Then I made her laugh with an imitation of Gladstone and his speaker's manner. “I always feel like the audience at a meeting when he holds forth. His wife is quite a pleasant creature. I often pity her for having such a husband.”
“Perhaps she is fond of him.”
“Oddly enough, she seems to be.”
“People seem different to different people.”
Dreamy days they were. Sometimes I would forget how ill she was. She insisted that I do a little sightseeing and she arranged for me to see something of the place. I was shown the haunts of some of the worst characters of both sexes in Europe; but what I remember most was an instrument of torture that was used by the Inquisition. It was called the Iron Virgin—a case lined with knives into that those who were called heretics were thrust, and, as they said, embraced by the Virgin.
I had never seen anything like it—and I shall never forget it.
The time came for me to say goodbye to Feodore, and I took leave of her with protestations of affection. We both knew it would be our last meeting and we tried to be brave about it. We embraced with great affection. We had always been such good friends. The only difference we had ever had had been at the time of that awful Schleswig-Holstein business when she had wanted my support for her daughter's husband and I had been unable to give it.
These beastly wars that made rifts in families!
But any rift between us was now healed, and with poignant tenderness we said our last farewells.
When I arrived back it was to find Mr. Gladstone in a tutorial mood. He came and talked, standing before me, rocking on his heels, expounding his views. He thought the Prince of Wales should be seen doing some work. It would please the people.
“What sort of work?” I asked.
Mr. Gladstone thought that, as his father had been interested in art and science, they might be fields to explore. “The Prince Consort had a knowledge of architecture,” he added.
“The Prince of Wales is not the Prince Consort,” I said. “If only he resembled his father more I think we should have less cause for concern.”
“Perhaps philanthropy would be good for him,” Mr. Gladstone went on, rocking on his heels and discussing philanthropy as though I had never heard of it. He really was the most exhausting man I had ever met.
Finally, I said, “I can see no point in planning for the Prince of Wales. I am told he is a good ambassador. Let him do what is asked of him, but the idea of forcing him into art, science, or philanthropy, I think is hopeless. He would never give his mind to any of these.”
Mr. Gladstone seemed to be in agreement, only he could not say so simply. And it was decided that for the moment we should leave Bertie alone.
* * *
DEATH! IT NEVER seems to strike singly. Poor Feodore died, as I knew she must. Napoleon passed on at Chichester. How sad that he who had such grandiose plans should have ended in exile.
One of the saddest deaths was that of the Countess of Beaconsfield. Poor Mr. Disraeli was heartbroken. He was such a feeling man. He wrote long letters to me and I wrote back expressing my sympathy. None knew better than I what the loss of one's partner meant. I could understand as few could; I sensed the depth of his feeling, his desolation.
He told me that she had been eighty-one. Well, it was a great age. He himself was sixty-eight. “I knew she had to go before me,” he wrote. “But that does not soften the blow.” Poor, poor Mr. Disraeli, my heart bled for him.
He wrote so beautifully, so poignantly. He brought back memories of my own loss. I wrote and told him of my feelings, how similar were our losses.
The death of his wife seemed to bring Mr. Disraeli closer to me.
But these were all expected deaths and there was one that was the most tragic of all.
How I suffered with the dearest of my daughters, my Alice. She had seven children, which I had always said was too many, but Alice loved them all dearly and did not mind so much as I had those months of pregnancy and the births. She accepted these pains and discomforts, thinking them worthwhile.
When I heard what had happened I could scarcely believe it. She had gone into the courtyard and her little Frederick William, who was about three years old, saw her and called out to her. He leaned out too far and fell onto the cobbles below.
A little later he died. Alice was heartbroken. How I suffered with her. I thank God that she had the others.
She had been dogged by ill luck since her marriage, poor girl. Louis had never been a great match—unlike Vicky's with the Crown Prince of Prussia—and Louis had lost a lot of what he had at the time of his marriage—thanks to that arch-villain, Bismarck.
Alice and I had not been quite so close since her marriage. There had been one or two upsets. I had remonstrated with her because she would nurse the children herself. A wet nurse would have been so much more suitable. The business was distasteful reducing one to the level of a cow, I thought. A very crude joke of Nature. But Alice insisted. She said she had saved the children from dysentery. Then I thought she had had too many too quickly, and it was quite clear that she resented my interference in this matter. She had more or less told me that it was entirely her affair.
Sometime before she had forgotten Vicky's birthday, which upset Vicky very much, and I had not invited Alice to England when Vicky was there because I feared a coldness between them.
I believed too, that she and Alfred had put their heads together and made plans to draw me out of my seclusion. So although I never forgot that in the past Alice was the one who really came first in my affections, that had changed a little since her marriage.
Alfred, like Bertie, seemed destined to cause trouble. He must marry, of course, but he did seem to make the most unsuitable choices. Sometime previously he had contemplated marriage to Frederika, daughter of my blind cousin George, who had been driven from his throne of Hanover.
I had firmly quashed that. As her father was blind I said there was a possibility of that malady descending through his daughter, and as Alfred was not very determined that happily passed over. Then there was an involvement with a commoner. I feared that I was going to have even more trouble with Alfred than I had had with Bertie.
Now he was really serious. He wanted to marry a daughter of the Tsar. I was not at all pleased about this. The Russians had been our enemies and I did not entirely trust them. I began to reconsider Frederika. I had been rather fond of my blind cousin at one time, and I believed she was quite a pleasant girl. But Alfred—fickle creature—had forgotten Frederika and was set on Marie of Russia.
The Tsar at first had not been eager for the match and then seemed to change his mind. I heard rumors that came through our ambassador in Russia that Marie had been involved with Prince Golitsyn—and not only him—and that the Russian royal family were now eager to see her settled. Hence the sudden acceptance of marriage with Alfred.
Naturally I did not want such a marriage, and as Alfred was so feckless I felt I must reason with him. His past would not bear too much scrutiny. I could think of several reasons why the marriage should not take place. The Russians were half oriental; they were self-indulgent; I did not have a great opinion of the Romanovs. There would be a marriage in the Greek Church. No. I was against the match.
It seemed that the Russians were not too keen now either. There was a great deal of shilly-shallying, and I wondered if Alfred's pride would allow him to accept that. But he seemed to be unaware of it and he was pursuing marriage to Marie with a tenacity that I wished he would give to more worthy matters.
At last, to my dismay, the engagement was official. I asked that Marie should visit me at Balmoral at which I had a most impolite reply from the Tsar to the effect that he had no intention of sending his daughter for my approval. The Tsarina then suggested that I meet the Princess at Cologne.
“The impertinence!” I said. “Do they expect me to run after her!”
I was furious when Alice wrote to me advising me—advising me!—to meet the Tsarina and her daughter at Cologne.
“The Tsarina feels the heat more than you do, Mama, and traveling is so tiresome for her. It is meeting half-way, and that seems reasonable.”
Reasonable! I thought. I picked up my pen and wrote to her:
You have entirely taken the Russian side, and I do not think, dear child, that you should tell me—who have been nearly twenty years longer on the throne than the Emperor of Russia and am the Doyenne of Sovereigns and who am a reigning Sovereign which the Empress is not—what I ought to do. I do think I know that. How could I, who am not like any little Princess, be ready to run at the slightest call of the mighty Russians.
Bertie and Alexander were, of course, in favor of the Russian marriage because Alexandra's sister Dagmar was married to the Tsarevitch. Bertie invited them to come to England, which they did. I found them very charming and I felt less animosity to the Russians after that. Alexandra's sister was a pleasant creature—not as beautiful as Alexandra, but the affection between them was strong, and I really became quite enchanted by them all.
And when I did meet Princess Marie I found her warm and loving, and I saw no reason why—if she would learn our English ways—she should not make Alfred a good wife. Heaven knew he needed a steadying influence.
I had a long talk with Alfred warning him of the duties and the responsibilities of marriage and expressed the fervent hope that he would change his life when he became a husband. But I did not believe he paid much attention.
At length they were married in St. Petersburg. I sent my dear friend Dean Stanley to perform the wedding ceremony after the Anglican rite. It was by all means a glittering occasion.
* * *
HOW FICKLE ARE the people! Those who had heralded Mr. Gladstone's ministry a few years before were now weary of him.
He had realized the signs of weakness in the Liberal party and that it no longer possessed the power to carry on in government.
He came to see me and delivered one of his harangues. I paid more attention this time because I realized he was thinking of relinquishing office. His Irish Universities Bill had been turned out and several Liberal candidates had been defeated in by-elections. Of course, he was a great reformer and although people clamor for this, when the reforms are brought in they see that they are not all they were made out to be.
I was reading the accounts of Alfred's grand wedding when I had a telegram from Mr. Gladstone telling me that the Cabinet had decided to dissolve Parliament.
There was an election. Mr. Gladstone retained his seat but it was a triumphant victory for the Tories.
I waited impatiently for my new Prime Minister to call.
He had aged a little. The sorrow he had suffered at the death of Mary Anne had affected him deeply. I saw this at once and when I held out my hand for him to kiss, I touched his head as he bent and said, “Dear Mr. Disraeli, this is indeed a happy moment.”
“For me, Ma'am,” he replied, “it is the start of life again.”
I knew what he meant. In his devotion to me, he could salve the grief he suffered at the death of Mary Anne.
* * *
LIFE WAS MUCH happier for me now that I had my dear Mr. Disraeli as a constant visitor. Although we had kept in touch during his years in opposition, for we were both prolific letter writers, it was much more satisfying to see him in person.
I had to admit that Mr. Gladstone was a man of high principle and he had worked hard for his country; but then so did Mr. Disraeli and he did it gracefully, so that it was a pleasure to be with him. He made state affairs a matter of interest and amusement, as Lord Melbourne used to. That was a much more effective way of dealing with them, for Mr. Gladstone's tedious speeches did have a tendency to send me to sleep.
Mr. Disraeli was a great talker and his descriptions were so vivid. I felt I knew so much about him, his ambitions, his determination to “climb the greasy pole” as he expressed it, to the premiership. “And,” he said, “it is much harder, Ma'am, I do assure you, to stay at the top of it than climb it.” I was sure he was right.
It was from him that I learned of Mr. Gladstone's peregrinations after dark through the streets of London. “His great desire, Ma'am, is to rescue ladies of easy virtue and bring them back to paths of righteousness.”
I was incredulous. “Mr. Gladstone behaving so! I wonder what Mrs. Gladstone has to say.”
“She is a most devoted wife. She believes unshakably in the virtue of her husband.”
“Does she join him in this…er…work?”
“Indeed, Ma'am, I believe they have ‘rescued’ one or two. It has been going on for years.”
“It seems to me an odd occupation for such a man.”
“It is a dangerous one.” He looked at me slyly. “People are apt to misconstrue.”
“I cannot believe Mr. Gladstone would ever be anything but virtuous. Oh dear, poor Mrs. Gladstone!”
Mr. Disraeli had a wonderful effect on me. I felt better than I had since Albert's death. I felt more alive. I felt younger, even attractive, not as a queen but as a woman.
I believe that in a way he was in love with me. People do not always understand these things. They think that love must be a physical thing. Far from it. I was never what is called “physical” in that respect. I did not need that sort of contact; my emotions were of the spirit. I had heard that he had written of me that now that Mary Anne was dead, I was the only person in the world left to him to love. He was completely devoted to me; our meetings brought as much joy to him as they did to me. I knew that he called me “The Faerie Queen.” I thought that was rather charming and I was grateful to him.
People said rather crudely that “he had got the length of my foot” and knew how to be sympathetic and that his sympathy might be expressed with his tongue in his cheek.
I knew these things were said, but I did not care. People always tried to spoil things that were beautiful and my relationship with him was beautiful. We were a joy and comfort to each other and what more could one ask of any relationship?
We agreed on so many things and when I was incensed by something and he did not agree with my views, he had such a comical way of raising his eyebrows and saying in a mock serious way “Dear Madam,” which always amused me and made me reconsider my opinions.
We discussed Mr. Gladstone at great length. He was concerned about religion. He had defended Roman Catholicism and then published an Expostulation against the Catholic claims. He was a strange man—subversive, in a way. There was this obsession with religion and the nightly wanderings.
I would not say this to anyone else but Mr. Disraeli, but what if Mr. Gladstone were in secret a Catholic… and a libertine?
Mr. Disraeli just looked at me and said in his mock-severe voice, “Dear Madam,” which of course made me laugh.
The troubles between the family and John Brown continued. They were all against him. They could not understand that in his honest Highland way he was no respecter of persons. I had quickly realized this and so had Albert, and we had told each other that loyalty and honesty came before lip service.
Two courtiers who held service in the household had threatened to resign because they could not accept the privileges accorded to Brown. Bertie said he would not go to Abergeldie because Brown was given shooting rights, which ruined the sport for him. Someone said, “Brown is a coarse animal.”
They were all trying to rid me of the very best servant I had, one whose loyalty to me was never in question.
The company Bertie was keeping was causing scandal everywhere. I had my anxieties over Alfred. Vicky was arrogant. I believe she thought the wife of the Crown Prince—one day to be Empress—was more important than the Queen of England; Alice—even Alice—had ceased to be the placid girl who had meant so much to me; Leopold frequently suffered from hemorrhages, which were a constant anxiety; and I was terrified that Beatrice was going to fall in love and I found myself restricting her, keeping her from social activities, trying to arrange that she did not meet people outside the family. I thought often of my
mad grandfather, George III, who had spoiled the lives of his daughters. I must remember that. Yet how could I bear to lose Beatrice!
There was always the danger of offending the public, and it seemed that feelings against royalty were always simmering and ready to boil over.
Charles Greville's Memoirs were published and widely read. I thought them amusing at first but then I began to see how dangerous they were. He exposed too much and although he recorded actual events he did exaggerate them. His observations were quite cynical and no one was spared. This sort of thing did no good to the established State.
Mr. Disraeli was not very pleased at the publication. He said the book was a social outrage and that Greville was full of vanity. Someone else commented that it was like Judas writing the lives of the apostles—which I thought a rather witty and apt remark. I think it was Lord John Manners who said this.
But as I read on and saw how my poor uncles were pilloried, I realized how dangerous the book was.
Greville had been Clerk of the Council in Ordinary from '21 until '60 and had died in '65 and these Memoirs of the reigns of George IV and William IV were edited by a Henry Reeve; and when objection to their publication was raised, this man Reeve remarked that my behavior would seem very good when set against that of my uncles. I had been fond of both Uncle George and Uncle William and I deplored this publication, which, in any case, could do no good to the monarchy.
There was another unpleasant incident that had set the people against us—though I cannot think why we were to blame in any way, but people are quite illogical.
Our yacht the Alberta collided with another ship when we were crossing to Osborne. Three people were drowned and I was most distressed. The case was brought to court and the mob surrounded the courthouse screaming threats against our captain. It was most unfortunate; and the case dragged on and on, and our enemies in the Press made the most of it. One would have thought that I had deliberately set out to collide with the other boat, which was in our way, and cared nothing that lives were lost as long as I could pursue my pleasure. Nothing could have been further from the truth, and no one could have been more unhappy than I was that lives had been lost.
Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria Page 60
