by Theo Aronson
It soon became apparent to Queen Marie that her son's mind was not entirely on his studies. Before he had been at Cambridge for many months, he asked her to come up to London to meet a young woman with whom he had become friendly.
The girl was the twenty-one-year-old Princess Alexandra of Greece. Her father had been Queen Sophie's son, that short-lived King Alexander of the Hellenes who had died from a monkey bite in 1920. Her mother, whom her father had married morganatically, had been Aspasia Manos, now known as Princess Aspasia. Exiled from Greece with the rest of the royal family during the years between the wars, Princess Aspasia and her daughter had lived in various Continental countries. The Second World War had deposited them, along with numerous other exiled royalties, in England. The attractive Princess Alexandra was now doing a course in nursing at Cambridge. She had met the slight, dark, eighteen-year-old King Peter at a tea party given by the Allied Officers' Club at Grosvenor House. Within days, the two of them had fallen in love.
King Peter II and Princess Alexandra were related. 'My dear Sandra,' Princess Alexandra's mother had exclaimed in amused exasperation as the girl sat puzzling over the Almanach de Gotha to find out exactly how closely she was related to King Peter, 'if you start looking at Queen Victoria you'll find how practically everybody, in all the European Royal Houses, is related.' In fact, King Peter II and Princess Alexandra were both great-great-grandchildren of Queen Victoria: he, through his mother and his grandmother, Queen Marie of Romania; she, through her father and her grandmother, Queen Sophie of Greece.
Exchanging her dressing-gown for a dress, Queen Marie of Yugoslavia went up to London to meet Princess Alexandra. When the apprehensive Alexandra asked Peter what she should talk to his mother about, he assured her that 'anything under the sun' would do. The Queen had a 'reputation as a conversationalist'; she was also, he added for good measure, the best and fastest woman driver that he knew.
The meeting passed off successfully but Queen Marie was not happy about the situation. There were several probable objections to the match between Peter and Alexandra. He was only eighteen; his future was uncertain; marriage to a Greek princess with German blood could be unpopular in Yugoslavia; he might be able, at some later stage, to make a more politically, dynastically and financially advantageous match; with his country so cruelly occupied, his mind should be on more serious things than his own happiness; there was a strong superstition against Serbs marrying in wartime. Marie's reservations were backed up by the Yugoslav government-in-exile in England; the King, they insisted, should remain unfettered until he had regained his throne.
But young Peter, hopelessly in love, was blind to all objections. He asked Alexandra to marry him.
The engagement decided upon, Queen Marie was obliged to make the best of it. She invited Princess Alexandra and her mother, Princess Aspasia, to Grandsden to dine. Peter by now had explained something of his own and his mother's financial position to his fiancée. In addition to being a millionaire in her own right, Queen Marie owned jewellery worth £250,000 and received £3,500 a month from the Yugoslavian Civil List. But Alexandra would find this hard to believe, warned Peter, when she saw his mother at home.
Alexandra not only found it hard, she found it all but impossible. Old Mill House was simply a five-bedroomed cottage furnished in the most spartan fashion. The manservant's announcement of 'Your Majesty – Their Royal Highnesses Princess Aspasia and Princess Alexandra of Greece' sounded incongruous in these modest surroundings. For this significant occasion Queen Marie – or 'Paiky' as she insisted that they call her – was wearing a plain green woollen dress. The meal was simple to the point of frugality. Princess Alexandra was later to learn that for his room above the garage, Peter had to pay his mother £10 a week.
The group, which included Queen Marie's great friend Rosemary Creswell, spent a pleasant enough evening. Although forthright, Queen Marie could be charming. Not until after coffee did she bring up the question of the engagement. She gave the couple her blessing but asked them, in view of various factors, to keep the betrothal secret for the moment. This they agreed to do.
Alexandra assumed that all was well. Her more experienced mother, though, sensed that something was wrong. She suspected that Queen Marie was implacably opposed to the projected marriage.
She was soon proved right. Marie, assuming that her young son's feeling for Alexandra would turn out to be no more than a passing infatuation, had been prepared to let the affair run its course. But when she realized that he was determined to marry Alexandra, she did everything she could to prevent it. All Alexandra's attempts to concern herself in the affairs of her future husband's country were firmly discouraged by his mother. Backed up by the government-in-exile, Queen Marie kept the girl at arm's length.
In the meantime, the situation of Yugoslavia, as far as the dynasty was concerned, was deteriorating rapidly. The two groups of resistance fighters, Cetniks under Mihailovič and Partisans under Tito, were almost as opposed to each other as they were to the occupying Germans. And whereas King Peter favoured Mihailovič, the Allied governments were beginning to favour Tito. The Allies suspected Mihailovič of collaborating with the enemy; of Tito's anti-Nazism, they had no doubt. Time and again they urged King Peter to abandon Mihailovič and throw in his lot with the more aggressive Tito. The Partisans, they argued, were not nearly as dedicated to communism as the young King supposed. Peter steadfastly refused.
Finally, at the Conference of the three Allied Powers – Britain, America and Russia – at Teheran, towards the end of 1943, the Allies officially recognized Tito and his Partisans as the true National Liberation Army of Yugoslavia. It was to him they would give their support. (Over a year later, their decision was confirmed at Yalta: Britain and America agreed that the Balkans should be a Russian zone of influence.) Highly gratified, Tito assembled a National Parliament, made up of members of his movement, and founded a temporary government. Amongst its resolutions was one depriving the Yugoslav government-in-exile of all powers, and another forbidding the return of King Peter to Yugoslavia. The question of whether the country was to be a monarchy or a republic would not be decided until after the war.
With the ground thus cut from under his feet, King Peter, who had spent several frustrating months in Cairo in order to be nearer his country, returned to Britain. He was determined that at least one of his hopes-his marriage to Princess Alexandra – should materialize.
His mother was equally determined that it should not. More than ever did she feel that her son must not jeopardize his chances by making an ill-advised marriage. In an effort to get the Queen to change her mind, Peter and Alexandra travelled down together to see her. By now Mignon had moved from Grandsden to a house near Leatherhead. It was here that an extraordinarily violent scene took place.
The Queen, as usual, was in bed. Without a word she watched the young couple come into her room. She gave Peter her cheek to kiss; Alexandra she merely motioned into a chair. The unnerving silence did not last long. No sooner had Peter informed his mother that they were to be married in a few days' time than a torrent of recrimination burst forth from the bloated figure on the bed. The next hour, says Alexandra, was a nightmare.
'Accusations, condemnations, hostile and punishing words were flaying, scouring, tearing their way through the faint fragile hope of an attempted reconciliation.
'Peter lost his self-control; his mother lost hers entirely, ringing all the bells in the house, demanding witnesses, people to take us out of the room, and then to bring us back again.'
Princess Alexandra was no less vehement in her arguments. At one stage during the storm raging about that crumpled bed, she snatched up the telephone and called her mother, Princess Aspasia. Begging her mother to speak to the demented Queen, she pushed the receiver against Marie's ear. The Queen simply continued her denunciations, this time into the mouthpiece.
Suddenly Peter had had enough. Above his mother's ranting voice, he shouted, 'We're getting out of here. It's finish
ed, finished.'
With that the young couple ran out of the house and sped back to London.
Eight days later, on 20 March 1944, Peter and Alexandra were married at the Yugoslav Embassy in London. The ceremony was attended by a galaxy of exiled royalties, including Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands, King Haakon of Norway and King George II of Greece. The principal guests were the British sovereigns, King George VI and Queen Elizabeth. Some twenty-one years before, as the young Duke and Duchess of York, the British King and Queen had been present at King Peter's christening. Throughout the months of uncertainty concerning the marriage, they had always been sympathetic and encouraging. Indeed, on the morning after the violent quarrel with Queen Marie, the young couple had visited King George VI and Queen Elizabeth at Windsor. It had been due, in no small measure, to the renowned tact and charm of the British Queen that the distraught Alexandra had regained her calm. Now, by their presence at the wedding ceremony, the British sovereigns (he, in uniform, as best man; she, in pale pink, furs and feathers, superbly poised) endowed it with an importance which not even the conspicuous absence of the bridegroom's mother, Queen Marie of Yugoslavia, could deny. For Marie had refused to attend the ceremony. Her official excuse was that she had toothache.
Not until eight months later did Peter and Alexandra again see Queen Marie. By now Alexandra had discovered that she was pregnant. It was this fact that decided King Peter to present to her the famous family emeralds which belonged, by right, to the sovereign's wife. For Alexandra was now the Queen of Yugoslavia. 'You must have them before the baby is born,' he insisted.
The set of jewellery, consisting of a tiara, necklace and earrings, was kept in a British bank. Peter contacted his mother to tell her that he intended passing the jewels on to Alexandra and then withdrew the boxes containing them from the bank. As Queen Marie held the key to the boxes, Peter was obliged to ask her to open them. She agreed. The three of them – Marie, Peter and Alexandra – arranged to meet in London, at a place which Queen Marie used as an office. They had not met each other since that terrible afternoon before the wedding and it was with considerable trepidation that Alexandra accompanied her husband to see his mother.
They were shown into the room by the faithful Mrs Creswell. Queen Marie, whose mannish streak seems to have become more pronounced with the years, was sporting one of the self-designed khaki uniforms which, other than her 'tents', were now her normal wear. For some strange reason she had a Sam Browne belt, complete with revolver, slung around her heavy body.
The Queen had no word of greeting for the young couple. She merely nodded in reply to Peter's bow and Alexandra's curtsy. Turning her broad back on Alexandra, who had been left standing in the doorway, Mignon gave her attention to the boxes. The operation seemed to take for ever. The girl, nervous, overwrought and feeling sick from her pregnancy, imagined that she was about to faint. Yet without Queen Marie's permission, she dared not sit. Unable to master her dizziness any longer, she blurted out, 'Paiky, I'm going to have a baby and don't feel very well, please may I sit down?'
Queen Marie turned to look at her. As far as Alexandra knew, this was the first that the Queen had heard of the expected child. Marie then addressed her only one word of the day to her daughter-in-law.
'Sit,' she growled.
Eight months later, on 17 July 1945, the baby was born. It was a boy. In honour of its grandfather, Mignon's late husband, it was christened Alexander. But that this Crown Prince Alexander would ever become King of Yugoslavia was by now extremely doubtful. With the coming of peace in May that year, the various exiled monarchs had begun returning to their war-ravaged countries; only King Peter II of Yugoslavia remained in England. He had little hope of returning. In November his fears were borne out. Following a one-party election, Yugoslavia ceased to be a monarchy and became a communist republic. As a kingdom, Yugoslavia had lasted for less than thirty years.
Denied any active occupation, King Peter embarked on the rootless, hopeless, feckless and ultimately impoverished life of so many royal exiles. Perhaps his mother had not been so wrong in discouraging his marriage or in resenting the handing over of the family jewels. His marriage fell to pieces and the money gained from the sale of the famous emeralds was lost in ill-advised speculation. Both King Peter and Queen Alexandra published their memoirs. Throughout the world, magazines serialized their life stories, and newspapers reported their marital upheavals. Their names were seldom out of the news.
Far removed from these matrimonial and financial wranglings, Queen Marie of Yugoslavia continued to lead her own highly individual life. Soon after the war she moved yet again, this time to a 450-acre farm at Cranbrook in Kent. Here she was joined by her two younger sons, Tomislav and Andrej, both of whom were studying agriculture at Cambridge. Her home was a six-roomed, stone-floored cottage with no electricity. She cooked on an old-fashioned kitchen range and played bridge or chess by lamplight. Dressed in tweeds and brogues, she would go striding across the fields to supervise the farming. 'It has meant long hours and hard work getting this farm in working order,' she would claim.
To see this sturdy, mannishly dressed figure cheerfully stirring a saucepan on an old black stove in a cottage kitchen, one could hardly believe that she had been raised among the gold walls and the white lilies and the glittering draperies of her mother's rooms or that she had once lived, as Queen, in a vast, white-walled, many-pillared palace above the Danube. A great-granddaughter of Queen Victoria, Queen Marie of Yugoslavia had ended up leading the life of an English countrywoman.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The Last of the First
1
Of all the descendants of Queen Victoria who first sat, or were to be the first to sit, on Continental thrones, four were still alive at the end of the Second World War. These were Queen Ena of Spain, Queen Marie of Yugoslavia, Crown Princess Louise of Sweden and Crown Princess Ingrid of Denmark.
Crown Princess Ingrid became Queen of Denmark in 1947. Throughout the war years she and her husband, the bluff Crown Prince Frederik, had been virtual prisoners of the Germans. With the occupation of Denmark in April 1940, the royal family had decided to remain in the country. Their continued presence had brought considerable comfort to the Danish people. Determined to keep alive his country's spirit of independence, old King Christian X (the father of Crown Prince Frederik) had each day ridden through the streets of Copenhagen on a white charger. In the Amelienborg Palace, the Crown Prince and Princess had lived a simple and secluded life. Their first child, Princess Margrethe, had been born a week after the German invasion; their second, Princess Benedikte, in 1944; and their third, Princess Anne-Marie, in 1946.
On 20 April 1947, with the country barely recovered from the occupapation, King Christian X died and on the next day the new monarch was proclaimed from the balcony of the Christiansborg Palace as King Frederik IX. At the end of his speech, the King was joined on the balcony by Queen Ingrid. Hand in hand, this handsome couple turned to face the sea of people beneath them.
Denmark could not have wished for a more suitable royal pair. At forty-eight, King Frederik was a giant of a man with a ready smile and a relaxed manner. Queen Ingrid, at thirty-seven, was a woman of considerable presence and beauty. More valuable than their splendid looks, however, was the way in which they carried out their royal tasks. The Danes, as citizens of a welfare state, preferred a classless society, yet they looked upon the monarchy as a means of insuring against a complete and colourless egalitarianism. Provided the sovereigns remained approachable and unaffected, the Danes were royalist to the core. They wanted a king, but on the condition that he was a citizen-king. In this, King Frederik IX did not disappoint them. Informal, conscientious and unintellectual, he was the citizen-king par excellence. His habit of referring to the Queen and himself in public speeches as 'Mother and I' struck exactly the right note: he was the father of a great family. With this sort of sovereign on the throne, Danish republicanism, which had never been particularly strong,
dwindled still more, and the Social Democratic Party unobtrusively dropped 'abolition of the monarchy' from its programme.
Although, with his great height and upright bearing, Frederik IX always looked splendidly royal, his tastes were simple and his behaviour natural. Music remained one of his passions: he conducted at private concerts, he made records, he followed the activities of the Royal Danish Ballet. The sea was another of his delights. King Frederik was seldom happier than when sailing in the royal yacht Dannebrog along his country's intricate coastline. Even when confined to the Amelienborg Palace, he was able to watch the ships sailing by at the end of the street. Sometimes at night, using a torch, he would signal greetings in Morse to the captains.
Stories about his informality are legion. An American tourist, strolling through Copenhagen's famous Tivoli Gardens, once started up a conversation with a father and his three daughters. 'I'm a storekeeper from Chicago,' announced the tourist. 'Who are you?'
'Oh, I'm a king,' answered Frederik.
Queen Ingrid was no less informal. Together with her husband, she would go walking along the waterfront on winter evenings. Often, while shopping in Copenhagen, she would wait quite happily in a queue to be served. Deeply interested in books, auction sales and art exhibitions, she was frequently to be seen in different parts of the city. Although she could dress with great elegance and panache, she was just as happy in the tweed suits and brogues which she wore at the country palace of Graasten in South Jutland.
Yet, for all her Scandinavian unpretentiousness, Queen Ingrid never quite lost that indefinable air of Englishness, inherited from her mother, Princess Margaret of Connaught. By middle age, Queen Ingrid had all the brisk, no-nonsense and self-confident qualities of an aristocratic Englishwoman. Her homes were efficently run, her daughters simply brought up and her duties carried out with charm and dignity. Like most of Queen Victoria's Continental descendants, she had considerable faith in the blessings of an English education: her eldest daughter, Princess Margrethe, was packed off to spend a year at an English school. Each afternoon, in one of those airy, comfortable rooms in the Amelienborg Palace, the Queen presided over an elegantly set and well-laden tea tray. When, at some public ceremony, one of her daughters accidentally stepped on her train, Queen Ingrid turned round to exclaim, in best British governessy fashion, 'Good heavens child! Watch where you are going!'