But although it was over, there was a consequence yet to come. A few days later Albert showed me the pistols which might have finished me off, and very horrid things they were to contemplate. I handled them as one might a dead snake, with flinching, uncertain fingers. One’s life hangs by such a tenuous thread as a madman’s whim, and there is nothing one can do about it, which is most disagreeable. Albert must have been preparing me, for that afternoon, at the regular audience, Lord Melbourne spoke to me with unusual hesitancy. ‘There is a subject which I must raise which is of great importance, and one of great emergency; perhaps you may anticipate what I mean?’
‘No, not at all,’ I answered absently. ‘What is it?’
He looked profoundly uncomfortable. ‘I wish I need not mention it to Your Majesty, but it is about having a Bill for a Regency.’
For a second time I felt such a sinking sensation in my stomach. It is not pleasant to have one’s death adverted to in such a way. Yes, I might have been finished off by the little madman’s pistols, but even given my eminent position, it was far more likely that I would die in childbed than under an assassin’s fire. The woman was more vulnerable than the Queen; but the Queen’s dispositions were what mattered.
‘You are in the right,’ I said. ‘It must be talked of.’
‘And if talked of, ma’am, it must be acted on quickly. We ought to get a measure through before the House rises.’
‘Yes, I do see the necessity,’ I said wryly. ‘But will the Opposition?’ Since my marriage, Lord M. had been encouraging me to make friends with the Tories (his ministry was in a bad way, and I think he was preparing me for the possibility of a fall). I had done a little in that direction, though with inward reservations: I never forgot that Peel had voted for the reduction in Albert’s pension.
Lord M. said, ‘I think they will, ma’am. This is a matter of national emergency; and there can be only one choice for Regent. The Prince as the natural guardian of the child is beyond question the right choice.’
I smiled. ‘Well, I think so, of course. But the King of Hanover, as next heir, might not agree.’
‘No-one would want the King of Hanover for Regent. They did not when a Regency for you was in question, and nothing has changed. Nor, I am sure, will your uncles Sussex and Cambridge be favoured. If you will forgive me, they are too old and set in their ways.’
But I knew what would be said. ‘They will think the Prince too young and inexperienced in this.’ They-might even think him too foreign, I thought, but I did not say so aloud. There was no need with Lord M. to spell every word. ‘Even if the Tories agree to make him Regent, they may want him only to be Regent in Council.’
He smiled comfortably. ‘We shall see, ma’am. But we will have the newspapers on our side, especially after the incident in the Park, and that always helps.’
In the event he was right. The Tories were very generous about it. Sir Robert Peel said he could not see the practical utility of a Council; the Duke said plainly that it could and ought to be nobody but the Prince. Uncle Sussex rumbled that he could not allow the rights of Family to be passed over, and that he would oppose the Bill in the House, but his was the lone voice of dissent. The Regency Bill went through in July unanimously in both Houses, naming Albert as the sole Regent; and all the newspapers, even the Chronicle, praised the decision. Albert was quietly delighted, of course, and I was radiantly happy, as I always was at any mark of respect for my beloved.
‘Three months ago they would not have done it for him,’ Lord M. told me with a pleased nod. ‘It is entirely his own character.’
Then in August came another mark of respect for him. I was going to prorogue Parliament, and the question arose of Albert’s proper place in the procession and at the ceremony. ‘I suppose we must see what happened with that infernal George of Denmark!’ Lord M. muttered (every question of precedent was always referred back to Queen Anne as the last Queen Regnant, and very tired we grew of the comparison!) and went off to look it up. He discovered that by the Gospel according to Queen Anne it would be permissible for Albert to ride with me in my carriage to Parliament, and sit beside the Throne during the ceremony, and so it was ordered. I was delighted to have him near me, supporting me with his beautiful presence, for I was always nervous at such official ceremonies; but I was even more pleased with the cheers he received that day, which proved that the country was accepting him, and taking him to its heart.
When the time came for me to retire into that dreadful birth-chamber, he would have to deputize for me at least for a week or two; and if I died for very much longer. The Regency Act meant that if I died in childbed leaving a living child, Albert would be King in all but name for the next eighteen years. But though I dreaded the forthcoming ordeal, I did not really believe that I would die. I was by nature incapable of conceiving of such a thing. A world with Albert but without me? Impossible! And so although I did discuss the current affairs with Albert more as I grew more sofa-bound (or perhaps I should say he discussed them with me) I still did my Boxes myself, and did not yet let him read State papers. I was the Queen; and I felt he ought to be content to be my consort in the same way that I would have been his if he were King.
Although I love my children and grandchildren dearly, I have never much liked small babies, and cannot understand the craze for baby-worship which has come over this country in the last fifty years. It seems to me the worst kind of sentiment. When children grow rational and one can talk to them, they can be charming and amusing; but the gulping, slobbering things one gives birth to are entirely disagreeable. Most of all, I can never understand those women who rejoice in the actual business of giving birth, and claim to feel themselves uplifted by it. Quite apart from the pain, it seems to me a perfectly revolting process, putting one in the most degrading positions, and I really cannot see that God could have arranged it worse from a woman’s point of view.
And I cannot see anything ‘natural’ or ‘beautiful’ either, in breast-feeding one’s babies. To turn oneself into an animal in that way, as if one were a cow or a sheep, is not beautiful but lowering, and does not befit creatures who have the God-given powers of higher thought and self-determination. I was shocked when I learned that my own daughters, Vicky and Alice, fed their babies themselves; and when once Vicky suckled one of Alice’s because Alice was ill, I could barely contain my disgust.
Still, as November 1840 passed, I knew I was in for it, and there was nothing to be done about it. That inevitability is a frightening thought, and I veered from wishing one minute that it would hurry up and start, so as to get it over with, to hoping for a long postponement the next. The accoucheur, Dr Locock, had paid me his preliminary visit (how embarrassing that was!) and said that he thought I should have no difficulties, which was comforting as far as it went; but what man can really understand a woman’s fears? Albert did his best to keep my mind occupied so that I had no time for morbid thoughts, and to keep all morbid shocks from me. (In September, when Princess Augusta was dying, he took me to Claremont to be out of the way, in case it upset me, and the oddest rumours began to circulate, which now at a distance I can see were really very funny. It was said that I had had a premonition that I was going to die like Princess Charlotte in childbed; I had gone to Claremont to furnish the lying-in chamber exactly as it was for her confinement, and when the last object was in place, I would follow my cousin to the grave!)
Finally there was no more putting it off. On the 21st of November, in the early hours of the morning, I woke feeling uncomfortable and strange, and though Clark’s date for the birth was still a fortnight off, I knew instinctively that it was time. I woke Albert, who got up at once and fetched Clark to me; and Clark said that to be on the safe side, Locock should be sent for. This was done, and Albert advised me to try to sleep again, but though I dozed fitfully, I was feeling too bad to go off completely. Locock arrived at four o’clock, and needed only to lay hands on me to say that the baby was coming, and that everything seemed quite
normal. So there was no more sleep for anyone after that: the awful paraphernalia of childbirth had to be assembled round me, and the proper attendants fetched from the four corners of London.
The most shocking thing for a Queen giving birth is the lack of privacy. Ever since James II and the Warming-Pan Plot, the nation has been terrified of having an impostor thrust upon it (though I simply cannot believe in that story for an instant. The idea that his Queen gave birth to a girl and that they exchanged it for a boy smuggled in in a warming-pan could only be credited by a simpleton who knew nothing of childbirth or babies). Still, to ensure fair play the birth-chamber of a Queen has to be crowded with state officials – and in previous times, there were hordes of sightseeing courtiers, too! I had told Lord M. in the roundest terms that I would not put up with any of it, and he replied anxiously that the law required at least some of it, so a compromise had been struck. It was still in my view a shamingly public process: the officers of state were to wait in an ante-room rather than the actual chamber, but the door between the two rooms was to be left open so that the bed could be seen, and the infant was to be brought in to them immediately the cord was cut. But in the birth-chamber with me there was no-one but Locock and Mrs Lilly, the midwife – and Albert, of course, who did not leave me for an instant, held my hand through the pains, and wiped my brow and talked cheerfully to me in between. The throng in the next room comprised the Cabinet, the Archbishop, the Bishop of London, and Lord Erroll, the Lord Steward of the Household. I only wonder there were not hawkers selling pies and hot chestnuts!
My pains were very great, but once I was embarked on it and there was no going back, I found I was not at all nervous – indeed, I think Albert was more afraid than I was. It was hard work, really, rather than suffering, and I have never minded hard work. At last at two in the afternoon the baby was born: I heard an amazingly virile squalling, and shortly afterwards Locock said in a voice brimming with commiseration, ‘Oh, madam, it is a princess!’
Albert pressed my hand comfortingly, and was looking at me with such a disappointed expression that I thought it rather hard on the poor baby, who could not help being a female after all. ‘Never mind,’ I said, ‘the next will be a boy.’ It was rather a bore, I thought, not to have got a boy first time, and the country would be disappointed, but I was too relieved to have got it over to care much just then. ‘Is the child healthy?’ I asked.
‘Perfect, madam. There is not the slightest reason for anxiety,’ Locock said.
‘Good. Then you had better do your duty,’ I said. He bore the little thing away, stark naked as she was, into the other room, to be laid out on a table for the inspection of those men of state. I found myself thinking that if I had been humiliated in giving birth to her, she had been worse humiliated immediately afterwards; but then she would not remember hers. Albert was looking exhausted, much as if he had been doing the hard work himself. He leaned over and kissed me now, and said, ‘How do you feel, darling little one?’
I considered, searching my body for sensation. The pain was all gone, and though I felt weak and tired, I was quite comfortable. No, not quite comfortable – there was one thing. ‘I’m hungry,’ I said.
16th May 1900
WE VISITED Netley again this morning, and were back for luncheon. There is just time, I think, to finish this episode of my story before the children arrive.
So: after a snatched luncheon, Albert hurried off to represent me at a meeting of the Privy Council – the first time he had done so, and a landmark, though I did not see it so at the time, in his career. He told me when he returned that everyone had been tremendously excited about the baby. Lord Palmerston had pointed out that I had made history, for never before had a Queen Regnant of England given birth to an heir. And Lord M. had told Albert in his droll way that no-one in the country would mind its being a girl, as long as it was another life between the Throne and the King of Hanover.
Because of Clark’s muddle over the dates, the wet-nurse we had engaged was not in residence, and a page had to be sent to fetch her from Cowes, where she lived (rather appropriately, as I said to Albert). She arrived at two the next morning, and the baby took to her at once and throve; and when I woke a few hours afterwards, I felt extremely well, and thoroughly enjoyed a large breakfast, so it could be said with truth that mother and child were doing well.
Albert behaved quite perfectly while I was confined: no woman could have been more gentle, no mother more tender in her care. No-one but him ever lifted me from my bed on to the sofa, or wheeled the sofa from one room to another. It was he who adjusted the firescreen, moved the candles, placed my shawl over my shoulders; and so that he should always be within call if I should need him, he refused to go out anywhere, even to the theatre, and most evenings dined alone with Mamma. He was perfectly happy to stay with me hour after hour, reading to me, writing my letters for me, or just holding my hand and talking; and that was the first joy I had in the baby, chatting to Albert about her future. He was plainly quite enchanted at being a father; and to tell the truth, I don’t think he minded at all that it was not a boy. Apart from the dynastic significance, I think a girl suited his ideas much better, and in planning her education and recreations, clothes and friends and eventual marriage, he was losing his heart to her every moment. If his tenderness and love for me had not been so plainly expressed, I should have been quite jealous.
One odd thing happened while I was still lying-in. At half past one in the morning one day in early December Mrs Lilly was awakened by the creaking of a door. She sat up and called out ‘Who’s there?’, waking me up. I raised myself on my elbow sleepily, and then was suddenly wide awake, the hair rising on my neck in horror as I saw the door to my dressing-room slowly opening. Mrs Lilly called out again, ‘Who’s there? Who is it?’ her voice sharp with fear; and the door was pulled smartly closed from the inside. With great presence of mind Mrs Lilly jumped out of bed and ran across the room to bolt it from our side, and then she ran to the other door, calling for a page. Kinnaird was on duty, and came to her call, looking as though he had been asleep; but while Lilly was still explaining to him what had happened – and he was being painfully stupid about understanding her – my dear Lehzen came rushing in, aroused by the sound of voices and all anxiety for me.
‘What is happening here?’ she snapped at Lilly. She understood the situation in a few words, and took hold of Kinnaird’s arm with fingers of steel. ‘What are you waiting for, boy? There is someone in Her Majesty’s dressing-room. Go and catch him!’ She pushed the reluctant Kinnaird towards the door, and while he was unbolting it took a moment to fling a reassuring smile at me. ‘Do not be afraid. We will catch him, whoever he is.’ I was contemplating whether her assumption that the intruder was male was really very tactful when Kinnaird unbolted the door and went in, with Lehzen following close behind him.
‘There’s no-one here, ma’am,’ I heard him say after a pause; and then Lehzen’s voice, ‘You have not looked under the sofa. Don’t you see there is something there.’ Another pause, and then, ‘Oh, don’t be such a coward! Stand aside, I will do it myself!’
There was a sound of scuffling and surprised exclamations, and a few moments later they reappeared in the doorway: Kinnaird looking shamefaced at having the better part of his valour exposed, and brave Lehzen, who cared nothing for her own skin when mine was threatened, holding grimly on to the collar of the intruder – a dirty little boy!
Despite the outcome, I was very much alarmed by the incident. So soon after the assassination attempt in the Park, it struck me forcibly that the boy had been hiding under the very sofa on which I had been sitting but three hours earlier. Perhaps he had actually been there then, crouching under my very legs; and suppose he had come into my bedroom, how frightened I would have been! It was shameful that he had been able to get so close to me without anyone preventing him. Albert was particularly struck by this aspect of it, and though the boy had no weapon or stolen property about him, a thorough inve
stigation was ordered. The boy’s name was Jones (he was actually seventeen years old, but was stunted and looking much younger) and he said he often came to the Palace, and got in quite easily over the wall on Constitution Hill and through a window (the newspapers fastened on to this and called him In-I-Go Jones!). He said he had sat on the Throne, heard the baby princess crying, slept in one of the servants’ beds, and helped himself to food at night. When asked why he had come at all, he said he wanted to see how great people lived, for he thought he would write a book about it. He was obviously simple, and was sentenced to three months on the treadmill at the House of Correction; but the Palace plainly fascinated him and he kept coming back in spite of stern sentences, until at last we were forced to send him to sea to keep him out of the way. (Over the years the Palace has proved not only attractive but vulnerable to many such intruders, and the fortunate thing is that they have all proved harmless lunatics, for it has been impossible to keep them out.)
Lehzen was plainly the hero of this episode, but it did not endear her any further to Albert. I had hoped that being with me so much during my confinement would have soothed his jealousy, but whenever he went from me, he was convinced that Lehzen came rushing in as soon as he was gone and poured poison into my ear concerning him. I resented very much the inference that I was too simple-minded to resist the poison, and that my love for him was so frail a plant that it could be blighted by mere talk, but as I did not discuss him with Lehzen, so I refused to discuss Lehzen with him, and the problem continued to grow underground. I did hint at the general tension to Lord M., who equally obliquely hinted that I ought to give Albert more responsibility, and that if he saw himself trusted with state matters, he would not care about the domestic ones.
I, Victoria Page 26
