by Jean Plaidy
She was disappointed in her marriage, but she must not be foolish. She must take what she had and be grateful. No one, she supposed, could attain the complete ideal.
So she tried not to care too much as the scandals about Bertie’s gay life reached her; she never mentioned them to him and for this he was grateful; he loved her – as much as he was capable of loving a wife. She must be content with that.
Often she thought of her family and all the sadness which had come to them in the last few years. How was Dagmar faring in Russia? Was she happy? She knew that Willy had his trials in Greece. And dear Papa and Mama, how they had suffered!
To be young again; to be so poor that they made their own dresses; to change the new merino when one came in for fear of getting it spotted – how desirable that state of affairs sometimes seemed; to be a girl again, very poor, living in the heart of a family of which every member was more important to the others than all the riches and pomp of the world!
One must be content with less than an ideal. She had to keep repeating that to herself. She would try not to think of Bertie’s infidelities but one thing she would not do was show friendship to the Prussians who had treated her poor country so badly. When the Queen of Prussia called at Wiesbaden to visit the Prince and Princess of Wales, Alix refused point-blank to see her.
Bertie tried to remonstrate. ‘It’s important, Alix. It’s just a matter of being polite to them for a few minutes.’
‘Polite!’ she cried, her usually mild eyes stormy. ‘But I don’t feel polite to the people who have done their best to ruin my parents and my country.’
‘It’s not the monarchs. It’s their governments.’
‘They represent their country and I could never face my parents if I received them as friends.’
‘Come, Alix, be reasonable.’
‘No, no, no!’ declared Alix.
Bertie did not insist. He was always diffident about showing his authority. If there was a violent disagreement between them she might refer to those amatory adventures of which she must have heard hints. They must never be mentioned; while they were not it was as though, when they were together, they had not existed. So Bertie was patient and kind; and he explained to the King and Queen of Prussia that Alix had suddenly become so unwell that she was confined to her bed and unable to see them.
It was hardly likely that such an insult to the King and Queen of Prussia could be allowed to pass. The Queen wrote direct to Queen Victoria and told her that her Danish daughter-in-law had insulted the King of Prussia, for she did not believe that Alix had been too unwell to receive them.
How very tiresome of Alix! thought Queen Victoria. Of course she must not insult the King and Queen of Prussia! What was Bertie thinking of to allow it? Racing and other women, she supposed! Oh dear, if Albert had been alive, none of this would have happened.
She wrote to Vicky and Alice. They were at hand. They must speak to Bertie and impress on him the importance of retaining good relations with Prussia … not that she herself secretly felt very friendly towards them after the manner in which they had behaved, but it was not the fault of the King and Queen. It was that dreadful Bismarck. And Alix must be made to realise this.
Bertie was in despair. He could not bear to insist that Alix receive the Prussians. Vicky and Alice had both written to him pointing out his duty – Alice did so diffidently but Vicky was very positive. In despair he begged Alix’s mother to come and help him with the difficult task as she was with them when the imperative demand came from Vicky. Bertie and Alix must name a date when the King and Queen of Prussia could call on them.
Louise was in a dilemma. Alix could be stubborn; like most easy-going people she would drift along and then suddenly take a stand and when she did there was little hope of moving her. Moreover she had been very ill and was by no means recovered. Louise said that she would meet the Prussian King and Queen in her daughter’s place, even though it would be repugnant to her.
This would not do, wrote Vicky authoritatively. Alix must be made to receive the King and Queen of Prussia. It was necessary for Bertie to act. He sent the invitation and then went to Alix.
She regarded him stonily.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but there was nothing else I could do. If I could have spared you that I would have done so. I understand your feelings … but the pressure was too great.’ He kissed her lightly on the top of her head. ‘It’ll soon be over,’ he comforted.
How like him! He could not really understand and although he was kind, there was just a shadow of impatience. Wasn’t she making rather a fuss over something that was not so very important?
She was silent and he went on explaining: ‘Mama insists, I’m afraid. And there’s Vicky and Alice …’
‘Those two interfering old women,’ she cried. ‘What has it to do with them!’
Bertie laughed. ‘I know Vicky behaves as though she is my governess but she’s only a year older than I, and Alice is two years younger.’
But Alix could not smile. She felt sick and humiliated.
She knew, though, that there was no help for it. The King came as arranged and her manner was so correct, although she was seething inwardly, that the King at least was not aware of her resentment.
The Queen had noticed for some time that Lord Derby was not looking well. He was after all a very old man and the tasks imposed on Prime Ministers could hardly be expected to be good for their health.
She was constantly asking him how he was and showering him with sympathy which would have been gratifying if he had not known that she was not so anxious to see him in better health as to see him in retirement.
The reason was that if he gave up office the obvious sequel would be that she must send for the man who had rapidly become her favourite politician.
She was at Osborne that February when Lord Derby came to the conclusion that he would delay no more. He wrote to her telling her of his decision and advising her to send for Benjamin Disraeli.
This she did with the utmost pleasure.
She smiled as he came into her drawing-room and she held out her hand for him to kiss. He bent over it with a flamboyant bow and kissed it with fervour. Then he made a charming speech, for he was very clever with words; he offered her loyalty and devotion. And she felt her spirits lifted as she had on that first day when Lord Melbourne had visited her and she had just become the Queen of England.
It was a moving scene and she felt more at peace, she told herself, than she had since Albert’s death.
Her new Prime Minister thereupon began to enchant her in much the same way as Lord Melbourne had. He discussed matters of state with her intermingled with amusing anecdotes about the people they knew; he assumed she would act in such and such a way because such superb intelligence as she possessed would make her realise immediately why such and such must be done.
And while he talked his eyes would admire her in a manner which was unmistakable and she glowed to such admiration because she was sure it was genuine. After all she was young compared with him and everyone knew how he doted on his Mary Anne and thought her beautiful when she was older than he was and really quite ugly – so it seemed very plausible that the Queen must in fact seem to him the attractive woman that he could not help implying that she was.
She was certain that it was going to be a delightful relationship.
In great spirits Disraeli left Osborne.
Mary Anne was waiting up for him. She was well over seventy but she seemed young in candlelight with her eyes dancing with the delight which only his triumphs could put there.
The champagne was waiting; the little supper laid out and there she sat watching him eat, her wrinkles scarcely perceptible by candlelight, her rather girlish giggle and her adoring inconsequential chatter making a young girl of her.
‘Tell me all, Dizzy, tell me all! What did she say? Oh, she was delighted, I am sure. And so she should be. It was time old Derby went. I’ll swear that was just what she was waiting
for. Did she tell you so, Dizz?’
‘Her Majesty was graciously pleased to accept me as her Prime Minister.’
Mary Anne giggled afresh.
‘And you kissed her hand and bowed wonderfully I know, and now you will make her agree to everything you wish. I know you, Dizzy, I know your methods.’
‘I have my simple rules,’ admitted Dizzy. ‘Never deny, never contradict and sometimes forget.’
‘And these will be applied to Her Majesty?’
‘They are made for her.’
‘And she will never know about those rules. She will believe just what you want her to. Clever Dizzy. When I think of those days when I was married to Wyndham Lewis and you were a struggling author with political ambitions …’
‘Encouraged by the wife of the Member for Maidstone.’
‘Yes, we did encourage you. Not that you needed encouragement. You always knew that you were meant for greatness and so did I … which is strange because in many ways I am such a stupid woman.’
‘Nonsense. You are the cleverest woman in the world. That’s why I married you.’
‘You married me for my money.’
‘I needed it,’ he said plaintively.
‘And now you don’t need my money?’
‘I need you more than ever.’
She was silent for a second. There was a terrible secret which she must keep from him for as long as possible.
‘I almost didn’t marry you,’ said Mary Anne quickly. ‘You flung out of the house and I called you back and then we told each other not to be silly. Our only difference really was that I thought we ought to have waited a while before marrying and you didn’t want to wait. But we made up and married and lived happily ever after. And now you are at the top of the tree.’
‘Say rather I am at the top of a greasy pole,’ said Dizzy.
‘You’ll stay there,’ she prophesied. ‘Or even if you do slip down you’ll pop up again, because that is where you belong.’
Then he talked of his plans for the future and how his real opponent was William Ewart Gladstone; but he, Dizzy, had the Queen on his side and should he tell Mary Anne a secret – the Queen had no liking whatsoever for Mr Gladstone.
Mary Anne urged him to talk and he did and while she listened she was turning over in her mind whether she should tell him.
No, she would not. Let them go on for a while being happy. She would not mention the pains she had had, the fears which might well be realised. How long would she have to live? How long did one live when the malignant cancer had begun its deadly work?
But no matter. She would say nothing tonight; she would sit there in the candlelight, her face averted lest he should notice the strain and she would think of these thirty happy years when she had taught Dizzy to love for herself the woman he had married for her money.
She would always remember the dedication ‘the perfect wife’ which he had made to her in his novel Sybil.
Chapter XIII
DIZZY’S BEACONSFIELD
How pleasant it was to have a Prime Minister on whom she could not only rely but who was able to charm her at the same time. The relationship was ripening fast; she looked forward to his letters, which she answered with pleasure. It was like Lord Melbourne all over again, and yet different in a way because dear Lord M. had treated her as though she had been a beloved daughter; for Disraeli she was not exactly that. He behaved as though she were not only the Queen, possessed of statesmanlike qualities, but a very attractive woman as well. He made her feel as she had when Albert was alive – desirable, charming, feminine, though Albert had never flattered her as her Prime Minister did and it really was rather pleasant – although Albert would not really have approved – to let oneself be persuaded that one was still a woman.
To him she could confide her fears about Bertie. He mixed with such a rackety set, she said. She had never liked some of those University friends of his. There was for example Sir Frederick Johnstone – a very wild young man. When Bertie had run away from Cambridge he had been on the point of joining Sir Frederick and some of his other cronies who were at Oxford. Disraeli was sympathetic. It was a great worry to the Queen in view of all her other responsibilities, he understood; but he believed that she should not concern herself too much over the Prince’s high spirits. He would settle down in due course. Young men often believed they had to sow their wild oats. He himself had been no exception.
How very amusing, thought the Queen, and when her Prime Minister called and they had discussed State matters she would enjoy settling down to hear of his early struggles and the great excitement he had felt when his book Vivian Grey was published.
He told her how he had met Lord Melbourne at Caroline Norton’s house.
‘Dear Lord Melbourne,’ said the Queen.
‘A very civilised gentleman,’ commented Disraeli. ‘He asked me what I wanted to be in life and I said Prime Minister.’
‘How prophetic!’
Then he told her of his marriage and his devotion to Mary Anne, which touched the Queen deeply. It was wonderful, she said, in this age to find a really happily married couple.
She spoke of Bertie and hoped all was well between him and Alix. Did the Prime Minister think that the Princess of Wales was somewhat neglected by her husband and were people noticing that this was so?
The Prime Minister replied that the Prince of Wales always behaved with the utmost consideration to his wife in public.
‘Ah, but in private?’ insisted the Queen.
‘I am sure the Prince would never be anything but charming, in private or public.’
‘Is it possible to neglect charmingly?’
‘Absolutely!’ said the Prime Minister smiling so that the Queen felt she had been very witty.
‘All the same,’ she went on, ‘I do not like his friendship with the Mordaunts. The wife I have heard is rather flighty and the Prince is seen with her more than with her husband. And then there is that actress: what’s her name? Hortense Schneider.’
‘The Prince is gregarious by nature.’
‘His father would be grieved if he were here. At least it is a relief that he doesn’t have to suffer that.’
‘And if he were here how delighted he would be by your book, M’am.’
The Queen smiled. She really was rather delighted with her venture into authorship. Arthur Helps, a very clever man and so useful, as his name implied, had edited it for her and Messrs Smith, Elder and Company had just produced her Leaves from the Journal of Our Life in the Highlands, which was taken of course from what she had written at the time. It was enjoying a success which gave her great pleasure.
‘Ah,’ said Disraeli roguishly. ‘I know exactly how we authors feel when we see our work in print and the public all agog to read it.’
The term ‘we authors’ gave her such pleasure, for after all it was true. She was not of course an author in the sense that Mr Disraeli was, but nevertheless she had produced Leaves.
‘I found the dedication so poignant,’ said Disraeli and he quoted in a very moving voice: ‘To the dear memory of him who made the life of the writer bright and happy, these simple records are lovingly and gratefully inscribed.’
‘So you remembered it word for word,’ said the Queen softly.
‘M’am, I can never forget it. So much is said in so few words. In that seemingly simple sentence is compressed twenty years of perfect marriage.’
‘How well you understand! But then you are as fortunate as I was.’
Disraeli wiped his eyes with perfect composure.
It was so pleasant to have such a man for her friend, thought the Queen.
When she left for Osborne, she asked him to continue to write to her, not only on political matters – just his clever chatty letters which told her so much. A Queen did not want to be left in the dark.
He promised and of course he kept his promise. Her letters were a delight, he told her. It was two writers who communicated though a Queen and a Prime Minist
er.
When the primroses were out at Osborne she gathered a quantity and sent them to him.
‘I thought you might like these, particularly as I gathered them myself.’
He had always delighted in them, he told her, and from now on they would be his favourite flower.
The Irish question which obsessed Mr Gladstone was threatening the first Disraeli ministry. Gladstone wished to dis-establish the Irish Church and there was a great deal of opposition in Ireland. As for Disraeli, he told the Queen that the Irish question had not really been acute since the famine and he was certain that the Fenian uprisings had been aggravated by foreigners and that they would die out of their own accord. His idea was to let the Irish solve their own problems without too much interference from Her Majesty’s Government. Mr Gladstone did not agree with him.
It was a very uneasy situation for the new government and none knew better than the Prime Minister how insecure was his position.
He had an idea that if the Prince and Princess of Wales visited Ireland some good might come of it.
