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!"
Other business detained me and I had not the privilege of being attached to his person during his first stay at Aix. The French Government sent two commissioners from Lyons to watch over his safety; and these worthy functionaries, who had never been charged with a mission of this kind before, lived in a continual state of alarm. To them, guarding a king meant never to lose sight of him, to follow him step by step like a prisoner, to spy upon his movements as though he were a felon. They ended by driving our guest mad: no sooner had he left his bed-room than two shadows fastened on to his heels and never quitted him; if he went to a restaurant, to the casino, to the theatre, two stern, motionless faces appeared in front of him, four suspicious eyes peered into his least action. It was of no avail for him to try to throw the myrmidons off the scent, to look for back-doors by which to escape from them: there was no avoiding them; they were always there. He made a discreet complaint and I was asked to replace them.
"You are very welcome," he said, when I arrived. "Your colleagues from Lyons made such an impression on me that I ended by taking myself for an assassin!"
To my mind the mission of guarding this particularly unaffected and affable King was neither a very absorbing nor a very thankless task. At Aix, where he walked about from morning to night like any ordinary private person, everybody knew him. There was never the least need for me to consult the reports of my inspectors; the saunterers, the shopkeepers, the peasants made it their business to keep me informed.
"Monsieur le Roi," they would say, "has just passed this way; he went down that turning."
Then I would see a familiar form twenty yards ahead, stick in hand, Homburg hat on one ear, the slim, brisk figure clad in a light grey suit, strolling down the street, or looking into a shop-window, or stopping in the midst of a group of workmen. It was "Monsieur le Roi."
KING GEORGE OF GREECE IN THE STREETS OF PARIS
"Monsieur le Roi" had even become "Monsieur Georges" to the pretty laundresses whom he greeted with a pleasant "Good-morning" when he passed them at the wash-tubs on his way to the bathing establishment. For he carefully followed the cure of baths and douches which his trusty physician, Dr. Guillard, prescribed for his arthritis. He left the hotel early every morning and walked to the Baths, taking a road that leads through one of the oldest parts of Aix. The inhabitants of that picturesque corner came to know him so well by sight that they ended by treating him as a friendly neighbour. Whenever he entered the Rue du Puits-d'Enfer, the street-boys would stop playing and receive him with merry cheers, to which he replied by flinging handfuls of coppers to them. The news of his approach flew from door to door till it reached the laundry. Forthwith, the girls stopped the rhythmic beat of their "dollies"; the songs ceased on their lips; they quickly wiped the lather from their hands on a corner of the skirt or apron and came out of doors, while their fresh young voices gave him the familiar greeting:
"Good-morning, M. Georges! Three cheers for M. Georges!"
They chatted for a bit; the King amused himself by asking questions, joking, replying; then, touching the brim of his felt hat, he went his way with the bright voices calling after him prettily:
"Au revoir, M. Georges! Till to-morrow!"
He enjoyed this morning call before getting into the "deep bath" reserved for him; and he himself was popular in and around the laundry in the Rue du Puits-d'Enfer, not only because of his good-nature and good-humour, but because the girls had more than once experienced the benefits of his unobtrusive generosity.
His days, at Aix as in Paris, were regulated with mathematical precision: George I is a living chronometer! After making his daily pilgrimage to the Baths, he returned to the hotel, read his telegrams, dipped into the French and English newspapers and worked with his Master of the Household, Count Cernovitz, or with his equerry, General de Reineck, or else with M. Delyanni, the deeply-regretted Greek minister to Paris, whom he honoured with a great affection and who always joined his royal master at Aix.
From eleven to twelve in the morning, he generally gave audiences, either to the authorities of Aix, with whom he maintained cordial relations, or to strangers of note who were presented to him during his stay. When he kept a few people to lunch—which often happened—they had to resign themselves to leaving their appetite unsatisfied. The King eats very little in the day-time and not only ordered a desperately frugal menu, but himself touched nothing except the hors-d'œuvre. His visitors naturally thought themselves obliged, out of deference to imitate his example, the more so as, otherwise, they ran the risk of having their mouths full at the moment when they had to reply to the King's frequent questions. His regular guests, therefore, the prefect and the mayor, knowing by experience what was in store for them, had adopted a system which was both practical and ingenious: whenever they were invited to the royal table they lunched before they came.
In the evening, on the other hand, His Majesty made a hearty meal. He always dined in the public room of the restaurant of the Casino, with his medical adviser and some friends; and, when Dr. Guillard cried out against the excessive number of courses which the royal host was fond of ordering:
"Don't be angry with me," he replied. "I don't order them for myself, but for the good of the house; if the restaurant didn't make a profit out of me, where would it be?"
After dinner, he took us with him either to the gaming-rooms or to the theatre. Although the King did not play himself, it amused him to stroll round the tables, to watch the expression of the gamblers, and to observe the numberless typical incidents that always occur among such a cosmopolitan crowd as that consisting of the frequenters of our watering-places. He also loved to hear the gossip of the place, to know all about the petty intrigues, the little domestic tragedies. Lastly, he liked making the acquaintance of any well-known actor or actress who happened to be passing through Aix.
One evening, seeing Mlle. Balthy, the famous comic reciter, at the Casino and knowing, by hearsay, what a witty woman she was, he told me that he would be glad to meet her; and nothing was easier than to satisfy the King's wish. Nevertheless, the idea frightened me a little: the humour of the charmingly eccentric artist that Balthy is, sometimes adopts so very daring a form, and I dreaded lest her remarks might be a little too "startling." I spoke my mind on the subject to the King.
"Never fear, Paoli," he said. "Mlle. Balthy's 'startling' side will amuse me immensely: you need not be a greater royalist than the King!"
So I went in search of the delightful creature:
"My dear Balthy," I said, "come with me and be presented to the King."
"To George?" she replied, winking her eye.
I shuddered with dismay!
"To His Majesty the King of the Hellenes, yes."
"Come on!"
But lo and behold, in the King's presence, Balthy—O, wonder of wonders!—lost all her self-assurance. I expected to see her tap the King on the shoulder; instead, she made him an elaborate curtsey. In reply to the compliments which he paid her she was content modestly to lower her eyes: she even went so far as to blush! We might have been at court.
And, when the King, not knowing what to think, and feeling perhaps a trifle disappointed, confessed his surprise at her shyness:
"What can you expect?" she declared. "If even you were merely a president of the republic, it wouldn't put me out; but a king—that makes me feel uncomfortable! And, besides, no king can care for thin women; and I should look like a sardine, even if you put me next to Sarah Bernhardt!"
The ice was broken. The Balthy of tradition began to peep through the surface and the King was delighted.
Our guest did more than show his liking for the shining light of the profession: he numbered friends also among the humble performers at the Grand Théâtre. Sabadon, the good, jolly, indescribable Sabadon, who for twenty years had sung first "heavy bass" at the theatre of the town, was one of them. This is how I discovered the fact: when the King came to Aix, some years ago, Sabadon shouldered his way to the front row of the spectators who were waiting outside the station to see His Majesty arrive. The enthusiastic crowd kept on shouting, "Long live King George!" and Sabadon, with his powerful voice, his "heavy bass" voice, which had filled all the "grand theatres" in the provinces, Sabadon, with his southern accent (he was from Toulouse) shouted louder than all the rest and, so that he might shout more freely, had taken a step forward.
But a policeman was watching; and fearing lest the royal procession should be disturbed by this intrusive person, he walked up to him and, in a bullying tone, said:
"Get back; and look sharp about it. You don't imagine you're going to stand in the King's road, do you?"
Sabadon, who is a hot-blooded fellow, like all the men from his part of the country, was about to reply with one of those forcible and pungent outbursts which are the salt of the Gascon speech:
"You low, rascally—" he began.
But he had no time to finish. The King appeared at the entrance to the railway-station, came across and, as he passed, said:
"Hullo, M. Sabadon! How do you do, M. Sabadon? Are they biting this year?"
"Yes, Sir, Your Majesty. And your family? Keeping well, I hope? That's right!"
Then, when the King had disappeared, Sabadon turned to the astounded policeman:
"What do you say to that, my son? Flabbergasts you, eh?"
How did the King come to know the singer? And why had he asked with so much interest if "they were biting this year"? One of the local papers reported the incident and supplied the explanation, which I did not trouble to verify, but which is so amusing and, at the same time, probable that I give it here. The King, it seems, who often walked to the Lac du Bourget, a few miles from Aix, thought that he would try his hand at fishing, one afternoon. Taking the necessary tackle with him, he sat down on the shore of the lake and cast his line. Ten minutes, twenty minutes passed. Not a bite. The King felt the more annoyed as, thirty yards from where he was, a man—a stranger like himself—was pulling up his line at every moment with a trout or a bream wriggling at the end of it.
The disheartened King ended by deciding to go up to the angler and ask him how he managed to catch so many fish! But before he was able to say a word, the man stood up, bowed with great ceremony and, in a stentorian voice, said:
"Sir, Your Majesty...."
"What! Do you know me?" asked the King.
"Sir, Your Majesty, let me introduce myself: Sabadon, second heavy bass at the Théâtre du Capitole of Toulouse, at this moment first chorus-leader at the Théâtre Municipal of Aix-les-Bains. I have seen you in the stage-box."
"Ah!" said the King, taken aback. "But please explain to me why you get so many fish, whereas...."
"Habit, Sir, Your Majesty, a trick of the hand and personal fascination; it needs an education; I got mine at Pinsaquel, near Toulouse, at the junction of the Ariège and the Gavonne.... Ah, Pinsaquel!"
And Sabadon's voice was filled with all the pangs of homesickness:
"Have you never been to Pinsaquel? You ought to go; it's the anglers' paradise."
"Certainly, I will go there one day. But, meanwhile, I shall be returning with an empty basket."
"Never, not if I know it! Take my place, Sir, Your Majesty, each time I say 'Hop'! pull up your line, and tell me what you think of it!"
The King, mightily amused by the adventure, followed his instructions. In three minutes Sabadon's tremendous voice gave the signal:
"Hop!"
It was a trout. And the fishing went on, in an almost miraculous manner.
As they walked back to the town together, an hour later, Sabadon took the opportunity to expound to the King the cause of his grudge against Meyerbeer, the composer:
"You must understand, Sir, Your Majesty, that, at the theatre, at Toulouse, it was I who used to play the night watchman in the Huguenots. I had to cross the stage with a lantern; and, as I am very popular at Toulouse, I used to receive a wonderful ovation: "Bravo, Sabadon! Hurrah for Sabadon!" Just as when you came to Aix, Sir, Your Majesty.... Well, in spite of that the manager absolutely refused to let me take a call, because the music didn't lend itself to it! I ask you, Sir, Your Majesty, if that lout of a Meyerbeer couldn't have let me cross the stage a second time!"