CHAPTER VIII
T 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.