by Jean Plaidy
Poor Lehzen! How tragic she looked. I could not bear it. I put my arms around her and cried quietly, while she held me to her. She wept too, but there was resignation in our tears.
LEHZEN COULD NOT go immediately, of course. After such a long stay in the household there were many preparations to be made. She had written to her sister and there was a ready welcome awaiting her in Coburg.
We did not talk about her departure very much. It was too painful for us both, but I knew she was sorting out her things and deciding what must be taken with her.
To our great joy, Vicky's health started to improve. Albert saw a great deal of her. I think he had a special feeling for Vicky. In fact I now know that he did, for that was borne out through the years. She was such an enchanting creature, and showed signs of brightness already, which delighted Albert.
The Boy was young yet, but we fancied he was not as forward as Vicky had been at his age. But all that mattered at this time was their good health.
My relations with Albert had become closer. I began to see things through his eyes. I realized my own shortcomings. I had been so long governed by that ill temper, which would flare up so suddenly, and while it was with me I was capable of saying the most outrageous things.
“We must conquer it,” said Albert. “I promise you we shall.”
“It is rather formidable,” I admitted.
“It is a dragon to be slain,” said Albert. And he looked like St. George himself setting out to slay it. “It must be slain,” he said, “before it slays us.”
How right he was! How right he always was! Even about Lehzen. I loved her dearly and always would. Loyalty and fidelity were two virtues I did possess. Of course I was arrogant at times. Perhaps I had had queenship thrust upon me at too early an age. I was, as everyone knew, hottempered, impulsive, apt to act first and think after… but at least I was loving, and when I loved I was faithful.
But in spite of my love for Lehzen, I knew that she was interfering, possessive, jealous, determined to capture the first place in my heart and to hold on to it. And it was true that she hated all those who came between me and herself. She was incapable of organizing anything. The affairs of the household were in disarray, and there was inefficiency everywhere. The boy Jones had betrayed the lack of security. Albert had seen these things before the rest of us, and Albert was right.
There was a letter from his brother Ernest, now, so he said, fully recovered from his malady. That was well for he was about to be married. The bride was to be Princess Alexandrina of Baden.
I was a little dubious about the wisdom of Ernest's marrying, knowing what I did of his reputation and the terrible consequences his ill deeds had brought upon him; but Albert was elated, he had very deep family feeling, and he believed that marriage would be the saving of his brother.
There was an invitation for us to go to Saxe-Coburg for the wedding. I could not leave. The state of the country was such as to keep me at home; and there was no hiding the true facts nowadays. Sir Robert Peel was different from Lord Melbourne. He did not think one should “leave it alone,” but that I should know everything that was happening, however unpleasant it might be.
Although I could not go, there was no reason why Albert should not. I hated to let him go, but it was his brother, and he naturally wished to be present at his wedding, particularly as it might be the saving of him.
Albert was torn between two desires, to see his home again—and how he loved it; he was always talking about the forests with their pine trees and old legends—and his wish to stay with me. He chose the latter, and I was immensely gratified although the thought did enter my mind that he might have chosen to stay because although Lehzen would eventually depart, she was still in the Palace. He might have wondered what I should have been cajoled into if he were not there.
However, I was delighted when he resisted the temptation to visit his old home and stayed with me.
I wrote to Uncle Leopold telling him what a great delight our marriage was to both me and Albert; and I had a very pleasant letter from Princess Alexandrina that suggested to me that she was a very gentle, sensible, and religious young woman.
“That,” said Albert, “is what Ernest needs.”
I had the idea that, as Albert could not bring himself to go to Coburg for the wedding, the newly married couple should come to us.
“Let us invite them to spend their honeymoon at Claremont since you are not going to Coburg,” I said.
Albert thought this was an excellent suggestion and he wrote such a charming letter to Ernest that was full of good advice. Although Ernest was the elder, Albert's being so much more serious and sensible, he looked upon himself as his brother's protector.
I looked over his shoulder as he wrote.
“Do not leave your wife at home while you go after your own pleasures,” he wrote. “If you always wish to have everything in the latest fashion and go to the races and hunt, you will not have enough. Here, people ruin themselves with such things. What does it bring?”
Dear Albert! He was so concerned. And it seemed ironical that he should have a brother so different from himself.
But he loved him nonetheless in spite of his inadequacies, and used to tell me with emotion how they had hunted together and walked with their dogs through the forest and skated in the rivers and lakes. In spite of their unsettled home life and the scandals attaching to their mother, they had a happy childhood… perhaps partly because of their affection for each other.
Ernest and his bride were delighted at the prospect of coming to England and accepted the invitation.
They came to us in July and I found my new sister-in-law amiable, charming, and sensible.
Ernest was much as I remembered him—merry and courteous, but of course I knew he was something of a philanderer; and as he was so different from Albert I could not approve of him, and I did not believe he could make a quick change from a rake to a good husband as Albert had hopes that he would; but then he was his brother and he was surprisingly lenient with him.
But before their visit we had lived through some stirring times.
I shall never forget Felix Mendelssohn's visit to Buckingham Palace. Both Albert and I were delighted. I had always admired Mendelssohn's music and I told him so at once. Albert joined with me and Mendelssohn charmed me by asking Albert if he would play something for him.
“I shall be able to boast that the Prince played for me when I return to Germany,” he said.
“Yes, do play,” I cried. “The Prince is a musician, I do assure you.”
Albert said, “Victoria!” reproachfully, but he was not displeased. And to Mendelssohn, “You must forgive the Queen's enthusiasm. It is due to affection rather than critical judgment.”
But when Albert played a chorale by Herz, Mendelssohn was enraptured, and said the performance would have done credit to a professional musician.
“Please sing for us, Mr. Mendelssohn,” I begged; and he sang his chorus from St. Paul, in which Albert and I joined.
I clapped my hands when it was over and asked the musician if he had written any more songs.
“The Queen is very fond of your songs,” said Albert to Mendelssohn, and to me, “Why do you not sing one for him?”
I hesitated and was at last persuaded; and we went to my sitting room where I had my piano.
Mama came in. How different she was nowadays! I wondered how much of her arrogance had been due to that odious John Conroy. I was thankful that he was now out of the way. Albert was so pleased because we were on better terms.
I sang the Pilger's Spruch and Lass Mich Nur. Mendelssohn went into raptures over my singing, which I think was moderately genuine—quite a lot of praise for the Queen, but some for the singer, too.
It was a very happy and informal meeting; and when the sheets of Mendelssohn's music were caught in a gust of wind and scattered all over the floor, I ran about collecting them; and I think he was astonished that a queen could act as naturally as I did
.
That was a pleasant interlude—not only because we were delighted to have a famous composer, but because he was the sort of person Albert enjoyed talking to, and I, hitherto, had been wary of inviting to the Palace—although, of course, I was more at home with musicians than writers, because I knew something of music and felt by no means at a loss in conversation.
Soon after my birthday—my twenty-third—a very unpleasant episode took place.
While we were driving in the Mall Albert saw a dark, ill-favored man close to the carriage. When he was within about two or three paces from us he brought out a pistol and held it toward us. There was a shout. I saw the man run, but before he could be caught he was lost in the crowd.
When we returned to the Palace there was great consternation. It had been a narrow escape. The villain had got away. It was considered to be dangerous for he might very well try again.
Lehzen was in a state of nerves. She wrung her hands and said I must not go out again. It was too dangerous. She went about muttering that she wished she could lay her hands on the villain.
I said, “I do not propose to stay in forever.”
I talked about it to Albert when we were alone.
“We have to go out,” I said. “So let us go…well protected. It may be that he will make another attempt. They will be on the alert for him and catch him.”
Unknown to Mama and Lehzen we set out with two equerries guarding us one on either side of the carriage.
Rather surprisingly the man appeared again with the pistol and this time the police were waiting for him. He was seized, but not before he had fired.
I was glad that he had been caught. Otherwise we should have been expecting to see him every time we rode out.
It always depressed me to know that there were people who wanted to kill me; but I always felt calm at the time of danger, which surprised me as well as others. I cannot explain this, but my grandfather appeared to have it for on the occasion when he came within inches of being killed he presented an exterior of almost indifference.
Sir Robert Peel came at once to the Palace. He was deeply distressed.
“The man is named John Francis, Your Majesty. He is in his early twenties… and a joiner.”
“Is he mad?” I asked.
“He doesn't appear to be, Ma'am.”
“Sir Robert, I cannot bear to think he will die because of this.”
“His object was to kill Your Majesty.”
“All the same…I do not like it. I always think these people are mad and can't be blamed for that. It is an illness in a way.”
“Your Majesty is magnanimous.”
“I should like his life to be spared. I do not want anyone to die because of me.”
“One has to make an example of these people,” said Albert. “Otherwise we shall have others trying out the same sort of thing just to gain notoriety.”
Sir Robert said, “Mercy toward this man could only be a matter for the Government to decide. It is not a royal prerogative, but I will put Your Majesty's wishes before Parliament.”
He did; and as I had stated my wishes so firmly, instead of being hanged, John Francis was to be transported for the term of his natural life.
IT SEEMED THAT Albert was right.
He had said I was sentimental over Francis and such leniency as had been shown might encourage others to imitate him. I had disagreed with this and had retorted that I was glad that I did not have the death of John Francis on my conscience. Albert was exasperated but in a tender way and that discussion did not end in a display of temper on my part. I found I quite enjoyed having these little disagreements with Albert, so that we could put our points of view and discuss them; but now that Lehzen's future was settled, although she was still with us making her preparations to depart, they were usually pleasant little tête-à-têtes, with Albert usually gently persuading me to take his opinion.
He said now that if John Francis had had his just deserts we should never have heard of John William Bean.
He came into our lives one day when Albert and I were driving to chapel in St. James's. A boy—a poor deformed creature, not more than four feet high, with a humped back—dashed out of the crowd to our carriage. He was carrying a pistol that he pointed at us.
Two other boys dashed after him; one of them seized the hunchback and brought him to the ground, the other took the pistol.
“Mischievous children playing games,” said Albert as we drove on. “You see, my love, it is unwise to let sinners go unpunished. People think they can treat us with impunity.”
I pointed out that John Francis had not gone unpunished; he had been sent to Australia for life. That was a punishment surely—perhaps as harsh as death. I was glad I did not have his blood on my hands.
Albert shook his head as though he considered my reasoning illogical.
When we returned to the Palace we heard that the police, thinking it was a game being played, had reprimanded the boy while complimenting the other two—they were brothers named Dassett—on their prompt action.
But the matter was not to be as easily dismissed as that. One of the Dassett boys had kept the pistol and on examination, although it was packed with paper and tobacco, it was also found to contain gunpowder. Had it been fired, it could have been highly dangerous.
This brought the matter into another light. The police, ashamed of having allowed a possible assassin to escape set about a hunt for the hunchback, and because of his physical appearance, he was not hard to trace. They discovered him quickly. He was not a child; it was his deformity that had made him seem so. He worked in a chemist's shop. Very shortly he was arrested. He was of the same leaning as John Francis.
“These people,” said Albert, “are revolutionaries in the making. They are the kind which abounded in France at the end of last century.”
What I remembered chiefly about that incident was the manner in which Sir Robert Peel—who was in Oxford at the time—came with all speed to the Palace.
When I heard he had arrived I guessed it was because of the Bean case and asked that he be brought to me immediately.
I shall never forget the sight of his face when he came in. He was clearly distraught.
“I came as soon as I heard, Your Majesty,” he said in a shaking voice.
“It was good of you, Sir Robert,” I replied. “But you see we are safe and sound.”
He looked at me and I saw the tears well into his eyes. “Your Majesty,” he muttered, “pray excuse me.”
He turned and stumbled away.
I was deeply touched. The dear man was so concerned for my safety that he, whom I had always thought so cold, so aloof—although he and Albert had now convinced me that he was a fine politician—was moved to tears in his relief at my safety.
Bean was sentenced to eighteen months imprisonment.
But what was so significant about this matter was that my feelings toward Sir Robert Peel changed. I could trust him as I had trusted Lord Melbourne. He had become a dear friend. I had to agree that he was a more efficient politician—as I was now beginning to see more and more clearly—than that brilliant raconteur, that man of immense charm and social grace, my dear Lord Melbourne.
Sir Robert never prevaricated; he always wanted to get things done. He came to the Palace to discuss his concern about the two attempts on my life which were particularly disturbing because they had followed so quickly upon each other.
“I do believe,” said Sir Robert, “that Bean's was not really a serious attempt on Your Majesty's life. He is simple-minded, looking for notoriety, no doubt. He is a poor thing. But we cannot allow people who feel so inclined to think they may amuse themselves by making even mock attempts on Your Majesty's life. I propose to bring in a new Bill immediately. Attempts on the Sovereign's life will be punished by seven years' transportation, or imprisonment for three years, added to which the accused will be publicly whipped.”
“Why do you think there are these attempts?” I asked.
I thought of those wild storms and the angry words that passed between Albert and me; and I made up my mind that there should be no more such scenes, but I was becoming more and more convinced that I was to blame for them.
“No. It is not Your Majesty who arouses this discontent in the minds of unstable people. It is the state of affairs in the country.”
I knew he was referring among other dangers to the Chartists with their People's Charter. Albert had talked to me a great deal about this. In the days when Lord Melbourne had been my mentor he would have shrugged them aside. “Tiresome people who had nothing to do but make trouble.” But discussions with Albert had taught me that they were demanding electoral reform and voting by ballot. They were rioting in various parts of the country, and riots always sent a shiver of alarm down people's spines because the French Revolution was not so very far behind us, and we all knew what happened to that unfortunate country. Those of us in high places were particularly apprehensive for we would never forget what had happened to our counterparts in France.
There was always trouble abroad. Wales was in revolt with the people calling themselves Rebecca and her daughters; Cobden was making a nuisance of himself and causing concern to Sir Robert over the Corn Laws; and in Scotland there was some controversy over the Established Church.
All these things added up to unrest and when there was hardship in a country people expressed their dissatisfaction by turning against their rulers.
Albert had made me aware of all these things, and as a queen I should be aware. I was so grateful to Albert. He not only kept me informed; he was improving my mind by reading history to me. It was wonderful to sit beside him. I loved being read to, and what would have seemed incredibly dull to study by myself, became interesting when Albert read it.
