Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria (62 page)

The next day he was very ill indeed, and Sir James came to me and said he would like a second opinion.

Dr. Baly, who worked in conjunction with Sir James and of whom Albert had a high opinion, had recently been killed in a railway accident; and ever since the Flora Hastings affair I suspected that Sir James did not have a great deal of confidence in himself.

“Do you think the Prince is very ill then?” I demanded anxiously. “I should like to call in a second opinion,” he replied. “Well do so,” I told him.

He did, that day, and I was alarmed to see that the man he had called was Dr. William Jenner, a man who specialized in fevers—especially typhoid.

Dr. Jenner examined Albert and I waited fearfully for the verdict.

“The Prince does not have typhoid fever—” said Dr. Jenner.

“Thank God!” I cried.

“At the moment…,” went on Dr. Jenner. “But, Ma'am, I cannot hide from you the fact that there is a possibility he might be affected. We must be prepared.”

A terrible fear took possession of me. Typhoid! The dreaded disease! How many people had died of it. But not Albert … no! That must not be.

But Albert grew worse. It was no use hiding our eyes to the fact. He could not rest. He said he would sleep in a separate bed.

“No, no,” I cried. “I do not mind your being restless.
I
do not want to sleep. I want to watch over you all the time.”

He smiled at me wanly. I believe Albert knew. He had known for some time.

I tried to weep but tears would not come. He saw that and did his best to comfort me.

“You will be all right, little one,” he said. “You love life. I never did … as you did. It is only the thought of leaving those I love that hurts me.”

Albert rallied a little and after that our hopes soared. He said he wanted to hear some music, and I sent Alice into the next room telling her to leave the door open and play. She played “
Eine Feste Burg ist Unser Gott”
; and he smiled.

“Dear Alice,” he murmured. “Does Vicky know … about me?”

“I haven't told her you are ill. In her condition… she would be so upset.”

Vicky was expecting another child. I thought, if he does not recover, this will kill her. And even in that moment I felt the twinges of jealousy because he cared so much for her.

He was in such pain that I begged the doctors to do something for him. They gave him an opiate and he fell into a peaceful slumber. I sat by his bed watching his dear face. How he had changed since that day when we stood side by side at the altar!

He had a good night's sleep on account of the opiates, and the next day he seemed better. He asked Alice to read to him. She brought
Silas Marner
and sat there, but his attention strayed and he said he did not care for the book.

He was tossing and turning and I did not know what to do. For five nights I had scarcely slept. Albert was taking opiates; it was the only way he could rest. He was speaking mostly in German now and I believed that some of the time he thought he was a child again.

I felt as if my heart was breaking. I would look my fears in the face. I turned from Dr. Jenner to Sir James, because he wanted all the time to soothe me and to pretend that Albert would recover.

But at last Dr. Jenner told me. Albert was suffering from gastric fever…bowel fever. I knew what that meant, though he would not use the dreaded word
Typhoid
.

I sat by Albert's bed. He knew I was there for he kept murmuring:
“Gutes Frauchen.”

Jenner wanted to call in more opinions. There was Dr. Watson and Sir Henry Holland. I was afraid that so many doctors would alarm Albert and bring home to him the seriousness of his case.

Albert said, “If Stockmar were here…”

I believed that, too. There was magic in the old man that perhaps we created, but what did that matter? It was there for us both.

I wanted to blame someone. So I blamed Stockmar for leaving us. If he were here Albert would recover.

I sat by the bed. Albert liked to lean his head on my shoulder. He said, “It is comfortable like this, my dearest child.”

He was worrying about Vicky again. “Does she know now?”

“I have sent word to her that you are ill.”

“You should have told her I was dying.”

“No,” I said fiercely. “No.”

That evening he asked me to come to his room after I had had dinner. Dinner! As if I cared for dinner!

I went to him. The doctor met me at the door.

“Your Majesty should not stay long. The Prince should rest.”

“Albert … my dearest Albert.”

He smiled at me.

“I must not stay.”

“It is the only time you can see me,” he said.

“It is the doctors. They tell me you must rest.”

I kissed his forehead and left him.

The next day Alice sent a message to Cambridge for Bertie to come.

She had not told him how ill his father was and Bertie seemed to think it was some minor indisposition. He was soon sobered.

Albert was passing into what they called the crisis.

All through the night we watched and waited. The doctors said there were grounds for hoping he would recover. That was six in the morning. I went to the Blue Room. In the light of the burned-out candles the doctor looked serious. Albert lay in bed, his beautiful eyes wide open, but he did not seem to see what was there. He looked surprisingly young.

I went to his bedside and looked down at him.

All the children came in—except Beatrice—and kissed his hand. He was breathing heavily. He could not speak but his lips formed the words, “Who is that?”

I cried, “It is your little wife.”

I could not bear to stay there for I was facing the truth now. This dreadful tragedy was upon me. I hurried out of the room, the sobs shaking my body.

In a short while Alice was calling me back.

I knelt by his bed. Alice was on the other side; Bertie and Helena were at the foot of the bed. I was aware of others in the room.

His lips moved.
“Gutes Frauchen.”

I felt I could bear no more. He had been holding my hand and I felt his grip slacken. I stood up and kissed his forehead.

“Oh my dear…my darling,” I whispered.

And it was all over. Albert was dead.

W
E WERE IN
mourning. The whole world should be mourning for the passing of Albert.

I was stunned. I could not believe this had happened. He was gone. How could I live without him? I had the children. They rallied round. Even Baby Beatrice tried to comfort me. Dear Alice was so gentle, so loving. What could she do for me? No one could do anything any more. He was gone. He had been my life and my life was now over.

I had no wish to see anyone, to go anywhere; I just wanted to be alone with my overwhelming grief.

Albert, the beloved, the saint, that most incomparable of men was gone forever.

W
HEN I MADE THE DISCOVERY MY ANGER WAS SUCH THAT
oddly enough, for a brief moment, it intruded in my grief and lessened it.

Bertie! My own son! Oh, it was so disgraceful. There was the letter from Stockmar. I remembered Albert's receiving it and how depressed he had been. A few days after he had said he would go to Cambridge and see Bertie. Now I knew why.

Bertie was in disgrace. Stockmar had written that while our son was at the Curragh Camp he had had a mistress. It had created scandal that had come to Stockmar's ears… and yet here we knew nothing of it! At least
I
did not know. I expect there was sniggering in certain circles at home.

I remembered that day well—the heavy rain, the cold wind. I had said to Albert, “You cannot go to Cambridge in such weather,” and he had replied, “I must.” So he had gone to see Bertie and he had come back with the fever… which had killed him.

Bertie had killed Albert!

My rage against my son was so great that I really did feel that for a time it overshadowed everything else. I kept saying to myself: If Albert had not gone to Cambridge he would be well today.

When Bertie came to me I could scarcely bear to look at him. He was now twenty years old, a man, I supposed. Bertie, who had always been such a disappointment to us. There could hardly be anyone in the world less like Albert; and yet he was Albert's son… the son who had killed his father!

No, that was not fair. But his wicked carelessness and his lustful conduct had helped to bring about Albert's death.

I could never keep things to myself. I had to let him know.

I said, “It was Papa's visit to Cambridge that brought on his fever.”

“He was ill when he arrived, Mama.”

“I know he was ill. I begged him not to go.”

“He should never have come. It was bad weather, I remember.”

“He went because he believed he had to. You know why he went.”

A guilty flush spread itself across Bertie's face.

“He had heard what happened in the Curragh Camp,” I said.

“Oh that,” said Bertie. “It was nothing really.”

“Nothing! A woman…a loose woman and the Prince of Wales! You call that nothing. Papa did not call it nothing. He risked his dear life…”

Bertie came to me and put his arms about me. Oddly enough I wanted the comfort his embrace could give me.

“He was ill before he came. He should not have come. There was no need for him to come. The affair was over. It was nothing. All of them … well, I was no different from the others…It was not my fault that he came. I did not ask it.”

I shook my head. “You will never understand your father, Bertie,” I said. “He was a saint.”

Then the tears began to flow and even my anger against Bertie could not assuage my grief.

I
COULD FIND
no comfort in anything—even those about me who loved me. I had lost the one being, the only one who could make my life happy.

For hours I sat remembering the past, every little detail. I suffered bitter remorse when I thought of all the storms I had created and how my angel had been so good, so tolerant, always right. That
he
should be taken, he, the one of whose wisdom we were all so much in need.

I wrote to Uncle Leopold:

Uncle Leopold thought that I should not remain at Windsor but should go to Osborne. Everyone seemed to think this a good idea.

I had the room in which Albert had died photographed. My letter paper, my handkerchiefs, were in black-edging for Mama. I had the edges widened to an inch. I had laurels hung over his portraits. I wanted a photograph taken with the children standing by a bust of him that was very lifelike. These little things gave comfort to me. They were something to do.

How dreary Osborne seemed without him! How could Uncle Leopold have thought I could find comfort anywhere! And at Osborne of all places, which he had changed so, which his brilliant talents had turned from a little house into a palace! How could I be happy there? Did it matter where I was? Nowhere could I ever be happy again.

I would sit at the window looking out at the sea. I put his portrait on the pillow beside me. I wept bitterly. I took his nightshirt and cradled it in my arms; in that I found a small grain of comfort.

Albert's brother came to Osborne. He arrived at midnight, cold and wet. It had been a dismal crossing, but nothing could be more dismal than our grief. We embraced and wept for the lost loved one.

On the twenty-third of December, Albert was laid to rest in St. George's Chapel, Windsor. He would lie there only temporarily for later he would be removed to the Mausoleum at Frogmore—the site of which I had chosen with Alice just after his death. One day—soon, I prayed—I should be lying there beside him.

It was a time to recall other Christmases when he had been with us. I thought of his sending for the Christmas trees from Coburg and how he had brought that fashion into the country so that it was universally followed. Dear Albert, how he had changed my life! And that of the English people!

He was too young to die. Forty years. It was tragic. Such a wonderful person, one who had done so much good in the world.

And so I went on.

I was not at his funeral in the flesh, but I was there in spirit.

Bertie was chief mourner. I wondered what he was thinking as he followed
his father's coffin. What remorse he must be suffering. If only Albert had not gone to Cambridge…

I wanted to blame Bertie, although in my heart I knew it was not fair to do so. I really knew that Albert had been ill for a long time—so ill that he was unable to stand up to a major disease. But I wanted to blame someone. I blamed God for taking him, but it was easier to blame Bertie.

I sat there numb, staring out at the gray sea. Now the burial service would be beginning; the guns would be firing; the bells would be tolling.

They would be laying Albert's coffin at the entrance of the vault.

And when the mausoleum was completed it would be taken to Frogmore to await the day when I should be with Albert.

T
HE CHILDREN DID
their best to comfort me. My two girls, Alice and Beatrice, did help me, although there was very little they could do. Helena—whom Albert had called Lenchen—and Louise were wonderful, but Alice had a special tenderness. She always had since the days when as a fat little girl she had earned the name of Fatima. Alfred was seventeen. I used to be a little fearful for him because I believed he might resemble his elder brother; he had adored Bertie and made such a fuss when they were separated and I had feared he might follow in his footsteps. Arthur was sweet and especially endearing because he looked more like Albert than any of them. He was eleven at this time. Leopold, of course, had always been a source of anxiety because of his weakness.

But apart from Alice the one who did most for me at that time was little Beatrice. She was rather bewildered by the change in our household and clearly wished it to go on as before. Being the baby—she was only four years old—she had occupied a special place in our affections, and her frank and amusing ways had endeared her to me and to Albert.

She used to come into my bed in the mornings and cuddle up to me. I believed Alice sent her. She was so charming in her innocence and did give me a little comfort. When I held her to me I thought of all I had endured in giving birth to these children and how I had dreaded those ordeals.

That would never happen again. But how willingly would I have endured it if it could bring Albert back.

Beatrice would sit solemnly watching me dress.

“Mama,” she said one morning, “do not wear that sad cap.”

She was referring to the widow's cap that I wore now that I had lost my dear one.

“Mama must wear it now, Baby.”

“Baby does not like it. Baby does not want Mama to wear it.”

I was almost in tears. I held her to me. “Mama does not like it either.”

Beatrice smiled. “Then take it off.”

“Mama must wear it because Papa has gone.”

“When he comes back will you take off your sad cap?”

I could not answer. I shook my head. “I wish Papa would come back.”

“You want him to be back, my darling. You miss him.”

Beatrice said firmly, “I want Mama
not
to wear her sad cap.”

I could not help smiling. She was so single-minded, my little Beatrice. She could think of nothing but that I must not wear my sad cap—the symbol of widowhood.

I wished that Vicky was not so far away. I felt that she would understand my grief more than any of the others did. She had loved him as I had done. I should never forget their parting when she had left for Prussia. They had both been desolate; she had been almost as heartbroken to leave Albert as he had been to leave her. I remembered afresh those pangs of jealousy. I had not a very noble character, I'm afraid; but then I compare myself with my saintly Albert. Perhaps compared with most people I was not so bad.

I re-read Vicky's letter, which had come to me shortly after Albert's death:

What a wonderful letter! She understood as others could not. Vicky's letters were wonderful. I used to read them again and weep over them.

In a very short time she was writing again:

Oh, what a comfort she was! Far more so than she had been when she was at home with us. She alone understood the depth of my grief.

I went over all the letters I had, my journals, everything. I would brood over the pictures of our wedding. Baby would sit on my lap and look with me. She was a little put out because there were no pictures of her in the early photographs.

“What a pity,” she said, “that I was not old enough to go to your wedding, Mama.”

Alice smiled fondly at her. Dear Baby! She did help so much.

Albert had made plans for Bertie to pay a visit to the Holy Land. He thought the sight of so many relics and sanctified places might have a sobering effect on his character.

I wrote to Vicky about it. She was so sound in her judgment having spent so much time with Albert. She understood so well my grief over Bertie's shortcomings, but she was inclined to be rather lenient with him.

Bertie was weak. He would never be as clever as she was; but he had some good points and he was popular with the people. Vicky believed that if he were married to a suitable wife he would settle down.

Her favorite lady-in-waiting had been the Countess Walburga von
Hohenthal who had married Augustus Paget the ambassador to Denmark, which meant that Walburga had become very well acquainted with the Court of Denmark. She had given Vicky glowing reports of Alexandra the daughter of Prince Christian. She was seventeen, beautiful, and unaffected—for of course the family was very poor. They inhabited the Yellow Palace in Copenhagen through the bounty of King Christian. Alexandra would be so good for Bertie, and although it was not exactly a brilliant match there were so few eligible princesses in Europe.