2.5 stars
An obscure, gossipy nonfiction work from the 1990s about the royal line of Monaco, this turned out pretty much as I expected. If you are specifically seeking a book about Monaco, which I was, it isn’t a bad choice. It’s hard to imagine recommending otherwise.
Monaco’s early history, from ancient times to the beginning of the 17th century, is swept through in the first few pages. As it turns out, the Grimaldis have not actually ruled the principality from 1297, as claimed; the guy who took the fortress lost it within a few years, and the family had to buy it back twice, coming into permanent possession only in 1419. It became a principality in 1612, when the regent for its young ruler started designating his nephew as a “prince” and the Spanish, in control at the time, let it go.
From there, the first third of the book follows marriages, affairs and wars from the early 17th through mid 19th centuries. By this point the princes were fully focused on their true aim of achieving high rank in the French nobility; Monaco gave them a title and they pumped it as hard as they could for taxes to fund their lifestyle, but rarely visited.
The second third traces Monaco’s rise as a luxury vacation destination, from the mid-19th century through WWII; this was originally the brainchild of a business-minded princess, and focused almost exclusively on the casino, though that raised moral objections both abroad and by some of the princes themselves. Not that they refused the money, far from it, but they tried to distance themselves all the same.
The final third is all about Prince Rainier and Grace Kelly and their children, up through the book’s publication in 1992. The celebrity gossip portion seems to be what has drawn most people to the book. My biggest takeaway is that marrying a prince isn’t all it’s cracked up to be: he demanded a $2 million dowry (her father refused on grounds that his daughter didn’t need to pay a man to marry her... but then was convinced to put that amount “toward the wedding,” which in fact the casino magnate mostly funded) and that she contribute to household expenses—somehow, as she also had to give up her career. Oh, and agree up front that if they split for any reason, he’d get the kids.
Overall, it was informative, although not written with any particular flair. The book is not particularly well-sourced; the author describes extensive research in general terms, but provides only a chapter-wide notes on sources, leaving many unexplained claims, such as describing the thoughts and feelings of people now deceased.
It’s also sloppy, which always makes you wonder how much you can trust anything the author says. At one point, Edwards mistakenly identifies a prince’s sister as his daughter. At another, she has a treaty ending the Franco-Prussian War before it started. Something happens in 1690, six years pass and somehow it’s still 1690. She has Queen Alexandra becoming Queen of England in 1910; actually it was 1901, and 1910 is when she stopped being queen. She weirdly implies there was something fishy about the deaths of the Louis XIV’s grandson and his family, which I have not seen from any other writers and am inclined to put down to sloppiness as well. (Also, an unnecessary number of words are spent on French royal gossip.) She gets the size of Monaco wrong virtually every time she mentions it: I am stumped as to claims late in the book that in the 20th century Monaco reclaimed a full square mile of land from the sea, which it obviously can’t have done since it remains at only 0.8 square miles total.
Also, I truly cannot with this description, offered without commentary:
“Proust described the Princesse de Luxembourg [whom the author says was modeled on Alice, Princess of Monaco] as ‘tall, red-haired, handsome, with a rather prominent nose. . . . [I saw her] half leaning upon a parasol in such a way as to impart to her tall and wonderful form that slight inclination, to make it trace that arabesque, so dear to the women who . . . knew how, with drooping shoulders, arched backs, concave hips and taut legs to make their bodies float as softly as a silken scarf about the rigid armature of an invisible shaft which might be supposed to have transfixed it.’”
This, this gem is why I don’t read 20th century men—this need to sexualize absolutely everything in the most bizarre and disgusting ways. Maybe I should thank Edwards for warning me off Proust, but it was clearly inadvertent; in fact she introduces Grace Kelly in her own words as “a rare beauty with unruffled elegance and flashes of an inner fire waiting to be kindled by the right man.” Perhaps I should acknowledge that gross 20th century writing about women was not limited to the pens of men. That said, outside of these couple of howlers it’s all right.
In the end, it is a book about Monaco, it is coherent and readable, and there aren’t a lot of choices. That’s one more off the list, at any rate.