by Jean Plaidy
“I can see we shall have to be watchful of our little Wilhelm.”
“Yes, indeed. He asked me to give him a kilt and everything that goes with it. It was to be in the Royal Stuart for a fancy-dress ball. I had this sent to him. I saw a picture of him, wearing it, and below he had written: ‘I bide my time.’ The picture was distributed throughout Germany.”
“This is outrageous.”
“Wilhelm is outrageous.”
I was so disturbed by that conversation that I took up the matter with Lord Salisbury who said that there was obviously an antipathy between the Prince of Wales and the Emperor of Germany; but the latter was very young to have come to such an exalted position and Salisbury believed that in time he would settle down.
It was a family quarrel and that must not be allowed to become discord between nations.
VICKY CAME TO stay with us for a long visit. Both Bertie and Lord Salisbury thought it was unwise to invite her in view of the situation with Germany, but I upbraided them for their lack of feeling. Vicky was my daughter and she had just lost her husband; I was not going to allow her to be subjected to even more unhappiness than she was enduring through her son and Bismarck.
We had many long conversations during which I learned more of the hard times through which she had passed during the whole of her married life; and how it was only Fritz who had stood between her and even greater humiliation from her parents-in-law and now her son who was dominated by Bismarck.
I said that Wilhelm should be made to understand that he could not behave so to his mother. She begged me to invite him for a visit so that I could discover for myself the way in which he was going.
Rather reluctantly I agreed that he should come for a short stay in the summer.
To my surprise Wilhelm accepted the invitation with enthusiasm and said how happy he was to be allowed to come to the dear old home at Osborne. How should he come? Might he wear the uniform of a British admiral? I said that he might and I had a delightful letter from him that was almost humble. “The same uniform as Lord Nelson,” he wrote. “It is enough to make one feel giddy.”
That was a good beginning.
I was amazed when he came. He was quite charming, calling me “dear Grandmama” and treating me with great respect and only rarely showing glimpses of the great Emperor.
Was it after all just a natural antipathy to Bertie? Did he perhaps think Bertie was a little frivolous—which in a way he was? Was Vicky a little overbearing? She had always been a little too sure of herself. Albert had spoiled her and refused to see it.
I remembered how thrilled Albert had been by his first grandchild. Wilhelm had always been his favorite.
I told Wilhelm this; he liked to hear stories of his babyhood and listened attentively when I talked of Albert.
Strangely enough, the visit I had dreaded was a very pleasant one; and when Wilhelm left I felt much happier than I had since Fritz's death.
MY ABDUL KARIM was most amusing. He was a dignified creature—as some Indians are—and he had very graceful bearing. As a servant he had to wait at table and he did not like that at all. He claimed that in Agra he had been a clerk—what was called a Munshi; and the tasks he was asked to perform here were not in keeping with his dignity.
Those about me laughed at the arrogance of the young man but I did not. I understood the meaning of dignity and whoever felt theirs affronted must be treated with consideration. I said he was not to wait at table but he should be known as the Munshi; and when business arose appertaining to India, if a simple reply was needed, I gave it to him to deal with.
He was very happy after that—and devoted to me.
People were saying, “Is he another John Brown?”
That was not so. There could never be another like him.
There was a certain amount of prejudice, which had to be overcome. I forbade anyone to talk of Indians as blacks, for the term was used with a certain amount of contempt. I was getting on with my Hindustani lessons and could now address Indians in their native tongues, which was a great help.
I was Empress of India. Therefore I had a responsibility to that country.
MY RELATIONS WITH Bertie had improved a good deal in the last years. He seemed to be so much more responsible—and so affectionate toward me. It was very gratifying. I thought he was learning to understand the tremendous tasks which lay ahead of him.
And then there was trouble again—with the scandal of Tranby Croft.
It was not women this time but almost equally as bad.
Bertie was the guest of honor at the house of a wealthy shipowner named Wilson who lived at Tranby Croft; and as Bertie was known to enjoy gambling, that was the feature of his visit.
One member of the company was Lieutenant-Colonel Sir William Gordon Cumming of the Scots Guards, and while they were playing baccarat Sir William was suspected of cheating.
After the company had retired there was a conference between the others to decide what action should be taken and the result was that they confronted Sir William who was naturally indignant. However, five members of the company said they had seen him in the act. He said he would leave the house and never speak to his accusers again.
Bertie was sympathetic as he always was to people in difficulties—no doubt having been in so many himself—and he was not sure whether to believe Sir William or those who said they had seen him cheat.
The evidence against Sir William seemed very strong; and Bertie, recklessly as it turned out, took charge of the investigation. True, he was a member of the party, and naturally they looked to him to do what was to be done; but he should have shown more discretion.
Between them they decided that Sir William could never be allowed to play baccarat again and that he should be made to sign a document agreeing to this.
Bertie said that naturally he would add his signature with the others. He had not, even at this time, learned the danger of putting anything in writing.
Sir William at first refused to sign and said that if he did so it would be tantamount to admitting his guilt. There was a great deal of argument and Bertie threw himself whole-heartedly into the dispute and eventually they did succeed in persuading Sir William to put his name to the paper.
That should have been the end of the matter; but these things have a habit of leaking out—through servants, I suspect—and there were the usual exaggerations. Great sums of money were mentioned as the stakes that had been played for at Tranby Croft. The papers took it and the extravagance of the Prince of Wales was the main topic. As for Sir William he was exposed as a man who cheated at cards and what had been a private matter was now a public cause.
Sir William decided that he had no alternative—if he were not going to be completely ruined—but to bring an action for slander against his accusers.
Bertie was horrified. He had had experience of a court before and he wanted no more; and the fact that he would almost certainly be called as a witness would give the case that publicity that they had all tried to avoid.
Sir William's military career was in jeopardy and he contemplated resigning from the army. Bertie wanted to prevent his doing this for if the case was tried in a military court it could be held in secret. Sir William's advisers wanted heavy damages which could only be won in a civil court.
When I heard how far matters had gone I was angry. Just as I had thought Bertie was becoming more aware of his responsibilities this had happened! He was no longer young enough to be excused for youthful follies.
It was most disturbing when he was subpoenaed to appear in court to give evidence. Whatever could have induced him to sign that paper! It was the utmost folly. And now here he was—for the second time— appearing in court to give evidence.
One would not have believed that the central figure in the case was William Gordon Cumming. It was the Prince of Wales who filled the papers. And even when the case was decided against Gordon Cumming in such a manner that there could be little doubt of his guilt, it was Bertie w
hom the Press pilloried.
The future king, said the Press, is given to gambling, horse-racing, and other activities… not concerned with matters of state. His income was clearly too large. There were other causes on which the money could be better spent. There had been a time when Mr. Gladstone had induced the Prince to take up some charitable work and he had become a member of the Royal Commission on the Housing of the Working Classes.
Bertie, for all his faults, had a kind heart and he had been horrified at some of the conditions in which the poor lived; he had made his views widely known. This gave the Press the opportunity of accusing him of hypocrisy. Here was the man who had been outraged by the misfortunes of others. He could do something about it. He could spend some of his vast income on helping the poor, but he preferred to play for large stakes at baccarat. Was this the man who would one day be King? He was given to pleasure. Of what use was he to the nation?
It was hard to believe that when he had been on the point of death they had mourned for him; and when there had been that triumphant journey to the cathedral to give thanks for his return to health they had cheered him so loudly. This was the mob.
One of the papers very alarmingly pointed out that it was conduct such as this that had brought about the French Revolution.
Wilhelm pretended to be infuriated. When Bertie had been in Prussia, Wilhelm had made him an honorary Colonel of the Prussian Guard. My grandson now wrote to me pompously stating that he was deeply put out that one of his colonels should behave in such a manner as to become involved in scandal.
I laughed contemptuously at the arrogant fellow and wished he was with me so that I could give him a piece of my mind. Bertie was outraged and the hatred between him and his nephew had become even greater than it was before.
We heard from Vicky that Wilhelm blew up the matter out of all proportion and that it took up a lot of space in the German Press.
One German paper—obviously inspired by Wilhelm—said that the Prince of Wales had a new motto: Ich Deal.
Poor Bertie! In spite of the fact that I deplored his way of life, I could feel almost sorry for him.
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 wit
h 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.
