III
ONE OF HIS “BIG SCENES”
Twenty-eight years ago Alfonso XII died, leaving a consort whom the Spanish people regarded with suspicion, if not with actual dislike. She was Maria Christina of Austria, the second wife of the king; and six months after his death her son, Alfonso XIII, was born.
Sullenly Spain submitted to the long regency of a “foreigner”; and Maria Christina set about the desperate business of saving her son to manhood. From the first he was an ailing, sickly child, and his mother had to fight for him in health as well as in political position every inch of the way. She was tireless, dauntless, throughout the struggle. Time after time the little king’s life was despaired of; she never gave up.
Every morning during his childhood the boy was driven to the bracing park of La Granja, where he ate his lunch and stayed all day, only coming back to Madrid to sleep. In this and a hundred other ways it was as though his mother, with her steel courage, literally forbade him to die. And today, for her reward, she has not only a king whom the entire world admires with enthusiasm, but a son whose devotion to herself amounts almost to a passion.
I like to remember my first glimpse of the king—it was so characteristic of his personal simplicity in the midst of a court renowned for its rigid ceremonial. I was one of the crowd that lined the Palace galleries on a Sunday before Public Chapel; we were herded between rows of halberdiers, very stiff and hushed, waiting for the splendid procession soon to come.
Suddenly the cry rose: “El Rey!” And, attended only by two gentlemen and a grey-haired lady in black, the king came down the corridor. He was in striking blue uniform, and wore the collar of the Golden Fleece, but what occurred to one first was his buoyant look of youth and his smile—as the Spaniards say, “very, very simpatico.” He saluted to the right and left, skimming the faces of the crowd with that alertness that makes every peasant sure to the end of his days that the king certainly saw him. Then he stooped while one of his gentlemen held open a little door much too low for him, and slipped quickly through to the other side. “Exactly,” murmured an old woman disappointedly, “like anyone else.”
That is a large part of the greatness of this king, as it was of that of Edward VII of England: he is exactly like anyone else. And, like anyone else, he must submit to a routine and certain obligatory duties which are utterly irksome to him. When he came back from Chapel later, in the tedious procession, his face was quite pale and he looked tired out. With all his mother’s indefatigable care and training, his health at best is very irregular; and I remember hearing one of his guards say that he would have died long ago if he could have taken time for it!
But to go back to Royal Chapel: on the days when this is public, anyone, beginning with the raggedest peasant, may walk into the Palace and upstairs to the galleries, as though he were a prince of the blood. True, if he arrives early he must stand in line, to be moved along as the guards shall direct. But if he comes, as I did, just before the hour, he walks upstairs and along the thick-carpeted corridors, to take his place where he chooses. Of course one is literally barricaded by halberdiers—two of them to every three persons, as a rule—and a very imposing line they make in their scarlet coats, white knee breeches and black gaiters, their halberds glittering round the four sides of the galleries.
These are hung, on one or two gala Sundays a year, with marvellous old tapestries, so that not an inch of stone wall can be seen. It makes a beautiful background for the gold lace and rich uniforms of the grandees as they pass through on their way to the Assembly Chamber. For half an hour before the procession forms, these gorgeous personages are arriving, many of them in the handsome court costume of black, finely worked in gold embroidery, and with the picturesque lace ruff. Others wear various and splendid uniforms, with—as many as have them—ribbons of special orders, and, of course, every medal they can produce, strung across their chests. Some of the older men are particularly distinguished, while all the officers stalk in, in the grand manner, shoulders square, swords clanking.
An especially interesting group is the Estada Mayor—six grandees out of the seven hundred odd who wear a gold key over their right hip, as a sign that they may enter the palace and confer with the sovereign at any time. These men have the title of Marqué in addition to any others they may have inherited, and are supposed to spend one week each in the palace during the year. They are tall, splendid-looking creatures, in bright red coats, white trousers with black boots, and helmets with waving white feathers. And on Public Chapel days they enter last into the Assembly Chamber, so that their appearance is the signal that the procession is about to start.
When they have gone in, the chief of the halberdiers cries: “The King! Do me the favour to uncover your heads!” And the favour is done, while detectives all about are taking a final sharp survey of the closely guarded crowd. Then two plainly dressed persons, known by the modest title of bandero (sweeper) hurry up and down the line to make sure no presumptuous subject has his feet on the royal carpet; and finally two ancient major domos in scarlet breeches and much gold lace solemnly march several yards ahead of the procession, peering searchingly from right to left. For, as everyone knows, the King of Spain’s life is in momentary danger from anarchists, and no amount of precaution ever really satisfies the inquietude of his people when he is in public.
At last the dignified line of grandees appears. Some of them we recognize as they go by: The Duke of Medina y Cœli, with his twenty-eight titles, the most of any noble in Spain; the Duke of Alba, who holds the oldest title, and the head of whose family always registers a formal protest on the accession of each king—with the insinuation, of course, that by right of birth the Alba should reign. Further on come the three royal princes, Don Carlos, Don Fernando, and Don Alphonso—the King’s cousin. And finally, between his two gentilhombres, the King.
It is not the boyish young man now, slipping inconspicuously from one room to another, but the sovereign, erect and on duty, facing his rows of scrutinizing subjects steadily and with a quiet confidence. I should like more than most things to have a true picture of him at that moment—walking unself-consciously in the midst of his haughty court. On all sides of him pomp and stateliness: the lovely old tapestries, the rich shrines at every corner of the galleries, the brilliant uniforms of the tall halberdiers, the dazzling garb of the grandees, and the flashing jewels of their ladies: among all this magnificence the King walked with truest dignity, yet utterly sans façon. He had even, behind the gravity due the occasion, the hint of a twinkle in his eye, as though to say, “It’s absurd, isn’t it, that all this is for me? That a plain man who likes to ride, and to shoot, and to prowl round in the forest with his dogs should be the centre of this procession as King of Spain! Really, it’s almost a joke.”
I’m sure he actually was thinking that, for he has a delightful sense of humour, besides being wholly natural, and he and the Queen are noted for their simplicity and their readiness to be considered as ordinary humans. The King, in walking to and from Chapel, passes close enough to the people for any one of them to reach out and touch him, and his alert eyes seem to convey, with his frank smile, individual greeting to each person present. No one can look even once into that ugly, animated face without feeling both the magnetism and the tremendous courage with which Alfonso XIII rules Spain.
On this morning that I saw him the Queen was not present; but she usually walks with him to Chapel, and is extravagantly admired by the people, who find her blond beauty “hermosisima” (the most lovely) and her French gowns the last word of elegance. Both she and the Queen-mother reached the Chapel by an inner entrance on the day of which I speak; so that the Infantas Isabel and Maria Luisa with their ladies followed the King.
L. R. Marin
THE ROYAL FAMILY OF SPAIN, AFTER A CHAPEL SERVICE
(Left to right.) 1. Infanta Isabel. 2. The King. 3. Prince of Asturias. 4. Infanta Maria Luisa. 5. Don Alfonso. 6. Don Carlos. 7. Don Fernando. 8. The Queen Mother. 9. Princess Henry of Battenberg. (Third from the right in the front row is the favourite little Prince Jaimé).
Doña Isabel, with her strong, humorous face, and white hair, is always an interesting figure. She is constantly seen at the bullfight, and driving through the Puerta del Sol or in the Castellana; and is generally wearing the mantilla. This morning she wore a very beautiful white one, held by magnificent diamond clasps, and falling over a brocade dress of great richness. Her train, carried by a Marqués of the household, was of white satin embroidered in iris, and clusters of the flower were scattered over the stuff itself.
The Infanta Maria Luisa, who is considered one of the most beautiful of all princesses, was also in white satin and a white mantilla, and looked exceedingly Spanish and attractive. She had wonderful jewels, a string of immense pearls being among the most prominent; and a great emerald cabochon that hung from a slender chain. Each of the Infantas had her lady-in-waiting, also in court trains and the mantilla; and one could not help reflecting how much more picturesque and becoming this latter is than the stiff three feathers prescribed by the English tradition. On the other hand, it is true that only Spanish ladies know how to wear the gracious folds of lace which on women of other nations appear incongruous and even awkward.
After the Infantas and their ladies came the diplomats and various foreign ambassadors, all in full regalia; and finally the six officers of the Estada Mayor brought up the rear. I have forgotten to mention the band of the Palace Guards which preceded the entire procession, and played the royal march all this while. I think there can be no music at once so grave and so inspiring as this is; if it thrills the imagination of the foreigner, what must it mean to the Spaniard with his memories?
When the court had passed into the Chapel, the crowd was at liberty to break ranks and walk about the galleries. During this intermission, the detectives were again in evidence; scouring the place for any signs of violence. Since the King was fired at, on the day of the swearing-in of the recruits (April 13, 1913), efforts to protect his life have been redoubled. This was the third attack since his marriage, including the terrible episode of his wedding-day itself.
On that occasion, when the bomb that was thrown at him, as he was leaving the church with the Queen, killed thirty-four people besides the horses of the royal coach, and caused the Queen’s wedding-dress to be spattered with blood, the poor bride in her terror was on the point of collapsing. Through the babel of screams and shouting, the King spoke to her distinctly: “The Queen of Spain never faints!” said he. And he placed her in another carriage, and drove off, coolly, as though nothing had happened.
L. R. Marin
KING ALPHONSO SWEARING IN THE RECRUITS ON THE DAY OF THE ATTEMPT ON HIS LIFE (APRIL 13, 1913)
Again, at the time of the attack last April, the King was the first to see the man rushing towards him, pistol uplifted. Instantly he started forward, on his horse, to ride down the assassin; and when the shots rang out, and people realized what was happening, the King was the first to reach his would-be murderer, and to protect him from the mob. Then the crowd forgot the criminal, and went mad over the sovereign. Spaniards themselves say that never has there been such a demonstration for any monarch in the history of Madrid. One can imagine the tingling pride of those recruits who, when the confusion was past, had still to go through the impressive ceremony of kissing the cross made by their sword against the flag: what it must have meant to swear allegiance to such a man at such a moment. As I heard a young girl say, at the time: “There is just one adjective that describes him: he’s royal, through and through.”
He looked more than ever royal when, coming back from Chapel, he knelt head bared before the shrine at our end of the gallery. All the procession now carried lighted candles, and their number was increased by the bishop and richly clad priests who had conducted service. At each of the four shrines they halted, while prayers were sung; and one was struck with the opportunity this offered for an attack upon the King. As he knelt there, head lowered between the two lines of people, he made an excellent mark for the anarchist’s pistol; but, as usual, seemed utterly unconscious of his danger.
The court, on its knees, looked very bored; and made no pretence at devoutness while the beautiful Aves were being sung. But the King played his part to the end, with a dignity rather touching in such a frankly boyish man; though, when the ceremony was over, he heaved a very natural sigh of relief as he rose to his feet again.
Back stalked the “sweepers,” the old major-domos, the haughty grandees; back came Don Carlos, Don Fernando, Don Alfonso. And then, for the fourth time that morning so near us, the King; smiling, with his first finger on his helmet, in the familiar gesture. The Infantas followed him, then the diplomats; finally the six nobles of Estada Mayor. The chief of the halberdiers pounded on the floor with his halberd; the guards broke ranks; the people surged out of line and towards the stairs—and Royal Chapel was ended.
Yet not quite, for me. Thanks to a friend in the Estada Mayor, I had still to see one of the finest pictures of the morning: the exit from the palace, of the famous Palace Guards. Six abreast they came, down the grand staircase of the beautiful inner court, two hundred strong as they filed out to their solemn bugle and drum. All of them men between six and seven feet, in their brilliant red and black and white uniform, I shall never forget the sight they made, filling the splendid royal stairs. They seemed the living incarnation of the old Spanish spirit; the spirit of Isabella’s time, but none the less of that heroic woman of today who, though not of Spanish blood herself, has given to Spain a king to glory in and revere.