FERDINAND THE FUTILE
The tradition that great monarchs are many-sided men has no warmer
adherent than Ferdinand of Bulgaria, who is ever ready to exemplify it
in his own person. To those who are familiar with his pursuits and
amusements, his method of spending his days constitutes a most cruel
parody upon the thousand different avocations of his “glorious ally”
the Kaiser. But the Kaiser, as I have had occasion to show elsewhere,
is in many respects a remarkable and successful man, who makes
practical use of his wide store of information. Ferdinand’s alleged
serious occupations are a daily round of sheer futilities.
For instance, some portion of the Kaiser’s day was always spent in
reading a selection of Press cuttings carefully chosen for him, and by
this means he was able to keep abreast with current news, commerce,
inventions, and art. Ferdinand is also a close student of newspapers,
which he studies with the sole object of reading what is written about
himself. When he finds anything that displeases him, he tears up the
offending news-sheet into little pieces, swearing most savagely.
When he first went to Bulgaria, there was great destruction of
newspapers by him, for it was hard to find a paper that could say
anything good about him. Indeed, it is recorded that his mother,
Princess Clementine, wept tears of pure joy when for the first time she
saw an appreciative account of her darling in an important French daily.
Stambuloff annoyed the Prince beyond all forgiveness by his early
comments on this weakness. “Do not read so many papers,” he used to
say, “but study public affairs. Get a French or English colonel to
teach you the elements of military knowledge, so that you may be able
to understand your War Minister.” But Ferdinand’s egotism caused this
excellent if blunt counsel to be rejected; and to this day he is unable
really to understand his War Minister.
After a time he evolved a fine method of seeing nice things about
himself in the papers. Any one can do it, especially a reigning Prince.
The art lies in being very kind to journalists—of a certain type. Once
Ferdinand had mastered this art; which is colloquially known as
“squaring the Press”—no Prince got so many favourable notices as he. He
was just as confidential and communicative to a foreign journalist as
he was reticent and baffling to a Bulgarian notable.
Yet Ferdinand, among other qualifications, is the easiest monarch to
interview in all Europe, and is almost as accessible as some of the
dusky princes of Afric’s sunny interior. The scene is usually _mon
fumoir_, and begins with the exhibition of a sketch of the Czar’s
predecessor, Prince Alexander of Battenberg—“Bulgaria’s hero,” says
Ferdinand with becoming emotion.
Then there is the stuffed eagle which Ferdinand shot himself “with a
valorous gunshot,” as M. Hepp says. And the little silver truck in
which he keeps the first spadeful of earth dug up by himself to
commemorate the opening of the railway line to Burgas. You must see
that, and the golden keys of the Palace, as they were presented to him
on the day he did his “sacred duty,” and set foot on Bulgarian soil.
Then he rings an electric bell, to show how clever Prince Cyril has
fitted out the Palace with these marvels, laying all the wires himself.
All his children are bidden to cultivate useful hobbies, the Bulgarian
Czar will tell you, very much after the manner of Mr. Subbubs when he
has lured you to Lonelitown for a week-end.
Thus, as an American scribe who had endured the process told me,
Ferdinand “pulls domestic stuff on you.” He actually told one
American—and his newspaper printed it—that his fondness for his
children had saved his life from the vile assassin. According to
Ferdinand, he was playing with his young children peacefully in the
palace garden, when a Stambulovist emissary crept stealthily behind him
with a dagger. But the rough man was so touched at the sight of this
proud Bourbon playing with his innocent children just like any ordinary
man, that he wiped away a tear, threw down his yataghan, and fled,
sorely pricked by his conscience.
With some of his visitors Ferdinand affects the martyr, and tells how
badly he is misunderstood, and how shamefully he is misrepresented.
With others he is the genial man-of-the-world, and tells stories that
involve the laying of his forefinger on the side of his long
dishonourable nose—a favourite trick of his when he displays any
portion of his stock of knowingness. To others again he tells stories
of his kindness to animals.
On this count let me quote the beautiful anecdote of “The Prince and
the Sparrow,” as touchingly related by M. Hepp, who had it from the
mouth of this kind-hearted monarch.
One day, when Ferdinand was out walking, he found a poor little
sparrow, which had fallen right in his path. He took it up in his hand,
cherished it, and carried it with him to the Palace, where he gave
orders that it should be carefully tended.
Some time later he was sitting at Council surrounded by his ministers,
engrossed in serious affairs of State. At this juncture the thought of
the poor little sparrow occurred to him. He rang for an attendant, and
demanded instant news of the sad little cripple.
It is not astonishing, says M. Hepp, that with such a charm of
sensibility the Prince attracts to him all shrinking souls.
Now read another instance of his charming sensibility, for the truth of
which I can vouch, though Ferdinand himself has never related the
story, to my knowledge.
Animated by a sense of duty, he set out to see the tomb of his uncle,
the Prince de Joinville, at Eu, near Paris. But when, with his Grand
Chamberlain, he reached the mortuary chapel, he found the door locked.
The priest, it was explained, had gone away and taken the key with him.
Should it be sent for? “No, no; don’t trouble,” said Ferdinand,
immensely relieved, “let us go and get some lunch.” This they did, and
the subject of dead uncles was not referred to, even over the coffee.
Naturally Ferdinand dabbles in the fine arts. He does wonderful things
with a camera, and plays the piano most beautifully. Once he composed
the libretto of an opera, and took some part in the arrangement of the
music. When I think that the people of Sofia had to listen to that
opera, my conscience smites me for some of the harsh things I have
written about the Bulgarians. They have done wrong, certainly; but they
have suffered. I have read that libretto, and I know.
Another much-vaunted accomplishment of the Shoddy Czar is his skill as
an engine-driver. He is said to be quite at his best on the foot-plate
of a locomotive. I remember what a commotion there was on the
boulevards one summer evening when the news went round that Ferdinand
was approaching Paris dressed as an engine-driver, and actually driving
the locomotive of the train which was bearing him to the City of Light.
What a rush there was to the railway station, and what a gang of secret
police! But the Bulgarian Prince had dismounted from the cab at
Abbeville, and indulged in a wash and a brush-up before he reached the
city.
On another occasion, when he was staying at Bad-Neuheim, he asked
permission to drive a train to Frankfort and back, and this was
granted. There was quite a crowd to greet him when the journey was
finished, but his beaming face was all clouded when a sarcastic lady
stepped forward and handed him a bouquet inscribed with the simple word
“Bravery.” The best way out of the ridiculous situation that he could
devise was to hand the flowers to the real engine-driver, with the
remark, “This lady has confused you with me, my friend.”
On another occasion he was telling some journalist of his skill on the
engine-plate, and this man, wishing to please him, remarked that the
accomplishment was a useful one, and might one day save his life. It
was a tactless remark to make to a man of sensibility.
“I am sorry I have no locomotive now,” he growled, “to escape from such
silly remarks.”
Yet it is difficult to imagine any use for what appears to be the
nearest thing to a manly accomplishment he possesses. Unless he wants
to run away from somewhere, his engine driving is hardly likely to be
of any benefit to himself or anyone else.
It is a futile accomplishment, as nearly all his occupations and
amusements are futile. Compared with such a king as our own, who does
an immense amount of hard, useful work, in an unassuming way; or even
with the Kaiser, who makes a lot of fuss, but certainly gets a good
deal done, this Ferdinand is surely a make-believe monarch.
He sits in his thug-proof den, surrounded by his photographs and his
absurd silver model of a railway truck and other trumpery, and allows
it to be understood that his labours of State keep him up to all hours
of the morning. But the net result of his labours is a new fête dress
for himself, some fault-finding with the garden plans of a landscape
expert, or something equally useless.
With the exception of the expensive capital, Bulgaria remains as
Stambuloff left it. He claims, this shoddy Czar, that he has worked
unremittingly to improve a semi-barbarous kingdom; while he has been
engaged in the most trifling and useless occupations. Beyond
ministering to his own inordinate vanity, and scheming darkly to some
one else’s disadvantage, all his occupations are as childishly futile
as those I have described.
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FERDINAND THE FRENCHMAN
“_It is a Prince entirely French, by tradition, by instinct, by
aspiration, and by talent who was the founder of Bulgaria, and is
to-day its King._”—M. ALEXANDRE HEPP.
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