Time - Man of the Year/Time_Man_of_the_Year_Compact_Publishing_3YX-Disc-1_Compact_Publishing_1993.iso/moy/moyfiles/1952moy.001

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                                                                              ╚January 5, 1953

Woman of the Year:Queen Elizabeth II

Defender of the Faith



    The first Man of 1952 was a Danish-born sea captain named
Henrik Kurt Carlsen. As the New Year rolled in and all the world
watched, he fought alone for the life of his ship Flying
Enterprise against the fury of January seas in the North
Atlantic. For twelve days he fought, but in the end the Flying
Enterprise went down. Captain Carlsen rejected the inevitable
Hollywood contract and modestly disappeared, and the world was
left still searching for a hero.

    In 1952 the world badly wanted a hero as dramatically poised
as the captain to rescue it from an engulfing ocean of doubt.
There were heroes aplenty on the bloody battlefields of 1952, but
their heroism served only to give a sharper sting to the
frustration that already lay on the world. For 1952 was a year in
which the world was officially at peace, but still waged bloody
wars it hopefully called "small" and half-heartedly armed against
the danger of one it would have to call "big." It was a year of
frustration in which the peace talks begun so hopefully in a tent
at Panmunjom were moved to a permanent building -- made to last,
if necessary, for years.

    A-Bombs & a Blonde. The U.S., carrying the main burden of
the war in Korea, was still in 1952 the richest and strongest
nation on earth, richer and stronger than it had ever been, but
even its great strength was not enough. The U.S., like the rest
of the world, was tired of the incubus of permanent crisis, tired
of high taxes, tired of a war that was never done and never won,
tired of the peace dove that was only a clanking phony made in
Moscow. For all its might & main, the U.S. could find no quick
way out.

    At home, the U.S. flexed its great muscles, put everyone to
work, paid them more money, built them more and better houses,
more and fancier cars. Its enterprising suburb builders raised up
almost overnight a new Levittown beside the Delaware River,
bigger at birth than the pre-Revolutionary Pennsylvania cities of
York and Lancaster. Its patient medical researchers found drugs
that gave promise of conquering TB and polio. Its impatient
newspaper readers doused themselves inside & out with another
wonder drug, chlorophyll, and followed the Wars of the Roses --
Eleanor and Billy.

    The U.S. cheered the Yankees as they won the World Series,
and Decathloneer Bob Mathias as he shattered his own world record
in the Olympics. It turned a bored ear to science's biggest bang
--the explosion of a hydrogen bomb in the Pacific--and sighed in
disillusion when Frank Hayosteck, the note-in-a-bottle Romeo of
Johnstown, Pa., journeyed all the way to Ireland to find his
Breda O'Sullivan and then came home again -- alone. In 1952, the
U.S. rediscovered sports cars and discovered Marilyn Monroe.

    The Man of the Hour. But one event alone occupied the major
attention of the U.S. in 1952. When General Eisenhower, an
authentic hero both at home and abroad, resigned his job as head
of NATO's armies to enter the U.S. political arena, many innocent
Europeans (as well as many informed Americans) took it for
granted that he had been appointed 1952's Man of Destiny, almost
by acclamation. Only a few formalities seemed necessary before
the discredited Truman retired and Ike took over. But Europeans
reckoned without the modes and manners of U.S. politics. Their
best overseas reporters were totally unable to convey to them the
nuances of a campaign in which the Republican candidate was
darkly accused of being a Republican and the Democrat damned for
supporting a Democratic administration.

    In 1952, Americans, too, were getting a new perspective on
their political practices. Seen for the first time through the
pitiless magnifying glass of TV, the business of nominating and
electing a U.S. President was an overwhelming sight, often
stirring, frequently entertaining, sometimes appalling. It was a
new kind of lesson in civics, and a good one. Perhaps it lasted
too long, and shouted too loud. Yet when the sound & fury were
done, and the passion spent, firm stands had been taken and
issues freely debated. Adlai Stevenson and Dwight Eisenhower,
both able, earnest and sincere candidates, had conducted their
own campaigns on a high level. In the age of the airhop and the
fireside telecast, both candidates had traveled farther and had
been more searchingly inspected by more people than in any other
election in history. On Election Day, Ike piled up the biggest
landslide victory since that of Franklin Roosevelt in 1936.
Dwight Eisenhower's election was the major news event of 1952. As
a military commander, he had been Man of 1944; in his new
political role, he had every opportunity to become undisputed Man
of 1953.

    Small Maybe. In Western Europe a handful of brave and
patient politicians did their best to fill the bill for 1952 --
Italy's sere and aging Alcide de Gasperi, still holding his
pastepot coalition government together in the face of the largest
Communist parliamentary opposition in Europe; Britain's Winston
Churchill, fighting now not on the beaches and in the hills, but
in the factories and in the shops, to bestir Britain's trade;
Germany's flinty and determined Konrad Adenauer, desperately
fighting to tie his country's destiny to the West: France's busy
Bookkeeper Antoine Pinay, standing bulldog guard for 9 1/2 months
on the national budget like a Normandy farmwife, before at last
giving up.

    Western Europe in 1952 was eating better and keeping warmer.
The Schuman Plan to pool its coal and steel industries was at
last under way. Its defenses at year's end were still a good 10%
below what the generals in charge thought a "vital minimum," but
they had advanced far beyond the paper armies of two years ago.
"Certo it is," said one Italian laborer last week, between talk
of a football lottery and the price of bread, "that war is no
nearer this year than it was last, and maybe -- I say it with the
smallest of maybes -- it is farther away."

    In many ways, 1952 might be called the Year of the Generals.
The entrenched ones, like Stalin and Franco and Mao and Tito,
held their familiar sway. Others came to power; in coups d'etat
(Egypt's Naguib and Cuba's Batista) or in honest elections
(Greece's Papagos and in the U.S., Eisenhower). The generals held
the headlines; so much so that, to the hurried reader, the manner
of a nation's defense too often seemed more important than who
and what was being defended. The rise of the generals reflected a
felt need for decisiveness and a longing, often unstated, for
something to put one's faith in. In such a time, the Man of the
Year had to be one who could restore lost faith to a troubled
people, and to serve (perhaps longer than generals can) as
custodian of that faith. In 1952, such a symbol of faith was not
a man at all, but a woman: a shy, dedicated, determined 26-year-
old who came to the throne of Great Britain in February.

    Magical Power. It was not the fact of her being Queen that
made Elizabeth II the Woman of 1952. That year had no more
respect for the governance of kings than for the government of
politicians. It saw one king, Egypt's fat and frolicsome Farouk,
bundled unceremoniously off his throne without a single subject
to raise his hand in protest. It saw another, King Paul of
Greece, resoundingly rebuked at the polls for daring to oppose
his people in their choice of a new Prime Minister.

    1952 also saw the well-meaning but ineffectual Shah of Iran
hissed by his subjects and hamstrung by the wizened old weeper
Mossadegh, who had done his best (or well-intended worst) to
bring the whole world to a standstill in 1951. It saw Elizabeth
herself succeed to a throne long since shorn of its last vestige
of political power, to reign over a Commonwealth whose only union
was in tradition and assent.

    What, then, was Elizabeth's significance? It was no more --
and no less -- than the significance of a fresh young blossom on
roots that had weathered many a season of wintry doubt. The
British, as weary and discouraged as the rest of the world in
1952, saw in their new young Queen a reminder of a great past
when they had carved out empires under Elizabeth I and Victoria,
and dared to hope that she might be an omen of a great future.
Her dramatic flight from a vacation in Kenya at George VI's death
to take her place at the head of the royal family beside the
Queen Mother and revered Queen Mary gave the British spirit a
lift even in the midst of their bereavement.

    It mattered not that India, which once had bowed to Victoria
as Empress, would merely nod to Elizabeth as its "first citizen";
that many of her black subjects in Africa were screaming "Death
to all white men" in a riot of restless revolt; that many of her
white subjects on the same continent were talking openly of
South African republic under Prime Minister Daniel Malan.

    For the enduring roots of British monarchy are nurtured not
in autocracy but in consent, the consent of the people to revere
the symbol of monarchy, the consent of the monarch to bow to the
will of the people. "It may well be," wrote a thoughtful London
editorialist at the time of Elizabeth's accession, "that we here
in Britain, by accident rather than design, have stumbled back to
the original, the true and abiding function of monarchy, which
lay in the magical power of kings . . . to represent, express and
effect the aspirations of the collective subconscious."

    A Sailor's Wife. Indeed, few of the thousands who listened
in London in February to the tabarded heralds proclaiming her
Queen, "with one consent of heart and tongue," bothered or needed
to rationalize Elizabeth's accession. No more did millions
throughout the English-speaking world who read the medieval words
with a sudden new consciousness of well-being. For a generation
of Sunday-supplement readers, Elizabeth's life story had provided
a quiet, well-behaved fairy tale in which the world could
believe. All of them confidently expected her to go right on
living it. It was not an easy job, this being Queen of Britain.
It meant diverting but never offending a polyglot family of 500
million subjects, many of them as outspokenly critical as a
spinster aunt. It meant being regal without arrogance, glamorous
without extravagance, gracious without familiarity. It meant
setting an example of domesticity as a wife and mother and still
commanding an empire's respectful devotion.

    Tory and Laborite disagreed on the subject of their Queen as
they disagreed on almost everything else in Britain, but the
disagreement was only doctrinal; both parties believed in her.
"The young Queen needs the love and protection of us all," wrote
Nye Bevan's wife Jennie Lee in her leftist Tribune soon after the
accession. "We insist she be given not only time enough but peace
of mind to live her private life." Many a Conservative, on the
other hand, yearned to caparison his new sovereign in all the
pomp and panoply of bygone days. It was not the least of
Elizabeth's tasks to find the proper balance between simplicity
and sumptuousness a balance that would lend majesty her being and
still not outrage those who demanded a more democratic example.
In this, as in many other aspects of her new position, she was
helped by her 31-year-old husband, Prince Philip, Duke of
Edinburgh.

    Ever since their royal marriage, Britain's maiden aunts and
Mrs. Grundys had watched Philip with eagle eyes for the
traditional signs of the sailor ashore; but, beyond causing a
handful of Canadian debutantes to gush ecstatically over his good
looks at Elizabeth's first presentation party, or setting
Washington society aflutter on the royal visit to the U.S., the
Queen's husband has given no sign of reviving his bohemian
bachelor ways, mild though they were in actuality. He still
strives hard to lure Elizabeth out of the stuffy circle of
bluebloods considered by the most conventional the only proper
hosts for royalty. Last month he offended many a Tory by
persuading the Queen to accept an invitation to dine with Actor
Douglas Fairbanks Jr.

    But by & large Philip has learned that the restraints
royalty must put on itself have solider reasons than he had once
supposed. His frank impatience with outmoded customs is now
largely confined to attempts at jolting his wife's realm out of
its lethargy. "There is a school of thought." Prince Philip said
in an official speech as Elizabeth's husband, "which says, 'What
was good enough for my father is good enough for me.' I have no
quarrel with this sentiment at all, so long as it is not used as
an excuse for stagnation . . . but do not forget that the great
position of British industry was won when we led the world in
inventive imagination and the spirit of adventure."

    The Queen is Leaving. Like most young couples in the early
years of their marriage, the Queen of Britain and her husband are
engaged in a friendly struggle for domination in their own
affairs, but Philip is no Prince Albert (who once complained, "I
am only the husband, never the master in my house"). At parties,
when she wants to leave and he doesn't, Elizabeth sometimes
checkmates Philip by sending an equerry with the curt message:
"The Queen is leaving." But on other occasions, as when he
insisted against her wishes on wearing a plain naval uniform
(Last week Elizabeth raised Philip's rank to admiral, colonel
and air commodore, in charge of cadet training in the three
services.) instead of the trappings of a royal duke at the recent
opening of Parliament, Philip's will prevails. His relatively
humble upbringing (A poor relation of the Mountbattens, Philip
was educated at St. Cloud in Paris, a progressive school in
Scotland, and the Royal Naval College at Dartmouth.) has given
Elizabeth a closer touch with her people than her own cloistered
past could have permitted.

    Elizabeth's obvious happiness in Prince Philip and their
children has added new softness to her character and new beauty
to her face, just as becoming Queen has added a new dimension to
her practical intelligence. "It never occurred to me that she
could be a deep thinker," confessed one of Elizabeth's elder
advisers recently, "but every now and then, just lately, I catch
her reflecting in a way she never used to . . . groping for a
glimpse, a blurred glimpse of the workings of destiny."

    No Lunch for Gromyko. Like many another working couple in
their realm, Elizabeth and Philip begin their day by listening to
the 8 o'clock BBC newscast. Half an hour later, they discuss it
over a breakfast of tea, toast and kippers, and soon they are
lost in a cloud of newspapers. Elizabeth pores through three
papers each morning, not overlooking the sports pages, and like
most women, she shudders slightly when she sees her own picture.
Newspictures have seldom done her justice.

    At around 9:15 Nurse Helen Lightbody ("Nana") ushers in the
children, accompanied by the Queen's two corgies, Susan and
Sugar, for half an hour of play. Charles, Duke of Cornwall, 4, is
eager and always curious. Wide-eyed Princess Anne, 2, always
tumbles flat when she curtseys. By 10 a.m. Elizabeth's working
day has begun at a Chippendale desk: letters to be read and
written, documents to be signed, social schedules to be agreed
upon. "She gets to the point with frightening speed and
accuracy," says one of her aides.

    At 11:30, she holds the first of her day's audiences. A
foreign ambassador is presenting his credentials. If it is the
representative of a friendly power, Elizabeth chats graciously
in English, or in serviceable French. If it is Andrei Gromyko,
the interview is brief and formal. It may be a recently appointed
bishop eager to discuss the problems of his new see, and
Elizabeth as head of the church must be interested and informed.
It may be a visiting Governor General from one of the
Commonwealth nations, come for luncheon with his lady. Gourmet or
no, the guest must face the fact that Elizabeth the Queen likes
short meals and plain, wholesome British fare. After lunch
(maximum: an hour and a quarter) come the public appearances --
a ship to be launched, a hospital to be visited, an exhibition to
be opened, a cornerstone to be laid -- always accompanied with a
gracious, impromptu and neat little speech.

    Advise & Warn. At 5 o'clock, the Queen is back once more in
the palace to play with her children for another hour and -- on
Tuesdays -- to await the weekly visit from the Prime Minister.
Churchill used to drop in on her father at 5:30, but Elizabeth
makes him wait until an hour later to give her more time in the
nursery. No one but the Queen and Churchill himself knows what is
said at these meetings (which often last an hour or more), for
not even Philip may be present, but a glimpse of the forcefulness
of the young Queen's questions may be had in the words of another
senior Cabinet member, who recently remarked: "Younger ministers
than I will soon learn that this is no women to be trifled with."

    The British monarch's sole governmental duty is only "to
advise, to encourage and to warn," but that can nevertheless be a
vital and important duty. At this stage, Elizabeth for the most
part spends her time attempting to learn what she can from her
wise first minister, and asking, "How will this affect the
average house-wife?" In some cases, Elizabeth is empowered to
enforce her warning. No minister, for instance, may leave the
country without her consent, and Churchill himself had to ask
permission before making his plans to visit the U.S. this month.

    "All We See." Elizabeth's first and primary duty to her
people, however, is to represent in her person all that they hold
best in the British way of life, to endow the average Briton's
life with a spaciousness beyond his own means. All last year,
Britons were making plans and looking forward to Elizabeth's
coronation like a family planning a favorite daughter's wedding.
They mean it to be her party, but they mean it to be a family
party as well. The common sense and kinship Elizabeth shares with
her people are both exemplified in her decision, against stiff
conservative prejudice, to let TV enter the Abbey so that all the
family may share the ceremony.

    The Queen can still be stiffly Victorian when occasion
demands it. A veteran aide recently criticized her favorite
crooner: "Ma'am, that Bing Whatnot, blest if I can see what you
see in him." "Sir," replied Elizabeth loftily, "you are not
supposed to see all we see." But she can also unbend
delightfully. "Often she has caught my eye when a slightly
pompous person is executing a ceremonial gambit," confesses an
old friend of Elizabeth's, "and we both have to look away hastily
to keep from laughing."

    Last week Britain's Queen fulfilled another age-old
obligation to her people by spending Christmas at Sandringham,
her grandfather's and her father's favorite house, surrounded by
members of her family. It was the season when Britons are most
conscious of home and family, words that loom large and rich with
meaning in their lives. It was the season also when the British
monarch traditionally speaks to his subjects as a parent on
matters close to all their hearts. By radio from Sandringham last
week, Elizabeth told her subjects in a warm, clear voice: "Many
grave problems and difficulties confront us all, but with a new
faith in the old and splendid beliefs given us by our fore-
fathers, and the strength to venture beyond the safeties of the
past, I know we shall be worthy . . ."

    In cynical 1952, Britons and Americans alike were often too
plagued by doubt to venture beyond the safeties of their past. In
Elizabeth II, by God's grace Queen, Defender of the Faith, each
might see a reminder of what was old and splendid, and also a
fresh, imperative summons to make the present worthy of
remembrance.