Part 11

He admits, nevertheless, that the piece that represents the highest value in his eyes is a gold Montenegrin coin struck in the early days of the Petrovich dynasty and presented to him by Princess Helena of Montenegro at the time of their engagement. This coin is so rare that only one specimen is known to exist, apart from that in the possession of Victor Emanuel III; it is in the numismatical gallery at Vienna.

The King, moreover, has enriched his collection lately with an exceedingly rare series of coins of the Avignon popes. They were sold at auction at Frankfort; and a spirited contest took place between buyers acting respectively on behalf of King Victor Emanuel, the Pope and the director of our own gallery of medals.

It was, therefore, with a very special interest that he visited our mint, whose collection is famed throughout Europe. The director, knowing that he had to do with a connoisseur, had taken a great deal of trouble; in fact, I believe that he intended to "stagger" the King with his erudition. But he reckoned without his host, or rather his guest; and instead of the expert dazzling the King, it was the King who astonished the expert. He surprised him to such good purpose, with the accuracy and extent of his information on the subject of coins, that the learned director had to own himself beaten:

"We are school-boys beside Your Majesty," he confessed, in all humility.

And I think that this was something more than a courtier's phrase.

The King, as I have said, takes a keen interest in military matters. He displayed it on the occasion of the review of the Paris garrison. Even as he had appeared bored at the concert at the Élysée on the previous evening, so now he seemed to enjoy the impressive spectacle which we were able to offer him on the drill-ground at Vincennes. He wished to ride along the front of the troops on horse-back and had brought with him from Italy, for this purpose, his own saddle, a very handsome, richly-caparisoned, military saddle. The governor of Paris having lent him a charger, he proved himself a first-rate horseman, for the animal, unnerved at having to carry a harness heavier than that to which it was accustomed, could hit upon nothing better than to make a display of its ill-temper, regardless of the august quality of its rider. It was the worst day's work that that horse ever did in its life, and it had to recognise that it had found its master.

After making a thorough inspection of the troops by the side of the minister of war, the King expressed a desire to examine the outfit of one of the soldiers; and a private was ordered to fall out of the ranks. Victor Emanuel took up the soldier's knapsack, handled it, looked through it and made a movement as though to buckle it to the man's shoulders again himself, whereat the worthy little _pioupiou_, quite scared and red with dismay, cried:

"Oh, no, thanks, _mon_--_mon_--"

But the poor fellow, who had never even spoken to a general, had no notion how to address a king!

Thereupon the King, greatly amused, made a charming reply:

"Call me what your forebears, the French soldiers in 1859, called my grandfather on the night of the battle of Palestro; call me _mon caporal_!"

Victor Emanuel has too practical and matter-of-fact a mind to be what is known as a man of sentiment. Nevertheless, I saw him betray a real emotion when he was taken, on the following day, to visit the tomb of Napoleon I. The tomb was surrounded by six old pensioners carrying lighted torches. There were but few people there; the fitful flames of the torches cast their fantastic gleams upon the imperial sarcophagus; and the invisible presence of the Great Conqueror hovered over us: it seemed as though he would suddenly rise bodily out of that yawning gulf, that coffin of marble, dressed in his grey overcoat and his immemorial hat.

During a long silence, the King stood and dreamt, with bowed head. When we left the chapel, he was dreaming still.

I had another striking picture of Victor Emanuel III during the day's shooting with which M. Loubet provided him in the preserves at Rambouillet. The King, whose love of sport equals his passion for numismatics, is a first-rate shot. He aims at a great height, is careful of his cartridges and rarely misses a bird. According to custom, he was followed at Rambouillet by a keeper carrying a second gun, loaded, of course, in advance.

Now it happened that the King, seeing a flock of pheasants, began by discharging both barrels and bringing down a brace of birds. He then took the other gun, which the keeper held ready for him, put it to his shoulder and pulled the trigger; both shots missed fire. The keeper had forgotten to load the gun! Picture the rage of the sovereign, who, disconsolate at losing his pheasants, began to rate the culprit harshly! The unfortunate keeper, feeling more dead than alive, did not know what excuse to make; and he looked upon his place as fairly lost.

Then the King, guessing the man's unspoken fears, abruptly changed his tone:

"Never mind," he said. "There's no forgiving you; but I shall not say anything about it."

The King was obviously delighted with his day's sport. Yet, among the many attentions which we paid our guests during their brief stay in Paris, one surprise which we prepared for them was, if I am not mistaken, more acceptable to them--and especially to the Queen--than any other. This surprise consisted in the recital before Their Majesties, by our great actress, Madame Bartet, of the Comédie Française, of an unpublished poem from the pen of the Queen herself.

Helena of Montenegro had been a poet, in fact, in her leisure hours. At the time when she was engaged to be married, she wrote a poem in Russian which she sent to a St. Petersburg magazine, under the pseudonym of "Blue Butterfly"; and the magazine printed it without knowing the author's real name. It was written in rhythmical prose; and I was fortunate enough to procure a copy of the translation:

VISION

The mother said to her daughter:

"Wouldst know how the world is made? Open thine eyes."

And the little maid opened her eyes. She saw lordly and towering mountains, she saw valleys full of delights, she saw the sun which shines upon and gilds all things, she saw twinkling stars and the deep billows of the sea, she saw torrents with foaming waters and flowers with varied perfumes, she saw light-winged birds and the golden sheaves of the harvest. Then she closed her eyes.

And then she saw, she saw the fairest thing upon this earth: the image of the beloved who filled her heart, the image of the beloved who shone within her soul, the image of the beloved who gave his love in return for the love that was hers.

This charming fragment had been recovered by a collector of royal poetry some time before the visit of the Italian sovereigns. M. André Rivoire, one of our finest poets, transposed it into French verse; and M. Loubet delicately caused it to be recited to our hosts in the course of a reception given in their honour at the Élysée. That evening, the beautiful Queen enjoyed a twofold success, as a woman and as a poetess.

5.

The unpretending affability of the royal couple was bound to win the affections of the French people. The daily more enthusiastic cheers that greeted them in their drives through Paris proved that they had conquered all hearts.

"It is astonishing," said an Italian official to me, "but they are even more popular here than at home!"

"That must be because they show themselves more," I replied.

At the risk of disappointing the reader, I am bound to confess that no tragic or even unpleasant incident came to spoil their pleasure or their peace of mind. It appeared that the anarchist gentry were allowing themselves a little holiday.

In the absence of the traditional plot, we had, it is true, the inevitable shower of anonymous letters and even some that were signed. The Queen, alas, had done much to encourage epistolary mendicants by announcing her wish that replies should be sent to all letters asking for assistance and that, in every possible case, satisfaction should be given to the writers. The result was that all the poverty-stricken Italians with whom Paris teems gave themselves free scope to their hearts' delight; and the usual fraternity of French begging-letter-writers--those who had formerly so artlessly striven to excite the compassion of the Shah of Persia--also tried what they could do.

But what reply was it possible to send to such letters as the following (I have kept a few specimens)?

"_To Her Majesty the Queen of Italy._

"_Madame_,--

"We are a young married couple, honest, but poor. We were unable to have a honeymoon, for lack of money. It would be our dream to go to Italy, which is said to be the land of lovers. We thought that Your Majesty, loving your husband as you do and, therefore, knowing what love means, might consent to help us to make this little journey. We should want 500 francs; we entreat Your Majesty to lend it to us. When my husband has a better situation--he is at present an assistant in a curiosity-shop--he will not fail to repay Your Majesty the money.

"Pray accept the thanks, Madame, of

"Your Majesty's respectful and grateful servant,

"MARIE G--, "_Poste Restante 370_, "PARIS."

"_To His Majesty the King of Italy._

"_Sir_,--

"I am a young painter full of ambition and said to be not devoid of talent. I am very anxious to see Rome and to study its artistic masterpieces. Not possessing the necessary means, I am writing to ask if you would not give me an employment of any kind, even in the service of the royal motor-cars (for I know how to drive a motor), so that I may be enabled in my spare time, to visit the monuments and picture-galleries and to perfect myself in my art.

"Pray accept, etc.

"LOUIS S--, "_At the Café du Capitole_, "TOULOUSE."

Here is a letter of another description:

"_To Her Majesty Queen Helena._

"_Madame_,--

"You are the mother of two pretty babies: for this reason, I have the honour of sending you herewith two boxes of lacteal farinaceous food, of my own invention, for infants of tender years. It is a wonderful strengthening and tonic diet and I feel that I am doing Your Majesty a service in sending you these samples. You are sure to order more.

"In the hope of receiving these orders, I am,

"Your Majesty's respectful servant,

"DR. F. J., "_Rue de la Liberté_, "NÎMES."

These few specimens of correspondence will suffice to give an idea of the harmless and sometimes comical literature that found its way every morning into the royal letter-bag. I must not, however, omit to mention, among the humorous incidents that marked the sovereign's journey, an amusing mistake which occurred on the day of their arrival in Paris.

It was about half-past six in the evening. Our royal guests had that moment left the Foreign Office, to pay their first official visit to the President of the Republic, when a cab stopped outside the strictly-guarded gate. An old gentleman, very tall, with a long white beard and very simply dressed, alighted and was about to walk in with a confident step.

Three policemen rushed to prevent him:

"Stop!" they cried. "No one is allowed in here."

"Oh," said the stranger, "but I want to see the King of Italy!"

"And who may you be?"

"The King of the Belgians."

They refused to believe him. When he persisted, however, they went in search of an official, who at once came and proffered the most abject apologies. Picture the faces of the policemen!

The King and Queen of Italy stayed only three days in Paris, as I have said.

"We will come back again," the Queen promised, when she stepped into the train, radiant at the reception which had been given her.

They have not returned hitherto. True, they passed through France, in the following year, on their way to England. I made the journey with them; but, as on their first arrival at Modane, the blinds of their carriage were lowered. They remained down throughout the journey. Were the royal pair asleep? I never heard.

VI

GEORGE I, KING OF THE HELLENES

1.

In one of the drawers of my desk lies a bundle of letters which I preserve carefully, adding to it, from time to time, when a fresh letter arrives. They are written in a neat and dainty hand, almost a woman's hand; the paper is of a very ordinary quality and bears no crown nor monogram; and the emblem stamped on the red wax with which the envelopes are sealed looks as though it had been selected on purpose to baffle indiscreet curiosity: it represents a head of Minerva wearing her helmet.

And yet this correspondence is very interesting; and I believe that an historian would attach great value to it, not only because it would supply him with nice particulars concerning certain events of our own time, but also because it reveals the exquisite feeling of one of the most attractive of sovereigns, the youthfulness of his mind and the reasons why a royal crown may sometimes seem heavy even under the radiant skies of Greece.

It is nearly twenty years since I first met the writer of those letters, the King of the Hellenes; and, since then, I have watched over his safety on the occasion of most of his visits to France. This long acquaintance enabled me to win his gracious kindness, while he has gained my affectionate devotion. I often take the liberty of writing to him, when he is in his own dominions; he never fails to reply with regularity; and our correspondence forms, as it were, a sequel to our familiar talks, full of good-humour and charm, begun at Aix-les-Bains, in Paris, or in the train.

It would be puerile to state that King George loves France; the frequency of his visits makes the fact too obvious. He does more than evince a warm admiration for our country: this Danish prince, who has worn the Greek crown for more than forty-six years, is, with his brother-in-law, King Edward VII, the most Parisian of our foreign guests. His Parisianism shows itself not only in the elegant ease with which he speaks our language: it is seen in his turn of mind, which is essentially that of the man about town, and in his figure, which is slender and strong, tall and graceful, like that of one of our cavalry-officers. The quick shrewdness that lurks behind his fair, military moustache is also peculiarly French; and the touch of fun which is emphasised by a constant twitching of the eyes and lips and which finds an outlet in felicitous phrases and unexpected sallies is just of the sort that makes people say of _us_ that we are the most satirical people on the face of the earth.

King George's "fun," at any rate, is never cruel; and, if his chaff sometimes becomes a little caustic, at least it is always, if I may say so, to the point.

For instance, at the commencement of his reign, when he found himself grappling with the first internal difficulties, one of the leaders of the parliamentary opposition, which was very anxious for the fall of the ministry so that it might itself take office, came to him and said, with false and deceitful melancholy:

"Ah, Sir, if you only had a minister!"

"A minister?" replied the King, with feigned surprise. "Why, I have seven at least!"

The King was brought up in the admirable school of simplicity, rectitude and kindness of his father, King Christian, and was made familiar, from his early youth, with all the tortuous paths of the political maze. When the fall of King Otho placed him, by the greatest of accidents, on the throne of Greece, he brought with him not only the influence of his numberless illustrious alliances and the fruits of a timely experience gained in that marvellous observation-post which the Court of Denmark supplies: he also brought the qualities of his cold and well-balanced northern temperament to that people which does not require the stimulation of its Patras wine to become hot-headed.

And what difficult times the King has passed through!

The King of Saxony, visiting Corfu one day, said to him, the next morning:

"Upon my word, it must be charming to be king of this paradise!"

"You must never repeat that wish," replied King George, without hesitation. "I have been its king for thirty years; and speak as one who knows!"

Events that have followed since have amply justified the bitterness of this outburst, which I find renewed in the sovereign's letters. And yet, grave as the Greek crisis is at the moment of writing, I do not believe that the crown is in any danger. The Greeks, without distinction of party, recognise the great services their ruler has rendered to the national cause, which he has defended for the past ten years in the European _chancelleries_ with indefatigable zeal and eloquence.

"I never met a more persuasive or more able diplomat," said M. Clémenceau, last year after a visit which he received from George I.

His ability has not only consisted in defending his country against the ambitious projects of Turkey by placing her under the protection of the powers interested in preserving the _status quo_ in the East; it has been shown in the ease with which he effects his ends amid the party quarrels that envenom political life in Greece. Guided by his native common-sense and a remarkable knowledge of mankind, he has made it his study, in governing, to let people do and say what they please, at least to an extent that enables him never to find himself in open opposition to the love of independence and the easily-offended pride of his subjects; he has realised that what was required was an uncommon readiness to yield, rather than inflexible principles; and, of all the ministers who succeeded one another since his accession, the celebrated Coumandouros appears to be the one from whom His Majesty derived and retained the best system of ironical, easy-going government.

For the rest, it must be admitted that, although the Greek nation is sometimes tiresome, with its faults and weaknesses which, for that matter, are purely racial and temperamental, on the other hand it is generous and impulsive to a degree; and its touchy pride is only the effect of an ardent patriotism which is sometimes manifested in the most amusing ways.

For instance, when Greece, not long ago, revived an ancient and picturesque tradition and decided to restore the Olympic Games and when it became evident that these would draw large numbers of foreigners to Athens, the pickpockets held a meeting and pledged themselves one and all to suspend hostilities as long as the games lasted, in order to guard the reputation of the country. They even took care to inform the public of the resolution which they had passed; and they did more; they kept their word, with this unprecedented result, that the police had a holiday, thanks to the strike of the thieves!

Last year, Mme. Jacquemaire, a daughter of M. Clémenceau, then prime minister of France, made a journey to Greece. Returning by rail from Athens to the Piræus, where she was to take ship for Trieste, she missed her travelling-bag, containing her jewels. This valuable piece of luggage had evidently been stolen; and she lost no time in lodging a complaint with the harbour-police, although she was convinced of the uselessness of the step. The quest instituted was, in fact, vain. But meanwhile the press had seized upon the incident and stirred up public opinion, which was at that time persuaded that M. Clémenceau, whose Philhellenic leanings are notorious, had promised the Greek government his support in its efforts to obtain the annexation of Crete. The daughter of the man upon whom the Greeks based such hopes as these must not, people said, be allowed to take an unfavourable impression of Greek hospitality away with her. The newspapers published strongly-worded articles entreating the unknown thief, if he was a Greek, to give up the profit of his larceny and to perform a noble and unselfish act; placards posted on the walls of Athens and the Piræus made vehement appeals to his patriotism. Twenty-four hours later, the police received the bag and its contents untouched; and they were restored to Mme. Jacquemaire on her arrival at Trieste.

2.

The pilot's trade is a hard one when you have to steer through continual rocks, to keep a constant eye upon a turbulent crew and to look out for the "squalls" which are perpetually beating down from the always stormy horizon in the East. It is easily understood that King George should feel a longing, when events permit, to go to other climes in search of a short diversion from his absorbing responsibilities.

"You see," said King Leopold of the Belgians to me one day, "our real rest lies in forgetting _who_ we are."

And yet it cannot be said the distractions and the rest which King George knew that he would find among us were the only object of the journeys across Europe which he made every year until the year before last. He always carried a diplomatist's dispatch-box among his luggage; he is one of those who believe that a sovereign can travel for his country while travelling for pleasure.

"I am my own ambassador," he often said to me.

The King used to come to us generally at the beginning of the autumn, on his way to and from Copenhagen, where he never omitted to visit his father, King Christian, and his sisters, Queen Alexandra and the Empress Marie Feodorovna. He delighted in this annual gathering, which collected round the venerable grandsire under the tall trees of Fredensborg, the largest and most illustrious family that the world contains, a family over which the old king's ascendency and authority remained so great that his children, were they emperors or kings, dared not go into Copenhagen without first asking his leave.

"When I am down there, I feel as if I were still a little boy," King George used to say, laughing.

In France, he was a young man. He divided his stay between Aix-les-Bains and Paris; and in Paris, as at Aix, he had but one thought in his head: to avoid all official pomp and ceremony. He would have been greatly distressed if he had been treated too obviously as a sovereign; and, when he accepted the inevitable official dinner to which the President of the Republic always invited him, he positively refused the royal salute. When at Aix, he used to yield to the necessity of attending the festivities which the authorities of that charming watering-place, where he was very popular, arranged in his honour; but only because he did not wish to wound anyone's feelings, however slightly. And, when invited to go to some display of fireworks:

"Come!" he would sigh. "Another party in my honour!"