THE REMINISCENCES OF CARL SCHURZ
ducted through long corridors to his apartments. Suddenly a door was opened, and I almost stumbled over a very little man standing on the threshold of a small, dimly lighted room. I was greatly surprised to find myself the next moment presented to this little person as “his Majesty, the King.” The conversation that followed, carried on in French, was simple in the extreme. The King spoke in a cracked soprano voice, somewhat like the scream of a young hen. He said that he was very glad to see me, that he hoped my long journey all the way from America to Spain had been a pleasant one, and he hoped especially that I had not been very seasick. Did I ever get very seasick? I was happy to assure his Majesty that my journey had been throughout a pleasant one, and that I had not at all been seasick, and I hoped his Majesty was in good health. His Majesty replied that he was entirely well, but he thought never to get seasick was a rare thing. It was a great gift of nature—a very valuable gift indeed. After this utterance, our theme seemed to be exhausted, and I was permitted to withdraw. When thinking over the events of the day before falling asleep, my introduction into diplomatic life in Madrid appeared to me very much like an act in an opera bouffe—a comical prelude to serious business.
The following day I delivered the genuine letter of credence to Don Saturnino Calderon Collantes, and had a long conversation with him. He was a little gentleman, with large features, somewhat stern when in repose, and looked rather like a high-grade schoolmaster than a political leader, or a Castilian Caballero. He spoke French with the accent peculiar to the Spaniards, but fluently enough to make conversation easy. Although somewhat inclined to be solemn in his attitude, he had sense of humor enough to appreciate the ludicrousness of yesterday's proceedings with the pretended letter of cre-
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