As an esoteric I have to say, that I have always been obsessed with the ‘Balkans’! It seems that I always have been and always will be.
The reason is simple really; I love the area, especially during the era from the 19th century! Beyond the borders of a civilized Europe, it was a rugged mountainous area; of dark forests, dark blooded peoples, of wild women, even wilder men, an ‘eye for eye, tooth for a tooth’ code of barely civil chivalry, where Kings and Princes were raised and toppled from their thrones almost overnight, whether it be from ambitious family members, raucous subjects, or foreign governments. It was a land of intrigue, cloak and dagger, and romance. All the while one of the most glamorous modes of transportation skirted along the sinewy tracks from one mysterious capital to another, the Orient Express!
One of my favorite authors during my younger years as an esoteric, perhaps to offset the autocratic oppressiveness of Tolstoy & Proust, was Sir Anthony Hope Hawkins, better known as Anthony Hope.
Hope was an English novelist and playwright and although he was a prolific writer, especially of adventure novels, he is remembered best for only two books: The Prisoner of Zenda (1894) and its sequel Rupert of Hentzau (1898). These works, "minor classics" of English literature, are set in the contemporaneous fictional country of Ruritania and spawned the genre known as Ruritanian romance. The Zenda stories ooze a Balkan flavor.
In many instances, this land was alluring beyond all scope of fascination. One area, to which this fascination was kept at bay, was in the arena of the American heiress, seeking a titled husband from beyond the ‘dusky’ borders of this land more at home in a tome penned by Anthony Hope.
However, one Yankee Doodle princess to be, conquered any sense of trepidation after she met and fell in love with her Servian Prince.
In honor of and in the spirit of the 4th of July, her story appears below!
The Biographical Cyclopedia and Portrait Gallery With Historical Sketch, Vol 5 [Cincinatti: Western Biographical Publishing Co., 1891], pp. 1174-5, has an entry for John F. Pankhurst, vice president of the Globe Iron Works. He was born in Cleveland, Ohio, on 28 March 1838, a son of John J. Pankhurst (a carpenter, born in England, emigrated to Syracuse, N.Y., then to Cleveland, then to Warrensville, Ohio, then back to Cleveland where he died in 1852) and of Sarah Wellsted (also born in England, emigrated to Syracuse, N.Y., at the age of 15, a daughter of James Wellstead, a merchant in Rye, Sussex). John F. Pankhurst married, in 1858, Miss Marie L. Coates of Barry, Canada, and had four children, only one of whom was still alive in 1891, a daughter named Mrs. Myra Abbie Wright, wife of Herbert A. Wright of New York City.
This daughter, Myra Abigail Pankhurst, was born in Cleveland , Ohio Myra Cannes
Princess Daria had only one child, a daughter by her first husband, namely Harriet Wright, who was born in Cleveland , Ohio Paris Greece (for whom he served as Grand Marshal of the Court), was one of the original members of the Hellenic Olympic Committee, and died in Athens St Cloud on December 12, 1926, Mrs. Newbold Leroy Edgar, née Marie de Forest Manice, who died in New York on February 4, 1951 age 82 (thus born in 1869). Countess Harriet (Wright) Mercati married, secondly, at Paris on February 5, 1914, as his only wife, Freiherr Emmerich von Pflügl, born October 24, 1873, died at Geneva on February 16, 1956, son of Freiherr Richard von Pflügl and of Marianne Hengelmüller Edle von Hengervár.
Harriet died at Bellerive, near Geneva
ON WHOSE BROW
MAY REST CROWN
Husband Of Former Mrs. Huger Pratt Of Cleveland
Is In Direct Succession To The Throne Of Servia
Couple Here To Make
Grand Tour Of America
Princess Most Unmistakably
Proud Of Handsome Royal Soldier Husband
EARLY STAGE OF HONEYMOON
New Oxford Item
January 22, 1914
Interviewer describes the lovely golden haired wife of Prince Alexis Karageorgevitch as sweetly modest and retiring. Made a beautiful picture in her favorite black satin, white lace and pearls, and has not yet visited Servia, her hero’s native country!
Or maybe it is better to say His Royal Highness, Prince Alexis Karageorgevitch of Servia, is here with his American bride, who was Mrs. Huger Pratt of Cleveland and Paris.
Perhaps one should say Her Excellency, or Serene Highness. I declare I didn’t know what to call her, Prinzessin, or Serene Altesse, but anyway, she is all that you hope a real princess will be.
It’s awfully hard finding your way to the abode of royalty, but you have found it past the line to tall, young footmen. And now you’re all alone in the tiny silent anteroom of the Prince of Servia’s apartments up at the Ritz Carlton. Nothing here but a dreadfully large business like trunk, with D.K. on it. The last is for Karageorgevitch, and the first, I think, is for Doulgoukrhoff, or some combination like it, that only the first borns of the Royal line may bear, writes Izola Forrester in the Sunday Magazine of the New York World.
Voices came from behind one of the French gray doors hung with old rose silk. One expected a line-up of more footmen or maids, but when the door opened it was Prince Alexis himself. Just a swift impression of keen, kindly eyes, of straight, soldierly bearing, a ready, understanding smile, and then another French gray door opened and closed, and left me in the boudoir of the Princess.
Amid Regal Luxury
I was glad she wasn’t there. Just for a minute I sat down in front of the darling little gray and silver dressing table, and beamed in at the triple mirrors. All about were gold things, gold trinkets and toilet articles, with big monograms on them, and behind me was the royal couch with coverlid of pink plush and real lace. There were pillows, too, in hand embroidered slips with pink satin ribbon all run through the lace and crushy satin bows at each corner. And hanging near on a rack was a full length seal cloak, lined with old gold satin.
I’m coming to her in a minute. I was just making believe, don’t you know, trying to find out what it was like being a princess, when the door opened softly behind me and she came in, our latest American little Royal Highness, Princess Karageogevitch, who once upon a time was Abigail Parkhurst, a New York
Whoever it was that insisted princesses had to be five feet ten in height was all wrong. Our princess is only about five feet three, and she is gentle and low voiced, with golden hair just touched with silver, and blue eyes that are very serene and mild in their gaze until you speak of her Soldier Prince, and then they kindle hidden fires, for she is very proud of him.
She wore – you do want to know what she wore don’t you? Well, then, she wore black satin, semi-evening dress, and pearls. The waist was cut with a close surplice effect, following the lines of the figure snugly. There was a round yoke of finest, sheerest net with a high collar. The skirt was cut very narrow at the bottom, and not too long. About the hips the black satin lay in soft, rich draped folds, very close and flat. Her hat was of black satin also, a small model with an attractive Continental tilt at one side, and several exquisite osprey sprays – long, black feather tipped trifles that rose a foot above her head. Around her throat was a string of pearls, large creamy-toned pearls that looked very old and seemed as large as hazel nuts.
Still Enjoying Honeymoon
She was ever so sweet and gracious our latest princess, and rather amused and doubtful over her first interview, but willing to talk of her Prince. They were married in Paris
‘We were married after the Prince returned from the Balkans,’ she said. ‘He was with the Servian Army until the war was over. I have not visited Servia yet, but someday we hope to travel there.’
‘Do I care most for European life or American? Oh, I love America Cleveland
‘Since we arrived we have not rested one minute, it seems to me. We have been like two children running around enjoying the New York
‘But we have come over mostly for a rest after the Paris
‘My gowns?’ she smiled and shook her head deprecatingly. ‘Oh, I dress very quietly. I have nothing startling or extreme at all in my wardrobe. I prefer black or white, usually. White gowns with touches of black, or black gowns with here and there the relief of white, but I really have nothing that is striking.’
Costumes Well Selected
Nothing that is striking? Doesn’t your most sweet and demure Royal Highness know there is nothing in the world more effective and striking for la petite blonde Princesse than black and white?
Just here she remembers the Prince in the next room, and crossing the tiny boudoir to the French gray salon there comes a swift flood of impressions regarding this Soldier Prince, Alexis Karageorgevitch.
For years he had lived in Paris
Under the golden-shaded lights he stood, courtly, soldierly. There is a keen, whimsical quality to his face.
Nothing Like His Native Land
‘I served with the common soldiers, but not in disguise,’ he laughed. ‘And I did not shave off my mustache, only cut it very short. You see I had to get permission from the King, my cousin, to serve at all, as I was well known. And that is nothing. I am a Servian first of all. It is such a little country, but to my mind the most beautiful on earth, and it has suffered. But still it gains slowly. Before the war we had three millions. Now, with her added borders, we have six. It is good, but there will still be more war. The Turks do not recognize the treaty of London
On the table lies a paper covered book. The title of it is ‘Albania
NR
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