INTRODUCTORY.
THE life of M. Stambuloff is so intimately connected with the national life of Bulgaria, that a biography of that Statesman becomes almost a history of the birth and growth of the Principality. A full and complete history of Bulgaria is, however, beyond the scope of the present sketch, and I have endeavoured, as far as possible, to give special prominence to those periods in which M. Stambuloff played a leading part, filling in the remaining details sufficiently to enable the reader to follow the story intelligently.
Making M. Stambuloff the centre figure, I have devoted my efforts to presenting a faithful picture of the man and of his deeds, and it may perhaps seem that due importance has scarcely been given to the rôles of other actors. It would, however, be impracticable to enter into analyses of the actions, characters, and motives of all the leading men who are mentioned as colleagues or adversaries of M. Stambuloff. To do so would be to write several volumes the size of this little
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work. Those who wish to learn more of the diplomatic history of the Union with Eastern Roumelia, or of the abduction of Prince Alexander, may read it in the voluminous Blue Books presented to Parliament. Major von Huhn's account of the Bulgaro-Servian War is worth perusal by military students, and gives a lively idea of the general state of affairs at that critical period in the existence of Bulgaria. I have purposely avoided incorporating in the biography matter which has already been published, and can be read elsewhere.
The story, as it is told in these pages, has been almost entirely taken by word of mouth from the lips of those who were, and are, principally concerned. I have known personally and more or less intimately for many years M. Stambuloff, M. Zankoff, M. Grékoff, M. Karavéloff, M. Petkoff, and all the other leading politicians and officers. If the view taken should appear too strongly biassed in favour of M. Stambuloff and his policy, it must be remembered that I have watched the development of Bulgaria under that policy, and have seen the inauguration of the new one. It is not so much that I approve M. Stambuloff, as that I condemn his successors and their methods. By the time the reader has reached the end of this book I venture to think that he will agree with me in what I have striven to make an impartial estimate of the relative merits and responsibilities of M. Stambuloff and his opponents.
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Before entering upon the tale of M. Stambuloff's chequered experiences, I should like to present him to the public as he sits in his rocking chair. He lives in a small and modest house on the outskirts of the town, at the end of Rakovsky Street, under the shadow of Mount Vitosh. The visitor, on ringing, is inspected through the glass pane of the door by the faithful Guntcho, and if the reconnaissance is satisfactory, is ushered into the hall. On the right-hand side is the drawing-room, and on the left the study. It is here that you will find the ex-Premier.
The room is meagrely furnished. Over the door is a panoramic view of Sofia. On the top of the bookcase sits a huge stuffed horned owl. Over another bookcase stands the bust of Prince Alexander, — "the only souvenir I ever received from the Prince" — and a pile of bound volumes of the newspaper Svoboda. Hanging on the wall is an oil-painting which looks almost black, with curious flecks of light about it. If you inspect it you will see that it represents the assassination of M. Beltcheff, and the bright spots are the flashes of revolvers and the faces of the murdered Minister and of M. Stambuloff. On the further side of the room, one corner is taken up by a writing-table littered over with papers, proofs of his journal — the Svoboda — private letters, and bills. The telephone stands handy alongside a copying press, and a travelling clock and calendar mark the flight of hours and
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days. Next the table and facing the door is a window, under which is a stand-up desk, whilst in the other corner is a Chatwood safe. The fourth side of the room looks through two large windows on to the street, and under them runs a long deal table covered with green baize. Between the windows a stuffed capercaillie, from Samakov, looks down over the table, which is strewn with more proof-sheets and papers. Pens and ink are there, and a set of tobacco-jars, ash-trays, cigar-boxes, and cutters, made out of segments of shells at Krupp's great factory. " That is my pot-de-vin from Krupp, on an order for over two million francs," he will remark, laughingly. There is nothing else in the room to note, except it be the portrait of Prince Ferdinand, over the smaller writing table, and a portrait of himself, by a local artist, over the safe. Leaning against the bookcase are two or three repeating rifles, with fixed bayonets ; and in the middle of the apartment, seated in a bent-wood rocking chair, is M. Stambuloff himself. His portrait, on the frontispiece, gives some idea of his face, but it fails entirely to reproduce the character of the eyes and mouth. Looking at the photograph you see a somewhat heavy, sleepy-looking countenance, giving no indication of the restless energy and indomitable spirit of the man. In repose these are not so very marked, but as soon as he touches upon a subject of interest, M. Stambuloff's whole mien changes. The heavy brows arch or contract, and the drooping lids
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lift under the scorching flash of his eyes, which glow like live coals. The thick full lips form themselves into kindly smiles or sarcastic twists with equal facility, and now and again they draw back into a grim thinness in front of the white teeth, whilst the close-cropped hair bristles and stands stiff over the massive forehead. You would scarcely recognise, in such moments, the M. Stambuloff of the frontispiece. In stature he is short and thick-set, and in spite of continued bad health, and a ceaseless hacking cough, which scarcely gives him a moment's respite, he holds himself erect, and walks with a firm decided tread. His early life of hardship in the open air has toughened his frame, and his fondness for outdoor exercise, particularly for shooting, has probably enabled him to withstand hitherto the attacks of insidious diseases, aggravated by the intense mental strain which he has undergone.
When I visited him, in the month of May, I found him much changed from the M. Stambuloff with whom I used to tramp the Sofia marshes and plains, after snipe and quail. The once black beard and hair were plentifully sprinkled with grey, and the erst smooth skin was pencilled deep with crows' feet. There was also an unhealthy pallor instead of the old ruddiness, and always the recurrent cough. Nevertheless, his spirits were wonderful, and if the scabbard shows signs of wear, the blade is as keen and as sharp as ever.
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In the following pages the English reader will be able to follow the Bulgarian statesman from the beginning of his career up to the present, which is scarcely likely to be the end of it, if his life be spared. [*] I have introduced him to the public in due form, and trust that the acquaintance will be an interesting one.
Constantinople,
June 30th, 1895.
*. Vide Postscript, p. 234.