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.