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Title: Queen Victoria

Author: Lytton Strachey

Release date: February 19, 2006 [eBook #1265]
Most recently updated: May 4, 2025

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK QUEEN
VICTORIA ***

QUEEN VICTORIA

By Lytton Strachey

New York Harcourt, Brace And Company, 1921

Contents
QUEEN VICTORIA

CHAPTER I ANTECEDENTS
CHAPTER II CHILDHOOD
CHAPTER III LORD MELBOURNE
CHAPTER IV MARRIAGE
CHAPTER V LORD PALMERSTON
CHAPTER VI LAST YEARS OF PRINCE CONSORT
CHAPTER VII WIDOWHOOD
CHAPTER VIII GLADSTONE AND LORD BEACONSFIELD
CHAPTER IX OLD AGE
CHAPTER X THE END
BIBLIOGRAPHY AND LIST OF REFERENCES IN THE
NOTES, ARRANGED

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 sovereign—it was June, 1814—arrived in
London to celebrate their victory. Among them, in the suite of the 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.

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.
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; 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."
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 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
served 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 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. When, 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.
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.
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, 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. 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
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. 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. 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. 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.
Besides his seven sons, George III had five surviving daughters. Of these,
two—the Queen of Wurtemberg and the Duchess of Gloucester—were
married and childless. The three unmarried princesses—Augusta, Elizabeth,
and Sophia—were all over forty.
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 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 that there were no titles in the spititual 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.
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 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 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
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 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."
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 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." 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 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 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.
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 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!"
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 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.

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 "Alexandria." At this the Duke
ventured to suggest that another name might be 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.
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 meagre grant

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 attainable, IT IS A CLEAR PROOF TO ME
THAT THEY ARE 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 material
nutriment on the soil of Old England; and which we shall certainly repeat, if
Providence destines, to give us any further increase of family."
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." 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. "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." 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 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! 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 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.
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.
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 antagonisms 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 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. She declared in public that she
put her faith in "the liberties of the People." 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)." 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 suggestions that the Princess Victoria was in danger from the
machinations of her wicked uncle.
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 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 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 Fraulein 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. 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 Baroness de Spath taught her
how to make little board boxes and decorate them with tinsel and painted
flowers; 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. 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."
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 it was that
they were followed, at a respectful distance, by a gigantic scarlet flunkey.
Warm-hearted, responsive, she loved her dear Lehzen, and she loved her
dear Feodora, and her dear Victoire, and her dear Madame de Spath. 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.
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 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.
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 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 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 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.
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." 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 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.
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. 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. 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, and Lablache, to train

the piping treble upon his own 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 school-days 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.
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 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 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." 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." 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 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
crepe 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." 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 Wurtemberg, 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 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." 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." 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 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; c'est 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, 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." 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 quarterdeck 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 exuberance completely got the best
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. 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 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!" 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 Council, prohibiting the firing of royal
salutes to any ships except those which carried the reigning sovereign or his
consort on board.
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 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!"
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." 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."
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 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 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.
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 Spath. Unfortunately, Madame de Spath 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.
(*) The Duchess supported Sir John with all the abundance 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 Spath, 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.

(*) Greville, 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

who was, besides, powerfully protected by George IV and
William IV, so that they did not dare to attempt to expel
her."

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 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." 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 gallop, I could not dance with
him." 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." 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.
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!" 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 correspondance 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." On the
functions of a monarch, his views were unexceptionable. "The business of
the highest in a State," he wrote, "is certainly, in my opinion, to act with
great impartiality and a spirit of justice for the good of all." 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.
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 FIRM, AND COURAGEOUS, 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! 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 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." 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. One other sunset he did live to see; and he died in the early
hours of the following morning. It was on 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. 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 right than I have." 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. 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 was 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.

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. 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. Among the outside public there was a
great wave of enthusiasm. 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.
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 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." 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 only made the inward
truth of her position 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.
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 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."
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.
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 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. 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. 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; 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. 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. 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. 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." And Lord Palmerston cited Baron Stockmar
as the only absolutely disinterested man he had come across in life, 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. 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.
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
were his objects, and such, in fact, were his achievements. The "Marquis
Peu-a-peu," as George IV called him, 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 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 counsellor. 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
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 that was fundamental.
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, 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. 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. 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 the pages
of the Bible. 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 conversations.
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 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.
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, 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.
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 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.
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 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."
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." 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." 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 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.
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 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 honied 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." And then the talk
would take a more personal turn. Lord 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!)." 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." 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.
M. said, 'The rooks are my delight.'"
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.
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 Minister;(*) 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 moments 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 today?" 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. When all the guests 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.

(*) 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 Memoirs, February 26, 1840 (unpublished).

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." 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. But,
undoubtedly, the evenings which she enjoyed most were those on 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." 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 table-cloth, 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 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.
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 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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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. 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 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." 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
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.
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." 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. 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.
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." 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 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 and it may be, and I
repeat it, ALL I WANT IN RETURN IS SOME LITTLE SINCERE
AFFECTION FROM YOU."
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 that was 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
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. 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, unintelligent; 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. The state of her 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.
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 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. 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 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
difflculties—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;" 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 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." 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.
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 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 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 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 loop-hole of escape. She seized a pen
and dashed off a note to Lord Melbourne.
"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 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. It may
be noted that the phrase "the Queen of England will not
submit to such trickery" is omitted in "Girlhood," and in
general there are numerous verbal discrepancies between the
versions of the journal and the letters in the two books.

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
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.
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." 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 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.

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. 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 heartrending; 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 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.
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."
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 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 "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." 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; 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."
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 said, that "there is no 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." 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." 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 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.

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.
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 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.
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 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.
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 Wurtemberg, Prince
Leiningen, Princess Hohenlohe-Langenburg, and Princess Hohenlohe-
Schillingsfurst. 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 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."
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."
Placed for some months under the care of King Leopold at Brussels, he
came under the influence of Adolphe Quetelet, a mathematical 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. 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.
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. 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."
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 Englishman,
Lieutenant Francis Seymour, who had been engaged to accompany him,
whom he found sehr liebens-wurdig, 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."
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 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. 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.
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 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 fellowmen." 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.
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 now, in these final moments, the old feud burst out with redoubled fury.
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 axed 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 only allowed 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 bitterness of her feelings, and the Duke
himself was only too well aware of all that had passed.
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." 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 a little
strict awl 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."
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 their
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.
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 Freischutz performed by the State band. It
was time to go. The streets were packed as he drove through them; for a
short space his 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 heartrending 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.

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 were 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 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. 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. I know you never would!" In 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.
Albert very soon perceived that he was not master in his own house. 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 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 receivers of his confidences
and the agents of his will. From the support and the solace of true
companionship he was utterly cut off.
A friend, indeed, he had—or rather, a mentor. The Baron, established
once more in the royal residence, was determined to work with as
wholehearted 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
who, unknown and insignificant, had nothing at the back of him but 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, 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 Baron had any desire that he should take up? It was simpler, and it
saved a great deal of trouble, to let things slide. But Stockmar would not
have it. Incessantly, he harped upon two strings—Albert's sense of duty and
his personal pride. Had the Prince forgotten the noble aims to which his life
was to be devoted? And was he going to allow himself, his wife, his family,
his whole existence, to be governed by Baroness Lehzen? The latter
consideration was a potent one. Albert had never been accustomed to giving
way; and now, more than ever before, it would be humiliating to do so. Not
only was he constantly exasperated by the position of the Baroness in the
royal household; there was another and a still more serious cause of
complaint. He was, he knew very well, his wife's intellectual superior, and
yet he found, to his intense annoyance, that there were parts of her mind
over which he exercised no influence. When, urged on by the Baron, he
attempted to discuss politics with Victoria, she eluded the subject, drifted
into generalities, and then began to talk of something else. She was treating
him as she had once treated their uncle Leopold. When at last he protested,
she replied that her conduct was merely the result of indolence; that when
she was with him she could not bear to bother her head with anything so
dull as politics. The excuse was worse than the fault: was he the wife and
she the husband? It almost seemed so. But the Baron declared that the root
of the mischief was Lehzen: that it was she who encouraged the Queen to
have secrets; who did worse—undermined the natural ingenuousness of
Victoria, and induced her to give, unconsciously no doubt, false reasons to
explain away her conduct.
Minor disagreements made matters worse. The royal couple differed in
their tastes. Albert, brought up in a regime of Spartan simplicity and early
hours, found the great Court functions intolerably wearisome, and was
invariably observed to be nodding on the sofa at half-past ten; while the
Queen's favourite form of enjoyment was to dance through the night, and
then, going out into the portico of the Palace, watch the sun rise behind St.
Paul's and the towers of Westminster. She loved London and he detested it.
It was only in Windsor that he felt he could really breathe; but Windsor too
had its terrors: though during the day there he could paint and walk and
play on the piano, after dinner black tedium descended like a pall. He would

have liked to summon distinguished scientific and literary men to his
presence, and after ascertaining their views upon various points of art and
learning, to set forth his own; but unfortunately Victoria "had no fancy to
encourage such people;" knowing that she was unequal to taking a part in
their conversation, she insisted that the evening routine should remain
unaltered; the regulation interchange of platitudes with official persons was
followed as usual by the round table and the books of engravings, while the
Prince, with one of his attendants, played game after game of double chess.
It was only natural that in so peculiar a situation, in which the elements
of power, passion, and pride were so strangely apportioned, there should
have been occasionally something more than mere irritation—a struggle of
angry wills. Victoria, no more than Albert, was in the habit of playing
second fiddle. Her arbitrary temper flashed out. Her vitality, her obstinacy,
her overweening sense of her own position, might well have beaten down
before them his superiorities and his rights. But she fought at a
disadvantage; she was, in very truth, no longer her own mistress; a
profound preoccupation dominated her, seizing upon her inmost purposes
for its own extraordinary ends. She was madly in love. The details of those
curious battles are unknown to us; but Prince Ernest, who remained in
England with his brother for some months, noted them with a friendly and
startled eye. One story, indeed, survives, ill-authenticated and perhaps
mythical, yet summing up, as such stories often do, the central facts of the
case. When, in wrath, the Prince one day had locked himself into his room,
Victoria, no less furious, knocked on the door to be admitted. "Who is
there?" he asked. "The Queen of England" was the answer. He did not
move, and again there was a hail of knocks. The question and the answer
were repeated many times; but at last there was a pause, and then a gentler
knocking. "Who is there?" came once more the relentless question. But this
time the reply was different. "Your wife, Albert." And the door was
immediately opened.
Very gradually the Prince's position changed. He began to find the study
of politics less uninteresting than he had supposed; he read Blackstone, and
took lessons in English Law; he was occasionally present when the Queen
interviewed her Ministers; and at Lord Melbourne's suggestion he was
shown all the despatches relating to Foreign Affairs. Sometimes he would
commit his views to paper, and read them aloud to the Prime Minister, who,
infinitely kind and courteous, listened with attention, but seldom made any

reply. An important step was taken when, before the birth of the Princess
Royal, the Prince, without any opposition in Parliament, was appointed
Regent in case of the death of the Queen. Stockmar, owing to whose
intervention with the Tories this happy result had been brought about, now
felt himself at liberty to take a holiday with his family in Coburg; but his
solicitude, poured out in innumerable letters, still watched over his pupil
from afar. "Dear Prince," he wrote, "I am satisfied with the news you have
sent me. Mistakes, misunderstandings, obstructions, which come in
vexatious opposition to one's views, are always to be taken for just what
they are—namely, natural phenomena of life, which represent one of its
sides, and that the shady one. In overcoming them with dignity, your mind
has to exercise, to train, to enlighten itself; and your character to gain force,
endurance, and the necessary hardness." The Prince had done well so far;
but he must continue in the right path; above all, he was "never to relax."
"Never to relax in putting your magnanimity to the proof; never to relax in
logical separation of what is great and essential from what is trivial and of
no moment; never to relax in keeping yourself up to a high standard—in the
determination, daily renewed, to be consistent, patient, courageous." It was
a hard programme perhaps, for a young man of twenty-one; and yet there
was something in it which touched the very depths of Albert's soul. He
sighed, but he listened—listened as to the voice of a spiritual director
inspired with divine truth. "The stars which are needful to you now," the
voice continued, "and perhaps for some time to come, are Love, Honesty,
Truth. All those whose minds are warped, or who are destitute of true
feeling, will BE APT TO MISTAKE YOU, and to persuade themselves and
the world that you are not the man you are—or, at least, may become... Do
you, therefore, be on the alert be times, with your eyes open in every
direction... I wish for my Prince a great, noble, warm, and true heart, such
as shall serve as the richest and surest basis for the noblest views of human
nature, and the firmest resolve to give them development."
Before long, the decisive moment came. There was a General Election,
and it became certain that the Tories, at last, must come into power. The
Queen disliked them as much as ever; but, with a large majority in the
House of Commons, they would now be in a position to insist upon their
wishes being attended to. Lord Melbourne himself was the first to realise
the importance of carrying out the inevitable transition with as little friction
as possible; and with his consent, the Prince, following up the

rapprochement which had begun over the Regency Act, opened, through
Anson, a negotiation with Sir Robert Peel. In a series of secret interviews, a
complete understanding was reached upon the difficult and complex
question of the Bedchamber. It was agreed that the constitutional point
should not be raised, but that on the formation of the Tory Government, the
principal Whig ladies should retire, and their places be filled by others
appointed by Sir Robert. Thus, in effect, though not in form, the Crown
abandoned the claims of 1839, and they have never been subsequently put
forward. The transaction was a turning point in the Prince's career. He had
conducted an important negotiation with skill and tact; he had been brought
into close and friendly relations with the new Prime Minister; it was
obvious that a great political future lay before him. Victoria was much
impressed and deeply grateful. "My dearest Angel," she told King Leopold,
"is indeed a great comfort to me. He takes the greatest interest in what goes
on, feeling with and for me, and yet abstaining as he ought from biasing me
either way, though we talk much on the subject, and his judgment is, as you
say, good and mild." She was in need of all the comfort and assistance he
could give her. Lord M. was going, and she could hardly bring herself to
speak to Peel. Yes; she would discuss everything with Albert now!
Stockmar, who had returned to England, watched the departure of Lord
Melbourne with satisfaction. If all went well, the Prince should now wield a
supreme political influence over Victoria. But would all go well?? An
unexpected development put the Baron into a serious fright. When the
dreadful moment finally came, and the Queen, in anguish, bade adieu to her
beloved Minister, it was settled between them that, though it would be
inadvisable to meet very often, they could continue to correspond. Never
were the inconsistencies of Lord Melbourne's character shown more clearly
than in what followed. So long as he was in office, his attitude towards Peel
had been irreproachable; he had done all he could to facilitate the change of
government, he had even, through more than one channel, transmitted
privately to his successful rival advice as to the best means of winning the
Queen's good graces. Yet, no sooner was he in opposition than his heart
failed him. He could not bear the thought of surrendering altogether the
privilege and the pleasure of giving counsel to Victoria—of being cut off
completely from the power and the intimacy which had been his for so long
and in such abundant measure. Though he had declared that he would be
perfectly discreet in his letters, he could not resist taking advantage of the

opening they afforded. He discussed in detail various public questions, and,
in particular, gave the Queen a great deal of advice in the matter of
appointments. This advice was followed. Lord Melbourne recommended
that Lord Heytesbury, who, he said, was an able man, should be made
Ambassador at Vienna; and a week later the Queen wrote to the Foreign
Secretary urging that Lord Heytesbury, whom she believed to be a very able
man, should be employed "on some important mission." Stockmar was very
much alarmed. He wrote a memorandum, pointing out the unconstitutional
nature of Lord Melbourne's proceedings and the unpleasant position in
which the Queen might find herself if they were discovered by Peel; and he
instructed Anson to take this memorandum to the ex-Minister. Lord
Melbourne, lounging on a sofa, read it through with compressed lips. "This
is quite an apple-pie opinion," he said. When Anson ventured to expostulate
further, suggesting that it was unseemly in the leader of the Opposition to
maintain an intimate relationship with the Sovereign, the old man lost his
temper. "God eternally damn it!" he exclaimed, leaping up from his sofa,
and dashing about the room. "Flesh and blood cannot stand this!" He
continued to write to the Queen, as before; and two more violent
bombardments from the Baron were needed before he was brought to
reason. Then, gradually, his letters grew less and less frequent, with fewer
and fewer references to public concerns; at last, they were entirely
innocuous. The Baron smiled; Lord M. had accepted the inevitable.
The Whig Ministry resigned in September, 1841; but more than a year
was to elapse before another and an equally momentous change was
effected—the removal of Lehzen. For, in the end, the mysterious governess
was conquered. The steps are unknown by which Victoria was at last led to
accept her withdrawal with composure—perhaps with relief; but it is clear
that Albert's domestic position must have been greatly strengthened by the
appearance of children. The birth of the Princess Royal had been followed
in November, 1841, by that of the Prince of Wales; and before very long
another baby was expected. The Baroness, with all her affection, could have
but a remote share in such family delights. She lost ground perceptibly. It
was noticed as a phenomenon that, once or twice, when the Court travelled,
she was left behind at Windsor. The Prince was very cautious; at the change
of Ministry, Lord Melbourne had advised him to choose that moment for
decisive action; but he judged it wiser to wait. Time and the pressure of
inevitable circumstances were for him; every day his predominance grew

more assured—and every night. At length he perceived that he need hesitate
no longer—that every wish, every velleity of his had only to be expressed
to be at once Victoria's. He spoke, and Lehzen vanished for ever. No more
would she reign in that royal heart and those royal halls. No more, watching
from a window at Windsor, would she follow her pupil and her sovereign
walking on the terrace among the obsequious multitude, with the eye of
triumphant love. Returning to her native Hanover she established herself at
Buckeburg in a small but comfortable house, the walls of which were
entirely covered by portraits of Her Majesty. The Baron, in spite of his
dyspepsia, smiled again: Albert was supreme.
IV
The early discords had passed away completely—resolved into the
absolute harmony of married life. Victoria, overcome by a new, an
unimagined revelation, had surrendered her whole soul to her husband. The
beauty and the charm which so suddenly had made her his at first were, she
now saw, no more than but the outward manifestation of the true Albert.
There was an inward beauty, an inward glory which, blind that she was, she
had then but dimly apprehended, but of which now she was aware in every
fibre of her being—he was good—he was great! How could she ever have
dreamt of setting up her will against his wisdom, her ignorance against his
knowledge, her fancies against his perfect taste? Had she really once loved
London and late hours and dissipation? She who now was only happy in the
country, she who jumped out of bed every morning—oh, so early!—with
Albert, to take a walk, before breakfast, with Albert alone! How wonderful
it was to be taught by him! To be told by him which trees were which; and
to learn all about the bees! And then to sit doing cross-stitch while he read
aloud to her Hallam's Constitutional History of England! Or to listen to him
playing on his new organ 'The organ is the first of instruments,' he said; or
to sing to him a song by Mendelssohn, with a great deal of care over the
time and the breathing, and only a very occasional false note! And, after
dinner, to—oh, how good of him! He had given up his double chess! And so
there could be round games at the round table, or everyone could spend the
evening in the most amusing way imaginable—spinning counters and
rings.' When the babies came it was still more wonderful. Pussy was such a
clever little girl ("I am not Pussy! I am the Princess Royal!" she had angrily
exclaimed on one occasion); and Bertie—well, she could only pray MOST
fervently that the little Prince of Wales would grow up to "resemble his

angelic dearest Father in EVERY, EVERY respect, both in body and mind."
Her dear Mamma, too, had been drawn once more into the family circle, for
Albert had brought about a reconciliation, and the departure of Lehzen had
helped to obliterate the past. In Victoria's eyes, life had become an idyll,
and, if the essential elements of an idyll are happiness, love and simplicity,
an idyll it was; though, indeed, it was of a kind that might have
disconcerted Theocritus. "Albert brought in dearest little Pussy," wrote Her
Majesty in her journal, "in such a smart white merino dress trimmed with
blue, which Mamma had given her, and a pretty cap, and placed her on my
bed, seating himself next to her, and she was very dear and good. And, as
my precious, invaluable Albert sat there, and our little Love between us, I
felt quite moved with happiness and gratitude to God."
The past—the past of only three years since—when she looked back
upon it, seemed a thing so remote and alien that she could explain it to
herself in no other way than as some kind of delusion—an unfortunate
mistake. Turning over an old volume of her diary, she came upon this
sentence—"As for 'the confidence of the Crown,' God knows! No
MINISTER, NO FRIEND, EVER possessed it so entirely as this truly
excellent Lord Melbourne possesses mine!" A pang shot through her—she
seized a pen, and wrote upon the margin—"Reading this again, I cannot
forbear remarking what an artificial sort of happiness MINE was THEN,
and what a blessing it is I have now in my beloved Husband REAL and
solid happiness, which no Politics, no worldly reverses CAN change; it
could not have lasted long as it was then, for after all, kind and excellent as
Lord M. is, and kind as he was to me, it was but in Society that I had
amusement, and I was only living on that superficial resource, which I
THEN FANCIED was happiness! Thank God! for ME and others, this is
changed, and I KNOW WHAT REAL HAPPINESS IS—V. R." How did
she know? What is the distinction between happiness that is real and
happiness that is felt? So a philosopher—Lord M. himself perhaps—might
have inquired. But she was no philosopher, and Lord M. was a phantom,
and Albert was beside her, and that was enough.
Happy, certainly, she was; and she wanted everyone to know it. Her
letters to King Leopold are sprinkled thick with raptures. "Oh! my dearest
uncle, I am sure if you knew HOW happy, how blessed I feel, and how
PROUD I feel in possessing SUCH a perfect being as my husband..." such
ecstasies seemed to gush from her pen unceasingly and almost of their own

accord. When, one day, without thinking, Lady Lyttelton described
someone to her as being "as happy as a queen," and then grew a little
confused, "Don't correct yourself, Lady Lyttelton," said Her Majesty. "A
queen IS a very happy woman."
But this new happiness was no lotus dream. On the contrary, it was
bracing, rather than relaxing. Never before had she felt so acutely the
necessity for doing her duty. She worked more methodically than ever at the
business of State; she watched over her children with untiring vigilance.
She carried on a large correspondence; she was occupied with her farm—
her dairy—a whole multitude of household avocations—from morning till
night. Her active, eager little body hurrying with quick steps after the long
strides of Albert down the corridors and avenues of Windsor, seemed the
very expression of her spirit. Amid all the softness, the deliciousness of
unmixed joy, all the liquescence, the overflowings of inexhaustible
sentiment, her native rigidity remained. "A vein of iron," said Lady
Lyttelton, who, as royal governess, had good means of observation, "runs
through her most extraordinary character." Sometimes the delightful routine
of domestic existence had to be interrupted. It was necessary to exchange
Windsor for Buckingham Palace, to open Parliament, or to interview
official personages, or, occasionally, to entertain foreign visitors at the
Castle. Then the quiet Court put on a sudden magnificence, and sovereigns
from over the seas—Louis Philippe, or the King of Prussia, or the King of
Saxony—found at Windsor an entertainment that was indeed a royal one.
Few spectacles in Europe, it was agreed, produced an effect so imposing as
the great Waterloo banqueting hall, crowded with guests in sparkling
diamonds and blazing uniforms, the long walls hung with the stately
portraits of heroes, and the tables loaded with the gorgeous gold plate of the
kings of England. But, in that wealth of splendour, the most imposing
spectacle of all was the Queen. The little hausfrau, who had spent the day
before walking out with her children, inspecting her livestock, practicing
shakes at the piano, and filling up her journal with adoring descriptions of
her husband, suddenly shone forth, without art, without effort, by a
spontaneous and natural transition, the very culmination of Majesty. The
Tsar of Russia himself was deeply impressed. Victoria on her side viewed
with secret awe the tremendous Nicholas. "A great event and a great
compliment HIS visit certainly is," she told her uncle, "and the people
HERE are extremely flattered at it. He is certainly a VERY STRIKING

man; still very handsome. His profile is BEAUTIFUL and his manners
MOST dignified and graceful; extremely civil—quite alarmingly so, as he
is so full of attentions and POLITENESS. But the expression of the EYES
is FORMIDABLE and unlike anything I ever saw before." She and Albert
and "the good King of Saxony," who happened to be there at the same time,
and whom, she said, "we like much—he is so unassuming-" drew together
like tame villatic fowl in the presence of that awful eagle. When he was
gone, they compared notes about his face, his unhappiness, and his despotic
power over millions. Well! She for her part could not help pitying him, and
she thanked God she was Queen of England.
When the time came for returning some of these visits, the royal pair set
forth in their yacht, much to Victoria's satisfaction. "I do love a ship!" she
exclaimed, ran up and down ladders with the greatest agility, and cracked
jokes with the sailors. The Prince was more aloof. They visited Louis
Philippe at the Chateau d'Eu; they visited King Leopold in Brussels. It
happened that a still more remarkable Englishwoman was in the Belgian
capital, but she was not remarked; and Queen Victoria passed unknowing
before the steady gaze of one of the mistresses in M. Heger's pensionnat. "A
little stout, vivacious lady, very plainly dressed—not much dignity or
pretension about her," was Charlotte Bronte's comment as the royal carriage
and six flashed by her, making her wait on the pavement for a moment, and
interrupting the train of her reflections. Victoria was in high spirits, and
even succeeded in instilling a little cheerfulness into her uncle's sombre
Court. King Leopold, indeed, was perfectly contented. His dearest hopes
had been fulfilled; all his ambitions were satisfied; and for the rest of his
life he had only to enjoy, in undisturbed decorum, his throne, his
respectability, the table of precedence, and the punctual discharge of his
irksome duties. But unfortunately the felicity of those who surrounded him
was less complete. His Court, it was murmured, was as gloomy as a
conventicle, and the most dismal of all the sufferers was his wife. "Pas de
plaisanteries, madame!" he had exclaimed to the unfortunate successor of
the Princess Charlotte, when, in the early days of their marriage, she had
attempted a feeble joke. Did she not understand that the consort of a
constitutional sovereign must not be frivolous? She understood, at last, only
too well; and when the startled walls of the state apartments re-echoed to
the chattering and the laughter of Victoria, the poor lady found that she had
almost forgotten how to smile.

Another year, Germany was visited, and Albert displayed the beauties of
his home. When Victoria crossed the frontier, she was much excited—and
she was astonished as well. "To hear the people speak German," she noted
in her diary, "and to see the German soldiers, etc., seemed to me so
singular." Having recovered from this slight shock, she found the country
charming. She was feted everywhere, crowds of the surrounding royalties
swooped down to welcome her, and the prettiest groups of peasant children,
dressed in their best clothes, presented her with bunches of flowers. The
principality of Coburg, with its romantic scenery and its well-behaved
inhabitants, particularly delighted her; and when she woke up one morning
to find herself in "dear Rosenau, my Albert's birthplace," it was "like a
beautiful dream." On her return home, she expatiated, in a letter to King
Leopold, upon the pleasures of the trip, dwelling especially upon the
intensity of her affection for Albert's native land. "I have a feeling," she
said, "for our dear little Germany, which I cannot describe. I felt it at
Rosenau so much. It is a something which touches me, and which goes to
my heart, and makes me inclined to cry. I never felt at any other place that
sort of pensive pleasure and peace which I felt there. I fear I almost like it
too much."
V
The husband was not so happy as the wife. In spite of the great
improvement in his situation, in spite of a growing family and the adoration
of Victoria, Albert was still a stranger in a strange land, and the serenity of
spiritual satisfaction was denied him. It was something, no doubt, to have
dominated his immediate environment; but it was not enough; and, besides,
in the very completeness of his success, there was a bitterness. Victoria
idolised him; but it was understanding that he craved for, not idolatry; and
how much did Victoria, filled to the brim though she was with him,
understand him? How much does the bucket understand the well? He was
lonely. He went to his organ and improvised with learned modulations until
the sounds, swelling and subsiding through elaborate cadences, brought
some solace to his heart. Then, with the elasticity of youth, he hurried off to
play with the babies, or to design a new pigsty, or to read aloud the "Church
History of Scotland" to Victoria, or to pirouette before her on one toe, like a
ballet-dancer, with a fixed smile, to show her how she ought to behave
when she appeared in public places. Thus did he amuse himself; but there
was one distraction in which he did not indulge. He never flirted—no, not

with the prettiest ladies of the Court. When, during their engagement, the
Queen had remarked with pride to Lord Melbourne that the Prince paid no
attention to any other woman, the cynic had answered, "No, that sort of
thing is apt to come later;" upon which she had scolded him severely, and
then hurried off to Stockmar to repeat what Lord M. had said. But the Baron
had reassured her; though in other cases, he had replied, that might happen,
he did not think it would in Albert's. And the Baron was right. Throughout
their married life no rival female charms ever had cause to give Victoria one
moment's pang of jealousy.
What more and more absorbed him—bringing with it a curious comfort
of its own—was his work. With the advent of Peel, he began to intervene
actively in the affairs of the State. In more ways than one—in the cast of
their intelligence, in their moral earnestness, even in the uneasy formalism
of their manners—the two men resembled each other; there was a sympathy
between them; and thus Peel was ready enough to listen to the advice of
Stockmar, and to urge the Prince forward into public life. A royal
commission was about to be formed to enquire whether advantage might
not be taken of the rebuilding of the Houses of Parliament to encourage the
Fine Arts in the United Kingdom; and Peel, with great perspicacity, asked
the Prince to preside over it. The work was of a kind which precisely suited
Albert: his love of art, his love of method, his love of coming into contact—
close yet dignified—with distinguished men—it satisfied them all; and he
threw himself into it con amore. Some of the members of the commission
were somewhat alarmed when, in his opening speech, he pointed out the
necessity of dividing the subjects to be considered into "categories-" the
word, they thought, smacked dangerously of German metaphysics; but their
confidence returned when they observed His Royal Highness's
extraordinary technical acquaintance with the processes of fresco painting.
When the question arose as to whether the decorations upon the walls of the
new buildings should, or should not, have a moral purpose, the Prince spoke
strongly for the affirmative. Although many, he observed, would give but a
passing glance to the works, the painter was not therefore to forget that
others might view them with more thoughtful eyes. This argument
convinced the commission, and it was decided that the subjects to be
depicted should be of an improving nature. The frescoes were carried out in
accordance with the commission's instructions, but unfortunately before
very long they had become, even to the most thoughtful eyes, totally

invisible. It seems that His Royal Highness's technical acquaintance with
the processes of fresco painting was incomplete!
The next task upon which the Prince embarked was a more arduous one:
he determined to reform the organisation of the royal household. This
reform had been long overdue. For years past the confusion, discomfort,
and extravagance in the royal residences, and in Buckingham Palace
particularly, had been scandalous; no reform had been practicable under the
rule of the Baroness; but her functions had now devolved upon the Prince,
and in 1844, he boldly attacked the problem. Three years earlier, Stockmar,
after careful enquiry, had revealed in an elaborate memorandum an
extraordinary state of affairs. The control of the household, it appeared, was
divided in the strangest manner between a number of authorities, each
independent of the other, each possessed of vague and fluctuating powers,
without responsibility, and without co-ordination. Of these authorities, the
most prominent were the Lord Steward and the Lord Chamberlain—
noblemen of high rank and political importance, who changed office with
every administration, who did not reside with the Court, and had no
effective representatives attached to it. The distribution of their respective
functions was uncertain and peculiar. In Buckingham Palace, it was
believed that the Lord Chamberlain had charge of the whole of the rooms,
with the exception of the kitchen, sculleries, and pantries, which were
claimed by the Lord Steward. At the same time, the outside of the Palace
was under the control of neither of these functionaries—but of the Office of
Woods and Forests; and thus, while the insides of the windows were
cleaned by the Department of the Lord Chamberlain—or possibly, in certain
cases, of the Lord Steward—the Office of Woods and Forests cleaned their
outsides. Of the servants, the housekeepers, the pages, and the housemaids
were under the authority of the Lord Chamberlain; the clerk of the kitchen,
the cooks, and the porters were under that of the Lord Steward; but the
footmen, the livery-porters, and the under-butlers took their orders from yet
another official—the Master of the Horse. Naturally, in these circumstances
the service was extremely defective and the lack of discipline among the
servants disgraceful. They absented themselves for as long as they pleased
and whenever the fancy took them; "and if," as the Baron put it, "smoking,
drinking, and other irregularities occur in the dormitories, where footmen,
etc., sleep ten and twelve in each room, no one can help it." As for Her
Majesty's guests, there was nobody to show them to their rooms, and they

were often left, having utterly lost their way in the complicated passages, to
wander helpless by the hour. The strange divisions of authority extended not
only to persons but to things. The Queen observed that there was never a
fire in the dining-room. She enquired why. The answer was "the Lord
Steward lays the fire, and the Lord Chamberlain lights it;" the underlings of
those two great noblemen having failed to come to an accommodation,
there was no help for it—the Queen must eat in the cold.
A surprising incident opened everyone's eyes to the confusion and
negligence that reigned in the Palace. A fortnight after the birth of the
Princess Royal the nurse heard a suspicious noise in the room next to the
Queen's bedroom. She called to one of the pages, who, looking under a
large sofa, perceived there a crouching figure "with a most repulsive
appearance." It was "the boy Jones." This enigmatical personage, whose
escapades dominated the newspapers for several ensuing months, and
whose motives and character remained to the end ambiguous, was an
undersized lad of 17, the son of a tailor, who had apparently gained
admittance to the Palace by climbing over the garden wall and walking in
through an open window. Two years before he had paid a similar visit in the
guise of a chimney-sweep. He now declared that he had spent three days in
the Palace, hiding under various beds, that he had "helped himself to soup
and other eatables," and that he had "sat upon the throne, seen the Queen,
and heard the Princess Royal squall." Every detail of the strange affair was
eagerly canvassed. The Times reported that the boy Jones had "from his
infancy been fond of reading," but that "his countenance is exceedingly
sullen." It added: "The sofa under which the boy Jones was discovered, we
understand, is one of the most costly and magnificent material and
workmanship, and ordered expressly for the accommodation of the royal
and illustrious visitors who call to pay their respects to Her Majesty." The
culprit was sent for three months to the "House of Correction." When he
emerged, he immediately returned to Buckingham Palace. He was
discovered, and sent back to the "House of Correction" for another three
months, after which he was offered L4 a week by a music hall to appear
upon the stage. He refused this offer, and shortly afterwards was found by
the police loitering round Buckingham Palace. The authorities acted
vigorously, and, without any trial or process of law, shipped the boy Jones
off to sea. A year later his ship put into Portsmouth to refit, and he at once
disembarked and walked to London. He was re-arrested before he reached

the Palace, and sent back to his ship, the Warspite. On this occasion it was
noticed that he had "much improved in personal appearance and grown
quite corpulent;" and so the boy Jones passed out of history, though we
catch one last glimpse of him in 1844 falling overboard in the night
between Tunis and Algiers. He was fished up again; but it was conjectured
—as one of the Warspite's officers explained in a letter to The Times—that
his fall had not been accidental, but that he had deliberately jumped into the
Mediterranean in order to "see the life-buoy light burning." Of a boy with
such a record, what else could be supposed?
But discomfort and alarm were not the only results of the
mismanagement of the household; the waste, extravagance, and peculation
that also flowed from it were immeasurable. There were preposterous
perquisites and malpractices of every kind. It was, for instance, an ancient
and immutable rule that a candle that had once been lighted should never be
lighted again; what happened to the old candles, nobody knew. Again, the
Prince, examining the accounts, was puzzled by a weekly expenditure of
thirty-five shillings on "Red Room Wine." He enquired into the matter, and
after great difficulty discovered that in the time of George III a room in
Windsor Castle with red hangings had once been used as a guard-room, and
that five shillings a day had been allowed to provide wine for the officers.
The guard had long since been moved elsewhere, but the payment for wine
in the Red Room continued, the money being received by a half-pay officer
who held the sinecure position of under-butler.
After much laborious investigation, and a stiff struggle with the multitude
of vested interests which had been brought into being by long years of
neglect, the Prince succeeded in effecting a complete reform. The various
conflicting authorities were induced to resign their powers into the hands of
a single official, the Master of the Household, who became responsible for
the entire management of the royal palaces. Great economies were made,
and the whole crowd of venerable abuses was swept away. Among others,
the unlucky half-pay officer of the Red Room was, much to his surprise,
given the choice of relinquishing his weekly emolument or of performing
the duties of an under-butler. Even the irregularities among the footmen,
etc., were greatly diminished. There were outcries and complaints; the
Prince was accused of meddling, of injustice, and of saving candle-ends;
but he held on his course, and before long the admirable administration of

the royal household was recognised as a convincing proof of his
perseverance and capacity.
At the same time his activity was increasing enormously in a more
important sphere. He had become the Queen's Private Secretary, her
confidential adviser, her second self. He was now always present at her
interviews with Ministers. He took, like the Queen, a special interest in
foreign policy; but there was no public question in which his influence was
not felt. A double process was at work; while Victoria fell more and more
absolutely under his intellectual predominance, he, simultaneously, grew
more and more completely absorbed by the machinery of high politics—the
incessant and multifarious business of a great State. Nobody any more
could call him a dilettante; he was a worker, a public personage, a man of
affairs. Stockmar noted the change with exultation. "The Prince," he wrote,
"has improved very much lately. He has evidently a head for politics. He
has become, too, far more independent. His mental activity is constantly on
the increase, and he gives the greater part of his time to business, without
complaining."
"The relations between husband and wife," added the Baron, "are all one
could desire."
Long before Peel's ministry came to an end, there had been a complete
change in Victoria's attitude towards him. His appreciation of the Prince had
softened her heart; the sincerity and warmth of his nature, which, in private
intercourse with those whom he wished to please, had the power of
gradually dissipating the awkwardness of his manners, did the rest. She
came in time to regard him with intense feelings of respect and attachment.
She spoke of "our worthy Peel," for whom, she said, she had "an
EXTREME admiration" and who had shown himself "a man of unbounded
LOYALTY, COURAGE patriotism, and HIGH-MINDEDNESS, and his
conduct towards me has been CHIVALROUS almost, I might say." She
dreaded his removal from office almost as frantically as she had once
dreaded that of Lord M. It would be, she declared, a GREAT CALAMITY.
Six years before, what would she have said, if a prophet had told her that
the day would come when she would be horrified by the triumph of the
Whigs? Yet there was no escaping it; she had to face the return of her old
friends. In the ministerial crises of 1845 and 1846, the Prince played a
dominating part. Everybody recognised that he was the real centre of the

negotiations—the actual controller of the forces and the functions of the
Crown. The process by which this result was reached had been so gradual
as to be almost imperceptible; but it may be said with certainty that, by the
close of Peel's administration, Albert had become, in effect, the King of
England.
VI
With the final emergence of the Prince came the final extinction of Lord
Melbourne. A year after his loss of office, he had been struck down by a
paralytic seizure; he had apparently recovered, but his old elasticity had
gone for ever. Moody, restless, and unhappy, he wandered like a ghost about
the town, bursting into soliloquies in public places, or asking odd questions,
suddenly, a propos de bottes. "I'll be hanged if I do it for you, my Lord," he
was heard to say in the hall at Brooks's, standing by himself, and addressing
the air after much thought. "Don't you consider," he abruptly asked a
fellow-guest at Lady Holland's, leaning across the dinner-table in a pause of
the conversation, "that it was a most damnable act of Henri Quatre to
change his religion with a view to securing the Crown?" He sat at home,
brooding for hours in miserable solitude. He turned over his books—his
classics and his Testaments—but they brought him no comfort at all. He
longed for the return of the past, for the impossible, for he knew not what,
for the devilries of Caro, for the happy platitudes of Windsor. His friends
had left him, and no wonder, he said in bitterness—the fire was out. He
secretly hoped for a return to power, scanning the newspapers with
solicitude, and occasionally making a speech in the House of Lords. His
correspondence with the Queen continued, and he appeared from time to
time at Court; but he was a mere simulacrum of his former self; "the
dream," wrote Victoria, "is past." As for his political views, they could no
longer be tolerated. The Prince was an ardent Free Trader, and so, of course,
was the Queen; and when, dining at Windsor at the time of the repeal of the
Corn Laws, Lord Melbourne suddenly exclaimed, "Ma'am, it's a damned
dishonest act!" everyone was extremely embarrassed. Her Majesty laughed
and tried to change the conversation, but without avail; Lord Melbourne
returned to the charge again and again with—"I say, Ma'am, it's damned
dishonest!"—until the Queen said "Lord Melbourne, I must beg you not to
say anything more on this subject now;" and then he held his tongue. She
was kind to him, writing him long letters, and always remembering his
birthday; but it was kindness at a distance, and he knew it. He had become

"poor Lord Melbourne." A profound disquietude devoured him. He tried to
fix his mind on the condition of Agriculture and the Oxford Movement. He
wrote long memoranda in utterly undecipherable handwriting. He was
convinced that he had lost all his money, and could not possibly afford to be
a Knight of the Garter. He had run through everything, and yet—if Peel
went out, he might be sent for—why not? He was never sent for. The Whigs
ignored him in their consultations, and the leadership of the party passed to
Lord John Russell. When Lord John became Prime Minister, there was
much politeness, but Lord Melbourne was not asked to join the Cabinet. He
bore the blow with perfect amenity; but he understood, at last, that that was
the end.
For two years more he lingered, sinking slowly into unconsciousness and
imbecility. Sometimes, propped up in his chair, he would be heard to
murmur, with unexpected appositeness, the words of Samson:—

"So much I feel my general spirit droop,
My hopes all flat, nature within me seems,
In all her functions weary of herself,
My race of glory run, and race of shame,
And I shall shortly be with them that rest."

A few days before his death, Victoria, learning that there was no hope of
his recovery, turned her mind for a little towards that which had once been
Lord M. "You will grieve to hear," she told King Leopold, "that our good,
dear, old friend Melbourne is dying... One cannot forget how good and kind
and amiable he was, and it brings back so many recollections to my mind,
though, God knows! I never wish that time back again."
She was in little danger. The tide of circumstance was flowing now with
irresistible fullness towards a very different consummation. The seriousness
of Albert, the claims of her children, her own inmost inclinations, and the
movement of the whole surrounding world, combined to urge her forward
along the narrow way of public and domestic duty. Her family steadily
increased. Within eighteen months of the birth of the Prince of Wales the
Princess Alice appeared, and a year later the Prince Alfred, and then the
Princess Helena, and, two years afterwards, the Princess Louise; and still
there were signs that the pretty row of royal infants was not complete. The
parents, more and more involved in family cares and family happiness,
found the pomp of Windsor galling, and longed for some more intimate and
remote retreat. On the advice of Peel they purchased the estate of Osborne,

in the Isle of Wight. Their skill and economy in financial matters had
enabled them to lay aside a substantial sum of money; and they could
afford, out of their savings, not merely to buy the property but to build a
new house for themselves and to furnish it at a cost of L200,000. At
Osborne, by the sea-shore, and among the woods, which Albert, with
memories of Rosenau in his mind, had so carefully planted, the royal family
spent every hour that could be snatched from Windsor and London—
delightful hours of deep retirement and peaceful work. The public looked
on with approval. A few aristocrats might sniff or titter; but with the nation
at large the Queen was now once more extremely popular. The middle-
classes, in particular, were pleased. They liked a love-match; they liked a
household which combined the advantages of royalty and virtue, and in
which they seemed to see, reflected as in some resplendent looking-glass,
the ideal image of the very lives they led themselves. Their own existences,
less exalted, but oh! so soothingly similar, acquired an added excellence, an
added succulence, from the early hours, the regularity, the plain tuckers, the
round games, the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding oft Osborne. It was
indeed a model Court. Not only were its central personages the patterns of
propriety, but no breath of scandal, no shadow of indecorum, might
approach its utmost boundaries. For Victoria, with all the zeal of a convert,
upheld now the standard of moral purity with an inflexibility surpassing, if
that were possible, Albert's own. She blushed to think how she had once
believed—how she had once actually told HIM—that one might be too
strict and particular in such matters, and that one ought to be indulgent
towards other people's dreadful sins. But she was no longer Lord M's pupil:
she was Albert's wife. She was more—the embodiment, the living apex of a
new era in the generations of mankind. The last vestige of the eighteenth
century had disappeared; cynicism and subtlety were shrivelled into
powder; and duty, industry, morality, and domesticity triumphed over them.
Even the very chairs and tables had assumed, with a singular
responsiveness, the forms of prim solidity. The Victorian Age was in full
swing.
VII
Only one thing more was needed: material expression must be given to
the new ideals and the new forces so that they might stand revealed, in
visible glory, before the eyes of an astonished world. It was for Albert to

supply this want. He mused, and was inspired: the Great Exhibition came
into his head.
Without consulting anyone, he thought out the details of his conception
with the minutest care. There had been exhibitions before in the world, but
this should surpass them all. It should contain specimens of what every
country could produce in raw materials, in machinery and mechanical
inventions, in manufactures, and in the applied and plastic arts. It should not
be merely useful and ornamental; it should teach a high moral lesson. It
should be an international monument to those supreme blessings of
civilisation—peace, progress, and prosperity. For some time past the Prince
had been devoting much of his attention to the problems of commerce and
industry. He had a taste for machinery of every kind, and his sharp eye had
more than once detected, with the precision of an expert, a missing cog-
wheel in some vast and complicated engine. A visit to Liverpool, where he
opened the Albert Dock, impressed upon his mind the immensity of modern
industrial forces, though in a letter to Victoria describing his experiences, he
was careful to retain his customary lightness of touch. "As I write," he
playfully remarked, "you will be making your evening toilette, and not be
ready in time for dinner. I must set about the same task, and not, let me
hope, with the same result... The loyalty and enthusiasm of the inhabitants
are great; but the heat is greater still. I am satisfied that if the population of
Liverpool had been weighed this morning, and were to be weighed again
now, they would be found many degrees lighter. The docks are wonderful,
and the mass of shipping incredible." In art and science he had been deeply
interested since boyhood; his reform of the household had put his talent for
organisation beyond a doubt; and thus from every point of view the Prince
was well qualified for his task. Having matured his plans, he summoned a
small committee and laid an outline of his scheme before it. The committee
approved, and the great undertaking was set on foot without delay.
Two years, however, passed before it was completed. For two years the
Prince laboured with extraordinary and incessant energy. At first all went
smoothly. The leading manufacturers warmly took up the idea; the colonies
and the East India Company were sympathetic; the great foreign nations
were eager to send in their contributions; the powerful support of Sir Robert
Peel was obtained, and the use of a site in Hyde Park, selected by the
Prince, was sanctioned by the Government. Out of 234 plans for the
exhibition building, the Prince chose that of Joseph Paxton, famous as a

designer of gigantic conservatories; and the work was on the point of being
put in hand when a series of unexpected difficulties arose. Opposition to the
whole scheme, which had long been smouldering in various quarters,
suddenly burst forth. There was an outcry, headed by The Times, against the
use of the park for the exhibition; for a moment it seemed as if the building
would be relegated to a suburb; but, after a fierce debate in the House, the
supporters of the site in the Park won the day. Then it appeared that the
project lacked a sufficient financial backing; but this obstacle, too, was
surmounted, and eventually L200,000 was subscribed as a guarantee fund.
The enormous glass edifice rose higher and higher, covering acres and
enclosing towering elm trees beneath its roof: and then the fury of its
enemies reached a climax. The fashionable, the cautious, the Protectionists,
the pious, all joined in the hue and cry. It was pointed out that the
Exhibition would serve as a rallying point for all the ruffians in England, for
all the malcontents in Europe; and that on the day of its opening there
would certainly be a riot and probably a revolution. It was asserted that the
glass roof was porous, and that the droppings of fifty million sparrows
would utterly destroy every object beneath it. Agitated nonconformists
declared that the Exhibition was an arrogant and wicked enterprise which
would infallibly bring down God's punishment upon the nation. Colonel
Sibthorpe, in the debate on the Address, prayed that hail and lightning
might descend from heaven on the accursed thing. The Prince, with
unyielding perseverance and infinite patience, pressed on to his goal. His
health was seriously affected; he suffered from constant sleeplessness; his
strength was almost worn out. But he remembered the injunctions of
Stockmar and never relaxed. The volume of his labours grew more
prodigious every day; he toiled at committees, presided over public
meetings, made speeches, and carried on communications with every corner
of the civilised world—and his efforts were rewarded. On May 1, 1851, the
Great Exhibition was opened by the Queen before an enormous concourse
of persons, amid scenes of dazzling brilliancy and triumphant enthusiasm.
Victoria herself was in a state of excitement which bordered on delirium.
She performed her duties in a trance of joy, gratitude, and amazement, and,
when it was all over, her feelings poured themselves out into her journal in
a torrential flood. The day had been nothing but an endless succession of
glories—or rather one vast glory—one vast radiation of Albert. Everything
she had seen, everything she had felt or heard, had been so beautiful, so

wonderful that even the royal underlinings broke down under the burden of
emphasis, while her remembering pen rushed on, regardless, from
splendour to splendour—the huge crowds, so well—behaved and loyal-
flags of all the nations floating—the inside of the building, so immense,
with myriads of people and the sun shining through the roof—a little side
room, where we left our shawls—palm-trees and machinery—dear Albert—
the place so big that we could hardly hear the organ—thankfulness to God
—a curious assemblage of political and distinguished men—the March
from Athalie—God bless my dearest Albert, God bless my dearest country!
—a glass fountain—the Duke and Lord Anglesey walking arm in arm—a
beautiful Amazon, in bronze, by Kiss—Mr. Paxton, who might be justly
proud, and rose from being a common gardener's boy—Sir George Grey in
tears, and everybody astonished and delighted.
A striking incident occurred when, after a short prayer by the Archbishop
of Canterbury, the choir of 600 voices burst into the "Hallelujah Chorus." At
that moment a Chinaman, dressed in full national costume, stepped out into
the middle of the central nave, and, advancing slowly towards the royal
group, did obeisance to Her Majesty. The Queen, much impressed, had no
doubt that he was an eminent mandarin; and, when the final procession was
formed, orders were given that, as no representative of the Celestial Empire
was present, he should be included in the diplomatic cortege. He
accordingly, with the utmost gravity, followed immediately behind the
Ambassadors. He subsequently disappeared, and it was rumoured, among
ill-natured people, that, far from being a mandarin, the fellow was a mere
impostor. But nobody ever really discovered the nature of the comments
that had been lurking behind the matchless impassivity of that yellow face.
A few days later Victoria poured out her heart to her uncle. The first of
May, she said, was "the GREATEST day in our history, the most
BEAUTIFUL and IMPOSING and TOUCHING spectacle ever seen, and
the triumph of my beloved Albert... It was the HAPPIEST, PROUDEST day
in my life, and I can think of nothing else. Albert's dearest name is
immortalised with this GREAT conception, HIS own, and my OWN dear
country SHOWED she was WORTHY of it. The triumph is IMMENSE."
It was. The enthusiasm was universal; even the bitterest scoffers were
converted, and joined in the chorus of praise. Congratulations from public
bodies poured in; the City of Paris gave a great fete to the Exhibition

committee; and the Queen and the Prince made a triumphal progress
through the North of England. The financial results were equally
remarkable. The total profit made by the Exhibition amounted to a sum of
L165,000, which was employed in the purchase of land for the erection of a
permanent National Museum in South Kensington. During the six months
of its existence in Hyde Park over six million persons visited it, and not a
single accident occurred. But there is an end to all things; and the time had
come for the Crystal Palace to be removed to the salubrious seclusion of
Sydenham. Victoria, sad but resigned, paid her final visit. "It looked so
beautiful," she said. "I could not believe it was the last time I was to see it.
An organ, accompanied by a fine and powerful wind instrument called the
sommerophone, was being played, and it nearly upset me. The canvas is
very dirty, the red curtains are faded and many things are very much soiled,
still the effect is fresh and new as ever and most beautiful. The glass
fountain was already removed... and the sappers and miners were rolling
about the little boxes just as they did at the beginning. It made us all very
melancholy." But more cheerful thoughts followed. When all was over, she
expressed her boundless satisfaction in a dithyrambic letter to the Prime
Minister. Her beloved husband's name, she said, was for ever immortalised,
and that this was universally recognised by the country was a source to her
of immense happiness and gratitude. "She feels grateful to Providence," Her
Majesty concluded, "to have permitted her to be united to so great, so noble,
so excellent a Prince, and this year will ever remain the proudest and
happiest of her life. The day of the closing of the Exhibition (which the
Queen regretted much she could not witness), was the twelfth anniversary
of her betrothal to the Prince, which is a curious coincidence."

CHAPTER V. LORD PALMERSTON
I

In 1851 the Prince's fortunes reached their high-water mark. The success
of the Great Exhibition enormously increased his reputation and seemed to
assure him henceforward a leading place in the national life. But before the
year was out another triumph, in a very different sphere of action, was also
his. This triumph, big with fateful consequences, was itself the outcome of a
series of complicated circumstances which had been gathering to a climax
for many years.
The unpopularity of Albert in high society had not diminished with time.
Aristocratic persons continued to regard him with disfavour; and he on his
side, withdrew further and further into a contemptuous reserve. For a
moment, indeed, it appeared as if the dislike of the upper classes was about
to be suddenly converted into cordiality; for they learnt with amazement
that the Prince, during a country visit, had ridden to hounds and acquitted
himself remarkably well. They had always taken it for granted that his
horsemanship was of some second-rate foreign quality, and here he was
jumping five-barred gates and tearing after the fox as if he had been born
and bred in Leicestershire. They could hardly believe it; was it possible that
they had made a mistake, and that Albert was a good fellow after all? Had
he wished to be thought so he would certainly have seized this opportunity,
purchased several hunters, and used them constantly. But he had no such
desire; hunting bored him, and made Victoria nervous. He continued, as
before, to ride, as he himself put it, for exercise or convenience, not for
amusement; and it was agreed that though the Prince, no doubt, could keep
in his saddle well enough, he was no sportsman.
This was a serious matter. It was not merely that Albert was laughed at by
fine ladies and sneered at by fine gentlemen; it was not merely that Victoria,
who before her marriage had cut some figure in society, had, under her
husband's influence, almost completely given it up. Since Charles the
Second the sovereigns of England had, with a single exception, always been
unfashionable; and the fact that the exception was George the Fourth

seemed to give an added significance to the rule. What was grave was not
the lack of fashion, but the lack of other and more important qualities. The
hostility of the upper classes was symptomatic of an antagonism more
profound than one of manners or even of tastes. The Prince, in a word, was
un-English. What that word precisely meant it was difficult to say; but the
fact was patent to every eye. Lord Palmerston, also, was not fashionable;
the great Whig aristocrats looked askance at him, and only tolerated him as
an unpleasant necessity thrust upon them by fate. But Lord Palmerston was
English through and through, there was something in him that expressed,
with extraordinary vigour, the fundamental qualities of the English race.
And he was the very antithesis of the Prince. By a curious chance it so
happened that this typical Englishman was brought into closer contact than
any other of his countrymen with the alien from over the sea. It thus fell out
that differences which, in more fortunate circumstances, might have been
smoothed away and obliterated, became accentuated to the highest pitch.
All the mysterious forces in Albert's soul leapt out to do battle with his
adversary, and, in the long and violent conflict that followed, it almost
seemed as if he was struggling with England herself.
Palmerston's whole life had been spent in the government of the country.
At twenty-two he had been a Minister; at twenty-five he had been offered
the Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which, with that prudence which
formed so unexpected a part of his character, he had declined to accept. His
first spell of office had lasted uninterruptedly for twenty-one years. When
Lord Grey came into power he received the Foreign Secretaryship, a post
which he continued to occupy, with two intervals, for another twenty-one
years. Throughout this period his reputation with the public had steadily
grown, and when, in 1846, he became Foreign Secretary for the third time,
his position in the country was almost, if not quite, on an equality with that
of the Prime Minister, Lord John Russell. He was a tall, big man of sixty-
two, with a jaunty air, a large face, dyed whiskers, and a long sardonic
upper lip. His private life was far from respectable, but he had greatly
strengthened his position in society by marrying, late in life, Lady Cowper,
the sister of Lord Melbourne, and one of the most influential of the Whig
hostesses. Powerful, experienced, and supremely self-confident, he
naturally paid very little attention to Albert. Why should he? The Prince
was interested in foreign affairs? Very well, then; let the Prince pay
attention to him—to him, who had been a Cabinet Minister when Albert

was in the cradle, who was the chosen leader of a great nation, and who had
never failed in anything he had undertaken in the whole course of his life.
Not that he wanted the Prince's attention—far from it: so far as he could
see, Albert was merely a young foreigner, who suffered from having no
vices, and whose only claim to distinction was that he had happened to
marry the Queen of England. This estimate, as he found out to his cost, was
a mistaken one. Albert was by no means insignificant, and, behind Albert,
there was another figure by no means insignificant either—there was
Stockmar.
But Palmerston, busy with his plans, his ambitions, and the management
of a great department, brushed all such considerations on one side; it was
his favourite method of action. He lived by instinct—by a quick eye and a
strong hand, a dexterous management of every crisis as it arose, a half-
unconscious sense of the vital elements in a situation. He was very bold;
and nothing gave him more exhilaration than to steer the ship of state in a
high wind, on a rough sea, with every stitch of canvas on her that she could
carry. But there is a point beyond which boldness becomes rashness—a
point perceptible only to intuition and not to reason; and beyond that point
Palmerston never went. When he saw that the cast demanded it, he could go
slow—very slow indeed in fact, his whole career, so full of vigorous
adventure, was nevertheless a masterly example of the proverb, "tout vient
a point a qui sait attendre." But when he decided to go quick, nobody went
quicker. One day, returning from Osborne, he found that he had missed the
train to London; he ordered a special, but the station master told him that to
put a special train upon the line at that time of day would be dangerous and
he could not allow it. Palmerston insisted declaring that he had important
business in London, which could not wait. The station-master supported by
all the officials, continued to demur the company, he said, could not
possibly take the responsibility. "On MY responsibility, then!" said
Palmerston, in his off-hand, peremptory way whereupon the station-master
ordered up the train and the Foreign Secretary reached London in time for
his work, without an accident. The story, is typical of the happy valiance
with which he conducted both his own affairs and those of the nation.
"England," he used to say, "is strong enough to brave consequences."
Apparently, under Palmerston's guidance, she was. While the officials
protested and shook in their shoes, he would wave them away with his airy
"MY responsibility!" and carry the country swiftly along the line of his

choice, to a triumphant destination—without an accident. His immense
popularity was the result partly of his diplomatic successes, partly of his
extraordinary personal affability, but chiefly of the genuine intensity with
which he responded to the feelings and supported the interests of his
countrymen. The public knew that it had in Lord Palmerston not only a
high-mettled master, but also a devoted servant—that he was, in every sense
of the word, a public man. When he was Prime Minister, he noticed that
iron hurdles had been put up on the grass in the Green Park; he immediately
wrote to the Minister responsible, ordering, in the severest language, their
instant removal, declaring that they were "an intolerable nuisance," and that
the purpose of the grass was "to be walked upon freely and without restraint
by the people, old and young, for whose enjoyment the parks are
maintained." It was in this spirit that, as Foreign Secretary, he watched over
the interests of Englishmen abroad. Nothing could be more agreeable for
Englishmen; but foreign governments were less pleased. They found Lord
Palmerston interfering, exasperating, and alarming. In Paris they spoke with
bated breath of "ce terrible milord Palmerston;" and in Germany they made
a little song about him—

"Hat der Teufel einen Sohn,
So ist er sicher Palmerston."

But their complaints, their threats, and their agitations were all in vain.
Palmerston, with his upper lip sardonically curving, braved consequences,
and held on his course.
The first diplomatic crisis which arose after his return to office, though
the Prince and the Queen were closely concerned with it, passed off without
serious disagreement between the Court and the Minister. For some years
past a curious problem had been perplexing the chanceries of Europe.
Spain, ever since the time of Napoleon a prey to civil convulsions, had
settled down for a short interval to a state of comparative quiet under the
rule of Christina, the Queen Mother, and her daughter Isabella, the young
Queen. In 1846, the question of Isabella's marriage, which had for long
been the subject of diplomatic speculations, suddenly became acute.
Various candidates for her hand were proposed—among others, two cousins
of her own, another Spanish prince, and Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg, a
first cousin of Victoria's and Albert's; for different reasons, however, none
of these young men seemed altogether satisfactory. Isabella was not yet

sixteen; and it might have been supposed that her marriage could be put off
for a few years more; but this was considered to be out of the question.
"Vous ne savez pas," said a high authority, "ce que c'est que ces princesses
espagnoles; elles ont le diable au corps, et on a toujours dit que si nous ne
nous hations pas, l'heritier viendrait avant le mari." It might also have been
supposed that the young Queen's marriage was a matter to be settled by
herself, her mother, and the Spanish Government; but this again was far
from being the case. It had become, by one of those periodical reversions to
the ways of the eighteenth century, which, it is rumoured, are still not
unknown in diplomacy, a question of dominating importance in the foreign
policies both of France and England. For several years, Louis Philippe and
his Prime Minister Guizot had been privately maturing a very subtle plan. It
was the object of the French King to repeat the glorious coup of Louis XIV,
and to abolish the Pyrenees by placing one of his grandsons on the throne of
Spain. In order to bring this about, he did not venture to suggest that his
younger son, the Duc de Montpensier, should marry Isabella; that would
have been too obvious a move, which would have raised immediate and
insurmountable opposition. He therefore proposed that Isabella should
marry her cousin, the Duke of Cadiz, while Montpensier married Isabella's
younger sister, the Infanta Fernanda; and pray, what possible objection
could there be to that? The wily old King whispered into the chaste ears of
Guizot the key to the secret; he had good reason to believe that the Duke of
Cadiz was incapable of having children, and therefore the offspring of
Fernanda would inherit the Spanish crown. Guizot rubbed his hands, and
began at once to set the necessary springs in motion; but, of course, the
whole scheme was very soon divulged and understood. The English
Government took an extremely serious view of the matter; the balance of
power was clearly at stake, and the French intrigue must be frustrated at all
hazards. A diplomatic struggle of great intensity followed; and it
occasionally appeared that a second War of the Spanish Succession was
about to break out. This was avoided, but the consequences of this strange
imbroglio were far-reaching and completely different from what any of the
parties concerned could have guessed.
In the course of the long and intricate negotiations there was one point
upon which Louis Philippe laid a special stress—the candidature of Prince
Leopold of Saxe-Coburg. The prospect of a marriage between a Coburg
Prince and the Queen of Spain was, he declared, at least as threatening to

the balance of power in Europe as that of a marriage between the Duc de
Montpensier and the Infanta; and, indeed, there was much to be said for this
contention. The ruin which had fallen upon the House of Coburg during the
Napoleonic wars had apparently only served to multiply its vitality, for that
princely family had by now extended itself over Europe in an extraordinary
manner. King Leopold was firmly fixed in Belgium; his niece was Queen of
England; one of his nephews was the husband of the Queen of England, and
another the husband of the Queen of Portugal; yet another was Duke of
Wurtemberg. Where was this to end? There seemed to be a Coburg Trust
ready to send out one of its members at any moment to fill up any vacant
place among the ruling families of Europe. And even beyond Europe there
were signs of this infection spreading. An American who had arrived in
Brussels had assured King Leopold that there was a strong feeling in the
United States in favour of monarchy instead of the misrule of mobs, and
had suggested, to the delight of His Majesty, that some branch of the
Coburg family might be available for the position. That danger might,
perhaps, be remote; but the Spanish danger was close at hand; and if Prince
Leopold were to marry Queen Isabella the position of France would be one
of humiliation, if not of positive danger. Such were the asseverations of
Louis Philippe. The English Government had no wish to support Prince
Leopold, and though Albert and Victoria had some hankerings for the
match, the wisdom of Stockmar had induced them to give up all thoughts of
it. The way thus seemed open for a settlement: England would be
reasonable about Leopold, if France would be reasonable about
Montpensier. At the Chateau d'Eu, the agreement was made, in a series of
conversations between the King and Guizot on the one side, and the Queen,
the Prince, and Lord Aberdeen on the other. Aberdeen, as Foreign Minister,
declared that England would neither recognise nor support Prince Leopold
as a candidate for the hand of the Queen of Spain; while Louis Philippe
solemnly promised, both to Aberdeen and to Victoria, that the Duc de
Montpensier should not marry the Infanta Fernanda until after the Queen
was married and had issue. All went well, and the crisis seemed to be over,
when the whole question was suddenly re-opened by Palmerston, who had
succeeded Aberdeen at the Foreign Office. In a despatch to the English
Minister at Madrid, he mentioned, in a list of possible candidates for Queen
Isabella's hand, Prince Leopold of Coburg; and at the same time he took
occasion to denounce in violent language the tyranny and incompetence of

the Spanish Government. This despatch, indiscreet in any case, was
rendered infinitely more so by being communicated to Guizot. Louis
Philippe saw his opportunity and pounced on it. Though there was nothing
in Palmerston's language to show that he either recognised or supported
Prince Leopold, the King at once assumed that the English had broken their
engagement, and that he was therefore free to do likewise. He then sent the
despatch to the Queen Mother, declared that the English were intriguing for
the Coburg marriage, bade her mark the animosity of Palmerston against the
Spanish Government, and urged her to escape from her difficulties and
ensure the friendship of France by marrying Isabella to the Duke of Cadiz
and Fernanda to Montpensier. The Queen Mother, alarmed and furious, was
easily convinced. There was only one difficulty: Isabella loathed the very
sight of her cousin. But this was soon surmounted; there was a wild supper-
party at the Palace, and in the course of it the young girl was induced to
consent to anything that was asked of her. Shortly after, and on the same
day, both the marriages took place.
The news burst like a bomb on the English Government, who saw with
rage and mortification that they had been completely outmanoeuvred by the
crafty King. Victoria, in particular, was outraged. Not only had she been the
personal recipient of Louis Philippe's pledge, but he had won his way to her
heart by presenting the Prince of Wales with a box of soldiers and sending
the Princess Royal a beautiful Parisian doll with eyes that opened and shut.
And now insult was added to injury. The Queen of the French wrote her a
formal letter, calmly announcing, as a family event in which she was sure
Victoria would be interested, the marriage of her son, Montpensier—"qui
ajoutera a notre bonheur interieur, le seul vrai dans ce monde, et que vous,
madame, savez si bien apprecier." But the English Queen had not long to
wait for her revenge. Within eighteen months the monarchy of Louis
Philippe, discredited, unpopular, and fatally weakened by the withdrawal of
English support, was swept into limbo, while he and his family threw
themselves as suppliant fugitives at the feet of Victoria.
II
In this affair both the Queen and the Prince had been too much occupied
with the delinquencies of Louis Philippe to have any wrath to spare for
those of Palmerston; and, indeed, on the main issue, Palmerston's attitude
and their own had been in complete agreement. But in this the case was

unique. In every other foreign complication—and they were many and
serious—during the ensuing years, the differences between the royal couple
and the Foreign Secretary were constant and profound. There was a sharp
quarrel over Portugal, where violently hostile parties were flying at each
other's throats. The royal sympathy was naturally enlisted on behalf of the
Queen and her Coburg husband, while Palmerston gave his support to the
progressive elements in the country. It was not until 1848, however, that the
strain became really serious. In that year of revolutions, when, in all
directions and with alarming frequency, crowns kept rolling off royal heads,
Albert and Victoria were appalled to find that the policy of England was
persistently directed—in Germany, in Switzerland, in Austria, in Italy, in
Sicily—so as to favour the insurgent forces. The situation, indeed, was just
such a one as the soul of Palmerston loved. There was danger and
excitement, the necessity of decision, the opportunity for action, on every
hand. A disciple of Canning, with an English gentleman's contempt and
dislike of foreign potentates deep in his heart, the spectacle of the popular
uprisings, and of the oppressors bundled ignominiously out of the palaces
they had disgraced, gave him unbounded pleasure, and he was determined
that there should be no doubt whatever, all over the Continent, on which
side in the great struggle England stood. It was not that he had the slightest
tincture in him of philosophical radicalism; he had no philosophical
tinctures of any kind; he was quite content to be inconsistent—to be a
Conservative at home and a Liberal abroad. There were very good reasons
for keeping the Irish in their places; but what had that to do with it? The
point was this—when any decent man read an account of the political
prisons in Naples his gorge rose. He did not want war; but he saw that
without war a skilful and determined use of England's power might do
much to further the cause of the Liberals in Europe. It was a difficult and a
hazardous game to play, but he set about playing it with delighted alacrity.
And then, to his intense annoyance, just as he needed all his nerve and all
possible freedom of action, he found himself being hampered and distracted
at every turn by... those people at Osborne. He saw what it was; the
opposition was systematic and informed, and the Queen alone would have
been incapable of it; the Prince was at the bottom of the whole thing. It was
exceedingly vexatious; but Palmerston was in a hurry, and could not wait;
the Prince, if he would insist upon interfering, must be brushed on one side.

Albert was very angry. He highly disapproved both of Palmerston's
policy and of his methods of action. He was opposed to absolutism; but in
his opinion Palmerston's proceedings were simply calculated to substitute
for absolutism, all over Europe, something no better and very possibly
worse—the anarchy of faction and mob violence. The dangers of this
revolutionary ferment were grave; even in England Chartism was rampant
—a sinister movement, which might at any moment upset the Constitution
and abolish the Monarchy. Surely, with such dangers at home, this was a
very bad time to choose for encouraging lawlessness abroad. He naturally
took a particular interest in Germany. His instincts, his affections, his
prepossessions, were ineradicably German; Stockmar was deeply involved
in German politics; and he had a multitude of relatives among the ruling
German families, who, from the midst of the hurly-burly of revolution,
wrote him long and agitated letters once a week. Having considered the
question of Germany's future from every point of view, he came to the
conclusion, under Stockmar's guidance, that the great aim for every lover of
Germany should be her unification under the sovereignty of Prussia. The
intricacy of the situation was extreme, and the possibilities of good or evil
which every hour might bring forth were incalculable; yet he saw with
horror that Palmerston neither understood nor cared to understand the
niceties of this momentous problem, but rushed on blindly, dealing blows to
right and left, quite—so far as he could see—without system, and even
without motive—except, indeed, a totally unreasonable distrust of the
Prussian State.
But his disagreement with the details of Palmerston's policy was in
reality merely a symptom of the fundamental differences between the
characters of the two men. In Albert's eyes Palmerston was a coarse,
reckless egotist, whose combined arrogance and ignorance must inevitably
have their issue in folly and disaster. Nothing could be more antipathetic to
him than a mind so strangely lacking in patience, in reflection, in principle,
and in the habits of ratiocination. For to him it was intolerable to think in a
hurry, to jump to slapdash decisions, to act on instincts that could not be
explained. Everything must be done in due order, with careful
premeditation; the premises of the position must first be firmly established;
and he must reach the correct conclusion by a regular series of rational
steps. In complicated questions—and what questions, rightly looked at,
were not complicated?—to commit one's thoughts to paper was the wisest

course, and it was the course which Albert, laborious though it might be,
invariably adopted. It was as well, too, to draw up a reasoned statement
after an event, as well as before it; and accordingly, whatever happened, it
was always found that the Prince had made a memorandum. On one
occasion he reduced to six pages of foolscap the substance of a confidential
conversation with Sir Robert Peel, and, having read them aloud to him,
asked him to append his signature; Sir Robert, who never liked to commit
himself, became extremely uneasy; upon which the Prince, understanding
that it was necessary to humour the singular susceptibilities of Englishmen,
with great tact dropped that particular memorandum into the fire. But as for
Palmerston, he never even gave one so much as a chance to read him a
memorandum, he positively seemed to dislike discussion; and, before one
knew where one was, without any warning whatever, he would plunge into
some hare-brained, violent project, which, as likely as not, would logically
involve a European war. Closely connected, too, with this cautious,
painstaking reasonableness of Albert's, was his desire to examine questions
thoroughly from every point of view, to go down to the roots of things, and
to act in strict accordance with some well-defined principle. Under
Stockmar's tutelage he was constantly engaged in enlarging his outlook and
in endeavouring to envisage vital problems both theoretically and
practically—both with precision and with depth. To one whose mind was
thus habitually occupied, the empirical activities of Palmerston, who had no
notion what a principle meant, resembled the incoherent vagaries of a
tiresome child. What did Palmerston know of economics, of science, of
history? What did he care for morality and education? How much
consideration had he devoted in the whole course of his life to the
improvement of the condition of the working-classes and to the general
amelioration of the human race? The answers to such questions were all too
obvious; and yet it is easy to imagine, also, what might have been
Palmerston's jaunty comment. "Ah! your Royal Highness is busy with fine
schemes and beneficent calculations exactly! Well, as for me, I must say I'm
quite satisfied with my morning's work—I've had the iron hurdles taken out
of the Green Park."
The exasperating man, however, preferred to make no comment, and to
proceed in smiling silence on his inexcusable way. The process of "brushing
on one side" very soon came into operation. Important Foreign Office
despatches were either submitted to the Queen so late that there was no time

to correct them, or they were not submitted to her at all; or, having been
submitted, and some passage in them being objected to and an alteration
suggested, they were after all sent off in their original form. The Queen
complained, the Prince complained: both complained together. It was quite
useless. Palmerston was most apologetic—could not understand how it had
occurred—must give the clerks a wigging—certainly Her Majesty's wishes
should be attended to, and such a thing should never happen again. But, of
course, it very soon happened again, and the royal remonstrances
redoubled. Victoria, her partisan passions thoroughly aroused, imported into
her protests a personal vehemence which those of Albert lacked. Did Lord
Palmerston forget that she was Queen of England? How could she tolerate a
state of affairs in which despatches written in her name were sent abroad
without her approval or even her knowledge? What could be more
derogatory to her position than to be obliged to receive indignant letters
from the crowned heads to whom those despatches were addressed—letters
which she did not know how to answer, since she so thoroughly agreed with
them? She addressed herself to the Prime Minister. "No remonstrance has
any effect with Lord Palmerston," she said. "Lord Palmerston," she told him
on another occasion, "has as usual pretended not to have had time to submit
the draft to the Queen before he had sent it off." She summoned Lord John
to her presence, poured out her indignation, and afterwards, on the advice of
Albert, noted down what had passed in a memorandum: "I said that I
thought that Lord Palmerston often endangered the honour of England by
taking a very prejudiced and one-sided view of a question; that his writings
were always as bitter as gall and did great harm, which Lord John entirely
assented to, and that I often felt quite ill from anxiety." Then she turned to
her uncle. "The state of Germany," she wrote in a comprehensive and
despairing review of the European situation, "is dreadful, and one does feel
quite ashamed about that once really so peaceful and happy country. That
there are still good people there I am sure, but they allow themselves to be
worked upon in a frightful and shameful way. In France a crisis seems at
hand. WHAT a very bad figure we cut in this mediation! Really it is quite
immoral, with Ireland quivering in our grasp and ready to throw off her
allegiance at any moment, for us to force Austria to give up her lawful
possessions. What shall we say if Canada, Malta, etc., begin to trouble us?
It hurts me terribly." But what did Lord Palmerston care?

Lord John's position grew more and more irksome. He did not approve of
his colleague's treatment of the Queen. When he begged him to be more
careful, he was met with the reply that 28,000 despatches passed through
the Foreign Office in a single year, that, if every one of these were to be
subjected to the royal criticism, the delay would be most serious, that, as it
was, the waste of time and the worry involved in submitting drafts to the
meticulous examination of Prince Albert was almost too much for an
overworked Minister, and that, as a matter of fact, the postponement of
important decisions owing to this cause had already produced very
unpleasant diplomatic consequences. These excuses would have impressed
Lord John more favourably if he had not himself had to suffer from a
similar neglect. As often as not Palmerston failed to communicate even to
him the most important despatches. The Foreign Secretary was becoming
an almost independent power, acting on his own initiative, and swaying the
policy of England on his own responsibility. On one occasion, in 1847, he
had actually been upon the point of threatening to break off diplomatic
relations with France without consulting either the Cabinet or the Prime
Minister. And such incidents were constantly recurring. When this became
known to the Prince, he saw that his opportunity had come. If he could only
drive in to the utmost the wedge between the two statesmen, if he could
only secure the alliance of Lord John, then the suppression or the removal
of Lord Palmerston would be almost certain to follow. He set about the
business with all the pertinacity of his nature. Both he and the Queen put
every kind of pressure upon the Prime Minister. They wrote, they
harangued, they relapsed into awful silence. It occurred to them that Lord
Clarendon, an important member of the Cabinet, would be a useful channel
for their griefs. They commanded him to dine at the Palace, and, directly the
meal was over, "the Queen," as he described it afterwards, "exploded, and
went with the utmost vehemence and bitterness into the whole of
Palmerston's conduct, all the effects produced all over the world, and all her
own feelings and sentiments about it." When she had finished, the Prince
took up the tale, with less excitement, but with equal force. Lord Clarendon
found himself in an awkward situation; he disliked Palmerston's policy, but
he was his colleague, and he disapproved of the attitude of his royal hosts.
In his opinion, they were "wrong in wishing that courtiers rather than
Ministers should conduct the affairs of the country," and he thought that
they "laboured under the curious mistake that the Foreign Office was their

peculiar department, and that they had the right to control, if not to direct,
the foreign policy of England." He, therefore, with extreme politeness, gave
it to be understood that he would not commit himself in any way. But Lord
John, in reality, needed no pressure. Attacked by his Sovereign, ignored by
his Foreign Secretary, he led a miserable life. With the advent of the
dreadful Schleswig-Holstein question—the most complex in the whole
diplomatic history of Europe—his position, crushed between the upper and
the nether mill-stones, grew positively unbearable. He became anxious
above all things to get Palmerston out of the Foreign Office. But then—
supposing Palmerston refused to go?
In a memorandum made by the Prince, at about this time, of an interview
between himself, the Queen, and the Prime Minister, we catch a curious
glimpse of the states of mind of those three high personages—the anxiety
and irritation of Lord John, the vehement acrimony of Victoria, and the
reasonable animosity of Albert—drawn together, as it were, under the
shadow of an unseen Presence, the cause of that celestial anger—the gay,
portentous Palmerston. At one point in the conversation Lord John observed
that he believed the Foreign Secretary would consent to a change of offices;
Lord Palmerston, he said, realised that he had lost the Queen's confidence—
though only on public, and not on personal, grounds. But on that, the Prince
noted, "the Queen interrupted Lord John by remarking that she distrusted
him on PERSONAL grounds also, but I remarked that Lord Palmerston had
so far at least seen rightly; that he had become disagreeable to the Queen,
not on account of his person, but of his political doings—to which the
Queen assented." Then the Prince suggested that there was a danger of the
Cabinet breaking up, and of Lord Palmerston returning to office as Prime
Minister. But on that point Lord John was reassuring: he "thought Lord
Palmerston too old to do much in the future (having passed his sixty-fifth
year)." Eventually it was decided that nothing could be done for the present,
but that the UTMOST SECRECY must be observed; and so the conclave
ended.
At last, in 1850, deliverance seemed to be at hand. There were signs that
the public were growing weary of the alarums and excursions of
Palmerston's diplomacy; and when his support of Don Pacifico, a British
subject, in a quarrel with the Greek Government, seemed to be upon the
point of involving the country in a war not only with Greece but also with
France, and possibly with Russia into the bargain, a heavy cloud of distrust

and displeasure appeared to be gathering and about to burst over his head. A
motion directed against him in the House of Lords was passed by a
substantial majority. The question was next to be discussed in the House of
Commons, where another adverse vote was not improbable, and would seal
the doom of the Minister. Palmerston received the attack with complete
nonchalance, and then, at the last possible moment, he struck. In a speech of
over four hours, in which exposition, invective, argument, declamation,
plain talk and resounding eloquence were mingled together with
consummate art and extraordinary felicity, he annihilated his enemies. The
hostile motion was defeated, and Palmerston was once more the hero of the
hour. Simultaneously, Atropos herself conspired to favour him. Sir Robert
Peel was thrown from his horse and killed. By this tragic chance,
Palmerston saw the one rival great enough to cope with him removed from
his path. He judged—and judged rightly—that he was the most popular
man in England; and when Lord John revived the project of his exchanging
the Foreign Office for some other position in the Cabinet, he absolutely
refused to stir.
Great was the disappointment of Albert; great was the indignation of
Victoria. "The House of Commons," she wrote, "is becoming very
unmanageable and troublesome." The Prince, perceiving that Palmerston
was more firmly fixed in the saddle than ever, decided that something
drastic must be done. Five months before, the prescient Baron had drawn
up, in case of emergency, a memorandum, which had been carefully
docketed, and placed in a pigeon-hole ready to hand. The emergency had
now arisen, and the memorandum must be used. The Queen copied out the
words of Stockmar, and sent them to the Prime Minister, requesting him to
show her letter to Palmerston. "She thinks it right," she wrote, "in order TO
PREVENT ANY MISTAKE for the FUTURE, shortly to explain WHAT IT
IS SHE EXPECTS FROM HER FOREIGN SECRETARY. She requires: (1)
That he will distinctly state what he proposes in a given case, in order that
the Queen may know as distinctly to WHAT she has given her Royal
sanction; (2) Having ONCE GIVEN her sanction to a measure, that it be not
arbitrarily altered or modified by the Minister; such an act she must
consider as failing in sincerity towards the Crown, and justly to be visited
by the exercise of her Constitutional right of dismissing that Minister." Lord
John Russell did as he was bid, and forwarded the Queen's letter to Lord

Palmerston. This transaction, which was of grave constitutional
significance, was entirely unknown to the outside world.
If Palmerston had been a sensitive man, he would probably have resigned
on the receipt of the Queen's missive. But he was far from sensitive; he
loved power, and his power was greater than ever; an unerring instinct told
him that this was not the time to go. Nevertheless, he was seriously
perturbed. He understood at last that he was struggling with a formidable
adversary, whose skill and strength, unless they were mollified, might do
irreparable injury to his career. He therefore wrote to Lord John, briefly
acquiescing in the Queen's requirements—"I have taken a copy of this
memorandum of the Queen and will not fail to attend to the directions
which it contains"—and at the same time, he asked for an interview with
the Prince. Albert at once summoned him to the Palace, and was astonished
to observe, as he noted in a memorandum, that when Palmerston entered the
room "he was very much agitated, shook, and had tears in his eyes, so as
quite to move me, who never under any circumstances had known him
otherwise than with a bland smile on his face." The old statesman was
profuse in protestations and excuses; the young one was coldly polite. At
last, after a long and inconclusive conversation, the Prince, drawing himself
up, said that, in order to give Lord Palmerston "an example of what the
Queen wanted," he would "ask him a question point-blank." Lord
Palmerston waited in respectful silence, while the Prince proceeded as
follows: "You are aware that the Queen has objected to the Protocol about
Schleswig, and of the grounds on which she has done so. Her opinion has
been overruled, the Protocol stating the desire of the Great Powers to see
the integrity of the Danish monarchy preserved has been signed, and upon
this the King of Denmark has invaded Schleswig, where the war is raging.
If Holstein is attacked also, which is likely, the Germans will not be
restrained from flying to her assistance; Russia has menaced to interfere
with arms, if the Schleswigers are successful. What will you do, if this
emergency arises (provoking most likely an European war), and which will
arise very probably when we shall be at Balmoral and Lord John in another
part of Scotland? The Queen expects from your foresight that you have
contemplated this possibility, and requires a categorical answer as to what
you would do in the event supposed." Strangely enough, to this pointblank
question, the Foreign Secretary appeared to be unable to reply. The whole
matter, he said, was extremely complicated, and the contingencies

mentioned by His Royal Highness were very unlikely to arise. The Prince
persisted; but it was useless; for a full hour he struggled to extract a
categorical answer, until at length Palmerston bowed himself out of the
room. Albert threw up his hands in shocked amazement: what could one do
with such a man?
What indeed? For, in spite of all his apologies and all his promises,
within a few weeks the incorrigible reprobate was at his tricks again. The
Austrian General Haynau, notorious as a rigorous suppressor of rebellion in
Hungary and Italy, and in particular as a flogger of women, came to
England and took it into his head to pay a visit to Messrs. Barclay and
Perkins's brewery. The features of "General Hyena," as he was everywhere
called—his grim thin face, his enormous pepper-and-salt moustaches—had
gained a horrid celebrity; and it so happened that among the clerks at the
brewery there was a refugee from Vienna, who had given his fellow-
workers a first-hand account of the General's characteristics. The Austrian
Ambassador, scenting danger, begged his friend not to appear in public, or,
if he must do so, to cut off his moustaches first. But the General would take
no advice. He went to the brewery, was immediately recognised,
surrounded by a crowd of angry draymen, pushed about, shouted at,
punched in the ribs, and pulled by the moustaches until, bolting down an
alley with the mob at his heels brandishing brooms and roaring "Hyena!" he
managed to take refuge in a public house, whence he was removed under
the protection of several policemen. The Austrian Government was angry
and demanded explanations. Palmerston, who, of course, was privately
delighted by the incident, replied regretting what had occurred, but adding
that in his opinion the General had "evinced a want of propriety in coming
to England at the present moment;" and he delivered his note to the
Ambassador without having previously submitted it to the Queen or to the
Prime Minister. Naturally, when this was discovered, there was a serious
storm. The Prince was especially indignant; the conduct of the draymen he
regarded, with disgust and alarm, as "a slight foretaste of what an
unregulated mass of illiterate people is capable;" and Palmerston was
requested by Lord John to withdraw his note, and to substitute for it another
from which all censure of the General had been omitted. On this the
Foreign Secretary threatened resignation, but the Prime Minister was firm.
For a moment the royal hopes rose high, only to be dashed to the ground
again by the cruel compliance of the enemy. Palmerston, suddenly lamblike,

agreed to everything; the note was withdrawn and altered, and peace was
patched up once more.
It lasted for a year, and then, in October, 1851, the arrival of Kossuth in
England brought on another crisis. Palmerston's desire to receive the
Hungarian patriot at his house in London was vetoed by Lord John; once
more there was a sharp struggle; once more Palmerston, after threatening
resignation, yielded. But still the insubordinate man could not keep quiet. A
few weeks later a deputation of Radicals from Finsbury and Islington
waited on him at the Foreign Office and presented him with an address, in
which the Emperors of Austria and Russia were stigmatised as "odious and
detestable assassins" and "merciless tyrants and despots." The Foreign
Secretary in his reply, while mildly deprecating these expressions, allowed
his real sentiments to appear with a most undiplomatic insouciance There
was an immediate scandal, and the Court flowed over with rage and
vituperation. "I think," said the Baron, "the man has been for some time
insane." Victoria, in an agitated letter, urged Lord John to assert his
authority. But Lord John perceived that on this matter the Foreign Secretary
had the support of public opinion, and he judged it wiser to bide his time.
He had not long to wait. The culmination of the long series of conflicts,
threats, and exacerbations came before the year was out. On December 2,
Louis Napoleon's coup d'etat took place in Paris; and on the following day
Palmerston, without consulting anybody, expressed in a conversation with
the French Ambassador his approval of Napoleon's act. Two days later, he
was instructed by the Prime Minister, in accordance with a letter from the
Queen, that it was the policy of the English Government to maintain an
attitude of strict neutrality towards the affairs of France. Nevertheless, in an
official despatch to the British Ambassador in Paris, he repeated the
approval of the coup d'etat which he had already given verbally to the
French Ambassador in London. This despatch was submitted neither to the
Queen nor to the Prime Minister. Lord John's patience, as he himself said,
"was drained to the last drop." He dismissed Lord Palmerston.
Victoria was in ecstasies; and Albert knew that the triumph was his even
more than Lord John's. It was his wish that Lord Granville, a young man
whom he believed to be pliant to his influence, should be Palmerston's
successor; and Lord Granville was appointed. Henceforward, it seemed that
the Prince would have his way in foreign affairs. After years of struggle and

mortification, success greeted him on every hand. In his family, he was an
adored master; in the country, the Great Exhibition had brought him respect
and glory; and now in the secret seats of power he had gained a new
supremacy. He had wrestled with the terrible Lord Palmerston, the
embodiment of all that was most hostile to him in the spirit of England, and
his redoubtable opponent had been overthrown. Was England herself at his
feet? It might be so; and yet... it is said that the sons of England have a
certain tiresome quality: they never know when they are beaten. It was odd,
but Palmerston was positively still jaunty. Was it possible? Could he
believe, in his blind arrogance, that even his ignominious dismissal from
office was something that could be brushed aside?
III
The Prince's triumph was short-lived. A few weeks later, owing to
Palmerston's influence, the Government was defeated in the House, and
Lord John resigned. Then, after a short interval, a coalition between the
Whigs and the followers of Peel came into power, under the premiership of
Lord Aberdeen. Once more, Palmerston was in the Cabinet. It was true that
he did not return to the Foreign Office; that was something to the good; in
the Home Department it might be hoped that his activities would be less
dangerous and disagreeable. But the Foreign Secretary was no longer the
complacent Granville; and in Lord Clarendon the Prince knew that he had a
Minister to deal with, who, discreet and courteous as he was, had a mind of
his own. These changes, however, were merely the preliminaries of a far
more serious development.
Events, on every side, were moving towards a catastrophe. Suddenly the
nation found itself under the awful shadow of imminent war. For several
months, amid the shifting mysteries of diplomacy and the perplexed
agitations of politics, the issue grew more doubtful and more dark, while
the national temper was strained to the breaking-point. At the very crisis of
the long and ominous negotiations, it was announced that Lord Palmerston
had resigned. Then the pent-up fury of the people burst forth. They had felt
that in the terrible complexity of events they were being guided by weak
and embarrassed counsels; but they had been reassured by the knowledge
that at the centre of power there was one man with strength, with courage,
with determination, in whom they could put their trust. They now learnt that
that man was no longer among their leaders. Why? In their rage, anxiety,

and nervous exhaustion, they looked round desperately for some hidden and
horrible explanation of what had occurred. They suspected plots, they smelt
treachery in the air. It was easy to guess the object upon which their frenzy
would vent itself. Was there not a foreigner in the highest of high places, a
foreigner whose hostility to their own adored champion was unrelenting
and unconcealed? The moment that Palmerston's resignation was known,
there was a universal outcry and an extraordinary tempest of anger and
hatred burst, with unparalleled violence, upon the head of the Prince.
It was everywhere asserted and believed that the Queen's husband was a
traitor to the country, that he was a tool of the Russian Court, that in
obedience to Russian influences he had forced Palmerston out of the
Government, and that he was directing the foreign policy of England in the
interests of England's enemies. For many weeks these accusations filled the
whole of the press; repeated at public meetings, elaborated in private talk,
they flew over the country, growing every moment more extreme and more
improbable. While respectable newspapers thundered out their grave
invectives, halfpenny broadsides, hawked through the streets of London, re-
echoed in doggerel vulgarity the same sentiments and the same
suspicions(*). At last the wildest rumours began to spread.

(*)"The Turkish war both far and near
Has played the very deuce then,
And little Al, the royal pal,
They say has turned a Russian;
Old Aberdeen, as may be seen,
Looks woeful pale and yellow,
And Old John Bull had his belly full
Of dirty Russian tallow."

Chorus:
"We'll send him home and make him groan,
Oh, Al! you've played the deuce then;
The German lad has acted sad
And turned tail with the Russians."

"Last Monday night, all in a fright,
Al out of bed did tumble.
The German lad was raving mad,
How he did groan and grumble!
He cried to Vic, 'I've cut my stick:
To St. Petersburg go right slap.'
When Vic, 'tis said, jumped out of bed,
And wopped him with her night-cap."

From Lovely Albert! a broadside preserved at the British Museum.
In January, 1854, it was whispered that the Prince had been seized, that
he had been found guilty of high treason, that he was to be committed to the
Tower. The Queen herself, some declared, had been arrested, and large
crowds actually collected round the Tower to watch the incarceration of the
royal miscreants.(*)

(*)"You Jolly Turks, now go to work,
And show the Bear your power.
It is rumoured over Britain's isle
That A——— is in the Tower;
The postmen some suspicion had,
And opened the two letters,
'Twas a pity sad the German lad
Should not have known much better!"
Lovely Albert!

These fantastic hallucinations, the result of the fevered atmosphere of
approaching war, were devoid of any basis in actual fact. Palmerston's
resignation had been in all probability totally disconnected with foreign
policy; it had certainly been entirely spontaneous, and had surprised the
Court as much as the nation. Nor had Albert's influence been used in any
way to favour the interests of Russia. As often happens in such cases, the
Government had been swinging backwards and forwards between two
incompatible policies—that of non-interference and that of threats
supported by force—either of which, if consistently followed, might well
have had a successful and peaceful issue, but which, mingled together,
could only lead to war. Albert, with characteristic scrupulosity, attempted to
thread his way through the complicated labyrinth of European diplomacy,
and eventually was lost in the maze. But so was the whole of the Cabinet;
and, when war came, his anti-Russian feelings were quite as vehement as
those of the most bellicose of Englishmen.
Nevertheless, though the specific charges levelled against the Prince were
without foundation, there were underlying elements in the situation which
explained, if they did not justify, the popular state of mind. It was true that
the Queen's husband was a foreigner, who had been brought up in a foreign
Court, was impregnated with foreign ideas, and was closely related to a
multitude of foreign princes. Clearly this, though perhaps an unavoidable,
was an undesirable, state of affairs; nor were the objections to it merely
theoretical; it had in fact produced unpleasant consequences of a serious
kind. The Prince's German proclivities were perpetually lamented by

English Ministers; Lord Palmerston, Lord Clarendon, Lord Aberdeen, all
told the same tale; and it was constantly necessary, in grave questions of
national policy, to combat the prepossessions of a Court in which German
views and German sentiments held a disproportionate place. As for
Palmerston, his language on this topic was apt to be unbridled. At the height
of his annoyance over his resignation, he roundly declared that he had been
made a victim to foreign intrigue. He afterwards toned down this
accusation; but the mere fact that such a suggestion from such a quarter was
possible at all showed to what unfortunate consequences Albert's foreign
birth and foreign upbringing might lead.
But this was not all. A constitutional question of the most profound
importance was raised by the position of the Prince in England. His
presence gave a new prominence to an old problem—the precise definition
of the functions and the powers of the Crown. Those functions and powers
had become, in effect, his; and what sort of use was he making of them? His
views as to the place of the Crown in the Constitution are easily
ascertainable; for they were Stockmar's; and it happens that we possess a
detailed account of Stockmar's opinions upon the subject in a long letter
addressed by him to the Prince at the time of this very crisis, just before the
outbreak of the Crimean War. Constitutional Monarchy, according to the
Baron, had suffered an eclipse since the passing of the Reform Bill. It was
now "constantly in danger of becoming a pure Ministerial Government."
The old race of Tories, who "had a direct interest in upholding the
prerogatives of the Crown," had died out; and the Whigs were "nothing but
partly conscious, partly unconscious Republicans, who stand in the same
relation to the Throne as the wolf does to the lamb." There was a rule that it
was unconstitutional to introduce "the name and person of the irresponsible
Sovereign" into parliamentary debates on constitutional matters; this was "a
constitutional fiction, which, although undoubtedly of old standing, was
fraught with danger"; and the Baron warned the Prince that "if the English
Crown permit a Whig Ministry to follow this rule in practice, without
exception, you must not wonder if in a little time you find the majority of
the people impressed with the belief that the King, in the view of the law, is
nothing but a mandarin figure, which has to nod its head in assent, or shake
it in denial, as his Minister pleases." To prevent this from happening, it was
of extreme importance, said the Baron, "that no opportunity should be let
slip of vindicating the legitimate position of the Crown." "And this is not

hard to do," he added, "and can never embarrass a Minister where such
straightforward loyal personages as the Queen and the Prince are
concerned." In his opinion, the very lowest claim of the Royal Prerogative
should include "a right on the part of the King to be the permanent
President of his Ministerial Council." The Sovereign ought to be "in the
position of a permanent Premier, who takes rank above the temporary head
of the Cabinet, and in matters of discipline exercises supreme authority."
The Sovereign "may even take a part in the initiation and the maturing of
the Government measures; for it would be unreasonable to expect that a
king, himself as able, as accomplished, and as patriotic as the best of his
Ministers, should be prevented from making use of these qualities at the
deliberations of his Council." "The judicious exercise of this right,"
concluded the Baron, "which certainly requires a master mind, would not
only be the best guarantee for Constitutional Monarchy, but would raise it
to a height of power, stability, and symmetry, which has never been
attained."
Now it may be that this reading of the Constitution is a possible one,
though indeed it is hard to see how it can be made compatible with the
fundamental doctrine of ministerial responsibility. William III presided over
his Council, and he was a constitutional monarch; and it seems that
Stockmar had in his mind a conception of the Crown which would have
given it a place in the Constitution analogous to that which it filled at the
time of William III. But it is clear that such a theory, which would invest the
Crown with more power than it possessed even under George III, runs
counter to the whole development of English public life since the
Revolution; and the fact that it was held by Stockmar, and instilled by him
into Albert, was of very serious importance. For there was good reason to
believe not only that these doctrines were held by Albert in theory, but that
he was making a deliberate and sustained attempt to give them practical
validity. The history of the struggle between the Crown and Palmerston
provided startling evidence that this was the case. That struggle reached its
culmination when, in Stockmar's memorandum of 1850, the Queen asserted
her "constitutional right" to dismiss the Foreign Secretary if he altered a
despatch which had received her sanction. The memorandum was, in fact, a
plain declaration that the Crown intended to act independently of the Prime
Minister. Lord John Russell, anxious at all costs to strengthen himself
against Palmerston, accepted the memorandum, and thereby implicitly

allowed the claim of the Crown. More than that; after the dismissal of
Palmerston, among the grounds on which Lord John justified that dismissal
in the House of Commons he gave a prominent place to the memorandum
of 1850. It became apparent that the displeasure of the Sovereign might be a
reason for the removal of a powerful and popular Minister. It seemed indeed
as if, under the guidance of Stockmar and Albert, the "Constitutional
Monarchy" might in very truth be rising "to a height of power, stability, and
symmetry, which had never been attained."
But this new development in the position of the Crown, grave as it was in
itself, was rendered peculiarly disquieting by the unusual circumstances
which surrounded it. For the functions of the Crown were now, in effect,
being exercised by a person unknown to the Constitution, who wielded over
the Sovereign an undefined and unbounded influence. The fact that this
person was the Sovereign's husband, while it explained his influence and
even made it inevitable, by no means diminished its strange and momentous
import. An ambiguous, prepotent figure had come to disturb the ancient,
subtle, and jealously guarded balance of the English Constitution. Such had
been the unexpected outcome of the tentative and fainthearted opening of
Albert's political life. He himself made no attempt to minimise either the
multiplicity or the significance of the functions he performed. He
considered that it was his duty, he told the Duke of Wellington in 1850, to
"sink his OWN INDIVIDUAL existence in that of his wife—assume no
separate responsibility before the public, but make his position entirely a
part of hers—fill up every gap which, as a woman, she would naturally
leave in the exercise of her regal functions—continually and anxiously
watch every part of the public business, in order to be able to advise and
assist her at any moment in any of the multifarious and difficult questions
or duties brought before her, sometimes international, sometimes political,
or social, or personal. As the natural head of her family, superintendent of
her household, manager of her private affairs, sole CONFIDENTIAL
adviser in politics, and only assistant in her communications with the
officers of the Government, he is, besides, the husband of the Queen, the
tutor of the royal children, the private secretary of the Sovereign, and her
permanent minister." Stockmar's pupil had assuredly gone far and learnt
well. Stockmar's pupil!—precisely; the public, painfully aware of Albert's
predominance, had grown, too, uneasily conscious that Victoria's master
had a master of his own. Deep in the darkness the Baron loomed. Another

foreigner! Decidedly, there were elements in the situation which went far to
justify the popular alarm. A foreign Baron controlled a foreign Prince, and
the foreign Prince controlled the Crown of England. And the Crown itself
was creeping forward ominously; and when, from under its shadow, the
Baron and the Prince had frowned, a great Minister, beloved of the people,
had fallen. Where was all this to end?
Within a few weeks Palmerston withdrew his resignation, and the public
frenzy subsided as quickly as it had arisen. When Parliament met, the
leaders of both the parties in both the Houses made speeches in favour of
the Prince, asserting his unimpeachable loyalty to the country and
vindicating his right to advise the Sovereign in all matters of State. Victoria
was delighted. "The position of my beloved lord and master," she told the
Baron, "has been defined for once amid all and his merits have been
acknowledged on all sides most duly. There was an immense concourse of
people assembled when we went to the House of Lords, and the people
were very friendly." Immediately afterwards, the country finally plunged
into the Crimean War. In the struggle that followed, Albert's patriotism was
put beyond a doubt, and the animosities of the past were forgotten. But the
war had another consequence, less gratifying to the royal couple: it crowned
the ambition of Lord Palmerston. In 1855, the man who five years before
had been pronounced by Lord John Russell to be "too old to do much in the
future," became Prime Minister of England, and, with one short interval,
remained in that position for ten years.

CHAPTER VI. LAST YEARS OF PRINCE
CONSORT
I

The weak-willed youth who took no interest in polities and never read a
newspaper had grown into a man of unbending determination whose tireless
energies were incessantly concentrated upon the laborious business of
government and the highest questions of State. He was busy now from
morning till night. In the winter, before the dawn, he was to be seen, seated
at his writing-table, working by the light of the green reading—lamp which
he had brought over with him from Germany, and the construction of which
he had much improved by an ingenious device. Victoria was early too, but
she was not so early as Albert; and when, in the chill darkness, she took her
seat at her own writing-table, placed side by side with his, she invariably
found upon it a neat pile of papers arranged for her inspection and her
signature. The day, thus begun, continued in unremitting industry. At
breakfast, the newspapers—the once hated newspapers—made their
appearance, and the Prince, absorbed in their perusal, would answer no
questions, or, if an article struck him, would read it aloud. After, that there
were ministers and secretaries to interview; there was a vast correspondence
to be carried on; there were numerous memoranda to be made. Victoria,
treasuring every word, preserving every letter, was all breathless attention
and eager obedience. Sometimes Albert would actually ask her advice. He
consulted her about his English: "Lese recht aufmerksam, und sage wenn
irgend ein Fehler ist,"(*) he would say; or, as he handed her a draft for her
signature, he would observe, "Ich hab' Dir hier ein Draft gemacht, lese es
mal! Ich dachte es ware recht so."(**) Thus the diligent, scrupulous,
absorbing hours passed by. Fewer and fewer grew the moments of
recreation and of exercise. The demands of society were narrowed down to
the smallest limits, and even then but grudgingly attended to. It was no
longer a mere pleasure, it was a positive necessity, to go to bed as early as
possible in order to be up and at work on the morrow betimes.

(*) "Read this carefully, and tell me if there are any
mistakes in it."

(**) "Here is a draft I have made for you. Read it. I should
think this would do."

The important and exacting business of government, which became at
last the dominating preoccupation in Albert's mind, still left unimpaired his
old tastes and interests; he remained devoted to art, to science, to
philosophy, and a multitude of subsidiary activities showed how his
energies increased as the demands upon them grew. For whenever duty
called, the Prince was all alertness. With indefatigable perseverance he
opened museums, laid the foundation stones of hospitals, made speeches to
the Royal Agricultural Society, and attended meetings of the British
Association. The National Gallery particularly interested him: he drew up
careful regulations for the arrangement of the pictures according to schools;
and he attempted—though in vain—to have the whole collection
transported to South Kensington. Feodora, now the Princess Hohenlohe,
after a visit to England, expressed in a letter to Victoria her admiration of
Albert both as a private and a public character. Nor did she rely only on her
own opinion. "I must just copy out," she said, "what Mr. Klumpp wrote to
me some little time ago, and which is quite true—'Prince Albert is one of
the few Royal personages who can sacrifice to any principle (as soon as it
has become evident to them to be good and noble) all those notions (or
sentiments) to which others, owing to their narrow-mindedness, or to the
prejudices of their rank, are so thoroughly inclined strongly to cling.' There
is something so truly religious in this," the Princess added, "as well as
humane and just, most soothing to my feelings which are so often hurt and
disturbed by what I hear and see."
Victoria, from the depth of her heart, subscribed to all the eulogies of
Feodora and Mr. Klumpp. She only found that they were insufficient. As
she watched her beloved Albert, after toiling with state documents and
public functions, devoting every spare moment of his time to domestic
duties, to artistic appreciation, and to intellectual improvements; as she
listened to him cracking his jokes at the luncheon table, or playing
Mendelssohn on the organ, or pointing out the merits of Sir Edwin
Landseer's pictures; as she followed him round while he gave instructions
about the breeding of cattle, or decided that the Gainsboroughs must be
hung higher up so that the Winterhalters might be properly seen—she felt

perfectly certain that no other wife had ever had such a husband. His mind
was apparently capable of everything, and she was hardly surprised to learn
that he had made an important discovery for the conversion of sewage into
agricultural manure. Filtration from below upwards, he explained, through
some appropriate medium, which retained the solids and set free the fluid
sewage for irrigation, was the principle of the scheme. "All previous plans,"
he said, "would have cost millions; mine costs next to nothing."
Unfortunately, owing to a slight miscalculation, the invention proved to be
impracticable; but Albert's intelligence was unrebuffed, and he passed on, to
plunge with all his accustomed ardour into a prolonged study of the
rudiments of lithography.
But naturally it was upon his children that his private interests and those
of Victoria were concentrated most vigorously. The royal nurseries showed
no sign of emptying. The birth of the Prince Arthur in 1850 was followed,
three years later, by that of the Prince Leopold; and in 1857 the Princess
Beatrice was born. A family of nine must be, in any circumstances, a grave
responsibility; and the Prince realised to the full how much the high
destinies of his offspring intensified the need of parental care. It was
inevitable that he should believe profoundly in the importance of education;
he himself had been the product of education; Stockmar had made him what
he was; it was for him, in his turn, to be a Stockmar—to be even more than
a Stockmar—to the young creatures he had brought into the world. Victoria
would assist him; a Stockmar, no doubt, she could hardly be; but she could
be perpetually vigilant, she could mingle strictness with her affection, and
she could always set a good example. These considerations, of course,
applied pre-eminently to the education of the Prince of Wales. How
tremendous was the significance of every particle of influence which went
to the making of the future King of England! Albert set to work with a will.
But, watching with Victoria the minutest details of the physical, intellectual,
and moral training of his children, he soon perceived, to his distress, that
there was something unsatisfactory in the development of his eldest son.
The Princess Royal was an extremely intelligent child; but Bertie, though
he was good-humoured and gentle, seemed to display a deep-seated
repugnance to every form of mental exertion. This was most regrettable, but
the remedy was obvious: the parental efforts must be redoubled; instruction
must be multiplied; not for a single instant must the educational pressure be
allowed to relax. Accordingly, more tutors were selected, the curriculum

was revised, the time-table of studies was rearranged, elaborate memoranda
dealing with every possible contingency were drawn up. It was above all
essential that there should be no slackness: "Work," said the Prince, "must
be work." And work indeed it was. The boy grew up amid a ceaseless round
of paradigms, syntactical exercises, dates, genealogical tables, and lists of
capes. Constant notes flew backwards and forwards between the Prince, the
Queen, and the tutors, with inquiries, with reports of progress, with detailed
recommendations; and these notes were all carefully preserved for future
reference. It was, besides, vital that the heir to the throne should be
protected from the slightest possibility of contamination from the outside
world. The Prince of Wales was not as other boys; he might, occasionally,
be allowed to invite some sons of the nobility, boys of good character, to
play with him in the garden of Buckingham Palace; but his father presided,
with alarming precision, over their sports. In short, every possible
precaution was taken, every conceivable effort was made. Yet, strange to
say, the object of all this vigilance and solicitude continued to be
unsatisfactory—appeared, in fact, to be positively growing worse. It was
certainly very odd: the more lessons that Bertie had to do, the less he did
them; and the more carefully he was guarded against excitements and
frivolities, the more desirous of mere amusement he seemed to become.
Albert was deeply grieved and Victoria was sometimes very angry; but grief
and anger produced no more effect than supervision and time-tables. The
Prince of Wales, in spite of everything, grew up into manhood without the
faintest sign of "adherence to and perseverance in the plan both of studies
and life—" as one of the Royal memoranda put it—which had been laid
down with such extraordinary forethought by his father.
II
Against the insidious worries of politics, the boredom of society
functions, and the pompous publicity of state ceremonies, Osborne had
afforded a welcome refuge; but it soon appeared that even Osborne was too
little removed from the world. After all, the Solent was a feeble barrier. Oh,
for some distant, some almost inaccessible sanctuary, where, in true
domestic privacy, one could make happy holiday, just as if—or at least very,
very, nearly—one were anybody else! Victoria, ever since, together with
Albert, she had visited Scotland in the early years of her marriage, had felt
that her heart was in the Highlands. She had returned to them a few years
later, and her passion had grown. How romantic they were! And how Albert

enjoyed them too! His spirits rose quite wonderfully as soon as he found
himself among the hills and the conifers. "It is a happiness to see him," she
wrote. "Oh! What can equal the beauties of nature!" she exclaimed in her
journal, during one of these visits. "What enjoyment there is in them! Albert
enjoys it so much; he is in ecstasies here." "Albert said," she noted next day,
"that the chief beauty of mountain scenery consists in its frequent changes.
We came home at six o'clock." Then she went on a longer expedition—up
to the very top of a high hill. "It was quite romantic. Here we were with
only this Highlander behind us holding the ponies (for we got off twice and
walked about). . . . We came home at half-past eleven,—the most delightful,
most romantic ride and walk I ever had. I had never been up such a
mountain, and then the day was so fine." The Highlanders, too, were such
astonishing people. They "never make difficulties," she noted, "but are
cheerful, and happy, and merry, and ready to walk, and run, and do
anything." As for Albert he "highly appreciated the good-breeding,
simplicity, and intelligence, which make it so pleasant and even instructive
to talk to them." "We were always in the habit," wrote Her Majesty, "of
conversing with the Highlanders—with whom one comes so much in
contact in the Highlands." She loved everything about them—their customs,
their dress, their dances, even their musical instruments. "There were nine
pipers at the castle," she wrote after staying with Lord Breadalbane;
"sometimes one and sometimes three played. They always played about
breakfast-time, again during the morning, at luncheon, and also whenever
we went in and out; again before dinner, and during most of dinner-time.
We both have become quite fond of the bag-pipes."
It was quite impossible not to wish to return to such pleasures again and
again; and in 1848 the Queen took a lease of Balmoral House, a small
residence near Braemar in the wilds of Aberdeenshire. Four years later she
bought the place outright. Now she could be really happy every summer;
now she could be simple and at her ease; now she could be romantic every
evening, and dote upon Albert, without a single distraction, all day long.
The diminutive scale of the house was in itself a charm. Nothing was more
amusing than to find oneself living in two or three little sitting—rooms,
with the children crammed away upstairs, and the minister in attendance
with only a tiny bedroom to do all his work in. And then to be able to run in
and out of doors as one liked, and to sketch, and to walk, and to watch the
red deer coming so surprisingly close, and to pay visits to the cottagers!

And occasionally one could be more adventurous still—one could go and
stay for a night or two at the Bothie at Alt-na-giuthasach—a mere couple of
huts with "a wooden addition"—and only eleven people in the whole party!
And there were mountains to be climbed and cairns to be built in solemn
pomp. "At last, when the cairn, which is, I think, seven or eight feet high,
was nearly completed, Albert climbed up to the top of it, and placed the last
stone; after which three cheers were given. It was a gay, pretty, and
touching sight; and I felt almost inclined to cry. The view was so beautiful
over the dear hills; the day so fine; the whole so gemuthlich." And in the
evening there were sword-dances and reels.
But Albert had determined to pull down the little old house, and to build
in its place a castle of his own designing. With great ceremony, in
accordance with a memorandum drawn up by the Prince for the occasion,
the foundation-stone of the new edifice was laid, and by 1855 it was
habitable. Spacious, built of granite in the Scotch baronial style, with a
tower 100 feet high, and minor turrets and castellated gables, the castle was
skilfully arranged to command the finest views of the surrounding
mountains and of the neighbouring river Dee. Upon the interior decorations
Albert and Victoria lavished all their care. The wall and the floors were of
pitch-pine, and covered with specially manufactured tartars. The Balmoral
tartan, in red and grey, designed by the Prince, and the Victoria tartan, with
a white stripe, designed by the Queen, were to be seen in every room: there
were tartan curtains, and tartan chair-covers, and even tartan linoleums.
Occasionally the Royal Stuart tartan appeared, for Her Majesty always
maintained that she was an ardent Jacobite. Water-colour sketches by
Victoria hung upon the walls, together with innumerable stags' antlers, and
the head of a boar, which had been shot by Albert in Germany. In an alcove
in the hall, stood a life-sized statue of Albert in Highland dress.
Victoria declared that it was perfection. "Every year," she wrote, "my
heart becomes more fixed in this dear paradise, and so much more so now,
that ALL has become my dear Albert's own creation, own work, own
building, own lay-out... and his great taste, and the impress of his dear hand,
have been stamped everywhere."
And here, in very truth, her happiest days were passed. In after years,
when she looked back upon them, a kind of glory, a radiance as of an
unearthly holiness, seemed to glow about these golden hours. Each

hallowed moment stood out clear, beautiful, eternally significant. For, at the
time, every experience there, sentimental, or grave, or trivial, had come
upon her with a peculiar vividness, like a flashing of marvellous lights.
Albert's stalkings—an evening walk when she lost her way—Vicky sitting
down on a wasps' nest—a torchlight dance—with what intensity such
things, and ten thousand like them, impressed themselves upon her eager
consciousness! And how she flew to her journal to note them down! The
news of the Duke's death! What a moment—when, as she sat sketching
after a picnic by a loch in the lonely hills, Lord Derby's letter had been
brought to her, and she had learnt that "ENGLAND'S, or rather BRITAIN'S
pride, her glory, her hero, the greatest man she had ever produced, was no
more!" For such were here reflections upon the "old rebel" of former days.
But that past had been utterly obliterated—no faintest memory of it
remained. For years she had looked up to the Duke as a figure almost
superhuman. Had he not been a supporter of good Sir Robert? Had he not
asked Albert to succeed him as commander-in-chief? And what a proud
moment it had been when he stood as sponsor to her son Arthur, who was
born on his eighty-first birthday! So now she filled a whole page of her
diary with panegyrical regrets. "His position was the highest a subject ever
had—above party—looked up to by all—revered by the whole nation—the
friend of the Sovereign... The Crown never possessed—and I fear never
WILL—so DEVOTED, loyal, and faithful a subject, so staunch a supporter!
To US his loss is IRREPARABLE... To Albert he showed the greatest
kindness and the utmost confidence... Not an eye will be dry in the whole
country." These were serious thoughts; but they were soon succeeded by
others hardly less moving—by events as impossible to forget—by Mr.
MacLeod's sermon on Nicodemus—by the gift of a red flannel petticoat to
Mrs. P. Farquharson, and another to old Kitty Kear.
But, without doubt, most memorable, most delightful of all were the
expeditions—the rare, exciting expeditions up distant mountains, across
broad rivers, through strange country, and lasting several days. With only
two gillies—Grant and Brown—for servants, and with assumed names. It
was more like something in a story than real life. "We had decided to call
ourselves LORD AND LADY CHURCHILL AND AND PARTY—Lady
Churchill passing as MISS SPENCER and General Grey as DR. GREY!
Brown once forgot this and called me 'Your Majesty' as I was getting into
the carriage, and Grant on the box once called Albert 'Your Royal

Highness,' which set us off laughing, but no one observed it." Strong,
vigorous, enthusiastic, bringing, so it seemed, good fortune with her—the
Highlanders declared she had "a lucky foot"—she relished everything—the
scrambles and the views and the contretemps and the rough inns with their
coarse fare and Brown and Grant waiting at table. She could have gone on
for ever and ever, absolutely happy with Albert beside her and Brown at her
pony's head. But the time came for turning homewards, alas! the time came
for going back to England. She could hardly bear it; she sat disconsolate in
her room and watched the snow falling. The last day! Oh! If only she could
be snowed up!
III
The Crimean War brought new experiences, and most of them were
pleasant ones. It was pleasant to be patriotic and pugnacious, to look out
appropriate prayers to be read in the churches, to have news of glorious
victories, and to know oneself, more proudly than ever, the representative of
England. With that spontaneity of feeling which was so peculiarly her own,
Victoria poured out her emotion, her admiration, her pity, her love, upon her
"dear soldiers." When she gave them their medals her exultation knew no
bounds. "Noble fellows!" she wrote to the King of the Belgians, "I own I
feel as if these were MY OWN CHILDREN; my heart beats for THEM as
for my NEAREST and DEAREST. They were so touched, so pleased;
many, I hear, cried—and they won't hear of giving up their medals to have
their names engraved upon them for fear they should not receive the
IDENTICAL ONE put into THEIR HANDS BY ME, which is quite
touching. Several came by in a sadly mutilated state." She and they were at
one. They felt that she had done them a splendid honour, and she, with
perfect genuineness, shared their feeling. Albert's attitude towards such
things was different; there was an austerity in him which quite prohibited
the expansions of emotion. When General Williams returned from the
heroic defence of Kars and was presented at Court, the quick, stiff, distant
bow with which the Prince received him struck like ice upon the beholders.
He was a stranger still.
But he had other things to occupy him, more important, surely, than the
personal impressions of military officers and people who went to Court. He
was at work—ceaselessly at work—on the tremendous task of carrying
through the war to a successful conclusion. State papers, despatches,

memoranda, poured from him in an overwhelming stream. Between 1853
and 1857 fifty folio volumes were filled with the comments of his pen upon
the Eastern question. Nothing would induce him to stop. Weary ministers
staggered under the load of his advice; but his advice continued, piling itself
up over their writing-tables, and flowing out upon them from red box after
red box. Nor was it advice to be ignored. The talent for administration
which had reorganised the royal palaces and planned the Great Exhibition
asserted itself no less in the confused complexities of war. Again and again
the Prince's suggestions, rejected or unheeded at first, were adopted under
the stress of circumstances and found to be full of value. The enrolment of a
foreign legion, the establishment of a depot for troops at Malta, the
institution of periodical reports and tabulated returns as to the condition of
the army at Sebastopol—such were the contrivances and the achievements
of his indefatigable brain. He went further: in a lengthy minute he laid
down the lines for a radical reform in the entire administration of the army.
This was premature, but his proposal that "a camp of evolution" should be
created, in which troops should be concentrated and drilled, proved to be
the germ of Aldershot.
Meanwhile Victoria had made a new friend: she had suddenly been
captivated by Napoleon III. Her dislike of him had been strong at first. She
considered that he was a disreputable adventurer who had usurped the
throne of poor old Louis Philippe; and besides he was hand-in-glove with
Lord Palmerston. For a long time, although he was her ally, she was
unwilling to meet him; but at last a visit of the Emperor and Empress to
England was arranged. Directly he appeared at Windsor her heart began to
soften. She found that she was charmed by his quiet manners, his low, soft
voice, and by the soothing simplicity of his conversation. The good-will of
England was essential to the Emperor's position in Europe, and he had
determined to fascinate the Queen. He succeeded. There was something
deep within her which responded immediately and vehemently to natures
that offered a romantic contrast with her own. Her adoration of Lord
Melbourne was intimately interwoven with her half-unconscious
appreciation of the exciting unlikeness between herself and that
sophisticated, subtle, aristocratical old man. Very different was the quality
of her unlikeness to Napoleon; but its quantity was at least as great. From
behind the vast solidity of her respectability, her conventionality, her
established happiness, she peered out with a strange delicious pleasure at

that unfamiliar, darkly-glittering foreign object, moving so meteorically
before her, an ambiguous creature of wilfulness and Destiny. And, to her
surprise, where she had dreaded antagonisms, she discovered only
sympathies. He was, she said, "so quiet, so simple, naif even, so pleased to
be informed about things he does not know, so gentle, so full of tact,
dignity, and modesty, so full of kind attention towards us, never saying a
word, or doing a thing, which could put me out... There is something
fascinating, melancholy, and engaging which draws you to him, in spite of
any prevention you may have against him, and certainly without the
assistance of any outward appearance, though I like his face." She observed
that he rode "extremely well, and looks well on horseback, as he sits high."
And he danced "with great dignity and spirit." Above all, he listened to
Albert; listened with the most respectful attention; showed, in fact, how
pleased he was "to be informed about things he did not know;" and
afterwards was heard to declare that he had never met the Prince's equal. On
one occasion, indeed—but only on one—he had seemed to grow slightly
restive. In a diplomatic conversation, "I expatiated a little on the Holstein
question," wrote the Prince in a memorandum, "which appeared to bore the
Emperor as 'tres compliquee.'"
Victoria, too, became much attached to the Empress, whose looks and
graces she admired without a touch of jealousy. Eugenie, indeed, in the
plenitude of her beauty, exquisitely dressed in wonderful Parisian crinolines
which set off to perfection her tall and willowy figure, might well have
caused some heart-burning in the breast of her hostess, who, very short,
rather stout, quite plain, in garish middle-class garments, could hardly be
expected to feel at her best in such company. But Victoria had no
misgivings. To her it mattered nothing that her face turned red in the heat
and that her purple pork-pie hat was of last year's fashion, while Eugenie,
cool and modish, floated in an infinitude of flounces by her side. She was
Queen of England, and was not that enough? It certainly seemed to be; true
majesty was hers, and she knew it. More than once, when the two were
together in public, it was the woman to whom, as it seemed, nature and art
had given so little, who, by the sheer force of an inherent grandeur,
completely threw her adorned and beautiful companion into the shade.
There were tears when the moment came for parting, and Victoria felt
"quite wehmuthig," as her guests went away from Windsor. But before long
she and Albert paid a return visit to France, where everything was very

delightful, and she drove incognito through the streets of Paris in a
"common bonnet," and saw a play in the theatre at St. Cloud, and, one
evening, at a great party given by the Emperor in her honour at the Chateau
of Versailles, talked a little to a distinguished-looking Prussian gentleman,
whose name was Bismarck. Her rooms were furnished so much to her taste
that she declared they gave her quite a home feeling—that, if her little dog
were there, she should really imagine herself at home. Nothing was said,
but three days later her little dog barked a welcome to her as she entered the
apartments. The Emperor himself, sparing neither trouble nor expense, had
personally arranged the charming surprise. Such were his attentions. She
returned to England more enchanted than ever. "Strange indeed," she
exclaimed, "are the dispensations and ways of Providence!"
The alliance prospered, and the war drew towards a conclusion. Both the
Queen and the Prince, it is true, were most anxious that there should not be
a premature peace. When Lord Aberdeen wished to open negotiations
Albert attacked him in a "geharnischten" letter, while Victoria rode about on
horseback reviewing the troops. At last, however, Sebastopol was captured.
The news reached Balmoral late at night, and in a few minutes Albert and
all the gentlemen in every species of attire sallied forth, followed by all the
servants, and gradually by all the population of the village-keepers, gillies,
workmen—"up to the top of the cairn." A bonfire was lighted, the pipes
were played, and guns were shot off. "About three-quarters of an hour after
Albert came down and said the scene had been wild and exciting beyond
everything. The people had been drinking healths in whisky and were in
great ecstasy." The "great ecstasy," perhaps, would be replaced by other
feelings next morning; but at any rate the war was over—though, to be sure,
its end seemed as difficult to account for as its beginning. The dispensations
and ways of Providence continued to be strange.
IV
An unexpected consequence of the war was a complete change in the
relations between the royal pair and Palmerston. The Prince and the
Minister drew together over their hostility to Russia, and thus it came about
that when Victoria found it necessary to summon her old enemy to form an
administration she did so without reluctance. The premiership, too, had a
sobering effect upon Palmerston; he grew less impatient and dictatorial;
considered with attention the suggestions of the Crown, and was, besides,

genuinely impressed by the Prince's ability and knowledge. Friction, no
doubt, there still occasionally was, for, while the Queen and the Prince
devoted themselves to foreign politics as much as ever, their views, when
the war was over, became once more antagonistic to those of the Prime
Minister. This was especially the case with regard to Italy. Albert,
theoretically the friend of constitutional government, distrusted Cavour, was
horrified by Garibaldi, and dreaded the danger of England being drawn into
war with Austria. Palmerston, on the other hand, was eager for Italian
independence; but he was no longer at the Foreign Office, and the brunt of
the royal displeasure had now to be borne by Lord John Russell. In a few
years the situation had curiously altered. It was Lord John who now filled
the subordinate and the ungrateful role; but the Foreign Secretary, in his
struggle with the Crown, was supported, instead of opposed, by the Prime
Minister. Nevertheless the struggle was fierce, and the policy, by which the
vigorous sympathy of England became one of the decisive factors in the
final achievement of Italian unity, was only carried through in face of the
violent opposition of the Court.
Towards the other European storm-centre, also, the Prince's attitude
continued to be very different to that of Palmerston. Albert's great wish was
for a united Germany under the leadership of a constitutional and virtuous
Prussia; Palmerston did not think that there was much to be said for the
scheme, but he took no particular interest in German politics, and was ready
enough to agree to a proposal which was warmly supported by both the
Prince and the Queen—that the royal Houses of England and Prussia should
be united by the marriage of the Princess Royal with the Prussian Crown
Prince. Accordingly, when the Princess was not yet fifteen, the Prince, a
young man of twenty-four, came over on a visit to Balmoral, and the
betrothal took place. Two years later, in 1857, the marriage was celebrated.
At the last moment, however, it seemed that there might be a hitch. It was
pointed out in Prussia that it was customary for Princes of the blood royal to
be married in Berlin, and it was suggested that there was no reason why the
present case should be treated as an exception. When this reached the ears
of Victoria, she was speechless with indignation. In a note, emphatic even
for Her Majesty, she instructed the Foreign Secretary to tell the Prussian
Ambassador "not to ENTERTAIN the POSSIBILITY of such a question...
The Queen NEVER could consent to it, both for public and for private
reasons, and the assumption of its being TOO MUCH for a Prince Royal of

Prussia to come over to marry the Princess Royal of Great Britain in
England is too ABSURD to say the least. . . Whatever may be the usual
practice of Prussian princes, it is not EVERY day that one marries the eldest
daughter of the Queen of England. The question must therefore be
considered as settled and closed." It was, and the wedding took place in St.
James's Chapel. There were great festivities—illuminations, state concerts,
immense crowds, and general rejoicings. At Windsor a magnificent banquet
was given to the bride and bridegroom in the Waterloo room, at which,
Victoria noted in her diary, "everybody was most friendly and kind about
Vicky and full of the universal enthusiasm, of which the Duke of Buccleuch
gave us most pleasing instances, he having been in the very thick of the
crowd and among the lowest of the low." Her feelings during several days
had been growing more and more emotional, and when the time came for
the young couple to depart she very nearly broke down—but not quite.
"Poor dear child!" she wrote afterwards. "I clasped her in my arms and
blessed her, and knew not what to say. I kissed good Fritz and pressed his
hand again and again. He was unable to speak and the tears were in his
eyes. I embraced them both again at the carriage door, and Albert got into
the carriage, an open one, with them and Bertie... The band struck up. I
wished good-bye to the good Perponchers. General Schreckenstein was
much affected. I pressed his hand, and the good Dean's, and then went
quickly upstairs."
Albert, as well as General Schreckenstein, was much affected. He was
losing his favourite child, whose opening intelligence had already begun to
display a marked resemblance to his own—an adoring pupil, who, in a few
years, might have become an almost adequate companion. An ironic fate
had determined that the daughter who was taken from him should be
sympathetic, clever, interested in the arts and sciences, and endowed with a
strong taste for memoranda, while not a single one of these qualities could
be discovered in the son who remained. For certainly the Prince of Wales
did not take after his father. Victoria's prayer had been unanswered, and
with each succeeding year it became more obvious that Bertie was a true
scion of the House of Brunswick. But these evidences of innate
characteristics only served to redouble the efforts of his parents; it still
might not be too late to incline the young branch, by ceaseless pressure and
careful fastenings, to grow in the proper direction. Everything was tried.
The boy was sent on a continental tour with a picked body of tutors, but the

results were unsatisfactory. At his father's request he kept a diary which, on
his return, was inspected by the Prince. It was found to be distressingly
meagre: what a multitude of highly interesting reflections might have been
arranged under the heading: "The First Prince of Wales visiting the Pope!"
But there was not a single one. "Le jeune prince plaisit a tout le monde," old
Metternich reported to Guizot, "mais avait l'air embarrasse et tres triste." On
his seventeenth birthday a memorandum was drawn up over the names of
the Queen and the Prince informing their eldest son that he was now
entering upon the period of manhood, and directing him henceforward to
perform the duties of a Christian gentleman. "Life is composed of duties,"
said the memorandum, "and in the due, punctual and cheerful performance
of them the true Christian, true soldier, and true gentleman is recognised...
A new sphere of life will open for you in which you will have to be taught
what to do and what not to do, a subject requiring study more important
than any in which you have hitherto been engaged." On receipt of the
memorandum Bertie burst into tears. At the same time another
memorandum was drawn up, headed "confidential: for the guidance of the
gentlemen appointed to attend on the Prince of Wales." This long and
elaborate document laid down "certain principles" by which the "conduct
and demeanour" of the gentlemen were to be regulated "and which it is
thought may conduce to the benefit of the Prince of Wales." "The qualities
which distinguish a gentleman in society," continued this remarkable paper,
"are:—
(1) His appearance, his deportment and dress.
(2) The character of his relations with, and treatment of, others.
(3) His desire and power to acquit himself creditably in conversation or
whatever is the occupation of the society with which he mixes."
A minute and detailed analysis of these subheadings followed, filling
several pages, and the memorandum ended with a final exhortation to the
gentlemen: "If they will duly appreciate the responsibility of their position,
and taking the points above laid down as the outline, will exercise their own
good sense in acting UPON ALL OCCASIONS all upon these principles,
thinking no point of detail too minute to be important, but maintaining one
steady consistent line of conduct they may render essential service to the
young Prince and justify the flattering selection made by the royal parents."
A year later the young Prince was sent to Oxford, where the greatest care

was taken that he should not mix with the undergraduates. Yes, everything
had been tried—everything... with one single exception. The experiment
had never been made of letting Bertie enjoy himself. But why should it
have been? "Life is composed of duties." What possible place could there
be for enjoyment in the existence of a Prince of Wales?
The same year which deprived Albert of the Princess Royal brought him
another and a still more serious loss. The Baron had paid his last visit to
England. For twenty years, as he himself said in a letter to the King of the
Belgians, he had performed "the laborious and exhausting office of a
paternal friend and trusted adviser" to the Prince and the Queen. He was
seventy; he was tired, physically and mentally; it was time to go. He
returned to his home in Coburg, exchanging, once for all, the momentous
secrecies of European statecraft for the little-tattle of a provincial capital
and the gossip of family life. In his stiff chair by the fire he nodded now
over old stories—not of emperors and generals—but of neighbours and
relatives and the domestic adventures of long ago—the burning of his
father's library—and the goat that ran upstairs to his sister's room and ran
twice round the table and then ran down again. Dyspepsia and depression
still attacked him; but, looking back over his life, he was not dissatisfied.
His conscience was clear. "I have worked as long as I had strength to work,"
he said, "and for a purpose no one can impugn. The consciousness of this is
my reward—the only one which I desired to earn."
Apparently, indeed, his "purpose" had been accomplished. By his
wisdom, his patience, and his example he had brought about, in the fullness
of time, the miraculous metamorphosis of which he had dreamed. The
Prince was his creation. An indefatigable toiler, presiding, for the highest
ends, over a great nation—that was his achievement; and he looked upon
his work and it was good. But had the Baron no misgivings? Did he never
wonder whether, perhaps, he might have accomplished not too little but too
much? How subtle and how dangerous are the snares which fate lays for the
wariest of men! Albert, certainly, seemed to be everything that Stockmar
could have wished—virtuous, industrious, persevering, intelligent. And yet
—why was it—all was not well with him? He was sick at heart.
For in spite of everything he had never reached to happiness. His work,
for which at last he came to crave with an almost morbid appetite, was a
solace and not a cure; the dragon of his dissatisfaction devoured with dark

relish that ever-growing tribute of laborious days and nights; but it was
hungry still. The causes of his melancholy were hidden, mysterious,
unanalysable perhaps—too deeply rooted in the innermost recesses of his
temperament for the eye of reason to apprehend. There were contradictions
in his nature, which, to some of those who knew him best, made him seem
an inexplicable enigma: he was severe and gentle; he was modest and
scornful; he longed for affection and he was cold. He was lonely, not
merely with the loneliness of exile but with the loneliness of conscious and
unrecognised superiority. He had the pride, at once resigned and
overweening, of a doctrinaire. And yet to say that he was simply a
doctrinaire would be a false description; for the pure doctrinaire rejoices
always in an internal contentment, and Albert was very far from doing that.
There was something that he wanted and that he could never get. What was
it? Some absolute, some ineffable sympathy? Some extraordinary, some
sublime success? Possibly, it was a mixture of both. To dominate and to be
understood! To conquer, by the same triumphant influence, the submission
and the appreciation of men—that would be worth while indeed! But, to
such imaginations, he saw too clearly how faint were the responses of his
actual environment. Who was there who appreciated him, really and truly?
Who COULD appreciate him in England? And, if the gentle virtue of an
inward excellence availed so little, could he expect more from the hard
ways of skill and force? The terrible land of his exile loomed before him a
frigid, an impregnable mass. Doubtless he had made some slight
impression: it was true that he had gained the respect of his fellow workers,
that his probity, his industry, his exactitude, had been recognised, that he
was a highly influential, an extremely important man. But how far, how
very far, was all this from the goal of his ambitions! How feeble and futile
his efforts seemed against the enormous coagulation of dullness, of folly, of
slackness, of ignorance, of confusion that confronted him! He might have
the strength or the ingenuity to make some small change for the better here
or there—to rearrange some detail, to abolish some anomaly, to insist upon
some obvious reform; but the heart of the appalling organism remained
untouched. England lumbered on, impervious and self-satisfied, in her old
intolerable course. He threw himself across the path of the monster with
rigid purpose and set teeth, but he was brushed aside. Yes! even Palmerston
was still unconquered—was still there to afflict him with his jauntiness, his
muddle-headedness, his utter lack of principle. It was too much. Neither

nature nor the Baron had given him a sanguine spirit; the seeds of
pessimism, once lodged within him, flourished in a propitious soil. He

"questioned things, and did not find
One that would answer to his mind;
And all the world appeared unkind."

He believed that he was a failure and he began to despair.
Yet Stockmar had told him that he must "never relax," and he never
would. He would go on, working to the utmost and striving for the highest,
to the bitter end. His industry grew almost maniacal. Earlier and earlier was
the green lamp lighted; more vast grew the correspondence; more searching
the examination of the newspapers; the interminable memoranda more
punctilious, analytical, and precise. His very recreations became duties. He
enjoyed himself by time-table, went deer-stalking with meticulous gusto,
and made puns at lunch—it was the right thing to do. The mechanism
worked with astonishing efficiency, but it never rested and it was never
oiled. In dry exactitude the innumerable cog-wheels perpetually revolved.
No, whatever happened, the Prince would not relax; he had absorbed the
doctrines of Stockmar too thoroughly. He knew what was right, and, at all
costs, he would pursue it. That was certain. But alas! in this our life what
are the certainties? "In nothing be over-zealous!" says an old Greek. "The
due measure in all the works of man is best. For often one who zealously
pushes towards some excellence, though he be pursuing a gain, is really
being led utterly astray by the will of some Power, which makes those
things that are evil seem to him good, and those things seem to him evil that
are for his advantage." Surely, both the Prince and the Baron might have
learnt something from the frigid wisdom of Theognis.
Victoria noticed that her husband sometimes seemed to be depressed and
overworked. She tried to cheer him up. Realising uneasily that he was still
regarded as a foreigner, she hoped that by conferring upon him the title of
Prince Consort (1857) she would improve his position in the country. "The
Queen has a right to claim that her husband should be an Englishman," she
wrote. But unfortunately, in spite of the Royal Letters Patent, Albert
remained as foreign as before; and as the years passed his dejection
deepened. She worked with him, she watched over him, she walked with
him through the woods at Osborne, while he whistled to the nightingales, as
he had whistled once at Rosenau so long ago. When his birthday came

round, she took the greatest pains to choose him presents that he would
really like. In 1858, when he was thirty-nine, she gave him "a picture of
Beatrice, life-size, in oil, by Horsley, a complete collection of photographic
views of Gotha and the country round, which I had taken by Bedford, and a
paper-weight of Balmoral granite and deers' teeth, designed by Vicky."
Albert was of course delighted, and his merriment at the family gathering
was more pronounced than ever: and yet... what was there that was wrong?
No doubt it was his health. He was wearing himself out in the service of
the country; and certainly his constitution, as Stockmar had perceived from
the first, was ill-adapted to meet a serious strain. He was easily upset; he
constantly suffered from minor ailments. His appearance in itself was
enough to indicate the infirmity of his physical powers. The handsome
youth of twenty years since with the flashing eyes and the soft complexion
had grown into a sallow, tired-looking man, whose body, in its stoop and its
loose fleshiness, betrayed the sedentary labourer, and whose head was quite
bald on the top. Unkind critics, who had once compared Albert to an
operatic tenor, might have remarked that there was something of the butler
about him now. Beside Victoria, he presented a painful contrast. She, too,
was stout, but it was with the plumpness of a vigorous matron; and an eager
vitality was everywhere visible—in her energetic bearing, her protruding,
enquiring glances, her small, fat, capable, and commanding hands. If only,
by some sympathetic magic, she could have conveyed into that portly,
flabby figure, that desiccated and discouraged brain, a measure of the
stamina and the self-assurance which were so pre-eminently hers!
But suddenly she was reminded that there were other perils besides those
of ill-health. During a visit to Coburg in 1860, the Prince was very nearly
killed in a carriage accident. He escaped with a few cuts and bruises; but
Victoria's alarm was extreme, though she concealed it. "It is when the
Queen feels most deeply," she wrote afterwards, "that she always appears
calmest, and she could not and dared not allow herself to speak of what
might have been, or even to admit to herself (and she cannot and dare not
now) the entire danger, for her head would turn!" Her agitation, in fact, was
only surpassed by her thankfulness to God. She felt, she said, that she could
not rest "without doing something to mark permanently her feelings," and
she decided that she would endow a charity in Coburg. "L1,000, or even
L2,000, given either at once, or in instalments yearly, would not, in the
Queen's opinion, be too much." Eventually, the smaller sum having been

fixed upon, it was invested in a trust, called the "Victoria-Stift," in the name
of the Burgomaster and chief clergyman of Coburg, who were directed to
distribute the interest yearly among a certain number of young men and
women of exemplary character belonging to the humbler ranks of life.
Shortly afterwards the Queen underwent, for the first time in her life, the
actual experience of close personal loss. Early in 1861 the Duchess of Kent
was taken seriously ill, and in March she died. The event overwhelmed
Victoria. With a morbid intensity, she filled her diary for pages with minute
descriptions of her mother's last hours, her dissolution, and her corpse,
interspersed with vehement apostrophes, and the agitated outpourings of
emotional reflection. In the grief of the present the disagreements of the
past were totally forgotten. It was the horror and the mystery of Death—
Death, present and actual—that seized upon the imagination of the Queen.
Her whole being, so instinct with vitality, recoiled in agony from the grim
spectacle of the triumph of that awful power. Her own mother, with whom
she had lived so closely and so long that she had become a part almost of
her existence, had fallen into nothingness before her very eyes! She tried to
forget, but she could not. Her lamentations continued with a strange
abundance, a strange persistency. It was almost as if, by some mysterious
and unconscious precognition, she realised that for her, in an especial
manner, that grisly Majesty had a dreadful dart in store.
For indeed, before the year was out, a far more terrible blow was to fall
upon her. Albert, who had for long been suffering from sleeplessness, went,
on a cold and drenching day towards the end of November, to inspect the
buildings for the new Military Academy at Sandhurst. On his return, it was
clear that the fatigue and exposure to which he had been subjected had
seriously affected his health. He was attacked by rheumatism, his
sleeplessness continued, and he complained that he felt thoroughly unwell.
Three days later a painful duty obliged him to visit Cambridge. The Prince
of Wales, who had been placed at that University in the previous year, was
behaving in such a manner that a parental visit and a parental admonition
had become necessary. The disappointed father, suffering in mind and body,
carried through his task; but, on his return journey to Windsor, he caught a
fatal chill. During the next week he gradually grew weaker and more
miserable. Yet, depressed and enfeebled as he was, he continued to work. It
so happened that at that very moment a grave diplomatic crisis had arisen.
Civil war had broken out in America, and it seemed as if England, owing to

a violent quarrel with the Northern States, was upon the point of being
drawn into the conflict. A severe despatch by Lord John Russell was
submitted to the Queen; and the Prince perceived that, if it was sent off
unaltered, war would be the almost inevitable consequence. At seven
o'clock on the morning of December 1, he rose from his bed, and with a
quavering hand wrote a series of suggestions for the alteration of the draft,
by which its language might be softened, and a way left open for a peaceful
solution of the question. These changes were accepted by the Government,
and war was averted. It was the Prince's last memorandum.
He had always declared that he viewed the prospect of death with
equanimity. "I do not cling to life," he had once said to Victoria. "You do;
but I set no store by it." And then he had added: "I am sure, if I had a severe
illness, I should give up at once, I should not struggle for life. I have no
tenacity of life." He had judged correctly. Before he had been ill many days,
he told a friend that he was convinced he would not recover. He sank and
sank. Nevertheless, if his case had been properly understood and skilfully
treated from the first, he might conceivably have been saved; but the
doctors failed to diagnose his symptoms; and it is noteworthy that his
principal physician was Sir James Clark. When it was suggested that other
advice should be taken, Sir James pooh-poohed the idea: "there was no
cause for alarm," he said. But the strange illness grew worse. At last, after a
letter of fierce remonstrance from Palmerston, Dr. Watson was sent for; and
Dr. Watson saw at once that he had come too late The Prince was in the grip
of typhoid fever. "I think that everything so far is satisfactory," said Sir
James Clark.(*)

(*) Clarendon, II, 253-4: "One cannot speak with certainty;
but it is horrible to think that such a life MAY have been
sacrificed to Sir J. Clark's selfish jealousy of every
member of his profession." The Earl of Clarendon to the
Duchess of Manchester, December 17, 1861.

The restlessness and the acute suffering of the earlier days gave place to a
settled torpor and an ever—deepening gloom. Once the failing patient asked
for music—"a fine chorale at a distance;" and a piano having been placed in
the adjoining room, Princess Alice played on it some of Luther's hymns,
after which the Prince repeated "The Rock of Ages." Sometimes his mind
wandered; sometimes the distant past came rushing upon him; he heard the
birds in the early morning, and was at Rosenau again, a boy. Or Victoria

would come and read to him "Peveril of the Peak," and he showed that he
could follow the story, and then she would bend over him, and he would
murmur "liebes Frauchen" and "gutes Weibchen," stroking her cheek. Her
distress and her agitation were great, but she was not seriously frightened.
Buoyed up by her own abundant energies, she would not believe that
Albert's might prove unequal to the strain. She refused to face such a
hideous possibility. She declined to see Dr. Watson. Why should she? Had
not Sir James Clark assured her that all would be well? Only two days
before the end, which was seen now to be almost inevitable by everyone
about her, she wrote, full of apparent confidence, to the King of the
Belgians: "I do not sit up with him at night," she said, "as I could be of no
use; and there is nothing to cause alarm." The Princess Alice tried to tell her
the truth, but her hopefulness would not be daunted. On the morning of
December 14, Albert, just as she had expected, seemed to be better; perhaps
the crisis was over. But in the course of the day there was a serious relapse.
Then at last she allowed herself to see that she was standing on the edge of
an appalling gulf. The whole family was summoned, and, one after another,
the children took a silent farewell of their father. "It was a terrible moment,"
Victoria wrote in her diary, "but, thank God! I was able to command myself,
and to be perfectly calm, and remained sitting by his side." He murmured
something, but she could not hear what it was; she thought he was speaking
in French. Then all at once he began to arrange his hair, "just as he used to
do when well and he was dressing." "Es kleines Frauchen," she whispered
to him; and he seemed to understand. For a moment, towards the evening,
she went into another room, but was immediately called back; she saw at a
glance that a ghastly change had taken place. As she knelt by the bed, he
breathed deeply, breathed gently, breathed at last no more. His features
became perfectly rigid; she shrieked one long wild shriek that rang through
the terror-stricken castle and understood that she had lost him for ever.

CHAPTER VII. WIDOWHOOD
I

The death of the Prince Consort was the central turning-point in the
history of Queen Victoria. She herself felt that her true life had ceased with
her husband's, and that the remainder of her days upon earth was of a
twilight nature—an epilogue to a drama that was done. Nor is it possible
that her biographer should escape a similar impression. For him, too, there
is a darkness over the latter half of that long career. The first forty—two
years of the Queen's life are illuminated by a great and varied quantity of
authentic information. With Albert's death a veil descends. Only
occasionally, at fitful and disconnected intervals, does it lift for a moment
or two; a few main outlines, a few remarkable details may be discerned; the
rest is all conjecture and ambiguity. Thus, though the Queen survived her
great bereavement for almost as many years as she had lived before it, the
chronicle of those years can bear no proportion to the tale of her earlier life.
We must be content in our ignorance with a brief and summary relation.
The sudden removal of the Prince was not merely a matter of
overwhelming personal concern to Victoria; it was an event of national, of
European importance. He was only forty-two, and in the ordinary course of
nature he might have been expected to live at least thirty years longer. Had
he done so it can hardly be doubted that the whole development of the
English polity would have been changed. Already at the time of his death he
filled a unique place in English public life; already among the inner circle
of politicians he was accepted as a necessary and useful part of the
mechanism of the State. Lord Clarendon, for instance, spoke of his death as
"a national calamity of far greater importance than the public dream of,"
and lamented the loss of his "sagacity and foresight," which, he declared,
would have been "more than ever valuable" in the event of an American
war. And, as time went on, the Prince's influence must have enormously
increased. For, in addition to his intellectual and moral qualities, he
enjoyed, by virtue of his position, one supreme advantage which every
other holder of high office in the country was without: he was permanent.

Politicians came and went, but the Prince was perpetually installed at the
centre of affairs. Who can doubt that, towards the end of the century, such a
man, grown grey in the service of the nation, virtuous, intelligent, and with
the unexampled experience of a whole life-time of government, would have
acquired an extraordinary prestige? If, in his youth, he had been able to pit
the Crown against the mighty Palmerston and to come off with equal
honours from the contest, of what might he not have been capable in his old
age? What Minister, however able, however popular, could have withstood
the wisdom, the irreproachability, the vast prescriptive authority, of the
venerable Prince? It is easy to imagine how, under such a ruler, an attempt
might have been made to convert England into a State as exactly organised,
as elaborately trained, as efficiently equipped, and as autocratically
controlled, as Prussia herself. Then perhaps, eventually, under some
powerful leader—a Gladstone or a Bright—the democratic forces in the
country might have rallied together, and a struggle might have followed in
which the Monarchy would have been shaken to its foundations. Or, on the
other hand, Disraeli's hypothetical prophecy might have come true. "With
Prince Albert," he said, "we have buried our... sovereign. This German
Prince has governed England for twenty-one years with a wisdom and
energy such as none of our kings have ever shown. If he had outlived some
of our 'old stagers' he would have given us the blessings of absolute
government."
The English Constitution—that indescribable entity—is a living thing,
growing with the growth of men, and assuming ever-varying forms in
accordance with the subtle and complex laws of human character. It is the
child of wisdom and chance. The wise men of 1688 moulded it into the
shape we know, but the chance that George I could not speak English gave
it one of its essential peculiarities—the system of a Cabinet independent of
the Crown and subordinate to the Prime Minister. The wisdom of Lord Grey
saved it from petrifaction and destruction, and set it upon the path of
Democracy. Then chance intervened once more; a female sovereign
happened to marry an able and pertinacious man; and it seemed likely that
an element which had been quiescent within it for years—the element of
irresponsible administrative power—was about to become its predominant
characteristic and to change completely the direction of its growth. But
what chance gave chance took away. The Consort perished in his prime;

and the English Constitution, dropping the dead limb with hardly a tremor,
continued its mysterious life as if he had never been.
One human being, and one alone, felt the full force of what had
happened. The Baron, by his fireside at Coburg, suddenly saw the
tremendous fabric of his creation crash down into sheer and irremediable
ruin. Albert was gone, and he had lived in vain. Even his blackest
hypochondria had never envisioned quite so miserable a catastrophe.
Victoria wrote to him, visited him, tried to console him by declaring with
passionate conviction that she would carry on her husband's work. He
smiled a sad smile and looked into the fire. Then he murmured that he was
going where Albert was—that he would not be long. He shrank into
himself. His children clustered round him and did their best to comfort him,
but it was useless: the Baron's heart was broken. He lingered for eighteen
months, and then, with his pupil, explored the shadow and the dust.
II
With appalling suddenness Victoria had exchanged the serene radiance of
happiness for the utter darkness of woe. In the first dreadful moments those
about her had feared that she might lose her reason, but the iron strain
within her held firm, and in the intervals between the intense paroxysms of
grief it was observed that the Queen was calm. She remembered, too, that
Albert had always disapproved of exaggerated manifestations of feeling,
and her one remaining desire was to do nothing but what he would have
wished. Yet there were moments when her royal anguish would brook no
restraints. One day she sent for the Duchess of Sutherland, and, leading her
to the Prince's room, fell prostrate before his clothes in a flood of weeping,
while she adjured the Duchess to tell her whether the beauty of Albert's
character had ever been surpassed. At other times a feeling akin to
indignation swept over her. "The poor fatherless baby of eight months," she
wrote to the King of the Belgians, "is now the utterly heartbroken and
crushed widow of forty-two! My LIFE as a HAPPY one is ENDED! The
world is gone for ME!... Oh! to be cut off in the prime of life—to see our
pure, happy, quiet, domestic life, which ALONE enabled me to bear my
MUCH disliked position, CUT OFF at forty-two—when I HAD hoped with
such instinctive certainty that God never WOULD part us, and would let us
grow old together (though HE always talked of the shortness of life)—is
TOO AWFUL, too cruel!" The tone of outraged Majesty seems to be

discernible. Did she wonder in her heart of hearts how the Deity could have
dared?
But all other emotions gave way before her overmastering determination
to continue, absolutely unchanged, and for the rest of her life on earth, her
reverence, her obedience, her idolatry. "I am anxious to repeat ONE thing,"
she told her uncle, "and THAT ONE is my firm resolve, my
IRREVOCABLE DECISION, viz., that HIS wishes—HIS plans—about
everything, HIS views about EVERY thing are to be MY LAW! And NO
HUMAN POWER will make me swerve from WHAT HE decided and
wished." She grew fierce, she grew furious, at the thought of any possible
intrusion between her and her desire. Her uncle was coming to visit her, and
it flashed upon her that HE might try to interfere with her and seek to "rule
the roost" as of old. She would give him a hint. "I am ALSO
DETERMINED," she wrote, "that NO ONE person—may HE be ever so
good, ever so devoted among my servants—is to lead or guide or dictate TO
ME. I know HOW he would disapprove it... Though miserably weak and
utterly shattered, my spirit rises when I think ANY wish or plan of his is to
be touched or changed, or I am to be MADE TO DO anything." She ended
her letter in grief and affection. She was, she said, his "ever wretched but
devoted child, Victoria R." And then she looked at the date: it was the 24th
of December. An agonising pang assailed her, and she dashed down a
postcript—"What a Xmas! I won't think of it."
At first, in the tumult of her distresses, she declared that she could not see
her Ministers, and the Princess Alice, assisted by Sir Charles Phipps, the
keeper of the Privy Purse, performed, to the best of her ability, the functions
of an intermediary. After a few weeks, however, the Cabinet, through Lord
John Russell, ventured to warn the Queen that this could not continue. She
realised that they were right: Albert would have agreed with them; and so
she sent for the Prime Minister. But when Lord Palmerston arrived at
Osborne, in the pink of health, brisk, with his whiskers freshly dyed, and
dressed in a brown overcoat, light grey trousers, green gloves, and blue
studs, he did not create a very good impression.
Nevertheless, she had grown attached to her old enemy, and the thought
of a political change filled her with agitated apprehensions. The
Government, she knew, might fall at any moment; she felt she could not
face such an eventuality; and therefore, six months after the death of the

Prince, she took the unprecedented step of sending a private message to
Lord Derby, the leader of the Opposition, to tell him that she was not in a fit
state of mind or body to undergo the anxiety of a change of Government,
and that if he turned the present Ministers out of office it would be at the
risk of sacrificing her life—or her reason. When this message reached Lord
Derby he was considerably surprised. "Dear me!" was his cynical comment.
"I didn't think she was so fond of them as THAT."
Though the violence of her perturbations gradually subsided, her
cheerfulness did not return. For months, for years, she continued in settled
gloom. Her life became one of almost complete seclusion. Arrayed in
thickest crepe, she passed dolefully from Windsor to Osborne, from
Osborne to Balmoral. Rarely visiting the capital, refusing to take any part in
the ceremonies of state, shutting herself off from the slightest intercourse
with society, she became almost as unknown to her subjects as some
potentate of the East. They might murmur, but they did not understand.
What had she to do with empty shows and vain enjoyments? No! She was
absorbed by very different preoccupations. She was the devoted guardian of
a sacred trust. Her place was in the inmost shrine of the house of mourning
—where she alone had the right to enter, where she could feel the effluence
of a mysterious presence, and interpret, however faintly and feebly, the
promptings of a still living soul. That, and that only was her glorious, her
terrible duty. For terrible indeed it was. As the years passed her depression
seemed to deepen and her loneliness to grow more intense. "I am on a
dreary sad pinnacle of solitary grandeur," she said. Again and again she felt
that she could bear her situation no longer—that she would sink under the
strain. And then, instantly, that Voice spoke: and she braced herself once
more to perform, with minute conscientiousness, her grim and holy task.
Above all else, what she had to do was to make her own the master-
impulse of Albert's life—she must work, as he had worked, in the service of
the country. That vast burden of toil which he had taken upon his shoulders
it was now for her to bear. She assumed the gigantic load; and naturally she
staggered under it. While he had lived, she had worked, indeed, with
regularity and conscientiousness; but it was work made easy, made
delicious, by his care, his forethought, his advice, and his infallibility. The
mere sound of his voice, asking her to sign a paper, had thrilled her; in such
a presence she could have laboured gladly for ever. But now there was a
hideous change. Now there were no neat piles and docketings under the

green lamp; now there were no simple explanations of difficult matters;
now there was nobody to tell her what was right and what was wrong. She
had her secretaries, no doubt: there were Sir Charles Phipps, and General
Grey, and Sir Thomas Biddulph; and they did their best. But they were mere
subordinates: the whole weight of initiative and responsibility rested upon
her alone. For so it had to be. "I am DETERMINED"—had she not declared
it?—"that NO ONE person is to lead or guide or dictate to ME;" anything
else would be a betrayal of her trust. She would follow the Prince in all
things. He had refused to delegate authority; he had examined into every
detail with his own eyes; he had made it a rule never to sign a paper without
having first, not merely read it, but made notes on it too. She would do the
same. She sat from morning till night surrounded by huge heaps of despatch
—boxes, reading and writing at her desk—at her desk, alas! which stood
alone now in the room.
Within two years of Albert's death a violent disturbance in foreign
politics put Victoria's faithfulness to a crucial test. The fearful Schleswig-
Holstein dispute, which had been smouldering for more than a decade,
showed signs of bursting out into conflagration. The complexity of the
questions at issue was indescribable. "Only three people," said Palmerston,
"have ever really understood the Schleswig-Holstein business—the Prince
Consort, who is dead—a German professor, who has gone mad—and I, who
have forgotten all about it." But, though the Prince might be dead, had he
not left a vicegerent behind him? Victoria threw herself into the seething
embroilment with the vigour of inspiration. She devoted hours daily to the
study of the affair in all its windings; but she had a clue through the
labyrinth: whenever the question had been discussed, Albert, she recollected
it perfectly, had always taken the side of Prussia. Her course was clear. She
became an ardent champion of the Prussian point of view. It was a legacy
from the Prince, she said. She did not realise that the Prussia of the Prince's
day was dead, and that a new Prussia, the Prussia of Bismarck, was born.
Perhaps Palmerston, with his queer prescience, instinctively apprehended
the new danger; at any rate, he and Lord John were agreed upon the
necessity of supporting Denmark against Prussia's claims. But opinion was
sharply divided, not only in the country but in the Cabinet. For eighteen
months the controversy raged; while the Queen, with persistent vehemence,
opposed the Prime Minister and the Foreign Secretary. When at last the
final crisis arose—when it seemed possible that England would join forces

with Denmark in a war against Prussia—Victoria's agitation grew febrile in
its intensity. Towards her German relatives she preserved a discreet
appearance of impartiality; but she poured out upon her Ministers a flood of
appeals, protests, and expostulations. She invoked the sacred cause of
Peace. "The only chance of preserving peace for Europe," she wrote, "is by
not assisting Denmark, who has brought this entirely upon herself. The
Queen suffers much, and her nerves are more and more totally shattered...
But though all this anxiety is wearing her out, it will not shake her firm
purpose of resisting any attempt to involve this country in a mad and
useless combat." She was, she declared, "prepared to make a stand," even if
the resignation of the Foreign Secretary should follow. "The Queen," she
told Lord Granville, "is completely exhausted by the anxiety and suspense,
and misses her beloved husband's help, advice, support, and love in an
overwhelming manner." She was so worn out by her efforts for peace that
she could "hardly hold up her head or hold her pen." England did not go to
war, and Denmark was left to her fate; but how far the attitude of the Queen
contributed to this result it is impossible, with our present knowledge, to
say. On the whole, however, it seems probable that the determining factor in
the situation was the powerful peace party in the Cabinet rather than the
imperious and pathetic pressure of Victoria.
It is, at any rate, certain that the Queen's enthusiasm for the sacred cause
of peace was short-lived. Within a few months her mind had completely
altered. Her eyes were opened to the true nature of Prussia, whose designs
upon Austria were about to culminate in the Seven Weeks' War. Veering
precipitately from one extreme to the other, she now urged her Ministers to
interfere by force of arms in support of Austria. But she urged in vain.
Her political activity, no more than her social seclusion, was approved by
the public. As the years passed, and the royal mourning remained as
unrelieved as ever, the animadversions grew more general and more severe.
It was observed that the Queen's protracted privacy not only cast a gloom
over high society, not only deprived the populace of its pageantry, but also
exercised a highly deleterious effect upon the dressmaking, millinery, and
hosiery trades. This latter consideration carried great weight. At last, early
in 1864, the rumour spread that Her Majesty was about to go out of
mourning, and there was much rejoicing in the newspapers; but
unfortunately it turned out that the rumour was quite without foundation.
Victoria, with her own hand, wrote a letter to The Times to say so. "This

idea," she declared, "cannot be too explicitly contradicted. The Queen," the
letter continued, "heartily appreciates the desire of her subjects to see her,
and whatever she CAN do to gratify them in this loyal and affectionate
wish, she WILL do... But there are other and higher duties than those of
mere representation which are now thrown upon the Queen, alone and
unassisted—duties which she cannot neglect without injury to the public
service, which weigh unceasingly upon her, overwhelming her with work
and anxiety." The justification might have been considered more cogent had
it not been known that those "other and higher duties" emphasised by the
Queen consisted for the most part of an attempt to counteract the foreign
policy of Lord Palmerston and Lord John Russell. A large section—perhaps
a majority—of the nation were violent partisans of Denmark in the
Schleswig-Holstein quarrel; and Victoria's support of Prussia was widely
denounced. A wave of unpopularity, which reminded old observers of the
period preceding the Queen's marriage more than twenty-five years before,
was beginning to rise. The press was rude; Lord Ellenborough attacked the
Queen in the House of Lords; there were curious whispers in high quarters
that she had had thoughts of abdicating—whispers followed by regrets that
she had not done so. Victoria, outraged and injured, felt that she was
misunderstood. She was profoundly unhappy. After Lord Ellenborough's
speech, General Grey declared that he "had never seen the Queen so
completely upset." "Oh, how fearful it is," she herself wrote to Lord
Granville, "to be suspected—uncheered—unguided and unadvised—and
how alone the poor Queen feels!" Nevertheless, suffer as she might, she
was as resolute as ever; she would not move by a hair's breadth from the
course that a supreme obligation marked out for her; she would be faithful
to the end.
And so, when Schleswig-Holstein was forgotten, and even the image of
the Prince had begun to grow dim in the fickle memories of men, the
solitary watcher remained immutably concentrated at her peculiar task. The
world's hostility, steadily increasing, was confronted and outfaced by the
impenetrable weeds of Victoria. Would the world never understand? It was
not mere sorrow that kept her so strangely sequestered; it was devotion, it
was self-immolation; it was the laborious legacy of love. Unceasingly the
pen moved over the black-edged paper. The flesh might be weak, but that
vast burden must be borne. And fortunately, if the world would not
understand, there were faithful friends who did. There was Lord Granville,

and there was kind Mr. Theodore Martin. Perhaps Mr. Martin, who was so
clever, would find means to make people realise the facts. She would send
him a letter, pointing out her arduous labours and the difficulties under
which she struggled, and then he might write an article for one of the
magazines. "It is not," she told him in 1863, "the Queen's SORROW that
keeps her secluded. It is her OVERWHELMING WORK and her health,
which is greatly shaken by her sorrow, and the totally overwhelming
amount of work and responsibility—work which she feels really wears her
out. Alice Helps was wonderfully struck at the Queen's room; and if Mrs.
Martin will look at it, she can tell Mr. Martin what surrounds her. From the
hour she gets out of bed till she gets into it again there is work, work, work,
—letter-boxes, questions, etc., which are dreadfully exhausting—and if she
had not comparative rest and quiet in the evening she would most likely not
be ALIVE. Her brain is constantly overtaxed." It was too true.
III
To carry on Albert's work—that was her first duty; but there was another,
second only to that, and yet nearer, if possible, to her heart—to impress the
true nature of his genius and character upon the minds of her subjects. She
realised that during his life he had not been properly appreciated; the full
extent of his powers, the supreme quality of his goodness, had been
necessarily concealed; but death had removed the need of barriers, and now
her husband, in his magnificent entirety, should stand revealed to all. She
set to work methodically. She directed Sir Arthur Helps to bring out a
collection of the Prince's speeches and addresses, and the weighty tome
appeared in 1862. Then she commanded General Grey to write an account
of the Prince's early years—from his birth to his marriage; she herself laid
down the design of the book, contributed a number of confidential
documents, and added numerous notes; General Grey obeyed, and the work
was completed in 1866. But the principal part of the story was still untold,
and Mr. Martin was forthwith instructed to write a complete biography of
the Prince Consort. Mr. Martin laboured for fourteen years. The mass of
material with which he had to deal was almost incredible, but he was
extremely industrious, and he enjoyed throughout the gracious assistance of
Her Majesty. The first bulky volume was published in 1874; four others
slowly followed; so that it was not until 1880 that the monumental work
was finished.

Mr. Martin was rewarded by a knighthood; and yet it was sadly evident
that neither Sir Theodore nor his predecessors had achieved the purpose
which the Queen had in view. Perhaps she was unfortunate in her
coadjutors, but, in reality, the responsibility for the failure must lie with
Victoria herself. Sir Theodore and the others faithfully carried out the task
which she had set them—faithfully put before the public the very image of
Albert that filled her own mind. The fatal drawback was that the public did
not find that image attractive. Victoria's emotional nature, far more
remarkable for vigour than for subtlety, rejecting utterly the qualifications
which perspicuity, or humour, might suggest, could be satisfied with
nothing but the absolute and the categorical. When she disliked she did so
with an unequivocal emphasis which swept the object of her repugnance at
once and finally outside the pale of consideration; and her feelings of
affection were equally unmitigated. In the case of Albert her passion for
superlatives reached its height. To have conceived of him as anything short
of perfect—perfect in virtue, in wisdom, in beauty, in all the glories and
graces of man—would have been an unthinkable blasphemy: perfect he
was, and perfect he must be shown to have been. And so, Sir Arthur, Sir
Theodore, and the General painted him. In the circumstances, and under
such supervision, to have done anything else would have required talents
considerably more distinguished than any that those gentlemen possessed.
But that was not all. By a curious mischance Victoria was also able to press
into her service another writer, the distinction of whose talents was this time
beyond a doubt. The Poet Laureate, adopting, either from complaisance or
conviction, the tone of his sovereign, joined in the chorus, and endowed the
royal formula with the magical resonance of verse. This settled the matter.
Henceforward it was impossible to forget that Albert had worn the white
flower of a blameless life.
The result was doubly unfortunate. Victoria, disappointed and chagrined,
bore a grudge against her people for their refusal, in spite of all her efforts,
to rate her husband at his true worth. She did not understand that the picture
of an embodied perfection is distasteful to the majority of mankind. The
cause of this is not so much an envy of the perfect being as a suspicion that
he must be inhuman; and thus it happened that the public, when it saw
displayed for its admiration a figure resembling the sugary hero of a moral
story-book rather than a fellow man of flesh and blood, turned away with a
shrug, a smile, and a flippant ejaculation. But in this the public was the

loser as well as Victoria. For in truth Albert was a far more interesting
personage than the public dreamed. By a curious irony an impeccable
waxwork had been fixed by the Queen's love in the popular imagination,
while the creature whom it represented—the real creature, so full of energy
and stress and torment, so mysterious and so unhappy, and so fallible and so
very human—had altogether disappeared.
IV
Words and books may be ambiguous memorials; but who can
misinterpret the visible solidity of bronze and stone? At Frogmore, near
Windsor, where her mother was buried, Victoria constructed, at the cost of
L200,000, a vast and elaborate mausoleum for herself and her husband. But
that was a private and domestic monument, and the Queen desired that
wherever her subjects might be gathered together they should be reminded
of the Prince. Her desire was gratified; all over the country—at Aberdeen,
at Perth, and at Wolverhampton—statues of the Prince were erected; and the
Queen, making an exception to her rule of retirement, unveiled them
herself. Nor did the capital lag behind. A month after the Prince's death a
meeting was called together at the Mansion House to discuss schemes for
honouring his memory. Opinions, however, were divided upon the subject.
Was a statue or an institution to be preferred? Meanwhile a subscription was
opened; an influential committee was appointed, and the Queen was
consulted as to her wishes in the matter. Her Majesty replied that she would
prefer a granite obelisk, with sculptures at the base, to an institution. But the
committee hesitated: an obelisk, to be worthy of the name, must clearly be a
monolith; and where was the quarry in England capable of furnishing a
granite block of the required size? It was true that there was granite in
Russian Finland; but the committee were advised that it was not adapted to
resist exposure to the open air. On the whole, therefore, they suggested that
a Memorial Hall should be erected, together with a statue of the Prince. Her
Majesty assented; but then another difficulty arose. It was found that not
more than L60,000 had been subscribed—a sum insufficient to defray the
double expense. The Hall, therefore, was abandoned; a statue alone was to
be erected; and certain eminent architects were asked to prepare designs.
Eventually the committee had at their disposal a total sum of L120,000,
since the public subscribed another L10,000, while L50,000 was voted by
Parliament. Some years later a joint stock company was formed and built,
as a private speculation, the Albert Hall.

The architect whose design was selected, both by the committee and by
the Queen, was Mr. Gilbert Scott, whose industry, conscientiousness, and
genuine piety had brought him to the head of his profession. His lifelong
zeal for the Gothic style having given him a special prominence, his
handiwork was strikingly visible, not only in a multitude of original
buildings, but in most of the cathedrals of England. Protests, indeed, were
occasionally raised against his renovations; but Mr. Scott replied with such
vigour and unction in articles and pamphlets that not a Dean was
unconvinced, and he was permitted to continue his labours without
interruption. On one occasion, however, his devotion to Gothic had placed
him in an unpleasant situation. The Government offices in Whitehall were
to be rebuilt; Mr. Scott competed, and his designs were successful.
Naturally, they were in the Gothic style, combining "a certain squareness
and horizontality of outline" with pillar-mullions, gables, high-pitched
roofs, and dormers; and the drawings, as Mr. Scott himself observed, "were,
perhaps, the best ever sent in to a competition, or nearly so." After the usual
difficulties and delays the work was at last to be put in hand, when there
was a change of Government and Lord Palmerston became Prime Minister.
Lord Palmerston at once sent for Mr. Scott. "Well, Mr. Scott," he said, in his
jaunty way, "I can't have anything to do with this Gothic style. I must insist
on your making a design in the Italian manner, which I am sure you can do
very cleverly." Mr. Scott was appalled; the style of the Italian renaissance
was not only unsightly, it was positively immoral, and he sternly refused to
have anything to do with it. Thereupon Lord Palmerston assumed a fatherly
tone. "Quite true; a Gothic architect can't be expected to put up a Classical
building; I must find someone else." This was intolerable, and Mr. Scott, on
his return home, addressed to the Prime Minister a strongly-worded letter,
in which he dwelt upon his position as an architect, upon his having won
two European competitions, his being an A.R.A., a gold medallist of the
Institute, and a lecturer on architecture at the Royal Academy; but it was
useless—Lord Palmerston did not even reply. It then occurred to Mr. Scott
that, by a judicious mixture, he might, while preserving the essential
character of the Gothic, produce a design which would give a superficial
impression of the Classical style. He did so, but no effect was produced
upon Lord Palmerston. The new design, he said, was "neither one thing nor
'tother—a regular mongrel affair—and he would have nothing to do with it
either." After that Mr. Scott found it necessary to recruit for two months at

Scarborough, "with a course of quinine." He recovered his tone at last, but
only at the cost of his convictions. For the sake of his family he felt that it
was his unfortunate duty to obey the Prime Minister; and, shuddering with
horror, he constructed the Government offices in a strictly Renaissance
style.
Shortly afterwards Mr. Scott found some consolation in building the St.
Pancras Hotel in a style of his own.
And now another and yet more satisfactory task was his. "My idea in
designing the Memorial," he wrote, "was to erect a kind of ciborium to
protect a statue of the Prince; and its special characteristic was that the
ciborium was designed in some degree on the principles of the ancient
shrines. These shrines were models of imaginary buildings, such as had
never in reality been erected; and my idea was to realise one of these
imaginary structures with its precious materials, its inlaying, its enamels,
etc. etc." His idea was particularly appropriate since it chanced that a
similar conception, though in the reverse order of magnitude, had occurred
to the Prince himself, who had designed and executed several silver cruet-
stands upon the same model. At the Queen's request a site was chosen in
Kensington Gardens as near as possible to that of the Great Exhibition; and
in May, 1864, the first sod was turned. The work was long, complicated,
and difficult; a great number of workmen were employed, besides several
subsidiary sculptors and metal—workers under Mr. Scott's direction, while
at every stage sketches and models were submitted to Her Majesty, who
criticised all the details with minute care, and constantly suggested
improvements. The frieze, which encircled the base of the monument, was
in itself a very serious piece of work. "This," said Mr. Scott, "taken as a
whole, is perhaps one of the most laborious works of sculpture ever
undertaken, consisting, as it does, of a continuous range of figure-sculpture
of the most elaborate description, in the highest alto-relievo of life-size, of
more than 200 feet in length, containing about 170 figures, and executed in
the hardest marble which could be procured." After three years of toil the
memorial was still far from completion, and Mr. Scott thought it advisable
to give a dinner to the workmen, "as a substantial recognition of his
appreciation of their skill and energy." "Two long tables," we are told,
"constructed of scaffold planks, were arranged in the workshops, and
covered with newspapers, for want of table-cloths. Upwards of eighty men
sat down. Beef and mutton, plum pudding and cheese were supplied in

abundance, and each man who desired it had three pints of beer, gingerbeer
and lemonade being provided for the teetotalers, who formed a very
considerable proportion... Several toasts were given and many of the
workmen spoke, almost all of them commencing by 'Thanking God that
they enjoyed good health;' some alluded to the temperance that prevailed
amongst them, others observed how little swearing was ever heard, whilst
all said how pleased and proud they were to be engaged on so great a
work."
Gradually the edifice approached completion. The one hundred and
seventieth life-size figure in the frieze was chiselled, the granite pillars
arose, the mosaics were inserted in the allegorical pediments, the four
colossal statues representing the greater Christian virtues, the four other
colossal statues representing the greater moral virtues, were hoisted into
their positions, the eight bronzes representing the greater sciences—
Astronomy, Chemistry, Geology, Geometry, Rhetoric, Medicine,
Philosophy, and Physiology—were fixed on their glittering pinnacles, high
in air. The statue of Physiology was particularly admired. "On her left arm,"
the official description informs us, "she bears a new-born infant, as a
representation of the development of the highest and most perfect of
physiological forms; her hand points towards a microscope, the instrument
which lends its assistance for the investigation of the minuter forms of
animal and vegetable organisms." At last the gilded cross crowned the
dwindling galaxies of superimposed angels, the four continents in white
marble stood at the four corners of the base, and, seven years after its
inception, in July, 1872, the monument was thrown open to the public.
But four more years were to elapse before the central figure was ready to
be placed under its starry canopy. It was designed by Mr. Foley, though in
one particular the sculptor's freedom was restricted by Mr. Scott. "I have
chosen the sitting posture," Mr. Scott said, "as best conveying the idea of
dignity befitting a royal personage." Mr. Foley ably carried out the
conception of his principal. "In the attitude and expression," he said, "the
aim has been, with the individuality of portraiture, to embody rank,
character, and enlightenment, and to convey a sense of that responsive
intelligence indicating an active, rather than a passive, interest in those
pursuits of civilisation illustrated in the surrounding figures, groups, and
relievos... To identify the figure with one of the most memorable
undertakings of the public life of the Prince—the International Exhibition

of 1851—a catalogue of the works collected in that first gathering of the
industry of all nations, is placed in the right hand." The statue was of bronze
gilt and weighed nearly ten tons. It was rightly supposed that the simple
word "Albert," cast on the base, would be a sufficient means of
identification.

CHAPTER VIII. GLADSTONE AND LORD
BEACONSFIELD
I

Lord Palmerston's laugh—a queer metallic "Ha! ha! ha!" with
reverberations in it from the days of Pitt and the Congress of Vienna—was
heard no more in Piccadilly; Lord John Russell dwindled into senility; Lord
Derby tottered from the stage. A new scene opened; and new protagonists—
Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Disraeli—struggled together in the limelight.
Victoria, from her post of vantage, watched these developments with that
passionate and personal interest which she invariably imported into politics.
Her prepossessions were of an unexpected kind. Mr. Gladstone had been the
disciple of her revered Peel, and had won the approval of Albert; Mr.
Disraeli had hounded Sir Robert to his fall with hideous virulence, and the
Prince had pronounced that he "had not one single element of a gentleman
in his composition." Yet she regarded Mr. Gladstone with a distrust and
dislike which steadily deepened, while upon his rival she lavished an
abundance of confidence, esteem, and affection such as Lord Melbourne
himself had hardly known.
Her attitude towards the Tory Minister had suddenly changed when she
found that he alone among public men had divined her feelings at Albert's
death. Of the others she might have said "they pity me and not my grief;"
but Mr. Disraeli had understood; and all his condolences had taken the form
of reverential eulogies of the departed. The Queen declared that he was "the
only person who appreciated the Prince." She began to show him special
favour; gave him and his wife two of the coveted seats in St. George's
Chapel at the Prince of Wales's wedding, and invited him to stay a night at
Windsor. When the grant for the Albert Memorial came before the House of
Commons, Disraeli, as leader of the Opposition, eloquently supported the
project. He was rewarded by a copy of the Prince's speeches, bound in
white morocco, with an inscription in the royal hand. In his letter of thanks
he "ventured to touch upon a sacred theme," and, in a strain which re-

echoed with masterly fidelity the sentiments of his correspondent, dwelt at
length upon the absolute perfection of Albert. "The Prince," he said, "is the
only person whom Mr. Disraeli has ever known who realised the Ideal.
None with whom he is acquainted have ever approached it. There was in
him a union of the manly grace and sublime simplicity, of chivalry with the
intellectual splendour of the Attic Academe. The only character in English
history that would, in some respects, draw near to him is Sir Philip Sidney:
the same high tone, the same universal accomplishments, the same blended
tenderness and vigour, the same rare combination of romantic energy and
classic repose." As for his own acquaintance with the Prince, it had been, he
said, "one of the most satisfactory incidents of his life: full of refined and
beautiful memories, and exercising, as he hopes, over his remaining
existence, a soothing and exalting influence." Victoria was much affected
by "the depth and delicacy of these touches," and henceforward Disraeli's
place in her affections was assured. When, in 1866, the Conservatives came
into office, Disraeli's position as Chancellor of the Exchequer and leader of
the House necessarily brought him into a closer relation with the Sovereign.
Two years later Lord Derby resigned, and Victoria, with intense delight and
peculiar graciousness, welcomed Disraeli as her First Minister.
But only for nine agitated months did he remain in power. The Ministry,
in a minority in the Commons, was swept out of existence by a general
election. Yet by the end of that short period the ties which bound together
the Queen and her Premier had grown far stronger than ever before; the
relationship between them was now no longer merely that between a
grateful mistress and a devoted servant: they were friends. His official
letters, in which the personal element had always been perceptible,
developed into racy records of political news and social gossip, written, as
Lord Clarendon said, "in his best novel style." Victoria was delighted; she
had never, she declared, had such letters in her life, and had never before
known EVERYTHING. In return, she sent him, when the spring came,
several bunches of flowers, picked by her own hands. He despatched to her
a set of his novels, for which, she said, she was "most grateful, and which
she values much." She herself had lately published her "Leaves from the
Journal of our Life in the Highlands," and it was observed that the Prime
Minister, in conversing with Her Majesty at this period, constantly used the
words "we authors, ma'am." Upon political questions, she was his staunch
supporter. "Really there never was such conduct as that of the Opposition,"

she wrote. And when the Government was defeated in the House she was
"really shocked at the way in which the House of Commons go on; they
really bring discredit on Constitutional Government." She dreaded the
prospect of a change; she feared that if the Liberals insisted upon
disestablishing the Irish Church, her Coronation Oath might stand in the
way. But a change there had to be, and Victoria vainly tried to console
herself for the loss of her favourite Minister by bestowing a peerage upon
Mrs. Disraeli.
Mr. Gladstone was in his shirt-sleeves at Hawarden, cutting down a tree,
when the royal message was brought to him. "Very significant," he
remarked, when he had read the letter, and went on cutting down his tree.
His secret thoughts on the occasion were more explicit, and were
committed to his diary. "The Almighty," he wrote, "seems to sustain and
spare me for some purpose of His own, deeply unworthy as I know myself
to be. Glory be to His name."
The Queen, however, did not share her new Minister's view of the
Almighty's intentions. She could not believe that there was any divine
purpose to be detected in the programme of sweeping changes which Mr.
Gladstone was determined to carry out. But what could she do? Mr.
Gladstone, with his daemonic energy and his powerful majority in the
House of Commons, was irresistible; and for five years (1869-74) Victoria
found herself condemned to live in an agitating atmosphere of interminable
reform—reform in the Irish Church and the Irish land system, reform in
education, reform in parliamentary elections, reform in the organisation of
the Army and the Navy, reform in the administration of justice. She
disapproved, she struggled, she grew very angry; she felt that if Albert had
been living things would never have happened so; but her protests and her
complaints were alike unavailing. The mere effort of grappling with the
mass of documents which poured in upon her in an ever-growing flood was
terribly exhausting. When the draft of the lengthy and intricate Irish Church
Bill came before her, accompanied by an explanatory letter from Mr.
Gladstone covering a dozen closely-written quarto pages, she almost
despaired. She turned from the Bill to the explanation, and from the
explanation back again to the Bill, and she could not decide which was the
most confusing. But she had to do her duty: she had not only to read, but to
make notes. At last she handed the whole heap of papers to Mr. Martin, who
happened to be staying at Osborne, and requested him to make a precis of

them. When he had done so, her disapproval of the measure became more
marked than ever; but, such was the strength of the Government, she
actually found herself obliged to urge moderation upon the Opposition, lest
worse should ensue.
In the midst of this crisis, when the future of the Irish Church was
hanging in the balance, Victoria's attention was drawn to another proposed
reform. It was suggested that the sailors in the Navy should henceforward
be allowed to wear beards. "Has Mr. Childers ascertained anything on the
subject of the beards?" the Queen wrote anxiously to the First Lord of the
Admiralty. On the whole, Her Majesty was in favour of the change. "Her
own personal feeling," she wrote, "would be for the beards without the
moustaches, as the latter have rather a soldierlike appearance; but then the
object in view would not be obtained, viz. to prevent the necessity of
shaving. Therefore it had better be as proposed, the entire beard, only it
should be kept short and very clean." After thinking over the question for
another week, the Queen wrote a final letter. She wished, she said, "to make
one additional observation respecting the beards, viz. that on no account
should moustaches be allowed without beards. That must be clearly
understood."
Changes in the Navy might be tolerated; to lay hands upon the Army was
a more serious matter. From time immemorial there had been a particularly
close connection between the Army and the Crown; and Albert had devoted
even more time and attention to the details of military business than to the
processes of fresco-painting or the planning of sanitary cottages for the
deserving poor. But now there was to be a great alteration: Mr. Gladstone's
fiat had gone forth, and the Commander-in-Chief was to be removed from
his direct dependence upon the Sovereign, and made subordinate to
Parliament and the Secretary of State for War. Of all the liberal reforms this
was the one which aroused the bitterest resentment in Victoria. She
considered that the change was an attack upon her personal position—
almost an attack upon the personal position of Albert. But she was helpless,
and the Prime Minister had his way. When she heard that the dreadful man
had yet another reform in contemplation—that he was about to abolish the
purchase of military commissions—she could only feel that it was just what
might have been expected. For a moment she hoped that the House of Lords
would come to the rescue; the Peers opposed the change with unexpected
vigour; but Mr. Gladstone, more conscious than ever of the support of the

Almighty, was ready with an ingenious device. The purchase of
commissions had been originally allowed by Royal Warrant; it should now
be disallowed by the same agency. Victoria was faced by a curious
dilemma: she abominated the abolition of purchase; but she was asked to
abolish it by an exercise of sovereign power which was very much to her
taste. She did not hesitate for long; and when the Cabinet, in a formal
minute, advised her to sign the Warrant, she did so with a good grace.
Unacceptable as Mr. Gladstone's policy was, there was something else
about him which was even more displeasing to Victoria. She disliked his
personal demeanour towards herself. It was not that Mr. Gladstone, in his
intercourse with her, was in any degree lacking in courtesy or respect. On
the contrary, an extraordinary reverence impregnated his manner, both in
his conversation and his correspondence with the Sovereign. Indeed, with
that deep and passionate conservatism which, to the very end of his
incredible career, gave such an unexpected colouring to his inexplicable
character, Mr. Gladstone viewed Victoria through a haze of awe which was
almost religious—as a sacrosanct embodiment of venerable traditions—a
vital element in the British Constitution—a Queen by Act of Parliament.
But unfortunately the lady did not appreciate the compliment. The well-
known complaint—"He speaks to me as if I were a public meeting-"
whether authentic or no—and the turn of the sentence is surely a little too
epigrammatic to be genuinely Victorian—undoubtedly expresses the
essential element of her antipathy. She had no objection to being considered
as an institution; she was one, and she knew it. But she was a woman too,
and to be considered ONLY as an institution—that was unbearable. And
thus all Mr. Gladstone's zeal and devotion, his ceremonious phrases, his low
bows, his punctilious correctitudes, were utterly wasted; and when, in the
excess of his loyalty, he went further, and imputed to the object of his
veneration, with obsequious blindness, the subtlety of intellect, the wide
reading, the grave enthusiasm, which he himself possessed, the
misunderstanding became complete. The discordance between the actual
Victoria and this strange Divinity made in Mr. Gladstone's image produced
disastrous results. Her discomfort and dislike turned at last into positive
animosity, and, though her manners continued to be perfect, she never for a
moment unbent; while he on his side was overcome with disappointment,
perplexity, and mortification.

Yet his fidelity remained unshaken. When the Cabinet met, the Prime
Minister, filled with his beatific vision, would open the proceedings by
reading aloud the letters which he had received from the Queen upon the
questions of the hour. The assembly sat in absolute silence while, one after
another, the royal missives, with their emphases, their ejaculations, and
their grammatical peculiarities, boomed forth in all the deep solemnity of
Mr. Gladstone's utterance. Not a single comment, of any kind, was ever
hazarded; and, after a fitting pause, the Cabinet proceeded with the business
of the day.
II
Little as Victoria appreciated her Prime Minister's attitude towards her,
she found that it had its uses. The popular discontent at her uninterrupted
seclusion had been gathering force for many years, and now burst out in a
new and alarming shape. Republicanism was in the air. Radical opinion in
England, stimulated by the fall of Napoleon III and the establishment of a
republican government in France, suddenly grew more extreme than it ever
had been since 1848. It also became for the first time almost respectable.
Chartism had been entirely an affair of the lower classes; but now Members
of Parliament, learned professors, and ladies of title openly avowed the
most subversive views. The monarchy was attacked both in theory and in
practice. And it was attacked at a vital point: it was declared to be too
expensive. What benefits, it was asked, did the nation reap to
counterbalance the enormous sums which were expended upon the
Sovereign? Victoria's retirement gave an unpleasant handle to the argument.
It was pointed out that the ceremonial functions of the Crown had virtually
lapsed; and the awkward question remained whether any of the other
functions which it did continue to perform were really worth L385,000 per
annum. The royal balance-sheet was curiously examined. An anonymous
pamphlet entitled "What does she do with it?" appeared, setting forth the
financial position with malicious clarity. The Queen, it stated, was granted
by the Civil List L60,000 a year for her private use; but the rest of her vast
annuity was given, as the Act declared, to enable her "to defray the
expenses of her royal household and to support the honour and dignity of
the Crown." Now it was obvious that, since the death of the Prince, the
expenditure for both these purposes must have been very considerably
diminished, and it was difficult to resist the conclusion that a large sum of
money was diverted annually from the uses for which it had been designed

by Parliament, to swell the private fortune of Victoria. The precise amount
of that private fortune it was impossible to discover; but there was reason to
suppose that it was gigantic; perhaps it reached a total of five million
pounds. The pamphlet protested against such a state of affairs, and its
protests were repeated vigorously in newspapers and at public meetings.
Though it is certain that the estimate of Victoria's riches was much
exaggerated, it is equally certain that she was an exceedingly wealthy
woman. She probably saved L20,000 a year from the Civil List, the
revenues of the Duchy of Lancaster were steadily increasing, she had
inherited a considerable property from the Prince Consort, and she had been
left, in 1852, an estate of half a million by Mr. John Neild, an eccentric
miser. In these circumstances it was not surprising that when, in 1871,
Parliament was asked to vote a dowry of L30,000 to the Princess Louise on
her marriage with the eldest son of the Duke of Argyle, together with an
annuity of L6,000, there should have been a serious outcry(*).

(*) In 1889 it was officially stated that the Queen's total
savings from the Civil List amounted to L824,025, but that
out of this sum much had been spent on special
entertainments to foreign visitors. Taking into
consideration the proceeds from the Duchy of Lancaster,
which were more than L60,000 a year, the savings of the
Prince Consort, and Mr. Neild's legacy, it seems probable
that, at the time of her death, Victoria's private fortune
approached two million pounds.

In order to conciliate public opinion, the Queen opened Parliament in
person, and the vote was passed almost unanimously. But a few months
later another demand was made: the Prince Arthur had come of age, and the
nation was asked to grant him an annuity of L15,000. The outcry was
redoubled. The newspapers were filled with angry articles; Bradlaugh
thundered against "princely paupers" to one of the largest crowds that had
ever been seen in Trafalgar Square; and Sir Charles Dilke expounded the
case for a republic in a speech to his constituents at Newcastle. The Prince's
annuity was ultimately sanctioned in the House of Commons by a large
majority; but a minority of fifty members voted in favour of reducing the
sum to L10,000.
Towards every aspect of this distasteful question, Mr. Gladstone
presented an iron front. He absolutely discountenanced the extreme section
of his followers. He declared that the whole of the Queen's income was
justly at her personal disposal, argued that to complain of royal savings was

merely to encourage royal extravagance, and successfully convoyed
through Parliament the unpopular annuities, which, he pointed out, were
strictly in accordance with precedent. When, in 1872, Sir Charles Dilke
once more returned to the charge in the House of Commons, introducing a
motion for a full enquiry into the Queen's expenditure with a view to a root
and branch reform of the Civil List, the Prime Minister brought all the
resources of his powerful and ingenious eloquence to the support of the
Crown. He was completely successful; and amid a scene of great disorder
the motion was ignominiously dismissed. Victoria was relieved; but she
grew no fonder of Mr. Gladstone.
It was perhaps the most miserable moment of her life. The Ministers, the
press, the public, all conspired to vex her, to blame her, to misinterpret her
actions, to be unsympathetic and disrespectful in every way. She was "a
cruelly misunderstood woman," she told Mr. Martin, complaining to him
bitterly of the unjust attacks which were made upon her, and declaring that
"the great worry and anxiety and hard work for ten years, alone, unaided,
with increasing age and never very strong health" were breaking her down,
and "almost drove her to despair." The situation was indeed deplorable. It
seemed as if her whole existence had gone awry; as if an irremediable
antagonism had grown up between the Queen and the nation. If Victoria had
died in the early seventies, there can be little doubt that the voice of the
world would have pronounced her a failure.
III
But she was reserved for a very different fate. The outburst of
republicanism had been in fact the last flicker of an expiring cause. The
liberal tide, which had been flowing steadily ever since the Reform Bill,
reached its height with Mr. Gladstone's first administration; and towards the
end of that administration the inevitable ebb began. The reaction, when it
came, was sudden and complete. The General Election of 1874 changed the
whole face of politics. Mr. Gladstone and the Liberals were routed; and the
Tory party, for the first time for over forty years, attained an unquestioned
supremacy in England. It was obvious that their surprising triumph was pre-
eminently due to the skill and vigour of Disraeli. He returned to office, no
longer the dubious commander of an insufficient host, but with drums
beating and flags flying, a conquering hero. And as a conquering hero
Victoria welcomed her new Prime Minister.

Then there followed six years of excitement, of enchantment, of felicity,
of glory, of romance. The amazing being, who now at last, at the age of
seventy, after a lifetime of extraordinary struggles, had turned into reality
the absurdest of his boyhood's dreams, knew well enough how to make his
own, with absolute completeness, the heart of the Sovereign Lady whose
servant, and whose master, he had so miraculously become. In women's
hearts he had always read as in an open book. His whole career had turned
upon those curious entities; and the more curious they were, the more
intimately at home with them he seemed to be. But Lady Beaconsfield, with
her cracked idolatry, and Mrs. Brydges-Williams, with her clogs, her
corpulence, and her legacy, were gone: an even more remarkable
phenomenon stood in their place. He surveyed what was before him with
the eye of a past-master; and he was not for a moment at a loss. He realised
everything—the interacting complexities of circumstance and character, the
pride of place mingled so inextricably with personal arrogance, the
superabundant emotionalism, the ingenuousness of outlook, the solid, the
laborious respectability, shot through so incongruously by temperamental
cravings for the coloured and the strange, the singular intellectual
limitations, and the mysteriously essential female elements impregnating
every particle of the whole. A smile hovered over his impassive features,
and he dubbed Victoria "the Faery." The name delighted him, for, with that
epigrammatic ambiguity so dear to his heart, it precisely expressed his
vision of the Queen. The Spenserian allusion was very pleasant—the
elegant evocations of Gloriana; but there was more in it than that: there was
the suggestion of a diminutive creature, endowed with magical—and
mythical—properties, and a portentousness almost ridiculously out of
keeping with the rest of her make-up. The Faery, he determined, should
henceforward wave her wand for him alone. Detachment is always a rare
quality, and rarest of all, perhaps, among politicians; but that veteran egotist
possessed it in a supreme degree. Not only did he know what he had to do,
not only did he do it; he was in the audience as well as on the stage; and he
took in with the rich relish of a connoisseur every feature of the entertaining
situation, every phase of the delicate drama, and every detail of his own
consummate performance.
The smile hovered and vanished, and, bowing low with Oriental gravity
and Oriental submissiveness, he set himself to his task. He had understood
from the first that in dealing with the Faery the appropriate method of

approach was the very antithesis of the Gladstonian; and such a method was
naturally his. It was not his habit to harangue and exhort and expatiate in
official conscientiousness; he liked to scatter flowers along the path of
business, to compress a weighty argument into a happy phrase, to insinuate
what was in his mind with an air of friendship and confidential courtesy. He
was nothing if not personal; and he had perceived that personality was the
key that opened the Faery's heart. Accordingly, he never for a moment
allowed his intercourse with her to lose the personal tone; he invested all
the transactions of State with the charms of familiar conversation; she was
always the royal lady, the adored and revered mistress, he the devoted and
respectful friend. When once the personal relation was firmly established,
every difficulty disappeared. But to maintain that relation uninterruptedly in
a smooth and even course a particular care was necessary: the bearings had
to be most assiduously oiled. Nor was Disraeli in any doubt as to the nature
of the lubricant. "You have heard me called a flatterer," he said to Matthew
Arnold, "and it is true. Everyone likes flattery, and when you come to
royalty you should lay it on with a trowel." He practiced what he preached.
His adulation was incessant, and he applied it in the very thickest slabs.
"There is no honor and no reward," he declared, "that with him can ever
equal the possession of your Majesty's kind thoughts. All his own thoughts
and feelings and duties and affections are now concentrated in your
Majesty, and he desires nothing more for his remaining years than to serve
your Majesty, or, if that service ceases, to live still on its memory as a
period of his existence most interesting and fascinating." "In life," he told
her, "one must have for one's thoughts a sacred depository, and Lord
Beaconsfield ever presumes to seek that in his Sovereign Mistress." She
was not only his own solitary support; she was the one prop of the State. "If
your Majesty is ill," he wrote during a grave political crisis, "he is sure he
will himself break down. All, really, depends upon your Majesty." "He lives
only for Her," he asseverated, "and works only for Her, and without Her all
is lost." When her birthday came he produced an elaborate confection of
hyperbolic compliment. "To-day Lord Beaconsfield ought fitly, perhaps, to
congratulate a powerful Sovereign on her imperial sway, the vastness of her
Empire, and the success and strength of her fleets and armies. But he
cannot, his mind is in another mood. He can only think of the strangeness of
his destiny that it has come to pass that he should be the servant of one so
great, and whose infinite kindness, the brightness of whose intelligence and

the firmness of whose will, have enabled him to undertake labours to which
he otherwise would be quite unequal, and supported him in all things by a
condescending sympathy, which in the hour of difficulty alike charms and
inspires. Upon the Sovereign of many lands and many hearts may an
omnipotent Providence shed every blessing that the wise can desire and the
virtuous deserve!" In those expert hands the trowel seemed to assume the
qualities of some lofty masonic symbol—to be the ornate and glittering
vehicle of verities unrealised by the profane.
Such tributes were delightful, but they remained in the nebulous region
of words, and Disraeli had determined to give his blandishments a more
significant solidity. He deliberately encouraged those high views of her own
position which had always been native to Victoria's mind and had been
reinforced by the principles of Albert and the doctrines of Stockmar. He
professed to a belief in a theory of the Constitution which gave the
Sovereign a leading place in the councils of government; but his
pronouncements upon the subject were indistinct; and when he
emphatically declared that there ought to be "a real Throne," it was
probably with the mental addition that that throne would be a very unreal
one indeed whose occupant was unamenable to his cajoleries. But the
vagueness of his language was in itself an added stimulant to Victoria.
Skilfully confusing the woman and the Queen, he threw, with a grandiose
gesture, the government of England at her feet, as if in doing so he were
performing an act of personal homage. In his first audience after returning
to power, he assured her that "whatever she wished should be done." When
the intricate Public Worship Regulation Bill was being discussed by the
Cabinet, he told the Faery that his "only object" was "to further your
Majesty's wishes in this matter." When he brought off his great coup over
the Suez Canal, he used expressions which implied that the only gainer by
the transaction was Victoria. "It is just settled," he wrote in triumph; "you
have it, Madam... Four millions sterling! and almost immediately. There
was only one firm that could do it—Rothschilds. They behaved admirably;
advanced the money at a low rate, and the entire interest of the Khedive is
now yours, Madam." Nor did he limit himself to highly-spiced insinuations.
Writing with all the authority of his office, he advised the Queen that she
had the constitutional right to dismiss a Ministry which was supported by a
large majority in the House of Commons, he even urged her to do so, if, in
her opinion, "your Majesty's Government have from wilfulness, or even

from weakness, deceived your Majesty." To the horror of Mr. Gladstone, he
not only kept the Queen informed as to the general course of business in the
Cabinet, but revealed to her the part taken in its discussions by individual
members of it. Lord Derby, the son of the late Prime Minister and Disraeli's
Foreign Secretary, viewed these developments with grave mistrust. "Is there
not," he ventured to write to his Chief, "just a risk of encouraging her in too
large ideas of her personal power, and too great indifference to what the
public expects? I only ask; it is for you to judge."
As for Victoria, she accepted everything—compliments, flatteries,
Elizabethan prerogatives—without a single qualm. After the long gloom of
her bereavement, after the chill of the Gladstonian discipline, she expanded
to the rays of Disraeli's devotion like a flower in the sun. The change in her
situation was indeed miraculous. No longer was she obliged to puzzle for
hours over the complicated details of business, for now she had only to ask
Mr. Disraeli for an explanation, and he would give it her in the most
concise, in the most amusing, way. No longer was she worried by alarming
novelties; no longer was she put out at finding herself treated, by a
reverential gentleman in high collars, as if she were some embodied
precedent, with a recondite knowledge of Greek. And her deliverer was
surely the most fascinating of men. The strain of charlatanism, which had
unconsciously captivated her in Napoleon III, exercised the same
enchanting effect in the case of Disraeli. Like a dram-drinker, whose
ordinary life is passed in dull sobriety, her unsophisticated intelligence
gulped down his rococo allurements with peculiar zest. She became
intoxicated, entranced. Believing all that he told her of herself, she
completely regained the self-confidence which had been slipping away
from her throughout the dark period that followed Albert's death. She
swelled with a new elation, while he, conjuring up before her wonderful
Oriental visions, dazzled her eyes with an imperial grandeur of which she
had only dimly dreamed. Under the compelling influence, her very
demeanour altered. Her short, stout figure, with its folds of black velvet, its
muslin streamers, its heavy pearls at the heavy neck, assumed an almost
menacing air. In her countenance, from which the charm of youth had long
since vanished, and which had not yet been softened by age, the traces of
grief, of disappointment, and of displeasure were still visible, but they were
overlaid by looks of arrogance and sharp lines of peremptory hauteur. Only,
when Mr. Disraeli appeared, the expression changed in an instant, and the

forbidding visage became charged with smiles. For him she would do
anything. Yielding to his encouragements, she began to emerge from her
seclusion; she appeared in London in semi-state, at hospitals and concerts;
she opened Parliament; she reviewed troops and distributed medals at
Aldershot. But such public signs of favour were trivial in comparison with
her private attentions. During his flours of audience, she could hardly
restrain her excitement and delight. "I can only describe my reception," he
wrote to a friend on one occasion, "by telling you that I really thought she
was going to embrace me. She was wreathed with smiles, and, as she
tattled, glided about the room like a bird." In his absence, she talked of him
perpetually, and there was a note of unusual vehemence in her solicitude for
his health. "John Manners," Disraeli told Lady Bradford, "who has just
come from Osborne, says that the Faery only talked of one subject, and that
was her Primo. According to him, it was her gracious opinion that the
Government should make my health a Cabinet question. Dear John seemed
quite surprised at what she said; but you are used to these ebullitions." She
often sent him presents; an illustrated album arrived for him regularly from
Windsor on Christmas Day. But her most valued gifts were the bunches of
spring flowers which, gathered by herself and her ladies in the woods at
Osborne, marked in an especial manner the warmth and tenderness of her
sentiments. Among these it was, he declared, the primroses that he loved the
best. They were, he said, "the ambassadors of Spring, the gems and jewels
of Nature." He liked them, he assured her, "so much better for their being
wild; they seem an offering from the Fauns and Dryads of Osborne." "They
show," he told her, "that your Majesty's sceptre has touched the enchanted
Isle." He sat at dinner with heaped-up bowls of them on every side, and told
his guests that "they were all sent to me this morning by the Queen from
Osborne, as she knows it is my favorite flower."
As time went on, and as it became clearer and clearer that the Faery's
thraldom was complete, his protestations grew steadily more highly—
coloured and more unabashed. At last he ventured to import into his
blandishments a strain of adoration that was almost avowedly romantic. In
phrases of baroque convolution, he conveyed the message of his heart. "The
pressure of business," he wrote, had "so absorbed and exhausted him, that
towards the hour of post he has not had clearness of mind, and vigour of
pen, adequate to convey his thoughts and facts to the most loved and
illustrious being, who deigns to consider them." She sent him some

primroses, and he replied that he could "truly say they are 'more precious
than rubies,' coming, as they do, and at such a moment, from a Sovereign
whom he adores." She sent him snowdrops, and his sentiment overflowed
into poetry. "Yesterday eve," he wrote, "there appeared, in Whitehall
Gardens, a delicate-looking case, with a royal superscription, which, when
he opened, he thought, at first, that your Majesty had graciously bestowed
upon him the stars of your Majesty's principal orders." And, indeed, he was
so impressed with this graceful illusion, that, having a banquet, where there
were many stars and ribbons, he could not resist the temptation, by placing
some snowdrops on his heart, of showing that, he, too, was decorated by a
gracious Sovereign.
Then, in the middle of the night, it occurred to him, that it might all be an
enchantment, and that, perhaps, it was a Faery gift and came from another
monarch: Queen Titania, gathering flowers, with her Court, in a soft and
sea-girt isle, and sending magic blossoms, which, they say, turn the heads of
those who receive them.
A Faery gift! Did he smile as he wrote the words? Perhaps; and yet it
would be rash to conclude that his perfervid declarations were altogether
without sincerity. Actor and spectator both, the two characters were so
intimately blended together in that odd composition that they formed an
inseparable unity, and it was impossible to say that one of them was less
genuine than the other. With one element, he could coldly appraise the
Faery's intellectual capacity, note with some surprise that she could be on
occasion "most interesting and amusing," and then continue his use of the
trowel with an ironical solemnity; while, with the other, he could be
overwhelmed by the immemorial panoply of royalty, and, thrilling with the
sense of his own strange elevation, dream himself into a gorgeous phantasy
of crowns and powers and chivalric love. When he told Victoria that
"during a somewhat romantic and imaginative life, nothing has ever
occurred to him so interesting as this confidential correspondence with one
so exalted and so inspiring," was he not in earnest after all? When he wrote
to a lady about the Court, "I love the Queen—perhaps the only person in
this world left to me that I do love," was he not creating for himself an
enchanted palace out of the Arabian Nights, full of melancholy and
spangles, in which he actually believed? Victoria's state of mind was far
more simple; untroubled by imaginative yearnings, she never lost herself in
that nebulous region of the spirit where feeling and fancy grow confused.

Her emotions, with all their intensity and all their exaggeration, retained the
plain prosaic texture of everyday life. And it was fitting that her expression
of them should be equally commonplace. She was, she told her Prime
Minister, at the end of an official letter, "yours aff'ly V. R. and I." In such a
phrase the deep reality of her feeling is instantly manifest. The Faery's feet
were on the solid earth; it was the ruse cynic who was in the air.
He had taught her, however, a lesson, which she had learnt with alarming
rapidity. A second Gloriana, did he call her? Very well, then, she would
show that she deserved the compliment. Disquieting symptoms followed
fast. In May, 1874, the Tsar, whose daughter had just been married to
Victoria's second son, the Duke of Edinburgh, was in London, and, by an
unfortunate error, it had been arranged that his departure should not take
place until two days after the date on which his royal hostess had previously
decided to go to Balmoral. Her Majesty refused to modify her plans. It was
pointed out to her that the Tsar would certainly be offended, that the most
serious consequences might follow; Lord Derby protested; Lord Salisbury,
the Secretary of State for India, was much perturbed. But the Faery was
unconcerned; she had settled to go to Balmoral on the 18th, and on the 18th
she would go. At last Disraeli, exercising all his influence, induced her to
agree to stay in London for two days more. "My head is still on my
shoulders," he told Lady Bradford. "The great lady has absolutely
postponed her departure! Everybody had failed, even the Prince of Wales...
and I have no doubt I am not in favour. I can't help it. Salisbury says I have
saved an Afghan War, and Derby compliments me on my unrivalled
triumph." But before very long, on another issue, the triumph was the
Faery's. Disraeli, who had suddenly veered towards a new Imperialism, had
thrown out the suggestion that the Queen of England ought to become the
Empress of India. Victoria seized upon the idea with avidity, and, in season
and out of season, pressed upon her Prime Minister the desirability of
putting his proposal into practice. He demurred; but she was not to be
baulked; and in 1876, in spite of his own unwillingness and that of his
entire Cabinet, he found himself obliged to add to the troubles of a stormy
session by introducing a bill for the alteration of the Royal Title. His
compliance, however, finally conquered the Faery's heart. The measure was
angrily attacked in both Houses, and Victoria was deeply touched by the
untiring energy with which Disraeli defended it. She was, she said, much
grieved by "the worry and annoyance" to which he was subjected; she

feared she was the cause of it; and she would never forget what she owed to
"her kind, good, and considerate friend." At the same time, her wrath fell on
the Opposition. Their conduct, she declared, was "extraordinary,
incomprehensible, and mistaken," and, in an emphatic sentence which
seemed to contradict both itself and all her former proceedings, she
protested that she "would be glad if it were more generally known that it
was HER wish, as people WILL have it, that it has been FORCED UPON
HER!" When the affair was successfully over, the imperial triumph was
celebrated in a suitable manner. On the day of the Delhi Proclamation, the
new Earl of Beaconsfield went to Windsor to dine with the new Empress of
India. That night the Faery, usually so homely in her attire, appeared in a
glittering panoply of enormous uncut jewels, which had been presented to
her by the reigning Princes of her Raj. At the end of the meal the Prime
Minister, breaking through the rules of etiquette, arose, and in a flowery
oration proposed the health of the Queen-Empress. His audacity was well
received, and his speech was rewarded by a smiling curtsey.
These were significant episodes; but a still more serious manifestation of
Victoria's temper occurred in the following year, during the crowning crisis
of Beaconsfield's life. His growing imperialism, his desire to magnify the
power and prestige of England, his insistence upon a "spirited foreign
policy," had brought him into collision with Russia; the terrible Eastern
Question loomed up; and when war broke out between Russia and Turkey,
the gravity of the situation became extreme. The Prime Minister's policy
was fraught with difficulty and danger. Realising perfectly the appalling
implications of an Anglo-Russian war, he was yet prepared to face even that
eventuality if he could obtain his ends by no other method; but he believed
that Russia in reality was still less desirous of a rupture, and that, if he
played his game with sufficient boldness and adroitness, she would yield,
when it came to the point, all that he required without a blow. It was clear
that the course he had marked out for himself was full of hazard, and
demanded an extraordinary nerve; a single false step, and either himself, or
England, might be plunged in disaster. But nerve he had never lacked; he
began his diplomatic egg-dance with high assurance; and then he
discovered that, besides the Russian Government, besides the Liberals and
Mr. Gladstone, there were two additional sources of perilous embarrassment
with which he would have to reckon. In the first place there was a strong
party in the Cabinet, headed by Lord Derby, the Foreign Secretary, which

was unwilling to take the risk of war; but his culminating anxiety was the
Faery.
From the first, her attitude was uncompromising. The old hatred of
Russia, which had been engendered by the Crimean War, surged up again
within her; she remembered Albert's prolonged animosity; she felt the
prickings of her own greatness; and she flung herself into the turmoil with
passionate heat. Her indignation with the Opposition—with anyone who
ventured to sympathise with the Russians in their quarrel with the Turks—
was unbounded. When anti-Turkish meetings were held in London,
presided over by the Duke of Westminster and Lord Shaftesbury, and
attended by Mr. Gladstone and other prominent Radicals, she considered
that "the Attorney-General ought to be set at these men;" "it can't," she
exclaimed, "be constitutional." Never in her life, not even in the crisis over
the Ladies of the Bedchamber, did she show herself a more furious partisan.
But her displeasure was not reserved for the Radicals; the backsliding
Conservatives equally felt its force. She was even discontented with Lord
Beaconsfield himself. Failing entirely to appreciate the delicate complexity
of his policy, she constantly assailed him with demands for vigorous action,
interpreted each finesse as a sign of weakness, and was ready at every
juncture to let slip the dogs of war. As the situation developed, her anxiety
grew feverish. "The Queen," she wrote, "is feeling terribly anxious lest
delay should cause us to be too late and lose our prestige for ever! It worries
her night and day." "The Faery," Beaconsfield told Lady Bradford, "writes
every day and telegraphs every hour; this is almost literally the case." She
raged loudly against the Russians. "And the language," she cried, "the
insulting language—used by the Russians against us! It makes the Queen's
blood boil!" "Oh," she wrote a little later, "if the Queen were a man, she
would like to go and give those Russians, whose word one cannot believe,
such a beating! We shall never be friends again till we have it out. This the
Queen feels sure of."
The unfortunate Prime Minister, urged on to violence by Victoria on one
side, had to deal, on the other, with a Foreign Secretary who was
fundamentally opposed to any policy of active interference at all. Between
the Queen and Lord Derby he held a harassed course. He gained, indeed,
some slight satisfaction in playing on the one against the other—in
stimulating Lord Derby with the Queen's missives, and in appeasing the
Queen by repudiating Lord Derby's opinions; on one occasion he actually

went so far as to compose, at Victoria's request, a letter bitterly attacking his
colleague, which Her Majesty forthwith signed, and sent, without alteration,
to the Foreign Secretary. But such devices only gave a temporary relief; and
it soon became evident that Victoria's martial ardour was not to be
sidetracked by hostilities against Lord Derby; hostilities against Russia
were what she wanted, what she would, what she must, have. For now,
casting aside the last relics of moderation, she began to attack her friend
with a series of extraordinary threats. Not once, not twice, but many times
she held over his head the formidable menace of her imminent abdication.
"If England," she wrote to Beaconsfield, "is to kiss Russia's feet, she will
not be a party to the humiliation of England and would lay down her
crown," and she added that the Prime Minister might, if he thought fit,
repeat her words to the Cabinet. "This delay," she ejaculated, "this
uncertainty by which, abroad, we are losing our prestige and our position,
while Russia is advancing and will be before Constantinople in no time!
Then the Government will be fearfully blamed and the Queen so humiliated
that she thinks she would abdicate at once. Be bold!" "She feels," she
reiterated, "she cannot, as she before said, remain the Sovereign of a
country that is letting itself down to kiss the feet of the great barbarians, the
retarders of all liberty and civilisation that exists." When the Russians
advanced to the outskirts of Constantinople she fired off three letters in a
day demanding war; and when she learnt that the Cabinet had only decided
to send the Fleet to Gallipoli she declared that "her first impulse" was "to
lay down the thorny crown, which she feels little satisfaction in retaining if
the position of this country is to remain as it is now." It is easy to imagine
the agitating effect of such a correspondence upon Beaconsfield. This was
no longer the Faery; it was a genie whom he had rashly called out of her
bottle, and who was now intent upon showing her supernal power. More
than once, perplexed, dispirited, shattered by illness, he had thoughts of
withdrawing altogether from the game. One thing alone, he told Lady
Bradford, with a wry smile, prevented him. "If I could only," he wrote,
"face the scene which would occur at headquarters if I resigned, I would do
so at once."
He held on, however, to emerge victorious at last. The Queen was
pacified; Lord Derby was replaced by Lord Salisbury; and at the Congress
of Berlin der alte Jude carried all before him. He returned to England in

triumph, and assured the delighted Victoria that she would very soon be, if
she was not already, the "Dictatress of Europe."
But soon there was an unexpected reverse. At the General Election of
1880 the country, mistrustful of the forward policy of the Conservatives,
and carried away by Mr. Gladstone's oratory, returned the Liberals to power.
Victoria was horrified, but within a year she was to be yet more nearly hit.
The grand romance had come to its conclusion. Lord Beaconsfield, worn
out with age and maladies, but moving still, an assiduous mummy, from
dinner-party to dinner-party, suddenly moved no longer. When she knew
that the end was inevitable, she seemed, by a pathetic instinct, to divest
herself of her royalty, and to shrink, with hushed gentleness, beside him, a
woman and nothing more. "I send some Osborne primroses," she wrote to
him with touching simplicity, "and I meant to pay you a little visit this
week, but I thought it better you should be quite quiet and not speak. And I
beg you will be very good and obey the doctors." She would see him, she
said, "when we, come back from Osborne, which won't be long." "Everyone
is so distressed at your not being well," she added; and she was, "Ever yours
very aff'ly V.R.I." When the royal letter was given him, the strange old
comedian, stretched on his bed of death, poised it in his hand, appeared to
consider deeply, and then whispered to those about him, "This ought to be
read to me by a Privy Councillor."

CHAPTER IX. OLD AGE
I

Meanwhile in Victoria's private life many changes and developments had
taken place. With the marriages of her elder children her family circle
widened; grandchildren appeared; and a multitude of new domestic interests
sprang up. The death of King Leopold in 1865 had removed the
predominant figure of the older generation, and the functions he had
performed as the centre and adviser of a large group of relatives in
Germany and in England devolved upon Victoria. These functions she
discharged with unremitting industry, carrying on an enormous
correspondence, and following with absorbed interest every detail in the
lives of the ever-ramifying cousinhood. And she tasted to the full both the
joys and the pains of family affection. She took a particular delight in her
grandchildren, to whom she showed an indulgence which their parents had
not always enjoyed, though, even to her grandchildren, she could be, when
the occasion demanded it, severe. The eldest of them, the little Prince
Wilhelm of Prussia, was a remarkably headstrong child; he dared to be
impertinent even to his grandmother; and once, when she told him to bow
to a visitor at Osborne, he disobeyed her outright. This would not do: the
order was sternly repeated, and the naughty boy, noticing that his
grandmama had suddenly turned into a most terrifying lady, submitted his
will to hers, and bowed very low indeed.
It would have been well if all the Queen's domestic troubles could have
been got over as easily. Among her more serious distresses was the conduct
of the Prince of Wales. The young man was now independent and married;
he had shaken the parental yoke from his shoulders; he was positively
beginning to do as he liked. Victoria was much perturbed, and her worst
fears seemed to be justified when in 1870 he appeared as a witness in a
society divorce case. It was clear that the heir to the throne had been mixing
with people of whom she did not at all approve. What was to be done? She
saw that it was not only her son that was to blame—that it was the whole
system of society; and so she despatched a letter to Mr. Delane, the editor of

The Times, asking him if he would "frequently WRITE articles pointing out
the IMMENSE danger and evil of the wretched frivolity and levity of the
views and lives of the Higher Classes." And five years later Mr. Delane did
write an article upon that very subject. Yet it seemed to have very little
effect.
Ah! if only the Higher Classes would learn to live as she lived in the
domestic sobriety of her sanctuary at Balmoral! For more and more did she
find solace and refreshment in her Highland domain; and twice yearly, in
the spring and in the autumn, with a sigh of relief, she set her face
northwards, in spite of the humble protests of Ministers, who murmured
vainly in the royal ears that to transact the affairs of State over an interval of
six hundred miles added considerably to the cares of government. Her
ladies, too, felt occasionally a slight reluctance to set out, for, especially in
the early days, the long pilgrimage was not without its drawbacks. For
many years the Queen's conservatism forbade the continuation of the
railway up Deeside, so that the last stages of the journey had to be
accomplished in carriages. But, after all, carriages had their good points;
they were easy, for instance, to get in and out of, which was an important
consideration, for the royal train remained for long immune from modern
conveniences, and when it drew up, on some border moorland, far from any
platform, the highbred dames were obliged to descend to earth by the
perilous foot-board, the only pair of folding steps being reserved for Her
Majesty's saloon. In the days of crinolines such moments were sometimes
awkward; and it was occasionally necessary to summon Mr. Johnstone, the
short and sturdy Manager of the Caledonian Railway, who, more than once,
in a high gale and drenching rain with great difficulty "pushed up"—as he
himself described it—some unlucky Lady Blanche or Lady Agatha into her
compartment. But Victoria cared for none of these things. She was only
intent upon regaining, with the utmost swiftness, her enchanted Castle,
where every spot was charged with memories, where every memory was
sacred, and where life was passed in an incessant and delightful round of
absolutely trivial events.
And it was not only the place that she loved; she was equally attached to
"the simple mountaineers," from whom, she said, "she learnt many a lesson
of resignation and faith." Smith and Grant and Ross and Thompson—she
was devoted to them all; but, beyond the rest, she was devoted to John
Brown. The Prince's gillie had now become the Queen's personal attendant

—a body servant from whom she was never parted, who accompanied her
on her drives, waited on her during the day, and slept in a neighbouring
chamber at night. She liked his strength, his solidity, the sense he gave her
of physical security; she even liked his rugged manners and his rough
unaccommodating speech. She allowed him to take liberties with her which
would have been unthinkable from anybody else. To bully the Queen, to
order her about, to reprimand her—who could dream of venturing upon
such audacities? And yet, when she received such treatment from John
Brown, she positively seemed to enjoy it. The eccentricity appeared to be
extraordinary; but, after all, it is no uncommon thing for an autocratic
dowager to allow some trusted indispensable servant to adopt towards her
an attitude of authority which is jealously forbidden to relatives or friends:
the power of a dependent still remains, by a psychological sleight-of-hand,
one's own power, even when it is exercised over oneself. When Victoria
meekly obeyed the abrupt commands of her henchman to get off her pony
or put on her shawl, was she not displaying, and in the highest degree, the
force of her volition? People might wonder; she could not help that; this
was the manner in which it pleased her to act, and there was an end of it. To
have submitted her judgment to a son or a Minister might have seemed
wiser or more natural; but if she had done so, she instinctively felt, she
would indeed have lost her independence. And yet upon somebody she
longed to depend. Her days were heavy with the long process of
domination. As she drove in silence over the moors she leaned back in the
carriage, oppressed and weary; but what a relief—John Brown was behind
on the rumble, and his strong arm would be there for her to lean upon when
she got out.
He had, too, in her mind, a special connection with Albert. In their
expeditions the Prince had always trusted him more than anyone; the gruff,
kind, hairy Scotsman was, she felt, in some mysterious way, a legacy from
the dead. She came to believe at last—or so it appeared—that the spirit of
Albert was nearer when Brown was near. Often, when seeking inspiration
over some complicated question of political or domestic import, she would
gaze with deep concentration at her late husband's bust. But it was also
noticed that sometimes in such moments of doubt and hesitation Her
Majesty's looks would fix themselves upon John Brown.
Eventually, the "simple mountaineer" became almost a state personage.
The influence which he wielded was not to be overlooked. Lord

Beaconsfield was careful, from time to time, to send courteous messages to
"Mr. Brown" in his letters to the Queen, and the French Government took
particular pains to provide for his comfort during the visits of the English
Sovereign to France. It was only natural that among the elder members of
the royal family he should not have been popular, and that his failings—for
failings he had, though Victoria would never notice his too acute
appreciation of Scotch whisky—should have been the subject of
acrimonious comment at Court. But he served his mistress faithfully, and to
ignore him would be a sign of disrespect to her biographer. For the Queen,
far from making a secret of her affectionate friendship, took care to publish
it to the world. By her orders two gold medals were struck in his honour; on
his death, in 1883, a long and eulogistic obituary notice of him appeared in
the Court Circular; and a Brown memorial brooch—of gold, with the late
gillie's head on one side and the royal monogram on the other—was
designed by Her Majesty for presentation to her Highland servants and
cottagers, to be worn by them on the anniversary of his death, with a
mourning scarf and pins. In the second series of extracts from the Queen's
Highland Journal, published in 1884, her "devoted personal attendant and
faithful friend" appears upon almost every page, and is in effect the hero of
the book. With an absence of reticence remarkable in royal persons,
Victoria seemed to demand, in this private and delicate matter, the
sympathy of the whole nation; and yet—such is the world—there were
those who actually treated the relations between their Sovereign and her
servant as a theme for ribald jests.
II
The busy years hastened away; the traces of Time's unimaginable touch
grew manifest; and old age, approaching, laid a gentle hold upon Victoria.
The grey hair whitened; the mature features mellowed; the short firm figure
amplified and moved more slowly, supported by a stick. And,
simultaneously, in the whole tenour of the Queen's existence an
extraordinary transformation came to pass. The nation's attitude towards
her, critical and even hostile as it had been for so many years, altogether
changed; while there was a corresponding alteration in the temper of—
Victoria's own mind.
Many causes led to this result. Among them were the repeated strokes of
personal misfortune which befell the Queen during a cruelly short space of

years. In 1878 the Princess Alice, who had married in 1862 the Prince Louis
of Hesse-Darmstadt, died in tragic circumstances. In the following year the
Prince Imperial, the only son of the Empress Eugenie, to whom Victoria,
since the catastrophe of 1870, had become devotedly attached, was killed in
the Zulu War. Two years later, in 1881, the Queen lost Lord Beaconsfield,
and, in 1883, John Brown. In 1884 the Prince Leopold, Duke of Albany,
who had been an invalid from birth, died prematurely, shortly after his
marriage. Victoria's cup of sorrows was indeed overflowing; and the public,
as it watched the widowed mother weeping for her children and her friends,
displayed a constantly increasing sympathy.
An event which occurred in 1882 revealed and accentuated the feelings
of the nation. As the Queen, at Windsor, was walking from the train to her
carriage, a youth named Roderick Maclean fired a pistol at her from a
distance of a few yards. An Eton boy struck up Maclean's arm with an
umbrella before the pistol went off; no damage was done, and the culprit
was at once arrested. This was the last of a series of seven attempts upon the
Queen—attempts which, taking place at sporadic intervals over a period of
forty years, resembled one another in a curious manner. All, with a single
exception, were perpetrated by adolescents, whose motives were apparently
not murderous, since, save in the case of Maclean, none of their pistols was
loaded. These unhappy youths, who, after buying their cheap weapons,
stuffed them with gunpowder and paper, and then went off, with the
certainty of immediate detection, to click them in the face of royalty,
present a strange problem to the psychologist. But, though in each case their
actions and their purposes seemed to be so similar, their fates were
remarkably varied. The first of them, Edward Oxford, who fired at Victoria
within a few months of her marriage, was tried for high treason, declared to
be insane, and sent to an asylum for life. It appears, however, that this
sentence did not commend itself to Albert, for when, two years later, John
Francis committed the same of fence, and was tried upon the same charge,
the Prince propounced that there was no insanity in the matter. "The
wretched creature," he told his father, was "not out of his mind, but a
thorough scamp." "I hope," he added, "his trial will be conducted with the
greatest strictness." Apparently it was; at any rate, the jury shared the view
of the Prince, the plea of insanity was, set aside, and Francis was found
guilty of high treason and condemned to death; but, as there was no proof of
an intent to kill or even to wound, this sentence, after a lengthened

deliberation between the Home Secretary and the Judges, was commuted
for one of transportation for life. As the law stood, these assaults, futile as
they were, could only be treated as high treason; the discrepancy between
the actual deed and the tremendous penalties involved was obviously
grotesque; and it was, besides, clear that a jury, knowing that a verdict of
guilty implied a sentence of death, would tend to the alternative course, and
find the prisoner not guilty but insane—a conclusion which, on the face of
it, would have appeared to be the more reasonable. In 1842, therefore, an
Act was passed making any attempt to hurt the Queen a misdemeanor,
punishable by transportation for seven years, or imprisonment, with or
without hard labour, for a term not exceeding three years—the
misdemeanant, at the discretion of the Court, "to be publicly or privately
whipped, as often, and in such manner and form, as the Court shall direct,
not exceeding thrice." The four subsequent attempts were all dealt with
under this new law; William Bean, in 1842, was sentenced to eighteen
months' imprisonment; William Hamilton, in 1849, was transported for
seven years; and, in 1850, the same sentence was passed upon Lieutenant
Robert Pate, who struck the Queen on the head with his cane in Piccadilly.
Pate, alone among these delinquents, was of mature years; he had held a
commission in the Army, dressed himself as a dandy, and was, the Prince
declared, "manifestly deranged." In 1872 Arthur O'Connor, a youth of
seventeen, fired an unloaded pistol at the Queen outside Buckingham
Palace; he was immediately seized by John Brown, and sentenced to one
year's imprisonment and twenty strokes of the birch rod. It was for his
bravery upon this occasion that Brown was presented with one of his gold
medals. In all these cases the jury had refused to allow the plea of insanity;
but Roderick Maclean's attempt in 1882 had a different issue. On this
occasion the pistol was found to have been loaded, and the public
indignation, emphasised as it was by Victoria's growing popularity, was
particularly great. Either for this or for some other reason the procedure of
the last forty years was abandoned, and Maclean was tried for high treason.
The result was what might have been expected: the jury brought in a verdict
of "not guilty, but insane"; and the prisoner was sent to an asylum during
Her Majesty's pleasure. Their verdict, however, produced a remarkable
consequence. Victoria, who doubtless carried in her mind some memory of
Albert's disapproval of a similar verdict in the case of Oxford, was very
much annoyed. What did the jury mean, she asked, by saying that Maclean

was not guilty? It was perfectly clear that he was guilty—she had seen him
fire off the pistol herself. It was in vain that Her Majesty's constitutional
advisers reminded her of the principle of English law which lays down that
no man can be found guilty of a crime unless he be proved to have had a
criminal intention. Victoria was quite unconvinced. "If that is the law," she
said, "the law must be altered:" and altered it was. In 1883 an Act was
passed changing the form of the verdict in cases of insanity, and the
confusing anomaly remains upon the Statute Book to this day.
But it was not only through the feelings—commiserating or indignant—
of personal sympathy that the Queen and her people were being drawn
more nearly together; they were beginning, at last, to come to a close and
permanent agreement upon the conduct of public affairs. Mr. Gladstone's
second administration (1880-85) was a succession of failures, ending in
disaster and disgrace; liberalism fell into discredit with the country, and
Victoria perceived with joy that her distrust of her Ministers was shared by
an ever-increasing number of her subjects. During the crisis in the Sudan,
the popular temper was her own. She had been among the first to urge the
necessity of an expedition to Khartoum, and, when the news came of the
catastrophic death of General Gordon, her voice led the chorus of
denunciation which raved against the Government. In her rage, she
despatched a fulminating telegram to Mr. Gladstone, not in the usual
cypher, but open; and her letter of condolence to Miss Gordon, in which she
attacked her Ministers for breach of faith, was widely published. It was
rumoured that she had sent for Lord Hartington, the Secretary of State for
War, and vehemently upbraided him. "She rated me," he was reported to
have told a friend, "as if I'd been a footman." "Why didn't she send for the
butler?" asked his friend. "Oh," was the reply, "the butler generally manages
to keep out of the way on such occasions."
But the day came when it was impossible to keep out of the way any
longer. Mr. Gladstone was defeated, and resigned. Victoria, at a final
interview, received him with her usual amenity, but, besides the formalities
demanded by the occasion, the only remark which she made to him of a
personal nature was to the effect that she supposed Mr. Gladstone would
now require some rest. He remembered with regret how, at a similar
audience in 1874, she had expressed her trust in him as a supporter of the
throne; but he noted the change without surprise. "Her mind and opinions,"

he wrote in his diary afterwards, "have since that day been seriously
warped."
Such was Mr. Gladstone's view,; but the majority of the nation by no
means agreed with him; and, in the General Election of 1886, they showed
decisively that Victoria's politics were identical with theirs by casting forth
the contrivers of Home Rule—that abomination of desolation—into outer
darkness, and placing Lord Salisbury in power. Victoria's satisfaction was
profound. A flood of new unwonted hopefulness swept over her, stimulating
her vital spirits with a surprising force. Her habit of life was suddenly
altered; abandoning the long seclusion which Disraeli's persuasions had
only momentarily interrupted, she threw herself vigorously into a multitude
of public activities. She appeared at drawing-rooms, at concerts, at reviews;
she laid foundation-stones; she went to Liverpool to open an international
exhibition, driving through the streets in her open carriage in heavy rain
amid vast applauding crowds. Delighted by the welcome which met her
everywhere, she warmed to her work. She visited Edinburgh, where the
ovation of Liverpool was repeated and surpassed. In London, she opened in
high state the Colonial and Indian Exhibition at South Kensington. On this
occasion the ceremonial was particularly magnificent; a blare of trumpets
announced the approach of Her Majesty; the "Natiohal Anthem" followed;
and the Queen, seated on a gorgeous throne of hammered gold, replied with
her own lips to the address that was presented to her. Then she rose, and,
advancing upon the platform with regal port, acknowledged the
acclamations of the great assembly by a succession of curtseys, of elaborate
and commanding grace.
Next year was the fiftieth of her reign, and in June the splendid
anniversary was celebrated in solemn pomp. Victoria, surrounded by the
highest dignitaries of her realm, escorted by a glittering galaxy of kings and
princes, drove through the crowded enthusiasm of the capital to render
thanks to God in Westminster Abbey. In that triumphant hour the last
remaining traces of past antipathies and past disagreements were altogether
swept away. The Queen was hailed at once as the mother of her people and
as the embodied symbol of their imperial greatness; and she responded to
the double sentiment with all the ardour of her spirit. England and the
people of England, she knew it, she felt it, were, in some wonderful and yet
quite simple manner, hers. Exultation, affection, gratitude, a profound sense
of obligation, an unbounded pride—such were her emotions; and, colouring

and intensifying the rest, there was something else. At last, after so long,
happiness—fragmentary, perhaps, and charged with gravity, but true and
unmistakable none the less—had returned to her. The unaccustomed feeling
filled and warmed her consciousness. When, at Buckingham Palace again,
the long ceremony over, she was asked how she was, "I am very tired, but
very happy," she said.
III
And so, after the toils and tempests of the day, a long evening followed—
mild, serene, and lighted with a golden glory. For an unexampled
atmosphere of success and adoration invested the last period of Victoria's
life. Her triumph was the summary, the crown, of a greater triumph—the
culminating prosperity of a nation. The solid splendour of the decade
between Victoria's two jubilees can hardly be paralleled in the annals of
England. The sage counsels of Lord Salisbury seemed to bring with them
not only wealth and power, but security; and the country settled down, with
calm assurance, to the enjoyment of an established grandeur. And—it was
only natural—Victoria settled down too. For she was a part of the
establishment—an essential part as it seemed—a fixture—a magnificent,
immovable sideboard in the huge saloon of state. Without her the heaped-up
banquet of 1890 would have lost its distinctive quality—the comfortable
order of the substantial unambiguous dishes, with their background of
weighty glamour, half out of sight.
Her own existence came to harmonise more and more with what was
around her. Gradually, imperceptibly, Albert receded. It was not that he was
forgotten—that would have been impossible—but that the void created by
his absence grew less agonising, and even, at last, less obvious. At last
Victoria found it possible to regret the bad weather without immediately
reflecting that her "dear Albert always said we could not alter it, but must
leave it as it was;" she could even enjoy a good breakfast without
considering how "dear Albert" would have liked the buttered eggs. And, as
that figure slowly faded, its place was taken, inevitably, by Victoria's own.
Her being, revolving for so many years round an external object, now
changed its motion and found its centre in itself. It had to be so: her
domestic position, the pressure of her public work, her indomitable sense of
duty, made anything else impossible. Her egotism proclaimed its rights. Her
age increased still further the surrounding deference; and her force of

character, emerging at length in all its plenitude, imposed absolutely upon
its environment by the conscious effort of an imperious will.
Little by little it was noticed that the outward vestiges of Albert's
posthumous domination grew less complete. At Court the stringency of
mourning was relaxed. As the Queen drove through the Park in her open
carriage with her Highlanders behind her, nursery-maids canvassed eagerly
the growing patch of violet velvet in the bonnet with its jet appurtenances
on the small bowing head.
It was in her family that Victoria's ascendancy reached its highest point.
All her offspring were married; the number of her descendants rapidly
increased; there were many marriages in the third generation; and no fewer
than thirty-seven of her great-grandchildren were living at the time of her
death. A picture of the period displays the royal family collected together in
one of the great rooms at Windsor—a crowded company of more than fifty
persons, with the imperial matriarch in their midst. Over them all she ruled
with a most potent sway. The small concerns of the youngest aroused her
passionate interest; and the oldest she treated as if they were children still.
The Prince of Wales, in particular, stood in tremendous awe of his mother.
She had steadily refused to allow him the slightest participation in the
business of government; and he had occupied himself in other ways. Nor
could it be denied that he enjoyed himself—out of her sight; but, in that
redoubtable presence, his abounding manhood suffered a miserable eclipse.
Once, at Osborne, when, owing to no fault of his, he was too late for a
dinner party, he was observed standing behind a pillar and wiping the sweat
from his forehead, trying to nerve himself to go up to the Queen. When at
last he did so, she gave him a stiff nod, whereupon he vanished immediately
behind another pillar, and remained there until the party broke up. At the
time of this incident the Prince of Wales was over fifty years of age.
It was inevitable that the Queen's domestic activities should occasionally
trench upon the domain of high diplomacy; and this was especially the case
when the interests of her eldest daughter, the Crown Princess of Prussia,
were at stake. The Crown Prince held liberal opinions; he was much
influenced by his wife; and both were detested by Bismarck, who declared
with scurrilous emphasis that the Englishwoman and her mother were a
menace to the Prussian State. The feud was still further intensified when, on
the death of the old Emperor (1888), the Crown Prince succeeded to the

throne. A family entanglement brought on a violent crisis. One of the
daughters of the new Empress had become betrothed to Prince Alexander of
Battenberg, who had lately been ejected from the throne of Bulgaria owing
to the hostility of the Tsar. Victoria, as well as the Empress, highly approved
of the match. Of the two brothers of Prince Alexander, the elder had married
another of her grand-daughters, and the younger was the husband of her
daughter, the Princess Beatrice; she was devoted to the handsome young
man; and she was delighted by the prospect of the third brother—on the
whole the handsomest, she thought, of the three—also becoming a member
of her family. Unfortunately, however, Bismarck was opposed to the
scheme. He perceived that the marriage would endanger the friendship
between Germany and Russia, which was vital to his foreign policy, and he
announced that it must not take place. A fierce struggle between the
Empress and the Chancellor followed. Victoria, whose hatred of her
daughter's enemy was unbounded, came over to Charlottenburg to join in
the fray. Bismarck, over his pipe and lager, snorted out his alarm. The
Queen of England's object, he said, was clearly political—she wished to
estrange Germany and Russia—and very likely she would have her way. "In
family matters," he added, "she is not used to contradiction;" she would
"bring the parson with her in her travelling bag and the bridegroom in her
trunk, and the marriage would come off on the spot." But the man of blood
and iron was not to be thwarted so easily, and he asked for a private
interview with the Queen. The details of their conversation are unknown;
but it is certain that in the course of it Victoria was forced to realise the
meaning of resistance to that formidable personage, and that she promised
to use all her influence to prevent the marriage. The engagement was
broken off; and in the following year Prince Alexander of Battenberg united
himself to Fraulein Loisinger, an actress at the court theatre of Darmstad.
But such painful incidents were rare. Victoria was growing very old; with
no Albert to guide her, with no Beaconsfield to enflame her, she was willing
enough to abandon the dangerous questions of diplomacy to the wisdom of
Lord Salisbury, and to concentrate her energies upon objects which touched
her more nearly and over which she could exercise an undisputed control.
Her home—her court—the monuments at Balmoral—the livestock at
Windsor—the organisation of her engagements—the supervision of the
multitudinous details of her daily routine—such matters played now an
even greater part in her existence than before. Her life passed in an

extraordinary exactitude. Every moment of her day was mapped out
beforehand; the succession of her engagements was immutably fixed; the
dates of her journeys—to Osborne, to Balmoral, to the South of France, to
Windsor, to London—were hardly altered from year to year. She demanded
from those who surrounded her a rigid precision in details, and she was
preternaturally quick in detecting the slightest deviation from the rules
which she had laid down. Such was the irresistible potency of her
personality, that anything but the most implicit obedience to her wishes was
felt to be impossible; but sometimes somebody was unpunctual; and
unpunctuality was one of the most heinous of sins. Then her displeasure—
her dreadful displeasure—became all too visible. At such moments there
seemed nothing surprising in her having been the daughter of a martinet.
But these storms, unnerving as they were while they lasted, were quickly
over, and they grew more and more exceptional. With the return of
happiness a gentle benignity flowed from the aged Queen. Her smile, once
so rare a visitant to those saddened features, flitted over them with an easy
alacrity; the blue eyes beamed; the whole face, starting suddenly from its
pendulous expressionlessness, brightened and softened and cast over those
who watched it an unforgettable charm. For in her last years there was a
fascination in Victoria's amiability which had been lacking even from the
vivid impulse of her youth. Over all who approached her—or very nearly
all—she threw a peculiar spell. Her grandchildren adored her; her ladies
waited upon her with a reverential love. The honour of serving her
obliterated a thousand inconveniences—the monotony of a court existence,
the fatigue of standing, the necessity for a superhuman attentiveness to the
minutia: of time and space. As one did one's wonderful duty one could
forget that one's legs were aching from the infinitude of the passages at
Windsor, or that one's bare arms were turning blue in the Balmoral cold.
What, above all, seemed to make such service delightful was the detailed
interest which the Queen took in the circumstances of those around her. Her
absorbing passion for the comfortable commonplaces, the small crises, the
recurrent sentimentalities, of domestic life constantly demanded wider
fields for its activity; the sphere of her own family, vast as it was, was not
enough; she became the eager confidante of the household affairs of her
ladies; her sympathies reached out to the palace domestics; even the
housemaids and scullions—so it appeared—were the objects of her
searching inquiries, and of her heartfelt solicitude when their lovers were

ordered to a foreign station, or their aunts suffered from an attack of
rheumatism which was more than usually acute.
Nevertheless the due distinctions of rank were immaculately preserved.
The Queen's mere presence was enough to ensure that; but, in addition, the
dominion of court etiquette was paramount. For that elaborate code, which
had kept Lord Melbourne stiff upon the sofa and ranged the other guests in
silence about the round table according to the order of precedence, was as
punctiliously enforced as ever. Every evening after dinner, the hearth-rug,
sacred to royalty, loomed before the profane in inaccessible glory, or, on
one or two terrific occasions, actually lured them magnetically forward to
the very edge of the abyss. The Queen, at the fitting moment, moved
towards her guests; one after the other they were led up to her; and, while
dialogue followed dialogue in constraint and embarrassment, the rest of the
assembly stood still, without a word. Only in one particular was the severity
of the etiquette allowed to lapse. Throughout the greater part of the reign
the rule that ministers must stand during their audiences with the Queen had
been absolute. When Lord Derby, the Prime Minister, had an audience of
Her Majesty after a serious illness, he mentioned it afterwards, as a proof of
the royal favour, that the Queen had remarked "How sorry she was she
could not ask him to be seated." Subsequently, Disraeli, after an attack of
gout and in a moment of extreme expansion on the part of Victoria, had
been offered a chair; but he had thought it wise humbly to decline the
privilege. In her later years, however, the Queen invariably asked Mr.
Gladstone and Lord Salisbury to sit down.
Sometimes the solemnity of the evening was diversified by a concert, an
opera, or even a play. One of the most marked indications of Victoria's
enfranchisement from the thraldom of widowhood had been her resumption
—after an interval of thirty years—of the custom of commanding dramatic
companies from London to perform before the Court at Windsor. On such
occasions her spirits rose high. She loved acting; she loved a good plot;
above all, she loved a farce. Engrossed by everything that passed upon the
stage she would follow, with childlike innocence, the unwinding of the
story; or she would assume an air of knowing superiority and exclaim in
triumph, "There! You didn't expect that, did you?" when the denouement
came. Her sense of humour was of a vigorous though primitive kind. She
had been one of the very few persons who had always been able to
appreciate the Prince Consort's jokes; and, when those were cracked no

more, she could still roar with laughter, in the privacy of her household,
over some small piece of fun—some oddity of an ambassador, or some
ignorant Minister's faux pas. When the jest grew subtle she was less
pleased; but, if it approached the confines of the indecorous, the danger was
serious. To take a liberty called down at once Her Majesty's most crushing
disapprobation; and to say something improper was to take the greatest
liberty of all. Then the royal lips sank down at the corners, the royal eyes
stared in astonished protrusion, and in fact, the royal countenance became
inauspicious in the highest degree. The transgressor shuddered into silence,
while the awful "We are not amused" annihilated the dinner table.
Afterwards, in her private entourage, the Queen would observe that the
person in question was, she very much feared, "not discreet"; it was a
verdict from which there was no appeal.
In general, her aesthetic tastes had remained unchanged since the days of
Mendelssohn, Landseer, and Lablache. She still delighted in the roulades of
Italian opera; she still demanded a high standard in the execution of a
pianoforte duet. Her views on painting were decided; Sir Edwin, she
declared, was perfect; she was much impressed by Lord Leighton's
manners; and she profoundly distrusted Mr. Watts. From time to time she
ordered engraved portraits to be taken of members of the royal family; on
these occasions she would have the first proofs submitted to her, and,
having inspected them with minute particularity, she would point out their
mistakes to the artists, indicating at the same time how they might be
corrected. The artists invariably discovered that Her Majesty's suggestions
were of the highest value. In literature her interests were more restricted.
She was devoted to Lord Tennyson; and, as the Prince Consort had admired
George Eliot, she perused "Middlemarch:" she was disappointed. There is
reason to believe, however, that the romances of another female writer,
whose popularity among the humbler classes of Her Majesty's subjects was
at one time enormous, secured, no less, the approval of Her Majesty.
Otherwise she did not read very much.
Once, however, the Queen's attention was drawn to a publication which it
was impossible for her to ignore. "The Greville Memoirs," filled with a
mass of historical information of extraordinary importance, but filled also
with descriptions, which were by no means flattering, of George IV,
William IV, and other royal persons, was brought out by Mr. Reeve.
Victoria read the book, and was appalled. It was, she declared, a "dreadful

and really scandalous book," and she could not say "how HORRIFIED and
INDIGNANT" she was at Greville's "indiscretion, indelicacy, ingratitude
towards friends, betrayal of confidence and shameful disloyalty towards his
Sovereign." She wrote to Disraeli to tell him that in her opinion it was
"VERY IMPORTANT that the book should be severely censured and
discredited." "The tone in which he speaks of royalty," she added, "is unlike
anything one sees in history even, and is most reprehensible." Her anger
was directed with almost equal vehemence against Mr. Reeve for his having
published "such an abominable book," and she charged Sir Arthur Helps to
convey to him her deep displeasure. Mr. Reeve, however, was impenitent.
When Sir Arthur told him that, in the Queen's opinion, "the book degraded
royalty," he replied: "Not at all; it elevates it by the contrast it offers
between the present and the defunct state of affairs." But this adroit defence
failed to make any impression upon Victoria; and Mr. Reeve, when he
retired from the public service, did not receive the knighthood which
custom entitled him to expect. Perhaps if the Queen had known how many
caustic comments upon herself Mr. Reeve had quietly suppressed in the
published Memoirs, she would have been almost grateful to him; but, in
that case, what would she have said of Greville? Imagination boggles at the
thought. As for more modern essays upon the same topic, Her Majesty, it is
to be feared, would have characterised them as "not discreet."
But as a rule the leisure hours of that active life were occupied with
recreations of a less intangible quality than the study of literature or the
appreciation of art. Victoria was a woman not only of vast property but of
innumerable possessions. She had inherited an immense quantity of
furniture, of ornaments, of china, of plate, of valuable objects of every kind;
her purchases, throughout a long life, made a formidable addition to these
stores; and there flowed in upon her, besides, from every quarter of the
globe, a constant stream of gifts. Over this enormous mass she exercised an
unceasing and minute supervision, and the arrangement and the
contemplation of it, in all its details, filled her with an intimate satisfaction.
The collecting instinct has its roots in the very depths of human nature; and,
in the case of Victoria, it seemed to owe its force to two of her dominating
impulses—the intense sense, which had always been hers, of her own
personality, and the craving which, growing with the years, had become in
her old age almost an obsession, for fixity, for solidity, for the setting up of
palpable barriers against the outrages of change and time. When she

considered the multitudinous objects which belonged to her, or, better still,
when, choosing out some section of them as the fancy took her, she actually
savoured the vivid richness of their individual qualities, she saw herself
deliciously reflected from a million facets, felt herself magnified
miraculously over a boundless area, and was well pleased. That was just as
it should be; but then came the dismaying thought—everything slips away,
crumbles, vanishes; Sevres dinner-services get broken; even golden basins
go unaccountably astray; even one's self, with all the recollections and
experiences that make up one's being, fluctuates, perishes, dissolves... But
no! It could not, should not be so! There should be no changes and no
losses! Nothing should ever move—neither the past nor the present—and
she herself least of all! And so the tenacious woman, hoarding her
valuables, decreed their immortality with all the resolution of her soul. She
would not lose one memory or one pin.
She gave orders that nothing should be thrown away—and nothing was.
There, in drawer after drawer, in wardrobe after wardrobe, reposed the
dresses of seventy years. But not only the dresses—the furs and the mantles
and subsidiary frills and the muffs and the parasols and the bonnets—all
were ranged in chronological order, dated and complete. A great cupboard
was devoted to the dolls; in the china room at Windsor a special table held
the mugs of her childhood, and her children's mugs as well. Mementoes of
the past surrounded her in serried accumulations. In every room the tables
were powdered thick with the photographs of relatives; their portraits,
revealing them at all ages, covered the walls; their figures, in solid marble,
rose up from pedestals, or gleamed from brackets in the form of gold and
silver statuettes. The dead, in every shape—in miniatures, in porcelain, in
enormous life-size oil-paintings—were perpetually about her. John Brown
stood upon her writing-table in solid gold. Her favourite horses and dogs,
endowed with a new durability, crowded round her footsteps. Sharp, in
silver gilt, dominated the dinner table; Boy and Boz lay together among
unfading flowers, in bronze. And it was not enough that each particle of the
past should be given the stability of metal or of marble: the whole
collection, in its arrangement, no less than its entity, should be immutably
fixed. There might be additions, but there might never be alterations. No
chintz might change, no carpet, no curtain, be replaced by another; or, if
long use at last made it necessary, the stuffs and the patterns must be so
identically reproduced that the keenest eye might not detect the difference.

No new picture could be hung upon the walls at Windsor, for those already
there had been put in their places by Albert, whose decisions were eternal.
So, indeed, were Victoria's. To ensure that they should be the aid of the
camera was called in. Every single article in the Queen's possession was
photographed from several points of view. These photographs were
submitted to Her Majesty, and when, after careful inspection, she had
approved of them, they were placed in a series of albums, richly bound.
Then, opposite each photograph, an entry was made, indicating the number
of the article, the number of the room in which it was kept, its exact
position in the room and all its principal characteristics. The fate of every
object which had undergone this process was henceforth irrevocably sealed.
The whole multitude, once and for all, took up its steadfast station. And
Victoria, with a gigantic volume or two of the endless catalogue always
beside her, to look through, to ponder upon, to expatiate over, could feel,
with a double contentment, that the transitoriness of this world had been
arrested by the amplitude of her might.
Thus the collection, ever multiplying, ever encroaching upon new fields
of consciousness, ever rooting itself more firmly in the depths of instinct,
became one of the dominating influences of that strange existence. It was a
collection not merely of things and of thoughts, but of states of mind and
ways of living as well. The celebration of anniversaries grew to be an
important branch of it—of birthdays and marriage days and death days,
each of which demanded its appropriate feeling, which, in its turn, must be
itself expressed in an appropriate outward form. And the form, of course—
the ceremony of rejoicing or lamentation—was stereotyped with the rest: it
was part of the collection. On a certain day, for instance, flowers must be
strewn on John Brown's monument at Balmoral; and the date of the yearly
departure for Scotland was fixed by that fact. Inevitably it was around the
central circumstance of death—death, the final witness to human mutability
—that these commemorative cravings clustered most thickly. Might not
even death itself be humbled, if one could recall enough—if one asserted,
with a sufficiently passionate and reiterated emphasis, the eternity of love?
Accordingly, every bed in which Victoria slept had attached to it, at the
back, on the right-hand side, above the pillow, a photograph of the head and
shoulders of Albert as he lay dead, surmounted by a wreath of immortelles.
At Balmoral, where memories came crowding so closely, the solid signs of
memory appeared in surprising profusion. Obelisks, pyramids, tombs,

statues, cairns, and seats of inscribed granite, proclaimed Victoria's
dedication to the dead. There, twice a year, on the days that followed her
arrival, a solemn pilgrimage of inspection and meditation was performed.
There, on August 26—Albert's birthday—at the foot of the bronze statue of
him in Highland dress, the Queen, her family, her Court, her servants, and
her tenantry, met together and in silence drank to the memory of the dead.
In England the tokens of remembrance pullulated hardly less. Not a day
passed without some addition to the multifold assemblage—a gold statuette
of Ross, the piper—a life-sized marble group of Victoria and Albert, in
medieval costume, inscribed upon the base with the words: "Allured to
brighter worlds and led the way-" a granite slab in the shrubbery at
Osborne, informing the visitor of "Waldmann: the very favourite little
dachshund of Queen Victoria; who brought him from Baden, April 1872;
died, July 11, 1881."
At Frogmore, the great mausoleum, perpetually enriched, was visited
almost daily by the Queen when the Court was at Windsor. But there was
another, a more secret and a hardly less holy shrine. The suite of rooms
which Albert had occupied in the Castle was kept for ever shut away from
the eyes of any save the most privileged. Within those precincts everything
remained as it had been at the Prince's death; but the mysterious
preoccupation of Victoria had commanded that her husband's clothing
should be laid afresh, each evening, upon the bed, and that, each evening,
the water should be set ready in the basin, as if he were still alive; and this
incredible rite was performed with scrupulous regularity for nearly forty
years.
Such was the inner worship; and still the flesh obeyed the spirit; still the
daily hours of labour proclaimed Victoria's consecration to duty and to the
ideal of the dead. Yet, with the years, the sense of self-sacrifice faded; the
natural energies of that ardent being discharged themselves with satisfaction
into the channel of public work; the love of business which, from her
girlhood, had been strong within her, reasserted itself in all its vigour, and,
in her old age, to have been cut off from her papers and her boxes would
have been, not a relief, but an agony to Victoria. Thus, though toiling
Ministers might sigh and suffer, the whole process of government
continued, till the very end, to pass before her. Nor was that all; ancient
precedent had made the validity of an enormous number of official
transactions dependent upon the application of the royal sign-manual; and a

great proportion of the Queen's working hours was spent in this mechanical
task. Nor did she show any desire to diminish it. On the contrary, she
voluntarily resumed the duty of signing commissions in the army, from
which she had been set free by Act of Parliament, and from which, during
the years of middle life, she had abstained. In no case would she
countenance the proposal that she should use a stamp. But, at last, when the
increasing pressure of business made the delays of the antiquated system
intolerable, she consented that, for certain classes of documents, her oral
sanction should be sufficient. Each paper was read aloud to her, and she
said at the end "Approved." Often, for hours at a time, she would sit, with
Albert's bust in front of her, while the word "Approved" issued at intervals
from her lips. The word came forth with a majestic sonority; for her voice
now—how changed from the silvery treble of her girlhood—was a
contralto, full and strong.
IV
The final years were years of apotheosis. In the dazzled imagination of
her subjects Victoria soared aloft towards the regions of divinity through a
nimbus of purest glory. Criticism fell dumb; deficiencies which, twenty
years earlier, would have been universally admitted, were now as
universally ignored. That the nation's idol was a very incomplete
representative of the nation was a circumstance that was hardly noticed, and
yet it was conspicuously true. For the vast changes which, out of the
England of 1837, had produced the England of 1897, seemed scarcely to
have touched the Queen. The immense industrial development of the
period, the significance of which had been so thoroughly understood by
Albert, meant little indeed to Victoria. The amazing scientific movement,
which Albert had appreciated no less, left Victoria perfectly cold. Her
conception of the universe, and of man's place in it, and of the stupendous
problems of nature and philosophy remained, throughout her life, entirely
unchanged. Her religion was the religion which she had learnt from the
Baroness Lehzen and the Duchess of Kent. Here, too, it might have been
supposed that Albert's views might have influenced her. For Albert, in
matters of religion, was advanced. Disbelieving altogether in evil spirits, he
had had his doubts about the miracle of the Gaderene Swine. Stockmar,
even, had thrown out, in a remarkable memorandum on the education of the
Prince of Wales, the suggestion that while the child "must unquestionably
be brought up in the creed of the Church of England," it might nevertheless

be in accordance with the spirit of the times to exclude from his religious
training the inculcation of a belief in "the supernatural doctrines of
Christianity." This, however, would have been going too far; and all the
royal children were brought up in complete orthodoxy. Anything else would
have grieved Victoria, though her own conceptions of the orthodox were not
very precise. But her nature, in which imagination and subtlety held so
small a place, made her instinctively recoil from the intricate ecstasies of
High Anglicanism; and she seemed to feel most at home in the simple faith
of the Presbyterian Church of Scotland. This was what might have been
expected; for Lehzen was the daughter of a Lutheran pastor, and the
Lutherans and the Presbyterians have much in common. For many years Dr.
Norman Macleod, an innocent Scotch minister, was her principal spiritual
adviser; and, when he was taken from her, she drew much comfort from
quiet chats about life and death with the cottagers at Balmoral. Her piety,
absolutely genuine, found what it wanted in the sober exhortations of old
John Grant and the devout saws of Mrs. P. Farquharson. They possessed the
qualities, which, as a child of fourteen, she had so sincerely admired in the
Bishop of Chester's "Exposition of the Gospel of St. Matthew;" they were
"just plain and comprehensible and full of truth and good feeling." The
Queen, who gave her name to the Age of Mill and of Darwin, never got any
further than that.
From the social movements of her time Victoria was equally remote.
Towards the smallest no less than towards the greatest changes she
remained inflexible. During her youth and middle age smoking had been
forbidden in polite society, and so long as she lived she would not withdraw
her anathema against it. Kings might protest; bishops and ambassadors,
invited to Windsor, might be reduced, in the privacy of their bedrooms, to
lie full-length upon the floor and smoke up the chimney—the interdict
continued! It might have been supposed that a female sovereign would have
lent her countenance to one of the most vital of all the reforms to which her
epoch gave birth—the emancipation of women—but, on the contrary, the
mere mention of such a proposal sent the blood rushing to her head. In
1870, her eye having fallen upon the report of a meeting in favour of
Women's Suffrage, she wrote to Mr. Martin in royal rage—"The Queen is
most anxious to enlist everyone who can speak or write to join in checking
this mad, wicked folly of 'Woman's Rights,' with all its attendant horrors, on
which her poor feeble sex is bent, forgetting every sense of womanly

feeling and propriety. Lady—ought to get a GOOD WHIPPING. It is a
subject which makes the Queen so furious that she cannot contain herself.
God created men and women different—then let them remain each in their
own position. Tennyson has some beautiful lines on the difference of men
and women in 'The Princess.' Woman would become the most hateful,
heartless, and disgusting of human beings were she allowed to unsex
herself; and where would be the protection which man was intended to give
the weaker sex? The Queen is sure that Mrs. Martin agrees with her." The
argument was irrefutable; Mrs. Martin agreed; and yet the canker spread.
In another direction Victoria's comprehension of the spirit of her age has
been constantly asserted. It was for long the custom for courtly historians
and polite politicians to compliment the Queen upon the correctness of her
attitude towards the Constitution. But such praises seem hardly to be
justified by the facts. In her later years Victoria more than once alluded with
regret to her conduct during the Bedchamber crisis, and let it be understood
that she had grown wiser since. Yet in truth it is difficult to trace any
fundamental change either in her theory or her practice in constitutional
matters throughout her life. The same despotic and personal spirit which led
her to break off the negotiations with Peel is equally visible in her
animosity towards Palmerston, in her threats of abdication to Disraeli, and
in her desire to prosecute the Duke of Westminster for attending a meeting
upon Bulgarian atrocities. The complex and delicate principles of the
Constitution cannot be said to have come within the compass of her mental
faculties; and in the actual developments which it underwent during her
reign she played a passive part. From 1840 to 1861 the power of the Crown
steadily increased in England; from 1861 to 1901 it steadily declined. The
first process was due to the influence of the Prince Consort, the second to
that of a series of great Ministers. During the first Victoria was in effect a
mere accessory; during the second the threads of power, which Albert had
so laboriously collected, inevitably fell from her hands into the vigorous
grasp of Mr. Gladstone, Lord Beaconsfield, and Lord Salisbury. Perhaps,
absorbed as she was in routine, and difficult as she found it to distinguish at
all clearly between the trivial and the essential, she was only dimly aware of
what was happening. Yet, at the end of her reign, the Crown was weaker
than at any other time in English history. Paradoxically enough, Victoria
received the highest eulogiums for assenting to a political evolution, which,

had she completely realised its import, would have filled her with supreme
displeasure.
Nevertheless it must not be supposed that she was a second George III.
Her desire to impose her will, vehement as it was, and unlimited by any
principle, was yet checked by a certain shrewdness. She might oppose her
Ministers with extraordinary violence, she might remain utterly impervious
to arguments and supplications; the pertinacity of her resolution might seem
to be unconquerable; but, at the very last moment of all, her obstinacy
would give way. Her innate respect and capacity for business, and perhaps,
too, the memory of Albert's scrupulous avoidance of extreme courses,
prevented her from ever entering an impasse. By instinct she understood
when the facts were too much for her, and to them she invariably yielded.
After all, what else could she do?
But if, in all these ways, the Queen and her epoch were profoundly
separated, the points of contact between them also were not few. Victoria
understood very well the meaning and the attractions of power and
property, and in such learning the English nation, too, had grown to be more
and more proficient. During the last fifteen years of the reign—for the short
Liberal Administration of 1892 was a mere interlude imperialism was the
dominant creed of the country. It was Victoria's as well. In this direction, if
in no other, she had allowed her mind to develop. Under Disraeli's tutelage
the British Dominions over the seas had come to mean much more to her
than ever before, and, in particular, she had grown enamoured of the East.
The thought of India fascinated her; she set to, and learnt a little Hindustani;
she engaged some Indian servants, who became her inseparable attendants,
and one of whom, Munshi Abdul Karim, eventually almost succeeded to the
position which had once been John Brown's. At the same time, the
imperialist temper of the nation invested her office with a new significance
exactly harmonising with her own inmost proclivities. The English polity
was in the main a common-sense structure, but there was always a corner in
it where common-sense could not enter—where, somehow or other, the
ordinary measurements were not applicable and the ordinary rules did not
apply. So our ancestors had laid it down, giving scope, in their wisdom, to
that mystical element which, as it seems, can never quite be eradicated from
the affairs of men. Naturally it was in the Crown that the mysticism of the
English polity was concentrated—the Crown, with its venerable antiquity,
its sacred associations, its imposing spectacular array. But, for nearly two

centuries, common-sense had been predominant in the great building, and
the little, unexplored, inexplicable corner had attracted small attention.
Then, with the rise of imperialism, there was a change. For imperialism is a
faith as well as a business; as it grew, the mysticism in English public life
grew with it; and simultaneously a new importance began to attach to the
Crown. The need for a symbol—a symbol of England's might, of England's
worth, of England's extraordinary and mysterious destiny—became felt
more urgently than ever before. The Crown was that symbol: and the
Crown rested upon the head of Victoria. Thus it happened that while by the
end of the reign the power of the sovereign had appreciably diminished, the
prestige of the sovereign had enormously grown.
Yet this prestige was not merely the outcome of public changes; it was an
intensely personal matter, too. Victoria was the Queen of England, the
Empress of India, the quintessential pivot round which the whole
magnificent machine was revolving—but how much more besides! For one
thing, she was of a great age—an almost indispensable qualification for
popularity in England. She had given proof of one of the most admired
characteristics of the race—persistent vitality. She had reigned for sixty
years, and she was not out. And then, she was a character. The outlines of
her nature were firmly drawn, and, even through the mists which envelop
royalty, clearly visible. In the popular imagination her familiar figure filled,
with satisfying ease, a distinct and memorable place. It was, besides, the
kind of figure which naturally called forth the admiring sympathy of the
great majority of the nation. Goodness they prized above every other human
quality; and Victoria, who had said that she would be good at the age of
twelve, had kept her word. Duty, conscience, morality—yes! in the light of
those high beacons the Queen had always lived. She had passed her days in
work and not in pleasure—in public responsibilities and family cares. The
standard of solid virtue which had been set up so long ago amid the
domestic happiness of Osborne had never been lowered for an instant. For
more than half a century no divorced lady had approached the precincts of
the Court. Victoria, indeed, in her enthusiasm for wifely fidelity, had laid
down a still stricter ordinance: she frowned severely upon any widow who
married again. Considering that she herself was the offspring of a widow's
second marriage, this prohibition might be regarded as an eccentricity; but,
no doubt, it was an eccentricity on the right side. The middle classes, firm
in the triple brass of their respectability, rejoiced with a special joy over the

most respectable of Queens. They almost claimed her, indeed, as one of
themselves; but this would have been an exaggeration. For, though many of
her characteristics were most often found among the middle classes, in
other respects—in her manners, for instance—Victoria was decidedly
aristocratic. And, in one important particular, she was neither aristocratic
nor middle-class: her attitude toward herself was simply regal.
Such qualities were obvious and important; but, in the impact of a
personality, it is something deeper, something fundamental and common to
all its qualities, that really tells. In Victoria, it is easy to discern the nature of
this underlying element: it was a peculiar sincerity. Her truthfulness, her
single-mindedness, the vividness of her emotions and her unrestrained
expression of them, were the varied forms which this central characteristic
assumed. It was her sincerity which gave her at once her impressiveness,
her charm, and her absurdity. She moved through life with the imposing
certitude of one to whom concealment was impossible—either towards her
surroundings or towards herself. There she was, all of her—the Queen of
England, complete and obvious; the world might take her or leave her; she
had nothing more to show, or to explain, or to modify; and, with her
peerless carriage, she swept along her path. And not only was concealment
out of the question; reticence, reserve, even dignity itself, as it sometimes
seemed, might be very well dispensed with. As Lady Lyttelton said: "There
is a transparency in her truth that is very striking—not a shade of
exaggeration in describing feelings or facts; like very few other people I
ever knew. Many may be as true, but I think it goes often along with some
reserve. She talks all out; just as it is, no more and no less." She talked all
out; and she wrote all out, too. Her letters, in the surprising jet of their
expression, remind one of a turned-on tap. What is within pours forth in an
immediate, spontaneous rush. Her utterly unliterary style has at least the
merit of being a vehicle exactly suited to her thoughts and feelings; and
even the platitude of her phraseology carries with it a curiously personal
flavour. Undoubtedly it was through her writings that she touched the heart
of the public. Not only in her "Highland Journals" where the mild chronicle
of her private proceedings was laid bare without a trace either of affectation
or of embarrassment, but also in those remarkable messages to the nation
which, from time to time, she published in the newspapers, her people
found her very close to them indeed. They felt instinctively Victoria's

irresistible sincerity, and they responded. And in truth it was an endearing
trait.
The personality and the position, too—the wonderful combination of
them—that, perhaps, was what was finally fascinating in the case. The little
old lady, with her white hair and her plain mourning clothes, in her wheeled
chair or her donkey-carriage—one saw her so; and then—close behind—
with their immediate suggestion of singularity, of mystery, and of power—
the Indian servants. That was the familiar vision, and it was admirable; but,
at chosen moments, it was right that the widow of Windsor should step
forth apparent Queen. The last and the most glorious of such occasions was
the Jubilee of 1897. Then, as the splendid procession passed along,
escorting Victoria through the thronged re-echoing streets of London on her
progress of thanksgiving to St. Paul's Cathedral, the greatness of her realm
and the adoration of her subjects blazed out together. The tears welled to her
eyes, and, while the multitude roared round her, "How kind they are to me!
How kind they are!" she repeated over and over again. That night her
message flew over the Empire: "From my heart I thank my beloved people.
May God bless them!" The long journey was nearly done. But the traveller,
who had come so far, and through such strange experiences, moved on with
the old unfaltering step. The girl, the wife, the aged woman, were the same:
vitality, conscientiousness, pride, and simplicity were hers to the latest hour.

CHAPTER X. THE END
The evening had been golden; but, after all, the day was to close in cloud
and tempest. Imperial needs, imperial ambitions, involved the country in the
South African War. There were checks, reverses, bloody disasters; for a
moment the nation was shaken, and the public distresses were felt with
intimate solicitude by the Queen. But her spirit was high, and neither her
courage nor her confidence wavered for a moment. Throwing her self heart
and soul into the struggle, she laboured with redoubled vigour, interested
herself in every detail of the hostilities, and sought by every means in her
power to render service to the national cause. In April 1900, when she was
in her eighty-first year, she made the extraordinary decision to abandon her
annual visit to the South of France, and to go instead to Ireland, which had
provided a particularly large number of recruits to the armies in the field.
She stayed for three weeks in Dublin, driving through the streets, in spite of
the warnings of her advisers, without an armed escort; and the visit was a
complete success. But, in the course of it, she began, for the first time, to
show signs of the fatigue of age.
For the long strain and the unceasing anxiety, brought by the war, made
themselves felt at last. Endowed by nature with a robust constitution,
Victoria, though in periods of depression she had sometimes supposed
herself an invalid, had in reality throughout her life enjoyed remarkably
good health. In her old age, she had suffered from a rheumatic stiffness of
the joints, which had necessitated the use of a stick, and, eventually, a
wheeled chair; but no other ailments attacked her, until, in 1898, her
eyesight began to be affected by incipient cataract. After that, she found
reading more and more difficult, though she could still sign her name, and
even, with some difficulty, write letters. In the summer of 1900, however,
more serious symptoms appeared. Her memory, in whose strength and
precision she had so long prided herself, now sometimes deserted her; there
was a tendency towards aphasia; and, while no specific disease declared
itself, by the autumn there were unmistakable signs of a general physical
decay. Yet, even in these last months, the strain of iron held firm. The daily
work continued; nay, it actually increased; for the Queen, with an

astonishing pertinacity, insisted upon communicating personally with an
ever-growing multitude of men and women who had suffered through the
war.
By the end of the year the last remains of her ebbing strength had almost
deserted her; and through the early days of the opening century it was clear
that her dwindling forces were only kept together by an effort of will. On
January 14, she had at Osborne an hour's interview with Lord Roberts, who
had returned victorious from South Africa a few days before. She inquired
with acute anxiety into all the details of the war; she appeared to sustain the
exertion successfully; but, when the audience was over, there was a
collapse. On the following day her medical attendants recognised that her
state was hopeless; and yet, for two days more, the indomitable spirit fought
on; for two days more she discharged the duties of a Queen of England. But
after that there was an end of working; and then, and not till then, did the
last optimism of those about her break down. The brain was failing, and life
was gently slipping away. Her family gathered round her; for a little more
she lingered, speechless and apparently insensible; and, on January 22,
1901, she died.
When, two days previously, the news of the approaching end had been
made public, astonished grief had swept over the country. It appeared as if
some monstrous reversal of the course of nature was about to take place.
The vast majority of her subjects had never known a time when Queen
Victoria had not been reigning over them. She had become an indissoluble
part of their whole scheme of things, and that they were about to lose her
appeared a scarcely possible thought. She herself, as she lay blind and
silent, seemed to those who watched her to be divested of all thinking—to
have glided already, unawares, into oblivion. Yet, perhaps, in the secret
chambers of consciousness, she had her thoughts, too. Perhaps her fading
mind called up once more the shadows of the past to float before it, and
retraced, for the last time, the vanished visions of that long history—passing
back and back, through the cloud of years, to older and ever older memories
—to the spring woods at Osborne, so full of primroses for Lord
Beaconsfield—to Lord Palmerston's queer clothes and high demeanour, and
Albert's face under the green lamp, and Albert's first stag at Balmoral, and
Albert in his blue and silver uniform, and the Baron coming in through a
doorway, and Lord M. dreaming at Windsor with the rooks cawing in the
elm-trees, and the Archbishop of Canterbury on his knees in the dawn, and

the old King's turkey-cock ejaculations, and Uncle Leopold's soft voice at
Claremont, and Lehzen with the globes, and her mother's feathers sweeping
down towards her, and a great old repeater-watch of her father's in its
tortoise-shell case, and a yellow rug, and some friendly flounces of sprigged
muslin, and the trees and the grass at Kensington.

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