I, Victoria

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  Those things were the spur, I think, to the Balmoral scheme. As long ago as October 1848, after several delightful holidays in Scotland, we had told Russell that we meant to buy a second home in the Highlands, where the air would be less relaxing than in the south (and, though we did not express it so, of course, where we would be further away from bothersome ministers and reports and Boxes). Lord John had replied somewhat sourly that no Treasury funds would be forthcoming for its purchase or maintenance; and that further, since Aberdeenshire was so far from London, a Minister in Attendance would always have to be with us, and his expenses would have to be met out of the Privy Purse.

  These matters did not deter us from taking a lease on Balmoral. The castle, like old Osborne House, was too small and very inconvenient, and Albert wanted to be building, but we could not afford another scheme after Osborne. Then, like a wish come true, in the summer of 1852 I was left an enormous legacy. I have always been given presents, by foreign heads of state and by my own subjects, ranging in value from diamond parures to a giant pumpkin, but John Camden Nield’s was the most valuable of all. He was a miser and a recluse, living in dreadful squalor, and no-one knew he had any money at all. But when he died his estate turned out to be worth more than a quarter of a million pounds, and having no family whatever, he left it all to me, with no explanation other than that ‘he knew I wouldn’t waste it’. Nor did I. I blessed my benefactor, restored the chancel of his parish church and put up a memorial window to him, and gave the rest of the fortune to Albert to buy the Balmoral estate and build his new castle. This time he employed the services of an architect, but Balmoral, like Osborne, was all my darling’s own design, and he considered every detail of it. In his building work he was happy; in manipulating materials, dimensions, mathematical equations he found no conflict that he could not solve, no troublesome human inconsistencies or emotions to cloud the issue or falsify his calculations. He was powerful; he prevailed.

  Balmoral is Osborne with turrets. Many of Osborne’s innovations were repeated here: the hot air system, for instance (though every room has a fireplace as well, because of the greater cold); and the sanitary arrangements (four bathrooms were built – for me, for Albert, and two for the children – and fourteen water-closets, which I believe must be the largest number in any house or palace anywhere!). The house was built all of local stone so that it would blend harmoniously with its surroundings. We loved Scotland, so Albert made everything about the house as Scotch as could be, with tartan wallpaper, carpets, curtains and upholstery, the thistle emblem appearing in carving and moulding in every room, and everything made of stags’ anders that conveniently could be. All the servants were local people, all the estate workers and ghillies were Highlanders, and we attended Divine Service at the local church at Crathie, which we found very simple and nice. Albert thought the Scotch form of Protestantism very like the German, which made him feel at home. (I was under the impression that I was Head of the Church of Scotland as well as the Church of England, and very disappointed I was many years later to be told this was not the case. I wanted so much to belong to them.) I and Albert admired the Highland character – proud, honest, courteous and candid – and we felt honoured to be so well loved by these independent people. I often remembered with a smile and a shake of the head what my wicked Lord M. had long ago said to me about Scotland: that there was nothing to detract from it except the very high opinion the Scotch themselves entertained of it. ‘And those Highland Clans are so very interesting and romantic,’ he said with a droll look; ‘What a good thing there are so few of them left!’ I truly believe he could never have been to Scotland; but of course he may have met Scotch people in London, and no-one likes to hear another country praised by a visitor to their own.

  The time we spent at Balmoral in the summer of 1852, when Albert knew it was to be ours entirely and when he was beginning to plan the new house, was a very happy time for us, and by the end of summer I knew I was pregnant again. Yet in this moment of joy and renewal we were dealt another blow which, though we must long have anticipated it, still set us down dreadfully: on September the 14th the Duke died quite suddenly. I was glad afterwards that he had been snuffed out so mercifully without suffering, but it was hard, very hard, to think of England without him. His position, like his gifts, had been unique, and the whole nation mourned in the most spontaneous and heartfelt manner. The people had loved him, and though he was quite indifferent to their adulation, he would have sacrificed his fortune or his life to preserve them. For myself, I had lost a loyal and disinterested friend. All my life he had been there – indeed he had been witness to my birth – at my Coronation, my wedding, my children’s Christenings; and in every crisis both personal and political I had always turned to him. He had never loved me, but he loved England and he reverenced the Crown, and I knew that in any circumstances I could rely on him completely, to advise and serve me without fear or favour.

  To our troops, of course, the Hero of Waterloo was a legend, and the ideal against which everything military was measured. ‘It wouldn’t have done for the Duke,’ they would say, shaking their heads disapprovingly – and do say still, I’m told, though he has been dead nearly fifty years.

  In December of 1852 something happened which alarmed everyone very much, but whose real consequences none of us anticipated at that time. The previous December Louis Napoleon had executed a coup d’état in Paris and made himself Prince-President for an initial period of ten years – in effect, dictator. We had thoroughly disapproved of this unconstitutional behaviour, and had instructed the Foreign Office to remain sternly neutral on the matter. But Palmerston had privately told the French Ambassador in London, Count Walewski, that he thoroughly approved of the Prince’s actions, and as Walewski had promptly passed on the congratulations, England found herself in the painful position of having both approved and disapproved of the action at the same time.

  This was by no means the first time Palmerston had embarrassed us by acting on his own and without or against instructions, but this time Russell, provoked in the extreme, dismissed him, much to our surprise and relief. The absence of Palmerston made everything so much easier and removed such a thorn from Albert’s side that it contributed greatly to his contentment that summer (and hence to the new baby’s existence – an odd thought that, which I think I shall not pursue!).

  However in December 1852, just a year after the coup d’état, Louis Napoleon unmasked, and declared himself Emperor Napoleon III – supported, I’m sorry to say, largely by the French army which thirsted for revenge for Waterloo. It was an anxious time, for we all feared a renewal of French militarism, and there were rumours of renewed plans to invade England; but since his removal or death would have caused dreadful chaos in France, and since the new Foreign Secretary, Lord Malmesbury, was a friend of his, I was obliged to accept my ministers’ advice and acknowledge him. The new Emperor expressed himself very correctly and seemed anxious for England’s friendship – so anxious, indeed, that he made an offer for the hand of my niece Adelaide (Feo’s daughter) with the intention of allying himself, however distantly, with the British Monarchy. I had no wish to see Adelaide married to such an adventurer, but fortunately Adelaide and Feo both disliked the match, and it went off. The Emperor soon showed his true colours by marrying Eugénie de Montijo, a creature of great beauty and charm (some say Palmerston was her real father) but with an extremely colourful past. In the event, however, she proved a good, virtuous and gentle Empress, and much worthier to sit on the Throne of France than many women of birth and reputation. I came to like her very much indeed, and she had the greatest admiration and respect for me. (I remember one incident when Albert and I visited them in Paris, and we all went to the opera together. Afterwards Eugénie told me that one of her ladies-in-waiting had commented that when we took our seats in the Imperial Box, I had seated myself without looking to see if there was a chair behind me. ‘The Queen of England is so royal that she simply knows there will be a chair.
Any other state of affairs is unthinkable – so she does not look. But you, Madame, you were not born a Queen. You look before you sit.’)

  The consequence, though we could not then foresee it, of Louis Napoleon’s making himself Emperor, was the Crimean War. If he had not had so much to prove to the French army, if he had not needed some military glory with which to bolster his reputation, and placate his subjects by reminding them of his illustrious uncle, he would not have wanted to tweak the Bear’s nose. It was with Russia we went to war, nominally to keep Constantinople out of Russian hands, but I don’t believe we would have done so without France as our ally, or without France’s enthusiasm for the fight.

  It was dreadful to be having a war without the Duke, and I think we all felt at a loss. The supreme command was given to Lord Raglan, who had been the Duke’s military secretary at Waterloo, where he had lost an arm. (Lord M. used to tell the story of how after the amputation, as the attendants were carrying the arm away, he shouted out, ‘Hoi, bring that back! There’s a ring my wife gave me on the little finger!’) Raglan did his best to think what the Duke would have done in every situation, but on reflection I don’t think his mental powers were really up to the job. All through the campaign he kept referring to the enemy as ‘the French’, quite unable to adjust to the idea that there was anyone else in the world to fight, or that this time the French were our allies!

  At a distance I can see that there were good things that came out of that unsatisfactory war, but my heart bleeds when I think of those thousands of British soldiers who died out there, and the widows and orphans at home, left to struggle on in poverty and misery. I, who have lost a husband and two sons, know the terrible pain of that loss, which can never be made right again; and I have said since, to younger, less experienced rulers, that we must be very careful before we commit our soldiers to war. When King Victor Emmanuel visited me in 1855 he said that the only part of kingship he really enjoyed was making war, and I warned him sharply that Kings must be sure that wars were for a just cause, because they would have to answer before God for men’s lives. ‘God will pardon our mistakes,’ he said; and I replied, ‘Not always.’

  But there is a mystical relationship between a Sovereign and the Army, which I felt very strongly at the time of Crimea, and have felt since. Those good, brave, uncomplaining men march and fight for their country, of course, but a country is a big thing and hard to comprehend or to love. It is their Queen who is the visible symbol of what they are willing to die for, and many a time I have taken the salute as they march off to war, and felt the great hungry waves of their love wash over me. In my mind and heart I have marched at their head, have fought with them, and taken their wounds for them. If I had not been born into a woman’s feeble frame, I am sure I would have led my armies indeed; and I have visited wounded soldiers in hospital and seen the light come into their eyes as I approach, have witnessed miracles as a man despaired of rallies and recovers after I have touched him. I say this not in self-conceit, but to exemplify something which is greater and more mysterious than we can explain with our science and earthly wisdom.

  In May 1855, when the war was over, we had a special ceremony at the Horseguards to present medals to the Crimean veterans. I stood on a dais with Lord Panmure (the War Minister) with the medals, which were silver on a blue and yellow ribbon, in a basket between us. There were huge crowds, and several bands playing, and the dear, noble fellows (many of them sporting the evidence of their wounds, some on crutches, some even in wheeling-chairs) filed past and I gave each his medal and a word or two of commendation. Some were so shy they dared not look up, others looked into my face and smiled; all touched my hand, and I saw in their eyes the reverence and love they felt, simple soldiers, meeting their Sovereign face to face for the first time. My hands shook so much with emotion I could hardly keep hold of the medals which shaggy old Panmure (the men called him The Bison) handed to me out of the basket; and I was deeply touched when I learned afterwards that many of the men had refused to give up their medals for engraving in case they did not get back the actual one I had given them.

  There is one story about this ceremony which I heard afterwards and which made me laugh very much. A lady of fashion, meeting Lord Panmure at a dinner party, asked him about the ceremony, and particularly about my feelings on the occasion. ‘Was the Queen touched?’ she asked. ‘Bless my soul, no,’ said Panmure indignantly, ‘she had a brass railing before her, no-one could touch her.’ ‘I mean,’ the lady persevered, ‘was she moved?’ ‘Moved?’ said Lord Panmure. ‘She had no occasion to move!’

  Eighteen

  15th October 1900, at Balmoral

  THE NEW baby arrived on the 7th of April 1853 – a boy, whom we named Leopold, after our dear uncle. The birth was attended by an innovation which, I am glad to say, has now become quite commonplace. My good physician Sir James Clark – himself a Scot, of course – had been following with interest the work of Dr Simpson in Edinburgh in the use of chloroform. It is astonishing to think now that the properties of anaesthesia had been known about since the beginning of the century, when Humphry Davy, of safety-lamp fame, had written a paper about the effects of inhaling nitrous oxide. Another substance, ether, had first been used in a London hospital in 1846, by the great surgeon Robert Liston who had amputated a man’s leg without his feeling anything. And Dr Simpson had successfully administered chloroform in 1847, to a woman whose gratitude was so intense that she named the daughter she bore under its influence Anaesthesia!

  Simpson’s associate, Dr John Snow, had written a paper on the subject: ‘Where the pain is not greater than the patient is willing to bear cheerfully, there is no occasion to use chloroform, but when the patient is anxious to be spared the pain, I can see no valid objection to the use of this agent.’

  But if he could see no objection, many others could, and the vast majority of the medical profession refused to have anything to do with anaesthesia. Pain was an essential part of surgery, they said: the ‘sting’ of it was what stimulated the system and initiated recovery. Operated upon painlessly, the patient would sink into lethargy and death. Outside the medical profession, it was widely believed that pain was the fire which refined the steel of men’s souls, and that mankind would grow soft and degenerate if it were eliminated; and the clergy claimed more simply that pain was ordained by God as man’s lot, and that to evade it was to resist God’s will.

  But when Dr Simpson recommended chloroform for women in childbirth, all the various opposing factions joined together in vigorous protest. There could be no doubt that this was a sin. Woman was meant to suffer in labour. Did it not explicitly state in the Book of Genesis that she should bring forth children in sorrow? In vain did Dr Snow point out that God made Adam fall into a deep sleep before, removing his rib, which sounded very like anaesthesia; every man knew with certainty that women had to suffer pain in childbirth, or they would not love their children.

  I had heard something of the argument, and listened with interest when my good Clark brought the suggestion to me that we should invite Dr Snow (who had been demonstrating anaesthesia in a London dental hospital) to attend me when my time came. Its use had been sufficiently studied north of the border by then to be sure it was safe and had no deleterious effect on mother or child.

  ‘It is a very simple thing,’ he said. ‘A little of the liquid is poured on to a handkerchief which is rolled into a funnel and held over the patient’s mouth and nose. She breathes in the vapour, which is not unpleasant – it is an ingredient of most cough-mixtures, you know, ma’am – and the pain is softened and sometimes done away with altogether.’

  I saw no reason, religious or otherwise, to bear pain that could be softened or done away with, and Albert firmly believed that God had not given man his inventive mind for its fruits to be ignored. And so – a little nervously, I must admit – I gave the word. Dr Snow did not give me so much of the substance as to make me insensible at any time, but just enough to dull the pain, and I foun
d the whole experience delightful, soothing and quieting beyond measure, and only wished it had been offered me earlier in my childbearing career. The news soon got out that I had had the blessed chloroform administered to me, and the sensation in the press was indescribable. All the arguments were rehearsed once again, and there were plenty of old men ready to condemn me for impiety, and worse. But I’m glad to say it was the beginning of the end of resistance to the idea of anaesthesia, and I’m happy to have played a part in the promotion of such a great good. Afterwards, diehards might fulminate in provincial newspapers, but polite society knew where its loyalties lay. If the Queen of England had it, no lady was going to lag behind.

  The proof of its value was demonstrated by the fact that I had a much quicker recovery from that confinement than any of the previous ones. The baby, however, did not thrive. He was a fat and jolly-looking infant at birth, though I thought not handsome, with a head too large and rather a common nose. For the first few weeks he seemed well enough, but then he began to lose weight. Clark thought he had a weak digestion and that his wet-nurse did not agree with him, and with some difficulty we procured a different one, which seemed to bring about an improvement. I thought Clark had discovered the trouble, but it was not long before little Leo began to ail again, and eventually the hideous truth was discovered: that my baby was suffering from haemophilia.