An Observer in the Near East

by William Le Queux

That half-hour was an exciting one, until at last, after what seemed an interminable period, the train slowed down and came to a standstill, when my inquisitive friend of evil intentions descended, and without a word disappeared in the darkness.

I thought I had rid myself of his surveillance, but I was mistaken. Next day I met him in the streets of Bucharest, and so persistently did he follow me that I was compelled to lodge a complaint with the police. As soon as I had done that, I saw him no more. My own belief was that he was arrested. He may be in prison now, for all I know. In any case, he disappeared as completely as though the earth had swallowed him up.

This little incident, both annoying and exciting at the time, was my first adventure on entering Roumania, but it was soon forgotten amid the gaieties of smart Bucharest.

The Roumanian capital is a place apart. Roumania is not a Balkan State in any sense of the word, and has progressed so rapidly during the forty odd years of its freedom that in Bucharest to-day, save for Roumanian names over the shopfronts, one may easily believe oneself to be in Paris or in Brussels.

Indeed, some of the buildings, notably the new Post Office, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and the Academy, are unequalled not only in Brussels, but even in Paris. Bucharest is a gay city of external glitter, bright, merry, and highly amusing after some of the dull, half-civilised country towns in the Balkans. Smart cafés and confectioners, expensive hotels, shops that charge double prices of those in Paris, and theatres where one pays a sovereign for a stall, are all to be found in Bucharest. The boulevards are broad and full of life and movement, and the Calea Victoriei, the Boulevard Carol, and Strad Lipsicani are as busy as any thoroughfare of a Western capital.

Nearly every public building has a dome, while the chief object of a Roumanian seems to be to build for himself a wonderfully ornate house and gild the railings in front. Many of the façades of the private houses are marvels of florid bad taste. Again, though in the streets, in drawing-rooms and at cafés and theatres, I met hundreds upon hundreds of officers, crowds of lieutenants, swarms of captains and a good sprinkling of generals, all in wonderful uniforms, yet I was four days in Bucharest before I discovered a real soldier—and then quite by accident. He wore a brown uniform, and I mistook him for a wagon-lit conductor.

Bucharest is a city of vivid contrasts—a wildly gay, go-ahead city, which justly bears the reputation of being one of the most expensive in the world. For the poor it is the cheapest; for the rich, the dearest. Prices, for instance, at the Hotel du Boulevard are higher than at the Savoy or Carlton in London, yet everything is excellent, the sterlet quite as good as at the Hermitage at Moscow, and the caviare such as one only gets in the best restaurants in Russia.

As one wanders in the streets the Western eye meets many quaint sights. For instance, the birjas, or cabs, are open victorias drawn by a pair of long-tailed Russian horses, and driven by men wearing great padded overcoats of blue-black velvet—huge affairs that give them very portly proportions. Around the waist is worn a piece of gaily coloured satin ribbon,and on the head the round Balkan cap of astrachan. Most of the drivers are Russian refugees, and form a distinct class apart. Cabs are extremely cheap, and the rate at which one is driven would be reckless were it not that the men have such perfect control over their horses.

The British colony is not a large one. Its head is, of course, our Minister, Sir Conyngham Greene, in whose able hands British interests in Roumania have recently been placed. Keen and active, he has already rearranged our Consular service in Roumania, and placed the Legation on the same footing as those of the other Powers. While every other European nation owns a Legation house in Bucharest, we have none; and while I was in the Roumanian capital he was a fellow-guest at the Hotel du Boulevard. It is understood, however, that the Foreign Office—or the Treasury—have recently been shamed into the necessity of buying a house, and very soon Sir Conyngham will have a fitting residence, as the other representatives of the Powers.

Nobody ever deigns to walk in Bucharest. Everybody takes cabs, therefore the streets are filled with vehicular traffic till far into the night. At evening, indeed, Bucharest is at her best. Smart restaurants, with pretty, well-dressed women, cosy theatres, flash café-chantants, and noisy garish cafés abound all over the town, while outside, notably at the Villa Regala, in the centre of a park, smart dinners and suppers are given.