Then there was a reception-room. All that part of the palace which served for the entire royal family was formerly occupied by Queen Isabella alone. When she learned that Amadeus and Victoria were content with such small quarters, she is said to have exclaimed with astonishment, “Poor young things! they won’t have room to turn around.”
The king and queen used to dine with a major-domo and one of the court ladies. After dinner the king smoked a Virginia cigar (if the detractors of this prince of cigars care to know it) and entered his cabinet to attend to the affairs of state. He was accustomed to take a great many notes and frequently consulted with the queen, especially when he was trying to reconcile the ministers or to conciliate the heads of departments. He read a great many magazines of every bias; anonymous letters which threatened him with death and those which gave him advice; satirical poems, schemes of social revolution,—everything, indeed, that was sent to him. About three o’clock he left the palace on horseback; the guards blew their trumpets and a squire in red livery followed him at a distance of fifty paces. To see him one would have said that he did not know he was the king: he looked at the children as they passed him, at the signs of the shops, the soldiers, the coaches, and the fountains with an expression of almost childish curiosity. He rode the whole length of the street Alcalá slowly, like an ordinary citizen thinking of his own affairs, and would turn into the Prado to enjoy his part of the air and the sunshine.
The ministers clamored against it; the Bourbons, accustomed to the imposing equipage of Isabella, said that he was trailing the majesty of the throne of San Fernando through the streets; even the squire who followed him looked around with a shamefaced air, as if to say, “See what folly!” But whatever they might say, the king gave no sign of fear. And the Spaniards, it must be said, did him justice, and, whatever may have been their opinion of his administration and government, they never failed to add, “So far as courage goes, there is nothing to say.”
Every Sunday there was a court dinner. Invitations were extended to deputies, professors, academicians, and illustrious men of letters and scientists. The queen talked with them all on every subject with a confidence and grace which, for all they had previously heard of her genius and culture, quite exceeded their expectations. The people naturally exaggerated in speaking of her attainments, and talked of Greek, Arabic, Sanskrit, astronomy, and mathematics. But true it is that she talked intelligently on subjects far removed from the ordinary course of feminine studies, and not in the evasive and superficial manner of those who know only the names and titles. She had made a careful study of the Spanish language, and finally spoke it as though it were her own; the history, literature, and customs of her adopted country were alike familiar to her, and she lacked only the desire to remain in Spain to have made her a thorough Spaniard. The Liberals murmured, the Bourbons said, “She is not our queen,” but they all regarded her with profound respect. The bitterest journals went no farther than to call her the wife of Amadeus instead of the queen. The most violent of the Republican deputies in alluding to her in a speech at the Cortes could do no less than pronounce her illustrious and virtuous. She was the only person of the royal household against whom no one would permit a slur either by tongue or pen. She was like a white figure left in the centre of a group of spiteful caricatures.
As for the king, it seemed as though the Spanish press enjoyed an unrestrained liberty, and under the safeguard of the titles the Savoyard, the foreigner, and the young courtier the journals which were opposed to his rule could say in substance whatever they chose; and didn’t they say charming things? One took it to heart that the king was homely in face and figure, another was displeased because he walked so stiffly, a third tried to ridicule his manner of returning a salute, and other trifling matters which are almost incredible. Nevertheless, the people of Madrid had for him, if not the enthusiasm of the Azenzia Stefani, at least a very real sympathy.
The simplicity of his habits and his kindheartedness were proverbial even among the children. It was known that he bore no malice toward any, not even toward those who had treated him badly; that he had never given an affront to any one; that no bitter word against his enemies had ever escaped him. If one spoke of the personal dangers which he incurred, every good citizen answered indignantly that the Spanish people respect those who trust them; his bitterest enemies spoke of him with anger, but not with odium; the very men who would not raise their hats on meeting him in the street felt their blood boil when others followed their example, and could not conceal a feeling of sadness at the occurrence. There are images of fallen kings over which one casts a dark covering; others are concealed by a white veil which makes them appear more beautiful and venerable: over this one Spain has cast the white veil. And who knows but that one day the sight of this image will call from the breast of every honest Spaniard a secret sigh, like the memory of a beloved one who has been offended, or like a gentle and benign voice which says in sad tones of reproach, “Nevertheless, thou hast wronged me”?
One Sunday the king held a review of the Volunteers of Liberty, a sort of national guard like that of Italy, with this difference—that the Italians do good service voluntarily, while the Spaniards will do nothing even by force.
The Voluntarios were drawn up along the avenue of the Prado, where an immense crowd had collected. When I arrived there were already three or four battalions of them. The first was the battalion of veterans, all men above fifty, and not a few very old, dressed in black and wearing the cap à la Ros, with gold and silver lace and crosses upon crosses, as spruce and tidy as the students of a military academy, and from the proud and dignified rolling of their eyes they might have been confounded with the grenadiers of the Old Guard. After them came another battalion in a different uniform—gray breeches, a coat open and turned back over the breast, with large lapels of scarlet cloth; instead of the caps à la Ros, hats with blue plumes—and carrying guns with fixed bayonets. Another battalion and another uniform—the Ros caps again instead of the hats, and green cloth instead of the red, breeches of another color, and daggers instead of bayonets. A fourth battalion and arms all different. Other battalions come up, in various array. Some wear Prussian helmets, others helmets without points; some carry bayonets, some straight daggers, some curved and others spiral daggers; here there are soldiers with corded coats, there those without cords, and again those with cords; belts, epaulets, cravats, plumes; everything changes every moment.
All the divisions are gay and pompous, with a hundred colors and a hundred banners which wave, flash, and float in the air. Every battalion has a different banner covered with embroidery, ribbons, and fringe. Among the others one sees soldiers dressed like peasants with any sort of a stripe sewed loosely down a pair of ragged trousers; some without cravats, some with black cravats, open jackets, and embroidered tunics; boys from twelve to fifteen, armed at all points, walking in the ranks; vivandières, with short skirts and red breeches, carrying baskets full of cigars and oranges. At the head of the battalions there is a continual hurrying of mounted officials. Every major wears on his head or on his breast or on his saddle some ornament of his own device; at every moment a courier of some unknown corps passes; one sees lace of liver, gold, and wool on the arms, on the shoulders, and around the neck; medallions and crosses so thick that they conceal half the breast, fastened one above the other, both above and below the belt; gloves of all the colors of the rainbow; sabres, swords little and big, pistols and revolvers—a mixture, in short, of all the uniforms and arms of every army; a variety that would appall ten ministerial commissioners for the modification of dress; a confusion that turns one’s head. I do not remember whether there were twelve or fourteen battalions; as each one of them selected its own uniform, there was necessarily the greatest possible diversity among them. They were commanded by the mayor, who also wore a fantastic uniform. There were about eight thousand men.
At the hour assigned a sudden scurrying of staff-officers and a loud blast of trumpets announced the arrival of the king. Amadeus had, in fact, arrived on horseback by the street Alcalá in the uniform of commander-in-chief, with cavalry boots, white breeches, and swallow-tail coat, and behind him a closely-formed group of generals, aides-de-camp, servants in scarlet livery, lancers, cuirassiers, and guards. After he had reviewed the entire front of the army from the Prado as far as the church of Atocha, surrounded by a dense, silent crowd, he returned toward the street Alcalá. Here there was a vast multitude which surged and murmured like the sea. The king and his staff took their stand in front of the church of San José, with their backs toward the façade, and the cavalry with great trouble succeeded in opening a narrow space through which the battalions might march.