FERDINAND THE FEMININE
M. Joseph Reinach, the French publicist, whose articles signed Polybe
in the _Paris Figaro_ have been rightly estimated as among the most
informative contributions to the public knowledge of European politics,
long maintained a private correspondence with Ferdinand. The letters of
the ruler of Bulgaria, written in his own handwriting and signed “The
Good European,” are masterpieces of hypocrisy and elaborate double
dealing.
Their tortuous insincerity does not suffice to conceal one outstanding
fact, revealed by the character of the handwriting itself. The thin,
delicate sloping letters, the rich perfumed note-paper, the exquisite
neatness of the correspondence expose the feminine soul of the man who
has commanded so many murders.
An admirer has credited him with “an almost exaggerated delicacy of
mind,” and the evidence brought in support of the statement at least
proves that his amusements, his recreations, his antipathies, and many
of his occupations are those of a well-brought-up woman of the princely
class.
Old Major Popoff, when he met him for the second time, was received by
the Prince reclining on a gorgeous couch. In his hand was a perfect
Malmaison carnation which he sniffed approvingly; he even condescended
to point out to the rough old Bulgarian the exquisite formation of the
petals. The visitor was able to grasp two points in the appearance of
his new monarch. His hair had been elaborately curled and prinked. And
the ruler of Bulgaria wore corsets.
But Ferdinand was too much devoted to the good things of life to retain
the corsets permanently, and they were laid aside as his girth rapidly
increased. As his ambrosial locks receded from his forehead, he
transferred his affections to his beard, which began existence as a
neat little “imperial” in the early days of his reign. It has now
become a torpedo creation to which a highly-paid expert devotes the
whole of his time, spending hours in the consideration of its proper
training and nurture.
[Illustration: Ferdinand in his uniform as Admiral of the Fleet.]
[Illustration: Ferdinand in the national costume of Bulgaria.]
This beard goes well with his favourite costumes. One of them is the
Bulgarian national costume, which he has elaborated into a creation of
fine linen and silks, with many a feminine touch in bright colours and
delicate trimmings. The other is that of an admiral of the Bulgarian
Navy, in which he was wont to receive British visitors of distinction,
as being peculiarly suitable to the honour of a great Naval Power.
Needless to say that Ferdinand becomes atrociously seasick if ever he
trusts himself out of sight of land.
But Ferdinand’s talent for designing costumes is so remarkable that he
excited the envy and admiration of the most celebrated of Parisian man
milliners, who was privileged to witness him at work with his silks and
velvets. This artist has ever since cherished a malignant wish that the
long-expected reverse might overtake the Bulgarian Czar, and that cruel
fate might at the same time deprive him of his extensive inheritance.
In that case, real scope might be found for his remarkable talents, and
the women of the world would be the happier because of a Bulgarian
revolution.
I have already told of the disgust of Stambuloff at the Prince’s
coronation creation of purple velvet and ermine. That is only one of
the many triumphs Ferdinand has achieved with rich stuffs and anxious
thought. He now has a special costume of his own design, suitable to
every feast and holy day.
Thus for the Easter feast he prepared a long mantle of crimson velvet
of the order of St. Alexander, to mark the fact that he was a younger
son. On St. George’s Day, April 23, he sports a robe of blue velvet
slashed with silver; for in Bulgaria this day is the fête day of the
military order of bravery, in which Ferdinand takes high rank.
These creations are the result of many anxious days spent in his
assassin-proof den, surrounded by his tame birds and the modest wild
flowers from which he draws inspiration. His boyish hobbies were for
flowers and birds, and with the mature man these tastes have become a
veritable passion. His aviaries are reputed the finest in the world,
and he can still occupy himself with the woes of a pet canary when all
Europe is bathed in blood, and his rough adopted people are dying by
tens of thousands.
The flower gardens he has installed at his Palaces of Varna and
Euxinograd are veritable wonders. Trees and plants from every clime
have been acclimatized under the warm sun and in the virgin soil of
rude Bulgaria. In his Japanese garden he has reproduced the ponds and
terraces of the Orient, and by a miracle of care has bred the
butterflies of far Japan in the same environment, so that they hover
among the Japanese blooms and complete the resemblance.
This is only one among the thousand wonders he has contrived with
birds, beasts and insects. He is at his best when showing these
beauties with unaffected enthusiasm. It is then he tells his visitors
how, when his compeers were deep in the drill-book and the practice of
arms, he devoted his hours to the study of natural history and botany,
and the cultivation of a sensitive soul.
Ruder monarchs have played coarse jests upon that sensitive spirit, and
have merited a well-earned and long-treasured resentment. For instance,
at a time of great anxiety to Ferdinand, when the world looked very
black, and a kind word meant so much, he was greatly cheered by the
announcement that his sovereign lord, the Sultan of Turkey, was sending
him a royal present as a mark of goodwill.
Ferdinand waited anxiously for the present, but it came not. Instead
there came the announcement that the Red Sultan was ransacking his
Empire for a steed worthy of such a Prince. Ferdinand winced, for his
horses had to be chosen with some care. His personal preference was for
the little native ponies of Bulgaria; when he was mounted on one of
these he had not so far to fall. Still, a present was a present, and he
waited with eager expectation.
At the end of five weary months, the envoy from Yildiz was announced.
With every show of pomp he had the present conducted to the royal mews,
where it was received by Ferdinand in person with all the ceremony
which he knew how to initiate. The wrappings were removed from the
present, and there stood the most wretched old screw that ever
disgraced a Constantinople cab. Casting one glance of fury at the
brute, Ferdinand fled, and next day the Sultan’s present was sent to
the Zoo.
Even a more hideous outrage upon Ferdinand’s delicacy of mind was
perpetrated by the Kaiser, who has none of that commodity to spare, and
is given to practical jokes of the kind that Captain Marryat describes
as being usual in the Navy a century ago. Ferdinand and the Kaiser were
both guests at Brunswick Castle, when the incident occurred.
The time was spring, and it was a delicious moonlight evening. In the
grounds of the castle the nightingales were singing voluptuously, and
Ferdinand was wearing for the first time a pair of white silk smalls
which became him to perfection. He leaned out of the castle window,
surveyed the moonlit beauty, and listened to the raptures of the bird
of spring. All the young girl in him rose to the surface, and he
abandoned himself to the moment and its romance.
And while his shoulders were heaving with true Coburg emotion and love
of nature, there crept behind him the Kaiser. The broad back and the
roll of fat on the neck were irresistible. Down came the mailed fist
with a resounding thwack, and with something hardly distinguishable
from a scream Ferdinand faced his tormentor.
Furious and scarlet with passion he grasped the identity of his
assailant. He summoned to the occasion all the dignity of the Bourbons.
“I pray Your Majesty to refrain from practical jokes,” he said, and
withdrew, refusing to be conciliated. The pair next met in London at
the funeral of King Edward, but the Bulgarian monarch refused either to
forgive or forget. The very sight of William caused him to growl like a
sullen bear, though the Kaiser persistently ignored his resentment.
The twain are now “glorious allies,” but the Kaiser may live to learn
that a Bourbon “forgets nothing.”
Of course Ferdinand is as kind to animals as the average village
butcher. His British biographer remarks that “certain forms of
so-called ‘sport’ still tolerated in this country would horrify him. He
has a constitutional horror of anything savouring of cruelty.”
For instance, a Turkish fisherman not far from his Euxinograd Palace
captured a Black Sea seal, and exhibited it at so much a head in the
Port of Varna. Ferdinand heard the news with a disgust he did not
attempt to conceal. For a day he brooded over the sufferings of the
poor sea creature, and his birds and flowers did not suffice to soothe
his ruffled sensitiveness to pain inflicted on a dumb creature. Finally
he ordered his car and drove down to the port, where he purchased the
captive for £24, and ordered it to be set free in the sea. Then he
returned to Euxinograd and recovered his equanimity by smelling violets
and gazing at cyclamens.
One can well imagine that such a king would shrink from the sight of
bloodshed. It is recorded that, at the beginning of the first Balkan
war, it was his sad duty to look upon the first Bulgarian wounded as
they came into Stara Zagora. The sight reduced him to bitter tears, and
on his bended knees he implored Heaven to spare him any further sight
of battle. It is only fair to state that he has not since tempted
Providence, but has held studiously aloof from all scenes of carnage,
though unhappily at the head of an army in the field. And when the
sights of war have come unpleasantly near him, with true maidenly
sensibility he has invariably turned away his head.
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FERDINAND AND THE BULGARIANS
“_I am the rock, against which the waves beat in vain; I am as the oak
in the forest._”—FERDINAND OF BULGARIA.
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