Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria (75 page)

I wrote to Vicky telling her how sorry I was about Wilhelm's behavior. It made me realize that I was rather fortunate after all. Alfred and Leopold were often careless and wanting in consideration; Arthur had always been good and attentive; and I was beginning to think that those terrible scrapes through which Bertie had passed had been a lesson to him. And I did not think that any one of them would tolerate anyone's speaking ill of me.

But the child I was really worried about was Alice. She was not in good health. Bearing all those children had been too much for her. She was devoted to them all and had suffered tragically when little Frittie had died. He had been cursed with that terrible disease which it seemed passed through the family to the sons by the mothers. I had passed it on to Leopold and Alice had to Frittie. She had never really recovered from his death.

Almost immediately after, the Duke of Hesse-Darmstadt had died and Louis had succeeded him; and although it was a small state, much diminished by that odious Bismarck, official duties weighed heavily.

Alice was first and foremost a family person. She had been my devoted daughter—little Fatima, the placid one. When she married, of course, she had moved away from me, and we had had our little upsets; but she was still the best-loved child.

I was in a state of horror when I heard that her daughter Victoria had diphtheria and she was very ill indeed. Two days later her daughter Alix—called Alicky—caught it; then Baby May was the next victim. Then Ernest, her only son, and Ella.

It was November when the telegrams came. It was a time of year that I had dreaded since Albert's death. Memories always came back to me more vividly at that time. I had come to think of the fourteenth of December as a day of ill omen, when horrible catastrophes would overtake me. Bertie had come near to death on that date and by a miracle survived. But I did dread that time of year.

Alice had only six children left to her. They were the center of her life. She was essentially the mother I had never been. How she must have suffered when that little one had fallen from the window … and in a moment of delight at seeing her!

I waited eagerly for news. I could not sleep and the first thing I looked for in the mornings was news of Alice.

It came and it was very depressing. Louis had caught the terrible disease and Alice herself was the only one who was well.

I wrote pages to her. She
must
take care of herself. She must leave the care of her family to nurses. She must never go close to them for that was how the disease was passed on. She must not be tempted to embrace or kiss them. She
must
leave the entire care of them in the hands of servants, doctors, and nurses.

Alice wrote back almost indignantly. I did not seem to understand. This was her beloved family. Did I imagine she would leave them in the hands of others? Indeed no. She was going to nurse them herself.

Lord Beaconsfield came and shared my grief.

“I wish that I could go there,” I cried. “I would nurse them. I would send Alice away to safety. Dear Lord Beaconsfield, she is the most loved of all my children. She was always so different…so gentle. Albert loved her, although Vicky was his favorite… but Alice was mine. She was such a good girl. She and Arthur are the only two in the least like their father. If I caught the disease, what would it matter? My life finished on that tragic fourteenth of December.”

He looked at me sorrowfully and said, “Dear Madam.”

I smiled faintly. He was such a comfort to me.

There was further sad news. Little May—five years old, the baby and pet of the household, had died.

Alice's grief was terrible. The whole family was stricken.

The worst was to come. I heard afterward what had happened. Her son, Ernest, who was also a victim, was so sorrowful when he heard of his little sister's death, and feeling that he himself would be the next, had
turned to his mother in an access of grief, and she had embraced and kissed him.

The result of that embrace was that Alice herself was stricken.

This was what I had feared and I summoned as many of the family as I could and told them. They were in despair. Alice had been greatly loved and it was only two days to the fourteenth of December.

I was proud of them all as they gathered around to comfort me. Bertie was as charming as he knew how to be, and was especially so on occasions like this.

I prayed to God. I prayed to Albert. I tried to make terms with the Almighty. Save Alice and take me instead. Give me Alice and do anything You will. I had already, on that other fateful fourteenth been dealt the cruellest blow that could possibly have befallen me and I was ready to face anything—just anything in return for Alice's life.

The thirteenth came. There was no news. I went through the day in a haze of apprehension, and I awoke to the fateful fourteenth.

Brown fussed over me, scolding me, telling me I was “a foolish woman who could do nae good by fretting.”

I had almost known it would happen. I took the telegram in a state of numbed acceptance.

Alice was dead.

T
HEY STOOD AROUND
me, my dear family. Alice was the first child I had lost and the tragedy was almost more than I could bear.

Bertie put his arms around me and tried to comfort me. He had especially loved Alice. When they were young she had often tried to cover up his misdemeanors. I was sure she had saved him from many a beating.

We knew then how she had caught the infection. In expressing her love for her son, and trying to comfort him she had caught the disease herself. Beatrice wept bitterly and so did Alexandra. Dear girl, she was very much one of the family.

It was strange that it should have happened on the dreaded fourteenth.

Brown gave me some comfort with his silence and shocked looks; he urged me to drink a little. I could not eat. He said nothing, but it is amazing what comfort there can be in silence.

Lord Beaconsfield called.

“I thought you would not wish for visitors at such a time,” he said. “But I felt that if you could not bear to see me you would say so. Therefore I came. What can I say? I can only offer my deep sympathy.”

I was pleased to see him at any time, I told him. It was true that I should not have wished to see anyone else. I was able to talk to him about Alice, about Albert, the two whom I had loved best in the whole world— and I had lost them both.

“How well I understand, Ma'am,” he said, and I knew that he was thinking of Mary Anne.

“You had a wonderful wife,” I told him. “I had a wonderful husband. You called her the perfect wife. Albert was, without doubt, the perfect husband. You have often said how fortunate we have been to have these wonderful beings even for a short time. But I have often wondered if we should have been happier if we had never known them. Then we should not have had to suffer their loss.”

He said he did not agree with me on that, and I was sure he was right.

Later he sent me a copy of the speech he had made in the House of Lords. I read it again and again and I could not stop the tears flowing as I did so.

“My Lords, there is something wonderfully piteous in the immediate cause of her death. The physician who permitted her to watch over her suffering family enjoined her under no circumstances to be tempted into an embrace. Her admirable self-constraint guarded her, but it became her lot to break to her son the news of the death of his younger sister to whom he was devotedly attached. The boy was so overcome with misery that the agitated mother clasped him in her arms and thus she received the kiss of death.”

I was so touched, so deeply moved. How like Lord Beaconsfield to express it so beautifully!

When he came to see me we wept together.

“The kiss of death!” I said. “It was so beautifully expressed. And that was what it was.”

He sat with me talking in his fluent way. He thought it was significant that Alice had died on the fourteenth of December.

“So you think Albert wanted her with him and he chose that day to take her?”

Lord Beaconsfield said he thought that might be the case.

“I should have thought he would have taken Vicky rather than
Alice. Vicky was his favorite. She was the clever one. My dear sweet Alice was never that.”

It was all very mysterious, said Lord Beaconsfield; and we talked of death and the after-life and whether those who had passed on could come back to watch over those whom they had loved on earth.

And talking with Lord Beaconsfield assuaged my grief.

H
OW GRATEFUL
I
WAS TO
L
ORD
B
EACONSFIELD IN EVERY WAY
. I thanked God for him. He was a solace in that time of trouble. I pictured what it would have been like if I had had to rely on Mr. Gladstone at that time. I knew Gladstone had his good points. He was very popular with the people. He was known in fact as “The People's William.” But I could not like him. He saw me as a public institution whereas Lord Beaconsfield saw me as a woman.

The Zulu War had broken out. There was a great deal of unrest in South Africa. Sir Bartle Frere, the Governor of the Cape, was not the most diplomatic of men. Lord Beaconsfield did not approve of his actions, but, as he said to me, the government had to support its representatives. His great aim was to make us, and keep us, at the head of all states which, as he pointed out to me, meant an increase in our commitments.

There was a great deal of opposition from Gladstone who accused the government of Imperialism. Gladstone was one of those pacifists who will stand for peace at any price. I often thought that they with their timid approach are more responsible for wars than those who stand firm and strong. It is because our enemies suspect we are weak that they come to attack us.

Lord Beaconsfield agreed with me. It was the reason why, under his premiership, we were becoming mightier.

I had a terrible shock when I heard that the only son of the Empress of France, who was fighting the Zulus with us, had been captured and hacked to death by the savages. Poor Eugénie was heartbroken. I went to Chichester to comfort her. I, who had so recently lost my Alice, was in a position to understand.

It was heartbreaking. I determined to look after the poor sad creature and visit her often. Life was so cruel. It was hard to recognize in that poor
woman, the dazzling Empress who had ruled over her court with Napoleon—so beautiful, so elegant—and now an exile, a sorrowing mother, who had lost her only child. I at least had eight left to me.

Meanwhile Gladstone was making virulent attacks on Lord Beaconsfield, deploring his Imperialism. What was the result of Mr. Gladstone's interference? War. I was furious.

Lord Beaconsfield smiled at my anger.

He said, “It is true that I am ambitious. I want to secure for Your Majesty, greater powers than you already have. I believe it is the way for peace and prosperity, not only for us but for the whole world. I want you to dictate the affairs of Europe. For the sake of world peace I think it is necessary for Your Majesty to occupy the position I plan for you.”

I told him that I feared Prussia might be troublesome.

“Young Wilhelm has been brought up under Bismarck. It is not surprising that he is imbued with ideas for the aggrandizement of Prussia.”

“I am really beginning to dislike Wilhelm. It seems so strange that he should turn out like this. He was the first grandchild. Albert and I were so proud of him.”

“I only hope,” said Lord Beaconsfield, “that I live long enough to see Your Majesty where you belong.”

“Please do not talk of your not being here. I have suffered so much lately. I could not bear any more.”

“Gladstone has a great following,” he said warningly. He smiled at me apologetically. “Facts have to be faced, Ma'am.”

I was alarmed.

He nodded. “Support is dropping away. It may be that before long we shall be obliged to go to the country and if we do…”

“Oh no. I could not bear that. Not that man again! I thought he had retired once. Why does he have to come back?”

“By public request, Ma'am. The people love their William.”

“Do they know he prowls the streets at night?”

“I think he has given that up. And it was said to be most virtuously done.”

“If one believes it!”

“Of Mr. Gladstone! Surely one must.”

“If I have to accept him …I…I shall abdicate!”

“Dear Madam!”

He left me very uneasy for I knew that unless he was almost sure that
there would be a change of government, he would not have suggested it to me at this time, for he would know how it disturbed me.

Of course he was right to prepare me and although I was deeply distressed when Parliament was dissolved and an election was called, it was not such a shock as it would have been if I had not been prepared.

The following day I went to Germany. I had to see Alice's stricken family who had now recovered from their illness and had to face their irreplaceable loss.

Two of the girls were going to be confirmed and I wanted to see the ceremony.

It was a very sad household. Alice had been greatly loved.

I visited Vicky in time to celebrate the betrothal of Wilhelm to Princess Victoria of Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderburg-Augustenburg, who was the daughter of that Duke Frederick who had laid claims to Schleswig-Holstein. Her mother was Feodore's daughter, so I had a special interest in the match; and I thought it excellent as Prussia had annexed Schleswig-Holstein. In a way it made reparations for their act.

So that was something of which I approved—though I had to say that Wilhelm's manners had not improved and I thought him quite an odious young man.

My great interest, of course, was in what was going on at home. I was in constant touch with Lord Beaconsfield and, alas, the news was gloomy.

Finally I had the result of the election. My Conservative Government had been defeated and the Liberals had a majority of one hundred and sixty.

It was indeed a tragedy.

I
RETURNED HOME
distraught. Not Mr. Gladstone! I could not endure it, and it would be particularly hard to bear after the pleasant companionship I had enjoyed with dear Lord Beaconsfield.

Sir Henry Ponsonby, my secretary, who was always such a help, tried hard to comfort me.

“I would sooner abdicate,” I told him, “than have anything to do with that half-mad firebrand who will ruin everything and try to dictate to me.”

Sir Henry soothed me. He said perhaps he would not be so bad as that. There were others. Mr. Gladstone was getting old. Perhaps he would be a little mellowed.

Mellowed! I could see no sign of that in his outbursts against Lord Beaconsfield, and his weak-kneed policy of peace at any price.

“Your Majesty could send for Lord Granville.”

“I don't want him.”

“Lord Hartington?”

“Hartington! Isn't he the one they call Harty Tarty.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“A fine Prime Minister. Harty Tarty indeed! And wasn't he involved in that scandal with the Duchess of Manchester?”

“They were intimate friends, Your Majesty.”

“Until, I hear, he conceived a passion for some creature whom they called Skittles.”

“The lady was very much admired in several quarters.”

Sir Henry had the same sort of wit as Lord Melbourne had had. He liked to make sly little remarks. I believed Bertie had been involved with that shameless creature.

And these were the sort of men I was expected to have as my Prime Minister to take the place of Lord Beaconsfield!

They both declined to take on the premiership and most tactfully reminded me that there was one man whom the people wanted.

I had to wrestle with myself. Of course my threat to abdicate had not been serious. How could it be? I knew what was my duty. I tried to think what Albert would have done.

I knew, of course. There was only one thing I could do. I sent for Mr. Gladstone.

He came humbly enough, trying, I knew, to please me. He kissed my hand, but I could not enforce any warmth into my manner.

So I had lost my dear friend and in his place was William Gladstone.

G
LADSTONE'S MINISTRY DIRECTED
its efforts to bringing an end to those wars that had been raging in Afghanistan and South Africa at the time of the election. Our troops were defeated at Maiwand and I was afraid that the new government would meekly accept the disaster and not try to regain our prestige as Lord Beaconsfield would have undoubtedly done. I was delighted therefore when Sir Frederick Roberts brought Afghanistan to submission by marching on Kandahar and installing a new emir who professed friendship for us.

When the Boer War broke out and General Colley died in the defeat of Majuba Hill, I was afraid that the government would take no action. I recommended Sir Frederick Roberts for the chief command of the Transvaal. But what was the use? The government pursued its “peace at any price” policy and in the negotiations gave way to the enemy.

I was deeply angry. If only Lord Beaconsfield had been at the head of affairs how different everything would be. When the soldiers came back I visited them and gave new colors to the Berkshire Regiment who had lost theirs at Maiwand. I wanted my soldiers to know how much I appreciated them and that I understood the sacrifices they made for their country.

I was horrified to learn that Sir Charles Dilke had been given the post of Under Secretary for Foreign Affairs in the government. I would never forget how he had fulminated against me and that he was in favor of abolishing the Monarchy. How could such a man be permitted to take part in the government?

If that were not bad enough I discovered that he had become a member of Bertie's circle. I thought that not only disloyal but foolish. When I remonstrated with Bertie he said that he mixed with all sorts of people and that it was the best way of discovering what was being said and thought. I supposed there was something in that but I should certainly not receive Dilke.

There was one sad fact that obsessed me at the time. Lord Beaconsfield became ill. He had been growing feebler since he took his place in the House of Lords and, indeed, I think he only accepted the peerage because he found the House of Commons demanded too much of him.

When I heard that he had taken to his bed at Hughenden, I wrote to him commanding him to send me word of his progress. He wrote back so charmingly that my letters did him so much good and that he immediately felt better on reading them. He said it was very cold at Hughenden and he found it difficult to keep his old bones warm.

In March he managed to come up to his place in Curzon Street. I was delighted because I thought that was a good sign.

I sent him primroses from Osborne and he wrote back to tell me that they cheered him.

It was April. He had not been out for three weeks and when I did not hear from him it occurred to me that he was too ill to write.

I would go to see this dear old friend. I would command him to get well. I could not lose any more of those I loved. But before I could go I heard that he had died.

His last words were, “I am not afraid to die, but I would rather live.” Dear Lord Beaconsfield!

He had wanted to be buried in Hughenden church beside Mary Anne. I could not bear to be present—my grief was too intense—so I sent Bertie and Leopold to represent me. They took the primroses I wanted to be laid on the coffin. I wrote a card that was attached to them, “His favorite flower.”

I knew, of course, that they were so because I had sent them to him.

I had lost a beloved friend whose one thought was the honor and glory of his country and unswerving devotion to the crown. His death was a national calamity and my sorrow was great and lasting.

Although it was his wish that he should be buried at Hughenden, I ordered that a monument should be set up to him in Westminster Abbey.

Four days after the funeral, Beatrice and I went to Hughenden and I laid a wreath of white camellias on his coffin, which lay in the open vault in the churchyard. I wanted everyone to know how much I had loved and honored this man; and the following year I had a tablet set up in the church on which were the words:

It seemed to me that death was in the air—a most depressing thought. I had recently heard of the assassination of Tsar Alexander, the father of Alfred's wife, and soon after that President Garfield of the United States met a similar end.

But before that there was trouble with Egypt when the Khedive's war minister Arabi Pasha brought about a successful coup and overthrew the Khedive. Egyptian finance was in chaos; France was involved with us but refused to reinstate the Khedive so we had to go ahead single-handed.

I was delighted when we had a decisive victory. I was at Balmoral at the time and ordered that a bonfire should be lighted at the top of Craig Gowan.

But of course I remembered the feeling of my “peace at any price” government and once again I mourned Lord Beaconsfield and wished
with all my heart that he was beside me so that we could enforce the strong policies in which we had both so fervently believed.

I
WAS ASTONISHED
when Leopold came to me and told me that he planned to marry. I had thought he never would. We had always been so watchful of him ever since we discovered he was cursed with that dreadful disease, hemophilia.