Chapter TWO

More about Kings--I meet the Queen of Italy--King Nicholas of
Montenegro is kind to me--The Emperor Karl of Austria, who
stole his Mother’s Jewels and gave them to an Actress--The
Emperor Francis Josef and the Shah--Stories of my friend
Princess Luisa of Saxony--The Grand Duke and his False
Teeth.

I was on my first visit to Cettigné, the high-up little capital of the peasant kingdom of Montenegro, approached by a ladder-like road from Cattaro, on the Adriatic, when Princess Xenia of Montenegro--who subsequently helped me in taking photographs for my book _An Observer in the Near East_--presented me to her elder sister, Queen Elena of Italy. Through the latter’s brother, Prince Mirko, I subsequently received my first command to audience of that fine old peasant-ruler, King Nicholas.

Cettigné is a quaint little place, scarcely more than a good-sized mountain village, prosperous, clean, with broad streets. The people by law are compelled to wear the national dress, the men with dark blue baggy trousers, white woollen gaiters, raw-hide shoes, a short scarlet jacket heavily braided with gold, and a small pork-pie cap with black silk band, the crown of the same colour as the jacket, bearing the King’s initials in Russian characters, “N.I.” The women, who are particularly handsome, wear, when out of doors, beautifully hand-embroidered blouses, and a kind of long coat, with open sleeves, of soft dove-grey cloth. They are forbidden to wear European hats, and wear the same as the men, except that the crowns are embroidered in gold, and do not bear the royal cipher.

The fact that every man is armed, carrying a perfect arsenal of weapons in his belt, is apt to give the stranger an uncanny feeling. The man who brings you your morning coffee wears a couple or more revolvers in his belt. And they are wise, for in that country, bordering as it does upon savage Albania, peace and war walk ever hand in hand.

At the time of my first visit my friend, Mr., now Sir, Charles Des Graz, was British Minister to Montenegro. He afterwards, before his retirement, was appointed to Peru, and during the war to Serbia. We lived together at the Grand Hotel, and spent many pleasant days in one another’s company.

He told me a good diplomatic story, of how a predecessor of his at Cettigné had an intense hatred of rats. The hotel--which was also the British Legation--was not devoid of them, and apparently they invaded the Minister’s sitting-room, for one morning he found a rat had devoured a whole box of his pet digestive tablets that had been sent from London. Next night he waited for the intruder, no rat-trap being obtainable in the capital, and soon after everyone had retired loud shouts were heard from the dignified representative of Great Britain. On rushing in, two waiters, in deshabille, found the Minister armed with his diplomatic sword, in the midst of upset furniture, chasing a rat. He had already made a lunge, and split a sofa, the stuffing of which protruded, but amidst the hubbub the rat escaped.

My first private audience with King Nicholas of Montenegro was an interesting one. At six o’clock one evening the royal _aide-de-camp_ called in a carriage, and drove me to the Palace, which was a long, dark brown building, of somewhat plain exterior, as befitted the home of the ruler of a fighting race, where I was received in the great hall by half-a-dozen bowing servants in scarlet and gold.

Here I was met by the chamberlain, who, having told me his name, conducted me up the grand staircase and into the audience-chamber, with its fine old paintings of the Italian _cinquecento_ and highly polished floor.

Then, after a moment, His Majesty--a brilliant figure with deeply-lined, rugged face--entered, shook me by the hand, and welcomed me to Montenegro.

It has always struck me how extremely punctual all royalties are, for a person commanded to audience is never kept waiting as he so often is in any business office.

The formal greetings ended, His Majesty said in Italian, in which we conversed:

“Come, let us go into yonder room. We shall be able to talk more comfortably.” And he led me into a smaller and more cosy chamber, where he gave me a seat.

On the table, a great silver candelabra had been set, and by its light I was enabled to obtain a good view of the ruler of Crnagora, the “Land of the Black Mountains.” Of magnificent physique in spite of his seventy years, his hair was only slightly grey. His fine features were those of a mountain race, and his dark, keen eyes shot quick, inquiring glances of alertness. Father of his people, he wore the native costume--almost the same as that of his subjects passing to and fro in the street; a costume of scarlet-blue-and-gold, with a single cross in diamonds at the throat--the order of Danilo, of which he was Master, and one which, at an audience a year later, he bestowed on me.

After the first few minutes of regal formality His Majesty’s manner had entirely changed. Putting ceremony aside, he produced his well-worn cigarette case--of lizard skin, with the royal crown and cipher in gold at the corner--offered me a Montenegrin cigarette, took one himself, lit mine with his own hand, and then we fell to chatting.

In this delightful manner we smoked together. I asked the King-poet many questions, and learned many things. He explained several difficult points in Balkan politics that I had never before understood, and smiled and shrugged his shoulders when I mentioned the question of Macedonia.

I was there with an object, mainly to sound His Majesty on his ideas of the best way of settling the vexed question of Macedonia. When I mentioned it he became grave.

“There will be war in the Balkans soon if the Powers remain apathetic!” he said. Alas! how true were his words, for within eighteen months I was at the Serbian front against the Turks, attached to the staff of King Peter.

“There is but one way,” he said. “The Powers should call a conference and place Macedonia under a Governor-General, who should be a European prince. Reforms could then be carried out, and the Greek and Bulgarian bands expelled from the country. Ah! if only the British public knew what was happening in Macedonia, of the intrigues of Turkey and Bulgaria, of the nearness we are to war, but”--and he smiled and hesitated--“I almost forget myself. My position as a ruler forbids me to talk politics, you know!” and he laughed.

Then later, when I had risen and was backing out of the room to leave, His Majesty, who had also risen, said:

“When you return to Cettigné do not fail to let me know, and we will have another chat. And give my kindest wishes to my old friend Chedo Mijatovitch, in London.”

Count Chedo Mijatovitch was for a long time Serbian Minister at the Court of St. James, and is well known in diplomatic and society circles, having since made his home in London. He is one of my oldest and best friends.

It was under his wing that I first entered the Balkans, for he had given me a number of letters of introduction, written in scribbly hieroglyphics that I could not understand, but which proved a _passe-partout_ to everywhere, from the Adriatic to the Black Sea.

* * * * *

I have heard a good many stories of the old Emperor Francis Josef of Austria, his successor the Emperor Karl, and of the Hapsburg Archdukes, from the lips of the Emperor’s niece Princess Luisa of Saxony. Her Highness possesses a fine sense of humour, and has a fund of humorous anecdotes.

Her father, the Grand Duke of Tuscany, wanted her to marry Dom Pedro of Brazil, whose praises had been sung to her constantly over the dinner-table for weeks, and at last they were introduced at Baden. They were pushed into each other’s society, both knowing that each was to marry the other. One day Dom Pedro asked her whether she cared for him, and she openly replied in the negative. Both laughed.

The Princess, in telling me the story, said:

“At once I saw that Dom Pedro was a young man to be trusted, and from henceforth we both had a great game with our respective families. When I pretended to go for lovers’ walks with him, he went out to meet a pretty young café-singer, while I strolled about and had many a chat with young men who had not the slightest inkling of my identity--among them a young British diplomat who was on the staff of the Embassy at Vienna, and who two years later recognized me at one of the balls at the Imperial Palace.

“Poor Dom Pedro! Ultimately he went raving mad--about a year after our escapades--and is now wearing out his life in one of the Imperial castles in Austria, a hopeless lunatic.”

But for an incident which is not without humour, Princess Luisa, instead of marrying the King of Saxony, would have been Queen of Bulgaria.

One day, when we were motoring together from Florence to Rome accompanied by her lady-in-waiting, Countess Függer, she related how Prince Ferdinand was brought out for her inspection and approval by his mother, old Princess Clémentine of Coburg, a sharp-tongued, ugly old lady, with an ear-trumpet.

“From the first I hated the comic-opera Prince, with his huge nose, perfectly trimmed beard, little pig-like eyes, and puffy cheeks,” she told me. “He came to Salzburg wearing most horrible yellow boots, and of course was a most superior person. Well, he soon grew amorous, and I was warned by my brother Poldo that His Highness meant to marry me. The Emperor had apparently declared to old Clémentine that Bulgaria would not be safe till its reigning Princess was an Archduchess of Austria.

“Poldo had really no need to warn me. I simply laid my plans, and while Ferdinand, whose amours had been notorious, had already told me that I was the only woman--the usual only woman--he could ever love, I set about to prepare my own little bombshell.

“Aunt Clémentine had arrived at the castle with the special ear-trumpet that she took out on visits, an ugly black affair with gold lace hanging over its opening. How well I can recollect the way she shouted back at one in that high-pitched, peevish voice. With her came my brother-in-law, the Archduke Otto, with the Archduke Sigismund, so that we were quite a family party, all assembled, I suppose, to hear the glad announcement that I was betrothed to Prince Ferdinand of Bulgaria.

“On the night of Aunt Clémentine’s arrival we all sat down to dinner, Ferdinand being seated opposite me, elegant and happy, and casting furtive glances that I mischievously disregarded, greatly to my mother’s intense annoyance. During the meal, however, Aunt Clémentine, with her ear-trumpet held over the table close to me, suddenly exclaimed in her shrill voice:

“‘Ah, Luisa! What a delightful pair you will make when you marry my Ferdinand! Really, you grow prettier every day.’

“‘Marry!’ I shouted back into my old aunt’s abominable ear-trumpet. ‘Why, I should never dream of marrying your son! Who said such a thing? I, for one, will never live in a country where the men go about in sheep-skins and the women twine flowers in their hair. Ugh! Bulgaria may suit those who like the simple life, but for me, Vienna, civilization, and a decent opera. Besides, when I marry I shall marry a real man!’”

Princess Luisa, who usually called herself Countess of Montignoso, or Countess de la Rose, when travelling, was nothing if not unconventional. I used to see her practically every day in Florence. Her beautiful villa was close to my own house, and in consequence she often sat in my study telling me about members of the Hapsburg family.

Nobody ever knew where the Hapsburgs would break out next. The Archduke Ludwig Salvator grew wine and sold it; his brother Archduke Charles had a hobby of mending locks and riding daily on ’buses and trams around Vienna, while the Duke Charles of Parma repaired watches and clocks and did not forget to charge for his services.

Of the old Duke Charles the Princess once told me a funny story. We were walking along the Passeggio, or esplanade, at Leghorn together one evening, after having paid a visit to my old friend Mr. Montgomery Carmichael, the well-known British Consul who wrote that most delightful book, _In Tuscany_.

“I remember being taken to Meissen by my mother to see the old Duke Charles of Parma. He was nearly blind, but still an elegant, commanding figure,” said she.

“He passed his thin hand over my face slowly, and then said in French:

“‘Ah, yes I You are growing good-looking--like Marie Antoinette somewhat--but with a happier expression.’ Then, with a sudden outburst, he added, ‘Look at me well, Luisa! I am a rare type of beast. I am your great-grandfather, old and ugly.’

“I looked at the erect and elegant figure in uniform, with the Order of the Golden Fleece, and said:

“‘Ah! but when you were younger you were very handsome. I have seen your portrait at the Hofburg.’

“‘Yes, yes,’ and a smile crossed his sightless countenance. ‘True, I was young once, and enjoyed life--enjoyed it greatly, I can assure you; and doubtless you too, Luisa, will enjoy it.’

“‘Well,’ remarked my mother coldly, and with meaning, ‘I hope Luisa will not follow in your footsteps, grandfather!’

“The old man seemed pleased at this reference to the amours of his early days, and before I left he gave me a very beautiful eighteenth-century golden casket set with fine jewels, which I still possess.

“That evening on our drive back from the Schloss into Dresden, about fifteen miles, my mother told me an amusing story of the old Duke. It appears that about five years before, when his eyesight was as yet unimpaired, he was still a _bon viveur_. He was old and he was toothless, for his pet abomination was false teeth. My father had, one day, laughed at his empty mouth, saying:

“‘I know of a really excellent dentist--a good fellow, in Vienna, who keeps me supplied with teeth--Kaltner, in the Praterstrasse. Why not call him in and get him to make you a set? You would look twenty years younger!’

“The old Duke was much impressed by the latter remark, and though he declared he would never wear such abominations, he secretly called in the dentist, who made him a complete set.

“They arrived on the day when he was giving a luncheon to half a dozen pretty women--for he dearly loved a charming face--and for that meal he wore them, priding himself that his valet had said that with them in his mouth he was rejuvenated. The meal commenced merrily, and he was particularly gracious to a certain Countess who sat on his right, when suddenly he experienced difficulty. He had laughed with his fair guests when, to his horror, he found himself unable to shut his mouth!

“For a few moments he remained with his mouth open, a look of terrible consternation upon his face. The guests thought he had been seized with a fit. Suddenly, however, he took his false teeth from his mouth, saying:

“‘Curse Ferdinand and his damned dentist! I’ll have no more of the abominable things!’ and he cast them across the room. They struck a marble statue, and went into a dozen pieces. There they remained till two flunkeys entered with dignity and swept them up into a dust-pan!”

* * * * *

Here is a scandal, a strict secret of the Imperial family, which the Princess disclosed to me concerning the Emperor of Austria, Karl Franz Josef, who succeeded to the throne during the war.

It seems that the Emperor, before his accession, was a boon companion of the German Ex-Crown Prince, and used to accompany him to the various capitals on many disgraceful escapades. He also suffered from that very prevalent malady known as impecuniosity. The Archduke Otto and the Archduchess Maria Josepha, his parents, were a “hard-up” pair, who had considerable trouble to make both ends meet. The old Emperor had no great love for them because they were a stiff-necked, pious couple, who had looked askance at His Majesty’s little peccadilloes, and had whispered some hard things that had returned to the Emperor’s ears.

Karl, one night in his peregrinations about Vienna, met a Jewish singer at the Hofopern named Elsa Bland. She was a dark-haired woman with a marvellous voice. The Viennese young men-about-town were all raving over her beauty at the time the Archduke appeared in her dressing-room. Karl Franz Josef became deeply fascinated, and naturally wanted to give her a present, but he had not the cash with which to purchase one. The embryo Emperor went to his mother, the Archduchess, with an excuse to borrow some money, but the old lady, who knew the world of Vienna well, guessed the motive of the request, and sent her son empty away.

Not to be outdone in his amorous device, Karl Franz Josef, a man of some resource where women are concerned, devised a plan.

The dark-haired, soft-spoken Jewess received three days later some magnificent jewels that were naturally the admiration of all her friends.

Next night a new musical opera was to be produced, and all Vienna attended. Elsa Bland was taking an important part, and old Maria Josepha was present.

To her horror, when fixing her glasses on the opulent Jewess, who was her son’s friend, she recognized on the singer’s neck and arms the contents of her own jewel-case, heirlooms of the Imperial family!

She called her son that same night and accused him of being a thief, as indeed he was. But he only laughed vacantly, and declared that Elsa Bland’s smiles were well worth a few paltry jewels.

In despair, his mother enlisted the sympathy of a friend, Count Salm-Reifferscheidt, whom she asked to negotiate with the Jewess for the return of the jewels.

The dark-haired Elsa, who had a male acquaintance in the background, as is so often the case with women of her class, refused to give them up. They had been presented to her by “her friend the Archduke,” and they were hers. She had no knowledge whence they had come, and she cared less, she said.

The situation became daily more critical. The handsome Elsa declared that if she were worried any more by the Count she would hand a written statement to her friend Rohr, a journalist on the staff of the _Neue Freie Presse_, and expose the fact that His Imperial Highness, the Archduke, had stolen the contents of his mother’s jewel-box!

The only way out of the difficulty was to pay--and pay heavily. But the worst fact was that none of the parties had any money!

So, after many family conferences, at which many hard words were uttered, it was at last decided to go to the Emperor and present the case.

The Count described to Princess Luisa what took place. The Emperor, fearful lest Elsa’s friend, the journalist, should be told, and make “copy” out of the scandal, to his pecuniary advantage, had Rohr at once called to audience. The newspaper-man was amazed when the Emperor bestowed on him a cross and ribbon “for services rendered to the Empire.” Next day the Emperor called up the old Archduchess and gave her a severe lecture, followed an hour later by a further lecture to the fast-living young man who was heir to the throne.

Elsa Bland at length drove a very keen bargain with the Count, who was at last compelled to go to the Emperor and borrow the sum that the opera-singer demanded. In the end the money was paid, the jewels restored to their rightful owner, and the fair Elsa was turned out of Austria, bag and baggage, much to the dismay of Karl Josef.

* * * * *

Another story I heard in Court circles in Vienna concerns the Shah of Persia, the famous Nasr-ed-Din.

The Emperor of Austria had entertained him at the Hofburg, but so disgusting were the habits of his--the Persian--suite that an excuse was made to send them on to Salzburg. The Grand Duke of Tuscany, unconscious of what had happened in Vienna, invited the “King of Kings.” He was a striking man, who wore a diamond aigrette in his turban, and who, before he would ride out, had the mane of one of his white horses dyed scarlet. Then, when he went forth with great pomp, a servant held over the monarch’s head a huge and gorgeous golden umbrella.

But the havoc created by the suite! The main hall of the west wing of the palace, being built of marble, was given over to them as a slaughter-house! They killed sheep and lambs on the inlaid marble floors and roasted them whole there. Imagine the mess, the blood, the disorder, and the smoke!

The Grand Duke and his family were in tears. A courier was sent to the Emperor with an urgent note, asking him how they could get rid of their unwelcome guests.

He brought back a reply in the Emperor’s own writing to the effect that the Shah was there for a fortnight, and it would be a grave insult to send him away. He would visit the Court of St. James next.

“Well,” airily exclaimed Poldo, the Archduke’s son, one day to his mother, “they’ve turned the hall into a slaughter-house, I see. Now they are saying their prayers in the Blue Salon. I am told they are to sacrifice hens on the carpet there at noon to-morrow--they cut off their heads, you know! I saw Egyptians doing it once outside a mosque in Cairo!”

The thought of hens having their heads sliced off in the Blue Salon was too much for the Archduchess, who at once became indignant and sent for her husband.

Meanwhile Poldo whispered to his sister:

“The hen fiction has about filled mother up with horror, eh?”

At last the Shah left, after he had distributed presents with a generous hand to everyone in the household, down to the kitchen-maids.

But the state of the rooms after they had gone was something too horrible for words. Pigs could not have left worse behind.