by Theo Aronson
The couple were never crowned. Alexander (who had been King for less than a year at the time of his marriage) considered a coronation to be a waste of money; besides, he hated ceremonial. He did feel obliged, however, to provide his consort with a suitable home. Having decided that the existing palace in Belgrade was inadequate (and that his wife could not possibly move into his bachelor house) Alexander enlarged it. The completed palace was spacious but simply furnished. In it, King Alexander and Queen Marie lived all but separate lives. His apartments were austere; hers somewhat more comfortable. While he attended to affairs of state, she gardened or sculpted or drove about the countryside. Alexander was not a uxorious man but whenever he happend to be in his wife's company, especially if they were in the country, he was happy enough.
Their first child was born on 6 September 1923. It was a boy. With King Alexander too overcome to go into his wife's room, his close friend and cousin, Prince Paul, fetched the baby and showed it to the apprehensive father. In an anything but complimentary comparison, Alexander announced that the child looked exactly like its grandfather, King Ferdinand of Romania. The boy was then delivered into the hands of one of those compulsory English nannies, presiding in practically every royal nursery from the North Sea to the Black Sea – this time a Nurse Bell of Harrogate.
The baptism was a gala occasion. From Romania came King Ferdinand and Queen Marie (she resplendent in a towering pearl tiara and floating chiffon panels), from Greece came Marie's daughter Queen Elizabeth, and from England, as proxy-godfather for King George V, came the Duke of York with his Duchess – afterwards King George VI and Queen Elizabeth.
The child was given the first name of Peter. As King Peter II of Yugoslavia, he was to have an extraordinarily chequered career.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
'La Reina! La Reina!'
1
'He tires of everything,' Queen Ena once said of her husband, King Alfonso XIII of Spain. 'Some day he will tire even of me.'
In this, she was being proved right. By the year 1921, the thirty-four-year-old Queen Ena had been married to King Alfonso for fifteen years. Their marriage, inaugurated by a bomb blast, had not really been a success. Although Ena shared, to a certain extent, her husband's love of sport and his taste in entertainment, she seemed to be losing his interest. But then it is doubtful whether any woman could have held the attention of this restless, mercurial, perennially young man for long. Each year saw them drifting farther apart. To the ebullient Alfonso, Ena might well have seemed too staid, too reserved, too triste. She could not match his boyish enthusiasms; she could not share his tremendous zest for life. So persistently English, she was never able to identify herself completely with Spain.
Their children, too, were a disappointment to Alfonso. For a man who set so much store by physical vigour, he could not help being distressed by the poor health of their family. Although their two daughters seemed healthy enough, only one of their four sons was bodily sound. Two of the others were haemophiliacs and the third deaf and all but dumb. And one never knew whether the daughters, like the mother, might be transmitters of the 'royal disease'. The Spanish sovereigns, like the late Russian Emperor and Empress, endured constant anxiety and took every precaution with their haemophilic sons. But not all the care in the world (even the trees in the royal parks were padded) could prevent some mishap. Nor was there anything to alleviate the days or weeks or months of agony that could follow some apparently harmless tumble. And whereas, in Queen Ena, these marital trials led to an ever-deepening melancholy, in Alfonso they led to an even more frenetic search for distraction. He was rumoured to be seeking more congenial female company; Europe, by the 1920s, was abuzz with stories about the King's amorous adventures.
Yet, both as a sovereign and a woman, Queen Ena was charming. 'She was by far the most human representative of her kind in spite of the long period of years spent at the stiffest court in Europe,' wrote Grand Duchess Marie of Russia. 'She achieved perfect balance between ease and simplicity on one side and the obligations of her rank on the other.'
With the years this tomboyish, high-spirited, badly dressed English princess had developed into a graceful and soignée woman, the most elegant Queen in Europe. She had lost neither the radiance of her complexion nor the lustre of her fair hair. Her figure was still slender. Into the Spain of the mantilla, the voluminous petticoat and the long black dress, she introduced the pastel colours, the luxurious fur trimmings and the short skirts of London and Paris. 'I can think of none who possesses the "clothes sense" to a greater degree than the Queen of Spain,' wrote Lady Duff-Gordon. 'Had she been born into another position she would have made a fortune as a grande couturière.'
Her bearing, on formal state occasions, was faultless. She wore her clothes – her diamond coronet, her white lace mantilla, her gold and silver dresses – with ease and always moved with dignity. During the round of sumptuous and exacting ceremonial at Easter time, she never faltered. At the symbolic washing of the feet of the poor, she would cover her lavishly embroidered dress with a white towel and kneel to wash and kiss the feet of the twelve old women. While the King would slither on his knees from one old man to the next, the Queen, because of her long train, would have to kneel and rise and kneel again as she worked her way down the line. Her duty done, she would wash her hands in a gold basin and then move to the table to serve the ceremonial meal.
King Alfonso, who always turned the ceremonial meal into a game, would purposely embarrass his gentlemen-in-waiting by the speed and vigour with which he snatched the plates from their hands. If, in his enthusiasm, one of the round cheeses rolled off the plate, he would run after it and, like a goal-keeper, stop it with his foot. He would always finish long before the Queen and would stand at the altar, with helmet, sword and gloves, waiting for her to join him. Walking at the end of a magnificent procession, they would leave the hall, pausing just before they passed through the great double doors for the King to bow and the Queen to make a sweeping court curtsy.
When the novelist Elinor Glyn visited Spain in 1923, the account she gave of the royal pair, with whom she stayed, was ecstatic to the point of delirium. The King she compared to a perfectly bred Derby winner ('the same look of race and self-confidence and dauntlessness') but it was for Queen Ena that she reserved her most fulsome praise. 'She really looked like a fairy queen, so young and fresh and lovely,' she writes. In those silver, turquoise and aquamarine lame dresses, she looked 'a dream of beauty all the time'. For Queen Ena's charm and beauty and dignity, Miss Glyn was almost – but not quite – at a loss for words. One night the royal party paid an unexpected visit to a fiesta to see the Spanish dancers; the crowd, says Miss Glyn, pressed about the Queen in adoration. 'La Reina! La Reina!' they murmured ecstatically.
It is not altogether unexpected that King Alfonso's aunt, the Infanta Eulalia, should compare Queen Ena to Queen Marie of Romania. 'The two cousins – Queens – sprung from this extraordinary [Coburg] stock,' she writes, 'are curiously alike in features, build, and expression. The Queen of Romania is some years older than the Queen of Spain, and, like her cousin, she is beautiful; but whereas the younger woman loves her beauty because it represents much of the joy of life, the other Queen depends largely on a mise-en-scène, and she is often the slave of her artistic temperament. To the one – Queen Ena – her palace embodies a home, just as she embodies the ideal of beautiful English womanhood. To the other – Queen Marie – a palace represents a temple, a stage, or un coin du temps du Paganisme! Both Queens love colour, jewels, beautiful clothes – and in this the Orientalism of the Coburgs is strikingly apparent, which has probably developed since their marriages, since the countries of their adoption throb with life, and differ absolutely from the soft greens and greys of England.'
But the similarity between the cousins began and ended with their appearance. Marie had none of Ena's naturalness nor her preference for the simple things of life. Indeed, it was away from the splendours of the court that Queen Ena
was at her best. At the country palaces of El Pardo, La Granja, Aranjeuz and particularly at the seaside palace at San Sebastian, she could relax and indulge her taste for active, open-air living. She played golf, she played tennis, she danced. She was often seen drinking tea with her ladies in a public teashop on the sea front at San Sebastian.
Queen Ena was one of the first women in Spain to wear a tight-fitting bathing costume and her daring scandalized a great many of her subjects. The Duke of Sutherland once saw her bathing at San Sebastian. Two soldiers, in uniform and fully armed, stood guard, one on either side of her. The deeper the Queen went into the water, the deeper the soldiers followed her. They were finally to be seen, still staring impassively ahead, up to their necks in the waves.
The one sport for which the Queen could never acquire a taste was the national sport of the country – the bullfight. 'I long for the day when the horses will be left out of the displays,' she confided to a friend. 'Already their fate is less cruel as they are now shielded from the bull's horns.' Such squeamish, Anglo-Saxon sentiments she had to keep from her subjects, however. Little did any of them guess, as their Queen raised her glasses to her eyes to watch the coup de grâce in the ring below, that the glasses were opaque and that she could see nothing of the savage and bloody climax.
But if, on public occasions, Queen Ena did her best to identify herself with her husband's country, in private she made no bones about her preference for all things English. She not only looked the English rose, she acted it. Queen Ena remained unremittingly English, claimed the Infanta Eulalia, not only in her passion for sport and the outdoors, but in 'her love of home comforts, her admiration for law and order, and in her flair for domesticity, chintzes and interior decorations'. She insisted that afternoon tea be a private family occasion, and managed to get the time of the evening meal advanced to what, in Spain, was the extraordinarily early hour of nine o'clock. English ideas on hygiene, English ideas on diet and the English maxim of 'Plenty of fresh air and early to bed' held good in the nursery. Christmas was always celebrated as an English Christmas, with a decorated tree, a traditional Christmas dinner and a plum pudding sent out by Ena's mother, Princess Beatrice of Battenberg.
The Queen greatly enjoyed her visits to her mother at Kensington Palace. On her journeys to England (which she always regarded as 'home') she would be met, at Dover, by the Spanish Ambassador, and at Victoria by a member of the royal family, often by her cousin, King George V, himself. In London she would spend her time shopping, going to the theatre, visiting friends or giving little luncheon parties at Claridge's. It was always with regret that she took leave of her old mother and exchanged the freedom and security of her native land for the formality and uncertainties of her life in Spain.
English in all things, it was only in her chic, comments the Infanta Eulalia, that Queen Ena differed from her countrywomen. 'Her taste in dress is certainly not a heritage of her English ancestors . . . .'
2
He had immense faith, King Alfonso XIII once declared, in the future of Spain. If she had been great in the days of Charles V, she would, he felt certain, become greater still in the not too distant future.
The main thing which, in the King's estimation, was keeping Spain back from the realization of this potential greatness, was the state of her political life. The workings of Spanish democracy were chaotic. There were no large, clearly defined political parties; with real power lying in the hands of the political bosses, or caciques, elections were shamelessly rigged. One crisis followed another; governments fell with incredible speed and regularity; every few months yet another Prime Minister was in office. As a result, few political programmes were ever launched and fewer still seen through to their conclusion. Everything was dissipated in talk.
On the King, this political turmoil had a significant effect. As each change of government meant a complete change of governmental machinery, the King would remain in sole charge until the change had been effected. More and more, as the years went by, did King Alfonso seem to be the one constant factor in the continually shifting political scene. It was no wonder that he came to regard the comings and goings of various politicians with at first, cynicism, then impatience. And as his contempt for these political manoeuvrings increased, so did his faith in his own abilities gather strength. He had never lacked confidence in his own judgement and, naturally imperious, he began to rely on it more and more frequently.
The qualities which might have helped him through his difficulties – patience, prudence and tolerance – he lacked almost completely. He suffered those whom he considered fools very badly. He was, perhaps, too much of a politician himself to preside over other politicians; he was not sufficiently a statesman. When faced with opposition or indecision, Alfonso's tendency was to answer it with a show of strength. He relied on force rather than reason.
There was plenty of temptation to use force during those years. The rise and fall of various governments were not the only upheavals with which the King had to contend. Hardly a week went by without an eruption of violence somewhere in the country. With this explosive situation, no government seemed able to cope.
Running parallel with King Alfonso's growing disenchantment with Spain's parliamentary system was his craving for the Spanish army to prove itself by some glorious feat of arms. For many years, under the high, bright African sky, the Spaniards had been carrying on a desultory war against the Moorish tribesmen in Spanish Morocco. The campaign, conducted with extraordinary inefficiency against a shrewd and dashing enemy, had cost Spain very dearly in men and money. It was also the cause of mounting dissatisfaction at home. What was needed, both to put an end to this drain on the country's resources and to enhance the army's somewhat tarnished reputation, was a spectacular victory.
Such a victory would also strengthen Alfonso's position vis-à-vis the politicians considerably. He had always considered the army to be his special province. He delighted in reviews and uniforms and his speeches to the army were his most heartfelt. Immortality, glory, sacrifice, he would cry, were the words to be engraved on the hearts of soldiers. He longed for Spain – the Spain which he loved so sincerely – to shake herself free of sordid political squabbling and to emerge as a great Catholic military state with himself at its head. And a victory in Morocco could well be the first step towards the realization of his somewhat medieval ideal.
Perhaps to prepare public opinion for whatever future move he might need to make, King Alfonso delivered a speech at Cordoba in May 1921, denouncing the parliamentary system of Spain. He followed this up with a fervent address at the tomb of El Cid – that warrior who had fought against the Moors – in which he spoke of the past greatness of Spain. 'Spain,' he cried, 'is great enough still to realize her destiny; and apart from that, with what Spain is in the Peninsula, and with what belongs to us on the other side of the Strait, we have enough to figure among the first nations in Europe.'
It was on this other side of the Strait, on the very day that the King was making his rousing speech before the tomb of El Cid, that there occurred a military disaster of the most appalling magnitude. A general by the name of Sylvestre, determined to win a great victory over the tribesmen, marched ten thousand men to a place called Anual. They were invested in a narrow ravine and the entire force annihilated. The bulk of Spain's Moroccan army, as well as an incalculable amount of guns and equipment, had been lost.
The news of the Anual disaster first stunned, then infuriated Spain. Who was responsible for this shocking waste of life? Although the government collapsed, there was a feeling that it was not they who had encouraged Sylvestre in his rash move. The republicans were not slow to point a finger at the King. So anxious for a great victory, he might well have urged Sylvestre forward.
Then, among the dead general's papers were found two telegrams from the King. The first read, 'On the 15th I expect good news'; the second, 'Holá hombres, I'm waiting.' They proved nothing but the suspicion that Alfonso's ambition had sent ten thousand
Spaniards to their death persisted. The word Anual became a stick with which to beat the King.
The disaster in Morocco not only robbed Alfonso of his anticipated victory but threw the country into a state of even greater unrest. Spain, wrote the new British Ambassador, Sir Esmé Howard, was like 'a stage in a state of chaotic welter . . . awaiting the advent of some wise strong man . . . to hurl all the tragi-comedians into their right places and allow the play to proceed'.
Just such a man seemed to have settled the similar confusion in Italy. In 1922 Mussolini overthrew the parliamentary government and set himself up as a dictator. Could not the same thing, it was wondered, be done for Spain? There was, in fact, a willing person to hand: General Primo de Rivera, Captain General of Barcelona. The King, in a somewhat equivocal speech made to the garrison in Barcelona, had hinted that although he was not able to dislodge his parliament, there was no reason why the army could not force his hand. It was a task which General Primo de Rivera was more than ready to undertake. How much King Alfonso knew of the General's plans is uncertain, but in planning his coup d'état for 14 September 1923, the General must have known that he would meet with very little opposition from the King. It has been suggested, in fact, that since the commission to examine the responsibilities for Anual was to open on 21 September, a coup d'etat the week before would be welcomed by the King.
On 11 September 1923 a riot in Barcelona gave the General his opportunity. He declared a state of martial law and signalled his fellow military commanders to do likewise. When the government tried to dismiss him for his rebellious act, he answered by issuing a manifesto, calling upon the King to dismiss parliament and rule the country with the help of the army. Then, amidst general acclamation, the General took the train to Madrid.