tired and dazed as we may be, we rouse ourselves and look with eager eye
to discover the cause of the commotion. Windows fly open on every side,
handkerchiefs are waved, the faces of the passers-by assume an
expression of mingled satisfaction and devotion, while in vehement tones
the passionate Italian words ring out: “La benedetta Regina--la nostra
Margherita--Il nostro poi”--“The blessed Queen--Our own Margaret--Our
own flower.” And on the high seat of an immense landau we see the
gracious lady whose august yet familiar name resounds above the uproar.
Four lackeys, in livery red as the embers of a winter fire, tower above
the fair head, which moves in unceasing salutation, while a smile
flickers like a flame upon the parted lips. Her complexion is so pale
and clear that every vein may be traced on the temples and firm rounded
cheeks, while the aquiline nose gives a touch of pride to the sweet
features. The high landau advances, and the Queen continues to bow right
and left with the same charming air of concern, while the smile flickers
and varies but is never extinguished for a second. Yet while thus
occupied with the passers-by, and occasionally lifting her eyes to the
windows, the Queen does not cease to talk to the lady who is her
neighbour or the gentleman-in-waiting seated in front of her. From what
ancestress, from what tradition slumbering in her blood, has Queen
Margherita learnt the science of a smile so subtle, so pure, so
lavishingly spent?--a smile at the same time fascinating and haughty,
careful to betray royal serenity, yet anxious to hold the popular
favour, a jewel which the lowest and most obscure might find on the road
to daily labour, as welcome as bread or flowers.
In passing from the Rome of bygone centuries to the Rome of to-day, a
vision seems thus to send our thoughts back to the glory celebrated by
chronicler and poet. No personage is more eloquent in favour of the
strenuous efforts by which Italy has gained her unity and freedom than
the niece and daughter-in-law of the great King Victor Emmanuel. Except
Queen Victoria, no queen of the nineteenth century could boast like
Margherita of embodying in her one personality the fate of her people at
once with the fate of her dynasty, since she was twice a _Savoia_ and
twice an Italian Princess before becoming Queen of Italy. She is the
only one amongst Royal Consorts who has had no need to search for a
throne in another country than her own; she alone can speak to her
subjects in the language of her childhood, and she treasures in her
heart all the faults and qualities of their race. She alone has given
them a King of pure native descent. In his splendid “History of France”
Michelet says: “A king’s children must always, according to the nature
of royal marriages, be as strangers in the land.” From this imputation,
at least, the King of Italy is exempt.
Every one knows how beautiful the life of Queen Margherita has been and
how warmly she is beloved in every corner of her country. In the
smallest Piedmontese village, as in the gorgeous towns of Southern
Italy, every _contaddina_ calls her “Our own Margherita,” while the
highest circles of society declare their King’s mother to be
accomplished in every art: to those who have never known her this
sentiment may indeed seem akin to infatuation, since it pervades every
class and finds not a contradictory echo to mar its sincerity. I do not
seek here to relate the numerous anecdotes told about her, to describe
her daily occupations, nor to trace her biography. My chief aim in these
pages is to render my impressions of kings and queens whom I have met
and talked with, to describe as clearly as possible their
characteristics, the very essence of their souls such as they were
revealed to me on frequent occasions when the august personages with
whom I was brought into close contact displayed before the eyes of a
writer and poet sentiments they believed they were expressing in the
presence of a mere woman of the world.
During the few months I spent in Rome--where my parents had passed part
of the summer and autumn before my arrival, my father at that time
representing his country at the Italian Court--my mother and he often
spoke in fervent admiration of Queen Margherita and King Humbert, whom
they frequently visited. But the terrible grief, the dire misfortune
which had brought me to our temporary home in the fold of the Seven
Hills, held my mind aloof from every distraction but my own trouble. Not
all the glamour of the divine city, or the severe beauty o’erspreading
its famous _agra romana_; not the gentle light that descended from a sky
fair as the bosom of a summer sea, nor the grandeur of the historic
_palazzi_; not the beautiful twilights floating over the Palatine and
the Janicule; not even the keen interest abroad in Rome in watching the
struggle between spiritual and temporal powers, could succeed to divert
me from my sorrow, or draw me out of the abyss of tears into which I
sank deeper every hour. The image of Queen Margherita dwelt in my mind
only among the many images of beauty whose power was incapable of
soothing my distress. Vainly when we met her in the streets would my
mother say:
“There is the Queen--do look at her. See how she smiles; she has often
spoken so nicely of you to me.... She receives us in a low dress
always--it is the habit at this Court to receive foreign ambassadors in
full dress. In many ways it is a very simple Court, but on the other
hand its etiquette is rather complicated.... The Prince of Naples has
told his mother a great deal about his visit to Roumania and about
you.... Mother and son are so fond of each other. When he is away he
writes to her every day and even twice a day sometimes. Do look at her.”
But I scarcely raised my eyes and remained in my attitude of depression
and indifference as the carriage passed our own, though the royal smile
more than once alighted on my face, the vivid blue eyes searching deep
into mine. I felt that the Queen knew and desired to show me more than a
passing moment’s interest, but the sight of the pompous emblems of her
rank, even her compassionate glance, thrilled me with a sentiment of
pain and stirred all the bitter pangs of memory in my soul. But Queen
Margherita’s kindness and Queen Margherita’s will are not easily
thwarted. In the early autumn my mother had a long audience from the
Queen. I thought that after this merely ceremonious interview my mother
would return from the Quirinal delighted of course, but with no new
experience, and that the burning subject of myself would have been
carefully avoided by both. But my knowledge of the ways of the Italian
Court was completely at fault.
“The Queen understands you so well,” said my mother, “and she pities you
so much. Without making any open allusion to the cause of your trouble,
she spoke of it--beginning the conversation first, of course, as I
should never have dreamt of her expressing sympathy in a case which so
directly touches the laws and traditions of monarchy. These I do not
think she would ever sacrifice. She is a Queen from head to foot, but
she realises the extent of your sufferings; she says you are to her a
pathetic sight as she meets you in her daily drives and sees you always
in the same state of depression. She seems to see everything.”
A few days after my mother’s audience a lady belonging to the diplomatic
circle came to me and said:
“Listen, dear child. Queen Margherita would very much like to see
you--but a queen cannot invite people before they ask leave to present
their homage to her. You required a hint, did you not? Well, I have come
to suggest this: write to the Marchesa di Villamarina and beg the favour
of an audience. The Queen will receive you immediately. I speak almost
as if I were entrusted with an official message. Believe me I do not
speak lightly. Write.”
Here the Queen’s tact and delicacy had discovered a means of
accomplishing her will without allowing her dignity to suffer, so it was
without a moment’s hesitation that I wrote to the Marchesa di
Villamarina, the Queen’s dearest friend and a lady worthy of the
affection and confidence bestowed upon her by her royal mistress.
The very next day we were, my mother and I, invited to call upon the
Queen at two o’clock P.M. This was a somewhat hasty summons, and at a
less conventional time than usual. Awake to the emotions of the hour, I
considered the situation and tried with some dismay to guess what the
Queen would say; I had been told that she was very fond of asking
questions. In what light did she regard me and my thwarted fate? What
could the Queen--who was twice a Queen by right of birth and right of
marriage, and who always laid such stress on the right of Royal
blood--find to say to one who might have been a Queen without possessing
any of those rights?
These thoughts and many of the same kind rapidly crossed my brain as we
saw the huge statues of Castor and Pollux flash past us as we drove
through the large court of the Palace, environed on every side by its
huge yellow buildings with a single beam of sunshine lying along the
grey stones like a road of watery light. In the hall a line of tall
soldiers with glistening swords and helmets gave us the salute, and we
mounted the soft staircase whose steps were so low and easy under our
feet that we scarcely felt the ascent. In the large, wood-panelled
antechamber were some ten or twelve lackeys clad in the same
flame-coloured livery that we see on the Royal equipages in Rome and
London. A short exchange of polite remarks took place with one of the
_principessa romana_, who that day was the lady-in-waiting, and who
kindly endeavoured to attract my attention to the valuable paintings
collected in the blue drawing-room into which we were ushered. Then the
Marchesa di Villamarina makes her appearance. This was the sign of a
favour precious indeed, as the Marchesa is very busy and rarely receives
the Queen’s visitors, yet it was the Marchesa herself who beckoned to us
and showed us the open door leading to the Royal apartment.
A vision of white and gold dazzled my sight as if we had suddenly come
upon a landscape of sunlit snow, and the Queen’s white dress and the
Queen’s fair hair seemed to throw all around a radiance of white and
gold. In her hand she held a book which was slowly dropped on a stool,
and while she signed my mother towards a low armchair, she drew me to
her and placed me on the sofa by her side. Then, with a graceful yet
determined movement, she swerved backwards to the other end of the sofa,
and, still holding my hand, said:
“I want to look at you well. I have had so many pictures of you but not
one is like. There is nothing like Nature after all--nothing like the
living impression we receive from the living individuality.”
Her neck and fingers were heavy with pearls and diamonds, and the flash
of coloured gems trembled in her hair and descended over her brow; in
the folds of her garments and around her the Latin Queen displayed
richness worthy of a Byzantine Empress. The snowy whiteness of the
sunlit chamber, the silk and velvet embroidered with golden flowers and
silvery tracings, all the glistening splendour of her surroundings,
revealed how highly the Queen placed the demands and glory of her rank
and its attributes. Yet the contrast was singularly refreshing between
so much pomp and the pleasant familiar voice that murmured on, swinging
from one subject to another like a bird between the branches of a
forest; vivacious and inquisitive, yet tinged with a variety of
information and personal experience which showed plainly her leisure
hours have not been given up to dreaming. Indeed, Queen Margherita’s
conversation is so attractive and full of point that it could be
compared to the verses of those poets whose lyrics take to sudden flight
among the stars, then all at once alight gaily upon the ground, and
speak again of earthly matters with the same liquid language employed in
their intercourse with the stars.
With marvellous ability Queen Margherita avoided entering into the cause
of my grief, yet not for a moment did she cease to talk of the sorrow
for which she had seen tears upon my face.
“You should not, oh, you should not be so depressed. You are young and
you are a poet. I love your writings, and so do all who read them. Then,
is there anything more enchanting to a woman, or more soothing to her
soul, than to hear these words murmured as she passes: ‘She is a poet’?
Do not think, though, that I am addressing myself to your feminine
vanity. I speak to your reason, to your soul, to your sense of duty. How
often I have vainly wished to be a poet myself! When in the blue mists
of an autumn morning I follow the steep mountain paths I love, something
in me sings a hymn of beauty and gratitude I am doomed never to utter in
words.... You love Venice?” she continued. “Venice must make every one
feel a poet: what, then, must a real poet feel in Venice? I followed all
your movements while you were staying in Venice with your dear Queen. It
is such a pity I could not come to you at that time. Venice is lovely,
is it not?”
“Yes, madam, it is the city of joy.”
“The city of joy--and you say so, you who have suffered and mourned in
Venice? Why, there is a breath of unutterable sadness in the breeze
among the lagoons, in the gentle murmur of the oars as they touch the
stone staircases at night. You have not seen Venice with the eyes of
Lord Byron.”
“No, madam, but with the eyes of Titian, with the eyes of the sun, who
seems himself astonished at the gorgeous beauty which he awakens on the
bosom of the waters before he sinks below them. It seems to me as if a
mellow tune of laughter and joy glided over the lagoons between the high
palaces....”
“Yes, Titian, Veronese, the sunshine of Venice--_they_ are elements of
joy indeed! And Tintoretto--I worship Tintoretto, the glorious giant.
The Giant’s Staircase should be called so because of him. There are so
many admirable descriptions of Venice, such a vast number of them, it
seems as if the city shed the same glamour over all who attempt to
describe it; but almost best of all others I love Pierre Loti’s
rendering of Venetian spells, Venetian charms. I read his pages over and
over again when he speaks of Venice--he thrills me as keenly as
Chateaubriand.” Then she began to speak of our Roumanian Queen. “Oh,
your Queen--how I love and admire her! I saw her often this autumn in
Pallanza. Sometimes I would go to pay her a visit quite early while she
was still in bed, and thus spent with her moments so delicious that I
will never forget them. She is extraordinary. Her sufferings have not
altered the sweetness of her nature. You don’t know Pallanza, where she
stays, do you? It is a charming little place, and she seems to like it
very much. Shall I describe it to you? Look--here is the lake, and a
long row of hotels are on this side.” And Queen Margherita, with hands
busily engaged in tracing the lines of the distant Italian landscape,
succeeded in making every detail of the small town live before our
eyes, while her words made such vivid comments on her gestures that I
could imagine the bright colours of the water and the trees, the soft
splash of the oars, and the chime of the bells at evening as they echoed
over the sunlit lake from village to village. Thus also I imagined her
arrival on those autumn mornings whose softness bathes the Italian lakes
in rich and mellow hues. In fancy I could see the fair Queen’s barge
approach the blue shore, and the breeze playing with her hair and veil;
the crowds assembled in spite of the early hour, and their hearty
greetings; and how she would enter Carmen Sylva’s bedroom where the
shadows of night still lingered, and how, dazzled by the light from
within, she would at first scarcely distinguish the form of her royal
sister. And I could almost follow the thoughts exchanged between these
two in the course of a _tête-à-tête_ which personages of their rank
seldom enjoy, and the gay peals of laughter which would resound through
the dim chamber.
“How gracefully, how majestically your Queen walks! Although she has now
a little difficulty in moving fast, there is a cadence and suppleness in
her every step. Yet she is not very strong; she says she feels as if her
feet were in fetters or bound to the ground, and that she has a good
deal of trouble in lifting them up. But her body is as straight as the
flame of a torch....”
We rose to take our leave. “You will come back to see me, won’t you?
Now that you are in Rome I cannot content myself with the pleasure of
only reading your works. Do come again.... Ah! I had almost forgotten
the most important part of my duty, which I ought to have gone through
at the very beginning of our conversation.” And in a voice which she
tried to make ceremonious and cold, the Queen said: “I hope you will
enjoy your stay here, and be pleased with every one and everything in
Italy.... Do come again,” she said, resuming her natural tones. “You
see, I often forget the teachings of etiquette, but really I am sure
your visit to me has done you good. There is such a glow on your cheeks,
and quite a light in your eyes--I am an excellent doctor. Come again;
come soon.”
Notwithstanding these gracious injunctions, I spent many months without
expressing a wish to return to the Quirinal, though the memory of the
Queen’s charm and her sympathetic kindness dwelt with me, and had indeed
created a powerful diversion in my life. Members of my family had at
that time the honour of approaching her Majesty very often, and on such
occasions she never failed to inquire after me. I may say that scarcely
a week passed without my receiving from the august lady such tokens of
interest as go straight to the heart. When we made up our minds to leave
Rome, as my father desired to return to our Roumanian home, the prospect
of our departure was terrible to me in every way. I loved Rome with that
passionate love which makes us cling to places where we have tasted
pain or hope most keenly; besides, “the city of the soul” had wrought
its spells upon my mind, and I felt at my ease amongst its beauties and
all the sadness of its palaces and stones. Added to the other pangs of
separation, sorrow at leaving Queen Margherita’s neighbourhood, having
to sacrifice the daily consolation of her smile and the soothing
influence of her presence, weighed me down completely. Besides, every
one had shown me great kindness, in the highest society as well as in
the humbler classes, and into the solitude and silence of my life such
sympathy had come that the idea of bidding farewell to the places and
beings amongst whom my grief had found consolation, proved a terrible
trial. And I had to say farewell to the Queen. In my farewell to the
idol of the nation all other farewells would be comprised.
The Queen knew we had asked for this audience in order to take leave of
her. She smiled sadly.
“So you are going? Oh how I pity you. No one who is able to understand
Rome can depart from this glorious city without bitter regret. Every
cloud in our skies, every blade of grass under our feet has a
significance of its own. I pity you. Must you really go?”
“Alas, madam, yes.”
I had never seen Queen Margherita look so beautiful as that day. Her
eyes really were of the violet hue of Mediterranean gulfs, and her
violet dress besprinkled with golden flowers fell around her like the
shades of a Roman twilight on its gardens and terraces.
“I have come to your Majesty just before our departure. I have craved
the honour of this interview not only from a desire to thank the Queen
for her sympathy and graciousness, but to thank the Italian nation and
all the people of this land. I want to thank them in the person of the
lady whom the nation adores. Your Majesty is the symbol, the idol of the
land, and at her feet will I lay my thanks. Every one has been so good,
so attentive to me--to the stranger who came bearing with her a world of
sorrow and despair.”
“Yes, I know, I am certain that every one has been kind to you, but this
I pray you to remember,” and the Queen proudly raised her head, while
the diamonds in her hair shone so brightly that the aureola of several
crowns seemed to encircle it; “this I beg of you to remember--Italy has
not been kind to you through mere kindness. Italy is still the land of
chivalry and romance. You are a woman and a poet, and you are
unfortunate, abandoned and weak. To become a heroine in our country
nothing more is required than the wounds inflicted by Fate or love. Had
you come to us in prosperity you would not perhaps have been received
thus, and might not have been able to understand all the generosity of
this nation. But when this happens, when you _are_ happy again--and you
_will_ be happy--return to Rome and let Rome see you smile as Rome has
seen your tears.”
“The King--how can we prove our devotion and gratitude to the King? Can
we ever forget his concern and his goodness!”
“Oh the King, he is the most chivalrous among them all! I will repeat to
him all you have said about Italy and himself, and he will be delighted,
but more pleased because of Italy than on his own account.”
The room where white and gold gleamed like sunlit snow was now bathed by
the last rays of a dying autumn afternoon. The windows were open, and in
the silvery haze of the coming twilight the whole city lay; like a
fortress St. Peter’s dome stood high above all the other church spires,
and I thought of its spiritual import, and said in my heart that in the
Palace, too, a spiritual force was dwelling, pure as the pure robes of
the aged Pope. That the Queen who so proudly proclaimed her joy in being
the wife of a chivalrous King in a chivalrous land should one day weep
in the horror of a tragic hour, and see him meet a doom of violence,
nothing then seemed to foresay. Peace was in her and all around her when
she smiled her farewell to us in that sunny chamber on the heights of
the Quirinal hill.
[Illustration:
_Photo by Guigoni & Bossi, Milan_
KING VICTOR EMMANUEL III. AND QUEEN HELENA]
KING VICTOR EMMANUEL III. AND QUEEN HELENA
It is singular to note that although all the encomiums usually bestowed
upon Princes have been accorded to the present King of Italy, and
although his reign is already three years old, very little is known
about his real personality. Anecdotes and descriptions have endeavoured
to make of him a familiar figure, but in vain. There is a lurking vein
of mystery about his personality which extends even to his exterior
aspect. He converses very little with strangers, and his political
_entourage_ cannot boast of obtaining from him many definite
pronouncements which might give a precise idea of his opinions and
tastes. In Italy more particularly, complete ignorance prevails
regarding the temperament and aspirations of the young King. Ability is
the one thing every one allows him to possess; and from Rome to Palermo,
from Milan to Naples, public report agrees in depicting him a perfect
soldier, as well able to command as he formerly was to obey. But the
special quality which has endeared the House of Savoy to the Italian
people, the quality which the nation prefers to all other
characteristics of that ancient race, seems somewhat wanting in the
King, though he is intelligent, far-sighted, brave, and worthy in most
respects of his glorious descent.
In every spot where the noble House of Savoy has left traces of its
brilliancy and heroism, in cities both of Italy and France, pictures are
to be found which portray Knights, Earls and Dukes belonging to this
race, which boasts a lineage more ancient and more glorious than even
that of the Hapsbourgs. The Savoy Princes appear to have been especially
careful in bequeathing to future centuries the presentment of their
countenances and their garb--the latter intended to adorn a Court
pageant or dazzle the troops in the gay sunlight of a battlefield; while
their Princesses look down upon us in haughty disdain, or smiling
complacency from the walls of innumerable museums and palaces. Beneath
these portraits inscriptions tell us that the beautiful dame represented
was a Queen by marriage, or perchance the mother of a King. Thus Francis
I., one of the most valorous and most popular rulers of France, was the
son of a Savoyard Princess, the famous Duchess Louise of Angoulême, who
for years lived in fear that her beloved son might miss the throne,
should a child be born to the old King of France, Louis XII., he having,
after the death of his first wife, married Mary Tudor, sister to Henry
VIII. Another Princess of this race was the young Duchess of Burgundy,
who came to Versailles before she was ten years of age to marry Louis
XIV.’s grandson, and whose sad history has been told at length by one of
the most famous French historians. Yet no historical sketch, no legend
relating the past splendour and valiant deeds of this chivalrous and
gallant dynasty, can in any way compare with the accounts given of them
by the present King of Italy himself when he takes up the subject
casually in conversation. He possesses, in addition, a wonderfully
accurate knowledge of the individual character of each personage among
his ancestors. Their great deeds, their perilous adventures and
misfortunes, their triumphs and glory, are made to live again as soon as
in his own feverish manner he takes up the tale and begins to wax
eloquent.