It was in the palace library, a large and lofty room on the ground
floor, with a row of tall windows overlooking the garden, that the
King spent his office hours. The library was strictly reserved for
his use alone. The secretaries, who served his personal needs, were
accommodated in a smaller room adjoining, which communicated with
the library by folding doors. Although he was compelled to maintain,
in this way, the isolation which was so little to his taste, it
was characteristic of the King, in his dealings with his immediate
subordinates, that he should take some pains not to appear too patently
the man apart. This was the way they had taught him in the Navy. On
more than one "happy ship," on which he had served, the King had learnt
that, to get good work out of subordinates, it was expedient to treat
them as fellow workers, and equals, as men, although graded differently
in rank, for the purposes of discipline, and pay. It was in more or
less mechanical application of this principle, that, still whistling
gaily, he chose now, to enter the library, not directly, but through
the secretaries' room adjoining.
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!
The King swung round, impatiently, in his chair, back to the writing
table again.
An unwilling King, a half-hearted King, he might be; but, at any rate,
he could labour. He could put his full weight into his work. He could
show, in his own way, even if it was not the Family way, even if the
Family disapproved of him, that he, too, was a man, that he, too, had
individuality, force of character, driving power, decision--
Portfolios, and files, of confidential State documents had been
arranged, in neat piles, and in a sequence which was a matter of a
carefully organized routine, on the left of the writing table. On the
right stood a number of shining, black japanned dispatch boxes, and one
or two black leather dispatch cases, of the kind carried by the King's
Messengers. The "In" boxes for correspondence, in the centre of the
table, were filled with a formidable accumulation of letters. The "Out"
boxes, beside them, looked, at the moment, in the brilliant, morning
sunlight, emptier than emptiness.
An almost bewildering array of labour saving devices, stamping,
sealing, and filing machines, completed the furnishing of the table.
These, the King swept, at once, contemptuously to one side. The
telephone instrument, which stood on a special shelf at his elbow, was
the only labour saving device he ever used. A plain, and rather shabby
fountain pen, and two or three stumps of coloured pencil, were the
instruments with which he did his work. It was not until he had found
these favourite weapons of attack, and placed them ready to his hand,
on his right, that he set himself to deal with the accumulation of
papers in front of him.
The letters in the "In" boxes were his first concern. These he had
merely to approve, by transferring them to the "Out" boxes, ready for
posting. It was a transfer which he could safely have made, which he
very often did make, without reading a single letter. His personal
correspondence was in the capable hands of Lord Blaine, who had served
his father, as private secretary, for many years before him. But
this morning, in his new determination to find an outlet for his own
individuality, the King elected to read each of the letters through
carefully. Lord Blaine had acquired a happy tact, in the course of
his long experience, in answering the letters, from all sorts and
conditions of people, which found their way into the Royal post bags,
which was commonly considered beyond criticism.
None the less, now, as he read the letters, a conviction grew upon the
King that not a few of the courtly old nobleman's phrases had become
altogether stereotyped.
One letter, in particular, addressed to some humble old woman, in
a provincial almshouse, congratulating her on her attainment of a
centenary birthday, seemed to him far too formal. The old woman had
written a quaint, and wonderfully clear letter, in her own handwriting
to the King. Seizing his favourite stump of blue pencil, he added, on
the spur of the moment, two or three unconventional sentences of his
own, to Lord Blaine's colourless reply--
"I am writing this myself. I don't write as well as you do, do I? But
I thought you might like to have my autograph as one of your hundredth
birthday presents. This is how I write it--
"ALFRED. R.I."
Laughing softly to himself the King tossed the letter, thus amended,
into one of the "Out" boxes.
The little incident served to revive his previous good spirits.
Lord Blaine would probably disapprove.
But the old woman would be pleased!
From the correspondence boxes, he turned, in due course, to the
portfolios and files on the left of the table. These contained reports,
and routine summaries from the various Government departments, copies
of official correspondence, one or two Government publications, and
certain minor Cabinet papers, and they required more concentrated
attention. He had to make himself familiar with the contents of the
various documents, and this involved careful reading. An abstract, or
a skilful précis, prepared by his secretaries, and attached to the
papers, occasionally saved his time and labour; but even these had to
be read, and the reading took time. Happily, here, as before, little or
no writing, on his part, was necessary. An initial, and a date, to show
that he had seen the document in question, a few words of comment, or
a curt request for more information, were the only demands made on his
blue pencil.
Documents, and copies of correspondence, from the Foreign and Dominion
Offices, held the King's attention longest. To him these were not
"duty" papers, as were so many of the others. The place names, the
names of the foreign diplomats, and of the Dominion statesmen, and
administrators, which occurred in these papers, were familiar to him,
thanks to the many ports, and countries, the many men and cities, he
had seen in his varied naval service. Here and there, in these papers,
a single word would shine out, at times, from the typewritten page
in front of him, which conjured up, a vision, perhaps, of one of the
world's most beautiful roadsteads, or a mental picture of the strong
and rugged features of some man, who was a power, a living force,
amongst his fellows, in the wilder places of the earth, or a vivid
memory of the cool and spacious rooms of some Eastern club house where
men, who lived close to the elemental facts of life, gathered to make
merry, and to show unstinted hospitality to the stranger. Here he was
on sure ground. Here, he knew, his comments were often of real value.
He had seen the country. He had met, and talked with, the men on the
spot. Frequently, his knowledge of the questions raised in these papers
was quite as comprehensive, and as intimate, as that of the oldest
permanent officials in Whitehall.
At the end of an hour and a half of hard and methodical work, the King
became suddenly aware that he had made considerable progress in his
attack on the accumulation of papers in front of him.
Leaning back in his chair he touched a bell which stood on the table
beside him.
The folding doors, leading into the secretaries' room, were immediately
opened, and a tall, fair, good looking young man, who was chiefly
remarkable for the extreme nicety of his immaculate morning dress,
entered the library, in answer to the summons.
The King indicated the now full "Out" boxes, with a gesture, which
betrayed his satisfaction, and even suggested a certain boyish pride,
in the visible result of his labour.
"Anything more coming in?" he enquired.
"Not at the moment, I think, sir. The Government Circulations are
all unusually late this morning, sir," the tall young man replied,
approaching the table, and picking up the "Out" boxes for removal to
the secretaries' room.
The King was filling his pipe now. He felt that he had earned a smoke.
"Bought any cars, lately, Blunt?" he enquired, with a merry twinkle in
his eyes.
He had suddenly realized that this was Geoffrey Blunt, the nominal
tenant of the garage in Lower Grosvenor Place, and the nominal
purchaser of the car housed there.
Geoffrey Blunt laughed, and then blushed, as he became conscious of the
liberty into which the King had betrayed him.
"We must organize one of our little incognito excursions, in the near
future, Blunt, I think," the King murmured, looking out through the
tall windows, on his left, at the sunny, morning glory of the garden.
"We will run out into the country."
At the moment, his thoughts were in Paradise. Judith and the Imps, in
all probability, would be in the hayfields--
"You must be ready for a holiday, sir," Geoffrey Blunt ventured
to remark. "You took us all by surprise, this morning, sir. After
yesterday, we did not expect to see you, so early, this morning, sir."
"No. And that reminds me of something I wanted to say," the King
replied, looking round from the windows, and speaking with a sudden,
marked change of manner. "I can see by the papers which you had waiting
for me, this morning, that you people have all been keeping hard at it
during the last day or two. I appreciate that. Tell your colleagues, in
the next room, that I expressed my appreciation. That is all now. Let
me see today's Circulations, when they do arrive. I do not want to be
faced with an accumulation of papers, like this morning's, again."
Flushing with pleasure at this praise, Geoffrey Blunt bowed, and
withdrew, taking the "Out" boxes with him.
The King smiled to himself as he lit his pipe.
"But who is there to praise me?" he muttered.
Leaning back in his chair, for a moment or two, he gave himself up to
the luxury of the true smoker's idleness.
But had there not been something that he had meant to do, in any
interval of rest, like this, which might occur during the morning?
The morocco bound memorandum tablet, which he produced from his
waistcoat pocket, answered the question--
"Write to Betty."
"Send message to Lancaster."
It was too late to send any message to Lancaster now. A couple of hours
was not sufficient notice to give him of an invitation to lunch. He was
not intimate enough with Lancaster to treat him in so offhand a manner.
It would be an abuse of his new position, a tactical mistake. The lunch
must be arranged for tomorrow. Crossing off his original note, he
scribbled another--
Lancaster to lunch tomorrow. See him, personally, this afternoon, or
this evening.
But he could write to Betty!
Clearing a space on the writing table, by pushing to one side the less
urgent documents and papers, which he had retained for subsequent
attention, he picked up his fountain pen; then, when he had found,
after some search, a sheet of note paper sufficiently plain and
unostentatious, to suit his taste, he began to write--
_Dear Betty_,
Your letter this morning gave me great pleasure. I do not know that
there is very much pleasure in this business of being King--
But he got no further.
The folding doors facing him were suddenly reopened.
Then there entered, not Geoffrey Blunt, nor any other member of the
secretarial staff, but--the old Duke of Northborough.
The King looked up with a surprise which at once gave place to a smile
of welcome. This was contrary to all etiquette. But he was glad to
see the old Duke. And it was in deference to his own repeated requests
on the subject that the veteran Prime Minister had lately consented
to make his visits to the palace, in working hours, as informal as
possible.
Putting down his pipe, and his pen, the King stood up to receive the
old statesman.
The Duke, as if to atone for the abruptness of his entry, paused for a
moment on the threshold of the large and lofty room, and bowed, with a
slightly accentuated formality.
The folding doors behind him were closed by unseen hands.
Then he advanced, into the room, towards the King.