Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria

by Виктория Холт

  * * *

  I THINK I had begun to change during my friendship with Lord Beaconsfield, and from that time the Court was a little less somber than it had been in the years following Albert's death. It was not that I mourned Albert any less; it was not that I did not think of him constantly, but I was taking an interest in certain recreations. I had always been fond of music; it was one of the pleasures which Albert and I had shared.

  We were having private theatricals at Osborne in which guests took part. We had tableaux of various subjects, historical pastorals, scenes from operas, and such things. I enjoyed preparing for these so much; they made me feel young again. For the first time since Albert's death, I had players at the castle. They did a lovely performance of Gilbert and Sullivan's The Gondoliers. Later Eleonora Duse performed La Locandiera, and Mr. Tree brought his play The Red Lamp to Balmoral; and to celebrate my seventy-sixth birthday there was a performance of Verdi's Il Trovatore. I found such entertainments so stimulating and enjoyable; and I always thought: How Albert would have appreciated this.

  Before this, however, my grandson Eddy—Albert Victor, Bertie's eldest son—had become engaged to Princess May of Teck.

  Eddy had never been very bright; his brother George was his superior in learning; but Eddy had been a great favorite of his parents. I think Alexandra loved him especially not only because he was her first-born but because he was backward and he needed her more than the others. But of course all their children adored Alexandra and Bertie.

  Eddy had not been very happy in his attachments. He had formed a great affection for his cousin Alicky and that had come to nothing; then he had fallen in love with Lady Sybil St. Clair Erskine—and she was not the only one. In fact poor Eddy had fallen in love frequently but with little success. Then there had been Princess Héléne of Orléans, quite a suitable match that would have been, but we had to remember that as Bertie's eldest son he was destined for the throne, he could not marry a Catholic. There had been certain negotiations but the affair had lapsed.

  So now it was such a pleasure to hear that he had become engaged to May. I was very fond of her mother and we had all been so surprised when she married for she was no longer in her first youth then; but it had worked out very well and she had given birth to her capable May. It was a very happy state of affairs.

  He had “spoken” to May at a ball at Luton Hoo and been accepted. She was such a nice girl—cheerful and capable—and quite pretty. She was just right for poor Eddy and he was delighted. He had for so long wanted to marry.

  May's mother was pleased with the match. It meant that in time May would be Queen, and of course this was greatly approved of by the Cambridge side of the family.

  The wedding was to take place on the twenty-seventh of February.

  * * *

  CHRISTMAS HAD PASSED and we were in January when I received a telegram from Sandringham.

  Eddy had influenza. Alexandra said he was going on quite well and there was no cause for alarm.

  With Beatrice's help I was in the midst of planning eight tableaux which we were going to put on that evening. One that particularly interested me was that of the Empire; and Beatrice was to represent India. She was a little plump for an Indian. They all seemed to be rather thin. The Munshi was very happy directing us and putting us right as he loved to do. I thought Beatrice would be a great success. I was delighted that she was happily married and that I had her and Henry with me—almost always under the same roof. Their dear children were a delight to me. It was such a relief to know that I should keep Beatrice near me.

  The tableaux were a great success and the following day there was another telegram from Sandringham. Eddy's influenza had turned to pneumonia. I noticed with dismay that it was the thirteenth of the month; I kept my superstitious dread of the fourteenth; but at least this was not December.

  I wondered whether I should go to Sandringham, but there was always such a fuss when I visited and I guessed poor Alexandra would be too frantic to want me there.

  On the next day—the fateful fourteenth—another telegram arrived. This one was from Bertie.

  “Our darling Eddy has been taken from us.”

  How heartbreakingly tragic! There was to have been a wedding and now there would be a funeral.

  * * *

  I WAS VERY sad when after a term of six years, Parliament was dissolved and I was horrified to hear that Gladstone was fighting an election with fire and enthusiasm.

  I could not bear it if he were returned. I had had such a long rest from him. If he came back it would be intolerable.

  “The idea,” I said to Ponsonby, “of a deluded and excited man of eighty-two trying to govern England and her vast Empire with his miserable democrats is quite ridiculous. It is like a bad joke.”

  And it turned out to be as bad as I feared. Although he failed to win the large majority, which he apparently expected, I found myself with Gladstone as Prime Minister for the fourth time.

  A few days after the election he came to Osborne to kiss my hand. He was very changed since I had last seen him; not only was he much older, but he walked in a bent way with a stick; his face appeared to have shrunk and he was deathly pale with a weird look in his eyes, a feeble expression about his lips; and even his voice had altered.

  I said to him, “You and I are much lamer than we used to be, Mr. Gladstone.” And that was as far as I could go. I could not show friendship for a man I could never like. He should know better than to cling to office. The people admired him for some reason; I supposed it was all that walking about at night which intrigued them. I doubted he did it now.

  I wished I need not accept him, but of course I had to. He was the chosen of the people. But they did not show tremendous enthusiasm for him and I doubted that, with his small majority, he would get his will. He had an obsession about Ireland and was working hard to bring in Home Rule. I did not think he had a chance of getting through with it with his tiny majority.

  He did, however, get it through the Commons, but it was thrown out of the Lords. I was delighted at that and I hoped it was the last we would hear of Home Rule for Ireland.

  When one gets old the days seem to race by. One emerges from one into another and in no time a year has passed.

  Poor Alexandra could not get over Eddy's death but I think when George became engaged to Princess May she felt a little happier. We all liked May so much, and it seemed right that, having lost one brother, she should take the other.

  The wedding took place in the July of that year '93; the heat was great and poor Alexandra looked rather drawn. I think she could not stop herself thinking that it might have been Eddy who stood there with May instead of George.

  But George was a good boy—so much more stable than Eddy had been. I felt sure that May would find a husband more to her liking in George than she would have done in Eddy.

  I enjoyed the wedding very much, but it was marred by one incident. Mr. Gladstone actually had the temerity to come into my tent! I suppose he thought it was a Prime Minister's right. And not only did he enter but he sat down! I said, “What does he think this is? A public tent?”

  I was glad on that occasion to meet Nicholas the Tsarevitch who was an extremely charming young man and bore a striking resemblance to the bridegroom.

  Soon after the wedding, Albert's brother Ernest died. This did not affect me very deeply because I had always been aware of his unworthiness and it had amazed me that two brothers could be so different. I had never ceased to thank the fates for giving me Albert instead of Ernest. I did take credit, of course, for my own judgment in choosing Albert for I could have had either. How fortunate I was to have chosen the saint instead of the sinner.

  His death meant that Alfred inherited the Duchy of Saxe-Coburg, and almost immediately he was leaving to take up his position in his father's native land.

  Dear Rosenau! I promised myself that I would visit Alfred there—but those visits were always such poignant mingling of pleasure in being in such
perfect surroundings, and sorrow of having memories of Albert brought back to me more vividly than ever.

  Sometimes life flows on evenly and peacefully, but there are periods when events of great importance follow fast on one another. 1894 was one of those years.

  In March Mr. Gladstone came to see me at Osborne and told me he thought he was too old to continue. I quite agreed with him and could not hide my pleasure. I knew that I must have betrayed it to him for I heard that in reporting the interview he said, “She was at the height of her cheerfulness when I told her.”

  Perhaps I should have been kinder to the old man; but I was never one to pretend to have, or not to have, affection for those about me.

  His Cabinet was quite emotional when he told them of his intention to retire; he himself was unmoved; he made his last speech to the Commons in which he urged them to do battle with the House of Lords; he was still obsessed by the Home Rule Bill.

  He came to me—I was at Windsor then—to tender his official resignation. He was eighty-four and almost blind, with cataracts in both eyes. I asked him to sit, which he did. We talked awhile but I had never had anything much to say to him. I was glad when he left, and then I realized that I had not uttered the conventional thanks for his years of honorable service. I simply could not. I did not think he had done a great deal of good for the country. He was against all that Lord Beaconsfield—and I— had stood for. He would have liked to diminish the mighty Empire which it had so delighted Lord Beaconsfield to build. Good, one might think him, if one took a kindly view of all those wanderings in the night; but good men do not always make the best Prime Ministers.

  When I sent for Lord Rosebery and invited him to become Prime Minister he came rather reluctantly. He turned out to be rather weak in the beginning and sent out appeals to his colleagues to support him— and, of course, after the manner of rival politicians, they did not.

  It was really the end of Gladstone's Liberals. The country was not ripe for that sort of policy. The most wild proposals were put forth for the Home Rule for Ireland, “mending or ending” the House of Lords, and the disestablishment of the Church in Wales, and even a veto on liquor sales.

  Rosebery could not have continued in office without the support of the Irish members, and when he rashly declaimed that there would be no Home Rule for Ireland unless the majority of members for the English constituencies were in favor of it, support fell away from him. He had more or less let it be known that the Home Rule Bill was postponed indefinitely.

  I despised him for his weakness. I did not think he was enjoying his role. After all, he had not exactly taken it with alacrity. He suffered from sleepless nights; he had influenza, and the by-elections were going against him. He had only been in office for about a year when he handed in his resignation.

  Parliament was dissolved and to my great pleasure the Conservatives were returned and Lord Salisbury came to see me. I had a new Prime Minister and a dear friend.

  * * *

  ANOTHER EVENT AT that time was Alicky's engagement to the Tsarevitch Nicholas of Russia. Although I was suspicious of the Russians I did realize what a great match this was for Alicky—one of my very favorite grandchildren. She was a beautiful girl, clever and sensible … and my dear Alice's daughter, which in itself endeared her to me. In the space of three weeks the dear girl became a wife and Empress, for the Tsar died and Nicholas had stepped into his place taking my darling Alicky with him.

  No one could deny it was a brilliant marriage.

  Another matter for rejoicing was the birth of a son to George and May, which caused great excitement among the people who marveled that I had a great grandchild. I did not think it was so wonderful. If Alicky had not refused Eddy in '89, I might have had one four years before.

  Still, it was good to know that the people were pleased.

  We must not expect life to go on too smoothly and I did not, but I was unprepared for the terrible tragedy that overtook us. Henry of Battenburg had left us to go with the expedition to Ashanti. I had not wanted him to go. One of my great comforts was to have him and Beatrice under my roof; they and their dear children had been a great solace to me during the last years and again and again it had been brought home to me what a wise decision it was to bring Henry to England and let him and Beatrice marry.

  I believe Henry was looking for adventure. He probably thought that life spent between Osborne, Windsor, and Buckingham Palace somewhat uneventful; however, he had this urge to go and unselfish Beatrice had not stood in his way. I told him he would never be able to endure the climate but that had no effect on him.

  Just after he had left a very disturbing incident arose. There was trouble in South Africa where President Kruger was continually stirring up strife. He believed that the Boers should have control of the country. I did not trust the man and believed that we should have real trouble sooner or later.

  The administrator of Rhodesia was a Dr. Jameson who had carried out a very daring plan to overthrow Kruger. It was a foolhardy thing to do but very brave. Stealing into the Transvaal at night, with a few hundred mounted police, he had tried to foster a revolt against Kruger. His force was small; Kruger was powerful; and in a very short time Jameson and his men were overpowered. Unfortunately certain documents were taken, which betrayed the fact that Cecil Rhodes and our Colonial Office, presided over by Joseph Chamberlain, were all involved in the scheme.

  It was a disaster for us—and it did indeed lead to the Boer War which broke out some years later. But we did not know that then, and I felt a certain sympathy toward Dr. Jameson who seemed to me to have the right ideas and the courage to attempt to carry them out. The Boers were horrid people—cruel and overbearing.

  What was so hard to bear was that Wilhelm had sent a telegram to Kruger, congratulating him on preserving his independence. This was unforgivable. We had suffered pinpricks from that arrogant young German Emperor before, but this was a direct blow. How dared he! Bertie was furious.

  “He shall not be invited to Cowes this year,” he said.

  I remembered that last year had been very difficult; he had been late for dinner when I was present; he had referred to us as colleagues, which irritated me as he was setting himself on a level with me, and not in a humorous way either. He had openly quarreled with Lord Salisbury; he had referred to Bertie in the presence of people who had reported it, and lost no time in circulating it, that his uncle was an “old popinjay.”

  I wrote off a letter of reproval to him and told him that his action over the telegram would not be forgotten for a long time to come.

  I do not think Wilhelm was greatly perturbed; he had such a high opinion of himself as a ruler as important as I was—and I am not sure that he did not think he was greater.

  I believed then that Wilhelm was going to cause a great deal of aggravation in the years to come and this feeling did not lessen as time passed.

  It was soon after this terrible raid that a telegram came to say that Henry was suffering from fever. For a week we awaited news. We heard that he was recovering. Alas, the recovery did not last; and on the twentysecond came the dreaded telegram. Henry was dead.

  My poor Baby! She was distraught. It had been a true love match. Useless for me to say I had been through it all before. There was no comforting her.

  She was very patient, very selfless—Beatrice always had been—and she bore her grief more secretly than I had borne mine.

  I was desolate. Once again happiness had deserted the house.

  The Approaching End

  I WAS SEVENTY-EIGHT YEARS OF AGE AND HAD BEEN ON THE throne for sixty years, which was longer than any monarch had been before—even my mad grandfather George III who had reigned for fiftynine years and ninety-six days.

  Everyone wanted a grand celebration. It was a rare occasion.

  I agreed to the Diamond Jubilee. I said that I wanted it to show the Empire in all its glory. Its growth had been the outstanding feature of my reign, and I wanted all to know it. All the
Prime Ministers of all the Colonies, representatives from India and the dependencies, must be present; and the armed forces should take a prominent part.

  It was indeed a great occasion, and one I shall never forget in the years left to me. I wanted as many people to see me as possible and for it to be entirely memorable; I wanted the people to realize that I had worked for them—as well as I was able—for sixty long years; and that their welfare had always been my greatest concern.

  It was wonderful to hear the guns in the Park booming to announce the great day. It seems that everyone was out in the streets. The crowds were intense; I hoped there would be no accidents.

  I made a circular tour and was moved to tears by the loyal demonstrations of affection.

  “She wrought her people lasting good,” said one banner. “Our Hearts Thy Throne,” said another.

  What beautiful sentiments!

  I was so proud. If Albert could have been beside me my joy would have been complete. He had done so much, not only for me, but for these people; but they did not recognize it. They never would.

  I rode with my family around me, with the troops and officials from India, Australia, South Africa, Canada, Cyprus, Hong Kong, and Borneo. All the might of the Empire was displayed there. I hoped my people would realize the greatness of their country and that they would always work together to keep it great.

  From Buckingham Palace to St. Paul's for the thanksgiving service; and then I drove over London Bridge to the poorer districts of the capital on the south side of the river. I came back over Westminster Bridge and St. James's Park.

  The welcome I was given, the love that was expressed, was so moving. I could scarcely restrain my tears. I was exhausted, but so happy. I had always cared so much for the love of my people and had been most distressed when they had turned against me.