In the midst of these electoral activities, King Alexander died—of blood poisoning caused by the bite of a pet monkey. Alive he had neither exercised nor been wanted to exercise any influence over the destinies of his country: he had simply played the part required by the cast in which a whimsical fortune had placed him. His death proved of more importance, inasmuch as it forced the question of the throne upon M. Venizelos irresistibly: the vacancy had to be filled. Anxious to perpetuate the comedy, M. Venizelos sought a successor in a still younger and less-experienced scion of the dynasty: Prince Paul, a lad in his teens, who refused the offer on the ground that, until his father and his eldest brother renounced their rights, {225} he could not lawfully ascend the throne. After threatening to change the dynasty rather than admit any discussion on the restoration of King Constantine, M. Venizelos, by one of those swift turns characteristic of him, suddenly made that restoration the main issue of the Elections. He challenged the Opposition to this test of the real wishes of the Greek people. The Greek people, he said, should be given the chance of deciding whether it will have Constantine back; and if it so decided, he himself would go.
The Opposition, which consisted of no fewer than sixteen different groups united only by a common desire to get rid of the Cretan Dictator, would fain decline the challenge. Some of the leaders were ardent Royalists; others were very lukewarm ones; and others still could hardly be described as Royalists at all. Generally speaking, the politicians out of office had found in the cause of Constantine a national badge for a party feud. Moreover, they realized that the question of Constantine possessed an international as well as a national aspect, and they did not wish to compromise the future of Greece and their own; which would have been nothing else than stepping into the very pit M. Venizelos had dug for them. But neither could they repudiate Constantine without losing popular support: to the Greek people the main issue of the fight was indeed what M. Venizelos made it.
At length the day of trial arrived: a Sunday (14 Nov.)—a day of leisure in a land of universal suffrage. From an early hour people of all classes thronged the polling-stations quietly. They had clamoured for a chance of expressing their sentiments; yet now that the chance had come, they took it with an extraordinary composure. Even to the most expert eye the electors' demeanour gave no indication of their sentiments: the olive-twig had very curiously withered out of sight. Nor did the behaviour of the voters in the last three years afford any clue to the use they would make of their present opportunity. Greeks are past masters of simulation and dissimulation. Openly some might have pretended friendship to the Venizelist regime from hopes of favour, others again dissembled hostility through fear; but the voting was secret.
Both Government and Opposition shared the suspense, {226} though the Government anticipated an overwhelming majority;[6] which was natural enough, since all the advantage seemed on its side.
Presently the votes were counted—and "it was officially announced that the Government had been mistaken in its anticipations." The magnitude of the mistake appeared on the publication of the figures: 250 seats to 118: the Royalists had swept the polls, to the astonishment of all parties, including their own.[7] The very men who had fought at the bidding of M. Venizelos had pronounced themselves against him: having fulfilled their duty as soldiers, they vindicated their right to live as free citizens. His own constituency had rejected him. And would the rout stop there? Among the millions who had submitted to his rule with sullen irritation there were many whose hearts swelled with rage, in whom old wounds rankled and festered: might not these men now have recourse to other weapons than the vote in order to get even with the bully?
For a moment M. Venizelos felt stupefied: the edifice that had seemed so solid was collapsing about him, and he was in danger of being buried under the ruins. Then he wisely stole out of the country he had done his best to aggrandize and to disintegrate.[8]
The result of the elections was virtually an invitation to King Constantine to return and resume his crown. But the King, not content with an indirect verdict, wanted an explicit plebiscite ad hoc, clear of all other issues. The Allies, after a conference in London, telegraphed (2 Dec.) {227} to M. Rallis, the new Greek Premier, that they "had no wish to interfere in the internal affairs of Greece, but they felt bound to declare publicly that the restoration of the throne to a king whose disloyal attitude and conduct towards the Allies during the War caused them great embarrassment and loss could only be regarded by them as a ratification by Greece of his hostile acts." [9] This message—yet another fruit of Franco-British compromise—was followed up (6 Dec.) by a second Note, enumerating the consequences, political and financial, of the Powers' displeasure. But it produced little effect: out of the 1,013,724 electors who took part in the plebiscite (7 Dec.), only 10,383 voted against the King.[10] M. Rallis, in acquainting him with the result, stated that he considered it tantamount to a formal request from the country to the Sovereign to come into his own again, and invited him to respond to the clearly expressed wish of the nation. Which King Constantine did, nothing loth.
Few of those who witnessed the event will ever forget it. On the eve of the King's return (18 Dec.) Athens could scarcely contain her emotion. All day long her beflagged streets rang with the cry: "Erchetai! Erchetai!" ("He is coming! He is coming!")—hardly anybody failed to utter it, and nobody dared to say "Then erchetai" ("He is not coming"), even if referring to an unpunctual friend. At night the song in which Constantine was alluded to as "The Son of the Eagle" echoed from one end of the illuminated city to the other. But this was only a preparation for next morning's welcome.
Owing to stress of weather the cruiser carrying the King and Queen of the Hellenes was compelled to put in at Corinth, where the exiles landed. From that point to the capital their journey was a triumphal progress. The train moved slowly between lines of peasants who, their hands linked, accompanied it, shouting: "We have wanted him! We have brought him back!" [3] When {228} the King stepped out at the station, officers fought a way to the carriage with blue and silver dressed postillions which waited for him and the Queen. He had to keep tossing from one hand to the other his baton, as men and women pressed upon him for a handshake. The carriage struggled forward, men and women clinging to its steps and running with it, trying to kiss the hands and feet of the royal pair, and baulked of this, kissing even the horses and the carriage itself. All the way dense masses of people pressed round the carriage, shouting: "He has come!" or singing the chorus, "Again our King will draw the sword." An eye-witness had a vision of a soldier who, amid cries of "We will die for you, Godfather!" clambered into the carriage head first and fell to kissing the knees of the King and Queen, while around people fainted and stretchers pressed through the crowd.[12]
And so the fight for the soul of Greece ended in a victory for
Constantine.