Louis Philippe died at Claremont. How sad to die in exile! There was hardly any notice taken of his death. That old gossip, Greville, who was staying at Brighton at the time, said there was no more notice taken of the death of the King of France than there would have been of one of the old bathing women opposite his window.
But the death that was so tragic for Albert was that of George Anson, the secretary, whom he had been so reluctant to have in the beginning and whom he had grown to love. For weeks Albert was pale and sad. He had wept bitterly on the day of Anson's death—and I with him.
We had lost a dear friend.
I think the death of Anson made him turn to planning feverishly for the exhibition, and because there was so much opposition in the beginning it helped Albert to overcome his grief. He became so angry and frustrated, and his mind was so filled with plans that he forgot to grieve.
The Great Exhibition was Albert's creation. How proud I was of him! This would show the people what a clever man he was. This exhibition was for them; it was for the whole world; it had been made to bring the nations together; it was to show how art and commerce could combine to make a better life for all people.
Joseph Paxton's crystal palace was superb, and, of course, Hyde Park was the best possible setting. While it was in progress I used to take the children to see it. I told them that this was all due to their Papa and how people from all over the world would come and marvel at it. We followed its progress with loving attention. It was going to astonish the world, I told Albert.
It seemed so long before the opening day. It was to be May the First. Little Arthur was just a year old so the day began with his birthday celebrations. He was quite a little man and was delighted by the presents that were brought to him. It was clear that Bertie was his favorite, and as he grasped his presents he handed them to Bertie as though for his approval. Bertie seemed to know just how to please the child. He certainly had a gift for that, even if mathematics was beyond him.
Opening the exhibition was the most wonderful experience of my life. Bertie walked beside me, and a few paces behind were Albert and Vicky. The peals of the organ rose to the crystal roof; the flowers were magnificent, the fountains splendid. There was an orchestra with two hundred instruments, and with it six hundred singers.
I laughed inwardly to think of all those who had tried to prevent this from being made. How stupid they would look now! Even Lord John Russell had made a nuisance of himself by raising an objection to the gun salutes being fired in the Park. He said they would shatter the glass, and he had wanted the guns to be fired in St. James's Park. That would not do, said Albert. It would not seem like part of the occasion if they were not fired in Hyde Park. Albert won the day. I must say I felt a little trepidation, lest Lord John might be right. But he was wrong, of course. The guns were fired in Hyde Park with no dire consequences.
When I heard people cheering Albert I was so moved. Nothing could have pleased me more.
Perhaps, I thought, they will appreciate him now.
There was no doubt of public approval. The glass palace was crammed with people of all kind. I was touched to see the Duke of Wellington there. He was getting very old now and he came arm in arm with Lord Anglesey—such old men, both of them, but determined to be of the company. Lord Palmerston put in an appearance and on such a day I even felt kindly toward him.
“It is a very fine exhibition is it not, Lord Palmerston?” I said.
He gave me one of those mischievous looks and replied, “Even I, Ma'am, can find no fault.”
I almost liked him then. He reminded me a little of my poor Lord M.
When we returned to the Palace I was so happy. The Duke of Wellington called to congratulate Albert; and little Arthur—who had been named after him and whose godfather he was—presented him with a little nosegay. Arthur did not know what it was all about but he did it perfectly.
The day was not over. In the evening we went to Covent Garden to see The Huguenots. On our way there, and in the theater, we were cheered enthusiastically. I heard the cry in the streets: “Good old Albert!” and my happiness was complete.
Happy days followed. There was no talk of anything but the glorious Exhibition. Mr. Thackeray wrote a beautiful May Day ode about it in which he said it:
Leaps like a fountain from the grass
To meet the sun.
The Prime Minister wrote to me:
The grandeur of its conception, the zeal, invention and talent displayed in its execution, and the perfect order maintained from the first day to the last, have contributed together to give imperishable fame to Prince Albert.
I wrote to Uncle Leopold:
It was the happiest, proudest day in my life, and I can think of nothing else. Albert's dearest name is immortalized with this great conception, his own; and my own dear country showed she was worthy of it.
Almost every day I was there. I would have everything explained to me—including the intricacies of the machinery which I could not understand at all.
Visitors came—royalty and the most humble. I had arranged for the head of the gillies at Balmoral to be brought to London to see the Exhibition. It was most amusing to watch his honest, open face. He was not exactly enthusiastic. I was sure he was wondering what use it was. They were so natural, so plain spoken, these dour Scotsmen. I liked them for their sincerity. They were such a contrast to so many people I met.
Among the visitors were the Crown Prince and Princess of Prussia; Albert and I were pleased that they had brought their son Prince Frederick William with them—Fritz, as he was called. He was twenty-two and although not exactly handsome had very attractive blue eyes. I was very interested in him because I knew Albert had plans for him and Vicky. His mother, the Princess Augusta, was a very amiable woman and I took to her at once. We talked together about Vicky and Fritz and she was very agreeable about the project, and it was comforting to see that Fritz and Vicky took quite a liking to each other.
At the end of July we went to Osborne. It was such a happy time because of the success of the Exhibition; we talked of it endlessly. It was to be closed on the 15th October—the twelfth anniversary of our engagement.
I said to Albert, “It has taken all this time for people to get to know you, to understand you and appreciate your worth.”
* * *
IN NOVEMBER THAT year Uncle Ernest died. It was quite a shock to me when I heard. I had never liked him; he had been a strange, mysterious man; but now that the bogey of my childhood was gone, oddly enough I felt a certain sadness. It was strange that he had been one of the most popular kings of Europe. He had taken a great interest in the affairs of his people, and when the rumble of revolution had spread through Europe, he had been able to suppress the beginnings of revolt in Hanover with ease. Now my poor blind cousin George had become King of Hanover.
I was delighted with Lord Granville who was so different from Lord Palmerston. He was so charming and kept me informed regularly about everything, but where politics were concerned we could not be long without trouble.
There was worrying news from France because Louis Napoleon was changing the uniform of the army and having the imperial eagles restored to the flags. It seemed as though he had military ambitions. Lord John thought we should strengthen the local militia; Palmerston had other views. His foreign policy had always been aggressive; he had sent out his gun-boats at the least provocation. Secretly, much as I disliked the man, I was inclined to agree with his policy, for I was convinced that there is nothing like a show of strength to intimidate troublemakers. Palmerston wanted a national militia and would agree to nothing else. So …he fought Lord John on this with the result that the government fell.
“I have had my tit-for-tat with Johnny,” was the irrepressible Pam's comment.
I sent for Lord Derby as leader of the Tories to form a government, which he did. It was weak and did not last long. What was significant was that Benjamin Disraeli was given the post of Chancellor of the Exchequer and
Leader of the House.
I was very interested in this man. He was so unusual. At first I had recoiled from him with horror; he was so obviously Jewish with a dark complexion, very dark eyes and eyebrows, and black ringlets, which I heard afterward he dyed. He had written several novels quite successfully and was a master of oratory, so I heard. I asked the Disraelis to the Palace to dine, which surprised many people for it was believed that Disraeli was the last person I should wish to have contact with unless it was inevitable.
But I was curious, for I had heard so much about him as he was talked of a good deal. It was said that he had married Mary Anne Wyndham for her money, but now there was not a more devoted couple in London— even Victoria and Albert. So naturally I wanted to see this pair.
I thought she was vulgar—not so much in her appearance as in her way of speaking. His speech was very flowery; but I found them interesting.
Then there was another death that affected me deeply—that of the Duke of Wellington. Of course he was very old; but he was agile. He had been a frequent visitor to the Exhibition and there had always been people to cheer him; he would never be forgotten as the hero of Waterloo. He had been in quite good health until a few days before his death. He had set out from Walmer Castle, where he had been living, for a drive to Dover, and when he returned ate a hearty dinner. That night he had a fit, and he died in the afternoon of the following day.
His funeral was a great occasion attended by much pomp. Tennyson wrote a magnificent ode on his death and even Lord Palmerston said that no man ever lived and died in the possession of more unanimous love, respect and esteem from his countrymen.
He lay in state at Walmer and was buried in St. Paul's in November after lying in state again in Chelsea Hospital. The funeral procession passed by Constitution Hill and Piccadilly and the Strand to St. Paul's followed by a million and a half sorrowing people.
I felt desolate. They were all going… all my dear old friends.
There was change everywhere. Lord Derby's ministry could not last, and I had to call on Lord Aberdeen to form a new government. It was an uneasy state of affairs. We needed a strong government. Nothing seemed the same…even names had to change. The Whigs were now calling themselves Liberals and the Tories were split between those in favor of Protection under Lord Derby and Benjamin Disraeli, and those who were still called Peelites and wanted Free Trade under Lord Aberdeen. They called themselves Conservatives.
It seemed impossible to do anything but form a coalition if there was to be a strong government; this Aberdeen tried to do; so he included Lord John Russell and Lord Palmerston from the Whigs—or Liberals—and Gladstone and himself from those who had been Tories and were now Peelites.
I was pleased with this for I was very fond of Lord Aberdeen, and it seemed a good idea to have the best men from the two parties. I did not like Palmerston, of course, but I knew he was a strong man; and the important thing was for the country to be firmly led, so I must stifle my prejudices.
In the midst of all this to my horror I became pregnant again. I had hoped that little Arthur would be the last, but it seemed that that was not to be.
I am afraid I was a little irritable, accusing Albert of indifference to my state, making wild condemnations against the powers who had designed women only for the horrors of childbirth, when it would only have been fair to make the men share a little of the burden.
Albert was kind, in that half indulgent, half exasperated, way of his, calling me “dear child” as though I had never grown up and it needed all his patience to contend with me.
There was a grain of comfort. Sir James Clark who knew so much how I dreaded these births came to me and asked if I would like to try the new chloroform. I had heard of this. Albert was not very enthusiastic about it. He believed that God had meant women to suffer—presumably for being the one to offer Adam the apple—and that it was His will that suffering should be borne with fortitude.
But I was not in the mood to listen to Albert. Instead I wanted to hear more from Sir James who said that he thought there was no harm in it either to mother or child. It was true the Church railed against it. “All men,” I said. There was a great deal of controversy in the Press. To use the painkiller or not?
I made a decision. I could endure no more. I would try the chloroform.
And I did.
I was amazed. How easy it all was! There I was in my bed and the pain was beginning to torment me… and the next moment I was lying there, not really exhausted coming out of what seemed like a peaceful sleep.
“Your Majesty has a son,” I heard, and I felt so joyous I could have burst into song. So it was over. Oh, blessed chloroform! And dear Sir James who had advised me to try it!
“This will make a good deal of difference,” said Sir James. “There will be easy births all over the kingdom now. Your Majesty has blazed the trail. What you have done, everyone will want to do.”
I was so pleased and so very relieved.
We called the baby Leopold George Duncan Albert.
Alas, he was not as lusty as the others. We discovered later that he had a terrible disease. It was haemophilia, the bleeding disease. We were terrified that he would fall and cut himself in any way, for if he did, it would be difficult to stop the bleeding. He was the first of my children to be delicate.
I am afraid at this time there were storms in the household.
I was worried about the baby and still thought a great deal about Bertie's relations with his father. I tried to convince myself that the beatings and the general severity were right, but I could not get Bertie out of my mind. He himself seemed to have come to terms with them; but he really was far more mischievous than he had been under Mr. Birch. He still could not—or would not—learn. He was a great problem.
I would flare up at the slightest thing… against Albert. Something within me made me blame him. Mama always sided with him, and I felt I must be in the wrong; but that did not help.
Albert was always loving and tender, calling me his dear child until I wanted to scream at him that I was not a child. I was a queen. They should remember that. Then I would be regal and Albert would be withdrawn. After that he would be sorry. “I should help you,” he would say, “help you to overcome your nature which was not corrected in your youth.”
When I look back on that period that followed Leopold's birth I think that I was overwrought; I had to flare up; I wanted a quarrel and a quick making-up, and being happier than ever because we were reconciled.
We went to Balmoral in the autumn. It was not yet completed and I think Albert was rather glad of that. He did so love the work. When it was finished it would be magnificent with its one-hundred-foot tower, its gables and turrets. The views were splendid—mountains, forests, and the River Dee. We had designed tartans to hang everywhere. My design was the Victoria Tartan, Albert's the Balmoral; and these were hung side by side with the Royal Stuart. I loved the fresh air and the dear simple honest people. I felt so much better there among those natural people like my special favorite, John Brown, who always held my pony when we went for mountain rides.
But I could not be free of my ministers even at Balmoral. Not that I wished to be far from Lord Aberdeen—that most charming man; he enjoyed Balmoral and threw himself whole-heartedly into the local customs. He wore a kilt and danced a reel with me—which was most amusing.
I could have done without the presence of Lord Palmerston. I noticed that his eyesight was not good and he was showing signs of age. He played billiards with Albert, who managed not to show his dislike of the man.
Lord Palmerston said there was trouble brewing in the East. We did not take much notice of it then.
* * *
WHAT I HAD always feared more than anything had come to pass.
I knew that there was a certain uneasiness, but I had hoped that with Lord Aberdeen's reasonable policies we should keep out of it.
Russia had invaded Turkey's principalities on the Danube, and Turkey was England
's friend—a weak one, but nevertheless a friend.
I was at Balmoral when I heard that the British fleet had entered the Dardanelles. It was Palmerston's gunboat policy again; and Palmerston had persuaded Aberdeen to allow this action to be taken in my absence.
By October that year Turkey had declared war on Russia. Palmerston immediately demanded that we support the Turks with France as our ally. Lord Aberdeen was for peace; it was Palmerston who urged action. I was torn between the two of them. I did not believe that Aberdeen could bring the Emperor of Russia to see reason, and yet the idea of siding with Palmerston was obnoxious to me.
Aberdeen came to me one day in a state of anger against Palmerston who, unknown to him, had been in direct touch with our ambassador in Constantinople.
“Surely,” I said, “that is treason.”
Aberdeen shrugged his shoulders. He was determined to keep us out of war, but his mild nature was no match for Palmerston. I swung over to Aberdeen's side.
“The Emperor must be victorious,” I said, “and if the Russians are magnanimous and the Turks reasonable, perhaps that could be an end to this disagreeable matter.”
Then Lord Palmerston resigned.
That was the sign for the people to show their feelings. Mr. Gladstone was of the opinion that Palmerston should be called back to government. Lady Palmerston was working indefatigably to make everyone aware that the country needed her husband at this time and Lord Aberdeen was nervous. He thought the government would fall, which would be a disaster, and he did not see how he could survive unless Palmerston was recalled. Palmerston came back.
Then we heard that Russia had sunk the Turkish fleet.
Palmerston was the hero of the day. His prophecies had been correct. He had been warning the government of the impending trouble for months but they had preferred to shrug aside his warnings. The people thought we should be at war—as we should be now, they said, but for Palmerston's being pushed out.
Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria Page 45
