The Widow of Windsor (42 page)

How she missed Lord Beaconsfield! She was anxious about him too because she knew that he was not well. She talked to John Brown about the excellence of that man and how different he was from The People’s William.

‘Aye,’ said Brown, ‘it’s been a fight between the Queen’s Benny and the People’s Willy.’

How quaintly he expressed himself; she could not help smiling; so he said he would make her a cup of tea with a dash of whisky in it to keep up her spirits.

That spring she picked primroses at Osborne and sent them to Lord Beaconsfield. What charming letters he wrote to her. He expressed his sentiments so graciously. Again how different from Mr Gladstone!

It was rather a shock to discover that Sir Charles Dilke had been given a post in the government – that radical who had thundered away declaring that a republic would be better for the country than a monarchy, and had tried to make inquiries into the manner in which her income was spent.

It was quite humiliating. Strangest of all Dilke had struck up a friendship with Bertie. Didn’t Bertie realise that the man was an enemy of Royalty? She remonstrated with Bertie.

‘He is an extremely clever man, Mama. He’s very witty and has a wonderful flow of language when expressing himself that it’s quite a joy to listen to him.’

‘This man,’ she said, ‘has insulted
me
!’

‘He’s Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs in Your Majesty’s government.’

‘What can one expect with Mr Gladstone in charge?’

‘Well, Mama, if he is a radical it is as well for me to find out what he is thinking.’

‘I do not care to see him entertained too frequently at Marlborough House,’ said the Queen.

‘Not really frequently,’ said Bertie, ‘only now and then; and since you live so aloof, it is necessary for me to meet these people.’

Bertie was right in a way; and of course he had a way with him which Lord Beaconsfield had admired.

All the same, she implied that she did not like this friendship with Sir Charles Dilke.

‘Ah, Mama,’ said Bertie, sadly, ‘I fear there are several of my friends whom you do not like.’

‘A fact which a dutiful son should surely try to rectify.’

‘Indeed yes, Mama, but I wish to take unpleasant burdens from your shoulders and entertain those who are offensive to you.’

She bowed her head. There was a good deal in what Bertie said.

The winter had been more than usually cold, and Lord Beaconsfield felt far from well. He went down to Hughenden and tried the quiet life to see if his health would improve; but everywhere were reminders of happy days spent there with Mary Anne and his melancholy increased. He was not meant to lead the quiet country life. He was lonely and bored and even his books could not hold his attention; his thoughts kept straying into the past.

He came back to London. It was March and the winds were icy; he caught a bad chill and took to his bed.

He felt old and feeble and since the death of Mary Anne the zest of life had gone. As he lay in his bed in the house in Curzon Street his mind drifted back to the past and he thought of those nights when he had come home from the House of Commons to find Mary Anne waiting for him with cold chicken and champagne. He could see himself leaning towards her talking earnestly about the success or the failure of the day; and he could see her eyes eternally young while they glowed with love for him.

A messenger came to the house bringing primroses from Osborne. The Queen had heard that he was indisposed and was anxious.

He wrote thanking her for her concern. He drew great pleasure from the primroses.

She wired every day from Windsor asking how he was.

‘Dear Lord Beaconsfield,’ she said to Brown, ‘I fear his end is near.’

And she shut herself away in the Blue Room where Albert had breathed his last; she thought of the terrible day which would live for ever in her mind; and she wept bitterly for she knew that she was about to lose a very dear friend.

April had come. He knew he was dying. It was time, he told himself. He had no more use for life. He had climbed to the very highest pinnacle. No one would have believed that the young Jew who had struggled so hard to make a living from his writing would have become Prime Minister, a peer, and the beloved friend of the Queen.

He had not left the house in Curzon Street for three weeks now, and he knew he never would again. It was gratifying to learn that in the streets people spoke his name in hushed whispers and asked each other how he was today.

‘Getting so close to the grave,’ he murmured. ‘Soon I shall be lying beside Mary Anne.’

His secretary came to his bedside.

‘Her Majesty would be pleased to come to see you if you were to ask,’ he was told.

He shook his head. ‘I am in no shape to receive Her Majesty. Besides,’ he added wryly, ‘she would ask me to take a message to Albert.’ He sighed. ‘I’d rather live,’ he said, ‘but I’m not afraid to die.’

Then he lay back, closed his eyes and did so.

The Queen wept. It was so sad. She could not imagine what it would be like without dear Lord Beaconsfield to come and talk to her. He was always so witty, so amusing and so respectful and affectionate. How she missed this in her present ministers.

‘His devotion to me, his wise counsels, his gentleness combined with firmness, his one thought of the honour and glory of the country make the death of my dear Lord Beaconsfield a national calamity,’ she said.

Mr Gladstone suggested that Lord Beaconsfield should be given a public funeral and be buried in Westminster Abbey. The Queen said this would please her and she thought it right and fitting. But she learned later that Beaconsfield had asked to be buried in the little church at Hughenden beside his wife, Mary Anne.

‘How characteristic,’ said the Queen with tears in her eyes.

So Lord Beaconsfield was buried in Hughenden churchyard. The Prince of Wales, representing the Queen, attended the funeral and a wreath of primroses was laid on his coffin and on this was attached a message written in the Queen’s hand: ‘His favourite flower.’

Chapter XXI

THE JERSEY LILY

Prince Leopold was in love. He had met the most enchanting creature. He had never seen anyone quite so beautiful and a number of other people agreed with him; in fact he was only one of her admirers. She was the daughter of the Dean of Jersey and in her teens she had fascinated a widower, Mr Langtry, who came to the island in his yacht. He had urged her to marry him which she did and thus she came to London.

Mr Langtry was comfortably situated but not rich and when he brought his bride to London they lived quietly and did not move into society until one day at a museum they encountered a nobleman whom they had met when he had been in Jersey. He was so struck by the girl’s beauty that he asked her to a party at his London house. That was all that was needed.

Lillie Langtry’s beauty was so outstanding that no one could fail to notice her. People were soon talking of her, inviting her to their houses, calling her the Jersey Lily; she was photographed everywhere; artists sketched her; when she walked in the park she was recognised; everyone seemed to be talking about Lillie Langtry.

She had hosts of admirers, among them Prince Leopold. Leopold was different from his brothers. In the first place he was a victim of that dreaded disease which dogged certain male members of the royal family. All his life Leopold had been watched carefully; he must never be allowed to fall or cut himself lest he should begin to bleed. This could be fatal or at best mean a serious illness with a spell in bed and the doctors in attendance. Unable to play games, Leopold was more intellectually inclined than his brothers. He was a great reader, well acquainted with the works of Shakespeare and Sir Walter Scott. At Oxford he had attended lectures on history, poetry and music; he had also studied modern languages.

He was inclined to be more rebellious and less afraid of the Queen than his brothers for as the invalid of the family he had been treated more gently. The Queen always questioned him in detail as to his health and did not like him to over-exert himself. It had been a very anxious time when he had almost died of the typhoid fever which had been responsible for his father’s death. He was a very good speaker; took an interest in social matters and had been elected President of the Royal Society of Arts.

‘Leopold,’ the Queen was fond of saying, ‘has inherited his father’s brains.’ But ever present in her mind was the memory of the time when he had one haemorrhage after another and they had all thought he would die. Ever since, the Queen had wanted him sheltered; she would have preferred to keep him near her. Bertie, however, said that it wasn’t good for him to be over-protected and Leopold agreed with Bertie. He wanted to live even if it meant doing so for a shorter period than he could expect shut up like a prize orchid in a hothouse.

So the Queen had given way; in fact Leopold was not one to have it otherwise; he had always been wilful; and one did not wish to upset him for if he grew over-excited he could bring on one of those dreaded haemorrhages.

So Leopold led a normal life and so it was that he met Lillie Langtry.

‘What a fantastic creature!’ he cried. He was sure he had never seen any beauty to compare with hers. Her figure was perfect; her bone structure was divine; her golden hair was abundant and curled delightfully about her enchanting Grecian-type face.

Leopold joined her suitors. Mr Langtry, a somewhat ineffective man whose great interest was sailing, suddenly realised what a treasure he had married and was naturally a little bewildered by all the fuss which was made of his wife. As for Lillie, accustomed to the quiet island life, she was dazzled by the invitations and offers which poured in. Every day she was at some social function. If she had not the adequate clothes what did it matter? She could attend as someone poetically put it, clothed in her beauty with which no court dressmaker could hope to compete. In a simple black dress she was overwhelmingly lovely; her golden hair and sparkling eyes outdid all the diamonds and emeralds and rubies.

Leopold acquired a sketch of her and hung it over his bed and the Prince of Wales returning from Sandringham, called on his brother, saw the picture, and wanted to know who the beauty was.

‘Lillie Langtry,’ said Leopold. ‘The most beautiful woman in London … I’d venture to say in the world.’

Bertie’s practised eye regarded the sketch. ‘The sketch makes her charming.’

‘A poor reflection on the reality,’ said Leopold.

‘I must meet your paragon.’

Leopold groaned. ‘That’s the end of my hopes,’ he said.

The Queen visiting Leopold saw the picture of Lillie over his bed.

‘And whom does that represent?’ she wanted to know.

‘That’s the famous Jersey Lily, Mama.’

‘And why have you hung it over your bed?’

‘Well, it is rather charming, don’t you think?’

‘Leopold, you know how anxious I get about you. I think it would be most dangerous for you to be … er … become friendly with women.’

‘Well, Mama, I do have a certain number of female friends.’

The Queen frowned. ‘You have to consider your health, Leopold. It was always a great anxiety to me and to your dearest papa. I should not like you to hazard it in any way.’

With that she drew up a chair, stood on it and removed the picture. Leopold watched her with a smile. It was too charming a face depicted there for the Queen to destroy. She was always so susceptible to beauty.

She rose, taking the sketch with her. ‘You must take care of your health, Leopold, and you will not do so if you squander it dallying with women.’

Leopold tried to hide his smile. Really, Mama was a little old-fashioned and life with sainted Papa had made her very prim.

She need not have worried about him and Lillie. Bertie had come into the field and no one could really succeed when Bertie was there.

Now Lillie’s name was being universally coupled with that of the Prince of Wales. Bertie was enchanted by the delightful creature and people who wished to please the Prince must invite Lillie to their houses.

Alix was hurt but as usual hid her feelings; she appeared in public with Bertie, smiling and gracious, and he, as ever, made sure that she was accorded due homage. In Alix’s presence Bertie always made sure that he behaved as a faithful husband; if the lady he was pursuing were present at such times she would be ignored.

At least, thought Alix, I can be grateful for that. There was one rule from which Bertie was never diverted, however infatuated he might be. This was the almost divine right of royalty. He liked to be on familiar terms with his chosen companions and to play practical jokes on them. When they were told the soup was cold and took a mouthful of almost boiling liquid and burned their mouths, he thought that great fun; when soap was mixed with cheese and someone ate it, that was very amusing. What was not fun was when the Prince of Wales was expected to be the victim of the kind of so-called jokes he liked to see worked out on others. He never forgot his royal dignity – nor that of any member of his family.

Dignity must be preserved at all times. Now that he was putting on weight – and this was to be deplored because he was not tall and the effect was to give him a square look – some of his friends referred to him as ‘Tum Tum’ – but never to his face except on one occasion. Late one night his great crony, Sir Frederick Johnstone, who had been cited as co-respondent in the Mordaunt case, was playing billiards with the Prince at Sandringham. As Johnstone was drunk and over-hilarious, Bertie said to him kindly: ‘Freddy, you are very drunk.’ Johnstone, too intoxicated for tact, pointed to Bertie’s paunch and retorted: ‘Tum Tum, you’re very fat.’

Bertie’s notorious temper flared up. It was exactly like the Queen’s; fortunately it burnt itself out very quickly but before it did he told one of his attendants to see that Sir Frederick left Sandringham early next morning.

On another occasion, in the excitement of a game of billiards when he had made a bad shot, one of his friends cried out: ‘Pull yourself together, Wales.’ Bertie had stared at the speaker and the gleam in his blue eyes was icy.

‘Your carriage is at the door,’ he said; and turned his back.

So wise people quickly learned that, while they must amuse the Prince and be on friendly terms with him, it was for him to set the pace. They must never forget that he was royal, and Alix as his wife was also royal. Royalty must never be slighted even by the most favoured mistress.

Bertie’s temper was to be feared, but he was not often vindictive and forgave easily. The longest time he had kept up a grudge was in the case of Lord Randolph over the Aylesford affair; and it was agreed that Lord Randolph had acted in an amazingly impulsive manner then.

Once a waiter serving spinach splashed a little on Bertie’s shirt front. Bertie looked down at the mark and the rage in his face was terrible; the waiter trembled while Bertie plunged his hands into the dish saying: ‘Now I shall ruin it completely!’ and rubbed the spinach all over his shirt front. He stamped away to change; but when he came back his good temper was restored and he even had a smile for the waiter. That incident was often repeated; it was so typical of Bertie.

Now he had one object in mind – the pursuit of Lillie Langtry. The fact that he had entered the field meant that all Lillie’s other admirers must leave the way clear for him. The Prince of Wales and Lillie were seen riding together in the Row; hostesses sat them side by side at dinner parties; if they wanted the Prince to honour them with his presence, they must invite Lillie too; it was necessary to do homage to Lillie to win the Prince’s favour; so they did.

There were photographs of Lillie everywhere; they were sold in the shops and a new set was created which became known as The Professional Beauties. Everything that Lillie wore was copied. If she wore a certain type of hat it became known as the Langtry Hat; the manner in which she did her hair was the Langtry style; the most talked-of person in London was Lillie Langtry.

The Queen, who thought it very unbecoming for women to allow themselves to be photographed and known as Professional Beauties, was nevertheless eager to see this woman who captivated society. That she had won Bertie’s admiration was nothing – many had done that – but she had never before known such talk as there was about Mrs Langtry.