royal wedding celebration

In recent weeks, I've become entranced with television shows about geneaology. In some of these programs, celebrities trace their heritage and are surprised and delighted to find images and documents related to their ancestors. (Queen Noor of Jordan, born plain old American Lisa Halaby, was stunned to find numerous newspaper articles about her grandfather, a turn-of-the-century immigrant merchant.)

How different it must be for princesses whose royal and aristocratic lineages are documented for generations and generations and generations. I'm sure many of them are proud of their heritage and wish to honor it (witness Princess Beatrice's brief appearance in the recent film "The Young Victoria" about her great-great-great-great grandmother), but I wonder if they are as excited to discover their roots as we ordinary folks.

Just for fun, this week, I thought I'd take you on a photo tour of Queen Elizabeth II's recent ancestors. (Generations 1-5 are wedding day pics!)

Generation 1
Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip of Greece (The Duke of Edinburgh)



Generation 2
King George VI and Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon (The Queen Mother)



Generation 3
King George V and Princess Victoria Mary of Teck (Queen Mary)



Generation 4
King Edward VII and Princess Alix of Denmark (Queen Alexandra)

Notice that the mother of the groom, Queen Victoria (seated) is staring at a bust of her late husband.



Generation 5
Queen Victoria and Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg



Generation 6
Prince Edward The Duke of Kent and Princess Victoria of Saxe-Coburg

(I'm very conscientious about photo royalties and copyright in general, so apologies for not being able to find a usable image of the Duke but I think getting to see Baby Queen Victoria makes up for it!)



Generation 7
King George III

In the fairy tale of 'The Sleeping Beauty', the prince must cut his way through century-old brambles and briars to break the spell of the wicked fairy, reach the castle and wake the sleeping princess. Like all fairy tales, there is an inherent truth in the story that can be applied to many situations and it becomes increasingly apparent how apt a metaphor 'The Sleeping Beauty' is for delving into the past. 'Sleeping' kings and queens especially are surrounded by brambles and briars of lies, planted sometimes by victors who wished to justify and conceal their own faults and sometimes by the hypnosis that leads us to take everything at face value.

Richard III of England, Nicholas II of Russia and Marie Antoinette of France are three such 'sleeping beauties' surrounded by scathingly simple adjectives as murderous, foolish or weak, when in fact all three were quite different from the popular myths. Richard, happily still loved in the north of England, was been so defamed by the usurper, Henry VII, that even all these centuries later, many still see him as the 'murderer of his nephews'. Marie Antoinette is still seen as a silly and frivolous girl who said nothing apart from 'Let them eat cake...' and did not care a hoot for her people - and it is quite forgotten that she might have escaped from France but remained there because she would not desert her husband in his hour of need. And Nicholas - Nicholas-the-weak - who was anything but weak, who tried harder to prevent the First World War than any other monarch attempted; who had such a desire for peace in the Balkans that he worked from dawn till dusk and late into the night, seeking solutions - which King George shot grouse and the Kaiser took his Norwegian cruise and poor old Franz Josef was duped by his war council. And then there is the last Austrian Emperor, Karl, whom I admire more by the day, the more I learn of him. Seen as a traitor by his own people because - having seen the mindless carnage with his own eyes - he desired to end the war that he had no part in starting.

Nothing is ever as it appears and no matter how many times lies and myths are repeated, and no matter how many professors cast judgement on men and women in whose shoes they have not walked, I think anyone who wishes to take more than a cursory glimpse at history needs first and foremost a basic understanding of psychology and empathy to cut through the briars and brambles and awaken the really beautiful people of the past.

The Castle of Eberstein was once the property of the Counts of Eberstein. It weas first mentioned in 1272. After the Counts of Eberstein had died out in the male line the property was inherited by the margraves of Baden and the Dukes of Württemberg-Neuenstein. Theparts who belonged to Württemberg-Neuenstein became peace for peace in the property of the Margraves of baden. In 1798 Margrave Karl Friedrich of Baden handed over the castle to his son Friedrich. From 1802 the property was rebuild the newgothy Style to a Castle. Under Grand Duke Leopold also the Interieur was rebuild in the newgothic Style. In 2000 Margrave Max of Baden sold the Castle to a prvate person. It now houses a Nobel Restaurant and also a Nobel hotel.

Nine children is a large family in any age. For Queen Victoria, who had prayed not to have too many children, the arrival of the ninth child might have been a less-than-delightful occasion. And yet, the birth of this child welcomed one of the brightest periods in the marriage of Victoria and her husband, Albert. Two months later, Victoria officially gave Albert the title of “Prince Consort,” finally providing him with an official role in the country he had called home for nearly two decades.

From the moment she arrived, Beatrice Mary Victoria Feodore, or “Baby” as she was usually called, was the darling of the family. Her nearest brother was four years older and her closest sister was nine years older—she was, indeed, the baby of the household and she was indulged in ways that her oldest siblings would never have imagined.

Both of her parents adored her. The Queen, who herself admitted that she only liked pretty children, was delighted by Baby’s big blue eyes and tiny mouth. The oldest child, Vicky, remarked that Baby was “quite the prettiest of us all, she is quite like a fairy.” Their father agreed, but also added that she was also “the most amusing baby we have had.”

As with most daddies, he was, of course, prejudiced. He could find humor in even the most annoying of Baby’s behaviors as evidenced when he wrote of the day-old princess’s wailing: “Baby practices her scales like a good prima donna before a performance and has a good voice!”

Albert was a strict father but could also be lovingly indulgent. He was certainly a more natural parent than Victoria. “It is indeed a pity that you find no consolation in the company of your children,” he once wrote to his wife, “. . . It is not possible to be on comfortable terms with people you have just been scolding.”

Baby suffered far less of Mama’s scolding: her big blue eyes and naughty charm earned more laughter than reprimands. Even when the bouncing toddler used the Queen’s apron strings to tie her to her chair, no punishments followed. The youngster was still invited down to tea and encouraged to entertain guests with songs and bits of poetry.

Once, when Baby took too much of a treat, Victoria gently reminded her, “Baby mustn’t have that. It’s not good for Baby.” To which the golden-hair pixie replied, “But she likes it my dear.”

While Beatrice showed none of the fear that characterized the relationships between her siblings and the Queen, her adoration of her father was even more apparent. She was definitely a daddy’s girl. Beatrice was born at just the right moment to earn Albert’s deep affection, for she was able to fill a hole left in his heart by the marriage of his oldest daughter, Vicky. Bright and lovely, Vicky had always been Albert’s favorite. She was more clever than any of her brothers, more lovely than any of her sisters and more responsive to the education Albert had outlined for his children. But, at 17, she was in love with the future German emperor and Albert sadly had to watch her sail away to a new life on the Continent when Beatrice as only nine months old.

Although he corresponded frequently with Vicky, her departure left plenty of time for him to indulge his prettily charming new baby. When Vicky began having children in rapid succession, Albert wrote that these infants should model themselves after their Aunt Beatrice. Baby herself delighted in being an aunt—whenever she was asked to do something she didn’t like, the three-year-old excused herself because she needed to write letters to her niece.

Baby Beatrice started most days by toddling into her father’s dressing room where she would watch him as he shaved. Then, Albert would sing to her in English and his native German and enjoy her own little songs and stories. Later, he would place her on his knee as he played piano or organ, sharing with her a love and talent for music that would be even more pronounced in her than among all of his children, each of whom was musically gifted.

At supper time, Albert would sometimes wrap Beatrice in a large napkin and swing her in the air. Even when she was naughty, he couldn’t help but chuckle at her cleverness. Once, when he scolded her for being troublesome, she replied, “No, Baby’s not. She’s a little girl.”

Each day of Beatrice’s early childhood seemed more golden than the day before: playing in the miniature house Albert had constructed, walking along the seashore of their house at Osborne, having tea with her mother on the family yacht, entertaining her brothers and sisters who rewarded her for reciting words in French.

Then, suddenly, Baby’s world turned upside down. Early in December 1861, Albert became terribly ill with typhoid. By Dec. 6, Victoria was desperate to raise his spirits and help him rally. She led the four-year-old Beatrice to his bedside. The bubbly little girl recounted her latest French verses to him and managed to make him laugh. She kissed him and held his hand for a long time before being led away so that he could rest.

It was the last time she would ever see him.

Eight nights later, the Princess was sleeping peacefully down the hall, when Albert took his final breath. Shocked and horrified, Victoria raced from his deathbed to the room where Albert’s littlest angel lay nestled in innocence, unaware of the family’s grief. Victoria gently lifted Beatrice from her bed, careful not to awaken her, and dashed back to her own room. She wrapped Beatrice in Albert’s nightshirt and placed her in the bed beside herself.

There, the restless and distraught mother awaited a dawn that would forever change her sleeping Baby’s life.

I think it is rather unfortunate that the Catholic Church decided to beatify Karl, the last Emperor of Austria-Hungary, not because I do not admire this man, but because as soon as someone is turned into a saint (or on the way to becoming a saint) it always seems that their true personality and humanity is lost in the mirage of 'sanctity'. They seem to lose their immediate appeal as fellow human beings as they are placed on some kind of holy pedestal (and deemed 'worthy of imitation' - though how it is possible for the average person to imitate an Emperor of Austria is rather unclear).

Perhaps that kind of unexpected elevation is rather appropriate in Karl's case. When he was born in 1887, the likelihood of his coming to the throne was minimal. Crown Prince Rudolf was still alive (just about!) and several others stood between Karl and his great uncle, the aging Emperor Franz Josef. Even after Rudolf's tragic death at Mayerling, others stood between young Karl and the throne, most notably, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, whose murder not only raised Karl to the position of heir, but sparked the First World War.

I admire Karl for several reasons but primary because he was the sole member of the family to take the trouble to be present when the bodies of Franz Ferdinand and his wife, Sophie, were brought back to Vienna after their murder in Sarajevo. The vile minister, Monenuovo, who hated Franz Ferdinand, had arranged that their bodies should arrive in the middle of the night to avoid a public display of respect for the murdered archduke, but Karl was there. I think of him on that dreary platform, paying his genuine respects to the dead and grieving for Franz Ferdinand and Sophie's children. Karl also promised to take care of those children.

When, in the middle of the First World War, he became Emperor, he was seen by the war cabinet as a liability. He objected to the use of poison gas, the killing of civilians and he sought to make a separate peace. This, of course, is seen as treacherous in war time, but Karl, unlike many of those war-mongering ministers, had seen the slaughter first hand and - along with so many other ordinary soldiers - saw the pointlessness of it all.

He was a devoutly religious man, and his religion undoubtedly was an essential part of him, but I think that making him a saint is really the last thing this unassuming man would have wanted. It smacks of some kind of political motive to me and I hope that this very real human being, caught up in the trauma and tragedy of World War One, isn't turned into some kind of plaster-cast caricature of the interesting and well-meaning person that he was.

Throughout the First World War Kaiser Wilhelm seemed to go into a sort of manic-depressive state. One minute he was elated and filled with wild notions ranging from rage and anger (about killing all the Russian prisoners of war) and the next taking to his bed for in utter despair. If 'Willy' were responsible for the war, as was suggested afterwards by those who wanted to bring him to trial for war crimes, he would be a real criminal, but the truth is that he wasn't responsible for it at all. He was a puppet. He called himself the All Powerful, and he played in his uniforms and parades but his generals and war council played him to the full.

I wonder sometimes which would be worse for Willy: to feel himself responsible for all that carnage, which he did not want, or to view himself as insignificant and at the mercy of his ministers. The propaganda of the time portrayed him as a monster but he never actually commanded an army or captained a ship. He played - Nero-like, he fiddled while Rome burned. Poor, poor man - he was just a little boy playing and never realising that those around him were taking his game as reality.

The photos of him during his exile in Holland, show the face of a man filled with sorrow. I guess, for appearance sake, he played his part to the end - his memoirs are filled with untruths (such as what he wrote of Tsar Nicholas in the run-up to the war) - but in his heart, he must have been feeling bewildered beyond belief. He might have liked to have been the monster on the propaganda posters, rather than the poor little boy and sad man he became.

I can't help liking him.

It's a bizarre thing that when people believe strongly in something we have a need to make everyone else believe the same thing. Evangelizing is seen as something essential to some religions in much the same way as political indoctrination is seen as essential to revolutionary groups or parliamentarians. It's very odd.

If people of a religious group believe that God is omnipotent and omnipresent, why do they take it upon themselves to tell another part of humanity that this is so? Surely the omnipresent God is already in that part of humanity, and the omnipotent God has little need of their services? And yet, throughout history, people have, in the name of God, murdered, destroyed, undermined others' beliefs and called it evangelization.

If people of a certain political persuasion believe that there is power in sharing the earth's wealth and resources, why do they take it upon themselves to control others? Surely the recognition of the rights and power of the individual means that each person is capable of making her/his own decisions and doesn't need to be ruled. Why then do those who speak most vociferously for 'the people' attempt control the people with such ferocity? Stalin, Lenin, Hitler - all 'socialists' were actually control-freaks.

In every walk of life it is apparent that those who cling most fervently to an '....ism' are those who are incapable of living the Truth they claim to promote. I just don't understand why there is a need to make some kind of moral law for others when, if we know our own morality, we live it. When a person really knows what he/she believes, there is no need whatsoever for agreement outside him/herself. Don't you agree? Well, if not, we don't need to agree we can live and let live...

Most of us know whether or not we look like our mothers. Some of us know whether we resemble our grandmothers. But, we are much less likely to be able to compare ourselves to earlier forbears. There, princesses have us beaten since they can view generations of royal ancestors—usually in the portrait galleries of their palaces.

The generational resemblance is particularly strong among the ladies of the princely house of Monaco.

The starring lady of the moment is the lovely Charlotte Casiraghi. Although not a princess, she is fourth in the line of succession to the princely title in Monaco, following her brothers and her mother. Born in 1986, Charlotte’s life was touched by tragedy when her father, Stefano Casiraghi, was killed in boat racing accident—she was only four. Her mother tried to shelter her from the media, but since she was a teenager, she has been a favorite target of the paparazzi. She is one of the elite of young European aristocrats. As if it wasn't enough to have a princess for a mom, Charlotte's maternal grandparents gave her her own island. So far, though, the press has found nothing scandalous in her behavior. Charlotte is active as a show-jumping equestrienne and as a fashion magazine editor. In 2009, she even launched her own fashion magazine, Ever Manifesto.

Young Charlotte may not (yet) have generated scandal, but her lookalike mother cannot make the same claim. From an ill-fated first marriage to a fortune-hunting playboy to conceiving two of her four children before she married their fathers, Princess Caroline of Monaco has caused ripples throughout her life. Her mother, the former movie star Grace Kelly, was often troubled by Caroline’s wild-child ways. After Grace’s tragic death, Caroline seemed to settle down. She married the father of her unborn son and had two more children before he also died tragically. Caroline stepped into her mother’s role as the first lady of Monaco and quickly established a reputation for being level-headed and civic-minded. Then, she got pregnant with her fourth child and married the father, Prince Ernest of Hanover six months before the birth. Still, compared to her sister Stephanie, who not only dated Rob Lowe, launched a rock career and literally ran away with the circus, Princess Caroline is a veritable matron these days and her brother has officially named her as his heir. However, Caroline’s life is still rocked by tribulations—within the last few months, her husband has been absent from Monaco and has been photographed kissing other women.




Scandal was the theme of Caroline’s grandmother, Princess Charlotte's life. Like Caroline, Charlotte was the heir to Monaco. Charlotte was the only child of Prince Albert I, but like the current Prince Albert, he had his child illegitimately, too. (The current prince has two acknowledged illegitimate children: an American girl named Jazmin Grace Grimaldi and a Togolese boy named Alexandre Coste.) When it became clear that her father would have no legitimate children, the fate of Monaco was in the balance. Without an heir, Monaco would cease to be independent and would become part of France. So, Charlotte’s father officially adopted her and made her a Princess of Monaco. He married her off to a French count. Together, they had two children, including Caroline’s father, Prince Rainier. After ten years, Charlotte ran off with her Italian lover and later divorced the count. Charlotte apparently had no desire to become the head of her own country and, when Rainier was 21, she renounced her right to the throne. Then, she went to college and became active in social work. Perhaps taking a note from her daughter-in-law’s movie, “To Catch a Thief,” which was filmed in Monaco, Princess Charlotte showed up at Rainier and Grace’s wedding on the arm of her latest lover, a jewel thief who had been France’s public enemy number one.