The most ironic point to be made about the late Elizabeth Windsor is this.
She spent her whole life in prison.
It was a gilded cage, but it was still a cage. She first appeared on a magazine cover in 1929, age 3. Reporters ogled her from that time to this, like visitors to a zoo. Some threw things at her, unjust criticisms. She took it. Even in death she’s taking it.
The only area of life where she had any autonomy was within her family. She chose her husband, Philip. Her parents demanded she wait two years before they would consent to the marriage. It lasted 72 years. It was the greatest personal achievement of her life.
Everything else was a matter of state. All she had to do, all she had the power to do, was wave at it as it went by. She waved as the empire collapsed, waved as the commonwealth shrank, waved as her great nation became small, cramped, and finally poor. The Irish are now wealthier, and England’s per-capita total is inflated by the fortunes of its ultra-rich. Like the Windsors. Unlike the middle-class monarchs of Europe, the Windsor fortune, and the resulting power, kept Elizabeth locked away.
I can’t imagine a sadder fate than to live a long life in a gilded cage, to watch generation-after-generation of your descendants become tabloid fodder, beaten, kicked around, and to be able to do nothing about it. The British monarch has no power. It’s a symbol, and a fairy tale for American consumption, something even many Brits finally understand.
Elizabeth Windsor resigned herself to her fate, even before Hitler came to power in Germany. She remained true to the end. She had a saint’s patience, but no power to act against the cruelties of her age, except briefly as a driver during World War II, which ended 77 years ago.
She did her bit then, and ever after. Rest in peace.
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