I, Victoria

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  I saw how it was. Albert’s rage had gone beyond governing, and he was so little in the habit of losing his temper that having lost it, he could not easily find it again. I had humbled myself, offered an olive branch, and I had been snubbed. His pride would not bend even a little to accommodate mine. All the faults were to be mine, and he was not to be in the least to blame for any friction there had been in the house, or between us.

  The tears rushed up my throat as I realised all this, and a feeling of sick misery swept over me. I felt so desperately alone that I thought I should die of it. I had chosen this man, had given him my whole heart, had borne two children to him, but it was not enough; where I had given my love completely, he did so only conditionally. He wanted my capitulation, complete and utter. I understood instinctively, without words, what was at the heart of this, and it was not really to do with Lehzen. I was the Queen of England, and I had not yielded that citadel to him: he had the woman, but the Queen was not his, and his pride could not bear it. If I wished him to stay with me, love me, support me, hold me through the dark hours as before and fill me with his warmth and life, I must humble myself before him. I must share my prerogative with him, ask his advice and take it, consult him in everything, give him the keys to my Boxes, to my Household – to my whole life, in fact, to everything. Otherwise he would withdraw into his citadel, and I would die of cold outside.

  When my tears had subsided I lay on the couch, face down, his letter in my hand trailing over the side. I rested my wet face on my folded arm, and felt my tears slowly cool and dry on my cheeks, and I considered the alternatives. I was a proud person, and I was Queen of England, and those two things were tightly bound up with each other. I was the anointed of God, and I had made solemn vows which I could not break. It was no small thing he wanted, but something immensely important and greater than myself; it was something that was not my gift.

  But the alternative was no alternative. I loved him so much, and I knew I could never bear the pain of losing him. To live with him year after year and never have him – never to know again the bliss of that particular smile, that look of absolute love which he gave me and me alone, never to share that sweet, intimate intercourse of unfettered trust – no, that would be impossible, quite simply impossible!

  But how could I ever yield him enough to satisfy him, without breaking something essential in myself? Would he not go on demanding further sacrifice until I was no more a person? And if I was not true to myself, I would not be able to love him.

  Besides, he had no right to demand such sacrifices from me. I could not give him what was not mine to give, and he must acknowledge it. But I knew he would not, and that it was the end. Wearily, miserably, I got up; I washed my face, tidied my hair, straightened my gown; and looked at myself for an instant in the glass, saw myself pale and shadowed about the eyes, floating in the twilight like a severed head. It is the end of everything, I thought. I walked slowly, as though to my execution, along the corridor, paused outside the door of his dressing-room, then raised my hand and rapped upon it. The hollow sounds were like sods of earth falling on a coffin.

  ‘Who is it?’ I heard his voice from inside.

  ‘It is the Queen,’ I said, and opened the door. He was at his desk, his little student’s lamp with the green shade throwing a pool of light on to the sheet of paper before him. A pen was in his hand, but the paper was blank, and something in the way he was sitting told me he had been staring at that blank page a long time. I looked at him, at the weary stoop of his shoulders; at the soft, shiny hair already – yes, it was true! – receding from his brow and growing a little thin on the top. I looked at his profile, the lovely straight nose I so admired, the mouth, drooping a little with unhappiness, the smooth plane of the cheek and the glitter of the fine whiskers, like thin copper wires, the neat convolutions of his ear. But more than that, I looked at him, the being of whom this was the outward shell, and I discovered something wonderful and important, so important I wanted to cry out with it: that it is perfectly possible to love someone absolutely and unquestionably and consumingly, even though you disagree with them about something fundamental, even though you might be fighting with them for your very life. I loved Albert, and nothing could change that, even if we fought from that moment until the day we died; even if I disagreed with everything he ever said or did, I would still love him unquenchably.

  And realising that, I found myself full of happiness and relief. ‘Albert!’ I said.

  He looked up, and I saw in his unsmiling face not anger or stern sorrow or determination, as I might have expected, but apprehension. His eyes were full of the fear of loss; he had made his stand, and did not in the least know what I would do, or how he would cope with my decision. But he was my own darling, still my beloved Albert, always, always! Why did he not know that? How could he doubt his Victoria? And I saw also my own folly. He wanted me to yield, and yield I must, for he was at the end of his endurance, and he could not get back from the far place he had taken himself to. My pride must give way to his, not because that was just, or right, or proper, but because I could do it, and he could not. Nothing I might do to make him lord and master, king of the house and king of my life, could diminish me or touch the inner sureness of myself; but he had no such sureness. I must give him everything, hold nothing back, let him see he had me completely; and as to my vows before God – well, I would find some way to keep those, and keep my husband too. There was nothing I could not do. I was strong – strong enough to lose, and still to win.

  ‘Who is it?’ he said again. Foolish question! But no, I understood him.

  ‘It is your wife,’ I said. I saw the skin around his eyes relax a little, but he was still wary. ‘I came to say, Lehzen shall go,’ I said.

  ‘You will dismiss her?’

  ‘If it’s what you want. I don’t care about her. I only care about you.’ I waited for the smile, the capitulation, the open arms, but he only went on looking at me. Was it still not enough? Did he still not believe that he had won? Impulsively I held out my hands to him, and said the words which for him, I realised at last, would mark the final citadel taken. ‘I’m sorry. Please forgive me.’

  ‘Oh, my love!’ he said. It broke from him like water breaching a dam. He stood up, thrusting back his chair violently, crossed the two steps between us, and took me in his arms. Oh, the bliss of being there again! I pressed myself to him, to the familiar, beloved shape, felt his strong arms tighten round me. ‘Oh, Victoria, say you love me!’

  ‘I love you, Albert! Always, always. I shall love you for ever.’

  I felt him shudder with relief. ‘I love you too. Dearest little one, I love you so much!’ He hugged me convulsively; and then I turned my face up to him, and we were kissing, kissing as though we should never stop. Everything is all right, I thought. I am home again. All is well.

  We did not talk much on that evening of reconciliation: there was a great deal of kissing and hugging and not a few tears, and then we retired of one mind early to bed, where there was a glorious resumption of our married intercourse. If the awfulness of that quarrel had any good side to it, it was in the intensity of emotion we both felt in each other’s arms that night. Whatever it had cost me, I was repaid, for in a sort of agony he yielded to me as much and more than I had yielded to him. It seemed to tear at the roots of his spirit, that strange release which he both desired and feared; and afterwards he was so vulnerable, as if his very soul lay naked and helpless against my breast, so that even a wrongly drawn breath might have mortally wounded him. But I had only tenderness for him. I held my lover close to me as a mother cradles an infant; and my heart sang with triumph, for if I could not live without him, far, far less could he live without me.

  The next day we had our talking. Lehzen, a little to my surprise, was not mentioned: it seemed that having won that point he did not find it necessary to press it. What Albert wanted to talk about was his own position.

  ‘From the beginning you have kept me out
of affairs – Household and State – and it has been the most severe trial to me. I must do something, Victoria,’ he said, clenching his hands with the urgency of it. ‘I can’t be nothing.’

  ‘Well, tell me what you want, and you shall have it,’ I said soothingly. I thought he would name specific tasks, positions, powers – but his eyes were full of a visionary light, and he was surveying a wider landscape.

  ‘I want to bring Enlightenment to this country, as we have it in Germany. I want to bring England into the nineteenth century.’

  ‘Are we not in the nineteenth century?’

  ‘No! By no means!’ he said eagerly. ‘We are trapped in the cobwebs of the eighteenth century, and the Court and the Government are the worst examples of what is wrong. Oh, I hate what I see – corruption, jobbery, privilege! Great men occupy positions of responsibility and deputise the duties to a lesser man, who pays an even lesser man, and so on – until you come to some wretched, shabby underling who needs the money, and he does the job, without care or skill. So nothing gets done properly – and meanwhile at every stage someone is making a corrupt fortune by exploiting his position.’

  ‘Well,’ I said fairly, ‘I suppose there is some truth in that. But what would you do?’

  ‘Sweep away all the Spanish practices. Scour every department clean of jobbery. Above all, make sure the right men come to the fore. Everything in England works on the coffeehouse system – friends recommend friends, and those who have none don’t get on.’

  ‘But surely if they have no friends, there must be a reason,’ I said, ‘and they ought not to get on.’

  ‘Oh, Victoria, how naïve you can be! Do you think being likeable makes a man worthy?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said firmly. ‘For if I don’t like someone, he always turns out to be bad and untrustworthy.’

  ‘But if you like someone because he is amusing and charming, it does not necessarily mean he is the right man for a position of responsibility,’ Albert said. I tightened my lips, knowing we had come to Lord M., and not wishing a new quarrel to break out. Albert went on, ‘I want to see a system which advances men of serious purpose and philosophical bent – not those who ride best to hounds, or who have the nicest arrangement of neckcloth. When I see the business of the country carried on in the clubs of St James’s, by languid cynics who smoke and drink and keep mistresses, who would far rather be thought witty than virtuous, it makes me so angry!’

  ‘But you don’t understand,’ I cried. ‘Men like – like our top people – they like to seem nonchalant, but they really do care about things, and take their duties seriously. They don’t think it good form to appear to, that’s all. Ever since Bloody Mary we distrust enthusiasm. In England a man must appear to be lounging when he is working his hardest; he must speak wittily and lightly of what he cares for most profoundly.’

  Albert shook his head gravely. ‘I can’t approve of that. It is wrong to talk lightly of serious subjects, to joke about what is good, to appear to condone what is evil.’

  I remembered Lord M. saying to me that sinners were much more amusing company than saints, and shook the memory away. Being amusing would not seem a virtue to Albert at this moment. ‘But that’s the English way,’ I said, rather apologetically.

  ‘Then we must change it,’ he said firmly. ‘We must introduce the German way. In Coburg we do not admire levity. Punctuality, diligence, economy, humility: those are the qualities we expect a great man to display; and above all, gravity. Il faut être sérieux, my love! Those who are honoured with the highest positions in the land must be men of high intellect, serious purpose, and scrupulous personal morality. Then we shall see progress!’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I said doubtfully, ‘but I do think on the whole we have such men in the Government, though it may sometimes appear—’

  But he was in full flow, his blue eyes blazing with enthusiasm. ‘Yes, and there is another thing! There is too much pragmatism in government here – doing what seems practicable, just because it works. That is not the proper way to run a country! You must have moral direction. First your ministers decide the principles and goals, then your philosophers devise a system to bring it into being.’

  I was beginning to feel lost. ‘But our system has always worked well enough here,’ I said feebly.

  ‘Laissez-faire is not a system! To avoid trying to change something because it will be difficult is not government but indolence! Everything is capable of improvement – if we don’t believe that, we have no business being here on earth. We must strive to improve human nature, not wallow in its imperfections and tell ourselves nothing can be done about them. Men must be made better than they are – and we at the top must set the example. You and I, Victoria, have the greatest opportunity and the greatest responsibility of all! The monarchy must be seen above all to be the guardian of morality, the personification of justice, virtue and honour!’

  Well, it certainly had not been that for some time past, I acknowledged to myself. I noticed that for some time Albert had been speaking in German, slipping into it naturally as his words became more inspirational. And it was a stirring vision he presented! I saw him in shining armour, holding aloft a bright sword, marching into battle against the forces of evil. How I loved him! How beautiful he looked! But it was a stern vision, too, and the practical part of me suspected that it might be rather uncomfortable for a permanency.

  ‘You are right, I know you are,’ I said, ‘but is there to be no laughter in your brave, new world? No amusement or pleasure?’

  The tension slid out of his face and he smiled at me in that tender, sweet way that ravished my heart. ‘Of course there is, foolish little one! Innocent laughter, homely amusements, and virtuous pleasure – much the best sort! And we shall gather around us all the best people, the greatest thinkers, poets, artists, musicians; we shall have intellectual, improving conversation at our dinner table instead of trivial gossip.’

  (This part of the programme rather daunted me, for although I do not approve of harmful gossip, I do love to ‘chat’. I am naturally interested in every detail of the lives of people about me, and like nothing better than to discuss their houses, children, daily routines, ailments and pleasures with them. But Albert had no interest in the ‘small change’ of people’s lives. Trivial talk – what was not intellectual or improving – bored him, and many a time I have seen his eyes glaze in the drawing-room, or seen his nostrils stretch and whiten as he conceals a closed-mouth yawn.)

  He was continuing. ‘We shall patronise the arts, gather the treasures of the world about us, promote philanthropists, scientists, explorers. England will lead the world in everything that is good and fine, everything that advances mankind in purity and wisdom – and we shall lead England. You will lead England!’

  His enthusiasm was intoxicating. I clasped my hands together and cried, ‘Oh, yes! Yes! But it will be all your doing! Your name will resound throughout the world; there will be statues raised to you in every city!’

  ‘I want no statues,’ he said gravely. ‘I want only your love and trust.’

  ‘I do love you!’

  ‘And trust me?’ he said gently. ‘Will you share everything with me?’

  I was brought up short; but I answered steadily and promptly enough. ‘Everything,’ I said. ‘Did I not tell you so last night?’

  ‘You did not speak the words,’ he said, and as I continued to gaze levelly at him, he smiled and said, ‘Yes, yes, you did. I must not be less generous than you have shown yourself. I don’t deserve you, Victoria. You are so open and generous and warm and loving, and I am always so suspicious.’

  ‘But not of me?’

  ‘No, not of you. Never again of you,’ he said, and he lifted both my hands to his lips and kissed them almost reverently. ‘Hertzliebste!’

  2nd June 1900

  IT WAS not long after our great reconciliation and my decision to submit that we celebrated the Boy’s Christening. Being so much in love with Albert, I naturally hoped our
son would resemble his father in every particular, and I did my best for him from the beginning by naming him Albert for his father, and Edward for mine. Albert had no objections, but Lord M., when I told him, asked if the names should not be the other way round. ‘Albert is not an English name,’ he said. ‘I don’t think the people will like it.’

  I thought ‘King Albert’ had a wonderful ring to it. If Parliament would not allow me to make my Albert king, at least I could ensure that the Throne went to an Albert after me. I did not say this to Lord M., however, but simply pointed out firmly, ‘It is an old Saxon name.’

  He smiled gently. ‘But it has rather fallen out of use since Saxon times. Now Edward is a sound English name, much in use, and has a high degree of popularity attached to it from good associations from the past.’

  ‘He is to be Albert Edward,’ I said immovably. ‘And he will be like his angelic father in every respect, in both body and mind. And from now on,’ I added, to make sure he understood how serious I was about it, ‘I shall insist that every one of my male descendants bears the name Albert, to show that a new dynasty began in 1840, when the Prince and I were joined in wedded bliss.’

  (When Georgie and May’s first boy was born, I naturally wanted him to be called Albert, as he will one day be King of England. They, however, vexed and disappointed me by insisting they wanted the boy christened Edward. What was worse, they tried to wheedle me by saying that they were calling him after Georgie’s brother, poor Eddy, who they know I was very fond of. I pointed out with some triumph that of course Eddy’s name was not Edward at all, but Albert Victor – Eddy was only his pet-name. I thought that would be the end of the matter; but they went ahead and christened the boy Edward anyway – which proved to me that bringing Eddy into it was nothing but a subterfuge. I dislike that sort of dishonesty very much. I’m afraid it must have been May’s influence, for though she is a nice, good girl in general, there is occasionally just a little commonness about the cast of her mind, a carelessness in some matters, which comes from her upbringing, I suppose. And as it happens, they call the boy David anyway, so they might just as well have christened him Albert in the first place and saved all the unpleasantness.)