The morning wore on till noon time when Don Jaime grew overpoweringly sleepy, and the Prince grew anxious for his morning story—preliminary to his noon nap. We drove and rode and picked more flowers and threw more stones into the water and made more sand piles—and we were all very happy. I found them wholesome, hearty children, normal in all respects, bright beyond their years, and well developed. How the baseless stories concerning their supposed infirmities and defectiveness ever started, is a mystery to me, unless political enemies of the monarchial parties set them in circulation with malice aforethought.
After my morning with them in the Casa de Campo some people at my hotel said to me: “What a pity that the Princes are not right in their faculties!”
“But they are perfectly right,” I replied, indulgently, “those stories are pure nonsense.”
“Oh! no, sir. You must be mistaken.”
“How can I be mistaken?” I answered, “I have just spent a morning with them and I found them not only normal in every way, but particularly intelligent.”
“That cannot be,” was the reply, “because it is said that they are defective.”
I began to grow indignant and finally I gave up the controversy. After I had gone they asked one another, as I later learned, how much the King had paid me to say that the Princes were all right! What is one to do with such people? And this is characteristic of what is met often in Madrid.
The Prince of Asturias is to-day one of the loveliest of children. Presently he must submit to the discipline which will make of him a strong, fearless man fit to lead and rule a nation. If he lives he will succeed to the throne of Spain as King Alfonso XIV.
There is no better wish that I may express for my readers than that when they come to this beautiful summer land of Spain, they may have something of the same privileges I have enjoyed; that they may meet this manly, courageous, wise King, Alfonso XIII—face to face, clasp his hand in hearty grasp and sit with him in his study by the hour listening to his clear-cut, incisive conversation, enjoying his ideas and ideals, all expressed in most excellent English; or go with him to the beautiful polo ground and watch him play the fastest sort of game, riding his beautiful ponies brought over from the Argentine Republic; that they may meet the beautiful Queen Victoria Eugenie, the English Princess, who is the true heroine of this romance and perhaps hear from her own lips the story of the beautiful prophesy of her father, now long dead, that one day she should come to Spain and be very, very happy. Perchance, indeed, some favoured ones may be shown the Spanish fan he sent her from Seville and which is to-day her most treasured possession. Above all, I would wish that all might spend a morning such as I spent in the Casa de Campo with the little Princes, playing in the sand, splashing water and eating strawberries plucked by these dear, little, Royal hands and carry away a pure white rose, selected and plucked by him who will one day, God willing, be King Alfonso XIV of Spain.