Had she died a decade earlier, Princess Margaret might have enjoyed a warmer send-off from the obituarists. But by now the days of dutiful celebration of the recently departed had come to an end. A steelier, less forgiving approach was in operation, even for members of the Royal Family.
‘Princess Margaret, who has died in hospital after suffering a third stroke aged seventy-one, was the most striking illustration of the capricious and troubled relationship that beset the British and their monarchy in the second half of the twentieth century,’ began the obituary in the Guardian.
Not even the life of Diana, Princess of Wales concentrated quite so many questions about the role and style of the royal family as that of Margaret Rose, second daughter of George VI, only sibling of Elizabeth II; for while both were creatures of their time, Margaret lived beyond hers into a more critical, ever less deferential era; and her life, above all, posed that essential question which Diana, in her own way, was trying to answer: what, exactly, is a princess for?
The author, Charles Nevin, argued that while Margaret had been unconventional in her enjoyment of the arts, she was in other ways ‘as conventional as any Victorian or Edwardian, particularly in her unquestioning assumption that her royal status commanded the utmost respect irrespective of circumstance or behaviour. Royalty was toujours sans reproche. To put it in a rather less high-flown way, she wanted to have her cake, and to eat it.’
Writing in the Independent, Hugo Vickers felt that ‘The absence of a role was her tragedy. Whereas her father’s life was fulfilled when he was called, reluctantly, to serve as King, the Princess never received such a call.’ Vickers went on to suggest that her ‘slightly forbidding exterior concealed a kind heart. She moved in that society which relished feuds and firm loyalties – her friends were, in principle, friends for life, but she was a naughty enemy.’ She was capricious: ‘Close friends learned to be wary of her ways. At the moment that everyone was relaxing, she would surreptitiously resume her royal rank and reduce some helpless guest to dust.’ Nevertheless, ‘the key to her character was a spirit of generosity to which even she might not have admitted’.
In the Sunday Telegraph, her old friend Kenneth Rose rallied to her defence. ‘In a life devoted to public duties and private passions, Princess Margaret was cruelly exposed to the whims of popular opinion,’ he began, berating his fellow journalists for their ‘hurtful campaign of denigration and spite’. For Rose, the Princess was ‘an icon of 20th century monarchy. She loved clothes and jewellery, wore them with panache, retained her dazzling complexion and trim figure of youth to the end of her life. Standing a shade over five feet, she made up for her lack of inches, about which she was needlessly sensitive, by her dignity and grace of bearing.’
As the article progressed, Rose’s case for the defence transformed, as if by magic, into the case for the prosecution. ‘It has been surmised that her imperious, even wayward, interpretation of her role sprang from dissatisfaction or envy; what colloquially could be called second-sisteritis. There is no truth in the assumption. For the person and pre-eminence of the sovereign she insisted on punctilious respect.’ It was almost as though, having trumpeted his doughty loyalist credentials at the beginning of the article, Rose felt he had now earned the right to list her shortcomings. ‘Even her closest friends were startled by the swiftness with which enticing intimacy could give way to a Hanoverian blue stare,’ he continued. ‘“Hopping back on her twig”, they called it.’
Many of the passages in his piece begin with a compliment before veering off towards an insult. ‘Her private whims were of luxurious simplicity. She ate very little, rarely meat.’ So far, so good. ‘Although game and some fish were acceptable, she would wave away a dish of gleaming salmon trout, demand an omelette, ask if she could exchange it for a boiled egg which in its turn was rejected as too hard or too soft.’ And then the U-turn: ‘Hosts and hostesses never forgot the princess who came to dinner … Princess Margaret could be an exacting house guest who thought nothing of re-arranging the furniture in her bedroom to her own satisfaction.’
Rose’s glowing interpretation often seemed at odds with the evidence he offered. ‘The Princess shone as a mimic. She would recall Dame Joan Sutherland greeting her backstage after her sleepwalking scene from Lucia di Lammermoor: “Oi’m always meeting yew in moi nightie.”’
Insults were smuggled like contraband beneath the cover of wide-eyed questions. ‘So who did she like in a world of real and imaginary slights magnified by her own insecurity?’ In answer to his own question, Rose listed her mother and sister (‘though both relationships were subject to occasional exasperation’), her children, and a handful of women friends, ‘some of whom had served as ladies-in-waiting’.
The New York Times announced that ‘Princess Margaret, the younger sister of Queen Elizabeth II, whose troubled private life aroused both worldwide sympathy and widespread reprobation, died yesterday morning in London. She was 71.’ The tone of the obituary was even edgier than its British counterparts. ‘She was often less than gracious when faced with the drudgery of public appearances – the ribbon-cuttings, diplomatic functions and endless other official occasions by which Britain’s royals justify their position and the public money that finances it. Easily bored and often petulant, the princess was known for indulging her moods.’
In later years, the obituary continued, she had been criticised for ‘demanding motorcycle escorts and government helicopters to travel around Britain’. To many people she appeared to be ‘the black sheep of her generation of royals. But this reputation did not necessarily trouble her.’ The obituarist went on to describe the Princess as ‘haughty’, with ‘a penchant for saying the wrong thing’. She also had ‘a traumatic private life’, and ‘as a houseguest she was notoriously demanding. At parties she often objected if other guests ignored royal protocol and left before her. Even her children were expected to refer to her as “Princess Margaret” in front of visitors. So did her husband, though he was said to have called her Ducky in private.’
The anonymous Daily Telegraph obituary seemed to be written more in sorrow than in anger. ‘She had talents and qualities which might, perhaps, have blossomed more fully away from the constant blaze of publicity,’ it began. ‘She had defects which, precisely because she was completely honest, she neither would nor could conceal: wilfulness, a dislike of being crossed and an inability to reconcile her royal status with her love of the bohemian.’
Though witty, she was ‘sometimes bitingly sharp to those who presumed too far’. On the other hand, for all her misfortunes, she ‘always retained her sense of fun’. The obituarist then executed a neat little somersault: ‘Whatever may have been foolishly and maliciously said at various times, the Princess was a remarkably beautiful and stylish woman who put duty first.’ The obituarist ended by indulging in a game of ‘What if …?’
‘A complex figure, Princess Margaret seemed, despite her exalted position, more often than not to have been dealt a peculiarly bad hand for the game of life … It was Princess Margaret’s misfortune to have narrowly missed being a Queen – a job at which she might have been rather good – while being saddled with the secondary task of being a Princess, for which she was temperamentally unsuited.’ But what of the rest of us, dealt such a monstrously bad hand in the game of life that we missed the throne not by an inch, but a mile?