The funeral of Queen Elizabeth II–in September, 2022–was an epochal event, watched by over 29 million people on television in the UK. The service was grandiose–when was the last time you saw 142 sailors so close to each other?–not to mention a major spoiler for fans of the TV show The Crown.  

At the service, most European royals were seated together, including those of Luxembourg, the Netherlands, Belgium, Spain, Sweden, Norway, Denmark and Monaco: a bunch of survivors whose families managed to get through centuries of political revolutions, coups d’état and scandals of all levels, from partying in Nazi-themed costumes and going on expensive elephant hunts during a global recession to less original tropes like corruption and infidelity. 

Stuck in Monte Carlo by COVID, the Italian Prince Emanuele Filiberto of Savoy couldn’t attend the funeral. Together with Margareta, Custodian of the Crown of Romania, and Pavlos, Crown Prince of Greece, Emanuele Filiberto would have joined the club of not-so-royal-anymore royal guests. Romania’s last king was forced to abdicate by a pro-Soviet government in 1947, and Greece abolished monarchy in 1974, but jobless royals like to keep their titles no matter what! So does Prince Emanuele Filiberto of Savoy, heir to a decades-long–gone royal family. 

A little by merit and a bit by chance, the House of Savoy reigned over Italy for 85 years, leading the country from its unification in 1861 through two world wars to 1946. 

After World War II, Italians were called to a referendum to vote between keeping the monarchy or replacing it with a republic. People couldn’t easily forget the over 20 years that fascism and monarchy coexisted, nor the fact that, in 1943, the royals hastily fled Rome for safer ground, leaving the Italian army and civilians to fend for themselves. In a belated attempt to influence public opinion ahead of the vote, King Vittorio Emanuele III reluctantly abdicated in favor of his son, Prince of Piedmont Umberto II, who was significantly more popular. 

In a monarchy, together with the crown, the sins of the fathers fall upon their sons. And Vittorio Emanuele III, once a much-loved monarch for his active role in the army during World War I, had a lot to answer for. He had allowed, if not facilitated, Mussolini’s rise to power and signed some of the most shameful laws in Italian history, including the laws of 1938 that enforced racial discrimination in the Kingdom of Italy. The abdication didn’t work. On June 2nd, 1946 Italians voted for a republic.

And so Umberto II, the only male among the five children of King Vittorio Emanuele III and Queen Elena of Montenegro, became the last king of Italy. Like many family stories, Umberto’s starts with some irreparable divides between father and son, and considering the differences between them, even at first glance, it’s easy to see why. 

In every photograph and newsreel of the time, Vittorio Emanuele III looks like an antiquated, 19th-century character. His infamously short legs, weak and bowed since childhood, never helped him to convey a regal appearance. Whether it was due to rickets or genetics (ah, the centuries-long habit of the aristocracy of marrying within family!), the king’s disability must have been the source of many frustrations, especially at a time when mass media was beginning to take hold. 

In contrast, Umberto was tall and handsome, with sleek black hair and equally dark, deep eyes –Balkan features he had taken after his mother. Elegant, charming and distinguished, the hereditary prince looked like a Hollywood actor and quickly became a symbol of modernity, also thanks to his fluency in five different languages. People, needless to say, loved him. The press, obviously, followed. 

The charm of Umberto didn’t go unnoticed in the halls of government either, and Mussolini bore with difficulty any threats to his inflated ego. When Italy invaded Ethiopia in 1935, the prince was eager to join the war in Africa, but the dictator preferred to keep Umberto away from the spotlight and managed to keep him home under the excuse that the prince’s safety was state priority.

Kept in a state of total subordination by both the dictator and his father, Umberto was only allowed to attend ceremonial duties, because, as the king would remind him, “In casa Savoia si regna uno alla volta” (“In the House of Savoy, we reign one at a time”). But the removal from political life had an unexpected result: fewer public duties meant more freedom to enjoy life. The prince quickly gained a reputation for being a playboy and developed a close friendship with celebrated soubrette Carla Mignone (aka Milly).

Between a bottle of champagne and a cabaret show, the complicated character of Umberto slowly emerged, though. He was gifted with a good sense of humor, but could also be extremely serious; a bon-vivant and a lover of worldliness, he was notoriously religious, sometimes to the verge of being austere. 

It seemed the prince enjoyed himself at the fullest among soldiers and other young men. In fact, none of the ladies he frequented could claim to have been his mistress, and voices about the supposed homosexuality of Umberto started to circulate when he was still very young, especially among military circles. 

Bersaglieri, cavalry officers, carabinieri… Umberto didn’t leave any armed force untouched. The royal jeweler must have been quite busy fulfilling the orders of diamond-covered “U”s that the prince would allegedly distribute as special gifts to close friends and conquests. The prince even once insistently pursued a reluctant bersaglieri lieutenant, gifting him a silver cigar lighter engraved with the plea: “Dimmi di sì!” (“Tell me yes!”) 

The list of Umberto’s presumed lovers includes Jean Marais, the French actor with a jawline for days that went on to become Jean Cocteau’s muse and partner; the aristocratic film director Luchino Visconti; and the herculean boxer Primo Carnera. None of these are documented, although Umberto’s fascination for Carnera was notorious. Umberto once supposedly invited Carnera to spend the afternoon at his swimming pool at Villa Rosebery in Naples, where the prince applied lotion to the wrestler’s mighty body. For his part, Carnera must have enjoyed the prince’s attention, considering he named his first-born Umberto in his honor. 

Then, of course, there was the matter of Umberto’s wedding with Maria José, princess of Belgium. The two were betrothed since they were kids, although it was clear from the very beginning that they shared little apart from their charm. She came from a lively European court, a modern woman with a vivacious intellect. He was the hereditary prince of one of the most up-tight courts in the continent. She liked classical music and the company of refined intellectuals; he enjoyed the operetta and skiing in Cortina d’Ampezzo. They got married on a cold morning in January, 1930. Umberto had personally designed her wedding dress. Putting it on, Maria José discovered that the lace sleeves hadn’t been sewn straight and promptly cut them off the dress, covering her arms with a pair of long gloves instead. Many who knew about the small incident saw it as a bad omen. 

The delay of the couple in producing an heir was seen as the ultimate proof of marital issues. It took four years for babies to arrive: Maria Pia, Vittorio Emanuele, Maria Grabiella and Maria Beatrice were born between 1934 and 1943. Some insinuated that their real father wasn’t Umberto, or that Maria Josè had resorted to artificial insemination to become pregnant. By this time, speculations on the homosexuality of the Prince of Piedmont had reached dangerous ears. Over the years, Mussolini’s secret police had compiled detailed papers on Umberto (today kept in the Central State Archive).

The documents reference the incompatibility of Umberto and Maria Josè, their child-bearing difficulties and his numerous flings. A special mention is reserved for Umberto’s chauffeur, “appointed by the prince to hoard young boys and then bring them to his palace.” 

In the final days of the war, Mussolini attempted a desperate escape from Italy and brought with him this very dossier on the prince, probably with the intention of taking revenge over the monarchy–which had agreed on an armistice with the Allies–or of using the documents as a bargaining chip in case of arrest… Not that he had time to negotiate. At the end of April, 1945 Mussolini was caught and executed. The file on Umberto disappeared, but the rumors about him lingered. A few days later, Vittorio Emanuele hesitantly abdicated to Umberto. 

Umberto formally reigned for slightly longer than a month, from May 9th until June 12th, 1946. The newly-appointed monarch was faced with a difficult decision: armed with the support of the monarchists–who weren’t so few, especially in the south of the country–he could have chosen to deny the voting result, thus very likely starting a civil war. Instead, Umberto opted for exile. On June 13th, the king boarded a plane for Portugal. His short reign earned him the nickname “Il Re di Maggio” (“The May King”).  

Umberto’s already-strained relationship with Maria José broke down entirely. Shortly after arriving in Portugal, she moved to Switzerland, although she never filed for divorce. Kings never divorce, not even when in exile. 

Restrained by his parents and trapped in an arranged marriage, Umberto was crushed under the weight of history in so many ways. In his biography of the former queen, Michele Luigi Straniero sums up the bitter fate of the May King, so sadly common for many queer people: 

“The real tragedy of this man was his continuous, inevitable sexual dissatisfaction, a syndrome common to many who, because of their ‘different’ nature, are forced to hide, to dissimulate, to prematurely fake feelings they cannot feel, to continuously disguise themselves until they acquire the habit of wearing a mask as their second nature, forced as they are to live their lives as a parody, a stressful farse.”

Umberto died of cancer in a clinic in Geneva on March 18th, 1983. He was 78 years old, 37 of which had been spent in exile. On his deathbed, it is said that he murmured one last word: “Italy.”