I, Victoria

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  I told him that I had long decided to retain him and his ministry at the head of affairs, and added that I felt it could not be in better hands than his, which I saw pleased him. He explained to me that there was to be a meeting of the Privy Council at eleven o’clock – ‘If it pleases Your Majesty’ – told me what would be discussed there, and gave me a draft he had prepared of the declaration I must read to them. We talked a little more, and I saw his approval of me growing with every sentence; while the simple, candid warmth I felt emanating from him bathed me in a delicious sense of security I had never known before. I felt that here at last was one who took my part, understood me, and would protect me: a man not only with the heart and the will, but with the power also to act as my champion and my guide. I felt that I could lean on him with absolute confidence; with him beside me I could negotiate all the difficulties and hazards of my new position. There would be ceremonies and protocols and etiquettes, and I was painfully shy and inexperienced in the ways of the world (and of the Court, which was worse); but he would steer me through them safely.

  Before I went down to the Privy Council meeting, I took a moment to write a note to my dear aunt Adelaide (who had not neglected to send me a message while her own husband lay dying). I addressed the outside to ‘Her Majesty the Queen at Windsor Castle’ and handed it to Lehzen to dispatch. She bent to murmur in my ear that I should properly have addressed it to the Queen Dowager.

  ‘I am quite well aware of Her Majesty’s altered status,’ I said quickly. ‘She must know it herself – but I shall not be the first to remind her of it. Send it as it is.’

  And then I went downstairs to the Red Saloon.

  A multitude seemed to be gathered there as I stepped in through the double doors quite alone, and for a moment I felt very small and vulnerable, and I felt myself blushing at so many male eyes being fixed on me, who had never before today been allowed to be unchaperoned in the presence of any male thing over seven years old. But then my eyes found Lord Melbourne’s face, and he gave me a comfortable look and a little nod, and I suddenly felt quite calm. In fact, my very femaleness suddenly seemed to me a point of strength rather than weakness, and I revelled in being the only woman in the room, and the one on whom they must all bestow their attention.

  The first to advance upon me were my old uncles Sussex and Cumberland – frightening enough figures to have bearing down on one, had one been faint-hearted! They took my hands and led me to my throne (in fact one of Mamma’s dining-room chairs) and Lord M. told me afterwards that Greville thought the three of us presented a most bizarre appearance, like Beauty and Two Beasts. When I was seated I read the Declaration, and any last trace of nervousness left me, for I knew my voice was sweet, and clear and carried to the furthest and deafest ears: it is always a great comfort to do something one knows one does well. After that came the swearing-in, and there seemed a great many of them to kneel to me and kiss my hand – some of them, like the Duke and Lord Palmerston, so eminent they seemed almost figures out of history – but always, whenever I had the slightest doubt what to do, Lord Melbourne was nearby, his face and his eyes ready for my seeking.

  When it was all over and I withdrew, I waited impatiently in my room for him to come to me, so that I could ask him what they were saying of me.

  ‘Well?’ I demanded when we were alone together. ‘Were they satisfied with me?’

  I saw there were traces of tears on his cheeks. In those days it was not considered unmanly for men to weep, and Lord M. was always easily moved to tears. ‘Satisfied, ma’am?’ he said with a tremor in his voice. ‘They would die for you!’

  I felt my cheeks grow warm. ‘Truly?’

  ‘Most truly. You had not passed out of sight before your praise was spoken on every side.’

  ‘Tell me what they said of me,’ I demanded. What a vain little creature! But I had never heard compliments from male lips before, and I was as ready for them as a monkey for nuts.

  ‘Sir Robert Peel, ma’am, was deeply impressed by Your Majesty’s dignity and firmness. Croker admired your clear and beautiful voice, and Greville your complete self-possession – most interestingly mixed, he said, with a graceful diffidence.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, almost speechless with pleasure. ‘Tell me another.’

  ‘The Duke said that Your Majesty not only filled the chair, but the whole room.’

  ‘Did he indeed say that?’ The Duke of Wellington, the Hero of Waterloo, virtually a National Institution, to say such a thing of me!

  ‘He did indeed, ma’am,’ Lord M. said, his eyes twinkling. ‘He said that if Your Majesty had been his own child, he could not have wished to see you perform your part better.’

  My cup was full. I said to my Prime Minister, ‘I wish you will always tell me, Lord Melbourne, what is said of me on such occasions – freely and frankly. I wish to do everything properly. You must not be afraid to be frank with me.’

  ‘I will always tell you the truth,’ he said seriously. ‘Your Majesty may ask me anything, and I will do my best to give satisfaction.’

  ‘I am sure you will do that,’ I said warmly; and I was right.

  The rest of my day was wonderfully busy, and I enjoyed so much the sense of purpose after so long in idleness – and the sense of importance about what I did. Other girls might work screens or make purses, sketch or play the piano; I gave audiences (to the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Home Secretary, and the Master of the Horse amongst others), made appointments (Clark to be my physician, Lehzen to be Lady Attendant to the Queen – a position without a post, which would cause no-one any jealousy), and gave orders (for instance that the name Alexandrina should be dropped from all official documents – henceforward I would be Queen Victoria, and would be proclaimed as such the following day). I wrote some more letters, completed my Journal, and dined alone in my room; spoke again to Stockmar, and had a fourth, very comfortable conversation with Lord Melbourne; and then at last at half past ten I retired to my bed, to sleep in a room on my own for the first time in my life. Between the sheets I stretched out my limbs luxuriously, and felt the benison of space all around me – not just in the room, but in my mind, my heart, my whole being. I had been caged and cramped all my life, in a space too small for me even to open my wings, far less use them. They would not hold me down now!

  That first day was the antithesis of everything that had gone before: my waking hours had been busy, purposeful, filled with company and conversation; my sleeping hours would be solitary and private. Oh, it was utter, utter bliss!

  SPRING

  Six

  29th March 1900, at Windsor

  WHEN I began this account of my life, I said that I was writing it for myself alone, and that no one else would ever see it. But reading back over the last few episodes of my childhood, I discover that I still seem to be addressing it to someone. When Beatrice came up to me the other day, plainly wondering what I was writing, I found myself putting my hand over the page to stop her reading it. This automatic reaction of concealment showed me who I am not writing for. People do not want the truth, when it touches on themselves: it is too uncomfortable. We assemble half-truths around us like our familiar possessions, and we do not at all like a stranger to come romping through the house and moving the furniture around.

  Which very much begs the question, who am I addressing? If not my immediate companions, then perhaps some future generation, who will be born when I am long dead and forgotten. Well, no, not quite forgotten, perhaps. I am Queen of England – I shall be in the history books. But though the Queen will be remembered, Victoria will be forgotten. When the last of the people who have known me have died, I shall become as remote as all those other characters in history, brightly coloured, resembling humanity, but unreal – like the Staffordshire figures of Famous People.

  Perhaps after all I shall not burn this when it is finished. Perhaps I shall just hide it, and hope that it is discovered one day a long time into the future. Of course, if the wrong person fin
ds it, it will probably be burned anyway, but it must take its chance. Nothing in life is certain, as Lord M. used to say, except death and taxes.

  Suddenly, how I miss him! The Queen lives on a lonely eminence, and what she values most of all are those rare few who can bridge the gulf. Lord Melbourne was the least obsequious of courtiers. Wise man, he knew that sovereigns are always surrounded by flattery and deceit, and he determined, as he promised me that first day, that he would always tell me the truth, even when it was not what I wanted to hear. Well, in my old age I have become as fond of having my prejudices confirmed as anyone, but if there is an unclouded eye in me still, that sees without self-delusion after sixty years of being always right, it is Lord M.’s doing. He loved me intensely, but never blindly; curbed my excesses without damping my enthusiasm; and with his own honesty confirmed me in my love of candour, while tempering it with a little (sadly, only a little!) of his tact and tolerance.

  ‘If you want to influence a person you must begin by finding something to praise,’ he told me on one occasion. ‘You cannot make a friend by reprimanding him.’

  We were talking about one of my courtiers – Lord Lyndhurst, I think. ‘But I don’t like him,’ I said, as though that were the end of it. ‘He is a bad man.’

  ‘That places him in a category which embraces most of mankind,’ he said, smiling. ‘It does not embrace you,’ I said warmly. ‘That is not to my credit, ma’am,’ he said with a deep sigh. ‘I am only too indolent to be wicked. Sinning is such an energetic business, and you know I am always falling asleep in public places.’ Only the day before I had reprimanded him for that fault, and so the lecture ended in laughter, as it usually did.

  Parliament would not allow me a private secretary such as Uncle King and Uncle William had had, for fear of the influence a person in such a position would have over me. According to tradition, the Prime Minister was the Sovereign’s private secretary, though in practice he did not actually carry out the duties; but Lord M. did so for me, advising me, drafting my letters, and wielding the blotter for my signature. So he was always at my side. How he filled my days, guiding, educating, amusing me – approving me, too, so that my poor parched nature straightened up and blossomed under his loving attention! There came a moment when Mamma, consumed with jealousy, hissed a warning at me, ‘Take care that Lord Melbourne is not King!’ What she was afraid of was never a possibility: I grew up too much under threat of a King John ever to yield the least part of my prerogative to anyone. But there was a sense in which Lord M. was King. As Prime Minister, my secretary, my closest companion, and my tutor in statecraft, he wielded an extraordinary degree of power. But there was never, even from his political opponents, the slightest objection to his uniquely privileged position. He was a man of whom it was impossible to believe ill, and he could no more have abused his power than fly in the air.

  30th March 1900

  THERE SEEMS to be a disgraceful tendency amongst some of my ministers to blame Buller and the other generals for all that has gone wrong in South Africa. It does nothing but harm to lower the officers in the estimation of the men they command. I have had to speak to Balfour pretty sharply about it, for what is said in the House and at dinner parties soon gets about, and it is both unpatriotic and unjust to pillory poor Sir Redvers. No-one who was not there can know the truth of it, and as I have said before, civilians cannot understand military matters. Besides, in time of war it is most important to keep up public morale, and though Kimberley and Ladysmith have been relieved and the Boers seem to be on the retreat, Mafeking is still under siege, and they say the new Boer leader, Botha (what names these people have!), is much more able than his predecessor. So we have a long way to go yet, though the supply problem should be eased now that Roberts is in Bloemfontein.

  I feel rather ruffled, and turn to my writing for solace. There could be nothing more likely to soothe me than describing those happy early days of my reign with my dear Lord M. I remember one evening, after dinner, I was seated on the sofa in the drawing-room, with Lord M. in a chair drawn up close to me. Islay, my newly acquired Highland terrier, was curled up beside me, while dear Dashy lay at our feet, his head resting on Lord M.’s feet and his feathery tail curled over mine. Between us we held a book of engravings which we were leafing through, but the book was only an excuse for what we liked best to do – chatting. How comfortable they were, those long, rambling conversations about anything and everything! We talked together by the hour, joking, gossiping, imparting all those minutiae of our lives which are so unfailingly interesting to those who care for each other. We were, in fact, ‘having a comfortable coze’ as it used to be called in those days. It was a delight I had never known before – and now I come to think of it, have never known again in exactly the same way, for my closeness with Albert was of a different order. I have seen young girls chat together in that way – but I never had a female friend of my own age.

  Across the other side of the room Mamma was engaged in a game of whist with my other guests, which satisfied the etiquette which said I must be seen with her, but prevented my having to talk to her. It did not always prevent her from falling asleep in the evenings, I have to say – but who am I, now, to cast that particular stone!

  I turned a page and pointed to the next picture. ‘Who is this man? He looks amusing.’

  Lord M. leaned forward and nodded. He hardly ever let me down – I think he knew something amusing about everyone in the world.

  ‘Oh, that’s Cambacérès – he was Boney’s Second Consul under the Constitution of 1799. You remember, ma’am, the Triumvirate?’

  He had been instructing me recently on the history of the French revolutionary wars. ‘Oh yes, I remember. Tell me about him.’

  He leaned back in his chair and prepared to be expansive. It was a gesture I loved to see. Usually he sat very upright with his feet together, as was proper, but sometimes when he warmed to a story he forgot himself and stretched out his legs and crossed his feet, so that I could imagine him in his Cambridge days, sprawling on a sofa, or lolling with his feet in the fender and talking, talking, talking. He was said to have been amazingly handsome as a youth, and though I often longed for a time-machine, so that I could travel back and see him as he was then, I could not conceive that he had been any more handsome than he was now, with the warmth and charm and wisdom of maturity added to his physical perfections. His features were strong, his figure elegant, and his eyes were so beautiful – large, blue-grey, fringed with long lashes any woman would have given a fortune for, and full of light and expression.

  ‘Oh, Cambacérès was a down-the-road man, an amazing dilettante, very fond of the opera and painting and so on. But above all, he was a great gourmet, dedicated to the arts of the dinner-table.’

  ‘Like you, then,’ I said quickly. ‘You had three chops and a grouse at breakfast this morning – I saw you.’

  He bowed ironically (not an easy thing to do in the sitting position, but he was graceful in everything) and said, ‘My dear ma’am, I am flattered you noticed! But I am quite a novice compared with Cambacérès: the delicate flavouring, the exquisite sauce – they were his passion. His cooks were the highest paid servants in France, and they say a spoiled dish could reduce him to tears.’

  ‘I wonder he found time to be Second Consul, then,’ I remarked from my recently acquired knowledge of the demands of government. ‘I am so busy I arrive at my dinnertable each evening with very little idea of what I will find there.’

  ‘But you must remember, ma’am, that he was a mere cypher. It was Boney who wielded the power. Of course, Boney never cared two hoots for haute cuisine: his mind was on higher things and more distant horizons. He used to drive poor Cambacérès to despair by holding meetings of state just before dinner time, and keeping everyone from their dining-tables.’

  ‘Did he not complain to Bonaparte about it?’ I asked, fascinated.

  ‘One didn’t complain to Boney about a dried-up ragout when he was planning to conqu
er the world. But on one occasion the Corsican, in the middle of a long meeting about the constitution, saw Cambacérès scribbling a frantic note, and demanded to see what it was he had written. Cambacérès was very reluctant to show it up, and Boney, always afraid of treachery, as your dictators are, rushed down the table and snatched it from his hand.’ He paused tantalisingly.

  ‘Well, well, what did it say?’ I cried.

  ‘It was addressed to his cook, ma’am, and it said, “Sauvez les rôtis; les entremets sont perdus”.’ We both laughed very much, and Dash lifted his head and looked up at Lord M., smiling and waving his tail.

  I turned another page. ‘This must be the Empress Josephine,’ I said. ‘Was she very beautiful?’

  ‘Not beautiful so much as bewitching. Plus belle encore que la beauté, she had grace. She moved as though she was floating, and she had the most beautiful voice.’

  I was pleased with this, for two things I knew I had were grace of movement and a beautiful voice. ‘Was she tall?’ I asked.

  ‘Moderately so.’

  ‘I’m sure it must help, when one is an empress – or a queen,’ I said wistfully. ‘I am so very short of stature. Everyone grows but me. I think I shall never be taller.’