by Jean Plaidy
Bertie accepted the apology but Lord and Lady Randolph thought it necessary to travel abroad for a while and Bertie vowed that when he came back he would not receive him.
So another unsavory matter was brought to an end.
Dear, clever Mr. Disraeli.
HE WAS SUCH a brilliant statesman. His Indian policy had brought about what he so ardently desired. I was created Empress of India. How proud he was! Of course the Opposition had done their best to prevent this; and Disraeli had to compromise to a certain extent by assuring them that the title would only be used for matters dealing with India.
I was worried about him for his health was not of the best, and I insisted on bestowing a peerage on him and he became Lord Beaconsfield.
He had induced me to appear a little more in public and I had found the experience quite pleasurable. We had worked together over the Ashanti War and when it was over I had reviewed the soldiers, sailors, and marines, distributing medals. I attended a concert at the Royal Albert Hall and inspected the wonderful Memorial—so beautifully elaborate with its large gilded figure of Albert in the center.
There was trouble in Europe that made us very watchful. It was like the Crimean War all over again. Turkey and the Balkans were at loggerheads and Russia was threatening to come in.
Disraeli followed in Lord Palmerston's footsteps. He said that our interests in India and everywhere dictated that Turkey must not be violated. The Turks behaved with great ferocity in the Balkans and Mr. Gladstone who, a little while before, had announced his retirement came back to fulminate against the Turks because of the atrocities they had committed, and declared he was against any English support for Turkey.
I was furious with Gladstone. Self-righteous and moralizing, he was preventing Disraeli from acting as he thought best. Disraeli was a great enough politician to realize that personal feelings of repugnance must stand aside when the nation's interests were at stake.
Russia must be kept out. I wrote to Alice who was very concerned about the conflict; and she had a meeting with the Tsar at Darmstadt when he assured her that he had no desire to come into conflict with England.
So much for his promise. Russia almost immediately declared war on Turkey and in a short time was victorious.
I was very distressed when the Sultan made an appeal to me to beg the Russians to make lenient peace terms. As if Russia would do that! The terms were harsh and Disraeli suggested that we demand the settlement be agreed by a congress of European states.
This was an alarming situation and we were on the brink of war with Russia. I daresay Gladstone would have retreated; but not Lord Beaconsfield—and I stood firmly with him.
I shall never forget the day when Lord Beaconsfield came to me in a very serious frame of mind.
He said, “We must at all costs prevent Russia from getting a foothold in the south of the Danube.”
I knew what those ominous words “at all costs” meant.
I told him that I felt complete confidence in him and he must take the risk.
He left for Berlin where the conference was to be held and I was greatly disturbed when I heard that he and Prince Gortchakoff had reached deadlock, and Beaconsfield had remarked that if they could not come to an agreement the dispute would have to be settled “by other means.”
I daresay Russia was not so eager to enter into conflict with us as she was with little Turkey; and a compromise was reached. Lord Beaconsfield returned home, bringing with him, as he said, “Peace with honor.”
I was delighted to see him and welcomed him warmly. I was determined that all should know how I appreciated the good work he had done for the country, and I awarded him the Order of the Garter.
I suppose everyone knew of the happy relationship I enjoyed with my Prime Minister. I was certainly seeing more of people and they all knew that I had paid a visit to his country seat at Hughenden when I had planted a tree in honor of the occasion.
With the companionship of Lord Beaconsfield and the faithful attendance of John Brown, I felt I was very fortunate.
LEOPOLD WAS A continual anxiety. He had just recovered from a very bad illness. I was always so worried even if he were only slightly ill. I dreaded that fearful bleeding. He was so reckless. He wanted to live as other people did—and I could understand that, but he assumed a certain indifference to danger, which was very worrying for me.
I was slightly more reconciled to Bertie. Everybody liked him though none looked up to him, but it seemed that his character was the key to his popularity. Everyone had looked up to Albert—or should have done— but not many people really liked him.
Bertie was always considerate to the servants, and as I was the same, I liked that in him.
There are often troubles in families. I knew that Vicky was having trouble with young Wilhelm. He had always been an arrogant child, and I supposed that, to one of his temperament, having a deformed arm must be very frustrating. He always signed himself “Prince Wilhelm of Prussia” even to me. He was so proud of being Prussian and made no secret of the fact that he despised his English blood, which enraged me. He actively disliked Vicky, it seemed—his own mother! What infuriated him most, I believe, was that England was more important in the world than Germany, and Bismarck and his grandparents had instilled in him that this must not always be so. He never defended his mother when people spoke against her—which they did often because she was half-English. He laughed with them at her and her foreign ways. I knew Vicky was most distressed about this son of hers.
There was one thing that endeared Bertie to me. He might be unsatisfactory in many ways, but I was sure he would never listen to disparagement of me. He was a good son if one could forget those peccadilloes he fell into, mostly with regard to women.
Then there was Arthur. He was the most like Albert of all my children, and I never thought he would marry; but quite suddenly he fell in love and in an unexpected direction.
He chose Princess Louise Margaret, daughter of Prince Frederick Charles—a nephew of the German Emperor—and Princess Marianne of Prussia. It was rather an unfortunate choice because the Prince and Princess were separated. I wished he would not rush into this. If he had wanted to marry I could have found him a more suitable bride. But Arthur had made up his mind and I had never believed in forcing the children into a marriage that was distasteful to them.
However, when I met the girl I found her quite charming; and although she was not good-looking she had a very pleasant profile. I thought it was rather wonderful of Arthur to have rescued her from a broken home and I told myself that Louischen—which by this time she had become—was more likely to appreciate a man like Arthur and make a good marriage because she had experience, through her parents, of the other kind.
I wrote to Vicky telling her how sorry I was about Wilhelm's behavior. It made me realize that I was rather fortunate after all. Alfred and Leopold were often careless and wanting in consideration; Arthur had always been good and attentive; and I was beginning to think that those terrible scrapes through which Bertie had passed had been a lesson to him. And I did not think that any one of them would tolerate anyone's speaking ill of me.
But the child I was really worried about was Alice. She was not in good health. Bearing all those children had been too much for her. She was devoted to them all and had suffered tragically when little Frittie had died. He had been cursed with that terrible disease which it seemed passed through the family to the sons by the mothers. I had passed it on to Leopold and Alice had to Frittie. She had never really recovered from his death.
Almost immediately after, the Duke of Hesse-Darmstadt had died and Louis had succeeded him; and although it was a small state, much diminished by that odious Bismarck, official duties weighed heavily.
Alice was first and foremost a family person. She had been my devoted daughter—little Fatima, the placid one. When she married, of course, she had moved away from me, and we had had our little upsets; but she was still the best-loved child.
I was in a state of horror when I heard that her daughter Victoria had diphtheria and she was very ill indeed. Two days later her daughter Alix—called Alicky—caught it; then Baby May was the next victim. Then Ernest, her only son, and Ella.
It was November when the telegrams came. It was a time of year that I had dreaded since Albert's death. Memories always came back to me more vividly at that time. I had come to think of the fourteenth of December as a day of ill omen, when horrible catastrophes would overtake me. Bertie had come near to death on that date and by a miracle survived. But I did dread that time of year.
Alice had only six children left to her. They were the center of her life. She was essentially the mother I had never been. How she must have suffered when that little one had fallen from the window … and in a moment of delight at seeing her!
I waited eagerly for news. I could not sleep and the first thing I looked for in the mornings was news of Alice.
It came and it was very depressing. Louis had caught the terrible disease and Alice herself was the only one who was well.
I wrote pages to her. She must take care of herself. She must leave the care of her family to nurses. She must never go close to them for that was how the disease was passed on. She must not be tempted to embrace or kiss them. She must leave the entire care of them in the hands of servants, doctors, and nurses.
Alice wrote back almost indignantly. I did not seem to understand. This was her beloved family. Did I imagine she would leave them in the hands of others? Indeed no. She was going to nurse them herself.
Lord Beaconsfield came and shared my grief.
“I wish that I could go there,” I cried. “I would nurse them. I would send Alice away to safety. Dear Lord Beaconsfield, she is the most loved of all my children. She was always so different…so gentle. Albert loved her, although Vicky was his favorite… but Alice was mine. She was such a good girl. She and Arthur are the only two in the least like their father. If I caught the disease, what would it matter? My life finished on that tragic fourteenth of December.”
He looked at me sorrowfully and said, “Dear Madam.”
I smiled faintly. He was such a comfort to me.
There was further sad news. Little May—five years old, the baby and pet of the household, had died.
Alice's grief was terrible. The whole family was stricken.
The worst was to come. I heard afterward what had happened. Her son, Ernest, who was also a victim, was so sorrowful when he heard of his little sister's death, and feeling that he himself would be the next, had turned to his mother in an access of grief, and she had embraced and kissed him.
The result of that embrace was that Alice herself was stricken.
This was what I had feared and I summoned as many of the family as I could and told them. They were in despair. Alice had been greatly loved and it was only two days to the fourteenth of December.
I was proud of them all as they gathered around to comfort me. Bertie was as charming as he knew how to be, and was especially so on occasions like this.
I prayed to God. I prayed to Albert. I tried to make terms with the Almighty. Save Alice and take me instead. Give me Alice and do anything You will. I had already, on that other fateful fourteenth been dealt the cruellest blow that could possibly have befallen me and I was ready to face anything—just anything in return for Alice's life.
The thirteenth came. There was no news. I went through the day in a haze of apprehension, and I awoke to the fateful fourteenth.
Brown fussed over me, scolding me, telling me I was “a foolish woman who could do nae good by fretting.”
I had almost known it would happen. I took the telegram in a state of numbed acceptance.
Alice was dead.
THEY STOOD AROUND me, my dear family. Alice was the first child I had lost and the tragedy was almost more than I could bear.
Bertie put his arms around me and tried to comfort me. He had especially loved Alice. When they were young she had often tried to cover up his misdemeanors. I was sure she had saved him from many a beating.
We knew then how she had caught the infection. In expressing her love for her son, and trying to comfort him she had caught the disease herself. Beatrice wept bitterly and so did Alexandra. Dear girl, she was very much one of the family.
It was strange that it should have happened on the dreaded fourteenth.
Brown gave me some comfort with his silence and shocked looks; he urged me to drink a little. I could not eat. He said nothing, but it is amazing what comfort there can be in silence.
Lord Beaconsfield called.
“I thought you would not wish for visitors at such a time,” he said. “But I felt that if you could not bear to see me you would say so. Therefore I came. What can I say? I can only offer my deep sympathy.”
I was pleased to see him at any time, I told him. It was true that I should not have wished to see anyone else. I was able to talk to him about Alice, about Albert, the two whom I had loved best in the whole world— and I had lost them both.
“How well I understand, Ma'am,” he said, and I knew that he was thinking of Mary Anne.
“You had a wonderful wife,” I told him. “I had a wonderful husband. You called her the perfect wife. Albert was, without doubt, the perfect husband. You have often said how fortunate we have been to have these wonderful beings even for a short time. But I have often wondered if we should have been happier if we had never known them. Then we should not have had to suffer their loss.”
He said he did not agree with me on that, and I was sure he was right.
Later he sent me a copy of the speech he had made in the House of Lords. I read it again and again and I could not stop the tears flowing as I did so.
“My Lords, there is something wonderfully piteous in the immediate cause of her death. The physician who permitted her to watch over her suffering family enjoined her under no circumstances to be tempted into an embrace. Her admirable self-constraint guarded her, but it became her lot to break to her son the news of the death of his younger sister to whom he was devotedly attached. The boy was so overcome with misery that the agitated mother clasped him in her arms and thus she received the kiss of death.”
I was so touched, so deeply moved. How like Lord Beaconsfield to express it so beautifully!
When he came to see me we wept together.
“The kiss of death!” I said. “It was so beautifully expressed. And that was what it was.”
He sat with me talking in his fluent way. He thought it was significant that Alice had died on the fourteenth of December.
“So you think Albert wanted her with him and he chose that day to take her?”
Lord Beaconsfield said he thought that might be the case.
“I should have thought he would have taken Vicky rather than Alice. Vicky was his favorite. She was the clever one. My dear sweet Alice was never that.”
It was all very mysterious, said Lord Beaconsfield; and we talked of death and the after-life and whether those who had passed on could come back to watch over those whom they had loved on earth.
And talking with Lord Beaconsfield assuaged my grief.
Farewell John Brown
HOW GRATEFUL I WAS TO LORD BEACONSFIELD IN EVERY WAY. I thanked God for him. He was a solace in that time of trouble. I pictured what it would have been like if I had had to rely on Mr. Gladstone at that time. I knew Gladstone had his good points. He was very popular with the people. He was known in fact as “The People's William.” But I could not like him. He saw me as a public institution whereas Lord Beaconsfield saw me as a woman.
The Zulu War had broken out. There was a great deal of unrest in South Africa. Sir Bartle Frere, the Governor of the Cape, was not the most diplomatic of men. Lord Beaconsfield did not approve of his actions, but, as he said to me, the government had to support its representatives. His great aim was to make us, and keep us, at the head of all states which, as he pointed out to me, meant an increase in our commitme
nts.
There was a great deal of opposition from Gladstone who accused the government of Imperialism. Gladstone was one of those pacifists who will stand for peace at any price. I often thought that they with their timid approach are more responsible for wars than those who stand firm and strong. It is because our enemies suspect we are weak that they come to attack us.
Lord Beaconsfield agreed with me. It was the reason why, under his premiership, we were becoming mightier.
I had a terrible shock when I heard that the only son of the Empress of France, who was fighting the Zulus with us, had been captured and hacked to death by the savages. Poor Eugénie was heartbroken. I went to Chichester to comfort her. I, who had so recently lost my Alice, was in a position to understand.
It was heartbreaking. I determined to look after the poor sad creature and visit her often. Life was so cruel. It was hard to recognize in that poor woman, the dazzling Empress who had ruled over her court with Napoleon—so beautiful, so elegant—and now an exile, a sorrowing mother, who had lost her only child. I at least had eight left to me.
Meanwhile Gladstone was making virulent attacks on Lord Beaconsfield, deploring his Imperialism. What was the result of Mr. Gladstone's interference? War. I was furious.
Lord Beaconsfield smiled at my anger.
He said, “It is true that I am ambitious. I want to secure for Your Majesty, greater powers than you already have. I believe it is the way for peace and prosperity, not only for us but for the whole world. I want you to dictate the affairs of Europe. For the sake of world peace I think it is necessary for Your Majesty to occupy the position I plan for you.”
I told him that I feared Prussia might be troublesome.
“Young Wilhelm has been brought up under Bismarck. It is not surprising that he is imbued with ideas for the aggrandizement of Prussia.”
“I am really beginning to dislike Wilhelm. It seems so strange that he should turn out like this. He was the first grandchild. Albert and I were so proud of him.”
