pictures connected with the House of Savoy--“la casa di Savoia” as it is
called in Italy--and many a time has my heart been stirred while poring
over dusty folios or wandering through long galleries, where paintings
endowed with the eternal youth of art hang on each side like a phantom
army. Yet two vivid impressions remain in my mind which, while I live,
will shed a splendid lustre over the simple word “Savoy” in my thoughts.
The first was the occasion when I heard Victor Emmanuel III. recall to
memory one after another the warriors and princes to whom he owes his
illustrious blood. The second impression is a very recent one. It came
to me in one of my rambles through the archæological treasures of
France. I had gone to see one of the many gems of architecture raised by
piety in that fair land, and while I wandered through the church, white
and luminous as the cathedrals of Italy where a feeling for pagan beauty
has not been obliterated by the thrill of adoration and awe so
impressive in Gothic aisles, the living language of the eloquent Prince
seemed to mingle with the silence that enshrouded the snowy tombs, and
in my imagination the Royal words seemed allied to what the silence
said.
On the stained-glass window knelt a Duke of Savoy, so deep in prayer
that he had let his gauntlet fall on a cushion by his side, and did not
even see behind him the form of his patron saint listening to the
deathless orisons. For centuries the handsome young Duke has prayed on
in that church, little witting that the territory on which it stands has
passed away from his line, oblivious to everything save his devotions.
Not far from the altar is the place where his dust is laid. Never more
will he take up his gauntlet again, nor cover his fair curls with the
heavy helmet clasped to his breast, yet still he prays on.
In that church the tombs all round speak more of love than of death.
Gazing on the sculptured masterpieces whose outlines seem to melt into
the silvery twilight, we forget that the Princess who built the shrine,
the dreamer whose vision is here pictured in stone and coloured glass,
was a powerful, strong-souled woman, daughter of a German Cæsar, aunt to
Charles V., and Governor of the Netherlands. Hers was no life of prayer
and solitude, but an ever active existence, bent on political power and
deep designs. More than once, we are told, she armed herself and rode on
horseback to make or unmake treaties and alliances--a woman alike feared
and honoured in Council and among the nations under her sway.
In the convent Church of Urm it is her love-story that alone appears--a
romance to thrill the poet and the traveller. To these Margherita di
Savoia, wife of Philibert the Handsome, is a truly pathetic figure.
Betrothed to the young French Dauphin, who sent her back to her father
because he wished to marry the wealthy Duchess of Brittany, she
afterwards became the widow of King Juan of Castille. Fate seemed to
pour its bounties at her feet when she espoused the Duke of Savoy and
settled with him in the wealthiest part of his rich dukedom, but ill
fortune again intervened, for the beloved husband died after two years
of happiness. Despair took possession of her, and in memory of the man
she loved the proud, sorrowing Princess built the church where the royal
lovers now rest side by side. She caused the image of her dead husband
to be carved and painted three times, and her love has prevailed over
the waves of time and discord, so that to-day the gem of art stands
erect and beautiful shining from amongst the trees to tell its tale of
fidelity and immortal affection.
It is in the handsome features of Duke Philibert, thrice repeated in
stone and glass, that the characteristics of the race of Savoy may be
best seen and traced to their source. The languor yet extreme manliness
of the features, the firmness of the strong hands closed over the
helmet, the look that the Prince lifts to the holy Cross before which he
is kneeling--all bear testimony to the vigour, the ardour and the piety
bequeathed by the dynasty to its descendants. Between the fervent spirit
of the kneeling Duke and the soul of the present King of Italy, how many
different personalities have intervened, what powerful hereditary
tendencies have been mingled in his blood by unions with almost every
royal house in Europe! His fathers have been allied with the families of
Austria and Bourbon, and with the families of Italian Princes of races
now extinct, yet a near parentage survives which links him to the figure
of that silent worshipper in the church at Urm, as well as to the heroes
whose deeds have graced the records of the Casa di Savoia. Any one who
has the honour of approaching Queen Margherita’s son may easily trace in
him such remains of mediæval feeling mingled with modern ideas as may
serve to render him interesting to those who look to find in the living
the relics of the long dead past.
Victor Emmanuel III. may be called the child of joy and happy
expectation. Born at a moment when every heart was bent upon the triumph
of Italian Unity, he acquired from both his father and mother the blood
of the same glorious ancestors, for Queen Margherita and King Humbert
were first cousins. Naples, that city where joy raises her altars under
the fairest sky that poets can sing, the beautiful city crowned with
flowers and over-shadowed by her graceful volcano--Naples gave him her
name. When the twenty-second boom of the cannon announced that
Margherita, then Crown Princess of Italy, had given birth to a son, the
population of the sunlit town went wild with exultation. Men greeted
each other in the streets with “Italia ha un Re” (Italy has a King), and
the shouts reached the Palace of Castelamai standing high above the
gulf, where the proud young mother caught the happy strain, while the
father, looking out from the marble balconies over the glistening
waters, smiled and blessed the glorious day. Thus Victor Emmanuel was
pledged to a brilliant future. “We do not want our King to be an artist
or a warrior. We simply require him to be intelligent, good, and a true
Italian,” said the people. King Humbert’s goodness was well known and he
proved himself an Italian to the last, even on that fatal eve when he
refused to listen to the prayers of the Queen when she begged him not to
tire himself by presiding at the meeting on returning from which he met
his death.
That Victor Emmanuel is as kind, as thoroughly Italian in heart, word
and manners as his father was, many of his subjects seemed to doubt at
the opening of his reign, since the Prince had always been very guarded
in his speech and ways, and no one appeared to know much about him.
Although rumour had reached our Court of the interesting and excellent
education he had received, it was with great indifference that we looked
forward to his visit to Bucharest. We were accustomed to derive but
little benefit from the presence and conversation of Royal visitors. We
remembered the many Imperial and Royal Highnesses we had met in Roumania
and abroad, who had favoured us only with such languid questions
concerning our health, &c., as clearly proved their possession of an
unvarying vocabulary whose monotonous phrases they distributed by the
way, beginning afresh whenever they found themselves in presence of new
acquaintances.
I must allow that I have seen many Court ladies and gentlemen gratified
and delighted with the crumbs thrown to them by the supercilious
politeness of royalty, but to this standard of Court perfection I have
never been able to attain. I have always entertained a profound
reverence for monarchy and its representatives, for the Right Divine of
the being graced by God and the nation with a crown, as for every member
of their families; but these sentiments of loyalty and traditional
respect have been shaken when the scanty courtesy of a stiff German
_Höchheit_ or obscure _Durchlaut_ has affected my instinctive feeling
that the duty to show not only politeness, but interest and sympathy,
towards all with whom they come in contact should be numbered amongst
the dearest attributes of royalty. I am ashamed to say how often I must
have astonished those haughty Princes and Princesses who scarcely deign
to move lips or eyelids when addressing their inferiors in rank, by
casting on them such looks of amused irony or surprise that I received
in exchange glances which clearly said, “Impertinent little thing!” I
must, however, be sincere and add that it is only the minor potentates
who indulge in the pleasure of leaving behind them a row of courtiers
thunderstruck at the honour they have received of listening to these
low, drawling tones.
The Prince of Naples had not been an hour the guest of our King before
all apprehension as to his amiability and sympathy was stilled. He
displayed such conversational powers as are rarely found not alone among
his equals, but even among those beneath him whose professional task it
is to be eloquent. On every subject he seemed well-informed. In order to
give her son the benefit of a thorough training in Court etiquette,
Queen Margherita had devised the plan of setting up a circle of empty
chairs in a large drawing-room. Upon each of these was inscribed the
name and title of some personage belonging to the Church or State. She
would then make her son, at that time only nine years of age, converse
with the empty seats, bearing labels with names such as “Archbishop of
Milan,” “Minister of Justice,” “General G.,” “The French Ambassador,”
&c. In this manner the child quickly learned the different ways in which
he ought to address the absent officials and ladies without allowing
conversation to slacken or drop for a moment. But beyond this, his
erudition in all that regards historical and military matters is really
remarkable, while to describe fully his tastes and instincts we should
have to recall some of the rulers among his ancestors, those ancient
Dukes who, together with the ordinary accomplishments of Princes, had
the gift of sagacity bestowed upon them from their cradles.
The years which to many are numbered among the happiest of life, those
of early childhood, were spent by the Prince of Naples in labour and
study so severe that had not his mother soothed the toil of those early
days with her gentleness and affection, he might have become hardened by
excess of study and reflection and turned into a solitary bookworm.
Fortunately he loved sport, and notwithstanding the efforts he had to
make to obtain from his weak body a perfect obedience to his commands,
all his impulses urged him to action and violent exercise. He loved to
follow his Alpine soldiers along steep paths of mountain and glen, or to
run beside the _bersaglieri_ regiments at the wild pace which makes them
so fascinating to behold. It is almost incredible that a Prince who
boasts that he desires nothing better upon earth than days spent among
his troops in glade or forest, should be at the same time the keen
observer whose chief pleasure it is to study every one he meets, and to
whom no creature upon earth has ever appeared indifferent or
uninteresting. It is this keen scrutiny of his fellow men which prevents
the Prince from putting forward his own opinions at the beginnings of
acquaintance, because he is so much occupied with the minds and feelings
of others.
Although he adores riding good horses, running races, and marching
alongside of his soldiers as much as he dotes on historical lore, he has
escaped the double peril of becoming a mere trooper on the one hand or a
gloomy scholar--what the French call a _rat de bibliothèque_--on the
other. Either alternative might have ruled in his case, as his tutors
have had to deal with a character passionately attracted towards certain
ideas and habits. Unlike many Princes who, lacking both energy and
intelligence, yet try to imitate the life of great soldiers or to rival
learned men, the present King of Italy would have made a brilliant
warrior or an accomplished historian had not the balance been ably kept
between his tastes and his abilities.
But we must return to the first impression created by his presence in
Bucharest, an impression afterwards completed at Rome where I had
frequent opportunities of seeing him. It was with almost a shudder of
apprehension we had learned that the heir of the Italian throne was to
spend three or four days at our Court, and on glancing over the
programme of the entertainments prepared for him we discovered that,
owing to the fact that he was in deep mourning, he had expressed a
desire that hardly any official receptions should take place. There were
therefore to be no gala representations, no races, no balls. We noted
that he would pass the afternoons in the company of the Queen in her
Majesty’s music room or study, where most of our time was spent.
When the Prince of Naples on the day of arrival, after a visit to the
barracks and a drive in the Chaussée or public garden of Bucharest,
entered the precincts sacred to the arts and poetry, he threw around him
a sharp glance of inquiry. His gaze took in at once pictures, furniture
and individuals, and seemed to penetrate into the remotest corners of
our minds, tearing off the veil that hides thought and sentiments. The
eyes, keen and interrogating, travelled from one face to another noting
each detail of gesture or smile, yet controlled by a strict politeness
and quickly averted if he noticed the slightest uneasiness on the part
of the person who was the object of his scrutiny.
“This will not be a tedious week,” I said to myself, as the Prince went
on bowing and looking round him with all his attention given to this
silent observation. Then, all at once, noting a smile of amusement on
the Queen’s face, he said:
“Your Majesty must find me very singular and almost rude. I must first
take in impressions of faces and landscapes before I can enjoy the
simple natural pleasures of conversation, of grasping at people’s
thoughts through their words. I must first handle my impressions a
little before I allow them to take hold upon me and throw a haze of
illusion over my imagination. The first thing I do on arriving in a
foreign country is to look about and reflect and write down my
reflections, so that gradually by accumulating facts in my mind and
diary I am becoming a sort of dictionary. I have an excellent memory in
which I am sure you would find almost every person, every place I have
seen, each in its proper position, in good order and array, bearing a
clear notification of its value and beauty.”
“And this is an amusement to you?” asked the Queen.
“Scarcely an amusement. It is an absolute necessity to me. I could not
do without it, even if I wished to. I have already noted many remarkable
traits in your Roumanian peasants on my way from the frontier. What has
struck me much more than their costume is the way in which they hold
their heads.... Yes, they bear their heads high, a thing unusual among
people who stoop all day long over agricultural work. But this has a
peculiar significance with them. It shows that they belong to a nation
long oppressed yet full of courage, whose favourite gesture for
generations has been to lift the head while thinking of the oppressor,
interrupting the daily toil with such reflections as ‘We shall one day
be a free people. We shall be delivered from tyranny and suffering.’ And
the women, how calm and dignified they are! They remind me of Samaritans
gathered round the well of an evening.” Then turning abruptly towards
me, he said: “Why do you go on writing?... I have been watching you for
the last ten minutes. Your pen flies on as if there were nothing more
important to do than to write just at this moment, when I am here....”
I felt completely taken aback.... “Sire, this must leave by the five
o’clock mail. Her Majesty has given me permission to write in her room
when I am in a great hurry. I have been writing, but I have listened
with great interest to every word of your Royal Highness’s
conversation.”
“Things done by halves never succeed; you cannot have listened with real
attention, or if you have, your work must have been badly done. Now tell
me, have you travelled much? Do you know I was trying to find out where
you have been educated, while I spoke to you as you were introduced....
Thus far I am sure I am not mistaken; you have not been brought up in
Roumania. Now I am going to guess the country and the city where you
spent some of your earliest years. Let me see.... Every one here speaks
French beautifully, German too, but you speak English almost like an
Englishwoman, there is not the slightest difference between your
English and your French. And yet.... Ah! How stupid of me not to see it
immediately. You were brought up in Paris. There is no mistake about
that. You need not try to deny it.”
“I do not, but may I ask your Royal Highness what reasons led you to
form that conclusion, which is a correct one?”
“Of course,” answered the Prince triumphantly. “Paris, Paris only could
have taught you....”
“What has Paris taught her which makes her French education so
conspicuous in her?” questioned the Queen.
“Can your Majesty not guess? She is very young yet, in perfect
possession of the conviction, so widespread in France, that woman is on
a footing of equality with if not of superiority to man. She has a
quiet, authoritative way of giving her opinions, as if feeling
absolutely sure that her every word will be taken into consideration.
Now in Germany, where man prevails, a woman would speak in tones of
humility and feel so much astonished at being consulted that at first
she would find no words to answer, even if she were extremely clever or
learned.”
“In the upper classes, perhaps,” answered the Queen. “But I cannot let
you ignore the many remarkable women in Germany--how well armed they are
with clever arguments and fluent speech.”
“Your Majesty misunderstands me. I simply mean the way of putting forth
ideas, the security of mind and tone, that is French.... Then the other
trait, a very striking one also, you went on writing while we were
speaking.”
“But your Royal Highness does not mean to say that ‘Time is money’ is a
French proverb or an exclusively Parisian saying?”
“No, but the French prefer ideas to sentiment, and of course you were
following up an idea which you were afraid of losing. What were you
writing ... a poem ... or a prose tale?”
“A letter to my mother.”
A tender smile passed over the Prince’s features. “And do you write
often to her?”
“Every day.”
“So do I to the Queen.”
“And as my mother will feel very anxious to hear all about your Royal
Highness’s visit, and I have a good deal of work to do for the Queen, I
thought I might try to finish this letter.”
“And I have been unkind enough to hinder you.... Well, let me atone....
Please tell your dear mother you are writing under dictation and write
this: ‘The Prince of Naples is delighted with Roumania, loves and
admires its Queen, and thanks you for having given your daughter such an
excellent education (though she is uncivil enough to write to you while
I am present), taught her so many languages and inspired her with the
same great affection as he has for his own mother.’ When I had finished
the sentence, the Prince took the pen and traced these words at the
foot of the page, ‘Witnessed and signed by me: _Vittorio Emmanuele di
Savoia_.’”
“Now all of you take care what you say,” said the Prince laughingly when
a few minutes later we were gathered round the tea-table. “I write down
everything, and there is not a word that I do not remember. I am a
phonograph.... But my diary is locked. It contains portraits which I
draw on the flyleaf in order to make physiognomies speak for
themselves.”
Every time he returned from the sightseeing expeditions to which the
King regularly conducted him, the Prince of Naples came to the Queen’s
sitting-room as one accustomed to be on intimate terms with her Majesty,
and continued to give abundant proofs of his intelligent appreciation of
the courtesy shown him. The numerous hospitals scattered in and about
Bucharest, and their vast proportions, struck the Prince strongly and
led him to question us much on the subject.
“Why are there more hospitals in Bucharest than in any other town?”
“Our ancestors built them.... Our forefathers were inspired with a
mysticism almost as deep and ardent as the faith of the Middle Ages. In
order to obtain mercy for their sins they created hospitals and endowed
them with immense wealth. These hospitals own many of the greatest
estates in the country.”
“Oh, the miracles of faith!” answered the Prince. “You should see the
pilgrims clustering round the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem to understand
the power and beauty of faith. You should see the stones there which are
always bathed with tears, almost black like the stones upon which rain
perpetually falls.”
“Yes,” I answered. “They are the tears of my brethren of the Orthodox
religion, the Russian pilgrims who cross the vast Asiatic desert on foot
to reach the tomb of the Saviour. Yes, the Orthodox pilgrims know how to
show their love for Him.”
“They do not love Him any better than the Catholics,” answered the
Prince with a flash of indignation. “You are quite mistaken. You speak
from hearsay, whereas I have seen.... But we must not have a religious
dispute on the subject.”
“No,” interposed the Queen. “Postpone the subject to another time, or I
might be tempted to put in a word or two in favour of the Protestants,
and discord would reign in this spot where harmony should hold sway. Do
you know that the Prince is so kind as to compare my Court to the Court
of Ferrara? But will not your Royal Highness return to the Jerusalem
journey? What did you feel when you came in sight of the Holy City?”
“An emotion so terrible that it seemed to me that I had not been
prepared for it, though I expected much. The culminating point of my
voyage was when, at the foot of the mountain where our Lord preached
the sermon of love and contrition, we saw the clouds that hid the summit
roll away one by one, recalling to us the veil of the sanctuary that was
rent in twain when Jesus Christ died. Thus the clouds divided and we
perceived against the clear sky the form of a shepherd standing
motionless in an attitude of solemn communion with the elements and God.
It seemed to us that the Good Shepherd Himself had come back to the
mountain on which His immortal prayer was first uttered, ‘Our Father who
art in Heaven.’ ...”
We sat silent, awed and touched by the eloquent interpretation of this
unique scene, when, passing to another topic, the Prince referred to our
soldiers. “Though they belong to the Latin race they look graver than
our Italian troopers, our own dear soldiers. I love them, I love them,
_come la mia ciele_, like my own skies. Ah, how gay, how brave, how
tireless are our _bersaglieri_! They move as swiftly as deer and the
tufts on their shoulders dance in the wind. How charming and how unlike
all other music are the marches that lead them in their quick race!
Shall I whistle and sing them to you?” And to our great delight the
Prince began to imitate the sound of fifes and flutes and bugles. Soon
all the glamour of Italy crept over us. In a vision, quick as the joyous
and warlike cadences, we saw the regiments passing through the Campagna
Romana or along the streets of some quaint Italian town. There he stood
lifting up his energetic head, the slender, nervous hands crossed on
his knees, singing the songs he loved--the songs through which all the
eager movement, the untiring youthful effort that leads modern Italy
towards civilisation seemed to roll before our eyes. All the hurried,
exultant progress of Italy seemed to stir before us in the person of
this young Prince, who would one day hold the sway of the realm in those
same restless hands in whose veins ran the blood of Garibaldi’s royal
friend and comrade--the first Italian King....
“We shall all feel very sad when the Prince of Naples leaves us,” said
the Queen one day. “Do you know what he did this morning? At dawn, while
his aide-de-camp was still asleep, he got up quietly and slipped out,
hailed a cab and ordered the driver to take him through the poorest
suburbs of the town. When his officers rose and found that the Prince
had disappeared, imagine their distress. He has only just returned, a
few minutes before breakfast.”