Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria

by Виктория Холт

  A certain savor had returned to life. I would not admit it but in my heart I knew it was there.

  * * *

  SUCH A HAPPY state of affairs could not be expected to last. William Gladstone—whom I could not like—was making a great deal of fuss about the disestablishment of the Irish Church. The government was against the measure and was heavily defeated by a majority of sixty-five.

  I was at Windsor and when Disraeli called on me I was delighted as ever to see him, not realizing what news he brought.

  He quickly told me how things had gone in the Commons. “And, Ma'am,” he added, “I have no alternative but to offer Your Majesty my resignation.”

  “Resignation!” I cried. “Does that mean I shall have that dreadful man Gladstone here lecturing me?”

  Disraeli lifted his shoulders and looked woeful.

  “What is this nonsense about the Irish Church?” I demanded. “The Church throughout the Kingdom is associated with the Crown.”

  “Mr. Gladstone thinks otherwise, Ma'am. And so do others since we have been so heavily defeated.”

  “If I accept your resignation,” I said, “I shall be compelled to give your office to Mr. Gladstone and then the government would bring in the disestablishment. I think people should have plenty of time to think about such a step. No measure should be rushed through the House, which is what would happen if you resigned and I called in Gladstone.”

  “Your Majesty could, of course, refuse to accept my resignation and dissolve Parliament.”

  “That is what I will do. It will be some time before there can be an election and your government will remain in office until there is one.”

  “That means, Ma'am, that I remain in office and we go to the country… say in six months' time.”

  I had to be content with that. Six months is a long time in politics, and one never knows what will happen to affect fickle public opinion; and there was a possibility that in six months' time the government might be returned.

  Mr. Disraeli had somehow persuaded me that it might be a good idea to show myself a little. I had not held a Drawing Room at Buckingham Palace since Albert died, but I decided to, and later I reviewed twenty thousand volunteers at Windsor Park and a few days later gave a party in the grounds of Buckingham Palace.

  But I did not wish people to think that I was ready to undertake a round of engagements. In August I paid a visit to Switzerland, and to emphasize the fact that I wanted no fuss I traveled as the Duchess of Kent. Napoleon was most courteous and offered me his imperial train for my journey through France and in Paris I had a meeting with the Empress Eugénie. In Lucerne, however, I rented a villa near the lake, and there I enjoyed a very private holiday, which was very pleasant.

  All the same I was glad to return to Balmoral; and it was particularly interesting to go back because I had asked Brown to look out for a little house for me…a simple homely little house. Balmoral was really a castle, and what I wanted was a house where I could live with the utmost simplicity.

  I could trust Brown to choose the right place. With great sensitivity he had selected a spot that had particularly impressed Albert. It was Glassalt Shiel, which meant Darkness and Sorrow. How better interpret my mood! It was set among wildly beautiful scenery of almost forbidding grandeur where the Glassalt Burn tumbled down the mountainside into Loch Muick.

  I called it my Widow's House for it was the only one that had not had the touch of Albert's hand. Osborne and Balmoral were his creations. Not so Glassalt Shiel.

  Louise was with me and accompanied by one of the ladies—I think it was Jane Churchill—we set out for the place. The air was clear with a touch of frost—chilly for the first of October. We stopped for tea at Birkhill and John Grant joined us there with Arthur who had come from Geneva and had arrived in Ballater only a few hours before. Arthur got into the carriage with us and Grant joined Brown on the box.

  I was so excited when we arrived at Glassalt Shiel. There were lights in the house as we were expected and the servants wanted to give us a good welcome.

  It was such a compact little house and there seemed plenty of room in it for it was much bigger inside than it appeared from the outside. There was one staircase leading to the upper floor where there were several bedrooms—enough to accommodate the servants. On the ground floor were my sitting room, bedroom and the maids' room; and on the other side of the hall the dining room, a kitchen, steward's room, store closet, and another room for the menservants to sleep in. There were good stables and keeper's cottage where the gillies slept.

  After we had dined Brown came in unceremoniously and announced that everyone was ready for the housewarming, implying that I should join them, which I did.

  Our meal had been cleared away and the dining room was ready. There were nineteen of us altogether. Two of the men played the bagpipes and the rest began to dance reels. Brown said it would not be right if I did not dance with them. So I complied. How strange to dance again! I enjoyed it, remembering how excited I used to be about balls when I was very young—before Albert taught me that dancing was a useless and frivolous occupation.

  So I danced the reels and these honest Scots saw nothing unusual in their Queen dancing with them.

  When the first reel was over, Brown brought in what he called “Whiskey toddy.”

  I declined but Brown was quite indignant. “Come on, woman,” he said, “you mun drink to the fire kindling.”

  So I drank a little and Grant made a speech in which he called upon God to see that “our royal mistress, our good Queen, should live long to reign over us.”

  They cheered me and drank my health in whiskey toddy and they all became very merry indeed.

  I retired to my room soon after eleven o'clock, but I believe they continued with the dancing and singing until the early morning.

  I lay in bed thinking of the past and dear Albert who would have loved this place. I believed he was watching over me and that he would bless my little Widow's House.

  And with that comforting thought I slept.

  I was still in Scotland when the election took place. Disraeli's government was defeated and the Liberals came in with a majority of one hundred and twenty-eight.

  And so, I thought, that odious Mr. Gladstone will now be my Prime Minister.

  * * *

  I RECEIVED HIM coolly. The man irritated me. He talked in an authoritative way as though addressing a public meeting. His vehemence was overwhelming; it came out in a steady flow of forceful language. He was the sort of man who had no doubt that his ideas were the right ones, and one had the impression that he was determined to carry them out.

  That he was a good man, I knew, for I made it my business to discover all I could about my Prime Ministers, I had so much to do with them that it was necessary for me to have a full acquaintance with their past as well as their present lives.

  William Ewart Gladstone was the son of a Liverpool merchant who had immigrated to that city from Scotland. The father had been active in politics and besides being successful in business had sat in Parliament as a Tory for about ten years. Gladstone was sent to Eton and then Oxford where he had naturally soon distinguished himself in debate.

  He was a man of conscience. At Eton his great friend had been Lord Lincoln, son of the Duke of Newcastle; and the Duke, impressed by Gladstone's amazing energy, eloquence, and outstanding qualities generally, offered to help him win the seat of Lewark for the Tories. In the Gladstone home Canning had been a hero. He was now dead but the Duke of Newcastle had remarked in public that Canning had been the most profligate minister the country had ever had, and young Gladstone thought it would be disloyal to the memory of Canning to accept help from a man who had maligned him.

  His father told him not to be a fool. He would never make much progress in life if he allowed opportunities to slip out of his hands. Eventually Gladstone saw the point and won the seat. Ever since he had been climbing up the political ladder, and it was inconceivable that a man of his talent
and forceful dedication could remain unnoticed.

  When he was a young man he had become very friendly with the Glynne family. Lady Glynne was a widow with two sons—one in Parliament—and two daughters, Catherine and Mary. He fell in love with Catherine, but it was apparently some time before she accepted his proposal of marriage. I could imagine his courtship. Did he address her as a public meeting? I thought that very likely. However she finally agreed and of course he had chosen very wisely. He could not have found a better wife. She came from a political family, her grandfather was George Grenville, the Prime Minister who passed the Stamp Act, and she was the niece of Lord Grenville who was Prime Minister in '06; her great aunt was Chatham's wife and William Pitt was her cousin. So she was related to four Prime Ministers and it seemed only reasonable that she should be married to one.

  She was the opposite of her husband—bright, cheerful, and popular; she was by no means approaching him in intellect—what a formidable pair they would have been if she had!—but she was very pleasant. I liked her as soon as I saw her, and I felt very sorry for her because she was married to that man!

  She had eight children—seven of whom survived. She clearly humanized the household. I could imagine him—precise, neat in life as he was in his mind. For him there would be a place for everything. She was careless and had no time for method. But she had charm—and he was aware of it, having none himself. He was, naturally, devoted to her as she was to him, and I had to applaud that. She insisted that he take exercise, remove his wet things if he was caught in a shower; she made sure that he was well wrapped up against the cold. Like Mary Anne Disraeli, she always had a supper for him when he came in from the House; she guarded him, watched over him and even took an interest in politics—about which, in spite of her relationship with all those Prime Ministers, she was not really enthusiastic.

  These items of news came to me through servants. I always had my favorite maids who kept me informed. I knew that one of the criticisms leveled against me—and Albert—was that we got on better with the servants than the courtiers. There was an element of truth in this and I was even more friendly with them than Albert had been. I liked them to know that I was interested in their welfare. They knew this and loved me for it; and it so happened that I did glean all sorts of information of which I should otherwise have been ignorant.

  So that was the man who was now my Prime Minister. Admirable, no doubt, honest, stubborn on points which he believed to be right; a man who would, in the old days, have gone to the stake for his opinions.

  I should have admired him. I should have welcomed him. But I could not. I simply did not like him, and as my affections were fierce so were my dislikes.

  As soon as he was in power a large number of reforms were undertaken. Gladstone was obsessed with reform. I had always firmly believed in religious toleration and the liberty of the subject; but Gladstone wanted to go farther than that. He was introducing Radicalism. It was absurd to attempt to abolish class distinction. Not that I believed that a person's birth was all important. What mattered was education, good behavior, and moral standards; and I had ample evidence to know that this existed in people who were not of high birth. Gladstone introduced measures with such rapidity that it was difficult to follow him. He would stand before me with that speaker's manner and expound at great length on his various projects and talk, talk, talk. He did not seem as if he could stop. He was eloquent. I had to admit that. I found my mind straying and wondering how poor Mrs. Gladstone put up with him.

  I knew of course that, constitutionally, I could not oppose him. It was the elected government who made the decisions, not the Queen. But I did have a say in these matters, and I determined to oppose him wherever possible.

  His first measure was the disestablishment of the Irish Church. I knew that this was the question on which he had gone to the country, and the results of that election meant that the people were behind him. But the Lords threw out the Bill after it had been passed through the Commons. I knew this could cause a great deal of trouble, and in a case such as this the Upper House must bow to the Lower. I wanted the matter settled, for even though I did not agree with it, I did realize that the conflict was bad for the country. I asked the House of Lords to give way to the Commons. Let the principle be agreed on and the details thrashed out later.

  The Bill was then passed, due to my intervention, but there was a good deal of quibbling about procedure. I was called in again and helped reconcile the two sides. I think I showed those people who thought that because I was mourning the loss of my husband I was neglecting my duties as Queen, that I was deeply involved in matters of state.

  But the fact remained, I could not like Mr. Gladstone.

  * * *

  I WANTED TO show my appreciation of Disraeli, and it seemed to me in order to offer him an earldom. I sent for him and told him what I had been thinking. He was overcome with gratitude; he kissed my hand and with tears in his eyes told me that he did not deserve such consideration from the most admirable of queens and the most delightful of women.

  I laughed at his fulsomeness, but I must say I found it gratifying, and such a change from the lectures I received in the most stilted phrases from my Prime Minister.

  Disraeli declined the earldom, however. Perhaps he thought it would restrict him in the House of Commons.

  But he said, “Your Majesty has been so gracious to me that I will be so bold as to make a suggestion.”

  “Please do,” I said.

  He hesitated and I saw the look of pain cross his face. His features were always so expressive—as I suppose mine were.

  “It is Mary Anne,” he said.

  He always talked of his wife in a familiar way with me. I was glad he did. I felt I knew her already. He had made me see her as a wonderful woman. I remember how on one occasion he was going to make a very important speech in the Commons and she had driven there with him; as he alighted, she had caught her hand in the door. She had been in agony but did not mention it to him for fear it might worry him and take his mind off his speech.

  I used to tell him of the virtues of Albert and he used to say, laughingly, that we vied with each other in telling of the virtues of our spouses.

  Then we would sigh and say how lucky we were.

  Now he said, “Mary Anne is very ill. She thinks I do not know. She pretends that all is well. She has about a year to live.”

  “Oh, how very sad! I am desperately sorry.”

  “My dear, kind lady…how wonderful you are! Yes, I shall not long have my Mary Anne, and I know Your Majesty understands as few can the depth of my sorrow.”

  I could scarcely bear to look at him.

  After a brief silence he went on, “My request is this. If Mary Anne could be created a peeress in her own right… before she dies…”

  “Most certainly she shall,” I cried. “I myself will make sure that this is done.”

  He took my hand and raised it to his lips. His expression was one of more than gratitude; it was adoration.

  So Mary Anne became the Countess of Beaconsfield.

  He told me how happy she was, and he thanked me for all I had done for him.

  I told him it was nothing. He had done a great deal for me. He was my very good friend and always would be. And I trusted that, if a time should come when he was in need of comfort, he would turn to me.

  Although I could not see him as often as I should have liked for there would have been protests from the government if I appeared too friendly with the Leader of the Opposition, nothing could prevent our writing to each other.

  I looked forward to his letters. They were so amusingly written—racy, witty, and full of gossip.

  They cheered me considerably.

  I sent him primroses from Osborne. He wrote me a most grateful letter. He said that from now on they would be his favorite flower.

  The Fateful Fourteenth

  THE LIBELOUS COMMENTS ABOUT JOHN BROWN AND MYSELF were still being circulated. I had beco
me so accustomed to them that I was ignoring them.

  One that created a good deal of interest was my supposed interest in spiritualism. It was a cult that had swept through the country a little earlier and many people testified that they had been in touch with the dead. It was said that my friendship with John Brown could be explained by the fact that Brown was the medium who put me in touch with Albert.

  If only I could have been in touch with my beloved one, how happy I should have been!

  I knew that if it were possible for him to come to me he would have done so. Of course I was interested; I talked with some of my ladies; I listened to their stories of extraordinary experiences. I sat at a table in the dark with them. But Albert did not come.

  And when I thought of frank, rather earthy John Brown having contact with the other world, it all seemed to be quite incongruous.

  It was amazing how the stories were circulated, but I thought it was better for people to suspect John Brown as my medium rather than my lover.

  I often thought how empty people's lives must be if they must pry and peep into those of others.

  I always remembered how Albert had wanted writers to come to Court; he had thought they would be much more interesting than most of the people we met. I had stood out against that, fearing that the conversation might be so lofty that I should be shut out of it. I had been foolish and I believed I had deprived Albert of some pleasure.

  I decided, therefore, that I would invite certain writers to Court. I was not very interested in books, but I did admire the energy of people who produced them; and as Albert had been sure they would be interesting, I would do what I had been reluctant to in his lifetime.

  I had always admired Tennyson, of course. His In Memoriam had comforted me a great deal and I had written to him to tell him so. He had been to visit me both at Osborne and Windsor. I found him charming and easy to talk to.