipated that Alexandretta wouldbe their port on the Mediterranean, but, while the peacemakers at Parishave been discussing the question, Italy has been pouring her troopsinto this region, having already occupied the hinterland as far back asKonia. Italy's sole claim to this region is that she wants it and thatshe is going to take it while the taking is good. There are, it is true, a few Italians along the coast, there are some Italian banks, andconsiderable Italian money has been invested in various local projects, but the population is overwhelmingly Turkish. But, as the Italians pointout in defending this piece of land-grabbing, Article 22 of the Covenantof the League of Nations expressly states that the wishes of people notyet civilized need not be considered. 

Let us now consider the claims of Greece as a reversionary of the SickMan's estate. Considering their attitude during the early part of thewar (for it is no secret that General Sarrail's operations in Macedoniawere seriously hampered by his fear that Greece might attack him in therear) and the paucity of their losses in battle, the Greeks have donereasonably well in the game of territory grabbing. Do you realize, Iwonder, the full extent of the Hellenic claims? Greece asks for (1) thesouthern portion of Albania, known as North Epirus; (2) for the whole ofBulgarian Thrace, thus completely barring Bulgaria from the Ægean; (3)for the whole of European Turkey, including the Dardanelles andConstantinople; (4) for the province of Trebizond, on the southern shoreof the Black Sea, the Greek inhabitants of which attempted to establishthe so-called Pontus Republic; (5) the great seaport of Smyrna, with its400, 000 inhabitants, and a considerable portion of the hinterland, whichshe has already occupied; (6) the Dodecannessus Islands, of which thelargest is Rhodes, off the western coast of Asia Minor, which theItalians occupied during the Turco-Italian War and which they have notevacuated; (7) the cession of Cyprus by England, which has administeredit since 1878. Greece's modest demands might be summed up in the wordsof a song which was popular in the United States a dozen years ago andwhich might appropriately be adopted by the Greeks as their nationalanthem:

 "All I want is fifty million dollars, A champagne fountain flowing at my feet; J. Pierpont Morgan waiting at the table, And Sousa's band a-playing while I eat. "

I will be quite candid in saying that I have small sympathy for Greece'sclaims to these territories, not because she is not entitled to them onthe ground of nationality--for there is no denying that, in all of theregions in question, save only Albania and Thrace, Greeks form amajority of the Christian inhabitants--but because she is not herselfsufficiently advanced to be entrusted with authority over other races, particularly over Mohammedans. The atrocities committed by Greek troopson the Moslems of Albania and of Smyrna, to say nothing of the behaviorof the Greek bands in Macedonia during the Balkan wars, should besufficient proof of her unfitness to govern an alien race. I havealready spoken in some detail of the reported Greek outrages in Albania. But this was not an isolated instance of the methods employed in"Hellenizing" Moslem populations. In the spring of 1919 the PeaceConference, hypnotized, apparently, by M. Venizelos, who is one of theablest diplomats of the day, made the mistake of permitting Greekforces, unaccompanied by other troops, to land at Smyrna. Almostimmediately there began an indiscriminate slaughter of Turkish officialsand civilians, in retaliation, so the Greeks assert, for the massacre ofGreeks by Turks in the outlying districts. The obvious answer to this isthat, while the Greeks claim that they are a civilized race, they assertthat the Turks are not. The outcry against the Greeks on this occasionwas so great that an inter-allied commission, including Americanrepresentatives, was appointed to make a thorough investigation. Thiscommission unanimously found the Greeks guilty of the unprovokedmassacre of 800 Turkish men, women and children, who were shot down incold blood while being marched along the Smyrna waterfront, those whowere not killed instantly being thrown by Greek soldiers into the sea. High handed and outrageous conduct by Greek troops in the towns andvillages back of Smyrna was also proved. I do not require any furthertestimony as to the unwisdom of placing Mohammedans under Greek control, but, if I did, I have the evidence of Mr. Hamlin, the son of the founderof Roberts College, who was born in the Levant, who speaks both Turkishand Greek, and who was sent to Smyrna by the Greek government as aninvestigator and adviser. He told me that the Greek attitude toward theMoslems was highly provocative and overbearing and that the Allies wereguilty of criminal negligence when they permitted the Greeks to land atSmyrna alone. 

Though they know that their dream of restoring Hellenic rule overByzantium cannot be realized, the Greeks are bitterly opposed to theUnited States receiving a mandate for Constantinople. The extent ofGreek hostility toward the United States is not appreciated in America, yet I found traces of it everywhere in the Levant. A widespread Greekpropaganda has laid the responsibility for Greece's failure to get thewhole of Thrace at the door of the United States. To this accusation hasbeen added the charge that Americans were foremost in creating sentimentagainst the Greek massacres in Smyrna, which, the Greeks contend, wasmerely an unfortunate incident and should be overlooked. All sorts ofextraordinary reasons are advanced for America's alleged hostility toGreek claims, ranging from the charge that our attitude is inspired bythe missionaries (for the Orthodox Church has always opposed thepresence of American missionaries in Greek lands) to commercialambition. As one leading Greek paper put it, "Alongside of America'sgreed and schemes for commercial expansion since the war, Germany'simperialism was pure idealism. "

[Illustration: YILDIZ KIOSK, THE FAVORITE PALACE OF ABDUL-HAMID AND HISSUCCESSORS ON THE THRONE OF OSMAN

The building in the foreground, known as the Ambassador's Pavilion, isonly a small portion of the great Palace which in Abdul-Hamid's timehoused upward of 10, 000 persons]

And now a few words as to the attitude of Turkey herself, for she has, after all, a certain interest in the matter. The Turks are perfectlyresigned to accepting either America, England or France as mandatary, though they would much prefer America, provided that European Turkey, Anatolia and Armenia are kept together, for they realize that Syria, Mesopotamia and Arabia, whose populations are overwhelmingly Arab, arelost to them forever. What they would most eagerly welcome would be anAmerican mandate for European Turkey and the whole of Asia Minor, including Armenia. This would keep out the Greeks, whom they hate, andthe Italians, whom they distrust, and it would keep intact the mostvaluable portion of the Empire and the part for which they have thedeepest sentimental attachment. Most Turks believe that, with America asthe mandatary power, the country would not only benefit enormouslythrough the railways, roads, harbor works, agricultural projects, sanitary improvements and financial reforms which would be carried outat American expense, as in the Philippines, but that, should the Turksbehave themselves and demonstrate an ability for self-government, America would eventually restore their complete independence, as she haspromised to restore that of the Filipinos. But if they find thatConstantinople and Armenia are to be taken away from them, then Iimagine that they would vigorously oppose any mandatary whatsoever. Andthey could make a far more effective opposition than is generallybelieved, for, though Constantinople is admittedly at the mercy of theAllied fleet in the Bosphorus, the Nationalist are said to haverecruited a force numbering nearly 300, 000 men, composed of well-trainedand moderately well equipped veterans of the Gallipoli campaign, whichis concentrated in the almost inaccessible regions of Central Anatolia. Moreover, Enver Pasha, the former Minister of War and leader of theYoung Turk party, who, it is reported, has made himself King ofKurdistan, is said to be in command of a considerable force of Turks, Kurds and Georgians which he has raised for the avowed purpose of endingthe troublesome Armenian question by exterminating what is left of theArmenians, and by effecting a union of the Turks, the Kurds, theMohammedans of the Caucasus, the Persians, the Tartars and the Turkomansinto a vast Turanian Empire, which would stretch from the shores of theMediterranean to the borders of China. Though the realization of such ascheme is exceedingly improbable, it is by no means as far-fetched orchimerical as it sounds, for Enver is bold, shrewd, highly intelligentand utterly unscrupulous and to weld the various races of his proposedempire he is utilizing an enormously effective agency--the fanaticalfaith of all Moslems in the future of Islam. Neither England nor Francehave any desire to stir up this hornet's nest, which would probablyresult in grave disorders among their own Moslem subjects and whichwould almost certainly precipitate widespread massacres of theChristians in Asia Minor, for the sake of dismembering Turkey andousting the Sultan. 

I have tried to make it clear that there is nothing which the Turks sourgently desire as for the United States to take a mandate for the wholeof Turkey. Those who are in touch with public opinion in this countryrealize, of course, that the people of the United States would neverapprove of, and that Congress would never give its assent to such anadventure, yet there are a considerable number of well-informed, ableand conscientious men--former Ambassador Henry Morgenthau and PresidentHenry King of Oberlin, for example--who give it their enthusiasticsupport. And they are backed up by a host of missionaries, commercialrepresentatives, concessionaires and special commissioners of one sortand another. When I was in Constantinople the European colony in thatcity was watching with interest and amusement the maneuvers of the Turksto bring the American officials around to accepting this view of thematter. They "rushed" the rear admiral who was acting as American HighCommissioner and his wife as the members of a college fraternity "rush"a desirable freshman. And, come to think of it, most of the Americanofficials who were sent out to investigate and report on conditions inTurkey are freshmen when it comes to the complexities of Near Easternaffairs. This does not apply, of course, to such men as Consul-GeneralRavndal at Constantinople, Consul-General Horton at Smyrna, Dr. HowardBliss, President of the Syrian Protestant College at Beirut, and certainothers, who have lived in the Levant for many years and are intimatelyfamiliar with the intricacies of its politics and the characters of itspeoples. But it does apply to those officials who, after hasty andpersonally conducted tours through Asiatic Turkey, or a few months'residence in the Turkish capital, are accepted as "experts" by the PeaceConference and by the Government at Washington. When I listen to theirdogmatic opinions on subjects of which most of them were in abysmalignorance prior to the Armistice, I am always reminded of a remark oncemade to me by Sir Edwin Pears, the celebrated historian and authority onTurkish affairs. "I don't pretend to understand the Turkish character, "Sir Edwin remarked dryly, "but, you see, I have lived here only fortyyears. "

It is an interesting and altruistic scheme, this proposed regenerationat American expense of a corrupt and decadent empire, but in theirenthusiasm its supporters seem to have overlooked several obviousobjections. In the first place, though both England and France areperfectly willing to have the United States accept a mandate forEuropean Turkey, Armenia and even Anatolia, I doubt if England wouldwelcome with enthusiasm a proposal that she should evacuate Palestineand Mesopotamia, the conquest of which has cost her so much in blood andgold, or whether France would consent to renounce her claims to Syria, of which she has always considered herself the legatee. As for Italy andGreece, I imagine that it would prove as difficult to oust the one fromAdalia and the other from Smyrna as it has been to oust the Poet fromFiume. Secondly, such a mandate would mean the end of Armenia's dream ofindependence, for, though she might be given a certain measure ofautonomy, and though she would, of course, no longer be exposed toTurkish massacres, she would enjoy about as much real independence undersuch an arrangement as the native states of India enjoy under theBritish Raj. Lastly, nothing is further from our intention, if I knowthe temper of my countrymen, than to assume any responsibility in orderto resurrect the Turk, nor are we interested in preserving the integrityof Turkey in any guise, shape or form. Instead of perpetuating theunspeakable rule of the Osmanli, we should assist in ending it forever. 

And now we come to the question of accepting a mandate for Armenia. Inorder to get a mental picture of this foundling which we are asked torear you must imagine a country about the size of North Dakota, withDakota's cold winters and scorching summers, consisting of a dreary, monotonous, mile-high plateau with grass-covered, treeless mountainsand watered by many rivers, whose valleys form wide strips of arableland. Rising above the general level of this Armenian tableland arebarren and forbidding ranges, broken by many gloomy gorges, whichculminate, on the extreme northeast, in the mighty peak of Ararat, thetraditional resting-place of the Ark. Armenia is completely hemmed in byalien and potentially hostile races. On the northeast are the wildtribes of the Caucasus; on the east are the Persians, who, though nothostile to Armenian aspirations, are of the faith of Islam; alongArmenia's southern border are the Kurds, a race as savage, as cruel andas relentless as were the Apaches of our own West; on the east isAnatolia, with its overwhelmingly Ottoman population. Before the war theArmenians in the six Turkish vilayets--Trebizond, Erzeroum, Van, Bitlis, Mamuret-el-Aziz and Diarbekir--numbered perhaps 2, 000, 000, as comparedwith about 700, 000 Turks. But there is no saying how many Armeniansremain, for during the past five years the Turks have perpetrated aseries of wholesale massacres in order to be able to tell the ChristianPowers, as a Turkish official cynically remarked, that "one cannot makea state without inhabitants. "

As just and accurate an estimate of the Armenian character as any I haveread is that written by Sir Charles William Wilson, perhaps the foremostauthority on the subject, for the Encyclopædia Britannica: "TheArmenians are essentially an Oriental people, possessing, like the Jews, whom they resemble in their exclusiveness and widespread dispersion, aremarkable tenacity of race and faculty of adaptation to circumstances. They are frugal, sober, industrious and intelligent and their sturdinessof character has enabled them to preserve their nationality and religionunder the sorest trials. They are strongly attached to old manners andcustoms but have also a real desire for progress which is full ofpromise. On the other hand they are greedy of gain, quarrelsome in smallmatters, self-seeking and wanting in stability; and they are gifted witha tendency to exaggeration and a love of intrigue which has had anunfortunate effect on their history. They are deeply separated byreligious differences and their mutual jealousies, their inordinatevanity, their versatility and their cosmopolitan character must alwaysbe an obstacle to a realization of the dreams of the nationalists. Thewant of courage and selfreliance, the deficiency in truth and honestysometimes noticed in connection with them, are doubtless due to longservitude under an unsympathetic government. "

It seems to me that it is time to subordinate sentiment to common sensein discussing the question of Armenia. I have known many Armenians and Ihave the deepest sympathy for the woes of that tragic race, but if theArmenians are in danger of extermination their fate is a matter for theAllies as a whole, or for the League of Nations, if there ever is one, but not for the United States alone. To administer and police Armeniawould probably require an army corps, or upwards of 50, 000 men, and Idoubt if a force of such size could be raised for service in so remoteand inhospitable a region without great difficulty. My personal opinionis that the Armenians, if given the necessary encouragement andassistance, are capable of governing themselves. Certainly they couldnot govern themselves more wretchedly than the Mexicans, yet there hasbeen no serious proposal that the United States should take a mandatefor Mexico. Everything considered, I am convinced that the highestinterests of Armenia, of America, and of civilization would be bestserved by making Armenia an independent state, having much the samerelation to the United States as Cuba. Let us finance the ArmenianRepublic by all means, let us lend it officers to organize itsgendarmerie and teachers for its schools, let us send it agriculturaland sanitary and building and financial experts, and let us give therest of the world, particularly the Turks, to understand that we willtolerate no infringement of its sovereignly. Do that, set the Armenianson their feet, safeguard them politically and financially, and thenleave them to work out their own salvation. 

Though prophesying is a dangerous business, and likely to lead toembarrassment and chagrin for the prophet, I am willing to hazard aguess that the future maps of what was once the Ottoman Dominions willbe laid out something after this fashion: Mesopotamia will be tintedred, because it will be British. Palestine will also be under Britain'sægis--a little independent Hebrew state, not much larger than Panama. Under the word "Syria" will appear the inscription "FrenchProtectorate. " The Adalia region will be designated "Italian Sphere ofInfluence, " while Smyrna and its immediate hinterland will probably belabeled "Greek Sphere. " Across the northeastern corner of Asia Minorwill be spread the words "Republic of Armenia" and beneath, inparentheses, "Independence guaranteed by the United States. " The wholeof Anatolia, save the Greek and Italian fringes just mentioned, will beoccupied and ruled by the Turks, for it is their ancestral home. Thefortifications along the Dardanelles and the Bosphorus will be leveledand they, with Constantinople, will be under some form of internationalcontrol, with equal rights for all nations. But, unless I am very muchmistaken, the Turks will _not_ be driven out of Europe, as has so longbeen predicted; the Ottoman Government will not retire to Brusa, in AsiaMinor, but will continue to function in Stamboul, and the Sultan, as thereligious head of Islam, will still dwell in the great white palace atopof Yildiz hill. 

CHAPTER VI

WHAT THE PEACE-MAKERS HAVE DONE ON THE DANUBE

When I called upon M. Bratianu, the Prime Minister of Rumania, who wasin Paris as a delegate to the Peace Conference, I opened theconversation by innocently remarking that I proposed to spend some weeksin his country during my travels in the Balkans. But I got no further, for M. Bratianu, whose tremendous shoulders and bristling black beardmake him appear even larger than he is, sprang to his feet and broughthis fist crashing down upon the table. 

"You ought to know better than that, Major Powell, " he angrilyexclaimed. "Rumania is not in the Balkans and never has been. We objectto being called a Balkan people. "

I apologized for my slip, of course, and amicable relations wereresumed, but I mention the incident as an illustration of how deeplythe Rumanians resent the inclusion of their country in that group ofturbulent kingdoms which compose what some one has aptly called theCockpit of Europe. The Rumanians are as sensitive in this respect as arethe haughty and aristocratic Creoles, inordinately proud of their Frenchor Spanish ancestry, when some ignorant Northerner remarks that he hadalways supposed that Creoles were part negro. Not only is Rumania notone of the Balkan states, geographically speaking, but the Rumanians'idea of their country's importance has been enormously increased as aresult of its recent territorial acquisitions, which have made it thesixth largest country in Europe, with an area very nearly equal to thatof Italy and with a population three-fourths that of Spain. You were notaware, perhaps, that the width of Greater Rumania, from east to west, isas great as the width of France from the English Channel to theMediterranean. One has to break into a run to keep pace with the marchof geography these days. 

Owing to the demoralization prevailing in Thrace and Bulgaria, railwaycommunications between Constantinople and the Rumanian frontier were sodisorganized that we decided to travel by steamer to Constantza, takingthe railway thence to Bucharest. Before the war the Royal Rumanian mailsteamer _Carol I_ was as trim and luxuriously fitted a vessel as onecould have found in Levantine waters. For more than a year, however, shewas in the hands of the Bolsheviks, so that when we boarded her hersides were red with rust, her cabins had been stripped of everythingwhich could be carried away, and the straw-filled mattresses, eachcovered with a dubious-looking blanket, were as full of unwelcomeoccupants as the Black Sea was of floating mines. 

[Illustration: THE RED BADGE OF MERCY IN THE BALKANS

American Red Cross women supplying food to a ship-load of starvingRussian refugees at Constantza, Rumania]

Constantza, the chief port of Rumania, is superbly situated on aheadland overlooking the Black Sea. It has an excellent harbor, borderedon one side by a number of large grain elevators and on the other by arow of enormous petroleum tanks--the latter the property of an Americancorporation; a mile or so of asphalted streets, several surprisinglyfine public buildings, and, on the beautifully terraced and landscapedwaterfront, an imposing but rather ornate casino and many luxurioussummer villas, most of which were badly damaged when the city wasbombarded by the Bulgars. Constantza is a favorite seaside resort forBucharest society and during the season its _plage_ is thronged withsummer visitors dressed in the height of the Paris fashion. From atophis marble pedestal in the city's principal square a statue of the Romanpoet Ovid, who lived here in exile for many years, looks quizzicallydown upon the light-hearted throng. 

It is in the neighborhood of 150 miles by railway from Constantza toBucharest and before the war the Orient Express used to make the journeyin less than four hours. Now it takes between twenty and thirty. We madea record trip, for our train left Constantza at four o'clock in themorning and pulled into Bucharest shortly before midnight. It is onlyfair to explain, however, that the length of time consumed in thejourney was due to the fact that the bridge across the Danube nearTchernavoda, which was blown up by the Bulgars, had not been repaired, thus necessitating the transfer of the passengers and their luggageacross the river on flat-boats, a proceeding which required severalhours and was marked by the wildest confusion. So few trains arerunning in the Balkans that there are never enough, or nearly enough, seats to accommodate all the passengers, so that fully as many ride onthe roofs of the coaches as inside. This has the advantage, in the eyesof the passengers, of making it impracticable for the conductor tocollect the fares, but it also has certain disadvantages. During ourtrip from Constantza to Bucharest three roof passengers rolled off andwere killed. 

As a result of the lengthy occupation of the city by the Austro-Germans, and their systematic removal of machinery and industrial material ofevery description, everything is out of order in Bucharest. Water, electric lights, gas, telephones, elevators, street-cars "_ne marchepas_. " Though we had a large and beautifully furnished room in thePalace Hotel we had to climb three flights of stairs to reach it, thelight was furnished by candles, the water for the bathroom was broughtin buckets, and, as the Germans had removed the wires of thehouse-telephones, we had to go into the hall and shout when we requireda servant. Yet the almost total lack of conveniences does not deter thehotels from making the most exorbitant charges. Bucharest has alwaysbeen an expensive city but to-day the prices are fantastic. At Capsa's, which is the most fashionable restaurant, it is difficult to get even amodest lunch for two for less than twelve dollars. But, notwithstandingthe destruction of the nation's chief source of wealth, its oil wells, by the Rumanians themselves, in order to prevent their use by the enemy, and the systematic looting of the country by the invaders, there seemsto be no lack of money in Bucharest, for the restaurants are filled tothe doors nightly, there is a constant fusillade of champagne corks, andin the various gardens, all of which have cabaret performances, thepopular dancers are showered with silver and notes. In fact, a customaryevening in Bucharest is not very far removed, in its gaiety and abandon, from a New Year's Eve celebration in New York. Not even Paris can offera gayer night life than the Rumanian capital, for at the Jockey Club itis no uncommon thing for 10, 000 francs to change hands on the turn of acard or a whirl of the roulette wheel; out the Chaussée Kisselew, at theWhite City, the dance floor is crowded until daybreak with slender, rather effeminate-looking officers in beautiful uniforms of green orpale blue and superbly gowned and bejewelled women. Indeed, I doubt ifthere is any city of its size in the world on whose streets one sees somany _chic_ and beautiful women, though I might add that their jewelsare generally of a higher quality than their morals. As long as thesebewitching beauties behave themselves they are not molested by thepolice, who seem to have an arrangement with the hotel managementslooking toward their control. When Mrs. Powell and I arrived at ourhotel the proprietor asked us for our passports, which, he explained, must be viséd by the police. The following morning my passport wasreturned alone. 

"But where is my wife's passport?" I demanded, for in Southern Europe inthese days it is impossible to travel even short distances without one'spapers. 

"But M'sieu must know that we always retain the lady's passport until heleaves, " said the proprietor, with a knowing smile. "Then, should shedisappear with M'sieu's watch, or his money, or his jewels, she will notbe able to leave the city and the police can quickly arrest her. Yes, it is the custom here. A neat idea, _hein_?"

Though I succeeded in obtaining the return of Mrs. Powell's passport Iam not at all certain that I succeeded in entirely convincing the_hôtelier_ that she really was my wife. 

Rumania is at present passing through a period of transition. Not onlyhave the area and population of the country been more than doubled, butthe war has changed all other conditions and the new forms of nationallife are still unsettled. In the summer of 1918 even the most optimisticRumanians doubted if the nation would emerge from the war with more thana fraction of its former territory, yet to-day, as a result of theacquisition of Transylvania, Bessarabia and the eastern half of theBanat, the country's population has risen from seven to fourteenmillions and its area from 50, 000 to more than 100, 000 square miles. Thenew conditions have brought new laws. Of these the most revolutionary isthe law which forbids landowners to retain more than 1, 000 acres oftheir land, the government taking over and paying for the residue, whichis given to the peasants to cultivate. As a result of this policy, there have been practically no strikes or labor troubles in Rumania, for, now that most of their demands have been conceded, the Rumanianpeasants seem willing to seek their welfare in work instead ofBolshevism. Heretofore the Jews, though liable to military service, havenot been permitted a voice in the government of their country, but, as aresult of recent legislation, they have now been granted full civilrights, though whether they will be permitted to exercise them isanother question. The Jews, who number upwards of a quarter of amillion, have a strangle hold on the finances of the country and theymust not be permitted, the Rumanians insist, to get a similar grip onthe nation's politics. It is only very recently, indeed, that RumanianJews have been granted passports, which meant that only those richenough to obtain papers by bribery could enter or leave the country. TheRumanians with whom I discussed the question said quite frankly that thelegislation granting suffrage to the Jews would probably be observedvery much as the Constitutional Amendment granting suffrage to thenegroes is observed in our own South. 

The truth of the matter is that Rumania is in the hands of a clique ofselfish and utterly unscrupulous politicians who have grown rich fromtheir systematic exploitation of the national resources. Every bank andnearly every commercial enterprise of importance is in their hands. Oneof the present ministers entered the cabinet a poor man; to-day he isreputed to be worth twenty millions. Anything can be purchased inRumania--passports, exemption from military service, cabinet portfolios, commercial concessions--if you have the money to pay for it. The fingersof Rumanian officials are as sticky as those of the Turks. An officer ofthe American Relief Administration told me that barely sixty per cent, of the supplies sent from the United States for the relief of theRumanian peasantry ever reached those for whom they were intended; theother forty per cent, was kept by various officials. To find a parallelfor the political corruption which exists throughout Rumania it isnecessary to go back to New York under the Tweed administration or toMexico under the Diaz régime. 

From a wealthy Hungarian landowner, with whom I traveled from Bucharestto the frontier of Jugoslavia, I obtained a graphic idea of what can beaccomplished by money in Rumania. This young Hungarian, who had beeneducated in England and spoke with a Cambridge accent, possessed largeestates in northeastern Hungary. After four years' service as an officerof cavalry he was demobilized upon the signing of the Armistice. Whenthe revolution led by Bela Kun broke out in Budapest he escaped fromthat city on foot, only to be arrested by the Rumanians as he wascrossing the Rumanian frontier. Fortunately for him, he had ample fundsin his possession, obtained from the sale of the cattle on his estate, so that he was able to purchase his freedom after spending only threedays in jail. But his release did not materially improve his situation, for he had no passport and, as Hungary was then under Bolshevist rule, he was unable to obtain one. And he realized that without a passport itwould be impossible for him to join his wife and children, who wereawaiting him in Switzerland. As luck would have it, however, he wasslightly acquainted with the prefect of a small town inTransylvania--for obvious reasons I shall not mention its name--which hefinally reached after great difficulty, traveling by night and lyinghidden by day so as to avoid being halted and questioned by the Rumanianpatrols. By paying the prefect 1, 000 francs and giving him and hisfriends a dinner at the local hotel, he obtained a certificate statingthat he was a citizen of the town and in good standing with the localauthorities. Armed with this document, which was sufficient to convinceinquisitive border officials of his Rumanian nationality, he took trainfor Bucharest, where he spent five weeks dickering for a Rumanianpassport which would enable him to leave the country. Including thebribes and entertainments which he gave to officials, and gifts of onesort and another to minor functionaries, it cost him something over25, 000 francs to obtain a passport duly viséd for Switzerland. But myfriend's anxieties did not end there, for a Rumanian leaving the countrywas not permitted to take more than 1, 000 francs in currency with him, those suspected of having in their possession funds in excess of thisamount being subjected to a careful search at the frontier. My friendhad with him, however, something over 500, 000 francs, all that he hadbeen able to realize from his estates. How to get this sum out of thecountry was a perplexing problem, but he finally solved it by concealingthe notes, which were of large denomination, in the bottom of a box ofexpensive face powder, which, he explained to the officials at thefrontier, he was taking as a present to his wife. When the train drewinto the first Serbian station and he realized that he was beyond thereach of pursuit, he capered up and down the platform like a small boywhen school closes for the long vacation. 

Considerable astonishment seems to have been manifested by the Americanpress and public at the disinclination of Rumania and Jugoslavia to signthe treaty with Austria without reservations. Yet this should scarcelyoccasion surprise, for the attitude of the great among the Allies towardthe smaller brethren who helped them along the road to victory has beenat times blameworthy, often inexplicable, and on frequent occasionsarrogant and tactless. At the outset of the Peace Conference someendeavor was made to live up to the promises so loudly made thathenceforth the rights of the weak were to receive as much attention asthose of the strong. Commissions were formed to study various aspects ofthe questions involved in the peace and upon these the representativesof the smaller nations were given seats. But this did not last long. Within a month Messrs. Wilson, Lloyd-George, Clémenceau and Orlando hadmade themselves virtually the dictators of the Peace Conference, deciding behind closed doors matters of vital moment to the nationalwelfare of the small states without so much as taking them intoconsultation. Prime Minister Bratianu, who went to Paris as the head ofthe Rumanian peace delegation, told me, his voice hoarse withindignation, that the "Big Four, " in settling Rumania's futureboundaries, had not only not consulted him but that he had not even beeninformed of the terms decided upon. "They hand us a fountain pen and say'Sign here, '" the Premier exclaimed, "and then they are surprised if werefuse to affix our signatures to a document which vitally concerns ournational future but about which we have never been consulted. "

We Americans, of all peoples, should realize that a small nation is asjealous of its independence as a large one. As a matter of fact, Rumaniaand her sister-states of Southeastern Europe, who still bear the scarsof Turkish oppression, are super-sensitive in this respect, the factthat they have so often been the victims of intriguing neighbors makingthem more than ordinarily suspicious and resentful toward any actionwhich tends to limit their mastery of their own households. Hence theyregard that clause of the Treaty of St. Germain providing for theprotection of ethnical minorities with an indignation which cannoteasily be appreciated by the Western nations. The boundaries of the newand aggrandized states of Southeastern Europe will necessarily includealien minorities--this cannot be avoided--and the Peace Conference heldthat the welfare of such minorities must be the special concern of theLeague of Nations. Take the case of Rumania, for example. In order tounite her people she must annex some compact masses of aliens which, incertain cases at least, have been deliberately planted withinethnological frontiers for a specific purpose. The settlements ofMagyars in Transylvania, who, under Hungarian rule, were permitted toexploit their Rumanian neighbors without let or hindrance, will notwillingly surrender the privileges they have so long enjoyed and submitto a régime of strict justice and equality. On the other hand, Rumaniacan scarcely be expected to agree to an arrangement which would not onlyimpair her sovereignty but would almost certainly encourage intrigue andunrest among these alien minorities. How would the United States regarda proposal to submit its administration of the Philippines tointernational control? How would England like the League of Nations totake a hand in the government of Ireland? That, briefly stated, is thereason why both Rumania and Jugoslavia objected so strongly to theinclusion of the so-called racial minorities clause in the Treaty of St. Germain. Looking at the other side of the question, it Is easy tounderstand the solicitude which the treaty-makers at Paris displayed forthe thousands of Magyars, Serbs and Bulgars who, without so much as aby-your-leave, they have placed under Rumanian rule. No less authoritythan Viscount Bryce has made the assertion that in Transylvania alone(which, by the way, has an area considerably greater than all our NewEngland states put together), which has been taken over by Rumania, fully a third of the population has no affinity with the Rumanians. Similarly, there are whole towns in the Dobrudja which are composed ofBulgarians, there are large groups of Russian Slavs in Bessarabia, andconsiderable colonies of Jugoslavs in the eastern half of the Banatwhich, very much against their wishes, have been forced to submit toRumanian rule. Whether, now that the tables are turned, the Rumanianswill put aside their ancient animosities and prejudices and give thesenew and unwilling citizens every privilege which they themselves enjoy, is a question which only the future can solve. 

Another question, which has agitated Rumania even more violently thanthat of the racial minorities clause, was the demand made by the GreatPowers that the Rumanian army be withdrawn from Hungary and that thelivestock and agricultural implements of which that unhappy country wasstripped by the Rumanian forces be immediately returned. Here is theRumanian version: Hungary went Bolshevist and assumed a hostileattitude toward Rumania, Czechoslovakia and Jugoslavia, the threecountries which will benefit by her dismemberment according to theprinciple of nationality. Hungary attacked these countries by arms andby anarchistic propaganda. The Rumanians, the Czechoslovaks and theJugoslavs, wishing to defend themselves, asked permission of the SupremeCouncil to deal drastically with the Hungarian menace. The reply, whichwas late in coming, was couched in vague and unsatisfactory language. Emboldened by the vacillatory attitude of the Powers, the Hungariansbegan a military offensive, invading Czechoslovakia and crossing thelines of the Armistice in Rumania and Jugoslavia. In order to prevent aspread of this Bolshevist movement the three countries prepared tooccupy Hungary with troops, whereupon a command came from the SupremeCouncil in Paris that such aggression would not be tolerated. Thisencouraged Bela Kun, the Hungarian Trotzky, and made him so popular thathe succeeded in raising a Red army with which he crossed the RiverTheiss and invaded Rumania. Whereupon the Rumanian army, being unable toobtain support from the Supreme Council, pushed back the Hungarians, occupied Budapest, overthrew Bela Kun's administration and restoredorder in Hungary. But the Supreme Council, feeling that its authorityhad been ignored by the little country, sent several messages to theRumanian Government peremptorily ordering it to withdraw its troopsimmediately from Hungary. Here endeth the Rumanian version. 

Now the real reason which actuated the Supreme Council was not that itfelt that its authority had been slighted, but because it was informedby its representatives in Hungary that the Rumanians had not stoppedwith ousting Bela Kun and suppressing Bolshevism, but were engaged insystematically looting the country, driving off thousands of head oflivestock, and carrying away all the machinery, rolling stock, telephoneand telegraph wires and instruments and metalwork they could lay theirhands on, thereby completely crippling the industries of Hungary anddepriving great numbers of people of employment. The Rumanians retortedthat the Austro-German armies had systematically looted Rumania duringtheir three years of occupation and that they were only taking backwhat belonged to them. The Hungarians, while admitting that Rumania hadbeen pretty thoroughly stripped of animals and machinery by vonMackensen's armies, asserted that this loot had not remained in Hungarybut had been taken to Germany, which was probably true. The SupremeCouncil took the position that the animals and material which theRumanians were rushing out of Hungary in train-loads was not the soleproperty of Rumania, but that it was the property of all the Allies, andthat the Supreme Council would apportion it among them in its own goodtime. The Council pointed out, furthermore, that if the Rumanianssucceeded in wrecking Hungary industrially, as they were evidentlytrying to do, it would be manifestly impossible for the Hungarians topay any war indemnity whatsoever. And finally, that a bankrupt andstarving Hungary meant a Bolshevist Hungary and that there was alreadyenough trouble of that sort in Eastern Europe without adding to it. TheRumanians proving deaf to these arguments, the Supreme Council sentthree messages, one after the other, to the Bucharest government, ordering the immediate withdrawal from Hungarian soil of the Rumaniantroops. Yet the Rumanian troops remained in Budapest and the looting ofHungary continued, the Rumanian government declaring that the messageshad never been received. Meanwhile every one in the kingdom, fromPremier to peasant, was laughing in his sleeve at the helplessness ofthe Supreme Council. But they laughed too soon. For the Supreme Councilwired to the Food Administrator, Herbert Hoover, who was in Vienna, informing him of the facts of the situation, whereupon Mr. Hoover, whohas a blunt and uncomfortably direct way of achieving his ends, sent acurt message to the Rumanian government informing it that, if the ordersof the Supreme Council were not immediately obeyed, he would shut offits supplies of food. _That_ message produced action. The troops werewithdrawn. I can recall no more striking example of the amazing changesbrought about in Europe by the Great War than the picture of thisboyish-faced Californian mining engineer coolly giving orders to aEuropean government, and having those orders promptly obeyed, after thecommands of the Great Powers had been met with refusal and derision. Totake a slight liberty with the lines of Mr. Kipling--

 _"The Kings must come down and the Emperors frown When Herbert Hoover says 'Stop!'"_

Up to that time the United States had been immensely popular in Rumania. But Mr. Hoover's action made us about as popular with the Rumanians asthe smallpox. He and we were charged with being actuated by the mostdespicable and sordid motives. The King himself told me that he wasconvinced that Mr. Hoover was in league with certain great commercialinterests which wished to take their revenge for their failure to obtaincommercial concessions of great value in Rumania. A cabinet minister, indiscussing the incident with me, became so inarticulate with rage thathe could scarcely talk at all. 

But the United States is not the only country which has lost theconfidence of the Rumanians. France is even more deeply distrusted anddisliked than we are. And this in spite of the fact that the upperclasses of Rumania have held up the French as their ideal for the pastfifty years. Indeed, wealthy Rumanians live in a fashion more Frenchthan if they dwelt in Paris itself. This sudden unpopularity of theFrench is due to several causes. After having expected much of them, thepeople were amazed and bitterly disappointed at their apparentindifference toward the future of Rumania. Then there were theunfortunate incidents at Odessa, the withdrawal of the French forcesfrom that city before the advance of the Bolsheviks, and the regrettablehappening in the French Black Sea fleet These things, of course, contributed to loss of French prestige. Another contributory factor hasbeen the lack of enterprise of French capitalists, causing those whocontrol the financial and economic development of Rumania to seekencouragement and assistance elsewhere. But the underlying reason forthe deep-seated distrust of France is to be found, I think, in France'sattempt to maintain the balance of power in Southeastern Europe bybuilding up a strong Jugoslavia. Now the Rumanians, it must beremembered, hate the Jugoslavs even more bitterly than they hate theHungarians--and they are far more afraid of them. This hatred is notmerely the result of the age-long antagonism between the Latin and theSlav; it is also political. The Rumanians have watched with growingjealousy and apprehension the expansion of Serbia into a state with apopulation and area nearly equal to their own. After having long dreamedof the day when they would themselves be arbiters of the destinies ofthe nations of Southeastern Europe, they see their political supremacychallenged by the new Kingdom of the Serbs, Croats and Slovenes, behindwhich they discern the power and influence of France. When thedismemberment of the Austro-Hungarian Empire began, Rumania demanded andexpected the whole of the great rich province of the Banat, with theMaros River for her northern and the Danube for her southern frontier. 

"But that would place our capital within range of the Rumanianartillery, " the Serbian prime minister is said to have exclaimed. 

"Then move your capital, " the Rumanian premier responded drily. 

As a result of this controversy over the Banat the relations of the twonations have been strained almost to the breaking-point. When I was inthe Banat in the autumn of 1919 the Rumanian and Serbian frontierguards were glowering at each other like fighting terriers held inleash, and the slightest untoward incident would have precipitated aconflict! Although, by the terms of the Treaty of St. Germain, Jugoslavia was awarded the western half of the Banat, Rumania isprepared to take advantage of the first opportunity which presentsitself to take it away from her rival. When I was in Bucharest a cabinetminister concluded a lengthy exposition of Rumania's position bydeclaring:

"Within the next two or three years, in all probability, there will be awar between Jugoslavia and Italy over the Dalmatian question. The daythat Jugoslavia goes to war with Italy we will attack Jugoslavia andseize the Banat. The Danube is Rumania's natural and logical frontier. "

This would seem to bear out the assertion that there exists a secretalliance between Italy and Rumania, which, if true, would placeJugoslavia in the unhappy position of a nut between the jaws of acracker. I have also been told on excellent authority that there islikewise an "understanding" between Italy and Bulgaria that, should theformer become engaged in a war with the Jugoslavs, the latter willattack the Serbs from the east and regain her lost provinces inMacedonia. A pleasant prospect for Southeastern Europe, truly. 

While we were in Bucharest we received an invitation--"command" is thecorrect word according to court usage--to visit the King and Queen ofRumania at their Château of Pelesch, near Sinaia, in the Carpathians. Itis about a hundred miles by road from the capital to Sinaia and thefirst half of the journey, which we made by motor, was over a road asexecrable as any we found in the Balkans. Upon reaching the foothills ofthe Carpathians, however, the highway, which had been steadily growingworse, suddenly took a turn for the better--due, no doubt, to theinvigorating qualities of the mountain atmosphere--and climbedvigorously upward through wild gorges and splendid pine forests whichreminded me of the Adirondacks of Northern New York. Notwithstanding theatrocious condition of the highway, which constantly threatened todislocate our joints as well as those of the car, and the choking, blinding clouds of yellow dust, every change of figure on thespeedometer brought new and interesting scenes. For mile after mile theroad, straight as though marked out by a ruler, ran between fields ofwheat and corn as vast as those of our own West. In spite of the factthat the Austro-Germans carried off all the animals and farmingimplements they could lay their hands on, the agricultural prosperity ofRumania is astounding. In 1916, for example, while involved in aterribly destructive war, Rumania produced more wheat than Minnesota andabout twenty-five times as much corn as our three Pacific Coast statescombined. At frequent intervals we passed huge scarlet threshingmachines, most of them labeled "Made in U. S. A. , " which were centers ofactivity for hundreds of white-smocked peasants who were hauling in thegrain with ox-teams, feeding it into the voracious maws of the machines, and piling the residue of straw into the largest stacks I have everseen. As we drew near the mountains the grain fields gave way to grazinglands where great herds of cattle of various breeds--brindled milchanimals, massive cream-colored oxen, blue-gray buffalo with elephantlike hides and broad, curving horns, and gaunt steers that looked forall the world like Texas longhorns--browsed amid the lush green grass. 

Though the villages of the Wallachian plain are few and far between, andthough it is no uncommon thing for a peasant to walk a dozen miles fromhis home to the fields in which he works, the whole region seemed a-humwith industry. The Rumanian peasant, like his fellows below the Danube, is, as a rule, a good-natured, easy-going though easily excited, reasonably honest and extremely industrious fellow who labors from dawnto darkness in six days of the week and spends the seventh in harmlessvillage carouses, chiefly characterized by dancing, music and the cheapnative wine. Rumania is one of the few countries in Europe where thepeasants still dress like the pictures on the postcards. The men wearcurly-brimmed shovel hats of black felt, like those affected by Englishcurates, and loose shirts of white linen, whose tails, instead of beingtucked into the trousers, flap freely about their legs, giving them theappearance of having responded to an alarm of fire without waiting tofinish dressing. On Sundays and holidays men and women alike appear ingarments covered with the gorgeous needlework for which Rumania isfamous, some of the women's dresses being so heavily embroidered in goldand silver that from a little distance the wearers look as though theywere enveloped in chain mail. A considerable and undesirable element ofRumania's population consists of gipsies, whence their name of Romany, or Rumani. The Rumanian gipsies, who are nomads and vagrants like theirkinsmen in the United States, are generally lazy, quarrelsome, dishonestand untrustworthy, supporting themselves by horse-trading andcattle-stealing or by their flocks and herds. We stopped near one oftheir picturesque encampments in order to repair a tire and I took apicture of a young woman with a child in her arms, but when I declinedto pay her the five lei she demanded for the privilege, she flew at melike an angry cat, screaming curses and maledictions. But her picturewas not worth five lei, as you can see for yourself. 

[Illustration: A PEASANT OF OLD SERBIA

The Serbian peasant is simple, kindly, hospitable, honest, and generous, and, though he could not be described . .. As a hard worker, his wifeinvariably is]

[Illustration: THE GYPSY WHO DEMANDED FIVE LEI FOR THE PRIVILEGE OFTAKING HER PICTURE]

The Castle of Pelesch is just such a royal residence as Anthony Hope hasdepicted in _The Prisoner of Zenda_. It gives the impression, at firstsight, of a confusion of turrets, gables, balconies, terraces, parapets and fountains, but one quickly forgets its architecturalshortcomings in the beauty of its surroundings. It stands amid velvetlawns and wonderful rose gardens in a sort of forest glade, from whichthe pine-clothed slopes of the Carpathians rise steeply on every side, the beam-and-plaster walls, the red-tiled roofs, and the blazing gardensof the château forming a striking contrast to the austerity of themountains and the solemnity of the encircling forest. 

We had rather expected to be presented to Queen Marie with somesemblance of formality in one of the reception rooms of the château, butshe sent word by her lady-in-waiting that she would receive us in thegardens. A few minutes later she came swinging toward us across a greatstretch of rolling lawn, a splendid figure of a woman, dressed in amagnificent native costume of white and silver, a white scarf partiallyconcealing her masses of tawny hair, a long-bladed poniard in a silversheath hanging from her girdle. At her heels were a dozen Russian wolfhounds, the gift, so she told me, of the Grand Duke Nicholas, the formercommander-in-chief of the Russian armies. I have seen many queens, butI have never seen one who so completely meets the popular conception ofwhat a queen should look like as Marie of Rumania. Though in the middleforties, her complexion is so faultless, her physique so superb, herpresence so commanding that, were she utterly unknown, she would stillbe a center of attraction in any assemblage. Had she not been born to acrown she would almost certainly have made a great name for herself, probably as an actress. She paints exceptionally well and has writtenseveral successful books and stories, thereby following the example ofher famous predecessor on the Rumanian throne, Queen Elizabeth, betterknown as Carmen Sylva. She speaks English like an Englishwoman, as wellshe may, for she is a granddaughter of Queen Victoria. She is also adescendant of the Romanoffs, for one of her grandfathers was AlexanderIII of Russia. In her manner she is more simple and democratic than manyAmerican women that I know, her poise and simplicity being in strikingcontrast to the manners of two of my countrywomen who had spent thenight preceding our arrival at the castle and who were manifestly muchimpressed by this contact with the Lord's Anointed. When luncheon wasannounced her second daughter, Princess Marie, had not put in anappearance. But, instead of despatching the major domo to inform herRoyal Highness that the meal was served, the Queen stepped to the footof the great staircase and called, "Hurry up, Mignon. You're keeping usall waiting, " whereupon a voice replied from the upper regions, "Allright, mamma. I'll be down in a minute. " Not much like the picture ofpalace life that the novelists and the motion-picture playwrights giveus, is it? I might add that the Queen commonly refers to the plump youngprincess as "Fatty, " a nickname which she hardly deserves, however. Inher conversations with me the Queen was at times almost disconcertinglyfrank. "Royalty is going out of fashion, " she remarked on one occasion, "but I like my job and I'm going to do everything I can to keep it. " ToMrs. Powell she said, "I have beauty, intelligence and executiveability. I would be successful in life if I were not a queen. "

Unlike many persons who occupy exalted positions, she has a real senseof humor. 

"Yesterday, " she remarked, "was Nicholas's birthday, " referring to hersecond son, Prince Nicholas, who, since his elder brother, Prince Carol, renounced his rights to the throne in order to marry the girl he loved, has become the heir apparent. "At breakfast his father remarked, 'I'msorry, Nicholas, but I haven't any birthday present for you. The shopsin Bucharest were pretty well cleaned out by the Germans, you know, andI didn't remember your birthday in time to send to Paris for a present. ''Do you really wish to give Nicholas a present, Nando?' (the diminutiveof Ferdinand) I asked him. 'Of course I do, ' the King answered, 'butwhat is there to give him?' 'That's the easiest thing in the world, ' Ireplied. 'There is nothing that would give Nicholas so much pleasure asan engraving of his dear father--on a thousand-franc note. '"

Prince Nicholas, the future king of Rumania, who is being educated atEton, looks and acts like any normal American "prep" school boy. 

"Do the boys still wear top hats at Eton?" I asked him. 

"Yes, they do, " he answered, "but it's a silly custom. And they cost twoguineas apiece. I leave it to you, Major, if two guineas isn't too muchfor any hat. "

When I told him that in democratic America certain Fifth Avenue hatterscharge the equivalent of five guineas for a bowler he looked at me infrank unbelief. "But then, " he remarked, "all Americans are rich. "

Shortly before luncheon we were joined by King Ferdinand, a slenderlybuilt man, somewhat under medium height, with a grizzled beard, a genialsmile and merry, twinkling eyes. He wore the gray-green field uniformand gold-laced kepi of a Rumanian general, the only thing about hisdress which suggested his exalted rank being the insignia of the Orderof Michael the Brave, which hung from his neck by a gold-and-purpleribbon. Were you to see him in other clothes and other circumstances youmight well mistake him for an active and successful professional man. King Ferdinand is the sort of man one enjoys chatting with in front ofan open fire over the cigars, for, in addition to being a shrewd judgeof men and events and having a remarkably exact knowledge of worldaffairs, he possesses in an altogether exceptional degree the qualitiesof tact, kindliness and humor. 

The King did not hesitate to express his indignation that the re-makingof the map of Europe should have been entrusted to men who possessed solittle first-hand knowledge of the nations whose boundaries they werere-shaping. 

"A few days before the signing of the Treaty of St. Germain, " he toldme, "Lloyd George sent for one of the experts attached to the PeaceConference. 

"'Where is this Banat that Rumania and Serbia are quarreling over?' heinquired. 

"'I will show you, sir, ' the attaché answered, unrolling a map ofsoutheastern Europe. For several minutes he explained in detail to theBritish Premier the boundaries of the Banat and the conflictingterritorial claims to which its division had given rise. But when hepaused Lloyd George made no response. He was sound asleep!

"Yet a little group of men, " the King continued, "who know no more aboutthe nations whose destinies they are deciding than Lloyd George knewabout the Banat, have abrogated to themselves the right to cut up andapportion territories as casually as though they were dividingapple-tarts. "

[Illustration: KING FERDINAND TELLS MRS. POWELL HIS OPINION OF THEFASHION IN WHICH THE PEACE CONFERENCE TREATED RUMANIA, WHILE QUEEN MARIELISTENS APPROVINGLY]

The impression prevails in other countries that it is Queen Marie who isreally the head of the Rumanian royal family and that the King is littlemore than a figurehead. With this estimate I do not agree. Rumania couldhave no better spokesman than Queen Marie, whose talents, beauty, andexceptional tact peculiarly fit her for the difficult rôle she has beencalled upon to play. But the King, though he is by nature quiet andretiring, is by no means lacking in political sagacity or the courage ofhis convictions, being, I am convinced, as important a factor in thegovernment of his country as the limitations of its constitution permit. Though none too well liked, I imagine, by the professional politicians, who in Rumania, as in other countries, resent any attempt atinterference by the sovereign with their plans, the royal couple areimmensely popular with the masses of the people, Ferdinand frequentlybeing referred to as "the peasants' King. " In the darkest days of thewar, when Rumania was overrun by the enemy and it seemed as thoughMoldavia and the northern Dobrudja were all that could be saved to thenation, King Ferdinand and Queen Marie, instead of escaping from theircountry or asking the enemy for terms, retreated with the army to Jassy, on the easternmost limits of the kingdom, where they underwent thehorrors of that terrible winter with their soldiers, the King servingwith the troops in the field and the Queen working in the hospitals as aRed Cross nurse. Less than three years later, however, on Novembertwentieth, 1919, there assembled in Bucharest the first parliament ofGreater Rumania, attended by deputies from all those Rumanianregions--Bessarabia, Transylvania, the Banat, the Bucovina and theDobrudja--which had been restored to the Rumanian motherland. At thehead of the chamber, in the great gilt chair of state, sat Ferdinand I, who, from the fugitive ruler, shivering with his ragged soldiers in thefrozen marshes beside the Pruth, has become the sovereign of a countryhaving the sixth largest population in Europe and has taken his place inRumanian history beside Stephen the Great and Michael the Brave asFerdinand the Liberator. 

CHAPTER VII

MAKING A NATION TO ORDER

From the young officers who wore on their shoulders the silver greyhoundof the American Courier Service we heard many discouraging tales of theannoyances and discomforts for which we must be prepared in travelingthrough Hungary, the Banat and Jugoslavia. But, to tell the truth, I didnot take these warnings very seriously, for I had observed that aprofoundly pessimistic attitude of mind characterized all of theAmericans or English whose duties had kept them in the Balkans for anylength of time. In Salonika this mental condition was referred to as"the Balkan tap"--derived, no doubt, from the verb "to knock, " as with ahammer--and it usually implied that those suffering from the ailment hadoutstayed their period of usefulness and should be sent home. 

Thrice weekly a train composed of an assortment of ramshackle anddilapidated coaches, called by courtesy the Orient Express, whichmaintained an average speed of fifteen miles an hour, left Bucharest forVincovce, a small junction town in the Banat, where it was supposed tomake connections with the south-bound Simplon Express from Paris toBelgrade and with the north-bound express from Belgrade to Paris. TheSimplon Express likewise ran thrice weekly, so, if the connections weremissed at Vincovce, the passengers were compelled to spend at least twodays in a small Hungarian town which was notorious, even in that region, for its discomforts and its dirt. All went well with us, however, thetrain at one time attaining the dizzy speed of thirty miles an hour, until, in a particularly desolate portion of the great Hungarian plain, we came to an abrupt halt. When, after a half hour's wait, I descendedto ascertain the cause of the delay, I found the train crew surroundedby a group of indignant and protesting passengers. 

"What's the trouble?" I inquired. 

"The engineer claims that he has run out of coal, " some one answered. "But he says that there is a coal depot three or four kilometers aheadand that, if each first-class passenger will contribute fifty francs, and each second-class passenger twenty francs, he figures that it willenable him to buy just enough coal to reach Vincovce. Otherwise, hesays, we will probably miss both connections, which means that we muststay in Vincovce for forty-eight hours. And if you had ever seenVincovce you would understand that such a prospect is anything butalluring. "

While my fellow-passengers were noisily debating the question I strolledahead to take a look at the engine. As I had been led to expect from thestories I had heard from the courier officers, the tender contained anample supply of coal--enough, it seemed to me, to haul the train toTrieste. 

"This is nothing but a hold-up, " I told the assembled passengers. "Thereis plenty of coal in the tender. I am as anxious to make the connectionas any of you, but I will settle here and raise bananas, or whateverthey do raise in the Banat, before I will submit to this highwayman'sdemands. "

Seeing that his bluff had been called, the engineer, favoring me with amurderous glance, sullenly climbed into his cab and the train started, only to stop again, however, a few miles further on, this time, theengineer explained, because the engine had broken down. There being noway of disputing this statement, it became a question of pay orstay--and we stayed. The engineer did not get his tribute and we did notget our train at Vincovce, where we spent twenty hot, hungry andextremely disagreeable hours before the arrival of a local train boundfor Semlin, across the Danube from Belgrade. We completed our journey tothe Jugoslav capital in a fourth-class compartment into which werealready squeezed two Serbian soldiers, eight peasants, a crate of livepoultry and a dog, to say nothing of a multitude of small and undesiredoccupants whose presence caused considerable annoyance to every one, including the dog. We were glad when the train arrived at Semlin. 

Late in the summer of 1919, as a result of the reconstruction of therailway bridges which had been blown up by the Bulgarians early in thewar, through service between Salonika and Belgrade was restored. As thejourney consumed from three to five days, however, the train stoppingfor the night at stations where the hotel accommodation was of the mostimpossible description, the American and British officials andrelief-workers who were compelled to make the journey (I never heard ofany one making it for pleasure) usually hired a freight car, which theyfitted up with army cots and a small cook-stove, thus traveling incomparative comfort. 

Curiously enough, the only trains running on anything approaching aschedule in the Balkans were those loaded with Swiss goods and belongingto the Swiss Government. In crossing Southern Hungary we passed at leasthalf-a-dozen of them, they being readily distinguished by a Swiss flagpainted on each car. Each train, consisting of forty cars, wasaccompanied by a Swiss officer and twenty infantrymen--finely set-upfellows in _feldgrau_ with steel helmets modeled after the Germanpattern. Had the trains not been thus guarded, I was told, the goodswould never have reached their destination and the cars, which are theproperty of the Swiss State Railways, would never have been returned. Itis by such drastic methods as this that Switzerland, though hard hit bythe war, has kept the wheels of her industries turning and her currencyfrom serious depreciation. I have rarely seen more hopeless-lookingpeople than those congregated on the platforms of the little stations atwhich we stopped in Hungary. The Rumanian armies had swept the countryclean of livestock and agricultural machinery, throwing thousands ofpeasants out of work, and, owing to the appalling depreciation of thekroner, which was worth less than a twentieth of its normal value, greatnumbers of people who, under ordinary conditions, would have beendescribed as comfortably well off, found themselves with barelysufficient resources to keep themselves from want. To add to theirdiscouragement, the greatest uncertainty prevailed as to Hungary'sfuture. In order to obtain an idea of just how familiar the inhabitantsof the rural districts were with political conditions, I asked fourintelligent-looking men in succession who was the ruler of Hungary andwhat was its present form of government. The first opined that theArchduke Joseph had been chosen king; another ventured the belief thatthe country was a republic with Bela Kun as president; the thirdasserted that Hungary had been annexed to Rumania; while the last man Iquestioned said quite frankly that he didn't know who was running thecountry, or what its form of government was, and that he didn't muchcare. As a result of the decision of the Peace Conference which awardedTransylvania to Rumania and divided the Banat between Rumania andJugoslavia, Hungary finds herself stripped of virtually all her forests, all her mines, all her oil wells, and all of her manufactories savethose in Budapest, thus stripping the bankrupt and demoralized nation ofpractically all of her resources save her wheat-fields. I talked with anumber of Americans and English who were conversant with Hungary'sinternal condition and they agreed that it was doubtful if the country, stripped of its richest territories, deprived of most of its resources, and hemmed in by hostile and jealous peoples, could long exist as anindependent state. On several occasions I heard the opinion expressedthat sooner or later the Hungarians, in order to save themselves fromcomplete ruin, would ask to be admitted to the Jugoslav Confederation, thereby obtaining for their products an outlet to the sea. In anyevent, the Hungarians appear to have a more friendly feeling for theirJugoslav neighbors than for the Rumanians, whom they charge with adeliberate attempt to bring about their economic ruin. 

In spite of the prohibitive cost of labor and materials, we found thatthe traces of the Austrian bombardment of Belgrade in 1914, which didenormous damage to the Serbian capital, were rapidly being effaced andthat the city was fast resuming its pre-war appearance. The place was asbusy as a boom town in the oil country. The Grand Hotel, where the foodwas the best and cheapest we found in the Balkans, was filled to thedoors with officers, politicians, members of parliament--for theSkupshtina was in session--relief workers, commercial travelers andconcession seekers, and the huge Hotel Moskowa, built, I believe, withRussian capital, was about to reopen. Architecturally, Belgrade showsmany traces of Muscovite influence, many of the more important buildingshaving the ornate façades of pink, green and purple tiles, the coloredglass windows, and the gilded domes which are so characteristicallyRussian. Though the main thoroughfare of the city, formerly called theTerásia but now known as Milan Street, is admirably paved with woodenblocks, the cobble pavements of the other streets have remainedunchanged since the days of Turkish rule, being so rough that it isalmost impossible to drive a motor car over them without imminent dangerof breaking the springs. Five minutes' walk from the center of the city, on a promontory commanding a superb view of the Danube and its junctionwith the Save, is a really charming park known as the Slopes ofDreaming, where, on fine evenings, almost the entire population of thecapital appears to be promenading, the rather drab appearance of anurban crowd being brightened by the gaily embroidered costumes of thepeasants and the silver-trimmed uniforms of the Serbian officers. 

The palace known as the Old Konak, where King Alexander and Queen Dragawere assassinated under peculiarly revolting circumstances on the nightof June 11, 1905, and from an upper window of which their mutilatedbodies were thrown into the garden, has been torn down, presumablybecause of its unpleasant associations for the present dynasty, butonly a stone's throw away from the tragic spot is being erected a largeand ornate palace of gray stone, ornamented with numerous carvings, as aresidence for Prince-Regent Alexander, who, when I was there, wasoccupying a modest one-story building on the opposite side of thestreet. By far the most interesting building in Belgrade, however, is alow, tile-roofed, white-walled wine-shop at the corner of KnesMihajelowa Uliza and Kolartsch Uliza, which is pointed out to visitorsas "the Cradle of the War, " for in the low-ceilinged room on the secondfloor is said to have been hatched the plot which resulted in theassassination of the Austrian archducal couple at Serajevo in the springof 1914 and thereby precipitated Armageddon. 

[Illustration: THE WINE-SHOP WHICH IS POINTED OUT TO VISITORS AS "THECRADLE OF THE WAR"]

In this connection, here is a story, told me by a Czechoslovak who hadserved as an officer in the Serbian army during the war, which throws aninteresting sidelight on the tragedy of Serajevo. This officer's uncle, a colonel in the Austrian army, had been, it seemed, equerry to theArchduke Ferdinand, being in attendance on the Archduke at the Imperialshooting-lodge in Bohemia when, early in the spring of 1914, theGerman Emperor, accompanied by Admiral von Tirpitz, went there, ostensibly for the shooting. The day after their arrival, according tomy informant's story, the Emperor and the Archduke went out with theguns, leaving Admiral von Tirpitz at the lodge with the Archduchess. Theequerry, who was on duty in an anteroom, through a partly opened dooroverheard the Admiral urging the Archduchess to obtain the consent ofher husband--with whom she was known to exert extraordinaryinfluence--to a union of Austria-Hungary with Germany upon the death ofFrancis Joseph, who was then believed to be dying--a scheme which hadlong been cherished by the Kaiser and the Pan-Germans. 

"Never will I lend my influence to such a plan!" the equerry heard theArchduchess violently exclaim. "Never! Never! Never!"

At the moment the Emperor and the Archduke, having returned from theirbattue, entered the room, whereupon the Archduchess, her voice shrillwith indignation, poured out to her husband the story of von Tirpitz'sproposal. The Archduke, always noted for the violence of his temper, promptly sided with his wife, angrily accusing the Kaiser of intriguingbehind his back against the independence of Austria. Ensued a violentaltercation between the ruler of Germany and the Austrian heir-apparent, which ended in the Kaiser and his adviser abruptly terminating theirvisit and departing the same evening for Berlin. 

For the truth of this story I do not vouch; I merely repeat it in thewords in which it was told to me by an officer whose veracity I have noreason to question. There are many things which point to itsprobability. Certain it is that the Archduke, who was a man of strongcharacter and passionately devoted to the best interests of the DualMonarchy, was the greatest obstacle to the Kaiser's scheme for the unionof the two empires under his rule, a scheme which, could it have beenrealized, would have given Germany that highroad to the East and thatoutlet to the Warm Water of which the Pan-Germans had long dreamed. Theassassination of the Archduke a few weeks later not only removed thegreatest stumbling-block to these schemes of Teutonic expansion, but itfurther served the Kaiser's purpose by forcing Austria into war withSerbia, thereby making Austria responsible, in the eyes of the world, for launching the conflict which the Kaiser had planned. 

There has never been any conclusive proof, remember, that the Serbs wereresponsible for Ferdinand's assasination. Not that there is anything intheir history which would lead one to believe that they would balk atthat method of removing an enemy, but, regarded from a politicalstandpoint, it would have been the most unintelligent and short-sightedthing they could possibly have done. Nor are the Serbs and thePan-Germans the only ones to whom the crime might logically be traced. Ferdinand, remember, had many enemies within the borders of his owncountry. The Austrian anti-clericals hated and distrusted him because hesurrounded himself by Jesuit advisers and because he was believed to beunduly under the influence of the Church of Rome. He was equallyunpopular with a large and powerful element of the Hungarians, whoforesaw a serious diminution of their influence in the affairs of themonarchy should the Archduke succeed in realizing his dream of a TripleKingdom composed of Austria, Hungary and the Southern Slavs. 

Strange indeed are the changes which have been brought about by thegreatest conflict. Ferdinand, descendant of a long line of princes, kings and emperors, has passed round that dark corner whence no manreturns, but his ambitious dreams of a triple kingdom which wouldinclude the Southern Slavs have survived him, though in a somewhatmodified form. But he who sits on the throne of the new kingdom, and whorules to-day over a great portion of the former dominions of theHapsburgs, instead of being a scion of the Imperial House of Austria, isthe great-grandson of a Serbian blacksmith. 

Owing to the ill-health and advanced age of King Peter of Serbia, hissecond son, Alexander, is Prince-Regent of the Kingdom of the Serbs, Croats and Slovenes. Prince Alexander, a slender, dark-complexioned manwith characteristically Slav features, was educated in Vienna and issaid to be an excellent soldier. He is extremely democratic, simple inmanner, a student, a hard worker, and devoted to the best interests ofhis people. Though he is an accomplished horseman, a daring, evenreckless motorist, and an excellent shot, he is probably the loneliestman in his kingdom, for he has no close associates of his own age, beingsurrounded by elderly and serious-minded advisers; his aged father is ina sanitarium, his scapegrace elder brother lives in Paris, and hissister, a Russian grand duchess, makes her home on the Riviera. Thoughold beyond his years and visibly burdened by the responsibilities of hisdifficult position, he possesses a peculiarly winning manner and isimmensely popular with his soldiers, whose hardships he sharedthroughout the war. Though he enjoys no great measure of popularityamong his new Croat and Slovene subjects, who might be expected toregard any Serb ruler with a certain degree of jealousy and suspicion, he has unquestionably won their profound respect. It is a difficult andtrying position which this young man occupies, and it is not made anyeasier for him, I imagine, by the knowledge that, should he make a falsestep, should he arouse the enmity of certain of the powerful factionswhich surround him, the fate of his predecessor and namesake, KingAlexander, might quite conceivably befall him. 

I have been asked if, in my opinion, the peoples composing the new stateof Jugoslavia will stick together. If there could be effected aconfederation, modeled on that of Switzerland or the United States, inwhich the component states would have equal representation, with theexecutive power vested in a Federal Council, as in Switzerland, then Ibelieve that Jugoslavia would develop into a stable and prosperousnation. But I very much doubt if the Croats, the Slovenes, the Bosniansand the Montenegrins will willingly consent to a permanent arrangementwhereby the new nation is placed under a Serbian dynasty, no matter howcomplete are the safeguards afforded by the constitution or howconscientious and fair-minded the sovereign himself may be. No onequestions the ability or the honesty of purpose of Prince Alexander, butthe non-Serb elements feel, and not wholly without justification, that aSerbian prince on the throne means Serbian politicians in places ofauthority, thereby giving Serbia a disproportionate share of authorityin the government of Jugoslavia, as Prussia had in the government of theGerman Empire. 

Already there have been manifestations of friction between the Serbs andthe Croats and between the Serbs and the Slovenes, to say nothing of theopen hostility which exists between the Serbs and certain Montenegrinfactions, to which I have alluded in a preceding chapter. It should beremembered that the Croats and Slovenes, though members of the greatfamily of Southern Slavs, have by no means as much in common with theirSerb kinsmen as is generally believed. Croatia and Slovenia have botheducated and wealthy classes. Serbia, on the contrary, has a very smalleducated class and practically no wealthy class, it being said thatthere is not a millionaire in the country. Slovenia and Croatia eachhave their aristocracies, with titles and estates and traditions;Serbia's population is wholly composed of peasants, or of business andprofessional men who come from peasant stock. As a result of the largesums which were spent on public instruction in Croatia and Sloveniaunder Austrian rule, only a comparatively small proportion of thepopulation is illiterate. But in Serbia public education is still in aregrettably backward state, the latest figures available showing thatless than seventeen per cent. Of the population can read and write, acondition which, I doubt not, will rapidly improve with thereestablishment of peace. Laibach (now known as Lubiana), the chief cityof Croatia, Agram, in Slovenia, and Serajevo, the capital of Bosnia, have long been known as education centers, possessing a culture andeducational facilities of which far larger cities would have reason tobe proud. But Belgrade, having been, as it were, on the frontier ofEuropean civilization, has been compelled to concentrate its energiesand its resources on commerce and the national defense. The attitude ofthe people of Agram toward the less sophisticated and cultured Serbsmight be compared to that of an educated Bostonian toward an Arizonaranchman--a worthy, industrious fellow, no doubt, but rather lacking inculture and refinement. The truth of the matter is that the Croats andthe Slovenes, though only too glad to escape the Allies' wrath byclaiming kinship with the Serbs and taking refuge under the banner ofJugoslavia, at heart consider themselves immeasurably superior to theirsouthern kinsmen, whose political dictation, now that the storm haspassed, they are beginning to resent. 

The first impression which the Serb makes upon a stranger is rarely afavorable one. As an American diplomat, who is a sincere friend ofSerbia, remarked to me, "The Serb has neither manner nor manners. Thevisitor always sees his worst side while his best side remains hidden. He never puts his best foot forward. "

A certain sullen defiance of public opinion is, it has sometimes seemedto me, a characteristic of the Serb. He gives one the impression ofconstantly carrying a chip on his shoulder and daring any one to knockit off. He is always eager for an argument, but, like so manyargumentative persons, it is almost impossible to convince him that heis in the wrong. The slightest opposition often drives him into analmost childlike rage and if things go against him he is apt to chargehis opponent with insincerity or prejudice. He can see things only oneway, _his_ way and he resents criticism so violently that it is seldomwise to argue with him. 

Though the Serb, when afforded opportunities for education, usuallyshows great brilliancy as a student and often climbs high in his chosenprofession, he all too frequently lacks the mental poise and the powerof restraining his passions which are the heritage of those peoples whohave been educated for generations. 

In Serbia, as in the other Balkan states, it is the peasants who formthe most substantial and likeable element of the population. The Serbianpeasant is simple, kindly, honest, and hospitable, and, though he couldnot be described with strict truthfulness as a hard worker, his wifeinvariably is. Although, like most primitive peoples, he is suspiciousof strangers, once he is assured that they are friends there is nosacrifice that he will not make for their comfort, going cold andhungry, if necessary, in order that they may have his blanket and hisfood. He is one of the very best soldiers in Europe, somewhat carelessin dress, drill and discipline, perhaps, but a good shot, a tirelessmarcher, inured to every form of hardship, and invariably cheerful anduncomplaining. Perhaps it is his instinctive love of soldiering whichmakes him so reluctant to lay down the rifle and take up the hoe. Hehas fought three victorious wars in rapid succession and he has come tobelieve that his metier is fighting. In this he is tacitly encouraged byFrance, who sees in an armed and ready-to-fight-at-the-drop-of-the-hatJugoslavia a counterbalance to Italian ambitions in the Balkans. 

Though there are irresponsible elements in both Jugoslavia and Italy whotalk lightly of war, I am convinced that the great bulk of thepopulation in both countries realize that such a war would be the heightof shortsightedness and folly. Throughout the Fiume and Dalmatian crisesprecipitated by d'Annunzio, Jugoslavia behaved with exemplary patience, dignity and discretion. Let her future foreign relations continue to becharacterized by such self-control; let her turn her energies todeveloping the vast territories to which she has so unexpectedly fallenheir; let her take immediate steps toward inaugurating systems oftransportation, public instruction and sanitation; let her waste no timein ridding herself of her jingo politicians and officers--let Jugoslaviado these things and her future will take care of itself. She is a youngcountry, remember. Let us be charitable in judging her.