M. Joseph Reinach, the French publicist, whose articles signed Polybe in the Paris Figaro have been rightly estimated as among the most informative contributions to the public knowledge of European politics, long maintained a private correspondence with Ferdinand. The letters of the ruler of Bulgaria, written in his own handwriting and signed “The Good European,” are masterpieces of hypocrisy and elaborate double dealing.

Their tortuous insincerity does not suffice to conceal one outstanding fact, revealed by the character of the handwriting itself. The thin, delicate sloping letters, the rich perfumed note-paper, the exquisite neatness of the correspondence expose the feminine soul of the man who has commanded so many murders.

An admirer has credited him with “an almost exaggerated delicacy of mind,” and the evidence brought in support of the statement at least proves that his amusements, his recreations, his antipathies, and many of his occupations are those of a well-brought-up woman of the princely class.

Old Major Popoff, when he met him for the second time, was received by the Prince reclining on a gorgeous couch. In his hand was a perfect Malmaison carnation which he sniffed approvingly; he even condescended to point out to the rough old Bulgarian the exquisite formation of the petals. The visitor was able to grasp two points in the appearance of his new monarch. His hair had been elaborately curled and prinked. And the ruler of Bulgaria wore corsets.

But Ferdinand was too much devoted to the good things of life to retain the corsets permanently, and they were laid aside as his girth rapidly increased. As his ambrosial locks receded from his forehead, he transferred his affections to his beard, which began existence as a neat little “imperial” in the early days of his reign. It has now become a torpedo creation to which a highly-paid expert devotes the whole of his time, spending hours in the consideration of its proper training and nurture.

This beard goes well with his favourite costumes. One of them is the Bulgarian national costume, which he has elaborated into a creation of fine linen and silks, with many a feminine touch in bright colours and delicate trimmings. The other is that of an admiral of the Bulgarian Navy, in which he was wont to receive British visitors of distinction, as being peculiarly suitable to the honour of a great Naval Power. Needless to say that Ferdinand becomes atrociously seasick if ever he trusts himself out of sight of land.

But Ferdinand’s talent for designing costumes is so remarkable that he excited the envy and admiration of the most celebrated of Parisian man milliners, who was privileged to witness him at work with his silks and velvets. This artist has ever since cherished a malignant wish that the long-expected reverse might overtake the Bulgarian Czar, and that cruel fate might at the same time deprive him of his extensive inheritance. In that case, real scope might be found for his remarkable talents, and the women of the world would be the happier because of a Bulgarian revolution.

I have already told of the disgust of Stambuloff at the Prince’s coronation creation of purple velvet and ermine. That is only one of the many triumphs Ferdinand has achieved with rich stuffs and anxious thought. He now has a special costume of his own design, suitable to every feast and holy day.

Thus for the Easter feast he prepared a long mantle of crimson velvet of the order of St. Alexander, to mark the fact that he was a younger son. On St. George’s Day, April 23, he sports a robe of blue velvet slashed with silver; for in Bulgaria this day is the fÊte day of the military order of bravery, in which Ferdinand takes high rank.

These creations are the result of many anxious days spent in his assassin-proof den, surrounded by his tame birds and the modest wild flowers from which he draws inspiration. His boyish hobbies were for flowers and birds, and with the mature man these tastes have become a veritable passion. His aviaries are reputed the finest in the world, and he can still occupy himself with the woes of a pet canary when all Europe is bathed in blood, and his rough adopted people are dying by tens of thousands.

The flower gardens he has installed at his Palaces of Varna and Euxinograd are veritable wonders. Trees and plants from every clime have been acclimatized under the warm sun and in the virgin soil of rude Bulgaria. In his Japanese garden he has reproduced the ponds and terraces of the Orient, and by a miracle of care has bred the butterflies of far Japan in the same environment, so that they hover among the Japanese blooms and complete the resemblance.

This is only one among the thousand wonders he has contrived with birds, beasts and insects. He is at his best when showing these beauties with unaffected enthusiasm. It is then he tells his visitors how, when his compeers were deep in the drill-book and the practice of arms, he devoted his hours to the study of natural history and botany, and the cultivation of a sensitive soul.

Ruder monarchs have played coarse jests upon that sensitive spirit, and have merited a well-earned and long-treasured resentment. For instance, at a time of great anxiety to Ferdinand, when the world looked very black, and a kind word meant so much, he was greatly cheered by the announcement that his sovereign lord, the Sultan of Turkey, was sending him a royal present as a mark of goodwill.

Ferdinand waited anxiously for the present, but it came not. Instead there came the announcement that the Red Sultan was ransacking his Empire for a steed worthy of such a Prince. Ferdinand winced, for his horses had to be chosen with some care. His personal preference was for the little native ponies of Bulgaria; when he was mounted on one of these he had not so far to fall. Still, a present was a present, and he waited with eager expectation.

At the end of five weary months, the envoy from Yildiz was announced. With every show of pomp he had the present conducted to the royal mews, where it was received by Ferdinand in person with all the ceremony which he knew how to initiate. The wrappings were removed from the present, and there stood the most wretched old screw that ever disgraced a Constantinople cab. Casting one glance of fury at the brute, Ferdinand fled, and next day the Sultan’s present was sent to the Zoo.

Even a more hideous outrage upon Ferdinand’s delicacy of mind was perpetrated by the Kaiser, who has none of that commodity to spare, and is given to practical jokes of the kind that Captain Marryat describes as being usual in the Navy a century ago. Ferdinand and the Kaiser were both guests at Brunswick Castle, when the incident occurred.

The time was spring, and it was a delicious moonlight evening. In the grounds of the castle the nightingales were singing voluptuously, and Ferdinand was wearing for the first time a pair of white silk smalls which became him to perfection. He leaned out of the castle window, surveyed the moonlit beauty, and listened to the raptures of the bird of spring. All the young girl in him rose to the surface, and he abandoned himself to the moment and its romance.

And while his shoulders were heaving with true Coburg emotion and love of nature, there crept behind him the Kaiser. The broad back and the roll of fat on the neck were irresistible. Down came the mailed fist with a resounding thwack, and with something hardly distinguishable from a scream Ferdinand faced his tormentor.

Furious and scarlet with passion he grasped the identity of his assailant. He summoned to the occasion all the dignity of the Bourbons. “I pray Your Majesty to refrain from practical jokes,” he said, and withdrew, refusing to be conciliated. The pair next met in London at the funeral of King Edward, but the Bulgarian monarch refused either to forgive or forget. The very sight of William caused him to growl like a sullen bear, though the Kaiser persistently ignored his resentment.

The twain are now “glorious allies,” but the Kaiser may live to learn that a Bourbon “forgets nothing.”

Of course Ferdinand is as kind to animals as the average village butcher. His British biographer remarks that “certain forms of so-called ‘sport’ still tolerated in this country would horrify him. He has a constitutional horror of anything savouring of cruelty.”

For instance, a Turkish fisherman not far from his Euxinograd Palace captured a Black Sea seal, and exhibited it at so much a head in the Port of Varna. Ferdinand heard the news with a disgust he did not attempt to conceal. For a day he brooded over the sufferings of the poor sea creature, and his birds and flowers did not suffice to soothe his ruffled sensitiveness to pain inflicted on a dumb creature. Finally he ordered his car and drove down to the port, where he purchased the captive for £24, and ordered it to be set free in the sea. Then he returned to Euxinograd and recovered his equanimity by smelling violets and gazing at cyclamens.

One can well imagine that such a king would shrink from the sight of bloodshed. It is recorded that, at the beginning of the first Balkan war, it was his sad duty to look upon the first Bulgarian wounded as they came into Stara Zagora. The sight reduced him to bitter tears, and on his bended knees he implored Heaven to spare him any further sight of battle. It is only fair to state that he has not since tempted Providence, but has held studiously aloof from all scenes of carnage, though unhappily at the head of an army in the field. And when the sights of war have come unpleasantly near him, with true maidenly sensibility he has invariably turned away his head.