Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria (71 page)

I thought: A little more petticoat government and perhaps countries would not so easily become involved in wars that bring bereavement and tragedy to so many families.

The Emperor had surrendered at Sedan and Paris fell into the hands of the Germans. The war was over.

I was sorry for Napoleon and Eugénie and hated to see them so humbled. I had quite liked the Emperor; he had been a charming guest and Eugénie was very attractive.

Now they were outcasts with nowhere to go. Eugénie appealed to me and I offered her refuge in England. She came to Chichester. Napoleon was a prisoner of the Germans and they held him for some months, but when he was free he came to join Eugénie at Chichester.

Although I
did
disapprove of his policies and my sympathies were with the Germans—for most of my family were in that country and through Albert and my mother my ties with them were strong—I did not forget that Napoleon and Eugénie had been my friends.

Poor things! They were so grateful. How are the mighty fallen! I thought. A lesson to us all.

I
T WAS A
very sad day for me when I heard that poor Lehzen had died. Memories came flooding back and I felt a twinge of conscience. We had been very close and in my young days she had been the most important person in my life. My dear Daisy! And I had called her “Mother” on some occasions. And then… she had gone and I hardly saw her again. Albert had made me see that he and she could not be under the same roof. I had to make a choice and of course it must be Albert. I thought of us—dressing the dolls together, doing our reading; she had guarded me like a watchdog and would have given her life for me if necessary.

How sad that it had to be as it was!

I mourned her and regretted that she had passed so completely out of my life, but I had never forgotten her. Dear Lehzen!

But she had been happy in her last years. She had loved her nieces and nephews and no doubt planned for them as she had once for me.

I hoped she had been happy and not thought too often and too sadly of the days at Kensington Palace.

Gladstone and his ministers were in a state of tension over what was happening on the Continent. The German States were united under one great Empire. This had been proclaimed to the world in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles—stressing German supremacy over the French. It was a typical Bismarck gesture to hold the ceremony there. So now, instead of several small states, there was one Empire, a formidable power astride the Continent. Moreover, at the same time, France had become a republic.

Mr. Gladstone came to see me and standing before me—I would not invite him to sit down and he could not do so until I did—declaimed at length on the dangerous situation. A king had been deposed. All royalty must regard that with apprehension. It was very necessary for all sovereigns to have the people behind them.

The burden of this harangue was that the people's approval was not won by monarchs who shut themselves away. At the moment even the popularity of the Prince of Wales had foundered. The Mordaunt case had done him no good and whatever the verdict of the court there would be some mischief-makers who would try to make him seem guilty.

I told him to consult Dr. Jenner who had insisted that I needed quiet and rest.

“It was hard work that killed the Prince Consort,” I said. “He never spared himself. If he had he would be here today.”

Mr. Gladstone went on with his speech about the dangers following the new state of affairs in Europe.

My mind wandered.
Poor
Mrs. Gladstone, I thought. How does she endure the man?

I
THINK
A
LEXANDRA
was very sad at that time. She must have been very disillusioned about Bertie. I wondered what
she
thought of the Mordaunt case. But by this time she would have learned what he was like. Poor Alexandra. She had lost her baby, little Alexander. She consulted me about having a stained-glass window put into the church at Sandringham as a memorial. I thought it an excellent idea, and I think it cheered her considerably to talk about it with me.

Her rheumatic pains were troubling her again. When I thought of that bright and pretty girl I had first seen and how
feeling
she had been putting
on a black dress to show she understood my mourning, I was saddened. She was beautiful—nothing could alter that; but she had lost her gaiety.

Perhaps I should speak to Bertie. Perhaps not. Speaking to Bertie had never done any good.

When we were at Balmoral, Louise had become very friendly with the Argylls and particularly with the Duke's son and heir, the Marquess of Lorne. I was rather taken aback when Louise told me that Lorne wanted to marry her.

A commoner! I thought. That was not really very suitable.

“My dear child,” I said, “what do you
feel
?”

“I love him, Mama. I want to marry him. I hope you will give us your blessing.”

What could I do? The dear child was radiant.

“My dearest,” I said, “I hope you will be happy.”

She threw her arms about me. “Dear
good
Mama,” she said.

I was certainly happy to see her happy, but I did remind her that it was very rare for royal girls to marry commoners.

“I know, Mama. The last time was when Henry the Eighth's sister Mary married the Duke of Suffolk.”

“I believe,” I said, with an attempt at severity, “she married him first and asked permission afterward.”

“Well, Mama that was the safest way with Henry the Eighth. You are not a tyrant but the dearest sweetest Mama in the world.”

I felt very emotional. I thought: They are all going…every one of them. There is only Beatrice left now. I could not bear to part with her.

I saw no reason why the marriage should be delayed, so it took place in March of the following year. I led the procession up the nave wearing rubies and diamonds and a dress of black satin covered in jet to remind everyone that I was still in mourning.

As on all such occasions I thought of Albert and pictured him standing beside me, and melancholy set in after the ceremony.

I was getting old; my children were growing up. Only Baby Beatrice left to me now!

I hoped she would never leave me.

M
R
. G
LADSTONE'S
WORDS had some effect on me and although I had no intention of coming entirely out of seclusion, I did open St. Thomas's Hospital and the Albert Hall.

I attended the Opening of Parliament wearing an ermine-trimmed dress that was in a way a sort of half-mourning; and I had a new crown that brightened up my appearance considerably.

Of course there was murmuring about that. Louise's dowry and Arthur's annuity would be discussed during this session and some of the papers pointed out that this may have been the explanation of my appearance and that I was preparing the way for when I came with my begging bowl. What with sly hints about the Mordaunt case and the dissatisfaction with my quiet life, the family prestige was very low at that time. Again and again Mr. Gladstone pointed out the dangers, particularly in view of what had happened in France; and when fifty-four votes were cast against Arthur's annuity that was a shock.

“The monarchy must be made visible and palpable to the people,” said Mr. Gladstone.

Arthur had his money, he went on, but the people expected some return for these sums.

Then I became ill. I awoke one morning to find my right elbow was very inflamed. At first I thought it was a sting but very soon I was developing a sore throat and other symptoms.

I was at Osborne and it was time for my visit to Balmoral, and I was determined, ill as I was, to go.

Gladstone was all against my leaving. He thought I should not be so far away from Parliament. The trouble was that I had shut myself away for so long and had pleaded the state of my health so often that the people did not now believe me. This was galling as I had never been so ill since my attack of typhoid at Ramsgate.

I was receiving dispatches from London. The papers were saying that I should abdicate and hand over the throne to the Prince of Wales. These articles were read in Scotland and I am glad to say that all the Scottish papers came out in my defense.

Dr. Jenner protected me magnificently. The sting in my arm was an abscess; it gave me a great deal of pain and I found it very difficult to rest at night. I was also suffering from gout and rheumatic pains. The gout prevented my walking and John Brown had to carry me from sofa to bed.

It was a most depressing time. Alfred came down to see me and immediately there was trouble between him and John Brown. Alfred gave me almost as much concern as Bertie. He had Bertie's tendency for flirtation—and worse. He was not so affable as Bertie and had a great sense of his own importance. He deliberately and pointedly ignored John Brown
whom I liked to be treated not as a servant but as a friend; and when Alfred ordered some fiddlers to stop playing for the servants' reels, John Brown countermanded the order. Alfred was incensed but Brown was his imperturbable self.

Then there was another unpleasant scene that involved Vicky's daughter Charlotte who had come to stay with us at Balmoral.

Brown came into the room and I told Charlotte to say, How do you do? to him and shake hands.

Charlotte said, “How do you do? But I cannot shake hands with a servant. Mama says I must not.”

Vicky and I had a bitter disagreement about the behavior of her children. She insisted that Charlotte had been right to refuse to shake hands with a servant. I said Brown was no ordinary servant and servants were human in any case. “Indeed,” I added, “I have had more consideration from them quite often than from people in high places.”

Vicky was firm and did not mince her words. She thought Brown had too important a place in the household. Did I forget that people had talked of him … and of me?

It was all very unpleasant.

But there was this trouble with Alfred and the fiddlers.

Brown did apologize—I think because he knew the affair was worrying me. I thanked him and said, “Prince Alfred is now satisfied.” “Well, I am satisfied too,” was his typical comment, which even in that state of discomfort and harassment made me smile.

Who would have children? I thought. Their entrance into the world reduced their unfortunate mothers to the state of an animal; they might be interesting and amusing as Baby had been in her early days—and then they grew up, some of them to be a continual source of anxiety.

A pamphlet was brought to my notice. It was the work of a Liberal Member of Parliament, and it was headed: “What does she do with it?”

The article was referring to the £385,000 a year from the Civil List and other legacies which the writer estimated to be somewhere in the region of another £200,000 a year. The impertinence of people was shocking!

At the end of September I was better, but still limp and suffering from vague rheumatic pains all over my body. I had lost twenty-eight pounds in weight and I felt rather gratified about this. It would show the people that I was not malingering.

Just as I felt I was improving, I heard that a certain Sir Charles Dilke
had spoken at Newcastle and made a really vicious attack on me. He had told his audience that I had failed completely in my duty. Since the death of the Prince Consort I had rarely been seen in public. What was the use of the monarchy? It should be abolished and a republic set up. It would be cheaper than a queen in any case.

It was indeed dangerous talk.

I thought that Dilke should be repudiated by his party.

While all this was happening a blow was struck from another direction. We were approaching the time of year which was always especially somber to me. December! It was on the fourteenth of that dismal month that Albert had passed away.

Then came this message; Bertie was ill and the doctors had diagnosed typhoid. Typhoid! The dreaded disease that had killed Albert. And now it had stricken Bertie!

I took the train to Sandringham. Brown was with me—more brusque than ever. The dear man knew how anxious I was and he was anxious too… for me.

Sandringham was full of people. I was glad Alice was there. She was often with us. Poor Louis had not been a great catch when she married him and owing to that villain Bismarck she was in very poor circumstances now.

She was a great comfort to Alexandra who was a sad tragic figure. She told me that Bertie had been to Lord Londesborough's place in Scarborough. Lord Chesterfield had also been a guest and was now ill, so it seemed there must have been something wrong with the drains at the Londesboroughs.

It was like living it all over again. The weather was cold as it had been then; there was snow at Sandringham. The news grew more and more alarming and I heard that one of the grooms who had accompanied Bertie to Scarborough was now ill with typhoid.

I went in to see Bertie. He did not look much like the jaunty Prince of Wales. His face was scarlet, his eyes over-bright; he was babbling something I could not understand.

I thought: Very soon it will be the fourteenth of December.

Now the whole nation was waiting for news of Bertie. From a profligate rake, a seducer, cowering behind royal privilege, he had now become a hero, the jaunty, jolly Prince was the People's Prince.

Strange how a virulent disease could transform a sinner into a saint!

He had the very best of doctors. My own Dr. Jenner was there, of
course, and Alexandra had called in Doctors Gull, Clayton, and Lowe to help him.

Bertie was delirious. He was calling out the names of people… women some of them. He clearly thought he was the King of England, so that could only mean that I was dead! He was quite exuberant, laughing a rattling horrible kind of laughter. It was quite distressing to listen to him.

The doctors insisted that there be a screen between me and the sick bed. It was a horrible and infectious disease.

He recovered and then grew worse.

The papers reported nothing else but the state of “Good old Teddy's” health. He was known as Teddy for he was Edward not Albert to the people. They did not want an Albert for their King. He was to be another Edward—the Seventh.