The Young Melbourne & Lord M

by The Young Melbourne

  For she had begun to come into his life again. She had never completely left it. He felt sufficiently responsible for her woes to keep in touch with her in order to see how she was getting on. It was a very discreet touch though: for the Queen was now on the throne, and not for Caroline Norton or anyone else was Melbourne going to risk compromising his good name in such a way as to harm the Queen. This consideration dominated his relations with Caroline. She wanted to be presented at Court by way of proving her respectability to the world. In principle Melbourne could not object to this, for she had been declared innocent in a court of law. But for him principle had never counted in the balance against hard facts; and he realized perfectly well that Mrs. Norton’s reputation was too tarnished for strict persons to think her a proper person to be presented to a Queen who was also an unmarried girl. Melbourne therefore told her that she could not be presented till the Queen had a husband. She submitted, but she did not like it, and she said so. In a series of letters to Melbourne’s young nephew, William Cowper, with whom she had made friends, she fulminated in a powerful vein of sarcasm against the injustice of the world and the hypocrisy of the great, in particular, of the Queen, whom she mistakenly considered responsible for her exclusion. “Your uncle has walked over from Storey’s Gate to Buckingham Palace and pursues the same course with her as with me . . . No one talked of my inexperience and yet I did not forbid my mother to disturb our interviews, nor believe in my mother’s misconduct . . . I have waited because I have accustomed my mind and soul to walk about the world in chains, thinking what your uncle calls his good pleasure might be. If he thinks I can be brought to bear tamely what the Royal Girl considers a fit punishment for me for being her predecessor in the long conversations which take place at her palace, I can’t help it.”

  The tone of these letters is not attractive. Alas, Caroline Norton was not the sort of woman who is ennobled by suffering; her character had deteriorated under the strain of her troubles. It may be said in her excuse that they were very real troubles. Through no fault of her own she was poor, cold-shouldered by good society and—what added an element of genuine tragedy to her situation—cut off from her children. Too spirited to let herself be crushed, she did her best to keep her flag flying; continued to cut a dash in pearls and black lace, to edit albums and write novels, to give lively dinner parties, to cultivate new friendships with interesting men. But misfortune brought out, in its most unpleasing form, that exhibitionist egotism which was the bane of her nature. For the rest of her life her own wrongs were an obsession with her; and she set up as a sort of professional injured person, theatrically lamenting the unexampled cruelty, with which she had been treated, to every individual she met; and, if she got the opportunity, to the general public as well. She and George Norton wrangled endlessly about money. Provoked by some unusually offensive act on his part she would rush into print or the police court; and for a day or two the newspapers would resound with yet another recapitulation of the dreary sordid history of her marriage. It did her nothing but harm. People might have forgotten the scandal if only Caroline could have kept quiet about it. But keeping quiet was one of the things that Caroline simply could not do. Even Melbourne could not always control her. In 1840 she suddenly embarked on another vain attempt to get custody of her children, and sent a friend to Melbourne to ask him to help her. As usual he was shaving. “So you are going to revive that business,” he said, “it’s confoundedly disagreeable.” “You know, my lord,” pleaded the friend, “Mrs. Norton can’t live without her children.” “Well, well,” sighed Melbourne, “it must be done effectively. You must have an affidavit from me. That story was all a damned lie, as you know. Put it into form and I’ll swear it.”

  He had too much heart not to try to help her over her children. Indeed, if it involved no risk of harming the Queen, he was always ready to do what he could for Caroline; gave her money, paid her an occasional quiet visit of friendship, and, once the Queen was safely married, saw to it that she was presented at Court. His kindness had its effect on her. Misfortune, though it had made her tiresome and self-pitying, had not eradicated from her personality its streak of warm, crude, Irish good nature. She still found it natural to respond and to make things up. She did not revere Melbourne as she once had. He was weak and indolent, she told him with affectionate candour, and could be trusted to get out of doing anything unpleasant to himself, if it was possible. But she was fond of him, she knew he meant well, she would try not to worry him more than she thought right. And, in fact, as she was at pains to point out both to him and to others, she did more than once refrain from publicly proclaiming her unspeakable wrongs, in deference to his wishes.

  Anyway, now he was out of office and the figure of the Queen no longer stood between them, there was every reason for her to let bygones be bygones. Melbourne was an ailing, ageing man. Remembering what he had been in the past, she felt a gush of affection and sympathy for him which showed itself in an energetic wish to help him. Besides, he was still a social lion who would be a distinguished ornament to her salon. Accordingly she asked him frequently to her house, wrote him letters full of rhapsody and vivacious scoldings and pleasantly daring jokes, took him to the play and once more began introducing him to coming young men. “What! Do these young fellows want to know me?” he remarked. “Bring them by all means.” As always, they were charmed by his attention and entertained by his talk. Melbourne could not help feeling gratified.

  All the same, to a penetrating eye it was apparent that his new form of life was not the success it might seem to a stranger. One day, soon after his resignation, Sir John Campbell, his late Attorney General, went to call on Melbourne in order to congratulate him on his release from the cares of office. “I hope you are happy,” he said. “Oh, very happy!” replied Melbourne, and smiled. His smile, Campbell noticed, was not that of a happy man. It grew no happier in the succeeding months. There were several reasons for this. For one thing, Melbourne found he minded being out of office. This was natural. Pretty well every man minds losing a position of power and eminence, if he has held it for any length of time. We are happy in proportion as we believe ourselves and our life to be of value; and few people are so disinterested or so conceited as to trust wholly to their own judgment in this matter. A Prime Minister moves through life surrounded by people who treat him as the most important man alive. Even if he does not believe them, he feels better pleased with himself for their admiration. When he loses power, this suddenly stops. Inevitably he feels flat, chilled, diminished. Melbourne, for all his theoretical detachment, was far too human to be immune from this common weakness of humanity. His sense of the value of his existence dwindled in his own eyes because he perceived it dwindling in the eyes of others; all the more since he could no longer forget himself under the continuous pressure of hard and necessary work. Nor, so he discovered, could he force himself to take up new work. Like an ageing horse he was only able to trot when he was harnessed to the vehicle to which he was accustomed. The projected commentary on St. Chrysostom remained unwritten. He was too old and too tired for it. He was even too tired to read in the way he used to do. Ironically enough, reading had been easy for him when he had other things to do. During the last six years he had astonished people by the way he had managed to keep up with all the new books that came out, French and American as well as English. Now he picked up a new book and turned its leaves over and let it drop from his hand. Indeed, his zestful responsiveness to experience was leaving him, with the vitality of which it was the expression. How could he respond to the beauty of the spring? It only emphasized by contrast the November sadness which brooded over his own spirit. Social life was hardly more heartening. He did enjoy it but nothing like so much as he had. His gaiety had grown a little forced and febrile. That was why some people now complained that he would never talk seriously. He did not dare let himself be serious, he felt his depression would show too much if he did. Moreover, for him the world of London society was
a less entertaining place than it once had been. Lord Holland had died at the end of 1840; and, bereft of his genial presence, evenings at Holland House had lost more than half their amenity. He had been Melbourne’s oldest and most congenial political friend, Melbourne felt his death as he had never felt that of any other man. As for Mrs. Norton—well, she was a good sort in her way, and he would always be fond of her. But her behaviour during the last years had rubbed off the bloom of her charm for him; he had learnt all too well what a nuisance she could be. She badgered him for money, her passion for self-advertisement embarrassed him, and she was intolerably indiscreet. “She’s a passionate, giddy, dangerous, imprudent woman,” he confided to Stockmar.

  But even if she had been as fascinating as Cleopatra, Melbourne would have extracted little pleasure from her society. Irrevocably his heart was given to another woman; and she was the only one in England he could not see. Here lay the most powerful cause of his low spirits. Old age, fatigue, loss of friends, loss of power—he could have borne them all if life had still been irradiated by the light of the Queen’s presence. Now this was withdrawn. The withdrawal had been a gradual process. His official parting with her had not turned out to be his final parting. The Queen would not allow it to be. Late in October she invited him to the palace. He was so beside himself with joy at seeing her again that he wrote afterwards nervously apologizing, lest his exuberant spirits had betrayed him into talking too much and too heedlessly “which he is conscious they sometimes do.” Meanwhile, defying previous warnings, the Queen had gone on writing him letters asking his advice, and Melbourne, forgetful of his former resolutions, had gone on giving it. He was too tired to resist her, and perhaps by now he felt her absence so much that he could not bring himself even to try to. As a matter of fact his advice was extremely circumspect. Now and again he gave his opinion as to the fitness of a candidate for some non-party post; but he avoided all controversial topics of policy and confined himself mainly to making good blood between her and her new ministers. All the same people began to talk, and their talk got to the ears of Baron Stockmar who had hovered on in England as a sort of unofficial confidential adviser to the Prince. He rightly thought that for the Crown to be known as constantly communicating with the Leader of the Opposition was bound to do it great harm. Immediately he took steps to stop it. They were tactless, Teutonic steps. He wrote a long, solemn, scolding memorandum on the subject which he desired Anson to give Melbourne to read. Melbourne’s reaction revealed how little his calm exterior corresponded with the grief and agitation which in reality filled his heart, and what a strain it must have been to him to maintain it all through these last months. With changing countenance and compressed lips he read the memorandum twice through. Then, “This is a most decided opinion indeed, quite an apple-pie opinion!” he said acidly. Anson went on to observe that Stockmar thought it a great pity, if Melbourne had meant to go on writing to the Queen, that he should, a day or two before, have publicly attacked the policy of the Government in the House of Lords. This was the last straw. To be lectured like a schoolboy by an officious foreigner, when two months ago he had been Prime Minister of England, was more than Melbourne could stand. For the first time his self-control deserted him. Leaping up from the sofa he began pacing wildly up and down the room, “God Eternal, damn it!” he exclaimed, “flesh and blood cannot stand this. I only spoke upon the defensive . . . I can’t be expected to give up my position in the country, neither do I think it is to the Queen’s interests that I should.” Anson persisted. Did Melbourne honestly think that such correspondence was wise, he asked. With a supreme effort Melbourne pulled himself together. After a long pause, “I certainly cannot think it right,” he muttered.

  He did not find it so easy to give it up though. The Queen went on writing and he went on answering. A fortnight later, Stockmar returned to the attack. This time, more wisely, he went himself to see Melbourne and pointed out that by persisting in the correspondence, against what he must know to be his own sense of what was wise, he was encouraging the Queen in a course of action that must in the end get her into serious trouble. At his words Melbourne looked distressed, and agitated and guilty. What ought he to do, he asked. Stockmar replied that he should wait till after the Queen’s confinement and then write and tell her that for the future he thought it best that all communications on politics between them should cease. Melbourne appeared convinced by his words: and in fact he soon afterwards did tell the Queen that he did not think for the time being he ought to dine at Buckingham Palace. Stockmar sat back in victorious calm. What was his horror two months later to learn that Mrs. Norton of all people was going round London saying she had it on the best authority that the Queen and Melbourne wrote to each other daily and that she consulted him about everything. Stockmar poured out his feelings in another voluminous epistle to Melbourne in which he ended by adjuring him in pained grave terms to be true to his better self, and make the break. Melbourne was still too much upset to bring himself to discuss the matter with Stockmar. He briefly acknowledged the letter without commenting on its contents. But it had done its work. Henceforward his letters contained less and less about politics. Nor did he ever lift a finger to keep his influence over the Queen.

  One wishes, for his sake, that he should have been able to carry through the break to the end with the graceful calm with which he had started on it. But the fact that he faltered makes us admire him more; for it reveals what his self-sacrifice cost him. Nor had he faltered for more than an instant: he had recovered himself quickly and completely. So completely that he did not even let himself feel annoyed with the man who had been responsible for his momentary breakdown. He knew Stockmar was in the right. Melbourne was too magnanimous to bear a grudge against an opponent who had proved to be in the right. “He is an excellent and most valuable man,” he told the Queen, “one of the coollest and soundest judgments I ever met.”

  Magnanimity did not save him from paying the full price for his self-sacrifice. By refusing to advise her politically any longer, Melbourne had broken the last link that kept the Queen in any way dependent on him, stopped up the only remaining channel through which flowed a stream that might keep their relationship a living one. Henceforward their ways lay irretrievably apart. Melbourne minded acutely: all the more because she was so painfully, so tantalizingly, close. It would have been more bearable if she had died or left the country. But she was living within a few streets of him, living the same life exactly as when he was with her. He could visualize her every moment: now she must be riding, now writing her letters, now going into dinner, now consulting with her new Prime Minister.

  Once or twice he actually caught a glimpse of her; but in circumstances so different from those of the past that it was almost more unbearable than not seeing her at all. Once in May, 1842, he found himself at a ball where she was present. He missed, through some muddle, his chance of being presented to her. Pathetically afraid lest she should think he had been deliberately uncivil, he wrote off an agitated letter to her. “Lord Melbourne is very sorry indeed and entreats Your Majesty’s pardon for his great omission on Monday evening. He was never told that he was to pass before Your Majesty at the beginning; at the same time he admits that it was a piece of blundering stupidity not to find this out for himself. After this he never saw the glimmer of a chance of being able to get near Your Majesty.” On another evening in April, 1842, he drove by the Palace. Through the window of the Queen’s sitting-room, open to the warm spring air, he caught sight of the familiar pictures and furniture, gleaming in the light of the newly-lit candles. Suddenly the great doors of the Palace were flung open and a small, stately, well-known figure was ushered out to step into a carriage waiting in the courtyard; the Queen was setting out for the opera. But Melbourne was not going with her. In the gathering dusk he drove on alone.

  He missed her every hour of the day, missed her more even than he feared he was going to do, and more with every month that passed. The handsome
, genial old gentleman, who swore and chuckled and sparklingly conversed at club and dinner table, bore within his breast a starved and aching heart. Gradually the disturbance of his mind began to make its impression on his enfeebled body. His infirmities rapidly grew worse throughout the year. In November he had a stroke. For a day or two people wondered if he was going to die.

  (2)

  Better if he had! For though Melbourne recovered sufficiently to linger on for six more years, yet the mainspring of his vitality was finally broken and the rest of his life is no more than a sad chronicle of decaying faculties and declining spirits. A brief chronicle too; the records of it are scanty. Already, before he died, the mists of oblivion gathered to hide his departing figure from our view. The outward form of his life did not change much, at least for two years. He divided his time between Brocket and London, with occasional visits to his friends’ country homes and once or twice to the Queen at Windsor. When in London he dined out and attended the House of Lords; in the country he read and meditated. Sometimes he was alone; more often a relation was with him. It is lucky for the ageing to belong to a united family. The Lambs throughout their lively and varied careers had always contrived to remain intimate and devoted to each other as in the long ago days of Melbourne House. Now the only surviving members of the family rallied to look after their loved and distinguished elder brother. Fred Lamb, now Lord Beauvale, had returned to England from his long diplomatic sojourn abroad in 1842, handsome and debonair at sixty as at twenty-five, and newly married to an Austrian young lady nearly forty years younger than himself, sweet-natured and absorbedly in love with him. The Beauvales threw themselves into doing what they could for William. After his stroke they made their home at Brocket for much of the year. Fred took on the job of looking into his brother’s financial affairs. It was high time that someone did. Melbourne, when he succeeded to his title, had been a very rich man. In 1835 he still had a gross income of twenty-one thousand a year. But he was generous, lavish and careless. He allowed his servants to cheat him—there were sixteen of them at South Street, all thievish and drunk, he said—and out of boredom he neglected to go into his estate accounts for years together. The result was that by 1842 his income had dwindled by more than a third, and what was left was so mismanaged that it looked as though it might diminish to a point where a man, who was living by the lavish standards demanded from the aristocracy of the day, would find himself actually embarrassed for money. Fred set to work to stop the rot and put things in order. Meanwhile, Melbourne’s house as well as his estate needed attention. Since he did not keep his servants up to the mark, they did not run it well; and in the course of years Brocket had acquired that neglected, impersonal, unlived-in look so often seen in single men’s residences. Here it was Lady Beauvale who came to his assistance; taking over the domestic arrangements of the establishment and acting as hostess for Melbourne when he had visitors. She also watched over his health. “I would rather have a man about me when I am ill,” he had asserted in the days of his strength and of Caroline, “I think it requires strong health to put up with a woman!” He did not think so now. To Lady Beauvale’s gentle ministrations he responded with a tender, grateful affection. His sister Emily, too, helped to look after him. She lived part of the year in her old home at Panshanger, only a few miles from Brocket, and was always coming over to see him. So did her youngest son, William Cowper, Mrs. Norton’s friend, an amiable youth who combined a fervent Victorian piety with a propensity to fall frequently and romantically in love. He made his uncle his confidant in these delicate matters. Melbourne, touched and entertained by young William’s enthusiastic naiveté, gave him sympathetic and characteristic advice from the rich stores of his own experience. “My dear William,” he writes on one occasion, “I think you are quite right not to engage further in these affairs without the certainty of an adequate provision; and I am glad that you find a consolation in St. Paul’s epistle to the Corinthians. But you must not run about flirting with girls and persuading them that you intend to marry, unless you have the intention. St. Paul would not approve of this. Indeed, would he like to think his epistles made the instruments of flirtation?” And again, when William had at last actually got engaged, “Remember that happiness is in a calm, settled and satisfied state, and is totally inconsistent with a frequent change of objects . . . remember also what I said of happiness, that it lies in the knowledge of causes of things and in rejection by yourself of all vain and superstitious terrors.”