The Wrong King

I was an English major, so I follow the royals. No, I really follow the British royals. That means I’m interested in everything about them, from the dynamics of the relationship between Princess Charlotte and Prince George, to the number of ceremonies on the Princess Royal’s calendar. I cared about the restoration of Windsor Castle, and I certainly monitored the family photographs that Elizabeth displayed during her Christmas broadcast. One of the highlights of my life was watching the beloved Queen Mother dedicate a Snack Shoppe at the Tate Modern Museum. If I have not proven my case, I could go on…and on.

That doesn’t mean that I take any of this seriously. In fact, I think that most of this is ridiculous. Poor Harry and Meaghan are lost in purgatory, but I can’t manage to gin up more than a thimble of sympathy. Like Edward and Wallis, they are living in gilded exile with nothing to think about except grievance and desperation. Harry plots revenge against his family for engineering the removal of his security arrangements when he visits England. Either that, or he whines very publicly, hoping that his father and brother will take notice and restore him to the role of Second Favorite Son.

This is no one’s definition of a life, a fact brought home in a recent article about Charles. It said that, thanks to his excellent care, he was resuming a full schedule of kingly duties. This did not mean anything of consequence, but rather the dribble of responsibilities that constitution the Work of Windsor: greeting well-wishers, making little speeches, and touring obscure British possessions in the Caribbean.

So why follow this king at all? Perhaps I do take some of this seriously. For better and for worse, I lead my own life. No one calls on me for deeds of self-sacrifice, for heroic exertions, or to defend the common good. My own small life may be decent enough, but no one would call it inspirational or heroic, and there is no great project that calls my name.

But that doesn’t mean that I don’t long to be called, or for someone to lead me and my generation. Or, since I’m now 71, someone else’s generation. I once saw Kevin Branagh declaim one of the great royal speeches in the work of Shakespeare. It was the St. Crispin’s Day speech in Henry V where he calls all England to the cause of war. Despite my streak of pacificism, my timidity, and fearfulness, all I wanted was to march with Henry. I wanted to be a soldier in his army and take up arms for England. Live or die, I was ready to fight.

The weirdness of that reaction was unexpected. Where it came from, I still can’t say, except for my longing for a still fuller life. The problem, I think, is that I’m looking in the wrong direction. When the royal workload is reduced to the dedication of snack shoppes, not even the king himself could stir my heart.