Toward a Change

SPAIN

(See Cover)

The end of the Franco era in Spain is near. Just how near no one can say, for the dictator has proved himself immensely durable. Almost a quarter of a century has passed since El Caudillo defeated the Republicans in Spain's bloody Civil War and built his stern, stable military regime in the proud, suffering land. Today, he seems as confident as ever that the regime can go on forever. But all the signs dispute him. There is in Spain a ferment and unrest that signals change ahead.

The fourth bomb in a week exploded in a Madrid street last week, testifying to the increasing boldness of anti-Franco plotters. Bright-colored opposition handbills showed up on tables in cafes, on street corners, plastered to walls and telephone poles in side streets of a dozen cities. More than a hundred unhappy Spanish politicians boldly gathered 900 miles away in West Germany to talk earnestly of the freedom that Franco fears. Workers gathered in town squares to whisper in awe and pride of the only successful strike in the history of Franco Spain, won by the stubborn Asturias coal miners.

"Franco will fall within five to six months," says Julio Just, a prominent exile leader living in Paris. "This is the beginning of the last chapter in the history of the Franco regime,'' agrees Jesus Prados Arrarte, chief economist of Spain's Central Bank, who recently fled the country. To some extent, this was typical exiles' talk; no one really expected imminent revolution in Spain. Nevertheless, it all testified to the rising expectation that El Caudillo. at 69, cannot last much longer. Everybody in Spain is waiting to see who will succeed him.

Patient Stoic. The man with the best chance and with most at stake in the outcome is a 6-ft. 3-in. blueblood who has not lived in Spain for 31 years. He is Don Juan de Borbon y Battenberg, 49, Count of Barcelona and Pretender to the Spanish throne, which he and his monarchist supporters are certain will be restored when Franco goes. Until that happens, he can only wait restlessly in self-imposed exile at Estoril, Portugal's glittering resort, or take the handsome yacht Saltillo for endless cruises in the Mediterranean--an embodiment of his country's impatience, and a symbol of the Spanish past that is desperately trying to move into modern Europe.

Don Juan is no princely puppet. In Estoril, he works hard each morning at his rambling Villa Giralda. digesting reports on developments in Spain, receiving visitors, answering mail, plowing through the newspapers flown in from London.

Paris and Rome. He keeps in constant touch with the 43-man Consejo Privado, his privy council in Spain, which already has drafted a plan for a constitutional monarchy against the day when Don Juan may take the throne.

Even during the cruises, mail and radio reports flow out to the yacht. Last week, heading slowly back to Estoril from a trip through the Mediterranean, he paused briefly off Gibraltar to confer with two leaders of his council. He also stopped at Cartagena as guest of the local naval commander.

Theoretically, Don Juan can return to Spain any time he wants to. but he takes care to make his visits brief and casual.

Although Spain was declared a monarchy in Franco's 1947 Law of Succession, Spain's dictator has made no move to implement it. It has been part of his strategy to leave the succession question in the air. In public, the Pretender is patiently stoic, pretends that no succession problem exists. Newsmen always like to see the situation as a football match, he comments cheerily to visitors. The whole matter, he adds, has been "exaggerated." But he speaks more freely in private. When aides keep assuring him that all important factions in Spain are for him. he will mutter: "If everybody's so monarchist, then why the hell am I in Estoril?" New Middle Class. Whoever runs Spain next will inherit a country slowly, painfully outgrowing the isolation and poverty of centuries. In old Castile, land of santos y cantos (saints and songs), village steeples are inhabited by storks, the near-sacred birds of Spain, standing high in their twig nests and fanning their young with great wings. The gypsies were on the road last week, trekking north for the summer. In hot. sunny squares, cavernous cathedrals waited, filled with cool air and the dusty odor of saintly bones in silver boxes.

But the fact or at least the promise of change is everywhere. Leaping the Pyrenees at last, Spain has applied for associate membership in Europe's Common Market in order to share in the Continent's booming trade. Madrid, its population doubled in 20 years, wears the pink of great new brick apartment houses stretching far to the north and south. Its streets, once asphalt museums for antiquated jalopies, are now clogged with gleaming SEATs, the Spanish-made version of the Italian Fiat. The cars are still largely for the rich; a better index to the general improvement is the horde of buzzing motor scooters steered dauntlessly through the city streets by clerks, factory foremen, salesmen, shopkeepers -- the nucleus of the new middle class slowly taking shape in Spain.

Change is not limited to the cities. In the hungriest part of Spain, the forsaken valley of Las Hurdes. a few thousand peo ple for generations had no contact with the outside; their inbreeding was said to produce malformed children, and to all Spaniards, Las Hurdes became a synonym for decadence. In the region today, riggers are laying a power line across the valley, a hospital is being built, fruit trees grow in the irrigated fields near a power dam.

The children are ragged and dirty--but healthy enough.

New Riviera. Franco's regime is rightly proud of its sprawling Plan Badajoz. the 40-mile-long irrigation project along the Guadiana River near the Portuguese border; here a onetime malarial swamp has been turned into fertile fields that make Spain all but self-sufficient in cotton and rice.

Tourism is one of Spain's biggest assets.

It has been a cold, damp spring in Spain, but this has not deterred the first wave of the estimated 10 million foreigners--one for every three Spaniards--who will visit Spain this year, particularly the booming Costa Brava and Costa del Sol. which have turned into a kind of noisy, cut-rate Riviera, where conservative Spaniards sneer that the girls go to Mass in bikinis.

Things are not quite that bad, but Torremolinos has become a real estate promoter's dream, with clusters of cottages selling for $5,000 to $10,000 apiece; billboards in the area advertise Motello Rancho, Serv-Inn, Miami in Europa. The tourists will leave some $700 million worth of hard currency in Spain this year.

Spain's application to hook up with the Common Market (so far. no response from the Six) was an enormous psychological step that fits in with other changes.

Indolence is no longer the fashion among aristocrats; many are out making money.

Businessmen have broader horizons, pursue export sales more energetically. A still small but significant factor of change is the Spanish women. More are going to universities than ever before. Man's traditional supremacy no longer goes unquestioned. Says a shrewd Spaniard: "When does a man work best? When he is pushed by women. In Spain, the women are beginning to push the men.'' Still Backward. Occasionally Franco contributes an article on economics to a Madrid journal, signing his pieces "Hispanicus," and he takes full credit for Spain's economic progress. Actually, much of the credit belongs to huge injections of cash and advice from abroad. Start of the money flow came even before Franco agreed to let the U.S. build air and naval bases on Spanish soil; in a decade the U.S. pumped $503 million into Spain in military aid alone. An even greater sum from abroad has gone to modernize the Spanish economy and implement the 1959 stabilization plan after Spain's disastrous inflation. The plan worked. The soaring prices leveled off; investors regained confidence; gold and dollar reserves soared from virtually zero in 1959 to a whopping $1.1 billion today.

But Spain's progress so far has been tiny compared to what it could be, and has only served to whet the people's appetite for more.

Spain is still painfully backward and depressed. On the edge of Madrid, the gritty Puente de Vallecas district is called "Little Russia" by its occupants--street cleaners, ditchdiggers and the like, who earn as little as 60-c- a day and live in a smelly maze of shacks. Beyond, in the open country, are the peasants who work the huge holdings of absentee landlords for a pittance; in Spain, one-hundredth of the population still owns half of the land. Five million Spanish peasants use no mechanized farm tools at all; as they helped bring in the harvest last week, they had, as the Spanish saying goes, "only their hands." Spain's per capita income is the second lowest, next to Portugal, in Western Europe. Most Madrid families can no longer afford even the lowest-price (80-c-) seats at the bullfights, now go more and more to the soccer games, where admission is cheaper. Many people take on two jobs, one in the morning, another in the afternoon, to make ends meet. Concern at the cost of living is so great that able Commerce Minister Alberto Ullastres had to go on TV to soothe housewives, an unprecedented act for a minister in Franco's regime.

What concerns Ullastres is Spain's industry and commerce--creaky, antiquated, often monopolistic. Among its worst aspects are those crude relics of fascism, the labor-management Sindicatos, which fix workers' wages as well as employers' prices, forbid strikes by workers or layoffs by bosses. Collective bargaining within the syndicates has been allowed in the past three years, but government red tape and inflexible employers have left the ordinary workers of Spain embittered.

That is the background of Spain's recent, bitter labor troubles.

The Strike Story. Asturias is a desolate, mountainous region, where the rivers run black over slate and shale. Its miners are a tough, hardy folk, for the equipment they use is outmoded, the coal they dig is of low quality and difficult to extract; a man's average output is only six-tenths of a ton in an eight-hour day, perhaps one-twentieth of a U.S. coal miner's production.

The miners' grievance this time was a proposed new wage contract that failed to give unskilled workers the raise they demanded from a basic minimum of 60 pesetas ($1) a day to 150 pesetas ($2.50) a day. Suddenly one morning, seven picadors (cutters) at a mine in Mieres refused to begin the day's work. In a flash the whole mine joined the down-tools movement. Within a matter of days all 60,000 miners in the region quit.

There was no violence; on the contrary, the drab little towns in the steep Asturian valleys took on a holiday air as idle workers strolled the streets with their families, or gathered at cafes to drink cider or the red wine of Leon and eat chorizos, the popular peppered sausages. Many listened to Radio Espafia Independiente. the Communist transmitter that spews its anti-Franco propaganda from Prague. Czechoslovakia (featuring La Pasionaria. legendary Red amazon of the Civil War). Since Franco's own press and radio were suppressing the whole matter. Prague was the only Spanish-language source of news about the spreading strikes in other parts of Spain: thousands of shipbuilders and metal workers in Bilbao, many more in Barcelona. In all. 100,000 Spaniards in other areas were off the job in sympathy with the 60,000 striking Asturians.

The Communist Excuse. For the regime, it was the gravest political threat since the Civil War. but the government's first reaction was mild. For weeks, no action at all was taken. Then a state of emergency was declared in the three provinces most affected; 4.000 fresh troops and militiamen were sent in to reinforce the local authorities. But the cops were careful to avoid excessive trouble. Avoiding a showdown. Franco sent a trusted Cabinet aide, burly Sindicatos Boss Jose Solis Ruiz, to the region to calm the striking workers. It worked, but only after Solis talked himself hoarse for two weeks in speeches and conferences with worker councils--and only after promising to grant many of the wage demands. For Franco Spain, this was extraordinary; Spanish workers, breaking the regime's sternest decree, had not only conducted a two-month strike--they had won it.

As usual, the government blamed "foreign influence," "liberals" and "Communists" for the whole affair. Solis called attention to "the enormous pressure of Communist propaganda." In fact, the Communists, who number perhaps 5,000 in all of Spain, are well organized, but have little appeal among the workers.

A member of Don Juan's privy council.

Florentino Perez Embid. Catholic lay leader and professor of geography, put it this way: "Five years ago these strikes would have been impossible. They would have been crushed. Now the government has to negotiate with workers' leaders who are not members of the official syndicates." Protesting Priests. Perhaps the most important development revealed by the strikes is the growing support of the workers by the Roman Catholic Church, often a reactionary force in Spain and a traditional ally of Franco's. In town after town in Asturias. police found that priests of the H.O.A.C.--the Workers' Brotherhoods of Catholic Action--had urged miners to fight for their rights. H.O.A.C. firmly denies it had any part in the strikes, but frankly admits that "We have worked with thousands of men. and it is they who took the lead." Constantly pointing up the contrasts between Spain's poverty and its wealth. H.O.A.C. has a network of offices in all major cities. It represents the church's hedge against the chance of Franco's downfall.

For several years important churchmen have been edging away from Franco's philosophies. Bishop Angel Herrera of Malaga has been exposing Spain's social inequities from the pulpit for more than a decade. In 1960, a letter was signed by 352 Basque priests condemning the regime's stifling of basic freedoms; last year several Catholic archbishops urged El Caudillo to drop press censorship.

Spain's conservative and puritanical pri mate. Enrique Cardinal Pla y Deniel, 84. Archbishop of Toledo, has vigorously stepped in to defend H.O.A.C.; after Franco lashed out at "some exalted priests" for stirring up trouble in Asturias, Cardinal Pla y Deniel allowed his church officials to discipline the erring priests, but neglected to condemn their activities.

An increasingly important arm of the Catholic Church in Spain is Opus Dei, a semisecret lay order whose members vow obedience, poverty and chastity, and have reached every level of official and intellectual life in Spain. The organization has no stated political goals, except to maintain the church's influence in any government that rules. Opus Dei is no particular ally of the regime, but three members are in Franco's Cabinet, including Commerce Minister Ullastres. They tend to be highly conservative in politics, strongly liberal in economics.

Saints in Uniform. No one was suggesting that the hierarchy would risk losing the 1953 Concordat with Franco; it gave the Catholic Church far more power in Spain than it ever had under the Catholic kings. But unmistakably there were now strong reservations attached to the old friendship.

Still full and unreserved are Dictator Francisco Franco's prestige and power with the group that counts most in today's Spain, the army. Perhaps the Caudillo's closest friend and ally is the Chief of the General Staff, Captain General Agustin Munoz Grandes, who commanded Franco's Blue Division when it fought beside the Nazis on the Russian front in 1941, and who has an iron grip on the military units (400,000 men).

In a country that rarely thinks about "conflict of interest," the boards of di rectors of scores of big Spanish banks and industrial firms are studded with colonels and generals on the active list. This way, key sectors of the economy are always kept under the influence of the military. And despite the church's liberal moves, it still looks to the army for stability, an alliance symbolized by the host of saints who hold military rank and whose relics are accorded military honors. Spain's highest-ranking officer is the Virgin of Pilar, captain general and patroness of the army.

The Police State. Spain's badly paid but disciplined soldiers and the bronzed, rifle-carrying Guardia Civil men, in their tricorn patent leather hats, occasionally glimpsed rumbling down narrow highways or patrolling the ridges of the hills, still maintain Franco's police state. It is a regime that does not keep the nation in chains but covers it like a soggy blanket.

Since the harsh days of the Civil War, the jails have been emptied of many of their political prisoners, and there has been no death sentence for a political offense in ten years. Tertulias (cafe discussions) are universal and sometimes surprisingly frank.

El Caudillo himself has mellowed, but he has lost none of the crafty skill or un derlying steel. Every coin of the nation still bears his image and the words. "Chief of Spain by the Grace of God." Puritani cal and pious, he sometimes prays for hours in his private chapel in Pardo pal ace before making major decisions ; to in duce night-loving, late-eating Spaniards to follow his own early-to-bed habit, he has ordered Madrid restaurants and cafes to stop serving food after midnight.

Rumors of Franco's bad health have been current for years. Don Juan himself figures in one. Two years ago there were reports that Franco had passed out in his car, overcome by carbon monoxide fumes.

Soon afterward, during one of their rare meetings, the dialogue went like this : Don Juan (bluntly) : I hear you've been sick, lost your senses or something.

Franco (furiously) : No, no, not at all, just some digestive troubles.

Then, last winter, an exploding shot gun shattered Franco's hand as he hunted partridge in the sprawling palace grounds.

Some now say that Franco's injured hand may have to be amputated, but he does his best to squelch the story. Recently, he has made a special effort to show him self in public, waving the hand, grasping trophies, gripping rostrums as he delivers his speeches in the familiar piping voice.

Political Spectrum. Whatever the un rest that is disturbing the Franco regime, it has so far not benefited Spain's splintered political parties, which are hardly parties in the usual sense. They operate in a vacuum, with no means of reaching the Spanish people, and they suffer from that fierce individualism that turns any three Spaniards meeting on a street corner into a new political faction.

On the far right is Young Europe, a few hundred students who feel that Franco is actually too liberal, has abandoned fascism. Somewhere near this crowd are the moribund remnants of the Falange, the onetime fascist party that Franco used to gain power; Falangists today are opportunistic, scattered and weak. At the other extreme, on the far left, are outfits like the Popular Liberation Front, whose Marxist leader has been in jail since 1959. Roughly in the political center are: 1) the Christian Democrats, led by Jose Maria Gil Robles, 63, a prominent Madrid lawyer, and 2) the Liberals, whose spokesman has been Dionisio Ridruejo, a onetime Falangist who has been in the opposition for years.

Both leaders were in Munich fortnight ago to attend a conference of the European Movement, a group promoting a United States of Europe. The event turned into an exciting demonstration of Spanish opposition sentiment, rendered all the more interesting by the fact that Gil

Robles is a member of Don Juan's privy council.

Two Traditions. Along with Gil Robles and Ridruejo, 80 anti-Franco politicians of all stripes arrived from Spain, joining 38 prominent Spanish exiles. Most noted: brilliant Philosopher Salvador de Madariaga. Republican Spain's most famous cabinet minister and diplomat, and now an honorary fellow at Oxford. Many of the Spaniards were bitter rivals and a? divided as ever on a future policy for their country. But in an emotional scene, Madariaga submitted a resolution on behalf of all Spaniards present, and Gil Robles rose to endorse it.

Introducing the document, Madariaga said: "I speak of the two great traditions of Western thought, the Socratic, which demands freedom of the mind, and the Christian, which demands respect for the human being. One hundred and eighteen Spanish delegates have come to tell you that Europe cannot accept in its midst a state where Socrates is poisoned every day and Christ is crucified every day." Applause punctuated his words as he concluded: "One hundred and eighteen come with their hands outstretched to Europe, and Europe should open its arms to receive them. Spain wants to give itself to Europe, but before it can do so, Spaniards must own their own country."

The Cops Move In. In any other Western country, the demands of the resolution proposed by Madariaga and the other Spaniards at Munich would have seemed innocuous enough. But they were dynamite in Spain: the establishment of democratic institutions based on the consent of Spain's citizens, the right of workers to strike, the free organization of political parties, including an opposition. The Spaniards' resolution chose evolution over revolution, spoke out specifically for peaceful change. "The immense majority of the Spanish people hope that this evolution can take place according to the rules of political prudence and as rapidly as circumstances permit, in the desire of all to renounce every form of active or passive violence, before, during or after the process of evolution.''

Franco and his aides were furious.

TREASON AND STUPIDITY ARE ALLIED IN

A DIRTY UNION AGAINST SPAIN, headlined the government daily Arriba. The press blared false accusations that the Munich petitioners had recommended that Spain not enter the Common Market. Franco consulted his Cabinet, rushed through a decree suspending for two years the part of Spain's bill of rights that safeguards the Spaniards' right to make their residence anywhere in the nation. Then the police went out to nab the more important figures as they flew back from the Munich meeting. Gil Robles was among the first arrested at Madrid's Barajas airport. The cops read him the new government decree, offered him the choice of residence in Spain's faraway Canary Islands or exile abroad. He promptly bought a ticket on the next plane and flew to Paris. Don Juan's privy council, a loose association of prominent men with many varying opinions, felt it prudent to issue a statement dissociating itself from the entire Munich affair.

Source of Stability. Once again, Franco had gone into action at the first sign that the myriad opposition groups might start operating in concert. Sighed a Spanish politician as the feeble move toward combined opposition was crushed: "In Spain, there are many little streams of politics. In other countries, they form into rivers. But here there are no rivers." For this reason alone, many Spanish intellectuals among the Liberals, the Christian Democrats and other nonmonarchist groups are convinced that restoration of the king is the only sensible solution. The throne has no mass appeal among Spaniards; few have kind memories of Spain's ineffectual Borbon dynasty or long for the return of the golden carriages and the steel-hoofed clatter of hussars, the summer parties and the winter balls, the problems of precedence and the scramble for preference. But in the political vacuum that is bound to follow Franco, the monarchy might well be the only source of stability. Says one Catholic intellectual: "After 25 years of no politics, we must have something to hang on to." Even a onetime diehard Republican can agree: "Now I feel the monarchy is the least dangerous, the least violent solution for Spain."

Many groups in the Catholic Church are also deeply monarchist; so are the officers of the army, who are likely to be in complete command of Spain if Franco should suddenly die or be swept from office. Their role would then depend on the situation. In case of threatened civil strife, the army's determined leaders will undoubtedly form a military dictatorship to keep order. Otherwise, they will probably favor the monarchy.

Father or Son? Franco is likely to remain silent on the succession. He is playing a rather coy game with Don Juan and his family, dropping a hint here, a favor there, without committing himself.

There are a dozen possible royal relatives who might wear the crown, but the only serious alternative to Don Juan for the throne of Spain is his tall, handsome, newlywed son. Prince Juan Carlos de Borbon y Borbon, 24. Fortnight ago, he interrupted his honeymoon with Princess Sophie of Greece to present his bride to Franco at a lunch at Madrid's Pardo palace. Most Spanish monarchists are convinced that Franco would prefer the younger, more pliable Juan Carlos, when he becomes eligible at age 30 under the succession law. The theory is that El Caudillo still resents Don Juan's two bitter public anti-Franco proclamations in 1945 and 1947. Dictator Franco on many occasions has been warm and deferential to Don Juan's son.

But Juan Carlos is a dutiful son. "I will never accept the crown during his lifetime." he has told friends repeatedly.

Moreover, Don Juan's own relations with Franco have warmed considerably--at least on the surface. Elaborate arrangements are now always made for refueling Don Juan's yacht in Spanish ports. Once, in Majorca, sailors from Spain's naval base were given liberty for the occasion of Don Juan's visit, and saluted the Saltillo, moving the Pretender to tears as he piloted the craft out to sea.

Into Exile. Don Juan often escapes the formality that is thrust upon him by his birth. At sea, he does his turn on deck with the crew; he normally wears faded dungarees and sneakers ashore in brief stops at foreign ports. At home in Estoril, he often drops in at bars for a beer or two, touring the tables to greet acquaintances. Now and then he goes to nightclubs, chats with friends until the small hours. He was not born to be a king, for he was only the third son of weak, dissolute Alfonso XIII. His eldest brother Don Alfonso was heir apparent.

But Alfonso inherited the family's dread hemophilia; after an auto accident in Florida in 1938, he bled to death.* Since the second son in line, Don Jaime, was a deaf-mute and renounced the throne, the monarchic responsibility at last fell to Don Juan.

Don Juan was a cadet in the Spanish naval academy near Cadiz when the news came on April 14, 1931, that the republic had been declared, and the royal family was rushing off to exile in France. That very night a torpedo boat hustled Don Juan off to join his parents. Recalls Don Juan: "I stood looking at those shores, and I thought I might never go back again. It was frightfully sad. At the bottom of one's heart, one could not help feeling that it was not for the good of the country." Like the Wandering Jew. The royal exiles were warmly welcomed in republican France, but Don Juan still yearned for the sailor's life. His father wrote Britain's George V, asking that the lad be allowed to continue his training in the Royal Navy. Don Juan became a cadet at Dartmouth, went on to win his officer's stripes, put in two years and 89,000 miles of sea travel with the British fleet. His marriage to a distant cousin and childhood friend.

Dona Maria de las Mercedes de Borbon y Orleans, was Rome's biggest social event of 1935. After a honeymoon in the U.S.

and Canada, the couple took a house in Cannes. Within a year, civil war had broken out in Spain; abruptly Don Juan rushed off to join the nationalists' struggle against the republicans. But General Franco wanted no help from the monarchy, replied that Don Juan's life was "valuable and will be needed later." Until they chose a place to live at Estoril in 1946, Don Juan and his family roamed through Europe, as he puts it, "like the wandering Jew." The Reign in Spain. He is a handsome bull of a man, with no trace of the family's hereditary illness. But his younger daughter, Infanta Margarita, is blind. His older daughter, Infanta Pilar, 25, is now completing her nurse's training in Lisbon. Living in Lausanne, Switzerland, is Queen Victoria Eugenia, Alfonso XIII's English widow, 74, regal matriarch of the brood, and last surviving granddaughter of Britain's Queen Victoria.

This week the Pretender will get back to Estoril just in time to celebrate his 49th birthday. A few days later, there will come a flood of guests--friends, political supporters, monarchists of any ilk--for 31 the formal celebration of the feast day of his patron saint, San Juan Bautista. Every year the ritual is the same. As the visitors enter Villa Giralda's big, comfortable drawing room, they press toward Don Juan and his wife to bow or curtsy. They greet the man who may one day be their ruler as "El Rey, El Rey."

Some of the Pretender's backers want El Rey to get tough and exploit the ferment in Spain with a rousing declaration to speed Franco's end. Some Spaniards even say that he should go back and live on Spanish soil. Don Juan refuses. "Couldn't . . . It'd raise problems . . . I'd be accused of meddling in politics," he mutters. He can only steer the lonely and precarious course of not publicly antagonizing Franco and yet suggesting to the waiting Spanish people how he feels about the regime that in 1945 he called ''fundamentally inconsistent with conditions prevailing in the world."

If Don Juan were king, his reign would certainly be more liberal than Franco's rule. "An absolute monarchy cannot exist today," Don Juan declares firmly. On the other hand, the too well remembered instability of the old republican government fortifies the conviction that a new Spanish constitution must provide for a much stronger monarch than exists in, say. Great Britain.

Don Juan is sure that, as king, he can do the job. "There is a feeling sometimes that the monarchies are obsolete. I say that depends on the traditions of the country. It does not mean that a monarchy cannot be applied to modern times. I see a great role in store for the monarchy: to make Spaniards live with each other, to make political controversy a matter of argument, not of fighting."

* As did Don Juan's hemophilic younger brother, Don Gonzalo, in another car crash four years earlier. The disease comes not from the Habsburg dynasty, as legend has it, but from Britain's Queen Victoria, whose youngest son, Leopold, bled to death at 31, and whose daughters Alice and Beatrice carried the malady to other royal families. Beatrice was Don Juan's grandmother.

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