Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria (77 page)

I heard that the old Duchess of Cambridge had said that
Leaves
was vulgar, such bad English, trivial, and boring.

I never liked the woman!

Even Bertie raised objections.

He thought it should not be generally circulated. “It is all right for those of us in the family circle to read it,” he said, “but not beyond that.” He added, “It is rather private.”

“
I
think people are interested.”

“I think people are too interested in our doings.”

“There is nothing for me to be ashamed of in mine,” I said aiming a direct shaft at Bertie which went home. I added that Lord Beaconsfield had found
Leaves
enchanting. Perhaps because he was a writer himself and understood such things. He had often referred to us as fellow authors.

“He was always overeager to flatter. I heard he once said that he believed in flattery for all, but with royalty it had to be laid on with a trowel.”

I smiled. I could well believe the dear man had said that. But he really
meant he had admired my book. He understood how one wanted to write as people like Bertie never would. But then when he was a boy he had shunned the pen—and had many a beating for it. No, Bertie could not be expected to understand.

I believe there was a conspiracy to prevent Brown's
Life
being written and I suspected Sir Henry to be at the root of it; and of course he would have plenty of supporters, including the Prince of Wales.

Sir Henry then said he would consult the Bishop of Ripon, Dr. Cameron Lees of Edinburgh, about the
Life of Brown
.

“These are men who know about these things, Your Majesty,” he said. He then brought in Lord Rowton. I wondered what Brown would have thought if he could have known about this. Important people were making such a to-do over his simple writings.

Dr. Lees thought it would be desirable to postpone the
Life
for a while. They called in Randall Davison, the Dean of Windsor, who applauded the decision to postpone; and he ventured the opinion that it would be desirable if no more
Leaves
were published.

I was very angry with him. Was the wretched Dean implying that the publication was vulgar and unseemly in my position?

I could not prevent myself showing my anger; and the Dean, realizing how offended I was, sent in his resignation. He said that he had displeased me and was sorry for it; but there was not a word about changing his mind.

It was true that my anger rose quickly; but it did as speedily depart.

I began to think about the Dean. It was wrong that he should resign over such a matter. He had offended me and he knew it. Yet he had spoken what he believed to be the truth. I must bear no grudge for that and in my heart I knew that he was right.

In view of all the scandal attached to my relationship with John Brown, the publication of his journals would only add to that. My life with Albert and the children was private too. I would read my journals; I would recall it all. I must accept the truth, and honor those who gave their opinions to me at the risk of their careers.

I must be wise. No more
Leaves
then, and the memoirs of my beloved Highland servant must be indefinitely postponed.

IT WAS A year since John Brown had died and I was still mourning. There were memories of him everywhere—especially at Balmoral.
Helen was pregnant again and her little Alexandra was still little more than a baby. It was obvious that Helen was going to be fruitful and it was a mercy to know that the dreadful hemophilia was only passed on through the female side to the sons, so Leopold's children would be safe.

Leopold had one of his bouts of illness and the doctors had suggested he go off to the south of France. I heard from Helen that his health was greatly improved there.

On the very anniversary of John Brown's death, the twenty-seventh of March, I received a telegram from Cannes to say that Leopold had fallen and injured his knees. Because on that day I had awoken to a cloud of depression thinking of my Highland servant whom I missed so much, I was filled with apprehension. I had a suspicious feeling about dates. My dearest Albert and Alice had actually both died on the 14th December. It was small wonder that I felt this significance. So strong was my premonition that I thought of leaving for Cannes, but before I could make plans to do so another telegram arrived. Leopold had a fit which had resulted in hemorrhage of the brain. Leopold was dead.

Ever since we had known he was suffering from this fearsome malady we had been expecting this. Many weeks of anxiety I had suffered on Leopold's account. But later I had felt better about him and since his marriage and the birth of his first child I had begun to wonder whether I had been unduly anxious. I had reminded myself that he had so many of those bouts of bleeding but had always recovered from them.

But Death was all round me. I felt there was no escaping from it. I wondered all the time at whom it would point its finger next.

They brought home Leopold's body and it was buried in St. George's Chapel at Windsor.

Two children lost to me as well as my beloved husband!

Three months after Leopold's death, Helen gave birth to a son.

T
HE POLITICAL SITUATION
was worrying; and each month it was brought home to me that Mr. Gladstone's methods were not those that had proved so successful in Lord Beaconsfield's day.

The trouble came from Egypt, which was at that time almost entirely administered by us. The inhabitants of the Sudan were led by a fanatical man called the Mahdi; and they were now menacing the Egyptian frontier. It was the task of the English government to decide whether to put down the rebellion or abandon the Sudan and cut it off from Egypt. The
decision to abandon it was naturally taken by Gladstone and his supine supporters. How different it would have been if Lord Beaconsfield had been in command! Gladstone was terrified of what he called Imperialism. Had we been stronger in Egypt, as we should have been under Lord Beaconsfield, the Mahdi would never have risen against us. People like Gladstone with their weak so-called peace-loving policies, were the ones who were responsible for wars. We were drawn into these affrays through our weakness, never through our strength. Lord Palmerston had realized that and what was called his gun-boat policy had triumphed again and again. He believed in sending out a warning
before
hostilities commenced. Now the garrisons in Sudan must be rescued. The government was naturally dilatory in this, but the public demanded that General Gordon be sent out in order to negotiate with the Mahdi about the release of the beset garrisons.

I was very anxious particularly when Gordon was besieged by the Mahdi's forces in Khartoum. Again and again I warned the government that forces must be sent out to aid Gordon, but the government was afraid of war. I was glad to say that the public was with me, and finally Lord Wolseley was sent out to Gordon's aid. But he arrived too late. Khartoum was stormed and Gordon killed before Wolseley could get there.

I was horrified and so ashamed of my government. I told them I keenly felt the stain left on England. I had a bust made of Gordon and set up in one of the corridors of the castle.

I hoped the government would see the error of its ways. I hoped they would recall Lord Beaconsfield's energy and genius, which they called Imperialism. They did not understand that having attained the territories we must support them and never, never show weakness.

I was deeply concerned about the garrisons in Sudan and bitterly ashamed of our performance there.

The entire mission was a failure and as a result, the Sudan, which should never have been separated from Egypt, lapsed into barbarism.

Oh dear Lord Beaconsfield! I wondered if he was looking down in dismay at what was happening to all the work that he had so zealously done.

B
EATRICE WAS THE
only one of the children who had not married. She had always been close to me since the days when she had enchanted us all with her quaint observations.

She had changed a great deal from that amusing little girl. She was not like her sisters, being shy and retiring. I knew she dreaded company and she confessed that she never knew what to say to people.

In a way I was glad of this. I am afraid it was rather selfish of me but I could not bear to face the possibility of Beatrice's leaving me.

I had gone to Darmstadt to attend the marriage of my granddaughter Victoria of Hesse to her cousin Louis of Battenburg. Leopold's death was so recent and very much in my mind, and I had undertaken the journey in the hope that in the heart of my family I could forget.

It was a fateful occasion for at the wedding Beatrice met the bridegroom's brother, Henry of Battenburg; and Beatrice and Henry fell in love.

When Beatrice told me of her wish to marry I was overwhelmed with horror.

“Impossible!” I said. “You have just been carried away.”

Beatrice said this was not the case. She and Henry were deeply in love; they had admitted this to each other and above everything else they wanted to marry.

I said she must forget it. I had suffered enough. Lord Beaconsfield had died; John Brown had died; and so had Leopold. Now I was expected to lose her—the last of my children to be with me!

Poor Beatrice, she was heartbroken; but being Beatrice she just bowed her head and looked resigned.

Of course I spent a miserable time. I could not eat; I could not sleep.

To lose Beatrice! No, I could not face it. That would be the last straw. She would forget. She was not meant for marriage. After all, she was now twenty-seven—old enough for a girl to have put all that behind her. She had come so far without contemplating marriage. Why must she think of it now? It was ridiculous. It was absurd.

And yet I could not bear to see my poor Baby so sad.

This would not have happened, I said to myself, but for Leopold's death. Beatrice was so close to her brothers.

We returned to England, poor Beatrice looked wan and tragic.

I thought: I cannot allow this to happen. I cannot be like my poor mad grandfather. I thought of the aunts who had always been of great interest to me when I was young. They had all seemed so strange—half mad some of them—and they had all had such sad lives. Their father had tried to keep them close to him, which was a very selfish thing to do.

I could endure it no more.

I said, “Beatrice, you have changed so much.”

She did not deny it.

I sent for Henry of Battenburg.

I said to him, “You know what Beatrice means to me. I find it impossible to do without her. I feel so lonely at times. I have lost so many who were dear to me. Suppose you were to make your home in England? Would that be possible? You could marry Beatrice and I could still have her with me.”

The joy in his face made me so happy.

I sent for Beatrice.

I said, “Henry is going to live in England. I shall not lose you after all, dearest child…”

We embraced; we laughed; it was wonderful to see my dearest child so happy. It was a long time since I had felt so contented.

It was quite a simple wedding. I called it a “village wedding”; but it was an extremely happy one; and I was delighted to see my child so happy with her Henry and he with her.

P
OLITICAL STORMS
WERE rising at the time of Beatrice's wedding.

Gladstone's government was in difficulties—at which I was not surprised. I was not the only one who was disgusted by the weakness of his Egyptian policy. The country was ashamed, and the budget proposals were defeated, which meant Gladstone's resignation.

I offered him an earldom, hoping this would see the back of him as far as I was concerned; but he declined it.

I was delighted to invite Lord Salisbury, as leader of the Conservative Party, to come and see me, but he was not very eager to form a ministry since he was in the Lords and the task, he thought, should fall to Sir Stafford Northcote who was the leader of the party in the Commons. He really wanted to be in the Foreign Office, but he at last agreed that if he could combine the offices of Foreign Secretary and Prime Minister, and could get, in some measure the support of Gladstone during the few months which remained before Parliament was dissolved, he would do his best to form his ministry.

I must say that Gladstone was not very accommodating but at length Lord Salisbury agreed.

I was delighted. I liked him very much. Indeed, I believe I should have liked anyone after Gladstone. Lord Salisbury was the first of my
Prime Ministers to be younger than I was. I supposed that was a reminder of how old I was getting.

That little respite did not last long. At the elections, the Liberals were back in power and I was once more faced with Mr. Gladstone.

What a trial that man was! He was now intent on bringing Home Rule to Ireland and had sprung his intentions of doing so on me and the country without giving anyone time for thought. I did not believe the country wanted it. As for myself it would mean I should break the oath I had taken at the coronation to maintain the union of the two kingdoms. I was unconvinced by his arguments.

I was delighted when quite a number of Liberals decided to vote against Gladstone's Home Rule Bill and it was rejected by the Commons.

It was a great relief when the government was once more defeated and Lord Salisbury called in.

I found Lord Salisbury a delight after Gladstone.

Salisbury was really an old friend. I had known him well as an associate of Lord Beaconsfield—and although it was not the same as having that dear man back again, it did in a measure give me some comfort. He was very knowledgeable in foreign affairs of which, in my opinion, Mr. Gladstone was totally ignorant.

I wanted him to sit for a portrait and when it was completed I had it placed in my own apartments, which, I told Lord Salisbury, was the highest compliment I could pay anyone.

I was thankful that the bogey of Home Rule was set aside. Postponement was sometimes so helpful.

A
VERY UNSAVORY
scandal shook the political world at this time as well as filling the papers and having the whole country agog for more distasteful details.