CHAPTER VII
Lisbon—The two Kings of Portugal, and of Barataria—King Fernando and the Countess—A Lisbon bull-fight—The "hat-trick"—Courtship window-parade—The spurred youth of Lisbon—Portuguese politeness—The De Reszke family—The Opera—Terrible personal experiences in a circus—The bounding Bishop—Ecclesiastical possibilities—Portuguese coinage—Beauty of Lisbon—Visits of the British Fleet—Misguided midshipmen—The Legation Whaleboat—"Good wine needs no bush"—A delightful orange-farm—Cintra—Contrast between the Past and Present of Portugal.
A professional diplomat becomes used to rapid changes in his environment. He has also to learn to readjust his monetary standards, for after calculating everything in roubles for, let us say, four years, he may find himself in a country where the peseta or the dollar are the units. At every fresh post he has to start again from the beginning, as he endeavours to learn the customs and above all the mentality of the new country. He has to form a brand-new acquaintance, to get to know the points of view of those amongst whom he is living, and in general to shape himself to totally new surroundings. A diplomat in this way insensibly acquires adaptability.
It would be difficult to imagine a greater contrast to Petrograd than Lisbon, which was my next post. After the rather hectic gaiety of Petrograd, with its persistent flavour of an exotic and artificial civilisation, the placid, uneventful flow of life at Lisbon was restful, possibly even dull.
Curiously enough, in those days there were two Kings of Portugal at the same time. This state of things (which always reminded me irresistibly of the two Kings of Barataria in Gilbert and Sullivan's "Gondoliers") had come about quite naturally. Queen Maria II (Maria da Gloria) had married in 1836 Prince Ferdinand of Saxe-Coburg, who was raised next year to the title of King Consort. Maria II died in 1853 and was succeeded by Pedro V. During his son's minority King Ferdinand acted as Regent, and Pedro, dying unmarried eight years after, was succeeded in turn by his brother Luiz, also a son of King Ferdinand.
When the Corps Diplomatique were received at the Ajuda Palace on New Year's Day, the scene always struck me as being intensely comical. The two Kings (universally known as Dom Fernando and Dom Luiz) entered simultaneously by different doors. When they met Dom Luiz made a low bow to Dom Fernando, and then kissed his father's hand. Dom Fernando responded with an equally low bow, and kissed his son's hand. The two Kings then ascended the throne together. Had "The Gondoliers" been already composed then, I should have expected the two Monarchs to break into the duet from the second act, "Rising early in the Morning," in which the two Kings of Barataria explain their multitudinous duties. As King Luiz had a fine tenor voice, His Majesty could also in that case have brightened up the proceedings by singing us "Take a pair of sparkling eyes."
Dom Fernando was a perfectly delightful old gentleman, very highly cultured, full of humour, and with a charming natural courtesy of manner. The drolly-named Necessidades Palace which he inhabited was an unpretentious house full of beautiful old Portuguese furniture. Most of the rooms were wainscoted with the finest "azulejos" I ever saw; blue and white tiles which the Portuguese adopted originally from the Moors, but learnt later to make for themselves under the tuition of Dutch craftsmen from Delft. These "azulejos" form the most decorative background to a room that can be imagined. A bold pictorial design, a complete and elaborate picture in blue on white, runs along their whole length. It is thus very difficult to remove and re-erect "azulejos," for one broken tile will spoil the whole design. The Portuguese use these everywhere, both for the exteriors and interiors of their houses, and also as garden ornaments, and they are wonderfully effective.
Dom Fernando had married morganatically, as his second wife, a dancer of American origin. This lady had a remarkably strident voice, and was much to the fore on the fortnightly afternoons when Dom Fernando received the men of the Corps Diplomatique. For some reason or other, the ladies of the Diplomatic Body always found themselves unable to attend these gatherings. The courteous, genial old King would move about, smilingly dispensing his truly admirable cigars, and brimful of anecdotes and jokelets. The nasal raucaus tones of the ex-dancer, always known as "the Countess," would summon him in English. "Say, King! you just hurry up with those cigars. They are badly wanted here."
I imagine that in the days of her successes on the stage the lady's outline must have been less voluminous than it was when I made her acquaintance. The only other occasion when I heard a monarch addressed as "King" tout court was when a small relation of my own, aged five, at a children's garden-party at Buckingham Palace insisted on answering King Edward VII's questions with a "Yes, O King," or "No, O King"; a form of address which had a pleasant Biblical flavour about it.