‌Chapter 16

‌A Reign without End

The year is 2052, and with his seventieth birthday approaching on 21st June, King William V of the United Kingdom of England and Wales is coming under increasing pressure to abdicate. Formal retirement dates have long since been abolished as ageist, but seventy is still the age at which most people choose to end their working life; so why should kings, even ones as popular as William, be any different?

Blame his father, Charles, who did not become king until he was almost seventy because of his own mother’s conviction that it was God’s will that she should remain on the throne until she died. When that moment came, plunging the country into a period of mourning not seen since the death of Princess Diana, there was speculation that Charles might step aside in favour of his son, to spare him the frustration of such a long apprenticeship. It was not to be. After spending his entire adult life as Prince of Wales, Charles was determined to have a crack at the top job.

Charles’s reign was not a success, however. It got off to the worst possible start when both Australia and New Zealand chose his accession to hold referendums on transforming themselves into republics: despite a passionate and highly organized campaign by the monarchists, the republicans won. While both countries mourned the passing of Queen Elizabeth, there was little enthusiasm for a third King Charles.

Charles never managed to recover from this initial blow to his prestige. True, his subjects were surprisingly amenable to the idea of a Queen Camilla – which had not seemed likely when he had married her back in 2005. Charles’s problem was a more fundamental one: after a lifetime in which he had never been shy about expressing his opinions, he found it difficult to adapt to the strictly apolitical role that his mother had carried off so well.

Responsibility lay in great part with Charles’s advisors, who encouraged him to adopt a more interventionist role – the British people would warm to a monarch who made his views known, they argued. For Charles it was also a matter of conscience: he continued to feel strongly about certain issues and did not see his elevation from prince of Wales to king should prevent him from speaking out about them.

And so the letters written in his characteristic spidery hand continued to land on the desks of the great and the good – usually achieving the desired effect. Then he went too far: it emerged that he had been lobbying behind the scenes to try to block a massive wind-farm project – one of his principal bêtes noires. The newly elected Labour government, which had a surprisingly large number of avowed republicans among its leading members, cried foul. With a constitutional crisis looming, Charles decided it best to abdicate “for reasons of health” in favour of William.

William, who was forty-five when he came to the throne, with Queen Catherine at his side, did much to restore confidence in the monarchy. He had spent most of his working life in the RAF and, although expressing the requisite interest in the environment and the developing world, did not share his father’s passions. He also won respect for the dignity with which he accepted both the loss of Northern Ireland – which was peacefully united in a federation with the Republic in the south – and the secession of Scotland. Now, though, it was time for him to step aside.

The British monarchy was not alone in having undergone – and survived – serious challenges; so too had its Continental counterparts. In Scandinavia, falling support for the monarchy after the accession first of King Haakon of Norway and then of King Frederik of Denmark led both countries to adopt the Swedish model: while both monarchs remained head of state of their respective countries, they no longer played any part in the political process, although both men, accompanied by their ever popular wives, continued to carry out their remaining official duties with skill and enthusiasm.

The Swedes, themselves, went one stage further: after a surge of republican support put the future of the monarchy in question, a constitutional commission was set up, as it had been in the 1950s. The result, after a number of years of careful deliberation, was a characteristic compromise: out of respect for Queen Victoria, no change would be made as long as she was on the throne, but her successor would no longer be head of state – this role would instead be assumed by the speaker of parliament. For its advocates, such a solution would provide the best of both worlds: the palaces and pageantry remained, but the last remnant of the monarch’s historic political role would go. Critics wondered what the point was: opinion polls suggested growing support for eliminating the monarchy completely and throwing open the royal palaces entirely to tourists.

The Dutch monarchy survived such pressures, helped by the support given by the ever loyal Orange Unions. So, surprisingly, did the Spanish royal family, thanks to King Felipe, who was able to demonstrate that his compatriots were real royalists and not mere Juancarlistas.

The Belgian royal house was not so fortunate: by the time the Walloons and Flemings had finally hammered out the terms of their “velvet divorce”, neither of the two independent countries that emerged from its ruins could find much use for a king. The dynasty founded by Léopold I in 1831 never lived to see its two hundredth anniversary.

Making any long-term political prediction is hard enough – and that is especially the case when it comes to the fate of monarchy. In the past, as we have seen, military defeat and the resulting upheaval have been the most common reasons for the end of monarchy – whether directly, as in the case of Germany, Austria and Russia during the First World War – or indirectly, as in the case of Italy, where Vittorio Emanuele III’s close relationship with Mussolini helped the republican cause to victory in the referendum of 1946. The transformation of the monarchies of Eastern Europe into people’s republics under the watchful eye of Stalin should be seen in the same category. The revolution that swept away the monarchy in Portugal in 1910 was an exception in that it happened in peacetime – although, as in Nepal, it followed a regicide: the shooting two years earlier of King Carlos I and his son Luís Filipe as they travelled in a carriage through Lisbon.

But what of those monarchies that have survived, which have been the main focus of this book – to what do they attribute their success and what clues does this provide to their future?

Flexibility on the part of monarchs and their acceptance of the gradual transformation of their countries over the course of the centuries from absolute to constitutional monarchies has been important – even if it was a far from linear process and, in most cases, the kings (and queens) did not give up such powers without a struggle. Being on the winning side during the First and Second World Wars (or at least, in the case of Spain and Sweden, not being on the losing side) has also helped – even if Nazi occupation left a problematic legacy, especially in the case of Belgium, where Léopold III only saved the monarchy by abdicating in favour of his son, Baudouin, who was too young to be tainted by accusations of collaboration. By contrast, Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands and King Haakon VII of Norway helped the monarchist cause by their championing of the national resistance from exile. In Britain, George VI’s apparent determination to share the suffering of his subjects ensured that the house of Windsor emerged strengthened from the war – even if the toll the conflict took on the King’s health was widely blamed for his premature death just seven years later.

Strength of character has played an equally important part in more recent years in the case of Juan Carlos of Spain, who has had more of an impact on his country and the life of its subjects than any of his peers in other realms. The King’s refusal to follow the path laid down for him by Franco after he came to the throne in 1975 has ensured that Spain has turned into a modern constitutional monarchy rather than a republic – which surely would have been the eventual result if he had instead sided with the forces of reaction. Juan Carlos also displayed considerable personal courage when he smothered the attempted military coup of 1981. As time has passed, however, gratitude for his extraordinary achievements has faded and given way to concern about the King’s love life and lapses of judgement such as his controversial Botswanan elephant safari in April 2012.

None of the Spanish monarch’s contemporaries have been confronted with such an existential challenge. Nor can we be certain that they would have reacted with the same determination. Yet they are widely perceived to have performed their jobs well, rarely putting a foot out of line and acting as symbols of permanence and national unity, particularly at times of crisis. This has been especially true of Queen Elizabeth, who has towered over post-war Britain, enjoying huge personal popularity largely untouched by the criticisms heaped on her children.

Surveying Europe’s monarchies at the beginning of the second decade of the twenty-first century, the overall impression is one of continuity. Republicanism remains a minority interest. Republicans insist polls suggest support for the monarchy is “soft” – that is, it would only take a dramatic event or major error of judgement on the part of a monarch to bring about a rapid shift in opinion polls. Yet this seems unlikely.

But what of the next generation, the current crop of crown princes and crown princesses who will gradually take their places over the next few years? During their late teenage years and twenties, the men among them demonstrated an all-too-predictable predilection for long-legged blonde models of varying degrees of unsuitability. Yet one by one they have settled down. As we have seen, their partners were in almost every case controversial – with the exception of Philippe of Belgium’s choice of the aristocratic Mathilde d’Udekem d’Acoz. Yet their marriages, as far as it is possible to judge, have been successful. Crown Princess Mette-Marit, who spent part of her youth steeped in Norway’s drug-fuelled party scene, is now equally at home attending conferences or meeting foreign heads of state. No one seems unduly worried any more about what Máxima of the Netherlands’ father knew or didn’t know during the Argentinian dictatorship of the 1970s, nor are they concerned about the short first marriage of Letizia of Asturias.

Prince Charles, half a generation older than Philippe and a full generation older than Victoria, also appears settled with Camilla, although a newspaper report by one of Britain’s more influential royal watchers in 2010 suggested the couple were leading separate lives: Camilla, it was claimed, so disliked the starchy formality of royal life at Highgrove, her husband’s Gloucestershire home, that she was spending increasing amounts of time at Ray Mill, her own country house in Gloucestershire, sixteen miles away. The report followed repeated claims in the British media, usually sourced to anonymous courtiers, that Camilla does not show the required enthusiasm for her royal duties – prompting one former senior aide to the Prince of Wales to label her “the laziest woman to have been born in ‌England in the twentieth century”.1

There was no suggestion that Charles and Camilla would separate, let alone divorce; if anything, a return to the style of relationship they enjoyed when both were married to other people may actually suit them. Yet the British public will never worship Camilla the way they did Diana. Nor is she likely to enjoy the same popularity as her Continental counterparts when her husband eventually becomes king.

The marriage of Prince William and Kate Middleton, and the enthusiasm with which it was received, also inevitably revived suggestions that Charles should stand aside in favour of his son, especially since by the time the Queen dies, William might even already have children of his own. An opinion poll for the Sunday Times published after the announcement of their engagement found a majority of people thought he would make a better king than his father; some forty-four per cent thought Charles should make way for William, against thirty-seven per cent who thought the usual rules of succession should apply.

William’s aides promptly stepped in to quash such speculation: the Prince, they said, had “no desire to climb the ladder of kingship” prematurely. Nor did he share his late mother’s view, expressed during her Panorama interview in 1995, that the role of king would bring “enormous limitations” to Charles. He is very close to his father and incredibly supportive of him and his work as the Prince of Wales. “Both of them will let nature take its course. There is no suggestion from anywhere within the institution that ‌a generation will be skipped.”2

Marriage is not enough, of course. In a hereditary monarchy, an heir – and a spare – must also be produced to guarantee the succession. Charles led the way: Prince William was born within eleven months of his father’s marriage to Diana; Harry followed just over two years later. One by one, Europe’s crown princes and princesses have followed Charles’s example: Haakon and Felipe each have two children, Willem-Alexander has three, Philippe and Frederik each have four and, in February 2012, Crown Princess Victoria gave birth to a girl, Estelle.

It is not clear whether Prince Albert of Monaco (who as a prince regnant rather than heir does not, strictly speaking, belong in this list) will meet the dynastic requirement to produce a legitimate heir to add to the two (or more) illegitimate ones he has already fathered. His relations with his wife Charlene seem so bad, however, that there are doubts that he will do his duty.

For Europe’s various monarchs in waiting, it is also important to demonstrate that they will be capable of fulfilling the role that they will one day assume. This is like no other job application, however: judgement as to whether they are performing as heir is very much a subjective one and, in any case, even if they do badly there is no precedent for removing them.

Their record has been mixed, with Prince Charles’s use of his position to promote his various pet causes considered by critics as bordering on the unconstitutional. Yet it would be wrong to exaggerate the impact of this on Charles’s standing with the population as a whole. While anathema to republicans, such interventions – especially the Prince’s campaign against modern architecture – appear to go down well with a large section of the British public who share his views, at least if the letters pages of the national newspapers are a reliable guide.

The current European heirs have also faced their ups and downs – although it is difficult to avoid the impression that their travails have been worsened by tabloid journalists keen to stir up a controversy: while Willem-Alexander of the Netherlands bowed to opposition to his plans to build his luxury villa in Mozambique, Frederik of Denmark persisted in his decision to stand for membership of the International Olympic Committee. Most serious of all have been the doubts long expressed about the suitability of Philippe of Belgium as king – something that has been exploited by Flemish separatists in their campaign for an independent republic.

Such criticisms are due in part to the challenge of carrying out the “non job” of heir to the throne and the difficulty of finding activities that are perceived as useful to society without being overtly political or giving the impression of “cashing in”. It is in many respects a thankless task – which, as Charles’s example shows, seems to become more difficult with each year that passes. It is one thing for a twenty-five-year-old crown prince to be seen to be devoting himself full time to preparing to be king; by the time he reaches his forties, when most of his contemporaries are near the peak of their careers, it begins to look absurd.

The problem has been exacerbated by a combination of increased life expectancy and the relatively early age at which the current monarchs – the three queens, in particular – had their children, which looks set to condemn their heirs to many more years of waiting.

The solution is an obvious one: abdication. In the Netherlands, both Queen Juliana and Queen Wilhelmina did just that, strengthening rather than weakening the Dutch monarchy in the process, and settling into a perfectly respectable royal retirement. The same has been true in Luxembourg. The experience was a less happy one in Britain – with the departure of Edward VIII in 1936 – and in Belgium – when Léopold III stood down in favour of his son Baudouin in 1951. Yet these were enforced rather than voluntary abdications, and however traumatic for those involved, and for the country as a whole, the monarchy survived the temporary crisis that accompanied them; indeed, as an institution, it was strengthened: George VI was undoubtedly a better wartime monarch than his elder brother would have been, while Baudouin became a well-loved figure during his forty-two-year reign.

It is time for Europe’s monarchs to consider such a course, starting with Beatrix of the Netherlands. Willem-Alexander is already into his mid-forties, several years past the age when both his mother and grandmother became queen. What is holding Beatrix back, now she has her seventieth birthday behind her? And what of the other monarchs – what, apart from lack of historical precedent, is preventing them from following suit?

As we have seen, a combination of circumstances has ensured that all of them – with the exceptions of Norway’s Harald and Albert II of Belgium – came to the throne relatively early in life. Yet this should not mean that they are unable to appreciate the inevitable frustration felt by their children during their long wait. Some may cling to the notion of a monarch as someone who has been anointed by God to serve their country until death, but in an increasingly secular age it is not a point of view that is widely shared by their subjects. Indeed, opinion polls in most countries – with the exception of Britain, where doubts persist about Prince Charles’s suitability for the role – show support for the idea of the current monarchs stepping down in favour of the next generation. For many, a king in early middle age with a glamorous wife and young children is an appealing prospect.

Regardless of when they eventually take over, however, the next generation will be inheriting an institution that has proved remarkably resilient and has repeatedly defied predictions of its demise. Since the upheavals that followed the Second World War, only one European nation, Greece, has become a republic, while Spain moved in the opposite direction. If anything, Europe’s monarchies looked more firmly entrenched today than they did fifty years ago.

Monarchy is still going strong elsewhere in the world too, whether in Japan, Thailand or the Gulf states. In Cambodia, the former King Norodom Sihanouk was returned to his throne in 1999 and went on to help heal the wounds inflicted on society during the bloody years of Khmer Rouge domination. King Jigme Singye Wangchuck of Bhutan won plaudits by modernizing his once isolated country and steering it towards its first truly democratic elections. But then there is Nepal, where in 2001 a drunken Crown Prince Dipendra went on a shooting spree, assassinating his father, King Birendra, and eight other members of the royal family, before turning the gun on himself. Although Dipendra’s younger brother Gyanendra became king, his reign proved a disaster and in May 2008 Nepal was declared a federal democratic republic. A repetition of the bloodbath seen in Kathmandu seems unlikely, although it is not yet clear what will be the eventual impact of the pro-democracy movement that emerged in the Arab world in early 2011 on some of that region’s monarchies.

The point is, quite simply, that monarchy – at least in the constitutional form found in Britain and elsewhere in Europe – actually works. When it comes to national cohesion, there is much to be said for a system in which the head of state is truly above politics rather than identified with one or other party. This was particularly the case during the Second World War and has also been so during more recent times of crisis: when Queen Elizabeth visited the victims of London’s 7/7 bombings in July 2005 or King Carl XVI Gustaf led national mourning for the Swedes who died in the Thai tsunami the previous Christmas, they did so as representatives of the entire nation. Admittedly, respect for the institution of presidency ensured that Americans of all political persuasions rallied around George W. Bush in the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks on New York and Washington, but his military response soon divided the nation again.

The monarch continues to play this same unifying role during peacetime. The political parties may be at war over policy, but the king or queen floats above it all. When Queen Elizabeth leads mourning at the Cenotaph on Remembrance Sunday, she does so not just as the representative of the nation but also as someone without any responsibility for having sent the latest generation of young men and women to their deaths in Iraq and Afghanistan. The same is true of her Continental counterparts. In those countries – including Britain – where monarchs still open their countries’ parliaments, they do as effective symbols of the impartiality of the state.

Even more importantly, a monarch represents continuity. While presidents come and go every four or five years, the king or queen remains as an enduring symbol of unity and a national emblem that transcends the inevitable short-termism of politicians forced to think in terms of their next election.

The strength of continued support for monarchy is also partly attributable to the sticky problem of how best to select an alternative head of state and define his or her role – as was shown by the 1999 referendum in Australia. During the debate in Sweden in the 1960s and 1970s over removal of the monarch’s political power, some argued there was no need to have a head of state at all: the role of meeting and greeting foreign presidents could instead be fulfilled by the speaker of parliament. Indeed, Switzerland, for example, does not have a head of state as such: the function is instead performed by the seven-member ruling National Council, but such is the peculiarity of the country’s political system that it doesn’t have a prime minister either.

Switzerland apart, nations feel the need for a head of state. But should he or she be directly elected by the people or indirectly by the parliament? And should the president be an executive one or merely a figurehead? Replacing kings and queens regnant with a powerful political president such as the French or American one would be a massive constitutional change for Britain and Europe’s other monarchies, with their long traditions of parliamentary democracy. By definition, they would also be divisive figures, elected by only part of the nation. The alternative of a German- or Italian-style figurehead president is scarcely more appealing: typically former politicians, selected as a result of a process of horse-trading between the political parties, they rarely command the same respect at home as a monarch. Their profile abroad is also considerably lower: how can you compare the international prestige of Queen Elizabeth with that of President Giorgio Napolitano of Italy or Germany’s Joachim Gauck (who only found himself in the job at all after the resignation of his predecessor over a corruption scandal)?

Considering the alternatives, it is no wonder that a constitutional monarchy can seem appealing to those living within one. A negative justification, certainly – but no less persuasive because of it. Furthermore, this appeal looks set to endure, provided the next generation of monarchs handle their role as deftly as their parents have done, adapting with the times and finding new ways of maintaining their relevance to their changing societies. After all, if something isn’t broken, why replace it?

In 1948, King Farouk of Egypt famously declared, “The whole world is in revolt. Soon there will be only five kings left – the king of England, the king of Spades, the king of Clubs, the king of Hearts and the king of Diamonds.” Farouk was right, at least about one king: himself. Four years after his pronouncement, he was forced to flee his country in great haste, leaving behind all his possessions, including ‌an impressive collection of pornography.3 Sixty years later, however, the other European monarchs are still on their thrones. Most – if not all – will still be there another sixty years from now.