Victoria Victorious: The Story of Queen Victoria (70 page)

When the first reel was over, Brown brought in what he called “Whiskey toddy.”

I declined but Brown was quite indignant. “Come on, woman,” he said, “you mun drink to the fire kindling.”

So I drank a little and Grant made a speech in which he called upon God to see that “our royal mistress, our good Queen, should live long to reign over us.”

They cheered me and drank my health in whiskey toddy and they all became very merry indeed.

I retired to my room soon after eleven o'clock, but I believe they continued with the dancing and singing until the early morning.

I lay in bed thinking of the past and dear Albert who would have loved this place. I believed he was watching over me and that he would bless my little Widow's House.

And with that comforting thought I slept.

I was still in Scotland when the election took place. Disraeli's government was defeated and the Liberals came in with a majority of one hundred and twenty-eight.

And so, I thought, that odious Mr. Gladstone will now be my Prime Minister.

I
RECEIVED HIM
coolly. The man irritated me. He talked in an authoritative way as though addressing a public meeting. His vehemence was overwhelming; it came out in a steady flow of forceful language. He was the sort of man who had no doubt that his ideas were the right ones, and one had the impression that he was determined to carry them out.

That he was a good man, I knew, for I made it my business to discover all I could about my Prime Ministers, I had so much to do with them that it was necessary for me to have a full acquaintance with their past as well as their present lives.

William Ewart Gladstone was the son of a Liverpool merchant who had immigrated to that city from Scotland. The father had been active in politics and besides being successful in business had sat in Parliament as a Tory for about ten years. Gladstone was sent to Eton and then Oxford where he had naturally soon distinguished himself in debate.

He was a man of conscience. At Eton his great friend had been Lord Lincoln, son of the Duke of Newcastle; and the Duke, impressed by Gladstone's amazing energy, eloquence, and outstanding qualities generally, offered to help him win the seat of Lewark for the Tories. In the Gladstone home Canning had been a hero. He was now dead but the Duke of Newcastle had remarked in public that Canning had been the most profligate minister the country had ever had, and young Gladstone thought it would be disloyal to the memory of Canning to accept help from a man who had maligned him.

His father told him not to be a fool. He would never make much progress in life if he allowed opportunities to slip out of his hands. Eventually Gladstone saw the point and won the seat. Ever since he had been climbing up the political ladder, and it was inconceivable that a man of his talent and forceful dedication could remain unnoticed.

When he was a young man he had become very friendly with the Glynne family. Lady Glynne was a widow with two sons—one in Parliament—and two daughters, Catherine and Mary. He fell in love
with Catherine, but it was apparently some time before she accepted his proposal of marriage. I could imagine his courtship. Did he address
her
as a public meeting? I thought that very likely. However she finally agreed and of course he had chosen very wisely. He could not have found a better wife. She came from a political family, her grandfather was George Grenville, the Prime Minister who passed the Stamp Act, and she was the niece of Lord Grenville who was Prime Minister in '06; her great aunt was Chatham's wife and William Pitt was her cousin. So she was related to four Prime Ministers and it seemed only reasonable that she should be married to one.

She was the opposite of her husband—bright, cheerful, and popular; she was by no means approaching him in intellect—what a formidable pair they would have been if she had!—but she was very pleasant. I liked her as soon as I saw her, and I felt very sorry for her because she was married to that man!

She had eight children—seven of whom survived. She clearly humanized the household. I could imagine him—precise, neat in life as he was in his mind. For him there would be a place for everything. She was careless and had no time for method. But she had charm—and he was aware of it, having none himself. He was, naturally, devoted to her as she was to him, and I had to applaud that. She insisted that he take exercise, remove his wet things if he was caught in a shower; she made sure that he was well wrapped up against the cold. Like Mary Anne Disraeli, she always had a supper for him when he came in from the House; she guarded him, watched over him and even took an interest in politics—about which, in spite of her relationship with all those Prime Ministers, she was not really enthusiastic.

These items of news came to me through servants. I always had my favorite maids who kept me informed. I knew that one of the criticisms leveled against me—and Albert—was that we got on better with the servants than the courtiers. There was an element of truth in this and I was even more friendly with them than Albert had been. I liked them to know that I was interested in their welfare. They knew this and loved me for it; and it so happened that I did glean all sorts of information of which I should otherwise have been ignorant.

So that was the man who was now my Prime Minister. Admirable, no doubt, honest, stubborn on points which he believed to be right; a man who would, in the old days, have gone to the stake for his opinions.

I should have admired him. I should have welcomed him. But I could
not. I simply did not like him, and as my affections were fierce so were my dislikes.

As soon as he was in power a large number of reforms were undertaken. Gladstone was obsessed with reform. I had always firmly believed in religious toleration and the liberty of the subject; but Gladstone wanted to go farther than that. He was introducing Radicalism. It was absurd to attempt to abolish class distinction. Not that I believed that a person's birth was all important. What mattered was education, good behavior, and moral standards; and I had ample evidence to know that this existed in people who were not of high birth. Gladstone introduced measures with such rapidity that it was difficult to follow him. He would stand before me with that speaker's manner and expound at great length on his various projects and talk, talk, talk. He did not seem as if he could stop. He was eloquent. I had to admit that. I found my mind straying and wondering how poor Mrs. Gladstone put up with him.

I knew of course that, constitutionally, I could not oppose him. It was the elected government who made the decisions, not the Queen. But I did have a say in these matters, and I determined to oppose him wherever possible.

His first measure was the disestablishment of the Irish Church. I knew that this was the question on which he had gone to the country, and the results of that election meant that the people were behind him. But the Lords threw out the Bill after it had been passed through the Commons. I knew this could cause a great deal of trouble, and in a case such as this the Upper House must bow to the Lower. I wanted the matter settled, for even though I did not agree with it, I did realize that the conflict was bad for the country. I asked the House of Lords to give way to the Commons. Let the principle be agreed on and the details thrashed out later.

The Bill was then passed, due to my intervention, but there was a good deal of quibbling about procedure. I was called in again and helped reconcile the two sides. I think I showed those people who thought that because I was mourning the loss of my husband I was neglecting my duties as Queen, that I was deeply involved in matters of state.

But the fact remained, I could not like Mr. Gladstone.

I
WANTED TO
show my appreciation of Disraeli, and it seemed to me in order to offer him an earldom. I sent for him and told him what I had
been thinking. He was overcome with gratitude; he kissed my hand and with tears in his eyes told me that he did not deserve such consideration from the most admirable of queens and the most delightful of women.

I laughed at his fulsomeness, but I must say I found it gratifying, and such a change from the lectures I received in the most stilted phrases from my Prime Minister.

Disraeli declined the earldom, however. Perhaps he thought it would restrict him in the House of Commons.

But he said, “Your Majesty has been so gracious to me that I will be so bold as to make a suggestion.”

“Please do,” I said.

He hesitated and I saw the look of pain cross his face. His features were always so expressive—as I suppose mine were.

“It is Mary Anne,” he said.

He always talked of his wife in a familiar way with me. I was glad he did. I felt I knew her already. He had made me see her as a wonderful woman. I remember how on one occasion he was going to make a very important speech in the Commons and she had driven there with him; as he alighted, she had caught her hand in the door. She had been in agony but did not mention it to him for fear it might worry him and take his mind off his speech.

I used to tell him of the virtues of Albert and he used to say, laughingly, that we vied with each other in telling of the virtues of our spouses.

Then we would sigh and say how lucky we were.

Now he said, “Mary Anne is very ill. She thinks I do not know. She pretends that all is well. She has about a year to live.”

“Oh, how very sad! I am desperately sorry.”

“My dear, kind lady…how wonderful you are! Yes, I shall not long have my Mary Anne, and I know Your Majesty understands as few can the depth of my sorrow.”

I could scarcely bear to look at him.

After a brief silence he went on, “My request is this. If Mary Anne could be created a peeress in her own right… before she dies…”

“Most certainly she shall,” I cried. “I myself will make sure that this is done.”

He took my hand and raised it to his lips. His expression was one of more than gratitude; it was adoration.

So Mary Anne became the Countess of Beaconsfield.

He told me how happy she was, and he thanked me for all I had done for him.

I told him it was nothing. He had done a great deal for me. He was my very good friend and always would be. And I trusted that, if a time should come when he was in need of comfort, he would turn to me.

Although I could not see him as often as I should have liked for there would have been protests from the government if I appeared too friendly with the Leader of the Opposition, nothing could prevent our writing to each other.

I looked forward to his letters. They were so amusingly written—racy, witty, and full of gossip.

They cheered me considerably.

I sent him primroses from Osborne. He wrote me a most grateful letter. He said that from now on they would be his favorite flower.

T
HE LIBELOUS COMMENTS ABOUT JOHN BROWN AND MYSELF
were still being circulated. I had become so accustomed to them that I was ignoring them.

One that created a good deal of interest was my supposed interest in spiritualism. It was a cult that had swept through the country a little earlier and many people testified that they had been in touch with the dead. It was said that my friendship with John Brown could be explained by the fact that Brown was the medium who put me in touch with Albert.

If only I could have been in touch with my beloved one, how happy I should have been!

I knew that if it were possible for him to come to me he would have done so. Of course I was interested; I talked with some of my ladies; I listened to their stories of extraordinary experiences. I sat at a table in the dark with them. But Albert did not come.

And when I thought of frank, rather earthy John Brown having contact with the other world, it all seemed to be quite incongruous.

It was amazing how the stories were circulated, but I thought it was better for people to suspect John Brown as my medium rather than my lover.

I often thought how empty people's lives must be if they must pry and peep into those of others.

I always remembered how Albert had wanted writers to come to Court; he had thought they would be much more interesting than most of the people we met. I had stood out against that, fearing that the conversation might be so lofty that I should be shut out of it. I had been foolish and I believed I had deprived Albert of some pleasure.

I decided, therefore, that I would invite certain writers to Court. I was not very interested in books, but I did admire the energy of people
who produced them; and as Albert had been sure they would be interesting, I would do what I had been reluctant to in his lifetime.

I had always admired Tennyson, of course. His
In Memoriam
had comforted me a great deal and I had written to him to tell him so. He had been to visit me both at Osborne and Windsor. I found him charming and easy to talk to.

One of my ladies told me that Thomas Carlyle, who was apparently a highly respected writer, had lost his wife, so I sent him a note of condolence.

I read George Eliot's
Mill on the Floss
but the books I really found absorbing were those of Charles Dickens. I asked him to come to Buckingham Palace and I had a very interesting talk with him and afterward reproached myself afresh for having turned away from Albert's suggestion to ask that sort of person to Court. They were different from the people I normally met. They had ideas. I was not sure that I should want to be with them for long, but to meet them after having read their books and in some measure had a glimpse into their minds, was interesting to see what they were like.

I could lose myself in Mr. Dickens's books, and it was exciting to be in a world which was so different from the one in which I had always lived.

I asked Mr. Dickens to present me with copies of his books, which I should like him to sign for me. He expressed great pleasure in being asked to visit me; we talked about Little Nell and there were tears in our eyes. He was one of those warm,
feeling
men whom I liked instantly. So different from Mr. Gladstone.

I gave him a copy of
Leaves from a Journal
, and he begged me to inscribe it for him.

“From the humblest writer to the greatest,” I wrote.

I
T WAS ABOUT
this time that the Mordaunt case burst upon us.

Albert and I had always feared there would be trouble with Bertie. How right we had been!

I had always known that Bertie was living what is called “a double life.” It was wicked of him. He had a wife who was good, loved by the people and said to be one of the most beautiful women in the country; he had four lovely children; it seemed to me that Bertie had everything. And yet he must involve himself in scandal. And what a scandal!

I had known that Bertie was riding for a fall. I knew there were late nights, actresses, gambling, including all those activities that are certain to end in disaster sooner or later; and I knew that Alexandra loved him— in spite of everything. Of course, Albert would never have approved of the way in which they brought up their children. There was no discipline in the nurseries. The children screamed and shouted and climbed all over Bertie while Alexandra looked on, applauding. It was not what Albert would have wished. Even to Vicky, with whom he had always been extraordinarily lenient, he had been a little remote, to be revered.

I said again and again that there would be trouble with those children.

“You should remember your own childhood, Bertie,” I told him. And he replied with a smile, “Oh, I do, Mama. I do.” Which seemed somehow a criticism of Albert and me.

But this was terrible. I was stunned.

Bertie wrote to me, “An unfortunate
contretemps
has arisen.” He had received an order to appear in court.

Appear in court! The Prince of Wales! I had never heard such a thing.

I sent for him at once. He explained to me that Sir Charles Mordaunt was bringing a divorce suit against his wife, and he had letters to her that had been written by Bertie, and Bertie's name had been mentioned with the result that he was summoned to appear in court.

“You had better tell me all about it,” I said.

He was clearly worried. Poor Alexandra! I thought, and tried to imagine myself in a similar position. Impossible with Albert!

“I am innocent,” said Bertie.

I think I was unable to hide my disbelief.

“It is unfortunate that you have made people of shady reputation your friends,” I said.

“I tell you, Mama. I am innocent.”

I suppose in a family when one member is threatened the rest rally around even though they are not convinced of the accused one's innocence. But Bertie was so firm in his protestations that I felt I must believe him.

“But you know the woman,” I said.

“Of course. I knew them both.”

“And Sir Charles Mordaunt is naming you as corespondent.”

“No, no,” said Bertie quickly. “He is naming Frederick Johnstone and Lord Cole.”

“And where do you come in?”

“She mentioned my name and there are letters.”

“Letters!” I cried. “Do you remember how my Uncle George was in trouble over letters? You must have heard of that. Did you never think what harm letters can do?”

“I haven't your fondness for writing them, Mama, but occasionally I do find it necessary to take up my pen.”

“My letters,” I retorted, “could be read in any court of law without bringing disgrace on anyone, Bertie. This is shocking. For the first time I am glad dear Papa is not here. This would distress him so much.”

“I am innocent,” Bertie repeated.

“And what does Alexandra think?”

“She is very unhappy about it.”

“Poor girl.
I
never had to suffer that sort of thing.”

“Papa was a saint, of course,” said Bertie with a lift of his lips. “I fear, Mama, that I am not. But I am innocent in this case.”

“The heir to the throne summoned to a court of law!”

I showered him with questions and at length the story emerged. Lady Mordaunt had given birth to a child who was blind and she was very distressed. In fact, she was a hysterical woman at the best of times. She went into a frenzy and said it was her fault that the child was blind; she had sinned. She told Mordaunt that he was not the father of the child, but that Lord Cole was. She then burst out that she had been unfaithful with several men. She mentioned Frederick Johnstone and the Prince of Wales. Mordaunt searched her bureau and found bills that showed she had stayed at hotels with Cole and Johnstone… and there were letters from the Prince of Wales.

I was very upset. I wished Benjamin Disraeli would come to me. Etiquette forbade it. He was of the Opposition. I could have talked to him. How I should have been able to explain my feelings to Lord Melbourne! But all I had was Mr. Gladstone. How could one talk of such a matter to him? He would declaim and declaim and I should want to shout at him and order him out of my presence.

Albert foresaw something like this, I told myself. But there was no comfort in that. Albert was not here to advise me. And what could we do? There was nothing for it. Even royalty had to obey the courts of law and Bertie had been subpoenaed to appear in court.

I was very sorry for him. He was easy-going. That was the flaw in his character, but perhaps I was comparing him with the incomparable Albert, which was not fair. But Bertie was as he was, and he was my son.
He had declared his innocence and I was sure he was speaking the truth. I thought of all the cruel things that had been said about Albert, all the calumnies which had been directed at Brown and myself.

I thought of Bertie as a little boy and how sometimes I had thought Albert too harsh with him; I remembered the tears when he had been beaten and how I had tried not to think of it. I remembered storms that had blown up between Albert and me because I thought Albert was too harsh with Bertie, too soft with Vicky.

I sat down and wrote to Bertie. I said I believed in him, but there were always people to attack us, but that he must stand up and come through this ordeal. He must know that his mother stood with him.

Bertie came to see me. He was so soft and gentle and grateful. He opened out and said that he was afraid at times he was a little indiscreet. He had written letters to Lady Mordaunt but they were quite innocuous. He had never been her lover; but he had known of her relationships with Cole and Johnstone. She was their affair, not his.

I said, “If you are innocent, people will realize it. Innocence is the best defense a person can have.”

“Mordaunt has got Sergeant Ballantine to act for him. He is rather a terror.”

“Stand up and tell the truth, Bertie, and you will be a match for anyone.”

He embraced me. Oddly enough he seemed closer to me than he ever had.

Public interest was great. The papers were full of the case. I knew that this was a very serious matter for whatever the verdict Bertie would be thought guilty. People took a delight in condemning others—especially those in high places.

I heard an account of the proceedings. Bertie went into the box and answered the probing questions put to him by Sergeant Ballantine; he did it with calm and honesty, I believe; he admitted that he knew Lady Mordaunt and had been a friend of hers before marriage.

“Has there been any improper or criminal act between you and Lady Mordaunt?”

It was the vital question and Bertie answered with great firmness, “There was not.”

Bertie was exonerated. Moreover it was proved that Lady Mordaunt was insane and the case was dismissed.

What a piece of luck for Bertie. I did hope it would be a lesson to him for the future.

I wondered what Vicky, Alice, and Lenchen were hearing of it.

I felt compelled to write to Vicky for I felt sure that her opinion of Bertie was very low already, and that she was convinced of his guilt.

“I do not doubt his innocence,” I wrote, “and his appearance in court did good, but it was painful and lowering. The heir to the throne should never have come into close contact with such people. I hope this will teach him a lesson. I shall use it as an example to remind him of what can happen, when the need arises. Believe me, children are a terrible anxiety and the sorrow they cause is far greater than the pleasure they give.”

How true that was!

But I was thankful that Bertie had emerged from a very delicate situation—not unscathed, for although his evidence had been accepted and Lady Mordaunt was proved to be mad, these matters always leave a smear.

J
UST AS I
was recovering from the shock of the Mordaunt case, trouble blew up in Europe. Lord Clarendon, on whose judgment I had relied so much, died, and Lord Granville took his place. Granville was a good man but I did not think he matched Lord Clarendon; and at this time we needed the very best of men at the Foreign Office. Conflict had been brewing for some time between France and Germany. I wrote to the rulers of both countries urging caution, but my entreaties were ignored and in July of that year Napoleon declared war. I thought that was unnecessary folly and when I heard that he wanted to destroy the independence of Belgium, I was firmly on the side of Germany.

Belgium was especially dear to me. How thankful I was that Uncle Leopold had not to suffer this threat to his kingdom. In spite of the fact that I did not like Bismarck my links with Germany were strong. It was almost a family affair. On the other hand I had friendship with Napoleon. Bertie was especially fond of him. So …we were about to be torn apart again. Oh, the stupidity of war and the men who insist on making it.

Vicky's husband and Alice's were both deeply involved and were actually fighting the French. I sent hospital stores to Alice at Darmstadt and I watched the progress of the war with great horror.

It was soon clear that the French were no match for the Germans who were overrunning France. I wrote to Vicky and Fritz, begging them to use their influence to stop the bombardment of Paris. To Bismarck's fury they asked for this not to be done and he complained bitterly of petticoat sentimentality hampering German progress.