Ferdinand of Coburg and the Court of Sofia
The glory of the Coburg family reached its zenith at the time of
Leopold I and the Prince Consort.
They gave to the world a series of princes who were veritably made to
rule. Their direct influence on Belgium, and indirectly on England,
created a period of peace and an "Entente," of which the beneficial
results are so well known.
Later, when my father continued the brilliant work bequeathed to him
by King Leopold, Duke Ernest, Prince Regent of the Duchy of
Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, proved himself no less inferior to his cousin at
Brussels. In Vienna Prince Auguste, who was so good and with whom
unfortunately I had very little to do as a father-in-law, also proved
that he was a man of valour.
Of the various Coburgs, those of Vienna who were my husband's brothers
represented with him the male descendants left to carry on the name of
the race.
I will chiefly mention Ferdinand, the ex-Tsar of Bulgaria. I will not
expatiate again on the branch of my family to which he belonged. Its
rôle in contemporary history is sufficiently well known.
Ferdinand of Coburg, who is still alive as I write this, is one of
the most curious beings it is possible to imagine. To describe him
adequately needs the pen of a Barbey d'Aurevilly or a Balzac.
The clearer my mind becomes as I get older, and the more I try to
understand this strange person, the less I comprehend him when I
consider him from the ordinary point of view of human psychology.
I have read that woman is an enigma. I believe there are men who are
more puzzling enigmas than any woman. One can only wonder whether
this man has not created for himself, even more so than William II, an
artificial world of his own in which he wished to live. I will presently
say _which_ world I think appealed to Ferdinand of Coburg. I realize
that any princely education which tends to encourage the self-esteem
of princes by outward respect and flattery must of necessity accentuate
their peculiarities, unless some wholesome influence restrains the
promptings of worldly vanity.
A really superior mother was unable to regulate the undisputed mental
gifts of Ferdinand. He was born in the autumn of Princess Clémentine's
days. He was her Benjamin. She was weak as water where he was concerned.
This strength, greater than all strengths--namely, a mother's love--has
also its weaknesses. Bad sons abuse these, and, according to the laws
of that justice whose workings are often unseen, but whose judgments and
punishments are sometimes visible, this son deserves a severe sentence.
He was sixteen years old when I arrived at the Palace of Coburg. He was
slight and elegant; his countenance, lit up by azure eyes, possessed all
the beauty of youth allied to something of the Bourbon type. The fire of
intelligence and the wish to read the book of life animated him.
He promised to be different in every way from his eldest brother. In his
moral character he appeared to possess the good qualities of his second
brother, the charming Auguste of Coburg, but they were only useful in
helping to form the distinguished bearing which later became natural to
him, and which concealed beneath a brilliant appearance a complex and
stormy nature.
I was a year older than he. We were the life and soul of the old palace,
and at times I was able to forget its dullness and my own troubles.
I was the confidante of Ferdinand, and I did not hesitate to make him
mine.
Although Ferdinand later displayed hostility towards me, he devoted
himself at this period to pleasing his sister-in-law and surrounded
her with flowers, attentions and kindness. But it so chanced (and it
remained so for a long period) that the eldest and the youngest of the
Coburg brothers were at enmity on my account, although this feeling
was not outwardly apparent. I must relate these incidents, otherwise it
would be difficult to explain the presence of the many enemies who one
day overwhelmed me. This enmity proceeded from the same miserable cause
which will eternally be at the bottom of so many human dramas--namely,
man's jealousy and his lustful appetites thwarted by rules of morality.
Ferdinand of Coburg, idolized by his mother, accepted as a spoiled
child by society, initiated early in the most refined pleasures, allowed
himself to be transported by his exalted imagination into a world of
his own. I have seen, I still see in him a kind of modern necromancer,
a _fin de siècle_ magician. He was a cabbalist in the same way that M.
Peladan was a wise man of the East, and from these adventures always
proceeds something which influences destiny.
If at first I only saw him making what appeared to me to be strange
gestures, without explaining what these signified, I have now arrived,
through my experience of men and things, at understanding why he was
then so incomprehensible. He must have been possessed by a power beyond
this earth. But he did not believe in God; he believed in the Devil. I
am only going to relate that of which I am sure. I am only going to say
what I have seen. I do not wish to be more superstitious about certain
things, or more troubled in soul than Ferdinand of Coburg. I ask myself
to what fantastical sect, to what Satanic brotherhood he belonged in his
early days, doubtless with the idea of furthering his ambitions and his
extraordinary dreams of the future.
I remember that in our palace at Vienna, Ferdinand would sometimes ask
me to play to him when we were alone in the evening. He insisted upon
the room being only dimly lit. He would then come near to the piano and
listen in silence. At midnight he would stand up solemnly, his features
drawn and contracted. He then looked at the clock and listened for the
first of the twelve strokes, and when they were nearing the end he would
say:
"Play the march from _Aida_." Then, withdrawing to the middle of the
room, he would strike a ceremonial attitude, and repeat incomprehensible
words which frightened me.
Ferdinand used to articulate cabbalistic formulas, stretching out his
arms with his body bent and his head thrown backwards. Amongst the
mysterious phrases a word which sounded like _Koptor_, _Kofte_ or
_Cophte_ was often repeated. One day I asked him to write it down. He
traced letters of which I could make nothing, excepting that I seemed to
recognize some kind of Greek characters.
After these séances I questioned him, because while they were proceeding
I had to be silent and play the march from _Aida_. He invariably
answered: "The Devil exists. I call on him and he comes!"
I did not believe this; I mean to say I did not believe in the Devil's
actual visit, but I was nevertheless a little frightened, and when my
brother-in-law once again began his incantations I would look round
to see if there was anything extraordinary in the room. But there was
nothing unusual excepting Ferdinand and my own curiosity--and, perhaps,
the unrevealed vision of both our futures!
Full of eccentricities, he would bury gloves and ties which he had worn.
There was quite a ceremonial attached to this, at which I was sometimes
obliged to assist. Ferdinand dug the hole himself, and repeated strange
sentences with a mysterious air.
His mouth would then assume that bitter expression which age has
accentuated. Did he indeed juggle with the Prince of Evil, and did he
acquire thereby the dominating spirit which became so strong in him?
Did he seek some kind of brain stimulant in these practices, under the
action of which, I believe, auto-suggestion becomes dangerous?
I leave it to physicians, to occultists and to casuists to diagnose this
case. I am simply a witness, nothing more.
Ferdinand was not yet Prince of Bulgaria. He was only known as a
charming lieutenant in the Austrian Chasseurs, who had exchanged from
the hussars because he was not in sympathy with the animal from which
it is possible to fall, and which is generally supposed to be the most
noble conquest of man. I wish to say plainly that Ferdinand of Coburg
was a wretched horseman. Who would have thought that this officer of
noble descent who had exchanged into an infantry regiment would later
possess a throne, and would dream of becoming Emperor of Byzantium?
He designed his crown and arranged his State entry and his coronation,
just as did the miserable Emperor William who wished to crown himself
_Welt Kaiser_ in Nôtre Dame de Paris, and I do not hesitate to say
that he dreamed of a ceremony to which the Pope would come, willing
or unwilling, and that all confessions should be reconcilable in his
Imperial, august and sacred person.
It is really impossible to-day for a man to be a king according to the
ancient formula of absolute power. This kind of wine is too strong; it
goes to the head.
Formerly, a prince, even an autocrat, did not see or understand that a
small number of faithful persons guarded and restrained him equally as
much as they served him. He was usually at war for three-quarters of his
reign, and he shared the rough life and privations of a soldier. Now
he listens to a thousand voices, a thousand people and the calls of a
thousand duties. He no longer fights in person, and there are, besides,
long periods of peace. Comfort surrounds and enervates him; wonderful
inventions and discoveries have changed everything around him. But
although the values and aspects of society and individuals are totally
modified, everything is still at his feet.
There is something in losing the knowledge of realities as the
unfortunate Tsar Nicolas lost it, as William II lost it, and as
Ferdinand of Bulgaria lost it. For Ferdinand grasped power and guarded
it like an autocrat, and I am convinced that he will be grateful to
me for not enlarging on his policy and the methods which his policy
employed.
He had obtained the throne through the help of Princess Clémentine, who
was ambitious for her beloved son. What a pity she did not live longer!
The more so because, in his passion for authority, Ferdinand tried to
overrule his mother, to whom he would sometimes say, in his domineering
manner, words that fortunately owing to her deafness she did not hear.
If she could have remained on earth to advise him, he might have led
a better life. Whether or no he would have listened to her is another
matter.
At the same time, it was she who procured the Crown of Sofia for him,
and she maintained him during his perilous début of sovereignty. She
gave millions to the prince's establishment and the principality.
The accession of Ferdinand as a prince was first opposed, and afterwards
recognized; finally he adopted the title of Tsar. He might have said
like Fouquet: "Quo non ascendam?" Everything succeeded with him. Soon he
became so self-confident that he was actually seen on horseback. I can
truthfully affirm this, as I chose one of his favourite mounts; this
especial one came from our stables in Hungary, and was a tall, steady
and strong-backed bay mare. Ferdinand was a big powerful man, who
needed a stolid-tempered animal that would not shy at guns, cheering, or
military music. I tried the mare myself on the Prater in the presence
of the prince's envoy. We had really found the very thing for Ferdinand,
but I would have been more than sorry to have had it myself as it was
altogether too dull, no noise startled it; and it was sent to Sofia,
where Ferdinand showed off, mounted on this fine animal, on which he
probably dreamt of entering Constantinople. His war against the Turks is
not forgotten. He thought himself already at the gates of Byzantium....
But I do not wish to relate what everyone knows. I prefer to show in a
new light the secret drama which his diabolical contempt for God and
the moral laws of Christian civilization provoked, when he baptized
and brought up his sons in the "orthodox" religion whence Bolshevism
originated--just as the European war has sprung from Lutherism, and just
as the more terrible trials of England will arise from her religious
disputes.
Ferdinand of Bulgaria, born in the Catholic faith, first married Marie
Louise of Parma, daughter of the Duke of Parma, the faithful servant
of the Roman and Apostolic faith. This marriage, celebrated when he
was Prince of Bulgaria, had not been agreed upon without the express
condition that the children should be baptized and brought up in the
religion of their mother and their ancestors. This constituted a formal
article of the contract. Ferdinand solemnly consented to it. But when he
thought that the support of Russia might be useful to him in his plans
regarding Constantinople, he did not hesitate to break his vows; he gave
his two sons to Russian schism. Marie Louise of Parma, mother of the
souls of her children, betrayed, repulsed and broken in her belief
in her husband, immediately fled from the Konak of Sofia, and came to
Vienna to hide her sorrow and her fear in the sympathetic arms of her
mother-in-law, who was equally tortured by the blasphemy of her son.
People who have some ideas on the question of conscience, especially
when it touches religious convictions, will easily understand the
intensity of this drama.
I was then at the Coburg Palace. I saw the Princess of Bulgaria arrive
there after having fled from the palace, where, in the opinion of this
pious mother, her innocent children had lost their hope of salvation. It
was no doubt much to endure. God is far greater than we imagine Him to
be. Our interpretations of His justice, although inspired by revelation,
will always underestimate His compassion, for we have not the words to
express, still less to explain, the survival of souls.
The poor princess was naturally extremely unhappy. I well remember her
agonized pale face, her indignation and her desire to annul her marriage
at the Court of Rome.
Fearing that Ferdinand would come and take her back to Sofia by force,
she insisted upon remaining near Princess Clémentine, who had a camp bed
put in a little room adjoining her own. The Princess of Bulgaria did not
feel safe except in this refuge.
Reasons of State and the impossibility of living without seeing her
children, who were retained as prisoners of their father's throne,
proved after all stronger than the princess's rebellion and despair.
Some months later she consented to return to Sofia.
The House of Parma was, like herself, astounded. The Holy See had
excommunicated Ferdinand. This malediction threw the entire family
of Parma into mourning; they had been so trustful and so proud of
Ferdinand's love, in which they had shown their confidence by giving him
one of their daughters.
I next saw the poor Princess of Bulgaria at Sofia. She had heroically
returned to her conjugal duties; she had just recovered from her
confinement.
Who knows--who will ever know--what actually passed in her mind?
Consumed by inward griefs, she perhaps died as a result. She was one of
those sensitive souls who actually die of a broken heart.
I have often thought of her. She was a martyr to the love of her
children. One visit to Sofia in 1898 remains indelibly impressed in my
mind.
My husband accompanied me, but there was always something indefinable
and indefinite between himself and his brother, probably the
subconscious enmity which I have previously mentioned. We could not,
however, have been welcomed more warmly. The life of the Sovereign was
wonderfully well organized in this country which was still primitive.
Nothing was wanting at the palace. There East and West were happily
united.
Ferdinand gave me as a personal guard an honest brigand of sorts,
picturesquely garbed after an Oriental fashion. From the time that this
man was ordered to watch over me and only to obey my orders, he took up
his stand before my door, and day and night he never moved therefrom.
My husband himself could not have come in without my permission. I have
never understood how this ferocious sentinel managed to be always on the
spot.
My brother-in-law showed me a most delicate and refined attention. He
constituted me the queen of these days of festivity. I was overwhelmed
by the homage of his entourage. Each meal was a decorative and culinary
marvel. Sybarites would have appreciated the cuisine at the Palace of
Sofia.
I have always appreciated meals which are meals. It costs no more to eat
a good dinner than to eat a bad one; it is a weakness of the body and
mind, a crime against the Creator, to disdain food when it is prepared
with care. If we have been given the gift of taste, and if good things
exist on earth, they are equally for one as for another. Ferdinand at
any rate held this epicurean belief.
Every night after supper there was a dance at the palace. The Bulgarian
officers were most enterprising dancers. Educated at Vienna or Paris,
they understood the art of conversation. They were distinguished by
an instinctive air of nobility, as are all the sons of a virile and
essentially agricultural race with a wholesome and wide outlook.
During the day the prince did the honours of his capital and his
kingdom. We recalled the memories of the Coburg Palace, and our former
excursions and parties. We returned in spirit to that Forest of Elenthal
so dear to our youth. We drove, accompanied by an escort which I have
never ceased to admire. I am unaware whether the Bulgarian roads have
improved, but at the time of which I write they were few, and they
were maintained at the expense of Providence. A short distance from the
capital they became tracks. But the escort followed without flinching,
utterly indifferent to obstacles of every description which encumbered
an already too narrow road. I have rarely seen the equal of either man
or beast in crossing ridges, walls and ditches. It was witchcraft on
horseback.
Ferdinand was superbly indifferent to everything unconnected with his
sister-in-law. I gazed at him, and I thought of the devil-worship of
our youth. He was always strange. I saw now, as I had seen long ago, the
amulet in his buttonhole, disguised as a decoration, a button fashioned
in the shape of a yellow marguerite beautifully executed in metal of
the same shade as that of the heart of the flower. Each time I asked
him about this "gri-gri" he assumed a serious manner, and gave me to
understand that it was something which he could not discuss.
He had earnestly begged us to spend a short time with him. Had he the
same idea which he had once explained to me openly at dinner, and which
he emphasized privately in another way? I cannot believe it.
I think that, carried away by his thoughts, he was no longer master of
himself. I do not know whether I was ever mad, as his elder brother
so much wished to believe, but I am absolutely sure that Ferdinand of
Coburg was not always in possession of his senses.
Yes, this spiritual scholar, this lover of art, this lover of flowers,
this delightful friend of the birds in his aviary to whom he told
nursery tales and charmed like a professional bird-charmer, this
accomplished man of the world, this son of Princess Clémentine, and this
grandson of Queen Marie often assumed a kind of demoniacal personality
and gave himself up to the evil delights of sorcery.
At one dinner, which I remember as if it were yesterday, he said in low
tones so that my husband could not hear (my husband being opposite to me
in the seat of the princess, who was absent owing to indisposition):
"You see everything here. Ah, well! All is my kingdom; I lay it, myself
included, at your feet."
I could only welcome this romantic declaration as fantastic gallantry
rather than a literal statement. I tried to reply as if I treated the
remark as a joke. But apart from his expression, which gave the lie
to the level tone of his voice, I had more than one reason to distrust
Ferdinand, now that his imagination was mastered by desire.
In fact, the same evening he came to me, and, taking me away from the
dancers, led me to another room where a French window was open to the
Oriental night and the stillness of the little park, and inquired if I
had understood what he had said.
His tone was harsh and his look stern. There was something imperious and
fascinating about him. I was much disturbed. He insisted brusquely:
"It is the last time that I shall offer what I have offered. Do you
understand?"
My eyes wandered to the salon. I saw beside me the Prince of Bulgaria so
different from his brother, still young, handsome and full of power. But
the image of Princess Marie Louise passed before my eyes, and also the
vision of the Queen.... I shook my head, and murmured a frightened "No."
I must have looked as pale as wax. Ferdinand's countenance changed. His
features took on a sinister expression; he, too, turned pale, and in a
hoarse voice he threatened me, saying sneeringly:
"Take care. You will repent this. By 'Kophte' (?)."
He added those incomprehensible words which he always used when he asked
me to play the march from _Aida_ in the darkened salon at midnight.
That evening I felt something dangerous was in store for me. It was so;
from that moment Ferdinand of Coburg joined his brother in his enmity
towards me. And his enmity was no small matter.
I am quite aware that these facts will appear incredible to most people.
They seem more like an old romance by Anne Radcliffe! But everything,
both in the public and private life of Ferdinand of Coburg, _was_
incredible. I do not wish to refer to the judgment already meted out to
him by history. My desire is not to gloat over his downfall, but to show
in what inconceivable surroundings I lived. I was a member of a
family where everything was perfect and at the same time execrable.
Unfortunately I was not then in a position to love good and shun evil.
It took me twenty years to escape.
Ferdinand of Coburg has commenced his punishment on earth. Knowing him
as I do, I am certain that he suffers intensely, even though he may
sometimes receive consolation from the Devil!
I think he believes himself a superman. That fool Nietzsche--in reviving
a theory as old as the hills, when supermen called themselves cavaliers,
warriors, heroes and demi-gods--has turned a considerable number of
heads in German countries. He did them the more harm in that their
superhumanity, infested by the morbid materialism of the century, became
separated from the ideal which once animated these mighty persons, and
elevated them to honour instead of luring them to crime. It is certain
that despicable motives and methods can only end in a terrible material
and moral defeat. Ferdinand of Coburg, who has been ambitious from his
youth upwards, was a student of Nietzsche at the time when his theories
achieved notoriety. So Nietzsche obtained as his disciple a being who is
now one of the most notable victims of Zarathustra.