Suddenly the cry rose: “El Rey!” And, attended only by two gentlemen and a grey-haired lady in black, the king came down the corridor. He was in striking blue uniform, and wore the collar of the Golden Fleece, but what occurred to one first was his buoyant look of youth and his smile—as the Spaniards say, “very, very simpatico.” He saluted to the right and left, skimming the faces of the crowd with that alertness that makes every peasant sure to the end of his days that the king certainly saw him. Then he stooped while one of his gentlemen held open a little door much too low for him, and slipped quickly through to the other side. “Exactly,” murmured an old woman disappointedly, “like anyone else.”
That is a large part of the greatness of this king, as it was of that of Edward VII of England: he is exactly like anyone else. And, like anyone else, he must submit to a routine and certain obligatory duties which are utterly irksome to him. When he came back from Chapel later, in the tedious procession, his face was quite pale and he looked tired out. With all his mother’s indefatigable care and training, his health at best is very irregular; and I remember hearing one of his guards say that he would have died long ago if he could have taken time for it!
But to go back to Royal Chapel: on the days when this is public, anyone, beginning with the raggedest peasant, may walk into the Palace and upstairs to the galleries, as though he were a prince of the blood. True, if he arrives early he must stand in line, to be moved along as the guards shall direct. But if he comes, as I did, just before the hour, he walks upstairs and along the thick-carpeted corridors, to take his place where he chooses. Of course one is literally barricaded by halberdiers—two of them to every three persons, as a rule—and a very imposing line they make in their scarlet coats, white knee breeches and black gaiters, their halberds glittering round the four sides of the galleries.
These are hung, on one or two gala Sundays a year, with marvellous old tapestries, so that not an inch of stone wall can be seen. It makes a beautiful background for the gold lace and rich uniforms of the grandees as they pass through on their way to the Assembly Chamber. For half an hour before the procession forms, these gorgeous personages are arriving, many of them in the handsome court costume of black, finely worked in gold embroidery, and with the picturesque lace ruff. Others wear various and splendid uniforms, with—as many as have them—ribbons of special orders, and, of course, every medal they can produce, strung across their chests. Some of the older men are particularly distinguished, while all the officers stalk in, in the grand manner, shoulders square, swords clanking.
An especially interesting group is the Estada Mayor—six grandees out of the seven hundred odd who wear a gold key over their right hip, as a sign that they may enter the palace and confer with the sovereign at any time. These men have the title of Marqué in addition to any others they may have inherited, and are supposed to spend one week each in the palace during the year. They are tall, splendid-looking creatures, in bright red coats, white trousers with black boots, and helmets with waving white feathers. And on Public Chapel days they enter last into the Assembly Chamber, so that their appearance is the signal that the procession is about to start.
When they have gone in, the chief of the halberdiers cries: “The King! Do me the favour to uncover your heads!” And the favour is done, while detectives all about are taking a final sharp survey of the closely guarded crowd. Then two plainly dressed persons, known by the modest title of bandero (sweeper) hurry up and down the line to make sure no presumptuous subject has his feet on the royal carpet; and finally two ancient major domos in scarlet breeches and much gold lace solemnly march several yards ahead of the procession, peering searchingly from right to left. For, as everyone knows, the King of Spain’s life is in momentary danger from anarchists, and no amount of precaution ever really satisfies the inquietude of his people when he is in public.
At last the dignified line of grandees appears. Some of them we recognize as they go by: The Duke of Medina y Cœli, with his twenty-eight titles, the most of any noble in Spain; the Duke of Alba, who holds the oldest title, and the head of whose family always registers a formal protest on the accession of each king—with the insinuation, of course, that by right of birth the Alba should reign. Further on come the three royal princes, Don Carlos, Don Fernando, and Don Alphonso—the King’s cousin. And finally, between his two gentilhombres, the King.
It is not the boyish young man now, slipping inconspicuously from one room to another, but the sovereign, erect and on duty, facing his rows of scrutinizing subjects steadily and with a quiet confidence. I should like more than most things to have a true picture of him at that moment—walking unself-consciously in the midst of his haughty court. On all sides of him pomp and stateliness: the lovely old tapestries, the rich shrines at every corner of the galleries, the brilliant uniforms of the tall halberdiers, the dazzling garb of the grandees, and the flashing jewels of their ladies: among all this magnificence the King walked with truest dignity, yet utterly sans façon. He had even, behind the gravity due the occasion, the hint of a twinkle in his eye, as though to say, “It’s absurd, isn’t it, that all this is for me? That a plain man who likes to ride, and to shoot, and to prowl round in the forest with his dogs should be the centre of this procession as King of Spain! Really, it’s almost a joke.”
I’m sure he actually was thinking that, for he has a delightful sense of humour, besides being wholly natural, and he and the Queen are noted for their simplicity and their readiness to be considered as ordinary humans. The King, in walking to and from Chapel, passes close enough to the people for any one of them to reach out and touch him, and his alert eyes seem to convey, with his frank smile, individual greeting to each person present. No one can look even once into that ugly, animated face without feeling both the magnetism and the tremendous courage with which Alfonso XIII rules Spain.
On this morning that I saw him the Queen was not present; but she usually walks with him to Chapel, and is extravagantly admired by the people, who find her blond beauty “hermosisima” (the most lovely) and her French gowns the last word of elegance. Both she and the Queen-mother reached the Chapel by an inner entrance on the day of which I speak; so that the Infantas Isabel and Maria Luisa with their ladies followed the King.