Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria (26 page)

The drums and trumpets, the shouting…it was all so impressive.
Mama burst into tears, rather noisily, to call attention to herself; but few looked her way. They were all intent on watching me. I could only pray that I should be worthy of the trust all these people were placing in me.

There I sat, with the crown on my head, accepting the homage of the Bishops and the Peers.

Poor old Lord Rolle, who was eighty-two years old and whose limbs were so stiff that he could scarcely walk, tried to ascend the few steps to my chair. He slipped and rolled down to the bottom of the steps.

I was most alarmed, but he got up immediately and attempted to ascend the steps again. But I would not allow that. I went down to meet him.

There was a gasp all around. I realized it was a most unconventional thing to do. Lord Rolle looked at me disbelievingly. And how the people loved it! As for Lord Rolle as he swore his homage he looked at me as though I were an angel. It seemed a fuss to make of an ordinary action.

Lord Melbourne said afterward, “You acted just as I knew you would.”

“It was not a very
queenly
thing to do,” I murmured.

“It was a spontaneous act of kindness, and that is to be applauded in queens and serfs. You did the right thing. People talk of it. They love you for it more than they do for your charm and grace.”

Most of all I cherished the moment when Lord Melbourne came to do his homage. It is a touching ceremony at all times when they laid their hands on the crown and then kissed my hand. Lord Melbourne pressed my hand warmly and raised his face to mine, half laughing, half serious; he was telling me that I was doing very well indeed. There were tears in his eyes—as there often were when he looked at me; I loved to see them because they assured me of the depth and nature of his affection for me.

I raised my eyes to the gallery just above the royal box where dear Lehzen was sitting. She smiled at me with a look of infinite pride and I returned that smile, hoping I conveyed to her my gratitude for all the love and devotion she had given me during my life.

With her was dear old Spath who had come over with Feodore. I had had little chance to speak to her but I must do so before she left England. Dear Spath, did she think sadly of the old days? I should never forget how she was sent away. She was happy now, of course, for Feodore would see to that; and she had loved Feodore—in fact she had been her governess before she came to me. She would love Feodore's children. Oh yes, she must be happy now; but there would be sad memories, and I do not
think I shall ever forget the tragedy on her dear face when she knew she was to be banished. So I do not suppose she would forget either.

The ceremony went on and finally I was in my purple velvet kirtle and mantle, and carrying the regalia, with all my ladies and the peers, I walked into St. Edward's Chapel.

“Anything less like a chapel I never saw,” whispered Lord Melbourne, for on the altar sandwiches and bottles of wine had been laid out.

“A new use for an altar,” murmured Lord Melbourne, and I tried not to laugh. It would have been laughter of relief as well as amusement, for I had passed through quite an ordeal. The Archbishop came in and he should have given me the orb, but he did not.

“Nobody except Your Majesty seemed to know what to do,” said Lord Melbourne afterward.

“I did not either,” I confessed.

“Ah but you knew by instinct.”

Standing there by the altar he helped himself to a glass of wine. “I need some fortification,” he whispered.

Then came the walk through the Abbey—I with my crown on my head, the orb in my left hand, the scepter in my right. I felt
loaded
, for it was certainly uncomfortable to carry so much and keep the crown on my head.

As I walked through the Abbey the cheers rang out to the rafters, and I walked slowly, as though, I told Melbourne, I was performing a balancing feat. He said no one would have believed it. I looked as though I had been carrying a crown, scepter, and orb all my life, I carried them so expertly.

There was one more error—a painful one for me—when the Archbishop rammed the ring on the wrong finger for which it was far too small. I almost called out with pain and afterward we had great difficulty in getting it off.

I could not help being relieved when I was seated in my carriage, crown balanced on my head, scepter and orb in my hands and we rode back through the crowds to Buckingham Palace.

The cheers were deafening and the loyal greetings heart-warming. it was half-past four when we left the Abbey and I was not inside the Palace until after six.

Lehzen was there with dear old Spath.

They helped me change and I told Spath how pleased I was to see her. Lehzen said, “I was so proud of you. You looked…perfect. The people thought so too. And now you are exhausted.”

“Indeed I am not,” I said. “I just feel exalted. Wasn't the singing magnificent?”

“It was you who were magnificent,” said loyal Lehzen; and she and Spath looked at each other and wept.

I said, “This is not an occasion for tears. It is the proudest day of my life and I shall never forget it.”

Dash rushed up, fearful that he was being forgotten. He leaped into my arms and started to lick my face.

“A little respect please, dear Dashy,” I said. “Your mistress is now a crowned Queen.”

But he wasn't going to let that make any difference.

“It is time for your bath, you naughty old dog,” I said. “You have been in the pond and then rolling in the grass.”

I then turned up my sleeves and gave Dash his bath.

Lehzen said, “
That
is a strange thing to do after a coronation.”

We dined at eight that night. My uncles, my sister, and brother were with us; and I was delighted that Lord Melbourne was one of the party.

At the table I sat next to Uncle Ernest and Lord Melbourne was on the other side of me as though to protect me from Uncle Ernest of the unsavory reputation. But I must say that he had behaved impeccably at the coronation, and none would have guessed that he had had plans to take my throne.

Lord Melbourne asked me if I was tired.

I said, “Not in the least. And you, Lord Melbourne?”

“No. I am wide awake. I must admit that the Sword of State I had to carry was very heavy. I wondered how you were getting on with the scepter and the orb.”

“It was the crown which weighed me down.”

“Symbolic,” he said. “The duties of the crown are sometimes arduous.”

“Unless one has a good prime minister to lighten the load.”

He pressed my hand.

“You did well,” he said. “Excellently. The robes suited you, particularly the Dalmatic.” He then remarked about Soult's reception and said that the English were a very kind people where their enemies were concerned, so kind that they had gone out of their way to give a special acclaim to Soult just in case he might have thought they were being cool to him, which any other nation would have been.

Lord Melbourne talked in his witty way about the peculiarities of the English, which I found most amusing.

He was beside me during the whole evening. Again and again he told me how beautifully I had done. “Every part of it,” he said.

“I wished that I had known what was going on all the time,” I said. “There were occasions when I was quite in the dark. I should have been told. Some of those churchmen did not know any more than I did.”

“It is a thing you cannot give a person advice on,” said Lord Melbourne. “It must be left to a person. And you did it all perfectly…with such taste.”

“Well, I should be satisfied with that… coming from such a dear friend.”

He looked at me very tenderly and said it was wonderful that I was not exhausted.

“Tonight,” he added, “I think you must be more tired than you think you are.”

“I had hardly any sleep the night before. There was such a noise in the streets and the guns woke me at four.”

“There is nothing more that keeps people awake than any consciousness of a great event's going to take place—and being agitated. You should retire and get some sleep with the satisfaction of knowing that all went off splendidly and that it was all due to you.”

I would, I told him; but before he left we went onto the balcony and watched the fireworks in Green Park.

Then I went to bed and that was the end of the most exciting, the proudest, and the most important day in my life up to that time.

I was now the crowned Queen of England.

I S
UPPOSE IT WAS INEVITABLE THAT, AFTER HAVING LIVED IN
that state of euphoria bordering on ecstasy, there must be a reversal. Life is like that. It gives and then, when one is lulled into security, it takes away.

After the Coronation, life began to look less rosy, and at the core of all the discord was the odious Sir John Conroy. He was still in the Palace. It seemed ridiculous to me that I, the Queen, could not choose those I would have under my own roof.

Lord Melbourne's reply was, “It is kings and queens, Ma'am, who have less freedom than others to have their chosen friends around them.”

He admitted that Sir John was a big problem. “He is there in the Duchess's household. If she dismissed him, then we should be happy. But she will not, and he will not go unless we agree to
all
his monstrous demands. Therefore leave him alone. He will depart in time, but we cannot have him go in triumph.”

So we left him alone, but he refused to leave
us
alone.

There were growing in the Palace two factions: one for me, one for Mama. I did not like it at all, although some of those concerned found it exciting. It suited Mama's sense of drama, and as, since my accession, she had been relegated to a very minor position, it seemed as though, if she could not rule me, she wanted to make things as difficult for me as she could.

There was always a great deal of conflict between her attendants and mine. Lehzen was closer to me than ever.

I said to her, “
You
are more like my mother.” And once or twice I called her Mother. “I am going to give you another name,” I said. “What about Daisy? I always liked daisies.”

Lehzen laughed, well pleased. She was very happy during those days. She was—with Lord Melbourne, of course—my greatest confidante.

When I read through my journal, Lord Melbourne's name occurred
very frequently and I thought it was more endearing to write of him as Lord M. When I told him this, he was amused and said he liked it.

“It is economical, which is a good trait. Even queens must not be too extravagant.”

To add to my uneasiness Lord Melbourne hinted that he was finding it more and more difficult to perform his duties with that small majority.

“Those damned Tories,” he said, “they baulk us at every turn.”

I did not really approve of strong language, but coming from Lord Melbourne it did not seem offensive, merely dashing—and it made me laugh.

“I wish Mama could have a household somewhere else,” I said. “Somewhere outside the Palace.”

He pondered this and said I must remember that I was an unmarried lady, and as such could scarcely live alone.

“Alone! Here! With dear Lehzen and all my ladies. You call that alone?”

“It is thought to be wise for unmarried ladies to have a duenna. That is the custom of the times, and whatever contempt we have in secret for customs outwardly, it is often easier to conform to them. So … until the day you take a husband, the Duchess should remain.”

That was another matter which depressed me slightly. I did not really want to marry. I had so recently become Queen; the people adored me; I had just spent the most wonderful year of my life; I did not want change of any sort.

But it came nonetheless.

My spirits drooped a little. Instead of leaping out of my bed in the mornings I would lie there thinking of what would happen that day, and it did not seem as exciting as it once had. I was putting on a little weight. There were so many dinners to attend, and of course I had to eat. I was discovering that if one were a queen people watched everything one did and commented on it. Not only that, they exaggerated; and this was brought home to me when I heard that people in the streets were saying that I was getting fat.

I was outraged. More so because it was true that I was putting on a little weight.

“It is good for you, my darling,” consoled Lehzen, “you need nourishment.”

Lord Melbourne was less comforting. “You must take more exercise,” he advised.

“I do ride and I do not greatly care for walking.”

“Sometimes it is necessary to do what we do not greatly care for.”

“Walking…in the cold wind! I really do dislike it. My hands get so cold, and so do my feet.”

“You should walk faster. That would keep your feet warm and you should wear gloves.”

“My hands get so red in the cold. That is why I wear my rings to hide the redness—and then I cannot get my gloves on because of the rings.”

“An absence of rings could mean a presence of gloves. Wouldn't that be wiser?”

I sensed a lack of sympathy in Lord Melbourne, and I had a feeling that he was a little critical of my increasing weight.

But that was unfair. He was as good and kind as ever. He was really worried, that was what it was. He greatly feared that a situation would arise when he could no longer continue in government. Then I should have another prime minister—which Heaven forbid.

It may be that fear was at the root of my discontent. I became fractious and my temper would flare up at the least provocation. Lehzen begged me to guard against it.

I was not quite so fond of the Duchess of Sutherland whom hitherto I had liked so much, and it was because she looked so elegant always and had so much to say that was witty and amusing. It seemed to me that she contrived to sit near Lord Melbourne in order to say it; and she quite monopolized him.

He had important Whig friends and was constantly in demand. There were many dinners he attended, and to which I could not go.

When I complained to him he would always brush the matter aside with that nonchalance that was so much a part of his character, and I always had the impression that he did not find our absences from each other so hard to bear as I did.

He was constantly at Holland House and had a great admiration for Lady Holland. Of course, people like Lady Holland and the Duchess of Sutherland were women of the world and would be able to converse with Lord Melbourne in a manner more suited to him than I was. Once I asked him about this and he said that he thought the conversations he had with me were very suitable for a queen and her prime minister.

“But I am much more fond of you than Lady Holland could ever be,” I cried.

He looked at me with that wonderful gentle expression, with the tears
gathering in his eyes and nodded; so that for a time I was happy again. And when I persisted and asked if Lady Holland attracted him more than I did, he said very calmly and sweetly, “Oh no…”

But the real trouble came from Mama. The ladies of her household were continually making mischief with those of mine; and just as Lehzen was the most important of those in my household, Mama's special favorite was Flora Hastings.

I had never liked Lady Flora. Lehzen hated her; and with good reason. She never lost an opportunity of plaguing poor Lehzen, and was constantly making references to German habits and laughing about her fancy for caraway seeds.

Lady Flora was not young. I think she must have been about thirtytwo years of age. She was unmarried and not unattractive to look at. It was just her manner that was unappealing. She was rather elegant and quite vivacious; she wrote poetry and people said she had a way with words, which often means a venomous tongue. She could really make people cringe when she attacked them verbally. She was rather like Sir John Conroy in this; in fact she was a great friend of his, and I had heard it whispered—although I must admit among her enemies—that there was more than friendship between her and that odious man.

Lord Melbourne did not like Flora Hastings either. She belonged to a family of staunch Tories and, being a Whig, Lord Melbourne regarded the entire Hastings clan as enemies. He said Lady Flora was typical of them and he was not surprised that Lehzen disliked her.

He did not like Mama much either; and if it had not been for the fact that she was my mother and he had such perfect manners, he would have said a great deal more than he did. There were occasions, however, when he was goaded into making observations about her. I loved to talk to him about how I had been treated during my childhood, of how I had been pushed aside again and again and how it had embarrassed me.

“The Duchess's real feeling was not for you but for power,” said Lord Melbourne. “I fear she was not really strong-minded or she should have understood the futility of her actions; nor had she as much real affection for you as she feigned to have.”

How right he was!

One day when I was talking with Lord Melbourne in the closet where we discussed state matters and had those delightful personal conversations, Mama came in without warning. She had a conspiratorial look on her
face—almost as though she thought she was going to surprise us in a most unpleasant way.

I was really quite angry.

I said, “I am engaged in business with the Prime Minister. I think it would be better if you made an appointment when you wish to see the Queen.”

Mama looked stunned but she made no attempt to argue; she just disappeared.

Lord Melbourne was looking at me, half amused, half admiringly.

“The Duchess should know that when her daughter refers to herself as the Queen she is going to be very firm indeed.”

And after that what I thought of as the war between our two factions seemed to become more fierce.

The ladies of the households became quite spiteful with each other; and Lehzen and I used to talk sometimes indignantly, sometimes laughingly, of the little battles that went on.

All the same I would rather not have had it so.

Meanwhile Sir John Conroy stayed on and I suspected that he set a great many rumors in progress, such as the fact that I was getting fat. There was another more pernicious one that I did not hear much about until later. This was that my friendship with Lord Melbourne was very close indeed— closer than the relationship between the Queen and her Prime Minister should be.

It was just after Christmas of that year 1839. That lovely morning when Lord Conyngham had come to me and told me I was Queen seemed more than eighteen months away. So much had happened since then. There was one matter that I had tried not to think too much about, but it would keep forcing itself into my mind. This was my changing attitude to Uncle Leopold. All my life until I became Queen, he had been the one I had looked up to perhaps more than any other. He had been the father I had never known. I had sought his advice on every occasion. I had strived to please him. I had believed everything he had told me. He had been more of a god than a man as far as I was concerned.

Now that had changed.

Ever since I had ascended the throne I had begun to detect something in Uncle Leopold's letters that made me very uneasy. It was quite insidious at first, but as time passed it became more and more obvious. Uncle Leopold wanted to manage the affairs of Europe and I was in a
very powerful position. He had always exerted a great influence over me, so naturally he thought to
use
me now.

There was one sentence in one of his letters which seemed of special significance: “Before you decide anything important, I should be glad if you would consult me; this would also have the advantage of giving you time …”

I wrote back assuring him of my love and devotion, which I certainly felt, for I was not the sort of person who could dissimulate. Pretense was quite alien to my nature. In fact one of my faults was in betraying my feelings too openly. So I still did feel a great affection for Uncle Leopold and I never
never
could forget all he had been to me in my childhood; but the young Princess Victoria sheltered in her palace prison was not the Queen of England, and it was her task—with the help of her own government—to manage the affairs of her country.

Uncle Leopold wanted everything done in a way that would be advantageous to him.

There came the time when he was maneuvering with France and Holland for the rights of Belgium, and he wanted England to come down in his favor. He needed English support and he could not understand why England remained neutral. A little persuasion from me might save Belgium, he wrote.

I was very upset when I read this letter. I showed it to Lord Melbourne who read it and nodded his head. “Leave it to me,” he said; and of course that meant: Leave it alone.

I waited for a whole week before replying and then I assured Uncle Leopold that he was very wrong if he thought my feelings for him could change. But at the same time I skimmed over the subject of foreign politics. All I said was that I understood and sympathized with his difficulties and he could be sure that Lord Melbourne and Lord Palmerston were very anxious for his prosperity and that of Belgium.