Queen Elizabeth and her ladies in waiting spend the summer months at Castle Polesch, at Sinaia, about sixty miles from Bukharest in the Carpathian Mountains. It is an imposing but gloomy edifice of gray stone and red brick, situated in a wild forest, and looks like a very ancient, although it is a very modern castle. It has been surrounded by villas and hotels which attract the wealthy classes from Bukharest society.
The lack of an heir to the throne of Roumania was supplied by the selection of Prince Ferdinand, a nephew of King Carol, and a son of Prince Leopold of Hohenzollern. He was born August 24, 1865, was proclaimed crown prince of Roumania in 1889, was married in 1893 to the Princess Marie, daughter of the Duke of Albany, and a granddaughter of Queen Victoria. They have two sons, Carol, born in 1893, and Nicholas, born in 1903, and three daughters.
The good people of Bukharest take great pride in their city and they call it "the Paris of the Balkans." So far as gayety and glamour and sin and wickedness are concerned the term applies. It might be said also that the extravagance of everybody who has money to spend, the exorbitant prices that are imposed upon strangers for everything they eat and drink and do, the giddy costumes and conduct of the feminine patrons of the cafes, and the gay crowds that pervade the streets from the time the lamps are lighted until they are extinguished, are all quite up to the Paris standard. Men of experience assert that Bukharest is a wickeder city than Budapest, and that is saying a good deal. Every stranger is surprised to find such handsome residences, such luxurious hotels, such imposing public buildings and such fine mercantile houses and business blocks in the capital of so primitive a country as Roumania, and there is a striking contrast between the city and the country life in that little kingdom. Outside of the larger cities the peasants cling tenaciously to their ancient customs and costumes and habits of life. No country in Europe, unless it be Dalmatia, has so much of what artists call "local colour."
In the villages on market days you can see crowds of peasants, both men and women, wearing the national dress, which is artistic and attractive. In Bukharest, however, the women wear Paris gowns and Paris hats, and the hobble skirt is as common these days as it is in any city of Europe. The extravagance of the people is seen on every block. The cafes are numerous, and they are always crowded; the public vehicles are smarter than any you see in London, or Paris, or New York, and they are drawn by magnificent Russian horses, black as ebony, with long, flowing manes and tails. The coachmen wear a gay livery — a long tunic of velvet, generally blue or black and heavily embroidered with gold braid. Nearly all of them are Russian exiles. They belong to a dissenting religious sect called the Skoptski, which is proscribed by the orthodox Greek Church. But the cab charges are quite as high as they are in New York, and twice as high as they are in Berlin. It is asserted that there are more automobiles in Bukharest than in any other
European city in proportion to the population, and there are taxicabs galore.
The hotels are as fine as any in Europe and their charges are higher than those of Paris or New York. Everything is French — French cooks, French waiters, French bills of fare — and French charges. A friend who came straight to Bukharest from Monte Carlo and occupied similar rooms at the most expensive of the hotels at both places asserts that the charges at Bukharest were 15 and 25 percent, higher than at Monte Carlo.
One is surprised at the number of jewellery stores and the gorgeous displays of diamonds and other precious stones, which are pointed out as evidence of the extravagance of the people, and it goes without saying that merchants would not offer such things for sale unless there was a demand for them. We did not have an opportunity to see the women of Bukharest in full dress, but from the toilettes displayed at the cafes and at other public places one can infer what might be seen indoors on occasions of display. The Roumanian women are famous for their dress and for their good looks. It has been said that they combine the beauty of the Magyar, the grace of the Viennese, the style of the Parisienne and the passion of the Neapolitan. They are said to be [brilliant conversationalists also, quick of perception and nimble of wit. Most women of the upper class are educated at home by French governesses, who do not contribute so much to their intellectual as to their social attractions. As one broad-minded gentleman put it, "the Roumanian girl is a natural flirt. She can't help it, and her French governess adds refinement to the art and makes her self-confident to recklessness."