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.