Part 2

The monarchy is the crowning anachronism of British society. It stands virtually unchallenged at the summit of that society. In this most political of Western nations, one eternally bubbling with new ideas on the ways and means by which men can govern themselves, the thousand-year-old monarchy is admired, respected, or tolerated, but is seldom attacked. A people who on occasion can be as ruthless and cynical as any in the world preserve close to their hearts a mystic symbol that asks and gets an almost childlike loyalty from millions.

This tie between Crown and people is the basis for the monarchy's existence. Yet, like so many other things in Britain, the tie is almost indefinable. Its strength is everywhere and nowhere. History is one of its foundations, and the sense of history--a reassuring sense that worse has happened and that the nation and the people have survived--is very strong in Britain. Yet the present institution of monarchy has little in common with the monarchy of 1856 and still less with that of 1756. And the extreme popularity of the royal family has developed only in the last eighty years.

The reasons for the monarchy's popularity today are far different from those of the past. It is regrettable but true that some of the most popular monarchs earned their popularity as much by their vices as by their virtues.

By our American standards the British monarchy is very old, although it does not compare with the same institution in Iran, for instance, where kings reigned seven centuries before Christ. Certainly the age of monarchy, linking modern Britain with the forested, lusty, legendary England of the Dark Ages, contributes to its popularity. Age in an institution or a person counts in Britain.

Queen Elizabeth II is in direct descent from Egbert, King of Wessex and all England, who ascended the throne in 827. The blood of all the royal families of Europe flows in her veins. Among her ancestors are some of the great names of history: Charlemagne, William the Conqueror, Alfred the Great, Rodrigo the Cid, the Emperor Barbarossa, and St. Louis, King of France. This notable lineage is unknown to millions who adore the Queen. The visible expressions of adoration and loyalty to the royal family can be profoundly moving, but there is nothing to suggest that the crowd's memory stretches back much further than George V, the present Queen's grandfather.

Is "profoundly moving" too strong? I doubt it. London was a gray and somber city in November 1947 when Princess Elizabeth married the Duke of Edinburgh. A long war with Germany and two years of austerity had left their mark. The crowds, the buildings were shabby and tired. Yet the Crown evoked in these circumstances a sincere and unselfish affection such as few politicians can arouse.

What did it? The pageantry of the Household Cavalry, restored to their pre-war glory of cuirass, helmet, and plume, scarlet and blue and white? The state coach with the smiling, excited, pretty girl inside? The bands and the stirring familiar tunes? There is no single convincing answer. Yet the affection was there: the sense of a living and expanding connection between the people and the throne.

But some aspects of the connection can be embarrassing, to Britons as well as to Americans. The doings of the royal family are recounted by popular British newspapers and periodicals in nauseating prose. Special articles on the education of Prince Charles or on Princess Margaret's religious views (which are deep, sincere, and, to any decent person's mind, her own business) are written in a mixture of archness, flowery adulation, and sugary winsomeness.

The newspapers are full of straight reporting (the Queen, asked if she would have a cup of tea, said: "Yes, thank you, it is rather cold") but this does not suffice to meet the demand for "news" about the royal family. Periodically the Sunday newspapers publish reminiscences of life in the royal household. Former governesses, valets, and even the man who did the shopping for the Palace write their "inside stories." These are as uninformative as the special campaign biographies that appear every four years in the United States, but the public loves them. I have been told that a "royal" feature in a popular magazine adds 25,000 or 30,000 in circulation for that issue. The _Sunday Express_ is said to have picked up 300,000 circulation on the Duchess of Windsor's memoirs. Like sex and crime, the royal family is always news--and the news is not invariably favorable.

The interest in royal doings is all the more baffling because the Queen is generally held to be powerless politically. This view is accepted in Britain and also in the United States, save among those surviving primitives of Chicagoland who regard all British monarchs as reincarnations of George III ready to order the Lobsterbacks to Boston at an insult's notice. The accepted picture is of a monarch who is a symbol with little or no influence on politics.

Superficially the picture is accurate. But in the last century and in this there have been occasions when the Crown exerted power beyond the functions assigned it by the constitution. These functions include the summoning, proroguing, and dissolution of Parliament, the dismissal or appointment of a Prime Minister, the granting of pardons, and the conferring of peerages and honors. To become the law of the land, a bill passed by Parliament must receive the royal assent.

All very impressive. But in practice these functions are restricted by the principle that the monarch is responsible to the government of the day even though it is styled "Her Majesty's Government." To take one example, if the Queen wants to make Lord Tomnoddy a duke and the Prime Minister says no, Lord Tomnoddy does not become a duke. The monarch retains the right of conferring certain honors, such as the Order of the Garter, without ministerial advice. But when Chancellor Adenauer of Germany receives the insignia of the Grand Cross of the Order of St. Michael and St. George the inspiration comes not from Buckingham Palace but from Downing Street.

The principle of responsibility to the government guides the conduct of the monarch. In rare cases the sovereign can express disapproval of a policy. In the present circumstances the idea of the young Queen rejecting the advice of her Prime Minister is unthinkable. Without being romantic, we can wonder if this will always be so.

George V twice exercised his discretionary powers in choosing from among alternative candidates the man he regarded as best suited to be Prime Minister. Of course, in each case the candidate chosen had to have the support of his party in the House of Commons.

We need not go back that far. George VI, the father of the present Queen, once made a decision that profoundly affected the history of the world.

When in May 1940 a tired, unpopular Neville Chamberlain resigned as Prime Minister there were two candidates for the post: Winston Churchill and Lord Halifax. The King knew that a large section of the Conservative Party distrusted Churchill and admired Halifax. Its views were conveyed to him in plain language.

According to _The Gathering Storm_, the first volume of Sir Winston Churchill's _The Second World War_, Lord Halifax told both Churchill and Chamberlain that his position as a peer outside the House of Commons would make it difficult for him to discharge the duties of Prime Minister. Ultimately a National Government including representatives of the Labor and Liberal parties was formed, but, according to Churchill, the King made no stipulation "about the Government being National in character."

Lord Halifax certainly doubted his ability to discharge his duties as Prime Minister. But apparently the question of whether he could form a National Government did not arise. In any event, the King, fully cognizant of the views of a considerable section of the Conservative Party on the relative merits of the two men and aware that it would have been possible to form a Conservative government under Halifax, sent for Churchill instead of Halifax and asked him to form a government. History may record this as a signal example of the remaining powers of the Crown.

Sir William Anson explained in _The Law and Custom in the Constitution_ that the real power of the sovereign "is not to be estimated by his legal or his actual powers as the executive of the State.

"The King or Queen for the time being is not a mere piece of mechanism, but a human being carefully trained under circumstances which afford exceptional chances of learning the business of politics."

The monarch is not isolated from great affairs. The Queen sees from the inside the workings of government, knows the individuals concerned, and often has a surer sense of what the people will or will not accept than some politicians. So, Sir William reasoned, the sovereign in the course of a long reign may through experience become a person whose political opinions, even if not enforceable, will carry weight. Continuity in office, wide experience in contact with successive governments, and, finally, the influence that the monarchy exercises through an ancient and well-established tie with the people can confer upon the sovereign an influence far greater than is generally realized.

Queen Elizabeth II has twice used the royal prerogative of choosing a Prime Minister. On April 6, 1955, she chose Sir Anthony Eden to succeed Sir Winston Churchill. On January 10, 1957, she chose Harold Macmillan to succeed Sir Anthony. The second selection occasioned sharp political outcry. The "shadow cabinet" or Parliamentary Committee of the Labor Party, meeting in secrecy and dudgeon, reported that the Queen's choice had raised serious questions of a constitutional nature. It argued that the Conservative Party, by asking the sovereign to choose between Mr. Macmillan and R.A. Butler, had involved the Queen in partisan politics. The Tories, Labor said with a touch of self-righteousness, should always have a leader and a deputy leader of the party ready to assume the highest office when called.

(This raised the contingency, pleasing to Tories at least, of James Griffiths, the present deputy leader, as Prime Minister instead of Aneurin Bevan in the event of some serious accident to Hugh Gaitskell.)

The Socialists' argument that the Queen was forced to choose between Mr. Macmillan and Mr. Butler reflected a certain ignorance of what had been going on within the Conservative Party. It was apparent on the night of Sir Anthony Eden's resignation that Mr. Butler did not command the support of a majority of the Tory Members of the House of Commons. It was also apparent, or should have been apparent, that the Queen would be advised by the retiring Prime Minister, Sir Anthony Eden, and the two foremost figures in the party, Sir Winston Churchill and the Marquess of Salisbury. Anyone aware of the currents within the Conservative leadership during the last three months of 1956 could not possibly have thought that any one of these three would advise the Queen to choose Mr. Butler.

There was a good deal less to the high-minded Socialist protest than met the eye. The shadow cabinet made the tactical mistake of coupling the protest with a demand for a general election. One need not be cynical to emphasize the connection. But the spectacle of Mr. Bevan and his colleagues protesting like courtiers over the Queen's involvement in politics and quoting an editorial in _The Times_ as though it were Holy Writ added to the gaiety of the nation.

The Queen may have opinions on national and international affairs which differ from those of her ministers. To date there has been no reliable report of such differences. But her grandfather, George V, was seldom backward in expressing opinions contrary to those of his ministers. He told them, for instance, that the conduct of the 1914-18 war must be left to military "experts," which meant Haig and his staff, rather than to politicians. He opposed the dissolution of Parliament in 1918. He refused outright to grant a convenient "political" peerage. This opposition, it should be emphasized, was not directed at court functionaries. On many occasions George V took issue with David Lloyd George, a wartime Premier then at the height of his prestige and power, and a brilliant and tenacious debater.

The present royal family invites comparisons with that of a century ago. Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, is, like Albert, the Prince Consort of Victoria, an exceptional person. He is a man of industry and intelligence. Like Albert, he understands both the broad outlines and the nuances of a new industrial age into which Britain is moving. He has a wider acquaintance with the world of science, so essential to his country, than any other member of the royal family. The techniques of industry and invention really interest him. He understands, perhaps better than some of his wife's ministers, the importance to Britain of such developments as the industrial use of nuclear energy. Finally, the Duke of Edinburgh has one matchless qualification for his role. As a young officer of the Royal Navy he became aware of the way the Queen's subjects, as represented by the lower deck of the Navy, think and feel. He has in fact what the admirers of the Duke of Windsor claimed for him when he was Prince of Wales: an intimate knowledge of the people of Britain.

These qualities are not universally admired. A trade-union leader told me he did not want "well-intentioned young men like Philip mucking about with industrial relations." At the other side of the political spectrum, the _Sunday Express_, Lord Beaverbrook's newspaper, tut-tutted at the Duke's interest in this field.

The reasoning behind both attitudes is obvious. Industrial relations are politics. The union movement is the Fourth Estate of the realm, and "royals" should leave them alone.

There is an obvious parallel. The Prince Consort when he died had established himself at the center of national affairs. But for his death, Lytton Strachey wrote, "such a man, grown gray in the service of the nation, virtuous, intelligent, and with the unexampled experience of a whole lifetime of government," would have achieved "an extraordinary prestige."

Disraeli saw the situation in even more positive terms. "With Prince Albert we have buried our sovereign. This German Prince has governed England for twenty-one years with a wisdom and energy such as none of our kings have ever shown.... If he had outlived some of our 'old stagers' he would have given us the blessings of absolute government."

The parallel may seem far-fetched. Of course present-day Britain is not the Britain of 1856. It is hard to think of Sir Anthony Eden or Hugh Gaitskell being moved politically, at the moment, by the views of the Queen or the Duke of Edinburgh as Lord Clarendon was, and as Lord Palmerston was not, by Victoria and Albert. But, to borrow Napoleon III's incisive phrase, in politics one should never say never.

Not long ago a diplomat who had returned from a key post abroad encountered the Queen at what should have been a perfunctory ceremony. He expected a few minutes' conversation. What he got was forty minutes of acute questioning about the situation in the country he had just left. The Queen impressed him with the width of her knowledge, her accurate memory, and the sharpness of her questions. He, a tough, skeptical intellectual, departed with heightened respect for his sovereign's intelligence.

What will be the Queen's influence a quarter of a century hence? By then some politician, now unknown, will be Prime Minister. How much will the wisdom and experience of the Queen, gained as the repository of the secrets of successive governments, affect the government of the day? Monarchy, we Americans are taught, is an archaic symbol and an obsolete form of government. History has moved away from constitutional monarchies and, of course, from one-man rule. But has it? Will the movement continue?

By 1980 the British monarchy may be a memory. But let us suppose that by that year the royal house is represented by an infinitely experienced Queen and a consort who knows the country's problems as well as most of her ministers. Prince Philip is a nephew of Earl Mountbatten, one of the most striking Englishmen of today. What will this infusion of determination, energy, and intelligence do for the fortunes of the monarchy?

The British are cautious in discussing any indications of the influence of the Crown on the day-to-day conduct of government. But occasional comments and indiscretions indicate that this influence is a factor in decisions. For instance, early in 1956 I was talking to an important civil servant about a government decision that was to be announced in the next few days. The government was busy making certain, he said, that "the Palace" wouldn't "make a row about it." I said I was surprised that he should ascribe so much weight to the Palace's view on a matter that involved the cabinet and the House of Commons. His answer was that in a country such as Britain under a Conservative government, influence is not exerted solely through the House or government departments. "What people say to each other counts," he said. "And when the Queen says it, it counts a great deal. Of course, she couldn't change a decision. Nor would she ever attempt to. But it can be awkward, you know."

To guess at the future power of the monarchy we must examine it as it is today. What lies behind its popularity and how is that popularity maintained? What keeps strong this tie between a largely working-class population, highly progressive politically, and an aristocratic institution that has outlived its power if not its influence?

To understand, we must watch monarchy operate within the limitations imposed upon it by the constitution. The principal functions are the public performances of the duties of the Crown--what the British press calls "royal occasions." They range from a state opening of Parliament to a visit to an orphanage.

These take place in an atmosphere fusing formality and enthusiasm. Protocol calls for dignity, friendliness, and a certain aloofness on the part of the Queen. Those who make the arrangements for royal occasions are mindful of Walter Bagehot's warning against allowing too much light to fall on the institution of monarchy. But from the standpoint of popular reaction, the Queen's appearances are most successful when she stops to say a few words to someone in the crowd. Written reports of such encounters usually endow the Queen with a celestial condescension. The fact is that the Queen, though shy, is friendly, and her awed subjects are likely to report that "she talked about the baby just like she was from down the street."

Of course, the Queen is not like someone just down the street. But the essence of a successful display of the monarchy is a combination of this friendliness with the serene dignity displayed on great occasions of state. The men and women in the crowd want to believe that the Queen is, or can be, like them. As long as they do, the monarchy, no matter how rich its members and how expensive its trappings, is relatively safe.

To the people in the streets the Queen is paramount. The Duke of Edinburgh is popular. So are the Queen Mother and Princess Margaret. But it is the Queen who combines all those elements of tradition, affection, and mysticism which contribute to the Crown's unique place in public life.

The crowd does not care much about other royalties. To the man in the street there is little difference between, say, Prince Rainier of Monaco and Aristotle Onassis. The British nurse at their hearts a snobbish isolationism toward foreign crowns. Only their own Queen and royal family really matter.

One reason is that Britain's Queen and the monarchial institution she heads are kept before the people to a far greater degree than is customary in the monarchies of Holland or Sweden. Official political and social appearances in London are augmented by visits to various parts of the country. The Queen and the Duke are the chief attractions, but other members of the family perform similar duties.

Careful planning and split-second timing are the key to successful royal visits. So familiar is the pattern that a skeptic might think the effect negligible. When the Queen comes to Loamshire, however, she is _there_ in Loamshire. Everything she does is familiar, but now she is there directly before the crowd's very eyes, rendering a personal service.

The Queen and the Duke arrive in Loamshire for a three-day visit. Their car is a huge, glittering Rolls-Royce flying the royal standard. Thousands of people, most of them women and children, are on the sidewalks and in the windows of the buildings around the town hall of the county town of Loamshire. As the Queen gets out of the car there is a wave of cheering, strong and unaffected. (It is well to balance this enthusiasm against the inattention paid "God Save the Queen" when it is played at the end of the program in a provincial movie theater.)

The Mayor, sweating freely in his excitement, welcomes the Queen and delivers an appropriate address. In a country divided almost evenly between the Conservative and Labor parties, a large number of mayors are Socialists. But, with rare exceptions, the Socialists and their wives are as eager as the Tories to welcome royalty.

The Queen and the Duke are introduced to the dignitaries of Loamshire, with the Lord Lieutenant of the county in attendance. The Queen inspects a guard of honor which may be drawn from the Royal Loamshire Light Infantry or from the local Girl Guides. There is lunch, usually a pretty bad lunch. Then the royal party is off to lay the cornerstone of a new hospital or press a button to start a new power plant or unveil a war memorial. At any such occasion the Queen reads a short speech of blameless sentiments.

Then on to the next town, to more cheering in the streets and waving of flags, more loyal declarations and another mayor and council. This may go on for two or three days. Every step the Queen takes, every action is noted by newsreel and television cameras. Every word she utters is taken down. Every person with whom she talks is interviewed afterward.

Back in London there are more ceremonies. There are also ambassadors to be received, state papers to be read, decorations to be awarded, distinguished visitors to be met.

It is often said that the Queen is just like anyone else of her age, an idea much favored by the spun-sugar biographies in the popular press. Of course it is nonsense. The Queen cannot, because of her birth, upbringing, and station, be like anyone else. Certainly she has a private life not unlike that of other wealthy young women, but her private life is severely restricted.

She and the Duke may like to eat their supper off trays and watch a popular comedian on television, but they seldom get an opportunity to do so. The Queen must be wary of what plays she sees and what amusements she patronizes. As head of the Church she is an inviting target for sorrowful criticism by the bluenoses. The Queen's love of horse racing and the Duke's love of polo are often attacked by puritanical elements. The League Against Cruel Sports periodically reproves her for attending "the sporting butchery" of fox-hunting.