CHAPTER X

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.