Queen Victoria
by Lytton Strachey · English · Gutenberg #37153 · 568,470 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Queen Victoria
Author: Lytton Strachey
Release date: August 21, 2011 [eBook #37153]
Most recently updated: January 8, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37153
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK QUEEN VICTORIA ***
Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: QUEEN VICTORIA, PRINCE ALBERT AND THE ROYAL FAMILY.
_From the Picture by F. Winterhalter_.]
QUEEN VICTORIA
BY
LYTTON STRACHEY
LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS
1921
TO
VIRGINIA WOOLF
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
TOC
I. ANTECEDENTS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
II. CHILDHOOD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
III. LORD MELBOURNE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51
IV. MARRIAGE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97
V. LORD PALMERSTON . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149
VI. LAST YEARS OF THE PRINCE CONSORT . . . . . . 185
VII. WIDOWHOOD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 218
VIII. MR. GLADSTONE AND LORD BEACONSFIELD . . . . . 240
IX. OLD AGE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 269
X. THE END . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 307
ZZZ BIBLIOGRAPHY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 311
ETOC
ILLUSTRATIONS
QUEEN VICTORIA, PRINCE ALBERT AND THE ROYAL FAMILY.
From the picture of F. Winterhalter, at Buckingham
Palace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
PRINCESS VICTORIA IN 1836.
From a print after the picture by F. Winterhalter
LORD MELBOURNE.
From the portrait by Sir Edwin Landseer, R.A., in
possession of the Earl of Rosebery
QUEEN VICTORIA IN 1838.
From the portrait by E. Corbould
PRINCE ALBERT IN 1840.
From the portrait by John Partridge, at Buckingham Palace
QUEEN VICTORIA AND THE PRINCE CONSORT IN 1860
QUEEN VICTORIA IN 1863
QUEEN VICTORIA IN 1876.
From the portrait by Von Angeli, in possession of
Coningsby Disraeli, Esq. Presented by Her Majesty to
the Earl of Beaconsfield
QUEEN VICTORIA IN 1897
_For facilities afforded in regard to the reproduction of certain of
the above, thanks are due to Mr. John Murray_.
_Authority for every important statement of fact in the following pages
will be found in the footnotes. The full titles of the works to which
reference is made are given in the Bibliography at the end of the
volume_.
_The author is indebted to the Trustees of the British Museum for their
permission to make use of certain unpublished passages in the
manuscript of the Greville Memoirs_.
{1}
QUEEN VICTORIA
CHAPTER I
ANTECEDENTS
I
On November 6, 1817, died the Princess Charlotte, only child of the
Prince Regent, and heir to the crown of England. Her short life had
hardly been a happy one. By nature impulsive, capricious, and
vehement, she had always longed for liberty; and she had never
possessed it. She had been brought up among violent family quarrels,
had been early separated from her disreputable and eccentric mother,
and handed over to the care of her disreputable and selfish father.
When she was seventeen, he decided to marry her off to the Prince of
Orange; she, at first, acquiesced; but, suddenly falling in love with
Prince Augustus of Prussia, she determined to break off the engagement.
This was not her first love affair, for she had previously carried on a
clandestine correspondence with a Captain Hess. Prince Augustus was
already married, morganatically, but she did not know it, and he did
not tell her. While she was spinning out the negotiations with the
Prince of Orange, the allied sovereigns--it was June, 1814--arrived in
London to celebrate their victory. Among them, in the suite of the {2}
Emperor of Russia, was the young and handsome Prince Leopold of
Saxe-Coburg. He made several attempts to attract the notice of the
Princess, but she, with her heart elsewhere, paid very little
attention. Next month the Prince Regent, discovering that his daughter
was having secret meetings with Prince Augustus, suddenly appeared upon
the scene and, after dismissing her household, sentenced her to a
strict seclusion in Windsor Park. 'God Almighty grant me patience!'
she exclaimed, falling on her knees in an agony of agitation: then she
jumped up, ran down the backstairs and out into the street, hailed a
passing cab, and drove to her mother's house in Bayswater. She was
discovered, pursued, and at length, yielding to the persuasions of her
uncles, the Dukes of York and Sussex, of Brougham, and of the Bishop of
Salisbury, she returned to Carlton House at two o'clock in the morning.
She was immured at Windsor, but no more was heard of the Prince of
Orange. Prince Augustus, too, disappeared. The way was at last open
to Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg.[1]
This Prince was clever enough to get round the Regent, to impress the
Ministers, and to make friends with another of the Princess's uncles,
the Duke of Kent. Through the Duke he was able to communicate
privately with the Princess, who now declared that he was necessary to
her happiness. When, after Waterloo, he was in Paris, the Duke's
aide-de-camp carried letters backwards and forwards across the Channel.
In January 1816 he was invited to England, and in May the marriage took
place.[2]
{3}
The character of Prince Leopold contrasted strangely with that of his
wife. The younger son of a German princeling, he was at this time
twenty-six years of age; he had served with distinction in the war
against Napoleon; he had shown considerable diplomatic skill at the
Congress of Vienna;[3] and he was now to try his hand at the task of
taming a tumultuous Princess. Cold and formal in manner, collected in
speech, careful in action, he soon dominated the wild, impetuous,
generous creature by his side. There was much in her, he found, of
which he could not approve. She quizzed, she stamped, she roared with
laughter; she had very little of that self-command which is especially
required of princes; her manners were abominable. Of the latter he was
a good judge, having moved, as he himself explained to his niece many
years later, in the best society of Europe, being in fact 'what is
called in French _de la fleur des pois_.' There was continual
friction, but every scene ended in the same way. Standing before him
like a rebellious boy in petticoats, her body pushed forward, her hands
behind her back, with flaming cheeks and sparkling eyes, she would
declare at last that she was ready to do whatever he wanted. 'If you
wish it, I will do it,' she would say. 'I want nothing for myself,' he
invariably answered; 'when I press something on you, it is from a
conviction that it is for your interest and for your good.'[4]
Among the members of the household at Claremont, near Esher, where the
royal pair were established, was a young German physician, Christian
Friedrich Stockmar. He was the son of a minor magistrate in {4}
Coburg, and, after taking part as a medical officer in the war, he had
settled down as a doctor in his native town. Here he had met Prince
Leopold, who had been struck by his ability, and, on his marriage,
brought him to England as his personal physician. A curious fate
awaited this young man; many were the gifts which the future held in
store for him--many and various--influence, power, mystery,
unhappiness, a broken heart. At Claremont his position was a very
humble one; but the Princess took a fancy to him, called him 'Stocky,'
and romped with him along the corridors. Dyspeptic by constitution,
melancholic by temperament, he could yet be lively on occasion, and was
known as a wit in Coburg. He was virtuous, too, and observed the royal
_menage_ with approbation. 'My master,' he wrote in his diary, 'is the
best of all husbands in all the five quarters of the globe; and his
wife bears him an amount of love, the greatness of which can only be
compared with the English national debt.' Before long he gave proof of
another quality--a quality which was to colour the whole of his
life--cautious sagacity. When, in the spring of 1817, it was known
that the Princess was expecting a child, the post of one of her
physicians-in-ordinary was offered to him, and he had the good sense to
refuse it. He perceived that his colleagues would be jealous of him,
that his advice would probably not be taken, but that, if anything were
to go wrong, it would be certainly the foreign doctor who would be
blamed. Very soon, indeed, he came to the opinion that the low diet
and constant bleedings, to which the unfortunate Princess was
subjected, were an error; he drew the Prince aside, and begged him to
communicate this opinion to the English doctors; but it was useless.
The {5} fashionable lowering treatment was continued for months. On
November 5, at nine o'clock in the evening, after a labour of over
fifty hours, the Princess was delivered of a dead boy. At midnight her
exhausted strength gave way. Then, at last, Stockmar consented to see
her; he went in, and found her obviously dying, while the doctors were
plying her with wine. She seized his hand and pressed it. 'They have
made me tipsy,' she said. After a little he left her, and was already
in the next room when he heard her call out in her loud voice 'Stocky!
Stocky!' As he ran back the death-rattle was in her throat. She
tossed herself violently from side to side; then suddenly drew up her
legs, and it was over.
The Prince, after hours of watching, had left the room for a few
moments' rest; and Stockmar had now to tell him that his wife was dead.
At first he could not be made to realise what had happened. On their
way to her room he sank down on a chair while Stockmar knelt beside
him: it was all a dream; it was impossible. At last, by the bed, he,
too, knelt down and kissed the cold hands. Then rising and exclaiming,
'Now I am quite desolate. Promise me never to leave me,' he threw
himself into Stockmar's arms.[5]
II
The tragedy at Claremont was of a most upsetting kind. The royal
kaleidoscope had suddenly shifted, and nobody could tell how the new
pattern would arrange itself. The succession to the throne, which had
seemed so satisfactorily settled, now became a matter of urgent doubt.
{6}
George III was still living, an aged lunatic, at Windsor, completely
impervious to the impressions of the outer world. Of his seven sons,
the youngest was of more than middle age, and none had legitimate
offspring. The outlook, therefore, was ambiguous. It seemed highly
improbable that the Prince Regent, who had lately been obliged to
abandon his stays, and presented a preposterous figure of debauched
obesity,[6] could ever again, even on the supposition that he divorced
his wife and re-married, become the father of a family. Besides the
Duke of Kent, who must be noticed separately, the other brothers, in
order of seniority, were the Dukes of York, Clarence, Cumberland,
Sussex, and Cambridge; their situations and prospects require a brief
description. The Duke of York, whose escapades in times past with Mrs.
Clarke and the army had brought him into trouble, now divided his life
between London and a large, extravagantly ordered and extremely
uncomfortable country house where he occupied himself with racing,
whist, and improper stories. He was remarkable among the princes for
one reason: he was the only one of them--so we are informed by a highly
competent observer--who had the feelings of a gentleman. He had been
long married to the Princess Royal of Prussia, a lady who rarely went
to bed and was perpetually surrounded by vast numbers of dogs, parrots,
and monkeys.[7] They had no children. The Duke of Clarence had lived
for many years in complete obscurity with Mrs. Jordan, the actress, in
Bushey Park. By her he had had a large family of sons and daughters,
and had {7} appeared, in effect, to be married to her, when he suddenly
separated from her and offered to marry Miss Wykeham, a crazy woman of
large fortune, who, however, would have nothing to say to him. Shortly
afterwards Mrs. Jordan died in distressed circumstances in Paris.[8]
The Duke of Cumberland was probably the most unpopular man in England.
Hideously ugly, with a distorted eye, he was bad-tempered and
vindictive in private, a violent reactionary in politics, and was
subsequently suspected of murdering his valet and of having carried on
an amorous intrigue of an extremely scandalous kind.[9] He had lately
married a German Princess, but there were as yet no children by the
marriage. The Duke of Sussex had mildly literary tastes and collected
books.[10] He had married Lady Augusta Murray, by whom he had two
children, but the marriage, under the Royal Marriages Act, was declared
void. On Lady Augusta's death, he married Lady Cecilia Buggin; she
changed her name to Underwood; but this marriage also was void. Of the
Duke of Cambridge, the youngest of the brothers, not very much was
known. He lived in Hanover, wore a blonde wig, chattered and fidgeted
a great deal, and was unmarried.[11]
Besides his seven sons, George III had five surviving daughters. Of
these, two--the Queen of Wuertemberg and the Duchess of Gloucester--were
married and childless. The three unmarried princesses--Augusta,
Elizabeth, and Sophia--were all over forty.
{8}
III
The fourth son of George III was Edward, Duke of Kent. He was now
fifty years of age--a tall, stout, vigorous man, highly-coloured, with
bushy eyebrows, a bald top to his head, and what hair he had carefully
dyed a glossy black. His dress was extremely neat, and in his whole
appearance there was a rigidity which did not belie his character. He
had spent his early life in the army--at Gibraltar, in Canada, in the
West Indies--and, under the influence of military training, had become
at first a disciplinarian and at last a martinet. In 1802, having been
sent to Gibraltar to restore order in a mutinous garrison, he was
recalled for undue severity, and his active career had come to an end.
Since then he had spent his life regulating his domestic arrangements
with great exactitude, busying himself with the affairs of his numerous
dependents, designing clocks, and struggling to restore order to his
finances, for, in spite of his being, as someone said who knew him
well, '_regle comme du papier a musique_,' and in spite of an income of
L24,000 a year, he was hopelessly in debt. He had quarrelled with most
of his brothers, particularly with the Prince Regent, and it was only
natural that he should have joined the political Opposition and become
a pillar of the Whigs.
What his political opinions may actually have been is open to doubt; it
has often been asserted that he was a Liberal, or even a Radical; and,
if we are to believe Robert Owen, he was a necessitarian Socialist.
His relations with Owen--the shrewd, gullible, high-minded,
wrong-headed, illustrious and preposterous father of Socialism and
Co-operation--were curious {9} and characteristic. He talked of
visiting the Mills at New Lanark; he did, in fact, preside at one of
Owen's public meetings; he corresponded with him on confidential terms,
and he even (so Owen assures us) returned, after his death, from 'the
sphere of spirits' to give encouragement to the Owenites on earth. 'In
an especial manner,' says Owen, 'I have to name the very anxious
feelings of the spirit of his Royal Highness the late Duke of Kent (who
early informed me there were no titles in the spiritual spheres into
which he had entered), to benefit, not a class, a sect, a party, or any
particular country, but the whole of the human race through futurity.'
'His whole spirit-proceeding with me has been most beautiful,' Owen
adds, 'making his own appointments; and never in one instance has this
spirit not been punctual to the minute he had named.' But Owen was of
a sanguine temperament. He also numbered among his proselytes
President Jefferson, Prince Metternich, and Napoleon; so that some
uncertainty must still linger over the Duke of Kent's views. But there
is no uncertainty about another circumstance: his Royal Highness
borrowed from Robert Owen, on various occasions, various sums of money
which were never repaid and amounted in all to several hundred
pounds.[12]
After the death of the Princess Charlotte it was clearly important, for
more than one reason, that the Duke of Kent should marry. From the
point of view of the nation, the lack of heirs in the reigning family
seemed to make the step almost obligatory; it was also likely to be
highly expedient from the point of view of the Duke. To marry as a
public duty, for the {10} sake of the royal succession, would surely
deserve some recognition from a grateful country. When the Duke of
York had married he had received a settlement of L25,000 a year. Why
should not the Duke of Kent look forward to an equal sum? But the
situation was not quite simple. There was the Duke of Clarence to be
considered; he was the elder brother, and, if he married, would clearly
have the prior claim. On the other hand, if the Duke of Kent married,
it was important to remember that he would be making a serious
sacrifice: a lady was involved.
The Duke, reflecting upon all these matters with careful attention,
happened, about a month after his niece's death, to visit Brussels, and
learnt that Mr. Creevey was staying in the town. Mr. Creevey was a
close friend of the leading Whigs and an inveterate gossip; and it
occurred to the Duke that there could be no better channel through
which to communicate his views upon the situation to political circles
at home. Apparently it did not occur to him that Mr. Creevey was
malicious and might keep a diary. He therefore sent for him on some
trivial pretext, and a remarkable conversation ensued.
After referring to the death of the Princess, to the improbability of
the Regent's seeking a divorce, to the childlessness of the Duke of
York, and to the possibility of the Duke of Clarence marrying, the Duke
adverted to his own position. 'Should the Duke of Clarence not marry,'
he said, 'the next prince in succession is myself, and although I trust
I shall be at all times ready to obey any call my country may make upon
me, God only knows the sacrifice it will be to make, whenever I shall
think it my duty to become a married man. It is now seven-and-twenty
years that Madame St. Laurent {11} and I have lived together: we are of
the same age, and have been in all climates, and in all difficulties
together, and you may well imagine, Mr. Creevey, the pang it will
occasion me to part with her. I put it to your own feelings--in the
event of any separation between you and Mrs. Creevey.... As for Madame
St. Laurent herself, I protest I don't know what is to become of her if
a marriage is to be forced upon me; her feelings are already so
agitated upon the subject.' The Duke went on to describe how, one
morning, a day or two after the Princess Charlotte's death, a paragraph
had appeared in the _Morning Chronicle_, alluding to the possibility of
his marriage. He had received the newspaper at breakfast together with
his letters, and 'I did as is my constant practice, I threw the
newspaper across the table to Madame St. Laurent, and began to open and
read my letters. I had not done so but a very short time, when my
attention was called to an extraordinary noise and a strong convulsive
movement in Madame St. Laurent's throat. For a short time I
entertained serious apprehensions for her safety; and when, upon her
recovery, I enquired into the occasion of this attack, she pointed to
the article in the _Morning Chronicle_.'
The Duke then returned to the subject of the Duke of Clarence. 'My
brother the Duke of Clarence is the elder brother, and has certainly
the right to marry if he chooses, and I would not interfere with him on
any account. If he wishes to be king--to be married and have children,
poor man--God help him! let him do so. For myself--I am a man of no
ambition, and wish only to remain as I am.... Easter, you know, falls
very early this year--the 22nd of March. If the Duke of Clarence does
not take any step before that {12} time, I must find some pretext to
reconcile Madame St. Laurent to my going to England for a short time.
When once there, it will be easy for me to consult with my friends as
to the proper steps to be taken. Should the Duke of Clarence do
nothing before that time as to marrying it will become my duty, no
doubt, to take some measures upon the subject myself.' Two names, the
Duke said, had been mentioned in this connection--those of the Princess
of Baden and the Princess of Saxe-Coburg. The latter, he thought,
would perhaps be the better of the two, from the circumstance of Prince
Leopold being so popular with the nation; but before any other steps
were taken, he hoped and expected to see justice done to Madame St.
Laurent. 'She is,' he explained, 'of very good family, and has never
been an actress, and I am the first and only person who ever lived with
her. Her disinterestedness, too, has been equal to her fidelity. When
she first came to me it was upon L100 a year. That sum was afterwards
raised to L400, and finally to L1000; but when my debts made it
necessary for me to sacrifice a great part of my income, Madame St.
Laurent insisted upon again returning to her income of L400 a year. If
Madame St. Laurent is to return to live amongst her friends, it must be
in such a state of independence as to command their respect. I shall
not require very much, but a certain number of servants and a carriage
are essentials.' As to his own settlement, the Duke observed that he
would expect the Duke of York's marriage to be considered the
precedent. 'That,' he said, 'was a marriage for the succession, and
L25,000 for income was settled, in addition to all his other income,
purely on that account. I shall be contented with the same
arrangement, without making any demands grounded {13} on the difference
of the value of money in 1792 and at present. As for the payment of my
debts,' the Duke concluded, 'I don't call them great. The nation, on
the contrary, is greatly my debtor.' Here a clock struck, and seemed
to remind the Duke that he had an appointment; he rose, and Mr. Creevey
left him.
Who could keep such a communication secret? Certainly not Mr. Creevey.
He hurried off to tell the Duke of Wellington, who was very much
amused, and he wrote a long account of it to Lord Sefton, who received
the letter 'very apropos,' while a surgeon was sounding his bladder to
ascertain whether he had a stone. 'I never saw a fellow more
astonished than he was,' wrote Lord Sefton in his reply, 'at seeing me
laugh as soon as the operation was over. Nothing could be more
first-rate than the royal Edward's ingenuousness. One does not know
which to admire most--the delicacy of his attachment to Madame St.
Laurent, the refinement of his sentiments towards the Duke of Clarence,
or his own perfect disinterestedness in pecuniary matters.'[13]
As it turned out, both the brothers decided to marry. The Duke of
Kent, selecting the Princess of Saxe-Coburg in preference to the
Princess of Baden, was united to her on May 29, 1818. On June 11, the
Duke of Clarence followed suit with a daughter of the Duke of
Saxe-Meiningen. But they were disappointed in their financial
expectations; for though the Government brought forward proposals to
increase their allowances, together with that of the Duke of
Cumberland, the motions were defeated in the House of Commons. At this
the Duke of Wellington was not surprised. 'By God!' he said, 'there is
a great deal to be said about that. They are the damnedest {14}
millstones about the necks of any Government that can be imagined.
They have insulted--personally insulted--two-thirds of the gentlemen of
England, and how can it be wondered at that they take their revenge
upon them in the House of Commons? It is their only opportunity, and I
think, by God! they are quite right to use it.'[14] Eventually,
however, Parliament increased the Duke of Kent's annuity by L6000.
The subsequent history of Madame St. Laurent has not transpired.
IV
The new Duchess of Kent, Victoria Mary Louisa, was a daughter of
Francis, Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld, and a sister of Prince Leopold.
The family was an ancient one, being a branch of the great House of
Wettin, which since the eleventh century had ruled over the March of
Meissen on the Elbe. In the fifteenth century the whole possessions of
the House had been divided between the Albertine and Ernestine
branches: from the former descended the electors and kings of Saxony;
the latter, ruling over Thuringia, became further subdivided into five
branches, of which the duchy of Saxe-Coburg was one. This principality
was very small, containing about 60,000 inhabitants, but it enjoyed
independent and sovereign rights. During the disturbed years which
followed the French Revolution, its affairs became terribly involved.
The Duke was extravagant, and kept open house for the swarms of
refugees, who fled eastward over Germany as the French power advanced.
Among these was the {15} prince of Leiningen, an elderly beau, whose
domains on the Moselle had been seized by the French, but who was
granted in compensation the territory of Amorbach in Lower Franconia.
In 1803 he married the Princess Victoria, at that time seventeen years
of age. Three years later Duke Francis died a ruined man. The
Napoleonic harrow passed over Saxe-Coburg. The duchy was seized by the
French, and the ducal family were reduced to beggary, almost to
starvation. At the same time the little principality of Amorbach was
devastated by the French, Russian, and Austrian armies, marching and
counter-marching across it. For years there was hardly a cow in the
country, nor enough grass to feed a flock of geese. Such was the
desperate plight of the family which, a generation later, was to have
gained a foothold in half the reigning Houses of Europe. The
Napoleonic harrow had indeed done its work; the seed was planted; and
the crop would have surprised Napoleon. Prince Leopold, thrown upon
his own resources at fifteen, made a career for himself and married the
heiress of England. The Princess of Leiningen, struggling at Amorbach
with poverty, military requisitions, and a futile husband, developed an
independence of character and a tenacity of purpose which were to prove
useful in very different circumstances. In 1814, her husband died,
leaving her with two children and the regency of the principality.
After her brother's marriage with the Princess Charlotte, it was
proposed that she should marry the Duke of Kent; but she declined, on
the ground that the guardianship of her children and the management of
her domains made other ties undesirable. The Princess Charlotte's
death, however, altered the case; and when the Duke of Kent renewed his
offer, she {16} accepted it. She was thirty-two years old--short,
stout, with brown eyes and hair, and rosy cheeks, cheerful and voluble,
and gorgeously attired in rustling silks and bright velvets.[15]
She was certainly fortunate in her contented disposition; for she was
fated, all through her life, to have much to put up with. Her second
marriage, with its dubious prospects, seemed at first to be chiefly a
source of difficulties and discomforts. The Duke, declaring that he
was still too poor to live in England, moved about with uneasy
precision through Belgium and Germany, attending parades and inspecting
barracks in a neat military cap, while the English notabilities looked
askance, and the Duke of Wellington dubbed him the Corporal. 'God
damme!' he exclaimed to Mr. Creevey, 'd'ye know what his sisters call
him? By God! they call him Joseph Surface!' At Valenciennes, where
there was a review and a great dinner, the Duchess arrived with an old
and ugly lady-in-waiting, and the Duke of Wellington found himself in a
difficulty. 'Who the devil is to take out the maid of honour?' he kept
asking; but at last he thought of a solution. 'Damme, Freemantle, find
out the mayor and let him do it.' So the Mayor of Valenciennes was
brought up for the purpose, and--so we learn from Mr. Creevey--'a
capital figure he was.' A few days later, at Brussels, Mr. Creevey
himself had an unfortunate experience. A military school was to be
inspected--before breakfast. The company assembled; everything was
highly satisfactory; but the Duke of Kent continued for so long
examining every detail and asking meticulous question after meticulous
question, that Mr. Creevey at last could bear it no longer, and {17}
whispered to his neighbour that he was damned hungry. The Duke of
Wellington heard him, and was delighted. 'I recommend you,' he said,
'whenever you start with the royal family in a morning, and
particularly with _the Corporal_, always to breakfast first.' He and
his staff, it turned out, had taken that precaution, and the great man
amused himself, while the stream of royal inquiries poured on, by
pointing at Mr. Creevey from time to time with the remark, 'Voila le
monsieur qui n'a pas dejeune!'[16]
Settled down at last at Amorbach, the time hung heavily on the Duke's
hands. The establishment was small, the country was impoverished; even
clock-making grew tedious at last. He brooded--for in spite of his
piety the Duke was not without a vein of superstition--over the
prophecy of a gipsy at Gibraltar who had told him that he was to have
many losses and crosses, that he was to die in happiness, and that his
only child was to be a great queen. Before long it became clear that a
child was to be expected: the Duke decided that it should be born in
England. Funds were lacking for the journey, but his determination was
not to be set aside. Come what might, he declared, his child must be
English-born. A carriage was hired, and the Duke himself mounted the
box. Inside were the Duchess, her daughter Feodora, a girl of
fourteen, with maids, nurses, lap-dogs, and canaries. Off they
drove--through Germany, through France: bad roads, cheap inns, were
nothing to the rigorous Duke and the equable, abundant Duchess. The
Channel was crossed, London was reached in safety. The authorities
provided a set of rooms in Kensington Palace; and there, on May 24,
1819, a female infant was born.[17]
[1] Greville, II, 326-8; Stockmar, chap. i, 86; Knight, I, chaps.
xv-xviii and Appendix, and II, chap. i.
[2] Grey, 384, 386-8; _Letters_, II, 40,
[3] Grey, 375-86.
[4] _Letters_, I, 216, 222-3; II, 39-40; Stockmar, 87-90.
[5] Stockmar, _Biograpische Skizze_, and cap. iii.
[6] Creevey, I, 264, 272: 'Prinny has let loose his belly, which now
reaches his knees; otherwise he is said to be well,' 279.
[7] Greville, I, 5-7.
[8] Greville, IV, 2.
[9] Stockmar, 95; Creevey, I, 148; Greville, I, 228; Lieven, 183-4.
[10] Crawford, 24.
[11] _Ibid._, 80, 113.
[12] Stockmar, 112-3; _Letters_, I, 8; Crawford, 27-30; Owen, 193-4,
197-8, 199, 229.
[13] Creevey, I, 267-71.
[14] Creevey, I, 276-7.
[15] _Letters_, I, 1-3: Grey, 373-81, 389; Crawford, 30-4; Stockmar,
113.
[16] Creevey, I, 282-4.
[17] Crawford, 25, 37-8.
{18}
CHAPTER II
CHILDHOOD
I
The child who, in these not very impressive circumstances, appeared in
the world, received but scant attention. There was small reason to
foresee her destiny. The Duchess of Clarence, two months before, had
given birth to a daughter; this infant, indeed, had died almost
immediately; but it seemed highly probable that the Duchess would again
become a mother; and so it actually fell out. More than this, the
Duchess of Kent was young, and the Duke was strong; there was every
likelihood that before long a brother would follow, to snatch her faint
chance of the succession from the little princess.
Nevertheless, the Duke had other views: there were prophecies.... At
any rate, he would christen the child Elizabeth, a name of happy
augury. In this, however, he reckoned without the Regent, who, seeing
a chance of annoying his brother, suddenly announced that he himself
would be present at the baptism, and signified at the same time that
one of the godfathers was to be the Emperor Alexander of Russia. And
so when the ceremony took place, and the Archbishop of Canterbury asked
by what name he was to baptise the child, the Regent replied
'Alexandrina.' At this the Duke ventured to suggest that another name
might be {19} added. 'Certainly,' said the Regent; 'Georgina?' 'Or
Elizabeth?' said the Duke. There was a pause, during which the
Archbishop, with the baby in his lawn sleeves, looked with some
uneasiness from one Prince to the other. 'Very well, then,' said the
Regent at last, 'call her after her mother. But Alexandrina must come
first.' Thus, to the disgust of her father, the child was christened
Alexandrina Victoria.[1]
[Illustration: PRINCESS VICTORIA IN 1836. _From the Portrait by F.
Winterhalter._]
The Duke had other subjects of disgust. The meagre grant of the
Commons had by no means put an end to his financial distresses. It was
to be feared that his services were not appreciated by the nation. His
debts continued to grow. For many years he had lived upon L7000 a
year; but now his expenses were exactly doubled; he could make no
further reductions; as it was, there was not a single servant in his
establishment who was idle for a moment from morning to night. He
poured out his griefs in a long letter to Robert Owen, whose sympathy
had the great merit of being practical. 'I now candidly state,' he
wrote, 'that, after viewing the subject in every possible way, I am
satisfied that, to continue to live in England, even in the quiet way
in which we are going on, _without splendour, and without show, nothing
short of doubling the seven thousand pounds will do_, REDUCTION BEING
IMPOSSIBLE.' It was clear that he would be obliged to sell his house
for L51,300: if that failed, he would go and live on the Continent.
'If my services are useful to my country, it surely becomes _those who
have the power_ to support me in substantiating those just claims I
have for the very extensive losses and privations I have experienced,
during the very long period of my professional servitude in the
Colonies; and if this is not {20} attainable, _it is a clear proof to
me that they are not appreciated_; and under that impression I shall
not scruple, in due time, to resume my retirement abroad, when the
Duchess and myself shall have fulfilled our duties in establishing the
_English_ birth of my child, and giving it maternal nutriment on the
soil of Old England; and which we shall certainly repeat, if Providence
destines to give us any further increase of family.'[2]
In the meantime, he decided to spend the winter at Sidmouth, 'in
order,' he told Owen, 'that the Duchess may have the benefit of tepid
sea bathing, and our infant that of sea air, on the fine coast of
Devonshire, during the months of the year that are so odious in
London.'[3] In December the move was made. With the new year, the
Duke remembered another prophecy. In 1820, a fortune-teller had told
him, two members of the Royal Family would die. Who would they be? He
speculated on the various possibilities: the King, it was plain, could
not live much longer; and the Duchess of York had been attacked by a
mortal disease. Probably it would be the King and the Duchess of York;
or perhaps the King and the Duke of York; or the King and the Regent.
He himself was one of the healthiest men in England.[4] 'My brothers,'
he declared, 'are not so strong as I am; I have lived a regular life.
I shall outlive them all. The crown will come to me and my
children.'[5] He went out for a walk, and got his feet wet. On coming
home, he neglected to change his stockings. He caught cold,
inflammation of the lungs set in, and on January 22 he was a dying man.
By a curious chance, young Dr. Stockmar was staying in the house at the
time; two {21} years before, he had stood by the death-bed of the
Princess Charlotte; and now he was watching the Duke of Kent in his
agony. On Stockmar's advice, a will was hastily prepared. The Duke's
earthly possessions were of a negative character; but it was important
that the guardianship of the unwitting child, whose fortunes were now
so strangely changing, should be assured to the Duchess. The Duke was
just able to understand the document, and to append his signature.
Having inquired whether his writing was perfectly clear, he became
unconscious, and breathed his last on the following morning.[6] Six
days later came the fulfilment of the second half of the gipsy's
prophecy. The long, unhappy, and inglorious life of George the Third
of England was ended.
II
Such was the confusion of affairs at Sidmouth, that the Duchess found
herself without the means of returning to London. Prince Leopold
hurried down, and himself conducted his sister and her family, by slow
and bitter stages, to Kensington. The widowed lady, in her voluminous
blacks, needed all her equanimity to support her. Her prospects were
more dubious than ever. She had L6000 a year of her own; but her
husband's debts loomed before her like a mountain. Soon she learnt
that the Duchess of Clarence was once more expecting a child. What had
she to look forward to in England? Why should she remain in a foreign
country, among strangers, whose language she could not speak, whose
customs she could not understand? Surely it would be best to {22}
return to Amorbach, and there, among her own people, bring up her
daughters in economical obscurity. But she was an inveterate optimist;
she had spent her life in struggles, and would not be daunted now. And
besides, she adored her baby. 'C'est mon bonheur, mes delices, mon
existence,' she declared; the darling should be brought up as an
English princess, whatever lot awaited her. Prince Leopold came
forward nobly with an offer of an additional L3000 a year; and the
Duchess remained at Kensington.[7]
The child herself was extremely fat, and bore a remarkable resemblance
to her grandfather. 'C'est l'image du feu Roi!' exclaimed the Duchess.
'C'est le Roi Georges en jupons,' echoed the surrounding ladies, as the
little creature waddled with difficulty from one to the other.[8]
Before long, the world began to be slightly interested in the nursery
at Kensington. When, early in 1821, the Duchess of Clarence's second
child, the Princess Elizabeth, died within three months of its birth,
the interest increased. Great forces and fierce anatgonisms seemed to
be moving, obscurely, about the royal cradle. It was a time of faction
and anger, of violent repression and profound discontent. A powerful
movement, which had for long been checked by adverse circumstances, was
now spreading throughout the country. New passions, new desires, were
abroad; or rather, old passions and old desires, reincarnated with a
new potency: love of freedom, hatred of injustice, hope for the future
of man. The mighty still sat proudly in their seats, dispensing their
ancient tyranny; but a storm was gathering out of the darkness, and
already there was {23} lightning in the sky. But the vastest forces
must needs operate through frail human instruments; and it seemed for
many years as if the great cause of English liberalism hung upon the
life of the little girl at Kensington. She alone stood between the
country and her terrible uncle, the Duke of Cumberland, the hideous
embodiment of reaction. Inevitably, the Duchess of Kent threw in her
lot with her husband's party; Whig leaders, Radical agitators, rallied
round her; she was intimate with the bold Lord Durham, she was on
friendly terms with the redoubtable O'Connell himself. She received
Wilberforce--though, to be sure, she did not ask him to sit down.[9]
She declared in public that she put her faith in 'the liberties of the
People.'[10] It was certain that the young Princess would be brought
up in the way that she should go; yet there, close behind the throne,
waiting, sinister, was the Duke of Cumberland. Brougham, looking
forward into the future in his scurrilous fashion, hinted at dreadful
possibilities. 'I never prayed so heartily for a Prince before,' he
wrote, on hearing that George IV had been attacked by illness. 'If he
had gone, all the troubles of these villains [the Tory Ministers] went
with him, and they had Fred. I [the Duke of York] their own man for his
life.... He (Fred. I) won't live long either; that Prince of
Blackguards, "Brother William," is as bad a life, so we come in the
course of nature to be _assassinated_ by King Ernest I or Regent Ernest
[the Duke of Cumberland].'[11] Such thoughts were not peculiar to
Brougham; in the seething state of public feeling, they constantly
leapt to the surface; and, even so late as the year previous to her
accession, the Radical newspapers were full of {24} suggestions that
the Princess Victoria was in danger from the machinations of her wicked
uncle.[12]
But no echo of these conflicts and forebodings reached the little
Drina--for so she was called in the family circle--as she played with
her dolls, or scampered down the passages, or rode on the donkey her
uncle York had given her[13] along the avenues of Kensington Gardens.
The fair-haired, blue-eyed child was idolised by her nurses, and her
mother's ladies, and her sister Feodora; and for a few years there was
a danger, in spite of her mother's strictness, of her being spoilt.
From time to time, she would fly into a violent passion, stamp her
little foot, and set everyone at defiance; whatever they might say, she
would not learn her letters--no, she _would not_; afterwards, she was
very sorry, and burst into tears; but her letters remained unlearnt.
When she was five years old, however, a change came, with the
appearance of Fraeulein Lehzen. This lady, who was the daughter of a
Hanoverian clergyman and had previously been the Princess Feodora's
governess, soon succeeded in instilling a new spirit into her charge.
At first, indeed, she was appalled by the little Princess's outbursts
of temper; never in her life, she declared, had she seen such a
passionate and naughty child. Then she observed something else; the
child was extraordinarily truthful; whatever punishment might follow,
she never told a lie.[14] Firm, very firm, the new governess yet had
the sense to see that all the firmness in the world would be useless,
unless she could win her way into little Drina's heart. She did so,
and there were no more difficulties. Drina learnt her letters like an
angel; and she learnt other things as well. The {25} Baroness de Spaeth
taught her how to make little cardboard boxes and decorate them with
tinsel and painted flowers;[15] her mother taught her religion.
Sitting in the pew every Sunday morning, the child of six was seen
listening in rapt attention to the clergyman's endless sermon, for she
was to be examined upon it in the afternoon.[16] The Duchess was
determined that her daughter, from the earliest possible moment, should
be prepared for her high station in a way that would commend itself to
the most respectable; her good, plain, thrifty German mind recoiled
with horror and amazement from the shameless junketings at Carlton
House; Drina should never be allowed to forget for a moment the virtues
of simplicity, regularity, propriety, and devotion. The little girl,
however, was really in small need of such lessons, for she was
naturally simple and orderly, she was pious without difficulty, and her
sense of propriety was keen. She understood very well the niceties of
her own position. When, a child of six, Lady Jane Ellice was taken by
her grandmother to Kensington Palace, she was put to play with the
Princess Victoria, who was the same age as herself. The young visitor,
ignorant of etiquette, began to make free with the toys on the floor,
in a way which was a little too familiar; but 'You must not touch
those,' she was quickly told, 'they are mine; and I may call you Jane,
but you must not call me Victoria.'[17] The Princess's most constant
playmate was Victoire, the daughter of Sir John Conroy, the Duchess's
major-domo. The two girls were very fond of one another; they would
walk hand in hand together in Kensington Gardens. But little Drina was
perfectly aware for which of them {26} it was that they were followed,
at a respectful distance, by a gigantic scarlet flunkey.[18]
Warm-hearted, responsive, she loved her dear Lehzen, and she loved her
dear Feodora, and her dear Victoire, and her dear Madame de Spaeth. And
her dear Mamma ... of course, she loved her too; it was her duty; and
yet--she could not tell why it was--she was always happier when she was
staying with her Uncle Leopold at Claremont. There old Mrs. Louis,
who, years ago, had waited on her cousin Charlotte, petted her to her
heart's content; and her uncle himself was wonderfully kind to her,
talking to her seriously and gently, almost as if she were a grown-up
person. She and Feodora invariably wept when the too short visit was
over, and they were obliged to return to the dutiful monotony and the
affectionate supervision of Kensington. But sometimes when her mother
had to stay at home, she was allowed to go out driving all alone with
her dear Feodora and her dear Lehzen, and she could talk and look as
she liked, and it was very delightful.[19]
The visits to Claremont were frequent enough; but one day, on a special
occasion, she paid one of a rarer and more exciting kind. When she was
seven years old, she and her mother and sister were asked by the King
to go down to Windsor. George IV, who had transferred his fraternal
ill-temper to his sister-in-law and her family, had at last grown tired
of sulking, and decided to be agreeable. The old rip, bewigged and
gouty, ornate and enormous, with his jewelled mistress by his side and
his flaunting court about him, received the tiny creature who was one
day to hold in those same halls a very different state. 'Give me your
little {27} paw,' he said; and two ages touched. Next morning, driving
in his phaeton with the Duchess of Gloucester, he met the Duchess of
Kent and her child in the Park. 'Pop her in,' were his orders, which,
to the terror of the mother and the delight of the daughter, were
immediately obeyed. Off they dashed to Virginia Water, where there was
a great barge, full of lords and ladies fishing, and another barge with
a band; and the King ogled Feodora, and praised her manners, and then
turned to his own small niece. 'What is your favourite tune? The band
shall play it.' 'God save the King, sir,' was the instant answer. The
Princess's reply has been praised as an early example of a tact which
was afterwards famous. But she was a very truthful child, and perhaps
it was her genuine opinion.[20]
III
In 1827 the Duke of York, who had found some consolation for the loss
of his wife in the sympathy of the Duchess of Rutland, died, leaving
behind him the unfinished immensity of Stafford House and L200,000
worth of debts. Three years later George IV also disappeared, and the
Duke of Clarence reigned in his stead. The new Queen, it was now
clear, would in all probability never again be a mother; the Princess
Victoria, therefore, was recognised by Parliament as heir-presumptive;
and the Duchess of Kent, whose annuity had been doubled five years
previously, was now given an additional L10,000 for the maintenance of
the Princess, and was appointed regent, in case of the death of the
King before the majority of her daughter. At the same time a great
convulsion took {28} place in the constitution of the State. The power
of the Tories, who had dominated England for more than forty years,
suddenly began to crumble. In the tremendous struggle that followed,
it seemed for a moment as if the tradition of generations might be
snapped, as if the blind tenacity of the reactionaries and the
determined fury of their enemies could have no other issue than
revolution. But the forces of compromise triumphed: the Reform Bill
was passed. The centre of gravity in the constitution was shifted
towards the middle classes; the Whigs came into power; and the
complexion of the Government assumed a Liberal tinge. One of the
results of this new state of affairs was a change in the position of
the Duchess of Kent and her daughter. From being the _protegees_ of an
opposition clique, they became assets of the official majority of the
nation. The Princess Victoria was henceforward the living symbol of
the victory of the middle classes.
The Duke of Cumberland, on the other hand, suffered a corresponding
eclipse: his claws had been pared by the Reform Act. He grew
insignificant and almost harmless, though his ugliness remained; he was
the wicked uncle still--but only of a story.
The Duchess's own liberalism was not very profound. She followed
naturally in the footsteps of her husband, repeating with conviction
the catchwords of her husband's clever friends and the generalisations
of her clever brother Leopold. She herself had no pretensions to
cleverness; she did not understand very much about the Poor Law and the
Slave Trade and Political Economy; but she hoped that she did her duty;
and she hoped--she ardently hoped--that the same might be said of
Victoria. Her educational conceptions were {29} those of Dr. Arnold,
whose views were just then beginning to permeate society. Dr. Arnold's
object was, first and foremost, to make his pupils 'in the highest and
truest sense of the words, Christian gentlemen'; intellectual
refinements might follow. The Duchess felt convinced that it was her
supreme duty in life to make quite sure that her daughter should grow
up into a Christian queen. To this task she bent all her energies;
and, as the child developed, she flattered herself that her efforts
were not unsuccessful. When the Princess was eleven, she desired the
Bishops of London and Lincoln to submit her daughter to an examination,
and report upon the progress that had been made. 'I feel the time to
be now come,' the Duchess explained, in a letter obviously drawn up by
her own hand, 'that what has been done should be put to some test, that
if anything has been done in error of judgment it may be corrected, and
that the plan for the future should be open to consideration and
revision.... I attend almost always myself every lesson, or a part;
and as the lady about the Princess is a competent person, she assists
Her in preparing Her lessons, for the various masters, as I resolved to
act in that manner so as to be Her governess myself.... When she was
at a proper age she commenced attending Divine Service regularly with
me, and I have every feeling that she has religion at Her heart, that
she is morally impressed with it to that degree, that she is less
liable to error by its application to her feelings as a Child capable
of reflection.' 'The general bent of Her character,' added the
Duchess, 'is strength of intellect, capable of receiving with ease,
information, and with a peculiar readiness in coming to a very just and
benignant decision on any point Her opinion is asked on. Her adherence
to {30} truth is of so marked a character that I feel no apprehension
of that Bulwark being broken down by any circumstances.' The Bishops
attended at the Palace, and the result of their examination was all
that could be wished. 'In answering a great variety of questions
proposed to her,' they reported, 'the Princess displayed an accurate
knowledge of the most important features of Scripture History, and of
the leading truths and precepts of the Christian Religion as taught by
the Church of England, as well as an acquaintance with the Chronology
and principal facts of English History remarkable in so young a person.
To questions in Geography, the use of the Globes, Arithmetic, and Latin
Grammar, the answers which the Princess returned were equally
satisfactory.' They did not believe that the Duchess's plan of
education was susceptible of any improvement; and the Archbishop of
Canterbury, who was also consulted, came to the same gratifying
conclusion.[21]
One important step, however, remained to be taken. So far, as the
Duchess explained to the Bishops, the Princess had been kept in
ignorance of the station that she was likely to fill. 'She is aware of
its duties, and that a Sovereign should live for others; so that when
Her innocent mind receives the impression of Her future fate, she
receives it with a mind formed to be sensible of what is to be expected
from Her, and it is to be hoped, she will be too well grounded in Her
principles to be dazzled with the station she is to look to.'[22] In
the following year it was decided that she should be enlightened on
this point. The well-known scene followed: the history lesson, the
genealogical table of the Kings of England slipped beforehand by the
{31} governess into the book, the Princess's surprise, her inquiries,
her final realisation of the facts. When the child at last understood,
she was silent for a moment, and then she spoke: 'I will be good,' she
said. The words were something more than a conventional protestation,
something more than the expression of a superimposed desire; they were,
in their limitation and their intensity, their egotism and their
humility, an instinctive summary of the dominating qualities of a life.
'I cried much on learning it,' her Majesty noted long afterwards. No
doubt, while the others were present, even her dear Lehzen, the little
girl kept up her self-command; and then crept away somewhere to ease
her heart of an inward, unfamiliar agitation, with a handkerchief, out
of her mother's sight.[23]
But her mother's sight was by no means an easy thing to escape.
Morning and evening, day and night, there was no relaxation of the
maternal vigilance. The child grew into the girl, the girl into the
young woman; but still she slept in her mother's bedroom; still she had
no place allowed her where she might sit or work by herself.[24] An
extraordinary watchfulness surrounded her every step: up to the day of
her accession, she never went downstairs without someone beside her
holding her hand.[25] Plainness and regularity ruled the household.
The hours, the days, the years passed slowly and methodically by. The
dolls--the innumerable dolls, each one so neatly dressed, each one with
its name so punctiliously entered in the catalogue--were laid aside,
and a little music and a little dancing took their place. Taglioni
came, to give grace and dignity to the figure,[26] and Lablache, to
train the piping treble upon his own {32} rich bass. The Dean of
Chester, the official preceptor, continued his endless instruction in
Scripture history, while the Duchess of Northumberland, the official
governess, presided over every lesson with becoming solemnity. Without
doubt, the Princess's main achievement during her schooldays was
linguistic. German was naturally the first language with which she was
familiar; but English and French quickly followed; and she became
virtually trilingual, though her mastery of English grammar remained
incomplete. At the same time, she acquired a working knowledge of
Italian and some smattering of Latin. Nevertheless, she did not read
very much. It was not an occupation that she cared for; partly,
perhaps, because the books that were given her were all either sermons,
which were very dull, or poetry, which was incomprehensible. Novels
were strictly forbidden. Lord Durham persuaded her mother to get her
some of Miss Martineau's tales, illustrating the truths of Political
Economy, and they delighted her; but it is to be feared that it was the
unaccustomed pleasure of the story that filled her mind, and that she
never really mastered the theory of exchanges or the nature of rent.[27]
It was her misfortune that the mental atmosphere which surrounded her
during these years of adolescence was almost entirely feminine. No
father, no brother, was there to break in upon the gentle monotony of
the daily round with impetuosity, with rudeness, with careless laughter
and wafts of freedom from the outside world. The Princess was never
called by a voice that was loud and growling; never felt, as a matter
of course, a hard rough cheek on her own soft one; never climbed a wall
with a boy. The visits to Claremont--delicious {33} little escapes
into male society--came to an end when she was eleven years old and
Prince Leopold left England to be King of the Belgians. She loved him
still; he was still 'il mio secondo padre--or, rather, _solo_ padre,
for he is indeed like my real father, as I have none'; but his
fatherliness now came to her dimly and indirectly, through the cold
channel of correspondence. Henceforward female duty, female elegance,
female enthusiasm, hemmed her completely in; and her spirit, amid the
enclosing folds, was hardly reached by those two great influences,
without which no growing life can truly prosper--humour and
imagination. The Baroness Lehzen--for she had been raised to that rank
in the Hanoverian nobility by George IV before he died--was the real
centre of the Princess's world. When Feodora married, when uncle
Leopold went to Belgium, the Baroness was left without a competitor.
The Princess gave her mother her dutiful regards; but Lehzen had her
heart. The voluble, shrewd daughter of the pastor in Hanover,
lavishing her devotion on her royal charge, had reaped her reward in an
unbounded confidence and a passionate adoration. The girl would have
gone through fire for her '_precious_ Lehzen,' the 'best and truest
friend,' she declared, that she had had since her birth. Her journal,
begun when she was thirteen, where she registered day by day the small
succession of her doings and her sentiments, bears on every page of it
the traces of the Baroness and her circumambient influence. The young
creature that one sees there, self-depicted in ingenuous clarity, with
her sincerity, her simplicity, her quick affections and pious
resolutions, might almost have been the daughter of a German pastor
herself. Her enjoyments, her admirations, her _engouements_ were of
the kind that {34} clothed themselves naturally in underlinings and
exclamation marks. 'It was a _delightful_ ride. We cantered a good
deal. SWEET LITTLE ROSY went BEAUTIFULLY!! We came home at a 1/4 past
1.... At 20 minutes to 7 we went out to the Opera.... Rubini came on
and sang a song out of "Anna Boulena" _quite beautifully_. We came
home at 1/2 past 11.'[28] In her comments on her readings, the mind of
the Baroness is clearly revealed. One day, by some mistake, she was
allowed to take up a volume of memoirs by Fanny Kemble. 'It is
certainly very pertly and oddly written. One would imagine by the
style that the authoress must be very pert, and not well bred; for
there are so many vulgar expressions in it. It is a great pity that a
person endowed with so much talent, as Mrs. Butler really is, should
turn it to so little account and publish a book which is so full of
trash and nonsense which can only do her harm. I stayed up till 20
minutes past 9.' Madame de Sevigne's letters, which the Baroness read
aloud, met with more approval. 'How truly elegant and natural her
style is! It is so full of _naivete_, cleverness, and grace.' But her
highest admiration was reserved for the Bishop of Chester's 'Exposition
of the Gospel of St. Matthew.' 'It is a very fine book indeed. Just
the sort of one I like; which is just plain and comprehensible and full
of truth and good feeling. It is not one of those learned books in
which you have to cavil at almost every paragraph. Lehzen gave it me
on the Sunday that I took the Sacrament.'[29] A few weeks previously
she had been confirmed, and she described the event as follows: 'I felt
that my confirmation was one of the most solemn and important events
and acts in my life; and that I trusted that it might have a {35}
salutary effect on my mind. I felt deeply repentant for all what I had
done which was wrong and trusted in God Almighty to strengthen my heart
and mind; and to forsake all that is bad and follow all that is
virtuous and right. I went with the firm determination to become a
true Christian, to try and comfort my dear Mamma in all her griefs,
trials, and anxieties, and to become a dutiful and affectionate
daughter to her. Also to be obedient to _dear_ Lehzen, who has done so
much for me. I was dressed in a white lace dress, with a white crape
bonnet with a wreath of white roses round it. I went in the chariot
with my dear Mamma and the others followed in another carriage.'[30]
One seems to hold in one's hand a small smooth crystal pebble, without
a flaw and without a scintillation, and so transparent that one can see
through it at a glance.
Yet perhaps, after all, to the discerning eye, the purity would not be
absolute. The careful searcher might detect, in the virgin soil, the
first faint traces of an unexpected vein. In that conventual existence
visits were exciting events; and, as the Duchess had many relatives,
they were not infrequent; aunts and uncles would often appear from
Germany, and cousins too. When the Princess was fourteen she was
delighted by the arrival of a couple of boys from Wuertemberg, the
Princes Alexander and Ernst, sons of her mother's sister and the
reigning duke. 'They are both _extremely tall_,' she noted; 'Alexander
is _very handsome_, and Ernst has a _very kind expression_. They are
both EXTREMELY _amiable_.' And their departure filled her with
corresponding regrets. 'We saw them get into the barge, and watched
them sailing away for some time on the beach. They were so amiable and
so pleasant to have {36} in the house; they were always _satisfied,
always good-humoured_; Alexander took such care of me in getting out of
the boat, and rode next to me; so did Ernst.'[31] Two years later, two
other cousins arrived, the Princes Ferdinand and Augustus. 'Dear
Ferdinand,' the Princess wrote, 'has elicited universal admiration from
all parties.... He is so very unaffected, and has such a very
distinguished appearance and carriage. They are both very dear and
charming young men. Augustus is very amiable too, and, when known,
shows much good sense.' On another occasion, 'Dear Ferdinand came and
sat near me and talked so dearly and sensibly. I do _so_ love him.
Dear Augustus sat near me and talked with me, and he is also a dear
good young man, and is very handsome.' She could not quite decide
which was the handsomer of the two. On the whole, she concluded, 'I
think Ferdinand handsomer than Augustus, his eyes are so beautiful, and
he has such a lively clever expression; _both_ have such a sweet
expression; Ferdinand has something _quite beautiful_ in his expression
when he speaks and smiles, and he is _so_ good.' However, it was
perhaps best to say that they were 'both very handsome and _very
dear_.'[32] But shortly afterwards two more cousins arrived, who threw
all the rest into the shade. These were the Princes Ernest and Albert,
sons of her mother's eldest brother, the Duke of Saxe-Coburg. This
time the Princess was more particular in her observations. 'Ernest,'
she remarked, 'is as tall as Ferdinand and Augustus; he has dark hair,
and fine dark eyes and eyebrows, but the nose and mouth are not good;
he has a most kind, honest and intelligent expression in his
countenance, and has a very good figure. Albert, who is just as tall
{37} as Ernest but stouter, is extremely handsome; his hair is about
the same colour as mine; his eyes are large and blue, and he has a
beautiful nose and a very sweet mouth with fine teeth; but the charm of
his countenance is his expression, which is most delightful; _cest a la
fois_ full of goodness and sweetness, and very clever and intelligent.'
'Both my cousins,' she added, 'are so kind and good; they are much more
_formes_ and men of the world than Augustus; they speak English very
well, and I speak it with them. Ernest will be 18 years old on the
21st of June, and Albert 17 on the 26th of August. Dear Uncle Ernest
made me the present of a most delightful _Lory_, which is so tame that
it remains on your hand and you may put your finger into its beak, or
do anything with it, without its ever attempting to bite. It is larger
than Mamma's grey parrot.' A little later, 'I sat between my dear
cousins on the sofa and we looked at drawings. They both draw very
well, particularly Albert, and are both exceedingly fond of music; they
play very nicely on the piano. The more I see them the more I am
delighted with them, and the more I love them.... It is delightful to
be with them; they are so fond of being occupied too; they are quite an
example for any young person.' When, after a stay of three weeks, the
time came for the young men and their father to return to Germany, the
moment of parting was a melancholy one. 'It was our last HAPPY HAPPY
breakfast, with this dear Uncle and those _dearest_ beloved cousins,
whom I _do_ love so VERY VERY dearly; _much more dearly_ than any other
cousins in the _world_. Dearly as I love Ferdinand, and also good
Augustus, I love Ernest and Albert more than them, oh yes, MUCH
_more_.... They have both learnt a good deal, and are very clever,
naturally clever, {38} particularly Albert, who is the most reflecting
of the two, and they like very much talking about serious and
instructive things and yet are so _very very_ merry and gay and happy,
like young people ought to be; Albert always used to have some fun and
some clever witty answer at breakfast and everywhere; he used to play
and fondle Dash so funnily too.... Dearest Albert was playing on the
piano when I came down. At 11 dear Uncle, my _dearest beloved_
cousins, and Charles, left us, accompanied by Count Kolowrat. I
embraced both my dearest cousins most warmly, as also my dear Uncle. I
cried bitterly, very bitterly.'[33] The Princes shared her ecstasies
and her italics between them; but it is clear enough where her secret
preference lay. 'Particularly Albert'! She was just seventeen; and
deep was the impression left upon that budding organism by the young
man's charm and goodness and accomplishments, and his large blue eyes
and beautiful nose, and his sweet mouth and fine teeth.
IV
King William could not away with his sister-in-law, and the Duchess
fully returned his antipathy. Without considerable tact and
considerable forbearance their relative positions were well calculated
to cause ill-feeling; and there was very little tact in the composition
of the Duchess, and no forbearance at all in that of his Majesty. A
bursting, bubbling old gentleman, with quarter-deck gestures, round
rolling eyes, and a head like a pineapple, his sudden elevation to the
throne after fifty-six years of utter insignificance had almost sent
him crazy. His natural {39} exuberance completely got the better of
him; he rushed about doing preposterous things in an extraordinary
manner, spreading amusement and terror in every direction, and talking
all the time. His tongue was decidedly Hanoverian, with its
repetitions, its catchwords--'That's quite another thing! That's quite
another thing!'--its rattling indomitability, its loud indiscreetness.
His speeches, made repeatedly at the most inopportune junctures, and
filled pell-mell with all the fancies and furies that happened at the
moment to be whisking about in his head, were the consternation of
Ministers. He was one part blackguard, people said, and three parts
buffoon; but those who knew him better could not help liking him--he
meant well; and he was really good-humoured and kind-hearted, if you
took him the right way. If you took him the wrong way, however, you
must look out for squalls, as the Duchess of Kent discovered.
She had no notion of how to deal with him--could not understand him in
the least. Occupied with her own position, her own responsibilities,
her duty, and her daughter, she had no attention to spare for the
peppery susceptibilities of a foolish, disreputable old man. She was
the mother of the heiress of England; and it was for him to recognise
the fact--to put her at once upon a proper footing--to give her the
precedence of a dowager Princess of Wales, with a large annuity from
the privy purse.[34] It did not occur to her that such pretensions
might be galling to a king who had no legitimate child of his own, and
who yet had not altogether abandoned the hope of having one. She
pressed on, with bulky vigour, along the course she had laid out. Sir
John Conroy, an Irishman with no {40} judgment and a great deal of
self-importance, was her intimate counsellor, and egged her on. It was
advisable that Victoria should become acquainted with the various
districts of England, and through several summers a succession of
tours--in the West, in the Midlands, in Wales--were arranged for her.
The intention of the plan was excellent, but its execution was
unfortunate. The journeys, advertised in the Press, attracting
enthusiastic crowds, and involving official receptions, took on the air
of royal progresses. Addresses were presented by loyal citizens; the
delighted Duchess, swelling in sweeping feathers and almost
obliterating the diminutive Princess, read aloud, in her German accent,
gracious replies prepared beforehand by Sir John, who, bustling and
ridiculous, seemed to be mingling the roles of major-domo and Prime
Minister. Naturally the King fumed over his newspaper at Windsor.
'That woman is a nuisance! That woman is a nuisance!' he exclaimed.
Poor Queen Adelaide, amiable though disappointed, did her best to
smooth things down, changed the subject, and wrote affectionate letters
to Victoria; but it was useless. News arrived that the Duchess of
Kent, sailing in the Solent, had insisted that whenever her yacht
appeared it should be received by royal salutes from all the men-of-war
and all the forts. The King declared that these continual poppings
must cease; the Premier and the First Lord of the Admiralty were
consulted; and they wrote privately to the Duchess, begging her to
waive her rights. But she would not hear of it; Sir John Conroy was
adamant. 'As her Royal Highness's _confidential adviser_,' he said, 'I
cannot recommend her to give way on this point.' Eventually the King,
in a great state of excitement, issued a special Order in {41} Council,
prohibiting the firing of royal salutes to any ships except those which
carried the reigning sovereign or his consort on board.[35]
When King William quarrelled with his Whig Ministers the situation grew
still more embittered, for now the Duchess, in addition to her other
shortcomings, was the political partisan of his enemies. In 1836 he
made an attempt to prepare the ground for a match between the Princess
Victoria and one of the sons of the Prince of Orange, and at the same
time did his best to prevent the visit of the young Coburg princes to
Kensington. He failed in both these objects; and the only result of
his efforts was to raise the anger of the King of the Belgians, who,
forgetting for a moment his royal reserve, addressed an indignant
letter on the subject to his niece. 'I am really _astonished_,' he
wrote, 'at the conduct of your old Uncle the King; this invitation of
the Prince of Orange and his sons, this forcing him on others, is very
extraordinary.... Not later than yesterday I got a half-official
communication from England, insinuating that it would be _highly_
desirable that the visit of your relatives _should not take place this
year_--qu'en dites-vous? The relations of the Queen and the King,
therefore, to the God-knows-what degree, are to come in shoals and rule
the land, when _your relations_ are to be _forbidden_ the country, and
that when, as you know, the whole of your relations have ever been very
dutiful and kind to the King. Really and truly I never heard or saw
anything like it, and I hope it will a little _rouse your spirit_; now
that slavery is even abolished in the British Colonies, I do not
comprehend _why your lot alone should be to be kept a white little
slavey in England_, for the pleasure of the {42} Court, who never
bought you, as I am not aware of their ever having gone to any expense
on that head, or the King's ever having _spent a sixpence for your
existence_.... Oh, consistency and political or _other honesty_, where
must one look for you!'[36]
Shortly afterwards King Leopold came to England himself, and his
reception was as cold at Windsor as it was warm at Kensington. 'To
hear dear Uncle speak on any subject,' the Princess wrote in her diary,
'is like reading a highly instructive book; his conversation is so
enlightened, so clear. He is universally admitted to be one of the
first politicians now extant. He speaks so mildly, yet firmly and
impartially, about politics. Uncle tells me that Belgium is quite a
pattern for its organisation, its industry, and prosperity; the
finances are in the greatest perfection. Uncle is so beloved and
revered by his Belgian subjects, that it must be a great compensation
for all his extreme trouble.'[37] But her other uncle by no means
shared her sentiments. He could not, he said, put up with a
water-drinker; and King Leopold would touch no wine. 'What's that
you're drinking, sir?' he asked him one day at dinner. 'Water, sir.'
'God damn it, sir!' was the rejoinder. 'Why don't you drink wine? I
never allow anybody to drink water at my table.'[38]
It was clear that before very long there would be a great explosion;
and in the hot days of August it came. The Duchess and the Princess
had gone down to stay at Windsor for the King's birthday party, and the
King himself, who was in London for the day to prorogue Parliament,
paid a visit at Kensington Palace in their absence. There he found
that the Duchess {43} had just appropriated, against his express
orders, a suite of seventeen apartments for her own use. He was
extremely angry, and, when he returned to Windsor, after greeting the
Princess with affection, he publicly rebuked the Duchess for what she
had done. But this was little to what followed. On the next day was
the birthday banquet; there were a hundred guests; the Duchess of Kent
sat on the King's right hand, and the Princess Victoria opposite. At
the end of the dinner, in reply to the toast of the King's health, he
rose, and, in a long, loud, passionate speech, poured out the vials of
his wrath upon the Duchess. She had, he declared, insulted
him--grossly and continually; she had kept the Princess away from him
in the most improper manner; she was surrounded by evil advisers, and
was incompetent to act with propriety in the high station which she
filled; but he would bear it no longer; he would have her to know he
was King; he was determined that his authority should be respected;
henceforward the Princess should attend at every Court function with
the utmost regularity; and he hoped to God that his life might be
spared for six months longer, so that the calamity of a regency might
be avoided, and the functions of the Crown pass directly to the
heiress-presumptive instead of into the hands of the 'person now near
him,' upon whose conduct and capacity no reliance whatever could be
placed. The flood of vituperation rushed on for what seemed an
interminable period, while the Queen blushed scarlet, the Princess
burst into tears, and the hundred guests sat aghast. The Duchess said
not a word until the tirade was over and the company had retired; then
in a tornado of rage and mortification, she called for her carriage and
announced her immediate return to {44} Kensington. It was only with
the utmost difficulty that some show of a reconciliation was patched
up, and the outraged lady was prevailed upon to put off her departure
till the morrow.[39]
Her troubles, however, were not over when she had shaken the dust of
Windsor from her feet. In her own household she was pursued by
bitterness and vexation of spirit. The apartments at Kensington were
seething with subdued disaffection, with jealousies and animosities
virulently intensified by long years of propinquity and spite.
There was a deadly feud between Sir John Conroy and Baroness Lehzen.
But that was not all. The Duchess had grown too fond of her
major-domo. There were familiarities, and one day the Princess
Victoria discovered the fact. She confided what she had seen to the
Baroness, and to the Baroness's beloved ally, Madame de Spaeth.
Unfortunately, Madame de Spaeth could not hold her tongue, and was
actually foolish enough to reprove the Duchess; whereupon she was
instantly dismissed. It was not so easy to get rid of the Baroness.
That lady, prudent and reserved, maintained an irreproachable
demeanour. Her position was strongly entrenched; she had managed to
secure the support of the King; and Sir John found that he could do
nothing against her. But henceforward the household was divided into
two camps.[40] The Duchess {45} supported Sir John with all the
amplitude of her authority; but the Baroness, too, had an adherent who
could not be neglected. The Princess Victoria said nothing, but she
had been much attached to Madame de Spaeth, and she adored her Lehzen.
The Duchess knew only too well that in this horrid embroilment her
daughter was against her. Chagrin, annoyance, moral reprobation,
tossed her to and fro. She did her best to console herself with Sir
John's affectionate loquacity, or with the sharp remarks of Lady Flora
Hastings, one of her maids of honour, who had no love for the Baroness.
The subject lent itself to satire; for the pastor's daughter, with all
her airs of stiff superiority, had habits which betrayed her origin.
Her passion for caraway seeds, for instance, was uncontrollable.
Little bags of them came over to her from Hanover, and she sprinkled
them on her bread and butter, her cabbage, and even her roast beef.
Lady Flora could not resist a caustic observation; it was repeated to
the Baroness, who pursed her lips in fury; and so the mischief grew.[41]
V
The King had prayed that he might live till his niece was of age; and a
few days before her eighteenth birthday--the date of her legal
majority--a sudden attack of illness very nearly carried him off. He
recovered, however, and the Princess was able to go through her
birthday festivities--a state ball and a drawing-room--with unperturbed
enjoyment. 'Count {46} Zichy,' she noted in her diary, 'is very
good-looking in uniform, but not in plain clothes. Count Waldstein
looks remarkably well in his pretty Hungarian uniform.'[42] With the
latter young gentleman she wished to dance, but there was an
insurmountable difficulty. 'He could not dance quadrilles, and, as in
my station I unfortunately cannot valse and galop, I could not dance
with him.'[43] Her birthday present from the King was of a pleasing
nature, but it led to a painful domestic scene. In spite of the anger
of her Belgian uncle, she had remained upon good terms with her English
one. He had always been very kind to her, and the fact that he had
quarrelled with her mother did not appear to be a reason for disliking
him. He was, she said, 'odd, very odd and singular,' but 'his
intentions were often ill interpreted.'[44] He now wrote her a letter,
offering her an allowance of L10,000 a year, which he proposed should
be at her own disposal, and independent of her mother. Lord Conyngham,
the Lord Chamberlain, was instructed to deliver the letter into the
Princess's own hands. When he arrived at Kensington, he was ushered
into the presence of the Duchess and the Princess, and, when he
produced the letter, the Duchess put out her hand to take it. Lord
Conyngham begged her Royal Highness's pardon, and repeated the King's
commands. Thereupon the Duchess drew back, and the Princess took the
letter. She immediately wrote to her uncle, accepting his kind
proposal. The Duchess was much displeased; L4000 a year, she said,
would be quite enough for Victoria; as for the remaining L6000, it
would be only proper that she should have that herself.[45]
{47}
King William had thrown off his illness, and returned to his normal
life. Once more the royal circle at Windsor--their Majesties, the
elder Princesses, and some unfortunate Ambassadress or Minister's
wife--might be seen ranged for hours round a mahogany table, while the
Queen netted a purse, and the King slept, occasionally waking from his
slumbers to observe 'Exactly so, ma'am, exactly so!'[46] But this
recovery was of short duration. The old man suddenly collapsed; with
no specific symptoms besides an extreme weakness, he yet showed no
power of rallying; and it was clear to everyone that his death was now
close at hand.
All eyes, all thoughts, turned towards the Princess Victoria; but she
still remained, shut away in the seclusion of Kensington, a small,
unknown figure, lost in the large shadow of her mother's domination.
The preceding year had in fact been an important one in her
development. The soft tendrils of her mind had for the first time
begun to stretch out towards unchildish things. In this King Leopold
encouraged her. After his return to Brussels, he had resumed his
correspondence in a more serious strain; he discussed the details of
foreign politics; he laid down the duties of kingship; he pointed out
the iniquitous foolishness of the newspaper press. On the latter
subject, indeed, he wrote with some asperity. 'If all the editors,' he
said, 'of the papers in the countries where the liberty of the press
exists were to be assembled, we should have a _crew_ to which you would
_not_ confide a dog that you would value, still less your honour and
reputation.'[47] On the functions of a monarch, his views were
unexceptionable. 'The business of the highest in a State,' he wrote,
'is {48} certainly, in my opinion, to act with great impartiality and a
spirit of justice for the good of all.'[48] At the same time the
Princess's tastes were opening out. Though she was still passionately
devoted to riding and dancing, she now began to have a genuine love of
music as well, and to drink in the roulades and arias of the Italian
opera with high enthusiasm. She even enjoyed reading poetry--at any
rate, the poetry of Sir Walter Scott.[49]
When King Leopold learnt that King William's death was approaching, he
wrote several long letters of excellent advice to his niece. 'In every
letter I shall write to you,' he said, 'I mean to repeat to you, as a
_fundamental rule, to be courageous, firm, and honest, as you have been
till now_.' For the rest, in the crisis that was approaching, she was
not to be alarmed, but to trust in her 'good natural sense and the
truth' of her character; she was to do nothing in a hurry; to hurt no
one's _amour-propre_, and to continue her confidence in the Whig
administration.[50] Not content with letters, however, King Leopold
determined that the Princess should not lack personal guidance, and
sent over to her aid the trusted friend whom, twenty years before, he
had taken to his heart by the death-bed at Claremont. Thus, once
again, as if in accordance with some preordained destiny, the figure of
Stockmar is discernible--inevitably present at a momentous hour.
On June 18, the King was visibly sinking. The Archbishop of Canterbury
was by his side, with all the comforts of the church. Nor did the holy
words fall upon a rebellious spirit; for many years his Majesty had
been a devout believer. 'When I was a young man,' he once explained at
a public banquet, 'as well {49} as I can remember, I believed in
nothing but pleasure and folly--nothing at all. But when I went to
sea, got into a gale, and saw the wonders of the mighty deep, then I
believed; and I have been a sincere Christian ever since.'[51] It was
the anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo, and the dying man remembered
it. He should be glad to live, he said, over that day; he would never
see another sunset. 'I hope your Majesty may live to see many,' said
Dr. Chambers. 'Oh! that's quite another thing, that's quite another
thing,' was the answer.[52] One other sunset he did live to see; and
he died in the early hours of the following morning. It was June 20,
1837.
When all was over, the Archbishop and the Lord Chamberlain ordered a
carriage, and drove post-haste from Windsor to Kensington. They
arrived at the Palace at five o'clock, and it was only with
considerable difficulty that they gained admittance.[53] At six the
Duchess woke up her daughter, and told her that the Archbishop of
Canterbury and Lord Conyngham were there, and wished to see her. She
got out of bed, put on her dressing-gown, and went, alone, into the
room where the messengers were standing. Lord Conyngham fell on his
knees, and officially announced the death of the King; the Archbishop
added some personal details. Looking at the bending, murmuring
dignitaries before her, she knew that she was Queen of England. 'Since
it has pleased Providence,' she wrote that day in her journal, 'to
place me in this station, I shall do my utmost to fulfil my duty
towards my country; I am very young, and perhaps in many, though not in
all things, inexperienced, but I am sure, that very few have more real
good will and more real desire to do what is fit and {50} right than I
have.'[54] But there was scant time for resolutions and reflections.
At once, affairs were thick upon her. Stockmar came to breakfast, and
gave some good advice. She wrote a letter to her uncle Leopold, and a
hurried note to her sister Feodora. A letter came from the Prime
Minister, Lord Melbourne, announcing his approaching arrival. He came
at nine, in full court dress, and kissed her hand. She saw him alone,
and repeated to him the lesson which, no doubt, the faithful Stockmar
had taught her at breakfast, 'It has long been my intention to retain
your Lordship and the rest of the present Ministry at the head of
affairs'; whereupon Lord Melbourne again kissed her hand and shortly
after left her. She then wrote a letter of condolence to Queen
Adelaide. At eleven, Lord Melbourne came again; and at half past
eleven she went downstairs into the red saloon to hold her first
Council.[55] The great assembly of lords and notables, bishops,
generals, and Ministers of State, saw the doors thrown open and a very
short, very slim girl in deep plain mourning come into the room alone
and move forward to her seat with extraordinary dignity and grace; they
saw a countenance, not beautiful, but prepossessing--fair hair, blue
prominent eyes, a small curved nose, an open mouth revealing the upper
teeth, a tiny chin, a clear complexion, and, over all, the strangely
mingled signs of innocence, of gravity, of youth, and of composure;
they heard a high unwavering voice reading aloud with perfect clarity;
and then, the ceremony over, they saw the small figure rise and, with
the same consummate grace, the same amazing dignity, pass out from
among them, as she had come in, alone.[56]
[1] Murray, 62-3; Lee, 11-12.
[2] Owen, Journal, No. 1, February, 1853, 28-9.
[3] _Ibid._, 31.
[4] Croker, I, 155.
[5] Stockmar, 113.
[6] Stockmar, 114-5.
[7] _Letters_, I, 15, 257-8; Grey, App. A.
[8] Granville, I, 168-9.
[9] _Wilberforce, William_, V, 71-2.
[10] _Letters_, I, 17.
[11] Creevey, I, 297-8.
[12] Jerrold, _Early Court_, 15-17.
[13] _Letters_, I, 10.
[14] _Ibid._, I, 14; _Girlhood_, I, 280.
[15] Crawford, 6.
[16] Smith, 21-2.
[17] _Cornhill Magazine_, LXXV, 730.
[18] Hunt, II, 257-8.
[19] _Letters_, I, 10, 18.
[20] _Letters_, I, 11-12; Lee, 26.
[21] _Letters_, I, 14-17.
[22] _Ibid._, I, 16.
[23] Martin, I, 13.
[24] _Letters_, I, 11.
[25] _Girlhood_, I, 42.
[26] Crawford, 87.
[27] Martineau, II, 118-9.
[28] _Girlhood_, I, 66-7.
[29] _Ibid._, I, 129.
[30] _Girlhood_, I, 124-5.
[31] _Girlhood_, I, 78, 82.
[32] _Ibid._, I, 150-3.
[33] _Girlhood_, I, 157-61.
[34] Greville, II, 195-6
[35] Greville, III, 321, 324.
[36] _Letters_, I, 47-8.
[37] _Girlhood_, I, 168.
[38] Greville, III, 377.
[39] Greville, III, 374-6.
[40] _Ibid._, IV, 21; and August 15, 1839 (unpublished). 'The cause of
the Queen's alienation from the Duchess and hatred of Conroy, the Duke
[of Wellington] said, was unquestionably owing to her having witnessed
some familiarities between them. What she had seen she repeated to
Baroness Spaeth, and Spaeth not only did not hold her tongue, but (he
thinks) remonstrated with the Duchess herself on the subject. The
consequence was that they got rid of Spaeth, and they would have got
rid of Lehzen, too, if they had been able, but Lehzen, who knew very
well what was going on, was prudent enough not to commit herself, and
she was, besides, powerfully protected by George IV and William IV, so
that they did not dare to attempt to expel her.'
[41] Greville, IV, 21; Crawford, 128-9.
[42] _Girlhood_, I, 192-3.
[43] _Ibid._, I, 191.
[44] _Ibid._, I, 194.
[45] Greville, III, 407-8.
[46] Creevey, II, 262.
[47] _Letters_, I, 53.
[48] _Letters_, I, 61.
[49] _Girlhood_, I, 175.
[50] _Letters_, I, 70-1.
[51] Torrens, 419.
[52] Huish, 686.
[53] Wynn, 281.
[54] _Girlhood_, I, 195-6.
[55] _Ibid._, I, 196-7.
[56] Greville, III, 414-6.
[Illustration: LORD MELBOURNE. _From the Portrait by Sir Edwin
Landseer, R.A._]
{51}
CHAPTER III
LORD MELBOURNE
I
The new queen was almost entirely unknown to her subjects. In her
public appearances her mother had invariably dominated the scene. Her
private life had been that of a novice in a convent: hardly a human
being from the outside world had ever spoken to her; and no human being
at all, except her mother and the Baroness Lehzen, had ever been alone
with her in a room. Thus it was not only the public at large that was
in ignorance of everything concerning her; the inner circles of
statesmen and officials and high-born ladies were equally in the
dark.[1] When she suddenly emerged from this deep obscurity, the
impression that she created was immediate and profound. Her bearing at
her first Council filled the whole gathering with astonishment and
admiration; the Duke of Wellington, Sir Robert Peel, even the savage
Croker, even the cold and caustic Greville--all were completely carried
away. Everything that was reported of her subsequent proceedings
seemed to be of no less happy augury. Her perceptions were quick, her
decisions were sensible, her language was discreet; she performed her
royal duties with extraordinary facility.[2] Among the outside public
there was a great wave of enthusiasm. {52} Sentiment and romance were
coming into fashion; and the spectacle of the little girl-queen,
innocent, modest, with fair hair and pink cheeks, driving through her
capital, filled the hearts of the beholders with raptures of
affectionate loyalty. What, above all, struck everybody with
overwhelming force was the contrast between Queen Victoria and her
uncles. The nasty old men, debauched and selfish, pig-headed and
ridiculous, with their perpetual burden of debts, confusions, and
disreputabilities--they had vanished like the snows of winter, and here
at last, crowned and radiant, was the spring. Lord John Russell, in an
elaborate oration, gave voice to the general sentiment. He hoped that
Victoria might prove an Elizabeth without her tyranny, an Anne without
her weakness. He asked England to pray that the illustrious Princess
who had just ascended the throne with the purest intentions and the
justest desires might see slavery abolished, crime diminished, and
education improved. He trusted that her people would henceforward
derive their strength, their conduct, and their loyalty from
enlightened religious and moral principles, and that, so fortified, the
reign of Victoria might prove celebrated to posterity and to all the
nations of the earth.[3]
Very soon, however, there were signs that the future might turn out to
be not quite so simple and roseate as a delighted public dreamed. The
'illustrious Princess' might perhaps, after all, have something within
her which squared ill with the easy vision of a well-conducted heroine
in an edifying story-book. The purest intentions and the justest
desires? No doubt; but was that all? To those who watched closely,
for instance, there might be something ominous in the {53} curious
contour of that little mouth. When, after her first Council, she
crossed the ante-room and found her mother waiting for her, she said,
'And now, Mamma, am I really and truly Queen?' 'You see, my dear, that
it is so.' 'Then, dear Mamma, I hope you will grant me the first
request I make to you, as Queen. Let me be by myself for an hour.'[4]
For an hour she remained in solitude. Then she reappeared, and gave a
significant order: her bed was to be moved out of her mother's room.
It was the doom of the Duchess of Kent. The long years of waiting were
over at last; the moment of a lifetime had come; her daughter was Queen
of England; and that very moment brought her own annihilation. She
found herself, absolutely and irretrievably, shut off from every
vestige of influence, of confidence, of power. She was surrounded,
indeed, by all the outward signs of respect and consideration; but that
made the inward truth of her position only the more intolerable.
Through the mingled formalities of Court etiquette and filial duty, she
could never penetrate to Victoria. She was unable to conceal her
disappointment and her rage. 'Il n'y a plus d'avenir pour moi,' she
exclaimed to Madame de Lieven; 'je ne suis plus rien.' For eighteen
years, she said, this child had been the sole object of her existence,
of her thoughts, her hopes, and now--no! she would not be comforted,
she had lost everything, she was to the last degree unhappy.[5]
Sailing, so gallantly and so pertinaciously, through the buffeting
storms of life, the stately vessel, with sails still swelling and
pennons flying, had put into harbour at last; to find there nothing--a
land of bleak desolation.
Within a month of the accession, the realities of {54} the new
situation assumed a visible shape. The whole royal household moved
from Kensington to Buckingham Palace, and, in the new abode, the
Duchess of Kent was given a suite of apartments entirely separate from
the Queen's. By Victoria herself the change was welcomed, though, at
the moment of departure, she could afford to be sentimental. 'Though I
rejoice to go into B.P. for many reasons,' she wrote in her diary, 'it
is not without feelings of regret that I shall bid adieu _for ever_ to
this my birthplace, where I have been born and bred, and to which I am
really attached!' Her memory lingered for a moment over visions of the
past: her sister's wedding, pleasant balls and _delicious_ concerts ...
and there were other recollections. 'I have gone through painful and
disagreeable scenes here, 'tis true,' she concluded, 'but still I am
fond of the poor old palace.'[6]
At the same time she took another decided step. She had determined
that she would see no more of Sir John Conroy. She rewarded his past
services with liberality: he was given a baronetcy and a pension of
L3000 a year; he remained a member of the Duchess's household, but his
personal intercourse with the Queen came to an abrupt conclusion.[7]
II
It was clear that these interior changes--whatever else they might
betoken--marked the triumph of one person--the Baroness Lehzen. The
pastor's daughter observed the ruin of her enemies. Discreet and
victorious, she remained in possession of the field. More closely than
ever did she cleave to the side of her {55} mistress, her pupil, and
her friend; and in the recesses of the palace her mysterious figure was
at once invisible and omnipresent. When the Queen's Ministers came in
at one door, the Baroness went out by another; when they retired, she
immediately returned.[8] Nobody knew--nobody ever will know--the
precise extent and the precise nature of her influence. She herself
declared that she never discussed public affairs with the Queen, that
she was concerned with private matters only--with private letters and
the details of private life.[9] Certainly her hand is everywhere
discernible in Victoria's early correspondence. The Journal is written
in the style of a child; the Letters are not so simple; they are the
work of a child, rearranged--with the minimum of alteration, no doubt,
and yet perceptibly--by a governess. And the governess was no fool:
narrow, jealous, provincial, she might be; but she was an acute and
vigorous woman, who had gained, by a peculiar insight, a peculiar
ascendancy. That ascendancy she meant to keep. No doubt it was true
that technically she took no part in public business; but the
distinction between what is public and what is private is always a
subtle one; and in the case of a reigning sovereign--as the next few
years were to show--it is often imaginary. Considering all things--the
characters of the persons, and the character of the times--it was
something more than a mere matter of private interest that the bedroom
of Baroness Lehzen at Buckingham Palace should have been next door to
the bedroom of the Queen.
But the influence wielded by the Baroness, supreme as it seemed within
its own sphere, was not unlimited; {56} there were other forces at
work. For one thing, the faithful Stockmar had taken up his residence
in the palace. During the twenty years which had elapsed since the
death of the Princess Charlotte, his experiences had been varied and
remarkable. The unknown counsellor of a disappointed princeling had
gradually risen to a position of European importance. His devotion to
his master had been not only whole-hearted but cautious and wise. It
was Stockmar's advice that had kept Prince Leopold in England during
the critical years which followed his wife's death, and had thus
secured to him the essential requisite of a _point d'appui_ in the
country of his adoption.[10] It was Stockmar's discretion which had
smoothed over the embarrassments surrounding the Prince's acceptance
and rejection of the Greek crown. It was Stockmar who had induced the
Prince to become the constitutional Sovereign of Belgium.[11] Above
all, it was Stockmar's tact, honesty, and diplomatic skill which,
through a long series of arduous and complicated negotiations, had led
to the guarantee of Belgian neutrality by the Great Powers.[12] His
labours had been rewarded by a German barony and by the complete
confidence of King Leopold. Nor was it only in Brussels that he was
treated with respect and listened to with attention. The statesmen who
governed England--Lord Grey, Sir Robert Peel, Lord Palmerston, Lord
Melbourne--had learnt to put a high value upon his probity and his
intelligence. 'He is one of the cleverest fellows I ever saw,' said
Lord Melbourne--'the most discreet man, the most well-judging, and most
cool man.'[13] And Lord Palmerston cited Baron Stockmar as the only
absolutely disinterested {57} man he had come across in life.[14] At
last he was able to retire to Coburg, and to enjoy for a few years the
society of the wife and children whom his labours in the service of his
master had hitherto only allowed him to visit at long intervals for a
month or two at a time. But in 1836 he had been again entrusted with
an important negotiation, which he had brought to a successful
conclusion in the marriage of Prince Ferdinand of Saxe-Coburg, a nephew
of King Leopold's, with Queen Maria II of Portugal.[15] The House of
Coburg was beginning to spread over Europe; and the establishment of
the Baron at Buckingham Palace in 1837 was to be the prelude of another
and a more momentous advance.[16]
King Leopold and his counsellor provide in their careers an example of
the curious diversity of human ambitions. The desires of man are
wonderfully various; but no less various are the means by which those
desires may reach satisfaction: and so the work of the world gets done.
The correct mind of Leopold craved for the whole apparatus of royalty.
Mere power would have held no attractions for him; he must be an actual
king--the crowned head of a people. It was not enough to do; it was
essential also to be recognised; anything else would not be fitting.
The greatness that he dreamt of was surrounded by every appropriate
circumstance. To be a Majesty, to be a cousin of Sovereigns, to marry
a Bourbon for diplomatic ends, to correspond with the Queen of England,
to be very stiff and very punctual, to found a dynasty, to bore
ambassadresses into fits, to live, on the highest pinnacle, an
exemplary life devoted to the public service--such {58} were his
objects, and such, in fact, were his achievements. The 'Marquis
Peu-a-peu,' as George IV called him,[17] had what he wanted. But this
would never have been the case if it had not happened that the ambition
of Stockmar took a form exactly complementary to his own. The
sovereignty that the Baron sought for was by no means obvious. The
satisfaction of his essential being lay in obscurity, in
invisibility--in passing, unobserved, through a hidden entrance, into
the very central chamber of power, and in sitting there, quietly,
pulling the subtle strings that set the wheels of the whole world in
motion. A very few people, in very high places, and exceptionally
well-informed, knew that Baron Stockmar was a most important person:
that was enough. The fortunes of the master and the servant,
intimately interacting, rose together. The Baron's secret skill had
given Leopold his unexceptionable kingdom; and Leopold, in his turn, as
time went on, was able to furnish the Baron with more and more keys to
more and more back doors.
Stockmar took up his abode in the Palace partly as the emissary of King
Leopold, but more particularly as the friend and adviser of a queen who
was almost a child, and who, no doubt, would be much in need of advice
and friendship. For it would be a mistake to suppose that either of
these two men was actuated by a vulgar selfishness. The King, indeed,
was very well aware on which side his bread was buttered; during an
adventurous and chequered life he had acquired a shrewd knowledge of
the world's workings; and he was ready enough to use that knowledge to
strengthen his position and to spread his influence. But then, the
firmer his position and the wider his influence, the {59} better for
Europe; of that he was quite certain. And besides, he was a
constitutional monarch; and it would be highly indecorous in a
constitutional monarch to have any aims that were low or personal. As
for Stockmar, the disinterestedness which Palmerston had noted was
undoubtedly a basic element in his character. The ordinary schemer is
always an optimist; and Stockmar, racked by dyspepsia and haunted by
gloomy forebodings, was a constitutionally melancholy man. A schemer,
no doubt, he was; but he schemed distrustfully, splenetically, to do
good. To do good! What nobler end could a man scheme for? Yet it is
perilous to scheme at all.
With Lehzen to supervise every detail of her conduct, with Stockmar in
the next room, so full of wisdom and experience of affairs, with her
Uncle Leopold's letters, too, pouring out so constantly their stream of
encouragements, general reflections, and highly valuable tips,
Victoria, even had she been without other guidance, would have stood in
no lack of private counsellors. But other guidance she had; for all
these influences paled before a new star, of the first magnitude,
which, rising suddenly upon her horizon, immediately dominated her life.
III
William Lamb, Viscount Melbourne, was fifty-eight years of age, and had
been for the last three years Prime Minister of England. In every
outward respect he was one of the most fortunate of mankind. He had
been born into the midst of riches, brilliance, and power. His mother,
fascinating and intelligent, had been a great Whig hostess, and he had
been bred up as a {60} member of that radiant society which, during the
last quarter of the eighteenth century, concentrated within itself the
ultimate perfections of a hundred years of triumphant aristocracy.
Nature had given him beauty and brains; the unexpected death of an
elder brother brought him wealth, a peerage, and the possibility of
high advancement. Within that charmed circle, whatever one's personal
disabilities, it was difficult to fail; and to him, with all his
advantages, success was well-nigh unavoidable. With little effort, he
attained political eminence. On the triumph of the Whigs he became one
of the leading members of the Government; and when Lord Grey retired
from the premiership he quietly stepped into the vacant place. Nor was
it only in the visible signs of fortune that Fate had been kind to him.
Bound to succeed, and to succeed easily, he was gifted with so fine a
nature that his success became him. His mind, at once supple and
copious, his temperament, at once calm and sensitive, enabled him not
merely to work but to live with perfect facility and with the grace of
strength. In society he was a notable talker, a captivating companion,
a charming man. If one looked deeper, one saw at once that he was not
ordinary, that the piquancies of his conversation and his manner--his
free-and-easy vaguenesses, his abrupt questions, his lollings and
loungings, his innumerable oaths--were something more than an amusing
ornament, were the outward manifestation of an individuality peculiar
to the core.
The precise nature of this individuality was very difficult to gauge:
it was dubious, complex, perhaps self-contradictory. Certainly there
was an ironical discordance between the inner history of the man and
his apparent fortunes. He owed all he had to his birth, {61} and his
birth was shameful; it was known well enough that his mother had
passionately loved Lord Egremont, and that Lord Melbourne was not his
father.[18] His marriage, which had seemed to be the crown of his
youthful ardours, was a long, miserable, desperate failure: the
incredible Lady Caroline,
... 'with pleasures too refined to please,
With too much spirit to be e'er at ease,
With too much quickness to be ever taught,
With too much thinking to have common thought,'
was very nearly the destruction of his life. When at last he emerged
from the anguish and confusion of her folly, her extravagance, her
rage, her despair, and her devotion, he was left alone with endless
memories of intermingled farce and tragedy, and an only son who was an
imbecile. But there was something else that he owed to Lady Caroline.
While she whirled with Byron in a hectic frenzy of love and fashion, he
had stayed at home in an indulgence bordering on cynicism, and occupied
his solitude with reading. It was thus that he had acquired those
habits of study, that love of learning, and that wide and accurate
knowledge of ancient and modern literature, which formed so unexpected
a part of his mental equipment. His passion for reading never deserted
him; even when he was Prime Minister he found time to master every new
important book.[19] With an incongruousness that was characteristic,
his favourite study was theology. An accomplished classical scholar,
he was deeply read in the Fathers of the Church; heavy volumes of
commentary and exegesis he examined with scrupulous diligence; and at
any odd moment he might be found turning over {62} the pages of the
Bible.[20] To the ladies whom he most liked he would lend some learned
work on the Revelation, crammed with marginal notes in his own hand, or
Dr. Lardner's 'Observations upon the Jewish Errors with respect to the
Conversion of Mary Magdalene.' The more pious among them had high
hopes that these studies would lead him into the right way; but of this
there were no symptoms in his after-dinner conversation.[21] The
paradox of his political career was no less curious. By temperament an
aristocrat, by conviction a conservative, he came to power as the
leader of the popular party, the party of change. He had profoundly
disliked the Reform Bill, which he had only accepted at last as a
necessary evil; and the Reform Bill lay at the root of the very
existence, of the very meaning, of his government. He was far too
sceptical to believe in progress of any kind. Things were best as they
were--or rather, they were least bad. 'You'd better try to do no
good,' was one of his dictums, 'and then you'll get into no scrapes.'
Education at best was futile; education of the poor was positively
dangerous. The factory children? 'Oh, if you'd only have the goodness
to leave them alone!' Free Trade was a delusion; the ballot was
nonsense; and there was no such thing as a democracy. Nevertheless, he
was not a reactionary; he was simply an opportunist. The whole duty of
government, he said, was 'to prevent crime and to preserve contracts.'
All one could really hope to do was to carry on. He himself carried on
in a remarkable manner--with perpetual compromises, with fluctuations
and {63} contradictions, with every kind of weakness, and yet with
shrewdness, with gentleness, even with conscientiousness, and a light
and airy mastery of men and of events. He conducted the transactions
of business with extraordinary nonchalance. Important persons, ushered
up for some grave interview, found him in a towselled bed, littered
with books and papers, or vaguely shaving in a dressing-room; but, when
they went downstairs again, they would realise that somehow or other
they had been pumped. When he had to receive a deputation, he could
hardly ever do so with becoming gravity. The worthy delegates of the
tallow-chandlers, or the Society for the Abolition of Capital
Punishment, were distressed and mortified when, in the midst of their
speeches, the Prime Minister became absorbed in blowing a feather, or
suddenly cracked an unseemly joke. How could they have guessed that he
had spent the night before diligently getting up the details of their
case? He hated patronage and the making of appointments--a feeling
rare in Ministers. 'As for the Bishops,' he burst out, 'I positively
believe they die to vex me.' But when at last the appointment was
made, it was made with keen discrimination. His colleagues observed
another symptom--was it of his irresponsibility or his wisdom? He went
to sleep in the Cabinet.[22]
Probably, if he had been born a little earlier, he would have been a
simpler and a happier man. As it was, he was a child of the eighteenth
century whose lot was cast in a new, difficult, unsympathetic age. He
was an autumn rose. With all his gracious amenity, his humour, his
happy-go-lucky ways, a deep disquietude possessed him. A sentimental
cynic, a sceptical believer, {64} he was restless and melancholy at
heart. Above all, he could never harden himself; those sensitive
petals shivered in every wind. Whatever else he might be, one thing
was certain: Lord Melbourne was always human, supremely human--too
human, perhaps.[23]
And now, with old age upon him, his life took a sudden, new,
extraordinary turn. He became, in the twinkling of an eye, the
intimate adviser and the daily companion of a young girl who had
stepped all at once from a nursery to a throne. His relations with
women had been, like everything else about him, ambiguous. Nobody had
ever been able quite to gauge the shifting, emotional complexities of
his married life; Lady Caroline vanished; but his peculiar
susceptibilities remained. Female society of some kind or other was
necessary to him, and he did not stint himself; a great part of every
day was invariably spent in it. The feminine element in him made it
easy, made it natural and inevitable for him to be the friend of a
great many women; but the masculine element in him was strong as well.
In such circumstances it is also easy, it is even natural, perhaps it
is even inevitable, to be something more than a friend. There were
rumours and combustions. Lord Melbourne was twice a co-respondent in a
divorce action; but on each occasion he won his suit. The lovely Lady
Brandon, the unhappy and brilliant Mrs. Norton ... the law exonerated
them both. Beyond that hung an impenetrable veil. But at any rate it
was clear that, with such a record, the Prime Minister's position in
Buckingham Palace must be a highly delicate one. However, he was used
to delicacies, and he met the situation with consummate success. His
behaviour was from the first moment {65} impeccable. His manner
towards the young Queen mingled, with perfect facility, the
watchfulness and the respect of a statesman and a courtier with the
tender solicitude of a parent. He was at once reverential and
affectionate, at once the servant and the guide. At the same time the
habits of his life underwent a surprising change. His comfortable,
unpunctual days became subject to the unaltering routine of a palace;
no longer did he sprawl on sofas; not a single 'damn' escaped his lips.
The man of the world who had been the friend of Byron and the Regent,
the talker whose paradoxes had held Holland House enthralled, the cynic
whose ribaldries had enlivened so many deep potations, the lover whose
soft words had captivated such beauty and such passion and such wit,
might now be seen, evening after evening, talking with infinite
politeness to a schoolgirl, bolt upright, amid the silence and the
rigidity of Court etiquette.[24]
IV
On her side, Victoria was instantaneously fascinated by Lord Melbourne.
The good report of Stockmar had no doubt prepared the way; Lehzen was
wisely propitiated; and the first highly favourable impression was
never afterwards belied. She found him perfect; and perfect in her
sight he remained. Her absolute and unconcealed adoration was very
natural; what innocent young creature could have resisted, in any
circumstances, the charm and the devotion of such a man? But, in her
situation, there was a special influence which gave a peculiar glow to
all she felt. After years of emptiness and dullness and suppression,
she had come suddenly, in {66} the heyday of youth, into freedom and
power. She was mistress of herself, of great domains and palaces; she
was Queen of England. Responsibilities and difficulties she might
have, no doubt, and in heavy measure; but one feeling dominated and
absorbed all others--the feeling of joy. Everything pleased her. She
was in high spirits from morning till night. Mr. Creevey, grown old
now, and very near his end, catching a glimpse of her at Brighton, was
much amused, in his sharp fashion, by the ingenuous gaiety of 'little
Vic.'--'A more homely little being you never beheld, _when she is at
her ease_, and she is evidently dying to be always more so. She laughs
in real earnest, opening her mouth as wide as it can go, showing not
very pretty gums.... She eats quite as heartily as she laughs, I think
I may say she gobbles.... She blushes and laughs every instant in so
natural a way as to disarm anybody.'[25] But it was not merely when
she was laughing or gobbling that she enjoyed herself; the performance
of her official duties gave her intense satisfaction. 'I really have
immensely to do,' she wrote in her journal a few days after her
accession; 'I receive so many communications from my Ministers, but I
like it very much.'[26] And again, a week later, 'I repeat what I said
before that I have so many communications from the Ministers, and from
me to them, and I get so many papers to sign every day, that I have
always a _very great deal_ to do. I _delight_ in this work.'[27]
Through the girl's immaturity the vigorous predestined tastes of the
woman were pushing themselves into existence with eager velocity, with
delicious force.
One detail of her happy situation deserves particular mention. Apart
from the splendour of her {67} social position and the momentousness of
her political one, she was a person of great wealth. As soon as
Parliament met, an annuity of L385,000 was settled upon her. When the
expenses of her household had been discharged, she was left with
L68,000 a year of her own. She enjoyed besides the revenues of the
Duchy of Lancaster, which amounted annually to over L27,000. The first
use to which she put her money was characteristic: she paid off her
father's debts. In money matters, no less than in other matters, she
was determined to be correct. She had the instincts of a man of
business; and she never could have borne to be in a position that was
financially unsound.[28]
With youth and happiness gilding every hour, the days passed merrily
enough. And each day hinged upon Lord Melbourne. Her diary shows us,
with undiminished clarity, the life of the young sovereign during the
early months of her reign--a life satisfactorily regular, full of
delightful business, a life of simple pleasures, mostly
physical--riding, eating, dancing--a quick, easy, highly
unsophisticated life, sufficient unto itself. The light of the morning
is upon it; and, in the rosy radiance, the figure of 'Lord M.' emerges,
glorified and supreme. If she is the heroine of the story, he is the
hero; but indeed they are more than hero and heroine, for there are no
other characters at all. Lehzen, the Baron, Uncle Leopold, are
unsubstantial shadows--the incidental supers of the piece. Her
paradise was peopled by two persons, and surely that was enough. One
sees them together still, a curious couple, strangely united in those
artless pages, under the magical illumination of that dawn of eighty
years ago: the polished high fine gentleman with the whitening {68}
hair and whiskers and the thick dark eyebrows and the mobile lips and
the big expressive eyes; and beside him the tiny Queen--fair, slim,
elegant, active, in her plain girl's dress and little tippet, looking
up at him earnestly, adoringly, with eyes blue and projecting, and
half-open mouth. So they appear upon every page of the Journal; upon
every page Lord M. is present, Lord M. is speaking, Lord M. is being
amusing, instructive, delightful, and affectionate at once, while
Victoria drinks in the honeyed words, laughs till she shows her gums,
tries hard to remember, and runs off, as soon as she is left alone, to
put it all down. Their long conversations touched upon a multitude of
topics. Lord M. would criticise books, throw out a remark or two on
the British Constitution, make some passing reflections on human life,
and tell story after story of the great people of the eighteenth
century. Then there would be business--a despatch perhaps from Lord
Durham in Canada, which Lord M. would read. But first he must explain
a little. 'He said that I must know that Canada originally belonged to
the French, and was only ceded to the English in 1760, when it was
taken in an expedition under Wolfe; "a very daring enterprise," he
said. Canada was then entirely French, and the British only came
afterwards.... Lord M. explained this very clearly (and much better
than I have done) and said a good deal more about it. He then read me
Durham's despatch, which is a very long one and took him more than 1/2 an
hour to read. Lord M. read it beautifully with that fine soft voice of
his, and with so much expression, so that it is needless to say I was
much interested by it.'[29] And then the talk would take a more
personal turn. Lord {69} M. would describe his boyhood, and she would
learn that 'he wore his hair long, as all boys then did, till he was
17; (_how_ handsome he must have looked!).'[30] Or she would find out
about his queer tastes and habits--how he never carried a watch, which
seemed quite extraordinary. '"I always ask the servant what o'clock it
is, and then he tells me what he likes," said Lord M.'[31] Or, as the
rooks wheeled about round the trees, 'in a manner which indicated
rain,' he would say that he could sit looking at them for an hour, and
'was quite surprised at my disliking them.... Lord M. said, "The rooks
are my delight."'[32]
[Illustration: QUEEN VICTORIA IN 1838. _From the painting by E.
Corbould_.]
The day's routine, whether in London or at Windsor, was almost
invariable. The morning was devoted to business and Lord M. In the
afternoon the whole Court went out riding. The Queen, in her velvet
riding-habit and a top-hat with a veil draped about the brim, headed
the cavalcade; and Lord M. rode beside her. The lively troupe went
fast and far, to the extreme exhilaration of Her Majesty. Back in the
Palace again, there was still time for a little more fun before
dinner--a game of battledore and shuttlecock perhaps, or a romp along
the galleries with some children.[33] Dinner came, and the ceremonial
decidedly tightened. The gentleman of highest rank sat on the right
hand of the Queen; on her left--it soon became an established rule--sat
Lord Melbourne. After the ladies had left the dining-room, the
gentlemen were not permitted to remain behind for very long; indeed,
the short time allowed them for their wine-drinking formed the
subject--so it was rumoured--of one of the very few disputes between
the Queen and her Prime {70} Minister[34]; but her determination
carried the day, and from that moment after-dinner drunkenness began to
go out of fashion. When the company was reassembled in the
drawing-room the etiquette was stiff. For a few minutes the Queen
spoke in turn to each one of her guests; and during these short uneasy
colloquies the aridity of royalty was apt to become painfully evident.
One night Mr. Greville, the Clerk of the Privy Council, was present;
his turn soon came; the middle-aged, hard-faced _viveur_ was addressed
by his young hostess. 'Have you been riding to-day, Mr. Greville?'
asked the Queen. 'No, Madam, I have not,' replied Mr. Greville. 'It
was a fine day,' continued the Queen. 'Yes, Madam, a very fine day,'
said Mr. Greville. 'It was rather cold, though,' said the Queen. 'It
was rather cold, Madam,' said Mr. Greville. 'Your sister, Lady Frances
Egerton, rides, I think, doesn't she?' said the Queen. 'She does ride
sometimes, Madam,' said Mr. Greville. There was a pause, after which
Mr. Greville ventured to take the lead, though he did not venture to
change the subject. 'Has your Majesty been riding to-day?' asked Mr.
Greville. 'Oh yes, a very long ride,' answered the Queen with
animation. 'Has your Majesty got a nice horse?' said Mr. Greville.
'Oh, a very nice horse,' said the Queen. It was over. Her Majesty
gave a smile and an inclination of the head, Mr. Greville a profound
bow, and the next conversation began with the next gentleman.[35] When
all the guests {71} had been disposed of, the Duchess of Kent sat down
to her whist, while everybody else was ranged about the round table.
Lord Melbourne sat beside the Queen, and talked pertinaciously--very
often _a propos_ to the contents of one of the large albums of
engravings with which the round table was covered--until it was
half-past eleven and time to go to bed.[36]
Occasionally, there were little diversions: the evening might be spent
at the opera or at the play. Next morning the royal critic was careful
to note down her impressions. 'It was Shakespeare's tragedy of
_Hamlet_, and we came in at the beginning of it. Mr. Charles Kean (son
of old Kean) acted the part of Hamlet, and I must say beautifully. His
conception of this very difficult, and I may almost say
incomprehensible, character is admirable; his delivery of all the fine
long speeches quite beautiful; he is excessively graceful and all his
actions and attitudes are good, though not at all good-looking in
face.... I came away just as _Hamlet_ was over.'[37] Later on, she
went to see Macready in _King Lear_. The story was new to her; she
knew nothing about it, and at first she took very little interest in
what was passing on the stage; she preferred to chatter and laugh with
the Lord Chamberlain. But, as the play went on, her mood changed; her
attention was fixed, and then she laughed no more. Yet she was
puzzled; it seemed a strange, a horrible business. What did Lord M.
think? Lord M. thought it was a very fine play, but to be sure, 'a
rough, coarse play, written for those times, with exaggerated
characters.' 'I'm glad you've seen it,' he added.[38] But,
undoubtedly, the evenings which she enjoyed most were those on {72}
which there was dancing. She was always ready enough to seize any
excuse--the arrival of cousins--a birthday--a gathering of young
people--to give the command for that. Then, when the band played, and
the figures of the dancers swayed to the music, and she felt her own
figure swaying too, with youthful spirits so close on every side--then
her happiness reached its height, her eyes sparkled, she must go on and
on into the small hours of the morning. For a moment Lord M. himself
was forgotten.
V
The months flew past. The summer was over: 'the pleasantest summer I
EVER passed in _my life_, and I shall never forget this first summer of
my reign.'[39] With surprising rapidity, another summer was upon her.
The coronation came and went--a curious dream. The antique, intricate,
endless ceremonial worked itself out as best it could, like some
machine of gigantic complexity which was a little out of order. The
small central figure went through her gyrations. She sat; she walked;
she prayed; she carried about an orb that was almost too heavy to hold;
the Archbishop of Canterbury came and crushed a ring upon the wrong
finger, so that she was ready to cry out with the pain; old Lord Rolle
tripped up in his mantle and fell down the steps as he was doing
homage; she was taken into a side chapel, where the altar was covered
with a tablecloth, sandwiches, and bottles of wine; she perceived
Lehzen in an upper box and exchanged a smile with her as she sat, robed
and crowned, on the Confessor's throne. 'I shall ever remember this
day as the _proudest_ {73} of my life,' she noted. But the pride was
soon merged once more in youth and simplicity. When she returned to
Buckingham Palace at last she was not tired; she ran up to her private
rooms, doffed her splendours, and gave her dog Dash its evening
bath.[40]
Life flowed on again with its accustomed smoothness--though, of course,
the smoothness was occasionally disturbed. For one thing, there was
the distressing behaviour of Uncle Leopold. The King of the Belgians
had not been able to resist attempting to make use of his family
position to further his diplomatic ends. But, indeed, why should there
be any question of resisting? Was not such a course of conduct, far
from being a temptation, simply _selon les regles_? What were royal
marriages for, if they did not enable sovereigns, in spite of the
hindrances of constitutions, to control foreign politics? For the
highest purposes, of course; that was understood. The Queen of England
was his niece--more than that--almost his daughter; his confidential
agent was living, in a position of intimate favour, at her court.
Surely, in such circumstances, it would be preposterous, it would be
positively incorrect, to lose the opportunity of bending to his wishes
by means of personal influence, behind the backs of the English
Ministers, the foreign policy of England.
He set about the task with becoming precautions. He continued in his
letters his admirable advice. Within a few days of her accession, he
recommended the young Queen to lay emphasis, on every possible
occasion, upon her English birth; to praise the English nation; 'the
Established Church I also recommend strongly; you cannot, without
_pledging_ yourself to anything _particular, say too much on the
subject_.' And then 'before you {74} decide on anything important I
should be glad if you would consult me; this would also have the
advantage of giving you time'; nothing was more injurious than to be
hurried into wrong decisions unawares. His niece replied at once with
all the accustomed warmth of her affection; but she wrote
hurriedly--and, perhaps, a trifle vaguely too. '_Your_ advice is
always of the _greatest importance_ to me,' she said.[41]
Had he, possibly, gone too far? He could not be certain; perhaps
Victoria _had_ been hurried. In any case, he would be careful; he
would draw back--_pour mieux sauter_, he added to himself with a smile.
In his next letters he made no reference to his suggestion of
consultations with himself; he merely pointed out the wisdom, in
general, of refusing to decide upon important questions off-hand. So
far, his advice was taken; and it was noticed that the Queen, when
applications were made to her, rarely gave an immediate answer. Even
with Lord Melbourne, it was the same; when he asked for her opinion
upon any subject, she would reply that she would think it over, and
tell him her conclusions next day.[42]
King Leopold's counsels continued. The Princess de Lieven, he said,
was a dangerous woman; there was reason to think that she would make
attempts to pry into what did not concern her; let Victoria beware. 'A
rule which I cannot sufficiently recommend is _never to permit_ people
to speak on subjects concerning yourself or your affairs, without you
having yourself desired them to do so.' Should such a thing occur,
'change the conversation, and make the individual feel that he has made
a mistake.' This piece of advice was also taken; for it fell out as
the King had predicted. Madame de {75} Lieven sought an audience, and
appeared to be verging towards confidential topics; whereupon the
Queen, becoming slightly embarrassed, talked of nothing but
commonplaces. The individual felt that she had made a mistake.[43]
The King's next warning was remarkable. Letters, he pointed out, are
almost invariably read in the post. This was inconvenient, no doubt;
but the fact, once properly grasped, was not without its advantages.
'I will give you an example: we are still plagued by Prussia concerning
those fortresses; now to tell the Prussian Government many things,
which we _should not like_ to tell them officially, the Minister is
going to write a despatch to our man at Berlin, sending it _by post_;
the Prussians _are sure_ to read it, and to learn in this way what we
wish them to hear.' Analogous circumstances might very probably occur
in England. 'I tell you the _trick_,' wrote His Majesty, 'that you
should be able to guard against it.' Such were the subtleties of
constitutional sovereignty.[44]
It seemed that the time had come for another step. The King's next
letter was full of foreign politics--the situation in Spain and
Portugal, the character of Louis-Philippe; and he received a favourable
answer. Victoria, it is true, began by saying that she had shown the
_political part_ of his letter to Lord Melbourne; but she proceeded to
a discussion of foreign affairs. It appeared that she was not
unwilling to exchange observations on such matters with her uncle.[45]
So far, so good. But King Leopold was still cautious; though a crisis
was impending in his diplomacy, he still hung back; at last, however,
he could keep silence no longer. It {76} was of the utmost importance
to him that, in his manoeuvrings with France and Holland, he should
have, or at any rate appear to have, English support. But the English
Government appeared to adopt a neutral attitude; it was too bad; not to
be for him was to be against him--could they not see that? Yet,
perhaps, they were only wavering, and a little pressure upon them from
Victoria might still save all. He determined to put the case before
her, delicately yet forcibly--just as he saw it himself. 'All I want
from your kind Majesty,' he wrote, 'is, that you will _occasionally_
express to your Ministers, and particularly to good Lord Melbourne,
that, as far as it is _compatible_ with the interests _of your own_
dominions, you do _not_ wish that your Government should take the lead
in such measures as might in a short time bring on the _destruction_ of
this country, as well as that of your uncle and his family.'[46] The
result of this appeal was unexpected: there was dead silence for more
than a week. When Victoria at last wrote, she was prodigal of her
affection--'it would, indeed, my dearest Uncle, be _very wrong_ of you,
if you thought my feelings of warm and devoted attachment to you, and
of great affection for you, could be changed--_nothing_ can ever change
them'--but her references to foreign politics, though they were lengthy
and elaborate, were non-committal in the extreme; they were almost cast
in an official and diplomatic form. Her Ministers, she said, entirely
shared her views upon the subject; she understood and sympathised with
the difficulties of her beloved uncle's position; and he might rest
assured 'that both Lord Melbourne and Lord Palmerston are most anxious
at all times for the prosperity and welfare of Belgium.' That was all.
The King in his reply {77} declared himself delighted, and re-echoed
the affectionate protestations of his niece. 'My dearest and most
beloved Victoria,' he said, 'you have written me a _very dear_ and long
letter, which has given me _great pleasure and satisfaction_.' He
would not admit that he had had a rebuff.[47]
A few months later the crisis came. King Leopold determined to make a
bold push, and to carry Victoria with him, this time, by a display of
royal vigour and avuncular authority. In an abrupt, an almost
peremptory letter, he laid his case, once more, before his niece. 'You
know from experience,' he wrote, 'that I _never ask anything of
you_.... But, as I said before, if we are not careful we may see
serious consequences which may affect more or less everybody, and
_this_ ought to be the object of our most anxious attention. I remain,
my dear Victoria, your affectionate uncle, Leopold R.'[48] The Queen
immediately despatched this letter to Lord Melbourne, who replied with
a carefully thought-out form of words, signifying nothing whatever,
which, he suggested, she should send to her uncle. She did so, copying
out the elaborate formula, with a liberal scattering of 'dear Uncles'
interspersed; and she concluded her letter with a message of
'affectionate love to Aunt Louise and the children.' Then at last King
Leopold was obliged to recognise the facts. His next letter contained
no reference at all to politics. 'I am glad,' he wrote, 'to find that
you like Brighton better than last year. I think Brighton very
agreeable at this time of the year, till the east winds set in. The
pavilion, besides, is comfortable; that cannot be denied. Before my
marriage, it was there that I met the Regent. Charlotte afterwards
came with old Queen Charlotte. {78} How distant all this already, but
still how present to one's memory.' Like poor Madame de Lieven, his
Majesty felt that he had made a mistake.[49]
Nevertheless, he could not quite give up all hope. Another opportunity
offered, and he made another effort--but there was not very much
conviction in it, and it was immediately crushed. 'My dear Uncle,' the
Queen wrote, 'I have to thank you for your last letter, which I
received on Sunday. Though you seem not to dislike my political
sparks, I think it is better not to increase them, as they might
finally take fire, particularly as I see with regret that upon this one
subject we cannot agree. I shall, therefore, limit myself to my
expressions of very sincere wishes for the welfare and prosperity of
Belgium.'[50] After that, it was clear that there was no more to be
said. Henceforward there is audible in the King's letters a curiously
elegiac note. 'My dearest Victoria, your _delightful_ little letter
has just arrived and went like _an arrow to my heart_. Yes, my beloved
Victoria! I do love you tenderly ... I love you _for yourself_, and I
love in you the dear child whose welfare I tenderly watched.' He had
gone through much; yet, if life had its disappointments, it had its
satisfactions too. 'I have all the honours that can be given, and I
am, politically speaking, very solidly established.' But there were
other things besides politics; there were romantic yearnings in his
heart. 'The only longing I still have is for the Orient, where I
perhaps shall once end my life, rising in the west and setting in the
east.' As for his devotion to his niece, that could never end. 'I
never press my services on you, nor my councils, though I may say with
some truth that from the extraordinary fate which the higher powers
{79} had ordained for me, my experience, both political and of private
life, is great. I am _always ready_ to be useful to you _when and
where_ it may be, and I repeat it, _all I want in return is some little
sincere affection from you_.'[51]
VI
The correspondence with King Leopold was significant of much that still
lay partly hidden in the character of Victoria. Her attitude towards
her uncle had never wavered for a moment. To all his advances she had
presented an absolutely unyielding front. The foreign policy of
England was not his province; it was hers and her Ministers'; his
insinuations, his entreaties, his struggles--all were quite useless;
and he must understand that this was so. The rigidity of her position
was the more striking owing to the respectfulness and the affection
with which it was accompanied. From start to finish the unmoved Queen
remained the devoted niece. Leopold himself must have envied such
perfect correctitude; but what may be admirable in an elderly statesman
is alarming in a maiden of nineteen. And privileged observers were not
without their fears. The strange mixture of ingenuous
light-heartedness and fixed determination, of frankness and reticence,
of childishness and pride, seemed to augur a future perplexed and full
of dangers. As time passed the less pleasant qualities in this curious
composition revealed themselves more often and more seriously. There
were signs of an imperious, a peremptory temper, an egotism that was
strong and hard. It was noticed that the palace etiquette, far from
relaxing, grew ever more and more inflexible. By some, this was
attributed to {80} Lehzen's influence; but, if that was so, Lehzen had
a willing pupil; for the slightest infringements of the freezing rules
of regularity and deference were invariably and immediately visited by
the sharp and haughty glances of the Queen.[52] Yet Her Majesty's
eyes, crushing as they could be, were less crushing than her mouth.
The self-will depicted in those small projecting teeth and that small
receding chin was of a more dismaying kind than that which a powerful
jaw betokens; it was a self-will imperturbable, impenetrable,
unreasoning; a self-will dangerously akin to obstinacy. And the
obstinacy of monarchs is not as that of other men.
Within two years of her accession, the storm-clouds which, from the
first, had been dimly visible on the horizon, gathered and burst.
Victoria's relations with her mother had not improved. The Duchess of
Kent, still surrounded by all the galling appearances of filial
consideration, remained in Buckingham Palace a discarded figure,
powerless and inconsolable. Sir John Conroy, banished from the
presence of the Queen, still presided over the Duchess's household, and
the hostilities of Kensington continued unabated in the new
surroundings. Lady Flora Hastings still cracked her malicious jokes;
the animosity of the Baroness was still unappeased. One day, Lady
Flora found the joke was turned against her. Early in 1839, travelling
in the suite of the Duchess, she had returned from Scotland in the same
carriage with Sir John. A change in her figure became the subject of
an unseemly jest; tongues wagged; and the jest grew serious. It was
whispered that Lady Flora was with child.[53] The state of her {81}
health seemed to confirm the suspicion; she consulted Sir James Clark,
the royal physician, and, after the consultation, Sir James let his
tongue wag, too. On this, the scandal flared up sky-high. Everyone
was talking; the Baroness was not surprised; the Duchess rallied
tumultuously to the support of her lady; the Queen was informed. At
last, the extraordinary expedient of a medical examination was resorted
to, during which Sir James, according to Lady Flora, behaved with
brutal rudeness, while a second doctor was extremely polite. Finally,
both physicians signed a certificate entirely exculpating the lady.
But this was by no means the end of the business. The Hastings family,
socially a very powerful one, threw itself into the fray with all the
fury of outraged pride and injured innocence; Lord Hastings insisted
upon an audience of the Queen, wrote to the papers, and demanded the
dismissal of Sir James Clark. The Queen expressed her regret to Lady
Flora, but Sir James Clark was not dismissed. The tide of opinion
turned violently against the Queen and her advisers; high society was
disgusted by all this washing of dirty linen in Buckingham Palace; the
public at large was indignant at the ill-treatment of Lady Flora. By
the end of March, the popularity, so radiant and so abundant, with
which the young Sovereign had begun her reign, had entirely
disappeared.[54]
There can be no doubt that a great lack of discretion had been shown by
the Court. Ill-natured tittle-tattle, which should have been instantly
nipped in the bud, had been allowed to assume disgraceful proportions;
and the Throne itself had become involved in the personal {82}
malignities of the palace. A particularly awkward question had been
raised by the position of Sir James Clark. The Duke of Wellington,
upon whom it was customary to fall back, in cases of great difficulty
in high places, had been consulted upon this question, and he had given
it as his opinion that, as it would be impossible to remove Sir James
without a public enquiry, Sir James must certainly stay where he
was.[55] Probably the Duke was right; but the fact that the peccant
doctor continued in the Queen's service made the Hastings family
irreconcilable and produced an unpleasant impression of unrepentant
error upon the public mind. As for Victoria, she was very young and
quite inexperienced; and she can hardly be blamed for having failed to
control an extremely difficult situation. That was clearly Lord
Melbourne's task; he was a man of the world, and, with vigilance and
circumspection, he might have quietly put out the ugly flames while
they were still smouldering. He did not do so; he was lazy and
easy-going; the Baroness was persistent, and he let things slide. But
doubtless his position was not an easy one; passions ran high in the
palace; and Victoria was not only very young, she was very headstrong,
too. Did he possess the magic bridle which would curb that fiery
steed? He could not be certain. And then, suddenly, another violent
crisis revealed more unmistakably than ever the nature of the mind with
which he had to deal.
VII
The Queen had for long been haunted by a terror that the day might come
when she would be obliged {83} to part with her Minister. Ever since
the passage of the Reform Bill, the power of the Whig Government had
steadily declined. The General Election of 1837 had left them with a
very small majority in the House of Commons; since then, they had been
in constant difficulties--abroad, at home, in Ireland; the Radical
group had grown hostile; it became highly doubtful how much longer they
could survive. The Queen watched the development of events in great
anxiety. She was a Whig by birth, by upbringing, by every association,
public and private; and, even if those ties had never existed, the mere
fact that Lord M. was the head of the Whigs would have amply sufficed
to determine her politics. The fall of the Whigs would mean a sad
upset for Lord M. But it would have a still more terrible consequence:
Lord M. would have to leave her; and the daily, the hourly, presence of
Lord M. had become an integral part of her life. Six months after her
accession she had noted in her diary 'I shall be very sorry to lose him
_even_ for _one_ night';[56] and this feeling of personal dependence on
her Minister steadily increased. In these circumstances it was natural
that she should have become a Whig partisan. Of the wider significance
of political questions she knew nothing; all she saw was that her
friends were in office and about her, and that it would be dreadful if
they ceased to be so. 'I cannot say,' she wrote when a critical
division was impending, '(though I feel _confident of our success_) HOW
_low_, HOW _sad_ I feel, when I think of the POSSIBILITY of this
excellent and truly kind man not _remaining_ my Minister! Yet I trust
fervently that _He_ who has so wonderfully protected me through such
manifold difficulties will not _now_ desert me! I should {84} have
liked to have expressed to Lord M. my anxiety, but the tears were
nearer than words throughout the time I saw him, and I felt I should
have choked, had I attempted to say anything.'[57] Lord Melbourne
realised clearly enough how undesirable was such a state of mind in a
constitutional sovereign who might be called upon at any moment to
receive as her Ministers the leaders of the opposite party; he did what
he could to cool her ardour; but in vain.
With considerable lack of foresight, too, he had himself helped to
bring about this unfortunate condition of affairs. From the moment of
her accession, he had surrounded the Queen with ladies of his own
party: the Mistress of the Robes and all the Ladies of the Bedchamber
were Whigs. In the ordinary course, the Queen never saw a Tory;
eventually she took pains never to see one in any circumstances. She
disliked the whole tribe, and she did not conceal the fact. She
particularly disliked Sir Robert Peel, who would almost certainly be
the next Prime Minister. His manners were detestable, and he wanted to
turn out Lord M. His supporters, without exception, were equally bad;
and as for Sir James Graham, she could not bear the sight of him; he
was exactly like Sir John Conroy.[58]
The affair of Lady Flora intensified these party rumours still further.
The Hastings were Tories, and Lord Melbourne and the Court were
attacked by the Tory press in unmeasured language. The Queen's
sectarian zeal proportionately increased. But the dreaded hour was now
fast approaching. Early in May the Ministers were visibly tottering;
on a vital point of policy they could only secure a majority of five in
{85} the House of Commons; they determined to resign. When Victoria
heard the news she burst into tears. Was it possible, then, that all
was over? Was she indeed about to see Lord M. for the last time? Lord
M. came; and it is a curious fact that, even in this crowning moment of
misery and agitation, the precise girl noted, to the minute, the exact
time of the arrival and the departure of her beloved Minister. The
conversation was touching and prolonged; but it could only end in one
way--the Queen must send for the Duke of Wellington. When, next
morning, the Duke came, he advised her Majesty to send for Sir Robert
Peel. She was in 'a state of dreadful grief,' but she swallowed down
her tears, and braced herself, with royal resolution, for the odious,
odious interview.
Peel was by nature reserved, proud, and shy. His manners were not
perfect, and he knew it; he was easily embarrassed, and, at such
moments, he grew even more stiff and formal than before, while his feet
mechanically performed upon the carpet a dancing-master's measure.
Anxious as he now was to win the Queen's good graces, his very anxiety
to do so made the attainment of his object the more difficult. He
entirely failed to make any headway whatever with the haughty hostile
girl before him. She coldly noted that he appeared to be unhappy and
'put out,' and, while he stood in painful fixity, with an occasional
uneasy pointing of the toe, her heart sank within her at the sight of
that manner, 'oh! how different, how dreadfully different, to the
frank, open, natural, and most kind warm manner of Lord Melbourne.'
Nevertheless, the audience passed without disaster. Only at one point
had there been some slight hint of a disagreement. Peel had decided
that a change would be necessary in {86} the composition of the royal
Household: the Queen must no longer be entirely surrounded by the wives
and sisters of his opponents; some, at any rate, of the Ladies of the
Bedchamber should be friendly to his Government. When this matter was
touched upon, the Queen had intimated that she wished her Household to
remain unchanged; to which Sir Robert had replied that the question
could be settled later, and shortly afterwards withdrew to arrange the
details of his Cabinet. While he was present, Victoria had remained,
as she herself said, 'very much collected, civil and high, and betrayed
no agitation'; but as soon as she was alone she completely broke down.
Then she pulled herself together to write to Lord Melbourne an account
of all that had happened, and of her own wretchedness. 'She feels,'
she said, 'Lord Melbourne will understand it, amongst enemies to those
she most relied on and most esteemed; but what is worst of all is the
being deprived of seeing Lord Melbourne as she used to do.'
Lord Melbourne replied with a very wise letter. He attempted to calm
the Queen and to induce her to accept the new position gracefully; and
he had nothing but good words for the Tory leaders. As for the
question of the Ladies of the Household, the Queen, he said, should
strongly urge what she desired, as it was a matter which concerned her
personally; 'but,' he added, 'if Sir Robert is unable to concede it, it
will not do to refuse and to put off the negotiation upon it.'
On this point there can be little doubt that Lord Melbourne was right.
The question was a complicated and subtle one, and it had never arisen
before; but subsequent constitutional practice has determined that a
Queen Regnant must accede to the wishes of her Prime Minister as to the
_personnel_ of the female part of her {87} Household. Lord Melbourne's
wisdom, however, was wasted. The Queen would not be soothed, and still
less would she take advice. It was outrageous of the Tories to want to
deprive her of her Ladies, and that night she made up her mind that,
whatever Sir Robert might say, she would refuse to consent to the
removal of a single one of them. Accordingly, when, next morning, Peel
appeared again, she was ready for action. He began by detailing the
Cabinet appointments, and then he added 'Now, Ma'am, about the
Ladies'--when the Queen sharply interrupted him. 'I cannot give up
_any_ of my Ladies,' she said. 'What, Ma'am!' said Sir Robert, 'does
your Majesty mean to retain them _all_?' '_All_,' said the Queen. Sir
Robert's face worked strangely; he could not conceal his agitation.
'The Mistress of the Robes and the Ladies of the Bedchamber?' he
brought out at last. '_All_', replied once more Her Majesty. It was
in vain that Peel pleaded and argued; in vain that he spoke, growing
every moment more pompous and uneasy, of the constitution, and Queens
Regnant, and the public interest; in vain that he danced his pathetic
minuet. She was adamant; but he, too, through all his embarrassment,
showed no sign of yielding; and when at last he left her nothing had
been decided--the whole formation of the Government was hanging in the
wind. A frenzy of excitement now seized upon Victoria. Sir Robert,
she believed in her fury, had tried to outwit her, to take her friends
from her, to impose his will upon her own; but that was not all: she
had suddenly perceived, while the poor man was moving so uneasily
before her, the one thing that she was desperately longing for--a
loophole of escape. She seized a pen and dashed off a note to Lord
Melbourne.
{88}
'Sir Robert has behaved very ill,' she wrote; 'he insisted on my giving
up my Ladies, to which I replied that I _never_ would consent, and I
never saw a man so frightened.... I was calm but very decided, and I
think you would have been pleased to see my composure and great
firmness; the Queen of England will not submit to such trickery. Keep
yourself in readiness, for you may soon be wanted.' Hardly had she
finished when the Duke of Wellington was announced. 'Well, Ma'am,' he
said as he entered, 'I am very sorry to find there is a difficulty.'
'Oh!' she instantly replied, '_he_ began it, not me.' She felt that
only one thing now was needed: she must be firm. And firm she was.
The venerable conqueror of Napoleon was outfaced by the relentless
equanimity of a girl in her teens. He could not move the Queen one
inch. At last, she even ventured to rally him. 'Is Sir Robert so
weak,' she asked, 'that even the Ladies must be of his opinion?' On
which the Duke made a brief and humble expostulation, bowed low; and
departed.
Had she won? Time would show; and in the meantime she scribbled down
another letter. 'Lord Melbourne must not think the Queen rash in her
conduct.... The Queen felt this was an attempt to see whether she
could be led and managed like a child.' The Tories were not only
wicked but ridiculous. Peel, having, as she understood, expressed a
wish to remove only those members of the Household who were in
Parliament, now objected to her Ladies. 'I should like to know,' she
exclaimed in triumphant scorn, 'if they mean to give the _Ladies_ seats
in Parliament?'
The end of the crisis was now fast approaching. Sir Robert returned,
and told her that if she insisted upon retaining all her Ladies he
could not form a {89} Government. She replied that she would send him
her final decision in writing. Next morning the late Whig Cabinet met.
Lord Melbourne read to them the Queen's letters, and the group of
elderly politicians were overcome by an extraordinary wave of
enthusiasm. They knew very well that, to say the least, it was highly
doubtful whether the Queen had acted in strict accordance with the
constitution; that in doing what she had done she had brushed aside
Lord Melbourne's advice; that, in reality, there was no public reason
whatever why they should go back upon their decision to resign. But
such considerations vanished before the passionate urgency of Victoria.
The intensity of her determination swept them headlong down the stream
of her desire. They unanimously felt that 'it was impossible to
abandon such a Queen and such a woman.' Forgetting that they were no
longer her Majesty's Ministers, they took the unprecedented course of
advising the Queen by letter to put an end to her negotiation with Sir
Robert Peel. She did so; all was over; she had triumphed. That
evening there was a ball at the Palace. Everyone was present. 'Peel
and the Duke of Wellington came by looking very much put out.' She was
perfectly happy; Lord M. was Prime Minister once more, and he was by
her side.[59]
{90}
VIII
Happiness had returned with Lord M., but it was happiness in the midst
of agitation. The domestic imbroglio continued unabated, until at last
the Duke, rejected as a Minister, was called in once again in his old
capacity as moral physician to the family. Something was accomplished
when, at last, he induced Sir John Conroy to resign his place about the
Duchess of Kent and leave the Palace for ever; something more when he
persuaded the Queen to write an affectionate letter to her mother. The
way seemed open for a reconciliation, but the Duchess was stormy still.
She didn't believe that Victoria had written that letter; it was not in
her handwriting; and she sent for the Duke to tell him so. The Duke,
assuring her that the letter was genuine, begged her to forget the
past. But that was not so easy. 'What am I to do if Lord Melbourne
comes up to me?' 'Do, ma'am? Why, receive him with civility.' Well,
she would make an effort.... 'But what am I to do if Victoria asks me
to shake hands with Lehzen?' 'Do, ma'am? Why, take her in your arms
and kiss her.' 'What!' The Duchess bristled in every feather, and
then she burst into a hearty laugh. 'No, ma'am, no,' said the Duke,
laughing too. 'I don't mean you are to take _Lehzen_ in your arms and
kiss _her_, but the Queen.'[60]
The Duke might perhaps have succeeded, had not all attempts at
conciliation been rendered hopeless by a tragical event. Lady Flora,
it was discovered, had been suffering from a terrible internal malady,
which now grew rapidly worse. There could be little doubt {91} that
she was dying. The Queen's unpopularity reached an extraordinary
height. More than once she was publicly insulted. 'Mrs. Melbourne,'
was shouted at her when she appeared at her balcony; and, at Ascot, she
was hissed by the Duchess of Montrose and Lady Sarah Ingestre as she
passed. Lady Flora died. The whole scandal burst out again with
redoubled vehemence; while, in the Palace, the two parties were
henceforth divided by an impassable, a Stygian, gulf.[61]
Nevertheless, Lord M. was back, and every trouble faded under the
enchantment of his presence and his conversation. He, on his side, had
gone through much; and his distresses were intensified by a
consciousness of his own shortcomings. He realised clearly enough
that, if he had intervened at the right moment, the Hastings scandal
might have been averted; and, in the bedchamber crisis, he knew that he
had allowed his judgment to be overruled and his conduct to be swayed
by private feelings and the impetuosity of Victoria.[62] But he was
not one to suffer too acutely from the pangs of conscience. In spite
of the dullness and the formality of the Court, his relationship with
the Queen had come to be the dominating interest in his life; to have
been deprived of it would have been heart-rending; that dread
eventuality had been--somehow--avoided; he was installed once more, in
a kind of triumph; let him enjoy the fleeting hours to the full! And
so, cherished by the favour of a sovereign and warmed by the adoration
of a girl, the autumn rose, in those autumn months of 1839, came to a
wondrous blooming. The petals expanded, beautifully, for the last
time. For the last time in this unlooked-for, this {92} incongruous,
this almost incredible intercourse, the old epicure tasted the
exquisiteness of romance. To watch, to teach, to restrain, to
encourage the royal young creature beside him--that was much; to feel
with such a constant intimacy the impact of her quick affection, her
radiant vitality--that was more; most of all, perhaps, was it good to
linger vaguely in humorous contemplation, in idle apostrophe, to talk
disconnectedly, to make a little joke about an apple or a furbelow, to
dream. The springs of his sensibility, hidden deep within him, were
overflowing. Often, as he bent over her hand and kissed it, he found
himself in tears.[63]
Upon Victoria, with all her impermeability, it was inevitable that such
a companionship should have produced, eventually, an effect. She was
no longer the simple schoolgirl of two years since. The change was
visible even in her public demeanour. Her expression, once 'ingenuous
and serene,' now appeared to a shrewd observer to be 'bold and
discontented.'[64] She had learnt something of the pleasures of power
and the pains of it; but that was not all. Lord Melbourne with his
gentle instruction had sought to lead her into the paths of wisdom and
moderation, but the whole unconscious movement of his character had
swayed her in a very different direction. The hard clear pebble,
subjected for so long and so constantly to that encircling and
insidious fluidity, had suffered a curious corrosion; it seemed to be
actually growing a little soft and a little clouded. Humanity and
fallibility are infectious things; was it possible that Lehzen's prim
pupil had caught them? That she was beginning to listen to siren
voices? That the secret impulses of self-expression, of {93}
self-indulgence even, were mastering her life? For a moment the child
of a new age looked back, and wavered towards the eighteenth century.
It was the most critical moment of her career. Had those influences
lasted, the development of her character, the history of her life,
would have been completely changed.
And why should they not last? She, for one, was very anxious that they
should. Let them last for ever! She was surrounded by Whigs, she was
free to do whatever she wanted, she had Lord M.; she could not believe
that she could ever be happier. Any change would be for the worse; and
the worst change of all ... no, she would not hear of it; it would be
quite intolerable, it would upset everything, if she were to marry.
And yet everyone seemed to want her to--the general public, the
Ministers, her Saxe-Coburg relations--it was always the same story. Of
course, she knew very well that there were excellent reasons for it.
For one thing, if she remained childless, and were to die, her uncle
Cumberland, who was now the King of Hanover, would succeed to the
Throne of England. That, no doubt, would be a most unpleasant event;
and she entirely sympathised with everybody who wished to avoid it.
But there was no hurry; naturally, she would marry in the end--but not
just yet--not for three or four years. What was tiresome was that her
uncle Leopold had apparently determined, not only that she ought to
marry, but that her cousin Albert ought to be her husband. That was
very like her uncle Leopold, who wanted to have a finger in every pie;
and it was true that long ago, in far-off days, before her accession
even, she had written to him in a way which might well have encouraged
him in such a notion. She had told him then that Albert possessed {94}
'every quality that could be desired to render her perfectly happy,'
and had begged her 'dearest uncle to take care of the health of one,
now _so dear_ to me, and to take him under _your special_ protection,'
adding, 'I hope and trust all will go on prosperously and well on this
subject of so much importance to me.'[65] But that had been years ago,
when she was a mere child; perhaps, indeed, to judge from the language,
the letter had been dictated by Lehzen; at any rate, her feelings., and
all the circumstances, had now entirely changed. Albert hardly
interested her at all.
In later life the Queen declared that she had never for a moment dreamt
of marrying anyone but her cousin;[66] her letters and diaries tell a
very different story. On August 26, 1837, she wrote in her journal:
'To-day is my _dearest_ cousin Albert's 18th birthday, and I pray
Heaven to pour its choicest blessings on his beloved head!' In the
subsequent years, however, the date passes unnoticed. It had been
arranged that Stockmar should accompany the Prince to Italy, and the
faithful Baron left her side for that purpose. He wrote to her more
than once with sympathetic descriptions of his young companion; but her
mind was by this time made up. She liked and admired Albert very much,
but she did not want to marry him. 'At present,' she told Lord
Melbourne in April 1839, '_my_ feeling is quite against ever
marrying.'[67] When her cousin's Italian tour came to an end, she
began to grow nervous; she knew that, according to a long-standing
engagement, his next journey would be to England. He would probably
arrive in the autumn, and by July her uneasiness was intense. She
determined to write to her uncle, in order to make her position clear.
It must be understood, she {95} said, that 'there is _no engagement_
between us.' If she should like Albert, she could 'make _no final
promise this year_, for, at the _very earliest_, any such event could
not take place till _two or three years hence_.' She had, she said, 'a
_great_ repugnance' to change her present position; and, if she should
not like him, she was '_very_ anxious that it should be understood that
she would _not_ be guilty of any breach of promise, for she never gave
any.'[68] To Lord Melbourne she was more explicit. She told him that
she 'had no great wish to see Albert, as the whole subject was an
odious one'; she hated to have to decide about it; and she repeated
once again that seeing Albert would be 'a disagreeable thing.'[69] But
there was no escaping the horrid business; the visit must be made, and
she must see him. The summer slipped by and was over; it was the
autumn already; on the evening of October 10 Albert, accompanied by his
brother Ernest, arrived at Windsor.
Albert arrived; and the whole structure of her existence crumbled into
nothingness like a house of cards. He was beautiful--she gasped--she
knew no more. Then, in a flash, a thousand mysteries were revealed to
her; the past, the present, rushed upon her with a new significance;
the delusions of years were abolished, and an extraordinary, an
irresistible certitude leapt into being in the light of those blue
eyes, the smile of that lovely mouth. The succeeding hours passed in a
rapture. She was able to observe a few more details--the 'exquisite
nose,' the 'delicate moustachios and slight but very slight whiskers,'
the 'beautiful figure, broad in the shoulders and a fine waist.' She
rode with him, danced with him, talked with him, and it was all
perfection. She had no shadow of a doubt. He had {96} come on a
Thursday evening, and on the following Sunday morning she told Lord
Melbourne that she had 'a good deal changed her opinion as to
marrying.' Next morning, she told him that she had made up her mind to
marry Albert. The morning after that, she sent for her cousin. She
received him alone, and 'after a few minutes I said to him that I
thought he must be aware _why_ I wished them to come here--and that it
would make me _too happy_ if he would consent to what I wished (to
marry me).' Then 'we embraced each other, and he was _so_ kind, _so_
affectionate.' She said that she was quite unworthy of him, while he
murmured that he would be very happy 'Das Leben mit dir zu zubringen.'
They parted, and she felt 'the happiest of human beings,' when Lord M.
came in. At first she beat about the bush, and talked of the weather,
and indifferent subjects. Somehow or other she felt a little nervous
with her old friend. At last, summoning up her courage, she said, 'I
have got well through this with Albert.' 'Oh! you have,' said Lord
M.[70]
[1] Greville, III, 411.
[2] _Ibid._, IV, 7, 9, 14-15.
[3] Walpole, I, 284.
[4] Crawford, 156-7.
[5] Greville, IV, 16.
[6] _Girlhood_, I, 210-1.
[7] Greville, IV, 15.
[8] Greville, IV, 21-2.
[9] Stockmar, 322-3; Maxwell, 159-60.
[10] Stockmar, 109-10.
[11] _Ibid._, 165-6.
[12] _Ibid._, chaps. viii, ix, x, and xi.
[13] _Girlhood_, II, 303.
[14] Stockmar, 324.
[15] _Ibid._, chap. xv, pt. 2.
[16] _Ibid._, chap. xvii.
[17] Stein, VI, 932.
[18] Greville, VI, 247; Torrens, 14; Hayward, I, 336.
[19] Greville, VI, 248.
[20] Greville, III, 331; VI, 254; Haydon, III, 12: 'March 1, 1835.
Called on Lord Melbourne, and found him reading the Acts, with a quarto
Greek Testament that belonged to Samuel Johnson.'
[21] Greville, III, 142; Torrens, 545.
[22] _Girlhood_, II, 148; Torrens, 278, 431, 517; Greville, IV, 331;
VIII, 162.
[23] Greville, VI, 253-4; Torrens, 354.
[24] Greville, IV, 135, 154; _Girlhood_, I, 249.
[25] Creevey, II, 326.
[26] _Girlhood_, I, 203.
[27] _Ibid._, I, 206.
[28] Lee, 79-81.
[29] _Girlhood_, II, 3.
[30] _Girlhood_, II, 29.
[31] _Ibid._, II, 100.
[32] _Ibid._, II, 57, 256.
[33] Lee, 71.
[34] The Duke of Bedford told Greville he was 'sure there was a battle
between her and Melbourne.... He is sure there was one about the men's
sitting after dinner, for he heard her say to him rather angrily, "it
is a horrid custom"--but when the ladies left the room (he dined there)
directions were given that the men should remain _five minutes_
longer.' Greville, Feb. 26, 1840 (unpublished).
[35] Greville, March 11, 1838 (unpublished).
[36] Greville, IV, 152-3.
[37] _Girlhood_, I, 265-6.
[38] Martineau, II, 119-20; _Girlhood_, II, 121-2.
[39] _Girlhood_, I, 229
[40] _Girlhood_, I, 356-64; Leslie, II, 239.
[41] _Letters_, I, 79.
[42] _Ibid._, I, 80; Greville, IV, 22.
[43] _Letters_, I, 85-6; Greville, IV, 16.
[44] _Ibid._, I, 93.
[45] _Ibid._, I, 93-5.
[46] _Letters_, I, 116.
[47] _Letters_, I, 117-20.
[48] _Ibid._, I, 134.
[49] _Letters_, I, 134-6, 140.
[50] _Ibid._, I, 154.
[51] _Letters_, I, 185.
[52] Greville, IV, 16-17; Crawford, 163-4.
[53] Greville, IV, 178, and August 15, 1839 (unpublished).
[54] 'Nobody cares for the Queen, her popularity has sunk to zero, and
loyalty is a dead letter.' Greville, March 25, 1839; _Morning Post_,
Sept. 14, 1839.
[55] Greville, August 15, 1839 (unpublished).
[56] _Girlhood_, I, 254.
[57] _Girlhood_, I, 324.
[58] Greville, August 4, 1841 (unpublished); _Girlhood_, II, 154, 162.
[59] _Letters_, I, 154-72; _Girlhood_, II, 163-75; Greville, IV,
206-217, and unpublished passages; Broughton, V, 195; Clarendon, I,
165. The exclamation 'They wished to treat me like a girl, but I will
show them that I am Queen of England!' often quoted as the Queen's, is
apocryphal. It is merely part of Greville's summary of the two letters
to Melbourne, printed in _Letters_, 162 and 163. It may be noted that
the phrase 'the Queen of England will not submit to such trickery' is
omitted in _Girlhood_, 169; and in general there are numerous verbal
discrepancies between the versions of the journal and the letters in
the two books.
[60] Greville, June 7, June 10, June 15, August 15, 1839 (unpublished).
[61] Greville, June 24 and July 7, 1839 (unpublished); Crawford, 222.
[62] Greville, VI, 251-2.
[63] Greville, VI, 251; _Girlhood_, I, 236, 238; II, 267.
[64] Martineau, II, 120.
[65] _Letters_, I, 49.
[66] Grey, 2-19.
[67] _Girlhood_, II, 153.
[68] _Letters_, I, 177-8.
[69] _Girlhood_, II, 215-6.
[70] _Girlhood_, II, 262-9. Greville's statement (Nov. 27, 1839) that
'the Queen settled everything about her marriage herself, and without
consulting Melbourne at all on the subject, not even communicating to
him her intention,' has no foundation in fact. The Queen's journal
proves that she consulted Melbourne at every point.
[Illustration: PRINCE ALBERT IN 1840. _From the Portrait by John
Partridge._]
{97}
CHAPTER IV
MARRIAGE
I
It was decidedly a family match. Prince Francis Charles Augustus
Albert Emmanuel of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha--for such was his full title--had
been born just three months after his cousin Victoria, and the same
midwife had assisted at the two births. The children's grandmother,
the Dowager Duchess of Coburg, had from the first looked forward to
their marriage; as they grew up, the Duke, the Duchess of Kent, and
King Leopold came equally to desire it. The Prince, ever since the
time when, as a child of three, his nurse had told him that some day
'the little English May flower' would be his wife, had never thought of
marrying anyone else. When eventually Baron Stockmar himself signified
his assent, the affair seemed as good as settled.[1]
The Duke had one other child--Prince Ernest, Albert's senior by one
year, and heir to the principality. The Duchess was a sprightly and
beautiful woman, with fair hair and blue eyes; Albert was very like her
and was her declared favourite. But in his fifth year he was parted
from her for ever. The ducal court was not noted for the strictness of
its morals; the Duke was a man of gallantry, and it was rumoured that
the Duchess followed her husband's example. There were {98} scandals:
one of the Court Chamberlains, a charming and cultivated man of Jewish
extraction, was talked of; at last there was a separation, followed by
a divorce. The Duchess retired to Paris, and died unhappily in 1831.
Her memory was always very dear to Albert.[2]
He grew up a pretty, clever, and high-spirited boy. Usually
well-behaved, he was, however, sometimes violent. He had a will of his
own, and asserted it; his elder brother was less passionate, less
purposeful, and, in their wrangles, it was Albert who came out top.
The two boys, living for the most part in one or other of the Duke's
country houses, among pretty hills and woods and streams, had been at a
very early age--Albert was less than four--separated from their nurses
and put under a tutor, in whose charge they remained until they went to
the University. They were brought up in a simple and unostentatious
manner, for the Duke was poor and the duchy very small and very
insignificant. Before long it became evident that Albert was a model
lad. Intelligent and painstaking, he had been touched by the moral
earnestness of his generation; at the age of eleven he surprised his
father by telling him that he hoped to make himself 'a good and useful
man.' And yet he was not over-serious; though, perhaps, he had little
humour, he was full of fun--of practical jokes and mimicry. He was no
milksop; he rode, and shot, and fenced; above all did he delight in
being out of doors, and never was he happier than in his long rambles
with his brother through the wild country round his beloved
Rosenau--stalking the deer, admiring the scenery, and returning laden
with specimens for his natural history collection. He was, besides,
passionately fond of music. In one particular it was observed {99}
that he did not take after his father: owing either to his peculiar
upbringing or to a more fundamental idiosyncrasy he had a marked
distaste for the opposite sex. At the age of five, at a children's
dance, he screamed with disgust and anger when a little girl was led up
to him for a partner; and though, later on, he grew more successful in
disguising such feelings, the feelings remained.[3]
The brothers were very popular in Coburg, and, when the time came for
them to be confirmed, the preliminary examination, which, according to
ancient custom, was held in public in the 'Giants' Hall' of the Castle,
was attended by an enthusiastic crowd of functionaries, clergy,
delegates from the villages of the duchy, and miscellaneous onlookers.
There were also present, besides the Duke and the Dowager Duchess,
their Serene Highnesses the Princes Alexander and Ernest of Wuertemberg,
Prince Leiningen, Princess Hohenlohe-Langenburg, and Princess
Hohenlohe-Schillingsfuerst. Dr. Jacobi, the Court chaplain, presided at
an altar, simply but appropriately decorated, which had been placed at
the end of the hall; and the proceedings began by the choir singing the
first verse of the hymn, 'Come, Holy Ghost.' After some introductory
remarks, Dr. Jacobi began the examination. 'The dignified and decorous
bearing of the Princes,' we are told in a contemporary account, 'their
strict attention to the questions, the frankness, decision, and
correctness of their answers, produced a deep impression on the
numerous assembly. Nothing was more striking in their answers than the
evidence they gave of deep feeling and of inward strength of
conviction. The questions put by the examiner were not such as to be
{100} met by a simple "yes" or "no." They were carefully considered in
order to give the audience a clear insight into the views and feelings
of the young princes. One of the most touching moments was when the
examiner asked the hereditary prince whether he intended steadfastly to
hold to the Evangelical Church, and the Prince answered not only "Yes!"
but added in a clear and decided tone: "I and my brother are firmly
resolved ever to remain faithful to the acknowledged truth." The
examination having lasted an hour, Dr. Jacobi made some concluding
observations, followed by a short prayer; the second and third verses
of the opening hymn were sung; and the ceremony was over. The Princes,
stepping down from the altar, were embraced by the Duke and the Dowager
Duchess; after which the loyal inhabitants of Coburg dispersed, well
satisfied with their entertainment.[4]
Albert's mental development now proceeded apace. In his seventeenth
year he began a careful study of German literature and German
philosophy. He set about, he told his tutor, 'to follow the thoughts
of the great Klopstock into their depths--though in this, for the most
part,' he modestly added, 'I do not succeed.' He wrote an essay on the
'Mode of Thought of the Germans, and a Sketch of the History of German
Civilisation,' 'making use,' he said, 'in its general outlines, of the
divisions which the treatment of the subject itself demands,' and
concluding with 'a retrospect of the shortcomings of our time, with an
appeal to every one to correct those shortcomings in his own case, and
thus set a good example to others.'[5] Placed for some months under
the care of King Leopold at Brussels, he came under the influence of
Adolphe Quetelet, a mathematical {101} professor, who was particularly
interested in the application of the laws of probability to political
and moral phenomena; this line of inquiry attracted the Prince, and the
friendship thus begun continued till the end of his life.[6] From
Brussels he went to the University of Bonn, where he was speedily
distinguished both by his intellectual and his social activities; his
energies were absorbed in metaphysics, law, political economy, music,
fencing, and amateur theatricals. Thirty years later his
fellow-students recalled with delight the fits of laughter into which
they had been sent by Prince Albert's mimicry. The _verve_ with which
his Serene Highness reproduced the tones and gestures of one of the
professors who used to point to a picture of a row of houses in Venice
with the remark, 'That is the Ponte Realte,' and of another who fell
down in a race and was obliged to look for his spectacles, was
especially appreciated.[7]
After a year at Bonn, the time had come for a foreign tour, and Baron
Stockmar arrived from England to accompany the Prince on an expedition
to Italy. The Baron had been already, two years previously, consulted
by King Leopold as to his views upon the proposed marriage of Albert
and Victoria. His reply had been remarkable. With a characteristic
foresight, a characteristic absence of optimism, a characteristic sense
of the moral elements in the situation, Stockmar had pointed out what
were, in his opinion, the conditions essential to make the marriage a
success. Albert, he wrote, was a fine young fellow, well grown for his
age, with agreeable and valuable qualities; and it was probable that in
a few years he would turn out a strong, handsome man, of a kindly,
simple, yet dignified demeanour. {102} 'Thus, externally, he possesses
all that pleases the sex, and at all times and in all countries must
please.' Supposing, therefore, that Victoria herself was in favour of
the marriage, the further question arose as to whether Albert's mental
qualities were such as to fit him for the position of husband of the
Queen of England. On this point, continued the Baron, one heard much
to his credit; the Prince was said to be discreet and intelligent; but
all such judgments were necessarily partial, and the Baron preferred to
reserve his opinion until he could come to a trustworthy conclusion
from personal observation. And then he added: 'But all this is not
enough. The young man ought to have not merely great ability, but a
_right_ ambition, and great force of will as well. To pursue for a
lifetime a political career so arduous demands more than energy and
inclination--it demands also that earnest frame of mind which is ready
of its own accord to sacrifice mere pleasure to real usefulness. If he
is not satisfied hereafter with the consciousness of having achieved
one of the most influential positions in Europe, how often will he feel
tempted to repent his adventure! If he does not from the very outset
accept it as a vocation of grave responsibility, on the efficient
performance of which his honour and happiness depend, there is small
likelihood of his succeeding.'[8]
Such were the views of Stockmar on the qualifications necessary for the
due fulfilment of that destiny which Albert's family had marked out for
him; and he hoped, during the tour in Italy, to come to some conclusion
as to how far the Prince possessed them. Albert on his side was much
impressed by the Baron, whom he had previously seen but rarely; he also
became acquainted, for the first time in his life, with a young {103}
Englishman, Lieut. Francis Seymour, who had been engaged to accompany
him, whom he found _sehr liebenswuerdig_, and with whom he struck up a
warm friendship. He delighted in the galleries and scenery of
Florence, though with Rome he was less impressed. 'But for some
beautiful palaces,' he said, 'it might just as well be any town in
Germany.' In an interview with Pope Gregory XVI, he took the
opportunity of displaying his erudition. When the Pope observed that
the Greeks had taken their art from the Etruscans, Albert replied that,
on the contrary, in his opinion, they had borrowed from the Egyptians:
his Holiness politely acquiesced. Wherever he went he was eager to
increase his knowledge, and, at a ball in Florence, he was observed
paying no attention whatever to the ladies, and deep in conversation
with the learned Signor Capponi. 'Voila un prince dont nous pouvons
etre fiers,' said the Grand Duke of Tuscany, who was standing by: 'la
belle danseuse l'attend, le savant l'occupe.'[9]
On his return to Germany, Stockmar's observations, imparted to King
Leopold, were still critical. Albert, he said, was intelligent, kind,
and amiable; he was full of the best intentions and the noblest
resolutions, and his judgment was in many things beyond his years. But
great exertion was repugnant to him; he seemed to be too willing to
spare himself, and his good resolutions too often came to nothing. It
was particularly unfortunate that he took not the slightest interest in
politics, and never read a newspaper. In his manners, too, there was
still room for improvement. 'He will always,' said the Baron, 'have
more success with men than with women, in whose society he shows too
little {104} _empressement_, and is too indifferent and retiring.' One
other feature of the case was noted by the keen eye of the old
physician: the Prince's constitution was not a strong one.[10] Yet, on
the whole, he was favourable to the projected marriage. But by now the
chief obstacle seemed to lie in another quarter. Victoria was
apparently determined to commit herself to nothing. And so it happened
that when Albert went to England he had made up his mind to withdraw
entirely from the affair. Nothing would induce him, he confessed to a
friend, to be kept vaguely waiting; he would break it all off at once.
His reception at Windsor threw an entirely new light upon the
situation. The wheel of fortune turned with a sudden rapidity; and he
found, in the arms of Victoria, the irrevocable assurance of his
overwhelming fate.[11]
II
He was not in love with her. Affection, gratitude, the natural
reactions to the unqualified devotion of a lively young cousin who was
also a queen--such feelings possessed him, but the ardours of
reciprocal passion were not his. Though he found that he liked
Victoria very much, what immediately interested him in his curious
position was less her than himself. Dazzled and delighted, riding,
dancing, singing, laughing, amid the splendours of Windsor, he was
aware of a new sensation--the stirrings of ambition in his breast. His
place would indeed be a high, an enviable one! And then, on the
instant, came another thought. The teaching of religion, the
admonitions of Stockmar, his {105} own inmost convictions, all spoke
with the same utterance. He would not be there to please himself, but
for a very different purpose--to do good. He must be 'noble, manly,
and princely in all things,' he would have 'to live and to sacrifice
himself for the benefit of his new country,' to 'use his powers and
endeavours for a great object--that of promoting the welfare of
multitudes of his fellow-men.' One serious thought led on to another.
The wealth and the bustle of the English Court might be delightful for
the moment, but, after all, it was Coburg that had his heart. 'While I
shall be untiring,' he wrote to his grandmother, 'in my efforts and
labours for the country to which I shall in future belong, and where I
am called to so high a position, I shall never cease _ein treuer
Deutscher, Coburger, Gothaner zu sein_.' And now he must part from
Coburg for ever! Sobered and sad, he sought relief in his brother
Ernest's company; the two young men would shut themselves up together,
and, sitting down at the pianoforte, would escape from the present and
the future in the sweet familiar gaiety of a Haydn duet.[12]
They returned to Germany; and while Albert, for a few farewell months,
enjoyed, for the last time, the happiness of home, Victoria, for the
last time, resumed her old life in London and Windsor. She
corresponded daily with her future husband in a mingled flow of German
and English; but the accustomed routine reasserted itself; the business
and the pleasures of the day would brook no interruption; Lord M. was
once more constantly beside her; and the Tories were as intolerable as
ever. Indeed, they were more so. For {106} now, in these final
moments, the old feud burst out with redoubled fury.[13] The impetuous
sovereign found, to her chagrin, that there might be disadvantages in
being the declared enemy of one of the great parties in the State. On
two occasions, the Tories directly thwarted her in a matter on which
she had set her heart. She wished her husband's rank to be fixed by
statute, and their opposition prevented it. She wished her husband to
receive a settlement from the nation of L50,000 a year; and, again
owing to the Tories, he was allowed only L30,000. It was too bad.
When the question was discussed in Parliament, it had been pointed out
that the bulk of the population was suffering from great poverty, and
that L30,000 was the whole revenue of Coburg; but her uncle Leopold had
been given L50,000, and it would be monstrous to give Albert less. Sir
Robert Peel--it might have been expected--had had the effrontery to
speak and vote for the smaller sum. She was very angry, and determined
to revenge herself by omitting to invite a single Tory to her wedding.
She would make an exception in favour of old Lord Liverpool, but even
the Duke of Wellington she refused to ask. When it was represented to
her that it would amount to a national scandal if the Duke were absent
from her wedding, she was angrier than ever. 'What! That old rebel!
I won't have him,' she was reported to have said. Eventually she was
induced to send him an invitation; but she made no attempt to conceal
the {107} bitterness of her feelings, and the Duke himself was only too
well aware of all that had passed.[14]
Nor was it only against the Tories that her irritation rose. As the
time for her wedding approached, her temper grew steadily sharper and
more arbitrary. Queen Adelaide annoyed her. King Leopold, too, was
'ungracious' in his correspondence; 'Dear Uncle,' she told Albert, 'is
given to believe that he must rule the roost everywhere. However,' she
added with asperity, 'that is not a necessity.'[15] Even Albert
himself was not impeccable. Engulfed in Coburgs, he failed to
appreciate the complexity of English affairs. There were difficulties
about his household. He had a notion that he ought not to be
surrounded by violent Whigs; very likely, but he would not understand
that the only alternatives to violent Whigs were violent Tories; and it
would be preposterous if his Lords and Gentlemen were to be found
voting against the Queen's. He wanted to appoint his own Private
Secretary. But how could he choose the right person? Lord M. was
obviously best qualified to make the appointment; and Lord M. had
decided that the Prince should take over his own Private
Secretary--George Anson, a staunch Whig. Albert protested, but it was
useless; Victoria simply announced that Anson was appointed, and
instructed Lehzen to send the Prince an explanation of the details of
the case. Then, again, he had written anxiously upon the necessity of
maintaining unspotted the moral purity of the Court. Lord M.'s pupil
considered that dear Albert was strait-laced, and, in a brisk
Anglo-German missive, set forth her own views. 'I like Lady A. very
much,' she told him, 'only she is {108} a little _strict and
particular_, and too severe towards others, which is not right; for I
think one ought always to be indulgent towards other people, as I
always think, if we had not been well taken care of, we might also have
gone astray. That is always my feeling. Yet it is always right to
show that one does not like to see what is obviously wrong; but it is
very dangerous to be too severe, and I am certain that as a rule such
people always greatly regret that in their youth they have not been so
careful as they ought to have been. I have explained this so badly and
written it so badly, that I fear you will hardly be able to make it
out.'[16]
On one other matter she was insistent. Since the affair of Lady Flora
Hastings, a sad fate had overtaken Sir James Clark. His flourishing
practice had quite collapsed; nobody would go to him any more. But the
Queen remained faithful. She would show the world how little she cared
for its disapproval, and she desired Albert to make 'poor Clark' his
physician in ordinary. He did as he was told; but, as it turned out,
the appointment was not a happy one.[17]
The wedding-day was fixed, and it was time for Albert to tear himself
away from his family and the scenes of his childhood. With an aching
heart, he had revisited his beloved haunts--the woods and the valleys
where he had spent so many happy hours shooting rabbits and collecting
botanical specimens; in deep depression, he had sat through the
farewell banquets in the Palace and listened to the _Freischuetz_
performed by the State band. It was time to go. The streets were
packed as he drove through them; for a short space his {109} eyes were
gladdened by a sea of friendly German faces, and his ears by a
gathering volume of good guttural sounds. He stopped to bid a last
adieu to his grandmother. It was a heart-rending moment. 'Albert!
Albert!' she shrieked, and fell fainting into the arms of her
attendants as his carriage drove away. He was whirled rapidly to his
destiny. At Calais a steamboat awaited him, and, together with his
father and his brother, he stepped, dejected, on board. A little
later, he was more dejected still. The crossing was a very rough one;
the Duke went hurriedly below; while the two Princes, we are told, lay
on either side of the cabin staircase 'in an almost helpless state.'
At Dover a large crowd was collected on the pier, and 'it was by no
common effort that Prince Albert, who had continued to suffer up to the
last moment, got up to bow to the people.' His sense of duty
triumphed. It was a curious omen: his whole life in England was
foreshadowed as he landed on English ground.[18]
Meanwhile Victoria, in growing agitation, was a prey to temper and to
nerves. She grew feverish, and at last Sir James Clark pronounced that
she was going to have the measles. But, once again, Sir James's
diagnosis was incorrect. It was not the measles that was attacking
her, but a very different malady; she was suddenly prostrated by alarm,
regret, and doubt. For two years she had been her own mistress--the
two happiest years, by far, of her life. And now it was all to end!
She was to come under an alien domination--she would have to promise
that she would honour and obey ... someone, who might, after all,
thwart her, oppose her--and how dreadful that would be! Why had she
embarked on this hazardous experiment? Why {110} had she not been
contented with Lord M.? No doubt, she loved Albert; but she loved
power too. At any rate, one thing was certain: she might be Albert's
wife, but she would always be Queen of England.[19] He reappeared, in
an exquisite uniform, and her hesitations melted in his presence like
mist before the sun. On February 10, 1840, the marriage took place.
The wedded pair drove down to Windsor; but they were not, of course,
entirely alone. They were accompanied by their suites, and, in
particular, by two persons--the Baron Stockmar and the Baroness Lehzen.
III
Albert had foreseen that his married life would not be all plain
sailing; but he had by no means realised the gravity and the
complication of the difficulties which he would have to face.
Politically, he was a cipher. Lord Melbourne was not only Prime
Minister, he was in effect the Private Secretary of the Queen, and thus
controlled the whole of the political existence of the sovereign. A
queen's husband was an entity unknown to the British Constitution. In
State affairs there seemed to be no place for him; nor was Victoria
herself at all unwilling that this should be so. 'The English,' she
had told the Prince when, during their engagement, a proposal had been
made to give him a peerage, 'are very jealous of any foreigner
interfering in the government of this country, and have already in some
of the papers expressed a hope that you would not interfere. Now,
though I know you never would, still, if you were a Peer, they would
all say, the Prince meant to play a political part.'[20] 'I know you
never would!' In {111} reality, she was not quite so certain; but she
wished Albert to understand her views. He would, she hoped, make a
perfect husband; but, as for governing the country, he would see that
she and Lord M. between them could manage that very well, without his
help.
But it was not only in politics that the Prince discovered that the
part cut out for him was a negligible one. Even as a husband, he
found, his functions were to be of an extremely limited kind. Over the
whole of Victoria's private life the Baroness reigned supreme; and she
had not the slightest intention of allowing that supremacy to be
diminished by one iota. Since the accession, her power had greatly
increased. Besides the undefined and enormous influence which she
exercised through her management of the Queen's private correspondence,
she was now the superintendent of the royal establishment and
controlled the important office of Privy Purse.[21] Albert very soon
perceived that he was not master in his own house.[22] Every detail of
his own and his wife's existence was supervised by a third person:
nothing could be done until the consent of Lehzen had first been
obtained. And Victoria, who adored Lehzen with unabated intensity, saw
nothing in all this that was wrong.
Nor was the Prince happier in his social surroundings. A shy young
foreigner, awkward in ladies' company, unexpansive and
self-opinionated, it was improbable that, in any circumstances, he
would have been a society success. His appearance, too, was against
him. Though in the eyes of Victoria he was the mirror of manly beauty,
her subjects, whose eyes were of a less Teutonic cast, did not agree
with her. To them--and particularly to the high-born ladies and {112}
gentlemen who naturally saw him most--what was immediately and
distressingly striking in Albert's face and figure and whole demeanour
was his un-English look. His features were regular, no doubt, but
there was something smooth and smug about them; he was tall, but he was
clumsily put together, and he walked with a slight slouch. Really,
they thought, this youth was more like some kind of foreign tenor than
anything else. These were serious disadvantages; but the line of
conduct which the Prince adopted from the first moment of his arrival
was far from calculated to dispel them. Owing partly to a natural
awkwardness, partly to a fear of undue familiarity, and partly to a
desire to be absolutely correct, his manners were infused with an
extraordinary stiffness and formality. Whenever he appeared in
company, he seemed to be surrounded by a thick hedge of prickly
etiquette. He never went out into ordinary society; he never walked in
the streets of London; he was invariably accompanied by an equerry when
he rode or drove. He wanted to be irreproachable and, if that involved
friendlessness, it could not be helped. Besides, he had no very high
opinion of the English. So far as he could see, they cared for nothing
but fox-hunting and Sunday observances; they oscillated between an
undue frivolity and an undue gloom; if you spoke to them of friendly
joyousness they stared; and they did not understand either the Laws of
Thought or the wit of a German University. Since it was clear that
with such people he could have very little in common, there was no
reason whatever for relaxing in their favour the rules of etiquette.
In strict privacy, he could be natural and charming; Seymour and Anson
were devoted to him, and he returned their affection; but they were
subordinates--the {113} receivers of his confidences and the agents of
his will. From the support and the solace of true companionship he was
utterly cut off.[23]
A friend, indeed, he had--or rather, a mentor. The Baron, established
once more in the royal residence, was determined to work with as
whole-hearted a detachment for the Prince's benefit as, more than
twenty years before, he had worked for his uncle's. The situations
then and now, similar in many respects, were yet full of differences.
Perhaps in either case the difficulties to be encountered were equally
great; but the present problem was the more complex and the more
interesting. The young doctor, unknown and insignificant, whose only
assets were his own wits and the friendship of an unimportant Prince,
had been replaced by the accomplished confidant of kings and ministers,
ripe in years, in reputation, and in the wisdom of a vast experience.
It was possible for him to treat Albert with something of the
affectionate authority of a father; but, on the other hand, Albert was
no Leopold. As the Baron was very well aware, he had none of his
uncle's rigidity of ambition, none of his overweening impulse to be
personally great. He was virtuous and well-intentioned; he was clever
and well-informed; but he took no interest in politics, and there were
no signs that he possessed any commanding force of character. Left to
himself, he would almost certainly have subsided into a high-minded
nonentity, an aimless dilettante busy over culture, a palace appendage
without influence or power. But he was not left to himself: Stockmar
saw to that. For ever at his pupil's elbow, the hidden Baron pushed
him forward, with tireless pressure, {114} along the path which had
been trod by Leopold so many years ago. But, this time, the goal at
the end of it was something more than the mediocre royalty that Leopold
had reached. The prize which Stockmar, with all the energy of
disinterested devotion, had determined should be Albert's was a
tremendous prize indeed.
The beginning of the undertaking proved to be the most arduous part of
it. Albert was easily dispirited: what was the use of struggling to
perform in a role which bored him and which, it was quite clear, nobody
but the dear good Ba
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