Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria (80 page)

I
WAS VERY
sad when after a term of six years, Parliament was dissolved and I was horrified to hear that Gladstone was fighting an election with fire and enthusiasm.

I could not bear it if he were returned. I had had such a long rest from him. If he came back it would be intolerable.

“The idea,” I said to Ponsonby, “of a deluded and excited man of eighty-two trying to govern England and her vast Empire with his miserable democrats is quite ridiculous. It is like a bad joke.”

And it turned out to be as bad as I feared. Although he failed to win the large majority, which he apparently expected, I found myself with Gladstone as Prime Minister for the fourth time.

A few days after the election he came to Osborne to kiss my hand. He was very changed since I had last seen him; not only was he much older, but he walked in a bent way with a stick; his face appeared to have shrunk and he was deathly pale with a weird look in his eyes, a feeble expression about his lips; and even his voice had altered.

I said to him, “You and I are much lamer than we used to be, Mr. Gladstone.” And that was as far as I could go. I could not show friendship for a man I could never like. He should know better than to cling to office. The people admired him for some reason; I supposed it was all that walking about at night which intrigued them. I doubted he did it now.

I wished I need not accept him, but of course I had to. He was the chosen of the people. But they did not show tremendous enthusiasm for him and I doubted that, with his small majority, he would get his will. He had an obsession about Ireland and was working hard to bring in Home Rule. I did not think he had a chance of getting through with it with his tiny majority.

He did, however, get it through the Commons, but it was thrown out of the Lords. I was delighted at that and I hoped it was the last we would hear of Home Rule for Ireland.

When one gets old the days seem to race by. One emerges from one into another and in no time a year has passed.

Poor Alexandra could not get over Eddy's death but I think when George became engaged to Princess May she felt a little happier. We all liked May so much, and it seemed right that, having lost one brother, she should take the other.

The wedding took place in the July of that year '93; the heat was great and poor Alexandra looked rather drawn. I think she could not stop herself thinking that it might have been Eddy who stood there with May instead of George.

But George was a good boy—so much more stable than Eddy had been. I felt sure that May would find a husband more to her liking in George than she would have done in Eddy.

I enjoyed the wedding very much, but it was marred by one incident. Mr. Gladstone actually had the temerity to come into my tent! I suppose he thought it was a Prime Minister's right. And not only did he enter but he sat down! I said, “What does he think this is? A public tent?”

I was glad on that occasion to meet Nicholas the Tsarevitch who was an extremely charming young man and bore a striking resemblance to the bridegroom.

Soon after the wedding, Albert's brother Ernest died. This did not affect me very deeply because I had always been aware of his unworthiness and it had amazed me that two brothers could be so different. I had never ceased to thank the fates for giving me Albert instead of Ernest. I did take credit, of course, for my own judgment in choosing Albert for I could have had either. How fortunate I was to have chosen the saint instead of the sinner.

His death meant that Alfred inherited the Duchy of Saxe-Coburg, and almost immediately he was leaving to take up his position in his father's native land.

Dear Rosenau! I promised myself that I would visit Alfred there—but those visits were always such poignant mingling of pleasure in being in such perfect surroundings, and sorrow of having memories of Albert brought back to me more vividly than ever.

Sometimes life flows on evenly and peacefully, but there are periods when events of great importance follow fast on one another. 1894 was one of those years.

In March Mr. Gladstone came to see me at Osborne and told me he thought he was too old to continue. I quite agreed with him and could not hide my pleasure. I knew that I must have betrayed it to him for I heard that in reporting the interview he said, “She was at the height of her cheerfulness when I told her.”

Perhaps I should have been kinder to the old man; but I was never one to pretend to have, or not to have, affection for those about me.

His Cabinet was quite emotional when he told them of his intention
to retire; he himself was unmoved; he made his last speech to the Commons in which he urged them to do battle with the House of Lords; he was still obsessed by the Home Rule Bill.

He came to me—I was at Windsor then—to tender his official resignation. He was eighty-four and almost blind, with cataracts in both eyes. I asked him to sit, which he did. We talked awhile but I had never had anything much to say to him. I was glad when he left, and then I realized that I had not uttered the conventional thanks for his years of honorable service. I simply could not. I did not think he had done a great deal of good for the country. He was against all that Lord Beaconsfield—and I— had stood for. He would have liked to diminish the mighty Empire which it had so delighted Lord Beaconsfield to build. Good, one might think him, if one took a kindly view of all those wanderings in the night; but good men do not always make the best Prime Ministers.

When I sent for Lord Rosebery and invited him to become Prime Minister he came rather reluctantly. He turned out to be rather weak in the beginning and sent out appeals to his colleagues to support him— and, of course, after the manner of rival politicians, they did not.

It was really the end of Gladstone's Liberals. The country was not ripe for that sort of policy. The most wild proposals were put forth for the Home Rule for Ireland, “mending or ending” the House of Lords, and the disestablishment of the Church in Wales, and even a veto on liquor sales.

Rosebery could not have continued in office without the support of the Irish members, and when he rashly declaimed that there would be no Home Rule for Ireland unless the majority of members for the English constituencies were in favor of it, support fell away from him. He had more or less let it be known that the Home Rule Bill was postponed indefinitely.

I despised him for his weakness. I did not think he was enjoying his role. After all, he had not exactly taken it with alacrity. He suffered from sleepless nights; he had influenza, and the by-elections were going against him. He had only been in office for about a year when he handed in his resignation.

Parliament was dissolved and to my great pleasure the Conservatives were returned and Lord Salisbury came to see me. I had a new Prime Minister and a dear friend.

A
NOTHER EVENT AT
that time was Alicky's engagement to the Tsarevitch Nicholas of Russia. Although I was suspicious of the Russians I did realize what a great match this was for Alicky—one of my very favorite grandchildren. She was a beautiful girl, clever and sensible … and my dear Alice's daughter, which in itself endeared her to me. In the space of three weeks the dear girl became a wife and Empress, for the Tsar died and Nicholas had stepped into his place taking my darling Alicky with him.

No one could deny it was a brilliant marriage.

Another matter for rejoicing was the birth of a son to George and May, which caused great excitement among the people who marveled that I had a
great
grandchild.
I
did not think it was so wonderful. If Alicky had not refused Eddy in '89, I might have had one four years before.

Still, it was good to know that the people were pleased.

We must not expect life to go on too smoothly and I did not, but I was unprepared for the terrible tragedy that overtook us. Henry of Battenburg had left us to go with the expedition to Ashanti. I had not wanted him to go. One of my great comforts was to have him and Beatrice under my roof; they and their dear children had been a great solace to me during the last years and again and again it had been brought home to me what a wise decision it was to bring Henry to England and let him and Beatrice marry.

I believe Henry was looking for adventure. He probably thought that life spent between Osborne, Windsor, and Buckingham Palace somewhat uneventful; however, he had this urge to go and unselfish Beatrice had not stood in his way. I told him he would never be able to endure the climate but that had no effect on him.

Just after he had left a very disturbing incident arose. There was trouble in South Africa where President Kruger was continually stirring up strife. He believed that the Boers should have control of the country. I did not trust the man and believed that we should have real trouble sooner or later.

The administrator of Rhodesia was a Dr. Jameson who had carried out a very daring plan to overthrow Kruger. It was a foolhardy thing to do but very brave. Stealing into the Transvaal at night, with a few hundred mounted police, he had tried to foster a revolt against Kruger. His force was small; Kruger was powerful; and in a very short time Jameson and his men were overpowered. Unfortunately certain documents were taken, which betrayed the fact that Cecil Rhodes and our Colonial Office, presided over by Joseph Chamberlain, were all involved in the scheme.

It was a disaster for us—and it did indeed lead to the Boer War which broke out some years later. But we did not know that then, and I felt a certain sympathy toward Dr. Jameson who seemed to me to have the right ideas and the courage to attempt to carry them out. The Boers were horrid people—cruel and overbearing.

What was so hard to bear was that Wilhelm had sent a telegram to Kruger, congratulating him on preserving his independence. This was unforgivable. We had suffered pinpricks from that arrogant young German Emperor before, but this was a direct blow. How dared he! Bertie was furious.

“He shall not be invited to Cowes this year,” he said.

I remembered that last year had been very difficult; he had been late for dinner when I was present; he had referred to us as colleagues, which irritated me as he was setting himself on a level with me, and not in a humorous way either. He had openly quarreled with Lord Salisbury; he had referred to Bertie in the presence of people who had reported it, and lost no time in circulating it, that his uncle was an “old popinjay.”

I wrote off a letter of reproval to him and told him that his action over the telegram would not be forgotten for a long time to come.

I do not think Wilhelm was greatly perturbed; he had such a high opinion of himself as a ruler as important as I was—and I am not sure that he did not think he was greater.

I believed then that Wilhelm was going to cause a great deal of aggravation in the years to come and this feeling did not lessen as time passed.

It was soon after this terrible raid that a telegram came to say that Henry was suffering from fever. For a week we awaited news. We heard that he was recovering. Alas, the recovery did not last; and on the twentysecond came the dreaded telegram. Henry was dead.

My poor Baby! She was distraught. It had been a true love match. Useless for me to say I had been through it all before. There was no comforting her.

She was very patient, very selfless—Beatrice always had been—and she bore her grief more secretly than I had borne mine.

I was desolate. Once again happiness had deserted the house.

I
WAS SEVENTY-EIGHT YEARS OF AGE AND HAD BEEN ON THE
throne for sixty years, which was longer than any monarch had been before—even my mad grandfather George III who had reigned for fiftynine years and ninety-six days.

Everyone wanted a grand celebration. It was a rare occasion.

I agreed to the Diamond Jubilee. I said that I wanted it to show the Empire in all its glory. Its growth had been the outstanding feature of my reign, and I wanted all to know it. All the Prime Ministers of all the Colonies, representatives from India and the dependencies, must be present; and the armed forces should take a prominent part.

It was indeed a great occasion, and one I shall never forget in the years left to me. I wanted as many people to see me as possible and for it to be entirely memorable; I wanted the people to realize that I had worked for them—as well as I was able—for sixty long years; and that their welfare had always been my greatest concern.

It was wonderful to hear the guns in the Park booming to announce the great day. It seems that everyone was out in the streets. The crowds were intense; I hoped there would be no accidents.

I made a circular tour and was moved to tears by the loyal demonstrations of affection.

“She wrought her people lasting good,” said one banner. “Our Hearts Thy Throne,” said another.

What beautiful sentiments!

I was so proud. If Albert could have been beside me my joy would have been complete. He had done so much, not only for me, but for these people; but they did not recognize it. They never would.

I rode with my family around me, with the troops and officials from India, Australia, South Africa, Canada, Cyprus, Hong Kong, and Borneo. All the might of the Empire was displayed there. I hoped my people
would realize the greatness of their country and that they would always work together to keep it great.

From Buckingham Palace to St. Paul's for the thanksgiving service; and then I drove over London Bridge to the poorer districts of the capital on the south side of the river. I came back over Westminster Bridge and St. James's Park.

The welcome I was given, the love that was expressed, was so moving. I could scarcely restrain my tears. I was exhausted, but so happy. I had always cared so much for the love of my people and had been most distressed when they had turned against me.

They were with me now.

I was deeply touched and amused when someone in one of the poorer streets cried out: “Go it, old girl.”

I smiled and waved my hand in acknowledgement.

I was delighted at the reception Bertie received; there were cries of “Good old Teddy!” I hoped the scandals of the Mordaunt case and Tranby Croft were all forgotten.

They must be on such a day.

When I returned to the Palace I sent off telegrams to all the people of the Colonies—everywhere—the length and breadth of the Empire.

From my heart I thanked my beloved people. May God bless them.

I was utterly exhausted and yet so happy.

Sixty years! It was indeed a great occasion.

N
OW I AM
old and tired, and the years are passing by with a speed which leave me bewildered.

A great deal has happened since the Jubilee.

Mr. Gladstone died the following year. His family were all around him at the end and his son Stephen read to him the prayers for the dying. He had been a good man, though I had always disliked him. Both Houses were adjourned immediately and there were tributes to his memory both in the Commons and the Lords.

There was a state funeral and at his lying in state great crowds paid their last respects to the man they had called the People's William. He was buried near the statues of Peel and Lord Beaconsfield.

Great sadness was clouding my days. Terrible events like the Boer War and the Boxer Rising in China against foreigners And there was a tragedy that struck me more personally even than these wicked happenings.

My poor Alfred was suffering from an infection of the throat and I was reminded of Fritz and I greatly feared what this might mean in the end.

How right I was! My dear, dear son! To be robbed of another of my children at the age of eighty-one was cruel indeed.

But I am so old now, so tired, so ready to go.

Sometimes I sit and dream of the past. It is all written down for me to read. Sometimes I beguile myself by slipping back to the old days. How vivid they are! And I think that, looking back, I see myself and others more clearly than I did when those events were taking place. I can see myself as a young and eager girl, with Lehzen and Mama in those days of my youth. How impulsive I had been—how ready to give my warm affections and my hatred.

Albert had changed me. Before he came I had been frivolous, thinking it the height of pleasure to stay up late and dance. I sometimes wonder what I would have been like if Albert had not come into my life. Would I have gone on being that laughter-loving creature? No. My destiny was too serious for that. But Albert had molded me, changed me, made me what I am. I always wanted to be good. That was what I had said when I had first discovered that I might inherit the crown. “I will be good,” I said; and I had meant it. I think that one of my strongest characteristics has always been my honesty.

The people who had played the biggest part in my life and claimed my affection, have all been men: Uncle Leopold, Lord Melbourne, dear Albert, Lord Beaconsfield and John Brown… always men. That is surely significant. I think I am a woman who must be dominated by men. It put me in a somewhat incongruous position because I was higher than anyone else in the land: The Queen, the Sovereign, and they my subjects… every one of them …even Albert.

I have always been of a sentimental nature and perhaps always a little naive, and looking back I wondered whether that clouded my vision a little. Albert had molded me and in my mind the conception of him was the perfect being, the incomparable one. But was he perfect, and had our union been quite that most happy of marriages? Suddenly I was remembering the storms—which always seemed to be my fault, or at least that was how I was sure Albert saw them… and made me see them. But was it always so? Had Albert become the saint since his death—and with that our marriage become the perfect union?

These were disloyal thoughts.

Albert
had
been perfect. It was I—always I—who was at fault in those little skirmishes between us.

But they had existed. I had forgotten those over the years. I had been jealous because at times I had thought that he cared more for Vicky than for me. I had despised myself for that. But Albert had been jealous of Bertie, because he was the Prince of Wales and stood higher in the land than the Prince Consort could ever be.

Over the years came the sound of Bertie's crying when Albert had beaten him, and although he always said it hurt him more than it hurt Bertie, did it?

I am indeed old. I am getting foolish. How could I ever see Albert as anything but perfect?

If I did, all the years of mourning would lose their poignancy, their meaning.

No, I wanted to suppress those thoughts. Why did they come to me now that I am old and it is all over?

We have moved into a new century. What will it bring forth? I shall never know.

And now it is time for me to lay down my pen.