In this war, where the ranks of the enemy present to us so many
formidable, sinister, and shocking figures, there is one, and perhaps
but one, which is purely ridiculous. If we had the heart to relieve our
strained feelings by laughter, it would be at the gross Coburg traitor,
with his bodyguard of assassins and his hidden coat-of-mail, his shaking
hands and his painted face. The world has never seen a meaner scoundrel,
and we may almost bring ourselves to pity the Kaiser, whom circumstances
have forced to accept on equal terms a potentate so verminous.
But we no longer smile, we are tempted rather to weep, when we think of
the nation over whom this Ferdinand exercises his disastrous authority.
Forty years will have expired this spring since the Christian peasants
of Bulgaria rose in arms against the Turkish oppressor. After a year of
wild mountain fighting, Russia, with fraternal devotion, came to their
help, and at San Stefano in March, 1877, the aspirations of Bulgaria
were satisfied under Russia auspices. Ten years later Ferdinand the
usurper descended upon Sofia, shielded by the protection of Austria, and
since then, under his poisonous rule, the honour and spirit of the once
passionate and romantic Bulgarian nation have faded like a plant in
poison-fumes.
Raemaekers presents the odious Ferdinand to us in the act of starting
for the wars--he who faints at the sight of a drawn sword. His hired
assassins guard him from his own people and from the revenge of the
thousands whom he has injured. But will they always be able to secure so
vile a life against the vengeance of history? How soon will Fate
condescend to crush this painted creature?