The King Who Went on Strike

by Pearson Choate

In the airy, sunny, secretaries' room, the low murmur of talk, and the clatter of typewriters, which seem inseparable from office work, ceased abruptly. There was a general, hurried, pushing back of chairs. Then the half dozen men and women in the room rose, hastily, to their feet. They had not expected to see the King so early. After the exhausting Coronation ceremony of the day before, and the heavy demands on his strength, which the day, as a whole, had made, they had expected him to rest. And here he was, a little before his usual time, if anything, buoyant, and vigorous, and laughing goodhumouredly at their surprise and confusion, ready apparently to attack the accumulation of papers which they had waiting for him.

With a genial nod, which seemed to be directed to each man and woman present, individually, the King passed quickly through the room, into the library beyond, opening and shutting the intervening folding doors for himself, with a sailor's energy.

The secretaries, men and women alike, turned, and looked at each other, and smiled.

Although he was, of necessity, ignorant of the fact, the King had left interested, and very willing fellow workers behind him.

The library was almost too large, and too lofty a room to be comfortably habitable. Worse still, in spite of its south aspect, and its row of tall windows, the eight or nine thousand volumes, which filled the wire fronted bookcases, which ran round two sides of the room, it always seemed to the King, gave it a dead and musty air. These books were for show, not for use. No one ever took them down from the shelves. No one ever read them. The erudite, silver-haired, palace librarian, himself, was more concerned with the rarities amongst them, and with his catalogue, than with their contents. But the books, musty monuments of dead men's brains, as he regarded them, were not the King's chief complaint. A number of Family portraits, which usurped the place of the bookcases, here and there, on the lofty walls, were his real grievance. A queer feeling of antagonism had grown up between him and these portraits. They always seemed to be watching him, watching him, and disapproving of him. The mere thought of them sufficed to check his good spirits, now, as he entered the library. As he sat down at his writing table, he turned, and looked round at them defiantly.

The writing table stood as close up to the row of tall windows, on the south side of the library, as was possible. The windows, with their pleasant view of the sunlit greenness of the garden, were on the King's left, as he sat at the table. Straight in front of him were the undecorated, black oak panels of the folding doors which led into the secretaries' room. On his right on the north wall of the library, were many of the books, and three of the portraits.

First of all, there, in the corner by the folding doors, was a portrait of his grandfather, in the Coronation robes, and full regalia, which he himself had been compelled to wear, the day before; a strong, bearded man, with a masterful mouth, which was not hidden by his beard. A King. Further along, on the right, past several square yards of books, hanging immediately above the ornate, carved, marble mantelpiece, in the centre of the north wall, was a portrait of his father, in Field Marshal's uniform, with his breast covered with decorations; a man apart, isolated, lonely, remote, with a brooding light in his eyes. A King, too. Then, past more books, in the furthest corner of the room, by the door, came the portrait of his mother, a stately, commanding figure, in a wonderful, ivory satin gown, marvellously painted. A Queen. And a hard woman, hard with her children, and harder still with herself, where what she had held to be a matter of Family duty had been concerned. And, last of all, in the centre of yet more books, on the east wall, behind him, was the portrait of his brother, the dead Prince of Wales, a more human portrait this, to see which, as he sat at the writing table, he had to swing right round in his revolving chair; the Prince, in the pink coat, white cord riding breeches, and top boots, of the hunting field, which had been his favourite recreation, leaning a little forward, it seemed, and smiling out of the canvas with the smile which had won him so much, and such well deserved popularity.

All these had borne the Family burden, without complaint. All these had accepted the great responsibility of their position, without question, and even with a certain Royal pride. They had made innumerable, never ending sacrifices.

And he? An unwilling King? A half-hearted King?

No wonder they disapproved of him!