Sigvard's Darling

A King's chief stock-in-trade is heirs. There was a time when long-legged Gustaf, King of Sweden and of the Goths and Wends, was more plentifully supplied with heirs than any other monarch in all Europe. He had two sons and five grandsons, hardy scions of Napoleon's General Bernadotte. In reserve to bulwark his line, he had three brothers. But these princes seemed to have a family failing for marrying commoners. Brother Oscar went first, for love of a lady-in-waiting, after renouncing his right of succession. His son Folke went next, for Estelle of the U. S. roofing Manvilles. Last year romance struck nearer home when Lennart, the King's second son's only son, for love of a pretty Swedish debutante, became Mr. Bernadotte. That left the old King the four fine sons of his eldest son, Crown Prince Gustaf Adolf, enough for any monarch. Last week it looked as if there were not four but three grandsons fit for the throne.

Second of the Crown Prince's sons is Prince Sigvard Oscar Frederick, Duke of Uppland, Chevalier of the Order of the Seraphim. As soon as this moody youth had finished his military service he began hovering on the edge of the arts, as decorator, actor, designer of silver cocktail sets and finally as a fairly able assistant cinema director with UFA in Berlin. On the UFA lot he met a little blonde girl named Erika Patzek, born a Pole and a Catholic, who loved to dance and drive fast in her own orange-colored sport roadster. Her father had done very well in post-War Berlin. Starting as a boss teamster, he had specialized in hauling garbage, eventually opened several produce markets in Berlin suburbs and speculated in real estate. He invited Sigvard to his hunting preserve in Mecklenburg, to his country house on Lake Stechlin outside Berlin.

Sigvard knew something of life. Six years ago, when he was 20, he had known Greta Garbo in Stockholm. Three years ago he firmly refused to marry fat Princess Juliana of The Netherlands. But for Erika he could think of nothing but marriage. Several months ago he took his little blonde back to Stockholm to get the King's permission. With a snort of pain Gustaf packed up and went down to the Riviera to play tennis, knowing well that Swedish law forbids a prince to marry in Sweden without his permission. But Sigvard was set on deserting the dwindling ranks of the Swedish royalty. Last week he took Erika to Britain where Swedish law could not reach him and his fragile little romance crashed across the world's front pages. The young couple, dodging about London, was suddenly at the vortex of a wind storm of high diplomacy. The Swedish Ambassador to Great Britain, Baron Palmstierna, put on his silk hat and called on his King's grandson at his hotel. Could not His Royal Highness put off this whole hasty business for more mature consideration? H. R. H. could not. An attache called on Fraulein Patzek and Sigvard was furious. Wherever they went, to a West End restaurant, to the cinema, Scotland Yard operatives followed. Finally, from Nice where he was busy winning a mixed doubles tournament, the old King prodded Crown Prince Gustaf Adolf, who was acting as Regent in Stockholm. The Crown Prince called on Count Folke. That royal renegade flew to London, talked like a fraternity brother to Sigvard, accomplished nothing and went irritably home. Sigvard and Erika, with another week to wait before British law would let them marry, stayed conspicuously in London. Whispered Sigvard to his fiancee: "I will be glad when we are married and forgotten. Then you can return to the films, darling, and train to become a star."

"I don't know that I want to be a star." she replied. ''I would just as soon be only your wife."

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