It is raining, raining, and we are numb with cold, but we have arrived
at last, and in another moment I shall see him, the King, without
reproach and without fear. Were it not for these troops and all these
service motor cars, it would be impossible to believe that this remote
village was the General Headquarters. I have to leave the car, for
the road which leads to the royal residence is nothing more than a
footpath. Among the rough motor cars standing there, all stained with
mud from the roads, there is one car of superior design, having no
armorial bearings of any kind, nothing but two letters traced in chalk
on the black door, S.M. (_Sa Majesté_), for this is _his_ car. In this
charming corner of ancient Flanders, in an old abbey, surrounded by
trees and tombs, here is his dwelling. Out in the rain, on the path
which borders on the little sacred cemetery, an aide-de-camp comes to
meet me, a man with the charm and simplicity that no doubt likewise
characterise his sovereign. There are no guards at the entrance to the
dwelling, and no ceremony is observed. At the end of an unimposing
corridor where I have just time to remove my overcoat, in the embrasure
of an opening door, the King appears, erect, tall, slender, with
regular features and a surprising air of youth, with frank eyes, gentle
and noble in expression, stretching out his hand in kindly welcome.
In the course of my life other kings and emperors have been gracious
enough to receive me, but in spite of pomp, in spite of the splendour
of some of their palaces, I have never yet felt such reverence for
sovereign majesty as here, on the threshold of this little house,
where it is infinitely exalted by calamity and self-sacrifice; and
when I express this sentiment to King Albert he replies with a smile,
"Oh, as for my palace," and he completes his phrase with a negligent
wave of the hand, indicating his humble surroundings. It is indeed a
simple room that I have just entered, yet by the mere absence of all
vulgarity, still possessing distinction. A bookcase crowded with books
occupies the whole of one wall; in the background there is an open
piano with a music-book on the stand; in the middle a large table,
covered with maps and strategic plans; and the window, open in spite
of the cold, looks out on to a little old-world garden, like that of
a parish priest, almost completely enclosed, stripped of its leaves,
melancholy, weeping, as it were, the rains of winter.
After I have executed the simple mission entrusted to me by the
President of the Republic, the King graciously detains me a long time
in conversation. But if I felt reluctant to write even the beginning
of these notes, still more do I hesitate to touch upon this interview,
even with the utmost discretion, and then how colourless will it seem,
all that I shall venture to say! It is because in truth I know that
he never ceases to enjoin upon those around him, "Above all, see that
people do not talk about me," because I know and understand so well
the horror he professes for anything resembling an "interview." So
then at first I made up my mind to be silent, and yet when there is
an opportunity of making himself heard, who would not long to help to
spread abroad, to the utmost of his small ability, the renown of such a
name?
Very striking in the first place is the sincere and exquisite modesty
of his heroic nature; it is almost as if he were unaware that he
is worthy of admiration. In his opinion he has less deserved the
veneration which France has devoted to him, and his popularity among
us, than the least of his soldiers, slain for our common defence.
When I tell him that I have seen even in the depths of the country,
in peasants' cottages, the portraits of the King and Queen of the
Belgians in the place of honour, with little flags, black, yellow and
red, piously pinned around them, he appears scarcely to believe me; his
smile and his silence seem to answer:
"Yet all that I did was so natural. Could a king worthy of the name
have acted in any other way?"
Now we talk about the Dardanelles, where in this hour serious issues
hang in the balance; he is pleased to question me about ambushes in
those parts, which I frequented for so long a time, and which have
not ceased to be very dear to me. But suddenly a colder gust blows in
through the window, still opening on to the forlorn little garden. With
what kindly thoughtfulness, then, he rises, as any ordinary officer
might have done, and himself closes the window near which I am seated.
And then we talk of war, of rifles, of artillery. His Majesty is well
posted in everything, like a general already broken in to his craft.