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Three years ago, on the eve of a state visit to Australia, the King fell seriously ill with a circulatory ailment. Last year the Commonwealth held its breath as doctors removed his cancerous left lung, and held thanksgiving services in December when he seemed to be out of danger.
He had won his people's hearts in the only way left to majesty, which no longer can stir by bold decisions or amaze by feats of derring-do. He made ordinariness shine. Exhausting himself by faithful performance of the tedious ceremonial rounds, exemplifying in his family life a warm blending of affection and rectitude, he gave his people a standard of conduct to rally to. Winston Churchill, paying a last tribute to his sovereign friend, acclaimed a King "so strong in his devotion to the enduring honor of our country, so self-restrained in his judgments of men and affairs; so uplifted above the clash of party politics yet so attentive to them, so wise and shrewd in judging between what matters and what does not . . . He was sustained not only by his natural buoyancy but by the sincerity of his Christian faith.
"During these last months the King walked with death as if death were a companion, an acquaintance whom he recognized and did not fear. In the end, death came as a friend . . ."
Summoned to the King's chamber by the news, the King's widow, dry-eyed but showing the strain of her shock, leaned over his bed to kiss his placid forehead. "We must tell Elizabeth," she said, a moment later. Then she corrected herself. "We must tell the Queen."