CUTTING A KING--MARGHERITA, QUEEN OF HEARTS.
One does not often have the chance of being uncivil to a king. But it
was my misfortune on one occasion to be, or to seem, downright rude to
Humbert the First.
We were taking a carriage-ride in the Villa Borghese. The sun glared
intensely. The broad drives in the grounds had not been sprinkled,
and the dust rose in clouds under the few wheels that stirred it up.
My eyes were sheltered with blue glasses, and a light umbrella held
against the sun cut into the view very seriously. The coachman, after
the manner of his race, had been pointing out objects of interest with
which we were already perfectly familiar, clothing his superfluous
information in a Tuscan _patois_. We paid no attention to the numerous
remarks delivered at us over his left shoulder, as our exhaustive
study of the Villa Borghese on previous visits had qualified us as
first-class guides to the place. Therefore, when he said something that
sounded like “Eel R-ray” (_Il Rè_), I did not associate the words with
the instant approach of the King of Italy.
A moment later a two-horse carriage dashed past us. The horses
were black and beautiful, throwing out their fore-legs with a free
and splendid action. A gentleman (whom I should not have failed to
recognize, but for my blue glasses and the whirl of dust) sat bolt
upright on the front seat, guiding his spirited team with a firm hand.
The seat behind was occupied by a servant in quiet livery. The equipage
came and went like a flash; but, quick as it was, the accomplished
driver had time to take off his hat at us, moving it through an arc of
about two feet, and replace it. Before I could answer this remarkably
courteous salute from an entire stranger, he was off. Meantime coachee
had, in his humble way, atoned for my short-coming. He had lifted his
hat and bowed profoundly. When all was over, he turned clear round and
said again (this time almost reproachfully), “Eel R-ray, signor.” Then
I knew that I had cut a king, and that our driver, who had observed my
discourtesy with a side eye, was, in effect, chiding me for it.
The good fellow saw that I was flustered by this unpleasant incident;
for I really burned with shame to think that I should be guilty of
rudeness to the politest of kings in his own capital. So he hastened
to explain to me, as nearly as I could make out from his provincial
Italian, that the King would be sure to pass us again in a few minutes.
For you see the Villa Borghese is not very large, and carriages keep
circling about and returning on their tracks. Well, this time I
determined to be ahead of the King, and doff my hat first, through
as ample a curve as my arm would allow. I shut up the umbrella and
pocketed the blue glasses, that nothing might impede the grace of the
atoning action. Sure enough, just as we turned the end of a long oval,
there was the King bearing down on us again.
Looking at him over my box-seat, I identified him easily by the front
view. In all Italy there is no second pair of mustaches like his;
they curl like rams’ horns, and are almost as thick. His horses were
trotting a two-and-a-half-minute gait, and his piercing black eyes
sparkled with pleasure as he watched them. A second more, and he was on
our port-bow, as sailors would say. Then was my time. Having the brim
of my Derby well in hand, I made a tremendous flourish with it at His
Majesty. If gestures convey ideas, then he must have seen that I meant
to pay the utmost respect to him as the democratic King of Italy. The
monarch instinctively raised his hand to his hat as if to take it off;
then, catching a clear sight of my face, he evidently remembered me as
the ill-bred person whom he had met in his rounds five minutes before.
His eyes were instantly averted. He did not remove his hat. This time
the King of Italy had cut me, and had served me just right.
The most affable of coachmen then managed to explain that we should
probably intersect the orbit of the King for the third time, if we
kept on driving around the grounds. For my own part I had had about
enough of it. The King and I were even. So, to avoid the embarrassment
of a third meeting, I ordered the man to leave the Villa and go over
to the Pincian Hill. He turned the horses for the purpose, but had
not proceeded far before the well-known stiff figure and the flaring
mustaches intercepted our retreat by dashing down a side-road out of
a little piece of woods. I would have given something to avoid the
encounter. But there was no escaping it. As the King drew into the
main road, the salute I felt bound to make was an awkward one, and I
was conscious of a slight tingling in the tips of my ears. His Majesty
must have noticed my confusion, for there was an amused look in his
eyes, and his mustaches were not thick enough to mask the slight upward
curves at the corners of his mouth. And then, in the off-hand way which
has made him so genuinely popular, he doffed his hat and returned my
bow with accrued interest. So happily ended my first exchange of
civilities with a king.
A short ride transferred us from the Villa Borghese to the Pincian
Hill. We reached the crest in time to hear the four-o’clock concert,
performed before an attentive audience of a hundred persons in
carriages and a thousand on foot. The selections were all from Italian
composers, and probably known by heart by most of the people present,
who stood or sat like statues as if entranced by the music. The band,
which belongs to the finest regiment of the Roman garrison, played
divinely. But all the charm of their performance could not keep my
eyes and thoughts from the Eternal City basking in the warm sunshine
below--a wide expanse of churches, palaces and ruins. Almost every
church is crowned with a dome, and each of these huge bulbs, whose
slates reflect the sun with a dull glow, looks like a feeble imitation
of Michael Angelo’s great work. But not one of them detracts from the
grandeur of St. Peter’s, which, from whatever point of view it is seen,
dwarfs all the rest into insignificance. St. Angelo Castle--in shape
a snuff box--the uplifted swell of the Pantheon, the Capitol, the
Quirinal Palace, are easily identified through the haze which envelopes
all. The blue Campagna is dimly seen in the distance. Through the
foreground the yellow Tiber makes its serpentine curves, flashing like
gold under the westering sun.
The next day we had the good fortune to meet the Queen while driving in
the Villa Doria Pamphilj. That time royalty had no cause to complain.
The most loyal of her subjects could not have outdone my obeisance,
though it was rendered more to the beautiful woman than to the Queen.
She did not descend upon us unawares, like the King the day before.
We knew of her coming afar off, for she advertised her approach by
the scarlet magnificence of her box-cloth and the blazing uniforms of
her coachman and foot-guards. I saw this brilliant turn-out a quarter
of a mile away, and, having kings on my mind just then, supposed that
His Majesty was taking the air in state. I was relieved and pleased
when our driver, pointing his whip at the flaming red spots in the
distance, said, “_La Regina!_” Just at that point in the road stood a
line of carriages drawn up in waiting to see the Queen pass. Some of
them had been standing there a long time in expectation of the event,
for it had become known that she would make the circuit of the Villa
Doria Pamphilj that afternoon; and the best place of all to see her
was that wide opening in the road, where our victoria had joined the
many other carriages. The Queen passed us all at the slowest of paces.
Each person in the long line received an individual nod from her,
given with exceeding dignity and grace. She is every inch a queen; and
that is saying a great deal, for she is of the Junonian order, and her
uncommon height is made symmetrical by a generous breadth of shoulders
and a satisfying plenitude of bust. Her arms, as guessed at by the
outlines of her tight sleeves, are strong and shapely. Her eyes are a
deep blue, her hair is a light chestnut, her complexion her own pink
and white. People who think of Italians only as swarthy in face, with
hair and eyes of jet, do not know of what delicate beauty the race is
capable when it strays into the blonde type. Queen Margherita is at
the head of the fair branch of the great Italian family. She is the
“Pearl of Savoy.” She was dressed with the severest simplicity. There
was not a jewel visible, and one did not remember the colors she wore.
Her own flower, the daisy, is not less ostentatious. But her native
loveliness needs no ornamental setting. She reigns over men’s hearts by
her birthright of beauty; and I can think of no better phrase to couple
with this than the homely one that she is “just as good as she looks.”