Then they turned hopeful eyes on England. He had a sentimental claim upon Queen Victoria, as a Coburg Prince who was born in the very year in which the Prince Consort died. Be sure, this little sentimental memory was kept alive by the astute Princess Clementine. As a small boy, he wrote childish letters in the best English he could muster, and at frequent intervals. As a man, he employed to her his best bedside manner, which few old ladies could resist, and which impressed her so strongly that at his wedding she described him as an “enjoleur”—a beguiler. Wherefore he has since borne the nickname of the “Fat Charmer.”
But he got very little out of shrewd Queen Victoria, except a present of a pug dog, of which he made a great fuss. He had it fattened beyond even the stoutness and wheeziness of the ordinary pug, and declared that it was his mascot. Whenever he entertained English notabilities, he made a point of speaking with affectionate reverence of “Her Most Gracious,” as he used to call her. And, as he pronounced the words, a tender moisture obscured his light blue eyes, and just enough huskiness gave them a reverential flavour that was most impressive.
His worldly mother entertained greater hopes of King Edward, then Prince of Wales. The pair used to lay in wait for him at Marienbad, where our late King regarded them in the same light as the mineral water—unpleasant, but part of the cure. He entertained them and was entertained, but those who knew him most intimately could not master their smiles when any significance was attached to this complaisance. Tactful and wise as he ever was, our King Edward gave no offence, but raised no hopes.
He even went to Constantinople, where he had to wear a red fez as a symbol of the Sultan’s overlordship.
Paris, too, saw a great deal of him through these years of seeking recognition. Each year he spent some time in the French capital, behaving in an effusive manner, that on one occasion nearly involved him in a sound kicking. His mother still had great influence in the city of her birth, but it was the wrong kind of influence for Ferdinand. He was more admired than liked by the French, who were the first to appreciate the real nature of his character.
It was in Paris that he incurred the snub that made him vow that he would never set foot in the city again; and part of the bitterness was contained in the fact that the snub was administered by his own uncle, the Duc d’Aumale. He had left the opera, and betook himself to a very exclusive café for some of those good things of life which he knows well how to appreciate. Amid the brilliant company assembled, he noticed the Duc d’Aumale, whom he approached familiarly, holding out his hand with easy confidence.
The old nobleman looked at him curiously, as at a stranger whom he had never before seen.
“What, uncle, don’t you know me?” he cried. “It is I, your nephew Ferdinand.”
“What! My nephew Ferdinand! But it is so long since I have seen you that, like the Powers, I did not recognize you.”
So Ferdinand wandered from one Court to another, seeking the friendly lead, and meeting with nothing but much sly laughter. At home in Bulgaria he knew better than to expect any sympathy. His strong man Stambuloff was intent in holding off Russia on one side and Turkey on the other, with a watchful eye between whiles on Austria. He did not care whether the Prince of Bulgaria were recognized or not, so long as Bulgaria itself remained intact and progressive.