The week before Princess Diana’s funeral and the funeral itself were, by agreement, a remarkable moment in the history of modern Britain, but most of us, despite broadsheet press commentary which was frequently sensible and thoughtful, have found it difficult to understand or even to know what happened. And this, of course, is due to the fact that the dominant intellectual categories of the 20th century are secular and rational: we are in a sense taught not to be able to understand such ‘irrational’ phenomena as the reaction to Diana’s death, or indeed anything to do with public attitudes to royalty, and are frequently embarrassed if asked to do so. Historians of the 20th century are particularly disabled – historians of medieval religion or Byzantinists at least know what questions to ask. Furthermore, we are compelled to measure things which are almost immeasurable. The great majority of the population, after all, did not leave flowers in front of the palaces or anywhere else. Over one-quarter of the adult population did not even watch the funeral on television. Most of those who were there were not weeping. Does that mean they were emotionally unaffected? On the other hand, many more watched the funeral on television than watched the Euro 96 England-Germany match, hitherto the record-breaker. Does that mean we feel more intensely about Diana than about the national game – or simply that more women watched the funeral than watched the football? And, in any case, can people articulate what they feel in ways we can understand? In due course we might know these things but at the moment we do not.

This is why historians and sociologists of the 20th century have approached the subject of royalty and its audience gingerly, and few have done so at all. However, by coincidence, the first and still the most sustained attempt to understand our reactions to royalty was published exactly 60 years ago; and it was, also by coincidence, a study of a single royal event. This was Mass-Observation’s study of King George VI’s coronation in 1937 – May 12. Two hundred ‘observers’ were posted about the country and instructed to note what they observed: with the exception of those who kept a record of what they themselves felt, they were not to intrude or act as mediators – simply to observe. There are all sorts of problems with Mass-Observation’s techniques, as any historian knows, and they have not been universally admired – the sociologist T.H. Marshall thought them at least in part ‘moonshine’. It is also true that observers, though instructed merely to record the ordinary and everyday, tended to record the extraordinary on grounds of interest and inevitably ‘edited’ what they saw (since ‘facts’ do not speak for themselves), but it is unlikely, given that they were trying to measure degrees of emotion and sentiment, that anybody will ever do much better.

The possibilities and limitations of Mass-Observation were apparent to anyone who was in London the week that Diana died, particularly in the Mall or outside the palaces. I recorded my own impressions in as mass-observant a way as I could and tried to come to conclusions consonant with what I ‘saw’. In the end, my regard for Mass-Observation and what they achieved was enhanced, since I found it difficult to reach conclusions which were anything more than tentative in face of evidence that was quite intractable. And it is the case that one tends to notice the extraordinary or unexpected: I expected, for instance, the great banks of flowers but failed to anticipate that they would produce a very pungent, sweet smell which will affect, I am sure, how everyone remembers the scene. One of my strongest memories of the Mall was of something absolutely untypical: an elderly black woman singing hymns in a cracked voice without regard for anyone else. She was singing for Diana alone. More typically, almost every bouquet was accompanied by a card, letter or poem. There was some surprise that the flowers were left in paper or cellophane. But these were individual presentations and the paper kept them individual. Not everyone gave flowers: there were many posters and manifestos attached to trees or railings – with people happy to identify themselves, in one case as ‘Freddie Mercury’s cousin’. A very large proportion of the bouquets and messages – probably a majority – came from children, often collectively: from playgroups, kindergartens, primary schools. Some classes sent whole books in which, presumably, every child contributed something. How far there were parental guiding hands in all this is hard to say. The language (and spelling) suggests not much. From what I saw, parents left their children to write what they wanted. At a rough guess, I would say there were an unrepresentative number of cards and letters from Asian children, though that could be wrong. What was characteristic of the letters and poems as a whole is how highly-charged and emotionally uninhibited they were. Some exceptionally so. The most common words appeared to be ‘angel’, ‘heaven’, ‘soul’, ‘paradise’, ‘smile’, ‘cared’, ‘love’, ‘grace’, ‘peace’ and ‘at peace’. Many of the letters hoped that Diana would have the peace and happiness in heaven which she failed to find on earth: hoped that she was now ‘free from her troubles’. Most, directly or indirectly, expressed a sense of personal loss. A significant number (which surprised me) were to both Diana and Dodi, and I doubt this was merely gratitude to Harrods, who were dispensing free Evian and coffee in the Mall. Many were in fractured English and I saw several in French. Very few mentioned the royal family. Some of the posters were ‘political’: ‘Diana – the only jewel in the crown’; ‘Charles, you’ve lost the best thing you ever had. Good luck to Wills and Harry,’ said one poster stuck to the railings of Buckingham Palace.

As many people noted, the whole atmosphere was very ‘democratic’: rarely can the railings of our royal palaces have been treated with such disrespect. Posters, cards, letters, even rosaries were stuck in and stuck on them any old way. There were also many forms of demotic art – drawings, sketches, paintings and photo-montages. And there were gifts, mostly from children – huge numbers of teddy-bears and related comforters. But not all from children. Outside Buckingham Palace, for instance, was prominently displayed a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream – perhaps a more effective comforter. There were innumerable candles, many intended to be votive, and some so large they could only have been bought at an ecclesiastical supplier.

As to the people, a steady day-long stream became a flood after six. Many were parents (frequently both parents) with children, but the population as a whole seemed fairly well represented. The majority were women, but only just. There were many ‘businessmen’ (for want of a better word), dark suits and briefcases, who were bringing flowers – and this again was a surprise. Most striking, and something confirmed on the day of the funeral, were the large numbers of young couples, with as many men as women holding flowers. The queues of those waiting to sign the books of condolence increased throughout the week until Friday, when 43 books became available. On Thursday the sign said ‘waiting time 7 hours,’ but the police said eight. (The police were helpful and good-humoured.) The queue, again, was pretty representative, though understandably biased towards the hale and hearty. Once more the majority were women, but not a large majority. I think the queue was disproportionately non-white, but that is said without much conviction. There seemed to be a considerable number of tourists both in the queue, Americans particularly, and in the crowd, where a great many Italians and Spaniards were taking photographs. There is a view that the reaction to Diana’s death represents a ‘Mediterraneanisation’ of our culture, but the slightly stunned look many of these Italians and Spaniards wore suggests not. The number of photo-seekers around Buckingham Palace was so large that the police had created photographer-only queues.

Making sense of this is not easy. The tendency has been to read into these events a profound change in British life, but the evidence points in different directions. Most of the letters and poems, for example, were written in an instantly recognisable, though very heightened graveyard style which is, if anything, mid-19th century. The 20th century has been bad at devising a language of grief and mourning: the result is that the feeling for Diana has resorted to rhetorical conventions which in other circumstances we would regard as out-dated. On the other hand, there is a timelessness, too, about our responses: we are surprised that so many people seemed to have a quasi-religious view of Diana. But throughout the 20th century observers have been ‘surprised’. In 1935, 1936 and 1937, years of many royal events, Kingsley Martin, the editor of the New Statesman, was astonished at the ‘recrudescence of sheer superstition’ surrounding the monarchy. People endlessly spoke of ‘royal weather’; there was much publicity given to a crippled Scottish boy who learnt to walk ‘after’ having met George V; in 1939 it was alleged that the inhabitants of Southwold crowded around George VI to ‘touch’ him for his magical curative powers. These stories are very similar to those which have appeared about Diana and the effect she had on the ill. Their recovery, it is said, has been ‘like a miracle’: what is 20th-century about that is the care people take not to say: ‘it’s a miracle.’ But there is no reason, even allowing for 20th-century caution, to think that the enormous fund of popular ‘religion’ which surprised Geoffrey Gorer in the early Fifties has much diminished. He noted the widespread belief in astrology, spiritualism, an afterlife, in the power of prayer, charms and good luck, which he attributed to the feeling of helplessness which (he thought) so many people had about their own lives. I do not think this has much changed.

The memorial literature also underlines the extent to which people believe, as Diana herself believed, that the social good depends on individual goodness, kindness, understanding and, above all, love. Some have argued that this belief stands for progress, for the emergence of a new and gentle Britain. Certainly, humane sentiments of that kind represent a repudiation of the hard-faced values dominant over the past twenty years. That this is progress, however, is more doubtful: it is highly traditional to believe that the social good is dependent on individual goodness. Moreover this way of thinking gives Diana semi-magical qualities, thereby reinforcing the age-old notion that royalty is magical. In fact, Diana’s social authority depended on political powerlessness. As Freud’s biographer, Ernest Jones, argued of George V (and the argument holds for Diana), once the monarch becomes divorced from the discharge of political power, once government ‘decomposes’ into two persons, one ‘untouchable, irremovable and sacrosanct’ (the king), and the other ‘vulnerable in such a degree that sooner or later he will surely be destroyed’ (the prime minister), the king is held to be ‘above criticism’. As such, it becomes difficult for him to be unpopular. Hence the paradox of Diana’s hold on our emotions: its strength was in direct relation to her political powerlessness. It is unlikely that flowers will be strewn in the path of Lady Thatcher’s coffin, and she was certainly ‘destroyed’, but, unlike Diana, she wielded power and achieved what she wanted.

It has been widely argued that Diana’s enormous popularity is a result (perhaps even a cause of) the ‘feminisation’ of our values, which are now thought to be softer and less aggressive, a process accompanied by the ‘Catholicisation’ of our public ceremonies. There may be some truth to this and it could be related to the fact that such a small proportion of the male population has had any experience of the Armed Forces. One thing which does seem to be new is the willingness of young men to grieve publicly in a ‘feminine’ way. This was very apparent both before Diana’s funeral and at the funeral itself, but was first manifested after the Hillsborough disaster, when Anfield was thick with bouquets and gifts (usually Liverpool scarves). And there was nothing very Protestant about the mourning or the funeral: not merely the lack of restraint but the fact that both Earl Spencer and Prince Charles crossed themselves – an act which would have brought the monarchy down a generation ago. I doubt, however, that this is as new as it appears: the Mid-Victorians, for instance, would have found it all much more familiar than we do. My guess is that the stoicism thought to be typical of the British character is a product of the later 19th century and reached its apogee in the first fifty years of the 20th. And even this is perhaps a fiction. Mass-Observation’s May 12 describes very unbuttoned crowds whose behaviour, if not extravagant, was not restrained. In a couple of cases the lack of restraint is almost suspicious. Outsiders had two stereotypes of the British: there was the famous discipline and constraint, but there were the excitable, partisan crowds, even more excitable than the Italians, especially at sporting matches. Arguably, what is exceptional in British history is not the extravagance but the stiff upper lip.

And we should remember who was being buried. The three great public funerals within living memory – George VI, Churchill and Mountbatten – were all of heroic males intimately associated with war and empire. Diana was the reverse of this, and the kind of mourning associated with them would have been wholly inappropriate for her. Diana stood for the most traditional image of woman. The first to leave flowers, cards and letters were children and they made the running. This reinforced the picture of her, not as heroic but as loving mother, and a mother who cared for the outcast – her ‘constituency of the rejected’, as Earl Spencer rather craftily put it. More difficult to explain, as with the whole phenomenon, was the intensity with which these traditional attitudes were expressed. It was clear from the beginning that in many people’s minds the Queen of Hearts was close to the Queen of Heaven. And since this Queen was wounded and vulnerable the identifications became stronger. Nor is there much doubt that Diana’s physical appearance, like Eva Perón’s in her last days, was what many thought the Queen of Heaven’s should be: blonde, beautiful and soulful. This should not be underrated.

Although Diana’s appeal is largely traditional, it is also eclectic. Who else could bring the Queen Mother, Tom Cruise and Ruby Wax to the same ceremony? Her friendship with many of the heavyweights of popular culture, and their attendance at the funeral, evoked a world of strong pleasures and emotional stimulation very attractive to young adults. Again, this is not as new as it appears: the future Edward VIII, as Prince of Wales, carefully cultivated his relationships with the stars of prewar popular culture and that – what in the interwar years was always called ‘glamour’ – was undoubtedly an element in his enormous popularity. Then, too, the media were problematic in his life as they were in Diana’s. What role they played in the days after Diana’s death is, like so much else, almost unknowable, since the relationship between the media and the audience is usually reciprocal. In this case, the first steps were taken spontaneously and it is the first steps which count. The original decision to bring flowers and cards to the palaces was not the media’s, although the extent of media reporting might well have made those who had not thought of doing so feel they should. Equally, the behaviour of the huge numbers who watched the hearse on its way north might have been influenced by what they had seen on television of the behaviour of the crowds in Central London, but the applauding of the hearse and the throwing of flowers at it were also clearly spontaneous – an instinctive and moving awareness of the funeral service as a rite of passage. Although it was said that to complain of the media’s excessive attention to Diana in death was risky, in practice many people did complain. A guess is that large numbers thought the press was overdoing it, but were ‘drawn in despite themselves’, as Mass-Observation said of George VI’s coronation. Such ambivalence is what we would expect; but it would be wrong to imagine that public emotion was merely worked up by the media.

In 1953, in a famous article, Edward Shils and Michael Young argued that popular celebration of the present Queen’s coronation marked a ‘degree of moral unity equalled by no other large national state’. Can we say the same of Diana’s death? In Shils and Young’s terms almost certainly not. In the first place, the popular reaction to her death was international – more intense in Britain perhaps, but definitely not confined to it. Diana really was the most famous woman in the world in life and the most famous person in death. If the reaction does mark ‘moral unity’ it cannot be British alone. Does it mean that Britain is now more ‘democratic’, less deferential; that in mourning her we were, as the Observer put it, ‘united against tradition’? There was certainly a strong whiff of 1789 in the royal family’s return from Balmoral and they had a beleaguered look throughout; while the whole tone of the funeral was a long way from the House of Windsor. Our traditional élites are now held in much less respect than they were a generation ago, and that is no loss. The country’s democratic potential is greater than ever: but that potential has not been realised, and the reaction to Diana’s death demonstrates the limitations as well as the strengths of modern British democracy.

When Shils and Young wrote of Britain’s almost unique moral unity they meant primarily that the industrial working class was more successfully integrated in Britain than in any other major country. That class now hardly exists and the political system which integrated it has not adjusted to its political and social decay. The result is that the economically and socially deprived are relatively more deprived today than they have been for over half a century, if not longer. The decline of a particular sense of the nation which Shils and Young (rightly or wrongly) identified in 1953 has left many out in the cold and no one (including the present government) is inviting them back in. The exclusion of the poor has been accompanied by the triumph of individualist ideologies and the defeat of the idea of social solidarity. This bears on Diana: those two countries where Diana worship is most intense, Britain and the United States, are not simply the two where celebrity and glamour are most admired, but where social solidarity is now weakest and individualism strongest. In them the remedy for social failure, poverty or homelessness, is to be found in individual virtue. Love, care, goodness are no less valued, indeed are perhaps even more valued, but they are not thought to be found in the social sphere. The remedy for social exclusion or distress is individual action and individual virtue; the more the possessor of such virtue is associated with women’s traditional qualities the more she is cherished.

When in the 19th century the Roman Catholic Church raised the Virgin in the battle against materialist or collectivist ideologies it knew what it was about. Diana, for many of the same reasons, in her turn became ‘saviour of the world’, as one of the posters outside Kensington Palace put it. Much that happened after Diana’s death involved powerful and generous emotions; but a democracy which admired her with such intensity is both incomplete and immature, and will always exclude those who apparently made up her ‘constituency’.

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Vol. 19 No. 20 · 16 October 1997

Written from the Mass-Observer’s perspective, Ross McKibbin’s essay on the mourning and funeral of Princess Diana (LRB, 2 October) placed a premium on immediacy at the expense of other angles of approach. Most of the public’s mourning of Diana was not done in person, in London, where it could be seen by the Mass-Observer, but at home, principally in front of the television. McKibbin has vindicated M-O as a technique and produced a unique record of his own; but he has also come close to omitting the intrinsically mediated quality of the week’s events.

The assumption has been widespread that the act of mourning was a public hiatus, ‘a remarkable moment in the history of modern Britain’, but it is not so. Diana’s death and the response to it occurred within the context of a pre-existing media audience of enormous dimensions, established over a number of years. Tony Blair knew this when he made his statement at 10.28 a.m. on the Sunday morning of Diana’s death – a time when half the ‘British people’ had barely woken up. He left the Tories invisible, without hope of redress. The Birtist BBC also knew it, and pre-empted its rivals just as effectively.

The Gross Hypocrisy Prize – and this in a week where the shade of Tartuffe was as much in evidence as that of Diana – must go to television. By putting a microphone in front of distressed mourners and asking them to emote, they claimed that they were giving the ordinary citizen ‘a voice’. In fact the BBC had planned for the event of her death, as was announced in the following week’s Radio Times by John Morrison, editor of TV news programmes: ‘we had worked to a fictional scenario involving the death of a leading royal in a car crash in a foreign country recently. It proved amazingly prescient.’ The pre-arranged nature of the response was obvious from the precision and uniformity of its orchestration: by 6.40 a.m. on that Sunday morning, the news operation was ‘at full stretch, serving ten BBC national and international networks’. That this blanket coverage was not universally welcomed was made clear by the protests of viewers, who secured the restoration of ordinary programmes on BBC2 that afternoon, and by the response of ITV, which showed ordinary programmes in the evening and achieved very good ratings. (Because ITV is decentralised, ITN cannot impose itself on the regions.) Most ‘national’ media productions have a pronounced metropolitan bias, and the mourning of Diana was no exception. The way the emotional temperature dropped as one moved outside a hundred-mile radius of London was palpable. It is only the London media and the inhabitants of the Home Counties who think that the Queen is necessarily ‘with her people’ (as even the broadsheets had it) when she is at Buckingham Palace. Scots did not take such a dim view of her residence at Balmoral.

When we consider the size of the preexisting media audience and the powerful kickstart given by Blair and Birt; when we consider, too, that Diana’s death occurred at the end of the summer and school holidays – a time when ‘real’ news stories are rare, and when it is still warm enough to have an open-air carnival in London – the mourning seems almost overdetermined: it would have been extraordinary if it had not happened. It’s true that the BBC gave no instructions about the laying of flowers, but anyone who had watched the coverage of the deaths of Stephen Lawrence, of Jamie Bulger, or at Dunblane knew exactly what the conventions were regarding cellophane and messages, and why the association of death with concern for children – at first sight so curious – was automatic. I do not mean to question the sincerity of the public grief, but it should be seen for what it was – the product of a specific and analysable context. ‘Irrational’ feeling may not be ‘rationally’ analysable in its essential nature, but its historical occurrence certainly is.

The analysis Ross McKibbin offers is largely socio-political (and superbly rational, too). While I am convinced that there is an important element of truth in what he says, it remains implausible to state that ‘individual virtue’ or ‘love, care, goodness’ were the whole or even the primary explanation of what took place. If they had been, the remarkable coincidence of Mother Teresa’s death would hardly have been passed over as it was. In its content as in its scale, the mourning can only be explained by the nature of the longstanding interest in Diana. I do not depreciate her real-life concerns, but what she personified was not the battle against landmines and Aids. It was a cocktail of sex, glitz and royalty – which seemed self-evident in her lifetime but which will be hard to repeat: to combine the attributes of a Princess Margaret and a Marilyn Monroe really was unusual. Diana’s media life fulfilled perfectly the formula of the fantasy soap opera: degrees of wealth, leisure and physical preening we can only dream about; a ‘plot’ of essential simplicity and (in its settings) predictability; with a garnish of moral commitment and emotional upset which seemed to make her ‘one of us’.

Once it is accepted that the mourning was the ritual of a media community, then all the contradictions which Ross McKibbin noticed in the social composition of the crowds fall away: a media community can embrace men in suits, Home Counties women who refuse to buy copies of the Big Issue, tourists and picture-takers, as well as the Asians, the poor and the rejected. It is easy to see why Tony Blair took up the theme of national unity: Labour politicians have stated that the funeral rites were, in their own minds, a re-enactment of another recent moment of national unity – the General Election. But though the election was remarkable in its way, the analogy will not hold: elections are not simply media events (though they are that as well); emotional abstention was barely tolerated in Diana’s case and there was no question of balanced access to our screens for those who had a different view of Diana and her death. A media community is at once the most extensive, and by that token the thinnest, community, where solidarity of any kind may be imagined. As Ross McKibbin says, this tells us nothing about social solidarity in ‘real life’.

The royal family, who depend so much on the media, may well be disturbed by the events. The old prop supplied by a Reithian BBC has gone, and if the monarchy does not build bridges to that world where ratings and finance are the real king and queen, it may find itself in difficulty. For the ordinary viewer, however, I doubt whether this was a remarkable moment in our history. The ratings were so high because the event was a one-off, and the elegies to Diana belong to an extraordinary class of event – the celebrity death.

For this reason the dangers that some descried in the public grief are at worst remote, and at best illusory. It is an illusory fear that the mourning was a kind of mass hysteria, ‘of the sort that let the Nazis in’. This is unjust to the mourners whom Ross McKibbin so sensitively portrays, and displays ignorance not merely of German history but (once more) of the difference between real and media events. More genuinely worrying was the mindless conformism induced first by the BBC, but spreading to almost anyone who had it in their power to pay some public or semi-public ‘mark of respect’ without even making the barest attempt to consult the public affected. Second Prize in the Tartuffe Stakes, with a special mention for Self-Awareness and Propriety, must go to the anonymous Oxford University official who thought it relevant to close the Bodleian Library in Diana’s honour; a Highly Commended goes to the ITV programmer who thought that Jane Austen’s Emma – which hinges, after all, on the profound fulfilment produced by someone of Diana’s age marrying someone of Charles’s – was appropriate viewing for the evening of her funeral. But though picking up on the absurdities displayed by what was after all a form of censorship yields a certain ‘behind the Iron Curtain’ frisson, the foundations of this censorship were always voluntary, and commercially, rather than governmentally, driven.

If there is any profound cultural shift at work, it relates to social celebrations of death, which increasingly have been at a discount in this country since 1918. Whatever happens in the future, it will not be a reversion to a so-called Victorian, but really pre-modern type. Failure to live out one’s biological lifespan used to be commonplace, and dying in old age was a cause for celebration. Today in the developed world, it is not. This is why the only deaths which really engage us socially are the deaths of the young and very young. Diana’s own relative youth and her association with children and motherhood were crucial to her mourning.

In other words, the mourning of Diana is to a large extent explicable by the fact that her death was so unlikely. It was unlikely that a woman of such fame, and with such specific attractions, should have died at that age, and it is almost unthinkable that anyone alive today will again see anything like what took place in the first week in September. In this sense, quite different historical analogies suggest themselves. Consider, for example, the extraordinary media obsequies surrounding the sinking of the Titanic – an event which so mesmerised the nine-year-old George Orwell that it meant more to him than the entire reportage of the Great War. Has anything like it ever happened again?

Peter Ghosh
St Anne’s College

Thanks to Ross McKibbin for quoting Ernest Jones’s views on the monarchy. Ernest Jones (my father) also wrote to the Times proposing that in future the heir to the throne should be tested for psychological balance. The Times didn’t print the letter.

Mervyn Jones
London SW1

Vol. 19 No. 22 · 13 November 1997

I don’t know why Peter Ghosh (Letters, 16 October) found it so extraordinary that the Bodleian Library cancelled its usual Saturday-morning hours to mark the funeral of the Princess of Wales – virtually every other Oxford establishment did the same. The Oxfam shop on Cowley Road customarily takes much pride, as thrift shops go, in arrangement and display and has two headless mannequins in the window, which early on that Saturday were garbed in some nondescript but colourful print dresses. By the time of the funeral, however, both mannequins were attired in tasteful black ensembles complete with pearls, one of the necklaces a Diana-style choker.

Helene Solheim
London N7

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