An Observer in the Near East

by William Le Queux

The diplomatic circle do a good deal of entertaining. The British Minister and his wife give large dinner-parties every Tuesday, which are very delightful functions; while each Thursday afternoon Mrs. Whitehead—who is a very charming hostess—is at home. The Foreign Office have certainly been happy in their choice of Mr. Whitehead to fulfil the very difficult and onerous task of renewing diplomatic relations, for he is a skilled diplomatist, and has been for many years in St. Petersburg, Brussels, Tokio, Constantinople, and Berlin, where he was, until recently, Councillor of Embassy. He also speaks Russian.

The Legation is one of the most tasteful houses in Belgrade, and is filled with highly interesting collections from Japan. The German Minister, Prince Max Ratibor, with his wife and stepdaughter, the young Princess Taxis, also give a good many smart entertainments.

The capital is, of course, a hotbed of political intrigue, and all foreigners arriving are suspected of being secret agents. They are watched, their correspondence often opened, and their business in Belgrade thoroughly investigated and reported upon. At first the stranger resents this kind of thing. On my arrival I found myself constantly watched, but as soon as it was known who and what I was, the surveillance ceased.

I mentioned the matter to one of the high police officials, whereupon he explained that in Belgrade alone he held a list of no fewer than 113 known secret agents of Austria! “We therefore keep secret agents for our own protection. Can you blame us?” he asked.

In the diplomatic circle one hears everywhere a cry of “shame” upon the false news which, being supposed to emanate from reliable sources in Belgrade, is really manufactured across the Save at Zimony by irresponsible journalists in the pay of Austria. The Servian officials actually gave me the names of some of these gentlemen.

In the English newspapers one reads constantly telegrams from Vienna, generally to that very irresponsible and sensational journal the Zeit, declaring that there are all sorts of plots in Servia against King Peter. A short time ago this journal actually had the audacity to say that the Crown Prince was insane! Such telegrams should be read with entire disbelief, for they emanate from certain Hungarian journalists who were expelled from Belgrade on account of the false news despatched from there, and now live across the river at Zimony, whence they continually launch their tirades against Servia and the Servians.

What I read from time to time in the English papers regarding Servia is so utterly opposed to the truth—and in our most responsible journals, too—that it often utterly amazes me.

There is a scheme on foot started by an English company to build a large new hotel in Belgrade—which is badly wanted. The Grand is full to overflowing all the year round, and strangers are nightly turned away. It is, I believe, intended to build the hotel on English lines, with a few private sitting-rooms where the traveller can be quiet and rest in peace away from the turmoil and clatter inseparable from a huge garish café.

The streets are usually broad, straight, and if not actually handsome thoroughfares, are well adapted for improvement and the erection of larger buildings. Most of the suburban houses are of a ground floor only, which strike the Englishman as curious; for as the windows are on a level with the street, there is an utter lack of privacy in family life. Servians of both sexes, I noticed, are great cigarette-smokers, and Servian cigarettes I found were the best in the Balkans.

The pleasantest promenade is the Kalemegdan, the pretty gardens situated behind the old fortress which commands the junction of the Danube and the Save, while on the bank rises the Neboyscha (the fearless) tower, of which many terrible tales are told of the days of the Turks. In the Kalemegdan, adorned with bronze busts of Servian poets and savants, smart Belgrade promenades every afternoon and admires the beautiful view from the Fikir-Bair (“the slope of dreaming”), the smart uniforms of the officers lending the necessary touch of colour to complete a charming scene.