William Cecil James Philip John Paul Howard, 8th Earl of Wicklow (styled Viscount Clonmore from his birth until succeeding to the earldom in 1946) was received into the Church at the age of thirty in 1932. Having attended Mass with the family’s Catholic servants, he was banished from visiting the family home on Sundays in addition to being disinherited. He later married the architect Eleanor Butler who served in Seanad Éireann from 1948-1951. Above is one of three photographs of Viscount Clonmore in the collection of the National Portrait Gallery.

November 2003

The Viennese weekly Falter interviewed Vicco von Bülow — better known as Loriot — in November of 2003. In part of the dialogue, Loriot explored the Prussianness of his family and upbringing, musing upon some aspects of what it is to be Prussian, turning away from the simplistic categorisations. Via Günter Kaindlstorfer.

…

Loriot: I am committed to my Prussian roots. I was born a Prussian, I have Prussian, so to speak, in my blood. That this defines you for yourself is not new. One is born there, so one has to accept it.

Prussian vices have caused too much harm over the past 150 years.

Loriot: That’s right, I will not deny it at all. Nevertheless, I am proud of my native town of Brandenburg; I am also proud of my country of origin. Here I will not deny, however, that I have been occasionally affected by the disaster that this country has done throughout history, time and again. Only: Which country has, over the centuries, not caused many evils? I will not have the Prussian reduced only to its negative sides.

Where do you see the positive side?

Loriot: There are also advanced aspects: Frederick the Great, for example, was the first to abolish serfdom and torture. These were big and bold reforms for its time. In addition, the Prussian State has developed an exemplary civil service. Against bribery and corruption, the Prussian officials were immune for centuries. Such a thing was not self-evident. So, the Prussian state was in some ways quite exemplary. But only now have the Prussians just gotten off the fence about war, and the legendary Prussian discipline made governance easier for the Nazis, one would have to say. If people in the Nazi era had been, attentive, critical, and aware, if they had been less obedient, then the world would have been spared much.

You can start with the soldierly virtues of the old Prussian something?

Loriot: I am, like everyone, influenced by my upbringing. My father came from an old Prussian military family. Prior to joining the private sector, he was a police officer. Such a thing certainly leaves some traces in the personality of a person.

What must be thought of your father? As a man who constantly banged his heels together?

Loriot: No, but he was undoubtedly a man of controlled and disciplined. One must keep his emotions under strict control he has drummed into me and my brother. I could not kiss him, for example. Men do not kiss, that was one of his maxims; he was adamant.

And your mother, you were allowed to kiss?

Loriot: My mother died when I was six years old. I grew up with my grandmother.

As you can see the character of your Father which is in retrospect?

Loriot: I’ve learned a lot from him about the vital importance of manners, for example. Through and through, he had a respectable appearance. As a virtue, self-control was central to my father. He never let himself go. I’ve rarely seen him without a tie. At the same time you could die laughing with him, he also had incredibly funny sides. However, it must be said: the time of militarism, which my father embodies in some ways — those days are over, thank God. The war doesn’t play in people’s minds the same role it once did in Germany.

Herr von Bulow, you represent your whole habitus produces the ideal type of conservative gentleman. Are you really a conservative man?

Loriot: Terms like “conservative” and “progressive” I try to avoid as a rule. Whether one likes it or not, these words are always politically connoted. I strictly keep out of party political matters.

How did you vote last time?

Loriot: One doesn’t tell.

You are a man of the center?

Loriot: Sometimes I sympathize with the political positions of a party, then again I like more the views of others. The truth is never on one side. Each direction has its positive aspects, which should be acknowledged.

I remember a Spiegel article, which must have been in the late 1980s. It said something like: “The West German intelligentsia is left-wing. Basically, there are only two right-leaning intellectuals in the country: Ernst Jünger and Loriot.”

Loriot: This can only be a joke.

It was actually printed.

Loriot: Me as “Rechtsintellektueller”? I can only laugh! So, in this attribute I fail to recognise myself yet again.

Are you addicted to harmony?

Loriot: I am convinced that most conflicts can enclose in a considerate and atmosphere characterized by mutual respect. One mustn’t shout like a madman to enforce one’s point of view.

They seem very calm, very calm. Do you know something like stress?

Loriot: In order to have stress, I have too little time. It may, so far, just not have come, that I feel stressed. If one is stressed, you have done more than you can afford. This one must not allow.

Do you suffer from the aging process?

Loriot: Yes, certainly.

How do you handle it?

I rush myself less than before. In recent years, I have occasionally been an opera director, made a few drawings, and prepared a film; such a programme I now no longer have the audacity for. That mustn’t be. At my age it is safer to take things a little more quietly, don’t you think?

Fra Fredrik John Patrick Crichton-Stuart was born September 6, 1940 to Lord Rhidian Crichton-Stuart (son of the 4th Marquess of Bute) and his wife Selina van Wijk (daughter of the Ambassador of the Queen of the Netherlands to the French Republic). He was raised in Scotland and North Africa (where his father was British Delegate to the International Legislative Assembly of Tangier) and was educated first at Carlekemp in North Berwick and then at Ampleforth. He joined the Order of Malta in 1962, later being named the Delegate for Scotland & the Northern Marches. In 1993 he was appointed Chancellor of the resurrected Grand Priory of England. Fra Freddy became Grand Prior himself when his cousin, Fra Andrew Bertie, died in 2008 and was succeeded by the then-Grand Prior of England, Fra Matthew Festing.

Fra Freddy was a devoted follower and promoter of the traditional form of the Roman rite. He joined Una Voce Scotland in 1996 and became secretary in 2000. Two years later he was named councillor and senior vice-president of FIUV, the International Federation ‘Una Voce’, and briefly served as its president in 2005.

Over the past year or so Fra Freddy had been varying ill but seemed to recover. I am told he was found dead yesterday morning, still clasping his breviary. He was well-known in Edinburgh and beyond, and he will be missed by his many friends as well as those who worked and volunteered with him or interacted with him in his charitable activities.

One of my underlying intentions, however, is to remember that there is something we have lost, and we should recognise and admit it as a loss rather than blindly worshipping at the altar of the god Progress. I challenge anyone to read this story and deny that we today have lost something profoundly good.

The story is related by Auguste de Belloy and was published in the nineteenth-century periodical L’Illustration under the title ‘Customs of the Café Valois’.

Farewell, O good old days! Farewell, O affable visage of the proprietor and smiling and respectful reception of the waiters! Farewell, O solemn entries of the Café Valois’ dignified customs, which people were curious to see. Such was the case with the Knight Commander Odoard de La Fere’s arrival.

At exactly noon, the canon of the Palais-Royal heralded his arrival. He would appear on the threshold and pause for a moment to sweep the salon with an affable and self-assured gaze as someone eager to practice a longtime custom. His right hand pressing firmly on the white and blue porcelain handle of his cane, he threw his old faded brown cape over his shoulder with a swing of his left hand. No one ever snickered at this, since not even the most elegant mantle with golden fleur-de-lys embroidery was ever thrown back with a more distinguished movement.

In 1789 the former steward of the Prince of Conti ran the Café Valois; it was rather devoid of political colour and local flavor at that time.

Among the frequenters of the place, standing out by his noble manners, stately demeanor and wooden leg, was the Chevalier de Lautrec. He was from the second line of that family, an old brigadier of the king’s army, a Knight of Malta, of Saint Louis, of Saint Maurice and of Saint Lazare.

The Chevalier de Lautrec was a middle-aged man who lived a modest, though very dignified life on his small pension. Though he rarely appeared in society, he could be seen most often at the Palais Royal and the Café Valois. He was a very cultured mind and an assiduous reader of all the newspapers.

Deprived of his pension overnight, it was never known what the Chevalier de Lautrec lived on at a time when it was so difficult to live, and so easy to die. But here we have something that sheds at least a dim light on this mystery.

One morning after finishing a very modest breakfast in the Café Valois, as was his custom, the Chevalier de Lautrec rose from his table, chatted with all naturalness with the proprietress, who stood behind a counter, bid good-day to the master of the café with a slight gesture of the eyes, and walked out majestically saying nothing about the bill.

This scene was repeated the next day, and the next, and on every day for weeks, months and years without the owner of the establishment ever receiving an explanation from the Chevalier or even thinking to ask him for one.

A few days after the first of these singular exits, as the Chevalier directed his gaze to the good proprietor’s son, he said to the father in an unpresuming tone of voice.

“Well, here is a cavalier that will learn very little now that the schools are closed. You should send him to my house everyday between one and four o’clock in the afternoon. I shall teach him elementary mathematics and English, which I speak passably.”

“No doubt this would be useful to him if he is to replace you some day; and besides, I really don’t have anything to occupy my time, so these lessons would help to entertain me.”

“Milord, you are really very good, a thousand times good,” answered the innkeeper. “What you propose would be an invaluable favor to us, especially in these times. But, we would not dare encumber you to the point of…”

“But it would rather be doing me a service, I tell you!” the Chevalier interjected.

Despite the fact that his eyes were so full of authority, he said this with no firmness at all, but the worthy proprietor was indeed perceptive to appreciate this contrast, and he came close to thrusting his son into the Chevalier’s arms.

“Milord,” said the innkeeper, “you are much too generous to us. My son is yours, as well as my whole house, today, tomorrow and always.”

For many years thereafter the boy studied English and mathematics at the house of the impoverished noble.

On the 7th of December, 1817, at eleven o’clock in the morning, that is, exactly 26 years to the day and to the hour after this conversation, the now elderly Chevalier de Lautrec entered into the Café Valois as was his custom. The former owner had died 5 years earlier and was succeeded by his son.

After he had dined with a good appetite the Chevalier, for the first time in 26 years, candidly asked for the check while he paged with all naturality through the Drapeau Blanc [the monarchist daily newspaper].

Without batting an eyelash, the proprietor exchanged a few words with his young wife. Ten minutes later the Chevalier received a bill in the amount of 16,980 francs for 8,490 dinners at 2 francs each.

The old nobleman glanced at the total, opened his wallet, took out enough bills for the sum and handed them to the waiter along with the check, telling him to keep the change, which was exactly 520 francs. He rose up from the table, doubtless feeling much lighter, though his expression betrayed nothing of it. He then went over to the counter according to his old habit and conversed with the young mistress of the establishment for a few moments before slowly directing his steps towards the door. Then, with a napkin draped over his arm, the proprietor respectfully stepped aside to allow him to pass by, the old Chevalier gravely took his hand and warmly pressed it between his own.

The silent scene we have just described did not go unnoticed by the Marquis de Rivarol, who was coming in just then after having set his watch to the famous clock of the Palais Royal.

At the time of the Restoration, the Chevalier de Lautrec inherited a small share of the estate of one of his brothers who had died in Coblentz shortly before. Even though it was an appreciable sum, most of it was consumed settling hefty bills that were long overdue. But thanks to the recovery of his pension, he was able to end his days with financial ease and always faithful to the Café Valois for whose advancement he contributed to as we shall explain.

We have seen that the proprietor of that hospitable establishment was a creditor like few are found in any epoch. Few cases as beautiful as the one we have related dignified the life of that good man, with no great harm to his finances. This businessman of ancient stock did not treat everyone indiscriminately. He possessed a clear perception and sensibility of heart.

With the Chevalier de Lautrec’s payment, the proprietor recovered most of what was owed him, and as to the interest on that debt, which he had never contemplated charging, he was generously compensated by the lessons from such a proficient teacher of English, mathematics and, above all, good sentiments.

Furthermore, owing to this noble relationship, the Café Valois won distinguished and selected patrons. It acquired an even greater original character, which was a considerable advantage and almost vital need for such an establishment at that time.

Indeed, the Marquis de Rivarol was not a man who would miss such a good opportunity to be indiscreet for charity’s sake. Since he had many relations among the monarchists of that time, as he would also among those of the future, it became easy for him to serve the interests of his favorite café by making this and other anecdotes well known.

Thanks to him, the owner of the establishment became something of a curiosity and was sought out to the point of aggravation. This was compounded by the fact that although the innkeeper’s political convictions were as vague as they were moderate, his qualities were ascribed to his perceived political fervor, but in reality they lay in innate kindness and paternal tradition. In any case, this was very advantageous to him, for while the Calé Lemblin became the meeting place of the officers of the Empire, now retired or in the reserves, and of some republicans and liberals not belonging to the army, the voltigeurs of Louis XV and the young members of the Guards Corps chose the Cafe Valois.

Outside of Rome, you don’t run into cardinals all that often, but last Saturday I caught sight of one of the most popular clerics in the Catholic Church: Australia’s Cardinal Pell. The occasion was the Cardinal’s reception into the Sacred Military Constantinian Order of St George, which took place in the Little Oratory. His Royal Highness the Duke of Noto presided over the investiture, and if you squint your eyes enough you can make out a profile shot of Young Cusack in the background of the photo of the Duke (below). In addition to the Cardinal Archbishop of Sydney’s being made a Bailiff Grand Cross of Justice, six others were invested as members of the Constantinian Order, including His Excellency Don Antonio da Silva Coelho, the Ambassador of the Order of Malta to the Republic of Peru. For more info, see the Order’s notice on the event.

And afterwards, do you know who I happened to run into? No less an exalted being than Cicio Stinkiman, my previous interactions with whom are recounted here and here. Cicio is as friendly (!) as ever, and living the high life in London. He bears several wounds from fights he’s gotten into while romping around in Hyde Park, all of which altercations I’m confident he initiated.

When the day’s official events had concluded, a contingent (including Gerald Warner and the Secret English Bonaparte) escaped to the Cavalry & Guards Club, where various matters were discussed over tea and sandwiches.

Other than that, we haven’t been up to much of interest. Meeting with members of the Zimbabwean opposition, drinking with Austrians, conspiring to set up a boat club, and today commemorating with champagne the birthday of veteran SABC journo and this website’s Editor Emeritus, Mr. Tim Conroy.

IT’S A CRACKING photo; the sort of thing guaranteed to irk the puritanical and bring a smile to the good-humoured. The thirteen-year-old Princess Yvonne Sayn-Wittgenstein-Sayn takes a swig from a bottle while Prince Alexander, just twelve, sits with a half-smoked cigarette. Taken aboard the yacht of Bartholomé March off Majorca in 1955, the photographer was Princess Marianne “Manni” Sayn-Wittgenstein-Sayn — the mother of Yvonne and Alexander — who’s known by her photographic soubriquet of “Mamarazza”.

Princess Manni was born in Salzburg in 1919, the daughter of Friedrich Baron Mayr-Melnhof and his wife Maria Anna Countess von Meran. The eldest of nine children, she received a camera from her parents in 1935 and began a lifelong love of photography.

Studying at Munich during the war, she met Prince Ludwig zu Sayn-Wittgenstein who was on leave from the front, and the pair were engaged within days. Married in 1942, their daughter Yvonne was born in December of that year with Alexander following a year later. When the war ended the castle at Sayn was severely damaged by bombs, and the family considered emigrating to Brazil before they decided to stay, rebuild, and put their farms back in order.

Prince Ludwig was killed in a car accident in 1962, and Manni had to manage the family affairs until Prince Alexander came into his majority. From the 1970s, her photographs began appearing in magazines, and from 1991 has been shown at exhibitions in galleries. Though 92 years old, the Princess is still going strong, as is her son Alexander Konrad Friedrich Heinrich, Furst zu Sayn-Wittgenstein-Sayn, who now serves as vice-president of Europa Nostra and president of Europa Nostra Deutschland.

Car accident after the baptism of Prince Albrecht of Sayn-Wittgenstein-Hohenstein, 14 May 1950. The driver Prince Ludwig zu Sayn-Wittgenstein with Princess Beatrix zu Sayn-Wittgenstein-Hohenstein, Hella Princess of Bavaria, and Princess Clementine von Croy.

Baroness Teresa Thyssen with Count Ivan Batthyani, 1950.

Prince Ludwig zu Sayn-Wittgenstein sunbathing, October 1956

A winter picnic in the forest.

Potato harvest at Sayn. Prince Ludwig (left with hat), Princess Yvonne (on horseback), Prince Alexander and Princess Elisabeth of Sayn-Wittgenstein, Hans-Carl Baron and Baroness of Marlies von Friesen, Hanna Merl, Maria Fiedler, Luzia Dietz and others.

The last Emperor of the Aztecs, Moctezuma II (usually anglicised as ‘Montezuma’) suffered an ignominious end: defeated by the Spanish, some accounts have him being stoned by his former subjects, while others claim he died of starvation, refusing to eat food not worthy of an emperor, still more claim Cortés had him killed. Many of his descendants embraced Christianity and found favour from Mexico’s new overlord, the King of Spain.

The fallen leader’s daughter, Doña Isabel Moctezuma Techichpotzin Ixcaxochitzin (Her two latter Nahuatl names meaning “Lord’s Daughter” and “cotton-flower”), was known for her excessive generosity to the Augustinian friars, to the extent that she was actually asked to stop donating.

Moctezuma II’s son, Don Pedro de Moctezuma Tlacahuepan Ihualicahuaca also embraced Christianity and his son (M2′s grandson) Don Diego Luis de Moctezuma Ihuitl Temoc moved to Spain. Don Diego Luis’s son Don Pedro Tesifón de Moctezuma y de la Cueva was created Count of Moctezuma by Philip IV of Spain in 1627. In 1766, the holder of this title was named a Grandee of Spain.

In 1865 this line of descent was further honoured by being elevated to Duke of Moctezuma by Isabella II of Spain. The current head of this branch of the House of Moctezuma is Juan José Marcilla de Teruel-Moctezuma y Jiménez, 5th Duke of Moctezuma de Tultengo, 15th Marquis of Tenebrón and Viscount of Ilucán.

Another daughter of Moctezuma II, Princess Xipaguacin Moctezuma, married Juan de Grau, Baron of Toleriu and died in Toleriu in 1537. Her descendants compose the noble house of Grau-Moctezuma de Toleriu which continues today.

Among the other Spanish nobles who count the blood of Moctezuma II in their veins are the Dukes of Ahumada, the Dukes of Abrantes, the Counts de la Enjarada, and the Counts of Miravalle. The last family were granted life pensions by the Kingdom of Spain in 1550, which continued to be paid by the government of Mexico until 1934 when the administration under President Abelardo L. Rodríguez suspended the payments.

“We have been waiting for this decision for a long time,” Khosi Fhumulani Kutama, the Chairman of the National House of Traditional Leaders told the media. “It is important that people accept it not only for the institution of traditional leadership but for the whole country.”

But the indications so far are that the six monarchies will take the government to court in an attempt to forestall the demotion.

Up to this point, the most significant spate of mediatisation was during the Napoleonic era, when Talleyrand arranged the demotion and reorganisation of conquered German lands.

ROYAL, NOBLE, AND common titles in Afrikaans are, like most of the language, descended from Dutch antecedents which, in turn, come from German. The Cape knew not the Kingdom of the Netherlands, which was established after the Dutch relinquished the colony, but was founded as an outlet of the Dutch East India Company (or V.O.C., to give its Dutch acronym). After a brief period of British occupation, Dutch dominion over the Cape returned during the Batavian Republic before finally being seized by the British in 1806 and erected as a British colony in 1814. When the Union of South Africa was created in 1910, the country had its first king, George V, though the sovereign was generally only referred to as ‘King of South Africa’ from 1927 onwards.

The country has had no emperors, though some like to attribute that title to Shaka, the greatest King of the Zulus. Typically, however, he is known as king (as in King Shaka International Airport, Durban’s brand new landing-place). South Africa’s royalty have tended to be either native (like Prince Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela) or German (like Prince Hubertus of Prussia, d. 1950, and a few Blüchers, etc.).

Prince Hubertus with a photo of his grandfather Wilhelm II and with his herd of karakul sheep.

There is some debate over the translation of native titles into English, and they are often left untranslated today. (This can be quite confusing, as some native titles are also used as Christian names). In Afrikaans, a tribal chieftain is a stamhoof, a paramount chief is a opperhoof, and a plain old inkosi or chief can be translated either as hoofman or prins. Thus Prince Mangosothu Buthelezi, the leader of the Inkatha Freedom Party (Inkatha Vryheidsparty, which obtains many Afrikaner votes in KwaZulu-Natal) is sometimes rendered as Hoofman Mangosuthu Buthelezi but perhaps slightly more often as Prins Mangosuthu Buthelezi.

South Africa has had counts and countesses a plenty (Count Gyula Jankovich-Besan being a memorable example) and barons as well (Baron Pieter van Rheede van Oudtshoorn of Saasveld) and a few baronets and knights (Sir De Villiers Graaf, 2nd Baronet, final leader of the Verenigde Party).

In South Africa, the overwhelming majority of what would, in other countries, be aristocracy are instead gentry. South African prime ministers frowned upon grants of titles and knighthoods by the Crown. Poor George VI repeatedly tried to get Maj. Piet van der Byl a baronetcy but his PM of the day (no less a figure than General Smuts) continually refused. Smuts himself was such a princely character that he really ought to have been ennobled (or, better yet, made a prince), but the Greatest South African was one of those noble fools who mistakenly think it is more humble to refuse honours than to accept them.

The country’s native royalty are gathered in the National House of Traditional Leaders, a group which, while not part of the government, is nonetheless allowed to meet occasionally in the old House of Assembly chamber in the Parliament building. Among its members is Leruo Molotlegi, 36th King of the Bafokeng nation (about 300,000-strong). The Bafokeng lands are in what is now the North-West Province, and under which lies the Merensky Reef, a substantial trove of platinum, ferrochrome, rhodium, and palladium. The Tswana-speaking tribe receives a 22% royalty from the sale of all minerals extracted from beneath their land, making them the richest tribe in all of Africa.

Cyprian, King of the Zulus, with his leige lord, George VI, King of South Africa in 1947.

The most prominent of South African royals, however, remains the King of the Zulus, who even opens the sessions of the Provincial Legislature of KwaZulu-Natal in Pietermaritzburg. King Goodwill presides over the annual Shaka Day commemorations, which provides a rare moment of unity between Jacob Zuma, the President of South Africa (and leader of the ANC), and Prince Buthelezi of Inkatha (the ANC’s arch-rivals), under the smiling countenance of the King.

In his column in the Daily Telegraph, former editor Charles Moore praises Miklos Banffy as ‘the Tolstoy of Transylvania’. Ardent Banffyites like yours truly are always pleased when the Hungarian novelist gets attention in the English-speaking world, which happens all too rarely. I can’t remember how on earth I stumbled upon the works of Banffy, probably through reading the Hungarian Quarterly, a publication that — covering art, literature, history, politics, science, and more — is admirably polymathic in our age where the specialist niche is worshipped.

Simply put, Miklos Banffy is a must-read. If you love Paddy Leigh Fermor’s telling of his youthful walk from the Hook of Holland to Constantinople (the third and final installation of which we still await), then Miklos Banffy will be right up your alley. Start with his Transylvanian trilogy — They Were Counted, They Were Found Wanting, and They Were Divided.

The story follows two cousins, the earnest Balint Abady and the dissolute László Gyeroffy, Hungarian aristocrats in Transylvania, and the varying paths they take in the final years of European civilization. “They are full of love for the way of life destroyed by the First World War,” Charles Moore points out, “but without illusion about its deficiencies.” Three volumes of nearly one-and-a-half thousand pages put together, they make for deeply, deeply rewarding reading, transporting you to the world that ended with the crack of an assassin’s bullet in Sarajevo, 1914.

After finishing his trilogy, Banffy’s autobiographical The Phoenix Land is worthwhile; some of the real events depicted shadow those in the fictional novels. As previously mentioned, it contains a description of the last Hapsburg coronation (that of Blessed Charles) and numerous amusing tales. After that, I’m afraid you will have to learn Hungarian, as I have neglected to do, as no more of this author’s oeuvre has yet been translated into English.