Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria

by Виктория Холт

Albert was very annoyed with Ernest and wrote reprimanding him.

  We discussed it together. Bertie had met the Princess of Meiningen and the daughter of Prince Albrecht of Prussia and had not been in the least attracted by them. The daughter of Frederick of the Netherlands was too ugly. Louis of Hesse-Darmstadt had a sister, but Alice was to marry into that house and we did not want two connections with it.

  It really did seem as though Alexandra of Denmark was the only one; and as there were reports of her dazzling beauty it was very likely that Bertie would have no objection to her.

  Winter had come. Albert was suffering from a cold; his rheumatism was especially painful and he could not sleep at night.

  Then on a gloomy November day the blow fell. I did not know at the time because Albert kept it from me. I should never have known if I had not gone through his papers afterward and found the letter from Stockmar.

  All I knew was that he had become withdrawn, deep in thought, very melancholy and uneasy.

  I knew that he was brooding on something and I asked him what was wrong.

  “Oh nothing… nothing that need concern you, my dear child.”

  I presumed that he was merely not feeling well, and I urged him to rest and above all not go out in the bad weather.

  A few days later he said he must go to Cambridge. He wanted to see Bertie.

  “Not in this weather,” I said. “Bertie can wait.”

  “I would rather go today,” he replied. “No, Albert. Not in this weather, and you know you are not well.”

  “I shall be there and back in a very short time.”

  “I am going to forbid it,” I said.

  “No, my love, this is something I must do. I am going to Cambridge.”

  The firmness of his tone told me that I could not stop him, and against my wishes, he went.

  When he returned he was cold and shivering. Then I did insist that he go to bed at once, and this time he did not protest.

  I sat by his bed scolding him for disobeying my wishes. And just to see Bertie! It was senseless. How was Bertie?

  Bertie was well. They had talked. “As if that could not have waited!” I said.

  He smiled at me and shook his head, and I dropped the matter because I could see how tired he was.

  Albert rallied a little the next day. I was delighted. He would throw off this cold; we would find something which would alleviate his rheumatism. He would be well again.

  In the midst of this a crisis arose that threatened to be of international importance. A war had been raging in America between the north and the south, and the people of the south had sent two envoys to us to plead their cause. These two men, Mason and Slidell, were sailing in the Trent, which was an English ship. The ship was boarded by the enemies of the south and the envoys were taken off. This could not be allowed. No one must interfere with British ships on the high seas; any who did must be made aware of the might of Britain. It looked as though the Americans would be fighting us as well as each other.

  There was a demand from the British government that the envoys must be released at once or our ambassador would be recalled from Washington. The government was ready to take firm action and I was behind them. Lord John Russell sent me a draft of the ultimatum he had decided to send.

  I shall never forget the sight of Albert in his padded dressing gown with the scarlet velvet collar and the fierce determination on his poor wan face.

  “This will not do,” he said.

  “Albert,” I chided, “you will go back to bed at once. You are not well enough to concern yourself in these matters.”

  “This is a very dangerous situation,” he replied. “This cannot be sent…as it is.”

  “But it is what we mean. We cannot allow these…ruffians…to board our ships.”

  “These are special circumstances. We do not want war with America. We need peace… peace in this country.”

  “Of course we need peace, but we are not going to allow these people to dictate to us on land or sea.”

  “It is a matter of wording the ultimatum. I am sure the Americans do not want war with us. They have enough to do fighting each other. But you must see that to receive a note like this would give them no alternative. It needs to be redrafted.”

  “You had better tell Russell that. No …you had not. You had better get to bed and rest.”

  “I cannot rest. I shall redraft this. I think we can avoid an ugly situation.”

  “Dear Albert, you are ill.”

  He lighted the little green lamp on his desk and sat down to work.

  When he had finished writing he leaned his elbows on the desk and put his head in his hands.

  “Victoria…my love,” he said, “I feel so weak. It is an effort to hold a pen.”

  “I told you you should not have done this. You will not listen to me.”

  He smiled at me wanly.

  I knew later that Albert's action then saved us from a very awkward situation that could have resulted in war. The affair of the Trent has consequently become one of those incidents that are hardly ever referred to in history books and Albert's part in it is forgotten by most; but it is just another example of the good Albert did for this country.

  The next day he was very ill indeed, and Sir James came to me and said he would like a second opinion.

  Dr. Baly, who worked in conjunction with Sir James and of whom Albert had a high opinion, had recently been killed in a railway accident; and ever since the Flora Hastings affair I suspected that Sir James did not have a great deal of confidence in himself.

  “Do you think the Prince is very ill then?” I demanded anxiously. “I should like to call in a second opinion,” he replied. “Well do so,” I told him.

  He did, that day, and I was alarmed to see that the man he had called was Dr. William Jenner, a man who specialized in fevers—especially typhoid.

  Dr. Jenner examined Albert and I waited fearfully for the verdict.

  “The Prince does not have typhoid fever—” said Dr. Jenner.

  “Thank God!” I cried.

  “At the moment…,” went on Dr. Jenner. “But, Ma'am, I cannot hide from you the fact that there is a possibility he might be affected. We must be prepared.”

  A terrible fear took possession of me. Typhoid! The dreaded disease! How many people had died of it. But not Albert … no! That must not be.

  But Albert grew worse. It was no use hiding our eyes to the fact. He could not rest. He said he would sleep in a separate bed.

  “No, no,” I cried. “I do not mind your being restless. I do not want to sleep. I want to watch over you all the time.”

  He smiled at me wanly. I believe Albert knew. He had known for some time.

  I tried to weep but tears would not come. He saw that and did his best to comfort me.

  “You will be all right, little one,” he said. “You love life. I never did … as you did. It is only the thought of leaving those I love that hurts me.”

  Albert rallied a little and after that our hopes soared. He said he wanted to hear some music, and I sent Alice into the next room telling her to leave the door open and play. She played “Eine Feste Burg ist Unser Gott”; and he smiled.

  “Dear Alice,” he murmured. “Does Vicky know … about me?”

  “I haven't told her you are ill. In her condition… she would be so upset.”

  Vicky was expecting another child. I thought, if he does not recover, this will kill her. And even in that moment I felt the twinges of jealousy because he cared so much for her.

  He was in such pain that I begged the doctors to do something for him. They gave him an opiate and he fell into a peaceful slumber. I sat by his bed watching his dear face. How he had changed since that day when we stood side by side at the altar!

  He had a good night's sleep on account of the opiates, and the next day he seemed better. He asked Alice to read to him. She brought Silas Marner and sat there, but his attention strayed and he said he did not care for the book. />
  He was tossing and turning and I did not know what to do. For five nights I had scarcely slept. Albert was taking opiates; it was the only way he could rest. He was speaking mostly in German now and I believed that some of the time he thought he was a child again.

  I felt as if my heart was breaking. I would look my fears in the face. I turned from Dr. Jenner to Sir James, because he wanted all the time to soothe me and to pretend that Albert would recover.

  But at last Dr. Jenner told me. Albert was suffering from gastric fever…bowel fever. I knew what that meant, though he would not use the dreaded word Typhoid.

  I sat by Albert's bed. He knew I was there for he kept murmuring: “Gutes Frauchen.”

  Jenner wanted to call in more opinions. There was Dr. Watson and Sir Henry Holland. I was afraid that so many doctors would alarm Albert and bring home to him the seriousness of his case.

  Albert said, “If Stockmar were here…”

  I believed that, too. There was magic in the old man that perhaps we created, but what did that matter? It was there for us both.

  I wanted to blame someone. So I blamed Stockmar for leaving us. If he were here Albert would recover.

  I sat by the bed. Albert liked to lean his head on my shoulder. He said, “It is comfortable like this, my dearest child.”

  He was worrying about Vicky again. “Does she know now?”

  “I have sent word to her that you are ill.”

  “You should have told her I was dying.”

  “No,” I said fiercely. “No.”

  That evening he asked me to come to his room after I had had dinner. Dinner! As if I cared for dinner!

  I went to him. The doctor met me at the door.

  “Your Majesty should not stay long. The Prince should rest.”

  “Albert … my dearest Albert.”

  He smiled at me.

  “I must not stay.”

  “It is the only time you can see me,” he said.

  “It is the doctors. They tell me you must rest.”

  I kissed his forehead and left him.

  The next day Alice sent a message to Cambridge for Bertie to come.

  She had not told him how ill his father was and Bertie seemed to think it was some minor indisposition. He was soon sobered.

  Albert was passing into what they called the crisis.

  All through the night we watched and waited. The doctors said there were grounds for hoping he would recover. That was six in the morning. I went to the Blue Room. In the light of the burned-out candles the doctor looked serious. Albert lay in bed, his beautiful eyes wide open, but he did not seem to see what was there. He looked surprisingly young.

  I went to his bedside and looked down at him.

  All the children came in—except Beatrice—and kissed his hand. He was breathing heavily. He could not speak but his lips formed the words, “Who is that?”

  I cried, “It is your little wife.”

  I could not bear to stay there for I was facing the truth now. This dreadful tragedy was upon me. I hurried out of the room, the sobs shaking my body.

  In a short while Alice was calling me back.

  I knelt by his bed. Alice was on the other side; Bertie and Helena were at the foot of the bed. I was aware of others in the room.

  His lips moved. “Gutes Frauchen.”

  I felt I could bear no more. He had been holding my hand and I felt his grip slacken. I stood up and kissed his forehead.

  “Oh my dear…my darling,” I whispered.

  And it was all over. Albert was dead.

  * * *

  WE WERE IN mourning. The whole world should be mourning for the passing of Albert.

  I was stunned. I could not believe this had happened. He was gone. How could I live without him? I had the children. They rallied round. Even Baby Beatrice tried to comfort me. Dear Alice was so gentle, so loving. What could she do for me? No one could do anything any more. He was gone. He had been my life and my life was now over.

  I had no wish to see anyone, to go anywhere; I just wanted to be alone with my overwhelming grief.

  Albert, the beloved, the saint, that most incomparable of men was gone forever.

  Alexandra

  WHEN I MADE THE DISCOVERY MY ANGER WAS SUCH THAT oddly enough, for a brief moment, it intruded in my grief and lessened it.

  Bertie! My own son! Oh, it was so disgraceful. There was the letter from Stockmar. I remembered Albert's receiving it and how depressed he had been. A few days after he had said he would go to Cambridge and see Bertie. Now I knew why.

  Bertie was in disgrace. Stockmar had written that while our son was at the Curragh Camp he had had a mistress. It had created scandal that had come to Stockmar's ears… and yet here we knew nothing of it! At least I did not know. I expect there was sniggering in certain circles at home.

  I remembered that day well—the heavy rain, the cold wind. I had said to Albert, “You cannot go to Cambridge in such weather,” and he had replied, “I must.” So he had gone to see Bertie and he had come back with the fever… which had killed him.

  Bertie had killed Albert!

  My rage against my son was so great that I really did feel that for a time it overshadowed everything else. I kept saying to myself: If Albert had not gone to Cambridge he would be well today.

  When Bertie came to me I could scarcely bear to look at him. He was now twenty years old, a man, I supposed. Bertie, who had always been such a disappointment to us. There could hardly be anyone in the world less like Albert; and yet he was Albert's son… the son who had killed his father!

  No, that was not fair. But his wicked carelessness and his lustful conduct had helped to bring about Albert's death.

  I could never keep things to myself. I had to let him know.

  I said, “It was Papa's visit to Cambridge that brought on his fever.”

  “He was ill when he arrived, Mama.”

  “I know he was ill. I begged him not to go.”

  “He should never have come. It was bad weather, I remember.”

  “He went because he believed he had to. You know why he went.”

  A guilty flush spread itself across Bertie's face.

  “He had heard what happened in the Curragh Camp,” I said.

  “Oh that,” said Bertie. “It was nothing really.”

  “Nothing! A woman…a loose woman and the Prince of Wales! You call that nothing. Papa did not call it nothing. He risked his dear life…”

  Bertie came to me and put his arms about me. Oddly enough I wanted the comfort his embrace could give me.

  “He was ill before he came. He should not have come. There was no need for him to come. The affair was over. It was nothing. All of them … well, I was no different from the others…It was not my fault that he came. I did not ask it.”

  I shook my head. “You will never understand your father, Bertie,” I said. “He was a saint.”

  Then the tears began to flow and even my anger against Bertie could not assuage my grief.

  * * *

  I COULD FIND no comfort in anything—even those about me who loved me. I had lost the one being, the only one who could make my life happy.

  For hours I sat remembering the past, every little detail. I suffered bitter remorse when I thought of all the storms I had created and how my angel had been so good, so tolerant, always right. That he should be taken, he, the one of whose wisdom we were all so much in need.

  I wrote to Uncle Leopold:

  Though please God I am to see you soon, I must write these few lines to prepare you for the trying, sad existence you will find with your poor forlorn desolate child who drags on a weary pleasureless existence. I am so anxious to repeat one thing and that one is my firm resolve, my irrevocable decision that his wishes, his plans about everything, are to be my law. And no human power will make me swerve from what he decided and wished… and I look to you to support and help me in this. I apply this particularly as regards our children—Bertie, etc—for w
hose future he has traced everything so carefully…

  Though miserably weak and utterly shattered, my spirit rises when I think any wish or plan of his is to be touched…

  I know you will help me in my utter darkness…He seems so near me, so quite my own, my precious darling. God bless and preserve you. Ever your wretched but devoted Child.

  Uncle Leopold thought that I should not remain at Windsor but should go to Osborne. Everyone seemed to think this a good idea.

  I had the room in which Albert had died photographed. My letter paper, my handkerchiefs, were in black-edging for Mama. I had the edges widened to an inch. I had laurels hung over his portraits. I wanted a photograph taken with the children standing by a bust of him that was very lifelike. These little things gave comfort to me. They were something to do.

  How dreary Osborne seemed without him! How could Uncle Leopold have thought I could find comfort anywhere! And at Osborne of all places, which he had changed so, which his brilliant talents had turned from a little house into a palace! How could I be happy there? Did it matter where I was? Nowhere could I ever be happy again.

  I would sit at the window looking out at the sea. I put his portrait on the pillow beside me. I wept bitterly. I took his nightshirt and cradled it in my arms; in that I found a small grain of comfort.

  Albert's brother came to Osborne. He arrived at midnight, cold and wet. It had been a dismal crossing, but nothing could be more dismal than our grief. We embraced and wept for the lost loved one.

  On the twenty-third of December, Albert was laid to rest in St. George's Chapel, Windsor. He would lie there only temporarily for later he would be removed to the Mausoleum at Frogmore—the site of which I had chosen with Alice just after his death. One day—soon, I prayed—I should be lying there beside him.

  It was a time to recall other Christmases when he had been with us. I thought of his sending for the Christmas trees from Coburg and how he had brought that fashion into the country so that it was universally followed. Dear Albert, how he had changed my life! And that of the English people!

  He was too young to die. Forty years. It was tragic. Such a wonderful person, one who had done so much good in the world.