FERDINAND OF BULGARIA
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[Illustration: Ferdinand the Ambitious gazing from his Euxinograd
Palace across the Black Sea towards Constantinople.]
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FERDINAND OF
BULGARIA
THE AMAZING CAREER OF
A SHODDY CZAR
By the Author of
“THE REAL KAISER”
LONDON: ANDREW MELROSE, LTD.
3 YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C.
1916
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CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
INTRODUCTORY 9
I A POT-HOUSE PRINCE 17
II THE TRAINING OF A TRAITOR 27
III LEARNING THE ROPES 37
IV THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 47
V THE COMPLEAT BACHELOR 55
VI THE BROKEN-HEARTED PRINCESS 65
VII AN APOSTATE BY PROXY 73
VIII THE BUTCHERED “BISMARCK” 81
IX THE DEAD HAND 93
X WHO ARE THE BULGARIANS? 105
XI FERDINAND AND HIS CREATURES 115
XII FERDINAND THE FEMININE 125
XIII FERDINAND AND THE BULGARIANS 135
XIV FERDINAND THE AMBITIOUS 147
XV FERDINAND THE FUTILE 157
XVI FERDINAND THE FRENCHMAN 167
XVII FERDINAND THE FAITHLESS 177
XVIII FERDINAND THE HUN 187
XIX FERDINAND THE CZAR 197
XX FERDINAND AND THE BALKAN LEAGUE 207
XXI FERDINAND THE MARTYR 217
XXII FERDINAND IN RETIREMENT 227
XXIII FERDINAND THE FALSE 237
XXIV KULTUR IN BULGARIA 247
XXV FERDINAND AND THE FARMER 255
XXVI FERDINAND AS WAR LORD 263
XXVII FERDINAND IN EXTREMIS 273
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INTRODUCTORY
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INTRODUCTORY
“Who is that evil-looking Dago?” asked an Australian friend; “he looks
as though he had never been outside a horse in his life.”
We were gazing at the procession of royalties who followed the body of
King Edward VII through his mourning capital. The Dago in question was
Ferdinand, Czar of the Bulgarians; and one could not but recognize the
truth of the Colonial’s brutal description.
He wore, it may be remembered, an Astrakan cap and coat; and the day
was a warm one. His fat figure swayed from side to side in the saddle,
and he looked thoroughly frightened of the magnificent horse he
bestrode with so ill a grace. The perspiration dropped down his flabby
cheeks.
He was not in the sort of company where he was calculated to shine. All
around him were princes who would not be seen speaking to him. The
London crowd hardly knew who he was, and betrayed less interest in him
than it would have shown in the latest coloured monarch from the wilds
of Africa.
His bright, shifty eyes turned here and there, vainly seeking something
friendly and familiar. No doubt but Ferdinand made a poor showing on
his last visit to London; the very last, possibly, that he will ever be
allowed to pay to the capital of the British Empire.
But I ventured at the time to predict to my friend from the Antipodes
that he would one day hear a good deal more of Czar Ferdinand than he
had hitherto learned. For though he was then an unconsidered personage
in English-speaking countries, he already enjoyed quite another
reputation upon the Continent of Europe.
I explained that he was half a Frenchman, and that in Paris, where
notabilities are summed up more surely than anywhere else in the wide
world, he was esteemed by no means a negligible quantity.
Berlin, I said, had already put him down as a man with a price, and was
only seeking to find how great was the price that must be paid.
Austria—the new Austria, as represented by the clever heir to the
throne, Franz Ferdinand—still looked askance at him, but was determined
to make him a friend before he should have returned to amity with
Russia.
Russia had against his name the big black cross that is never
obliterated in the secret archives of the White Empire, if the gossips
of the Chancelleries are to be believed. Finally, in the Balkan States,
still the slums of Europe by force of circumstances, he was the man to
whom politicians looked for the next move.
I little guessed what world-shaking consequences were to derive from
that move. But I was able to say enough to my friend to awaken in him a
new interest in the man whom his sturdy Colonialism led him to describe
as an “evil-looking Dago.”
Since then I have seen Ferdinand in varying circumstances, all of which
have tended to increase my interest in him, without in any way adding
to the sum of my liking for him, and all that he represents.
I can see him now, riding into Sofia in triumph, with a wreath of green
leaves around his head, and a band of victorious Bulgarian warriors as
his escort. It was the first time Sofia had ever really acclaimed him,
and he looked almost human as he acknowledged the ringing plaudits of a
people that was wont to turn away its face as he rode by.
I remember him, too, in Paris; at Longchamps the day of the Grand Prix.
The elaborate precautions made that day by the police to prevent any of
those untoward incidents of which he has lived in dread for a quarter
of a century spoiled the whole day for the Parisians. It was impossible
to move about the lawn without encountering cordons of gendarmes,
placed there to afford a wide breathing space for the imitation Czar.
I also saw him at Carlsbad, very much at home among the Austrians, who
are really the people of his choice. He maintained a monstrous state
there, and his comings and goings were as good as any spectacle I have
seen.
And always, wherever I encountered him, I heard stories. They were not
nice stories, for he was the hero of them. But they represented the
Continental opinion that he was distinctly a man of consequence; a man
who would one day bulk big in the world’s history.
All these stories threw a bright light on the character of the supposed
useless fop, who made Bismarck reverse his first contemptuous estimate
of him. The final judgment of the old cynic was that Ferdinand was “a
sharp young fellow.” They confounded entirely the British view of him,
which has recently had to be revised.
For it is only too true that our attitude was that of the Rugby
schoolboy. “We have heard of the Kaiser; and the Czar and the French
President are our good friends. But who on earth is King Ferdinand of
Bulgaria?”
The answer is plain to be read. He is the parvenu of princes, the
outcast among Kings, the Czar of Shoddy. His history and habits, his
ambitions and abilities, his amusements and amours, as far as I have
been able to trace them, are set out in the following chronicle.
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A POT-HOUSE PRINCE
“_The Prince of Bulgaria, if there exists in the world a being
unfortunate enough to take up that position._” —BISMARCK.
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CHAPTER I
A POT-HOUSE PRINCE
One day in December, 1886, there slouched into Ronacher’s Circus, a
well-known Vienna beer garden, three weary Bulgarian politicians. Some
weeks before they had left Sofia full of importance, and very pleased
with themselves. In their ears were ringing the injunctions of
Stambuloff, the “Bismarck of Bulgaria,” and they were under no kind of
misapprehension as to their mission.
They were to come back with a Prince, and not until they had got one
dare they show their faces in Sofia again. He was to be a presentable
Prince, young, wealthy, a soldier, and, above all, powerfully
connected. It seemed easy enough to them, for they were patriotic
Bulgarians, and thought that all the unoccupied Princes of Europe would
compete for so proud a position as that of Prince of Bulgaria. Possibly
their phantasy was not shared by the wise old man who sent them out on
their mission; for it is recorded that he grinned sardonically as he
saw them go.
From Court to Court they went, hawking the vacant principality and
receiving the most surprising rebuffs. They offered the place to the
Grand Duke Vladimir of Russia, and he refused it with a rude
promptness. Valdemar of Denmark listened to all they had to say, and
said he would write and let them know. His answer was in the negative.
From Prince Carol of Rumania they received a refusal startling in its
emphasis. They rubbed their heads, and decided to try more tentative
measures.
Hither and thither they went, hinting at the great opportunity that
offered for an enterprising young Prince. Their overtures were
everywhere received with a chilliness that was rigid in its iciness.
They thought of grim old Stambuloff waiting at home for news, and
trudged manfully on to another Court. Soon they realized that they were
the laughing-stock of Europe.
So they found their way to Vienna, which was as near home as they dared
to venture, and determined to spend a little time in a well-earned
vacation from the task of Prince-hunting. Their steps were guided to
the famous beer garden by a very pleasant acquaintance they had made in
the Austrian pleasure city; and there they rested, well content with a
cool drink and a friendly chat.
And while they rested, there came on the scene a Major Laabe, to whom
they were introduced by their Viennese friend, who was a smooth-spoken
individual of slightly Jewish appearance. Major Laabe was an individual
of quite another type, a dashing Austrian cavalry officer who knew
everybody and everything. He was sympathetic to the travel-worn
Bulgars, and over a bottle or two of wine they confided to him their
mission, and its lack of result.
It was then that the Major sprang to his feet and slapped his deerskin
riding breeches of spotless white in pure amazement and joy. “Why,” he
cried, “I know the very man you want; and by a strange coincidence he
is here on this very spot. He is Ferdinand of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha,
grandson of Louis Philippe of France, and cousin of every crowned head
in Europe. He is a prime favourite of both the Emperor of Austria and
the Czar of Russia. And, my boys, don’t say I told you so, but he is as
rich as Crœsus.”
Grekoff, Galtcheff, and Stoiloff—such were the names of the three
simple Bulgars—looked at one another with glistening eyes. It seemed
too good to be true. “Come along with me,” urged the genial Major, “and
be presented to him. He’s just in here,” and he led the way to the
billiard-room.
There the eyes of the three men from Sofia fell upon a tall young man
of twenty-six, who with a billiard cue in his hand, was walking round
the table with a gait that was curious in its mincing affectation. He
was clad in the uniform of an Austrian sub-lieutenant, and was really
quite a beautiful thing in the way of princes.
His face was remarkable for its length, and for the cruel hook that
marked the prominent nose. The eyes were bright with intelligence, the
lips thin and set tight. And in his right eye he wore a monocle with a
gilt rim, a rarer embellishment to a young man in those days than in
these. As they watched him he posed for the shot—a difficult cannon—and
made it with infinite skill and appearance of ease. Then moving to take
his place for another shot, he let the monocle fall from his eye and
turned and faced them squarely. But even then they noticed that he did
not look at them.
Introductions were made, and soon the five men were seated at a table
by a quiet bar, with opened bottles before them. In less than half an
hour the three Bulgarians were offering this young exquisite the post
which all the young princes of Europe had refused in quick succession,
and he was staring at them through his monocle with a regard in which
shyness and impudence were blended.
At heart he was furious. He had been waiting for this offer for weeks.
He and his mother had talked of nothing else. But these clods from the
least civilized of the Balkan States had ignored him; had actually been
unaware of his existence. So, as they eagerly set out the advantages of
their offer, and pressed for its instant acceptance, he smiled
sardonically, and framed the words of his answer.
When he delivered it, it filled them with dismay. Very quietly he
expressed his sense of the honour they had done him, and of his own
unworthiness for so important a post. Then he reminded them that the
Powers of Europe must be consulted before he could safely accept. With
remarkable cunning he made them feel that, should he accept, he would
be doing them a favour. Then he dismissed them, greatly abashed.
Some months later, however, they were received at the Coburg palace in
Vienna, and overwhelmed with flatteries by his clever old mother.
Difficulties were discussed, their power to make the offer questioned,
and a great show of wealth and influence, both of which the Princess
Clementine certainly possessed, was made. Eventually an arrangement was
reached whereby Stoiloff should visit the Princess’s country palace at
Ebenthal, bringing with him two influential Bulgarians of the mission,
Vinaroff and Popoff.
This last was a stern old warrior and a keen judge of men. Ferdinand
received them in a gorgeous reception-room, surrounded already by the
state of a reigning prince. By a writing-table near the window sat the
keen-faced old woman who had spent half her life to fulfil her ambition
of seating her son upon a throne.
The ordeal was almost too much for Ferdinand. He stood there, affecting
the ease he had acquired in his pilgrimages through the Courts of
Europe. But old Popoff could smell the perfume with which he reeked,
and could see the nervous trembling of his hands as he sought to evade
his warrior eye. But for the inspiring presence of his mother,
Ferdinand might have thrown away the chance for which his boyhood and
young manhood had been spent. But he got through somehow; the offer was
made and accepted, conditionally upon the consent of the Powers being
given to it.
Then Ferdinand entered upon an experience as strange and disheartening
as that of the men who had sought him out to make him prince. He found
everywhere that the proposal was received with a surprised distaste.
Not all his mother’s tact and influence could make anybody look upon
the choice with a favourable eye. The only encouragement he got—if it
was encouragement—came from Bismarck, whose advice to his predecessor
arose in his mind at this crisis in his affairs.
“Take it!” said the cynical old Prussian to Alexander of Battenberg.
“It will at least be a pleasant reminiscence.”
Three weeks passed, and Stambuloff began to demand his prince most
urgently. The argument about waiting for the consent of the Powers was
ignored by the Statesman. Ferdinand was warned in unmistakable terms
that the offer was only open for a few more days. He must come now, or
never. Then, forgetting all his protestations that he would only accept
if the Powers endorsed the choice of Bulgaria, Ferdinand went.
He went with a cant phrase in his mouth; he has spouted miles of such
stuff in the quarter-century and more that has since elapsed. But this
first piece of cant that fell from the lips of the new prince caused
the Courts of Europe to smile and the Chancelleries to chuckle.
“I regard it as my sacred duty to set foot at the earliest possible
moment on the soil of my new country.”
Thus the Pot-house Prince, who bargained for a principality in a beer
garden, and who was introduced to the first of his new subjects in a
billiard-room through the mediation of a Jewish moneylender and a needy
Austrian man-about-town.
But Ferdinand did not care; he had got the job which had been dangled
before his eyes since first he could remember. He had fulfilled his
mother’s dearest wish, and got his foot in among the Rulers of Europe.
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THE TRAINING OF A TRAITOR
“_He lived in an atmosphere of womanly luxury, so that sweet perfumes
and pretty flowers became necessaries of life to him._”
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