BRITAIN'S PRINCE CHARLES: THE APPRENTICE KING

I think it's something that dawns on you with the most ghastly, inexorable sense. I didn't suddenly wake up in my pram one day and say "Yippee," you know.

First I thought of being the proverbial engine driver or something. Then I wanted to grow up to be a sailor, as I had been on the yacht for the first time, and, of course, a soldier, because I had been watching the Changing of the Guard. When I started shooting, I thought how marvelous it would be to be a big-game hunter. I went from one thing to the other until I realized I was rather stuck.

DID ever a king speak thus? Probably not, but then these are exceptional times for once and future kings. The author of those wry and rueful words, lamenting a downward mobility forever out of his grasp, is H.R.H. Prince Charles Philip Arthur George, K.G., Prince of Wales and Earl of Chester, Duke of Cornwall in the peerage of England, Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick, and Lord of Renfrew in the peerage of Scotland, Lord of the Isles and Great Steward of Scotland.

A pleasant, jug-eared young man of 20 who likes to fly planes, drive sports cars, play the trumpet and the cello, and who once delivered a very creditable Macbeth on a school stage, Charles is stuck in history. It is his blessing and his burden to be destined to become Charles III, the 41st sovereign of England since the Norman invasion. He will inherit a throne that, for all the erosion of empire and the straitened circumstances of the scepter'd isle, remains the most prestigious in the world.

Splendor in Wales

The prestige is not, of course, a reflection of any real power. More than a century ago, Walter Bagehot noted that a constitutional monarch has only three rights: "The right to be consulted, the right to encourage, the right to warn." Those narrow royal prerogatives have further diminished in the years since. Such considerable aura as the British crown still has for Britons and the rest of the world is largely the residual glow from the past. It emanates from the legends and lives of England's kings, evoking images of silver trumpets raised on lofty battlements, the colored swirl of pennants and the flashing swords on Bosworth Field, and all the pageantry that still occasionally stirs in modern Western man the memories of his medieval passage.

The splendor of Britain's royal heritage will be unfurled for an estimated 500 million television viewers next week as Queen Elizabeth journeys to Caernarvon Castle in North Wales to invest Charles as Prince of Wales. The title has been Charles' since his mother announced, when he was only nine, her intention of awarding it to him. The investiture will mark his formal installation. It will also serve to signal the end of Charles' royal adolescence (he turns 21 in November) and his acceptance of the role and tasks of apprentice sovereign. Perhaps most important, the ceremony is designed to honor Wales, a region of Britain that too often feels overlooked by London and harbors a small but vocal separatist movement, the Plaid Cymru (Party of Wales). Finally, the event will be the biggest royal bash since Queen Elizabeth's coronation in 1953.

Little Caernarvon is feverishly preparing for the July 1 festivities. Shops along Hole-in-the-Wall Street are chock full of souvenirs: badges and bookmarks, cuff links and key chains, pennants and princely paperbacks. Up at the castle, the clanging carpenters' hammers echo as grandstands rise. By the time the Prince arrives--along with 200,000 less exalted visitors--the town should be more or less fit for a king.

Castle Square, weekend site of an outdoor market, will be lit up by arches of electric lights and adorned with bunches of wild purple heather and blue hydrangeas. Thirty sets of banners will festoon the town streets, and fresh paint is being splashed everywhere. As Decorator-in-Chief Lord Snowdon, Charles' uncle, airily put it: "I have designed the whole thing entirely for television." That brought an angry retort from Sir Anthony Wagner, Garter King of Arms and chief authority for the ceremony's heraldic details: "I don't regard myself as part of show business."

Still, show business is a big part of the scene. Television cameras will document every step in the ceremonies for the delectation of Europe, the U.S., Canada and Australia. The world will have a better look at the ritual than many of the guests at the ceremony: 4,000 will be seated within the castle walls, but only 2,500 will be able to witness the actual investiture because of a protruding buttress. Space within the castle walls is so limited that directors of the six-hour production were forced to choose between feeding the guests or providing lavatories for them. There will be no food, so the assembled dignitaries will be forced to smuggle in their own champagne and caviar. If they want a memento of the occasion, they can take home their chairs as souvenirs at the price of $30. Onlookers in the stand outside the castle must ante up $24 each for tickets.

It will be the kind of show that only the British Crown can put on, with each member of the royal family playing his or her role. Elizabeth is perforce the straight man in the act, who underdoes everything with a flawlessness that creates its own suspense. At the other extreme, and refreshingly so, is her husband, Prince Philip, who looks remarkably like Stan Musial and is a self-confessed expert in the art of "don-topedalogy," as he calls it: opening his mouth and putting his foot in it. The Queen Mother is everybody's baby sitter. Lord Snowdon and Princess Margaret are the scandalous bohemians; they actually stay out late at night, have been known to drink, and it is widely rumored that on occasion they even have fights--and fun. Princess Anne, Charles' younger sister, is beginning to give her aunt and uncle a run for the tabloid money. Only 17, she has lately turned from a chubby duckling into a passably delectable swan, wings through London in exotic hats and miniskirts, and recently danced on the stage with the cast of Hair (clad).

Prince Charles? His style, understandably, is less simply defined. He had had to grow up with the awesome knowledge that eventually he must don the crown. Almost from the moment of his birth, on Nov. 14, 1948, Charles has been trained for the succession. From the outset, Elizabeth and Philip were determined to give the heir as wide and worldly an education as possible within the limits of royal propriety. Beginning at eight, he was sent to school beyond the Buckingham Palace walls. His first stop was chic Hill House in Knightsbridge, where he had trouble with arithmetic. A year later, he moved on to Cheam, an old and exclusive school in Berkshire that his father had attended.

He spent four years at Cheam, an establishment that tries to produce happy boys rather than brilliant students. Charles' parents did their best to see that he was inconspicuous there. They made sure he had a smaller sailboat than anyone else. One story, angrily denied by the palace, had it that Charles found his $2.80-a-term allowance so inadequate that he sold his autograph to augment it. There were dietary problems. Once, after a stomach upset, he told a teacher that he was "not used to all this rich food at home."

He began to enjoy soccer: in his final year, he captained Cheam's team and led it to a record of sorts--four goals for Cheam, 82 for the opponents. The school paper summed up that unhappy season by noting: "At half, Prince Charles seldom drove himself as hard as his ability and position demanded." There were critics of his rugby style as well. In one pileup, a voice from the heap underneath Charles was heard imploring: "Oh, get off me, Fatty!" Academically, he was an average student, and in 1962 it was time to follow Prince Philip's path once again, this time to a spartan Scottish public school.

Schooling a Prince

Gordonstoun is anything but luxurious. Dormitories are stark and functional. The daily regimen, while it pays due deference to academic achievement, ordains two cold showers a day, student-labor details (Charles, more often than not at first, drew the garbage detail), and plenty of toughening outdoor sports. The Prince was not cosseted. One of his teachers made a point of referring to him as "Charlie-boy," and on the rugby field he was hit hard, often deliberately. He made few close friends. Most boys, afraid of being scorned by their fellows for "sucking up" to Charles, treated him distantly.

Adding to his unpleasant experiences was the "cherry brandy" incident, Charles' first brush with notoriety. During a cruise from Gordonstoun aboard the school yacht, the boys went ashore at Stornoway on the Isle of Lewis. Charles and a few others stopped at a hotel for a meal, and the 14-year-old Prince, annoyed by tourists who stared at him through the windows, fled to the bar. He had never been in one before, he recalled later, and "the first thing I thought of doing was having a drink. It seemed the most sensible thing." He ordered a cherry brandy, thereby breaking the age laws--and as he put down a half-crown in payment, he glanced up to see someone whom he now recalls as "that dreadful woman," She was a freelance journalist, and the next morning the story appeared around the world. "I was all ready to pack my bags and head for Siberia," he said.

Early in 1966, the Prince jumped to Australia and Timbertop, a Gordonstoun-like branch of Melbourne's posh Geelong school. Charles arrived in February, and for the next six months took 50-to-60 mile hikes in the outback, cooked johnnycakes over his own campfire, fed the pigs and chickens, and chopped wood by the cord. His schoolmates were friendly, though he recalls being chaffed as a "Pom" (Aussie slang for an Englishman) on at least one occasion. "I had an umbrella with me," he said. "It had been raining quite heavily, and they all looked rather quizzically at this strange English thing, and as I walked out there were marvelous shouts of 'Oh, Pommy bastard!' "

Discreet Dates

Back at Gordonstoun in November, he had a long-awaited chance to play a comic acting role: he starred as the Pirate King in The Pirates of Penzance. Otherwise the year passed quietly. Without sitting for college entrance examinations, Charles was allowed to enter Trinity College, Cambridge, in October 1967.

From the earliest days, Charles did his best to blend into the Trinity scenery. He shuffled about in baggy cord trousers and an old jacket, cooked his own breakfasts and bicycled to classes. He decided to try for a B.A. Much of his time was spent over his books, and in examinations at the end of his freshman year he wound up with the equivalent of an A minus average.

His love life, if any, has been discreetly concealed. At a Trinity ball last year, Charles unbent sufficiently, as one observer put it, "to seem intent on kissing an attractive blonde named Cindy, even in the fast dances." The pursued lass was Cynthia Buxton, a fellow student and daughter of one of Prince Philip's birdwatching companions. Charles also was seen occasionally with Sibylla Dorman, a tall, pretty history student whose father is Governor-General of Malta. "We get on very well," says Sibylla, but she refuses to be labeled a "girl friend." Generally, Charles dates friends of Princess Anne or daughters of his mother's friends, and it may well be that his wife will be chosen from this tiny circle. There are no European princesses about who seem to be the right age, and he is--in theory at least--free to marry just about anyone as long as she is an undivorced member of the Church of England.

Charles in Wales

Charles is impressively conscientious about what he regards as his royal duties, whether they give him pleasure or not. Heirs apparent of the past rarely set foot in Wales, let alone bothered to learn more than enough Welsh to struggle through an investiture. The latest Prince already has considerable acquaintance with his titular fiefdom. He has spent the past two months in Wales. It was the Prince's own idea to attempt to quiet the Welsh protests against his investiture and at the same time satisfy his own well-honed sense of duty. Taking along only his cello, a record player and a metal cabinet for some of his papers, he moved into Pantycelyn Hall, a dormitory for the University College of Wales at Aberystwyth. The Prince's arrival, in his indigo MG, transformed the sleepy seacoast town (pop. 10,460). Tourists poured in, and so did police and the press, to mingle obtrusively with Aberystwyth's miniskirted or denim-clad locals.

With Permanent Guard Sergeant Anthony Speed of Scotland Yard installed in a room across the hall, Charles plunged into a cram course in Welsh language and history. He made his own bed, carried his own cafeteria tray, and began receiving sweaters knitted for him by the dames of Aberystwyth. He also found time to surf, squash and perform some princely duties.

On a bright sunny day in Cardiff, Charles presented regimental colors to the new Royal Regiment of Wales, an amalgamation of the old Welch Regiment and the South Wales Borderers, created as part of Britain's efforts to cut defense expenditures. For Charles, newly named as its Colonel in Chief, it was a successful show, marred only slightly by the efforts of the regimental goat to eat his sash. "Let us hope," he said later, "that the mascot is trained to act as an alarm in the event of any surprises sprung on us by certain activists," a reference to Wales' extreme nationalists.

To the Heights

Getting to know Wales also included a recent climb up Mount Snowdon (3,560 ft.), the highest Welsh peak. The Prince set a brisk pace. "He came up like a mountain goat," said his equerry. At the summit, his appearance touched off a mini-mob scene. As one girl aimed her camera, Charles gently informed her: "My dear, your [lens] cap is on." Spotting an American reporter, he asked: "You mean to say you've come all the way from the U.S. just to climb Snowdon?" Reporter: "It was just for you, sir," adding that the investiture had something to do with it. Replied Charles helpfully: "Well, perhaps we could hold it up here."

Despite the Prince's efforts to come to know Wales, there are many who resent his presence. Perhaps the most radical dissenters are the members of the Free Wales Army: eight young members are now on trial in Swansea, and some evidence produced during the trial hints that they planned to storm Caernarvon Castle during the investiture. Some call the army "a standing joke . . . they couldn't blow the skin off a rice pudding." But the organization has managed to commit eleven acts of sabotage against public facilities since March 1966.

Most Welsh nationalists disavow the Free Wales Army and the other small terrorist groups. They prefer the moderate way of the Plaid Cymru, founded in 1925 and at last beginning to gain support. The Plaid is backed by about 12% of Wales' 2.7 million population, up from only 5% ten years ago. In a 1966 by-election the party succeeded in electing its first MP. The Plaid Cymru demands autonomy for Wales, believing that Wales gets back too little from London compared to what it contributes in taxes and productivity. Culturally, it seeks to preserve and expand the ancient Welsh language, now spoken by about 25% of the population.

Some Welsh critics are upset less by political implications than by the cost of the ceremony, though the investiture is expected to increase Welsh tourism revenue by some $7,000,000. One of Charles' dormitory mates, Geraint Evans, says that "using the excuse that it's good for tourism and the economy only downgrades the royal family and makes the whole thing appear to be a gawpy spectacular." The student chairman of Pantycelyn Hall, Spencer Morgan, says: "It's like a circus. It evokes all the childish superstitions of the people." Though once opposed to Charles' coming to Aberystwyth, he is now won over: "I sense a genuine feeling of interest by the Prince in learning as much as he can about the people and the country whose name he'll bear. He is a master of etiquette and conducts himself with aplomb. He'll make a king."

But is a king necessary? Should the question even be asked? The most adamant defenders of the monarchy reply no. As Anthony Sampson (Anatomy of Britain Today) put it, "Once you touch the trappings of monarchy, like opening an Egyptian tomb, the inside is liable to crumble." Opponents contend that the monarchy is increasingly out of date, and that unless outmoded customs and myths are done away with, its relevance will soon be ended. Malcolm Muggeridge, who created a hullabaloo 12 years ago, when he dismissed the monarchy as a "royal soap opera," said last week that "the monarchy has ceased to have any importance or to play any part in the national life. However hard Charles tries, the monarchy will get more and more remote from reality, and so seem funnier and funnier to the ordinary person."

Counting the Cost

The cost of monarchy remains the crown's most vulnerable point. "I do not think that Princess Margaret, the Duke of Gloucester or the Queen Mother are worth the money we pay them," charges William Hamilton, a Labor MP. "The Queen Mother has plenty of charm and smiles a lot--but so she should. She gets paid -L-70,000 ($168,000) a year by the taxpayers." Queen Elizabeth receives $1,140,000 annually for her household expenses. Charles is paid $72,000 annually now, and that sum will rise to $480,000 when he turns 21 this autumn.

Defenders of the monarchy argue that the royal family are a relatively frugal lot, and that the crown, thanks to the lands it owns, really pays for itself. The gross revenues from crown lands amount to an annual $13.2 million. These funds are turned over to the government, which, beyond paying the Queen, gives allowances to some members of the royal family that amount to only $384,000.

Undoubtedly, the Queen and her relations provide the finest body of professional bazaar openers, foundation-stone layers and medal awarders that a ceremony-loving people could wish for. Despite all the criticism, probably most of the British, fundamentally a sentimental race, would still say yes, the monarchy is worth it. The late Cassandra (William Connor, columnist of the London Daily Mirror) once wrote:

"I am a royalist rather than a republican because I think that the romantic hokum that surrounds kings and queens and princes and princesses is cheaper and more entertaining than the myth that surrounds the dreary old men who end up as republican Presidents."

By any standard of rational judgment, the monarchy, of course, is no longer necessary. However, there is a difference between a nation's rational and emotional needs. Britain's monarchy provides a link to the country's past and a unifying national symbol in the present. Modern monarchists cite the romantic--and atavistic--notion that the sovereign is a vital link between Britain and the Commonwealth at a time when other ties among the nations are falling away. Today, Britain is a small nation condemned to dwell amid the physical and remembered monuments of a much greater past. The monarchy makes that disparity less painful and more palatable. Film

Star Rita Tushingham puts it this way: "There's this feeling that the Queen is yours, when the anthem's played and everybody stands up together." Without the monarchy, Britain would be simply another minipower. Charles may or may not resent having been born to be a king. But for years to come, little old British mums will continue to dote on royalty while angry young critics will condemn it. It is at once the pride and the burden of the monarchy that both will be right.

There are indications that Charles has ideas of his own about the duties of kingship, though they may still be developing. As he told an interviewer recently: "I think one has to be much more 'with it' than of old, and much better informed." He hopes to act as a sort of international emissary without portfolio: "I like to think I could be an ambassador not only for Wales but also for the United Kingdom as a whole, and from one Commonwealth country to another." He would almost certainly agree with Philip's assertion that he "didn't want to finish up like a Brontosaurus, stuffed in a museum."

Ceremony at Caernarvon

All of Britain's tangled views of the monarchy will come into focus next week within the ancient limestone walls of Caernarvon Castle. On Tuesday afternoon, the royal carriage procession will jog through the town to the castle's Water Gate. When Charles arrives, the state trumpeters of the Household Cavalry will sound a fanfare. His personal banner, carrying the arms of Llywelyn the Great with the coronet of the Prince of Wales in the center, will be broken out over the castle's Eagle Tower. Then Charles will be conducted by Lord Snowdon, the Constable of the Castle, to the Chamberlain Tower, while the assemblage sings God Bless the Prince of Wales.

Once the Queen arrives, she will direct that the Prince be summoned. He will approach, wearing a mantle of velvet trimmed with ermine over his blue uniform as Colonel-in-Chief of the Royal Regiment of Wales. As Charles kneels before Elizabeth, the Letters Patent of investiture will be read, first in English and then in Welsh. The Welsh rendition is an innovation aimed at placating Wales' tribal sensibilities. While the Welsh is being intoned, the Queen will present Charles with a sword, place a coronet on his head, slip a gold ring on his finger and hand him a gold rod of government. The coronet is a modern design of Charles' own commissioning, part of his personal program to revive British gold-and silverwork. Thus accoutered, Charles will kneel before the Queen, place his hands between hers and repeat the ancient oath of his unique profession:

"I, Charles, Prince of Wales, do become your liege man of life and limb and of earthly worship, and faith and truth I will bear unto you to live and die against all manner of folks."

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