31st March 1900
GREVILLE SAID (most improperly I’m afraid, but his words probably reflected the feelings of a number of my subjects) that before I came to the Throne the country had been ruled successively by an imbecile, a profligate, and a buffoon. Much as I disapprove of these descriptions of my poor grandfather, my kind uncle King and my good uncle William, they go to explain why it was that there was such excitement over my Coronation, which was held on Thursday June 28th, 1838 (I think they are always on Thursdays, I cannot tell why). Those were, as Uncle Leopold had warned me, testing times for kings. Monarchies all over Europe were being weighed in the balance and found wanting; countries hovered on the brink of revolution, and even our own land was restless, because of the changes brought about by industrialisation and war. Now a young girl of nineteen had appeared to save England from being ruled by the Duke of Cumberland – the most hated man in the kingdom – and I should have had to have done something amazingly wicked to have avoided the measureless popularity which I enjoyed that summer. ‘All London went raving mad about the Coronation,’ one Londoner famously recorded.
Lord Melbourne knew how much the popularity of the Crown needed reviving, and at his instigation Parliament decided to make a very grand affair of it indeed. They voted £200,000 for it – four times what was voted for Uncle William’s. The traditional Coronation Banquet had been abolished by Uncle William, and it was decided not to revive it, but to substitute instead the State Procession, which had last been carried out at my grandfather’s Coronation. In the robes of state, crowned and carrying the orb and sceptre, I was to be driven on a circuitous route through the streets to allow as many people as possible to have a glimpse of me; and afterwards there were to be band concerts, illuminations, firework displays, and a two-day festival in Hyde Park with balloon ascents, music, theatres, taverns, and every kind of side-show and jollity. It was to be the People’s Coronation; and the people responded with all their hearts.
For days beforehand London seethed. There was a tremendous din of hammering and cursing as stands were erected all along the route and bits of wood and masonry fell on the pedestrians beneath; the Park was an encampment, trains and coaches every hour disgorged their passengers from all over the country to swell the throng of Londoners, every ale-house and inn bulged with uproar and excitement, and every pavement was a slow jostle of gaping, gazing sightseers. The roads were crammed with horsemen and carriages jammed tight and frequently unmoving for half an hour together. Windows along the route were being hired out for absurd sums of money, and when the word got about that there were tickets for the Abbey to be had at the American Legation, the place was besieged and several people fainted in the crush. Indeed, it was a wonder that more people were not injured, so vast was the throng – London’s population quintupled, they say; but everyone was very good-tempered and well-behaved, despite the vast quantities of beer and gin that were consumed by the lower orders that week.
For days beforehand I was in a state of agitation approaching terror, but, ‘You’ll like it of all things once you are there,’ my dear Lord M. assured me lightly. He kept me going from day to day with little stories and jokes; telling me, for instance, how when the Tories had threatened to boycott Uncle William’s Coronation, Uncle had simply replied, ‘Good. There will be less heat and more air in the Abbey,’ which so took the wind out of the Tories’ sails that they had attended after all – ‘For there is no point,’ said Lord M., ‘in making a protest which upsets no-one but yourself.’ Of my Coronation, he told me that only two peers knew how to put on their robes properly, and that was because they had taken part in country-house theatricals. He explained that during the ceremony each peer had to pay homage and in turn touch the crown. ‘But you are to be sure they do not go away with anything. We have the jewels on loan from Rundell and Bridge. They must all go back on Friday, you know.’
This made me laugh, because there had been a dreadful quarrel between the Keeper of the Jewel House at the Tower, Mr Swift, and Mr Bridge of the famous jeweller’s shop on Ludgate Hill, over the new crown. The great Crown of England, St Edward’s Crown, had been made originally for King Charles II, who was six feet five inches tall and strong to boot. It weighed over five pounds and if pressed on to my head during the ceremony by the Archbishop, ‘I fear would snap Your Majesty’s neck like a stick of celery.’ There was another crown, the Imperial Crown, which had been made for Uncle King and worn by him and Uncle William, but it was thought unsuitable for me, and so a new crown was made especially for me, using the jewels from the Imperial Crown. It weighed only two and three-quarter pounds and was called the Crown of State.
The jewels in it were magnificent, including the Black Prince’s Ruby which was worn by Henry V at Agincourt, the sapphire from the ring of Edward the Confessor, and the huge Stuart sapphire which had been taken from England by James II when he fled and was bought back years later from his grandson Henry Benedict, who was a Cardinal in Rome. Interest in the new crown was intense, and Mr Swift looked forward to a period of prosperity. He received no salarium for his position but depended on showing the crown jewels to visitors at a shilling a time, and he had a large family of hopeful children to provide for. But Mr Bridge, of Rundell and Bridge who had made the crown, put it on display in his shop from the middle of June, and was besieged by such crowds that policemen had to be posted on the pavement to regulate the flow. Poor Mr Swift wailed that his business was being taken away and that by the time the Coronation was over, everyone in London would have seen the Crown and no one would pay him to see it again. He begged the Lord Chamberlain to forbid Mr Bridge to show the crown; but though Lord Conyngham sympathised with Mr Swift, he was only too glad of the public interest, and declined to take any action.
I hardly slept the night before the great day, partly from nervousness, and partly because London was so noisy – they say thousands slept out in the streets that night so as to secure a good place. I kept waking up with an awful sense of foreboding that something dreadful was going to happen on the morrow; and then I was woken at four o’clock by the sound of guns firing in the Park. I fell into a doze at last, but woke every few minutes with a jerk thinking that I had overslept and no-one had called me. By seven o’clock I was glad to get up and go to look out of the window. What a disappointment! It was overcast, and a fine, chilly rain was falling, and the trees were blowing in a gusty wind. Still it did not seem to be deterring the spectators, who were milling about in Green Park, buying hot pies and sausages from the vendors for their breakfasts, and listening to the bands who would surely be out of breath long before events really began. There were crowds already all the way up Constitution Hill, patiently holding on to what they thought might be a ‘good spot’, and the soldiers were already on duty, lining the road both sides and keeping it clear. The sight of all the people enjoying themselves cheered me, and I felt strong and well despite my sleepless night, though I was too excited to eat much breakfast.
‘Try again after you are dressed,’ Lehzen said firmly. ‘It will be a very long day, and Your Majesty must eat something or you will faint away.’
‘I shan’t faint today,’ I said, and flung my arms round her in a sudden hug, which took her by surprise. ‘Oh, my dear Daisy, I am so very, very happy!’ I cried. Daisy was my new pet name for her.
‘You have deserved this day,’ she said, her thin lips curving in a rare smile. ‘I hope you enjoy every minute of it, dear Majesty.’
The maids came and I was dressed in a white satin petticoat ornamented with gold, and a red velvet kirtle, my hair was dressed securely behind, but low on the neck to allow for the Crown; and a circlet of gold set with diamonds was placed on my head. At half past nine Feo came in – she had come to stay for the Coronation – and we had a precious half hour together before it was time to leave. I bent to kiss dear Dashy’s nose and promise him a walk when I came back. ‘For I can’t take you with me today, my dear,’ and then at ten o’clock exactly I set off from Buc
kingham Palace in the State coach. It was drawn by six cream horses brought over specially for their size from Hanover ‘because anything else would look like rats or mice,’ Lord M. had said. And wonderfully, the clouds had all cleared away by the time I entered the coach, and glorious golden sunshine was pouring down to warm the chilled spectators. (Indeed, I have always been lucky about having sunshine for my special occasions, so much so that it has come to be called ‘Queen’s weather’.)
The processional route was up Constitution Hill, along Piccadilly, down St James’s Street and Pall Mall, across Trafalgar Square, and along Whitehall; and every inch of the way was crammed tight with cheering people, filling the pavements and the stands, hanging from every window and even perching perilously on the roofs, waving whatever they could get hold of by way of flags. With all those pink faces and their coloured, festival clothes, each street looked like a long box packed with flowers. I had never seen or dreamed of such crowds before, and their joy and goodwill was palpable. I was so proud to be Queen of such a nation, and to hear them cheering as I bowed and waved to them. All this for me! My heart was full to overflowing.
At the Abbey I was met by Lord Conyngham and my dear, dearest Lord M., and I was taken to the robing room where the Parliament Robes of crimson velvet lined with ermine were fastened on me with the heavy, gold-tasselled cords. Then my eight train-bearers took their places around me – all unmarried girls, in gowns of white satin and silver tissue, their heads dressed with wreaths of silver corn-ears and pink rosebuds. I was anxious about these gowns, for the Duchess of Richmond had designed them with trains, and I feared the girls would not be able to manage their own trains while successfully carrying mine. But Lord M. was there to reassure me. ‘Will it be all right?’ I whispered: how terrible if I should stumble or fall!
‘Yes, don’t be afraid. I will be walking before you with the Sword of State, and I will go slowly.’
‘Very slowly,’ I urged anxiously.
‘It cannot be otherwise,’ he said. ‘The Sword of State is excessively heavy, you know.’ And then he gave me a smile so comfortable and loving that it melted all my fears. ‘The effect is so very beautiful,’ he said with a nod towards my train-bearers. ‘It looks as though you floated in a silvery cloud.’
The girls took hold of my train, four to a side, with Lord Conyngham holding it up at the tail, and we stepped into the Abbey. The first sight of it made me pause, and I drew a breath and clasped my hands, trembling with awe. The soaring pillars were gloriously hung with crimson and cloth-of-gold, the floors covered with rich Turkey carpets, the bishops were robed in magnificent copes, and the altar was almost covered with gold plate. The congregation, ten thousand strong, packed every inch of space, glittering with jewels against the glowing colours of their velvet and satin. Prince Esterhazy was the most magnificent of all, I am told, and wore so many diamonds that when a ray of light struck him one had to turn one’s eyes away from the refulgence. Beams of sunshine were pouring in through the great windows like blessings, and I felt so small, so humble – and yet uplifted. It was not for me, all this, not for Victoria the girl: it was for the Queen of England, chosen to stand for the people before God, to be His vessel, to rule them for His glory. I understood then what my uncle King, for all his profligacy, understood, and what he recognised in me. I understood the glory and the gravity, the yoke that is placed upon one’s neck, which might never be cast off. My Ministers now who wish me to abdicate in my son’s favour do not, cannot understand. It is not a thing from which one can retire, like a profession or a Court position, because one is old or tired; it is a Holy thing, between oneself and God, and until He calls, one may not take one’s hand from His work.
At the same instant that I paused, the orchestra burst into a tremendous crash of music, and there seemed to come simultaneously from every throat in the Abbey a gasp of indrawn breath, as though they had seen the same thing that I had seen, the glory of it, and the awfulness. And then I walked forward to meet the ceremony.
It was not a thing, of course, that one could rehearse; and unfortunately the Dean of Westminster, who had conducted the last two Coronations, was now too infirm to assist at mine. He had delegated his duties to the Sub-Dean, Lord John Thynne, who was the only person who actually knew what to do. The Archbishop had only a hazy idea, and the Bishop of Durham was always in the wrong place. It was a long, complicated, and frequently incomprehensible ceremony, and a great many things went wrong; but I was determined, as I was at the centre of the stage, that I would remain calm and behave with absolute dignity whatever happened; and so we got through.
We had the Recognition and Acclamation, the Litany, and the Oath (I swore to maintain the Protestant Reformed religion as established by law, as I later had to remind Gladstone, who wanted me to disestablish the Church, as if an Oath were nothing. I have always kept my promises, even the smallest ones). Then I withdrew to the little dark Chapel of St Edward where my robes were taken off and I was dressed in a linen shift trimmed with lace, and then the supertunica. This was a magnificent thing of cloth of gold and silver, lined with scarlet silk, trimmed with gold lace, and embroidered all over with roses, thistles, shamrocks and palms. Lord M. said that it suited me best of all of the robes. I took off my circlet, and then, bareheaded, returned to the Abbey, where I was seated on St Edward’s Chair for the Anointing while a canopy was held over my head by four Garter Knights to emphasise the sacredness of the moment. The touch of the chrism on my forehead, breast and hands made me shiver, for it was a very strange and moving thing, mysterious, almost magical.
And then came the crowning itself. The Dalmatic robe was fastened round my shoulders, the sceptre placed in my hand, and the ring put on to my finger. (Unfortunately the Archbishop put it on the wrong finger, for which it was too small, and the force he used to drive it over the second joint made me almost scream with pain; but I could not protest at such a moment – I had to endure it in silence. It took half an hour and a great deal of ice-water after the service to work it off again, and my finger was painfully bruised for two days.) And then Lord John Thynne handed the Archbishop the crown, and he stood before me, lifted it high, and placed it slowly on my head. At the same instant the peers and peeresses resumed their coronets with a flashing of gold and gemstones, the trumpets shrilled out a triumphant peal, and far away I heard the thump and crash as the guns fired in the parks and the Tower, to tell the waiting capital that I had been crowned their Queen. It was a supremely moving moment. I looked instinctively towards Lord Melbourne, standing just to the side of me, and read in his shining eyes the awe and wonder and love he was feeling.
The cheering that followed might well have lifted the roof; from outside we could hear the echo of the cheers from the rest of London. Inside people shouted, wept, waved scarves and handkerchiefs, bawled themselves hoarse, while the saints in their niches looked down, it seemed, in faint and petrified astonishment. The Homage came next, with each peer, beginning with my uncles, kneeling in turn before me to swear fealty, kiss my hand and touch the Crown. When Lord Melbourne took my hand, he squeezed it gently, and I returned the pressure fervently, so glad to be reminded of his personal love in the midst of all this impersonal homage; and he looked up at me then, and gave me, oh, such a smile! It was like a draught of cordial, warming me and strengthening my limbs.
Poor old Lord Rolle, who was over eighty and quite infirm, had a sad accident during the Homage. As he was being helped to mount the steps to the Throne, he caught his foot in his robes and fell, slipped through the hands of his supporters, and tumbled in an alarming way to the bottom, to lie all tangled in his velvet and fur. He struggled slowly to his feet, amidst frantic cheering from the spectators, to make another attempt, but I could not bear to see it. ‘May I not go to him?’ I whispered urgently to Lord M., who glanced at Lord John, and then replied that he thought I might. So I rose from the Throne and reached down to him, and let him kiss my hand there, and told him he need not bother to touch the
Crown. There was a perfect frenzy of cheering for my action, but indeed I was only thinking of him: I feared for his poor old bones if he fell again, as well as for his dignity. (I heard afterwards that some American ladies, guests of the American Ambassador, thought that the accident was a regular part of the ceremony, some quaint and obscure old English custom, and that Lord Rolle’s name was in fact the title attaching to the hereditary performer of this function at coronations!)
The Homage took a long time, but there was music playing, and a less solemn spectacle to keep the spectators amused: the Coronation Medals of gold and silver were distributed by Lord Albemarle by the haphazard method of scattering them broadcast. The assembled company was treated to the sight of distinguished peers, generals and statesmen scrabbling on the floor like children for them, and even trying to snatch them from one another’s hands. My maids of honour, I’m sorry to say, were particularly active in the scramble, and didn’t seem to find their trains any handicap in pursuit of gold.
After I had taken the Sacrament, alone and bareheaded, I resumed my crown and the service continued. I was beginning to feel a little tired, and so, I assume, were some others, for the Bishop of Durham suddenly thrust the orb into my hand and told me that I must hold it, which turned out to have been quite the wrong moment in the ceremony; and Bath and Wells turned over two pages at once and missed an entire section of the service, which caused great confusion. Lord M. was for leaving it out (I think he was getting tired by then) but Lord John insisted we must go back, and I endorsed this view firmly. I didn’t want anyone to be able to say we had not done it all properly. However, at last the choir began the Hallelujah Chorus, and at that signal we all withdrew to the St Edward Chapel.
I, Victoria Page 16
