A few hundred yards across the bay, the lights of Monte Carlo shone with the steady and unflickering brilliancy of electricity. So they had shone each night throughout the winter. That clear confident illumination missed the unique character of this one night. In Monte Carlo, it was just another night passing among a thousand; but here, in Monaco, it was Good Friday. Once again, as for hundreds of years past, there was no light in the street but that sent by flickering candles set on window-ledges; and through this semi-darkness the lights of the procession came and went. The streets are too narrow for spectators; and we moved from corner to comer to meet again and again these little ranks of grave and earnest country people, carrying their lights and their sacred emblems; or to watch the procession as it contracted itself sufficiently to pass slowly out of sight down some street which was even narrower than the rest. The processional lights were candles tied on to sticks and protected by large shades of cream-coloured cardboard. The effect was that of long-stalked round white flowers, softly lit from within. Sometimes the procession moved to the music of old Church tunes, sung rather waveringly by the thin shrill voices of choirboys—voices possessing so little carrying power that the sound went out with unexpected suddenness if the procession rounded a curve in the street. Sometimes there was an interval of heavier music, when the dull thud of crape-covered drums and the blatant harshness of brass instruments took their turn, playing a local traditional funeral dirge.
The circles of shaded candlelight, the children’s faces, their eyes, and their singing mouths—all were round, sacred, and solemn like consecrated wafers. The Twelve Apostles were men in their ordinary working-clothes, and across their shoulders they had draped pieces of red, blue, or green cloth. The Holy Women had covered their heads with long black veils which fell to their feet. Above the Crucifix was a little tent-shaped roof of black velvet. The life-sized image of the dead Christ reposed upon a canopied bier. The golden statue of the Blessed Virgin was rigid, with no hangings either of triumph or of grief.
It took an hour for the procession to perambulate the many streets of the little town, but at last it reached the church, the facade of which was rather incongruously floodlit. Then the lurching candles, and the carefully borne images passed up the very steep and high flight of steps and through the west door. Darkness closed in upon the little twisted streets.
On the following day Monte Carlo took its turn and showed us a typical spectacle of the modern world. Its streets also wind round and about, and as in Monaco on the previous night, they were empty but for those who took part in the pageant. That day we saw an International Motor Race; and its music, like that of Monaco, was intermittent, coming and going among the curves of the streets. This time it was no sad and ancient music, but the terrific and shattering roar of the cars as they hurtled past our stand again and again. The course was fifty times round the town and it was a great feat of human endurance and skill. It was also a miracle that no one was killed. Our seats were near a bend, and once a car skidded there, blocking the road just out of sight of the other competitors coming up behind. Officials frantically waved flags. Spectators shrieked from the Tribunes, but five or six other cars had blindly hurled themselves upon the wrecked one before it was towed out of the way. It was very exciting, and very noisy, and our national pride was gratified by the fact that the three first cars were of British make. Nevertheless, I shall soon forget the Monte Carlo motor race, but I think I shall always remember Good Friday at Monaco.
Chapter Twenty
THE DEATHS OF KINGS
On the night of the 20th of January, 1936, my sister Mamie and I were alone at the Daye House, and we sat together in the long room through two hours which were till then unparalleled in history. King George was dying, and at ten o’clock a Committal Service was broadcast to all stations in the Empire. Science then achieved a hitherto unthought of combination of community and seclusion. We felt as if we had been brought into the King’s own room, which yet itself remained intimate, personal, and private. We also, in our room, were intimate, personal, and private, though we knew that our emotions in those hours were shared by other quiet listeners all over the world. Till a quarter past twelve we sat listening to the great tragic clanging of each quarter of an hour by Big Ben, followed each time by the announcer’s voice always saying the same words: ‘ The King’s life is moving peacefully towards its close.’ At twelve-fifteen we learnt that the King was dead.
The universal emotion of the next few days has not been forgotten, and everyone repeated that never before had the death of a sovereign been received with so keen a sense of personal bereavement. It is true that King George’s subjects had had opportunities of knowing their King which had not been possessed by previous generations. Everyone knew his appearance on the films and his voice on the wireless. He is said to have described himself as ‘a very ordinary fellow’, and this brought him near to the many ordinary fellows over whom he reigned. Those words of his may possibly describe the natural equipment with which King George set out, for he seemed to possess merely the ordinary gifts and tastes of a thousand of his subjects; but it was not that which
